From Olivia: Write about a world that lives under the rule of a dynamic leader. Examples include President Snow from the Hunger Games, or the Elder from The Giver.
Write for 10 minutes. Post your piece to comments!
A year’s gone by
Since the day, you left
I still hear your voice
Still, see your smile
And feel your warmth
A year’s gone by
Still, I cry
Sadness is all
You left behind
A year’s gone by
Day by day
A new beginning
I never take
It’s been a year
I’m still alone
My heart damaged
But less broken
A year’s gone by
I finally smile
It’s taken me this little while
A year’s gone by as it always does
You’re nothing more
Then you were before
A memory of love
A year’s gone by
With no reason to cry
All you did
Was say goodbye
Rose petals littered the aisle like discarded trash in a New York subway station. She was dressed in a long dress that started off white but blended into a deep scarlet in the train, as if she had been walking through the scene of some bloody massacre. Her name was Emerald, Emmy for short, and she hated the man she was marrying. He stood at the end of the aisle, framed in an ivory arch decorated with thorny roses that were slowly dying, just as slowly as Emmy walked. Silently, hundreds of people Emmy didn’t know watched her from either side. They sat in plastic chairs that were spray painted with some glossy silver coat to make them look expensive, and in their hands were cameras that flashed and pained Emmy’s eyes, so she closed them. Her eyelashes, heavy with thick mascara, rested on her cheeks with an unbearable weight that made Emmy want to scream.
“You look beautiful, dear,” her mother whispered as Emmy passed by. She smiled weakly in response, and readjusted the bouquet in her hand; the ribboned handle had become slimy with sweat, and Emmy’s palms were itchy. As Emmy walked nearer to the groom, who waited patiently with a small, loving smile, a tear slipped out of her left eye and began its slow course down her cheek. Thankfully, no one noticed.
The priest waited behind an enormous Bible, his robed arms crossed behind his back. Unlike her groom, the priest did not smile; he kept his eyes closed, his chin tilted slightly upwards; as if, in his mind, he was having a conversation with God in that very moment. Emmy’s heart seized with a sudden conviction, an urge to drop the bouquet and cry out to God; to ask Him why he had ever placed Ronald Campbell in her path.
That was her groom’s name: Ronald Campbell, Ron to his friends (whom Emmy had yet to meet). He was an accountant and thirteen years older than Emmy, a friend of her father’s who’d admired her developing form as a teenager and now had the chance to physically act out his fantasies, at long last. Ronald’s sizable bank accountant had no doubt played a part in their engagement; more so the business merger her father was pursuing with one of Ronald’s especially lucrative franchises. Emmy was an asset that her father had groomed over the years; she was nothing but a pretty toy, kept healthy and fit like a prize-winning horse. The languages she had learned, the ballet classes she’d excelled in; they amounted to nothing more but further decorative finishes to her attractiveness, simple bonuses for Ronald Campbell, the lucky guy.
The orchestra’s music swelled to a volume that dug its way into Emmy’s ears and tunneled into her brain like a bullet. She winced and almost slipped on a mound of rose petals she’d overlooked, and Ronald chuckled softly. Look at the little girl, his smirk seemed to imply. Playing dress up.
Emmy froze. The music faded, became a thrumming beat; the screeching violins and piercing harp slid their way out of Emmy’s brain, and slowly her heart rate decreased. It felt like she’d just fallen into a well, and the water was closing its way over her like a calming blanket. She smiled softly without realizing it, and the wedding photographer snapped a photo, believing the look on her face to be one of true love and contentment.
Silently, Emmy slipped off her shoes. The wedding guests watched her in puzzled bemusement, and her mother stood, craning her wrinkled neck to better see her daughter’s actions. Emmy kept her gaze trained on the wilted roses intertwined throughout the ivory arch, like red meat stuck in a dog’s teeth, as she pulled the veil free from her hair and tossed it to the ground.
“Hey,” Ronald said, his eyes widening, his mouth open like a fish. “What’s going on?”
Emmy didn’t answer. She began to loosen the corset of her dress with quick, nimble fingers, and several of the guests gasped. Emmy’s mother scrambled to make her way out of her seat; as she did so, the elastic string of her pearl necklace snapped, and the pearls scattered everywhere, loose teeth littering the ground. At the sound of the necklace snapping, Emmy turned on her heel and ran like the wind. She never stopped, even when her mother screeched and the sound was like a bird getting hit by a car; even when Ronald cursed and kicked over the ivory arch, and it was like a building collapsing; even when the priest finally looked down and smiled, said “Amen”, closed the Bible and laughed.
Emmy didn’t know where she was going, but that was all right; that was just fine. She didn’t need a destination. She only wanted to know what it felt like to go somewhere.
I’ve never understood the fear of death.
We’re born, we live, we die and then everything goes dark.
Do you remember being in the womb? No? I didn’t think so…
So how is being unborn any different than being dead?
We hear nothing, we see nothing, and we feel nothing.
We aren’t even aware that there is a ‘nothing’ to be afraid of.
So why are we so scared?
Why do we act like it’s this big bad boogeyman that stalks our every move?
I think it’s because we like having control.
And you can’t control death.
After our first month, here are our Top Ten Scribblers! Awesome work, guys! Your participation has been fantastic. Keep it up.
I begun my first NaNoWriMo project in 2012 with a pen, a notebook, and a 50k word count. It was my second year in the Creative Writing Club, the club that has made me aware of such a happening once every November, and the club that has now seen me through four (soon to be five) months of intensive novel writing and vigorous character planning. An event that started out looking impossible through the gazers of a fresh writer has now become one of the most anticipated times of year next to holidays with weeks off and egg laying season for my geckos. It has become one of the most creative moments of each year in my growing life as an artist. I am given motivation whenever NaNo comes around; it is a motivation to focus on something I can potentially fail to provide my upmost attention throughout the rest of the year. I am guilty of allowing my writing slip, if not for one reason than for the next, but when NaNo comes around my priorities shift. When NaNo comes my dedication mounts itself right on my shoulders, and each day I wake up with my thoughts already on the page.
I’m asked a lot of questions by those who have either never thought they could, would, or should participate in such a thing as writing a novel in 30 days. It sounds almost insane if you think about it the right way. I once had a friend tell me I was writing TOO much whenever November’s came around. Why would I want to? Well, it’s simple. NaNo excites me. I keys me into abilities I never knew I had until I’m wrapped up in my writers mind. It’s easier than one would think to access that side of ones self, and I’m not sure I can give good advice on how to find your mind during NaNo. All I can offer is a call for focus, because focus will bring you all you need. When you can focus not on the outside but the in, you’ll discover a spectrum of capability in your own art, and suddenly writing a novel in 30 days won’t sound so insane.
IT’S THE LAST DAY! CAN YOU TAKE IT? Write! Write like the wind!
Need some inspiration? Use this prompt to help propel your story!
Your protagonist does something nobody would have ever expected.
Post your word count to comments!