Posted by Mrs. Emery
Write about chickening out.
For an extra challenge: write in first person without using first person pronouns.
Set your timer for 10 minutes. Post your piece to comments!
Posted on September 26, 2013, in Writing Prompt. Bookmark the permalink. 3 Comments.
The room smells of freshly vacuumed carpet, stained wood, and the sweat of all of the actors piled up on the stage. Seeing the crowd coming in through the double sends the stomach flying into a tough knot, a knot too tight to allow any feeling to pass through. A hand pushes the curtain shut.
“Vienna, start taking your place. Genesis does not want any screwups this time,” Genesis, the director of the play, says through a flurry of words, his eyes doing their own pacing back and forth as he rushes about the stage to harp on somebody else. He had a habit for speaking about himself in the third person, which would be comical right now if he didn’t look as if his body would flip inside out.
The memory of signing up for this play comes to mind, how Genesis’s warm, coffee-colored skin collected kindness and ease. Now his constant badgering about his reputation would send any girl’s mind reeling for stability.
Quickly forgetting that there are only minutes between the show and the puke boiling like bile in the stomach, half-running, half-galloping off to the back stage area seems to be the only other option to save a life from embarrassment.
Genesis screeches in horror at the sound of heels clicking furiously to the steps of the stage.
(I’m going to use first person pronouns)
My eyes squeeze shut, because I know this is it.
If I mess this up now, it’s all over.
My career, my friends, my life.
They all are cheering me on, as I step up to the plate.
They slam on the gates, the sound of their voices like air horns.
“You better not!” I think to myself as I can already feel my legs aching to sprint away.
I set my feet into the orange dirt, already feeling it give way to my cleats.
My stomach feel like it will tie itself in a knot, and my heart is about to burst through my chest.
I open my eyes, only to see the pitcher glaring at me, menacingly.
My hands start to shake as I grip the bat tighter, and tighter.
“GET A HOMMER, GRACE!” I can hear my dad yelling to me.
The pitcher finally starts to wind up, her arms rippling as she underhanded the large, white ball my way.
“NO!” I yell, before dropping the bat and running like a horse into the clubhouse.
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