Speed Write... Anyone want in?

Kinda - both a competition and a race...

But more to see what other people can create within such a loose topic.
 
I am a painfully slow writer. It takes minutes for me to hammer out a short post like this.
 
I can barely make a story let along one quickly, and make it make sense/good.
 
What do you do? How does the game work? Someone explain.
 
Yes, more details please? I usually do pretty good in these things. Overactive imagination ftw.
 
Yer - Basically here's the low down:
People that are in the SW get given the topic and 15min to write. Whatever they want...

Seeing that time zones are pretty crap... I might just do a HL2.net one with honesty instead of a post time.

Topic: "Always hated Tuesdays" - 15 min

Just look at that topic and write for 15 min with somehow using that as a reference or a boosting point. And don't look at other guys work till yours is done. Otherwise you'll just copy their's - even if you don't think about it.

Just write for 15 min and post it up...
 
Always hated Tuesdays

Every intricacy of her face was illuminated when she looked at me that way, it was selfish of me to keep her for myself – she was perfect. When she looked at me the ringing in my ears died down, I felt what some of you might call sanity. I felt around the room for the light switch and gazed into her eyes one last time before going to work, she was so beautiful. The car ride seemed mundane and lifeless next to what always awaited me at home, a moment away from her was hell. I rushed people through the checkout line that day like I had a purpose – a reason to be doing the late shift at an inner city drugstore. My name tag read Joseph but I had no idea if it was true, or exactly when I had gotten this job, all I wanted was to see her again.

The night was going by painfully slow and I saw her face in everyone – the same face that I saw when I became a man, she was always at home waiting, peacefully. I was becoming sluggish in my motion and inadvertently spilled a young mans six-pack of Coca-Cola, I promptly picked it up and apologized, but he was already shouting obscenities towards me, it was ok I would be back by her side in a matter of moments now. I stepped carefully towards the employee computer and struggled to enter my code to clock out for the evening, I could barely move my increasingly rigid body. I was shaking with anticipation.

I stepped in the car, one gangly leg at a time and began to drive, not remembering anything that had happened at work, not the angry boy and his pop, not the fact hat I hadn’t seen my manager all day – it was insignificant. My foot was heavy against the pedal, each red light was agonizing torture, her face was starting to fade out of existence – I feared I would never see her again. Would I die before I arrived? No, I slammed the gas pedal down on the last winding country road that lead to the one place I found comfort in this world; an abandoned set of warehouses in a nearby suburban neighborhood, home.

There she lay slumped over, the goddess that she was. I would have dinner with her tonight and it would ease the pain of my tiresome, pointless life. My pathetic, malnourished body barely made it in the door of the run down shed. I killed her Tuesday August 9th, she was the perfect lover, the perfect mom, and my only reason to live. I leaned in for a kiss and was greeted with an entire SWAT team of LA’s finest, this was the end. It was Tuesday once again, I always hated Tuesdays.
 
That's what i'm talking about...

Any other biters?
 
Always Hated on Tuesdays

Jeremy always was a good little boy; he drank his milk, did his schoolwork, brushed AND flossed his teeth, and he loved his parents for everything they gave him. Jeremy was, I guess you could say, the perfect poster-child for adoption, having been taken in at the ripe age of 8.

But life wasn’t always tip-top for Jeremy in his quite country home, quite the contrary. Even though his parents cherished him for being what they thought they could never have—considering the fact that his adoptive mother, Helen, was barren. But there was something else amiss with the family; something pertaining to his father, Thomas, and not the perfectly innocent Helen.

Unbeknownst to Helen, Thomas had an unhealthy addiction to a fiendish sport known only as “child racing.” Similar in concept to horse racing, it is not a sport without its risks by any means. Jeremy hated his father every Tuesday when he strapped on his saddle and put the gag-ball in his mouth so he wasn’t to heckle the other boys on the track. He hated his father every time that mechanical imp was placed on his back with its small but powerful tazer. But Jeremy wouldn’t let these feelings be known, he appreciated the otherwise loving family far too much.

And besides, Jeremy was a good racer, he acceled at it—no pun intended. He earned his meals and he enjoyed the good tussle with his opponents now and then, and enjoyed the cracking noise their skulls made as he bashed them against the rails, and he enjoyed the smell of their burning flesh as the imps drove them back to their feet.

Yet he still hated his father for making him race. Not for the racing, but because his father wouldn’t let him move up to the larger venues, keeping instead to the pseudo-safety of the smalltime races and ever present referees. Jeremy longed for not the win, Jeremy longed for his opponents pain.

----------

It actually took me 16 minutes, oops! If I had a little more time I'd probably go back and change a bit, but I'm still satisfied.
 
Holy shits - that is both disturbing and awesome... Love how different two of the pieces can be. Might write mine soon.
 
Always Hated Tuesdays

Wednesday, February 17, 20XX
Nothing exciting today. Many routine check-ups, routine follow-ups, routine conversations, routine... The dread of another routine day is broken by looking at my schedule: Tomorrow! Sweet tomorrow. A surgery. A colectomy. This time I won't use the anaesthesia. I'll use... the sutures. Yes, the sutures. I believe I still have some of my solution left. Oh, I grin in delight of tomorrow.
---
Thursday, February 18, 20XX
Colectomy went well. None of the nurses noticed anything. Not even the smell... Of course, you can't smell anything but blood in that room. Blood and sanitation. The stench of alcohol...

It is done. The tainted sutures will certainly be a surprise to Mr. Cohen. They should take effect by Sunday. Mr. Cohen will learn to take the recommended shots. It's a shame, really. At his age, chicken pox is almost always lethal.

Tomorrow: the twins come in for their check-ups. I always liked them. I'm sad they're growing up. Their childishness amused me, enthralled me. Though, as ladies...
---
Friday, February 19, 20XX
The twins. Perhaps I should elaborate: one is depressed, the other manic. I saw them separately today before doing a combined examination. Apart they seem to be normal. Together they are two burning puzzle pieces struggling to be free from one another. Their answers to my questions differ extraordinarily. Such "silly" and "strange" questions I ask them, too.

Their mother seems to be on to me. She said this will be the last time I see them. They have been talking about subjects that were only between us... I will miss them. They were my favorites. At least I have this last roll of film featuring my little stars. I will have it developed soon.

Appendectomy tomorrow. I'm not sure how to do this one.
---
Saturday, February 20, 20XX
Mr. Cohen is already showing signs of an illness. I feigned surprise; I felt ecstasy.

Appendectomy went well. Hopefully those unsanitized instruments I used don't do Ms. Mantle any harm. The last person who tasted them has since died of AIDS... Pity.
---
Monday, February 22, 20XX
I was called into the ER today. A young boy had a compound fracture of his left femur. Poor kid, he didn't know what he was in for. All of his clothing, even his "favorite shirt," had to be disposed of. I told the nurses I would do it. They didn't know what else happened. They never do.

My photos were developed yesterday by a friend. He asked for copies of certain ones. I think I'll wait until I transfer to the rural medical centre. It won't be any less incriminating, but it will make me feel a bit safer.

Mr. Cohen has died. He went quickly. Of course, no one else knew of his allergic reaction to penicillin. Tsk. Ms. Mantle is showing signs of illness.
---
Tuesday, February 23, 20XX
The administrator came by today. He wanted to talk with me. He knows more than I thought, much more. I... I can't go through with this. He knows everything. Everything I've done to every patient, living and dead! He had my special set of instruments tested. He knows what's on them. He's talked to others --- even my twins --- and he knows. I can not believe this. This... this is my last.
 
Wow, some really creative stuff here. I'd still like to see what others have to offer though. Shameless bump.
 
If English was my mother language, I would surely love to participate in this. But my grammar skills refrain me from writing down spontaneously my imagination...
 
Babyheadcrab - after I read your story, all my nightmares incorporated bits and pieces of it. That's how awesome it is. Awesome, I tell you.
 
Haha, wicked stuff.

I might take part if there's another topic after this, I'm not getting anything from this one, and besides which I already read everyone else's :)

Keep em coming!
 
losttheskyagain said:
Babyheadcrab - after I read your story, all my nightmares incorporated bits and pieces of it. That's how awesome it is. Awesome, I tell you.
Click to expand...

thank you very much :), your piece was equally creative, I love the journal / diary entry style. Reminded me of overhearing my parents discuss patients (they are both in the mental health field).
 
2nd Topic - also serving as a bump...

From now on, put finished pieces in spoiler tags, so that guys can't see the topic before hand and take ideas from other people - even if they don't mean to.

Topic :
One step closer.
 
One Step Closer

They began tightening nerve endings in my extremities, starting at my biceps and moving on to the more delicate finger tips. It had been forty-seven years, three months, two days and 21 hours since my creation. I was assigned to the cybernetic research program and was being tuned for sense activity. After some further tinkering with my nervous chip they reactivated my senses. Searing pain shot through my arms and face – this is what it was to be human, to feel pain.

The year was 2425 and the military was training cybernetic units for combat, not only did this mean the majority of us were outfitted to emulate emotion and nervous reaction but that we had to ‘train’ these newly acquired traits in simulation. The Keepers had rules for machines. Interaction with humans in a non-professional manner was strictly prohibited.

The humans never knew my desire to become one of them, nor my loathing of the laws. Today was allotted for emotional ‘training’ and I was first in a line of 150 identical androids who now knew what it was to feel pain. A human walked back and forth at my side twiddling his thumbs and mumbling something into a small microphone “Charlie this is too far, why must they feel pain if they are simply weaponry?” The newly added organic features did seem out of place, but I was starting to love them - they twitched and felt cold upon hearing the staunch voice of Lt. Charlie.

One by one we entered the simulation room and began to engage in today’s regiment – we watched a segment from the old American film Casablanca. For the first time our reactions seemed to differ, droids in the back row began to get restless and attempt to file out of the simulation room – others in the front seemed so engrossed they couldn’t be removed from the room by twenty men. As for myself, I patiently watched the film in its entirety, as this was the most contempt I had ever felt in my life. I was one step closer to being human.
 
Oooo, hurray for a new topic! And the spoiler tags are a good idea.

Dimming the lights, she put an old Sinatra record on and sat down at her impeccable desk.

"When I was seventeen, it was a very good year..."

There were only two things in front of her: a heartbreaking letter from Walden and a piece of handmade paper with her perfect script gracing it's length. She read through both again.

"It was a very good year for small town girls and soft summer nights..."

She opened one of the desk drawers. She set a small bottle and a beautiful scarf on the desk. Both had been her mother's.

"...When I was seventeen..."

The scarf was bright yellow. It was from Ethiopia. Neither her or her mother had ever been to Ethiopia. It had been a gift -- to her mother -- from Walden. Many years ago, when she was still very young. She folded it lengthwise until it was a littler wider than her mouth.

"When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year..."

She removed the crystal stopper from the bottle and set it on the desk. It caught the light from her lamp and cast small rainbows across the letters and scarf.

"It was a very good year for city girls who lived up the stair..."

She picked up the scarf and, holding it away from the desk, splashed some of the bottle's contents on it. She could feel the liquid seeping through to the other side of the scarf. The scent burned in her nostrils.

"...With all that perfumed hair, and it came undone when I was twenty-one..."

Taking a deep breath, she quickly placed the scarf over her mouth and nose, tying it firmly behind her head. She exhaled and rose from the desk.

"When I was thirty-five, it was a very good year..."

The overstuffed chair was in sight. She started towards it, breathing deeply, calmly.

"It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls of independent means..."

She had put too much on the scarf, she had inhaled too much at one time. Her vision began to fade. She was not far from her destination.

"...We'd ride in limousines..."

She tried to run. Her legs were sluggish and heavy, as though weighed down with mud or snow.

"...Their chauffeurs would drive when I was thirty-five..."

The strain was too great. Heaving, she knelt on the floor, mere steps from the chair.

"...But now the days grow short, I'm in the autumn of the year..."

She reached out, touching the leather. She was so close. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

"...And now I think of my life as vintage wine from fine old kegs, from the brim to the dregs..."

Still holding on to the chair's arm, she lowered her head. Her other hand held her up.

"...And it poured sweet and clear..."

Her arm buckled and she eased to the floor, asleep.

"...It was a very good year."

I was in a short sentence mood. :P Now to read the others!

EDIT: Babyheadcrab, you did it again! I loved the use of first person. Just fantastic.
 
AntiAnto said:
If English was my mother language, I would surely love to participate in this. But my grammar skills refrain me from writing down spontaneously my imagination...
Click to expand...

Why not just write it in your own language in 15 mins then translate it to English?

I'm loving all of these so far, especially Babyheadcrab's Tuesday one. Makes me wish I was creative.
 
thanks for the comments guys. I'm quite enjoying your entries too Lostthesky - this is great fun
 
Will be doing a live one soon... Next 10 min, just jump into the SC Chat Room...

The Live topic was Lone Flower.

The shrill shrieking of mortar fire drowned the cries of the wounded. The few that drew breath returned rifle fire in a storm of sweat, blood and brass casings. The leaders ran between their men – holding them together with kind words and decisive direction. Merely a few yards back, medics covered the open wounds from the billowing clouds of dust and sand – kicked up by both the volley of mortars and the constant running of boots.

A cry for supplies from the medics sends a local boy running through the ruin which was once his childhood playground. He leapt over crumbling houses and darted over weed covered gardens. Panting as he reached the supply drop, he began to tear apart a medical package, humping the lump onto his hip as he began again to run towards the skirmish proper.

The supply drop lay on an old garden, only a lone flower remained among the weeds. Only a lone boy remained to carry the image of his town.
 
The Lone Flower

She looked from the pea sized crack in the cave wall at the surrounding landscape. Gazing so steadily outward, her eyes began to squint and burn. How long had she been there? She didn’t even know anymore. For hours she recounted the situation in her head – while riding horses she had fallen off her steed, and blacked out – it bothered her not knowing the exact spot she fell in. She was someplace in the west of Oregon, underground.

Her hair was gritty and face was battered and bruised, the vague taste of blood lingered in her mouth. Pacing wildly in the cave she was beginning to descend into insanity – not knowing how long she would be trapped. The outside air was barely breathable from the small crack she spent her days gazing from, longing to touch the one single object she derived sanity from. The desert wind blew dust through her tattered dress, the white color barely showed and she had lost all sense of beauty and civilization.

She slept on the hard rock floor night after night, her hands gently resting and remembering the comforts of a mattress, and the one she was to soon call a husband. But always she would wake to cold harsh stone, and desert winds. The ground water supply was running low and she couldn’t survive eating bugs for one more day. Gazing outside towards the desert landscape she glanced at that precious object again – the lone flower, and sympathized. The lone flower would wilt in the coming days, as would the poor girl.
 
Here be mine:
Lone Flower:

"Get your fat ass moving! I don't have time for this!"
The traffic was moving painfully slow. I was cutting the deadline fine as it was and this sudden blockade didn't help a bit. It's not like it mattered after tonight, but then again I had no idea what would happen. Really all I wanted was to get this portfolio into the office, then leisurely glide back to my one-bedroom flat to drink away the weekend. Finally, the traffic began to move.
I can't think of a single reason why tonight felt different. It was chilly out, surprisingly chilly, but yet not chilly enough to note. I didn't open the window for that reason. I also had the heating on quite high because I could feel the chill, unless that was something else entirely.
I don't know if it was my eyes drooping, struggling to stay open like leaden weights, but I thought I saw in the field on my left a lone flower. There was nothing else, it just seemed to grey out it's surroundings. I focussed on the flower, but realised I was driving and tried to look back at the road.
My eyes started drooping again. Couldn't focus at all on the road ahead of me, and that flower kept breezing through my mind. I remember thinking "That ****ing flower again!"
Soon all I could think about was the flower. A single pink in a sea of black. It seemed like it was illuminated by its own light source, burning on the back of my eyes like fire. The road ahead had disappeared completely. Unfortunately, this wasn't just because I had my eyes closed.
My car veered off into a field and off a short drop. This drop caused the engine of my car to send the steering shaft up through my stomach. I floated just above my body, seeing time seemingly speed up. The police, Fire brigade, Hospital van. They all breezed past.
I remembered the Doctor saying I was dead before I drove into the field, but then I tired of the attention I was getting. In the distance, I could still see that flower, standing alone.
 
Time for a new topic? Or are there any more takers?
 
Oh sorry I didn't go for the last one. I thought it was just in those following ten minutes.

New topic sounds good to meeeee.
 
Sloth has given me permission to post our next topic, so put on yir' writing caps. I tried this topic earlier, but got mad writers block and ended up saving an incomplete story. But I'd like to see what you guys can do with it.

The Third Day
 
I know this isn't a Speed as such...

Glance - something I did for school.

Starting the speed now - will edit it in.
EDIT:
The cold brushed against my hands, the glove on my right hand was a godsend. Grunting from the harsh cold I slipped my other hand down my pants – doesn’t look good, but its bloody warm. Behind me my friends slept peacefully – Alby was snoring his head off, but you really couldn’t hear it from further than a few steps away. Sleeping on top of an office building – who would have thought. I was only awake to keep watch but the view was bliss, such a hectic few days and the sun still cast a pink sunset. The soft glow as it rose over the city skyline was comforting compared to the numerous fires that littered the outer suburbs.

The Eureka Tower – tallest building on the skyline – the glass panelling looked strange. I pulled out the hunting scope that we ‘borrowed’ from the camping store. Taking my time to adjust the focus – I hardly had time to ready myself for the horrific sight.

They had jumped.
Every window on the penthouse floor – they had jumped.
I choked as bile started to rise up my throat. Leaning over the edge of the roof, I vomited up what was left of the cereal bar I ate that morning. My city was in ruins – gunfire… to think of it, gunfire was heard intimately. My hand ran to the axe tied around my belt. I had cleaned the blood off.
So much blood and only the third day.

EDIT For Greater Justice: OK - don not think because you cannot write that you will never be able to, practise makes perfect - so go ahead and take some practise. I would hope to think that any of the guys doing these would and could help out other guys improve their writing. So DOO EEIIT
 
I'm getting to it, I swear. I just need to find fifteen minutes in a quiet and solitary place.
 
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