Hey everyone sorry I didn’t make our meeting yesterday but I think that the following prompt will bring a lot of good writing and feelings out… “I hate it when…” with this I think it would be a cool way to learn more about our fellow members and get our raw feelings out on the page…. thanks see you all Thursday- Bianca
Liz is a 25 year old painter with hair reaching all the way to her hips.
Arms mean everything on the planet of Rimbsalot, located in a galaxy down a milky-way from ours, on the corner of dwarf and black-hole.
The protagonist is in town to make amends for a mistake he made years ago, one with unforgivable consequences.
His parents want him to become a businessman. His father already created a will leaving money and property as inheritance.
So Frank Li sat on the edge of the crater of what had once been the greatest city in the world-after Greater Slovakia, but they didn’t like to think about that-and thought. And thought. And thought. Then he decided to keep going on. No way was he returning home.
What can one learn from this tale of bravery? It is simple. If you see something, don’t say anything, or you’ll be late to pick up your children.
Herbert Nelson Jackson, 46 years old, tall, dark, and handsome, walked with a swagger that told the world that he was missing a leg.
She recently moved to Manhattan where she would re-invent herself for the New Year of 2012.
The only thing to do for her, was to steal an arm, or two. That would send a message.
Because of his history with the person he wronged and his inherently evil nature, Ian is unable to to find who he’s looking for without getting shot at.
He decided to run away ad join a basketball team in secret.
After walking around the crater for days, he wound up back where he started. The moral is : always remember what shape a crater is, and for g0d’s sake, look around you, because if you think you’ve seen that bush before, you probably have. THE END.
Daniel weighs 155 lbs, 6’11”, and loves basketball.
This story is about Frank’s adventures when he moved to Sydney in the summer of 2038 and realized it really wasn’t all that. By this time, his home village was populated with mostly re-animated corpses.
But our protagonist was not content to sit idly by and bird-watch. No, he was a man with a mission: to pick up his daughter from kindergarden. An arduous task indeed.
However, she can’t manage to impress her potential customer. Nowadays people are no longer interested in detail portraits rather in the abstract.
There was only one answer: cloning. This way, she’d have an endless supply, and have minions to make fn of for having less arms than her.
Moral -> redemption, when sought and fought for hard enough, can be achieved through sacrifice.
Frank Li is a young, handsome brunette, living on the sea-side in northern Australia-both his parents are Australian so no one knows where he got his last name.
It was sunny. Spring day on the streets of South-Central Los Angeles, with birds chirping and the “cops” theme song playing in beautiful harmony.
She has always aspired to become a world famous artist.
She wasn’t afraid of the practice being “shanklanba” (illegal, in her native tongue). She worried that the hands she got would be dull and butterfingered. She needed perfection.
Ian teams up with an unlikely ally, though they operate on different sides of the law and pool their resources.
Never expect your child to listen to you, especially if they have an ambition.
Ian is 28, charming, and the biggest son-of-a-birch yu’ll ever meet.
The year is 1993, time 17:30, in London’s poorest neighborhood.
He left for the “big city” because even though Frank loved his grandmother, she had managed to come back from the dead as a bossy old nag and now, he was sick of her. He had reached maturity at age 12 and now was free to leave the nest.
That this task wouldn’t be easy was of no news to our protagonist: numerous thugs and crime-ridden streets and unpaid parking tickets stood between him and his daughter.
She refuses to give up though. She believes in her talents that can change according to her clients’ desire.
She learned her lesson the hard way when her clones got together and ended her reign as the limb-knocker. Cloning is never the answer.
Meet Mona, the maniacal martian with only 5 hands! (All her friends have 6)
The setting is New York City in a popular area downtown. Present day.
He wishes to attend the Olympics.
He thought that upon arrival, he would move into the big house undoubtedly waiting for him, and begin his life as the much respected Frank Li of Sydney. But this was not the case : Sydney turned out to be nothing but a huge crater where “the incident” had happened years ago.Do not blame Frank for not knowing.
Nevertheless, out protagonist limped his way to victory, scaling overturned fruit carts and cases of petty larceny in progress to reach his beloved.
You have to be willing to adapt your way to different people’s viewpoints.
The faces were full of youthful energy
Sitting in a small group of the Writer’s Society
Enjoying the peaceful silence of the room
We about a dozen fellow rising writing stars
Conversation started with the “bucks stops here”
While meeting the treasurer of the club
Also met the smiling faces of the two officers
Who I met at the club of Baruch Toastmasters
Knowing Pen is mightier than the sword or guns or bombs
Writing can be a most powerful tool to command
To make a better world around us as we suffer
An economic meltdown and several wars
Recently three books so impresses me. One
Is an old one called, “Animal Farm” by George Orwell
That resemble “Wall Street Firms” of current debates
Another “Atlas Shrugged” . Now I am reading the novel
“Anna Karenina” by Leo Tolstoy who also wrote “war and peace”
Because we see again and again history repeating itself
To make us suffer, learn and grow again to a better life.
Better society and add to a better economy for us all
In closing thoughts a good book whether in storytelling,
A fiction, or an epoch poem, or even a non-fiction
can enlighten us all and embolden us to work for a better future
expressing unmentioned urges
that want wings to soar
beyond the bouldering limitations of the physical in accentuating adjectives
taming shrewdly nefarious nouns
screaming for attention
relentlessly grasping at the gears of a greying mind
for scheme and rhyme
forcing lucid images that gently
explode into view by aging symbols
confidently hashed, bashed, mashed for a collage
bright white with meaning or dismally dark with abstraction
hoping to find others with wings and yet
The following pieces are based on a fun group writing exercise we did using the same first line ” The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago” and passing our papers around in a circle, writing one line at a time, but continuing our own individual stories. If you pay close attention, you can piece together each story.
The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. We were driving down the highway and the rain was coming down in sheets – I could barely see the road before my eyes. I opened the door and told her to come in so she wouldn’t be out in the pouring rain. I was surrounded by the very restraint I sought to escape.
Cabesa told me one day, “Stay away from Brook Avenue, someone got shot today.”
“No, we’re only a couple of miles away!”
She took her bags and left and that was the last time I saw her. She has never contacted me since. Try as you might to emulate your hero or role model, you can and should still only be yourself.
The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. I was just thirteen years old when I ran away. I had just moved to Boston and was unfamiliar with the roads. And there we sat at the kitchen table, staring not at her, but instead at the walls behind her.
“It’s so good to see you again after so long. I thought you would never find your way back.”
I said, “Really? Who was it and how many times did they get shot?”
To this day, I still can’t get into a car.
The moral of this story is that sometimes you have to do what you believe is right and should not be made to look a fool by anyone.
The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. I left to wander the world because I felt so trapped being in the same place for so long. The South Bronx was tough, it didn’t offer a lot to people in the ’80s, then you had crack invade it. We were alone on the road or so I thought- why would anyone be out on a night like that?
“He hit me again, ” she said, tears streaming down her eyes.
“Didn’t I tell you he would?” I asked, outraged that she would even come to me now.
“I just need your help!” Was all she could say.
“What did you do this time? I feel like everytime you get into a stint, I have to come and bail you out. “
My mother always told me to stay away from drugs, but instead I sold them and haven’t seen her since. I miss her very much. Do not drive during a hurricane.
The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. She came to my house with all her bags and stood there on the porch with tears in her eyes. The same cabin I grew up in, on the countryside, back when there was still wilderness to explore. there were a lot of kids on our block, growing up here was fun.
“Pull over!” She yelled.
“I’ve taken you in time and time again, only to look like a fool when you went back. I’m sorry, but you will always go back to him and I can’t watch this happen…again.”
I sometimes wonder what would happen the day they are no longer around to be there for me, because everytime I try to look out for myself, it’s always one step forward, two steps back. Mom’s are always right; they try to steer us away from trouble, but sometimes we’re too dumb to notice.
Welcome to the brand new Writers’ Society blog! Feel free to post your own writing or ideas for the club!