Here is the picture: http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/33360603338/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words
Here is the writing(look at the picture first to understand :)
After the war had hit the city, it had been left ravaged. Houses, stores, childhood meeting places; all destroyed. She came back though many years afterward to the apartment building in which she had lived.
She slowly opened the door and it screeched on its hinges. Her old steps echoed throughout the spacious main room. As she moved through the room it was almost as if she could hear the sound of childrens' foosteps in the room, the sizzling of a pot on the stove in the kitchen, and the roar of the old television set that deafened everything else out with its noise. This was home, but not exactly how she remembered it.
Thirty years ago she and her family had left in the dead of night against a threat of war. They took little and they left their memories behind, never expecting to return again. But here she was.
She scrambled over some fallen bricks and walked through the living room. She spotted the old olive colored arm chair, the coffee table still next to it. The red afghan was laying atop the chair. She smiled as she ran her finger tips over it.
This was home. This was where she had lived in the early years of her marriage; where she had raised her young children; the place that she would be leaving again. She tightened the scarf on her head, buttoned up her coat and started for the door.
Her feet crunched on something and she picked it up. It was her framed wedding photo. She clutched it in her hands, smiled and looked around one last time, and departed.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Daily Prompt: Is that blood behind your ear?
This is something I wrote today while I was in morality and happiness.
It was cold and wet, people were freezing to death and then there were others that were actually dying from the war itself. That was how war always went, more people died from the elements than they did from the actual war. I looked over at my comrade who came running over to me, almost compromising our location. I already knew what was wrong.
”Is that blood behind your ear?” I asked him. He placed his hands on his knees and bent over, panting. He shook his head.
“Of course not.” He gasped.
“Don’t tell me that it’s mud. You’re bleeding. Get your ass over here.” I demanded, beckoning him over. He sat with his back to me so I could see where the blood was coming from.
Head wound.
I let out an internal groan. He was a goner, but I was not going to tell him that. He was going to die soon. I was going to bandage his wound, though. I needed to keep his morale up, keep him going up until the last.
Shrapnel was always the hardest to bandage. It was not a clean cut, I did not know the point of entry, and he was going to keep bleeding until it was all gone. The joy of fighting in the trenches.
I had come to realize that most of my friends were going to die in this war, but I went on anyway helping all those that I could. I quickly went on to bandage his head and tried not to vomit as the blood trickled down my fingers. I had seen death, so much death, but it was those who were dying and did not realize it that made me feel sorry for them. Those who died quickly never realized that they were dying, or at least I did not think that. A slow death was the worst way to go, one knew that they were dying and they could not escape it.
“Am I good to go?” the man asked me.
“Sure thing.” I told him and patted his back. He put his helmet back on and crawled away on all fours. Another bomb went off close by and everything went black. It was a quick death.
It was cold and wet, people were freezing to death and then there were others that were actually dying from the war itself. That was how war always went, more people died from the elements than they did from the actual war. I looked over at my comrade who came running over to me, almost compromising our location. I already knew what was wrong.
”Is that blood behind your ear?” I asked him. He placed his hands on his knees and bent over, panting. He shook his head.
“Of course not.” He gasped.
“Don’t tell me that it’s mud. You’re bleeding. Get your ass over here.” I demanded, beckoning him over. He sat with his back to me so I could see where the blood was coming from.
Head wound.
I let out an internal groan. He was a goner, but I was not going to tell him that. He was going to die soon. I was going to bandage his wound, though. I needed to keep his morale up, keep him going up until the last.
Shrapnel was always the hardest to bandage. It was not a clean cut, I did not know the point of entry, and he was going to keep bleeding until it was all gone. The joy of fighting in the trenches.
I had come to realize that most of my friends were going to die in this war, but I went on anyway helping all those that I could. I quickly went on to bandage his head and tried not to vomit as the blood trickled down my fingers. I had seen death, so much death, but it was those who were dying and did not realize it that made me feel sorry for them. Those who died quickly never realized that they were dying, or at least I did not think that. A slow death was the worst way to go, one knew that they were dying and they could not escape it.
“Am I good to go?” the man asked me.
“Sure thing.” I told him and patted his back. He put his helmet back on and crawled away on all fours. Another bomb went off close by and everything went black. It was a quick death.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Take a look, inside a book, reading rainbow!
This might be cliche or I may have just created this cliche, but books are like a rainbow. The genres of fiction span this beautiful spectrum and create a type of rainbow for themselves. Get it? I still somewhat do not but do any cliches truly make sense once you really think about them?
If you have read any of my previous posts I hope you are able to tell that I am a book lover. Well, maybe not a book lover, perhaps a book devourer. I read any book that I can get my hands on but I can get quite picky sometimes. The only genre of books I do not like are non-fiction unless they are historical. Whenever I find a book that I like, I can spend hours reading said book and then you will not see me for a few days afterwards. As I have said before, I read books in a block type fashion. I read twenty pages or so and then I take a break. I swear I have ADD or something, nothing can really keep my attention very long. I am lucky that I am getting this blog post typed out and that I am not flitting around doing other things.
I am a firm believer in books. Books can be your friend or you can make them your worst nightmare. I know people who do not like books and I can never really understand them. A good view point I have heard about this is that they have not found the right book just yet and that once they do they will not be able to stop reading. I sincerely hope that they find that right book soon or else I will never hear the end of it whenever I pick up a book. Books are those things, I will call them characters, that each have their own personality. Whether the book has its own personality or the writer puts their personality into the book, ever work of fiction is different and special in its own way.
I always read quotes about books. Half of my time is spent looking up quotes that relate to my life somehow. I look up quotes on hope, love, BOOKS! I think that my favorite quote is from an author I have never even heard of before let alone read his books.
It goes like this:
“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.”
-- George R.R. Martin, A Dance With Dragons
I was trying to figure out what I had spent my summer doing, I could not remember for the life of me. Then I remembered what I had been doing. My memory consists of me going to Guys and Dolls practice almost every morning this past summer and then I had no memories past that. I was not allowed to use my computer that much and I had made a book list. I spent my afternoons after I got out of practice, reading. I read from noon until about five in the evening. That is why I have no recollection. I was living other people's lives and I was experiencing their lives and not my own. I experienced Aragorn, Eowyn, Sam, Pippin, Frodo, Jane Eyre, Edward Rochester, and so many other characters. I had spent all of my time inside of a book this summer and I do not regret it one bit.
If you put down a book it will always remember you and you will always remember it. You might think of it and you might forget it at times. You will always come back to it though. Sometime late at night the book will call to you and you will be drawn to it and you will come back to it and you will love it again.
If you have read any of my previous posts I hope you are able to tell that I am a book lover. Well, maybe not a book lover, perhaps a book devourer. I read any book that I can get my hands on but I can get quite picky sometimes. The only genre of books I do not like are non-fiction unless they are historical. Whenever I find a book that I like, I can spend hours reading said book and then you will not see me for a few days afterwards. As I have said before, I read books in a block type fashion. I read twenty pages or so and then I take a break. I swear I have ADD or something, nothing can really keep my attention very long. I am lucky that I am getting this blog post typed out and that I am not flitting around doing other things.
I am a firm believer in books. Books can be your friend or you can make them your worst nightmare. I know people who do not like books and I can never really understand them. A good view point I have heard about this is that they have not found the right book just yet and that once they do they will not be able to stop reading. I sincerely hope that they find that right book soon or else I will never hear the end of it whenever I pick up a book. Books are those things, I will call them characters, that each have their own personality. Whether the book has its own personality or the writer puts their personality into the book, ever work of fiction is different and special in its own way.
I always read quotes about books. Half of my time is spent looking up quotes that relate to my life somehow. I look up quotes on hope, love, BOOKS! I think that my favorite quote is from an author I have never even heard of before let alone read his books.
It goes like this:
“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.”
-- George R.R. Martin, A Dance With Dragons
I was trying to figure out what I had spent my summer doing, I could not remember for the life of me. Then I remembered what I had been doing. My memory consists of me going to Guys and Dolls practice almost every morning this past summer and then I had no memories past that. I was not allowed to use my computer that much and I had made a book list. I spent my afternoons after I got out of practice, reading. I read from noon until about five in the evening. That is why I have no recollection. I was living other people's lives and I was experiencing their lives and not my own. I experienced Aragorn, Eowyn, Sam, Pippin, Frodo, Jane Eyre, Edward Rochester, and so many other characters. I had spent all of my time inside of a book this summer and I do not regret it one bit.
If you put down a book it will always remember you and you will always remember it. You might think of it and you might forget it at times. You will always come back to it though. Sometime late at night the book will call to you and you will be drawn to it and you will come back to it and you will love it again.
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