So I went to http://www.chaoticshiny.com/wegen.php for some story generators.
I did a lot of the exercises, and they're probably not any good, but I had a lot of fun doing them for anyone else who's interested in those sorts of things.
These were the stories I wrote.
(I warn you, in the "Stuck" story there are two uses of the f*** word. And some other language, I believe.)
((Also, sorry for any grammatical, spelling errors. I just read through this once, but I can't catch everything on meh own.)
The Reunion
When I arrived at the reunion I could have sworn that in the bottom left window there was somebody there staring at me. They looked small and thin, as if they were hiding, but didn’t move out of sight when I glared at the window.
It’d been raining that day so all outdoor activities had either been moved inside or cancelled. Right now there was just a mist and I could smell heavy maple syrup in the air. It made me remember the other night when I stopped by a breakfast diner for dinner and couldn’t decide if I wanted French toast or pancakes. Needless to say I probably shouldn’t have ordered that coke knowing that milk would have been better when they brought out steaming and floppy looking pancakes.
I shuffled inside along with two other ladies. Both of them were grumbling about the humidity and how it had been troublesome to their hair. Honestly mine had so much hairspray I didn’t think it would be moving any time soon. Every vapor of water seemed to hit and rebound off the sticky shield.
Thinking about my hair made me reach up and pat it. I wondered if it was even my hair that was still up there, because it felt awfully false and strand-less to be hair. The ladies looked at me, as if I had been listening in on their private conversation. I didn’t know that hair-talk was something secretive. I met their gaze with my glare and they bowed their heads and moved away.
The reunion was different than I thought it would be. I was expecting their faces to look old and wrinkled like my own was, but I wasn't expecting the liveliness of it all. I think the group of men in the back were a bit drunk and some of the ladies looked like they had a warm buzz coming on. I thought it funny that someone would spike the punch at this age.
After a little bit of alcohol things really started to take an upward turn. The two ladies who’d come together were now pulling on each other’s hair and wrinkles, and some of the others were yelling fight in cracked and thin voices. I receded in corner, watching once past friends now become bitter enemies with little threat to one another. At one point someone tripped over the chair in front of me and I watched their face bash into the wall beside me. Honestly I was glad they hadn’t smashed into me, but then felt concern and asked if they were alright.
They’d knocked themselves out though, or maybe they fell asleep (I couldn't remember), so their partner had to call an ambulance and that’s how the first people went.
The next to go were a few bored ones sitting at a table by the entrance. At one point I thought I heard one of them say, “Forget this,” or something more vulgar than that and then throw down their napkin as if they were challenging someone to a duel. The others nodded in agreement, and then in unison they slowly made their way out of their chairs and disappeared out the doors.
I didn’t stay to see if anyone else would go. We were at some home that was rented out for parties and events like this so I left to go explore the other rooms. I found a staircase first and I went up and found that most of the rooms were empty. I was disappointed and returned downstairs.
Music was now playing. It was 50’s music, and the people there were doing their best to dance around, but secretly all of them were either too old or too unhealthy to do any real dancing. I did see one couple dancing away on the floor, grooving to some song I’d never heard before. They looked cute and weren’t really paying attention to anyone else besides one another. I wondered how this was supposed to be a reunion when people weren’t really socializing with one another.
Before anyone noticed me, I slipped through a set of doubles doors, and walked down a wing of the house. My walking led me to a room with no door. I decided to start there and when I peeked in I could see something in the window sill. I rounded the corner and drew back the curtain to find a large and rather faded hammer sitting in the window still. It was sitting up to appear elongated and was halfway clouded by another thinner curtain. It was then I realized that this hammer was what I thought had been staring at me when I arrived here.
I glared at the hammer once more. Disappointed to find that it was not a ghost or even a person that had been watching the guests from the window as they arrived; it was only a hammer, lonely and out of place. I sighed then walked back to where everyone was, deciding that I would be the next person to leave.
What if the Next Sip Was Your Last?
It was me, he knew that. He was a bloody fool, with his foul beard smelling of bile and grease. I didn’t have to look him in the eye, because I was already there in the back of his mind, and on the tip of his thirsty tongue. He rolled his eyes and I waited, waited knowing that I was the sole reason he was holding back, and the sole reason he was contemplating.
I screeched where I stood, feeling impatience within my entity. I wanted to push him closer to the edge, but knew that tampering with such things could be very bad.
It was me, he knew that. He knew the consequences, the ramifications of drinking that drink.
Honestly I’d never seen somebody stare at someone like me for so long. Here I was, a simple drink in a simple clear glass waiting to be consumed. I knew the moment my creator mixed and made me that I would not last very long. This man would take a sip and then another and then a gulp and what would be left of me besides a couple of drops?
But the way he stared kept him held back and it made me so nervous. I didn’t know which was worse. To be consumed by the fifthly man or sit here until someone dumped me down a drain. I’d seen another dumped; that’s how long I’d been sitting here. And honestly, I was getting kind of hot. I could feel my self sweat and the glass around me shivered. I hadn’t talked to the glass yet, but I figured he didn’t want to make conversation with me. Perhaps he was watching the man, too, thinking the same questions I was thinking, but just a bit differently.
I wanted to cry out to this man to drink me now. I was a drink! It was my purpose! Why was he taking so long? It was driving me inside. Drink, drink, drink…!
It was me, it was me, it was me! I wanted to conceal myself, but my grin kept me wide open. In plain sight he watched me waver back and forth. I tried to coax him, to show him it would be alright. I tried to push him forwards until he wrapped his hand around that chilled glass.
I could hardly contain my excitement at what was going to happen. Why, why, why was it taking so long? Couldn’t he feel the burn in his throat, in his hurt heart? He wanted this more than anyone, so why was he holding back?
It was me, it was, it was me…! Why was he hesitating?
Couldn’t he tell that I was just a simple little risk?
The Locked Box
In my locked box I have a bathroom. My locked box is smashed in on one side, and the right corner is partially melted by the rim where somebody held a match too close for too long. There are scrapes from a nail and other objects where they trailed to scrape through the melted part, because it hinders the box from completely opening.
Even though this box is locked, it is opened frequently. Normally locked boxes are locked to hide secrets and keep others out, but since there is a bathroom in this locked box, many need to pass inside and out.
I don’t remember who gave me this locked box, but there is a rather large frowning face scratched onto the top. It looks deep, and there is grayness to it, as if somebody has carved it in with a pencil. Sometimes I run my finger along the frown and wonder if it was a child who gave it to me, a very unhappy child.
The box is wooden, but it has been painted green by somebody very skilled. I’m beginning to think it was given to a child as a gift, and then given to me. The brush strokes run the same way, and there is not a spot left undone. The paint is strong, too, because it has only slightly faded. Perhaps the box is really not as old as it seems.
I do wonder at times why there is a bathroom in this box, and why it is locked. I realize that the bathroom is a place for privacy and maybe that is why. Sometimes I open the box and look at the lid, which is tiled like a ceiling. There are little lights, too. I wonder if they turn on when I close the box, and if little people that are hiding come out. Or maybe they are fake, and whoever is or isn’t there is trapped in the dark, locked in my box.
The Final Act
Tonight, I plan on killing the woman in the robe. I haven’t chosen my weapon yet, but I’m sure it will be something small, and easy to conceal within the confines of my clothing.
You see, sometimes I think about what I am, a murder, killer, criminal… all of those do not seem to fit. I am a mother, with four children. My youngest is a little girl and tonight she will see the theatre performance for the first time. She will watch the woman in the robe make her entrances and exits, and I can see her eyes in my mind widen in wonder at the magic of it all. She will watch the actors and actresses spin and move across the stage in artistic ways, and she will tell me afterwards that she wants to be like them, with them. And I will say that she can be anything she wants if she puts her heart into it. And for the rest of her life, I will support her.
But then I remember that I’m going to kill the woman in the robe, and I think about how I shall support my children from a jail cell. Or how I will support them when I burn in hell with every nightmare I have, knowing that I have taken a life.
I look at the arrangement of weapons in front of me, and then select the small needle on the end. I pop the syringe off and examine it. It is delicate in my fingers, and I know that it is the one. I fill it with poison and stuff it up into my sleeve. A plan begins to formulate in the back of my mind. I will have paper, and sheets, and I will ask the woman in the robe to take these papers. I will slide my needle down and with the tip; poke at her hand from under the papers as she reaches for them. Even the slightest of poison will worm itself into her bloodstream and then, stop her heart.
I can see the performance. The music will be high and lovely; the festive air will captivate the audience. I can see their wide eyes staring, like my daughter’s will be, and then they will watch as the woman in the robe collapses. She will clutch at her heart in agony, and at first they will wonder if it is a part of the play. But the actors will know and rush, and suddenly everyone will. And my daughter, my lovely daughter, will see someone she was enchanted by, fall and die. And if I’m not found out, then I will take her into my arms and comfort her.
And maybe, if I am not found out, I will take the needle, and plunge it into my own heart.
Replacement
I am a fire. Filled with greed, I send my sparks and lick the wood at my side, trying to bring it closer to me. I devour and take and feed off this wood, until a woman tosses me more. I wrap my arms around each crack of bark and hold it close to my heart.
But do not blame me for my selfishness and greed, because I am going to die. I watch the child in front of me smooth out a paper and read, and re-read the instructions that stretch across them.
How to Assemble the Lamp.
The child reads this out loud and stares at the lamp once more, as if it will magically put itself together. I take a twig and it snacks and pops like a piece of popcorn. I feel as if I am watching a movie, and my throat gets hungry for something to eat. So I throw myself forward and begin to nibble on the wood in front of me.
The child glances up; eyes squinted into my citrus flames, then returns to the lamp. I watch her assemble this lamp, piece by piece. Knowing fully well that when it is done, she will have a source of light, constant and nearly not as loud, and then they will put me out.
Untitled
I could not bear the ice that coursed through my lungs. Its sheer power took away each breath, one at a time. Sometimes it seemed to rip the oxygen from me before it reached my lungs. I was bitter and frozen, and the winds that blanketed me only made me sink deeper to unconsciousness.
I wandered through the blizzard, feeling the skin of the cold touch my own, and leave burns when it had gone.
Every part of me grew slower and slower. I felt my eyelashes freeze above my eyes, and they, too, radiated a burn. It only made me want to close my eyes sooner. I couldn’t see anyway. The dark and the cover of snow hitting my face only made me cringe and tuck my head down further.
I wanted out of this cold. My insides ached and buzzed to be somewhere warm. I could feel my heart pump just for the heat that came with the movement. It was fighting against the ice that was working its way through my layers.
I felt my parts break down separately. First my skin, and then everything else followed suit. Sometimes they fell apart in masses, and I would not realize that my toes were not working until I tripped, jabbing myself on a rock, only to realize I’d felt nothing at all.
Stumbling, I fell upon my knees. My body met something that felt like cloth. I picked at the fabric on the ground, trying to use my elbows, since my fingers were of no use to me now. I squinted, bringing my face to it, and saw the buttons and the line of the hood. I realized it was a robe and began to kiss it. My blue lips kissed each button. I felt I’d been saved by this robe, hoping that another layer of clothing would keep my alive for just a little bit longer. With every kiss I praised the robe, slowly sinking further and further into its confines. It was dark inside the cloak and I continued to laugh and press my lips to it, until the darkness continued and didn’t go away.
Stuck
I was so pissed, so, so… so fucking angry. I mean, whose brilliant idea was it to do this anyway? I could feel the tears well up into the corners of my eyes and wanted to sob.
I grabbed the knife, attempting to release it from the grip of the bottle, but it seemed to be of no use. With every jerk and pull, the teeth of the bottle seemed to hold it tighter. I struggled so very hard, my fingers aching and sore, and sweating down the handle of the knife.
The betrayal hurt and stung my eyes, and I had to stop to wipe away the tears. There was a physical and emotional pain that broke down my body. My favorite bottle, my favorite bottle, and they’d had the fucking nerve to… to… to stab it? Whose brilliant idea was it? I wanted to know… and find them… and…
I looked at the bottle with the knife somehow lodged into the side of its body. I was so angry I didn’t know what to think. I kicked at it, cursing under my breath. I walked back over, clenched my hands tightly around the handle, and began yanking on it once again.
Can’t Stop Thinking
My bro and I were sitting out on a sidewalk when he snickered and pointed. There was some lady there by the side of the road and she looked rather impatient and angry. I wondered what he was snickering away at. She looked to be like some business woman, angry at possibly her boss or her job.
I looked at him questioningly.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Look at her hand.” I did so.
In her hand she was holding a candle. A plain, boring white stick of wax. She was tapping it against the side of her skirt. Her fingers were clenched around it so tight they were almost as white as the candle itself.
“What do you think she’s got it for?”
“I dunno.” I tried to look away, because I didn’t want the lady looking over to see us staring at her. She kind of reminded me of my mother and I didn’t like it when my mom got angry at us. We always got into all sorts of trouble.
“She looks angry… maybe it’s a weddin’ candle… or somebody was playing a practical joke on her?”
“I dunno.”
“Hey she’s lookin’ this way.” My eyes were drawn to her, and she was glaring in our direction. I felt stupid and looked away, wondering why I’d looked up in the first place.
“C’mon, let’s go,” I suggested, nudging my bro with my elbow.
He snickered again, but finally turned his head away. “Yeah… That’s great…” he said to himself.
I nodded and we took off the other way, shoving at one another.
“What do you think mom’s gonna make for dinner?”
“I dunno.” I couldn’t stop thinking about the candle.
“Hope it’s something good.”
“Yeah…”
“Hey, what’s the matter with you?”
“I dunno,” I replied.
He grinned and snickered. “Bet you can’t stop thinking about that woman, can ya?”
“Nah… I’m thinking about the candle.”
“Well what good is thinking about a candle gonna do you?”
“I dunno.”
“That’s what I thought, now knock it off, and c’mon.”
He gave me a shove and I shoved him back, but all the while my mind was wondering why or what that woman had a candle for.
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