i guess? it's up? since no ones done it ya could post a new one if ya have one in mind

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That which does not feel pain is dead.

No, I had none in particular in mind. But I could possibly come up with one... after I go shopping, that is.




A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people- Thomas Mann




My writing blog: [aspiringpen.blogspot.com]

I take that back. I have a simple one. Write a scene between two siblings.




A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people- Thomas Mann




My writing blog: [aspiringpen.blogspot.com]



Edited 1 times. Last edit at 07/21/11 11:17AM by Faerie Watcher.

Ooh, I LOVE sibling scenes! :D ...Now the question is, can I write something that isn't horrific traumatizing first person? Let's find out, everyone.

--

Cress had blood on his mouth, and it was all Cal could make herself notice as he spoke. A streak of blood, there in the corner. As if he'd eaten ripe fruit, and only half-remembered to wipe his face.

A girl's blood? That pretty, soft-eyed girl whose mother kept trying to press them together? Or maybe one of the Diviners had given him a prophecy he didn't care for, and he'd bitten their cold, gray fingers. But no; then the blood would be black, and she'd likely mistake it for oil, ink, paint. It was red. Dark red. Just dried.

"You're not listening to me," he said, raising his hands to her face. "Cal. Sistersweet. We have to go."

His fingers were wet. Dripping, in fact. The black, lumpish form at his feet gave a groan.

Cal sighed, licked her thumb, and wiped the streak from Cress's face. Not that it did any good, with his hands soaked in blood.

"I could've told you he was dead," she said. "You didn't have to check. I'm thorough, brother."

"Easily distracted, more like," he called over his shoulder as they ran. She rolled her eyes, and wiped her palms over her cheeks. More thorough, she thought, and a cleaner killer than he'd ever be.

"Kyle, what are you doing?" The younger boy stood in the doorway, his brown eyes wide.
"We're leaving, Jacob," he said as he continued to shove things into his backpack. "We can't stay here."
"But why not?" Tears came to the younger boy's eyes. "Why do we have to go?"
"There's nothing left for us here, Jacob, don't you see that?" Kyle snapped. Seeing his brother flinch out of the corner of his eye, he sighed heavily. "Our parents are dead, Jake. You understand that, right?" He nodded, and swiped angrily at the tears on his cheeks. "Oh, come on," he said, walking over to his brother and wrapping his arms around him. "Buck up, kiddo." Despite his strong words, he had to bite on his bottom lip to keep back tears.
"But why does it mean we have to leave?" Jacob whined.
"There's no one left to take care of us," Kyle said. "They'll stick us in the system, and there's no way in hell I'm doing that. You've heard what it's like. We'll be better off on our own."
Jacob nodded quickly as he pulled back from his brother's arms. He was only ten, but even so, he insisted he was too old to be involved in all that mushy stuff.
"So we're leaving," he said, sounding firm, though his face belied his fear.
"We're leaving," Kyle agreed.
"I'll go pack my stuff."

The ancient-looking man sat down with a sigh on the park bench. Reaching into his pocket for the little baggie of cracker crumbs he kept there, he chirruped at the ducks. "Come on, now," he called. "Crumblies, nice and fresh."
The ducks waddled over and he tossed them a pinch of the crumbs, smiling in satisfaction.
"Same as always, Christopher. You never change." Martina's voice came from behind him, a sardonic lilt in her voice.
"And you change too much," he replied, not turning to look.
Martina came and sat beside him on the bench. She looked about forty, but her makeup was a bit thick. Her clothes were typical of a stolid New England matron, though there was a hint of a Russian accent when she spoke.
"You look well."
She laughed at him. "I think I'll take that as an insult," she said, elbowing him. "But yes, I am well. And you?"
"Fine." He looked at her. "Three years is too long, Martina. I know you don't like to talk about it, but--"
"Everyone is better off that way, Chris. You know that."
They sat in silence for a few moments, Christopher occasionally tossing another pinch of crumbs to the ducks who scuttled around their feet.
"I should go," Martina finally said. "I'd hoped we could talk, could...I don't know..."
Christopher was shaking his head. "Unless you come back, Martina, there's nothing. I love you. You're my twin. No matter what you do, I will always love you. But you have betrayed our country. And if you aren't willing to face up to the consequences--"
"I know, I know." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Russia treats me well, Chris. I know you don't believe in the ideas of--"
He put up a hand. "Not again, Marti."
She stopped. "Alright." Her voice was sad. She stood. "I'll go."
"I really do love you, Martina."
She looked back and smiled at him bitterly. "I know, Chris. I love you too."
And then she was gone, leaving him alone with his ducks.
Christopher sighed, then turned his head down and spoke into his coller. "She's walking past the duck pond," he said.
A double-click in his ear let him know that the other watching FBI agents had heard.
He didn't want to see them take her. He would see her again at the trial.
Standing, Christopher walked away, his back no longer bent like an old man, but straight and strong. 31 years old and proudly American...he just wondered where Martina went wrong.

Creepy, Var. I like yours, Trav.



Lucian walked down the hall, and Rachel followed him. “What did you do to my doll?” she asked.
“Heh. That ugly thing?”
“Yes. Where is it?”
“Either in the garbage disposal or in the fireplace.”
Rachel’s eyes widened, but she did not scream. “Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t,” Lucian answered. “Zachary did it.”
“What? I didn’t do it,” came the small voice on the steps. Zachary looked up, his face puzzled.
“It was probably you,” Lucian stated.
“No,” Rachel answered. “Zachary is too stupid to be that smart. I’m going to tell Dad what you did.”
“Try. He won’t believe you.” Lucian leapt on top of the railing so that he towered over Rachel. “He loves me more than both of you. He’ll never believe you.”
Rachel slowly blinked. “One day he won’t, Lucian. One day, I’ll be loved more than both of you.”
Lucian laughed. “And when will that happen?”
“Today.”
Rachel reached out and pushed Lucian. He took a step back and then fell down towards the ground. Zachary screamed, but Rachel merely smiled and said nothing.





A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people- Thomas Mann




My writing blog: [aspiringpen.blogspot.com]

Can I post a challenge?

Go to town! :D

Write, in "modern fiction format" (that is, with dialog and such) your favorite scene from your favorite fairy tale.