Writing Club: Pass-the-story

By popular demand, I am going to start posting all the writings from writing club, starting with the most recent and moving backward. Last night, we did a pass-the-story, which would've been more fun if people hadn't turned it into a big fight and made Paul feel like he didn't belong there, but whatev. Here's the story, along with my vote that we (a) either never do a pass-the-story again, or (b) let everyone know that in CREATIVE writing, as difficult as it may be to understand someone else's motivation for writing certain things, it's their right to do so and no one "ruins" someone else's writing, so everyone should just relax and let it be fun...honestly, if this sort of thing keeps up I'm going to have to discontinue writing club, which just makes me kinda sad and mad to think about, since I'm one of the ones who started it, and since I never thought I'd have friends who'd end up making a situation where I had to pick either them or Paul. But the truth is, even if Paul's in the wrong, he's my husband-to-be and I am going to have to pick his side. So don't make me pick, or you lose.

*Whew* There's my rant. And now it's over. Anywho, without further ado, here's the pass-the-story, in which we each had 3 minutes to write a bit and then we passed it to the next person, and after 5 more people we ended up reading aloud the one that everyone else had finished for you. It was really fun to hear how differently things started and ended, and how you can just tell when certain people are writing (and it's NOT just because of the names and phrases frequently used by people, but their style). :) I don't have a good title for this pass-a-story yet, so I apologize. Here it is:


When the thick darkness wrapped around me until I could no longer breathe, I gave up. The trail was sunken where an oversized rotting log insisted I rest, and I heeded its beckoning call. Perspiration soaked my upper lip, and the saltiness I caught occasionally on my tongue as I tried to calm my ragged breathing only reminded me of the stabbing hunger pains in my stomach.

I hate fast Sundays! Any other day of the week—any other day of the month, I can wake up and forget to eat until either 5 or 6 at night, but for some reason, fast Sundays come around, and I’m hungry as I fall asleep at 12:01 AM. What sense does that make?! Is it all psychological? What sense does psychology make?! You would think that our minds would want to PROTECT us from evilness, not say over and over again, “Hey, you know what day it is? It’s fast Sunday! It’s fast Sunday, person. Yes, and now—still fast Sunday.” Stupid minds! Stupid subconscious.

The gnawing pains in my stomach grew stronger. There was no escaping. I should have known that deep in the woods I wouldn’t be able to find any food. I should have known to plan ahead for this. The bitter hindsight kicked me again and again. I was lost and alone, and slowly starving. My body was growing weaker with every moment. Perhaps I couldn’t make it out of the woods… but I was going to make it farther than this silly log. I refuse to give up until I cannot walk any more.

It wasent that much longer anyway. Thiry yards till the claring and I fall. And of course on this terrible Sunday I break my ankle, fall down a hill and end up in a strange city where for some reason there a man with a scar over his left eye watching me. “want some food?” he asks. “no I cant its fast Sunday I cant break fast you know.” I responded cheerfully. “you cant do what now?” he asked as he slowly backed up. “I cant eat. Yaknow fast Sunday and all that.” I said. “there haven’t been those in years. Whare are you from.” He said slightly hostily. “Overallious.” I responded. “Attack!” screamed the man.

Out of the dark alleyways and dingy streets appeared a horde of raggedly clothed, wretched children. “Here,” grinned the man. “This is how we welcome people to our city.”
The children had bits of metal as they screamed their battle cry… “TODAY IS A GOOD DAY TO DIE!” which the man thought was funny, because it was night, and a dark and rainy one at that. It was a good thing that I knew where I wanted to go. I ripped past the looming battle and headed for the mountain. On top of that mountain was my goal, was what I was fasting for. The shrine. At last I would have my revenge on Aaron or Edward or whatever his name was. What’s in a name anyway…ha, Bella… mine supposedly means beautiful. But no, from now on I shall be called… something else. Whatever, I’ve got a shrine to get to…first how do I get through this creepy cemetery to that old sacred looking building… maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow… Monday… oh no, I tried to repress the memory of that fateful Monday… but I could not. Oh Charlie, why can’t you be with me right now to comfort me?

The pain dissipated as I remembered my goal. The shrine. I bowed to the altar at the shrine and I could feel it. Enlightenment. It wasn’t fast Sunday, it was heavan. I had been so scared. All my feelings, my thoughts… I was reliving it all. I miss you Charlie. I’m dying, but it’s so beautiful. It was terrifying, horrid, but then… like Fast Sunday, when it’s all over… You’re proud. You’re happy. You’re complete. You ARE one with him, your father. The journey was long a hard, but worth it…