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  • TK Camas 16:01 on 10/02/2019 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Writing Date Red   

    Writing Date Red: SURVIVAL 

    Well, we finally had our first Physical Meetup, despite the treacherous weather!
    Thus, this post is reserved exclusively for those who attended today’s Meetup here in Seattle.

     

    LoveYouALatte

    To Those Who Attended Today:

    Please use this post’s Comments Section to SHARE all or some of your writings from today’s little writing shingdig. Please refrain from sharing reviews of the Meetup itself here. If you would like to review the Meetup, please use our WRTGPRAC Meetup Page.

    Thanks, Everyone! I had a great time 🙂

    p.s. please delineate which prompt you are posting by adding the Prompt Number (e.g. “Prompt 4”) at the top of each post, and please only post one response at a time. Please do not post every piece of writing in one long post. thnx!

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    • etmoseleyc 19:33 on 10/02/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Writing Date RED: Survival

      Writing Roulette

      Part I: Prompt 6 – “She died after all.” [epitaph]

      She wasn’t comfortable with it, really. Well, maybe she was. She had always wished that she could have come up with the perfect, unreturnable insult to place on her gravestone, the single, lasting verbal remembrance of the most powerful leader the nation had ever known.

      Part II: Roulette Continuation [Madeline] – “blackmail of the dead leader” –

      The rumor mill is currently churning out quite salacious fodder regarding the circumstances of our beloved leader’s untimely demise, but one particular trail of evidence paints a compelling tapestry of blackmail and intrigue regarding the unrepentantly vengeful subject of our attention.

      Apparently, our fearless comandante found herself revealed in a compromising position with another equally feminine world leader and little Ms. Spits-on-her-grave over here milked it for all it was worth.

      Maybe it was suicide… to avoid the fallout. Who really knows. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that this absolutely terrifying, yet gorgeous, yet purely evil villainess, whose methods I don’t understand and which frighten me terribly, is standing right over there… looking at me!

      Part III: Roulette Continuation [TK] – “DNA copying of disgraced, deceased world leader to create and distribute likeness as sexbot”

      At this point I’m afraid I must make a confession, for I haven’t been fully honest with you. The reason I so clearly comprehend her comfort level and vindictive desires is due to my personal relationship with her, uniquely intimate, no doubt, in contrast to yours. You see, I am hers, and she is free to use me as she desires, for I am beholden to her by powers far beyond my control. That basest and most carnal of impulses within me are intrinsically bound to the same in her, and it is through these puppet strings that I may forever be hers, though I seldom offer any resistance, guilty as that may make me.

      So, though I had little interest originally in attending this graveyard on such a sunny, sweaty, shitty summer day, I have extensive and continuing interest in providing my raging libido completely obligation-less access for her potential spontaneous desires. Don’t judge my behavior so rashly; if you can’t understand the urge, you can’t understand. And, come to think of it, this particular vengeful excursion has an interesting twist.

      Any moment now, at least, that’s the loose plan she laid out for me (I certainly didn’t ask for further details, you see, I’m absolutely petrified of her) she plans to exhume the corpse of her opposition and extract from her some amount of DNA (again, with a device the description of which I dared not ask for explanation) to take along with us to our next destination. Regarding whereabouts that may be, all I know are a few words I overheard through a thin wall in our hotel while I cowered in the bathroom: mass distribution, deep fake, and sexbot. So that’s what I’m working with, but I don’t much bother with thinking things through too deeply anymore, there’s no future in that for me. And anyways, you better find yourself gone before you witness something you won’t be able to unsee, and certainly before she gets back here.

      Surely we won’t meet again.

      Like

    • TK Camas 20:47 on 10/02/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Writing Roulette

      Prompt #1 “Death by A Thousand Cuts”

      “He really had asked for a death by two thousand cuts, but by the time the surgeon had reached a thousand, he was long gone. That’s not to say that he would never return, but at least, for the moment, let’s just say he’s dead.” “Who’s dead?” the nanny asks. Slowly, the child feels heat warm her face. How long had the damn nanny been listening? “Uh,” she begins; “No one’s dead.” She feigns a chuckle. “Oh, it’s not Mr. Little, again. Is it?” the nanny asks. “No, not Mr. … wait? How do YOU know about Mr. Littles?” the child asks, indignant. “You introduced him to me last year. Remember?” the nanny assures. No, I don’t remember, the child thinks to herself.

      He eyeballs Mr. Littles who stands, cowering in his chair across from her. “Very well, if you know who he is, where is he now?” the child challenges. “Oh, what a silly question, dear. He’s sitting right in front of you, across the table that you’re sitting at,” the nanny smiles. Dammit! How does he know Mr. Littles? Oh, well, one must shake off these things from time to time and remain focused.

      Returning her attention to the nanny, the child asks, “What are you still doing here?” The nanny smiles, used to the child’s temperament, “I’m here to fetch you, but I can see that you’re busy. I’ll tell your father, and you can send for me when you’re ready to join the others who have arrived for your birthday party.” As the nanny turns to leave the child’s room the child moans, “No, it’s fine. I’m ready.”

      Quickly, the child is dressed in her finest party clothes, a frilly petticoat, patent leather Mary Janes, the works and is shuffle down the stairs to the already-lively festivities throughout the entirety of the lower floor of the house and the outer yard directly surrounding the house. Being such large, extensive property, in all, the party guests mingle and assembly mostly around the porch and green-grassed lawn.

      In the distance, she spot him, a birthday clown. Surprised, she runs over toward the clown and immediately begins to grill the thing about its current whereabouts. “What do you mean when am I?” the clown asks, genuinely confused. “I saw you! You’re the man who died from his own weakness!” the child accuses. “What?” the clown responds, feeling weepy now. The clown kneels down in front of the seemingly irate child and sits back on his heels, “Happy Birthday, Kiddo!” The child sighs in the clowns face and begins to walk away. Clumsily, the clown returns to his feet and scoots along the grass to catch up with the child, “Wait a minute.”

      The child turns, unimpressed. “I know what you’re referring to, but if you just keep it down. I’m not supposed to be here, YET,” the clown explains. “What do you mean, YET?” the child asks. Kneeling on one knee, the clown sighs and hangs his head low, “I didn’t really die.” “What? I saw you!” the child whisper-screams. “Yes, you were supposed to, but it’s just a stupid trick. It’s … it’s magic,” the clown attempts. “Yea, magic is real,” the child nods. “Yes, well, sort of, it’s like an illusion; it’s a trick; it’s supposed to make you think that things that aren’t real are real. Do you understand?” the clown winces. Yea, she understands. She understands everything now.
      Suddenly, she feels the hot warm fill her face. Absorbing it all, she begins to scream at the top of her lungs, “THE CLOWN IS NOT REAL! KILL HIM!” Screams and shouts of children running like wild beasts let free from their cages. “That’s not what I meant!” the clown shouts over the chaos. That’s not what the clown meant.

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  • TK Camas 00:01 on 10/02/2019 Permalink | Reply  

    DWP No. 041 

     

    FREE WRITE

    041

     

     

     
    • etmoseleyc 11:32 on 10/02/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Stepping down easily through the wide arching doorway the two women passed, one before the other, out from under the searing, unforgiving sun and into the cool, dim corridor leading down to the cavernous indoor amphitheater that stretched deep into the echoing depths. The woman in front lead with the confidence of foot capable only from a seasoned practitioner, impressive as it was as the descent was quite steep and the frequent isolated steps down were much larger than usual.

      Feeling a cool, crisp breeze as they rounded a bend, the corridor opened up to the gargantuan cavern before them. Somehow completely occupied and simultaneously vacant, it flaunted an unmistakable ambience that permeated all newcomers with a profoundly unique sense of being helplessly immersed in the very heart of something, yet completely alone and left to one’s own devices. Every person in every point of the space was the center of the universe.

      The woman in the lead came to a smooth halt and turned back to the other in a silent indication of the proper location having been chosen. Opening her mouth to ask the most obvious of questions, the bewildered newcomer found herself preventatively hushed by her guide.

      “Shh,” the woman said soft and strongly, “it is time to pray now.”

      And as if on cue, an incredibly thin layer of dust was instantaneously pulsed off of their bodies and thrust into the air in every direction as the walls shuddered with the drop of the bass beat.

      The bassline throbbed through their bodies and quickly synched their heartbeats up along with the thousands of other practitioners in the underground sanctuary. As the music filled out and intense electronic instrumentation took hold of their bodily faculties, the congregation ceded themselves to their beholden and relinquished control of their will, allowing the purest light of freedom to open up within.

      Like

    • Mary 13:11 on 10/02/2019 Permalink | Reply

      On Church

      By Mary Sanford

      Church. It’s usually defined by a building and a. affiliation with Christianity. Perhaps it’s none of these and yet all of these and more.

      A while back someone at my school passed on. She was not religious nor did she attend any church. But she loved, wholeheartedly, unabashedly, and without fear. She loved her students. She loved the school. She loved without judgment. Her church, if she had to define it physically, was nature and the outdoors-wind blowing through tangled birch trees and slimy seaweed on the shore.

      I belong to a physical church and I attend regularly. I don’t preach, proselytize, or convert. It’s forbidden in my religion, and even it wasn’t, when people try that stuff on me, I shut them down. Game over. It took me a very long time before I found my chosen religion, and had somebody been pushy about joining their church, adopting their religion,I would’ve run in the opposite direction.

      On days that I miss attending church, I do not worry about going to hell. Hell is here and now. It’s how you live your life. I do not worry about being the hostess with the mostest at church or not. My principle concern is to love. I know people can be highly involved in the church organization, be mega volunteers, in or outside of the church, and not be loving. Not okay. Not church.

      I found church on a train in Northwest Italy, struggling with luggage overload and having a darling retired Italian couple help me. I speak 25 words of Italian but these people loved. They gave me such peace and a great sense of protection.

      Yesterday my brand new car got stuck on the ice between the bottom of my crazy steep driveway and the edge of the icy road, and it was sliding even with the emergency brake on. I screamed for help, shaking with fear, and this neighbor who I didn’t know ran over from across the street and helped me stop my car. with a cement block. That’s church.

      I found church in Madrid on a Sunday morning at an ATM machine when an 11-year-old Roma boy tried to snatch my money. A group of Spaniards, grandmas included, offered to call the policia for me and then formed a football huddle so I could safely get out my money.

      Another time I found church in Madrid at 1 AM at my hotel when a young Slovenian woman punched her boyfriend in the nose,the front staff person had no backup help, the police came, and the young woman feared she would be deported. I jumped in and with my limited Spanish, knowing I was in way the heck over my head, helped to get everyone calmed down. When he heard about it, my friend Jeff was aghast and wondered why I even bothered to get involved. Stay out of it, he argued. It’s not your place. But how could I not? I was going to church, my church, and nothing could stop me.

      Church is everywhere. You just have to find it.

      Like

    • TK Camas 17:39 on 10/02/2019 Permalink | Reply

      Off to church I went today, to the grounds where my soul ought to run and play. Instead, there only fraught was found, until, eventually, we all hit the ground. To my steady heart I whispered a plea, “Please, if I die, just let me be.”

      Like

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