I swapped places with my twin when he got arrested.So now he is free. Whilst I am serving his life sentence for murdering our mother. Inside I’m frustrated. He’s the one who should be locked in.When I close my eyes I can see our mother.She was an angel. I miss her. He- my twin should be feeling the same. But- he escaped. A lucky escape! I took the brutal blame. The blame which turned around my life. I would be in University now.Where am I now? In a deserted Prison in space. He’s back on Earth enjoying life. I’m somewhere in the no where. Alone. Floating in Space.
Came across this when I was on YouTube, looking for good pep talks, eheheh.. Check the link? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zG9hMgjTrXA
It explain’s what this is (and yes, this is to the rest of the Eight as well; P, L, Gee, S/Peace, Mo, I and Taz)! I thought it would make a good challenge, next year. And who did I think of first? Okay, honestly- I thought of S. Then the rest of the Eight.
So, I’m sharing! TAKE A LOOK :D.
Today we were given a randomly selected prompt each- which seven of us had written previously (I was away when the others wrote them, and Mo was away today, so that was sorted).
We then wrote a piece on said prompt(s). These will be uploaded shortly!
Anyway, these prompts may be helpful to your own writing! Some are odd, some are slightly morbid and I think someone had too much fun writing another.
Check out the blog below! Sam’s writing a blogstory in which you add plot line and character suggestions: http://thecandlelitdesk.weebly.com/
– The headless man
– The grave digger
– The convict
My dreams had come true. After six years I was finally out of prison. As I walked out, through the huge metal gates that could kill any man, woman or child by frying them with electricity, I looked around to see the late evening with all the roads empty and dark. In the far distance I could see a faulty street lamp, flickering on and off, lighting up an old sign. I squinted to read the sign which said ‘Cemetery’. I wasn’t in any rush to get home; I mean spending the last six years in prison, locked up behind bars was long, so another hour away from home wouldn’t make much of a difference. However, if I had known that the horrific event that happened that night were going to occur, I would have gone straight home without taking a detour through the local cemetery.
As I walked down the road, the whole village looked deserted. All the shops were boarded up with the shattered glass littering the filthy, dusty pavements. There was no sign of human life, until I turned around the corner and casually strolled into the cemetery. At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me, but after blinking a few times, I reassured myself that what I was seeing was really happening. In the gloomy corner, I could see a hooded man, digging into a grave with a huge pile of dirt covering the gravestone.
I stood, frozen in my shoes, observing for about a minute until I saw a second man emerge from the grave dressed in a decayed black suit. The screams from the grave digger were soon silenced as hundreds of different emotions passed through my body, when this headless figure dragged the grave digger into the black six foot hole. Afterwards, I saw the red blood splashing out from the grave, contrasting with the dark black night. The last thing I saw was a severed body being hurled out of the grave, and the headless man emerging once more from the grave with a new head placed accurately on his shoulders, the drying blood acting as a type of glue joining the existing body with its new head. He was no longer the headless man.
“Unfashionable.” “Strange.” “Weird.” That’s what they have named us, those of us who’s pigmentation is missing from our skin. Many have slandered us, people call us names, they stare at us like we are aliens. It feels like the world wants to eradicate us. Like albino-ism is a crime. Like our lack of colour in the skin makes us inferior. That’s why I became a writer. So our story could be told.