Kevin Carlin's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing-group-flash-fiction"
The Castaways
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:
Prompt: Castaways
Life on the island may not have been ideal, but it wasn't bad. It had been almost six months since they'd been stranded, and though the hunter, chemist, stoner, and carpenter missed their lives back home, all of their basic needs were provided for on the island.
When their lifeboat first washed ashore on this uncharted patch of land, they had been lost at sea for almost a week, and had run out of water. Even in his parched and delirious condition, the chemist was able to quickly get to work building a makeshift distillery using anything he could find on the island. By the following morning, he had desalinated enough seawater to quench their collective thirst.
With only one more day of food rations left, the hunter disappeared into the brush that grew just beyond the beach. Just before sunset she reappeared dragging the body of a wild boar onto the beach. A makeshift spear was slung across her back.
That night it rained. Hard. The four castaways huddled together for warmth, and in the morning, as the rising sun began to dry them off, the carpenter got to work building shelter. Meanwhile, the stoner pulled out her trusty lighter and got a signal fire going. By nightfall, their shelter was sturdy enough to keep out the rain, and the stoner had stoked the fire with enough palm fronds to keep it smoldering through the night.
For six long months they survived. It was hard work, but satisfying to know that if they worked together, they could keep themselves alive indefinitely using only their wits. Every day for eight hours, the chemist distilled seawater into fresh water, the stoner stoked the signal fire, the carpenter built up and maintained the shelter, and the hunter hunted for pigs, chickens, and coconuts. It was hard work to keep up the equilibrium, but with every day they all grew stronger.
Until that one day, when it all came crumbling down.
Late in the morning, the hunter came running out of the jungle, excited and waving her arms. She called out the chemist's name, and told him to come quick. He followed her into the brush, all the way asking what it could be.
“You have to see this,” was all she would say.
Around midday, they pushed their way through the brush and into a clearing. There was a large meadow, filled with tall grass. Through the middle of the meadow a stream cut its way down to the sea.
“Fresh water,” announced the hunter proudly. “We could move our whole camp up into this meadow.”
“Who else knows about this?” asked the chemist.
“What? No one. I just found it. Isn't it wonderful? We don't need to distill seawater anymore!”
The chemist pondered the revelation. “And so what will my contribution be?”
The hunter looked confused. “We can split up the remaining labor. If you spend two hours a day at the fire, two hours working on the shelter, and two hours hunting, we could all work a six-hour day and still have everything we need.”
“But I only know how to distill water,” replied the chemist. “I don't know how to hunt for boar. If I stop contributing, you'll stop sharing your boar meat with me, and I'll perish.” The chemist looked defeated as he thought about the consequences of losing his employment.
“Of course I'll share with you,” the hunter said. “We're in this together!”
But it was too late. The chemist had made up his mind. He picked up a large rock from the ground and advanced towards the hunter, who had turned to scoop up some delicious, cool water from the stream.
That evening the chemist returned to the camp on the beach alone. His arms were full of coconuts.
“Where's the hunter?” asked the stoner, tending to her fire.
“I don't know,” the chemist responded. “I think a boar might have got her.”
“What are we going to do without her?” asked the carpenter.
“We're going to have to start working ten-hour days to pick up the slack,” said the chemist.
Prompt: Castaways
Life on the island may not have been ideal, but it wasn't bad. It had been almost six months since they'd been stranded, and though the hunter, chemist, stoner, and carpenter missed their lives back home, all of their basic needs were provided for on the island.
When their lifeboat first washed ashore on this uncharted patch of land, they had been lost at sea for almost a week, and had run out of water. Even in his parched and delirious condition, the chemist was able to quickly get to work building a makeshift distillery using anything he could find on the island. By the following morning, he had desalinated enough seawater to quench their collective thirst.
With only one more day of food rations left, the hunter disappeared into the brush that grew just beyond the beach. Just before sunset she reappeared dragging the body of a wild boar onto the beach. A makeshift spear was slung across her back.
That night it rained. Hard. The four castaways huddled together for warmth, and in the morning, as the rising sun began to dry them off, the carpenter got to work building shelter. Meanwhile, the stoner pulled out her trusty lighter and got a signal fire going. By nightfall, their shelter was sturdy enough to keep out the rain, and the stoner had stoked the fire with enough palm fronds to keep it smoldering through the night.
For six long months they survived. It was hard work, but satisfying to know that if they worked together, they could keep themselves alive indefinitely using only their wits. Every day for eight hours, the chemist distilled seawater into fresh water, the stoner stoked the signal fire, the carpenter built up and maintained the shelter, and the hunter hunted for pigs, chickens, and coconuts. It was hard work to keep up the equilibrium, but with every day they all grew stronger.
Until that one day, when it all came crumbling down.
Late in the morning, the hunter came running out of the jungle, excited and waving her arms. She called out the chemist's name, and told him to come quick. He followed her into the brush, all the way asking what it could be.
“You have to see this,” was all she would say.
Around midday, they pushed their way through the brush and into a clearing. There was a large meadow, filled with tall grass. Through the middle of the meadow a stream cut its way down to the sea.
“Fresh water,” announced the hunter proudly. “We could move our whole camp up into this meadow.”
“Who else knows about this?” asked the chemist.
“What? No one. I just found it. Isn't it wonderful? We don't need to distill seawater anymore!”
The chemist pondered the revelation. “And so what will my contribution be?”
The hunter looked confused. “We can split up the remaining labor. If you spend two hours a day at the fire, two hours working on the shelter, and two hours hunting, we could all work a six-hour day and still have everything we need.”
“But I only know how to distill water,” replied the chemist. “I don't know how to hunt for boar. If I stop contributing, you'll stop sharing your boar meat with me, and I'll perish.” The chemist looked defeated as he thought about the consequences of losing his employment.
“Of course I'll share with you,” the hunter said. “We're in this together!”
But it was too late. The chemist had made up his mind. He picked up a large rock from the ground and advanced towards the hunter, who had turned to scoop up some delicious, cool water from the stream.
That evening the chemist returned to the camp on the beach alone. His arms were full of coconuts.
“Where's the hunter?” asked the stoner, tending to her fire.
“I don't know,” the chemist responded. “I think a boar might have got her.”
“What are we going to do without her?” asked the carpenter.
“We're going to have to start working ten-hour days to pick up the slack,” said the chemist.
Cafe
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:
Prompt: Cafe
“You must be Mark,” she announced to me as I walked into the coffee shop. “It's me, Sandra.”
I wasn't Mark, but her tone wasn't accusatory and she was extraordinarily cute. She was in a coffee shop meeting a “Mark” whom she had never met. This must be an internet date; right? I hesitated for a second, but when she cocked her head awaiting a response and her dark curls bounced, I smiled and sat down.
“I sure am,” I said as I sat.
“You're late,” she announced, but her tone had a friendly lilt. Again, not accusatory. Could the real Mark have been dumb enough to have stood up this beautiful goddess?
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said. “I was, um, nervous.” Seemed like a good excuse in my head, but it sounded dumb coming out of my mouth.
We began to chat, telling each other about ourselves. I did more of the talking than I wanted to. I wanted to ask her about herself and then shut up for a few minutes, but she kept firing questions at me, and I kept answering. When I managed to get in a question about her she would smile and give a short answer, then return to asking me questions.
Admittedly, there were signs that something was amiss. Some of the questions should have been blatant red flags that I had misread the situation, but as I stared into her eyes, I could barely concentrate on why she was asking me complex hypotheticals and requesting narratives of very specific incidents in my life, like a time I had a conflict with a co-worker, and how I resolved it.
Even when she asked me about my proficiency with Microsoft Excel, I just answered as honestly as I could, not pausing to wonder why. The question about how flexible I can be with my schedule didn't phase me, either, since of course my potential future girlfriend is going to want to know how much time we'll be able to spend together.
It's when she told me the starting salary that it finally began to seep in that she was not interested in me as a boyfriend. At first I thought I was about to win the lottery of life, that this gorgeous woman was apparently rich and wanting to be my sugar momma.
But then I realized what it was the real Mark had blown off.
Anyway, I've had this job for five years now. That's how I became an accountant, and that's why everyone here calls me Mark.
Prompt: Cafe
“You must be Mark,” she announced to me as I walked into the coffee shop. “It's me, Sandra.”
I wasn't Mark, but her tone wasn't accusatory and she was extraordinarily cute. She was in a coffee shop meeting a “Mark” whom she had never met. This must be an internet date; right? I hesitated for a second, but when she cocked her head awaiting a response and her dark curls bounced, I smiled and sat down.
“I sure am,” I said as I sat.
“You're late,” she announced, but her tone had a friendly lilt. Again, not accusatory. Could the real Mark have been dumb enough to have stood up this beautiful goddess?
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said. “I was, um, nervous.” Seemed like a good excuse in my head, but it sounded dumb coming out of my mouth.
We began to chat, telling each other about ourselves. I did more of the talking than I wanted to. I wanted to ask her about herself and then shut up for a few minutes, but she kept firing questions at me, and I kept answering. When I managed to get in a question about her she would smile and give a short answer, then return to asking me questions.
Admittedly, there were signs that something was amiss. Some of the questions should have been blatant red flags that I had misread the situation, but as I stared into her eyes, I could barely concentrate on why she was asking me complex hypotheticals and requesting narratives of very specific incidents in my life, like a time I had a conflict with a co-worker, and how I resolved it.
Even when she asked me about my proficiency with Microsoft Excel, I just answered as honestly as I could, not pausing to wonder why. The question about how flexible I can be with my schedule didn't phase me, either, since of course my potential future girlfriend is going to want to know how much time we'll be able to spend together.
It's when she told me the starting salary that it finally began to seep in that she was not interested in me as a boyfriend. At first I thought I was about to win the lottery of life, that this gorgeous woman was apparently rich and wanting to be my sugar momma.
But then I realized what it was the real Mark had blown off.
Anyway, I've had this job for five years now. That's how I became an accountant, and that's why everyone here calls me Mark.
Carriage
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:
Prompt: Carriage
“It was a night just like tonight,” whispered the driver, as he whipped his steeds into high gear. “The worst fog I ever seen.”
I shifted uncomfortably next to him in my seat atop the buggy. My mother and sister were safely inside, oblivious to the disturbing yarn the old man was spinning. I wanted to lean over the side and remind them through the window to keep the door locked.
The driver continued, “Most terrifying sight you'll ever see, that neckless horseman.”
“Er, you mean the headless horseman,” I prompted, having already been familiar with the story from other townsfolk.
The driver ignored me. “Now, that neckless horseman, he comes right out of the fog, and he's on us like that,” here the driver snapped his fingers to accentuate the suddenness of the horseman's emergence from the fog. “I jumped right out of my seat, I did,” said the driver.
We rode in silence for what felt like an eternity, until in the distance I heard the unmistakable whinnying of a ghostly horse. And then, just like that, out of the fog there was a very round man on the path, waving his arms at us.
“Tis him,” cried the driver. “The neckless horseman.”
And though the man on the road had no horse, and even more importantly, he did have a head, I must admit, the rotundness of his body and slope of his noggin' gave it the appearance of being attached directly to his shoulders. As fantastical as it may sound, the man really, truly, had no neck.
“Um, sorry to trouble you, gentlemen,” said the neckless, horseless man as the driver pulled his team to a full stop, “but my horse appears to be knackered. I don't suppose I could catch a ride back to town?”
Prompt: Carriage
“It was a night just like tonight,” whispered the driver, as he whipped his steeds into high gear. “The worst fog I ever seen.”
I shifted uncomfortably next to him in my seat atop the buggy. My mother and sister were safely inside, oblivious to the disturbing yarn the old man was spinning. I wanted to lean over the side and remind them through the window to keep the door locked.
The driver continued, “Most terrifying sight you'll ever see, that neckless horseman.”
“Er, you mean the headless horseman,” I prompted, having already been familiar with the story from other townsfolk.
The driver ignored me. “Now, that neckless horseman, he comes right out of the fog, and he's on us like that,” here the driver snapped his fingers to accentuate the suddenness of the horseman's emergence from the fog. “I jumped right out of my seat, I did,” said the driver.
We rode in silence for what felt like an eternity, until in the distance I heard the unmistakable whinnying of a ghostly horse. And then, just like that, out of the fog there was a very round man on the path, waving his arms at us.
“Tis him,” cried the driver. “The neckless horseman.”
And though the man on the road had no horse, and even more importantly, he did have a head, I must admit, the rotundness of his body and slope of his noggin' gave it the appearance of being attached directly to his shoulders. As fantastical as it may sound, the man really, truly, had no neck.
“Um, sorry to trouble you, gentlemen,” said the neckless, horseless man as the driver pulled his team to a full stop, “but my horse appears to be knackered. I don't suppose I could catch a ride back to town?”
Carriage
The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here:
Prompt: Carriage
“It was a night just like tonight,” whispered the driver, as he whipped his steeds into high gear. “The worst fog I ever seen.”
I shifted uncomfortably next to him in my seat atop the buggy. My mother and sister were safely inside, oblivious to the disturbing yarn the old man was spinning. I wanted to lean over the side and remind them through the window to keep the door locked.
The driver continued, “Most terrifying sight you'll ever see, that neckless horseman.”
“Er, you mean the headless horseman,” I prompted, having already been familiar with the story from other townsfolk.
The driver ignored me. “Now, that neckless horseman, he comes right out of the fog, and he's on us like that,” here the driver snapped his fingers to accentuate the suddenness of the horseman's emergence from the fog. “I jumped right out of my seat, I did,” said the driver.
We rode in silence for what felt like an eternity, until in the distance I heard the unmistakable whinnying of a ghostly horse. And then, just like that, out of the fog there was a very round man on the path, waving his arms at us.
“Tis him,” cried the driver. “The neckless horseman.”
And though the man on the road had no horse, and even more importantly, he did have a head, I must admit, the rotundness of his body and slope of his noggin' gave it the appearance of being attached directly to his shoulders. As fantastical as it may sound, the man really, truly, had no neck.
“Um, sorry to trouble you, gentlemen,” said the neckless, horseless man as the driver pulled his team to a full stop, “but my horse appears to be knackered. I don't suppose I could catch a ride back to town?”
Prompt: Carriage
“It was a night just like tonight,” whispered the driver, as he whipped his steeds into high gear. “The worst fog I ever seen.”
I shifted uncomfortably next to him in my seat atop the buggy. My mother and sister were safely inside, oblivious to the disturbing yarn the old man was spinning. I wanted to lean over the side and remind them through the window to keep the door locked.
The driver continued, “Most terrifying sight you'll ever see, that neckless horseman.”
“Er, you mean the headless horseman,” I prompted, having already been familiar with the story from other townsfolk.
The driver ignored me. “Now, that neckless horseman, he comes right out of the fog, and he's on us like that,” here the driver snapped his fingers to accentuate the suddenness of the horseman's emergence from the fog. “I jumped right out of my seat, I did,” said the driver.
We rode in silence for what felt like an eternity, until in the distance I heard the unmistakable whinnying of a ghostly horse. And then, just like that, out of the fog there was a very round man on the path, waving his arms at us.
“Tis him,” cried the driver. “The neckless horseman.”
And though the man on the road had no horse, and even more importantly, he did have a head, I must admit, the rotundness of his body and slope of his noggin' gave it the appearance of being attached directly to his shoulders. As fantastical as it may sound, the man really, truly, had no neck.
“Um, sorry to trouble you, gentlemen,” said the neckless, horseless man as the driver pulled his team to a full stop, “but my horse appears to be knackered. I don't suppose I could catch a ride back to town?”
