09/20/08 - Your life without "life" - Writers Forum

Hawke · 09-20-2008, 11:40 PM

Hello, Dear Writers, and welcome to your next LM. Your challenge this round is:

Your life without “life”
Write your life, in no more than 500 words (not including the title), without using the word 'life.' You can interpret life however you like, and write for that matter.
Prompt courtesy of Loulou

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers Workshop(you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges may participate, but their entries will not be scored.

Submissions will be accepted until Oct 4th (2 weeks)
Judging period: Oct 5th - Oct. 11th
Results will be posted on or before Oct 12th

Good luck to everyone!

Your judges for this round are:
Loulou
Gohn67
Sam Winchester
Geisha
Hawke

SparkyLT · 09-20-2008, 11:43 PM

Just to clarify: can 'life' be in the title, or is it only prohibited in the work itself?

Hawke · 09-20-2008, 11:56 PM

I'm gonna say... no.

SparkyLT · 09-20-2008, 11:59 PM

OK, thanks

. Just thought I'd make sure.

gohn67 · 09-21-2008, 12:20 AM

Life?

Life. Life. Life life life. Life life life life life; life life life. "Life life life." Life life life life life life, life life, life life life life life. Life life Life life life. Life life life life life life life life life life life life life life Life, "life life life life life life, life life?"

"Life life!" life life.

Life life life life life. Life life life life life. Life life life life life life life life life life life. Life life: life life life life life life. Life. Life. Life life. Life life life (life life life life [life life life life] life life) life life life life life.

Life!

Life?

Life life life life life life life, life life life life, life life life life life life life life life; life life life life life life life life; life life life life life life life, life life life, life life life.

"Life life?" Life life.

"Life life life life?" Life life.

"Life." Life life.

Life?" Life life.

Life life life. Life. Life life life life life. Life life life. Life. Life life life life life. Life-life life-life. Life life life.

"Life?" Life life. "Life life?"
Life life life, "Life?"

Life. Life. Life life life life. Life life life life life. Life life. Life. Life! Life! Life! Life! Life life life life life life life life life life life life, life life life life life life life, life life life life life life life life. Life life life life. Life life life. Life life life. Life.

"Life! Life!" Life life.

"Life life! Life. Life" Life life.

Life. Life. Life life. Life life. Life life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life. Life life life life life life life life; life life life life life life life life life life life life life life. Life life. Life. Life life life life, life life, life life, life life, life, life, life, life, life; life life life life life life life life life life, life life, life life, life life life life life; life life; life?

Life?

"Life life life life!" Life. Life.

"Life life life life life life life life life."

"Life life life life!" Life life.

Life life life – life life life – life life life life life life life, life life life, life life life – life life life, life life life life (life life life life life, life life – life life life life – life life life life) life life – life life life life life life life life.

Life life. Life.

Life! Life life. Life; life; life life; life; life; life life life life; life; life life life life; life life life life life; life life. Life life.
Life life. Life life. Life. Life life. Life life life life life life life. Life life. Life life. Life life life life life life life life life life life; life life life life life life life life life; life life life life life life life life life. Life life; life.

"Life!"

Hawke · 09-21-2008, 12:30 AM

*slaps forehead*

Okay guys, comments in the coffee shop, alrighty? Let's leave this thread for entries.

Shawn · 09-21-2008, 09:20 AM

Night and Day (99 words)

I woke up and fell asleep soon after; and it was I, the cyclical being that I am. So many others awoke and slept in the passing days. The days are unpredictable however constant; restless however tired. Assured and denied over again. I wonder how many never woke—I wonder when it is that I will not wake again.

Yet it is in the passing hours from dawn to dusk that I think this. And should I ever think it in the embrace of a deathly sleep, it will be the day of mine that fades away into night.

Matthatter · 09-21-2008, 12:28 PM

Removed

SevenWritez · 09-21-2008, 09:31 PM

“Look, put it here.”

“I know what to do. Shut up.”

“For both our sake’s, please stop with your mouth.”

“Eat shit. It’ll be fine, now shut up. Damn.”

Lifting the box off the floor had proven a pain in the ass, as he hadn’t helped me lift it. Not like I had trouble lifting it, but I like to be helped, even though I don’t admit it much. He knew that, though, and that’s why he didn’t do it. He just watched me, and I cussed and prodded and threatened; he stood and watched, arms crossed, head down, like some fucking Greek philosopher sculptured into an embodiment of the progressive mind.

I dropped the box onto the table, and the thud echoed off miles of emptiness and resettled around us. We looked at the box and the box didn’t seem to give a shit.

“Fuck,” I said. “That’s it? Lame.”

“Especially lame, considering the effort to lift it.”

“Like you give a shit.”

“I do; I’m concerned for you. You’re very rash, you know.”

Forgetting him, I opened the box and took from it a packaged sphere, blanketed in bubble wrap. I pressed the bubble wrap and the snap echoed away from us back to us.

“Easy,” he said. “It’s fragile.”

“Looks weird.”

“It is beautiful, though.”

“Fuck no it ain’t.” I pulled off the bubble wrap and looked at the sphere. It wasn’t a sphere.

“Eat it,” he said.

“Like fucking hell,” I said. I raised it to the cloudless sky and tried to make it out. It was smooth; it bore no faults to imply it’d been born of human talent, and it was red like the boldest of lipstick. I smelled it, and it smelled dull, something noted once and left to memory to rot. I looked at him. “The fuck is this?”

“It is what you need. You’re rash. You’re belligerent. You’re crude. You know that. You’re aware of your faults. This will ail them. Ail you.”

“Fuck you, you fucking idiot. What is it?”

“Eat it and you’ll know.”

Listen close to what someone says, and what’s said is only the pedestal for an implication to step upon. I noted him for the first time. We shared the same eyes, though at his were the lines that one noticed when they looked to him head on, not the intensity of his irises, the beauty of his face, the one that had sent women my way and his. I knew him. I always had. He was taller than me, by an inch, by two. I smiled.

“I’m concerned for you,” he said. “You know that.”

“Fuck, man. Sure, of course.” I knew him and I knew the rest and I knew they were right. Still. I tossed the fruit up and down in my hand. I grinned.

“Eat it,” he said. “You need to grow up.”

“Maybe later. But," I pulled back my hand, the fruit steady. “Not just yet.”

He shattered.

Wildcard · 09-22-2008, 01:09 PM

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1190377

alanmt · 09-22-2008, 11:50 PM

492 words

The boy was angry, as angry as a five-year-old could get when his older sister got more grapes than he did. He stomped up the stairs with his little cup of grapes, slamming his little feet in their little tennis shoes down on each dull brown carpeted step with the righteous fury of the cheated. He didn’t want more grapes than his sister. He just wanted the same amount. He knew, somehow, that equal was fair. His sister didn’t deserve more grapes. It just wasn’t fair.

Later, the adult he became would say that it wasn’t just, if the overwhelming silliness of the memory didn’t make him giggle like the five-year-old he had been. His poor mother had tried to divide the grapes evenly. Just her luck to have a kid that was hypersensitive.

When he was twelve, his grandmother asked him what he wanted to be.

“A lawyer,” he said. He had no idea what a lawyer actually did. But people seemed impressed by the choice and he never got around to changing his mind again.

The law would seem a good vocation for one with an innate sense of justice, but after this man became a trial lawyer, disillusionment came early. It seemed that the judicial system was too inefficient a tool for such a fine, delicate concept as justice. Some were overprotected in the law while others, more worthy, were not. Money was the grubby measurement of justice, dispensed by the untrained and easily swayed.

“I am a lawyer by day,” he began to laughingly tell those who asked his occupation, distancing himself from his unattainable ideal of justice. It was just his job.

Then one day a young man came to see him. The young man was divorced, the father of two small boys. He suffered from a severe disability. His ex-wife had petitioned to terminate his parental rights. It was not safe for the children to be with him, she said. Her new husband loved the boys very much and wanted to adopt them. The young father had no money to pay a lawyer. No one would take his case. He didn’t know what to do.

“I will take your case,” the lawyer said. “This is wrong.”

When the judge refused to terminate the father’s rights, the father cried in happiness. Later, when he was alone, the lawyer cried too. Perfect justice is elusive, he realized, but even if it is attainable but rarely, it is worthy of pursuit always.

Over the years, he crafted careful compromises where he could, cheered when his clients prevailed and railed when they lost. Most of the time, the face of justice was human, imperfect. Subjectivity crept in. Usually, there is no way to divide a clump of grapes exactly evenly.

But sometimes, in rare moments, he discovered that the system worked exactly right. It transcended human limitations. He celebrated these moments, as he had the first time, with his tears.

froman · 09-23-2008, 02:52 AM

Crug P. Abomination was born fully formed on a cold, stainless steel operating table. His meager existence could be characterized as loud, painful, smelly, and above all, brief. In fact Crug’s existence was so brief that every single aspect of it is contained within his name.

The first thing that Crug ever felt was searing pain. The first thing he ever saw was the blinding glare of the operating lights. And the first thing he ever heard was the sound of his own terrible wailing. This was indeed a horrible beginning to Crug’s short stint on this Earth, but something did come of it. Amid the gurgles and grunts was one awful and moderately intelligible scream.

“Crrruuuuuuuuuuuuggggggghhhhhh!”

Condensed slightly to better fit within the parlance of our modern Christian naming system, this scream provided Crug with his first name.

When the pain in Crug’s body subsided and his eyes adjusted to the lights, he was overcome with fear and rage. Above him blue sparks danced up and down two massive metal towers, rising up from either side of the table. Crug tried to move but soon realized that he was securely strapped to the table. Realizing the extent of his own helplessness, Crug’s fear grew. A warm, wet sensation covered his crotch, and a foul smelling liquid pooled on the metal table around his legs. Crug had in fact pissed himself, and this being his most significant act thus far, gave him his middle initial.

Crug turned his head to shield his eyes from the crackling electricity, and saw a man in a white lab coat cowering in the corner of the stone room. Their eyes locked and the man let out a low moan. He rocked back and forth clutching his head, his face twisting with grief and self pity.

“I should have never played god,” cried the man. “Why did I ever create this abomination?!”

Crug could not think well through all of the noise and confusion, but when the man said abomination, he seemed to be pointing at him. Crug felt a new sensation peeking through the pain and tears of joy welled in his bloodshot eyes. He didn’t know exactly what abomination meant, but from the way the man in white pointed at him, he knew that he was one. This is how Crug discovered his surname and his connection to his own kind.

Crug was happy. He curled his lips into a crooked grin, silently thanking the man in white for helping him realize who he was. The man in white, however, didn’t seem to like this. He let out a terrified scream and grabbed a large mallet that was leaning against the wall. Raising the mallet high above his head, the man in white rushed toward Crug and brought it down onto his head with devastating force.

So Crug left this world as quickly as he arrived, leaving behind only a name and a crooked grin, still plastered onto his ruined face.

ohdear · 09-23-2008, 01:39 PM

Let's Eat
(308 words)

Red and green cabbage, shredded carrot, cucumber straws and a hint of chilli, gently tossed in a fragrant dressing and topped with lightly sautéed beef. Sitting in front of this meticulously prepared meal, I remain ever present in the moment.

Simplicity is the essence. It is the delicate nuances that make all the difference in this sensual feast of my existence, just as it is with the salad. Being present is of course a prerequisite; beyond that, I let my imagination carry me to wherever I wish to be.

Mine allows me to escape into a world of words a jumble with adventures. A princess dancing till way past midnight, a butterfly floating on the breeze, a musician bringing an audience to ecstasy, all of it is my very own. I create sappy cotton candy days filled with laughter and delight and smooth liquid chocolate kisses long into the night.

I may well be cliché, but I have longed to be so since my early years. I have ached to be normal, accepted; common even. I have prayed to blend in, to fit; belong. Experience has paved for me a different route, an unusual path, a lesser used track. I have since surrendered to its unusual beat, its painful lessons and its secluded retreat. Reality bites when my body, crippled by debilitating complications, is left in its wake.

I take a deep breath and rejoice that my sense of smell can deliver such a detailed account of the food that lies in front of me. I celebrate the kaleidoscope of colours and textures that my eyes promise to me. I reach for my fork and anticipate the collage of contrasts that my palate will soon encounter. Another deep breath and I know how deeply I am blessed, for in this moment, I am all that I can be.

Vendredi-is-Friday · 09-25-2008, 12:15 PM

Slow Search

- 499 Words -

---

“Why are you here?” He asked, little more then a smear of black beside me. The ash colored his skin painting him like a blackface actor, all but a single point of white at his throat.

“Father.” I acknowledged his title. “I was told that I may find God here.”

Flames filled the church pushing against the windows. The stained glass finally gave way and a spray of fire and rainbow shards erupted and parted in the air; the glass tinkling to the ground, the fire retreating back to lick the bricks an ashen black around the rim of the popped windows. For a little while longer the church contained the fire, though the flames paced back and forth within.

“I wish I could say that it was the fire of the Lord.” The priest smiled at me, his teeth a line of white made stronger by his charred face. “But truth be told, I just fell asleep with a cigarette lit in my hand. Just a guy’s mistake I guess.”

---

“Why are you here?” His voice was husky, unused to speaking, and he gripped an axe with one hand to balance it on his shoulder.

“Lumberjack.” I said. “I was told I may find God here.”

“Where?” His voice held in it the first note of a raspy chuckle.

“There was supposed to be a forest here.” I rejoined, my voice lowering in my neck and growing hard like a lump.

Only the haunches of the trees remained, cut lower then my ankles, miles and miles of stumps spattered through the valley like whole-notes blotted across a page.

“If God was in these woods, I would have cut him down and sent him off to be made into baseball bats and popsicle sticks like all the rest.” And he spit, the drop slapping against the ground beside my foot.

---

“Why are you here?” He spoke in that way old men sometimes do, his voice unable to keep a certain pitch and so it creaked up and down melodically.

“Grave keeper.” I turned to him and he grinned at me, his denim overalls a spoiled dirt color, and he smelled of soil and ruin. “I was told that I may find God here.” And then I quickly added. “Was there a resurrection?”

Some of the gravestones still stood erect, though some were at angles to the ground, and some had given up and fallen over entirely. In front of each marker the ground had been gouged out. Piles of moist earth and displaced grass decorated the edges of the holes.

“Nope. Not a resurrection. People always looking to the dead to find God, digging up their bodies and trying to dissect their souls, what little bits of their souls that are left in the words they wrote down.”

---

I started by looking for God, and so I have spent all my time, and so I will continue to search. I have questions only God can answer.

Ana Kata · 09-25-2008, 07:11 PM

It started in a no-name hospital in a no-name town, with no interesting incidents in a car back seat and no stories to tell at family gatherings while the turkey was in the oven.

There were no great mansions passed from generation to generation, no non-conformist epiphany or high honors achievement, no brand new world or country or music scene. He got older and aged like a grape in the sun, and by the time it's over his eyes will be sealed shut like his heart was since her.
There might have been a story, a solemn paragraph or two, but he was as unoriginal as the rest.

One day he told a girl, her blond curly hair bouncing like it was it's birthday, that we won't all be happy. He laughed, a snide discreet laugh, seeing her twitch and force her face into an ugly twist of false joy. "We just have to die without suffering too much" he slurred, savoring each word as he might a carefully picked cherry.

It was these scraps that got him through the days, but it was her who got him through the months. She might have been different, might have had some shard of originality that none else seemed to posses, but who could really say?
There was little drama, no stunning romance or stereotypical passion. Things changed, like they did best, and now he sits in his room tearing attempts at what might once have been talent.

It'll end in some no-name hospital, in a no-name town thirty minutes east of a place that doesn't even show up on maps, and he can let himself forget for a while.