Thread: How many words can you write in 5 minutes?

Time yourself. Give yourself five minutes, open a microsoft word doc and write something. Post it up here, along with the word count.

Rules:

No repitation.

Proper grammar.

Proper spelling.

Has to make sense as in don't just write gibberish.

It's a speed test so go as fast as possible. Good luck!

I'll post mine up in 5 minutes.

Father with an Axe

The man with the blue eyes stared hard into Max's face, frowning. "You bastard!" He cried.

"I'm sorry sir. I didn't mean to sleep with your daughter." Max said, his voice hitching like a woman's. "It isn't my fault. Her legs are always open, even to my horse!" Immediately he knew he said the wrong thing.

"What?!" The father roared in anger. "What the hell did you say about Sara?"

Max cringed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wood. I didn't say nothing. Promise!"

"You are a bastard!" Mr. Wood shouted, grabbing a machete from the wall of the garage. "I'll kill you!"

Max's eyes widened. His heart thumped faster and faster. He was going to die! How could he survive a fight against Mr. Wood, the karate master?

"Sir, I didn't mean to. Sara did it! Sara made me!"

"Sara, my lovely daughter, made you sleep with her?" Mr. Wood asked incredulously. "Are you daft in the head boy?" He snickered, a mean low growl of a laugh as he inched closer and closer. He swung the machete at Max's head. Max ducked and lashed out with his foot.

Mr. Wood was prepared for this. He lazily blocked the kick with his left hand and swung the machete again. Max gasped and started to run to the garage door. "Help! Help!" He cried, pounding with all his strength on the door. Nobody answered.

"This place is sound proof, you know." Mr. Wood said in a cold voice, twirling his moustache. "You won't get away. I brought you here for a reason."

"Look, man. I am really sorry about fucking your daughter. It won't happen again, I promise." Max pleaded.

"No. You will die today. I promise you that." Mr. Wood said, a slight smirk on his face as he came closer and closer to Max.

Max stepped backwards and tripped on a skateboard. He fell and cracked his head on the garage door. The world blacked out as he fell into unconsciousness.
=-=-=-=-=-=--=-

Okay that's 5 minutes of work right there. Word count: 334

Aw, what the hell...I can't seem to wrap my mind around the stuff I have to do so I might as well fuck around on this...

That child of mine doesn't seem to understand the meaning of the word no. You'd think that a broken arm would have taught her something, but apparently she got her brains from her father. Look at her up in that tree, hanging by her one good arm, sticking her little tongue out at the boys below. Gotta say this for her, she's more boy than most of them. Mother-In-Law worries about this, of course, says she's going to turn into a dyke, but I told her no, she was born with both sets of genitals but I'm raising her as a girl who can kick boys' asses if need be. I was kidding but Mother-In-Law didn't get the joke, and of course her son took her side and started talking about beating her ass if she doesn't start acting more like a little lady. His words. Now that just makes all kinds of sense, doesn't it? I told my lawyer and she was like: Sole custody? In the bag.

Only 169 words. Five minutes isn't that long. Damn. Back to work on my real writing.

Bump. I hate RPGS...

Frankly, I’m not quite certain I understood the assignment. Does no repetition mean that I can’t reuse the same word? Or does it simply mean that I’m not allowed to hit shift+ctrl+home and ctrl+c and ctrl+v and build this shiny new paragraph a shiny new clone?

I’m going to assume it’s the former, since I’m pretty sure you can’t make a decent set of sentences in English without reusing some word at some point. Between all this political correctness garbage and the way pop culture is devouring perfectly good language and spitting out [censored], I figure we’ve got about six useable words left to start; I’d better practice making them count.

The others seem to have made a story out of this, but in five minutes I don’t have time for story. There’s one thing I can do on the fly and that’s gripe. I was born to gripe. Or argue. Just depends on whether or not I have an opponent. (Any old fence post will do.) Since I’d rather not do that online (Fence posts preferred.) I’ll just have to stick to griping whenever possible (Anyone need something critiqued?), so that’s exactly what I’m doing here.

I’m not sure which side of the family my ornery streak came from, or I’d send it back; there’s no return address on the envelope and you can just ask the local cops what good it does me in conversation.



---



237. That'd be 2844 words in an hour if I could ever think of that much to type. Do that for an hour a day and you could churn out a complete novel in February, and you wouldn't even need a leap year.



Never hurts to dream, right?

The problem is consistancy. It's hard to keep up the same pace.

(Woohoo, I'm winning so far! )

Great challenge, penforhire! You still have me soundly beaten... mine's 242 words and I'm not sure it makes a lot of sense. Still, it's not actually gibberish so it's still good...right? I'll let you make the call. I might have done better with a stream of conciousness sort of thing...but I wanted to try a story and once I had the first line down I was comitted.

***
Nobody had ever seen his face. They didn’t need to they didn’t want to. He was utterly and completely alone.

That was fine with him.

He moved in his world without sound, with little light. His clothes had the darkness woven into them; his hands were gnarled from the lives placed in them. Over and over he’d pulled them back from the brink.

And yet they hadn’t seen him.

He wasn’t bitter about it. He cared, though. His heart was bigger than all outdoors and when the stars fell he would be there to catch them. How they would sizzle in his palms, their lights fading like fireflies at the end of their life.

Rolling his head back to ease the muscles of his neck, he chuckled. It was a sound that echoed softly through the fabric of eternity.

Someday. Things might be different.

Though he wasn’t unhappy, he lived for that hope. That things would be different. That the sun might shine on his face again. That the song of the birds might have meaning.

That the lives that filtered through his fingers might be grateful.

Gratitude was too much to ask, he knew. He didn’t wait for it. He didn’t require it. But he did hope.

The new swirling of morning mist around him was still dark with unshed night. The air tasted of butter, sulphur, and tears.

The butter was simply from breakfast. He couldn’t swear to the rest.

Alright, Here is mine. 350 words, Not a great sotry though:

The rain fell softly on her neck. She could smell the dirt as she struggled to try and breathe at the base of the trench. She knew she was going to die here. All around people were moaning. Occasionally there was a scream from a man who had just been hit. Poor bastard. It would be even longer before he was at Peace.

Jessica wondered why she had come. Why did she feel she needed to fight for a country that didn’t give a shit about her? But she had. She had cut her hair short, like her brothers, and bound her breasts so there was no evidence of what lay beneath. She hated being a woman, and she knew it would cost her if anyone found out.

But they had. They could have just shot her and moved on, but no. They wanted to see if she had any gold or valuables and started to search her. That was when they realized she didn’t have the usual package of a soldier, and that is when they decided to have fun.

She had been laying there, dying, blood seeping out of her chest wounds as they took her. One by one the whole six man group had used her body as a distraction from the war surrounding them. Now she would die as their semen infected her body. She hated this.

Most of all she hated herself. She welcomed the death, but the waiting was intolerable. Suddenly a blast in the distance. What was that? People were bombing the enemy. Fuck! Maybe she wasn’t going to die.

Sure enough her fellow country men had arrived and were killing everyone in sight. She would be saved. She struggled to pull herself to a man that lay not more than a few feet away from her. She took his gun out of the holster and held it to her head. They wouldn’t take her alive. This is where it ended.

Before she could pull a trigger a sniper did the work for her. She lay on the ground dead. It was over.

You have me beaten by 16 words charlie. It's on now! As soon as I drink my caffienated beverage, I'll finish up the story I started and try my hand at this challenge again.

BTW, good writing all of you. I find it easier to write more words when you are doing an action scene instead of something abstract because there are more htings to describe.

There was once a doll who lived in a garden. But suddenly a rock fell on the doll's head and it went squash. As luck would have it, a dog was playing in the garden. it was a stray dog, completely undisciplined, and that is why it picked up the curious looking doll and ran around with it. The dog saw a pound truck and the people in the truck were dog catchers. They caught the dog, left the doll on the street, and put the dog away. It was an evil dog, which is what most stray dogs are and that is why it was put away. It's sad really. Now let's get back to the doll.

The doll was magical; It was in the shape of a buffalo, and it was a magical buffalo. It had secret powers, as little Henry would find out. Little Henry, five years old, was riding his bike which had two training wheels on. He was riding down the street and he saw that doll. He picked that doll up and took it home. That was when things got strange.

What were the doll's powers, the reader might ask? Well, the reader is about to find out. Henry took the doll home, and even though his parents complained about it's ripped up figure, Henry did not throw it out. "No I won't! You can't make me!" He had yelled and stormed into his room.

His room was painted blue, with stars on it that he had painted himself along with his dad who helped. And his mom too who put the finishing touches on it. On his bed were numerous dolls: Pooh bear, spider man, the Hulk, a big giant cockroach that his mother hated. But this doll was special. He could feel it in his heart.

This doll hummed! He gasped in surprise as he felt it hum in his hand. He yelled and threw the doll on the bed and crawled in his cupboard where the monsters were. He didn't mind the monsters though because the doll was more scarier. A few minutes later he gathered up his courage and leapt out of the closet.

He proceeded to strangle the doll. But then he stopped at once when the doll spoke.

"Stop it!" The doll commanded in a cold voice.

Word count: 389. Woot! New record!

The more you write the greater your speed. It's a fact.

175 Really, that's a pretty good start for me.

I started awake when I heard a loud thump against my wall. I looked around, and gasped as another thump sounded.

It wasn’t in my apartment. It was next door.

I glanced at my husband, noticing he was still asleep. That man could sleep through a hurricane, I swear. “Jake,” I whispered, shaking his shoulder. He groaned, and turned over. “Jake... Something’s going on next door.” He groaned again, and jumped when another noise came through the thin walls. Only this time, it wasn’t the thump.

“What kind of a man are you?! There’s no pride in this!” I glanced at Jake again, my eyes wide. We both registered what was happening immediately, but neither of us moved.

THUMP.

“Jake... We need to call the police,” I whispered, moving towards the phone on the side table. He stopped my hand mid-reach.

“Ellie, it’s not our business,” he hissed, yanking the phone away. I stared at him in shock. Our neighbor was getting beat up next door, and he didn’t want to do anything about it?

Ehh...Not even a story. Just musing.

------

Notepad is so much better than MS word.

It is better than Openoffice and it is better than whatever Macs have. It is almost perfect.

The only thing better is a typewriter. Too bad mine broke. It fell. Both of them. They fell off of their respective desks in their respective times of...death, I suppose. I say death because they were alive. They were alive, I tell you. They danced beneath my fingertips and their warm electric hum beckoned me in the night. Then they would smile when I turned them on and tell me stories - tales from places, unfathomable places. They would tell me with visions and sounds: rapid tappings timed to the rhythm of my heart beat. Yes, those typewriters were alive.

But typewriters are so underapreciated nowadays, with all the word processors like those aforementioned ones. Notepad is no typewriter, but it is no MS Word either. It is simple. Its blankness reflects that of the paper page.

Only it does not dance.

Does not live.

------

176 words.

Very nice. I used to own a white typewriter when I was in grade 5. It was... fun.

228 words, didn't think I could do that much, considering howmany times I stopped for a second or two. Oh well.


Bob ran through the forest with the fierce ferocity of any woodland creature. The soft snow fell over his severely scarred back as he tried unwillingly to keep up his pace. He had to get to the sanctuary. There was no way he was going to allow someone else to claim his own share of the treasure. He would win, at all casts, no matter who got in the way.

All would fall before him. It didn't matter who. Even if it was his parents. He would remove them. His best friend? Gone. Girlfriend? Siblings? Erased from existence. Only he could live in this world, a world he created only for him. No outsiders would be here. Only he could live.
So then why were there intruders? How had they entered his world? He was only sleeping like any other day, just watching the clouds go by, in his own special place in the trees. He had this world, all to himself, with no one to share. And then they just teleported out of nowhere. It didn't make any sense. And then, to make it worse, they attacked him as so as they say him. It didn't help that all the time he had spend in solitude had made him physically weaker. Now they were after him. For no reason.

How did this happen? It wasn't fair. Just to be alone...

haha, I liked this challenge. I think I may be disqualified for repetition though

Other than that, 232. Not bad

------------------

I’ll give you what’s on my heart. You’ve given me all this life. You’ve given me dreams worth seeing. You’ve given me the reason for living. You’ve given me my everything. You are so beyond the words of my praise. I will love you all my days. I give you this feeble and wounded heart. I pray you’ll save me, that you’ll give me a new start. You know how my heart was torn apart. You know me. You know my heart. I give you Lord all I am. I place my hand in your hand. I place my heart in your heart. I look up to you, my father, show me what to do? Nothing left to live for, except to know you’re near. The only thing my heart beats for, is to see you more clear. Oh Lord, I hold you dear. Save me from my fear. Save me from this world that fades. Save me with your love that saves. My every step will be for you. My every longing, my dream come true, I will forever praise you. Write within my heart, the poem of your soul. The depths to which you go, how badly I want to know. Deeper, let me fall—into the place, I know I can belong. Into your arms, that you held open for me, in these arms, so shall I ever be.