A month in solitary

Generated from WriteThis 2. 10-minute exercise with the following other constraints:

• A voice plays an important part
• The main character is being held prisoner
• There is a theme of double standard or morality

Carl was awoken by the familiar voice. "Carl, please."

He rattled his chains and stirred. He'd been in solitary for almost a month, and it was not uncommon for him to hear this voice inside his head. His eyes opened.

He'd struggled with the idea of him being put in solitary like this, but there was always a double standard that existed in prison. The guards were often just as guilty of crimes they'd wind up going to prison for if they did them on the outside.

"Carl." The voice inside his head was his only company.

What, he thought back, wondering if he was really losing his mind.

"It's almost time for you to get out. What will you do when they come for you?" The voice asked.

I don't know. He knew he was up for parole in a couple months, and he had a good chance of getting out. Even so, others he'd gotten to know during his time in jail hadn't been that lucky.

He wondered why the warden never let them watch Shawshank Redemption, and then he remembered.

Amazing, the type of characters that run this place.

"You can do it, Carl," the voice said. "You can get out, just like in that movie. Just a little bit at a time, remember?"

He wondered if it was the medicine he'd been taking that caused the voice inside his head to appear. Something about it didn't seem that irrational, though.

He found solace during his time in the hole, contemplating the way he would break out. He didn't see that he had much to lose.

He longed for it to end, this exercise of wills. It was just a matter of time.

He fell back to sleep and dreamed of a world outside of prison. And that made him feel happy.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 10/12/2009 8:16:50 PM)

WriteThis 2

Rasmus has announced that WriteThis 2 is available to download and use. For those that don't know, he has developed this as a "writer's tool for inspiration." I've used previous versions of it, and I'm looking forward to using this version.

The new tool boasts a customizable database with over 25 million exercise combinations. It also contains the functionality to open, save, print, and edit your exercises and other "rich text files".

Also, Rasmus would love for you to send him some examples of how you've used the tool.

One important thing to note: the download file is 9.73 MB, so if you do not have high-speed capability, you may want to use something like Download Accelerator Plus.

Idea Generators

There are perhaps times when one is at a loss for ideas about which to write. Jen has written some articles about this, which are well worth reading! Also, some of you may know that I am a regular contributor to the Topics Blog. Rasmus, a cool dude from Denmark, has developed a tool to help stimulate your writing senses, called WriteThis.

There are many, many reasons to write, just as there are many things about which to write.

WriteThis Reminder: Rasmus wants all who have downloaded and used it to take a survey.

Running Out of Time

Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 12/16/02 9:23:35 PM

Criteria:

• Duration: 30 minutes
• Keyword: vehicle
• Main character: sad
• Setting: live television
• Special clause: end the story with the sentence: "I should have known."

Dayton, OH - “We're live at the Montgomery county courthouse, where Steve Richardson is coming out from the courtroom as we speak," Charles Moore said. "I have never heard of a sentence that strange. I wonder if we might be able to get some comments from the defendant."

Charles approached the security detail that surrounds Steve Richardson. "Excuse me, Mr. Richardson," he began. "I was wondering whether you had any comments about the trial or the verdict or the sentence the judge handed down."

"No comment," Steve replied. His eyes looked hollow and red, as though he'd been crying considerably. Well, he had been crying. I mean who wouldn't have felt the heartstrings. What pain he must be feeling right now.

Then, all of a sudden, Steve pulled a gun from one of his captors and broke free. He headed toward a news van. Charles recognized his cameraman as the driver and dashed off toward the van. Steve hopped in the passenger side and aiming the gun, he ordered, "Drive." The cameraman began to drive. Charles had just enough time to hop in the back with the assistant manager who'd taken over for the cameraman, since Dave, the cameraman, had been feeling nausea all morning.

At first Steve objected to the last-minute passengers, but then, he figured that having the company would work out better. He could at least have someone to talk to, and he could get access to the audience. The public needed to know his story, his struggle. He felt motivated, though now as a fugitive, to make sure the world knew why he was running. And having some hostages for the ride meant that he could bargain.

Charles called out to Steve from the rear of the news van, "What are you doing? Are you nuts? Why are you hijacking our news van?"

"No answers. Not yet," Steve replied. "When the time comes, I want it to be live on TV."

He heard sirens approaching the van. "Don't slow down. Drive. Fast," he ordered Dave, the cameraman, who was driving, but feeling a bit more queasy due to the added stress.

Steve let out a big sigh. He'd never hijacked a van before. He'd never broken the law like this. If he were caught, he'd wind up in bigger trouble than what he wound up in court for. He looked up in the sky. Nope. No choppers. Not yet anyway.

Charles couldn't believe it either. He'd only joined the newstaff a few months ago, mainly covering downtown businesses and boring stuff like that. He'd never have thought he'd be sitting in a hijacked van, with the best opportunity for an award-winning story presented to him like a Thanksgiving turkey. He felt the ambition, as it started surging through his veins.

Mark, the assistant cameraman, who was called in to sub for Dave at the last minute, was not a happy camper. He had been asleep next to his girlfriend when he got the phone call. Robert, the daytime substitute cameraman, was on vacation, and could he pretty please come and help out the new news reporter. He knew he should have asked for more money when he renewed his contract. Crap like this was not the reason why he took this job. Now he didn't know what to think. Here he was, trapped in this minivan with two coworkers and some maniac. He felt ticked off. He hoped that this whole thing was going to be over. Soon.

Steve looked at Dave, the nauseated driver. He felt sorry. He hadn't wanted things to work out like this. Dave started looking a little paler. "Dude," Steve said, "are you gonna hurl? Because if you do, I don't want the mess in here."

"I'll be okay," Dave replied. "I just need a little fresh air. Mind if I roll down the window?"

"Sure, pal, go ahead."

After a few minutes, Charles spoke up. "Hey, man, I know you're pissed off about something. We’ll put you on live television so you can tell your story. You just say when, and Mark over here will start rolling."

"All right, then," Steve replied. "Fire her up."

Mark reluctantly started the camera rolling, focusing first on Charles.

"We're here inside the Channel 7 news van live with Steve Richardson, who has just hijacked our van while fleeing the courthouse."

Steve heard some rumbling outside. Peering out the window, he noticed two police choppers following the van. Dave the nauseated driver vomited outside the drivers window. “Damn it,” Steve said. “I should have known.”

Sam the Stupid, Part 2

(Based on a 10-minute exercise generated by WriteThis - 9/14/02 1:54:45 AM in which the main character is someone I have written about before, takes place in someone else's home, and the story is told in the first person)

Jeez, I can't believe I'm writin' 'bout Sam again. I used to think that he was gonna get better at life, but he kept gettin' more and more stupid. At least that is how I and many others in town viewed him.

One time, when me and some other buddies was at Jim's house about to go do some fishin', Sam came a knockin' on the door. He had just come out of the pen, and he was wearin' all his clothes this time.

But, since it was only dawn, he bein' stupid and all, was only wearin' his pajama britches.

"Can I come, too?" Same asked.

"Sam, you silly man," Mrs. Jim's Wife answered, "you know you can't just go invitin' youself to other people's gatherin's. Especially when all you're wearin' is yo' pj's! Lemme go see if Jim and 'em want you to come along. Hold it right there, an' I'll be back."

"Aight," Sam the Stupid replied.

Mrs. Jim's Wife didn't even let Sam inside. I now understand, having been ovair at Jim's house during the day. That living room resembles the rest of the room - not child proof one bit. And if it weren't child proof, then it weren't also Sam the Stupid proof.

Jimmy, Dean, Ben, and I come out to the livin' room after Jim's wife told us that Sam was outside waitin' for us.

"Sam, when did you git out of the pen?" Dean asked.

"Oh, just last night. I'm lookin' for a bit to eat, an' I heard y'all were going fishin', so I wanted to tagalong."

"Sam, you can come with us, but you gotta git some different clothes, dude…"

Sam the Stupid

(Based on a 15-minute exercise generated by WriteThis - 9/10/02 1:26:48 AM in which the main character is a criminal, the story is a comedy and takes place inside a shop, the main character is a criminal, and a hat is somehow involved. The dialect was my own choice.)

Poor Sam. The day he got put in the pen was a hoot, although not everyone thought so. I’m fixin to tell you what happened that day.

I’ve known Sam since we was both boys growin’ up on the same road. As we got older, we had to stop playing together, mainly 'cuz mama said he was bein' a bad influence on me er somethin' like that.

One mornin’ when I was walking to school, I stopped by the donut shop to get a small bit to eat. I looked out the window and saw Sam running up the sidewalk, clutchin' a donkey hat. Now you may a be wonderin' what the heck's a donkey hat, but that's not as important as what I'm gonna tell ya next.

Ya see, Sam wernt wearin' anything but that donkey hat he had on his head. Well, okay, he was wearin' some britches. I gotta say that 'cuz I don't wantcha gettin' all embarrassed and everything.

Behind Sam was old man Pappy, a huffin’ and a puffin’, holding in one hand a shotgun. In another hand he was holding onto what looked like the rest of Sam's clothes!

Now, I thought Sam was gonna keep on runnin' up the street, but he didn't do that at all. Instead he ran right into the donut shop where I and some other adults was.

"Quick, Donny, ya gotta help me! I found that donkey hat we used to be lookin' fore back when we was eight!" Sam cried out, looking out the window to see if ole man Pappy saw him duck into the donut shop.

Now I was gettin' kinda worried. You see that hat he was holdin' onto was part of ole man Pappy's vaudeville act, an some folks considered it to be an antique. When we was younger, we decided it would be a neat prank to steal that hat and hoist it up the school flagpole for everyone to see. We was so bored, as I'm sure you can tell. I mean some kids go swimmin' and play tag, but us, we were into stealin' stuff.

Well, Sam was a-runnin' around lookin' for a place to hide, when he tripped on a banana peel and took a spill to the floor. Me and the other folks in the store bust out laughin’. But none of that kept him from gettin' back up. No, siree. He got back up and dove over the counter.

Remember when I told you he weren't wearing anythin' but his britches? Well, from divin' over the counter to hide, his britches got caught on the corner and they all but got torn off of him. So now he's runnin' around with that dang donkey hat and his britches nearly off.

Everyone in the donut shop was laughin' so hard they about peed on themselves. 'Til ole man Pappy came inside the shop.

Cafe War Flashback
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 8/30/02 4:15:56 AM)
A 15-minute exercise in which

• A ticket plays an important part in the story.
  
• Main character has an addiction of some kind.
  
• Story takes place in a war zone.
  
• Must be written backwards in time.
  

I cannot believe that George is dead. My best friend in the entire world, now gone. I had often wondered where our caffeine binges would take us. I guess I need to re-evaluate my life some more.

George was gasping for breath, and the riot was in full effect. I had no idea he'd have a heart attack. We had finished our 50th mocha grande and had finally finished our Monopoly game. Some of you may think it's funny that we'd continue our Monopoly game amid a riot, but that's what I enjoyed about George's company.

After he'd finally purchased Boardwalk, we'd ordered our 10th mocha grande, this time without whipped cream, since the riot appeared to have begun over a whipped cream shortage. One thing I can definitely say about caffeine is that is keeps your senses alert to what is going around you.

That's what I was thinking when we began our Monopoly game. I had by that time finished my fifth mocha grande and I was giddy more than I have ever been before. George said he needed to do something to work off his already huge caffeine buzz. He had just finished his fourth mocha grande and was getting very jittery.

Prior to that when we walked into the Cafe we wondered why the staff appeared so jittery. Some of them muttered about missing the shipment of whipped cream, and they started arguing about that or something else. George and I were just glad to have our tickets accepted into the Cafe parlor.

I bought them earlier today, over the Internet, and since they were on sale as a "Buy One Get One Free", I knew I needed to ask George to join me. We both loved mocha grandes.

I remember talking with George over the phone, and he had mentioned that he had gotten two hours of sleep last night, and wasn't feeling that well. Yet he couldn't pass up the opportunity to join me for the grand opening of the new Cafe in our neighborhood.

George and I met at a Cafe across town a few years back. Neither of us drank much coffee, but we enjoyed the atmosphere and playing some of the games. The band that played was really cool as well. It's funny now that I think about it, he had mentioned that he had just gotten clean of the crack cocaine he'd been taking.

I asked him about his treatment, and he declined to talk about it. He only stated that if there was a hell on Earth, it must have been the clinic where he went to come clean.

George earlier mentioned that he took cocaine to help him stay awake in class. Funny, but I'd been having trouble staying awake as well at that time.

Rasmus has a WriteThis examples site.

Insanity Contagium

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 8/23/02 3:16:21 PM)

"What do you mean, you need the key?" Andrew asked.

"To unlock the door, of course," Simon replied.

"What door? What are you talking about, you nitwit?"

"You're probably not far from the truth, Andrew, my good buddy, my ice cream cone."

"You're getting stranger by the minute. Are you sure you don't want me to get you some help?"

"Listen, you curmudgeon! I don't even know what that means! It sounded like a good word to describe you, so I used it! Why don't you ever listen-"

"Hey, hey, there Simon. I was just kidding, OK? I wasn't going to try to get the doctors. I mean after all, you'd just kill me like you did the other three. I value my life. But what do you say we take a walk and get us an ice cream?"

"Well alright, but no funny stuff. Especially after what the lion did to my porpoise. It took several days for the pain to wear off, if you know what I mean. Those hooligans of medicine haven't a clue as to what the truth of life is. But I think I've found it."

"You know, Simon, some people write down their thoughts and ideas, especially for other people to understand. Have you ever thought of doing that?"

"Yeah, dumbkopf! I've got shelves full of journals at home. Some of them have recipes for killing sprees, too. But mostly they have a lot of truth to them. Some of them contain complete, descriptive accounts of past purgings I've enjoyed."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Maybe I could show them to you sometime."

"Maybe. Let's stop in here for some ice cream, in the meantime. What did you say your favorite flavor was?"

"I think you'd like what I've written. You, too, could be set free from the slave labor you call life."

"What flavor of ice cream do you want?"

"Oh, that's right. I like 'Blood Sausage'."

"Simon, we're at the ice cream shop."

"Well, alright then, stupid! I'll just have a Passion Fruit Smoothie, OK?"

"You know, I'm glad I'm your friend, because-"

"Because what? You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think I should go back to that asylum. Well, let me tell you something, Mr. KnowItAll-"

"That's not what I'm saying-"

"LET ME FINISH OR I'LL BASH YOUR @#@!$#%$ HEAD IN!"

"No, Simon. Let me tell YOU something. You see this gun I have in my hand? It's loaded. Just like you're going to be in just a few seconds.”

“YOU THINK YOU CAN STOP ME WITH THAT THING? YOU’RE DUMBER THAN I THOUGHT!”

“No, Simon, I believe you’re badly mistaken. Now, before I unload my revolver, I want you, since you’re so much interested in this key, to tell me where the lockbox is.”

“You’re such an idiot, Andrew. You think that I’m just going to volunteer the location of our million dollar prize? Not without a fight, you’re not. You’ve got to remember my Jedi powers.”

“I’m going to count to three, and if you don’t tell me, you’ll not get an ice cream but some lead instead!”

“OK, Simon – I mean, Andrew. Just let me sort this out.”

“One.”

“Let’s say we skip this whole ice cream thing and go somewhere else, huh?”

“Let’s not. Two.”

“C’mon Andrew, what good is the million dollars without someone to share it with, huh?”

“Three,” Andrew said as he unloaded all six rounds into Simon’s chest. “Well, now Simon, I don’t think you’ll be menacing our streets anymore. What’s this? You ate the lockbox! You definitely were a crazy man,” Andrew said, as he picked up the lockbox from inside the now disemboweled Simon.

“See you in Hell, Simon.”

“You first,” an almost dead Simon whispered, as he threw a knife into Andrew’s neck, puncturing his aorta.

Grandpa’s Painting

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 8/23/02 2:55:01 PM)

Grandpa was dying, that's for sure. The doctors and nurses had done practically everything they could, and we were already making arrangements for him to enter Hospice.

This day was a special day, therefore, since it was to be one of our last with Grandpa. Dad, Mom, and I picked him up at the clinic, and, after a small bite to eat, we headed for the Art Institute. The Art Institute has always been one of Grandpa's favorite places. He once mentioned that he could spend an entire day there, and he actually did several times.

After Dad parked the car, we went inside and paid our admission. Grandpa looked haggard, but his spirits were bright. He even cracked a few jokes while we were in the car. Sure, we'd heard them all before, but they still made us laugh. What a great sense of humor he has!

We walked around a bit, looking at various exhibits, and finally went to the Impressionists exhibit. Grandpa walked over to one painting in particular and sat down on the bench, studying it for some considerable time. I wondered what it was about that painting that made such an impact on him. He pointed to it and mentioned that this painting belonged to his great grandfather back in France, and he had donated it to this Institute shortly before he passed away.

This news was indeed incredible. Definitely a surprise for Dad, Mom, and me. One of my ancestors owned a Monet? Wow. But we weren't at all prepared for what was going to happen next.

Grandpa reached into his pants pocket and pulled out an old, folded up piece of paper. Unfolding it, he read the text to us. The paper was a certificate of ownership for the particular painting we had been studying! After reading the paper, he took out another paper from his pocket, something called a Power of Attorney. He then glanced over his shoulder at the Curator's Office. He then asked for some help in getting up. Dad and I helped him get up. He walked over to the Curator's Office, and we followed him.

A small sign on the window said "Notary Public". Grandpa knocked on the door, and the Curator opened it and welcomed us into his office. Grandpa and the Curator chatted for awhile - it appeared that they knew each other well. I couldn't understand what they were saying because it all was in French. At times either Grandpa or the Curator looked over at us as they conversed.

Then the Curator came over to us and congratulated us on being the new owners of the Monet painting. I couldn't believe it! Dad asked the Curator how much the painting was worth, and Mom almost fainted when she heard that it was worth over 1 million dollars!

Farmer Jim’s Extraordinary Day

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 8/13/02 8:58:43 AM)

Our story begins with Jim Jackson, a farmer in the country whose land has not been yielding a good crop for the past five years. His wife Dora left him two years ago. Alone, Jim passes the time trying desperately to make ends meet.

One morning Jim woke up and went out to the barn, as usual. He examined the hen house, which he always kept clean. But today was not going to be an ordinary day, he soon realized.

Among all the other chickens with their eggs, stood a huge, golden egg. Jim immediately took it out of the nest so that he could take it to the jeweler to have it appraised.

What happens next? Tune in next time, when you hear Jim exclaim, “Oh my Lord! Does this mean that I can keep the farm?” Also, find out why Dora says, “If it wasn’t for my undying love for him…” Stay tuned, ladies, gentlemen, kids of all ages. You won’t want to miss our next episode of “The Lifetimes of Jim Jackson”!

Venus Report

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 8/16/02 4:42:53 PM)

This just in -- In outer space, close to the planet Venus, Venus herself was spotted in orbit! Scientists report that they've seen nothing like this before. Plans are underway, according to a NASA spokesperson, to communicate with the Roman mythological goddess.

You may recall from mythology class in high school or college, that Venus, known in Greek mythology as Aphrodite, is the goddess of love. We have Dr. Ivanto B. Leif, mythology professor from Jamestown University, here with us, ladies and gentlemen, to comment on this strange phenomenon. We'll keep the NASA pictures on display as we hear his comments:

Dr. Ivanto B. Leif: "This phenomenon is actually not uncommon, if you read the mythology texts carefully. Why even in an older copy of Homer's Iliad, he states that Ulysses and his crewmembers would gaze up at the stars and marvel at the love goddess's presence."

I see. Well, thank you Dr. Leif, we'll contact you again if we have further questions.

Now from the live feed from NASA, we can see what looks like a persona rising up from the planet Venus. According to Dr. Phy Nalfron Tier, astronomer from NASA, the space station is capturing the information and any additional data it can obtain. Plans are underway for a shuttle mission outside of Earth's orbit to explore the near planet.

Until now, shuttle missions have not ventured beyond Earth's orbit, and while scientists are optimistic that this mission will be successful.

That's all we have now. Stay tuned for more information as we receive it.

Farmer Jim’s Extraordinary Day
(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 8/13/02 8:58:43 AM)

Our story begins with Jim Jackson, a farmer in the country whose land has not been yielding a good crop for the past five years. His wife Dora left him two years ago. Alone, Jim passes the time trying desperately to make ends meet.

One morning Jim woke up and went out to the barn, as usual. He examined the hen house, which he always kept clean. But today was not going to be an ordinary day, he soon realized.

Among all the other chickens with their eggs, stood a huge, golden egg. Jim immediately took it out of the nest so that he could take it to the jeweler to have it appraised.

What happens next? Tune in next time, when you hear Jim exclaim, “Oh my Lord! Does this mean that I can keep the farm?” Also, find out why Dora says, “If it wasn’t for my undying love for him…” Stay tuned, ladies, gentlemen, kids of all ages. You won’t want to miss our next episode of “The Lifetimes of Jim Jackson”

Sax in the City

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 5/15/2002 8:00:39 AM)

It was 3 o’clock in the morning, and the saxophonist had just come from his gig at the nightclub, when he noticed some suspicious activity at one of the banks downtown.

Trying to keep from being noticed, he moved to the alley and considered his options: should he contact the police, should he just simply go about his business, or should he look for an opportunity to foil the heist?

Contact the police? He was one of them! The gig was something he did in his spare time, mostly as a hobby. Just mind his business? He had a civic duty to uphold the law, even if he was off duty. The only logical option, in his mind, was to find an opportunity to foil the heist.

He waited a few minutes, considering a potential course of action. Then he made his move. With saxophone in hand, he walked down the street to where the bank was. He was not allowed to wear his gun when he was off duty, so he decided that, if needed, he would use his saxophone.

He couldn't see the burglars, though. Were they gone? Or already inside somehow? He decided to peek through the bank's windows. Nothing. Not even an alarm. He checked the front door - it was unlocked. Opening it, he cautiously went inside, rather confused.

At that moment the lights came on around him, and an entire crowd of people yelled, "Surprise! Happy Birthday!"

He saw his girlfriend among the group and suddenly felt very foolish. He had forgotten his own birthday.

Vending Area Phenomenon

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 5/22/2002 9:42:46 AM)

He got off the interstate at the rest area, since he had been driving for several hours.

He didn't have any food with him, and the only change he had, he would need for the toll.

So he used the facilities and made his way toward his car. Suddenly, he saw it. The vending machine had been broken open. He now had access to several confectionary delights. Oh, what joys awaited him! Oh, what relief of his hunger! He began to run toward the vending area, when he suddenly slipped and fell.

Minutes later, he woke up, looking at the sky. It had been too long since he’d gone stargazing. Then he realized where he was and began to get up. Then he noticed that, while he could move his legs and upper body, his legs would not move. Confused, he tried and tried again to get up, but to no avail.

He looked around and cried out for help. He saw other vehicles parked in the lot, but no one seemed to be around. Then he looked back up to the sky and saw a light that grew in size and brightness. He had to cover his eyes because the light was so intense.

The spaceship settled in a clearing by the rest area. The hatch opened, and some human-like creatures came out, pulling something that, to him, resembled a hospital gurney. As they approached him, he began to understand what was happening. He cried out again, but he knew that no one else was around to help him.

The extraterrestrials arrived at the spot where he lay. Waving their hands, his body rose from the ground and eventually rested on the gurney. He couldn’t believe what was happening, and began to flail his arms, desperately trying to break free. Then, out of shock, he fell unconscious.

Some time later, he woke up in a brightly lit room. He felt rather numb and could barely open his eyes. He was able to move his legs, but not very much. He closed his eyes again and fell asleep.

The sound of his alarm clock rang through his head, and he finally woke up. Sitting up in his bed, he looked at his legs. He could move them. Climbing out of bed, he stood up and looked in the mirror. “Had it all been a dream?” he wondered.

Then he saw the mark on his face. He moved closer to the mirror to get a better look. It appeared to be an inscription of some sort, just under his right ear. He looked even closer in the mirror to read the inscription.

To his astonishment, the inscription read, “Fragile – Handle with Care”.

Jewelry Store Heroics

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 5/14/2002 2:33:02 AM)

The thieves entered the jewelry store, armed, dangerous, and ready to make their move. Hiding behind the counter was Jeannine, the assistant manager, a successful salesperson with a proven record of getting things done. She had been the store’s “go-to” person for several years. She had just enough time to push the button to contact the police when the thieves noticed someone was behind the counter.

“OK, we’re only gonna say this once. Come out from behind the counter with your hands in the air. Get the keys to the jewelry cases, and hand them over. We’re gonna count to five, and then we’re gonna start shooting.”

What was she going to do, she wondered. She had put way too much time in making this business successful to simply give it all up now.

“1… 2…”

She then remembered the Super Soaker Water Blaster she’d brought in to show her coworkers. It was a recent anniversary present from her husband. Now, where was it?

“3…”

There it was, inside the box of old newspapers. She checked to see if it had water in it. It did. Someone must have recently refilled it.

“4…”

She slowly began to rise, with her back toward the criminals, concealing the Super Soaker Water Blaster.

“Turn around, young lady,” one of the men ordered.

Almost in slow motion, she spun around with the Water Blaster. The burglars yelled “NO!” as she began soaking them. She noticed that these men were not holding real weapons, but instead they, too, brandished water guns.

She continued soaking her would-be assailants until they were knocked to the floor, immobilized. At that moment, she leaped across the counter and unarmed them, just as the police arrived.

Thus ends our tale.

Memorial Day Miracles

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 5/14/2002 2:35:17 AM)

Memorial Day weekend was one of the busiest times for the staff at Kings Island. From that day forward, until Labor Day weekend, the park would be open daily. Management wanted to be certain that things went off without any problems, so they called in extra maintenance workers just in case.

Because of the recent terrorist threats, security was tighter than usual. It seemed that everywhere you looked, there was another security guard.

All the specialty players were in full force. Amid the din of screaming rollercoaster riders, one could hear the sounds of the Dixieland Jazz band. They would be making their rounds throughout the park several times this season.

Of important note was the clarinetist. He had just recovered from a stroke, so his very presence here was incredible. He played as though he was 25 years younger, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

Mystery Painting

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 5/22/2002 9:47:55 AM)

I hang in the Louvre museum in France, a masterpiece for all time. How can one describe me? A portrait of a woman, who at the time of its creation was considered very beautiful, remains haunting even now.

Patrons of the museum notice, as they walk by, how my face has a haunting expression. You could say that it seems that my gaze follows them as they walk past. Almost accusingly, mockingly... definitely hauntingly.

None other than the Masked Marauder, the international villain, the second-most wanted terrorist in the world, has stolen this masterpiece, by Leonardo da Vinci, recently. Well, at least to the Europeans.

How he was able to snatch it still remains a mystery. All that we know is that it no longer sits in the famous French museum.

(OK, I made up that part about it being stolen recently.)

Can you guess who I am?

A Night in the Jungle

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 5/14/2002 8:00:04 AM)

Night was beginning to fall. The fog began to settle, and all around the voices of the jungle were raised in song.

A snake slithered along a tree branch, scoping out some food. Nearby, a lioness lay in wait for her prey. Wolves barked in the moonlight.

Suddenly, a crack that sounds like the crack of a branch rang out. The hunter, despite the pleas from the rest of his party, continued undaunted through the jungle, in search for his catch, alone.

And just like that, clouds moved in over the moon, and lightning tore across the sky. Thunder bellowed, and a heavy rain began to pour. The heavy rain made everything blurry, so that he could not see even a foot in front of him. Seeking shelter, he went under a tree, growing uneasy, chilled by the abrupt change in the weather. Unfortunately, it was the same tree where the giant anaconda lay stretched above, waiting.

The snake slithered down the trunk moved along the branch above him, and slowly dropped in front, ready for the kill. The hunter screamed and took off running.

Because the sound of the thunderstorm was so loud, and possibly the beating of his heart so intense, the hunter didn't realize what was about to happen next. The lioness, out of nowhere it seemed, sprang from the grass, and lunged toward the hunter, throwing him on the ground. The impact caused him to drop his rifle.

Weaponless, the hunter struggled to break free from the man-eater's clutches. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the anaconda swiftly approaching. And then, all of a sudden, amid the thunder and lightning, a shot rang out, and the lioness fell dead to the ground.

The hunter hadn't realized that another lonely hunter had been following him.