Jan 05 2009
Word Shot – 5 January, 2009
It’s a brand new year – time to make a resolution to work on your writing skills. One great way to do that is to participate in the weekly Word Shot exercises. A few days ago, Robyn Ciuro e-mailed me, saying:
“Good writing is not easy and I’m sure I’ve got a long way to go but I love seeing what the new picture is and waiting for the words to bubble out from my brain and down to my fingers. It’s like yoga for my brain.”
I like Robyn’s “yoga for my brain” remark. It’s true. The writing brain needs exercise, so pump a few mental weights with this week’s Word Shot. Here it is:
If you’re new to this, simply look at the photo (really look at it), think about it, let words come to your mind, write them down, and then submit them as a comment to this post. It’s as simple as that. You can submit anything from a single word to a full story. And if you participate in 10 Word Shots, I’ll e-mail you my three e-manuals on writing.
Thanks to you who took part in last week’s Word Shot. Keep up the good work!
Look to your left. Now look to your right.
One of these people will not graduate.
The trap was set.
The disguises were so exact that the true riot police viewed us as brothers.
The schedule was perfect, the car would be coming into view soon.
This time we will make sure that the world remembers our names.
When I was young I never thought it would be like this. I never thought of myself of being an authority figure, much less a figure of repression. The way I saw it… you know, it’s the classic why I wanna be a cop story. I wanted to be a hero. Someone that makes society better. But here I am. A figure of fear.
Hi,
Thanks for putting together this wonderful resource. I would come by often to dip in to the absolute treasure trove you’ve created here.
Best,
Damyanti
I feel the intensity of the moment.
The motorcade will be rounding the corner momentarily.
I am a trained professional.
Go away rational thoughts. Concentrate on my purpose.
Be prepared for the worst, but hope for the best, that’s what they told us just before we took up our positions.
How will this day end?
I thought, “That blue-shirted son of a bitch is in for the beating of his life.”
All cadets who chose to watch the naked blonde at the end of the block instead of the demonstration of the new assault vehicle will be required to retake final exams. All cadets who failed to respond to the “Eyes Right” command will be required to run around the town square in their underwear. All cadets who are oblivious to the sound of my voice will be required to watch eight hours of “The Wizard Oz.”
I remember that day with dread. Line after line, we withstood the press of the Martians as long as we could.
We cursed the scientists that first sent man to that far planet. Who knew that they would mutate, breed and return to invade the mother-world.
We stood as one; watched as the antiquated ships coasted in over the bay, and trembled as the shambolic, shuffling, sinister shapes crept towards us. Then they were upon us. Our training was sorely tested. The army, still fighting in the Middle East, had no time to return, for the Martians had taken our country by surprise. So the final defence had been down to us.
Trained as police, we had minimal weapons to fight with; handguns, batons and shields were our only tools. We took inspiration from the ancient Roman military and locked our shields to create a wall against the ferocity of those once men. They beat against our flimsy protection with maces and swords forged on the red planet, made of a metal harder than any known on earth. Every few minutes there would be a scream as a shield folded and a weapon bit into human flesh.
Once a line began to collapse under the constant bombardment, the commander would give the order “Fall back!” and the line would be replaced by a fresh cohort. But we could only last so long. There would never be enough men to fight off the hordes that were streaming into earth’s atmosphere. Mankind was doomed.
Now, as I dig the amber mines of California to feed the ever hungry Martian machines, I can only weep over humanity’s lost freedom. We were so proud, and so arrogant. We thought ourselves invincible. How wrong we were.
It’s hot out here. I’m acutely aware of the sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades and the unbearable tickle I must endure as it slides along my skin. There is the persistent buzzing of flies as they negotiate take-offs and landings on the small patches of sticky skin available to them. I must ignore it all and keep my attention on what is happening further up the road.
The typical sounds of madness from an out of control crowd are only slightly muffled by the filtering effect of my helmet. Shouts, screams, the sound of breaking glass and the overall thumping noise of the helicopters above. My adrenalin is surging, leaving little room for fear but still we must wait, wait until the next wave goes in, until my sergeant gives the signal. And then we are in the midst of it. At least I am prepared and dressed for it.
hard shiny eggplant colored bugs
march across my path
who knew they were full of yellow fear
next time i’ll be more careful
I do not wish to be here. I signed up to protect the innocent not to ward off those who march in anger against those who are dying in order to give them this very freedom.
Do not get me wrong. I am not afraid or unwilling to die to protect and serve the innocent but why should I feel obliged to face the possibility of leaving my wife a widow and my son fatherless for those who want only to cause more discord in the name of peace.
This is the line of fire. This is where agression meets force in order keep peace alive.
“Hey,” said the riot officer at the far left of the picture, “check out that suspicious-looking blue-shirtted guy. He’s up to something.”
The other riot officers all turned their heads to the blue shirtted man in the distance. The riot officer at the far left then quietly reached into the officer’s pocket beside him, pulling out his wallet, and shoving it into his own pocket without anybody noticing.