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.
We stood there, waiting. Each man in line was experiencing a different emotion, nervousness, fear, excitement, maybe nausea, but there was one underlying feeling to the group, readiness.
This was the day we’ve been training for, waiting for, yearning for. The count to fifty finished and the line rushed forward. This was gonna be one badass game of cops and robbers.
When she came to, all she could smell was smoldering hair, or fingernails. She wasn’t sure which. Kay’s legs were twisted and her knees felt as if they’d landed smack dab on the gravel. Wait– they did land smack on the gravel, as she rocketed onto her chest, and then her face. She spit the pebbles from her mouth, realizing she was bleeding and as she thrust her tongue forward along her lower teeth to spit out the blood, she became aware of the missing teeth. She lifted her head up, looking directly at the creased metal trash can. That’s where that God awful smell was coming from. That hoodlum HAD cut of MIchaela’s hair after all, and lit it on fire-just as he’d threatened. But the others–what had become of the others? There had been twelve girls in the Comparative Arts class that morning. The other 8 had been at home with the Flu. On the other side of the trash can was Michaela. She could hear her moaning, above what in the distance she now realized were sirens. Her uniform was now well above the knee, and covered in blood. There was Elmer’s glue in her hair on her face and on her blouse. He had systematically removed all of the little orange cone caps as he threw verbal darts at them all, and one by one, he had flung the contents at them.
Michaela slowly pushed her self up on her hip. Her hair, which had been waist length was now above her ears. As the sirens drew near, it became clear that the others were still inside. Apparently, he had them hostage. There was no telling what he had done to the rest of them. The window to the room was open. They could see it from where they were crouched, but both were stone still–unable to speak-stunned silent.
Around the corner, one by one, as stealth as mice creeping through the corridors at night, were police officers in full riot gear. They had shields and helmets and were equipped, it seemed to fend off many more than just one hood. As soon as they were seen, two officers swooped in and shielded them from any potential harm. And then there were more, and they stormed the open window, as others entered through the school’s entrance. Their classroom hadn’t been the only one. There had been 7. 7 classrooms and 7 skinheads. 7 rooms full of teenage girls humiliated in one way or another. Michaela reached out to her with a vacant smile. They clutched hands as they were carried off to the awaiting ambulance, the smell of smoldering hair thick in the siren filled air.