# 09/20/08 - Your life without "life"



## Hawke (Sep 20, 2008)

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


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## SparkyLT (Sep 20, 2008)

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


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## Hawke (Sep 20, 2008)

I'm gonna say... no.


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## SparkyLT (Sep 20, 2008)

OK, thanks . Just thought I'd make sure.


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## gohn67 (Sep 21, 2008)

*Life?*

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

"Life life!" life life.

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

Life!

Life?

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

"Life life?" Life life.

"Life life life life?" Life life.

"Life." Life life.

Life?" Life life.

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

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

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

"Life! Life!" Life life.

"Life life! Life. Life" Life life.

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

Life?

"Life life life life!" Life. Life.

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

"Life life life life!" Life life.

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

Life life. Life.

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

"Life!"


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## Hawke (Sep 21, 2008)

*slaps forehead*



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


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## Shawn (Sep 21, 2008)

*Night and Day*

*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.


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## Matthatter (Sep 21, 2008)

*My back hurts    127 words*

Removed


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## SevenWritez (Sep 21, 2008)

*The Fruit Of (497)*

“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.


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## Wildcard (Sep 22, 2008)

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...-life-without-life-challenge.html#post1190377


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## alanmt (Sep 22, 2008)

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.


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## froman (Sep 23, 2008)

*Crug P. Abomination  (498 words)*

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.


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## ohdear (Sep 23, 2008)

*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.


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## Vendredi-is-Friday (Sep 25, 2008)

*LM Submission*

*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.


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## Raging_Hopeful (Sep 26, 2008)

*Freezing - 491 words*

            “If you’d shut up, then maybe everything would be okay!” he shrieked. She imagined the veins bulging beneath the tissue-thin skin of his bald head. Linda recoiled, placing her hands around her neck. She never thought she would die in a freezer. 

            “Don’t scream,” she said. “It’ll use up more air.” In her mind she was tearing his throat open with fingers that had no nails. Upon reflection she wished she hadn’t devoted so much time to biting her fingers. Perhaps more time biting those who deserved to be bitten.

            “You stupid bitch! SHARON!” he howled, pounding his fists against the lid of the freezer. The freezer itself was not working and it had seemed like a good place to hide. Sharon, baldy’s wife, would never find them there. Never find them half naked and gasping. Linda wished she had fucked someone more attractive. Baldy, as she called him mentally, had been the only man who had ever shown interest in her bony knees and large spectacles. He was her boss at the Frosty Freeze and tingling in the hot air between the grills had been a sexual tension so powerful that when he had slipped his hand between her legs, she was only too eager. Her strange attraction to older, unavailable men. Men who never saw Linda as anything more than a Burger rat, shoveling junk food at them through the drive through window. Surely he saw something more. But now, as she stared at him in the inky darkness, she realized he saw nothing more than a desperate fuck. 

            “Linda?”

            For a moment it was silent but for their gasping. There was something finite in their terror. Some intangible emotion. Linda wished she had taken that desk job at the library. Wished she hadn’t been so afraid to try something new. 

            “Steven?”

            “What?” he said, his voice still taut with bitterness and fear.

            “I think we should start seeing other people.”

            “And I think you should stop being such a withered cunt and help me figure a way out of here.”

            It hadn’t occurred to Linda that she should stab him. The pointed nail file had been tucked in the pocket of her dress, which she had only grabbed at the last second. But his pale head gleaming in the otherwise pitch dark was suddenly splattered with blood. His fists were hitting her, but the nail file rose again and again. Far longer than it took for his screams to stop. She felt around in the darkness, her fingers slippery with his blood. There was a spring inside she knew, thanks to regulations passed in the 1970’s. Her dad had spent his whole career repairing them. The lid popped open and light filled the once darkened freezer. Linda stood up from the puddle of blood. She didn’t look back as she closed the lid. For a moment, standing in the middle of Steven’s three car garage, Linda felt alive.


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## C.Gholy (Sep 27, 2008)

Time and love
Love in a Private Journal 452 words checked on Cut & Paste Word Count


I think that time and love truly compliment each other. I spent some of my time, thinking about a boy who used to claim me as his one and only girl. 

Everything used to be sunshine and joy when we were an item. The typical things that lovers do, and the emotional security that existed within our bond we used to share. The cold frosty nights without him were difficult to handle. I would feel hunger one minute, then a feeling of hatred the next moment. Splitting up from a relationship you thought was going to last for decades, is not an easy thing. That warm blanket of security had vanished. 

Every time walking through the school corridors, I thought of him, and he’s not really interested in me any longer.

 Seven months on, and my heart feels so silent. I don't like blaming other people on the way I feel, but he is partly responsible for this silent feeling. I do wish he could still communicate with me, and not just ignore me or hide my messages. I just wish he could, say things to my face and just be honest with me. 

I know, I never fulfilled all of his requests, but I'll try and get at least one finished. I do hope that's not the reason he's ignoring me. I haven't mentioned him to my mother, I have a good idea what she might say, a whole list of direct phrases such as: I'm a naive child, I need to get over him. He's a jerk, it's time to move on. He might not have be a perfect son-in-law for my mother, but he was perfect for me. 

I had no idea that talking about other guys would truly hurt him. I actually thought that he would be happy that I moved on with much more backbone. I haven't really gotten over him however, no one forgets their first love. 

I do have my occasional moans, groans and complaints about him, but I get a feeling that's what love does to you. You end up rating about the person in your heart and other people notice that you can't shut up about them. They say that love blinds people, from my experience I would say that is true. 

Just when I thought that our love was going to last forever, the feelings die out like a flame of the candle. I miss the good old days when he used to smile when I smiled. Those innocent little kisses and the passionate nights, those memories are far too special to forget. I think it's pretty amazing how one moment of pure coincidence could alter your feelings for the long-term.


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## Itsaboysname (Sep 27, 2008)

*Empty Chairs - 499 words

*Casey laughed and snorted. I pretended not to notice and smiled at her. The muffin in my hands had gotten cold and the chocolate chips solidified. It was not as satisfying.

“And you know what I think it was?” she continued.  “I don’t think Billy ever actually liked the sandwiches. I really think he preferred plain Tuna.” 

She sniffed. Her crooked nostrils flared, baring boogers caught in nose hairs. I looked her in her eyes- I never liked brown eyes- smile still stuck to my face with cheap paste. I sat my muffin down. “Billy was a Salmon man. Tim was the one that liked Tuna.” I reached into my bag for a cigarette and a lighter.

“Tim…” Casey twittered her bushy eyebrows. “Tim isn’t really- are you still smoking that shit?”

“Don’t give me this again. I know what I’m doing.” I lit up and resisted the urge to blow smoke in her face. “Tim is a good man.”

“Tim is an asshole. Now listen, all I’m saying-“

“Stop it.”

“All that I am saying… Is that Marijuana can’t give you lung cancer-“

“That’s not true-“

“It’s not addictive- And you know what?“

“Not physically addictive! And Tim is great.”

“Tim wasn’t really his friend. And you know what? Being high is better than your stupid nicotine addiction.”

I gently observed her bottom lip. For whatever reason it pouted out a tad further than her top one and I could never ignore it. “I don’t want to argue this with you. It’s stupid.” Smoke filled my lungs. She didn’t know what she was talking about. “Tim is a good man.” I said again, exhaling into space.

“Billy didn’t like Tim. He told me he hated Tim.”

“Well Tim loved him like he was another son! Your muffins suck!”

“I can’t stand smokers!” 

“Unless they’re toking weed you fucking hypocrite!”

“You’re an ass! Tim is an ass! I just don’t…” The rest of her sentence was cut short by soggy sobs.

“You just don’t what?” 

“Nothing.” She curled into an emotional fetal position. 

“Don’t give me that.” I always hated this about her. Billy always knew how to calm her down. I looked at the empty seat next to me. 

“I just miss him is all.”

“I miss him too.” My cigarette had gone quick. I smashed the butt into the ground with my toe and immediately regretted it.

Casey was silent for a moment, then, “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

She started smiling again. “Remember what he used to say before? ‘I put ashtrays back here’-“

“’Back here for a reason you fucking son of a bitch.’ I remember.” This time it was my turn to snort. After a moment of solemn laughter I scraped what I could off the walk and placed it in an ashtray. I sat back down and turned to the empty seat next to me. “I’m sorry.” I said.

“I miss him.”

“Me too.” And I ate the muffin anyways.


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## Tiamat (Sep 28, 2008)

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...-life-without-life-challenge.html#post1192755


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## No Brakes (Sep 30, 2008)

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...-life-without-life-challenge.html#post1193454


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## seigfried007 (Oct 1, 2008)

Like Mother
Word count: 216





In alpine fields of whispering grasses and blooms, the clear sun and cool breeze sighed through his floating body. Frost followed his drifting form and stilled flowers and shoots as he passed. Mother had lived in a field like this.

  A small, brown road like a grass snake slithered up a hill. He followed it.

  A log cabin with smiling windows welcomed him. Mother had lived in a place like that. 

  As much as his tiny body was capable, he raced for the humble house, over its manicured flower bed and through its closed door. The air was still and warmer, but dark. Like mother’s house.

  A young woman stared at him, her pale hands on the curtain she had been pushing aside. She was not his mother. But she could be.

  He drew near to her. She backed away from him. Her face like mother’s—eyes wide, mouth open. Her heat called to him.

  Here I am, Mother!

  He climbed inside. She flailed her arms against her belly. She swiped her fingers like claws at him.

  He curled in her belly, rejoicing in her warmth. Mother had felt like this. 

  She screamed and raked her fingernails at her belly.

  Don’t you want me, mother?

  She doubled over. He heard her breaths slow. Her hands clapped together, then over her breast as she knelt into a ball on the floor. Her heart slowed… then stopped. He remained in her belly until it froze, then he floated away. 

  The windows weren’t smiling any more. They were hard with frost. Not like mother’s.


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## IrishLad (Oct 4, 2008)

*Einstein, and Rock n’ Roll  (486 words)*


I came into being in 1964, sharing a birthday with Mark Twain and Jonathan Swift.  T. S. Elliot was still alive in 1964, so I cannot be his reincarnation.  It is worthy of mention that Einstein had already passed on, as well as Hitler, so possibilities abound.  Of course I claim neither possession of, nor even relationship to, the spirit of such men; I simply like to leave doors open until they are slammed shut, and locked.  Such has been my outlook from earliest memory.

      From my teen years to my late twenties I doubled as lead guitarist and lead singer of a popular local rock band.  I should note that Jimi Hendrix died _after_ my birth, not that he would have wanted to come back as an Irish-American, anyway.  While my band did not achieve national success (though we did enter into discussions with some heavyweight record executives), the quasi-fame it brought garnered me a comfortable income by standard of my peers, and netted me--a skinny kid, not unattractive, but not Jon Bon Jovi by any means--well more than my share of firm young women, which, more than money or artistic expression, was the driving force behind the experience for me.  Long live rock.

      My father passed away unexpectedly when I was twenty-seven.  A profound ordeal for any young man, my father’s death affected me all the more, as we were extremely close.  I quit the band, cut my hair, and entered the real workforce as a construction superintendent, intent on taking care of my mother and younger brother.  It was what my father would have expected of me.  I succeeded, for what that’s worth.  People make tradeoffs sometimes, and occasionally lose a dream in the bargain.  As for music:  slammed, locked.  I have few regrets.

      Now I write.  It is a freeing thing, to write.  Being childless (I was very careful during my days as a musician) and a man, I can only suppose, but I feel that writing a story is akin to giving birth to, and rearing, a child.  Creating something from nothing, and then sending that creation out into the world when you’ve nurtured it as much as your abilities allow, hoping it finds its way, makes something of itself.

     People write for differing reasons.  It may be that my reason is a base one.  Beyond expression, beyond a need to divest myself of inner demons, as I believe Hemmingway unsuccessfully tried to do, I think I write in the simple hope that, one day, someone will pick up a book and read the author’s name.  My name.  One day, a stranger will know that I lived.  Faux immortality, I guess.  So I write, and I listen for a door to shut.  I listen for a key to turn, and for tumblers to click into place.  So far, so good.


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## eggo (Oct 4, 2008)

My submission

Good prompt

http://www.writingforums.com/writer...-life-without-life-challenge.html#post1195399


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