Jul 18, 2014

TWS wednesday (friday) weekly writing challenge 7.18.2014

Set your timer to 10 minutes and start writing. Your opening sentence should be 

"The morning came earlier than I expected..." 

Remember you can write in any style or format. When you are finished cut and paste your 10 min piece in the comment thread below OR put a link to your own blog or area where you write online.


  1. The morning came earlier than I expected. There was nothing that I could to avoid the fact, hard and shiny as the bar on my hospital bed. Another operation to delay the inevitable, another day of recovery, of staring at the holes in the ceiling, of needles and tubes.

    I shifted sideways. Mrs. Hutchinson lay on her bed, her eyes closed, but she seemed awake. I could tell by her breathing; by now I know her condition better than the doctors, nurses, and interns who come in at the beginning of their shifts and leave for the beginning of their lives each day. She had trouble sleeping now that her hands were wrapped thick with gauze tape. Like impossibly thick white mittens, they prevented her from pulling the transparent plastic tubes and colored fluids from her body, from her soul.

    Souls trapped in soft flesh.

    Through the slightly open curtains of Ms. Jackson, I saw the early rays of summer trying to enter the hospital. Oh, if I could be bird, or better yet, a pilot of a fighter plane, I would fly straight into the sun until all my fuel was expired.

  2. You were probably wondering why morning came earlier than you expected this morning. Earlier than anyone expected.

    Well fuckin — spoiler alert — once again it was the goddam government and the goddam iphone-google-glass-mental-health-industrial complex screwing with our planet. Only this time it’s more than just mere dirtying up the environment, fouling the air, poisoning the seas, and hunting the megafauna to extinction — this time it’s gone beyond that shit. Now they’re stroking the nuts of space-time, man.

    And yes, oh, laugh. But do you trust them with that? Do you? Do you trust them to provide adequate care for our elderly? Do you trust them to feed the hungry, heal the sick, and pave the roads? No? But it’s ok to fuck with our orbit? is that what you think?

    This is a wakeup call for our species, baby. This is a warning, clear as a bell, that what we're doing to our planet is wrong — we’re not just an invasive species anymore. We have become a destroyer of worlds!

    And the early dawn? That’s just the nature of orbital perturbations. You don’t fuck with the orbit, got it?

    Ok. Gimme another hit off that bong, man.

  3. The morning came earlier than I expected even though I hadn’t slept that night. The weight of my dread pressed down on me until the few breaths I could manage barely lifted my chest. I paced around the room in spite of the chill of the terrazzo floor seeping up through my feet and peered through the blinds willing the day to finally come, but unwilling to have it arrive. It was still dark with just the palest of lightening to the sky. My fear grew.
    When I looked at the clock, it was 4 a.m. in Islamabad. I turned on the television to CNN to see if it had started. It wasn’t a forced evacuation so he could have come with me. He chose to stay behind so the thousands of locals who worked for him wouldn’t lose heart. Even though I understood why he stayed behind, for the briefest of moments, I felt he had chosen them over me; over us. The news showed the skies over Baghdad flashing over and over again as one scud missile after the other hit its target. War had come.
    I stared at the images as I packed up the few things I had needed, took one last look at the deadly bursts of light, whispered, “Happy Anniversary, Randy” and could almost see my heart tightening upon itself as a tear slid down my cheek.

  4. Anonymous11:59:00 AM

    The morning came earlier than I expected. A few short hours for everything to come undone.

    Stark light blinds as it reveals. I know only the now, and now, I know I cannot stay here. I have to be away, far away from what lies beside me, this flesh that carried promise, once, and pleasure, lying leaden upon these unfamiliar sheets.

    I do not know where I am, exactly. I do not know exactly where I can go.

    The weight shifts, scattering heaviness, lazily threatening to pull me down again. "Are you awake," he says, flatly.

    It's not quite a question. I do not give an answer.