Death Hag Writers

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  1. Mrs. Watson
    Mrs. Watson
    First exercise.

    Begin with the sentence idea:

    I wake up in the bedroom of my childhood.

  2. bloodrocuted
    I wake up in the bedroom of my childhood. Everything is arranged the way that I remember: The drawers are against the far right wall, with action figures displayed in a troop formation across the top. The desk is against the wall opposite me, covered with school papers and furious sketches crumpled and abandoned. The window, of course, is in the same place it always was. Peering out through that window is the same grand wall of forest expanse at the end of the yard, marking the end of the predictable and the beginning of the mysterious; the catalyst of curiosity and fantasy. But my curiosity this time revealed something unfamiliar: A man, cloaked by a hooded sweatshirt, dragging a body limp and stoic, deep into the arboreal mystery beyond. I had decided not to remember this, I presume. Perhaps I am back because someone wants me to...

    Did I do it right?
    Feedback definitely welcome. I know there are probably lots of grammatical errors, and I know I shouldn't end with a preposition but nothing else sounded right.
  3. Boxofpandoraz
    I wake up in the bedroom of my childhood. Which is not a bedroom at all, but a fold out couch in the living room of our motor home. The matress is thin, and far from new. It's uncomfortable as hell - A futon with an oath of vengance against my poor young back. It is covered in a tan-hued material and dotted here and there with flowers that my Mom calls "Bouganvelias". Mom calls any flower she can't immediately identify a "Bouganvelia".

    I toss off the Sesame Street blanket that I have been sleeping under since I was five-years-old. It's dangling vicariously close to thread-bare. I don't care, though. It's warm, and comfortable, and mine. It will be the thing I weep the the most bitterly over when the next home we move into will be gutted in a house fire.

    I tiptoe cautiously toward the back of our motor home. Through the tiny little kitchen, and past the bathroom on the right-hand side, where our cat, Tux is fast asleep on the bathroom counter. His name is Tux because not only is he black and white like a tuxedo, he has the perfect image of a black bow-tie just under his nose.

    The only sounds I can hear as I gently turn the door handle and step quietly into the bedroom are the fan that is always running, and the chirping of a vast sea of crickets outside the open window. Off in the distance, the call of a bullfrog sounds from the fishing pond where I once had a pull a fish-hook out of my best friend's bare foot with my bare hands. We didn't play there barefoot anymore.

    My footfalls find me standing quietly at the side of my parents bed. And it is here that I perform my nightly ritual. With only the moonlight through the window as my source of light, I stand as still as I possibly can, I hold my breath, and I crane my neck so that I can get a better look at what it is I am here to see.

    I don't want to wake them. But only when I have seen both of my parents chests rise and fall with breath will I be able to make my way back down the hallway to my bed. Once I do, I curl up quietly with my Sesame Street blanket - And I drift off to sleep.
  4. Guest
    I wake up in the bedroom of my childhood. I am scared and my heart is pounding. I can see the light from under the door. Was that a shadow that just passed my door or was it something more frightening then the night? I can't sleep, I am scared. I hear him outside of my bedroom door, breathing and standing there. "Please God, make him go away", I keep saying over and over in my mind. "Maybe this time he'll leave me alone?" I think foolishly. I want to cry, but even my tears escape me. The door opens. I close my eyes tighter and hold my pillow closer. I keep telling myself, "you're not here, this is just a bad dream". He sits on my bed and begins by touching my hair. "You can pretend you're asleep, but I know you're awake" he says. I feel him touching me. He's not supposed to touch me there, but he does. He touches me every night. I want to cry, fight, scream, and run, but I am paralyzed. He begins to remove my clothes. I am drifting away, to the beach, to Disneyland, to my 6th grade classroom. I'm not here anymore. I can feel him touching me, but I'm not there.

    I wake up. I'm an adult now, but in my dreams he's still tormenting me. I guess you never can get away completely...
  5. duster
    Thanks for letting me know about this SG, whoever sent me the invite. I need to do a Halloween story, which will air on CBC Radio on the 31st (I did one last year too - but only barely got it finished in time) and I'm a bit stuck
  6. JimC
    Thanks for the invite!
    This sounds like a great\interesting group.
    I'll be back...
  7. John Connor
    John Connor
    you know kids up here in canada this is thanksgiving weekend. a time of family, friends, food and listeriosis. so i'll get to my childhood bedroom story next week. namaste
  8. Mrs. Watson
    Mrs. Watson
    So far, so good! You certainly get a kitchen pass, Duster, as long as you share your Halloween story. You get a kitchen pass, as well, Keeunjames.

    I'm off to dinner for allegedly the "best pizza in Fishers". I plan on working on mine tonight!
  9. duster
    Absolutely...I worked out the problems and now I have the basic skeleton. We'll see how it turns out but I have lots of time yet. I should prolly try to take it more seriously.
  10. Mrs. Watson
    Mrs. Watson
    Heh, I started it and encouraged submissions but where is mine?

    I just got caught up in writing some other things, and normal life.
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