write for five minutes. | INFJ Forum

write for five minutes.


Jan 17, 2010
Set a timer for five minutes. start writing creatively. After five minutes is up, only finish the sentence you're on. there is no required prompt.
I'd be interested to see where everybody's imagination leads them in only five minutes.
Sounds good!
The girl stood, brushing her arms free of dust. The sun beat down on her already red-raw skin with unrelenting intensity.
"Come on." The girl turned to her companion, a small creature that was enshrouded in a red cloak.
"Where?" It's voice was rasping, like stones being grated together.
The girl surveyed the landscape: flat desert as far as the eye could see.
"That way." She said simply, her outstretched arm pointed in the opposite direction to the large, red sun.
The creature next to her shrugged and started to hobble forwards, before quickly tumbling into a deep pit of white sand.
It screeched as the girl pulled it free. "Sand! There's sand everywhere! What I wouldn't give to see some grass."
The girl chuckled, brushing the fine powder from the creature's cloak. "I know. We'll be there soon, trust me."
The creature was silent for a moment as it watched it's companion stand and begin to walk, then it sniffed the air gently and jogged after the girl.
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sounds like some dangerous shit asking pierce to do such. esp. since i had just a tiny wee bit of alcohol prior to this

THERE ONCE WAS A YOUNG BOY who really liked cheese. He had many cheeses until one day he discovered that he was no boy. He was a rat living in a closet. A rat with mental disorders and his rat family had left him abandoned in the cold because they didn't want other rats in their affluent social circle to know about their mentally handicapped rat son because that would be shameful in their beady little eyes. So little rat, we shall name him Cheddar, lived in a little boy's closet. The little boy didn't even know he was there, that's how quiet Cheddar was. Sometimes Cheddar would cry, but only in his sleep. It was too painful for him knowing about his past so he concocted such delusions.

Then one day another rat came crawling into the same closet. A girl rat who was missing half a paw. She was sad and lonely too, because her family all died in a rat war. It was called War of the Rats. They were fighting because one side believed that King Rat did not have to bathe, whereas the other side was really sick of smelling that rat bastard. So anyways, Girl Rat and Cheddar from thereonin shared their cheeses. They would pilfer it from rat traps actually, because Cheddar was so clever he stole liquid hydrogen from the little boy who's closet he inhabited. You see, little boy's father was a mad scientist.
I haven't felt inspired or thought about these characters in a while. It was an interesting exercise, to say the least!

The scent of iodine and boiled herbs assaulted Gauntlet
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A great idea, let's see what happens, though I am not a very fast writer.


The dust lies upon a highway in a strange land. Behind a shattered windshield the sun sets fire to the horizont. Fumes gather and the blaze conjures up broken images in a broken consciousness whose destiny it is to shortly join the wind. A paternal love lost, the image is of a face lit by a cigarette, cold, distant and almost threatening, a bygone evening forgotten, until now. The last glimpse of the eyes of a loved one, no emotion to be found in them.
The flowers in her garden were wilting. There seemed to be nothing she could do. The sun was shining, the rain falling, and yet wilting. Her hands bore wrinkles from the warm dish water as she absent-mindedly twisted thumb around finger while staring out the window to her backyard. She could see the rhythmic rise and fall of blond little boy hair over the fence as her neighbor
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The cold fish slapped against his face as he withdrew into the nearby shelter. What was it about this island that spooked him? Only Craven knew the answer to that and that was something he was going to find out.
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The cold fish slapped against his face as he withdrew into the nearby shelter. What was it about this island that spooked him? Only Craven knew the answer to that and that was something he was going to find out.
Jack was heavily conflicted about his date. No, that's not right. Jack was pissed. It was already past 8:30, the time both his date, Alynna, and Jack had agree'd to and yet she was running late, by only a minute. "This always happen" Jack says as he sighs and places his head into his palms. His whole body seemed to be drained of energy, he sat forward in the office chair he had been sitting in for the past 15 minutes and played with a pencil on the desk, thinking about the possibilities of what happened to his date.

On one hand, Jack wanted to be positive, people get held up, it's not surprising that Alynna would be late by a minute. It had only been a minute, dear god. On the other hand, Jack was thinking of what could have happened, in the worst case scenario. She could have been in a car accident, Alynna could have been raped and killed on the way to his house. Alynna could have decided that she just didn't like Jack enough to go on a date with him. This thought, the thought of Alynna abandoning Jack, was more hurtful to him than the fact that Alynna could have been killed on the way to his house. Jack had placed so much effort into socializing with her and with her friends, for her! If she simply decided that Jack wasn't worth it, well that would just mean that Jack was just abandoned, yet again, by someone he thought loved him. It's 8:35. No hope for jack.
Ok, let's see.

There was a light coming from the window. Her mother, brother, and uncle were sitting down to eat a small meal of bread, some tea, and a half a corn. She, standing outside in the warm summer air, watching the breezes blowing clear across the brown fields outstretched across the plains, could only see pain in the laughter she heard through the window pane. She couldn't help but wince, as the winds cried silence across the land, a pain no one but she could understand. Dried grass, and corn husks burned to crisps, the thiefs had ravaged the few acres her family had worked hard in the summer sun. It was their livelihood, this small place. [And now it's gone.]
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Sounds interesting. Here goes.

It was raining, and pain was all there was, and all there ever will be.
She gazed at the ominous clouds, at the never-ending teardrops from heaven and thought that this must be hell, because the pain she was feeling was everywhere and everything. She walked around in circles, knowing nothing but that feeling.
And she wished, oh how she wished to see those laser blue eyes even for the last time.
Just to see him again, even for one minute, or catch a glimpse of him in a second: it would be worth this eternity of torture. For he was heaven, and she'd gladly go through hell forever just to be with him for a second.
Love. Love was pain, love was torture. But once upon a time it was beautiful, and it was glorious. And if she had to go through this again and again, she'd still do it. Because love was worth it, and it will always be.
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He stood and gazed off to the distance as the warm, humid air whipped at his face, brushing his near black hair in its direction. The air was changing though, he noticed; it was getting colder, bringing with it the smell of wet dirt. Within a second he envisioned the change that would take place to this landscape before the evening was over. In his mind he saw the already darkening clouds grow darker; he heard the tremble of thunder; he saw the flashes of lighting dance in the grey sky as some kind of celestial light show; and he almost felt the rain that was to come over the desert.
This was the first time he had been here, though it had a feeling of deja vu, like a landscape from a hazy and distant dream. Something was going to happen, he could feel it. The air around him was changing, and not for the better, he perceived. He looked at the ground momentarily and then again lifted his dark brown eyes to scan the horizon. Yes, a shift was definitely in the air. But he had stayed here long enough. It was time, and it was his time to leave, as quickly as he could.
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The first time he saw her, he knew. With out a doubt this was the one. He'd been searching for years, and found no trace of her. There she stood before him. Her long raven hair flowed behind her like a silken cape, and her guns ruined the line of her jacket. She was dangerous, but she was no match for him.

Silently he creeped behind her waiting for the chance to take her down. He wouldn't let this chance sighting end without her capture. He'd waited too long for this. He scented the air, above the acrid smell of rotting garbage was her. The scent of her father, her blood. He knew without a doubt this was his quarry. He would take her down today. He couldn't chance her eluding him for another five years.

She turned those deep blue eyes to him and he was instantly stopped in his tracks. His mission forgotten...What had he been thinking? He could no more kill this woman than he could a small child. She was perfection. He was lost to her. He blinked away the urges to rush to her. Remembering himself. Her power, persuasion. He had to fight her. She would kill him where he stood.

She felt him break her hold, and ran through the tall building of the city. Her red leather jacket flailing behind her. He was on her heels every step. But somehow not fast enough. She dashed and darted between oncoming cars, through the alleys. Then dead end.
"I have you." He said, with a maniacal smile.
5 minutes left and all eyes were on him. his palms were sweating through the black leather of his gloves, and he took a deep breath and slowly squeezed the pliers in his hands until the red wire snapped in two. the silence was deafening. the red digital clock on the side of the device had come to a sudden halt, but whether this was the calm before the storm of it exploding, nobody yet dared to guess. a minute passed. two. finally the glaring red numbers faded dimly, and then completely, into blackness.
he dropped his head. somewhere behind him a woman ran up and patted him on the back, he vaguely sensed a storm of people rushing into the building and evacuating the hostages - everyone was cheering, but it was silent inside his head.
he could still hear the thump of his heartbeat. he stood up, brushed himself off, and looking down at the now useless device that would've taken away his life, and those of many others trapped in this suburban computer factory building, allowed a slow smile to cross over his tired face.
just another day, he thought darkly.
six in the morning and typing may not be the best as i don't want to turn on the light and wake my housemate. i'm about to leave home for another week away and i'm making a weak mental checklist in my mind of all the things i will need. i worry about forgetting my mouth guard. my breathing machine. the smoked meat snacks i got yesterday at the farmer's market (local grain fed beef with no monosodium glutamate). the hitchhiker who has been staying with me had some revelations yesterday. about how you need to be away from home for awhile to cherish home. three minutes. i need to write a note about the cat's needs. (no different than the rest of us. the cat likes food, water, encouragement and the opening of doors)
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corn is king, corn leads to obesity, food subsidies are making us fat. but fast food, literally, food you don't think about, is ingrained in American capitalism. Even tomato sauce has corn syrup. Americans don't think enough about food. We eat fast food prepared by ex-felons, teenagers, and uneducated people, hotdogs made from god-knows-what, yet most Americans won't eat a fish if they can recognize it as fish. How did we get to the point where we'd rather eat something we *don't* recognize? Asian culture is more realistic in this way. Pork stomach is pretty tasty, actually. =P

Advertising is propaganda (45 seconds left). It is meant to affect the way you think, in subtle ways you don't realize. Advertising hijacks social norms for the benefit of companies. Word choice is vital.
Brendan fought hard today. It was the toughest day of his life. The court judge lazily gazed at him for a second from his comfy chair before turning his head towards the jury box. As if dramatically cued, a man then arose and lithely approached the mic stand. Brendan stared and held his breath.

"We of the jury find Mr. Brendan... guilty for being bald."

Brendan jumps out of his bed and pats his head. Hair. He sighs relief, realizing that it was all just a dream... until his hand slipped a bit more to the backside of his head.
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I am going to start this now even though my lunch is sitting and waiting for me. It is a tuna burger and I have only had a cup of yogurt, a banana and a pear since rolling out of bed this morning. I was a groggy start for me as I was drinking a bit last night. I have a penchant for drinking beer and reading dense non fiction in bed. The book I have been working on is fascinating. The author is apparently making the case for other intelligences residing in our consciousness/unconsciousness. He basis this premise on standard psychological models of consciousness beginning with Sigmund Freud's idea of Primary Narcissism.
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Macha raised her head off the pillow. . .Aneirin was restless this morning. . ":there's trouble afoot lass". was all he would say. . he was like that. the bard could sing and weave tales for the travellors at the inn or in the chieftan';s lodge, but in his cottage; in the peace of his home he was not one to waste words. . .Rival clans were seen in the glen. . . the clan chiefs were again about dividing and taking what was not there's to take. . Anerin knew as did his comely bride, that it would be soon that swords would again be drawn in anger. .
"Come to me" she whispered. her chestnut locks flowing down onto the thach nattress they call a bed. . she threw back the quilt and beconed him to her side. . Anerin was soft in the heart for his lady love. . .and he strode across the cold floor to lay by her side. . .
on the bus the windows are open and air is rushing in. older lady fanning herself and a gentleman perspiring patiently. its rushing down a hill. on down an adjacent street. there is a store with some faded whitegoods in the window and a beetle or insect or two dead in the corner with arms skyward. a less fashionable beachside suburb. there are some kids playing in a quieter residential street and sometimes the game accidentally goes on the road because they are daring. their mother is on the verandah with her mother in wooden chairs looking at flowers in the front garden. wispy clouds on the sky