|
Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
I hope to see you there!
|
Blog, Blog, Blog #665510 added August 28, 2009 at 3:02pm
Restrictions: None
Chase
Write
A chase scene (any genre/style). Be sure to think about the verbs you use to bring it to life!
(2:37 pm)
Through the fringe of hair hanging from her bent head, she kept the man in her peripheral vision. He was still staring at her, though he hadn’t moved from his seat since the last passenger got off the subway at the previous stop, leaving the two of them alone. She cursed herself for working so late, and for taking the last train before service stopped for the night. The hairs on her arms stood on end, as if the stranger produced static energy. An automated voice announced the next stop. It wasn’t hers.
The train slowed, then jerked to a stop. The doors slid open, but she sat still, aping a bored teenager. The chimes echoed through the deserted platform and the doors began to close. With the agility of a jack rabbit, she jumped from her seat, grazing the door’s edge as she sailed through and away from the menace, real or imagined, on the train.
She must have tripped the sensor, because the doors slid back open. Over her shoulder, she saw the man walked onto the platform. In the same instant, they broke into a run.
Inadequate lungs refused to expand quick enough as she sprinted for the escalators, running up the moving tread two steps at a time. She cried out but there was no one on the level where the fare card vending machines sat in silence. Grunts reached her ears, and she knew not to stop.
Her pumps skidded on the glossy tiled floor in front of the final escalator leading to ground level. As she fell, she raised her eyes to the square of hazy nighttime sky, feeling the freedom it promised slip farther from her reach. Her scream was muffled by a rough hand clapped over her mouth; a small static shock discharged at his touch.
(3:00 pm)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blah.
|
© Copyright 2009 NickiD89 (UN: heftynicki at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
NickiD89 has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
