anotherronism

On average? No!

It must be exact! This is as much about editing as it is about writing.

Mutiny? Has it become Survivor? How sad...

Qsilv

No I don't think so.
Way more cooperative than cut-throat!

anotherronism

I am sad.

morshy

It's been a while. This is grossly over the word count, but when you get those juices flowing, you don't staunch 'em!

"Padré"

The monk looked down at him with a benevolent expression on his aged, wizened face. Deep lines had etched themselves around his eyes and across his forehead. He was deeply tanned (from years of tilling the earth in the baking Andalucían sun), had short white hair and a closely cropped goatee beard. His movements were compact, as if made after only the most careful deliberation and consideration. The hem of his robe brushed the floor, and peeking from underneath were two feet clad only in rudimentary sandals. There was dirt under his fingernails and a smile on his lips. He looked as if he’d been carved from the rocks hat littered the hillside, and to the impressionable imagination of the young boy, as if he’d still be there once the rocks had worn away to pebbles.

The monk held a broom in his gnarled hands. He was sweeping the courtyard and keeping a careful eye on the boys in the orphanage. The whitewashed walls nestled into the hills, and a small bell tower reached towards the heavens. The bell had long since lost its clapper, but was still “rung” to call the faithful to prayer early in the morning and late in the evening. The faithful these days consisted of Father Evans and Brothers Francisco (“please, call me Frank”) and Morgan. The three monks cared for 10 boys and 1 girl. They rarely had visitors; they rarely had any of the children leave. But they provided food and shelter for them, and loved them all. The children, in return, and in their own ways, loved the three old men.

Brother Frank wiped a large gingham handkerchief across his brow. He was breathing heavily and sweat was pouring freely down his expansive face. Frank was a large man, but it never stopped him playing football with the children, or rounders, or any other of the myriad sports they played. He crossed the courtyard to where Morgan stood with his broom. A cricket had landed on the handle, but Morgan seemed in no hurry to shoo the insect away. Panting slightly, Frank stood next to Morgan. The two men regarded the children playing in the dust, screaming round and chasing after the ball. The sun was beginning to set, and while the monastery never really got cold, except in the depths of winter, it was no longer as hot as it had been. Without a word, Morgan turned and headed for the kitchen, to prepare supper.

As the sun finally dipped below the surrounding hills, the abbot finally called the children to the long oak dinner table. Father Evans said Grace; the children said “Amen” and they all ate. Brother Morgan sat at the far end of the table, silently regarding his charges. The order was not as restrictive as some, and Father Evans allowed for a little leeway with the children. The monks did not punish them, and only gross misconduct of the most severe kind would result in anything other than a telling off. Some in the upper echelons of the church regarded the like of Father Evans and his monks as dinosaurs, but the men saw it as their duty to care for the children of the parish, and would continue to do so until ordered otherwise.

When the children were finally tucked up in bed, Brother Morgan made one final sweep of the orphanage grounds. He checked the shutters were secure, the front gates had been locked, and the lights were out. Satisfied that all was in order, Morgan made his way slowly back towards his cell. He would meditate for a while and then say prayers for the children before finally allowing himself to sleep. He looked up once at the lovely façade of the old building, and smiled sadly. He had almost crossed the threshold when a noise halted him. It sounded like a gunshot, but the hills surrounding the orphanage distorted the sound, bouncing it back and forth until it could almost have been anything. Morgan slowly made his way back towards the front gates.

When he got closer, Morgan could see the outline of something bundled under the arch. He quickened his pace, feeling for the right key to unlock the padlock that secured the old rusty gates at the entrance to the orphanage. The bundle turned out to be a man, bleeding and breathing shallowly, passed out from the loss of blood. In one hand he loosely held a pistol, the other was tightly clenched. The man’s survival was not guaranteed, it was marginal whether or not he would last even another few moments. But Morgan knew what to do. He eased the gun from the man’s unresisting fingers, emptied the chamber of bullets and threw the gun into the bushes. He gathered the man up, and eased him onto his shoulder, his strength belying his age. He then made his way slowly back to the orphanage.

Nylecoj

Wow! Lots of awesome stories, and I still haven't managed to slip one in. Good job everyone!

giraffe

another ron (my name's ron too) There aren't any new rules, but since some folks regularly break them anyway, some TBs lighten up. Some don't. Marius said either 234 or 432 exact count. I said anything between 250 and 350. It's an experiment - work in progress.

I'm really glad you got this going. Not every story is a masterpiece, but everyone has a gem in there somewhere - and that wouldn't happen without the discipline of contributing regularly. You're right about the first sentence. It's crucial.

giraffe

Morshy. It's not one of your best stories, but it sets a great scene. Left me wishing you would make it Chapter 1, and go on to explain more about the dying man.

midnightpoet

RON!!!! Where the hell have you been?!

and, tbh, I'm sad too.

but, srsly, I hope you're back to stay.

morshy

I should perhaps have put that I don't consider it to be the finished article, not by a long way. I considered it to be a Chapter 1. I think I would have fashioned it slightly differently if I didn't have to incorporate all the words, but I try to make sure they're all in there, with all the submissions I do.

And I started writing one for XLI (I think) that has blossomed into a full story, so couldn't post it on the site. If i find somewhere else to post it, I'll let you all know.

ladyhwin

Hey, haven't been around much this time. Just nothing to write lately, I guess. : P But lots of wonderful tales have been told! Great job!!!

anotherronism - great to see you've returned!! Personally, I agree with you, this is about editing and for me, that's the fun of it, although I will break the rules every now and then. I think it would be nice if all the ThinkWriters would keep a bit more on track, as in concentrate on the word list and count and such, improving writing ability in that way, but a few pieces every now and then that have almost nothing to do with TW are fine, just for laughs. I really hope you stick around, I've gone back to read some of your stuff and I admire you for your writing as well as for starting this idea that has been so much of a help to my own writing : D

marius

anotherronism, very glad to meet you and very happy you started ThinkWrite.

Now, um, er ... with all due respect to the one who started TW, I can see that it might be difficult to return to TW and discover that 'your baby' has grown while you were gone, and apparently grown in a way that makes you sad. I am sorry for you on that account. Have had similar things happen in my life.

But, if I may? I have been writing for about forty years, mostly journaling and business writing (grants, education programs, newsletter articles, etc.). I love to write. But, could I write fiction? Not for all the tea in china. Well, since I found TW I found something precious, a teaspoon of courage. THAT is worth more than anything, even more than the idea of whether or not I can write well. To put something together and lay it out there for people to see, read, evaluate, love, hate ... that takes a great deal of courage and for me, that is the point and the joy.

I enjoy a great deal of what is submitted on ThinkWrite and even if I can see areas where I might improve, others might improve, that is not what concerns me. With each submission, what I see is that someone has taken the time and found the courage to share a part of himself/herself. Even if I don't resonate with a story I read, with the way it is crafted, with the first sentence or with the ending, so what? Beyond all of that is something I enjoy more. From this view, each submission is a gift and every time I read something new, I feel that someone has presented me with a piece of his/her soul. I find that incredibly beautiful and touching.

I do not know about the others, but my goal is NOT to write the best thing ever. Trying to write like that makes me freeze up. No doubt it does that to others too. My goal is to write, to learn and to have fun doing it. So, yes, sometimes I'm going to submit things that aren't that great. That's okay. There is a freedom in submitting something you know is not your "best" and sometimes we learn *more* when we do that ... and sometimes it turns out that something we thought was not so great, is much better than we originally believed. : )

So, while I am sorry you came back to TW and feel sad with what you see here, what I see is something diffferent. For the past several months I have seen people laughing, talking, having fun and WRITING! If I were you, anotherronism, I might be proud of that! Not saying you don't have a good point about setting goals, parameters, and such. You do, but there are many ways to look at something and maybe all the viewpoints have validity, and perhaps equal validity.

So, again, nice to meet you and thank you for creating a format where I can write, get feedback and have fun doing it. This has been such a joy. Thank you for that too! : )

marius

And btw, for those who like strict adherence to word count and word list ... if it is stated at the beginning of a TW that those are the ONLY submissions you want, marius is most happy to honor that! : )

midnightpoet

I don't have time to catch up and read anything, but I finally had time to sit down and write something. 250 on the nose, not counting title...

"My Life is a Beautiful Chaos"

It's a lovely day outside. I've got the window open and the breeze is flowing through, bringing the birdsong with it. New England is always beautiful in the spring. But even with this intermittent breeze taunting me to remember those few things around here that I did love, there's not even a marginal hint of sadness.

I'm watching the clock, counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds til I grab my bags – all that's left of my worldly possessions fit into a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a purse – and leave this town for good. Then, I'm heading off into the great big expansive world on a journey to find myself. I have stops on the way, but the destination doesn't really matter.

The old me is fading into extinction like a dinosaur, and the new, more benevolent me throws on her sneakers and sunglasses, ready to leave behind the restrictive self-loathing that this place brings out, and set out on some grand adventure.

Insects are gross, and there's sure to be more of them in my new home down south than where I'm at now, but that doesn't bother me. It's all part of the adventure.

The hot summers may overwhelm me, but no more so than the frigidly cold winters I've learned to live with.

I'm ready to leave it all behind, not knowing what's in store around each corner.

I'm setting out, on my own, for the very first time. And I'm not looking back.

Doug

Ron: (the godfather of TW)....great to hear from you again. I ditto what marius said and I don't think we've strayed too far from the origins of your "baby". The infamous "rule" of the torchbearer is the overseer and implements the next "edition" with word counts and a word list have not been forgotten. AHHHH....maybe we did go a little crazy sometimes, but ThinkWrite seems to be growing and it's all because of you.

Doug

250 words including title....word count spot on (I think one word variation). I think the wizard can go to sleep now vanquished by the appearance of the founder of ThinkWrite who I know had doubts in the beginning whether it would ever sustain itself. Goodnight all.

The End

“Stay within the margins Max!” Sister Benedict shouted.

Max never was partial to school or learning for that matter. It would be a cold day in Sasquathita before he bound himself to the restrictive environment of the iron fist of St. Sebastian Academy. Feeling hot under the collar was Max’s mantra. A burning itch would develop in his chest, his head would thump like a tom-tom and finally his vision blurred. It was only then that the real Max would feel good again. Dinosaur like talons sprouted from his fingertips as the flesh between turned into a web. The coarse dark hair on his head would stand straight up and appear as jagged blades. His mind raced as he struggled between stopping the progress of his transformation and once again finding that divine nirvana he seeked.

It was chosen.

Sister Benedict in her lovely layman’s dress and a benevolent look of awe pulsating from the iris of her eyes was shredded with one slash of Max’s talons.

Max knelt down over the ever expanding blood pool forming on the classroom floor. The other students were frozen in place afraid to move and also dumbstruck by scene before them. Max dipped one finger into the blood and moved to the chalk board and wrote:

I will not kill nuns.
I will not kill nuns.
I will not kill nuns.
I will not kill nuns.
I will not kill nuns.
I will not kill nuns.
I will not kill nuns

mouse

Anotherronism --


I feel sad that you are sad with what you see on here.

I , personally, agree with Marius

I am by no stretch of the imagination a "writer" but i do enjoy reading what I find on here and it has given me courage to submit a few"stories". Some are made up and some are from my own life experience.

If you can't get past the first sentence of all but one then you have missed out on a lot of good narratives. The people on here are truly creative.

You are like a teacher who has retired and then come back one day to observe and be less than enthusiastic about how "her class" is be taught.

maybe you will stick around and see it really isn't so different, just a few changes.

giraffe

Midnight. Courage, Girl. I love the way you slip the words in unnoticed. Good work.

Doug. You outdid yourself again. Your use of 'marginal' is again about paper or margins. Very creative.

I'll pull the torch out of the grape juice and margerine and pass the sticky thing to some poor soul around midnight since I work overnight.

giraffe

This has been a great ThinkWrite. We've gotten a lot of creativity out there and also gotten to know each other better as a writing forum. These are only a few of my favorite things you came out with (myself excluded). I'm doing this a little early, but I'm tired and may not be awake at midnight.

Doug:
Get ready troops we are setting out on a mission so grossly dangerous it would strike fear into Martha Stewart’s lazy daisy doily heart.

Marius:
My muscles were going to get a hot-burn of a workout and that pleased me, but around the time I had that thought I realized my water-shoes were soaked.

Marius:
A tiny insect was buzzing against the window. Furbufeffer had a thought to squish that grossest of beings, so he used his training for temptations and averted his attentions back to the simmering pot.

Doug:
In the summertime the books pages would trap the heat and the only cold I felt was when the fan would happen to blow my way. At least then I could jump a few pages ahead.

Marius:
“Johnny, get down from the roof!” might be said with both urgency and importance, but is it neither urgent nor important for me to know most of what the news delivers.

Marius:
She is also HIGHLY visual whereas marius, the bird-watcher, likes visuals but hearing is probably the better talent.

Marius:
It seemed that she believed if she could understand someone else, get through the gross mask and protections we all carry, that then she could understand what made *her* tick. I don’t know.

Mrsjesus:
The crickets and frogs were singing in harmony on a sultry, late summer night.... a welcome reprieve from the deafening silence. Still the imaginary conversation in her head....

Doug:
They call it a golden moment when you can step foot on the chilled blades of grass of “your” yard where insects roam free. But the journey to that moment has been lovely and terrible at the same time.

Mouse:
The first & Last nights on the road we spent at a motel.. Now, when you pull into a nice place, with a crib on top and a mattress on the back seat, you feel very conspicuous.

Mrsjesus:
She laughed aloud, "Time to break out" she said with wet eyes and no regrets. She zipped her suitcase, took one last look around the bedroom she'd spent so many nights in.... mostly alone.

Morshy:
A cricket had landed on the handle, but Morgan seemed in no hurry to shoo the insect away. Panting slightly, Frank stood next to Morgan. The two men regarded the children playing in the dust, screaming round and chasing after the ball.

Midnightpoet:
The old me is fading into extinction like a dinosaur, and the new, more benevolent me throws on her sneakers and sunglasses, ready to leave behind the restrictive self-loathing that this place brings out, and set out on some grand adventure.

Doug:
Feeling hot under the collar was Max’s mantra. A burning itch would develop in his chest, his head would thump like a tom-tom and finally his vision blurred. It was only then that the real Max would feel good again.

AND NOW THE FINAL MOMENT. DOUG, THE STICKY TORCH IS YOURS. I'm doing this so I can add more responsibility to your overburdened life. I'll laugh while you suffer. You put some great material in here and I'm not letting you go feel sorry for yourself. Arise and accept the torch.

marius

Congratulations Doug! Looking forward to your TW! [I will be out of town Sun through Fri so if I don't get something in before, then maybe after I get back. Have fun!]

giraffe, was indeed a great ThinkWrite! You are always generous with comments and encouragement. Appreciate that! : )

anotherronism

Marius...

I am humbled. Truly.

I logged on last night after an infinite hiatus. I was buzzed (badly) and a little pissed to begin with.

You are one hundred percent correct and I stand thusly corrected.

Just please don't anyone ever say "It was a dark and stormy night."!

Serious up!