Scrivenshafts.net - A friendly writing community

Writers don’t play games...they write!  But what better way for a writer to play then to play with words?

So here is the challenge:

I will post a writing prompt and you guys get to respond anyway you wish as long as it stays within the guidelines of the prompt.

So to begin here is challenge one!

“Where were your shoes?  Write about an interesting time when you happened to be barefoot.  Begin and end your writing with a description of your feet.”

Writing exercises like these help to overcome writers block and sometimes can even inspire actual stories!  Use your imagination!  Be creative! And lets see how many barefooted writers we have out there!

:D

Diddledee - 23 January 2007 06:02 PM

“Where were your shoes? Write about an interesting time when you happened to be barefoot. Begin and end your writing with a description of your feet.”

Standing still on the beach with the red sand swirling in, out and around my ankles, the cool waters gently rolled on to the shore and receded as my feet began to become one with the Atlantic Ocean. The pebbles beneath my feet felt round and smooth while the sand glistened and swirled in the shallow cool waters. I never wanted to move from this spot again. The sound of the ocean waves crashing into the nearby cliffs, the smell of vibrant blue water and the warmth of the sun on my back made it the most pleasant place to be in the world. Alas, when I did have to move, I pulled my feet from once was a flat bed of sand, leaving my footprints forever embedded on the coast of Cabbot Park.

My feet were moving so quickly and the ground was so cold that I barely felt them anymore. Occasionally I could feel the sharp rocks of the gravel dig into my tender underfoot but I didn’t care. There was no time for shoes.

Certainly I should have suspected that he would come back for me. He wouldn’t have let me off the hook so easily. I was scared of what he might do but the adrenaline pumping through my veins had brought me a mile from my house, already. My breathing was labored and my whole body screamed out in tension and pain. The biting air felt like daggers in my lungs but the pain only drove me to move faster so that he could not inflict more pain upon my broken body.

Every time I heard something behind me, a snapped twig or a rustle in the trees, I thought he was there. Waiting. Watching. Laughing to himself about how easy it would be to overtake me; but I wouldn’t make it easy.

I winced as I felt a shard of glass enter the bottom of my foot. The crimson pain dripped quickly from my wound and splattered on the ground. My blood felt warm against my foot and sent chills up my spine. Now my poor feet were covered not only in grass and dirt but also my own blood. He could literally follow my footprints. I had to think fast.

Maybe it was the fact that my big toe was cold that tipped me off.  Something wasn’t right.  I mean, granted, my whole foot was cold, but that was normal, in this drafty old house.  Serves me right for going barefoot, even indoors, in Minnesota at midwinter.  Usually I had my knobbly old “cozy by the fireplace” socks on at this time of year, my old woolen friends of thick wool that wouldn’t fit under any shoe or boot currently manufactured.  They were dirty, though, and I hadn’t felt like doing laundry this weekend.

In truth, I hadn’t felt like doing anything, not working on my book, not talking to my publisher, NOTHING, except to curl up with a good book written by someone other than myself, next to the aforementioned fire.  That got shot to heck when my mother called this morning. 

“Your uncle is coming over for a few days.”

I groaned; my uncle is the worst house guest in the world.  I like living alone in this rambling old farmhouse.  I’m not a neat freak (my ex-wife would argue that point, of course), but I do not like disorder.  Uncle Bob would force me to turn into Suzy Homemaker, picking up after him, doing all of his dishes, and generally obsessing about how much of a slob he is.

Bob arrived at 3:00; by 5, I had to run the dishwasher.  I have never seen anyone eat like that who wasn’t afflicted by a tapeworm.  After he polished off dinner (a whole chicken, an entire box of potatoes au gratin, and a full jar of canned green beans, my last one of this year’s crop!), he went upstairs to the guest bedroom to “rest his eyes.”

Anyway, I noticed that my big toe was cold.  And wet.  I looked up; there was a spreading, sagging wet patch in the plaster right above my favorite chair.

I raced upstairs and pounded on the door.  “BOB!  THE FRAGGIN’ BATHROOM IS FLOODED!”

No answer.  The carpeting in the hallway was flooded, too.  Now my whole foot was cold, and beginning to turn pale and pruney.