Ninja Quest #5

The Dice Game

I'm pretty sure we all played this game in elementary school, but I don't think that means it will be any less fun now. Have fun, don't take it too seriously, and POST your writing as soon as possible!!!

Instructions for this Quest:
 1. Visit this website http://www.random.org/dice/
 2. Roll 5 virtual dice
 3. Correspond the number on each die to the numbers below.
 4. WRITE something using at least 3 of the 5 criteria you rolled.
5. POST IT!!!!!!

Die #1 (genre)	Die #2 (character)	Die #3 (object)	Die #4 (objective)	Die #5 (location)
1. Stream of consciousness (fiction or CNF)	1. Someone who betrayed you	1. an unopened letter	1. to kill someone	1. A travelling carnival
2. Free verse	2. Someone who doesn't speak english	2. a heart-rate monitor	2. to eat a sandwich	2.A Kanye West concert
3. Flash fiction	3. A cat	3. an out of tune piano	3. to give a gift	3. The desert
4. Form poetry	4. Bruce Campbell	4. A money clip of $2 bills	4. to recover something lost	4. A gas station restroom
5. Flash Fantasy/Sci-fi	5. A con man/woman	5. a package of Wint-O-Green life savers	5. to prevent someone from leaving	5. The zombie locker (if you don't know what this is, roll again)
6. Creative non-fiction	6. Someone who you are competing against	6. A can of Aquanet hairspray	6. to fall asleep	6. A tuxedo rental shop

 

 

 

Bonus Quest

Fiction, Non-Fiction, Poetry, Play, Screen Play, whatever. No length limitations.

Compare/Contrast the role of "body" and "soul" in the act of kissing

Quest 4

Pick one of the following characters and write a story with them in it. They do not need to be the main character.

1. Character is involved in some sort of sex work.

2. Character is known as the Crazy _____ Person.

3. Character is a recovering, but failing addict.

High-Speed Hook-Ups

I am convinced that more people actually enjoy being stuck in traffic than will admit it. I mean, that’s all cruisin’ is really. Kids trying to get stuck in traffic on State Street so you can wave at hot boys, turn your music up loud, hang your head out the window, and try to exchange numbers. Little black coupes make left turns with dirty red jeeps trailing behind. They practically spill out of their cars to feel each other up in liquor store parking lots.

I watched those girls and boys with their halter tops and gold chains while driving away from work. But I wasn’t going to become one. At least not in any conventional kind of way.

We had to wear all black. It was sexy, but hot in the summer. I usually got away with wearing something low-cut (and usually stolen). A few months before they started making us dress like men I sped home from a lunch shift, taking the freeway at speeds that would have aroused the pigs from any hick town from their afternoon donut shop to track me down. But in the here in the anonymity of three million, I was relatively safe. Just three exits away from home and my inner Barry Allen was unceremoniously shoved back into a remote corner as traffic predictably slowed around 90th south. I tried to weave around the black pillars of smoke descending from the semis as much as possible before resigning to idle in the center lane of the I-15. I took the opportunity to check out my nails. Bite the skin around my cuticles. Drum a fast beat on the steering wheel. Adjust the neckline on my black blouse so that it would lounge snugly around the few slight angles I claimed as curves. It took a few minutes before anyone moved again. The douche bag in front of me didn’t get the memo apparently, and was hanging out a good 300 feet behind the next car. I scanned the lane to my right to find an opening. No opening, but there was a hot red Mitsubishi. He saw me too, and flashed a set of picket fences my direction.

Now I was the douche bag 300 feet behind. Traffic started to crawl again as the tumult of iron boxes filed down the off-ramp. I kept the hot red one in my blind spot as we began to break out of the gridlock. He pulled ahead as we resumed typical freeway speeds. He waved, I waved. He held up a cell phone. He kept his eyes on me for uncomfortable lengths of time. He was going to miss his exit at best, or maybe slam into a guard-rail. Then again, so was I. I held up my fingers in succession, steadying the wheel with my elbows. A nine, an eight, he missed it, have to start over. I flashed my digits through the windshield not thinking he’d pick each one out. I smirked as I did a quick break check and scooted behind him to make my exit.

It only took about 30 seconds for him to call me.

It took the next three months of me avoiding those calls before he finally stopped.

A Reminder

Please remember to COMMENT!!!

Quest 3

Choose one of the following four statements:

Sometimes I believe my dead grandmother is saving my life.
I believe that all stray cats have names given them by God himself.
I am convinced that more people actually enjoy being stuck in traffic than will admit it.
I believe that no matter how great your friends may seem, they are only here to hurt you.

Use the statement you chose as the first line of a short CNF piece (500-800(ish) words) in which you use experience(s) from your own life to back up your belief.

Losing Altitude

He bends to kiss the ground at airports,
but I never see him with dirt on his lips. -Jim Daniels

On my lunch break, the guys from work
ask if I'll join them tonight for
drinks at the bar.
I shake my head, tell them you're flying in this evening.
After work, I get in my blue Accord.
I head West on the 16.
I take the ticket, wait for the gate to lift.
I walk to baggage claim. I circle the carousels
looking for a brown duffle bag with bright green fabric
tied in a knot to the long tan strap. Your only
identifiable feature.

At night I fall asleep and imagine you
in sandals.
I see you walking where He walked,
on a flat escalator
in the Atarot Airport, looking for gate B23.
In the mornings, when I make love to my wife,
I see you lying where she lies.
The sun breaking through the crack in the red curtains.
A tiny sliver of light covering her bare stomach.
But I know you're in Helsinki, in a hotel room on the 8th floor.
It is the middle of the night there. The lights are turned off,
your hands gripping tightly, your lips
pressing gently against the stubble of his chin,
As he rubs his fingertips up and down
the tiny sliver of light covering your bare stomach.
On my way to work I see you stepping into a cab
in Edinburgh, heading for the airport. To catch an early flight.
To layover in London. To see the clock tower from 4,200 feet.

I see you taking long strides down a steel corridor
filled with musty air.
As you wrap your arms around my waist,
I thrust my head into your chest and
listen to the slow beating of your heart.
I try to smell it on you,
the unknown place that somehow called you back to me.
You casually ask how I've been.
What can I possibly say to someone who travels
religiously like you?
The only thing I think to ask is if
you are coming or going.
Your half smile tells me it is neither.
Or is it both?

Fabrications

Fabrications

Can they watch us mimic their kisses, embrace our own backs, burrow hands beneath our bedclothes? – Bernard Cooper

We spend the stolen afternoon between

the blue sheets my parents bought me for Christmas.

Gravity pressing our shapes into the foam

of my twin-sized mattress, like the time we drove

to Snow Bunny to leave our imprints in the freshly fallen

snow. I am curled lightly into the small of his lower back,

eyes closed. I hold my breath steady and slow, like I have

done for him so many times before, so he could watch me

while I didn’t sleep. I wait for his muscles to grow

tight around his bones urging him to shift, to wrap himself

around me. As he turns he runs his fingers

above the skin on my arm, down to the place where my hands

are tangled in blankets. He gently unravels me from my quilted

encasement, pries my knees from my chest, hooks his leg

around mine, and pulls me apart. His fingers run over my spine, pressing each

finger deep into my vertebra, the way Enki and Ninmah did

that day on the river bank, shaping the wet earth into figurines

of men. My own muscles loosen
and give their consent as he rolls me

onto my back. I keep my eyes closed as he spreads

himself over me, slips one hand under my shirt, while the other

tangles fingers into my hair. Lips brush across my forehead,

kisses my nose, and rests his lips on mine, unlocking

my own. He gently sighs, and I breathe him into

my lungs.