If you like to write (prose or poetry, or whatever), but can't think of where to begin, sometimes this can help. Stream of Consciousness writing, a style once practiced by James Joyce, can turn up the strangest things. You never know what might be lurking in your mind.

You have exactly three minutes to write whatever comes into your mind (but do try to leave out curse words). Note the time and begin to type. If it's in your head, write it down, no matter how off the wall it might be. It need not be spelled right or in good grammar. Stop after three minutes - if you can. Try to keep it short.



An example (written in 3 minutes or less):

I don't know if I believe in aliens or not. My mom claimed to be an abductee. Imagine that, aliens carrying away my mother. Wonder why they brought her back? She nagged, I bet. Told them to quit wasting their time daydreaming and get a real life. As if aliens daydream. I daydream, do you? When pigs and froggies fly - and there goes one now. Pig or frog. Only the aliens know.

L'il brainstorming thing for potential story milling around in my head (copyrighted by me )
----------
A shimmer.
There it was again.
Robeka's dry straw breath and the faint odor of the cigar she smoked the night before blew across her wrinkled lips. It was never anything but wind and dust, and chaff from the farms, and heat in the summer, and mist in the fall. Her unblinking eyes twitched away from the rock in the center of the mushroom ring toward the elder to her left.
Oblivious to all but the rock, the old woman stared from under her wide-brimmed straw hat. Robeka's finger found the hem of a shawl, purple-black and trimmed with fringe, her favorite, amid the many voluminous layers she wore. The movement went undetected by all but the distant watcher.
In front of the blood-red blaze of ore-fueled fire, his hands splayed over the dark crystal orb. That hag was going to mess it up again.
--------------
That was about 2 minutes... (Trying to keep it short)

So that was how it was? I thought maybe you had gotten over it but if you're leaving right now then I don't know what to think. Tell me what you wanted to hear from me and I'll tell you what I want to see in you. Is there something that has been bothering you so much that you have to leave right now? Goodbye, my friend, for no reason in particular.

I have no idea what I just wrote

I belong to you, my dearest desire
A secret that I can´t keep
For my love for you is eternal
It shines in the dark, in the void of infinity
And I will be here and there, for all eternity

I used to be a victim of my own ingnorance, until I finally discovered the truth surrounding my whole life. Such as when I was five and I blacked out the night my house burnt down, the fire that killed my mother and sister. Also when I was about twelve and I had a nightmare of a tragic road accident, the day after the event happened. I could go on all night recounting these strange inccidents in my life. What I will say is you time is nigh.

Wow! That was great! Loved your description - I'd definitely read on. Hope to see more of this story -

Jillian

Free-writing, for some reason, helps us to realize what's REALLY on our minds. Nice job!

Beautifully written - especially for just the heck of it. You write very well & it's always a pleasure to read your work

Nicely done - could be the start of a very interesting memoir.

I stood outside, where the smokers hang out at work - the Ten O'Clock People, as Stephen King calls them. They're also out there at noon, and 3 o'clock as well. Around 6:00pm, that's when the reporters show up, lighting one one up before the last push prior to deadline. One guy is a hardcore reporter who once worked for the Times. He looks like he stepped out of a crime novel. I don't know his name yet (I've only been with the company for 6 months), but he's one of those people that gives you a measured stare, sizing you up and possibly reading your mind. I watch what I say around him. Normally he doesn't pay any attention to the graphics grunts like me whatsoever, but I noticed he was listening intently while I was relating the story to someone else about how a couple of wild dogs broke into our pasture and killed seven of our registered Boer goats. He asked me what we did about the dogs, and I shrugged. I hadn't done ANYTHING about the dogs - I'd simply left for work and left my husband to deal with it. The dogs were simply gone by the time I'd gotten home. The reporter noted my hesitation to answer and he gave me this weird, skull-like smile. He winks at me and says, "I like goat. Maybe I can buy one from you. Does your husband do the butchering?" I replied that we did not, we simply raise them and sell them. I have never eaten goat, and told him that I am for the most part a vegetarian. I then told him to call my husband and ask him. Goats are raised for food, pure and simple. Many people are buying them now because of Mad Cow disease - an alternate meat source. The reporter smiled, stubbed out his cigarette and walked away, saying, "That's okay, Goat Girl. I can do my own butchering."

I bet he can...

What a great board...

I think I saw someone die today, but I'm not sure. It was in a far off land, and with going there myself, I don't really know how I would be able to know for sure. It seemed real, I saw his face as he laid on the ground bleeding from a gunshot wound, but couldn't it all have been in my imagination? Maybe I saw nothing that I didn't want to see...

(approx. 20 seconds.)

Thank you MaelstroM5 I can say the same about you. you make me very happy today!

Thanks for the compliment maelstrom
I gotta say I like your goat-eating reporter dude... creepy! Esp. calling the woman (you?) Goat-girl.

Very interesting... as a reader I naturally want to know more about the possible death and this faraway land you mention. Actually, this would be a good lead-in to a novel.

Nice!

- Jillian

Thank you, Feanor - if anything, I'm a very dedicated reader. Just keep writing, very lovely words.

- Jillian

You hit the nail on the head - this was an actual experience from the other day. I wrote about it because - like you said - it (he) was plain creepy.

She is afraid of the dark, afraid of the wind and afraid of many other things, but most of all death. In a way, the fear of death has engendered all the other fears that followed. Thunderstorms follow as a close second. Floating serpents, they are. They coil up, grey, dark and mountainlike during the day, waiting for the sun to reach its zenith so they can strike. She hears a rumble of thunder, and soon, fists of lightning strike the earth. Her house shudders even as she does. The serpent looms nigh, poised to strike, and she knows that this time it has come for her. The scream begins as a low howl that gradually rises in pitch until she can't hear anything except that sound. The serpent shrieks as it bears down upon the tiny house and she can do nothing but watch the trees bend to its will. Outside the window, the world is awash in wind and rain, whipped to a froth by the serpent in the sky. A finger of God, some call it. Her house is torn away, the walls pried loose and sailing up and away into swirling nightmare. She feels herself flying. Oddly enough, she is no longer afraid.

There was an old prairie outside of where we used to live. Ever once in a while, we would see a short glimmer past the middle of the field. The grass would ruffle and a strange sound was heard. So now we don't look out there anymore. We have better things to do and we don't have a kind mind to being frightened. We just dread the day that the thing making all that commotion comes up to meet us.
Freedom in the valley it would say and become again the thing we feared. The being of absolute evil that rose in the night and attacked the weak. IF we boarded up the windows, it would break them. If we locked the door it would come to us as an old man with a cane, begging for sympathy. The Chameleon of the field.

I just let my fingers move and that's what I typed. WHAT? I have no idea what that means. Not a very good freewriter I guess.

My Turn,
Im sitting here and Ive done this one hundred times before, its seems stupid when you first think of doing it, that youll be able to write random stuff and it will somehow clear your mind, but yeh, where was i going with this?I dont know, wait yes i do, everytime i do it it amazes me what comes out, the little bits of info i take in without knowing it like right at the moment i wrote without i recognised my favourite part in the song, the fact that my foot was itchy and the fact that i had to readjust my bra...sorry for the all the guys out there. It always grabs me that its never okay for a girl to adjust her bra in public because its seen to be slutty but guys try and readjust their pants....isnt that wrong? gaah my favourite song is on winamp right now, i feel like crying everytime i hear it so i better be careful what im writing hahahah, yesh im rambling, do i feel comfy doing it damn straight, but thats just me...i guess....was the purpose of this freewriting session to be creative or just vent?

I think I chose the latter.

There's no wrong way to free-write, it's to generate ideas, clear your mind, whatever you want it to be. Quite frankly I find nothing wrong with your post whatsoever & it's rather good, the last paragraph is especially interesting to me, maybe because I'm a horror fan.


Nicely done - you never know where this sort of rambling idea may lead you...

That's exactly what this is for - venting. Some people may use this chance to 'vent' creatively, others may just use it simply to see where their head's really at. I read somewhere that when a person freewrites, especially during the first three minutes, it's the writer's subconscious mind, not the conscious one, speaking. According to psychologists, the subconscious is incapable of lying - even to one's self.

William Faulkner once said, "I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it."

Cold, grey and rainy, this is today's morning
Lonely, sad, and wounded, this is me this morning
looking back in time, my mind is lost in memories from days by gone

never had writer's block,not in 35 yrs
but here goes:

It was cold and lonely in the old house, with only myself and the body. I was waiting on the forensics and backup. I knew I had to keep the scene secure, but I could not force myself to stay there with the old man much longer.

His blugeoned body was lying under the table in the kitchen. The heat had been turned off for some odd reason. It was 37 and rainy outside,and inside felt colder. I felt we were already in the morgue.

The body was that of a 87 year old man,known to have practiced voodoo in his younger years, I didn't believe in that garbage,until I saw his body. It was stuffed unnatural under a kitchen chair. Amongst other things done to his body. The pentagram drawn around him was a dead giveaway. I wondered what the homicide chief would call this.

Bobby from the ambulance company yelled in. "Hank, you the only one here?" I could barely find my voice to answer. Finally I choked out, "Yeah man, just me."

This done in 3 minutes.

The dead bee enters the hive, and sees...

How's them apples

Alright kids, now come sit around Uncle Bob and let him tell the old Camp story. Yup. well, I was outside enjoying get away smoke time from your Aunt Virginia. You know how she can git when she runs outta Johnsons baby powder. So I'z leaning on the house siding listening to my Cash through the window. And with my clouded, pissed up eyes, I look to the left with the old head bobbling. I gots my cold can of budwieser in my left hand, and a empty flask of Daniels at my feet. Standing cautiously, n' hoping not to fall, my wife begins squelching from the upstairs window, about some guests that "should be here in 10 minutes". Blah, blah. "Damn woman, BURPP; maybe I shouldn't drink so much, or maybe I should get more. Hmmm?" While in my short contemplation with meself, i see this big old helpless Ant caught in a Spider web just belows my feet. The gruesome 8 legged, 8 eyed bastard was closing in on my poor this baby Ant. Pauly. Yeea, that right, it was love at first sight, and I named him the critter Pauly. You dun't git a problem with that now kids, or do's ya? Ahea Hea ha. Anyways back at to what i was saying. "Spit". You know your Uncle here's gots a tiny bladder, so i quickly pulled out my one eyed six shooter out of my pants. Squirted old Pauly right in the noggin, hosed down and that dang web down before that crazy eye'd bastard would'a ate him for supper. "You used your your piece on a spider Uncle Bob?" Asked the kids. "No, my one eyed soldier, my short sword, you know?! See kids, ya gotta do good deeds in life, like your Uncle Bob here.

Awesome! Are you a mystery writer? I adore mysteries & wish I could write them - every time I start one I end up injecting the paranormal into it, LOL.

Nicely done, makes me want to read more. You haven't ever had writer's block? Lucky you! I finished my fourth MS last year and when it was rejected by an agent, I found for some reason that I couldn't write anything of substance after that - until this past month. I can handle a rejection slip - that's just part of the game, but that last one got to me for some reason. I read your poem to your wife, BTW, and it was very sweet & romantic. If my husband wrote me a poem, it would go a little something like this:

My wife, my loving dear
Thanks for the beer
The pork chops were great
Your cooking's first rate
Football season's coming soon
I'll be watching it all afternoon
Hope you like the blender I got you
It slices, dices & chops too
Food is the way to a man's heart
Hope you didn't mind that fart.


Best wishes & keep writing,
Jillian

You never cease to amaze, Kak. 'One-eyed six shooter' - ROFLMAO! Guess Uncle Bob really knows how to p*ss off a spider....

Great redneck voice in this one, loved it!

This one took me about 15 minutes to write, the first paragraph came out in about 3 minutes. I figured I'd include the entire thing, mainly to show how a weird paragraph that is free-written can start to form a story.

Azalea, South Carolina was like split pea soup. Lots of dull green peas with a few hams floating around in it for flavor. Travelers stopped for gas and snacks here but they didn't stay long. In the Year of Our Lord nineteen-hundred and seventy-two one person came to stay, a frail Yankee gal everyone called Rag-Woman. Rag-woman called herself an oracle. She claimed to have visions and believed she could read our futures in the Bible. Not in Revelation, mind you, but things like glancing at a passage in Psalms and then telling pregnant Meg Crawford that her son would be stillborn. Granted, Rag-Woman had called that one dead on, but still no one paid her any mind. Not even on the stormy July afternoon when she stood on the steps of the police station and screamed out her latest message. I remember it clearly, as I was busy painting a building across the street. I stopped to watch for about a minute and half. Rag-woman's hair fanned out in the breeze like a white flame and her blue eyes bulged as she forced out each word. “This place shall be torn asunder!”

Together, Mort and I listened as our transplanted Yankee oracle informed us that our town was about to die. "Zirtex," she screeched, "Gloria!" Then, together, "Zirtex Gloria!"

"What's that nutty bat goin' on about now?" Mort, my helper, wanted to know. He stared at the old gal while he chewed a cud of tobacco wedged inside his rubbery cheek.

"Got me," I replied. "Sounds like she’s ragin’ about Zirtex, I think. I heard 'em talking about it down at the diner this morning. It's in the paper, too. They're breakin' ground on their new plant next week."

Mort spat brown juice on the sidewalk and picked up his paint brush. "Oughtta lock that woman up in the crazy-house. Zirtex is the bes' thing to happen to Azalea since time outta mind. Besides, who's this Gloria, anyways?"

"No idea,” I said, “unless she's talkin about my ex-wife. Now my Gloria could kill this town if she had a mind to, but she lives in Memphis now. Maybe she’s sayin ‘Zirtex Glory Halleuia.’ Now that would make more sense, you think?”

Mort looked at me and rolled his piggy little eyes. I laughed, shook my head and went back to work. Hell, we all knew that Azalea had one foot in a grave and the other on a banana peel. After Linentex and the other mills closed down, fifteen hundred people lost their jobs. In less than a year the town's population had dwindled by half. The thing of it was, Rag-woman had meant that Azalea was literally going to die. Mort and me, we didn't believe her, of course. A few hours later, long after Rag-woman had wandered off mumbling to herself, we packed up our gear and headed for the watering hole over on Sabon Street. A few beers later we completely forgot about Rag-woman’s warning.

Rag-woman didn’t go away. Each day, for weeks on end, she appeared like a banshee in the morning fog, yowling her nonsense. Zirtex Fabrics Incorporated was on everyone’s mind by then. Glory and halleuia. Three hundred men and women immediately went to work building the plant - even Mort and me. Word had it that by the time the plant opened, they would hire eight hundred more. The town hopped with excitement. Working people are always happy people, and when we’re happy the last thing we want to hear is negativity. So we shut our minds and ears to Rag-woman. She might as well have been a high-pitched fart in a hurricane. No one listened, not even eighteen months later when they began finding dead deer, skunks and other critters in the woods, their bellies split open and their intestines strung out several feet from their bodies, as if their innards had exploded from the inside out.

Re Shroud

Letter to Dr Martin mills

Hi martin just keeping you informed

It’s been 3 years now since the discovery. All those years it sat there, the thing of myths so old and frail I can hardly believe it. I remember your face. We’ve started work on the extraction now just a few more months to go and well have a complete sequence. Just think of the implications, the endless circle of debates. I know from when we spliced dna from dino bones all that fuss and the good doers fears of tampering with god there going to have a seizure when they hear of this .Just think of the possibilities thoe da vinci or Jesus hoax or reality my god we could build us a Christ.

As you know the shroud has been in the museums care now for some time and the delicate process of restoration that lead to the discovery of minute DNA traces within the image is complete. We were able to extract small amounts of DNA and are in the process of developing embryos (yes the protesters are still here). The last attempts with the monk you know the one was a great success although a little messy I can’t wait until the prelimary tests are complete

Ill keeps you informed and ill right again soon

Yours expectantly

Foster

Thanks, i had to do it... infact it was LOOSELY based on someone i know. I tried to make you laugh, hope it worked.



i adored your story, you used a lot of different names, which kept me focused. Nice.
The frail Yankee gal. HA, atleast she's yelling at the right thing the police, enforcement, babylon.



Very scientific of you cheese. Keep me informed then, Foster.

Human Nature

Why there is no subject to learn human nature. i think if we understand the nature of humankind ... most of our problems will be solved.. yes pshyologist very near to it.. but why can't we put this subject compelsory just like as our basic language.. we should put this subject from primary..

The motor oil is simply drooling colours of passion on the ocean's ripple. Basic blues, perfect purples, royal reds, valiant violets and whispy whites. Notabley, I then told my parterner photographer, Elisha, whom I love to death, and is my dearest wife. She quickly snapped these vivid shots from heaven, using our b4400 Cannon. Her and I have been working on a photographical scrapbook, for say, the last three and a quarter years. We intened to illustrate the basics in life through art. The ordinariness of man made designs, discovering qualities not always seen or remembered. Page-by-page we will present a book, worth more than gold, in our eyes. The immediate payment will be ours, as it always is.

"Carolina Photo Feststival 2006". This is where we are angling to get our precious work observed by the eyes of thousands, praised by those that admire. These Judges and highprice bidders are eagerly waiting to build our bank accounts. However, this task to win is not a simple chore. It is a duty. And, as all our fans know, K&C Photography doesn't have "intimidated" or "timid" in our immensely high vocabularies. We graduated in 1998 together, with major degrees in Photography. The vast landmark of ours has already been left from the our seven year careers, and artists know we are not a thing of the past. The plausability winning the money and respect again this year are outstanding. Anxiousness always overwhelms others in the competitions, but not us. We are inseparable, indivisible and ready to win the first place prize of twetnty six thousand dollars US. This is our best work to date. With much on my mind, Kalico Marenara never lowers his chin, illeviating his stress with the sacrament of herb. Yes, yes, that's me. The objective? We intend to collect our money, confabulate with elites, and propose the final result of our book to the world. Unravel a nineteen page picture production to win the hearts of fans and newcommers. For this time it is our ticket out of this America. We have learned much here, but it's the time to reside back to our beloved home, Rome.

Now this is interesting, loved the letter format! Collecting DNA samples from the Shroud is an interesting angle, too. There is a story out there I read the other day that proposes the theory that the shroud is really only a few hundred years old and that it was painted by a young DaVinci. Holy relics are always fascinating.

I quite agree with your statements - studying human nature SHOULD be a prerequisite (along with basic Finance). Great rant!

- Jillian

if you & your wife really have a forthcoming photo book, best wishes on its success! Every time someone I know online gets something published, it gives me a glimmer of hope that mine will one day see publication too

Maelstrom - love the positive attitude. Every time I see someone announce a newly published book, I can't help feel that there is one less space out there for mine. I'm too negative.

I have a urban fantasy novel shopping for agents right now.

It isn't the truth Jillian.

I was merely exhibiting my areas of writing. Before i was a drunk hick, ha. This story i attempted to be a more sophisticated person, a a proud photographer. I love writing from anothers perspective.

Thanks, i made it believable!!!

GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR WORKS!

Forty rejections and counting. They say JK Rowling had fifty rejections before her first Harry Potter was published, so there's hope yet, LOL. Every time I get a rejection slip, I polish the MSS a little more and send them right back out. I'm trying to market four novels right now, so I figure sooner or later somebody will take at least one of them.

Don't lose hope - all published authors are writers who never gave up

Well, thanks, Kak. Yes, your piece was certainly believable - I actually tried to Google that Carolina photography show you mentioned

Thank you. No I am not a writer. LOL I am a retired state trooper and detective. I do write though. I need to actually finish a novel I am working on. I am a songwriter who has written over 3,000 songs in 40 yrs. I also write poetry as you seen. Thanks. Mack

You must show me your next publication, tell me about it aswell if you have a chance, im excited.

Thanks, Kak -
Unfortunately I can't post a chapter of the main one I'm trying to publish here, mostly because if you post excerpts of a novel online - anywhere - the publishers won't touch it because it could have been co-opted by a hundred different people by the time they receive the manuscript. (It leaves them & the author open for a plagiarism lawsuit, oddly enough, which is sort of what happened to Dan Brown & the Davinci Code). I can post, however, a bit of my query letter for the book, which contains a short synopsis of the story:

Working Title: The Screamer's Club

Synopsis:

Dora Brown has seen nothing but sorrow in her life, culminating in the loss of custody of her of beloved son, seven-year-old Danny. Though she is clean these days, her drug-addicted past haunts her during the divorce court proceedings and the boy is subsequently awarded to her ex-husband Garrett and his new wife, Gina. Dora is forbidden to visit with the boy altogether, except for an occasional supervised holiday visit. She sinks into a haze of depression, as the boy is and has always been her sole reason for living. She eases this pervasive sadness by following the boy on occasion, observing him from afar as he goes to school, to karate class and a beach trip.

One afternoon, as she watches the boy step up onto the school bus, she notices a strange woman sitting nearby in a parked panel van, also watching the boy. At first Dora thinks the woman may be another child's grandmother just making sure her child is safe, which is understandable because there have been several child abductions in the area as of late. When the boy does not arrive home after school, his frantic father contacts Dora and accuses her of abducting the boy. Having spent that afternoon alone in her car while looking for work, Dora cannot account for her whereabouts. Her panic increases when she quickly becomes the center of attention as a suspect in the boy's disappearance. Sudden media and police attention intrudes upon her privacy, intensifying the immense grief she already feels for her missing son. She casts about for help and sympathy, and finds none. Then she remembers the older woman in the van. Her harrowing journey begins when she later spots the same van leaving the parking lot of a grocery store and attempts to follow it. The van disappears into traffic, but not before Dora gets a good, solid look at the woman driver. She then begins to research the mystery woman on a library computer and to her horror, she finds out that the woman is none other than Harriet Fallsworth, AKA "Mama Death."

"Mama Death," so named in the press because she strangled her own son and his best friend twenty-five years earlier, has been recently released from the psychiatric facility where she was held for over two decades after winning an insanity defense in a manslaughter trial. She is supposedly rehabilitated and now considered "sane." Dora suspects otherwise. Knowing she lacks credibility with the police and that they refuse to believe her story about the woman in the van, Dora's only option is tracking down "Mama Death" herself, to clear her own name and rescue Danny before history repeats itself.
...............

Soon to be in a Bookstore Near U - I hope!

- Jillian

i always wondered about things like that. my model tall ship has tiny little cannons with flaps but the flaps dont move they are attached to the cannon bacues its not a very high quality model and i got it at a craft store. the other ones that i found in my grandmothers house and belonged to my uncle have flags on the tops of the masts but they point the wrong way because the wind would be blowing the opposite way if the ship was moving. my uncle and my mother could never agree on who owned the ships because the ships were in both of their rooms for a while and my uncle has to aks which of my grandfathers guns are his everytime we go there and look at his wierd paintings of naked men because hes gay and nobody cares except his little hairless dog who only likes women and men and generally everybody but him and nobody knows why because he raised it from a baby but in always hated him and his pomeranian hates me but he hates everybody.

Now this is pure, stream of consciousness writing -terrific job!

~My words are written without meaning, at least any meaning I am aware of. They make no sense at this present moment. I suppose they have a purpose.... perhaps to fulfill my wandering needs or to award scattered illumination for my complacent mind. Waste? Always a dreamer, never an implementer. If imagination and intention are the fuels of accomplishment, then action is the motor pushing towards the finish line. Perhaps a tune-up is in order?

The damn tea-strainers they put over the keyholes...
The what?
Tea-strainers! This was years ago... oh... back in the 1800s probably. The goodwives would put tea-strainers.... anyway... I would have to count all the holes before I could go in, and by the time I was done, I would either lose interest or it would be daylight and my shift would be up.
Your shift? You work in shifts?
Well, yeah. I usually work the 9:00 to 3:00 am shift... you get moved up once you graduate from lesser imp status. Anyway...Counting counting... all this counting drove me crazy. And now I get to the point where I can't go in withOUT counting something. I find myself outside these modern, hollow-core doors... nothing much standing between me and these tattered souls... and I'm looking around for something to count!
Ahh... I see...
No, you don't see. I can't do my job. Employee of the decade and next month's congratulatory dinner with Beelzebub himself and I'm standing around counting the damn cracks in the sidewalk!
Sounds to me like a slight compulsive disorder brought on by stress due to your job. Perhaps a short vacation?
Vacation?!?! I can't take a vacation! I don't meet quota and I'm back skimming the burnt crunchy bits off the lake of fire or back on the pitchfork line. You know how boring stabbing people with a pitchfork is? Doc... ya gotta help me!

Hey. I dug this up in a special place in my room. I wrote it many, many, many years ago and I typed it up a few years back so i could keep it forever. I wrote it when I was 13 so please keep that in mind.


Thank You
The sun glared through the window fiery red as it sunk beneath the rolling green hills of Texas’s wide horizon. It took only minutes for the stars to show, twinkling a variety of bright colors. When I turned from the window I noticed there was no one beside me, only the still dark corner. I looked down towards the carpeted floor and walked away from the stars glaring at me from high above.
I stepped out of the hotel door and it quietly closed behind me. The long hall ahead cried with loneliness. A window shined with Austin’s nightlife and crowds of friends having great times together. But I, lonely as the silent hotel, had no one to share the night with. I sighed with grief as I continued down the hall.
A restaurant at the top floor of the hotel was closed and at this hour had been abandoned. Where margaritas were served, where families shared time together for dinner, where waiters sweat to earn their pay now had only the sight of wooden chairs neatly placed on top of tables sitting with out a purpose but to wait for the first rays of dawn and the first seconds of the breakfast hours.
The chairs carried longing frowns but I turned away from them. I did not heed their desperate pleas begging me to stay for the chilled wind guided me onward, away from the desolate restaurant. My footsteps echoed as I descended down the stairs. The dark stairwell growled at me, disturbing its slumber but I was not aware and nor did I care. I too had things to worry about. What happened? Why am I here now, alone?
No.
I didn’t want to think about the troubles that brought me here. The memory was longed to be forgotten, the times had changed so greatly. I frowned and watched my feet gently step towards the door awaiting my next adventure.
My bare feet stepped on the cold, smooth tiles of a grand ballroom. I crossed the floor silently, sorrow in my eyes. I wished for once I may have someone to dance with but I knew I couldn’t; I was alone that night and no wishing could help.
At last a weak smile crossed my face as I spun around, dancing with myself to the silent music, trying to believe I was not alone. I stopped, frozen in the orange lights. I walked away from my invisible partner and looked out a window at the yellow moon. I did have a friend after all.
“Hello,” I said to the moon.
No reply.
I smiled, tapping the glass in front of me and I yawned. I walked up to my room stopping to say goodnight to the lonely chairs and wishing farewell to the ballroom and my invisible dancing partner.
At last I reached the heavy door to my room. I flipped on the light inside the cold room and I sat on the window sill. I watched the stars twinkling above me. The bright moon smiled.
I smiled back and said, ”Tonight was a lonely journey until I discovered you were always there. My heart, longing so greatly for love has now found the light in the darkness surrounding it.”
I sighed and leaned back on the soft bed. “Thank you.”

Just as an extra note, this piece is very important because I recieved it from my mother just days before she passed away. True freewriting has values beyond belief.

Wow.... There is some quality freewriting reads on here. I am enjoying this forum.

Jillian, your story makes me fien for more. Personally, i adore nonfiction, truthfulness, such as biographies, holy books and such. They enlighten me. But your work, what a fictional story that will be, sounds like it might even have a strong moral to it.

Pruplos your work fits nice in this topic.

Arty, niceley off the top of your philosophical head.

Rambo your work was priceless man. Prevoking, and colourfully warm.

I will post mine later.

What an exquisite piece. Did your mother write it? Very beautiful and heartbreakingly sad...

- Jillian