#writing without edit

10 minute writing exercise based off the opening line: “The child stood glum and limp in the middle of the dark living room while his father pulled him into a plaid coat”

The child stood glum and limp in the middle of the dark living room while his father pulled him into a plaid coat.

“I don’t want you to go”, the boy pleaded, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. Crouching down to the child's eye level, the father took him into this arms and embraced him. 

“I must son, i’m sorry”, he explained. “I’ll be home again soon – it’ll go quick I promise. Just you wait and see.” The man wiped a tear off of the child’s cheek as he spoke. The father collected their bags and lead the boy out the front door.

It was raining outside the car. the child always loved it when the raindrops hit the windows. 

“Why do I have to stay with Aunty?” the boy begged. “She’s cranky and her cats don’t like to play with me.” he pouted. The father gave the boy a grim smile in response and turned a corner. 

“Because I can’t take you with me”, the father said, eyes spilling with tears.”

“They came into this world, together, but alone. And in the same way they left it.”

10 minute writing exercise based off the opening line: “I’m nine years old...”

I’m nine years old. I’m not a boring grown up all the rest – I don’t ever want to be. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t just see the sun shining, I feel it shining on my skin. I don’t hear the birds chirping, I hear them singing to me. If growing up means losing my sense of wonder of the world than I want no part in it. I’m nine years old – frozen in time, forever a child, forever an explorer... that’s what being a child means. It means being whatever you want to be – not stuck in a nine to five desk job waiting for your life to end. As I look outside my window, I see my reflection – only it’s not that of a nine year old, but of a twenty-nine year old. Much more haggard than I should look at this age. When did I stop feeling the sunshine on my skin? When did I stop feeling the sunshine on my skin and start feel the too-cold chill of the office air conditioner?  I can’t remember... Nevermind. I have the vaguest idea that someone is trying to speak to me – never they mind either. I’m not quite here anyway.

10 minute writing exercise based off the opening line: “I never learnt my father's real name”

I never learned my father’s real name. Dad, I called him. For eight years he was dad to me, and Cheeto to everybody else. When he became sick I thought about asking him, but it seemed cruel to take away a dying man’s mystery. He loved being my playful dad Cheeto. He loved running around the house making monkey noises and playing detectives with me. To let him pass as ‘Bill’ or ‘Jack’ would have been a tragedy. 

Or maybe it wouldn’t have – how was I to know? I was eight years old after all. Twelve years have passed now and I still haven’t discovered his true identity. Not knowing keeps him alive I think. It keeps the monkey in the hall and the detectives at work... But who was he really? A single dad without a name, without a story, leaving his daughter to wander the world a lone. It’s quite sad really.