To motivate you and to help kick-start your writing week, I’m going to give you a single line to open a story with. Hopefully, it’ll set your mind thinking about all sorts of possibilities and threads of a story. And I haven’t neglected the poets amongst you so there’s also an opening line for you too.
Story:
No one understood how lonely it was being stuck up a tree all on your own.
Poem:
I didn’t see him, I didn’t know
***
Last week, I gave you some words to get you thinking:
- Surprise
- Affair
- Shatter
- Angels
- Terror
- Cafe
- Accident
- Alleyway
- Poison
- Rejection
Thank you to Adhin Shamina who sent in the following story based on the theme of surprise:
THANK YOU BISCUITS! YOU DID NOT ROT!
The city was under curfew. The upcoming general election had created much hustle and bustle in the region, not to say risks of riots. The temperature of the atmosphere hovering over the city had shot up greatly. But I cared not a damn, as if who would win or lose would have made any difference to me. But the tension prevailing surely did. Being without a roof was already enough to manage with. More, playing hide and seek was never something appealing to me. Sleeping on an empty stomach would be more than enough.
The announcement was made late in the evening. I was still wandering the streets with empty pockets. The people of the city had ears only for the news over the past days. My songs went unheard. Everybody was in a rush. Nearly all the shops were closed in the blink of an eye. I learnt from a fellow hurrying to I can’t say where that a two hour ultimatum was given to reach home.
Home! I thought. Where will I go tonight? Maybe my good luck was in; despite all, the tailor’s shop at the corner of the street was still open. The owner was known to me, a rather jovial fellow. I used to sit there and we would chat for a long time. He trusted me. Being a nomad was not ill-reputed after all. And he agreed to let me a place inside his shop for the night. At least that would spare the bullet carrying my name, I thought laughing on my own thinking.
The owner handed a bottle of water to me and said, “Nothing more for me for now. I’ll manage. What do you say?”
“Never a problem, sir. Thank you very much.”
He waved a hand and the shutters were dropped. I waved back but it was a problem. My stomach was churning. Not a single morsel had gone in since morning that day. What to do now?
After a little bit of toing and froing, I ended up with the idea of trying to get some sleep. No need to move around. I could have bumped into anything, injured myself and worsened my situation. I took off my only old jacket, made a pillow out of it and rested my head upon it.
I kept tossing again and again. Then I heard a sound coming from beneath, a crunching sound. I unfolded the jacket and slipped my hand in the inside pocket. I had a little packet of biscuits. God knows since how long it laid there.
“What a feast! A bottle of water and a packet of nearly stale biscuits!”
I kissed my jacket, folded it again, more gently that time and it was not much a struggle to hunt for sleep then. And for that I did not thank the lord but my packet of biscuits, for they did not rot.
And here’s a poem Adhin wrote on the theme shatter:
Certain feelings
which are spoken
may not always
be as token
but they may certainly
result in reasoning awoken
as they may be
expressions of a heart broken!
***
Esther Chilton 
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