Writer’s Exercises are prompts to get the creative juices flowing. They can be bits of world building, character creation or totally random pieces. You can find a description of the writer’s exercise prompts I use here.
There once was a small boy. He had never been off the front step in his life. His whole 8 rotations spent inside the compound. Every memory occurred within the building behind him.
He had once thought of leaving. He had even put his best shirt in a bag, gathered his teddy and made it as far as the hall. The door had been more intimidating than The Mother that day. The sun glare through the windows felt as though it was pushing him backwards and he abandoned the plan.
He could hear The Mother shouting. It wasn’t his real mother, she had died well before his earliest memory. The thing chose to use the word like a title, hoping the authority of it would be recognized by the children. The children were obedient, but that had nothing to do with the title.
The boy knew he was running out of time. Once The Father returned his opportunity would be lost. It should not have been a big deal. The end of the street was visible from the step. The other kids told stories of people who walked on the road, though no one had ever actually seen this.
He took a hesitant step forwards. Nothing happened. No killer gas or assassins as the boys said. He took another step. The kidnappers and savage animals The Uncle had warned them about failed to appear. His toes reached the top of the first stair and the only thing of note was the nothing he experienced.
The boy released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He stood there, just breathing. A part of him was surprised he had made it outside. He didn’t really have a plan from here. His insides slid south a little as his mind drifted to The Father, and what he would do if he saw the boy.
Gingerly, his food shaking as he moved, he took a step. And then another. The bottom of the stairs came quickly. Sight and sound seemed suspended as he stared across the road. Of all the things he could have seen, that was the last he would have guessed.
by Cassandra Wellsmore
C.M. Wellsmore 