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*THIS IS NOT A CONTINUATION OF MORGAN_R'S WRITING EXERCISES

This thread is just a thread where I will post little random paragraphs.  These topics of paragraphs will be selected at random, and will not be stated, so if you want to join in on this thread, you will need to find topics of your own.

I encourage you to "train" here, whether it be for the upcoming contest or for any other uses.  Happy writing!

Eh, might as well. May help my writing abilities so I can make Chris Parable a better game.

Jason felt a strange feeling in his chest, as he stood under the massive buildings looming above him.  The scales of them were immense compared to him, seeming to be a completely unbalanced ratio.  He silently crept down the road, littered with abandoned vehicles, defeated by weathering.  Jason tightened his grip around the handle of his rifle, unsure of continuing.  There were many things that threatened his life these days, but none were as bad as what he faced now.

Sorry that sucked.  I had a better one, but I accidentally deleted it.  So angry.

Wait, what are we supposed to do? Write our own paragraph, or continue from that paragraph? 

Feel free to do either, I suppose.  Anything that gets you writing.

Here's a new one, since I can't come up with a way to continue that story with what little we're given about it:

Henry was once a normal man. He had a job, was married, had 3 kids, and was ultimately happy. But then, a day came that would change his life, and the way he viewed life, forever. Henry, on his way to work one day, decided he would take a shorter route, which went through a nature trail, rather than through an ocean of crazy drivers.

I seriously just wrote something on the spot. I have nothing ready for these kind of things.

This one is fine.  It's really what comes to mind first is what you should write.  I'll allow someone else to complete this story if they desire to.

A broken helmet.  It sat unturned against the sandy floor, a crack running along the top.  The color was neither green nor gray, but instead, was a color in between.  There were many more helmets lying on the ground, along with the many soldiers on the battlefield.  They were strangers at one point, but they had become brothers at war.  Looking at this endless grave, a strange choking sensation began to build up in your chest.  You hold your breath, before squeezing your eyes shut.

Silence falls over you, except for your shallow breaths.  Memories of the bodies are embedded in your mind; you can see them so easily, as if the picture was burned on the inside of your eyelids.  You let out a sigh, before tightening your fingers around the weapon in your hand.  The dark crimson blood was covering half of the men out there, some of it not even theirs.  It was a scene no one could ever forget.

You lift your hand up to your head, pointing the weapon at your head, your eyes still shut.  Your hands are shaking wildly, and you have to bite your lips to follow through.  A breath.  Then nothing.  Those soldiers' had lived their last moments on the battlefield, dying along with each other.  It was their final resting place.  And so it was yours too.

This may or may not be in my story game for the post-apocalyptic contest.  ;D

(Random free writing, no prompt)

Silence was something that seemed never ending in this place of darkness. Night and day had lost all meaning. Perhaps they never existed in the first place. Perhaps sound was some figment of my imagination. There was nothing to feel, but a sort of uncomfortable warmth and the feeling of hard floor. I hadn't found the wall or a  door. I couldn't remember when this started. Perhaps my previous life was a lie. Those images of a boy running across a yard with a dog under a blue sky with clouds and a shining sun was just my mind making up things in the tedium of this place. I was beginning to doubt that I existed as a human. I mean I could feel my body. However if I was ready to made up such colorful things as the sun and television, then I could just as easily be deceiving my own sense of touch. Maybe I was just some minor life form with a huge amount of creativity and imagination with a tendency towards insanity. Maybe the name Tomas was something I came up for myself in my delusions of this other world. I once again reached around, trying to find something besides ground. There was nothing.

Sometimes I doubted the floor was there at all. Maybe my fragile mental state had needed something stable about this place. Maybe I was really floating in an endless void. Perhaps my friend's idea of the afterlife was true and there was really nothing. Maybe that was what I was experiencing. I thought this as I continued to feel around in the darkness. I would remain here forever. This was where people went where they died. A place where they couldn't hear their own voice when they spoke. It might even be a type of Hell. The preacher always said fire and brimstone was involved in Hell, but this seemed so much worse. I was existing, but there was nothing here. It was an empty place with only me. Perhaps this was my punishment for lying to my parents or for making fun of the old, crazy woman who lived down the street.

(random free writing, no prompt) **this feels particularly crappy**

Lyra darted across the street with stolen goods bundled under her shirt. No one dared to stop the crippled girl, even when it was obvious that the girl had stole something. It was some sort of pity, which lead her to do it in the first place. Those looks would just get to her. She didn't need the things she stole. She just had to get back at them some way.

She glanced at the space where her left hand would be had it not been cut off by some psychotic woman who just happened to babysit her once. The missing appendage had earned various looks from disgust to pity. Pity was by far the worst. It pissed her off. It made want to hurt them somehow. She never felt bad or limited by her injury, till someone gave that look. The first time someone gave that look after her injury, she had ended up crying for over an hour straight. They had comforted her. Later, she felt that utter helplessness and weakness from earlier was something to be ashamed of. She was still able to do a lot of things. It wasn't even her dominant hand. She was lucky. She could have died at the hands of that woman. She wouldn't waste her life in tears over it. Yet the next time someone looked at her with pity, she felt the tears and weakness threaten to burst through her resolve. She ended up slapping them, hard.

After that, she quickly learned that her physical responses to their pity were not acceptable. She actually was forced into anger management for awhile, not that it helped in any way. She learned it was better to be mean with her words and to do things like  steal and vandalize over  actually hitting others. It was something that their pity often made them unable to respond to normally. They would explain away her behavior by her injury and blame her circumstances for what she did. She found this infuriating too, but less so than the looks of full on pity.