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Take the last line from an already-published novel or short story, and write it at the op of a blank page. Below that, start writing a story with the intention of reaching that last line. Don't worry about copyright or anything like that: by the time you get to the end of your story, it'll be so different you'll have your own last line all by yourself. This is more an exercise in working towards a solid end-point than trying to recreate anything already written.
A couple of examples, taken entirely without permission, so you'll need to track down, buy, and read the stories so the authors don't sue my ass off:
"Sarat was right; he had imagined it would be a Union Jack."
Please don't pick on me too much, this is the first creative writing I have attempted since I had to re-write that capex closure form... no, since probably I tried some pitch black slash, about 2 years ago. So if it's awkward reading, imagine how fun it is/was to write!
:-)
Birds chirped. Winds softly sighed and rustled, and faintly in the background there was the gentlest of drones. Grass prickled and scratched; limbs heavy and unmoveable.
Movement of breath heavy and disconsolate. Weight crushed the air from her lungs, yet still survival demanded oxygen, which her body struggled to fulfil. The drone came louder, and the bird tried to speak louder to his mate. Behind the droning, dragging noises. A curse and a commentary; then recognition of the incoming threat from above.
Darkness was split by blue. Sun caressed bruised pupils. A dot on the horizon; the droning increased, and the dot swung lower in a blank blue sky. A small bird leapt from grass stalk to tree branch, angrily complaining at the noise. The dot grew bigger, and slipped from view.
More curses.
A head appeared, a huge balloon in a blue sky. A second one appeared. One was yellow, the other black, and the black one cursed and cursed and cursed. A limb appeared; surreal and discorporate, it was thrown by a black balloon over her; out of sight. Who's hand was it? Left arm itched; an annoying scritching of rasped flesh. It had been a left arm that had sailed across her vision.
Sand landed across her eyes.
Lungs ceased to struggle. Droning began again, and the bird failed to notice. A folded blue cloth, as dark as a night sky. Unfolded about her. Grief grew within her, replacing the weight that crushed her from breath. Sarat was right; she had imagined it would be a Union Jack.
A couple of examples, taken entirely without permission, so you'll need to track down, buy, and read the stories so the authors don't sue my ass off:
"Sarat was right; he had imagined it would be a Union Jack."
Please don't pick on me too much, this is the first creative writing I have attempted since I had to re-write that capex closure form... no, since probably I tried some pitch black slash, about 2 years ago. So if it's awkward reading, imagine how fun it is/was to write!
:-)
Birds chirped. Winds softly sighed and rustled, and faintly in the background there was the gentlest of drones. Grass prickled and scratched; limbs heavy and unmoveable.
Movement of breath heavy and disconsolate. Weight crushed the air from her lungs, yet still survival demanded oxygen, which her body struggled to fulfil. The drone came louder, and the bird tried to speak louder to his mate. Behind the droning, dragging noises. A curse and a commentary; then recognition of the incoming threat from above.
Darkness was split by blue. Sun caressed bruised pupils. A dot on the horizon; the droning increased, and the dot swung lower in a blank blue sky. A small bird leapt from grass stalk to tree branch, angrily complaining at the noise. The dot grew bigger, and slipped from view.
More curses.
A head appeared, a huge balloon in a blue sky. A second one appeared. One was yellow, the other black, and the black one cursed and cursed and cursed. A limb appeared; surreal and discorporate, it was thrown by a black balloon over her; out of sight. Who's hand was it? Left arm itched; an annoying scritching of rasped flesh. It had been a left arm that had sailed across her vision.
Sand landed across her eyes.
Lungs ceased to struggle. Droning began again, and the bird failed to notice. A folded blue cloth, as dark as a night sky. Unfolded about her. Grief grew within her, replacing the weight that crushed her from breath. Sarat was right; she had imagined it would be a Union Jack.
