Writing Exercises

Prompt: A brass door handle, three oranges, and a chocolate doughnut. (not used at all)

Maybe I should have stayed in bed. It's a nice thought. The rest of my apartment was covered in frost, cold and blue-toned for no identifiable reason. My feet crunched the carpet, and microscopic shards of ice stabbed into me with each step. I tried to ignore it, though. It seemed unimportant.

The window was broken, and the wind outside whistled against the glass. The sound was constant, entirely unwindlike, and at a tone and volume which was very distracting. Outside the world was dead, neglected under the frost. I could see, just barely, the broken shell of a car, it's roof collapsed and its insides gutted.

My breath was cold, cloudy as it surrounded me. I watched it hang in the air after each exhale.

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Prompt: "Write a post-apocalyptic story"

I woke in the false night of noon to the sound of a dog barking. My back was hurting, complaining from a long night slept against a wall, and I was sorely tempted not to move. Instead, though, I pushed through it, wincing, as I got to my feet. My world shifted uncomfortably as I stood, and I resisted the urge to cry out. A second dog had started barking. I pushed myself into the back room of the apartment, and favored a quick glance out of the window. The sunlight faintly illuminated the ground below, and the dogs' forms were spots of blackness against the ash. They were searching, scavaging for anything resembling food.

That, unforunately, included me.

I checked my pistol's ammo, then tucked it away. If there were more than three of them out there, I'd be out of luck, and besides, I had plans for those bullets.