Writing about a Heart of Stone

Writing about a Heart of Stone
Writing about a Heart of Stone

Writing from a writing-prompt has become a part of my daily routine, a way to stretch and flex my writing muscles before beginning my work for the day. For today I picked up 5 random words from the dictionary, and they were:

Stone Blue War Heart Ice-cream

And then I wove a story around those words, giving myself ten minutes. Here is the result, after I corrected the grammar and punctuation, and generally cleaned it up a bit.

A piece of stone where her heart had been, only a piece of stone. That is what grief can do to you.

Suffering ennobles man…bullshit! Suffering and grief rend a person of feeling, like burning your taste buds when you eat something too hot or deadening them with cold like he’d done once on an ice-cream binge with her.

They’d eaten ice-cream like maniacs, daring each other, pounds and pounds of ice cream, till their lips were blue and their tongues no longer felt like part of their mouths. They could not talk, could not taste, could not feel their kisses on each other’s lips, which made them laugh a faint hoarse laughter that seemed to come from somewhere else. Sometimes too much of joy can take away your ability to feel as well, but then that is a good thing.

And then he’d gone and left her. Left her for the war, its promises of glory, for the stupid people who no longer cared that he has given his legs for them. He gave them both his legs while fighting ferocious strangers in an unknown jungle on foreign soil, while she pined and died.

While her body was buried, they’d kept her heart for him, for that had been her last wish. As if the dead heart, no longer beating, no longer within her, turned to stone, could bring him her love.

A pink stone, that is what it was, a soft porous sandstone and on it he was going to carve the story of her life, even if he had to lose an arm or both doing it—he did not care. That piece of sandstone was all he had. He dug his crutches in. He now has to find his chisel and begin his lifelong work, or perhaps the work of a lifetime.

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  1. damyantig

    Well Darc, ever since I started doing fiction, or may be even before, Dark has been my middle name. Try as I might I never come up with something light and cheerful. Someday, maybe, after I’ve got all this darkness out of my system:)

  2. DarcKnyt

    I really like your exercises, Damyanti. I think you’re really onto something with those exercises, and I like the idea of the time limit instead of a word count.

    They always come out so dark. I suspect there’s a horror writer in you somewhere, lurking. 🙂