Week 7: Mr. Whiting

10/14/2020

https://www.theosthinktank.co.uk/comment/2018/01/18/what-does-a-thinking-person-look-likePrompt:
Write about a character who realizes they are wrong about something. The mistake could be fortunate, tragic, humorous, or inconsequential. Go wherever your imagination takes you.

Word Count: 120-150 words

Expectations:
-Remember that you are writing for the King's Academy community. Please be respectful of that community.
-Respect the word count
-Your work should have a title--this is not part of your word count.
-Include your full name and word count at the end of your submission.
-Have fun with this challenge.

Deadline:
22:00 Tuesday, October 20th

Photo Source:
https://www.theosthinktank.co.uk/comment/2018/01/18/what-does-a-thinking-person-look-like

6 Comments

Lina Obeidat

10/16/2020 06:51:34 am

Customer Service

There, stands a woman in front of a daunting shelf of laundry detergents. Scanning the prices, she feels a heavy breathing on the nape of her neck. She turns around, her eyes shooting wide open in alarm to find a man standing close behind her.

“Hello, my name is Gerald,” he says pointing to the red tag on his chest, “how may I help you?”

Smiling with pride at having said his lines just as practiced, he straightens out his carefully ironed blue collared T-shirt, waiting expectantly for the woman’s response.

“I’m fine actually,” she says before quickly shuffling away.

He frowns, looking after her confused. Turning around, he finds his boss, leaning against the aisle: “Gerald, you’re scaring the customers again.”

“I don’t understand,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to startle her.”

“You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

“But customer service--”

“It’s creepy.”

“Oh.”

Word Count: 149

Jawad

10/17/2020 02:59:47 am

Cutting the Wrong Wire

Red or Blue.
Life or Death.
The only real decision.
Sweat beads built up on James’ brow. It was 1968 in sweltering Vietnam. The Viet Cong had infiltrated the base. Everyone had evacuated. It was down to James. And the bomb. This was the scariest and the most dangerous choice of James’ life.
James felt blind, his mind raced. This was nothing he had seen before; the Viet Cong bomb did not match anything he had learned about during his training. There was no time, he grabbed his scissors and thought about his family laughing around the Thanksgiving table. Then he cut a wire.
Back in America, a doorbell suddenly rang waking up James’ wife who rushed to the door hoping her husband would be there. Instead, she saw an American general. She burst into tears knowing before having to hear it that James was dead.

mar

10/18/2020 02:34:53 am

I walk in the dreary weather typical to this city.The sky is such a deep shade of grey that the street lamps are on despite it only being half past noon. As I walk a couple and their kid passes by, the couple is talking but their kid seems to be paying them no attention. Instead she is concentrating on her toys caught in her imaginary world. I sigh as I think of this remembering a time when I was the same and my mind drifts off no longer on the sidewalk of this god forsaken city but in the sweet smell of those long forgotten summer days

My mind drifts off to when I was a little girl. Oh how I remember those days. It was almost impossible to part me from my toys. I really did not care what toys they were simply that they were objects that I could invent fabulous stories to. Oftentimes I would start a story and keep it going for years changing and adapting it like a drawing or painting. Using wit and imagination as my pencil. Sometimes these stories would resemble nothing of their original selves and instead become something completely different.caterpillars that would slowly turn into butterflies. These stories were mine and no one else's I think back on that time long long ago and wonder what would have happened if I had only had the courage to share my stories.Perhaps I was wrong about keeping them to myself after all.

Jawad Alazzeh

10/18/2020 11:27:12 am

Jaafar Wahbeh

10/20/2020 11:11:11 am

To Be

By: Jaafar Wahbeh

Enola raced through the dim street; she was “Alone”. Was it fate or destiny? All she knew at the moment that she had to run from it. The leaves scurried like drowning grown kids in an ocean of regret, to disappear under the noxious water and fade away…
Laying on the floor handcuffed by the mistakes of the past, with bloody memories dripping down. A past that haunted her for the rest of her life. Punishments must be done, bruises must be left, life must be gone! “To be, or not to be: that is the question”, “To be, or not to be: that is the question” the room reverberated with the whips of time.
The woe of broken vows was to be paid. Dozen’s words left behind to ashes, made of gold. The question remained, better rephrased: “To make up, or not to make up: that is the question”.

Jaafar Wahbeh

10/20/2020 11:12:37 am

To Be
By: Jaafar Wahbeh
Enola raced through the dim street; she was “Alone”. Was it fate or destiny? All she knew at the moment that she had to run from it. The leaves scurried like drowning grown kids in an ocean of regret, to disappear under the noxious water and fade away…
Laying on the floor handcuffed by the mistakes of the past, with bloody memories dripping down. A past that haunted her for the rest of her life. Punishments must be done, bruises must be left, life must be gone! “To be, or not to be: that is the question”, “To be, or not to be: that is the question” the room reverberated with the whips of time.
The woe of broken vows was to be paid. Dozen’s words left behind to ashes, made of gold. The question remained, better rephrased: “To make up, or not to make up: that is the question”.

Word Count: 150 words

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Week 7: Mr. Whiting

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