There are so many authors, writers, poet-ers, and word smiths in our Thursday Thirteen land, that I thought it might be fun if we wrote a story together. Are you game?
Thursday Thirteen #41 – Let’s write a story!
Here’s how it will work.
- I will write a 13 line story.
- You can add a word, a sentence or a phrase.
- Be sure to read the other comments so you can pick up from where they left off.
- I will add your phrase to the story
- and link to your site at the end of the post.
I will engender to keep up with your posts and comments.
Our inspiration?
The beginning:
The job didn’t bothered him.
He was used to the work.
And anyway, it was just another job.
But the girl?
The praying girl?
She kept returned to him every morning at 2:19 a.m.
Was it because she was praying?
For a couple years, he told himself that she looked like his little sister.
But lies like that only last for so long.
Then, once again, he and the little girl dance on the ceiling of his bedroom.
“No one gives a shit about the child.
Get it done,” his command replied.
All these years later, he still gave a shit about the child.
“What was it about her that haunts me so?” he asked himself, irritated that by touching something in him, the girl revealed a vulnerability. (The Gal Herself) He then slugged back a fifth of gin. (Sue at the Urban Zoo)
Was it her innocence? Her devotion? He might be jealous, his innocence lost long ago taking his devotion right along with it… (Tink) The vulnerability, he realized, was his own. And he was angry. (Sandy Carlson) It was too much to comprehend. His eye caught the bottle again. Did oblivion loom? (Anthony North)
The bottle only brought on visions of the little girl once again. (Michelle)
Why was this little girl haunting him? What was she trying to tell him? (Yasmin) To whom did she speak, eyes closed and hands folded, that gave her such a glow of peace? (Vixen)
He opened another bottle of gin. Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, that same girl was praying again. She wondered how horrified people would be if they knew what she was praying for. (Nicholas) But she kept praying anyway. And he stayed haunted. (Jameil)
From day to day it got even worse, after one week he couldn’t do his job properly anymore. Everytime he looked into their eyes he saw her reflection – kneeling, praying, vulnerable. (Julia) Yet he had to wonder. Vulnerability implied a weakness but he sensed a certain strength of spirit. (Nicole Austin)
If only he could look into her eyes. (Gina’s Public Dairy) He thought he might find the peace he was looking for and the answers to all of his questions. (Lori at Single Parents Unite).
Yet, he would see she only wanted to make his day that much happier, that much easier. That is all a little girl could do. (Tommie at Tuesday Update)
But she was a brave little thing wasn?t she. After all that, after all that she had seen in those haunted eyes?she still prayed. She still believed there was someone there who would answer?he wished he still felt the same. (Journeywoman)
Would she ever stop praying? Stop praying. STOP! And then a voice: ?Our father which art in Hell? (TC at the Write Gardener)
But when he did look into her eyes he was blinded by the illuminating light. Now he could not see, but what he saw in himself scared him far worse than the praying little girl. He wept! (Bernie)? Realizing that he was exposing the vulnerabilities in his own life, he hid his tears. Squaring his shoulders he marched down to the nearest pub and ordered a slug of gin, drinking himself into oblivion. (SJ Reidhead)
Hoping that if he emptied enough glasses, her face would blur in front of his eyes. Not completely, just enough for him to forget her and move on. (Perpstu)
Upon waking from his drunken stupor, he knew that drinking himself into oblivion would not help, it would in fact only make things worse. He must stay sober and face the demons of his past. (Alice)
Every time, it was always the same. Always praying, always silent. Until now. This time, she opened her eyes. Haunted, pain-filled eyes. This time, she spoke. The words barely a whisper, but ones that reached down to his soul and ripped it out. ?Help me.? (Lori at Other World Diner)
I will not move on I will face her directly and ask her -?little one what is your message?? (Marcia at Joy is my goal).
He began to black out at work, miss days, and come in hung over. He found himself hunched over in his cubicle secretly looking at airline flights. (Colleen at Loose Leaf Notes) He would, no matter what the price, go to her. He would kneel next to her and finally have the answers he so desperately needed. (Lisa at Stamps A Latte)
His eyes scanned the screen. The time of the flight didn?t matter. He had to get to her. Now. (Fear and Parenting in Las Vegas).
He knew exactly where he would find her, but he went anyway. Brushing the tears out of his eyes, he knelt in front of what was left of her: cold, aged stone. (She)
His mind reeled as more of the memory came, as if from a fog. ?It was ten years ago, and he was driving in the pouring rain. (Peter Plum)
His wife huddled miserably in her seat belt next to him, peering at the rain which smashed against ?the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it away. ?Their daughter lay across the back seat sleeping, a stuffed white rabbit snuggled in her small arms. (Heart in SF)? She had never thought of the safety belt for her daughter – lying on the back seat.
If only she had done so…. (Who_me)
He couldn’t do anything to stop it, though he grasped the steering wheel tightly and tried not to close his eyes. (Miss Attitude)
As on that day when he gripped a steering wheel that could not steer, wheels skimming the skin of an eternity awash in heaven?s tears, now he grips the glass, slick with the sweat of regret, refusing to steer a life now bereft of hope, refusing to hear the notes of mercy in a small girl?s prayer, he raises to his lips the glittering rim and swallows another dram from the bottomless well of sorrow.? (Joy Renee)
Max swallowed carefully, savoring the sensation of the the vodka scalding his throat. The burning as it pooled in his belly was a punishment he was increasingly willing to endure. ?Eva, can you ever forgive us? Forgive me?? he mumbled.
And then something in the glass caught his eye. He tilted it back a bit, beholding the image floating on the top of the icy clearness of the liquor. (Los Angelista)
~~~~~~~~
YOUR TURN!! Add a phrase, a word, a sentence on to this story. I’ll add your addition and link to your blog. And I promise to keep up this Thursday! 
~~~~~~~~
“What was it about her that haunts me so?” he asked himself, irritated that by touching something in him, the girl revealed a vulnerability.
He then slugged back a fifth of gin
Was it her innocence? Her devotion? He might be jealous, his innocence lost long ago taking his devotion right along with it…
The vulnerability, he realized, was his own. And he was angry.
It was too much to comprehend. His eye caught the bottle again. Did oblivion loom?
The bottle only brought on visions of the little girl once again.
Why was this little girl haunting him; what was she trying to tell him.
To whom did she speak, eyes closed and hands folded, that gave her such a glow of peace?
He opened another bottle of gin. Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, that same girl was praying again. She wondered how horrified people would be if they knew what she was praying for.
But she kept praying anyway. And he stayed haunted.
From day to day it got even worse, after one week he couldn’t do his job properly anymore. Everytime he looked into their eyes he saw her reflection – kneeling, praying, vulnerable.
Yet he had to wonder. Vulnerability implied a weakness but he sensed a certain strength of spirit.
If only he could look into her eyes.
Sorry… I’m really not up to adding to your story. I’ve been working two jobs, fighting with my broken comment form and today is my son’s birthday. Happy TT.
He would see she only wanted to make his day that much happier, that much easier. That is all a little girl could do.
He thought he migh find the peace he was looking for and the answers to all of his questions.
But she was a brave little thing wasn’t she. After all that, after all that she had seen in those haunted eyes–she still prayed. She still believed there was someone there who would answer…he wished he still felt the same.
Would she ever stop praying? Stop praying. STOP! And then a voice: “Our father which art in Hell…
I added a sentence but don’t know what happened to it. Oh well, keep this going, it’s getting good.
But when he did look into her eyes he was blinded by the illuminating light. Now he could not see, but what he saw in himself scared him far worse than the praying little girl. He wept!
Realizing that he was exposing the vulnerabilities in his own life, he hid his tears. Squaring his shoulders he marched down to the nearest pub and ordered a slug of gin, drinking himself into oblivion.
SJR
The Pink Flamingo
Hoping that if he emptied enough glasses, her face would blur in front of his eyes. Not completely, just enough for him to forget her and move on.
Great TT, Claudia! You are so talented!!!
Upon waking from his drunken stupor, he knew that drinking himself into oblivion would not help, it would in fact only make things worse. He must stay sober and face the demons of his past.
Every time, it was always the same. Always praying, always silent. Until now. This time, she opened her eyes. Haunted, pain-filled eyes. This time, she spoke. The words barely a whisper, but ones that reached down to his soul and ripped it out. “Help me.”
I will not move on I will face her directly and ask her -”little one what is your message?’
He began to black out at work, miss days, and come in hung over. He found himself hunched over in his cubicle secretly looking at airline flights.
He would, no matter what the price, go to her. He would kneel next to her and finally have the answers he so desperately needed.
His eyes scanned the screen. The time of the flight didn’t matter. He had to get to her. Now.
He knew exactly where he would find her, but he went anyway. Brushing the tears out of his eyes, he knelt in front of what was left of her: cold, aged stone.
His mind reeled as more of the memory came, as if from a fog. It was ten years ago, and he was driving in the pouring rain.
His wife huddled miserably in her seat belt next to him, peering at the rain which smashed against the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it away. Their daughter lay across the back seat sleeping, a stuffed white rabbit snuggled in her small arms.
He couldn’t do anything to stop it, though he grasped the steering wheel tightly and tried not to close his eyes.
She had never thought to place her daughter in a safety belt on the back seat.
If only she had done so.
As on that day when he gripped a steering wheel that could not steer, wheels skimming the skin of an eternity awash in heaven’s tears, now he grips the glass, slick with the sweat of regret, refusing to steer a life now bereft of hope, refusing to hear the notes of mercy in a small girl’s prayer, he raises to his lips the glittering rim and swallows another dram from the bottomless well of sorrow.
Max swallowed carefully, savoring the sensation of the the vodka scalding his throat. The burning as it pooled in his belly was a punishment he was increasingly willing to endure. “Eva, can you ever forgive us? Forgive me?” he mumbled.
And then something in the glass caught his eye. He tilted it back a bit, beholding the image floating on the top of the icy clearness of the liquor.