care-tags.org

Post a WAYWT pic that speaks to you and crank out some prose.

ONLY post creative writing in this thread. All game talk can go into the .

The radio crackled behind him as lay in a stained, torn hammock thinking he couldn't help but feel he shouldn't have got involved The constant pressure his family and those around them to 'step up a be a man' had worn him down. He'd not done much in his life until now, got average grades, had a nine to five job with a boss he hated he thought it could have been a chance to change this leaving a legacy people could be proud of. At least that's what the recruiter banged on about but after five months of crippling heat and humidity leaving the air as thick as wool these words were long forgotten.

What came tomorrow would tell the outcome of this man. The operation was his companys final push before they packed up and went home after the change over, a frontal assault into the heart of the enemies camp. Nestled in a mountain cave surrounded by natural barriers which they had to overcome before they even had any chance of coming out alive....

that's all i have, in order to not feel like a cop out i drew a picture

might be grammatical mistakes :(

A slushy mixture of snow and mud squelch underfoot as you make your way through the small copse. Overhead, a few weak rays of morning sun pierce the clouds and reflect off patches of snow, sending out shimmering fragments of warmth. These are only a small comfort, and you can still see your breath coming out in little clouds of vapour. You shiver and stick your hands deeper into the pockets of your down jacket. As long as it's this cold, there could at least be enough snow to enjoy. Not far off, cars rush down a freeway, no doubt sending out more piles of salty boot-ruining slush. At least the copse is peaceful. From the corner of your eye, you see something that appears to glide through the tangled brambles that demarcate the edge of the woods. Something black with a flash of red and white. Must be a little bird you think, for you are both unimaginative and truly unsuspecting of the hidden magic of the world. Ahead of you on the path an overhanging branch trembles and releases little globes of water that, if you had the the necessary sharpness of eye to take in close up, would reveal a fisheye version of your own surprised and slightly uneasy mug. The noise of cars and rumbling semis has disappeared and has been replaced (or enveloped) by a muffled kind of silence like after a snowfall. The silence is broken (rather quickly and forcefully) when a bird warbles behind you. Turning your head you scan the bare branches for any fluttering wings but find none. As you turn back, a young woman has apparently materialised on the path in front of you. She wears a long black jacket that just brushes the top of a pair of well worn boots. Under the jacket she sports a long red checkered skirt and cropped white checkered top. "What a lovely day!" she says, flashing a brilliant set of teeth abutted by red lips. You stand there — stunned. "I always find," she continues, unaware or perhaps unaffected (or even unswayed) by your slacked jaw, "that when a few weak rays of sun pierce the clouds and reflect off patches of snow to send out shimmering fragments of warmth I feel quite refreshed and alive." As she speaks she spreads her arms out and up and tilts her head back as if welcoming the aforementioned rays of weak sun to abandon their futile mission of warming the earth and instead come to rest on her already sunny face. "There's a sense of crispness in the air! A direct realisation of the transience of the seasons, one could say. Well, I could say, I did in fact say it just now." She twirls in a circle, her skirt and jacket twisting in a swirl of colours. As she spins you could swear a few green shoots push out of the packed snow around her boots. "Again, It's a lovely day but I'm afraid I must get on. There's quite a lot of ground to cover between now and March the twentieth. Nice to meet you!" She raises her hand and with that, heads off the path in the direction of the freeway. "Hey," you call after her, "Aren't you cold?" She looks back and flashes a warm smile "Honey, cold is a state of mind." That makes absolutely no sense, you think, and open your mouth to reply but she's already gone and in her place remain a smattering of small flowers, each one nestled in the imprints left by her boot heels.

Glossy pink skin rippled furtively under the layer of hair, billowing as the knees snapped forward and drew back. A bit of spit and rapid pumps of air into the lungs generated a small quantity of foam from four separate, agitated, thick pink lips.

He watched the sallow flank ripple and felt with a controlled pleasure both the firm, calculated grip of the crop in his hand, and the shock and panic of leather meeting pink skin. His tongue collected the foam on his lips and swallowed it. He allowed the images of last night to play slowly, with attention to detail. The thick black hair in his palm, the pocked flesh of perfectly sculpted buttocks, his satisfied and unbroken silence in contrast with the low, carnal grunts.

"Stop!" He barked at the trainer, voice cracking to a dissonant chord. His knees snapped forward and drew back until his long fingers were stroking the specks of spit off of the thoroughbred's soft nose. He lost control of his breathing again, and overcompensated with short, shallow gasps. He admired the smooth, untroubled arcs he administered with his hands, his own placid expression, the relaxation of the animal.

It at once snorted and his throat convulsed, eyes trained on the snot decorating his jacket. It conveyed a sort of vague french-workwear aesthetic, the perfect symbolic mating of sophistication and pragmatism, practically a metaphor for his very existence.

Regardless, the swell of rage burst into perceptible realty in the form of an involuntary head-twitch.

"I won't be buying her." He declared curtly and turned on his heel.

The trip out to see the mare had been a complete waste of his time, and his driver wouldn't be back for another hour. Unfortunately, he knew well that the decisive power of pivots was negated by any sort of second attempt of about-face, and he resolved to stride off past the stables into the woods with a purpose he hoped looked more convincing to others than himself.

After some time, it became clear that to turn back now would be a disaster. His never-previously-seen combat boots were now caked with horse shit, black chinos grey with dust, and the collar he had berated Regina over was now sagging with sweat. He fingered the limp strands of hair that seemed obsessed with the planes of his temples. Everything clung needily in the Charleston heat.

He carefully removed his vintage matchbook and placed it on a stump. He gripped the thick rolled burning paper firmly in his pink mouth in order to shed his skin.

Pink flesh on his shoulders rippled as he casually stowed the bundle of clothes under his arm. Purpose no longer mysterious, he trotted with a severe expression back to where the driver was waiting for him, confident the others would understand his choice of Louis Vuitton boxer-briefs.

"Children! Children settle down... What's going on here? Emily, is that bubble gum in his hair?"
"..."
"I don't see how that's an excuse to put bubble gum in his hair. How would you feel if someone did that to you?"
"..."
"Well you should apologize first of all... and for the record putting gum in people's hair isn't a good way to get people to like you."
"..."
"It doesn't matter if it was strawberry flavoured and he said he liked strawberries."
"..."
"It doesn't matter if you think he looks better with shorter hair."
"..."
"It doesn't matter if you didn't have a scrap of paper to spit your gum into. Be honest, now."
"..."
"Oh my dear Emily, this is the first of many. I do commend you for not waiting at the window."