The Horsefolk, The Hooves of Hades, The Horse Gang, The Centaurians, whatever they might be calling themselves these days, were a group of centaur-fetishizing fleshmods. They injected their legs and glutes with synthetics, modded their feet to be more hoove-like, even adding hard but impressively tenacious horseshoes that let them turn on a dime but still kick like sledgehammers; and even the weakest of them could squat 200 kilos. They were terrible bullies, conscienceless mercenaries, and one of Tris’ least favorite gangs of the Districts. If there was a dead body found with a crushed skull, there was a 99% chance it was the horsies. As he tromped through the rows of warehouses, he caught a glimpse of one out of the corner of his eye. One street over, they found themselves across the block from one another at a cross street. The horse-man ran ahead before he could get a good look, but their alien gait gave them away.
---
---
Tris accelerated, suddenly aware of his isolation, the street a narrow, rapid river, the walls of the warehouses cliffs of a desert canyon. He could see the cranes above, smell the water. He was close to where there would be people, close to making that left towards the East District and even more people and less predictable, more familiar streets and alleys. He could make out dockworkers just two blocks ahead, they grew as he approached. He wanted to run but did not dare.
Suddenly the way was blocked by a half-dozen stocky, thick-legged horsefolk. Tris froze. Then the shadows formed, bodies standing on the roofs above, blocking the sun. He realized he was surrounded on three sides. He held his hands up in front of him, the universal sign for “I don’t want any trouble,” moved one leg back, pivoted, and ran.
He could hear those synthetic hooves pounding the pavement behind him. He saw the shadows move alongside him. He would never be able to outrun either of these pack hunters. “This is it,” he thought to himself, “I can’t believe this is fucking it.” Then he saw a door open to his left.
---
The Chariots of Fire, The Jumpers, The Monkeys, whatever they were referring to themselves as, or others were calling them, were a parkour gang often found leaping between buildings in the East District, or across the roofs of the warehouses, or climbing the cranes at the docks. Their white tennies and tracksuits gave them away even on those rare occasions when they were still. Usually, though, it seemed as though they could run indefinitely. They were terrible bullies, conscienceless mercenaries, and one of Tris’ least favorite gangs of the Districts. If a dead body was found, clearly splat on the ground from a great height, there was a 99% chance it was the parkours. As he tromped through the rows of warehouses, he saw a shadow fly across the street directly in front of him. He looked up in time to see a single leg disappear beyond the roofline, a white tapered pant leg with a black stripe down the side.
---
Tris accelerated, suddenly aware of his isolation, the street a narrow, rapid river, the walls of the warehouses cliffs of a desert canyon. He could see the cranes above, smell the water. He was close to where there would be people, close to making that left towards the East District and even more people and less predictable, more familiar streets and alleys. He could make out dockworkers just two blocks ahead, they grew as he approached. He wanted to run but did not dare.
Suddenly the way was blocked by a half-dozen stocky, thick-legged horsefolk. Tris froze. Then the shadows formed, bodies standing on the roofs above, blocking the sun. He realized he was surrounded on three sides. He held his hands up in front of him, the universal sign for “I don’t want any trouble,” moved one leg back, pivoted, and ran.
He could hear those synthetic hooves pounding the pavement behind him. He saw the shadows move alongside him. He would never be able to outrun either of these pack hunters. “This is it,” he thought to himself, “I can’t believe this is fucking it.” Then he saw a door open to his left.
You said that you can't just work on a piece incrementally. Can't show up Monday and put in a few hundred words. Show up the next day and put in another hundred take away 100.
You just have to show up and do it all in one go.
I've been the same way as well for each week's assignment. Whenever I have been able to put in more than one session's worth of work into an assignment it's not been because I continued a piece, but rather I took more swings at bat.
With a 500 word count I believe that it's easy to take a swing at bat. I'm not even trying and this comment will probably be around 300 or so words.
Anyways while reading your submissions for this assignment it got me thinking. Writers like you and me... and intellectua-artistic-writers who claim to be writers like
Right now you and I have been showing up 500 words a week because of the constraints. What's keeping us from slowly upping the commitment? Slowly over time until one day we're just pumping out 500 word constrained sketches everyday like taking breaths.
Maybe this hits you different since you're older than me. But right now how I see it is that we have an opportunity to start taking steps towards a fruitful writing career where the person we becomes so much more distanced from the kind of writer we are today.
It's time to distance ourselves from ourselves.