Mr_Nothing
Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2011
- Posts
- 85
Here we begin a trial method for crafting spontaneous SRP
storylines. I will give a brief opening to provide a generalized setting,
perspective and "mood". These will serve as a "core and kernel" for your own
creative directions. Be impulsive, daring, quick. Just transport yourself into
the milieu and allow your senses to see, feel, smell, hear and so on. The
characters and plot elements will develop from there. First time posters
send your initial snippet to me as a PM. If approved, I will post it on your
behalf and then you are free to continue with the thread.
No roosters crowed that morning, perhaps they had the sense to avoid being too cliche. But everything else fit. The window in your small motel room framed a lush pastoral landscape possibly pilfered from the side of a margarine tub or milk crate. It even smelled faintly of butter; along with hot coffee, slabs of bacon; a quaint little Iowa diner across the lot. This would be your new life, they said, quaint and little and completely anonymous. Folks for a hundred miles around would already be up, arms stretching over their heads, getting their backs ready for work and worshiping the warm golden sunlight. But to you it was was a piercing, probing eye. You slam the curtains closed and melt back onto the thin mattress.
storylines. I will give a brief opening to provide a generalized setting,
perspective and "mood". These will serve as a "core and kernel" for your own
creative directions. Be impulsive, daring, quick. Just transport yourself into
the milieu and allow your senses to see, feel, smell, hear and so on. The
characters and plot elements will develop from there. First time posters
send your initial snippet to me as a PM. If approved, I will post it on your
behalf and then you are free to continue with the thread.
No roosters crowed that morning, perhaps they had the sense to avoid being too cliche. But everything else fit. The window in your small motel room framed a lush pastoral landscape possibly pilfered from the side of a margarine tub or milk crate. It even smelled faintly of butter; along with hot coffee, slabs of bacon; a quaint little Iowa diner across the lot. This would be your new life, they said, quaint and little and completely anonymous. Folks for a hundred miles around would already be up, arms stretching over their heads, getting their backs ready for work and worshiping the warm golden sunlight. But to you it was was a piercing, probing eye. You slam the curtains closed and melt back onto the thin mattress.
