Manic Monday, hosted by RicoChey.

The first topic of March is up and available for conquering! Come show us your Local Color!

Let’s start the week off right. Are we writers or are we writers? Monday is a legitimate Monday for me, as I work weekdays, so I follow the cliche. My mind is not prepared for its functions on the first day of a new week. Were I a wiser woman, I would flex its muscles to get it moving again. I figure we can be wise together.

Here’s the game: I supply the first sentence, and you supply the next one, as a general “Reply” to this post. Only a sentence, and while run-ons are acceptable, know your limits. (As if we have any.) Since we’ll be taking turns, the only rule is you have to put at least two people between yourself and your last contribution. No hogging! Ready?

“A lone man streaked through the darkness, and the others pursued him.”


About brigitsflame

Brigit's Flame is an ever-evolving online writing community. We offer writing prompts and inspiration while sharing our own writing and reading observations with an audience of writers, poets, and readers. We encourage peer readership and constructive criticism for all of our members. Our motivation is simple -- creativity is a precious resource to be nurtured and the results of the creative process can grow into something beautiful when shared. All writing you share with us remains your property. Come check us out on Brigits Flame Writing Community on Wordpress and be sure to follow our activity on Brigits Flame on facebook, Brigits Flame on tumblr, or Brigits Flame on twitter. We are everywhere you are.
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3 Responses to Manic Monday, hosted by RicoChey.

  1. After a nervous glance over his left shoulder he thought, “Wells, pitchforks are a bit much.”


  2. The mob was gaining, those pitchforks looked pointier and pointier, and he berated himself viciously as he tried to run faster, “I am an idiot for not sparing the time to pull on trousers!”


  3. RicoChey says:

    Though he hadn’t really the time for it, he took a moment to try and remember the last time anything had ever felt as frigid as the wind now shearing his unmentionables.


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