The Inspirational Writing Exercise

(Cheerio's Paragraph) His coat flapped around his ankles as he strode down the dark street. He jiggled his keys in his hand and whistled along to the music streaming from his headphones. The walk sign flicked on as he reached the corner, but he still turned his head to look for cars coming. Even after a year and a half of living in Brooklyn, he hadn't grown accustomed to the one way streets. He liked it though. He wasn't quite sure why, but he liked living in New York.

(TRS' Paragraph) Suddenly, a shot rang out. And then another. And another. Shots, that is. Suffice it to say that our hero was nonplussed, and quickly looked around for one of the ubiquitous rookie cops who had been hanging out on every street corner for the last few months. They were nowhere to be found. Our hero realized that the shots had been fired at him, and he looked around for some cover. There wasn't any, and he ducked. All this took less time than it took to write, but the murderous assailants were not to be denied, and our hero was soon lying in a puddle of blood.

(Le7's Paragraph) He touched the growing puddle of crimson blood and painstakingly pulled his head a few micrometers off the rough concrete to take one last look at himself. He shuddered before gracefully slipping into oblivion. The street was quiet save for the rustle of a few dead leaves and old candy wrappers. The air was thick with the uneasy quietude of deceit and police sirens started to whine in the distance.

(Sarabonne's Paragraph) It was but a few minutes later that Henry found himself ambling along the same street feeling sorry for himself. Here he was, 43 and dressed as Little Bunny Foofoo for some brat's birthday. He had heard the shots and promptly ignored them. Last thing he needed was some idiot cop playing games while he was in the bunny suit. God it was hot and the polyester itched terribly. Henry was mid-spit when Gary came into sight. Choking on saliva, he ran to get closer. Blood was everywhere. "Aw man..." he muttered.

(Dovid's Paragraph) "Gary Feld is a 22 year old Caucasian male brought in this afternoon with a gun-shot wound to his left hip, he has no significant past medical history and is now in stable condition. He will be admitted to the surgical floor shortly. A surgical and anesthesiology consult has been ordered. He is being given morphine as needed for pain.” Hearing his name, Gershon groggily opened his eyes, slowly remembering the events of the day. The dim light shining from the metallic stand was painfully bright and made him conscious of a splitting headache. He quickly shut his eyes, but not before he caught a blurred glimpse of his surroundings. There were two women in white coats standing by his bed in the emergency room. The younger one presenting his case was clearly nervous and stuttering, almost cowering in the presence of the older scowling lady. He also thought he saw an obese African American man dressed like a nightmare bunny eying him curiously. Morphine can do strange things to you he thought as he drifted away.

(RAW's Paragraph) Meanwhile, our "hero" Gershon's shooters continued on to their main objective: Gershon's residence. Gershon’s basement apartment was situated in a residential neighborhood. The presence of these tough, well armed men would obviously attract attention, but they made no attempt to be discreet. Their mission as they had planned it would not take more than five minutes, and they hoped to be out of the apartment long before the police arrived. Before their M-class Mercedes had completely stopped up outside the house, the men dashed to their assignments. There were four of them. Two took up guard positions outside the house. The other two shot off the bolt on the door and went inside. They knew exactly where to go. In the bedroom was a small, portable safe. It was a junky contraption, and they easily shot off the lock. Inside were neatly arranged packages of cocaine. They stuffed the whole safe into a medium-sized gym bag and left, satisfied that they had found everything they had come for. “Let’s go. We’re done here,” the leader said, stuffing the bag into the trunk of the car. All four men jumped back into the car. Police sirens could be heard in the distance as their car screeched away into the night. Nobody was going to catch them.

(EndOfWorld's Paragraph) Dina Light snickered as she watched the taillights of the receding car. She waited another minute (56 seconds, to be precise) before getting up from the ground. She casually sauntered down the block, trying to put as much distance between herself and the now obviously-broken-into house. Amateurs. But she would have loved to be there when they opened those bags. She snickered again. Amazing how one box of confectionery sugar can go such a long way. She reached into her bag and gave her semi-automatic a reassuring pat. She reached a little further, past the glock, the colt, the pepper spray, the hunting knife, where was it? Ah. She uncapped the lip gloss, applied a thin coat to her lips and resolutely strode off. The job of a narcotic officer never ended. Time to find Gershon and save the world. Again.