Crossing the Road

I've decided that besides grocery lists and e-mail correspondents with my lawyer, I should start writing more. I got this fun thing called The Writer's Toolbox, by Jamie Cat Callan, which has writing exercises to help you loose brain atrophy weight. Because part of my plan is to take over the world (and then hand that job over to someone else so I can enjoy being world leader), I thought I might bore you with some of the results of those exercises. The below example is called "first sentence." You pull out a stick, and whatever sentence is on that stick becomes your first sentence and you then write for about 3 minutes, more if your microwave oven has less wattage power. 

 Crossing the Road
Michael sat down in the middle of the road and began to cry. He was just a baby chick, not yet a chicken that could complete something so mind boggling amazing that humans would question it for years to come. His father had crossed the road. His father before him. Chicken genealogy records only go back two generations, so he wasn’t sure if his father’s father’s father had also done it. But he liked to think he also had.

His plump and juicy legs hurt. His thighs were marinating in sweat and defeat. And his tender ribbed breast sunk deep down into his chest. This is it, Michael thought. They’ll grill me back on the farm. “Just why couldn’t you cross the road, Michael? Are you chicken?” they’d ask.

When things boiled down to it, Michael decided he’d rather cross the road than receive the golden nugget of humiliation award. Might as well wing it, he thought. And so, even though he felt like a chicken with his head cut off, he lifted up his foot…

And was immediately pounded to a one-fourth inch filet by the street sweeper.