(MWSG Writing Games) Rebirth

Premise of exercise:

Write a story that includes the following:

  • Set in a car park
  • The mood is anger
  • Stolen car
  • Crutches
  • And a helmet

Thirty minutes writing time … here is what I wrote:


The car screeched to a halt in the empty car park.  Empty, except for the police tape around the scene of the crime.  The scene where it had all happened.

Tracey pushed open the door, a grunt escaping as the weight of the old sedan door proved unmanageable.  Still, she succeeded in the end.  Silly to be pleased with such a small accomplishment but these days she took her victories however they occurred.

She lifted her leg up and over and then the other before reaching back for her crutches.  Damn cast was an inconvenience to say the least but it wasn’t enough to stop her.  Nothing would stop her from doing this.

She grunted again with effort as she hefted her body weight forward, freeing herself from the confines of her ex father-in-law’s car.  Probably stolen, she thought as she slammed the door shut.  She couldn’t image him being able to afford such a vehicle but then she never imaged she’d be grateful for his support.

The wind picked up as she left the protection of the car.  If she were a superstitious type of person, she would have read something into the fluttering of her scarf and her hair rising then falling.  But she wasn’t.  She no longer believed in anything.  Death, she supposed, had a way of making you look at things differently and now, in this moment, she no longer understood anything.  Had no idea what to believe, what not to believe.  She was alive and that’s all she knew.

With a hobble, Tracey carefully made her way over crumbling pavement until the police tape flapped against her body. 

The bike stood pristine, shiny and new.  The helmet, however, had seen better days.  But then, nothing was built to withstand the forces it had endured. 

She closed her eyes, tears drying on her cheeks as the breeze flared briefly once again.

She had only one thought.

If this is what the helmet looked like, what the hell had the bastard done to her baby?

Tracy made herself stand and face the images that pummelled her mind.  A moan escaped from her lips, as if each blow were being physically delivered to her person.   As if she were the one on the receiving end. 

When she thought she could stand it no longer, she stiffened her spine and made herself go another round.  It had to be done, she told herself.  She had to suffer the pain to heal it.  Yet it was almost too much to bear.  A keening cry registered and it took a moment for her to realise that she was the one making the sound.  As it echoed into the night, the only thing holding her up were the crutches firmly lodged under her armpits.  Tracey had reached the end of her endurance.

She closed her eyes, forced herself to replace the images of the brutal attack with picture memories of her daughter.  Amy, when she was three years old and determined to blow the candles out over and over again, clapping with glee and delight each time Tracey re-lit the soon to be stubs of wax.  Amy, at her sixteenth birthday party, thinking she was all grown up and ready for the big wide world.  Amy, at graduation, the frill of her graduation cap proudly lifted and set to the other side.  Amy, crawling into her hospital bed to tell Tracey that everything would be fine, that the cast would come off soon but meanwhile ‘be a bum, Mum’.


Amy, who had been the reason for Tracey’s existence.  Amy, who had been brutalised and taken from her by a man who respected nothing. Amy, who was the reason for her existence. Tracey hung her head.  The cruelty and unfairness of it all weighed her down with a heaviness of all that was wrong with the world.  None of it made sense.  None of it changed a damn thing.  None of it would bring her girl back into her arms. 

She spun, her crutch catching on a bit of uneven pavement and she tumbled to the ground.  No longer able to gather the strength to pick herself up, Tracey curled up into a ball and let the world continue without her.

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I like this. It has pace and imagery. I could see Tracey and also get inside her life and her head through the way you've protrayed her.. Well done.

This is good, fun off the cuff writing.

Good imagery!