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Creative Writing Challenge 1

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Mon Jul 25, 2005 7:12 pm
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Rincewind says...



Here is the first of a few "challenges" I intend to share. I picked a few of them up in school, but this one was jsut an idea between a friend of mine and I. So, here goes.

The challenge is to write a short "scene" between two characters, in which the interact through bodylanguage, actions, and internal thought ONLY.
In other words, a situation where two people interact without talking.
We can call it Anti-Dialogue.

I've done this before. But I will make a new piece for the sake of this challenge. If more explanation, or even a sample piece is necessary, post so, and I will do what I can.

Good luck, god speed.

Rince.




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Wed Sep 21, 2005 4:51 am
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concertchick16 says...



:arrow: I fold my arms in front of me, and put my head down. My stringy brown hair gently covers my face. The boy next to me takes a step closer to me. I take a step away. He takes another step toward me. I pick up my bag which has been lying on the ground. I put the bag around my arm, and begin walking past the boy. His cold black eyes follow me as I walk by. The trees on the right of me are casting a chilly November shadow as I walk past. I hear the sound of leaves being stepped on, the simple crunch. I slowly turn my head, and look behind me; the boy is only three steps away. I begin walking faster, but so does he. I push my hair behind my ears and begin running. The boy never loses sight of me. We run for a mile before my side begins to hurt, I kneel over and clutch my hand to my stomach. The dull pain is a remainder that I haven't eaten in two days. The boy who is now beside me kneels down next to me. He puts his hand under my chin, and gently tilts me head upward, he smiles at me. As he Stands up he takes hold of my hands, his square hands engulf mine completely. Pulling me up beside him he takes my bag from me and throws it to the side. His arm encircles my shoulders as we walk back into the chilly November shadows.

not sure if this is what you meant...




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Wed Sep 21, 2005 3:00 pm
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Rincewind says...



That's exactly what I meant. I liked that a lot, well done.
Its a really interesting way to write a scene, I quite enjoyed it.
Hopefully some others try it too.
~The bandit’s body slumped to the ground, knees hitting first,followed by the rest.His dead weight pushed dust into the air in a swirling cloud.The blood flowed from his head,splicing like river canals,delaying slightly on pebbles before flowing on through the street.~




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Sat Oct 01, 2005 2:12 am
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bubblewrapped says...



(OK, this is gonna be a challenge...I'm gonna use something that actually happened. Here goes...)

She makes it clear from the beginning that she doesnt want me sitting anywhere near her. Hey, I'm not dense. I can take a hint, especially one so bloody obvious the entire school can tell that something is going on. When I climb up the bleachers to where she's sitting, I know she sees me, 'cause she deliberately catches my eye. We always sit together at swimming when we forget to bring our togs. But this time, she stands up without speaking and moves away, taking her friends with her. Just moves away. As though I am something diseased that she doesnt want to sit too close to, lest she become infected.

Yeah. Subtle, she is not. My face is on fire, but I smile to hide my humiliation, and act like I wasnt going to sit by her anyway. Instead, I sit by myself. Whats the big deal? Not like I care what she thinks. Her and her little friends. I dont know what they've got against me, but I dont give a damn. Not a damn. They can go and drown themselves for all I care.

I stare at the rest of the class, having fun in the pool. I wish I was in there, instead of up here. I am scorched with mortification; I almost feel surprised I dont spontaneously combust. I sneak a glance at them, and find them laughing at me.

I'm withering. OK, I do give a damn. In fact, I feel so scared and bewildered about this sudden coldness that I almost want to cry. Well, I wont give them the satisfaction. We used to be friends, you know. Not that we were ever very close, its just that basically I dont have anyone else. And now they're against me too.

I'm not going to cry. I'm not.

The teachers are coming over to tell us off. We're supposed to sit close together, you see, so that they can keep us all in line. How am I supposed to sit closer when they move away every time I try? I'm only trying to keep everybody happy. Wouldnt want them to fall off the bleachers in their haste to stay away from my revolting presence, would we?

Vindictively, I make a game of it. I move two inches. They move three. I smile. I move another five inches, and ignore them as they fall over themselves to get away. God, do I have BO or something? No. I'm just the way I always am. What is their problem?

I try to catch someone's eye, to grin, to let them know I appreciate the joke, but they can stop now. But they are merciless. Eventually, I'm within two seat-lengths of them and they are pressed against the edge of the bleachers, studiously keeping me isolated, out of the loop. I look at the oblivious backs of the people in front of me who are blessedly uninvolved. I wonder if they realize that a silent war is being fought above their heads. Please, I beg the teachers mentally. Please, can we go home now? Please dont make me suffer any more of this...

(Hmm...perhaps I got a little carried away LOL, its a bit long. Comes from emotional involvement. I swear, this is almost exactly what happened to me)
Got a poem or short story you want me to critique?

There is only one success: to be able to spend your life in your own way, and not to give others absurd maddening claims upon it. (C D Morley)




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Sat Oct 01, 2005 2:13 am
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bubblewrapped says...



Whoops, I think that wasnt exactly what you meant. I kind of involved more than just two people and didnt put in much about body language :oops: Sorry. Catharsis overtook me I think. Might try again later.
Got a poem or short story you want me to critique?

There is only one success: to be able to spend your life in your own way, and not to give others absurd maddening claims upon it. (C D Morley)




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Sat Oct 01, 2005 2:30 am
Rincewind says...



Very excellent start though.
It was a form of venting for you and that makes it powerful in ti sown right. Keep it up!! I like that.
~The bandit’s body slumped to the ground, knees hitting first,followed by the rest.His dead weight pushed dust into the air in a swirling cloud.The blood flowed from his head,splicing like river canals,delaying slightly on pebbles before flowing on through the street.~




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Mon Oct 03, 2005 4:51 am
SingingTelegram says...



Ooh, this is so awesome!! I have no idea where to even start!! Thanks so much, Rincewind! This is an incredible prompt!! I'll give it a try. This is the opening scene to one of my current stories that I've changed specifically for this. I do a lot with dialogue, but this is the first time I've had the challenge to do this!! I could hug you for this! :lol: :D

His last whispered words reach my ears like the smell of invisible flowers. His dirty blonde hair murmurs into his face as he watches the ground with renewed interest.

I regard him without emotion - what a bizarre kid. Usually, when I get some kind of request to help out a teenager with problems, it's about a lot of the same things: the normal kid crap. But not him.

When I've talked to him in the past, I use the 'nice counselor' voice, but he seems to know why it doesn't reach my eyes. He always knew. He reads me like an open book. The first day he walked into my office, it seemed as if he already knew I didn't care. Just sat on the large plush couch I provide my clients and chilled out - troubled, but unwilling to take the help I'm paid to offer.

Suddenly, I catch the boy's eyes flashing at me with an angered passion so great I find myself holding my breath until he blinks and looks away nonchalantly, as if that look should explain everything to me.

I let a single eyebrow rise at him; he knows that doesn't help me help him. When he turns to face me again, his eyes become amused, and matches my expression almost mockingly. Is that a smirk on the little snot's face? The minute I think I catch it, it's gone.

I sigh heavily. No point in squeezing blood from turnips, as my mother would have said. Same with Tag Olson. If he doesn’t want to tell me about something, he won’t, and it’s always been that way with him. But why bring these old, withered flowers with him? The question is burning so hard on my lips I'm surprised he can't see it.

As if hearing those very thoughts, the boy snorts, then takes me completely aback by breaking out into laughter. Is he laughing to just stop himself from crying?

When the laughter dies down, he looks at me cryptically, reading my thoughts again – confound it! that feels like rape sometimes – and smiles so wide he could have been mistaken for the Cheshire cat.

I don't intend to play mind games with Tag. So when I ask him my next question, he'll be answering with more than a shrug and a smartalec grin. I'll make sure of it.
Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back.




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Wed Oct 05, 2005 1:55 am
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Rincewind says...



---Mine went on a little longer than I had expected. I have posted this on here under another name as well. I sorta cheated with some thoughts thrown in there, and for emphasis I use only one speaking line right near the end. ---


Bastien sat in an old wooden rocking chair. It’s creaking was the only noise which broke the unbearable silence. He rocked slowly back and forth with his hands on the rests beside him. Sunlight poured in through the window and lit up his face, defining every etch and giving him a deep, shimmering aura. His gun was under his right hand and he tapped his fingers on the barrel in rhythm to the ancient chair’s moans. His eyes were hidden under his dusty brown hat, but they were steadily fixed on the man who stood before him.

Clayton stood just inside Bastien’s door. The light that came in through the door lit up half of the quaint one-room house. He winced from the glare in his eyes and stepped forward into the shadow. He stopped almost as soon as he began when he saw the man sitting in front of him, when he saw the gun the man had. Clayton put his arms out to his sides at hip height and shrugged his shoulders.

Bastien nodded slightly and, for a second, only the top of his hat was visible. When his face came back intoview, he smiled his wickedest sneer. All of a sudden he lunged forward, grabbing the gun as he stood halfway up from his chair.

When Bastien lunged, Clayton started backwards and stumbled a couple steps. He cringed his eyes shut and when he reopened them Bastien was once again seated in his chair calmly; smiling in that sadistic way only a mad man can. He hadn’t even got up really, only psyched me out, that bastard, Clayton thought to himself. He shook his head as he looked up from the floor, and leveled his eyes with Bastien. This time he was a little angered, and met his glare with an equally loathe full undertone.

Bastien kept smiling, he was laughing uproariously inside, and did not want to hide it. He picked up his gun in his right hand casually, and twirled it around in hypnotizing circles. He looked at the gun him self, watching the years of practice flow from his fingertips. When he turned his face, the right side, closest to the gun, went into shadow.

Clayton didn’t move when Bastien flipped up his gun. He remained stolid and watched the gun twirl around Bastien’s fingers, picking up momentum, and becoming blurry. Then Bastien turned his head and looked at the gun himself. When he did so, the darkened side of his face looked pallid and sick, like the face of a corpse. This sight, contrasted with the angelic glow from the sun on his other half, gave Clayton a terrible notion. This man is the apotheosis of hero. Yet, inside of him is the most terrible evil I’ve ever known. All of a sudden Clayton saw Bastien for what he was. A man with nothing to lose.

As if reading his mind, Bastien stopped his mesmerizing gun dance, and put the barrel to his temple.

Clayton’s eyes widened and his mouth fell agape.

Bastien thumbed back the hammer, and stretched a smile even wider than before, finally revealing a perfect set of teeth. He stared at Clayton and watched as an expression of shock and horror came over his sweaty face.

An eternity seemed to go by for Clayton. He couldn’t tell if Bastien was going to actually blow his own brains out the window or not. It sure would make my job a lot easier, he thought. Then he pulled the trigger.

Bastien was the only one who knew how many bullets were in the gun. Fucking hilarious! He thought. Clayton didn’t flinch much when Bastien pulled the trigger, but he sure flinched when Bastien pointed the gun directly at him.

After a couple more intricate spins, the big old six-shooter was pointed right at Clayton’s face. He had to use every bit of will he had to stay calm. A raven wailed and fluttered down onto the windowsill beside Bastien. It cawed again, this time more timidly and shuffled back and forth, tufting out its chest. Bastien sized Clayton up once more before averting his attention to the bird.

When Bastien looked over at the bird he cocked his gun’s hammer back in place and set it down again. He got up from his chair after a final rock forward and stretched his arms into the air, cracking his back. He didn’t look back at Clayton, just walked over to the only table in the room, which was in the corner behind the chair, and grabbed a loaf of bread. He nodded at the other man and held the loaf out in front of him.

Clayton shook his head. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he was grinding his teeth to the point that it was audible. He watched as Bastien broke off a piece of bread and fed it to the raven. The black beggar snatched it from his hands eagerly. Then, Bastien went over to the small stove that stood opposite the table in the other corner. On the stove was a pot of coffee Clayton hadn’t noticed until now. In fact, until seeing the coffee, he hadn’t taken notice of any smells, and now the scent of the coffee tingled his nostrils, and made his mouth salivate.

Bastien took two mugs from the hooks above the stove, and put them on the small counter beside. He held up a cup and looked at Clayton, who nodded this time. He’s warming up to me, Bastien thought. He poured out two portions of coffee. The cups were smaller, more like a teacup; they were Bastien’s mother’s before she died. He walked over to Clayton and handed him the cup saucer less, as all of those had been broken at one time or other.

Clayton took the cup, and eased his stance a little. At first he only held the glass in his hands, feeling the warmth flow from the coffee, through the cup’s walls, and into his palms. He watched keenly as Bastien sat back down and took a sip of his drink.
The damn bird picked absently away at the chunk of crusty bread Bastien had left it, and every so often let out a low chirp of delight.

Bastien swished his first sip of coffee around in his mouth a bit to fully experience the bold taste of his own home brew. He lowered the glass and smiled, this time more pleasantly. Clayton nodded slightly and took a sip of his coffee.

At the moment the cup touched Clayton’s lips, it exploded into a thousand pieces, spraying hot coffee all over his mouth and neck.

Clayton stumbled back just a step, and dropped what was left of the handle from the cup. It fell to the sooty wooden floor but didn’t break. All of a sudden his hearing and sight came back and he realized that Bastien had shot him. Smoke cleared and dust settled, and slowly the throbbing in his ears ceased to a dull ring. His neck hurt, he thought there were probably second-degree burns, bubbling up and growing redder by the second. Clayton was down on one knee, and as the last of the dust settled, he discretely picked up a jagged three-inch piece of shattered white china. He realized there was some blood dripping from his hands, but it wasn’t oozing, so he paid it no mind. He looked back up from the ground to the chair where Bastien sat, but no one was there. Then he felt a hard grip on his shoulder.

Bastien, immediately after expertly shooting the cup from Clayton’s hands, snuck around behind him and yanked him up from the ground. He spun him with his left hand and swung a hook with his right, connecting with Clayton’s jaw, and whipping his face sideways. Clayton stumbled backwards and he went to grab his neck and punch him in the face again, but as he drew back his fist he felt a sharp jab in his rib.

Clayton had taken a hit or two in his lifetime and this one was certainly the hardest yet. Bastien’s knuckles hit his mouth so hard he felt his eyes shake suicidally in his head. When he turned his face back, he was already coming at him again so he gripped the razor sharp chunk, and whomped it into his ribcage. The action cut Clayton’s hand badly, but he didn’t flinch, couldn’t flinch, or else he would lose his edge.

Bastien followed through with his punch, this time making sure to break this asshole’s jaw. After Clayton spun and fell to the floor, he plucked the little piece of glass from his side, and threw it to the ground. Some blood flung off of his fingers when he threw it, and splashed off his boot and Clayton’s pants. The blood hit the dirt, and balled up as it rolled along. He lifted his left arm and rubbed his side. It was nothing serious. He smiled that maniac’s smile, walked over to his chair, and sat back down.

Clayton was lying at Bastien’s feet, finally coming around. He was lying on his stomach, and when he opened his eyes, the tip of Bastien’s boot was all he could see. He got up to his hunkers with great quickness, but stopped suddenly when he realized the pain in his face. It was unbearable pain and it hit him like a raging bull. He stood up stumbling, and holding his face the whole time, finally coming to a swaying stop a few feet in front of the maniac in the chair.

When Clayton was standing up in front of Bastien, he took a few seconds to get his bearings. First day with your new legs? Bastien thought, and chuckled soundlessly. Bastien watched as Clayton carefully took his hands away from his wound. The bottom half of his face was demolished. His jaw had been knocked out of place, and shifted out to the left. It jutted out almost entirely, making Clayton’s head look like it could spin right off. Tears trickled down his face, mixing with the blood streaming from his gums and the rip in his cheek, and dripped off his chin onto his shirt. Clayton’s eyes were red and unfocused, he swayed in his place like a drunk.
Bastien leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees and said, “ So Clayton. How many bullets do you think I’ve got in this gun?” He looked over to his gun and picked it up. After admiring it for a few seconds he pointed it, once again, at Clayton. He tossed the gun from hand to hand all the while staring at the man in front of him.

All Clayton could feel was pain. Excruciating, mind numbing pain that was relentless and maddening. When Bastien pointed the gun at him he really wished he would stop stroking his ego, and just pull the trigger.

As if reading his mind, Bastien thumbed back the hammer, spun the gun once back, and once forth, and shot the raven.

He’s not going to let me die that easy, Clayton thought. And then he fainted.
~The bandit’s body slumped to the ground, knees hitting first,followed by the rest.His dead weight pushed dust into the air in a swirling cloud.The blood flowed from his head,splicing like river canals,delaying slightly on pebbles before flowing on through the street.~




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Wed Oct 05, 2005 4:54 am
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SingingTelegram says...



That was pretty awesome, Rincewind. REally suspenseful; it kept me going until the end. I was a little confused at the beginning as to who Bastien and Clayton were, but it was explained as the story went on. But totally awesome anyway!! :-D
Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back.




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Sat Oct 22, 2005 11:51 pm
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Fishr says...



Way cool. I haven't written like this in, uh, years? LOL. Let's see how rusty I am. Good idea Rince. It's good practice.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was standing on jagged stones and sticks in my bare feet - hands bound tightly, with rope. There were a row of soldiers; left and right, guarding my body. They knew I would attempt escape at a moments notice, if the situation presented itself. Their bayonets were aimed at my throat; all of them.

Beads of sweat, poured down from the forehead, soaking a tattered white shirt. I was also wearing pants, that traveled just above my knees. A piece of twine was tied around, my long, light brown, hair, keeping it out of the eyes. The heart was bouncing at a rapid speed. I was very nervous, but not frightened. I knew the crime I committed had a high price and I was willing to accept the consequences at all costs. I held my head high, keeping the eyes facing forward, showing no emotion. I wanted to prove that intimidation was futile, no matter how much the red-suited soldiers tried to break my spirit, threatening to slice my neck with their knives.

A burly man stepped forward from the left and marched, until he was less then a few inches from my bruised feet. This soldier had many scars, no doubt from hundreds of battles. They scattered along the sides of his right cheeks. There was one ghastly scar that stretched from the corner of his left eye, down to his lip. The soldier had long, blond hair, that reeked of stale blood and sweat. There was even small flecks of the reddish goo that stained parts of his hair. He was dressed in the familiar uniform as his comrades - bright red from top to bottom. The only difference that separated his uniform from the rest of the troop was that the man had many medals, which signaled to me that this soldier was of great importance.

The blond soldier, raised a flat hand to his eye lids and saluted his partners, that were still standing to the left and right, guarding my every move. The others only nodded to recognize his presence, not removing their cold stare upon my face. He then proceeded to step closer, sneering. His breath smelled of rotten flesh.

With a quick strike, my right cheek felt warm and began to sting. I jerked my head back into its rightful position, and only glared into his blue eyes - no tears or frowns. The blond soldier nodded to the men standing on either side of me and pointed to a wall, where a row of skinned tree trunks were tied tightly together.

His comrades lifted their rifles and shoved me hard in the spine, with the opposite end of their boy nets. My kneecaps flung foreword, causing me to trip and smash my face on sharp slate. Before I had an opportunity to lift myself up off the ground, strong hands grabbed the rope that held my hands tightened together and brought me swiftly to my feet.

The blond soldier that lifted me, shoved my back, causing me to trip over my heels, but the force wasn't strong enough for me to fall again. I had enough abuse, and began to walk slowly forward to a bloodshed, wooden wall. I kept my head held upwards, determined to show, that I had true courage, despite my crime: stealing shoes.

No sooner had I reached the wall, was my body quickly twisted around, and so now I was facing a row of bloody, rotton, "lobsters" who all had their rifles aimed towards my chest.

The time would soon be approaching and a wave of panic swept through the veins, and I felt small drops form around the corners of my eyes. The tears helped wash away the caked blood around the rims, cheeks and lips, from the brutal fall to the harden earth, I endured earlier.

The blond and burly man marched one more time close to me and smiled, mocking my misfortune. Praying for a blindfold, the soldier marched away and stood next to the firing squad. I watched helplessly, sobbing silently. He raised his sword upwards and thrusted it down, signaling my untimely end.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What did everyone think? I know there were other char actors, but the main ones were "I" and the burly soldier, or least I tried to write that way. :)
Formally known as Samuel Garrison





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Thu Oct 27, 2005 11:43 am
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Mia says...



Ok here goes,

She didn't need an explanation for the look on his face, for she had made the statement. So what if she was about to commit suicide, what did he care? She knew before asking herself this question what the answer was. He loved her. Pure and simple, and she loved him to. She looked away with tears in her eyes, his pain was impossible to look at.
He continued looking at her face stricken tears welling inside him, what was the need for words now? He begged her with his mind as only he could. Please don't do this! Although they were only sitting directly across from each other he felt their worlds become distant, more distant then he could ever imagined.

With one final glance towards him she placed the gun to her and head and pulled the trigger.




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Thu Oct 27, 2005 2:47 pm
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Rincewind says...



Yowza!
That was powerful.
What an emotionally charged instance. To witness your lover commit suicide. Gosh.
I loved it.
~The bandit’s body slumped to the ground, knees hitting first,followed by the rest.His dead weight pushed dust into the air in a swirling cloud.The blood flowed from his head,splicing like river canals,delaying slightly on pebbles before flowing on through the street.~




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Thu Oct 27, 2005 6:03 pm
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Carmina says...



She sat with her knees drawn up and her forhead to her kneecaps. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her shins.

He could hear her breath quivering, see her back rise and fall in jerking spasms, and knew she was crying. He reached out a hand and placed it gently on her shoulder, offering comfort. The muscles of back stiffened and she sucked in her breath, recoiling fro his touch. He drew back his hand. What had he expected? He had caused this pain. How could he expect her to take comfort from the man who had just decided to leave her, to move half-way across the country for schhol? He opened his mouth to explain, to at least try to say he was sorry. But, he knew words were empty. He moved around her so he was facing her directly. He pushed her hair back behind her ear. Her head popped up, and eyes met his, balefully, plaintively, longingly. Her forehead was red from where it had been pressing on her knees. Her eyes were swollen and still overflowing with tears, though her breath had steadied. Her face had the look of being alternately pale and flushed.

She looked him directly in the eyes. His dark eyes were full and liquid. She looked at him questioningly, and raised her hands in a pleading gesture as if to say, "Can't you stay? For me, can't you stay?" His eyes overflowed and he gave a tiny, almost imperceivable shake of the head that said, "I'm sorry. I can't."

She pushed him away, stood, turned, and stumbled shakily away. He reached after her and even took a step towards her before stopping himself. What good would it do?
I reject your reality and substitute my own




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Fri Apr 07, 2006 7:31 pm
Sammi D says...



[Ooh, I like this idea! ^_^ I also love what everyone else has come up with, so I'll give it a shot!]


He could see the intensity in her gaze. Her eyes were not enlarged with anger, nor narrow with concentration, yet he had never been watched with such passion before. Words did not leave her lips; yet all she needed to say, was reflected in her eyes. It startled him; there was no other way of putting it, she simply frightened him. Yet the chills he received were welcomed.

Most cast their sight down to the ground in his presence, but not her. Her hands rested defiantly on her hips, her chin high as she raised her eyes to lock into his. Black boots gave her more height than she had been naturally graced with, though they were not necessary. Something told him that even if she had been on her knees, she would still stand as tall as she did at that very moment.

He stood weakly in her presence; shoulders dipped, knees beginning to cave in at her mere glance. To know she was focusing on him, that all her thoughts were on him, shook his nerves. His arms hung there limply at his sides, prey caught in the sight of its predator.

With steady steps, she walked towards him, every click of her heels signaling her approach. Their gazes remained locked; hers out of focus, his out of vulnerability. But he did not want to break that one connection that strung them together, so it was with a willing weakness that he stood there once she was mere inches from him.

Her lips were painted red, and they glistened in the blinking lights around them. Mascara veiled her eyes, adding to the mystery that already enveloped her amongst the crowds. It was her willingness to stand out, the way she held her head high and dared to stare him in the eye that kept her in his gaze as well. She reached out her hand and drummed her fingertips on his shoulder, before gently dragging them across to his chest, then raising one long nail to delicately stroke his chin. His body shivered with her touch.

Was it love, or was it passion? He didn’t know, nor did he care. He wrapped his arms around her and placed his hands carefully on her waist. Savoring every moment they breathed the same air, he led her into a suave dance, as the upbeat music pulsed through the air.

He could feel her heart racing against his body, at the same pace of his own within his rib cage. No need to spoil it with words, he thought, for all that mattered was the rhythm they shared. It was all that ever mattered, both in love and in passion.
"I guess you didn't know it but I'm a fiddle player, too. And if you'd care to take a dare, I'll
make a bet with you."

- Charlie Daniel's Band, The Devil Went Down to Georgia


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Sat Dec 24, 2011 8:10 pm
BlueAfrica says...



I like this idea! Maybe I'm uncreative, but I feel like this would work best for a romantic scene...I may write something here later!