Story Writing Exercises?

So, I figure I should use this blog to somewhat increase my writing skills, right? Why write if not for thine self and the betterment of thine writing? So I stumbled upon these writing exercises and shall now write non-edited stream of consciousness responses to them here and now (maybe not all six since it's 2am and I have very limited brain function, but I'll try, for you dear readers).

Write the first 250 words of a short story, but write them in ONE SENTENCE. Make sure that the sentence is grammatically correct and punctuated correctly. This exercise is intended to increase your powers in sentence writing. (It's only 207, so sue me)
I have always loved railroad tracks, the seemingly endless way they run out to the horizon, the wonder and excitement that lays at their end, the strange and interesting people along the way - the idea of endless days and nights of hundreds of people with hundreds of ideas and thoughts and lives all linked together everyday unknowingly by the unforgiving parallel bars of their local train system; though they'll never know anything of one another except what they can gather from what's been left behind, a half-completed crossword puzzle, a forgotten novella, a disregarded short story fragment written on a napkin (you never know where that might lead) the only clues you have, the only tiny glimpses to the lives that are happening in perfect sync - at least for the duration of the journey - with yours, though they may not be coming from the same place or headed to your stop, their life story, for these few precious moments, is in perfect and complete harmony with your own; where are they going in such a hurry, do they have loved ones there, have they been there before, what awaits them at the end of the line, and what, for that matter awaits you.

Write a dramatic scene between two people in which each has a secret and neither of them reveals the secret to the other OR TO THE READER.
"Oh jesus LeAnne, not another glass of wine." Not again, not tonight, Mitch facepalms as the attractive brunette across from him signals to the nearest server. He nonchalantly checks the bills in his wallet, thumbing the ones.
"Bullshit Mitchel. Here, have one yourself." She fiddles in purse for a tip for the waiter and pauses before handing Mitchel the glass. Running her finger gently around the glass rim she snaps the tiny vial in her purse shut. "Maybe it'll loosen you up." Mitch squirms in the chair.
"You know I hate red wine. You're drawing too much attention to us dear, can't we just lie low tonight? You always make such a scene." His phone beeps its familiar text tone and both jump. Mitch glances into his lap and then jerks his head up to scan the restaurant; nothing unusual.
"God, you're such a schitz." LeAnne  rolls her eyes and applies a fresh coat of cherry red lipstick in her compact. Mitch hears a faint clink of metal on metal as she returns it to her purse. He avoids her eyes and instead considered the picturesque street view out the window over her shoulder. "If you'll excuse me, I need to power mah nose deary." Her six inch stiletto heels clack smartly on the Italian tile as she crosses the dining room, narrowly avoiding a collision with a tray-laden waiter. She snatches the falling cheese-grater from his tray and flips it back without blinking.
"Goddamn it." Mitch whispers, completely oblivious of the actions of his guest. His cell rattles again and he types back a rapid response. He makes eye contact with a rather large and mustached man two tables over who shakes his jowls confidently before going back to his herb crusted salmon. A fellow diner brushes against Mitch from behind and he feels the hairs on his neck come to rapt attention. 
"Watch yourself Mitchel. He's not happy." A phrase, so quiet only he can hear it, uttered in his ear, and then nothing. He dares not spin, nor react. They know. They all know. They're here. He's here. Mitch allows himself a brief look up over his salad. The waiters seem to be avoiding his gaze. The busboys snicker. Do they know?
"Ugh, a place like this, you'd think they'd spring for nicer johns." LeAnne rejoins him, Her short red dress riding up as she returns to her seat. "You've barely touched your wine Mitchel. Lighten up..." She takes note of the beads of sweat on his forehead, the tiny tremors of his wrists. Always a worry wart ol' Mitch. Maybe this time for good reason. She winks at the passing waitress, a tall and slender blonde woman and nods, so tiny that Mitch cannot see. Suddenly a crash from the kitchens, a commotion from the back. Heads turn, necks crane. From the front window, the sound of breaking glass. Before the patrons know what has happened, a scream. The blonde waitress is standing over LeAnne and Mitch's table, the pair of them lie dead on the floor, two neat gunshots to their temples. LeAnne's purse has been upended on the restaurant floor, a Colt .45, and glass vial lay beside her body. Clutched in Mitch's hand, partially obscuring a bright distinctive tattoo, a switchblade rests against his wrist, poised and ready.


Write a narrative descriptive passage in a vernacular other than your own. Listen to the way people speak in a bar, restaurant, barber shop, or some other public place where folks who speak differently ("He has an accent!") from you, and try to capture that linguistic flavor on the page.
"Oy! Ye there! First yers! Over 'ere!" Bloody scamps ne'er know where they be goin'. That's why you were there, yer job was to show the little first years 'ow things work about theses parts. Lantern high you weave through the crowds to the little blighters, 'uddled in the very back 'o the crowd, shakin' like leaves on that ther' Whompin' Willow. "First yers! This way!" Ye wave at 'em and they're all just too darn scared to move but a muscle. Catchin' a glimpse of red in the crown, ye break into a grin. "Ye be a Weasley, ain't yer?" Little scrap of a mite, he be. But 'es got 'is father's uncanny hair and 'is mother's face. "Ron and 'ermione's boy I take?" 'e nods. "Ar, it be mighty nice to see a redhead in these 'alls again..."
Oh cut me a break, it's 3am. I enjoyed myself. Hope you did too. Welcome to a brief snippet of my brain....

My 'A-ha' Moment

So, I had an a-ha moment last night (and no, not like a 'Take On Me' moment - although that video is epic!). I figured out why I blog. It was amazing. It just hit me as I was bawling down in the basement.

I blog because I hate other people seeing me upset. I hate unloading my shit on people who clearly have better things to do. I don't like bothering people with my issues, especially because half the things that really upset me are stupid and not worth being upset over. And then the fact that I have no one to talk to because I don't want to bother anyone upsets me more. But really, that's my big thing, I don't like people seeing me a wreck. Like, I try to have as few people as possible see/hear me cry (do those who've put up with me, your medals are in the mail...) So, my solution? Sit behind a keyboard where no one can see me and bitch about things that bother me. That way, no one is forced to deal with my problems, but I get the therapeutic value of telling someone about what annoys me. Plus. I don't have to go into specifics, name names, or get really detailed about anything, and if you don't care about what I'm writing about, you can stop. It's perfect. I get to talk and no one has to listen.

Well, that and I love to write and I love to talk (primarily about myself) but also about my opinions on stupid things and share all the fun shit I find in my day-to-day life. It keeps me sane. So, here's a big thank you to you all out there wondering when I'm going to stop rambling and write something of substance (NEVER!!!)