Had a really nice Georgia Nutts Guild meeting today; a new face was in the house and all the exercises were really well written.
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Here ismy exercise from today's meeting.  Only three paragraphs, I know, but hey, it's a quicker read, right?  If you like it, chime in here or on my facebook page and tell me what you think happens next.

It was Harold’s blood, redder than an apple, that fled across the hardwood floor, leaving his body in a great exodus; not the parting of the Red Sea, but the spilling of it.  His chest heaved in a thrashing motion, wild and unsteady, the beating drum of his heart losing its rhythm in the desperation for survival.  This was a futile conceit; the question of survival had already been answered, resoundingly in the negative.  His body kept acting out the strange and stupid impulse to prop up onto his arms, as though he might just get up, but his trembling shoulders wouldn’t hold him firm and his elbows kept slipping in the blood.  The pool around him crept out along the lines of the wood floor, spreading like a flood seen from above.  Not so far away, the edge of the crimson puddle met the fringe of a Persian rug, its fluid body infiltrating the worn fibers, thread by thread.  Harold had not noticed the rug, now sopping up his life blood, nor would he.  Neither would he raise his head to stare disbelieving at the wound in his side; he had done that already, suffered the shock of it, doubted foolishly the obvious and telling finality it indicated.  Now, with few precious moments left on earth, it was the one memory he would never escape. 

He craned his neck backward, rolling his head sideways, trying to catch sight of Veronica.  The floor stretched away in his field of vision like the sands of a desert, from here to the horizon.  Among the legs of chairs and a table, now like towers in his sight, he could not find here.  Seeming miles away, the deep shadow lingering under the sofa peeled back just enough to expose a colorful plastic children’s toy.  Perhaps, shocked by the carnage, it had holed itself up under the sofa seeking a harbor in which to process its own terror.  Perhaps this is just a personification, using the allusion of an unliving object to foreshadow the fate of the other character in the room, whom would soon enough join it in the world of the inanimate.

“Veronica,”  Harold gagged, through a spurt of blood.  She was nowhere to be found.  The great ragged hole in his side, created by a shotgun, twitched with the effort to produce any audible sound.  His breath, raspy and feeble, sloughed out of his throat like old rags being torn to strips.  He closed his eyes against the pain.  Where his daughter could be was the only object worth holding in his attention.  Footsteps, heavy and deliberate came thumping softly through the ceiling from the floor above.  Harold’s mind struggled to assemble an image of what could be happening, or about to happen up there.