It was as if someone stood beside the bed with a gun, snarling, “Don’t move!” at her. She’d been there for days, barely stirring. I’d tried everything I could think of to make her dress, eat, act alive. Nothing worked. She wouldn’t even drink. In desperation, . . .
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “don’t move.”
First 50 Words - Prompts for Writing Practice 
Don’t move. Don’t move beyond the sarcoptid. Don’t move beyond the parasitoidal siphon, festering sores/wounds/cuts/scabs. Don’t develop your character’s voice. Don’t explain plot. Don’t offer anything rewarding/new to the reader. Don’t describe anything meaningful. Don’t explain the reference comparing your writing style to fleas lapping leuko-/erythro-/thrombocytes. Don’t stress the anemic. Just don’t.
“Don’t move!” was the call and just at that moment you notice a glorious butterfly hovering your way. Dancing in the currents of the wind it gracefully lands on the tip of your nose. The as quickly as it came, rest time is over, it lifts off again and is gone.
“Don’t move! Do you see them?” referring to the elk he saw somewhere in front of us.
“Where?” I scanned the area I thought he meant. “Right theeere! What are you waiting for? Shoot!”
“I can’t shoot what I don’t see!” my patience gone. He shot my elk then. Great.
Don’t Move!
“But Officer.”
Shut Up! Hands in the air!
“What did I do?”
Put your hands on your head, interlocking your fingers.
“Excuse me, Sir?”
Get into the car, watch your head.
“Can you tell my Mom? I live right there.”
You have the right to remain silent. Use it.
Only the old know where the mountains are
‘I’m going to move mountains when I grow up. Only losers fail.’
I can still see Charlie wiping the blood off his face as he defied the Townes bullies. He was our James Dean, the first of us to die. The one who never endured the small successes of life.