Think of a colour.
Now think of a few things that relate to that colour.
Rain through the eyes of Prince
The “guy on another job” in Reservoir Dogs
You've got ten minutes. Weave a story using as many of those components as possible.
He's got his hands on my throat, teeth gritted, hatred in his eyes.
This is why I drive on a night out- If I was drunk right now, I could never defend myself. Not that I'm doing any good now, with my back on the floor and broken glass working it's way into my shoulders.
It was a misconstrued comment. Then my attempt to floor him backfired when I pinned hisarms in and he fell ontop of me.
In the middle of the struggle, with his hands on my neck, I wonder what kind of bar plays Prince at ten o'clock on a Friday night.
My strength is waning. I've managed to get a foot on his hip, but I can't kick out- I'm too weak right now. My vision is discolouring; the world seems purple and distant and hazy. I'm aching all over, thinking of grapes in the kitchen fruit bowl, and the veins in my wrists when I'm at the gym, and a t-shirt I never bought. My veins are bulging and it's only when a giant shoe enters frame and the man's head snaps backwards that the pressure is released and his hands leave me.
Two doormen have dived over him. A third slumps me in a chair, my ears ringing like a chainsaw, and gradually the real colours of the bar start to seep back into my brain- the browns of the whisky on the top row, the oak of the furniture and the red of the worn-out carpet. Throughout, this, Prince drones on- Purple Rain, Purple Rain....