Writing practice

Last time I posted here I was talking about doing writing as a career (some of you may remember) and a helpful soul advised that I do some writing practice (especially over my huge summer holiday) on a variety of topics.

This is how the thread will work; once per day I will post a short piece of writing on a subject or anything. The next person to post then suggests a next topic (so I have a continuation of topics to write on) and so on.

Any advice is appreciated and please understand that I may not know about your topic and therefore my knowledge will be drawn from internet sources (cough wikipedia).

Now, on to my first topic in informative style, Tokoyamas - the Japanese sumo hairdresser.

The Tokoyamas are an old tradition in the Sumo wrestling sport. The most common, and most ancient, of said hairstyles is the Chonmage. This involves the pulling back of the Sumo's hair into a top-knot that starts about 4 inches from the hairline. The hair is then oiled and tied with a small hair-band.

The other style of hair, worn by the most senior Sumo-wrestlers (these must be in the top 140 wrestlers in Japan), is the oichomage - the large ginkgo leaf top-knot. This is similar to the Chonmage except that the hair is spiked up into a small frill before the top-knot. This is much harder to sculpt as the frill must be a perfect semi-circle and should be able to withstand the rigours of a fight therefore only the best Tokoyamas are allowed to craft this hair.

For the wrestlers in particular the hairstyle is not a fashion arrangement but it shows the tradition of their profession and the length of their hair shows how long they have been wrestlers.Indeed those who manage to lose enough hair that they may not form the hairstyle are permanently forbidden from wrestling.

This is most unusual in the cosmopolitan cities of Japan and this long hair is a symbol of their employment and pride as all but the sumotoris (sumo-wrestlers) had to cut their hair short by the empirical order of 1868. The sumotoris were allowed to keep their hair as it was said to shield them from blows and because all sumos are male (as well as being very talented and entertaining).

The Tokoyamas themselves are therefore important as they are the master craftsmen of the hair. There are six rankings of Tokoyama, from 5-to (apprentice) to tuko-to (master), and this profession is an act of art and perseverance as it takes 10 years to advance from 4-to to 3-to. After this it may take another 35 years of practice to reach the highest level, with many of these spent not being able to try themselves but as helpers.



Thanks very much in advance and I hope you learned something, I definitely did.

It would be helpful if someone posted before 6PM today. You enworlders are good people.

A character's vehicle has gone missing. Good luck!

I know what you're doing, i won't write your next dm plot-line for you! Only joking, thanks for the good topic. I wasn't sure if you meant a book character or a roleplaying game character (since this is mainly what this website is about), so i went for book. It isn't also that active or long.

Mark removed the Styrofoam coffee cup from the cardboard bracelet and threw it in the bin after he walked through the cafe door. He plunged his hand into his jacket pocket and, navigating past his mobile, withdrew the parking ticket. After crossing the birch-lined avenue at the zebra crossing he made his way to the pay-machine. Looking up as he did this he could not spot his car, but he knew it was this car-park and his memory did not seem what it used to be. Having paid, Mark walked along the two rows of cars in the small tarmac resting-place. He did not find the green Ford the first time, nor the second. Yet he had the ticket and he felt the lightness in his wallet, this was for sure the right car-park.

Keen eyes spotted the tiny splinters of glass in the empty space but Mark just tutted at the 'youths' who were messing about when he went for his morning coffee. He increasingly began to sweat and became obsessed, as this is all one can do, about the time, counting up the minutes he was late for work. With clammy hands he paced the parking lot, punctuating his walks with stops. Mark came to the foregone conclusion that his car had been moved somehow and then, peering around the court, he searched for CCTV cameras that might provide evidence.

Mark halted one last time, forgetting his pursuit of cameras, and approached an old man that had been sitting on the bench since he arrived, seemingly eating his lunch. Mark thought that he looked like a strange old thing, especially since he was taking his lunch at such an early hour. Confronting him Mark queried,
"Have you, by any chance seen where my car went? I just popped to ..." Mark paused and reviewed that nobody wanted to know why he broke his fast or how "... never mind but it was parked just there; my old green Ford."

The weather-beaten face did not move, nor, like a river eroding a cavern, did his dry lips break open. His eyes were as glazed to Mark as the doughnut in his paper bag. Mark stuttered,
"My, my car has gone. Where, why, who? Tell me please, you, you have been here all along haven't you?"

Mark turned, annoyed by the waste of time in talking to the man, and took out his phone to call the police station - both to call in late for work and for his current problem. If only he had seen that the man was deaf and was writing on a note-pad what he had seen.


Ok, that is it for today. It wasn't that long but im kind of busy. I think it shows us how humans can lose perspective on life, missing the essential details, when confronted with angst. Keep 'em rolling boys!

I didn't get a suggestion today and i now don't have enough time, so please come up with 3 by Tuesday, people of enworld, as im busy monday (work then rpgs).

Topic: There is something wrong with the guy the boss just hired.

Thanks guys, ill be doing it tomorrow as im pretty busy.

Hey, lets get to business. First, id like you to know I don't actually work in drilling nor do i have children.


"I rolled my eyes. Reflected in the cool glow of the computer monitor, I yawn, dreading that I actually now have work to do. The inbox of Outlook had 15 new mails and none were five minute cases, with 2 being full reports on the engineering of the drill. Munching a biscuit and spurred to work by the gaze of my boss, I opened up the first and delved in.

About 10 minutes had gone by when the new guy opened the door of the office. I hadn't seen him yet, only reading about him in a referral from his old department, but he looked proper. He sat down, after introducing himself to me, and logged on to his account. Even though I did not know him he seemed strange, in a sinister way. I got back to work; after all, he was only here part-time.

Time passed slowly, but eventually the afternoon coffee break arrived, awaited by all the staff like a redeeming messiah. On my way to the dispensing machine I passed the man's cubicle, which was arranged similar to everyone else's, and stole a passing glance at the screen while he was out. It seemed like he was on the electrical power system for the drilling plant, which I could not remember was on his work description. I thought nothing of it and continued on.

After the day at work I caught the boat back to the mainland for my weekend, happy to have some time at home seeing my family. Arriving on the pier some hours later, I stretched my legs and headed home. The children greeted me at the door, well, most of them - with my teenage son being the exception. The aroma of spices wafted from the kitchen and I walked in, shrugging off my bag on the floor, to greet my wife. The weekend passed like any other, restful but still not long enough.

Monday morning came in all the grey dour mood that it brings to office workers all over the states. I walked briskly to the docks, both because of the chill from the sea and the time. Having approached the concrete edge of the land, I was stopped by one of your men in a black suit. The man told me of the situation at the rig. The electrical systems had been wired to the oil pipe by a terrorist and the spark had set the rig on fire. A video, filmed by a fisherman, was shown to me of the billowing dark clouds of smoke and the pools of black oil spreading in the ocean.

With the excuse that all who worked on the rig could be suspects, your man took my sleeve and half-dragged me to the long blue bus that waited down the road. I did, at that point, complain about his manhandling and shouted my rights at him. His hand came down on the side of my neck and I blacked out. When I awoke, I was here and you came in that door.

Now you see, I am not a terrorist, so let me out."

"I'm sorry, we cant do that" the opposite man said.

Topic: An assassination. As told from the perspective of the weapon (knife, gun, poison, whatever).