Theme - "The Seasons"

(It's too hot here for me to think of anything else)

Word Limit: 1,200

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 6/18 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 6/19, and goes until Saturday, 6/21 at 11:59 PM Pacific

Submission Guidelines:

- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge. We don't want a snippet of your doctoral thesis from 1996 being used here.
- One entry per poster. You can submit and then edit if you'd like, but finalizing before submitting is encouraged.
- Spelling and Grammatical errors can be used to great effect when the story, characters, and setting demand it. However, proofreading and spell-checking your writing will probably result in a more positive attitude towards it when people are voting.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged. These challenges get a large number of submissions and if entries share the same title, it's difficult for the readers to separate them out come voting time.
- Any writing style is welcome, but remember that most people are probably going to vote for the well written short story over an elementary acrostic poem.
- There are many ways to interpret the theme for this assignment, we are all writers or wannabe writers, so keep that in mind when writing and critiquing others' works.
- Thousands of people read GAF, so if you don't want some masterpiece of yours to be stolen and seen in Hollywood a year from now, don't post it on here.
- Finally, there is a handy word count checker at www.wordcounttool.com. Nobody wants to be a word count nazi, but please keep your submission under the limit.

Voting Guidelines:

- Anyone can vote, even those that do not submit a piece during the thread.
- Three votes per voter. Please denote in your voting your 1st (3 pts), 2nd (2 pts), and 3rd (1 pt) place votes.
- Please read all submissions before voting, it is only fair to those who put in the effort.
- You must vote in order to be eligible to win the challenge. Critiques/comments are encouraged but not required.
- When the voting period ends, votes will be tallied and the winner will get a collective pat on the back and will be in charge of picking a new topic to write about and pick the word length.

Have fun!

Previous Challenges:

#1 - "The Things Unseen" (Winner: beelzebozo)
#2 - "An Unlikely Pair" (Winner: Aaron)
#3 - "weightless, breathless" (Winner: Azih)
#4 - "On the way" (Winner: DumbNameD)
#5 - "The End" (Winner: Cyan)
#6 - "Playing with Fire" (Winner: Aaron)
#7 - "Something Brutal" (Winner: Ronito)
#8 - "Parasite and Host" (Winner: Aaron)

The Submissions (thanks to ivysaur12):

ronito - Solstice
flintstryker - Showdown in the Snow
bjork - Untitled
Aaron - Winter Wall
buhmachine - Summer Taken
2DMention - 85
nitewulf - The Lonely God
RurouniZel - Seasons
Memles - Jack
ivysaur12 - St. Anthony of Padua's
Gattsu25 - The Wind
Cyan - Village
Xenon - Cultivated
DumbNameD - Every Day Flowers
Scribble - British Weather

In my recent undergraduate honours class, one of the students wrote her thesis as a creative project about Winter. I made fun of it.

This is my karma.

Hmm...tricky theme...I'll get right on it.

Tricky indeed.

Think, think. Think, think...

wow compared to the last two this theme is a lot easier to come up with ideas for. This'll be interesting.

Interesting theme, I'm really going to have to start brainstorming for this one. Though I'm a little preoccupied with the current season's severe weather that seems to keep pelting the midwest. Damn you Al Gore and your Global Warming.

Ok, I've got an idea. But this one's gonna be tough.

I naturally have an idea since I'm the one who came up with the topic, yet the words will not come. I think my brain is frying in the 100 degree heat. Even my windows are beginning to melt... I shouldn't have made them out of ice cubes!

I had an idea the second I read it, but it ended up feeling a bit too precious when I tried to get a start on it.

So, trying out a different format with it over the next few days, hoping to see if it comes together in something removed from a direct short story. We'll see, anyways.

He had spent years looking for the fountain of youth. Instead he found a dagger. The dagger itself was unremarkable. The perpetually sharp blade was tarnished the hilt an unadorned black ivory. It looked like a normal dagger but it was much more.

The snow crunched under his feet as he made his way to the clearing. Four seasons had passed since he was last there yet it seemed unchanged. A rough circle in the middle of the woods with a fallen log off to a side. The sky was a purplish red as the sun was beginning to set.

His search for immortality began ten years ago after his wife died of cancer. He had promised her he would take care of their children. He sold his company and invested all his time into finding the answer to the riddle of death. After ten long years he found an old map describing the location of a place to cheat death on the day of solstice. It seemed silly but he followed the map. That was when he met her.

He hadn't gotten her name. But she knew what he had come for and presented him the dagger.

"With this dagger you must kill at least one person per season for the next four seasons and return here next winter solstice. Then you will be immortal." That was all she said.

The man laughed thinking she was crazy. But in the back of his head he knew she was serious.

"What if.." He began but she interrupted.

"The dagger is protected by many spells. The person who uses it cannot be caught." She said as if reading his mind.

The man hesitated obviously torn. "But...to kill someone." he stammered and took a step towards her.

"People die every day. Four in a year isn't so much. Not much in exchange for immortality." She said flashing a smile. She was very beautiful.

He fingered the handle lightly, "What if I change my mind?"

"Then just come back here next year and return the dagger. No harm done."

He didn't use the dagger for nearly two months. But then his elderly neighbor came home from the hospital to die. She had cancer, just like his wife. There was nothing the doctors could do for her. He paced back and forth remembering the last weeks of his wife's life. He would be doing his neighbor's family a favor. It was decided. His neighbor became Winter. He told himself he was far more merciful than nature would have been.

The police never so much as questioned him about the murder. That cemented the fact that he had found the source to immortality. He began to carry the dagger with him.

Spring was a mugger that had cornered him in an alley. The world was better off without him.

Summer was a young man that had raped one of his daughter's friends. He cornered the boy after school. He knew his type. He was worthless. He was not so merciful with the boy.

As fate would have it Fall was the friend of his daughter's that had claimed rape. After the boy's death the girl got a lot of attention from the police. The months that followed showed that the boy hadn't raped her. The girl had lied. Her lies had cost a boy his life. It was regrettable that she had to die, but the girl had gotten caught up in something bigger than herself.

"You've returned." a woman's voice called out from the trees. She had come. She looked unchanged since last year. Her face fair and unblemished with thin red lips, her black hair falling about her shoulders, her flowing dress as white as the snow that had begun to fall about them.

"Yes. I've done as you said." He replied fingering the dagger's hilt under his coat.

"I know." She said with a smile. "So you've done it. Now you cannot die."

"That's it? Nothing else?"

"Yes, that's right. You cannot die now. But...” She paused as she sat on the fallen log. "You will find that you need to kill to keep your life-force strong."

"What?!"

"Surely you've noticed with each kill you needed more. Always looking forward to the next season, the next victim." She said.

"How dare you insinuate that I enjoy this?!" He said gripping the hilt.

She laughed a throaty laugh that filled the air. "But you do."

"I don't!" He yelled stepping towards her.

She just sat, "Come now. Don't deny it. You thought you were doing that neighbor of yours a favor. You were saving her like the wife you couldn't."

"I was merciful!"

"You stole her life from her family!" She said as she stood anger seeping into her voice. "That mugger would've left you alone if you had just given him your money."

"It was MY money." he retorted tightening his grip on the dagger.

"It was HIS life!" She said as she stepped in close to him, "I watched as you cut that boy apart. You enjoyed it. Taking out your aggressions on his type were you?"

The man took a step back stunned.

"And then that girl you killed. You killed her out of revenge for making you enjoy killing the boy."

The man made to protest but said nothing.

"All that girl did was open your eyes to what you really are." The woman said.

"I did this for my children!" he shouted regaining composure.

"A lie and you know it." She said as she pushed him to the ground, "You were just too cowardly to accept death. Your children had nothing to do with it."

The man screamed as he came to his feet and drove the dagger hard into the woman's chest. The woman staggered back a few steps from the force. The dagger protruded from her chest like a branch from a tree.

"You just made my point for me." She said coolly as she removed the dagger and threw it on the ground in front of the panting man. There wasn't a drop of blood on it.

The same throaty laugh filled the air. "Trying to kill the Devil. And you say you're not a killer? The sooner you accept it the better it will be for the both of us." She said as she turned her back to him and began to walk away.

The man's eyes watered with tears he picked up the dagger and pointed the tip at his exposed throat.

The woman paused and turned slightly to look at him. "Yes, it would work. But you won’t do it. You're not brave enough. Besides do you really want to face judgment for what you've done?" She said. As she walked away she held out a hand to catch snowflakes.

The man slowly lowered his knife as he watched her walk away. After a few moments he replaced the dagger in its sheath and stood. He caught a snowflake on the palm of a gloved hand and watched as it melted. He looked up, the sun had set. It was a new season and there was work to be done.

I can't believe that I'm the first entry. Usually I'm one of the last. Come on guys.

I had a lot of fun with this challenge. The seasons are so symbolic of so much. I wanted to do something very symbolic I hope I succeeded. So we'll see how it flies.

I've got a basic concept in my head for this inspired by a walk 'n' talk with a friend about 5 years ago. I'll write it on Fri.

does it have to be about all of the seasons are can you focus on one?

flintstryker said:

does it have to be about all of the seasons are can you focus on one?

Click to expand...

Whatever you want. The theme is just there to inspire you.

Unless otherwise stated, as with the "brutal" challenge.

flintstryker said:

does it have to be about all of the seasons are can you focus on one?

Click to expand...

It can be about one. My idea is about one in fact, but I wanted to make the theme more open.

one week left and there's only one entry so far??

SHOWDOWN IN THE SNOW

Alabadine was like most western mining camp a hurriedly put together place where the buildings were made from the natural structure of rocks In the area with a few lumbers thrown in here and there the general store which lays to the far right seemed to be the only building that showed any sign of workmanship opposite to it was a saloon the bat-wing doors violently swinging with the winter wind the saloon was followed by a line of messily thrown together buildings which were apparently the miners quarters and at the end of the line was a hotel called The last Stop the kid sat on his white-black Appaloosa and his green eyes scanning the town missing not even the slightest of detail. At the edge of the town was a cemetery with a sign crudely marked boothill, littered with graves most of them unmarked and covered in snow .

As the Kid rode towards the saloon his eyes narrowed as it spotted a brand he hadn't seen in three years the cross MM the horse that wore the brand was a tall gray stallion abut the same size as the Kid's Appaloosa standing proudly among the other horse tied at the hitching rail the miles it had came was written all over it, a powerful and beautiful beast, horses of such caliber and breadth cannot be mistaken, this was the horse of Marky D. Marc.

The Kid dismounted as the saloon and tied the Appaloosa to the railing he adjusted his gun belt and stepped in through the swinging Bat-wing doors and pause for a second his eyes swiftly scanning the room. Apart from the Bartender there was ten men two standing at the bar, four playing poker three standing around apparently watching the game of poker and at the back sat a man in a dark overcoat with his hat brim hanging low caressing a glass of whiskey. All eyes shifted to the newcomer as he slowly walk to the bar standing at six foot-five two hundred and forty pound and not an ounce of fat were it not for his extremely boyish face he would have been easily mistaken for a man in his late thirties when in reality the kid was only nineteen. Out of the tail of his eye he saw the man in the dark overcoat gently place the glass of whiskey on the table before and slightly tinted his low brim hat his his penetrating the kid.

“Milk” said the kid softly to the bartender, for a second the bartender looked surprise as if he hadn't heard the word in a long time “that would be a dollar sir” he said as he filled a cup with and place it before the kid as he started to take the cup up there was an explosion and the cup shattered in his hand, his head turned slowly as and the man in the dark overcoat re holstered his gun a devilish grin across his face “real men drinks whiskey” he with a mildly amused undertone “where the hell do you think you are boy!” one of the man at the bar burst out in laughter “you tell him bro” he said his laughter echoed across the now dead silent room the other man at the sensing the impending danger hastily moved to the side. “you go get that shovel over there” the kid said as he point at the man who was laughing at the bar the man eyes widen in horror as he realized that the kid was pointing with a gun ,none of them had seen him drawn but surely enough the gun was there his green eyes piercing the man to his very core “it was just a jok...” started the man as he went went for his gun but the kid would have nothing of the sort with a motion of cat like agility he lunge forward and delivered a crushing blow to the man's head with the but of the pistol knocking him out cold while covering the man in the dark overcoat. “you” said the kid to the man in the overcoat “get outside try anything funny and you will be dead before you hit the floor” his voice icy cold.

Outside people where gathering alerted by the sound of the gunshot, all eyes were on the duo leaving the saloon “I won't shoot a man with a gun in his hand” said the kid “so I am going to give you a chance” the man in the dark overcoat eyes widen and then a smile started to spread across his face. “foolish boy you should have shot me when you had the chance” he growled the kid however was not fazed “you fancy yourself quick don't you Marky” said the kid as he re holstered his gun his eyes never leaving the face of the man before him “so you knew who I was and yet you still decided to challenge me” said Marky as he removed his overcoat “i guess there is no cure for stupidity” the snow started as the two men faced each other none of them even so much a blink “Remember the Milson ranch? “ asked the kid his eyes unblinking “three years ago a gang by the name of Double DM., raided that ranch and killed all of its occupant the women were raped and then killed No one was spared.” continued the his low and unchanged “That gang was led by a man called Marky D. Marc”, the snow fell steadily as as Marky spoke “Yes I remember ki..” and with lightening speed Marky drew his gun had almost clear his holster when suddenly a red mark appeared on his left shirt pocket he stood there looking puzzled as his Smith and Wesson pistol hit the ground he had killed a lot of men in his time and he would kill that cocky kid before him but why was his pistol on the ground? “yo..u” he choked as he make a step towards the kid and then he fell. The Kid walked over to him looking down at the dying man “i ki...kill all o-of..them” gasp Marky “wh..who are y..you” he choked his voice losing its strength by the second “Remember the old lightening oak tree Marky?” the kid whispered to the dying man “it..can't..be the ki...kid tha..that..we..left..hang...” said Marky as his voiced trailed off “Babyface Wils” and he died. The snow around him stained red somewhere to the west a wolf howl as if it signify the end of the duel.

Click to expand...

hah my first attempt at a western i might edit some stuff later.

I had a story idea, but I can't flesh it out in my mind, so there short version:

"I rose up and blossomed. Every day was a new experience.

I later stood strong, enriched by the sun and beaming with energy.

Weathered by time, I shed my facade as it faded and became unnecessary.

Now in the winter, I lay still in a deathlike state and await the new spring."

or, the obligatory haiku

Come rain, sun or snow
It is always good to know
Freaks need their hentai.

bjork said:

I had a story idea, but I can't flesh it out in my mind, so there short version:

"I rose up and blossomed. Every day was a new experience as I rose up and blossomed.

I later stood strong, enriched by the sun and beaming with energy.

Weathered by time, I shed my facade as it faded and became unnecessary.

Now in the winter, I lay still in a deathlike state and await the new spring."

or, the obligatory haiku

Come rain, sun or snow
It is always good to know
Freaks need their hentai.

Click to expand...

...damn. you got my vote.




I gotta think of somethin' good...

I will try to get on this one. I didn't connect with the last theme so I didn't even try to write anything. Hopefully I can write something inspired for this theme.

Congrats, btw to Aaron. Batting almost .500

weepy said:

...damn. you got my vote.

I gotta think of somethin' good...

Click to expand...

Good thing I reread my thing in your quote, I didn't realize I'd written the blossom thing twice. :lol

Unfortunately work kept me from busy and I didn't have a chance to get anything written up. Hopefully next week will be a little smoother.

Man, I think I was too ambitious this time. I might have to scale back what I'm working on.

Jables, you've still got nearly a whole week before this one closes!

bjork said:

Good thing I reread my thing in your quote, I didn't realize I'd written the blossom thing twice. :lol

Click to expand...

I thought it was on purpose. Anyways it still reads well.

I'll have a story done this Sunday.

Half done with mine. Having trouble with a plot point, but it'll be ready in time. I hope this will be like the last with most of the stories coming in near the end.

2/3 (I think!) done with mine. Bit off a little more than I could chew, but I'll finish it.

I'll be gone all weekend, so it probably won't be posted til Monday or Tuesday anyway... but I think I'll finish tomorrow.

Winter Wall
word count: 1,200

"There'll be no light from stars tonight."

Even at the age of ten, Nevin felt a stirring dread as his grandfather's pronouncement, though there wasn't a child above six that didn't look up into the clouded sky and feel a shiver that had nothing to do with snow that lay upon the ground.

A rumble awoke him, as if the hills rising high in the north had tumbled down to bury their village. Yet Nevin knew it was something worse when the sound came again, assuming a regular rhythm as it drew closer and closer. The Unseen Beast.

"I didn't do anything! I didn't do anything!" Nevin whispered desperately as he hid himself under his sheets, though his mind ran rampant with misdeeds, full of stolen cookies and rules ignored. He could feel the Beast stalking closer, cold breath leaving behind a path of ice as its black eyes peered through the windows of homes, sniffing for the scent of black hearts nearly ripe and ready for harvesting.

Nevin collapsed in a mess of nerves, his ears ringing to loud to hear the distant sound of lumber being torn asunder, and a terrified scream before all fell silent.

*

"I should have never come back."

Nevin knew it the moment he passed the low wooden fence that served as the edge of his home village. It was ten years since he had seen it last. Winter was thick upon the ground and the clouds were only beginning to depart. Ahead of him was a crowd full of commotion, surrounding a home whose wooden walls had been crushed and torn aside as if no more than paper.

Compelled, Nevin squeezed himself into this group only to find an unfamiliar man lying upon the snowy ground. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open, while there was a bloody hole where his heart had once been.

"Harvested. Should have known he was no good by the way he kept to himself," a middle-aged man remarked with indifference, well familiar with this sight. Though when Nevin turned away in disgust, he caught this man's eyes. "Nevin, is that you? With your father passed on we expected you'd come back. What have you been up to?"

"Working as a mason in the south," Nevin choked out as he wiped a cold sweat from his brow. He had sought a great city to be safe from the Beast, but nowhere that winter touched could escape Its grasp. Nevin shut himself in his small room so he wouldn't see the bodies being collected and carted away.

It was a small comfort his righteous father had withered away to nothing after his mother had succumbed to illness. Nevin found his grave marker, a squat stone pillar, set among the others in the shadow of the northern hillside. Yet this wasn't why he had returned. Someone hadn't searched and sought him out as his father lay dying. Someone who was already standing by that marker with a melancholy smile upon her pale face, which only made her more lovely. Rose.

*

"I've done some terrible things."

Rose confessed only after the winter had melted away to a wave of green that invited the spring. On the darkest nights when the stars were lost, she had clung to Nevin so tightly he was marked with bruised fingerprints in the morning, but he had assumed her fear was as irrational and misplaced as his own.

"When I want something... I can't stop myself from stealing, and laying the blame on others," Rose spoke in the light of morning, holding onto him as if they were still lost in winter. "Do you remember Violet? Everyone thinks she eloped, but I... killed her. I stole her cherished necklace, and when she threatened to tell everyone, I got so angry..."

There wasn't much Nevin could say to a woman's tears.

"That's why I searched for you. Not because of your dying father. Because I wanted to see you one last time before the Beast came for me...," Rose admitted as she ran her hand along her cheeks, bringing a laugh on the edge of sanity. "I guess my black heart isn't ripe yet. So we still have spring, summer, and fall."

For Nevin, it wasn't enough.

*

"How high you plan this wall to be?"

Men willing to work weren't hard to find, especially in the afternoon when the farm work was done. Nevin had done well as a mason, and his coins were worth far more in this remote village. It was a child's plan, foolish and desperate, but love drove him to it. He looked up to answer, "As high as the heavens."

The northern hills that formed a near half circle around the village were lofty, but not enough to keep the snow from drifting in from the ice-capped summit of the world. With tireless skill, Nevin worked from early morning to long past dusk, forming bricks and setting them, or guiding others to do the same.

Rose was often at his side, making sure he ate and got a hint of sleep before rushing up the hillside for another day. She pleaded with him to abandon this hopeless task, so they could savor their time together before the dead of winter, but Nevin would not surrender to the Beast that had drove him from his home and now would come to claim his wife. It feasted upon the hearts of evil men and women, but he would cast his own judgment.

The seasons passed too swiftly for Nevin. The wall was high and long when autumn grew dark and the first cold winds could be felt to signal the coming to winter. With the scaffolding rising into the clouds, the workers had been digging deep into the far side of the hills to make their bricks. Now it was like a cliff side, and that's where they discovered a woman's bones and bits of flesh with a necklace bound tight around her throat. Violet.

Overcome with guilt, Rose confessed to her crime, but the people of the village cared nothing for her tears. They hung her in the shadow of the unfinished wall, never to see another winter. Thinking him already mad for his wall, Nevin was bound and locked away, fearing his revenge. Though as winter flooded in and left their village in white, the young man remained serene.

They released him on the first night when the stars were shut away by looming clouds, and so he slaughtered them. Nevin made no distinction between man, woman, or child. He stalked through the village, crashing through windows and killing anything he caught. Those who weren't wise enough to flee were left to rot on the ground where they fell until he was the only one left alive.

Nevin sat in the dark at the base of his wall, closing his eyes to listen to the peaceful silence. He waited in the dark for the Unseen Beast, now eager for the sound of its heavy tread. When the first rumble sounded, he smiled and tightened his grip on the rope bound to the brickwork. Waiting for his trap to be sprung.

Summer Taken
1172 words


He felt suffocated. The heat was unyielding, palpable in his breathing. All the water he drank, and he still could not find a relief for that. He tried opening all the windows, even casting aside his usual bashfulness and opened the door and kept it open, but there was no circulation still. The heat had dried away all the water and wind in the air. That's how weather works, right? he asked himself out loud with a smirk. Today, it was like the rest of the world was trapped in with him, the climate as hot and dead out there as it was in here. Maybe it was time to bite the bullet and get an air conditioner. A window unit; summers usually weren't severe enough for central air (this year could be an exception), and like he could afford it anyway. But window units look so trashy, he can't stand them.

Trapped! He laughed to himself. Is one the prisoner if it was he who barred the doors and turned the key locked? Or was it the world who had locked him away, and this was his safe corner, bare and hushed.

He stared at the wall. Television replaced their good shows with good commercials, books instantly made him sleepy no matter how much he slept the night before, the internet got to be fucking boring, movies were too long, and video games, well, he's too old for video games now. Nothing was better than sitting and thinking, except lying down and thinking. He thought about the events of his life, how he should have it done this way instead of what happened. He knew that you couldn't change the past, but he was frustrated. Once, he had a crush on one of his high school teachers, the ninth grade general math teacher, so he asked her if she wanted to go to Red Lobster with him, awkwardly of course, and her reaction will forever be ingrained to his mind's eye. First she looked confused, bewildered, and then she shook her head slowly. He wanted to walk away, but he did not want to look the coward. After a few torturous seconds, she said she was married, and returned to grading papers. He could see how tense she was. If only he could go back and forget all about asking her out, because that little scene left the crush corrupted. Or rather, to go back, and ask it all smoothly, like it ain't no thing, and then when she said she was married, "divorce him" with a slick smile on his face. That would've been something to be proud about.

He thought about his future, what he wanted in his future. To sit and write poetry in a hut by the sea was the life for him. He imagined himself stepping out to his porch, wearing a panama hat and khaki shorts, smelling the salt of the ocean and still never tiring of it, looking to the water for inspiration. The walls that enclosed him provided a good forum for thought, but they were shit for poetry. He thought about white sand falling through his fingers and revealing a sand dollar. He thought about one his favorite things to do, diving right into a crashing wave and becoming prone, allowing the water to take him anywhere it wished. This was an impossible future.

He thought about who he is. He didn't really know.

Thinking took time. That's why he liked to do it. Night came with uncommon suddenness. It was getting to be around that time again.

"Hey! Nay-deeeeeen! Could you get me a beer!" he said out to the hallway.

It took her awhile, but Nadine eventually stepped out of the bedroom, out of her own prison. Though they weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, they could be soulmates, tied at the hip spiritually. She left the house to go to work, while he did an internet tutoring job to pay for his half, but she went nowhere else. She stayed in her room mostly, and whenever she walked out of her room, she walked with a gait that suggested that her back was built to be a ramp. He felt sorry for her, sorrier than he did even himself. She was an old lady in a young woman's body.

"You could've got this. You're closer," she said after handing him the bottle.

"I know, but I wanted you to get it."

"No, you're just lazy."

"That's right bitch. That's right."

"Stop calling me that!"

"You're right, I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry."

"Don't call me baby either, I'm not--"

"Yeah yeah, don't say it. I don't want to think otherwise."

She looked at him, shining, with a flicker of a smile. He felt good about it.

"I don't know why I gotta say bitch, it's just such a fun word to say. I can't help it. I'm just not perfect, I guess!"

"That's right, beeotch."

He laughed. He picked up his beer and noticed something wrong.

"Could you open it for me?"

She turned around and went back to the kitchen. "You're funny, Nick."

"My hands are fuckin killing me here. I can't do it."

"Arthritis?"

"Maybe; maybe! I don't know what it is but I need you to open this beer for me."

She shook her head.

"Think about all the times I get you a drink!"

She turned her head around, smiled politely, nodded, and returned to her room. He was alone again. If it wasn't for Nadine providing that little bit of human contact, that little bit of joy, he would probably be insane.

It didn't take long for the beer to get hot. He noticed beads of condensation in a matter of minutes. It was still so hot! Picking it up felt gross; maybe because it "sweated," and that was disgusting. He remembered sitting in gym class, and a girl went on about the qualities of hot beer, about how the flavor deepens. He told this girl she was crazy, hot beer makes him want to puke. She gave him a look.

He kept thinking about that look. There was resentment in it, like he shouldn't have even spoken. He remembered sitting back from her, away from her, looking to the side. She went on about her favorite beers while he sat humiliated.

He always thought about this, but it wasn't until tonight that he realized this: that this was the day of turning, the day of shutdown. The camel's last load. Did that girl deserve it?

The hot beer was dumped. He couldn't fall asleep for hours.

The next morning was still hot. This had to be the hottest summer in his state's history. He couldn't take it anymore, hardly being able to breathe. Being in this house was like being under blankets. It could not be suffered. So he stepped outside, and felt a hot wind that smelled like dust. He picked up some dirt, took it to his nose, and let it fall.



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whew... cutting it a bit close with that word count.

i sure hope that these creative writing challenges don't die out a forum that regularly gets 2000-3000 visitors at a time, and there's only a few writers? i don't believe that!

85 - 1192 words

Their home went dark, the TV ceased to function. Well, except for one channel, which was the public access channel. On it, a debonair figure in a dark suit uttered the words, “85 winters, 85 summers, 85 springs, 85 falls.” "Did you see that creepy looking guy on the TV with that weird message?” asked Travis. “No, you must be trippin’ Travis, there's no power to the TV,” exclaimed his sister, Wendy. Outside, a moan and a scream could be heard. Two people were walking - no lurching – slowly. One guy was seen chewing someone else’s head. “This is some freaky shit Travis, like a zombie flick or something – look!” said Wendy as she motioned Travis to look out the window. Seconds later, a Chevy Bronco barrels through their yard, smashing the feasting figure biting the head. A jogger across the street sprints, with four haggard figures shuffling closer to her. “Hey, isn’t that guy with the wife beater drunk neighbor Andy?” mentions Travis. “Looks like him,” says Wendy. “He looks pale and blue,” observes Wendy. Travis takes his binoculars off the shelf and takes a peek. He zooms in on what looks like Andy. It was indeed Andy, but he definitely looked like a zombie. Part of his neck was missing, a severed vein and bone stuck out. His flesh was bluish and pale. The look in his eyes was nihilism and desperation, infinitely blank. “I’m not waiting around here to become some zombie’s chew toy – let’s take the van and head up north,” declared Wendy. “If we hang out here any longer, we’ll end up like Andy over there, and we won’t be like alcoholics, if you know what I mean,” said Wendy.

Travis and Wendy ambled into the white van, its sides full of rust bullets. “Wendy – you take the wheel, you’re a better driver,” demanded Travis. “Fine,” snarled Wendy. Wendy hit the button to open the garage door. “Damn, the power’s out. The door won’t open. Travis, go out and pull the manual release lever and open the door,” ordered Wendy. “Are you fucking nuts? What if one of those things is waiting outside the garage door?” questioned Travis. “Don’t worry about it – there were only 4 of them a few minutes ago, and they’re too damn stupid to know we’re here, at least for the time being,” proclaimed Wendy. “Ok, but I’m gonna grab that old shovel, just in case,” Travis replied. Over in the dark corner of the garage, Travis picked up a heavy shovel. He flicked the cobwebs and dirt off the handle. The shovel was likely last used by Dad close to before the time he passed away with Mom in a car accident, which was 6 years ago. Travis pulls the level and releases the garage door’s automatic opener. Before he opens the door, he hears some light pounding outside on the door. A faint voice can be heard, but he can’t make it out. “Shit. There’s some zombies right outside. We’re fucked now,” Travis thinks to himself. Travis heard more pounding, and a faint “Help!” from the other side of the garage door. “Wait, it can’t be a zombie if they can talk. I’m gonna risk it,” Travis assures himself. Travis whips the door open in one fast motion. Right before his eyes, a woman in an orange shirt stained with blood and with black shorts with a white stripe across each side stands right in front of him. “They’re after me – help!!” shouts the jogger. Suddenly, two scrawny, limb arms reach for the jogger’s shoulders. “Heads up!” Yells Travis. The jogger ducks down. A fetid, decaying face lunges forward as if to take a bite. Travis triumphantly swings his heavy shovel with the deftness of a samurai swinging his sword to strike a fatal blow. The blunt edge of the shovel smacks the zombie head with a satisfying thud. The zombie reels backward, stunned. Travis follows it up with an upward strike to the zombie’s chin. The zombie tumbles down, rolling backward.

“No time to talk now, let’s scramble into the van!!” Travis whips open the van’s back door, pushing the jogger in front of him. He closes the door, but it doesn’t latch. “Fuck! I forgot to fix this damn thing!” He force slams it several times, and it finally latches. The jogger scuttles across the floor of the yellow-carpeted van. She is out of breath. “Let’s peel the fuck out here! Step on it, Wendy!” shouts Travis. Wendy throws the gear into reverse and floors the gas. The van sails backward. She then slams the breaks, and goes into drive. The van launches forward. “I think we lost them,” exclaims a relieved Wendy. “Think again.” The Jogger points toward the window. A zombie in a baseball cap and a tattered Old Navy button-down shirt is hanging on to the side-view window and roof of the van. It bites at the glass, unaware that it’s there. “I’ve gotta shake that thing!” Panics Wendy. “If I don’t, it’ll break the window and bite me!” exclaims Wendy. “See that tree? Drive real close to it and run down Mr. Old Navy with it!” suggests Travis. Wendy makes a sharp right turn, and comes within inches of the tree. Old Navy Zombie slams into the tree, blood splattering on the cracked driver’s side window.

“That was good thinking – I think we’re safe for now,” says Wendy with a sigh of relief. Wendy looks at the road ahead. “I don’t see any other cars, zombies, or people on the street ahead,” observes Wendy. “Hey, Jogger lady, how long has this been going on, anyway?” asks Wendy. “The name is Claire, and I noticed those things chasing me just as I was getting home from the park this morning,” barked Claire. “We’ve gotta get out of here if those zombies are what I think they are. Even though we are in a town of 4,000 people, sooner or later we will be outnumbered and overwhelmed by them,” added Travis. “But where do we go? Where CAN we go where we’d be safe?” wondered Wendy. “Let’s head up to the trailer at the lake place. Even if they’ve started appearing there, the population of Adlair is only 200, and people are spread out. Much better survivability chances there,” suggests Travis. “How do you know all this?” wonders Claire. “Haven’t you ever seen any zombie films?” asks Travis. “No, all I ever watch is chic flicks,” proclaims Claire. “Sheesh – figures,” whispers Travis under his breath.

Wendy turns on the radio. The station was set to 88.5, national public radio. “Damnit, nothing but static,” says a disappointed Wendy. “Yea, all I hear is white noise,” exclaims Claire. A creepy voice enters Travis’ ears, the same voice on the TV earlier. The voice was a rich, low baritone. “85 winters, 85 summers, 85 springs, 85 falls.” “I don’t hear static at all,” replies Travis. “You must be delusional from stress,” guesses Wendy.

The Lonely God

Ahmet stood and watched the moonlight shine on the marble floor. It was a silver trapezoid. He stepped away from the arched doorway and basked in it for a moment. He felt restless, it was time to go out. He waited a while for this snowstorm. It was always after the snowstorm. He was very close.

Outside was a blanket of pure white. The snow covered everything, shining the quiet streets with an unearthly brilliance. Ahmet stretched his muscles and started walking. He walked quietly through the back alleys, absorbing the city itself. This was his New York. The side she showed only to a select few.

Twelve murders in five winters. Always after the snow. Young girls and boys, strangled. Runaways. All beautiful, all dead. Ahmet had the pattern in his head. One winter to the next. He waited and searched. Meat Packing District. Long Island City. Red Hook. Williamsburg. Hell’s Kitchen. Tribecca. Neighborhoods near the water. Always near the water.

It had to be Dumbo or The Lower East Side this time. He felt it in his bones. Ahmet climbed to the top of a brownstone near the corner of Eldrige and Hester, looking through the windows as he scaled the weathered walls. Glimpses of real life flashed in his brain, flavorful and pleasing. He stopped and looked in on a house party for a few moments. Minimal techno flowed through the partially open window, as a stunning brunette danced by herself. The smell of cannabis was familiar in the bone chilling night air. He smiled and moved on. Ahmet jumped from roof to roof. He needed to get near the water, near the bridges. He stopped at the edge of the last tall building near the river and looked out at the water. He listened. The FDR drive was a stream of headlights. The LES was too noisy tonight, Dumbo was a safer bet.

Ahmet jumped off the roof and ran towards the Manhattan Bridge under the shadows. Like a panther at hunt he crossed the bridge, with deadly and determined accuracy, all the while picking up scents and sounds. The speeding cars drowned out everything but the smells.

Ahmet jumped off the bridge as soon as he got near land and landed quietly near Plymouth Street. The night air was filled with muted music and the stench of seaweed. House parties. Grilled meat. Soft laughter and sex. He climbed the skeleton of an incomplete condominium. It was a ghastly beast, covered in crystalline snow which gave it an ethereal appearance. Ahmet jumped off the top floor to a giant crane, a metallic monster stretching its neck towards the heavens. Human defiance. Ahmet smiled wryly. He remembered a time when the tower of Pisa was not leaning. He stood on tip-toes at the farthest edge of the Crane’s arm. He watched and waited. Listening.

Soft footsteps and muted laughter.

“Mhhh, it’s too cold to be outside, you told me you’ll let me stay the night with you. Let’s go man.”

“We will, I love the cold, we’ll smoke a joint and drink some of this rum I swiped and we’ll go.”

Sounds of hard kisses.

Ahmet jumped off the crane, his body bending exactly in the right places to absorb the shocks. He rose in slow motion and straightened, a pale monster under the full moon. Statuesque. Unreal.

He followed the couple.

The night air was ripe with the smell of cannabis.

The couple went to a ditch near the water. Ahmet listened to them quietly, they walked over rocks, stones, and shards of glass that broke under their feet.

“Umm, you wanna do it here? You’re crazy…it’s so fucking cold. And this place doesn’t exactly look sanitized.”

“Don’t worry, there’s a patch of soft earth near the concrete wall, the breeze will just pass over our heads. And I’ll keep you warm. I never did it out in the open.”

Ahmet stood at the corner of a dilapidated building and looked at them. The shadowy shapes intermingling and becoming one. Suddenly the sounds of sex overwhelmed him. It was raw, drunken. Ahmet walked closer, silent. A ghost in the night. He crouched as he got closer. The couple was enraptured. Their mating was primordial, somewhat obscene within the concrete jungle.

“Do you like it?” He asked as he thrust into her. Hard, methodical. He was stunning. A rugged, bulky man. She looked like a sketch. Angular. Beautiful. Wild. Fragile.

Lost.

“You’re very good.” She replied in whispers. Ahmet shivered at her pleasure. His keen senses were overwhelming. He grit his teeth and focused.

The man came and squeezed the woman tightly. And they lay there wrapped together. The water splashed softly against the concrete wall.

“Mhhhhh, now let’s go to your place and do this again on a soft bed, huh?”

He didn’t reply back.

“Hey, what are you…AHHHHHH”

The man started to strangle her. He was the killer. The Snowstorm Strangler. Ahmet jumped at him in a flash, grabbed him by the neck and threw him against the wall.

She screamed like a wounded beast. Ahmet motioned her to keep quiet.

Ahmet was a sight to behold. A pale god under the full moon. Almost human, but not quite. His long black hair flowed softly with the west-wind. His pearly skin reflected the moonlight, like the snow. His dark brown eyes were two calm voids. It was his face that calmed her down. Too beautiful, too flawless. That face could not possibly harm her.

“Wh..who are you?” The man’s voice shook in fear.

Ahmet was tall and lean. He looked strong, but no one could have been strong enough to do what he did just moments ago.

Ahmet didn’t answer. He had no answer to give. Who he was in his past life as an Arab nomad had nothing to do with what he was now. He approached the man slowly. Suddenly the rocky ground shook under him. Ahmet lost focus, his vision became blurry. The feeling was familiar.

The cannabis.

At times, his keen senses were a curse.

The killer was a big, blurry shape, moving away quickly. Ahmet almost lost his balance as he slipped on a rock. He tried to get up but the killer picked up a huge stone and let it fall on Ahmet’s head.

Ahmet fell flat on the rocky ground. His skull was crushed. Blood seeped from his forehead, down the edges of his eye sockets. From the base of his skull. Dark crimson, thick, it flowed like honey, down on the ground, over the snow. Scarlet on white. The pain soared through Ahmet’s head as he tasted his own blood. The last time he tasted his own blood was centuries ago. When he tried to save his lover. But she wouldn’t drink his blood, she wanted to die a human.

And he had to go on living without her.

Ahmet sighed softly and ascended, a battered phoenix from the snow. The pain cleared his ancient brain. He wiped his face as the killer stood, gaping at him. Without a moment’s notice Ahmet snapped the killer’s neck with a flick of his wrist and drank the warm, salty blood that flowed from his veins.

The blood was life, after all.

Seasons

Word count: 351

She gazed into his eyes, as he cried in her arms. Despite the wailing and piercing, she couldn’t help but smile. Even if she had tried to frown, her cheeks were locked into place, unable to lower.

“How small,” she thought. Small, but beautiful in every way. She never wanted to let this feeling go, this rush of color that flowed through her body as he finally started to calm in her exhausted arms. “So this is what a new Spring feels like,” Just watching him slowly learn to keep his eyes open was enough for now. She hoped that Spring would never end.

Spring remained lively and happy over the years. His mother did whatever she could to keep him from becoming a Summer too quickly; she wanted him to enjoy being Spring while he still could, for Spring does not last forever, and eventually gives way to Summer. She felt both proud and scared. Would Summer still love me, as Spring had? Will he keep me or push away from me?

Time passed, and Autumn overtook her without her ever realizing that her own Summer had ended. She watched proudly as her Spring took on a shape of its own; he was becoming a beautiful Summer, its sun shining so brightly with anticipation, ambition, courage, and determination. And like moths to the flame, others were drawn to his brilliant radiance as well. In her eyes, it was the most brilliant Summer she’d ever beheld.

And then, well before anyone was ready, Winter crept out from the shadows. It slowly found its way to her, slowly overtaking her weakening body. Summer cried, though trying to hide it and remain strong; how could Winter come this soon? Its too early for the cold! But despite his woe, she smiled at him. She looked so content, staring into his eyes.

“My beautiful… baby Spring…” she uttered, as Winter’s breathe grazed her cheeks. The tears flowed freely, the cries of her only legacy as painful as that of the wolf’s howl to yonder moon.

“Don’t worry mother, Spring will come again.”

Jack

Word Count: 1194 Words

They called it the Four Seasons, but it only ever felt like one. In the heat of Las Vegas, it always felt like winter when you walked through the automatic doors and into the frigid environment that only a few hundred name-brand air conditioners could provide.

“It’s what our guests want, a place to escape the heat,” the management told Meg when they first hired her to work at the hotel’s front desk.

“Oh, of course,” she had replied then, wishing to make an impression on her new boss, “that’s only logical. These people need us to provide them with an environment to escape from the soaring heat and enjoy a good night’s sleep; or whatever other memories they want to leave behind when they go.” She said this last note with a wink, eliciting a few chuckles from the suits across the table.

Looking back, Meg regrets a majority of that conversation, from her hackneyed attempt at referencing the city’s catchphrase to actually agreeing that freezing people to death was a reasonable business practice. That she was so naïve as to presume that it was for the guest’s benefit to keep the hotel cold, as opposed to a way to keep them indoors where they could pump more money into the business, was another not so proud moment in a parade of similar instances since her arrival in the city.

Now, she stood behind a desk wearing a uniform designed for the Las Vegas weather she never got to experience, feeling more than a little bit cold. The three cups of coffee she had used to warm up were starting to get to her, so she headed to the ladies’ room. When she returned, she realized something was different: it was a little bit warm.

“Excuse me, but my room is warm!” a man yelled into a phone as she picked it up on her way back to the front desk. Meg apologized and said that she’d get on it right away, and saw the switchboard light up with more calls. Each little blinking light said the same thing: that their rooms were no longer the chilly hideaways they were paying for. Meg took extra time assuring each person that she’d handle the situation, all the while basking in the comfortable temperature that was starting to emerge in the lobby.

Eventually having to do something about it, she left the other girl in charge of the desk and walked down to the basement. She could have called, it would have been faster, but why rush? She walked to an inconspicuous door slightly ajar, knocking slightly before pushing it open.

With his oval name tag slowly falling off of his tattered uniform, Jack sat on an overturned and oversized bucket doing a crossword puzzle. The room was dark except for a small hanging light fixture with one of those energy-saving light bulbs.

“There’s a bit of irony in you keeping this place sucking energy when you’ve got that little light bulb, you know,” Meg said as she walked into the room. She saw Jack smile lightly, but he didn’t turn away from the crossword.

“Sweetheart, I just like the way it lights my puzzles. Now, you got a four-letter word for ‘tumble’ in that smart little brain of yours?”

Meg smiled as Jack finally turned towards her. He was middle-aged, but always seemed older. He had been the hotel’s maintenance man for over twenty years, she had been told on her arrival, but she never really understood why. He had no contracting experience, couldn’t fix anything even close to electronic, and suffered from crippling arthritis. But he could do the one thing they cared about most: he could fix air conditioners.

“I think you’re looking for-”

“Fall! Ah yes, sorry my dear, you’re just too slow for this broken man today. I’ve been on a bit of a roll lately, have had plenty of time to do my puzzles with everything working so smoothly,” he said while uncurling his smile into a frown. “But, I suppose that isn’t the case anymore, now, is it?”

Meg was hoping he wouldn’t rush to this conclusion so quickly, so she searched for an ideal stall tactic. She had tried politics the last time they had this conversation, but Jack didn’t vote. The weather didn’t actually get away from the subject, so it was usually a poor choice, but Meg decided that trying the direct approach couldn’t hurt.

“Do you ever worry about global warming?” she asked with an earnestness that surprised even herself. Jack thought for a moment, putting down his crossword puzzle for the first time.

“I can’t say I trouble myself with it, if that’s what you’re asking sweetheart,” he said. He took the light in his hand and adjusted it towards Meg, turning their conversation into an interrogation session. “Why, though, are you so curious?”

“Well,” Meg started while she gained her bearings, “I’ve just been thinking lately. Considering how much power we consume here at the hotel, I just-”

Jack laughed and let the light swing back and forth above him as his shadow (somehow laughing even more despite its lack of definition) popped in and out of Meg’s view on the concrete wall. She had not expected his reaction to be so visceral, she rarely got more than a light chuckle from the man.

“I’ve worked here for twenty years, and I had the same thoughts you did once. This was before all of this craziness, all of these questions about whether we’re destroying the ozone layer. I won’t say it’s wrong, because I’m just an ignorant man who repairs air conditioners; I just don’t think about it, sweetheart, maybe you should do the same.”

That was one sweetheart too many for Meg, months of frustration finally exploding from her small frame.

“It’s not natural! I sit up in that fucking lobby and greet these fucking tourists who only want to sit in this fucking hotel and freeze to death so that they feel like they’re fucking triumphing over mother nature. Well, it’s not fucking Winter, and if these people want that they can go to fucking Canada!”

Jack’s wry smile in response to this outburst only made her more frustrated.

“And you, sitting here with your fucking energy efficient light bulb, you’re the worst of all; you enable those bastards, you manipulate their environment to the point of mockery, waving your boney little fingers at the sun as if to say “Fuck you, seasonal weather patterns and geographical location, I own you! Well, fuck you, Jack!”

Meg stormed out of the room, leaving Jack still smiling as he heard the door to the stairs slam behind her. He got up from his bucket, picked up his toolbox, and then stood beside the old rotary-style phone hanging on the wall. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and the phone rang immediately after.

“Uh, hello,” Meg said, breathing heavily as she wiped the sweat from her brow. She heard a light chuckle on the other end of the line, and then a dialtone. A half hour later, right on cue, the season changed.

flintstryker: Editing would've gone a long way a very long way as there are grammatical errors and run ons etc. It was nice to see a western here though when we get so much gritty urban stuff and sci-fi stuff it's nice to have something completely new.

bjork: When I heard the theme I knew someone would do something about a tree. I didn't figure it'd be you though.

Poor girl is so sad
She cries and cries and cries
only yaoi can help

aaron: Nice but it never really caught me per se until the end. Perhaps it was the skipping back and forth I just never felt attached to any character.

Buhmachine: Tense is switched a few times. The whole thing felt a bit sluggish as well.

2DMention: Holy blocks of text batman! Breaking up the paragraphs would've made it much easier to read. I like the movement though.

Nitewulf: Very nice comicbook like. I love the using the walk to the place to introduce the character and get motion introduced early. It was surprising then that you only told the most important bits of info at the end (like the nomad stuff, lover and stuff) really it would've been better before as it broke the climatic movement. Also the descriptions got a little overly flowery (IE: ascended, a battered Phoenix) for something so gritty. I know it may seem I'm picking on you, but really I like this and think it has a lot of potential with some little changes.

RurouniZel: Very good concept. Though the last line just sort of stuck out a bit much.

Memles: Love what you did with the theme. Some of Meg's dialogue sounds canned however and she sounds very one dimensional almost satirical when compared to Jack. If that was your aim you suceeded, if not...well...

ronito said:

Memles: Love what you did with the theme. Some of Meg's dialogue sounds canned however and she sounds very one dimensional almost satirical when compared to Jack. If that was your aim you suceeded, if not...well...

Click to expand...

Well I certainly had no intentions of having her be the most interesting character, and especially in the rant towards the end the point was to represent someone whose altruism is far more selfish than she would tend to realize. And considering the ending, I certainly wasn't attempting to display a true three-dimensional heroine - as the title says, this isn't so much her story in a lot of ways.

Memles said:

Well I certainly had no intentions of having her be the most interesting character, and especially in the rant towards the end the point was to represent someone whose altruism is far more selfish than she would tend to realize. And considering the ending, I certainly wasn't attempting to display a true three-dimensional heroine - as the title says, this isn't so much her story in a lot of ways.

Click to expand...

Absolutely, my point is however that given that we're spending most of the time with her there should be some compelling reason to care outside of her involvment with Jack. Either that or introduce Jack earlier as he's very well written. Just style I guess.

I definitely see your point Ronito, and I had a few different ways I had planned to get to the character that admittedly I conceived of first, but this one just sat best with me for some reason. Thanks for the comments, and in such detail for everyone - always great to have some constructive criticism!

On that note...

Ronito - I really enjoyed this story by the end, although it took me a while to get into it. I think this is because the murders themselves are so plainly stated, while the discussion has a lot of back and forth between the two characters. I understand why this is, but I think it's kind of a show and tell issue. If we're to believe that the man is actually becoming more and more psychologically dependent with every kill, I almost wish we could have had a bit more details on what he was thinking, what it felt like, the moments of impact when the knife hit the flesh. There's some great little exchanges in the final conversation, but I felt like we were missing part of the buildup, and there were a couple of moments where the conversation was a bit repetitive where those words could have been used earlier.

I really like how it all came together in the end, though, well done! I've got to get some work done, but I will offer more comments as we get closer to the deadline.

Memles said:

Ronito - I really enjoyed this story by the end, although it took me a while to get into it. I think this is because the murders themselves are so plainly stated, while the discussion has a lot of back and forth between the two characters. I understand why this is, but I think it's kind of a show and tell issue. If we're to believe that the man is actually becoming more and more psychologically dependent with every kill, I almost wish we could have had a bit more details on what he was thinking, what it felt like, the moments of impact when the knife hit the flesh. There's some great little exchanges in the final conversation, but I felt like we were missing part of the buildup, and there were a couple of moments where the conversation was a bit repetitive where those words could have been used earlier.

Click to expand...

Thanks for the feedback. You're absolutely right. The first, second and third drafts all had the murders in better detail, but sadly the word limit and my wanting to do the symbolism bit ate away at it out of necessity. I tried just doing two murders and do the meeting earlier, but then it wasn't believable that he'd be addicted to it by then and I also liked the four seasons (each murder was symbolic) so in the end it was partly because of the word limit and my insistence on keeping to some ideas, which gets me every time. Thanks for the conversation bit, I didn't see that.

ronito said:

Thanks for the feedback. You're absolutely right. The first, second and third drafts all had the murders in better detail, but sadly the word limit and my wanting to do the symbolism bit ate away at it out of necessity. I tried just doing two murders and do the meeting earlier, but then it wasn't believable that he'd be addicted to it by then and I also liked the four seasons (each murder was symbolic) so in the end it was partly because of the word limit and my insistence on keeping to some ideas, which gets me every time. Thanks for the conversation bit, I didn't see that.

Click to expand...

Ah yes - one of those edits where you need to cut something but where you can't actually cut anything integral, and as a result are left with quite a quandary. I think you did a great job of managing with that situation, though, as the holes are by no means crippling.

Didn't get a chance to do any work on this since Friday... it's not going to turn out quite how I wanted, but it'll be finished by the deadline!

ronito - the story itself is nice and well rounded. i liked how it came full circle.

it needs editing.

"The perpetually sharp blade was tarnished the hilt an unadorned black ivory."

?

"Four seasons had passed since he was last there yet it seemed unchanged."

here?

flintstryker - i couldn't read it. its difficult following a whole story within quotes...and your sentence structures are extremely difficult to follow. you need to use a lot of punctuation. should have edited it later on, for better clarity and tightness.

bjork - a serious entry would be welcome. or comments on our writing. writing is difficult work, and time consuming, i think some of us actually take time away from our busy lives and write these pieces, as it actually shows in many of these entries. we write, re-write, edit, think. i actually skipped my weekly soccer game to write this one. we all have real lives.

writing is difficult.

aaron - good as usual. some typos, "ears ringing to loud..."

logical contradiction...since rose stole violet's necklace...why did she bury her along w/ it? i know for the sake of the story it was used as the identifier...but perhaps something else could have been used. assuming violet didnt get the chance to tell anyone as everyone thought she eloped, rose could have kept the necklace.

buhmachine - ok, quite good. either a bit more life experiences or more vivid descriptions of the heat would have made it a lot better. but thats me, i like more visual narratives. very good.

2dmention - you switched tenses, the present tense doesn't quite work here. a bit difficult to identify with the theme. needs overall editing and better seperation of dialogue.

is travis gonna turn into a zombie because he keeps getting the secret messages?

rurounizel - very creative.

memles - i didnt get the urgency. why didnt people just go to aspen instead? other than that, well written.

"Nitewulf: Very nice comicbook like. I love the using the walk to the place to introduce the character and get motion introduced early. It was surprising then that you only told the most important bits of info at the end (like the nomad stuff, lover and stuff) really it would've been better before as it broke the climatic movement. Also the descriptions got a little overly flowery (IE: ascended, a battered Phoenix) for something so gritty. I know it may seem I'm picking on you, but really I like this and think it has a lot of potential with some little changes."

my endings are usually either sharp or subtle. i dont like elaborating too much, specially for short pieces. i like the readers to visualize and get a feel for themselves. as for the character descriptions, you could look at the story as a snippet of a larger world. thats what it is. its self contained, but w/o some background of the protagonist, he wouldn't be interesting. i didnt intend the dead lover or his background to be a focus of the story, but rather used those to halt the action, switch gears, enhance the atmosphere, mystery etc. thats my thing, i like to switch gears a lot. w/o his descriptions it wouldn't have been clear enough what he was, (ok may be the last line does give it away). i wanted to make sure readers had a good visual of him, what he looks like. thats important.

also, the pain, the blood and memory had to be introduced in order for him to get rid off the weed-high and focus. to begin w/ i introduced that plot device to introduce a weakness, and it followed that the weakness had to be overcome somehow. my idea was for him to think about his loved ones and get up to fight.

in the end, the hunt was the focus...not the background so much. i didnt intend it that way.

ronito said:

bjork: When I heard the theme I knew someone would do something about a tree. I didn't figure it'd be you though.

Click to expand...

Is it a tree? I was talking more like reincarnation, but I guess it's similar

nitewulf said:

bjork - a serious entry would be welcome. or comments on our writing. writing is difficult work, and time consuming, i think some of us actually take time away from our busy lives and write these pieces, as it actually shows in many of these entries. we write, re-write, edit, think. i actually skipped my weekly soccer game to write this one. we all have real lives.

writing is difficult.

Click to expand...

Writing is difficult, but adding length to a piece doesn't make it better by default. Mine was short because it said what I wanted it to say.

Looks like I'll be cutting it fine yet again.

nitewulf said:

also, the pain, the blood and memory had to be introduced in order for him to get rid off the weed-high and focus. to begin w/ i introduced that plot device to introduce a weakness, and it followed that the weakness had to be overcome somehow. my idea was for him to think about his loved ones and get up to fight.

Click to expand...

Ah I get it. Maybe I misread but that wasn't clear to me. Thanks for the feedback!

bjork said:

Writing is difficult, but adding length to a piece doesn't make it better by default.

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no one said that. i was talking about your inputs in general.

nitewulf said:

no one said that. i was talking about your inputs in general.

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I thought that's what you were implying by "a serious entry would be welcome," but alrighty then.

Anyway, I figured I'd read them all on the last day. In the earlier threads, I always forget about them until they're over. But this one's been bumped enough that I will remember to come back.

ronito said:

flintstryker: Editing would've gone a long way a very long way as there are grammatical errors and run ons etc. It was nice to see a western here though when we get so much gritty urban stuff and sci-fi stuff it's nice to have something completely new.

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yea i intended to edited it but i had completed forgotten about it.

i have been so damn busy

Ok, this is my first entry ever. I'm not the best creative writer, but it's worth a shot.

St. Anthony of Padua’s
Word Count: 826

Ester really wasn’t supposed to leave her room.

A harsh glow illuminated the hallway that she peered into, her eyes darting down each corner. Every painting on the wall seemed to be staring at her, knowing that she was, yet again, attempting to escape her confines.

Ester couldn’t help but giggle. “This time, I’ll make it” she thought, glimpsing towards the far reaches of the corridor one last time. Her ear slightly protruded the exit of her room, searching for a faint footstep or a heavy sigh of those who kept her locked away. She waited, maybe for five minutes, yet all she could hear was a faint hiss from the radiator and a whisper from the falling snow outside the nearby window. Her playful demeanor now shifted. She had to be focused in order to escape.

As she lurched down her path to freedom, Ester found herself staring at the pictures that guarded the walls. Far above her reach, each was both majestic and intimidating. She didn’t really enjoy looking at them, but since she rarely made it far in her weekly “freedom march”, as she called it, she saw passing each one as a checkpoint and felt obligated to glimpse at each. There was the plane with the star emblem on its back, the propellers spinning. A man in a dark uniform stood in the corner, looking at a something she couldn’t see. What was he looking at? She always wondered these things. Who was he? Did he have any children? The picture was, like most of the photographs on the hall, in black and white, blurring the details and the answers in them that Ester wished to find.

A little further down the hall, a single piece of fruit greeted her. The still life hung above a banister adorned with wilting mums. Though they were Autumn flowers, far past their season, a few petals held onto the stems in desperation. Ester plucked one of the dying flowers and placed it behind her ear, twirling around her with her eyes closed and arms wide. As she danced beneath the industrial lighting, her free and vibrant arms collided with the plant, sending it tumbling towards the carpet. Ester immediately ceased her moment of joy, and glanced in fear. Her heart beat irregularly as her breathing became heavy and raspy. Even the pictures seemed to stare at Ester, both worried for her health and in slight amusement that she had made it so far. She waited, her wheezing breath continuing, but no footsteps came. It was a close call, but she was safe.

Ester was now even more cautious, her eyes wide in fear and her breathing slow and intense. As she passed the last corner, she cocked her head around to see if anyone was at guard. The front desk was empty. This was it, her big brake. Her heart pounded faster, her freedom almost in sight.

As she made her way to the exit, she passed by one final painting that she had never seen before: a woman and her child on a swing set during the springtime. Ester stopped. She knew that she had to keep going, but as much as she tried, she couldn’t peel her eyes away. The woman, in a white dress and a bonnet, wore a look of glee as she leaned back into the spring breeze. Her daughter, dressed in pink with a satin bow, laughed as she reached the peak of her swing. Cherry blossoms danced in the background, spilling their leaves onto the happy family. Ester drew closer, her quivering hands stretched outwards to touch the woman’s face. As she did, a tear spilled down her wrinkles and landed on her flowered blouse.

“Mrs. Byrd?” A voice called from behind. Ester didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. “Mrs. Byrd, it is three in the morning! What are you doing out of bed?!” This was it, Ester couldn’t wait any long. The flower still in her hair, she reached for the door as she heard the woman behind her shouting for help.

The woman who had been calling out to Mrs. Byrd kept yelling for help. She knew that the old lady always tried to run away, but she usually only made it passed the neighbor’s room before she fell asleep in the hallway. She looked out in desperation as the winter wind cracked Mrs. Byrd’s skin and the ice erased the blood from her face.

But to Ester, all she could feel was the faint falling of the cherry blossoms upon her hair. Looking upwards, she saw a thousand, no, maybe a million beautiful petals in the sky, each one a celebration of her victory.

And while the staff from the St. Anthony of Padua’s Home for the Elderly stared in fear as Mrs. Byrd fell into the snow bank, Ester could only feel herself swing upwards on a warm spring day.

The Wind (735, Word)

The sky is black as ink with stars littering it by the dozens. Hundreds, maybe. As I gaze up into the heavens thoughts of His greatness do not cross my mind and I do not seek understanding or wisdom. I stare into the night sky not for signs or for comfort—I simply stare unknowing and uninterested. Women marvel and children are amazed—fancies of a weak mind.

My father would kill me if he knew I was out here, with David, up on the hill...but he was on his nightly patrol. David’s my youngest brother. I think he’s eleven years old come next month. I could ask him but I wouldn’t want him to think any less of me than he already does…Lord knows he’s the last to care for me and, despite myself, I’ll do anything to keep him thinking highly of me.

“David, you’d better get back to the house before mom or dad notice you’re not in.” I sigh as I tilt my head toward him. He’s lying on the grass to my right with his face to the sky and his eyes closed. Slowly, he releases a breathe that visibly frosts in the cold spring air. Without a word, he props himself up with his elbows and laboriously comes to a stand.

“I guess I won’t be seeing you next week, then.” he states without turning to face me. “Mom told me it wasn’t safe to talk to you anymore.” At this he turns to face me, his face pale in the moonlight. “Says if I see you next week you’re as likely to turn or possess me as you are to kill me. She says I should run away if I see you, from now on.”

“There’s small comfort in that. At least she still talks as if I exist” I say. David laughs though more for my sake than for any other reason. His features grows dim as the moon shifts behind the cover of a large cloud. The only part of him I can see now is his form, small and strong, a shadow silhouetted against the faint glow of the town below. I embrace him, perhaps too quickly, as he jumps back an inch and is initially tense under my embrace.

His body slackens and his arms raise. Clapping his hands at my back he whispers, “I love you, Peter. Good night.” I hug him harder, rummaging my hand through his hair roughly. I say no more words. Their time has passed. I release him from my embrace and briefly stare at his face in the darkened night, unable to see his features. I turn on the spot and walk away. My brother turned then as well…or maybe he stood there watching as I left with tears in his eyes…I do not know. It’s been a week since I last saw him, a Wednesday much like tonight. He was happier to see me then, the joys of youth still evident. We talked for hours of the sky and of jokes, tales, and friendship. Something had happened between then and tonight…something that scared them. Evidently, my mother told him about me and my condition. My father centered his patrol near the western side of the town—his torch never wandering far from the house. Even David had changed, matured. A comfortable yet telling silence passed between us tonight. Tonight, I think, will be my last time seeing him.


A painful burn flashes in my stomach, at this thought, and I no longer feel the strength in my legs. Hastily, I lean against a sycamore tree—its bark shedding as my hand grasps to sustain my weight. The burning flares stronger as my knees collapse on the cold soil, I plant both of my hands on the ground, and I begin to cry. I’d like to say I cried for my brother or for His Mercy…but I think I cried only for myself.

Arms shaking of weakness I, again, grab hold of the base of the tree and use all of my strength to stand. Closing my eyes I feel the cold touch of the wind against my wet face. With some trepidation, I let in a deep and long breath; the brisk air chilling my lungs. I turn to face the direction of the breeze and begin to walk...praying for the warm winds that summer bring.

Less than a day remains, so if you have unfinished entries, get them in soon.

ivysaur12: That's a hell of an entry. I really like how the seasons were woven in and out throughout the whole thing. Needs a little editing but nothing major (IE: any long). Still nicely done.

Gattsu25: Again a very nice entry. I don't really have much feedback outside of that. I liked it.