Not a big fan of anonymous submissions, but an interesting challenge might be to try to emulate someone else's style. Either someone else here on the forum or a favorite author.

We thought up the idea a few challenges back of one called "Homage", where we emulate or pay homage to the authors in these challenges. I think that would be awesome, and I vote that whoever wins this challenge make that the next theme.

No matter who wins. Haha.

Ok, here we go. I've not marked spoilers, so anyone who hasn't already read bakemono's story, please don't read this!

For anyone who does read it, feel free to critique my criticism.


bakemono - "Chocolatta"

Quick first impressions:
I've seen this premise done before a few times on TV shows or in stories. So to start out with, the story's got a tough row to hoe. Still, it's fairly well executed, and has its own macabre addition to the end.
It's also interesting to see the MC have such an obsessive focus/fixation; I don't recall that being a typical feature of this kind of story.

The opening is great, with the descriptions of the girl and her volleyball game serving a double purpose--not only showing us what the girl is like, but hinting at the MC's obsession with her. His total focus on her is great; it's believable and it allows for extensive description. The line about her hair dancing with her is especially great. On subsequent read-throughs, there are also a few hints as to the true nature of the MC.

The twist is well-foreshadowed (maybe a little too much so, with the line about playing human, and a few others), but still surprised me a bit. There's a sort of red herring where we think the guy is just after sex, and is a bit of a sociopath, and we only see what's really going on once we find out Coco's sick. But is that the right place for the reveal? It's so nonchalant and matter of fact, and it feels a bit low impact there. It might have more of an impact if we only work things out for sure at the very end. We could be kept out of the MC's true thoughts for a little bit longer.

Some nitpicks (not comprehensive):
-beginning is a bit wordy--when it's not the girl being described, it doesn't need so many adjectives. The "dull, yellow ball" could just be a "ball"; we know what they look like, and it's not exactly important to the story The "tall, mannish" girl makes a nice contrast to Coco, but also isn't important to the story.
-a few passive sentences. "A slapping sound and the ball is sent forward with a spinning force" is both passive and wordy, maybe try "with a slap she sends the ball spinning forward." The passiveness works all right when it's the other team, since it kind of sets them up as being weak.
-awkward dialogue in several places. “Will you go to the same uni with me? How’s your grades?” “I’ll try. My grades aren’t too bad, though might not be good enough for some places.” “Then, why don’t you come over tonight, we can study together. Exams just around the corner, and I want to be together.” This sounds ever so slightly off, especially for a bf/gf pair. Remember to try reading your dialogue aloud to see how it actually sounds when spoken, this can be a big help.
-a number of grammar and tense errors. I'm not going to go through each one, there are a few too many for that. But watch out for slipping into past tense, i.e. "they were both white" in the first paragraph.
-"bloody murder" line is too overt. It feels a little fourth-wall-breaking. In these challenges, it's usually safer not to actually use the theme's words directly in your story. It's distracting.
-her face was carved off and there was no screaming? Wow. I don't know if I buy that, even if she did want it.

Summary:
The main strength of the piece is the description of Coco at the beginning, and the start of the seduction in the middle. The revelation is good, but might be better if moved closer to the end.

My main criticism is one I haven't mentioned so far, but an important one: it's too easy for the MC. He does have a specific goal, although we don't find it out until halfway through (it might be better for us to find out about it earlier on). Trouble is, there's almost nothing standing in his way. The girl falls for all his lies; it's trivial for him to seduce her.

He needs some obstacles! Maybe she's more prudish than he expected. Maybe her mother takes an instinctive dislike to him, so they have to sneak around behind her back. Maybe there's another cute boy after her. Or maybe instead there's an internal obstacle; maybe he's drawn to her because she's so full of life, and he needs to feed off of that, but he also finds that life so beautiful that he can't bear to destroy it. Maybe he truly loves her, and is horrified at the way he always destroys what he loves, but he can't help himself. Or maybe there's some pressure--an external factor that forces him to hurry, to not be able to be so patient with her. Maybe he has only days to pull this off or he'll die, and he's invested so much time in her already that if he fails, he has no chance of finding another girl to seduce.

It might seem like I had a lot of criticism here, but I still quite liked the story. I just think... it could be even better! I don't necessarily recommend that you do an extensive rewrite for the challenge, but I do hope you consider how you might address some of the things I mentioned here.

Hi Cyan, thanks for the crits

Can I still edit the thinger before the deadline? Or is that considered cheating

As for a little bit of back information:

crowphoenix said:

Hey, Kimo. Can you provide us some selections of freestyling that you feel are excellent? It'd help us to critique you if we had a solid idea what you're working towards.

Click to expand...

I appreciate the show of interest.

Just to be clear, for the most part, the art of "freestyling" is improvisational/extemporaneous rapping. Not anything written.

I can't come up with much off the top my head (freestyle exhibitions), but I can give some examples of my core inspirations:

Aesop Rock:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=125j...r/SSBMSynikaL&feature=player_profilepage#t=11

He's my biggest influence by far (you can probably tell). I think I'm going to start diverging from him a bit, now. My current world view essentially developed from stumbling upon his music.

Immortal Technique:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HP1exQ8tcUc

I'm not as political anymore, but he's still a major influence. I'm planning on reinserting politics into my lyrics when I feel comfortable enough to give the references weight using my style.

Cannibal Ox:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pADgllloQg4

Nas:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUwJ8WcZ6RY

*****


I don't know if I'm going to have the time to enter this challenge. Too much reading this semester. I have ideas, but it's going to take a consistent flow inspiration to get them finished with the little free time I have.

I'm also going through something of a metamorphosis, partially based on some the comments I received here, mostly because I think I'm ready to shed my inspirations more.

If I do propose something, it'll probably be something a bit a less abstract, with more traditional hip hop culture tropes in regards to content and delivery.


-Scribblenaut

Oh my, I finally stumbled upon an idea, but I know I will probably screw up. So, I'm starting it tomorrow morning (1 or 2 am, it's when my mind is open and I can grab words and type them out) and editing and refining it for the rest of the week. (first time)

I really shouldn't be writing what I am thinking about, but I feel like I need to now. It's a little cliched, but I might be able to manage it. I just need to make sure my execution is tight and polished.

Ugh, having a lot of trouble with this one, I'll try to put something out at least.

Deadline is slowly creeping up, people. You know, I should have really saved this topic for Halloween. My story is about half done. Delayed because I was forced to abandon my first attempt as something that would have been way too long. My current idea actually came to me in a dream fully formed. I'm really just extending it out a bit more.

This ended up too long also. So I decided to break it up for two or more parts, continued in the next challenge if I can make it fit.

The Hounds of Night: Part I
word count: 1,522

The engine died. The sun was slipping below the horizon.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" James swore as he slammed the thick, rubbery wheel of the local bus over and over. The rusting, rickety thing had been in service for more than thirty years. It was never meant for mountain roads, but it was the only thing left in Norwich that could fit all of them. At that moment he was wishing he had just made off by himself as most people had when the plague hit, even though he was sure they were all dead by now.

"Can you fix it?" Jaime pressed as she tugged at her sleeve, a newborn in one of those ridiculous plastic carry on things pressing down on her ample chest. They weren't real, she had done porn so he knew for sure, but didn't matter to him. So it hurt when he was forced to sigh and quickly shake his head. She immediately turned to shout at the other passengers in a voice barely under control, "Can anybody here fix a car engine?!"

"Bus," the sixteen year old Greg pointed out with a broad grin from beneath his baseball cap before his father smacked him.

"Christ couldn't fix an engine smoking like that," Buck calmly observed, a wiry old man still packing a giant revolver provided to him by his post as security guard over the bus depot. The thing had only been fired once, and that was during their escape. "We're going to have to make the rest of the way on foot. Are you sure there's a cabin up in the hills here, mister?"

"Yes, of course. It's former owner was an... acquaintance of mine. It has been vacant for some time, but it should still be sound," the middle-aged man remarked in formal tones, pale skin contrasted against dyed raven hair with a few hints of grey. He gave his name as Bernard, but not one of them believed it. Not with his thick European accent and simple tailored suit. "It shouldn't be far from here, though we should depart at once."

"Then we go," James agreed as he yanked the handle to throw open the door, springing from the driver's seat as he claimed his duffel bag. "Everyone grab your gear, and prepare to run like hell. Shout if you're falling behind, and people should help you. I don't know what's waiting at this cabin, but it's better than what's waiting for us out here. At the least it'll keep us safe until dawn."

Some grumbled, but no one argued. They staggered and stumbled as they collected the few possessions they had managed to grab hold of, and filed off the bus to stand before its headlights.

"But won't the smoke... attract them?" Karen, a timid, middle-aged woman questioned as her watery eyes turned back in the direction they had come. She was squat and overweight, leaving a few of them to wonder how she had managed to survive this long.

"Better for us if it does. We just need to be long gone before sunset," Greg's father, David, spoke out of calm consideration while most of the others looked around in a panic.

"Come on, let's go," James pressed in faint annoyance, clapping his hands to drive this herd into motion, only to wince at the sound as it echoed among the thick forest that clung to this mountain road, still without any sight of their destination.

They jogged. They huffed. When someone trailed behind, they grabbed them by the arm to push and shove them along, even if it slowed the whole group down. When they couldn't see anything of the bus but the column of smoke, several broke out flashlights. A few muttered questions to 'Bernard,' who gasped for air and reassured them that the cabin was just on the next rise.

Night had fallen by the time they saw it.

"That's not a cabin. That's a mansion!" Greg spoke up in delight while everyone else had stopped to stare. The sprawling home rose up three stories with its severe gothic facade painted in white that seemed to glow in the evening. A few balked at securing something of that size, but a few others were comforted by its sturdy walls and relatively small windows. David smacked his son again for speaking so loud, but the damage was done.

A howl split the air nearby. Soon joined by others.

"Run!" James screamed, his voice breaking in fear. Their whole startled company charged for the house in the distance that was their only hope of safety. With the energy of youth, Greg quickly took the lead, grinning like this was a race, as he kept glancing back to his dad who couldn't match his son's pace. David frowned, but he and the rest of the group moved along at a good clip, all except for the already exhausted Karen, wheezing from her bulk as she slowly fell further and further behind.

"Help. Help," Karen pleaded a bit pathetically, her voice soft and weak, sounding on the verge of collapse.

Only one slowed their pace. The others kept running.

"I can see them!" Jaime screeched as she turned her head back, and so did several of the others. With the moon and stars just emerging, there wasn't much to see but a few darkened forms rushing low to the ground with eyes shining like black pearls.

Greg waited on the porch already, looking back with wide eyes. Unable to stop his panicked forward momentum, James slammed into the door, gasping and grasping at the knob, before it finally turned to discover was unlocked. Holding it open and waving his free arm wildly, he urged most of the rest into the darkened interior, not even having the breath to shout.

David grabbed his gawking son and shoved him inside, slamming the door behind them just as more howls sounded to join the pack already just outside their door.

"All right, all right. Now we need to find some hammers and nails to board up these windows with whatever we can," James ranted half to himself as he paced the small foyer where nearly everyone in their group huddled for fear of being alone. "Bernard, you said your friend owned this.... Where's Bernard?"

A quick head count revealed 'Bernard' and Karen were missing.

"Shit! I told them to shout if they fell behind!" James shouted nervously, one hand absently clawing at his shirt for a pack of smokes he knew wasn't there.

"I don't see them out there. I don't see anything at all," David said from the window, straining to peer out into the now peaceful night. The walkway to the house and the grass around it was vacant.

"Fine. Well, there are too many fucking windows in this place, so let's find a nice solid, defensible room where we can all hold up until morning," James struggled to hold onto reason as his whole body shook. The sound of Jaime's baby crying hardened his nerves. "We're also not going to make it without food and water, so let's make a quick search while the things out there are... finishing up. Should be sated for a little while."

It was a callous truth, but no one argued. They searched the house mostly in pairs, discovering a kitchen and a pantry half filled with dusty cans of preserved food. While some stuffed these into their bags, David directed others to fill up all the pots and jars they could find with water from the tap. It was a bit brown as it sputtered out, but no one hesitated in taking a drink.

Their group reformed just as the creak of bending wood intruded. The source was the basement door, still shut, and the sound of something slowly moving closer. Several moved to bar the portal, but Buck waved them off, leveling the cold steel of their revolver. With one good shot, it might mean fewer of them to deal with.

The knob turned and the door parted. A shot rang out, barely missing the figure standing upon the stoop. 'Bernard' did not even flinch as he chided the older man, "You shouldn't be wasting bullets. You said yourself there were only five left."

"What the hell are you doing, Bernard? Where's Karen?" James insisted as he took charge of the group again, charging in to confront this strange man who looked a bit more dirty and disheveled than they had seen him last.

"Karen is gone," 'Bernard' spoke with some regret. "I went back to help her when she stumbled. More of them were coming in from the east, so I dragged her to the other side of the house... she was already dead when I got there. I don't think her heart could handle the strain. I left their body for the hounds. Since they stopped howling, that must have satisfied them for now. Are there any objections?"

Each one was certain he had killed her to save his own skin, but not one of them said a word. 'Better her than me.'

Had to remove about half the story to make it fit. Probably for the better because the half removed was mainly filler and not really useful in regards to the actual challenge.

Tomorrow's People

The balding man barely emitted an audible scream before the air was sucked from his lungs. Going limp he collapsed in a bloody heap, a silver blade stuck between his ribcage, his white shirt turning red from gushing blood that stained the carpet in the high-rise apartment.

“Was that absolutely necessary?” asked Garret, seated behind the lid of a laptop on the kitchen bench.

“He wasn’t gonna talk, had nuttin to say” said his partner, a pale, ugly looking man who affected a pretentious stagger as he paced around his prone trophy.

“’Sides, he called me a piece of shit.”

“Tosh if we were to kill everyone who ever insulted you then the world would be a very empty place” observed Garret without taking his eyes away from the laptop screen, searching it intently.

“And better off for it” said Tosh, followed shortly by the primitive act of pounding his chest like a baboon. An annoying habit he had to cement his assumed superiority over others.

“Found anything?” asked Tosh without conviction. He did not favour the quieter moments of their profession. Tosh had a greater preference in shooting, stabbing and blowing things up.

“On the Grail? Nothing of interest. Some crap about Project Zeta that links to that exploratory mining drill in Egypt. Nothing we didn’t already know. Look around would you? Maybe our journalist friend uncovered something he couldn’t risk putting onto a hard disk. And try not to kill anything else would you?” said Garret despairingly.

“If you say so boss” retorted Tosh with sarcastic delight.

Neither of them was actually superior to the other. They were contracted to a mysterious man known as Dr. White, a self-proclaimed international man of mystery.

Dr. White scared the shit out of Garret. His obsession with questionable occults and dark magic had been rumoured to give him dangerous powers, ones that could unearth the worst traits in a person, right down to their darkest, most sinful desires.

You know, the ones like killing the next-door neighbours barking dog or grabbing that hot chick from across the bar and squeezing her abundant breasts without any regard for the consequences.

Not that Garret desired such things personally. Tosh on the other hand was an entirely different bag of crazy and never considered reserving the right to committing such acts, with or without the help of Dr. White’s influence.

Garret kept their meetings short or at least that would often be his intent. Unfortunately the last reunion had involved a lengthy briefing about the Holy Grail, an artefact as old and ancient as civilization itself and one that had suddenly evoked the interest of several competing parties around the world.

Whatever reasons behind the sudden increase in interest over the fabled artefact remained the domain of those running the show. For Garret and Tosh, this arrangement was more than agreeable; all they cared about was the pot of gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow.

That was until recently when Tosh had dreamt up his own ingenious scheme concerning the harnessing of the Holy Grail’s powers. This clever plan included forcing a blond, or red head, into his bedroom every night.

Slamming the laptop shut Garret stepped over to the balcony’s sliding door and examined the city outside the apartment walls, a dystopia brought about by corrupt governing corporations and the steady dissolution of the world’s political powers.

In the distance flames licked the night sky where pockets of homeless souls were huddled around the fires warmth.

On the littered streets masked criminals traded bullets with one another and a Molotov or two. The fighting ceased only when the blaring red and blue lights of a police gunship arrived or when all the combatants were dead or dying.

Garret was a man of circumstance and the crumbling of the world’s societies had dealt him a royal flush in this do or die game of life.

A slight coolness that tingled against the side of his face alerted Garret to something out of the ordinary next to the balcony door, an air vent that appeared slightly askew, as if it had been hurriedly replaced. Dragging over the nearest chair Garret removed the plate covering the air vent and probed his hand inside the hole.

He felt something with a smooth edge and the thickness of a paperback book. Removing the item from its hiding place Garret discovered a black journal, filled with sheets of paper.
“Think I got something here” shouted Garret.

“Anything good?” questioned Tosh as he approached the kitchen table where Garret was scanning through the pages.

From the barely illegible hand writing Garret was able to discover years worth of researching regarding the mythical Holy Grail and numerous theories of where it had last been laid to rest, away from greedy human hands.

“Not much we didn’t already know except wait, what’s this?"

The last entry was of a poorly drawn map of Italy and near three of the major cities the journalist had dotted the map and added the word, “Key required.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” inquired Tosh.

“It could mean anything really. No point in trying to encrypt it. That’s not our…”

Garret was cut short. There was a loud knocking on the apartment door.

“Fuck,” cursed Garret and he quickly concealed the journal in his jacket pocket.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Be right there” shouted Garret, desperately looking at Tosh and hoping for an answer to what he intended to do about the mess he’d left on the sitting room floor.

“We gotta do something about the body,” Garret stated the obvious.

“Throw it over the balcony?”

“Are you fucking insane? No one would be able to ignore a body falling twenty stories out of one of the most secure buildings in this forsaken city. Help me take him into the bedroom. We’ll hide the blood with a couch or something.”

Dragging the body into the bedroom Garret left Tosh to cover the body and moved one of the chairs over the soiled carpet.

The visitor knocked again. “I’m coming, I’m coming” yelled Garret.

Smoothing his clothes in an attempt to look more respectable, Garret opened the door and was greeted by a tall, slim man with the look of a professional sprinter.

“Can I help you?”

“Who are you?” asked the man.

“I’m Blake’s associate” lied Garret, “Who the fuck are you?”

“A man with a message” the man said simply and admitted himself into the apartment. “Is he here?” he asked, placing his brimmed hat on the chair.

“Not presently. You know how it is, find a lead, gotta chase after it. He left me behind to attend to any visitors.”

The man investigated the surroundings. “Who were you talking to before? I swear I heard voices.”

“No one. I like to talk to myself. Helps me clear my head. Every man needs some way to remain sane these days,” said Garret, with a hint of honesty.

“Perhaps. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No idea.”

“That”d be right. They arrange a fucking meeting and the bastard isn’t even here.”
“Any chance that I can be of assistance? It is why I’m here after-all,” said Garret slyly.

The man abandoned his search and returned to the door. “I don’t think so. They said it was to go directly to the journalist.”

“Well he ain’t here so you’re more than welcome to come back in an hour, or seven.”

“A fair point. I suppose I can give it to you, not like it will be of any use until Blake gets back. Sides, I only get paid to make the delivery, whose to say you weren’t Blake anyway” said the man and after searching through his backpack he handed Garret a USB card.

“What is it?” asked Garret innocently, continuing his efforts to seem trustworthy.

“What the fuck is it, are you stupid or something? It’s a fuckin flash card. Just a word of warning though mate, it’s encrypted so it’ll only work when the laptops fingerprint scanner is authorised and only when Blake is the one to activate it. Wouldn’t be trying to access it yourself unless you enjoy a good roast” warned the man.

“Do I look like an idiot to you?”

“By no means but you can never be too careful. Well best of luck to you mate” said the man as he dismissed himself as quickly as he had barged into the apartment.

As soon as the man had disappeared into the stairwell Garret returned to the bedroom and helped Tosh drag the journalists body out into the kitchen.

“Shoulda killed him,” Tosh suggested as they waited for the laptop to boot.

“You’ve got some serious problems Tosh. I love you but for fucks sake you need to watch some Disney movies or something.”

“Nah mate, he’ll tell his boys that you were here and they’ll get suspicious, come back wit guns they will.”

Garret sat down on a barstool and slid the flash card into the laptop. “We’ll be long gone by then.”

Once the laptop had loaded the operating system and read the data on the flash card, and after a little bit of help from Blake’s stiff thumb, Garret was issued with a short message reading, “Seven Hundred Hours, North Brunswick, Malory’s Diner, come alone. Bring the map, we’ll bring the key.”

Garret’s eyes lit up like a fireworks display on the fourth of July.

Their high spirits were quickly squashed though when the apartment doors were pushed open and the sprinter man returned.

“Sorry to intrude, forgot my hat, just… what the fuck is going on here!?”

What happened next Garret experienced in slow motion. The laptop struck with shattering force into the man’s head until what was left of it was barely distinguishable.

Falling to his knees Garret shook from head to toe. He buried his head in his hands, a million thoughts impairing his senses as he tried to decipher what had just happened.

A slippery warmth caressed through his fingertips, smelling like the scorched flesh of a beast roasted to a crisp. He looked at his hands. They were coated in blood, someone else’s blood.

Stumbling into the bathroom Garret washed his hands furiously and splashed cold water into his face. Slowly inclining his eyes to meet the face in the mirror Garret cried in anguish.

A pale, ugly, distorted face looked back at Garret, its devilish eyes ripping away every moral fibre in his being.

Garret wanted to cry as the madness began to consume him but his face, no, not his face, the other face did not allow him such luxuries.

Tosh smiled back at him in the mirror, and laughed.

Ok, so I've found some creative writing programs that are looking like a pretty good match for me. I'm still searching, of course. There are some areas of the country that I haven't found a solid choice for, and some of mine are a bit iffy.

I think I'm now ready for the hard part, though. Getting a portfolio together. I'm not really certain what I should do here. Do I write up all new stories, take old ones from the challenges, or a mixture of both?

The fact that almost all of my completed works from the past year are on Gaf makes me a little wary of using them.

If I need to write new stories, have I, in your opinions, laid the base work for a better story in some of my old works? What are my flaws I need to be on the lookout for while writing these and rewriting them?

If you can't tell, I'm fairly nervous about this. This is the spot that usually causes me to stumble. But, I'm a bit ahead of where I usually am at the moment.

crowphoenix said:

Ok, so I've found some creative writing programs that are looking like a pretty good match for me. I'm still searching, of course. There are some areas of the country that I haven't found a solid choice for, and some of mine are a bit iffy.

I think I'm now ready for the hard part, though. Getting a portfolio together. I'm not really certain what I should do here. Do I write up all new stories, take old ones from the challenges, or a mixture of both?

The fact that almost all of my completed works from the past year are on Gaf makes me a little wary of using them.

If I need to write new stories, have I, in your opinions, laid the base work for a better story in some of my old works? What are my flaws I need to be on the lookout for while writing these and rewriting them?

If you can't tell, I'm fairly nervous about this. This is the spot that usually causes me to stumble. But, I'm a bit ahead of where I usually am at the moment.

Click to expand...

Well how many pieces are they asking for?

For me it was just like three. So I took two from the challenges and a snippet of the novel I'm working on. Don't worry, I once sat on the judging committee for one of these, you would not believe the crap that comes through sometimes. You'll do fine and if you don't you can always try again later.

Thanks, man.

Most are asking for around 25 pages. The one that actually wants completed short stories wants two.

Whew, finally got an idea I like! Starting on it now.

“Notice Me”
(word count: 1,117)


Blood seeped onto the cold, dark surface. With each slice, liquid slowly pooled together. As David pulled his knife back, he almost savored the feeling of the closely serrated edges ripping apart strands of muscle. To him it felt soothing, empowering. He always thought there was something slightly wrong with him, but for this moment he didn’t care. Shifting his attention, he glanced at the small puddle of blood. It shimmered under the ceiling light. It was beautiful. He felt calm. A second later, David was harshly interrupted. He felt the pricks of the knife’s edge digging into his left index finger. He cringed from the pain, yet he was fascinated by the sensation of the knife digging through flesh.

“Argh!” David exclaimed. “Did it again.”

David was instantly overcome with frustration. He hastily dropped the knife onto the kitchen counter and sighed. He remembered those words he heard so much growing up. His father yelling,

“How could you be so damn clumsy!” he would say. “Don’t be such a moron!!!” To be reminded of it made him feel small and useless.

Shrugging his thoughts aside, David grabbed the cutting board and dumped several strips of freshly cut sirloin into a hot frying pan. He didn’t know what he was doing. He never felt comfortable in the kitchen, or anywhere else for that matter. David sifted some salt and pepper over the meat, as he did his best to prepare a special Friday night dinner for himself. He was tired of being alone. Each weekend was the same. He wanted something to change. He wanted to be noticed, to be respected.

Biting into a slightly undercooked slice of meat, David’s spirits sank even more. It was bland and flavorless. Instantly, he sank into depression. Letting out a breath of disappointment, he decided tonight needed to be different. He pushed his plate aside.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, David looked himself over. He was wearing a dark brown overcoat. He ran a comb through his thin, stringy blond hair. Its natural waviness made it almost impossible to style. He put the comb down and stroked his moustache. He never liked it. But he thought a bit of facial hair would make his bony, smooth face look a bit older. Without it people often mistook him for a college student. He didn’t like that. He also thought the moustache helped make his nose look less big. David wasn’t happy with his appearance, but that was nothing new.

Sitting down at a bar just a few blocks from his one-bedroom apartment, David ordered a beer. He was alone. He looked around the room. People were talking, laughing, and enjoying each others’ company. But David felt empty. He loathed his introverted nature. He longed to somehow become a part of the loud background noise. Scanning the bar, his eyes stopped on a woman several stools away. She was vibrant and magnetic. David admired her long, flowing blond hair that she tossed over her shoulder as she gave a flirtatious smile to the man standing next to her. Though he couldn’t hear through the rumble of voices, he could tell the young, well-groomed man was trying hard to impress. Deep inside, David wished he could have the courage and good-looks to approach a woman like that. She wore a red skirt. Its deep color seemed to glow under the dim lights. Her lively manner made David smile. He became so focused on her that he didn’t realize he was staring. Laughing heartily at something the young man said, the woman turned for a moment and met eyes with David. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he quickly looked down. For a moment, he wondered if there was any chance that she was smiling at him.

“Don’t be so stupid!” he thought. “She was laughing at something that guy said.”

A moment later, David could faintly hear the conversation across the room ending.

“Okay bye,” the woman said playfully. “Call me.” She got up from the bar and walked outside.

Impulsively, David put some cash on the table, got up, and followed her out. He didn’t know why. Would he try and talk to her? Maybe he just wanted to admire for a bit longer. Maybe he just had too much to drink. He only had two beers, but David was never good at holding his liquor. Walking a slight distance behind, he traced the woman for several blocks. She was gorgeous. The back of her legs shimmered under the street lamps, reflecting from behind the shadows. He was amused by the clip-clomping sound of her three-inch heels. It was briskly cold outside, but David barely noticed as he remained transfixed on the woman just yards ahead.

“What am I doing?” he thought. “I should just go home.”

But he didn’t.

“Tonight will be different,” he affirmed in his mind.

Moments later, David watched the woman walk into a small townhouse. He stopped and pondered for a moment as he watched the lights come on in an upstairs window. What was he going to do? He didn’t know. He only determined that he couldn’t shy away as usual. He started to become angry with himself.

“Why didn’t I say something sooner?” he thought. “Now this is just weird.”

He slowly walked toward the door. David was never good at social interaction. He always managed to say something awkward, or to say nothing at all out of his fear of saying something wrong. That’s why he never talked to women. It was too painful. Still, he thought just maybe he could make things better this time. Stepping up to the porch, David lifted up his fist to knock, but he hesitated. What would he say? The mere fact that he was there already looked awkward, if not creepy. Letting out a nervous breath, David reached back behind his head to feel a cold sweat on the back of his neck.

“Tonight will be different,” he muttered under his breath. He was starting to have doubts about that.

At that moment, something changed. David was filled with a sudden burst of confidence. He knew what he had to do. Everything became clear with one burning realization. Taking in another deep breath, he reached for his left inside jacket pocket. He could feel the smooth, cold steel, and the rough, worn out wood of the handle. He had other knives, but David’s kitchen knife was his favorite. He preferred the tiny, piercingly sharp serrated edges. Pulling in one more breath of confidence, he reached for the doorknob and slowly turned. It was unlocked. David walked inside, and quietly closed the door behind him.

Still pulling at loose strings here.

Quick Whispers of the Day

Word Count: 433

Quick whispers mid-day
Soft echoes bounce around walls
A man stabbed repeatedly, blood like thick tomato juice
Killed, robbed, pillaged
Soul shred into postage stamp size
A passerby whose name is brother and twin to the lion
Stood still, silent watcher

Hesitation wrapped a cocoon around his inaction
Reluctance a soft solace

Should I act?​

Someone else will stop him
Leave justice to those who deal it
Just let me smoke my fucking cigarette
And drink my unease away

He watched as cop cars drove by, right past, unaware
Did they see anything? No
None of them
too busy with the crack cataracts and the meth makers
Like a blanket dropped on a small child's head
a child who doesn't yet know what the world is like
a blanket to keep us safe, warm, and ignorant.

The murderer, robber, thief took his spoils of victory
ran into a store near him, held it at gunpoint
shiny .45 in his right hand, sin in the other
Black soul upon black actions in a black, black world
A pungent darkness, thick as heavy water
and twice as dangerous

I'll follow him, see what he'll do next​

I watched as the man who kept taking from this world
never got his just desserts
his cake of jail time
the cherry topping of a life wasted for nothing
My tax dollars shouldn't go to that
But what can I do?

There was a subtlety to the man's actions that
kept him low-profile, so low that even the ground sunk beneath him
so he could pass by everyone like a ghost
Only the lion man could see him, stalking his prey but yet ultimately
…
doing nothing.

He went to a school afterwards
brought a whole arsenal
destroyed classrooms, raided offices
never shot one kid but man he could have

Maybe he's as hesitant as me.​

I could reach out and stop him
Take one step it'd all be over
I can see my chance.
He's got a gun to a six year old's head.

I tackle the fucker
slam his head into the pavement, soft bone crunch
bend several fingers ways they were never meant to go
his cries of pain a harmonious melody
Splenetic fury became an enveloping aura
The more I hurt him the better I felt

The sirens came later, echoing in and out
to me, they sounded like angels
The sun went down

They would never find out that I let him do all these things.
They would just think I'm a hero.

Silent secrets whispered at night.

not really feeling it for this challenge, doubt i'll get an entry in.

school is starting up for me tomorrow, and i'm finally able to take an actual creative writing class, so i'll either have no time at all for future contests, or will use them to my advantage in helping with the class

Oh wow, as a fairly new Gaffer I wasn't aware something like this existed. The fact I've only just seen the thread now on top of the fact I'm in the middle of moving house/country means I'm not likely to participate but I may have to jump in on the next one of these.

I am VERY out of practice writing wise, I've had fairly little motivation to write for a long time now but there was a time when my head was filled with ideas and I had a couple of wordpad windows open at all times just in case :lol

Anywho this could be an interesting way to try and get myself writing again, glad I found it and hope my brain allows me to take part when the time comes.

New challenges go up... what, does it come out to every other Sunday? I started out helpful and then lost the thread entirely. But they're regular. Definitely participate when you can!

Challenges tend to start on Sundays. They last for about a week-and-a-half (the second Wednesday after). Voting and critiques go for another half-a-week (until Saturday night). The winner posts the new challenge the next day (two weeks from the start of the last challenge).

Just Existence
words: 1,607

Well, I've been away this entire week dealing with family business, but I've managed to cobble together a story. Unfortunately, I had to write it all out by hand. Can I get a little bit of leeway in case I don't manage to type it all up in time? I should have it done considering I have more than a day, but I don't know if I will have time to sit down and type. 4 pages (back and front)

Here's proof (a little):



I should be under the limit, but I'm not entirely sure. I counted the lines and multiplied by 10. Most lines have more, but there are dialogue lines as well as paragraph ends to consider.

I'm tackling a new genre for me this time. So be advised, the Cliches will be coming to town.

Edit: One of the things I've noticed I'm not very good at is conveying, in words, the shock of something that happens suddenly. I don't make that shift well between the what the character was doing at first and what they're doing now.

It's getting pretty chilly out here. I should have brought a jacket or hooded sweatshirt. Oh well, I guess that's me for you; always thinking in the present, never giving any thought to what may lie ahead. No, that's not true, not true at all. I think ahead quite a bit. In fact, I've been thinking about this for a while. I just didn't expect it to be this cold. I'll check the weather before I got out next time.

Within a few moments, the pole lamps along the path came on; illuminating the paved trail and the bench the man was sitting on. He appeared to be around twenty years of age, but could have been anywhere from eighteen to twenty-two years old. He was clad in a dark blue t-shirt and black track pants with a white stripe running down each leg; a normal outfit for a day in the park, but also known as fall jogging attire. He was equipped with good old-fashioned running shoes, the requisite MP3 player, and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes; an oddity for most joggers. He had been trying to slowly wean himself off them, but hadn't gotten there quite yet.

Still sitting, the man reached into the pocket on his right hip and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. He then lifted it up and smacked the unopened end against his palm. Two cigarettes flew out of the package and landed in a puddle at the man's feet. Flustered, the man let out a sigh and brought the pack up to eye level. A single cigarette lay within. Carefully, the youngster reached into the open slot with his index finger and slid the lone survivor out. He brought it to his mouth and pulled his BIC out of his left pocket. (It was considered bad luck to keep your lighter in the same pocket as your smokes.) Just as he brought the lighter to the tip of his cigarette, it slid through his fingers and landed next to the puddle where the other cigarettes were swimming. As the young man bent down to pick it up, a light drizzle began to fall from the clouds above, sending up a bit of steam as droplets hit the brightened ends of the lamps.

Damn, it just isn't my day. I knew I should have checked the weather before I left the house. On the other hand, it could all be part of the master plan to stop me from smoking. After all, I really don't feel like dying young. In addition, I've been jogging every day for the past few months, so that should help. Oh well, I guess today is the day then.

Feeling slightly guilty, the new non-smoker let go of his lighter and leaned back into the bench, gazing at the passerby as he did. Three or four groups passed as he sat there; an elderly couple, a young family of four, and a group of thirty or so year old women split into two sections.

Several minutes later, he spotted a familiar face. She was a girl of about nineteen years of age with copper hair. Her body was clothed in jogging attire that was suited for the cooler weather of September; white tennis shoes, maroon track pants, black sports bra, and a white sweatshirt jacket with a black zipper. She, unlike her male counterpart, had prepared for the dismal weather.

Well, ain't that a son of a bitch, I passed her nearly an hour or so ago. I must have been sitting here a little longer than I intended. I guess I had better get going then. After all, there's nothing that says I have to make it easy for her.

With that, the man got up from the bench and jammed his headphones into his ears. Then, he pulled his Zune from his pocket and selected the first artist on the list, taking off as soon as he did. A few moments later, he was up to his full jogging speed.

Music: "I'm on the Highway to Hell!" :Music

A minute or so passed before the young man felt a tap on his shoulder. He shut of his Zune, pulled out his headphones, wrapped its cord around his hand, and turned to face the fiery-haired teen.

"Heh, it looks like you finally caught up with me."

They both turned right to follow the paved walking path.

"It wasn't that hard. After all, you are a smoker."

"No, I'm a former smoker. Apparently, the world decided that I was supposed to quit today. See!"

The man grabbed the empty pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tossed them into a nearby trashcan.

"Lou, what does that have to do with anything? It could have been an empty package."

"It was an empty package, Alice. The contents are back by that bench. I dumped them into a puddle beneath it. I didn't feel like dying before my time."

Alice jumped over a branch in her path, her headphones cord swinging back and forth in front of her chest.

"I have to be honest with you, Lou. I haven't been feeling to well."

"Are you worried about the marriage? If so, you shouldn't be."

"What do you mean by that?"

"There are worse things you should be worrying about, like death or me."

"What?"

As the last word slipped out of his mouth, Lou dropped back behind his companion, the cord to his headphones strung between his hands. Next, he slipped the cord over Alice's head and then pulled hard, cutting off the teen's air supply. Her manicured hands shot to the wire around her neck and began clawing at it, scratching shallow gouges into her skin. Lou pulled harder and then leapt into the bushes on his right, dragging Alice along with him.

After a minute or so, the pair emerged from the hedges and found themselves in a clearing. Lou snapped his head back and forth, examining his surroundings, and then pushed Alice to the ground, knocking the headphones out of her ears. Music could be heard as her MP3 player hit the ground. Its screen read: The White Stripes : De Stijl : Apple Blossom.

Music: "Hey little apple blossom, what seems to be the problem? All the ones you tell your troubles to, they don't really care for you." :Music

Lou looked down at the Zune and then turned to his captive.

"You have excellent taste in hardware and music. That's besides the point though. If you make a sound, I'll kill you. You can be sure of that."

At that, Alice screamed at the top of her lungs. Acting quickly, Lou dropped to his knees and slapped her hard across her face. In retaliation, the girl punched him in his jaw. Next, Lou grabbed her shoulders and slammed her head into the ground. She let out a small yelp and then fell back, dazed. Using her temporary paralysis to his advantage, Lou grabbed a rolled up sock out of his pocket and shoved it into his victim's open mouth.

"Okay, that was a freebie. You won't be getting any more. Now, take off your pants. Quickly!"

"A vuff aben iguff!"

"Do it or I will!"

Reluctantly, Alice did as she was ordered and closed her eyes, exposing her bare skin to the pouring rain.

For the next five minutes, the person she had thought to be her friend thrust into here. Bright red blood seeped out of her, painting a gruesome scene across her pale inner thighs.

Several moments of silence passed then, during which the blood was cleared away from her legs. The rain still pouring, he pulled out.

Alice opened up her eyes and then hurriedly pulled up her pants.

I was saving myself. For him. I have to get out of here and get back. To him.

The soon-to-be wed woman spat the sock out of her mouth and let out a small grunt. Then, she leaned forward, only to be pushed back to the ground. Gathering up her strength, the fiery-haired teen sent a fist flying towards the man's face.

You Bastard!

Lou slid an open palm of his own across the girl's face. This enraged her, forcing her to let out a battle cry as loud as her tiny frame would allow. Next, she jumped up and rushed towards the bushes at the edge of the clearing. Lou was right behind her, however, cord in hand. This he wrapped around her thin neck once more.

On and on the pair struggled, through the bushes and on to the paved path. Alice continued to fight against her captor, scratching furiously at his hands.

HELP! I need HELP!

After several moments of desperate battle, Alice managed to break free and run off, her enemy hot on her heels. Eventually, she escaped him entirely, but did not stop running.

They can't all be like him. It's just not possible. There is no... no... no way that Mark can possibly be as cruel as him. I don't need someone else to put me through hell.

Another ten minutes or so passed before she turned off the path and emptied the contents of her stomach. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she did.

A few more minutes of rest and then Alice was off once again. Soon, a familiar face caught her eye. She waved enthusiastically as she approached, her tongue hanging from the side of her mouth.

"Alright Alice, you have a nice evening. You have long day tomorrow. Oh, don't forget, you won't be a virgin after tonight."

______________________________________________________________________________

I was away while writing this, so if it steals the plot from any other entry I am sorry. It's very cliched, but I gave it a small bit of twist. Oh well, no time for real editing unfortunately. I'll do better next time.

I won't make it (as usual) but I was gonna write about a British couple on a farm, talking about a murder of crows, using "bloody" as an adjective. If someone wants to give it a go, feel free.

"And you are sure that this has not been leaked to the media?"
"Yes your Holiness."
"Good, the last thing we need is the rest of the world knowing that we having a fucking lunatic on our hands doling out God's justice."
"Of course not, even if it is discovered by outsiders there no substantial evidence tying it back to the Vatican."
"Alright let me hear the recording."

"This is Emirates flight 512 reporting an emergency situation an armed terrorist has taken over the passenger section of the plane and is massacring the passengers. I repeat a terrorist is massacring the passengers."

"Can you skip to the relevant part already?"
"Sorry, just a moment."

"The attendant is reporting the terrorist as a white male in his early 30s dressed as a Catholic preacher. He appears to be repeatedly saying 'you are forgiven' before he beheads each passenger. Fuck! Fuck! Ahmed get the gun! He is fucking coming get the fucking gun!"

The sound of gunshots ring out from the recorder followed by a scream.

"Allah save me, he is not normal..."
"What did you just say? There is only one God and his name is God. Not Allah."
"Please just don't, why are you doing this, what did we do to you!?"
"You of all people should know why, you fucking sandniggers started this war of God, did you not expect to pay for the sins of your people? Now confess your sins before myself and God"
"I have done nothing!"

A high pitched scream pierces the two listener's ear drums and forcing the stapedius into overtime.

"Next time you will lose more than your hand. Now confess your sins."
"I slept with my neighbor's wife, now please forgive me."
"Follow the procedure! Repeat after me 'Bless me Father for I have sinned..."
"Bless me Father for I have sinned, this is my first confession. I committed adultery."
"And?"
"A...And what?"
"And what other sins have you committed?"
"Uh...nothing else, I don't know, I can't think, please my arm, I'm bleeding out, please."
"We'll just assume you committed some other sins that you have forgotten in your confession then, alright?"
"Sure whatever you say, please forgive me."
"Of course, God is loving, you just have to repent and all will be forgiven."
"Yes! Yes! Tell me what to do!"
"You can die"

One last shriek leaves the recorder.

"You are forgiven."

"I see, he is becoming more and more of a problem."
"Yes"
"Well, he still has his uses for now, destroy the recording, I think that brings our business for the day to its logical conclusion."
"Of course."

=======================================
Really rushed, a bunch of things came up etc etc excuses here. I kept discarding ideas and this is the only thing that I at least wrote down.

bjork said:

I won't make it (as usual) but I was gonna write about a British couple on a farm, talking about a murder of crows, using "bloody" as an adjective. If someone wants to give it a go, feel free.

Click to expand...

Ha, that is an excellent image. It actually reminds me of a scene in one of the Hedge Knight GNs.

I've been listening to this repeatedly for inspiration on this one.

Still not done, but I'll have it finished before the deadline.

My dad is currently dying and is in a coma, so I'm flying to Florida tomorrow morning for a week to see him off. I most likely will never get the time to vote or critique this week, so uh, please just critique my piece as I know it will not win even if it has the chance to. I would at least like to know what to improve upon.

Thanks.

ZephyrFate said:

My dad is currently dying and is in a coma, so I'm flying to Florida tomorrow morning for a week to see him off. I most likely will never get the time to vote or critique this week, so uh, please just critique my piece as I know it will not win even if it has the chance to. I would at least like to know what to improve upon.

Thanks.

Click to expand...

Holy shit, dude. I'm sorry to hear that.

Cyan said:

I've been listening to this repeatedly for inspiration on this one.

Still not done, but I'll have it finished before the deadline.

Click to expand...

The Moonlight Sonata was my theme of choice for this one.

Yeah, I'm sorry to hear that as well. I was in the hospital most of this week, sitting in with my grandfather.

ZephyrFate said:

My dad is currently dying and is in a coma, so I'm flying to Florida tomorrow morning for a week to see him off. I most likely will never get the time to vote or critique this week, so uh, please just critique my piece as I know it will not win even if it has the chance to. I would at least like to know what to improve upon.

Thanks.

Click to expand...

wow dude, I'm sorry to hear that. I wish you the best.

ZephyrFate said:

My dad is currently dying and is in a coma, so I'm flying to Florida tomorrow morning for a week to see him off. I most likely will never get the time to vote or critique this week, so uh, please just critique my piece as I know it will not win even if it has the chance to. I would at least like to know what to improve upon.

Thanks.

Click to expand...

I JUST saw this on Facebook. I'm really, really sorry. Be strong =)

ZephyrFate said:

My dad is currently dying and is in a coma, so I'm flying to Florida tomorrow morning for a week to see him off. I most likely will never get the time to vote or critique this week, so uh, please just critique my piece as I know it will not win even if it has the chance to. I would at least like to know what to improve upon.

Thanks.

Click to expand...

Damn. My thoughts are with you.

ZephyrFate said:

My dad is currently dying and is in a coma, so I'm flying to Florida tomorrow morning for a week to see him off. I most likely will never get the time to vote or critique this week, so uh, please just critique my piece as I know it will not win even if it has the chance to. I would at least like to know what to improve upon.

Thanks.

Click to expand...

Good luck with your father, man. I never met my own, so I can only imagine how important he must be to your life. I live in Florida too: pack some light, loose clothing and don't let the humidity get to you. Even though the dog days are just about over, it's still hot as fuck out here.

-Kye

Sorry to hear that mate. Can't imagine what that would be like. All the best.

"Rain." the bartender said, nodding at the window as he gave Patrick his drink.

Patrick took the drink and sighed knowing what the rain meant. Rain meant work, and for a rainbowmaker work meant murder. Patrick picked up his drink and swallowed it, grimacing as the liquid fire ran down his throat.

"You've been sitting there for days now just drinking and keeping quiet. I thought you leprechauns were supposed to be all jolly." The bartender said, as he dried out a glass.

Patrick smirked, "That's real funny Gregg, and I thought rats were supposed to be filthy scavengers."

"Common misconception," Gregg replied, as he set down the glass and bristled his whiskers, "Could a scavenger run a bar like this? No way."

Gregg was right. The bar was top notch. Nestled within the hull of a broken down car it was perfect. Private, quiet and dark, the drinks were great and company good. Patrick never liked rats, but he had to admit Gregg had done well for himself.

"Another." Patrick said, pushing his glass forward.

"You think the rain is for you?" Gregg asked, as he refilled the glass.

Patrick's hand instinctively ran to the golden knife tucked in his belt. "Almost always is, isn't it?"

The door opened and in lumbered a huge rabbit, all brown except for the black tips of his long ears which drooped at the sides of his face.

"Lancelot!" Gregg called out as he began to prepare a drink.

The rabbit made his way to the stool next to Patrick.

"Saw the rain, figured I'd better find you." The rabbit said, as he accepted a drink from Gregg.

Patrick glanced over for a second and went back to his drink, "At the whorehouses again Lancelot?" He asked.

Lancelot chuckled and replied, "A rabbit's got needs Patrick."

"I don't get it," Patrick said, studying Lancelot, "you're not an ugly rabbit. I'm sure you could find plenty of willing females."

"Sure could." Lancelot said, smiling.

"Then why do you spend all your money on whores?"

"It makes it more exciting." Lancelot replied.

Nearby, Gregg laughed, "That's rich, a rainbow maker's rabbit needing excitement. Lancelot you must have serious adrenaline issues."

Lancelot gave a hardy laugh, "Don't you know it!"

Again the door opened and a leprechaun riding on a bunny burst in and rode towards Patrick. Lancelot pulled out a cigarette and began to smoke while swapping jokes with the rat bartender. Without a word the mounted leprechaun extended a yellow envelope to Patrick who took it and turned away. The leprechaun and his bunny bounded out of the bar as quietly as they came in.

Lancelot quickly downed his drink and wiped his mouth with his arm as Patrick opened the envelope.

"So, who is it this time?" Lancelot asked, while Gregg tried to act nonchalant.

"An old friend." Patrick replied, as he stood.


The rain was driving and cold. On Lancelot's back with the wind lashing in his face as they bounded in and out of the tall grass Patrick tried to prepare himself for what he would have to do. Ryan was a good friend once. In fact, Ryan and Patrick had gone to rainbowmaker school together. Ryan was a few years older and easily one of the best rainbowmakers in recent memory, and now Patrick would have to kill him. It was his job as rainbowmaker, a job that Patrick was growing sick of. The Elder Gods created Leprechauns as immortal, but then there was never any room for new blood. So the Elder Gods created the golden daggers which would kill any immortal thing and transfer their souls to a new life. The rainbowmakers did this, they would be sent by the Elder Gods Council to kill a leprechaun and the victim's life-force would be transferred to a birthing leprechaun. So it had been for thousands of years, and for over thirty years Patrick had been put to the rainbowmaker's work. He told himself it needed doing, but deep inside he had a growing feeling of darkness flowing over him.

Below Patrick Lancelot bounded through the rain joyfully talking about the time he had killed a raccoon. Patrick was amazed by his rabbit-partner and the joy he took in his dirty work. It would not be fair to say that Lancelot had blood lust, he just wanted adventure and excitement, if killing was part of the price Lancelot was willing to pay. Most rainbowmaker rabbits only stayed on for a few months opting out for safer jobs, but Lancelot never even considered leaving.

Patrick saw the tree where Ryan lived off in the distance growing closer with each bounce. The lump in Patrick's throat continued to grow until it felt like it would choke him. Ryan was once a rainbowmaker himself and would not give up without a fight. Patrick's fingers closed around the hilt of the golden knife in his belt steeling himself for the fight to come. Lancelot paused for a second. Together they sat still in rain letting the grass hide them.

Lancelot sniffed for a few seconds and smiled, "Squirrels." he said.

"Ryan must know we're coming." Patrick replied, dismayed.

"Wont do him any good." Lancelot said, bounding forward with all his strength. In three leaps they were upon the squirrels, on the last leap Patrick jumped off pulling out his dagger. When Patrick hit the ground he saw Lancelot fighting a group of squirrels. Lancelot picked one up by the jaw and threw him over his shoulder while delivering a vicious kick to another squirrel.

"Just go and finish the job!" Lancelot yelled, as he dodged a squirrel and punched another assailant in the throat.

Patrick nodded and ran to the door on the tree, leveled his shoulder at it and pushed as hard as he could. The door burst open spilling him into Ryan's house. Instantly Patrick's arm stabbed with pain and he fell to the ground dropping his dagger as he fell. A gold knife was embedded in Patrick's shoulder. Ryan stood above him and placed a foot on Patrick's chest.

"Patrick, Patrick." Ryan's voice seemed far off, "Going through the front door? Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Patrick screamed in pain as Ryan grabbed the dagger and yanked it out of his shoulder. Ryan's foot pushed down even harder.

"And here I thought you'd at least have the courtesy to come and talk to me before you kill me." Ryan said, in mock sadness, "I mean, I thought we were friends."

Patrick's head spun from the pain and the pressure on his chest.

"The Elder Gods Council..." He stammered, "they say your time's...up."

"The Elder Gods Council? To hell with them!" Ryan said putting all his weight on Patrick's chest. "They think they can dictate death to us? When was the last time any of the Elder Council died?"

Patrick gasped for air.

"Never!" Ryan spat, "They sit there in their council chambers and dictate who lives and who dies yet they never subject themselves to their own rules."

Patrick screamed as a rib cracked and snapped.

"The Gods created us to be immortal Patrick, surely you've noticed. We are not meant to die." Ryan leaned over Patrick, picked up the fallen dagger and continued, "These daggers were created by the council to sap the life out of anything immortal. And now I have two. Thank you."

Another scream erupted out of Patrick as another rib broke; Patrick's head reeled with pain.

"With these I'll put an end to rainbows and the elder council, we will finally live as the Gods intended." Ryan said, "Sadly, I need the council to think I'm dead, and that's where you come in my friend."

Patrick shuddered and his body turned cold as ice. Ryan had stabbed him through the heart. Patrick wanted to scream, to fight back but he was completely frozen except for his eyes which he had to squint when a bright light erupted from his chest.


Lancelot stood in the midst of five dead squirrels and two were running away when he saw the rainbow burst out of the target's tree.

"About time." He said, as he walked over to the tree.

He stopped for a second when he saw Patrick sprawled on the ground a rainbow erupting from his chest and another Leprechaun was standing over the body holding two knives then Lancelot was upon the attacker. The leprechaun fast enough. Lancelot caught him with a punch to the face and swift kick from his wide foot sent the leprechaun flying through a wall where he landed in a pile of rubble.

The leprechaun stood and laughed, "Come on Lancelot, it's not like you can kill me." He said.

Lancelot stood poised to attack even as the truth of the words sunk in.

"Why don't you let this foolishness go, and come with me? I have need of someone like you." The leprechaun said lowering the knives to his side.

Lancelot looked over his shoulder as his former comrade disintegrated into a rainbow, knowing that somewhere a new leprechaun was being born.

"What do you have in mind?" Lancelot asked turning his attention back to Ryan.

"How would you like to kill some Gods?" Ryan said, smiling as he tossed a knife up in the air and caught it.

It was only a few seconds before a devious smile spread across the rabbit's face.

This thread has become bittersweet, but tonight is the last night. Get your stories right.

Deleted due to TOS changes.

Bah, lost all inspiration on my story.

I'll finish it anyway, but... bah.

I have nothing.

Crap, I have almost 200 words to cut, and it's already pretty lean.

DumbNameD said:

I have nothing.

Click to expand...

I refuse to believe this.

Same here, DND. Just couldn't make things click this time.

A Murder at Cassingham Manor (1795)

I had never seen a vampire up close before. Even a dead one.

"What did I just say, Lieutenant?" Inspector Legrange stared at me from underneath his deerstalker. He blew out his mustaches.

"Er--means, motive, and opportunity?" He was so sanguine. I looked at the body and shuddered.

"Quite. Find where the three intersect, and you have your killer." He peered about the room. "Now. Tell me what you see."

I tried to look where the Inspector was looking, but the sitting room was full of potentially significant objects. "Deep Persian carpet, with liquid spilled on it. Not blood. A goblet. Fire burning in the fireplace. Two logs--two and a half logs--ready to be put on the fire. Gaslamp, unlit. Low armchair--" I trailed off.

"With the victim still in it," the Inspector finished. "What do you note about the late Lord Edward Cassingham?"

I reined in my fears. "I--Lord Cassingham appears to have been stabbed through the heart while in his chair."

The Inspector raised an eyebrow. "Vampires don't die of stab wounds. A wooden stake was driven through his heart. Said stake not in evidence. Anything else?"

I shook my head.

"His fangs are retracted." The Inspector pointed at Lord Cassingham's mouth. "Lord Cassingham was taken by surprise."

I was used to this. The Inspector's mind chugged along like a steam-locomotive, and if you couldn't keep up, well, he wasn't about to stop for you. "Now what, Inspector?"

"We speak to the residents."

"The other vampires?" I rattled off the names. "Wife, Lady Elizabeth Cassingham. Son, Graham Cassingham. Family friend, Sir Richard Lyonesse."

"Quite. But we start with the one who discovered the murder."

*

The serving-boy was short and slim, wearing a neat uniform and a cap over his curling blond hair. He couldn't have been a day over sixteen, and he was green at the gills with fright.

"Name?"

"Williams, inspector." He was practically whispering.

"Speak up, Williams. You found Lord Cassingham dead last night?"

"Y-yes, Inspector, sir." Williams gazed at his shoes, then looked up to find the Inspector staring at him. He jumped. "I--I come in to bring M'lord his brandy. Forgot it earlier, and M'lord's very particular about time, see, and--"

The Inspector held up a hand. "You'd been in this room earlier? When? And why?"

"Yes, sir. When he's here, M'lord likes me to bring three more logs for the fire and his brandy, right sharpish five hours past sundown."

"Quarter past twelve," the Inspector translated, and the man nodded. "Logs for the fire? He puts them on himself?"

"Aye." The young man was warming up to his story now. "Well, I was bringing the logs up for him, but right when I'm going in, I hear M'lady inside yelling something fierce. Gave me quite a turn. So I dash right quick to the servants' stair, then sneak in all quiet-like with the logs once she's stormed off back to her rooms."

"What was Lady Cassingham shouting?" the Inspector said sharply.

The young man shrugged. "Couldn't hear. Well, the brandy went right out of my head after that. Didn't remember it until near ten minutes later, after I tried to bring some logs to the other sitting room. Then I brought it here right quick, and found--well." He gestured helplessly at the armchair.

"And when you entered the room the first time, was Lord Cassingham all right?"

Williams scratched his head. "I don't rightly know, sir. M'lord was in his armchair, facing away from the door. All I could see was the top of M'lord's head."

"Thank you Williams. Off with you now."

As the door closed behind the serving-man, the Inspector turned to me and raised an eyebrow.

"Er, Lady Cassingham?"

The Inspector gestured for me to go on.

"Well, motive. She was arguing with Lord Cassingham; she might have had a motive. Opportunity, we know she was seen here around when he was killed. Means--" I stopped, unsure where to go next.

"Wooden stakes are not common in vampire households," the Inspector said drily. "But I think you'll find that Williams already told us where the murder weapon came from. And it was placed here after Lady Cassingham had left."

I blinked. The Inspector had left me behind again.

He smiled. "Have someone fetch Lady Cassingham."

*

"Inspector." Even in her smoky near-purr of a voice, Lady Cassingham imbued the word with deepest contempt. She sat, her gown flowing across the chair, and her hair across her shoulders.

"I understand you argued with Lord Cassingham shortly before he was found dead."

Lady Cassingham's eyes glittered. "Is this an accusation?"

"I'm attempting to understand the situation, Lady Cassingham."

Lady Cassingham steepled her fingers. "Yes, we argued. I had entered the sitting room, not thinking to find Edward in it. He was irritated. Angry words were exchanged, and we shouted at one another." She blinked languorously at the Inspector. "You're not married. You wouldn't understand."

"Then you left the sitting room."

"I did."

"And did you see anyone else about last night?"

"A servant was skulking around, trying to hide from me. And my hotheaded fool of a son was following me around the house again."

"He does this often?"

"Often enough." She stood. "I tire of your questions. We are finished here." She swept from the room.

"Interesting," said the Inspector. "I wonder--but that will have to wait. Graham Cassingham next."

*

Where his mother was langurous, Graham was--energetic. That was the only word for it. He paced the room faster than I could have kept up, overcoat flapping behind him like wings. His left arm appeared to be paining him.

"Yes, Legrange, I feel the occasional nocturnal urge to wander the house. I don't see why that should surprise you."

"It doesn't. I merely wondered what you might have seen on these wanderings."

"I often see my mother, wandering herself. The hypocrite. Servants. Sir Richard bloody Lyonesse, tramping about as though he owns the place."

"And last night?"

"I saw my mother in one of her towering rages, stomping her way back to her rooms."

"Anything else?"

Graham smiled. "Legrange--try Sir Richard, if you will. Something--call it a hunch--tells me he won't be able to tell you where he was at the time of the murder."

"Indeed?" The Inspector raised an eyebrow.

Graham nodded. "A pleasure, Legrange." He shook the Inspector's hand, and left the room.

"Lieutenant?"

I tried to think quickly. "Means and opportunity, yes. He was near this room at the time of the murder, and the murder weapon was here. I don't see a motive."

"Quite."

*

Sir Richard was smaller than Graham, and he hunched over in his chair as though expecting a blow to the gut. Perhaps he was--his face was bruised in two places. He glared at the Inspector and said nothing.

"Graham believes that you will be unable to tell me where you were at fifteen minutes past midnight."

"Does he? Idiot boy." Sir Richard's voice was so nasal it made me want to sneeze.

"Indeed."

For a moment, they stared at one another, neither speaking. Sometimes, the Inspector had once told me, it was better to let silence do your questioning for you.

"I was in my chambers all night."

"And did anyone see you there?"

The silence stretched again, this time for nearly a full minute.

Then: "I was in the second sitting room," Sir Richard said, lip curling in a half-snarl. "The smaller one. One of the servants saw me, he'll tell you. Young fellow, wears a cap."

The Inspector nodded as though Sir Richard had told him something he already knew. "Very well. You may go."

Sir Richard blinked, taken aback. "That's all?" At the Inspector's nod, he stood slowly, then walked to the door. He turned to look back at the Inspector again before leaving.

"Lieutenant?"

I wracked my brain, but found nothing. "I don't know, sir."

The Inspector sighed as though I had disappointed him. "Means and motive, no opportunity."

"What? What was his motive?"

His lips curved in a half-smile. "Later. Summary?"

"Lady Cassingham had motive and opportunity, but no means; Graham had opportunity and means, but no motive; Sir Richard had motive and means, but no opportunity." I scratched my head. "How could any one of them be the killer?"

"All will be clear. Please have all three fetched back here. Oh, and Williams again as well."

*

"This had better be good, Inspector," said Lady Cassingham.

"Just so, Legrange." said Graham

Sir Richard said nothing. Williams stood at the back of the room, staring at the floor.

The Inspector rubbed his hands together. "Williams?"

The boy looked up.

"Williams, did you encounter Sir Richard in the small sitting room last night?"

Williams went pink around the ears. "Aye."

"And what was Sir Richard doing?"

Williams reddened still further, and gazed down at the floor again.

"Quite." The Inspector gestured. "Off with you."

The boy looked up, surprised, but left the room with all speed at the Inspector's gesture.

Sir Richard glared. "What is this?"

The Inspector leaned against the door. "You and Lady Cassingham arranged a rendezvous last night in the sitting room--and not your first."

Lady Cassingham's eyes went tight. Sir Richard hunched in on himself. Graham snorted.

"But you didn't specify which sitting room--you went to the small sitting room, and she to this one."

No one spoke.

"From Master Graham's lack of surprise, I daresay he already knows of these rendezvous."

"Uncovered the whole bloody business yesterday," Graham growled. Sir Richard shrank away again; this time not from the Inspector, but from Graham.

"Graham confronted Sir Richard. They argued. Fought. From the looks of Sir Richard, I daresay he got the worst of it."

Graham nodded.

"Quite. I can piece together what happened next. Graham discovered that despite their argument, Sir Richard planned to carry on as before. Graham followed Lady Cassingham to what both believed the rendezvous spot."

Lady Cassingham's eyes had narrowed. Still she said nothing.

"Lady Cassingham found not Sir Richard, but Lord Cassingham. He worked out why she had come. They argued."

Lady Cassingham opened her mouth, then subsided.

"Graham saw her storm off. It was the perfect opportunity."

Graham's face was set, but his hand twitched.

"Graham took a newly split log from the grate, broke it in half so that one end was pointed, and lunged around the armchair to kill the man he thought to be Sir Richard." The Inspector's expression was almost sympathetic. "He discovered his mistake too late. Lord Cassingham was dead. Graham flung the murder weapon in the fire and fled back to his rooms."

Graham said nothing, but he didn't need to. His face said everything.

The Inspector looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. "Means, motive, and opportunity."

Lady Cassingham put her head in her hands.

Death and Lifeblood (1,800 words)

A man walked the sidewalk. He did so because he had done it every morning, laughing and smiling with his friend alongside. This had been his routine since September the fifth, nineteen eighty-six, the day after his friend had moved to the neighborhood. It was March the seventeenth, nineteen eighty-eight, and it began a walk like the hundreds of others. But five minutes later, the man sat trembling, the dark blood of his friend coagulated on his hands and shirt. It was that morning that the man was last seen by his neighbors, his family, and his entire world. That man was Timothy Pearl.

--- December the thirtieth, nineteen ninety-nine

An alley, a park, a wall, that’s where he slept now, somewhere on the edge of living and existing. His hair was longer and his hands were dirtier, but he was still Timothy Pearl. He still remembered what he had done, and he knew other people remembered too. Dozens knew both of them by name, by family connection. Would the mother ever forgive him? Would anyone?

A boot stung against his side and he jolted free from his thoughts. The displeased face of a shopkeeper greeted him, and he was promptly told to “get lost”. He darkly reflected on that phrase. He was lost already. All the ties and bridges he had were gone, all save one. The investigation. He had never cleared the list of suspects, and his flight from the scene hadn’t helped. Even eleven years on, the event was still raw in his mind.

He pushed it out of mind again once the boot returned. He mumbled an incoherent apology and stumbled further into the alley, a worn Bible in his pocket. It hadn’t always been his. He scratched at his arms but it didn’t appease the itch. He hated it, but he would inflict the itch upon himself again, just as he had a thousand times before. But that would come later. A greater itch was plaguing Timothy Pearl now, one in his stomach.

--

“Uh, is it open?” he asked to the woman kneeling in front of the window of the local Gospel Mission. She held a hammer in her right hand and a wooden board in her left. She turned to look at him; two nails perched between her lips. She held up a finger in a “just a moment” gesture and looked back to the window. There were other boards already fastened around the window’s square frame, the one she held now was pushed across the horizontal, shielding a section of the glass window pane behind it. The two longs she fetched from her mouth, hammering them in deep and securely. She gave the board an evaluative shake before answering Timothy’s question.

“We served breakfast today, but we’re closed,” she said. Timothy nodded and debated whether to ask further questions. He had seen the woman many times in the Mission before; she was one of the kitchen staff several days during the week. It would have been difficult to forget her. Her skin was a luxurious chocolate, her brown eyes paradoxically blurring with her eyelids and flaring out from them. She was thin, curved, and very tall. Had Timothy not been an unwashed street person, he might have considered asking her out.

“Closed? Why, what’s going on?” he asked, suppressing his hopeful fantasies of candlelight dinners and of spontaneous adventures around town.

“The computer thing, you know, Y2K?” she responded as she lifted another board into place.

Timothy drew a blank. “No, I don’t, I’m afraid.”

The woman paused and gave him an incredulous look. Timothy blushed slightly with embarrassment. “End of the world, civilization, you know, Y2K,” she tried again. Timothy didn’t respond. She sighed, perhaps remarking inwardly that street people probably didn’t involve themselves much with the larger world. “When the year 2000 arrives, apparently our computers won’t be able to tell, they’ll freak out and all the lights will go out. No more power, oil, that’s what they say,” she said.

“Oh,” he said quietly. He knew then that she was boarding up the windows to the building to secure it from looters, in a sense to keep out the people that used to be welcome at its tables. The feeling left him hollow and a bit alien. He didn’t like it.

“Thanks for your help anyway,” Timothy mumbled as he left. He would have to find food elsewhere, which was something he was used to. There were multiple avenues of approach on that front, begging, garbage cans, and even outright theft if he was desperate.

--

Half an hour later, his stomach was full and the itch had subsided. The generous person he had met had granted his plea for food, and he supposed that that’s what made half the difference, asking for food, and not money. It had been fast food, but Timothy wasn’t going to complain. His highly motile subsistence wasn’t going to be compromised by a hamburger every now and then.

Sitting alone in the street again, he again thought about his life eleven years prior. He had never been the same after that bloody morning. His friend had looked up at him with frightened eyes as he lay in the street, awash with his own blood. Timothy had held his gaze for what seemed an eternity, his mind collapsing inward. And then instinct took over. He ran. He had fled for what seemed like days, through many backwoods and rivers before he had thought of stopping. It was only after several months that he rejoined society, starving and ragged.

An itch resurfaced along his forearm, and he remembered the urge he had forgotten for a while. Timothy picked himself up and purposed himself toward the one place he could escape that feeling of guilt, at least for a while. Fifteen minutes later, he stood at the door of the Red Cross.

--

His arm remained still as the syringe sat in his vein. Around the site were faint pockmarks and healed dots, a legacy of his constant subjection to needles. He had gotten over being squeamish years ago. It was a fascinating ritual now, to watch the blood spill forth into the narrow tubule and collect. Soon it was over, and as he rose from his chair, his thoughts drifted to the reasons why he donated so much. He received no monetary reward, but he had donated profusely. In eleven years, he had given over a man’s worth of blood, often violating the 56 day waiting period to do so. He knew it was dangerous, but the process had never stopped.

Clutching the Bible he had taken eleven years ago, he walked to the door. It was a King James, clunky and elegant in its Middle English script. It had belonged to his friend once. He had held it, trembling; the friend of many years was dead at his feet. It was that day that he swore that he would make penance, somehow, by a means that would be true to the name written on the inside cover.

Timothy reached for the doorknob, but it swiveled and the door opened away from him. A police officer stood with his hand on the door and eyed him. His hand was hanging loosely above his holster as he demanded Timothy to face the wall. Timothy complied, fully aware of why the police were here. He had called them. If the world really was ending, he was going to make things right. What little sleep he stole that night was fitful and restless, and he found himself waking to the heavy scent of blood collecting at his nose.

--- December the thirty-first, nineteen ninety-nine

Pearl found himself awake and being lead to a dim, gray-walled room. It fit all the requirements of an interrogation chamber. A man took the seat opposite and introduced himself as Detective Phillip Case. His morning cup of coffee sat in front of him.

“So, you’re Timothy Pearl,” he noted in a disinterested tone of voice.

“Yes,” Timothy answered without any sign of emotion.

“Been a while since…” the detective remarked. “Since the accident.”

Accident. The word stung Timothy, he knew that the man sitting across the table was only being half-truthful. “There was no accident, we were fighting,” Timothy said.

“Is that why you have Fred Bosun’s Bible?” Phillip Case asked as he motioned to the book on the edge of the table.

Timothy fell silent.

“What happened, Mr. Pearl,” Case asked.

Timothy’s eyes darted across the room.

“What happened?” he asked again.

“I pushed him off of the sidewalk. I… I… I didn’t see the car,” he stammered. “I should have, I should have, but I didn’t.”

“So you picked it up when he dropped it,” Case said.

Timothy nodded, but began shaking. “I would try, you know, to set things right, how he might have wanted.”

“How were you planning on doing that by stealing his Bible, Mr. Pearl?” Case prodded.

“All I had, all I had left of him. He can’t tell me what he would have me do, but maybe some piece of his mind can still found in the p-pages,” he answered, shaking more violently.

“So did you find… that, in the book?” Case asked, becoming more curious.

“I found… something, would have… made him happy,” Timothy answered.

“Ok, but what I don’t get is, why all the blood donations? You’ve been risking severe anemia, why?” the detective asked.

“That’s… what… I… found…” Timothy reached for the Bible on the table, his hands still cuffed. He willed the book to open and tried futilely to turn the pages. He pushed the book across the table and said, “Leviticus… chapter… seventeen… verse… eleven.”

Phillip flipped to the correct page after consulting the index and read aloud, “For the life of the flesh is in the blood: and I have given it to you upon the altar to make an atonement for your souls: for it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul.” He looked up at Timothy. He was weeping.

Phillip then understood. Atonement.

It was at that moment that Timothy collapsed. His strength withered and his head slid forward. A fresh and dark column of blood ran from his nostril to his chin and showed no signs of stopping. Phillip called for a paramedic and returned immediately. They were both on the same side of the table now, no longer interrogator and the interrogated. The detective suspected that the man was dying; he could see the blood rapidly soaking into Pearl’s hands and his chest. Timothy felt it. Despite the fear, the pain, and the tears, he was smiling. As Timothy Pearl neared that final threshold, the spark extinguishing, he knew he had given enough.

There

I had nothing until I bashed his face in. His nose crumpled against the post, and splinters embedded into his cheeks like teenage acne. It wasn't easy, but it was quick enough. And it was bloody, and he was unrecognizable when it was all over. At least, he stained well.

12 Entries:

bakemono- CHOCOLATTA

Aaron- The Hounds of Night: Part I

Spirit3- Tomorrow's People

ChinoMike55- Notice Me

ZephyrFate- Quick Whispers of the Day

Ward- Just Existence

Irish- Jitters

evilpigking- Should Have Gone to Hawaii Instead

ronito- For Aaron

crowphoenix- I Believe in Mary Worth

Cyan- A Murder at Cassingham Manor

Botolf- Death and Lifeblood

bakedmonkey: It was a bit verbose for me, I think editing would've really helped as there were whole sections that I felt didn't move things forward much. Your tone and pacing also sorta stood out for me.

Aaron: I've said it before, I'll say it again, you are probably the most efficient writer in these challenges. I like to see how you weave things in so effortlessly and tell the read just what they need to know without the reader seeing what you're doing. It's a trick I've yet to replicate. The pacing does a very sudden jump, and it was a little jolting for me. Argh, and you leave me hanging. I really wanted to see what comes of it. I guess that's a good thing though.

Spirit: Characters seemed a bit cliched. Some editing would've helped as well. Great concept.

Posting to remind myself to vote!