@Zephyr: Very creative. I'm terrible with poetry, so I can't really give any comments or criticisms. Enjoyed it!

@Funk: The ending surprised me. I'm not quite sure how he was still alive (or at least conscious) after shooting himself in the temple, but maybe I'm missing something. These thoughts had quite an impact on how I perceived the ending. The story can be just as much of a mindfuck WITHOUT having your character conscious and perceiving things in the first paragraph. The English language can create some misleading illusions. You can make your readers assume many things that aren't true. So, play around with that idea. Quite enjoyable

@Tim: Loved the story! You conveyed quite a lot about the world your characters are in by inconspicuously slipping a few small details into the story. Good job! The only real criticism I have is concerning dialogue. Your characters seem to talk the exact same way. They talk like academics. They all have a stoic and educated take on common speech. Their speech seems a tiny big mechanical. This makes it hard to believe that they have different personalities. I find the best way to write good dialogue is to pay attention to how people around you talk. A teacher I had for creative writing back in High School gave us a pretty awesome assignment improve our dialogue (amongst other things). We were to go somewhere public and observe one person we found interesting. We were to look at what they do (and how they do it), listen to what they say (and how they say it) and then write a short story with them as the central character. Not only is this a great way to find inspiration, it definitely serves to improve the verisimilitude of your dialogue.

ProudClod said:

@Tim: Loved the story! You conveyed quite a lot about the world your characters are in by inconspicuously slipping a few small details into the story. Good job! The only real criticism I have is concerning dialogue. Your characters seem to talk the exact same way. They talk like academics. They all have a stoic and educated take on common speech. Their speech seems a tiny big mechanical. This makes it hard to believe that they have different personalities. I find the best way to write good dialogue is to pay attention to how people around you talk. A teacher I had for creative writing back in High School gave us a pretty awesome assignment improve our dialogue (amongst other things). We were to go somewhere public and observe one person we found interesting. We were to look at what they do (and how they do it), listen to what they say (and how they say it) and then write a short story with them as the central character. Not only is this a great way to find inspiration, it definitely serves to improve the verisimilitude of your dialogue.

Click to expand...

That's a good point. I was only really paying attention to the dialogue at the start and with the Wolfe character. Otherwise, it all came out in one big rush. But, that's what a first draft is for. Cheers.

ProudClod said:

@Funk: The ending surprised me. I'm not quite sure how he was still alive (or at least conscious) after shooting himself in the temple, but maybe I'm missing something. These thoughts had quite an impact on how I perceived the ending. The story can be just as much of a mindfuck WITHOUT having your character conscious and perceiving things in the first paragraph. The English language can create some misleading illusions. You can make your readers assume many things that aren't true. So, play around with that idea. Quite enjoyable

Click to expand...

Thanks for the feedback!

The first paragraph is meant to be so it at least partially got the job done.

Thanks ProudClod. Ultimately, not enough people do/read poetry, so I imagine this piece won't be popular because it's poetry.

I have a feeling ProudClod is going to absolutely destroy my piece once I submit it, but I'm anxiously awaiting the criticism.

Tim the Wiz said:

That's a good point. I was only really paying attention to the dialogue at the start and with the Wolfe character. Otherwise, it all came out in one big rush. But, that's what a first draft is for. Cheers.

Click to expand...

Exactly. This has all the requisites of an absolutely awesome story. All it needs is some fine tuning on the dialogue, and you'll be golden!

Thanks for the feedback!

The first paragraph is meant to be a time expansion of the very instant after he pulled the trigger--the last functional firings of his brain. The moving room is Dylan beginning to collapese, the visions/sounds subsiding are his senses fading, the last exhalation his dying breath, all before his body meets the floor. "Several moments seemed to pass..." I wanted to write his death in a way that would make the reader believe he'd achieved his ultimate satisfaction after shooting someone without revealing the "someone" was himself, so that the end would surprise the reader and encourage him to read the opening paragraph in a new light. I found it pretty difficult to convey the intended initial idea of satisfaction AND the process of his death with the same prose, but the ending surprised you, so it at least partially got the job done.

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No problem
I think I understand a bit more now. This is a pretty cool concept, but it's a tad bit counter intuitive for me. Intuition tells me that a bullet to the head would prevent any and all thought. The suspension of disbelief falters when I have to consider the realism of the situation. I've sort of got the idea that a bullet to the head = instant death drilled into my head. I realize that this isn't always the case, but that's what the Sopranos taught me The issue may be that I might fall on the lower end of the intelligence spectrum of your target audience. Still, you should always write with your dumbest reader in mind

Thanks ProudClod. Ultimately, not enough people do/read poetry, so I imagine this piece won't be popular because it's poetry.

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No need to thank me for the truth
I don't know about that though. The last winning entry was unconventional by NeoGAF CWC standards. You never know Besides, stepping up and doing something bold to break the preconceived notion of what these challenges are about deserves mad respect!

I have a feeling ProudClod is going to absolutely destroy my piece once I submit it, but I'm anxiously awaiting the criticism.

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Balderdash! The only thing I'll be destroying is my social life. I've fallen in love with this thread, and I'm spending way too much time refreshing this page in anticipation of new stories Can't wait to read you story. I'm sure it's wonderful!

ZephyrFate said:

Myopia & Philautia
Word Count: 280

Out in the myriad mess of puddles and wet and mud
of homeless scrounging for change
and orphaned children hiding under boxes.
The rains beat on them like millions of tiny fists
pound away at their soul
so they always feel alone.

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Just thought I'd say that I really like this part.

edit: .

Oops, wow. Gonna fix that now.

Huh. I actually kind of like "drudgy."

Cyan said:

Huh. I actually kind of like "drudgy."

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I don't know why I thought it was a word. I'm not sure if I should keep it to flavor the piece or throw it out.

I actually had a different story written up, but I deleted it. So I wrote this one just now, the words that are Italic are lyrics from music I was listening to. They set the mood a little for what's happening.

Edit: If you do want to set the mood for the story, play this song in the background: Disposition by Tool

I'm not sure if it sounds scattered, but that's just the normal way I write my stories, so If its not good tell me honestly, because I would expect no less.

Well, here it is:

Lost in the Sound of Thunder

Word Count: 852

This story started off like usual, the hour long commute from my river side home to the city, a long day at the office; confined to this corner office, the regular stop at the grocery store to pick up some pãn and then continue my commute home along the riverside. This was routine day in and day out for the last 40 years of life with my sixtieth birthday beginning tonight at eight. Figuring there would be a surprise party waiting for me at home, I relaxed the muscles; letting my foot drop like a weight on the pedal.

The ride home had become like any other as the Zune my wife had bought me turned from song to song; echoing taste off the car walls, back into my ears as rain drops started dancing on my windshield. The weather had changed without my notice, first, a light rain, gentle winds and dark clouds. A smile crossed my faces as I rolled down the window to enjoy this beautiful weather. It’s rare we get this kind of weather and even so, rarer for me to even open the windows when it happened. The aerial spray from the drops would drive others crazy and force me to roll the windows back up. I enjoyed this nice treat for the next twenty minutes until the weather got heavier, drenching my whole left side in a mere twenty seconds.

I must have not been paying attention when I turned to roll up my window, because my surroundings had changed into an unfamiliar forest. The road had stayed the same, but the landscape had become unkempt and the trees monstrous, all the while the rain still managed to break through their defense. Not a single other vehicle passed by, making me wonder where and how far out I had gone. Lost in my isolation I continued to follow the road for hours hoping it would take me home, to no avail.

“It never threw me like this.”

The music started to mirror my feelings as it changed from song to song, lyrics depicting thoughts I could not think on my own. My treat had soon become a meal of excess as my beautiful surroundings closed in on me. The wind no longer caressed my car, but crashed into it. The rain no longer tapped, but pounded against my windows and the clouds no longer glided by. They filled the sky erasing any hint of my future.

“And I wait, and I wait, to live this damn thing out.”

Soon the rain’s full on assault took its toll as my windshield started to crack and the road became a blur. Unable to gain my nerve, my foot locked against the pedal making me a speeding bullet on this desolate road. Until finally, the only other life form I had seen in hours decided to make it’s appearance. The buck leaped unbound by gravity and not the least bit scared by my two ton bullet.

“Remission is all that I can't afford.”

The next thing I remembered I was laying in a pool of my own blood and foliage. I strained to lift my head past my chest to reveal my bullet; resting cozily in the side of one of those monstrous trees that lined the road. My windshield had taken a drastic turn from cracking inwards to jutting outwards; a remnant of my rocketing out, which had sent me a good 30 feet away till I hit a sapling no bigger than a man.

“…and nothing remains the same in here, if only…”

I could hear the music still blaring out of my car while I laid there bleeding out. I desperately looked for something to hold on to, so the words that came out next were no surprise to me. I started to sing along with the music. Clinging to the last strings of my life, desperately wanting to connect with anything if this was to be the end.

“If only you could be somewhere else inside of me.”

Thoughts of my wife, my family and friends flashed through my mind as the words continued on. For once the rain’s relentless attack on my life had slowed, letting tiny droplets fall down upon me. They landed gently against my cheek and mixed in with my tears like some sad last waltz. They danced on downwards as I continued to sing.

“Wake me up I'm dead, Is it something that I said?
If only I could be somewhere else.”

I continued to sing song after song until the music coming from my car no longer had word; then I hummed along hoping this would all just turn out to be a dream. I laid there to no avail as the stormy weather continued its dance and my tears continued their waltz.

what was the song? It'll be easier for me to gage the 'voice', the intended mood etc the story asks for.


Having said that, I'd say that whilst it's fine to be inspired by music, you should really be writing for an audience without the music. This is literature after all. Although I dare say, future ebooks will have all sorts of media embedded into them...

Ashes1396 said:

what was the song? It'll be easier for me to gage the 'voice', the intended mood etc the story asks for.

Click to expand...

If you do want to set the mood for the story, play this song in the background: Disposition by Tool

The song that really inspires me with rainy weather is the one above, the ones in the story were plucked for their lines and because they we on my playlist in the background.

ChubbyHuggs said:

They set the mood a little for what's happening.

Click to expand...

But this is where each part came from:

Systematic - Glass Jaw
-------------------------
“It never threw me like this.”
“And I wait, and I wait, to live this damn thing out.”
“Remission is all that I can't afford.”

Systematic - If Only
-------------------------
“If only you could be somewhere else inside of me.”
“Wake me up I'm dead, Is it something that I said?"
“…and nothing remains the same in here, if only…”
"If only I could be somewhere else.”

I took the last piece of lyrics out, because afterwords I felt it didn't fit.

Ashes1396 said:

Having said that, I'd say that whilst it's fine to be inspired by music, you should really be writing for an audience without the music. This is literature after all.

Click to expand...

Music inspires feeling. You have to have your own feeling to start writing regardless of the audience or that's how I feel as a writer.
Afterward they can substitute any sad track or score they want behind it or none at all as long as they can make up their own emotions and feel the ones I tried to convey.

Anyway, you didn't tell me, what did you think about the story?
Over done, not quite that captivating, a little on the dull side, or was it just meh?
Anything in my writing style you think may need some work?
I get the feeling that my own works usually give off a more amateur feel and the writing style is a little immature. So I have a lot to work on and I am always open to suggestions.

Rain is Going to Fall
word count: 1,502

The vast stretch of land was one big, flat frying pan. The sun beat down on the sand, rock, and half-melted wreckage with no mercy. There wasn't a sign of life at this hour, not a hard-shelled beetle nor a thick-skinned lizard. Nothing but poor Walt.

The anti-sizzle suit had his father's stink. Last one their clan owned. Jeb had gone out with the spare and didn't come back. Probably ambushed and eaten by outcasts. Wasn't all right in the head, and never should have left the underground. At least there he could work for the clan. Lulu's gone pregnant so dad couldn't rent her out no more, while they already sold their grandparents for reprocessing. Walt needed to find something big or the Kovaks were going to be kicked to the curb, wherever that was.

The metal helmet pressing against his skull had some special layers that reduced heat, so the sun just cooked his brain instead of frying it, while filtering out the dust and low level radiation that'd kill him nice and slow from the inside. Leather suit was lined in lead for the same. Made it a long, hard walk to where he was going, but it was better to do it when the sun was up. The storms came at night, ripping this land and anything in it to pieces.

All that was left of the city now was the tallest and strongest of the buildings. Before they turned Walt's grandpa into soup, he told stories about when he was younger it was a scavengers paradise. Each day there'd be thousands of boys all rooting around these ruins, finding their fortune. That was a long time past though. What hadn't been looted the sand destroyed. It hadn't had many visitors lately. Just the occasional naive boy thinking he'll be the one that won't come back empty handed.

Giants of stone and steel filled up the horizon, some leaning this way or that with sand all thick around their ankles. People that try living there didn't live too long, radiation levels too high, but it wasn't bad for a visit or two. Walt stepped through a broken window to get some shade, switching on the slow drip in the helmet to wet his parched throat as a reward for getting this far.

Wasn't anything to see. Floor was covered in sand and glass, while the whole room was gutted. Even the fixtures had been yanked and a few interior walls torn out. He knew the lower levels were all going to be like this, so he trudged and crawled up the broken stairs, passing floor after floor filled with nothing but disappointment. He stopped at one pretty high up, just to look out at the rows of smashed windows over what was left of a city people once called Chicago. Wasn't much but sand and an angry red sky looking down over these tilted scrapers now.

As Walt turned back to the stairs, a black metal door caught his gaze, since most things had been ripped from their hinges. This one didn't look as if it had even been opened. Too heavy for him to carry back alone, but there might be something useful behind it if he could force the lock. Got out his tools, but the handle turned freely enough. The door was just jammed. So Walt put all of his shoulder muscle into it, slamming against the steel over and over with the damned thing just shaking and staying stuck. Walt had already run through every swear word he knew, so he gave the thing a good, swift kick to show his displeasure.

Door opened a crack. Didn't reveal anything beyond it, just darkness, so he stepped inside for a peek, only to feel a sensation pass through him that he didn't have any word for. It was a chill.

He had to be in another part of the building, but it didn't feel like any other part. The halls were clean and didn't have big chunks taken out of them. Walt stopped to stare in shock at an actual plant just growing in a pot there, without being deep underground with a row of special lights overhead, though what really flipped his noodle was a giant clear jug half filled with water set on some sort of plastic stand. Just left out there in the open where anyone could walk off with it.

"What are you dressed like that for? Is it Halloween already?" a man asked with an odd sort of laugh, offering Walt a sidelong glance as he bent down with a paper cup to fill it up with water, drinking it down before crumpling it up and tossing it carelessly in the trash. "Ah, I get it. You must be the new exterminator. Diane said the bug problem was so bad downstairs they might have to fumigate, but that crazy witch just goes on and on about every little thing. I've got something to shove in her mouth to keep her from babbling, if you know what I mean."

Walt didn't. He didn't see how this man could survive wearing some thin buttoned shirt and slacks, with some seemingly useless length of colored fabric hanging from his neck. Though the hallway was strangely cool. "Do you... do you live here?"

"In the city? Heck no. Have a house in a nice gated community just north of here. An hour commute since started car pooling, but not much choice with the economy lately," the man replied with slumped shoulders over this heavy burden.

It was clear to Walt that this man was sizzled, staying out in the heat until his brain was fried mush. Half the things he said didn't make any sense. Maybe it was just his way of protecting his valuables. Wouldn't do much against the long knife Walt kept at his back, just waiting for the chance to slit this man's throat.

"Not looking forward to the drive back. News said a big storm is brewing. Clouds building up already," the man continued as his eyed drifted back towards the other end of the hall where it opened up into a room ending at a bank of windows; unbroken windows and a blue sky beyond.

Walt was drawn to them, moving past the pudgy man, and barely noticing the other people in this office now staring at him with the same gaze he gave the sprawling city laid out before him, pulsing with life and activity. He finally dared to pull off his heavy helmet, wiping his damp eyes to peer up into the sky where grey masses were forming that he slowly realized were clouds, having only heard about them in old stories.

"Man, you look beat. There must be an infestation downstairs. You know what, I don't think most people appreciate the hard work people like you do to keep this rotten city pest free," the pudgy man remarked as he munched on some sort of cake thing resting on a nearby plate, among enough other odd food that could feed the Kovak clan for a week. This bloated sloth could have kept them fed for even longer. He failed to notice Walt's calculating look with his eyes on the horizon. "See? Starting already. Damn highway is going to be bumper to bumper tonight."

Walt turned his head to see the droplets of water falling freely from the sky, like something out of a fever dream. Not stored and collected in rusting tubs or part of a murky underground river, but pure to cleanse this uncaring city. He could live here, get a job as an 'exterminator' or whatever this guy did. Never burn, starve, or live in the suffocating dark underground ever again.

"Well, I should let you get on with your inspection," the man said with a sigh to cover the awkward moment, his earlier cheer quickly evaporating. Noticing his own breech of social etiquette, however, he quickly offered, "Say, can I get you anything? Coffee? Danish? My wife?"

"No. I'm good," Walt replied with a broad grin.

*

Walt trudged away from the ruined city with his back bent from the weight of the 'water cooler' strapped it, cups and all. There was a bag under one arm filled with those danish things, and a strange device he had heard someone else there call a 'stapler.' He didn't know what it was for yet. All he knew is it was worth something. Maybe enough to get the Kovak clan out of debt, buy himself a wife, and start a clan of his own.

He planned on going back to the other world someday, to find out what that rain feels like and swipe whatever else he could when while people's backs were turned. Nice place to visit, but he didn't think he could ever feel happy living among lunatics that just let that rain fall, and go to waste soaking into the uncaring ground.

@Chubbyhugs
What I know about English writing wouldn't fill a page. So I wonder whether I would do more harm than good here. I'll tell you what. This is what I think is the difference between writing for one self and writing for another person: When you write for yourself, you put your imagination onto the page, but when you write for me, I want you to come inside my mind and blow it apart. Personally, I tend to forget that sometimes...

If you want a good critique, and actual help, I suggest you try the writing workshop thread.

Finally had several minutes to read up.

@ProudClod: I liked it, though I'm still slightly unclear about the main character's conflict and the actual condition of the office building/environment. As such, I wasn't quite sure what to take from the ending. I have an idea, but I'm not sure if it's at all what you intended: If that's what you intended, I'm glad I got it, though I think it could use a few additional clues. If I'm way off base, I'd like to know what you were shooting for. Great style for the most part, and I'm tickled by some of the parallels in our stories.

@ronito: on the whole, great imagery, though I felt the rainy windows/Monet bit was hammered over my skull... kind of the opposite problem I had with Clod's. His left me unsure of my interpretation, whereas yours left no room for my imagination to run with it. My favorite image was the highback leather chairs as silently spectating... very nice.

@Zephyr: I liked the highly developed comparisons and contrasts of indoors versus out, the impact of corporate conflicts on the main individual and the world outside, juxtaposed with the more damaging effects of the weather. The intro/last lines throw me a little, but the work as a whole was thoroughly enjoyable. I could relate.

@Chubby: My criticisms almost perfectly echo Ashes'... specifically the lack of evocation of empathy. Also, there was some bugging phrase repetition ("to no avail" used twice, without an obvious intended effect)... and I honestly couldn't picture this man as nearly 60. This felt much more like reading about the last reflections of a slightly jaded twenty-something.

@Aaron: I love your style in this piece, but there are parts of the narrative that feel disjointed. At times it is eloquent; at others, it sounds written in your world's dialect, with no clear distinction in narration... just a jarring "Lulu's gone pregnant so dad couldn't rent her out no more," among other examples. Also, your ideas for Walt seemed to be less than fully realized while you wrote the story, falling apart near the end. In one passage you say he could live there, never burn, starve, or live underground again. Only a few lines later, you contradict this idea with, "Nice place to visit, but he didn't think he could ever feel happy living among lunatics..." Also, the office setting just flat out confused me. Again, though, I LOVE your style overall. You write very well, even if the ideas conveyed aren't quite clear to me.

The intro and conclusion are meant to give you a sense of being trapped in the cubicle with him, and yet he describes it as a sort of 'place of infinite space' that can 'contain everything.' It relates back to the Philautia in the title, and his inherent love for his office life.

Understood.

They looked like they were made in a factory line, tall and beautiful and easily startled as if they knew they did not belong amongst us. My cousin, the receptionist was having one of his worst nights, the hotel had turned chaos central when reports of the largest storm was about to hit town, effectively cancelling all flights in and out of the city.

“What seems to be the problem with your room, Mr and Mrs… Weathers?”

Mr Weathers fixed his gaze on my cousin, his eyes were unrealistically blue, and his voice toneless. “Mr and Miss Weathers. That is the problem, we booked for two rooms.”

Miss Weathers added helpfully, “We are brother and sister, not husband and wife. You see?”

Timothy caught up to the page and made an apologetic face. “Ah, I see. I am terribly sorry, but we are running out of rooms. What if I throw in a free dinner?”

Mr Weathers shrugged. “Your call, Merry.”

Merry tilted her head a little and sighed. “You will reimburse the reservation fee for the other room, yes? And please, separate beds.”

Cousin Timmy cleared his throat awkwardly and proceeded to adjust the Weathers’ accommodation. They left with two dinner vouchers in their hands, talking softly to each other. I noticed that they did not have any luggage with them, only a single carry bag at Mr Weathers’ hand.

I was still very young then, and I could feel the itch in my mouth and on the tips of my fingers. The telephone looked conspiratorially inviting and I imagined picking it up to report the impostors to the Bureau, but my cousin was one step ahead of me and he glared at me as he started checking in the next guests in line – a family with a little hill of baggage and suitcases.

“George, please, the bags.”

I swallowed a groan as I went to fetch the trolley. Mr and Miss Weathers were standing by the elevator’s control, side by side, like a pair of fashion mannequins. Slowly, and almost as one, they turned and regarded me. I hurried and almost slammed my face into the door of the store room.

“Watch it.” Paul, the other porter, snapped at me.

I nudged him eagerly. “Skin-walkers!”

“What! Where?” He glanced about and spotted the pair. We both watched as they disappeared into the elevator, walking evenly and turning around once inside to look directly ahead at nothing at all.

“You sure?”

I was not. The guidelines published by the government were complicated at best, and vague at worst. Some were so wide that anyone would fall suspect under the measure, and others so thin that they did not mean anything at all.

“I’m sure.” I lied outright.

“We should report them! There’s rewards…”

I picked up the trolley and rolled it out of the store room. “Timmy’s holding the phone. But he can’t be on guard all night long.”

Timothy was already dealing with another set of guests when I returned. He frowned at me but there was no time for a proper scolding.

“Room 406 and 408. I’d hurry up, the father’s very short tempered.”

I stacked the bags on to the trolley. My mind distracted itself whilst my body went through the motion of luggage-delivery. I imagined picking up the phone. I imagined the dial tone ringing. Trrp-Trrp. Trrp-Trrp.

“Good evening. You have reached the Bureau of Safety. How may I direct your call?”

“Reporting a sighting.”

“Name and location?”

“George Pollard. New Broome, Victoria. Hotel Tigris. Uh, there are two… two of them.”

“Hold the line, please.”

I imagined the office of the Bureau where this woman was sitting, at the other end of line, half way across the country. I imagined how she wore her hair, and how she looked like in her skirt uniform. I imagined her sensible stockings and her sensible shoes. I imagined she was escalating my report to her manager, and I imagined how she was now getting back to her desk.

“Mr Pollard.”

“Yes?”

“Our agents will be there very soon. Please make yourself available to disclose further information on the case. Thank you for your co-operation and for your outstanding citizen service in making this country a safer place. Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

The elevator dinged at level four and I pushed my trolley out into the corridor. The tiny wheel caught at the gap between the door and the floor and the mountain of bags almost came undone on top of me. I cursed and tried my best to steady the whole thing. It was no use! A few suitcases came toppling down. One hit me squarely on my left shoulder. Only then I realised that each of the bags was incredibly heavy. I had not been paying attention but now I swore that, unless I got a good tip from this delivery, this family was going to ‘lose’ a few things during their stay here.

I pushed the trolley out once I had rearranged the stack. I did not want to redo all that heavy lifting so I was slower and more careful as I made my way to the rooms. I thought about the rewards for a successful reporting. Uncle Josh once had made ten thousand dollars when he turned in one of them. Oh, the things I could do with twenty grands!

I stopped before room 406 and knocked. Nothing but silence responded me. So I tried knocking on 408. Same thing. Nothing. It was unlike Timothy to have given me the wrong rooms, but it was an unusual night and his head was probably in a million places at once.

As I was about to head back down, I thought I heard something from 406, so I tried again.

“Hello? Luggage for Peterson family?”

There were voices all of a sudden, children’s shouting, loud footsteps running amok, the tinny laughter of television, a woman talking shrilly, and abruptly the door was opened. The father stood there in front of me, dressed in sweaty tank-top and dark brown corduroy pants. He had incredible white teeth and a wide smile.

“Finally!”

“These all go to 406, sir? Or some to 408?”

“No, no! Just here, thank you.”

“Very good, sir.”

I rolled the trolley in, forgetting about how unstable the stack was, and they almost came apart again. The bags wobbled and shook! I tried to hold them together as best as I could, but Mr Peterson was suddenly in a state of panic.

“What are you doing! Careful with the bags! OH!”

The topmost case teetered at the edge and he shot his arms out to it and immediately cradled it to his chest like a child.

“My bad, sir.”

He shot a look at me that terrified me to this day. I quickly worked to unload the rest of the bags on to the floor. I did my best to do this carefully and gracefully, but his stare unnerved me and it made me off-footed and awkward. I rushed through the task. I flung one of the smaller cases on top of a bigger one and suddenly Mr Peterson was screaming at me.

“You horrible little shit! Incompetent fool! Can’t you read? HANDLE WITH CARE!”

I stammered an apology, but then I realised the rest of his family had fallen into a deathly quiet and was watching me with open hatred on their faces. I let go of the bag I was handling and it fell on to the ground, and as it did so, its clasps became undone and something fell out of it. Something that looked very much like a human torso.

This headless, legless torso possessed a pair of arms and it unfolded these limbs keenly as it clambered out of its container. Pausing a second or two, all of its ten fingers were twitching rapidly as they felt the ground. Then it crawled happily into the room on its pair of slender colourless arms, like a spider with only its two front legs left to it, dragging its body behind it like a carriage. It was very quick in its movements and watching it scuttled about on the carpet made my stomach turned. This was when I realised Mr Peterson was attacking me. If I had not been so clumsy and nervous, he probably would have knocked me out square, but my knees were weak and they gave and I crumpled on to the floor.

At that same moment, the door to room 407 opened behind me.

There was a crisp sound, like something was moving faster than the laws of physics allowed – and then Mr Peterson flew backwards into his room. He was a well-built man and his body made a sickening sound as it collided against the television unit. Mr Weathers pulled me out of there and into the corridor, and shoved me to his sister’s care. I’m embarrassed to say, but I held on to her as if she was my mother.

She took me inside their room and closed the door. Merry sat me down on the bed and made me drink something fierce. I drank. I was worried for Mr Weathers, but she told me he was good at his job.

“What’s your name?”

“G-George. George Pollard, ma’am.”

She lit a cigarette and smiled.

“Mr Pollard.”

“Ma’am?”

“I’m afraid you have witnessed a classified mission.”

I gulped and looked at her, wondering if she was as deadly as her brother. Out there a series of high-pitched shrieks filled the air, followed by a loud bang of a door slammed. There were further thuds and screams, punctured here and there by small bubbles of silence. At length, the quiet intervals increased both in frequency and in length, and I could hear timid openings of neighbouring doors.

Miss Weathers smoked her cigarette as we waited it out together.

“Is-is it over?”

She nodded. “Sounds like it. Let’s see.”

I tried to stand up but my legs were jelly so I sat back down on the bed. That happy torso crawling out was going to stay with me for a long time. Merry opened the door and found a few men in the corridor, braving themselves to investigate. Then, Mr Weathers emerged from room 406, and he was as impeccably dressed as he was when he checked in a few minutes ago.

“Nothing to see here, folks.”

“There were …shoutings. And, and- … loud noises.” One of the men piped up.

Mr Weathers flicked out a police officer’s badge and brandished it out. “Domestic violence. Resolved and under my supervision, now. Go back to your rooms.”

The guests, reassured, went back to each their room with a story to tell. I played with my glass and I could feel the dampness building up in my palms. Merry came back to the room and looked at me.

“Mr Pollard. What did you see inside that suitcase?”

Her eyes were impossibly blue and there was only one correct answer to her question.

“I-I shouldn’t have been drinking on my shift. I probably w-was not seeing real well, Miss Weathers. It’s ..uh, it’s the alcohol! Th-this blasted stormy weather! I always drink when the sky’s fouling up. You know?”

Her face broke into a dazzling smile.

“Thank you for your co-operation and for your outstanding citizen service in helping make this country a safer place. Good evening.”

I stood up and I ran out of there so fast my feet weren’t touching the ground. Still, if you ask me then and if you ask me now, I tell you this– no, this I swear! I don’t think that those two were humans, either!

Ashes1396 said:

When you write for me, I want you to come inside my mind and blow it apart. Personally, I tend to forget that sometimes...

Click to expand...

I don't think I can do that.

Ashes1396 said:

Spoiler

...but it evokes little empathy...
I have to say your opening sentence is too long, complicated beyond requirement, and withholds an entire paragraph worth of information in one go.

Click to expand...

From this and ^v it seems:

Funky Functionality said:

@Chubby: My criticisms almost perfectly echo Ashes'... specifically the lack of evocation of empathy. Also, there was some bugging phrase repetition ("to no avail" used twice, without an obvious intended effect)...
This felt much more like reading about the last reflections of a slightly jaded twenty-something.

Click to expand...

I should fix the opening paragraph to something a little more appropriate, such as age, info tossed out and fewer run on sentences. I can do that, but I'm not sure it'll be any better.

Ashes1396 said:

Spoiler

You are using lots of sweet poetic metaphors about a car crash.
Perhaps your being inspired by the music you are listening to now then what would really occur in the event of a car crash.

Click to expand...

Is the first part a problem, because that's just how I tend to write. I can't help it, pen against paper and that's what comes out.
As for the car crash; did you mean I should focus a little more on his physical pain?

Ashes1396 said:

Spoiler

Oh I don't know... its all subjective... I should really delete all this, but I'll leave it here since it may help you. Take what I say with a pinch of salt though.

Click to expand...

First drafts should never be taken that seriously, because they'll always be riddled with mistakes, so it helps having feedback. So no damage done to my ego.
Your feedback has been appreciated.

Ashes is just acting you to work against a norm -- invent a new way of telling a tired archetype.

Or as Kurt Vonnegut would say, "Old beer in new bottles. Old jokes in new people."

Funky Functionality said:

@Aaron: I love your style in this piece, but there are parts of the narrative that feel disjointed. At times it is eloquent; at others, it sounds written in your world's dialect, with no clear distinction in narration... just a jarring "Lulu's gone pregnant so dad couldn't rent her out no more," among other examples. Also, your ideas for Walt seemed to be less than fully realized while you wrote the story, falling apart near the end. In one passage you say he could live there, never burn, starve, or live underground again. Only a few lines later, you contradict this idea with, "Nice place to visit, but he didn't think he could ever feel happy living among lunatics..." Also, the office setting just flat out confused me.

Click to expand...

It was struggling to find a voice right up until the end so it comes off as disjointed. It needed another editing pass I didn't have time for. As for Walt, it says he could live there, but never that he'd be happy. His main problem being the people.

Spoiler

Walt and his clan live underground after some apocalyptic event, presumably having lived that way for quite some time now, but within walking distance he finds an inhabited office complex, complete with packaged/manufactured foods, not far from which the sky is blue and rain falls? Maybe I'm interpreting it too literally, but it just seems far-fetched to me that these two worlds remained isolated until this point--that they could coexist for so long without seeming to have any knowledge or understanding of one another (Walt's inability to recognize a stapler; the "lunatic" mistaking Walt for an exterminator; both supporting two VERY different realities within what seems to be a rather small geographic location).

Again, though, I LOVE your style overall. You write very well, even if the ideas conveyed aren't quite clear to me.

Click to expand...

You need to watch the Twilight Zone more. Actually, that part was inspired by a video game. I think it was called Breakdown. I thought the different states of the city made it fairly clear they didn't occupy the same physical space. What this connection is isn't all that important to the story.

Wow, great to see so much critique this time around. Gotta hold off on reading it until I do mine though.

P.S. Funky- awesome avatar!

Prism



Thousands of individual feet marching to their own tune combine to form a low, rumbling symphony that is slowly migrating towards my position. Hundreds of bodies collide against each other; the friction of which heats the air immensely. The setting of the sun does little to diminish the heat of the day, however, it does provide a golden glow that illuminates my surroundings with an otherworldly light. The temperature continues to rise and draw moisture to the skin of the many people surrounding me. Sweat evaporates and then condenses onto the cool glass of my cubicle, separating me from the rest of the world with its cloudy embrace.

Through the misty glass, a blinding flash invades my field of view moments before a loud crack assaults my ears. The sequence repeats itself and now I see what has caused my temporary discomfort. A large, balding man wearing a navy blue, three-piece suit and a silver watch is banging on my clear door. That's the thing with people; they always want something from you.

"Hey, jackass, why don't you let someone else into the booth? You ain't even usin' the damned phone!"

I can see that this man believes the world revolves around his, admittedly, planetary frame. Well, I think it's time for him to learn that the sun is the center of our solar system and only plays a bit part on the galactic scale, making him merely a dust mite.

I pick up the black, grease-covered phone with a gloved hand and wave it at him, hoping he'll get the message. He doesn't. The banging continues as the sun slowly edges out of view.

"Get the hell outta here! Can't a man make a call in peace anymore? I'm sure there's a booth down the street for you to make that "ever-so-important" call on."

The man shakes his head wildly in the ever growing wind, knocking what little hair he had left out of its combed shell.

After another moment of silent tension, the man finally buggers off. Good riddance.

Phone still in hand, I decide to make a call. It's my wife and I's fifth anniversary and I've had reservations at Μόνο for a couple of months now. It's a nice little Greek place in the center of the city that always seems filled to the brim. I thought it was a walk-in restaurant until we tried to eat there one night and were promptly told otherwise. The owners didn't really come off as rude, so we booked a spot that very night. Well, here I am, five months later, and I've been forced into a phone booth by an ever-growing crowd of people and I need to confirm my reservations before I lose them. Unfortunately, it looks like the phone book's been ripped off its chain and I don't keep the numbers for little Greek places in the middle of downtown in the back of my head. Oh well, I'll just give Lilly a call and have her look the number up for me.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, Lilly, it's me."

"Wait, are you telling me you haven't even left the office yet, James?"

I take a look around. While it may not be my office, this looks just like it to me, sans the desk.

"Nope, I'm at the payphone just down the street. However, there are a ton of people surrounding me and it'll be awhile before I can make it there."

"Have you called the Μόνο yet?"

"Eh, not exactly, I couldn't recall the number and the phone book has gone missing from this particular booth. That's actually why I called you. You'll have to do the confirmation for me."

"Fine, but you're going to have to come home soon to change and wash up."

"Alright, love you, honey."

"No, don't 'alright' me. You need to get over your fear of people because this exact situation with you in that damned phone booth has been happening way too often lately."

Ah, hell, she just had to bring this up again.

"Look, you know I don't have a problem with people. I deal with numerous people every single day. It's the crowds I can't stand. People just aren't people anymore when they get together. They become a writhing mass of sound, sweat, heat, and emotion whose only wish is to swallow you whole. It's just too much for me to deal with."

"I wish you'd quit being so damn dramatic. I'm going to call the restaurant now, so you should start making your way home. I'm sure the "writhing mass" has moved on by now. See you in a while."

Click!

Damn, that wasn't really necessary. It's not like I'm lying; that's exactly what a crowd of people are. Oh well, sounds like the rumbling has stopped. She may have been right about the crowd receding.

A look out the window tells me that both of us were wrong. What seems like a million people are still standing right outside my glass panic room. The swarm is never-ending. It would serve me well to find comfort in this transparent cubicle because it seems as though I'll never be able to leave.

Losing hope, I lean my back against one of the clear, cool sides and slowly slide to the floor. My gray-slacked knees enter my sight as though they are growing from the ground. Eventually, I sink low enough that even my shiny, leather shoes can be seen. Unfortunately, I've soiled my suit now, so I won't be wearing it out. I'll have to shower and change for sure now, meaning I need to be at home even sooner. This whole anniversary business is more trouble than it's worth.

Resigned to staying in my current position for a while, I look down at my digital watch. The display reads 6:16 pm, but it's off by 40 minutes. Moisture from my breath on the glass wets my suit coat, leaving a dark spot across my back. I'll deal with it later.

Seconds feel like they take minutes to pass, but when I check my watch again, it turns out two hours have gone by. Lilly has got to be pissed. We only have 15 minutes to get to the restaurant before we lose our spot. The Μόνο is twenty minutes away and I still need to freshen up. We're not going to make it. Time to make another call.

"Franco's Pizzeria. What can I get ya?"

"Yeah, I'm going to need a large "little bit of everything" and a personal pepperoni."

Lilly calls the LBOE a "jungle" pizza. It also happens to be her favorite.

"Name and Address."

"James Fields, 1134 Springer Ave."

"$15.68. It'll be at your door in about 45 minutes."

"No problem."

One final look out of the booth and I see the crowd has dispersed. I'll leave in a few minutes. If I don't arrive at the exact same time the pizza does there's going to be tons of unwanted questions. This is merely the eye of the storm.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

Eh, didn't turn out anything like I thought it would.

Very original. And Clever. Gets better with a second reading... well done.

I don't mean to be harsh, Irish, and take it as a compliment, I'm only saying anything because I really liked your first entry, but the first paragraph alone in this entry needs major renovation. You lost me three or four sentences in. Granted, I have a short attention span, but this is what you're going to have to combat if you want to improve the accessibility of your writing.

I suggest you break up your sentences more. It should give your (quite imaginative) thoughts a better flow and a greater chance at being clear to the reader. For your first paragraph, this might be the direction you should be looking at: "Slowly migrating towards my position is the low, rumbling symphony of marching feet. Thousands of feet form the tune. An immense wall of heat hits me. It is created by the friction of hundreds of bodies inadvertently colliding with and stepping on each other." By no means is my version of that passage the ideal, but it does provide more clarity, even if it's somewhat passive. Aim for greater clarity and I'm sure your work could ravish.

And in the second paragraph: "That's the thing with people; they always want something from you." Watch out for separating a single thought in this way as if they are two.

This thread's been more active than I've seen it move in awhile. Nice. Just little things for now, I'll probably be back with more feedback once the thing's wrapped up.

@ProudClod: circular ending is circular.

@ronito: awesomeimageryoooohsopretty.

@funky: Something is off. His name made me brace for a witty sort of satire kind of joke. Too much Colbert Report. Maybe. I like that you opened with a bang.

@tim: Now I will have to look at the year 2042 ominously. That was long... and yet once I got to the ending it feels as if it's only a beginning of something bigger. Your characters were really awesome. I didn't see Liam being more than just Sandra's little meek sidekick at first. Really enjoyed that. Awesome character development. B93 felt to me as if he's running thin on an extended neurotic line. Made me chuckle.

@Irish: I really like your entry for this round.

It was a simple plan. In and out, without catching the attention of the top brass for too long. Aamir had thought it out so many times in his mind. All the possible permutation, probabilities were accounted for. He rechecked the figures one last time; adjusted his tie and went in. The backdoor had become his best friend since he was almost always late to these meetings. He always kept the focus off himself, even when in the office. Not many people could even recognize his face, nor did they know his name. But he did get the job done though. That’s what made him likeable to his boss, Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith didn’t know Aamir by name, but he recognized him as a workaholic. Aamir always believed in working smart, and people always perceived his smart work as hard work. This worked to his advantage in many ways.

Aamir spoke on their company’s fiscal year, and described it with a web of verbosity. Of course, the experienced company heads were with him on every word he spoke and Aamir was well aware of that. He was very agile while making his presentations, energetic and passionate, very unlike his office persona. Mr. Smith had noticed this many times, but it seemed like trivial information to him.

“And on that note, ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a break”

During the break, Smith met up with Aamir and enquired about the figures being incorrect.

“These are not the amounts that were in the report that you gave me last week!”

“Sir, I rechecked the figures last night and it came up to this.”

“You know the implication of this, don’t you? Why didn’t you inform me of the changes?”

“Sir, I’m just doing my job. If you want, we can revert back to the old data.”

“No, we’re already in too deep with this, carry on. Just be ready for the shit-storm afterwards and remember, it’s all on you”

Aamir got nervous over “it’s all on you”. But he had thought over this scenario as well. He took out a piece of gum and started chewing on it. It helped him relax.

As soon as the break was over, Aamir got back to the dark wood podium and resumed his presentation, albeit with subtracted enthusiasm. He saw Mr. Smith listening in more attentively. The company representatives were oddly calm about this. Aamir anticipated this much, considering most of them were old folk, only after the money with no interest in the actual process of it all. Aamir took advantage of this to get his scheme fulfilled, but Mr. Smith’s piqued interest seemed to pose a threat now.

“Our old employees have been receiving a steady increase in their basic pay for the last two years in order to adjust inflation cost and justify it in board reports”

Aamir took a sip of water and continued on.

“This leaves a lot of room for error at our understaffed accounting section, to keep track on all their paychecks is becoming a difficult ordeal for the company to handle”

At this moment, everyone had the scapegoat at their tongue. The recession. Of course, it was to blame. That draconian plague that swept through all business platforms. It brought their rage together in unity. Their focus was now to blame the recession. All according to plan.

“What we need to do is to either rebuild the accounts part of our office structure, or to leave it as it is for the time being, and I know that sounds unethical, but it should hold us out on paper”

The executives were now out of their recession rage coma. Rebuilding a whole section seemed unprofitable, especially in this recession. Aamir, for the first time in his life, was noticed by one particular stockholder of the company at this moment. It was a subtle nod of recognition, and Aamir didn’t heed to it. He continued on with his speech, and they listened to him as if someone was binding them to hear him. But the stockholder listened to Aamir like he was the pied piper in the flesh. The conclusion to the meeting was that the company either had to change its whole structure of power and money-flow, or to file for bankruptcy. It was a beautiful deconstruction of facts right in front of the uninformed company heads. But the stockholder knew better. He had money invested in many different ventures, and he knew he had seen this pattern of events before. He knew that it always ended with all stakes being lost. He didn’t want to lose his stakes.

It was a slight drizzle and raindrops started to make that light dull sound on the concrete. It was calming in a way to Aamir. A stark contrast to what he had done in the boardroom that day. From the outside, the office looked like any other ordinary room with no special annotations. It was just a room full of people. But him being present in the midst of that living entity, the office, made it exist like the notion of offices that we have in our minds. Aamir took a mental note of a certain thing. He had been less than inconspicuous during the presentation. Smith’s ambiguous ultimatum had made him fumble a bit, deviate from his plan. All in all, it was good, but his instinct told him a different story. He carried on back into the building and into the parking lot. It was getting late. Aamir was often late to go back home. He would work overtime. It was as if he had a hatred directed towards his house. A house which didn’t have an existence outside of Aamir being present there. As he was reaching his car, he fumbled around in his pockets looking for the keys.
“Oh fuck, must have left those at my table” he said, as if someone was listening.
He dragged his legs back to his office space. No-one was in there except for the janitor with his headphones on. Aamir had seen him many times, so he acknowledged him with a friendly nod. His desk was empty. He walked towards the janitor to see if he had any information.

“Hey, uh, did you see any keys at my table?”

“Nope, did you lose ‘em?”

“Seems like it, heh, let me know if you find anything”

“Sure!”

Aamir sat back on his uncomfortable office chair and began to recall where he might have put the keys.

“Let’s see now Desk..Bathroom..Desk…Boardroom..”

A visual of the keys on the podium flashed upon his eyes. He walked triumphantly to the boardroom where it all took place that very day. The empty corridors spooked him a bit. He opened the doors and the keys were right there at the podium. He grabbed them, but something caught his eye. Someone had left their folder at the roundtable.

“Well, what do we have here?”

He picked it up and hurried back to his desk. The janitor humming in the background was a constant reminder of a human presence to Aamir. It was warm all those lonely hours that he had worked here before. But holding a file labeled “CONFIDENTIAL”, the presence was unwelcome. He opened up the slide into its constituent papers. Began reading it.

8:05PM

Finished reading it.

1:29AM

He turned around to see if someone was there. Even the janitor had gone. He had no-one to share his story with. Not sure if he’d even want to. He drove back home and the rain had got heavy. He didn’t particularly care about the weather, but it got through his impermeable indifference. A storm was brewing.

The alarm rings.

6:00AM

Aamir didn’t remember setting the alarm so early. He got up anyways. He saw his image on the bathroom mirror. The image whose existence was governed by his presence there. His eyes were red. The colour reminded him of the tinge of red on the file cover that he read the day before. A light flashed and Aamir got startled. Then he heard a roar of the clouds and realized the source of the flash. It was a storm outside, no way he could make it to the office. If the office existed, that is.

He sat down on his recliner with a cup of hot cocoa he had just prepared. Dressed very cozy, he started with the file again. He knew that it was one of the company heads. He even knew the signature on one of the pages, but the details were hazy. He took a sip and turned a page. He realized the importance of the dossier that he held, as it very intricately points him out as the culprit behind all the scams that Aamir had seemingly pulled on the company since he got hired. He looked at the last page and noticed a phone number. He promptly dialed it.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, Mr. Oscar, is it?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“You seem to have left your file at the office…”

“Ah yes! Mr. Aamir, it was no accide….”

“Wait, how do you know my name?”

“Questions later Aamir, just listen for now. I know who you are and what devious little plans you’ve cooked up to destroy the company”

“So.. you know? What do you want?”

“I’d never seen this sort of scam pulled with such perfection, that makes you special according to my needs”

“Get to the damn point” Aamir said, with a seeming authority that he didn’t possess at that moment.

“I want a cut from the bankruptcy money”

“If there is gonna be a bankruptcy, that is”

“Don’t take me for a fool Aamir, I’ve seen this happen too many times. I’ve also seen these schemes go to shit because someone got too cocky”

“Tell me what you need me to do”

Mr. Oscar told Aamir the details of how the plan would take place. Aamir agreed to comply. Aamir headed down to the office willfully ignoring the storm that he was now a part of. He reached the office entrance. A wall clock read:

2:46PM

Aamir hurried to the boardroom. He reminded himself of the plan just before entering.

“Just be ready for the shit-storm afterwards and remember, it’s all on you”

All the company heads along with Mr. Smith were in the boardroom. Aamir was handed a briefcase by Mr. Oscar just before entering the boardroom, who rushes out of the office. All according to plan.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen” Aamir said, as he placed the briefcase at the centre of the conference round-table.

“I need to make a confession here. I have been deceitful towards this company for too long, and I plan to start making amends by being truthful here”

A very loud thunder interrupted this heartfelt moment. An explosion. Bodies lie lifeless, no-one is spared. Aamir is still alive with a few burns. He looks around the boardroom and hears only one thing.

“Just be ready for the shit-storm afterwards and remember, it’s all on you”
____________________________________________________________________________

Eh, still new to this stuff, so any critique would be nice. Good luck to all.

@ankitT:

bakemono said:

@funky: Something is off. His name made me brace for a witty sort of satire kind of joke. Too much Colbert Report. Maybe. I like that you opened with a bang.

Click to expand...

You know what's sad? I never made this connection because when I thought of the name, it was pronounced "coal-burt" in my head, "coal" being the stressed syllable. Even the identical spelling didn't give me any thought to the Colbert Report... damn!

Man. I'm glad I have another day to work on this, because my story just completely fell apart in the second half. Oh well, I'm just glad I got something going.

crowphoenix said:

Man. I'm glad I have another day to work on this, because my story just completely fell apart in the second half. Oh well, I'm just glad I got something going.

Click to expand...

That sounds like the problem I have every time I write something, leaving me with two halves of a story instead of a whole.

Damn, kind of having trouble with this one, not sure why. I thought I'd get it done well in advance, but looks like it'll be yet another last-minute entry for me.

P.S. ZephyrFate is banned for a month; I told him I'll post stuff on his behalf until he returns.

Foreword

This is the third and last of the Citizen K series. You shouldn't have to have read the last two stories as I've tried my upmost to make this a standalone story. But that will be a bonus. And hopefully, you can see the progress in writing as well.

Quick recap

Aliens have just invaded the world. We focused on K, one of three people, and marked his struggle struggle to survive the first two days and nights with them.

Read (unabridged),
Citizen K I: "They came from out of space or Citizen K"
Citizen K II: ''Burning Shadows (Partie deux et Citizen K )''
Cheers,
________________________________________________________________________



Title: Extant. or Home Town Glory.

Word count: 1990




We read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.
Rabindranath Tagore





The wind blew dust whilst the setting sun drew longer shadows across the rain swept street. The remains of a three storey office lay littered here and flung there. K, ever the Hitchcockian figure, sat atop a broken stolen airship. He likened it to a PPV (Protected Patrol Vehicle) with due exception given to the alien Blade-Hovering Technology underneath rejecting the need for wheels.

K’s failings haunted him still. The superimposed thought: you were supposed to protect me daddy; spun on a needle inside his fragile mind. A part of his self wondered when the morose record would cease; another knew the life-long ambitions of the passive passenger.

K closed his eyes; it was always a sunny day in this dream. He could see her two feet playfully walking about in the yard with her new found freedom. He lifted his eyes; he could see the light blue eyes, toothless smile and blonde fringes...

These days, where the child was concerned, the weary mind only allowed the reminisces of sweet nothings.

K opened his eyes to a brewing thunderstorm. The eerie silence -left by the absence of the three day air raid- was only disturbed by the pitter-patter of rainfall. Tanks were coming from an Easterly direction; lots of tanks. He jumped off the airship to find Joel.

Joel was the seventeen old, K, in his mid thirties, wanted to be. Twice K had fallen amidst survival, and twice Joel had been there to pull him to safety.

K walked past Bella and the newly found pilot. Bella wore an oversized helmet beside her dust ridden school uniform. It was for her sake that K had crawled out of his comfort zone. Bella in return had gotten Joel to come to his rescue. He knew little else about her.

The rescued pilot was Captain Lisa. K found her to be a mature level headed adult. She was quick to name their airship: Nur and was quicker still to point out her marriage to a Major in the UNA army. K liked that she cut off the possibility of sexual tension at the roots. She was beautiful, sure; her green eyes shone through her muddied cheeks to reveal an angelic face. But she kept her modesty well preserved by gesture, presentation, and language. At best, there was to be sisterly affection on her part. K welcomed the lack of a lingering eye because he didn’t like the idea of war as a background for romance. And an adulterous romance far less.















K dropped his head. He knew.









Bella ran off after Joel.


K watched her run off in the westerly direction until she too became a speck on the skyline. He finished four Vodka Bulls, then returned to his defunct airship, Nur, and waited miserably for the tanks to come from the East.

~

He was alone with his blood shot eyes. Torchlight in hand, K eyed his surroundings in the semi-darkness. He shivered in the rain- in fear more than the cold. With the tanks on the horizon, K had stared at an impossible situation. Sending the children away with the Pilot ensured their safety.

Current circumstances beat into him the necessity to think only of surviving the next few hours.



The tanks approached at a steady pace.


The darkest thoughts egged on the drunken stupor. Fight... take flight... or die... You will die, Kiefer, you will die.


Lightening struck angrily. Deafening Thunder broke.

Pure fear and tears told how all was lost, said and done.

Silenced, K sat crestfallen onto a wet office chair amidst the pouring rain.

As before, so once again; everything went darker still...


~


What does one do when God himself turns his back on you?
You pick yourself up, and fight the devil with your bare hands. Unfortunately.
Citizen K



Minutes before dawn


...K woke up to simpler thoughts that relaxed the mind and made tender the heart. The ‘sleep’ had calmed him down. The shivering stopped as he came to his senses. He had done the right thing. He had saved the children. He had not failed in that regard. Thus through the tired blinks of a fading eye, he was at a peace with himself.

A mile away, an Officer -sat in the first tank- saw the lone figure cock his head.


K lay on the ground with his hands over his head. He looked at the wreckage behind him lit in fiery agony. A carcass had landed on him. He pushed it off. He then saw two vehicles nearing him at speed. He rushed to Nur and locked the door. The ignition worked. It was the actual motoring of the vehicle’s blades that needed to work. It didn’t. K thumped the dashboard before kicking it.

K watched the two vehicles stop outside his carriage. The ranking Officer had – K presumed- a satellite communications backpack. The Communication Officer kicked the carcass on the floor. The Officer asked the observer in the tank how many people he had seen. One. Satisfied with the answer, he walked over to Nur. K watched the officer radio back and forth about the vehicle. He then realised that it was radioing the serial number of the vehicle. He also figured that they could not open the hatch as they would have done it already. Another alien connected a fuel hose between Nur and the closest vehicle. K’s eyes widened with shock as the lights on the dashboard came on. K watched astonished when having emptied the first vehicle, they then attached the fuel hose to the second. K memorised the fuel icon.

The idea that a human being could be inside the vehicle had not occurred to the ranked Officer. Nor could it, for human beings were pathetic dumb creatures to him. He thought only of the poor injured martyr of an alien stuck paralysed inside or worse: dead. The vehicle, a prestigious one, didn’t have enough power to last being hacked into. Once it was fully fuelled up, he could then insert his key and begin manually hacking the system to open the hatch without fear of a Shut Down Corruption.

K watched the second fuel hose be taken off. A bonfire of hope lit up his heart. He saw two Lorries break away from the tanks. When the first one stopped ten yards away, he could see the wounded -on stretchers- inside it being attended to. The second one was empty- presumably this was for Nur. K’s attention turned back to the dashboard. He couldn’t read the alien language but knew that it was being operated on from outside. K pushed the red ignition button. The motor and the blades roared to life. The aliens froze- they were clearly taken aback. K raised the vehicle and raced past the heads of the soldiers. The aliens watched dumbfounded. K felt as if his heart would burst with happiness.

K thundered west through the rain and the rising sun. He flashed the front lights as a warning to anyone lying ahead. Five minutes later he saw two children and a pilot still bravely walking west. He opened the hatch and rumbled the engine. The three paused for thought until a lorry thundered into view behind them. Captain Lisa and Joel jumped into the front two seats and launched Nur into the sky.



K wondered whether it would be better for Bella if he became a pseudo-intellectual super soldier. In the end, he said nothing on the matter.

“Breakfasts and invasions don’t seem to mix well, do they?” K said to the tune of a grumbling stomach.

When day lit up the free sky, K saw a rubble ridden clinic. He saw a mother covered in blood cry inconsolably. He saw people suddenly scatter, scream and panic. He witnessed teenagers being lined up against a wall. He then watched them fall.

His home was a graveyard, awash with red stain, and devoid of hope. Here, Man was vanquished.

How long would K keep City L his office?

The crowded skies had previously stopped the means for an aerial escape. The skies were calm now and had been for a night at least.


From their front seats, Lisa and Joel raised an eye to the rear-view mirror.


K had his back to the wall. He listened to the humdrum of a well oiled machine. He listened to the birdsong outside.

With a perplexed countenance, he thought of the children, the free heavens and the toils below...



Fin.

Cyan said:

P.S. ZephyrFate is banned for a month; I told him I'll post stuff on his behalf until he returns.

Click to expand...

The hell did he do?

Irish said:

That sounds like the problem I have every time I write something, leaving me with two halves of a story instead of a whole.

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I just have one half of a decent story. As of right now, the end isn't really working because I was unable to shift the characters from one spot to the other as quickly as the rest of the story wanted.

That is fixable, of course, but will take a bit of rewriting and some finagling.

Somehow I thought the deadline was yesterday. Looks like I won't miss this challenge.
Now to just write a story.

The Shopkeeper
(1514 words)

A car pulled over on a gravel clearing in front of a dilapidated wooden hut. "Rentals" said a sign on the roof. There were boats on the shore of a large lake only 20 yards from the shanty.

A man got out of the car and walked up to the cabin. Its ruinous appearance made it seem deserted, but he had been told there was a boat rental place somewhere close, so it must have been the right place. The windows were closed, but he knocked on a shutter. Two of them opened at the same time, revealing a bearded man with a pricing gun hanging around his neck.

"Hello," the man said. "You're renting boats?"
"Why else would I be here?", said the shopkeeper, not sounding pleased.
"Well, I'd like to rent one for the day."
"There's a storm coming."
"A storm? There's not a cloud in the sky!"
"If you say so."
"So, that boat?"
"Please, step into my office."

The shopkeeper moved to the next window.

"Um, ok," said the man. "I'd still like to rent a boat."
"We have two models, basic and deluxe."
"Well, I guess I'll take the deluxe."
"It sank."
"Uh, ok, then the basic."
"That's $50."

The man took out his credit card.

"Cash only."

The man took out a 50 dollar bill, seemingly all his cash.

"That'll be $75," said the shopkeeper.
"You said $50!"
"$50 for the boat, $25 for the life vest."
"I don't need a vest."
"Nobody goes out with a vest."

Irritated, the man took some more money from his back pocket.

"Well, aren't we a regular Croesus." The shopkeeper said. "I'll be needing your car keys as collateral."
"So, any special places out on that lake I should check out," said the man, handing over his keys.
"I don't know, I just work here," said the shopkeeper. "Just as long as you're back before 6PM."
"6PM, it's almost 5 already! You're renting by the hour?"
"Keep the goddamn boat for all day for all I care, just so long as you're out of here before 6. The storm's coming."

The shutters slammed shut.

The man walked to the shore. There were three boats. The shopkeeper hadn't specified which of them was the basic model, but they all looked forlorn enough for $50 to have been a blatant rip-off. The man remembered the shopkeeper hadn't provided him with the life vest, but on one boat he found a jacket with rubber ducks glued on it.

The derelict condition of the boats and the overpricing almost made the man turn back and demand his money back, but, having come that far, decided to go rowing anyway. He rowed around a large island in the lake and lost the track of time. When it was close to 6PM, he saw clouds gathering over the lake, or more accurately, over the rental place. He had never seen a storm start so quickly, so he hurried back to the shore. He ran past the hut and towards his car.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" The shopkeeper yelled from his window. "I told you to be back before 6!"
"I lost the track of...," began the man.
"I don't care, just stay away from me!" He slammed his shutters again.

The man run to his car, but couldn't get the door open. He remembered he had given his keys to the shopkeeper. The wind was brutal when he ran to the cabin door. He banged it, but the shopkeeper didn't answer. He let himself in, slightly surprised the door wasn't locked.

The decor was scarce, to say the least. There was only a small table, a stool and a crowbar leaning against it. But that wasn't the most peculiar aspect of the strange house. The dimensions of the place seemed completely off, much larger than on the outside. The lightning outside cast strange shadow play on the walls through the old wooden venetian blinds. The shopkeeper was sitting in a corner, holding his pricing gun.

"I don't recall asking you in," said the shopkeeper.
"You have my keys."
"Oh right, that I do."
"So, um, you live here?"
"More or less."
"There's not even a bed."
"Do I come in your house and criticize the decoration?"
"Sorry, sorry," said the man, sitting down on the stool. "How'd you know the storm was coming?"
"It always comes at this time."
"So, this is an interesting house," said the man. "A lot bigger than it looks."
"A lot."

They both kept quiet for a while, but the shopkeeper's strange eyeing made the man nervous. He wanted to leave.
"So, can I have those keys?"
"Sure", said the shopkeeper. He didn't move. "Are you sure you want to drive in that weather?"

A lightning struck close for dramatic effect.

"How'd you end up as a shopkeeper here, anyway?" The man changed the subject. "There's no one around."
"Are you sure you want to hear a story of such bloodcurling, hair-rising horror that it would turn many a noble man into a sobbing mess?
"Well, what are stormy nights for?"
"Suit yourself," said the shopkeeper. "It all began many years ago. I stumbled upon a store renting skiing equipment in the Alps when vacationing there. I didn't need anything, but the shopkeeper kept yelling at me to come over to him. So I went to see what he wanted. He was offering all these awful skis for pennies, but I didn't want them. So he asked me could I help him to carry some stuff. Being the trusting fellow that I am, I agreed and went in his crummy shed. There was hardly anything in there. But then he asked could I price some of his goods for him, seeing as he had a sore back and all. I didn't really understand how a sore back could stop you from pricing, but he told me to just hit a couple of the items with price tags. So I did. The next thing I knew I heard him running away, and I tried to follow him and I was in Antarctica. I know cause I saw a penguin. I couldn't leave the shop, though. There's a barrier between me and the door. You can't see it, but I can feel it. And every three months a storm comes and sends the store somewhere else, usually where there's no one else around for miles. I know what you're thinking, but it's true. Whoever is the last person to use the pricing gun is condemned to be THE SHOPKEEPER."

You could hear the capital letters.

"And I'll tell you something else," continued the shopkeeper, "If I ever get out of here, and that bastard is still alive, I'm going to introduce mister crowbar over here to his knee caps."

The man just smiled.

"Oh come on," he finally said. "You don't actually think I believe that. And it's not even scary."
"So first you mock my house, and then you're accusing me of being a charlatan?" said the shopkeeper. "Then how about using the pricing gun, good sir?" He dangled the pricing gun in front of the man. He took it.

"There's nothing here to price."
"Doesn't matter. Use it on the stool."
"So tell me," said the man, "If you're being honest, why would you tell me all this? You could have tricked me into using it."
"I happen to have high moral standards," said the shopkeeper, sounding offended. "Unlike that soon to be knee capless bastard, I don't trick people."

The man hesitated. Of course he didn't believe the story, but he didn't like the way the shopkeeper kept staring at him. Like a starving man staring at bacon.

"So tell me," said the man, buying some time. "If you can't leave this house, where'd you get those boats to rent? And that pathetic excuse of a life vest?"
"The merchandise is provided by upper management."
"Upper management, eh?" said the man. He hit his stool with the pricing gun before losing his nerve.
"Oh boy, now you've done it."
"Done what?" said the man. "It's just a price tag."

The shopkeeper didn't say anything, just got up and took his crowbar and walked out the door. The man just sat there for a while, first amused at the situation, but then wondering why he couldn't hear the storm anymore. What he did hear was the sound of his car starting and pulling away. He rushed to the windows and opened the shutters. He saw nothing but sand as far as the eye could see. The sun was scorching. A vulture was flying in the sky.

"Oh shit."

crowphoenix said:

The hell did he do?

Click to expand...

Something about starting a cats vs dogs argument? I dunno. Much harder to pinpoint what got somebody banned with search turned off.

Gentlemen

ProudCloud: I get.What you you trying to do. By having doing it in. A jilted fashion. But. It didn't work. For me. Focus on efficiency. A lot of times you tell the reader something in one sentence and proceed to tell him something very similar in the next sentence. Also seems to take too long to get where he's going. It would've been cool if it started closer to the action. I like the wet asphalt line. Very evocative.

Zephyr: Nice and an intriguing start. Sadly I don't think the main body of the work was nearly as cool as the wrapper and main gist of the piece. Frankly the idea of a guy unhappy and working has been done to death. But man that four by four square was brilliant.

FunkyFunctionality: I hate to ding you on something simply because you've not been around BUT....The tone and the theme have been done to death in these. So much so that we've even had sub-challenges where everyone had to live through it. Fact is there's a lot of stories like this. The writing was good but I'd just been there so many times.

ronito said:

FunkyFunctionality: I hate to ding you on something simply because you've not been around BUT....The tone and the theme have been done to death in these. So much so that we've even had sub-challenges where everyone had to live through it. Fact is there's a lot of stories like this. The writing was good but I'd just been there so many times.

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No problem at all man; totally understandable. I did my best to take the idea and put an interesting spin on it, though I feel it could've been better if I wasn't as crunched for time to put into it. Again, this is my first real writing effort in years, and only the 2nd time I've written anything fictitious, so I'm relatively satisfied with the way it turned out. The longer I'm here, the more I'll understand the general creative climate, and maybe in the next challenge I'll put something together that's less mundane to you.

Funky Functionality said:

No problem at all man; totally understandable. I did my best to take the idea and put an interesting spin on it, though I feel it could've been better if I wasn't as crunched for time to put into it. Again, this is my first real writing effort in years, and only the 2nd time I've written anything fictitious, so I'm relatively satisfied with the way it turned out. The longer I'm here, the more I'll understand the general creative climate, and maybe in the next challenge I'll put something together that's less mundane to you.

Click to expand...

Again it's probably my failing and not yours.

Deleted due to TOS changes.

Funky Functionality said:

@ProudClod: I liked it, though I'm still slightly unclear about the main character's conflict and the actual condition of the office building/environment. As such, I wasn't quite sure what to take from the ending. I have an idea, but I'm not sure if it's at all what you intended:

Spoiler

It seemed to me that he was merely interpreting the world as empty when in actuality it was no different than it ever had been; that this "emptiness" was only internal, driving him to the eventual suicide depicted at the end with the repeated imagery of the first few lines of the story.

If that's what you intended, I'm glad I got it, though I think it could use a few additional clues. If I'm way off base, I'd like to know what you were shooting for. Great style for the most part, and I'm tickled by some of the parallels in our stories.

Click to expand...

Very interesting interpretation. I love it. Although, not what I was going for.

I was at an impasse. If I reveal more things through exposition of the story, it becomes cheesy. If I leave it open to interpretation, it becomes confusing and pretentious. I tried to balance it out, but I guess it's still on the confusing side. I tried to leave enough hints in structure and carefully placed words to lead people to the interpretation I favor.

Before you read my explanation, try reading the story one more time and pay attention to the paragraph breaks (and pay special attention to mentions of memory). Two things are happening at once. I'm not sure anyone will be able to get it, but the paragraph breaks are there for a reason.

If you still don't get it, highlight:
If it's still confusing, here is the full explanation:

Less than an hour remains. Get those stories in.

Curse (1615)

A gypsy curse is a funny thing. No, I mean that literally--it's funny. You hear "gypsy curse" and you laugh. You think fairy tales, cartoons, soap operas. Ha ha.

Let me tell you--it's not so funny once it happens to you.

So there was this gypsy girl. Let's call her Marianne. What? No, it's not her real name. That's the point. I don't--look, just let me tell the story, all right?

We met in the middle of a rainstorm. I was standing under the awning just outside our downtown office--yeah, I've always been a salesman, only back then it was coffee machines. Anyway, I was watching the rain pour off the edge of the awning in sheets, steeling myself to dash out to my car. I saw something out the corner of my eye, turned to look. And there she was.

A girl stood under the next awning over, staring out at the rain. Contemplating it. Her skin was dark but her cheeks were red, her eyes were bright, her lips were parted. Curling, raven hair dripped down the back of her blouse, and her skirt was streaming water. But the expression on her face--you would never have thought she'd been caught out in the pouring rain. She looked happy--no, excited--to be soaking wet.

She must have seen me looking, because she turned her head to look at me, making her earrings sway. Her eyes--sparkled. I know, I know, it sounds like a bad romance novel, but there's really no other way of explaining it. There was vivaciousness in those eyes, vitality, life. And a little something extra, something that taunted, something that said "you can't have me."

Well, I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. I marched right over through the rain to the other awning and asked for her phone number. I must have looked like an idiot. Water was dripping down my face, and when I pulled my phone from my pocket, it turned itself off with a pop, shorted out.

She just starting laughing, and after a minute, so did I.

It was worth it, though--I got her number.

And after that, well. Marianne was a hell of a ride. No, that's not what I--get your mind out of the gutter. You know what I mean. She was spontaneous, fascinating, passionate. We had spectacular fights and equally spectacular make ups. She brought out a side of me I never knew was there--we did all kinds of things I never would have done on my own. We ditched work to go on long trips, ran naked along the beach, joined street performances, sang and danced for any reason or no reason.

It was an amazing time, but it was also tiring like you wouldn't believe. She was chemical, addictive--but I couldn't handle her. I'd been seeing her for about six or seven months when I started getting antsy. Hey, come on. Don't look at me like that. I don't mean I cheated on her, or even that I wanted to. But I got to the point where I needed to get out. I was running myself ragged keeping up with her. I couldn't take much more.

And just when I was on the point of leaving, she came home one evening and found me--well, in a compromising position. Hey, it's like I said. I never cheated on her. But from where she was sitting, it probably looked like it. She'd never liked my lady-friends to begin with. Anyway, she didn't even give me a chance to stumble over an explanation. My friend ran, which just made things look worse, and Marianne blew up. She started screaming at me, and I started yelling back. It had all the makings of our usual knock-down drag-out fights, but there was something more to this one--our fights were never exactly under control, but this one was even more so. Less so. Whatever. If our normal fights were a tempest, this was a full-on hurricane.

She screamed, I yelled, until it finally ended with her spitting in my face, and me--well, I'm not proud of it. I smacked her hard across the face, and she went down.

She lay there for a good ten seconds, just staring up at me. Her eyes were blazing. Neither of us said a word. Finally, she pushed herself to her feet.

I had been furiously angry, and then after knocking her down, horrified and ashamed. But now I was afraid. Her hair was disheveled, her makeup running, her blouse was askew. And her eyes blazed. She looked wild. Untamed. Like she might just up and do anything.

Afraid? I was damn well terrified. My hands were shaking, my stomach was all in a knot.

She stepped forward, and I stepped back. Didn't think about it, I just did it. She kept looking at me with those eyes. She stepped forward, I stepped back.

Until my back bumped against the wall. She stepped forward again, and all I could do was quiver. She put her hand on my chest. And pushed.

I sank to the floor.

She looked down at me, and smiled. It was the most frightening thing I'd ever seen. "You will always remember," she said, "the day that you met me." She turned, earrings swaying, and walked to the door almost calmly, though the illusion was spoiled when she slammed it behind her.

I never saw her again.

All right, yes, I'm getting to that.

I wondered what the hell she had been talking about. "You will always remember the day that you met me?" Well, she was a hell of a girl, and the way we met was pretty unusual. I didn't think I was likely to forget it. But that wasn't what she meant.

That night I lay awake in bed, too drunk to sleep. It started to rain. Just little sprinkles at first, pit pit pat on the rooftop. I had always liked the sound of rain. Soon it began to rain in earnest, and then to pour. I eventually fell asleep to the sound of sheets of water sluicing off the roof.

It was still raining the next morning. And the next.

By the fourth morning, I was beginning to suspect the truth. But I didn't want to accept it. I went on with life as usual, albeit life without Marianne.

On the seventh morning I called in sick, hopped a flight to California to visit my folks. I landed in San Francisco, and for the first time in days, I relaxed. It was sunny and bright, the sky was empty of clouds, brilliantly beautifully blue.

Yeah, you can see where this is going. Late that night, I climbed into the bed in my folks' guest room. My head had barely touched the pillow when I heard it--pit pit pat on the roof. By morning, it was pouring again. That was enough for me. I was convinced.

Marianne had put a curse on me.

Yeah, sure. Laugh. That's what I've been saying. It sounds funny. Haha, my gypsy girlfriend put a curse on me. Yeah, it's hilarious.

Until you figure out there's nothing you can do to get rid of it.

I tried everything--from the obvious right on down. I went to old gypsy women, fortune tellers, told them my story--well, a slightly edited version. All of them, every last one told me they could do nothing, that this sort of curse, once placed, could not be removed.

I was damned if I'd give up that easily.

I hired a private detective to track down Marianne, so I could talk her into removing the curse--force her if need be. He turned up nothing. I spent three weeks finding one of the eight Vatican-trained exorcists practicing in the United States. He went the whole nine yards on me--bible and crucifix, sprinkles of holy water, shouting for the demons to begone, the works. No change. I had a friend use his contacts to get me into the Mayo Clinic to see their best doctor--he just said there wasn't anything physically wrong with me. Recommended a psychiatrist. I visited Indian medicine men, crystal healers, Kabbalah practitioners, a Dianic wiccan. You name it, I tried it. I even talked to a meteorology professor at Cornell. She was fascinated once she'd spent a day or two plotting my travels against weather patterns, but tried to get me locked up so she could observe me, or experiment on me or something. It wasn't entirely clear what she intended; I ducked out of there just ahead of campus security.

I was out of ideas. And money--those damn alternative medicine people were expensive. I was almost ready to give up.

So I flew back to California to see my folks. Poured out the whole story, warts and all.

I don't think he believed me, but my dad looked me straight in the eye and said, "Son. You know what I always say. Whatever happens, whatever God puts on your plate. You just have to make the best of it. There's always something there to work with. Make the best of it."

I sat and chewed on that one for a while. It wasn't easy; it wasn't what I wanted to hear, but he was right. There was nothing I could do--I'd just have to make the best of it.

And there you have it. That's my story. That's why I'm here now, doing this.

Making the best of it.

So. You want to buy an umbrella or what?

will dumbnamed make an appearance?

ronito said:

will dumbnamed make an appearance?

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Believe.

Cyan said:

Believe.

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Only leads to hope being shattered, like a Nintendo conference.

Tim the Wiz said:

Only leads to hope being shattered, like a Nintendo conference.

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Indeed. Believe? Bereaved. :/