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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #47 - "Decision"
- Thread starter Cyan
- Start date
- Status
Duck of Death
Member
EDIT: Moved to the writer's workshop thread
Originally posted here. I wrote this a little while ago for this thread (first entry) and then I forgot to actually post it. Im a forgetful individual you see.
THE DATE
By the Author
(a story that could be true)
Ive never been a big fan of letting people watch me eat but often times its unavoidable. I find myself in one of these situations right now. A second date with a girl I have no intention of actually seeing again. On my way to pick her up, I started to break down just how much time I spend doing things I feel obligated to do based on made up rules that I have set for myself without actually consulting myself. Which means they arent really rules at all only mild suggestions.
People dont watch themselves eat and I feel this is a problem. This is something we do countless times in our lives and it would be logical to gain some sort of idea of how we carry ourselves during this act. The girl sitting across from me could benefit from this. The manner in which she eats is one of the many reasons she will never be my girlfriend but she will never know this. She eats like a dog who learned how to use a fork but didnt unlearn how to eat like a dog.
If I were to hold up a mirror right now, shed see the manner in which she slides food into her small mouth instead of just taking a bite. Then shed see the rather infantile way she holds her fork coupled with the fact that she lowers her head to meet said fork instead of doing the exact opposite which, I assume, is why she hunches a little bit when she walks.
Which is another reason she will never be my girlfriend.
The dinner is mostly silent and this is making me uncomfortable but Im torn. On the one hand, I could maintain this silence and guarantee that she will never want to see me again (hopefully), or I can spark up some sort of conversation but I run the risk of her assuming that Im actually interested in speaking to her. But I suppose I did that already by inviting her here in the first place.
Fact is, Im not really sure what to say to her. Every man has that moment where we realize that weve run out of our stock date banter. I have a particular type of date banter. The trick is to create a bunch of theories and talk with your hands a lot. Dramatic pauses are also key. Id like to think that my rant regarding the importance of Saved by the Bell to my generation got me into her bed last week but Im not 100% sure. But with her I havent run out of banter, I just dont want to waste it on her. She doesnt quite deserve to hear my thoughts on Owen Wilson.
Ten seconds later I cave kind of.
So hows the food? I ask.
She looks up rather curiously as if I she just realized I was there. Its great actually. Youre a pretty good cook.
Yea I have my moments.
No I dont.
I cant wait to see what you choose next we see each other, she winks.
But we wont.
Her pushiness and presumptuous nature add yet another reason.
But in that moment I remember how cute her voice is and why I somewhat enjoyed her company last week. In that moment all of my micro reasons for kind of hating her melted away. But it didnt last very long as my mind likes to ruminate on things that it really shouldntlike the way she insists on holding that fork. After this thought crossed my mind, I let out an involuntary yelch! and shook my head in disgust as I often do. I dont have much control over my actions when Im stuck in my own head. This is a constant issue.
Her reaction is a little strange. She giggles a little and says That bad huh?. This bugs me because up until this point I figured I was doing a pretty good job of hiding my feelings.
So whats wrong? she asks filled with enough awareness to turn me on a little.
I look at my glass and realized I was drunk enough to be painfully dishonest.
I then look down dramatically, shift my eyes side to side a few times and look back up and sigh. In movies this means the character has actually been thinking about what they are about to say.
Well heres the thing. We had sex last week. So I feel that I already know everything there is to know about you.
What the fuck does that even mean?
Im growing nervous because she just asked me to explain my bullshit which I am NOT very good at.
To me, having sex on the first date is like telling someone your life story. Yea were having a good time and yea were engaging in meaningful conversation but wheres the mystery? What do I have to look forward to for the next date?
Im making this up as I go along.
She stares at me blankly Youre kidding right?
I hope so.
So why did you invite me here?
Because we had sex last week. Felt like I kind of had to. Didnt want to come off as an asshole and never speak to you again.
Im no longer making any sense.
You dont see the irony in that statement?
I think Im subconsciously choosing to ignore it is all.
At this point I think she finally realizes that being here is a sad waste of her time and she starts gathering her things. For a moment I think about being a good host and showing her to the door but I just sit there instead. No reason to make this moment more awkward than it already is. I only glance at her here and there confirming that shes actually still in my house. She moves rather silently which reminds me I need to put ninja pro on my default class once she departs.
You know, your theory on Saved by the Bell being detrimental to your generation was actually quite good, she said as she left. Just wanted to tell you that.
This hurt. Because of this, Ill spend the next few days contemplating whether or not I should call her until I inevitably drunk text her from Max Fish next week. This is my life.
Me and my fucking rules.
THE DATE
By the Author
(a story that could be true)
Ive never been a big fan of letting people watch me eat but often times its unavoidable. I find myself in one of these situations right now. A second date with a girl I have no intention of actually seeing again. On my way to pick her up, I started to break down just how much time I spend doing things I feel obligated to do based on made up rules that I have set for myself without actually consulting myself. Which means they arent really rules at all only mild suggestions.
People dont watch themselves eat and I feel this is a problem. This is something we do countless times in our lives and it would be logical to gain some sort of idea of how we carry ourselves during this act. The girl sitting across from me could benefit from this. The manner in which she eats is one of the many reasons she will never be my girlfriend but she will never know this. She eats like a dog who learned how to use a fork but didnt unlearn how to eat like a dog.
If I were to hold up a mirror right now, shed see the manner in which she slides food into her small mouth instead of just taking a bite. Then shed see the rather infantile way she holds her fork coupled with the fact that she lowers her head to meet said fork instead of doing the exact opposite which, I assume, is why she hunches a little bit when she walks.
Which is another reason she will never be my girlfriend.
The dinner is mostly silent and this is making me uncomfortable but Im torn. On the one hand, I could maintain this silence and guarantee that she will never want to see me again (hopefully), or I can spark up some sort of conversation but I run the risk of her assuming that Im actually interested in speaking to her. But I suppose I did that already by inviting her here in the first place.
Fact is, Im not really sure what to say to her. Every man has that moment where we realize that weve run out of our stock date banter. I have a particular type of date banter. The trick is to create a bunch of theories and talk with your hands a lot. Dramatic pauses are also key. Id like to think that my rant regarding the importance of Saved by the Bell to my generation got me into her bed last week but Im not 100% sure. But with her I havent run out of banter, I just dont want to waste it on her. She doesnt quite deserve to hear my thoughts on Owen Wilson.
Ten seconds later I cave kind of.
So hows the food? I ask.
She looks up rather curiously as if I she just realized I was there. Its great actually. Youre a pretty good cook.
Yea I have my moments.
No I dont.
I cant wait to see what you choose next we see each other, she winks.
But we wont.
Her pushiness and presumptuous nature add yet another reason.
But in that moment I remember how cute her voice is and why I somewhat enjoyed her company last week. In that moment all of my micro reasons for kind of hating her melted away. But it didnt last very long as my mind likes to ruminate on things that it really shouldntlike the way she insists on holding that fork. After this thought crossed my mind, I let out an involuntary yelch! and shook my head in disgust as I often do. I dont have much control over my actions when Im stuck in my own head. This is a constant issue.
Her reaction is a little strange. She giggles a little and says That bad huh?. This bugs me because up until this point I figured I was doing a pretty good job of hiding my feelings.
So whats wrong? she asks filled with enough awareness to turn me on a little.
I look at my glass and realized I was drunk enough to be painfully dishonest.
I then look down dramatically, shift my eyes side to side a few times and look back up and sigh. In movies this means the character has actually been thinking about what they are about to say.
Well heres the thing. We had sex last week. So I feel that I already know everything there is to know about you.
What the fuck does that even mean?
Im growing nervous because she just asked me to explain my bullshit which I am NOT very good at.
To me, having sex on the first date is like telling someone your life story. Yea were having a good time and yea were engaging in meaningful conversation but wheres the mystery? What do I have to look forward to for the next date?
Im making this up as I go along.
She stares at me blankly Youre kidding right?
I hope so.
So why did you invite me here?
Because we had sex last week. Felt like I kind of had to. Didnt want to come off as an asshole and never speak to you again.
Im no longer making any sense.
You dont see the irony in that statement?
I think Im subconsciously choosing to ignore it is all.
At this point I think she finally realizes that being here is a sad waste of her time and she starts gathering her things. For a moment I think about being a good host and showing her to the door but I just sit there instead. No reason to make this moment more awkward than it already is. I only glance at her here and there confirming that shes actually still in my house. She moves rather silently which reminds me I need to put ninja pro on my default class once she departs.
You know, your theory on Saved by the Bell being detrimental to your generation was actually quite good, she said as she left. Just wanted to tell you that.
This hurt. Because of this, Ill spend the next few days contemplating whether or not I should call her until I inevitably drunk text her from Max Fish next week. This is my life.
Me and my fucking rules.
crowphoenix
Banned
Cut off the first fourth of my story and now I'm much happier with the piece. Now I can focus on really playing with the setting, characters, and cliches in an attempt to make it something more than standard.
ZephyrFate
Banned
Alright I'm back. Thanks for the help posting my pieces, Cyan. *brofist*
crowphoenix
Banned
Welcome back, Zephyr. It's been too long since I was unnerved by your avatar.
ZephyrFate
Banned
Started a cat v. dog war in a thread a month ago.
At dawn, when the breath of the sun was still just kissing the edges of the mist, an old man crossed the ancient rickety bridge that extended over the mighty river Broko. Every step was accompanied by the click-clacks of his wooden walking stick. One step at a time, silently and quietly, the aged traveller made his way from the dark woods beyond and back into the outer fingers of the sleeping village.
Omtaro, who was the youngest son of the villages riverman, had been spying upon the old mans trek. He knew the traveler well, for it was Old Kaka the Sprag. Omtaro waited until his elderly quarry reached the safe side of the river before he sprung in front of the journeymans face all of a sudden.
Ho, there! No pass without pay!
He brandished about his oar at Kakas wrinkled face, pushing the old man back on to the threshold of the bridge. The old man, startled, backed away immediately, shrinking into his frame and cowering. Omtaro stood firm, with his oar held like a spear by his side and bellowed amusedly.
Hahah. Sorry, sorry. Its just I, Omtaro son of Imbu the Riverman.
The Sprag squinted at the lanky youth and came to scrutinize his features closely. Recognition dawned on his wizened face and his grey eyes lit up.
So it is! You damn brat! Almost sent me to death with the fright. Youve grown rather big for a scruff, I say. How is your father?
Omtaro dragged a squatty little chair from his river boat and placed it by the bridge, pushing the old man to sit on it jovially. Hes done gone dry, for sure. Up to his waist to toil the lands now. Done and done with the river, so he tells all them faces in the village. Hahah. Fit as a wet newborn of the waters, yet.
Kaka joined and barked a throaty guffaw before it turned to a full scale coughing fit. The youth scrambled for the water bottle but the old man conjured his own gourd. He took a full swig of the strong-smelling liquid within. Omtaro squatted by his side and looked up to Kakas face.
Long time since we sat here last, old fool. Your eyes must done some feasting since, tell?
Yea, some. Not all for the lips to invoke, say. Some are stories for unremembering, say. But I did find me own cockle of mine ol heart.
The sun rose soundlessly behind the veil of fog and shed a faint golden sheen on the rivers surface. Omtaro looked up and raised his brows.
Heard tell hes a big name now. They call him Haka the Bibelot, though I know not what that means.
Oh-ho. Got legs that name of his, I see. Even this piss-offa-town knows it, I see. Heh.
A swordsmans fame is winged, they sing me. Tell me, Old Sprag, is your boy all that, though?
With a stray branch Omtaro started scribbling in the mud of the riverbank, the characters of Hakas name. Two symbols on their own, they meant banal things, but together, Hakas name carried a weight of its own. And upside down, it had an ironic humour to its interpretation.
Maybe. Heh. Who knows, but he did told me a little story, and here, share it you, I shall. The old man shifted in his low chair and straightened his weary legs out to the waters lip.
When young he was and the city was still too mighty for him, he done work for the Filthy Jama, that old Creep of a God.
Omtaro grinned. Merchants work aint that dirty, Kaka.
Hah. You tell yourself pretty lies if needs be, son of Imbu. Turning a bit of thing from one copper to two bits of shine aint ever an honest work in my book. Theres just that stink of one-selfness innit, hear?
Old fool, the worlds not as foolish as you, thats what I be hearin.
Kaka scoffed.
So? He was turning coins around, and? The youth scrubbed his handiwork in the mud clean and tossed the branch into the river.
Yea, he done tell me how he made so much gold. Kaka drew out a sigh overtly before settling into his story. See, he was selling one same thing. Swords. He bought em cheap from the smithies in the smaller towns and then he lugged em to the biggest cities ye can find and peddled all of them out there.
Aint no thing, right? Every dirty misbegotten fools done the trick, right? Yea. But my Hakas got himself a nice eye, see. And he done and invented titles like, for his wares.
The young river-man yawned openly, harrying the old mans comfort.
Damn, Omtaro, you done and asked for a tell, now hear proper, you poor sod.
Hahah, you grumpy scrap. Fine. Tell, tell.
Kaka scratched his beard. Right. All he be peddlin back then was sharp bits of steel. Theres no difference from one cutter to the next that he was carrying, but he gave em names. Say you see a right fool come down the street and this fool be one of them loud ones, with the strut and swagger like, them ones that hold nothing sacred like.
Yea?
So, you tell him that you got a sword for him, and hed as likely shove you aside for wastin his time as anything.
Right, so?
So, now you tell him, this piece of steel you got aint nothing like anything on the streets. It was a rare kind of sharp and it had done cut seventeen men already and you whip it out of its sheath all-quick and present the sword up to him and you tell him, this here, it aint no regular sword. It was a Renegade Blade, and aint not a-thing like it in the world.
And then you make to hand it over to him like, and cut your own darling little finger a nick by intentional mistake, and he seeing how sharp the thing is and then you got him good.
Omtaro laughed out loud. What a lie-spinner, our Haka! Hah! Seventeen men!
Im telling you, boy, that trades aint nothing but filth. And boy, the names he concocted! That head of his musta been set buzzing for nights on end like, thinking up them names and stories. Done sold a lot of one same sword to rich kids, calling them the Decider the Boss Blade. Hah. Telling them pretty stories about how men has seen edges the world over and done and never seen a sword like the Decider. It was the blade that done and decided the fates of a score of men, and how it was only fitting for the hands of those who had a saying in how the world itself would turn. Hah.
The sun was well on its rising pace now and its warmth crept up the limbs of both men, young and old. Soon the river trade would commence and Omtaro stood up to shake some blood back into his legs.
There was the Reaper for those angry young men with dreams of blood. The Saint for them folks of the law, the ones trying to convince themselves they be doing good, fighting kills with kills. The Singer for them vain-glorious bastards whom seen thesselves in their own heads too much. A blade who would sing for em when in action, you know whod burst wet red, red life out of them bodies as if it was the brush of a master artist, see?
Pretty stories. Omtaro grinned, entertained with the imagination of his old friend selling these mediocre blades as glorified tools of death.
Yea, I got ill when I hear him tell them out to me. Real ill, hear?
Old man, your worlds with one foot out the door. The new days game aint done with them old Codes no more.
Kaka made to rise now and Omtaro aided his friends old bones with a firm hand.
So, why Haka the Bibelot? the youth asked as he picked the chair up on his shoulder.
Eh? Old Sprag leant on his walking stick and grinned. Ah, right, his name. Hah. It done come from this one name that made him real rich. The Bibelot. Most folks aint know what it means but it sounds like something grand, like. Biblical. Knights, maybe. Who knows, hey. The Bibelot is the Holy Grail of all blades, hey. Its the sword that the seller wouldnt part with, you follow? Its the one thing the peddler hide away, the one item that my Haka always begged not to be bought, ysee? Its the Master sword.
Omtaro laughed. And its the one he sold the most?
That be truth. He made so much money out of the Bibelot that he done and bought himself a real sword. A nameless edge, but it cuts and cuts forever, you know?
The village was fully waking up, the sounds of children carried in the air and soft plumes of white smokes rose from all the chimneys of the small settlement. Omtaro walked a few steps to his river boat before he turned around and shouted.
And Bibelot? Tell me its truth! What does it really mean, old fool?
Kaka smiled and yelled back, a little hoarsely. A trinket.
Omtaro laughed again and shook his head. He waved at his old friend and went down the river to make his trade. The old man continued to shuffle his way slowly and evenly into his hometown, a wry smile on his weathered face.
Omtaro, who was the youngest son of the villages riverman, had been spying upon the old mans trek. He knew the traveler well, for it was Old Kaka the Sprag. Omtaro waited until his elderly quarry reached the safe side of the river before he sprung in front of the journeymans face all of a sudden.
Ho, there! No pass without pay!
He brandished about his oar at Kakas wrinkled face, pushing the old man back on to the threshold of the bridge. The old man, startled, backed away immediately, shrinking into his frame and cowering. Omtaro stood firm, with his oar held like a spear by his side and bellowed amusedly.
Hahah. Sorry, sorry. Its just I, Omtaro son of Imbu the Riverman.
The Sprag squinted at the lanky youth and came to scrutinize his features closely. Recognition dawned on his wizened face and his grey eyes lit up.
So it is! You damn brat! Almost sent me to death with the fright. Youve grown rather big for a scruff, I say. How is your father?
Omtaro dragged a squatty little chair from his river boat and placed it by the bridge, pushing the old man to sit on it jovially. Hes done gone dry, for sure. Up to his waist to toil the lands now. Done and done with the river, so he tells all them faces in the village. Hahah. Fit as a wet newborn of the waters, yet.
Kaka joined and barked a throaty guffaw before it turned to a full scale coughing fit. The youth scrambled for the water bottle but the old man conjured his own gourd. He took a full swig of the strong-smelling liquid within. Omtaro squatted by his side and looked up to Kakas face.
Long time since we sat here last, old fool. Your eyes must done some feasting since, tell?
Yea, some. Not all for the lips to invoke, say. Some are stories for unremembering, say. But I did find me own cockle of mine ol heart.
The sun rose soundlessly behind the veil of fog and shed a faint golden sheen on the rivers surface. Omtaro looked up and raised his brows.
Heard tell hes a big name now. They call him Haka the Bibelot, though I know not what that means.
Oh-ho. Got legs that name of his, I see. Even this piss-offa-town knows it, I see. Heh.
A swordsmans fame is winged, they sing me. Tell me, Old Sprag, is your boy all that, though?
With a stray branch Omtaro started scribbling in the mud of the riverbank, the characters of Hakas name. Two symbols on their own, they meant banal things, but together, Hakas name carried a weight of its own. And upside down, it had an ironic humour to its interpretation.
Maybe. Heh. Who knows, but he did told me a little story, and here, share it you, I shall. The old man shifted in his low chair and straightened his weary legs out to the waters lip.
When young he was and the city was still too mighty for him, he done work for the Filthy Jama, that old Creep of a God.
Omtaro grinned. Merchants work aint that dirty, Kaka.
Hah. You tell yourself pretty lies if needs be, son of Imbu. Turning a bit of thing from one copper to two bits of shine aint ever an honest work in my book. Theres just that stink of one-selfness innit, hear?
Old fool, the worlds not as foolish as you, thats what I be hearin.
Kaka scoffed.
So? He was turning coins around, and? The youth scrubbed his handiwork in the mud clean and tossed the branch into the river.
Yea, he done tell me how he made so much gold. Kaka drew out a sigh overtly before settling into his story. See, he was selling one same thing. Swords. He bought em cheap from the smithies in the smaller towns and then he lugged em to the biggest cities ye can find and peddled all of them out there.
Aint no thing, right? Every dirty misbegotten fools done the trick, right? Yea. But my Hakas got himself a nice eye, see. And he done and invented titles like, for his wares.
The young river-man yawned openly, harrying the old mans comfort.
Damn, Omtaro, you done and asked for a tell, now hear proper, you poor sod.
Hahah, you grumpy scrap. Fine. Tell, tell.
Kaka scratched his beard. Right. All he be peddlin back then was sharp bits of steel. Theres no difference from one cutter to the next that he was carrying, but he gave em names. Say you see a right fool come down the street and this fool be one of them loud ones, with the strut and swagger like, them ones that hold nothing sacred like.
Yea?
So, you tell him that you got a sword for him, and hed as likely shove you aside for wastin his time as anything.
Right, so?
So, now you tell him, this piece of steel you got aint nothing like anything on the streets. It was a rare kind of sharp and it had done cut seventeen men already and you whip it out of its sheath all-quick and present the sword up to him and you tell him, this here, it aint no regular sword. It was a Renegade Blade, and aint not a-thing like it in the world.
And then you make to hand it over to him like, and cut your own darling little finger a nick by intentional mistake, and he seeing how sharp the thing is and then you got him good.
Omtaro laughed out loud. What a lie-spinner, our Haka! Hah! Seventeen men!
Im telling you, boy, that trades aint nothing but filth. And boy, the names he concocted! That head of his musta been set buzzing for nights on end like, thinking up them names and stories. Done sold a lot of one same sword to rich kids, calling them the Decider the Boss Blade. Hah. Telling them pretty stories about how men has seen edges the world over and done and never seen a sword like the Decider. It was the blade that done and decided the fates of a score of men, and how it was only fitting for the hands of those who had a saying in how the world itself would turn. Hah.
The sun was well on its rising pace now and its warmth crept up the limbs of both men, young and old. Soon the river trade would commence and Omtaro stood up to shake some blood back into his legs.
There was the Reaper for those angry young men with dreams of blood. The Saint for them folks of the law, the ones trying to convince themselves they be doing good, fighting kills with kills. The Singer for them vain-glorious bastards whom seen thesselves in their own heads too much. A blade who would sing for em when in action, you know whod burst wet red, red life out of them bodies as if it was the brush of a master artist, see?
Pretty stories. Omtaro grinned, entertained with the imagination of his old friend selling these mediocre blades as glorified tools of death.
Yea, I got ill when I hear him tell them out to me. Real ill, hear?
Old man, your worlds with one foot out the door. The new days game aint done with them old Codes no more.
Kaka made to rise now and Omtaro aided his friends old bones with a firm hand.
So, why Haka the Bibelot? the youth asked as he picked the chair up on his shoulder.
Eh? Old Sprag leant on his walking stick and grinned. Ah, right, his name. Hah. It done come from this one name that made him real rich. The Bibelot. Most folks aint know what it means but it sounds like something grand, like. Biblical. Knights, maybe. Who knows, hey. The Bibelot is the Holy Grail of all blades, hey. Its the sword that the seller wouldnt part with, you follow? Its the one thing the peddler hide away, the one item that my Haka always begged not to be bought, ysee? Its the Master sword.
Omtaro laughed. And its the one he sold the most?
That be truth. He made so much money out of the Bibelot that he done and bought himself a real sword. A nameless edge, but it cuts and cuts forever, you know?
The village was fully waking up, the sounds of children carried in the air and soft plumes of white smokes rose from all the chimneys of the small settlement. Omtaro walked a few steps to his river boat before he turned around and shouted.
And Bibelot? Tell me its truth! What does it really mean, old fool?
Kaka smiled and yelled back, a little hoarsely. A trinket.
Omtaro laughed again and shook his head. He waved at his old friend and went down the river to make his trade. The old man continued to shuffle his way slowly and evenly into his hometown, a wry smile on his weathered face.
Can't really decide: if my character is using a computer and hits the undo button, which should it be:
Also, unrelated but just FYI, my story is set in an alternate universe in which teenagers spell things correctly and use proper grammar in email.
Mark hit 'undo.'
Mark hit undo.
Also, unrelated but just FYI, my story is set in an alternate universe in which teenagers spell things correctly and use proper grammar in email.
ZephyrFate
Banned
Capitalize Undo.Cyan said:
Cyan said:Also, unrelated but just FYI, my story is set in an alternate universe in which teenagers spell things correctly and use proper grammar in email.
That almost seems as improbable as that universe in The Invention of Lying.
I think I may end up pulling a DND but without the quality.
evilpigking
Member
Irish said:That almost seems as improbable as that universe in The Invention of Lying.
I think I may end up pulling a DND but without the quality.
You still got a good 5 hours~
Do whatever feels right to you.
I'm hoping to get this done within the next three hours myself, but I'm not entirely sure I'm going to make it. Thankfully, I know the quality isn't going to be any different no matter how much time I put into this first draft. (Darn you God of War collection, God of War 3, and BFBC2.)
I'm hoping to get this done within the next three hours myself, but I'm not entirely sure I'm going to make it. Thankfully, I know the quality isn't going to be any different no matter how much time I put into this first draft. (Darn you God of War collection, God of War 3, and BFBC2.)
crowphoenix
Banned
Deleted due to TOS changes.
A Soliloquy on Responsibility
word count: 1,191
My silent companion, you may wonder why I am sitting immobile in the parking lot of the local animal dispensary, gazing upon the joyful citizens and their furry charges from the edge of this crude steering wheel. It's all due to fair Lydia.
You know her well, of course. The jewel of Clark Street, living close to the 'variety' establishment that sells neither Sonnet Monthly nor clove cigarettes. How I pine to escape the subterranean dwelling of my progenitors and join her in that wondrous abode in the Seaview Apartment Complex! Yet before she is willing to permit my duffle bag past the threshold, I must prove myself to be the most responsible of men by caring for a 'pet.' A simple enough task to be sure, but one which has sadly led me to my current basic yet profound quandary: feline or hound?
Cats were once worshipped as gods upon the banks of the River Nile, sunning themselves on a high dais while the Egyptians all bowed their heads in supplication. Like angels, they have scattered to the winds since and occupy near to every corner of this fair planet, though they serve no function. Nor has their great pride diminished with their numbers vast, and I do not doubt that they still dream of their once divine status.
I could be content with a striped tabby, sunning himself upon my sole windowsill as I return from my duties at the local shopping plaza. He would require of me no more than what any common man demands from the world: food, shelter, and the right to shun his fellows whenever the mood suits him. We would live as hermits of old, passing the other without acknowledgement, and I would do my best to ignore his habit of forever scratching at the corner of my basement where the scent of something foul had lurked for ages since the terrible storm of my youth.
Until! One day on my return, this precious feline would seize me by the pant leg, and drag me with tremendous force, forcing through the hole he had been patiently delving. As a shot from a cannon, I would fly down this tunnel, and emerge in a land lost to ages unwritten by the titanic upheaval of the newborn world. There the jungles would grow thick and the air heavy, leaving the salty tang of sweat upon my brow. My cat would stalk beside me, channeling his once ferocious ancestors. Then a massive creature blocks our path. A dinosaur! A leathery reptile of ancient days, full of jagged teeth and wicked claws, offering death as silent promise in the depths of its golden eyes.
A growl! A roar! My fearless tabby stands unmoved by a predator the Earth has not seen in centuries. Their eyes lock in a battle of wills, but it is the weak-willed dino that backs down and retreats into the bush, leaving us to continue on to humble yonder village, where the hardy natives writhe in the throws of celebration.
Quiet falls as we intrude, and though I can not comprehend their crude tongue, its clear to me they have never witnessed a beast as magnificent as a cat before. They fall upon their knees, and bow low to the soft earth in his presence, their voices low and humble to this god in feline form. They take him up to a high throne, and as his 'pet' I am there at his feet, fit to command these humble people and take the most comely maiden for my bride.
Carefree days of sweet fruits and rich meats pass in contentment under my benevolent rule, with all rival tribes thwarted and all massive beasts tamed. And sex! Lots and lots of sex. It seems the days would roll past in this paradise, but then the nearby volcano belches smoke and rains down fire upon the fearful masses. The only answer is to sacrifice their god and his 'pet.'
Shudder. Far too great a responsibility for one such as I.
Dogs once served the hunters of old, with no more than spears and loincloth, they sought the deadliest beasts of the savanna, alone save for this most loyal companion. They would pass swift and silent over the long grasses together, eyes keen for a sign of prey. A bark! The beast has been sighted! Fearlessly, the hound rushes in so the noble savage had sink his spear into its flank.
In these modern times, I fear the humble dog has lost his way. There are many breeds now, with less than a half measure suited for the hunt. I could not bear to be the owner of such worthless beasts, but a brilliant basset hound of a chestnut shade would suit me. We could be the closest of mates, heading up to grandfather's crumbling cabin during the summer months, where he would be free to folic, and I would not be forced to clean up his leavings.
An idle contentment would settle over us like the softest blanket, with the stars at night shining down in envy... Until a bark of warning! One star shines too bright as it plummets from the celestial realm, conveying no wishes upon the peaceful land below, but instead a fiery oblivion that consumes this forest mightly! I blanche and turn to flee like the humble forest residents, but my hound remains steadfast, charging into the blaze with a bark of challenge to what I do not know. I follow.
Something wicked and spiteful emerges from the wreckage, like an insect of enormous girth and cruelty, bloated sack full of surely evil bile is it means to render our precious orb of home a wasteland to lead way for the coming invasion. Towering to the very boughs of the trees that remain standing, it stalks towards the peaceful town below, only for my brave pooch to seize one of its crab-like appendages, bringing it crashing to the ruined ground.
I hurl rocks to stun the invader as the hound goes for the neck, and together we thwart this otherworldly ingress. The next day, the papers proclaim us as saviors of our fragile planet, with rewards both monetary and loving showered down on the both of us. We encircle the globe in a whirlwind tour with the stuffed remains of our catch. Book deals! Movie rights! Truly, we are the kings of the modern era, our names on the lips of all creation.
Yet there are those who dearly wish to reach visitors from the stars, and find us in blame for their failed grasp. They would sneak into our mansion bold, pass harems both furred and human, to slay us both in our sleep in revenge for their imagined grandeur.
Shudder. I could not endure such fame.
But my companion what has happened to you?
Your leaves have become limp and your stem sags.
I beseech you don't wither away!
For you were Lydia's fern I was to care for this day!
Swift I must return you to the warmth of her care.
So I'll just get some fish.
word count: 1,191
My silent companion, you may wonder why I am sitting immobile in the parking lot of the local animal dispensary, gazing upon the joyful citizens and their furry charges from the edge of this crude steering wheel. It's all due to fair Lydia.
You know her well, of course. The jewel of Clark Street, living close to the 'variety' establishment that sells neither Sonnet Monthly nor clove cigarettes. How I pine to escape the subterranean dwelling of my progenitors and join her in that wondrous abode in the Seaview Apartment Complex! Yet before she is willing to permit my duffle bag past the threshold, I must prove myself to be the most responsible of men by caring for a 'pet.' A simple enough task to be sure, but one which has sadly led me to my current basic yet profound quandary: feline or hound?
Cats were once worshipped as gods upon the banks of the River Nile, sunning themselves on a high dais while the Egyptians all bowed their heads in supplication. Like angels, they have scattered to the winds since and occupy near to every corner of this fair planet, though they serve no function. Nor has their great pride diminished with their numbers vast, and I do not doubt that they still dream of their once divine status.
I could be content with a striped tabby, sunning himself upon my sole windowsill as I return from my duties at the local shopping plaza. He would require of me no more than what any common man demands from the world: food, shelter, and the right to shun his fellows whenever the mood suits him. We would live as hermits of old, passing the other without acknowledgement, and I would do my best to ignore his habit of forever scratching at the corner of my basement where the scent of something foul had lurked for ages since the terrible storm of my youth.
Until! One day on my return, this precious feline would seize me by the pant leg, and drag me with tremendous force, forcing through the hole he had been patiently delving. As a shot from a cannon, I would fly down this tunnel, and emerge in a land lost to ages unwritten by the titanic upheaval of the newborn world. There the jungles would grow thick and the air heavy, leaving the salty tang of sweat upon my brow. My cat would stalk beside me, channeling his once ferocious ancestors. Then a massive creature blocks our path. A dinosaur! A leathery reptile of ancient days, full of jagged teeth and wicked claws, offering death as silent promise in the depths of its golden eyes.
A growl! A roar! My fearless tabby stands unmoved by a predator the Earth has not seen in centuries. Their eyes lock in a battle of wills, but it is the weak-willed dino that backs down and retreats into the bush, leaving us to continue on to humble yonder village, where the hardy natives writhe in the throws of celebration.
Quiet falls as we intrude, and though I can not comprehend their crude tongue, its clear to me they have never witnessed a beast as magnificent as a cat before. They fall upon their knees, and bow low to the soft earth in his presence, their voices low and humble to this god in feline form. They take him up to a high throne, and as his 'pet' I am there at his feet, fit to command these humble people and take the most comely maiden for my bride.
Carefree days of sweet fruits and rich meats pass in contentment under my benevolent rule, with all rival tribes thwarted and all massive beasts tamed. And sex! Lots and lots of sex. It seems the days would roll past in this paradise, but then the nearby volcano belches smoke and rains down fire upon the fearful masses. The only answer is to sacrifice their god and his 'pet.'
Shudder. Far too great a responsibility for one such as I.
Dogs once served the hunters of old, with no more than spears and loincloth, they sought the deadliest beasts of the savanna, alone save for this most loyal companion. They would pass swift and silent over the long grasses together, eyes keen for a sign of prey. A bark! The beast has been sighted! Fearlessly, the hound rushes in so the noble savage had sink his spear into its flank.
In these modern times, I fear the humble dog has lost his way. There are many breeds now, with less than a half measure suited for the hunt. I could not bear to be the owner of such worthless beasts, but a brilliant basset hound of a chestnut shade would suit me. We could be the closest of mates, heading up to grandfather's crumbling cabin during the summer months, where he would be free to folic, and I would not be forced to clean up his leavings.
An idle contentment would settle over us like the softest blanket, with the stars at night shining down in envy... Until a bark of warning! One star shines too bright as it plummets from the celestial realm, conveying no wishes upon the peaceful land below, but instead a fiery oblivion that consumes this forest mightly! I blanche and turn to flee like the humble forest residents, but my hound remains steadfast, charging into the blaze with a bark of challenge to what I do not know. I follow.
Something wicked and spiteful emerges from the wreckage, like an insect of enormous girth and cruelty, bloated sack full of surely evil bile is it means to render our precious orb of home a wasteland to lead way for the coming invasion. Towering to the very boughs of the trees that remain standing, it stalks towards the peaceful town below, only for my brave pooch to seize one of its crab-like appendages, bringing it crashing to the ruined ground.
I hurl rocks to stun the invader as the hound goes for the neck, and together we thwart this otherworldly ingress. The next day, the papers proclaim us as saviors of our fragile planet, with rewards both monetary and loving showered down on the both of us. We encircle the globe in a whirlwind tour with the stuffed remains of our catch. Book deals! Movie rights! Truly, we are the kings of the modern era, our names on the lips of all creation.
Yet there are those who dearly wish to reach visitors from the stars, and find us in blame for their failed grasp. They would sneak into our mansion bold, pass harems both furred and human, to slay us both in our sleep in revenge for their imagined grandeur.
Shudder. I could not endure such fame.
But my companion what has happened to you?
Your leaves have become limp and your stem sags.
I beseech you don't wither away!
For you were Lydia's fern I was to care for this day!
Swift I must return you to the warmth of her care.
So I'll just get some fish.
Send (900)
Mark just sat, staring at the blinking cursor and breathing hard. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and fell onto his wooden desk.
He was going to do it this time, really he was.
He moved the mouse over to the Send button, tried to make himself click.
His finger wouldn't move. He couldn't do it. Couldn't send it yet. He had to read it one more time, make sure it was perfect.
"Hey Arianne, it's Mark. You know, the guy who sits behind you in History? Anyway, I don't know if you already have a date for Prom or not. I guess you probably do. But if you don't, maybe we could go together?"
This was stupid. Of course Arianne already had a Prom date--she was cool, she was pretty. Jake and Nat thought he was dumb for saying she was the prettiest girl in school, but she was.
She was pretty and cool, and definitely already had a Prom date.
Mark breathed out heavily. He deleted the text of the email, pushed his chair back.
No, he was being pathetic. He leaned forward again, hit Undo. He could do this. What was the harm in just asking? What was the worst that could happen?
Something cold welled up in the pit of his stomach. The worst that could happen? She might laugh at him. She might send the email on to all her friends so they could laugh too. He could picture it now--Jenny Olen would probably come up to him in the middle of the lunch courtyard just to laugh at him. She'd stand there looking down at him, and say something cruel and cutting about how he was a loser who no girl would be caught dead with, and everyone in the school would laugh at him. Even Jake and Nat would laugh. And then every day for the rest of the year, people would look at him knowingly and smirk, and they wouldn't even have to say anything, he'd know and they'd know why they were smirking, and he'd just have to grit his teeth and not say anything, and--
No. That wasn't the worst that could happen. The worst was that Arianne might read his email and say, "who?"
Mark leaned forward and put his face in his hands. He sighed. That was the most likely outcome. It wasn't like he had ever talked to her in History class--for exactly the same reason he couldn't send the email. There were just too many things that could go wrong. Oh sure, he sat there and imagined all the different ways he might start talking to her, all the things he could say, all the ways a conversation might go. But deep down, he knew that he'd never actually do it, never actually follow up on any of his big plans, because why even bother? Better to have the imaginary conversations, the imagined successes, than the inevitable and depressing failure of reality.
And anyway, Jenny Olen might be a horrific bitch, but Arianne was a nice girl. She wouldn't laugh at him, or tell her friends. That was part of what he liked about her, she was cool without being mean to other people. She was cool but still a person inside.
He sat up, and deleted the email again. The cold feeling in his stomach was gone, replaced by an odd hollowness. But really, what was the point? Why bother asking when she wouldn't even know who the hell he was?
No, no, no. He'd never hear the end of it from Nat if he chickened out again.
He hit Undo, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could. He had already confronted the worst that could happen. The worst realistic possibility was she didn't know who he was, said no, and his idle History daydreams were done with. But then, wasn't that exactly the same as if he didn't ask her at all? Well, no, not quite. If he didn't ask at all, he could keep the dream alive. And maybe, just maybe she would suddenly turn around one day in History class and tell him she'd always liked him and wanted to go to Prom with him.
Yeah, right.
He leaped to his feet and began pacing. Ok, he'd been over the worst. What was the best that could happen? Well, obviously, that she said yes. No, that she said "yes, and I've always secretly loved you." Ha! He had to grin at that thought. No, really the best he could hope for was that she'd be nice and friendly in her denial. "I've already got a date, but thanks, you're a nice guy!"
He tilted his head to one side, stared down at the computer. That wouldn't be so bad. He could live with that. And he could tell Nat he'd actually done it. Nat kept saying the outcome didn't matter, just doing it did.
He blinked.
Of course. It was so obvious. The outcome didn't matter! He already knew what the outcome would be, already knew that she would either have a Prom date or just wouldn't want to go with him. And if he already knew the outcome, then he was risking nothing.
He sat, staring at the blinking cursor and breathing hard. He moved the mouse over to the Send button, paused. His finger tingled.
If he already knew the outcome, he was risking nothing. A smile spread over his face.
He clicked Send.
Mark just sat, staring at the blinking cursor and breathing hard. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and fell onto his wooden desk.
He was going to do it this time, really he was.
He moved the mouse over to the Send button, tried to make himself click.
His finger wouldn't move. He couldn't do it. Couldn't send it yet. He had to read it one more time, make sure it was perfect.
"Hey Arianne, it's Mark. You know, the guy who sits behind you in History? Anyway, I don't know if you already have a date for Prom or not. I guess you probably do. But if you don't, maybe we could go together?"
This was stupid. Of course Arianne already had a Prom date--she was cool, she was pretty. Jake and Nat thought he was dumb for saying she was the prettiest girl in school, but she was.
She was pretty and cool, and definitely already had a Prom date.
Mark breathed out heavily. He deleted the text of the email, pushed his chair back.
No, he was being pathetic. He leaned forward again, hit Undo. He could do this. What was the harm in just asking? What was the worst that could happen?
Something cold welled up in the pit of his stomach. The worst that could happen? She might laugh at him. She might send the email on to all her friends so they could laugh too. He could picture it now--Jenny Olen would probably come up to him in the middle of the lunch courtyard just to laugh at him. She'd stand there looking down at him, and say something cruel and cutting about how he was a loser who no girl would be caught dead with, and everyone in the school would laugh at him. Even Jake and Nat would laugh. And then every day for the rest of the year, people would look at him knowingly and smirk, and they wouldn't even have to say anything, he'd know and they'd know why they were smirking, and he'd just have to grit his teeth and not say anything, and--
No. That wasn't the worst that could happen. The worst was that Arianne might read his email and say, "who?"
Mark leaned forward and put his face in his hands. He sighed. That was the most likely outcome. It wasn't like he had ever talked to her in History class--for exactly the same reason he couldn't send the email. There were just too many things that could go wrong. Oh sure, he sat there and imagined all the different ways he might start talking to her, all the things he could say, all the ways a conversation might go. But deep down, he knew that he'd never actually do it, never actually follow up on any of his big plans, because why even bother? Better to have the imaginary conversations, the imagined successes, than the inevitable and depressing failure of reality.
And anyway, Jenny Olen might be a horrific bitch, but Arianne was a nice girl. She wouldn't laugh at him, or tell her friends. That was part of what he liked about her, she was cool without being mean to other people. She was cool but still a person inside.
He sat up, and deleted the email again. The cold feeling in his stomach was gone, replaced by an odd hollowness. But really, what was the point? Why bother asking when she wouldn't even know who the hell he was?
No, no, no. He'd never hear the end of it from Nat if he chickened out again.
He hit Undo, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He could. He had already confronted the worst that could happen. The worst realistic possibility was she didn't know who he was, said no, and his idle History daydreams were done with. But then, wasn't that exactly the same as if he didn't ask her at all? Well, no, not quite. If he didn't ask at all, he could keep the dream alive. And maybe, just maybe she would suddenly turn around one day in History class and tell him she'd always liked him and wanted to go to Prom with him.
Yeah, right.
He leaped to his feet and began pacing. Ok, he'd been over the worst. What was the best that could happen? Well, obviously, that she said yes. No, that she said "yes, and I've always secretly loved you." Ha! He had to grin at that thought. No, really the best he could hope for was that she'd be nice and friendly in her denial. "I've already got a date, but thanks, you're a nice guy!"
He tilted his head to one side, stared down at the computer. That wouldn't be so bad. He could live with that. And he could tell Nat he'd actually done it. Nat kept saying the outcome didn't matter, just doing it did.
He blinked.
Of course. It was so obvious. The outcome didn't matter! He already knew what the outcome would be, already knew that she would either have a Prom date or just wouldn't want to go with him. And if he already knew the outcome, then he was risking nothing.
He sat, staring at the blinking cursor and breathing hard. He moved the mouse over to the Send button, paused. His finger tingled.
If he already knew the outcome, he was risking nothing. A smile spread over his face.
He clicked Send.
"Daddy's crying."
That's Billy. He's my little brother. He always says stupid stuff like this, but I can't really blame him. After all, Billy's only three years old. A baby still. I'm a big boy unlike him. In fact, I'll be six years old next month.
"Quit being dumb, Billy. Dad doesn't cry."
Well, that riled him up. Now he's jumping up and down in one of his little temper tantrums.
"I'm sewious, Bwett. Look at the kitchen window."
I take a look just so he'll stop whining. Well, his face does seem kind of wet. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything though.
"How many times do I have to that my name is Brett, not Ba-wet?"
He pulls out that puppy dog look and I know what's coming.
"Sowwy, bubby."
Yep, I'm going to forgive him again.
"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll get my name right soon."
"Yep, Ba-ru-ru-ett."
"You're getting there."
We both smile at each other for a minute before I look back at the kitchen window.
"I think he's just cutting up the onions for our hot dogs. Those make your eyes water. He's definitely not crying."
Billy seems to be lost in thought for a moment before he finally responds.
"Why is he lookin' out the window then?"
"Duh, the sink is right beneath the kitchen window. You're supposed to watch your knife before and after you cut something."
"Alright, that makes sense."
Dad's not standing at the kitchen window anymore, but I see him opening up the sliding porch door.
"Alright... boys... time for our... uh... our dinner. Come inside and wash up."
His eyes were still watering.
"Those must have been some stwong onions, Bwett," Billy whispers to me after we finish dinner. "His eyes are still all wet."
Hey, the kid actually said somethin' smart for once.
"Dad, we can stay up and watch a little TV before we go to bed?"
"Um... put your jackets on actually."
"How come? Are we going somewhere?"
"Yeah, daddy, we goin' some pwace?"
He doesn't say anything. Instead, he just walks back to me and Billy's room and grabs our suitcases.
"OOH! Are we going to a hotel for the night? Can we go swimming?"
"I can't swim though, Bwett."
Dad drops to his knees and grabs me and Billy, giving us a great big hug.
"You and Billy are going to be staying with your... uh... Aunt... Aunt Sally for a while. She's on her way now."
*sniffle*
That's when the doorbell rings.
A woman with red hair is standing in the doorway.
"Who's Aunt Sally? Why is...."
__________________________________________________________________________
Wet, black ink against crisp, blue-lined notebook paper with long red margins on the left hand edge. That's the only way a person can get any real work done on a story. The lack of an error correction key or rubber block to erase any mistakes makes each piece much more organic. As a matter of fact, there is no such thing as a mistake when writing in ink; there are only diverging paths. Of course, if you end up making more than a couple wrong turns, you're going to end up at a dead end without any exit. That's what I've done here.
Back and forth slides the pen across the paper. Each individual word eventually disappears into the ever-growing sea of darkness. The page is so dark that I could write another tale on it using whiteout alone. Unfortunately, it would take forever for the ink to dry before I could even begin. Oh well, time for a fresh sheet.
I crumble up the dripping mess, soaking my hands in black text, and lean back in the ugliest desk chair I've ever laid eyes on. It looks as though it was upholstered using olive carpet ripped from a home built in the 70s. Still, I can't say I've ever sat in a more comfortable chair. I've always been a guy who values comfort over style.
Moist mess still in hand, I recline a little further back in my seat and flick my feet up on top of my desk. My hand springs forward, catapulting the soggy disappointment into the graveyard where all of my failed yarns end up- the wastebasket. The sudden movement spins the base of my lovely chair, previously resting on only two wheels, out of it's stable instability, creating an inevitable collision between me and the cold, dark floor. I land on my left arm a second before pain dances across most of the nerve endings residing there.
Slowly, I pick my grotesque office chair and myself back up, letting out grunts of pain and frustration throughout the entire process. My left arm is still aching, but I don't use that for writing, so I should count myself lucky. Check that down as another Pro in the long debate between creating with a pen and a piece of paper versus a computer or typewriter.
Even though I seem like such a staunch opponent to using a keyboard or pencil when writing, I actually believe they are incredibly helpful tools for beginners and professionals alike. The ability to quickly edit your work during and after it's been created is an extremely valuable asset. It also allows you stamp out the scenes you craft in your mind exactly as you see them. Not exactly organic, but definitely more guided. Then again, I suppose no one has ever said that you have to use the backspace key or an eraser. Of course, I'd definitely be too tempted to use those tools if they were made available to me. The greatest thing the rebuildable format has going for it is the ability to never lose the work you actually are satisfied with. If I manage to write a decent piece with a terrible ending, I don't have to rewrite the entire thing just to construct and improved finish. It's all a matter of personal choice, I guess.
Composure finally regained, I collect my equipment and set out to create an adventure once more.
__________________________________________________________________________
"You're going to have to choose, Jack," said Rick Walters, loving brother, father, and husband.
"What in the hell are you talking about, Bro," responded the increasingly lost to the the world Jonathan Walters. He remained leaning against the the brick pillar that held the hinges to the wrought iron gate at the front of their parent's drive as his brother continued to lecture him as he had been for the last several days.
"Don't give me that bullshit. You know exactly what the fuck I'm talking about. It's those damn painkillers. They're draining you."
Tall and broad, Rick had always held an imposing figure, but that had never intimated his younger brother, a more lithe, graceful version of his older sibling. The two were an inseparable pair that rarely had time for anything other than mischief. Rick was both the brains and muscle of the operation, however, it was Jack's irrepressible charm that kept the partners out of deepest of conflicts. That's why it came as a bit of surprise to everyone who knew them when Rick became the first one to settle down into a family life with one of the more caring and economical women of the town, Kelly. Johnny, never one to be surpassed by his older sibling, quickly stole the remarkable Clara Calvin's heart. A feat most suitors found to be near impossible considering she was the mayor's daughter. Rick quickly became a father, but Jack remains nothing more than an uncle to this day.
Irrelevant information in this particular tale. No time to get off track.
"I've told you a thousand times, Eleforin is the only thing I've been prescribed that gets rid of the pain completely. Fuck!"
Rick made a quick dart towards the brick wall holding up his opposite. Being lighter and faster, Jack dashed to his right, evading his brutish bro completely.
"It may dull your pain, but it's destroying your life in the process. Why can't you just use an alternative medicine that mostly gets rid of the pain without requiring damn near your entire monthly salary to obtain?"
Jack glared at his brother as if he were a lumbering neanderthal.
"Do you realize how much fucking pain I've been in since the accident? I slammed into that god damned tree at nearly 40 miles an hour. After I got over the initial shock, I was paralyzed by the most intense agony I've ever felt. That shit hasn't gone away and it's been two fucking years. Two hellish years. Without this shit, I can't even think."
"Yeah, you can't think with it either. Hell, you can barely recognize your family when you're on the stuff. We can't take it anymore. It's like you've gone comatose."
"I've never asked for any of your help."
"Clara has. You think you'd care about what your wife has to say."
Jack launched a punch that landed square on the side of Rick's face, knocking his thick-rimmed glasses to the ground.
"I care for my wife and what goes on between us is none of your business."
Rick bent down and picked up his glasses.
"Son of a bitch, that hurt!"
"You deserved it."
"Look, I just want what's best for you."
"Fine, I'll try Delaflor again, but I'll still be in pain.
"Possibly, but you'll have your family to support you. That ought to relieve you of some of the pain."
__________________________________________________________________________
Terrible. Complete and utter crap. Looks like there's another one for the good ole "round filing bin". It started off okay but I ended up going down every wrong turn imaginable. I might just have to use a computer on the next one. Eh, maybe I'll work my way up to that level. I think I'll just go with a pencil for the next one.
(That's part of the terrible story.)
That's Billy. He's my little brother. He always says stupid stuff like this, but I can't really blame him. After all, Billy's only three years old. A baby still. I'm a big boy unlike him. In fact, I'll be six years old next month.
"Quit being dumb, Billy. Dad doesn't cry."
Well, that riled him up. Now he's jumping up and down in one of his little temper tantrums.
"I'm sewious, Bwett. Look at the kitchen window."
I take a look just so he'll stop whining. Well, his face does seem kind of wet. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything though.
"How many times do I have to that my name is Brett, not Ba-wet?"
He pulls out that puppy dog look and I know what's coming.
"Sowwy, bubby."
Yep, I'm going to forgive him again.
"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll get my name right soon."
"Yep, Ba-ru-ru-ett."
"You're getting there."
We both smile at each other for a minute before I look back at the kitchen window.
"I think he's just cutting up the onions for our hot dogs. Those make your eyes water. He's definitely not crying."
Billy seems to be lost in thought for a moment before he finally responds.
"Why is he lookin' out the window then?"
"Duh, the sink is right beneath the kitchen window. You're supposed to watch your knife before and after you cut something."
"Alright, that makes sense."
Dad's not standing at the kitchen window anymore, but I see him opening up the sliding porch door.
"Alright... boys... time for our... uh... our dinner. Come inside and wash up."
His eyes were still watering.
"Those must have been some stwong onions, Bwett," Billy whispers to me after we finish dinner. "His eyes are still all wet."
Hey, the kid actually said somethin' smart for once.
"Dad, we can stay up and watch a little TV before we go to bed?"
"Um... put your jackets on actually."
"How come? Are we going somewhere?"
"Yeah, daddy, we goin' some pwace?"
He doesn't say anything. Instead, he just walks back to me and Billy's room and grabs our suitcases.
"OOH! Are we going to a hotel for the night? Can we go swimming?"
"I can't swim though, Bwett."
Dad drops to his knees and grabs me and Billy, giving us a great big hug.
"You and Billy are going to be staying with your... uh... Aunt... Aunt Sally for a while. She's on her way now."
*sniffle*
That's when the doorbell rings.
A woman with red hair is standing in the doorway.
"Who's Aunt Sally? Why is...."
__________________________________________________________________________
Wet, black ink against crisp, blue-lined notebook paper with long red margins on the left hand edge. That's the only way a person can get any real work done on a story. The lack of an error correction key or rubber block to erase any mistakes makes each piece much more organic. As a matter of fact, there is no such thing as a mistake when writing in ink; there are only diverging paths. Of course, if you end up making more than a couple wrong turns, you're going to end up at a dead end without any exit. That's what I've done here.
Back and forth slides the pen across the paper. Each individual word eventually disappears into the ever-growing sea of darkness. The page is so dark that I could write another tale on it using whiteout alone. Unfortunately, it would take forever for the ink to dry before I could even begin. Oh well, time for a fresh sheet.
I crumble up the dripping mess, soaking my hands in black text, and lean back in the ugliest desk chair I've ever laid eyes on. It looks as though it was upholstered using olive carpet ripped from a home built in the 70s. Still, I can't say I've ever sat in a more comfortable chair. I've always been a guy who values comfort over style.
Moist mess still in hand, I recline a little further back in my seat and flick my feet up on top of my desk. My hand springs forward, catapulting the soggy disappointment into the graveyard where all of my failed yarns end up- the wastebasket. The sudden movement spins the base of my lovely chair, previously resting on only two wheels, out of it's stable instability, creating an inevitable collision between me and the cold, dark floor. I land on my left arm a second before pain dances across most of the nerve endings residing there.
Slowly, I pick my grotesque office chair and myself back up, letting out grunts of pain and frustration throughout the entire process. My left arm is still aching, but I don't use that for writing, so I should count myself lucky. Check that down as another Pro in the long debate between creating with a pen and a piece of paper versus a computer or typewriter.
Even though I seem like such a staunch opponent to using a keyboard or pencil when writing, I actually believe they are incredibly helpful tools for beginners and professionals alike. The ability to quickly edit your work during and after it's been created is an extremely valuable asset. It also allows you stamp out the scenes you craft in your mind exactly as you see them. Not exactly organic, but definitely more guided. Then again, I suppose no one has ever said that you have to use the backspace key or an eraser. Of course, I'd definitely be too tempted to use those tools if they were made available to me. The greatest thing the rebuildable format has going for it is the ability to never lose the work you actually are satisfied with. If I manage to write a decent piece with a terrible ending, I don't have to rewrite the entire thing just to construct and improved finish. It's all a matter of personal choice, I guess.
Composure finally regained, I collect my equipment and set out to create an adventure once more.
__________________________________________________________________________
"You're going to have to choose, Jack," said Rick Walters, loving brother, father, and husband.
"What in the hell are you talking about, Bro," responded the increasingly lost to the the world Jonathan Walters. He remained leaning against the the brick pillar that held the hinges to the wrought iron gate at the front of their parent's drive as his brother continued to lecture him as he had been for the last several days.
"Don't give me that bullshit. You know exactly what the fuck I'm talking about. It's those damn painkillers. They're draining you."
Tall and broad, Rick had always held an imposing figure, but that had never intimated his younger brother, a more lithe, graceful version of his older sibling. The two were an inseparable pair that rarely had time for anything other than mischief. Rick was both the brains and muscle of the operation, however, it was Jack's irrepressible charm that kept the partners out of deepest of conflicts. That's why it came as a bit of surprise to everyone who knew them when Rick became the first one to settle down into a family life with one of the more caring and economical women of the town, Kelly. Johnny, never one to be surpassed by his older sibling, quickly stole the remarkable Clara Calvin's heart. A feat most suitors found to be near impossible considering she was the mayor's daughter. Rick quickly became a father, but Jack remains nothing more than an uncle to this day.
Irrelevant information in this particular tale. No time to get off track.
"I've told you a thousand times, Eleforin is the only thing I've been prescribed that gets rid of the pain completely. Fuck!"
Rick made a quick dart towards the brick wall holding up his opposite. Being lighter and faster, Jack dashed to his right, evading his brutish bro completely.
"It may dull your pain, but it's destroying your life in the process. Why can't you just use an alternative medicine that mostly gets rid of the pain without requiring damn near your entire monthly salary to obtain?"
Jack glared at his brother as if he were a lumbering neanderthal.
"Do you realize how much fucking pain I've been in since the accident? I slammed into that god damned tree at nearly 40 miles an hour. After I got over the initial shock, I was paralyzed by the most intense agony I've ever felt. That shit hasn't gone away and it's been two fucking years. Two hellish years. Without this shit, I can't even think."
"Yeah, you can't think with it either. Hell, you can barely recognize your family when you're on the stuff. We can't take it anymore. It's like you've gone comatose."
"I've never asked for any of your help."
"Clara has. You think you'd care about what your wife has to say."
Jack launched a punch that landed square on the side of Rick's face, knocking his thick-rimmed glasses to the ground.
"I care for my wife and what goes on between us is none of your business."
Rick bent down and picked up his glasses.
"Son of a bitch, that hurt!"
"You deserved it."
"Look, I just want what's best for you."
"Fine, I'll try Delaflor again, but I'll still be in pain.
"Possibly, but you'll have your family to support you. That ought to relieve you of some of the pain."
__________________________________________________________________________
Terrible. Complete and utter crap. Looks like there's another one for the good ole "round filing bin". It started off okay but I ended up going down every wrong turn imaginable. I might just have to use a computer on the next one. Eh, maybe I'll work my way up to that level. I think I'll just go with a pencil for the next one.
(That's part of the terrible story.
)Actually, it was just me being an idiot. :lol I thought the last part was actually you just talking about... yeah. I just read it, and sorry for the mistake, man.Irish said:For this story, it was actually the main character who was doing that.
(I still do that stuff excessively. I'm sorry. It's just something I do in every aspect of my life.)
Posting on behalf of my friend Tangent, whose account still awaits approval:
Hi all, Cyan invited me to your forum. Looks fun! Thanks for having me. My story is a "sequel" so-to-speak of The BFG. Here's a synopsis:
Here's my story (1787 words):
NEXT! yelled Ms. Wormwood, the woman with a hairnet matting her wooly hair. Sophie seized her tray of lumpy grits and boiled cauliflower, and scuttled over to the dining tables.
Next, I said! Ms. Wormwood bellowed. Cole regrettably extended out his tray. He squinted and stretched away his neck, awaiting a plop of so-called edible food on his tray.
Bloody blind boy! I gave you your food that you dont even deserve! Out of my sight! Ms. Wormwood snapped. Cole popped open his eyes and hurried along to catch up with Sophie.
Scanning the faces for a small face covered with thick glasses and a bashful smile, he sat next to Sophie.
Ms. Wormwood seemed extra fiery today, didnt she? asked Sophie under her breath.
I cant tell anymore. Its all the same to me, responded Cole flatly, cheek in hand. With a spoon in his other hand, he investigated as to whether the off-white gunk was edible.
Cole, its okay. It wasnt personal. Its just the way Ms. Wormwood is.
Before Cole could respond, they were interrupted by Ms. Wormwood, with a voice more booming than ever before, as she served another victim. You no good numbskull! Get along! they heard. A moment later, Samson popped out of the kitchen. He had a skip to his step as he held his pumpkin head with bucked teeth and topped with messy, sandy up high on top of his lanky body. Samson searched the tables for a place to sit in the drafty dining hall. He looked over to Cole and Sophie. Cole diverted his eyes to his bowl.
Mind if I sit next to you guys? he asked with a smile so big it seemed to enlarge his two front teeth.
Cole said nothing and concentrated his eyes on his bowl.
Of course, Samson! responded Sophie cheerfully, but still quietly. Sophie and Samson chatted along in whispers for the rest of the meal as Cole hunched over his grits and cauliflower. He clenched his teeth. After hearing Samson say, Wow Sophie, thats great you were picked for the Dishes chore tonight after homework block; that sure beats the Toilets chore! At that, Cole simply tried to tune Samson out.
Lunch finally ended, and Cole made it through the rest of his classes, his homework, chores, and then walked over to the common area to find Sophie curled up on the couch in her night gown with a book in her hands, and the reflection of the fireplace upon her glasses.
Sophie softly looked up at Cole from her book. His eyes seemed gloss over with sleepiness, and his thick black hair looked a bit disheveled.
Oh, hi Cole, she said. Are you OK?
Gutters.
Gutters .. I had that chore last week. Got bruises from the roof shingles, she empathized.
Shrugging, Cole began, Eh, Gutters arent as bad as Samson, Then Sophie heard all the reasons why Samson was such a fool with blind happiness in such a miserable orphan. Sophia listened to Cole vent even though he returned the next night, and the night after, with more reasons why Samson was majorly lame.
As Cole began purging on the fourth night, with Settlers of Catan with the hope of having time to play later, Sophie interrupted, Cole, Im sorry. I have to run off. I promised to go on a stroll with BFG. I have to get back to my room, she continued, now leaning in, and whispered, So that I can sneak out after bedtime.
Sophie! Youd do that?! questioned Cole, with slight surprised delight.
Well, for BFG, yes, admitted Sophie.
Thats great. Say, can I come? That sounds fun! asked Cole.
Sophie hesitated. First of all, she was growing tired of Coles complaints about Samson. And second, she missed BFG since he always attended meetings with the Queen, Obama, Bill Gates, Andy Samberg, and other important people.
Well, that would be fun. But I havent seen him in quite a while, she responded awkwardly, and then she suggested, Can you come at some future time?
She wanted to spend some alone-time with BFG. And besides, she had promised BFG she wouldnt leak his nighttime secret.
Oh well, sure. Thats cool, responded Cole with dismay. He scratched off a leaf from his messy, ebony hair. Well, tell him I said hello. Ill see you tomorrow morning, Sophie.
See you then, responded Sophie.
Sophie tip-toed to her closet-sized room. Within seconds, a gigantic pair of ripped pants, right at the knees, appeared at the window. Sophie smiled and ran to the window, peering up. The creature wearing the pants, kneeled down, and his twinkling bright turquoise right eye eclipsed the window frame. Im ready! Sophie whispered.
Okay! Hoppy into my handy, and I lift you up to a comfy dumfy spot on my floppy hoppy ear, responded the BFG in a voice like the abominable snow monster from Looney Tunes. Sophie willingly nestled into the nooks and crannies of the giants ear like butter on an English muffin. They were off.
But not alone.
Cole followed. In a jacket over his pajamas, he rushed out into the still night and saw BFG whisk Sophie away to his ear. He walked briskly down the street lined with gray, cold dorms that housed hundreds of orphans. All the while, he held a briefcase in one hand and something that looked like a trumpet or a horn in the other. It was very hard for Cole to keep up with a giants gait, but he managed to do it, and all in the shadows, for he was concerned that perhaps BFG was not so nice after all. Perhaps there were bad things in the briefcase that could hurt Sophie, his best friend!
Cole ran on. Crouched behind the thick bushes across the street, Cole watched BFG kneel down and open the briefcase. Sophie pointed to something in the case with excited anticipation. BFG followed her point and pulled out a large bottle topped with cork. He popped off the cork with magical silence and poured some beautifully rose-colored vapor into the horn and gently blew the vapor into an orphans room!
Cole stared wide-eyed with his jaw dropped. Was both BFG and Sophie murdering kids in their sleep with some weird poisonous gas?! Cole wanted to throw up at the thought of his best friend being a partner in crime against orphans. But Cole didnt dare move. He needed more evidence. And honestly, he didnt want to believe that Sophie was that terrible.
Over the next few hours, he carefully followed their path, which fortunately was all in the same vicinity now. When Sophies yawns frequented every few seconds, BFG walked her back to her own bedroom window and dropped her off. Cole made sure to keep close now, and was still very clever at keeping hidden.
Thanks BFG. That was fun! Im so glad that all my friends will have wonderful dreams tonight! Can you get more? asked Sophie in a dreamy, weak voice.
Dreams?! thought Cole.
Oh of course. I find them everywhere. I bring more! he responded.
Youre the best! she said. She lifted herself on her tippy-toes, eager to hug him, but knowing itd be impossible to embrace someone as big as BFG. But for tomorrow night, lets just go on a fun adventurous run, and can I bring my friend, Cole? she asked.
Oh of course! said BFG. But Sophie bembers our promise: you cannot let those other kiddy buddy wuddies, or those mean adults even, know about these bottled dreams. Its our secret!
As Cole listened, and as BFG and Sophie lengthen their goodbyes, Cole grew ecstatic with power-hunger. He bolted towards the suitcase and silently snatched a bottle right under (well, well under, considering how tall BFG was) BFGs eye. Cole dashed back into his bedroom, closed the door and stared at the bottle as he caught his breath. He hid the bottle in his dressers and sat on his cot until the late hours of the night. Finally, an attack on that stupid excuse of an orphan, Samson. It could finally happen. Samson would get the worst nightmare ever! Crafted by a giant!
Minutes seemed like seconds, as Cole plotted his plan. But Cole was also scared. Will this revenge work? Cole hoped itd make Samson miserable because theres no other way to feel if you live in that stupid orphanage. Would Cole get caught? If he did, would Sophie still remain his friend? What if Sophie found out and told the BFG, and that giant punished Cole by always giving him nightmares for the rest of his life?
Cole peered deep into the ebony vapor.
Its OK if I do this, right? I mean, Samson deserves this anyway. It doesnt make sense to be that stupidly happy. Im doing him a favor by bringing him into the misery of things, Cole thought. He affirmed his direction of thought. Im doing him a favor by toughening him up. Something terrible will happen sooner or later anyway so he might as well be prepped for it with a nightmare now.
Cole thoughts mixed together as the night became stiller. Finally, Cole drifted into sleep.
Night after night, he tossed and turned with a fitful of sleep and, in fact, horrible nightmares of what to do with the stolen bottle. Cole knows the nightmares must be his own and not BFGs because Cole was careful to lock his window now. The nightmares haunt him more and more, and make Cole more revengeful. Cooped up in his bedroom, he misses out on some evening trips with the other kids. Finally, the night came. Cole thought about it enough and as he reached into his dresser drawer to uncork the bottle one silent night, he heard a knock on the door.
Cole quickly slammed the dresser door and sprinted to the door expecting an angry prefect monitoring hallway noise. Instead, it was Samson with his white bucked teeth glowing in the dark hallway.
Hi Cole, sorry to bug you. Weve all missed you these last few nights, said Samson with saddened concern. Cole had never Samson show any hint of sadness. Samson had other emotions other than sheer glee?
Im really hoping I can hang out with you again soon. Timidly, he pulled out a small back from his pajama shirt pocket.
I brought you some sour patch kids. Wanna share some right now? he said shyly, but excitedly. We can eat them in my room. Nobody will ever catch us. And even if they do, can things really get worse than how they are in this miserable orphan? Cole asked rhetorically, with a giggle.
Hi all, Cyan invited me to your forum. Looks fun! Thanks for having me. My story is a "sequel" so-to-speak of The BFG. Here's a synopsis:
Dahl's elemental fix on kids' consciousness gets this off to a surefire shivery start, with orphan Sophie, awake at the witching hour, snatched from her bed by a giant hand and carried off to a land of giants clear off the last page of the atlas. But Sophie's kidnapper is really friendly (hence BFG for Big Friendly Giant) and does not eat humans as she had feared, but occupies himself gathering and dispensing dreams. He also expresses himself in a mixed-up, cutesy manner that is simply tiresome. Nearby, however, are nine still-bigger giants who do eat humans (""I is a nice and jumbly giant"" but ""human beans is like strawbunkles and cream to those giants,"" says the BFG)--and it's to protect the world from them that Sophie and the BFG hatch a scheme: He will mix a dream from his collection and send it to the Queen of England to apprise her of the threat; then, when she awakens, Sophie will be on her windowsill, and the BFG waiting in the garden, to convince her that the dream is true. And so it is that we find Sophie and the BFG breakfasting with Her Majesty . . . and the BFG violating all decorum, even to letting fly a glumptious whizzpopper (kids would call it a fart). Nevertheless the Queen is impressed and sends off her military men, who, under the BFG's direction, rope the sleeping giants and haul them back by helicopter to be imprisoned in a giant pit. This is all told in Dahl's higgledy-piggledy home-made manner, which is rarely disarming here despite the pandering. And it's hard to find the bumble-tongued BFG endearing.
Here's my story (1787 words):
NEXT! yelled Ms. Wormwood, the woman with a hairnet matting her wooly hair. Sophie seized her tray of lumpy grits and boiled cauliflower, and scuttled over to the dining tables.
Next, I said! Ms. Wormwood bellowed. Cole regrettably extended out his tray. He squinted and stretched away his neck, awaiting a plop of so-called edible food on his tray.
Bloody blind boy! I gave you your food that you dont even deserve! Out of my sight! Ms. Wormwood snapped. Cole popped open his eyes and hurried along to catch up with Sophie.
Scanning the faces for a small face covered with thick glasses and a bashful smile, he sat next to Sophie.
Ms. Wormwood seemed extra fiery today, didnt she? asked Sophie under her breath.
I cant tell anymore. Its all the same to me, responded Cole flatly, cheek in hand. With a spoon in his other hand, he investigated as to whether the off-white gunk was edible.
Cole, its okay. It wasnt personal. Its just the way Ms. Wormwood is.
Before Cole could respond, they were interrupted by Ms. Wormwood, with a voice more booming than ever before, as she served another victim. You no good numbskull! Get along! they heard. A moment later, Samson popped out of the kitchen. He had a skip to his step as he held his pumpkin head with bucked teeth and topped with messy, sandy up high on top of his lanky body. Samson searched the tables for a place to sit in the drafty dining hall. He looked over to Cole and Sophie. Cole diverted his eyes to his bowl.
Mind if I sit next to you guys? he asked with a smile so big it seemed to enlarge his two front teeth.
Cole said nothing and concentrated his eyes on his bowl.
Of course, Samson! responded Sophie cheerfully, but still quietly. Sophie and Samson chatted along in whispers for the rest of the meal as Cole hunched over his grits and cauliflower. He clenched his teeth. After hearing Samson say, Wow Sophie, thats great you were picked for the Dishes chore tonight after homework block; that sure beats the Toilets chore! At that, Cole simply tried to tune Samson out.
Lunch finally ended, and Cole made it through the rest of his classes, his homework, chores, and then walked over to the common area to find Sophie curled up on the couch in her night gown with a book in her hands, and the reflection of the fireplace upon her glasses.
Sophie softly looked up at Cole from her book. His eyes seemed gloss over with sleepiness, and his thick black hair looked a bit disheveled.
Oh, hi Cole, she said. Are you OK?
Gutters.
Gutters .. I had that chore last week. Got bruises from the roof shingles, she empathized.
Shrugging, Cole began, Eh, Gutters arent as bad as Samson, Then Sophie heard all the reasons why Samson was such a fool with blind happiness in such a miserable orphan. Sophia listened to Cole vent even though he returned the next night, and the night after, with more reasons why Samson was majorly lame.
As Cole began purging on the fourth night, with Settlers of Catan with the hope of having time to play later, Sophie interrupted, Cole, Im sorry. I have to run off. I promised to go on a stroll with BFG. I have to get back to my room, she continued, now leaning in, and whispered, So that I can sneak out after bedtime.
Sophie! Youd do that?! questioned Cole, with slight surprised delight.
Well, for BFG, yes, admitted Sophie.
Thats great. Say, can I come? That sounds fun! asked Cole.
Sophie hesitated. First of all, she was growing tired of Coles complaints about Samson. And second, she missed BFG since he always attended meetings with the Queen, Obama, Bill Gates, Andy Samberg, and other important people.
Well, that would be fun. But I havent seen him in quite a while, she responded awkwardly, and then she suggested, Can you come at some future time?
She wanted to spend some alone-time with BFG. And besides, she had promised BFG she wouldnt leak his nighttime secret.
Oh well, sure. Thats cool, responded Cole with dismay. He scratched off a leaf from his messy, ebony hair. Well, tell him I said hello. Ill see you tomorrow morning, Sophie.
See you then, responded Sophie.
Sophie tip-toed to her closet-sized room. Within seconds, a gigantic pair of ripped pants, right at the knees, appeared at the window. Sophie smiled and ran to the window, peering up. The creature wearing the pants, kneeled down, and his twinkling bright turquoise right eye eclipsed the window frame. Im ready! Sophie whispered.
Okay! Hoppy into my handy, and I lift you up to a comfy dumfy spot on my floppy hoppy ear, responded the BFG in a voice like the abominable snow monster from Looney Tunes. Sophie willingly nestled into the nooks and crannies of the giants ear like butter on an English muffin. They were off.
But not alone.
Cole followed. In a jacket over his pajamas, he rushed out into the still night and saw BFG whisk Sophie away to his ear. He walked briskly down the street lined with gray, cold dorms that housed hundreds of orphans. All the while, he held a briefcase in one hand and something that looked like a trumpet or a horn in the other. It was very hard for Cole to keep up with a giants gait, but he managed to do it, and all in the shadows, for he was concerned that perhaps BFG was not so nice after all. Perhaps there were bad things in the briefcase that could hurt Sophie, his best friend!
Cole ran on. Crouched behind the thick bushes across the street, Cole watched BFG kneel down and open the briefcase. Sophie pointed to something in the case with excited anticipation. BFG followed her point and pulled out a large bottle topped with cork. He popped off the cork with magical silence and poured some beautifully rose-colored vapor into the horn and gently blew the vapor into an orphans room!
Cole stared wide-eyed with his jaw dropped. Was both BFG and Sophie murdering kids in their sleep with some weird poisonous gas?! Cole wanted to throw up at the thought of his best friend being a partner in crime against orphans. But Cole didnt dare move. He needed more evidence. And honestly, he didnt want to believe that Sophie was that terrible.
Over the next few hours, he carefully followed their path, which fortunately was all in the same vicinity now. When Sophies yawns frequented every few seconds, BFG walked her back to her own bedroom window and dropped her off. Cole made sure to keep close now, and was still very clever at keeping hidden.
Thanks BFG. That was fun! Im so glad that all my friends will have wonderful dreams tonight! Can you get more? asked Sophie in a dreamy, weak voice.
Dreams?! thought Cole.
Oh of course. I find them everywhere. I bring more! he responded.
Youre the best! she said. She lifted herself on her tippy-toes, eager to hug him, but knowing itd be impossible to embrace someone as big as BFG. But for tomorrow night, lets just go on a fun adventurous run, and can I bring my friend, Cole? she asked.
Oh of course! said BFG. But Sophie bembers our promise: you cannot let those other kiddy buddy wuddies, or those mean adults even, know about these bottled dreams. Its our secret!
As Cole listened, and as BFG and Sophie lengthen their goodbyes, Cole grew ecstatic with power-hunger. He bolted towards the suitcase and silently snatched a bottle right under (well, well under, considering how tall BFG was) BFGs eye. Cole dashed back into his bedroom, closed the door and stared at the bottle as he caught his breath. He hid the bottle in his dressers and sat on his cot until the late hours of the night. Finally, an attack on that stupid excuse of an orphan, Samson. It could finally happen. Samson would get the worst nightmare ever! Crafted by a giant!
Minutes seemed like seconds, as Cole plotted his plan. But Cole was also scared. Will this revenge work? Cole hoped itd make Samson miserable because theres no other way to feel if you live in that stupid orphanage. Would Cole get caught? If he did, would Sophie still remain his friend? What if Sophie found out and told the BFG, and that giant punished Cole by always giving him nightmares for the rest of his life?
Cole peered deep into the ebony vapor.
Its OK if I do this, right? I mean, Samson deserves this anyway. It doesnt make sense to be that stupidly happy. Im doing him a favor by bringing him into the misery of things, Cole thought. He affirmed his direction of thought. Im doing him a favor by toughening him up. Something terrible will happen sooner or later anyway so he might as well be prepped for it with a nightmare now.
Cole thoughts mixed together as the night became stiller. Finally, Cole drifted into sleep.
Night after night, he tossed and turned with a fitful of sleep and, in fact, horrible nightmares of what to do with the stolen bottle. Cole knows the nightmares must be his own and not BFGs because Cole was careful to lock his window now. The nightmares haunt him more and more, and make Cole more revengeful. Cooped up in his bedroom, he misses out on some evening trips with the other kids. Finally, the night came. Cole thought about it enough and as he reached into his dresser drawer to uncork the bottle one silent night, he heard a knock on the door.
Cole quickly slammed the dresser door and sprinted to the door expecting an angry prefect monitoring hallway noise. Instead, it was Samson with his white bucked teeth glowing in the dark hallway.
Hi Cole, sorry to bug you. Weve all missed you these last few nights, said Samson with saddened concern. Cole had never Samson show any hint of sadness. Samson had other emotions other than sheer glee?
Im really hoping I can hang out with you again soon. Timidly, he pulled out a small back from his pajama shirt pocket.
I brought you some sour patch kids. Wanna share some right now? he said shyly, but excitedly. We can eat them in my room. Nobody will ever catch us. And even if they do, can things really get worse than how they are in this miserable orphan? Cole asked rhetorically, with a giggle.
The Entries:
ZephyrFate - "When I..."
kid ness - "Jacob's Struggle"
Feep - "Technical"
AnkitT - "Made for You"
evilpigking - "For the Sake of Love"
.GqueB. - "The Date"
bakemono - "The Bibelot"
Ward - "Vingt-et-un: Chance, Skill, or Publicity"
crowphoenix - "And Remember, Circle Co Loves You"
Aaron - "A Soliloquy on Responsibility"
Cyan - "Send"
Dresden - "Love?"
Irish - "Try Again"
Tangent - untitled
Botolf - "The Shape in the Whirlwind"
Ashes1396 - "Cognitive dissonance" or "the dots between points"
Iceman - "Keeping Tab" (ineligible, but please read and comment anyway!)
ZephyrFate - "When I..."
kid ness - "Jacob's Struggle"
Feep - "Technical"
AnkitT - "Made for You"
evilpigking - "For the Sake of Love"
.GqueB. - "The Date"
bakemono - "The Bibelot"
Ward - "Vingt-et-un: Chance, Skill, or Publicity"
crowphoenix - "And Remember, Circle Co Loves You"
Aaron - "A Soliloquy on Responsibility"
Cyan - "Send"
Dresden - "Love?"
Irish - "Try Again"
Tangent - untitled
Botolf - "The Shape in the Whirlwind"
Ashes1396 - "Cognitive dissonance" or "the dots between points"
Iceman - "Keeping Tab" (ineligible, but please read and comment anyway!)
Shit, I forgot when the deadline was. I can has 11 minute grace? (it was last edited hours before the deadline, I made no last-minute edits)
--
The Shape in The Whirlwind
What are these phantasms animated by agitated particles,
What is this tapestry of matter woven with an energetic needle?
Dim passers-by and active movers,
But he who sits atop is the most curious of all.
What is man but a shape in the whirlwind?
Is he his own, to move himself,
Or is he the spirit of the law?
What is choice but a fundamental oscillation?
Is he a ghost cast up by the motions of the sky,
Shuffled off by the law that reared him?
The whirlwind knows itself and forgets itself
And the shapes come and go.
But even as the shapes pass into the eternal dark,
The whirlwind lives forever.
--
The Shape in The Whirlwind
What are these phantasms animated by agitated particles,
What is this tapestry of matter woven with an energetic needle?
Dim passers-by and active movers,
But he who sits atop is the most curious of all.
What is man but a shape in the whirlwind?
Is he his own, to move himself,
Or is he the spirit of the law?
What is choice but a fundamental oscillation?
Is he a ghost cast up by the motions of the sky,
Shuffled off by the law that reared him?
The whirlwind knows itself and forgets itself
And the shapes come and go.
But even as the shapes pass into the eternal dark,
The whirlwind lives forever.
Cognitive dissonance or the dots between points
Prologue
20 years ago, Syhlet, Bangladesh
Farida Jalal took off her burkha and settled at her dressing table. The Esha azaan blared through the darkness outside. Her son, Ali, slept through the last namaaz of the day. He had failed his class for the last time. Farida had no money. The school headteacher sat in the living room sipping tea.
For an entire second she lost herself in the moment. Then reality hit. She reached for her wardrobe and chose the silkiest, most thinly veiled blue sari. She replaced her choli (blouse) with a modern lace bra. She reached for the unused condom not used in the year since her husband died- in the bottom draw and greeted her guest with a seductive smile....
#
Present day
A couple sit down to breakfast
Ali: Im not kidding. My mother did prostitute herself
Syrah: Ahh. So you say
Ali: I was in the other room Syrah!
Syrah: Yes, you failed your exams. And now your Bangladeshs greatest literary export!
(Ali shrugs)
Syrah: Let the past lie, Ali. Anyway, look at who you married! A failed actress in the smuttiest film industry in the world. And dont you dare say the Bengali film industry is anything but that!
One thing I dont understand though is that you have all the success, yet nobody knows who you are Mr Author. What is so bad for a writer to be in the public eye?
Ali: (laughs) And have my failures splashed over the front page?
Syrah: Well that begs another question. Why did you marry me then? And an arranged one at that. Especially in light of your books...
(Ali pauses)
Ali: Before you, I was against the arranged marriage business. Not in the western sense though. I grew up with all this. Before I was shipped off to London I mean. It was okay and it worked for other people, but I didnt want it.
But, whenever people say something like that they dont expect to meet the most beautiful Bengali actress theyd ever seen.
Syrah: Thank You. I was the other way. Im a simple Bengali girl at heart. I am! You hope your father lets you fall in love, or at least lets you marry the one you fall in love with etc but I wasnt against a marriage in any form. Just hoped to be introduced to somebody taller, intelligent, modern and handsome. Hopefully rich. In fact when my mother showed me your picture and said that you were a journalist in London. I was...
Ali: You thought...
Syrah: I was surprised how quickly I settled for less than my ideal man. (She laughs). Im being serious. I thought: I have enough money for the both of us. Youll do.
Ali: Didnt realize that money means that much to you.
Syrah: I mean it does but it doesnt. Its wrong to say this, I know, but, Im very happy that you earn more than I do.
Ali: You... You surprise me every other day Mrs Khan. Every other day.
#
Farida Jalal walked through the dark rice fields and knocked on the doctors door. She told him about her predicament.
You say predicament and I do not understand. I must inform you that in Islam, it is only lawful to have an abortion if youre in medical danger. And you are not...
But Jaffar, he is a drunkard. I am an educated woman. To me this amounts to rape.... We have known each other since when; since we were children Jaffar. I could have been a doctor alongside you...
Doctor Jaffar sighed. Farida, he is your husband. I cannot see how this is rape. There is a child in your belly... your child.
Farida slammed the table with her fist. Is this because I rejected your hand in marriage... your father asked my father but I...
You say you know me and you say this.... I thought you loved him...
Urgh... its complicated. There was so much I didnt know about him...
There was a knock on the door and as a result Doctor Jaffar stopped her midsentence. Farida. Think about it really long and hard. You are an intelligent woman and if you decide in the end that... That what must be must be.... May Allah forgive me but I will vouch for you...
Thank you... that is all I ask... Farida said.
Farida breathed in the free exalted air. She sat alone in the middle of a rice field. She could hear the sound of crickets. She didn't know whether she was grimacing or smiling... She exhaled as she looked up to see the stars.
#
Assalamu alaikum, Ali sahib, the cafe owner said.
I took the chair and table nearest me. wa alaik(...) as-salām.
I could hear the cricket blaring on the tv. There were two elderly gentleman in front of it. One of them was reading a paper.
Mr Ali Sahib is from London Cha cha. He is a journalist.
Mr Sandeep, the cha cha (Uncle) was reading the paper. How do you live there, Mr Ali. They have the highest rate of children getting pregnant, it says here. What a foul society?
Im always surprised by this. When people here think of London like this and when Londoners think of Bangladesh in a similar fashion. Children? I say. I immediately regret it. Eighteen, nineteen, and unmarried must be children to them. I dont even think to correct him on the figures; I mean, what I am going to say exactly: err, we dont have the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in the world, just in Europe...
Yes teens. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen is children in that society as well?
Oh, I say.
Im always in this state of cognitive dissonance. Constantly. The media here rips into Bangladeshs heart, and likens it to frightening place just like the papers do to British society in England. The difference is only semantics. They have corrupt politicians here and warmongers over there.
Just the other day, I read two different versions of a domestic abuse story told in two very different ways. The local news reported on a growing trend of woman having acid thrown at them by drunken husbands. And the government stands by idly, say the editorial. A Daily National Newspaper in the UK reported the same story and how the journalist went and personally saw the victims. Oh what a backward religion Islam is, he said. And no not in a commentary piece.
ishh... We live in a rubbish country as well. Look at this article...
I looked at the headline and l shrugged it off. But then I looked closer. There was a picture of a villager holding a womans head. He had beheaded her and was holding her by her hair. When I recognised my mother, my soul leapt out of me....
#
July 9th
An aid worker was found beheaded last night, by a man who thought she was a witch. The man surrendered to the police after walking with the severed head for six kilometres, police said Friday. Jairam Hansda, 37, killed Farida Jalal, 44, Sunday in Jaipur village of Sylhet district. He then picked up her head and walked to the Jahlong police station.
Jairam told the police that the dead woman was into black magic, which he claimed killed his father and brother.
July 10th
The beheaded aid worker was yesterday revealed to be Bangladesh superstar, Syrah Khans mother in law...
August 5th
Farida Jalal was a humanitarian of the highest order, the courts heard yesterday. State prosecutor, Jamal Uddin said: She was a gentle human being, who worked at a NGO family health clinic. The village doctor was her lifelong friend. And she would go see the sick sometimes.
Separately,
...the apparent death of Jairam Hansdas father and brother, was due to food poisoning, according to experts. The water supply to the house was...
August 15th
The notorious killer of Syrah Khans mother in law was jailed for two life sentences yesterday...
#
Epilogue
Twenty years later
A million billion things crossed his mind,
Like a court jester he wore half a smile.
Do you want me to drive? She asked.
If you want, he replied.
Another three seconds passed, and then the children came in.
A pair of 15 year old twin boys and their little kid sister.
She revved the engine and the blades beneath the car came to life.
It hovered a bit, before taking flight.
She took a left turn at sky highway six and ran right at the next interjection.
There was a silent space between her and her husband. So this was it, she thought. The beginning of the end. :/ divorce..?
She looked left at some of the lakes they passed. A volcano here and a mountain there.
The continental border was as painful as ever.
Once in Asia, her anonymity was lost from time to time.
Every now and then, a Bengali person, of an older generation, would recognise her and beg for a picture and a signed one at that.
And always, she would write in small letters: not for sale, rent or ebay.
When they reached Bangladesh, it was like they had never left it.
Rundown skyscrapers, shanty towns, broken water systems, national grid problems, floods, hurricanes and earthquakes.
She decided that she would broach the mind peeving subject with her husband. If he wanted a divorce, she would obviously have to give it to him.
She went for a long walk down by a lake. She picked up a stone and threw it into the lake. She watched the birds take flight across the sky.
Youre doing that thing again, he said, coming behind her.
What thing? She asked.
The one where you blow things out of proportion. The one where you read only what is written on the page, he said.
I dont know what youre talking about, she lied. Im perfectly fine.
He paused for thought. Then he smiled... If you say so, he said.
I say so, she said.
I got you a cup of tea.
Two sugars and cream?
Two sugars and cream.
The end.
Prologue
20 years ago, Syhlet, Bangladesh
Farida Jalal took off her burkha and settled at her dressing table. The Esha azaan blared through the darkness outside. Her son, Ali, slept through the last namaaz of the day. He had failed his class for the last time. Farida had no money. The school headteacher sat in the living room sipping tea.
For an entire second she lost herself in the moment. Then reality hit. She reached for her wardrobe and chose the silkiest, most thinly veiled blue sari. She replaced her choli (blouse) with a modern lace bra. She reached for the unused condom not used in the year since her husband died- in the bottom draw and greeted her guest with a seductive smile....
#
Present day
A couple sit down to breakfast
Ali: Im not kidding. My mother did prostitute herself
Syrah: Ahh. So you say
Ali: I was in the other room Syrah!
Syrah: Yes, you failed your exams. And now your Bangladeshs greatest literary export!
(Ali shrugs)
Syrah: Let the past lie, Ali. Anyway, look at who you married! A failed actress in the smuttiest film industry in the world. And dont you dare say the Bengali film industry is anything but that!
One thing I dont understand though is that you have all the success, yet nobody knows who you are Mr Author. What is so bad for a writer to be in the public eye?
Ali: (laughs) And have my failures splashed over the front page?
Syrah: Well that begs another question. Why did you marry me then? And an arranged one at that. Especially in light of your books...
(Ali pauses)
Ali: Before you, I was against the arranged marriage business. Not in the western sense though. I grew up with all this. Before I was shipped off to London I mean. It was okay and it worked for other people, but I didnt want it.
But, whenever people say something like that they dont expect to meet the most beautiful Bengali actress theyd ever seen.
Syrah: Thank You. I was the other way. Im a simple Bengali girl at heart. I am! You hope your father lets you fall in love, or at least lets you marry the one you fall in love with etc but I wasnt against a marriage in any form. Just hoped to be introduced to somebody taller, intelligent, modern and handsome. Hopefully rich. In fact when my mother showed me your picture and said that you were a journalist in London. I was...
Ali: You thought...
Syrah: I was surprised how quickly I settled for less than my ideal man. (She laughs). Im being serious. I thought: I have enough money for the both of us. Youll do.
Ali: Didnt realize that money means that much to you.
Syrah: I mean it does but it doesnt. Its wrong to say this, I know, but, Im very happy that you earn more than I do.
Ali: You... You surprise me every other day Mrs Khan. Every other day.
#
Farida Jalal walked through the dark rice fields and knocked on the doctors door. She told him about her predicament.
You say predicament and I do not understand. I must inform you that in Islam, it is only lawful to have an abortion if youre in medical danger. And you are not...
But Jaffar, he is a drunkard. I am an educated woman. To me this amounts to rape.... We have known each other since when; since we were children Jaffar. I could have been a doctor alongside you...
Doctor Jaffar sighed. Farida, he is your husband. I cannot see how this is rape. There is a child in your belly... your child.
Farida slammed the table with her fist. Is this because I rejected your hand in marriage... your father asked my father but I...
You say you know me and you say this.... I thought you loved him...
Urgh... its complicated. There was so much I didnt know about him...
There was a knock on the door and as a result Doctor Jaffar stopped her midsentence. Farida. Think about it really long and hard. You are an intelligent woman and if you decide in the end that... That what must be must be.... May Allah forgive me but I will vouch for you...
Thank you... that is all I ask... Farida said.
Farida breathed in the free exalted air. She sat alone in the middle of a rice field. She could hear the sound of crickets. She didn't know whether she was grimacing or smiling... She exhaled as she looked up to see the stars.
#
Assalamu alaikum, Ali sahib, the cafe owner said.
I took the chair and table nearest me. wa alaik(...) as-salām.
I could hear the cricket blaring on the tv. There were two elderly gentleman in front of it. One of them was reading a paper.
Mr Ali Sahib is from London Cha cha. He is a journalist.
Mr Sandeep, the cha cha (Uncle) was reading the paper. How do you live there, Mr Ali. They have the highest rate of children getting pregnant, it says here. What a foul society?
Im always surprised by this. When people here think of London like this and when Londoners think of Bangladesh in a similar fashion. Children? I say. I immediately regret it. Eighteen, nineteen, and unmarried must be children to them. I dont even think to correct him on the figures; I mean, what I am going to say exactly: err, we dont have the highest rate of teenage pregnancies in the world, just in Europe...
Yes teens. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen is children in that society as well?
Oh, I say.
Im always in this state of cognitive dissonance. Constantly. The media here rips into Bangladeshs heart, and likens it to frightening place just like the papers do to British society in England. The difference is only semantics. They have corrupt politicians here and warmongers over there.
Just the other day, I read two different versions of a domestic abuse story told in two very different ways. The local news reported on a growing trend of woman having acid thrown at them by drunken husbands. And the government stands by idly, say the editorial. A Daily National Newspaper in the UK reported the same story and how the journalist went and personally saw the victims. Oh what a backward religion Islam is, he said. And no not in a commentary piece.
ishh... We live in a rubbish country as well. Look at this article...
I looked at the headline and l shrugged it off. But then I looked closer. There was a picture of a villager holding a womans head. He had beheaded her and was holding her by her hair. When I recognised my mother, my soul leapt out of me....
#
July 9th
An aid worker was found beheaded last night, by a man who thought she was a witch. The man surrendered to the police after walking with the severed head for six kilometres, police said Friday. Jairam Hansda, 37, killed Farida Jalal, 44, Sunday in Jaipur village of Sylhet district. He then picked up her head and walked to the Jahlong police station.
Jairam told the police that the dead woman was into black magic, which he claimed killed his father and brother.
July 10th
The beheaded aid worker was yesterday revealed to be Bangladesh superstar, Syrah Khans mother in law...
August 5th
Farida Jalal was a humanitarian of the highest order, the courts heard yesterday. State prosecutor, Jamal Uddin said: She was a gentle human being, who worked at a NGO family health clinic. The village doctor was her lifelong friend. And she would go see the sick sometimes.
Separately,
...the apparent death of Jairam Hansdas father and brother, was due to food poisoning, according to experts. The water supply to the house was...
August 15th
The notorious killer of Syrah Khans mother in law was jailed for two life sentences yesterday...
#
Epilogue
Twenty years later
A million billion things crossed his mind,
Like a court jester he wore half a smile.
Do you want me to drive? She asked.
If you want, he replied.
Another three seconds passed, and then the children came in.
A pair of 15 year old twin boys and their little kid sister.
She revved the engine and the blades beneath the car came to life.
It hovered a bit, before taking flight.
She took a left turn at sky highway six and ran right at the next interjection.
There was a silent space between her and her husband. So this was it, she thought. The beginning of the end. :/ divorce..?
She looked left at some of the lakes they passed. A volcano here and a mountain there.
The continental border was as painful as ever.
Once in Asia, her anonymity was lost from time to time.
Every now and then, a Bengali person, of an older generation, would recognise her and beg for a picture and a signed one at that.
And always, she would write in small letters: not for sale, rent or ebay.
When they reached Bangladesh, it was like they had never left it.
Rundown skyscrapers, shanty towns, broken water systems, national grid problems, floods, hurricanes and earthquakes.
She decided that she would broach the mind peeving subject with her husband. If he wanted a divorce, she would obviously have to give it to him.
She went for a long walk down by a lake. She picked up a stone and threw it into the lake. She watched the birds take flight across the sky.
Youre doing that thing again, he said, coming behind her.
What thing? She asked.
The one where you blow things out of proportion. The one where you read only what is written on the page, he said.
I dont know what youre talking about, she lied. Im perfectly fine.
He paused for thought. Then he smiled... If you say so, he said.
I say so, she said.
I got you a cup of tea.
Two sugars and cream?
Two sugars and cream.
The end.
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