evilpigking said:

This group hates dialogue so good luck =P

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Lies. I <3 good dialogue.

Davedough said:

Alas, here it is Tuesday and I've still got a blank page.

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Me too. Just believe in yourself! Or something.

Aaron said:

I'm not going to make this one. Just can't squeeze in the time for it.

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:/

Cyan said:

Me too. Just believe in yourself! Or something.

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You can walk,
You can talk
You can fight,
But inside you've got something to write
In your hand
You hold your only friend
Never spend your guitar or your pen!

The poetry thread om nom nommed my entry.

i wrote something, but it's compeletely unpolished, and not sure do i have the time to finish (tuesday night already).

last day call

First time posting in this thread, and I don't think I interpreted the theme very well and wasn't gonna post this, but I felt bad about the lack of entries so what the hell.

Word Count: 678

Hospital

The hospital is big and brick pink and it was hard to find parking. Ducks in the grass, it was probably raining. Double glass doors, that lead to a room, that leads to hallways, and the walls if I remember correctly are white and there is nothing written on them.

There might’ve been a woman at the desk but the details are somewhere else right now. My head is empty and my stomach is heavy. A thousand wires, somewhere in me. Nerves that won’t explode. My stomach hurts.

My mother, my mother’s friend, my mother’s friend’s husband, they are all gathered around my dad. Three visitors. And you know the room, but maybe you don’t know the color. A warm yellow pours out from everything even though this is nobody’s home. There is a window but there is nothing to look at out there so I sit in the chair next to the bed and stare at my father’s feet. He is talking, he’s happy to see me, he entertains his guests and he goes to the bathroom once or twice.

I leave the room in search of a vending machine, and there are sick people walking around, and I guess my dad is one of them. Yesterday, someone looked at my dad and said “there walks a sick man,” and they were right. I feel lost. I belong in a shopping mall, staring at some toy, my name being spoken over the loud speaker, my parents with worried looks on their young faces. I should be crying out for my mother and father, hands in my mouth, looking up at all the strange legs and isles, deciding whether to move or not. But that is not today.

I buy a drink from the vending machine for my mother and when I return to my dad’s room, it takes me a moment to forget the number on the door, and then I see that he is still dressed in white talking to someone he doesn’t know, my mother’s friend’s husband. Old Cuban, fought in war, but what is he doing here? It doesn’t fit. My mother and I sip what I think might’ve been apple juice.

So my dad and I have the same problem; his stomach hurts too. The stomach- it’s the darkest part of everyone, where all emotions churn and react and turn to shit. It’s primitive, it’s biology, and it’s a secret to everyone but I know that that the human heart is a farce and that there is nothing but guts when you really think about it. Guts and nerves, and maybe brains that don’t work like they’re supposed to. Because I don’t remember the nurse’s hair, OK? Those pictures aren’t there. And my heart isn’t leaping as I write this.

Moments pass and I sit down next to my dad before his face changes. He looks at me and his eyes are wet, yellowed pearls and the room is underwater. Lines find their grooves all along his face, and the great big belly that I had once found great comfort in isn’t there anymore. My dad is shrinking. He sits up and starts crying for his dead father who died in a bed in a hospital room much like this one and it doesn’t make any sense. His father his father he wants his father. The world is in pieces and I am a part of it. Dad looks at me, says something else, and I can’t understand it through the sobs, but I want to hold him and tell him it’s going to be alright, I want to run my fingers through his thin, gray hair.
But that is not my place.

So I look away or I hold his hand and it doesn’t make any difference. All of a sudden my sister is in the room and I can see her trying to forget this thing too.

The human heart is a farce and a guilt rests at the mouth of my stomach and I can feel it now.

First time post, woooo.

Prospector

Word Count: 1337 (I shit you not.)

I decided that it was better not to tell anyone. I guess for the small circle that I belonged to, no one would really take emotional notice of what was happening to me. They would understand it, but they wouldn't fully realize how to deal with it.

After I was told, I stopped attending lectures. I shut myself away for awhile, kept to myself and didn't talk. I went through five months without any human contact. I heard nothing from my 'friends'. My family, hearing what happened tried to contact me. They must've realized that I wanted to be like this, it had happened before and they remember it vividly. They sent me money, paying for my apartment and living expenses.

It's funny, the processes of thought and the changes you go through. Before I was told, I was a prospector. I was the guy that everyone hated, and I wanted everyone to love me. I would've done anything for those people, my 'family', as I used to call them. During those five months I realized I was wrong, that those people were wrong. They believed in brotherhood, and sticking by your friends. I do understand the importance of friends, at least I do now, as I lie here. Everyone needs them. That's how I changed. I went from needing my friends, to not relying on anyone and back to relying on my friends.

I left my apartment that day, after not leaving for five months. I was weak. I was malnourished. I was anorexic. Something tells me now that I subconsciously tried to kill it. That I tried to starve it. I walked slowly into the CBD, seeing how my surroundings had changed so much, just like myself. Not only had my thoughts become different, but I had become different. I didn't want anything to do with my old life. I knew that there was nothing waiting for me at the end. Not that there was here either.

I got a job a bookshop. The one thing that kept me sane(ish) during the five months was literature. Before then, I never read. I barely wrote. Along with the regular packages of food and such, my parents always included a book. I cast them aside at first in misery and pure anger that I was to useless to support myself. I refused help from the Meds. That's what we called them back in my old life. They told me, they said they could help me, but I turned them down. Said I didn't need help from anyone. I regret making that decision, but I've decided to take responsibility for it. I accept what's going to happen to me now. I just have to make the most of what I have now. That's what made me pick up those books. The will to change.

Two months after I started working, I met you. Goddamnit, I wasn't counting on you. Not at all. I was hoping to leave my small mark on society and quietly leave. I've always had a fear of not being remembered. Despite how I used to act, I always had fears. They were allowed where I was from. They made you weak. They made you a target. I knew when I met you, that I was attracted to you. When I made that small joke, and you laughed, I knew you thought something about me as well. I knew when asked you that question, that my brain wanted you to say no. I knew when you answered in my favor that this wouldn't end well.

I'll admit that I forgot about it. For twelve months, I completely forgot my fate. That's how much you changed me. You knew about me. Anything about my younger days that you asked, I just lied. I was protecting you. Both from what I had done, and what would happen. I'm so sorry, babe. I know you're reading this. I just loved you too much. When I finally remembered, I cried. It was the first time I had cried since I was ten years old. Thirteen years is a long time to hold everything in. I wanted to tell you this, but I was so afraid you'd leave me. I know you'll forever hate me after this, but didn't I deserve a second change for what I had done? I've never believed in God, but something did this to me, you and me both know it. I wasn't human. I killed people, babe. I killed them so I would be loved by others. No human can kill another then sleep soundly at night, but I did for fucks sake, I did!

Twenty-three months after I was told, I ran. I was crying myself to sleep next to you. I knew this had to happen. You didn't. He didn't. At least not then. I was weak again, I was dying. My heart was broken. My body was broken. I went back to my parents hometown. I went back to where I was born. I wanted closure. I didn't want a life where I just ended somewhere I didn't know. I knew you would be worried. No, not worried. You would think I was a fucking useless husband. Getting up without a word a leaving. I knew what I had done was wrong, so I wrote. I never told my parents about you, so I guess it was a shock when you turned up, explaining that you were my wife, and that you were four months pregnant. I didn't care about their stress. I just wanted you, and my friends.

While you were out, I gathered everyone else. I had made new friends, as you knew. A lot of them. I knew it was because of my changed image and outlook. I'm glad I did. I felt like I finally had a family. When I finally told them, straight up, several got up and left, walking out the front lawn to cry themselves. Everyone hugged me, everyone cried. They asked when it was expected. I said next month and everyone started crying again. They all got apartment in the small town and stayed close to me. It was like they really loved me. I was amazed that I could go from killer, to a person getting hugged by all of his friends.

I knew I wouldn't be forgiven for taking their lived. But I tried to be a human as I could. I loved all of my friends. I would have done anything for them. I still would, if I had the body to. But you, my love. I did everything for you. It may not seem it, but I did everything within my power to please you. To please me. The last 24 months of my life on this planet was the best time in my short pathetic life. I was diagnosed with cancer at 21. I left the gang I wasting my life in. I finally got an honest job. I met the love of my life. I spent a whole year with you, holding you in my arms, holding you close. I gave you want you always wanted, I gave you a child. I'll never live to see him, and that is torture enough, but I deserve it. I've taken lives, so I should be able to see a live I create. Then, at the end of it all, I finally felt like everyone loved me. They are all here, with me, and I hope they'll be there for my dying breath.

Please, don't tell him that I was who I was. Only tell him of the last two years of my life. That's all he needs to know. He will eventually find out. But I want him to know that people can change. I want him to know that I was human. He will eventually find out, I'm betting on it. But during his vulnerable years, please have him look up to me.

I love you.

@polar: interpret the theme any single way you want. Sometimes I can't even make a link between a story posted here and the theme. Folk are good about that round here.

evilpigking said:

This group hates dialogue so good luck =P

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Only the clunky kind, so Mr. Phoenix is off the hook and I'm just sitting there like a worm.


Anyway, what's with all this negativity guys? Y'all are starting to turn into multiple copies of me. Don't worry about the quality. Hell, I never really do. Sure, I'll complain that it sucks but that's a given considering how I write my entries for these. I sit down with just a basic idea based on the theme, write some nonsense relating to that idea, and then click Submit Reply. I never really go back to edit or anything like that. It's much easier to get something you're happy with this way. Of course, you may not win any challenges. In fact, I've only had three challenges where my entry has received any votes, two of which only had one vote total.

What I'm trying to say is: Don't let questions of quality prevent you from submitting an entry. You never know what somebody's going to like. (The entry I was most down on and didn't plan on submitting was the one that ended up in third place in one of the busier challenges.)


Anyway, I haven't even started my story yet, but I plan on having it done sometime tonight. ;P

Let it begin!

Zephyr: Garret's "revelations" came with little effort. Making them seem superficial. As to the devil. I have a soft spot for him. He's a great character, man's #1 fan, multi-faceted, deliciously devious, he's the bad guy you root for. Here's the thing, if you're going to use a character that everyone's talked about you need to do something that will set him aside from everything else you've read in the past. And really I felt you didn't bring very much new stuff to the character and actually made him a little preachy.

JillMasterofUnlocking: You start in the middle of things and don't give the reader enough info to get their bearings then change. In a piece with so much dialogue the characters all sound the same. I also had the sense of "just where is this all going?" while I read it. In the end I don't feel you stopped to give the reader enough reason to care about what happened. Maybe it's just me but I felt like I was just watching a series of events instead of experiencing a story.

WhiteHairyMen'sClub: First off welcome. A little editing on the wording would've helped (for example: walls typically don't have things written on them). I had a hard time trying to follow what was going on. I like the characterization of the stomach. Wonderful imagery.

HatosgonnaHato: Welcome to you too. you probably could've cut the first two, paragraphs with little impact to your story. Some editing would've helped. I also had a bit of a hard time following. I love you too, but don't call me "babe".

The only distant memory which had some sense of reality to him was of his father from when John was a toddler. Everything else perplexed john, and didn't seem comparably real to him. He had a jumbled mess of implanted memories with bits and pieces of reality scattered around. John had to scrutinize every bit and piece as if they were all implanted as it had become second nature to him by now. He wasn't always like this though, but he didn't really remember what or who he was before, if before even existed, or if his name was really John. He would also test every scenario he was in to look for discrepancies. Paranoia was his seeming ally at these times.

"Excuse me, do you have change for a dollar?" He asked the cashier at a 7-11

"No sir, but would like some lottery tickets? Who knows, that dollar might make you rich!"

"No thanks"

He went outside the store, and thought over what the conversation was. He tore it to minutiae like hidden contexts, micro expressions, critical thinking lapses, and so on, holding simultaneously in his mind the fact that the brief conversation couldn't possibly yield something tangible. He came to the conclusion that the cashier was probably real. But his metal projection of reality was muddled up with images that would conjure up as his own personal thoughts, so he was never really sure, yet he thought that his unbeatable, universal logic would be capable of determining the ultimate truth. He drove around in an old Hummer truck. It was yellow, but he distinctly felt that yellow was the worst colour that he could have chosen, ultimately he would get in and drive anyways. So he got in the hummer and drove.

During the drive, he began thinking about the flashes that he had of his childhood, and the clear image he had imprinted on his retina of his form. He was fairly confident that he could pick the man up from a police lineup. Too bad John forgot his name or it would have been even easier. The fact that he forgot his name didn't even occur to him, and he continued to drive. Knowing nothing of the destination he was actively seeking, John decided to stop at bar. He parked the truck and went inside the bar. he would later find out that the truck gets impounded for an earlier parking ticket he'd received. But it was one of the scenarios he would have thought of if he remembered the parking ticket. John entered the bar, and it was almost empty. He had seen this place before, but didn't remember where and when. He went up to the bartender and asked him for a rare single malt. Surprising feat, considering he couldn't remember a simple parking ticket. In a strange pied piper-esque turn of events, John went to the restroom. He looked at himself in the mirror and was startled for a moment. He then proceeded to wash his hands and dry them off. The blower wasn't working, so he wiped it on his jeans and went back to the bar. There was some female pop-star's music video playing on the TV and it held the attention of the 3 people in the bar. None of them seemed interested in the liquor, but only in the TV. This might have been an indication of the quality of the liquor at the bar to some people, but John was different. He savored the flurry of flavours in the single malt while the others were lost in the trance of the TV. He paid the bartender. Over-paid rather, but the bartender obviously assumed this as a generous tip for his grand hospitality and service. John came out of the bar and noticed that he had very little money in his pockets. He went back into the bar.

"Hey, did I drop any money in here? I seem to be missing a whole lot of it!"

"No sir, I don't think so, but I can check for you, the least I can do after your generous tip" The bartender said, smiling.

John analyzed the situation for a bit.

"No, no need to search for it. I think I know where it is"

Both people smiled. John punched the bartender hard. The bartender hit the alarm, the police were on their way. John stayed there watching the TV for a while, as the bartender lay down unconscious. The other patrons didn't seem to mind so long as the TV was running. As the sirens started wailing, John grabbed his keys and coat and left the bar calmly. The police arrived just as he had left the bar. John was wasted and the walk was taking a toll on him. Luckily, he had the some of the single malt still left with him. He drank it all and continued walking. The hummer was impounded, but John seemed to have forgotten about it at the moment. John fell into a gutter babbling something about the name of his father.

Next morning he woke up. He wasn't entirely sure where he had left his watch, but he remembered he had lost his wrist-watch somewhere in a park. It was 1962 in India, but he didn't remember the specifics and even remembering the fact that he even had a wrist-watch in the first place. He also didn't know that he had been to other cities, let alone countries and continents.

"Excuse me sir, what's the time?" He asked an elderly passer-by.

"Half-past eight. You look like you need a bath!"

He walked down the street while thinking that the elderly man could have been a Spy working for the government, and formulating scenarios on how to kill the spy.

By now, the people around him had started to recognize his quirks. But only a select few at that. They would equate him with a certain state of "dehumanization", but not in those words. His forgetfulness hindered his scrutinizing now, though it wasn't always like this. This condition could be pinpointed to him losing his watch, and thus losing track of time. John used to recognize some faces in the crowd as well, but seeing as his memories about places overlapped, he couldn't be too sure about ascertaining the quality of those memories. But he knew that those were real. Even without the need for his overtly blanketing paranoia, he felt something. John walked into a coffee shop and sat there, trying to remember what there was to remember. The meta-memory monster that was his brain, would not relent those pure memories that John so utterly felt he possessed. Looking out the window of the coffee shop, he could recognize the street from many occasions, different times and at different hours. Which one of those flashes of knowing would win the fight, was unknown. But he thought that if his memories are overlapping in that aspect, there might be some truth to it. Suddenly he remembered all the traffic tickets that he had not paid heed to from the last many years. This overwhelmed him mentally, so he got out of the coffee house to catch some fresh air. Outside, he had that eureka! moment that he was vying for.

"I am my father?"

He thought that he probably should have thought the wording through. Though he was correct in a way. His memory of his father was a memory of his own self. He felt like patting himself on the back for the brilliant deduction and thought about honouring the universal logic that he so dearly latched on to, even in moments of amnesia that he frequently had. He vaguely remembered that he had a loving family, a daughter and life was good. In some strange arcane time, he was as human as they come. He was drowned with emotion, emotion that he hadn't felt in quite some while. But the moment was short-lived as soon as he realized that he had a shitload of traffic tickets to pay back.

__________________________________________________________________________

Tried a bit of humour this time, hope it works.

Gah, this thing is kicking my ass!

I met up with my writing buddy yesterday, but didn't get as much writing done as I'd hoped. I'm just having trouble with this one, for whatever reason.

Thanks for your comments, ronito. My problem here was having the scenes in my head but not describing what I see! Re-reading I can see why it's confusing. Other people have said the same thing about not caring for the characters enough. I have a lot to learn. How do you make characters sound different?

PolarBearsClub said:

First time posting in this thread, and I don't think I interpreted the theme very well and wasn't gonna post this, but I felt bad about the lack of entries so what the hell.

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Don't worry about it. I've turned in so many entries that were so skirting the edge, I didn't even know what I was writing about any more. Also, welcome.

Hato-kun said:

First time post, woooo.

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You too. Welcome to the group.

Irish said:

Anyway, what's with all this negativity guys? Y'all are starting to turn into multiple copies of me. Don't worry about the quality. Hell, I never really do. Sure, I'll complain that it sucks but that's a given considering how I write my entries for these. I sit down with just a basic idea based on the theme, write some nonsense relating to that idea, and then click Submit Reply. I never really go back to edit or anything like that. It's much easier to get something you're happy with this way. Of course, you may not win any challenges. In fact, I've only had three challenges where my entry has received any votes, two of which only had one vote total.

What I'm trying to say is: Don't let questions of quality prevent you from submitting an entry. You never know what somebody's going to like. (The entry I was most down on and didn't plan on submitting was the one that ended up in third place in one of the busier challenges.)


Anyway, I haven't even started my story yet, but I plan on having it done sometime tonight. ;P

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I'm too sloppy to just post something right after I finish writing it. Hell, for this challenge, I misspelled the main character's name more times than I got it right. However, I definitely agree that it's good to just bang something out. At the worst, you've gotten something to play with.

Cyan said:

Gah, this thing is kicking my ass!

I met up with my writing buddy yesterday, but didn't get as much writing done as I'd hoped. I'm just having trouble with this one, for whatever reason.

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I had some trouble with this one. I Had an idea. Started writing. It didn't work. Changed which character I was following. Continued writing. Didn't like it. Changed the tone. Rewrote it. Got to the end. Where am I going with this? Sat on it for a day. Rewrote the ending. And I've still got some stuff I want to tweak.

Jill Sandwich said:

Thanks for your comments, ronito. My problem here was having the scenes in my head but not describing what I see! Re-reading I can see why it's confusing. Other people have said the same thing about not caring for the characters enough. I have a lot to learn. How do you make characters sound different?

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well this is just my own little exercise, your mileage may vary.

In situations that I have a lot of dialogue I try to think up a back story (even if it's minimalist) for every character and then think through who they are and their personality. Are they serious? Jovial? Snarky? Short tempered? Self-deprecating? Where are they from? Do they have an accent? How educated are they? Would they use contractions? For example in my piece, the Rat Oslo and Ryan speak similarly because they grew up together, but Oslo tends to have an edge while (I'd like to think) Ryan is self-assured. But Lancelot, didn't grow up with them, he has a different way of speaking all together. More rough, to suit what he is.

In your piece it just felt like all the characters talked the same/had the same sense of humor.

Might not make this one because I can't seem to progress very quickly at all with the intended style. I guess time will tell.

Cyan said:

Gah, this thing is kicking my ass!

I met up with my writing buddy yesterday, but didn't get as much writing done as I'd hoped. I'm just having trouble with this one, for whatever reason.

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Reminds me of the last challenge.

I got up wrote something. It didn't work. Thought something else up. It didn't work. After the third or fourth attempt I gave up, I had run out of time. I'm a slow writer, only have time for a few hundred words a day.

This is kind of unpolished, but I'm using this story already in a bigger set of work, so it may seem like I added to much/to little detail in it. So here's what I have so far, it's pretty short since I just wanted to open up this set of characters for progression. I already have another couple I had made a while ago. Mostly I was trying to open up Derek's character to the audience, because the girl(Janine) has her own scene.

Untitled Fragment From Love Letters
Word count: 621

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said to him as he chewed his nails.

“Why not?” He questioned, “It’s not like it’s going to kill me.”

He flashed her a wolfish smile and grabbed at her breast. She swatted his hand away playfully remembering why she loved him. It wasn’t because he was handsome or daring, he was shy and timid at first, but once you got him to open up he was eccentric and charming. He had that playfulness that dragged you in, that smile that caught you like a child in a candy store making you want more. He could cheer you up when you were down and he never made you feel bad.

“So what are you up for today?” he asked still chewing his nails.

“Hmm… How about we go and see a movie and then… Stop that!” She shouted as she batted his hand away from his mouth.

“Wait! I almost have it,” he shouted back as he gnawed at his hang nail.
“Fine, but because of that I’m choosing the movie,” she proclaimed showing him her tongue in a childish way. He got real close to her face and bit her tongue. She opened her eyes in surprise and looked at him. He smiled with his teeth still locked on her tongue, not to hard, but not to soft. He slowly moved up her tongue and grabbed her head. He let go of her tongue and kissed her.

“Stop you perve,” she said in a fake voice as she pushed him away.

“You know you like it,” he said back as he stuck his own tongue at her. She flipped him off and got up to leave.

“Let’s go now or we’ll be late for the movie,” she said.

“Wait, I like watching your ass as you leave,” he giggled.

She slammed the door on him and ran to the car. He followed shortly after her, half expecting her to have drove off already. Running out of the house he jumped into her pride and joy. An old ford truck that had seen it’s golden years long ago. The paint was good old light blue, there were no plaster spots on this baby, she kept it in the best condition she could. The problem was it was just old. He half expected it to fall apart at any minute, leaving them stranded.

“So when are you scrapping this heap,” he asked in a sheepish way knowing she’d get mad.

“Don’t call her that, Derek!” she said as she slapped his chest. “I should make you walk your happy ass to the movies.”

“I love it when you get mad!” Derek said as he kissed her cheek. Within seconds he had leaned out the window shouting, “Hi-Ho Silver!” with his finger pointed forward.

They drove down Mc Loughlin all the way down to the inner city. Being the first week of winter the temperature had started to drop, sending cold breezes down. The cold hadn’t stopped them from driving with their windows down as Derek continued to lean out the window; the scenery flew by. Big glossy houses with column of marble turned into run down warehouses and trees turned into baseball fields as they got closer to the theater. With one rickety turn they were in the theater’s parking lot, looking for an open space. The first floor was packed, but the second story was abandoned completely. Having the pick of the litter they parked near the stair well. Just as she was about to get out of the truck Derek said it,

“I love you”

“I know. I love you, too.” She kissed him on the cheek and jumped out of the truck.

One Way Trip
(1015 words)

A man entered a convenience store. A woman with a child was just leaving, only people in the building were the clerk and a tiny bespectacled man in a massive overcoat rummaging the frozen goods. The man walked to the counter.

"Can I help you with something?"
"I'll have a pack of red Marlboros and three bottles of beer."
"Sounds like a special evening."
"You know it."
"Is that all?"
"Yeah, I'll have whatever magazine or paper that has sports results. I need to check some bets."
"Not much for the Internet, eh?"
"Checking sports results in papers is a guilty pleasure."
"We all have them. I for one still own a phone with one of those spinning things. What are they called again?"
"I don't remember. Wheel phone?"
"Excuse me..." said the tiny man, who had appeared behind the other customer.
"Please wait for your turn," said the clerk. "Something like that. Love the noise it makes."
"I remember," said the man. "I actually once tried to find some program that'd make my cell phone sound like it. It's soothing."
"Yeah, it's pretty relaxing."
"I just..."
"There's a line, mister," the clerk said. "Anything else?"
"No, or wait, I'll have one of those Penguin scratch tickets."
"You know, yesterday someone bought one and won ten grand."
"Too bad I didn't have their luck."
"Shame."
"THIS IS A ROBBERY, FUCKFACE!"

The clerk and the man turned around. The tiny bespectacled man was holding a revolver too big for a bald space marine.

"How long are you goddamn fishwives going to gossip?" the tiny man demanded. "There's a goddamn customer waiting and you just shoot the shit! Now, if you'd be so kind and empty the cash register in one of those plastic bags. A blue one, please, like my eyes."

The man backed away from the counter as the clerk started to unload the register to a plastic bag.

"No bills from the bottom, please," said the tiny man. "I've seen movies, and those are always marked."
"What do you think this is, a bank?" The clerk scoffed. "And besides, there's nothing but fucking bottom in this register."

As the clerk was shoving money in a bag, the robber fidgeted around, pointing his gun at the two men in turn. He was sweating.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" the clerk said.
"How would you know?"
"Well, this is my ninth robbery."
"If you don't keep your mouth shut, it'll be your last," the tiny man muttered, grabbing the bag from the clerk.

As the tiny man lowered his gaze to examine his loot, the clerk raised a shotgun from behind the counter and emptied the barrel at the robber's head, painting the magazine rack behind him red. But before going down, he spun around, his gun discharging towards the man's torso.

"Hey, buddy," said the clerk. "You okay?"

The man laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling. He could feel something warm and wet on his body as his senses were distorted. Sounds and visions receded and everything took a bluish hue.

"Buddy?"

The man got up, holding his chest. He looked around, the surroundings seemed blurred, shimmering.

"Can't believe I survived that," said the man.
"You didn't."

The man turned around. A skeleton holding a scythe was standing behind him. He looked down, saw himself on the ground, bleeding.

"Well, shit."
"That sounds about right, sir."
"Wh-what's going on here?"

The tiny man was standing next to himself, holding his head. Or what was left of it.

"You fucker, you shot me!"
"It wasn't my fault," wailed the tiny man. "If he'd given the money, nothing would have happened!" Not my fault!"
"Not your fucking fault?"
"Technically he's right," offered the skeleton. "He had no choice."
"What the fuck?"
"Chain events of history, fatalism, sir. It was always going to happen like this," said the skeleton. "I've had this appointment for aeons."
"Good to know someone cares."
"So I hear, sir," said the skeleton. "I realize this is an awkward moment, but could I trouble you to fill out these?"

The skeleton produced two cards from its rib cage and handed them over to what a moment ago were convenience store patrons.

"The hell is this?"
"Customer feedback survey, sir," explained the skeleton. "Customer satisfaction is of the utmost importance to us. Not that you will be doing repeat business with us."
"Us?"
"You are merely talking to a representative of an organization with a long and proud history. Think of us as your travel agency."
"I want to talk to a manager!"
"Excuse me?"
"If it's a goddamn travel company I want to speak to someone in charge!"
"Goodness, you don't think you were important enough to be collected by one of the higher-ups, do you?"
"I didn't think I would be collected at all!"

At this point the ghost of the tiny robber had decided he didn't want to be dead, so he did what all truly brave people do, run. When he reached the door, the air became gelatinous and he became stuck.

"Sir, you cannot leave your body until you have been severed," the skeleton informed him kindly.
"I don't want to die!"
"It is just a tad too late for that."

The skeleton walked towards the robber, and between him and his body, it swung its scythe. The tiny man's stuck spirit disappeared.

"Where'd he go?" asked the man.
"He has moved on, sir."
"To where?"
"I don't want to spoil the surprise. Are we done here?" It didn't sound like a question.
"I have a wife and a kid!"
"I am sure they will miss you very much," The skeleton moved towards him.
"Please wait, what happens next?"
"You are going to have to find that out for yourself, sir", answered the skeleton and swung its scythe.

Well, after my earlier rant, I find myself whittling away the hours by reading through every entry in all the challenges that I've had a story in. I've got several ideas for themes if I ever happen to win, but that won't be happening this time unless I get to work.

ronito said:

HatosgonnaHato: Welcome to you too. you probably could've cut the first two, paragraphs with little impact to your story. Some editing would've helped. I also had a bit of a hard time following. I love you too, but don't call me "babe".

Click to expand...

People can never follow my writing, lol. Thanks for the feedback mate, much appreciated.

In My Mind, It was the Vibra-briefs
words: 1209

All right, started something new. I think I like this one alot better.

I'm a paragraph and half in and I just realized that I over transitionify my sentences. Every sentence feels like it should be at the head of a paragraph. I can't imagine how anyone can read through my stuff every other week.

So yeah, not happening for me this time cause I just can't write it. Was gonna be an obituary of a superhero who got cut in half with a focus on how he lived his life when the cape wasn't on. But as it turns out, I have no clue how to write an obituary and going back and forth between looking up how to do so and actually doing so killed it since I don't do outlines.

Make it more of a eulogy by a friend of his alter-ego. That would be much easier and allow you to put more heart into it.

EDIT: You still have 5 hours left.

I'm at work, so its going to be a close call to see if I enter or not... :lol

Irish said:

Make it more of a eulogy by a friend of his alter-ego. That would be much easier and allow you to put more heart into it.

EDIT: You still have 5 hours left.

Click to expand...

Cept I generally sleep at 2230-2300 Central Time =). I'll try to get into the next one.

Deleted due to TOS change.

For kicks: Grandfather and Grandson 435 words

The boy and his grandfather were on the road to the spaceport to meet the waiting ship. Hisses arose from the houses flanking the street, and the grandfather tried to shield the boy from those hostile views. Body modification was a recent phenomenon, and the conservative segments of society had their problems with it. You'd have though that this close to the interstellar traffic people would be more open-minded, but this street was among the worst. The grandfather judged that they'd be moving out soon.

Space travel was a long process. When it took a hundred years to reach the nearest star, the original human form couldn't handle it. Changes were in order, measures were taken, and the human race began its slow self-directed evolution into... something else. A tiny fraction of it did, at least; the adventurous and energetic, the explorers and the avant-garde jumped at the chance while the remainder made it their job to hate them for their differences.

They rounded the corner, and saw the spaceport in full view. They could easily have driven, but this was the last time the grandfather would ever see his grandson, and he wanted to enjoy the last bit of time they had left together. It really was a pretty part of town, with impractical cobblestone pathways that looked like they'd been made by hand (though robots took care of that now). The trees, engineered to thrive with little rainfall swayed gently in the warm breeze. If not for the dirty glances directed their way, it might almost have been idyllic.

The spaceport's entrance opened to allow them through, noting coldly as machines do the prescence of one passenger and a guest. The ceramic floor of the launchpad shone with a white brilliance that made things seem almost divine. Above this shining white floor were the huge spears of the ships, black and imposing, insulated and spacious. It would be a long trip, and looking at the boy's face clearing upon realizing the grandeur of the ships, the grandfather felt relived. It would be a long trip, and he was glad that the grandson was happy.

The door to the ship opened; the attendant inside looked at the clock on the side of the entrance and gestured impatiently. With a swish of his tentacles, the grandfather rose up to his full height of ten feet and glided through the portal, looking back to see his grandson. Hand and tentacle disengaged, and they looked at each other, tears in their eyes until the doorway closed for good and the boy was ushered away by the attendants.

Argh, 100 words over.

Full Circle (1800)

Matthew Bolder downed the rest of his coffee, dropped the cup, and pulled his Colt Model 1903 in one smooth motion. He squeezed off two shots--both to the chest.

His target dropped. Now Bolder just had to get out alive.

Footsteps thundered toward the office, the ants moving in to defend their hive--too late. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and shoved a chair under the handle for good measure.

Bolder had surveyed the office when he first walked in--an old habit, a habit that kept him alive. He looked around again. Desk, solid mahogany, now in the process of becoming blood-soaked. Two quality office chairs, one occupied, one under the door handle. Rug of good manufacture; three fake potted plants; two abstract art pieces on either side of the door, violently green. He shuddered. He had always hated green.

Someone was hammering on the door, hammering and shouting. The violent pounding synchronized with the pounding in his head, the incessant pulsing that meant he needed more caffeine.

Alcohol addictions were for lesser men.

Bolder rubbed at his temples, checked his pockets. Pack of cigs; wallet; mini-thermos, woefully empty.

The sharp report of a .45 cut his contemplation short. They wouldn't get through the door quickly--it was heavy, designed to withstand gunfire. But they would get through.

He was out of options.

Bolder's eyes narrowed. He looked to the window--not the sort that could be opened, not this many stories up--and back around the room. Out of options.

Bolder picked up the heaviest of the potted plants, gave himself a running start, and heaved it with all his strength at the window. The glass splintered, a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward from the point of impact. He retrieved the pot, heaved it again. The spiderweb spread further.

The pounding and gunfire were growing louder--they were almost through.

Bolder picked up the plant once more, heaved it.

The glass shattered, and at the same moment, the door splintered open.

Bolder turned, raising his gun, and something slammed into his chest like a freight train, pushing him backwards. He teetered, then fell back through the broken window.

*

It had all started with a woman. Didn't it always?

There was a tap on the door, just loud enough to make Bolder wince. He could really use another cup of coffee. Strong, thick coffee, the kind you could stand a spoon in, not this runny garbage his secretary made. Real coffee.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. "Come," he called, and closed the file he'd been flipping through, leaving a finger in to mark his place.

The door creaked open.

She was a knockout, of course. A knockout in a short skirt and a long coat, raven hair drifting lazily out from under a jaunty green hat.

Bolder's eyes narrowed. He hated green.

"Matthew Bolder?" Her voice was crisp, businesslike. She walked through the door, hovered on the edge of sitting in the chair in front of his desk.

"That's the name on the front door." A linebacker was slamming the inside of his skull with a sledgehammer.

"Mr. Bolder--"

"Call me Matt." He offered his hand to shake.

"Mr. Bolder." She ignored the hand, raised a delicate eyebrow. "I need your help."

Didn't they always?

*

Bolder steepled his fingers, looking down at his newest file. Raul Martinez, wealthy businessman, was dead. Bolder's job was to find out who killed him.

Why had Mrs. Martinez come to him instead of the cops? She'd made noises about the police not caring when a Hispanic got killed, but that didn't fly. For one thing, Martinez sounded wealthy enough for the PD to take notice of his death, whatever he looked like. For another--Bolder sat back, reached for the mug at his elbow, drained it.

Bolder was not well-liked by local Hispanics, courtesy of a pretty young reporter he'd got on the wrong side of just before he took down Ernesto Gutierrez's crew. She'd done a big story on it, so interested in the details that he'd almost thought she had forgiven him. Until he read the story, saw what she'd done to him.

Bolder shook his head, got to his feet.

He was going to need more coffee.

*

Bolder leaned one arm against the bar, coffee in his other hand. "Listen amigo," he said. "I just need a little information. Sabes?"

The man on the bar stool looked back over at him, frowning. "I don't know nothing about it."

"You never saw this man before?" Bolder waved the photo of Martinez in the man's general direction.

The man frowned more deeply, but took the photo. He studied it for a moment, then shook his head. "Don't know him." He handed it back.

The man knew something, but he had clammed up tight as soon as Bolder started asking questions. "All right," said Bolder. "Take my card. You hear anything--" He shrugged.

The man waved away the card Bolder offered him, then seemed to change his mind and reached for it. He looked down at the card, then up at Bolder. "Matthew Bolder?"

"That's the name on the card."

The man crumpled it, dropped it to the beer-stained ground. "I got nothing to say to you." He put down his half-empty beer, dropped some money on the bar, and trudged out.

Bolder was left staring after him in a suddenly quiet bar. He glanced around the room. More than a dozen pairs of eyes were on him, all of them hostile.

A large man was suddenly at his elbow. Bolder looked up and recognized the barman, less cheerful than he had been a minute ago.

The barman took Bolder's upper arm in a tight grip. He leaned down. "I think maybe you better leave, Mr. Bolder." He smiled, but his dark eyes remained cold.

Bolder looked at him, then back around the room. His hand itched for the cold steel of the Colt Model 1903 at his waist, but he restrained himself. "I think maybe I'd better."

The barman nodded, released his arm, and Bolder walked out into the chill night air.

His breath steamed in front of him as he stood looking up at the blazing sign that declared this "Jorge's Place" ("¡El mejor cerveza en la ciudad!"). He blinked. Maybe he'd be better off not standing right outside the door. He headed down the street, vaguely in the direction of his office. This was going to be harder than he'd thought.

As he walked past the mouth of an alleyway, a voice hissed at him. "Amigo."

Bolder turned slowly, reached for the Colt Model 1903.

"No need for that." A figure stepped out of the shadows, a smallish man with a crooked smile and a thin mustache. It was one of the men from the bar.

Bolder waited, not looking away, hand on the Colt. "Got something for me?"

The man looked up and down the street, then back over his shoulder. "I don't know if what they say about you and Ernesto Gutierrez is true." He hesitated. "But I knew Raul. Buen hombre." He took a step back so he his face was shadowed again. "You talk to Francisco Torres. And--" He hesitated again. "Don't tell him your name, amigo." The man vanished into shadows and was gone.

*

"Yeah, I knew Raul." Torres was enormous, bulging at the seams, his overlarge, sweat-marked three piece suit doing little to restrain his bulk. He was an overstuffed barge ready to sink at the first sign of a storm. The table he occupied at the back of the restaurant resembled nothing so much as a rat's nest, covered with piles of yarn and cloth, sundry items of clothing, all manner of snacks and drinks.

No coffee though, damn it.

Torres' watery eyes narrowed. "Hey, I met you before?"

"I doubt it, Mr. Torres. If we're lucky, we won't meet again."

Torres snorted, jowls quivering. "Damn right."

Bolder's head was beginning to pound again, a familiar staccato cadence starting up inside his skull. "What can you tell me about him, Mr. Torres? Did anything seem unusual before--well, before his death?"

Torres frowned. "I didn't see Raul too much. First I heard of him getting it was you asking me questions."

Bolder paused. Torres wasn't as well-connected as he had thought. Or he was lying. "So you don't know anything." Bolder stood up.

Torres looked indignant. "I never said I don't know nothing. Sit down, Mr. Not-a-cop. I will tell you how to do your job."

*

Bolder stepped into the elevator and pushed 29.

He replaced the Colt Model 1903 at his waist. Reading between the lines of what Torres had said, the individual he was going to visit today was another Ernesto Gutierrez--a common gangster playing at respectability, desperate to get ahead, woe betide anyone who got in his way.

Bolder meant to get in his way.

He sipped at his coffee, stepped out of the elevator.

Security had been surprisingly lax--the 1903 was small and hammerless, but a competent pat-down would've found it. He shook his head. Just as well; he might need it.

He knocked twice at the southwest corner office, as Torres had instructed him, then pulled the heavy door open.

He began to survey the office--an old habit--but froze when he saw the smiling face of the sole occupant.

It was Ernesto Gutierrez.

"Mr. Bolder. Bueno. It has been so long."

"You were expecting me."

"Of course." Gutierrez's smile widened.

"This was a setup."

"Of course."

Bolder thought back over the last few days. "There was no Raul Martinez."

"Oh, there was. Is." Gutierrez laughed. "He is not dead, of course."

"His wife was in on it."

Gutierrez nodded.

"The man at the bar."

Gutierrez nodded again.

"Torres?"

"No. But Torres knows his business. Of course he sent you to me."

Bolder shook his head in disgust. "What now?"

"I do to you what you did to me, amigo."

"What?" Bolder's head was pounding again.

"Soon, you will be found unconscious, with a dead man's blood on your hands." Gutierrez grinned. "You will make many friends in prison."

Bolder looked back at the office doors.

"I think not, amigo." Gutierrez gestured at the chair opposite his. "You have no weapon. I have many. My security team is nearby."

Bolder sat, not letting any emotion cross his face. Gutierrez didn't know he still had a gun.

Bolder would have to be quick. He might be able to salvage this, if he could find the right moment to move.

As Bolder sipped at his coffee, Gutierrez leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.

Matthew Bolder downed the rest of his coffee, dropped the cup, and pulled his Colt Model 1903 in one smooth motion. He squeezed off two shots.

Tangent's story:

Source of Strength -- 1,800 words.

"God has no name, for everything that has a name is related to created things."

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, dumbfuck!” a man in a Beemer snapped when I darted into the the street to save my runaway bag caught in the bitter, damp wind. How the hell did the bag – this bag – get loose? How could I be so careless and stupid? I ran back to the sidewalk where I dropped the rest of my shit before my sprint. Nervously, I peeked inside the bag to double-check if the chapstick was still in it. Bearly. The handles of the bag had torn and the bottom left-hand corner had a hole. I snapped my head to search both sides of University Avenue, grabbed my backpack and sprinted to Long’s for Scotch tape. My purple bag needed mending. It needed to be a whole bag again. It only held one thing now: one stick of lip gloss from a tropical variety pack. All crumbs were gone. I could barely even read the French writing on the outside of the bag. If the corner hole became any bigger, I’d be sure to lose even the chapstick. It was losing its strength, it’s purpose. And, it was all I had of Ashley now, my strength and comfort. God! Fucking drug store lines!

“Next please,” said a gentle voice. I scrambled to the counter, trying to take deep breaths before I spiraled into a full-blown panic attack. “Just the tape,” I said between breaths. The lady smiled, and managed friendliness while minding efficiency. I liked her smile. She reminded me of the lady sitting closest to the aisle on a United Airlines flight three Augusts ago.

*

Her smile warmed her wrinkles and animated her eyes. She kissed the cross around her neck as the plane took off. Seeing me witness her kiss, she bashfully giggled in a weakened voice, “I’m not Christian or anything, but this cross gives me strength,” and then she embraced her pendant with her gentle, withered hands. Even atheists worshipped idols. Although I knew by her classy taste in clothes and jewelry, I asked her if she was returning or departing to France. Returning.

“Oh I’m going to visit an old friend,” I responded when she returned my inquiry. “Actually, she was my next door neighbor; we were in Young Fives,” I continued, fondly.

“That’s sweet of you.” Her wrinkles danced with life again with her smiling eyes. I wondered if she knew about Young Fives.

I then wondered what my old neighbor, Ashley, would look like. We were two knobby-kneed, nerdy little kids who had tons of fun. It’d be nice to talk to someone who was part of my past. Hopefully not awkward.

The ride was quick since movies at 30,000 feet become loaded with profound and memorable meaning, even, “Horton Hears a Who.” After transferring to a train, I stepped onto the ground of Strassberg and walked towards my own past, but on another continent. Ashley was gorgeous: thick auburn hair, bright green eyes, and the body of a Nike model. Shit! She’d be making a first impression of me as well! I suddenly felt self-conscious of my crooked nose, beady eyes, clunky body, and the hint of a belly. She gave me a friendly hug anyway. Fortunately, we warmed up quickly, so excited to catch up on two decades. I enjoyed Ashley’s tour of the cathedral, the Rhine River, and the central square. Mostly, I loved our frequent trips to the bakery.

“Here, take this bag,” she said. She fished out a small crumpled purple plastic bag from her eccentrically cluttered closet.

“Eh, I can just get a bag at the bakery,” I responded.

“Oh right – in the US you can still get bags. Plastic bags here are a precious commodity. You have to bring your own. I think you can get bags at the market, but they cost a pretty penny,” she explained.

Precious commodity. We bought a chocolate croissant, boarded another train, and shared it on our walk to La Courneuve, just outside Paris. I pictured more cafes with outdoor seating along cobblestoned roads with some flashy European cars here and there. Instead, on our walk to her Tunisian friend, Ahmed, we saw a lot of gray, tall projects without windows. But I enjoyed Ahmed’s home-cooked North African meal. While discussing immigration, French colonialization, American diplomacy, religious fundamentalism, and existential crises of 20-somethings, I finished my drink.

“NO!” Ahmed cried, freezing me from entirely crushing my soda can. “Please! I need those.” I turned the can around in my fingers. “Yes We Can” soda from Obama’s campaign. “It gives me – I dunno, courage.”

“Shit, Ahmed. It’s just a can!” scolded Ashley with some repulsion. “You’re a courageous person. More so than that can. What’s next? You can’t recycle a kid’s scribble of an Easter bunny because of its sacredness?”

Ahmed stared down and quietly protested, “Look, maybe I’m courageous only because of those cans.”

Fortunately, the awkwardness subsided and conversation with wine resumed. On our walk back to the train station, we, of course, were mugged. Ashley was a bit ahead deciphering graffiti she when thin man grabbed for her purse. Ahmed looked up, ran up to Ashley and yelled at the man, but he was off. Thankfully, the thief escaped with just the purse, leaving Ashley rattled by the fleeting moment, and surrounded by a mess of pack-ratted bags. We helped Ashley gather her stuff up. Her breathing calmed, and I wrapped my arm around her shoulder as we walked back, and then embraced Ahmed sincerely before departing.

On the train back to Strassberg, Ashley said, “That sucked.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, “But you’re OK, right?”

“Oh sure. And also, he just got the bag with the salami baguettes,” she grinned. “My money and cards are here,” she said as she patted her belly, embossing the money belt against her t-shirt.

“Nice!”

“Hella nice!” she corrected. She fished through her stuff. “And if I’m right, I think I have everything else here.” She stopped to hold and recognize various keepsakes, baffling me on why she’d ever carry all that shit everywhere: yarn, vitamins, sudoku, novels, maps, lip glosses, sneakers, etc.

“Oh and look! Here’s the chocolate croissant! That man didn’t get a bite of our croissant!” she exclaimed.

Snickering, I said, “Ashley you’re like the obnoxious loud American dropping crumbs all over the train!” and began to push back the purple-bagged croissant back into Ashley’s larger traveling sack.

She stopped me from folding away her garbage and looked intently at me. More so than she had before. I liked it. I loved it. I seized the opportunity to stare deeply back into her eyes. My heart quickened. What was she going to say? Something about our childhood? Or was she going to say she thought my shoulders were broad? Or that she was grateful I was there for her when mugged? I realized I loved Ashley. The last 26 days felt so right – so…playful. And courageous. I felt strong with Ashley. I prepared to lean in to her as she professed her mutual love for me.

“Matthew, are you okay?” Her eyes raced nervously across my face.

I wasn’t expecting that.

Before I could answer, she continued, “You look pale. Maybe it was that – that man.” She collapsed her arms onto her bulging bag. “I’m sorry Matthew, what kind of host does this? I should have warned you. La Courneuve is pretty ghetto. I—”

“No!” I said, abruptly. She looked up at me with her enormous almond-shaped green eyes. More calmly, I explained, “It’s just that – well, I’m fine. Maybe I looked a little pale because I was – well concerned for you.” I took my chances. After all, she did get mugged. That necessitated concern.

“Well, I’m fine now. So you should be too,” she beamed. “Look, take the rest of the croissant. The chocolate’s caffeine will give you strength, or, something like that.” She thrusted the purple bag against my chest.

“Take it!” she insisted playfully. “Food is fuel. Glucose is strength.”

The last three days were more challenging for me, especially after finishing dinner. I wondered if I’d be promoted beyond couch-squatter. She walked me back to the train station on our last day together. Shit. I had very little time to tell her to move back to California with me so we could make wild love – with a French flair.

“Matthew, thank you so much for visiting. I’m really gonna miss you,” she said. “It’s great how we still get along so easily, just like we did as neighbors manning lemonade stands.”

“I’m going to miss you a lot too,” and with a shy smile, I added, “Any chance you’ll move back to the splendid city of Palo Alto?”

She tilted her head and moved her now pooling eyes away. “We’ll see. I’m not good with plans.”

Shit. Time was ticking. She looked back at me and sighed. Then she flung her arms around me. I took her into my arms and pressed her torso against mine, almost pulling herself off balance to smell her sunkissed chestnut hair infused with vanilla shampoo.

“You’ll visit soon though, right?” That was my start.

“Of course!” she said confidently, backing her face away to look at me. “You’re practically my brother, after all!” Brother?! That was my title after a month in the city of romance? She planted a kiss on my cheek: kiss of death. But at least the smell of her cherry-flavored Lip Smackers was now on my face.

“Word,” I managed.

The moment was over. “Okay, well this is it, Matthew. Do you have everything? Do you have your passport?” I figured I should double check. Kneeling down, I opened my bag and pulled the passport out – and out of its crinkly plastic bag.

“Here it is,” I proved, waving it in the air. “But you keep the bag,” I insisted, extending it to her, “Afterall, they’re plentiful in the wasteful U.S., right?”

Waving her hands as a guard against my offer, she replied, “Keep it. It’s a souvenir. Just don’t spill any remaining courage-wielding, glucose-packed crumbs on the train. You’ll give away your American identity too easily.” She winked.

I shrugged and took the bag. But once on the train, I clutched onto the bag feverishly.

*

Three summers later, I still have the bag, now nursed with several layers of Scotch tape. I opened the chapstick and closed my eyes as I breathed in. I imagined kissing her, and imagined her lips against mine. Embracing her in a kiss would feel right – so strong. I gripped the purple bag against my chest, more tightly now after almost losing it, and walked down to the CalTrain station.

I think I'm going to throw in the towel on this one. It's supposed to to a more somber piece, but I don't think I can get the tone right (everything I type ends up sounding too nonchalant) and still make the deadline. Even though I'm too tired to try right now if I didn't have work in the morning I likely would anyway. It's my own fault for waiting until the last minute to actually type it up. If I don't finish tonight I wouldn't get the chance to until Saturday, so I'd rather just wait for the next one.

For those of you with a passing interest here's a quick synopsis of the story I had planned:
The general plot was about a sheepish recluse who starts losing pieces of himself (fingers, ears and what-have-you). It was going to be a more abstract piece than what I'm used to doing. The theme being about juggling social and business obligations with personal time/projects. Essentially the protagonist is a failed artist that hasn't done any work in ages and is in a pretty bad slump. He feels as though he's losing his identity, but at the end realizes that he's (both literally and figuratively) trying too hard to find himself and that by just getting something, anything down on paper he can begin to put himself back together. I hadn't decided on a title, but was leaning towards "All the King's Men."

Anyway, I'm off to bed. It seems like we have a few new faces this time. I look forward to reading all of the entries. Good luck. :]

I was going to write the story tonight, but I ended up watching kick ass with a bunch of friends all night. But i'll enjoy everyone's stories, good luck all.

"Remember, your reports and presentations will be due the Friday after next. There will be no exemptions or late credit," announces Mrs. Petterly for what has to be the fifth time in ten minutes.

In the back of the classroom, slowly swirling his index finger around an ink-filled etching on the face of his desk, sits your typical American teenager. Brown bangs swished to the side of his face, unbuttoned blue polo revealing a white T-shirt beneath, dark denim jeans, and a pair of shining white sneakers make up the almost standardized uniform for this average teen. Like most everyone else in the crowded room he reclines his head so it faces skyward and lets out a hyperbolic sigh.

"I most certainly hope that was a collective sigh of relief for being given such an interesting assignment instead of the usual tripe."

With several swift, well-practiced movements, that ordinary student lifted each of his clean sneakers off the carpeted floor, placed them on the text carriage of the desk/chair combo in front of him, leaned against the thin armrest on his right, and lazily lifted his left hand into the air.

A thin smile, nearly a smirk, crosses the aging teacher's face as she turns to address her pupil.

"Yes, Mr. Thompson. Is there something I can do for you?"

Now smiling as well, the teen braced himself against the back of his metallic chair and slowly rose in his seat.

"For starters, Mr. Thompson is my fa-"

Hazel eyes framed by dark eyeshadow traveled from her green wool sweater to her graying bangs in a single, smooth rolling motion.

"Just leave it at that Dallas. Ask what you intended before wasting what precious time we have until that wretched bell rings, if you please."

"Right, right. I just wanted to voice the question I'm sure several of my um... peers have floating around their simp- er, minds."

Whether poorly concealed or meant to be apparent, a smoldering displeasure crossed the frustrated teacher's face.

"Oh, now what would that query happen to be?"

"I just want to be a hundred percent clear on what you were saying a minute or so ago. So, you expect us to do research on a subject, write up a 25-page report based on that subject, and then use what we found in that process to create a 75-slide Powerpoint presentation with tons of text, audio, and animation included and hand it all in within two weeks time?"

Mrs. Petterly seemed to fall into a moment of deep thought before raising her head once more, her smile returned.

"Not at all, Dallas. I don't know why you would believe that your participation was required for this particular assignment. Oh wait, I think I remember now. I said there would be no exemptions, the Great Dallas Thompson included."

A thoughtful look briefly appeared on Dallas' face before he spoke up once again.

"Well, I wouldn't call myself great, but I don't think reasonable would be that far off the mark."

A subtle shake of her head dismissed the thought as unimaginable.

"Also, I plan on having everyone present their project to the class before turning it in. You must have missed that little detail when you were partaking in your daily catnap. Don't worry though, neither I nor the rest of the class are expecting much effort from you, or Mr. Clark for that matter."

DING! DING! DING!

"Enjoy your weekend, class."

Dallas gave his history teacher a glimpse of his 'award-winning' (if competitions between female friends count that is) smile along with a double 'Thumbs-up'.

"Will do, Mrs. P. I can't wait to carve out a place for myself in some great history texts."

The elderly woman let out a fake laugh before turning serious once more.

"I think we'd all be a bit better off if you didn't damage any books."

"Gotcha. Have yourself a fantastic weekend."

With that final quip, the falsely cheery student grabbed his black backpack and walked out the door, the infamous James Clark at his side.

"So, Jim, I expect you're going to drive straight home and begin work on that assignment. Would that be a correct assumption?"

His long haired, dark garbed friend nodded in his direction for a moment before clasping his shoulder and saying, "You know, I think I'm going to snatch something off the internet the Wednesday after next, make a few corrections, and then present it on Thursday. You know I've never been one to procrastinate."

"Excellent point, James. You're such an excellent worker that I have no idea why Mrs. P. decided to toss your name in there at the end."

Confusion carved its way into the teen's face as he thought of a reason.

"She's a cold-hearted bitch, that's why. Hell, I was behaving today. My calculus work had my full attention."

"Good point. Well, besides the fact that we happened to be in History at the time that is."

"LIES!"

WHOOSH! ... THUD!

A denim blur flew into Dallas' vision before being quickly pulled away.

"Jesus Christ, Charlie, can you ever be still?"

A jumpy teen around 6' 3" tall jumped in front of the two friends, laughter emanating from his entire face.

"Never! I would like to know what happened to my perfectly aimed kick though."

"Instead of getting my face smashed in, I decided to redirect your energy into this unfortunate person's locker, which happens to be dented now. Luckily, everyone turned towards us, so there will be no doubt as to who the culprits were."

A quick look around revealed the statement to be one of truth.

"Right, aikido, I totally forgot about that. TIME TO GO!"

The trio quickly found their way out of the crowded school and into the parking lot.

"So, who's this supposed 'bitch' you were talking about?"

"Mrs. Petterly. She assigned us this ridiculous project based on this stupid Billy Joel song."

Charlie's mouth widened until it the ends of his mouth were nearly touching his ears.

"STARKWEATHER, HOMICIDE, CHILDREN OF THALIDOMIDE."

"Ah, I figured you'd be the one to have the lyrics memorized."

"Really, Dallas? Did you forget that this is the fucking idiot who faked being fatally ill so he could miss a few semesters of high-school?"

Charlie stopped in his tracks, an appalled mask floating across his features.

"HOW DARE YOU?"

"Am I lying?"

"Well, um.. you see... I really was sick for a while."

Dallas giggles to himself for a minute before turning to his tall, wild friend.

"I have no idea how you, a guy who has more energy than an Olympic swimming team, managed to milk a slight migraine and a stomach ache for a year and a half. I can't imagine you did anything other than lie in bed and groan. Still, you could probably sell an autobiography and make millions."

"Eh, go fuck yourself."

"Jimmy?"

"A complete idiot and a guy who thinks he's God's gift to the world, how did I end up with you two as friend's anyway?"

"Nevermind, Jimmy doesn't get an opinion."

"Agreed! Besides, while you two are stuck doing hours upon hours of work in your final weeks of senior year, I get to play around all day. You see, while I was 'faking' sick, I completed all of my required courses and now have a schedule filled with nothing but electives."

"BASTARD!" Misters Clark and Thompson screeched at once before turning towards their destination once more.

As the trio continued their walk to James' truck, Dallas looked down at his right arm and noticed it was coated in a thick, gray sludge. A glance towards Charlie's pants legs reveals a similar sight.

"Care to explain what in the world this is, Charlie?"

The lanky giant looks at the mucky arm pointing towards his feet and says, "Concrete. We were laying a sidewalk down in Construction.'

"So you thought it would feel good to take a stroll through it?"

"Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't, but that's not how my feet ended up like this. No, my dumbass partner decided it would be a great idea to pull the still-spinning mixer out of the bucket of wet mud."

Laughter erupted from all three teens at once as they hopped into the cab of the small, golden truck.

"So, where are we going, Dallas?"

"And you're asking me why?"

"Well, because you happen to be the unofficial leader of our little clique."

"True, but James is driving."

"Yes and I'm driving us straight to the mall parking lot."

"Wow, sounds awesome," moans Dallas.

"Just wait and see. The craziest shit can found in a parking lot. Tons of people from school are in and out all night. It's like a wikipedia with nothing but information on our peers."

"So, we're a bunch of gossiping cheerleaders now?"

"Just shut it."

Several hours later, the triplets had arrived at the lot and were now sitting in the bed of the golden truck parked beneath a street light, playing a hand of Texas Hold 'Em. Just as Jimmy had predicted, nearly half the school had passed them by during the time they had spent loitering on the outer edges of the parking lot.

"Alright, Jim and Mr. Finlay, I think we should head out after we finish this round. I grow tired of the nonsense of these peasants."

The pair exchanged glances, dropped their cards to the ground, and stood up, bringing their right hands up in a mock salute to their leader.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Excellent, I've trained you both well," the words escaped the teen's mouth before his lips even parted, a mockery of the poorly dubbed martial arts films the group loved.

Still standing up, James notices a familiar face in the distance.

"Holy hell! That's Mrs. Petterly. I've always wondered what she drove. Ooh, we ought to follow her so we can egg her house sometime."

Dallas jumped up and looked in the direction James and Charlie were facing. Sure enough, Mrs. Petterly was walking down one of the aisles, away from the mall. However, Thompson noticed something that his buddies hadn't.

A man clad in black jeans and a red shirt was aggressively making his way towards her. An instant later, a pistol appeared in his hands and began thrusting towards his teacher's chest.

"Shit! She's in trouble."

"Hah, looks like she's getting what she deserves."

"Shut the fuck up, Jimmy! This isn't a joke, we've got to help her."

With that, your typical, average American teen springs into action, all cares thrown into the cool evening breeze. Within seconds, Dallas closes the gap between his teacher and her assailant. Launching into the air with the speed of a gazelle and the strength of a lion, the boy collides with the man.

BANG!

Dallas looks up to see his least-liked teacher clutching her stomach with both hands. Dark, red fluid is seeping through her thin, pale fingers.

Dallas' eyes widen in horror.

"No," he mutters beneath his breath.


____________________________________________________________________________


Talk about cutting it close in regards to both WC and time. Also, the ridiculously long title is an homage to Ashes. (Education is the actual title.)

Also, I think I included enough clunky dialogue for the both of us, evilpigking.

Ashes1396 said:

I'm at work, so its going to be a close call to see if I enter or not... :lol

Click to expand...

OP curse strikes again?

Just got back in from work about ten minutes ago. Sorry I don't have a proper entry this week. Script frenzy, poetry thread, plus life outside writing just had me too busy...

This story was something I've been working on for a while, as such it shouldn't be seen as an applicable entry. I would love to hear what people think of it. Thanks. Enjoy.


A sense of Literary death
Word count: 1794


I was with her the last time...
She was my better half...
How do I explain in words what love is? When Love to me was her. Love between us had to happen. I can't think of her without tears. I can't think of her without tears but I wouldn't have it another way.

They murdered her for a plastic card. Can you believe that? It happened like this see. I am a street cleaner by trade. My wife was coming home the eve of Christmas Eve. So I'm in my vehicle, clearing the streets by the park, with me brother in law, Ernie, in the driving seat. And I hear this woman scream just as we pass the park. And me and Ernie, we think for a bit. What if it were one of our sisters or someone else we knew? We said this but we were both convinced that it was a stranger. And in situations like this, we both being big strong African men, we got to help, don't we? We had a feeling that she might be a little...well you know it could just be friends messing about and suddenly we two turn up to...'help'. I know what that looks like. I've had enough of that in my own time. But at the end of the day, you can't let these things slide. Not us fathers. So there's me turning round the corner and I see this shadow fall to the floor. She lay there on the ground dead like. Another shadow ran away. I already know it&#8217;s too late. So as I'm approaching I get my mobile phone out and call the police and the ambulance. Both said they were on their way.

It was here that I dropped my phone. My heart went from nought to sixty. My muscles went all jelly like. My jaw dropped open. 'Audrey' I said. 'Ernie that's Audrey'.

I'm not of the educated lot- I didn't know how to react. I was f**king stuffed. You know how in movies, you always see a woman fall to the floor. It's never a man. Well that's bollocks. Men sh*t themselves just as much you know. My head was spinning. I was short of breath. And this incredible heat took over me, next thing I know, my legs gave way, I fell to the floor. I saw Ernie run off after the mugger. Oh my head felt so heavy. Must of cracked something. I could feel the blood as it got into my eyes.

When I woke, nobody was there. Just me and my wife with our children&#8217;s presents. 'Oh god' I says. I mean I try to say. My throat&#8217;s dry, it's hard to breathe let alone speak. So I fought in the only way I could. I shouted my lungs out. Nothing verbal. Just one long long agonising scream. Then I put my hands on my knees and I took a look at me wife... You never think it's going to happen to you... Oh god. This is still so hard to write... I got up and went over to my wife and held her in my arms. I don't know why...but my hands...they...they began shaking. I wasn't controlling it. You have to experience it to know what I'm talking about. I was powerless. And there I felt her die.

I did something strange then. I looked into the bags. She had brought presents for our kids. I broke down again. Tears strolled down as I knew that I had to tell my seven year old girl that her mother wouldn't be coming home again. I went over and over the scene in my head. My new born was with her grandmother.

Oh god give me strength. I remember this one time I heard a story about how this white doctor left a man to die. He wouldn't touch a nig*er. Well the flashing lights came, it seemed like hours later, they found her on me. I found out later that they had arrived within five minutes. Thank you god for changing the times. At first I was horrified. I remembered the old story of how white folks left us to die. There was a white man and a white woman but as god is my witness, they tried their damn hardest. As if colour didn't mean nothing. When the lady in green overalls said my Maria wasn't dead. I put my hand to my mouth and thanked my lord. The man took me aside and told me that I was in shock or something. I couldn't half hear him. He said something about breathing.

My Maria died on the way to hospital. It weren't their fault. I was there in the ambulance. Severe internal bleeding. It took so long to get to the hospital. My hands kept going to my mouth in disbelief... I... felt heartbroken.

My Wife, she carried a baby. So soon after our last. I mean I am the stupidest person alive to forget that- and it is my mortal shame. But it is the truth. It didn't come to mind. So for a plastic card my unborn baby died. She was at such an early stage that there was no way the doctors could save the poor darling.

My eyes were dried with tears then. It stung horribly. They gave her a bed for the time being. Thank you I said. They said that my wife was carrying a donor card. I said I knew. I don't agree with it mind. The doctor stood silent. He turned to go. He then said, there was an East Indian woman down the corridor with five children under sixteen, three of them under ten. That woman needed a kidney transplant. He didn't say nothing else.

My head was bandaged and tears fell down my face. I just thought of crying and it all came out. Every bad memory in my life came to haunt me again. Things even I had thought I'd forgotten. And no hope. No hope at all. I wasn't angry. Only because I didn't have the energy. Or perhaps cause I couldn't see the point in doing that. It was pointless.

I died a hundred times that night. First when I saw the woman fall. Second when I realised it was my Maria. Then when she died. Then when my baby died. Also when I thought of coming home to tell my children their mother wouldn't return home for Christmas. When I told Maria's mother her child had died. And each time the nurse who filled in the transplant form ticked a box. They wanted her heart, her lungs, liver, her kidney and more and more. Even her skin. I said yes for Maria for a few things. The skin stayed. I died again when I saw her face through the glass window. Again when I lay next to her. Again when she closed her eyes. When the doctor called her time of death. I died a hundred times that night. When I told my children face to face. And when the poor angels didn't understand. And I died once more when it began to snow and I realised it was Christmas. I beat the walls. I loved her so much.

And then a man walked into the ward corridor where I was sitting on a bench. A South Asian business man. He looked like the Mediterranean model you see in that watch advert. He wore a white shirt, with a loose black tie. The shirt was tucked into polished black trousers. He said 'are you Maria Sutherland's husband?' He then insisted on shaking my hand. He thanked me and Maria for saving his daughter's life. The doctors weren&#8217;t supposed to tell him, I thought. He then asked me if he could possibly be at the funeral. He asked so sincerely and I could see he was holding his tears in. I still couldn't speak words so I nodded. The father hugged me. And thanked me more profusely then.

I was awestruck then. I had gone through all the emotions tonight. I'm only a simple man. And this man was thanking me for saving his daughter's life. I didn't know what to feel then. I don't know if it was wrong or right what I felt. But I felt yes, in all the grief, I felt just a little bit proud. Even in her grave, my Maria saved lives. For it was lives. I went to the six people she saved tonight. And they were crying. And I thought such are human beings.

I went out for fresh air. I breathed in the cold air. The snow stopped. Everything was still. The silence was...peaceful. I don't think I even thought a single thought then. And time, it just passed.

I met a young man, an author and a journalist, that night. He was crawling the streets. Troubled to his soul. We got talking and he told me his story and I told him mine. And he said to me that sometimes writing was therapy to him. And I said to him that music was therapy to me. The young lad said to me that he talked to lots of people and that the world was a cruel place. The world was a depressing place. He said my case wasn't unique. This must happen every night. I clipped him round the ear. I said you suffer for no good reasons. He sipped his coffee and said Dawn will come at the end of every night. The boy smiled. I sat confused. I began to say how I am an uneducated idiot and I don't understand how-. He shushed me and said. No! your thoughts, actions, and experiences tonight are more worthy on a page then my own. He then asked if I wrote the story of tonight, how would I start? I began saying that I would start by saying how great my wife was. He got a little peeved. He said that's not what you said to me. The very first thing you said is that you were with her the moment she died. That you love her. Don't put yourself in a writer's shoes. The best of writers out there are trying to put themselves in your shoes. These events aren't planned. If it&#8217;s the truth start with the most important truth. The idiot was speaking loudly by now. We were getting some attention. He then says to me, oh to hell with my literary tradition. If you want to talk about love, let love have its space.

Then he stopped. No, he said...the best of writers, they...put the focus on the characters...

The boy was clearly confused.

The End.

*Thanks, but please don't include this in your votes... thank you... *

Figured if I submit something (anything) for this, then I'll be more inclined to submit something for the big five-oh. Maybe.

RE: Robot

I’d like to think you know what you’re doing.
But how could you?
Hydra wires snake from you, and servomotors chug and whine.
Do your creaky fingers even feel that Caesarean scar of rust
Across a stainless steel belly, as you expose
Silent gears of the watch you huddle over?
Time betrays even science.
The back plate drops from your control.
Your hands shake for seconds you used to know.
You try to move them from the watch,
But your shoulders refuse.
You hope you haven’t ruined it all.

You settle down finally. At least, you still do.
And you stick a careful finger
Into that pocket of cogs and feel
All the pieces of your prize.
I’d like to think you know what you’re doing.
But you gave that watch your eyes.
Did you know those little gears steered your lenses?
You had to have known those little pieces would break your focus.
And again you fumble blindly inside your shell.
And again you pluck a bit of yourself.
And again the watch grows. Until—

“Tick tick, apple of my eye,” you struggle to voice.

You think you know what you’re doing.
And I’d like to think you know what you’re doing.
But what time is it really?
And what time does the sun set?

Your wonderful entries:

ZephyrFate- "Hagiography"
Jill Sandwich- "Lucky Night"
ronito- "The Rat"
PolarBearsClub- "Hospital"
Hato-kun- "Prospector"
AnkitT- "A thinking man's amnesia"
ChubbyHuggs- "Untitled Fragment From Love Letters"
John Dunbar- "One Way Trip"
Ward- "In My Mind, It was the Vibra-briefs"
crowphoenix- "Nicely Done"
grumble- "Grandfather and Grandson"
Cyan- "Full Circle"
Tangent- "Source of Strength"
Irish- "Education"
Ashes1396- "A sense of Literary death"
DumbNameD- "RE: Robot"

Good big batch of entries today. Nice to see some new blood, along with some returners. (Glad you're back, DND! )

I'd be interested in doing more of these, but maybe some unusual restrictions to get people thinking differently might really help improve people's writing. For example low word limits (like sub-500), or you have to have the entire thing be in dialogue, or stuff like that.

Upto the winner. And it's happened before. I made this relatively easy because the last one was relatively challenging. It was fun though...

OT
got a question for u writers

I'm writing an origin for a character, but every 2-3 weeks I keep changing it. If I thought of a cool idea or watched something I tend to scrap my old draft.
How do you decide that this is it I'm going to leave it alone?

bathala said:

OT
got a question for u writers

I'm writing an origin for a character, but every 2-3 weeks I keep changing it. If I thought of a cool idea or watched something I tend to scrap my old draft.
How do you decide that this is it I'm going to leave it alone?

Click to expand...

I never scrap any material. I write everything down, and eventually piece everything together in which best fits the story. It's how I write, not sure if it would help other people though.

bathala said:

OT
got a question for u writers

I'm writing an origin for a character, but every 2-3 weeks I keep changing it. If I thought of a cool idea or watched something I tend to scrap my old draft.
How do you decide that this is it I'm going to leave it alone?

Click to expand...

Don't scrap it if you think you've found something better. I tend to write two of the same stories, but I end up tweaking both with different ideas to see which I like best.
Or you could keep what you have; just go back and tweak some miner details that'll help you make way for an unknown future.

At some point you're just going to have to sit back and go, "This is it."

these are very helpful.

I'll do the two stories at the same time. It might help me getting bored.

another OT Q
Do you guys start writing drafts or outline (stepsheet) first?

bathala said:

another OT Q
Do you guys start writing drafts or outline (stepsheet) first?

Click to expand...

I usually start with a spreadsheet of ideas. I never start a new spreadsheet for a certain piece though, I put all my ideas down on one document. When I start something, I pick and choose ideas from everything, and mold the story around them. Because my ideas are generally based around the same topic, or everything I think of is based of similar laws, I don't usually have problems.

EDIT: Dresden, your avatar is badass.

grumble said:

I'd be interested in doing more of these, but maybe some unusual restrictions to get people thinking differently might really help improve people's writing. For example low word limits (like sub-500), or you have to have the entire thing be in dialogue, or stuff like that.

Click to expand...

As Ashes alluded to, win one and you can make a challenge like this.

Yes, I think we've got some crazy challenges ahead of us with all of this new blood coming in. Plus, there are a few regulars who haven't one yet that I'm sure have some great ideas for challenges and their secondary objectives.