How hard are you 'trying?'

I realize that you spend a lot of time in Uncharted 2 waiting to respawn, but thinking about your story during that time doesn't count! You need a time to focus on just your story and nothing else. Then just start writing and the next thing you know it's 5 in the morning and you have a story.

So... about that word limit. :O

Well, looks like my story is finally coming together. It's also reminiscent of Cyan's recent stuff, structurally. I do hate it though. I really wanted to do something different than my normal stuff, but it doesn't look like I'm going to achieve that this time.

Cyan said:

So... about that word limit. :O

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Haha, I almost raised it to 2000 for that secondary objective, but decided not to at the last minute.

hey_monkey said:

Haha, I almost raised it to 2000 for that secondary objective, but decided not to at the last minute.

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I'm gonna be interested to see if people think I've fulfilled the secondary objective or not...

Anyway, I'm about 250 over. Pretty sure there's enough fat that I can cut that much without too much trouble.

I've somehow said all I wanted to say in under a thousand words. Funny how that changes from week to week. Its a social commentary about the happiness of children in Great Britain. It'll be up soon.

I wrote down most of my story, and it's really short, and not very good. I should have gone with the fanfiction. I have this problem every time I try to write something even half-serious, it just feels so dry and forced. Plus the stuff I'm trying to say just feels like it's been said many times and better by others. Gonna let it stew, but not confident.

/irish level negativity

John Dunbar said:

/irish level negativity

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Heh. Gotta love writing-GAF in-jokes.

Start it in a tavern!

Cyan said:

Heh. Gotta love writing-GAF in-jokes.

Start it in a tavern!

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:lol :lol
Poor crow.

Wow, I talk about myself way too much. I already have seven posts in here doing that.

Anyway, I wonder if Mr. KittyCat (Ronny "Ro-Ro" Ronito) will end up using that idea he mentioned a couple of weeks ago. It would be perfect for this challenge. It works with both the theme and the secondary challenge.

Irish said:

Wow, I talk about myself way too much. I already have seven posts in here doing that.

Anyway, I wonder if Mr. KittyCat (Ronny "Ro-Ro" Ronito) will end up using that idea he mentioned a couple of weeks ago. It would be perfect for this challenge. It works with both the theme and the secondary challenge.

Click to expand...

what what?

Dude, I don't even remember my ENTRIES let alone my ideas for entries.

I actually don't have an idea this time around.

I can't even find it now, so I may have been hallucinating. It may have even been somebody else, but I thought it was you.

Anyway, it was an idea involving Gaf's avatars talking to each other and something about Crow talking about being in a race in coming in second. I thought it was a great idea.

Irish said:

I can't even find it now, so I may have been hallucinating. It may have even been somebody else, but I thought it was you.

Anyway, it was an idea involving Gaf's avatars talking to each other and something about Crow talking about being in a race in coming in second. I thought it was a great idea.

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ah yeah. That I do remember.

Yeah, turns out it's actually harder than it sounds. If I were a bit more motivated I might be able to do it.

that was in the last thread iirc. :lol
@John: Does the piece feel out of character or do you? the best thing to do is to distance your self from the topic and write in the best interests of the story at hand. But that's easier said then done.

Don't come in here with your logic. Well, unless you plan on finishing my story with it. That would be nice. (only 1/5 of the way done and I need to finish by tonight. Yay!)

Did you say that you had your plot done and dusted? If so, why not write it all out then draft, redraft and redraft again? I'm actually quite interested in quite a few of the stories I'm set to read later this week. Your story as well as johns... Should be fun.

Three words: Red Dead Redemption. I'm such a day-one gamer. I'm also leaving for the next few days so I have to get all my writing finished tonight.

Also, what's all this stuff about redrafting? I have yet to do that, but I plan on doing it on the next challenge where I have a lot of spare time.

I am interested to see what everyone else is doing though. This is an interesting theme/secondary combo. In fact, I think it's the best pair I've seen in a while. (no offense to everyone else)

None taken. And your right, it's an pretty good theme combo.

I... I... I think I've finally done it. I believe I've finally addressed one of the biggest criticisms my pieces usually get- that they read more like a scene than a complete tale. I've got a beginning, middle, and end. First time ever. Heh... Of course, I'm not going to say a damned thing about the quality. I'll let you guys nail me for that one.

I don't like how you ended that. You should have done it differently.

I've started mine! It's pretty... uh... wacky.

I'm so close, but I'm quickly running out of words. Noooo!!!!!

Study might rule out an entry this challenge. It depends on whether my procrastination gets so bad as to push me towards writing something.

Dark tires spin relentlessly against dehydrated earth as they get ever closer to their intended destination. From the east to high above, the sun bakes the already dry ground, making it the perfect contact point for the hard rubber wheels. Sun now veering west, the repetitious cycle of the tires comes to a close. In one final act of rebellion, they fling a cloud of dust and small pebbles at the aluminum behemoth resting just above them.

Its metallic shell now covered in dirt and fine scratches, the beast emits a howling screech as it comes to a complete stop. A glass limb covered in a latticework of iron tattoos emerges from the creature's shining side. Seconds pass before something else makes its presence known, a man in an oak colored uniform. Dark, polished boots leap from the open portal and slam against the ground, knocking even more grit into the air. A quick step to the right leaves room for the next occupant to exit the massive vehicle.

One by one, ten ordinary men step down from the bus and slide along its aluminum side, each moving right once his feet hit the ground. None of the ten look alike nor are they related. Long hair, no hair, green eyes, brown eyes, tall, short, dressed in a suit, wearing shorts, white, and black. Some are nervous while others have a look of homecoming on their faces. They are individuals.

They were individuals. They are now a group, chained together by their crimes. Rape, armed robbery, homicide, burglary, drug trafficking, and aggravated assault. Simply components of the stainless steel shackles that bind them as one. Actions have reduced them to a level far below the realm of words. Actions are all that remain to them as they work to climb their way back to the world of vocal and written communication.

So, it was with silence that the group of liars, thieves, and thugs made their way into the intake facility. No trouble was brewing. In the intake facility, all were dehumanized and cast into new roles. The trouble would begin once the prison became a home.

____________________________________________________________________

"My name is Brent Gallian! I'm not #655321!"

Why don't they understand? Is it really that hard to refer to me by my name?

A beige jumpsuit with matching slippers has replaced the jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers he had grown accustomed to wearing his entire life. Of course, his hair was as shaggy as it had always been though. The spacious house he had lived in with his parents and two sisters had been reduced to an 8' x 8' x 8' cube. A small, barely comfortable cot with a single pillow serves as a cheap substitute to the massive king-sized bed and dozen or so pillows he had left behind. Worst of all, however, was the stainless steel, seatless toilet that he was forced to use in full view of anyone who happened to walk by at the time.

Still, being in prison hadn't changed his lifestyle all that much. In fact, the only real difference was the lack of any electronics. Well, that and a lack of privacy. Otherwise, the prison life was very reminiscent of his time in high school. He mainly stayed to himself any time he was forced into a group setting, out of the dramatic squabbles familiar to others in the institution. Any words uttered in his direction went either unnoticed or ignored.

Having been in the Arizona State Penitentiary for the last year and a half, Brent quickly fell into the routines and rituals prisoners create for themselves to maintain their sanity. One of these routines involved pacing the perimeter of his cell for several hours at a time. The rest of his free time is spent reading literature checked out from the institution's library, drawing in his notebook, working on his novel, or writing home to the family he loves so much.

Even after spending hours doing all of the activities mentioned above, Brent is left with more time to think than any person should be. While his thoughts often contain the things he loves most, more often than not his mind drifts towards darker subjects. The reason for his imprisonment remains at the front of his mind at all times.

"Don't you see! I was just protecting her! That's all! He hurt her and you let him go! I shouldn't be here, he should!"

The 'her' was his little sister, Mara. A few years ago, when she was only nine years old, an old man named Ignacio Muñoz picked her up from the playground near the Gallian family's residence. Over the next five hours, he molested her repeatedly before beating her and dropping her off at the playground once more. Brent found his sister lying on the sidewalk at the park's entrance while he was out on his nightly walk and called 911 immediately. Mr. Muñoz was picked up a few days later at the very same spot while attempting to lure another child into his red pickup truck. After being released on bail, Ignacio went back to his home and to pack his belongings in an attempt to flee the country.

Unfortunately for him, Brent was there waiting. He beat the man within an inch of his life before calling the authorities. Of course, when they left, Mr. Muñoz was not the only one they took with them.

_______________________________________________________________________

The mess hall only has enough room for one cell block at a time, but even so, the amount of beige-clothed bodies in there at any given time is staggering. With the amount of frustrated men gathered about in a relatively small space, trouble is bound to erupt every once in a while. Things have been relatively quite lately, but tension has been building over the last few weeks, leaving everyone more than a little stressed out.

Even so, today doesn't appear to be the day the flood gates open. It looks as though the peace will maintain its hold for a tad bit longer. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, corn, and four slices of buttered bread fill the prisoner's stomachs as light conversation permeates the air. Once finished, each inmate takes their tray to the nearest waste receptacle and scrapes off any remaining bits and crumbs before taking it to the dish bucket.

Lunch time almost over, a crowd of people get up from their seats and make their way to the closet trashcan. The careful dance of doing it all without stepping on anyone's toes has been well practiced, so the mass migration finishes without incident. Almost.

"Who in the fuck spilled this red shit on me? Come on, you little bitch, man up!" shouted a bald Hispanic inmate in his early thirties. On his right sleeve was a long, red streak composed of meatloaf grease and tiny bits of beef.

The crowd of inmates parted like the Red Sea to reveal the young, shaggy-haired Brent staring silently at his left sleeve. It bares a nearly identical mark.

Not wanting to involve himself in any trouble, inmate #655321 turns his back to the loud-mouthed aggressor and quickly rushed towards the nearest C.O. Anger crosses the older inmate's face before quickly being shrugged off.

Both return to their cells quietly.

____________________________________________________________________


"Javier Izquierdo don't take shit from nobody! That bitch gonna learn his place!"

A code Javier, also known as inmate #981878, has lived by his entire life. A member of Los Zetas, Izquierdo has never been a stranger to the American justice system. He's found himself incarcerated here at Arizona State Penitentiary multiple times in the past for a multitude of drug charges, but he won't be leaving for a long while this time.

During an armed robbery at a local gas station, the elderly attendant had a heart attack after Javier waved his Glock in the man's face. Izquierdo snatched all of the money in the register as well as the clerk's personal belongings before making his getaway. Luckily for police, he forgot to grab the security tape and was caught soon after. Charged with manslaughter, the thug was sentenced to 25 years of hard time.

So far, he has served eight years of his sentence and has picked up a few tricks for prison survival. The one he likes most? Prison retaliation.

First, he gathers his supplies (lighter, toilet paper, several plastic cup lids) and places them near the base of the stainless steel toilet. Next, he wraps the toilet paper around his hand before removing it and placing it on the rim of the bowl. Then, Javier lights the clump of paper on fire. After waiting for the heat to rise, the man picks up the coffee lids and slowly melts them down, one at a time before combining them together. Once combined, he begins to shape the mass into a cylinder and then places it over the fire once more, forcing the plastic to drip into a point. With a quick flip of his wrist, Izquierdo flushes the toilet, waits a second, and then knocks the smoldering pile of paper in. When the water settles, he drops the plastic contraption in, hardening it. Finally, he retrieves the newly forged weapon and begins sharpening it by scraping the hardened point against the concrete floor of his cell.

An hour passes by before his task is completed. Once finished, he places the 6" weapon in the looped tag of his uniform collar and lays on his freshly made cot.

"Fucker's gonna pay for disrespectin' Javier Izquierdo."

___________________________________________________________________________


The Yard. The place where every inmate from all cell blocks except Administrative Segregation join together for a little rest and relaxation. Friendly sporting events aren't all that uncommon either.

Heh...

The Yard has been divided into more sections than the contiguous United States of America. Each is owned by a gang and those borders are never crossed. The urinal is the only 'free' area. Mainly, it's a temporary gang stronghold, as no one goes there alone. No, they bring at least four comrades to watch their backs while they piss. It's the standard. Unless, of course, you have no allies.

Brent Gallian is one of those rare inmates without a friend and using the restroom was not in his best interest today.

Like a cat, Javier Izquierdo sneaks up behind the lanky prisoner and impales his sharpened claw into Brent's neck. He repeats the motion several times before leaving the shy youngster lying in a pool of his blood and urine. His shaggy hair soaks up some of the mess like a janitor's mop, but the pool only gets deeper.

A smile slits open the living man's face as he turns his back on his conquest.



******************************

This topic was actually too inspiring for me. It led me to a novel-sized idea that I've been working on this past week or so, leaving no time to come up with something else for this challenge. There's still time I know, but my brain only wants to work on this new novel idea. Won't let me write anything else.

Aaron said:

This topic was actually too inspiring for me. It led me to a novel-sized idea that I've been working on this past week or so, leaving no time to come up with something else for this challenge. There's still time I know, but my brain only wants to work on this new novel idea. Won't let me write anything else.

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That's both slightly disappointing, and totally awesome. Go for it, dude!

Aaron said:

This topic was actually too inspiring for me. It led me to a novel-sized idea that I've been working on this past week or so, leaving no time to come up with something else for this challenge. There's still time I know, but my brain only wants to work on this new novel idea. Won't let me write anything else.

Click to expand...

do you think you could work it as a short story, as a sort of a rough pitch?

Aaron said:

This topic was actually too inspiring for me. It led me to a novel-sized idea that I've been working on this past week or so, leaving no time to come up with something else for this challenge. There's still time I know, but my brain only wants to work on this new novel idea. Won't let me write anything else.

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Kick ass! I'm glad the theme is coming together for people, but this is superplusawesome.

Aaron said:

This topic was actually too inspiring for me. It led me to a novel-sized idea that I've been working on this past week or so, leaving no time to come up with something else for this challenge. There's still time I know, but my brain only wants to work on this new novel idea. Won't let me write anything else.

Click to expand...

Interesting. I hope to see some of that someday.

As for me, at first I thought it'd lead to a lot of similar ideas. But actually it was exactly the opposite for me. It ended up leading to too many ideas. The Raven King, Rich and poor, worker and boss, samurai and ronin, a historical fiction about the "Harvey Girls", even a story about a fish and a miner. In the end I decided on the most interesting and the most personal idea. I know it wont go over very well. But you gots to do what you gots to do.

edit: Hey_Mono, you might want to re-host your avatar. I keep getting mal-ware warnings about it.

Ashes1396 said:

do you think you could work it as a short story, as a sort of a rough pitch?

Click to expand...

My notes for the story already surpass the word limit, and they aren't even that detailed, so not really. A lot of my interest in the story is in the details of the world it takes place in, which would be lost trying to cram it into under 2k words.

The topic inspired me to think of a city where people always wear masks in public, making them separate but equal. Now that's only a small part of the whole, because I started thinking how this city would work, and then what sort of world this city could exist in, and also what sort of characters would fit that world. I could write just the section of the story involving this city, but even that's going to go over the word limit. My rough description of the city and its history is over five hundred words.

This idea is like some rapidly expanding substance. I can't put a lid on it.

Aaron said:

Click to expand...

Make sure to note everything down! Inspiration doesn't come often enough in such big bursts.
It kind of reminded me that my own novel stays stuck on the third Vol directly because of this. Shame that the first and second so heavily depend on it that I can't finish either fully without it. It'll come. It's running on a couple of years now so I'm not concerned about publishing anymore.
@ronito: what's with the whole: I know it won't go down so well.
John D was doing it before. Irish is infecting everybody. And he's improving his craftsmanship all the time!
Just to change the trend, I'll say that mine is going to blow people away.

I can still submit right?

No, you cannot. And don't check the OP to find out the deadline: it would just be too much effort for an exercise in futility.

However, for the low price of $10, we could make an exception.

We've already had one entry, sorry. Try next time. Check the op for details.
@Tim: Beaten by seconds. Seconds I tell you. I will concede for now. If Tim says $10 is enough, Who am I to disagree.

Haha, was just making sure I wasn't tripping out. The 12:00 AM/PM thing throws me for a loop sometimes.

Yeah, like any clique, we tend to discourage newcomers . We're dicks like that. Plenty of time to write something up, man.

Speaking of which, I have an idea now, sadly - I was getting so comfortable with the procrastinating and all. Pro-tip, kids: Don't go jogging to clear your head. It works.

Oh it's written... it's been written for a little while now. I just completely forgot to post it until an alarm I set went off, but I got a little scared cause it just said "3" instead of AM or PM. Started freaking out. I'll post it after going over it one more time. I haven't written in awhile, so I feel really rusty. Oh well.

A Tally for Two

Crunching through the snow, Wind Phoenix’s ears swiveled as he walked. Somewhere to the west, he could hear the human muttering obscenities to herself and blowing into her cupped hands. All the good it would do her -- the arctic took no prisoners.

Movement caught his attention. Whatever it was had promptly disappeared over a rise. He waited until it crested the next hill, and revealed itself. Even from this distance, its fear was palpable. He seized the moment. The chase had begun.

Powerful muscles pumping with each of his long strides, Wind Phoenix dashed down the wintry slope and jumped from the precipice of a tall overhang to the world below. The fall was further than he had anticipated, but he absorbed the impact, recovered his strength, and set out again. Gray excitement rushed from his nostrils as he ran after his prey. He would not be denied this victory.

Passing a dip in the terrain, the ungulate ran, long horns bobbing from side to side. Musk floated back to Wind Phoenix, a thick, earthy scent mixed with terror. He could taste it on his tongue. Only seven strides separated the two. The beast was within his grasp.

Something hit the antelope from the side, and it lost a step, tumbling head over end down the next hill, throwing snow into the air. Its cry filled the air. A long river of blood stained the snow. Wind Phoenix barreled over the crest, but came to a stop at the bottom. His prey was dead; an arrow protruded from its side, piercing ribs, and penetrating its heart.

Anger and adrenaline mixed in his blood. It took everything in him not to lash out when he saw what had killed his prize. The human shouldered her bow, blew into her cupped hands, and started down the knoll towards him. Blue tattoos traced the features of her face: a tear drop beside each eye, jagged claw marks on her cheeks, and a half closed diamond shaped eye on her forehead. Fiery hair spilled from the hood pulled over her head. Their eyes met.

“You didn’t believe I would truly let you have it, did you?” she asked through a series of images she pushed into his mind with her thoughts. After interpreting them, Wind Phoenix growled. The woman made her way over to the deceased game, bent, and pulled her arrow from it. “You shouldn’t be so arrogant. It doesn’t fit you.”

Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of the kill, Wind Phoenix didn’t respond. Instead, he circled around her, and sniffed the day. There were other prey to hunt; other creatures that were as frail and easy to chase as the hoofed beast dead in the snow. He would find another. Without turning to say anything, he started away.


*****


Emeraldwind cleaned off her arrow, staring at Wind Phoenix’s back. Blood matted the gray fur around his massive paws. After saying a prayer for the deceased antelope, she dropped the arrow into her thigh quiver and rose. The yaulin wouldn’t meet her gaze. Even from this distance, she could see his fur bristling; the link connecting their minds crackled with exasperation. It was unlike him to allow her a kill as easy as this. Before she could say anything further, the yaulin disappeared over the lip of the ravine.

It would do her no good to wait for him to chase down another creature. She climbed the ravine, and scanned the horizon. Here and there along the landscape black and brown rocks poked out from the snowy scenery, highlighting crevices, hummocks, and gullies in the terrain, some as deep as the deepest canyons of her homelands. One wrong step would spell her end. Care would have to be taken if she valued her life.

Something appeared and disappeared off to her left. Scanning the hills, she waited for it to appear again, but it never presented itself. The thrill of the hunt tingled in her chest. Ambition was a mistress best served when in motion. As she was not one to sit idle, Emeraldwind started after it, reaching for her weaponry.


*****


Again, adrenaline surged through Wind Phoenix’s bloodstream, heightening his already keen senses. One of the creatures had already evaded him, and another stolen right before his eyes. This one, however, had nowhere left to run. It skillfully leapt a ravine stretching three times its length, then bobbed down an indentation in the snow and up the other side. Panic blew from its nostrils in great heaves as it darted this way and that, seeking a way to escape the yaulin. There were none. Wind Phoenix would have his kill.

Wind Phoenix cleared the chasm easily, padding down on the other side with his paws spread wide to lessen his impact on the hard packed snow. He never lost sight of his target. Barely winded from the chase, he rushed after his prey, its black and white coat blending with the landscape. Wind Phoenix’s acute vision picked the creature out among the rocks and snow.

It was four long strides before he could claim his prey. His ears swiveled to listen to the world around him. There was no one but him. Emeraldwind would not have this one. It was his and his alone.

Alarm filled the antelope’s glassy eyes, its head turned just enough to see the yaulin leaping towards it. It was the last thing the ungulate ever saw. As Wind Phoenix came down atop it, it cried with ear splitting distress, collapsing beneath the yaulin’s weight. Two bleats rose from it before Wind Phoenix severed its vocal chords with his bite. Its blood was thick and warm; salty and metallic to the yaulin’s flared senses. It squirmed one last time, then went still. Victory.

Swiveling his ears, Wind Phoenix listened. He could have sworn he heard the sound of metal against metal. It was a distinct noise; one that nothing natural could reproduce. It wasn’t until he heard her scream that his senses shifted from elation at his luck to alarm. He looked down at the dead creature. He would not have the chance to relish this triumph; if he did not rush to the source of the cry, his reason for being out among the snow and frigid temperature would vanish. In a blur of fur, claws, and bloody teeth, Wind Phoenix began running. He hoped he wasn’t too late.


*****


Ducking one of the monster’s wild swings, Emeraldwind stepped away, trying to put distance between her and the monstrous beast lumbering towards her. It was easily four times her size, with giant, furry arms, and twisted demonic horns. Bullish red and black eyes glared at her. Pulling another arrow from her thigh quiver, she took quick aim, and fired. It batted it away just as easily as it had done the last four.

Stupidly, she had fallen for the trap. Even after knowing the measures that brutes like this went through to trap humans like her in the glacial territory they called home, she had fallen for it. Cursing herself, she moved further away. If she could put enough distance between the pair, she could try to needle it with a few of her arrows. It wasn’t until she had put a good forty strides between them that she saw the extent of her dilemma: the beast had backed her against an impassable gorge, it’s depths as dark as night.

There was no going around the beast. It blocked the singular exit out of the canyon. Walls of slick stone rose to each side, offering no handholds. Felling the beast was her only option, which seemed an impossibility the longer she waited.

It approached slowly, savoring each moment of her meager existence. She again tried her arrows. It again batted them away as if they were nothing. When it was no less than ten strides from her, and she could almost feel its stale, blood thirsty breath on her, she shouldered her bow and pulled one of the swords in the harness at her back free. If she were to die, she would die fighting. With a scream, Emeraldwind ran for the beast.


*****


It wasn’t a question of whether Wind Phoenix would die for her, but when. Today seemed as good a day as any. Without a second thought, he leapt from the cliff towards the fray: the pale skinned, fiery haired woman rushing at the beast with her blade drawn, and the towering monstrosity lumbering towards her with a wickedly curved device of its own. Beauty and the beast met with a clash of steel. The beast knocked her away with ease. Her blade spun into the air and landed harmlessly in the snow. Emeraldwind fell back, stunned by the blow. But before the savage could fulfill its intentions, Wind Phoenix tore into its back. Its howl filled the air.

Teeth sinking into the creature’s furry neck, Wind Phoenix dug further, and held on. Emeraldwind recovered and rushed to her blade. In a blink, she pulled it from the snow. The creature clawed at Wind Phoenix, paying little attention to the woman coming for it. Before she delivered the fatal blow, the yaulin leapt from his place, muzzle and paws bloody. Emeraldwind wasted no time. She plunged her sword into the creature’s chest, pushed, and stepped away as it flailed and fell to the ground in a heap.


*****


Winded, Emeraldwind fell to her knees. No words could express her appreciation. She looked at her life-long companion and smiled, relishing every deeply drawn breath. Something of a wolfish grin tumbled down the link they shared, followed by an image of a wolf father licking his pup. Laughing, Emeraldwind stood and brushed off her knees, then pulled her sword from the dead creature’s chest.

“Aye, I suppose this counts as two for you, then?” she said aloud, hoping her joke concealed the tension and terror still tight in her voice. The yaulin howled. She cleaned her blade and slid it back home. “Then with these tally marks,” she said after pulling a ledger from her pack, “you’ve won this round. That’s three games for you, and three for me. I wouldn’t suppose you’d be up for another?”

His answer was a series of images full of bravado. Before she could answer, he was away. She nodded. Another game it was then.

Ashes1396 said:

@John: Does the piece feel out of character or do you? the best thing to do is to distance your self from the topic and write in the best interests of the story at hand. But that's easier said then done.

Click to expand...

Sort of, especially since the secondary objective, because I'm trying to write opinions that aren't really mine, and trying to back them up feels cumbersome. I'm such an amateur my only idea for "multiple POVs" was, well, multiple POVs of characters.

Also, now that it's almost finished, if this can be called finished, I'm not even sure I think it fits the theme, so I assume anyone reading it won't, either.

Also, I've been mostly reading for an exam all week, so there's been limited time. Thank God Super Mario Galaxy 2 isn't out until June here.

Malware warnings about my avatar? I'll switch it over when I'm back at my desktop, I guess. Thanks!

Aaron: that world sounds very neat. Hope the story works out! I will expect a shout-out on the acknowledgements page when it's published.

John Dunbar said:

Super Mario Galaxy 2

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It'll be fine. If the crits agree with you, you'll at least know that you had the foresight to see what was wrong. Always a good thing for a writer, that. It's sometimes hard to gage what the audience reaction will be.
Oh, I came on here to submit and I've gone and replied to someone. :/
Double post it will have to be.
edit: Wah!!!! That was bloody brilliant!!!!! hey monkey, bow, bow. It says two minutes difference but I refuse to believe it. It was instantaneous, I tell you!

I'll save you!

A thoroughly modern childhood or Failing the National Exams for Primary School children
word count:1603

Part 1

9:45 am

Rashid lay head first on his desk. He dragged his tired eyes open to listen to the teacher yelp his name. His thoughts were far far away. They flew like paper planes over the lush mountain side.

‘Rashid, its exam week. You have to study.’

Rashid opened his book. The bags under his eyes told of long nights. ‘Everybody orders,’ he whispered under his breath, ‘Nobody asks...’

‘Rashid, you have to study hard boy. You have a very important exam next week.’

Rashid held his quivering eyes. ‘You have one exam, Miss. We have a million,’ he muttered under his breath. He blew his black –just out of bed- hair away from his vacant brown eyes back with a soft breath.

‘What was that sorry?’ the teacher asked with rising intonation.

‘Nothing Miss...’

12:45 pm lunch break

‘I’m going to run away,’ Rashid whispered. He was tied with rope to a lamppost. The rain came lashing down. He closed his eyes and imagined himself safe in his father’s luxurious car. In this dream, it was night time and the hills flew by. The orange lights were like dots in the dark landscape. There was just something about being driven that allowed Rashid to rest peacefully.

‘Oh Rashid, wake up,’ Sarah the class monitor said. The rain had ceased. She untied him. ‘Why don’t you face the bullies Rashid? Why do you let them do this to you?’

Rashid opened his eyes and breathed in the free air. ‘Thank you Sarah... In ten years time, I will be eighteen. I will get a job and repay your kindness.’

‘Why do they tie you up?’ Sarah asked fretting over Rashid who was a good few inches shorter than her. She took the riff of her navy school sweater and attempted to dry him; although they had both fallen prey to the rain. She cursed herself for not remembering an umbrella.

‘This doesn’t leave a mark,’ Rashid said. He picked up his bag bulging with a weight too heavy for his shoulders. ‘And I think it’s supposed to be funny.’

Sarah took a hair band from her pocket and wrapped her golden hair in a bun. She put her hand on her hips as Rashid walked away.

3:45pm fifteen minutes after school has ended

‘Your drenched Rashid, get in babe, quick,’ Rashid’s mum said swinging the door behind her open.

Rashid stepped into his mum’s quaint little blue VW Golf. Driving along the high street, with his baby sister, Yasmin, in her car seat beside him, a thought suddenly occurred to him.

‘Mum. Yasmin can’t speak, how do you know who she wants to stay with?’

His mother looked at him in the rear view mirror. ‘She’s staying with me darling... babies always stay with their mother.’

‘So if I choose dad, I won’t get to see her for most of the time?’ he said in tone of a rhetorical question.

His mother started talking and carried on for a while. Rashid looked out at the world through the window. He saw Sarah waving at him and he nodded in acknowledgement. He looked back at the rear view mirror. There were tears flowing down his mother’s cheeks.

‘Mum, I’m sorry I made you cry. I don’t know how to think correctly...’

7:45pm

Rashid read his books, did his maths, tidied his bedroom, brushed his teeth, turned off the lights and got into bed. To please his mum. In bed, he lay looking at the ceiling fan as it went round and round.

12:45am

His nightmares woke him up. Wearing only a vest and shorts, he crawled to right hand corner. The Witch, the thing his nightmare was made of lay in the opposite corner. He opened his door slightly. He could hear his parents arguing. He crawled back to his space. He made a quick dash to get his duvet, before returning to his corner.

‘When do I get a lawyer?’ he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

Luckily, he dreamt a better dream this time round. In it, he was his own man, driving his own car, through the evergreen English countryside.

Late into the night, he opened his eyes, for a second; just long enough to see snow fall outside his window. He looked at the dark figure in the bedside corner. Though he could not see it, he was sure the witch was still there.

‘I will live to fight another day, just you wait and see,’ he said. ‘Good night.’

He breathed in and then breathed out. Once again, he drifted off to the warmth of a good night’s sleep. Pneumonia would trouble him in the morning, but that was a long way away now...

Part 2

7 am Exam day.

It was miserly and dark winter morning. Sarah lay on the cold concrete floor as blood fled out the broken bones. She could hear the engine running above her. Being a GP’s daughter, she wondered why syncope hadn’t been triggered yet. She lay as still as possible and spat out the blood stuck in her gullet. She wriggled her fingers and toes before lying back helplessly rigid.

‘Bloody cars!’ she thought. She’d looked left and right and what-have-you. She was sure of it.

She looked aside to see legs beside the tyres, both moving slowly backward. Sarah concentrated on breathing. Shards of a smashed windscreen lay all over her and around her. She wondered how it came to be on her when she was under the car. She then wondered whether she would remember any of this. ‘So this is what it feels like to have been in a car crash.’

She recounted the events, only remembering that she had been flung a good distance. She realised then that she was under another car. It still didn’t explain the shards. She tried to think it through but mental exhaustion set in. She fell to a slumber.

She awoke suddenly and shivered slightly. She was still under a car. She carried on from an earlier thought. Glass. Why was she covered in glass? She reimagined the scene again. The only way glass could shatter like so was if something hit it. If not from the front where? The back? Of course! It must have been a passenger who hadn’t worn a seatbelt.
Sarah looked around. In the next moment, she found herself thinking one thing, doing another and saying one other. ‘Help’ she cried.

Although she couldn’t turn her head around, she knew that somebody laid behind her. Their body must be in the way of the tyres. For fear of doing more damage, bystanders waited for the emergency services.

Sarah tried to free her left arm though she didn’t know what real good that would do. She was aware now that people were talking to her. She couldn’t make out the words. Although she heard her inner voice say: ‘I can’t... I can hear you mister...I can’t understand... I’m sorry’; she knew on some level that her lips barely moved.

She looked down at her feet. In the broken shards she saw the colours change rapidly like the lights of fire engine. So they had finally arrived. She wondered why she hadn’t heard the sirens. Her brain was doing funny things; she planted a mental note to remember this for later. She wondered again whether she would.

She looked for bigger reflections and found a place to the right, where she could make out the car she had hit. It was a quaint little blue VW golf. ‘Oh Rashid, don’t be behind me. Please don’t be. ’

The panic of the thought raised her blood pressure and she passed out again.

48 hours later.

Rashid sat tucked up in the hospital bed beside Sarah’s bed. ‘Joseph, can I please move beds? please can I?’

Joseph the male nurse looked up from his desk. He smiled as Sarah continued to frustrate Rashid like an unwanted older sister. ‘You’re going home today Rashid. It’s only a few hours.’

Sarah felt drowsy and her body ached all over. It was hard breathing with a tube attached to your mouth. ‘Shut up and study. You’ve only had pneumonia. I’ve gone under a car. Don’t you forget it!’

‘No, I won’t do it,’ said Rashid. ‘Exams are over. I’m done being told what to do! And you can forget about being paid for kindness when I get a job in ten years time. You’re nothing but a school loving peabody’

Sarah managed to lift her heavy eyelids. She spoke in a softer quieter tone. ‘I’m only looking out for you kid.’

‘Stop doing that girl thing. I don’t need your pity. We’re the same age!’

Joseph snapped his book shut. ‘Alright! Rashid if you really want to be moved beds, I’ll try and sort something out. Just say the words.’

In actual fact, there were no free beds to speak of. Rashid would have stayed for at least a day more for observation if bed spaces were not an issue. Joseph bluffed in the hope that it paid off.

There is always one moment or two were deep lifelong friendships are cemented. And for Rashid and Sarah it was this moment. Rashid kept his silence.

Although Rashid –now- folded his hands in anguish, protest and frustration, in ten years time he would indeed help Sarah buy her first car. And in forty years time, Sarah would be at Rashid’s daughter’s graduation ceremony in his stead, him having passed away the year previously.

Rashid walked over the window sill and watched the winter rain fall against the pane.

An End.

edit:
[@cyan and for anybody else who wonders:

I guess I'm to blame here regarding the age. I based it on a friend I used to know back in my primary school days who was dyslexic. Rashid is ten going on eleven, but is bad with numbers. The story as a whole is based on the the boycott of SATs test for eleven year olds. When you know that, some readers may then assume that this is some discrepancy in Rashid's maths. Reagardless, I wrongly assumed that my local knowledge was other people's local knowledge. It's such a simple oversight really.
several key issues are also highlighted here. Some news stories
Primary schools braced for Sats tests boycott this past week:
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/ba2814c6-5b97-11df-85a3-00144feab49a.html
older news stories:
Britain's children unhappiest in the world
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/newsnight/6359161.stm
And of course the number of children who die or are seriously injured in car crashes make for grim reading here:
http://www.dft.gov.uk/pgr/statistic...ns/accidents/casualtiesmr/rcgbmainresults2008

Maybe I ought to put this after the story ends. Done.

edit: this isn't meant to be a defense.

Chosen (~1700 words)

Piet van de Merwe had only bought three watches in his life. Each time, he traveled from King William's Town to East London to find a shop which sold them. There was no selection in town. And, before seeing Mr Rosen's shop, he assumed there would never be.

Walking into the store for the first time on a Saturday morning during wintertime, he was taken aback by its gleaming cleanliness. The glass cases, stacked neatly on several counters and containing a healthy amount of watches and jewelry, were dusted to perfection. Eying the store-owner, who was engaged in reading yesterday's paper at the till, he suspected that the sparse clientele available in a country town like King William's Town was the main reason for the excessive tidiness. Free time was supposed to free hands to be the Devil's playthings, but it seemed this man was not the type. Idling by a display of gold watches well outside his threshold for payment, Piet sneaked a few more glances at the owner. He was tall, but bent, like a twig; he had an undernourished look to his features - craggy face, bones poking through at the neck, rail-thin figure - which suggested lost muscle, and, probably, illness.

The man eventually started, noticing him, and, as if waking from a dream, put down his paper and walked over to him, an indulgent smile gathered on his face.

"Hello. Does anything interest you?" he said.

Piet caught his reflection in the glass at that moment and suppressed a small groan. Jesus, jou groot kaalkop. "The watches. They are very fine." He lifted his head to meet the shopkeeper's attendant gaze. "Howzit, my name is Piet." He offered his hand enthusiastically.

"David Rosen." Rosen faltered, confusedly, but took the hand offered. Unsurprisingly, it was a weak grip. "Yes, my father was a watchmaker. He taught me from early youth." His English accent was a clipped European one. Polish? Russian? German? Piet could not place him.

"You must be new in town," Piet said. "It's difficult to miss a good jewelry shop."

"My family and I arrived several months ago," Rosen said. "It took awhile to decide where to go, but I felt a nice, quiet country town would do us good."

"You left from England, I suppose?"

"Yes, but we are from Germany originally." The man appeared to recognize what he could be saying. "We left in the 30s, before the war." He nodded, as if it explained everything.

Piet leaned backwards. "You are Jews, then?"

"Yes and no. My parents were, but I converted in England."

Piet nodded vigorously. "Goed, goed. So, you will be at Mass tomorrow then?"

"There is a Church in town?"

"Yes," Piet said. "A good Methodist one. The priest is quite something. You must come and meet the community." He gave Rosen his best arch look. "And it might help in selling your wares."

Rosen had the decency to look embarrassed. "Thankyou. Or, should I say, danke."

Piet laughed. "We'll make a South African out of you, yet."



David had envied men like Piet all his life. They were loud and confident beyond their means, standing and looks in a way he could never mimic. When he arrived in the foyer of the Church several minutes ahead of Mass, he knew he would not have to seek Piet out - the portly man would come to him sure of his presence being welcomed, and further, desired.

Standing amidst the buzzing crowd of strangers, David counted upwards and downwards in prime numbers to keep himself awake at the ungodly hour these people chose to worship. The language of the farmers - Afrikaans - whirled around his head, but the conventions of Sunday Dress were universal: preening and jealously competitive housewives, bored children and proud men. Moments before he was about to give up on Piet, the man arrived in the foyer and followed the routine David expected, exchanging offhand pleasantries before slapping him on the shoulder and near-pushing him towards a pew in the back-row.

"I must apologize." Piet spoke under his breath, which faintly wafted the smell of garlic into public domain. "My wife is home with my son, who has chicken pox. I told her he would be fine with the girl, but she loves to baby him."

"Yes." David smiled, stiffly. "Mothers tend to do that."

"And your wife?" Piet turned to wave at a passing acquaintance.

"Dead," David whispered.

Piet turned back around. "What?"

"She died." He swallowed and tried again. "On the voyage over. The irony is that we came here for her health. I only have my daughter now."

"I am sorry, Mr Rosen," Piet said. "There are some things we should not live to see."

He fixed another smile on his face, as paltry as the last. "Quite."

The Mass washed over David like a glow - an effusion of light skipping around the edges of his mind. He stood and recited as the crowd did. Knelt and prayed for as long as Piet. Received and consumed the Eucharist and the wine as morbidly as he felt. And by the end, his worries over fitting in were found laughable. It was simply another Church.

One moment did threaten to break David out of his reverie. It was a moment he relived silently after the Mass, while he walked and talked with Piet vacantly, nodding and encouraging and smiling at all the right points as Piet blathered on and on in his not-so-devious mission to extract a store discount on the gold watch he lusted after. It was the priest's homily, brazenly spouted in a strident voice: "We are a Great People, blessed and chosen by God to inherit this Nation, baptized in the test of the Die Groot Trek, and threatened by war. We have overcome, we have inherited and we extend the olive branch to others: Let us share this Nation as God demands. In humility and service of His aims, we must unite. All white people. We must safeguard this Nation and move it to Our Destiny. This demands discipline from us and we must demand discipline from the natives. Our control is not only necessary, it is Right. Please, children, never forget this as those who would take away what is Ours whine and make false complaints. It is Right."

David was trying to forget the words, but he couldn't. He had heard them before. Perhaps not in so many words, but, just the same, they were familiar and contagious: slithering into and forcing themselves on him, cracking open a segment of memory tucked away in the corner where it belonged.

A noise, like a loud thunderclap, brought him out of his meandering. Shockingly, Piet and him were already on the street where his store resided. On the pavement ahead, a young African woman only a few years older than his daughter lay on the ground bloodied around the lip and eyes, with her limbs desperately shielding the bawling child attached to her side like a bag. A constable stood over them.

"I will not ask you again, girl," the constable said. "Where is your pass?"

"I forgot it, sir. I forgot," the woman said. "My son, he needs the doctor. You understand? I must hurry." The woman extended her pleas to Piet and him; turning herself to cry out desperately and address what felt like him and him alone. "You understand?"

Another loud clap.

"Shut up. You are under arrest. Bring the child."

It felt like something was burning in his chest. David couldn't shake himself from looking at the child. It had a face covered with freely oozing snot and tears dripping down its cheeks, and it was clutching its mother fiercely.

He half-lifted a hand up. The constable dragged and pulled the woman and her child in the opposite direction down the street, towards the police station. He let his hand drop.

Piet elbowed him. "The bloody natives. Those idiots have been obnoxious since those fucking kaffir Communists got their trial." Piet spat on the ground. "An example has to be made."

"I suppose so." David schooled his face. "I suppose so."



Abigail arrived home and immediately thought of going to her bedroom. Her sleepover with Angela had been exhausting. Halfway there, though, and she realized that the house was oddly quiet. Searching the rooms for her father, she at last found him in his favourite place. The study. He was smoking again. A nasty habit he thought she didn't notice. The doctors had long forbidden smoke from his lungs, but he would only listen to one person, and - she reflected sadly - that would never be her.

"Papa!" she exclaimed. "You're smoking."

He smiled grimly. "Yes, my little goldfish."

"Are you teasing me, Papa?"

"I could never tease a terrifying young woman like you." Abigail warmed internally. It was not often that her father admitted her age. "Come here and give your old father a hug, Ms Rosen."

She moved cautiosly. Her father did not admit his affection for her often, either. When she arrived by his side, he clutched onto her like a drowning man to a boat. After a good part of a minute, he held her at arms length and then glanced down at the books he had been reading. It was the Torah and the Bible.

"Finally, I recognize the power of these books and all thoughts of destiny," he said.

"Are you having a crisis, father? Are you remembering bad things again?"

"No, I am having a revelation," he said. He smiled unconvincingly once more.

"What are you saying?"

He turned his face away from her as he spoke. "One day I might tell you and one day you might hate me."

"I could never do that, Papa," she said.

He stared into her eyes uncertainly. "You say that now."

His left hand came up, and, as always, she nearly flinched at the sight of the faded brand of five numbers sunken into the skin of his forearm. If only she was here. Abigail pushed down her pain as he patted her on the head. He needed her as much as she needed him.

Boneyard Blues
(782 words)

Life goes on. That's what they say when someone dies, don't they? Except it really doesn't, that's sort of the point of death.

Such were Sam's musings as he stood by a gravestone, plain one, nothing but a name and dates on it.

Why do I even come here? There's nothing here. Nothing that can hear you, feel you. And what about all those old, forlorn looking graves? The moss-covered, fading headstones read nothing but statements of loss and loneliness. All these people, it doesn't even feel real. Just a while ago they were here, with hopes, dreams and plans, just like mine, and now they're nothing. This whole thing, life, is just a constant conflict between a human being and the world he has to live in.

A gentle breeze blew through his hair as the midsummer sun scorched down from its clear blue sky, his back soaked with perspiration. His hands were dry as death, making him shiver whenever they met the fabric of his clothes.

Yesterday there was an article in the newspaper about some celebrity whose body was going to be exhumed and moved unless someone paid the graveyard fees. I hadn't even realized they did that, that these slots are temporary. I guess they need the space, but that sort of goes against the whole "final resting place" stuff. I guess it's "final until everyone who cares is as dead as you and then it's a warehouse shelf for you". And what if someone's alive when they're buried? They've been dead long enough for that to be impossible, right? Well, obviously if they've been dead at all, it's impossible, but if they're not, only brain dead or something, and then they get better in the ground. Change of scenery is apparently good for you, har. Either way, I'm getting cremated. The Sun sure is doing its best there, the bastard.

He looked around, the graveyard was almost empty, but a few plots away an old woman was placing flowers on a grave from a bouquet. The verdure of the trees created a stark contrast with the grey tombstones, some of which were honoured with plastic flowers.

What kind of a sick bastard brings fake flowers to a grave, anyway? At least her flowers are real.

She smiled at him, he returned the favour and quickly turned his head.

Wonder how many people she's buried, and still she comes, carrying flowers. Maybe she likes it here. Some people say graveyards are beautiful. I don't see that. More like some accursed necropolis. Bones, just bones in a boneyard. Bones, bones, bones. Just look at that, a crypt garnished with gargoyles. It must be really old, though. Nobody today would think that a screaming hell-beast is just the thing above someone's tomb.

The old lady was on her knees, arranging flowers. She got up, brushed her dress and walked up to Sam.

"Are you here to see her?" she asked.
"Yes."
"She died young."
"That she did."
"Is she your sister?"
"Was."
"You don't think she still is?"
"Well yeah, but not really."
"She'll always be your sister."
"Only as an idea," said Sam. "Anyway, I try not to talk about religion."
"Why?"
"Because it's something that can offend people, but doesn't really matter to me."
"You don't think God matters?"
"Not really, no," said Sam, changing the subject. "Who are you here to see?"
"My husband."
"Sorry."
"He died 12 years ago."
"Bummer."
"You're the silent type, aren't you?" said the old lady to Sam, who hadn't taken his eyes off the grave.
"It's hard to say anything that's better than silence."

Sam then told her he had to leave, said his goodbyes and was on his way.

After Sam had gone, the old lady kneeled next to the grave.

Poor man, lost soul. But he's still young, and only something that's broken can be made whole. People live forever as memories, if you only remember them at all. That's what angels are made of, time-gilded memories of people. People have such grace that one can think it could only come from nature, but still surely a created thing, perhaps a musical composition or a poem by some classical master. Humans are art, art that gives such pleasure that it makes them sacred, religious, eternal. I like to think people are like stars, even after they've died they can still be seen.

She placed a flower on the grave.

Divergence (1740)

Jacques Jumeau set his jaw. Like walking through a door, the ads said. Like stepping into the next room, they said. Never got around to mentioning that whole rip-your-atoms-apart-then-reassemble-them business. Still, only way home that didn't take a week or more. Nerves he could handle. Being away from Maddie that long--

He squared his shoulders and stepped into the transporter.

Klaxons blared in banshee wails, rising and falling, reverberating off the station's high ceiling. He stumbled from the other end of the transporter and hunched over, covering his ears and screwing up his face. That was a wakeup call and a half; it seemed to bypass his eardrums to jab him directly in the brain. What the hell was going on?

Jacques glanced left--into the eyes of a man who could've been his double. Brown hair, wide nose, thin cheekbones, dark red five o'clock shadow. It was like looking into a mirror--right down to the charcoal black suit and polished shoes.

The other man's eyes widened at the same time his did.

Shit. It was his double.

*

The security officer was friendly, if flustered. He left his weapon holstered, but he kept scratching at his mustache, looking at Jacques and the double, shaking his head.

The room he brought them to was compact, concrete, slightly damp, and had only an old-fashioned light bulb for illumination. Probably a holdover from the station's days as a train depot back in the twentieth century.

The officer sat behind the desk that was the room's only furniture. He wiped his forehead.

"Look," said Jacques, just as his double said the same thing. Their eyes met, the double gestured for him to speak; he looked away. "Officer, what the hell happened?"

"Hiccup in the transport field," the officer said, not meeting his eyes. "Backup system thought there was an error, rerouted you to a second transport end. First one had already reassembled you. You come out two places, bam, there's two of you." He scratched his mustache. "It happens. There are procedures in place." Scratch. "Might not like em."

Jacques' heart raced. "Is he--am I--does one of us get killed?"

The officer sat up. "Killed? What do you think we are? This is a city-run station."

Jacques relaxed, if only slightly. "So what happens?"

"One of you leaves this room, goes home."

"The other?"

The officer hesitated. "Other one branches off, gets a new life. City helps him find a job, place to live. Psychiatrist to help adapt, the works."

A new life? But--"What about family?" said the double.

"Only one family. Two of you. Wouldn't work." Scratch. "Other one has to stay out of the first one's life. No contact with family or friends. City helps make it work."

Jacques met his double's eyes, and knew they were thinking the same thing. Maddie. His throat was suddenly tight. He hadn't said a proper goodbye to her this morning when he left for work; she'd been asleep in her crib.

"Let's get it done," the officer said, looking determined now. He reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a coin.

Jacques stared. "A coin flip? You're shitting me."

"Random pick, that's procedure. Need verbal agreement from you both." The officer touched a button on the desk, and his voice became peremptory. "You understand that this is binding, that the results of the coin flip are irrevocable, that the winner will return to his normal life and the loser will start a new life with help from the city, as previously described?"

Jacques hesitated, staring at the coin. Fifty-fifty shot at an empty future. He thought of Maddie, and a hollow feeling settled in his stomach. Finally, "yes," he said, just as the double said, "agreed."

The officer pointed at Jacques. "Heads, you win." He pointed at the double. "Tails, it's you."

The coin hung in the air, a viper waiting to strike. It flashed silver in the dim light of the bulb, then fell meteor-swift, bouncing with a hollow ring. It rolled in a half-circle, and with painful slowness, wobbled to a stop.

Tails.

*

Jacques peered through the linden branches, a leaf brushing his cheek. Like tearing off a bandage, the city psychiatrist said. They'd done studies, he said. Better to cut out everything all at once than a little at a time. Don't go back to old haunts. Don't talk to anyone you knew before. And above all, absolutely, positively, stay away from family.

What did some psychiatrist prick know, anyway?

Light blazed from the old split-level three bedroom. Through a window, Jacques could see the living room. The TV wall, the old brown sofa and recliner facing it. And sitting in her bouncer on the rug--his grip tightened on the branches--a dark-haired, one-piece-wearing tot, smiling from ear to ear at whatever was on the TV wall.

Maddie.

He itched--burned--to walk inside, to pick up Maddie and coo at her, to tickle her and ruffle her hair and grab her nose and just hold her.

He began to pull his limbs out from the branches, but stopped himself. No. This was what the psychiatrist had been trying to tell him. It wasn't enough to see Maddie. It wasn't enough--could never be enough--to peer through the glass like a visitor to the zoo, like a scientific observer who could look but not touch, fearful of harming the experiment. Maddie burbled happily away at the TV wall. He clenched a fist. Had she taken her first steps while he sat in the psychiatrist's office? Had she started saying "da da" to the stranger who had taken his place?

No, that wasn't fair. Because the hell of it was, the thing that almost made it worse, it wasn't a stranger. It wasn't some interloper, some other man Deb had taken up with, someone he could hate. He relaxed his fist, forced himself to look away from the window. Maddie would get all the same love and affection he would've given her. She'd get the same upbringing, the same teachings, the same telling-offs and heart-to-hearts and family dinners and, and care, as if he himself was still her father. Because he was. The other man was him. Or near enough as made no difference.

Except to him.

A shadow passed across the window, and he looked back in time to see Deb's startled face peering out.

His heart started to race. Had she seen him? If he were found, if he were caught--well, he didn't know what would happen, but odds were it wasn't good. He carefully extricated himself from the linden.

The front door creaked open, loud in the still night air. Jacques froze.

"I know you're there," came a tired voice. His voice. "Been expecting you."

He breathed deep; thought for a moment. If the situations were reversed--"You're not going to turn me in," he said, standing up from behind the linden.

It was a statement, not a question, but the other Jacques--Jacques Prime, he supposed--answered anyway. "No." Footsteps came crunching down the gravel, then stopped. "Of course you wanted to see Maddie."

There was an awkward pause. They stood a few feet apart, each looking down and to the left, neither wanting to look at his mirror.

"And Deb," Jacques said finally.

Jacques Prime chuckled softly. "No point lying to me," he said.

Jacques shrugged. He glanced back at the window, at Maddie, and for one wild moment he thought about just hitting Jacques Prime, hitting him over and over until he stopped moving and then walking back inside and moving on with his life. His life. He made a fist.

Jacques Prime took a step back. "Wouldn't work," he said flatly. "Don't think I haven't thought about it."

Jacques looked up at Jacques Prime's face. Slightly tan from some weekend getaway, while Jacques was pale after being cooped up inside so long. Five o'clock shadow--Jacques felt at the thick stubble adorning his own face. And had Jacques Prime gotten a haircut? Jacques looked in the mirror so infrequently that he couldn't be sure. "All right," he said finally. "Where do we go from here?"

Jacques Prime sighed. "Look. I don't want you to suffer, but--"

"Me neither." Jacques snorted. "I worked out why the city doesn't kill doubles. Why dirty their hands when they can just wait for the inevitable?"

Jacques Prime opened his mouth, looking slightly puzzled, then comprehension dawned. "Shit. Look." He took a step forward. "I've--you've--always been about making something out of nothing. That's how I got--how we got--where I am now. School, work, Deb, Maddie. We started from nothing, and got this far."

"You got this far. I'm back to zero." Something prickled at the corner of Jacques' eyes; he turned away. "We're the same person. And there's only one life between the two of us."

Silence.

Jacques didn't look back; he began to walk away. He half-hoped Jacques Prime would follow, offer encouraging words, try to change his mind somehow. But Jacques wouldn't have, if the situation were reversed. He would've figured it for a lost cause. Jacques Prime would think the same.

He made it halfway down the street, then footsteps came running up behind him. He turned around. Jacques Prime came to a stop in front of him, breathing heavily, and leaned over, putting his hands on his hips. "You're wrong." He could barely get the words out. Jacques had never been in particularly good shape. "We're not the same person." He paused for breath. "Just the last two weeks, we've had different experiences. Become different people."

Jacques looked at the ground.

"Listen. I can send you pictures and vids of Maddie."

"No." Jacques turned around and resumed walking.

Jacques would've given up by now, but again Jacques Prime surprised him. He fell into step beside Jacques. "We're not the same. If we've already branched off this far, why not further?"

Jacques glanced at Jacques Prime. That was twice Jacques Prime had done or said something unexpected.

Maybe Jacques Prime was right. If they were already different enough for Jacques Prime to surprise him, then maybe--maybe they could lead different lives. Maybe he could start again, build another life as another person. Jacques Prime needed his job and his friends and Deb and Maddie, but maybe Jacques didn't.

Maybe instead of branching off, he could start a whole new tree.

Maybe. This would take some good, hard thought. He stopped walking. "I'll--think about it. Now go away."

He took another half step, then paused and turned back to Jacques Prime. He coughed. "I'll want those Maddie vids."

Jacques Prime smiled.

How much time is left?

Man, this one was significantly better for having a few more days to edit. I should do this more often.

AnkitT said:

How much time is left?

Click to expand...

Just over 10 hours.

It is always a scene of contrasts that the motif of life presents you with. We are already programmed to make the right choice. But it isn't always this simple in situational circumstances. It's always situational though, isn't it? Life is always about seen in absolutes and there is no middle ground, but that just me. My outlook wasn't this black and white forever. It was burned into my psyche with the incident. The incident wasn't a significant event by any stretch, but it did leave me with some emotional insecurities and instabilities. Here is what happened that day.

I had lived with two of my friends in an apartment for about 6 months. It was going pretty well, but one of them started having some budget issues, so we all had to disband. Two of us couldn't afford to pay the whole rent and we couldn't get another guy to come in on the third guy's behalf. It wouldn't have been a problem if I hadn't planned my expenditure according to living together for the next 2 years. Yeah, these black swan events can change everything and come out of nowhere, but why me? I had one month to leave. I frantically looked for apartments in the city and had to go through the brokers. Mind you, brokers in India are the real deal. They plan on just taking your money from every possible angle. And yeah, they have some fucking goon muscle behind them to extort money from you with some cops in their pockets as well. I was not warned of this. I assumed they would be decent human beings in the least. Obviously, I assumed wrong.

I found one of my classmates who was also looking for apartments. We teamed up and he told me he would bring a friend of his to the apartment, and we would share the 12000Rs/- rent. One month passed, I was living alone in the house. My friend was at his parents. What this meant was, me paying the whole rent and getting water and all that shit operational. I got some movers and packed my stuff. The mover guys didn't know the place where I was to move into, so I led the way on my bike. Just when it couldn't get any worse, I was met with an accident on my bike. It was a head on collision with a car, and I survived virtually unscathed, just one inch from a pole bashing my skull in. As I lay there on the road, with no-one around to help me up and the car driver running away, I contemplated the fact that I were to be dead while moving. After a moment of thought, I got up and noticed a sharp pain in my left leg. I rode my mangled and twisted bike to a hospital and admitted myself in. Meanwhile, the movers got my stuff into the new place, courtesy of one of my friends who lived nearby who helped me out at this dire hour. A few hours of bandages and drugs later, I rode my bike to the new place and just slept through the whole next day.

When I woke up, I realized that I needed to get shit done if I had to live in this place. I got a call from the broker. The broker which was to be dealt with by my roommate, which he hadn't done. And I didn't have my room-mate's phone number. The broker just straight up threatened me to pay up the money or he would make sure that I wouldn't be able to live in the house. I thought that talking to the broker would probably be the best course of action. Big mistake. I went to his office, and he basically extorted the money from me, threatening to kill me or some bullshit. I paid up, being the pussy that I am. Again, I didn't know what the fuck this money was for and why these people were taking this threatening tone with me, but I decided to pay them off. My leg still hurt like hell and I thought about getting an X-ray done. But that took a back seat in my mind due to me not being able to figure out the broker situation. Anyways, I received another call, this time from another broker, asking me for money. I just went to his office and paid him the money without even asking why. I was dead broke, and I had yet to get a water filter in order to have some clean water supply. I just asked my landlady to get some essential stuff done for me that I'd pay later next month. Bear in mind that my "friend" hadn't paid a cent yet, and I had no way to contact him and roast his fucking ass. I was angry, and justifiably so.

I survived for the month and my leg started to heal a bit. College was about to start, and my room-mate was about to come back. I was hoping that the third guy would come, so that I would at least get my share back. I wasn't much concerned at knowing why I had to pay the brokers, as much as living the next few months in peace. But that was not to be. The room-mate came back.

He paid his 1/3rd for the two months, and that provided me with some money to at least afford the food for the next few weeks. But the third guy that he promised would come in, wasn't here yet. The anger was coming back, the more I forgave this guy, the more he was killing me mentally. I couldn't go on with this shit anymore. I confronted him with whatever was to be done now. He told me that the third guy wasn't going to come. Also told me all this emotional crap about his father being paralyzed and him having no money to live on and I believed him. So we decided to share the place for a 70-30 percentage of the rent. What I thought here was that this guy had a genuine problem, and that I could make some adjustments on my spending to give this guy a hand. On the other hand, I considered that this guy could be playing me, just to get me to pay more rent and him living more comfortably. The paralysis bit was what tipped me over though, I forgot about whatever bullshit I had been through due to this guy, and set on to begin anew. Every month, he would have problems in having the rent on time, paying for half the gas for my bike(he used to come along with me to college, on the basis of him paying half the cost of gas) and him using all my stuff in the house. But I still let this pass.

He used to have all these conversations with me, where he had learnt some new concept from the internet or from somewhere else, and we would argue over it. This got to be a chore for me, since the argument always boiled down to "I'm right, you're wrong" from his perspective, something which I considered useless. He would get butt hurt at the facts and call bullshit on them, even when I would present them as-is to him. It was a game. This tipped me off to that fact that maybe, just maybe, this guy could be playing me. I had bought some power backup due to all the power cuts in the area, for which he didn't pay shit(It cost 8000Rs/-, by the way), yet used it equally. He bought a laptop and some Sennheiser headphones, but never had the rent money on time. I don't know what I was looking for, but the evidence was piling up.

I told him to leave, and he didn't really agree to it, until I got aggressive with him. He was obviously planning to leech me dry. It had been 1 year to the day, and I was tired of the idiotic games. This guy spent money on trivial shit and obviously had no respect for my financial state at all. I asked him politely to leave the house in the following week, and he didn't take this seriously and viewed it as an empty threat, so I had to get aggressive and he finally agreed to move out.

There is certainly more to the story, and more annoying and downright disrespectful shit that he did to me, but for the sake of being polite, I left them out. He is gone now. I am living with another one of my friends. A friend who pays half the rent and respects our responsibilities. I am looking forward now to a separate, but equal sort of a lifestyle now. Having that emotional burden and living in financial turmoil is finally a thing of the past. I am seeking some mental help in order to handle these situations better in the future, and undoing the classifying people into black and white that the whole ordeal ingrained into my psyche. Hopefully, things will be better now.

On my way home now. It's been a cluttered week for me so I'll have to try to squeeze my story out in the next few hours. Wish me luck!