The Puppeteer
(980 words)

The puppeteer scratched the luxuriant dome of his T-shirt covered belly as he gazed out the window. Actually, he was a manipulator, as his puppets were marionettes, but he called himself a puppeteer. The negative connotations of the word 'manipulator' were bad for business. "Not that I care about business," he would say. "But a fella's got to eat."

He took a glimpse of the clock on the wall. Ten minutes until showtime. He adjusted the brown leather suspenders that held up his trousers, and began the final inspection of his stage. He had constructed it himself; it was something he was rather proud of. The stage itself provided ample space for his marionettes, and the revolving backgrounds allowed multiple locations for his performances. The navy blue curtains upheld by iron bars surrounded the stage, allowing the puppeteer to keep out of sight. On stage lay an automobile big enough for a marionette.

While staring at the stage the aged puppeteer handled his scraggy beard, seemingly lost in thought.

"Are you ready?" asked a woman's voice.

"What? Oh, yes. I'm ready."

"All right," said the woman. "I'll tell them it's okay to let the children in."

The young children were slowly gathering in the room, as the day care workers arranged them in their places. In the front row a young girl kissed a boy on the cheek, who recoiled.

"Ah, young love," said the puppeteer wistfully. "I still remember my youthful summer love, she had long blonde hair, blue eyes. She's still eighteen."

The day care ladies laughed softly at the 50-year-old puppeteer's display of lewd humour amidst the confused children.

"But today's story is about something completely different," he continued, as the children had settled down. "I like to think of it as a story about friendship, and about how through friendship ordinary people can achieve extraordinary things."

The puppeteer dimmed the lights in the room and disappeared into the shadows of the curtains.

*

In the dark solitude of the cocoon-like backstage the puppeteer usually felt removed from his daily existence. Such tranquillity he had never experienced with his two ex-wives or friends. Only the laughter of the children penetrated the shroud that separated him from the outside world. Today, however, things were different. The everyday world was very much on his mind.

Things seem to be pretty muddled now. The nephew just lost his job because his company is outsourcing to a cheaper country. At the same time I saw them announcing on the news they were confident with their forecast because they had faith that consumer spending would rise. It's quite the paradox; what corporations want for their own workers is exactly the opposite of what they want for workers in general.

On stage two marionettes, Carl and Fred, were talking next to the automobile; a taxi cab, as it was. Carl had once again broken his car, and his friend was helping him to fix it. They were in a hurry, as an important client was waiting for his ride at the airport.

That's the thing about capitalism. How can a system bring so much good to so many, yet leave everyone else with nothing?

Carl and Fred arrived at the airport, where their prestigious client was waiting. Fred stayed in the car as Carl went to see him, discovering the identity of the client; a king from a strange, exotic country. On his head the king wore a crown of diamonds, rubies and other precious stones, but he looked miserable. Carl asked him what was wrong, and the king complained about a headache and a sore neck. Carl told the king that his crown looked heavy, which could cause the pain, but the king was insulted; how could he be a king without a crown? Carl told the king that a crown does not make a king, and his subjects would certainly be happy if he would sell the crown to help them. The king felt relieved, and they all agreed to go to the zoo.

What is the most fascinating thing about capitalism is how it has ingrained itself in our brain, how even the ones left out from sharing the bounties have simply come to accept the system, and settled for their destiny to simply hope they too will one day rise to the upper levels of capitalism. We can easily imagine countless of alternatives for the world, even a nuclear holocaust, but people seem to be utterly incapable of imagining that the operating principles of capitalism could be even slightly altered. Capitalism is apparently forever, the world itself not so much.

At the zoo a monkey broke loose from its cage, and Carl the marionette was trying to catch it, to no avail. The puppeteer skillfully maneuvered the monkey to climb up the background, to sit snickering on an iron bar which held up the curtains.

Kids always love the monkey.

The monkey, however, got tired and the puppeteer moved him down to his cage. The show was coming to a close, as Carl and Fred arrived home, having dropped off the king on the way, and were now ready to work some more on their car.

*

The puppeteer reappeared from his haven, to the applause of the children and the day care workers.

"I saw your hand!" exclaimed a chubby boy in the front row.

"What's that?"

"I saw your hand! You took the monkey down!"

"Maybe it was the hand of phantom of the theatre," said the puppeteer, whose years of working with children had given him the patience of a saint.

"No, it was your hand!" insisted the child, as a day care worker tried to calm him. "It's not real!"

"There's very little real in theatre," said the puppeteer.

Oh fuuuuuuck, this is already approaching deadline. I had some very good ideas, but looks like i'll be entering the next one.

My first entry in one of these ever, be gentle please. Haven't written anything in a LONG time.

DESOLATION
Word Count: 1,582

The darkness was impenetrable but lifting; slowly dissipating as his eyes adjusted. His body felt heavy, heavier than he’d ever known. Every sound was distant, as if coming from miles away. The sounds repeated, echoing through his ears in his semi-conscious state. He knew what the sounds were; critical alarms, altitude warnings. He wasn’t sure exactly what they were alerting him to, but he was aware enough to know that they were irrelevant.

The tunnel vision receded enough that he was now able to take in the scene around him. The glass visor of his helmet was shattered but intact. The rings of cracked glass spiraled like a spider web in his left peripheral, distorting any view he had to his left side. By now the warning alarms were so deafening it was as if they originated inside his head. He reached his arm up to reset them and a jolt of pain traveled from his fingertips to his neck like lightning; it was an electrifying shock but only lasted a second. He reached out and pressed the two flashing red switches to silence them. He was right in his assumptions about what the alarms were. They appeared to be a critical system malfunction and altitude warnings. He couldn’t tell the exact warning messages as the flight display was completely shattered. A tangled web of green and red wires was all that remained along with the shattered glass. He didn’t figure it would have been that useful anyway.

He leaned his head back slowly; his neck was stiff and his head heavy. His eyes wandered upwards to where the navigation port would have been, had there not been a large piece of the hull missing. Instead, the navigation port was gone along with innumerable other buttons, switches, and things he didn’t give a shit about. He was never one for actually studying the field manuals. He knew enough and that was all he wanted to know. A ragged metal hole was now his navigation port. Torn pieces of metal dangled down, reflecting the pale red light that was pouring inside illuminating his situation with an eerie glow. Pale white clouds were barely visible high above him, the wispy kind you’d find on a summer day. At least he wanted to believe they were clouds, clouds would give him a sense of peace after spending months in darkness. However, he believed they were only the white smoke trailing from the inside of his ship. As he stared upward, a streaking object tore through the pale red backdrop of the sky. It was a smoldering object trailing a large, thick streak of black smoke. He followed it across the sky above him until his view was blocked by the remnants of his cockpit.

He reached down and unlatched the two safety harnesses that held him into his pilot’s chair. He was weak, his muscles and bones ached like he’d never felt before; and he was heavy. He put his arms out turning them and looking for any signs of tears in his suit and saw none. He looked down at his wrist, his glass watch face was shattered and the hour hand was missing. Next to his watch was his oxygen monitor. It too was shattered but still functioning. His oxygen levels were low and steadily dropping. He quickly looked around the cockpit, or at least what was left. Everything was destroyed. Cables dangled from almost every panel and shards of glass littered the floor.

His mind raced. With all the electrical equipment destroyed there was no way to call for help. Not that radioing for help would do him any good. It would be months before someone could even reach him. Even if the storage bins behind the captain’s chair had food in them it was only a few days worth if that. He then assumed the smoldering wreckage he saw flying across the sky moments earlier was the supply ship – a sister ship of sorts that is autonomously controlled and is intended to land near his ship to serve as a base of operations for the endeavor. It contained two years worth of food, water, oxygen reserves and multiple experiments. If that smoking wreckage that flew over him really was the supply ship, he was doomed.

He looked down at his wrist again, the oxygen monitor was dropping. He knew it was the crack in his helmet leaking precious air. At this rate, he only had three, maybe four hours of oxygen left, and that was an optimistic estimate. There was a reserve tank he could use to buy him some time, but it was not strapped to the wall. The metal locking latch was completely missing, as was the tank. He desperately looked around the cockpit, through the tangled mess of cables and shards of glass and metal. He found it, lying under a twisted metal panel that covered the inner components of the navigation system. He felt his heart drop as he lifted it to see the nozzle was damaged, it had been crushed by something during the crash. There would be no way he could pry it open to be able to hook it into his existing pack. He threw the tank onto the floor in frustration and lifted himself up, standing on the back of the pilot’s chair and carefully lifting himself out of the twisted hole in the hull above him.

He was instantly bathed in a warm pale red light. The sun was setting in the distance ahead of him, turning the sky an odd shade of blue. He lowered himself onto the rusty sand below him. He felt like he was walking on a beautiful beach, his boots slightly sank into the red sand; it was a familiar feeling that gave him an odd sense of comfort. He looked out across the expanse in front of him and realized he was on a very high mountain or a hill. Looking down below him was a vast expanse of rust colored sand and dark rocks as far as he could see. It was impossible to tell his elevation, but it had to be miles above sea level.

He turned to assess the damage of his craft. The ship was completely destroyed. The front end was buried under the ground and was crumpled like an aluminum can all the way to the cockpit where, presumably, the reinforced metal alloy cage prevented the impact from crushing him completely. He walked around to the side of the ship and was surprised the side had not taken as much damage as he would have thought. He looked down the hill, following the trail of debris and assumed the ship crashed going up the hill, probably thanks to the computer navigation trying to pull up at the last moment. There was a large boulder a few hundred yards back and he could see the wrinkled piece of metal that was once above the pilot’s chair resting against the side of the rock.

He had noticed his breathing had become much heavier as he looked at his oxygen sensor. It was depleting rapidly. He possibly had an hour or two left, if he was resting and not moving. But he had accepted his fate. It was hard to accept, but he knew there was no escape from here and his fate was sealed. He did not intend to die lying down by the wreckage of his ship for some future explorer to find years later. Besides, by now he had realized where he was.

His ship had come to rest near the crest of a hill, probably a few hundred yards further. The incline was not too steep from his location to the top. The sun, setting off in the distance made the whole place a beautiful shade of purplish blue. He began walking. Each step was more trying than the one before as he trudged up the hill. It was more difficult than he had believed it would be. With each step, his boots sank into the rusty sand. But he reached the top of the hill faster than he anticipated. Though at this point, with low oxygen levels, minutes could have been hours.

He crested the hill, breathing heavily. Each breath he took was difficult and his lungs burned as if full of red hot embers. His oxygen sensor was very low. Ten minutes, if that, was all he could assume. He looked out before him at the amazing sight of what he had found, Valles Marineris, the deepest canyon in the solar system. He peered down over the edge of the four mile deep rift in the middle of a planet that stretched for almost twenty five hundred miles. It was bathed in pale blue light, full of shadows and seemed like it was limitless. Deep in the canyon far in the distance, he saw smoke rising. That was the supply ship, it could be nothing else.

Here he was, the first man to explore this new world. Yet, he knew he would also be the first to die here. His breathing was incredibly difficult now. His chest ached and felt as though it was being crushed in a vice. He could bare it no longer and walked to the edge of the chasm below him. He turned his back to the canyon, the pale blue light of the setting sun flooding his vision, bathing him in it's warmth...and he let himself fall backwards.

The fall seemed infinite. He could see the canyon walls rushing past him as if rapidly growing taller. He gazed up into the sky and smiled. They were clouds.

For Timedog:

Aveda
Word Count: 349

This is the part of the story where everyone dies. Where the hero, and only in adversity, mind you, finds the courage to finally fuck shit up, and we’re all left satiated. Where he, us, we lose control…but in a controlled way, and the world around becomes an abstract painting. Now indistinct and not beyond the level of wholesale control. Reality drips and smudges and becomes indistinct—matching our own messy, blurred out psyches. This is a realm where our previously unsteady choices become confident strokes, and suddenly make perfect sense.

“Hello?”

“Hey babe, how’s it going?” I say.'

“Oh, it’s alright.”

“Just alright?” I question her.

“Been keeping myself busy, work was pretty insane today. Actually, really insane.”

“Oh no! What happened, baby!?”

“Oh, the usual, angry customers. Same old, same old.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes. People suck sometimes…or more like all the time!”

“Yeah.”

“Well you know I care about you. It makes me feel bad when you have a bad day. I want to make you feel better somehow!”

“Oh, it’s fine, I’m used to it.”

“I know you are, but still…”

“Yeah, I know.”

Silence…

“I care about you… a lot.” she says, breaking the tension and with forced sincerity.

Fuck. We’re done. This is done. Forever. I swear to fucking god I love her. I swear to fucking god, if I have ever loved anyone in my life. I’m done with whatever this is—I’m too weak to handle it.


The mess is self evident. Thinner and pigment drip in every imaginable color, so thick they leave little rainbow brown mounds of nostalgia beneath our canvas. Great mountains whose topography sketch out years worth of regret. There’s nothing left to say. The artist has worn out his welcome. This painting is an outline of thoughts left unfinished, an ode to a fleeting dream rinsed away by the ever-imminent drone of reality. But… perhaps I spoke too soon, there is still breath left in this old man. I can think of one last sentence for the final act.


“Aveda, I think we need to talk…”

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For people who want to read the first part...

Ashes1396 - "Grass Warfare or Faery Story: Episode 0"

Reading out of order shouldn't make a difference..
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Faery story 2 - “Karr”
(1125 words)



"Did you ever see a fairy's funeral, madam?" said Blake to a lady who happened to sit next to him.
"Never, Sir!" said the lady.
"I have," said Blake, "but not before last night."
And he went on to tell how, in his garden, he had seen "a procession of creatures of the size and colour of green and grey grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on a rose-leaf, which they buried with songs, and then disappeared".

William Blake claimed to have seen fairies. The conversation above was recorded by Allan Cunningham in his "Lives Of Eminent British Painters".





The bridge and I share the same birthday. And though I want it not, we share another trait. The bridge and I are famous among the pheasants of the modern world. Captain of my station, and proud of my heritage, I sit back in Panther (a Protected Patrol Vehicle), as we drive along it's road. Head aloft, I smile an all conquering pose. I read the wars I fight with the passion that I read my books with. Commandeering the thousand soldiers, we march onward to victory. This one puny town stands in my way.

By sunset the deed is done. All key men lay slaughtered. All women accounted for and the children made subservient. What more do you want? Everything this side of the known Faery Wall is conquered. I shall finally rest tonight.

The mayor's daughter is brought to me to warm my bed. I sent the ugly whore away immediately. My men stare at me as if I am mad for turning away this 'beauty'. Beauty is surely truthfully revealed to those that seek beyond the paleness of skin, the sparkle of green eyes, red locks, a sizeable bosom and big behind. She is as dull as the town that made her. I pick my bedside companion from the finer things, the brighter sparks, the eldest of the educated daughters of the Grand High Master and Curator of the Simbly Colleges. Her name, I already knew was Maria.

The 'plain' girl is dragged in screaming through the door. There, in that simple gesture, is proof of her quality. Is that not how you want a person to react when asked to the chambers of the thing that murdered her father and brutally so.

“Quiet you!” I shout at her. “I hold your brother ransom. Do as I say.”

She spits and calms down. The figures manhandling her ease up, about turn and leave, making sure to close the door behind them. “You will not live to the end of the week sir. As god is my witness you will not breathe the new week!”

“You better hurry then. I am leaving tonight. And I am leaving you in charge.”

There are fifty two facial muscles. It is a sight I tell you to see every single one tensed and pulling at the bone. With such fiery countenance she stands before me, this daughter of the College Curator.

“I am 30. You are 24,” I say, “I pull the rank of age and demand that you sit. We have much to talk about.”

She uses her wings to float along the floor. I have not used my wings in an eon.

“I have no use for this town. I am leaving. You will run this town from now.”

“I will not run this town for you,” she replies instantly.

“I am leaving it to you. It is your town, run it as you see fit. What is your name?”

“What is your name murderer?”

“I may be a murderer, but in another swift move, I have given you all your freedom. You are now more free then you have ever been. Now tell me your name?”

Maria stood quietly. I could here her mental engines at work. “...My name is Maria,”she replied finally.

“Maria, I hereby give you full control over this dominion. If you form a rebellion, I will come back and slaughter the rest of this town. I might burn the bricks too and spray the ashes over your plain face, lovely as it is. So don't seek revenge...
“Your political career starts right now. Rebuild your lives and an army. And Maria, one thing about this place concerns me more then all the others. I leave in my wake many widows and orphans. I confess I have no idea how to fix that. It is up to you to find a solution for that.”

I sucked upon a grape-like-thing and made my way to the balcony. “See that wall. The great Garden Wall. Everything this side of it is now mine. We are all on one side now.”

The girl walked up to the balcony. “I will have my vengeance. Maybe not now but-”

I pulled at her hair. “Do you see that army there?”

I pointed to the vast army camped outside my house.

“If I throw you over this balcony. You will break every limb in your body. That will not stop them from raping you till your last breath. You were being ruled by stupid men for generations. I have set you free. You need not even pay tax for the next year.
“Only send message for me if you are attacked. That is not the sign of a dictator, that is the sign of a protector and a freedom fighter.”

Maria spat again.

“Urgh. That is one filthy habit!”

Marissa went to the bedside again. She disappoints me. I would have thought that she would be more witty then she proved to be. She keeps muttering about revenge. I confess to pitying this dirty minded whore. She is a whore for the way she sultry-fied her walk to the bed. Although I confess I do not to know how she walks normally. She will make a good wife for any man who will have her. Perhaps I have unnecessarily made her life more difficult by alleviating her to this position.

I refocus my attention on that wall outside. I will not stop. I will tear every limb that sits opposite that wall....
Already more reinforcements are coming along the concrete planks of the bridge I walked across this morning. We head South tomorrow.

In the darkness, I see the soldiers notice my presence. Word spreads quickly about my presence and more soldiers come out from their tents. They take a torch light to the air, making heaven and earth alike. My soldiers are but glittering stars in the darkness, soulless, alone, united by the dark empty space they inhabit together. The drummers beat their drums softly, others start singing a lighter anthem, others still wave their gigantic flags.

Remember the vigilance. Remember the candles held aloft oh so long ago. Remember the fallen, the tears of our mothers; are we not their breastfed children? Remember the reasons why we fight. Remember our struggles. Remember it all.
We will conquer paradise. And I will be the one to do it.

I look over my shoulder- Maria sits on the bed, folded into the foetal position. She does not know what to do or say or how to react. “Purgh. What does she know about revenge...” I mutter under my breath.

I tell her to sleep. My blood is boiling; I will not leave tonight. I will leave now.




to be continued...


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Hotdog Sammich!

Hopefully I'll know what you're talking about by sunday...

Shit, did not know the deadline was today. I have two stories half written... :lol I tried to do the five, Ashes, but my schedule being switched and the fact that the last two weeks have involved me getting up to do home repairs hasn't exactly made it easy for me to crank this stuff out. I guess I'll finish one of them today. Sorry if it blows.

Edit: Yeah, it's going to blow. I don't even really give a shit, though. I might even post it up half finished. Chaos, bitches.

A Picture is Worth
Word Count: 532

There is a world in which every city’s residents are in perfect harmony; where they never deviate from the norm nor take any risks. It’s a world where the constants have replaced variables and intentions are always the same. It is as it should be. But not for Veronica.

They call her a witch. She flew down the alleyway, looking over her shoulder, bringing her camera up and snapping a picture as she ran. They followed, screaming insults. She peeked quickly at the sharp LCD screen as the digital image flashed across it. It was blurry, out of focus, with lots of trails from the lights, a sharp contrast to the standards. Oh, how she loved that. How she relished the unidentifiable, even going so far as to chimp when decorum asked that you didn’t.

She was digital, they were film. She was wide angle, they were telephoto. She was low aperture in a dark room. She was the difference.

Rounding a corner, Veronica jumped over a puddle. She paused only long enough to adjust the filter at the front of her lens and snap her shot. The reflections of light disappeared in her image thanks to the filter. That would drive them mad. It would undo everything they had taught.

Madness.

She ran as they screamed after her, dodging people and traffic, snapping pictures and looking at them when she could. Most were blurry, with no distinct lines anywhere to be seen, but some came out clear enough - her lens was a stabilizer, after all. Sometimes, her shutter speed was high enough to capture the action, but mostly she turned it down to a fraction of its ability to slow things down and allow the lines of light to swim across the image.

Click, click, click. She turned the wheel of her creative mode choices at the top of her DSLR, moving from Program Auto Exposure to Aperture Value. Now she would control the aperture while letting the camera choose appropriate shutter speed. She widened the aperture from F/22 to F/5.6. Snap! She looked at the image. There was a nice depth of field, with a bokeh that no one but she could appreciate.

She looked back at her pursuers. They carried their cameras atop old wooden tripods, all bellows and body and plate. They were heavy and slow. She laughed, turned, allowed her auto-focus to find the eyes of her enemies, and snapped a picture. It came out just how she wanted.

Backpedaling, she continued moving through the streets. For every step they could take with their monstrosities in their hands, she took five. She was fluid, dodging them, snapping pictures, and laughing. They were the slow, dim-witted, clueless standards that she could not tolerate.

Rounding a building, she saw the car waiting, the back door open wide. A head peeked out, and when the man noticed her, he waved vigorously. She ran as fast as her feet would carry her towards that freedom. Bystanders watched with mild interest. Some carried the same ancient contraptions as the men who ran after her, while others wore less conspicuous, but easily forgettable, accessories. They would not be remembered.

A Hammer to Every Memento
Word Count: 572

Glass shards shimmering under a twilit moon, but all I could see were the memories reflected in each and every one. Your picture lay just beside, a snapshot of a life that we used to have. It's in a grave, now, buried under months of regret and angst. I would have loved to just forget that you were there. And now, maybe I can.

The picture itself was of winter – frosty chunks of icicle memories that seared to the touch, that somehow carried the fire of what we used to have between us. You were holding me in your arms, a smile bright enough to scorch the frame of the picture, to lick hungrily with its acidic flames. I was complacent, just the faint hint of a grimace underneath the smile that placated. I mean, yes, I loved you.

But what do I have to show for it? There's no police badge I can proudly display, nor a thousand-dollar-blood-shed diamond ring. There were no whispered everlasting promises breathed into the silent air, that, if carried along a wayward jetstream, would find their way into my ears.

I remember our last conversation:

“I can't fight anymore. I'm sick of all the fighting.” I had said, the most unfettered sorrowful look on my face, the corners of my lips drooping downward.

“You're too high maintenance. I can't keep dealing with you. You're clingy, you never let me out of your sight, and I'm... fucking suffocating.” You replied. But your face was a different picture on a different shelf, or part of a different centerpiece on a table; it was a cold look as frigid as the winter of the picture, one that turned me into stone. If someone made a stone likeness of me, I'd have been sad for eternity.

And then there was the shouting, and the yelling, and the echoing rage unleashed like mad dogs yelping through every room of the house.

“You SLEPT with my best friend!!” I yelled, just hard enough to blow a couple vocal chords.

But you didn't respond to that, no, you let it slide as if it were total minutiae.

The rest is too dragged down by sordid woe and ugly reminiscence. So I had taken a hammer to that picture, and raged in a fit of dramatic intensity. I'd have made a pretty good actor for this shit. The picture wasn't the only problem, though. The whole house had tales to tell that I had to destroy. I tore down the wallpaper, because we went shopping for it together and held hands and it all felt wrong. It was as if that periwinkle blue texture made my skin crawl with a thousand different insects, all driving me insane.

I took a sledgehammer to your table. The one we'd made love on and ate food on and cherished all this love on. The joy of seeing it shatter into splinters, to bring the table back to its nascent state as nothing more than bits and pieces of a tree long dead.

And I could go on and on, giving you the full list of all the shit I destroyed of you.

But I'm gonna make this just enough for you to swallow, you motherfucker. I'll drink beers with chaos and I'll love every minute of it, just so long as it destroys whatever you left in me.

Here's what I have of the second piece Alfarif:

*Not eligible for voting*
*And it's very rough, the research is very crude I must admit*
(Crits will be appreciated...)

Cinema or C'est la vie (such is life).
by Author Philospher, from a little place by the river thames.


I'm stuck in this life. I saw a beautiful girl today in the arms of another. In that moment everything that is wrong in my life became crystal clear right in another person's existence. This isn't so much a worthwhile story as it is my own one.
I live with my widowed mother and the rest of a fairly biggish Indian immigrated family who came to London some time in the eighties. They argue about everything; and even when I make things easier for them, something or the other will happen and everything will be sore again.
Money is tight and times are very expensive. Going to the cinema is supposed to have meant that we would forget our menial existence for an hour or two.
I'm Raj by the way. I woke up this morning and I thought I looked cool in the mirror. I'd planned for us to go to the cinema to watch Toy Story 3. The guest list included my sister, her husband and her two kids, another three sisters who live at home and three more brothers still. I wanted to take them all out but they would have nothing of it. Not with the intention to save me money, no; it was -really- to provide each other the defence to say that they paid their way- it was to save face. They would bicker and point fingers but as long as the finger wasn't being pointed at them, the world was good. They wanted to uphold their pride and honour. Not a single one of them is over thirty by the way and all bar one is under 25. Just in case you think they're of the older generation.
I feel stuck primarily because nobody in my family dates, as in asks a girl out, you know the whole dating culture thing; its part of the culture I grew up in. Some Indian Hindu families do allow all that, so it isn't really a overarching cultural thing. I keep wanting to get out of this life and start anew but we are a little poor so to speak and I feel the house wouldn't run without me. I may only be 18 but I'm on a very decent wage. A very decent one indeed.
I got to the cinema in good time. The rest were making their way to the cinema. What do I do now? They were supposed to pay me the money before we go in. Should I wait? The line was getting long. I made a few calls and it only confirmed that they were coming. I went in and paid the full amount. Whist standing around outside afterwards, I saw a Chinese girl in a light summery dress, that was attached to small pair of slinky shorts. She looked very classy. She held onto her partner's hands and they walked on by. A girl like that couldn't be in my life. Just by the way she dresses. Don't get me wrong, I love the way she dresses but it wouldn't be right in our neck of the woods. She doesn't even look slutty, it's fundamentally because she was showing way too much of that very fair skin. not to mention that she wasn't Indian or Hindu.
I often think of interracial relationships. In those dreamy scenarios, the girl is always in love with me. And I'm the one asking her: why would you want to be with me? I try to be the good guy hero type character. Deep down, I realize that she wouldn't want to be me, my life is hard enough, but somehow or another, she always says yes after I explain things to her.
I may not date, or keep a relationship but sex I can get away with. Sometimes I wish I was still a virgin. It's so true that old Pringles jingle: once you pop, you can't stop.
Lost in my thoughts, another girl walks on by. She's English, Caucasian, and a brunette. She is wearing a black ra ra skirt, and a white tank top. She looks sexy in the pure sense of the word. On her arms, is a boy who went to the same secondary school as I did. He's a Muslim lad, from Pakistan I think. He nods to show that he recognises me and I reciprocate. His girlfriend smiles and I smile back. I look away before I look back at her again. Then at the two of them.
I look at my reflection on a glass pane behind them. I look like a typical Indian boy, with a normal -albeit overgrown- side and back haircut. There is no coolness there. If anything a pussy stands there.
I feel envy with a hint of sadness. I will never have what lies in front of me. Never...

…

Little did Raj know of the events that would come to pass. Little could he contemplate upon the epiphany that morn would bring.

...


Raj sat with his niece on his lap in a packed restaurant. The Indian restaurant was kitted out in green, and decked with traditional Indian wedding decorations. It was the night before Raj's second cousin's wedding. The bride to be sat on a stage, having mehndi tattooed on her hands. There were at least three dozen relatives, all of whom Raj knew, but he felt lonesome. Perhaps one does feel more lonesome in a crowd. He would smile with crunching teeth, fiddle with sweeteners on his plate, and watch the hands on the clock sway. Several times, he found himself staring into space, lost amongst his thoughts. On one of these occasions, a friend from the past popped up, and clicked her fingers to bring him back into the room.
“Hello Raj, are you okay?” Madhuri asked.
“Yeah, Madhu, I'm fine... You look nice...”
Madhu wore a gold saree, exquisitely tailored, and finely embroidered. She flashed a bright white smile with perfect teeth. “You look all right your self.”
Raj wore a penguin suit, white shirt, black tie. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbow and his jacket hung on the back of his chair. “This is Kareena, my niece.”
The two sat down together and looked in opposite directions. Everyone else was far to busy worried about their own reflections to notice the two, but Madhu still made sure she leant into Raj's left eye very nonchalantly. “Want to get out of here...?”
Later when they were in Madhu's car, Raj changed his mind. “You know what, could you just drop me off at home. I'm not really feeling that good tonight...”
Madhu put the key into the ignition then nodded.
Raj watched Madhu drive away. He didn't speak, he just watched her drive away. When she left, he sat on the kerb. He sat frustrated at home. The frustration grew from mole hill to mountain in the space of a few hours. He went to the off license down the road and bought him self enough to get drunk alone with. He sat alone in the dark drinking. He realized that he couldn't be here when his family came back. He picked up his keys and went to the car. He mustered enough will power not to drive and walked away. Hundreds of emotions drowned him in waves.
“What am I doing?” He asked himself almost at tears. “What am I supposed to do? I don't...”
He didn't want to stand still. So he walked faster. The walk grew into a run. The run into a sprint. He ran all the way around the block and back to his front door. He could feel the boozy buzz mixed in with the rush of adrenaline. There was the wind of vomit upon his taste buds. He had to get away from this place. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and got in the car.
“I could kill someone...be careful... Concentrate... Concentrate... open up your fucking eyes... What're you doing Raj? What're you doing? Where are you going?”
He drove through the A13 in darkness almost thirty miles per hour over the speed limit. On some level, he wanted to be pulled over by the Police. Moments after this became a conscious choice, he floored the little car, all the way up to a 115 M.P.H. Teetering on the edge of the limits, the thought that a simple slide would end him crossed his mind.
“Why, why do you want that Raj?” He spoke aloud. He took a deep breath. And slowly released the pressure on the accelerator. Southend, a cobbled beach was nearby. He took that exit and drove the car gently, following carefully the directions to the beach.

He sat on the beach and looked out at the ocean. He was so very highly strung that a tear had to push its way out onto his cheeks.


“Hi, watcha doing?” Raj asked Madhu on the phone. He looked up at the stars in the sky.
“Shopping in Asda, in an magnificent Saree,” Madhu replied, She smiled flirtatiously at a fresh faced 16 year old boy who was filling up the shelves with new wine.
“This is embarrassing, but I think it's got to be done... I'm at Southend. Could you come pick me up please?”
“Southend?” Madhu laughed. “Don't knock it. It's al-right.”
“No I'm... naked. On the beach.”
“Ooh... And you are naked on the beach because....?”
“Okay, I'm just going to say this and let the chips fall where they may. I feel stuck. In a very big way. I can't explain it in words how I feel. I just drove all the way here, and then what do I find? The fricken ocean is in my way! I want to be completely free, so in my drunken stupor I went swimming...”
“I figured you were a bit tipsy when you said you were naked. Are you sure you're not at home?”
“You can check my driveway. I'm in my car so it won't be there. I already did something hugely stupid by driving here, I don't want to drive all the way back. And you've already seen me naked so... Look you're the first person that came to mind. I'm laying it on the line. Are you going to help?”
“ Yeah sure why not...”

"Hi Sam, is it?" Madhu said to the red faced boy. Do you know where the clothes section is?"

Madhu bought herself a red dress and some sun glassses and she bought a pair of shorts and a blue checkered summery half shirt for Raj. She changed into her dress in the parking lot outside. As she drove out of the Isle of Dogs, she dialed Raj's number and put him on the speaker.
"Are you still there?"
"Where exactly am I going to go?"
"The police might have picked you up. On a scale of 1 to 10, how drunk are you now?"
"I'm not really 'drunk'. I'm just feeling down."
Madhu laughed. "huh! I just thought of something. You're confined to your car now right?"
"Why is that funny?"
"I don't know. I have a funny sense of humour. Your shackles are of your own making by the way..."
"Are they really?"
"I kind of understand what you're going through, but not on the level that you're talking about... Although it may just be a cry of help, which I guess, lends credibilty to the realness of the breakdown. I mean, you don't have alcohol issues or drug issues do you?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. Definitely nothing drug related. And I only drink when I'm down in the gutter..."

Madhu waited outside the car as Raj changed into his. "You know what I would like to change about my self?" she shouted out to Raj.
"What?"
"Lies. The lies I tell. I'm convinced I'm a compulsive liar. I tell lies even when I don't need to really. I wish I was just more honest. And here you telling it all like it is."
"I'm not normally like this. I was forced by the circumstance."
"It's interesting, your mental condition."
"It's not a condition or mental thingy- You're right. It's my own doing. Why do you lie?"
"Mark of being a writer I guess. So used to fiction, that it's taken over reality so to speak"
"I don't know what you mean but I'm going to nod as I did"
"Huh! now you're just playing up to the role I attributed to you earlier."
Raj got out of the car. "Are you psychologically conditioning me?"
Madhu smiled whilst focusing on the top button left unbuttoned. She looked at Raj's just-out-of-bed hair. "Is this red dress working? sorry I mean, is it working? I mean-"
Raj looked into the car. "You brought a picnic basket. Lovely. Food as well."
Madhu watched Raj bite into his sandwich as they wallked along the pier. A fishing boat passed gently by in the predawn sky. It was still a few hours till dawn yet.
"I don't understand your view on marriage. You have a mental breakdown because you feel 'stuck' but marriage is okay?"
"It's not the same thing. And I'm not saying that I know absolutely how I feel and that there are no contradictions within. It's just a powerless feeling to be a cog in a machine. I would rather be a grain of sand in the desert. If that makes any sense. I would like to lead my own life free from family and society"
"Why don't you?"
Raj looked down at his feet resignedly. "Oh Raam."
"Really, why don't you? You don't want to be completely free, do you? So just move out for now."
"And how does this change my society, my family as it is now?"
"I didn't know you wanted that. Just move to the other side of town or something. Who is going to notice who you are with and how you are with them? You and I did fine, didn't we?"
"But we still had to sneak around though... urgh..."
"Yeah, well that was then. At some point you are going to have to burn bridges. And you could just cross bridges only when you come to them."
"So how would that work? Hi, you want to go out with me? by the way, i want to keep you secret from my family... just cause.."
"That's where you're going wrong. You put family on some eleviated platform. And that by it self should be okay. But not to your detriment."
Raj looked out at the ocean. I'm a pussy. I knew it.

Raj sat silently with his feet over the edge of the peer watching the sea at work.

Daylight broke by the time Raj and Madhu got back to their car.
"I get along fine with my folks," Madhu said. "It's all about 'managing with a smile'. No need for drama-drama."
"Your house is a little different from ours though. My sisters would never want to wear a skirt, let alone be allowed to wear it in the house."
"I wouldn't go reading your sister's mind. Just like they shouldn't do it with you."
"Fair enough. They might want to... How could I really know? urgh... It's all fucked up."
Madhuri put her hands in her dress pockets. "You think too much."
Raj looked up at her. The wind picked up behind him.
"Simple as," she said.
Walking along the boulevard, with their hands in their pockets, it was clear to Raj that on that inquisition, he was genuinely stumped. He watched the leaves being twirled up and away by the light breeze and then how they were made to dance in the air.
"Maybe you're right. Enough about me. What about you? you said something about being a habitual bender of the truth."
"To be honest, I'm surprised I fessed up to that."
"So get something of your chest then. Something true."
"Oh..." Madhuri paused. "I slept and had an affair with a married man."
Raj's ears picked up. "Oh wow! Is that true?"
Madhuri smiled. "No..."
Raj laughed along with her. "Fuck me you had me there for a second."
Madhuri walking along side Raj, her eyes on the street, put her arm across Raj, "No, wait... It's true."
"Is it over?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Last year. For about six months... What're you thinking?"
"My mind's drawing a blank to be honest...I don't know what to ask... Why exactly?"
"I thought I was in love."
"And were you? in love I mean."
"I honestly thought I was."
Raj looked into her vacant eyes. "Did he have kids? does his wife know?"
"No, and yes. And I left him not the other way around."
"That's still fucked up. Messing about with another woman's man like that."
"He's as much to blame as I am. But I get your point."
Madhuri took in a deep whiff of the seaside winds. She sat on the kerb and looked yonder.
"Would you do it again post hence the experiance of the fallout that must have occured?"
"No. I have found out the hard way that reality is but cold water to dreams."
"Huh!" Raj blurted out. "Dreams?"
"Yes. I honestly thought it would all work out. Didn't for one second think Mark could just be using me."
"I see."
"You must think the worst of me now..."
"Hmm... I'll say no comment for now. I'm not really in the business of hating people. You know what, if you'll agree to it, let's not confess anything else."
"I guess."

The two walked along the pebbled beach, and passed the muddy shores to dabble their feet in the early morning waters. And there it was suddenly. Entering their lives from nowhere in particular and leaving a moliminous mark posthence. Madhuri pointed to a small bottle floating along the waters. They opened the pale glassed Evian marked water bottle and read the contents inside. It was the written tears of a mother who had lost her child. Having read the letter the couple in reverie, sat crosslegged stumped for thought. It is fair to say the letter winded their throats, caused a deep rupture in their hearts, and overwhelmed them with a sadness they had not felt before, amazingly. They would seek out the mother, finding her eventually; and this would take at least a decade, a documentary and friends in high places...

Somewhere across the ocean, a mother had lost her child... and in this letter she poured out her unabashed alturistic love for the boy. She talked of her overwhelming sadness at the loss of his life and the way in which she failed her duties, as mother to this little boy. She talked about the fleetingness of time. And of the memories shared between her and her sweet little boy. She declared a love for the child greater then any angst the child caused her or could possibly cause in several lifetimes. She wrote about the lifeless fingers and the silent eyes, curls of hair and upturned smile. And this letter was the only way the mother had found to trully apoligize to her son, via a message in a bottle, floating along the sea. It was as if she had found a way of apologising to life itself. Sending the written word across the ether.
It silenced them, that letter did. It woke something deep within; imprinting upon them a resonating message. And thus, finally, the night was done.
Raj looked at the morning clouds with resignation then stared out at the English Channal. "You know what I always forget... I always forget that we live on a island."
Madhuri looked at him then turned her gaze to a solitary fishing boat sailing across the horizon. "C'est la vie," she whispered. "C'est la vie..."


Fin

When I get home, I'll post up the half of the other story I wrote. I don't even think it's really half, since I hand wrote it, but it was the "better" one, I think. The story I did end up submitting came after some weird random dream I had the other day.

You have eight hours. Why write half, unless it's deliberately unfinished? Pitch a tent and dig in...
ps. I submitted the second one already cause I had to come to work... :lol

So, when am I supposed to start this?

I swear, it's almost impossible for me to not be me. I have sat down at least once each day to try and get this done, but I have only managed to come up with two shitty sentences. Now, around 11:00 EST, I'm going to sit down and end up with about a dozen paragraphs of mishmash story.

Can't participate due to having to get something out for Spread but I plan on voting. Keep it up guys.

Irish said:

So, when am I supposed to start this?

I swear, it's almost impossible for me to not be me. I have sat down at least once each day to try and get this done, but I have only managed to come up with two shitty sentences. Now, around 11:00 EST, I'm going to sit down and end up with about a dozen paragraphs of mishmash story.

Click to expand...

I don't get it. That post was more then two sentences. Why don't you just write the piece as if you were speaking to a specific person? That's all stories in their most basic form really are, arn't they?

Emily - 766 words


Henry stood against the darkness, the light reflecting off of his white shirt making him appear to glow in the crisp night air.

“This isn’t funny,” Emily protested as her brother walked into the abandoned house, the darkness swallowing him entirely. She stood outside for only a few seconds before a maddening sense of terror overcame her.

Henry heard her step onto the front porch, the old wood creaking lightly under her lithe steps. He smiled a little in the dark knowing full well that he wouldn’t have had the balls to do this if she wasn’t behind him. He looked back and saw her silhouette against the outside scenery, her hair looking wild. He was unable to see even a single detail on her but could tell from her posture that she was tense. He moved on and walked into the living room.

He had no idea what he was doing.
No person, as far as he knew, had stepped foot in this place for years.
Maybe he should turn back and leave. No harm in that?
She knows him and wouldn’t think he was a coward if he turned back, right?
Who cares what she thinks anyway? She was just his little sister, anyway.
What the hell was there to be afraid of anyway? She would tell his friends? Better to just forget tonight ever happened and go home.

Against his better judgement he pressed on. He heard her walking lightly behind him. He walked, feeling more than anything else, until he reached the staircase and tripped. She screamed and reached out for him.

“Henry, you okay?” she asked, sounding like she was on the verge of tears.

He laughed it off with bravado in his voice, “Scared you! C’mon, I’m going upstairs.”

“Let’s just go.”

He waited a second and then started to walk up the stairs, making his footsteps as loud as possible as he did. As he reached the top of the stairs the front door to the abandoned house slammed shut, killing what weak light was still in the house. A strong breeze flowed through the house, then, lifting dead leaves and scattering the dust that had collected on the floor. The walls of the house seemed to groan slightly and, finally, all was still.

Henry released his breath, only then becoming aware that he had been holding it for the last minute. Having just adjusted to the total and complete darkness, Henry noticed that there was a sliver of light visible on the floor several feet in front of him. He walked toward the light at the end of the hall, hearing each of his footsteps distinctly in the deepness of the black. When he reached the end, he reached out with a trembling hand and felt a warm doorknob. Rusty.

He grasped it firmly and waited. He inhaled. Held his breath. He begun to turn the doorknob. He resisted. He released his breath and inhaled again. He turned the doorknob and pushed open the door and winced as the moonlight flooded his eyesight. He squinted his eyes and saw a dark figure standing before him, silhouetted against the moonlight that was entering, behind it, through an open window. The figure’s hair looked wild and appeared to be dripping. The figure took a large step toward him, the footstep sounding moist and heavy.

“Emily?” he quivered as he reached behind him.

“I’m here” the figure standing before him said.

It spoke in Emily’s voice.

It took another step toward him, crossing a great distance. Towering over him. The floor groaned under its weight. It was standing just before him, now. Close enough to touch. His panicked thoughts could hardly process everything that was happening. Frantically, his thoughts fell on the smell of it. The smell of fireworks, decay, and stale urine. He reached back again, feeling for Emily, and gasped when he felt the closed door behind him. When did he step inside of the room? Had he closed the door? He could hear the inconsistent patter patter as the creature before him dripped along its hair and mandibles yet he could not make out the figure or form.

A voice emerged from deep within Henry, beckoning him to sit in the center of the room.

Henry walked past the formless figure, eternally black even in the void of night. He walked into the moonlight and sat down in the middle of the room. He could feel the presence of the creature as it moved toward him. Feel its weight as it lumbered nearer. It was only then that

Ashes1396 said:

You have eight hours. Why write half, unless it's deliberately unfinished? Pitch a tent and dig in...
ps. I submitted the second one already cause I had to come to work... :lol

Click to expand...

But I guess if I explain that then it kind of ruins it, huh? :lol

The hallmarks of a writer, the character in the second story I submitted would say.

Irish said:

So, when am I supposed to start this?

I swear, it's almost impossible for me to not be me. I have sat down at least once each day to try and get this done, but I have only managed to come up with two shitty sentences. Now, around 11:00 EST, I'm going to sit down and end up with about a dozen paragraphs of mishmash story.

Click to expand...

Leave it at two sentences, and throw a middle finger to the wind? :lol Oh god... what am I encouraging here?

Hell Yeah! Let Chaos Reign!

Also, paragraphs are for sissies. I'm totally going to have a bunch vaguely related sentences placed on individual lines.

well good luck anyway. I'm sure it'll be alright.

Sweat leapt from the tips of Leon Izquierdo's dark locks down to the lines of his sun beaten face. Even parked in the shade, the temperature inside the patrol car he was sitting in rose steadily throughout the course of the day. Droplets of sweat continued to roll down his face unhindered as he shifted uncomfortably in his dark blue uniform, most of his attention focused on the radar gun resting in his hand. Eventually, one lonely drop made its way into Leon's eye, forcing him to slam it shut. He raised his right hand and started to furiously rub his eyelid until the pain subsided. Unfortunately, as he was lowering his hand, his arm brushed against the oval badge pinned to his chest, burning him.

"FUCK! You've gotta be shitting me. Que duelen como infierno."

He set the speed gun down for a second and grabbed the bottle of water from the cup holder beside him. Water flowed from the bottle and across his arm, relieving the burning sensation. Of course, the water slid right off his arm and leaked all over the crotch of his pants. It certainly cooled him down a bit, but it also gave him the appearance of having recently pissed himself. He sighed before replacing the bottle and returning to his work. Several uneventful hours passed as he continued to monitor the speed of the cars traveling down the barely populated back road. Not a single car surpassed the relatively low speed limit of thirty miles-per-hour.

They must all be warning each other. I probably should have parked a little further back from the road. Most people I've seen going down this road end up driving nearly twenty miles over the limit. Oh well, I suppose I'm getting paid whether I catch anyone or not.

Just then, static erupted from his radio before one of the monotone voices of dispatch declared that there had been a report of domestic violence in the vicinity.

"7813. Can you repeat the address on that domestic?"

"970 N. Manzanita Way."

"10-4. Heading out now."

Foot on the brake, Officer Izquierdo started up his Interceptor and shifted it into Drive . As he began to creep forward, a maroon pickup truck came flying past the little grove of trees Leon was hiding amongst. He quickly switched on the red, white, and blue lights above him and followed after the truck, siren screeching its eerie song. After a few seconds, the truck slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. Leon slowed down as well, but continued forward. Once next to the formerly speeding vehicle, he rolled down his window and pointed at both the driver and the dark ovals of his sunglasses.

"Slow it down! Consider this a warning."

Next, he rolled his window back up and sped off towards his destination. Normally, he would have ticketed the driver of the truck, but domestic disputes often became violent within minutes. He didn't have any time to spare. A quick look in his rearview mirror revealed that the red pickup had taken his advice.

Tantos gente loca aquí.

Minutes later, he arrived at the reported address and quickly exited his vehicle. Random decorations and pieces of furniture littered the fenced in yard. No other houses could be seen in the distance, meaning the call must have come from somebody within. Shouts could already be heard coming from inside the premises. Leon opened up the chain-link gate, walked up the footpath, and knocked on the door.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Flagstaff Police! Open up! Policía! Abre la puerta!"

The officer grasped his shining leather belt as he waited for someone to answer. A multitude of equipment such as mace, handcuffs, an asp, extra ammunition magazines, and his standard issue Glock hung from the relatively wide strap. His badge twinkled in the sunlight, reflecting a small patch of light on to the garish, red-painted door.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!"

An ear shattering scream pierced through the door, forcing Officer Izquierdo into action. He barged into the door with his should while fiercely attempting to turn the door knob. After several failed attempts, he launched his polished boot into the crack between the door and its frame, finally gaining entry. The first thing he saw was a young woman sprawled across the floor, seemingly unconscious. He turned his head to the left to survey the rest of the room, but saw only a large object hurtling his way.

CRAAAASH!!!

Splinters flew into the air as a dark, wooden chair crashed into the linoleum floor in the entryway. Leon barely managed to take a step backwards and avoid the attack. Unfortunately, what was left of the chair came flying back upwards and crashed into the officer, knocking him off his feet and into the wall at his back. Within moments, his attacker had advanced on him, sending out an unguided haymaker. Leon ducked under the attack and grabbed the large man's arm. He whipped it around while also sweeping the legs out from under the man, sending the bald, bearded Caucasian cascading to the floor. Almost reflexively, the muscular man rocketed a kick into Leon's groin. Leon crumpled in on himself and fell to the ground. His attacker quickly righted himself and jammed his knee into the officer's chest, pinning him to the floor. Barely able to move, Leon grasped the hulking man's knee in an attempt to free himself. It didn't serve much good though, as the attacker punched his downed prey repeatedly in the face before beginning to strangle him. Air slowly escaping his lungs, Officer Izquierdo began to lose his vision. With his last bit of energy, Leon fumbled with one of the gadgets on his belt before finally undoing the brass clasp.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The man's grip around Leon's neck loosened. Blood and other fluids flowed forth from the four bullet wounds in his attacker's abdomen, completely covering the officer's uniform. Leon pushed the now deceased man off him and slowly got to his feet, clearly in shock. Weapon still in hand, he lifted both of his hands to his face only to discover they were painted with crimson liquid.

"You MONSTER! You killed my husband!"

Standing before him was the woman who had been lying on the carpeted floor when he first stepped inside. The left side of her face was swollen and purple, while dark makeup trailed down from her right eye. Her long, dirty blond hair fell nearly to her waist. A long T-shirt loosely hung from her shoulders. Because she was so short, the shirt covered her knees and even some of her shins. Tears poured from her eyes as she rushed over to the man on the ground.

"How could you?" she screamed at the man who had deprived her of her husband's wrath. Her eyes gazed longingly at the corpse of her lover.

BANG!

The bullet drilled into the back of her tiny skull before tumbling out through her forehead. Her body fell forward, intersecting the monster of a man she loved. Leon Izquierdo stood quietly near her feet, all signs of humanity drained from his face. He lowered his weapon and slowly walked back out into the fenced-in yard. A siren could be heard in the distance, but it was quickly approaching. Soon, the flashing lights of another patrol car came flying down the street. Leon crossed his arms behind his back and waited for the car to arrive. Moments later, the car stopped and an off-duty officer hopped out of the driver's seat.

"Damn, Leon. You look beat to hell. Are you alright?"

It was then that the recently arrived officer noticed all of the blood on Leon's uniform.

"What in the hell happened?"

The officer ran towards Leon while glancing through the open doorway beyond. A few feet from his bloodied coworker, the officer stopped. Leon had lifted his weapon and pointed it at the officer.

"Izquierdo, put the gun down! I don't know what happened in there, but you can't do this."

The officer pulled a pistol of his own from the back band of his jeans, ready to fire it if necessary.

"¿Por qué me dejaste, Javier? Te necesitaba."

"What?"

BANG! BANG!

Last Rites (1690)

Father's sacred name weighs heavy at my side.

I don't wish to carry it. I should not be the one to carry it. But--I smile--I am the fastest of the boys. I am the cleverest. I am the least afraid of the village road at night-time. I am the only one who can carry out this duty, who can get to the village before dawn.

I am lost.

I pause on a moonlit hilltop to get my bearings and my breath. Hands on hips, I survey the woods around me. No familiar landmarks, no signs. No road.

I scowl.

I should not have become lost; I have traveled to the village many times. Another boy might think the spirits were misleading him, but I know better. It is simply that things appear different at night. Shadows embrace the trees and underbrush, landmarks hide themselves in blackness, the very road is swallowed by dark. It is not the spirits that make the darkness dangerous, but the obscuring of the land.

I set off at a trot down the hill in the most promising direction. I am the fastest of the boys, but I do not run too quickly--I must be fast enough to reach the village in time, but I must also have strength enough to reach it at all. I pace myself.

The night air caresses my sweaty skin. An owl hoots, sound dampened in the high-pitched insect buzz of the forest canopy. The scent of damp, green, growing things fills my nostrils. My senses conspire to soothe me, but I will not allow it. I am focused on my goal. I will reach the village before dawn, and the holy man will speak the sacred name over Father’s ashes.

I jog through light brush and fallen leaves, around trees and across narrow glades. There is no path, but I need none. My night-sight is strong enough to avoid danger.

A watcher might conclude that I have no plan, that I run at random through empty forest, but it is not so. I seek a stream: a stream will lead me to the river, the river will lead me to the old water-powered prayer wheel at the stupa, and the stupa will point me to the village and the holy man.

I am not as empty-headed as my brothers.

My feet trample browning leaves and break small twigs, trample underbrush. I am more adept at running the forest in daylight; this noise surely frightens off all nearby game for. But I care nothing for game tonight, and the noise should also keep away bears or lions. My heart pounds faster at the thought; bears frighten me more than spirits.

My breath comes fast, and I slow down deliberately, my tread softening. I peer into the darkness pooling under the trees as I trot past, but see no sign of hungry night-hunters.

I fall.

My wandering eyes have missed a hole, a rabbit’s den or a badger’s sett. My foot catches, and I tumble head over heels, fetching up against the side of a tree.

Pain kindles through my body.

It feels as though I have been beaten all over, and my head split in two with an axe. Darkness tries to steal over me, but I hold to awareness, letting the pain anchor me. I check each arm, each leg--nothing seems broken, though my right ankle throbs. I try to sit up, but my head protests and I lie back, breathing hard.

I am a fool. Cleverer than my brothers. Ha! The spirits laugh at such hubris. I grit my teeth. I must make myself stand, must ignore the pain and move on, or it is Father who will pay the price of my pride.

I sit up, though the sharp stabbing ache in my head makes me want to cry out. I gather my legs underneath me, then reach up and pull myself up against the tree. Awareness again tries to slip from me, but I grip the bark of the tree so tightly it cuts into my hands. There is no time for rest. No time for pain.

Father’s afterlife depends on me.

It takes only one step to discover that my right ankle will not bear my weight. I cannot run, nor trot, nor even walk quickly. Ignore pain as I choose, the ankle has rebelled. It will not carry me. I pull myself back up and stand on my left leg.

A fallen branch presents itself. I bend low and pick it up, grumbling at the wasted time and gritting my teeth against the pain in my head and ankle, and I strip the twigs and leaves away, snapping off the branch’s thin end. I test it against the forest floor and it gives only a little; it will serve as a walking staff. If only just.

Leaning on my staff, I hobble forward. Though I hurt all over, I smile. I am still cleverer than my brothers. I move at a much slower pace, but I am still moving. I will make it to the village before dawn. I must. I will find a stream before long, and I will find the prayer wheel and the stupa, and from there the village.

I stop moving, raise my head. For a moment, I think I hear the bell that chimes with the turning of the prayer wheel, but I shake my head, and the impression vanishes like a spirit. Another knife of pain stabs my head.

Hobbling with the stick is too slow; I must move faster. I begin half-hopping with my good leg, using the springiness of the staff to propel myself forward more quickly.

Step, hop. Step, hop. Step, hop.

I am cleverer, I am faster. I may be lamed, but still I fly across the forest floor more quickly than my brothers could. A wild grin crosses my face.

The staff slips on a pile of wet leaves, flies from my grasp. I fall again.

I am face down on the forest floor, my head throbbing, my entire body one mass of pain. I cannot move. Everything hurts, and I cannot move.

I am a fool, a proud fool. I never learn.

The damp leaves swim before my vision, in and out of sight; fog and lethargy sweep through me. I feel myself sinking, drowning in mist and shadows. I clutch at awareness, but I am not strong enough; I lose my grip, and slide into the dark.

*

I blink. I am in a broad clearing, full of dappled silver light. Birdsong and the sound of arguing canopy-dwellers fills the air, and the sharp scent of evergreens mingles with the soft smell of recent rain. At my side--

Father’s hand enfolds mine, strong and powerful, the hand of a hunter. His broad face smiles down at me, though his eyes lack their usual sparkle.

“Father,” I mumble. I feel as though I have been beaten all over my body. Even my voice hurts. “I am sorry.”

Father nods sorrowfully, but says nothing.

“You hid your name too well, Father.” I cough, then speak quickly. “It took us nearly three days to find. I have only until dawn, and I lost the path, and--”

Father lays his other hand on my shoulder. Calm, his eyes say. Courage, they say. He grips my shoulder tightly, then embraces me as though I were once more a child.

Warmth floods into me.

*

I sit up straight, ignoring the protests of my body. The dream quickly begins to fade from memory, but the warmth remains. I stand.

As I half-hobble, half-hop, the world narrows to the forest floor in front of me, to my staff, my arms, my legs, my lungs. No room for pride, nor thoughts of being faster or cleverer, only step after painful step, the endless pull on my walking staff, breath burning in and out.

One thing I hold in my mind--that Father’s name must reach the village before dawn. The sacred name must be delivered to the holy man. I hold this thought as bulwark against pain and exhaustion.

The pain in my ankle is becoming more difficult to ignore. Sometimes I bite my tongue when I grit my teeth against it. Sometimes I yell out involuntarily, an animal cry. But I am moving. I have set a pace; a slow, weary, and painful pace, but a pace. As long as I hold to that pace, I can maintain forward motion, and if I can maintain forward motion, I will eventually reach the village.

I will reach the village. I must.

I am hobbling my way down a damp, grassy hillside when I overbalance and fall forward. I fling out my arms to catch myself, but I land on my stomach and slide my way down the hill. I come to rest at the bottom, face in the dirt again.

Three is a sacred number. Perhaps this fall will be my last.

I laugh, sob, into the dirt and the leaves. It must be my last fall, because I cannot get back up. My pace has faltered, my forward motion is gone. There is no strength left in my body to start again.

There is nothing left.

Time passes. A minute, an hour. I can do no more than cling to awareness by my fingertips. I know dimly, distantly, that dawn approaches, but I cannot move. Continued searching is pointless: I cannot find the river. I cannot find the prayer wheel and the stupa. I cannot find the village. I was a fool to think I could.

I am sorry, Father.

My fingers twitch.

Ting.

A sound on the edge of awareness.

Ting.

A soft chiming, somewhere in the distance.

Ting.

I raise my head. Underneath the chiming, there is a thin gurgle of running water, a creak of wood and carefully oiled metal.

The prayer wheel.

A smile spreads across my face. I sit up slowly, painfully, reach for my staff. I lever back to my feet, and pat the pouch at my side.

It is not yet dawn.

7-27-2010

What if Winnipeg never left?
Time travel is impossible, summer was just a dream.
Hell's official religion vs. the expired world:
Support your national team on our way to $41,000.
Where to begin after hitting five of them?
Are you listening too? We're spoilers.
I'm clean shaven for stupid questions
That don't deserve November.
Love it for the first time in 9 years.
Tuck your rules into your pants.
Take off your underwear.
James Franco on General Hospital has finally died.
"I'm not flat chested!" says Natalie Portman.
Justin Bieber attempts daring Segway escapes.
I have a virus that was never created.
Dream a little bigger.
France declares war against beret-wearing hippies.
San Quentin justice strikes again.
The Afghanistan illusionist can get war logs.
I watched the menace put your face on, laughing emoticon.
"Don't quote full articles in your topics
youre going to get sued"

Tangent's story:

Good Intentions (1540)

“There are babysitters younger than them. I think they can handle it,” Mr. Sibley said.

“Ok, Brian might be thirteen theoretically speaking, but he looks and acts like he’s 9 years old,” whispered Mrs. Sibley.

“Honey, they’ll be fine. Besides, there’s Charlotte, too.”

Mrs. Sibley had to agree with that. She fixed her post-it where she left off in Walden and underlined “If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.” The couple gathered their keys and various adult security blankets before heading out the door. The kids said goodbye from the stairs.

“See you in a few hours!” said Brian, more confidently than ever. It’s all part of parent-training: act confident and you’ll win the parental-units’ trust. Brian, and his twin, Charlotte, continued to smile broadly until their cheeks hurt, and waved back to their parents’ slowly oozing departure. Finally, the door closed. And clicked.

“Ready,” said Charlotte to her brother, with a twinkle in her eye. They ran off to her bedroom, where they kept their supplies under Charlotte’s bed. Brian helped her pull out a large Tupperware box full of fifteen dozen lemons, stacked cartons of eggs, a treasure chest full of sugar, and a Costco-sized potato-sack of cocoa powder. Without a word, Brian was down the stairs and out the back door, and then back with the garden hose. Their movements were so fluid and systematic, like highly-trained, professional thieves, with calm but efficient demeanors.

With eyes fixed on the hose he tried to affix on the faucet, Brian sheepishly asked, “Charlotte, how are we going to mix it all?” He hid his shame in not fully memorizing the rehearsed procedure.

“Duh. I have Connor’s hockey sticks. I got them yesterday,” said Charlotte with slight irritation.

“Oh right,” mumbled Brian. It’s just that he wasn’t excited about sharing 10% of his profit with Connor only to borrow his hockey sticks to stir both the brownie batter and the lemonade in the levied bathtub – the levee in place, of course for for efficiency and highest profit margins within the time frame of the parents’ return. But still. According to plan, the twins would earn enough to finally buy “Quidditch Finals” for the Wii. Brian let it go – it’d be all right, they’d get the game even with 10% profit loss.

Charlotte placed all the ingredients in the two separate compartments of the tub. While waiting for Brian’s supply of water, she continued to poke and stir away at the egg yolks with one hockey stick, and then periodically switched to the other side of the tub to further stomp out remaining lemon juice.

“Hurry up, Brian.”

Brian peered into the hose. “I think something’s stu—“ but before finishing his sentence, water gushed forth onto his face, knocking off his glasses, and stealing his breath – and balance. Upon hearing Brian falling onto his glasses, Charlotte screamed, and in her shock, she herself slipped on one of the lemons and fell butt-first onto the base of the tub. She braced her left leg tightly; her cut from climbing lemon trees stung with the penetrating acidity. Brian didn’t notice her pain … no glasses.

“Are you okay, Brian?” she asked him instead.

“Yeah.” He washed off and bandaged his cuts and gingerly placed his broken glasses on a shelf above the sink. He looked at his timer. “We still have two hours and 48 minutes. We’re fine…. We’re fine.”

As the twins mended to their anatomical accidents, water still flowed from the hose. After gathering herself, Charlotte grabbed the hose, and flung its mouth into the tub. Brian gave her a high-five.

“Thanks,” she said with humble pride. Affectionately, she warned, “You better be extra careful without your glasses now, Bri.”

“I’m fine. It won’t prevent me from hunting down customers at our Sibley’s Stand for Lemonade!”

With this reassurance, the business partners ran downstairs with their backpacks bobbing on their shoulders. They left the house on their bikes to race around the corner and preheat the industrial-sized ovens at the community church. Last week, Brian received the keys from the pastor’s son, Juan, who was also in the twins’ 7th grade class. (And Juan didn’t even ask for any part of the monetary gain!)

Everything was set. Now all they had to do is carefully transport the batter on their train of farmer-market wagons. Easy. With time now a luxury, the kids caught their breath after coming back into their cooler garage.

“Wanna drink of water?” asked Brian.

“The water!!!!” yelled Charlotte. Brian swallowed hard and looked at Charlotte. Wide-eyed, she looked back, and a blink later, she bolted upstairs, Brian silently sprinting after her.

At the top of the stairs, Charlotte almost tripped again, with water trickling and encircling her flip-flops. Her eyes followed the trickle’s course, and she went inside the bathroom.

“Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no,” she repeated forever, fisting her hands so tightly that her nails pressed into her palms. Brian turned off the faucet. The water soaked up the rug and caked around the toilet. The already-bloated corgi ran up the stairs. Perfect!

“Benton! Lap it up!” ordered Brian. Benton needed no human language instruction to follow his insatiable instinct. Immediately, he started licking up the amorphous, half-congealed batter of brownies and lemonade, and its varying smatterings of lemon wedges.

Charlotte fluttered her fingers in the air nervously. “Chocolate! Dogs can’t eat chocolate!” she wailed with a head so ready to burst forth with tears to add to the explosive flood.

Brian stiffened, but said, “He’ll be OK. It’s so watered down.” But it was too late. Benton threw up at the door of the bathroom and walked around the corner, tracking canine barf, sugar, and sour cocoa with him.

Charlotte sighed. “Actually, he seems OK! Still walking! He sure got that chocolate out of his system quickly!”

“Yeah, good thing!” smiled Brian, relieved.

“In fact, I think his vomit’s kinda like a dam! The water won’t flow down the stairs now!” Charlotte exclaimed.

“So we just have to clean up this bathroom and we’ll be ready to move on!” Brian spun the toilet paper roll with almost a salute.

Charlotte smiled, and padded the paper down. The first bundle ripped. “Brian, can you grab some more rolls from the cupboard?” she suggested. He opened the cupboard door but before he could get his hands on any rolls, water flooded into the cupboards. He still managed to grab the highest-stacked roll in time and threw it to Charlotte. She caught the other end of a stream of toilet paper that fell and unrolled it all. On her knees, she started to blot away, and Brian helped. Between the two of them, bits of toilet paper plastered to their knees, and the rest of it received a good tie-dye job in what seemed to be a suspicious mix of “brown and yellow bathroom waste.”

“We just need something more absorbent,” Brian decided. He pulled off his shirt, and then his shorts.

“Brian!” Charlotte berated, turning away. But then she added, “Whatever.” She turned back towards him, and while reaching up for the vines on the window sill, she stopped to comment on his soccer-patterned underwear. Up to his knees, and now only in his underwear, Brian fruitlessly threw his clothes into the flood which only resulted in a soaked outfit. Next plan.

“Char, what are you doing with those plants?”

“I’m going to pull out the vines from their pots. The soil will be perfect,” she responded.

“You’re right!” said Brian. “It’ll totally soak up this mess!” He put his hands on his hips and looked down on his products like a proud baker of delectable summer treats.

“I’ll get a blow dryer!” he added. “That’ll blow away some water, and maybe evaporate some.” On his trudge towards the cabinet, Charlotte scolded him in his tracks.

“Are you crazy?!” she asked rhetorically. “If that blow dryer falls anywhere near this, we’re toast.” Brian silently agreed, and instead helped her dump all the plants and soil onto the floor, only breaking one pot in the process. He pondered about the now empty window sill as he poured soil onto the ground, and wondered if all the toilet paper tubes could be taped together to irrigate some of the batter out the window…

The phone rang. Benton awoke from his gastrointestinal stupor with heavy barks.

Brian looked at Charlotte. The church. The ovens! Brian’s heart raced rapidly despite his belabored drag of his legs through the sludge. Once out of the bathroom, he raced down the hallway into his parents’ room and seized the phone.

“I’ll be right there!” he cried, breathing heavily. But it wasn’t Juan. It was Mom.

“Brian? Where? You don’t need to go anywhere,” Mrs. Sibley responded in such a nurturing voice. “I just wanted to tell you we’re almost home but we’re running out of gas. Your dad and I are going to stop at BP. We’ll pick up some pizza on the way home to celebrate your guys’ first home-stay without a babysitter. Hawaiian?”

Entries are such beautiful things (16):

scotheggz- "Pursepus"
Gaborn- "Pride and Joy"
The_Technomancer- "George"
Trip Warhawkins- "Julius"
Azih- "Not What I Was Looking For"
John Dunbar- "The Puppeteer"
Horsebite- "DESOLATION"
Timedog- "Aveda"
Ashes1396- "Faery story 2 - 'Karr'"
Alfarif- "A Picture is Worth"
ZephyrFate- "A Hammer to Every Memento"
Gattsu25- "Emily"
Irish- "Panic Under the Sun"
Cyan- "Last Rites"
DumbNameD- "7-27-2010"
Tangent- "Good Intentions"
Ashes1396 - "Cinema" (not eligible, but please read and critique)
Kodiak- "That Night"(not eligible, but please read and critique)

Edit: cheers Irish...

Whew! Finally got around to reading through the last thread. Glad to see the return of De La Cruz and Ruiz--maybe I'll follow nitewulf and Tim's lead and actually bring back an old character for a story sometime soon.

And very pleased to see beelz return to the writing threads! My man, don't know if you're even reading this, but I hope you stick around!

How great artists have fought creative block
Many artists fear their creativity will dry up - and often it does. But, says Professor Robert Winston, great composers have come through creative blocks to produce outstanding works. At least one, though, was driven to suicide by vanishing inspiration.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-10766308

scotcheggz- "Pursepus" - There are the beginnings of a good story here. The characters are interesting, the prose mostly pretty solid. All that's really lacking is impetus. Where is the bus going? Why does it matter that it's stopped? Why do they leave the bus? Answer these questions, and the story starts to take off.

Gaborn- "Pride and Joy" - Um. My goodness. Well, it started out nicely, although the snarky asides hit overdrive early on. The ending is so out of phase with the rest that it loses some impact. Don't know what else to say.

The_Technomancer- "George" - Took me until about halfway through the story to figure out just what the hell was going on. I really like what you did here, it's clever, and I don't think I've seen it done in text before (ever seen the movie Sliding Doors?). But it was a huge effort to read and keep the right pieces together. There really needed to be some means of differentiating each part. It seemed like sometimes, a new paragraph meant a change, and sometimes it didn't. Bold, italic, underline? I dunno, but some differentiation would've been nice.

Trip Warhawkins- "Julius" - Heh, Orange Julius was the first thing I thought of. I like the tone of the story, and it's maintained consistently. That's the strongest point here. It all seems a bit directionless, though. Not sure what I'm meant to see, here. And why does the end directly contradict the beginning?

Azih- "Not What I Was Looking For" - Good shit, really pulled me in. The no-nonsense practicality of the MC makes it a fast, smooth read. Trouble is, this ain't a story! It's half a story. Or a quarter--the spot you ended would be where a longer story really gets started and kicks into gear. Some nice writing here, but I can't vote for a half story. :/ P.S. totally unrealistic, no one pays attention to car alarms.

John Dunbar- "The Puppeteer" - Good prose, especially at the start, but there's not much concrete here for me to latch onto. No hook, no real reason to keep on reading. I like the weird interplay between what the guy is thinking, and what he's doing on stage.

Horsebite- "DESOLATION" - Nice descriptive work. I'd like to see the big paragraph blocks broken up with occasional shorter paragraphs; it'd really help the pacing.

Timedog- "Aveda" - I don't get it any more than I ever do, but I love the imagery of the paint. Awesome stuff.

Ashes1396- "Faery story 2 - 'Karr'" - Good opening, it captures attention right away (though pheasants are a type of bird...). The MC is oddly, but interestingly inconsistent. It's hard to tell just what his motivations are, but he's fun to read anyway. The ending isn't really an ending, but I suppose that's not surprising given that it's to be continued.

Alfarif- "A Picture is Worth" - Wonderful POV work. The photography metaphors towards the beginning are awesome; would've liked to see more of that. You're right that it's incomplete--there's just too much missing here to make sense of what's really going on. Also, the juxtaposition of "they call her a witch" and "she flew" in successive sentences gave me a totally false image of what was happening in that alley. :lol

ZephyrFate- "A Hammer to Every Memento" - I love the title so much, but I wish it weren't literal. :/ Good metaphor and description, as I expect from you. I wasn't really satisfied with the ending. Somehow didn't feel right for the piece, not sure why.

T-t-t-t-triple post!

Gattsu25- "Emily" - What is it with the incomplete stories this time around? Despite the cliched initial situation, you got my attention with the weird switcheroo near the end, but then left me hanging. Why you gotta be like that?

Irish- "Panic Under the Sun" - Unusual choice of perspective, with the radar gunning officer. I like it. The story is a good, solid piece right up until it sort of derails at the end. I would really like to know what the hell is going on in Izquierdo's head at the end there. The fact that we don't see what he's thinking renders the whole thing weird and disjointed. What brings him to the mental state where he can shoot a defenseless woman?

One more specific thing: in the action sequence, you might try breaking it up into smaller paragraphs. Beard dude tries something, paragraph break. Izquierdo tries something, paragraph break. It doesn't have to be that frequent, but you get the idea. With the whole thing in one paragraph, the pacing seems weird.

DumbNameD- "7-27-2010" - Hehe. GAF is indeed the embodiment of chaos. I hope you don't get sued for this.

Tangent- "Good Intentions" - Man, I love the way you capture childhood so easily (the parent-training bit is great). Maybe it comes from working with kids. Anyway, the continued escalation of the situation is hilarious (let's throw some dirt on there!), but the ending is a bit abrupt. Aw man, poor kids will never be left home alone again.


Votes
1. Irish- "Panic Under the Sun"
2. ZephyrFate- "A Hammer to Every Memento"
3. Tangent- "Good Intentions"

HM: Azih, Alfarif, Gaborn

Spoilers:

I had planned on continuing with the looks into Leon's mind like I had been doing in the beginning, but I totally forgot about it when I actually started writing.

Yeah, the combination of the heat of the day, the fatigue caused by the fight, and the shock of actually killing someone sort of put him in a state of panic and broke his mind. I mean, he wasn't really in the wrong at first, but the panic completely took hold of him. That's what happened when he took out the wife. After that, guilt returned to him and we don't exactly know what happens at the end.

I agree with the separation of the action. It's been a long while since I've written up a real fight, so it all kinda tumbled out of me. I can definitely see how it could have been confusing and rather distracting.

Also, related to another tale:






Now, it's time for me to start reading.

This is my first time posting in a writing thread. I'm gonna get started reading after posting this, but just a disclaimer: not sure how it relates to the theme, I just kinda started writing it after thinking about the theme for a bit.

For now, calling it That Night

The moon was three-fourths full in the night sky, and was so bright that John could tell the difference between his two boys as they walked a few yards in front of him. Only a year apart, Jonah and Allen were both sandy blondes and about the same height, and on a darker night, impossible to tell apart. Allen though had shorter cropped hair and bigger ears, and he always looked down as he walked.

“Watch your step, Jonah,” said john quietly, almost a reflex.

Elizabeth Banks slept in his arms, held tight against him with a careful snugness, though she slept so soundly that John could probably dangle her upside down and she still wouldn’t wake. He chuckled at the thought, and then felt slightly guilty. He held her a little tighter.

He could still smell the fire smoking out behind him as they walked away from the circle of stones and smoldering logs; he knew that if he turned to look he would see the gushing grey plume of smoke billowing from the fire he just doused. He liked the smell, he liked dousing fires. It was a simple pleasure, but it was his favorite part of a fire.

The fire pit rested in a clearing at the top of a little incline up from where his rented RV was parked, the big white camper was a short walk down from there among trees and soft turf made of fallen pine needles and brown-black soil. It crunched softly under their feet.

Jonah was making sound effects and pretending he was fighting some imagined adversary as they walked. Allen was quiet, carefully navigating each step. Elizabeth Banks breathed heavily in her sleep and John noticed her hair smelt smoky and pleasant as he held her more carefully and stepped over a fallen tree, grey and dead from some old forest fire, most likely.

John was a thirty-six year old teacher who married his grad school sweet-heart Maggie when he was twenty-seven and she was twenty-four. John had double majored as an undergrad, and had gotten a bachelor’s degree of fine arts in historic preservation and creative writing from Georgia State, and then persued his masters at Berkley in Art History and taught there for five years afterwards. He had recently been offered a teaching position at the relatively young Liberal Arts school Edwards College of Arts in the town of Deep Forest, Montana and was promised the lucrative position as head of the English and Writing department, something that he couldn’t pass up when he had three kids to feed.

The town, he had learned, was a small picturesque affair that had been established as a logging community in the mid 1800’s and had since fallen apart as larger logging companies came to control the nation’s lumber industry. The town itself was nestled on two sides of a deep canyon, cut by the powerful Gallatin river, and the two halves of the small population were connected by a single bridge. On all sides the town was surrounded by forest, mighty pines that rose up high above any of the buildings, eventually giving way to steep mountain faces that enclosed the town. All of this John had learned from a lovely postcard his prospective employers sent him, which cleverly established both the rich history and gorgeous atmosphere of the place.

Elizabeth Banks head bobbed up and down slightly with each step he took. John smiled.

Over the past decade the Deep Forest had been revitalized as the small Arts school came to be. The planners of the campus cleverly took old abandoned buildings that had belonged to the Logging company and converted them into class rooms and studios, while converting others into historic locales to help drive up the towns appeal as a tourist locale. The idea of being part of something so young and fresh in a pivotal position appealed to John, perhaps he could do more good out here than he ever did at Berkley. And it would be a great place to raise kids, he hoped.

They had made a vacation out of traveling to their new home, rented an RV, and had spent the last week taking their time heading up through the American West. They had found this nearly deserted campsite somewhere in the Gallatin national forest to stop for the evening and some food and a fire. Tomorrow they would reach Deep Forest and their new life would begin.

John had spent the night telling his children stories about his past, a subject that seemed to fascinate them to no end. Maggie chipped in wherever appropriate: correcting details, laughing here or there, adding pieces to the story that John forgot (or overlooked.) She had gone to bed an hour ago, tired from a long day of taking care of children on the road.

Eventually the kids ran out of questions and the fire grew weak and everyone with the exception of Jonah grew weary, and so John poured a four gallon bucket of water over the fire and gathered up Elizabeth Banks and ushered the boys down the hill.

After a few minutes of tired steps they reached the place where John had left the rented RV which glowed dimly behind its windows’ blinds with yellow-orange fluorescent light. It seemed the clear night had become obscured by the canopy, clouds forming, maybe. John felt a strange tension knot in his chest as he briefly surveyed the forest around him. He wanted to be inside the RV, now.

He hoisted Elizabeth Banks fully into his right arm as he approached the vehicle’s door and groped inside his right pocket with his free hand for the keys. He felt the distinctive bulk of the RV key and fingered it in-between his thumb and forefinger as he pulled out of his pocket. Then, his grip fumbled slightly as the keys snagged against his pocket and his grip loosened and the set of keys tumbled to the ground with a soft thud and clink.

“Crap,” he muttered.

He carefully bent down with the weight of his daughter against his left shoulder and arm while he searched blindly for his keys in the shadow of the RV. This close to it, the ground was pitch black and he could make out very little.

“Hurry daddy,” Allen produced meekly. Whatever tension John was feeling, it seemed his oldest was feeling it too.
“I’m trying.” John gave a quiet grunt as he continued his probing.

“Please hurry, daddy.” Allen was suddenly urgent.
John found the keys and gathered them up with his free hand.
“Please hurry!” Allen squeeked loudly, genuinely scared now as he came up and held on tightly to John’s pant leg, looking up at him expectantly.

John looked down at his son as his fingers worked the RV’s key into position. “What’s the matter, buddy?” He asked softly, mustering some appearance of confidence.
Allen merely buried his face into johns pant leg, shaking his head, not speaking.

John then noticed then that Jonah had stopped his playing and was standing perfectly still, peering off into the darkness.

“Jonah?” He asked.

Nothing.

“Jonah? What is it?” John turned back to his keys as he navigated it into the lock.

Allen sputtered “I don’t like it, Daddy” shifting John’s attention back to his older son for a moment. John felt a growing feeling of unease creeping up his spine.

He looked back to Jonah who continued to peer, as if he was watching something. John turned the key, and quickly opened the RV door. Allen was inside the RV’s cabin as quickly as the door swung wide enough to enter. Jonah, still stood, transfixed.

“Jonah, come on inside, it’s time for bed.” His son did nothing.
“Jonah,” John said more sternly.
“What is that, daddy?” His son asked then, a quiet, calm voice.

John was unsure of what his son was asking, but as he peered out in the direction that Jonah stared he felt the feeling of unease bloom inside his chest and pass coldly into his limbs. There was something out there. A man?

“Jonah, get inside right now.” John took a hurried step forward and put a firm grip on his son’s shoulder, turning him towards the RV, but his son’s eyes stayed locked on the line of trees where they both knew there was something... there. The guiding force of john’s hand compelled the boy’s feet to move, and then he seemed to snap back from his trance as he reached the door and he ascended the stairs quickly.

John lingered for a moment, continuing to peer into the darkness. What was it? There was a shape - a tall, slender, black blot that seemed darker than the grey-blackness around it. It was just at the edge of the tree line about fifteen meters away. John knew somehow It was watching him and his family, though he could make out no face or detect any movement.

John took a slow step forward, straining his eyes to make out what he was looking at. It definitely wasn’t a rock or a tree, he could feel that it was something alive, aware.
“Hey you,” John’s voice was a cracking mix of fear and unanticipated anger, louder than he expected it to be, “what the hell are you doing standing there like a fucking creep?”

Nothing.

John took another step forward. “Get the fuck away from here, you fucking psycho!” He never cursed like that unless he was drunk and ranting about something, but now he was afraid. John’s free fist clenched, clammy around his keys. Elizabeth Banks stirred slightly and he held her tighter, turning his side holding her away from the figure in the woods, protectively.

Whatever it was out there seemed to stand then, though it made no noise, and the black figure seemed to become more than twice as tall as it was before. A bear? No, he had never seen a shape like that before. Plus, bears were noisy and lumbering. John’s stomach sank deep into a pit and he felt a sickening new level of fear creep into every crevice of his body.

“We’re fucking leaving,” he muttered to no one in particular, terrified. John backed up into the RV, almost tripping over the start of the stairs leading up into the open doorway. The figure stood there, continuing to watch him, unmoving.

He turned and scrambled up the steps, ever mindful of the delicate sleeping bundle in his left arm. He slammed the door shut and locked the door. He saw then that his wife was awake and staring out the window, one arm hugging Allen close to her stomach and the other clutching Jonah’s shoulder tightly. All three peered wide eyed at the big form at the edge of the trees.

“John, “ started maggie. She was wearing her old Piggly Wiggly t-shirt and some boxers and her hair was a sleepy mess, but her face was as hard-lined and beautiful as always. Her brown eyes were made of concern, her expression worried. “Is it some sort of animal?”

“I don’t know, Mags. I want to leave right now, though.” Allen clenched her mother more tightly at that, making some child’s whimper.

Suddenly there was a sound, a howl. Some ungodly screech. It sounded like a tornado siren mixed with a long screech of nails on a chalkboard, and underneath that was a deep, layered growl of some beast. John winced. Allen ripped his hands from his mom and squealed as he covered his ears as tightly as he possibly could. Jonah just continued to watch, unfazed.

Jonah pressed his face against the glass for a better look. “Daddy look, it’s gone.”

John realized that he had not moved an inch since he locked the door and had been frozen in place. He walked up to where his wife and children stood and put his free arm on the back of Allen’s head to comfort him. The boy shrunk into himself, afraid.
Jonah was right, whatever it was was surely gone. Though it had made no noise besides that horrible scream, no crashing of underbrush or padding of feet. It was simply there, the horrible presence he had felt seemed to evaporate.

“We’re leaving right now,” John said, rushed, and almost as an afterthought added, “get the kids changed and ready to sleep.” John could not remember the last time he had been so gripped by fear.

Maggie looked at him and he passed their daughter to her gently. Somehow, that horrible noise had not woken her, and he felt thankful.

John turned and sat at the RV and shoved the key into the ignition and the big camper came alive suddenly with a rumble, a starting fit, and then the satisfying pulse of an active engine. He switched on the rear black and white display so he would not back into the trees as he worked the RV around in the clearing, turning it so that he would be facing the dirt road out of the area.

He pressed firmly on the gas and the RV rumbled over rocks and dirt and kicked up plenty of dusty around the wide windows, not enough to obscure his view by any means. The big camper rumbled down the road, and John’s stomach felt empty, drenched in cold fear.

Kodiak said:

This is my first time posting in a writing thread. I'm gonna get started reading after posting this, but just a disclaimer: not sure how it relates to the theme, I just kinda started writing it after thinking about the theme for a bit.

For now, calling it That Night

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You're unfortunately past the deadline, so this piece isn't eligible to win the challenge, but Irish can add your story to the list for people to read and critique.

Welcome to Writing-GAF. Be sure and come back next week.

Cyan said:

scotcheggz- "Pursepus" - There are the beginnings of a good story here. The characters are interesting, the prose mostly pretty solid. All that's really lacking is impetus. Where is the bus going? Why does it matter that it's stopped? Why do they leave the bus? Answer these questions, and the story starts to take off

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Thanks a lot, I just wanted to answer some of those questions, I'm going to spoiler it because I want to see peoples take on it without reading this.


Now to get on with the reading!

Cyan said:

The_Technomancer- "George" - Took me until about halfway through the story to figure out just what the hell was going on. I really like what you did here, it's clever, and I don't think I've seen it done in text before (ever seen the movie Sliding Doors?). But it was a huge effort to read and keep the right pieces together. There really needed to be some means of differentiating each part. It seemed like sometimes, a new paragraph meant a change, and sometimes it didn't. Bold, italic, underline? I dunno, but some differentiation would've been nice.

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Hm, okay, thanks for the comments. Each paragraph is a change, but that doesn't mean that each paragraph switches between the main three plotlines. Sometimes, like on the train, a para-change just means a short one-of branch that doesn't go anywhere.
I'm not sure how much actual character based stuff I'll be doing in these challenges, since the word limits feel restrictive to me, and I don't usually like just giving a snapshot of a few moments. Seems like a better ground (for me at least) to try and make wholly self contained short experimental stuff.

Also, do we just vote here in thread?

Cyan said:

Horsebite- "DESOLATION" - Nice descriptive work. I'd like to see the big paragraph blocks broken up with occasional shorter paragraphs; it'd really help the pacing.

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Thank you for that. Funny I didn't notice it while writing and editing it after posting it. Too late now, but will keep in mind. Good observation!

The_Technomancer said:

Also, do we just vote here in thread?

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Yep. See how cyan voted above... first place, second place third place, plus optional honourable mentions.

Cyan said:

Alfarif- "A Picture is Worth" - Wonderful POV work. The photography metaphors towards the beginning are awesome; would've liked to see more of that. You're right that it's incomplete--there's just too much missing here to make sense of what's really going on. Also, the juxtaposition of "they call her a witch" and "she flew" in successive sentences gave me a totally false image of what was happening in that alley. :lol

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:lol Well, shit, I should just do this kind of stuff more often. I just went back and read it, and it wasn't half bad, actually. I'm pretty surprised, only because I just kind of wrote it and ran off. It didn't need as much editing as I thought it might. I don't even think I want to finish it. I'm scared of the massacre I'll end up doing to it if I try to finish it.

Votes
1. ZephyrFate- "A Hammer to Every Memento"
2. Irish- "Panic Under the Sun"
3. Tangent- "Good Intentions"

Less than a day left to vote, and we're 2/16. Come on, dudes! Let's not get a repeat of last time.

On the other hand, if it stays like this, Horsebite and I can tie for first.

The_Technomancer said:

Seems like a better ground (for me at least) to try and make wholly self contained short experimental stuff.

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I think standard-style stories of this length are perfectly doable... but experimental stuff is definitely welcome here. Sounds good to me!

Alfarif said:

:lol Well, shit, I should just do this kind of stuff more often. I just went back and read it, and it wasn't half bad, actually.

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Don'tcha love it when that happens?

1. Horsebite
2. Cyan
3. Alfarif

1. Cyan
2. Tangent
3. John Dunbar

Some comments as I really appreciate those who comment on mine. I'll try to get a few quick one liners up for everyone else tomorrow or the day after:

Pursepus I couldn't connect with any of the characters so I didn't really care about what happened to them. The setting was described well though

Gaborn II didn't feel the character you ended up creating for the narrator would have started with a line like "It began, as these things do, with a yellow ducky and a pacifier"Felt disjointed because of that.

Technomancer I enjoyed it, but I think 1700 words wasn't enough time to set up the alternate realities. Maybe some sort of seperator would have helped. As it was it was hard to read.

Trip Warhawkins I didn't really feel it, the payoff at the end was nice but I don't think there was enough description to support the weird reality that you described.

John Dunbar I enjoyed the story but the disconnect between the puppet show and the internal monologue took away from the story for me.

1. Alfarif
2. ZephyrFate
3. Cyan

All of the stories were interesting and totally different, it never ceases to amaze me how much talent there is on GAF.

Reading now!

16. scotcheggz- "Pursepus" - Not much of a story here but what was there was decently enough told.
15. Gaborn- "Pride and Joy" - Wait, so he killed the baby? did I get that right? If so, it jarred so much with the rest of the story that I'm am at loss as to explain how you thought it would work. Feed the baby, put him to bed, end the story.
14. The_Technomancer- "George" - Verbiage at first when unneeded. And lacking in description later when entirely warranted. Also the literary narrator lay forgotten for a more visual direction, like that of a film; works for some people, I'll admit, not for others. You need to utilise a more recognisable format/structure to show scene breaks.

I just got home from work, and I'm dead on my feet, so I don't have many comments right now. I'll just cast my votes before the deadline:
1.)Cyan
2.)Tangent
3.)Alfarif

13. Trip Warhawkins- "Julius" - Comedies are difficult, and this just seemed like one on an acid trip.
12. Azih- "Not What I Was Looking For" - Draws the reader in slow enough and ends on a high. If reading is all about the experiance, this was a good short run of it. Could cut it down a bit, if this is indeed the fully story.
11. John Dunbar- "The Puppeteer" - Cool concept, nothing really to dig into, but a good plot as usual. Needs zest in my opinion.
10. Horsebite- "DESOLATION" - Took me half the story to realize what was going on. Some people will like the verbosity, but I don't really like em in my short stories.

1. Azih
2. Cyan
3. Alfarif