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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #58 - "The Scar"
- Thread starter Aaron
- Start date
- Status
Lone_Prodigy
Member
They're all great. Nice job.
Welcome back Ronito. 
@Lone Prodigy: There'll be more to come I'm sure, and you can vote for you favourite from pretty soon.
My story is stuck at home, while I'm at work thinking about it.
It's different from my usual sort of writing. I'm embracing a very nonchalant way of writing I guess.
@Lone Prodigy: There'll be more to come I'm sure, and you can vote for you favourite from pretty soon.
My story is stuck at home, while I'm at work thinking about it.
It's different from my usual sort of writing. I'm embracing a very nonchalant way of writing I guess.
remember to picture the audience in funny coats.
<3 Pammy.
You still have 5 and a half hours. I'm basically starting mine from scratch right now. C'mon, let's race.
(although I do have a little bit of lab work to do in the meanwhile.. so I'll have an excuse at the ready)
<3 Pammy.
Alfarif said:
You still have 5 and a half hours. I'm basically starting mine from scratch right now. C'mon, let's race.
(although I do have a little bit of lab work to do in the meanwhile.. so I'll have an excuse at the ready)
Because I already extended the voting deadline, I'm invoking topic creator authority to extend the story deadline! Since there's enough people, including me, close to a story but unlikely to make the cut off, I'm extending it to noon tomorrow (PST). It's better to have more stories than worry about arbitrary deadlines. I've had a busy week myself, and just couldn't write until recently.
crowphoenix
Banned
Deleted due to TOS change.
Wow, I must be extremely lucky. I was laying in bed trying to come up with something to write about when I fell asleep for three and a half hours. I literally just woke up and was like, "Damn it!" Luckily, it appears as if that surprise nap wasn't as disastrous as it could have been.
Tim the Wiz
Banned
.
Another twelve hours yes... so 8m BST. Cool, got it.
@Alf: write it down, even if it's for private use. If it has a measure of control, it will trully be an inspirational piece. And sleep is nearly always good. I can't remember which author said it but writing comes best when it's closer to dream time, either late at night or early in the morning.
m BST. Cool, got it.@Alf: write it down, even if it's for private use. If it has a measure of control, it will trully be an inspirational piece. And sleep is nearly always good. I can't remember which author said it but writing comes best when it's closer to dream time, either late at night or early in the morning.
you probably already know that I'm trying to take your mind off things. But pretend that you don't realize that and get that head down.
darnit.. not going to finish (in time for an entry). I've barely started the second act. It's not very good anyway. I'll need to rewrite it a couple times for sure before I show it to anybody.
I'll read the rest and vote for sure though.
Oh crap, just read about the extension. I could totally do this. I'll be at the DMV all morning anyway. Sweet.
I'll read the rest and vote for sure though.
Oh crap, just read about the extension. I could totally do this. I'll be at the DMV all morning anyway. Sweet.
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Two duplicate stories. Beat that.
I managed to get home in time. Thanks anyway, ronito.
Tim the Wiz
Banned
Don't worry. Shiz will go down last minute as usual.
Two names etched into the bark
on the west side of the oak tree.
Two kids beneath the leaves
the only place where they can be free.
Meet up, when it gets dark
far away from the prying eyes.
Just wait a little while longer.
We'll abandon this life of lies.
Jack wakes up to screams spreading like an infection.
Philip gets up with another bruise to add to his collection.
At school, the situation remains the same.
Teachers scold and the bullies play their game.
3:00, school is done, but there is no time to play.
A few more hours in their hellish homes before they begin the day.
11 pm, a few hours past time for bed.
Off they run towards the oak, wishing their parents were dead.
A quick look around, nobody can be seen.
No reason for hatred, yet everyone is mean.
A plan is concocted, so they can finally be.
A week from now is when they will flee.
Two weeks later, the plan has changed.
Jack and Philip were finally caught.
Forget their punishment?
They will most certainly not.
Legs covered in gashes, Philip can barely stand.
Waited too long when they should have ran.
Mind is broken, Jack no longer comprehends.
Why can't they be left alone.
Wednesday night, the sun about to leave,
Phil takes Jack by the hand
they walk calmly to the tree.
Rope in hand, Phil begins his work.
Confident, yet his hands still shook.
Up on the branch and then off they go.
Hands clasped together and tied for support.
Together forever, they hang from the oak.
Pushed to the edge by the cruelness of folk.
The ways of the world won't keep them apart.
"Philip + Jack" encased in a heart.
on the west side of the oak tree.
Two kids beneath the leaves
the only place where they can be free.
Meet up, when it gets dark
far away from the prying eyes.
Just wait a little while longer.
We'll abandon this life of lies.
Jack wakes up to screams spreading like an infection.
Philip gets up with another bruise to add to his collection.
At school, the situation remains the same.
Teachers scold and the bullies play their game.
3:00, school is done, but there is no time to play.
A few more hours in their hellish homes before they begin the day.
11 pm, a few hours past time for bed.
Off they run towards the oak, wishing their parents were dead.
A quick look around, nobody can be seen.
No reason for hatred, yet everyone is mean.
A plan is concocted, so they can finally be.
A week from now is when they will flee.
Two weeks later, the plan has changed.
Jack and Philip were finally caught.
Forget their punishment?
They will most certainly not.
Legs covered in gashes, Philip can barely stand.
Waited too long when they should have ran.
Mind is broken, Jack no longer comprehends.
Why can't they be left alone.
Wednesday night, the sun about to leave,
Phil takes Jack by the hand
they walk calmly to the tree.
Rope in hand, Phil begins his work.
Confident, yet his hands still shook.
Up on the branch and then off they go.
Hands clasped together and tied for support.
Together forever, they hang from the oak.
Pushed to the edge by the cruelness of folk.
The ways of the world won't keep them apart.
"Philip + Jack" encased in a heart.
Must sleep now.
Blessed of Araduin
word count: 1,953
The forest was ancient and primordial. Its massive trees that seemed unfinished, as if Araduin had shaped them from clay, left to wash his hands and never returned. The weather passed from summer into autumn as Durg and his squad of six soldiers passed under their overarching canopy, and the sounds of unseen movement around us rumbled like an unspoken threat.
"There's poison in the air," I whispered low as a familiar tingle brushed against my skin. I was new to this outfit, but not their grim work. I didn't have to present any credentials or carry any grand stories when I applied. The scars marring my face were enough to be accepted by this band of merciless witchhunters.
The others gave me a sour look, and like that we were surrounded by several dozen twisted forms. They were pale to nearly luminous, clad in ragged and ashen robes with their backs hunched and bodies mangled. Most had cut away the remnants of their hair, while others sliced off parts of their ears and even the tips of their noses. They were insenate by nature, having no touch or pain. Innominate also. Nameless. They seemed frail and sickly at a glance, but they were hardly helpless.
"Followers of Gashok, repent and be--," was the most Durg could manage before one of the creatures gestured with a few strange words like the croaks of a frog. A black wave flowed outwards, knocking the captain to the ground.
"I don't think we'll find many repenters here," Mesurg grumbled. He was a dark-skinned giant from the south. Like the others, he didn't bend to offer his captain a hand, but kept his back to his mates, and his eyes on the fiends that encircled them.
"Steel and fire!" Durg commanded as his loyal hunters all unsheathed their bulky fire swords. They were massive blades gleaming with oil, with spaced groves near their edge. So when they twisted the long handles, flames shot from these holes, igniting the weapon with a halo of flame.
I had yet to earn such a wonder, making due with a worn blade of plain steel on one hand, and a grip of firebombs in the other that were more likely to burn myself than anything.
The ground trembled as the creatures around us hooted and shambled, having cast aside their humanity at the promise of power forbidden. Poison lances rose out of the ground to jab at us, but witchhunters were clad in thick leather with plates of tarnished steel, drinking jasermine and poison brew before battle to harden our bodies against the dark infection of a mad god.
When Durg charged, we moved as one; half a dozen set against numbers the darkened forest helped disguise. Our blades merely struck rag-covered trees wrapped in their foul spells, but the flames quickly rose to consume the damp wood, eating away also at this unnatural twilight. It revealed a rotting fort made into a coven hole, covered in both filth and vine. Magic was everything to them. With it, they needed neither food nor shelter. They consumed it just as it devoured them.
One hunter cried out as one of the fiends latched onto his back, digging with dark claws in the spaces between his armor to draw a livid flow of blood. It was small and withered, either an old woman or a young boy. Another hunter slashed into it with his sword, setting the creature ablaze as it scrambled off, wounded and burning but yet somehow still alive.
That shifted the still mood as these creatures rushed for us in mass, pouring from every still dark orifice of the forest to lash out at us with their mangled and terrible limbs. There were flashes of claws and spikes, shot thorns and globs of dark spit that sizzled and burned. Their fury came in croaking and grumbling, not halting as we sliced and burned our way through them. For they felt nothing but their dark need.
"There are too many. We should have set fire to the whole blasted forest!" I spat in bitterness, already bleeding from a dozen wounds as I remained close to Durg himself, while the rest of the men had been knocked away and separated. I couldn't see through this horde to tell if they were alive or dead.
"Hold up a bit longer, lad. We have an ally," Durg replied with a mad grin as he strode into the swathe of twisted bodies and inhuman shrieks, burning and cutting as the most sadistic woodcutter ever born.
"Who?" I demanded as I rushed to his side, slicing through a dark lance of bone about to skewer him.
"The avatar himself," Durg answered with a chuckle even as a claw tore through leather to rake his arm. As if the word alone was a balm that soothed all suffering.
Then a great tidal wave struck their coven from behind, sending out a mixture of rotten stone and mangled bodies into the smoke-filled air. These witches and warlocks cackled with the first sound to resemble fear, backing away to reveal the man who stood upon the mound of rubble that had been their home.
He wasn't one for looks. His thick brown hair had been trimmed with a hacksaw, while his sunken eyes and furrowed brow resembled a furry toad. His steel plate armor gleamed with etchings from the Great Conflict, when Araduin sealed away Gashok deep in the rich earth. The two gods seemed to battle upon his breast as he slashed through the onrushing witches with two fiery battleaxes as if they were no more than mist. Yet the body beneath was a mess of muscle and bulk, built like a barrel on a barrelmaker's final day. The only noble mark was the single scar that ran a jagged path across one cheek.
I could only stare opened mouthed, struck dumb with awe. For flesh and blood doesn't make a man unique. Where Berrow strode, a flow of legend followed in his wake. He had been a common soldier in the War of Six Kings, and lost a hand beheading the foul King Farnok. It cost him an eye to root the infamous coven of Snowy Rivers. A whole leg had been lost to the monster of Dwellerdeep, and yet his still scaled Mount Tiun to strangle the dark avatar with a single hand.
Berrow was chosen by Araduin, blessed and purified of all injury. Though he did not take his restored health and fame to wallow in comfort. He continued to seek out those places of strife, and carved his name in the bones of his enemies.
With his arrival, I could only wonder why the witchhunters had been sent. The witches ignored us lesser beings, for even they knew the legends, and swarmed him with a fury of claws, magic and rage. They sought to add to that single scar on his face, but it was not to be. For he slew them. He slew them all.
*
Hunter House was a bare fort of wood and stone, thrown together on the edge of Del Havin, the capital of the empire. It had once been within the inner wall of the palace compound, but it didn't take a seer to see why they fell out of the royal grace.
The brackish poison brew flowed freely into the mouths of the lounging warriors, with a fair amount ending on the floor for their mangy hounds. Foul stuff that contained the blood of their enemies, to further harden them to their fouler magics. But there were sweeter things to savor, with feasts of roast meats and sliced fruit stolen from the emperor's own kitchen. The half naked whores that served and serviced the men weren't suited for a king, but these weren't the sort of men who feared disease.
Berrow was at the center of it all. Calm as a monk, he picked at his portion of the meal, seeming to seek out the most wilted and unwanted morsels. He drank naught but rainwater, and shooed away the affections of even the most comely ladies.
These fearless witchhunters had all gathered around his feet like children, looking to him with eager eyes. They pestered him all night for tales of valor, and he reluctantly told them stories of the most vicious and inglorious sort. It was all blood and bones, smashed brains and leaking organs, and they hung on every word.
I felt sick to see these brave men reduced to lapdogs. Even the captain was like a schoolboy asking out his first crush when he dared to say, "At last tell us of how you gained that one scar. A horde of witches surrounded you today, without leaving a mark."
"My armor could use a good cleaning," Berrow observed, glancing over where it had been hung in a place of honor, stained black from the blood that had flowed. He reached up to touch his face, "Though this scar... that's a story I'll never tell."
No more pleading could wring it out of him, while I swallowed bile at what sniveling wrenches this soldiers had become. So I resolved to prove his mortality.
*
My hand shook slightly as I clutched the long knife, carefully stepping around the soldiers that lay slumbering and sprawled out on the rug-covered floor. It was in a private room on the only real bed where Berrow slept, snoring like the bellows.
I had no wish to murder him, nor was I naive enough to believe I could manage such a feat. I just wished to draw a line in his skin, then fly off into the night before he could know the doer of this deed. I already had an excuse well prepared. The others would not know, though they could suspect. Perhaps even give a little admiration for the man who dared scar the chosen of Araduin.
Berrow lay like a dead hog, neck and back exposed. Before my nerve could falter, I brought the blade down to slice across his shoulders, thinking of the great surprise it would be to this legend. Yet I was the one astonished as the blade bent from the force, with its keen edge not leaving so much as a scratch behind.
"So are you satisfied?" Berrow inquired. His false snoring had stopped just before the blade made contact, revealing the feigned state of his supposed slumber. He turned to peer back at me with the gaze of an animal, indifferent to the world. "Did you think the blessing of a god was a paltry thing? Such power is so great that I am beyond the reach of mortal things."
"But your scar...," I whispered, and even as I said it, he reached up and pulled it away, showing it was as false as his snoring. Just a bit of makeup, like the whores from before. It left me with a single and terrible question. "Why?"
"A man without scars... he's either an infant, or some strange creature best avoided," Berrow answered dismissively, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Though a man who wades through death and horror with but a single scar to mar him? He is a true hero! Let all love and honor be his!"
"You are mighty...," I spoke slow, remembering his power upon the battlefield, and only left to wonder now if it was his skill in arms, or the pure blessing of the god above.
"You will know the answer soon," this great warrior replied to my unspoken question with his first grin of the evening.
I doubt I will ever smile again.
word count: 1,953
The forest was ancient and primordial. Its massive trees that seemed unfinished, as if Araduin had shaped them from clay, left to wash his hands and never returned. The weather passed from summer into autumn as Durg and his squad of six soldiers passed under their overarching canopy, and the sounds of unseen movement around us rumbled like an unspoken threat.
"There's poison in the air," I whispered low as a familiar tingle brushed against my skin. I was new to this outfit, but not their grim work. I didn't have to present any credentials or carry any grand stories when I applied. The scars marring my face were enough to be accepted by this band of merciless witchhunters.
The others gave me a sour look, and like that we were surrounded by several dozen twisted forms. They were pale to nearly luminous, clad in ragged and ashen robes with their backs hunched and bodies mangled. Most had cut away the remnants of their hair, while others sliced off parts of their ears and even the tips of their noses. They were insenate by nature, having no touch or pain. Innominate also. Nameless. They seemed frail and sickly at a glance, but they were hardly helpless.
"Followers of Gashok, repent and be--," was the most Durg could manage before one of the creatures gestured with a few strange words like the croaks of a frog. A black wave flowed outwards, knocking the captain to the ground.
"I don't think we'll find many repenters here," Mesurg grumbled. He was a dark-skinned giant from the south. Like the others, he didn't bend to offer his captain a hand, but kept his back to his mates, and his eyes on the fiends that encircled them.
"Steel and fire!" Durg commanded as his loyal hunters all unsheathed their bulky fire swords. They were massive blades gleaming with oil, with spaced groves near their edge. So when they twisted the long handles, flames shot from these holes, igniting the weapon with a halo of flame.
I had yet to earn such a wonder, making due with a worn blade of plain steel on one hand, and a grip of firebombs in the other that were more likely to burn myself than anything.
The ground trembled as the creatures around us hooted and shambled, having cast aside their humanity at the promise of power forbidden. Poison lances rose out of the ground to jab at us, but witchhunters were clad in thick leather with plates of tarnished steel, drinking jasermine and poison brew before battle to harden our bodies against the dark infection of a mad god.
When Durg charged, we moved as one; half a dozen set against numbers the darkened forest helped disguise. Our blades merely struck rag-covered trees wrapped in their foul spells, but the flames quickly rose to consume the damp wood, eating away also at this unnatural twilight. It revealed a rotting fort made into a coven hole, covered in both filth and vine. Magic was everything to them. With it, they needed neither food nor shelter. They consumed it just as it devoured them.
One hunter cried out as one of the fiends latched onto his back, digging with dark claws in the spaces between his armor to draw a livid flow of blood. It was small and withered, either an old woman or a young boy. Another hunter slashed into it with his sword, setting the creature ablaze as it scrambled off, wounded and burning but yet somehow still alive.
That shifted the still mood as these creatures rushed for us in mass, pouring from every still dark orifice of the forest to lash out at us with their mangled and terrible limbs. There were flashes of claws and spikes, shot thorns and globs of dark spit that sizzled and burned. Their fury came in croaking and grumbling, not halting as we sliced and burned our way through them. For they felt nothing but their dark need.
"There are too many. We should have set fire to the whole blasted forest!" I spat in bitterness, already bleeding from a dozen wounds as I remained close to Durg himself, while the rest of the men had been knocked away and separated. I couldn't see through this horde to tell if they were alive or dead.
"Hold up a bit longer, lad. We have an ally," Durg replied with a mad grin as he strode into the swathe of twisted bodies and inhuman shrieks, burning and cutting as the most sadistic woodcutter ever born.
"Who?" I demanded as I rushed to his side, slicing through a dark lance of bone about to skewer him.
"The avatar himself," Durg answered with a chuckle even as a claw tore through leather to rake his arm. As if the word alone was a balm that soothed all suffering.
Then a great tidal wave struck their coven from behind, sending out a mixture of rotten stone and mangled bodies into the smoke-filled air. These witches and warlocks cackled with the first sound to resemble fear, backing away to reveal the man who stood upon the mound of rubble that had been their home.
He wasn't one for looks. His thick brown hair had been trimmed with a hacksaw, while his sunken eyes and furrowed brow resembled a furry toad. His steel plate armor gleamed with etchings from the Great Conflict, when Araduin sealed away Gashok deep in the rich earth. The two gods seemed to battle upon his breast as he slashed through the onrushing witches with two fiery battleaxes as if they were no more than mist. Yet the body beneath was a mess of muscle and bulk, built like a barrel on a barrelmaker's final day. The only noble mark was the single scar that ran a jagged path across one cheek.
I could only stare opened mouthed, struck dumb with awe. For flesh and blood doesn't make a man unique. Where Berrow strode, a flow of legend followed in his wake. He had been a common soldier in the War of Six Kings, and lost a hand beheading the foul King Farnok. It cost him an eye to root the infamous coven of Snowy Rivers. A whole leg had been lost to the monster of Dwellerdeep, and yet his still scaled Mount Tiun to strangle the dark avatar with a single hand.
Berrow was chosen by Araduin, blessed and purified of all injury. Though he did not take his restored health and fame to wallow in comfort. He continued to seek out those places of strife, and carved his name in the bones of his enemies.
With his arrival, I could only wonder why the witchhunters had been sent. The witches ignored us lesser beings, for even they knew the legends, and swarmed him with a fury of claws, magic and rage. They sought to add to that single scar on his face, but it was not to be. For he slew them. He slew them all.
*
Hunter House was a bare fort of wood and stone, thrown together on the edge of Del Havin, the capital of the empire. It had once been within the inner wall of the palace compound, but it didn't take a seer to see why they fell out of the royal grace.
The brackish poison brew flowed freely into the mouths of the lounging warriors, with a fair amount ending on the floor for their mangy hounds. Foul stuff that contained the blood of their enemies, to further harden them to their fouler magics. But there were sweeter things to savor, with feasts of roast meats and sliced fruit stolen from the emperor's own kitchen. The half naked whores that served and serviced the men weren't suited for a king, but these weren't the sort of men who feared disease.
Berrow was at the center of it all. Calm as a monk, he picked at his portion of the meal, seeming to seek out the most wilted and unwanted morsels. He drank naught but rainwater, and shooed away the affections of even the most comely ladies.
These fearless witchhunters had all gathered around his feet like children, looking to him with eager eyes. They pestered him all night for tales of valor, and he reluctantly told them stories of the most vicious and inglorious sort. It was all blood and bones, smashed brains and leaking organs, and they hung on every word.
I felt sick to see these brave men reduced to lapdogs. Even the captain was like a schoolboy asking out his first crush when he dared to say, "At last tell us of how you gained that one scar. A horde of witches surrounded you today, without leaving a mark."
"My armor could use a good cleaning," Berrow observed, glancing over where it had been hung in a place of honor, stained black from the blood that had flowed. He reached up to touch his face, "Though this scar... that's a story I'll never tell."
No more pleading could wring it out of him, while I swallowed bile at what sniveling wrenches this soldiers had become. So I resolved to prove his mortality.
*
My hand shook slightly as I clutched the long knife, carefully stepping around the soldiers that lay slumbering and sprawled out on the rug-covered floor. It was in a private room on the only real bed where Berrow slept, snoring like the bellows.
I had no wish to murder him, nor was I naive enough to believe I could manage such a feat. I just wished to draw a line in his skin, then fly off into the night before he could know the doer of this deed. I already had an excuse well prepared. The others would not know, though they could suspect. Perhaps even give a little admiration for the man who dared scar the chosen of Araduin.
Berrow lay like a dead hog, neck and back exposed. Before my nerve could falter, I brought the blade down to slice across his shoulders, thinking of the great surprise it would be to this legend. Yet I was the one astonished as the blade bent from the force, with its keen edge not leaving so much as a scratch behind.
"So are you satisfied?" Berrow inquired. His false snoring had stopped just before the blade made contact, revealing the feigned state of his supposed slumber. He turned to peer back at me with the gaze of an animal, indifferent to the world. "Did you think the blessing of a god was a paltry thing? Such power is so great that I am beyond the reach of mortal things."
"But your scar...," I whispered, and even as I said it, he reached up and pulled it away, showing it was as false as his snoring. Just a bit of makeup, like the whores from before. It left me with a single and terrible question. "Why?"
"A man without scars... he's either an infant, or some strange creature best avoided," Berrow answered dismissively, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Though a man who wades through death and horror with but a single scar to mar him? He is a true hero! Let all love and honor be his!"
"You are mighty...," I spoke slow, remembering his power upon the battlefield, and only left to wonder now if it was his skill in arms, or the pure blessing of the god above.
"You will know the answer soon," this great warrior replied to my unspoken question with his first grin of the evening.
I doubt I will ever smile again.
How are you feeling?
(1901 words)
Ania's left, Christina told Anisya, her friend of thirty five years, right at the start of Anisya's shift.
Anisya took off her coat and settled it on the ergonomically designed operator's chair. She then took off to the tea making station. She folded her arms and let her eye roam the call centre and waited patiently for the water in the kettle to boil.
Did she say why she left? Anisya asked, putting two mugs between herself and Christina. She logged into her station, and put on her headset. She watched the steam rise above the deliciously coloured tea.
Sex calls... poor girl.
Anisya remembered her first sex call. It was a man who asked her what the colour of her panties were. With the benefit of experience she grew not to mind when it was as straight forward as that; she still had problems when she was emotionally invested in the call, and would later find out that the person had been masturbating to the call on false pretences. Everyone had their own 'line has been crossed' button. For Anisya, it was the rape call. She'd had a few so far in the 3 years she had been on call. And every time, she passed it along to an adviser.
Hello...? Anisya spoke gently.
The caller's breath could be heard through the phone call.
Is this the first time you've called? It's quite common to not speak at all for the first couple of times...
...
How are you feeling?
...
Then the phone caller, on the cusp of speaking, gave way and the call ended.
Anisya looked at the rainwater flowing down the pane of the giant glass windows. It was a gently raining night outside.
Hello...? Anisya spoke gently.
...My son just died...
Oh... I'm sorry to hear that...
... The woman's sobs were audible through the phone.
It's alright maam... Let it out... Can I ask you your name please...? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Everything you do say is fully confidential... it stays between you and me maam.
My name? Erm... Elizabeth DXXXX
Elizabeth and Anisya talked about the death of her daughter Margeret. Margeret died tragically as a result of a hit and run accident by a joyrider in his youth. They talked for approximately, thirty five minutes.
Eliza, we're not really an advisory service, but I can give you information on the people who do offer such services... If you want it that is...When I said it was an anonymous service, it really is. We don't trace calls, so you'll have to give me your details. (She laughs). We'll destroy any information we have on you asap.
Thank you.. I'm so very grateful... Elizabeth managed before another set of tears.
The talk turned to the weather just as the conversation was looked to near a resolution.
It's snowing here... Elizabeth said. I had to pick out a dress for her funeral, you know... I went shopping for her wedding dress.. before...
The call ended with Elizabeth asking Anisya whether she had any children.
I... Anisya paused to think. She bit her lip. Yes.. I do. A willy little terrier.
Thank you for telling me, even if you didn't want to... It's not right for a mother to go before her child.... You know I sort of relaxed a bit when she finished her Uni...
A strange thing has happened Laura. I am conscious now of not being Elizabeth DXXXX, but the woman whose daughter was killed.
I'm so very happy for you Laura. You're not like other people... People have been very kind, but I sense their discomfort because they don't know what to say. Thank you for listening...
Thank you for thanking me. It's why I do this job... Anisya said with a smile. Could I do a follow up call to check in with you... would that be okay?
Anisya shifted in her seat, comfortably overseeing the next hours passage into the doldrums of history. Call followed call followed call. She sat in her little bubble listening to the voices coming through her headphones. Occasionally she would pop out of her zone and listen to the chatter all around the centre. It was another busy night. It was always a busy night.
At quarter past two, she got up from her seat and went to the loo. She sat on top of the toiler-free seat, and put her head in her hands. She listened to the whirs of the basin being used by an outsider. She yearned for quiescence and got this silence momentarily. Tick followed tock followed tick.
She looked at the cubicle door, blinking slowing, following with an upheaval of the shoulders as she consciously breathed in with greater effort. Ten minutes post, she lifted the toilet seat back its normal position and needlessly flushed it.
Hello Miss
Hello darling are you okay
I know its a bit late, the child whispered from under her covers.
No, its perfectly fine love. Whats on your mind love?
Im eight years old today Yesterday I mean
How lovely? Was it your birthday?
It was but thats not the problem
Anisya took a deep breath.
Mum hasnt stopped drinking Shes smashing the-
Anisya turned around 180 degrees, like dozens of others, over to the left hand corner of the room following the crashing sound of a chair and a whelp. A chair lay upturned on the floor. The volunteer had a hand to her mouth. She took off her headset and ran out with a hand to cover his teary-eyed face. Later on in the shift, Anisya would learn that a caller had shot himself mid-conversation. She would read in the papers the following day that he had really killed himself.
Anisya caught her friend Christina's eyes.
What did you say your name was dear?
Alice Miss. Please don't call the police...
I won't. Anisya tried hard to refocus on the call. Drunk mother. Yes, that was it. What is she doing now? Your mother?
She's throwing stuff.. My brother's lying on the floor.
Anisya played with the pen in her hand. She looked over at the advisor's office. Should she call them over? She should really. But she also knew that drunk violent mothers were hard to prove and that Alice may never call again.
Okay, here's what I want you to do. I want you to go up to your bedroom door, and lock it. It has a lock yes?
Anisya heard the muffles of a girl getting out of bed and locking the door. She could then hear the slams on the door. Anisya looked at the advisor's office. Through the phone, she could hear the door shudder as Alices mother tried to force it open. She could hear Alice's screams telling her mother to go away.
Alice... Anisya said, her fingers trembling. I..
Anisya sat at the restaurant area tucking into her lunch. Christina had her head laid beside her lunch. The clock struck 3am.
Anisya opened her mouth to say something. Chrissi, I.. the last phone call kind of shook me up a bit... I wonder if we could talk...
Christina popped up her head. huh? Did you say something.
Anisya shook her head.
You can tell me stuff though right. You do know that. Right?
Anisya smiled. Of course.
She folded her arms, in the pretence that a chilly wind had run up from the hallway.
Hello,
I get so terribly lonely. I don't know what to do about it..
Hi, how are you feeling today...?
I don't know, numb I guess... I shouldn't have hit her but... no I shouldn't have hit her..I guess I should start at the beginning!
What do you want to talk about maam?
I lost my house... My husband's run off with his secretary... My mother in law's sleeping in the other room... apart from that... everything is fine...
How are you today James?
Oh thank god, they gave you on the line... Still don't have a girlfriend... Fucking exams in the morning... Sorry I shouldn't have sworn.. oh fuck... would you think less of me if I paid a girl to have sex with me?
Morning...
...
Take your time..
My name's flower petal... I hate it... life's shit enough... I want to stay in one place
What an unique name... My name's Russian. I'm not supposed to tell really, but it's Anisya. When I was growing up, some people thought it was weird but..
What colour are your pant-
Bye bye sir.
With about ten minutes to go of her shift, Anisya, thought about leaving early. That was the good thing about volunteering, hardly anybody ever minded when you left early.
...
Hello..
Oh it's you.. I recognise your beautiful voice miss...
Oh thank you... Anisya replied.
I was the one who called earlier... but when I called back.. guys kept picking up...
They're friendly enough but it's your decision...
Oh, I wanted to talk to a woman... I actually decided earlier tonight that I wanted to tell you. I trust your voice. I don't really want any advice... And I have friends... and good family. I have a boyfriend as well... He is in Afghanistan, but he is an engineer, everything is fine between us. I just have something to say... I need to desperately talk to somebody. I was raped yesterday.
Anisya looked at her pale cup of tea. The cold tea tasted bitter as it went down to her stomach. This was her 'button'. She swallowed hard. How are you feeling?
Snow flakes floated down to the streets as the last ounces of nightfall left Manchester. Anisya locked the door behind her, and went up the dark stairs to her bedroom.
Her husband turned over in bed. You're here...
She took off her heels and put her lips to her husband, Petrov's ears. Would you mind terribly if a stinky old woman, fell into bed with you, without having had a shower or even taking her stockings off.
I don't mind, he said in his sleep. But I don't think your royal highness, Petrova, will like it.
Petrova had another night terror? Anisya said, feeling Petrova's forehead.
Petrov grumbled in his sleep. He semi-opened his left eye and saw Anisya sat at the foot of the bed; she was slowly taking her coat off.
Urgh... he said rubbing his eyes. He got out of bed and picked his wife up in his arms.
What're you doing Petrov? I don't need to talk... you've worked all day and looked after Petrova all night... You've got work in the morning... I'm telling you it's fine...
All I know is that you're making me tea... And you are going to have a shower.. he said as he carried her down to the kitchen. Even if I have to jump in there and make you!
Anisya sniggered. Oh, is that how it is? What a raw deal it must be for you?
And I don't want to hear about suicides... anything else is fine... Suicides push the buttons for me..
Anisya kissed him on the cheek and smiled brightly almost immediately perked up. She looked at his eyes, messy hair and the broad shoulders beneath it. My mother always said it's the little things... it's the little things, she always said!
The End.
Commentary
Edit: I had planned to point to the original call centre article, but seems like there is no online version... anyways I guess there's another way of doing a commentary...
Talking in a Creating Writing Thread
As Emmanuelle Zech and Bernard Rime, from the University of Louvain, found out from a study they conducted, simply talking about negative experiences, to untrained individuals made the participants feel as if the chat was helpful. In the day to day reality however it appeared to make no significant difference in how they coped. They might have just have been talking about their day to day lives.
Several studies on the other hand, have shown, that writing a day to day diary appears to work better, and this works on other similar forms of writing. So why does writing help when talking about it doesn't appear to? Psychologically, writing and speaking are different things. Whereas talking is unstructured, disorganised, it is thought that writing encourages the creation of a storyline and structure that helps people make sense of what has happened and work towards a solution. Talking in essence, can add a sense of confusion, whereas writing provides a more systematic, and solution-based, approach.
Gratitude attitude
At the end, Anisya, a *trained* volunteer, is not just grateful for the conversation; she could have got that much from her friend earlier on. Her misery comes from a constant focus on the misery in the world. But you can't really push negative thoughts away, especially when you try not to think of something. Try not to think of a white horse now. Are you thinking of a white horse? You have to somehow or another think through these negative thoughts. It is her husband's simple act of kindness, the act of giving up his sleep for her, that triggers an smile, it reminds her of the things that she is grateful for and that are good in her life. She describes it as the little things.
Hopefully, in doing so, I looked at some of the positive and negative sides of talking.
I didn't also mention that this was based on The Samaritans, and the great work that they do.
Samaritans provides confidential non-judgemental emotional support, 24 hours a day for people who are experiencing feelings of distress or despair, including those which could lead to suicide.
They are trained to listen. The very fact that it wouldn't be entirely fair (without actually working there) to ascertain wholly the day to day life of a volunteer, is why I didn't mention them, not even once. It's a generic 'listener' helpline in the story.
Independent from the story somewhat, a source for some of the psychological stuff, especially the summary above, is a book I think is reccomended reading. 59 seconds, by Professor Richard Wiseman. It goes against the grain of self help books, by basing it fundamentally on verifyable studies, and a lot of them. As well as looking at the harm that could arise with some the myths being perpetrated by the self help industry.
The Samaritans call centre stuff, is a whole list of other things, I'm too lazy to list here.
*in the case of any possible misconception, let me clearly, say that the commentary is reffering to 'untrained' individuals', like friends or work colleagues. Volunteers who recieve calls are trained individuals. You have to train for at least a year for the Samaritans. They do retain however, that they are not an 'advice' line, they are just there at your hour of need. And they will happily pass you on to the proper channels if you so wish it. Sometimes, even if it is temporary, it lowers the burden one might have.
(1901 words)
Ania's left, Christina told Anisya, her friend of thirty five years, right at the start of Anisya's shift.
Anisya took off her coat and settled it on the ergonomically designed operator's chair. She then took off to the tea making station. She folded her arms and let her eye roam the call centre and waited patiently for the water in the kettle to boil.
Did she say why she left? Anisya asked, putting two mugs between herself and Christina. She logged into her station, and put on her headset. She watched the steam rise above the deliciously coloured tea.
Sex calls... poor girl.
Anisya remembered her first sex call. It was a man who asked her what the colour of her panties were. With the benefit of experience she grew not to mind when it was as straight forward as that; she still had problems when she was emotionally invested in the call, and would later find out that the person had been masturbating to the call on false pretences. Everyone had their own 'line has been crossed' button. For Anisya, it was the rape call. She'd had a few so far in the 3 years she had been on call. And every time, she passed it along to an adviser.
Hello...? Anisya spoke gently.
The caller's breath could be heard through the phone call.
Is this the first time you've called? It's quite common to not speak at all for the first couple of times...
...
How are you feeling?
...
Then the phone caller, on the cusp of speaking, gave way and the call ended.
Anisya looked at the rainwater flowing down the pane of the giant glass windows. It was a gently raining night outside.
Hello...? Anisya spoke gently.
...My son just died...
Oh... I'm sorry to hear that...
... The woman's sobs were audible through the phone.
It's alright maam... Let it out... Can I ask you your name please...? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Everything you do say is fully confidential... it stays between you and me maam.
My name? Erm... Elizabeth DXXXX
Elizabeth and Anisya talked about the death of her daughter Margeret. Margeret died tragically as a result of a hit and run accident by a joyrider in his youth. They talked for approximately, thirty five minutes.
Eliza, we're not really an advisory service, but I can give you information on the people who do offer such services... If you want it that is...When I said it was an anonymous service, it really is. We don't trace calls, so you'll have to give me your details. (She laughs). We'll destroy any information we have on you asap.
Thank you.. I'm so very grateful... Elizabeth managed before another set of tears.
The talk turned to the weather just as the conversation was looked to near a resolution.
It's snowing here... Elizabeth said. I had to pick out a dress for her funeral, you know... I went shopping for her wedding dress.. before...
The call ended with Elizabeth asking Anisya whether she had any children.
I... Anisya paused to think. She bit her lip. Yes.. I do. A willy little terrier.
Thank you for telling me, even if you didn't want to... It's not right for a mother to go before her child.... You know I sort of relaxed a bit when she finished her Uni...
A strange thing has happened Laura. I am conscious now of not being Elizabeth DXXXX, but the woman whose daughter was killed.
I'm so very happy for you Laura. You're not like other people... People have been very kind, but I sense their discomfort because they don't know what to say. Thank you for listening...
Thank you for thanking me. It's why I do this job... Anisya said with a smile. Could I do a follow up call to check in with you... would that be okay?
Anisya shifted in her seat, comfortably overseeing the next hours passage into the doldrums of history. Call followed call followed call. She sat in her little bubble listening to the voices coming through her headphones. Occasionally she would pop out of her zone and listen to the chatter all around the centre. It was another busy night. It was always a busy night.
At quarter past two, she got up from her seat and went to the loo. She sat on top of the toiler-free seat, and put her head in her hands. She listened to the whirs of the basin being used by an outsider. She yearned for quiescence and got this silence momentarily. Tick followed tock followed tick.
She looked at the cubicle door, blinking slowing, following with an upheaval of the shoulders as she consciously breathed in with greater effort. Ten minutes post, she lifted the toilet seat back its normal position and needlessly flushed it.
Hello Miss
Hello darling are you okay
I know its a bit late, the child whispered from under her covers.
No, its perfectly fine love. Whats on your mind love?
Im eight years old today Yesterday I mean
How lovely? Was it your birthday?
It was but thats not the problem
Anisya took a deep breath.
Mum hasnt stopped drinking Shes smashing the-
Anisya turned around 180 degrees, like dozens of others, over to the left hand corner of the room following the crashing sound of a chair and a whelp. A chair lay upturned on the floor. The volunteer had a hand to her mouth. She took off her headset and ran out with a hand to cover his teary-eyed face. Later on in the shift, Anisya would learn that a caller had shot himself mid-conversation. She would read in the papers the following day that he had really killed himself.
Anisya caught her friend Christina's eyes.
What did you say your name was dear?
Alice Miss. Please don't call the police...
I won't. Anisya tried hard to refocus on the call. Drunk mother. Yes, that was it. What is she doing now? Your mother?
She's throwing stuff.. My brother's lying on the floor.
Anisya played with the pen in her hand. She looked over at the advisor's office. Should she call them over? She should really. But she also knew that drunk violent mothers were hard to prove and that Alice may never call again.
Okay, here's what I want you to do. I want you to go up to your bedroom door, and lock it. It has a lock yes?
Anisya heard the muffles of a girl getting out of bed and locking the door. She could then hear the slams on the door. Anisya looked at the advisor's office. Through the phone, she could hear the door shudder as Alices mother tried to force it open. She could hear Alice's screams telling her mother to go away.
Alice... Anisya said, her fingers trembling. I..
Anisya sat at the restaurant area tucking into her lunch. Christina had her head laid beside her lunch. The clock struck 3am.
Anisya opened her mouth to say something. Chrissi, I.. the last phone call kind of shook me up a bit... I wonder if we could talk...
Christina popped up her head. huh? Did you say something.
Anisya shook her head.
You can tell me stuff though right. You do know that. Right?
Anisya smiled. Of course.
She folded her arms, in the pretence that a chilly wind had run up from the hallway.
Hello,
I get so terribly lonely. I don't know what to do about it..
Hi, how are you feeling today...?
I don't know, numb I guess... I shouldn't have hit her but... no I shouldn't have hit her..I guess I should start at the beginning!
What do you want to talk about maam?
I lost my house... My husband's run off with his secretary... My mother in law's sleeping in the other room... apart from that... everything is fine...
How are you today James?
Oh thank god, they gave you on the line... Still don't have a girlfriend... Fucking exams in the morning... Sorry I shouldn't have sworn.. oh fuck... would you think less of me if I paid a girl to have sex with me?
Morning...
...
Take your time..
My name's flower petal... I hate it... life's shit enough... I want to stay in one place
What an unique name... My name's Russian. I'm not supposed to tell really, but it's Anisya. When I was growing up, some people thought it was weird but..
What colour are your pant-
Bye bye sir.
With about ten minutes to go of her shift, Anisya, thought about leaving early. That was the good thing about volunteering, hardly anybody ever minded when you left early.
...
Hello..
Oh it's you.. I recognise your beautiful voice miss...
Oh thank you... Anisya replied.
I was the one who called earlier... but when I called back.. guys kept picking up...
They're friendly enough but it's your decision...
Oh, I wanted to talk to a woman... I actually decided earlier tonight that I wanted to tell you. I trust your voice. I don't really want any advice... And I have friends... and good family. I have a boyfriend as well... He is in Afghanistan, but he is an engineer, everything is fine between us. I just have something to say... I need to desperately talk to somebody. I was raped yesterday.
Anisya looked at her pale cup of tea. The cold tea tasted bitter as it went down to her stomach. This was her 'button'. She swallowed hard. How are you feeling?
Snow flakes floated down to the streets as the last ounces of nightfall left Manchester. Anisya locked the door behind her, and went up the dark stairs to her bedroom.
Her husband turned over in bed. You're here...
She took off her heels and put her lips to her husband, Petrov's ears. Would you mind terribly if a stinky old woman, fell into bed with you, without having had a shower or even taking her stockings off.
I don't mind, he said in his sleep. But I don't think your royal highness, Petrova, will like it.
Petrova had another night terror? Anisya said, feeling Petrova's forehead.
Petrov grumbled in his sleep. He semi-opened his left eye and saw Anisya sat at the foot of the bed; she was slowly taking her coat off.
Urgh... he said rubbing his eyes. He got out of bed and picked his wife up in his arms.
What're you doing Petrov? I don't need to talk... you've worked all day and looked after Petrova all night... You've got work in the morning... I'm telling you it's fine...
All I know is that you're making me tea... And you are going to have a shower.. he said as he carried her down to the kitchen. Even if I have to jump in there and make you!
Anisya sniggered. Oh, is that how it is? What a raw deal it must be for you?
And I don't want to hear about suicides... anything else is fine... Suicides push the buttons for me..
Anisya kissed him on the cheek and smiled brightly almost immediately perked up. She looked at his eyes, messy hair and the broad shoulders beneath it. My mother always said it's the little things... it's the little things, she always said!
The End.
Commentary
Edit: I had planned to point to the original call centre article, but seems like there is no online version... anyways I guess there's another way of doing a commentary...
Talking in a Creating Writing Thread
As Emmanuelle Zech and Bernard Rime, from the University of Louvain, found out from a study they conducted, simply talking about negative experiences, to untrained individuals made the participants feel as if the chat was helpful. In the day to day reality however it appeared to make no significant difference in how they coped. They might have just have been talking about their day to day lives.
Several studies on the other hand, have shown, that writing a day to day diary appears to work better, and this works on other similar forms of writing. So why does writing help when talking about it doesn't appear to? Psychologically, writing and speaking are different things. Whereas talking is unstructured, disorganised, it is thought that writing encourages the creation of a storyline and structure that helps people make sense of what has happened and work towards a solution. Talking in essence, can add a sense of confusion, whereas writing provides a more systematic, and solution-based, approach.
Gratitude attitude
At the end, Anisya, a *trained* volunteer, is not just grateful for the conversation; she could have got that much from her friend earlier on. Her misery comes from a constant focus on the misery in the world. But you can't really push negative thoughts away, especially when you try not to think of something. Try not to think of a white horse now. Are you thinking of a white horse? You have to somehow or another think through these negative thoughts. It is her husband's simple act of kindness, the act of giving up his sleep for her, that triggers an smile, it reminds her of the things that she is grateful for and that are good in her life. She describes it as the little things.
Hopefully, in doing so, I looked at some of the positive and negative sides of talking.
I didn't also mention that this was based on The Samaritans, and the great work that they do.
Samaritans provides confidential non-judgemental emotional support, 24 hours a day for people who are experiencing feelings of distress or despair, including those which could lead to suicide.
They are trained to listen. The very fact that it wouldn't be entirely fair (without actually working there) to ascertain wholly the day to day life of a volunteer, is why I didn't mention them, not even once. It's a generic 'listener' helpline in the story.
Independent from the story somewhat, a source for some of the psychological stuff, especially the summary above, is a book I think is reccomended reading. 59 seconds, by Professor Richard Wiseman. It goes against the grain of self help books, by basing it fundamentally on verifyable studies, and a lot of them. As well as looking at the harm that could arise with some the myths being perpetrated by the self help industry.
The Samaritans call centre stuff, is a whole list of other things, I'm too lazy to list here.
*in the case of any possible misconception, let me clearly, say that the commentary is reffering to 'untrained' individuals', like friends or work colleagues. Volunteers who recieve calls are trained individuals. You have to train for at least a year for the Samaritans. They do retain however, that they are not an 'advice' line, they are just there at your hour of need. And they will happily pass you on to the proper channels if you so wish it. Sometimes, even if it is temporary, it lowers the burden one might have.
Not going to make it part 2. electric boogaloo.
I was only at the DMV for an hour and a half, only enough time to get about 60% through the story. Curse beaurocratic efficiency when you least expect it.
Of course, I discovered, once again, that a rewrite is far superior to the original.. which is more a treatment in comparison.
I was only at the DMV for an hour and a half, only enough time to get about 60% through the story. Curse beaurocratic efficiency when you least expect it.
Of course, I discovered, once again, that a rewrite is far superior to the original.. which is more a treatment in comparison.
Entry List:
ZephyrFate- "Deep Evergreen"
Timedog- "A White Liquid Ocean"
John Dunbar- "Cheap Story"
ronito- "The Molly, the Sink and the Dog"
crowphoenix- "The Brothers"
Tim the Wiz- "GLORY BE"
Cyan- "3:56"
Irish- "The Truths Within Lies"
Aaron- "Blessed of Araduin"
An impostor posing as Ashes1396- "How are you feeling?"
Gattsu25- "Quality Time" (not sure if eligible, but read and comment anyway)
Of course, this list can always be updated.
ZephyrFate- "Deep Evergreen"
Timedog- "A White Liquid Ocean"
John Dunbar- "Cheap Story"
ronito- "The Molly, the Sink and the Dog"
crowphoenix- "The Brothers"
Tim the Wiz- "GLORY BE"
Cyan- "3:56"
Irish- "The Truths Within Lies"
Aaron- "Blessed of Araduin"
An impostor posing as Ashes1396- "How are you feeling?"
Gattsu25- "Quality Time" (not sure if eligible, but read and comment anyway)
Of course, this list can always be updated.
tsurugi no mai
Member
Can we vote in this thread? I haven't done this before.
Koroshi said:
Go ahead a vote in this thread when you're ready. Here's what it should look like:
1) Iceman - Two Birds, One Stone
2) guy#2 - 20 miles in the woods
3) guy#3 - go ly dow
Be sure to vote for three stories/authors.. and feel free to criticize stories.. cut to the bone.
tsurugi no mai
Member
1) crowphoenix - "The Brothers"
2) John Dunbar - "Cheap Story"
3) ronito - "The Molly, the Sink and the Dog"
Ashes1396, your story would have taken third place if it had made any sense to me. I don't know if I'm the only one who had this problem, but I didn't understand half of it. Your jumps from conversation to conversation were poorly placed (so much so that I had to go back a few times and make sense of what I just read), and sometimes it seemed as if you just stopped what you had been writing all together and started a new paragraph.
Overall, there was some great work here. I really enjoyed reading each story, and will now be an attending 'writing challenge' member. Maybe if I get inspired enough, I'll try submitting something of my own.
Oh, and thanks for the help, Iceman.
2) John Dunbar - "Cheap Story"
3) ronito - "The Molly, the Sink and the Dog"
Ashes1396, your story would have taken third place if it had made any sense to me. I don't know if I'm the only one who had this problem, but I didn't understand half of it. Your jumps from conversation to conversation were poorly placed (so much so that I had to go back a few times and make sense of what I just read), and sometimes it seemed as if you just stopped what you had been writing all together and started a new paragraph.
Overall, there was some great work here. I really enjoyed reading each story, and will now be an attending 'writing challenge' member. Maybe if I get inspired enough, I'll try submitting something of my own.
Oh, and thanks for the help, Iceman.
I like you for the fact that you voted Crowphoenix in 1st place, not second. Thanks for the crit btw.
Don't ever feel that you have to justify not giving someone credit, though...
Oh and you won't be surprised to hear how regularly I hear that criticism. The jumping from scene to scene bit. Maybe one of these day's it'll get through to me.
Don't ever feel that you have to justify not giving someone credit, though...
Oh and you won't be surprised to hear how regularly I hear that criticism. The jumping from scene to scene bit. Maybe one of these day's it'll get through to me.
tsurugi no mai
Member
What do you mean about Phoenix's story? You liked it too, I'm guessing?Ashes1396 said:
As for the criticism, you're welcome. Sorry to be a little harsh, but I just wanted you to know why I didn't include you. If you finished your paragraph before moving on, or gave some type of conclusion to the previous paragraph and make it flow a bit more seamlessly, I think that would be a big improvement to your writing/story.
@Irish: :lol
Funny thing, I had a second title as well! And I deliberately withdrew it.
: The Russian anxiolytic
What with the secondary objective and all. But it's a terrible title.
edit: no need to apologise for being harsh. Some people are different, but for me personally, the goal here is to listen to feedback, not to defend our work.
Funny thing, I had a second title as well! And I deliberately withdrew it.
: The Russian anxiolytic
What with the secondary objective and all. But it's a terrible title.
edit: no need to apologise for being harsh. Some people are different, but for me personally, the goal here is to listen to feedback, not to defend our work.
crowphoenix
Banned
I happen to like my bridesmaid dresses.
Quality Time (330 words)
A little boy walks up to his mother who is watching the television.
Mom he says, trying to get her attention.
Without turning from the television, she responds. Yeah?
Can I go outside?
No response. He tries again, Mom.
Still nothing. Mom? he asks with a hint of pleading in his tone.
Hmm? she hums quizzically.
Can I go outside?
She waves her hand absent mindedly. Quietly, she says Yeah. Yeah.
He watches as she keeps her hand suspended in the air, awestruck by whatever was playing on the screen. Slowly she begins to lower her hand. He stares after her a little longer before he turns toward the door and steps outside.
--
Hes standing behind her as she is watching TV, again. Hes a little older now and a lot taller. He plays basketball.
Mom? he asks.
She doesnt move. He can hear a crowd in the program she is watching begin cheering.
Mom, Im going outside he states. He only hangs back for a few seconds before he turns to the door and steps outside.
The cheering on the television program dies down for a moment. She uses this brief pause to loo behind her and sees the door closing. Have fun, she says to the empty room.
--
Hes older now. He no longer plays basketball. He doesnt even look in her direction, now. He heads toward the door and leaves.
She cheers along with the crowd in the program she is watching. She checks his room before she goes to sleep on the couch and finds that he is not there. She walks back to the couch and raises the volume on the television.
--
Shes older now and she doesnt get up from the couch as often. The quiescence of the house is only disturbed when she needs to use the restroom. She laughs along with the audience in the program she is watching. She leaves his door open in case he comes back.
A little boy walks up to his mother who is watching the television.
Mom he says, trying to get her attention.
Without turning from the television, she responds. Yeah?
Can I go outside?
No response. He tries again, Mom.
Still nothing. Mom? he asks with a hint of pleading in his tone.
Hmm? she hums quizzically.
Can I go outside?
She waves her hand absent mindedly. Quietly, she says Yeah. Yeah.
He watches as she keeps her hand suspended in the air, awestruck by whatever was playing on the screen. Slowly she begins to lower her hand. He stares after her a little longer before he turns toward the door and steps outside.
--
Hes standing behind her as she is watching TV, again. Hes a little older now and a lot taller. He plays basketball.
Mom? he asks.
She doesnt move. He can hear a crowd in the program she is watching begin cheering.
Mom, Im going outside he states. He only hangs back for a few seconds before he turns to the door and steps outside.
The cheering on the television program dies down for a moment. She uses this brief pause to loo behind her and sees the door closing. Have fun, she says to the empty room.
--
Hes older now. He no longer plays basketball. He doesnt even look in her direction, now. He heads toward the door and leaves.
She cheers along with the crowd in the program she is watching. She checks his room before she goes to sleep on the couch and finds that he is not there. She walks back to the couch and raises the volume on the television.
--
Shes older now and she doesnt get up from the couch as often. The quiescence of the house is only disturbed when she needs to use the restroom. She laughs along with the audience in the program she is watching. She leaves his door open in case he comes back.
Lone_Prodigy
Member
I've been reading some of the older ones and the Fanfiction one was great.
Ashes1396 said:Another twelve hours yes... so 8
@Alf: write it down, even if it's for private use. If it has a measure of control, it will trully be an inspirational piece. And sleep is nearly always good. I can't remember which author said it but writing comes best when it's closer to dream time, either late at night or early in the morning.
you probably already know that I'm trying to take your mind off things. But pretend that you don't realize that and get that head down.
I came home and wrote but wasn't feeling any of the ways I tried starting my story. I gave up in frustration and needed even bother. :lol I still like the idea, though, so I will have to make it a short story sometime in the near future.
Now... to read and vote.
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