I've extended the voting period to allow some leeway, given that it's an undoubtedly busy time for many. (And, besides that, writing dates backwards like this is almost as unnatural as not using metric!)

Theme - "Projection"

Word Limit: 1800

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 12/23 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins: Thursday, 12/24 and goes until Monday, 12/28 at 11:59 PM Pacific.

Mandatory Secondary Objective: Hook - Begin the story with a "hook" that captures interest and gives a sense of action without confusing the reader or escalating the tension overmuch. It should also work to establish setting and character(s).

Optional Secondary Objective: The Fork - Present two clear possible endings to the story with the knowledge, from the outset, that both are misdirection. While establishing these possibilities, simultaneously and subtly foreshadow a third, completely different ending. When the reader thinks they have it figured out, the third ending is sprung, and it is obvious that it was intended all along. However, if the Fork ending is not hinted at throughout, then it becomes a Deus Ex Machina.

Submission Guidelines:

- One entry per poster.
- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged.
- Keep to the word count!

Voting Guidelines:

- Three votes per voter. Please denote in your voting your 1st (3 pts), 2nd (2 pts), and 3rd (1 pt) place votes.
- Please read all submissions before voting.
- You must vote in order to be eligible to win the challenge.
- When voting ends, the winner gets a collective pat on the back, and starts the new challenge.

NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge FAQ

Been absent for a while. Might give this a chance

For this challenge, I will project all of my faults onto a spork. It's so lazy. I hates it. It should be working, and not watching silly internet videos.

uggg...after all my work with sales and marketing, projection is a dirty word.

ronito said:

uggg...after all my work with sales and marketing, projection is a dirty word.

Click to expand...

Stop projecting your problems onto others.

That secondary objective is a doozy! This will take some incredibly careful planning...

Cool, congrats Tim! That "fork" secondary objective sounds really awesome, but will take some thinking about--never really heard of the concept before. My immediate association was with a forking attack in chess, but I guess it's not really the same thing. Hmm.


So, I thought I'd give a bit of explanation on my story from #40, since some people were weirded out by it. Which is cool, it was a little out there. A wee bit long, so if you don't care, don't read.

Since the whole thing was kind of an homage to Jorge Luis Borges, I wanted to play with philosophical concepts--in this case, the idea of truth, and how we can know that something is true when we haven't experienced it ourselves. Or even if we have experienced it.

I also wanted to play with frame stories, which dovetailed with the truth thing. When something is fiction-within-fiction, how do you approach deciding if it's truthful or not? Is it truthful to the characters in the outer frames? And if it isn't, what does that mean? More layers renders this even more difficult to decide on. And in one sense, since the bottom and top layer were both the same (biographical works), you could look at it as an infinitely recursive number of frames.

This is what I had Celwydd, the biographer, allude to when he talked about the multiple interpretations. Any one layer might be true or untrue, which completely changes the meaning. Maybe Bennett invented Antarah and his life, in line with his philosophy of truth, and that was why none of his references could be found. Maybe Manteroso invented Bennett, hurt his head, didn't remember he wasn't real, and so tried to write him a letter. Maybe Manteroso invented the whole thing. Maybe Celwydd invented Manteroso, etc. I have a favored interpretation (a different one from Celwydd's interpretation), but like Manteroso, I preferred to leave it open.

And as for a powerful untruth being wrapped around a core of truth, there actually was a core of truth here. Edit: but maybe it's more interesting not to know for sure?

You've just sparked a half-idea for my next piece. I'm going to attempt your structural layering and use that as a method to create the 'fork'. Maybe it will work, and maybe it won't.

ZephyrFate said:

You've just sparked a half-idea for my next piece. I'm going to attempt your structural layering and use that as a method to create the 'fork'. Maybe it will work, and maybe it won't.

Click to expand...

Awesome!

Maybe my inchoherent style will become coherent when I try to think of a crazy story. Oh well, I look forward to writing again. It's been far too long.

Wrote my last final today, so I have some free time, and I haven't participated in this since like... that second time three months ago... so, I think I'll join you guys this week!

Hey Tim the Wiz, how's your SPREAD piece coming? I have my piece submitted and a final line for you, if you want to get that out of the way.

A/N: If it works with the theme, then you tell me if it does, because when I was writing this I quickly realized that it fit the secondary objective more than the theme. I was actually more focused on nailing that than the actual theme this time, so, anyways, enjoy...

Is it so small a thing? also known as: A lesson in sophistry
Word Count: 1797

Pinning the murder on this particular subject was providing more infuriating than it was supposed to be. Charged with multiple crimes ranging from grand theft auto, identity theft, and larceny, the murder became the clincher, the one solid crime with which we could veritably nail him to the cross. The man in question was a one Michael Mars, a twenty-eight-year-old man living in Bronx, New York City. He had been found all the way across the nation, in the small town of Boring, Oregon. An apt name for a place to escape one's past. If he had merely stayed in New York City, he would have potentially received less punishment. The fact that he ran away, though, that did nothing to benefit his case. I sat across from him in a well-lit detective office, smoking a cigarette. We were one of the few places left in Portland that allowed smoking in a public office, and even when my superiors looked at me funny, I merely shrugged them off because so long as I brought in results, they could care less if their office reeked of the death sticks. The suspect looked at me in a quizzical manner, as if trying to figure me out by looking me up and down. I was much older than the man, and a little on the heavier side. Around forty years old, I had let my figure go a bit, content with easy meals and fast food for sustenance, rather than laboriously making food each night. Living alone kind of numbs you to the idea of making food on your own. I was starting to bald a little bit, the receding hairline becoming quite the nuisance, and an eternal reminder that my years were catching up to me. I wore a tailor-made gray suit to work each morning, with my standard blue and black tie on top of one of my white dress shirts. Nothing too fancy, and I hesitate to admit that the suit probably cost more than the rest of my wardrobe. My face was starting to fatten and a double chin had begun to noticeably form; thick bags underneath my eyes from my incessant insomnia, cold, ice-blue eyes that would better suit a man who looked better than I did.
The suspect was not much better off; he too had begun to let himself go a little bit, probably from stress, probably from the fact that he secretly killed a man. He was a bit shorter than I was, around five foot seven. His cut jawline and gaunt looks belied his chubby lower half. He was a misshapen man with a misshapen detective asking... misshapen questions of him? There wasn't a ton to go off of, but anything could be important.

"So you were seen on November 20th in New York City with blood on the side of your shirt, and you're saying that that blood was, in fact, not the victim's, a twenty-year-old female named Susan Martz?"

"No, sir. That was not her blood at all. I cut myself and it bled onto my shirt. I was wearing some wifebeater that day underneath another shirt and I always stain my white shirts."

"We ran a DNA test of the shirt, Mr. Mars, and the blood matched Susan Martz entirely."

"What? That's not possible! Maybe you had the wrong shirt? I mean, I may have also spilled ketchup on that shirt that day..."

"We've confirmed that it was blood, Mr. Mars."

Michael hesitated, unease and melancholy etching his face as if being drawn upon by God's magic pencil, coinciding with a strange repositioning in his chair.

"Okay... okay. Fine." He sighed, his whole body becoming languid with that one action. As if a boatload of stress had sailed out of the port of Michael's emotions.

"I... I brought you this. I figured you would like to take a look. It's a printout of a couple emails that her and I had sent each other over the past few months. Maybe you can see why I had no reason to kill her."

He reached into his pocket and brought out a couple pieces of paper. I snatched them from his hand with more force than I intended, and began to carefully peruse them:

"To: 'Michael Mars' (mmars250@comcast.net)
From: 'Susan Martz' (susiemtastic@hotmail.com)
Subject: I miss you
November 9th, 2009 5:50 PM

Dear Michael,
I've been wanting to see u for some time now. I kinda miss u and want to feel you on top of me again, u gave me the ride of my life last time we fucked. Do u want to come see me? I got tested and im ok, so I hope u r interested
xoxo S.M.
P.S. I wanted to try that thing u wanted to do last time, u know... from behind? yeah, I'm excited

To: 'Michael Mars' (mmars250@comcast.net)
From: 'Susan Martz' (susiemtastic@hotmail.com)
Subject: Okay why havent u sent me anything
November 15th, 2009 7:30 AM

Michael,
Where the fuck r u?? I looked on ur facebook and it said u r planning on moving to um............. oregon?!!!! WTF Why? I thought u still wanted to have something special or somethin. please email me back
xoxoxoxoxo S.M."

I stopped reading at that point, feeling it would be unnecessary to go on. However, the nature of the emails began to change my tune somewhat, even if I still found there to be something suspicious on Michael's part. Why would he bring me sex emails? This isn't very conclusive evidence, for one, and it did little to suddenly acquit him of at least the murder charge. I merely looked at him nonplussed, and a small frown played on his lips.

"Alright, so tell me again why this is important evidence, Mr. Mars." I said to him, somewhat unconvinced.

"Look, she was a stalker! She was a good fuck but... she was crazy! Susan had to be one of the clingiest girls I have ever met and I needed some space! So... I didn't write anything back to her. I always assumed she was okay. Then, one day, I went over to her apartment, because I was just about to move to Oregon. That would have been the 20th, when you said I was spotted with blood on my shirt. Well anyways that day I walked into her apartment and there was blood everywhere. All over the kitchen table and counter, and on the floor, a trail leading to her bedroom. I thought, well, maybe she was okay... you know, like, women get their periods and shit and bleed a lot."

My blank, neutral stare after that comment made him pause, as he shifted uneasily in his seat. He continued soon after.

"Okay, okay, stupid excuse. Anyways, I walked towards her bedroom and found her lying there on the bed. She was bleeding out from her wrists and there was a large gash on her forehead. I checked her pulse and everything and as I did that I got some of her blood on my shirt, which would explain that I guess. I called the police afterwards and left, because I knew if I stayed you'd have more evidence of pinning me with the crime."

I butted in at that moment. "On the contrary, Mr. Mars, it's because you left before the police arrived that you are seen as a suspicious character. However, your story is true in the sense that her wounds are as accurately described as you say they are. So what are you assuming, then?"

"I'm... I guess I'm saying she desperately wanted my dick and so she killed herself when I didn't reply back?? I dunno man! That sounds tragic as shit but I think that's what happened!"

I looked at him dead-on at that moment, and he once again shifted uneasily in his seat. Something else was off about Mr. Mars that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Two possibilities existed now... Susan was killed by Mr. Mars, or she killed herself because she was so enamored with this... charming fellow. There was a missing link, and I had to find it. Those two could easily be proven in court, but I swore to myself there was something else.

"This is slightly random, but I wanted to ask why you seem to shift in your seat so much?"

"I... nothing. There's nothing. I've given you and told you everything I can."

"Fine... you're free to go for now, Michael, but we're keeping you here locked up because of the other charges."

"I... I understand, sir."

As Michael stood up, a large book protruded from the back of Michael's pants.
"Michael... what's in your back pocket?"

Frozen for what seemed like hours but only lasted minutes, he slowly turned around. He slowly pulled the book from his back pants pocket, placing it on the desk. He opened it up only slightly, the rest of the book obscured, and tore out a page.

"I guess I... forgot to show you something else."

Carefully unfolding the piece of paper, I began to read aloud:

"Susan, I am going to have to go away for a long time. You know how the plan works, and so you have to do exactly as I say. First, I want you to come across as a needy, slutty whore that consistently writes me emails telling me how you want me so bad, that you missed the way I laid the pipe. That's the first stage, the incredibly easy part. The next thing you have to do is... well, this is the hardest part. I am requiring you to sacrifice yourself for me. I want you to make your death look as if it was an accident — a suicide, even — and coincide it so that way I walk into your apartment just afterwards. You know I'm looking for 'him' right? Well, this is the only way. I know it may not be necessary, but if I'm a man on the run and just so happen to be in his neck of the woods... you know the rest. I promise you Heaven will be amazing."

I looked up at Michael, who now had a .45 carefully aimed at my head. The gun had been carefully buried inside the book, and how he had gotten it past security fooled even me.

"Why... why have you been looking for me?"

"You put away my brother for life. I'm here to make you pay. Is it so small a thing for you to die for that?"

He cocked the pistol, and fired. The bullet ripped out of the casing, and I imagined my brains made a nice coat of paint.

Can we change this so that every voting ends on sunday or monday? Saturday is a bad day if you like to go out on the weekends.

Well at least this challenge the voting ends Monday. I think that should probably continue. It would limit actual writing time but the voting is probably what I forget to do most.

I have a couple ideas bouncing around my head for this one, of course I've said that for the last few and produced nothing...I'll see if I can get something out after finals...sigh.

ZephyrFate said:

Hey Tim the Wiz, how's your SPREAD piece coming? I have my piece submitted and a final line for you, if you want to get that out of the way.

Click to expand...

I have a solid outline of the story ready to go. If you could send me a PM of your piece/final line, that would be great - I could probably get it done this week.

And my grad school apps have been sent in. Now, if you guys will excuse me, I'm going to go stare at the wall for a few days.

Prejection
Words: 50

Let’s go spelunking. Not next week, not tomorrow, and never yesterdays. And with great uncertainty and a dash of clumsy awe, enter what is, today, the most wondrous dwelling that ever existed. Inside we’ll find moments that can never be mouthed.

I want/got to fingerbang your vagina.

:lol :lol :lol

Huh? What? Oh, Timedog.

Tim the Wiz said:

Huh? What? Oh, Timedog.

Click to expand...

That should be the response we always give. Even his longer pieces give this same reaction.

This is why he needs to write for these more.

:lol Nicely done, Timedog. Nicely done.

WHERE THE ENTRIES BE AT

WRITE FASTER, HOMIES

Nah, we be chillin', man.

I've never really participated in this or really written a short story but I was bored, or rather, curious at trying it out so I listened to a song, got an idea and wrote one over the last half an hour or so. It kinda fits the theme of projection but I guess you have to understand what it is to get it, or something like that. I dunno. I hope someone enjoys it. It was fun writing

Tell a Story

Length - 1800 words exactly

The world around is a blur. Different creatures of various colors and sizes swim around, although none are recognizable. As this vision starts to focus I find myself in a familiar room, or one that feels familiar although I can't exactly identify it. I push those details to the back of my mind for now as a bigger problem exists. I realize everything before this point in my mind is blank.

I look behind me to find a similar landscape of stacked desks. I look back in front and notice I'm sitting in a chair and the once empty room is populated with five other people. None of them seem particularly interested in me. In fact, they all seem to be caught up in their own world, seemingly talking to themselves. Although they're speaking I can't make out what any of them are saying. I slowly pan my head around, trying to take it all the small details of these strange people who have suddenly appeared in front of me and, like the room, all have a strange familiarity to them. As I look around the room, I notice one of them staring at me. Unlike the others, he seems to recognize me.

I then remember his name is Dr. Marco and also that I was in a low lit room with him, resting on a couch. He was sitting on a chair across from me, slowly nudging his arm left and right, easing about the harmonic motion of a small coin he has attached to a chain in his hand. His lips start to move, as if he's speaking to me but I can't hear the sound of his voice. I attempt to read his lips and make out, “L-e-ts Let's b-e-gin.”

Let's begin? At that moment, that dreamlike vision shatters and I return to the classroom of strangers. Everyone is silent now.

“So, let's begin,” the man repeats, clapping his hands to get everyone's attention. “As you know...” he started, pausing, annoyingly, for some sort of dramatic effect that wasn't achieved, “...a great atrocity has occurred.” My eyes widen and my heart starts racing. What the hell am I doing here? What's going on? The people around me have similar looks of shock on their faces, ranging from amusement at the announcement, to fear punctuated by accusing glances at those near them. “Now the culprit is someone in this room right now and we're going to find out who. And my good friend over here, will act as the judge and decide who ultimately is guilty,” he said nodding in my direction.

ME?! Just then I notice in my lap, which had been empty, a large black revolver. Without opening up the chamber I can tell there's only one bullet inside. I try to calm myself down but none of my attempts work. I also realize that, through some compulsion, I'm unable to get up out of the chair I have been sitting in. What the hell is going on? I think once more, although I still don't know the answer.

“So, I guess we'll start to my left.” The man who had been leading this strange procession gestured to the person sitting next to him who had been slumped in his chair, hands in the pockets of his plaid shorts. Despite the seriousness of the situation, his face was surprisingly calm, and his smirk revealed that he had no fear in him of being the one chosen. People like him really pissed me off. He emanated a smugness that made me want to punch him in the face, but I remained seated.

“Well, how should I start this little tale? There's not really much to say. My name's Kyle, for all of you who didn't know but, I'm sure you all did...” he began, trailing off as if expected to get a reaction from everyone else and, to my surprise, was met with a low giggle from two other people in the room. The man who had been speaking before, cleared his throat, an obvious coax for Kyle to continue. “Yeah, well, as I said I didn't really do much. So I was there, just sitting off to the side, bobbing my head to the music, which, by the way, was awesome thanks to our kickass DJ, when I noticed this dude just standing there. Me, being the friendly guy I am approach him and ask him why he isn't dancing when there's a room full of very easy,” he glanced and the girl to his left who gave an embarrassed smile, “girls willing to dance up on any dude not scared enough to approach them. He obviously wasn't the partying type, as I could tell by his answer so I decided to help him ease up a bit. I went over to our drink table and got him a little something. He looked a bit inexperienced so it was just a light beer, nothing too fancy and told him to relax. He took it and practically chugged the thing, scared the shit out of me but I'd seen weirder people around so whatever. He gave me a thanks and started walking off. I already knew it was a bit more than he could handle, or that he'd drank already because he stumbled more than walked but, hey, as long as he was having fun, who was I to judge? And well, that's what I was up to.” He placed his hands back in his pocket and looked to his left, signaling the next person to give their alibi. This time it was a girl, the one who had blushed at his “easy” comment. She gave him a playful glare and began her story.

“Uhh, I guess I should start with my name. I'm Claire. So what was I doing?” She paused, and smiled, as if embarrassed to say what she had intended to. “So...after dancing a little bit, with one asshole who couldn't resist the urge to grab my butt any time he got!” You could tell she had intended to sound annoyed but it came out sounding the completely opposite. Her outfit certainly didn't help her as she was dressed in a tight white tank top, translucent from sweat and exposing her pink bra which held together just the most amazing breasts...My fantasies began to emerge from the dark depths of my mind but quickly dipped back in as she resumed her story. “So yeah, I decided to take a break and saw a friend of mine walking off. He looked a bit drunk, which meant he was perfect for teasing, not like he wasn't already when sober.” She giggled cutely. What a bitch. “I walked over to him and pretended to fall against the wall. I started breathing in deeply, just because I knew he was looking at my chest as it slowly went up and down, but I didn't mind, I liked flirting with him, or at least pretending to. He knew he had no chance with me but the look he gave me, that small glimmer of hope of getting with me, I loved it. I started telling him how I was sooo tired from dancing and how I'd gotten all sweaty. I even told him about my particularly...fun dance with Kyle which I could tell really got to him. He stormed off before I could get into any of the details but, well I considered it a tease well done,” she said, almost proud of herself.” She looks around the room, with a silly smile on her face before resting her gaze on the guy across from her. Unlike the other two he looks a bit...friendly, a bit more approachable. I feel more at ease when he begins to talk.

“So my name's John. So I had gone to this party with my friend, right, because we don't really party much but we figured, we gotta start sometime. And I see him stumbled into the wall near the stairs as I'm looking for him. I slowly wiggle my way through all the people there, hoping to get to him before he leaves but he doesn't look like he's going anywhere anytime fast. So I ask him how his time's been and he's like 'It's been okay, danced a bit' and I'm like, that's cool. So I introduce him to this girl I had told about him. She's piss drunk so I figure he should have no time getting with her. She seems to like him, I think. Could've been the alcohol speaking but I dunno, and I start pushing them up the steps. I tell him to make sure to treat her right and give him a wink. He seems a little reluctant, but I know he'll thank me later. And that's where my story ends.” He looks to his right at the girl sitting left of me. The only people left are her then me. I try to remember what I was doing, get my alibi straight and realize with shocking clarity I remember. Everything, or at least everything but the last part which is still blank in my mind. I strain to remember but she begins her story so I listen.

“So this kid I was with, I forget his name, Jake or something, tells me about his friend and I'm like okay. I am shit faced by the way so I...I don't know much...So he passes me off to his friend who helps me up the stairs. We get to this bedroom and he closes the door behind us. I collapse on the bed and he looks at me with this this, hungry look in his eyes. Finally seeing him clearly, I don't really want to anymore. He's kinda...eh, not my type. But then I'm just out. And that's the last thing I remember.”

She looks at me and I stare back at her. I look at her face and my stomach starts to twist. I get this weird feeling, this feeling or regret, of guilt and then it hits me. The last piece of my broken memory finds it's way back into its correct spot and the whole picture becomes clear. I pick up the gun. I point it at the girl to my left and pull the trigger. Click. Nothing happens. She's not the one. I slowly move it around the room, skipping the mediator of the group. Click. Click. Click. Then I rest the barrel on my temple. A certain weight eases off my chest. This feels...right. I cock back the hammer and listen as the chamber rotates. I place my finger on the trigger and pull it back.

Awesome, a newbie! Might wanna fix your bold tag up there, if you want.

I'll definitely be checking out your story sometime after Christmas.

i've got 2 hours before i have to leave for a hockey game and i can either write a story for this thread off the top of my head, watch the hangover, or record a stupid youtube video

WHICH ONE WILL I DO I DON'T KNOW

Fat cat in a tutu.

That’s how I feel like. I mean, you can only hold your breath in for so long. Stupid belly. Why so round and full. Times like these, I wish I had chosen to go down the cheerleading way. At least I’d have one of those fluffy pom-poms to cover my stomach with.

“Sienna, your number is coming up. Stop messing with your face!”

“Sorry, Miss Deirdre.”

The stage’s so hot. It’s those big lights. Like small suns on the rafters, bearing down on you with their effervescent energetic zeal. Effervescent. That’s a big word for you. It came up in the Spelling Test last week. And guess who got it wrong.

I can see mother sitting on the second row from the front. She’s got one of those handhelds, a video-cam, even though I told her that they totally forbid them. He-he-he, the lady sitting next to her is giving her dirty looks. Maybe she thinks mom’s gonna sell a copy to some seedy men over the net.

Oh, man, brother’s here too. He won’t let me live this down. Ugh.

“Sienna! Two minutes! Check your shoes!”

“Yes, Miss Deirdre.”

I love these shoes. They are pretty. Pale rose and satin and they make my legs look nice. Er, nicer. Feet. They make my feet look nice. Must stop distracting self. Must stop trembling. Ack, stomach starting to feel funny. Um. Better let that wind out now. Better now than on stage. There. Small reliefs. Big difference!

“OK, Sienna. In ten seconds. Are you ready?”

“Um.”

Miss Deirdre falls to her knees gracefully and smiles up at my face. She rocks the glasses look. I steal a glance at the stage and at the audience and at mom and at stupid brother and then I want to just go and die right there. But Miss Deirdre holds my face and her hands are warm and soft.

“Listen. You are going to be fine. It’s just silly little steps. They won’t know even if you make a few mistakes. Just. Don’t fall. OK?”

“Um. Okay.”

Here I go. I fly as daintily as I can from the wing area and into the hot fiery mouth of the number. The world is darkness. The stage is light and glaring and I try to suck my belly in as I tippy-toe-tippy-toe on my pink ballet shoes. I am a swan. I am a princess. I am the only thing that moves in the entire world.

I extend my leg and hold the arabesque form. I raise my arms and cross my wrists together high above my head. I look down. The plump curve of my midriff benignly stares back at me. It looks really shiny and glossy in my tight shimmering costume. I forgot my next step all the sudden. Just don’t fall. Just keep moving. I take a step backward and I break into an impromptu interpretation of an overweight swan princess.



“You look retarded, Sienna.”

“Shuttup, Indi.”

Mother had named us after colours. She probably thought life could be made just a little harder for Sienna and Indigo. We sit at the foyer of the recital hall. Mom’s coming around with the car. I feel happy and full with bounces. I can dance forever. I did not fall! They applauded when I bowed! Oh, man!

I retrace the steps now. Indigo watch and make stupid faces. This time I remember the whole routine. Yes! I twirl a flourishing finish and when I come to stop, I see a series of old photographs at the wall of the lobby. Old dancers and performers that took to the stage a long time ago. Gods and Goddesses. I suddenly see a familiar face.

“Hey, Indi. Look at this.”

He comes and peers at the picture I am pointing at. Recognition dawns on his stupid face.

“Hey, isn’t that … mom?”

Mother was beautiful. She was photographed on her own on the stage, graceful and impossible. Not the one I know. Mother had long legs and perfect poise. Mother was. Someone else.

I spin when I hear the car’s horn. I pick up my bag and we run to the old pick-up. Mom grins at me and I beam back. She’s wearing her best dress tonight. For me. I smile to myself. Mom is the night shift’s Assistant Manager at K-Mart, but she takes tonight off. For me.

“You were wonderful, Sienna. Just wonderful.”

“I want burgers, mom!”

“Not tonight. Sienna gets to choose tonight.”

Awesome.

“Pizza!”

Mom frowns a little. “Alright. But, we should start watching what we eat, honey. I mean, if you’re going to be a dancer, you’re going to have to change a few things in your life.”

I glance at mom’s lame left leg and I don’t know what to say.

“Um.”

Oh crapola, was this due tomorrow? I'm leaving on a vacation tomorrow morning, so I guess I'll have to write something next time.

So uh... criminally low turnout, broduskis.

I am sad

Tis the season to be too busy to write for challenges. Too much stuff to get done before 2010.

Extend it 'til just before the new year and you'll probably get a lot more entries.

Sorry, guys. The minds a blank. Still rebelling against doing any work, I'd imagine.

Crap! Gotta try and pull something together here.

In Character (1799)

"A little louder, please. They should be able to hear you in the back row."

Alex licked his lips. It was easy for her to say "louder;" she wasn't the one up here on stage in front of everyone. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. There couldn't have been more than fifty people out there, but he was pretty sure they were all older than him--he hadn't spotted any other sophomores--and that made them feel that much more hostile. "Sure thing, Mrs. Lynch," he said, trying to speak evenly. And loudly.

His Reeboks squeaked against the wooden floor of the stage. Somehow his hands had found their way into his jeans pockets again, and he hastily removed them. He breathed in. "But soft! What light from yonder window breaks?" He waved an arm dramatically toward stage left. "It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."

Mrs. Lynch was shaking her head. He wasn't being loud enough, damn it. He breathed in deeply, and made himself stand taller. He had to talk from his diaphragm, that's what they always said in speech class. "Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. Who is already sick and pale with grief." He slowed to a halt; he had lost track of what he was saying. But it had been louder.

Mrs. Lynch frowned up at him. "Now you’re directionless." She looked down at the notes in her lap. "Let's try something else. Let's get you a Juliet. Bianca, get up there with him, please."

Bianca rose from her seat and climbed up onto the stage. She stood, straightened her blouse and dusted off the knees of her jeans, then shot Mrs. Lynch a quizzical look.

She must have been a junior or senior; Alex didn't remember seeing her in class. And he would have remembered her. She was a bit awkward, lacking the natural grace some girls had, but she was quite good-looking. Slim figure, pretty face, light blue eyes and a cascade of red curls falling past her shoulders. Hardly the Juliet archetype, but quite good-looking.

She frowned; he had been staring. He looked away, but couldn't suppress a grin.

"Right," said Mrs. Lynch. "Go on, then."

Alex stepped back again. His knees were shaking. He couldn't think why; he wasn’t any more nervous than before. He breathed in deeply, stood tall, and looked over at Bianca. No, not Bianca. Juliet. "It is my lady," he said, his voice seeming to echo in his ears. Bianca--no, Juliet--looked away from him, staring out at the audience. "Oh, it is my love. Oh, that she knew she were!" She really was good-looking. "She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?" Those eyes, that hair, that smile. "Her eye discourses; I will answer it." Wait, when had she started smiling? "I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return." Alex blinked. His knees were no longer shaking. And Mrs. Lynch had been right, having Bianca--Juliet--there had made all the difference. He'd forgotten everyone else in the room.

Bianca looked over at him and half-raised an eyebrow, smiling like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

"Better." Mrs. Lynch looked from him to Bianca, and her lips quirked. "But remember that you have an audience. This isn't a personal chat with Bianca, even if you'd like it to be."

Everyone laughed, and Alex felt himself blushing. He turned away from Bianca, trying not to look at anyone. And he had thought he was doing well.

"Right, enough from you. Next Romeo." Mrs. Lynch looked down at her notes. "Daniel, that's you. Get on up there."

Alex hopped down as an older boy stood up and made his way to the stage. Without thinking, Alex offered his hand to Bianca to help her down--she stared at him for a moment, apparently surprised, and then hopped off the stage herself and walked back to her seat. Alex blushed, and everyone laughed again.

"Bit old for you, isn't she?" said the guy next to him as Alex sat down.

"Is she a senior?" She hadn't seemed that much older.

"Nah, she's my grade. But junior girls might as well be in college as far as sophomores are concerned." He gave an unconvincing sympathetic smile. "Sorry, man. Just trying to help out."

Alex ignored him and went back to watching the tryouts. To his surprise, his was not the worst of the lot, not by a country mile. Some slurred through the words, some had no feel for the rhythm, and others clearly had stage fright. Alex felt sympathy for the latter group; if not for his speech class he would probably still have that too.

Only three of the guys were competent, and a wave of calm spread over Alex as he realized that those three were the only others who had received a Juliet on stage to practice with. The rest had been sent down quickly. He was one of the top four, then.

He smiled, and then found to his consternation that he was looking over at Bianca again. She hadn't noticed, but someone sitting next to her giggled and gave her a nudge. He turned quickly back to the stage. What was wrong with him? Yes, she was damn pretty, but redheads weren't his type. Plus, she was older--major negative.

Mrs. Lynch was talking, and there was nobody on the stage. What had he missed? "Right then," she was saying. "Callback lists will be posted tomorrow morning outside Room A-4. If you're called back, I expect you here right after school. See you then."

As the rest of the students trickled out of the room, Alex looked around into the scrum for Bianca. He smacked himself in the forehead. Enough. He put on his backpack and headed out of the room without looking back.

*

Alex had been pleased but not surprised to find his name on the call-back list. And doubly pleased--although he really shouldn't have been--to find Bianca's name next to his. They would be paired up for the callback.

He was humming under his breath as he walked into the theater, and he scanned the room for his partner.

A cool hand touched his arm, and he looked back to find her standing in the doorway behind him. "Alex," she said, and smiled. "My Romeo."

She was standing very close to him. He was breathing shallowly, and he couldn't look away from her eyes. Bright blue, in lovely contrast with her red curls. Had she felt it too, yesterday?

Her smile widened, and she released his arm. "Come on, let's find seats." Her voice was pleasantly low and melodic. She led the way near the front of the auditorium.

The first auditions passed in a blur--Alex was having trouble thinking about anything but Bianca, sitting next to him, about her arm next to his on the arm rest, about her leg touching his every once in a while as she shifted in her chair. Was she noticing those things too?

"Alex and Bianca," came Mrs. Lynch's voice, and Alex jumped. He pulled himself back into the here and now--Shakespeare. Tryout. Romeo. He still felt dazed, but he followed Bianca onto the stage--how had he ever thought her awkward?--and stood next to her at the front, turning his head to look at her.

She winked at him.

A shiver went through his whole body. He took a deep breath, and simply held it for a moment. The shiver passed. He was ready. "If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine," he said, "the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."

Bianca went slightly red--she did feel it too. She must!--but smiled, and said, "Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

Every time she said the word "kiss," a shock ran up his spine. "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"

"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer." Her lips were full, and red, and pursed oh-so-slightly, as though she wanted to be kissed.

"Oh then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair." He stepped closer, took her hand.

She clasped his hand tightly. "Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake."

This was it. The kiss. "Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take." His breath came shallowly; his world had narrowed to Bianca's eyes and lips. He moved in closer. Leaned forward. He could feel her breath against his throat. He leaned down.

"Right!" said Mrs. Lynch, and Alex and Bianca leapt apart. "I've seen enough." She jotted down a few more notes, then stood. "Cast list tomorrow morning, outside Room A-4."

Alex continued to stare at Mrs. Lynch for a long moment. He hardly knew where he was. He turned back to Bianca, but she had already climbed down from the stage and was headed for the exits. She had felt it too, he knew she had.

*

Alex stared at the list in disbelief. He had not been picked. Bianca was Juliet, just as he had known she would be. But he was not Romeo. He continued to stare at the list. It didn't change.

A cool hand touched his arm, and a wave of heat rolled up into his chest. "I'm sorry Alex," said Bianca, though she was smiling. "I thought you did very well." She turned to go, still smiling broadly.

"Wait," he said. He didn't know what he was going to say, but he couldn't leave it at this. He hadn't gotten the part, but maybe he could still get the girl. She had felt it too, he knew she had.

She turned.

He might only have a minute. "You--yesterday, when we did the scene--" How could he express this?

She looked at him expectantly.

"There was this moment where we--look, what I'm trying to say is, do you want to go out with me?"

She reddened, and her grin faded. "I was playing a role, Alex."

His heart sank to the bottom of his shoes. "But even before we got onto the stage, you were--"

"Getting into character. I'm sorry." She did look sorry, at least.

"But you--but we--" Alex spluttered to a stop.

"No offense Alex, but you're a sophomore. I'm looking for someone with a bit more maturity." She turned and walked away.

Alex sat down on the ground outside the classroom. Fine.

Next time, he would be louder.

Got damn! Barely made it. I was about 200 words over with 10 minutes left, yikes! Had to cut ruthlessly to get this one in.

Right.


The Entries:

ZephyrFate - "Is it so small a thing? also known as: A lesson in sophistry"
Timedog - "Prejection"
Zoramon089 - "Tell a Story"
bakemono - "Sienna's Debut"
Cyan - "In Character"

Can't believe I forgot =/

Here is what I had anyway:

Disk Drive
600 odd words

Lesson learned. Never procrastinate with Christmas around the corner, because, well, Christmas happens.

I was too busy eating awesome Christmas food to write an entry.

I'll have some critiques up sometime tomorrow... too tired to do it tonight

Geez, almost forgot about this. I'll probably get mine done tomorrow too.

I wrote a submission for this (which actually turned out pretty good) but I left my notebook at work, and as a result I missed the deadline :lol Oh well, I guess there's next month.

umop_3pisdn said:

I wrote a submission for this (which actually turned out pretty good) but I left my notebook at work, and as a result I missed the deadline :lol Oh well, I guess there's next month.

Click to expand...

There will be another one up after tomorrow night.

ZephyrFate said:

There will be another one up after tomorrow night.

Click to expand...

Oh cool. I like these challenges, I find they make it a bit easier to write shorter fiction. Typically I write novellas and novels, and find shorter narratives a little more challenging. It's one situation where I really appreciate having set themes and limitations, I find I'm actually doing some pretty good work with these challenges (I also wrote for the foreign themed one before my account went through).

ZephyrFate - "Is it so small a thing? also known as: A lesson in sophistry" - I like the concept here, but the execution is a little bit awkward. To begin with, that's a brutal first paragraph. Just seeing the size of it, before I started reading, made me blink. And I'm not sure the big infodump was really necessary--a lot of it was the sort of thing you could put into dialogue, or even drop ("Michael Mars?" "Yeah." "Twenty-eight, from the Bronx, charged with grand theft auto, larceny, identity theft. And murder." "I guess." "What might you be doing all the way out here in Boring, Oregon?"... etc).

The ending, with the book, felt a bit overexplained. I tend to prefer the understated, the subtly implied. The explanation in the letter was about as subtle as the .45. I also wondered why the guy waited until the questioning was done to shoot the guy. If he was planning to do it the whole time anyway, and since he'd already gotten it past security, why not just shoot the guy as soon as he walked in?

I do like the use of the secondary objective.

Timedog - "Prejection" - Rather Timedoggy. I like "never yesterdays."

Zoramon089 - "Tell a Story" - Slow starting, but solid. Might be better served beginning slightly later in the story, with reading Dr. Marco's lips.

The supporting characters have an odd unreal feeling to them. Actually, they feel like the main character is kind of projecting what he thinks about each person, so perhaps that's intentional. But I think the story would be stronger with a more solid supporting cast.

Anyway, good concept and a solid first effort. Would like to see more from you in future challenges.

bakemono - "Sienna's Debut" - Great imagery, a fun MC, and a good beginning to a story. But it feels incomplete--I read to the end and wondered whether part of the story hadn't been deleted accidentally. It might've been better to end a little sooner, or a little later. As it is, it just feels cut off.

Also needs some cleaning up. You have a good eye for imagery and really solid characterization, but you get sloppy in places. A few examples: "That's how I feel like." s/b "That's how I feel" or "That's what I feel like." "I wish I had chosen to go down the cheerleading way" s/b "I wish I had chosen to go down the cheerleading route" (or path, or road). Just be watchful for awkward language use. It might help to read the piece aloud to yourself--that often exposes this kind of thing.


Votes:
1. Zoramon089 - "Tell a Story"
2. bakemono - "Sienna's Debut"
3. ZephyrFate - "Is it so small a thing? also known as: A lesson in sophistry"

Kind of disappointed with the low turnout for this one, but I guess it's the holidays. Thanks to you guys who did participate.

Timedog -- Hemingway would be proud. I love the way you tinker with words to make such a short, short piece have such forceful, yet comical, effect. Awesome.

Zoramon -- You blew my mind on the level Avatar did last night. Fantastic story, with a beautiful use of the theme. You deserve this one, man. I bow to you.

bakemono -- I like it, but the beginning and ending feel sorta abrupt. I feel like it could have been tightened up in that respect.

Cyan -- Another innocent, but bittersweet piece. Love the twist ending, and the layers that are added from the inclusion of the play as a focal point. You and your high school stories... you're too damn good at them. I can write about college, but high school was such a disappointment for me that I couldn't be arsed to write about it.

Votes:
1. Zoramon
2. Cyan
3. Timedog
HM: bakemono

Vote:
1. Cyan
2. ZephyrFate
3. Zoramon

Sorry guys, not much time atm. Might be back later with more feedbacks.

Wow, people here are really awesome writers. Reading the others stories and thinking about mine, the difference in writing skill, in the imagery, details, structure is just a completely different level but no matter, I'll improve. Just gotta get my ideas down somewhere and this is the best way I figure. Anyway, onto my rankings/half-assed/attempted critiques


ZephyrFate: I really enjoyed your story. I was wondering where it was going as it almost seemed too predictable and things were going too well and then, the twist which put a smile on my face. I liked how the suspect's style of speech also changed with the twist that came along

Timedog: So I read it once and went "What? Did he really..." then I read it again and confirmed that yes, you really did just do that.

bakemono: Funny story, I was smiling at the things running through the girls head. I was also wondering how old she was supposed to be because all the internal thoughts seemed a bit sophisticated for what I imagined to be a little girl dancing but, that mystery adds to the story

Cyan: Aww, I was cheering for Alex. I guess similar thoughts had ran through my mind and one point in time about a girl before...anyway, I was really taken in by the story and wasn't sure if Alex was imagining it or not until the very end. The last line ended it on a happy note though.

My rankings:
1. Cyan
2. ZephyrFate
3. bakemono

And Timedog...well, you get a high five