Theme - "Anniversary" (I though this would be appropriate considering it's our 10th one)

Word Limit: 1,200

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 7/2 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 7/3, and goes until Saturday, 7/4 at 11:59 PM Pacific

Submission Guidelines:

- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge. We don't want a snippet of your doctoral thesis from 1996 being used here.
- One entry per poster. You can submit and then edit if you'd like, but finalizing before submitting is encouraged.
- Spelling and Grammatical errors can be used to great effect when the story, characters, and setting demand it. However, proofreading and spell-checking your writing will probably result in a more positive attitude towards it when people are voting.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged. These challenges get a large number of submissions and if entries share the same title, it's difficult for the readers to separate them out come voting time.
- Any writing style is welcome, but remember that most people are probably going to vote for the well written short story over an elementary acrostic poem.
- There are many ways to interpret the theme for this assignment, we are all writers or wannabe writers, so keep that in mind when writing and critiquing others' works.
- Thousands of people read GAF, so if you don't want some masterpiece of yours to be stolen and seen in Hollywood a year from now, don't post it on here.
- Finally, there is a handy word count checker at www.wordcounttool.com. Nobody wants to be a word count nazi, but please keep your submission under the limit.

Voting Guidelines:

- Anyone can vote, even those that do not submit a piece during the thread.
- 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, it is only fair to those who put in the effort.
- You must vote in order to be eligible to win the challenge. Critiques/comments are encouraged but not required.
- When the voting period ends, votes will be tallied and the winner will get a collective pat on the back and will be in charge of picking a new topic to write about and pick the word length.

Have fun!

Previous Challenges:

#1 - "The Things Unseen" (Winner: beelzebozo)
#2 - "An Unlikely Pair" (Winner: Aaron)
#3 - "weightless, breathless" (Winner: Azih)
#4 - "On the way" (Winner: DumbNameD)
#5 - "The End" (Winner: Cyan)
#6 - "Playing with Fire" (Winner: Aaron)
#7 - "Something Brutal" (Winner: Ronito)
#8 - "Parasite and Host" (Winner: Aaron)
#9 - "The Seasons" (Winner: ivysaur12)

Haha, neat!

Aha, hadn't noticed the new thread up! Anniversary, eh? This could lead to some fun stories.

This is my title
word count: 591

I rolled over and looked at the clock, and I realized that I had overslept. Usually the sun's rude morning glare will shine upon me and jar me to life prematurely, but today it was blocked by the lone cloud in the sky. Caught a shave and a shower, then pulled my clothes on and headed out the door. As I drove to work, I listened to the people on the radio and wondered why they get so worked up over such small things.

I got to work, and we have no air conditioning. The radio's news report said it would reach 108 in town, and I was starting to think that was a conservative estimate. The store felt like a sauna. People would come in and go, "It's hot in here!", as though I had no idea, despite the fact that my hair and face were damp with sweat. I opened our back door so that there might be some sort of circulation at the very least, but it did little to help.

I keep a 12-pack of soda in the back room, as it is cheaper than buying fountain sodas from the other places in the mall. I went back to get one, in the hopes that liquid refreshment would give temporary relief. The cans were hot to the touch. I let one sit on the counter for about an hour, and then opened it. The first drink was hot. There was no second drink, as the rest was poured down the bathroom sink. I gave thought to placing a few cans into the upper tank of the toilet, since the water in there was cold enough to cool a soda can down. But my mind couldn't jive with the notion of drinking from the toilet, even if the upper tank's water is supposedly as clean as water from the tap.

The day was slow-going. I did my best to kill time, and eventually it was time to go home. I closed everything up and walked outside at 9:00 pm. It was still over 90 degrees outside. I text message my cousin, and discuss the possibility of pooling our resources and permanently relocating to Hawaii. She doesn't have much money. I don't either.

I get in the car to drive home, and I'm pondering my money situation. I think back to all of the things I bought and didn't really need, like the countless movies and videogames, and how I used to scoff at those who bought things on sale because I bought them when they were new, because I liked to be "in the know" when it came to whatever was hip this week. All those years of poor money management... I could likely buy a house outright, if I hadn't spent so much on stupid shit.

All those years. Then it dawns on me that today is June 21. "Thirteen years ago today is when I walked at my high school graduation", I think as I drive home. Then I kind of wonder: if I had told my 1995 self, "in thirteen years you'll still be here and be as penniless as you are now", what would've happened differently? But then I go back to my usual stance, which is that if I didn't do things exactly as I had, I wouldn't know the things and people that I do now, so it's worthwhile.

Still, it would be much nicer to have planned better and to have escaped this hellish area many years ago. Such is life, I guess. Happy anniversary, kid.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And the obligatory haiku:
My anniversary?
My wife is gonna kill me!
Order flowers, quick!

Ok, got my idea today at the gym.

Nothing immediately comes to mind, but if I think of something, it'll have to be done by Thurs. cuz I'm busy next weekend.

Interesting Topic...

hmm...

The Once a Year Tan
word count: 1,198

The clatter of grates overhead cause the lights to flicker down here sometimes. Down among all the pipes, dirt, and refuse of Metropolis 448B. The concrete walls hum with machinery, rising upward to those tightly packed clusters of tall towers that reach right past the clouds to bake in the naked eye of the sun.

"I can't see the sun." I stand in the shadow of the trains passing overhead, far out of reach.

"Why?" Buzzes a sputtering sphere that spins its tiny helicopter blades somewhere above my shoulder.

"Because this is the job I was born to do." I crawled out of the muck half the size I am now, but with my head already full of blueprints and robotics, dumped into Section 16 like a rat that's already had the maze burned into his brain.

"Why?" the robot assembled from spare parts and assorted junk questions with a hiss of static.

"Because somebody has to." I'm humble janitor of Section 16, fixing the robots that wear down or break up in maintaining the machines that keep this section running.

"Why?" the robot probes further.

I pause in my daily patrol at a clank and scrape slowly drawing near. Doesn't worry me much as I reach into my toolbox, getting my gear ready as a mangled android comes crawling around the corner, three arms clawing at the concrete floor as it pulls its torso forward, trailing wires and twisted metal.

They all know where to find me when they need me.

Parts closets are placed are regular intervals down here, refilled automatically with wrapped packages dropped from factories above. I shift them around, checking labels, before tearing away the plastic, and get to rebuilding this machine's shattered legs. It's long work in the quiet drip, rumble, and hiss, but I'm not usually needed more than a dozen times a day. There's plenty of safety locks and redundant systems to keep these accidents from becoming anything serious for a good while.

The work done, I head back to my small room at the center of this maze, looking at the flickering electronic calendar on the wall and realize I've lied. I've seen the sun, felt its hot rays on my skin, and have for years. Once a year, on the Anniversary.

That day is tomorrow.

*

Morning comes with a clink and buzz, but it's not the usual squawk to rouse me out of bed. There's triumphant music playing, reminded me of the worn pipes in corridor 45E, which should have been replaced some months ago, but I always like to pause there a little while, and listen to the soft sounds they make.

Not one of the usual jumpsuits today. A whole new set of clothes is dropped down from above, which much be whatever passes for the latest fashion up there. The plastic shirt seems transparent, but the moment I slip it on, it sticks to my skin and comes alive with shifting floral designs. The pants are baggy, fanning out from the hip in alternating stripes of blue, and seem to circulate their own cool air. The goggles are dark and essential.

The steel door at the end of a short hall opens. Opens once a year to reveal a small booth beyond. I wonder, as a move uneasily towards it in bare feet, what would happen if I let the door snap shut again without stepping it. Maybe I've done it before and can't clearly remember, since I know they'd only come for me. This is all part of my civic duty, somehow.

The robot bobs in the air behind me as together we enter a small, dark booth. Only to crash hard to the floor as we're both sent hurtling up a few hundred stories to the end of the line.

This is where I always black out.

*

"Is he dead? Will we have to replace him already?"

"He can't be well. Look at how pale he is."

"I think he's coming to." It's a strange voice; a liquid, languid sort of tone reminding me of bubbling tanks.

Harsh light tears away the darkness. Even the goggles aren't enough to shield the direct rays of the sun, with no ceiling, grate, or cloud between us. Several faces are leaning over me in what I assume is relief, and in some, I assume are faces.

"Let me help you there," a man cheerfully rasps as two fingers and a single thumb grab hold of my shoulder and raise me to my feet from the strength in a long, snaking tentacle. One of a cluster where one arm should have been.

The rooftop is one vast pavilion of stone, sloping in places to compete for viewing space with the other sections all rising up nearby, here at the limits of daring. The other rooftops are nearly bare, with only a few wandering figures, but Section 16 is packed tightly with garishly dressed citizens, all with dark skin from bathing in the sun, aside from those who opted to be more colorful in red, green, or ultraviolet. Those that have any skin at all.

"Welcome one and all, to the glorious anniversary of the founding of Section 16!" declared a familiar figure once I was back on my own two bare feet, though in the official broadcasts they lightened up his skin and removed the third eye. "That prosperity is entirely due to the tireless efforts of a single man, for who we break the strict edict against cloning so he can continue to keep our section as the greatest section in Metropolis 448B! Today we raise our glasses and say, 'Thank you, Dan.'"

"Thank you, Dan!" the mob cheerfully echoes as I'm shoved into their midst with a drink in hand, surrounded by a roar of noise and half choking on unfamiliar odors. The name stitched to my usual jumpsuit is 'David,' but I let it pass as always, while their eyes and other assorted sensory apparati stare and wait for what shocking quip I'll have for them this year.

"It's nice to see the sun again."

It's a lie that draws the appropriately raucous amount of shared laughter before I'm dragged along from cluster to cluster, supplied fresh drinks and encouraged to share whatever tales I have about the world far, far below their feet, hooves, or whatever else they stand on. Every inane anecdote for them is a source of wonder. The shock of a rat sighting, the unusual fragrance of unprocessed garbage, their utter bewilderment at any aspect of the machinery that caters to all of their needs without complaint.

Soon the sun dips low and with it the novelty of these festivities. The group has already thinned by the time I'm led back to the waiting elevator, back to my trip to the long dark below.

I awake on the elevator's floor, staring down the short hall leading back to my small room. With my eyes strained, ears ringing, skin burned, and head heavy, I slur, "... nice to be appreciated, but something better kept to just once a year."

"Why?" the robot groans, shifting its broken blades.

"Shut up."

Samplist

Word count: 1006

In the work world, I never quite fit in. And I’ve tried alot of jobs. Over the 10 years since I’ve turned 18, I’ve done data entry and filing in an office, I’ve washed dishes, I’ve worked on a survey crew outside, I’ve worked as a clerk in retail, I’ve done phone work - the list goes on.

But all I’ve ever wanted to do is absorb electronic media. TV, radio, video games, movies, Internet - I can’t get enough of any of it. When I was in high school, I was an AV club nerd. I was equally interested in watching and playing as I was in hooking stuff up.

One of my friends named DJ Tallon who mixed beats picked up on this, and he asked me, “Hey, you seem to be a TV addict. I need someone to help me with samples.”

“Samples?” I was quizzical. "What the fuck are those?" “Samples,” he said, “are those Godlike snippets of sound that subconsciously make a song or mix what it is.” “The Chemical Brothers once said a well-placed sample can be compared to a symphony.”

This had me intrigued. “Just do what you normally do - watch TV, play games, listen to the radio, but have something hooked up to record them at all times. When you hear something interesting, just hit record. It can be anything - a noise, a sound effect, a quote, a part of a song,” explained Tallon.

That was a year ago. It’s my one year anniversary of being a “samplist.” Think of it as a niche derivative of a DJ, only you get to do the fun parts of the song. When I tell people what I do for a living, I get all kinds of reactions. I get laughed at, high-fived, and even “What the fuck?” looks from time to time.

There isn’t a minute out of the day when I’m not working. If I’m not watching TV, I’m listening to the radio, or grabbing sound bites from the Internet. If I’m not doing that, I’m cataloging all this shit that I see and hear. About the only time I’m not “working” is when I’m in the car, listening to the radio. That’s about the only time I can’t “grab” anything.

When you’re a samplist, you have to be very observant - like a child experiencing their world for the first time. You don’t listen to or watch anything in context. I used to discriminate against certain things. Like I never used to watch nature shows or westerns, but there’s some good shit to grab there. Some of the best samples are animal mating calls and cheesy cowboy dialog. The same goes with music I listen to. I used to be into top 40 and classic rock, but now I listen to everything. Because there’s always something you can use, no matter how old or what genre it is.

One of the big pain in the asses of this job is cataloging things. I have literally hundreds of thousands of snippets of stuff. From gongs, to dialogue on a japanese game show, from sounds of deer splattering against a windshield, to the sound of richoeting bullets. I’d have to say my favorite samples are of political speeches. If you’re real creative with that stuff, you can come up with some funny, powerful messages.

Video games are another great place to grab stuff. One of my favorites is the sound of punching a steel drum in Final Fight. It makes a great percussion sound. And classic gaming sound effects from games like Galaga and Super Mario Bros. never get old. I think one of the reasons for this is that there’s so many memories associated with these sounds. Like, whenever someone hears them, it instantly mentally transports them to a specific time and place in their lives.

It’s not a very traditional job though. I’m not exactly a member of a band - but I do help out a lot of bands. Although samples are only peppered through songs sparsely, they are a very important sticking point of a good dance floor track. They subconsciously fill in the gaps between all the beats and make a song memorable.

It’s mostly electronic bands and DJs who use my services, samples are staples in that kind of music. Although I have helped a few metal and even pop-oriented bands use my “grabs.” There’s even money to be made helping out in short films and advertising. You know all those ads you see on TV and hear on the radio? You know those random noises and bits of music you hear? That’s what I help fill in.

Another thing I like about being a samplist is that it’s a pretty easy job. I basically get paid to sit around and watch TV, play games, and listen to music all day. It beats the shit out of every other job I’ve had. I can roll out of bed at 1pm in my PJs or Modest Mouse T-shirt and nobody gives a damn. The only downside besides cataloging everything I hear is the constant networking I have to do with people.

I have to make friends and be in contact with DJs, ad people, and bands on a constant basis. If I don’t, there’s way less money coming in for me, because you can never pay a month’s rent off of grabs from one band or DJ. I’ve had to force myself to do it. I’d much rather just sit inside and watch, listen and play TV, radio and games all day.

It’s not a job for everybody - I’d even go so far as to say it’s the ultimate slacker job. But I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else with my life.

Questioning
Word Count: 1196

The first thing the valets noticed was the driver’s jaw. Square and commanding, it took charge of the situation before he had opened his mouth. His bright green eyes along with his freshly trimmed hair sent the women staring into bouts of giggles, it was only when a tall blonde emerged from the passenger’s seat did the chatter cease. Without even looking at the valets, the man casually threw them his keys to the red Lamborghini and put his arm around his date.

“Is that Mike Radner?”

“Oh my god, I think it is!”

“He’s married? I came here tonight specifically to see him!”

The couple walked into the old stone building, donning a sign to welcome “The Class of 1998” for their ten year reunion. Laughter echoed through the school hallways, as old classmates subtly looked to nametags to remember their peers, men tried to show off their new careers to their old crushes, and women tried desperately in the bathrooms to hide any sign of aging.

All of this commotion stopped with Mike Radner and his wife walked through the door. The women stopped any conversations and gazes, even while other men tried to hit on them. Some of the unmarried men turned away from the stairs, awkwardly sipping punch. It wasn’t until a man emerged from the crowd and gave Mike a hug did the conversation go back to normal.

“Big Mikey! How you been!” said the man. He was much bigger than Mike, encircling him completely with his arms. Mike had to push himself off to escape the football wrap. “Oh, Mike, this is Estelle, my fiancé.” Estelle smiled, and continued to look upon the other joyful couples.

“This is Karen. Karen, Larry Stoner.” Before Karen could reply, Larry excitedly turned towards Mike.

“I haven’t talked to you since college! What have you been up to?”

Mike sipped the martini in his hand. “Working for a hedgefund now in the City. You?”

As Mike said this, Larry’s gaze slowly descended to the floor. “I’m teaching middle school history.” Mike nodded his head, but a smirk flashed across his face.

“That’s great. So Stoner, who’s here? Who’s married? Who has kids?”

“Well, uhhh… let’s see. There’s Melissa Fairbanks. She dropped out of college, married some wacky religious guys and has five kids. All of their names start with J.” Mike looked over in the distance to see Melissa, once the peppy captain of the Cheerleading Squad, now in deep conversation with Joshua Rosenbaum, sporting straight black hair and bottle cap glasses. Again, a faint smirk crossed his face.

“Oh… and, well, you’re not gonna believe this, but, Wade Colliton…” as Larry said these words, Mike felt someone come up behind him.

“What about me, Stoner?” Mike turned around to see the voice behind him. Wade looked eerily similar to his high school self. A little shorter than Mike, but as before, he was more muscular. He still had his trademark long, blond hair, which, by some miracle, hadn’t begun to recede and a small scar across his face from 7th grade encounter with a very large and hormonal Beth Nesbit.

“Wade, my man, what’s going on?” Mike said as he put out his hand to his old friend. Larry sipped his drink again and slowly moved away, cautious to avoid any returning glances from Wade.

“Just enjoying myself, you know… it’s great to see people.” Wade smiled at Karen. “And who might this beautiful lady be?” Karen gave a perfunctory smile, while Mike drew her closer.

“This is my wife, Karen. You ever get married, Wade?” Mike looked around, but all of there were no women to be seen.

“Yup, just this past fall, actually.”

“Who’s the lucky girl? Is she here?”

“Hah… well…” Wade looked up at the ceiling for a moment or two, and then glanced back at Mike. “Travis.”

“Huh?”

“Travis. That’s his name.” Mike stared blankly at Wade for a few moments before he nodded his head.

“Oh… Travis. I didn’t… wait, didn’t you date Melissa Fairbanks back in high school?” Both of them glanced over at Melissa, who now was on her knees near the wall, her hands in the air and her eyes shut. Wade laughed.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Mike pulled Karen closer.

“But, you were the captain of the wrestling team. I mean, we did football in the fall, and then we did wrestling together in the winter. You were our captain!” Mike’s face turned red, and he took a step back, while Wade rubbed his head and let out a tired sigh.

“I know Mike. It took a while, but I’m really happy now. A lot happier.” As he said this, another man strolled up the conversation. He was a bit younger than the rest of the guests, but he seemed, for a reason that the guests could not describe, mature for his age. “Mike, this is Travis.”

“Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot about you.” Travis put out his hand to Mike, while he reluctantly grasped it. The couples stood there for what seemed like ages in silence, until a very drunk (and questionably pregnant) Louise Moscowitz fell onto Karen.

“So, what do you both do?” Mike asked. The other couple looked at each other and smiled.

“I’m a public defender, and Travis is in his residency.” Both smiled at each other and gave a small laugh. “You know, it’s funny, because-“

“Oh, that’s great. Any kids?” Mike asked as he pulled Karen closer still.

“One, actually. We just adopted him from Georgia,” Travis replied. “How about you.”

“No kids,” Karen stated, sipping her drink and moving away from Mike. Wade and Travis quickly exchanged glances and returned the comment with twin smiles. As she said this, Mike attempted to pull Karen closer, only to have her give him a forceful push back. “You know, I’m going to go back to the car,” she said, giving Mike a glare and briskly moving out of the room. Wade and Travis both started to sip on their beers.

“Are you guys… happy? I mean, is this really what you wanted, Wade?” Mike asked. The two looked at each other again and laughed.

“Mike, I’ve never been happier in my life. What about you?” Wade replied.

“We… yeah, I mean, oh yeah, I love her. Love her to death. We couldn’t be happier.” The three stood there again in silence until Wade and Travis politely excused themselves so they could head home before the babysitter got angry. The couple lightly held hands and laughed on their way out, while Mike looked out the window to see if Karen returned. She hadn’t.

Later that night, Mike couldn’t sleep. Memories rushed through his head. Days from his high school, Larry, and then Wade… He remembered how Wade was always the most athletic, the most popular, and had the best-looking girlfriend. But, in retrospect, he never seemed completely happy. The awkward kisses in the hallway, the hopeless fights, and all those times he futily tried to bring Melissa in so close.

He tossed over, looking at Karen one more time, until he began to cry.

Cheaters never prosper
Word count: 1,114

This was going to be an anniversary to remember. The anniversary to end all anniversaries, literally.

Well, Jack’s anyway.

She had been trying his faith and patience for some time now. He had put up with her infidelity though, he loved her. He forgave her, the stupid git; considered it a test of his love for her or some bullshit. But yesterday, the line was crossed. A sacred line that summons the bringer of death to all who carelessly cross it. She brought that bastard over here! To HIS home, HIS sanctuary. And they fucked on HIS bed! And they had the gall to videotape it too! Well, the bitch was stupid anyway, leaving it in the camcorder like that.

Attention, attention. Paging Death. Death needed on 104 Duckworth Lane, we got a live one ‘bout to go any time now.

His wife, Tori, would never see it coming; that fact alone made it all the sweeter. He never told her that he’d bought a gun before, she’d never guess. For once in his life, he wasn’t terribly upset that she was coming home from work late again. Probably getting her brains fucked out by that co-worker of hers… that Cody fella. Better enjoy it while it lasts Cody. Well, unless you’re into necrophilia or something. He wasn’t about to stop him, by all means defile the dead bitch. I won’t stop you. He wasn’t going to run from the charges anyway. He wasn’t going to get away with this; he’d decided last that the chair was acceptable to him so long as he got to see chunks of her skull staining the carpet she spent his Christmas bonus on. Besides, he could consider it a punishment; after all, he’s the one who agreed to marry a stupid whore.

“Hm… I wonder if she left Cody’s number somewhere…” Jack thought to himself. “Maybe after I whack her, I can call him over and tape him fucking her dead corpse! Man, wouldn’t that be poetic justice!”

The candles were lit to perfection; ten candles representing each year they’d been married. Ten miserable years of lies, deceit, and cheating. Always waiting, hoping, praying.

“I’m sorry God, I can’t do it anymore. I’m ready to forsake your kingdom for my selfishness. But I will not let her do this to me anymore!” he cried, slamming his palms to the dinner table and nearly knocking over one of the candles. “I know I can’t escape hell, not with the thoughts I’ve already had. So if I’m on my way to hell, I’m going to make sure she’s burning right beside me!” And then, finally, he could hear her car pull into the driveway. He could hardly contain his excitement. I hope she wore that silk dress I bought for her birthday!

Sadly, she was wearing her usual business attire, a white business shirt and slacks. He was a little surprised to be sure, when she wasn’t alone. That Cody jerk had come with her. Wow, she had no class whatsoever, bringing her lover over on their anniversary! And she wasn’t doing anything to hide it either! He figured she must have decided to ask for a divorce, come clean.

I’m afraid not dear. Tonight’s going to be quite messy. Well, at least he’d had the decency to being some wine with him. Not old wine or anything, they probably just picked it up on the way here.

“Hi honey, who’s this?” Jack asked, kissing her on the cheek feigning ignorance.

“Oh, that’s right, you’ve never met,” Tori began, giving a slight cough. “This is Cody, we work together.”

Cody extended his hand out to shake Jack’s. “Pleasure to meet you. You wife always talks about you at work,” he said, wearing a grin worthy of a slithering used car salesman. Oh I bet she talked about me, probably kept talking about how I never even noticed, or how I was so gullible or the like. Nice try pal, but bonus points for not being entirely dishonest.

“Well, the more the merrier I say. Please, sit down,” Jack offered, leading them to his finely prepared table. The trio sat down, the pair of lovers like they were carrying a heavy weight. Jack was quite chipper, especially when he put his hand in his pocket to feel the Single Action Army he was packing.

“Some dinner?” Jack offered. “It should be done in just a moment.”

Tori shifted in her chair a little. “N-No, not right now. Perhaps some wine. Cody?”

“Coming right up,” Cody jumped. He carefully opened the bottle of wine and poured a glass for each of them. Red wine, how appropriate. Cody took a little extra time filling up Jack’s glass. “More?” he asked.

“That should be enough, thanks.” Jack said, trying to hide a grin. He had six bullets; depending on how he felt later, he might use another one.

“A toast?” Tori offered, raising her glass a bit. Jack raised his glass to meet hers, his eyes twinkling in excitement. He took a small sip of the wine and smiled; he’d never had wine this good. He slowly lowered his glass to the table, only to drop it in front of him. His eyes bulged as an immense pain overtook him.

“N-No…” he thought, gasping for air and clutching his chest. He tried to get up, pushing the table away and knocking over the candles. Their bright flames latched onto the red tablecloth. He struggled for a moment and looked at his wife, who was smirking.

“Y-you bitch,” he managed, before collapsing onto the table.

“We won’t be caught right?” she snidely said to Cody.

“Relax, you know I’m better than that,” he said in a cocky manner. “Besides, the whole house’ll burn down now. Hell, he even made us alibis, what a chap eh?” Tori made to stand up from the table.

“Once we have the insurance money, let’s go away, far aw-“

BANG!!

A look of terror overtook her face. She looked down at her chest in disbelief; she wasn’t imagining the pain. The blood was seeping out from her, staining her business shirt. She looked at the other end of the table in horror, and saw the Single Action Army in his outstretched hand, smoke coming from the pipe. She lost all feeling in her legs and fell onto the table and looked at her murderer. How? How had he managed to survive that? How could he have done this? To her horror, he used the last of his strength to laugh. From his view, she was surrounded by the flames of hell itself. A fitting end before the eternal silence.

ivysaur12: Nice, very nice. I like the setting you chose, fits the theme nicely!

2DMention: Maybe I should change my career? An interesting topic, but it feels a little empty. More like an expose than a story, but I'll chalk it up to personal preference. If you couldn't tell, my writing leans toward the cheesy and overdramatic.

Aaron: This one kept me hooked throughout, very surreal.

bjork: Heh, sometimes I wish I could knock some sense into my old self too. Very nice, another paragraph or two about the drag of work would add to this I think.

Eight and Seven (MS Word, 641 words)


Eight Years. It’s been eight years, yet the memory of watching his grandfather lowered into the grave still only feels like it was yesterday.

His grandfather was sick for over a year, before he passed, though no one really knew. Not until he had fallen over, while cutting stalks of sugarcane, and couldn’t lift himself off of the floor. He was rushed to a hospital where he was confined to a bed for months on end. John had visited him every day during those months, holding his hand and reading and talking with him. John’s relatives came then—aunts and uncles flying in from New York and Austin—and they consoled his grandmother. They cried together…cried for the memory of a strong man…they suffered through his weakness and strengthened each other.

Eventually, he had recovered enough strength to be released and John’s aunts and uncles all left. They returned to their homes, they stopped calling, and soon enough they had stopped writing in, as well. John, living only five blocks away from his grandparents, saw his grandfather nearly every day of the week. He helped his grandfather weed the yard and learned how to plant and cultivate a mango tree. He helped his grandfather clean the pool, he read with him from journals and novels and the bible, and he walked through the yard and talked with him. Within three months, John’s visits had become farther and farther apart but still he came.

John wasn’t there the next time his grandfather fell but he did get there in time to take him to the hospital. This time, less than half of the aunts and uncles came. They talked amongst themselves and rarely did they walk in to visit their father. They talked of their mother’s health and inheritance, and the family estate, they talked of their jobs and joked and laughed outside of the room where their father lay, withering away. John no longer talked with his grandfather nor did he read with him. John still talked and read, mind you… but to his grandfather, now, instead of with him. His grandfather’s face fell by the day and his skin became pale and sallow. John talked to him of days past and prayed for peace at last. John sat by him daily, witnessing the features of his face stretch and become lax. The last day John sat by his side, his face had taken a peaceful expression and even a hint of a smile.

The funeral was on a day as bright and clear as any John had seen in his life and the sun beat down on John’s face and he watched his grandfather lowered into the cool earth. He stood at the side of his grandmother and she had squeezed at his hand as a fresh stream of tears formed in her eyes. There they stood, as partners in grief, as everyone else left and resumed discussion of estates. John had stood by his grandmother then, as he did for each day following.

To think, that was only eight years ago. The memory, and the feelings that it brings, comes at him with a strength that was somewhat lacking before and tears that burn in his eyes begin to fall freely from his face. After a while, he looks up above the headstone and into the setting sun. He turns on the spot, taking care not to overturn the flowers that he has laid down, and walks away.

It saddens him that he was the only one to visit the grave. It saddens him, more, to know that in two days time he will again be the only one to stand by this grave…that he will be the only one to think back to seven years ago when his grandmother was laid next to the love of her life.

I'll do more in depth reviews later, but these have been really good so far. Keep 'em coming.

ivysaur12 said:

I'll do more in depth reviews later, but these have been really good so far. Keep 'em coming.

Spoiler

This is supposed to be a subtle bump

Click to expand...

Hey, nothing wrong with a few subtle bumps. I do that occasionally myself.

This thread needs more stories! Bring 'em people!

I guess I'll try my hand at a 'bump'. What follows is a throwaway bump, it is not an entry for the challenge that is a simple concept. I write one sentence without any consideration for where the story will turn and then I write the next. Not a single word will be deleted, though I will be taking care to correct spelling and grammatical errors.


Water and Ash (MS Word, approx 1,500 words)



The ground was wet and a thin spray of murky water splashed up into Tony's face as he ran past the police station, praying (to all the gods he could remember) that no one was looking out the opened door, as he did. He turned a left into a small dark alley and messily jumped to avoid a thick puddle that had only just come into view. His jump was poorly judged and his ankle twisted painfully at the start of his jump. His flight passed by as if in slow motion and, much to his alarm, he landed in the puddle. The ground beneath the black surface of the liquid was not solid, as he had assumed, and his foot caught on a small dip in the ground, sending him sprawling. The water splashed up to each side of him as his knees connected with the jagged and rough cement below the liquid's surface. Raising his hands, to shield his face, he collapsed face-first and felt absolute horror as the water crept into his ears, nostrils, and mouth. He pushed himself up to his knees and quickly crawled out of the puddle before crumpling into the dark shadows of the alleyway.

The skin on his face burned with an intensity that he would have never imagined possible and he bit into his tongue to hold back his agony, to take his mind off of what was happening to his face and skin. He pushed his teeth deeper into his tongue as more pain rushed into him, fresh metallic blood filling his mouth. Without warning, he felt the taut skin in his inner ear swell suddenly and the unmistakable feeling as the skin then tore itself open under the force of the expanding tissue beneath--and he bit hard. The pain in his ear was strong, yes, but not strong enough to take his mind off of the awful feeling that something warm and foreign was floating in the blood of his mouth. He spat, then, and in the dim light of the moon was able to make out a small object in the blood soaked ground. He reached forward, weakly, with his hand and grasped at the object that had just left his mouth--all too aware that the skin on the back of his hand had all peeled away. It was hard, whatever it was. He lifted it closer to his eyes, struggling to see what it was in his violently shaking hand. It was pale...good. A tooth had come out...at least he hadn't bit off the tip of his tongue.

He turned around to see if he was still being chased and only realizing how foolish that concept was, for he was going to die here in this alley with his skin set to burn and melt off of his bones, when the bones in his forearm snapped and he collapsed in a heap on the ground. The impact was of such a force that his shoulder felt as if it had been shoved into his chest and then he could not hold back the scream. He screamed for the flesh torn asunder in his arm and for the poisoned liquid that melted all flesh it touched. He screamed and screamed until his screams stopped abruptly as a pain swelled in his chest and neck. He guessed, correctly, then that when he initially fell that he must have inhaled some of the water. That meant that he wasn't just dying on the outside: that his pain might be over sooner than he expected.

The sound of footsteps sounded behind him then. His screams had been heard, though he was entirely unaware as no more sound traveled through his ruined and flayed ear canals. A tall figure stood behind him, regarding his form on the floor as his life spilled out into the alley. A cop, who had heard what sounded like the tortured wails of a dog, spat to his misfortune at the dying kid's feet and thought. This is probably that thief that fucking merchant was looking for. The cop ran his hand through his beard, spat again at the kid's feet and, resolved in his decision that the merchant couldn't get any resolution from a dead brat, walked back to the station's open door and to his chair. The less paperwork the better, he thought, knowing full well that he wouldn't have filled out any paperwork over the issue even if the haggard old bitch of a merchant had caught the kid, in front of his door (and beat him to death in front of him).

Tony no longer felt the burning pain, but he no longer felt 'right' either. His jaw felt loose in his face and he could feel his eyes bulging against their sockets. His vision was murky and everything had a hazy quality to it. He had heard that your life flashes before your eyes before you die but the only thing that he could see were loose shapes dancing in front of him, barely human looking in appearance. What was he supposed to think of anyway, he thought hatefully, the end of everything he held dear in his life? Watching his friends burning to cinders and watching the skin flaking off of the partial remains of his brother's charred remains are the first thought he could even remember. Should he remember that his first identifiable thought in the aftermath was that the water in the stream he drank from contained the ashes of his parents and his classmates and everyone he held dear? Or that the other survivors he had met had screamed in horror as they realized that the water they had been relying on for sustenance had turned poisonous on them after the ashes stopped falling?

No, he pushed aside such thoughts and his vision seemed to improve as he did. He found he was now standing in a great hall with giant torches lining the walls. The features of the figures he had seen were beginning to take focus and he thought he could recognize one. His mother stood before him, as beautiful and as radiant as she was all those many years ago. She was holding the hand of his little brother and, together, they were walking down the hall into an open courtyard. Cautiously, he took her hand and her warm smile cheered him up immensely. She looked down into his eyes and the love in her eyes was unmistakable. She let go of his hand, place her soft hands on his shoulders, and knelt down beside him.

"I've been gone for three long years, son...but I'm here for you now," she said to him then, her voice sweet and soothing.

He told her how much he loved her and cried. He took her hand and followed her home.

Gattsu25 said:

I guess I'll try my hand at a 'bump'. What follows is a throwaway bump, it is not an entry for the challenge that is a simple concept. I write one sentence without any consideration for where the story will turn and then I write the next. Not a single word will be deleted, though I will be taking care to correct spelling and grammatical errors.

Click to expand...

I need to do more of that, instead of wasting time worrying if it sounds right or not. Pity you couldn't cut it down and enter it.

I think I know what I'll be writing about, now.

3 days guys.

"Moral(e)" (821 words)

Sometimes I leave the bus stop to follow people home...

Everybody walking the earth can all attest to at least one thing in this life. One thing that unifies all of us, no matter the location and no matter the color of our skin. Everybody around you, near or far, can tell you that one day, all of us will be wishing we hadn't fucked up as many things as we did. Ask anybody on their deathbed what their dying wish is, and they'll say it's to be remembered. Nobody wants to just fade away. Don't go thinking you're special and that you're the exception, because you're not. It’s why so many carpenters and construction-workers leave their initials on the two-by-fours that they hammer together in your house. It’s why a kid will scribble his initials in wet cement. It’s why a group of drunken grad students will spray-paint CLASS OF… on an abandoned warehouse wall. Nobody wants to just fade away. The moral of the story is there is no moral.

Eight summers ago, Darlene put herself over the edge. She jumped. Like a great deal of people trapped in the concrete jungle full of skyscrapers, billboards, and flashing lights, Darlene had lost it. The police tried talking her down. It wasn’t any help. And in what had to be exactly like so many movies you see on television, one of Darlene's shoes slipped off and free-fell to the ground. If things went accordingly, Darlene would be next. She wanted to stick to the plan. She wanted to stick to the plan because television told her life wasn't worth it anymore. Answering phones and washing dishes and answering phones and catching your husband fucking your old best friend just won't cut the mustard anymore. Darlene wanted an exit. She'd get her coup de grace, but be damned if anybody was about to do it for her. She didn’t want anyone’s pity.

Somewhere in the sky, an airplane was en route from someplace in the world to another. Hundreds of passengers all fastened into their seats would order the heated chicken meal over the heated steak. Hundreds more would ask for juice instead of soda pop. Several people would be having sex in the built-for-two bathrooms. A couple dozen babies would cry because their ears hurt due to the change of air pressure in the cabin. The parents of those children would be the mortal enemies of any other passengers sitting within a twenty foot radius. The pilot and co-pilot of the flight are checking and re-checking their flight map. The flight attendants are in their curtain-closed quarters talking about which passengers they think are good looking.

Eleven hours is a long time inside of an airplane. Even if you are going a thousand feet per second. Mayeswell get comfy.

A man slipped a twenty dollar bill into Melissa's g-string. The bill had the man's phone number taped to one side. She stuck with the show, not yet aware that she'd be peeling yet another proposal off of a tip that evening. She kept dancing. Gyrating. Climbing the pole. Turning. Pausing. Turning. Climbing the pole. Stretching. Take off the top. Squeeze breasts together. Gyrating. Turning. Smile for the audience. Pick up top. Walk off. She was used to this.
Fifteen minutes every night, Monday to Friday. Weekends optional. She used to think to herself that some people only got fifteen minutes of fame in their entire lives. She got it over an hour every week. Even if it meant working on her birthday.

Through the curtain and back into the dressing room. Sigh. Count the tips. All routine, like counting to ten and back down to one again. Her eye caught the proposal from the man she saw earlier. Peel it off, but not too fast. Can’t rip the bill. The proposal fluttered into the garbage can. She dressed, walked out of the building's back exit, got into her 1986 Toyota Camry, and drove home.


What Darlene didn't know until it happened was that she was bad at choosing buildings to jump off of if she actually planned on killing herself. The next thing she remembered was lying in a hospital bed with her husband sitting next to her. She wanted to stick to the plan. She wanted to stick to the plan because television told her life wasn't worth it anymore. And she still agreed. Answering phones and cooking meals and answering phones and hearing you husband talking about a divorce just won't cut the mustard anymore. For some reason, clouds were all Darlene could think about at that moment. Although her bed wasn't anywhere near a window. It was no help. What came next was the faint smell of pine air-freshener was drifting in from some room down the hall.


And in what had to be exactly like so many movies you see on television, Darlene started to cry.

Scribble said:

I need to do more of that, instead of wasting time worrying if it sounds right or not. Pity you couldn't cut it down and enter it.

I think I know what I'll be writing about, now.

Click to expand...

Oh, I already had an entry. I just wanted to see something happen in this thread :O

To be honest, I like the long story I eventually came up with. If I were to shorten it, I'd remove the contradiction near the beginning and a large deal of the character's suffering, while adding in some hints of exposition on the environment so that the nature of the narrator's surrounding don't only show up near the very end. I'd also see if I could fit some dialog in there...but as far as writing goes, dialog's the area where I know I'm at my weakest.

I Got Home Late (1053 words)

I got home late, walked right into the kitchen, opened the fridge and grabbed a beer. It was dark so the kitchen lit up for a second. All that was left was some moonlight and a faint yellow flickering streetlamp. I sat at my table. The top was littered with crumbs. I could fell them sticking to my elbows. I didn’t mind really.

I reached into my pocket, found my car keys, then my bottle opener. I popped that sucker's cap off and sucked it down. Not as easy as it was just a few hours ago. I shook my body and stood up. I went over to the doorway and felt along the bumped and cracked wall, searching and searching. I found the switch and flicked it. I got a look at the table and flicked it back off. Then right back on.

I either said or thought, shit. Didn’t matter. Wasn’t going to make what my eyes saw go away. I stared at that table. I stared until my eyes tried up. When I blinked, the tears flowed. I took another swig of the beer and threw it right at the table. It smacked right into the cake, bounced away and hit the floor. It didn’t shatter, but the noise was still loud. Some beer spilled out the bottle. I heard footsteps up stairs. Go back to bed, I yelled.

Alex’s blue name was flattened and smudged. You couldn’t read his message anymore, half of it was on the bottle and the other half on the table. It was a good hit. The kitchen was enough of a mess, though, so I went to pick up the bottle. I laid it on the counter, above the dishwasher, and walked back over the table.

I stuck my index finger straight into the A and swirled it around. When I felt I built up enough of a coat I yanked it out and stuffed it my mouth. I swirled it around my tongue to get every bit off. I realized throwing that beer was a bad idea. I needed some of that to clean my mouth out. I went to the sink and turned on the faucet. I inhaled the water, then stuck my whole head into the sink. I was feeling a little hot. My hair was drenched and I started running my hands through the short brown hairs. It felt best on my neck. So I stayed there for a while with my eyes closed. I thought of nothing but water. I could see a great big fall, maybe Niagara. I could hear the gushing. The cracking and popping of each drop as it hit the rocks. I saw the sprits that comes off and create a rainbow. I wanted to reach out and grab it.

I pulled my head out the sink and let my head drip. I felt my white shirt gradually sticking to my chest and back. I turned to the window above the sink and went to open it. I had some trouble. It was stuck. I made sure it wasn’t locked and gave it some strong heaves. On the third it one it finally slid up. But I wasn’t expecting it and knocked something over. It fell into the sink. I felt the cool air drifting onto me when I noticed the overturned picture frame lying in the draining puddle.

I didn’t touch it. I knew what it was. I knew that picture by heart. I could see his brown hair, the same as mine, that crooked nose, and his missing front teeth. I remember teasing him that they would never grow in. Sometimes you get what you don’t wish for. I sat down in front of the sink, my back leaning on the cabinet. I put my head between my legs and wrapped my arms around the knees. I let out some more tears. When I opened my eyes I saw the puddle of beer working its way across the floor. I got up, grabbed the whole roll of paper towels and started whipping it away. I really wished I finished off the beer. I could have took another, but I’d probably waste it.

I took a deep breath, deep enough for two people. I shook my head, and looked at the doorway. I could just see him running through with his red backpack on and acting so goddamn excited. I could hear him signing about the first day of second grade. It was made up nonsense, but I remember every word.

I walked back through the doorway, turning the light out as I left the kitchen, and walked over to the stairs. It was dark, but I noticed a shiny toy car at the bottom of the stairs. All those years, and I never noticed? I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I walked up the stairs, my hand running along the wooden banister. I walked into my bedroom, my wife was laying in bed, probably not a sleep, but certainly pretending. I slipped my boots off, then my jeans, but kept the shirt on. Then I laid in bed.

My wife turned to me and asked if everything is all right. I told her, of course. She didn’t really care and rolled back over. Then she rolled back and said she finally threw out those old toys. I couldn’t hold back the tears. She held on to me and cried, too. I told her to wait a second and reached off the bed and into my pants pocket. I took out the little car. I laid back down and she wrapped her arm around me again. I told her she missed one and started rolling the car up and down her arm. She laughed a little. She told me to stop. I did. She said she was glad that one escaped. I said I was too.

I lay there for a little while, my eyes open, just watching the streetlamp flicker on our bedroom wall. I asked her if we could stop our little tradition. I said it wasn’t no anniversary for us. We had to stop it. She didn’t say anything. She was sleeping.

Gattsu25 said:

Oh, I already had an entry. I just wanted to see something happen in this thread :O

Click to expand...

Oops. Sorry, I must have merged your two entries in my mind.

It's interesting. I tried a similar thing, but I ended up writing a whole of rhetorical questions in the second paragraph. ("Where was I? Had I finally reached...The End?" Ugh). I did find that I tend to focus more on the senses if I typed randomly, like your second paragraph. It also compensates for not having a "proper plot."

If my ban bet goes through, and I lose, I'll be banned for a year. So if that happens but I win this contest by some freak accident, my theme for the next one is "high stakes." Someone carry on my fight in my absence.

(spiffy theme for this challenge. )

Time is running out. Just two more days until the end of this challenge, so get those entries in.

Working on mine right now! It's going to be a good bit shorter than my usual entries. Didn't have a whole lot of time this time around (leaving for Spain on Thursday!).

Well, I guess my poetry binge last time was pretty short word-wise too, but damned if it didn't take a long time to write. Mostly for the sestina.

Remember
Word count: 335

Funny, this stream we insist be subdivided.

A year is one revolution of the Earth around the Sun. As a measure, a year is whole and complete without elaboration - a celestial fact that informs our sense of time.

This does not imply that a year is anything but arbitrary, depending as it does on our Earth and our Sun. The year is our measure, or rather our year is our measure. The Earth and Sun are a certain distance from one another (distance being another arbitrary measure, to be sure.) Were that distance any different, our year would differ proportionally.

So, the year is what it is for the simple reason that it is what it is.

It is our all-purpose tool. We use years as markers of the celebratory and the tragic; as bookends to alliances, wars, and empires; as ages, both biologic and geologic. Without points of reference, time would be indifferent to us, and its own passing.

From each point three hundred and sixty five and one quarter days will pass. And then again. Memories, like planets, though always visible, return a point with this singular regularity. Such is the cycle of remembrance.

A mother of ten will not once forget a single birthday, regardless of how old her children are – nor will she fail to feel an acute pain on the day she lost one of them. Walk a battlefield fifty years to the day after the battle and feel a sense of connection and immediacy that the same ground did not reveal as strongly yesterday and will not tomorrow. Disasters, both natural and manmade, will annually whisper reminders of their destruction. Lovers look upon each other with particular affection on the date of their union.

The rational would observe that days themselves are not so distinguished; if an event was not noted yesterday, why choose to do so today? What has the lapse of a year altered?

The answer, of course, is nothing.

But for memory, it is everything.

Hi, all. I hope you don't mind a junior contributing. Any and all criticisms are welcomed.

A friend pointed me to these challenges, and I thought I might do something for fun. Hope you enjoy it! Thanks!

Lie In Our Graves
Word Count: 1,190.

His eyes slowly open allowing yellow light to engage the dilated pupils of an uneasy night. His lungs draw in stale air. A long sigh covers the sterile noise of his life; thoughts of the knife impale his mind.

He mumbles nothing.

Pent up anger begins to swell. At first it’s aimed elsewhere before settling into crippling self-anguish.

Now up, he stumbles downstairs. He stares blankly at nothing.

Now down in form-fitted fashion, the couch becomes his day-mattress.

He does nothing.

Even so, he has to move along. But for the sake of others – or rather himself – he can’t. He never will.

His soul sinks into emptiness. The pit of his stomach aches, his eyes wince. There is no light, he thinks.

The knife returns. The glint of its steel edge brings fear and sadness. But fear and sadness have often worked together in favor of his unconsciousness, keeping him awake, keeping him away from the night. Today, however, the emotions that once saved will finally put to sleep a hope that never was.

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“Do we have to go, Mommy?” whined Peter.

“Yes, baby.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s family, we’re family. W-we must do this.”

“B-But I don’t want to.”

“If you’re a good boy I’ll give you a treat,” negotiated Mommy.

“O-Okay, fine.”

Mommy left Peter to continue dressing. Most of her immediate family had already arrived dressed appropriately, neatly. With the exception of Peter and Mommy, this suburban living room was rather picturesque.

“Well if it isn’t young Peter Whizzly, how you doin’ ma’boy?”

“Good, Uncle Fran,” said Peter donned in his finest black sweat pants.

“Where’s your mother?”

“Upstairs.”

“God, she is so damn slow. So when is this show hitting the road?”

“Dunno.”

“Well thanks, I’ll just have to scout around.”

Uncle Fran jetted away leaving Peter once again by himself.

Twenty minutes would pass before Mommy galloped down the spiraling staircase in her traditional, less-than-neat Whizzly attire.

“Okay everybody, let’s get a move on,” proclaimed Mommy.

“Bout time, big sis,” quipped Uncle Fran.

The Whizzly group crowded into a caravan of Sport Utility Vehicles before leaving in a cloud of exhaust.

“Why do I have to go,” spoke up Peter with a guttural undertone of annoyance. “I don’t even know him.”

“That’s enough, young man,” chimed Mommy. “We’re going to show support for your father – such a shame.”

With that, the other half of Peter’s loins, the Ramsins, met the Whizzlys at the front of the Fullerton Funeral Home.

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How long has it been since that day? His emotional dilemma, his total liquidity of that day still haunts. Every year, the images remain, “Who was he?”

The knife, emblazoned in his mind, follows his line of vision like a spot from starring at the sun. His breath shortens. His mind races. He closes his eyes.

“What am I doing?” he cries.

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“Thanks for coming, everybody,” said Daddy.

“No problem,” sighed Mommy coldly touching Daddy’s shoulder.

It’s been two years since Mommy and Daddy became divorced. Peter lived with Mommy never to see Daddy but once a year. It didn’t matter really, neither spoke directly to Peter, especially Daddy. Secrecy was a Ramsin-Whizzly specialty after all, true emotions were a rarity – except yelling.

“Hey, buddy,” coaxed Daddy while patting Peter’s head, “how you doin’?”

“Fine.”

“Thanks for coming, I know it must be tough to lose your step-brother so tragically.”

“Not really.”

“Hrrmph!”

A disgruntled Daddy paced away to join a confab of Whizzlys from his past. Although it seemed unlikely, Daddy was never that upset at the loss of his step-child of four months, either. Sure it was tragic, but Daddy never was one to get close to many, not excluding his flesh and blood of nine years.

Elsewhere, Mommy was chatting with Ramsins and Whizzlys while drawing a stern eye toward Daddy’s nervous movements. Avoidance was key for Mommy, as well Daddy. Happiness for Peter was their priority. So Peter was left alone.

Peter quietly walked around. Ramsins and Whizzlys, friends and strangers were gathered in a shrine of flowers and pictures. Peter quietly watched people laugh and cry. Peter felt nothing for his step-brother. Peter felt nothing.

“Pretty grim wouldn’t you say, Petey?” smirked Uncle Fran.

“Yeah.”

Both Peter and Uncle Fran made their way to the reception area with tables adorned with finger foods and cheeses.

“Better lay off those cheese and crackers, kiddo, you’re already looking like John Candy,” snickered Uncle Fran easily amused by his comment. Peter looked away crestfallen.

“Man this is boring, we hardly knew that dumb kid,” grumbled Uncle Fran.

Peter began to walk away.

“Hey, Petey, wanna see something?” enticed Uncle Fran. “From what I heard your step-bro killed himself, slit both his wrists -- like this.”

Peter looked back over his shoulder. A concentrated fleck of light glanced off a kitchen knife. Peter’s eyes winced momentarily before opening again in horror. Uncle Fran’s eyes were filled with a sinister glare. His mouth agape, his tongue hanging to one side, Uncle Fran let out a yell. The knife hissed through the air; the veins in Uncle Fran’s arm bulged. The movement of the blade was definite; the smile on Uncle Fran’s lips was disturbing.

Peter yelped and started to run. One foot landed firmly, the other entangled on one of the flower displays. Both display and Peter came down, hard. The obnoxious thud rumbled throughout the funeral home. The bereft and the bereaved starred in horror. Horror soon became disgust and disgust became pity.

Mommy and Daddy sprinted toward their fallen.

“Are you okay, baby?” hyperventilated Mommy.

“What happened?” said Daddy.

The cackle of Uncle Fran’s raspy voice echoed the room.

“You did this!” yelled Daddy at Uncle Fran.

“You idiot!” followed Mommy

Now looking to Mommy, Daddy proclaimed, “What’s your bastard of a brother doing here?”

“What, somehow this is my fault?” Mommy deflected.

Peter moaned with misty eyes. He was accustomed to this, he was his parents’ son, after all.

“Shut up!” Peter’s voice cracked. “Both of you!”

Peter’s flabbergasted kin went silent. Hush.

“Honey, no matter what we will always love you,” softly spoke Mommy breaking the stillness.

Still shocked, Daddy put his head to his chest.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” shrieked Peter. “You don’t love me, you and Daddy will never –.”

Peter stopped. He began to back up. His eyes never left his parents. The room began to close around him. Then his back felt something – a casket. The hard wood made him stop. He turned. His eyes slowly fell. And for the first and last time, he saw his brother starring back.

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Things became clear, his motive, his thoughts, his fear and sadness, the images.

“We will always love you.”

He picked up the knife.

“No matter what.”

The cold ceramic of the bathtub flinched his naked body.

“My baby.”

Long breaths calmed his soul. His trembling hand felt lighter.

“Always.”

The knife pierces. “I’m sorry…”

His eyes slowly close. In his mind, he sees the casket; he’s lying there. He looks up. Twelve years ago today, he saw himself for the first and last time.


edit: Heh, I guess I'm a Member -- sweet!

Ok guys, today's the last day. Get those submissions in!

Reunion

The park was largely the same. Green. Manufactured. Cast-metal statuettes adorned various nooks and crannies of the concrete path that snaked towards the water.

The school-building was largely the same as well, save for the ugly condominium that jutted up next to it. Literally, as the walls of the two buildings were attached, one to the other, a juxtaposition that was thematically suspect.

The current generation of teens hanged around the metal bridge that ran across West-Side Highway, trying to look more bored than they actually were. A wry smile slid across my lips.

Some things never changed.

The ugly condominium deposed wooden planks that ran over the water a long time ago, along the school.

I remembered walking over the constantly shifting planks, cigarette in hand, looking across the water towards the horizon. Slow, warm summer afternoons, sticking my nose under Milla’s chin, around the soft region of her neck, smelling her. Biting her softly, till she’d push me away, giggling, like girls always do.

In reality there was an ugly building standing there. The raping of my teenage memories, the plundering of my youth, etc. etc.

I sighed visibly, rubbed my neck in mock frustration and walked towards the park. It was a hot day, sweat trickled down my neck and my back. Visible wet spots simultaneously cropped up all over my white Lord & Taylor shirt. I felt a bit Gatsby.

I walked and sat under a shaded bench near the railings. Even the skyline looking at Jersey was different with skyscrapers that weren’t there before.

“Amazingly enough you still look about the same Sabbir. Including the goatee! Put on a bit more bulk though, and it suits you.”

I wasn’t startled, I expected her to follow. Prior to seeing her inside the Ballroom I hoped she had turned into a fat cow in the last 10 years.

Nix.

She looked better than before. The thin, cute girl in the low hung ripped jeans and bushy hair turned into something out of a TV commercial. But then, we all dressed to impress. I suppose.

“Milla. 10 years eh? I was getting all stuffy back there, so I stepped out.”

Not to mention I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school so people barely remembered me.

“Didn’t you see me in there? I was trying to make eye-contact!”

I felt like lying, but I didn’t.

“I did see you. We didn’t exactly part in the best of terms…”

“…I know.”

Brilliant. Now there was an awkward silence hanging in the air like an immobile, thick, velvet curtain. Even the soft breeze stopped blowing as if in agreement.

“Anyway, how hav…” : “Look, I’m…”

We spoke concurrently, trying to break the awkward silence, the way most people do.

“OK, you go first Sabbir.” She looked up at me. Shimmering blue eyes, you could almost dive into them. She had wrinkles around them now. They made her look real, weathered, like a woman.

I yawned, breaking away from the incantation.

“What are you up to nowadays?” I began with cliché question #1.

“I teach English at a private school. I moved to Columbus, Ohio.”

“Ohio? Jesus.”

“Yeah, yeah, boring old Ohio. What about you?”

“I’m an engineer at Con Ed.”

“Wow! You’re never ever leaving this city are you? Must be great!”

“Yep. Never leaving her. My one true love.”

“Didn’t get married?”

“Nope. I’m too used to the bachelor lifestyle. I see you got a nice ring there.”

“Yeah, three years and counting!” She crossed her fingers.

“What does he do?”

“His name is Eli Blachly, he is a lawyer.”

Well, he sounded like a douchebag to me.

“He didn’t come here?”

“No. He was busy getting ready for a trial. I flew up on my own.”

Yep. Douchebag.

“What about you, any significant other?”

“Significant other? More like insignificant others.” I replied in mock machismo.

“Never change Sabbir. Never change. Oh but, a lot has changed around here.”

“Yeah, condos are being built, parks and landmarks are being destroyed, neighborhoods are being gentrified. Blah, blah. Blah.”

I remembered once we sneaked up on the roof and fucked. Her bottom must have been sore for a few days cause I threw her on the roof and slammed away, and the roof was coarse concrete. It was brilliant though, under the clear sky.

Another wry smile snaked across my lips.

“What?”

“You remember that one time we sneaked up on the roof?”

“Nope! It’s all a blur man! I don’t recall a thing.”

We both broke out in laughter.

“Good times…good times.” I mused nostalgically.

“You know…” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“Nah, forget it.”

“Oh, go ahead, it doesn’t matter now.”

“It would have never worked between us…”

“I know. Culturally we are very different.”

“On top of it I’m Jewish and you’re Muslim.”

“Nah, you’re a pork-eating Jew and I’m a wine-drinking Muslim. It was never that. It was the culture, the ethnicity. You’re right, would have never worked. I didn’t get that at the time, I was too young to understand, now I know better.”

“The whole…you limiting me was total bunk, I just wanted to break it off so I turned nasty. God young girls could be complete bitches at times. I am so sorry.”

Old girls too, I thought.

She did cut my ego off by a half or so. The months after graduation were agonizingly depressing. And slow. For the first time I felt truly alien in this land, for the first time I realized no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I never would fit in completely.

The experience left a bitter taste in my mouth, which I still felt from time to time. I drank a few sips of water from the plastic bottle. Swirling the liquid in my mouth, trying to wash away the bitterness.

She was right though. It wouldn’t have lasted. What did a Bangladeshi boy who still loved his mom’s dry fish curry had in common with an American girl who grew up on the Upper West Side. Nothing. Almost nothing.

I was neither here, nor there. Too Bangladeshi to be American. Too American to be Bangladeshi.

She was here, and her douchebag husband was in Ohio.

All the spatial and cultural differences intermingled in my brain and my will to converse went away while my engineering brain calculated the spatial and transcendental relationships that connected us, within New York, and this world in general, the relevance of Ohio in the universe, the douchebaggary constant of lawyers and the Fourier Transform of my mom’s cooking.

At least we weren’t different enough to not enjoy a perfect silence.

Rather than trying to fill the silence with nonsensical chatter we sat still and looked out across the blue.

Grave (618)

Joseph leaned his bike on the fencepost, not bothering to lock it. He was in something of a hurry. He wanted to be in and out quickly.

As he climbed a small hill, he saw a figure standing quietly at the grave he had come to visit. The man mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief and turned to him.

“I thought you might come.”

Joseph grimaced at the man. He said nothing. He wasn’t about to start talking unless he had to.

“Well, I’m glad you did, anyway.”

They stood there in silence for a time, staring down at the grave. Hard to believe it had been a year already.

The man sighed. “Well, I changed my will like we talked about, Joe.”

Joseph wasn’t even going to dignify that with any kind of response. He didn’t say a word, didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid. He held himself completely still.

“I know how you feel about that, but it’s what your mother would have wanted. It’s what she would have wanted.”

He couldn’t suppress it; without thinking, he raised an eyebrow. His mom most definitely would not have wanted it.

“Well, all right. Maybe not. She was your mother, after all.” The man chuckled, a dry and wheezing sound. “She mothered everyone around her, even at the end. She would want you taken care of, swaddled up so nothing could ever hurt you. But she also would’ve wanted this, to help people. She wanted it all at once.” He shook his head. “But it’s for me to decide now.”

A hot surge of anger bubbled up, filling his belly, and for an instant, everything flashed red. His left hand clenched itself into a fist. A part of him, a detached part of his brain that seemed to be watching everything from a distance, was surprised that he was so angry. How could the old man still make him mad like this? It wasn’t even as if he were saying anything new. They’d been over this time after time. He forced his hand to relax, kept his mouth closed.

“I know you’re mad, Joe. And I know why. But this is for the best. You have to trust me.”

He wasn’t going to turn around. He couldn’t bear to look into the man’s eyes and see not anger but compassion. The crazy thing was, the old man really did think it was the best thing for Joseph.

“You know what I’ve always said. An effortless life is a meaningless life.”

He did know. Of course he knew. He had heard it countless times. He’d just never thought it would be applied to him. Not like this. Anger boiled up again.

“I just—” the man paused. “I just wanted to honor your mother’s memory.” There was the slightest quaver in his voice. He turned slowly, and his footsteps crunched down the gravel path to the parking lot.

Joseph’s anger cooled to a slow simmer. He stared down at the grave. Mom definitely wouldn’t have wanted this. Whatever anyone else said, family had always been the most important thing to her. She had been the glue that held them all together, and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He breathed in and held it, then breathed out again. There was steam in the pit of his stomach, but no more blind boiling rage. The anger wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t.

Almost he walked down the gravel path in pursuit. Almost. Now was not the time. The anger was still too fresh and too deep. But he knew he’d do it eventually.

He would speak to his father again. It was what Mom would have wanted.

Ok guys, it's getting close. If we get one more entry, we match last week's submission number.

ivysaur12 said:

Ok guys, it's getting close. If we get one more entry, we match last week's submission number.

Click to expand...

Scribble and DumbNameD always submit really late, so we could still make it!

Don't worry, even if they don't make it I'll at least get us tied.

Announcements (Word Count: 1089)

Twenty six years ago today, I was born. Three years and two months ago today, I graduated from university with my journalism degree. One year, eleven months and three weeks ago, I was married to Raelee McKenzie. One year and five months ago, I was divorced.

I am sitting in a cubicle, surrounded by pieces of these moments: a mug that reads “World’s Greatest Dad” that Raelee gave me two years ago, collecting dust. My diploma, framed prepared to hang on a wall in my office, leans against the cubicle precariously, constantly sliding down and requiring adjustment. A business card for my divorce lawyer is pinned to the cloth wall, slightly askew; next to it, two wedding announcements hang one over the other. The bottom one is cleanly cut and preserved; the top one is ragged, tacked carelessly in an emotional state.

The computer screen is sitting in a word processor, the blinking cursor sitting after the word “boy.” The other words are the usual: proud, beautiful, welcome. This particular child is named Cody, a name I always liked; that and Samantha, for a girl. Some people submit these announcements themselves, but most just pass along the information and presume that someone will turn it into elegant prose befitting their new arrival’s importance. That someone is usually me.

I’ve been editing the Announcements page for one year, one month and two days now. In that time, I’ve chronicled the arrival of life and the struggle of death with unwavering respect for the promise of life both new and eternal. I don’t mean to say that my death announcements firmly presume the existence of an afterlife, but rather contain the promise of posterity: for at least one moment, all of Greater Halifax will know what you’ve done with your life.

The first piece I wrote was a birth announcement. The couple had asked for the “classic” announcement, welcoming their new bouncing baby girl Madeline into the world. It would feature the usual laundry list of proud relatives, from Grannie to Aunt Betty and from cousin Jenny to cousin Joey. As I started writing, I found myself unsatisfied: surely, this could not be the whole story.

“Joe and Willie Fredericks are ecstatic to welcome young Madeline Eleanor into their growing family,” I wrote first. But in my mind, Joe and Willie were struggling to get pregnant for years, their marriage barely able to survive. Madeline is a miracle baby, arriving at just the right moment to unite this couple in a time of desperate need. If she had been a miscarriage, perhaps the marriage wouldn’t have survived; in this day and age, young marriages are so fragile.

“She was born on September 4th at the IWK Children’s Hospital in Halifax, weighing 8 pds, 0 oz,” I wrote next. I didn’t write down any of the surely painful labour period, and imagined that Madeline was not looking to come out normally. Few births are ever without complications, and somehow I doubted that the family would inform the world about the emergency caesarian or the forty eight hours spend in intense contractions. While I’d never seen any of this first hand, I watched enough TV to know that I was skirting the truth.

“Also welcoming her into the world are her grandparents, aunts, uncles and young cousins excited to meet the newest addition to their family,” I wrote with great pain. No family works this way, with such an enthusiastic welcome; there’s questions of the couple’s readiness, with the wife’s parents surely questioning the validity of their daughter’s prospective mate. Those relatives aren’t excited to meet the newest addition, but to parade their own happiness in an attempt to become the most loved, or the most envied, out of the entire family. And if it hadn’t worked out, if the baby hadn’t come, they would have feigned sadness; but, in reality, they would be pleased to know they could become the center of attention once again.

But when the piece was done, I’d painted the picture: loving and happy family bands together in a time of celebration to usher a new life into a prosperous future. Forget the post-birth complications, the financial stability of the family, or any other more logical fears: for that two hundred and fifty words, they were silver spoon in hand, ready to take on the world.

This birth announcement in front of me is just like the others in form, but Cody was born today, on July 11th. This is the anniversary of my own birth, so Cody is a kindred spirit of sorts. On these days, to separate my own life from their own becomes harder: Cody’s prosperous future becomes the life that I never saw brought into this world, and my ability to appear optimistic or idealist drops away.

I close the window in question, leaving Cody until I can clear my head of all of this. I figure it will be easier to just edit one that has already been prepared, one that just needs to be edited before placed into the paper. These are the people who have personal sentiment, who don’t trust that some person who doesn’t even know them can capture their emotions. Usually, their emotional drivel is comparable to our own, but on this day they were smart: I can’t live up to their expectations.

I open the next one without thinking, and begin reading.

“Ethan and Raelee Ward are delighted to welcome into the world Samantha Joy. She is the couple’s first child, and is welcomed into the world by her parents, Grandma and Grandpa Ward, Nan and Pop McKenzie, and the rest of this caring and supportive family…”

******

I wake up and look at my alarm clock, making sure that I’ve stayed in bed as long as possible. I slowly make my way through the normal routine before finding myself standing silently in my tiny kitchen. I take a pair of scissors from the drawer and sit down at the table with the paper in hand. I flip to the announcements section and find Samantha. Hastily, I cut the picture and the words from the paper, and stuff it into my pocket.

When I get to work, I take a tack from the drawer and place the photo next to the wedding announcement. The same smiling adult faces are on both, reminders of my own harsh truths and my own past. When someone writes my obituary, this is the story they won’t tell.

I wouldn’t tell it either.

Nice! Something about the pacing feels ever so slightly off, but that's a really strong piece of writing.

I'm not going to have a chance to critique people, as I'm off to Spain tomorrow morning. Thanks in advance for any unrequited critiques I get.

One thing though, for Manatee (sorry, this is a bit of a pet peeve): I'd drop the wacky dialogue tags. You know, so-and-so yelled, cracked, hyperventilated, rejoined, etc. Just use said, or no tags at all. Or use an action tag:

"Are you okay, baby?" Mommy was starting to hyperventilate.

Click to expand...

Weird dialogue tags like that are distracting, and don't really add anything. Plus they're great examples of telling, not showing. "Said" is just fine, we won't get bored of it or anything.

Acorns for Winter (~1200 Words)

“Happy birthday, Tom,” said Lorne, as he tossed Tom’s corpse off the watchtower. The creatures roused and converged on the body like frenzied piranhas. These Spumers once were human, but now venomous veins and maggots pulsed within their hunched cracked-skin frames. Their gums dripped black molasses-thick ooze as their gnarled teeth shredded flesh in gurgling jaw-snaps.

Tom had been hired to obtain Spumer blood samples for scientists in Ostrailia and asked Lorne for help. A week later, they had six vials, but Spumer claws gutted Tom. It was a wonder his innards didn’t spill as Tom climbed the rope into the abandoned scaffolding. Tom lasted three days. Lorne waited two before dumping the body. It was the least he could do.

Lorne secured his rifle, revolver, knife, and the canister in his satchel. He leaped off the opposite side and hit the dirt in a tumble. His teeth rattled. His ribs ached. They would be on him soon. Trying to stand, he punched his thighs. Move, old man! The wind seared the gashes in his face, furrowed like drought-cracked earth. He stood and fled westward into the forest.

He ran for twenty minutes, dodging trees and tearing through brush, before his vision blurred and his lungs withered. If he were ambushed, he would have to fight. He wheezed and collapsed against a tree. A twig snapped, and he drew his revolver.

Dawn squealed. For the first time in a long time, Lorne was shocked as he looked down his gun at this woman with a full face and the bulge of a pregnancy about to burst. She raised her arms into the air.

“Are you going to rob us, too?” she asked. Her face turned red as she scowled.

“Run.”

“Does it look like I can run?” asked Dawn, massaging her belly. Lorne stared at her moving hands and almost didn’t see her companion step behind her.

“Honey, where—“

“Ren! We’re being robbed again!” Dawn didn’t hide her annoyance. “We don’t have anything left!”

“Again?” asked Ren. He shuddered when he saw Lorne.

“Our guide,” she said, pointing behind at the half-naked corpse with a gunshot in his head.

“I’m not,” Lorne said, as he withdrew his revolver. He walked past and eyed the cadaver. “Go. Now.”

“Why?”

“God, Spumers,” said Ren. “You led them to us! We just want to escape this godforsaken country, but we’re as good as dead! And it’s your fault, you bastard!”

“Ohgod-ohgod.” Dawn’s cries echoed through the forest.

“I’ll take you to the next city,” said Lorne.

Where it started, nobody knew. Lorne just knew that it was some infection spread by their black saliva and that a single bite could ravage the brain of a live or recently dead human into animalistic madness. Some believed it was a super-strain mutated from rabies or a bio-weapon developed by the government or a wayward elixir of eternal life refined by a pharmaceutical corporation. Others were certain Spumers were natural evolution shaped from the zeitgeist of humanity or even aboriginal Mericans reborn to reclaim the lands where they had once hunted buffalo.

The pace was slower, but Lorne was impressed that Dawn kept up. He rationed, consuming his minimum while sharing most of his rabbit jerky and water with the pair. He didn’t say much though they tried, but he did almost smile when, after Dawn insisted, he felt the baby kick.

The group traveled for three days until they arrived at the fortified walls of Vaguest, established near the ruins of a long-gone playground city. They were stripped and inspected for open wounds. Because of his scratched face, Lorne was sequestered for what seemed like a day.

“Enjoy Your Last Days” was the city’s motto. There was everything from jugglers to orgies in the streets. People came from all over for the libraries, chess games, and theaters. Naked barkers led guests to brothels, casinos, drug dens, and glutton houses.

There was a commotion at the gates, and Lorne heard a familiar squeal. Someone was pulling at Dawn. Lorne parted the gaggle, wrenched her free, and stared them down. They dispersed.

“Thanks again,” said Dawn. “We found a guide to the coast.”

Lorne looked over their guide, a squirrelly man named Marco.

“We go now,” said Marco, flapping his arms toward the gates.

“Wait,” said Lorne. “I’ll go with.”

The four headed west into the woods from the city. Marco was an irritable fellow who complained constantly. Marco seemed knowledgeable, so Lorne left him alone. They had traveled a day when Lorne said, “Wait.”

The first came at Ren. Dawn squealed. Lorne braced the length of his rifle between the Spumer’s jaws. With a twist of Lorne’s arms, its face catapulted from its head. Lorne hammered his rifle into the cranial cavity and ground its brain to mash. Two more charged and tumbled Lorne to the ground.

Seizing the chaos, Marco drew his pistol and smashed the butt against Ren’s jaw. Ren staggered.

“Let’s go, bitch!” said Marco, pulling Dawn by the wrist. Ren recovered and followed the two.

Lorne swung his elbow and shattered the left one’s slobbering jaw. The creature reeled. Lorne grabbed its claws and skewered them into the others jugular. He pushed them off and stomped their heads into puddles.

Two gunshots rang.

Huffing, Lorne ran toward them. He flinched when he saw Dawn hunched over Marco’s corpse. She wrenched her head back and looked over her shoulder. Her mouth dripped blood as she chewed a stringy piece of Marco. She stood and wiped her mouth with the side of her hand.

“Oh, I thought those things got you,” Dawn said. “I couldn’t wait. I’m eating for two.”

Ren pistol-whipped Lorne from behind and pressed the gun barrel against Lorne’s temple.

“You cost me lunch when we met,” Ren said into Lorne’s ear. “Now I’m going to—“

“Go away,” said Lorne. He plunged his knife backward into Ren’s right eye. The blade exploded the eye into goo and cracked into the top of the cranial orbit. Ren shrieked, dropped the gun, and clawed at the knife, shredding the palms. Ren tried to pull away but merely sawed the knife in and out. Lorne thrust and impaled the blade into the back of Ren’s skull before pulling it out.

“I’m… I’m pregnant,” she said. She could run but wouldn’t get far. “You felt it kick!”

Lorne glared at her.

“This is the world,” she said. “People giving away food. That’s not how the world is now.”

“Yet your scam relies on that.”

“I rely on weakness. And you—“ Dawn suddenly understood. “You’re not stupid. You’ve suspected from the start. Yet you still helped us… I know you. You won’t kill a pregnant woman.”

Dawn grinned. “I’m going now.” She slowly withdrew. “Babies are the gift that keeps on giving.” She licked her lips.

The knife whistled before lodging into Dawn’s forehead with a thwok. Lorne braced his boot atop Dawn’s face and pulled the knife out. He ran his hand along the bulge of her belly and jabbed the knife into her. His hand led it, ripping her belly asunder. Lorne freed the newborn as it cried.

“Happy birthday, kid.”

Right, I guess that's it then.

My votes:
1. Memles- "Announcements"
2. nitewulf- "Reunion"
3. Aaron- "The Once a Year Tan"

So long, guys!

my votes:

1 - DumbNameD
2 - nitewulf
3 - RurouniZel

my comments:

bjork - It's a good story, though you need to work on the nuts and bolts of writing. I suggest reading more, whatever fiction you want as long as its well written. With the right cadence and flow, your story would have had a much stronger impact.

2dmention - Not really a story. It's interesting, though I think you could have said much the same thing while constructing it as a narrative.

ivysaur12 - Starts off a little dry with a cliched situation and not much to set it apart. That might be why the story never quite jelled for me. I understand what's going on, but I feel a step removed from it all.

RurouniZel - A vicious tale with a fitting ending, though I think it's a little top heavy. You spend too much time setting it up before getting everything going when you could have mixed the two and had a more balanced story.

Gattsu25 - A sad little story, though I wish it had more specific details, especially about the grandfather himself to establish his character and make his death more of an event.

disappeared - I think the first true paragraph is unneeded and if anything takes away from the story. Never assume the reader needs to be told everything.

VistraNorrez - Even though it's first person, you don't need to start every sentance with I. After a while, the reader just assumes and things will flow better if you remove the desire to stick with perfect grammar.

bitterazngurl - The best part of the story is the Stories, so I wished they didn't have to be lumped at the end, but worked into the narrative to become is running theme rather than an abrupt ending.

sparky2112 - It's a nice idea, but needs much more substance to flesh it out and give weight.

Manatee Mahn - I would have liked it better without the framework story. I know it's there to give the thing a point, but not all stories need a point. It would have been better to focus on this singular moment.

nitewulf - Nice. You turned what could have been cliche into something emotional, and you did it with all the minor details sprinkled along.

Cyan - What? The whole thing reads like it's leading up to a reveal about this changed will and such... and nothing. Maybe you were rushed, but there's a little too much here that's unexplained.

Memles - First paragraph is unneeded, it's all covered in the second. I think you spend a little too much time on the unrelated birth, even though I get the narrator is projecting.

DumbNameD - You won me from the first paragraph, and kept me to the last line. Not much more to say.

Aaron said:

Memles - First paragraph is unneeded, it's all covered in the second. I think you spend a little too much time on the unrelated birth, even though I get the narrator is projecting.

Click to expand...

I went back over it, and realized that the 2nd paragraph had been fleshed out at a point late in the editing process, and I don't think I ever went back and read the two side by side. So I definitely agree on the first point.

I've got some work to do this afternoon, but will take a look at the stories this evening!

Aaron said:

VistraNorrez - Even though it's first person, you don't need to start every sentance with I. After a while, the reader just assumes and things will flow better if you remove the desire to stick with perfect grammar.

Click to expand...

Thank you for the feedback, but I don't really understand this. In many cases I'd have to change the sentence completely. He's talking about himself and describing his own actions, it seems unavoidable. Could you show me an example?

Aaron said:

bjork - It's a good story, though you need to work on the nuts and bolts of writing. I suggest reading more, whatever fiction you want as long as its well written. With the right cadence and flow, your story would have had a much stronger impact.

Click to expand...

Did it come across as kind of lackadaisical? That's what I wanted it to do.

Aaron said:

ivysaur12 - Starts off a little dry with a cliched situation and not much to set it apart. That might be why the story never quite jelled for me. I understand what's going on, but I feel a step removed from it all.

Click to expand...

I'll agree with this. I had a very hard time with this topic, and all the idea I came up with were incredibly clichéd. Oh well.

My votes -
1.) DumbNameD
2.) Disappeared
3.) Memles

Bjork - Entries don't have to be stories. I like what you did, you could have added more detail. Definite improvement over the last entry.

Aaron - You lost me toward the end for some reason. Kind of reminds me of Fallout. Good concept.

Ivysaur12 - Great start and fresh twist.

Rurounizel - Interesting concept. Could work well as a full blown novel.

Gattsu25 - Depressing. Needs some dialogue.

Disappeared - I like the title and the concept. You could have expanded on it. It needs dialogue.

VistraNorrez - Engaging concept, yet I found it difficult to follow.

bitterazngurl - Well-written and light hearted. Original concept.

Sparky2112 - Reflective, but preachy.

Manatee Mahn - Couldn't engage me, it was also hard to follow.

nitewulf - Nice dialogue and character chemistry.

Cyan - Could stand to be a little longer to flesh things out.

Memles - Easy to read, good original concept and relates well to the theme.

DumbNameD - I like how the pace of the way it reads relates to the fast pacedness of the story. A welcome change of pace.

VistraNorrez said:

Thank you for the feedback, but I don't really understand this. In many cases I'd have to change the sentence completely. He's talking about himself and describing his own actions, it seems unavoidable. Could you show me an example?

Click to expand...

Could be as simple as:

"Reached into my pocket, found my car keys, then my bottle opener. Popped that sucker's cap off and sucked it down. Not as easy as it was just a few hours ago. Went over to the doorway and felt along the bumped and cracked wall, searching and searching. Found the switch and flicked it. Got a look at the table and flicked it back off. Then right back on."

That still has a structure problem though where every sentence follows the same form. Something better would be:

"Bottle opener clinked next to my car keys. I brought it out and popped that sucker's cap off. Sucked it down, but not as easy as just a few hours ago. Searching along the bumped and cracked wall to find the light switch, flicking it on to get a look at the table before flicking it off again. Then right back on."

1) memles
2) dumbnamed
3) bitterazngrl

1. DumbnameD
2. Aaron
3. Nitewulf

Here’s my critique. I’ll try to re-read some of these and give further comment (if you want it), but I probably won’t have the time. After reading my blundered attempt at art, you’re probably asking, “who gives a fuck?” I would, too. So, take it with a grain of salt. Everyone here added something positive to this challenge, so it was my pleasure to read. I look forward to joining you guys for the coming topics.

Aaron: Favorite thing -- “they know where to find me…” I really love that one sentence, it describes so much and it paints your character well – I jus’ love it is all.

Outside of some awkward sentences due to structure (and maybe use more periods during your longer sentences), the more and more I read it, the more and more I loved it. I really dig the futuristic utopia/dystopia backdrop with your focus on the man behind it all.

I would like to see more interaction between the guy and the machines.

Bjork: Favorite thing: I really like the angle you were aiming for: 13 years later, what happened to my life? I ask that myself daily. But…

The biggest problem was execution. It felt choppy, almost like a laundry list of events that didn’t bare any weight until the ending where we see your objective. If you rewrite it, here are my suggestions: start with your goal (13 years later, what happened?) then flesh it out by describing one or two of the menial tasks you incur each day. Balance those with comparisons to what you thought you would do with your life. Finally, give your moral to the story. See if you can work with that. If not, well, I’ve never been a good teacher – sorry. /two cents.

2dmention: I’d very much like to subscribe to your newsletter. This is a very good piece. It’s engaging and entertaining -- “learn something new everyday” kind of thing.

But while this would make for an excellent magazine article – look into it, seriously, pitch it somewhere – it seems too “bloggy” for my taste. Not exactly a short story, but I’m probably grasping at straws. Outside of a spattering of errors, it’s well done. P.S. To go along with the journalistic aspect, flesh your job out with interviews from within your business. Hell, I’d read it. (My ringing endorsement ftw -- or is that ftl?.)

Ivysaur12: Ha! I like the payoff; it was worth the trip. Your story had a lot of great descriptions and imagery for your characters.

Something was off, however. The pacing seemed a little sluggish (compared to my story, yours moved fast and fluidly). At first glance, maybe there were too many characters to digest. Your main cast was gold, but it seemed busy at times (from the many characters) and I missed some important things right away. At first, I thought Wade’s wife was cheating with a guy named Travis. Then when it hit me… I said wow. But maybe I’m just slow in the head. Like I said, your story was worth the trip.

Rurounizel: Now this is a story I can get behind. Sex-lies-and-videotape, double-murder, and the mention of necrophilia, it’s the American dream, really.

I liked it a lot. It’s entertaining with a good amount of disturbing, humorous qualities that made your piece shine with bloody hysteria.

But your writing style lends itself to making paragraphs longer than need to be. And your humor can be out of place – not that it isn’t funny, but it’s unneeded. For example, the “paging Death” line, I don’t think it was needed. But that’s my lowly opinion. But it was entertaining, that’s the most important thing.

Gattsu25: This was very touching. I enjoyed it immensely. Very well done.

For me, maybe just to add some social cynicism, have the story extend over a period of time, say 10 years. The first time the grandfather falls ill, a younger John is worried and so are the others. The next time, everyone gets older, people become shallow pricks (the other family members), but John stays loyal – the only one. But this is just for extra oomph.

Also, a little more detail would be good. But I digress. Great job.

Disappeared: Very, very good. I could almost imagine Morgan Freeman narrating this over images of Darlene’s plight. Then again, I do watch too much TV and movies. It was a serene, peaceful yet desperate piece. You have a good handle on writing with varying sentence structures and were well implemented.

Actually, I liked the opening paragraph. To me, you used your opening paragraph as a clichéd TV narrative to advance your story. That’s why I thought of Morgan Freeman. Then again, in my mind, Morgan Freeman narrates my life.

Vistranorrez: I enjoyed the reveal at the end. That’s one hell of an anniversary. But for the most part, I couldn’t get into this one.

It felt choppy with the overuse of “I” in the first person. It seemed like your thoughts were cluttered and so it was hard to keep the reader engaged. But here I’m calling the kettle black; maybe you were going for effect. Regardless, it was overdone. Try varying your sentence lengths with long and short; and make sure to drop some of those “I”s.

Bitterazngurl: I generally liked this. It had many flashes of great writing. Some parts made me chuckle. I agree with Aaron that the “stories” needed to be fleshed out.

You had a good idea, but you didn’t fulfill your topic’s prospects. The beginning was a little confusing; you added characters that weren’t necessarily important to the story. It was written in a ‘roundabout way to get to the later and greater part of the story.

Sparky2112: I liked it – a lot. Short and sweet. I don’t know how much more you could have fleshed it out. I mean, you could have tugged at the ole heartstrings with more living examples of annual implications. But this was well written and a pleasure to read – it served its purpose.

Nitewulf: I thoroughly enjoyed this, excellence all around. This is an example of a well though out story. Its artistic value is through the roof. Like Aaron’s piece, the more I read it, the more I loved it. *Thumbs up*

Cyan: I generally liked this. You’re a good writer. But there’s something missing with this one. The ending fit, and I know what you were going for, but it wasn’t very powerful (for lack of a better word). Perhaps the slow pace of your story required an out-of-nowhere ending… i.e. the kid punches his dad into an open grave next to his mother. Well see, I’m spinning my wheels now. I’ll have to give it more thought.

You write well; this one, however, missed for some reason – nice and vague for you.

Memles: Very, very good. I truly liked it. It was fluid and easy to read. Well thought out. But it felt a little dry to me. The pace was fine, great structure, but perhaps you are a journalist. I guess your profession leads to information-laden-type pieces . I would like more descriptive words than you already have. More of this would let the world you created “pop”. Or maybe that’s not it at all. Remember, me=bad writer, after all.

Dumbnamed: Good show! What a brilliant read. Terrifically paced, engaging, dripping with talent, this was excellent. “Enjoy your last days.” What a wonderfully horrific tale, with an excellent dystopian feel.

With the exception of one or two transitional slip-ups, the story quickly resumed and you ran with this piece. Excellent. I really enjoyed it. I would also like to see more of that fortified city. Color me intrigued.

My votes, quicker than I'd like mainly because of my overly busy weekend:

1. Nitewulf - Really enjoyed the traditional setting becoming something really quite emotional and complex, and of the characters we were introduced to in these pieces your protagonist was the one that captured me the most.
2. Aaron - This was a grower for me. I think it was a bit too simple in terms of its comparisons to various other science fiction pieces in the same vein, and every now and then I'd like a bit more comedy from your stories (For example, the one "joke" here is qualified as being bad before it happens, thus not really allowing the moment to be humorous), but as a whole I felt that it was a tightly told little story.
3. DumbNameD - While I thought there was a bit of a constant struggle between plot, setting and characters that never quite resolved itself, there is no questioning the fascinating and compelling elements of each in the story.

And just a though, but any chance we could perhaps extend the voting a bit should the American holiday cause too many issues getting the stories read on time? Just figured we should keep the option open.

Memles said:

And just a though, but any chance we could perhaps extend the voting a bit should the American holiday cause too many issues getting the stories read on time? Just figured we should keep the option open.

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i'd support that, cause i wanted to but couldn't leave feedback because i had to go to a party. there are some pieces here that i appreciated a lot which isn't reflected on my votes. may be we could extend the voting/feedback by a day or so.