Theme - "The Grey Area"

Interpret as you will. [see next post for Optional Secondary Objective]

Word Limit: none.

Submission Deadline: Monday 1/12 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Monday, 1/13, and goes until Saturday, 1/17 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.
- In the event of a tie, the story with the highest number of first place votes will be declared the winner. If they are still tied after this first tiebreaker, the previous challenge winner will decide any further tie-breaking measures (2nd Place votes, Joint Topic Choice, etc.)

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)
#10 - "Anniversary" (Winner: Memles)
#11 - "Comedy" (Winner: Scribble)
#12 - "The Trilogy" (Winner: Aaron)
#13 - "Impossible Thing" (Winner: Cyan)
#14 - "Lost and Found" (Winner: Iceman)
#15 - "Prescient" (Winner: Iceman)
#16 - "Trick or Treat" (Winner: DumbNameD)
#17 - "Countdown" (Winner: DumbNameD)
#18 - "Masquerade" - (Winner: Nitewulf)

Optional Secondary Objective: Vivid descriptions. Use imagery to describe scenes vividly, there's no word count limit, so feel free.

for instance, a very famous, and one of my all time favorite, example:

"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel."

Has there been no limit before? I would say to keep it small enough so that reading them wont be a huge process.

there hasn't been "no limit" before, mostly i always see people complain about cutting their pieces a lot, i wanna see people just jot down their stories, no matter how big, and then polish them, rather than cut them. it is however, a two week limit, so realistically i don't think we'll be hitting 5,000 word+ stories. the point is, the word limit isn't an issue for this challenge. it could be as small as you want, as long as you say whatever you wanted to say, or as big as you want within the time constraints.

God help you all. :lol Well, I'll have to get started early on this one if it's to have no limit. I'll try to keep it short, but you guys know I'm wordy.

I'm really looking forward to seeing Aaron's this time.

Already have a good idea. Whether I win or not, that's up in the air.

I think I'm gonna write something for this one. I'll try to anyway....

see below!

I got an idea almost instantly, but I don't think I have the style required to pull it off. HMM HMMM HMMM HMMM HMMM

I think I'll try to do something for this.

ooh, I may take part in this here challenge! The op. secondary objective is mighty intriguing...

xaosslug said:

The op. secondary objective is mighty intriguing...

Click to expand...

Mmhm. Description is one of my weak areas, so this should be interesting

Woot, I have an idea!

So, I am gonna try doing this one

We're at 19 already? The Anniversary challenge was only just done =p

No word count limit really, really sucks.

No word limit? Really? Potential for bad things is high.

"Two Deluded Fools" (811 Words)

Two men sat together with their backs against the wall. They had been there for several hours, fuming and gossiping about the activities of the other patrons. A single light bulb crudely illuminated the room’s interior, dribbling light as if it was a cheap flashlight covered in waxed baking paper. The two figures scowled and talked quietly together under this dim lighting, sharing their failings and frustrations.

“Look at all those crap-heads,” said the first, a man by the name of Jack Benson.

“Arrogant bunch ‘a peacocks,” answered the second, who was named Ted.

“I just don’t get it, Ted, why don’t any of them like me?”

Ted stroked his scraggly facial scruff. “Have you tried talking to them?”

“Of course I have,” Jack replied. “Problem is they don’t say a word back”. His lower lip protruded from his jaw, deepening his scowl.

Ted rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just exaggerating, you loon”.

“Not at all!” he shot back. “That lady I tried to talk to when we first got here, uh, what was her name?”

“Ashley?”

“Yea, yea, Ashley, she completely ignored me. Wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t even look in my general direction.”

“Maybe she was busy talking with her friends,” answered Ted. He raised his pint to his mouth and took a long sip.

“No, no, it was worse than that. I asked her direct questions, and she didn’t even turn around! What kind of person doesn’t even answer a simple question?!”

“Jerks?”

“Well, duh. But it can’t just be me, can it? I ask somebody if I can borrow a saltshaker from their table and they don’t even acknowledge my presence! I’m just making small-talk; I’m not being creepy or weird or anything”.

“You’re sitting here in the dark corner talking about how you hate people, aren’t you?” Ted jabbed.

“Shut up,” Jack retorted. He paused and looked around. The table in front of them was unexpectedly barren.

“Uh, where’s my drink?” Jack asked.

“Hell if I know,” answered Ted. “Did you get it in the first place?”

“I had it here in front of me two minutes ago, and now it’s just gone”.

“You could ask the owner about it, I guess”.

“Oh, you mean Rogers?” Jack asked sarcastically. “That bloated whale couldn’t be generous if his life and business depended on it”.

“That’s funny, because he’s an active contributor to that charity that started up in town a few months ago”.

“You’re joking”.

“Seriously, he gives away a bundle each year to the ‘The Heart Disease Foundation’ or whatever it’s called”.

Jack growled antagonistically. “Why do we come to this dump anyway? The walls are grey, the food is grey, and the light is practically grey; every damn thing is grey!”

“Heh, you’re even wearing a grey suit!”

“No clothier in this town has seen a formal black suit in their lives, I swear”.

It was at that moment that the lights went out. A bar that was full of hazy figures and their assorted doings were plunged into pitch blackness. Back in that lonely corner, Jack was going to have none of it.

“Hey Rogers, did you pay your damn electric bill!?” Jack screamed as he lost his temper. “Hey crap-head, I’m talking to you!”

The room remained silent. He attempted to stand, but found he had worryingly lost control of his arms. He cursed under his breath. Moving against the wall, he started working his way out of the predicament. He braced up against it and lifted with his legs. Sliding up to a standing position, he futilely surveyed the room. His feet shuffled forward in a lopsided manner.

“What the hell is goin’ on, Ted?” he cried. There was no answer.

The light socket burped, sending its grey and mottled light briefly flashing into the room. The bar and its inhabitants came into view for a moment, only to be lost in the dark a second later. A desperate wail crossed Jack’s lips as he awkwardly moved across the floor, teetering between standing and falling.

“What were in those drinks, you fat pig!?” he shouted angrily. “You’ll never sell a drink in this town agai-” He toppled headfirst into the ground, landing with arms outspread across the floor. For several minutes he fought to pull himself off of the floor. His arms, as immobile as before, served only to weigh him down. Jack Benson wriggled across the floor as if he were a pained and tortured snake caught in a wicker basket.

Finally he stopped struggling and cursing. He flipped over onto his back, chest heaving. The dark ceiling hovered an indeterminate distance above his head. He followed little specks and dots in his vision, marveling at the chaotic paths they followed. He hoped Ted got home ok. He breathed softly, drifting into a tired sleep on the soft and grey floor.

Scribble said:

Mmhm. Description is one of my weak areas, so this should be interesting

Click to expand...

Same here. I've always had the excuse of lack of words before, so we'll see how I do on it. Definitely something I need work on.

ronito said:

No word limit? Really? Potential for bad things is high.

Click to expand...

True, it might all go horribly wrong. But it'll be interesting to see what happens. And as crow said, I'll be interested to see how Aaron does without the word limit.

Cyan said:

True, it might all go horribly wrong. But it'll be interesting to see what happens. And as crow said, I'll be interested to see how Aaron does without the word limit.

Click to expand...

This only encourages me to write something reeeaaalllyyy short.

Don't have an idea just yet. I'll get started on it in the new year.

OK, I just began writing a story for fun (Not the story for this challenge), and it turns out that I think this story fits the theme better than my old idea, so I'll be entering the new story into the challenge =X

that's fine, sometimes that happens...we already have 2 entries, which is great. the "no limit" issue really only applies to people who felt constricted by the limit before...if you were writing a 1000 - 1500 word piece, dont let the rule deter you.

A bit of a writer's block... probably won't knock this out until next weekend -- I'm moving back down to Eugene and starting sophomore winter term in college... so it may be some time before I get my submission out.

however, I do plan on writing a sequel to my previous submission and having it wrap around the current theme

Do you think I'd get banned if mine had a bunch of very explicit sex in it?

Timedog said:

Do you think I'd get banned if mine had a bunch of very explicit sex in it?

Click to expand...

Of course not!

we should do an erotica challenge. :lol it would be the most popular thread on the OT for a week.

ronito said:

we should do an erotica challenge. :lol it would be the most popular thread on the OT for a week.

Click to expand...

That's a fantastic idea. Seriously!

Timedog said:

Do you think I'd get banned if mine had a bunch of very explicit sex in it?

Click to expand...

no, few of mine had explicit sex scenes.

Axed my old story and came up with this. I have no idea how it's going to sound to others. It just came to mind as I was cooking a pot of canned soup a few hours ago.

This is probably the last entry I'll make of these threads for a while. I haven't felt at all in a writing mood lately, chalk it up to some major depression and a lack of sleep that even pills don't seem to be helping. So I'm taking a break. I've made up the design especially for you guys, since I really respect anyone who contributes to these group posts. You guys have some great talent.

Later!

Grey Land
word count: 1,532

"You're a crazy old bastard, Zai," Officer Booj declared with crossed arms over his replacement bronze chest, muffling the regular tick of his artificial heart. The uniform of stark crimson and pale purple concealed the rest of his additions, with his cap pulled low and a scarf hiding his jutting metal jaw. Soldiers stood beside him, triple barreled rifles and stocks carved from dark anugal bones resting across their shoulders.

At their backs was the Wall.

In the citystate of Trenk, there were many fences, boarders, and other barriers, but there was only one structure worthy of so weighty a word. Formed of perfectly fitted grey stone blocks, it rose up tall as trees, and stretched to either end of the horizon. No gate or archway broke this severe edifice. Instead, there was a rising stair to reach several square holes that had been lined in black iron, wide enough to allow a person to crawl through, or to be shoved to the other side from where they couldn't return.

Behind Zai lay Trenk in all its splendid glory, where the rich colors flowed from one building to the next, and a million ribbons in a thousand different shades trailed in the faint wind. Below, the patched together people, with their wooden hands, stone feet, and other replacements, drifted to and fro while the rising steam from their machinery made the air hazy.

Despite his advanced age, Zai had refused all such disfigurements. Even as his shoulders stooped and his vision faded until everything in the distance was just a vast smear of color. His bony frame was draped in monk's heavy robes of sandy brown with thick stripes of verdant green and deep blue, to speak of grass and water. Snake hide belts wrapped around him, coiling into a great backpack with a wooden umbrella rising out of the top to shelter his bald head. While he rested his gnarled hands on a steam-powered walking stick of tarnished bronze and dark wood.

Zai scoffed in response to the intended insult.

"'No person may enter the Grey Land for any reason.' Executor Huyin cut off his finger when he set that law in stone," Booj restated his position, angrily flexing the spider-like fingers of his false hand, but neither moved this weathered old man. "There's nothing living left in there but the Grey Beast. The merchant that offered a reward for its body was lynched long ago when all those eager treasure hunters didn't return."

Zai gestured to the holes in the Wall, gaping above them. "In ancient times, the old and feeble were cast out of the city, for anyone who can't add to society is not a person under sacred law. That supersedes anything any Executor might say. Now stand aside. I have waited fifty years for this day. I will not be stopped by the half-man monstrosities our race has become."

They were eager to be rid of him after that.

*

"No respect for a holy man," Zai muttered as he dusted himself off, after being unceremoniously hurled from the Wall, with his large pack crashing down beside him.

He stood up to his wrapped ankles in ash. It coated the gently sloping hills before him as easily as a blanket of snow. The wind stirred it as one great shifting mass, as if small creatures lurked just under the surface, hunting for prey. The only thing that rose out of it, however was a small section of a burned out building and a dead tree, all cast in black. Once a great civilization had blossomed there, though nothing of their ways or history had survived, and there were as many different stories of how they met their end as their were tongues to tell them.

Yet Zai was sure they had done this to themselves.

"What? What?" squawked a voice from somewhere nearby, but Zai saw nothing but a few dead trees, branches bare against the harsh sun overhead. Yet the voice continued to cry out to him, "A traveler? Here? An idiot? A fool?"

Zai merely grunted, not dismissing such charges.

The flap of wings drew his hazy gaze as an ungainly creature set itself upon the nearest tree. The head was large and misshapen, with a small beak and milky eyes. The thing's fat body was mostly black with a flare of blood crimson upon its chest. A raok bird. Many of its kind could mimic the human tongue, but very few of them had any real understanding.

"I didn't think anything else lived here," Zai spoke to answer that question for himself.

"Here. There's much. Surprises," the hideous looking bird answered with a wave of one wing. It took to the air for a few moments of unsteady flight before tumbling to land upon Zai's tall pack, under the shadow of the umbrella. "You here. Why?"

"When I was a boy, a soldier peered through a hole in the Wall, and saw the Grey Beast. It changed our world for a time," Zai answered in slow and solemn tones to be more easily understood. "Then a rich merchant offered a fat reward for anyone who could bring the body. Many young men went over the wall. None returned. So it became forbidden to travel here, and the Beast has all been forgotten."

The raok shifted its claws along the backpack with the air of a being mildly puzzled. "A path ahead. Follow."

Zai did as he was bidden, crossing another low hill to discover a winding road through these mounts of ash. It was formed of stone blocks, though many were cracked or missing, to leave divots of ash behind. His walking stick hissed and clacked as he strode upon this abandoned road, while slowly the ruins and remains of former trees grew thicker around him. There were even signs of new growth among the ash, though it was twisted and dark, with no more than tiny flashes of color.

Feeling the weight of his pack and the pounding of heat from the sun overhead, Zai paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, and pondered if hauling this Beast's carcass before the people of Trenk would truly make them look in the mirror, or if it was already too late to return to a path of purity.

Then the raok suddenly flew from his pack, causing him to look up to see a figure now standing in his way, no more than vague blur of pale skin and dark clothes. In a woman's voice, it called to him, "Why have you come?"

Others were drawn by the sound, like phantoms appearing out of ruined buildings and stepping out of shadow, though all kept their distance as if he were something to fear. Zai couldn't be sure if it was more sensible to believe people lived in this inhospitable land, or they were all no more than illusions cast in his own fading health. Still, he raised his head. "I seek the Grey Beast."

"There." The figure gestured to a small stone structure set on the summit of a bare hill, nearly intact despite the devastation that lay around it. Then stepped out of his way.

Sensing a trap, Zai still hobbled his way down the road and up the hill, feeling a surge of renewed purpose now that he had drawn so near his goal. His umbrella brushed the stone archway as he shuffled into the darkened room, blinded for a moment by the sudden contrast in light. As his vision cleared, he began to recognize a stone platform, and a figure laying upon it.

It was the Beast, though the hard skin was so dark grey it was nearly black. It had the arms and legs of a human, but all was twisted and misshapen. One hand bore too many fingers, while the other too few and an extra joint in the arm. The feet were closer to claws, and the face was elongated, with no more than a slit for a nose, and two eyes on one side, with only one on the other.

"This is what they will become."

"She was my mother." It was the voice of the woman who had spoken before, but closer now, so when Zai turned he saw her clearly for what she was. What he had mistaken for clothes was the portion of the dark hide from her mother, fused to the pale portion of her body that still seemed human. The old priest thought of the others outside, and understood what had happened to the men who hadn't returned.

Calmly, Zai set his pack upon the stone floor, ripping away the wooden umbrella to jam his bronze walking stick into the hole. When he twisted it hard, a great breath of steam arose, and the small room was filled with the clanking of gears. The half-woman thing was still peering at him, her human eye wide in surprise, so he asked, "Do you have mirrors here?"

She only stared back in innocent confusion.

"Close your eyes, child," Zai advised with his final breath, shutting his own as a single tear ran down his cheek.

***CAUTION: NOT SAFE FOR WORK. CONTAINS VERY EXPLICIT AND OBJECTIONABLE SEXUAL CONTENT***

The Dead Sea
Word count: 1,449


“Give me a child in my pussy” she whispered in Malugo’s ear, “I threw all my condoms into a helicopter blade right before you came over.”

“No I want to squirt my thick yogurt all over the back of your throat.”

“Squirt it into the helicopter blade.” She fucking screamed at the top of her lungs.

Quiet now. Malugo hoped that the other tenants weren’t on the fucking phone with the authorities. The helicopter rotor blades were audible outside of her 39th floor apartment. Chop chop chop chop chop. About every 10 minutes the apartment would be lit up by spotlights. Searching.

She ran her forefinger playfully along the length of Malugo's dick through his ever tightening trousers. He was as hard as a rock, ready to fuck. Pre-cum had already started to soak through the cotton of his britches, and through his denim trousers. A visible wet spot began to form in the shape of the continent of Africa. Her fingers unzipped, and began to look for the opening in his britches where they could pull his hard member out into the fresh, visible air.

“I want fucking babies in my pussy” she said in a deep, almost demonic growl.

“No, let me cover your face in my batter.”

“I want you raw, like when we were married. I’ll tell the helicopters everything. I’ll tell on you to the cops.” She was speaking so fast that Malugo had to take a moment to decipher the sounds he had just heard and parse them into legible ink text.

He heard footsteps in the hall. Slow, and plodding. It couldn’t be the authorities. It could not be the authorities. He wondered how many men they would send for him. He only heard one set of shoes hitting the tile floor outside of her 39th story apartment. The shoes passed her door and continued echoing down the hallway and stopped, followed by the faint jingle of keys clanging against each other. It couldn’t be the authorities. It couldn’t be them opening up a secret weapons cache hidden at the end of the hallway.

He secretly felt around the backrest of the couch for his jacket. He fingered around for his pocket which held the weapon. Dear lord, the glorious weapon.

“We can never be friends. We can never go back to the way things used to be. I will not make a baby inside of your frothing evil vagina.”

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEmghglubglubglub” She started to shriek again but as she was shrieking she lowered her mouth and let his hard cock muffle her cries.

“No.”

He pulled out and grabbed his cock and squeezed out a few drops of pre-cum and spread it like gloss across her lips. He then proceeded to slap her sticky lips gently but firmly with the head of his cock. It was almost too much meat for her to handle.

“I hate you.”

Grabby beef. That’s what she called his penis. One time a long time ago, when she was very cross with him, she told him that she would mince his penis into ground beef. Since he wasn’t really paying close attention to her because he was thinking about fucking lasers or some shit, he thought that she had said ‘grabby’ beef, and started laughing. She didn’t understand why he was laughing, but when he told her they were both laying on their backs on their bed with their sides splitting open from laughter, with blood pouring off the comforter and all over the carpet in viscous pools of red ink. That was years ago and her carpet had since been thoroughly cleaned many, many times.

“Do you want me on top?” she asked as she twisted hard with her fist on his grabby beef.

“I don’t want my cock anywhere near your dark pussy, you fucking wench.”

She laid him back on the couch, removed her panties, and dangled her pussy just outside the reach of his tongue. She turned around 180 degrees so that she could continue sucking his dick while he stared at her pussy. He loved it. He loved her ass with everything he had. His tongue lurched forward, searching for soft pink, but she arched further and further, keeping his lapping just out of reach. He didn’t move his neck forward at all—he liked this game. They always played games.

“You want that pussy, you motherfucker. You wanna taste me you fucking son-of-a-bitch?”


He was snapped back into the moment by the sound of helicopter blades and a search light illuminating her living room again. Malugo tried to stay still-as-fuck, but her mouth around his cock made him want to squirm and curl his toes. The searchlight looking for him, illuminating their act, made him want to run. Thanks to the flash of light from the authorities he could see her pussy and her entire ass clearly. He felt an intense longing in the pit of his stomach. At this stage in the game she had bested him. He broke.

“Please…...please…..”

This was all Malugo had to say. She lowered her pussy slowly so that only the tip of his tongue could taste her soft pink flesh. Slowly more and more of his tongue was allowed to enter her, until all of his tastebuds were covered in her creamy nectar. He lapped it up while she moaned up and down on his cock. At this point her pussy was gushing. Her juices were all over his face, in his mouth, and flooding his nostrils. He was suffocating in liquid. Heaven.

“Do you still hate me?” she removed her mouth from his cock long enough to ask.

“You are a filthy whore.”

She began to arch and lift her pussy away from his face, but Malugo put more emphasis on her clitoris, and her hips came back down. Her mouth resumed its course. He was winning.

Malugo remembered when they had first met. She took him on a tour of her apartment. They went up the stairwell to the top level—the roof—to look at the stars. He tried his best to act calm, and slightly aloof, like his friends had told him, and it probably worked. She probably had no idea that he was drowning on every word that came out of her mouth. Sputtering and gasping for air in a sea of ink.

He was a good actor.

The night they met they fucked on the roof. Malugo jokingly threw the used condom at a helicopter down below that was searching for something—presumably a criminal. He said that soon the whole city would know about what they had done once that latex hit the rotor blades and the evidence of their meeting was sprayed about for hundreds of feet in every direction. He thought about the idea of everyone down below drowning on his cum and her juices. If only all the ants down below could choke on her fluids like he had just 10 minutes earlier on that night. Choke and drown and die in the deep sea of inky grey aftersex. His toss wasn’t nearly hard enough for the condom to hit the helicopter. Most probably it would hit a parked taxi, fall into the intersection below, or into a passerbyer’s cappuccino. He didn’t care. His DNA wasn’t on file. He wasn’t a criminal—at least until that moment.

He heard multiple sets of footsteps in the hallway. Must have been at least five or ten pairs. These footsteps had more purpose.

It was all over for Malugo. The jig was up. He was getting close to orgasm and he didn’t want it in her mouth anymore. She had already cum from his tongue stimulating her clit. She sensed him relinquish the reigns. Females could always just fucking sense this type of thing, like they had goddamned ESP or something. She led him into her bedroom and laid flat against the mattress with her legs spread open and welcoming. Her pussy dripping and throbbing.

“Take me.”

Malugo couldn’t resist. He couldn't bring himself to say those few words, but she knew well enough. He unsheathed the weapon that he had grabbed from his jacket pocket earlier. He slowly inched his dick inside of her vagina. She at first let out a gasp, followed by shuddering convulsion making its way up her spine. Game over.

Their bodies were now nearly motionless and hopelessly entangled, like two terrified octopi embracing each other for some sort of traction in an ocean newly calm after a once in a lifetime hurricane.

I hope I don't get banned for this shit.

Update: I'm about half done. Will continue Wednesday and submit

Timedog said:

I hope I don't get banned for this shit.

Click to expand...

dude if you're so worried post it on a non-gaf server and just link to it.

ronito said:

dude if you're so worried post it on a non-gaf server and just link to it.

Click to expand...

I don't see what the difference is. I hope I don't get SUPER FUCKED by the authorities.

I don't see why you would be banned over a story. It's not as if this forum is made up of children (Oh wait). Maybe a disclaimer or summat would do

Grey area...hmm

No Money Down (1,000 words)

All right, finally thought of something good to write about! Had a few false starts. Had to switch POV characters too, so I'm not sure how clearly the "grey area" thing will come through.

But I'm glad to have something to work on!

Hey writing-GAF, I have to confess, I'm getting a little carried away with this theme :lol I'm not sure if I would like to submit anything, as I tend to rise to these challenges in secret, but this theme has been quite effective (and at times, therapeutic!) for me. Thank you for the opportunity!

Have had insomnia for the last few nights. Finally got to sleep last night with the help of Ambien, which took me to a strange land where Iago coached Notre Dame football. I'm hoping I can sleep normally tonight, so I can actually function and get something written.

The Music of Greed
Word Count: 2038

Greece. Home of the once-renowned Gods. Apollo’s Temple. Sitting on a small, concrete bench, he bathed himself in the rich history, culture, and mythology. The birthplace of the lyre he held firmly in his grip.

“Such sweet music…” He remarked to himself, idly strumming the strings on his new instrument.

The years had gone by and left the Bard with little to his name. He traveled from place to place without purpose, for his friends and his family had made him destitute, they were the reason he had to travel.

And it all could have ended so sweetly. He could have simply… stayed at home, wiled away the savory autumn days back in England. He could have been someone.

Instead, however, his family had lost their entire estate, all due to his father, gambling away with a rich gentleman from London. If his father had won the game, he would not only keep his own estate, along with all his belongings, but he would also be a thousand pounds richer.

Enough to move away from the monotony of this common life. Music flowed from his fingertips, cascades of euphony reverberating all around him, as if nature was his sound box and he was its musician. As he played each string, memories hit him in succession, like a drum played too roughly, too rapidly.

The game. He tried to focus on the lush, verdant plain. Just focus on the breeze. Zephyr’s sighs should relax me. Each breath he exhales, each touch. That should be enough for me to… let go.

His willpower could not withstand the pressure, the anger, the rage, building inside of him. Magma inside the caldera of his soul.



Seven Pounds. They had called the game such because each time one lost, seven pounds would be given to the winner -- which would be multiplied depending on how much won, or how much lost. It was a game few played… few rich enough to simply throw away cash like disfigured children. The goal of the game was to find the seven in a stack of cards that were haphazardly arranged across a table. Seven games would be played, each with seven different sets of cards. The arranger of the game (which was, in general, the richer person playing) would know the layout of the cards beforehand. There could be no sly tricks (though, indeed, they were prevalent).

The Bard's father had been roped into the game. He had recently received a windfall of money (in the range of a few hundred pounds) with which, in his first action and going with his first instinct, he decided to use in gambling. Unfortunately, Seven Pounds was devised to make the rich richer, and therefore a smart person dwelling on the lowest rung of the social ladder, in the dregs and filth and sewage of poverty, stayed away from such a game.

His father did not. In his stupidity, he played the game. The Bard watched helplessly; sixteen years of age and still not a penny to his name from his family, the money now being thrown away was meant to go to him at some point.

“Ok, ok, I gots yer money.” His father slapped down seven pounds on the table. The man across from him smirked, an evil tinge to his smile that unnerved the Bard.
“Good. Now, do you know how to play?” The rich man asked, condescendingly. He could pronounce his “h's”, and fragrantly flaunted it in an attempt to insult and mock the man before him.

“Ya, now put them cards out.” He rapped his knuckle against the table. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. The game has begun.

The man laid out a deck of cards, then moved them around in a disorganized way to obscure and lower the chances of the seven being found. It's like trying to find the smallest bird in a flock, when all you can make of them is but specks upon the horizon. He will lose this game.

“You agreed to the terms, correct? If you lose, your estate goes with you, as well as the money you forfeit by playing this game.” The man said, laughing contentedly. This man, he reeks of sophisms and egotism; if one could be more the antithesis of altruism, it is this man.

His father nodded, scanning the cards in front of him. If luck was on his side, the first card he picked up would be a seven. The Bard also recalled that if one were to pick up a six or an eight, one would get the chance of trying again in that same round for the seven. However, luck was not on his father's side. His intense focus on the game made beats of sweat roll off of his hooked nose, falling off and splattering a card underneath his nose. The Bard could see the rich man recoil in revulsion slightly. Not used to sweat, are you? The life of the rich too cozy?

The first card drawn was a Jack of Clubs. The man across from his father laughed long and hard, filled with mirth. His father's face became solemn, a frown forming around his lips. The action seemed to age the man ten years more than his current thirty-five years of life. The pang of loss made his father look like less of a man, and more like a relic.

“Under my rules. A Jack makes you forfeit seven pounds this round on top of another four for drawing the card which is lucky enough to bless itself with my name.” The pretentiousness of this man. Ugh. And to think this type of man is the one who holds all the cards. These men are the foundations upon which our society is governed and manipulated. They inflate our economy, keep us moving forward. However, it is such a double-edged blade. While boosting our economy, they enervate the people. The common folk. You and I and everyone else. We hold no say, we hold no place. We are the dust swept off their porches, the lint picked out of their clothes, the rust on their rapiers.

Another chorus of laughter echoed through the small section of market street where the game took place. Not only from the wealthy man, but from the other poor folk standing around, entranced by the proceedings. The sound of each laugh a cacophony, one that bounced off every wall and every vendor's stall. The sound of England. Perpetual mockery following each round as his father pissed away all that their family had.


Coming back to reality, the Bard looked up at the now-grey skies above. Grey like the color of skin coated with clay, grey as death's skin blanket. Rain struck the temple roof, rivulets streaming off the tip to coat the ground before him. The rain was sporadic, manic-depressive even, coming in and out in its tenacity and rage. Each gust of wind shifted the rain's path, slanting it diagonally back and forth from different directions in its downward spiral. The Bard idly plucked at a few strings, inspiration for a song coming to his fingertips as the rain battered his place of respite with reckless abandon.

“I have to go back there.” He said to himself resolutely.

The utterance did not lead to any form of pragmatism, but instead, made him recall more memories of that fateful day...


His father, broken and penniless. His family in ruins and destitution. As the money was placed into a large sack, the rich man continued to laugh, despite the joke becoming old long ago. He watched his father sulk away, having lost all earthly possessions to a man who had tricked him by playing on his luck.

“Je pense, donc je suis.” The man said, smirking to himself. The language he used oblivious to anyone else, but not to the Bard.

“You may think, and therefore exist, but you are a man who deserves nothing more than death for what you've done to my father and my family.” He said.
The rich man was left speechless. He looked at the fire raging in the young man's eyes, recoiled at the hatred stabbing him like a million tiny spears stuck into a training doll. Each pierce of hatred chipped away at him, enervating him, crushing his pride and ego. He turned away and leapt into his carriage. The caravan taking away all his family had ever had for themselves.

“Father, we could...” He began to say.

“No. We do nothing. It's over...” His stupid, desperate father said, cutting his son off. He walked away, posture bent over, sorrow forming an aura of depression so strong that it seemed to coat the very bricks of the streets he walked upon in the paint of his sadness.

From then on, the Bard had nothing to his name. His father hastily sent him off, wishing him that he had had a better father and a better life with which to live. He said nothing more to him as the ship sailed away. The Bard could not find it in himself to cry, to do the normal thing. His emotions had been stonewalled; his heart eclipsed by anger, fed by the logs of his father's stupidity, and the kindle of the trickery fragrantly used by those of wealth and power. The sun set upon London, a city of depravity and sin hidden under the veneer of truth, justice, and piety. A man on the ship spoke to him.

“You alright, boy?” He asked.

The Bard turned to the man. He was a man in his mid-fifties, grizzled features. Ragged hair and beard. Rags for clothes. Well-worn shoes, ones that had holes where the big toe popped through. A man of the sea who obviously did not make enough to escape such an isolated life.

“What do you do when you're too poor to make a difference? What life do you lead when those who have money can do away with you as they please?” The boy asked.

The seaman shrugged.

“Ya have to find a reason fo' living with whatever you got. I love the sea... and i'll spend the rest of my days travellin' it.”
Hm... make a life out of what I have. Make a purpose with the tools I have available. Interesting. That man... Jack. He will pay. Not just in the material way, no... no, more than that. A whole world can be brought down by just one person. This man's debt is more than what gold he can throw around, what pounds he can rip off from poor, naïve saps like my father. Blood is a price that shall suffice. As soon as I can come back here...


The rain had ceased, sunlight pouring through, casting rays of light that reflected off each bead of moisture to produce countless rainbows all around the vast, endless plain. The Bard stood up, collecting his lyre and small sack full of belongings. The only one of importance being a small necklace that at its center was an ornate Irish cross. His father had found it on his excursions to Ireland, where war still ravaged its lands. More precisely, he had found it off a dead Irish soldier. The Bard always interpreted the gift as a representation of power, resistance, ambition, revolution. He fastened it around his neck, and made his way towards a port fairly far away. It would take a few days' walk from the temple, but it would give him time to think of a plan.
I must find a way into their social circle. Maybe... a party. A ball. Some sort of gathering where all the rich bastards gather together... and I can find him. Maybe get rid of a few others along the way. The scum of society, they are. But how will I... ?
He looked at his lyre.
My songs. Yes. I will sing their song of greed.

The grey skies followed his journey, bringing with it the fury of their storms, the unstoppable might of nature, and implacable anger.

okay, yeah, I didn't understand what happened at the end of Aaron's story. Can somebody spoiler tag it for me?

Man, I'm actually having a lot of fun with this one. I've never really been given to being descriptive, but I'm having a good time trying. And I like my story. Might end up being a bit long... Yeah, I know there's no word limit, but cutting words often seems to help my stories.

Sybari said:

Hey writing-GAF, I have to confess, I'm getting a little carried away with this theme :lol I'm not sure if I would like to submit anything, as I tend to rise to these challenges in secret, but this theme has been quite effective (and at times, therapeutic!) for me. Thank you for the opportunity!

Click to expand...

Do it! There's really no good reason not to, and maybe we can give you some feedback and help you improve. It's always fun to get new people in these challenges.

Timedog said:

okay, yeah, I didn't understand what happened at the end of Aaron's story. Can somebody spoiler tag it for me?

Click to expand...

Cyan said:

Spoiler

I don't get it either. :/

Click to expand...

I think the rest of the story was awesome and might be my top choice of the entries so far if I knew what was happening with the ending.

Well I'm not going to make it. Work's been insane I've had no free time. But I decided I'd post what I got so far in order at least participate in this someway, I've been gone too long.
------------------------------------------------------------

"When God made man, he made him out of clay, then blew the breath of life into him. Thus sculpting is God's profession. We must be sure to live up to our pedigree." That was the first lesson his master, Barzini, had taught him all those years ago, back when he was still a boy. Throughout his tutelage Barzini repeated the motto.

It was privilege enough to be a sculptor. Money, fame, recognition were for whores. While Barzini never wanted for anything, the artists who claimed his work as their own made sure of that, he lived and died in simple obscurity his incredible talent only known to a few studio owners and his pupil. Pietro, had lived his life the way Barzini had, an emulation of his master through and through.

Pietro was orphaned at an early age. He lived in a convent with the nuns who took care of him. One day when had finished preparing the chapel for the midnight vespers he snuck out and walked along the streets of the city. He was surprised to find the light on in Cardinal Barberini's studio. Quietly slipping his head between the two open doors Pietro peeked in. In the corner of the studio there was a stooped man with massive arms chiselling away at a large pillar of stone. Pietro didn't know what it was, perhaps it was the rythymic motion of the hammer and chisel, or the intense look on the man's face but one trick is to tell them stories that don't go anywhere. Like the time I took the fairy to Shelbyville. I needed a new heel for my shoe so I decided to go to Morganville, which is what they called Shelbyville in those days. So I tied an onion to my belt, which was the style at the time. Now to take the ferry cost a nickel, and in those days, nickels had pictures of bumblebees on them. Give me five bees for a quarter you'd say. Now where were we, oh ya. The important thing was that I had an onion on my belt, which was the style at the time. They didn't have white onions because if the war. The only thing you could get was those big yellow ones. yada yada yada now I have a new pair of shoes!

reminder: everyone...use the weekend!

I'm a bit ill, so I'll try to get this done tonight.

Oh damn, I just noticed that nitewulf made all the times Eastern. :lol Revenge?

Sucks though, I was planning to keep revising all the way up to the deadline tomorrow. Now I only have until nine. Better get cracking now, I guess!

I'm going to try and submit something tomorrow. I've got a rough draft down, I just need to clean it up, and give it a good ending.