Theme - "Ill Wind"
Bad luck, misfortune, tough break. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

Word Limit: 1600

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 5/20 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 5/21, and goes until Saturday, 5/23 at 11:59 PM Pacific.

Optional Secondary Objective: Open Ending
In fiction, conflicts are neatly resolved and everything tied up with a bow. In reality, life goes on. Sometimes loose threads dangle forever.

The objective: leave things slightly open; a few threads dangling. How many is up to you. You can resolve the main conflict and only leave something small in doubt, or you can cut out just as your main character is making the big final decision, and let the reader decide which way he chooses.


Submission Guidelines:

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

Voting Guidelines:

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

NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge FAQ


The Entries:

besada - "Two For the Price of One"
Great Rumbler - "The Day the East Wind Blew"
ZephyrFate - "The Names, The Faces, The Situations"
Belfast - "To Protect and Serve"
superfly - "The Sound of Sleep"
Ward - "Novikov's Theorem"
ronito - "Bad Air"
Aaron - "Threshold"
Azih - "The Health of Men"
viciouskillersquirrel - "Waiting Through the Storm"
Cyan - "Breeze"
RurouniZel - "An Ill Wind Blows So Good"
Botolf - "Prosper"
crowphoenix - "The Wall"
weepy - "Half Smile"
DumbNameD - untitled

Ooh sweet! I'm thinking I might do a ghost story of some sort.

Oh yeah, I have had an idea for this one for the past week and a half.

ZephyrFate said:

Oh yeah, I have had an idea for this one for the past week and a half.

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We'll be expecting something special from you on this one, man.

It is fated.

Oh geez, the pressure! I think I'll give you something worth reading.

Hmmm. Yeah, I can think of a few things worth writing on this.

hmmm...I'll have to think about it. I've already got an base but need to think more.

Count me in.

I like it- an excellent topic.
I've already got an idea. The tag line would be:
He has no one to blame but himself.

This is where I make my triumphant return!

Great Rumbler said:

This is where I make my triumphant return!

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Awesome! About time, dude.

I'm going to have to think about this one for a while

I'm going to make another stab at a story revolving around my Gil Provost character, hopefully it'll be better received than the first (I haven't forgotten about the advice to stay away from telling all the action through dialogue ).

Wish me luck!

Heading to the beach for a few days. So I think I'll write something beachy, while I sit on the porch.

Cyan said:

Awesome! About time, dude.

Click to expand...

Things have been pretty hectic the past month or so what with my final semester of college coming to a close, so I haven't really been up to doing any short stories. But now I've got all but the last few tasks behind me, so it's time to bring the lightning and the thunder!

Man, I'll tell you guys, I have some ill wind today.

I've never entered one of the writing challenges, but the wife's still asleep, and I needed something quiet to do, so here you go. It's about 1200 words.

Two For the Price of One

Tsutomu liked taking the train. Seeing the men and women going about their business allowed him to pretend that the war was still a distant thing, a wind blowing gently, rather than the fire storm it had become in places like Tokyo.​

But even here, amongst the rattle of the wheels and the ladies dressed in their finest to greet the morning, you couldn’t quite escape from it. Out the window he could see young boys and girls working in the street, knocking down vegetable stands and yarn stores to create fire breaks if the worst were to happen.​

There was a sense that they’d been too lucky.​

While Tokyo burned and the chain of whispers said the war was going badly, they’d remained almost completely safe here. Their harbor had been spared, and when they heard the buzz of planes overhead they waited, tea held half way between saucer and lip, for the bombs to fall, but they never had.​

Tsutomu felt unreal, like everyone. While the Empire struggled, he was still doing business, dressed in his best suit, ready to represent Mitsubishi Heavy Industries to the best of his ability. He missed his wife and daughter, but traveling was what salesmen did, and he would be home soon enough, a new contract signed on this muggy August day, and maybe a new promotion to make them proud.​

The bell in the front of the train rang, and Tsutomu stood, gently swaying as the car leaned its way around a corner. Before it could stop, he was making his way up the aisle, gently apologizing as he bumped first a young mother with her child in tow, and then a dock worker.​

He began to thank the conductor, a habit he’d learned from his father, when the skies were torn apart outside.​

He’d never heard anything like it, as if the wind were being murdered. He’d listened, ears covered, while the Empire’s ships fired their great artillery, and heard the peals of thunder bouncing off mountains close to home, but there had never been a sound like this before.​

The windows of the train responded to the cacophony, cracking and shattering in their frames. The train car was filled with screams, and they turned as one to the east, where a new sun was rising over the city.​

Before anyone could speculate, a force tore at them, neither light nor wind, but some terrible chimera of them both, trailing fire in its wake. For a moment before it hit, Tsutomu could hear the city being torn apart, could see wooden buildings being blown apart like children’s models, could smell the reek of burned wood and flesh.​

And then there was white heat and merciful oblivion.​

Tsutomu woke in the dark, huddled against another man. He was in terrible pain, ears ringing, making it impossible to understand what was being said around him. There was a susurrus in the shelter, voices raised in speculation, but he couldn’t make them come clear.​

Everyone was injured.​

As he came to fully, he began to piece together what had happened. Hiroshima had finally been bombed, and he had just happened to be there when it happened, instead of safe in bed at home. He briefly cursed his boss, who was supposed to be here instead of Tsutomu, had it not been for a broken ankle, and then he set about determining what shape he was in.​

In the dim light of the air raid shelter, he could tell he had been burned. He’d been standing in front of a window as the train slowed, and the fire had poured through, searing his arms and chest, burning away his best suit. Squinting, he could see fibers from the suit embedded in the crisped flesh of his arms. The pain was bad, but not unbearable.​

As the night went on, and his hearing slowly returned, he learned how lucky he’d been. Whatever they’d dropped on the city, it was some new kind of bomb, bigger and more terrible than anything anyone there had heard of. More ferocious than they’d ever imagined. A few people had straggled in late at night, telling stories of shadows burned into walls by the glare of the bomb, their souls frozen forever as their bodies tumbled to ash.​

Tsutomu listened to the stories and saw the charred skin of his fellow men and women in the shelter, and all he could think of was returning home to his wife and child. Outside the fires were still burning, but he could hear no ringing bells to call the water carriers, no pounding feet of the neighborhood people come to save their city from the conflagration. They’d given the city up to fire and crawled into holes to tend their weeping flesh.​

Tsutomu tucked his head into his seared shoulder and cried for them. He cried for himself, and for the Emperor, too. If the Americans had bombs like this, then the war really must be over. How could a people stand against the power to set the skies themselves on fire?​

Weeping gently, like so many others in the shelter, Tsutomu fell asleep.​

In the night he dreamed of a girl, just about his daughter’s age. She stood on the street, laughing, singing, playing with ball and cup. In the dream, Tsutomu wanted to shout, wanted to tell her to run, but instead he just stood there watching. As the skies filled with thunder, like the Gods themselves applauding the destruction of the helpless town, the girl turned to ash before his eyes. He tried to scoop her up, to put her back into the right shape, but the wind whipped the ashes from his hands and flayed the skin from his bones.​

He woke to sunlight and a nurse leaning over him. She was tending his burns, swabbing them with some sticky chemical and then wrapping them gently in gauze. Her touch reminded him so much of his own wife that he began to cry again, ashamed at his weakness before her.​

She’d obviously seen more than her share of grown men crying during the night, because she barely paused in her work, only dabbed gently at his tears with the gauze before continuing with her job.​

A doctor came later, and told him that he could travel, and hope blew through Tsutomu. By that evening he would be back home with his wife and daughter. The burns were bad, but they would heal.​

As he prepared to board the train back to Nagasaki, he realized he was the luckiest man in the world.​

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Based on a true story, by the way.

I gots a question and this seems the best place to ask it. My city's doing a creative writing contest and I've been invited to participate. Seeing as how I don't have much time and there's no overall theme I was thinking about using one of these prior challenges and polishing it up. But the question is which one?

So far I've come up with
4.6 : The story about the rodeo bronc.
Homage: The story about the charcoal burner's daughter and the lawyer's son.
Titan's Shot: The one about the racehorse and the jockey.

Which do you guys think has the best chance as most of you have read them. Or am I missing one I've done in the past that I should revisit?

Titan's Shot, definitely.

Cool, we already have an entry!

ronito- I'll agree with Zephyr here. I think Titan's Shot is your best work so far.

Titan's Shot, though I think 4.6 was before my time. I don't remember reading it.

I liked 4.6 the best personally. The ending especially was unexpected and great.

thanks guys for the feedback. I'll have to look at 4.6 and Titan's Shot again to see which one to polish up. I really appreciate it.

Time to bump this thread. I'm checking in through my phone, so I'm not going to be as chatty as I normally am. But I was thinking. Generally, some of the most inspiring things are vistas and sceanery, so what views do the writers of Gaf love? I'm not just talking mountains and beaches here. It could even be the manhatten subway at 1 AM.

Me? I love the sight of green trees against bright blue skies. A bit odd since I don't love the country, but that image is just breathtaking.

I love the sight of Zion's Nat. Park and those kind of places.

I also love Northwest beaches. Never feel more inspired than when I go there.

The view of Killarney from a partiular window of the Cahernane House. The sight of smoke-wreathed mountains as you drive into the foothills of the Smokies.

Desert sunset. That haunting, lonely feeling just seems perfect to me.

The redwood forests of Northern California.

Of course, if I ever actually tried to write about them I wouldn't know where to start!

I was going to take longer to do this one, but inspiration hit and I plowed through the whole story in about an hour.

The Day the East Wind Blew
Word Count: 1418

It was early Thursday morning and the sun was still just a soft, orange glow on the horizon. An errant gust of wind wandered from out of the west, gently tugged at Lydia’s pants, and carried on through the wheat fields. It was going to be a beautiful day, no doubt about that.

Lydia took a sip of herbal tea and just listened for a while. You couldn’t get peace like that in the city. Too much noise, too many people always in a hurry. Out on a farm in the middle of nowhere sitting on your front porch with not another soul for miles…that was what life should be about. Lydia set the empty cup aside, stood up, and brushed off the back of her pants. Even here there was work to be done.

Lydia’s old, beat-up Ford rattled into town at just shy of eight. By that time the sleepy, little town just a few miles down the road was getting settled into the rhythm of a brand new day. Some of the old folks were sitting out in front of the general store, most likely swapping stories of when it used to be them coming in to town from the farm. She’d heard all their stories before, but somehow she never did get tired of them and the way they’d talk about days when things were slower and life simpler.

“Why don’t you sit a while, Lydia?” Old Man Morty asked as she walked up the creaking steps to the general store.

“Sorry, Mort,” Lydia said, regretfully turning down his offer, “I just need a few things to get started. The wheat’s gonna be ready any day now.”

“Oh, that takes me back, alright. Say, Gillen, you remember the fall of ’58? Now that was somethin’ else!”

Gillen nodded his head solemnly. He remembered. Everyone alive back then did.

Morty’s story faded into the background as Lydia entered the store. Her supply of chicken feed was low and the combine needed a few parts if it was going to make it through another harvest. She’d ordered the parts last week and Pip had phoned yesterday that they’d finally come in.

She grabbed a sack of feed and brought up to the register where Pip was engrossed in the sports section of the day’s paper. He looked up as she plopped the feed sack down on the floor.

“Ah, Lydia, I’ll go grab those parts you ordered from the back room.”

“Thanks, Pip.”

Pip shuffled to the back room. He rustled around for a few moments and then brought the parts out. They weren’t much to look at, just small pieces of metal with one or two moving parts, but they meant the difference between putting food on the table through winter and going hungry.

“I heard the Yankees pulled one out last night,” Lydia said as she handed a hundred to Pip.

The old man’s eyes lit up. “Sure did! Me and Gillen had a bet running on it, that old coot was convinced they didn’t have a chance, but I knew!”

“You’re a real prophet, Pip.” Lydia said, flashing him a smile.

He laughed deeply at that. “At least now I’ll be able to pay off some of what I owe him.”

Lydai left the store and stood on the front porch. It felt like the wind was beginning to shift.

“Looks like we may get some rain later in the day,” Morty said.

“You think so?”

He nodded. “All the joints in my hand are startin’ to get stiff and achy; it’ll be pourin’ down before long.”

Lydia said goodbye and took the feed and parts out to her truck. She put them down in the back and then got in the driver’s seat. Over the tops of the buildings near the eastern edge of town, she saw a dark cloud rise up. She leaned forward and looked through the cracked and dusty windshield.

No, it was moving too fast and erratically to be a cloud. As it got closer, she saw that it was a giant flock of birds. There must have been thousands of them, maybe even hundreds of thousands, certainly more than she’d ever seen before. It was too early for them to be migrating south, though.

She rolled down the window and stuck her head out. The air was filled with the cawing and screeching of all the birds as they flew past. There was something odd about them. As they went, they pecked and swooped at one another. Some of the birds, either from being wounded by the other birds, exhaustion, or something else, Lydia didn’t know, were falling to the ground. Some were dead on impact, while others flapped vainly in the dirt. It didn’t make any sense.

After a few minutes, the flock passed and the air grew silent once more. Lydia waited to see if there were more birds or if the flock would come back around, but the sky had turned pale blue again and the dark cloud did not return. She started the truck and returned to her farm.

The shock of what she’d seen soon subsided and Lydia settled into a decade’s old rhythm. She fed the chickens, which seemed no more agitated than on any other day, and then set about the work of getting the new parts installed on the combine. Just past noon, she heard a truck coming up the driveway. She put down her tools and went around front.

Pip’s Chevy stopped in front of the house and he jumped out.

“Hey, Pip, what can I do for you?”

“Are you alright, Lydia?” He asked. His face was pale and covered in sweat.

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Somethin' bad’s happened, Lydia, real bad.” His voice trembled as the words came out.

“What’s going on, Pip? Tell me!”

“It was on the radio, only I couldn’t hear it too well on account of the reception not being too good. They said…they said…Oh God, Lydia, they said lots of people are dyin’!”

“Dying? Where? Why?”

“I don’t know, I just heard that much before the signal went out! They said there were reports comin’ in from all over that people were just fallin’ over and dyin’ right on the spot. Thousands of ‘em, just like that!”

Lydia sat down on the edge of the truck’s bumper. “What are we supposed to do, Pip? Did they say?”

Pip wiped some of the sweat off his face and then shook his head solemnly. “I just heard that much, then the signal cut out. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do; I don’t even know what’s causin’ it. I was thinkin'…I was thinkin’ maybe I’d just gas up the truck and start drivin’ north, see how far I could get. What about you?”

“I don’t know, Pip. If this is really…really the end of it all…I guess I’d rather be here in my own house, with all the things I know, than on the side of the road somewhere.”

The two were quiet for a moment.

“Yeah…yeah, you’re right. I’m gonna go back to the store and get everything closed up, maybe get out that old bottle of wine I’ve been saving and see if it’s any good,” Pip said, smiling weakly.

Lydia stood up. “Thanks for telling me, Pip. Maybe everything’ll work out okay in the end.”

Pip shook her hand and then pulled her into a tight hug. “You’re right, Lydia,” he said, patting her lightly on the back, “Some day we’ll sit on the front porch of the store and laugh about how all out of sorts we got over nothin’.”

Lydia stood in the front yard and watched as Pip drove back to town. She stood there for several minutes more after his truck disappeared. Maybe those birds knew what was coming, Lydia thought, maybe they’d been able to sense something that the rest of us else had forgotten how to. A gust of wind from the east tugged at her clothes.

She went inside and opened a can of soup. It had a bland taste and way too much salt, but it was cheap. After eating, she washed the bowl and the spoon and then put them away. Then she did a load of laundry, hanging the clothes out on the line once they’d been thoroughly washed.

Lydia came back inside and sat down in front of the empty fireplace. Outside, the wind howled.

There's a lagoon where I'm staying that sits in between the house and the ocean. Every year it looks a little bit different, but it's always there. I've taken a boat back to where its fed, but never that far. It looks like gator country back there.

crowphoenix said:

some of the most inspiring things

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That inspires me to create a story?

Junkyards.
There is wealth of information to theorize- recreating the accidents, the amount of damage, etc.

Ward said:

That inspires me to create a story?

Junkyards.
There is wealth of information to theorize- recreating the accidents, the amount of damage, etc.

Click to expand...

Speaking of junk, our landfills are going to be intensely interesting places a thousand years from now.

Botolf said:

Speaking of junk, our landfills are going to be intensely interesting places a thousand years from now.

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Except the world ends in 2012 =(

I have a REALLY good story going right now. At least, I really enjoy it. Dunno about you guys, haha. It's not quite insane like Timedog's stories are, but has that "pulls you into the character" aspect that Ukelele Woman had. I'm writing it right now and I am totally groovin' with it.

The Names, The Faces, The Situations
Word Count: 1567

I like to think of my life as if it were a reality show, like I was a contestant trying to win the perfect man. Behind door number one would be the guy who has a great personality but is probably fat and balding. Door number two would be the opposite, and three would be a perfect balance. Door number four I just end up walking away, as lonely as before. It's kinda like playing russian roulette with your heart, only the gun is just under the left ventricle and if you make any slight movement that gun will tear through that organ and you die before you even hit the ground.

Instead of looking at life that way, I begin to think, “What if... ?” So I'm on the bus one day and god the smell, rank with the sweat of common people. The fat guy sitting next to me and all the endless rolls and that pervasive smell of french fries mixed with cheese grease. I kinda wish I had a car but nobody can afford one in this fucked up economy. It shouldn't have been like this. I shouldn't be sitting next to the fat guy. I see you in the back, all prim and proper, built like a shit brickhouse and in the nicest clothes you can afford. Collared white shirt, button down, sleeves rolled up somewhat. Made from some special fabric that makes the shirt kinda shine in the right light. Short cut dirty blonde hair, gelled and spiked a little. Pristine green eyes. I could stare into them and see a field of green going on for ever and ever and if I were to jump into the pools of your irises I could fall asleep forever laying down in that meadow. You look back at me and I quickly look away. No expression on your face, pure dismissal that cuts through the sexual tension emanating from me; reaching to you and hitting the wall of neutrality you built over years and years of denying others the pleasure of your body, your mind, your spirit.

It could have gone like this. The fat guy decided to get the next bus because he forgot something at the fast food restaurant he'd been stuffing his face at. Maybe it was his wallet, maybe he got hungry again. I don't fucking know. Anyways, so instead of the only seat conveniently empty being one in the back you instead sit next to me and the waves of Old Spice batter my senses like siege engines destroying each fortification one by one. You have a drink in your hand because you're kind of a yuppie and it smells like some form of a chai tea, maybe Starbucks, and when you're about to sit down your hand slips a little and some of the drink lands on my shirt. The brightly colored yellow shirt I decided to wear that day. It bleeds down and drenches my denim pants too. You apologize profusely and I look at you and through this we begin to talk.

I could talk to you for miles and miles on this bus ride going I don't know where. Everyone could get off the bus and we could be on the wrong side of town and I wouldn't give a damn, I'd be here with you talking and talking about the world and the universe and everything. You give me some napkins to clean the mess you made but you end up helping me with it anyways and you touch me and electric lightning bolts seem to rain down from the heavens and strike me and me only, as if my head had a giant conductor rod sticking out the top. We get off the bus together and exchange phone numbers and you lean in for a kiss and I let you in. Fuck my private space, fuck my bubble. It all disappears when you get near and god I can breathe in the scent of you to the point where I'd snort cocaine if it was composed of the way you smell.

It didn't go that way, though. It never does. That's just a fucked up fantasy that if I play it on repeat and constantly rewind and fast forward like an old VHS tape of amateur porn or maybe some really good wedding I got randomly invited to I could derive some temporary pleasure as if satiating my fix of unreality. Reality is not how you want it to be and what you really expect never quite happens in the right way.

We were supposed to meet that day. We're behind.

Flash forward like some months later and I've gotten over you and moved on and maybe started visiting the clubs here and there to maybe meet a new guy. I'm at this club called the Jazz Tunnel and there's some lounge music playing and there's purple and blue everywhere which kinda clashes but whatever it's a club. I wear this exciting outfit that's mainly consisting of something I just bought and I'm sitting at a table all to myself, intently pondering the contents of my drink. I begin to drift off and wonder, who made the rum in this drink? Because it tastes like caramel mixed with addiction, pure pure addiction. Another guy walks up to me and sits next to me. He admires my hair and comes up with some bullshit pickup line. Something like, “Those clothes look good on you, but they would look better with me in between.” I laugh it off because I've heard it before and I bet all this guy wants is pure, rough, animal sex.

Fuck it. I'll drink this caramel concoction and I'll have whatever he's having, which seems like some scotch on the rocks. The drunker I get the more I notice him. He's kinda short and a bit pudgy as if he hadn't been to the gym in a while but I hadn't gotten laid in a while so it was fine. He's got long-ish brown hair and some nice hazel eyes to complement it and his chin comes to a point somewhat and his jawline seems chiseled. What the fuck happened to the rest of you, then? I ask myself but don't put much more thought into it. He's got a nice brown jacket on and a plaid shirt underneath which clashes a little. Cheap pants, too, along with some even cheaper loafers. I take him back to my place and we fuck 'till the sun rises and wakes us up and my mouth tastes like bad decisions and my bed smells like we're in a cage of lust and musk and grossness. I need to take a shower. He walks out, for some reason leaves a twenty dollar bill on my dresser.

We were supposed to meet months ago. We're behind, still.

It's years later and I'm in this beautiful picturesque suburbia house that may only have one floor to it but I love it nonetheless. You're a distant memory in the annals of my mind and I can't help but think that my life would have been reshaped had I sat next to you that day. We may have fulfilled a romantic fantasy, or nothing would have happened at all and you could have been a douchebag who treated me like shit. Or maybe we just wouldn't click, and I was merely lusting for that perfect body and nothing more. I find out that you're my neighbor. I walk out to sit on the porch for a bit and I see you over there. You turn to look at me, our eyes meet and some flicker of recognition briefly passes and your eyes kinda twitch. I'm saying, Yeah, you could (and should) have been with me. But you aren't. You're there, I'm here; different paths to the same shitty outcome. You turn away and your wife gives you a hug and you kiss her. My own lips form a sneer. I get lost in the passion and intensity of the connection of your lips on hers and she flashes the wedding ring in my direction out of instinct but maybe it was just accidental. It's a beautiful ring encased in diamond, born from the fruits of the money you made over the years. I start to wonder how you made the money that got you the ring to give to her, and not to me.

Maybe you're a model. That would make sense, right? You're gorgeous and 'to die for' but I hate that phrase, too cliché. I see you and your hair kinda blowing in the breeze in front of a fan in front of a camera in front of people who adore you and fawn over your chiseled, ripped frame. Bronze-like, Greek God-like. You could replace Michelangelo you piece of shit. You could be mine.

I'm obsessed. I'll get over you again. I did it before. I'll have meaningless sex months after with some guy I'm only attracted to because of the alcohol coursing throughout my body and wrecking my liver and I'll enjoy it, god damn it! Nothing replaces you, but temporary bliss is better than none at all. What shitty luck I have.

We were supposed to meet years ago. We didn't, and we never will.

I AGREE WITH MOST STATEMENTS I'VE EVER HEARD.

A bit experimental, as well as my first entry. I know its short, but I hope the style affords it that privilege. It just came to me and I had to write it down

To Protect and Serve
Word Count: 425 Words



Itchy foot. Bite it. Stil itchy. Bite it some more. Now ear. Scratch ear. Bad itch! No help. Ignore.

Nap time.

Still itchy! Scratch-scratch-scratch! Feel good!

Flop.

No sleep. Can't sleep. Old leather. Coffee. Man smell. Man smell bad. Good man smell bad. Man machine make noise. Nothing wrong.

Ears perk. WHAT NOISE?! Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!

Fake? Dream. Did sleep? Forget. Dream like real. More meat.

Car stop. Man warning? Yes. Man warning! Play soon!

Car GO! Car fast. Turn sharp. Steady...Steady... NO!

Car door! Hurt. Nose hurt. Whimper.

Smelly good man...leave car?

Happy! Nose hurt, but...happy! Play time! Open door, open door, open door!
Tell man! Tell man happy! Open door man!

Man open door!

Many mans. Some womans. Familiar man smell. Not bad smell...good smell. Good-good smell! Master smell?! Master!

Pet. Pet. Pet. Pet. Pet. Treat?!

Treat!

Love master! Master love, but...angry? Smell angry. Smell scared. Many scared smells. No play? Play alone then!

Smell this? Smell. Bad, bad, bad smell. Go? Yes, go! Leash? No want!

No leash, will go. Find bad. Whimper. Kiss master.

Leash?! Ignore. Find bad. Help master, master's mans. Treats!
Smell air. Very bad. Many smells, most bad. Smoke. Poop. Dead. Some tasty. Some food. Ignore.

Bad, bad, bad smell...where? Trash? No, trash bad, not bad, bad, bad. Cats here. Ignore.

Boxes? No, boxes good. Mark later. Air thick. Where smell? Smell more! More! No smell. Sad.

WHAT NOISE?! Distraction. Door. Scratch door! How noise?! Open. Master, open!

Whimper.

Door open! Treat?! Tasty! Love master! Leash off!

Run run run run run run run! Bad, bad, bad smell! Up stairs. Run fast.

Tired! But treats...must go. Smell close.

Behind wall? No. In corner? No. Close! But where?! Air thick.

LOUD NOISE!

PAIN! Hurt. Leg hurt. Everything hurt! Master, where?!

Smell. Pain, but smell. Love master! Smell HARD! Find. Find. Find. Find.

FOUND!

Warn master! Warn mans! Bad, bad, bad smell! Bad, bad, bad man!

Master, stairs! Master, stairs! Whimper. Growl. Warn! Pain, but treats! Many treats! Here closet! Master! Growl. Whimper.

Master's man? No touch! No! Want stay! Leg good! No itch! See?! Whimper. No good. Man ignore.

Down stairs? No! LOUD NOISES! Master yell! Master hurt?! Must go! Can't go. Leg bad.

BIG LOUD NOISE! Whimper. Leg? Ignore! Kick! Kick! Kick!

Down. Up stairs! Run run run run run! Pain. Hurt. Pain! IGNORE!

Fire?! Bad fire! Master hurt! Love master! Lick master! Treats?! TREATS?! Master?!

Whimper.

Bad, bad, bad smell everywhere. Mans everywhere.

No treats.

Master? Sleep master.

Lay down. Hot. Lick master.

Itchy foot. Bite it.

You've gotta be kidding. I'm 700 words over?! argh!

My First 1!

The Sound of Sleep

Word Count: 517

At night the wind moans. It's been like this for weeks; a continuous humming of complaints. Tonight is the first night of peace and I feel detached. The debate is over, no room for interjection.

I lie curled up in my bed, my shape is crest like and the whole moon spotlights me, showcasing what it might have been. But I am not able to empathise for I am dormant, my mind is buried in my subconscious. As I rest, only the light wisp of a chilled breeze creates reverberations against my window sill. These the dying sighs in a month of torrents.

With my mind and body in another place, a distant existence where time is no more than an observation, the house awakens. How strange a concept that the base of global domesticity is in its most exuberant form when we transfer into our latent selves.

Floor boards creek, doors that are ajar slowly close, heating pipes clank and the dusty remnants from a day of living lightly float, creating sounds of wonder. The house is active, it is breathing.

While the chorus of household sounds develop in unison, I remain fixed, foetal. My eyes flutter lightly as a result of my forte inhalations. Exhaling creates the illusion of a strong tide colliding with a shoreline, my bed acting as a coastline protecting my room from the gales of my mind.

From this moment something remarkable happens. The quiet, light and altogether innocent rushes of air that have attempted to breach the security that my windows provide, appear to have grown frustrated by the defence. At once, the streams of air that exit my repository system divert themselves and head towards the outdoors. As my breath tries to entangle itself with the gasps of the light wind, the cries from outside grow louder. This collaboration of internal and external gasses creates a draft that is both chilly and warm, like the meeting of fresh and salt waters.

At once, the precipitation begins. Small chimes of water splatter against the trees and plants that make up the land of night. Sleeping birds, flutter their wings as they seek shelter through their frustration. Foxes, Cats and Dogs rustle through hedges, searching for their homes as the sky starts to cry.

As the storm develops, my house enhances its loquacity. The boiler who was starting to murmur as the evening became darker now jolts in its uncertainty. What was once a creaking of floorboards is now a steady screech as external forces push through the gaps, causing carpets to rise. Closed doors are forced open like shucked oysters, only they immediately slam tight as if the wind attempts to steal their metaphoric pearls.

It is to this that I awake. The full orchestra of sounds led by the wind and rain and supported by the collective of homely choirs force me out of my slumber, challenging me to conduct them. But I can't, I shouldn't even be engaging with them, for the sound of sleep is the only tranquillity that hides you from the noises of the night.

Cool, we got some first-timers! Welcome aboard, dudes.

Novikov’s Theorem
Words: 1,250

"Malaria comes from the italian 'mal' for bad and 'aria' for air." The speaker said. He was tall and so pale his face seemed to almost blend in with the screen behind him projecting his name, Dr. Jay Dublin.

"The belief was that diseases were contracted from bad smelling air." Dr. Dublin continued, the screen showed a colorful map of Egypt, "This belief was so prevelant that on his conquest of Egypt Naploeon had several maps detailing the smells of the area made."

There was a collective chuckle from the group of doctors, virologists, and pharmaceutical executives seated at small tables throughout the conference room. It was the Yalford Viruology Conference, an annual gathering of the best minds in infectious diseases throughout the Western World. At a corner table a man dressed in a black suit leaned over to another man dressed in a white polo shirt.

"Not this damn commie again. Wasn't this bleeding-heart a cousin of yours?" The man in the suit said.

"Roomate Richard, he was my roommate." The man in the polo shirt replied.

"Can't you tell him to shut up Seth?" Richard replied. "Every year he comes here and tries to guilt everyone for more money. It's getting old."

Seth looked over a Richard. They had been undergraduates together. Richard went on to become a powerful sales executive for a large pharamceutical.

Though Seth had tried to get Richard and Jay to be friends they could barely stand each other. After medical school Jay left for Africa to study and treat the diseases that plagued the continent. Every year Jay came to talk about his latest research and findings at the Yalford conference. In the field of infectious diseases Jay was an authority. Jay spent the bulk of his speeches asking corporations for money for research and medical equipment. Richard viewed Jay as a parasite, a beggar that should stick to asking charities and leave everyone else alone.

Jay on the other hand viewed Richard in almost exactly the same way. A parasite that made money off people's sickness. Neither had any qualms about letting their feelings show, and barely deigned to be together for Seth's sake in the after party.

"Malaria is actually transmitted by mosquitos, making the mosquito the world's most deadly animal killing 2.7 million people a year." Jay continued, "Indigenous peoples settle safely away from mosquitos. When Dutch settelrs tried to colonize central africa untold thousands were wiped out until they stopped trying to colonize areas where Malaria thrived. So then, why do we continue to see such a huge number of cases? My friends the plague of Malaria is a plague caused by corporate greed."

"Here we go again." Richard sighed and pushed his chair back onto its back legs.

"Give him time. Jay might be a bleeding-heart but he's got style." Seth replied though Jay seemed unusually caustic. Perhaps it was because Jay didn't look to be feeling well.

The screen flickered and showed a busy, dirty street.

"The only reason to settle a dangerous place would be because it'd be economically advantageous to do so. This is the case for many Malaria ridden areas. The waterways allows for easy port access, and cheap labor makes it ideal for manufacturing." Jay paused to cough into his hand, "But why live in a dangerous place if you can pay poor people to do it for you?"

Jay continued, "People living in Malaria infested regions have very low income, but it is still more than they could make outside of the metropolitan areas. We're paying people to live in these places we know are dangerous, and we aren't even paying them well for it."

Richard leaned forward bring the front legs of his chair back to the ground, "Well maybe they should move then." Richard said loudly. Around him people chuckled.

If Jay heard he gave no sign, "We are the western world of the 21st century. It is unforgiveable that we have not eradicated this disease." Pictures of sick children flickered through the screen each staying on a few seconds, below each was a name their birth date and the current year. The room fell silent, Jay coughed loudly into his hand and continued, "These are the casualties of our indifference."

The parade of faces continued, "How is it that we can devise pills to help the trophy wife lose those last five pounds, or help an unfit man get an erection, or help a beauty queen lose that pesky pimple, yet we cannot be bothered to help these children?"

Flick. Flick. Flick. Faces of children continued to pour through the screen, Jay's voice continued over them, "While Americans protest that they shouldn't pay taxes on paved public streets under the watch of policemen, children die because they could not afford treatment. While we sit here, children have been dying because we are uneffected."

The screen went black ending the grim parade then lit up showing faces of doctors. "These seven doctors died this week, they were part of the WHO. All seven deaths were quickly attributed to Malaria." Jay said pointing at the screen

"I worked with these doctors and doubted that they could put themselves in such a predicament." Jay paused, "One or two perhaps, but seven?"

The rustle of concerned whispers circulated through the crowd. Seth had a terrible feeling in his stomach.

"For the past few weeks the Malaria outbreaks seemed more virulent. My clinic's been overwhelmed. While it usually seats about 75 patients, the last month I have had over 300. In fact, all those children you just saw died within the last three weeks." Jay announced.

"My god." Richard said, "He must be lying. There were like at least a hundred kids in those photos."

Jay raised cleared his throat to regain attention.

"It wasn't until this week that I was able to get results to my tests back. The strain has mutated. This strain is not only much more virulent and deadly, it is also airborne."

The crowd erupted, several people standing from their chairs. A few tables back a woman was crying.

"Holy Hell." Richard said his tan face paling.

Seth felt like vomitting.

"We must quarantine the areas affected!" Someone shouted from the crowd.

"To accomplish what?" Jay replied. "Given the fact that the symptoms are exactly the same, and Malaria so prevelant in Africa we have no way of knowing how far it's already spread."

"But we must" someone protested but were cut off by a coughing fit that Jay was having. Seth's blood turned to ice and a dense silence fell upon the crowd as if the crowd were seeing Jay for the first time.

"You are infected aren't you?!" someone finally asked.

"Yes."

The silence exploded, everyone standing from their chairs most of them yelling. A woman ran for the door.

"Stop her! She'll infect the whole city!" a voice called another man grabbed the woman by the waist.

"I.." Jay began trying to speak over the yelling, "I travelled here on a WHO plane wearing a biosuit which I did not remove until 5 minutes before my speech. I can garauntee that no one outside of this room has been exposed."

"And now you've exposed us you bastard!" A man yelled trying to rush the stage. He was held back by his colleagues.

Jay continued, "I have arranged to have a messages sent to the CDC right about now. No doubt this building will be put into quarantine shortly."

The crowd burst again, people hurling epithets,

Jay's voice boomed, "In this room we have the power to stop it.In this room we have the minds to unravel the disease, the knowledge to manufacture the cure and the money to fulfill it. We can stop it here."

The only noise was of a slight cough from Jay, Seth could see a drop of blood trickle out of Jay's lips.

"Too long have we sat back and looked away because the problem did not involve us. Now the problem is at our doorstep. Whether I brought it here or not is irrelevant, it would've gotten here either way." Jay said as he hefted up a large binder, "These are my notes of what I know about the new strain. I have about three to five days before I will be bedridden, probably another week after that before I die. Until then I will use every bit of my strength to cure this disease."

Jay paused for a second and dabbed away the drop of blood running down his chin. "But I can't do this alone. I need your help. The world needs your help."

Off in the distance Seth thought he could hear police sirens. A man next to him pulled out his cellphone, "David? I need you to bring my lab equipment to the Yalford conference.....All of it."

A man stood on a table, "Bio-chemists and engineers gather here please!"

A few tables behind him, "Doctors here please!" Off somewhere someone called, "Virologists here!"

Behind Seth a tall man stood on a table, "Pharmacuetical reps and executives here!"

The crowd was abuzz as they began to disperse into their separate groups. Seth stood and looked down at a stunned Richard.

"I can't believe the gall of that bastard." Richard said standing.

Seth looked at Jay slowly working his way off the stage, notes in hand, another speck of blood on his chin. Seth thought that history would be made in the very room he was in, or they would all die in the attempt.

Cool that we got a lot more early entries this time around.

But dammit, I still can't think of anything to write about!

i was scrolling up really fast not trying to see any part of anyone's entry, but I think I still saw the phrase "she exploded" from Ronito's piece. Great work. I'm excited to read that one.

I don't think I'm gonna submit this time. I've been swarmed in homework. (translate x^3 an equal # to the right and up, find the area of the function


hopefully i'll finish all of the entries in time to vote, since there some early ones this time.

sorry vato, it's "silence exploded" though "she exploded" really would've been a bitchin way to take the story.

As I was riding home, I got behind a car with the statement "Action in Mailing" scrawled across the back. I have got to work that into a story sometime, somewhere.

Opening mind to receive story ideas... now.

Telepathy, don't fail me now!

crowphoenix said:

As I was riding home, I got behind a car with the statement "Action in Mailing" scrawled across the back. I have got to work that into a story sometime, somewhere.

Click to expand...

I don't get it

Cyan said:

Opening mind to receive story ideas... now.

Telepathy, don't fail me now!

Click to expand...

sending my idea now. It has the line "she exploded" in it.