Theme - "Decision"

Word Limit: 1800

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 3/24 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 3/25, and goes until Saturday, 3/27 at 11:59 PM Pacific.

Optional Secondary Objective: Genre Blending.
Use aspects of two different genres in your piece. This could be subtle--a fantasy story with a few thriller elements. It could be really obvious--a period romance written in noir style. It's up to you!

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.

Writing Challenge FAQ


The Entries:
ZephyrFate - "When I..."
kid ness - "Jacob's Struggle"
Feep - "Technical"
AnkitT - "Made for You"
evilpigking - "For the Sake of Love"
.GqueB. - "The Date"
bakemono - "The Bibelot"
Ward - "Vingt-et-un: Chance, Skill, or Publicity"
crowphoenix - "And Remember, Circle Co Loves You"
Aaron - "A Soliloquy on Responsibility"
Cyan - "Send"
Dresden - "Love?"
Irish - "Try Again"
Tangent - untitled
Botolf - "The Shape in the Whirlwind"
Ashes1396 - "Cognitive dissonance" or "the dots between points"
Iceman - "Keeping Tab" (ineligible, but please read and comment anyway!)

Interesting. I don't feel as locked in as I did in the last challenge. I also just finished Heavy Rain, so I should have decision making on the brain. I hope I can incorporate that secondary objective a little better than I have in the past.

Also, you posted this right as I woke up. Perfect!

oh man, I'm really tempted to do something like sci-fi/samurais vs. cowboys vs. Al Roker but right now my focus is on my second draft....still awesome idea.

This is a great theme, i'm sure I can work something good with it.

ronito said:

...samurais vs. cowboys vs. Al Roker...

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That would be awesome.

Something actually popped into my mind for this one, the last challenge just left me in the dust.

Really sweet theme, looking forward to writing something for this.

Super good theme... but I am traveling for the next few weeks and working on my honors project. I miss you guys!

hey_monkey said:

Super good theme... but I am traveling for the next few weeks and working on my honors project. I miss you guys!

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Awwww. :/

ronito said:

oh man, I'm really tempted to do something like sci-fi/samurais vs. cowboys vs. Al Roker but right now my focus is on my second draft....still awesome idea.

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Do it! You know you want to.

Thanks for putting up this thread. Now I've got to decide what I'm going to write.

Decision, decisions....

crowphoenix said:

Now I've got to decide what I'm going to write.

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Heh.

I've got an idea already, but I'm going to try and come up with several and then pick the best one, rather than just going with the first thing that occurs to me.

Which reminds me, I enjoyed seeing people's alternate endings last time. In most cases, it seemed pretty clear they'd picked the best one, but it was fun to see the other things they'd been thinking about.

I think I'm going to run with the idea I have now. I've been looking at Tim's last effort... the bar scene is pretty good but most people I think would have glossed over that... but it kind of reminded me of Southpaw journal. Its a magazine which has a bunch of quality short stories in it.

Edit: here you go: http://www.southpawjournal.co.uk/

They have a higher opinion of themselves then is actually right. But its worth a read up on how several authors put a short story together. I liked issue 1, back when they started up but haven't read any of the other issues so far... .. will do though...

I'm going to try to get something out this time. I always mean to participate but then completely forget about these challenges. I'm going to try getting started early to see if that helps keep it at the front of my mind.

Yeef said:

I'm going to try to get something out this time. I always mean to participate but then completely forget about these challenges. I'm going to try getting started early to see if that helps keep it at the front of my mind.

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Sounds good!

Ashes1396 said:

But its worth a read up on how several authors put a short story together.

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What do you mean? They have discussions about how they put together their stories?

This is a thing I wrote when my coworker Mikey (Mikey 2x4 here on gaf) left his account at another site logged in on my store's computer, like 4-5 years ago. But the topic and secondary reminded me of it, so.

Last night was a bit unusual, and I feel the need to share. This is normally the type of thing I would keep to myself, but last night's events have given me a new outlook on life, as it were.

I found myself at a local music show, watching some bands perform. As is usual with these shows, some bands are good while others are clearly not. One group in particular sounded especially good to me, and I did my best to weave through the crowd and get close to the stage. Fate smiled upon me, and I found myself at the very edge of the stage, soaking in the entire cornucopia of musical goodness.

More importantly, it allowed me a better look at the band's female singer. She was wearing a tight black Motorhead t-shirt, a pink skirt that looked like a tutu, ripped black stockings, and pink silk sleeves on her arms. Her hair was done in a bob cut, and was black with silver streaks. As she sang, it almost seemed as if her body was generating light. I simply stared up in sheer awe.

My unending gaze must have attracted her attention, as she looked down at me and sang an entire chorus without looking away. For those few moments, we were the only two people on the entire planet. As she looked at me standing there agape, her face broke character. No longer was she a rocking goth girl. She was now smiling. And she was smiling at me.

Sadly, their set ended and the next band began to set up their equipment. I found a nearby wall and leaned back against it, wishing I could someday have a woman half as awesome as that singer. I closed my eyes and sighed.

Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes, and some large man was standing in front of me. He says, "Toni wants to see you." I ask who Toni is, and the man simply motions for me to follow him. Curiously, I go along.

He leads me to a room in the back, and finally comes to a door. He knocks on it and says, "Toni? I got that guy you were looking for." A voice says, "Okay, come in."

I walk into the room, and it's a makeshift dressing room. There is a small vanity, a few chairs, and a couch. In one chair sits Toni, which I learn is the name of the singer who just blew my mind several minutes prior. She's still in her outfit, but now also has on a large robe. She offers me a chair, and I sit down.

We begin talking. She asks me how I like the show, and I say that it was great. She laughs and says, "the way you were looking at me, I am surprised you even noticed the music!" Normally, a comment like this would cause me to withdraw, but as I was feeling adventurous, I replied with, "oh, like you weren't totally smiling at me, pfft." She says, "Hm, spunky. I like a guy with spunk. How'd you like to come back to my place tonight?" The question caught me a bit offguard, and while I am not a one-night stand sort of person, I figured this might be the only chance I have to spend any time with this amazing girl, so I agree.

We go to her hotel room, and on the way, we're talking about random topics. Turns out she is a fan of games and has beaten Gitaroo-Man on Master mode, which only made me even more interested in getting to know her better.

We get there, and she opens the door for me. I walk in, and she follows me in, locking the door behind her. She turns the lights down low and puts on some music. As I turn around to see where she is, she's standing right in front of me. She grabs the end of my tie and pushes me down onto the bed, and proceeds to mount me. We begin making out, and I make mental note of some of her tongue tricks, as I'd never felt this done before.

She pulls up her shirt and tosses it aside, then leans forward and playfully bats my face with her breasts. The next thing I know, she has completely removed all of my clothing and is paying oral attention to Mikey Jr. All I can think is how crazy and out of character it is for me to do this, but at the same time it is so exciting, I can't figure out why I do not do this more often.

She crawls up and kisses me, and then I put her on her back. I peel off the stockings slowly, and caress her legs. I unbutton the tutu-skirt thing, and slowly take it off. She pulls her panties off and shoots them at me like a rubberband. I laugh and think about how great this is going to be.

I kiss her leg on the inside of her knee, and slowly work my way up her thigh. She spreads her legs farther apart as I make my way higher. I've got a slow and steady pace going, as I make my way to the goal, and I suddenly stop, as I feel something against my cheek. I reach over with my hand and touch her other leg, thinking she just needed to open wider. She opened a little more, and then I felt not only something on my cheek, but also something else, which flopped across my nose.

I pause. The seconds felt like eternities as I pondered what it could possibly be. "Maybe she just has equipment like Chyna, and everything is oversized", I thought. I slowly take my hand from her leg and go towards whatever is currently residing on my face. My next though was, "why does this girl have balls and a penis?"

I shot straight up from the bed and backed away in terror. She said, "what's wrong?" and as I fumbled around in the darkness looking for the knob to turn the lights up I said, "what do you think is wrong?!"

I finally find the light control and turn the lights up all the way. I look over to the bed and she's still there. She's nude, and I'm nude, and she has a puzzled look on her face as I look at her body. Everything about it says "WOMAN" except for the easy-to-notice boyparts hanging there.

She goes, "You mean you didn't know?" I go, "How the hell would I know something like that?" She stands up and walks towards me, and I back away until I finally back into a wall. She comes up and goes, "That was a club for pre-ops, I thought you knew!" I said I didn't, and she goes, "Does this really make things that different between us?" I say, "You're damn right it does, how could it not?"

She looks into my eyes and says, "You know, for a few moments tonight, you looked at me like I was the most beautiful girl in the world. Looks like that are exactly what make me want to become a woman. I just don't have the money for the complete operation yet." I just stare and say nothing. She turns away and takes a few steps, then looks over her shoulder and says, "You know, if you look at me right now, you can't even tell what kind of equipment I have, can you?" I shake my head.

She turns around and takes me by the hand to the bed, where she proceeds to get on all fours, and she goes, "Mikey... make me feel beautiful. If you close your eyes, you won't even know the difference. Some girls like it in there anyway, right?" I paused. She got up, turned around, and kissed me, and we made out some more. I could not control myself, because even though I had seen what I just did, I still saw her in my mind as that amazing girl on stage.

... so I did it. And she was right, it is not that much different from entering that same place with a girl. When we were done, we talked in the shower. She almost has the money to get her operation to become a woman. I gave her my number and said she could look me up when she does. She agreed and said she'd see me soon.

What a wild night. Did things I never thought I'd do in my lifetime, and I don't regret any of it as much as I thought I might if I ever did it.

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Cyan said:

What do you mean? They have discussions about how they put together their stories?

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Short answer: no.
However, if iirc the stories themselves vary in the way they are written down. And it might inspire people to think of the different ways to put a story together in terms of style, format, and structure.

Maybe I'll have a crack at breaking up the short story into segments that differ from each other.... decisions, decisions....

bjork: :lol You posted this with another dude's account on another forum? Cold, man. Cold.

Ashes1396 said:

Short answer: no.
However, if iirc the stories themselves vary in the way they are written down. And it might inspire people to think of the different ways to put a story together in terms of style, format, and structure.

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Oh, I see what you're talking about. Yeah, it's good to see different styles and formats and so on.

Cyan said:

bjork: :lol You posted this with another dude's account on another forum? Cold, man. Cold.

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Yeah, then I let it simmer for a bit and watched the comments come in. Pretty fun, he was a good sport about it, too.

I don't know where else to put this but OMG what happened to my GAF?

hey_monkey said:

I don't know where else to put this but OMG what happened to my GAF?

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Full on redesign. Kind of... I dunno, sterile and metallic? But there are some nice improvements. And at least we've got a sort-of search back.

bjork said:

Yeah, then I let it simmer for a bit and watched the comments come in. Pretty fun, he was a good sport about it, too.

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How'd that go down, the whole comments part?

ChubbyHuggs said:

How'd that go down, the whole comments part?

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A couple of people were like "man, you got bjorked, awesome" and other people were left puzzled but supportive comments. Good times. Anyway, wasn't trying to derail. I just remembered that post and tossed it up for a laugh.

bjork said:

Anyway, wasn't trying to derail.

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Eh, we're not exactly having a deep and meaningful discussion here anyway. No worries.

Yeef said:

I'm going to try to get something out this time. I always mean to participate but then completely forget about these challenges. I'm going to try getting started early to see if that helps keep it at the front of my mind.

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Only if you don't rag on me for my terrible stories when we play whatever together on PSN.

I think I've got a decent idea this time, but I can already forsee a bunch of people not liking it at all.

Oh, man. I thought I completely missed the deadline but it turns out it's next Wednesday, not yesterday. Lets me watch basketball all the rest of this week.

Dresden said:

Oh, man. I thought I completely missed the deadline but it turns out it's next Wednesday, not yesterday. Lets me watch basketball all the rest of this week.

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I just noticed the word count limit dropped to 1800. Good thing, my story/thing-a-ma-jig won't go anywhere near that.

Ashes1396 said:

I just noticed the word count limit dropped to 1800.

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Gotta keep you guys on your toes!

Irish said:

Only if you don't rag on me for my terrible stories when we play whatever together on PSN.

I think I've got a decent idea this time, but I can already forsee a bunch of people not liking it at all.

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It's not like there's a lack of other things to rag on you about! ;]

ZephyrFate's entry:

When I...
Word Count: 1244

When I sat in my bathtub recalling all the kisses and all the love. When I reminisced about what could have been and what should be now. When I etched out all the graffiti on the walls of what we had and wrote something new.

When I was no longer your secret, that was when I understood what we had.


“Gavin, you're ridiculous.” I said, chuckling softly. His head lay on my lap as he recalled one of his insane adventures from years past. The autumn sun bore heavy on us, and the day was fairly hot; sweat stuck to our skin and mingled together as droplets would fall from my face onto his chest, bare and exposed. His smile was infectious, the right kind of disease. We were all alone out here in this meadow, in a field behind his house. No one was home and no one would be home for quite some time – so to the world, there was only us, and only would be us.

I'd reach down and brush his sandy-blonde hair back, parting it in just the right ways, despite it being just the right kind of short and wavy. My other hand would run down his chest, which was furry-but-not-too-much, chiseled in the areas that needed it, toned in the zones that wanted it. We could luxuriate out here for hours upon hours; I'm against a tree, him against me. It was only the beginning of the afternoon, we had so much time to just spend together. We could have sex here and no one would blink an eye. But every time we did, I'd feel him pull away just a little more. Like I was scaring him back into whatever hole he climbed out of.

And that was maybe the biggest problem of all.

When you're sixteen and don't quite understand yourself, and you get involved with someone... both sides lose. But when you're sixteen you don't pay attention to all that stuff, you just enjoy the moment for what it is, for whatever short period of time it may last. Sometimes it felt like we were the lone merry-go-round, spinning endlessly, never stopping to pay attention to the reality around us. We lived in a place that would beat the both of us to death if they knew what we did, behind the veil of autumn leaves and tree trunks.

He looked up at me, a spark of worry flashing across his brow, lifting one up while knitting his brow into a patchwork quilt of emotion. He reached upwards, brushing away a tear from my cheek.

“This always happens, Matt... every time we're out here. You look away from me, and you think for a while, and then you cry. And I wanna know why.”

“How long can this last?” I ask, the viscous sorrow starting to cloud my sight, even as I looked at him, even as the worry on his face got worse.

“I... I can't answer that. I dunno... so long as we can make everyone pretend we aren't... y'know... doin' this.”

“Why do we have to pretend? Why can't we just come out and say it?” I'd proclaim, the tears disappearing, the anger settling in; that emotion always had the power to scorch the life from my face, turn it beet red and seethe, tempestuous and confrontational.

He'd get quiet then, he always did. We were sixteen and clueless and this kind of talk wanted answers we couldn't give. He meant the world to me and to him I was only this... field. These leaves. This sun on our backs and the sweat beading and rolling off our brows. We're just the heat of sex and the stench of lust and in reality our little thing was just... a secret. Shelter it and keep it safe, poke a few holes in the top for air, but nothing else; there was never anything else. Could we call it love? I asked him that once. We were eighteen, then, and I thought... aren't we ready now?

We lay together, arms and legs intertwined, side by side, in spring's full bloom, the flowers around us guardians, shields, friends. We were totally naked, fresh from another sexual escapade, and all that was on my mind was 'us', how we could define 'us', and what 'us' would mean in the future. College was coming... and we were both going to different universities. I at first accepted this; I mean, we both have different career paths, right? So what do I do? How do I... cope? Regardless, he ran his hands through my hair this time, which had gotten a little shaggy, but stayed just as brown as ever, no matter how much sun shone down on us. We were both skinny but toned, him a little more muscley, so when we were entangled we almost felt as if we were one – almost no difference between us.

“We're not going to be able to last like this forever, are we?” I asked, point-blank, gun fire.

He recoiled instantly, his muscles flexing as if trying to get away; he knew this question was coming, and he wanted to run, but I wouldn't let him. I kept him still, forcing him to deal with it. Whether he would or not was not up to me. I gave him time, even though whenever he looked at me his eyes were fear and paranoia.

“We can't... go out in that world and be us. I told you that years ago...”

“So... what? When we go to college it's over? All this? All we've made together?”

“... Yes. I have to... be straight and get married and have kids. It's the... Christian way... the right way.”

“You know it's the wrong way.”

“It's what I have to do! You may be content with being a freak, but I'm not!” He roughly shoved me away, put on his clothes with a speed I'd never seen before, and ran far away, far from where I was. And I'm sure I could hear him crying as he did so.

I laid there naked, unsure of what to do. The rain came then, at first hot and sticky, but later cold and clingy, like I'd gone from having my man near me to nothing but empty air.


The world kept turning, and so did I. I went to college, I studied for what seemed like no purpose, even if a job was inevitable and a career path cemented – but all for what? No matter how long I spent away from him, I couldn't get him out of my mind. There were never any calls, never any e-mails. Nothing. He'd vanished and like a ghost, his memories haunted me and never let go.

Until I saw him, years down the road. He looked at me like a deer looks into headlights. Pure fear riveted him to the spot, regardless of how many children surrounded him, regardless of the wife that clung to him. I stared at him back, my eyes unyielding to his stare. I showed him what I was now, I showed him what he was missing, I showed him what he'd pretended to not care about.

And all I could do was smile, turn away.

When I knew how fragile we were, I knew how fragile our love was.

Completely unrelated, but dammit, I had to tell SOMEBODY.

I just finished the first draft of my novel!

Only took me two and a half years, pshhh, like, whatever.

Editing time...

I'm happy for you. Completing your first manuscript, I'm assuming, would come with an extremely special feeling. Good luck.

Good job, my double-e brother.

Yeef said:

Good job, my double-e brother.

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*tips hat*

(Also, how did you remember that?)

Man, I'm excited to jump right into editing, but they say to let it cool down for awhile, to separate yourself. I don't want to!

Feep said:

Completely unrelated, but dammit, I had to tell SOMEBODY.

I just finished the first draft of my novel!

Only took me two and a half years, pshhh, like, whatever.

Editing time...

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Good job dude!

I remember my first draft. Quite an accomplishment. Now to re-write, re-write and re-write.

Feep said:

Completely unrelated, but dammit, I had to tell SOMEBODY.

I just finished the first draft of my novel!

Only took me two and a half years, pshhh, like, whatever.

Editing time...

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Awesome job, man. I haven't even started working on one yet so I can only goggle at the notion. I hope to get to read it someday.

Also, when does Zephyr get back?

Feep said:

*tips hat*

(Also, how did you remember that?)

Man, I'm excited to jump right into editing, but they say to let it cool down for awhile, to separate yourself. I don't want to!

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I'm not sure what it is that I 'remembered,' but I'm just that good!

Feep said:

Completely unrelated, but dammit, I had to tell SOMEBODY.

I just finished the first draft of my novel!

Only took me two and a half years, pshhh, like, whatever.

Editing time...

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Well done, dude! *High five*

Wow. I am having so much fun writing this entry.

Feep said:

Completely unrelated, but dammit, I had to tell SOMEBODY.

I just finished the first draft of my novel!

Only took me two and a half years, pshhh, like, whatever.

Editing time...

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Congrats, man!

So back on topic: anyone else writing this week?

I feel like we usually have more than one at this point. But then, who am I to question last-minute entrants? :lol

I got my rough draft written yesterday. It's a bit cliched as it stands right now, but I am trying to play with it a bit. Unfortunately, just straight up inverting it would be too obvious. More than anything I tried to focus on Aaron's advice, and I think I did a good job of that, but it shifted back towards my usual when I got near the end and ran out of space.

With the time I have to let it rest, I should be able to fix most of it, even if I do have to take a sledgehammer to the cliches.

Also, I got my rejection letter from the University of Arizona, so I'm rather proud of myself for being able to write this despite that. Thumbs up.

I think I'll actually submit something in one of these again. Just came off a long streak of papers for school with another one this week and I need a fiction break. Plus it would be nice to get criticized again.

Rough draft's done, I'll probably give it a one over tomorrow...it's definitely not what I started out writing and I'm not sure it even works but oh well.

Feep said:

Completely unrelated, but dammit, I had to tell SOMEBODY.

I just finished the first draft of my novel!

Only took me two and a half years, pshhh, like, whatever.

Editing time...

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Congrats. :lol Let it settle somewhere for a bit before going back in and fixing the hell out of it.

Jacob's Struggle
Feasting his eyes upon two women exchanging punches at each other for the last Thanksgiving turkey, Jacob found himself in his own struggle. Strapped onto his mother's grocery cart and with a pacifier in his mouth, he survived his mother's sharp turns and stops, and averted his eyes when she got into an argument with the store manager for knocking over the Bounty pyramid.

“That shit doesn't work anyway! I'll stick to my ShamWow!”

Surrounding Jacob was the typical commotion only found in a city supermarket: spilled soup cans, announced cleanups on aisle four, and children wailing for the latest chocolate saturated cereal. If only Jacob were so lucky.

Although society could not recognize it, Jacob at his diaper-wearing age was also a human being with somewhat complex thoughts and desires. Behind those eyes that were far too big for any one and a half year old, there was a brain which desperately called for what many don't have the chance to experience: Mallomars.

But how to express his desire?

As his cart sped past the cleaning detergent and the cat litter, Jacob realized he had to make a quick move to signal his mother back to the snack aisle, which was all the way on the other side of the supermarket. Darn it! Too young to speak, Jacob had only his young limbs and his infantile brain to concoct a plan that ould satisfy his sweet tooth. Unfortunately, his mother was pulling the cart into the cashier, behind three shopping carts stagnantly parked with the three equally bored people behind them.

While his mother soaked her interest in a rack of impulse buys, Jacob was scheming:
Well, I know I can't cry, crying never works on her, he thought. And I can't get up and get the Mallomars myself, because of this damn brilliant buckle like device that's connecting me, by the waist, to this moving box with wheels!

“Next!” the line to the cashier progressed through its natural cycle, bringing Jacob closer to his impending doom. Suddenly, a voice propelled itself onto the loudspeaker system, bringing the sounds of the supermarket and its visitors to an artificial halt.

“Umm.. hello customers... uhh... unfortunately, Tropicana has just given notice of a recall on their 96 hour e-e-energy drink, Orange Infatuation. If you have this item in your shopping cart, p-puh-lease put it back on the rack from which you rec-e-e-ah-Ah-ChoO! Excuse me. Please put it back on the rack which you took it fr-fr-om, and we will dispose of them immediately. We apawlagize for the inconvenience and thank you for your l-l-oyalty.”

A collective groan was let out by the customers, including Jacob's mom, who bravely thrusted her hand to the bottom of the cart, and was now holding an orange tinted bottle.

“All they need to do is mix a little fucking caffeine into this damn orange tie dye; how could they mess it up?” she impatiently grumbled, turning the cart around. Luckily, the Tropicana rack was parallel to the snack aisle, mirroring the reflection of No-good- Nu-gets, which were just past the Mallomars.

Jacob didn't realize his mother's aggression or her determination to reach the rack before anyone else. Part of it was pride; being the best and making it to the rack first would display virtuosity in coordination as well as excellent agility. The other part of it was that she didn't want to be around the inevitable mob of people, who would likely be out of their minds for wanting to purchase a 96 hour energy drink anyway.

Her slow walk quickly became a casual jog, and soon evolved into a full-fledged sprint. The wind was blowing Jacob's three strands of hair in his face. The snacks and drinks on both sides of him became a unified blur of colors. Jacob could make out the mob of Orange Infatuation-loving idiots very slowly placing the recalled product back, and his mother was quickly approaching them. With no time to waste, Jacob had an epiphany. Taking a deep breath, he gathered himself, made sure he was in the right position..

He took his right arm, lifted it into the air, and whacked a yellow case with gelatin filled cookies on the cover, hoping that it was the real thing and that he didn't accidentally hit an off-brand!

A box of Mallomars flew off of the shelf, its cardboard packaging crushed more severely than an army of ants under a Timberland boot. Jacob's mothers eyes widened, and as rapidly as her movement had stopped, her heart rate had increased. A grin flashed onto Jacob's face, for he knew what was coming.

“JACOB, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!”

The store manager walked up near to the box of Mallomars that was now on the floor, picked it up, and gauged the condition of the cookies inside.

“Well miss”, the manager said, approaching Jacob's mother, “it app-app-ears that the cookies on the inside are fine. I'm assuming you-ou know our policy.”

“There's a fucking policy?!”

After hearing bits and pieces of a conversation filled with too many expletives Jacob couldn't understand, his mother hastily walked back to the cart, and shoved the crinkled box below Jacob. His mother tried to go back to the Tropicana rack to replace the recalled product, but once she saw the monumental amount of people around it, she threw down the Orange Infatuation in disgust.

Jacob, still sporting his grin, dug a young hand into the disheveled box beneath him to reveal a well preserved Mallomar. His eyes opened, and he rubbed his eyes to see if it was real. Without any further hesitation, he shoved it into his mouth, pausing to let the marshmallow goo coat the inside of his mouth before he swallowed it. With chocolate splayed all over his lips, he victoriously remembered a sign near aisle two which gave him the immense pleasure he had been hoping for:

“You break it, you buy it.”

Yeef said:

I'm not sure what it is that I 'remembered,' but I'm just that good!

Spoiler

I was just referring to the fact that, just like myself, your username is 2 E's sandwiched between two consanants.

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:lol :lol :lol

I thought you were referring to the fact that I'm an Electrical Engineer (or at least hold a degree in said field), which we often abbreviate as "Double E". I don't often mention it, so I was surprised.

To everyone, thanks for the encouragement! My glacial pace has, I hope, led to a higher quality first draft than most, but I'm prepared to do some serious editing, starting next week.

Feep said:

To everyone, thanks for the encouragement! My glacial pace has, I hope, led to a higher quality first draft than most, but I'm prepared to do some serious editing, starting next week.

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Congrats, but I think you're pushing the button too soon. Give yourself at least a month, better two, to separate yourself from the material so you can look at it with remotely objective eyes. There are probably things in your head that aren't in the actual story, bits you need to explain or parts that only seem to work because you know what comes after them.

I'd suggest do a quick clean up on the beginning and get a few other people to read it, and while they're reading it, work on writing something else to shift your brain away from it.

Oh, screw it, why not. I can't go back to my book just yet, it's 3 AM, and I'm not tired. I've never entered one of these things, but let's give it a shot. This is a flash-entry, no editing allowed. I need to get better at silencing my own internal critic, anyway.

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That most recent punch severed a neural connection in the cerebral cortex.

Not one that was very important, mind you. The best they could come up with--those scientists in the white lab coats, wearing one of those makes people listen--is that it was partially response for mental chunking, a technique which improves short term memory.

But really, so what? So he'd have a little more trouble remembering a phone number? He had a cell phone, a new Nexus One, in a 24 karat case. It was free, everything was free, what was the point of all the money he was winning if he never had to buy anything? They said the brain was adaptable. Well, go ahead, prove them right, rewire, show those MacBooks they ain't got nothin' on Johnny Flint.

No one had anything on Johnny Flint.

He snapped back, one-two, his hands a blur, the crowd roaring in delight.

Normally they were against him. They didn't much care for the athlete, the words, the family, the personality, the work ethic. They weren't there for the competitors. They were there for themselves, so they could say, "I was there, you know? I was there that night, let me buy you another drink, aren't you impressed?" And they hope, every night, that the story they get to tell is a good one, and if Johnny Flint won his forty-seventh consecutive victory by knock-out, even the six-out-of-ten with her overweight friend wouldn't give them a second glance.

All they wanted was the upset, the bracket buster, well, fuck 'em, Flint never lost. Forty-seven and counting, every one to the mat, fuck the bells, he never heard 'em. Not the one that mattered, anyway.

The twelfth one.

He raised his hands, guarding against the inevitable retaliation, but that hook went right through, it only grazed his temple but it felt like the world was upside down, just like Australia? What a bizarre thought to have, here.

That was the concussion talking, probably. There was a small lesion now, up against the occipetal lobe, responsible primarily for learning new skills.

What the hell did he need new skills for? He had everything he needed. He was the best. The best that ever was. Seven weight classes, seven belts, seven colors of the goddamn rainbow, seventh round yet? He'd only ever been there twice. How many were left? He couldn't do math up that high, didn't need to, really.

Suddenly he was sitting. He got up.

He was sitting again, now, but not on the mat, on a stool, the cutman cutting, a bunch of highly paid whites yelling at him. Hadn't they heard of Malcolm X? He got up before he was supposed to. All those people cheering now, like they never had for him. Did they think he was gonna lose? Not so smart, huh.

In the eighth round, Johnny Flint suffered a second concussion and the loss of higher pattern recognition.

In the ninth, a third! There was bleeding inside his head, and he thought, oddly, that he could smell the color blue.

He didn't remember the tenth round. If someone had ever been able to ask him, he would have said maybe there was no number ten, huh, did you ever think of that?

In the eleventh, he would have lost his ability to read, had he ever been able.

The twelfth round came and all he could hear were those yells, they had never been so loud, goddamn. He stood up and all he could see was that fuckin' giant, no skill no kill, all he had was weight and height and reach over him, where was this guy from, Russia? Wasn't that where the Rocky guy was from? Rocky won, in the end, and that was real, he saw the statue at that museum himself. Put a damn tear in his eye. He couldn't relate, not until now, he had never been the little guy, but here he was, and that memory, if nothing else, was intact.

He punched, he got hit, he punched again, he got hit again. He fell to the mat twice. He got back up twice. What did it matter? He won. Johnny Flint won, and he didn't just win, he knocked the motherfucker down, he wasn't gonna hear that motherfucking bell, not in a million years.

He was right. He never heard it.

He could have just gone down once more, they would have stopped it, but he didn't, maybe the part of his brain that let you fall down a third time was damaged, and Johnny Flint was no MacBook. He could have stopped, but no, that part wasn't working, never really worked in the first place, he could have done a lot of things, but he didn't. Everything was Johnny Flint's call. But when there wasn't really any Johnny Flint left, who was calling the shots? Just some cells, some neurons, firing however the fuck they wanted.

Johnny Flint, they would read, forty-eight consecutive victories.

Forty-seven by knock-out.

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Hope you liked it. My novel is nothing like this at all. :lol :lol :lol

Dinkar was born and raised in a small, crime-riddled town called Banaras, off the coast of the Ganges River. He didn’t have much emotional connection to his family beyond the need of money during his high school years. After dropping out of high school at 16, he didn’t have any interest to go for further studies as he thought of it as a waste of time and money. So he worked as a handyman at a local shop to get some money flowing in. He would often get in a fight over trivial matters. He knew he was on the brink of getting fired, but his anger always got the better of him. This “quality” of sorts, caught the eye of an American visiting Banaras for a few days. He approached Dinkar the next day, early in the morning with a translator. The translator asked Dinkar if he wanted to join the organization. Dinkar straight up asked the price he would get. The American smiled at the universality of money and wrote the pay on a piece of paper and handed it to Dinkar. Dinkar shook the American’s hand. Later, Dinkar went to sleep and heard a thud on his head, but didn’t feel any pain. Next morning he dismissed the thud as a dream and looked forward to a new chapter in his life.

Dinkar arrived at Washington DC the next day with zero luggage and just the clothes on his back. The security had their eyes planted on him, but he checked out fine. A cab was waiting for him outside, and the driver recognized him easily due to the photograph he had been handed. The driver dropped Dinkar off at a hotel and guided him to his room. In the room he found some spare clothes, money and a handgun. He wasn’t at all shocked by any of this. He had seen many a gun back home and this wasn’t new to him. What he didn’t know was what was intended of him to do with the gun. It was getting late, and he went to sleep. At about 3AM, his phone rang. He picked up and the same translator from back home told him to meet up at a certain location. He got dressed and went outside the hotel to see a cab waiting for him again. They stopped outside a 7-11 and the translator got in the cab. Dinkar was given a photo of the man he was to kill. Dinkar understood and asked when he would get the money. The translator laughed and told him after the kill. Dinkar grew eager, yet he was strangely calm. They reached their stop and Dinkar got off. He took out his gun and checked to see if it was loaded. He cocked it and put it back. He waited outside the home where the translator had dropped him off. It was 4AM and it would be sunrise soon. He took out his gun in anticipation. No one was around, there was a deafening silence. A man seemed to approach in his direction. He looked at the photograph and matched the faces. It looked like the guy to him, but he wasn’t too sure. He calmly came towards the guy, concealing his weapon. As soon as he crossed Dinkar, Dinkar took out his gun and shot him in the head and walked away into the darkness. He kept on walking until a cab approached him, and sure enough, it was a cab with the translator in it. He hopped in. The translator gave him the money and told him that he needs to learn English if he needs to continue further. Dinkar was puzzled by this. A hitman needing to know English was absurd! But he agreed, seeing the amount in his hand. The cab dropped him off at the same hotel at 5AM. He wanted to go to sleep, but couldn’t.

A month had passed since his first kill. He also hadn’t seen the American since the first time he met him. The translator had stopped calling him for missions, but only called him for his English lessons and weapons training. He had begun speaking English quite well. Dinkar had a very thick Indian accent, and that had to go as it was a descriptor of his identity. But Dinkar didn’t see this as much of a problem. He wasn’t going to be a salesman after all. He did appreciate and enjoy the weapons and special training that he got. His phone rang late at night for the first time in a month. He picked it up and it was the American.

“There is a taxi waiting for you outside. It will take you to the airport. The driver will hand you the tickets and a luggage bag with some things that you’ll need. I’ll call you again when you get there.”

Dinkar understood. He got dressed and went to the airport in the cab. Next day, he arrived at New York. He looked at the piece of paper that the driver had given him earlier. It read “Plaza Hotel, Room 208”. He hailed a cab and went straight to the hotel and then into his room. He found a sniper rifle there. He had been trained to use one of those last month. A note left there mentioned the reward, and mentioned the target’s name and where to find him. No photo this time. Dinkar left and looked around the place to find a good sniping spot. He asked around for the name but he got nothing. He went to the pawn shop for some answers. The shop keep wanted money for the info, and was granted the bills.

“The guy passes through the street right there every evening in about an hour’s time. He wears a yellow overcoat and a fedora hat.”

He set up at the roof of a low-rise apartment in the middle of the blocks. He had his eyes pierced at the street below for about an hour. He saw the man as described and shot him without hesitation. He quickly dismantled the sniper into his briefcase and walked out of the building. He walked calmly to the dying man to check if he was dead. To his utter astonishment, it was the translator. He walked away so nobody identified him. He returned to his hotel.

He couldn’t sleep the whole night. He racked his brain to figure out what had happened. But he just couldn’t! Tired and stressed, he went to sleep. In his dream, or rather nightmare, he saw himself still asleep on his cot in Banaras. But he felt trapped. He knew he was in his town, he could “see”, but he couldn’t move. This made him feel more helpless than he had ever felt in his life. It was surreal, so real. Next morning he woke up and saw his parents around him. He didn’t know what to believe. His parents told him about the accident that Dinkar had during working at the shop two years ago where he had an injury to his head. He was sure to die, but there was an experimental procedure. An experimental procedure where the neurotransmitters in the brain are replaced with artificially intelligent nanomachines. Dinkar didn’t understand a word in that sentence. His parents told him about his transfer to the National Rehabilitation Hospital in Washington DC two years ago. After the procedure, Dinkar was said to have gone into a coma. He was transferred again to New York to have better care and a second opinion on the transplant. As all of this conversation went on, Dinkar saw the American standing right at the door, smiling and with a paycheck in his hand. Dinkar broke into a cold sweat and his heart-rate started rising and he had to be rushed to the hospital. The doctors told the parents that Dinkar was in a “light to no coma" and that he wasn’t reporting much brain activity. The parents were devastated on hearing this news and broke down crying. The American came in and consoled them. He had met them many times before. He was the man who offered the experimental procedures.

“I’m so sorry that he went back into the coma, but such things can happen with experimental procedures such as these. I have a specialist doctor waiting in Canada who can take care of your son better than in this facility.”

The parents agreed to do anything for the treatment of their son.

Next morning, Dinkar woke up and remembered how he had killed the translator last night. He switched on the TV.

“Tired of how all your decisions are made for you? Want financial independence….”

He switched off the TV as the phone began to ring.

“Next mission is in Canada, you know the procedure as to how to get there. I’ll call you when you get there”

Dinkar dressed up and took the cab to the airport.

Well, it looks like my entry is slowly coming together, however, I don't much like it. It seems a little too jumpy (something I tend to complain about with other stories), but that's pretty essential to the gist of the whole thing. It's not really a good idea. In fact, I'd say it is a pretty common idea. Still, I think I'm going to run with it.

For The Sake of Love (1,666 words)

Visibly shaking my head and crying lightly on the inside, I shelved the latest volume of Zombies Want Hearts in the romance section. First it was the vampires which always had a sexual aspect to their lore, then came the werewolves, at least they were alive, then the ghosts. So I guess it wasn't a big surprise that zombies would be the next horror monster to fall for the sake of estranged womens' fantasies. Not sure what the appeal is, I've never been one to fall for that impossible love junk, and to be perfectly honest, I think that having your zombie mate's decaying penis break off during sex is pretty fucked up. Call me a traditionalist.

Pushing the last copy firmly into place I wiped the sweat off my brow, summer heat is a bitch even after the sun has gone down and the AC was inaccessible ever since Jimmy broke the thermostat when he came in drunk and I haven't had the funds to repair since sales have been down, stupid ebook craze. Well...I'll deal with that river when it comes time to cross it, until then I'm still scrapping by and I have a fair amount of time to read myself during work hours. Stuffing the money from the register into an envelope to bring to the bank in the morning I locked up the store and stepped out onto the sidewalk. I think I could make out one or two stars past the lightwash of the cityscape, trust mankind to try to block out any sign of the greater universe, any hint that we may not be as important as we like to think. I continued down the street.

It was late. I'd been waiting for over 40 minutes now. I put down my book to check my watch again, "8:15...where the fuck is it..."
"Quite unusual isn't it, as most public transit systems are renown for their punctuality" said a man's voice next to me.
"Jesus where the hell...oh I'm sorry, I tend to run my mouth when I'm alone...or surprised I guess." I said sheepishly as I looked up to examine my new bus stop neighbor. He was pretty attractive, short brown hair, a strong jawline with what looked like two days worth of stubble, nice wide shoulders, and hazel eyes. A dark gray blazer and blue jeans completed his appearance, approachable is how I'd describe him.
"No need to apologize as you have gorgeous eyes and since eyes are windows to the soul...besides I've heard much worse in my line of work "
"Oh and what do you do if you don't mind me asking."
"Hmm...well I used to be a research scientist but nowadays I guess you could say I'm a surgeon." He winked. This was getting creepy, I stood up sticking my book in my purse.
"Maybe I should call a cab, it's getting a bit late to be out."
"You needn't bother, here comes the bus after all" he pointed over his shoulder without turning his head right as a bus turned the corner.
"How did you..."
"How did I know it was coming? I heard the engine, I don't have any magical powers or anything if that's what you were thinking" he said with an infectious laugh and a smile. I hadn't heard a thing. The bus that pulled up to the stop wasn't a standard metro bus, it looked like a charter bus and the windows were heavily tinted. The door slid open.
"Uh...is this the 80?"
"This is the last bus of the night ma'm" replied the driver. He had on the metro uniform.
"That didn't quite answer the question I asked" I said carefully picking my words in an attempt not to offend.
"Look lady, you either get on or you don't, but this is the last bus for the night and I'm on a schedule."
As I stood there hesitating, The Surgeon stepped past me onto the bus and turned his head back gazing into my eyes, "Come on, it wouldn't do for you to be alone out on the street this late."
I started to say "I can't, this is just too strange" but surely I'm over thinking this, I've read too many damn books, this is the real world. I stepped onto the bus.

There was a surprisingly large number of people inside the bus avoiding contact with each other by reading the paper, gazing out the window, etc, as per usual on a public bus. Guess I was just worrying myself over nothing. I let out a small chuckle at the ridiculousness of my earlier fears and walked towards the rear of the bus taking the open seat opposite the Surgeon.
"I knew you couldn't resist me" he said with a smirk. I tried to think of a repartee but I'd been caught off guard and there was a bit of truth in his words...not that I'd ever admit it. I shifted in my seat and straightened out the imaginary creases in my pants. Perhaps sensing he struck solid ground he decided to twist the knife a little. "Oh, looks like I was right, don't be ashamed, you're not the first woman who's showed interest." I could feel the blood rushing to my face and attempting to hide my embarrassment turned to look out the window. I wasn't just embarrassed that I thought he was cute and he knew it, I was embarrassed that I had let down my shield. Love at first sight doesn't exist, it's just a device used to expedite relationship growth in romantic fantasies and yet, there was some force attracting me to him that I couldn't ignore. The snow covered mountains in the distance were just visible beyond the falling snow. Something wasn't right but before I could put my finger on just what exactly his reflection obscured my view as he walked up behind me. He gazed out the window as he placed his surprisingly soft and warm hand gently on my shoulder.
"The mountains are beautiful this time of year, in the day the light reflects off the falling snow giving them a shimmering appearance, as if they were nothing more than a mere mirage."
"That sounds amazing...I'd love to see it someday."
"Unfortunately I don't think you will have the opportunity too."
"Yeah you're probably right the forecast said it is supposed to be 40 tomorrow and it's never snowed in the city befor..."

Lightning stuck.

Why the hell was it snowing...where was I. Jumping out of my seat I looked around the cabin, surely some of the other passengers must have noticed that something was wrong, why hadn't anyone said anything. Nothing had changed, everyone was still where they had been sitting before acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. I walked a few steps towards the front of the bus and lightly tapped the shoulder of a woman reading a newspaper.
"Excuse me but can you tell me what's going on here?" I reeled back as the woman turned to face me revealing a lip-less mouth sewn shut.
"You won't get an answer out of Susie there. She hasn't said a word since her operation" the Surgeon flashed a smile for a split second before continuing on "She really was quite lucky, by the time it was her turn I had already become quite proficient in the procedure. Of course the work on her was quite minor compared to many others I've had the pleasure of working on" he sweepingly gestured with his arm to encompass the rest of the passengers. As my gaze followed his arm across the cabin I noticed that not a single passenger was male...or entirely whole.
"No...no..this is not right...this is too fucked up, what kind of monster are you."
"Monster? I assure you I am entirely human."
"I was speaking figuratively."
"Believe me, I take no pleasure in my work, well that's not quite true. I do swell with satisfaction knowing that each successful operation brings me one step closer to my true love. Now to answer your earlier question, we have been transported to the outskirts of my abode with assistance from the Bus Driver. I would not bother him if I were you, it may not have seemed like it from your perspective but he was quite taken aback by your confrontation earlier."
"What confrontation!? I simply asked if this was the 80 and pointed out that he didn't answer my question when he responded."
"What is spoken and what is heard are not always they same. In any case, nothing good has ever come from angering him and I'd hate for you to miss the chance to meet my wife. Now please sit down we should be reaching our destination soon."
I reached into my purse trying to find anything that may help my situation but there is not much I can do with a book, keys, and an envelope only containing a few hundred dollars. I looked around the bus frantically for an escape but there were no emergency exits and the windows were sealed shut, resigned to the fact that there was no means of escape I could imagine I sat down.
"So if you finished your operations on these women, why are they are here?"
"For storage of course. In case there is an accident they will make sufficient replacements until an ideal donor can be found. Rest assured the drugs keep their needs met. Now please relax, nothing good ever comes from stress."

The bus rolled to a stop. "Last stop, Frankenstein Estate" called out the driver.

"This is our stop" the Surgeon said as stood up retrieving a syringe and a scalpel from inside his coat and holding out his hand in my direction. "Come, I must prepare before I introduce you to my wife, she isn't able to see you just yet, but that will not be an issue for much longer."