__________________________________________

Theme - "Colours"
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Interpret the theme, "colours', however you like, and take it where ever you like; for some people it may just even be the starting point.

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Important specifics
_______________________

Word Limit: 2075 on word count tool.com (max. do not dare go above this or you will be disqualified, even if it is one word over.)

Submission Deadline: Wednesday 20th October by 11:59 PM Pacific

Voting begins: Thursday, 21st October, and goes on until Sunday, 24th October at 11:59 PM Pacific.


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Optional Secondary Objective: Comment on the human condition.
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Comment on the Human Condition in any which way that you want.

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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!


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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

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Final Entry list
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itsinmyveins - A different kind of brush
Ward - Surly Mind Lords with
ZephyrFate - The Dream Metropolis
Tim the Wiz - Cauldron
Ashes1396 - “Be good and merry” or “a road unwalked.”
Blue Submarine No. 6 - On the Dig: Beothuk Village 1984
ronito - Colors
AnkitT - Shades
Timedog - Neon Maniacs
John Dunbar - Beyond the Pale
crops55 - The Last Shade of Gray
crowphoenix - Watery Eyes
Tangent - Blue Rug
Cyan - Impulse Control
DumbNameD - Better Late Than Never



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Results
_______________________

1. DumbNameD – 21 (6*)
2. crowphoenix - 15 (4*)
3. Cyan - 9


____________

Full results
_____


1. DumbNameD - Better Late Than Never – 21 (6*)
2. crowphoenix - 15 (4*)
3. Cyan - 9
4. Timedog - 5
5. ZephyrFate - 4 (1*)
6. Tangent - 3
7. AnkitT - 3
8. Ward - 2
9. Tim the wiz - 2
10. Ashes - 2
11. Ronito - 1

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Other Lit' threads
_______________________

What are you reading? (October 2010)
The NeoGAF Poetry Society: Challenge #13: Take This Society

Cyan said:

NaNo 2010 thread is up!

Click to expand...

The NeoGAF Poetry Society: Challenge #14: The Dark
.
writing workshop ...
Words you commonly misspell
Jane Austen failed at spelling, had poor punctuation & wrote in a 'regional accent'
Things that annoy you about your favourite fictional worlds


______________________________________________________________________

BONUS OFF SHOOT THREAD within THREAD!

Extra bonus short thread of anything goes thread of get your stories in by tommorrow wednesday, 11:59 pst. Make it under 2000 words. See post Timedog post #218!
Voting will begin then, an it carries on till sunday, 11:59 pst. Winner does not get to create a new thread. I repeat, WINNER DOES NOT GET TO CREATE NEW THREAD< AS THAT PRIVALAGE BELONGS TO DMD after nanowrimo. It's just a bit of fun... go go go!

Grats on the win, Ashes. Interesting topic.

oh god thank you for extending the voting deadline, let's make that a future thing kthx

also

i will saturate my story in so many colors it will overwhelm the world

I love the new designs you've set up for both the poetry and writing threads.

Grats, Ashes!

Question for writing-agers. For or against suspending the writing challenges during NaNoWriMo, as we've done the last two years? We could suspend after this challenge, or do a short one that ends Oct 31, or whatever people prefer.

Also FYI, planning to put up the NaNo thread next weekend.

Suspend the writing challenge.

If only NaNo was held at a more exam-friendly time of year. :/

Irish said:

I love the new designs you've set up for both the poetry and writing threads.

Click to expand...

Cheers mate.

Cyan said:

Grats, Ashes!

Question for writing-agers. For or against suspending the writing challenges during NaNoWriMo, as we've done the last two years? We could suspend after this challenge, or do a short one that ends Oct 31, or whatever people prefer.

Also FYI, planning to put up the NaNo thread next weekend.

Click to expand...

Suspend I guess. So we can jump to that thread. I was thinking of putting in links to other writing threads in the op, e.g. what're you reading? and the poetry threads, so if you launch it, earlier, let me know, I'll put it in the op for you and everyone else...

Need link to new thread in old thread.

Props for British/Canadian spelling.

Lone_Prodigy said:

Need link to new thread in old thread.

Props for British/Canadian spelling.

Click to expand...

Heh, Ashes put it there as soon as he made the new thread.

Congrats, Ashes. I would have congratulated you yesterday, but Minecraft ate my soul. I have only just now gotten the tatters of it back.

I don't have an idea yet for this one, but I will. And if I win, I'm definitely doing a Halloween theme for the next.

I've never written anything for any of these challenges but I've been meaning to. So there, last night not long after reading what this challenge was about, I wrote about half of the story I came up with and now during work I wrote the other half. I'd say it's around 1200-1500 words long, all in all.

The problem then, for me, is the english language. I'm a bit worried about my grammar being off and such. So I'm gonna take a day or two going through it, trying to iron out issues like that. It's okay to keep on spell checking even after posting it though, right?

Looks like you're going to polish it as best as you can so it should be fine enough. People fix up stuff often enough though so it's no real problem. Some people do read stuff as the week goes along, so I would post the text as a near a final version as possible.

2010 words?!
Gods, we could repave all the airports in the world with all the runway we'll get.

ronito said:

2010 words?!
Gods, we could repave all the airports in the world with all the runway we'll get.

Click to expand...

Yup, I'll be covering most of them.

Got my idea. Colours and human condition covered. however I don't know how I'll make my main character grow yet.

Can growth be in the negative direction? It's not satisfying in a hollywood, silver lining/happy ending kind of way for sure.

Maybe that just means I should try harder to come up with a better character arc....



Crap. Just as I typed this out I figured out how to create a positive arc.

Then it wasn't a wasted effort.

Irish said:

Yup, I'll be covering most of them.

Click to expand...

It takes a hard worker to cover most of the worlds runways. Now we just need to find you some runaway to work with.

ronito said:

2010 words?!
Gods, we could repave all the airports in the world with all the runway we'll get.

Click to expand...

I thought I'd put 101010, but then I thought; there's going to be at least one person who goes completely nuts.

Ashes1396 said:

I thought I'd put 101010, but then I thought; there's going to be at least one person who goes completely nuts.

Click to expand...

wait. that's a 42 word limit.

Idea: twitter challenge sometime in the future?

Iceman said:

Idea: twitter challenge sometime in the future?

Click to expand...

Much, much harder than you'd think.

Iceman said:

wait. that's a 42 word limit.

Idea: twitter challenge sometime in the future?

Click to expand...

I'd just twitter about Minecraft, which is what I do anyway.

It's supposed to mean both actually. Yesterday being 10/10/10 and my posting at ten past ten BST. So it would have been anywhere between 42 words and 101,010 words. Except that it would come with a warning that if it was too long or too short, then I would just come along and invalidate it by default, so you would have to write something your audience would actually read. :lol
I had this strange idea to replicate the market you are dealing with out in the wild. But I thought fuck it. Who is going to have the balls to invalidate entries when the rules are the ones above?
And from there I just abanded my original theme of 'numbers' to colours.
ps. It isn't so easy to come up with a theme... But whatever you do, don't be a bastard with it! I thought.... :lol

Be kind, people.

A different kind of brush (1699 words)
The piece was hanging in the center of the art gallery with three spotlights mounted above, angling their unintrusive and sterile glow upon it. Usually they rotated the spot between the various paintings at hand but the owner had taken a liking to this particular one and had let it hang there for nearly two weeks now, suspended a few feet behind a thick velvet cord that told connoisseurs where to stay put.

Marc stared at it, standing on the grey carpet that sort of matched the white walls. He'd been doing so daily for the last week or so, sometimes for up to ten minutes at a time and sometimes only for a few moments when passing by. He was the manager and always came in first and was the last one to leave -- keeping starving art alive had never been as tough as now with the economy falling apart and all.

The painting, it always seemed to draw his eyes towards it.

The colors were vivid and the painter, one Peter Tillman, had not shied away from gathering all the ones at hand when creating it. Then he surely must have thrown them on the canvas blindly and with arms flailing like a lunatic under a full moon. Bright, screaming and thoroughly messed up.

Marc hated the painting so badly, yet he wasn't even sure why. He'd seen a lot of work in similar fashions but this one, oh, this damn painting, it stuck out in the room as if three dimensional and always managed to anchor his eyes. But he could not pinpoint what bothered him so much with it, which he assumed must be the reason he kept looking at it even when he could be in his car going home to a nice apartment.

His resentment grew and a passing image of him being a kettle and the painting being a stove shot through his head. Had he been a cartoon character this would have been the point where his red face would shoot hot steam out his ears.

"You fucking piece of shit, I fucking hate you" he hissed to the painting in a low voice and then immediately looked around, schocked by his own little outburst.

The coast was clear. Of course no one was there, it was well past 9 p.m. on a thursday and they only catered parties and such events at weekends. He breathed out heavily, wondering what the hell he was doing, turned around and went out the pair of glass doors at the entrence while trying to force the image of the abomination hanging on the wall out of his mind.

The street was fairly quiet here on the outskirts of the city and the streetlights had come on. Most buildings along the street were less than three stories tall, made of concrete or brick and were occupied by companies selling whatever office supplies that were needed in a proper office. One or two of the buildings had large white banderolls hanging alongside them, black letters boldly stating that there was room for a new tenant in this up and coming district -- just call these numbers written in red below for a great deal.

He walked along the one story building that housed the gallery and then turned left, into the alley next to it. His car stood parked right under one of those orange lights, next to a long line of dumpsters mostly used by the restaurant hiring the other half of the same building. It smelled bad.

Marc entered his car and turned the key in the ignition. The dashboard flared up and the radio proceeded to tell him that "we can't go on like this, with suspicios miiiinds". He drove out from the now nearly deserted part of town and onto the freeway, making his 40 minute trip home. He even sang along to the music to keep his mind from wandering back to the painting.

When he came in through the door to his rather well sized apartment he went straight for the fridge -- only allowing himself a second to toss his jacket and keys on the floor -- and took out a cold bottle of beer. He half sat and half lay down in his green comfortable couch and reached for the remote. The glow of the TV-set showered his face and furniture with that eerie glow most electronic apparatuses tend to radiate.

He took a sip of the beer, leaned his head backwards and profoundly said "uuuh", which seemed to relax him a bit. Out of nowhere the image of the painting came crashing into his head, hanging in front of his minds eye like a ghost. "Uuuh!" Marc exclaimed. He took another sip of the beer and then one more.



When he came to he was groggy from sleep and it took him a while to gather his scattered brain. The TV was still on but thankfully enough muted -- he wasn't interested in listening to what the infomercials had to say -- and a quick glance at the clock hanging from the alcove leading in to the kitchen revealed it to be quite late, almost a quarter to four in the morning.

But Marc had woken up for a reason, that much he knew. An idea had nestled its way into his dreams. He stood up, shaking his legs a bit to summon life to them and stretched his arms out. He went straight to the front door, grabbing his coat and keys on the way. "Almost forgot" he thought and turned around and yet again went to the fridge. This time it wasn't a beer but two bottles of water he took. Then he went out through the door and into the night.



The next day Marc was reclining in his black office chair, feet casually resting on a desk made of a mahogny imitation. In his hands he held a small basket filled with french fries. He took one up at a time, dipped it in the puddle of ketchup on the side before eating it. One at a time, slowly, and utterly pleased with himself. It was around noonish and he was feeling good. This was like yoga to him.

There was a knock at the door and before he had the time to say anything Vicky, an assistant at the art gallery, came in. Dressed in a tight beige suit and carrying a clipboard with names scribbled on it under her left arm she walked up to the desk and laid a couple of letter adressed to Marc on it.

”Hey Marc, these are for you” she said with a voice that sounded both nice and professional at the same time. She looked curiously at him, eyeing him up and down.

”What?” Marc inquired.

”You look pretty happy, you won the lottery or something?”

”Ah, nah, it’s just a good day, you know. Food’s great too” he answered, throwing yet another one of the french fries in his mouth and smacking loudly while eating.

”Alright, alright. It’s just that I haven’t seen you out in the gallery all day and I know how you love staring at that Tillman piece. I’m surprised you haven’t bought it” Vicky said while laughing a cheery laugh that caused her pony tail to waggle back and forth. ”It’s weird though, the few people who’ve been in today seem to ignore it or walk right past the painting -- usually a lot of people seem to like it. Anyway, I’ve got presentations to take care of, speak to you later Marc".

She turned around and went towards the door. Marc looked at her well shaped butt pressing against the textile of her pants as she walked out the door. "It’s a good day, for sure" he thought and smiled.

He dropped his legs from the desk and spun the chair around until he was facing the window at the back of the small office. Outside the gray picture of a small run down district for businesses that weren’t successful enough for better zip codes was on display. The sun broke through the clouds, adding a bit of colour to the outlines of the dull scenery. ”I did some painting of my own last night” he thought and smiled to himself. ”Different kind of brush though”. He was hard pressed not to laugh out loud when he recalled what happened.



It's in the middle of the night and he’s in his car driving like a mad man, leaning forward over the steering wheel as if it’d make the car go any faster. Occasionally he brings up a bottle of water and takes a few sips of it. He repeats this routine until both bottles are empty and he arrives at the art gallery.

He parks his car at the usual spot in the alley, but like a thief on a mission to commit burglary he uses the back door to enter. The lights are still on in the gallery – they always are – and he walks right up to the Tillman piece, moving the posts with the connecting velvet cords aside and grabs it by the frame.

A minute later he’s outside in the dark and shadowy alley, next to the dumpster and under the plume of the orange light. ”It’s funny”, he thinks to himself, ”in this light the colors look almost black”. For a passing moment he even entertains the thought that the painting might not be that bad after all, before proceeding with his plan.



Earlier this morning, coming into the office after only a few hours of sleep, he had walked right past the painting and only then he had known for certain that the painting had lost its grip on him. Everything was right with the universe again. "I peed on that son of a bitch painting" he thought without noticing that the smile was crawling its way back up along his cheeks. He stared out through the window but saw nothing of the boring town, completely satisfied with himself.

The End

Got the seed of an idea for this one. Need to figure out how to make it into a story, though.

God, I fucking hate this. I've hit a writer's block in regards to my NaNoWriMo novel. I want to finsih it, send it off, I have dreams about doing it... but god I fucking hate this piece of shit. Too much dialogue, not enough action, incomprehensible point...

I'm not having fun anymore.

ZephyrFate said:

God, I fucking hate this. I've hit a writer's block in regards to my NaNoWriMo novel. I want to finsih it, send it off, I have dreams about doing it... but god I fucking hate this piece of shit. Too much dialogue, not enough action, incomprehensible point...

Click to expand...

you've already started? isn't the purpose of the nanowrimomomomo to write during november, not before?

anyway, i started writing for this one, and i have mixed feelings. on one hand i haven't had this much fun writing in a while, but on the other trying to shape it into a story is pretty frustrating, since i get the feeling i'm just not good enough of a writer to pull this off in a satisfactory way. how it relates to the theme is also questionable. there's certainly colours, but i'm not sure it justifies being a "theme". it almost feel at the moment that the secondary objective is closer to being the theme than the actual one, and even that's not really that close.

random question, anyone else have terrible time choosing names for characters? i never feel good about them, even when it's just a random label that has no purpose. i just pick a name at random from some "baby names" list, but they all just feel wrong.

You do realize there was a NaNoWriMo last year right

ZephyrFate said:

You do realize there was a NaNoWriMo last year right

Click to expand...

yes, i just didn't realize you were talking about the last's year's novel. i just got the impression you had already started the new one. my mistake.

I think I may submit something for this challenge. Only time will tell.
Unfortunate as it is, I will skip nanowrimo.

John Dunbar said:

i get the feeling i'm just not good enough of a writer to pull this off in a satisfactory way.

Click to expand...

Perfect. This is how you get better.

how it relates to the theme is also questionable. there's certainly colours, but i'm not sure it justifies being a "theme". it almost feel at the moment that the secondary objective is closer to being the theme than the actual one, and even that's not really that close.

Click to expand...

Not a big deal. The theme is for inspiration; it's not meant to be completely rigid.

Once again, my participation in NaNoWriMo will come down to whether or not I'm comfortable with where I am in my grad school applications. I think I'm ahead of the curves this time, but we'll see once November nears.

Weren't you applying for grad school last year, crow? My deja vu sense is tingling.

Yup. I got rejected to all of them. So this year I've tripled the schools I'm applying to, tripled the work I'm doing, and tripled the insanity.

Oh, sorry to hear. But it seems like you have things in hand now. Good luck.

What's the word count on this? I think I'm going to try to write my first complete story in what feels like forever.

Two thousand and ten words maximum. I feel as though some people will work towards 2000 then get a lovely surprise that they have ten whole extra words to play with.

NaNo 2010 thread is up!

I am so totally blanking on what to write. But, I'm not going to let that stop me from jotting down something random before NaNoWriMo eats our souls.

crowphoenix said:

I am so totally blanking on what to write. But, I'm not going to let that stop me from jotting down something random before NaNoWriMo eats our souls.

Click to expand...

Think Colours Crowphoenix. All you have to do is open your eyes.

Ashes1396 said:

Think Colours Crowphoenix. All you have to do is open your eyes.

Click to expand...

I did, and I just noticed there's still a stocking on my wall from last Christmas. It's like I don't even live in this house.

crowphoenix said:

I did, and I just noticed there's still a stocking on my wall from last Christmas. It's like I don't even live in this house.

Click to expand...

:lol

One of my first ideas for this was a rom com zom thing; I let that go but I think I'm still just going for an out and out plot driven story. The key thing I'm focusing on this week is just to entertain people. Ferociously paced story as well. But told by a storyteller first and foremost.

Looks like I'm going back to an old well this week. :lol

Was struggling with this one, then got seized by a new idea on the drive home from work. Haven't had that happen in a while, so it made a nice change.

The Dream Metropolis
Word Count: 2008

Fortuna favet fortibus. - Latin proverb

There was something to be said of a place that thrived off dreams – a place where all was possible yet none attainable; where goals were fostered, then destroyed. Caine sat on the side of one of the crystalline stairwells, peering out into the impossible vista in front of him; the impossible colors and the impossible details, all swallowed up into an impossible construction. His legs dangled downwards, where no perceivable bottom could be imagined.

“At some point, you have to wake up.” A voice echoed all around, settling down upon the young boy's ears. It was a voice familiar yet undiscernable, and if Caine could place a name to its voice, he felt he would unravel everything. He had learned from his time here that when you begin to see this world as reality, it crumbles, you wake up... poof, it's gone. And when you only get one chance to experience something so grand, so mystical, you don't throw it away so easily.

The boy with the curly brown hair had read in a book once that among the Aborigines, there was a concept of Dreamtime. This other-time that ran alongside our own shapes and crafts the real world that we naturally exist in. It is the sole connection between man and the gods, a link between the seediness of human life and the celestial awe of what comes next.

But the boy only wanted to stay here and dream. For the dream never judged, the dream never harassed; the dream left him very much alone. The only part that annoyed him about existing here was the skips, the jumps in his own memory, propelling him from one place to the next as the dream continued to shift. He never got an explanation for why that happened. Turning to his right, a wandering soul stopped to sit next to him.

“What do you dream?” It asked, taking on a feminine form as it began to mimic a human shape.

“Of all this... a place where I'm not forced to do chores, or listen to my parents, or any of the other shit a kid is supposed to do.”

“Do you run because you cannot handle it?”

The boy sighed, a first for his dreams. He looked upwards at the reflective multi-colored sky and it looked back at him. He saw himself for who he was – a scrawny child of ten years old who knew nothing better than how to run from his responsibilities. But in a place like this, why go back? He longed to be able to sleep forever.

The soul began to laugh, a deep hearty laugh that a woman wouldn't normally emit. The boy looked at her quizzically as she held a hand to her stomach, her legs shaking wildly as she continued to laugh.

“Why're you laughing?!” He asked, irritatedly.

The soul placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Because the only time you sleep forever is when you're dead. And you have a lot of life left in you.”

---

I have seen so many fall under the trap of this city. Such a place promises everything and nothing – a temporary escape, which, even in its longest duration, will never last forever. Time exists here without rhyme or reason, all can be manipulated by the mind of the Dreamer. I have watched this city fall into ruin. I have watched as Dreamers have warred against each other, and I have become victim to the whims of an errant, violent mind. Those who die while they are asleep, a luxury afforded to only the luckiest – they find themselves here, stuck in constant dynamism.

And then there are the times when a Dreamer will view this place as real, as if it were somehow a replacement for their own life. There are no substitutions, only the ephemeral escapes. So I sit here, overlooking this city of dreams, and I see nothing but fantasy. There is nothing grounding this place to any definable existence. I have created a place that could be destroyed at any time, shattering the dreams of millions dead and alive.

I watch the droves of innocent souls all painted colors menagerie: Blue for the ones who dream of sorrow and sadness, red for the angry, passionate, or violent dreams, deep jet black for the few who dream of death, and so on. Do they ponder why they dream of such things? Or am I the only one who ever notices such a thing? The projection changes and I can now see all the links between the dreams, the bungie cords that whip and twist with each change of scene or thought inside the connected dreams. I only wish they knew they were dreaming of each other.

---

Caine dreamt of sleeping in a forest, only to find himself far away from the cityscape of endless ideas and instead transplanted into the forest of claustrophobic paths. The air smelled sickly sweet with the residue of tree sap and the heady natural earth perfume bursting forth from the ground underneath. He laid in the niche of a large tree, whose trunk shone golden, beaming from some hidden dart of light bouncing off multitudinous hidden crystals. The light shifted and faded, never staying in the same spot. A small nymph flew over to the boy, prodding him with her finger.

“You city-folk need to go back, there's nothing here for you.”

“But I wanted to be here to get away from there... why can't I stay?” The boy asked, arms to his sides, a small hint of annoyance drawn on his face by some omniscient cartoonist.

She looked at him with big (for her size) amber eyes and studied him, cocking her head from side to side.

“There are others here. They, too, must leave. I will take you to them, and then all of you must go. This forest is not meant for Dreamers.”

“Why not?” The boy asked, his small chipmunk face shaped with curiousity.

“You Dreamers left where you were supposed to go. Made a fuss. A ruckus. Too many changes because you Dreamers love to change things that should always stay unchanged.”

The sprite, whose color and facial structure morphed and shifted with each passing moment, never given a shape worthy of a compartment to shove into, turned away from the boy, and the boy felt himself tugged forward. A string he could not see was slowly tugging him forward, making him stumble amidst tree roots and sharp rocks jutting out of the pastoral green underneath him.

The trees began to part and fall backwards as the sprite waved her fingers in front of herself, tugging Caine along like a dog. The path eventually opened up into a small field surrounded by more trees, where many other people were sprawled amongst themselves, all looking positively lost. Caine was then shoved in with them, as more sprites flew out of the forest and surrounded all of the Dreamers.

He looked all around him, and then blinked. As if he had fallen asleep again, he found himself back in the city, back on the same stairwell he had been before. Something had compelled him to stand up, then continue down the crystalline spiral, each step glittering like jewels and the jewels were all constructed from words never spoken, and he could hear them all with each step, all in different voices and different languages: Kind words... amorous words... jealous words... all wrapped tightly in birthday gifts that never made it to their destination.

It was as if this city of dreams he found himself in were changing itself faster than ever, and he noticed it for the first time. Buildings were disappearing and reappearing simultaneously, elevations shifting upwards and downwards. Even the stairwell he was on became more and more twisted, moving with Caine as his feet landed on each step.

The world's falling apart.

The voice from before had returned, a soft laugh making an entrance before the dialogue did.

“It has been a while since a Dreamer has gone astray. Most stay in this city without leaving... for quite some time. One of you Dreamers have tried to make this place real, and thus destroy it all.”

----

I want to interject and this may be the last time but seriously, if you're trapped in a world of dreams why would you want to mess it up and make it real? I mean, come on. I've built this place for the consumption of people who have no other way out. They're trapped in their boxes built by their own hands made from the cardboard of regrets and the newspaper umbrellas of bad decisions. Much like teacups thrown into hurricanes and obliterated, these people's capacity to deal with the shit in their lives has been annihilated.

So why fuck up a good thing?

Simple answers to simple questions: These people don't know how good things are until it's too late. And even though this place offers dreams that could never be realized, there are no rules... except one: Don't make it real. Recognize the dream for what it is... a dream. There are still idiots who don't understand this, and I'm glad my project is going to waste, honestly. Let it all fall apart.

---

Caine watched the sky begin to crack open, pieces raining down as the colors swirling around began to explode. Aquamarine jets burst downward, blowing holes in smaller parts of the city; craters formed and all the structures began to shatter like glass. Crimson flames rained down meteorites, burning paths through so many dreams. Eventually, the whole sky flew apart, a multi-colored explosion: green and silver, yellow and purple, azure death and sepia wrath, cracking the picturesque metropolis in front of his eyes.

A woman walked up next to him, placing her hand upon his shoulder. He turned to look up at her but could not make out her face, but he could still very clearly hear her.

“Are you ready to go back to the real world?”

The boy let a single dagger-tear crave a canyon along his cheek before he answered her.

“I just wanted to be here a little longer... a little longer, that's all!”

“They all say that. I've said that. I told myself that I could stay here forever. But I couldn't. I have a wife and kids to go back to, and... well, they need me. I can't sleep in today.”

Multiple voices began to drift in and out of hearing, falling down from the sky, all calling different names, stating different things.

“Amelia, you gotta wake up!” Another woman's voice rang out.

“Well... I guess it's time for me to go. I gotta cook breakfast today... shit. Anyway, kiddo, don't worry about it. You're, what, eleven or something? You should be happy. You don't have to deal with anything real tough yet.”

He turned to find her float upwards, then disappear. Caine could feel the end of the dream coming, and even though his legs and his mind made him want to run, anywhere, everywhere, there was no escaping the inevitable. His wayward fleeing made him stumble off a newly-formed cliff, and as he fell he began to recall all the dreams.

Fighting monsters with a broadsword, being called the hero. Flying around in space on a spaceship, taking down alien hordes to save humanity. He looked up at the sky as he fell, at the reflection that always looked back at him, and this time it gave him a smile. And then he remembered.

Mom's making pancakes. I can't miss that! No way!

He had one last dream before the Dreamtime disappeared entirely: The smell of breakfast hot on the table.

But as soon as his eyes had betrayed him, had taken him away from sleep... he had forgotten all of his dreams entirely.

I don't think I'll be able to cut mine down to 2000 words. It's a pile of bullshit anyway. 270 words over.

.

Timedog said:

I don't think I'll be able to cut mine down to 2000 words. It's a pile of bullshit anyway. 270 words over.

Click to expand...

hmm... get it in... still, and we'll see... if we enjoy it or not...

Going to start writing today. Been tossing an idea around in my head the past few days.

_____________________________________

“Be good and merry” or “a road unwalked.”
____________________



When Jimmy's father, Jack Faithbrace was born, Doctor Stourbridge, GP, who was to become a life long friend, shed a few sweet tears. The glint in the eye told of the shoulders he stood upon. The progress of Medical matters had come far enough to save the little darling, whose only fault it seemed was to have been born prematurely. He took time out of his book of thoughts and lived in that moment. For once, concentrating and fully determined to do so, on the details of the case at hand. Double checking, triple checking.

Jimmy's father Jack Faithbrace always had week legs and a weaker heart. I shan't bother you with the medical details, as it is his life that I want you, dear reader to concentrate on; for he survived. And he did it time and time again. Doctor Stourbridge was his GP when Jack's left ventricle failed, completely, when he was three. He shed another tear, though once again rejoicing, that it was science again that triumphed over luck.

Jack Faithbrace's first kiss at fourteen was a wonderment to behold. He would often secretly watch the local football team play on the muddied field of the local park. Stuck fast to his wheelchair, he wished, longed for, to get on to that field and kick a football. Sure he was happy to be alive. But there was a pleasure to be had, and he could never ever have it. Jemma Spofforth, the girl next door, his self proclaimed girlfriend, standing behind him, with her hands on the silver-backed handles of the wheelchair, watched the football along with him. Every so often she would look at the clouds in wonderment.

In a hark back to olden times, Jemma Spofforth became Jemma Faithbrace, at twenty one. Hardly a person at the ceremony believed that the marriage would last, but they all wished it to do so. And the entire village, lit up upon the birth of Jimmy Faithbrace; Jack Faithbrace said little and smiled a lot. Doctor Stourbridge leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets beside the new father. The father wasn't of the teary sort, but the eyes were definitely moistened to hear that it was a healthy little boy. A very fit and healthy little boy.

The marriage did last, though the life did not. Jack Faithbrace stood, rested on his crutches, beside the nine year old Jimmy Faithbrace, dressed in their pale black suits, clean white shirts, and the black tie, whilst Jemma Faithbrace was lowered into the hallowed ground. Doctor Stourbridge looked on, always the bearer of bad news, as he too, was shaved to a grim face. He lived not in the moment then; he relieved the memory of Jack Faithbrace bawling, a baby in his arms, and then again as a grown man. He thought next of manhood and what it meant in the modern sense; and then on to social constructs, society, and the male epithet to female subjugation. Before coming back to the grave of the dearly departed, the child who knew but was not aware of his mother's death, and the upturned mouth of a man looking down at life and all that came with it. Truly, Doctor Stourbridge asked him self, what was man without a mother or a partner in crime?

Jack Faithbrace read his wife's letter addressed to him specifically and delivered by Doctor Stourbridge, the following week. It was short but perhaps made up in volume by the tear stains on the letter it self. It read:

Be good and be merry. I love you for who you are and not what you are. And I know you never truly believed that and were grateful; but you will one day. Just like I did.

Take care,

Jemma Faithbrace

ps. I never said breast cancer research sucks. I said that it sucks that it was too late for me... Okay, maybe I did say that. But it was only in frustration at life it self. Grrr... Can you please put some of my life savings to good use in regards of that please.
Pps. Love's not lost if it leaves a rose's petal in its wake... I love you and our child with all my broken heart...


#

Jimmy Faithbrace enjoyed the quieter things in life. As a small-village boy, he liked the greens of the English countryside, and angling in the rivers near by. He didn't really enjoy getting up bright and early to go football training with his dad in Dr Stourbridge's car. The two men plotted his training sessions, his diets, his school work, and his home work. He would look at other school children playing in the school grounds, running about carefree. His life revolved around football. It wasn't that he didn't love football, but that he wanted a normal life as well. And one rainy day he plucked up and talked about it with his father. His father listened, motionless, apart from the one finger perusing the wheel arches.

After a while, thinking his words carefully, he said: “I'm sorry kidd. Sometimes I guess, parents live their dreams through their children. If you don't want to make something of your self in football then we'll let it be.”
“It's not that dad. I do want that...F.A cup final and all that but I want to go to school. The few kids round here, they all go to school... it's hard to explain...”
“Say no more... I'll speak to Alan first thing in the morning.”
Jimmy shifted in his seat. “Are you disappointed?”
“err... not really. I don't think you really understand why you don't go to school. The school in the village doesn't have enough places so you'd have to go into town. Only one bus goes into town, and that is only on a Saturday. For the football see. I can't drive, and it'd be a forty minute walk there for you...”
“Oh I see... I could walk into town; it wouldn't be so bad...”
“I'm sure you can. Even with the heavy school bags laden with weighty books. But it wouldn't be the same thing in the middle of winter, when the dark comes early. No, no it wouldn’t. And when it floods, it would take you a full hour by the Deff Springs way. Don't you worry, I'll sort something out...”

#

When Jimmy got to school, he found that he didn't like it so much. He wanted to be free and go out whenever he liked. And when he told his dad that he didn't want to go school any more; his dad laughed but declared a firm no. At which point, Jimmy threatened to runaway, and warned his dad that his dad would be sorry then. His dad proceeded calmly to the kitchen and made him sandwiches for the trip!

#

Jimmy was used to footballing success from an very early age; and this only grew in time. He had a natural spring in his step, learning the tricks of the trade with his father by pouring over footballing footage for hours on end. He was soon accepted for a football scholarship, which took his father's breath back a little, and he would go to these sessions everyday after school.

His first little break, came very quickly, and surprised both his father and Doctor Stourbridge. It was a difficult market for footballing children and parents. Nearly all children fail. At no point did either Jimmy, his father or Doctor Stourbridge ever fully believe in it. It was something that was almost destined to fail. It's why Jimmy's father pushed him to do well in his academic career. Regardless of the belief that it would all end unhappily -any moment now- Jimmy was called on by Sir Trevor Brooking, in charge of the English Youth F.A. Committee for Development. He came in person. Jimmy was to play for the England Boys' team.
And then the senior team... and then for Man United, one of the biggest teams in the country, and quite possibly the world as well. Surprisingly even then, there was a lingering thought that it would all end in a horrific injury.

Jimmy grew in fame and stature, the parties came, the girls flocked to him, and the life was good. At the age of his father's marriage, 21, Jimmy was one of the most recognisable figures in the world; he never really could quite acknowledge it. Albeit, he was well versed in the downfall this rapid rise could entail; so kept up a good vigil upon this, and kept his distance from The Sun.

Still the success came with Champions League glory, the biggest club football competition in Europe. Jimmy Boy, was his name, the photographers flocked him. He kept to his private life, and very rarely gave interviews. He moved back to the village he was born in, with his current girlfriend, a shy librarian, hoping that he had chosen wisely in that regard. There was no paparazzi here unlike in Manchester, or worse: London.

#

Somehow or another Jimmy ended up alone in the England changing rooms, during the half-time interval of the biggest competition in the world: the World Cup Final. Billions of people were watching live. He sat alone in the dark, talking to Doctor Stourbridge on the phone. Doctor Stourbridge was in a waiting room at St John's Hospital, looking through a window pane at doctors working to pump the heart of his patient and life long friend, Jack Fairbrace.

The caller and the listener held on to the mouthpiece allowing it act the part of portal between two worlds.

And he may cry, or jostle back the water, but steadfast in its wake lay the remnants of the road unwalked.... Jimmy recalled, they being the finite words Jack Fairbrace wanted on his gravestone.

It is then upon this thought that Jack Fairbrace's heart stopped. Silence reigned supreme to a most turbulent foreground.

“He has gone into cardiac arrest...”
“What does that mean?”
“His hearted has stopped. I'm sorry. He's just d-”

Jimmy let go of the phone and walked through the tunnel that led onto the pitch, remaining as ever a true professional. Who would swap their life with him at this precise moment? He thought. There were bound to be a wretched few...

Life is not a story book he thought, where this must happen and that must occur. Life, however, his father would argue, is no cold play. And Jack Fairbrace, though mortal, seems to - against the odds- keep on surviving. And so he did, when his heart started beating again an entire minute later. Doctor Stourbridge put his hands into his pockets, looked at the medical gods and smiled to himself.

“De-fibrillation,” he said. “You beauty!”

So it was an odd sight, when nearly two billion people suddenly saw Jimmy fall to his knees, having just been made aware that his father still breathed, and watched him pull his hands to his mouth, managing to hold back the dams on his emotions, stuck completely and absolutely in that moment, fully taking in the overwhelming sense of it all; and in front of the world, he plucked a blade of the greenest grass there was, with the greatest of convictions, oh joy of joys, wearing the warmest and most sincerest of smiles, and looked around him at the sea of colour, and heard the applause, the rapturous applause of a home crowd, croaking hoarsely their full on wave of amorous support; telling him that they knew, they knew, that they were empathising... and that though they were empathising, he was in the middle of a bloody match; in fact the most important match in some of their lives, and in England's recent history, and that they were so close to winning, so could he please carry on playing.
Jimmy Fairbrace clapped his hands, thanked the crowd, beamed a wide smile, laughing along with everyone else and got back to playing the game.

The End...

I just scrapped 700 words that were the beginning of my triumphant return to writingGAF. I am so out of practice at this shit it's unreal. I need to play less videogames and read more.