One Shots

[TinTinn]

Miscarriage

 

Just like the word, 'misplaced', it's a blunt type of word. Misplaced is just another word to take the grief and sympathy away, when really it is the word, 'lost'. My eye lashes feel damp and a saliva lump builds in the bottom of my throat, my hands covered in my own lies. These lies, spilling over my wrists onto the desk in front of me. I knew it was too good to be true, too true to be real, to be pure, how stupid. I plummet to the pit, to the floor, the place that's cold and wet. It's were your teeth shatter in your barren mind, the sharp edges bite the wooden floor. Misplaced is one word, lost is another, Miscarriage is another word... lost. My pulse stays at beat, for some time, that lasts a few minutes, that feel like empty seconds. My last lazy vision is the dull light beaming through the window blinds... everything faids, my lies spill everywhere, I cry, "My baby, where is my baby," and I lay there, in an awkward fetal position feeling sad for myself, for my departed partner, for my dead child.

 

Ventura Highway

Edited April 20, 2012 by TinTinn

[Mokrie Dela]

Ventura.

 

That's what i named my kid. People laughed at the name. But it was fate. A sign from God.

 

We were trying to reach the hospital but the LA traffic had other ideas. The radio was on, and my wife laughed inbetween contractions at the song playing; Ventura Highway by the rock 'n' roll band America. What made it funny? We were on the Ventura freeway. We even lived in Ventura, but we'd been out for the day. LA was the nearest hospital. Or so we thought. I'd paniced and just drove.

 

The EMTs turned up as my wife was, what was the expression, dilated? Our son was born on the shoulder of the freeway, his first vocal act drowned out by a truck horn.

 

We eventually got to the hospital but something was wrong. My son had osteo... something. Something wrong with his bones. I don't know. We broke down.

 

Years passed and treatment after treatment our son grew up. When he was ten he was in a car crash, and broke almost every bone in his body. He had brittle bones - something stemming from his birth. But he survived. This vulnerable, fragile thing survived a horrific car crash that killed three others.

 

Divine intervention. It was God's hand.

 

Why am i telling you this? Because of the moral of the story. My son is now thirty, and a doctor. He has saved hundreds of lives and has just become a pedia... pe... a kid doctor. What's it called? pediatric man?

 

He'd married now and is trying to start a family. And what do we owe to that?

 

Faith. The Lord watched over him, guiding him to where he is now. He has become The Lord's hand of good.

 

Pediatrician! That's it

 

 

 

 

 

Theme:

Folded Paper Figures

[Ziggy455]

Xiu Yong was a girl I met when I was an intern at a local hospital in my country. The hospital was a normal place, ill people, wards, and doctors. I would go from room to room each day and replace sheets, clean bedpans, check IVs and catheters, and occasionally have the odd conversation or two with a patient. I had made friends with many of the patients in my short time there but upon the third month of my internship as a prominent young doctor I came across a new patient; Xiu Yong. A beautiful Asian girl with mid length Chesnutt brown hair and the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. A smile was always on her face whenever I’d go into see her but she would never utter word to me.

 

Eventually as the days progressed, Xiu was confined to her room. I’d personally take over surveillance of her recover –she’d been in a car crashed with her father who had died on impact. I would spend occasional nights sleeping in the room with Xiu not knowing how to break the news to her. I woke up one morning with a small origami bird on my chair sleeve. I asked nurses who had done it and Xiu –being unresponsive to talk- obviously wouldn’t give me an answer.

 

I continued to try some sort of theories to get Xiu to talk. I wanted her to explain how she felt, but night after night Xiu would curl up into a ball and fall asleep. Each night I would go in there to catch up on some sleep, each time I would wake up with more paper folded figures. Eventually I caught on that it was Xiu. This was how she was communicating. I asked her one morning, holding the origami swan, “Did you make this?” she looked at me and for once she responded with a nod that was the first actual contact with a human in the last week.

 

“Is there something you want to tell me Xiu?” I asked her curiously. She gave me a look that screamed yes, her big brown eyes widened but then she skulked back under her blanket and pretended to sleep. I got up and walked to the door.

 

“I wonder what will happen if I leave this stack of paper here.” I said tapping the wad of paper I’d taken from behind the medical desk. I spend the rest of the day doing rounds and working my ass off. At about 3am Mark told me to hit the sack, I grabbed a coffee and promised to do so once I’d checked on Xiu.

 

I opened up her door and noticed the familiar lump on the bed, sound asleep. On the floor a few feet away from the door to my surprise were hundreds of origami shapes and not just swans but people, tables, a restaurant scene and a forest and a bench with not only a little girl but a man next to her, holding her hand. Xiu had made a copy of her and her father. Thousands of swans I began to notice were on the tables and chairs and they were all focused on this one little scene of when? The day before the crash?

 

“I miss my dad.” The lump said with a muffled cry.

 

 

Escaping the country

[El Zilcho]

The following is an intensely personal dramatization of a real event. An event that shaped me completely into who I am today. The dialogue and details aren't strictly accurate, but the overall situation and circumstances are. I've taken the simple story and fleshed it out.

 

The dying sun crawled beneath the horizon as orange began to bleed away to red. At the border crossing between Brazil and Paraguay, hundreds of people were being processed mechanically. Red tape restricted ease of movement, but a well placed bribe could buy a tourist ease of mind and speedy traversal of the barriers.

 

Around the treeline birds soared majestically in the evening light, mirroring the flock of immigrants and smugglers below. Foz do Iguaçu lay behind the Father and the Son, who were still stood in sweltering heat of the border crossing. A 3rd consecutive hour of tense waiting was finally giving way to the moment of truth. Not many times in anyone's life would ever be this pivotal; a child's destiny was being forged. A man's freedom was being cast asunder selflessly and without hesitation.

 

The Mother had long been disenfranchised by her new home. She took the Son from his home, back across the Atlantic, back to Brazil before the Father even knew. Selfish and unyielding, she arranged for divorce in absentia, stealing the Son during the Father's own mother's funeral. His reputation was ruined by the Mother's family, his only pride taken from him through slander and fabrication. There was no defence. Familial law, ever in touch with reality, enshrined the Mother's inherent right to raise her child regardless of circumstance. The cynical cogs of 'justice' had turned and firmly locked shut. Every two weeks would have to suffice for the Father, whose greatest sin had been searching for a better life for his family.

 

Tragedy had shredded hope. But the Father knew he had only one option and it wouldn't be white or black, but grey. The question was never in doubt for him; but the feasibility was. He'd have to move quickly, to right wrongs in such an unorthodox manner, that he would be anchored as a fugitive for years to come.

 

"These documents aren't in order. You're missing the C-9." the Father's eyes looked down slowly at the spot the Officer was pointing to. Nestled between the off white sheets of bureaucracy there was a blank section. Realisation sank crushingly - bluffing wouldn't cut it. His heart plummeted as he looked down at the Son who stood quietly by his knee, looking absent mindedly toward the queue across from them. Tears almost welled up, but the Father bit back the lump in his throat to speak slowly.

 

"Isn't there another way?" The words barely left his mouth, his throat smothering each syllable with desperation. Outside the sun crackled into embers, dusting the horizon with purple. The ceiling fan smouldered for an eternity as time grated to a halt. Behind the pair, stood hundreds of menial travellers and backpackers, fanning themselves with newspapers. Oblivious to the understated importance just inches in front.

 

"Excuse me, sir?" The Officer looked blankly at the Father. There wasn't a shred of emotion to betray his motives. Another instantaneous exchange slowed to a standstill. Whether it was the adrenalin, fear or sweat he couldn't tell, but the Father froze for what felt like a year.

 

"I could arrange to cut through all this." Father reached into his wallet and the expression on the Officer's face melted. His grin cut away the tension and vindication swooped in on invisible (but golden) celestial wings. "$500?" The Officer nodded as the paper changed hands - this silent and dubious exchange most symptomatic of South America. But in corruption, redemption was bought. A moment of ironic beauty. $500 was the greatest bargain of all time.

 

The Father and the Son slipped through the turn stiles and into the swirling crowds outside, reaching a taxi as night flooded in. The remainder of the plan would still have to succeed, but the main border crossing was a resounding victory.

 

Asunción to Buenos Aires, to Madrid, to Paris, to Dover.

 

I was that Son. I won't pretend these choices are 100% justified. They most certainly aren't Hollywood but they are true. This little anecdote is the only reason I speak English today, the only reason I post here. The only reason I'm achieving so highly in a country as developed as the UK today. I wouldn't know my friends, possibly not even my Father. $500 bought my way to a better world. I simply wouldn't be me if I hadn't passed through to Paraguay. I know nothing of the corrupt border officer, but he forever has my respect. For doing his job badly

 

 

Your Profession

[Ziggy455]

An honest piece Zilch'. I liked it, and I could tell there was a lot of honesty in it.

 

I find myself typing away everyday. Endless typing about endless sh*t nobody cares about or bothers to read –not even the tutors bother to critique- it is all just generically flitted upon for a moment and then marked with a high grade. Being a student sucks, I wasn’t made to be crammed in a room with a sh*tload of other people who all sport the douche-bag fashions, the fake tans and the f*cking idiotic ‘look at me! Look at me! I need attention’ attitude. I feel old for my age, I’m pushing nineteen and I feel like a damn old man.

 

I spend each day going to college and it sucks the f*cking energy out of me. I f*cking have to sit shoulder to shoulder with loud mouthed bitches who feel the need to go on about whiny sh*t. ‘My blackberry broke, my boyfriend isn’t getting it up right, and my mom didn’t give me the right colored car’. All day, every day. Pointless sh*t that nobody wants to know.

 

Of course, being a student was something I’d decided to do to stop going down a path of destruction. Several times in my life –thanks to my father- I had been sent over to Ecuador or some other piece of sh*t country coated in war and destruction to oversee deals. A nineteen year old who knows how to handle an Ak-47 or a fully automatic pistol is a strange thing. Especially if that kid came from a lower class family in Britain. Okay, well sh*t, that’s an odd thing to expect. But I’d done it occasionally, catching planes over to strange places with my father and using my friends as excuses. I made good money of this kind of stuff, but in my later years I decided the life of running in small rebel groups, overseeing deals and travelling over continents wasn’t the life I wanted. I had a mentality my psychiatrist called ‘suicidal’. I wouldn’t call it that, I’d say I was ready to die, which is a lot different to wanting to die and ready to die.

 

But I left that life, I told my father to stop including me in those kinds of political activities and I decided to come home and try and make something of my life. Course when you’ve seen the sh*t I have you kind of grow cynical of places and people. If I hear one more god damn spoilt piece of sh*t tell me he’s bummed out because he couldn’t get the new edition of Call of Duty, I’m gonna strap him into a f*cking plane and send him down to a little town my father does business in. We’ll see if he wants to f*cking play it any more.

 

 

Forbidden attraction

 

I am going to try and make them weirder and weirder.

[Mokrie Dela]

You make them weirder? I'm gonna try something controversial.

 

####

 

Paedophilia. That's what they'd call it. Emma stood in front of the class on autopilot. HAlf the class weren't listening anyway. She used to teach children but it wasn't enough. The subjects too easy. So she'd moved to secondary school and now taught 14-16 year olds.

 

The problem was that Henrietta was fourteen. Like that's the biggest problem, she reminded herself. She was a teacher. Fourteen or sixteen. It's still not allowed.

 

But Henrietta radiated beauty. She didn't wear much make up, and was a relatively slender young girl. Emma could see that her breasts had developed nicely, and sat defying gravity temptingly.

 

Definitely a C cup, Emma observed. She liked small breasts. Enough to play with but -

 

Stop it!. She commanded herself, and continued with the lesson.

 

Henrietta was a rebel. Not a full on troublemaker, she was cheeky. So Emma had to keep her behing at lunch one day.

 

"I'm sorry miss." Henrietta said - genuinely. Emma sat down next to her and spoke softely.

"You're not like the rest, why do you act up?"

"I don't know miss, i just get unconfortable."

"Why?"

"Cause... I shouldn't say miss."

"That's fine, but if something's bothing you, talk to me or your form tutor."

"It's not school miss, it's.... I think i'm... you know."

Emma shook her head.

"Gay, miss."

Emma's heart leapt through her breasts. She was instantly aroused.

She swallowed hard. "There's nothing wrong with that." She rested her hand on the student's shoulder.

Henrietta grabbed it.

 

Emma lost control. She took one hand and stroked the young, unblemished skin, her thumb caressing the pursed lips.

Henrietta looked up and Emma kissed her.

 

It was the best kiss that she'd ever had. She felt it in her fingers, and all of her muscles buzzed. She felt the resistance of her blouse on her suddenly erect nipples. She was on fire.

 

She allowed a hand to touch Henrietta's perfect breasts, just about enough of it to fill her hand.

She began moving her spare hand down the girl's uniform, across the youthful belly, and down to her mons pubis. The skin was silky smooth, like silk and, as her hand reached the girl's labia majora, she felt a hint of hair.

 

The first noise was the best she ever heard. Henrietta gasped and moaned in pleasure.

But the second noise was the worst she'd ever heard.

 

The best moment of her life rapidly became her worst as the headmaster walked in.

 

"Miss Lee, I'd...." He stood and stared.

 

Emma Lee knew her career was over then. And she knew it was her own fault.

 

 

 

Theme:

Paradox

[Ziggy455]

 

You make them weirder? I'm gonna try something controversial.

 

####

 

Paedophilia. That's what they'd call it. Emma stood in front of the class on autopilot. HAlf the class weren't listening anyway. She used to teach children but it wasn't enough. The subjects too easy. So she'd moved to secondary school and now taught 14-16 year olds.

 

The problem was that Henrietta was fourteen. Like that's the biggest problem, she reminded herself. She was a teacher. Fourteen or sixteen. It's still not allowed.

 

But Henrietta radiated beauty. She didn't wear much make up, and was a relatively slender young girl. Emma could see that her breasts had developed nicely, and sat defying gravity temptingly.

 

Definitely a C cup, Emma observed. She liked small breasts. Enough to play with but -

 

Stop it!. She commanded herself, and continued with the lesson.

 

Henrietta was a rebel. Not a full on troublemaker, she was cheeky. So Emma had to keep her behing at lunch one day.

 

"I'm sorry miss." Henrietta said - genuinely. Emma sat down next to her and spoke softely.

"You're not like the rest, why do you act up?"

"I don't know miss, i just get unconfortable."

"Why?"

"Cause... I shouldn't say miss."

"That's fine, but if something's bothing you, talk to me or your form tutor."

"It's not school miss, it's.... I think i'm... you know."

Emma shook her head.

"Gay, miss."

Emma's heart leapt through her breasts. She was instantly aroused.

She swallowed hard. "There's nothing wrong with that." She rested her hand on the student's shoulder.

Henrietta grabbed it.

 

Emma lost control. She took one hand and stroked the young, unblemished skin, her thumb caressing the pursed lips.

Henrietta looked up and Emma kissed her.

 

It was the best kiss that she'd ever had. She felt it in her fingers, and all of her muscles buzzed. She felt the resistance of her blouse on her suddenly erect nipples. She was on fire.

 

She allowed a hand to touch Henrietta's perfect breasts, just about enough of it to fill her hand.

She began moving her spare hand down the girl's uniform, across the youthful belly, and down to her mons pubis. The skin was silky smooth, like silk and, as her hand reached the girl's labia majora, she felt a hint of hair.

 

The first noise was the best she ever heard. Henrietta gasped and moaned in pleasure.

But the second noise was the worst she'd ever heard.

 

The best moment of her life rapidly became her worst as the headmaster walked in.

 

"Miss Lee, I'd...." He stood and stared.

 

Emma Lee knew her career was over then. And she knew it was her own fault.

 

 

 

Theme:

Paradox

Not bad man, not bad at all. I read it and got into it and then immediately thought 'f*ck' second the old bastard walked in. Controversial indeed, but nonetheless a good story.

 

 

David’s lungs burned like a volcano, his breath like heated smoke emitting from the cavity of his heart. The rain pattered down heavily as he sprinted behind a maze of alleyways. Where was he? He wondered. The bright lights of the city in with a sh*tload of neon in Chinese meant it was probably Shanghai.

 

He sprinted past a couple, jumped over an askew dumpster and came out to a busy street covered in Chinese people, a hail of bullets flew at him, the people scattered and David hit the floor with sudden shock. He scrambled to the nearest cover; a cop car yet none of its inhabitants in sight.

 

Bullets hit the car as if somebody was smashing it from the other side with a damn sledgehammer. “f*ck this.” He yelled loudly before jumping out and sprinting forward. The assailant ahead of him now was turning in fear of him approaching. David needed a gun. He continued down then next set of maze-like alleyways and slammed into a bike rider. The distant sound of gunfire made David think he wasn’t the only one in a battle tonight. Up ahead there was a set of stairs and upon them at the top was the assailant, the gleam of the gun reflected in some back alley neon.

 

“sh*t!” David screamed, diving for the cover of another alley, more bullets hitting him. A burning sensation hit his hand and he yelped in agony as he realized the bullet had gone straight through his palm. He took a moment to breathe and peeked around the corner, the assailant had gone!

 

David took no chances; he sprinted to the stairs, shot up them as fast as possible and noticed one door was ajar. He booted it open, splintering it lightly and falling inwards, a small apartment! Okay which way did the bastard go? A young Chinese woman screamed for the hallway, coated in blood. David stumbled to the doorway and noticed the gun in front of him, a Mac 10 sub machinegun with a bloody imprint on it. He picked it up, and peered forward. Slumped against one of the hallways doors was himself, he raised his arms lightly and David could see it was himself alright, only older. His hair was more grey, his body more muscular and there on his hand, the same hand David had been shot in, was a gaping bullet wound.

 

 

 

Death of a Hero Edited April 21, 2012 by Ziggy455

[El Zilcho]

Not sure I liked that piece Mokrie. If I'm honest I think it was overly gratuitous and as you said, controversial for controversialitys sake. It could have been toned down a little, not that having it blatant is a problem, it just read as cheap erotica. As for the Paradox piece Ziggy, I thought it was great. The little unexplained twist was brilliant, I liked the fast pace and how you brought the theme into it.

[Mokrie Dela]

Not sure I liked that piece Mokrie. If I'm honest I think it was overly gratuitous and as you said, controversial for controversialitys sake. It could have been toned down a little, not that having it blatant is a problem, it just read as cheap erotica. As for the Paradox piece Ziggy, I thought it was great. The little unexplained twist was brilliant, I liked the fast pace and how you brought the theme into it.

i was worried about the erotic bits being too forced, but i told myself i wont edit any of these writes. I didnt know where it was going till it happened, even to the last sentance.

 

Swings and roundabouts really, but i appreciate your honesty

[TinTinn]

 

Death of a Hero

 

James' eyes paused and stared at the young soldier beside him, feeling proud to be in this boys presence. James had been in the army for many years, scaling the ranks and climbing the respect vine for some sense of existence, for 30 years... and for what, your name ingraved on a plark in a war memorial... your name surrounded by thousands of others; panting for attention.

 

All these thoughts hit James in that split second of war, that second could be the most height in the war or the last in the war. Sound comes back into play, ears ringing from shellshock and cheeks burning from near by debrish. Shoulder by shoulder, hunched on the dirt barrage. Side by side, singing with each other, hailing each other but over the years, that flame burnt out.

 

The youngest to leave home for war, are the real heros, but the older and the wiser who had worked on the frontline for many, many years and are foolish ones; as they had a chance to escape the rapids, but stay because all possible options are gone. You're too old to work but never old enough to run across the fields of smoke, gunfire at your doorstep. That night, 40,000 sacrafised their life as Germans sprayed them with a lash of bullets, the young man beside James, one of them.

 

At the ripe age of 85, James Bloomfield reminisces on past war years. He sits on his patio with an acoustic guitar on his side, beside him, just like the boy in the trench. He strums beautiful and pure music about the young, titled 'Death of a Hero, it tears out like an upset child. The song quickly snaps into a fast plucking song, celebrating life and love. James places his guitar down and wanders into his italian garden, picking a white rose and placing it on a gravestone, 'John W. Bloomfield', from all that time, the young lad in the trench was his younger brother.

 

That night, on the reunion of his brother's death, James Bloomfield died in his sleep. He dreamed about gracious times he would of had if he met his brother, his brother spoke softly, "Who is the real hero here?".

 

Syntax

 

 

[Vercetti21]

Well it's been almost a week and no offense bro but syntax sounds so boring... can we get a topic change?

[El Zilcho]

I'll perform a Deus Ex Machina as OP. New theme is

 

 

Deus Ex Machina

[AceRay]

Johnny fell into the quicksand, it pulled and tugged at his clothes. No matter how hard he tried, there was no way to escape the pulling. This was it, the final hurrah for the old treasure hunter. There was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable.

 

At the very same time, all the planets had aligned in perfect unison, a once in a lifetime opportunity. Also, the Zorg alien race on Mars had all jumped simultaneously and everyone in Germany sneezed at the same time. Suddenly, Johnny was teleported away to a beach in Miami, out of harm's way.

 

"Wow, how... unsatisfying." Johnny managed to say, as the brevity and stupidity of the event went outside the context of the narrative. While he was glad to be safe, it hurt him to know how contrived it was.

 

-

 

Ah, that was crap. Sorry guys.

 

 

Dreams Edited April 30, 2012 by AceRay

[mark-2007]

Are you f*cking kidding me?

[Vercetti21]

Where are Sexidizer and Cubanwhip when you need them?

[AceRay]

Hmm, thought that one would be hard to do.

 

I've changed it fyi.

[mark-2007]

Hard to do? More like insensitive, immature, idiotic, ignorant, pick one.

[AceRay]

I did exactly what it said on the tin. I wrote and set a theme. Just seeing if anyone could get anything out of the subject. Obviously not.

 

I changed it so that this topic keeps going.

[TinTinn]

 

Dreams

 

By day, we sit in offices and study rooms working our brains out. Writing, tapping away and seriously thinking hard to succeed. Streets are all lined with over wiring telegraph poles, and the parallel lines we call sidewalks overrun suburbs. Old buildings, new buildings, they all look the same. Brick work crumbles and the smoke coming from chimneys blow out in a rush into the cold spacey atmosphere destroying our home. Windows, all lined together in a perfect shape all working in a perfect harmony. The men and women dressed all perfect, and live in perfect harmony are all living lies.

 

By night, we glide through our subconscious mind and find the only thing that is true to us. Our bodies are lifeless, our eyes closed, but our mind and third eye are wide open into our own little world. We dream and learn, and learn and dream. As we collide reality with fantasy, we are running down our dreams, working on a mystery, going where ever it leads, running down a dream.

 

 

The Correct Posture

[ryuclan]

 

The Correct Posture

 

"Sit up straight."

 

Three words that combined pretty much personify my entire childhood. Hours upon hours spent hunched over a keyboard and mouse logging hours on whichever game was the most popular at the time. Meanwhile life passes me by without so much as a backwards glance or a 'f*ck you.' The low hiss of my ancient desk chair as the seat slowly slides down is the only verbal acceptance I receive. Slaying mountains of demons and traversing miles of dungeons doesn't gain you many friends in this neighborhood, and it damn sure doesn't make you much of a ladies man, but the only advice my mother had for me was "Sit up straight." Thanks mom, I believe posture is the least of my worries.

 

 

 

Your Favorite Shirt

[Don Mariano Corsino]

 

Your Favorite Shirt

 

A shirt I have worn many times in my life. But even when I wear it over a hundred times, it still feels new. I wake up in the morning and prepare myself for work which I despise. As I look for my suit and tie, I see my favorite shirt hanged at an angle that makes all of the other shirts in my wardrobe seem like rugged clothing. I was always aware that people noticed my apparel repeating almost every weekend. But they do not understand what this shirt means to me. It's smooth material that when it touches your skin you feel like you're flying through the clouds, it's majestic design of the old-fashioned flowers from Florida back in the 80s, and it's color, a royal blue which could make anybody feel better just by looking at it. It may sound impossible that a man can love a shirt more than anything, but when a shirt is given to you by your father who passed away it has a lot of meaning. You wear it to fill it's empty feeling that used to be filled long time ago. This is more than my favorite shirt, it is a piece of my father who loved this shirt, I'm just wearing it in his honor.

 

 

War

[Mokrie Dela]

War.

Negotiations failing.

The world, crippled. In flames.

We are for ever doing things that can not be undone. Inventing. Creating. Sealing our fate.

Guns, missiles, bombs. Nuclear arms. Inter-Coastal Ballistic Missiles. Rockets that can be fired from a hundred miles away and level a city in the blink of an eye.

Lives.

Burning in the glow of a thousand suns.

Hell.

What's left? Humanity? We've destroyed that. The human race is one of war. Self destructing. It's in our nature, in our blood.

Destruction.

 

War.

Nogotiations barely even tried.

This world, lost.

We are beyond the point of no return.

Greed, hunger.

Invasion.

The nazis, arabian terrorists. Who are the real bad guys?

Government? Or us. Why don't we all stand up and say, NO?

What's the point.

 

War, you can not stop it.

Self sustaining. Like a runaway fission reaction. A meltdown. A wrongly named China syndrome. A reaction that can not be stopped.

 

The sexual point of no return. There is no stopping it, ejaculation will come. The moment a parachute fails to open. The living dead, waiting for the end.

Echos. Mirrors. Reflections.

Again and again, the world is eager to march into the fiery clutches of war.

 

Religion, the most bloody of excuses. In the name of God.

Omnipotent deities.

We pray. For peace. For fairness. To who?

To a God who's death and blind. Our prayers are ignored.

Still we give felatio to that god who doesn't care.

And still we worship war, marching to our deaths.

Suicidal.

 

 

Theme:

What can you want when you have it all?

[Eminence]

 

What can you want when you have it all?

I look up from my polished shoes to their polished smiles and feel like I just can’t hold it in anymore. Somehow, I manage.

 

It’s bad enough that their antics make me stand idly with the wretches in the self-service queue. Every manned till is overflowing, so I have the choice to wait in aisles packed tighter than tins of soup cramped into trolleys, or to... serve myself. And even then, I have to wait. Because of them.

 

Their nuzzling chins continue to frolic and they slowly scan a chocolate bar through the machine, then scan again, then scan again, then flip the thing upside down and giggle as they find the barcode hidden under the wrapper’s flap.

 

I look down at my watch. That can’t be right. I reach past my car keys and pull out my phone. It is.

 

I watch them continue to grin and grin back, staring into each other’s eyes, delaying every simple motion with yet another elongated gaze. From the way his arm tightly wraps itself around her shoulder, and the way her wrist lightly falls around his waist, you’d think they shared some sort of symmetry, some sort of connection. But there’s just no coordination; they fumble, they wait, they try again. The machine pleads with them to hurry up but they just. Won’t. Listen.

 

Instead, they smile.

 

No more. I can take no more.

 

“Honest to God,” I lean in, and shout, speaking out for the timid masses. “Would you two just hurry up and get a fucking room already?!”

 

 

 

The last one to finish

[Mokrie Dela]

Being a teacher sucks. Everyday I spend with spoiled little brats. I've forgotten why I got into this.

 

Those who can't do, teach - something like that right? I almost made it. I did the whole gallery circuit thing. London, Birmingham. Paintings that took hours, days, weeks, landscapes and portraits - i wasn't too good at portraits. I prefered the more sedate landscapes.

 

I'd experimented with viewpoints, styles, but watercolours were my favourite. Relaxing. That was art. Modern art - abstract sculptures... well it's just not the same.

 

So, with my career as an artist not happening, and the demand of modern living for money, i became an art teacher. Perhaps i could find the next Picasso, or something. Maybe the'd interview me on tele. I might not be that artist, but i'd be kick starting it right?

 

Wrong.

These kids keep handing in poor quality drawings of video game characters - one kid even drew this man in a hood, with his arms... i don't know, turned to spaghetti? At first i thought it was a reflection of our own lack of strengths, manifested in weak arms - ever heard the expression spaghetti legs?

But no. The guys name was Murder... Mercy? I dont know.

Then there was David. He didn't speak much. I think me might be autistic, but i don't know what that is exactly. Isn't it where they cant hear people?

Anyway his drawings? They're strange. It's like he's not even trying.

 

I'm about done here to be honest. What's the point? I'm sick of it.

 

And now exams are coming up. Great. No one cares!

So it's practice exam time. Each person has two hours to do a painting. Any kind of paints, any style, of something - whats the point in setting a theme?

 

I walked around, and no one asked for help. Most of the kids were chatting in whispers. I'm too broken to care. That David? He keeps hiding, every time I approach him he hides his picture. His face looks sad. I don't want to ask.

 

Time. It's done. Now i have to actually look at these...

 

Yup, as suspected, theres the poor, messy painting, in watercolours. The colours are running into eachother, and in parts the paper's thinned. I can even see the pencil marks... The subject is a man in a hood - what is it with hoods?! - holding a sword... i think. It looks like a phallus.

 

Another picture of a man in a car. Boring.

 

A footballer. Not bad, but it's severly lacking.

 

Finally to David. He shook his head. He's still painting! Come on, kid you've have twenty minutes longer than anyone else!

 

Finally I force him to reveal his work.

 

I forget to breath. I'm staring at a church and graveyard. A huge Yew overhangs it, casting a deep shadow on the beds of the dead. a gravel path meanders through the middle, and a shy sun peeks past a cloud, lighting the church.

The colours are amazing and... he's used oils?!

 

I begin to weep. The contrast! The darkness, reflecting the sadness of the dead, the path dividing in the middle - actually resembling a crucifix, the chruch lit by the sun, the light of God's salvation. The birds in the sky, the detail of the clouds and trees.

 

The single mourning window, dressed in black, her face veiled.

 

The bell for breaktime goes and David, along with every other student, leaves. I'm left standing there with my mouth open.

 

All is not lost after all....

 

 

 

Theme:

Underdog

[TinTinn]

Underdog

 

I cornered in on the suspect. He attempted to burrow the fence with divine shock. I know the record of this kid, but his life was much more important. His shirt was torn and covered with pink wounds from the rain. The boys chin quivered.

 

"Son, please put your hands up," I raised my pistol.

 

Tazers, pistols, they're all the same. It's all taken by chance whether God has mercey on your soul. But I never forgot the look in that boys eyes. I knew he had some messed up ideas on society as any stressed teen. The next minute, he just ran and screamed at me. I didn't realise he had just pulled out a twelve inch knife. I held the trigger steady and as quick as he ran towards me, he went straight back in the other direction, 'Pow, pow'. It seriously reminded me of a cowboy stand of.

 

"Know that's why I carry around this," I pulled out my pistol and swayed it around, the bartender chuckled, "And I haven't used it in so long, I don't even know if it works," the bartender challenged, 'Why don't you test it out, Underdog".

 

I shot but it revealed to be a petty blank.

 

"A well armed populace is the best defense against tyrann," the man laughs.

 

 

New Theme: Time is irrelevant

Edited May 17, 2012 by TinTinn

[Vercetti21]

 

Time is Irrelevant

 

Davis glanced at his wristwatch as he paced through the lobby of the busy office building. Twenty minutes late to work. Again. As he rounded the corner he heard the soft 'ding' of an incoming elevator, and a family of four scurried inside. Davis started running. He hadn't even had time to stop for his morning coffee.

 

Mornings - how he despised them!

 

"Wait! Stop!" Davis waved his briefcase over the air as if he were approaching the King's cavalry with a white flag. The family might have seen his desperate sprint had they taken a moment's glance to the left, but his cries fell on deaf ears. Just as Davis neared the elevator, the doors closed and the family sailed upward into complacence.

 

Davis hit the button to call the elevator impatiently, pushing and pressing as if it were a video game controller. The only other available elevator had been out of service due to building renovations for the past week, so he would have to wait until the single elevator went all the way up to the top - and all the way back down.

 

The elevator stopped on floor eight, and then proceeded to continue upward. Davis looked at his watch again.

 

This is ridiculous, he thought to himself. It would have been so much faster to take the f*cking stairs.

 

Just then, the lighted numbers above the hallway began to decrease. The elevator was descending. He could take the stairs now, or he could wait it out. Davis always had poor timing.

 

The elevator stopped again. Davis often thought to himself that he always had the worst luck. He looked at his watch. Then at the lighted numbers.

 

He ran his fingers through his bed-ridden head, brushing off flakes of long hair and dead skin cells. When the doors finally opened, a flock of businessmen slowly filed out of the elevator, scattering in various and important directions. Davis stepped in and impatiently tapped the button again.

 

He fixed up his tie as alas, the elevator took him to the eleventh floor.

 

"Davis, where the f*ck have you been?" his husky, old boss howled the moment the elevators opened. "You're fired, you little sh*t."

 

"Look, sir, I know I'm twenty minutes late but I can explain."

 

"No, you f*cked my wife!"

 

-

 

 

A Man is Most Honest When He's Wearing a Mask Edited May 17, 2012 by Vercetti21

[Mokrie Dela]

THIS DOESNT DESERVE TO DIE

 

Britain, 2020. War has come to the world again, and in its wake stands a crippled dystopia. Crime is common, and the world is a dangerous place, both inside and outside of city walls. Gangs roam the country, taking what they want, when they want.

 

People are scared. They fear eveything and everyone. The government, as useless as they are, have little grasp over matters.

 

Conformity is the new security. To be safe, you must be part of the machine. outsiders have a life span of weeks. There are no pioneers. No heroes.

 

Except one. He who roams the streets of London. The Man in the Mask. He has no name. A vigilante, holding the sword of justice and liberty with his own hands. A man, mere mortal, elevated to that of a god, standing up for the little guy, protecting the weak.

 

But for all his good, he has been branded a terrorist. He's a criminal, a bad man, they say. He should be stopped.

The masses, staring at the televisions, standing at the steps of great halls, nod in agreement. Yes sir, No sir, three bags full sir.

By night, the man risks death and imprisonment, just to protect those who need it. Crime rates - if they were noted - had fallen because of him, and elsewhere local people had begun to do the same, albeit on a much smaller scale. A masked vigilante neighbourhood watch program was born, but carefully kept hidden from the overseers' collective eyes.

 

The man with no name, the man with no face, the almost mythical phantom of the night, speaking the one truth that everybody thinks but dares not mutter. The true nature of humans - the good side. To help one's brother. Society, intergrety.

 

Who is the man, people would ask, for months.

 

Well that question would be answered on one important day. The night before he attacked a mugger. But the mugger wasn't real, nor was the victim. Guns were drawn, and the man was captured.

 

He was taken to the gallows in the middle of town, as crowds gather to watch his death.

 

"This man!" The voice bellowed, "Is nothing more than a man. He is a mechanic by day, but by night a criminal." Of course, they were not going to admit anything else were they? "He will pay for his crimes, and be this a lesson to you all; you will be accountable for your actions."

 

I swallow hard as the rope is placed around my neck. It strikes me as a barbarian way to do it, but then that's this hyper-modern age isnt it? It's cheap.

 

A man steps forward from the crowd. "You hang him, you hang me."

How wonderfully cliched. Another steps forward.

 

For a second, i think i'm saved. When i put on that mask, i become free enough to stand up, to be the truth in the heart of the lie. We are not safe in their arms. Only in our own.

 

But then the foor falls away from me, and the world jolts. I see armed police step forward to restrain the 'protesters'. I can't breathe, and pain fills my neck.

 

I wonder if....

 

 

 

 

Theme:

Integrity

[TheJonesy]

Interesting story, Mokrie. I found it a little odd that it quickly changes from synopsis-esque story-telling to a first-person narrative, but enjoyed how it left the fate of this world to be later developed by the reader.

 

----------

 

Theme: Integrity

Title: One Man's Garbage is Another Man's Treasure

 

"Why the sudden change of heart, Sammy? ...May I still call you 'Sammy'?"

 

"Call me whatever the hell you want. This doesn't change anything. Actions heed consequences; I'm sure someone of your experience knows just that."

 

"I'm simply questioning your compliance - or lack thereof. Did your conscience fail you? Is any last trace of what you call an obviously offset morale code ripping at the seams? Is this man of blue suddenly..."

 

"Enough. You have no room to talk."

 

"Do I now? I'm sure your duties serving the city hold a candle to your, what would it be, extra salary. If I may call it so, your 'under-the-table' finances."

 

"I don't know what you're talking about."

 

"Of course not. I'm the bad guy. The bad seed planting an evil plot along all the alleyways, rooftops, and other infectious buildings rooting themselves in this two-faced town. This face that you choose to see, it speaks no truth, it shows no love, no order. Any accusation I may spit out is nothing more than garbage."

 

"You're right."

 

"How so, officer? What can you inquire about me that concerns the type of person I am?"

 

"Do you not think committing several counts of murder and theft accounts for anything? You're a criminal. The scum beneath this city."

 

"That's harsh words coming from you, officer."

 

"I find it rather fitting."

 

"Fitting for one whom thrives on deviance from the law? Is that what makes me 'scum?'"

 

"Yes. You make your mistakes, I take you away. It's a spectrum, and we're on the ends."

 

"Spectrum? I like that idea, but one does not exist between us. How can there be a line drawn between two similar objects?"

 

"I'm not you."

 

"You're right; we are very similar, but - unlike you - I don't wear a uniform."

 

"It's much more than a uniform! It's honor, integrity..."

 

"How can you question my integrity when it is yours in question? Despite what the man upstairs tells you, the world isn't black and white, officer; rather, it is only white, produced by a spectrum of colors, combining as one."

 

"You make no sense."

 

"Au contraire, officer. People live by beliefs; a right one holds dear. There are so many. It's what makes this world so colorful. Whether you like mine or not, it still exists, and it's still a colorful addition. It is the individuals like you that disrupt this balance."

 

"There only exists the balance of justice. You're painting yourself as just a hypocrit."

 

"You only speak these truer words of yourself. How can you accept bribes from 'scum' like me and still be able to sleep with yourself comfortably, knowing you hide behind a badge? I am myself, everyday. Before you choose to lay judgement unto others, you obviously need to fix that mirror you choose to not look into."

 

"I said enough!"

 

"Before they take me away, officer, I'd like to say, 'See you soon.' For once they strip that blue from you, everyone will see that you're only black underneath."

 

 

Next Theme: Booze and bandages

Edited June 19, 2012 by TheJonesy

[Mokrie Dela]

Thanks, the switch was deliberate. I wanted the shift to be from narration to something more personal.

 

 

 

There's a fine old tradition in this family. Me pa, he would get all antsy for a fight. Me, I'd learnt to stay outta his way. Me ma had little choice.

There was something strange about that day. If I remember right it was when the Irish national team was cheated out of a place in a competition because of some cheese-eating surrender monkey. He was pissed in both meanings of the word.

Somehow he'd avoided the fights at the pub and on the streets. It's a merry old town we live in, but it's a good craic most of the time.

That night though...

 

It started with a crash as he came through the door, like a one man battering ram. Ma had been a dear and kept his dinner warm - I only remember there being mash an' gravy. But while he was wetting his lips, his dinner was drying up. That was the first thing out of his mouth, after she'd served it up; she had stayed up half an hour later to be a good wife. The smash, as I heard it from upstairs, was the plate hitting the wall. I went down to see me ma cowering in the corner.

 

It's a sharp sound, quite high in pitch. It's one thing when a man hits another man, but a woman... I dunno, it sounds different.

 

The next few minutes are a blur. Maybe I took a knock on the head, or maybe my minds trying to forget, either way, we fought. The alcohol had numbed him down; he didn't feel it as much as me. But I was faster.

 

The fight ended when the Garda turned up - you didn't dare disobey them. We both had the lonely sleep that night, though with a few bruises and cuts, I think I came of better. I left the police station in the morning and went home. Pa was being held longer; the drunken fool had clocked an officer.

 

Me uncle was there with his pa. they looked like bodyguards.

Ma was packing her cases.

 

She gave me the choice of course. Stay, with him, or leave with her. Even though he was a drunk and a wifebeater, he was still me pa, and I loved him dearly. It was a hard choice. When sober he was a decent fella. But me ma, she was the one that always suffered.

It had to be her.

 

So now we live in some place in Herefordshire. There's an RAF base down the road. Pa hasn't called or written to us - he doesn't know where we are but how hard is it to call me grandpa?

 

It's a shame that's me most vivid memory of him. It's been years and can I say I regret the last time I saw him was in a fight?

 

I guess he finally met his match. Don't ask me to say a few words, Father. I have no kind ones to say.

 

New theme:

Sleep deprivation

Edited June 20, 2012 by Mokrie Dela

[Ziggy455]

Scotch. Scotch should always help you sleep. I can vaguely remember times where I’d take a few glasses and sleep like a baby. Now, things are different. My nightmares are more vivid than ever, and that makes sleeping a drag. I wake up each morning and travel to work with a sort of detached view on things. The sleep I yearn for never seems to show up, and has left me just like Tiffany did. Christ, I’m such a f*cking state that even human functions are abandoning me.

 

My boss caught me micro-sleeping at my desk and I was warned for incompetence. I came home again late and sat in front of the TV for hours, and then my PC. Endlessly flicking from website to website, channel to channel over meaningless sh*t. “NOW NOW NOW! THE NEW SLIMMING BELT! ONLY 19999999.99! BUT 199999.9999 FOR YOU YOU you!”, “Hey guys, check out my new blog! It’s totally hip and about f*ck all, but read it anyway because I’m a lonely c*nt.”

 

Masturbation, cigarettes, pills, scotch, masturbation. None of them work. I look at the clock: 2:34am. I know I should be sleeping but it gets to such a late time that I end up just thinking about Tiffany or my life. I worry about sh*t at the worst of times, and even though I know somewhere deep inside me there’s a voice asking me to sleep –the voice of reason?- I just get back up and stare away into the TV or something else until the sun rises. The hour has jumped from 2am to 6am. I feel that sh*t feeling in my gut that today will just be the same. I look out of my apartment window as the sun rises, and I promise to myself, “Tonight. Tonight I’ll go to bed early...”.

 

 

Next theme: A six sided die.