Chaz's Writing Tournament! Subscriptions for the winner(s)!

[All_That_Chaz]

Winners Annoucned!
First place, 6-month subscription - thedeprevist, Tokzic
Second place, 3-month subsription - mead1
Third place, 3000 credits - esupin
Special Sestina Bonus prize, 1000 credits - mead1


Hey everyone. In the time I’ve spent in lit I’ve noticed that not nearly enough time is spent congratulating the truly talented writers. That and I get the feeling that a ton of the best writers on this site don’t post simply because of a lack of motivation.

Well I’ve decided to hold a little tournament that will hopefully bring out some great works from the FFR community. Submit whatever kind of writing you want here (as a post, not a pm) by a tentatively set deadline of Monday, January 14th at 12:00 AM to be judged. Poetry, fiction, non-fiction, whatever you want. Everything from a haiku to a novel to a research paper is fair game. I don't care if you wrote it before the contest. I'm not demanding new works. Submit as many works as you want, but show some discretion. No one will win more than one prize.

There will be at least one 6-Month subscription given away to the winner(s). If more than one work is deserving of a subscription, they’ll get one. If you already have one, I’ll get you a new one when yours expires. Some 3-Month subscriptions may be given out too for honorable mentions. If you’d rather have credits, or if there are even more great works that deserve some sort of prize, I’m sure I could shell out 5,000 – 10,000 credits from my own modest stash.

I will be judging the works along with MalReynolds who has graciously agreed to help me out. I think it only fair to get more than one opinion involved in judging something like this.

Just one rule: no negative criticism here please. All entries are welcome and if they aren’t well-written, they won’t win.

Good luck and get writing everyone!

SPECIAL BONUS: First person to submit a sestina gets 1,000 credits.
Winner: Mead1, you'll get your credits at the end of the contest. Please repost your sestina in here for everyone to enjoy!


EDIT: I didn't think I'd have to say this, but since ty77le77r77 decided to try it I'm going to have to. All submissions must be original, as in, you have to write them.

[Aleste]

Are we allowed to submit more than one entry? say... i dunno, a poem and a short story?

[All_That_Chaz]

Absolutely.

[Tokzic]

Definitely going to submit something, but first I have to finish Heaven. Or maybe that'll be what I submit.

[smartdude1212]

As I was reading I was like "Mal should submit som-- oh, he's a judge."

[All_That_Chaz]

I figure having Mal on my side might level the playing field a bit, too.


SPECIAL BONUS: First person to submit a sestina gets 1,000 credits.

[Tokzic]

Originally Posted by All_That_Chaz

I figure having Mal on my side might level the playing field a bit, too.


SPECIAL BONUS: First person to submit a sestina gets 1,000 credits.

GO MEAD GO

[thedeprevist]

The Deprevist
Er…maybe “Shattered Little Mind”
Or…****.
I don’t know.
2007


chapter one.
October 4, 2007 3:45am
There’s moonlight sifting through the blinds and across my face, across the amorphous swirls of smoke trailing from my cigarette. To my left resonates the cold and ugly red glow of my digital alarm clock, 2:00am, I get the feeling it’s somehow giving me cancer. Maybe it is. I know the cigarette is. Maybe all of it, the cigarette, the alarm clock, the moonlight, maybe they’ve all conspired together to pollute my system with their horrible invisible hands and give me cancer. I do have cancer, I just don’t know it yet. I am cancer.
The carpet’s cheap, stained, and too short to stretch to the edges of my room—it leaves about a foot gap of naked wooden underbelly on either side. It curls up at the edges like burnt paper, the only thing keeping it from rolling in and devouring itself is a few strategically placed pieces of furniture, an old desk piled high with books, letters, a manuscript for a story that will never be published, old coffee— crap, all of it, and an empty space the size of four fists that will soon be covered up with more crap. There’s a bed in the corner away from the window, a spring mattress that whines when you lie down or move around a little, a bookcase with two collapsed shelves, and a dresser half-empty. Plaster walls decorated with a hole the size of my fist— that’s not a coincidence- spider webs and abandoned tacks where posters had once hung, and a single line scrawled in black sharpie above the desk: “Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly.”
2:00am is a nasty time, a nasty place to be alive in. It’s so beautiful out with the moon, full, except for a minor imperfection staining the edge like a cosmic neon light that’s begun to fade, stars poking through wisps of overcast on which the skyscrapers, those sleeping Gods of our post-industrial universe, remain looming black shadows like fading memories of their daylight calamities. The moon is especially bright tonight, almost painful. Everything seems brighter tonight. The stars are a riot of burning pinpoints of white-hot light off in the fathomless cold myriads of space, I feel them acutely tonight as if they were all extensions of myself.
All that beauty, and yet, at 2:00am I feel like ****. I am an exhaustive wreck of flesh and bones and so much metal. There’s shrapnel in my guts and glass in my veins and I’m numb to everything but that torturous loneliness which pervades these long nights; I fight it off like the biological plague it is. Its painful companions surge up in revolt— hunger, sleeplessness, ennui gang up on me in glaring focus and I fight them all off. They remind me that tomorrow, or, technically today, is the sixth of a fast that has gone on too long for my body to handle, another long month without human touch, contact or even interaction. My sanity is living in the small bumps and pushes I get in the crowd when I walk around at night, the two kind words of the grocery store clerk, the little hostile visit I pay them every week, and the sensual memory of Eve, who I haven’t seen in months. I haven’t slept in three nights. My eyes are beyond heavy and I’m beginning to see ****. I push back my body’s nagging pleas, with some effort I make them silent. **** their incessant naggings. They will not overcome my will. I will beat them into submission. I’m on a binge of depravity4. I’m a deprevist.
I pick up my pen again and set it down to a speech I detest writing. It goes like this: From the beginning it must be said that I have always retained self-control, and every decision I made was of my own volition. Anyone who was there from the very beginning can testify to that. And ever since the incident, I have and will continue to do so always, weighed every decision against the archetypes of logic and reason. No response given during the several elaborate examinations I undertook (by personal choice) was made without that strenuous analysis. Therefore, to say that my responses were unfit or improper is not to find fault within my own machinations, but within the machinations of logic and reason themselves.
Bile for my own words causes me to drop the pen again and turn away from the paper. The speech disgusts me beyond measure, partly because it sounds pretentious and ridiculous, and partly because I shouldn’t have to make it in the first place. A few minutes pass and I still can’t force myself to turn around and finish it. I stare at the space under my desk instead, seeing vague images in the darkness like an insane person or someone in a trance. I can’t write it, I’m too hungry, too tired. They surround me with their needy whining voices, begging and pleading and jumping up around me. They stuff my mind with their need, constant, devouring, need.
When it becomes too much I decide to go out. Leaving the apartment will help get away from them. Out of my own overbearing company, the clean night air will help distract me. I smash the cigarette against the wall with relief. I hate smoking, I couldn’t imagine a more disgustingly submissive activity. I smoke to hurt myself more, burn my lungs with its pollution. If I ever light up a cigarette and feel even a tinge of relief or enjoyment, I put it out and wait for the addiction to fade away. Another testament to my strength. My body will submit to my will, all the better if it kills me.
I make an effort to dress nice tonight, because I know where I have to be tomorrow and I don’t plan on coming back here before then. Even relative vanity is difficult with my wardrobe, a utilitarian selection of black and white shirts bought in bulk on sale, collar or no, and factory made black pants, tall and slim; not a design, pattern, detail, or any other idiosyncrasy in sight on any of them. My jackets I make myself out of what material I have thrown around, all poorly made with tatters and ends of purple or red where I ran out of black, lopsided collars and mismatched sleeves, sewn in thick ugly thread like winding scars. I take the best coat I own and fold over the awkward extra collar, find an unwashed white collar shirt that unrolls with a small galaxy of wrinkles in the hamper, slacks and a strip of fabric that’s just long enough to pass for a clumsy tie. I tear off a few loose threads that still dangle off the end, only to unravel a new layer of bits, and leave it before I tear the whole tie apart. My clothing, like myself, is defined by absence and fault.
I stuff a wad of cash in my front pocket— for them, not for me— and consider taking a tablespoon of nutmeg to help me stay awake before I leave. I decide against it. I grab the doorknob and freeze as a burst of paranoia hits me in the gut. What am I going out for? What do I plan to do? I reassure myself that all I want is to take a walk. I review every possibility of the action for that taint I spend so much time trying to avoid… when I’m certain that I have no intention of doing anything like that again, I feel stupid and exit the room, locking the cage5 behind me with a rustic clack about as reassuring as the crunch of styrofoam. The motion detectors are slow to respond, so I walk most of the way to the stairs in darkness. The fluorescent lights flicker to life as I reach the door. One of the bulbs at the far end of the hallway lets out an audible popping sound, and then the end of the hallway is black. No doubt caused by the constant trickle of water from above the lights— faulty plumbing. The rooms are small and the building is filthy, but these basement jobs are the cheapest in San Francisco.
I can hear pornographic moaning coming from an open room by the stairs on my way out, and a car passes on the street when I emerge from the building, but other than that, I don’t meet anybody. It’s cold out, my breath steams up in front of me and my knuckles immediately whiten. I jam my hands in my pocket and start up the incline this dump is on. The colder I am, the less I think about my stomach, and the more I crawl out of that introverted place I get sucked into only too often. The crowd at 2 am is a scattered assortment of drunks, psychopaths, and the occasional criminal. They thicken ever so slightly as I approach Union Square. The only sane people up this late are either deep inside bars or nightclubs, or stuck behind the greasy counters of 24-hour coffee shops and convenient stores. Sad little slaves half-asleep over magazines and in front of televisions, scared to death of anyone who’d come in this late. Chances are they’re all packing something behind the counter. This is a crowd I don’t mind being a part of— the insane and sleepless. On another night I might be tempted to visit one of these miserable venues to have a cup of coffee, but not tonight. Tonight I spend time with the city itself, and nobody else. Hello, San Francisco, painted sleepless whore, red neon like a bloody nose under too much cocaine, toxic succubus infested with crime and madmen.

This late at night, I’m a ghost, haunting block after lonely block of dying Earth with only my reflection in shop and car windows for company. My senses pick up, I hear and see everything. Every streetlight and neon sign is blinding to my finely attuned night vision. I look at every passerby as an invasion of my public privacy, nobody sees me when I pass in the shadows. The nightlife has long since drained from this part of town, it thickens up the street a few miles, where it coagulates like a tumor in this foul land of pain and poverty. Some kid in a suit stumbles out of a shady club on the corner. He looks around with wild drug eyes before hobbling towards a hot-red sports car. It only takes him three tries to fit the key in the slot in his intoxicated state. There’s a homeless man making noise in a dumpster in a nearby alley, he hears with almost supernatural clarity. He hears my ghost steps and peers out like an ugly cat.
The farther I walk, the more estranged I become. I crawl back into myself and make my way down the street by feral instincts. Bystanders and I pass in equal oblivion- I can only assume I continue to pass people, but I don’t really know. I’m startled to see a pale, walking skeleton staring back at me. It takes me a few moments to recognize my reflection, which in turn strikes me with an unhealthy breath of vertigo. I think my head is trying to escape my body. I think my mind is rebelling against myself. I’m dying either way.
I travel from where the streets are too clean, back into the dark, ugly, cobwebbed regions of the city. I recognize that I’ve subconsciously drifted towards their house, and in rebellion against my instinct I veer off and drift into an ugly neighborhood. Here, the night reigns supreme. The street is dominated by graffiti and fear: every venue is caged and locked, or else the night sweeps through and wreaks its havoc. Hookers, addicts, the countless homeless and deprived… You can almost feel the despair in this part of the city, the pure, wild despair. It’s terrible arms reach out to drag its visitors in, its minions set out to fuel its dominance. But I am a ghost to even them. I’m too different, almost incomprehensible. They see me, thin, sallow, cold, but they don’t see the restraint and courage these things represent. They see what makes sense to them: words like junky, addict, and strung-out are thick in the air. Their eyes sweep over me, untouched. They see me as one of their own, but I could never be anything like them. I belong and I don’t belong.

The farther into this ugly corner of the city I go, the thicker its signs of decadence appear. The streetlights end abruptly, as does the line of cars parked next to the street. I see the frame of a car completely dismantled on cinder blocks, nothing but the steering wheel with its ironic security bar remain. In the alleys lie the huddled masses of homeless, seeking shelter in numbers deep in the city’s underbelly. This place is more like a twisted, industrial maze than a city, a jungle of steel and concrete that’s already deteriorated beyond repair. I see a fire exit ladder hanging by a single thread of twisted metal, where it patiently awaits a tragedy. I imagine the darkness intensifying, not even the neon XXX signs remain. Everything is lost and abandoned and dying in the streets. Everything and everyone.
It’s about 3:28am when I turn around to head back, when I notice that the iron cage for an electronics store has been smashed in and wrenched halfway off. The window is broken, and beyond it lays darkness. I stop to peer into the darkness from the other side of the street, and I’m convinced that something in the darkness peers back. The ugly abyss has nothing for me. All the despair this city has to offer can’t touch me, can’t come near me. I’m immune to its poison, but it’s not immune to mine. For a moment, I get the impression that the window and I are nothing but two abysses staring back into each other.

October 4, 2007 5:03 am
I leave the nasty part of town in favor of a park bench in view of their house, where I spend a few hours watching the bleak night reality merge with the commonplace day one. Suddenly the street begins to fill with people who aren’t insane, and in fact had lain entirely oblivious to the night world just a few hours before. The night populace retreats back into its corners of the world: every body goes back home, if they have one, or else they find a niche on the street to sleep, out of sight to the hoi polloi. Some of them I believe to simply disappear. At 4:10am, the sky takes on a lighter blue, and stars in the direction of the still-invisible sun become difficult to see. The early morning is a strange time, because it almost seems absurd. How can the lethal, mighty night world be consumed by the day? How do these realities merge, and why are they allowed to do so? It’s almost as though a revolution is silently waged every morning. Hierarchies destroyed and rebuilt with the passing of the moon, each paradigm destroying the other in a constant cycle of death and rebirth. This time also fills me with despair, for I know my solitude will shortly be obliterated by the daytime traffic. I feel panicked; I want to return to the apartment, maybe phase out of existence with the rest of the nightlife. This time of day makes me incredibly nauseous, I’m anxious to say the least. Every few seconds I glance at their window, no lights. I want to pay my visit and leave, but nobody’s awake. I feel the lump of money I prepared for them, considerably thicker this week due to money saved on food. My resolve is weak in my long vigilance. The lights turn on- I almost leap from the bench, but I control myself. I’ll wait another hour. A car passes on the street, the first to abandon its headlights. The sun’s rays are visible on the horizon, the first glints appear on the windows of surrounding office buildings. Lights flicker on, coffee pots spring to life. I tap my foot, I pace. Just one more hour. **** I hate the day.

chapter two.
The alarm clock cries 5:00am, but I’m already awake. I can’t sleep Monday night, because I know what Tuesday brings. I don’t have to be at the office until nine, but I have to wake up this early on Tuesday mornings. He likes to come early, and I want to be ready for him.
I nudge Mary gently, but she’s awake too. She rolls out of bed and pulls on a robe- pink with little hearts and bunnies on it, plush, lined, machine washable, a Christmas present, I believe- and shuffles into the bathroom with an audible sigh that mirrors both our sentiments. I get out of bed and step into a pair of slippers- maroon, deep-soled, birthday- and wake up Kayla, who groans sleepily as I lift her out of bed and take her to the bathroom for her bath. She senses today is different, but she’s too young to understand why. It’s an occasion on which I envy her. By 5:35am we’re all washed, combed, dressed and deodorized. We sit together at the dinner table over breakfast- orange juice, coffee, waffles, and eggs that my wife makes fresh and delicious- and only Kayla feels like talking. Between bites of pre-cut, syrupy chunks of waffle she recites a playground venture for Mary, who shows mechanical motherly interest interposed with motherly nagging. And, and then Davey, Davey got all the way up to the top of the slide- that’s nice honey, eat with your fork, not with your hands.
If the daycare opened early enough for Mary to whisk her away before his arrival, he’d never see Kayla again. She’d be a closely guarded specter behind the towering protective statue of her mother. To him, Kayla wouldn’t even exist, Mary would make sure of that. Sentiments used to be different, of course, but those times are long gone. We could do without the dirty bundles of money he brings (which Mary thinks are stolen, anyway), and maybe we’d be better off without this weekly visit. Mary told me when it started that it was the compassionate thing to do. He obviously needs these visits more than we do, because, after all, we know how engrained his need for penitence is. But seeing Mary’s brooding, morbidly resolved expression this morning, assures me that compassion has absolutely nothing to do with it. If it’s not for the money, it’s out of fear. It’s for the reassurance of checking up on him every week to make sure that he’s still sane enough to function properly. At least this way he’s not left entirely to his own devices.
Mary’s just finished the dishes when he knocks in his silent, ghostly way, at 5:56 am. Mary tenses up, dries her hands, looks for Kayla. What waits at the door is as close to a skeleton as I have ever seen alive. He’s sickly pale, turning yellow, his lips are thin, cracked, and bloodless. His eyes peer out of blackish-gray wells of sickness, and there’s fine pale stubble on his head and pointed chin. His clothes hang baggy off his shoulders, which is scary because I know his jacket fit him perfectly when he made it, and worst of all he smells, not unpleasantly, but like decay, like wet earth, like a coffin underground for hundreds of years, mixed with the potent sting of cigarette smoke and something less natural. I open the door wider, Hi, Vincent, and I hold out my hand. He seems reluctant to shake it, his weak hand like long sticks in a paper bag when he does, Good morning, David. He sniffs the air slightly, and then coughs. The room still smells pleasantly of coffee and syrup, though I doubt this feeble apparition recognizes it as anything remotely pleasant. In fact, he seems on the verge of gagging.
I let him in and shut the door. His tense, bony shoulders slump oddly as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, always toting that peculiar toothy half-smile, and says hi to Mary. Mary holds Kayla protectively, emanating hostility; her short, disdainful utterance, Vince., doesn’t attempt to hide it. He nods humbly. I detect a hint of artifice in his mannerisms, and suddenly I understand. Every indication of ease in his posture is forced. There was a time before this hostility when he was called Vinny, and with some warmth at that. As well as he could, Vincent was trying to emulate his old self, but the best he could manage was a faint, artificial echo from down the winding, dark hallway of time that separates then from now. (Strangely, just now when I wrote that, I felt less like Vincent were at the end of that hallway, than I do like he was, somehow, that dark, winding hallway itself.) He says, how are you?, pretending not to notice the obvious slime in Mary’s voice. Fine, Vincent. I exchange a silent glance with Mary. Neither of us want to bring attention to his poor state of health, though the subject stuffs every silence with meaningful apprehension.
Vincent seems to recognize that there’s no conversation to be had here, and for a moment looks somehow hurt. He takes a folded bundle of ugly, crumpled bills (which appear to have been forced somewhat straight) from his jacket pocket, and silently hands it to Mary. Mary takes it and puts it in her pocket. Vincent stares for a moment as if he had expected her to count it, then looks down at the floor. There’s no saving this occasion: the silence is overpowering, the hostility is stifling, and the room suddenly seems too small to breathe in. Mary’s grip on Kayla tightens and she holds her a little farther away from him. Kayla’s silent, but her eyes are confused and unfeeling. She does not recognize this stranger, she doesn’t know what just happened, and she’s a galaxy away from knowing why. Then I notice Mary’s reason for pulling Kayla back so suddenly: Vincent’s eyes have come up off the floor and found Kayla. I see his eyes slowly move up and down the little jagged marks on Kayla’s neck which curl and point like little flames… The attention to her daughter makes Mary uncomfortable. At last she says scornfully, Jesus Vincent, what the hell happened to you? You look like a dead man. What’s going on? Vincent sags, this time without that fake effort, and gestures quietly that he doesn’t want to talk about it, or that he doesn’t really know, and for a moment I feel sorry for him. I break in, Vincent, when’s your court date? He responds unenthusiastically, Thursday. You’re going to court looking like this? With some inner resignation, Vincent meets her gaze and nods, almost whispering, yes, and though he looks like he has more to say, he is silent. Why can’t you just do what they ask? Mary pleads. She’s exasperated, but not with sympathy. Vincent understands this, and I see it cuts him like a knife. He shakes his head, moves back, opens the door. Next week, he mumbles, more to himself than us, and the words have special meaning. He’s not just confirming a weekly appointment, I think he’s addressing some hidden hope, down inside his pallid head, that sees the world with a different light than the one in which he lives it. Vincent the Hallway echoes regret and the forlorn hope of an Army General who denies that he has lost the war. To complete his sentence, Next week, things could be different.6

[scorpio1690]

Here's a little true story I've been meaning to write lately.

Our Last Summer

I quickly ran from the car to the golden doors of Boston Pizza to meet my friends, the awkwardly chilly Summer rain was pelting my skin, almost ruining my hair. It was Flory's birthday dinner, and the weather wasn't making any exceptions. Upon opening the doors I quickly saw my friends sitting at a couple tables, talking and laughing. One by one the group started to fill out until everyone had arrived and placed their orders. Waiting for our food we made plans to go back out to Cultus Lake once the weather had subsided as soon as possible, it was the only escape this Summer besides binge drinking ever second day.

"Man, I'm stoked for tonight, who's gonna boot for us ya think?" I said with a mouthful of spicy perogie pizza.

"I dono, if worst comes to worst we could just get Bullet to do it for us eh?" replied Dalton. Bullet was a taxi driver that makes alcohol deliveries for money, she rarely checked ID upon delivery, so if you had a friend with a beard, which we did, you'd be in the clear.

Josh, my best friend since grade eight spoke up, "Man, I'm not even sure my parents will let me come to the party tonight, I just finished my grounding and they might not be cool with this."

"Just let them know I'm there, your parentals know I'm a good kid." My **** eating grin told a different story, in fact Josh had been grounded partly because of me. Three weeks earlier we finished our math exams and wanted something to occupy us on a lazy summer day. Guitar Hero Two was getting boring, and with Josh's newly acquired license he could take out the Ford Explorer when his parents weren't at the homestead. Colin, Flory and I all piled into the Explorer and headed for my house across town to play some Mario Party 3 and eat some chimmi changas, a glorious day like none other. On the way home we went down the old deserted hill with the train tracks at the bottom, or as we liked to call it, "The Jump". You get going a good sixty miles and hit that dip at the bottom and you get some pretty wicked air. Josh hadn't hit this jump with four people in the Explorer before so the physics were a little different. Lo and behold we hit that jump, went air borne, hit the ground once, bounced, hit the ground again, landing on only two tires and finally evening out and driving to my home.

Upon arriving home we had done what we set out do accomplish. Chimmi changas and Mario Party. Life was good. Eventually we grew tired of the game and I suggested Smash Bros, but everyone was reluctant to play me, they knew I was the best at it. Running out of ideas, and daylight, we decided to go down to Rotary Stadium just down the road and find something to do. Hell, it was Summer and there was no way we'd stay inside, we'd play Red Rover if we had to.

Being the oh so athletic teens that we are, we decided to drive down to Rotary instead of make the gruesome five minute walk. The Twenty Four Hour Walk for Hope was taking place, so we couldn't dick around on the main field, so we went to the secondary fields which had better grass anyways. We had no ball or idea once we got there, and so the only thing to do was to test Flory's amazing tae kwon do abilities, which really weren't that amazing. We discovered that despite her having her second degree black belt, she can't defend herself unless she's wearing her loose fitting uniform. I had set my phone down during all the pretend fighting so it wouldn't get damaged, as it was fairly new and I had grown to love it as my child. When we got bored of the action we sat back and relaxed, watched the clouds roll in, and felt the green grass on our feet. Summer days were not to be taken for granted in Abbotsford since it rains nine months of the year.

We started to head back to the SUV, and I saw I had a missed call; it was from my mother, which as you probably know I was super excited to return her call. Instead we got into the vehicle, me grabbing shotgun victoriously, and went to turn out of the dirt parking lot when Josh had an idea. Donuts! The most elaborate plan in the world, donuts in an SUV with four people in it. We started doing circles, drifting. Josh was in complete control of the vehicle at all times, obviously because he was a race car driver in his mind. People were watching as we shot dirt up into the air. Eventually we grew tired of the roaring engine and started to head out, but before we left we had to give the people their grand finale. Josh gunned it and I saw the speedometer needle race upwards. Faster and faster we went, yet we were probably only drifting sideways at about a mile per hour. Finally it happened, we were on our side. My window smashed and my knuckles were sliced pretty deep, blood was dripping everywhere. Josh, however, was standing upright, mad as ever. He didn't need a seat belt, as it just made driving that much more difficult. My initial thought as Colin and Flory pushed open the new and improved roof, the door, was to just get out, flip it over, and drive home. Unfortunately, because the 24 Hour Walk for Hope was taking place, ambulances were on the scene. My hand was treated and wrapped wrong by the volunteer paramedic, and police were called to the scene.



I decided it was time to call my mom back.

"Hey, what kind of pizza do you want?" was what I got greeted with.

"No, mom, we got in an accident."

"No, Tanner, what kind of pizza do you want? I'm ordering from Ricardo's."

"No! Mom, come down to Rotary, there's a possibility that we rolled Josh's Explorer."

"What?!" she yelled, "I'll be right there!".

The police collected information from an awe-struck Josh, nearly in the fetal position. His parents were going to murder him. Actually, literally, kill him. Call child services, cause Josh is going to need a new home.

My mom arrived and talked with the police. Flory, Colin and I were sitting in my car when my friend Steph phoned.

"Hey Tanner! How's it goin?"

"Oh, hey Steph. I can't really talk right now, we got in a car accident." I replied. Colin had an idea, and I was with him on it, "Ya, Colin's dead, I gotta go, seeya."

Just to my luck my loving mother was just opening the door as I blurted out that line. I lost my first baby, my mother took him from me. It eventually turned out to be a good thing I called my mommy though, because she talked Josh's fines down to $280 and no suspension of his license, which there was total grounds for. I was just glad that it was my right hand that got sliced up and not my left, or else I wouldn't have been able to play Guitar Hero in the following weeks. My mom phoned Josh's parents and told them what had happened. His dad, Ryan, came over pretty fast and took Josh home. He was grounded, indefinitely. Steph phoned back, and I explained that I'm just a bad person and was joking, she stopped crying, which I should've assumed would happen, but then again, hindsight is twenty-twenty.

"Ya, that'll probably work, hand my your cellular," Josh said, while sporting his sister's "Don't get emo" shirt. He phoned his parents, and surprisingly, they let him out. This was his chance to show them he could be responsible at parties and not drink himself to inebriation like we had both done so many times before. Dinner went well, as did Flory's opening of the presents. She had gotten everything she wished for, half the dollar store. It was good though, what else would you expect from a dozen seventeen year olds.



As the supper came to an end, which people were longing for as Josh and I had taken to throwing packets of salt into peoples' soda drinks, we all made plans to get our booze for the night and go back to Colin's house since his parents were out of town. All of us piled into three cars and headed back to Colin's. By now it was nearing seven and the rain was not letting up, it had been like this all day. While we waited for our booze to be delivered, we played Catch Phrase and watched TV. Dalton was in and out, getting our hopes up each time he opened the door.

At last the alcohol had arrived. Sour Puss for the girls, beer and rum for the guys. Catch Phrase just got more and more interesting as the explanations of words got more insane. Apparently, the opposite of a walrus, is a seal. The night went on and drinking games were played. Four Kings and I Never were the games of choice. The easiest way to get the girls drunk, of course, was to play I Never. We'd just name thing's we'd never done with a guy, that they of course had, and they'd drink, a little cheap but what else were we supposed to do. A knock on the door came. What would someone be doing at the house at 11:30? Oh well, we'd go upstairs just in case. It was Dalton's mom. She was chewing Dalton out because he had been drinking and there were no adults here. Josh and I heard the whole thing, since we were upstairs hiding in the shower laughing at how mad she was. She eventually left after believing that we had things under control, and we got on with our night.

After the drinking game, Josh and Kavin disappeared. When they got back I asked where they had went, apparently Josh had driven Alyscia's car down to the corner store. I was livid. Drinking and driving wasn't something I thought highly of, and neither did Alyscia since her older brother had died in a car accident two years previously. Josh got chewed out by Kavin, and we went on with our night. Everyone was having a blast, we hadn't had a gathering like this in at least a week, we were getting desperate. Josh and I had stepped outside to shotgun a can of Molson, or two, or three. It was good fun, shotgunning beer was my way of choice. When we came back inside I started socializing with the group again as Josh disappeared with Alyscia, they had recently started seeing each other. Flory and I, being half drunk, decided to wait outside the room and listen, it was awkward. What was even more awkward was when we burst into the room shouting, and it ended up being a different room, we had no idea where they were. I went through nine or ten beer when Dalton and I decided it would be a good idea to fight, just to see who was tougher as we have similar builds. Before I stepped outside, I had one more beer and a talk with Josh.

"Josh, if we fought who do you think would win?" I said.

"Probably you. Ya, you'd win Tanner." He replied.

I thought it would be a good idea to strip down to boxers, to show off my ripped body to the ladies, to increase my agility, because cotton is the heaviest substance in the world, and because the ground was soaking wet, though the rain had finally stopped. Body shots only, no grappling or head shots. We exchanged blow for blow as we worked each others' abdamons over, until Dalton won the winning punch and winded me. I was done. I couldn't breath, and I like to breath, so I quit.



I woke up the next morning to a haunted radio. It kept turning on and playing this stupid song by Imogen Heap. Over and over it would play, and over and over it would scare the crap out of me. Apparently I had gone to bed on the couch, without putting my clothes back on because somehow they got soaked with water. Despite the haunted radio playing that stupid song, I was freezing. Someone left the front door open. Why, I had no idea. I closed the door, threw on my soaking clothes, and went to find my friends. Robyn came down the stairs complaining about something, which I didn't pay attention to, cause I never pay attention to Robyn. She's not exactly someone who you'd say has "common sense".

Turns out the haunted radio was Robyn's cell phone. It was her ring tone, and a bad on at that. She had over a dozen missed calls, at 8:30 in the morning? On a sunday? It didn't make any sense.

"Guys my car's missing!" She told us over and over.

"Shutup Robyn, you just can't see the driveway properly from that window, it's there." We explained to her.

"No seriously, it's gone! I don't know where it is!"

This was weird. Haunted cell phones, wet clothes, open doors, this day was already too much for me, and I was up at 8:30 to boot after partying all night. Most of us were still pretty drunk and started milling around the house, when it hit us, where was Josh? I remembered seeing Josh passed out in Colin's parents' bed from the night before, he should still be there. He wasn't, which was also weird. We checked high and low, but much to our dismay we couldn't find Josh. Putting two and two together we figured he must've just taken Robyn's car and gone home, seems like a Josh thing to do. Then that damn haunted cell phone rang again, it was Robyn's dad. Apparently her car was wrapped around a tree with an unidentified dead body in it, her parents thought it was her and had been stressing out all morning.

Well now we knew where one of the missing items were, but still no Josh. Being the half drunk intellects that we were, it finally hit us, Josh picked up a hooker, went home, and she hit a tree and died. It seemed to be the only logical explanation, cause it couldn't be Josh in that car, we're invincible, crap like that doesn't actually happen in life. As it started to sink in, the day got worse and worse. Hangovers started hitting, Josh was still missing, and there was a dead hooker in Robyn's car.

The rain had waterlogged the backroads, the lack of driving from being grounded made him want to feel the speed even more, the confidence from driving drunk earlier that night had built, and the police road block scared him into driving down Whatcom Road. I saw Josh at three in the morning on July 22, 2007, and he's been missing ever since.

[Myrissa]

Okay, here's a short one, it's just the first chapter of an unfinished fan-fiction.

Sheppard walked through the Stargate, with the rest of his team as usual. Behind him followed, Rodney McKay, Teyla, and Lieutenant Aiden Ford. Sheppard looked at his surroundings, and turned his head sort of to look behind him then said. "Keep a look out and keep in radio contact. I'm going to take a look around the area," he said and started to walk off twards a foresty place.

A few minutes went by and soon McKay's voice was on the radio. "Major, you might want to see this," McKay said in an excited tone.

"Where are you?" Sheppard asked as he looked around him.

"We should be north of where you are, and not too far away either, because I can see you on the life signs detector," he said, the excited tone in his voice unwavering.

"All right, I'm on my way," he responded.

McKay had been right. He hadn't been too far from where they had been; it only took him a few minutes to reach where he was headed. It was in a ruin of some sort. But one building in particular had been standing. He walked inside to find McKay awing over a Z.P.M. "So, what would I find so interesting about this place?" he asked looking at McKay.

"Well, I found a Zed.P.M I find that very interesting, considering this place isn't on that note that Dr. Weir left us." he said with a bright smile.

"Sir!" Lieutenant Ford called from behind some pillars. "Please come here," he said. Sheppard walked over to find them with a woman with long, sunbleached hair and tanned skin.

*******************
An hour before...

Ladui looked longingly at the village gates. She longed to see what was beyond the walls of her village, so she could come back and tell them great stories, but she knew this was not possible with her father making sure someone was always keeping constant watch on her. Finally she started for the gates, with her little eagle following behind. "Ladui, where do you think you're going?! I'll tell your father!" said the man following her. Ladui turned around and faced him.

"You do just that, but tell him he had better come after me, or else he will leave an impression on me that he does not care anything about me," she said and turned back around and continued on her way. The man ran back to tell her father but she did not care. Her father could not keep her locked up forever, and that was a fact. She walked through the gates and walked out of sight.

A while later she came upon some ruins, where there was only one building standing. Other than that, there was just rubble everywhere. Just then she heard some voices coming from beyond some bushs hearing a mans voice saying: "Listen Ford, I am serious there is nothing here, no energy readings, no life signs or anything, so I thing we should just radio Major Sheppard and tell him there-" a man's voice cut off in mid sentence as they came upon the ruins. Ladui had successfully hidden behind a big pillar that was laying flat to the ground.

"You were saying that there was nothing here?" a dark-skinned man questioned as they walked into the building.

"Just shut up!" the first man barked. Then he noticed, something on the ground that looked strangely like a Zed.P.M. Ladui watched behind a batch of pillars. "YES!" he exclaimed as he picked up the Zed.P.M. and checked the life signs detector and then handed it to Ford, and radioed Major Sheppard. "Major Sheppard, you might want to see this," he said extaticly.

"Where are you?" a bodiless voice inquired.

"We should be north of where you are, and not to far away either, because I can see you on the life signs detector," the man said excitedly.

"All right I'm on my way."

***********

Ford continued walking. He glanced absently at the detector - and noticed an extra life sign, which he silently pointed out to Teyla.

The two of them took position around either side of the pillars. A young woman was crouched down, looking up at them.

"Sir!" Lieutenant Ford called to Sheppard. "Please come here."

Sheppard walked over and looked at the woman, who was staring at them with a frightened expression.
"Put your gun down, Lieutenant," Sheppard ordered, looking at Ford. Ford nodded and put his gun down, followed by Teyla.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For those of you who don't know, the series that is based off of is the TV show Stargate Atlantis.

[Tokzic]

god help chaz and mal who have to read all of these

i think i'll submit five "short" stories just to be cruel

[All_That_Chaz]

Keep 'em coming!

Just a reminder, please submit your entries as posts so I don't have to worry about Mal not getting them and because this is for everyone's enjoyment, not just my own.

[EnR]

I can tell you did not write that, Tyler. You're horrible at spelling and that was over your limit xD.

[All_That_Chaz]

Originally Posted by ty77le77r77

Please don't insult me by stealing other peoples work.

[ty77le77r77]

Originally Posted by All_That_Chaz

Please don't insult me by stealing other peoples work.

whatever think what you wont i dont care

[All_That_Chaz]

Apparently I was too subtle. You stole Carol Moore's "Second Thoughts."

Here's a link to proof of your thievery: http://www.magickeys.com/books/alien/index.html

Hey let's not get off-base here. Just post your own writing! I'm looking forward to more submissions!

[EnR]

I wish I can write stories,poems,ect.. xD

[joecool6561]

A Sestina for you...

The Baker


A man sat crying in the center of the room,
holding in his lap the last of the dough,
the rest of which was cooking away,
filling the room with a luscious scent,
so heavenly, buttery, warm and sweet,
that the man cheered up for the first time in a week.

And yet, it had gone on for more than week,
he had lived for years in this tiny room,
he once had a wife, so precious and sweet,
but, alas, she had died from choking on dough,
and oh, how he missed her heavenly scent,
which had flooded the house before she had slipped away.

edit: ninja'd, I didn't see that mead1 won... Ill enter it anyway

[Verruckter]

Here's probably my only short story in English:

The lute player stood there, just watching the town burn away in the twilight. It looked as though both the sky and the flames were one, uniting in a melancholic beauty. From afar, he could see the amber goblin dancing on the land, spreading from house to house until it had reached the outer limits of the village. Soon, all the huts were falling apart as the traveler grinned. Everything had happened so swiftly, yet it would be remembered forever, imprinted in the perpetually green soil like a shadow cast by a ghostly stone. But he turned his back and looked no more behind him, as he knew the events of the last hours would haunt his nights eternally. He staggered a short distance and collapsed under a tree. He ran his dirty hands across his face, spreading ashes on his nose and cheeks. On the other side, the woods appeared as a black mass cutting out from below the sky while the moon rose behind them. He knew he could not stay for long. Feeling ambitious, he stood up and started to walk once again. As the dusk turned to darkness, the fire had run out of food and the lutist had travelled a long distance. So long that he could now spot, vacillating under the pale moon, the few remaining lit up torches of a now nearby town. He felt his legs would be able to carry him until there, but no more. And so they did.

Painfully, he dragged himself, stopping from time to time to catch his breath, until he had reached the other town. The air was thicker, denser, as though a dreadful veil strangled the life out of joy itself. He stumbled through the gates guarding the city and across the narrow streets. Buildings stood a few stories high on both sides, unlit windows hanging above him. The moonlight projected a blue gleam upon the paving stones and what would in broad daylight seem alive and joyful was now reminiscient of dread; majestic gargoyles and ornemants had taken an awesome shape. After stumbling around, trying to find his way, he arrived at the center place. The only inn was poorly decorated but the sign hanging above the entrance featured a crow with it's wings spread wide. Inside, the poorly lit entrance lead to a large room. On the right, the register stood in a cold and uninviting way. The tables and broken stools scattered on the floor reminded him of the possible events that may had happened some time before. Some were still intact, though, and a few remaining customers were drinking ale and wine. In a corner, a fireplace had gone cold and someone had fallen asleep in a large chair. The second floor, which could be seen from below, consisted of five apparently small rooms whose doors were decorated with small crosses. The lute player stepped forward, looking cautiously around him, and asked the innkeeper for a meal and a place to stay. In exchange, he would play his instrument for those who were there. Surprised, the man looked at him, raising a single eyebrow. His expression quickly changed, as if he had realised his insolence, and agreed to the offer.


And so, with his lute, the player chose a table on which he sat. All looks turned towards him as notes began to fly softly from the strings, organising into patterns and rhymes, and forming melodies that filled the ears of those present. Everyone paid attention as his fast fingers strummed and plucked their way through the sheet he had memorised and played a thousand times before. Much too soon it was over, as the crowd expressed, but he would play no more for the night. He picked up his carryings and after a meal went up to his well earned and fortunately dreamless sleep.

A few hours later, morning had risen and the first gloomy rays of sunlight peaked through the curtains, reaching the lutist's closed eyelids. He opened them and stared through the window, taking a moment to wake up. Outside, a single, shapeless cloud drifted in the distant horizon. Now, with his package on his back, he walked down the stairs only to find out that everyone had left, even the keeper. His leg was feeling better already, as he could walk without limping. He moved across the room and opened the front door. Outside, the spring breeze filled his nose and he was blinded by the surrounding light. Utter silence filled the air. Not a single voice nor bird was heard, but only the humming of the cool wind. He looked around for hours, seeking another soul but there was none to find. The city seemed deserted. He walked to a public bench, upon which he sat, took out his instrument and once again started to play. As the strings vibrated, he closed his eyes to concentrate. Suddenly, he heard noise. It was not immediately loud, but rather, its volume increased progressively. It soon filled the space around him. As he opened his eyelids once again, people surrounded him; merchants and customers were busy doing commerce, others were working and some were enjoying the day. Unsure what to think, the lute player had a vague impression of deja vu. No one paid attention to him, except a peculiar young man who seemed to have been looking at him for hours. As the song ended, the man stood up and came closer. Impressed, he began to ask him questions. He pondered where he did learn to play such beautiful melodies and how rigorously he practiced each day. He then asked where he had got such a fine instrument. The player answered simply that he had received it along with great responsibilities and that it had the ability to give him what he desired. Surprised but confused, the man invited him to perform at a gathering that would happen the same night. He reluctantly agreed.

The sun was now setting on the land and a crowd had gathered in the outer limits of the city. Quite a few people were attending, eager to hear the now famous player and his lute. Rumour had spread about the instrument's skill. The event began, and a few other musicians played before him. Now it was his turn to perform. As he stood up, a man shouted from within the mass. He required from the player that he would have to show the instrument's powers. The lutist replied that it was not that simple, that he could not do so in such a context. Angry, the man rallied his neighbours to his cause. Soon, the whole crowd had demanded to witness the extroardinary. Struck with awe, the player stepped back. He escaped from the crowd and grabbed a torch that was driven into the ground. Furious, he raised it high as the crowd stared in disbelief and cried: « This is what happened last time to the greedy men! » And he threw the torch onto the wooden rooftop of the closest house, then disappeared into the twilight.

[MalReynolds]

I am reading them, slowly but surely. I AM READING THEM.