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Hi guys, this is what I wrote for yesterday's write-off. The subject was bells. Lewa was strolling through the jungle one day when he heard a new sound. It was unlike any other that he had heard before; it was too high to be a drum, but to metallic to be a flute. He cut down some underbrush and found Tamaru expressing his love for music with a very strange piece of metal. “What happy-fun are we having here?” Lewa asked. “Oh, nothing really.” Tamaru replied. “Just thought what new clang-noise a funny-shape piece of metal would make.” “It sounds nice.” Lewa said. “May I play-try?” He asked. “Yes, but it was hard to make. Please be careful.” Tamaru said as he handed the new instrument to Lewa. Lewa tapped it lightly with his finger. “It made no sound-noise.” Lewa said. “Did I break it?” He asked in dismay. “No, you swing it like this.” Tamaru said as he brought the piece of metal up and flicked his wrist. The bell responded by making a melodious sound. “That’s a pretty noise-sound.” Lewa said. “May I try again?” He asked. “Sure.” tamaru said as he handed the bell to Lewa. Lewa then flicked his wrist the same way that Tamaru did, only he wasn’t holding on tight enough. “The bell flew out of Lewa’s hands and hit a very scared Tamaru. Tamaru then flopped onto the ground unconscious. “Well, have happy-fun with your new noisemaker!” Lewa said as he hurried away. Hopefully Tamaru wouldn’t remember what happened.
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Fat and GreasyThe fat, greasy man shifted his weight on the couch, which trembled ominously underneath him. The man licked his hand and used it to slick his hair back as he grabbed a shaker, unscrewed the tap, and tossed the whole thing of salt back. His shrimp of a son with his tidy blonde hair and nervous gray eyes darting all over the room stood in front of him, holding a piece of paper in his hand.“What is this, Dad?” the son asked.“That is a serious short story, son.” the man said, letting out a belch and shutting his eyes tight, fumbling for the can of pop sitting on the food tray in front of him.“I mean what you’re eating.”“Oh... it is salt, my lad. Do not ever try it.”“Why shouldn’t I?”"Don’t be so insolent - it tastes bad, it feels bad, it makes you fat like me, and then it kills you, son. Never even think about those serious short stories."“But Dad, I thought we were talking about salt.”“Salt, serious stories, what’s the difference?” the man said, shrugging his shoulders. His son cringed as his father’s fatty chin wobbled and flopped along with the movement.“How does a serious story do that, father?” the son asked timidly.“It is like how I first tossed back the salt, lad. It hooks you and never encourages you to get up and walk away to do something with your life.” the father told him, letting out another belch before patting his protruding belly with extreme difficulty. “Look at me now. What good did those serious stories ever do me?”“I thought it was the salt.”“No son, it was the stories. I sat there hunched over the computer once upon a time before I was too fat to type, reading and writing those serious stories. I never got up – not even to sleep.” the man tried to rub his eye, but his arm was too fat and he stopped trying after three attempts. “Son, if you ever read or write anything, I want you to take the pepper.”“What do you mean, take the pepper?”“Eat the pepper, son. The pepper is spicy and it makes you dance around praying that you will recover and be able to taste again. It forces you to exercise! Now, the pepper of stories is a good comic.”“A comic? Like a comic book?”“Or a text based comedy, it doesn’t matter. Both force you to get up, run around, and stay in shape. With a comedy, the running around is your nonstop laughter.”“I’ve heard laughter is very healthy, father.”“That’s what I’m saying, son. Now be a good boy and get me another serious story and some more salt. I need to continue being a slob.”“Maybe I could read you a comedy tomorrow, father.”The father grunted and his chin wobbled some more.“You can feel free to do so, son. It’ll take a miracle for a totally fat slob like me to get off the couch again.”The son nodded swiftly and turned, exiting the room as fast as possible. He relished the smell of the fresh air, without the toxic fumes of sweat, salt, and books rotting in the aforementioned sweat that pervaded throughout the room his father lived in. With any luck this next story would finally get rid of his father, and he could move on at last to his own dreams and desires.“Hmm... this one should do the trick.” the son muttered as he reached the bookshelf. “Hm… The Casual Vacancy. This book is bloody serious... I’m sure it’ll do father right in this time! And then once that’s done... I’ve heard the movies are pretty easy to get into.”The End I wrote this back in... November, I believe, as a part of the Ambage 15 minute write-off theme "salt shaker". The short length is both due to the time limit and due to the fact that it always takes me a few minutes to get an idea going in my head when I participate in these. But I don't think I really need to excuse the length anyway. This is a story where I really don't care whether you like it or not. It's also not ment to insinuate that short stories are bad, or that comedies are necessarily better than serious works of literature in any sort of way. Sometimes, perhaps, but certainly not always. I did clean this up a bit; I fixed some spelling and grammatical errors, and I altered a few lines within the story so that it would make more sense and flow more smoothly. I did not add any new scenes to it, however, in order to retain the integrity of the piece for what it is. Critique is appreciated, although I did receive it already through the Ambage back in November. -ibrow
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The woman trudged up the snowy incline, a settler of disaster on her way home. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though numb as she was with cold, it did not bother her. An owl cried out amongst the snowflakes. She stopped and turned her back to the wind, glaring towards the chilled breeze. The owl called again. She turned in a circle slowly, searching for the source of the hooting sound. No sign. She began to walk again. Up the incline, then down again, meandering purposefully through the snow. The colony was barely visible, obscured as it was by the white sheet that Nature had laid; merely a few small huts clinging to the white plain. This colony was aptly named Disaster; monikers like Safety and Fortitude only seemed to encourage strife. This was the way things were, as they knew it. They had come here many months ago, looking for fertile land after their last several plots had run dry and frozen. But Nature had forsaken them, as they now knew, for each land to which they ventured soon became crushed by drought, seared by fires of the forest, or cocooned in winter’s harshness. The people of Disaster were hardy farmers, tough, and they knew how to survive this pain, for a time. Sooner or later they knew that something had to change; Disaster would hold no more, and a new settlement would be needed. They would move on, they would adapt. - - - The woman trudged up the grassy incline, a settler of disaster moving on. The canvas satchel thudded against her back, though joyous as she was with hope, it did not bother her. A bluebird cried out amongst the raindrops. She stopped and smiled. Slightly less "meh" than some of my other entries- I actually like this one, although it was cut a bit short by the time limit. I'm also posting this as one of two entries for this week's Fortnightly Flash Fiction Contest.
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This tower had fallen long ago. Rubble littered the misty, forested land of the former battleground; not a soul in sight, living or dead. Perhaps great and terrible things had once happened here, but there was no evidence anymore. Just half a tower and a pile of stones amidst the trees. I jogged quickly, ducking through the ruins with a practiced air. The remains of the old army lookout post had practically been my home the past few days. Best place to hide out when things got a little dangerous. I strode into the clearing that had once been the center of the tower. A short quarter-ring stone wall edged the expanse. Walking to a pile of stones and logs designed to camouflage the tent, I stopped. Something wasn’t right at all. Carefully, I kept walking as if nothing was wrong. I’d trained myself to follow my instincts, and to trust the feeling that you were being watched. This was when I needed those skills the most. Crouching down below the wall level, I moved towards the tent as if entering. If I stayed inside then whoever was observing would no doubt approach. So instead, I crawled back around the wall, and cautiously peered over. Yes, there it was. A grey form plodded through the mist of the darkening evening. There was nothing to do. I ran. A shout rang from behind, then a gunshot. A tree shattered. No time to think. No time to stop. Go. Run. The war had ended long ago, but I was still fighting, and now someone had tracked me out here, of all places. How…?I kept running through the trees. I knew where I was going, but only vaguely. But that didn’t matter now. The trees all blurred together and eventually it was all the same color, the grey of the mist and the sunless twilight, the bark of the trees, running on, running. I had been trained for this. I couldn’t hear the man behind me over the sound of my breath and my footsteps, but the feeling of eyes on the back of my head remained, so I ran on. Eventually I saw it. A stone. Profile hugging the ground, between the trees. Run. I was back at the ruins of the tower. Here’s where I could gather my supplies and take him. Faster now, ducking through, between, around, the blind grey stones not sparing me a glance nor I them as I sped by. And there I was. I could barely see the wall and the ruins in the darkness that had overtaken the grey dusk, but they were there. I ran to where the tent would be. Nothing. What? Nothing there. I ran to the wall where I had buried a few emergency supplies. The wall? Where? There was no wall. I heard a crashing behind me. The man who had chased me stomped into the clearing. And I remembered then the story of the two towers that had fallen to the enemy all those years ago. So. This was the end of the war. So this was... okay. Just a quick write-off piece. Wanted something first-person, not boring, and barely on-topic (theme was "the tower"). And besides, I just wanted to contribute to the new COT Library, great establishment that it is, (or will be if all goes according to the plan,) because as we know, it needs a lot more stuff.
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SUSY HAD THE POWER TO TURN THINGS INTO ANY COLOR OF THE RAINBOW SHE CHOSE. It was a very potent power. She was going to make all the difference in the world with it. By that, of course, one can only assume that all the difference in the world equated to making children happier, and she was most often seen changing the colors of balloons and carnival candy. It was a pretty cool benefit, actually. She got to see the smiles of children all the time and she let them believe in magic and all that. In her mind, it was certainly making a difference.. Then her sister, Katy, found out that she wasn't just switching balloons and that it was an actual superpower. "Wait, seriously, can you actually just change the color of stuff at will?" she asked. "Yes. So?" asked Susy. "Can you change the color of my eyes?" Katy asked. "I always wanted blue eyes, but I didn't want them to be contacts. I want genuinely blue eyes." "What's wrong with the ones you have?" asked Susy. "I always liked your brown eyes." "But blue would be cooler," said Katy. "Why not? You have your superpowers. They're meant to be used, and you like using them to make life more fun. Why not make my eyes blue?" "I don't know," said Susan. "With great power comes great responsibility. I think your eyes were meant to be brown." "What's the difference between my eyes and those balloons?" asked Katy. "Well, a lot of things," said Susan. "You're a piece of art already so beautifully made. I'd hate to alter it. Balloons aren't that special. I don't think it's right. Please don't peer pressure me." "Alright, but could you change the colors of some of my clothes so that they match?" "Well, I guess I do that with my stuff every day," said Susan. She looked down at her Sunday clothes, which included a playful red tie half-taught around her neck and a red trench coat that made her feel nice and pirate-y. Red was her Sunday color, and she had orange for Monday, yellow for Tuesday, green for Wednesday, and so on, ending with violet for Saturday. "Sure. Is there anything you want?" "My prom dress isn't the right shade of pink. I'd also like some prismatic blue highlights," she said. "Something very artistic. Hey, there you go! Why don't you use your powers to be really artistic? You'd be the best artist in the world!" Susy liked that idea. After changing Katy's clothes, she went out to do a lot of "painting", although it was really just imagining any colorful image that came to her mind and willing it onto the canvas. She figured people really enjoyed that, too, just like they enjoyed balloons. It was different, but she still saw that it touched the world in new and unique ways. She even impressed a guy named Emperor Kraggh who did a lot of black-and-white pencil drawings and didn't normally see the value in colorful art. She painted chapels and buildings and giant murals with all the colors of the rainbow, glorifying sunsets and country life, city life, and life. She painted weather, childhood, adulthood, and the many things that people experienced between birth and death. It was all glorious, and she was sure she was making a difference. Then one day a man in a white suit and cape came to her. He had many, many superpowers and called himself Superman. "Susan," he said. "I heard you change the colors of clothes." "Wow, Superman. Yes, I do. What do you want?" "I also heard that you change the colors of balloons," he said. "Someone named Clark Kent wrote a very interesting story about it. I love how simple colors make such a huge difference in peoples' lives and spread so much love. I have a question." "Yes?" "Could you change the colors of my suit? They're all white, but I want a prism of the primary colors. My home planet is a world of crystals and light. I think it's a little more fitting." "Alright," said Susy. She touched Superman on the chest and a spectrum of three bright colors spread throughout: red, blue, and yellow, as bright as the laserlights from the crystals on Krypton. "Thank you," said Superman, and he flew off. Susy felt silly. She had no powers compared to him. And he was making a true difference. Then, a while later, it occurred to her that she created what might have been the mot iconic color scheme ever. And she lived on happily. It turned out that she really did make all the difference in the world with her power. ---------- For the sake of clarity and so that certain elements of this don't seem quite so jarring, this was part of an Ambage Write-Off, and it was our objective to write a Rainbows-themed story in 15 minutes. This was the first thing to come to mind. Looking at what everyone else wrote, I'm surprised to find that I'm the only person who actually played the theme straight. Almost everyone else used it to write something grim and/or depressing. Lighten up, folks! 24601
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In conjunction with this topic, this was done for a "write-off" between myself, John (55555), Micah (Kakaru), and another guy from Flickr (and other sites) that they know (we have since had several other write-offs with more participants -- I'll probably write up a blog entry later); just a very short vignette. We were to write a short story in 15 minutes (with no time for preparation) based off the theme "The Forest" -- any interpretation valid. As such, this story is not the usual quality of my work, as it is completely unedited and was planned, thought-up and written in fifteen minutes. I may or may not be posting more of these later. The Forest I walked alone through a dark forest, nothing but the beasts of the woodland to accompany me. Yet I was content...........The moon shone ever so slightly through the thick foliage so that every few minutes I could glimpse the milky light. Occasionally I even had the chance to see a star or two, there for one moment, but gone the next as I took another step. My feet travelled over rocky terrain, covered in pine needles, leaves, roots of trees, and much other frondescence...........A squirrel scurried up a tree next to me. I turned to look, smiled. It was always so comforting here. So peaceful. There was no one to disturb me. Not a soul. Just me and the forest around me...........I came to a shallow river, the water flowing gracefully through the woods. I took a step in, allowed the cool liquid to inebriate my being. It was already cold with the spring night, but it was something I welcomed, so I allowed the glistening liquid to cool me even more. I crouched down, cupped my hands, and washed my face. Immediately it seemed as though my sense were doubled. I could see sharper, and the slight wind on my face became all the more apparent, chilling my cheeks...........Taking a large gulp, I stood up again, stepped out of the river, and made my way north, following along the bank of the river. After what may have been hours I came to a cave. It was my home...........I pushed aside the leaves I had strung as a crude door and stepped inside. I sat down on the cold, dark surface. I let my eyes wander, and they came upon a series of markings on the walls...........Memories flooded my mind. Memories of how I came here; unhappy times. I remembered how I was banished from where I lived, dumped in to the middle of this forest. At first I hated it, hated God, hated everything. I found this cave, making inscriptions on the wall showing my disgust, telling my story. But as the years went by I began to embrace the life they chose for me. I came to realize the beauty of the world we live in, and how the only way it could possibly exist was through a God...........I stopped trying to find a way out, stopped caring to get revenge on those who put me here. Instead I continued to live my life. To embrace it. To cherish it. To love it...........This forest is my home. ~ :: ~
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(Written to the sound of the Parting and Gathering Theme from LOST.) The rain fell softly outside, persistently batting away at the fronds and leaves and saturating the lawn. There was no roar of water, only a gentle hiss as the storm passed through and delivered its soft kill. From behind the large window that looked into the garden was the lady of the manor, gazing out at the rain. The moment and the storm seemed like any other to anybody else, but to her, this moment was special. In her hands she held a leather bound album she possessed, one of many, but like everything else, this was a special item in a sublime instance. She sighed heavily, the warmness of her breath fogging the glass for a few seconds, but her vision was soon regained and the visage remained as she left it. If only everything else was like that. She turned and slowly walked through the study to her favorite place to read, a small rocking love seat that overlooked the river that now rose steadily. She sat and opened the album, admiring each of the pictures, snapshots of her youth and those she cared about. Her old nanny, wrinkled like a prune (she giggled a bit at this recollection) but as caring as a saint, her aunt Mary who always brought balloons for her when she visited, and her brother Robin, the one who helped her overcome every one of her fears. Good friends she cared about, now all long gone from this world The members of her current life moved about, she could hear their steps echoing through the halls and creaking through the floorboards, but despite their proximity they seemed distant as if they were in another world. She looked back at the pages of her book, admiring them, touching the pictures of the faces and profiles. Yes, those in the book were long gone, but for the lady they were now as near and real as they ever were. She closed her eyes for one final time as a tear left them and in an instant was welcomed by her old friends as she went from one world to the next.
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Flight The metal tube vibrated to the steady hum as the propellers outside tugged the airplane forward. It was claustrophobic for all the people inside, with dark confines rendered even shadowier than normal on account of the night, but while each one of them was sick of the movement and the snake’s abdomen they were in they all equally dreaded their freedom from their prison. Only the ruby light from a bulb that would signal their doom lit their tunnel, and it sickened them. “T-minus two minutes,” the squad leader announced. The private didn’t even nod -- none of the men did. It was understood already simply by the further paling of the faces. The sergeant simply stood by the door, watching the red light by it, waiting for the emerald spark he eagerly expected. He was the only one who wanted to get outside into the bustling wind and darkness, the only one who seemed bred for this very moment. “Up!” he commanded, and the soldiers unclipped their belts and rose to the order, standing in a jagged line. “Equipment check!” They all searched each other’s gear, a simple double tap on the other’s back the only sign of approval. Still no words were said. “One minute!” The door was opened up and the men shivered as the sudden gust of frigid air spilled into the cabin. Far below, only the glow of moonlight on the snowy banks of the Alps could be seen, making the landscape seem like a haunted floor of scattered white puzzle pieces on a dark abyss. The attack came suddenly and without notice. The plane flanking at the right of the squadron simply vanished in a wash of sparks and black smoke as it abruptly spun away to the distant ground. The men in the plane could not see it, but soon another plane was destroyed by a flak gun. Puffs of smoke filled the airspace as the land cannons fired their shells into the air to disrupt the march of the flight. The sergeant glared angrily at the red light, waiting for it to glow green to dispense of the troops. Impatiently, he gave the order. “Ready!” he barked for final preparation but obediently remained strict to protocol, not giving the go-ahead with a red light. Boom. The fuselage split in two, spilling the soldiers out like crumbs from a canister. They fluttered away, some of them pulling their tabs and releasing their parachutes. They disappeared from view, but the sergeant could hear the drone of another plane, a fighter. Someone was cleaning the mess up already. Blast it, he thought. He still clutched onto the handlebar, vaguely safe in the front cone of the plane as it tumbled down. He would die there. His men already did. He waited for the ground to slay him. The light never turned green, but all of the men in that plane flew that night.
