Arthur’s Comments (group member since Oct 25, 2008)

Arthur’s comments from the Short Story Contests group.

Congrats Kiliro, great job. And is it alright to post your story on Short Story Galore as the winner of this contest?

Good writing to each of the contestants. Hope there's more great stories.

Let's get to the poll to vote for favorite story. Good luck. Thanks everyone. Happy Halloween.

(Contest closed. No more story posts unless you don't mind it not getting viewed much.)

Obviously Bonnie felt this story to incredible to research on her own later. She brushed it off as lunacy. Maybe this was why everyone gave him the cold shoulder in his family because of his strange beliefs.

“I have one thing to do to get my health, ‘one day’, the doctor of voodoo said, ‘you must sacrifice your loved one for me.’ Which means when he is dieing I will be and so forth. But a sacrifice to him will conjure a magic protection for him and it will keep me alive too.”

That was so weird. Bonnie bit her lip. What was her uncle Sam talking about? If the doctor lived so will Sam, only he had to sacrifice and worship for the doctor in return. It was to strange to listen to.

“Uncle Sammy, I thought? I think I would have liked to know your story but this . . . this is to unbelievable. What are you asking?” Bonnie was fretting.

“I’m saying my dear you are my most precious loved one. You are going to be my sacrifice.”

She held her breath. What was he talking about? Was it a joke? She began to back out of the room. She wanted to find Brad or Tony only the stepped into the room with her.

“I see you are being difficult cousin,” they said. “We know how you loved our father. You know how special a person he really is. You know how he will appreciate your sacrifice for him. You must do this.” Simultaneously they pushed her back into the room. Then a black light had spread out from uncle Sam and it sucked the life out of Bonnie leaving her dried up and dead on the bedroom floor.

When Bonnie woke up she was inside uncle Sam’s mind. She had her brief case and white paper and pencils. She had a tape recorder and computer. She said, “so uncle Sam I’m glad you are going to finally tell me all about yourself, let’s just start from the beginning.” She looked at his scared craven old face, partly hidden by the darkness around him and his fallen health. He smiled and spoke and she wrote down his story word for word.

The End

Name: Awake
Words: 1831
By: Arthur
……………………………………..

Awake

Biographer Bonnie Hayes looks to her customer. She has been taking notes in shorthand and sorted facts of the life according to Mrs. Steinhart. It would be for Mrs. Steinhart and her memoir. Mrs. Steinhart liked the idea of having her memories, all sixty-five years of it, recorded into a book. Bonnie needed to do is listen, to write down all of what she was told and then accurately recite what she could from her shorthand when she returns to her apartment where she writes it out into a final format Mrs. Steinhart will accept.

Bonnie was thinking about a new car. She could purchase it after her commission from Mrs. Steinhart’s memoir. She noticed that Mrs. Steinhart has fallen asleep in mid of a sentence.

“Mrs. Steinhart?”

Bonnie went over her notes while she waits for Mrs. Steinhart. She had nearly sixty full pages to write tonight. It was going good for the first week. Mrs. Steinhart had told some exciting stories of her life. At first she seemed reluctant to have someone else talk with, then Mrs. Steinhart opened up to tell her story, but Bonnie assured her that few things shock many in society at the modernity level. Bonnie is trying to fill in as much of the issues kept hidden. An almost closeted time in the past of Mrs. Steinhart’s experiences.

Bonnie also had been still single and had never come close to marriage before. Bonnie had been almost dateless since high school. She was intrigued by Mrs. Steinhart’s stories.

Bonnie was always interested in writing news. She sat for an interview for the local newspaper, The Lakeshore Enquirer, but realized how she felt about reporting news that affects lives. She felt unsuited. When asked if she’d be interested in writing for the advice column she slumped in her interview chair.

Wake up Mrs. Steinhart. Please wake up.

Pressed by a few of Mrs. Steinhart opinions Bonnie felt issues when Mrs. Steinhart exaggerated to make her story better. Bonnie did her research being careful she doesn’t need to retract any of the memoirs publicly later.

In therapy Bonnie has little difficulty. Her shrink Dr. Bateman, a little short man with spiked hair, an 80’s wrestling & music buff who knows more about Madonna than Madonna herself stifled her, helped her to repressed memories and all sorts of recommendations to reduce stress. He has a book out called “Bateman Reduces all Stress in a Week or Your over the Hill” which is becoming grossly popular among the neurotics.

Don’t be like Bateman seems to be his personal motivational message. He had lost a good deal in the nineties during several recessional periods, but overcame the stress. He involves travel in his therapies. Bonnie reasons that he has the look, which constitutes his regularity at helping his patients. In fact he’s helped over a thousand, a stand up record in a field where most call their doctors quacks and quit therapy. But Dr. Bateman seems to have improved people and their general awareness also, that really reduces the stress in society, it really helped him in printing his book.

Bonnie indulged in writing Biographies. Her fridge door was covered in obituary notices from recent weeks from the “Lakeshore Enquirer”. Her living room doesn’t have table ends any longer; she had them removed for her over crowded books. A stack at each chair.

When she got home she read her mail in the kitchen. She noticed the number of phone messages and grudged the problem of playing through them. About five. Not unordinary during the week but this was a Saturday. She had stress therapy Saturday mornings. She had interviewed Mrs. Steinhart in the afternoon. She now carried a briefcase filled with Mrs. Steinhart’s history. She had to research some before she goes to her publisher editor.

The four first messages were unimportant. The fifth was a surprise. Her uncle Sam, brother of her mother was dieing and wanted to see her before he dies. She wondered if she could at last convince him to allow her to write his story. He had always refused. He always said dark secrets are just that. There appeared a conflict in his life, one he wouldn’t share. Not anyone in the family could talk about her uncle Sam. She always wanted to know what that conflict was. She began to think it was the end to her wondering. He was going to die and take the secret with him. It was sad and depressing to see her number one uncle pass away while she felt close to him like everyone in the family. It was strange how anyone in her family would talk about him. He always was there for reunions. Everyone said how good he looked. Hugs and kisses. Nobody said any stories about him. Was there a secret or conflict they were trying to hide? If he died it will remain a secret.

She grabbed her purse; she grabbed a new brief case filled with white paper and pencils and ran out the door. When she arrived to his address she let herself in. Here in his bedroom were his two sons. They gave her consternated looks when she walked inside. Her uncle Sam lay sprawled unconsciously.

It was hard to talk about uncle Sam because he still looked so young. His eyes partly open, partly closed. Now he should be sixty years old and still looked forty. Above him was a crucifix of Jesus, it hung on the wall. There were no other pictures or even symbols of any kind in this room. It was so ordinarily plain it didn’t capture any interest.

“Is Uncle Sammy going to be alright?” Bonnie asked disappointed the two sons got here first.

“Ask him yourself.” Brad said. Tony looked down at her like she had some control over their father. “He won’t talk to us. He will only speak to you.” With that they turned to leave. “When he wakes up call us.” They left.

“Are you awake Uncle Sammy?” A brief pause. His eyes flutter open.

“Are they gone?” He asks. She puts down her brief case. Walks from the bed corner and gives him a big hug. He tries to laugh. A mumble of laughter issue forth. She squeezes then lightens up her hold to let go. She looks at him with admiration as he begins to talk.

“I’m so glad you’re here Bonnie. I guess I thought I scared you away like the rest of the family.” He cackles.

“No. but why? Why would any of the family be scared of you?” she asked.

“You know?” Uncle Sam said rhetorically to lead to the truth. “I don’t know.”

She chuckles.

“Actually I have some idea. That’s why I want to tell you my story. It isn’t much, but I ought to tell someone shouldn’t I?” He admitted.
She went loose and cold. Her uncle Sam did love her after all and had some family secret to reveal after all.

“Alright. Only if you get too tired I get your sons.” She smiled at him.

“I don’t need them. They don’t need to know either. I’ve always kept it a secret why I’m so young looking.” He began.

Bonnie withdrew a book and began writing in her shorthand.

“In fact your mother knew, god bless her.” He said. “I don’t think I told anyone else though. It all began when we were about forty. You were only six. Do you remember my going away for a year?” Uncle Sam said.
He told everyone in the family he won a trip for two week to the Bahamas. But when he got there he fell in love so much with it he ended up staying in one of the therapeutic hotel villas for a year. When he returned he looked younger and stronger. That was when the family began saying every year that he looked well and the hugs and kisses. Only now his health was slipping right out from underneath him.

“I found a well for getting one’s health back. Most people don’t believe such places exist. I did. After a few months in the Bahamas I got my chance. A doctor of black magic granted me my health spell.”

Bonnie was legitimately shocked. How could her uncle have gone to a doctor of black magic?

“So that’s why you look so young?” she asked. Partly in belief and a part skeptical.

He looked at her smugly and grinning. “I know it sounds incredibly stupid to go to a doctor of voodoo. But I had too. I was given my youthful appearance back to keep. Only my health would still age like it should.” He continued.

These are stories that are always less than 75 words. Today's topic is Short.

You may write your story to be a really short self story, personal mystery or experience. It can be anything

There are always good conversations alive in the world. A book is a tool. Marcel Proust is considered a legendary egotistical writer. Those after his spirit of poetry and writing are few but they are truly pledged pursuers. If you have any pledged individuals in your school, you know the types I mean. If you don't then just look around you for one. You don't need to tap your friend to find out who is who in your class or are good readers from the bad. In Drama everyone are willing to talk in the characters they act about their favorite things in life. Isn’t it when a book is opened it could create such a stir? But are you willing to meet a crowd in real life who become silent? No? View the circumstances, the truly pledged look up to their role model, one meeting individual tastes.

You have until Sunday afternoon to post a poem on here before the Topic changes. Please post it directly onto this topic, rather than posting a link. You're welcome to discuss poems on here also.

This week's Topic is Pair. If anyone has any objections to this topic, please go to the Poetry Topic Objections post.


Poems can be as long and short as you want them to be. This is not a contest, it's just for fun and to show off our own poetry.

Let us continue for one more week, and see what happens. If anyone wants to post their story it will be the same topic. You will have until this Saturday afternoon to post a story on here before we have a vote who has the favorite story.

You have until Sunday afternoon to post a poem on here before the Topic changes. Please post it directly onto this topic, rather than posting a link. You're welcome to discuss poems on here also.

This week's Topic is Halloween. If anyone has any objections to this topic, please go to the Poetry Topic Objections post.


Poems can be as long and short as you want them to be. This is not a contest, it's just for fun and to show off our own poetry.

Instructions:

Please do not use a story previously used on goodreads. After the week's contest, you are welcome to put it on your profile writings, but please refrain from using stories you have already put on there.

You have until Saturday afternoon to post a story on here. Please post it directly onto this topic, rather than posting a link. Also, please do not discuss stories on here. You must go to Weekly Short Story Contest Discussion for that. This will avoid any clutter and confusion, so that people can simply come on here and read the story, without having to read comments on the story.

This week's Topic is Conflict. If anyone has any objections to this topic, please go to the Objections post. The rules are pretty loose. This will be seen as the difference by war, a clash between ideas or principles or people, struggle in mental or otherwise, literature’s plot tension etc. You could write about pretty much anything. Just have the word in the story.

Weekly stories must be at least 500 words long to 2,500 words long. (if the whole story won't fit in one post, divide it into two)

Good luck!

Arthur [acting for Clare:]

P.S. PLEASE say if you would like to have your story on Short Story Galore, if you win. This way it wouldn't take me ages to get your consent afterwards. This includes adding a link to your stories. If you want to have your story on the Short Story Galore, but not the link, just say so.

These are stories that are always less than 75 words. Today's topic is Egotistical.

You may write your story to be a really short self story, personal mystery or experience. It can be anything

Winner is Joelle, congratulations. Do you wish to add Hot Air Balloons, Tacos, and Crimes on Short Story Galore? All contest winners have their stories added to be seen in the future by choice of course.

And thanks everyone for voting and participating.

O.K. Sorry to get on so late. Let us vote -Please go to the poll and choose your favorite author/story written.

((Contest topic close, please do not post your story under this topic. If you want to post your story, every week there is a new topic.))

Name: Thinking it Through
Words: 1,180
By: Arthur
……………………………………..


Thinking it Through

Mr. Wilcox was old and a victim. He had Alzheimer’s but he had also become unfamiliar with the world. Feverish. Clammy. Sickly. Cold.
His symptoms of Alzheimer’s is the only thing doctors can use to recognize the spreading plaque in his diseasing body. Appearing in all aging individuals today.

This story like all history wouldn’t be necessary if it was a world without plaques. Instead world wide growth rates dwindle half in the next twenty years. All elderly are captured like wild animals and are destroyed to help fight the aging plaque. The disease spreads according to doctors. They are trying to isolate it and find the cure. So far they can’t. It begins and spreads and those who newly contract it unknowingly give it to others.

Sergeant Perelman Kingston stood watching his people remove Mr. Wilcox. He’s leaning agape on the balustrade. Fewer can be as committed as Sergeant Kingston. Fewer bitterer.

His imagination ponders his surroundings as they lead Mr. Wilcox away. Trailing is his son and daughter-in-law whom had done everything to keep the old man alive and hidden somewhere safe from the Special Forces department that will come and take the loved ones away. The couple is put in a car to be questioned at the headquarters. The old man is wrapped immediately in an isolation bag, is no longer conscious, and handled into a patrol ambulance. Hiding any aged person even relatives was a felony. When you are aged you are to report it. Today it is known to be all handled by the local at State Hospital.

“He looks like he had been living for many years in the hidden room behind the fireplace.” I said. What an idea. A secret room had been placed between the walls. A common enough trick of using a sliding panel will reveal the room. And the storage room Wilcox was in just wasn’t noticeable from outside.

The spreading of Alzheimer’s plaque disease is spreading. Once all aged individuals are destroyed you will not be able to catch the Alzheimer’s transferring from one to one the government claims. To save the human race from extinction we are using extreme measures.

I’m only a sergeant and have no real opinion on the matter. Why bother? Once I’m sixty I will be terminated too unless the cure is found.

I turned to the inspector. I have a clear idea of where his wife may be hiding. I begin to tell the inspector.

“Is it important?” The inspector asks.

“Sure is…” I tilt up the telephone from the table revealing the bottom’s base with a sticky note glued to it. It’s sculptured as a kitty-cat, cute I think, the ringer model has a black face and white boots for fury paws. Once it ringed it probably purred.

Inspector Ron Freakrite seems dazed. The workmanship of constructing the secret room was a good one. Finding a sticky note to remember where they placed the mother was remarkable. After all people are well trusted and your supposed to turn in your aged realities. It’s the law. Why had they gone to the trouble of protecting them and seriously jeopardizing the rest of humanity?

“So, were the Wilcox’s found out by a tip from the neighbors?” I ask inspector Freakrite.

“Hum?” he sighs. He has read the sticky note and looks at it pleased.

“Had the neighbors suspected the Wilcox’s was keeping him still alive?” I ask again intrigued by that idea.

“No Perelman they weren’t suspects until today.” The inspector takes a breath. “It’s another classic and you could guess what went down.”

I at first think he’s shutting up and I’ll never learn. Then I realize he’s taunting me to play a game like twenty questions so I asked one. I say, “A visitor heard what was going on? Maybe saw him out of that secret room.”

“Sorry. Perelman it was the grocery store. They always suspected the levels of food looked more like three portions and not two. And today Mr. Wilcox came down really sick. Brad Wilcox came in this morning for over the counter drugs and acting wildly. That got one of them thinking at General Store.”

“And the hidden room, how did you know he was behind it?” I ask.

“Easy. We secured a warrant and brought in the equipment that scanned the premises.” The inspector morosely admits.

“So why can’t we check over every residence?” I dumbly ask. Revealing my enthusiasm we both know the elderly survivors are a problem we must meet.

“Manpower and no clue where we start.” He answers.

I look at him and say nothing while picking up clues from the hidden room. I look for names, pictures, ordinary things that were left behind by the felons who are in someway protecting the elderly.

A voice rises from another room. I turn from the inspector. “I think we will not find much more.” Another sergeant says to me. “We will be leaving soon Kingston. Are you coming with us?” he asks.

“I only want to stick around until the inspector finds everything.” I say. I will make myself available to the inspector even if he wants to be alone or not bothered. He will need some help I’m sure.

Seems the Brad Wilcox’s mother may be found at some boat cottage found at 344 Lakeshore. I may assist the inspector in cracking down on her too. The felons are fewer and fewer and are easy pickings. Inspector Frankenrite smiles to me in agreement.


After a long day I come home. Slip off my shoes and removed my shirt. I sling my gun over the arm of a chair. I look in the empty kitchen. I live alone. My wife died. I’m settled in the dust of the house in a few moments.

I listen to my messages from a black machine. It ticks off missed appointments so I offer I’ll call some back, sorry. It’s been a sort of bad day.

I assume this problem I’m filling in to you has taken everyone. If it’s literature you want you may be in the wrong place. I had no idea it was this bad.

I go to the T.V. sitting room. I bend towards the set. My room is always this dark in here. I press the button on the remote box taped to behind the set. The remote slides open the panel behind my fireplace revealing the hidden room I have. I hear a cough. I have woken him up. It mystifies me how anyone this old could survive in a closet or locked room. He is so old and grizzled I take moments to recognize my father. Like myself he is filled with questions for the day. I begin by telling him how we found the Wilcox’s family still hiding their parents after so many years. The grin is long and toothless. He roots for the fact they lived so long. He frowns when I speak about the mistakes the Wilcox’s made. I give him my T.V. diner. I hate these anyway.

This week's contest is closed. (no one entered a story, so we move on to the next week)

Instructions:

Please do not use a story previously used on goodreads. After the week's contest, you are welcome to put it on your profile writings, but please refrain from using stories you have already put on there.

You have until Saturday afternoon to post a story on here. Please post it directly onto this topic, rather than posting a link. Also, please do not discuss stories on here. You must go to Weekly Short Story Contest Discussion for that. This will avoid any clutter and confusion, so that people can simply come on here and read the story, without having to read comments on the story.

This week's Topic is Felon. If anyone has any objections to this topic, please go to the Objections post. The rules are pretty loose. This can describe a lot such as criminals, serious crimes, someone's appearance is evil, or even wrongdoing, lawbreaking, or delinquency. Etc. You could write about pretty much anything. Just have the word in the story.

Weekly stories must be at least 500 words long to 2,500 words long. (if the whole story won't fit in one post, divide it into two)

Good luck!

Arthur [acting for Clare:]

P.S. PLEASE say if you would like to have your story on Short Story Galore, if you win. This way it wouldn't take me ages to get your consent afterwards. This includes adding a link to your stories. If you want to have your story on the Short Story Galore, but not the link, just say so.

You have until Sunday afternoon to post a poem on here before the Topic changes. Please post it directly onto this topic, rather than posting a link. You're welcome to discuss poems on here also.

This week's Topic is Stony. If anyone has any objections to this topic, please go to the Poetry Topic Objections post.


Poems can be as long and short as you want them to be. This is not a contest, it's just for fun and to show off our own poetry.

These are stories that are always less than 75 words. Today's topic is Possibilities.

You may write your story to be a really short self story, personal mystery or experience. It can be anything

Certainly no. Casting may be used to mean differently in your story.

This could mean a lot as using molds, fishing lines, stage performances casting, or even throwing some object off for good. Etc. You could write about pretty much anything. Just have the word in the story.

It was time for my performance. My singing and dancing act had begun. My cue sort of had gone on forever and forever. My usual dancing partner deduced I liked her and she insinuates I’d an infatuation of her. Was there anyone as meaningless? To slip away a chance came when the productions manager came to tell me it was time. He gave her a disapproval look. She was Italian. All unused to not getting her way.
Her father would be sitting in the audience tonight. In his expensive front seats with the family.
I rushed on to find my place. The chorus girls in chorus. I began by stumbling which leads me to fall off the stage. A stage hand said I broke my leg. After I clutched a paper note from the floor in my pain I picked up by mistake. It said "Anything for my Italian princess." In reply to "Won't you?"
I fainted and when I woke I was still clutching the paper note. I read more as my leg was being cast.
"I'll kill him." Was the reply to, "He doesn't love me."
Lastly without a recent reply it says, "We are Italian. Just maim a little, to help him crawl back." As if I could crawl.