Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

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Weekly Short Story Contests > Week 275 (August 25-31). Stories.Topic: Flea Market

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message 1: by Ajay (new)

Ajay (ajay_n) | 1135 comments You have until the 31st of August to post a story, and September 1-3, we’ll vote for which one we thought was best.

Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group.

Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long.

REMEMBER! A short story is not merely a scene. It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

This week’s topic is: Flea Market

The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject but it must relate to the topic somehow.

Have fun!


message 2: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments I don't do paranormal stories that often. In fact, I think this is my first one. It's called "Flipped Off" and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

Angelo Crockett, Convicted Rapist
Ivan Savage, Professional House Flipper
Mickey Ryder, Professional House Flipper
Ghosts of Raped Girls

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Ivan and Mickey purchased the house sight unseen at a flea market auction.

SYNOPSIS: Ivan and Mickey are assigned by a construction company to flip an old shoddy house once used as a rape dungeon by Angelo Crockett, who was said to have kept anywhere up to 30 different underage girls captive before he was arrested and sentenced to life in prison. Ivan thinks this project is in horrible taste and grossly inappropriate while Mickey insists that it’s just another day on the job. The ordinariness of the job becomes questioned when the two flip men are convinced the house is haunted by the ghosts of the raped girls.


message 3: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments I hope we get more entries than last week. Honestly, guys, what happened? Was there a public holiday I don't know about? :-D


message 4: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments I was wondering the same thing, Edward. It was like a ghost town last week!


message 5: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments At least everyone involved is guaranteed at least a bronze medal!


message 6: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments In the words of George Carlin, "You know what they say to a child who lost these days? 'You were the last winner!'"


message 7: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments "Not if you didn't finish the race, you loser!" :D


message 8: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments Hehehehehehe!


message 9: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Title : This Little Piggy Went To Market...
Author : Edward Davies
Genre : Comedy Drama
Word Count : 1278
Rating : PG

Georgia liked nothing more than going to the markets on a Sunday morning and browsing through other peoples unwanted items. Sometimes she’d find an out of print book, or a toy she loved as a child, but rarely did she find anything that was really special.

Until one weekend she did.

As she looked through a box that appeared to be mainly filled with junk, she saw it.

A porcelain pig.

But it wasn’t just any porcelain pig; it was a collectable she remembered from her youth.

One of her auntie’s had died when Georgia was just a little girl and had left her a collection of ornamental pigs. Georgia had always been fond of them as a child, and had kept them in pristine condition, but over the years she had stopped loving them quite as much as she once had.

She’d gone on line one day to see if anyone would be interested in buying them, and to her surprise she’d found that there was more than one person knocking around who would be ecstatic about owning her collection.

Unfortunately, of the nine pigs she owned, she was missing just one.

The most valuable one.

The one that would result in her collections’ value rising from $1,000 to $10,000!

At least!

Georgia whet her lips as she looked at the pig, its eyes twinkling as it appeared to look back at her. Taunting her. Georgia wondered to herself how much the stall owner wanted for the pig.

Or if they even knew how much it was worth.

Hastily Georgia picked up the box of mostly rubbish that contained the porcelain pig and brought it over to the stall owner.

“How much for all this?” she asked him.

The stall owner widened his eyes, surprised that someone was actually wanting to buy a whole box of his rubbish. He shrugged with his mouth;

“How does $20 sound?” he asked.

“Sold,” Georgia smiled, placing the box down on the table to take out her purse from her handbag. She opened it up, rummaging through for a crisp $20 note and handed it to the man.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she beamed, turning to pick up the box.

A strange man was standing over the box, holding the porcelain pig in his hands, “How much for this?” he asked the stall owner.

Georgia widened then narrowed her eyes, “Sorry, I’ve just bought that box of things.”

The man stared dully at Georgia, “The pig wasn’t in the box,” he said, “it was on the table.”

“No it wasn’t!” Georgia insisted, “It was in this box that I’ve just purchased, now hand it over.”

The stall owner stood up from his folding chair, “I don’t think it was in the box, lady,” he said, “I distinctly remember placing it on the table.”

“Not you as well,” Georgia fumed, “I bought that box of crap, including that porcelain pig, and I demand you hand it over.”

The man who now held the pig turned to the stall owner, “How much did she pay for the box?” he asked.

“Twenty bucks,” the stall owner told him.

“I’ll give you thirty.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Georgia spoke up angrily at the two men who were talking over her, “I’ve already paid for that pig fair and square.”

“No you haven’t,” said the man holding the pig, “it wasn’t in the box.”

“It bloody was!”

“It bloody wasn’t!”

“Look, we can argue about this all day, but this gentleman here,” the man sighed, pointing at the stall owner, “has just told both of us that this pig was not in your box. So take your box of possessions and bugger off.”

Georgia’s mouth gaped at the man, “How dare you use such language!” she shouted, “I’ve got a good mind to call the police on you.”

“And say what?” the man chuckled, “That I stole your pig? Like I said, it was on the table and I picked it up. End of discussion.”

Georgia was furious with the man, but she didn’t know what to do. The stall owner wasn’t backing her up, and the man was right that no-one would believe her. Picking up the box, Georgia faced the fact that she only had one option left to her.

Facing the man who was holding the pig, she swung the box into his face, knocking him to the ground. As he fell he dropped the pig on the grass and Georgia hastily retrieved it, placing it in the box and running with it in her hands. The stall owner shouted after her as the man lay still on the ground, but Georgia was too quick for them. She reached her car, putting the box in the passenger seat, and drove off down the street heading home.

Georgia was sweating with worry by the time she pulled into her driveway. She wouldn’t be able to go back to the markets now, at least not for a while. Someone was bound to recognise her from hitting that man, but at least she had the pig.

She picked up the box from the passenger seat of her car and carried it into her house, placing it on teh kitchen table next to her car keys. She picked up the pig from the top of the box and smiled to herself. She’d be able to make a fortune out of her auntie’s collection now that it was complete. Carefully she put the pig down on the counter, thinking about all the money she’d be able to make out of him once she listed them all on ebay, or sold them at auction. She’d be rolling in money.

Happily, Georgia started to rifle through the box of nicknacks that the pig had come with.

“There might be a book or something worth keeping in here,” she told herself as she looked through the contents of the box.

Then her heart stopped.

Sitting near the bottom of the box, underneath an old place mat, was another pig!

Identical to the one on the kitchen counter.

Georgia started to chuckle, then burst out laughing. So the man at the market had been telling the truth all along.

“Oh well,” Georgia smiled to herself, placing the two pigs side by side, “I’ve got two of the pigs now. That one on its own is easily worth $400.”

As she continued to celebrate, moving to the cupboard to pour herself a glass of wine, she heard a crashing noise from the front door. Peeking around the doorway, she saw four armed police officers bursting through the door and pushing her into the kitchen.

“You’re under arrest!” the first police officer shouted, “You have the right to remain silent—“

“It was only a pig!” Georgia cried as one of the officers spun her around and cuffed her, “It was only a bloody pig!”

“This isn’t about a pig,” the arresting officer told her, “You’re under arrest for murder.”

“Murder?” Georgia repeated. Had the man at the market died when she knocked him to th ground? Somehow that didn’t seem likely.

“Let me explain,” Georgia pleaded with the arresting officer, trying to turn around.

“Please don’t resist, ma’am,” the officer warned pushing her against the kitchen counter. As he did so, Georgia nudged against the box, which slid across the counter.

“NO!” she screamed, unable to stop the box from moving due to her cuffed hands.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the box nudged into the two porcelain pigs, sending them spinning off the counter and towards the ground where they smashed into a thousand pieces.

Ten thousand pieces, to be precise.


message 10: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Alex wrote: "I like pigs, and I like where this went. Over a pig. Good job, Edward!"

My story two weeks ago was about pigs too! I think there's a theme!


message 11: by C. J., Atm Seeker in the "Lin Kuei" (last edited Aug 26, 2015 03:25PM) (new)

C. J. Scurria (goodreadscomcj_scurria) | 4214 comments Edward wrote: "I hope we get more entries than last week. Honestly, guys, what happened? Was there a public holiday I don't know about? :-D"

I had an idea and it was so under-developed I couldn't map it out and then type it in a finished version on time.

Also didn't help I was away some of the week as well, haha!


message 12: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments In any event, it's good to have you back, CJ! Or should I say, the awesome inventor of the "Real People and Events Behind Our Stories" thread! :)


message 13: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Edward wrote: "I hope we get more entries than last week. Honestly, guys, what happened? Was there a public holiday I don't know about? :-D"

Yeah, seems like we had a mass exodus last week --did they all go back to school? By the time I got around to thinking about a story, the week was over, so I started early this week (well, kind of...)
It's been a while since I've done anything like this, so I welcome any feedback -- especially about my ability to write from a young boy's POV. I'm never quite sure if it's realistic or not.


message 14: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Title: The Last Gift
Word count: 2415
Genre: Fiction

Colin had spent most of his 70+ years wondering what it would really be like to die. He'd only been with one person – his kid brother, Billy – when HE died and would never forget the look in Billy's eyes before he closed them for the last time. It was a look of love and joy, of contentment and satisfaction all rolled into one. A look that said, I've had the best time, now I'm ready to go. How many people could say that? Colin didn't know. But it would forever be a source of profound pleasure to Colin, knowing it was he that helped put that look there.

And every time he passed a flea market, he would remember it.

Colin was 16 when 12 year old Billy came home from the hospital for the last time. He was no longer responding well to treatments and mom and Billy both wanted Billy to be at home at the end. Also, it would soon be Billy's birthday and he just didn't want to be in the hospital any more. He was sick of needles, sick of puking, and just sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.

To tell the truth, Colin was kind of sick of hearing about it.
And immediately felt guilty. Because he knew Billy didn't really whine that much.

Colin felt guilty a lot these days and didn't know why. It wasn't fair that Billy should be so sick when he was always so healthy; that he could do things Billy couldn't do – would never do. Like go on a date, kiss a girl, drive a car, play basketball...and sail.

Colin watched his father carry Billy in to his bed; as his mother puttered around the small bedroom, fluffing bright blue pillows, filling a glass of water from the pitcher at the bedside, opening the venetian blinds, adjusting the Superman-lamp and Kleenex on the bedside table, smoothing the sailboat-themed quilt over Billy – always moving, always doing something. Colin hovered in the doorway, his hands first in his pockets, then behind his back, then folded across his chest as he shifted his position from his right leg to his left and back again.

His brother looked more fragile than ever. His skin was so pale, except for the angry, defiant purple bruises tracking up the insides of his emaciated arms. His bald head shone obscenely in the lamp's glow, appearing oversized for the body that had shrunken to nearly half its original size. Colin noticed the grimace that seared Billy's face when his father laid him in bed.

And in spite of everything, Billy smiled at Colin.

Colin tried to smile back, but he couldn't make his lips move. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket for the small box he bought with his newspaper route money. He shuffled over to the bed and handed the box to his brother.

“Welcome home,” the words croaked out in a whisper. Colin immediately hoped Billy couldn't hear him – what a stupid thing to say.

“Thanks, Colin,” Billy whispered back, his smile bigger than ever. “Can you show me what's in it?”

How stupid am I? Of course he's not strong enough to reach for it.

“It's not much, just a puzzle.” Now the words spurted out, out of his control as he sat on the bed and held the box so Billy could see.

“I got it at the flea market last Sunday. I thought we could do it together. See the picture, it's a sailboat. It's only a hundred pieces and they're pretty big, so I thought it would be easy. See, the lake even looks like ours. Sorta. A little bit. And the boat kinda looks like Mr. Harrison's, remember? Remember when we went sailing with him before he moved away? That was a good time, wasn't it? I thought you'd like it,” Colin said as he pointed out each puzzle feature.

“It didn't cost much, I gotta good deal, I think there's a coupla pieces missing...” His voice stuttered to a stop. He lowered the box and laid it on Billy's chest as he leaned back and clenched his teeth and then his hands to keep the tears at bay.

“It's the best present, Colin,” Billy's eyes glowed as he looked at his present and at Colin. “I can't wait to do it. Maybe after I rest a little.”

Colin nodded and standing up, turned to leave the room. His father joined him, putting his arm over Colin's shoulders and squeezing gently. “That was a good thing you did, son.”

It was pathetically the least he could do.

He still remembered with remorse the last fight he and Billy got in. Several months ago, he and his friends were playing basketball in the yard. Billy wanted to join in – he always wanted to do whatever Colin was doing. Colin didn't mind so much when he was alone, but he thought that would be just too uncool in front of his friends. So he hip-checked him – hard enough that Billy fell and twisted his ankle, badly. When Billy was at the hospital getting his ankle checked out, the blood tests showed he had leukemia. Even though they told him it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help feeling that if he hadn't pushed him so hard, maybe they wouldn't have found it, maybe he wouldn't... now...maybe...

Colin had to get out of the house.

He walked down the elm-lined street, the warm morning sun of a perfect June day streaming across Mrs. Hall's peonies, the Robinsons' roses. He walked past the church, the school, the drug store. He turned left towards the lake, to the flea market at the end of the parking lot.

He walked up and down the aisles, nodding at the people he knew – most of them, actually. Most called out, “Hey, Colin!” or “How's your brother?” Colin just nodded and walked past. He looked at everything, looking for something, for what – he didn't know, but he felt a yearning, a need he couldn't describe. He would know when he found it. He hoped.

Records. Clothes. Harmonicas. Kitchen stuff. Junk. He walked on.

At the end of the last row, the one right up against the lawn that led down to the lake, he saw Mr. Mitchell had set out boxes of tools. Mr. Mitchell also owned the town's one hardware store & sometimes people brought their old stuff to him, sometimes in trade or to sell it to him. Or he just had old stock he couldn't sell. Or stuff that got damaged. Every once in a while he'd bring it all here.

Colin picked up an old ball peen hammer. Set it down and looked further. Pliers. A bent hacksaw. Several types of chain, all different lengths. Long pieces of wood.Some kind of plastic cloth-type material.

“What's that?” Colin pointed to the material.

“Polytarp remants. Not big enough to be much use. Ya'd have to duct tape it together.”

“What do you use it for?”

“Keeps stuff dry. People put it on their cars or boats. Some folks use it for a quick and easy sail. Or patching in a pinch.”

“Is it strong?”

“Oh, yeah. See here, it's even got grommets on one side. It'll hold up good in a wind if ya secure it good. Last year some kid tried to make a sail for his Red Flyer wagon.” He laughed. “It wasn't half bad.”

It gave Colin an idea. He spied one more item Mr. Mitchell had laid out on the grass and thought his idea might work.

“How much for the rowboat,” he pointed, “and the wood and the tarp?”

Mr. Mitchell raised his eyebrows and said, “What do you want it for?”
When Colin told him, Mr. Mitchell gave him everything for free.

He went home and talked with his dad, who agreed to help. In the yard's toolshed, they cut the wood to size, rounding off the edges, drilling holes. They measured and cut the tarp, securing it together with duct tape.

Then they built and attached a special support plank into the front of the rowboat that Colin got from Mr. Mitchell. The wooden mast they made fit neatly into the center, atop a pivot wheel. In the back of the boat, they extended the seat and added a backrest for Billy.

The following evening, his “soap-box sailboat” was almost ready.

His mother had a fit.

“Absolutely not. No way.” Her eyes blazed in fury at Colin as his father stood nearby. “How can you even think to put your brother through something like that?”

She turned to her husband and pointed her finger in his face, “And YOU! How can you be a part of this...? How can you...” At this, his mother broke down.

Whitefaced, Colin's knees started to shake and his eyes burned. He started to have second thoughts. Maybe his mother was right. What if something went wrong? What if the boat turned over? Maybe he wasn't as good at sailing as he thought. After all, he had only used other people's dinghies...
And what he and his father had done here, it was makeshift. Junk. Who did he think he was, putting his brother at risk. If anything bad happened, no one would ever forgive him. Least of all himself.

He sunk to the ground, hunched over and rested his head on the side of the boat. He tuned out his parents, whose voices rose and ebbed in the background.

It was dark when his father came out and brought him in. Colin felt numb inside and gave him no argument.

Inside, Colin said, “I'm going to bed.” He ignored his father when he spoke, “Dinner's on the table, son.”

Colin slept fitfully and woke feeling miserable. Trying to be mature, he decided he would have to scrap the boat idea. The important thing was to spend time with his brother. He already wasted most of yesterday. Maybe they could do the puzzle today. Still, the unfulfilled dream carved a hole inside him.

He got up and went to Billy's room. It was empty. He was seized with a sudden terror. No, it couldn't be. He leapt down the stairs to the kitchen and shook with relief when he saw his family sitting in the kitchen. Billy was propped in a wheelchair, a pillow behind his head. He was wearing drawstring cotton pants and a long sleeved tee shirt.

“Hey Colin.” Billy's voice actually seemed stronger today.

Colin smiled uncertainly at Billy, “Hey, kid, it's good to see you up.”

Billy's eyes glinted with a warmth Colin hadn't seen in a long time. “Are you ready to take me sailing?”

Colin came to a standstill and looked at Billy, whose face shone with excited hope. He looked at his mother, whose eyes bespoke fear and uncertainty, but who didn't say anything. He looked at his father, who gazed at him with unwavering confidence as he said, “Everything's down at the boat ramp.”

Colin took a deep breath and hoped his voice would stay steady as he said, “Sure am.”

The rowboat sat at the edge of the water, a steady breeze flittering around the tarp-sail. The wooden mast sat tall and straight in the old boat. Ropes tied the gray sail's grommets to the mast's eyeholes. He found he could stretch out the sail and also secure it to the end of the broad beam with a quick-release snap his dad had devised. Colin reached out and tested it. It pivoted back and forth with ease, with extra rope for securing it in place to the gunwhales. For what he was doing, it should be fine. His father had provided a kayak paddle – borrowed from someone, no doubt – and a regular paddle, just in case.

He waded into the water and held the boat steady as his father sat Billy into the specially designed seat that supported Billy's back, legs, and arms with pillows. Then his father held the boat as Colin climbed in.

Colin shouldn't have been surprised at the group of neighbors that stood at the shore to watch. As they pushed off, Colin paddled away from the ramp until he snagged a breeze. The wind patterns were pretty predictable out here, especially at this time of day. Early morning was best. The lake was only a mile wide and 5 miles long. He positioned the boat parallel to the shore and braced the sail to pick up the wind. In a moment, they sped up. It was exhilirating, like always. He took a second to look back at Billy.



End of Part I. Part II to follow


message 15: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments The Last Gift, Part II.

Billy sat with his head back, face up to the sun and wind, the widest grin on his face. He opened his eyes to look at Colin, with love and trust and gratitude. It was a look that never left his face for the next several days.

At times they waved to the people gathered along the shore. It seemed everyone in the area had heard about their little exploit.

When they reached the other end, Colin adjusted the sail to turn the boat around. This was trickier, but he knew he had to tack back and forth to catch the wind at a different angle, zig-zagging to get back home. The water was smooth as glass as they flew across the lake. When they reached the other end, Colin turned once more. He maneuvered back and forth across the lake a few more times and then he headed back home.

Colin was able to take his brother out a few more times before he became too weak.

Before Billy closed his eyes the last time, Colin sat at his bedside, their parents on Billy's other side. Billy's last words were to Colin, “Thank you,” the blissful glow still evident in his dimming eyes.

Now, Colin took out an old, slightly crinkled picture from his wallet; the picture someone had taken as Billy returned from their sail. Even faded, it still perfectly captured Billy's radiant mood, his sunny eyes, his love of life.

Soon, Colin's eyes would no doubt begin to dim as Billy's had. But he had learned everything he needed to know about life from Billy that day. To feel. To love. To enjoy. Thank you, Billy.


message 16: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Edward wrote: "Title : This Little Piggy Went To Market...
Author : Edward Davies
Genre : Comedy Drama
Word Count : 1278
Rating : PG

Georgia liked nothing more than going to the markets on a Sunday morning and b..."


I always enjoy the humor in your stories, Edward! The pig is the perfect touch. Well done, as always.


message 17: by C. J., Atm Seeker in the "Lin Kuei" (new)

C. J. Scurria (goodreadscomcj_scurria) | 4214 comments Can't wait to read your early entry Anne.

And Garrison, hehe. I always like to check out this group. You guys make it great! My favorite threads are Getting to Know Your Character, haikus, and plenty others. The haiku I always don't make an entry because I am too blown away by what others have created.


message 18: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Anne wrote: "The Last Gift, Part II.

Billy sat with his head back, face up to the sun and wind, the widest grin on his face. He opened his eyes to look at Colin, with love and trust and gratitude. It was a lo..."


Great story. A nice retrospective as Colin succumbs to the ages, and thinks back on how surprisingly happy dying can actually be.


message 19: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Alex wrote: "No one have a heart attack now, but I wrote a story. (Insert gasp here.)


The Flea Market Dress
by A. M. Yeager

Every day I watched her put on a silk dress she bought at a flea market in Colorado..."


What a beautiful story, Alex! Very touching. And I love your description of her dress as a liquid flower!


message 20: by Edward (last edited Aug 27, 2015 07:52PM) (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Alex wrote: "No one have a heart attack now, but I wrote a story. (Insert gasp here.)


The Flea Market Dress
by A. M. Yeager

Every day I watched her put on a silk dress she bought at a flea market in Colorado..."


Such a sad story. It reminded me of the end of The Notebook. Too sad for a Friday afternoon! (boo hoo)


message 21: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Alex wrote: "Thanks? I haven't seen that but it's my husband's favorite movie."

It's a chick flick, Al! Chick flicks are awesome! Though if hubby is anything like me he likes it for the lovely Rachel McAdams! :D


message 22: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments AUTHOR: Garrison Kelly
TITLE: Flipped Off
GENRE: Horror
WORD COUNT: 1,678
RATING: Somewhere between PG-13 and R due to child rape references and swearing



A massive red pickup truck pulled in slowly in front of the rickety three-tier house on top of Claymore Hill. On the outside the house looked like it was used every Halloween to scare the shit out of little kids. Cobwebs, broken windows, loose doors, shoddy construction, basically this place looked like a nightmare to live in.

When Ivan Savage and his heavyset buddy Mickey Ryder got out of the truck dressed in blue jeans, stained white T-shirts, and black combat boots, that could have only meant one thing: it was time to go to work on this puppy.

Ivan ran his gloved hand through his messy brown hair and said, “This feels wrong. This feels very wrong.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mickey.

“What do you think I mean? Didn’t you hear on the news who this house used to belong to? Angelo Crockett. Not just any Angelo Crockett, but the same guy who used this house for a goddamn rape dungeon. He kept anywhere between twenty and thirty underage girls here. If I start talking about what he did to them, I’m going to vomit. We should just get back in the truck and get out of here.”

Mickey made a flat tire noise and said, “Dude, what did you expect? You bought this house sight unseen at a flea market. A flea market, for shit’s sake. Hell, there are probably a bunch of fleas living in there right now. But you know what? This is the kind of work we get paid to do. As flip men, we have certain obligations and though they may seem cruel and unusual, they do include flipping houses and getting them ready to be sold at a high price.”

“Hey, I have no illusions about what I do for a living. It’s just that this is the most disgusting assignment I’ve ever had to do.”

“You think I feel any better about it, Ivan? You think I condone what that bastard did to those kids? That’s why we owe it to those young girls to clean this place up. Trust me, buddy, by the time we’re finished, Angelo Crockett’s name will be long forgotten about. Let’s get inside and see what we’ve got to work with.”

Mickey waddled his fat ass up the stairs and into the house while Ivan shook his head and reluctantly trailed him inside. The outside and the urban legend surrounding this house was vomit-inducing enough. But the inside was a disaster. The floors were covered with blood, puke, and feces. The walls were covered in even more sickening bodily fluids. The kitchen was so caked in urine and dirt that eating anything from there would be certain death. The bathroom reeked so badly that stepping one foot could mean a gut-busting assault on the nose. The basement? Well, that was easily the most sickening part of the house since it was everything the above two tiers was multiplied by ten.

Despite the horrific condition of this lonely house, the stench of it all was something Ivan and Mickey were both used to. They were flip men after all and remodeled houses as bad as this all the time. In fact, Mickey was already on the attack when it came to his plans to fix this house up.

“Alright, so here’s what I’m thinking. The carpets and the linoleum both have to be ripped up from the ground. There’s no saving them. In their place will be wooden floors. We’ll have wooden floors all around the upper two tiers and even the staircase will be like that too. We’re also going to use wood paneling for the walls, which are going to be painted afterwards, probably in the neighborhood of greenish blue. The bathroom will be a different story; it’s going to have square tiles both on the floor and on the walls. The appliances will all have to go from the sinks to the oven to the refrigerator to the toilets to the tubs. We’re going to buy brand new appliances and put them in their respective places. The cupboards are also going to have to be replaced with new wood. And finally, those light fixtures above us are going to have to be replaced with ceiling fans. You think we can do all of this, Ivan?”

Ivan gave his friend an “Are you kidding me?” look and said, “That’s all fine and good, but did you forget that this place used to be a goddamn rape dungeon for small children?!”

If either flip man needed a reminder of that, all they had to do was look on the kitchen floor next to the burned out stove. Ivan knelt down and picked up what appeared to be a porn magazine. He dusted off the cover and gagged when he saw what the book was titled: “Sexy Teenagers Weekly”.

“I’m going to be sick! I’m going to be sick! I’m going to be sick!” Ivan kept saying to himself as he dropped the magazine, ran out the front door, and retched all over the lawn. He shook hard as he tasted his McDonald’s breakfast sandwich from earlier that day. His decade-long experience of being a flip man didn’t prepare him for this.

“I’m going to go ahead and survey the basement. You can feel free to join me once you’re done throwing up,” yelled Mickey from the inside. Ivan was huffing and puffing while struggling to make it to his feet. As soon as he wiped the vomit from his mouth, he heard his construction buddy let out a blood-curdling scream followed by the sounds of fire and shredding.

Ivan slowly turned his head around and said, “Oh dear lord, no…Mickey!” He bolted inside and visited all of the rooms in the house in search of his friend. No sign of him. The one place he hadn’t looked was the basement aka Satan’s port-a-potty. Ivan swallowed a glob of barf-flavored saliva and shakily ventured down the stairs into the dark basement.

He struggled to find a light switch, but eventually found one at the bottom of the world’s longest stairs. He flipped it on and saw the ashen and shredded remains of what was once his best friend Mickey Ryder. “What the fuck?!” yelled Ivan as he rushed to the middle of the dingy basement to check on his friend. Once on his knees, tears formed in Ivan Savage’s eyes.

His sadness would be blended with fear when he heard the whispers of small children all around him. There they were: the ones responsible for the soul-stealing death of Mickey Ryder. They were the ashen souls of the thirty raped girls, who were forming a large circle around Ivan by holding hands and dancing around him.

“Please!” begged Ivan. “Please let me out of here! I never wanted to be here in the first place! I don’t even want to be a flip man anymore!”

In demonic, unified voices, the ghosts of the girls said, “Your friend had to pay the price! He wanted to use our deaths as a way to make money! He wanted to exploit us just like Master Angelo did!”

Disturbed by the fact that these girls just called their rapist “Master Angelo”, more tears formed in Ivan’s eyes when he said, “Listen…that man will never hurt you or anyone else again. He’s behind bars and he’ll never get out. He’s probably being stabbed to death in the showers right now.”

The ghosts said, “As well he should be! But that doesn’t solve the problem of you, my friend. You came here for the same reason as that giant sack of protoplasm over there. You wanted to exploit us for some easy cash! We’re not going to let you nor anyone else get away with that!”

“Please! You have to believe me! I wanted no part of this! I’ll do whatever you girls want! Anything you want!”

“…Anything?”

“Anything you want! Name it and it’s yours!”

The ghosts stroked their chins in mock contemplation before dancing around in a circle again and closing in on Ivan, who was curled in a little ball waiting to be murdered. But then the girls picked him up off the ground and made their conditions known. “You want to live, money man? Then you set us free right now. You will not flip this house. You will instead burn it to the ground. No one shall make money off of us again! Nobody! Do you understand?!”

“I…I…I…” Ivan swallowed hard. “I have a gas can and some matches in my truck. As soon as you girls let me go, I’m burning this place to the ground. Just like we promised.”

The next time the girls danced, it was in a celebratory ballet style. They hugged each other and spun around in happiness while Ivan ran past them, up the stairs, and out to his truck to do what he promised.

He scrambled in the back of the pickup truck for that gasoline. He panicked when he almost didn’t find it, but there it was buried underneath the lumber. The matches he got from the glove box. Ivan took a few deep breaths and steadied his nerves before slowly approaching this former rape dungeon to do what he wanted to do all along. He splashed some gasoline on the walls, lit a match, and watched the fire consume the entire house.

Before the fire could get too out of hand, Ivan hopped in the truck and drove away in a hurry, easily doing 80 miles per hour. Sooner or later, someone would call the fire department and the rape dungeon would be nothing more than cooling ashes. Knowing it was all over gave Ivan a sense of relief, therefore he slowed down his driving speed and breathed a sigh of relief. All he needed to do at that point was come up with a little white lie to tell his superiors when they ask him about what happened to both the house and Mickey Ryder.


message 23: by Mark (last edited Aug 28, 2015 06:55PM) (new)

Mark (crawdadddy) | 402 comments The Key to Life
by Mark Reeves
1250 words

It was just one of those roadside indoor flea markets, you know the kind with all those vendor booths. Uly was driving back from dropping his son off at his ex-wife's house, a long drive filled with a soft sadness only a divorced father would know. The lady at the front counter greeted Uly and he began wandering the expanse of partitioned spaces hawking kitsch and shabby chic. Through the maze of kitchen collectibles and the blue-lit Vaseline uranium-infused glassware Uly came to a tiny manned booth way in the back. Uly was hungry for conversation and approached the small corner booth.

An old man greeted him, "Well hello young man, I don't get many people back here anymore." Uly looked at the man's small counter, filled with old locks, hinges and trays of old keys, some looked quite old. "What's your name young man? You traveling?" "The name is Uly, short for Ulysses, Uly Turner, and yes, I'm traveling, so, does this stuff sell?" Uly asked.

The old man's eyes sparkled, a blue-green reflection of the UV light perhaps, or a glimmer of hope. "Well Uly, when I retired from my locksmith business I just put everything in here so I would have some place to come everyday, and to answer your question, no, people rarely buy anything, sometimes, someone will buy an old lockset or people want to buy old keys, you know, decorators." He continued, rolling his eyes. But I am hesitant to sell old keys, no, not just to anyone Uly, keys are special."

Uly bit. Uly queried, "How could keys be special?"

The old man leaned in, lowering his voice. "Do you believe in ghosts Uly, the supernatural, things you just can't explain?"

"Well, I know it sounds weird but the day my Father died, that night he came into my room and stood at the foot of the bed, I wasn't dreaming." Uly stammered. "And sometimes I can sense when something important is going to happen, I get chills up my spine and I just know, I like to think it's my Dad, you know communicating. So I acknowledge things I can't explain may exist." Uly said, embarrassed, looking down.

The old man's voice was monotone and calming." Well Uly, I believe that ghosts can be easily explained, places, structures, even small objects retain some sort of memory. People carry a key in their pocket, it is used repeatedly, in their hand turning the same way for years, allowing them access to something they desire, even if that's just coming home. Keys are capable of retaining these actions, these emotions"

He took a box of keys from under the counter and continued. "These keys are very old Uly, and I like to think they are very special, in fact, I bet if you held these keys, one-by-one, possibly, one may be special for you."

Uly bit. Uly queried. "OK, how would I know?"

"Hold out your hand, flat, I will place a key in it. A key has been in someones hand and turned for years, sometimes decades, I think it has something to do with frequency or unknown vibrations, but you will know, the key will know." the old man said.

Uly held out my hand as the old man placed different keys onto Uly's outstretched palm. Nothing. Uly became uncomfortable, wanting to leave, then the man placed an old skeleton key into Uly's hand, the round shaft lay across Uly's palm, chills ran down his spine as the key slowly turned across his palm. Uly repositioned the key and again it slowly rolled in his hand. "Is this a trick key? 'Cause that is one heck of a spiel you've got there old man, and I'v heard quite a few..." Uly said as he looked up. But the man was gone. The box of keys on the counter had a sign saying, "Keys, $1." Uly took the key up to the front desk.

The lady at the check out counter looked up from her magazine and seeing the key Uly laid on the counter simply said, "One dollar, all those keys back there are one dollar."

Uly fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a buck, "That old fella back there in that key booth is quite a character isn't he?" Uly said, chuckling.

"What old fella Hon, you and me are the only ones in this place. You are the only person to come in this place all morning. I was watching you on the security camera, you just stood back there alone, looking at those keys for over thirty minutes." She weezed, coughed, and hacked.

Uly left, with the key in his pocket. He shrugged off the encounter with the old man. Uly had been driving for what seemed like an eternity. He thought: "I must be getting tired, road-wacky, I must press on, I just want to get home."

---------

Uly had made the drive to pick-up his son many times, it was a long drive and always gave him time to think. He regretted having to put his son through the dilemma of being split between two parents, he knew this was difficult for his ten-year-old son to comprehend, Uly was filled with guilt over the decisions he had made in this life. And once again he was on the road to fetch his son, seemed he was always consumed with this difficult task.

----------

Uly stared ahead at the road, a burning in his pocket, the heat seemingly burning into his flesh. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the key, tossing it in the passenger seat. He had drifted out of his lane, jerked the wheel and looked up to see a sign ahead, "New Hope Cemetery." A chill ran down his spine. Unthinking, Uly made the turn off the main road and followed a peaceful winding lane and entered the gates of an old deserted cemetery. The road looped around an ancient stone building in the middle of the graveyard and Uly pulled his car around to the entrance of what was apparently the cemetery's large mausoleum. Above the columned front entrance were the stone-chiseled letters, "New Hope."

Standing at the doorway to the mausoleum was an old man, it was the locksmith he had met that morning, Uly stopped his car, and as he opened the car door the old man asked, "Did you bring the key Uly?"

Uly grabbed the key from his front seat and slowly ascended the stone steps, the old man opening the entry doors, Uly following him inside. The old man spoke softly to Uly, his voice monotone and calming, "Remember I told you a key was special, it allowed people access to something they desire, even if that is simply coming home. This is the door to your home Uly." The old man pointed to the ornate metal door to a large internment space, an ancient tomb secured with a massive lock-set.

Uly felt dizzy, confused and stammered, "I don't understand."

The old man continued, "You passed away years ago Uly, a car wreck as you were traveling to see your son, you have been stuck in this world repeating an action you feel is important, but you are causing problems in this world and it is time for you to move on. Your son is grown now, he has a family of his own, he loves and misses you very much Uly and understands the sacrifices you had to make, but you are haunting his dreams, he feels your presence."

"But I want to be with him, I want to help him." Uly pleaded.

"You can." The old man replied. "But in a better way, like your Father has always been with you, your true Father is beyond that door. I promise you will not lose your son, you will gain insight into his life here in this new world that awaits you."

"Who are you?" Uly whispered.

"Simply a locksmith, or was, now a gatekeeper, a maker of keys."

Uly stepped up to the ornate brass door and inserted his key, he slowly turned it and in that moment his fear was gone, beyond birds were singing, a sun shone brightly and his Father was waiting to take his hand.


message 24: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Garrison wrote: "AUTHOR: Garrison Kelly
TITLE: Flipped Off
GENRE: Horror
WORD COUNT: 1,678
RATING: Somewhere between PG-13 and R due to child rape references and swearing



A massive red pickup truck pulled in slo..."


Garrison, I really like the way you approached a sensitive topic. I felt very sympathetic to poor Ivan, who found himself in a very unusual situation, yet dealt with it honorably. A win-win situation to give those girls peace. (Hopefully, he didn't lose too much money :-)) Good job!


message 25: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Mark wrote: "The Key to Life
by Mark Reeves
1250 words

It was just one of those roadside indoor flea markets, you know the kind with all those vendor booths. Uly was driving back from dropping his son off at h..."


Wow, Mark, I really didn't see that ending coming. Loved the concept of the keys and way you spun this tale.


message 26: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Alex wrote: "Edward wrote: It's a chick flick, Al!

I don't really like chick-flicks. I like the horror movies and the psychological-thrillers. That's what I write, too, usually. This week is an exception."


I enjoy both! :D

I would love if there were more chick-flick horror movies, like Warm Bodies (not Twilight, that was awful and NOT a horror!)

Looking forward to The Evil Dead series this autumn? If you like horror watch Tucker And Dale Versus Evil!


message 27: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments Anne wrote: "Garrison, I really like the way you approached a sensitive topic. I felt very sympathetic to poor Ivan, who found himself in a very unusual situation, yet dealt with it honorably. A win-win situation to give those girls peace. (Hopefully, he didn't lose too much money :-)) Good job!"

Thank you so much for the kind feedback, Anne. I originally thought this story was going to stir up controversy, but I see that everything is cool in Ivan Savage's world now that he burned the house down. Thank you, thank you, thank you! :)


message 28: by Mark (new)

Mark (crawdadddy) | 402 comments Anne wrote: "Mark wrote: "The Key to Life"

Thanks Anne, I enjoyed reading your story this week as well, but I always enjoy your work. Very strong emotion in your story, sad but bittersweet. Billy was the strong one.


message 29: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments Edward, in the same way you fought against xenophobia last week, you fought against greed this week. All of that violence over two porcelain pigs. If they were really worth as much as the story suggested, then the violence would be understandable, but still an argument against the politics of greed. And then the pigs shattered into pieces at the end of the story, further proving that greed and jealousy will always come back to bite you in the ass. Karma couldn’t have been any sweeter than that moment. This story could be used as a parable in real life as well. Maybe not over porcelain pigs, but maybe something bigger like blood diamonds or gold bars. Thanks for posting your awesome story this week, Edward! It’s good to know this thread won’t be a ghost town like last week’s was. Hehe!

Anne, you too have taught us all an important lesson: the more love you give, the more you receive. I liked the fact that Billy didn’t complain about his disease despite being in tremendous pain. He lived life with a smile on his face and his brother Colin felt every ounce of love to where he was brought to tears. To be honest, I was almost brought to tears myself when I first started reading your story. I haven’t cried since 2007 as many people here know, but this story came very close to breaking my eight year record. Being able to feel that way about these characters would bring a tear to anybody’s eye. Cancer is always a hard disease to live with, but the love we give each other throughout will always be stronger than rapidly growing cells. Congratulations on writing an absolutely beautiful story this week. Then again, beautiful stories have been the norm for you due to your wonderful wisdom!

Alex, you too know something about how strong the power of love can be. I see a lot of Face Book memes that say the test of true friendship is staying by that friend during his or her weakest moments. The couple stayed together after the car accident and were still able to live happily together despite the wife losing her voice. After a traumatic event such as that, people learn to adjust and make do with what they have. It’s the reason why wheelchair bound people, for example, are able to live life to the fullest despite their paralysis. It’s the equivalent of sticking a middle finger up at the negativities of life and loving the positivities. You know a lot about the power of love and for your wisdom, you deserve the world’s biggest digital hug from me and everyone else here at the WSS. Good job this week! I know we don’t see you post stories here often, so this was a special treat!

Mark, you’ve continued the theme of love with this supernatural tale of death and divorce. Being a divorced father is never an easy thing to live with. All Ulysses wanted was to see his son grow up before his eyes. And then that plot twist came at the end and once again I came close to breaking the eight year record I talked about in Anne’s critique just now. I’m happy to know that the son has managed to grow up and make a family of his own while keeping Ulysses’ memory near and dear to him. There’s no love quite like family love. It’s an unconditional bond that even death itself cannot break. And now that’s about to be proven again as Ulysses passes through the pearly gates to meet his own father who helped him all of these years from the afterlife. I’ve always known you were a talented writer, Mark, and this proves it once again. Excellent work, my friend!


message 30: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Garrison wrote: "AUTHOR: Garrison Kelly
TITLE: Flipped Off
GENRE: Horror
WORD COUNT: 1,678
RATING: Somewhere between PG-13 and R due to child rape references and swearing

A massive red pickup truck pulled in slo..."


I was worried that this was going to be a graphic tale of rape, but instead we have a likeable ghost story of vengeance. I'd say you're safe in giving this as PG13 rating (hell, anyone who read or watched 'The Perks Of Being A Wallflower' knows that children's books and movies these days can talk about rape! Nicely done, G.K.


message 31: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments I have indeed read The Perks of Being a Wallflower and know exactly what you're talking about. I feel much better, Edward. Thank you. :)


message 32: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Mark wrote: "The Key to Life
by Mark Reeves
1250 words

It was just one of those roadside indoor flea markets, you know the kind with all those vendor booths. Uly was driving back from dropping his son off at h..."


A ghost story of a different flavour to Garrison's. Nicely written, well paced, but does the story mean that the shop keeper could see ghosts? Or was she part of the repeating pattern?


message 33: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Hmm, each of us has so far incorporated death in a significant way in our stories -- has it struck anyone else odd -- for a prompt such as Flea Market to trigger that sort of story?
It'll be interesting to see if others will keep the trend going!


message 34: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments Flea markets and death are a heterogenus mix, I agree, yet that continues to be our theme this week. I'll get back to you once I have this Scooby-Doo-esque mystery solved.


message 35: by Mark (new)

Mark (crawdadddy) | 402 comments Edward wrote: "Mark wrote: "The Key to Life"


Nicely written, well paced, but does the story mean that the shop keeper could see ghosts? Or was she part of the repeating pattern?"


Edward, I enjoyed your story as I like to sell things I buy at flea markets and estate sales, so I could relate. As to your question, I have no idea, I did not think those things were relevant to the pace of the story, I really try to keep it simple.


message 36: by Mark (new)

Mark (crawdadddy) | 402 comments Garrison wrote: "Flipped Off"

Wow Garrison, I just never know what to expect from you, and that's a good thing. Raw. Rapeage, death and burning houses, horrible stuff but I just kept reading. Like watching a car stuck on the railroad tracks.


message 37: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments Mark wrote: "Wow Garrison, I just never know what to expect from you, and that's a good thing. Raw. Rapeage, death and burning houses, horrible stuff but I just kept reading. Like watching a car stuck on the railroad tracks."

Sometimes I feel like a bag of mixed nuts. Hehehehehe! Thanks for the feedback, Mark! :)


message 38: by Deepak (new)

Deepak (noobhemingway) | 284 comments Title: The Book Fair
Author: Deepak Charles
Word Count: 1171

“A flea market for books? You’re kidding me!” said Fred as we made our way back to his car. I laughed, “Yeah. It was the best thing ever man. All the books you could ever want. On sale. For an entire two weeks.”

“Jesus! That’s how you have that big a collection. Man, I wish I grew up there in your town,” he said as he took out his keys to unlock the car. He stopped and looked at me, “Oi, tell me more about it. Life in your country is definitely more interesting than that boring lecture.”

“You twit. It wasn’t that bad, that lecture,” I said as I got into the car. As he started it, I barely could hear his question “Food?” over the guttural growl of the car. He really needed to get a different exhaust system because I had to shout back my approval.

Ten minutes later we were munching on our burritos with Michael Jackson crooning in the background, asking if we would be there. “Odd choice,” Fred mumbled between mouthfuls.

“Eh, I expected some new crappy pop song to be honest. I prefer MJ to that,” I said as I stole a glance at the clock on the wall. The time was 1:50. We didn’t have to go back till 5 in the evening when we were supposed to be meeting with our advisors.

“So,” he paused, as he swallowed. “Start talking. Do I have to ask you to talk?”

“I’m trying to enjoy my food here. I need some energy before I can start talking again, especially if it is to you,” I replied, hoping that rebuke would shut him up.

“Fine.” A second later he shouted, “Oi! You’re almost done. You can start talking.”

“Okay. Fine fine. Keep your hair on. Just give me a minute,” I said as I gobbled up the last morsels of the burrito.

“So where do you want me to start?” I asked him.

“Start with how it all began. It sounds like the best idea ever and I’m not sure why I’ve never seen something like that here.”

“Fine. To be honest, I don’t know everything about how and when it started but I’ll tell you what little I know of it. Education was promoted a lot in my state and we had a few good politicians from my town back then. So, one of them had this idea of a “book fair” as we call it. He met with bookstore owners who sold books translated that were into my mother tongue and told them that he wanted them to sell it in the biggest fairground in the town every year.”

“Okay. That’s fricking cool. He actually did something,” interjected Fred.

“Yeah, it was a great success and within a few years, we had big publishers selling books at the event. It was pretty cool and by the time I visited, there were all sorts of books. Mum teaching English at high school also helped. More discounts and recommendations because of that. It’s one of the many things I miss.”

I looked at Fred to see that he was chewing on his food slowly with his eyes closed. I thought he had missed the last things I’d spoken about when he spoke with his eyes still closed, “Oh come on. Don’t think I didn’t hear all that. I was listening to you man. I know you’re looking at me.”

“You’re enjoying that burrito for a bloody long time man,” I responded.

“So was there anything that stood out?” he asked. A question I was expecting.

“Remember the Lady in Red?” I asked him after a short pause.

“What?! No way. Shut up. Really? The one from the poem? You met her there?” he exclaimed, his voice rising in octaves. More than I would have liked. So much so that the people next to us got startled and looked at us to see what the commotion was about.

“Dude, you’re getting too excited. Stop acting like a kid.”

Fred huffed, “Well, sorry for being happy about something nice like that.”

“Come on Fred, I just think that it’s highly unlikely that I’ll see her. I’m in a different country and I don’t even know her name.” I replied, hoping it grounded him and brought him back to reality.

“Bro, I got a plan for you,” he said, as he ate the last bit of his burrito.

I groaned. I had scoured Facebook trying to find her just because he asked me. It was a bloody waste of time.

“You won’t be able to find her unless you go back. So if you do go back home you can try other stuff but right now, you can’t do crap.”

I sighed as I replied, “I already know that genius. What’s your big plan?”

Fred paused and that made me look at him. He was serious. I had not seen him that sombre.

“Why do you want to see her again? Tell me.”

“You already know it. Why the heck are you asking me again?” I asked him.

“Just shut up and tell me why you want to see her again,” he said calmly, looking at me straight in the eye, trying to make me uncomfortable. Well, it was working.

“Fine,” I acceded. “When I saw her there, smiling at me with my books, something clicked. I don’t know what it was. I got this instinctive… thing to keep her safe. Be by her side. I don’t know what that even is.”

Fred looked pensive, “You are not in love with her.” He raised his hands, “Hold on, I know you told that to me when we spoke about this. So don’t think I forgot that. What I’m saying is that you were right when you said that you felt like a seven year old kid when you saw her didn’t you? You said that you wanted to protect her. I don’t know what that is supposed to mean. You were telling me about your novel sometime back, weren’t you?”

“Yeah. So?” I asked, unsure of where he was taking this.

“The protagonist is 8 when he is killed the first time. Make this a part of his backstory,” he said.

That was actually not a bad idea. I was looking for a reason for to make my protagonist want to save the world. Writing what you know is always good.

“Hey?” I started, realising that he had stopped talking, “What about finding her?”

“What you have is a memory of her. She is probably a different person in real life. So when you do see her you might not actually like her or she might not appreciate your concern. But in your story she is the one you’re looking for, the one you want to see, the one you want to protect. Meet her in your story.”

He stood up now, a grin on his face, “Now come on, let’s get back so that you can start writing.”


message 39: by Deepak (last edited Aug 29, 2015 07:58PM) (new)

Deepak (noobhemingway) | 284 comments So it's been a bit since I posted a story. Sorry about going AFK. Finished the internship and came back to school. Hectic journey back, paperwork and stuff left it close to impossible to work on writing. So hopefully this isn't bad cause I still feel as if I haven't got back on the horse. This is the first edit of the story. So feedback would be awesome!


message 40: by Deepak (new)

Deepak (noobhemingway) | 284 comments Alex wrote: "No problem, Deepak! I've missed your writing! It's been a while since I posted a story too...I'll have to read these later throughout the week."

Me too, I've to read the entries also. Jet-Lag still is bothering me.
I think it has been two weeks since I got online. A long two weeks. I've missed being here.


message 41: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments Hey there, Deepak! It's good to have you back! I plan on reading your entry tomorrow afternoon and then I'll leave you some nice feedback. How does that sound? :)


message 42: by Deepak (last edited Aug 31, 2015 08:28AM) (new)

Deepak (noobhemingway) | 284 comments Garrison wrote: "Hey there, Deepak! It's good to have you back! I plan on reading your entry tomorrow afternoon and then I'll leave you some nice feedback. How does that sound? :)"

That sounds great Garrison! :D


message 43: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Deepak wrote: "Title: The Book Fair
Author: Deepak Charles
Word Count: 1171

“A flea market for books? You’re kidding me!” said Fred as we made our way back to his car. I laughed, “Yeah. It was the best thing eve..."


Love the dialogue in this. A welcome return to Mr Charles!


message 44: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9026 comments Alex wrote: "Ghosts! Garrison, that was pretty good! Your stuff is always entertaining."

Thanks, Alex! I appreciate it! :)


message 45: by Deepak (new)

Deepak (noobhemingway) | 284 comments Edward wrote: "Love the dialogue in this. A welcome return to Mr Charles! "

Thanks Edward! I'm glad you liked it. Also, thank you for the warm welcome Mr. Davies! :)


message 46: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Deepak wrote: "Edward wrote: "Love the dialogue in this. A welcome return to Mr Charles! "

Thanks Edward! I'm glad you liked it. Also, thank you for the warm welcome Mr. Davies! :)"


:D


message 47: by Deepak (new)

Deepak (noobhemingway) | 284 comments Alex wrote: "Deepak! Great story, and reading the background you posted of it makes it better. Very interesting and very good. The dialogue is a gem."

Thanks Alex! I was tempted to add in the background but then it would have become like exposition instead of two guys talking.

Also I have to add, I liked your review :).


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