Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

34 views
Weekly Short Story Contests > Week 223 (July 28-August 3). Stories. Topic: Breaking News.

Comments Showing 1-48 of 48 (48 new)    post a comment »
dateDown arrow    newest »

message 1: by [deleted user] (new)

You have until August 3 to post a story, and August 4-6 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: Breaking News

The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject. I do not care, but it must relate to the story somehow.

Have fun!

Thank you to Paula for suggesting the topic!


message 2: by Ryan (new)

Ryan | 5330 comments Thank you, Leslie :)


message 3: by [deleted user] (new)

Here is my short story submission for the topic: Breaking News. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!

GIVE A DAMN by Melissa Andres
Word Count: 650

He swung his long, pale legs over the side of the king-sized bed and rubbed his wrinkled face with an age-spotted hand.

"Damn sun," he grumbled.

Shoving his feet into plush house shoes he shuffled into the tiny bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Damn dripping faucet," he mumbled.

His routine oatmeal breakfast did nothing to satiate his slight hunger. Dropping gobs-full of the bland foodstuffs into the garbage disposal, he turned his bulbous nose up in disgust.

"Damn cholesterol," he complained.

Walking stiffly to the back window, he noticed the grass needed mowing so he mosied out to the storage shed. Birds were chirping and flittering about in the cool morning breeze.

"Shut up, damn stupid birds!" he yelled. Several moved on to more pleasing destinations; several perched atop the sagging wooden fence and warily eyed the cantankerous gentleman.

"Damn lawnmower," he kicked the machine. Out of gas. He would have to make the short trip to the station. Gazing at the knee-high weeds, he shook his head. "Damn. It'll have to wait."

Pushing open the creaking side gate, he rounded the corner of the house and began to look for his daily newspaper; not caring if anyone saw him in his pajamas. He searched. Not under the tree. Not behind his car. There it was, once again, in the bushes.

"Damn paper boy." His face began to flush with anger.

As he tucked the black and white print beneath his arm and trudged slowly toward the front porch, he faintly heard his name.

"Hey, Mr. North." A child's voice.

Cocking his head slightly to the left, the man turned up his hearing aid.

"Shut up, Becca," another child giggled. "Don't call him over here."

Shading his eyes from the bright mid-morning sun, he shook his finger at the next door neighbor's children. "Damn kids! You ain't gonna sell no lemonade. Nobody wants your swill."

The children cringed as Rett North's screen door slammed loudly behind his arthritic-worn body. Becca cried as her older brother Evan punched her in the arm. "Told ya. He's so mean."

Rett settled into his faded blue recliner, lit a cigarette and found the Dear Abby column. Always Dear Abby first, sports section and then the comics. Most of the comics weren't funny but he did enjoy Peanuts. Charlie Brown was sometimes a likeable character. No one seemed to understand him. Rett identified.

Finishing up with his newspaper routine, he glided toward the bathroom and relieved himself; returning for his daily dose of Judge Judy.

Rett greatly admired the ol' gal. She said what she wanted, when she wanted and there was no backlash; no hard feelings and no mistake about her intentions. He respected her straight-forwardness.

Turning up the volume, he leaned in and focused intently on the case. A young college-aged boy had borrowed money from an ex-roommate and had promised to repay it with a forthcoming tax refund. The promised monies never materialized. Judge Judy was mid-tirade when the words: "Breaking News" suddenly flashed across the television screen.

"Damn Breaking News," Rett yelled into the room.

A tornado had ripped through Texas. Devastating death toll. Millions of dollars' worth of damage. Many missing; trapped.

"Damned tornado," Rett's anger intensified. "I'm missing Judge Judy damn it. I don't give a damn about those people. I don't even know them." Rett was concerned about being out of sorts without his daily routine.

A train-engine roar drowned out the elderly man's complaints.

"Damn noise," he hollered loudly. "Can't even hear myself think."

Beyond the back window, the sky grew dark and ominous; darker with each passing minute. Debris began to fly over the fence. Swirling. Landing in the weeds, the bushes and on the porch.

"Damn it," Rett whispered as the massive twister sucked the breath from his lungs and the life from his body. Judge Judy was the farthest thing from his mind.


message 4: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments Melissa, your story proves once again that life is too short for anger and hostility even when someone has lived as long as Rett North. In a funny way, Rett reminds me of the old man in the Doritos commercial with the “time machine”, the one who yells, “Get out of my yard!” Back to the story for a minute, the tornado was the perfect literary device to make Rett suddenly care about the things around him. You made great use of the prompt and I’m looking forward to more stories in the future. Great job!

Garrison, isn’t it about time you posted a synopsis for your story this week? Of course it is, because it’s called “Wrestle Maniac” and it goes like this:


CHARACTERS:

Justin Spencer, Wrestling Fan
Fay Jonas, Anti-Wrestling Zealot

PROMPT CONFORMITY: The results of this scene eventually become a news story.

SYNOPSIS: Justin gets off work and goes down to the bar to watch WWE programming. Fay enters the bar and spews a bunch of hatred at people who “get sick enjoyment out of athletes torturing their bodies”. At first this is just all bark and no bite. She then pulls out a hunting knife and stabs bouncers left and right until she has a clear path to WWE’s mega fan, Justin Spencer.


message 5: by [deleted user] (new)

Thank you so much, Garrison! I am glad you enjoyed it! And, I LOVE that Doritos commercial! Your comment about that made me laugh out loud! I never even thought of that guy! But, you're right, Rett could be that old man! Haha!

I am looking forward to reading your story. Your synopsis sounds interesting!! (Even though I don't like a lot of blood and gore!)


message 6: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments "Jimmy? You're so old! It's the future!"


message 7: by [deleted user] (new)

Haha!!! Love it! :-)


message 8: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments A laughing Melissa is a happy Melissa! ^_^


message 9: by [deleted user] (new)

Oh yes! I love being happy! :-)


message 10: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments Hehehehe! :)


message 11: by [deleted user] (new)

:-)


message 12: by [deleted user] (new)

Your story was awesome Melissa, just a little strange. But I liked it just the same.


message 13: by [deleted user] (new)

Thank you, December! Old man Rett was a little strange himself so I will take that as a compliment! :)


message 14: by Ryan (new)

Ryan | 5330 comments Al!


message 15: by [deleted user] (last edited Jul 31, 2014 05:15PM) (new)

Snapshots, 2274 words, critique appreciated


Two people sit on a bench. They hold hands and gaze into each other’s eyes. Obviously in love. I know it won’t last, but I hope it does.

“Don’t you think this is kind of stalkerish?” Eleanor asks, as I hold up my camera, about to snap a photo.

“Why?” I ask.

“Um, why?” Eleanor laughs nervously. “Vanessa, you’re taking a random photo of complete strangers holding hands on a park bench. If I noticed someone doing that, I’d be creeped out.”

“It’s for my photography collection,” I say.

“Yeah, right,” says Eleanor, as I snap my photo. “That’s not the only reason you chose them.”

“Huh?” I say, putting my camera back in my bag. “All right, let’s go and find other sights to photograph.”

“There are thousands of people who are sitting on park benches gazing lovingly into their significant other’s eyes,” Eleanor said. “Thousands of artistic photos. Yet you chose the people who look exactly like your parents.”

I glare at Eleanor. “That’s not it.”

“You can say that,” says Eleanor in a singsong voice. “But you know I’m right.”

The kitchen counter is scattered with broken glass. Not like from a cup that’s accidentally fallen onto the floor and shattered into pieces. But a beer bottle that’s been thrown.

I feel the cuts from the glass cutting into my hands as I scoop the fragments of the bottle up. My camera sits on the counter away from the glass. I pull my thick brown curls into a ponytail and keep scooping up the glass and throwing it in the trash. I’ll have use the vacuum to scoop up the tiny parts.

I know my father, with his dark hair and blue eyes, is probably sitting in his room, brooding over something. Brooding over his lost life. Or maybe he’s just doing stupid things that he often does when he’s drunk as hell.

I try to remember the father that I had before. He picked me up and threw me in the air, before catching me gracefully. He played tag with me in the small hours of the morning in the wet grass as the sun inched its way over the horizon. He swam with me in the pool. He picked out dusty old books from the local library for me, from 2001: A Space Odyssey to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to The Hunger Games. He was the kind of father you adored and thanked God for.

But that was before everything changed.

It’s funny how things can change in an instant. The way your life is so perfect, and then suddenly, it isn’t. And how sometimes, you don’t even know that moment has come upon you.

The glass looks sad. There’s no other way to put it. It’s a magnificent photo, both in quality and in its subject. The scattered fragments makes the photo seem faded and melancholy, and the quality is at its best. The gray lighting just adds to the photo’s depression.

I realize with a start that I never would’ve been able to photograph this photo if it weren’t for what happened. And I immediately feel guilty. I would give up all the best photos in the world if I could only have Marco back.

A large tree touches the sky. Its tendrils and roots explore the ground, and its branches kiss the horizon. Under it, there is a blurry outline of a couple kissing in its magnificent shadow.

I’m at the park again. I was going to call Eleanor to come with me, but realized she’d think I was hunting for couples that looked like my parents so I could imagine their marriage was idealistic and perfect as it once was. So I could imagine my parents were idealistic and perfect as they once were. I didn’t want her nagging me as I took photos, so I went solo.

The tree is one of my favorite parts of the entire park. The rest of the park seems like a dainty little thing, a fragile ballerina, but the tree is loud and obnoxious and outgoing. It stands out and it makes sure you notice. The tough bark is beginning to fall off and as autumn comes, the sun kisses its bright ivy green leaves and turns them into all different colors. Blood red, tangerine orange, sun yellow. Some of the leaves are dotted by brown freckles, and most are bent, but a few are perfectly straight and pure.

When I look at the photo closely, I realize that the couple has a young child. It’s a boy. He’s short and scrawny, with messy brown hair and blue eyes. He hugs his father as the father embraces the mother lovingly. The perfect family.

You better watch out, I think. Your family won’t be perfect if your son dies.

A thunderstorm rages outside, rain pounding against the world. The frame of the car window can be seen.


“Oh, shit!” my father screams.

I can still feel the taste of the hamburger against my tongue as the thunder roars, making the world shake in fear. A forked white-blue tongue of lightning flashes in the painted dark blue sky. The trees quiver, holding on to the earth, trying not to part with their roots. The rain is a silvery-blue color, the exact same color of a single tear, but it hits the car with intense force. My camera is hanging around my neck as I watch the rain pitter-patter on the car window.

“Don’t swear!” my mother says, as my father swerves into the next lane. I hear a honking.

“Fuck you!” my father yells to the window.

“Davy!”

I’ve been listening to them argue for about an hour, and I can’t take it. I scream, “Do you want us to die? Please stop arguing, for God’s sake!”

My parents look at me as if they have just noticed me in the car.

I want to yell, but I can’t. My voice is hoarse. “Please stop.”

My father looks back at me. “Don’t tell me what to do, Vanessa! I’m the best father you’ll get so you should be grateful!”

“The best father?” I yell back. “All you do is drink and throw bottles at me! I’d be better off without you!”

I don’t mean it, not really. Because despite all the booze, despite all the violence, despite all the profanity and all the times where I wish I had a normal father, I love him. It’s the kind of love I don’t want to have but somehow I do. Still, in that moment, I hate him. I feel something surging in my veins, shooting up them like a comet.

“You little piece of shit!” my father screams and he swerves violently into another lane, almost hitting another car.

“Be careful!” my mother scolds.

“I’m doing the best I can!” my father yells.

“Stop swerving!” I yell.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” my father says.

“This is what it must’ve looked like before,” I say angrily, knowing it’ll shut him up. “This is what it must’ve looked like before he died.”

We sit in silence for the rest of the car ride.


message 16: by [deleted user] (last edited Aug 01, 2014 07:59AM) (new)

Snapshots (cont.)

A boy and a girl stand next to each other in a museum. The boy is older. The girl is younger. The boy is handsome, the girl is not. The boy makes the girl feel like she belongs.

“Okay,” says Eleanor. “Vanessa, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whisper, but the tears prick my eyelids.

“Vanessa, stop. You can’t just take random pictures that aren’t very random and then tell me you’re fine. You have to talk to me.”

“There’s nothing wrong, Eleanor. Nothing!”

“Then why were you taking a picture of those two kids?”

“Because it’s artistic.”

“That’s not all. Look, Vanessa. Stop taking pictures of people who remind you of…”

“Of what? Of life before?” I scream. “I can’t try to imagine a life where my brother isn’t dead and my dad isn’t drunk and my parents aren’t fighting all the time?"

“Vanessa,” Eleanor whispers. “Vanessa, people are looking at you.”

“I don’t care!” I yell. Ms. Hart walks over to me. “Vanessa, dear, I know things are hard, but I’d ask you to please be quiet. We’re in a museum.”

“She looks just like me,” I whisper.

“Who?” Eleanor asks.

“The girl. The girl standing there. The one in the pink T-shirt. The one I took a picture of.”

“Huh?”

“She’s just like me,” I whisper. “Me and Marco. He told me he would be with me forever. Together forever. He promised…he promised!”

“Vanessa…”

“Just get away from me, Eleanor. Please.”

I rub the tears out of my eyes and pretend I’m not crying.

A lonely TV stands in the living room. On it, it says BREAKING NEWS: DEADLY CAR ACCIDENT KILLS 25 PEOPLE. 25 people are dead and 3 are in the hospital and 4 came out unharmed. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

“Marco never got a breaking news segment,” I whisper to my mother as we sit on the ash sectional sofa, watching the news.

“Vanessa—,”

“He didn’t. All those people. They’ll be counted as heroes and everyone will go to their funerals and remember them forever even though they weren’t worth a damn. They weren’t worth a damn of anyone’s prayers and—,”

“Vanessa, don’t speak like that!”

“But Mom. People make such big deals out of little things. People die all the time and yet humans always gasp as if it’s somehow a big shock. Marco died the same way they did. But no one made a news story about it.”

“People gave us gifts.”

“Yeah. Chicken pot pies and flowers. As if that’ll make us feel better.”

“They mean well.”

“It doesn’t matter what they mean. It still doesn’t help.”

My mother is silent.

“Grief isn’t something you can heal with lovely gifts and nice words,” I say. “Sadness isn’t hunger, and a chicken pot pie sure can’t help quell it. The apologies, the devastating statements, it doesn’t help. The positive words, the you’ll get through this, all of that, it’s nice to hear but you know it’s not true, because the words are fake and plastic and they are meant to heal, but they can’t, and you know they never will.”

“Vanessa,” my mother whispers.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Vanessa, please be quiet.”

“Okay.”

I do it not because I want to or because I think I should. I do it because when I look into my mother’s eyes, all I can see is the sorrow melting in her irises like candy that’s been in your pocket for a long time. And I realize that as much as I’ve been hurting, my mother has been hurting worse. She has been feeling the lack of birth pains and the lack of the fetus in her stomach. She has been feeling the emptiness of Marco’s chair and the one plate that she can’t make anymore. Now, there are three people in her family, not four. Three people to feed, not four. There are photos to take with a strange absence in them. Only one report card is mailed home. Only one girl takes tests and complains about school and has friends now. And that is me.

So I pat her back and I tell her it’s okay and I comfort her with fake, shiny, plastic little words. I know they don’t mean a thing and I know she can recognize their falseness. But she accepts them because she wants to hear them.

A boy. He does not look like Marco. He goes to my school and I have just realized how attractive he is.

“This really is stalkerish,” says Eleanor.

“I know,” I say.

“If Alex caught you doing this…”

“I’d have to transfer schools.”

“You bet you would.”

Alex Johansen is one of the attractive boys you will meet, next to Marco. I’ve always known he was pretty, but never how handsome he was until now. I’ve never noticed the way his eyebrows curve up when he’s confused, or the way his blue eyes, so bright and colorful and pure, light up when he’s excited. I’ve never noticed the way his chocolate brown hair looks when it’s swept up across his forehead. I’ve never noticed his strong legs, his muscular arms. The curve of his neck is a work of art; his chest is something Michelangelo has sculpted.

“It’s good that you’re not photographing boys who look like Marco,” says Eleanor, her words careful and precise. “Are you starting to…to get over him?”

I look at Eleanor. “I’ll never get over Marco. But, but…”

“You can continue with life.”

“I can continue with life. Yeah.”

Eleanor smiles dreamily in Alex’s direction—but not at Alex himself. “You know, Christian Bedmont really is kind of hot.”

“Not as hot as Alex.”

“Oh, he so is.”

We waste the lazy day away, arguing over the two boy’s hotness. Alex or Christian? The humid air sticks to us like a wet raincoat, and the sun shines its radiant beams down on us. I feel the sweat clinging to me under my neck and pull my hair up into a high ponytail. Even though there are lots of mosquitoes intent on sucking our blood, we don’t swat them away. We just talk until we hear a noise.

It growls, loudly, deeply, and hungrily. Eleanor’s cheeks turn a bright shade of red.

“I’m starving,” she says. “My car’s over there. Should we get some food?”

“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m not hungry. “Let’s go to a drive-thru.”

“Should we go to Wendy’s?”

“Okay. Sure. Whatever.”

We drive to Wendy’s.


message 17: by [deleted user] (new)

Quite interesting, Alex!


message 18: by [deleted user] (last edited Jul 31, 2014 10:03AM) (new)

Sophie, Very well written. We just had a good friend recently pass away. He was an older man and I feel so terrible for his wife. She is not taking it very well. We have talked and emailed some but she is just so devastated. I have tried to comfort her and I am definitely hoping that she doesn't think my words are fake and plastic. I am genuinely, truly sorry for her loss and very concerned. But, I do understand that my words may sound so hollow to her. I am hoping God will give her some peace.


message 19: by [deleted user] (new)

Thanks, Melissa. Yeah, my friend dealt with a loss and she was kind of my inspiration for the character of Vanessa. She told me that everyone said sorry but that she thought the words sounded fake and happy.


message 20: by [deleted user] (new)

Thanks Al! :)


message 21: by [deleted user] (new)

Sophie, I am sorry for your friend's loss. I know even those words sound fake but when someone loses someone that they are close to it is hard to come up with the right words -- even for someone who is usually good with words!

And, Alex -- no, I won't lie here on GoodReads (only in Two Truths, One Lie!) Maybe even if it's not "my thing" a story or poem can still be well written and intriguing! :)


message 22: by [deleted user] (new)

I've finally read the stories!

Melissa, your story was short and easy to read but a good story all the same. It seemed a little too quirky and comical for my tastes but good all the same (or maybe you intended it to be quirky and comical?)

Al, a very engaging story; I was hooked the whole way. Good job. :)


message 23: by [deleted user] (new)

Thanks, Sophie! Sometimes I try to let readers make their own decisions on what they think and feel about characters and situations. I think, via a few other comments, that I have accomplished that with this piece. Glad you enjoyed.


message 24: by [deleted user] (new)

Your welcome, Melissa :)


message 25: by [deleted user] (new)

:)


message 26: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments Hey, everybody. I’m writing to say I’m sorry about being late with my entry and chances are good it might not come in at all. Throughout the whole week, I’ve been going 12 rounds with my schizophrenia and it left me feeling sluggish these past few days. Ever have days when you felt like doing absolutely nothing at all? It was like that for me except with multiple days in succession. Even when I feel like writing something (like this message), my schizophrenic symptoms get in the way of it. Schizophrenia is a lot like having PTSD except it’s psychotic instead of anxious. Yes, it’s that annoying to have. Bottom line: I can TRY to write something tomorrow or Sunday, but if I don’t, I’ll try to participate in next week’s contest. Thanks for understanding.


message 27: by [deleted user] (new)

Garrison, Although we will miss your input this week (I'm sure I speak for everyone!) we do understand. It happens to the best of us. We all get busy with one thing or another, ailments, depression, etc., etc. I have had a rough couple of weeks myself and then Monday I go back in for more dental surgery. Whew! I think writing helps me though. When I can slow down just enough, writing calms me, helps me think and I feel a little "normalcy" sinking back in. My writing may not always make sense to others and I may just crumple it up and throw it in the trash but it does, oddly, help me. I have dealt with depression off and on my entire adult life (not too much recently) and I think GoodReads has helped me tremendously in that regard. Take it easy on yourself and it will be great to see you back soon!


message 28: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments You're such a sweetie pie, Melissa! You deserve better than depression and dental pain. (hugs)


message 29: by [deleted user] (new)

Oh, thank you, Garrison! My depression hasn't been severe lately at all -- I think I've been too busy to be depressed! haha! The dental stuff is another story all together. But, in the end, I know I will have beautiful, straight teeth and it will all be worth it! :) Do whatever it is that you feel helps you and don't worry about whatever anyone else thinks. I've been working on that myself!


message 30: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments You guys are sweeter than a batch of frosted cupcakes! ^_^


message 31: by Anne (last edited Aug 02, 2014 01:18PM) (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Hi everyone! As always, I look forward to any suggestions to help me improve my writing. Thank you.

Topic: Breaking News
Author: Anne
Genre: Fiction
Title: The Reporter
Word Count: 1272

“You’ll do it if you want to keep working here!” my boss, the editor of the daily newspaper, slammed his fist on his desk as he glared at me.

I raised my hands, palms out, in defeat. “Ok, ok, I’ll do it. Just thought I’d ask.”

He gave me another dirty look, “Your deadline is tomorrow, Jack. You’d better have something to turn in to me by then.”

I nodded, but I was still chafing. Asking for a change in assignment three times my first month on the job wasn’t exactly the best way to get what I wanted, but I was getting desperate, running out of things to write about. Me, a human interest reporter? Ha! I didn’t care diddly-squat about that. All I’d ever wanted was to report Sports. And I thought that moving into the city would be a sure thing, I mean, geez, all these pro teams: 2 baseball teams, football, soccer, hockey, basketball – I was the proverbial fanatic. There was ALWAYS something to write about. But no, he wanted me on human interest. I knew my boss was looking to have me prove myself and he wasn’t going to let me do anything more interesting until I did. I kicked the curb to let out some of my frustration.

I took in a deep breath and considered my options. Maybe some fresh new ideas would come to me while I ran a few errands. Hmm, maybe I could find a way to work a story about Robin Ventura into a human interest… no, better not take that risk. Or an article on the trials and tribulations of running a small business. Naw, that’s been done. How about some innovative new youth programs in the neighborhoods – not enough time to research that for tomorrow. I squinted against the morning sun as I walked along , churning out one idea after another.

A quick detour into the convenience store for a badly-needed icy cold Coke would hopefully stimulate some brain cells. It also made me realize my wallet was running on empty. I scraped up enough change to pay for the coke and thumbed through it looking for my ATM card. Wonderful -- Where did I leave it this time? Gulping down my Coke, I made my way to the bank – at least it was close by.

Standing in line listening to the conversation between a man and woman behind me gave me a new idea. A human interest story about a real couple desperately seeking options to prevent foreclosure. Granted, there was a lot of how-to stuff out there about foreclosures, how to prevent it, what to do when you’re facing it. But not much now anymore about following the process through from beginning to end with real people. Of course, the ending could go either way. Risky. But there may be something there. After all, it was all about the spin. Even though the whole foreclosure business was no longer front page news, it was still affecting a lot of people. This could keep me busy for a while. And I could do some research along the way about what was new; what were the banks doing to minimize the risk, to support their customers.

I nodded to myself. Yes, definitely something to think about. I would ask these very nice-looking people if they would agree to talk with me. They might feel that having their story in the newspaper would give them an advantage, maybe people would start donating money -- it had happened that way for others, especially if it looked like someone was giving them a raw deal. Hmmm. It sounded more appealing the longer I thought about it.

It looked like they were going to be here a while. They let some folks that were in a hurry go ahead of them. I had heard that after they took care of their business at the teller, they would need to meet with a banker, too. I looked at my watch. Yeah, I had time. As soon as I got my money, I’d head for the bathroom. First things first. Then I would talk to the couple.

One thing you could always count on is an empty bathroom in the bank. I took a moment to make myself presentable, washing my hands thoroughly and even cleaning under my nails a bit. I combed back my hair and straightened my shirt, re-tied my shoes and considered the spiel I was about to make. I tried different facial expressions in front of the mirror -- must get the right look of sympathy – don’t want to overdo that. I checked to make sure I had some business cards handy (at least they weren’t with my missing ATM card) and prepared to leave the bathroom.

What was that noise? It sounded like someone was yelling. Frowning, I moved closer to the door, opening it just a smidge, and listened. Oh, shit! What morons had the nerve to try to rob a bank at 9:30 in the morning? I peeked out through a crack in the open door.

It was the very nice-looking couple. They each had a gun -- it must have been inside the woman’s large handbag, which was now on the floor. They were standing almost back to back so they could see the tellers, the bankers and the few remaining customers. But they couldn’t see me.

I got my cell phone out & called 911. Then I got on my hands and knees and slowly crawled out of the bathroom, keeping one of the free-standing customer stations between me and them. Everyone except the couple was on the floor now, their hands behind their heads. No one was looking at me. The teller had handed them a bag and they were now edging their way towards the door, still looking outwards.

I’ve been told I have a tendency to be impulsive and today was no exception. Using my best football tackle, I jumped up and leapt on them, yelling, “Down, suckers!” And down they went. One of the guns went off.

“It’s over!” I yelled. I knelt on the guy’s back, grabbed and pressed on the back of his neck with one hand and smashed down on the woman’s with with the other. I gambled that these were not pros and probably more scared than I was right now. I saw the blood starting to seep out under the man’s body and relaxed my hold. He was moving, but not vigorously. At least he wasn’t dead. I would have felt bad about that. Others in the bank started to come over now, tentatively at first, then more decisively as they determined the worst of the danger was past. One of the larger men came over to hold the woman down. I heard the sirens approaching.

“Be careful,” I said, “They still have their guns, but the cops are on the way.”
The police arrived and I began to shake as the adrenaline started to wear off. I wondered if I looked as shell-shocked as the others in the room. As law enforcement took control, my brain started to get in gear and I smiled.

I had found my story. And it would be more than just another human interest story. I could see the headlines, “Reporter tackles armed bank robbers. Saves bank employees.” I’d written about half the story in my head already, when another brainstorm struck.

So in the confusion that followed, I managed to slip the hapless couple each my card, and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

It’s all about the spin.


message 32: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Melissa wrote: "Here is my short story submission for the topic: Breaking News. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!

GIVE A DAMN by Melissa Andres
Word Count: 650

He swung his long, pale legs over the side of the king..."


Great story, great buildup. Your crusty character was so realistic (I've known men like him) yet you could feel sympathy for him, too. A sad ending, but it fit well with the story. thanks for another great read.


message 33: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Alex (Al) wrote: "First Meeting
by Al

It had made the front page that week. The most shocking story the town had seen for a long time. Four bodies, mutilated, decapitated, broken and scattered throughout the woods...."


A very interesting story. Kept my interest all the way as I was real eager to see how it ended. He certainly got what was coming to him. Great job.


message 34: by [deleted user] (new)

Cool story, Anne! I used to be the Feature Editor of my high school newspaper and then went on to work for my hometown newspaper for a couple of years so I got sucked in when I started reading. I also worked for a bank for a few years as well so that aspect of your story also intrigued me. Very good job! I love the ending too! :)


message 35: by [deleted user] (new)

And, thank you Anne for the compliment on my story. Glad you enjoyed it! (And, I know a few people like Rett myself!)


message 36: by K. (last edited Aug 02, 2014 02:55PM) (new)

K. Rhys | 18 comments Title: The Chase
Word count: 2498
There's some minimal language in this one. I hope that doesn't offend anyone. & as always, feedback appreciated.

Part 1.

Viper leaned back onto his elbows letting the rush of cool air flow around him like a river around a rock. He closed his eyes and reached out to the night, feeling its familiar embrace, feeling it pull him where he needed to go, feeling a splat of something sticky right in the middle of his forehead. He sat up and wiped at it, dragging a slightly damp red disc away in his fingers. Dither.

"What the hell are you doing?" Viper barked, turning back to see his partner grinning like a jack o'lantern with one of the discs clenched between his front teeth.

"Sorry." He didn't look sorry. "Have you ever had these? They're amazing!" Dither held up a silver tube of candy with the word 'Spree' printed on it in exciting bright yellow letters. He upended the package, popping another one into his mouth. "Kind of appropriate don't you think?" He waggled his bushy black eyebrows and grinned, pointing at the 'Spree'.

"Oh for the love of… I hate coming up here with you, you know that?" The flames tattooed around Viper's neck rippled with the contraction of every muscle under his borrowed skin. Especially the one that curled around his left ear.

Dither just shrugged his doughy shoulders and swished the candy back and forth with his tongue.

The bodies they chose often reflected their purpose. Viper's was tall and muscular with a no-nonsense, so close to the skull it should have been shaven, haircut. It was tattooed in various places, from the flames that ringed its neck, to the anchor on its big toe. Even though they weren't allowed to fraternize, he liked to think women looked at it with desire behind the fear in their eyes. In a word… badass.

Dither's was short and kind of rotund with a lot of hair and zero tattoos. The thick hair on its head was shaggy and unkempt and the hair on its chest was organizing a freedom march right up and out the collar of its t-shirt which read "I could use a little sexual harassment'. In two words… not badass.

Viper flicked the candy off the top of the moving train and watched the sides of buildings slide by with unfocused eyes. "Where did you get those anyway?"

Dither shrugged again and ripped away more of the paper from the tube, throwing it over his shoulder. It hung in the air for a split second before being sucked away. "They were in his pocket."

"No wonder he looks like that," Viper grumbled still irritated that he had to haul the fat lump around. He pressed the lapel of his black suit coat flat. He always dressed to kill. It was one of the few pleasures he had on these little trips. "Why didn't you pick something better?"

"What do you mean? This guy is perfect!" He ran chubby fingers over a protruding gut. "He was close, he's squishy and no one is gonna look at him twice. You think they're not gonna notice the giant with hell-fire around his neck?" He crumpled the empty candy wrapper, cupped it in his palm and thumped it as hard as he could into the wind. "Besides, he had candy. I don't ever get candy."

He worked his feet out in front of him and laid down. "There. Now no one can see me," he grunted.

Viper closed his eyes and slowly counted to three. "Whatever. Just sit up and pay attention. When this thing slows down we need to be ready. We're getting close, I can feel it."

"Sure thing bossy." Dither crossed his ankles and laced his fingers behind his head making no move to sit up.

"Look if we don't get down there and do our job, this shit's gonna be breaking news and we can't have that now can we?" Viper snapped.

Dither let out a much exaggerated snore and hunkered down further.

As long as he didn't actually fall asleep, Viper didn't really care. He wished, not for the first time, that they could just snap themselves into being. But, flesh suits… flesh rules, and in their haste, they had picked the only two slobs on the city's fringe without access to a vehicle. Stealing a car was too chancy in this new age of security, so they hopped a nearby commuter train. It had been Viper's idea to ride on top of the empty car, it made it easier to sniff out their direction and it was easier to Blur if they stayed just on the edges of vision. City dwellers rarely looked up.

The train began to slow down and the number of lights overhead increased until the very first car was rolling into the sleek but garish station.

Viper shifted into a crouch ready to jump. He punched Dither in the gut, rather harder than was necessary, but it felt good.

"Hey!" Dither shouted as he scrambled to his feet.

"I told you to be ready."

"Well, I could have done with out the punching."

"Yeah? How about the shoving?"

"What sh…" Before he could finish Viper stood and pushed him hard with both hands. He went off the train face first, but with surprising grace, managed to pull both feet back under him and land on all fours.

Viper stepped off the edge and landed lightly in the gravel around the train track.

"What'd you do that for? Somebody coulda seen!"

"I'm observant. There's a reason I'm in control and you're… not." Viper straightened his tie, looked around. The weeping fluorescent lights ran through the sidewalks, trees and benches, taking all color with it. Everything, including the two demons, was the same sickly green. No need to Blur at all here.

This stop was not far from where they needed to be, he could feel the electric buzz of it calling him. He stood still and opened his palms and Reached, feeling the vibration pull him forward.

"Come on. We have to hurry. He's moving fast."

Dither chuckled into his hand.

"What's so funny?"

"Spree," he chuckled again.

Viper growled and stalked away leaving Dither to waddle along behind crying, "Oh come on! It's funny! Isn't it funny?"

———————————————————————————
"Wait here and do your thing if anyone approaches," Viper commanded, positioning Dither at the narrow opening of the alley between two buildings.

Dither nodded as if he he understood and Viper gave him a little shake before turning away.

"Hey, Viper?"

"Yeah?"

"You mean my job thing right?"

Viper stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose trying to hold the explosive anger back.

"Yes, Dither. Your job thing."

Dither jammed his hands down in his pant pockets and began an exaggerated tuneless whistle like they were shady detectives in a bad film noir. Viper half expected fog to come snaking along the ground.


The body lay at the far end of the black and stinking alley. A hole in its chest the size of a basketball singed and smoldered around the edges. Viper could see the blood soaked concrete through it. A surreptitious glance told him that they were alone. A Reach said their prey had moved on, continuing his… spree.

Damn it. Now he couldn't even think the word without seeing Dither's stupid face.

Viper stooped over the dead woman. Her trashy red lipstick was smeared all the way to her left ear, she was missing an earring and her left leg was turned out at an unlikely angle. Leave it to Char to make such a mess. Viper laid a broad hand on the remaining piece of her sternum. The hole began to knit back together and the blood disappeared as if time itself had reversed.

"Alright, let's go." He grabbed Dither by the elbow and dragged him on.

"You just gonna leaver here there?"

"What do you want me to do with her?"

"I don't know. Shouldn't we, like, get rid of her or something?"

"No. We shouldn't. Anyone who finds her will find a hooker with a burst aorta and a lot of coke in her system. It will be fine."

The next body had a broken neck. The one after that suffered a massive embolism. And the last choked to death. Or at least that's what had happened to them by the time Viper was done. He thought they'd at least avoided the local news picking up on a string of suspicious murders. Now to stop the renegade.

"We've almost caught up with him. I can feel him breathing." Viper said as they left the expensive hotel lobby.

Viper Reached once more and was able to brush his fingers across the back of the demon they were looking for. He was directly in front of them through a thin crowd of people.

Char felt the demon's touch and immediately perked up sniffing for his pursuer. He sped up and started to weave in and out of the crowd

His watery blue eyes were wide and his thin mouth slack with surprise. His flesh was older, white-haired and falsely tanned. He would have been distinguished but for the speck of blood on his very expensive lapel. His status was such that no one would mention it, even if they did suspect, but they would remember. If the reporters came knocking, they would most certainly remember. There was nothing in the world the elite loved more that seeing one of their own fall.

Char's eyes searched the small crowd, feeling for one of his own as his hands fluttered around the pockets of his suit jacket. Dither saw the movement first and lunged, but Viper still had a firm grip on his elbow. "No. He'll spook and we have to get him out of that body."


Feeling them closing in, Char reached out for the door of a waiting limo. Viper knew he couldn't let him get in that car. They would lose him again and he wouldn't have it. He jerked to a stop and drawing himself up to his full impressive height, he did his "job thing." He Coiled.

Energy left his body and wrapped itself in a long winding strand, stronger than steel, around the demon inside the old man's body. It writhed and cried, though outwardly, the old man only began to mumble incoherently. Foam began to gather in the corners of the man's mouth and his jaw opened and closed like a fish on a hook. His limbs locked and shuddered in an involuntary dance of pain.

"That's enough Char. Come quietly… NOW." Viper whispered in his mind.

"No!" The man cried. "I like this body. Do you have any idea what he can get away with? It's delicioussss…." Spittle flew from his mouth in an arc as his head jerked to the side.

People were beginning to stop and stare. A few began to close in around the man, asking nervous questions. Some advanced toward Viper and he realized that Dither had been right. Eyes in every direction were focused on his intimidating frame. He tried to Blur, but it took everything he had to hold on to Char.

"Dither!" Viper shouted. "Do it! Do it now!"

Dither opened his mouth , puckered his lips and blew a long melancholy tune across the heads of the crowd. They began to slow in mind and spirit, staggering aimlessly and trying hard to recall which direction they'd been headed, until finally they just stood looking around as if they'd forgotten something, like what they were doing, why they were there…. what their name was. In the distance Viper heard a siren and knew someone had gotten a call off to the paramedics or possibly they police. They would have to hurry.

As Dither expanded his fog of forgetting, Viper moved closer to Char.

"You were warned about using him. He's far too important for you to destroy with one little death spree." He felt the demon's hold begin to loosen, his roots withdrew from the man's mind and Viper constricted tighter. "You could have had fun with anyone; a rock star, a celebrity… but this man? This man will corrupt and deliver the minds of thousands with the slightest whisper. A little dirty money here, a little favor there - he's already ours and we have unfinished work for him."

Char squirmed in Viper's grasp. "Let me go and I'll leave. I promise. Just don't take me back."

"Oh It's far too late for that. The boss wants a word."


message 37: by K. (last edited Aug 02, 2014 03:14PM) (new)

K. Rhys | 18 comments Pt.2

Van awoke slumped against a trash can in the middle of a dirty city sidewalk with no idea of how he got there. He looked down to see a suit he knew he did not own on his body and feared for a moment the legs below his body weren't really his.

A dazed crowd was wandering around like ants on a hill circling, pausing, doubling back. Van shook his head as if that would accidentally sort the mayhem within. He had the strangest flashes going through his mind; the metal on metal whine of a train, the smell of burning, an almost pretty face smeared with waxy red lipstick.

He scrubbed a clammy hand over his tattooed neck, digging in with his fingertips. Every muscle in his body was sore and his head was beginning to throb. To his left, a fat guy in a stupid t-shirt was sprawled out flat on his back, hands twitching as he came to. Van hoped to God he hadn't punched the guy. Assault would be his third strike.

"Hey," he coughed as he shook the guy's boot. "Hey buddy. You okay man?"

The fat guy sat up and grabbed his head between both hands "Owww," he moaned.

Van watched him struggle to make sense of his surroundings. The guy looked alright apart from wearing the same confused look that was on every surrounding face. No visible bruises or cuts. He extended a hand and they helped each other stand, inch by inch, bone by bone. Van felt like he might retch.

He doubled over, hands on his knees, sucking air like he'd just finished a marathon. That's when he noticed the man in a suit much like his standing half in and half out of a long black limo. His snow and iron hair reflected the orange glow of the street lamp and his hands slid around the frame of the car door as if he wasn't certain what to do with it. Suddenly, the older gentleman looked back over his shoulder, locking eyes with Van. They were icy blue and seemed on the verge of tears.

"Hey, you're Senator Michaels huh?" Van asked, impressed and a little awed. He'd seen the man on TV - a real up and comer in the political arena, very well liked in the public and the senate, too. What was it he'd said last week? Something about unifying the country, bridging gaps. Van couldn't remember exactly, he hadn't listened to the whole thing, but he knew he'd liked the sound bites.

The Senator smiled uncertainly, reached out and shook Van's hand without a word, just before slipping into the car and disappearing into the night.


message 38: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments K. wrote: "Pt.2

Van awoke slumped against a trash can in the middle of a dirty city sidewalk with no idea of how he got there. He looked down to see a suit he knew he did not own on his body and feared for a..."


Is there a part 3? I would love to read more, to find out what these demons are, & what plans they have for the senator. It sounds like a story that's part of a larger one. I really enjoyed it. I thought it was well written, with a good build-up, interesting characters & it kept my interest.


message 39: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Melissa wrote: "Cool story, Anne! I used to be the Feature Editor of my high school newspaper and then went on to work for my hometown newspaper for a couple of years so I got sucked in when I started reading. I..."

Thanks Melissa! It's always risky to write about writers to be read by other writers. Hope I wasn't too far off base! :)


message 40: by [deleted user] (new)

Anne, a well-written story with a good build-up. However, I wasn't sure if the scene where Jack tackles the robbers was entirely realistic. But I did like the story and the ending sentence was a perfect way to conclude. Good job!


message 41: by [deleted user] (new)

K., an original and creative story. Some parts are not as well-written as others, though. Also, the I COULD USE A LITTLE SEXUAL HARASSMENT tee shirt kind of offended me, to be honest. There are people all over the news saying that girls are lucky if they are raped and that they should just sit back and enjoy it. I'm not sure if you technically agree with the tee shirt, but I'd rather not have it in there. But otherwise, good job!


message 42: by Anne (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Sophie {Bibliophile by Nature} wrote: "Anne, a well-written story with a good build-up. However, I wasn't sure if the scene where Jack tackles the robbers was entirely realistic. But I did like the story and the ending sentence was a pe..."

Sophie, thanks! It's exactly the kind of feedback I appreciate. I'll take another look at the tackling scene.


message 43: by Anne (last edited Aug 03, 2014 12:25PM) (new)

Anne (annefrn) | 916 comments Question -- is it permitted to re-post a revised story (before the deadline) even if people have already read it? or should the edits be done before anyone reads it? Or is it better to post the revision elsewhere?
PS: I revised this week's story just a little bit to try to make the character's actions more believable. I figured out how to post it under the Write Your Heart Out section (Anne's Short Stories & Flash Fiction) if anyone is interested. I'd also be interested to hear if it's an improvement or still lacks believability. I think that's a weakness of mine that I've struggled with in other stories & so it might take me a while to get it right, but I do NOT take offense at criticism, so feel free...:)


message 44: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments AUTHOR: Garrison Kelly
TITLE: Wrestle Maniac
GENRE: Contemporary Drama
WORD COUNT: 1,496
RATING: PG-13 for blood and mild language




The sun was setting over Paulson City and all Justin Spencer wanted after a long day at the office was a cold beer and some WWE television. He was sure to get both of those things at Murphy’s Pub. He entered the bar with a tired pace and a loose necktie around his messed up white dress shirt. Whatever he was doing at that office, it drained his energy completely. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a tall Miller Light from Murphy, the titular owner of Murphy’s Pub.

As Justin took a few sips from his mug, he was slowly coming out of his exhausted haze, which was a good thing since WWE Monday Night Raw was being shown on the TV screen above the bar. It was a night of high-octane action at the WWE arena, jam-packed with flying luchadors and muscle-bound predators.

Justin’s favorite wrestler was a little “goat-faced B+ player” named Daniel Bryan, who took those insults he was given and turned them into aggression against his opponent for the evening, “The Swiss Superman” Cesaro. While everybody else in the bar was busy playing pool and eating cheeseburgers, Justin’s eyes were glued to that TV set in hopes his man Daniel Bryan would get a decisive victory.

The action between the two wrestlers was a knockdown drag-out brawl. Cesaro threw vicious European Uppercuts while Daniel Bryan threw martial arts kicks to every available body part his opponent had. The match culminated in Daniel finishing off Cesaro with the Busaiku Knee, better known as “the knee that beat John Cena”. The referee counted 1, 2, 3, and the match was over.

Justin Spencer went from being a worn out office drone to an excited mega fan when he leaped out of his seat and raised his fingers to the sky while chanting “YES! YES! YES!” along with the WWE Universe. Yes, he got a lot of stares for doing that, but he didn’t care. He sat back down and laughed in happiness as he took more sips of his beer.

The buzz was not only killed, but murdered when a middle-aged woman entered the bar with a scowl behind her thick rimmed-glasses and her black hair a mess. She was outfitted in a black dress as conservative as she was. Justin looked over to her and gave her a smile before tuning back into his WWE excitement.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” said the snotty woman.

“Yeah, I’m pretty proud of myself, lady. I just completed a big project at the office and now my man Daniel Bryan is kicking ass!” said Justin.

“You like that wrestling, do you? You like watching people kill themselves for your entertainment? What kind of sick pleasure do you get from that, anyways?! Athletes are dying every single day so that they could dress in their underwear and boots and roll around on the ground for a sadistic audience! That’s not entertainment! That’s barbarism!”

“Listen, lady, if you don’t like wrestling, that’s your business, but don’t try to ruin it for the rest of us. I just want to watch some kick-ass matches, that’s all,” said Justin.

“Did you just call me lady? Is that what you learn from that show? Is that what the slutty divas teach you when they put on skimpy clothing and catfight for your pleasure? They’re not real women and you’re not a real man! You’re a disgusting pig!” yelled the crazy zealot.

Justin wasn’t going to take anymore abuse from this screeching harlot. He picked up whatever was left of his beer and walked up to her before dumping it over her hair. Everybody laughed at the scene while the zealot was screaming in humiliation. Justin sarcastically waved goodbye at her and then returned to the bar as if she was no real threat to his entertainment.

But a threat she was as she pulled out a hunting knife and tried to make a beeline for Justin Spencer. He nearly jumped out of his seat ready to make a mad dash for the back door. Thank goodness the two beefy bouncers were there to intercept the zealot and hold her arms in an attempt to take away the huge knife.

“Let go of me! Let go of me, you stupid apes! I can’t let this worldwide filth plague our TV’s any longer!” yelled the zealot as she kicked and screamed her way out the bouncer’s grips. With the knife still in hand, she slashed at the chests and stomachs of the two bouncers and left them plopping on the floor with a flood of blood pouring from their wounds.

The zealot turned her attention to a frightened Justin, who was backpedaling on the floor after tripping over another barstool. His shaky adrenaline didn’t allow him the time to get up and make a run for his life, so he continued to crawl like a baby.

Other patrons along with Murphy tried to detain the bitchy zealot, but she swung her bloody knife like a samurai warrior and forced them to keep their distance. Once they were distant enough, the zealot rushed over to the downed Justin and raised her blade in the air before bringing it down in what would have been the world’s most brutal stabbing.

A knee-jerk reaction caused Justin to turtle on his back and kick in the air while covering his face with his arms. These weren’t the best kicks he threw, but he was wearing steel-toed boots (with his office gear, no less) and it was enough strength to knock the zealot on her butt after she took one to the chest.

The uncomfortable silence between Justin and his attacker afforded the two of them enough time to slowly get to their feet and have a Mexican standoff. The previously frightened Murphy looked up at the TV screen and got a nutty idea. He threw his fingers in the air and started a “YES! YES! YES!” chant. The other patrons soon followed in Murphy’s excitement. Justin also followed suit.

“Stop it! Shut the hell up! I’ll slash each and every one of you into little pieces!” yelled the zealot. It was all fun and games annoying her until she lunged her blade at Murphy’s stomach and killed him instantly in a pool of his own blood.

While it was Murphy who started the upsetting chant in the first place, the zealot made the mistake of taking her eyes off of Justin, who was feeding off of the energy of the bar patrons, who did not stop their “YES!” chants in spite of everything going on. Justin rushed up to his opponent and took a huge risk in an attempt to bring her down.

The risk paid off as Justin delivered his own version of the Busaiku Knee and knocked the zealot down, causing her to drop the bloody knife. Once she was disarmed, the other patrons swarmed her and held her to the ground while a patron off to the side took out his cell phone and dialed 911.

Justin got up after delivering his flying knee and dusted himself off. He high-fived the patrons who were not busy holding down the zealot and collapsed in a nearby chair shortly afterward.

The office jockey went home straight after the police arrested the zealot, now known as Fay Jonas, and plopped over on his soft leather couch. He rolled around in it for a while trying to get comfortable until he decided to turn on his TV and watch some of the news.

“Good evening. I’m John Casey and this is the 11:00 news. Our top story for the evening: a Paulson City woman named Fay Jonas entered Murphy’s Pub with a hunting knife and killed two bouncers and the bar’s owner, Sean Murphy. The other patrons say that Miss Jonas was delirious and spewing anti-professional wrestling rhetoric before she launched her attack. After a thorough police interrogation, it was revealed that Fay Jonas is the mother of deceased professional wrestler Michael Jonas, aka Rufus Machinegun. Rufus died last year of a painkiller overdose in what was originally supposed to be treatment for a ruptured disk in his lower back. While Fay Jonas wouldn’t say this was the reason for her attack on the bar, it is under suspicion.”

Justin Spencer couldn’t believe what he heard. He sat up on his couch and stared at the TV screen with shock in his eyes. He heard stories about this kind of thing going on in the wrestling business before. He remembered Scott Hall’s battle with drugs and alcohol, Eddie Guerrero dying because of it, and the most haunting story of all, the one where Chris Benoit murdered his wife and child because of his altered mental state. Rufus Machinegun was just another statistic in this long list of tragedies. Justin could do nothing but bury his face in his lap and softly sob to himself.


message 45: by Ryan (new)

Ryan | 5330 comments Hear ye! Hear ye!

Week 223 is sailing off into the sunset, please get ye to the tavern and vote. The Captain and mice will be hosting a game of Celebrity Guess Who on deck afterwards.

Story Poll: https://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/1...

Poetry Poll: https://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/1...


message 46: by [deleted user] (last edited Aug 04, 2014 02:18PM) (new)

Garrison, you posted a story! Yay! I loved that you showed another side to Fay Jonas and that you made the characters well-rounded and fleshed-out. Of course, what Fay did was unforgivable and absolutely despicable, and you make sure the reader sees this; yet you also manage to show another side for her anger.

One thing I notice about your stories is that you carry a signature...tone in your stories. No matter what the story, your stories read the same way. Which makes your stories seem very original, but...your they can get a bit, well, tedious, even with such an action-packed subject like this one.

Still, though, an awesome story.


message 47: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9328 comments I'm glad you appreciate my efforts this week, Sophie. It makes me happy. :)


message 48: by [deleted user] (new)

No problem :)


back to top