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Week 569 (February 1-16) Stories Topic: Amethyst Color
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Wow. Eight days to do this one. Cool! I hope people have ideas here. Eight days is a nice amount of time too, so yay.
As a disclaimer, I wrote this story as an exercise in unreliable narrators so it doesn't relate to the topic that well. But I had a good time writing it and wanted to share.Title: The Rubber Ball
Words: 598
I think my string of bad luck started last month. It was a summer day and I wanted more than anything to run around in the backyard with my favorite rubber ball. It was a purple color, amethyst, like my birthstone. I always thought it was my lucky charm and carried it around everywhere, but that day, I lost it.
And then everything started going wrong. No sooner had I begun mourning the loss of the ball, sprinting back to my room to cry in peace that my mother called me down to scold me. You see, my report card had come that day. I’m smart, so I was pretty sure my grades were fine, so imagine my dismay when I saw three Fs on the page. There had to be some mistake, I think my teachers were jealous of me, and that's what I told Mom, but she just sent me to my room.
The bad luck wasn't restricted to me though. That day, my neighbor came over to talk to my mother and from what I could gather, some kid had thrown a ball and shattered his window and he was fuming. Very sad. People who break other people's property shouldn’t be trusted. He probably deserved it though. He’s always so rude all the time, yelling at me to stop making so much noise.
The next week I found the fox in my backyard had even gone wild. I didn't have my red ball anymore to play with, you see. So now, every time I went to the backyard, I played Little Red Riding Hood instead. The vision was rather spoiled that day, by a dead bunny killed by the fox, I presume. Its ears were pulled off and laid in a pile next to its bloody pulsating carcass. So horrifying, isn't it? And then I picked it up and petted it in shock at the sight, so the blood got all over my shirt. It was such a gruesome and exhilarating afternoon!
Of course, I just couldn't just leave the body there, just waiting for the fox to eat it, that would be so cruel. So I gave it a proper send off. It’s gone now.
Mom came home really upset that same night, grumbling about the cruelty of drivers. She's really soft-hearted, so I guess she saw some roadkill. Apparently a rabbit had exploded all over the road in front of our house, with bits and pieces of its body spread evenly through the lanes of our neighborhood. So scary! I wonder how a car could have done that.
But now, my bad luck seems to be over. I think it's because I got my red ball back. My neighbor found it when replacing his broken window last week and gave it to me. But strangely, I feel less interested in it than before. I guess pretending to be the Big Bad Wolf was more fun than playing ball.
I made a new friend! I met her at school and she's alright. Kind of annoying though. I hate it when people ask so many questions. We both like animals a lot though. She wants to be a vet, so that made her really like me. I told her I had a rabbit she could pet and feed a carrot to and she was so excited.
She came over to my house today so I could show her my bunny. I took her to the backyard but she ran away screaming a few minutes ago. The fox went wild again. Is my bad luck back?
The story is fine. Great job tying it to the topic as well!
News: Contest will be delayed. Check out the story while u wait. Or better yet... post a story if you've got one! :)
Title: Your First LoveWriter: C. J.
Word Count: Almost 2,300 (!)
Story (Below):
Mackenzie Phillips felt nothing but dread when she heard the hard rasp on the door. It wasn't the ‘person’ per sè that made her uneasy but the implication of why there was a suited person she noted that had arrived at the homestead. Services. Again. she wondered peering into the peephole. Is that all I am to my parents? Am I not a child? Just a piece of "property"…!
Her fears were confirmed when the stranger at the door introduced herself. "My name is Mattley Mae. I wonder if your mother is at home? Do you know where she is?"
"Yeah. But she doesn't want to talk to you." Mackey spoke with strong conviction like a quiet wrath.
"Well, can I come in then..?"
"I don't know you so, no. I know what this is."
"It is not a huge problem but if you're okay about it I ca--"
"I don't want you in here either. Leave. Now."
A pause filled the sunny air.
The woman's smile vanished. As she took a quiet breath there seemed to be a mysterious breeze as gentle as nature. She looked like she was trying another approach by her eyes, she would only assume.
"If you could only let me understand the situation at least I feel like we will both--"
"Listen lady. I am a human being. I don't need to be 'custody' to anybody. My mom said my dad stopped hanging around because he doesn't give a crap."
She now appeared a tad concerned. She spoke a little slower. "Well, that is not what I was to--"
"My mom ain't a prize either but I take my mom's word like gold so my mom wins at this argument. I don't care what my so-called father has to say!"
She stood at the front porch. The spring sounds of the sweet winds played on the loose leaves that sprinkled downward. Then they heard distant tweets from singing birds. Soon and without any more word the woman held her folder to her chest like what she was doing was a secret and headed down the stony stairways that lead out to the sidewalk. She looked both ways as if unsure of what to do.
In a mocking smile, fourteen year old Mackey, cried out. She feigned courtesy at the professional and waved. "Buh bye! Buh, bye…"
As soon as she slammed the door a startled mom responded in the house. "What in heck was that? Somebody knock?"
"Oh uh... yeah. Some lady tried to get in. It was… CYS or something like that. I don't know, ‘cuz I didn't let her stay here long."
"From Dad?"
"I guess. Yeah."
There was silence. It was so quiet Mackey became a tad uncomfortable. She noted in her mind that mother might have been holding back on what she was thinking. Mackey broke it to keep from getting anxious.
"So my dad is still trying to be with me, huh…?"
She went quiet again, Mackey noticed. She darted her eyes up the stairs and the quiet came back. Though she also was fairly sure she heard a huff under her mother's breath. Then she inhaled like she was going to speak but a cough came out.
"You gonna get my smokes and other stuff tomorrow?"
The subject had been changed.
"I was going to do that today but you didn't let me."
"Nah. Didn't want you to today but I realize it can be tomorrow."
"I have nothing but time."
"Your homework needs to be done."
"I have done it.”
“No you haven’t…”
“The second I got home I did it."
"Nope. Bring up your grades."
"Teacher said I might rise up to getting B's."
"That's still not good."
"When? Really? When was getting B's a ‘bad’ thing, huh? You do this to me all the time!"
This time after his mother stopped speaking Mackey found herself pausing. Then something, strangely as if it wasn’t fate, clicked.
"Why are you always making me do stuff Sunday…?"
She fumbled with something. Dropped it and there was a loud clunk. Then the cougher finally breathed out some exposition.
"Why are you upset about that? Your father made you go before he left. You like going there?"
"I mean...yeah he did leave me. THat’s what you’d said happened, right? I don’t… I don't know."
"Why do you like church?"
"I don't know... they are really nice."
"I ain't nice??" She shouted it and Mackey instantly caught the irony. But the fact her mother didn't make the situation amusing caused her to shut her usual smart aleck yap.
Instead Mackey whispered her frustration with the lower floor and the loose mice.
"I... I don't like so much stuff at this house." she spoke under her breath. She dare not say it aloud, at least not loud enough she would get a harsh talking to. Or if she wasn't lucky a whooping and that was after the day her father ran out.
The house phone rang. "If that's your father, hang up!"
With dainty hands she picked up the wireless device and hit the button. "Hello...?"
"Oh hello. Is this Mackenzie?"
"Uh... yeah."
"Hi Mackenzie, it's Pastor Thyme."
"Oh. Hi."
For some reason getting a call directly from the pastor made Mackenzie feel like she was in trouble for something.
"How are you?"
"Uhh... uhh.."
"Sorry I was just calling because I realized I haven't been keeping in check with the flock lately. You haven't come to service for about a month now. Is everything alright?"
His mother started loudly throwing things in her room then Mackenzie watched as she briskly moved down the stairs wearing a tight t-shirt, a blouse over it, and sweat pants she liked to double as pajamas.
"Yes." She winced as if her mother was about to come up to her from behind. She thought she would get slapped. "Thank you Pastor…"
Mackey gingerly touched the button to hang up. Her mother finally hesitated, her hand stuck in place.
“Don't you dare go to that place again.”
“Why?”
“Reminds me of the crap your father is: a lying, terrible hypocrite!”
She went back upstairs. As she went she gave her a tad bit of hope.
“Ham is in the oven. Dinner. Eat it tonight.”
“A new ham?”
“No, it's still in there. We don't have money here, unlike your father.”
Didn't her father give them money? Wasn't there something called child support? Things at Mackey's age now just didn't add up.
Also why did her mother hurt her the day her father left them?
She seemed to have a lot of mysteries about her, she began to inquire of. Maybe soon she would try to crack them.
She looked at the house phone now lying on the floor. With urgency she ran it up and stared at it as if it would set off a detonator if she let the “battery low” ring sound. Now she longed to go back to that place as soon as ever. They at least loved her at that place. Or Mackey guessed maybe they just had to love her like it was a shallow commandment and nothing more.
She sat down. Then she started questioning her self-worth.
She set the phone in the home charger like a bomb had been defused. She seemed to curse to herself.
Shoot, there's only so many things I'm not allowed to do at this place anyway! Might as well make some fun in some way, shape, or form.
-----
Somewhere else was a flurry of excitement. People at multiple monitors were alive with hands fluttering across the keyboards.
The secretary that was normally here, Joseph noticed, must have gone on a temporary absence.
As he went up to the desk at the church office he gave a gentle surprise to the woman.
She looked up and he smiled. Not the flattering kind but one with a gentle love. His visage changed as he spoke and a question escaped from his lips instead.
“Hi. You look familiar. I know you?”
Her face flushed as she looked in all directions as a small laugh erupted from her. She finally peered back.
“Hello Joseph. Yes, it's me. You may remember I play the organ on some Sundays. Am retiring now though. Good afternoon. What do you need?”
“Sorry for prying ma’am but do you know when Alice is coming back?”
“She won't be. Not for quite a while, sorry. Is there a message I can give her when she returns?”
“She’s gone? Was work too rough on her?”
The temp secretary gave a nervous smile looking down.
“Well we’ve been understaffed lately. And as you know Pastor Mr. Thyme has been under the weather so young youth pastor Thyme his son is taking over for now. But there's been no upkeep with our elderly members. They noticed the van hasn't been picking them up lately. The driver is sick, has been for weeks! Alice had all their numbers so for the past two weeks no one here would call and see if they’re okay.
Then the seniors looked up her personal number and called her all hours til she nearly got rid of her cell! Things have been a little trying on all of us.”
He stared and gave a vague nod. She then seemed ashamed.
“Oh I shouldn't be blabbin’ about all the members.” She threw a hand across her face, holding it tight. “I am a terrible secretary. I have been so stressed; but it’s all been crazy. Had to talk to someone, I guess…!”
“Well there has been some trying things I have been about too. Someone I should be looking over. My child.”
“Oh.” She stopped what she was doing and then started look in a paper list. It spun and she stopped it on P. “I’m so sorry!”
“Let me see….” The organist went to look up her name. “Name?”
He says it.
“Um… I don’t see her here on the members sheet.”
“She isn’t a member.”
“When was the last time she was here?”
“About two years back.”
“Hmm… nope. Sorry. We only hear from non-members. I will have to ask Senior Pastor Thyme, give his ears a little buzz. He’s stuck at home. Can I get back to you at a later time?”
He paused. He had a slight forlorn face.
“If it needs to happen, okay. Unfortunately this is gonna be rough. Yes she can wait.”
Before she could give or offer anything just outside the office, she turned around and saw he had already left.
She stood in a daze, questioning.
-----
Sunday morning rolled around and went. Before Mackenzie realized it she had gotten her mother her cigs, food, and then a few things for a “meal.” She wasn’t really understanding that last part but she felt that somewhere as much as she felt she hated her mom she wanted to do some things for her at least.
Her mom was not responsive a often. She saw brief clarity but then there was info she clammed up and being like one with a clue or details on her dad, she was stubborn to talk!
Mackenzie watched television. They were airing an old film. Hitchcock. Mackey never before thought she would like these kinds of films but in the midst of all the craziness, the noxious smells of nicotine, here was at least some form of release for her.
A different one followed it. A woman was given a jewel. It sparked some kind of memory. Why did the jewel seem familiar? Did she get it from somewhere? Was it hers or a gift from her mom?
She trounced up to her room. Tireless she searched for it longingly like it was some kind of lost love.
It seemed gone though.
“Mom?”
A pause. “WHAT??”
“Do you know where I have this…. thing.”
“‘Thing?' What are you talking about?!”
“Stop the yelling, mom. I can’t stand it!”
A new pause. Now Mackey felt humiliated. DId she just dare shout at her own mother?
“What gift?”
“A gift! A jewel. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s…. I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Angry again her mother fought the idea.
“Did your freaking father put you up to this?”
“No.”
“He did, didn’t he??”
“He didn’t.”
“Don’t let your dad tell you all the b. s. Lies.”
“I swear to you… he didn’t!”
“Did you go to church?”
“No.”
“Good girl…”
Mackey scoffed. She fought hard but couldn’t control her laugh. Wow, not going to church was now deemed a “good” thing but getting good enough grades was bad? Now mom really was a hypocrite through and through.
Her depression subsided. She almost felt a little new now.
--
As Mack loudly searched, Abigail Phillips opened a drawer.
“You sure you don’t have it mom…?”
She pulled it out. In the midst of the poor state the family was still in, she peered at it again.
A heart of amethyst: Was a gift from father to daughter.
She shut it fast and sighed. The coast was clear.
"I have no idea what the heck you mean.....!"
End of Part One!
Polls might be up very soon!
How is everyone right away?If you want post anything here and you will have a treat and that is suggest the next contest!
Well I guess maybe if no one has anything to say they can share it next time...!
Okay, by default the next contest will be...announced on another thread!
AUTHOR: Garrison KellyTITLE: Bullet With a Name On It
GENRE: Stream of Consciousness
WORD COUNT: 1,318
RATING: R for violence, language, and sexual content
…I’m not a violent person. I don’t carry a gun with me at all times. The last time I got in a fight was in high school. It was a miserable defeat to a guy who mounted my chest and punched me so many times that I got a black eye, numb cheeks, and chewing difficulties. One of the administrators cracked a terrible joke about how I was a lover and not a fighter. I’d expect that kind of humor in the UFC or WWE, but not at school. But I suppose there was some truth in that joke, because ever since that day, I’ve responded to any amount of stress the same way: freezing like Walt Disney eating a popsicle in the middle of a tundra. Fight and flight are gone. Freezing is all that remains. Staying perfectly still and not being confrontational is supposed to be a survival mechanism. But what am I surviving?
While I don’t have a violent life or a criminal history of any kind…I have so many violent thoughts swirling in my head. So many people have taken advantage of my freezing response and said whatever the hell they wanted, like the first amendment was made specifically for assholes. No amethyst colors here, just red, white, and blue. I’ve been fat-shamed, called the R-slur, called a pussy for not joining the military, I’ve had slanderous rumors spread about me, and I’ve been accused of laziness when I didn’t want to get a job and go to school at the same time. These people who abused their first amendment rights…they bear the brunt of these violent thoughts. So...many…violent…thoughts…
Punches in bunches. Sprawling and brawling. Knees to the face. Kicks to the balls. Maybe a piledriver if I’m feeling strong that day. Hell, let’s go full UFC and throw in a rear naked chokehold. In my brain I’m undefeated, even against well-trained marines and martial arts blackbelts. I justify these victories by saying, “Whose dick did they have to suck in order to get those accolades?” I’m sure they can explain the bruises on their faces, but how will they explain the bruises on the inside of their mouths to their dentist? Dentists can tell what you’ve been up to in the bedroom. Or under the sensei’s desk, wherever you feel more comfortable.
But it’s not just unarmed brawling that I fantasize about. Sometimes I’m armed and dangerous. Sometimes I’ve got a big fucking knife. Sometimes I justify those knife victories by saying, “A blackbelt doesn’t give you puncture-proof skin.” Come to think of it…what is a blackbelt good for anyways? Holding up your pants so that we don’t have to look at your Sailor Moon crotchless panties? That kind of intimate wear would never withstand a few strokes from a big ass knife. And neither would your skin. Just hack, slash, hack, slash, an arm there, a leg there, a throat somewhere else, and a glorious bloodbath that will never make me want to shower ever again.
But why is it just melee ranged weapons? Why I can’t I shoot a gun? Surely, it can’t be that hard to shoot a gun. It’s like using America Online: point and click. Maybe I’m oversimplifying complicated technology, but remember, it’s my brain, I’m undefeated. If some bozo driving an obnoxiously large truck drives by me and shouts the F-slur, I’ve got a bullet with his name on it. It’s weird to think about, because in order to have a bullet with somebody’s name on it, I have to know that person’s name. Drive-by loudmouths don’t give you their name or any information about them. That’s a big part of what makes them cowards. Not only do they shout their shit, but they drive away before facing any real consequences. Sure, your truck has a badass engine, but can your truck outrun a bullet? Will a V8 engine matter if there’s a bullet in the gas tank? Will all the horsepower in the world matter if the bullet shatters glass and that glass cuts you up? And what good is driving a truck if the driver gets shot and the vehicle flips on its back? Drive-by loudmouths don’t think about these things in advance. Then again, I wouldn’t call anything they do thinking.
Violent fantasies are so much fun to have. I love bathing in blood. I love listening to screams. I love the symphonic melodies of bones snapping and organs sloshing. I love listening to my insulters plead for their lives only to lose them anyways. But it’s important to remember that these are fantasies. They don’t exist outside of my brain. If they did, there would be serious consequences. Seeing this many dead bodies would break so many hearts. I’d have my own broken heart as I sit alone in a prison cell with regret on my mind. That’s what you have to remember as you go through life with an imagination: fantasy and reality are not one in the same. That’s why people caution against porn being unrealistic. Porn isn’t designed to tell a realistic story. It has one purpose: to help masturbators achieve an orgasm by any means necessary. If you can’t separate fantasy from reality, you’re already waiting to get fucked.
So go ahead and listen to gangsta rap on repeat. Dream of killing your enemies in cold blood. Drink that cold blood like it’s as refreshing as Coca-Cola. Hell, you can even write about some of these daydreams in your stories if you’re an author of some sort. But that comes with its own set of responsibilities. As authors, everything you put on the paper is held in high esteem. Your readers will take everything you say literally and they’ll apply it to their own way of thinking. That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, but they are impressionable. If you’re being held up as an arbiter of truth and you tell a bunch of violent or sexual lies, that’s going to have a bad influence on your readers. Think of all the BDSM rookies who wound up in the hospital after reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Think of all the women who will get pregnant because of birth control misinformation in The Missus, which is written by the same author. You can have your bloody fantasies on paper, but don’t lead your audience astray.
If you’re watching Quentin Tarantino movies, don’t duct tape your enemy to a chair and cut his ear off while dancing to 70’s music. If you’re watching WWE television from the 2000’s, don’t simulate sex with a corpse as a way of insulting someone who wronged you. If you’re watching Mind of Mencia and I hope to god you’re not, don’t throw racial slurs haphazardly and then later wonder why you’re being “canceled”. And by the way, cancel culture isn’t real. If you write a shitty story chock full of irresponsible violence and rape, your audience has the right to react in a negative way, because criticism isn’t censorship. Criticism is the other half of free speech.
If you must have violent fantasies, reign them in. Don’t unleash them out into the real world. If you’re a peaceful guy in real life, but you have violent fantasies, don’t let anybody judge you for it. Truth is, everybody thinks about violence at least once in their life. At least once, don’t let them lie to you. Nobody’s this candid about their violent fantasies, but we all have them. Some are more mild than others, but they still exist. It’s a normal part of the human experience. Thinking about something is a healthy way to process it. Thinking is the best way to travel. Doing these things in real life will cause so much heartache, for you and your victims. And for the love of god…don’t join the military just because you happen to be good at playing Halo.
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group. Note: Only one submission per person is allowed.
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: Amethyst Color
The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject/photo but it must relate to the topic somehow.
Most of all have fun!