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Week 84- (June 13th- June 19th) Stories --- Topic: Magic DONE!
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Sorry this one is so long! It wound up being a frame story. I'll post it in two parts.Lead and Laudanum
by M (about 2,497 words)
A tall blonde had appeared in the doorway, an envelope in her hand. “I thought this was for medical billing. It’s an invoice.” M was sitting at his antique desk, staring blankly at the screen of a notebook computer. “Oh. Thank you, Dru.” Dru Harland came into M’s office and set the envelope beside the calculator, on a thick catalog from a medical equipment supply house. “Working on another story?” She arched an eyebrow. M nodded and looked up in frustration. “The topic for the weekly contest is magic.”
Dru smiled. “Well’s gone dry, huh?” M leaned back in his chair. The early-afternoon sun shone through the wooden blinds. “There’s a kind of magic involved in writing these things,” he began, at a loss. “A muse expects you to believe in her, to make a leap of faith.” He sighed. Dru regarded him skeptically. “You mean like in religion?” M considered that for a moment, then nodded. Dru laughed. “Surely you don’t believe there is such a thing as a muse!”
The phone rang. A glance at it told Dru that the receptionist was tied up on Line One. Dru picked up the receiver and pushed the flashing key. “Dr. Ashland’s office.” She grabbed a memo pad. M handed her a pen. She made a brief notation and replied, “Hold on just a moment, please.” Then she put the line on hold and was gone.
A few moments later, the phone beeped and M picked up the receiver. It was Robin Perry, the receptionist. “Do you know if Lonny left a spare roll of trashcan liners?” M thought a minute. “They’ll be in the lab, under the sink.” Lonny Nolan refinished floors at the county hospital and cleaned Dr. Ashland’s clinic after hours. M had enjoyed many long, philosophical discussions with Lonny, and during summer months yard work was a frequent topic. “Why should I bother the grass?” Lonny would say. “It’s not bothering me.”
Hanging up the phone, M looked without much interest at the invoice from the chart-supplies company. He would be busy tomorrow doing payroll. Picking up the office furniture catalog, he found himself nostagic for the days of pencils and wooden filing cabinets, of heavy ledgers that were kept by hand--a golden time when life was simple, before everything had been computerized. Images flitted through his mind of a ghost town in the Old West, of the hand-operated printing press in the newspaper office, of tellers weighing gold nuggets in their cages in the bank, of the wooden shelves of the general store.
How should he summon his muse, whom he had met face to face in a long-ago, terrifying dream set in the twilight at a bend in a road near a lake, a dream he had awakened from with her name in his mind. She seemed to be all beautiful women rolled into one, yet she was unlike any woman he had ever met. M turned back to the computer. The cursor blinked in an empty screen.
The window above him shattered and he heard the slug go into a barrel of cornmeal behind him. Crouched on the floor beside him was a young woman with dark-brown hair and striking, pale-blue eyes. A voice from across the street shouted, “Come out, Mike Irish! We’ve got you covered!” Another report came from Lonny Nolan’s buffalo rifle. Splinters spiked up in the frame of the open door, only inches from Mike’s hand. In that hand was a six-shooter that had put lead in enough outlaws to make up a small regiment.
Mike had a sixth sense when it came to shooting. He knew Nolen was on the second floor of Martina’s Emporium, third window over. He knew a bullet from the .45 would go right through the board wall. “Lonny,” he shouted back. “I’m not here for you. Clear out!” He didn’t dislike Nolan. Sometimes things just got mixed up. The reply was return fire that sank lead into the sacks of flour Mike had stacked as a protective barrier against the front wall of the General Store, by the door.
Through bulletholes in the wall, he saw pot-bellied Milt Skinner emerge from Parker’s Saloon, gleaming pistols in both hands and the sun glinting off his silver belt buckle. Milt started firing. He was sheriff, and this was his town. Swaggering self-confidence from the heels of his tooled-leather boots to the thinning hair on his head, he was used to pushing people around. He owned controlling interests in the Alhambra, Coreyville’s poshest saloon and pleasure palace.
In a flash, Irish’s hand was in the open door, smoke spewing from the barrel of the Peacemaker. Milt staggered backwards, dropped one pistol and then another, and grabbed his stomach, his cheeks bulging. Blood coursed over his fingers. Mike ducked back as thunder from Lonny’s buffalo rifle shook the street. The girl crouched beside him, watching impassively as splinters of wood flew through the air.
Mike hadn’t wanted to shoot Skinner, but he hated what he had to do next. An instant later he was glancing beyond the door. He saw Milt Skinner lying face down in the dirt street, writhing. There was an almost imperceptible movement from farther away, beyond the Coreyville Bank. Mike felt the familiar recoil of the Colt and saw one hole, two holes, three holes appear in a vertical line in the wall to the right of the open upstairs window at Martina’s. Reflexively, he squinted to keep the acrid powder smoke from burning his eyes. There was no return fire from the window.
He heard the girl behind him scream his name. A cloud of smoke came from a carbine at the stable a block up the dusty street and he felt a bullet go between his ribs. The girl grabbed him and helped him to safety behind the wall as bullets shattered the glass in the store’s long display case or, with a thwack, thwack, thwack, lodged in the door frame.
“It’s Ricky Wilbanks, that yellow-bellied--“ Mike began. The girl ran her fingers through his sweaty hair, a resigned, sympathetic expression on her face. Glancing through the open door, she saw Wilbanks approaching down the street, ducking in alleys and doorways. Calmly she took the pistol and reloaded it. “Looks like you got Nolan,” she said in a low voice. Using a small screwdriver, she tightened the screws loosened by the vibration from shooting. “It’s funny you never see them doing this in westerns,” she remarked, handing the gun to him. He looked at her, pain in his eyes, but smiled. “We’re off to a good start!”
“Irish! You and that girl, come out!” It was Wilcox. A crooked justice of the peace, he had gotten rich stealing land from widows. On Main Street in Coreyville, there were certain places people tended to be during gunfights, and Mike had a good idea just where Ricky was standing. The next thing Wilcox knew, there were splinters flying, and he had three pieces of lead in him. He didn’t know it for long.
(Continued in next post.)
Lead and Laudanum (continued)Looking out through the open door, Mike Irish saw the spindlework balcony of Martina’s, the swinging doors of Parker’s Saloon, and the Gothic fortress that was Coreyville Bank. He watched the scene fade to white, as though the blood had been drained out of it. When he came to, he felt groggy. He was lying on a bed. A broad strip of white cloth had been wrapped tightly around his abdomen, and with consciousness pain returned. Beside the bed, on a washstand with a pitcher and bowl, was a lighted lamp. The window was dark. The girl stood beside it.
“Where am I?” he asked. She turned, her pale eyes reflecting the glow of the oil lamp. “You’re upstairs at Helm’s Rooming House. Dr. Kimble said this would be the safest place for you.” On a chair near the foot of the bed hung his gunbelt and his bloodstained shirt. “I feel like I’m doped up,” he groaned, trying to sit up. The girl went quickly to the bed. “You just lie right back down.” She put her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes had a hypnotic effect on him. He lay back against the pillow, unable to get his head to clear. “What is that stuff?” On the washstand was a vial of something red. She smiled. “It’s laudanum. You’ll want some more of it before long.”
She sat down beside him on the bed and looked into his eyes. Her hair was tied back and unwashed, her dress made of plain cotton. Her hand was cool on his cheek. “You’re burning up,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed him, and for a moment he forgot the pain in his side and the events that had led to the gunfight.
There was a hollow sound of hard soles on the stairs then in the hallway, then a knock at the door. The girl arose from the bed and went to the chair. She slid the pistol from its holster. Her voice was calm. “Who is it?” A voice from the hall replied, “Dr. Kimble.” She opened the door. A tall, dignified-looking man with graying hair removed his hat as he entered. In one hand he carried a black bag.
Mike looked up at him gratefully, then groaned, “How bad is it?” The man set the bag on the bed and bent to unwrap the cloth. “Nathan Pruitt’s got a mess to clean up. His store is a wreck.” Pulling the cloth away, he pressed gingerly on the flesh around the inflamed wound. “The bullet went clean through,” he said. “Not much swelling,” he commented. “It doesn’t appear to have hit an artery or any vital organs, but it’s impossible to tell for sure. You should rest for several days before trying to move, in case something in there got opened up.” He took a bottle from his bag. “If infection doesn’t set in, you’ll live.” Mike clenched his teeth as Dr. Kimble poured alcohol on the wound. The doctor motioned to the girl. “Help me turn him over.”
Sometime in the night he was awakened by searing pain in his side. The laudanum had worn off. The lamp had been extinguished. The girl sat in the chair, by the open window. Hearing him awaken, she turned and faced him, her eyes glowing with moonlight. “You asked for a story,” she said. He moaned. She rose and went to the washstand, but he shook his head as she uncorked the laudanum. “Alison,” he said unsteadily, “what do you want of me?” She put the stopper back in the vial. “I don’t know,” she whispered. Setting the vial down, she turned. Then she sat on the bed beside him and took his hand in hers. “I never know those things.”
With her touch, it seemed to him that all the troubles in the world faded away. She smiled. “Dr. Kimble asked me who I was.” Her back to the window, her face was in shadow. “I told him I was your wife.” She leaned closer to him, but at the sound of hooves, she went quickly to the window.
There was a muffled thud of boots on the boards of the porch. Mike sat up, the pain like fire in his side. Then he got off the bed and stood up. He scowled at her. “It seems to me that a muse gets an awful lot of enjoyment out of watching a writer suffer.” She shrugged. He staggered to the chair, took the six-shooter from the holster, and checked the cylinder in the wan light. Five shells.
His legs were unsteady, but soon he was slipping past the door into the dark upper hall. He heard the stairs creak. The men going up them saw only blackness until fire came from the barrel of Mike Irish’s Peacemaker. Pete Caid doubled over. Billy Goodson stumbled backward as a slug plowed through his skull.
From the entry hall, Bud Weber, a saloon keeper, took aim with a double-barreled shotgun. At that moment, Mike’s legs gave way. As he went down, he glimpsed Weber’s outline against a dim sidelight of the front door. There was an ear-splitting boom as the shotgun vomited fire and lead. Glass from a heavy mirror rained on the floorboards behind the spot where Mike had stood. Prone, Mike aimed through the railing. Weber saw three flashes of fire from the Peacemaker. He felt the impact of the slugs pin him momentarily against the door. Then he slid to the floor.
Mike heard someone running toward him. Moments later, Alison was bending over him. Pain like a hot poker in his side, he turned to face her. Her strange, sorceress’ eyes were wells of moonlight. Pulling her to him, he kissed her, and with the taste of her, the pain, the circumstances, seemed trivial, suddenly far away. Occasional groans came from somewhere on the stairs. From the sounds of them, Pete Caid had a stomach ache to die of.
Mike felt the girl’s fingers on his face. “You’re one for heroics, aren’t you?” he laughed and tangled his fingers in her hair. Abruptly, his side seemed to split with pain. The girl gasped, gently wiping beads of sweat from his face. She whispered, “I’ll get the laudanum.” He bit his lip, his eyes watering, but he held onto her. “After the bedroom scene,” she explained, “I had to figure out some way to finish the story in another five hundred words.” Bending carefully, she kissed him again, a long kiss. Then she murmured hesitantly, “Are you mad at me?” He felt the supple curve of her waist under his palm. “You make me feel as though I could conquer the world with my bare hands,” he said.
A paperclipped set of timecards hit the desk, followed by two more like it. The office suddenly materialized around him. Three women were standing there. M looked up in astonishment. “Is it five o’clock?” Dru regarded him with amusement. “Did you get your story written?” Robin rolled her eyes. Jody Burch, the nurse, ran her hand through her dark-brown hair. They smiled and chorused “Bye!” Then they were gone. From the hall, the back door closed behind them.
The story had gotten written, but M was at a loss to say just how. The diskette drive whirred and clicked as M saved the file. He wondered what could be nearer to magic--in this world, at least--than a muse. Removing the diskette, he put it in a battered briefcase that had been his grandfather’s. Then he shut down the computer and locked it up, with the timecards, in a fireproof filing cabinet. A casual voice came from the door. “M, how’s it going this hot afternoon?” It was Lonny.
M!!!!!!! U WROTE A STORY!!!! AHHHHH!!!!!!!
*cough* okay, so I kinda freaked out there. hehe. But you wrote a story! Yay!!! I've been waiting for one of your stories, and it (obviously) did not disappoint! I love your idea of having the contest in the story, giving a reason to write. I've done that a couple times, but of course no where near as creative as yours. The western saloon idea was awesome, and the characters were alive and tangible. And bringing it back to the beginning at the end gives it sort of a.... dreamy feel. As if a 'did that just happen or was I dreaming' type feeling. EEEP! I just love your stories. They're so real!!! :D Now don't go disappearing on us again. ;)
*cough* okay, so I kinda freaked out there. hehe. But you wrote a story! Yay!!! I've been waiting for one of your stories, and it (obviously) did not disappoint! I love your idea of having the contest in the story, giving a reason to write. I've done that a couple times, but of course no where near as creative as yours. The western saloon idea was awesome, and the characters were alive and tangible. And bringing it back to the beginning at the end gives it sort of a.... dreamy feel. As if a 'did that just happen or was I dreaming' type feeling. EEEP! I just love your stories. They're so real!!! :D Now don't go disappearing on us again. ;)
Haha, you're welcome :P I'm thrilled you're writing again!
I always enjoy your stories. You have a flair for writing.
lol, thanks :P I'm having a really hard time with stories lately. Seems poetry is settling well with me this month. :P
*runs in out of breath* I have a story!
Crappy story, crappy ending. But an entry, nonetheless!! :D
The Field
By Avree
Word Count: 1, 401
He walked past the concrete fountain, feeling the mist on his tanned skin, slightly shivering in the cool morning air. He took a breath and turned into the mist, letting the water droplets hit his bare arms. He shook his head and tried to wake himself up. As he wished he could stay over there for many more moments, savoring the dewy, slightly hazy feeling of his regular early morning walk, he turned away and kept walking to his destination. His classic black and white Chucks slapped against the pavement, disturbing the silence that sat in the early air. He kept walking across the pavement, and down the alley in between an old theatre and silent book shop. As he neared the end, he reached a wide and empty field hidden behind the outskirts of the town. The cool wind rushed through the tall grass, and created a soft rushing, whistling sound, reminiscent of a dream. He took a deep breath, breathing in the sweet aroma of the grass and the sunlight as it peeked over the mountains in the distance, turning the rest of the sky a lazy pink.
He savored the feeling of complete solitude for a moment, then strode to the middle of the field and sat down, cross legged. The tall grass brushed his shoulders. He didn’t come for the scenery – beautiful as it was – but he came to think, to ponder, and often, to discuss.
On the occasional morning, she would show up. He didn’t know details about her life, aside from the rumors, but he knew she was beautiful. She moved with the elegance and grace of a mythical creature of sorts, her ponderings of life were deep and thoughtful. Her eyes would flicker like magic, wrap around you and pull you in. They were mesmerizing; they told stories that could not be expressed through words. Her dark, long eyelashes framed the windows to her soul. She was small, tiny, petite. Her dark brown hair cascaded around her shoulders and curves, moving as she would talk. Thinking about her was like a spell was cast over him, a fantasy of reality. As he drew pictures of her in his mind, he heard footsteps behind him – the gentle crushing of the sweet grass. Silently, she came and sat beside him. The grass stood around them as a miniature jungle, hiding them from civilization.
They sat in silence, not speaking a word. The only sounds were the occasional, distant whirr of a motor from the highway, the far away sounds of birds in the early morning, and the wind rushing through the field. Her dark, slender fingers picked at the holes in her jeans, as he sat and watched her. She was the first to break the silence.
“Funny, how this works.” Her voice, accented by her Middle Eastern descent, spoke quietly.
“What works?” He copied her quiet demeanor.
“This. Us.” She stopped and looked at him. Her eyes danced across his face taking in his different features – his eyes, his hair, his freckles. He nodded slowly. “Like an unspoken agreement, no one knows we meet out here. It’s like we’re different people out here.”
“This is the only place I can be me.”
“That’s the same way I feel.” The silence resumed as they both looked up into the sky. As the sun rose, the sky slowly turned into a purple-y blue.
“Would you consider us friends?” She spoke again.
“Of course.” He didn’t hesitate. “Would you?”
“Yes. A very close one.”
“Why…” his voice trailed off, as he was unsure of asking the question.
“Mhmm?”
“Why don’t we hang out in public?” Frank swung her head over to him, her soft hair cascading across her face as she turned.
“And how do you propose explaining that to people? The complete book nerd and the popular girl, best friends?” Her words cut him deep. He was caught off guard by her sharp response.
“Right. I forgot that this is forbidden.” He turned away, refusing to look at her. She sighed.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What way would you have meant it, then?”
“Honey, don’t start.” She started to pick at her jeans once more.
“Start what?” He shrugged, playing innocent. “You brought it up.” She responded with silence.
“Can I rephrase?” She ventured. “How would you explain it to people? How close we are?”
“We don’t just have to walk in one day and then be best of friends. We don’t have to be hidden people.”
“Oh, and you’re so good at showing yourself to people, is that, Darcy?” She stared at him, full of accusation.
“Why are you acting like this, Frank?” She sneered and turned away. “I mean, seriously. What’s wrong?” Darcy sat up and looked at her. “…you can tell me.” He let his words float in the air, swirl around and slowly absorb into her. After minutes of silence, she let out a gentle sob.
“I hate this. “
“Hate us?”
“I hate how if I told any of my friends about you, they would abandon me.”
“Well, those don’t seem like very good friends.”
“Fitz!” She whined, as he groaned at his name.
“Frank, don’t call me that.”
“Why not, Fitzwilliam?” He buried his head in his hands.
“Curse my parents.” He mumbled into his hands. She reached over and placed her small, dark hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her as she smiled sadly.
“Darcy….” Her voice trailed off, unsure of what she even wanted to say.
“Yes?” He asked hesitantly.
“Give me… give me a bit of time. I’ll work something out.”
“Work what out?”
“Us. Friends. Life.” She took her hand off his back and gestured around to the field.
“… And how, exactly, are you going to do that?” Darcy asked, with a small smirk on his face. She turned to face him and grinned. “Flip the magic switch to combine all of segregated humanity, making us all equal in the eyes of one another?” Francesca threw her head back and laughed.
“Not exactly. But we can ease people into it.”
“Frank, I love you, but that’s not really easy to do.” Darcy raised his eyebrows at her.
“I know! But we have to start some where. And to be honest, I’d rather have you as my only friend than everyone else.”
“Really?” He looked at her, surprised.
“Heck yea. Wouldn’t you?” He laughed awkwardly.
“Frank…” Darcy didn’t finish his sentence.
“Darcy…” Frank mimicked him. Darcy looked at his watch.
“I have to leave.”
“Why? It’s only 6:30.”
“I know. And I have to leave 10 minutes ahead of you so no one sees us together. Right?” Darcy stood up and smacked at his now wet pants, from sitting in the dew. Francesca jumped up as well, her 4’11 frame making Darcy feel like he was towering over her. He looked at her, taken aback. “Where you going? People can see us from the road.”
“Darcy, we have to start somewhere.”
“What does that mean?”
“Come on!” She turned around and started walking. Darcy followed her, waiting for an explanation. “I want you to come to my party tomorrow night.” This remark made Darcy burst out laughing. When he regained his breath, he looked at her.
“Ah, you’re funny.”
“I’m serious, Darcy.”
“You can’t be.”
“Well, I am.” Darcy didn’t respond, so they walked in silence for a few moments towards the alleyway they accessed the field through.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?!” Frank threw her hands up into the air, exasperated. “I want us to be friends. We have to start some where, and this is where. Parties. It will explain everything – how we met, etc.”
“And what in the world would you explain to your friends when they asked you why I was invited?”
“I think you’re cute.” Francesca stated easily, without hesitation, leaving Darcy stuttering and sputtering.
“What?”
“What, what?”
“That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does. You’re cute.”
“Uh. Thanks? And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Why you came to my party. I think you’re cute, so I invited you.”
“Oh.” Darcy kept walking, still confused. “I don’t get it.”
“I invited you, ‘because’ I think you’re cute.”
“This will be acceptable in cheerleader language?” That remark got a forceful shove from Darcy’s small friend, as they both laughed and headed to their newfound public friendship.
Crappy story, crappy ending. But an entry, nonetheless!! :D
The Field
By Avree
Word Count: 1, 401
He walked past the concrete fountain, feeling the mist on his tanned skin, slightly shivering in the cool morning air. He took a breath and turned into the mist, letting the water droplets hit his bare arms. He shook his head and tried to wake himself up. As he wished he could stay over there for many more moments, savoring the dewy, slightly hazy feeling of his regular early morning walk, he turned away and kept walking to his destination. His classic black and white Chucks slapped against the pavement, disturbing the silence that sat in the early air. He kept walking across the pavement, and down the alley in between an old theatre and silent book shop. As he neared the end, he reached a wide and empty field hidden behind the outskirts of the town. The cool wind rushed through the tall grass, and created a soft rushing, whistling sound, reminiscent of a dream. He took a deep breath, breathing in the sweet aroma of the grass and the sunlight as it peeked over the mountains in the distance, turning the rest of the sky a lazy pink.
He savored the feeling of complete solitude for a moment, then strode to the middle of the field and sat down, cross legged. The tall grass brushed his shoulders. He didn’t come for the scenery – beautiful as it was – but he came to think, to ponder, and often, to discuss.
On the occasional morning, she would show up. He didn’t know details about her life, aside from the rumors, but he knew she was beautiful. She moved with the elegance and grace of a mythical creature of sorts, her ponderings of life were deep and thoughtful. Her eyes would flicker like magic, wrap around you and pull you in. They were mesmerizing; they told stories that could not be expressed through words. Her dark, long eyelashes framed the windows to her soul. She was small, tiny, petite. Her dark brown hair cascaded around her shoulders and curves, moving as she would talk. Thinking about her was like a spell was cast over him, a fantasy of reality. As he drew pictures of her in his mind, he heard footsteps behind him – the gentle crushing of the sweet grass. Silently, she came and sat beside him. The grass stood around them as a miniature jungle, hiding them from civilization.
They sat in silence, not speaking a word. The only sounds were the occasional, distant whirr of a motor from the highway, the far away sounds of birds in the early morning, and the wind rushing through the field. Her dark, slender fingers picked at the holes in her jeans, as he sat and watched her. She was the first to break the silence.
“Funny, how this works.” Her voice, accented by her Middle Eastern descent, spoke quietly.
“What works?” He copied her quiet demeanor.
“This. Us.” She stopped and looked at him. Her eyes danced across his face taking in his different features – his eyes, his hair, his freckles. He nodded slowly. “Like an unspoken agreement, no one knows we meet out here. It’s like we’re different people out here.”
“This is the only place I can be me.”
“That’s the same way I feel.” The silence resumed as they both looked up into the sky. As the sun rose, the sky slowly turned into a purple-y blue.
“Would you consider us friends?” She spoke again.
“Of course.” He didn’t hesitate. “Would you?”
“Yes. A very close one.”
“Why…” his voice trailed off, as he was unsure of asking the question.
“Mhmm?”
“Why don’t we hang out in public?” Frank swung her head over to him, her soft hair cascading across her face as she turned.
“And how do you propose explaining that to people? The complete book nerd and the popular girl, best friends?” Her words cut him deep. He was caught off guard by her sharp response.
“Right. I forgot that this is forbidden.” He turned away, refusing to look at her. She sighed.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What way would you have meant it, then?”
“Honey, don’t start.” She started to pick at her jeans once more.
“Start what?” He shrugged, playing innocent. “You brought it up.” She responded with silence.
“Can I rephrase?” She ventured. “How would you explain it to people? How close we are?”
“We don’t just have to walk in one day and then be best of friends. We don’t have to be hidden people.”
“Oh, and you’re so good at showing yourself to people, is that, Darcy?” She stared at him, full of accusation.
“Why are you acting like this, Frank?” She sneered and turned away. “I mean, seriously. What’s wrong?” Darcy sat up and looked at her. “…you can tell me.” He let his words float in the air, swirl around and slowly absorb into her. After minutes of silence, she let out a gentle sob.
“I hate this. “
“Hate us?”
“I hate how if I told any of my friends about you, they would abandon me.”
“Well, those don’t seem like very good friends.”
“Fitz!” She whined, as he groaned at his name.
“Frank, don’t call me that.”
“Why not, Fitzwilliam?” He buried his head in his hands.
“Curse my parents.” He mumbled into his hands. She reached over and placed her small, dark hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her as she smiled sadly.
“Darcy….” Her voice trailed off, unsure of what she even wanted to say.
“Yes?” He asked hesitantly.
“Give me… give me a bit of time. I’ll work something out.”
“Work what out?”
“Us. Friends. Life.” She took her hand off his back and gestured around to the field.
“… And how, exactly, are you going to do that?” Darcy asked, with a small smirk on his face. She turned to face him and grinned. “Flip the magic switch to combine all of segregated humanity, making us all equal in the eyes of one another?” Francesca threw her head back and laughed.
“Not exactly. But we can ease people into it.”
“Frank, I love you, but that’s not really easy to do.” Darcy raised his eyebrows at her.
“I know! But we have to start some where. And to be honest, I’d rather have you as my only friend than everyone else.”
“Really?” He looked at her, surprised.
“Heck yea. Wouldn’t you?” He laughed awkwardly.
“Frank…” Darcy didn’t finish his sentence.
“Darcy…” Frank mimicked him. Darcy looked at his watch.
“I have to leave.”
“Why? It’s only 6:30.”
“I know. And I have to leave 10 minutes ahead of you so no one sees us together. Right?” Darcy stood up and smacked at his now wet pants, from sitting in the dew. Francesca jumped up as well, her 4’11 frame making Darcy feel like he was towering over her. He looked at her, taken aback. “Where you going? People can see us from the road.”
“Darcy, we have to start somewhere.”
“What does that mean?”
“Come on!” She turned around and started walking. Darcy followed her, waiting for an explanation. “I want you to come to my party tomorrow night.” This remark made Darcy burst out laughing. When he regained his breath, he looked at her.
“Ah, you’re funny.”
“I’m serious, Darcy.”
“You can’t be.”
“Well, I am.” Darcy didn’t respond, so they walked in silence for a few moments towards the alleyway they accessed the field through.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?!” Frank threw her hands up into the air, exasperated. “I want us to be friends. We have to start some where, and this is where. Parties. It will explain everything – how we met, etc.”
“And what in the world would you explain to your friends when they asked you why I was invited?”
“I think you’re cute.” Francesca stated easily, without hesitation, leaving Darcy stuttering and sputtering.
“What?”
“What, what?”
“That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does. You’re cute.”
“Uh. Thanks? And what does that have to do with anything?”
“Why you came to my party. I think you’re cute, so I invited you.”
“Oh.” Darcy kept walking, still confused. “I don’t get it.”
“I invited you, ‘because’ I think you’re cute.”
“This will be acceptable in cheerleader language?” That remark got a forceful shove from Darcy’s small friend, as they both laughed and headed to their newfound public friendship.
I don't know. I was wondering that. I just got back from out of town, and when I logged on, it was gone. I hope Mark re-posts it. It looked interesting.I like your story! I feel kind of sorry for Darcy, though. An introvert myself, I can sympathize with anyone who's like a fish out of water at parties. You have a way with description.
The reason I took it off, because I wasn't sure about what happens to the partiers. Is it too violent?
Violence? I'm shocked! I'm looking forward to reading this--though it will be tomorrow morning, when I can do more than skim it. I'm glad you reposted it.
Thanks, M :) Wasn't too sure about posting it, but I haven't wrote in a while. Same here, I'm often the odd one out. At parties, I'm okay, but in smaller groups I'm quite awkward. I liked my idea, but I think I could have done better. Ah, whatever. It's a story, doesn't matter that much :P But thanks :)
Yea, I saw it but didn't get a chance to read it. I have to run away right now and do stuff BUT i will read it tomorrow :) Thanks for re posting it Mark, I'll read it as soon as i can! hehe
Yea, I saw it but didn't get a chance to read it. I have to run away right now and do stuff BUT i will read it tomorrow :) Thanks for re posting it Mark, I'll read it as soon as i can! hehe
Actually, 'introvert' and 'extrovert' would be a interesting topic to write about.
Did anyone else enjoy the fantasy challenge like I did? I was thinking one like that would be fun, but something to do with era's. like... 1940's, etc.
Did anyone else enjoy the fantasy challenge like I did? I was thinking one like that would be fun, but something to do with era's. like... 1940's, etc.
Sharon has a promising career ahead of her as a murderess. With Trixie as her henchman (henchprincess?) and with Diane's blessing, Sharon has absolute power--and we all know what happens when absolute power gets involved. I could see this story as part of a series, the G.O.W. being roughly the equivalent of Rowling's Ministry of Magic. I have a feeling Leiria's position will become more and more difficult to fill as her successors suffer the same fate. Nice story, Mark!
The Results:1st place: Avree
2nd place: Mark
3rd place: M
I won TWICE? Wow. Thanks again, guys :D
And I liked your entries better than mine, btw. Thanks :)
And I liked your entries better than mine, btw. Thanks :)
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 ONLY 300-2,500 words long.
REMEMBER! A short story is NOT a scene. It MUST have a BEGINNING, MIDDLE, and END.
The topic this week is: Magic
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!