Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

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Weekly Short Story Contests > Week 88- (July 14th-21st) Stories --- Topic: Home DONE!

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message 1: by M (new)

M | 11043 comments Mysterious and interesting. The description is great! I like the way you refer to the two unidentified experimenters as Lab Coat and Rolled-up Sleeves.


message 2: by Jessica (last edited Jul 19, 2011 07:23PM) (new)

Jessica (eyrer) This is the first "short story" I've written in quite a while--I believe I completely butchered it, but at least it's something. :)

Dearest Confinement
by Jessica

“Oh, Lina Clary, you are a silly one.” The Pupils giggled as Little Lina blushed a fierce scarlet, making a tiny fist around her stubby pencil. Miss Molly patted the shamed Pupil’s head as she made her way up to the chalkboard. Even through their fun of adolescent snickering and pointed mockery, the Pupils could not help but quiet down and stare adoringly as their teacher walked past their tables. Their heartbeats kept time with her footsteps, the swing of her arms by her hips.

Miss Molly was radiant. She defined, embodied, lived the picture of perfection. No man could resist her, no woman would hate her—she was never an aloof lover, nor was she ever a spiteful friend. Children left the arms of their mothers to snatch an indulgent smile from Dearest Teacher. No one was spared her charm, her beauty. That is, no one except for Little Lina Clary.

“I am not a silly one, Miss Molly,” said Little Lina. “In fact, if you want to know the truth, I am a particularly angry one at the moment.” The Pupils’ faces turned to stone as they glared at this talking atrocity. Miss Molly paused at the chalkboard, just as she was about to reach for the eraser.

To the wall, Miss Molly announced, “I am afraid I am a smidge confused, Wall. A Pupil seems to have spoken out of turn.” Miss Molly looked left over her shoulder, eyes downcast, mouth even more so. “Am I correct, children? Or have I grown so old that my ears betray me?” Immediately the Pupils-except-Little-Lina raised their hands in unison. One by one, they assured Dearest Teacher of her radiance and youth.

“Oh, Miss Molly, never, never! You will never be old.”

“You are especially young and beautiful this morning, Dearest Teacher.”

“This little Clary pig has no right to speak to you ever again!”

“She will be punished!”

“I have never met such a fine-hearing Lady, Miss.”

“We love you dearly, Dear—”

“Silence! That is enough, my darlings.” Miss Molly turned fully and looked straight at Little Lina’s red, indignant face. “Do you have anything to say for yourself, Unruly Child?”

Little Lina somehow grew three darker shades of puce. “No.” Little Lina crossed her thin arms over her chest. “I just want to go home.”

Her utterance, as quiet as it was, sparked a roar within the Classroom. Home, Pupils whispered, their eyes momentarily torn away from Miss Molly’s person. Home, home. This forbidden word of the Classroom, so defiantly spoken by Little Lina—how easily the Pupils now sprung from their seats and rushed to the Walls, knocking, pounding, listening for the welcome of faint memories.

“No, dears, not home! Stop, stop it!” Miss Molly overturned tables and grabbed the backs of children, blindly trampling Pupils now out of her trance. “There is no home! This is your home! Stay with me, children, away from the Walls—”

As Miss Molly lunged for her once-sweetest, darlingest Pupil—the one with golden hair and pale cheeks, now frantic in her fist-pounding of the East Wall—down caved the ceiling right over Little Lina’s head. The Pupils gasped as a being far more brilliant, far more radiant than Miss Molly appeared where the roof had once been. It was so brilliant that the Pupils had to close their eyes and look away, else a blindness would surely take them all.

“The…the sun?” a small boy dared whisper, remembering a certain light from the back of his earliest memories.

“It must be the Outside.”

“Is this home?”

“No, no, home is where Mother is.”

“I missed this place!”

“Oh, what a sun! What a world!”

In a mere moment, all the children but one had left by climbing the Walls, out toward the sun. The little girl with golden hair and pale cheeks knelt at the distraught teacher’s side, kissed her wet cheek, and disappeared. Miss Molly hiccupped, the sobs in her throat about to erupt. As she swept her eyes over her once-perfect Classroom, a small yellow lump caught her attention at the top of the collapsed ceiling rubble. Crawling her way toward it, lit by the rays of the brilliant sun, Miss Molly recognized the stubby pencil of the little Clary girl, its pink eraser unmarred by graphite, teeth marks, or rubble.


message 3: by Edward (last edited Jul 21, 2011 06:13AM) (new)

Edward (edwardtheresejr) | 2434 comments Oh, I like them both. Maybe I'll cobble something together, though this isn't a subject I know a lot about; my family is essentially nomadic. I'll think of something ...


message 4: by [deleted user] (new)

Does a song fic count as a story???


message 5: by M (last edited Jul 21, 2011 01:18PM) (new)

M | 11043 comments Jessica, I'm not sure what I expected when I started reading your story, but I didn't expect what I consider publication-quality writing or the control you have over content. This is a lovely story that has a disciplined, beautifully-educated mind behind it. The only criticism I have of it is that the first part of the story is so well done and so horrifying that it makes a point the story deserves to be about.


message 6: by [deleted user] (new)

Wow. you guys have all done such amazing jobs. I have no idea how im going to pick this week :S


message 7: by M (new)

M | 11043 comments Avery, I miss your beautiful writing!


message 8: by [deleted user] (new)

Really? Thanks M :) My finger tips have been aching to get back at it, but I'm behind in school so I've been super busy. I think I have a poem for this week though, it just needs a bit of revising :)


message 9: by Edward (new)

Edward (edwardtheresejr) | 2434 comments I haven't been writing for a while either. What I came up with tonight was terrible; it had no style whatsoever.


message 10: by M (new)

M | 11043 comments You're ahead of me, Edward! I didn't come up with anything at all. Throw it out there.


message 11: by [deleted user] (last edited Jul 21, 2011 10:02PM) (new)

I'm here! I actually really like this story for how long it took me to write it. First time I've ever written from a male perspective. It's not too bad :P Happy endings :)


Going Home
By Avree

Word count: 1,286

Go. Away. I scribbled mean words around on my previously blank piece of paper; all the words I wished I could say to his face. Evil, unclean, harsh, mean, unnecessary words. Words I would get slapped, beat, and grounded for saying. Sentences, pictures. The pictures would be the death of me. As I sat there, thinking more and more about the consequences should this piece of paper be found, my pen dug into the paper more and more as I scribbled into the rope I was drawing. Faster, faster, faster. The sound of the pen scratching the paper was like music to my ears, urging me on and on. I jumped out of my trance and dropped my pen. Looking down, I impulsively ripped out the paper and crumpled it. I hesitated for a moment, and ripped it in half. And again. And again. And again. Until all I had were pieces of confetti. Pieces of confetti impossible to piece back together. In a better situation, I would have taken my Zippo lighter and light them on fire… but on a Greyhound bus that may or may not go over so well. My pen began to spin and roll as the bus took a sharp corner along Canada’s jagged Rockies. I ignored it, it was too far away for me to get without getting up anyways. I opened my window a crack and hung my arm out the window casually. Every few minutes I would let a few pieces of paper drift away and onto the following road. What I was doing was illegal, but it’s not like it mattered anyways. Its paper – I’m just returning it back to it’s natural habitat. My arm was beginning to get very, very cold from the wind blowing on it. I dropped the last few pieces of paper, pulled my arm back in and closed the window. I looked down to the remaining pieces of paper in my notebook, covered in scratches and indents in the paper where I had pushed to hard on the page before. I flopped it closed and put it on the seat next to me, and leaned my head against the cold window. The vibrations of the window rattled my skull and brain to the point where I could convince myself I had a construction team inside my head. I closed my head and let the pain run through my body. Who cares, really? I would be killed when I got home anyways, I’m sure a few extra brain cells won’t matter. I sat up straight and twiddled my thumbs. What a boring bus ride. There was an empty seat in front of me, and in front of that a boy, probably in his early twenties, with giant headphones over his ears and his long, shaggy black hair. We had made eye contact when he got on the bus, but nothing more. The 26 hour bus ride was getting terribly long. I looked at my watch for the thousandth time that day. It was only 2 minutes since I looked 2 minutes ago. I hate it how that works. You’d think that time would go faster, wouldn’t you? I tried to block out all thoughts and leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. The winter sun shone in my eyes and created patterns through my eyelids flickering softly until they turned a dark grey and I lulled off into sleep.

I woke to the bus hitting a bump and slowing into a lonely town. Nelson. At recognizing my surroundings, my heart jumped and my breathing quickened. I tightened my hands around my arm rests and forced myself to take deep breaths. As I repeated meaningless words in my head, I saw the boy in front of my turn around and raise his eyebrows. I ignored him and focused on my breathing. As I calmed myself down – having panic attacks in public was humiliating – his voice came rushing back into the innards of my ears.

“You’re useless.”

“Don’t even bother, you’re not worth anything anyways.”

“You’re just another mouth to feed.”

“Of course. You’re the only one who ever bothers me around here.”

“I don’t know if you know how much I hate you.”

“I should have abandoned you when you were young enough no one would know.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to block the voice, unsuccessfully. The memories and voices kept rushing through me and I closed my eyes, trying to paint pretty pictures. Maybe that would help me ignore them. In, count, out, count. In, count, out, count. Over and over again. Repetitive. Repetition always worked well for me.

“How many times do you have to be told, you idiot?”

Well, maybe not. I let out a small, desperate internal sob. Why me? I asked myself again. I tried to recollect any memories of why my father would hate me so much, yet want me enough to drag me back across the country once I had left already. What possible purpose would that serve? Did he not have the dog to abuse? I’m sure that he would get along fine without me. I found my mind wandering back to the chores I wonder who did. That must be it – they lost their servant. Me. the bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in 3 months, the dishes are all stacked up… my over active imagination took over and drew pictures of houses full of dishes for me to clean and dirty bathrooms and many, many overbearing fathers… I took a deep breath and shook my head awake. Falling asleep and having a night mare would not be a pleasant thing.

I stared out the window and let my eyes drift closed, into the black wonderland of dreamless sleep.

I woke with a jump as the bus pulled to a stop.

I was home.

No escape now.

I saw the old beat up pick up sitting outside the depot, with Ginger in the back. She was such an old, old dog. I looked on to find my father staring forward, hid hands gripping the wheel, his face concrete. I knew that face. That face that haunted my sleep and followed me around by day. Mom was standing outside the pickup, looking like a mess. Her shirt was lose and dirty, her hair was long and stringy and messy – as if she hadn’t even looked in a mirror for the past week. Her face was makeup less and she looked utterly exhausted. And broken. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, staring at the door of the bus waiting for my arrival.

My heart instantly softened. It wasn’t Mom who made home so miserable. It was him. And she couldn’t escape anymore than I could. I remember distant memories of her father and her home growing up and gasped as realization came over me. She was only here, with Dad…. Because she knew nothing else. She wouldn’t know how to cope without the abuse and screaming. My throat closed up and my heart went into my stomach as I felt sorry for her. How could I be so blind? How could I have left her in her time of need?

At that moment, as I stood up and grabbed my backpack and notebook, I vowed to myself I would get her out of here. What else is a son for except to protect his mom? Dad isn’t doing a good enough job, I guess the responsibility falls on me. As I take a step off the bus and take one more look at her before walking over, I know this isn’t the end of my life. It’s only the beginning… and the beginning of hers.


message 12: by Stephanie (new)

Stephanie (chasmofbooks) | 2875 comments Look at that, I'm right on time. Here's the poll: http://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/51...


message 13: by M (new)

M | 11043 comments Avery, I think you have a real flair for description! I feel as though I just stepped off the bus. I can see the old pickup with old dog in the back, the mean father at the wheel, and the poor, disheveled mom standing and waiting.


message 14: by [deleted user] (new)

Thanks :) I think I could have added more but what's submitted is submitted :P haha


message 15: by Stephanie (last edited Jul 26, 2011 08:08AM) (new)

Stephanie (chasmofbooks) | 2875 comments The results!

Avree came in at first place!
Al in came in second.
And Jessica came in third.

Congrats and thanks for participating, everyone!


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