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Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
The prompt this week is:

mushy banana


message 2: by sucre'd fiend (new)

sucre'd fiend (sucredfiend) | 79 comments lol


message 3: by Colby (new)

Colby (colbz) | 3211 comments Fun, with lots of room for originality! I might try this 'un.


Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
You'd better.


message 5: by Baxter, butts butts butts (new)

Baxter (julietrocksmysocks) | 2455 comments Mod
Oh I got this. I'mma write about a banana so hard that it'll turn mushy by my friggin WORDS.


message 6: by Baxter, butts butts butts (new)

Baxter (julietrocksmysocks) | 2455 comments Mod
A ghost opens the front door with an evergreen wreath hanging and walks down the hallway adorned with pictures of dogs and cats and the same two people holding each other. Turn left into another hallways with an open door. The ghost enters.
She is standing on one side, he on the other, a table between them. A bowl of fruit: apples, pears and bananas in the middle. Her clothes are cheap and her hair is curled. He is dressed for work with a beard spawned from inattention. Beside her is a little brown chair. They are staring at each other, frozen in time. The ghost sits.
She gasps for breath and clutches her arm, nails digging their graves deep.
--How many?
--Twelve.
The numbers 1 2 flash in front of her: giant neon blocks hovering above his head. 12. A pause that gives birth to a mute child. She lowers her head and wriggles her toes; hidden inside sneakers they move the tops like jello.
--How, she pushes her hair behind her ears, How long?
--A long time. He rubs the back of his head, the lights turning fluorescent and flickering, adding: Four years. Maybe five. I can't remember.
Her hands go numb with a prickling feeling, shaking in their fold. Turn the head left: now right: now at him, standing calmly, hands in pockets.
--Listen, it isn't anything against you. It never was anything against you. Like, some strange sort of revenge or attack or attempt at hurting you or making you sad or anything like that, see, it wasn't ever like that. I just can't--couldn't help it. I swear to God that I never meant to do anyth
On his forehead a movie screen, projecting a film. He plays the character of himself in a red hotel room, naked with clothes on the bed. He is passing back and forth when arms and lips and breasts begin appearing from the floor, hands grabbing at his ankles. He collapses onto the floor and begins humping, grunting as he becomes the floor, the hiss of a bathroom shower in the background.
--ee what I mean? All I'm saying is that I love you. I love you so much. I just love others too.
She sniffs; the air smells like flowers.
--I understand.
--You do? he smiles with a twitching mouth.
--Yeah. I do. It's fine. I get it.
--Great! This is great! He takes a step towards her, reaching his arms out. She steps back, tripping over herself but catching the little brown chair; she walks around the table and says, moving down the hallway behind him, grabbing her coat:
--I'm going for a walk.
The door opens, and she leaves. Slam. He stays still, one foot in front of the other. The universe ends and begins again a thousand times over. A quick look at the table. He rips a banana away from its family and peels it bottoms up. Sighing, he walks to the trash can, now overflowing with waste, throws the banana on the top; goes into the bedroom.
The banana shifts its position. The tip black, deformed and bruised. Her footsteps echo outside and it begins to rain.


message 7: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments Eh, I may try to do this.


message 8: by Autumn (new)

Autumn (flwurautumn) | 4987 comments Lav [lately I've been feeling] wrote: "The prompt this week is:

mushy banana "


THESE ARE ALWAYS IN MY BACKPACK OH MY GOSH THIS IS LIKE THE TITLE OF MY LIFE STORY.


Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
THEN GET TO WRITING ABOUT IT.

Oh my word. Don't even get me started on bananas in backpack. *high fives* Telepathy!


message 10: by Autumn (new)

Autumn (flwurautumn) | 4987 comments ONLY COOL PEOPLE GIVE HOMES TO ROTTING BANANAS IN THEIR BACKPACKS.


Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
EXACTLY!


message 12: by Autumn (new)

Autumn (flwurautumn) | 4987 comments TRUFAX.


message 13: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments I don't carry around bananas. ;_;


Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
AWESOME.


message 15: by Autumn (new)

Autumn (flwurautumn) | 4987 comments Or just edit for fun. BECAUSE EDITING IS SO FUN.

Apparently Autumn feel cynical today :3


message 16: by Elliott Alicia (last edited Mar 05, 2012 08:52PM) (new)

Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
Holden wrote: "WAITAMINUTE does spelling and grammar and stuff count? Because then I most definitely need to edit."

Of course it counts. Especially on your story, you critiquing Nazi. :D


message 17: by Susan (new)

Susan (susanmae) | 2 comments What fruit would you be?
By. Susanmae
People ask me what fruit I would want to be, and the answer is obvious to me; I would be a mushy banana. You know, the kind of person looks soft and fun, but once you are acquainted with her for a little while, and get to know her, you soon forget about her. When you find her again, or remember her, she’s not what you remember her as.
My driver’s license says that I’m a female with blonde hair and blue eyes. My learner’s permit picture made me look like a serial murder, so ever since my picture has been perfected. I used to have freckles, but they have faded to be replaced by acne. Everyone; my teachers, my parents, even my grandparents used to say how cute I was and how when I grew up I was gonna be a beautiful girl. I wonder when I’m going to grow up.
The idea of the mushy banana came when I turned 16, and my best friend in the whole wide world (BFWWW) went through some problems and went into cardiac arrest. Later, I was over at her house, and though she was welcoming and other things, it had been at least a year since I had seen her, so it was odd and awkward, like the banana comparison.
Then one day changed my mind about my idea, that I was a mushy banana. I was 17, nearing my 18th birthday, and my friend Chelsea and I were accustom to eating next to the popular table, but close to the trash cans. Chelsea was a vegan, so she was obsessed with fruit. Her mom always packed her lunch because she was afraid her daughter wouldn’t get enough nutrients. That day, a day in March, right when it was starting to warm up, we took our seats next to the trashcans. Sooner or later our guy friends; Danny and Charlie, would join us, but right now we were going to talk girl talk without the guys. Previous experiences had reminded us that girl talk was for girls only.
We were asking each other classic questions on if we could be then what kind would we be. I asked miss red-head if she was a stuffed animal, what kind she would be.
“Well, I think I would be a big old teddy bear, because they’re soft and loveable.” She opened her lunch box and started pulling out different fruits, thinking all the while. “Ok, if you were a piece of fruit, what kind would you be?”
It was an innocent question, but it reminded me of my answer. She pulled out the last thing in her lunch box; a banana, and not a very healthy looking one either. The minute it touched the table it fell to pieces, smearing rotten all over the table. “Ew!” She leapt away so fast that if you had blinked you’d have missed it. “I’ll be right beck, I need to get napkins.” Chelsea swept away, leaving me to stew over my answer.
When she came back, she was smiling. “Okay, so what’s your answer?” She looked truly curious as she sopped up the gross mess. I explained my idea of the mushy banana, and she shook her head sadly. “No, no, no. Honey, there is no way you’re a mushy banana!” Why? Popped out of my mouth before I had put any thought to it.
“Well that’s easy; because I’ve never seen you fall apart.” That day, Chelsea taught me a lesson she probably doesn’t even know she taught me. She taught me about self-worth, something I hadn’t been using for a long, long time.


message 18: by Lucie (new)

Lucie (lucielu) | 71 comments Okay, so here's my depressing poem:

"A sign
Of dreams lost
Of dreams squashed
Like a mushy banana

A token
Of souls turned black
Like a mushy banana

No one will ever eat
A mushy banana

A mushy banana."

I feel a little stupid next to everybody's long, beautiful stories.... but i like poetry. :D


message 19: by Kriss (last edited Mar 06, 2012 05:52PM) (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
Wrote one that kind of sucks. I don't know what happened. I started to write. And it exploded. Yay for random shiz:


What are you looking for? The voice was disembodied, something floating half in his head, something that did not belong quite to himself. An abstract thought, gone before he could fully grasp its meaning. The answer came, equally disembodied, equally strange, an alien voice speaking in a foreign mind. God. I’m looking for God.

The day was a bad one. It was the sort of day that starts bad and progresses to worse, quite steadily, actually. It was the sort of day that is colored with gray, where everyone’s face bleeds into the next, colorless people walking on the streets with dead eyes. He was only contributing to the mass, of course, and he realized this with a wry quirk to the edge of his lip. He hated people like this; he hated himself like this. When he moved like a machine, with a definite lack of swagger, of emotion. Faces, face, faces. Gray, gray, gray. Cities were full of people without faces.

God, I’m looking for God. Have you seen him lately? The thought had become hysterical; a strange voice that was his and wasn’t his, bubbling up strangely in his head. But it was almost comforting. He was doing something he didn’t want to do. Dammit, I’m going crazy. Gotta stop this shit. Not like that would do anything about it. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that this voice wasn’t going to leave anytime soon. He was filled with the irrational urge to run or shout, to make himself distinguished from the people who walked beside him on the sidewalk. Where are you going? Don’t you see, we all have somewhere we’re going. I’ll trade you. I’ll trade you. I want your life. Your life.

No one heard him, of course—probably because he said nothing aloud. He was hysterical to be heard—he wanted to get their attention as he jostled alongside countless people, but he could not. He choked on his own voice. God, where are you? Tell me to go somewhere else. Tell me I can’t go where I’m going. Please. Please. Why am I doing this? It was a one-way street.


The apartment seemed empty, at first. It was that same deadbeat scene. Gray, fading into gray—there were no fake lights, shedding their dull, washed-out yellow onto the appliances of the kitchen. There was nothing to make the shadows on the floor recede. Everything seemed immaculate, polished and scrubbed clean. He looked, but saw nothing on the walls to give the hallways personality. His steps echoed on the wood floor—click, click, click, eerie in the silence. It was a lonely silence, the sort of silence that was left after noise, a silence that pressed down on him and said, break me, please, break me!

Once, people had lived here. There had been paintings on the walls, there had been things scattered on the floor. It had smelled like coffee instead of bleach. There was enough light straining in through the windows to see by. He paused, for a second, in the kitchen—his eyes were on the living room, of course. He saw the silhouette of a woman in the chair. Simply the soft curve of her shoulder, sloping upwards to the arc of her delicate neck—her pale blonde hair, outlined in the sad light that strained in through the grimy windows of apartment, which she was facing.

“I knew you would come.” That was it. That was all she said. “Nicolai.”

He fingered the key in his hand, which he had used to get into the apartment. His apartment. Their apartment. It was lonely, here, he thought. He could remember when his clothes had been discarded so recklessly on the floor, when there were dishes in the sink, when there were pictures on the walls. He closed his eyes. A girl, a girl with his eyes, running, clutching at him, thin fingers, thin, beautiful fingers, hair like silk, blonde hair like silk, sketches, sketches of flowers in crayon, of houses, of birds, of mommy and daddy.

“It’s been a while,” Nicolai whispered. “You never call anymore.”

“I called today.”

“Yes, you called today.” But I don’t think there’s anything good out of it.

He closed his eyes again, stepping closer. He put his hand on the back of her chair. She did not stir. And he remembered. Where are we going? To the hospital. Why? Because that’s where we have to go. I don’t want to go there. No one wants to go there. Then why are you taking me? Because you’re sick, Matilda. You’re very, very sick, and mommy and daddy can’t make it better.

There were no pictures on the wall. There was nothing. It was now that Nicolai glanced at his former wife, staring down at her face, a face as gray as all the others, a faceless face, a face he could forget. A note trembling in one hand, and the revolver in the other. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I loved you. Don't think I ever didn't love you.” Her voice broke, quite suddenly, and before he could do anything about it she had raised that hand, that trembling, familiar hand, and the gun was pressed to her head.

Bang.


He stepped into the kitchen again, and realized he’d been wrong about its cleanliness. There was a bowl on the counter, and a banana peel beside it. Mattie, Mattie-Moo, what’s your favorite? Bananas! I love Bananas! ‘Specially with chocolate. Mushy bananas and chocolate. The banana, mashed into the bowl so that someone who was sick, so sick they could hardly chew, would be able to eat it easily. When he thought of Matilda, he thought of bananas and pictures and chocolate, of a life that had been too short. His breath caught in his throat. Tears were suddenly forming at his eyes. Nicolai retraced his steps, shaking, shaking. He picked up her note, Lotte’s note, the note she had held between pale fingers, fingers that had fluttered like poisoned birds. Fingers that were no so, so still. Still forever.

She used to be an artist. She used to be a messy, living artist, with hands that could do anything.

He held the note in his hands, which were trembling. He was thinking about her hands. Her beautiful hands; and they made him sad. The note, written by her hand, said only four words.

There are two bullets.

He grabbed the gun with sudden desperation, dread swelling inside of him, hysteria bubbling up with it. Take me away from here. Take me away from this. He raised the revolver to his head, and glanced out the windows. Whitewashed walls, a city that was invulnerable to pain, that continued to trudge along at a mechanical pace. He was looking at this city, full of soulless people, people who knew nothing of pain, people who would continue to live and live and live, and then one day, quite suddenly, die.

Bang.

What are you looking for? What are you looking for? God! I’m looking for God! People killed him. You killed him. Machines killed him. Science killed him. Why are you looking for God, when you don’t have any faith in anything anymore? Because I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m angry at God.

What are you looking for? What are you looking for? God, are you looking for God? There isn’t any room in your heart for God. For anything.


Two people, at different kinds of brokenness, bleeding, coloring the gray of the apartment one last time.

Mattie-Moo, where are you?

I'm here. I'm here. Look, daddy, come find me. You can find me. I'm hiding.


I'll trade you. Your life.


message 20: by Dima (new)

Dima (mewue) | 1 comments Does this have to be a short story or can it be a Poem?


message 21: by Autumn (new)

Autumn (flwurautumn) | 4987 comments I'm thinking it has to be a short story because there is a separate poem contest.


message 22: by Susan (new)

Susan (susanmae) | 2 comments Was mine ok?


message 23: by James (last edited Mar 06, 2012 07:41PM) (new)

James Waldeck (j2waldeck) Okay peeps, I just wrote this in one sitting on my PC while chatting with ppl lol So if it's terrible u now know why lol(p.s. it doenst want to let me indent for some reason sorry ppl :( )


"This place always gave me the creeps when I was young kid. I nightmares about this stinking graveyard, but now I am being hunted down like a rogue tiger and this “stinking graveyard” has become my refuge.

I see them coming for me now, getting out of their stereotypical black sedans, pulling oversized hand cannons out from their jackets. There are four of those muscle headed gorillas, humph, they should have brought more if they ever wanted to take me down.

They must think that going in a straight line across the width of the graveyard is a good tactic, since when did mercs become so simpleminded anyways? Doesn’t matter really, does it? They don’t see me at all in this darkness as I move from tombstone to tombstone, probably the only darkness in this whole crime infested city.

There, the thug on the far left he is going to be my first target. If I survive this we’ll see where it goes from there. I get comfortable behind a tall tombstone and wait for him to come to where I am. It seemed like ages, I don’t know how long it actually was before his head came into view. I use my full weight, all 215 pounds, and grab his head and slam it as quick as I can into the tombstone, it takes a few hits, before he is unconscious…or dead I don’t. I grab his pistol, and run knowing they are behind me.

Bullets hit on my left and right, slamming into the granite and marble tombstones, sending dust, and small pieces of rubble in all directions, my guardian angel miraculously guiding all bullets away from my body until I found cover behind an extra wide tombstone. It gave enough time to duck behind it, turn and fire a round right into the center mass of one of the nameless thugs dropping him into the darkness.

As the other two frantically dive for cover, I turn and run towards the entrance. I see the car and run towards it, my angel must be gifting me because those fools forgot to take their keys with them, but I didn’t have time to even open the door before a bullet flew by my face close enough to feel the heat from the bullet. I fired blindly and heard a satisfying grunt, meaning that I had hit the third thug, there was only one left now, and I wasn’t about to die in this place.

I was going on the offensive now, I turned and rushed back into the entrance by the brick wall, ready kill anything that moved in my path, but I met him head on both of us landing on the ground sending our weapons into the dark. This was now a true battle, between two warriors, fighting for their lives.

We fought dirty, as anybody not want to die does, it went back forth for minutes until I won against this blonde muscle head thug. I should have killed him but I found myself unable to commit this act against him. So I left him there unconscious, bloody, and bruised.

I got in the car ready to pull out and away from this terrible place, so I could finish this business with the man who hired them to stop my investigation, but something happened then,suddenly the glass shattered everywhere in a loud crash and an iron grip clasped onto my throat even as the glass shards were still flying through the air, I punched the car into gear tThe first gear I could find and shoved my foot onto the gas. It was a pretty stupid move in an automatic because I had no idea which direction I was going to go. I went forward. The man still clinging onto me was slammed hard into the brick wall, releasing me from his grasp.

I crashed through a tombstone causing airbags to go off all around me, stunned I looked around and see the large man, getting up like some sort of zombie. I put it into reverse and slam the car into him knocking him to the ground, and then I felt the bump as I pass over his body. I breathe a sigh of relief, and get out of the car, and see that man’s head squashed like a mushy banana…it was revolting, but at the same time, I knew I was safe…for now"


message 24: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments Hey, Emily's entering!

The first time I met you was when you were rushing through the hallway, papers flying everywhere from your arms. You had a worried expression on your face, making me assume you were late for something. As you ran past me, we snagged ankles and you went flying while I merely tripped.

After I stumbled, I looked back at you to see you had cut your lip with your teeth, blood dribbling from your lower lip. I gasped and rushed over to help you up, picking up your papers and giving them to you while saying apology after apology.

And what did you do?

Smiling you said, “It’s my fault. Don’t worry.” Then you took all your papers in your arms, wiped your lip with your wrist although it was still bleeding, and stood up. Nodding to me, you left.


The next time I saw you, you were walking again through the hallways pulling out random stuff from a backpack, muttering incoherent worries to yourself. “Something wrong?” I asked you.

You glanced over at me, gave me a small smile, and said, “Oh, it’s you again. No, nothing’s wrong. Just trying to make sure I have everything.” Grin growing wider, you headed forward and dropped the bag you were holding. Miscellaneous items fell from your bag, ranging from nickels to stamps to old sticks from eaten suckers.

“I’m so clumsy,” you laughed, and before I could bend down to help, you scooped everything back into your bag, saluted me, and left.

There was a
squish as you hurried away, but you didn’t look back. I looked down at my feet and saw a black mushy banana.

Grinning to myself, I wondered about you.

Little did I know that mushy banana was a symbol of us.


That was terribly cheesy. XP


message 25: by Christine (new)

Christine (christinenc22) | 23 comments When does the contest end?


message 26: by Kate (new)

Kate (magicalawesomeness) | 9 comments I just made up this one on the spot. Forgive me if I make an error in my work.

"I will never eat that mushy banana.
"It has been sitting on my counter for a week and has only been getting more brown and shriveled up. You can start to see the beginning of mold creeping up the side of the banana. I don't even want to look at it, let alone take the time to throw it in the garbage. For that, you either need a hazmat suit or some really, really long tongs.
"My parents had tried to get me to eat the banana, but I simply refused. I will not eat that banana. I won't eat much of anything, in fact. Why do my parents practically shove food down my throat when they can see that I'm fat? 'You need to eat,' they say. Not eating is better than the pain I'm going through at school.
"Life right now for me is just like that mushy banana. Disgusting, moldy, and just plain rotten. If I could make it better, I would do it in less than a jiffy. More like 1/2 a jiffy.
"So meanwhile, no one in my family is touching that banana. Not me, not my parents, not even my older brother (and he touches moldy stuff every day; you should see his room). Well, why would we touch that banana other than to throw it in the garbage? A dare, maybe? I don't even know. But there's practically nothing to do with that banana. Or so I thought.
"One day, my grandmother came over. She's 74, by the way, and has the oddest way of doing things. She puts on so much perfume that you have to put a clothespin on your nose every time she comes over.
"'Grandma!' I cried, running over to hug her. She beamed at me. 'Where's my little girl? She couldn't be this tall, thin thing?'
"'Aw, Grandma,' I said. 'Don't put it like that.' "'Why, you're just being modest, aren't you? That's my granddaughter!' The scent of her perfume was killing me, but I tried to ignore it.
"Grandma spent the afternoon with us. We played checkers, walked in the park, and talked while I sat in the big, comfy armchair in our living room. Then Grandma stood up, stretched, and headed towards the kitchen. I looked at my parents, whispering, 'Shouldn't you go after her?' They shook their heads. "The kitchen was warm, with a mixture of smells, including Mom's homemade waffles, grapefruit salad (a delicacy in my house), and banana. Lots of banana. "Grandma looked up at me, smiled, and said, 'Why, I was just wondering about you, honey. Where's the blender in this crazy kitchen?' I pulled it out from the cabinet. 'What are we making, Grandma?'
"Grandma smiled mischievously at me. 'Banana smoothie.'
"Grandma and I got out all the ingredients we would need - strawberries, bananas, ice, apple juice, and sugar. I was pulling out the bag of Splenda when my grandma said, 'No, honey, use the real stuff.' Didn't she know that this stuff would get me fat?
"'You work the blender, hon,' Grandma told me after everything had been chopped up and put in the blender. 'I'm not good with new-fangled stuff like that.'
"I was told to pulse the blender for twenty seconds, to which I obliged, pulsing while Grandma counted the seconds. '6...7...8...' Meanwhile, I wondered, 'Is Grandma going to feed this stuff to me?' "'11...12...13...' "'Should I drink this?' "'15...16...17...' "'I don't want to get fat, but I don't want to refuse, either.'
"18...19...'
"'Fine, I'll do it.'
"'20! Stop, dear!' I stopped pulsing. Grandma pulled the pitcher of liquid off the base and poured some of the smoothie into two identical cups. 'Cheers!' Grandma cried out as we clinked glasses.
"I did the only thing I could do.
"I drank the smoothie.
"Oh, man, the hallelujah chorus was booming in my head. I could feel the color return to my cheeks as I drank up. I felt so...alive. So good.
"I knew right then that even though I might make myself fat, that it was the right choice."


message 27: by Elliott Alicia (last edited Mar 09, 2012 09:37PM) (new)

Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
SHOOT. I need to judge this. Guess I won't be going to bed anytime soon. *goes to read all the entries* Remind me why I advertised this like a maniac, again?


Elliott Alicia  | 22636 comments Mod
I loved reading everybody's stories! It's so interesting to see all the different ways the prompt inspired everyone and how it resulted in so many unique, fantastic stories. Having so many fantastic writers in this group makes it almost impossible to judge.

The winner of this week's story contest is: Holden


message 29: by James (new)

James Waldeck (j2waldeck) Called it! lol Even though I had too pull for mine to win, it was my vote even still, conrgats Holden!


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