Directed Writing Workshop One - Submissions

[Starfisher]

As per this proposal...

Direct Writing Workshop One

Format:

I will give you a sentence or a topic. You will write it down using your favored writing medium, and continue the story. No matter how blank your mind is, you must write something.

If you find that the original sentence doesn't fit the story you have written, excise it. The point of the topic is to be a spark - once your on fire you no longer need the spark!

Submit your entries to this thread. June 8th is the deadline. ONLY SUBMIT ENTRIES. There will be a criticism thread opened at 11:00pm (23:00) GMT for comments and criticism. Until then, gather your thoughts.

You have a week! Use it wisely. Write something down, walk away for a day, and then come back to it. Remember, the hardest part of writing isn't getting the first draft. It's every draft after that. It's honing your work into something worth reading. We're working on both with these workshops, so don't just write something and then fire it off. Put some time into it.

Current Enrollment
This is the list of everyone currently enrolled in the program:

• Starfisher
• Squid
• MetalDragoon
• Unk
• Rodimus
• Sanctimonious
• Lestaki
• Fiirks
• blu
• LoCo
• Caesar
• Jal
• Numenor
• Ion
• Bentus
• Beelzebuddy
• Kaito
• Sword_Monkey

Losers who submitted nothing!:
Here's the people that said they would write something but never did:

• Squid -- Injured
• Sanctimonious
• Fiirks
• blu
• Caesar
• Numenor
• Ion
• Bentus -- Real life

To get your name off the list of shame, write something!

Without further ado...
This week's topic:

Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer.




Go!

[LoCo]

Ok, I'll open the flood gates. I'm fairly sure that after I post this, everyone else will be pushing to get theirs in. A few will wait till the last day so theirs will be the last one on, and hopefully the one talked about most.

The First line gave me a little trouble as it was in first person, which I'm not very good at. I was tempted to change it, but I figured I might as well keep it like that and practice my first person. I also decided to go short for the first workshop, kind of ease myself into it.

PS: Fisher, I believe it's "once you're on fire ...

-------------------------------------------------------
Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer. Not now, I just wanted sleep. I couldn't even lift my legs off the bed. Every part of me that could at one point have moved, couldn't. The only reason my eyes were still open was that I couldn't summon the energy to close them.

The knocks came again, this time faster, louder. It occurred to me that I could only hear it because my ears didn't need to move to work. A muffled voice called out and the knocking continued. I didn't catch what was said, but I knew they had come to take me out again. When they come in, they will be upset. After all, I did volunteer for this, I knew what it would be like.

The knocks stopped and an angry voice called out loud enough for me to catch a few words.

“-ady preded! How det up nd det ready!”

It took them another ten minutes to actually force the door again and come in. They knew what to expect, and I think I actually saw pity in the old man's eyes when he stood aside for the medics. Still, they stuffed me full of needles, flushing my blood, replacing it with Jerminite. I left like a slug having salt sprinkled on it. Only the salt was in my veins, and it wasn't as much a sprinkle as it was a whole salt warehouse.

Lacking even the strength to twitch in pain, I lay there staring at the bottom of the bunk above me. Slowly the scratchy burning feeling faded to a dull itch as the pain meds kicked in. I could feel my strength returning to me. It didn't make me feel any better, just a different kind of worse. First my head, then my chest, arms and legs. I could feel them all, like a large sheet of glass wrapped inside a thousand heavy blankets. They felt brittle.

They would move me soon, to the suit.

It wasn't like this most days. I could normally make it to the suit on my own, it was only across the hallway. But after the last month, well, they were just about to scrap the whole project when I finally got back. I'd been missing seven days they told me. Seven whole days, eleven hours, forty-five minutes, six seconds. I only remembered three hours after they lost me, and I wish I didn't even remember that.

Two days later they let me go back to my room. Megan wasn't there, she was doing ballistic training with her new suit, she'll be back later today. It's too bad, we haven't been able to talk in a while, and I was kind of looking forward to it.

Not wanting me to do anything until I had the suit on, they shifted me to another bed and wheeled me the few meters across the hallway and into the dressing room. Not the best dressing room this side of the American Crater, it only had one thing to wear, and that was put on with heat, clamps and a whole lot of electricity. Kinda made me think of a curling iron the first time I heard about it, I guess that's why it's called the dressing room. You go there to put on your suit. No real curling irons though.

The walls had just been scrubbed, and I suppose the lights had been changed. It was a lot brighter than the last time I was here. I started laughing, with my energy slowly building up after they flushed my blood, I could actually laugh. They thought I was laughing at a secret personal joke, they were wrong. I was going crazy, I knew it and knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. So I joined it and laughed louder, almost choking I laughed so hard.

Suddenly I stopped. There was silence in the room, I was sealed inside my suit when the thought hit me, stopping my laughter faster than the world ended. I wasn't going crazy, I remembered this room.

Seven fucking days! Eleven hours, forty-five minutes and six seconds. The transition from body control to suit control normally takes a few minutes. Not then.

The walls needed to be scrubbed again.

--------------------------------------------------------

Next.

[Lestaki]

Okay, I'll bite and fulfil LoCo's prophecy. I should really redraft more, but I suck at it. I just find myself staring at it... ahem. Never mind. Like LoCo, I have a certain phobia about the first person, and like him also, I thought this is the chance for me to learn, isn't it? I also took the chance to try and do all the emotional stuff I suck royally at... and without further ado:
***

My Story

Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer. Not right now. Not him. I buried my head in my hands and ignored them.

Three knocks again. Always three, perfectly spaced and timed. He was very mathematical about that kind of thing, though he didn’t know it. “Zizzia, I know you’re in there.”

“Go away!” Even then, I kicked myself. Smooth, Zizzia. Cliché and petulant. As I’d expected, he opened the door anyway. I folded my arms over my head and stared angrily at the wall; I didn’t even want to look at him. “What do you want?”

He had no immediate answer to that, which was suprising. Instead he did what he always did; looked around the room, took everything in, filed it and stored it for future reference. “You’ve really trashed this place,” he said quietly. A simple statement. Not a judgement, not an accusation, just a statement. That was so infuriatingly him.

“Yes, I’ve really trashed the place,” I said ironically. “Brilliant observation. Remarkable. Now what the hell do you want?”

A moment as he struggled for a smart answer. Typical of both of us. “For I start, I’d like you to look at me. If you’re trying to be strong and independent, it’s a lot more convincing if you aren’t talking to the wall.”

“Why should I?” God, I sound like a two-year old sometimes.

He squatted on the floor. “Well, I can’t make you,” he said more quietly

“Fine, I’ll look at you.” It was more of a concession than it sounded. I didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that my face was ravaged. Talking to a wall is better for standing on your dignity than showing that… and I spend my life on my dignity. But I turned over and glared at him as best I could. Those eyes. You don’t forget them. One red, one green, intelligent, lazily intense, amusedly serious, idly driven, staring at me, transfixing… then he looked away. Not something I expected. But I was me, and I pressed the advantage. “So, for the last time, why are you really here? Can you give me an honest answer for once in your miserable life?” I managed to put some anger into my voice, but it felt forced, as if I was reading from a script. Even my wanton fury had burned itself out.

“I can’t,” Adam said. “Because I don’t know why I’m here.”
“Always a smart answer, of one kind or another,” I said out loud.
“You berate me for lying,” he said irritably, “then for telling the truth. Which do you want? What do you want?”

Something. Anything. Nothing that could be articulated, except a sense that there had to be more than this. Had to be more than two arrogant fools playing word games. I wanted that so badly I didn’t even notice it; it was a part of me. “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. He laughed.

It was a little funny. “You don’t know either,” I said defensively.
He put his back to the bed and looked away. “I know,” he said. “That’s the only thing we know, between us. The only thing we know is that we don’t know anything. That’s priceless, isn’t it?”

“It’s annoying,” I said petulantly. But an unspoken moment had passed, in some way. “You’re hopeless. I’m hopeless.”
“We’re both hopeless,” Adam agreed amicably.
“You make it sound like it’s a good thing,” I said, infuriated.
“I don’t think either of us know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“There’s no talking to you some times,” I complained. “You’ll just make a riddle out of everything.”
“I’m not the one who took to her room with a rapier,” he said reasonably. “There’s no talking to you sometimes, either. We’re both hopeless, remember?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He laughed.

“Okay, now you’re just trying to be annoying.”
He cocked his head and looked at me. “Am I any good at it?”
“You are the most annoying person in the history of all creation and a thousand worlds,” I said. “Does that give you a nice warm glow inside?”
“Possibly,” Adam said. “You make that really easy, though.”
“No, don’t try and spread the credit,” I said. “You’re a master.” I was being lead by him and I knew it, but it was just the way things worked.
“I try,” he said modestly. “But at the end of the day…”
“Don’t say it.”
“We’re both hopeless.”
I took a very deep breath. “We’re both hopeless. Right. Fine. Good. Are we done yet?”
“It was your realisation,” he pointed out. “But alright.”

“You know,” I said eventually, looking at the ceiling. “I used to think that to be a mentor or whatever meant you had to be really helpful and serious. You’ve always preferred just to mess with my mind and show off your powers.”
“That’s what you’ll do in your time,” Adam said simply. “Shall I tell you about my time with Seth? He was a little older than me and knew a little more about his powers and this world, and mostly he just used that to lead me a dance. I was young and reckless and ardently wanted him to approve of me. All he ever did, like I said, was lead me a dance… but it was in the right direction, even though he didn’t know it himself. That’s me and you, too. We’re just making it up as we go, but we’re meant to do that.”
“Just because you think you can rationalise it doesn’t justify you doing it,” I said. “Nor does rationalising your emotions mean you don’t feel them.”
“Naturally,” he said. “Sometimes you just have to trust your emotions, and yourself. Right now, I’m messing with you, yes. But in that respect I’m just trusting my instincts, and for some reason it’s worked. We’re talking in a vaguely rational manner.”
I groaned. “That’s not trusting your instincts. That’s overanalysing so much you don’t even notice you’re doing it.”
“If you don’t notice you’re doing it,” Adam argued “then it’s instinct.”
“Now you’re just analysing another level… why are we even having this conversation? What does it have to do with anything?”
“I think we were arguing over whether we don’t think and do stupid things or think and then do stupid things anyway,” Adam said. “It doesn’t make much difference.”

Silence again. Adam is good at silence, and I’m not. “So, you planning on sitting there forever?” I asked eventually.
“You planning on lying on your bed forever?” he asked amiably.
“Not much else to do, right now,” I said.
“Well, that goes for me,” Adam said. “I’m surprised, though.”
More leading. I was too tired to fight it. “How so?” I asked warily.
“Oh, nothing in particular,” Adam said innocently. “You’ve always been pretty good at entertaining yourself. Oh, you call it improving yourself…” He glanced at my rapier, which I’d driven a foot into the wall at the end of my tantrum. “I’m not always sure I want you to improve, though. You’re too good as it is.”
“There’s a limit to what you can do alone,” I said slowly.
He cocked his head and looked at me again. “Is that a request?”
“Is that an offer?”
“Perhaps,” he said slyly, standing. He pulled my blade free and offered it to me, hilt first.

I’m not sure whether it was choice or mere instinct that made my fingers close round it. Then again, we’d just argued to the death and concluded that it made no difference. I stood and followed him out the door.

[MetalDragoon83]

Here is my inferior peice of writing. :dmille:

**********************

Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer.

Not out of fear, but because of training it told me to position my men around the door for maximum firepower on who ever, or whatever came through that door. Also almost four days of avoiding rebel patrols and hiding did not help. The next ten seconds slowed down to a crawl, seeming more like ten hours. My four troopers and I gripped our E-11 Blaster rifles tightly.

“You got mud on your armor.” Said a tired but gruff voice.
I let out a smile, “Its called camouflage.”

With that being said the door opened and we walked out to greet our saviors. There were two storm troopers and one scout trooper at the door and I couldn’t be happier. While our armor was more memory than protection these troopers looked like theirs just came off the assembly line.

I stood up and nodded at the captain, “Sergeant Owens sir, of the 83rd Mobile Assault.”
“The 83rd?” almost like he didn’t believe me.
“Yes, sir. Is the rest of the regiment at the fall back point?” I asked expecting good news.
“Sergeant, the 83rd were wiped out two days ago. You are all that’s left.” He said it with a heavy voice patting my shoulder.

I couldn’t believe it, Wiped out? I wanted to ask how and where, but there was no time for conversation as one of the new troopers took a couple of blasts to the back.

“Damn it!” the captain said as he took cover. My troopers where holding their fire waiting for a target. The captain poked his head up to take a look, as did I. Another blaster shot rang out this time hitting one of my troopers in the head killing him. We both flopped down as I told the troopers to keep their heads down.

“Third floor in the building at the intersection on the left.” The captain looked over and nodded to his scout trooper who had a sniper rifle. He bolted down the hall keeping low so not to be spotted.

“In position,” reported the scout. “He’s keeping his head down, I need bait.”

Without missing a beat I jumped over the wall and sprinted to the next embankment, no more of my troopers were going to die today. As I ran I zigged-zagged to screw up his shots, which worked because not seven centimeters from my helmet I saw a laser bolt. I only hoped that that scout was a good shot.

Apparently he was cause all I heard was, “Clear up.” And no more hostile fire was coming my way. As I stood up I saw the rest of the troopers walk out cautiously checking the rest of the block for more rebels.

“I am so demoting you when we get back Sergeant,” though trying to be stern I could almost see the smile behind his helmet.

On the walk back all I could think about was what had happened over the last week, back to when the rebels first landed, and their relentless attacks and the battles in the city. It used to be a wonderful city, but now it was more of a wasteland. I used to be able to see myself raising a family here with that woman I met at the local café, Shasha.

Just out side of the command post I saw shuttles lifting troops off planet, What the hell is going on.

“Where are we going sir,” I had to ask after the price we just paid for this planet.
“We are going to end this war Sergeant,” The captain exclaimed perking up not only my ears but of my troopers as well.
The question had to asked, “Where?”
“A small moon around the planet Endor,”

As the shuttle lifted off with my men and I, I thought to what I would do after this final battle. I had some leave saved up and was planning on using it.

Just one more, I thought.

[Unk]

More kebabs!

Inspired by the way I felt this morning. No theft actually occurred in real life

*******

Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer. Perhaps when the room stopped spinning, but not before.

Light blazed in from the square window, light that on any other day would have been a pleasant awakening but today seared my hungover retinas like a nuclear detonation. The digital clock on my desk read 9:44 AM, a number way too small after the escapades of the night before.

More knocks came, and with them they brought remembrance. Shattered memories of loud music, flashing lights and alcohol. Judging by the smell of the room a kebab had been involved as well. No wonder I felt so bad.

Knocks again, and this time I managed a response, if you could call a grunt a response. It appeared to satisfy the caller as the knocking ceased. My mind, now free of distraction began to focus very intently upon the dryness of my throat.

Somehow I made it out of the bed and to my feet. Even more amazingly I made it to the bathroom. Opening the door I managed to take two staggering strides before I saw it. A malevolent orange shape squatting dead in the center of my bathroom floor like it owned the place. A traffic cone! Memory returned to me and with it higher thought processes. I remembered acquiring the cone, and dimly remembered shoving it into my bathroom. But if that was where I'd put the cone then where was the...

Three sharp angry knocks at the door of my flat again. I shuffled to the door and unceremoniously swung it open to reveal a very short, very angry blonde woman. My wonderful flatmate Sarah. She spoke.

"Well then. Is there a reason why there is a shopping trolley outside my room?"

[Sword_Monkey]

Here we go;

Spoiler

“Knock, knock.” A girl said no older than 18

“Who’s there?” A boy said around the same age.

“God.”

“God who?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh come on that’s rubbish!”

“But true, God, Who!? The whole idea sucks, it makes me angry, but I know it shouldn’t. It’s just a bad joke, and I feel my anger just affirms it, as if there were something to be angry about.” She said smiling as she walked with the boy through the streets of a city.

“You’re thinking too much, you always do, just ignore it, it’s not like it’s hard. They are just like sports fans, or chavs, or snobs, all obsessed over something. You have to let them be.” He replied nearly laughing, but the girl’s features hardened.

“Ignore them? For how long can we ignore them? You’d think thousands of years of absurd stories and no evidence, let alone truth would knock some sense into them. It’s a death of a thousand qualifications, every time we question they answer with another circumstantial, un-provable, lame-ass answer. Their time is over, but they hang on like leeches, they were wrong, they just can’t accept it.”

“But you could never prove that.”

“I don’t have to, all I have to do is make a difference, get rid of them, you can judge me afterwards.”

“Ooh get you, little miss revolutionary.”

“It has to start some time.”

“It has to start somewhere, what better time than now, what better place than here” He said mockingly in an American accent, to mimic the Rage lyrics. “You’re such a Renegade of Funk ma’ dear”

“You can shut the #### up Charlie; you have no clue whatsoever, the world could be so much better without all this…this, ####.”

“Furry muff”

“What did you say?”

“’Fair enough’, jeez lighten up Sera, it’s a nice day, the sun is shining all that stuff.” Charlie said, bored of the conversation.

Sera gave a little laugh, the reality of being a teenager kicking back in, so she hit Charlie lightly. They walked on in silence both smiling, looking around at the shops; maybe they would see someone they knew. But then fate twisted cruelly and a Gideon jumped them with preaching’s of faith and pamphlets of zeal.

“Hello sir, madam, I was wondering if I could have just a small amount of your time, to tell you about the Lord?” He said, a clean shaven man, not too smart, but certainly formal.

“Erm, okay, yes go on, tell us, justify yourself.” Sera said, her smile now a smirk.

“Oh disbelievers are we? Well I myself was once a disbeliever, I did drugs, I drank, I was a mess I found faith and salvation in Go-“

“And look where you are now, well done.” Sera said sarcastically, time to take control “Sir, why exactly do you believe in God, what proof do you have?”

“Don’t be so foolish, you are all so ignorant, I am sorry to insult you, but proof is an easy way, God challenges us with faith, we must believe utterly in him, we need no affirmation of his glory, our lives are enough proof.”

“Faith, hmm, good answer. But how did god save you?”

“Err, I saved my self through my conversion, my belief in God has made me better.”

“So you have affirmed him, thereby removing the object of your so called faith?” Sera said, Charlie just hung back and let her do her stuff. It was cruel, but hilarious.

“That’s where youa re wrong, yes my life has improved, but you would still not call that proof, and I do not use my life story as proof, merely evidence in ways of persuasion, don’t try to bend my words girl, you are condemning yourself.”

“No you are condemning your self, you believe in a god who neither exists nor is sane to believe in. You think he made time and space the entirety of existence, and yet nothing made him, for some reason he is male, for some reason, he, a perfect being, in all his wisdom and love, made an imperfect world, and punished us for his mistakes. Don’t try to lecture or preach to me, if your god truly exists he has already forsaken you, why think you can ever get back into his grace.”

“God is testing us, and to me this is just another test, or perhaps a temptation by the devil-“

“The devil, another flaw, why not give in to the devil, he isn’t going t punish you, you would simply be doing what he wants, he would reward you for turning from god, unless of course you think God made Satan tempt us, as another glorified test. Then God isn’t all loving. And if Satan can challenge God’s power then he is all-powerful. And if God couldn’t foresee such a thing then he isn’t all-knowing.” Sera said, she was really enjoying this.

“God moves in mysterious ways child”

“No Allah moves in mysterious ways, but they are really the same thing so I’ll forgive you on that one. And if that is really true, why does the bible attempt to lay down so many rules, and appraise ‘His’ power. You bend, break and make adjustments to every contradiction you holy scripture throws at you, we were supposedly made in God’s image imparted with some of his power, how come he is so different in his thinking?”

“You know I haven’t the answers child, if you think you are winning any arguments then think again there are plenty of people more cunning and smarter than you, and they could show you the truth.”

“Why should cunning matter, unless you were lying, and I find it odd how you put so much trust in something you yourself don’t know all the facts about, if you think you are doing God’s work when you claim not to understand ‘Him’ then why bother? You are fool like the rest of them” At this insult the man began to look enraged, Charlie was worried.

“Come on Sera lets go”, he said calmly, “This guy isn’t worth it, we’ve had our fun let him be”

“Sure, I just hope, for his sake, he starts to question his faith; he could do so much more.” She said as they moved off leaving a fuming but relieved preacher, thinking how he had deserved such a situation.

“Haha! That was great; I should do it more often, want to visit a church tomorrow?” Sera said, beaming, she was never like this, arguing so strongly made her so vibrant and full of energy.

“You know I think that’s a great idea. Should be fun, I don’t think I have a problem making a scene in a church, fee speech and all, I may even do a bit of the talking, hah!” Charlie replied, a strange buzz flowing through him, this could go somewhere.

“Good it’s settled then, imagine what they will think when we come ‘a’ knockin’ on their mighty doors!” Sera finished, she was already looking at the possibilities, a hobby it would be. Such a chance event could lead to such a fun pastime, we’re so sad, she thought.

[Rodimus]

Darn you Starfisher. I spent nearly a whole week writing a story about a blind man with a group of people talking about him within earshot. Then I noticed this thread, haha. Ok, stupid me.

Anyway, I thought I would try something Noir-ish

[Beelzebuddy]

Behold my waste of pixels, and despair!

Spoiler

kamehameha

"You hunger, but your food is poisoned."

The room was cramped, and stuffy. There were about a dozen people there besides the two of them, wedged into a room already full of odd foreign knick-knacks, the kind you see in those kung-fu movies. There was the smiling fat guy, the weird Russian doll thing, and a big drum that one of the instructors wouldn't beat. He had a mallet and everything but just stood beside it with his arms crossed, very deliberately not beating the drum.

"Is this it?" John whispered. "This is what you do on Saturdays?"
"Yes," Tiff replied, "it's meditation. Meditate."
"How?"
"Think about stuff. Or don't. That's the point. Now hush and pay attention, people can hear us."

People couldn't hear them. He could barely hear her. Tiff could outwhisper a mute ant. John patiently waited for fifteen minutes, which turned into five when he looked at the clock. Pay attention, right. He could do that.

He scanned the room again, and decided to pay attention to the sign above the little bald guy's head. It read "Transcendentalism Through Zen Meditation and Reading." Squinting, John could just make out the little hole-punched strips along the longer sides that revealed the age of its dot matrix origin. He really wished Tiff had let him wear his glasses, no matter what Master Yogi said about false focus.

"How long is this class?" he whispered again.
"Ninety minutes," Tiff whispered back.

It had only been twenty. This was going to take a while. John realized the little bald guy must be Master Yogi. He was sitting cross-legged in front of the class moaning, or singing, or something. It didn't sound like music or words, just a bunch of random syllables jammed together. He really did look like Gandhi, if Gandhi were hunchbacked and blurry.

"Hey, Tiff?"
"What?"
"That's Master Yogi, right?"
"Yeah."
"Why doesn't he stop for breath? It's weird."
"It's a Yoga thing. They don't have to breathe."
"You mean, ever?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Then why's he teach this stuff? Why not dive for pearls? Or make bets with drunk guys?"
"Just forget it. Close your eyes and relax, or something."

John tried it. Relax? How? Even if he had enough room to sit down his legs would already hurt from sitting cross-legged. It had to be at least ninety degrees. Deodorant apparently wasn't a fashion statement with the Zen Transcendentalism crowd. The only things he could hear was the continual moan-sing of Yogi and the rattling but ineffectual thunder of the air conditioner in the far corner window. Someone had tied little blue ribbons (long since faded to gray) to the AC's vents, like you alway used to see in commercials. The ribbons hung limply, seemingly resigned to their lot in life.

"Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer."

That was the third instructor. Probably Yogi's son, since he looked like blurry Gandhi without the hunch. Every so often he'd step over half the class to get to a small podium along one wall, read something cryptic, and step over them again going back. He got to sit in a chair, too. With cushions. Bastard.

"This can't be it. You said this was better than sitting around. This is sitting around. There was a game on."
"I don't care about your game!" Tiff hissed. "That's all you ever do, just loaf around and watch TV. We're doing something I enjoy, so shut up and enjoy it."
"Fine."

Tiff hadn't always been that way. Back before they'd moved in together she loved football. They used to go to games. Then some... woman gene flipped on. Now she was dragging him to all of this stupid stuff. Tiff'd read something in Cosmo or one of those other grocery store magazines and go on a tizzy about it for a few weeks before moving on. Why couldn't she fall in love with something they both liked? Like football.

He wished the guy'd beat the drum.

"You know, you still owe me for the scrapbooking thing last week."
"Oh, will you shut up about that?"
"I had to make pages for some kid's kindergarten graduation. I swear that old lady was just using us for free labor. And now you drag me here."
"You didn't have to come. I invited you, and you said yes."
"No, you nagged me into it, and promised to 'owe me.' I figure with the scrapbook thing you owe me enough for a pie."
"Fine. What kind?"
"Apple."
"You are late to a meeting, and you just missed the train."

Then again, this wasn't so bad.

[Kaito]

here is my piece of work.
this is one of my first stories to date, so don't be too hard
but i'd still like some constructive critism, of course.
please also note that english is not my native language.

that said, here it is:

***


Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer. What if it were them? What if they found me? That’d be the end, bye bye me. Again, 3 knocks. Each knock gave me a shiver on my back, as I tensed my shoulders. Now I was pretty sure that it was them. I stood up from my chair as silently as I could. Maybe I could reach the window before they slammed my door open. On my toes I walked through the room, which unfortunately was the one just in front of the apartment door. If they’d come in now, they’d see me for sure. My thoughts disappeared in an instant as I heard them ram the door. I ran as fast as I could towards the window, and leaped out. My feet hurt as I landed one story down on the ground. Thank god I wasn’t living in a roof apartment.
“He jumped down!” I heard a throaty male voice shout. I didn’t think. I just started running, as fast as my hurting feet allowed me. I needed to hide. Somewhere they wouldn’t find me. I was so stupid to think they wouldn’t find my apartment. They control everything. Why did I have to find out?

There is the shopping centre, they won’t be able to follow me through the masses. Little did I know that they had their security cameras already locked on me. I ran through the crowd, throwing some people to the ground. The people shouted after me, but I didn’t understand a word. Got to call Robert. He has to find out. He’ll know what do to. I turned into a shady alley and stopped running. Putting my hands in my pockets I didn’t find my cell. Shit, must be in my apartment. I need to find a phone box quickly.

Looking for my pursuers I didn’t find anything outstanding in the crowd, so I mixed myself into them. I still was out of breath, my back sweaty. I seemed lucky to find a telephone box already. I went towards it, picking some coins out of my pocket. Thank god I didn’t buy the snacks yesterday. My feet hurt like hell, but it didn’t bother me. I took the handset and pushed the coins in the slot. Every time the cracking sound of the machine registering the money I felt more relieved. My fingers typed the number almost automatically. The phone ringed. It seemed like it ringed for hours, but I wasn’t impatient.

“Hello, Robert Hudson private detective bureau, how may I help?”

“Thank god Robert you’re there! Listen to me, I’ve got no time, it’s urgent.”

“Okay, okay. What’s the matter, John?”

“You know, last night I cracked that network thing you told me about. You won’t believe how big it-“

“Gotcha”

A rough male voice said amused. My heart let one beat out as my body tensed up entirely. In the next moment I already felt a fabric pressed on my mouth. I wanted to move my body, but my arms just sank down, my hand dropped the earpiece. Then my vision went blank, I faint.

[Starfisher]

Seems if I come up with a topic I can barely write about it. I ended up stripping out half the crap and changing it to third person, and it still sucks. Oh well.
-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The sounds of fighting still rang and roared above, but Norvan wanted no part in it. His dungeon cell, once nothing more than a dank, fetid hole, had become a welcome eddy in the surge of the escape. Though the storm had passed him by, once the others had had overwhelmed the turnkey and the lone guard on duty, he could not shake a sullen fear of its return. Better safe in a cell than dying on the point of a spear.

A cough startled him. He scrambled to the bars of his cell and craned his neck to look for the source. He cleared his throat, listening for another sign of life. When none came, he whispered, “Who’s there?”

“Brent,” came the hoarse reply. “Who’re you?”

“Norvan,” Norvan said, pushing on the cell door. It was still locked. “What are you doing there?”

Another cough hacked out, like rocks grinding together. Norvan waited. He thought he could make out the sound of wheezing, but he wasn’t sure.

“I need some water, Norvan,” Brent said, voice grating. “Give me your water bucket.”

“I’m locked in, still,” Norvan replied. He hoped Brent wouldn’t care that he had sat out the escape.

A key skittered across the stones of the floor and stopped in front of his cell. Norvan considered it for a moment, and then snaked his arm through the bars and grasped it.

“Hurry,” Brent whispered. Norvan stuck the key in the lock, twisted, and the door swung open. He let go of the key as it did to keep his arm from being caught, crawled into the hallway, and stood with a grimace. He had been in his cell for far too long.

He turned down the hall and saw two huddled forms. One, clad in a torn uniform and leathers, was still, lying in a pool of red and lacking a head. The other twitched fitfully, and was clothed in the same rags as Norvan himself. But the man was too small to be Brent. Norvan snorted.

“Andir, you piece of shit, I ought to finish what they started,” he said, though his voice carried no hint of a threat. He expected lies from the turnkey.

“Please,” Andir whispered. “Water.”

Norvan looked closer at the man, and saw that he would not last long. A deep gash across his forehead and numerous cuts on his face all but obscured his features, and he had made no attempt to wipe the blood from his eyes. Andir coughed again, and a bloody froth sprayed from his lips. He curled up into a tighter ball and struggled for another breath.

“I will get you water,” Norvan said, still without malice. “Better than you did for us.”
He stumbled back to his cell, cursing his lack of strength, and snatched his water pail. It was mostly empty, but there were some brackish dregs remaining. Enough to water the turnkey in his last moments.

He walked back and set the pail near Andir’s head. The turnkey heard the clank and uncurled slowly, swinging his arms to find the bucket. He nearly knocked it over when he did, but it remained upright, and he pulled himself closer until he was cradling it. The effort left him rattling and choking, but he persisted. He raised the bucket to his lips and tilted it back, gulping greedily at the filthy water.

He coughed lightly, then harder, dropping the bucket and struggling for air between wracking barks. He slipped to the floor, hugging his chest and gurgling up blood, unable to draw breath through his burbling windpipe.

Norvan watched until it was over, and then retrieved his pail. It was covered in blood and spittle, and it had bent when the turnkey had rolled over it in his flailing. He shook his head.

“I guess you did right by me,” he said, nudging the corpse with his foot. “Sorry you had to end like this.”

He turned to go back to his cell, but there was a crash and shouting from the entrance to the dungeon. He froze in surprise. Three men in the uniform of the house guard rushed into the hall, and then skidded to a halt when they saw Norvan. They were covered in gore but uninjured, and their weapons dripped red. Norvan took a step back, but stopped when he felt his foot slip in the blood on the ground.

“Only one left,” grunted one.

“What have you got there,” said another, hefting a broadsword. “Killed the poor turnkey with a bucket, did you?”

Before Norvan could deny the charge, the last spoke up, saying, “At least the others fought and died like men.”

“I never escaped,” Norvan said, shuddering with a sudden rush of fear. “He wanted water is all.”

“Your hole?” asked the first, gesturing at Norvan’s cell. Norvan nodded, and the guard looked at the others.

“Why is the key in the lock, then?”

“He let me out so I could,” Norvan began, but the one with the sword cut him off.

“I don’t fucking care what you could,” he said, stepping forward. Norvan raised his hands to ward the man off but flesh and truth are frail defenses against steel and anger. The sword took him just below the sternum, and he tried to scream but the blade had taken his breath as well, and instead he was on the ground, coughing and choking while the guards laughed and walked away to gather the other bodies they had made.

[JAL-18]

Three knocks rapped out on the door, but I could not answer. My entire body, my life, my soul, was focused on those little red numerals. I was so terribly close, I could feel it. Energy rippled through me, I need to get out, get out! Time had slowed to a crawl, seconds ticked by and I aged years. I could not move, I was raptured by the display. Vaguely, I heard the door open. Voices, meaningless voices. Get on with it! I yelled inside my head, adrenaline pumping. A number changes. 4. So close, so close, I need to get out! By the gods, please, let me out of this hellhole! Impossibly, time slowed down the more. My concentration was absolute. No force on heaven or earth could have distracted me from this most important of moments. My heart's pumping in my ears, and my vision has narrowed down to just those three numbers.

Suddenly, a ringing begins.

2:15.

School's over. Summer has come.

--------------------------------------------

Eh, not my best, but damn, am I glad to have three months of rest.

[Starfisher]

Sorry to interrupt the submissions, but here is the criticism thread. I'll leave this thread open through tomorrow to catch any latecomers, then I'll build the wall of shame, lock this, and sticky the crit thread.

If you have questions, PM me - let's keep these threads clean and strictly in line with their intended purpose

[Sholto]

I know this is late, but I just saw the thread and bashed this out. It's a very rough draft.

My Angel Jean

Three knocks rap out on the door, but I cannot answer. She had said there would be seven knocks, not three.

Three is a trinity, and holy, but seven is even more holy still. The many-faced Beast of hell, who holds the great sinners in his three mouths, also cherishes the number three. Brutus, Judas and Cassius, eternally consumed, body and soul, by Lucifer Light-Bearer, the traitor-cannibal of the lightless pit. Three knocks will not make me answer.

The three knocks come again, but I close my eyes and they turn to birdsong and honey. I open my eyes and they have gone.

My phone rings. I let it ring seven times, then pick it up. I know who it is. "My angel."

"Ahh - good morning, Mister Devon. We're calling with important information about a forthcoming private equity opportunity. First of all, can I ask if you own your own home?"

It is her. I smile. “This home and everything in it belongs to God and all his heavenly angels,” I tell her.

She knows this already, of course, and laughs. “Well, Mister Devon. I’ll take that as a yes. You should know that Dundee Investment Services specialises in bringing unique market opportunities, well in advance of publication in the specialist press and websites, for risk-conscious people like you who want a positive return over a short period. And with Dee Eye Ess,” – that’s how she says it, although she sometimes calls it ‘Dis’ – “we can make sure it happens right away before this opportunity leaks into the specialist press and websites and your returns are severely restricted.”

“Thank you for calling me, Jean,” I say.

There is a pause on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry, sir?”

I am not insulted by this. The world is a large and confusing place, with many, many people who want to talk to me and tell me what to do, where to go, what to wear, what to eat, what to touch and how. An angel like Jean, who must offer guidance and spiritual resolve to so many thousands, cannot be expected to remember every voice she hears. But I remember hers, and she always lets the phone ring seven times before I pick it up. “Yes, Jean. You rang last week and told me about acquiring an early release in A. C. M.? You told me how much I should ask it for, but that I should only let it go for seven. I’m still holding on. I hope you’re pleased.”

Another pause. For an angel like Jean, not bound by the laws of physics that keep us mired in the dirt, I imagine her talking to another hundred lost souls in that briefest of pauses, helping them all as she has helped me. “Mister Devon, of course I remember you, Mister Devon. It’s very good to talk to you again, and I’m glad that investment is working out for you. As a valued customer who has experience of our quality of service before, I am sure you will be keen to snap up this new opportunity before it disappears.”

“Well, Jean, I grabbed the last one with both hands. Tell me what I need to do this time. Is it another early release? The bell went quite quickly last time, and I only just got away. The Good Lord was watching over me, of that I am sure.”

“Mister Devon, I can assure you that with a minimum of time and investment on your part, right now, you can acquire another early release to supplement your existing investment with significant short-term gains.”

I am smiling now. “That sounds delightful, Jean. Please tell me more.”

Jean tells me all about the new opportunity she would like me to pursue. Time, it seems is critical, and there is only a very small window. I take this a clue; sometimes Jean can be cryptic. She mentions ‘portfolio’ again; several times, in fact. I know my Latin – I was properly educated. ‘Port’ meaning entrance, and ‘folio’ meaning leaves. The main gate to the municipal park, if you haven’t got it already. There is a public toilet there, and it has a very small window. Small enough to get one of my investments through – Jean may be cryptic, but she always gives me enough to go on.

“Jean. Thank you for that. Can I ask, however, what I should do with my existing investment? I told it three, like you said, but am waiting for seven. Should I keep waiting for seven?”

“You told it three? I’m not sure – oh, I see what you mean. A. C. M. is fairly low at the moment, and there are – Mister Devon, I’ll be honest with you, although don’t tell my supervisor I said this – there are some concerns about its longevity. I’m not sure how long it can last in today’s climate with the projected growth figures looking so anaemic. You may never get seven, Mister Devon.”

I look over at the door. As if on cue, there are another three knocks.

“Jean, I hear what you are saying. It is getting a bit thin in there. Should I just kill it and dump the body?”

There is a pause on the phone.

“I – I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, Mister Devon. I think we had a crossed line there for a moment. Did you say ‘kill it’?”

“Yes, Jean. A. C. M. – Alastair Cunningham Maxwellton, from the Junior School. He got let home early – released before the bell went. I was waiting, just like you said, and I grabbed the opportunity with both hands. You would have been so proud of me, Jean. So. Should I just kill him and dump the body? There’s not much room in that cupboard for another investment right now.”

There is another pause. Jean is silent for some time.

“Mister Devon. Ah, Mister Devon…”

“Yes, Jean?”

“I think Master Maxwellton has proven to be a bad investment. Dump the body somewhere it won’t be noticed. Be sure to remove the teeth and fingertips. Be at the park gate at 2pm tomorrow. Your new investment will be there, on time. Goodbye, Mister Devon.”

“Goodbye, Jean. It’s been a pleasure, as always.”

Another three knocks come from the cupboard, fainter now. I collect Old Faithful from under the stairs, and take the key off the hook. Where would I be if it wasn’t for my angel Jean?

#

Sholto

[ionfish]

I have actually written something, just need to type it up. Life keeps getting in the way...

[Starfisher]

Well, looks like this was a partial success. Many names on the wall of shame for this round. Unsticking until Round Two, at which point this will be locked and/or put in the Garden.

[bluevorlon]

I've done half of something to be put up later tonight.