Fortnightly Writing Competition - NOT MY BLUE CUP OF TEA (WINNER: BARON)

Started by Fitz, Fri 14/03/2014 18:05:53

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Fitz

Greetings, fellow wordsmiths and keymashers! The time has come for another

Fortnightly Writing Competition

NOT MY BLUE CUP OF TEA

We love written word. We love writing -- and reading. We have our favorite books -- and those we didn't like. Or hated. Or just didn't care about. Was it the genre that didn't meet your taste? Was it the style? Did the topic make you cringe -- or did the main protagonist cause you to fume with anger? Or maybe you just yawned your way through the book, happy to throw it away in the end (or conveniently "lost it" -- in a trash can -- like a very practical friend of mine once did)?

The challenge: try to re-create that feeling for us, the readers. Anger. Nausea. Nothing. Write a story about a topic that makes you sick -- and own it! Write it like you mean it. Throw your preferences out the window and try your best to become the next Stephenie Meyer. Write a first-person narrative featuring the most annoying character imaginable -- and rather than creating a conscious parody, try to actually make them as real and convincing as you can. Explore the character, try to understand and explain their motivations. You don't have to believe any of it, yourself. The ultimate goal is to make us, the readers, believe it -- and hate it just like you did ;)

You have time till midnight PST, March 28. GO!

Baron

Well, it's not my blue cup of tea....  But it'll be fun to try something different.  Except I usually write fun stuff, so maybe I'd have to get serious, which wouldn't be very fun at all....   Hmmmmm.  Some more thought is clearly necessary, but challenge accepted.

Ponch

Okay, here is something I worked up while sitting at the airport for two and a half damn hours. Assuming I understood the rules correctly, I've set out to address something that really bothered me about the PS3 game, The Last Of Us. I love the heck out of that game, but there's one part of it that just bugs me. Joel (a middle aged survivor of a global zombie-ish apocalypse) and Ellie (a young teenaged girl) escape the ruins of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and the proceed to walk to Jackson, Wyoming -- journey of approximately 2000 miles (3200 kilometers) in just a few months. Considering that the best people on foot could hope to do under normal conditions (allowing for camping, resting, and foraging -- and zombie fighting!) is about 25 miles a day, there's almost no way it could be done by an older man and a young girl. I wanted them to find a ride. It bugged me that they never did. So this story is my attempt to shorten that trip a bit and give them more time to enjoy the scenery on their journey. Enjoy!
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THE WORDS HE SPOKE

The gas station was deserted. It had been for a long time, from the look of things. Like most everything else in this world.

“Par for the course,” Joel muttered.

Lying prone in the tall grass next to him, Ellie looked at her burly, aging protector as he peered through the scoped rifle at the buildings down the road. An “off-ramp” he had called it. Only fourteen and small for her age, Ellie felt very tiny next to him. If she thought she could get away with it, she would have inched a little bit closer to him. But they had only been traveling together a short while and he didn't like to be crowded.

“What for the what?” She kept her voice low to match his.

Stay quiet. Whatever he does, you do. That's worked so far. And so far, so good. Mostly.

“It means this situation's about what I thought it would be,” he said quietly. He was beginning to get used to explaining things to her. He didn't even seem irritated by it anymore. Most of the time, at least.

“Oh, okay. Got it.” She didn't. Not really. But she filed it away for later contemplation. She did that a lot lately now that she was traveling with him. He remembered how it was, before the outbreak. He had knowledge of the world that was long gone by the time she showed up, and he didn't mind sharing it. Most of the time, at least.

He lowered the rifle and turned his face to look at her. She instantly straightened up under his gaze â€" or as best as a girl can do when she's lying on a grassy embankment on the side of the road just inside the Ohio border on a warm summer morning in ruined America.

Gotta impress him. He's finally starting to trust me. I can't let him think I'm deadweight. Not for one fucking second.

The little pistol in her hand was proof of his trust in her. She squeezed the handle to remind herself of how far they had come together. He had given this to her. She wasn't helpless anymore. She owed him for that. Big time.

“Alright. We're gonna sneak down there, real quiet, and check it out. Understand?”

She nodded.

“We get in and out. Quick. We're just lookin' for a little food. Just enough to keep us goin' until we find a safer place to hit up for supplies. No drama, no problems. Yeah?”

She nodded again. “I'll do whatever you tell me to do, Joel. You know that.”

He nodded back. Almost smiled. “You're doin' fine, Ellie. Just keep your eyes open.”

It was the first compliment he had given her since they had buried the brothers just two days ago. The first killed by the other's hand. And then the other killed by his own hand. Joel hadn't wanted to bury them, but she had practically begged him to do it. There may have even been a few tears, if she wanted to be honest. She didn't cry over much in this world, but they had been friends, for a little while at least, and friends deserved something better than being left to rot inside the old radio tower. And if she'd had to squirt a little from her eyes to bring him around, then that was just her doing what she had to do. And it wasn't really manipulation. Not really. The tears were real. She just chose to let them flow that time instead of holding them in like she usually did. She'd even managed to use her wet eyes to coax a few good words from him as they stood over the graves.

We'd been wearing our backpacks, ready to hit the road as soon as he was done filling the dirt in over… them.

Two forms wrapped in their blankets. The blood from the gunshot wounds had seeped through the fabric. She tried very hard not to see the stains.

He had dug the graves about three feet deep and lowered them in. He wouldn't allow her to help. All she could do was stand there, wringing her hands, and watching him work. Henry and Sam went into the ground just before noon. To a good rest, she had hoped.

Why hadn't she said something different to Sam? Why did she have to tell him that she didn't believe in Heaven? Sometimes she did. Why did she have to play it all cool like that? Did she just want to appear more grown up to him? Flaunt her extra two years on this earth? Put him in his “little kid” place, somehow? What could it have hurt to tell him that, you know, maybe Heaven was real? Or at least it was a good idea.

Why didn't I think to say something like that instead?

The infection was inside him but he'd kept it to himself. He was only a kid and he needed someone more than ever on that last night and she had left him alone to go shoot the shit with Joel and Henry one more time before bed. She'd left him behind in the “kid's room” that Henry had banished him to so the grownups could talk. She was so pleased the Joel had signaled for her to sit next to him instead of leaving the room, she never even stopped to think about how Sam must have felt as he went up those steps by himself. She had left him alone up there. Left him with the wrong words echoing in his ears. Hopeless words. Cruel words.

Her words.

I'm so, so sorry, Sam.

I couldn't leave you again without saying something right... Without saying goodbye, at least. But I don't know what the fuck you're supposed to say for things like burials.

Thank God, you did, Joel.


The words had been simple and delivered almost by rote. He only stumbled in a few places, like he was trying to remember what to say. Out of practice, it seemed to her. The words were an old memory that he didn't want to dredge up again. Joel wasn't much for rituals anymore. But he did it this one time, just for her. She owed him for that too.

How many people have you buried, Joel? Were they your friends? Your family? Your hunter buddies? Your victims? How many times have you said those words? And how long has it been since you stopped saying them? You didn't say anything for Tess when we left her behind too. But maybe it's because there wasn't time? I hope that's all it was.

She had wanted to ask him all day yesterday and today about the woman she'd so briefly known, but Tess was off limits. He'd been crystal clear about that. She'd risked it once before, just for a moment while they were in Lincoln with Bill. Joel hadn't yelled at her for doing it, but she didn't want to press her luck again. Not for a while, anyway.

She had bowed her head when Joel began to speak over the graves of their friends. She didn't know if he had or not. She hadn't dared to open her eyes while he was speaking. She reached out and held his hand for the half a minute or so that it took. He had been kind enough to let her. She wouldn't forget it.

“All right now, Ellie…”

He wasn't looking at her anymore, but he was speaking to her again. She snapped back to the here and now. Hopefully, he hadn't noticed her drifting for a moment there.

“No tellin' what we might run into down there once we get off this interstate.”

“I-70.”

She had to show him she had been paying attention. She wasn't deadweight. She wasn't.

“That's right, Ellie. I-70. And that service station down there is pretty remote. Nothing too near it. So if we play this right, we can dash down there â€" carefully,” he added for emphasis. “Pick up a few things and get back up here and on our way again. But we gotta be quick. You ready?”

Don't fuck this up, Ellie. Do good! Do good and he won't leave you like the others have. It can be different this time.

She squeezed the pistol's grip again, drawing strength from it.

“Totally.”

“All right, then. Let's go, kid. Carefully. And try to stay clear of those broken down cars over there on the ramp. Just in case.”

“Right behind you, Joel.”

They dashed down the grassy bank and onto the concrete and asphalt, moving in the way that he had taught her. One person moves to cover, the other person hangs back and keeps an eye on things. Then catch up to the first person and do it again. Easy. She followed his tracks exactly when he signaled her to come to him and then kept her pistol gripped in both hands, ready for action, covering him while he ran to the next bit of cover he had picked out ahead. From the guardrail… to the light post… to the support column… to… whatever that weird gray box on the edge of the curb was.

Stay low. Move fast.

He always knows where to go. Stick close. He'll get us through this, no problem.

In no time at all, they had reached the edge of the service station parking lot. Only a couple of rusted cars occupied the cracked, asphalt lot. A few more were rusting away in the street across from it. One looked like it had been on fire once. Grass was slowly reclaiming this place, just like everywhere else. A pretty bunch of purple flowers were growing next to the front tire of a small, gold car.

There were two buildings. A large one and a smaller one behind that looked like a shed of some sort. The giant sign that marked the boundary of the parking lot was an empty frame bordered with shards of faded white plastic. She wondered what it had looked like in the past, before everything got broken. Nice, probably. And clean.

Wish we still had a ride. Things were easier with that truck. Fucking hunters. They're dead now and the more I think about it, the less that bothers me. And it not bothering me is starting to bother me a little. Fuck, this is complicated.

“Okay. Let's move up to the front door. Have a look-see.”

“Right.” She watched as he jogged to a trash drum near the big windows of the main building and crouched down.

“Look-see.” He's always using words like that. “Reckon,” “rowdy,” “gander.” That's just how they talk in Texas, I guess.


She found his vocabulary endearing. The words were cute, even when spoken in his gruff baritone.  But she was afraid to start using them herself.

What if he thought I was mocking him? Can't risk it. No matter how much I'm dying to use “gander” in a sentence, I need him to like me. If he likes me, he'll keep taking care of me. Maybe even after we get to Wyoming. Maybe he'll ask me to stick around. A girl can dream, after all.

He signaled to her and she ran fast, staying low. She reached his position quickly and pressed herself against the wall next to him.

“I tried to get a good look on my way over. I didn't see anyone inside,” she hissed, trying to keep her voice as low as possible.

Good. Smart. Be useful to him. And make sure he knows it!

“Me neither,” he whispered. “Looks like this place is empty. Let's find out for sure. Check the door. I'll cover you.”

“Just say when.”

He readied his shotgun and popped up, pointing it into the store. She rushed to the door.

All the windows in the frame and around it were broken. The door was warped so badly, it would never close again. From the looks of it, someone had hooked a chain to it and pulled it open with a truck or something. Deep scrapes in the floor tiles indicated that something very heavy had been dragged out of here years ago.

“Door's open!” Too far away from him to whisper now.

“I go in first, Ellie!”

She wanted to protest but he was already on the move, his shotgun sweeping the entire storefront as he went.

I could do this! Why won't he give me a chance?

Inside now, moving fast. She stuck close and covered his blind side. They swept through the building. Checking corners, looking behind counters, inside the long drink fridge, the manager's office, the small storeroom. Fast but careful. She mimicked him, doing it just like he had taught her.

No one. Empty.

“All right, kid. I think it's clear in here. Start looking for supplies while I check the restrooms.”

“I'm coming with you!”

He shot her a withering look and she did her best not to shy away from it.

“But what if there's trouble?” she asked, trying to sound more forceful than she felt.

“Don't you worry about me. See what you can find in here.”

She nodded half-heartedly, obeying. He was through the door and gone around the side of the building in a flash. She looked at the pistol in her hand.

You've trusted me this much. Why can't you trust me a little more? I can be valuable to you, damn it. I'm not a fucking baby.

She sighed audibly, hoping that he wouldn't be able to hear her, and began to check the usual places. But there was no point. This place was picked clean. Years ago, from the looks of it. Some old candy wrappers. A few empty soda cans. Wadded up old wrappers and a sack from some place called Jack In The Box â€" they were open all night, apparently. A few tattered, old plastic grocery bags drifted slowly around on the floor near the broken front windows. There were old bullet holes in the wall above the soda machine and the scratch-off lottery ticket case. Another bullet hole marred the inside of the doorframe. Somebody had been firing out while several other somebodies had been firing in. The holes were all very old and it looked like spiders had moved into a couple of them. She shied away from them when she noticed this.

You guys can keep your holes. Creepy little fucks.

Walking the inside of the short food idles, idly scratching off a few lottery tickets; she noticed several spent, sea green shotgun shells on the floor near the empty potato chip rack. They weren't faded out by the sun like everything else in here. She picked one up and sniffed it. The acrid smell of gunpowder, faint but unmistakable.

Fresh or fresh-ish, at least. Somebody's been in here very recently. Maybe yesterday? Joel needs to know.

She spied two unspent shells that had rolled under the edge of a display stand that once held candy. There was a faded sale sign held in place by ancient, yellowed tape that said ‘King-sized! Two for three dollars. This weekend only!'

“Wish I had three dollars to buy some candy… and some fucking candy to buy would be nice too.”

Who am I kidding? I wouldn't buy it. I'd just swipe some and hope to get away with it.

She crouched down and pocketed the pair of good shells. Maybe Joel could use them.

She looked around one more time. Just to make sure she hadn't missed anything. A sign on the wall told her that this was the Shell Oil Station. Pennzoil was on sale by the quart this week, gasoline was only $3.39 a gallon, and if she signed up for a credit card today, she would get a free lube job â€" 100% complete and thorough! â€"  the next time she visited a Jiffy Lube (also owned by the Shell Oil Company).

“What the hell is a credit card?” she asked no one in particular.

And what the fuck was a Jiffy Lube? She'd heard of Jiffy Pop. It was tasty popcorn. They'd given it to the students as a rare Fourth of July treat back when she was about nine or ten. They'd sat them down in the auditorium of the orphanage and served them grape Kool-aid and dry popcorn while they sang songs about how much they loved America. Then they'd watched that Chuck Norris movie, Invasion USA. It had been pretty awesome. There were explosions, weird boats driven by giant fans skimming along the swamps, loads of karate kicks, and the bad guy went around shooting everyone in the balls.

That movie was so fucking cool. Gotta ask Joel if he's seen it. I'll bet it's exactly the kind of movie he likes.

I wonder if he's ever shot anybody in the balls? Probably. Ouch. Just thinking about that makes the balls I don't even have hurt like hell. Yeeesh.


She pulled off a faded application from the credit card display and studied it. It wanted her to fill out all kinds of information. Most of the things it was asking for meant nothing to her at all. Previous residence? Referrals? Annual income? SSN? DLN? Two phone numbers? E-mail address? She could also apply online. Maybe they did all the work for you if did it that way?

Sheesh. Why would anyone want one of these things if they made it this hard to get one? Probably so no one could use the coupon. Cheap fucks.

The coupon itself was printed on the bottom of the form and she found that much easier to understand. Come in to Jiffy Lube, get lubed up for free. No service charge. No annual fee. No commitments. Simple as that. Sounded like a good deal, really. Especially if you needed some lubing and you were poor. She knew about lube, of course. Well, sort of. She'd heard the older girls at the orphanage talking about it and had a pretty good idea what it was for. Kind of. Something about your butt, she was pretty sure of that part.

Heck, I've never been lubed up in my life. I wonder what it's like? Messy, I bet. Greasy. But probably a lot of fun too. I don't know how it works, exactly, but the older girls talked about it like it was a pretty damn good time. And this guy in the picture looks very happy about his time spent at Jiffy Lube. Look at that smile! And there doesn't seem to be an age requirement. Everybody's welcome at Jiffy Lube, I guess. Bring the whole family. Eat all the corn you want and come on down to see us.

I wonder if they provided paper towels and soap? Or did you have to bring your own? They're not charging, you anything, so I'd bet you had to bring your own stuff. Still, sounds like a great deal. And, man, I bet pooping would be a breeze for, like, a whole month after a trip to the ol' Jiffy Lube.

She groaned in disappointment as she read the fine print on the coupon.

Fuck. This coupon expired twenty years ago. Damn it. I've missed out on so many things.

She pocketed the coupon anyway and pondered some of the interesting questions that had been raised, now that she gave it a little thought.

First and foremost, why on earth would Jiffy Pop get into the lube business? Lube? And popcorn? Together? Was there money in that sort of thing once upon a time? Did they use the lube to pop the corn? Like cooking oil? Or did you put the lube on the corn… For some… other… reason? Where would you want to put greasy kernels of popcorn anyway? And why? She couldn't make those two things fit together in her head, no matter how hard she tried.

And you'd think the lube would help!

She giggled at her own joke and thought about asking Joel but decided to save it for later.

From behind the store, she heard a dull thump. She ran to the side window, gun ready.

“JOEL?”

His voice came from around the side “I'm fine. Men's room door was locked. I had to open it.”

By kicking it in, no doubt. Kicking in doors was one of Joel's favorite things to do. Why pry it open or learn to use lock picks when you could just kick the shit out of stuff.

Can't wait until I'm big enough to do cool stuff like that. Come on, bones! Grow already! And boobs, you need to get it in gear too. That's an order!

She took one more look around the place, lingering again on the empty candy rack. Nothing more to see in here. She hopped through the window frame and went around to join him.

She was almost at the corner when he heard another dull thump.

“Women's room locked too?” she called out.

Nothing. She trotted around the corner, raising her gun.

There was an old red motorcycle back here. It must have been fancy once upon a time. It looked sleek, like something she might see in one of the comic books she had stuffed in her backpack. A helmet that matched the color of the bike hung from one of the handlebars. Tantalizing items poked out of the open compartments by the back tires. The seat wasn't dusty at all. Had someone driven it here?

Holy fuck! Does this thing still run?

She looked about for Joel, to tell him of her amazing discovery (and also to share the good news about the twenty five dollars she'd won on the scratch-off). She found him just a few feet away, standing rock still and pointing his revolver into the open doorway of the women's room.

“Infected?” she asked, moving to close the gap to him.

“Ellie! Stay back!” He barked, never even looking at her.

“What? What's wrong?” She slowed her pace but continued to move in his direction.

She heard something. A woman's voice! It was coming from somewhere inside the small bathroom. Ellie could hear it now, but couldn't make out what she was saying.

“Joel?” Worried now.

Please, no. Please tell me you're not holding someone up, Joel. We're not that hungry. Don't do anything bad. Please. I don't want to see you that way. We don't need her bike. I can walk to Wyoming if I have to.

”Goddammit, Ellie! Stay the fuck back, I said!” He froze her in place with his voice.

Okay. Okay. I'll do whatever you say. Don't be mad. I'm just trying to help. I just want us to do the right thing here.

The woman was a few feet inside from the doorway. Ellie could see her as a shadow almost swallowed up by the deeper shadows around her.

Infected? No. Can't be. Infected people don't talk. They never talk! I know!

The woman's head was lowered meekly and she was speaking softly. It sounded like she was on the edge of tears.

What the fuck is she saying?

Please don't rob her, Joel. She's scared. Just let her go. Please. I'd be scared to. I don't want us to do this. This isn't us, Joel. It isn't us!

“Joel?” Ellie's voice was very soft. “Let her go. Okay? Please?”

“Please.” The woman's voice carried to her. Soft. Wet. Thick. Barely a word.

Oh, God. She's so scared. Please just let her go, Joel. Please.

“I'm sorry,” he said flatly, the way he did when he had spoken to the few hunters who had fruitlessly begged for their lives three days ago. He wasn't saying it to Ellie.

He pulled the trigger and the woman flew backwards, illuminated in the flash of the muzzle light.

“JOEL!”

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And that's the longest entry I've ever written for this contest. Thank you, delayed flights. Note also that this marks my first foray into the strange world of "FanFic." Hope you enjoyed it. If you get the chance, give the game a try. It's amazing.

Fitz

Congrats, Ponch! I'm yet to read the story, myself - but rest assured it seems perfectly in line with the rules of the competition. As you say, it's your first venture into fan fiction -- and that's exactly what it's about: getting away from your comfort zone, in any shape or form.

I would definitely love to play The Last of Us -- but I don't have a PS3, sadly. If they ever port it to pc, though, I will pounce on it like a starved ferret -- especially after seeing this documentary about the making of the game. The ideas and the attention to visual details just blew me away.

Ponch

It's almost certain that they'll never port the game to PC, sadly. Last year I played it on my girlfriend's brother's PS3. All three of us took turns playing the game, actually. It's an amazing story. It even made my girlfriend cry in a couple of places. When we finished it, we sat around talking about the ending for an hour. A few months ago, I picked up a cheap Playstation just to have my own copy of the game. I'm on my second playthrough now and I'm finding tons of stuff I missed the first time around. If you have a couple of hundred dollars laying around, you ought to give some thought to getting a PS3 yourself and trying the game. It's one of the greatest games I have ever played. EVAR! :=

Janos Biro

That is exactly my cup of tea! I hope I can send something this time.
I'm willing to translate from English to Brazilian Portuguese.

Baron

After three false starts, I think I've got an idea I can roll with.  Stand by.

Sinitrena

Emily

“He loves me. - He loves me not.”

Emily was dangling her feet into the lake, picking at the blossoms of a flower â€" again. It felt like she was doing this the thousands time. I hated her for it. Little sister. Stupid little sister. As if a flower could tell her anything. As if the results didn't change constantly anyway. As if he even knew who she was.

“Hey there, sis, watcha doing?”, I asked her, basically to annoy her. What can an older brother do?

She looked up at me and sighed. I shouldn't have talked to her. I sure would annoy her but I would feel just as annoyed. She sighed! It was so stupid, so melodramatic. She was fifteen, she was fucking fifteen and did nothing but talk about this guy all day. Her true love, her one and only, her everything, her life! Couldn't she at least try to use an ounce of intelligence? He probably didn't even know she existed and had a crush on him. Him! Whoever he was â€" never seen the guy, no idea what's so special about him. Probably nothing, but my sis was a teenage girl, so you shouldn't really expect any rational thoughts.

“Thinking about him again?”, I asked when she didn't answer and just glared at me as if looks could kill. Yeah, I died a long time ago from her looks and am now a walking corpse: annoying but not really worthy of any attention; or a zombie: trying to eat her oh so special brain.

“What do you care?”, she asked and looked back at the blossom, or more like, what once was a blossom â€" there was just the stalk left.

I shrugged and walked away. This really wasn't worth my attention. I still had hope that she would become a normal human being again once puberty ended. Just a few years left, just a few more years and she would be normal again. Perhaps. Hopefully. Gah.

*

She was crying in her room. Mom was angry, dad was drunk and I felt a serious headache coming, but of course I was the one to talk to her.

I hated her room nearly as much as I hated her attitude. Who combines pink walls with posters of a boy group where every member wears black mascara? Honestly, what real man wears mascara? This doesn't look cool or sexy at all! They couldn't even sing! Not even after auto-tuning their voices. And the topics of their songs? Love, love, love, broken heart, heartache, love and more love. Seriously? Who writes this stuff?

But Emily loved them. Emily cried when she heard their songs. She told me once they sang about real emotions, that she could feel what they felt, that she understood them, that they understood her, that they were real, that they showed raw emotions. Please! There is nothing more artificial than a boy group like that! They didn't even meet naturally. They were cast. They didn't write their own songs, they didn't play any instruments. They were basically just a front and a rip-off.

But Emily loved them. And played their songs really load when I knocked on her door. Probably too loud for her to hear me. Which wouldn't be surprising. I could hardly hear my own thoughts. Obviously, she didn't ask me in.

I entered her room anyway. After all, my little sister was sad and I did have a responsibility as an older brother.

Emily lay on her bed with a blanket over her head. It looked more like a lump than a human being. Her position at least explained why she didn't get mad from the noise: The blanket was rather thick.

I sat down on her bed and tried to feel for her shoulder. â€" I couldn't really see where it was.

“Em? Emily? You all right?”, I asked, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the music.

She jumped up like a fury. She screamed like a banshee. I obviously did the wrong thing. With her, I always seemed to do the wrong thing. This was what you got when you tried to be nice to my sister.

She pounded on my chest with her small fists, her knuckles showing white. She screamed at me to leave her alone. I tried to hold her, to calm her down, but I feared she would try to scratch my eyes out.

For her, all I ever did was probably wrong. I left. I couldn't take it and I just hoped she'd feel better in the morning. I never ever figured out what was wrong that day.

*

It was in the news one morning. I hardly listened until I saw Emily's shocked face while she looked at the radio. She paled in a matter of seconds and her eyes reddened.

“Em, love, what is wrong?”, mom asked her from the kitchen counter where she was cutting bread.

“Nothing.”, she said, but it was obvious that something was very wrong indeed.

I stopped listening to Em and mom and paid attention to the radio instead. Emily never seemed to gibe any useful answers, especially not when she was thinking of something else. Which she was now. And listening to the radio, I realised what: Someone was reporting about her favourite band. Yeah, that was a pretty good reason for her not to look at mom, but it wasn't what had shocked her.

I'm not sure why it was even worth a minute long report that a boy group was separating but the station seemed to think it was important enough. Then again, they were catering to a fairly young demographic, with most of their audience between 13 and 19, so I guess it made sense.

Meanwhile, mom had stopped asking Emily if she was all right and was arguing with her instead. About school. It was what they argued about most often. Em didn't want to go. Some days she wanted to. I guess these were the days she would see her crush. Other days she bitched about it. Now she bitched.

I left the room. I didn't want to get roped into this quarrel â€" not again. It always ended the same way anyway: Mom would argue until it was too late to take the bus, then she would drag my sister to the car and drive her to school herself.

*

Report card day was seldom a good day. Emily wasn't stupid by any means. Well, she was stupid because she was my little sister but this was a different kind of stupid.

The last few years â€" two or three â€" her grades had constantly deteriorate. She had excuses â€" or maybe this was actually true: the teachers hated her, the other students didn't like her...

I wished, mom would react differently. I really did. Emily was annoying sometimes and maybe it were just excuses but what good did it do for mom to say the same things over and over again? What good did it do for Emily to learn stuff she clearly wasn't interested in? But our parenty didn't listen; not to Emily, not to me.

In the end, she always ran away. Just for a few hours with her IPod in her ears and with dark make-up smeared all over her face. She always came back. She slammed her door shut and turned her music up.

*

I never saw her body. The funeral was on a sunny Friday. I think her crush was there. I'm not sure.

Police told us that the car was going too fast. The driver didn't see her. There was alcohol in his blood â€" not much, just a bear or two. The traffic lights might have been red. It was impossible to say. There were no witnesses. Just an accident. A stupid accident. She died in a stupid accident on the day of her sixteenth birthday.

And people whispered behind our backs that it was suicide.


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

There are some genres I don't care about, but I only really hate books that are aimed at teenagers and try to warn them of drugs, teen pregnancy, cults, bullying and stuff like that. (Is there a name for this genre? Teen awareness novel? Something like that?) It's not really these topics I object, just the fact that most of theses books (not all of them, I'm sure, I probably just never picked up a good one) force-fed the reader a moral and base most of their storyline on contrived coincidence so that the moral fits  - because otherwise they wouldn't work at all. So I wrote a story where a coincidence really is just a coincidence and where there is no moral at all (hopefully - don't over-analyze!) that still deals with a teenager that might need some help - or not, that probably depends on your point of view.

Janos Biro

Okay, I came up with this character and I simply HATE it so much... I hope you hate it too!

A bad joke

It started as a bad joke. I said to Mark: "The same you did with your brain: I ruined it, but I still keep it on my head, just for show", when he asked me what the hell I did with my hair. Looks like he was offended and told me to eat shit. I told him I was not into coprofagy, and asked if I was lying. Because if I said the truth, why bother? And If I lied, why bother too? What's the big deal?

But he would not think about it. He was offended, period. He said I take everything literally, and I said I don't even like literature. Then he went away. Sometime later he came back with a knife and screamed he was going to kill me. I disarmed him and stabbed him with the knife right in the stomach. He was bleeding a lot, and then he fell, like an animal. He was angry, and I couldn't understand why. I stabbed him with the knife some more, just to make sure he was dead. I was arrested and pleaded self-defense. No one believed me. They asked me if I didn't realize he was just kidding because he was only twelve. I said kids shouldn't play with knifes.

I was very calm, because it was all very logical to me. But everyone thought I'd better be in jail. I heard someone say I had the devil in me, and I said I don't believe two bodies can occupy the same space. So they sent me to the care of a competent institution, and here I am!

“Are you kidding?” said the other man. “This, a competent institution? Ha, that's a good one!”

“Anyway, doctor, I'm not taking my medication”, I said next.

“Why are you telling me this?”, he asked me.

“Because my vocal cords are…”, then he interrupted me and said: “Sorry, sorry… I MEANT to ask what is the reason that made you get to the conclusion that you should tell me this”.

“Well doctor”, I said, “I've been thinking, and I guess it's because the electrical stimuli in my neuron cells are…”, but he interrupted me again.

“No! No! Enough! It's impossible to talk to you if insist in going on like this!”, he shouted.

“But I am answering exactly what you asking, don't I?”, I asked.

“No you don't! You are wasting my time! Don't answer EXACTLY what I asked, answer what you know I MEANT to ask”, he said, visibly shaken.

I don't get it. How am I supposed to know something like that? Aren't they requesting me too much? If everybody knew what the other person means when they use a word, everybody would be happy, don't you think?

*

“So yerjust runnouta mentahospital, ishit?”, asked the beggar.

“Yep. That one”, I pointed.

“Whasdafoodlaike?”, he asked while preparing a rat in a spit.

“Better than what you're eating, at least”, I said, disgusted. “I think they just let me out”.

“Whasyerprobleem?”, he asked while chewing.

“Everything, and then some more”, I said.

“Holy…”, he cried, maybe because he got burned in the fire.

“Oh, it's not holy at all, it's psychiatric!”, I stated.

*

“And then you killed him?”, asked the officer.

“No”, I answered, very slowly.

“The man was found dead, you're the last person to see him alive…”, he interrogates.

“That's not true. He died on the ambulance”, I corrected.

“Okay… You're the last person to see him without any lethal injuries…”, he says, I agree, then he goes on. “So… What happened?”, he pauses. “Nothing”, I say.

“Nothing? You ripped off his JAW! Do you think it was an accident?”, asks the young man, clearly losing his patience.

“He asked me to”, I explained.

“ASKED? How could he ASK for something like this?”, the cop shouts.

“Talking”, I said conclusively. The man gets really angry and it's about to explode. “Easy”, says the other cop, “Let me talk to him". Then the older man turns to me and say: "What did he said that made you do that?”.

“He said he didn't want to be hungry anymore. He WONT be hungry anymore…”, I said, smiling.

*

“And that's why they hate me”, I told you. But you shouted at me and said: “Let me go, murderer!”. I told you I can't let you go unless you cut my face with this razor. You said you would do it if I broke another vase, and I did it. Now you have to do it.

“Why are you doing this? It was just a joke!”, you said.

No, it was a bad joke. I'm educating you. Bad jokes are bad. End of the story.
I'm willing to translate from English to Brazilian Portuguese.

Fitz

All right! We have three entries -- and awaiting a fourth, by Baron. We have roughly around 15 hours to go, but if you -- or anyone else -- needs any more time, I'm sure we can extend the deadline. Thanks to everyone participating! :)

Baron

Quest for Ascension

   Marisoo crouched in the rain-soaked trench, letting the arrows and catapult balls fly harmlessly overhead.  A few wet snowflakes flew by with them on the bitter wind, causing an audible groan to rise up from the troops.  The man to his left shivered, and Marisoo reflexively dodged the droplets flung from the end of his nose.  The man to his right coughed into his armpit.  It was cold and wretched in the trench, but Marisoo didn't feel it.  There was a hot anger that burned inside him, giving him warmth where there was nothing but desperate misery in his comrades-in-arms. 

   â€œWe'll catch our death of this cold before even meet the enemy!” a man down the line complained.  Marisoo looked to the sergeant to disavow him of his defeatism, but the sergeant just stared with hollow eyes, nursing the stub of a cigar for heat against the driving rain.

   â€œThe general thinks we'll hold the line better if our feet are frozen in place!” another whimpered.  This generated a few laughs and a few more nods, and soon a chorus of mumbles and complaints began rising like a Sunday choir.  Marisoo could feel the morale of the men plunging faster than the temperature.

   â€œThere's lots of heat over the top,” he called out.  The trench was instantly quiet once more, but he wasn't done.  “Remember the enemy's oil bladders with their burning fuses?  One hit on your shield and the flames will warm you to the bone!”  He drew his sword and lowered his helmet's visor as if ready for battle.  “Who's with me?!  Who wants to feel the heat?!?”

   The men just stared with empty eyes.  Whether they met the enemy or not this day, they were already defeated.

   â€œKneel!” came the call down the trench, and the men turned wide-eyed to face the Spirit-Speaker who was suddenly splashing down the trench.  Every warrior in the trench was knee-deep in mud, and caked in the stuff in most other places, but the Spirit-Speaker was immaculate in his white fur-trimmed robes.  “Kneel, for thy gods call ye to worship!”

   Slowly the men sunk into the chilly mud.  Marisoo was reluctant as well, not because of the wet and cold, which he did not feel, but because of the disgrace that such arrogant preachers were to the Cult of the Invincibles.  Sure, they could talk up the merits of the Quest for Ascension, but did they lead the charge into the fray where such a prize could be won?  No.  They would spout their flowery condescension from behind the battle lines, safe in the comfortable wealth that came with access to the cult tithes.  No, the purest (and somewhat heretical) interpretation of the faith prized nothing but the serenity of victory in battle.  Any verbal embellishment of the basic carnal scream of battle was superfluous comfort.

   But the hierarchy of Spirit-Speakers had appended their own rules to the glorious Cult, and there were penalties for defiance.  Marisoo swallowed his spite and sank to his knees to receive the sermon.

   â€œAll Powerful Invincibles!” the Spirit-Speaker cried, his head arched heavenward.  “Turn your immortal eyes hither and see the gallantry in the souls of these, your humble servants!  Lend unto them the strength of your irresistible will!  Deliver them from the wretched condition of fear and cowardice!  Grant them the privilege of winning their own spot in the Pantheon of Glory!  Amen!”

   The men mumbled in echoed unison, and with that the Spirit-Speaker sulked off down the line to repeat his words to the next company.  Marisoo shrugged: for once the sermon was blessedly short.  Secretly he prayed to Florvath, the Invincible of Storms, to send such wretched weather more often.

   Marisoo turned back to the rim of the trench, cautiously peeking over to survey the conditions beyond.  Through the flying snowflakes and the occasional flaming arrow he could see nothing but corpses and desolate ruins.  Somewhere out there was the enemy, though.  And his Enemy.  Marisoo squinted into the snowy mists.  He was out there, somewhere, in the enemy lines.  He could feel his moustachioed presence.  The why or how of it was beyond his understanding, but it was there, a feeling, right next to deep hatred in the core of his soul.  Or perhaps they were one and the same thing? 

   A rumble of thunder peeled over the battlefield.  Marisoo frowned: Florvath the Invincible of Storms rarely mixed snow and thunder.  Perhaps it was a sign?  Or maybe it wasn't thunder at all, but the sound of a mass of armed men moving in surreal unison?  Marisoo listened through the wispy howl of the wind for another clue.

   A whistle blew, and then the sergeant's voice was suddenly reanimated.  By the fiery beard of Saravyn, Invincible of Flame!  They were going to fight on this miserable day after all!  Marisoo scampered back down into the trench to take his place in the line of battle, catching a glimpse of the Spirit-Speaker scuttling off to safety behind the lines as he did so.  Let the rats flee the ship, he thought to himself.  One less competitor for a place in the Pantheon of Glory.

   Marisoo surveyed his comrades-in-arms to his right and left once more.  They tenaciously held their swords and shields at the ready for the signal to advance up out of the trench, but their eyes betrayed the hopelessness of their cause.  One man down the line whined a prayer to Gorrow the Unpierceable, as if the Invincible would listen to such drivel.  Another stepped behind the line to vomit into the mud soaked trench.  They would die this day.  Marisoo was sure of it.  But it made his heart surge with excitement, for only in a warrior's final battle, when the end was nigh and death was certain, would the Invincibles judge his merrits for Ascension.  Soon.  So soon....

   In the mean time he had the comfort of his hatred, his constant companion on this long campaign.  Usually he kept it tightly in check, letting its warming glow heat his body and power his stride on the long marches, but keeping its intoxicating fumes from his mind.  The passion of his hatred for his Enemy, the man who had slain his family, knew no mortal bounds.  Once he unleashed it, it would consume his sanity in a deranged rage.  From that point, there would be no going back.  The die would soon be cast.  Soon....

   And then there was the whistle again, and the order to advance.  The troops surged out of trench, only to be cut down by the arrows and flaming oil-bladders.  But the tattered remnants charged forward to meet their destiny, for now there was no going back. 

   Marisoo released the hatred, and raced ahead of the line.  The sergeant barked at him to hold the line, but the line was a hopeless cause.  Your own side would cut you down if you fell behind, but there was no law for those who charged ahead.  The army had got him this far, but now Marisoo had to make his lunge for personal glory.  A primal scream erupted from his lungs as he skipped over the blood soaked ruins through the blinding snow.

   And then suddenly he fell upon the enemy, massed in martial discipline row-on-row.  Even Faeolyn the Invincible of Wind was on their side, driving the snowflakes into his eyes.  But now was not the time for excuses: now was the time to prove his worth as a warrior.  Now was the time for vengeance. 

   Marisoo parried the outstretched spears from the battle line and drove his shoulder with the full momentum of his sprint into the shield of the nearest warrior.  The force of the collision bowled him over, which had a domino effect on the tightly packed ranks around him.  Shocked at the human battering ram that had suddenly appeared from the ghostly ether of whiteness, the warriors scrambled to recover their line of battle, but Marisoo deprived them of the opportunity.  Madly he swung and chopped, cutting his way through their ranks, bathing in their blood and terror. 

   Behind him his own side had finally engaged the enemy line, but forewarned of their approach they fared less well than he.  For a moment the enemy lines recoiled, but in an instant they surged forward and now the tide carried Marisoo back as well.  An axe dented his helmet and a blade took the end of his finger, but still he fought a rearguard action.  There were so very few men left on his own side now.  Some had even turned to run, the wind speeding their departure as it sped the arrows into their backs.  But still Marisoo fought on.

   And now they were back at the cusp of the trench, and here Marisoo made his stand.  A warrior to his left lunged his sword towards Marisoo's flank, but Marisoo was faster with his parry.  He grabbed the man with his shield hand and ran him through with his sword, letting his momentum carry him forward into the trench.  Instantly another man was on him, but Marisoo's shield found his face while his sword cut open his middle.  That man, too, filled the trench with his dying corpse.  As did the next, and the next.  Soon the surge of men pushed Marisoo over the edge of the trench, but stepping quickly he was able to cross a bridge of corpses to the other side.  Then, the advantage was his, as the enemy tried to climb the slippery mud of the other side.  Gleefully Marisoo ran back and forth hacking off limbs and heads. 

   But now he was alone, for the entirety of his side had now been slain and judged unworthy by the Invincibles.  Beyond the range of his own wrath the enemy had conquered the muddy slope and were slowly drawing the noose around him.  Reluctantly he retreated into the ruins of an old watch-tower, fighting his way backwards and leaving two corpses for every step he yielded.  And then finally he was out of steps, on the parapet itself, slaying who he could and driving who he couldn't off the edge.  Arrows sailed around him like hail, and several pierced his body, but still he fought, slaying anyone who avoided their own side's arrows.  Around the tower the snow lifted, revealing the swarming army all around.  But now Marisoo's body began to fail him, and the hatred began to drain from his soul.  The warrior in front of him caught him in the face with his gauntlet, shattering his jaw, but Marisoo repaid him by cutting him open from thigh to chin.  Wordlessly Marisoo screamed, tossing off his helmet and desperately summoning his hatred to rejoin him in this glorious last stand against an entire army.

   The next man caught the butt of Marisoo's sword over the head, but managed to slice Marisoo's achilles tendon on his way over the edge of the watch tower.  The next man caught  him in the shoulder with a crossbow bolt, but Marisoo was still able to twist his core to swing his now useless sword-arm forward to slit the surprised man's throat.  Marisoo sank to his knees, the last of his power-giving hatred now spent.  A sense of peace now overwhelmed him.

   And then his Enemy was before him, with his twisted moustache and blood dripping mace, his face twisted into a smile as he recognized the helpless victim now before him.  Slowly, dramatically, he swung the mace in a long arc.  Time seemed to slow as Marisoo stared blankly at its bent and dented surface, wondering idly if it was the broken stud on the left that had taken his wife's life.  And then the hatred surged back all at once, driving him to his feet.  He raised his shield to deflect the blow, but it bounced higher than he expected and took off what was left of his jaw. 

   The man with the twirly moustache laughed, bringing the mace up again.  Marisoo twisted his body to bring his useless sword arm around again, but another man emerged from behind his moustachioed nemesis and sliced the arm off below the elbow.  Desperately Marisoo sprayed blood from the severed limb in the man's face and pushed him over the edge with his shield, but the mace then came down, crushing the bones in that arm too. 

   One last time the moustachioed man raised the mace, this time high over his head.  Again Marisoo heard the thunder, and he threw himself forward, head-butting the man in the face.  He stumbled backwards, shocked at Marisoo's tenacity.  And then there was a blinding flash from the heavens.

   Stunned, Marisoo looked down.  His limbs were restored, but with a gleaming metallic sheen.  He brought his new hand to his face to feel the cold, metallic jaw that was now set there.  Slowly he looked up to see the charred form of his Enemy weeping in pain.  Maybe it was from the burn, or maybe it was from the realization that it was Marisoo of all men who had just been judged worthy to join the Invincibles.  Marisoo's new jaw twisted into a smile as the mustachioed man's eyes revealed an indescribable terror.  Summoning his new powers, Marisoo prepared to extract his revenge.   

Fitz

Alrighty then! It's voting time!

Our four contestants this time, in order of entry, are:

Ponch: The Words He Spoke
Sinitrena: Emily
Janosbiro: A Bad Joke
Baron: Quest for Ascension

Voting will be by category.  I'm not sure, since we got more participants than last time, but just to be safe, you can only vote once per category, for a total of six votes.  The categories are:

Best Character: You find one or several characters extra believable/captivating/magnetic/unique, etc.
Best Plot: The story arc was well-organized, coherent, and well-executed with appropriate pacing; basically the best story.
Best Atmosphere: This is all about feeling: did the story evoke strong feelings due to excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity?
Best Setting: The best background world or milieu for a story; a place brought to life.
Best Word Choice/Style: The technical art of combining words in clever or gripping ways.
Not My Cup of Tea, Either, BUT... : Did any of the stories feel oddly compelling while representing a genre you either don't care about or don't like?

Every vote counts as one point. Whoever recieves most points wins. Voting is open untill Tuesday, April 1, midnight PST. Trophies shall be carved in liquid crystals by then.

Baron

Best Character: Sinitrena for Emily.  I liked Ponch's Ellie, but he borrowed her from some sort of non-adventure [game?].  I didn't really like Emily, but that was the point, and she was definitely the more realistic teenage girl. (roll)
Best Plot: Ponch.  I'd never heard of the Lost of Us before, but he organized his story well enough to bring me up to speed without an obvious info dump.  I was on the edge of my seat the whole time as well -surely the sign of some good writing.
Best Atmosphere: Sinitrena perfectly captures the vibe of a dysfunctional household.
Best Setting: Again, since Ponch borrowed his world if not the particular location of his story, I'm going to have to go with janosbiro on this one.  Not so much for the asylum but for the landscape inside the serial-killer's head.
Best Word Choice/Style: Ponch for his lube rant.
Not My Cup of Tea, Either, BUT... : Although I would consider myself a fan of teen-moralizing fiction :P , I definitely think Sinitrena wins this theme.

Sinitrena

Best Character: janosbiro - The murderer isn't a nice character and not one I like, but he's interesting.
Best Plot: Ponch
Best Atmosphere: Baron - I could feel the cold and the mud in the trenches.
Best Setting: Baron - A few more information on background world and backstory would have been nice, though.
Best Word Choice/Style: Ponch - I completly agree with Baron here: This lube rant was fantastic.
Not My Cup of Tea, Either, BUT... : janosbiro - psychopathic murderers are not my prefered characters (though they do show up in my writing from time to time) but this story captivated me in a rather strange way.

Janos Biro

Best Character: Sinitrena. Emily is very believable, even if you can't identify with her at all.
Best Plot: Baron. I guess this aristocrat style is unbeatable...
Best Atmosphere: Ponch, because the apocalypse is here!
Best Setting: Baron. How do you do this?
Best Word Choice/Style: Can't decide this, so I will agree with the others: Ponch.
Not My Cup of Tea, Either, BUT... : Sinitrena, no doubt. The only genre here I would never read, but it felt really compelling.
I'm willing to translate from English to Brazilian Portuguese.

Ponch

Thanks for the kind words, guys. I wasn't sure if the lube rant was one step too far or not. Glad to know that it brought a smile to your faces. :cheesy:

Best Character: Sinitrena's Emily, for being a believable teenager.
Best Plot: Baron
Best Atmosphere: Janosbiro
Best Setting: Baron
Best Word Choice/Style: Baron
Not My Cup of Tea, Either, BUT... : Sinitrena, for the same reasons Baron gave.

kconan

Best Character: Sinitrena (Emily)
Best Plot: Baron
Best Atmosphere: Janosbiro
Best Setting: Baron
Best Word Choice/Style: Ponch
Not My Cup of Tea, Either, BUT: Sinitrena

Fitz

Attention, contestants and voters:

Looks like we have... A TIE!

Both Sinitrena and Baron got 9 votes.

Shall we have another round of voting to choose the winner from among the two? Or is it usually decided in some other way?

The stakes are high, for the one that emerges victorious shall claim this fortnight's trophy:

[imgzoom]http://imageshack.com/a/img594/2662/zti.gif[/imgzoom]
THE NOT BLUE CUP!!!

Janos Biro

Baron is very good, but Sinitrena is the winner. My opinion.
I'm willing to translate from English to Brazilian Portuguese.

Sinitrena

Usually, the administrator of the contest decides the winner in case of a tie, I think. So the easiest solution is that you simply declare one of us the winner, Fitz.

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