Short Story Contest

[Nationstatelandsville]

Astro, you realize it's 4:40 EST right now, right?

But the OP says the deadline isn't until January 1st!

But, didn't CM just say it ended at 5?

[Astrolinium]

But the OP says the deadline isn't until January 1st!

But, didn't CM just say it ended at 5?

No, UTC-5 is a timezone.

[Nationstatelandsville]

But, didn't CM just say it ended at 5?

No, UTC-5 is a timezone.

...He could have said ETS and made this so much easier.

[Buffett and Colbert]

No, UTC-5 is a timezone.

...He could have said ETS and made this so much easier.

You mean EST?

[Nationstatelandsville]

...He could have said ETS and made this so much easier.

You mean EST?

Bah! Silence, British one!

[Buffett and Colbert]

You mean EST?

Bah! Silence, British one!

I'm not British.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Bah! Silence, British one!

I'm not British.

Right.

Silence, Spanish one! Is that right? ...I think that's right... or something Hispanic... you know, forget it. I'll just call you "human one". Sound good?

[Buffett and Colbert]

I'm not British.

Right.

Silence, Spanish one! Is that right? ...I think that's right...

Wrong.

or something Hispanic...

Also wrong.

you know, forget it. I'll just call you "human one". Sound good?

Ok.

[Astrolinium]

I'm not British.

Right.

Silence, Spanish one! Is that right? ...I think that's right... or something Hispanic... you know, forget it. I'll just call you "human one". Sound good?

Oh, come on, he's obviously Chinese, duh. I mean, look at his flag!

[ImperialistSalvia]

I was sick for like a whole week, and my friend asked me where the hell I was on Facebook, and I came up with this:

Well, you see after 4th period, I was whisked away by a dragon; who brought me to a wonderful place at the bottom of a cliff.
I stayed there for a few hours until I realised it was a death camp. I struggled to climb up the cliff as the gnome-people threw rocks at
my head. Upon getting out of the gnome death camp, I met this kind woman by the name of Taquisha, me and her grew a family of
seven in under two hours! But, you see, since these children were born at such a fast rate, they passed away immediatley. I had to then
carry their remains to the top of Mount Tihiuanoho, where the Sun God, Thaedus blessed their little souls. Upon doing this, I had to
sacrafice my left arm. Once I returned to Taquisha, she poured chipotle on my right arm, but I said, "FOOL! It was my left arm!" I then
grew a second right arm, and I then double right-hand pimp smacked her. I had the arm surgically moved to my left shoulder, but I have a
mechanical left hand. I then decided it was best to make my way home; I should be back at 7 AM in time for school tomorrow.

(as you can tell, I don't take myself seriously at all...)
also credit to Dijifuji, he helped me a wee bit

[Nationstatelandsville]

My final edit is done, and I love it.

[Nationstatelandsville]

Oh yes, and if I don't win, you'll feel my wrath sharp against your flesh.

[Manahakatouki]

I thought I would share with you all Julio Cortazar's five elements of a short story. Cortazar was a renowned writer, famous for his short stories, among other works. He is pretty much the authority on this. They are:

1. Brevity (I forget the recommended maximum)
2. Tension/suspense
3. Knockout ending
4. Condensed language (making it so the the reader must read in between the lines)
5. Sticks to one major theme

Enjoy.

And with that, I lose the short story contest

[Jenrak]

Is it still too late to enter?

[Nationstatelandsville]

Is it still too late to enter?

No, you have until midnight EST, so... about five hours.

[Astrolinium]

Is it still too late to enter?

There are five hours left.

(Holy shit, I still have another 3,000ish words to write for my story! )

[Nationstatelandsville]

Is it still too late to enter?

There are five hours left.

(Holy shit, I still have another 3,000ish words to write for my story! )

That's what you get for procrastinating, little Astro.

[Jenrak]

Is it still too late to enter?

No, you have until midnight EST, so... about five hours.

Good enough. Time to start writing.

[The Weimar Republic]

Is it still too late to enter?

There are five hours left.

(Holy shit, I still have another 3,000ish words to write for my story! )

Hey, 3000 words is about how much I have written. Maybe we can put our half-finished stories together and see if they make a whole one!

[Manahakatouki]

Manahakatouki: Some of the writing is a bit hackneyed, but I have seen worse stories that were professionally published. The next time you write a short story, you might want to try submitting it for publication. Minor nitpick: "harmful pestilence" is redundant.

Thanks for the advice! And yes harmful pestilence does sound a little odd...

[Astrolinium]

I've resigned myself to the fact that this story isn't getting finished in the next four hours.

So instead, enjoy this tale I wrote about a squirrel. You get extra points if you read the whole thing in the voice of Adam West.

Up A Tree

---

The menacing howls filled his waking existence; the smell of sheer terror was upon him as he ran. He was running with one goal in mind: escape. He poured his strength into moving quicker as the hot, stinking breath blew on his backside. Then, he saw it: A chink in the defenses surrounding the beast’s lair. Mustering all of his strength, he leapt upward. A split second later, the squirrel was through the fence and on the lush grass of the neighborhood park. The pitbull scrabbled at the fence, whining, before ambling off in defeat.
Feeling quite happy with himself, the squirrel scurried (as squirrels tend to do) up the smallish oak tree in the middle of the park, and began sizing up acorns as an Italian might size up wines. But just as he started on a particularly plump nut, he found himself compelled to stop. He had definitely felt something. Freezing, not daring to move a muscle, he scanned the landscape for movement. Not finding the source of this definite something, he carefully turned around to check there. His thoughts, roughly transcribed into English, were thus: ‘Holyshitholyshitholyshit.’ His heart skipped a beat as he saw not merely the pitbull but also its master. The squirrel knew the beast’s keeper as the vilest profusion of malevolence ever to walk the Earth, the most sinful harbinger of debauchery in all the circles of hell, a terror who made the likes of Cthulhu seem like Oscar the Grouch.
It was little Tommy Johnson from across the street.
The archfiend stroked his underling as a man would pet his dog; the squirrel shivered in horror. The squirrel could only imagine what profane horrors were in store, what devil the Beelzebub had set aside. His worst fears were confirmed when out of the boy’s pocket came the most terrifying implement of violence ever devised. No beast on land nor bird in air nor fish in the sea had ever matched the power of this weapon to end all weapons: the mighty rock and slingshot.
Emitting a shriek of primal terror, the squirrel fled upward. He chattered in distress as he ascended to the apex of the mighty oak. To his horror, could not get high enough. The tree, a mere ten feet tall, was a death trap. The squirrel curled into a protective ball as the deadly barrage began. Each sickening crack of stone on wood was louder, closer than the last. He knew the end was upon him and had resigned to his fate. His life flashed before his eyes. Surely, death couldn’t be that bad; he had seen his friends die every day trying to cross the great gray Sea of Death.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rain of pebbles ceased.
Did he dare open his eyes? Did he dare look at what final torture would be used by Tommy the Terrible? He did. He opened his eyes, and the darkness was lit up by a candescent glimmer of hope. The boy had run out of ammunition. The squirrel knew, because Tommy was kneeling in the grass looking for more rocks with which to end the small sciurid. Seizing his chance, the squirrel bounded down the tree trunk, tearing across the ten yards of grass between himself and the tall pine. Had any Indy cars been in the vicinity, he knew their paint jobs would have become bright red with jealousy. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; his heart pounded in time with his feet. He was going to make it! He was going to make it!
He felt a sharp tug on his tail and hit the ground. Rolling over, he saw Murphy’s Law had violently asserted itself as his master. The stinking, slavering pitbull had him pinned by his tail. He could feel the dragon’s fetid breath on his fur as its head loomed in front of him. The leviathan’s ugly mug gave birth to a wet glob of saliva, which then proceeded to fall on the squirrel, covering him in drool. There was only one way out that he could see. Only one chance of escape.
In a flurry of desperation, the squirrel sprang upward and bit down with all his might. Letting out sharp yelps of pain, the dog shook him about. He rode the beast like an epic hero. He was hanging on for dear life to assert himself as master. A few yards away, Tommy stared in awe, or so the squirrel liked to think. Emboldened, he bit down harder, hoping to draw his quarry’s blood. The dog roared and shook, trying to force his prey-turned-attacker to dismount. The squirrel held on for all he was worth, but it was not enough. The pitbull threw him. He hit the pine tree – he had been so close to escaping up it, to getting out of range of those terrible stones! – with a thud. So this was it. He awaited death with a steely gaze forward.
The pitbull approached him once more with murderous intent. Malice aforethought was evident in the eyes of the demon. The squirrel heard, then, a strange, feminine voice. The dog looked away as a piercing whistle emanated from the same direction. What fresh hell was this? What creature was so formidable as to make even the mighty pitbull heed its words? Our hero dared to risk a glance at the one who had spoken.
The woman was about thirty and wore a pink dress with a tasteful floral pattern adorning the hem. A chain studded with pearls adorned the bulging isthmus of a neck from which her head sprouted. A mole was the prominent feature on her face. The squirrel assumed it served to draw the gaze away from those unfortunate hairs that sprouted out of her chin. The woman opened her mouth and roared in some devilish tongue at Tommy and the dog. The boy whined petulantly, but she had brought the big guns. She stamped her foot and pointed at the fence. Tommy made a dejected noise. He and the dog loped off in defeat towards their house. Not bothering to look back or even to count his blessings, the squirrel scampered up the tree and promptly forgot about the whole affair.

[Nationstatelandsville]

I've resigned myself to the fact that this story isn't getting finished in the next four hours.

So instead, enjoy this tale I wrote about a squirrel. You get extra points if you read the whole thing in the voice of Adam West.

Up A Tree

---

The menacing howls filled his waking existence; the smell of sheer terror was upon him as he ran. He was running with one goal in mind: escape. He poured his strength into moving quicker as the hot, stinking breath blew on his backside. Then, he saw it: A chink in the defenses surrounding the beast’s lair. Mustering all of his strength, he leapt upward. A split second later, the squirrel was through the fence and on the lush grass of the neighborhood park. The pitbull scrabbled at the fence, whining, before ambling off in defeat.
Feeling quite happy with himself, the squirrel scurried (as squirrels tend to do) up the smallish oak tree in the middle of the park, and began sizing up acorns as an Italian might size up wines. But just as he started on a particularly plump nut, he found himself compelled to stop. He had definitely felt something. Freezing, not daring to move a muscle, he scanned the landscape for movement. Not finding the source of this definite something, he carefully turned around to check there. His thoughts, roughly transcribed into English, were thus: ‘Holyshitholyshitholyshit.’ His heart skipped a beat as he saw not merely the pitbull but also its master. The squirrel knew the beast’s keeper as the vilest profusion of malevolence ever to walk the Earth, the most sinful harbinger of debauchery in all the circles of hell, a terror who made the likes of Cthulhu seem like Oscar the Grouch.
It was little Tommy Johnson from across the street.
The archfiend stroked his underling as a man would pet his dog; the squirrel shivered in horror. The squirrel could only imagine what profane horrors were in store, what devil the Beelzebub had set aside. His worst fears were confirmed when out of the boy’s pocket came the most terrifying implement of violence ever devised. No beast on land nor bird in air nor fish in the sea had ever matched the power of this weapon to end all weapons: the mighty rock and slingshot.
Emitting a shriek of primal terror, the squirrel fled upward. He chattered in distress as he ascended to the apex of the mighty oak. To his horror, could not get high enough. The tree, a mere ten feet tall, was a death trap. The squirrel curled into a protective ball as the deadly barrage began. Each sickening crack of stone on wood was louder, closer than the last. He knew the end was upon him and had resigned to his fate. His life flashed before his eyes. Surely, death couldn’t be that bad; he had seen his friends die every day trying to cross the great gray Sea of Death.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rain of pebbles ceased.
Did he dare open his eyes? Did he dare look at what final torture would be used by Tommy the Terrible? He did. He opened his eyes, and the darkness was lit up by a candescent glimmer of hope. The boy had run out of ammunition. The squirrel knew, because Tommy was kneeling in the grass looking for more rocks with which to end the small sciurid. Seizing his chance, the squirrel bounded down the tree trunk, tearing across the ten yards of grass between himself and the tall pine. Had any Indy cars been in the vicinity, he knew their paint jobs would have become bright red with jealousy. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; his heart pounded in time with his feet. He was going to make it! He was going to make it!
He felt a sharp tug on his tail and hit the ground. Rolling over, he saw Murphy’s Law had violently asserted itself as his master. The stinking, slavering pitbull had him pinned by his tail. He could feel the dragon’s fetid breath on his fur as its head loomed in front of him. The leviathan’s ugly mug gave birth to a wet glob of saliva, which then proceeded to fall on the squirrel, covering him in drool. There was only one way out that he could see. Only one chance of escape.
In a flurry of desperation, the squirrel sprang upward and bit down with all his might. Letting out sharp yelps of pain, the dog shook him about. He rode the beast like an epic hero. He was hanging on for dear life to assert himself as master. A few yards away, Tommy stared in awe, or so the squirrel liked to think. Emboldened, he bit down harder, hoping to draw his quarry’s blood. The dog roared and shook, trying to force his prey-turned-attacker to dismount. The squirrel held on for all he was worth, but it was not enough. The pitbull threw him. He hit the pine tree – he had been so close to escaping up it, to getting out of range of those terrible stones! – with a thud. So this was it. He awaited death with a steely gaze forward.
The pitbull approached him once more with murderous intent. Malice aforethought was evident in the eyes of the demon. The squirrel heard, then, a strange, feminine voice. The dog looked away as a piercing whistle emanated from the same direction. What fresh hell was this? What creature was so formidable as to make even the mighty pitbull heed its words? Our hero dared to risk a glance at the one who had spoken.
The woman was about thirty and wore a pink dress with a tasteful floral pattern adorning the hem. A chain studded with pearls adorned the bulging isthmus of a neck from which her head sprouted. A mole was the prominent feature on her face. The squirrel assumed it served to draw the gaze away from those unfortunate hairs that sprouted out of her chin. The woman opened her mouth and roared in some devilish tongue at Tommy and the dog. The boy whined petulantly, but she had brought the big guns. She stamped her foot and pointed at the fence. Tommy made a dejected noise. He and the dog loped off in defeat towards their house. Not bothering to look back or even to count his blessings, the squirrel scampered up the tree and promptly forgot about the whole affair.

DA NA NA NA NA NA NA BATMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!

That was excellent.

[Jenrak]

Tiny Dancer by Elton John is playing in the background. The music is muffled out by the rain. He’s standing there, just with his shoes deep in the mud under the derelict shack by the road.

He’s standing in the mud, trying to keep an even footing. He smells of alcohol and cheap cologne. The air was cold and dry. His lips taste of blood and all he smells is cigarette smoke. “The hell are you doing?!” An older man squirms with his left hand caught in the noose. The devil can’t pull him out.

He’s mumbling the words while his palms are bloody with the rough rope. The old man is stomping his feet, but he ignores it. There’s mud everywhere, and they slip, but the he keeps a strong set of hands on the rope. He keeps a strong set of hands when he presses the rope tighter against the old man’s neck.

Fumbling. Twitching. Jerking. Then, it stops. He’s good with his hands.

---

Young Girl is playing in his head. She places her hands around his face. Her cold palms touch his cheeks, and he jumps a bit. He loves those cold palms, and holds them tight to his face. He notices long lines on her arms, but he ignores it.

She smiles, looking up at him. He’s tall and young and powerful, with periwinkle eyes and goldenrod hair. His fingers touch hers, and within an instant, warmth cascades throughout their hands. He touches her arms and pulls her down, and she sits. She obeys. She listens and follows.

She’s used to it.

Cars drive by, and the two of them look at the legs of businessmen walk by. The blur of cars beneath rainfall becomes their mural. She looks at him, holding her hand out. It shakes a little, but she stays strong.

He’s taken aback by his smile, and he hums a few words in his mind to her. Is that a song? She asks him. He nods, and she drifts off into her own world listening to his humming. Nobody pays attention to them.

---

His castle is only a few meters by a few meters. It’s lined with cobwebs and wires and smells of rainfall. It has a single mattress, with four caving wooden walls. Laundry hangs carelessly outside on a makeshift balcony, overlooking shantytowns as far as the eye can see. She looks at the place, and purses her lips, but she continues. She coughs a bit at the dust, but ignores it.

His hands are pressed against her shoulder, and she places her hands against his cheeks again. He loves those cold palms, and holds them tight to his face.

He gives her a ring. It smells of blood and scratched with glass. There is no velvet box – he just hands it to her, and her eyes light up. It wraps around her fingers perfectly. A small shard nicks her finger, and blood it drawn. They patch it up quickly.

It’s a ring, but it’s his. She takes it and holds it close to her chest. This is the bounty of her freedom, and she is the bounty of his kindness.

---

Rain pours down through the cracks and the droplets kiss her lips. She wakes up that morning to a small room with no heating and plumbing, and wrestles out of his strong, sleeping clasp. She gets the clothes from outside, drenched, and lights a fire in barrel in the center of the room. He stirs, but doesn’t wake up. She clutches her side a bit, but it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. Her head, however, still feels dizzy.

She’s humming Stand by Me, leaving for the service office in the rain. He wakes up, but doesn’t see her. She kisses him, and then stifles a cough. She wipes her hands clean with the water they have there. It’s cold rainwater, nothing more.

---

He’s sitting by the lake, singing Tiny Dancer to himself. You have a beautiful voice, she says behind him, and he looks around, seeing her there.

Who are you? He asks. She’s enmeshed in the background of the beautiful park. He doesn’t have the words for it, but she has the words for him. She smiles, and whispers in his ears, and he looks at her with only the faintest grin.

---

She’s walking along to the unemployment line. The old man finds him, and she runs at first, but he catches her. She screams, but there’s nobody here in the morning. The roads are empty and fog shrouds the city in a ghostly white blanket.

He wakes up, and doesn’t see her. He waits, but she doesn’t come. He grits his teeth and punches the wall. The cuts on his hand begin to open up again. There’s still a little bit of glass in his fingers.

He goes to her house. He’s never allowed him. She doesn’t see him from the windows, but he sees the silhouette, and listens to the sound of her piano through the open window. There are no words to describe her song, just as there were no words to describe her. He walks away, and his fury boils.

---

He’s sitting at the park by the lake when he sees the cemetery by the lake. He’s humming Hallelujah when he sees the old man. He knows this old man.

The old man’s going to the cemetery. However, she wasn’t there.

After the funeral, he checks the cemetery. The tombstone leers back to him with nihilism. He misunderstands, and his fists clench.

---

The night after the old man died, he returned to the cemetery. He didn’t have much time. The dirt was heavy with rainwater. He could barely maintain a grip with his shovel. But it was okay. He was good with his hands.

He opens the coffin, and with a last, weak smile, he had cold palms upon his cheeks one last time.

[Astrolinium]

Tiny Dancer by Elton John is playing in the background. The music is muffled out by the rain. He’s standing there, just with his shoes deep in the mud under the derelict shack by the road.

He’s standing in the mud, trying to keep an even footing. He smells of alcohol and cheap cologne. The air was cold and dry. His lips taste of blood and all he smells is cigarette smoke. “The hell are you doing?!” An older man squirms with his left hand caught in the noose. The devil can’t pull him out.

He’s mumbling the words while his palms are bloody with the rough rope. The old man is stomping his feet, but he ignores it. There’s mud everywhere, and they slip, but the he keeps a strong set of hands on the rope. He keeps a strong set of hands when he presses the rope tighter against the old man’s neck.

Fumbling. Twitching. Jerking. Then, it stops. He’s good with his hands.

---

Young Girl is playing in his head. She places her hands around his face. Her cold palms touch his cheeks, and he jumps a bit. He loves those cold palms, and holds them tight to his face. He notices long lines on her arms, but he ignores it.

She smiles, looking up at him. He’s tall and young and powerful, with periwinkle eyes and goldenrod hair. His fingers touch hers, and within an instant, warmth cascades throughout their hands. He touches her arms and pulls her down, and she sits. She obeys. She listens and follows.

She’s used to it.

Cars drive by, and the two of them look at the legs of businessmen walk by. The blur of cars beneath rainfall becomes their mural. She looks at him, holding her hand out. It shakes a little, but she stays strong.

He’s taken aback by his smile, and he hums a few words in his mind to her. Is that a song? She asks him. He nods, and she drifts off into her own world listening to his humming. Nobody pays attention to them.

---

His castle is only a few meters by a few meters. It’s lined with cobwebs and wires and smells of rainfall. It has a single mattress, with four caving wooden walls. Laundry hangs carelessly outside on a makeshift balcony, overlooking shantytowns as far as the eye can see. She looks at the place, and purses her lips, but she continues. She coughs a bit at the dust, but ignores it.

His hands are pressed against her shoulder, and she places her hands against his cheeks again. He loves those cold palms, and holds them tight to his face.

He gives her a ring. It smells of blood and scratched with glass. There is no velvet box – he just hands it to her, and her eyes light up. It wraps around her fingers perfectly. A small shard nicks her finger, and blood it drawn. They patch it up quickly.

It’s a ring, but it’s his. She takes it and holds it close to her chest. This is the bounty of her freedom, and she is the bounty of his kindness.

---

Rain pours down through the cracks and the droplets kiss her lips. She wakes up that morning to a small room with no heating and plumbing, and wrestles out of his strong, sleeping clasp. She gets the clothes from outside, drenched, and lights a fire in barrel in the center of the room. He stirs, but doesn’t wake up. She clutches her side a bit, but it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. Her head, however, still feels dizzy.

She’s humming Stand by Me, leaving for the service office in the rain. He wakes up, but doesn’t see her. She kisses him, and then stifles a cough. She wipes her hands clean with the water they have there. It’s cold rainwater, nothing more.

---

He’s sitting by the lake, singing Tiny Dancer to himself. You have a beautiful voice, she says behind him, and he looks around, seeing her there.

Who are you? He asks. She’s enmeshed in the background of the beautiful park. He doesn’t have the words for it, but she has the words for him. She smiles, and whispers in his ears, and he looks at her with only the faintest grin.

---

She’s walking along to the unemployment line. The old man finds him, and she runs at first, but he catches her. She screams, but there’s nobody here in the morning. The roads are empty and fog shrouds the city in a ghostly white blanket.

He wakes up, and doesn’t see her. He waits, but she doesn’t come. He grits his teeth and punches the wall. The cuts on his hand begin to open up again. There’s still a little bit of glass in his fingers.

He goes to her house. He’s never allowed him. She doesn’t see him from the windows, but he sees the silhouette, and listens to the sound of her piano through the open window. There are no words to describe her song, just as there were no words to describe her. He walks away, and his fury boils.

---

He’s sitting at the park by the lake when he sees the cemetery by the lake. He’s humming Hallelujah when he sees the old man. He knows this old man.

The old man’s going to the cemetery. However, she wasn’t there.

After the funeral, he checks the cemetery. The tombstone leers back to him with nihilism. He misunderstands, and his fists clench.

---

The night after the old man died, he returned to the cemetery. He didn’t have much time. The dirt was heavy with rainwater. He could barely maintain a grip with his shovel. But it was okay. He was good with his hands.

He opens the coffin, and with a last, weak smile, he had cold palms upon his cheeks one last time.

Wow.

[Conserative Morality]

Updated. Norstal's not going to be happy.