WINTER 2015 SHORT STORY CONTEST

[Insaeldor]

So is their any set time to start submitting or can you submit stories whenever up until the deadline?

[Norstal]

So is their any set time to start submitting or can you submit stories whenever up until the deadline?

Submit whenever.

I'd like to be a back-up judge, though I hope I won't be needed.

[Nazi Flower Power]

I'd like to be a back-up judge, though I hope I won't be needed.

I'm optimistic about that, but I'll go ahead and put you down as a back-up.

[Gigaverse]

Signing up. Where will I be writing? :3

[Nazi Flower Power]

Signing up. Where will I be writing? :3

If you want to enter, you just post a story in this thread. It's nice if you spoiler it.

[Vancon]

Hello again.

Once more onto the breach I suppose.

[Forsher]

So is their any set time to start submitting or can you submit stories whenever up until the deadline?

Whenever. Just copy and past your story from wherever you've written it into a spoiler and click submit.

[Bunkeranlage]

Seems nice. I'll be submitting a story ASAP.

[Krytonus]

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.

By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say. I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.
I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.

How did I get here?

It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complemented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.

He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it, but with the economy and the petrol prices and everything he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was OK, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.

I couldn’t.

I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give the apartment up. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.

That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wisened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected eight Euro and thirty-seven cents that day.

It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me thirty euro. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s OK. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.
I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways. That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.

A little information.

I am fifteen years old, living in Dublin and this is my submission to an Irish Times competition for Secondary School students. Teachers, etc have been saying it's pretty good, so I just wanted to see what you guys would think.

There's no determined setting, but I wrote it as I would write about Dublin.
Thanks!

[Nazi Flower Power]

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.
By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say. I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.
I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.
How did I get here?
It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complemented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.
He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it, but with the economy and the petrol prices and everything he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was OK, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.
I couldn’t.
I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give the apartment up. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.
That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wisened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected eight Euro and thirty-seven cents that day.
It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me thirty euro. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s OK. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.
I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways. That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.

A little information.

I am fifteen years old, living in Dublin and this is my submission to an Irish Times competition for Secondary School students. Teachers, etc have been saying it's pretty good, so I just wanted to see what you guys would think.

There's no determined setting, but I wrote it as I would write about Dublin.
Thanks!

Yay! A story!

Not "yay" for homelessness, though.

[Krytonus]

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.
By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say. I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.
I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.
How did I get here?
It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complemented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.
He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it, but with the economy and the petrol prices and everything he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was OK, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.
I couldn’t.
I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give the apartment up. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.
That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wisened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected eight Euro and thirty-seven cents that day.
It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me thirty euro. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s OK. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.
I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways. That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.

A little information.

I am fifteen years old, living in Dublin and this is my submission to an Irish Times competition for Secondary School students. Teachers, etc have been saying it's pretty good, so I just wanted to see what you guys would think.

There's no determined setting, but I wrote it as I would write about Dublin.
Thanks!

Yay! A story!

Not "yay" for homelessness, though.

No, not really.

[Bunkeranlage]

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.
By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say. I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.
I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.
How did I get here?
It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complemented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.
He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it, but with the economy and the petrol prices and everything he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was OK, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.
I couldn’t.
I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give the apartment up. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.
That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wisened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected eight Euro and thirty-seven cents that day.
It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me thirty euro. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s OK. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.
I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways. That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.

A little information.

I am fifteen years old, living in Dublin and this is my submission to an Irish Times competition for Secondary School students. Teachers, etc have been saying it's pretty good, so I just wanted to see what you guys would think.

There's no determined setting, but I wrote it as I would write about Dublin.
Thanks!

Not bad, though it might be better if you made the paragraphing more distinct.

[Krytonus]

I tug harder on the worn edges of the fabric, wrapping myself further in my torn, patchwork coat in a desperate bid to warm myself. A fine mist spills out in front of me at every breath. The city is silent now. All the street vendors have packed up their stalls, all the busy shoppers have returned home, and the once full car parks stand still and empty. The streets are desolate, apart from the odd drunk shambling home, or a stray dog poking its nose into an upturned bin. As I make my way slowly down the street, I feel desperately alone, despite the fact that behind those windows and walls and doors are hundreds of thousands of people. But I am not like them.
By day, men in suits turn their noses at the sight of me, people cross the street to avoid me and tired mothers drag their children away from me. I am an outcast. It is my own fault, they say. I am too lazy to get a job, or I spend all my money on alcohol and drugs. I am a bad person, they might say. Better on the streets than working in our schools and homes and businesses.
I bring my cupped hands to my face and blow in the hopes of preventing the dull numb feeling that is creeping through the fingers. My boots are still wet from the rain earlier and there is slight squelch as I walk. I have given up hope of keeping my feet from going numb, and simply hope I will still be able to walk at a manageable speed.
How did I get here?
It was not the highest paying of jobs, I will admit, but it was a job. It was enough for me. I could afford a little apartment and I had enough left over for dinners. I had liked it too. I was good at gardening. I had never been good at maths or writing or languages, but gardening, now that was something I was good at! I could grow the brightest roses and I knew the best anti-weed techniques. I knew which flowers best complemented violets and where to get the best seeds, but a gardener is just not all that important a job.
He had been nice about it, and I knew he didn’t want to let me go. He had given me three weeks wages, which was much more than he was required to, which was very kind of him. He had tried to explain that he didn’t want to do it, but with the economy and the petrol prices and everything he couldn’t afford to keep me on and do the tulips and how they really were lovely tulips but he just had to make some cuts and all that. It was OK, I didn’t blame him. I could find more work, I told him.
I couldn’t.
I was able to keep the apartment for a few more weeks, paying rent with what I’d got left. I didn’t have much in the bank. It was November when I had to give the apartment up. It had been hard, seeing it go. I had spent a long time in that apartment. I grew my own tomatoes on the windowsill. It had been a small, slightly smelly little place, but I had loved it all the same. I went easily. I had taken my gardening boots, my wallet, my old watch, a pair of gloves, a change of clothes, my hat and of course my coat. The nice man who owned the apartment had let me take my time, say goodbye to the old place. We had shaken hands and gone our separate ways.
That first November was the worst month. I didn’t know what to do. I had been foolish enough to spend most of my money staying in a hotel until I could find another job, and within a week I had run out of money. It had surprised even me how utterly unprepared I was. I spent the first two days just wandering the city hoping for a miracle, a job application that fell from the sky with double my old wages. When I slipped on ice and almost broken my knee I had wisened up. I spent a day trying to find a good place, and I eventually settled on a pedestrian bridge over the river where lots of people pass by. So, I had sat down, wrapped my coat around myself and placed my hat down in front of me. I collected eight Euro and thirty-seven cents that day.
It’s January now, and things aren’t any better. I had gotten a little bit more money over Christmas, when everybody was a lot more generous. One nice young man had given me thirty euro. But now, the magic of the holidays was gone and replaced with a cold bitterness. People don’t have time for me. They are focused on their jobs and their cars and the newspapers, and that’s OK. If I was still gardening I know I’d be the same. I didn’t judge anybody. It would solve nothing.
I had failed in keeping my hands warm, and they’re red and throbbing. I plunge them deeper into my pockets. It’s much colder tonight and my legs feel like they don’t belong to me. My walking is wobbly and shaky. I know I can’t go any further, so I cross the road to where there are arches in the doorways. That will shelter me, at least somewhat. I am having trouble keeping my eyes open, and I’ve just noticed I’m shaking. I crouch down in the cover of the arch and make myself as compact as I can with my back the way it is. I blow on my fingers again and wrap my coat further around myself, but I do not feel the cold anymore. I do not really feel much of anything anymore, although I am still shaking. There’s no point in worrying about it now. There’s no way I could walk anywhere else even if I tried. I close my eyes.

A little information.

I am fifteen years old, living in Dublin and this is my submission to an Irish Times competition for Secondary School students. Teachers, etc have been saying it's pretty good, so I just wanted to see what you guys would think.

There's no determined setting, but I wrote it as I would write about Dublin.
Thanks!

Not bad, though it might be better if you made the paragraphing more distinct.

Oh, yeah. I copied and pasted from word, it was better in the document.

[Forsher]

Not bad, though it might be better if you made the paragraphing more distinct.

Oh, yeah. I copied and pasted from word, it was better in the document.

You've just got to go through and press enter again for where you want the paragraphs. It still probably won't look quite how you wanted it to but it does help.

[Krytonus]

All fixed.

[Bunkeranlage]

He didn't have an identity.

Faceless figures hastily crossed the streets and went on their way along the pedestrian walkways. The Young Man wearily pulled himself along the road, the collars of his trench coat blowing gently in the wind. The streets of the City were a comfortable cooling temperature, like the inside of a wine cellar. As clusters of people fluttered about the clean streets, the 5 o’clock sun shed its gentle rays on all, providing the faintest wisps of warmth.

There was, of course, the option of taking a bus. That definitely would not work out, though. The Young Man knew that. With only 23 dollars left in his wallet, unnecessary costs were out of the question.

He still had numerous questions clamouring inside his mind. So many questions, and all of them remained unanswered…

There would come a time to have them resolved, but it was not now. The Young Man could feel his stomach quivering disturbingly, a hideous sourish taste forming in the deep end of his oesophagus. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

A number of streets down was a general store, displaying a number of trays stacked with fresh produce. As the Young Man took slow, tired steps down the walkway, he could smell the faintest fragrance of some fruits of a sort. The beautiful, heavenly aroma of some nameless ambrosia.

Stepping into the store, the Young Man was greeted to the smell of citrus fruits. A middle aged woman sat behind the counter, chopping limes and tossing the chunks into a bowl. As soon as she saw him, the scruffy man in a beige trench coat, she looked up from her task and scowled at him squarely.

“What can I do for you?”

The Young Man shifted his gaze about the store a little awkwardly. He knew what he wanted, he just didn’t know how to put it. It was a basal desire for some innate need, and he didn’t know how else to put it.

“Could I have something to eat?”

The woman snorted grouchily, stabbing the knife into the knife rack. She was, generally, more amicable to people who knew what they wanted.

“Wow, yeah, real descriptive of you. I mean, what do you want to buy?”

“It doesn’t matter, I just need something to eat.”

“Well, then you have to tell me what you want to eat, no?”

“Just give me anything, I’ll eat anything.”

“I can’t give you “anything”, young man.”

The Young Man was at a loss for words. Somehow, he just didn’t get it. When somebody asked for food, how hard was it to just give him food?

Nevertheless, the obnoxious shopkeeper wanted him to specifically ask for something, and there wasn’t much else he could do. Taking a chilled sandwich and a bottle of sweetened coffee, the Young Man made his way to the counter, gingerly passing the two to the woman, who reluctantly scanned them and returned it to him.

Twenty one dollars left.

Trudging down the streets, the Young Man eventually came to a bench just overlooking the road, sitting down and unwrapping the sandwich. It was dry and flaky, but it would have to do. At least he had the coffee, which he planned to keep for as long as possible. Swallowing mouthfuls of dry sandwich with the occasional sip of grossly over-sweetened coffee, the Young Man could gradually feel his empty belly filling up again.

Of course, he knew that it was only temporary. It was five thirty, and in just one and a half hours, the sun would set. Yet, he didn’t know of any place where he could rest. This bench could work, but it seemed a little too… public. There was a group of people crowded around the bench. For some reason, though, they didn’t seem too happy. That didn’t bother the Young Man. At least, until a fat, hairy hand thumped down beside him.

“Hey you! Who gave you permission to sit here and eat?”

The Young Man was taken by surprise at the man’s question. Why couldn’t he sit there? It was just an inconspicuous bench in the middle of nowhere.

“Are you ignoring me? This is a taxi stand, and this seat is only for those queuing up for taxis!”

With such hostility, the Young Man reasoned, perhaps it wasn’t such a great idea to sit there any longer. Standing up and shoving the last morsel of the sandwich into his mouth, the Young Man hastily apologised to the less than happy people crowded around the bench, making his way off.

Strange, how people could find faults with other people for simply sitting on a bench and eating a sandwich. If he only had his memories, perhaps the whole ordeal could be much easier. That luxury wasn’t granted to him. His only instincts were the very basics. Nothing else.

7:33 PM. The sky was already beginning to transition from glorious red to a bleak bluish hue, a few remaining wisps of the dying day lingering on just a bit longer. By this time, the traffic on the roads had worsened. Noisy cars clogged up every single street along the urban road, presumably headed for their homes elsewhere. Yet the Young Man still had not found a place to rest.

Clutching the half finished bottle of coffee, the Young Man, his joints burning from the strain of a long day of walking, made his way around the city, trying to find a place to spend the night. The temperature was dropping rapidly, evident from the bursts of mist that puffed everywhere as people all around breathed. Tucking his hands into his trench coat, the destitute vagabond dragged himself around the maze of concrete, glass and steel, his hope flickering like a dying candle.

He did not dare to take the benches, lest the regular users chastise him again. While they had spent much of their lives in the city, he was just a wanderer, and a wanderer with no memory. No recollections, not even a name. To himself, he was just… himself. Nothing else.

Leaving the central business district, the Young Man soon reached a park. A park, the perfect place to spend the night. After all, there were bathrooms just a little further in, where he could wash up. Going in and washing his face, the Young Man could feel the exhilarating sensation of freezing yet refreshing water splashing on his face, washing off the dust accumulated from the long day of walking around in the noisy, polluted business district.

Now came the problem of sleeping. Despite having had a bad experience with benches, his reasoning was that motorised vehicles couldn’t drive into a park, and therefore, the bench wasn’t “reserved” for anybody in particular.

Taking another sip from his slowly emptying bottle, the Young Man lay down on the bench, his heavy eyelids closing of their own accord. Taking in deep breaths and curling up to keep warm, the Young Man slowly began to drift to sleep…

“Get up! You can’t sleep in the park!”

The voice was totally unexpected. Sitting up groggily, the Young Man looked about to see where the voice came from, only to have a torch shine in his face. A man in a blue uniform stepped out from behind a tree, pointing to the exit of the park. “Sleeping in public areas is strictly against the law, sir. I'm afraid you'll have to go away.”

There was no argument left. It was obvious that this man was in a position of authority, and it was pointless to argue against the rules of the city, no matter how strange and pointless. And thus, the Young Man finished his sweetened coffee and made his way out of the park, dejected and despondent.

A long night awaited him.

Interestingly, it's also got some degree of the "homeless man" motif in it.

For the record, English is my second language, my first being Mandarin Chinese.

[Furry Alairia and Algeria]

Just dropping in, maybe here to post something, stay and watch like a rat, and enjoy some coffee and cookies.

[Australian Antarctica]

Might enter. Love to read the other entries too.

[Shaggai]

Story is proceeding nicely. I should have an entry, although I make no promises about quality.

[Nazi Flower Power]

He didn't have an identity.

Faceless figures hastily crossed the streets and went on their way along the pedestrian walkways. The Young Man wearily pulled himself along the road, the collars of his trench coat blowing gently in the wind. The streets of the City were a comfortable cooling temperature, like the inside of a wine cellar. As clusters of people fluttered about the clean streets, the 5 o’clock sun shed its gentle rays on all, providing the faintest wisps of warmth.

There was, of course, the option of taking a bus. That definitely would not work out, though. The Young Man knew that. With only 23 dollars left in his wallet, unnecessary costs were out of the question.

He still had numerous questions clamouring inside his mind. So many questions, and all of them remained unanswered…

There would come a time to have them resolved, but it was not now. The Young Man could feel his stomach quivering disturbingly, a hideous sourish taste forming in the deep end of his oesophagus. He knew exactly what he needed to do.

A number of streets down was a general store, displaying a number of trays stacked with fresh produce. As the Young Man took slow, tired steps down the walkway, he could smell the faintest fragrance of some fruits of a sort. The beautiful, heavenly aroma of some nameless ambrosia.

Stepping into the store, the Young Man was greeted to the smell of citrus fruits. A middle aged woman sat behind the counter, chopping limes and tossing the chunks into a bowl. As soon as she saw him, the scruffy man in a beige trench coat, she looked up from her task and scowled at him squarely.

“What can I do for you?”

The Young Man shifted his gaze about the store a little awkwardly. He knew what he wanted, he just didn’t know how to put it. It was a basal desire for some innate need, and he didn’t know how else to put it.

“Could I have something to eat?”

The woman snorted grouchily, stabbing the knife into the knife rack. She was, generally, more amicable to people who knew what they wanted.

“Wow, yeah, real descriptive of you. I mean, what do you want to buy?”

“It doesn’t matter, I just need something to eat.”

“Well, then you have to tell me what you want to eat, no?”

“Just give me anything, I’ll eat anything.”

“I can’t give you “anything”, young man.”

The Young Man was at a loss for words. Somehow, he just didn’t get it. When somebody asked for food, how hard was it to just give him food?

Nevertheless, the obnoxious shopkeeper wanted him to specifically ask for something, and there wasn’t much else he could do. Taking a chilled sandwich and a bottle of sweetened coffee, the Young Man made his way to the counter, gingerly passing the two to the woman, who reluctantly scanned them and returned it to him.

Twenty one dollars left.

Trudging down the streets, the Young Man eventually came to a bench just overlooking the road, sitting down and unwrapping the sandwich. It was dry and flaky, but it would have to do. At least he had the coffee, which he planned to keep for as long as possible. Swallowing mouthfuls of dry sandwich with the occasional sip of grossly over-sweetened coffee, the Young Man could gradually feel his empty belly filling up again.

Of course, he knew that it was only temporary. It was five thirty, and in just one and a half hours, the sun would set. Yet, he didn’t know of any place where he could rest. This bench could work, but it seemed a little too… public. There was a group of people crowded around the bench. For some reason, though, they didn’t seem too happy. That didn’t bother the Young Man. At least, until a fat, hairy hand thumped down beside him.

“Hey you! Who gave you permission to sit here and eat?”

The Young Man was taken by surprise at the man’s question. Why couldn’t he sit there? It was just an inconspicuous bench in the middle of nowhere.

“Are you ignoring me? This is a taxi stand, and this seat is only for those queuing up for taxis!”

With such hostility, the Young Man reasoned, perhaps it wasn’t such a great idea to sit there any longer. Standing up and shoving the last morsel of the sandwich into his mouth, the Young Man hastily apologised to the less than happy people crowded around the bench, making his way off.

Strange, how people could find faults with other people for simply sitting on a bench and eating a sandwich. If he only had his memories, perhaps the whole ordeal could be much easier. That luxury wasn’t granted to him. His only instincts were the very basics. Nothing else.

7:33 PM. The sky was already beginning to transition from glorious red to a bleak bluish hue, a few remaining wisps of the dying day lingering on just a bit longer. By this time, the traffic on the roads had worsened. Noisy cars clogged up every single street along the urban road, presumably headed for their homes elsewhere. Yet the Young Man still had not found a place to rest.

Clutching the half finished bottle of coffee, the Young Man, his joints burning from the strain of a long day of walking, made his way around the city, trying to find a place to spend the night. The temperature was dropping rapidly, evident from the bursts of mist that puffed everywhere as people all around breathed. Tucking his hands into his trench coat, the destitute vagabond dragged himself around the maze of concrete, glass and steel, his hope flickering like a dying candle.

He did not dare to take the benches, lest the regular users chastise him again. While they had spent much of their lives in the city, he was just a wanderer, and a wanderer with no memory. No recollections, not even a name. To himself, he was just… himself. Nothing else.

Leaving the central business district, the Young Man soon reached a park. A park, the perfect place to spend the night. After all, there were bathrooms just a little further in, where he could wash up. Going in and washing his face, the Young Man could feel the exhilarating sensation of freezing yet refreshing water splashing on his face, washing off the dust accumulated from the long day of walking around in the noisy, polluted business district.

Now came the problem of sleeping. Despite having had a bad experience with benches, his reasoning was that motorised vehicles couldn’t drive into a park, and therefore, the bench wasn’t “reserved” for anybody in particular.

Taking another sip from his slowly emptying bottle, the Young Man lay down on the bench, his heavy eyelids closing of their own accord. Taking in deep breaths and curling up to keep warm, the Young Man slowly began to drift to sleep…

“Get up! You can’t sleep in the park!”

The voice was totally unexpected. Sitting up groggily, the Young Man looked about to see where the voice came from, only to have a torch shine in his face. A man in a blue uniform stepped out from behind a tree, pointing to the exit of the park. “It’s against the law to sleep in the park!”

There was no argument left. It was obvious that this man was in a position of authority, and it was pointless to argue against the rules of the city, no matter how strange and pointless. And thus, the Young Man finished his sweetened coffee and made his way out of the park, dejected and despondent.

A long night awaited him.

Interestingly, it's also got some degree of the "homeless man" motif in it.

For the record, English is my second language, my first being Mandarin Chinese.

Sometimes that happens where a few people will just be on the same wavelength and write about similar topics.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Might enter. Love to read the other entries too.

I always wonder how many people actually read them.

The story I was writing for this contest has gone over 6000 words, I don't think I can tell the story in less than 7000, and now that it's too long for the contest, I'll probably just go ahead and expand it further.

The good news is that I came up with a plan B, so I should still have something to enter.

[Vancon]

Might enter. Love to read the other entries too.

I always wonder how many people actually read them.

The story I was writing for this contest has gone over 6000 words, I don't think I can tell the story in less than 7000, and now that it's too long for the contest, I'll probably just go ahead and expand it further.

The good news is that I came up with a plan B, so I should still have something to enter.

When I marked the stories, I had to share a couple of them just because I liked 'em too much. Some of them weren't that good, score wise, but I still liked 'em.

Not to mention Laerod's court story, which was grand.

[Nazi Flower Power]

I always wonder how many people actually read them.

The story I was writing for this contest has gone over 6000 words, I don't think I can tell the story in less than 7000, and now that it's too long for the contest, I'll probably just go ahead and expand it further.

The good news is that I came up with a plan B, so I should still have something to enter.

When I marked the stories, I had to share a couple of them just because I liked 'em too much. Some of them weren't that good, score wise, but I still liked 'em.

Not to mention Laerod's court story, which was grand.

That's good to hear.

[Laerod]

I mild heads up: I don't read any stories until the deadline. I like to think it keeps the judgment fairer.

When I marked the stories, I had to share a couple of them just because I liked 'em too much. Some of them weren't that good, score wise, but I still liked 'em.

Not to mention Laerod's court story, which was grand.

=3

[Nazi Flower Power]

I mild heads up: I don't read any stories until the deadline. I like to think it keeps the judgment fairer.

No problem. It also ensures that if people edit their entries before the deadline, you are judging the final version.