# May 2014 - LM - The Conversation



## Fin (May 1, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread


*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​The Conversation​



The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*Gavrushka*; *Folcro*; *Tryve*; *danielstj*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.


Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Wednesday, the 14th of May at 11:59 PM, GMT+1 time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Greimour (May 1, 2014)

*Masqeurade*

Dorian hadn’t been in such a grubby bar in years. Smoke stained ceilings with shadowy corners and men with dubious looking characteristics. The place seemed to come straight out of a cheap eighties movie. Despite everything it seemed quite appropriate. What better place to meet a self-proclaimed terrorist.

Looking around the bar, Dorian struggled to find the man he was there to meet. The instruction had been simple but finding his quarry was another matter.

“Dorian Holt? Mr Grey asked me to point you in his direction.”

Shuddering at the gentle touch in the small of his back, Dorian allowed the woman to guide him towards the darkest corner of the room. A quick exchange of glances and smiles between Grey and the waitress caught Dorian’s eye but he pretended he hadn’t noticed.

“Mr Holt. So glad you made it. Have any troubles getting here?”

“No. Thank you. The directions you had sent over proved to be more than adequate. You were quite right by the way; my GPS couldn’t find this place.”

“As I said in our E-mail correspondence - this area seems to have missed the technological advances.”

Unsure how to reply, Dorian just gave a small smile and a weak nod.

“Shall we get down to business then, Mr Holt?”

“Call me Dorian, please.”

“Ah, but I can’t, Mr Holt.” He answered as he smiled back, “When talking business, last names only. When talking pleasure and fun, that’s when first names have their uses.”

Nodding in understanding, Dorian cleared his throat. “To business then. Is it true you admitted online to being a Terrorist? I failed to find any such confession when I was told about you.”

“Ha! I certainly did and why not? I am a terrorist after all.”

“Pardon me but, you don’t exactly exude fear or terror. I half expected to meet a half crazed madman from the stories I’ve heard.”

“And what’s to say you haven’t met such a person? Appearances aren’t everything Mr Holt. The most terrifying thing of all is being duped by innocent looking people.”

“I suppose that is true, I can’t imagine it though. You seem quite proud of making people feel fear. Don’t you feel any guilt?”

“Why would I? I gain immense pleasure from it” Mr Grey answered smiling.

“Is that why you do it? For the pleasure..?”

“Partly perhaps… Mostly, if I am honest I do it for the money. I gain equal pleasure from other pursuits.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense… a little surprised it amounts to money though.”

“Causing terror in other people is a reward in and of itself. Higher terror means more pay though, so naturally I do my best to instil as much fear as possible.”

“More pay for more terror? Like a commission?”

“Yes, I suppose. The more people I put the fear into, the more people that admire what I do; the more people that like what I do; the more _commission_ I get for doing it.”

“Now that you mention it, seems kind of obvious. What would you say the best job is that you’ve done?”

“A murder in Paris was easily my best work. Other people may disagree, but it was pure genius.”

“My partner told me about some of your work. She said the bombing in London was a work of art.”

“Did she really? Tell you what then, just for her, bring a copy next time we meet and I will sign it for her.”

“Really? That would be great!”

“Sure, would be a pleasure.” Mr Grey beamed, “Can I ask a question though? …is this your first time interviewing someone?”

“Well, it’s my first time interviewing a terrorist…”

As a smile began to spread across both their faces before the pair finally burst into laughter.

“That was fun.” Dorian sighed, “Next time you be the reporter; you were a terrible terrorist.”


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## spartan928 (May 1, 2014)

*Kill It & Grill It*
  (464 words, language warning)


  "This here the spot Jeb?"

  "Nope, just ahead. Get there near dark."

  "Can hardly see now."

  "Just head straight. Keep the ridge in your sight."

  "Can I ask you something Jeb?"

  "Yep."

  "What's it like? I mean, what's it like to kill something like that?"

  "Well, I've hunted damn near everything Bud. Ain't nothing as sharp and cunning as them beasts. Just comes down to the challenge of it I guess."

  "You scared?"

  "'Course I was. Ain't no man alive could face a creature like that and not have the fear a God run up him. Was none too easy to track the son of a bitch, but I baited him long enough to lure him into the snare. He weren't goin' nowhere when I came up on him. Lord, them eyes. Those red, devilish eyes and that howl. Christ all fuckin' mighty it shook me. But I put him down quick. Three thirty-eight caliber in the head."

  "You use a silver bullet?"

  "Ha-ha, hell no. That’s bullshit. Plain old hollow tip. Blew out the back of his skull. Ain't nothin' gonna keep on walking when his brains are sprayed out all over God's creation."

  "You bury it?"

  "Bud, If there's one thing I ain't never done, that's kill something for sport. Nope, skinned and dressed him right there."

  "So you - Jesus Jeb - you ate it?"

  "Damn right. I weren't going through the toughest hunt of my life to throw that precious meat out. Nope, had to eat it fresh. Under moonlight. So I made a fire; loin and shank over flame."

  "What'd it taste like?"

  "Toughest goddamn meat there is. Lean and hard as nails. Weren't no flavor really. But I felt something in me when I bit into it. Powerful. Shot through me like a bolt of lightning. It - well, can't explain really. Goddamn, what a feeling."

  "Hey Jeb, this it?"

  "Yep. Put the snare over there. The moon'll be out any minute and we'll start."

  "If'n we catch it, we gonna eat it like you did?"

  "Promise you this Bud, one way or another there's gonna be a feast."

  "Now what do we do?"

  "Wait."

  "OK. Say, Jeb?"

  "Uh-huh?"

  "Moon's comin' out."

  "Soon Bud. Real soon. You know Bud, I got a surprise for you."

  "Huh?"

  "See, this here part's real important, critical you might say. It ain't the killin', it's the hunt. Always been, and til my last breath, how it's gonna be."

  "Uh, Jeb? What's wrong?  What - what's happening to your face? You don't look so good."

  "A gift Bud,  just for you. The only thing in this God-forsaken, unholy world you will ever want or need and I'm giving it to you now."

  "My God Jeb. No. You're - please, No!"

  "A head start."


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## dvspec (May 2, 2014)

My entry is Unsupervised.  Woo hoo!  I figured it out.


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## Dictarium (May 2, 2014)

*Yes, sir. No, sir. I don't know, sir.*
[639 words]​


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## W.Goepner (May 3, 2014)

Lorenthair's Return
(638 words or so)


http://www.writingforums.com/threads/147048-May-2014-LM-The-Conversation-Workshop?p=1728275&viewfull=1#post1728275


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## apple (May 4, 2014)

*ARF ARF ARF BARKED BARKY*

I swear, Molly, creative writing class was a class where nobody got to hear much of what anybody created, which would have been real nice since that’s pacifically what we all had in mind when we did what we did, joining that class and all."

"Aw, I'm sorry."

"We brought lots of stuff  we wrote and it woulda been nice  if everybody could of heard it, since sharing is the name of the game, but we didn’t get  to share much;  and me being so nosy, cuz other people’s stuff is real interesting and  it makes me get espired for new ideas when I hear it, and it’s nice when someone oohs and ahhs and says something or other about it. It’s just the dead silence that gets you. Or when someone just says hmm."

"Yeah, kinda like when I get all dressed up to go somewhere and I say how do I look.  And they look and sort of say something like, hmm. It hurts my feelings, and I wonder if I look..."

"Yeah, well. As I was saying about my writing class. The teacher was real cute. Tall. Turquoise eyes."

"Whoo."

"He knew lots about writing and drawing and about taking pictures. Funny guy. Humorous, you know, but for the life of me I don’t know why he took so much class time telling us all about the movies he had watched. Just went on and on."

"Really? Did he see that new movie with Leonardo DeCaprio, uh, what's the name? The one with a lot of cussing in it. It was nasty, but he was cute."

"I don't remember. Geez. It don't matter. Please don't go wandering off into outer space and getting me all dis-combooberated. I'm trying to tell you about my class. Anyways, as I was expounded about, he hated the movie industry like there was no saving graces to be a screen writer. Like there was nothing artisty about writing a screenplay, even though he writes them."

"That's crazy. Sounds like he probably hates himself. Sometimes I hate myself when I think I'm good at something but I'm really not;  like eating liver because it's good for me even if it makes me throw up."

 "And it makes me feel  erpy about if he's actually gonna be a good writing teacher. Geez. You can be so juvenile. You really can say the dumbest stuff.  Anyways, you remember that old advige about how curiousity killed the cat?"

"Well, sometimes people..."

"DO YOU REMEMBER THAT ADVIGE HOW CURIOUSITY KILLED THE CAT, MOLLY?"

"You probably killed the cat."

"Well, I’m sure wondering why he likes to go see so many movies with that attitude of his. Hmm. But the guy was pretty much on. He was on about all the other stuff. He gave good advice on our writing.  All in all, I learned some real good things about how to do my dog story.''

"Your dog probably killed the cat."

 'Writer stuff, like packing your opening sentence with all sorts of interesting words to grab someone's attention if they are reading it, and making sure you have a plot, maybe even two for the same story, because you sure don’t want nobody to say so what.

"So what."

"So, all in all, since there is nothing  good on T.V. on Wednesday nights I'm glad I signed up. I probably could say, in all honesty, that this writing class is  better than nothing."

"So what and hmm."

"Did you just say so what and hmm at me? Really? I'm telling you my _heart_, Molly. If you didn't want to hear about my school, you coulda said so. That's why we can't never carry on a nice conversation. It's always gotta be about you."

"So what."


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## kilroy214 (May 4, 2014)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...e-Conversation-Workshop?p=1728539#post1728539

The Chat by Philip James


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## Pluralized (May 4, 2014)

*Hank, He's Just a Kid - 647w*

Here I am again staring at the milky-dull ceiling. Lying here, listening and breathing. Straining to hear each word I’ll incessantly repeat in my head for hours to come. They think I can’t understand them. They think I’m stupid because I’m three. 

“Hank, he’s just a little kid. You expect too damn much, I think,” my mother’s voice trills like a piccolo. “Give him another couple years”
“When I was his age, I’d already killed me a raccoon,” Father booms. “My old dad took me trapping up Whitefish and didn’t give a damn whether I was old enough or not. Family had to eat, see.”
“Yes, but he’s still falling down and shitting his pants,” Mother tweets.

I’m catching every other word, filling in the gaps. _Shitting? _

Father’s getting irritated. “Come sunup, me and that boy are going hunting. If he can’t pull his weight in this family, he’s no use.” 

My heart’s beating fast and there’s no way I’ll sleep anytime soon. How does he expect me to carry a gun with these weak little arms?

Mother’s voice is hard to hear. “Just be careful with my boy, Hank.” In a whisper, which I can barely make out, “Remember how you insisted with Grimpy, and he’s gone. Dead.” She sniffs and exhales heavily. “Don’t think I can ever forgive you if we lose another one.”

Father shouts at her, “That boy didn’t have an ounce of kill in him, woman. No use to me.”

I have to calm myself. I’m hyperventilating. 

The next morning, Father’s in my room early, muttering to himself. It’s barely light out. “Wake up, boy.” I’m sitting up already, but maybe he doesn’t see me. He lights a lantern and throws me some pants. “Get dressed.”

I’d ridden with him before, but usually had Mother to lean against. We clop down the path toward the woods, me holding onto his shirt to keep from falling off the horse. Father’s got complete control over the old nag, guiding her with soft tugs of the reins and curt barks when she slows. The horse responds, adjusting her line, keeping her speed. I’m struggling to hold on. It feels with every bounce like I’m going to backflip off the horse and land on my head. I pinch my legs tight to the horse and she seems to feel it and smooths her gait. “Boy, I hope you’ve brought your balls today,” Father shouts out the side of his mouth. We stop in a flat-bottom section of woods along the river. We climb down from the horse.

Father gets his rifle and hands me a long, tarnished knife. We stand there for a moment watching bugs swarm in the shafts of sunlight through the trees. Silence owns the woods, pierced by the occasional cry of a hawk. “Let’s go,” he says. Branches slap my face as father tromps ahead of me down the path. The knife feels heavy, like its dread is as thick as mine. We cross the river on smooth stones and climb a ridge, off the path at this point. Father goes to one knee, and I stop, breathing through my mouth. The crack of the rifle’s fire splits the air and my ears are ringing. 

We kneel over the boar. Eyes glassy like a calm lake, barely breathing. When Father jabs it with the rifle, it squeals and tries to get up, but its lungs are filling with blood. Father takes the knife out of my hand and plunges it into the animal’s side. He works at it, grunting with his mouth open, and soon has the heart carved out. He lifts it into the air, turns toward me with a grin. He takes a big, manly bite, and hands the warm heart to me. I look at the rifle and think about what mother said, and take my bite with ravenous abandon.


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## Pidgeon84 (May 4, 2014)

Kathmandu 216 (647 words, mild language)

"Now boarding Dallas 212. Gold class." The autonomous voice said over the intercom. 


"Fuck, I hate this." Samantha said angrily, Though not at Janet. She tried to direct her hatred towards her many times in vain just to make things easier.


"I know baby, me too." Janet said tucking a loose strand of Sam's blonde hair behind her ear. Sam untucked all of her hair and used it to hide her face. 


"Please, don't go. I need you." Sam said somberly. 


"Not as badly they do. You know that." Janet was referring to the Tibetan Revolution. A small band of civilians were rebelling against the stationed Chinese forces. Things escalated quickly. Having seen every inch of planet earth, Janet had friends all over the world, including the leader of the Tibetan revolution. 


"Do you remember the first time we met?" Janet asked. 


"You thought I was a boy for a fucking month." Sam said trying not to cry. 


"You were standing at the bar yelling at the bar tender! I thought you were going to pull him over and kick his teeth in. What else should I think?" Janet said laughing. It only hurt Sam to think of it. 


"My best days are getting on that plane with you."


"But do you know what?" Janet asked, trying to keep Sam focused on the story.  "By the time I found out you were a girl it didn't even matter. I was so madly in love." She grabbed Sam's head and tilted it up. Sam was crying hard.


"You're only making it worse." She said with a vulnerable voice. 


"Would it be easier if I told you I hated you and just left you to die on the side of the road." 


"Yes." Sam cracked a smile gave a small chuckle. She knew how absurd the idea was. They were two stars orbiting each other. Unable to leave the other's side, until now. Sam felt like she was being launched into the cold vacuum of space. 


"What do I do without you?"


"You don't have to wait for me."


"Fuck you!" Sam yelled it loud. People were staring. She looked around at them and went back to the floor.


"Of course I'll fucking wait. You're the only girl I could ever want. No one else can make me laugh the way you do. No one has gotten so deep with me. Before you everything was wrong... I don't want go back Janet." Sam was sobbing now.


"You won't go back."


"Please, I don't want go back." Janet lifted Sam's head again and looked her dead in the eyes.


"If I come back and have to fix you again I... so help me God I will..." She couldn't punish Sam. It would be like punishing the world's cutest dog. "I guess I'll just have to pick you back up." She smiled at Sam.


"What if you don't come back?" Her voice started raising again. Janet put Sam's head in her bosom. 


"No matter where I am I'll always be there to pick up, or kick you in the ass." Sam gave a bit of a laugh, muffled by Janets chest. 


"You're so mean to me." Sam said, her crying now mixed with laughter.


"You like it, bitch." They laughed together. But just when things seemed to be getting better the intercom came on again.


"Now boarding Kathmandu, 216. All passengers." There was a heavy silence. It went on for a moment until Sam broke it.


"Promise me you'll come home." Sam picked her head up and looked Janet hard in the eye. They had seen the news. It was bad. Other countries were getting involved. A lot of people were dead. They both knew Janet might not come back. Janet turned toward the terminal and said her departing words.


"I can't promise I'll be back, but I'll always be here."


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## Arcopitcairn (May 4, 2014)

Red Brick Dream


 (Language)




 Steve lit up another Lunglicker 72 and kept on watching the people lined up at the Suicide Clinic having sex on the sidewalk. It was a dismal affair, really, the defeated and the terminally depressed going at it like sad chimps. He watched  person after person get off, get dressed, and go inside for their dose. The continuously belching smokestack loomed above, sending ashes drifting into the red skies.


 He was just finishing up his fourth cigarette when Violet came around the corner. She had a big black bag strapped to her back and the weight made her walk like a lumberjack. Her green eyes found him and she dropped her bag on the sidewalk. She flipped her red hair up as she straightened, and he watched her tits fight to escape her Misfits t-shirt. Her magic lips smiled at him and he was very aware of his heartbeat.


 Something passed overhead, it's shadow sweeping over them then gone, but they could not see it for the black clouds and whatever it was was not coming for them, so whatever, yeah?


 “Watching dead people screw?” Violet purred. “Doing anything for you?”


 Steve flicked what was left of his smoke into the blood-streaked gutter flow. “Not really. We could go over there, you know, just fuck. For fun. Pretend that we're going to suicide ourselves.”


 “Do you want to?” She whispered.


 “Which? Screw or line up for the dose?”


 “Both.”


 “Nope. I was kidding,” he said, looking into her eyes to see if she was serious and seeing that she was. “I'm not ready to go just yet. And I don't want to fuck like them. I might catch a case of surrender.”


 Violet rolled her eyes. “I sense a preamble to _The Conversation_. Again.”


 “You wouldn't be here if some of our talks hadn't rubbed off on you,” he said. “Otherwise, you really would be over there trying to suck the resignation out of some loser's dick.”


 She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled. “Aw...you always know just what to say.”  


 He picked up her bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. They started walking, leaving the pre-death orgy behind them. They gingerly stepped over corpses and walked around limbless and blind vets begging for drugs or ammo.  


 They reached the East Park Annex.


 The small public space was overgrown to the point of being a jungle, the front gates open, entwined by wet vines. A red brick road cut into the dripping underbrush, a masonry path that once simply split the park, now dark, root-cracked, and swept with leaves and branches. Steve could almost see the bramble-tangled merry-go-round and the tree trunk-twisted swing he knew from before the portals.


 There was one of those portals in the park, one of those undulating black holes that spewed insanity into the world. They were everywhere, and everybody thought they were the End. But who knew, really? And fuck them anyway.


 Steve and Violet knelt down in front of the gate and opened the black bag. It was full of guns. They loaded themselves down until they were bristling with weapons, oiled leather holsters filled with pistols, bandoliers lined with cartridges, and long black shotguns. Nobody noticed them.


 There was no wind, but the trees swayed in the Park Annex, swayed as something walked among them, crunching leaves and fallen branches.


 “Hey, man, hey,” Violet stammered, mouth full of adrenaline. “It'd just be easier to fuck and get the dose.”


 Steve laughed, afraid. “Screw that noise,” he huffed. “I'm not ready to say everything's over. And if I'm going, I'm going hard. And Baby, you're coming with me.”


 He kissed her finally, their guns and ammo tinkling together like a toast of champagne glasses.  


 They walked into the park, and they were swallowed by the darkness there.


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## Bishop (May 5, 2014)

The Conversation By Patrick Bishop
645 Words


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## Kepharel (May 5, 2014)

*The Apprentice Philosopher

*The room is warm and cosy; coal fire spitting and flickering it's cheer throughout the four corners, while the windows hold at bay a furious, dark, winter's day. I'm on the settee with my eight year old grandaughter on my lap, and across from us in a cushioned haven of a chair slumps the missus, walking sticks propped against the arm and book on knee.  Antiques Roadshow is on the telly, but we've turned it down out of courtesy to Nana, whose head is nodding intermittently, called to a siren slumber, in the face of which Catherine Cookson and the gasps of heirloomed new found riches seem dismal and impotent.


My little girl draws my arms around her and, holding one of my hands, traces the contours of veins and the odd liver spot, as if memorising some sort of map.


"Will Nana get better, Grampa, or will she always need her sticks?"


It's a question she's asked before, and one for which my answer has obviously been unsatisfactory, so I can only shake my head at her upturned, solemn, expressive little face.


"So has she always had sticks, or only since she became very old?"


I put on a face of mock indignation. "Listen young lady, if Nana is old then I must be too.  Careful what you say, just remember whose in charge of the cookie jar,yeah, Sweetpea." 


I think about it some more and say, hushed, almost as much to myself, "She used to love to dance, did your Nana. Couldn't get her off the dance floor, as I remember.  As proud a mum as you could want too, wheeling your dad around town in his pram when he was just a babe himself."


It goes quiet for a short while, while she checks the digits of both my hands for numeric accuracy.  Satisfied there is a full complement of ten, she continues, "Then, why do some people get horrible diseases, and others don't?"


How can there be no answer to such a question, so simple, and so simply put? "Well life isn't fair is all I can say, little one.  Maybe ask yourself that question when you become a little older.  If you find an answer, and I'm still around, maybe you can tell me."


"it's just that when I asked Nana she just laughed and said she must have been very naughty in a previous life.  Does that mean that I was a good girl in a previous life because there's nothing wrong with me?"


I'm torn now, between changing the subject entirely and getting the cookie jar out, and winging it with an eight year old on small matters of philosophy and the afterlife.  I decide to persevere, just for the moment anyway.


"I think all your Nana was trying to say was there's not always an explanation for how things turn out.  I don't think she really thinks that she was a bad girl in another life.  In fact I'm pretty sure she doesn't even think we have more than one life anyway."


She pushes my hands away and brings herself to her feet before saying, "I'm glad there's not lots and lots of lives to live, in a way.  Just think of all that school and hundreds of lessons  I would have to go to.  Sorry I called you old; can I have a cookie now?"


I look over to my wife whose eyes are still closed, but she has a smile on her face all the same.


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## Erik Fantasia (May 6, 2014)

I talked to the Inquisidor, fear gripping me as I did. I knew that one wrong move could ruin my life. I knew that my whole world could end. She could say no.
I have loved the inquisidor since, well, my entire life really. And I had never planned on telling her. But it was time. She was being relocated and unlike the autumn leaves this change would not be one of beauty. It would be lonsomness, sorrow, a cry of the heart.
I looked into her deep brown eyes and began to drown in the chocalate, so bliss, so sweet and smooth. My emotions played tag. Now was the time.
" I... I... I love... your dress. It is quite gorgeous. No. I love you." 
" What was that? My music was playing too loud."
God, her voice was like silk, or a light coating of snow upon deeply green grass. My heart began to hamner, adreneline brought my fear out. My toungue was stung by the bee of cowardice. 
" I want to congragulate you. I heard about your transfer..."

    Looking back today I wish I had told her. If I had maybe I would be ok. Maybe I wouldn't have made a flood with the tears of regret. Maybe she wouldn't be dead...

And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be on top of this tower of cowardice, about to be with be with her, my cursed angel, once and forever more.


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## T.S.Bowman (May 8, 2014)

“So what do you want to do?”

      “I don't know. What do you want to do?”

     She throws her hands up in mock exasperation and looks at him. She can't help but smile a little. She has known for three years, that he is far from being the most decisive person she knows. But still, she loves him. Because of that, she has always been willing to make the decisions.

     “We need to keep planning the bank job.” She watches him closely, looking for the subtle eye tick that would indicate interest on his part.

      “You still think we should do that?” He doesn't notice that his eye has started twitching, but she does.

      “Absolutely. You want the dream as much as I do.” She levels her eyes with his. “Probably more. After all, you grew up with a whole lot less than I did. This one job could make up for all of that.”

      “Maybe” he says. “But what happens to the dream if one of us gets caught?”

      “We aren't going to get caught.” Impatience begins to creep into her voice. “I've told you how we avoid that part.”

      “Alright” hearing the tone of her voice, he decides to placate her rather than continue along that line of conversation. He really didn't feel like having the conversationagain.  “We aren't going to get caught. I'm still not sure exactly how that works, but I'll take your word for it.”

     “Good” she says, her tone turning mild again. “Now, we already have the first part in motion, right?”

     “Yep. Freddie is all ready to be the wheel man. All we have to do is let him know the date and time and which bank we're going to hit so he can plan the route.”

      “Alright then.” She sits back, leaning the chair on it's back legs. No worries about ruining the floor. The place is falling apart anyway. The floor is the least of it's problems. She had dreams of what this place could be if they pull off the job successfully. But that's all it will ever be. Dreams. She knows they'll have to leave once the job is done. There's no getting around it. For a fleeting moment, she wonders whether he'll come with her to where she plans on going. Of course, she knows he will. He loves her just like she loves him. He'll follow.”So, with that taken care of, the next thing we need to figure out is where we hit.”

      “Well, we know the banks around the immediate area are too risky. The town is too small and people are too nosy.” He can see that she's thinking about that. His hope is that she doesn't decide to do one of the banks here in town. That would be a disaster. But, once she has decided something, it's nearly impossible to get her to change her mind. “Hell, I think even staying in the same county is a risk.”

      She looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Where do you suggest then?”

      “I think...” he begins, only a little worried about how she might react, “that we should go out of state.”

      He can see her thinking about his suggestion. “Alright. That makes sense. Less chance of getting caught.”

      She sees his smile and she melts a little. She can't help it. “We'll get hold of Freddie sometime this week and see what he thinks.”

      She gives him a look that he is very familiar with. It's the look she gets when she's going to give him a reward for doing something well. He looks forward to those rewards. They're why he let's her think he isn't decisive.

     “I think we should turn in for tonight. You coming?”


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## Pandora (May 9, 2014)

*Labor Day 1966 . . . Love the Greatest Anticipation*

A warm Labor Day evening finds the neighborhood quiet, marking summer's bittersweet end. Tomorrow is the first day of school.

"Mom, I won't be able to fall asleep, just like always," Melanie whines at the dinner table. Mom replies in her best patient voice,

"Think happy thoughts, hun. Wish what you'd like to happen tomorrow then before you know it you will be dreaming and it will be morning."  

Melanie muttered, "how I wish", taking her half eaten plate to the sink. 
Her stomach was in knots, like always. At ten years old, going on eleven, she had been through this plenty now. This was the big year though, her class, the graduating class from the elementary school, the 6th graders, they would rule.

"Mom, I'm going to my room and make sure everything is ready for morning," her voices trails off as she heads down the hall.

Her room, still a surprise when she opened the door, still smelling of fresh paint, painted this summer in her favorite colors, red and green.

"Yes, Mom I really want it red and green," she had said rolling her eyes, "it will be far out, like Christmas everyday!"

"Ok Mel, it's your room," Mom agreed quickly adding, " keep the deal, keep it clean." They both knew she would be reminding Melanie of this a lot.

Melanie laid down on her canopy bed, put on headphones, the favorite voices greeted her. She sang quietly to herself, 

"Baby you can drive my car
Yes I'm going to be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I love you . . .  beep beep beep beep beep yeah!"

"Hummm . . . a star ".  So many thoughts running through her head while Rubber Soul played on repeat. Occasionally she would have to get up for the skips. The album, a gift from her father the Christmas before, had been played a million times she was sure. The Beatles, was hers, not any of her big sister's music, just for her, she smiled.

She thought back to Friday, seemed so long ago when she walked the three blocks to school to see the class register. Her heart sunk when she saw her teachers name. 

"Miss Flint, no no no!" echoed her sentiments exactly, from those reading with her. "Uncool, why do I always get the mean ones?" she grumbled. Worse she saw who was on the list with her, not so much who but who wasn't.

"No one, that's who," she thought, "Dragsville, life is so unfair. No cool field trips, snacks, projects, that woman is bor-ing!" her thoughts drowned out by the squeals of the happy kids.
"It's all politics," she whispered, "I bet their Moms called requesting the good teachers." 
Melanie knew why her Mother would not call, Melanie wouldn't even ask. She felt that terrible feeling again, like she didn't belong here or anywhere.

She ran home, to her room, slamming, locking the door. Alone in the house, she put on WOKY loud as it would go. The Zombies, Tell Her No, was perfect.

"It doesn't matter," she thought "it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, nothing matters."

A sigh brings Melanie back to the present, the Beatles, Michelle,  played in her ears, a sweet love song. She looked around her room to the chair where her plaid skirt, knee highs and sweater lay for morning. 

"Too hot for the weather," she smiled, " but a woman has to look good." 

Her pencil bag with the peace sign and note books doodled with daisies, hearts and intitals of secret loves lay on the floor nearby. 

"Love," she thought, the evening breeze moved over her body, the bed pushed close to the window.  The moon cast light across the backyard. "Will this be the year?" she wondered. She lay anticipating tomorrow, old friends, new friends, maybe even love. "Love the greatest anticipation," she smiled and drifted off to tomorrow.

650 words


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## EmmaSohan (May 9, 2014)

*The Conversation*


_Alan? I don't love you any more._

He would look up from his newspaper and keep eating his eggs. There wouldn't be any emotion anyone else could see. But I would see it. A huge pain, starting to appear on his face -- and then instantly stifled, like the rest of his emotions. Then gone. Gone to wherever his emotions go.

I sit across from him. He keeps reading, something for work. Does he even know I'm here? Does he care?

_Alan? I want a divorce._

And what would that accomplish? Would I then have someone to love me? Someone to talk to, share with? No. Alicia and Cathy, of course, but I have that now. And they need a father. Do I really want him to move out?

Yes, I do. But it's not practical. It's not right. It would just be spending more money that we don't have. I would need to get a job. Then I wouldn't be home when the girls came home from school.

_Alan? You have to change._

He doesn't change. I tried to get him to show more interest in the girls. He didn't change. They tried at work to get him to be more forceful. He didn't change. I tried to get him to be more sexual in bed. Why did I ever think that might work?

And the thing is, he does the best he can. He's just stuck. He's the same person I married 19 years ago. Calm. Reliable. Just....Boring. Mechanical. I outgrew that. I need more.

_Alan? I'm going to have an affair._

He would believe me. Maybe I would see some emotion. He would become suspicious of everything I did, everywhere I went. But I don't want distrust, I want caring. Someone to say, Amy, how do you feel? Or, Amy, how is your life going?

There's nothing I can do. But I can't go on like this, putting all my attention and energy and love into what is really nothing. Something, somehow, someway, has to be different. I have to say something.

"Alan?"

"Yes Amy?"

"Did you want some toast with your eggs?"

A frown starts to form of his face and then disappears. "That's the third time you've asked me that this week, Amy. No, I'm fine."

"I'll stop asking."


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## stormageddon (May 11, 2014)

*Firefly (349 words)*

Sunlight, warm on her skin. Sand under her feet, cooling as the evening approached and clouds began to smother the sky with an indigo pillow. The girl could smell the impending thunderstorm on the air, could feel its rage to the very core of her body. Tonight, lightning would crack the sky in bursts brighter than the suns, force taking the place of words in the conflict between earth and sky, and they would come, under cover of storm and darkness. Tonight, she would die.

The fireflies danced over the dunes behind, danced out of time to the sky's song of wind and thunder; the song that would bear the girl to her grave. She had walked too far, drawn by the light of the seven suns coruscating around something far in the distance. She had walked, she had lost sight of it, and she had turned back, to see a sky roiling with death.

Nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide, and now the light was fading.

Dazzlingly bright blazed the fireflies as the lightning began, as the ground began to tremble with wrath. How she longed to be amongst their number, for though they had no tongues, their conversation never ceased as they danced the dance of life, so short, yet so full of meaning, their every movement worth a thousand words.

The first drops of rain shattered against the ground with a hammering loud enough to wake the gods; the earth's answering cry to the roaring of the sky, urging her to turn, to face her end head on. But why would she look ahead, to death, when life danced behind? The fireflies whirled through the air and she forgot the song, forgot the wind, forgot the rain, and the creatures that marched beneath it.

In the in-between, in the moment when life ceased to be and death was yet to come, when thought still lingered and oblivion's embrace rested just beyond reach, a preternatural understanding filled her mind. Life, so short, so full of meaning, was only a beginning, and death was not an end.


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## garza (May 13, 2014)

THE CONVERSATION   650 words

'Think back to when you were ten years old.'

'Okay.'

'You're 40 now. You've lived 30 years since you were ten.'

'Gosh. A math whiz.'

‘Now think about those days when you were ten. Do they seem like a long time ago?’

'Now you've brought it up, when I was ten seems like last week.'

'Now look ahead 30 years.'

'I'll be 70.'

'And another week will have passed.'

'You're saying I'll go from being a kid beginning to get a handle on life to being an old man with most of my life behind me, and all the years will seem like a couple of weeks.' 

'You're beginning to understand.'

'So what's the point of it all? We're born, then zip, we die. There’s gotta be a ‘’why’’ in there somewhere, a reason I'm alive. Show me why I’m here.'

‘Only you can.'

'How?'

‘By the choices you make every day. Your choices define yourself.'

‘Suppose I choose wrong.'

‘Think of it this way. Beyond your own existence there is nothing until you choose to do something.'

'What do you mean, nothing? There's a whole world out there.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe your own existence is all there is. Maybe everything you choose to do defines you and defines the world that's around you as well. What you do is who you are.' 

'I fix air conditioners. I’m an A-C repairman?'

'That's part of who you are. Are you married?'

'Happily. For 20 years.'

There’s another part of you created by choices you’ve made. Tell me about some recent choice you’ve made.’

‘I chose to come in this bar and have a cold beer before I go home from work.'

‘Good. You’ve been given something to take home and think about.’

‘So who are you? What do you do when you’re not in a bar teaching philosophy to A-C repairmen.’

‘I’m a tinker.’

‘Yeah I know you’re a thinker. But what do you do besides think?’

‘Not thinker. Tinker. I am, as the Oxford Dictionary defines me, ‘’An itinerant mender of pans and kettles.’’ That’s me. Just as you mend a broken machine to bring comfort in an overheated world, so I try to mend broken souls.’

‘Aha. Shoulda known. You’re some sort of preacher. You’re gonna start telling me how I’ll go to Hell if I don’t change my ways and join your church. And what’s a preacher doing in a bar drinking beer anyway?’

‘Not a preacher, only a simple tinker. Most of the time I need do nothing more than ask questions and let the other fellow figure out the answers for himself. That’s why I asked you about how much time has passed since you were ten years old. Seventy years looks like eternity to the ten-year-old, but looks like almost no time at all to the 70-year-old.’ 

‘I know that feeling. I’m only 40 and I wonder where the years went.’

‘Now back to choices. Why air conditioners?’

‘My dad made that choice for me.’

‘To allow someone else to choose for us is a mistake. 

‘I know. But now I’m stuck.’

Why ‘’stuck’’? You can choose to spend the next 30 years doing something else.’

‘How?’

‘Learn another trade. Go back to school. Study mechanical engineering so you can help design air conditioners instead of fixing the broken ones.’

‘I’d have to work and go to school at the same time, and to get a degree would probably take ten years. I would be 50 years old.’

‘How old will you be in ten years if you don’t go to school?’

‘You ask the damnedest questions.’

‘That’s my job. Here’s one more question. How much life insurance do you have? Let me buy you another beer and introduce you to the best deal you’ll ever see on whole life insurance. Let’s move to a table and I’ll show you the numbers.


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## InstituteMan (May 13, 2014)

Uncomfortable. Unhelpful.

501 words


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## EmmaSohan (May 13, 2014)

We have enough saved up to send Alicia to a state college. Barely. But she's so smart and hardworking. What if she wants to go to a private school? I keep having this nightmare where she says she wants to go to Duke or Georgetown and I have to tell her I can't afford it.

I get so tired of reading the Wall Street Journal. Could they make these articles any drier or more difficult to understand? But I have a job of percentages, 1% is a really big deal. Maybe this morning, buried somewhere is this paper, is a 1% I can use. You know what they call someone who reads a six-hour old Wall Street Journal? Loser.

Someone could buy out our company, downsize, and put me out of a job. I want a warning. Let's be honest, it'll happen someday. That's just one more reason to learn everything I can. I want to keep being a good provider for my family. Even if I don't have time for anything else. Like my health.

I'm petrified of being a loser.

"Alan?"

"Yes Amy?"

"Did you want some toast with your eggs?"

Amy? Those are just empty calories. Amy? I really need to concentrate on this. But I shouldn't be angry, she's a good wife and mother.

"That's the third time you've asked me that this week, Amy. No, I'm fine."

"I'll stop asking."


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## Ephemeral_One (May 13, 2014)

The Philosophy of Angels

(Warning: If you are intensely religious, please understand I mean no offense.)

Marble stone allowed the speaker's footsteps to echo. His blue eyes scanned the gathered angels. Michael stood center stage first as he spoke.

"If one is to stand in the light, one's soul must be of the purest stuff so as to not suffer from it. Dark and cruel wishes become little more than a puppet's play against the wall under the luminescence of the Holy. Even so, never forget that those mockeries of the divine should not be tolerated, as they threaten the greatness one can achieve by letting petty displays take center stage. Remember, that the divine is always watching and is ever vigilant against the shadows in the hearts of all. As we all cast shadows, it is proof only the most devout can let the pure light through in its absolute clarity. And the more we let shine through us, the greater a beacon we cast into the darkness of those who surround us. And in that, we can spread our devotion further and share that light. Since, the Divine light can cause those with darkness to suffer and repent for it. That is what one should seek always to attain, clarity of purpose."

Vivid red hair graced pale shoulders. Gabriel bowed to Michael politely. She spoke softly, even with the echo. Yet none stirred as to not miss her words.

"Beauty, love, friendship, duty and even faith. I see these in my comrades, often it is with almost blinding intensity. And I can say I not only admire these qualities, but do love them in my fellows. Yet, as the darkness and light both exist, there are many things hidden that we afraid to let into the light. Friendly lies told to spare another's feelings or emotions held at bay because of insecurities. Negligence by attention to duty is one of my beloved brethren's favorites. I suppose it is inevitable, we who stand tallest in the light cast the deepest shadows after all. Still, so long as my beloveds do not compromise themselves, I will love them for who they are and, who they can be. I've been asked why I and certain others refuse to wear any crown that is associated with our station. I normally don't like to talk about it but the truth is, if I found someone who could love my brethren more than me, I would gladly step down. Cause, if there is anything my beloved Angels need, it is someone to let them know it is fine to pursue things other than being beautiful, having many friends, adhering to duty and putting forth faith. That, it is not dark to seek smaller pleasures so long as you do not betray your higher responsibilities."

All fell silent as a figure draped in all black stepped forward. As Lucifer spoke, the walls seemed to tremble.

"It is often pointed out that the liberties and responsibilities one has in service are proportional to the work ethic one has in regards to accomplishing their task. In simpler terms, if one is lazy, they will not rise high while there is no limit for one who is determined. However, I would question how one judges the 'heights' one can achieve. One may seem lazy at first but reveal a great power later on, meanwhile, another can labor in obscurity without a single other taking notice. Yet, the one who may be well known but lazy can be contemptive of life while the one who works tirelessly but is unknown can be happy. Yet, in both examples, there is a choice, a decision to pursue either happiness or unhappiness. To rule one's own domain of one's self. So, I ask, wouldn't it be better to rule one's self than to serve another?"

As suddenly as he arrived, Lucifer vanished. Once more, the conversations became a dull roar, no particular conversation apparent. No resolution met.


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## Fin (May 14, 2014)

*An Emotional Roller Coaster
Anonymous*​

Bruce looked up at the steel arch and felt his knees knock together. A mad scream and thirty people hurtled over the crest, riding double-file, some with their hands in the air, some holding tightly to the belt in front of them. The roller coaster car screeched to a halt, and the windblown passengers filed off.

Lucy nudged him toward the car, but his hands were stuck fast to the gate.

“Bruce?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, breathing deeply. “I’m just not—.”

“Oh, God,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Tell me we waited in line for two hours so you could chicken out again.”

Bruce couldn’t speak.

“You’re making a scene.”

Several smaller children scraped past the height requirement worker and positioned themselves in the front car. The people behind then were tapping their toes, eager to take his place. He would have let them, if she hadn’t been so insistent.

“We have to get out more,” she had said. “We have to start living!”

Afraid that she would find him boring, he’d taken her to the theme park, came to the roller coaster first thing in the morning, and realized it wasn’t for him. After a couple of hours going through the games and the food markets, Lucy had started doing these little, disapproving sniffs every time he suggested something. Desperate, he’d come back to The Blaster.

Reluctantly, trying not to see the slope going up away from the platform, Bruce sidled over to the car, buckled himself in, and said a silent prayer. “Does this belt feel a little loose to you?”

Lucy sighed. “We need to talk.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I can’t keep doing this.” She shook her head, the operator’s distant voice starting the pre-ride warnings. “Where’s the man I met, Bruce? Where is the guy who ate a chunk of wasabi to make me laugh?”

The brakes released, the car slid forward, swooped down a small hill, which made his heart jump into his throat, and then, the chains started dragging them up the first slope. All the while he kept thinking that he ate the wasabi accidentally.

“Now look at you.” She twisted in her seat. “This was your idea to spice things up, and you can’t even carry through. I want adventure. I want excitement. I want a boyfriend, not a baby.”

The front car disappeared, followed shortly by the second. Soon, they plummeted. He closed his eyes, which made things worse. The contents of his stomach kept coming to mind. They swooped up another hill, around a corner and into a second set of chains.

“Seriously, it’s like I don’t even know you,” she snarled. “It’s like it was all a front.”

Swoop, turn, flip, turn, swoop. Brakes.

“I’m done with you, with this whole charade. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

He made a noise of pain. Nauseous, nauseous pain.

“I’m breaking up with you, Bruce.”

“I—.”

The car lurched, and shot up into a loop. Without his consent, his feet were soon over his head, his eyes struggling against gravity to stay open. The blood drained from his face. Next was a tightly banking turn. She screamed expletives at him. He just held the rail.

The last straightaway unfurled, and the brakes hit, mercifully. He fought down the chilidog from an hour ago, breathing deep. They waited while the train in front of them loaded.

“Aren’t you going to at least fight for me?”

The train rolled into the station. The belts kept them locked down.

“What’s to fight for? You’re right,” he replied, finally. “I’m sorry I had to be someone else just to get your attention.”

She sniffed and left the moment the belts clicked.

Queasy, Bruce hobbled onto the platform. One of the small children from the first row was staring at him. “The things you do for love, eh?” he asked.​


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## PiP (May 14, 2014)

*A Right Royal Fuss*​


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## godofwine (May 14, 2014)

I Thought of Everything...Almost by Godofwine (650 Words)
http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ion-Workshop?p=1731932&viewfull=1#post1731932


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