# Literary Maneuvers November 2018 - Unreliable Narrator



## bdcharles (Oct 31, 2018)

*
Unreliable Narrator*
November 2018​ 
*
Introduction*

This month's prompt, as voted for by  you, is "Unreliable Narrator", for which you are to write a maximum of 650  words of fiction.  Pick your own  title, write about whatever you  want,  in whatever prose     style and interpreted as you see fit, as  long as  it's related in  some way to  the prompt. You decide the best  way in  which to dazzle  your readers - and the judges - but in this instance it may be worth familiarising yourself with the _Unreliable Narrator_ device (links: tvtropes, Wikipedia, other links are available). Of course, by all means subvert these, or write about an unreliable narrator in a standard narrator voice, or come up with something new for it. Your choice 

The judges this month are *H.Brown,* *Ibb, *and *velo*.    If you wish to join this month's panel (max of 4),  please sign up  for judging by PM or in  the coffee shop. If you want  to  judge   and I  left you out, send me  your scores before the end of the month.   If you're    listed here and don't wish  to judge, please let me know at       once.

If you win, you'll get a badge  pinned to your profile plus a        month’s access   to Friends of Writing Forums (FoWF) where you’ll  have   access to hidden forums. Pretty neat,  eh?

All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the *LM Workshop Thread**.*

All Judges scores will be PMed to* bdcharles* _as soon as possible after the competition closes _

All anonymous entries will be PMed to* bdcharles*. 

Lastly, why not check out this ancient text on how to best approach this task.


*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. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk. 
*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.* 
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.*           If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft  Word    is     the   standard for checking this. If you are unsure of  the  word    count    and   don't have Word, please send your story to  me and  I'll    check it    for you. 


*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 Workshop *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, _including judges_. A judge's entry will receive a           review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.   Please         refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the   scores  are        posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send           the scores one week after the closing date it will ensure a  timely  release    of results.    Please     see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Tuesday  night 15th of November at 11:59:59 PM, GMT, on the  dot. Please note any time differences where you are and be mindful of daylight savings time.​
Scores would be appreciated by the last day of the current month, at the latest, pretty please, cherry on top, mmm?

Click here for the current time. Good luck!


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## bdcharles (Nov 3, 2018)

*Carpe Diem*
_(anon entry; 640 words)_


A nice looking girl is getting on the subway. She looks lonely. She  scans the subway car, deciding who she wants to sit with. Then she sits  down next to me.

I'm not surprised. I'm a good-looking guy, about her age. She made a good choice.

The subway starts moving, I'm careful not to lean into her, but we sit in silence. I don't know what to say to her.

That first sentence, the one that breaks the ice and sets the tone, it  has to be just right. I don't know what to say, I never know what to  say. So I wait for her to start.

She just sits there. She doesn't know what to say either.

So the potential is there, and we both want the same thing. But getting from Point A to Point B, that's always the problem.

She crosses her legs seductively. Seductively! Yes! She made the first move. Now it's up to me.

I've read how to do this. First, I start breathing in rhythm with her. I  see a faint wisp of a smile cross her face. Now we are together,  symbolically. She's holding a book open in front of her, but she's not  paying any attention to her book.

Next I lean closer to her. I can see her breathing faster. I feel her  desire. She closes her eyes for a moment in pleasure, then opens them.

"Move back into your seat, asshole."

_What?_

I suddenly see everything. It's funny how you see a situation one way  and then you realize it's totally different. She has a boyfriend. She's  attracted to me, but her boyfriend would become jealous.

I give her my best smile. I see her look down shyly. Then she looks away.

I could touch her leg. Right here on the subway. She would try to push  my hand away, I know how females are, but that would just be her way of  touching me, and we would play-fight and one thing might lead to  another.

But I don't want to ruin her relationship with her boyfriend, so I leave  her alone. We just ride the subway, feeling each other's warmth. I  start to hum Taylor Swift's _Love Story_.

"Can you stop humming?"

I have deep, male voice. Unfortunately, everything I do makes me more attractive to her.

So we ride. Our breaths in synch. I start matching her body movements.

This isn't going anywhere, but for this short time, we are two human  beings, male and female, being together in our shared space. Feeling  each other's bodies close. Finding and grasping some momentary joy and  comfort in an often boring, bleak world.

It's innocent, and I would have liked more, but in a way it's perfect. I've done my good deed for the day. I'm happy.

She stands up, breaking our connection. Our time together is over. It's  sad, but life goes on, a blending of good and bad, hopes and  disappointments, a sea we all have to swim through.

She moves to the door, the subway slows and then stops, her body swaying  as she tries to hold her balance. She doesn't look happy either.  There's a pause before the door opens, and then as she's walking out the  door, she _looks back at me_.

Yes!!!!!!!! I'm scrambling out of my seat as fast as I can, and I dash  across the subway car, just getting to the door as it's closing. I push  my way through -- I have to get out, I just have to, she was calling to  me -- the doors catch me, pinning me in place, and then they open again.  And I'm out. Anyone who saw that is probably smiling at the foolish  young man in love.

I see her up ahead, walking seductively up the stairs. I chase after her.


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## Arachne (Nov 5, 2018)

Denial 
(617 words)

            ‘OK Mr Sullivan, we’ll be in touch.’ I couldn’t fail to notice the disinterested tone of the managing director as he waved his hand towards the door to indicate that the interview was over.

            Fourteen floors later and still going down, I picked through the carcass of the grilling and cursed my reflection in the glass of the lift. _This was _the_ job, everything I ever wanted. The long-awaited remuneration for caffeine-fuelled nights of report writing, and hour after hour of note taking. How could they not give me the job? I mean look at me, for God’s sake, a first-class education, 12 years in the business and the top man in my team by a mile. I’ve even got the good looks and charm thrown in to the bargain, what more do they want for crying out loud? I’m the best there is! 
_
_           Two hundred and fifty thousand a year, the villa in Tuscany, the chance to retire at forty-five, not to mention the cars, _’Arrgg!’ My fist bounces off the mirror as I pummel it, once, in frustration.

            A bell pings as the lift arrives at the fourth floor and a skinny young man in a cheap suit boards, slightly side on like he’s avoiding something distasteful. I compose myself with a crick of the neck and sniff, then raise my eyebrows at him briefly. He looks nervous. I know he recognises me and I feel for him, I’m well known in the business and it’s intimidating for someone starting out.

            I lean back against the brass handrail behind me and smile. ‘You work here?’ I ask, feeling like I might as well help him.

            He smiles weakly and nods, though it’s barely perceptible. _Jesus, no wonder he’s a nobody, talk about your wet blanket. 
_
            ‘Who do you work for? Deakin? Saddleworth? I used to play squash with Saddleworth. I can help you. Do you know who I am?’ There's a long pause. _What the hell’s wrong with this guy?
_
            ‘Hmm,’ he says with forced little smile, looking sideways at me with just his eyes but steadfastly facing the doors. I lean in, thinking maybe he can’t hear me properly, but he just slides closer to the doors and pulls a glove from his coat, then holds it to his mouth like he’s going to vomit or something. He glances up at the current floor number as the bell rings again and we settle to a stop. Before the doors are even fully open, he slips out without so much as a smile and walks quickly through the lobby. I sniff and crick my neck again.

            A telling drop of sweat creeps down my temple and I shake my head briefly, trying to separate out the thoughts, but the bell rings and the doors quickly begin to close on me. I squeeze through and quickly head for the nearest washroom. 

            Leaning on the basin, close to the mirror, I stare into my own bloodshot eyes, then, lowering my head, I gently close them because I don’t want to see, not really, really see. The image remains in my mind though; veins too prominent, a vagrant crumb caught in the stubble and a grimy, once-white collar encircling a blotchy throat.

            Minutes later, the shame melts away and the cubicle, bejewelled with expensive tiles, fades to a turquoise haze, speckled with tiny bombs of light. I slump back on the toilet with a sigh. The tie, carefully chosen to impress, unravels from my arm and falls to the floor, but the needle remains, hanging like rotten fruit.  In a blissful stupor now, I slur an easy, empty promise, ‘I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll do it all tomorrow.’


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## J.J. Maxx (Nov 5, 2018)

*Out of Time [649 Words]*

*Out of Time* 
[649 Words]

"No," I said, rushing to the window. "This isn't right." The lock was there. It wasn’t supposed to be there. I had the lock installed a month after Jackson had disappeared. I hadn't gone back far enough. I knew it would take a few minutes for the device wrapped around my arm to be ready to use again. I sighed and gazed around the room.

            I smiled, seeing the raggedy stuffed bear propped up on the bed. Jackson never went anywhere without it. I pressed the bear against my face and closed my eyes. The familiar pain in my chest erupted. _God, I just wanted to hold him._ I wanted to tell him I'm sorry. More than that I wanted him to understand that mommy was going to save him.

            Giving the bear a soft kiss, I returned it to its spot. "I love you, baby bear," I whispered. The room was quiet. Everything was exactly as it had been before that night. I remembered tucking him in, kissing his forehead. "Sweet dreams, pumpkin." Those were the last words I spoke to him. _No_, I thought, _there would be more words, more good night kisses.
_
            I felt the weight of the device on my arm. It was getting heavier the longer I wore it. If only Matthew could see me now. I had found my husband’s work after the divorce. Boxes of schematics and diagrams and prototypes. It was all completely foreign to me, of course. Handwritten papers on quantum mechanics and string theory. I had been a nurse, and it took me two years to finally get his invention working. _Almost working,_ I thought.

            I heard the door open. I hid the device behind my back.

            "Allison?" Matthew said, entering the room. His hair was darker and he didn't yet have the worried creases in his face that had come after that night. His brow was furrowed. "You know you shouldn't be in here."

_Think fast._ "I know,” I said. “Just a few more minutes I think.”

            He didn't leave the doorway. “Listen, Allison, you know what happened the last time you exposed yourself to… all of this. Dr. Schumacher says you need to move on and that in time you will stop having these..."

            I stiffened up. "These what?"

            "These... episodes." 

            There it was. All the anger and resentment in our marriage roaring back to life. We didn't even speak to each other when I told him I wasn't taking any more medications. I was done with that. I just wanted to feel.

            He held out his hand, his voice softening. “It's time to go.”

            I didn't have time for this. I heard the beep of the device, which meant it was ready. “I just need a minute, Matthew."

            Matthew hung his head. “Allison, I can’t do this anymore. I'm sorry but you need help. You need the kind of help I can't give.” He glanced over his shoulder into the hallway. 

            An older man in a suit walked into the room. It was Dr. Schumacher. “Hello, Allison,” he said. “I’m here to help.”

            Latex gloves. A syringe. “No, you can't!” I yelled. “You can't do this!” I looked at Matthew. “Please. I can save him. You have to believe me. Look, I finished it for you.” I held out the device. “It took me years but it works! We can go back. We can save our baby!” The tears came hard now.

            Dr. Schumacher grabbed my arm and I felt a sharp sting. 

Matthew started crying. “I'm sorry,” he said.

            The strength left my body and I crumpled onto the bed. My vision blurred, then went black.

            “You said she wouldn’t do this,” Matthew said. I felt a tug on my arm.

            "I was wrong," Schumacher said. "Luckily we got to her before she’d gone back further, otherwise we wouldn't have been able to stop her."


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## SueC (Nov 6, 2018)

https://www.writingforums.com/threa...rrator-(Secure-Entries)?p=2189689#post2189689


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## ned (Nov 12, 2018)

*Matthew’s Story *


I awoke on the third crow of the cock, rolled up my bed and stuffed it behind the bags of maize. Being a devout servant of the Rabbis, I was afforded lodgings in the temple storeroom - and be on hand to serve whenever required.


My main duties consisted of sweeping, cleaning and polishing and though I was happy in my work, Mondays allowed me a welcome break from the routine.


Coined ‘the graveyard shift’, I crept outside in near darkness, made for the stable and with soothing tones, loaded a donkey with a spade, brushes and sacks before we slowly headed for the graveyard on the edge of town.


After winding the through the streets, we entered an olive grove that led down to the graveyard, and as we went through the gate, my gaze was drawn across the tombs and graves to the rounded hill in the east, and its three crosses silhouetted against the blood-red dawn.


Time to get cracking, and I unloaded the donkey and set about tending to the graveyard. Sometimes, when clearing away the dead flowers left by the wealthier families, I would find the odd shekel - insurance perhaps, that their loved ones would be especially cared for, and mine to keep. After an hour’s labour, I was already four shekels up, when the tremors started.


Slowly at first, then within seconds, the whole graveyard violently shook and I was thrown to the ground while all around me I heard the crash and rumble of breaking stone and marble over the terrified braying of my tethered donkey.


Suddenly, it stopped, and all was quiet as I surveyed the scene of devastation. Most of the tombs were cracked wide open, and even the earth on some of the graves had been disturbed enough to reveal their coffins. What a desecrated mess! 


The broken tombs would have to wait for the masons, but at least I could try and recover the graves as best I could, and took my spade, turning the earth onto an exposed coffin lid. I was thinking of saying a prayer or something when, bang! The coffin lid sprung open, and its occupant, a woman in her forties sat up and looked at me, fresh as a daisy, as if she had been buried alive - only yesterday.


I jumped back with a scream, painfully crashing into a broken tomb behind me, whose own shrouded occupant was calmly clearing shattered masonry off himself so he could stand up and walk out of the tomb.


That was it! I ran toward my donkey as all across the graveyard others were springing from their coffins or crawling from their tombs and slowly walking into town. I leapt on my donkey, thrashing its hind with the spade and quickly escaped through the back gate, away from town and into the desert. 


Eventually, just before dusk, we came upon a village and a tavern. I didn’t know what to do, but for tonight, four shekels would cover supper and board for me and the donkey. 


Of course, I didn’t mention the events in the graveyard to anyone, it would sound like the ravings of a madman. Yet, as I sipped at my cup of wine, a wild-eyed elder burst into the tavern.


‘Have you heard the news from town?’ He declared. I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut across me.


‘That preacher from the mount, that the Romans crucified…..they found his tomb empty!’ He paused for effect.


‘And there are witnesses that claim to have seen him alive!’ A din broke out in the tavern, ranging from abject disbelief to sheer joy.


‘Really?’ I said. Not very convincingly. And all eyes were on me. But I turned back to my cup and drained it - after the day that I’d had, I was suitably underwhelmed.


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## epimetheus (Nov 13, 2018)

*Of Wine and Spirits*
645 words
_Reader discretion advised: sensitive topic_


She left the door open but a slither of a crack, but I am a master of my trade and in time I worked my way in. The house was immaculate; the kitchen a temple to domestic bliss and the parlour the very paragon of hospitality. Ah, but it is not called a parlour these days – the living room. Oh, yes, I could do some excellent work here, perhaps a little harder than usual but the prospects were delectable. And into her bedroom I stole, where the first stain revealed itself: an empty glass of wine upon the nightstand, red lipstick upon its rim. She slept fitfully that night, but she didn’t see me, they never do. Pride of course, everyone likes to believe they are in control. Other bedrooms hid other treasures - two children - a broken family then, how delightfully vulnerable. 

One night I hid in the shadows of the kitchen and watched after the children had gone to bed. She had a friend to keep her company, one Emily-Rose. Rosie to her friends, of course.

“They say highly intelligent women drink more than average.” Said Rosie, pouring them both another glass. 

“Go on then.” Replied Daphne, “you know, they tell me to do the things I love in life, but then they tell me I drink too much!”

The women laughed long into the night, unaware that their voices grew louder with every glass, such that the children heard every joke, every confession, every sob. 

I had stowed away for some time in that proud house, watching their comings and goings while I myself remained unseen. I was waiting for such an opportunity that presented itself one day after the children had been returned by their father. 

“Simon.” Said Daphne.

“Daphne.” Said Simon.

Oh, such clipped tones. And to think they actually thought the children wouldn’t notice. Simon left and another glass was poured. Daphne left for the toilet, the children briefly alone in the kitchen, consumed by their new toys from daddy.

I drunk the wine, silently imbibing the sweet-sour liquid. Ooh, how it bubbled. The children noticed nothing. But upon Daphne’s return she most certainly noticed, her eyes and nostrils flaring.

“Who drank it?” she demanded.

The children looked up from their playthings, first in puzzlement, then in fear at the fury blooming on their mother’s face.

“Timothy!” she said, looking to the elder of the two, “how dare you?”

“It wasn’t me…”

“Go to your room now!” And seeing the toy in his hand she added, “and give me that.”

He ran to his room and cried himself to sleep that night. Daphne also cried herself to sleep, her face flushed pink with tears and inebriation. The younger child shed no such tears, though neither did she get any sleep. 


Ah, the happy household was no more. But do not look upon me like that, it was not my doing; I merely washed away the veneer Daphne had laid upon the cracks. The children were taken away, the proud father smiling as they willingly left the house that had become for them a vat of suffering. Daphne could never understand the betrayal. 

On that last day, grey and grim with a constant drizzle, Daphne had forgotten the children were to visit. Her head swam in circles of hate. _I_ don’t know where the rope came from, it hurts me that you would think I had anything to do with it. No, I merely whispered in her ear, giving good, practical advice. Her feet, dangling a few inches from the floor, had just stopped jerking when the children burst in. Oh, the panic. The tears. The confusion. Even Simon’s despair was complete. It took her another eight days to ‘technically’ die; distilling their anguish and percolating their guilt, which blossomed like cancers in the hearts of my next patrons.


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