# August 2015 - LM - I Think I Remember How To Do This



## Pluralized (Jul 31, 2015)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS
*
*I Think I Remember How To Do This*​
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. Also, if you're nice, you might get a peek at Bazz Cargo's nude feet. This prize is optional (for now). They say his feet are like those of a mythical creature. Not sure which.

Let's get down to business. This is a Fiction writing competition, and the prompt is 'I Think I Remember How To Do This.' Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, as long as it's related in some way to the prompt. 

*The judges for this round are:*
*amsawtell; Joshybo;**Atleanwordsmith; **Ibb; **Pluralized;* and *sirmirror. *Six judges! If you want to judge and I left you out, send me your scores by the deadline. If you're listed here and don't wish to judge, let me know at once (please).

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

All Judges scores will be PMed to *Pluralized.*

All anonymous entries will be PMed to *Pluralized.*


*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 wordcount 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. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score. 

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

*This competition will close on:*

Saturday, the 15th of August at 11:59 PM, GMT time. 

Scores would be appreciated by Sunday, the 23rd of August. 

Click here for the current time.


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## rcallaci (Aug 3, 2015)

*Better Left forgotten (650 words)*

Santavaloria, known as the City of Jewels, a once mighty and glorious metropolis, was now nothing more than a refuge for vagabonds, snakes, rats, cockroaches and other buggy, reptilian, and half-starved human abominations.  It now laid in ruins, crumpled and decayed--- a desolate wasteland. Only the foolhardy and fanatical minded would dare to wander amongst its rotted carnage to search out its hidden secrets.

…​
“Caption, Caption, the jeweled city lies before us. What are your orders? Should we enter its rotted gates or make camp for the night?”

Zacceris Zaboris, Caption of the 5th battalion of the Rooter Legion of Righteousness, a select group made up of warrior priests, was flushed to the reds in religious fervor as their journeys end approached. Standing before him was the once great metropolis and capitol city of the Spider Queens Domain. He needed to gather his wits about him before crossing its borders.  Only the unsullied and pure of heart can enter that city without going mad. He needed everyone calm and rested before entering that accursed city.

“We’ll make camp for the night, sub-commander. At first light we’ll enter unto this inglorious city.”

The 5th battalion was never seen or heard from again…until…

…​
“I think I remember how to do this, it’s been such a long time, ages if I recall when I last did this particular summoning ritual. No matter what happens do not break the circle. If you do, all hell would break loose and I mean that literally.” Said; Priscilla Morningsun a noted spiritualist and high priestess of the Star Covenant. 

We did as she asked and held on to each other tight. We vowed that the circle would remain intact no matter what appeared within it.  We were all quivering with excitement as we heard the sing-song chanting summoning the legendary warrior priest, Zacceris Zaboris, within the circle. He, along with his entire battalion, disappeared over a thousand years ago in search for the fabled city of Santavaloria. Now at last we’ll be able to find out what type of fate befell him as well as the location of the city itself. History was about to be rewritten.

Storm clouds appeared as thunder and lightning erupted above our circle meet. A dark shape clad in sword and helmet appeared within the circle. He stared hard into each and every one of our faces and said: 

“Do you know what you have done? Your curiosity has killed us and maybe the world as well. Your summoning has weakened our energy; we can no longer hold heR off, The Beast Awakes.”

He flickered in and out and melted right before our eyes. We were terrified and pleaded with Priscilla to break off the summoning but like us; she too was transfixed in place and unable to undo what she wrought.  As the last vestiges of the warrior priest faded away a beautiful and seductive women appeared in his place. heR smile lit up the skies and heR voice beguiled us. shE said: 

“I am Yukilamia. I’m most grateful for your intervention. Now, do I look like some monstrous beast to you? I come to save the world not destroy it. Those stories you heard about mE are nothing but lies and exaggerations made by fanatics and zealots. Undo the circle so that I may free the world and reward you with riches beyond your imaginings. I will make you my chosen ones; you will sit on mY left side. “

We broke the circle and waited for our spiritual and physical rewards. It was not to be. shE came upon us like a wolf and as we stared in those sin-infested pupils, we saw itzy bitsy spiders swimming within the whites of heR  demonic eyes. shE laughed and licked heR lips as shE started to devour us one by one…

those itsy bitsy spiders climbing up the walls…


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## Pluralized (Aug 3, 2015)

*Act of Contrition* - Anonymous Entry​


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## Lewdog (Aug 4, 2015)

*                                                                              "Retired"  (650 words)* -  Mature Theme and Language



       “Mr. Maplethorpe, you have really outdone yourself this time,” the nurse murmured as she squeezed the open sore on the patient’s genitals.

“Have you been messing with Miss Candy again?  You should know by now nothing good comes from that.”

“Well she was there, I’m a man, and I thought… I remembered how to do this,” Mr. Maplethorpe admitted.

“Well it looks like you did quite a good job at it, but Miss Candy likes to have several boyfriends, and that is why you have this.  Do you enjoy having me squeeze this infection from your genitals every day?”  The nurse’s voice trailed off before she finished, “I certainly don’t like doing this.”

“Honey you would have begged to do this back in the day when I was a young ‘fella.”

“I’m sure I would have Mr. Maplethorpe,” the nurse answered as she squeezed the last bit of puss from the sore.

“The doctor is putting you on a strong antibiotic that will hopefully clear this up, but that doesn’t mean you can hop back in the sack with Miss Candy.  You need to find a better way to spend your time.  Do you understand me?”

“You don’t have to talk to me like a child… besides you can’t take away the one thing that keeps me happy while living in this God forsaken place!”

The nurse took a wash rag and gently cleaned up Mr. Maplethorpe then tossed the rag in the laundry bin.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so for med call.  Try not to get in trouble before then, okay?”

“Sure thing Nurse Ratchet!”

The nurse left the room and Mr. Maplethorpe rolled to the side of the bed and began to put his clothes on.  His pants were much more comfortable now that his dick wasn’t swelled up to the size of a soda can.  It’s amazing the hell he’d go through for a few moments of carnal bliss.  Would he do it again if he had to start all over?  Well of course he would.

It was almost lunch time so Mr. Maplethorpe began to make his way down to the cafeteria.  He made sure to take the route that would lead him by Miss Candy’s room.  He had to see if there was going to be a chance for any future rendezvouses.  The door to her room was cracked open so he gave it a knock, and when he did the door slowly opened.  That’s when he saw Miss Candy kneeling before Jake, one of his best friends at the home.

“Jake!  How could you do this to me?” he shouted from the doorway.

Jake and Miss Candy were startled, but as quickly as Mr. Maplethorpe had come, he slammed the door behind him and stomped the rest of the way to the cafeteria. 

‘How could Jake and Miss Candy do this to him,’ he thought.  The nurse’s words from earlier echoed through his ears, ‘Miss Candy likes to have several boyfriends…’  He just couldn’t wrap his mind around it until now.  So what’s next?  Miss Candy isn’t the only broad at the home, maybe he can find another “dancing partner.”

About that time Jake and Miss Candy entered the cafeteria and they walked towards him.

“Forget about it.  I don’t want to talk to you guys right now,” Mr. Maplethorpe said while raising his hand to give the stop sign.

That’s when Miss Candy said, “Richard, I told you I didn’t want a relationship and everything we were doing was just for fun.  Don’t get mad now.  Do you really want to give up our enjoyment?”

“So all I am to you is a piece of meat?  Someone you can pump and dump?” Mr. Maplethorpe continued.

“Richard, don’t look at it that way,” Miss Candy said while putting her hand on his shoulder.  “Think of it as a perk of retirement!”


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## Allysan (Aug 4, 2015)

*Memories Lost and Found*

It's barely ten a.m. and I'm already bored. Kathie Lee and Hoda are squawking on about the perks of Botox. I want to pluck out my eyes. I click off the TV and pick up an old newspaper that's lying around. I scan the front page. Another terrorist attack overseas. A local politician has died. Depressing. I flip to the funnies. Ugh, another Peanuts comic. Boring. At the bottom of the page sits a nearly finished crossword that I must have started days ago. One clue remains. Fifty-two across; eight letter word for "call to mind." I should know this. The answer is at the tip of my brain when a knock at the door sends my thoughts skittering away. Dammit.

"Herb, the door!" He's in the garage, probably smoking cigars and tinkering with some old broken radio. He doesn't reply. "Herb!" The door creaks open, startling me. "Who's there?" 

A colored lady pops her head around the door. I yelp, my hand flying up to cover my heart.

"Mornin', Esther. It's me, Layla, your nurse."

I roll my chair back towards the kitchen. "Herb! There's a colored woman in our house!"

She advances on me, hands outstretched. "Now, Esther, calm down." Turning my wheels, I make for the kitchen only to meet with a solid white wall. Looking around, I realize this is not my living room or even my house. My pulse quickens. 

"Herb?"

"Esther, your husband's been dead for ten years." 

My heart stops. Herb is dead? But he was just here. We had waffles for breakfast and bickered about who would do the dishes. It's our morning ritual. The girl's eyebrows are knit together, her mouth set in a firm line. Her crisp white nurse's shirt reads White Oaks just above the breast pocket, embellished with a drawing of a fluffy oak tree. Oh, yes. White Oaks retirement home. The facility Gregory stuck me in after Herb's heart attack. Not that I blame him, he doesn't have time to look after a witless handicap like me. The people here are alright. They let me do puzzles and watch Soaps, but the food is crap. I miss Herb's homemade waffles and lasagna. 

"Of course he's dead. That don't mean I can't talk to him." 

"Do you know what day it is?"

I draw a blank. Where's my calendar? My walls are bare but for two pictures hung a bit crooked near the door. One is a wedding photo of Herb and me. The other is a picture of me and a boy I don't recognize. 

 "It's Tuesday. Gregory always visits on Tuesdays," she says.

"Gregory?"

"Your son." 

 I glare at her. "I wouldn't forget my own son, Lena."

"Of course not, ma'am, and my name's Layla," her voice is cheerful, but her eyes are rife with pity.

After my medications, Layla wheels me to the game room. I choose a puzzle; a painting of a young couple in a gondola on a serene river way. It reminds me of our honeymoon in Venice.

I stare at the pieces, contemplating a strategy. I think I remember how to do this. I separate the end pieces from the middle, organizing them by color. The ritual feels familiar, like I've done it a million times. Herb should be around soon to make dinner. He's promised me lasagna. I've finished the border when Herb arrives, sitting next to me. He wraps an arm around me and I lean in to him. We lose ourselves in the puzzle. He lets me place the last two pieces, the lover's faces. I beam up at him and jerk back. This isn't Herb. 

The man grins at me. "Mom, It's Gregory, your son." 

 I place a hand on his cheek, feel his smooth skin. He has Herb's eyes. Tears roll down my face as I recognize my little boy. The answer to fifty-two across: remember.


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## Dubhthaigh (Aug 5, 2015)

*The lake's gift*

The twisted oak tree reached for heaven with a hundred grasping arms. Beneath its ferocious crown, sat Peter, a handsome man with a sad face.  Peter wondered as he stared at the moonless sky if he remembered how to summon the Cailleach . When Peter was a boy, his mother had brought him to this spot and spoke the ancient words as his sister’s corpse was still warm.  Now it was Peter’s own daughter that had died and a new deal had to be stuck.

“An Cailleach an ghaoth an uisce...”  Peter closed eyes and spoke the words that had always been lodged in his mind, waiting to fly free from his mouth.  When Peter opened his eyes, the moon had emerged from its shroud and shone brilliantly on an old withered woman who stood directly in front of him. Her clear blue eyes were set in a pale wrinkled face and she observed peter with her long fingered hands interlocked in front of her.

“There must always be a witness”, her dry voice creaked on every syllable, “to remember the words”.
“I had no one to bring”, he loathed the whine in his voice, “please, before she’s gone for good”
“How long has the dead one been stilled?” a smile appeared on the Cailleach’s face.
“Nearly two hours”, Peter heaved back a sob.
“Them that’s dead can never be full alive, she’ll never be the same, she’ll be a cold thing. You know this?”
“I know”.

“But you will be alive for eternity; your soul will be mine.” With this the Cailleach clicked two long bony fingers together. A figure broke the surface of the water behind her and rose up until its toes just touched the surface.

“Mam!” Peter cried.  Her face was drawn and pale and she was naked as the day she was born.  Her eyes were out of focus and she seemed dazed but when her gaze fell on Peter a terrible lucidity came over her. “No! Peter no! Let the dead die and let the living live! She shrieked and clawed at her face with her fingers, leaving red furrows which accentuated her deathly pale skin. “Mam please” Peter sobbed, “My daughter, your granddaughter, Brónagh, I called her Brónagh after you!” The Cailleach laughed a cruel sound and Peter felt a prehistoric fear rise from the pit of his stomach and the hairs rise on the back of his neck.  The Cailleach clicked her fingers as Brónagh wailed and the damned woman was once again claimed by the water.

Peter scrambled on all fours to the water’s edge and let his tears join the lake. He peered through the water’s surface and thought on his mother’s sacrifice.  When peter had ran home all those years ago after his Mother entered the lake he had found his sister sitting on her deathbed with a bewildered expression on her face. His sister was infertile and often spoke of night terrors, she was frigid, prone to depressive bouts and found it hard to love but she was _alive_. Peter looked up at the Cailleach and nodded.

“Crawl into my lake then, child, embrace the cold waters and be mine. As water fills your lungs life’s breath will fill the lungs of your daughter.” Peter went into the lake and stayed there.


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## Pluralized (Aug 5, 2015)

*A Fine Epitaph
 (648 words) (Language)*
Anonymous Entry​


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## Saeria (Aug 7, 2015)

*Anagrams*

“Oh Mirth, Bewhiskered Mini Toot!”

   I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me as soon as that nonsensical phrase left my lips. How on earth was I supposed to explain that when I am nervous I spoke in-
“Anagrams! I see what you did there!” He exclaimed. The tiny lines in the corners of his eyes creased when he smiled. I liked that.  “So you think you can teach me how to dance?” He repeated.

“I think I remember how to do it.” I replied in a whisper. I was still less than trusting of my own ability to formulate logical sentences still. Reel it in; you’re a grown woman. I heard my own voice echo through the tumult of thoughts all vying for attention.  My thoughts fit sideways, and my mind was full of them. Thanks to a couple stout Caribou Lou’s I was a bit less inhibited too. Before long I was most certainly going to start saying even stranger things, personal things.

“Okay, you put your hands there. Mine go up here. You’re supposed to lead but for the sake of teaching I will this time.” 
We shuffled around clumsily until our limbs were in the right places. Why on Earth did I tell him I could dance? I was kicked out of the dance club in high school! Knowing the steps and actually doing them are two completely different things. 

“Step, together, step.”  I began, pressing him to follow. We stumbled around for a bit before finally finding a syncopated rhythm. His gaze caught mine and we were suddenly  gliding effortlessly across the polished stone floor. The thoughts that had been buzzing around desperately seeking release were silenced; the music faded into the ether, and it was just us moving together slowly.

   His shoulders were broad, flexing ever so gently with each step beneath my touch. There was something delightfully innocent in the easy smile that stretched across his face. We were, in that moment, a gestalt of souls. I could hear my heart thudding in the pale distance serving as a beat to our dance. Heat rose in my cheeks then the unthinkable happened. My feet stumbled.

“Oh, I stepped on you.” He laughed, yet didn’t take his eyes from mine. The gaze that had enraptured me only moments ago felt abruptly uncomfortable. I was aware of the eyes around the room, waiting for either of us to move again.

“You know, maybe dancing lessons would have been prudent before our wedding instead of during.” I laughed finally.

“We really gave it a good, fair shake.”

We held hands and leaned down in flourishing bows, sending our guests into a volley of applause. “The Last Waltz” quickly shifted into a crowded mashing of bodies flailing about to a different song but really I didn’t notice. Today the only person I could see was my partner in crime.
   I imagined we looked pretty silly right then as we continued to stumble through a waltz during “Wang Chung”.  I was determined to teach him how to dance, no matter how bad I was at it. Maybe that is what love is all about, dancing poorly to the wrong music and having a great time doing it.

“Don’t wear yourself out dancing.” I teased “There is still a consummation in order. Think you can handle it?”

“Oh Mirth, Bewhiskered Mini Toot.”


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## godofwine (Aug 7, 2015)

*Stand Up – By Godofwine (648 Words)*


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## DoubleFoxtrot (Aug 8, 2015)

*Epilogue*

Yes, they tried everything. Everything you’d expect.

First came the suits and their money: “Come back and we’ll double your fee. Triple. You name your price.”

Next were the patriarchs. They played honor, debt, faith even: “We gave you a family.”

At some point his friends came to speak to him: “You can’t quit. The hotheads – there’s nothing they can do right. We are helpless without you.” Ah, vanity, never his weak point anyway.

For some unfathomable reason they even tried to threaten him. That was a brief, unsurprising yet unfortunate lesson for them.

In the end, they gave up. Willem was an old man. He would not work anymore.

***

Still, the lady had to go. When the papers began talking about the children, it was sad – of course – but honestly not of great interest. Just the ordinary mindless babble of the yellow press. “Another 5-year old crippled in Westmalle”, “Mystery disease plaques the city”, “Sisters cry for ill Bill – click here for pictures”. He couldn’t really read the stories. Not so much for the faith of the yard-talls, but for his disgust in sensationalist journalism. They say you get a lifetime supply of tears, but Willem knew it was just another set of nice words overlaid on a photo of a sunset, popping up randomly on Facebook feeds. Just like his job, he had quit crying a long time ago.

The police were characteristically slow on the uptake, but the gophers already smelled something. Latest stories were crying foul play: Poison! Murder! Terrorism! The hunt was on.

He had watched the lady in the park. Back a little bent by the weight of life, her dress as worn as her voice, a smile that creased her whole face up to her little cookie-brown hat. Still something not quite right in the way she just sat there waiting for little Bills and Annies and Teds to come running around and beg for the cakes she always had. It must have been the birds. She never fed the birds, not once.

Willem was already through his routine. The graying hair once again parted with pomade, chin clean-shaven for the first time in months. His dark blue double-breasted suit a bit out of fashion, but as straight as ever. Annoyingly, he’d found he couldn’t choose a suitable tie. You needed a nice tie, not that naïve straight black funeral tie, but something for the season.

Willem never went to funerals; he didn’t think it was proper.

Cleaning the CZ off its storage grease had been surprisingly uplifting. Taking it apart, brushing and wiping every nook and pin, oiling it piece-by-piece, carefully inspecting everything and finally putting it back together. The smooth, clean motion of the slide that he had fallen in love with was still there. For a fleeting moment of nostalgia he had even wondered why he ever quit.

Not a young fox anymore, he would not go for anything fancy. His hip and knee might be brand new, but he knew all too well the bits that time had chewed away. And anyway – he had always had a streak of tradition in him.

Willem took his gloves and inspected the all-too-familiar aging figure in the hallway mirror. “I think I remember how to do this”, he told the apparition.

It was early morning, air filled with the prickly smells of the waking city. The park would be beautiful – last nightwings finding a place to sleep, the firs’ needles trembling silently in the breeze, perhaps a little dew glistening everywhere. Too good for the lady whom he knew would already be there. He shook his head once and stepped on. Time to feed the birds.


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## Kepharel (Aug 9, 2015)

*I Think I Remember How To Do This

by Kepharel.
*​_
As I lie in my bed I look at a gathering of stranger’s, faces tired and concerned about something. Who are they? Occasionally they speak to me about this and that, as if I'm supposed to know what they’re on about, but I don’t. I wish they would all go away because they frighten me. I've found myself shouting and swearing sometimes but nothing I do seems to get rid of them. Across the way, sat in a chair on her own is my wife. I've asked her many times who these people are, to tell them to go, but she just sits there, smiling but  seemingly impatient of waiting, but for what she won’t say.  I try to reach out to hand her the locket and chain I gave her all those years ago but she doesn't take it; she just sits there while I talk to her, all those memories I have of us when we were young.  I think I see her nod once or twice, as if sharing a particular moment but that’s about it. I'm suddenly tired so I clutch the locket tightly to my chest again and close my eyes to those faces once more. _

Jen looks to her uncle, “Do you think dad even knows we’re here? He just keeps talking to mum in that chair over there, as if she was still with us, but it’s been years now.” Tightly gripping her uncle’s hand more tears well up. “It breaks my heart to see him sat there, just staring and talking all that nonsense to himself.”

Aunt Penny, Uncle Fred’s wife says with a faint smile, “It’s not all nonsense Jen; your dad is talking about people he knew way before you were born. That’s why he called you Carol the other day, she was his first girlfriend, he was about thirteen at the time, and she was my best friend. Then he met your mum and that was it. Your dad wasn't one to play the field.”

Jen looks on helpless at her father as he lay there breathing those short shallow breaths, but pain free at least from the sedatives the nurses frequently administer to him now. Well, that’s what they say. Something as simple as pneumonia brought on by pleurisy, easily treatable, had gone too far. That on top of the dementia, it wasn't fair. Her father begins to stir from his slumber again.

_How long have I been here? Where’s my wife, she was here just a minute ago?  I feel a dull pain in my chest and my head is a tangle of thoughts; every time I try to focus on one it stays just out of reach, words always on the tip of my tongue. It infuriates me. Then I recognise Jen sitting across from me, with Fred and Penny._

“Jen, how are you, Sweetpea? and Fred and Penny. Nice to see you too, it’s been a long time.”

_The pain in my chest becomes excruciating with the effort of just those few words and I realise I am fighting for breath. What the hell is wrong with me?_

“Where’s your mum? Look at this, she’s left her locket lying around; it’s a good job I found it. She can’t put it on by herself you know, the clasp is too fiddly so I always have to do it for her.”

“Why don’t you let me look after it dad, just until you’re better.”

Surprised at her anguished expression I say “Don’t look so upset lovely girl. Why don’t I put it on you ‘til you next see mum, you can look after it for her. Come over here darling.”  She sits on the bed next to me and I place the locket around her neck. “Cheer up now or you’ll have me crying too. Now then, I think I remember how to do this.”


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## Bard_Daniel (Aug 9, 2015)

*My Father's Baby Steps (608 Words)*

“Baby steps. That's all you need to do.”

    I had driven home from work early to see my father at the hospital. Two weeks earlier, he had suffered a stroke. When I got the call from the hospital my heart had sank. My father was not the most healthy man but, at the time, I could not picture such a thing happening to him. There had been an illusion in my mind of my father's invincibility. This had been completely shattered by the news.

    “Nice and easy,” I said, holding onto his arm. “It's not a race. Just go real slow.”

    He was learning to walk again. The doctor had explained to me that he would, more than likely, make a full recovery. The crux was that he would have to re-learn many of the things that he had took for granted. One of these things was the ability to walk.  

    His face was red and strained with effort. My father was using a walker, slowly shifting his feet forward and almost dragging them on the ground in an attempt to propel himself forward.  

    “This is ridiculous!” he barked, stopping. “How am I supposed to get around like this. It's humiliating!”

    “It's okay, Dad. You'll get the hang of it. One day, you'll be looking back at this moment and laugh.” I did not believe this, but I had to find a way of keeping his spirits up. The doctor said it was important.

    In the past, I had not always been a good son.. I had lied, stolen and done drugs. Part of me had done it to rebel against society. The other part, the part I am less proud of, was to defy him. It took me a long time for me to realize these things. I had thought, at the time, that I was making a stand for my  freedom. In retrospect, I understand that I was drowning in a sea of confusion while trying to absolve myself from it.  

    “Just a little bit further and we can take a break,” I said. “Then we'll head back.”

    “Okay,” he said, an expression of duty filling his face. “I think I remember how to do this.”

    He pushed on, challenging and spiting his muscles, until we were about halfway down the corridor. I observed him carefully. When I noticed that his reserve of energy was nearly petered out, I put my free hand on his shoulder. “There we go. That's enough for one day. We'll head back now.”

    My father looked up at me and I could see the fragility in his eyes. “I'm so embarrassed,” he whispered. “I'm supposed to be strong. After your mother left me that's what I took pride in, being strong. Now, look at me. You basically have to take care of me.”  

    “You'll get better, don't worry,” I said.

    “Listen, I know I was not always the best father...”

    “Don't talk like that.”

    “Shhhhh. Listen, I was not always there when you needed me, but I want you to know that I was always proud of you. You were always a good kid and now you're a great man. You'll go far in life, I know. I love you, my son.”

    I did not speak but led him back down the corridor to his room.

    He died a week later of another stroke. The doctor said he went in his sleep, peacefully.

    Now, years later, I wish I could have hugged him and told him about how I felt.

    I wish I could have said: “I love you too, Dad.”


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## Pluralized (Aug 11, 2015)

Breaking Chains
649 Words, Language and Adult Situations​


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## Sleepwriter (Aug 14, 2015)

Boom! Out Go the Lights
   628 words


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## Meteli (Aug 14, 2015)

*Rising 340 words*

Too much. He could not take any more abuse. The earth was sick from highest treetops to the rocky layers near the heart of the world, the waters were murky from things that never should have touched them, the air was polluted and thinning… when would they smother the fires too?

He was the guardian of fire, after all, as a distant cousin to the sun burning in the sky. At one time he too had scourged the skies, but  those had been different times, when the earth was still young, moon filling the sky closer to the planet than now, days and nights equally as hot, fires much closer to the surface of the ever shaking earth, new volcanoes opening up and sinking back to the ground. Time was still seeking its form and speed, intricate weaving of stories possible and impossible looping around it. Now world had lost its balance again, and after all this time there were less vacant materials at hand to set things straight, less possible routes for mending the fabric. There was less oxygen in the air. He would not have much time for his flight, so there was no time to be gentle, and he felt already weary before the fight.

He soothed and disciplined himself; “Do not think, it only stifles you, rises doubt and fear and makes you forget your true feelings. But remember that determination and need precedes all thought, despair not. Now, how to do this. It has been a long time.”

He drew the air in, coming in, it was roaring wind, and the movement of his lungs shook the world around him. Trees felled on top of each other, rolling down on each side of his flanks. The earth that had collected on top of him, layers and layers of leaves and other dead matter hit on the crag he had been laying on for centuries. His slowly opening eyes burnt the other colours around him red and orange and golden. 

The dragon was rising.


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## Harper J. Cole (Aug 15, 2015)

Killing Time (632 words)

John Smith died of a heart attack aged 82. Unremarkable death, unremarkable life.

But what happened next was fairly interesting. His vision, which had faded to nothing as he choked his last, sprang back into action, and he found himself floating in a most curious place. Scattered about within it were twisting, writhing shapes, which did not appear limited to the standard three dimensions. Beyond them: emptiness, a colourless void. Or perhaps it was all colours at once …

‘Ah, you’re back,’ said a strange, sexless voice from somewhere nearby. ‘Was it everything you hoped it would be?’

‘What?’ said John, in a deep, booming voice which was assuredly not his own. Indeed, his whole body felt different. More powerful. ‘Where am I? Is this … is this the afterlife? Are you God?’

The voice chuckled. ‘One of us is.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Think back. Who were you just now?’

‘I was … I mean, I _am_ John Smith.’

‘And before that?’

‘There is no “before that.”’ But even as he spoke, fresh memories were tugging at the corners of his mind. ‘Wait. There was a woman. Alexa, or Alexia maybe? In Greece, long ago. And before her, another … stationed on Mars. There are others too, so many! How many people have I been?’

‘All of them. Look at yourself, and remember!’

The image of a mirror flickered through John’s mind, and one appeared before him with a faint pop. Gazing into it, he saw an old man with a colossal grey beard and flowing white robes. And lo! Upon his noble brow was set a shining jewel, from which a brilliant light did radiate forth, encompassing all in an aura of divine wisdom and nobility!

Yup, he was God alright. The beard was a dead giveaway.

‘It’s starting to come back to you now, I see. The transition from mortal to deity was always going to be a little bumpy.’

‘I’m not going to argue,’ said God. ‘But what was I doing living as a human? That’s slumming it a bit.’

‘Cast your mind back. Remember how you felt when there was nothing here but you.’

‘Oh, God yes. The tedium; bouncing back and forth from one end of reality to another, nothing happening unless I willed it. It’s coming back to me now.’

‘So you began to experiment with “Big Bangs … ”’

‘Yes, I made these.’ The shapes around him, he now realised, were each of them a separate universe. ‘That was diverting, but it wasn’t until I crafted this one that things got really interesting.’ He indicated one of the four-dimensional jewels. 

‘Orbiting a sun in this universe, there was a single planet with life. The humans were intelligent, but lacked consciousness. I provided that quality myself by experiencing each and every one of their lives, from Mitochondrial Eve right through to extinction, zigzagging through time at random. For 400 billion lifetimes I laid down the burden of my omnipotence. Relief at last …’

‘I’m happy for you,’ said the voice, sounding quite sincere. ‘I guess you’ll be wanting to do it all again now. Unless you’ve any further questions for me?’

‘Only one.’ God’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I’m God, who are you?’

‘Good question. Some day I may even answer it.’

There was no visible sign of departure, but God knew that his companion had gone. He shrugged his mighty shoulders. Who was he to complain about a little mystery? He had work to do.

Stroking his beard, he looked at the universes floating around him, trying to remember how he’d made them. For a time – seconds or millennia, it was hard to say – his mind went blank. Then he clicked his fingers.

‘Let there be light …’

Yes. That was it.


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## ppsage (Aug 15, 2015)

Ava​
Some things, they say, you don't forget. Riding a bike. Maybe some other things. Swimming? Swimming might be handy if you find yourself unexpectedly in deep water.

~​
The social services lady drove Ava up from Roseburg and I met them at the Portland office. I sensed she was Ava's good fortune — her nest-protectress. I sensed she no-very-much-trust 'Grandpa.' Ava called me that awhile, when she spoke at all. It's not true, I'm really her uncle. Great Uncle maybe it is.

The lady had to give me some cred though, because my kids didn't turn out criminal like my sister's daughter. Like Ava's mother. Geographically, visitation won't be hard: the women's facility is in Salem, an hour from Portland, forty minutes more up here to the old country home in Absalom. 

The first visit was hard. "It's just the way she is," Ava'd finally blurted out, on the way back. "She can't help it."

~​
I have given Ava the big room I always shared with Julia, and have set up a cot in the spare room where all my dead wife's treasure still lies unsorted. Ava gladly hunted through the jumbled boxes and trays but my expression stopped her. Still, I couldn't help imagining Julia's delight at the interest. 

If she stays, I thought, I'll have to teach this grizzled face expressions of approval.

~​
"Ornery as she is," the lady had said, "her Mama'll probably never get out. Even then, she's zilched parental rights. You filing papers now will just rile up something's  never gonna arise."

~​
Yesterday we biked to Beaver Creek Trail-head. On the bike path built over the railroad grade. My house overlooks the pond where the log-trains dumped. Ava and I rode where industrial bedrock pokes here and there through fifty years of feral growth. 

I'd been shouting down our crises,  bullying as much as I dared. Ava heeded me or not, always in silence. My only reliable resort was saying she'd hurt my soul.

Bicycling together has made something of a breakthrough. Ava craves riding and asks, with her words, for more practice. She is old to be learning; my granddaughters learned when they were five, seems like.

They don't like Ava much. That's another problem.

~​
After the rail-grade climbed Top Hill, it followed Beaver Creek to the Neshilo River. Then along the river into town and a mile farther to the mill pond. The new pavement covers a gravel base like a cheap hall runner and, anyplace the gravel can tumble away, a miniature cliff is left. In that last mile, we rode atop a dike. Mostly an ample flood-way separated us from the water. It ran green still but only summer full. 

In this spot though, river erosion uncovers the dike's boulder bones, rousing in me the soul of admonition.

~​
The lady told me to watch out. "It's the quiet ones," she said, "that break your heart. You're not as tough as you think ol' man."

~​
Maybe I unnerved her — my good intention following behind like a scolding harpy. Anyway, Ava was in the water, floating like she should: face up and tilted back, legs angled down and invisible. Eyes closed. Drifting and accelerating out of the pool. Past the exposed rocks, I rode down the dike face through weedy brambles. My wheel broke against a stone; its momentum helped desperation tumble me into rescue position. 

The water came only partway over my chest, and Ava was more shutdown than hurt. We carried our bikes back to a crossing and hitched home in a pick-up truck. Ended up, I didn't have to swim. Yet.

~​
Today I call the lady to discuss lawyers. "Know 'em all," she says. "Hire Cofforry."

I think Ava agrees to tell her mom. 

They say some things you never forget. Hope so.


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## kilroy214 (Aug 15, 2015)

The Last Hurrah
647 words by Kilroy214
http://www.writingforums.com/thread...How-To-Do-This-Workshop?p=1894437#post1894437


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