# April 2014 - LM - A Children's Story



## Fin (Apr 2, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread


*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​A Children’s Story​



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:*

*Pluralized*; *Gavrushka*; *spartan928*; *thepancreas11*


*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:*

Monday, the 14th of April at 11:59 PM GMT time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## garza (Apr 4, 2014)

A Cautionary Tale for Children
639 words

1.

'I didn't cheat.'

'You are lying. Miss Bartleby says you did cheat so when you say you did not, you are lying and you are calling Miss Bartleby a liar.' 

'Miss Bartleby didn't lie. She's only mistaken.'

'Miss Bartleby does not make mistakes. Now tell me your story.' 

'Miss Bartleby told us Friday we could pick out any book we'd already read and write a report to turn in yesterday. I picked ''Call of the Wild''. I read it again over the weekend to be sure I got everything right. Miss Bartleby gave back the graded book reports this morning. All but mine. She tore mine up, threw it in the waste basket, and sent me to you with this note that says I cheated and that I didn't write the book report.'

'Miss Bartleby's note says you cannot possibly understand a book like ''Call of the Wild'', so you must have cheated.'

'''Call of the Wild'' isn't a hard book to understand. Jack London's a good writer. He makes everything clear.'

'Jack London is dead.'

'Not really. Not so long as people read his books. He's one of my favourite writers. I want to be a writer.'

'Miss Bartleby says you can't even understand the assignments she writes on the blackboard, so how can you understand a grown-up book?'

'I understand her assignments when I can get close enough to read them. I'm very nearsighted, and she makes me sit in the back of the room. I can't read the board from there, even with my glasses. They are strong, but not strong enough.'

'Why does she make you sit in the back of the room?'

'She told me I belong on the back row with the other stupid people.'

'You lie again. Miss Bartleby is our most respected teacher. She would never call a student stupid. Sadly, I cannot paddle you. When you transferred here your father sent me a note to say paddling is not allowed. You are suspended until I can arrange a conference with your father. Get your books and go home. Tell Miss Bartleby I want to see her.'

2.

'I sent the boy home and I mean for him to stay there until I meet with his father. Then we can decide what can be done with him.'

‘He should be whipped, then packed off to Ellisville State School where he belongs.'

'Why do you believe he is retarded?'

'Have you seen those horrid thick glasses he wears? They prove there is something wrong with his head. And did you know he takes them off to read? What normal person takes their glasses off to read? I put my glasses on to read, and so do you. He says he can see better up close without his glasses. He takes them off, then holds the book so close his nose nearly touches the page. What more proof do you want?'

'He got top marks at his last school.'

'There, you see? That proves he cheats and lies.'

'I'll call his father now.'

3.

'He's never been accused of cheating.'

'You mean, he has never been caught until now.'

'He has no need to cheat. I teach sixth-form English classes at McRae County Community College and he reads many of the books I assign my classes.'

'Did you write his book report for him?'

'Certainly not. I help him when he asks for help, but I never do his work for him, and he has never asked me to.’ 

'He will remain suspended until you arrange for an evaluation to determine whether he is developmentally challenged.'

'No.'

'Then expulsion is my only choice. There is no room for a problem child here. Have him return the state-owned textbooks. Good day to you.'

4.

'I have put him out, Miss Bartleby.'

'Good riddance.’


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## Pluralized (Apr 5, 2014)

Fricasseed Fourth-Grader
Judge's Entry - 638w - Just For Fun

Down a dead-end road with no name, there lived an old man named Marshmallow Jim Biggums. Now, he didn’t like people, especially little kids. Rumor had it, he’d eaten a few, but the police could never find any evidence. When young Tommy Planchette had disappeared, it was like he just climbed in a spaceship and flew off toward the moon. He’d been in class one day, then everybody was looking for him in the woods and the river behind the old man's place. A bus driver had claimed she saw a boy that looked like Tommy walking in that direction, but after three days and a lot of commotion the search was called off. He was gone, like a sunken ship at sea. There one minute and gone the next. The local news came out and tried to interview old Marshmallow Jim, but he slammed the door in their faces. 


Tommy’s best friend Pete worried and worried about what had happened to his buddy. He couldn’t sleep and forgot his homework. Lost his lunch money and missed the bus. A few days later, his mom came in to wake him up. “Pete, you’re going to be late. Don’t you know it’s a school day? Get up!”


Pete yawned and flipped the covers off himself. “Okay, mom. I’m up. Probably just going to get kidnapped today anyhow.” The sadness in his voice seemed to reverberate off the bedroom walls. 


His mom dropped him off at school. As he turned to get out of the car, she squeezed his shoulder. “Pete, you’re going to be fine. Just watch your back,” she said, “and let an adult know if you think somebody’s after you. Blow the whistle I gave you.” 


Pete forced a smile and shook off a shiver. In class, he could hardly concentrate. The teacher stood there, looking at the floor. The heavy cloth of her dress hung just above her ankles, unmoving. She seemed like a statue of sadness, speaking quietly and slowly. “Hi everyone. Today marks one week since Tommy disappeared. Nobody knows where he went off to, but his parents fear the worst. If any of you hears something, please let a grownup know at once.”


Pete looked out the window, thinking back to the last time he and Tommy had snuck out to Marshmallow Jim’s house and had stolen that cow skull off the barbwire fence. They’d pulled it loose and ran off, giggling and screeching, just as the old man came bellowing out of the house, raising a shotgun and firing it into the sky. They dropped the skull and sprinted out of sight, leaving the old man screaming, enraged. 


Since Tommy’s disappearance, people said his mother hadn’t left the house. She just sat there in her nightgown waiting for the phone to ring. When Pete knocked on the door, she sighed heavily and pushed herself off the flowered couch. Her greasy hair stuck flat to one side of her head. “Hi Mrs. Planchette—I am so sorry to bother you. I think I may know where Tommy is. Do you know Marshmallow Jim? He’s the old man lives out there by the landfill. I heard Tommy went out that way, looking for a cow skull. If you’ll drive us, I’ll show you where I think he is.


There in Marshmallow Jim’s basement, Tommy sat playing video games. His mother pounded on Jim’s front door, shrieking and crying and spluttering and cursing. The old man smiled at Tommy, who couldn’t hear the noise. He just grabbed the remote for the television and cranked it up louder. We’re going to live forever, just the two of us, he thought, and put an arm around Tommy. Out in the back yard, a jumbo-sized barbecue grill heated up nicely, billowing white smoke up into the cobalt evening sky.


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## stormageddon (Apr 6, 2014)

*The Chicken Struck Back*

Darmody was not a happy chicken.


At two months of age, he ought to have been fully grown, but his body was still scrawny, his chickhood down stubbornly refusing to give way to the magnificent feathers his coop-mates had long since sprouted. A mere fluffling in appearance, he had, in adolescence, failed to gain the respect of any of his brood, all of whom fell squarely into one of two categories. Lofty chickens kept with the lofty, lowly chickens kept with the lowly, and then there was Darmody.


"Fluffling!" they would cry, "Coward!". And he would weep.


Every morning, he awoke and thought, _no more_. Every evening, he lay down to roost and dreamt of vengeance. But by day, he merely scratched the ground and pecked for worms, and when the other chickens came to nip at his crest or blow dust in his eyes with their wings, he fled.


This day was a day like any other, or so it seemed by the light of dawn. Lost in forlorn thoughts, Darmody scratched the grassy ground, eyes flickering about the field as he watched for approaching foes, and yearned for approaching friends. So passed most of his days, in misery and in isolation.


He was cheered momentarily when he plucked up a particularly juicy worm, but as he raised his head to guzzle it down, an old cockerel appeared seemingly out of nowhere and tugged it from his beak. Darmody sighed. He returned to pecking, the old cockerel following his every step.


_Coward_, he berated himself. _Too afraid to stand up to a cockerel a dozen times your age_. He pulled another worm from the ground, and once more, it was stolen from him. It was not until the third occurrence that he raised the courage to glare at the old cockerel.


"Go away," he commanded, though his voice shook and his scanty feathers trembled. The cockerel made no verbal response, only chuckled and darted in for the next worm. Infuriated, Darmody refused to relinquish his grip, and after a brief tug of war, the worm snapped in two.


"There's that fighting spirit," said the old cockerel, eyes agleam with the amusement of the elderly. "You ought to stand firm all the time."


Darmody scowled. "Why? I'll only lose."


"You may not have won, but you have half a worm for the trying. That's better than no worm."


"Alright. Supposing you have a point, how might I 'stand firm' against a dozen?"


The cockerel hopped cheerfully from foot to foot. "I'll teach you a trick."


And he did.


Evening fell, and it was time for Darmody to return to his unsuspecting brood.


Shouts of "there's the coward!" fast descended into mindless chanting as he was encircled by the rabble. The lowly chickens raised storms of dust with their wings and sent them whirling towards him. The lofty chickens took it in turns to scutter up and peck at his crest.


_No more._


A maelstrom of flame exploded from his beak. He spun in a full circle, crisping the feathers of all the crowd. Some ran wild about the meadow, others simply froze in disbelief as their plumage crumbled to ash, amazed that this scrawny, cowardly, fluffling of a chicken had dared to strike back.


But as Darmody knew, one must never judge a chicken by its feathers.


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## cosmictide (Apr 6, 2014)

*The Foxes*

Night was falling over a city filled with metal and concrete; roads raised into the sky in twists and turns that shone white above their heads in the day, but blocked the distant stars with a grey haze when the sun went down. The clouds heavy with rain had rolled in as the end of day rush had started, cars lighting up with blue and green and red as they moved through the fog enveloping the higher roads.

A face appeared at one of the windows overlooking a slope, watching the water start to fall in sheets, rolling in rivulets down the roads, and waiting. Waiting for the dark that brought with it the mysterious red shapes that travelled the empty streets, coming and going like ghosts, living and breathing beneath the city spiralling far above.

Many said that they were a plague, much like the unexplored depths of the forests growing outside the city's borders, always climbing and reaching to overcome the enclosing wall and onwards to the people cowering inside. These animals were the last vestiges of a forgotten time, holding the people's hearts in fear; and yet the authorities made no move to do anything about them, stuck in a complicated dance that, it seems, the humans were losing.

The child - for no other would give into their curiosity - held its breath as, like always when the last of the cars reteated into their respective houses, the rivers were punctuated with red creatures. The rain, as if i sympathy, let up to a light shower, revealing the animals weaving down the curving path, looking endless as the stream turned constant. The person looked on in fascination, wholly ignored. They did not understand how their parents could be so against such mysterious life, the natural colour a refreshing change amongst harsh lights favoured by the population. They could get lost in this sight for hours.

But wait - there was a break in the routine. A small one, perhaps young, had come limping around the corner, struggling to not get pulled under by the current. Even from afar the watcher could see its back feet slipping, scrabbling for purchace on the smooth concrete. Pausing for a second, not sure about going outside, the child watched as it fell, letting out a sound muted by the glass that made it sound like a whisper, but to them it was as loud as a shout.

Making up their mind, the face disappeared, and was soon opening the front door, still slightly hesitant. Now they could see the animal close up; matted fur, wet from the rain and of a lighter colour than the others, who were skirting to the other side of the road, skittish as this unusual occurrence. Red blood, a more jarring sight than their own colouring, was running from a cut in its side, blossoming in the water in ribbons and sliding on down the road.

It seemed like it had given up, now not moving from the point it had fallen, letting the streams wash over it as it shivered in the cold. The child approached slowly, only now remembering the warnings of its peers, but it seemed too weak to do anything but whine as they drew near. Picking up the bedraggled animal carefully, they looked back at the still open door behind them. Their parents would not be happy, but it was too late to return to the safety of the indoors. Following onwards, the child turned their back on the house and started down the route the others were still walking.

They passed levels and levels of roads and houses, and the deeper they went the darker it became.

And yet they still went on.

On and on.

And on.

How far they had come, they did not know, but, for sure, there was no going back now.


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## Candervalle (Apr 7, 2014)

*The People's Baron*

Sunlight was creeping through the heavy golden curtains. “Best not wake him just yet,” he whispered to himself. He made his way around the dim room, collecting random assortments of clothing. A mud caked boot here, and bloody rough-spun tunic there. “Looks like he’s been at it again,” he mumbled as he bent down to pick up the other boot, which was just as filthy. Something in his back pinched as he leaned down and he started with a yelp. A bundle of covers on the enormous bed began to stir. “Haddock is that you?” He winced, “Yes m’lord. Sorry to have disturbed you.” The bundle of covers unwound to reveal a healthy looking man in his mid-thirties. Of course he was healthy; a baron rarely became sick in those days. His subjects on the other hand, were not usually so fortunate. The baron leapt from his bed to the stone floor. He bristled at the cold under his feet. “Well since I am awake Haddock, how about some breakfast?” 

                  The baron was doing pushups as Haddock cautiously entered the room. The baron had a peculiar habit of sparring with Haddock when his blood was flowing. He hated being caught by one of the baron’s left hooks. Still, he couldn’t hate the baron. True, he was sometimes pompous and always held himself in a little higher esteem than he should, but he was always nice to Haddock and the rest of his servants for that matter. Today was fortuitous as the baron was so distracted by his exercise regimen that he scarcely noticed Haddock enter the room.

                  The baron soon finished his morning exercises and sat down to eat. “Haddock, what is that queer look in your eye? You’ve been staring at me as if I were a madman.” Haddock didn’t think he was being that obvious. “Pardon me m’lord. I was just thinking about the clothing I picked up from your chamber.” The baron stopped mid-chew. “Oh? What is dancing upon your mind?” He felt a pang of dread deep in his gut. He knew he should not be so bold. But the baron was his master, he felt obligated to ask after his wellbeing. “Well m’lord, its just, that I’ve been following you on your journeys at night.” 

                  The baron shot up and spat, “What? What sort of treachery is this? Sneaking about spying on your master! The nerve.” Haddock instantly regretting his comment, but he knew he must push forward, “Begging your pardon m’lord, I only meant to look after you and make sure nothing foul befell you.” The baron’s expression changed at once and a deep laugh erupted from him. “Well spoken Haddock. Well spoken. Well then, what is the question?”

                  Haddock thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Well, why do you do it? You robbed your own supply caravans, hunted deer in the royal forests disguised as a rogue.” He knew he had to keep going, “And you give all the spoils to the peasant folk m’lord.” The baron’s face broke into a grin. “Isn’t it exciting?” The baron’s tone was jubilant. “Do you care to guess how many people curse my name Haddock?” The grizzled old servant stopped counting after he ran out of fingers. “Too many to count my good Haddock. But one wishes to be loved, to be cherished, to be a hero!” Haddock liked the baron but even he had to admit that no one had ever called him a hero.

                   “Now Haddock, you wouldn’t begrudge me for wanting to feel like a hero every now and again would you?” It escaped his mouth before he could stop it, “Aye m’lord, they may even make children’s stories of you deeds.” Haddock clutched his mouth in horror. He was sure to lose his tongue for that. The baron’s eyes were lost in thought, “A children’s story. I like that.”


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## dvspec (Apr 8, 2014)

*LM Workshop Thread*   I posted an entry here.  My first and I forgot to stick the title on it.


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## Fin (Apr 8, 2014)

*Sixteen
Anonymous Entry*​

Sixteen seemed so young an hour ago. Now, as he puts down the phone, Sam wonders how much longer his youth will last. He turns on the faucet and runs some water over his face.

“That was too close.”

“It’s all taken care of,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

Taken care of or not, it’ll weigh on him. He’s lucky she understands; there’s just no way they could bring a life into the world. He loves her, but they’re high school students. He’s never really thought about something that permanent before.

He runs his hands through his auburn hair, rubs at his eyes, and looks into the mirror. He’s not a small guy, but is he a father? Could he protect a family if he had to?

“No.” He’s not even disappointed when the word comes out. Some truths, no matter how harsh, just can’t be denied.

He thinks of his own father, the way he looked in all those pictures with Sam as a newborn, the one where he’s asleep in his father’s arms looking out at the moon. Sam takes a look as his own arms, flexes them in the mirror, and bites his lip.

“No,” he says again. “I’m not him.” He frowns. “Well, not yet at least.”

“Your parents don’t even need to know,” she said too.  “No one ever has to know.”

He wonders what his father would have said to him. Probably a lecture about safe sex, like that would help, but he might say something like, “Well, son, we all make mistakes. You’ve just got to learn to live with it.”

His fingers rap the countertop. “Yeah,” he says, rapping faster. “No one needs to know.” He’s glad he won’t ever have to see that look in his father’s eyes, almost the opposite of the one from those early photographs. “No one _ever_ needs to know.”

He turns and strips, pushes back the curtain, and turns the shower knob. He dances on the cold floor, naked, and shaking. He crosses his arms and squeezes his biceps.

“I’ll know.” Something about that thought stops him. As bare as he is to the elements, as much as they seem to be punishing him for his transgression, his muscles lock. “I’ll know.”

She never even asked him. I mean, why would she, it’s her body, but still, it would have been nice to know. She just calls up out of the blue, tells him it happened, and now it’s over, there’s nothing to worry about?

“I guess I should go see somebody,” he says and steps into the warm water, letting it flow over his head. He can still speak through the droplets. “I mean, this isn’t something you forget, right?”

He shook his head. He kept seeing pictures of himself as an infant, some dressed in blue and others in pink. He’d never really thought about what his children would look like.

“It won’t just go away,” he says to the showerhead. “That was my kid. That was my firstborn.”

He turns the water to cold and lets the strands of icy liquid run down his spine. “She never even asked me.” He’s shaking, either out of fury or because he’s cold, he’s not sure which. All he can see, even with his eyes open, is a child nestled in his arms, wrapped in blankets.

“We’re not ready for this,” she said. “We can go on living the rest of our lives.”

He can’t, feeling this powerless. He shuts off the water and pushes back the curtain. He grabs the phone, punches in the number, and then waits for her voice. She doesn’t pick up, probably because she’s gone into hibernation too. He breathes deeply in rhythm with every ring, a valve releasing pressure.

Then he hears her innocent voice and realizes how silly he’s been. Sixteen is too young.


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## aj47 (Apr 8, 2014)

A letter to Eleanor (in the workshop)


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## Trygve (Apr 9, 2014)

Sirens is in the workshop. Not sure if this will take anyone there.

_Warning: main character is a sociopath. There are some violent and/or sexual images -- just what you'd expect when "A children's story" is the prompt. _


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## shinyford (Apr 10, 2014)

*The Nuffin Puffin* (491 words)


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## Arcopitcairn (Apr 10, 2014)

Fingler J. McKreebus Jr. and the Bad Man


 (Language Warning)


 Naked, in heaven, God watched Fingler J. McKreebus Jr. amble down the Wildwood Path. The morning forest stretched out dark, and the crisp air poked and bit. Fingler was a fat boy of eight, a saucy lad, wearing his bright green overalls, green t-shirt, and green shoes. His Kewpie doll-like head bopped to and fro as he fatly trudged, and his askew dollop of blond hair thrummed in the breeze. He looked ever more fitted to rotundly roll than to walk, and his jiggling cheeks wobbled on either side of a happy, wet-lipped grin. His chubby hands held a grease-spotted pillow case slung over his back, full of his famous foil-wrapped chocolate cornbread squares.


 The Wild Woods crowded around Fingler. He hurried along as fast as his stubby little stems would allow, stopping not to gaze at birds or smell the flowers, no time for squirrel frolic, or even to stamp his pudgy feet across the creeks and brooks. School beckoned him through the woods, and his precious cargo was bound for the smacking mouths of his classmates and the beautiful, gloss-lipped nips of Ms. Magillicutty, his teacher. Oh, Ms. Magillicutty. How Fingler loved to watch her daintily eat his chocolate-riddled cornbread!


 God edged forward on his throne of skulls, panting with excitement as he noticed Chesterton Snide, the rag-tattered, greasy hobo that lived in a shack deep in the Wild Woods. Chesterton was a messy pig of a man, rotten-toothed and filthy, dressed in used clothes and mismatched power line shoes. His long dirty hair hung in his madman eyes, and his twig-sprinkled beard hole opened to reveal a dark mouth of horror words and breath. Snide, plotting behind a tree, watched Fingler approach, his quivering, scarred hands twitching, fingers ending in black nails that swallowed morning light. Snide lived to taunt and insult the little fat boy. He stepped out from the shadows when Fingler drew close.


 “Whut chu got'n the bag, Bitch Tits?” Snide belched, “yer lunch? Fatso? Yer lunch? Haw!”


 Fingler stopped and pursed his doughy lips. “I've no time for your shenanigans this morning, Mr. Snide. I have chocolate cornbread squares for my classmates and Ms. Magillicutty, and I must not dilly-dally.”


 “Conebread fer yer teacher, huh? Boy howdy! Why dontcha fork over one'a them conebreads, Fat-ass? You do, and I'll leave ya alone tomorrah.” Snide smiled a horrible smile. “Honest injun!”


 Fingler sighed and reached into his pillow case, producing a foil wrapped square. “You may have one chocolate cornbread square,” he said as he held it out to Snide. “In hopes that you might leave me be tomorrow.”


 Snide snatched the goodie from Fingler and backed up, holding the foil square against his chest, obviously unused to anyone ever giving him anything. He started ripping the foil away and turned to watch Fingler walk on up the path. “Tell that fine split-tail Magillicutty that ole Snide's been thinkin' 'bout her when he's up to alone business, you little Piggy, you!”


 He slunk back into the woods to devour his treat. It was the best thing that Chesterton Snide had ever eaten in his whole, misbegotten life. And then he died from the poison.


 God rubbed his hands all over his naked body and drooled a little as he watched Fingler make his way down the Wildwood Path.


 Fingler smiled and thought about his classmates, all their hurtful words, their cruelty.  They all laughed at him, but they all loved his chocolate cornbread squares. He thought about his beautiful teacher, who looked at him with pity eyes. She would never be his. She would never belong to anyone after the cornbread. She would always be his. Fingler giggled and walked his chunky way.


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## InstituteMan (Apr 11, 2014)

Pizza Pis, 645 words in the workshop


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## Pennywise (Apr 13, 2014)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...Story-Workshop?p=1720476&posted=1#post1720476

Pompi - 650 words


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## J Anfinson (Apr 13, 2014)

*Guardians - 629 words*


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## godofwine (Apr 13, 2014)

The Carcass by Godofwine (649 Words)
http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ory-Workshop?p=1720529&viewfull=1#post1720529


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## ChristinaH (Apr 13, 2014)

The doorbell rings. My mommy said not to answer the door while she was gone, but it's never anyone bad and it might be the mail lady with a present for me from Grandma. Plus mommy didn't even lock the door. So I open the door.

It's the Ice Queen from the movie Frozen. We just saw it last week. I didn't know she was real. She says to me, "I demand that you play with me."

I don't like her. I tell her, "You can't tell me what to do."

She smiles evilly. "I can't?"

Now I'm afraid of her.

She says, "I can turn your house to ice. How would you like that, little girl?"

"That would be mean."

She smiles. "Very mean. Everything would be cold and frozen. Even your bed. How would you like to sleep in a bed that was solid ice? Live in a house that always felt like the coldest winter?"

That would be horrible. "You're a mean and evil person."

She looks at me and then starts to cry. "I am a mean and evil person. I know that. I feel so bad. I'm sorry."

I watch her cry. Then I ask her, "Then why do you do it?"

"I don't know. I just get so sad when no one will play with me. How would you feel if no one ever played with you?"

I would feel bad. I tell her, "I'll play with you."

"You will? Really?" She can't believe me. But she stops crying.

"Yes. I want to teach you to be nice. But no turning my house into ice. Promise?"

She smiles and me and crosses her heart. "I promise."

I take her to my dolls. She says, "These are beautiful."

"You never saw dolls before?"

"No never."

They are beautiful. I'm proud that she likes them.

She looks at everything and then says, "You must like being Barbie. She has wonderful outfits."

"Everyone likes being Barbie."

Then she says the most unexpected thing. "I can be Ken."

Usually we have to fight over who gets to be Barbie and who has to play Ken. So she's being really nice. But if she's never been Barbie, she should get to play Barbie. "You should be Barbie if you never got to be her before."

"Oh, thank you so much." She starts to cry again, but she's smiling too. My mommy sometimes does that too.

So we play dolls for a long time. Then she says, "I have to go now. Thank you for this wonderful time. I will try to be good from now on."

"You can come over any time you want to play. Of course, you have to be Ken next time."

She nods her head. "Of course, that's fair. I would love to come back."

She leaves, and then my mommy comes home. I start to wonder about the mean kids at school. Are they all mean on the inside too? Or are they like the Ice Queen?


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## Dave Watson (Apr 14, 2014)

The Wee Man

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ildren-s-Story-Workshop?p=1720635#post1720635


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## Bard_Daniel (Apr 14, 2014)

*Fly, Fly Bluebird (631 Words)*

*Fly, Fly Bluebird*
​   The mother-bird  soared upward with a flush of air. When she had nearly reached the top of the tree, she descended on one of the branches and cheeped, seeped, and tip-toed over the rumble of the bark to her nest. There was only one small baby left inside of it, all the others had left the nest, so to speak, and were enjoying their new-found  lives over the prettiness of the horizon, limited only by how high they were willing to fly.

   The smallest bird of the bunch had always been last to be fed. His feathers were not as strong and big as all of his brothers and sisters had been. Yet, his eyes were the most stunning of them all. They glowed as powerfully as two sunsets. Timmy's brothers and sisters had been jealous of him, envious of him, and even, daresay I, hateful. They had greedily stuffed themselves with all the worms, bugs, and other things that their mother had brought them, neglecting their duties as siblings, birds, and creatures of the sky.

   But, he had survived. His mother had always brought him, when all the other birds were sleeping, more food. He had never really figured out why. It was his mother, he knew, and there was a special bond between them, to be sure, but he did not think, for the longest time, that there was anything different from the bond that his siblings had with her and his own attachment. Though, there was something more than simple kindness or pity.

   He figured it out later, but we will skip this for now.

   After his mother had fed him, regurgitating what she could, she sat in the nest with him, cleaning his ruffled and disorganized feathers and trying to make the rest of him look as plentiful and pretty as his eyes were. No matter how hard she tried, however, it would simply not work. One feather would always be curved the wrong way; another would never be creased down. Balls of fluff appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere, and at last, frustrated with the task, she chirped loudly and did something that Timmy did not expect.

   She picked him up.

   As he was placed on the branch his feet felt strange, heavy. It was as if he was in a complete fog. Slowly, yet surely, his mother prodded and pushed him further and further along the edge of the branch. Timmy began to get scared, and looked back, chirping wildly and trying to signal that he did not want to do this. He had seen his brothers and sister go through the same motions. 

   He was so afraid; he did not want to fly.

   He did not want to fall.

   His mother kept on, however, and soon he was at the edge of the branch: the edge of his fate.

   The small bird looked back at her for a single instant. In her eyes he saw so much. He saw pain, grief, tension, fear.... but none of those were the most important thing that he witnessed. No, it was something else entirely.

   It was love.

   She pushed him over the edge.

   For a minute, the bird descended, and the mother suppressed a chirp of terror. She could not believe what she was seeing before her very eyes. 

   Yet...

   He did not reach the bottom. With a gracious arc worthy of the respect of his siblings, his mother, and all the other creatures of the forest, he swooped upwards. Exhilarated, he spread out his proud wings and moved with the current of the wind. 

   He flew with real heart.

   His mother watched him go, off into the distance, and if birds could cry, as you and I, she would have.

   For she had always loved him the most.


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