# Literary Maneuvers July 2018 - Dead Boys Don't Cry



## bdcharles (Jul 5, 2018)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*


*Dead Boys Don't Cry*
July 2018​


Welcome to Literary Maneuvers, our monthly fictive showdown, where you   write to a prompt chosen and voted on by our members, or in the event of   an extreme tie, decided by stochastic forces. 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. 

This is a fiction writing competition, and the prompt for this month is  'Dead Boys Don't Cry'.    Pick your own title, write about whatever you  want, in whatever prose    style, as long as it's related in some way to  the prompt. You decide the best way in which to dazzle your readers.

The Judges for this LM are forum staffer *Plasticweld*, force of Global Moderation *H.Brown*, comp alumnus/published writer *SueC  *- and you? 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 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* bdcharles*

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. 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 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 21st July at 11:59:59 PM, BST time. _(Not the 19th as stated earlier)_​
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.





*whatever that is


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## DeClarke (Jul 7, 2018)

https://www.writingforums.com/threa...ys-Don-t-Cry?p=2171210&viewfull=1#post2171210


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## aj47 (Jul 11, 2018)

I ... Manage (language ... and other things)


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## MatthewSteele (Jul 11, 2018)

The Country Cottage 

https://www.writingforums.com/threa...018-Dead-Boys-Don-t-Cry?p=2171861#post2171861


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## Guslar (Jul 12, 2018)

*A boy and a shadow*

"Remember back when you cried constantly in front of Hope?", a small child like voice in his head reminded him:"When you finally saw in her eyes how you ceased being a man in her heart?". A quiet angry grunt proclaimed affirmation. The voice continued:"And what about the feeling of hopelessness and being powerless to help her? You didn't have the means to whisk her away from her family which didn't appreciate her. All you could do is run about, buying books for her entry exam into nursing school, hoping that your doubts about her willingess to even come to you are false. And even that failed with that school's headmistress's ban for her to even apply. You couldn't do anything!". The boy was laying still in his bed listening to the voice, paralyzed. "And what then? You failed a year in college because of an oversight in planning. You studied like mad and yet you failed because you didn't stop and simply assess the situation. All because you were crying over not being able to help Hope. Oh, but it doesn't end there! Then you cracked under pressure like a craven coward and broke up with her.". The boy mumbled a response:"She wanted it too, but was afraid to tell me to my face.", but the voice retorted:"Yes, she did. She already had a substitude man ready to jump in if you left her. That's how much you were able to make her happy, you moron!".

A deep growl started in the boy's belly but on its way to his mouth it almost turned into a whimper. "Oh, you're gonna cry now again!?", the voice screamed."You're pathetic! You can't even get angry properly withouth bursting into tears!", it continued, but the boy fought back:"Where are my tears now then? I ain't crying.". The voice didn't relent:"Well you should be! You've even failed your own mother! She doesn't even have enough until the end of the month and needs to scrape by your grandfather who's half dead already. And even still he helps more than you!". The boy turned on his side placing his hands below his head, but for a moment it looked like he was going to cramp into a fetal position. "I tried, you know! I went on that job interview! Passed all their tests!" he pleaded. But the voice would have none of it:"And they rejected you because you couldn't make a good impression if your life depended on it!".

The boy got up to eat something. He took jam and started spreading it over slices of bread with a plastic spoon. But the voice came back:"And even today you've failed that exam because of a small mistake, which means you might graduate later. Mother will struggle even longer because of your stupidity. You're worthless.". The boy screamed at the top of his lungs trying to silence the voice, but he lost control of his right arm which held the spoon. The arm lashed out at his throat and cut wide over it. Luckily, the spoon couldn't cut even butter let alone his thick neck. He calmed down and his mind went back to that moment when he lost control. The boy realized he didn't control his arm back then. It was the little boy inside him that took over, the little boy who always wanted to make others happy and who cried in pain when he failed to do so. He could feel the little boy crying in him after the slash. He then laid down on his bed again and put his hand over his heart, trying to hug that little boy inside:"And look what you'd have done, made mom sad and kill her hopes for the future. Please cry, because that means you care and that you will grow strong enough to help those you love, one day. Dead boys can't cry...".


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## godofwine (Jul 12, 2018)

Suspicious Activity – by Godofwine

https://www.writingforums.com/threa...ys-Don-t-Cry?p=2172025&viewfull=1#post2172025


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## sigmadog (Jul 13, 2018)

Amateur Hour (625 words - I think)


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## ArrowInTheBowOfTheLord (Jul 15, 2018)

Angels Don't Cry
https://www.writingforums.com/threa...018-Dead-Boys-Don-t-Cry?p=2172627#post2172627


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## Jonthom (Jul 16, 2018)

Nepenthe


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## Dormouse (Jul 16, 2018)

https://www.writingforums.com/threa...ys-Don-t-Cry?p=2173158&viewfull=1#post2173158


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## Deleted member 61744 (Jul 19, 2018)

After My Dog Died
_(650 Words)_​
The house was too full of his half-chewed bones and the green-eyed woman's sympathy, so I decided to take a walk. I can finally say that word without a fuss, which is funny, as I'd give anything not to be able to.

Outside, cars jostle and groan like angry, sweating beasts. Their noise is so loud that it drowns out all else and allows the Silence that he left to drape around me. I hate it.

The asphalt’s solidity is somewhat comforting, and I become lost the motion of my shoes swinging back and forth. But there’s only two of them.
In the distance, a woman walks her dog.

I go back home. I don’t cry.

The green-eyed woman greets me with pity as soon as I enter the house.

~

​The TV is on, but the Silence is too loud to hear anything. Some way off, the green-eyed woman calls me to dinner. When I join her, the Silence becomes a solid, jagged thing we share between us. The green-eyed woman smiles and shifts as she eats, as if she could drown out the Silence by ignoring it. In the clatter of her cutlery it grows teeth.

“I hear that the animal shelter recently rescued some puppies. Perhaps we can go and take a look. Would you like that, Dear?”

I would like to strangle her.
~​
The stones hold names of people I can't remember and can never meet. The name I was looking for is not here, but I went anyway. Some of the names are soft, nearly imperceptible. It makes me wonder what happens when not even stone can hold a memory. At least it’s better than having no stone at all.

Yew trees shelter me from the sun. They were probably the first things here; perhaps they’ll live to be the last. They have their own gentle sound, as if someone is cupping their hands over my ears. For a while they drown out the Silence that should have been filled with barks and sniffing. But then, I listen too deep and the Silence breaks though like a crashing wave. For a few breaths, I feel like I'm drowning. But I don't.

I leave his tennis ball under the trees before I go.
~​
The bin is overflowing, but as he isn't here to steal the rubbish I can't be bothered to empty it. After a few more sips, I realise I have no idea what I'm drinking.

I stare at the green-eyed woman from the couch whilst she shouts. It's entirely my fault and I know I should feel guilty. But all I can think is that she looked better without the lipstick.

“He’s gone! Get over it for goodness sake. If you carry on like this, you’ll lose me too. Is that what you want?”

_No_ should be my answer, but it's hidden too far away. So instead of comforting her or pleading her to stay, I sit and wait for her to leave. Eventually she does. The Silence that hid behind her shouting, now spews from my mouth to fill the whole house. I wait for the tears to come, but they never do.

~​
The bristly starts of my beard begin to itch, so I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and try not to look at the eyes staring back. The green-eyed woman wouldn't let me have a beard; she said it made me look as scruffy as him. Well, she's gone now. Perhaps I do look scruffy, but he's gone now too, so at least we can’t be compared. Briefly, I wonder why he had to die and leave me here. But then I listen to the Silence that fills the house like treacle, and I realise there’s more than one way to kill someone. I wonder if I'm already dead. Between the flashes of my razor, the Silence waits.


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## ned (Jul 21, 2018)

*The Committed*

.
On the evening of another grey day, His Majesty’s Ship Reliant trimmed her sails and heeled across a westerly breeze.

Below decks, beside the magazine, a couple of Powder Monkeys sat cross-legged beneath their hammocks. Jack and Tom were on their first ship and after two weeks of constant drills, now knew their duties well enough.

Jack rolled his eyes. ‘I was hopin’ we were goin’ to Jamaica, but it looks like we’re stuck here on this bloomin’ channel patrol.’ Keeping his voice low, lest he disturb the resting day-watch, gently swaying the length and breadth of the lower-deck. ‘Back and forth we go. I swear, when I’m topside I can’t tell which green smudge is England and which one is France.’

Tom clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘If you ever goes overboard, you won’t know which way to swim!’ And they both giggled behind clasped hands before their mirth was quickly quenched by a tin cup crashing into a beam just inches above Tom’s head.

‘Keep yer blessed row down!’ A Bristolian accent called out. 

The boys smiled at each other and quietly climbed into their hammocks while the ship’s timbers creaked and groaned in the gathering gloom.


As dawn approached, any slumber was suddenly shattered by the brittle roll of a marine’s drum. The naval death-rattle of ‘beat to quarters’ - and ordered chaos broke out as the lower-deck was cleared for action.

It would be the boys’ first taste of real action - but any nerves were tempered by the discipline of practiced routine and they jumped to it, pulling open the heavy magazine door and filling their oversized knapsacks with powder-cartridges for the awaiting gun crews.

Tom served the port side stations, and was determined to keep his guns supplied…and outrun Jack for once, if that’s what it took. He was doling out the last of his cartridges when Reliant was struck amidships, hurling splinters at the speed of musket balls, ripping into unprotected flesh. From the shudder and screams above, the main deck had also been hit.

Redoubling his resolve, Tom charged down the deck to fetch more powder. Reliant engaged, and he had to be fleet-footed to avoid the fired guns as they leapt back from their ports like living things, barely tamed by the gunner’s stays.

Driven and relentless in his duty, Tom only stopped when he heard the call for cease fire and collapsed to the deck. For a moment, all was quiet, save for the soft moans of the wounded. 

Tom’s thoughts immediately turned to Jack, and when he couldn’t find him, feared the worst and frantically headed for the hatchway - only to be stopped in his tracks by the strong hands of Gunner McKenzie gripping his shoulders. The Gunner looked down at Tom and slowly shook his head, feeling the boy tremble in his hands.

‘Where is he?’ Tom pleaded, his eyes welling.

‘They’ll be time for grieving later, but right now boy, there is work to be done.’


In a slow rhythmic fashion, Tom swabbed the blood-stained lower-deck, wondering if any of it were Jack’s. While all around him the cacophony of repairs were underway, paced by the steady clank of the carpenter’s hammer.

That afternoon, all hands were on deck as one by one, the dead were lain under an English ensign and committed to the deep. Once dismissed, Tom rushed to the port rail to look to the sea and hide his tears. Presently, McKenzie came over.

Tom could only sob, ‘I’m sorry sir.’

‘It’s alright, let it all out boy. You have to be alive to cry, just remember that.’ McKenzie smiled grimly, then walked on.

The Reliant was Portsmouth bound for further repairs, and Tom fixed his gaze on the green smudge growing ever larger on the port-bow horizon, whispering…

‘If you can swim Jack…swim this way.’


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