Karma approached me with an idea. To have a short story thread.

Come on orgers - let your juices flow; write a creative short story, and then post it!

The party was over.

The lights went up. All of a sudden Jamie was alone again. Except this time he was happy. Tonight he had managed to meet a girl, and not only that, he got her phone number.

Jamie had always been useless with girls. It was not that he did not know how to behave, but more that he was so nonchalant that girls could never read how he truly felt. It had been a curse that Jamie had gotten all too used to. That was, until tonight. The burning desire to love within him was rekindled. Jamie was infatuated. All he could think about on the bus journey home was her. Sarah.

He did not dare text her, let alone call her – oh no; you do not want to appear desperate when it comes to girls. No, Jamie would wait. He would play it cool. They could meet on Saturday a week from now. Perhaps then they would even kiss. Perhaps then they would decide to hook up.

Jamie sent one text on the Thursday. He organised the time and the place. Sarah agreed.

Saturday came. Sitting through classes was an absolute nightmare as all Jamie could think of were those lips he wanted to kiss, that body he wanted to stroke and that love he wanted to feel. Jamie skipped lunch to wait for Sarah at the station. Her train was late, but it did not matter – Sarah still looked just as beautiful. In fact, Jamie felt very self-conscious. All of a sudden he had an enormous urge to run away, but he resisted and instead gave a very sheepish “Hello,” before kissing Sarah on the cheek.

“So…how was the journey?”
“Fine.”
“Yep.”
“Coffee?”
“Okay.”

Conversation was thriving. Jamie felt elated. He had no idea that Sarah was bored to tears. Sarah shot herself in the face. Jamie got the message.

spooky threads never bomb.

I like the end

evenstar3 said:

Me too. I got bored of writing.

should I read this???

abierman said:

totally.

Spookymuffin said:

but evenstar3 already spilled the ending for me..... (I totally love the fact that Jamie got the message! )

abierman said:

I just said I liked it, that was all

abierman said:

Sometimes guys just don't get it.

I'll post another story.

I wrote this when I was 14:

Departure

He opened the door with his last remaining energy and collapsed onto the floor. He did not know how long he had been lying there when he woke up but he could still feel the pain. Carefully, he dug his fingers into the gaps in the splinter-ridden floorboard and dragged himself across the floor. The agony made him cry out in pain. The next attempt brought him closer to the radiator, which, by holding onto, he used to haul himself up against the wall. He relaxed for the first time in months, but this was one time he could not relax. He held his hand over the hole on his chest and pressed hard. With that some of the pain subsided, he would need to sit here until he gained the energy to stand.
How had he let this happen? Pete and John were dead. He was alone. Flashes of past events flashed through his mind, but he knew to remember it all, and view his mistakes, he would have to go back to the beginning. He let his body slump and thought back to his departure.

The motel was grim. The stench of moulding walls filled every room in the hotel. Still he was only going to be there for an hour. The only light in his room glowed dimly and swung side to side from its rotting fitting on the ceiling, alternately casting light on the hunched, slicked back, black-haired figure of Edward Kestleman. Dressed in a sleek, Italian-cut suit complete with black shirt and silk tie, he looked perfect. That was him, before hell broke out. He was sitting in the only chair in the room, a high-backed, crimson armchair, polishing his gun. It seemed like it had been hours; the black grease refused to spread thin on the embossed nickel casing of the gun. He loved his gun, he was loyal to it. He would never treat it badly as it was this intricate, shiny thing that kept him alive. Finally it seemed to be spreading thin, he picked up his dry cloth, shaking off a cockroach as he did, to wipe off the grease and expose the gleaming nickel. It was clean now. The nickel bore his reflection as he examined its beauty. “Colt 1911A1 .45” it read; the only pistol worth owning in his opinion; reliable, light-weight and deadly accurate. That was all he needed. He slid the gun into the velvet pouch and tucked it into the briefcase, next to the shotgun.

He checked his watch. Quarter to nine, Pete would be outside any minute. He walked across the broken, splintered floorboard to the wardrobe. It creaked noisily open, breaking the silence. He unhooked the two suits in the wardrobe, shook them down and lay them on the bed. He looked up to glance outside the window. Still snowing, it seemed like the weather would never change. It was beautiful to see the Bronx at night. The beautiful, golden-yellow neon lights flickering on and off, the monorail in the distance; all this, accompanied with the snow was beautiful, he was going to love killing Charlie tonight, the thought of his warm blood slowly being soaked into the pure snow, transforming its colours, excited him.

He got back to work, and walked into the bathroom; he took his razor and toothbrush and walked back towards the briefcase. He folded the suits and tucked his toiletries between the folds before slipping them into the briefcase. He zipped up the briefcase and sat next to it on the seemingly concrete bed.

After a ten minute wait he heard Pete. Three brief honks of the horn as planned. He picked up the briefcase and walked out the door, slamming it behind him as he went.


[Edited 11/8/06 12:36pm]

i wasn't expecting that ending.

i'll post one of my own in a moment.

JasmineFire said:

cool!

Spookymuffin said:

Amazing atmosphere...and I'm jealous you could write like that at 14

The final short story I wrote, again when I was 14, just before I gave up creative writing.

Elegance in Death: Opening (I was planning to make this a book)


Slovakia, December 1941.

The harsh, cold winds broke past Swan’s Polarneck and scarf as he approached the Embassy. How it made him angry to see it; the wealth, the splendour, with no true labour required to gain it. The anger cut into his head like a knife, steadily wearing away at his rational, calm and capable mind. Swan could not afford to lose his calm; this could not be done again and was too important to throw away. Without his calm, Swan would lost the elegance with which he earnt his name - it could become bloody; a massacre. This was Swan’s problem, he had a hot temper, and, in this profession, he needed to be calm all the time. This was Swan’s one let down preventing him from turning professional.
He was drawing closer, the alleys and shadows with which he could hide were sparse and the Embassy’s floodlights were on. He drew his scarf over the scaring which surrounded his mouth. This was the hardest part, approaching the entrance to your goal; the actual deed was not as difficult, providing all went as planned. Swan could see the guards now, each one armed with a Mauser 98K, and a Berretta 9-millimetre with silencer – well armed, evidently these weapons were provided by Germany. Good. That would help when the Allies assessed the situation.
Swan slipped into the café two hundred metres from the Embassy gates; here he would meet the contact, who should provide him with his weapon and a means of entry. He or she would answer to the phrase, “I hear the dogs are vicious now.”

There were three men on a creaking, pre-1920s (evidently fake) minimalist table and a woman seated on her own by what would be the bar, only it did not sell drinks. Swan thought it safest to approach the woman.
“I hear the dogs are vicious now.”
“Yes, who told you?” The woman replied with a strong, French accent.
“A friend.”
“Local?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent, follow me.”
Swan got up from the high chair that he was sat on and followed her across the neatly polished, black and white chequered floor. She stopped outside the ladies bathroom; they were out of sight of any watchers. From her pocket, the contact withdrew a 1927 Browning Automatic, with silencer. Excellent, this would have been Swan’s weapon of choice for any operation – a quick short burst of whispers, the splatter of blood, and the job would be done. Bliss; this gun was both silent and quick.
“Your disguise is under the seat in the leftmost cubicle of the gentlemen’s toilets.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck, Mr. Swan.”
Swan walked casually into the gentlemen’s toilet, it was pleasant – crimson red walls and clean, odourless urinals. He was only interested in the leftmost cubicle however. He knew what would be beyond it before he opened the door, the stench of blood was overpowering, although any inexperienced person would not be able to tell the smell apart from the stench of human faeces, evidently present because the victim had soiled himself prior to death. Swan swung back the door. His reaction was surprisingly emotionless, even by his standards. The body was that of a guard, goodness knows how they killed him without being caught, but whoever “they” were, they were certainly experienced – there was not a single drop of blood on the uniform, and the bullet had slid cleanly in between the eyes at such an angle as to prevent the back of the head from exploding. Swan was impressed; he got to work straight away.

He left the café in less than ten minutes and was totally unrecognisable from the untidy Swan before. Gone was the long, silver hair; hidden underneath the large hat which covered Swan’s ears from the cold. The scaring on Swan’s mouth was also gone; cunningly concealed by a very thin layer of make up, barely disguising the marks.
Swan walked casually towards the gates. As he approached the black, cast-iron and gold-plate monstrosities, a guard stopped him.
“Identification, please.”
“Sure,” A sharp burst of adrenaline rushed through him; he had not thought about checking the pockets to find out where the identification was, he took a guess. He was lucky,
“Here.”
“Thanks, sorry, but we have to be extra tight tonight, there are rumours that a terrorist attack is planned.”
Swan proceeded onwards. Terrorist attack? How could they be so mindless, no one, not anyone, would plan to destroy the Embassy, nor would anyone even dare to take hostages. Still, he had to think pessimistically – they know something vague, they are not aware what, but they know some form of attack, which they presume will be a terrorist one, is planned, and they are right, in part. Swan had now reached the large, oak doors, which served as the main entrance to the Embassy. Swan did not bother to remove his black leather gloves as he entered, he did not like the idea of his skin touching other people’s signs of wealth, wealth earnt because their parents’ were wealthy at that; not true wealth. True wealth comes from the ground up, which was why Swan had no objections to this job. He was happy to do this job.
Swan climbed the stairs. Slowly. Calmly. He had reached the top now, and was remembering the routes as he went; first on the right, down the corridor, second door at the end, left, right, through the door with the gold emblem.

He had arrived; the Ambassador had his back to him, excellent. He was a grossly overweight man, evidently he was spoiled from the high life, greedy too – he would be classed as a kleptomaniac were he not this wealthy. Swan drew his gun.
The soft whispers he remembered flew out of the gun with lightening speed, but Swan was wide-awake, he took in every delightful detail. He watched as the sixteen bullets cut into the Ambassador’s bulging back like a hot knife through butter, he watched his chest then explode open as the bullets exited his body. He saw the blood soak the entire wall and the vital organs of his body spill onto the floor. This was pleasure at its glorious climax. Then, as if it could get no better, the Ambassador’s young waitress entered, carrying a teapot on a wonderful Mahogany tray. Swan turned to her; the swift action caused his hair to spill from its hat over his face, giving him the visage of Satan himself as he fired three silent bullets towards her face. To anyone not as experienced as Swan, it would have all happened too fast, but Swan watched smiling broadly as the three bullets slid into her face, and her brain caused her face to spasm wildly. He loved it, the wild and random expressions just before the entire head collapsed into an indecipherable mush of red and white under its own weight, followed by the scalding heat from the teapot, which spilt out onto the stump where her head once was, causing the remaining flesh to swell and blister.

Swan stood admiring his work.

evenstar3 said:

thanks. I'm digging through all my old material.

Spookymuffin said:

If Sarah was bored then why was the conversation thriving and why did she agree to meet him?

Spats said:

oh christ

evenstar3 said:

The story makes no sense.

Spats said:

There was a little girl skipping rope in her backyard when she stumbled and fell on a spike which went straight through her head.

evenstar3 said:

Well it doesn't.

evenstar3 said:

you made me look!

Spats said:

Ah yes, the age old "Americans and Sarcasm" issue.

Cloudbuster said:

Nobel Prize nominee.

Spookymuffin said:

I suck ass at writing.





but I'm still better than Cloudy though.

minneapolisgenius said:

Quite an achievement - you must have a basic knowledge of grammar!

Spookymuffin said:

It's "grammer"!

minneapolisgenius said:

Oh, I see spelling's still challenging.

Spookymuffin said:

No, spelling is fine. It's just putting individual letters together to make words that's the problem.