Yet another writing thread, by extremely vocal popular demand.
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Ooh! We’re writing Short Stories in Fiction 2 this year!
I’m really excited – we have a fantastic teacher and it should be really fun.
I’ll post mine when I’ve finished! (Or when I need revision help or something)
we should post the def of a short story first:
drat, I do not know.
Yayay!
I’ve recently (well, begining of August) finished a short story that I’ve emailed to a few of you about Melanie and looking for the small joys in life.
wewt! I have sooo many short stories! Here’s one:
[Story removed at author’s request. –Admin.]
Many definitions say 7500 words or less. Given the loquacity of most MBers, and given that some definitions say between 1000 and 20000, let’s be lenient and make it 8000 words or less.
w00t! l shall contribute soon.
didn’t agagagbagagaga zepta (I proboly spelled that wrong, sorry, agaga.) say this was a rrr? let me see.
No. And at least copy and paste.
here it is:
About short stories: Everyone writes a short story that l compile, and we can write some RRR style.
let us start with the short storys and then we can go to RRR.
I’ll bring my Fiction notebook home this weekend and post a bunch of helpful get-started-stuff, along with definitions of a short story and such.
Hmm. I will write one sometime. The trouble is, I don’t really care for short stories and most of them evolve into novels at some point or another.
comment on mine!!
9- noooo. this be not RRR thread. this be writing thread. shoo.
We just read Stephen King’s Word Processor of the Gods in English. I’m not a huge fan of that one.
A girl I know called my mom and asked her what a short story was. Then she asked her how to write a short story about Bambi. My mom was like “O_o” and she asked what the assignment was. The girl told my mom that they had a few choices for what to do for the assignment and the only one she saw was short story but she didn’t really know what it was. Then her teacher asked her what she was going to write about and since she didn’t know what a s.s. was to begin with she just said the first thing that popped into her head – Bambi. xD
I heard about one girl who read “War and Peace” in one sitting to prove that herteacher’s definition of a short story was redicouls (sp?). I recently-
Alter Ego:You liar.
Me:Sorry! It was recently, antway I checked out “Write Your Own Adventure Story” from the library, and I think the difference it gave between a novel and a short story is good, short stories have a different structure, usually they’ll have a few characters and one plot, novels can hace lots of characters and subplots. Heh?
12- o.k.!
is that the end? it is good other whys, might need a better ending.
12- The end was splendid, but the beginning seemed very rushed, like you were trying to squeeze everything into one small space. Short stories don’t have to be that short; you could put in a lot more detail and still have a short story.
14- It’s spelled ridiculous, and that definition makes a lot of sense.
9- NO! This isn’t an RRR! This is a writing thread on which we post short stories and give feed back to others. Also, PLEASE do not take my writing off the blog without my permission. Thanks!
11- I sort of have the opposite problem. I don’t know about writing novels but I’ve written/ started a few short stories. Here’s two. I reeeeaaally want critiques on the second one! (you may critique the first one too of course… I just really want critiques of the second.)
———————————————–
[Stories removed at author’s request –Rebecca]
(Gapas, in my last post the number for the miles that seperate is a random number. I deleted the one that actually was to where I live. I have no clue where this one ends up.)
16- yeah. I wrote in two days at school during writers workshop. I should edit/revise it, but I have reviseophobia and can’t bring myself to do it.
17- wawsome! i like the second one.
Has anyone read any of Harry Harrison’s short stories? They’re fabulous.
Or Spider Robinson?
Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
20- are there collections of them? I love reading short stories so if you told me some titles. My favorites are de Lint’s Newford collections especially Moonlight and Vines. (the other three are The Ivory and the Horn, Dreams Underfoot and Tapping the Dream Tree)
any more comments on my pieces?
anyone?
Short Storiez:
Once upon a time a little boy named Beavo decided to end this story.
The End
Oxlin/e~a/whatever I should call you: I liked your stories! Here are my comments – for the first one: this seems like more of a vignette than a short story…it doesn’t seem to have any sort of beginning, middle, or end, and seems more poetic. (More like a prose poem than a short story) But I really liked the images and such – they’re great!
second one: This is really fantastic – I just want to see where it goes next. Do you have an outline for the story, as in, do you have a clear conflict and an end? It’s a fantastic (I mean, flamablamablous) beginning, I’d love to see more!
Wow. Feeling inadequate. I shall now run away quickly and resurface when I have something of significance to contribute.
RESURFACING!!!
Knee Socks
It was cold. I’m talking weather-warning, school closing cold. You blasted the heat all day, and then at night, you buried yourself under a multitude of quilts and blankets, surrounding yourself in a fortress of hot water bottles. We hadn’t had school for three days, and going outside was out of the question, unless you LIKED being a personsicle. I woke up that Thursday shivering under my comforter castle, my eyes and nose peeking out from under a knit cap. I groaned.
“Mina, school’s closed again!†Mom peeked in at me from around the door. “Sweetie, you look like an Eskimo!†she smiled, turning around and heading back downstairs. Great. Another day of stir-crazy. I hauled my keister out of the haven of warmth and into the frigid chamber that was my bedroom. I quickly threw myself at my dresser, pulling on long sleeve shirts and sweat pants. In less than a minute, I had gained at least five pounds in fabric. I pulled on another sweater, just in case.
I ambled down the stairs, groggily falling onto each step. As my feet hit the tile of the kitchen floor, a chill rose up my legs and into my nose, swirling like a manic tornado of ice. SOCKS! I had forgotten probably the most important part of my ensemble. Dashing back up the stairs, I shrieked in frozen agony. After what seemed like eons of jumping up and down in front of my sock drawer, frantically foraging for my favorite pair, I cried out an appropriate “A- HA!†I had found them. My fuzzy rainbow knee socks. Aaah. Nothing like it.
So, yeah it’s REALLY short. What do we think?
25- that IS short!
25- Wonderful! l’ll compile it!
27- aaah! no compiling mine please!
25- Ooh, I like it but it feels like something’s going to happen aftewards. I really like the fuzzy rainbow knee socks though.
28- But that’s what the thread’s for!
29- no, the thread is for sharing and getting feedback on stories. And I really don’t want you to compile mine. it’s my story after all. PLEASE please please don’t take it.
agagabagabag zepata, what exactly do you mean by compiling? Because my story’s not finished and MINE.
l’ll just add the rest later. And please, call me agagabagabag.
29- It was my idea!
Ag, just leave out oxlin’s stories. Heaven knows I wouldn’t want my writing compiled, if it wasn’t in an RRR and I wasn’t the compiler, and oxlin said at the top of her post “Don’t take my writing off the blog without my permission.”
err… yes it may have been your idea but you never mentioned compliling. I would have never posted my story had you mentioned compiling?
Um by not finished I mean it’s being edited. and pleasepleaseplease don’t compile it. PLEASE!!!!!!
35- He did mention compiling, but on the suggestion box thread, not this one.
Fine, but are you embarrased? lt’s anonymus!
What is compiling? This is confusing me…
NOTHER ONE RAIT HERE.
[Story removed at author’s request. –Admin.]
_____
dunno why I posted my suckiest one (or one of them). :D?
37- a) I don’t want other people using my stories
b) I still have no clue what compiling is as you still have not explained it. Even if you do, NO NO NO! It’s my story and I keep it.
Whoa whoa whoa. Compiling? Ahem? Please elaborate?
Thank you for ze complients. They are highly appreciated!!! Kiki- your stories are SO GOOD. They’re very fantasy-ish, it’s great. Silver and Gold sort of reminded me of Stardust by Neil Gaiman.
AAAARRRGGG! Compiling means putting together. This is like an RRR, except the different parts are stories.
What you’re saying is like saying, “Don’t put what l’ve written into the RRR. lt’s my work and you don’t deserve to have it in your story.”
We Are Still A Family
Chapter 1
Rain pelted down on a silky back. At least, a normally silky back. Now it was ruffled and stringy from the rain and dirt.
The back belonged to Brushtail Missouri. The little red fox was scurrying across the forest floor. There ahead of him, a hole in the ground, was his destination.
As he rushed into his burrow, soaking wet, he called out, “Mother? I’m hooome!â€
“Brushtail, dear, I’m in the store room! Could you help me with some of these acorns?†she called out. The voice belonged to Brushtail’s mother, Scarlet Missouri.
Brushtail was just starting to go to his mother when his father called out, “Brushtail, chch, chch, come here!†Brushtail’s father, Redback Missouri, was very sick.
“Brushtail, “ his father croaked, “Come here.†Brushtail walked towards his father and stood before him. As he stood there he noticed that his father looked worn and thin. Maybe even more so than usual. Suddenly Brushtail felt guilty. He hadn’t been to see his father much since he became sick. Trying to convince himself that he didn’t visit his dad because he didn’t want to get sick, he realized he was just making excuses.
“Son, I’m sick. I think I am dying. You are the one who must take over. Take care of your mother. You know the duties of the man of the house.†His father sounded as though he knew he was going to die and had already committed himself.
Brushtail merely nodded and slowly walked out of the room. He trudged towards the storeroom with his eyes on the floor, almost bumping into his mother who was carrying a dead, baby chicken.
“Brushtail, please go back to the store room and get some dried berries,†his mother told him in a brisk voice over the young chick’s fuzz.
He hurried away, but when he reached the storeroom he slowed down and began crying silently. As he entered the storeroom he quietly closed the solid oak door and sank to the cool earthen floor in his overpowering sadness.
“Brushtail! Brushtail? Where are you?†his mother called from the kitchen. Quickly he raised himself from the floor and dashed his tears away. He gathered some dried berries and finally opened the store room door. Quickly, he walked to the kitchen with his arms full.
“Oh, there you are dear. Put the berries here in the basket.†Scarlet pointed to a rush basket.
“Why, Brushtail, what ever is the matter? Your eyes are red!†At this she laughed because everyone in her family had red eyes.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Mom,†Brushtail said softly.
“Why don’t you go outside and play. Oh… I forgot it’s raining. Why don’t you play with your brother for now? Dinner will be ready soon,†Scarlet told him as she turned back to the chick.
Slowly Brushtail trudged down the hallway to his brother’s room. Crash! “Oh, no,†thought Brushtail. His mother ran down the hallway and into his father’s room. He waited there for her, but he got impatient. He dashed down another passage into his brother’s room.
“Break things! Fun!†his three-year old brother screamed at him. On the floor around Scurryfeet, his little brother, were pieces of a porcelain statue of a baby’s crib. Brushtail realized it used to be his ornament as a little kid. He had loved it.
“MOTHER! COME HERE!†Brushtail yelled out the door. His little brother turned on his sad eyes. They were big, red ovals sitting on top of his nose. Brushtail laughed until he saw the broken baby’s crib, again.
At that moment Scarlet rushed in. “Yes, Brushtail?†she asked. The she saw the ground. “So that’s what that noise was! What was it?â€
“The baby’s crib,†Brushtail said softly.
“Oh,†was all his mother said.
She walked down the hallway to get a dustpan and broom. Brushtail headed to his own room. Swiftly he closed the oak door and sat down on his bed.
His room was s simple. His walls were packed dirt without any decoration. His bed was of fresh leaves and straw. He had a stick and acorn cap chair. Nothing else stood in this simple room, except for a few bare shelves of oak wood.
Brushtail had decided to take a nap. He laid down softly on his bed, pulled his chick fuss blanket up to his chin, and rested his dirty red head on the feather-covered pillow.
Then he looked up. His was the best room of all, even with its simplicity. On the ceiling of his room was the one and only window in the house. He listened to the rain tapping on the window and it lulled him to sleep.
“Brushtail! Dinner’s ready…aaaah! Brushtail, come quick! It’s your father,†his mother screamed.
Brushtail thumped down the hall to his father’s room. He found his mother sobbing on top of his father’s quilt. He knew at a glance that Redback Missouri was dead.
Chapter 2
The black stained coffin moved slowly through the autumn leaves and undergrowth. Brushtail walked behind the burdened procession with his mother leaning silently on his shoulder.
Scarlet was staring straight ahead into space. They had just come upon the grave and the coffin was being lowered when his mother’s eyes suddenly filled with tears and she ran back down the path to their burrow and dashed inside.
“Where did Mommy run to?†asked Scurryfeet.
“Home, Scurry, just home,†Brushtail told Scurryfeet, hoping he was right.
After the coffin was lowered a big red squirrel, who was preacher in the woods, spoke some quiet words about Redback Missouri and he was laid to rest.
Brushtail slowly walked home with Scurryfeet. His little brother hadn’t realized the sadness of the moment and was enjoying everything he saw. As for Brushtail, he was shuffling along the faint trail wondering where his mother was.
She was sitting at home silently staring into space. He realized she was there and avoided disturbing her. Scurryfeet and Brushtail played games with acorn caps and Scurryfeet’s toys.
As the weeks progressed Scarlet barely moved from Redback’s room. She didn’t do anything but hold Scurryfeet on her lap. Sometimes Brushtail became envious as he made dinner, washed clothes and dishes, and did all other manner of household chores!
Eventually the pantry became low and Brushtail’s temper was at the end of its rope. He asked his mother a question and she did not respond. She just kept staring at the bed. That was when it happened. He exploded! Brushtail screamed and raved. He told her how upset he was with her. He told her the pantry was low and he didn’t know how to hunt. Living without her was tough and he didn’t know if he could do it.
When he noticed she wasn’t paying any attention he walked around to face her. Her eyes were dull and her arms were limp. She had passed on to the next world.
It was then that he lost hope. He collapsed on the floor. As he blacked out he wondered how he would survive.
Brushtail woke up to little feet pounding all around. Why was he on the floor? Then it all came flooding back. His parents were dead and he and his little brother were alone with no means of support. He had to get up.
Brushtail scrambled to his feet and picked up his brother. He walked over to Mrs. Squirrel’s house. She had always been a second mother to him and his instinct was to go there.
Lina Squirrel was a motherly type and was shocked and then extremely sympathetic to hear that her best friend had died. She offered to let them stay at her house and Brushtail accepted.
For the next few weeks the stayed at her house. Life wasn’t easy for Brushtail. He was quiet and lonely. He realized he was too sad to stay in one place right now. His life was a mess and he needed to get it in order. He started to make plans!
One night, while everybody slept, Brushtail crept out he door. He left Scurryfeet behind and crept into the forest. He felt a little scared at all the night noises, but eventually he lay down behind a bush and fell asleep.
He was awakened by a soft chattering above him. At first he thought it was Mrs. Squirrel singing in the kitchen and making breakfast. Then he remembered where he was and what he was doing.
The chattering had stopped and Brushtail opened his eyes. He shouted at what he saw. In front of his face were two green eyes surrounded by white. The eyes jumped back in surprise at the yell and Brushtail saw it was a white squirrel.
“Umm… and you are?†Brushtail asked tentatively.
The white squirrel hopped from foot to foot as he responded quickly, “I’m an albino squirrel, that’s very rare you know, and my name is Treefleet!â€
Brushtail was taken back at Treefleet’s rapid talking, but managed to stammer, “Well, I, umm… I’m, umm, ahh, Brushtail… a, um, ahhh, red fox…â€
Treefleet extended his paw and cordially greeted, “Nice to meet you!â€
Brushtail shook the outstretched paw, and immediately realized this would be a good friend. As the two of them walked away from the bush into the forest and chatting lightly they became fast friends. Brushtail couldn’t help but admire his new friend.
Chapter 3
Treefleet led him to a hole between the roots of a tree. As he looked up he saw a winding staircase. Treefleet bounded up every wooden log like it was a game. Brushtail followed slowly amazed at his friend’s speed. Treefleet’s running was almost as fast as his talking! When he reached the top of the stairs Treefleet was mocking sleeping. Brushtail fell for the trick and tried to tiptoe past, but Treefleet grabbed his ankle and they fell down together laughing.
Treefleet led Brushtail to his new room. It was flooded with light and was the nicest room he had ever seen! Immediately he felt at home. Treefleet left him to unpack.
Brushtail awoke to a delicious smell of a stew simmering next door. He got up and opened the door where the smell grew stronger. Hes nose led him three doors down. The door was partially open, letting the smell waft to his nose. It reminded him of the meal his mother had been preparing the night his father did. He opened the door and there stood Treefleet cooking a meal Brushtail was teady to die for.
“Awake, sleepyhead?â€
“Hmm… oh, yeah! What time is it?â€
“Oh. Just 6:30 PM.â€
“What! Oh, jeez… I slept for forever!â€
“Uh-huh! Time for dinner! I hope you’re hungry!â€
“You bet I am.â€
They sat down and together they ate straight from the pot in such an uncivilized manner that their mothers would have been ashamed. It was silent in the large room, except the muching on veggies and nuts.
When they both finally leaned buack from their plates Brushtail groaned.
“Oh, wow! Was that a lot of food! Ooooh!â€
“Hmmm? That ? You kidding!? We still have desert!â€
Brushtail’s chin dropped five feet!
Treefleet ried not to laugh, but first he gurgled, then he snorted, and finally he broke into full blown luaghter.
“I was just kidding! I’ve never mad desert in my life!â€
“Oh…ah…ha, ha ha, ha ha ha, hee hee, ha!â€
They both sat laughing until the albino squirrel saw the dirty dishes and sighed.
“Time to throw these out!â€
“What do you mean, throw them out?â€
Looking embarassed, Treefleet said, “Well… I have no clue how to wash dishes… So, I throw them out.â€
Again, Brushtail’s jaw dropped.
“I… ah…think I can help you there. I know how to wash dishes.â€
Treefleet looked like his savior had arrived.
“Really? Can you show me?â€
“Ah… Sure, why not!â€
Together they walked to the room that had the big pot.
“Get me buckets of water! Hurry!â€
Treefleet came with three buckets of hot water. Brushtail poured them into the pot.
“Find me a branch from a mountain laurel.â€
The branch Treefleet brought back was used as a scrubber.
“Pass me a dish.â€
The pink flower plate was passed to Brushtail and Brushtail showed Treefleet how to wash it. He then let Treefleet try. The process was done over and over again until Treefleet got the hang of it.
“Thank you so much!â€
“It was nothing!â€
“Care for a game of cards?â€
They walked to a room with two big comfy armchairs and a table in between. Treefleet pulled out a deck of cards. They played for a while, Treefleet winning three games, Brushtail winning one. Brushtail looked at the clock and was surprised to see how late it was.
“Time for me to go to bed!†Brushtail told Treefleet.
Treefleet told Brushtail how to get to his room and wished him good night. Brushtail found his way (after a few tries) and fell asleep after his exhausting day.
Chapter 4
The days flew by, and before Brushtail knew it almost three months had gone by. Learning so many things about life, he had been caught up with himself. He had learned to hunt, gather, and do all the manly things he had not yet learned to do. Treefleet made him laugh and everything was wonderful with them. Learning was fun and easy, and they didn’t have to keep their rooms clean or anything their mothers would have reminded them of. All the fun had to have some sorrow in it though.
He started feeling sorry for leaving his little brother with Mrs. Squirrel. How was he doing? Soon he got so worried he had to ask Treefleet about it.
“Um… Treefleet. I never told you about who I was before I got here.†He proceded to tell the story of his family. When he finished Brushtail asked, “So, do you think Scurryfeet could come and live with us?â€
“Sure, go ahead! Leave now and you can be back for dinner.â€
Brushtail was glad his friend said yeas, because if he hadn’t Brushtail would have had to go live with his brother. As he looked up at the big tree he had been living in he realized it would never become home as the burrow had, but it was as close as he could get, now.
He moved quickly thorough the forest, not stopping for anything. To his surprise, the way back seemed almost to leap out at him, as if Mrs. Squirrel’s house was a magnet! He found himself there in about half an hour at the quick pace he moved at.
There was the door. He ran to it and pulled it open. There was Mrs. Squirrel putting on Scurryfeet’s jacketl It was as if time stood still. Scurry squirmed out of his jacket and ran to Brushtail. Mrs. Squirrel dropped the jacket and hugged both of them.
“Oh Brushtail! Where have you been?†She asked.
He told her all about his adventures with Treefleet.
“So, you’ll be wanting Scurry here back?â€
“Yes!â€
Preparations sprung into action. As the clothes were bieng packed Brushtail told Scurry, “We are still a family!â€
Scurryfeet stared at him with big red eyes. Brushtail smiled and helpedMrs. Squirrel lug Scurryfeet’s luggage downstairs. The one suitcase was easy to carry and perfect for what Brushtail had in mind.
He made the suitcase like a seat and put Scurry on it. Mrs. Squirrel waved her last good-byes as Brushtail set off at a run.
When he arrived at the big tree Treefleet was waiting to greet them. Immediately, Scurry took over. He jumped all over Treefleet which began a great friendship. Together they lived in peace and harmony.
________________________________________________
and
_________________________________________________
A Blue World
“Bye, Jen! See you in school tomorrow!†I called out.
“See you then, Sarah!†Jen said as she disappeared into the car. She stuck her hand out the front seat window and waved until she turned the corner. I ran back inside to set the table for dinner.
I was late the next morning to school. When I walked in nobody even glanced at me. They were all staring at Jen’s desk. One girl was praying. I wondered if I had missed something.
I unpacked and sat down quickly. The teacher saw me and bit her lip. She waved me over and led me into the empty hallway. I could hear Mr. Jerry talking next door and somebody laughed. I looked through the window to our classroom and knew the laugh didn’t come from there.
I brought my attention back to the teacher, who still had not spoken yet. Finally she said, “Sit down Sarah. You might take this hard.â€
I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor.
“Sarah, last night there was a car accident. Jen was killed.â€
All I could do was stare. I said nothing. When I stood up I walked into the classroom and back to my desk. Jen
t desk stood so bare and lonely that it stood out like a sore thumb.
The rest of the day was like a dream. I thought of everything Jen used to do. Constantly, I was reminded of her. Everyone told me how sorry they were. Even Bernedette, who I didn’t know very well, patted me on the back shyly. As she walked away I realized how many people loved Jen and missed her. When I got home I ran upstairs to my bedroom. There I stared at the painting I had done of Jen. It was a terrible recreation of her. It had none of the glow of her eyes, the thoughtful mouth, or the cute little snub nose. It did have Jen’s mysteriously colored hair, though. It was a mixture of red, brown, blond, and almost every other color on this earth. It made me cry when I thought of all the time I had with her wen I painted that.
My mom found out what had happened and came upstairs.
“Sarah,†she bagan, “I know this is painful for you. It was the same for me when my brother dieed during Iraq. I thought everything was my fault. All I could do was think about him. I got over it, though.â€
Mom understood wht I felt but how could I get over it?
Get over it. That’s what everyone told me. She’s gone and you can’t get her back. I knew she was gone, deep in my heart, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her all the same.
The next day at school wasn’t quite as much of a dream, but everything was still painful. I tried paying attention, but my heart and mind wouldn’t let me. Everything made my mind wander to Jen. In art class, my favorite class, I missed Jen. Mrs. Letchett told us to draw a feeling. I drew a blue person, standing in a barren desert. It looked flat and dull, but it certainly brought across the feeling of a sad and lonely person. Of course, it showed my feeling right now about Jen. I knew I had other friends, and they tried cheering me up. My life wasn’t as bad when I could outlet myself. In classes I began to draw with a blue crayon to outlet my feelings. It heped me focus, but if the teacher caught me they would make me stop. Even the mean and nasty kids left me alone. I guess everyone knew that I missed Jen and was not to be messed with. Bernedette started sitting sitting with me at lunch. I found out she had been close to Jen, also. When she had come in 5th grade, Jen had welcomed her warmly. Bernedette had always been thankful for that. She had wanted to get to know me better, but had been to shy. When Jen died she felt it would bring us closer together. I asked her what her favorite thing was to do and she answered writing. That was Jen’s favorite thing to do, too. I told Bernedette that I used to illustrate stories Jen wrote. Bernedette actually had a story with her that she let me borrow to read.
That night I read it over. It was about a girl who had no friends and was unhappy. I found that it would be easy to illustrate. That night I drew with only sad colors, until the last illustration. I used happy colors because the girl had friends and was happy. I loved Bernedette’s style of writing and made a copy of both my illustrations and her typed pages. Together I put a cardboard cover and bound it, like Jen had showed me.
In school I gave Bernedette the homemade book. She was ecstatic. All that week I became closer to Bernedette. Even though she reminded me of Jen, she helped me get over her, too.
On Sunday, when I went to church I prayed for Jen. I knew in my heart I would always miss her, but even her death, unfortunate thogh it was, had brought about good things. My friendship with Bernedette was becoming greater every day. It made me think of all the sayings that our parents tell us every day. One, you’ll get over it. Two, every cloud had a silver lining. I missed Jen, but I could go on living with her in my memory.
__________________________________________________
actually I’m rewriting that and adding to it currently
more to come but what do u think of these?
Middle Class Cats
Chapter 1: Sebastian
The clouds loomed over Sebastian as he made his way to the local congregation at the Cat Club. The local place was a snazzy place with bars and tables with red tablecloths. Sebastian checked in and stepped into the elevator. The boy in the elevator said, “Goin’ up!†Sebastian waited patiently for everyone else to get off as he waited for his floor at the top of the Club. “Ping,†and there was his number, 36, on the door. He pulled out his purse and dropped a dime in the waiting boy’s hand. He unlocked his door with the passkey and dropped it on the table next to the door. He leaned back on the nearest red lounge chair and picked up his book, “The Mouse Thief,†by W.M. Bickley. He started to purr as he got to the lovey-dovey part and he swung his tail back and forth as if it were a pendulum.
His doorbell rang. He put down his book and he opened the door. There stood Missy drenched form the rain.
“Sebastian,†she said, “I’ve been searching for you!†Her white fur hung damp and her ears in perfect pointed curves had moisture in them.
“Oh, ah, hello Missy.â€
“So,†she said as she stepped in, “What’s new around? I see you’ve got new furnishings. Why’d ya move from the Swish Tail Café?â€
“Umm, well, I, um, just got bored of the surroundings, that’s all.â€
“Oh.â€
“Umm, would you like a towel to dry off? Or a hairdryer?â€
“Yeah, thanks! That would be great.â€
Sebastian rushed into the bathroom and came out with a hair dryer and towel. He went into the kitchen to prepare a little snack as she dried herself off. Cooking was his specialty, after artwork, of course! His work as a painter corresponded well with the art of cooking. After all, they were both forms of art and to the person looking at it they both needed to look pretty and just right. She walked back out of the bathroom with her clothes dried and her hair fresh and clean. She looked dazzling in the late afternoon light.
“Oh, look! It’s stopped raining!†Missy said with joyful surprise.
“Really? Oh, ah, great, I guess,†Sebastian said with a little hesitancy. He knew Missy liked going for long walks down city streets from experience, so he quickly changed the subject.
“I prepared us a little light snack!†he said drawing her attention away from the sunset at the window.
“Mmmmmm! Looks delicious! Let’s bring it into the livingroom!â€
As they chowed down on the food she eyed him carefully. The light banter between the two had all but disappeared.
Suddenly he spouted, “Don’t keep staring at me! It’s getting annoying!â€
“Sorry.â€
“Yeah, umm, O.K.â€
Silence prevailed for a while and Sebastian broke it by saying, “Would you like to stay to dinner?â€
“That would be great.â€
“Could you help me in the kitchen then?â€
“Sure! I must warn you though, I stink at cooking!â€
“That’s O.K. I’ll teach you!â€
They walked together into the kitchen. It was a dazzling display of silver and white. His pans and oven shone in the late evening light. They chopped and diced, mixed and steamed, roasted and mashed until they could do no more.
Finally Sebastian said, “Go wait in the livingroom while I arrange it!â€
Missy slipped out of the room and sat down in the old puffy couch and waited. Soon Sebastian came out in his chef hat and tail flicking he said, “Walah! The Great Chef Sebastian is serving our appetizer. King Crab crab cakes just for you Madame!â€
Missy smiled and thanked him. They sat together and talked pleasantly.
“What great new artwork have you been doing lately, Sebastian?â€
“Right now I’m working on a portrait of a cat reading a book. All I need to do is find a cat to pose!â€
They chuckled at that and Sebastian realized it was time for the main course. He disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned he had a steaming plate of pan seared tuna.
“Ooh! I love tuna! How did you know?â€
“Really, oh, well it’s the chef’s job to know what his customers like!â€
They dug into the tuna, Missy wolfing it down in gigantic bites. Sebastian looked at her eating and had to hold back a laugh. Her normally dignified figure was bent over and her beautiful eyes were bulging out in the glory of the tuna. Eventually he had to chuckle.
“What you laughin’ at? Huh? Do I look funny or somethin’?â€
Her usual graceful manner had disappeared and her rough back street voice had suddenly spouted from her like it did when she was overly excited. Sebastian had never seen her this way and must have had a surprised look on his face, because Missy immediately changed back to her feminine voice and said, “Oh, ah, Sebastian, isn’t it time for dessert?â€
“Oh, ah, I guess so…â€
Sebastian stepped into the kitchen and came out with mango flavored ice cream which he set on the table in front of them. She daintily took a spoon and took a little bit.
“Oh! Sebastian! This is delightful.â€
After they had finished dinner Sebastian cleaned up and washed the dishes. Missy excused herself and went home. Sebastian thought about her as he got into bed. Why did she have sudden outbursts of bad vocabulary? How had she ever become so pretty? Why was he even thinking about her? These and a dozen other questions raced through Sebastian’s mind and he fell asleep thinking about Missy.
The Open Window
or:
The Missing Man
Chapter 1: Nothing
I’m Jimmy Jones. Funny name, right? I was born with it, trust me. This is a story about a man and a woman, or rather a missing man and woman.
It all started one day when I was visiting George Mason’s apartment. He lived with his wife in room 536 on the fifth floor. Of course, it was New York! As I was saying, I went to visit them. I rang the bell twice and nobody answered. Since I was with the police force I knew I had the right to bust in on them and see what was going on, but I was pretty sure George wouldn’t appreciate that very much, so I went away.
That was a bad mistake on my part. If, perhaps, I had busted down the door and found there was nobody there, the mystery might have been solved quickly. I knew George and Theresa, his wife, had not gone on a vacation or day trip, or anything like that at all. I guess I figured they had stayed out last night and gone on a tour of the night clubs, like all good couples do occasionally in New York, for what else is New York good for?
As I walked home that afternoon from a solid lunch at a sidewalk café I wondered why in the world George or Theresa didn’t open the door. They didn’t have any kids so it didn’t have anything to do with that. At the moment I figured they had just been really sleepy, forgotten I was coming to visit, or something along those lines. As it turned out it was nothing like that.
For several days I felt no urge to go talk to George, but on Friday I gave him a call. I told the operator the room number and she called up but she told me nobody answered. It was then I first got suspicious. I thanked the operator and went to get my coat and hat. I was completely stumped as to why they were not answering. I was a good detective, and it was obvious to me something was wrong. I knew these people well and they would have told me if I could not contact them!
I practically ran to the apartment and demanded information of the landlord. He simply replied that it would be against the policy of the apartment and he could not do it. I pulled him over the desk and showed him my police badge. He kind of whimpered and immediately said that nobody had seen the Masons in a couple of days. My mind raced and I had begun to go upstairs when he asked me to please put him down. I complied by dropping the fellow on the floor. He gave another whimper as I walked away.
It was five flights of stairs up to George’s apartment and I made it in but a few bounds. I tried to be polite and knock and ring but nobody answered so I busted down the door. I realized this would be a tough job. The Masons kept a tidy joint and it was three rooms. I looked under, over, and in between. No trace of George and Theresa could be found. I sat there helplessly on the floor. I then remembered I should telephone my commanding chief and tell him what had been going on! I reached for the phone and saw the line was cut. Above the phone was a window. An open window!
Chapter 2: Clues
At the time I didn’t give a thought to the open window. I just ran downstairs into the telephone booth. I knew where it was because often enough I had called my wife from there telling her she could contact me at the Masons. I called my police chief and told him the situation. He told me it was busy at the office and he was sure I could handle it by myself. He did caution me though to keep it out of the media. I had no problem with that since I hated all styles of media. So much trouble came out of them it wasn’t worth the publicity.
I slowly walked back up the five flights of stairs and dragged myself into number 536. I almost couldn’t stand it and could feel the tears well up in my eyes. Normally I’m not a crying type of guy. George Mason was special though because we had grown up together, gone to New York together, gone into the police force together, and married twins. Overall we were about as close as you could get to being brothers without actually being them. He was very special to me and I didn’t think I could bear it.
Then I decided it would be better to find clues to help George get home safely than to sit around moping. Immediately I sprang up, desperate to find clues. I looked in the kitchen where nothing jumped out at me. Then I noticed that there were no dishes in the washer or the rack! Peculiar. Next I checked the bedroom. I could see clothes on the bed, so they must have left before they cleaned up. I went back to the front hall and saw on the door a do not disturb sign hung on it. Aha! Somebody did not want anyone to come in here. Then I saw George’s coat hung on the coat rack! George never left the house willingly without his coat on, even in the summer, which it was not now. So, now I knew he had been forced out by somebody probably other than his wife and someone had hung a do not disturb sign on the door so nobody would come in and see them gone. They had obviously left before breakfast because there had been no dishes and their clothes were still on the bed. Theresa was a sort of neat freak and could not help tidying up everything just so.
In the living room I again noticed the open window. Their method of escape! Now if only I could figure out where they had gone from there. I looked out the window. Things had been made pretty easy for me. It had rained the night before I tried to visit and there had been mud on the shoes of the kidnappers. I had thought the muddy footprints had been those of George because he had gone out in the rain with his wife, but now I knew they had not gone out that night. Ha! Now all I had to do was to follow the footprints all the way to the hideout. Sounds simple, right? Not! I followed them down the fire escape and there they petered out. I jogged over to the K-9 unit in the police station and grabbed a mutt. I led him back to the footprints, gave him the smell of the footprints, and off he went. I had quite a time of keeping up with him! That guy must not have put deodorant on or at least left some significant smell because, boy, did that dog run! He jogged for a long time, and led me to my house! I kicked the mutt in frustration because I wanted to get this case over with, then I realized it was my fault because I had run down the fire escape and left my fresh footprints on the stairs!
God, I felt stupid! Why couldn’t I do something right for once, especially for my best friend? Jimmy Jones was the worst detective in all of New York and all the tough guys knew it. I had enough brains, just not the right sort. I guess the commander must have thought this was an easy case because who would be stupid enough to kidnap a police officer? I decided to drop off the dog and go home. I had to mull this over on my own time.
My wife was at home and asked me how my day had been. I told her the bad news and she gasped. Her sister gone! No wonder it was a shock! I felt just as bad about George as she did about Theresa. How would I figure this one out?
Chapter 3: Stuck
Life without George was like having a black hole overwhelm my life. Lisa, my wife, and I were depressed and downtrodden by it. My chief had called to ask how the case was going and I had to tell him the truth. He told me he figured I could do it and he was still too busy to deal with it. I sighed and agreed to try again today. I went back to the fire escape and saw a fresh print of footprints. I went up to the room through the front way and saw nothing different. It was then that I realized it was my footprints from walking the mutt down it yesterday. Stuck again.
All day I tried to find someway of determining where the Masons were. Nothing helped. I went down to the crime lab hoping to get somebody to do a scan for fingerprints. I got Rufus up from the lab and he found no traces of fingerprints. He guessed the man or men had used rubber gloves. He left in a bit of a fume because he had been pulled away from his work. I was still no further than when I had begun. No fingerprints, footprints, or anything else of use were there.
I sat down in George’s big armchair to think. Who would do this to him? Everyone thought him extremely nice, except for the criminals he caught. That was it! One of the birds he had caught must have gotten out of jail! Most of the criminals he caught were big time; so it must have been a big bust out! It was hard to get out of one of the big prisons you were sent to for murder or other such terrible crimes. I figured it would be all over the front pages.
That meant it was time to get Linda up here. She was the cutest reporter on the newspaper staff ever. Don’t ask how I met her! Whole other story there! Anyway, she could get any file on any crook, breakout, or crime you wanted. In exchange you had to give her the scoop. Bad deal, but what could you do with eyes like that! I got her on the phone and told her to head up to George’s apartment. George knew her too, so she knew how to get there. As I waited I wondered what to tell her.
She arrived in about five minutes’ time. She gave me a crafty smile and I suddenly felt I shouldn’t tell her. Yet, I knew I had to.
She broke the ice first. “What is it now, Jimmy?â€
“George has been kidnapped,†I told her simply.
Her jaw must have dropped twenty feet. “ What!â€
“ I need to know who might have had a grudge against George that escaped from prison recently.â€
“I got you covered! I won’t ask for the scoop this time because George is my friend and I’d like to help him in any way I can!â€
“Thanks!†I said with a lot of feeling behind it. Boy, was I relieved!
She waved goodbye and ran out the door. I watched her pass in the lane below me. Maybe I wasn’t so stuck anymore!
I walked home that night wondering if Linda could figure it out. Little did I know my wife had a surprise for me. She was waiting at the door. That was odd! She never waited for me! She told me that she knew the kidnappers should still be around here because she had checked everywhere, like airports and tollbooths, and there were no descriptions that matched George and Theresa! What a relief it was hear that!
Chapter 4: Information
The next morning I woke up and felt kind of lousy. Yesterday’s events all came flooding back and I got up and got dressed. I got on my Dell computer and checked my e-mail. There it was! The letter from Linda. The little paperclip next to it let me know that it had an attachment. Linda was prompt and on time, like usual.
I almost dreaded opening it but I grasped the mouse firmly in my hand and clicked. It had a short little note on it that basically said that she had found what I had wanted and hoped I found George soon. It wasn’t that reassuring. I clicked on the paper clip. They attachment said that Grim Gregg was out of Sing Sing and had swum across the water! Some swimming feat, huh! George Mason had been the one who had captured him, and the guards had heard him mumbling in his sleep about his grudge against George and how he vowed to get him when he broke out. Now that he was out he was likely to be out for George. There was a little note from Linda on the bottom that told me two things. One was that his old hideout was in Times Square, and the other was that he was also out to get any friends of George. This scared me quite a bit. Then my wife walked in and offered to make pancakes or scrambled eggs for breakfast. I immediately chose pancakes.
After breakfast I headed over to the Masons’ apartment. No new clues there! I sat down in George’s old armchair to gain some courage for the long walk to Times Square. I knew where Grim Gregg’s hideout was and I was scared to go there. Finally I stood up and prepared myself to leave. That’s when it happened. Grim Gregg opened the door and snuck up behind me. He put a cloth of chloroform over my face and knocked me out.
The next thing I knew I was tied up with rope in a corner of a dingy dark room with no windows. I heard someone breathing in the opposite corner. I called out in a whisper, “George?†I heard a mumbled answer that sounded like, “Jimmy?†So it was George. I moaned. How could it be that I had been taken so easily without my knowledge? As I said before, sometimes I am so stupid! George moaned and I heard a feminine moan along with it. I cried out, “Not Theresa, too!†George made an affirmative noise. What a mess we were in.
I don’t know how long we were stuck in there, but I began writhing about like a snake. I remembered I had put a pocketknife in my pocket before I had been taken. I found the pocketknife in my pants pocket and just managed to take it out. That pocketknife was to be my savior, as well as George and Theresa’s. I freed myself by cutting my bonds with the knife. I then cut Theresa and George’s as well. At least now we were loose and could talk. I groped for the door and found the lock. Perfect! I had taken a course in picking locks and had done quite well. I found it easy to open this one and sneak out into the corridor. George and Theresa followed me. We tiptoed down the hall, finding it easy to slip past the closed doors. We were almost to freedom! Ha! We were out! We ran all the way to George’s apartment building and called headquarters and told them to go grab Grim Gregg.
Chapter 5: Success
The police caught Grim Gregg and brought him back to Sing Sing. I got a good report and a congratulations from my chief! Maybe I wasn’t so useless after all. George and Theresa threw a party for me. My wife cried when she heard her sister was back! She hugged me and kissed me and treated me like a hero! Was I happy or what? I relaxed and hoped I wouldn’t get another job for awhile!
Case Closed
42- this is a writing therd! it is not a rrr! this is like writing and books in progress, for short story!
any way, you can’t take thing off the blog from here because you will then violate copyright laws. on a rrr we made a agrement that we will take things off the blog, but not on this therd.
there’s more to the Middle Class Cats story. let me know if u want to read it OK?
I wrote that short story on my own and I had no clue that this was an RRR. In fact, I don’t think anyone thought it was except you. Sorry, but ask for a different RRR thread. Or if this one is your RRR thread, GAPAs could you make a non RRR short story thread? Actually an RRR short story thread might make more sense as most of us here had no clue that it was an RRR thread.
“Don’t put what l’ve written into the RRR. lt’s my work.” I’m saying that. It was not at all meant for an RRR. It’s MY work. NOT an RRR work.
Agagabagabag, also, ask the GAPAs to put something RRR like in the description of the thread. If other people agree to have their stories compiled why not? and what’s the big deal with simply leaving mine out?
Look, if you want a different thread, request one! The one time l get a thread that was my idea, everyone steers it in a different direction!
GAPAs, please step in. We need your wisdom.
I still don’t get it! Yes, we know what compiling means, but where are you compiling it? And no, this is nothing like an RRR.
Here are my Fiction note type things:
(yes, I’m copying them from my notebook)
–Everything in the “ancient world” was poetry (lyrics) and dramatic writing. The other genres weren’t even thinkable. Prose didn’t exist – it was an oral culture. People heard things, and were illiterate. It was hard to remember – everything had to rhyme and be in verse.
–Genres are messed up – shouldn’t non-fiction be called “truthiness” and fiction be called “non-truthiness”?
–Nonfiction was the last thing (writing-wise) to come into civilization. Fiction is relatively new as well, it was “invented” in the Renaissance (by Edgar Allen Poe, I believe)
Why are we here?
–Everyone (every culture, clan, tribe) has answers to this question. They have stories about it.
—–The Stories: can either be for entertainment, or for meaning (the stories answer some sort of question). This is when they started thinking about stories.
Fiction:
We still, divide stories into two parts: entertainment, and a deeper meaning (Art)
ALL STORIES
Aristotle was one of the first philosophers to apply philosophy to literature. (In his writing, “The Poetics”)
–He said you need a beginning, middle, and end.
–You also need someone to “root for” – PROTAGONIST
–Stories work best if there is someone against the protagonist: ANTAGONIST
—Conflict: The protagonist and antagonist will clash, and at first, the antagonist will always win. But then, in a huge clash, bigger than any other, the protagonist wins.
If you can do this, (according to Aristotle), you can be a good writer.
–As an artist, you need to use this formula but still make it interesting.
Often writers show the protagonist in their every-day, ordinary world before introducing the conflict.
SPECTRUM OF FICTION
Ways to tell a story, from longest to shortest:
–Novel (150+ pages)
–Novella (75 -150 pages)
–Short story (3,000 – 5,000 words)
—Vignette/Sketch (Crisis Checklist
-Is the crisis appropriate for the age/gender?
-Is the crisis serious enough to upset the protagonist’s life to have to solve it?
-Is the crisis interesting to you?
Goal Checklist:
-Is it logical?
-Is it believable?
-Are the stakes high enough it the protagonist fails?
—Story Architecture—
Narration
Description
Internalization
Action
Dialog
I have some more stuff, but I’ll type it up later, because I have the feeling this post is long enough as it is. I hope it helps, though!
48- this can’t be a rrr because you have to finsh one to make a new one. see post 46.
50- if this thread is indeed an RRR thread, GAPAs please tell me so and remove my post with my stories. I do NOT want them compiled. I posted them here thinking I’d get feedback from MBers not thinking someone would go about stealing my works for an RRR.
50- look, trevor, museblog is comunity. we do not what a rrr short story therd. I got a rrr, but when I tried to take it over, YOU got mad at me. why is it that people act so defenrtly whne they are giving raver than reciving?
Actually, GAPAs, please remove my post anyways.
Or actually, as not to mess up the numbering, the stories part of it
53- see post 46. it is a wrting therd. see post 0:
Yet another writing thread, by extremely vocal popular demand.
the GAPAS don’t think it is a rrr. gapas post to tell us what it is!
We didn’t really understand the RRR dimension of the original request. As you can see from the description, the thread is set up only as a place to post short stories, and that appears to be how most of you have understood it. We do apologize for the confusion.
Speaking for myself, “compile” to me sounded simply like collecting, which function the thread itself already serves. Sorry, agagabagabag, that your idea was modified, but I still don’t see how a collection of unrelated short stories becomes an RRR. Maybe you could explain more fully what you had in mind.
55- My computer!
Look. All l want is a thread where l can compile short stories for a short story book. This can wait till an RRR is finished, or whatever, but l’d like it to be this thread. How about we destroy this thread, start over, and have everyone who doesn’t want their story published post them on writing?
NOTE: If you want to show other people your short stories, do it on the writing thread.
WHY IS NO ONE READING MY STORIES?
post 39, people, post 39!
59- allright. If this thread’s title is clarified, my stories are removed (you don’t need to remove my whole post) and agagabagabag (can I call you something shorter like agaga?) promises not to compile mine, everyone posts their other stories on “writing” I’m good.
and, Rebecca, could you please remove my stories from this thread?
57- but it is nice to have a short story specific therd! that is the only reason I w00ted it. if this is a rrr, I withdraw my w00t!
this is active!
someone please remove the stories from post seventeen?!?!?!
[They’re removed now. Couldn’t get to it any faster. I’m at work and some visitors came in just as all this was going on. –Rebecca]
look, no one whats to have there storys put in a rrr type thing. see 12 and 15.
I maen 17. this is weird. has widdershins stroy been reposted on the writing theard?
Rebbecca, have you heard of short story collections? That’s what l wanted.
67-no, I asked for them to be removed. They are my stories and I do not want them being used for other purposes.
WHAT is the big deal here??
agag – I don’t understand why you need a collection, what are you going to do with it?
Can’t this just be a thread where we give suggestions on other people’s stories, and have the other thread for whatever agag wants?
Okay, I think that’s what happened. But still…
Oxlin – do you still want to discuss your stories? I liked them
(see my comments, if you didn’t already)
Whoa! What a lot of talking that didn’t make much sense. I’m going shopping.
69- I know. but they would not be stoalen on the writing therd. plus, I liked them.
(68) The thread itself is a short story collection. I didn’t understand what kind of collection you meant, especially as your request phrased it in terms of an RRR.
Under copyright law the stories posted here still belong to their authors. One can’t simply collect them for a book without proper permissions.
73- I said that! see post 46.
Chill out, guys. Just see the other thread. l’m leaving this one.
70- sure! If you want I could email them to you. The whole mess of this thread confirmed my fears of posting stuff directly on MB where anyone could see it. Email’s a lot more private and password protected and you can restrict it to a few people. Though I shouldn’t be emailing MBers, I like to use it to get feedback and only email a few at time.
if you read my stories you are welcome to comment despite that they aren’t here anymore
72- Oh, I may put them up. I’m still editing the Melanie one so maybe I’ll put up some of it later and ask a few questions. Glad you liked them! ^_^
hey! nobody read my stories either!!!! posts 44 and 45!!
ok, then take my stuff off too please. QUICKLY…
(78) Which comment numbers, please?
[That’s all right; I already removed them. –Rebecca]
Thanks, Rebecca. I don’t know what the fuss is about, though. We’ve established that this thread is for single-author stories (no RRR-ing) and that nobody will try to publish them or use them for any other purposes outside the blog.
80- stick around. the writing therd will be next.
WOowww. Erm. Awkwarddd….
You can keep my story up. Agabagasomethingorother! No! Come back! I’m sorry! I just don’t really want my story COMPILED. It’s nothing personal! Simple misunderstanding!
Agghle.
I’ll write another one now….
post again later
Read the name. c+p.
yesh. I did that. Now, I have yet to write this story. OYYYYYY.
BANG. The sound of gunfire shook me straight to the bone. Chilled by the ominous sound, and by what I had just done, I crouched, shivering, behind the desk. They say bad things, horrible things, scary things will happen if you kill a ghost, so naturally, I was terrified. I peered over the dusty surface of the desk. I could see nothing, except for a spider. It was crawling towards my nose.
[How is that for an awesome first paragraph???]
85- GREAT!
[bowing] Thank you, thank you
78 – I don’t think you should be so worried. We’re all Musers here, I don’t think we would rip your stuff from your hands and copyright it under our names. And even if someone who would do that is searching for stuff like yours, I don’t think they would be able to find this thread. This page is buried among more than 1000 threads and has long since been off the main page. That’s taken into the fact that the twisted fellow even knows Museblog exists.
88- becuase a music is not the natial pastime.
and READ THE THEARD before you write.