Bittersweet Candy Bowl Forums

I was a bit surprised there wasn't one already.

The goal of this thread is to provide an interesting activity to excercise the minds of any writers out there. Two things can be done on this thread:
1.) Post an idea for a short story/vignette. These are the Prompts, and should consist of an interesting idea for a short work of fiction.
2.) Post a response to a Prompt. The proper format for responding to a Prompt (to avoid confusing incedents) is to FIRST copy the Prompt you are using/working from, and then post the short story/vignette. They can be anywhere from 1 paragraph long to 5 or 6 paragraphs. Somewhere in the middle is about good. And yes, multiple people can cover the same Prompt.
EXTRA CREDIT: Poems/Prose, if done well, are not only accepted but applauded.

This sort of activity is a really helpful tool for writers. It allows them to write things that they normally wouldn't write, helping thm to break outside of the box. It also could be used to put forth story ideas that you yourself could not come to flesh out. This is serious, btw, not just another game. It's more like a creative activity, or writers resource. It could be used to cure writers block, or to be otherwise inspired, or something constructive to do when you're bored.

A couple starter Prompts:
- An Englishman's Christmas breakfast is interrupted by an unexpected visitor
- An explorer stumbles upon an evil cult performing a dark ritual
- Anthropomorphic vegetables encounter fruits in a grocery/refridgerator
- A young boy loses his stuffed animal and sets out to find it
- Where do all the lost pens and pencils go?
Some less developed ideas:
- A Rock sitting on a table
- Cracking one's knuckles
- Music boxes for mimes
- Melted plastic cups

Alright everybody, let's get writing!

This post has been edited by Dr. Klaus: 16 December 2010 - 11:26 PM

A girl really likes this cute boy in her class.

Have fun!

A satanic cult brutally violates several inanimate objects.

NEVER MIND! I was JUST now told Susan HAS made it.

This post has been edited by TheLightorTheDark: 17 December 2010 - 02:03 AM

- To cook a Christmas Turkey
- The many uses of Plasticwrap
- A crack in a coffee mug
- Photographs found in a dusty attic
- A haunted picture that stalks you

Ooh, I might actually give that last one a shot.

This post has been edited by Dr. Klaus: 17 December 2010 - 03:56 AM

Hee~

This is rather amazing. ^_^

Steven couldn't stand its presence. It was recently rendered useless, Frederick's body with it. He wished he hadn't made such a big deal over the damn thing.
"Come on, Steve, why do you have to bring that ugly piece of ceramic with you everywhere," Fred had complained. "It's one of the most useful things a man can have, much like a length of paracord!" Fred, rest his soul, was quite the paracord enthusiast. "Fine, you keep on believing that, and I'll keep believing that the earth is flat," said Fred. "What do you mean by that?!"
The mug was the prize for being the twenty-fifth caller in a giveaway their favourite radio station held, and once it had entered Steven's possession, tension rose between him and his friends, even moreso after the accident.
Steven hated himself. He had lost a friend, and earned...

Dr. Klaus said:

I don't know why I wrote this. Maybe the fact that I spent all of last night awake, and partway through Commie made everybody depressed, especially me. (Not saying you're to blame, Commie, it's a good thing it happened)

This post has been edited by Cappuccino: 17 December 2010 - 04:40 PM

A Huanted Picture That Stalks You

Amy was always disturbed by the picture. It was just a simple black-and-white photo, sitting unprovocatively on her desk. It showed a girl of about fourteen, sitting on a chair and looking listlessly at the camera. She wasn't anything special, with dark hair and thin, high-set eyes. Her clothes were plain and she was wearing a simple chain around her neck; probably gold juding by the hue. And yet, she seemed to Amy to be the most malignant thing in the house. She would always turn the picture around whenever she came into the room, so that it faced the wall. Her mother always came in and turned it back round while she was away at school, despite her daughter's protests. "It's just a photo", she would say, ",it can't do you any harm.". Amy thought otherwise, but reluctantly stopped turning the picture around whenever she walked in. She continued to have a deep mistrust that she couldn't quite base for the picture, further reinforced by that one night; a night that would stay with her for a long time.

It had snowed the day before, and the temperature outside had ensured that the snow, now compacted into lethal black ice, had stayed on the ground. Amy loved the snow; loved the way it looked, and the way it crunched under her boots, and the way it managed o make even the most boring office block into a festive snow-capped monolith. At night, the snow would reflect the street lights and make the night bright and crisp. Amy, with an irrational fear of the dark that her parents had tried in vain to quash, loved this element of it. It was one of these nights now, with the moon beaming down over her little town and the clouds scudding across the sky. Her parents had put her to bed a while earlier, and were about to retire themselves. She was sunggled under the duvet with her face pressed into the pillow, curled in the fetal position to keep out the winter's chill. The light from the hallway threw striped patterns on her bed, and the radiator rattled and creaked good-naturedly. She happened to glance sideways at her little table, and noticed something amiss. The picture, usually at the back behind her china money-bank, was now at the front. It seemed to cast an aura of darkness around it so that Amy couldn't see the ornaments behind it.
The girl stood up and walked over to her little table. She crouched and looked at the picture, squinting in the dull light. Her heart skipped a beat. The girl was no longer there. She picked up the picture and held it up to the light. Yes, the girl was definitely absent. She put it back on the table, her heart racing, and looked around her. Did the room seem darker than usual? She shook herself. No, there was nothing wrong. She was tired, and her mind was probably just playing tricks. She climbed back into bed, and pulled the sheets over her. Gradually, she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
She wok with a start. All was dark. The light outside her hall was off. It was never turned off. She panicked briefly, her mind clouding. Then she noticed taht it was off, but something was blocking the light. A figure. She looked up. Standing at her door was a tall girl. She was looking at Amy, the light making her eyes glint menacingly. She started walking slowly over. Amy whimpered and crawled to the back of her bed. The girl reached out an arm, closing in steadily on the bed. Darkness flowed around her, making the light dance disconcertingly. The girl spoke.
"Come withe me." Her voice was like the grating of ancient stones. Amy shook her head, her throat too dark to speak. The girl repeated herself.
"No!", Amy shouted. She was now backed into the wall, the duvet wrapped around her slender frame. She could feel herself shaking. The girl snarled, and darkness flowed from her outstretched hand. Amy screamed.
Her parents rushed in, barging the door open. They saw Amy, trembling in the corner, and rushed to her side. Amy did not sleep again for three nights.

It had been nearly a month since then, with no sign of anything strange. Amy was still haunted, though, by her experience that night. She would wake up in the early hours of the morning, drenched in a cold sweat. She had taken the picture out of her room, into the garden, and smashed it with a hammer. Then she had burned the picture. Still, she had been troubled by near-sleepless nights and twisted nightmares since that fateful day.
She was walking to school now, the frost crisp under her feet. It was a cold, still day, the kind that makes you want to go for long walks in hills. Instead, however, she had to spend seven torturous hours under the supervision of Mrs. Fleetbody, her draconian form tutor. She sighed, and looked up at the roofs of the houses around her. She noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It was afigure, standing on a roof.
"Just a man fixing something", she said to herself, and walked on. Ahead of her, movement caught her eye again, and she saw a figure stepping into an alleyway; the same height of the one on the roof. Intrigued, she stepped in after it, and was greeted by an empty alleyway, coated with a layer of rubbish and refuse. She looked around her for a door, and then walked a little further down.
Amy caught sight of the figure as it stepped into a door. She worked it out in her head, and realised that it must be the door to the old theatre. She walked up to the door and peered in.
All was dark inside, the old stage covered in dust. There was a smell of damp and rotting leaves. Amy walked in, and looked around. She had always loved old buildings. A flash of movement attracted her attention, and she looked up. As she was distracted, the door swung shut behind her, engulfing her in the gloom. She suppressed a scream, and the familiar panic rose in her throat. She turned, found the doorhandle, and wrenched on it. The door was locked tightly. She looked around wildly for another exit, and was rewarded with a glimpse of light from a stage door. She ran towards it, dropping her bag behind her, and pulled it open.
The corridor beyond it was dimly lit and full of puddles. She walked quickly forwards, keeping her gaze firmly ahead, and came to another door. She tugged on the handle. It was locked. She looked around for another way, but it was a dead end. Witha groan, she turned back the way she came, and gasped.
Ahead of her, the corridor was dark. As she watched, the blackness engulfed another of the lights on the ceiling. Amy drew a shaky breath, and stood up to her full height.
"What do you want?" she said to the corridor at large.
The darkness swirled and rippled,and a figure stepped out. Amy screamed.
It was the girl, and now that Amy could see her fully, she wished that she couldn't.
The girl had no eyes, only empty holes. Inside, Amy could see nothing, just...darkness. The girl's face was crusted with blood and scabs. She reached out, and started walking slowly towards Amy once again. The poor girl pressed herself up against the wall. She could feel something hot trickling down her legs, hot as spilled tea.
"No!" she screamed. "No! No! No-"
The darkness swallowed her.


Sorry this was so long... I just started it and then I couldn't stop Oh, well. Hope you enjoy.

This post has been edited by Sammy: 17 December 2010 - 04:58 PM

Summer bit her lip as her biggest crush EVER walked into the room. He had brown hair and his eyes were a yellowy-brown colour. His name was Jon. Many people only had a crush on him, because he looked like Edward Cullen from the twilight saga films (Jon is no stupid sparkly vampire, btw). But Summer was different. She had a huge crush on him because he was kind and charming and funny. She got out he MP3 player and listened to some music, as she tried to ignore him. She glanced at Jon, and he saw her looking at him and he smiled. Summer looked way, tried to ignore him and mess around with her MP3 player to tried and not look bothered. She then thought for a while and talked to her friend. The time for lunch flew by quickly.
Near the start of the class after lunch, Summer mustered the most of her courage and walked up to Jon.
"Hey...um, could we like...talk after school?"
"Uh," Jon said, "Sure, should we see each other behind the school?"
"Okay...um, I guess I'll see you there."
"I'll be seeing you!"
As they both walked away into the midst of the school, they both wondered what they should say to each other after school.
Look, a badly written story! hurrah!

Oh my god, these are really good. Sammy's made my heart skip a beat.
Cappuccino's freaked me out. Both names used are those of my close family members.

Here's some more ideas:
- The main character is blind to glass objects (as in he/she/it cannot see them)
- A colored object in a black-and-white world
- A desk lamp, when turned on, reveals a hidden _________
- A house full of alarm clocks/doorknobs/rusty trombones
- The man (or woman) who fell up
- Some nature scene (sunset, midnight pond, flowery meadow, etc...)
- A gnarled tree that has grown in the middle of a parking lot
- A library without any books

This post has been edited by Dr. Klaus: 17 December 2010 - 09:33 PM

I like the desk lamp one and the gnarled tree one.

This post has been edited by TheLightorTheDark: 18 December 2010 - 12:05 AM

-A colored object in a black-and-white world

Devon pressed his face against the glass, his breath fogging the clear barrier as he squinted hard. His eyes seemed to deceive him, the object inside the box containing an illicit quality he couldn't quite place. It was so... strange. It was just an apple. But it seemed to shine, radiant, dominating all other objects in it's presence, beckoning eyes to it's glory.
"It's red."
Devon lifted his head up at his father as they were shuffled out of the viewing area, the next few people having hurriedly exchanging their tickets to see this modern miracle of chromatics. He glanced back at the object, giving it a final regard before stepping out into the main area of the museum, it's dingy light now bland and uninteresting. His father was explaining something about reflecting light and wavelengths from his pamphlet, but Devon's young mind wandered, trying to understand the mysteries of this new found object. It was transcendent; a piece of Heaven, no doubt. Ludicrous to consider, but it was the only explanation.
The winter wind bit into him as his father led Devon through the revolving door on to the street, the city that never sleeps seemingly in full swing. Paper boys shouted the latest war news to uninterested passers-by as boxy metal cars lurched down the street, emitting streams of delirious black smog that spiraled up until the wind sent it away, angry for obstructing the clear winter's sky.
"Well son, maybe one day you can research color as well!" Devon nodded excitedly, his father pulling him along with the promise of a penny candy for being such a good boy. When it was safe in his grasp, Devon considered the white and grey object with a strange glance before smiling at his father.
"Daddy! When I grow up, I'm gonna make the strips on my candy like that apple!" His father gave a hearty laugh, patting him on the back.
"That's my boy."
--

Yea, homages to "The Giver"!

Daisy gets raped by a thousand men XDDDDDDD

Volgrand, on 18 December 2010 - 12:43 AM, said:

Perfect example of a bad Prompt. It is clearly not serious, and nowhere near to the whole concept of this being a writing challenge. No originality whatsoever, and little room for actual development. Please refrain from posting silly sh*t like this.

Oh, and I like what you did with that one, Gameking.

This post has been edited by Dr. Klaus: 18 December 2010 - 01:00 AM

You said it man. Yes, I was joking.

So I decided to write a tristesse about a library without books. I have no idea what "tristesse" is in English, nor am I sure I got the term down correctly (so I cannot explain it to you properly), but I do know that this is one. ^_^


How strange it is, to see that so many competent letters
are written down here, by those that abuse them, confined
to the walls of public urinals.

And so Gameking was shunned.

ILB, the closest I can get to "Tristesse" is Melancholy... is this a style of poetry like a Haiku, or a genre like Romance?

I have absolutely no idea. The definition as I understand it, is a short and melancholic contemplation, prosaic poetry, about something in life, often interspersed with a bit of humour. I am definitely unsure about that one, though. However, I do know that it does not have a set style of verse. ^_^

Ah.So sort of like the "dark comedy" of the poetry world?

Tristesse... I think it is an spanglish word . The most similar word in spanish is "tristeza", im sure it is a mistake. Im pretty sure that you mean "sadness"

Yes, somewhat, Sammy.

And no, I do not think it is, Volgrand. I am fairly sure the word is derived from French. Yes, it can be translated as "sadness" but when it is a genre, it refers to something that is at the very least partially similar to what I described. ^_^

ILB, I like that a lot! And Tristesse is a French word, not derived from one. It directly translates as "sadness", big surprise!

- The man (or woman) who fell up)

Donny has an issue,
Something he can't quite fix.
It happened when he drank the water,
From the River Styx.

Sure it was silly thing,
But he wished upon it's power,
To fly like dazzling birds up high,
Over path and crumpled tower.

Zeus himself, for the sky was his,
Granted his request,
And said, "Go and soar away,
Like poor old Icarus!"

Donny didn't understand,
Until he took a tumble,
He started flying up, not down,
Which makes a man quite humble.

As he flew too high, he begged,
To bring him back to Earth,
He'd do anything they asked him to,
For whatever that was worth.

But Gods are not compassionate,
And Donny learned it well.
For when you see a shooting star,
It's Donny, living Hell.

Applause is necessary

Quote

Perhaps I should explain. "Tristesse" is a French word that means "sadness", yes. But when used as the name for a genre (a genre I have so far only seen named in Norwegian), it is a derivation and not the original meaning. ^_^

Ah! I see what you mean now. I'm not entirely sure that term carries over, at least to the US, but that is very entertaining to know.

I got another idea to try. I've written the first part. See what you can do with writing the rest.

- House filled with (rusty trombones)

This post has been edited by Dr. Klaus: 20 December 2010 - 02:22 AM

- A desk lamp, which when turned on reveals a hidden (x)

He walked through the old, abandoned mansion, his eyes flicking left and right as he walked, just waiting for something to jump out at him.
As he opened the large, oaken door to the next room, it gave a loud and extensive creak, as the hinges ground together, the rust flaking off and falling as dust to the dusty, wooden floorboards. As he stepped inside, the smell of old paper and decaying linen filled his nostrils. It was a library, the shelves tall and looming, appearing to reach down at him in the dim moonlight streaming in through the broken windows. He jumped as a bird flew from the rafters and out a hole in the window, screeching loudly as he intruded it's solitudinous home. As he wandered among the bookshelves, the shadows seemed to close in around him, the light filtering through shattered stained-glass becoming less revealing, and the air becoming heavy with the smell of ages long past. As he approached the back of the extensive chamber, he spied a desk, once used to mark books for borrowing and recieving donations from charitable customers, and walked toward it. As he approached, he saw that most of the desk and it's papers had been covered in layer upon layer of dust, creeping through the cracks in the dry and brittle wood of the desk.
He saw a lamp off to one side, made of brass, and wired into a socket that had been long turned off, as nobody had come here in years. He tried to lift it, but despite it's small size, it would not move. He looked carefully, there were no nails, not screws holding it in place, it was simply as if the world was weighing the lamp down, holding it to the desk. There was a plate on it, and he brushed off some dust, accidentally flicking a switch, which bathed the desk in soft, amber light from the lamp. He was sure this could not be, there was no electricity provided to this house, yet it was. He read the inscription, no more than a label of ownership for the library, but as he examined the brass of the lamp, a small line caught his attention in the dust, something unnaturally straight, somthing that shouldn't have been there, and he was sure it wasn't there before. He brushed his hand against the line, wiping away dust, and revealed a panel, embedded into the wood of the desk he had so briefly looked at.
Pulling the small hatch open, he placed his hand inside, and grasped something cold, and hard. It was a picture frame. Inside such an old building, this was not uncommon, but what was strange was that the picture inside appeared not to have aged a day, and the frame was completely un-touched by time, no tarnish had become on the silver, no dust had settled on the glass, it was as if the picture had simply been placed there just as he had entered the room.
It was a picture of a girl, in her childhood, no more than 10, sitting on a chair in a dark room smiling. She was surrounded by 7 men, all looking shocked.
He put the picture in his bag, and left quickly, in his haste, forgetting to turn off the lamp.
He walked through the corridors and passages of the house, now seeming darker and more oppresive as the shadows caught the dark paint, casting images in his head and making his pace slow down as he convinced himself it was all just his mind. He opened a door, which led to a flight of stairs, going down.
Somewhere in the darkness down the steep and winding staircase, something moved.
click
It was the sound of a cane hitting the concrete as an old man strolled down the path.
click
It was the sound of a tac in your shoe hitting the tiled floor
click
He panicked, and stepped back from the doorway, something was not right, he was afraid now. Despite his having been to many houses like this one, this was different, this was truly terrifying
click
The light in the room dimmed as the moon went behind a large, dark bank of clouds.
click
Something crawled from the open doorway, the source of the clicking sound.
click
It was the sound of something made of metal and glass hitting the floor, but landing softly, as not to break it


It is several days later, in a mansion, long abandoned and left to age. In a dark, dusty library, a lamp flickers off, sealing a chamber with a picture of a smiling girl, and 8 shocked men.

This post has been edited by JimmyP424: 21 December 2010 - 02:45 AM

Whoa, Jimmy. That was pretty good!

Thanks Sushi ^_^
I wrote it early in the morning, so it's not great, I can see areas I could've improved it.
Still, it was fun, and I'll probably write another one

- Take one of your favorite songs and turn it into a story (base the actions and such off of the lyrics)
- Two people live in a house; one side one color the other side another, and they each live in one side
- A gritty version of a famous comic book superhero
- The main character is forbidden from touching things of a certain color
- The main character's car stalls in the middle of an open road
- On a mountain hike, a wooden door is found in the middle of a forest clearing

Oh, and I loved that, Jimmy. Chilling.

This post has been edited by Dr. Klaus: 22 December 2010 - 01:47 AM

WARNING: This one contains really bad humor, or at least, attempts at humor. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. SO DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU. BECAUSE I DID.
- A rock sitting on a table.

He stared at the rock, it's ever present glow dim under the candle that bathed the room in a gentle amber glow. It had fallen from orbit and crashed near his house, leaving an enormous crater. He wasn't really bothered that it had taken out half his back wall, or that there was now a large smoking hole in his yard, the only thing that made him detest this rock was that the cowas had escaped, and had taken several hours to find again, which had been troublesome and tedious.
It was a very pretty rock, he had to admit, and he was sure that his cows had thought so too, before being pummeled by a rock travelling over 200 miles an hour.
The rock glowed.
The man stared.
It was the kind of rock that you would expect to find in the home of a wizard, not falling out of the sky and killing his prize cow for no reason.
The rock continued to glow.
The man continued to stare.
A beam behind the man, which had, until recently, supported the rear wall of his house, finally gave up on trying to stand, and toppled over, taking out half the table.
The rock, now on the floor, glowed.
The man stood up, and walked out of his house, closing the door as he went.
The ground shook as the house, following suit of it's supporting beams, collapsed from sheer boredom, burying the rock with it.
"Well" said the man "Fu--"
He was cut off in mid sentence as his moustache caught fire unexpecedly, causing him to slap his face several times and dunk his head in a bucket of water.
He turned his sopping wet head toward the wizard who was approaching. The funny thing about wizards, was that you couldn't tell that they were wizards, it was just the whopping great big hat that gave it away all the time.
"Oh, hello" said the man "did you set my moustache on fire?"
"Yes" said the wizard absent mindedly "I didn't mean to".
And he hadn't, he just had a nasty habit of accidentally casting spells whenever he sneezed too hard.
"Okay, are you here about the rock?"
"Yes"
"It's in the house"
They turned and looked at the wreck, which had now completely given up and set itself on fire.
The wizard looked quizically at the man, who was now picking his nose while counting his cows.
"Say, could you get me a new cow?" asked the man, who had finished counting "Your rock killed one"
"What? Oh, right, yes, sorry about that" The wizard strode toward the smouldering remains of the house, and shouted something completely uninteligible at it. It stood back up. He stepped inside and grabbed the stone off the floor, the stepped back out and let the house fall over again.
"Thankyou!"

This post has been edited by JimmyP424: 23 December 2010 - 09:05 AM

The first drop of water from a rainstorm hitting the surface of a lake.

On a mountain hike, a wooden door is found in the middle of a forest clearing.

I walked down the steep mountain. The pure, clean mountain air filled my lungs when I sighed.
I was lost.
I lost my map in a lake after the wind blew too strong when it was in my hand. The wind snatched it out of my hand and it flew in the middle of the lake and floated on it, like a lily pad. But it's no good thinking about the past, I have to think positively to the future, as my mother said to me in the past. I trudged on and on, looking at my feet, hoping that I would be able to get home safe...
And that's when I bumped into something.
I looked up, and there stood a door. Not what I was expecting, in the middle of the forest. It was white and it smelt of paint. There was red spray paint on it saying 'DO NOT OPEN'. It was in a door frame, but that was it. No room behind it. I thought it would be funny if it lead to Narnia, or something. And it saying 'DO NOT OPEN' wanted to make me open the door.
So, I opened it.
And there was nothing.
Just white blankness.
I stepped in the so called 'room'. It was and endless stretch of white. And it was bright, though I saw no light source. Amazed, I stepped back out of the room. And I let out a heavy sigh. What could I do with a blank room in the middle of a forest? So I carried on, walking down the mountain. Trudging into the distance...
Talk about unimaginative

[where do all the lost pens and pencils go]

Number Two began his life just as all pencils do, inside the dark womb of a box, lumped together with a dozen or so of his yellow brethren. However, it was only once that box was opened, and a soft, gentle hand had pulled him from the darkness and into the light that he truly began to live. At first, he wondered who this hand was that gripped him, and listening carefully, he heard the owner of the hand humming a simple tune to himself. Looking up as best he could, Number Two saw the round face of a child, maybe 7 or 8 years of age. "What shall I draw today, Mr. Pencil?" the child asked. Number Two stopped to think about this. What was drawing? What was there to draw? Who was this child who had asked him what they should draw? What- Number Two's musings were interrupted when the boy, who had apparently answered that question for himself, set about sketching a picture of his little red fire engine.

Number Two was mystified. He could feel tiny pieces of him leaving, being scraped off his very soul, yet at the same time he could perceive the new whole they were forming. This act of creation felt as if it were something he had always done; it felt natural, it felt right. And so he and the boy drew what anyone would deem a very respectable sketch of a toy fire engine, the first of many more sketches and drawings to come. They went on, Number Two and the boy, to collaborate on hundreds of pages worth of art, some admittedly better than others, but each unique and spectacular in their own right.

They had worked together for nearly a year, when one day after they had completed another masterpiece, he felt himself slipping away. At first it was just slight movement, but it soon grew into a jarring tumble down off the table and rolling into darkness. When Number Two's world stopped spinning wildly round in circles, he found himself in a dank and moldy place. Even with his wooden nose, he could smell the awful stench. Where was this place?

"Another new arrival, I see," a voice called out from the gloom. It was totally unlike the child's voice. It was old and harsh, like the sound of a rusty hinge mixed with a crow's call; an unpleasant, and unfriendly voice. "Heh heh heh. We get more like you each day it would seem."

Number Two felt a rough, knobby, and calloused hand reach down and take ahold of him. The touch of those aged and worn fingers sent a little tingle running down his graphite spine. He did not like this one bit.

"Taken a dislike to me already? Hmph. You're as ungrateful as the rest of them! Oh well, you're coming with me one way or another." And so saying, the bent old man to whom the unpleasant voice belonged began to walk through the darkness, his every step making the faintest of splashes on the moist ground.

After what seemed like ages to Number Two, the old man came to a stop in a slightly lighter portion of... well of wherever this was. Through what appeared to be a thick fog, Number Two could see a fire burning a little ways off, and beside it, an old gray trunk that was almost invisible in the mist.

"Well, now you need to make your choice: will you wait out the rest of eternity in the ark of the lost, or will you commit your body to the fire of the forgotten and live only in your works? Well, hurry up, I haven't got all day." The old man's harsh tone hurt Number Two. Was that all he was anymore? A burden on some grouchy old man? Maybe it would be best to choose the old trunk, after all the boy might come and find him, right? But what if he didn't? Number Two did not much like the idea of spending all of eternity locked up in a box. But his only other option was the fire, which despite its unimpressive size, sizzled menacingly.

Oh, but the works of art he had made with the boy! He had felt each one's creation, and he knew how much joy they had brought the child. And how he longed to see the boy once more! Would it be better to live on in them, even if the rest of him burned?

"Have you made up your mind yet?" The old man was getting impatient. Giving one long, last look at the trunk, Number Two made his decision.

"Fire, eh? You're a brave soul. There you go then." And with that, the old man tossed Number Two into the flames. As the worn yellow paint melted away, his wooden body burned to ashes, and his graphite core turned to dust, Number Two's soul went free, alighting upon the pages where he had left his mark, there to remain as long as the boy had need of him. And he was happy.

There is a moral to this story, and I hope I've made it plain. Never throw away old art, lest you doom your lost pencils to die in vain.

TL;DR

This post has been edited by *Ninja: 26 December 2010 - 10:31 PM

*tear rolls off cheek*

Bravo, Ninja. Absolutely beautiful.

Ninja, that is...
moving. That's the word.

Quote

Bob is sad for sure.
He can not touch peach objects
No sex for you bob.

[Photographs found in a dusty attic]

There is no treasure as great as that which touches the heart, even across time and space. When I was rummaging through my uncle's attic, vainly attempting to find that one ornament he swore was "just there in the back next to the old robot suit", I stumbled across a box of photographs that had been mislabeled. I cursory glance at the faded collection of black and white pictures told me that they were not, in fact, the "old xmas stuff" that they claimed to be, so I set them aside and continued looking for that one ornament that my uncle so dearly wanted. However, my mind kept wandering back to that box of old photos. Who were those people posed so grimly in front of that farmhouse? Where they family? Family friends? Or maybe just some random group of people, whose photograph my uncle had merely picked up on one of his globetrotting adventures?

Abandoning my useless search, I picked up the old box once more and spread the photos out on the dusty floor. Their worn edges and archaic backgrounds led the amateur historian in me to deduce that these were from the period between the turn of the century and World War II. A few, like that first one, depicted agrarian scenes from what looked like the Midwest, and there were a few scenes from weddings and birthday parties, but most of them appeared to be from a cottage in Nova Scotia, or somewhere near there. These photographs, unlike the other, captured everyday moments that I personally would almost certainly have ignored. There was one of a man fishing from a little sailboat out on a lake or a small bay. There was another of modestly dressed woman in her kitchen baking. But the one that caught my attention was one that showed a kid sitting at his desk and smiling up at the camera. His little desk was covered in sketches and drawings of all sorts including, though many were too fuzzy to make out from the photo, several attempts a drawing a small bird. Who was this child? Carefully flipping over the fragile print, I was shocked to see the name written there

It was my grandfather, who had died years before I was born. This was the first picture I had ever seen of him not bound to a wheelchair. It seemed so odd to see him without it, but at the same time, so uplifting. I pocketed the old photograph and put the rest back where I had found them. As I descended from the attic, two thoughts filled my mind: where would I find a frame for this treasure I had found and how I was going to explain to my uncle that the ornament simply wasn't there.

Hmmm... Not as happy with this one as I was with the first one. Also...


Disclaimer: The story posted above cannot be confirmed nor denied to be or not be based on an actual event.

I've never been one for stories, but I love poetry, and I had an amazing urge to right some with absolutely no direction for it. Then I remembered this thread.

The left is red, and right is green,
The glass will fill the space between.
For she sees one, and him another,
But either one won't see the other.

Eyes created dull and faded,
Eyes left stranded, left abated.
Such cruelty, in their creation.
Posterity led animation.

Existence dark, and ever lone.
As if some sin, must be atoned.
They each must think, "What takes my love long?
The scientists say they have not gone."

But love has struck a most cunning blow,
A dream instructs on where to go.
To see the one, whom heart wish harkened.
You must go to the land eyes darken.

But neither takes such leaps unfounded.
That thinest plane remains unbounded.
For she sees one, and him another,
But either one won't see the other.

-Two people live in a house; one side one color the other side another, and they each live in one side

Eeeh, I do not like what I just did too much. I feel like it has some flaws, but honestly, I'm going to leave it be. It works well with what I wanted to do, which was flimsy at best.