Write A Short Story Right Here Right Now.

Question

Write your own short story right her right now! It can be about whatever you want, just make it exciting.
max: 5 paragraphs

Comments

Now, that's a challenge!

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I just read the 5 paragraphs limit. Oops. I'm a bit over.

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cool challenge!

Answer 1

I'd been pumping iron all morning - getting buff and sweating like a pig.  Marcie came downstairs and asked why I wasn't at work.  "This IS work,"  I yelled,  "more work than you'll ever do.  Look at me.  I'm becoming Adonis and you look like Rosanne."

She usually pleaded with me not to leave her, but this time she just stood there silently.  I thought maybe I finally broke her.  Then I noticed her suitcases by the door.  She said she was waiting for Dean to come and get her and she'd be back for the rest of her things tomorrow.

I had to think fast so I pretended to ignore her.  I flicked my hand in her direction and went back to my weights.  She didn't even want to argue.  I think she really wanted out this time.  When Dean knocked on the door I jumped up and got there first to tell him that Marcie wasn't going.  She'd changed her mind.

Dean pushed me out of his way and grabbed her bags.  Marcie ran to the door and left with him.  I heard his van take off as I was screaming from the porch.  Maybe she'll find a better life.  Maybe I will.  Look at me.  I'm such a good catch.  What woman wouldn't want a specimen like me?

I came in and fell back on the couch.  'Why am I crying? I don't care about that bitch.'  I guess I really broke her this time.  By the time I get evicted, I'll have someone else.  I just need to sleep a while and think about this later.

Comments

Cool challenge, lipstick.  I jumped in and this is what came out.

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Giraffe - maybe your best yet. Or maybe I just "got it".

Either way - nice.

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well done! thats quite a story! :)

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Thanks, Ron.  Sometimes the spontaneous is better.

Answer 2

Traveling on The Moon                                                                                                      He whispered somthing in my ear and i froze in embarresment. I was sleep talking at lunch and everybody was looking at me. I was thinking about traveling to the moon and how much i would love too. It made me fall asleep most of the time and i would dream about it. Why doesnt every girl have this moment? All the girls I know dream about they,re crush and things like that. Im not normal.  I ran home knowing these dirty clothes wouldnt get me anywhere. So i  tried to get out the food stain when i fell in my spagetti dreaming. I had to think fast though cause Auntie Kelly was going to leave any minute. So i got milk and rubbed it on my shirt cause thats what we did in England. I ran home just in time. I hugged Auntie Kelly goodbye and was heading for the door. Then she asked why did i rub milk on my shirt. I looked down and i made a trail of milk when i was running home. I was so embarresed. I made up a lie so she wouldnt figure out. Then she drove away like a racecar speeding across the stars of the moon. I ran inside and i went up to my room cause i couldnt stand the embarresment. I cried a little but not much. My mascara was all over my face. 2 weeks later was better but not worse. Then 5 weeks passed. Then before i knew it i was almost out of highschool cause i was a Senior. So at my graduation there was people from different jobs and stuff like that. So then a guy walked up to me. He was finely dressed in a tuxedo. He asked " Excause me would you like to come with us to Mars?". I was about to get sick but i managed to keep up with him. I couldnt understand the rest cause i thought it was a dream. So of course i said Yes and it would be the last week in the summer . I spent my summer vacation packing and then it was the day. Then i was on my way to the H.Q. Then i had to train which took 3 hours. Then i looked up at him and said "Im ready".

Answer 3

You can call me Jane Doe. That's the name they wrote on the toe tag at the mortuary, and it's the only one that really matters. Yes, I'm dead. That matters too. How I died doesn't matter. It's a curious thing. When you die, life stops mattering. How you died is as much a part of your life as how you were born.  And none of it matters.

It all seems very important at the time. Life has this sense of urgency, grandeur, and purpose. But it boils down to shell with a tag on it's toe being put in a bag, and then in a box, and then in the ground, and when you watch it you realize how pointless it really was.

It's not a realization of how stupid you were for being so crushed when your date for the prom stood you up. It's the realization that nothing, nothing at all mattered in the slightest bit. Going to college never mattered. Your job never mattered. Every Sunday you went to church didn't matter. Stabbing your husband to death for leaving the toilet seat open doesn't matter. None of it was a waste of time or a bad decision, because even if you'd done something else, it wouldn't have mattered.

I'm dead now and I don't care about my life. I have no regrets, because I'm aware now that nothing is worth regretting. Nothing is worth celebrating. Nothing is worth remembering.

My name is Jane Doe and I'm watching my body get lowered into the ground, and I don't care. I possess all the knowledge of the universe, and even the details of my ended life are fading, as though they were never there, because they never mattered. And in this moment I know that I am about to be pushed out a woman's vagina with a new body and a new personality and no memory of anything else. I will live another life and think it is all very important, and I will die again to find out it didn't matter.

Comments

Dang girl - that's well, powerful stuff. And pretty good too.

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good story, Midnight

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It's creepy how that may as well have come out of my head. And you did a great job of putting it down on paper, well, e-paper at least. You got my vote.

Just one thing. I assume you meant "put in a bag" in "with a tag on it's toe being but in a bag", or did I just not understand?

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you were right, Spots. Thanks for pointing that out.

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wow what a punch your story when you refer to having another life(content related) in the last paragraph are you referring to reincarnation or samsara ( i much prefer reincarnation in Sanskrit this being the word Samsara much more mystical ...;0)....) your story has a kick liek no other i have read tonight....but if you are referrring to reincarnation or Samsara as I like it to be ....personality and souls do not change only the shell or body does....the soul and or personality and also experiences that soul has are there to be perfected this achieved after life times .

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I am speaking of reincarnation, in a way. I'm more speaking of the moment between one life and the next. I strongly disagree with you on one point, and that's the point from which this story is based. You said "personality and souls do not change only the shell or body does". This is what I disagree with.

If you read the essay I wrote in the challenge "The Dreaded Essay", I wrote about the spiritual path I follow, Thelema. In Liber AL vel Legis I:8-9 it says "The Khabs is in the Khu, not the Khu in the Khabs. Worship then the Khabs, and behold my light shed over you!" In "Abrahadabra" by Rodney Orpheus, which is a beginner's guide of sorts to Thelemic Magick, it clarifies these verses saying: "In Thelemic terms, we call the soul, or starry nature, by the Egyptian word "Khabs," and the personality by the name "Khu" (as in Ra-Hoor-KHU-it, meaning roughly: the magical personality of the Sun)." It also goes on to say "We must stop identifying ourselves as our personalities. Instead we must worship the Khabs; we must explore our true nature that lies below the level of the personality. We do this by first understanding what a fragile, artificial thing our personality is."

Our soul exists hidden by our personality, rather than our personality existing within our soul. Our personality is a manifestation of the physical body and the experiences it goes through, rather than an actual representation of our true selves or souls. Therefore, in my belief, when reincarnation happens, the soul not only sheds the body, but the artificial personality that comes with it. That's where this story comes from: the idea that our personality and experiences in life don't matter at all because our soul is entirely separate from that. It is my goal in life to find that true self, separate from my outer personality that is subject to change anyway. I don't define myself in terms of my personality, which is why I have a hard time defining myself...I'm discovering my true self slowly, and by doing so, discovering my True Will.

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What an interesting reply on spirituality would love to read your essay as I have not heard of that particular path I have studied Wiccan lore, Buddhism christianity, and jehovahs witnesses are always trying to convert me because I cant seem to close a door in anyones' face i end up having to move.....lol.....i am sort of kidding about the moving part.I have not studied any path in depth as your passion shines through I tend to dabble but always come back into my firm love belief and passion for the grace of humanity....wiccan principles are environmentally friendly though ....i love the passion you put into your debate on reincarnation and i definately would like to touch on this with you after more than one cup of coffee....will read your essay tonight and look forward to it.I have avoided the essay section completely up until now ......but will paddle around to find yours on spirituality....btw this jane doe story is one of my favourites..no matter whether i agree with you on souls or not..i still also appreciate your stand and I read a new path today.....a very passionate one....thanku..smilin......deb

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Like you, I dabbled a lot in different religions and spirituality and never studied one in-depth. Then I found Thelema, and it clicks, and I've stuck with it.

Answer 4

Dang - I was trying to say - this one might sting a bit...

Answer 5

“How to Build a Father” by Ron

Jeremy Jacobson celebrated his fiftieth birthday alone. He bought a six-pack, drank two while watching the news then, as his buzz took, sat down at his computer and opened a third beer. He logged onto his preferred boy-site. He watched his favorite videos twice then went exploring the new uploads as he drank his fourth beer.

On his fifth beer he unbuckled his pants and masturbated to a video of a Brazilian boy dancing wildly in his underpants. He set his video player to full-screen.

He woke up the next morning and the sixth beer was empty. He could not remember drinking it.

He showered and went to work. He sliced deli meat all day at the local grocery and made a great effort to not watch the boys that came through the store. He loved and hated the summer months – when the boys wore their shorts – with their slender little white legs and their short, short pants.

When he got off work he stopped next door at the beer and wine store and bought a six-pack. Then he went home.

But that night he didn’t watch the news. He drank two fast and started a third. And he remembered.

It started as a sexual fantasy. In this dream he was a boy himself. And he was willing and eager – just like a good boy should be. But then something connected. And he really, really remembered.

He was six and he was with his parents. Except – they weren’t around. Oh yes. They had all traveled together to his grandparent’s house. It was Christmas. Yay.

Jeremy’s grandparents were divorced. The divorce had no affect whatsoever on Jeremy’s life except at Christmas. He didn’t understand it but their attempts to outdo each other benefitted him and his sister greatly. Their separate piles of presents were staggering to the children and confounding to the outdone parents.

Jeremy loved his grandfather. He didn’t understand about divorce but he felt sad for the old man that he had to live in such a tiny trailer two miles away. But Jeremy loved that trailer and the farm to which it was tethered. He used to wander the fields in summer taking single bites from fresh tomatoes then tossing them away only to grab another.

Little Jeremy begged and pleaded to sleep over at Pop-Pop’s house on Christmas Eve. Of course there would be presents in the morning. But Pop-pop would be there anyway and he could bring him back.

It was finally allowed.

Pop-Pop liked to drink. He drank a lot. Little Jeremy had even learned to make drinks for the old man; two parts vodka and three parts tonic – easy – plus a twist of lime.

It was Christmas Eve. And the vodka was flowing in the little trailer. Jeremy made drink after drink and Pop-Pop called his friends and eventually all the lonely men on the big tract of land came by. It was after eleven. There were seven men in the little trailer; and one very happy serving boy.

The men drank and drank. And eventually someone said to little Jeremy that he should make himself a drink. So the little boy made himself a standard-measure man-drink and choked it down. And he was drunk just like that.

And then he was naked. He had no idea how it had happened. But all the grownups were laughing at him shaking his little hips and laughing so hard.

Then the men were naked too. And the little boy laughed at their hairy old junk and they laughed at his little-boy junk.

He was embarrassed but not ashamed. He wanted to get dressed. He wanted to go to bed and wake up and open his Christmas presents.

Instead he was given more alcohol. And he drank it. Then he was passed from man to man, penetrated by each – made to actually enjoy it and laugh about it.

Finally he arrived on his grandfather’s lap. The old man was red-faced and laughed as he violated the boy. “You’re getting a pinball machine in the morning boy!” the old man said.

**

Jeremy worked the deli counter. And the families came and went and he tried not to look at the boys.

He knew what he was. He was a pedophile. He fantasized about boys. He dreamed all manner of terrible and despicable things. But he also knew he had never, ever touched a child. Well – almost never.

He chalked this up to fear-of-prison. But he also knew he actually loved kids. He prayed to be in another century – another time – when his desired behavior was acceptable.

He contemplated suicide as he sliced meat.

Then the group came in.

They were a group – all of them boys. And they were a beautiful group. And their leader brought them to the deli counter for what: A lesson: A lesson in what?

The leader was a blank-faced black woman. She wore a Detroit Lion’s hat. She seemed tired. “Boys.” She said, “Do you want ham or turkey.”

Then the one kid spoke. “Turkey.” He said.

And he looked at Jeremy when he said it.

And Jeremy fell in love. The boy was perfect with his little haircut and perfectly round cheeks and little dimple and pouty lips.

Then a drop of spit rolled out of the side of the kid’s mouth.

“Turkey. Turkey. Turkey. Turkey. Turkey. Turkey.” said the kid.

“Okay Jeremy. Okay.” said the black woman.

Little Jeremy continued to mouth the word “turkey” as the black woman embraced him. “It’s okay Jeremy. We’ll get the turkey.”

Old Jeremy was aghast. He’d already fallen in love with the boy and then saw him drool all over himself and was disgusted then saw his repeated requests for turkey then found out the kid shared his name. He looked to the black woman. “Turkey?” he asked.

“Turkey would be nice.” said the black woman.

“Is he okay?” asked old Jeremy as he sliced the meat.

“He’s autistic. They’re all autistic. It’s just that – well – three pounds would be nice.” She continued to embrace little Jeremy while scanning the other boys and speaking to the deli counter man: The pedophile.

**

Old Jeremy finished his shift and stopped by the beer and wine store. He bought a six-pack. He went home, drank two beers while watching the news and turned on his computer.

He did not go to his preferred boy-sites. Instead he spent the evening researching autism.

When he woke in the morning there were four full beers.

**

It took him eight months. But old Jeremy was persistent and he knew how to research.

He had touched children before – but he had been a child himself. He had no convictions. He had committed no crimes – ever; except – in his own mind.

But he was in love.

In love with this dumb-ass kid – this autistic kid who shared his name; the kid who drooled and wanted turkey.
 
During those eight months he never once visited the beer and wine store. He never once visited his boy-sites. He researched autism and he researched adoption.

And he learned. And he applied. And – after a background check – he was tentatively approved.

**

Jeremy met Jeremy again nine months after the “turkey” incident.

**

He bought a pound of sliced turkey with him.

The black lady still wore the Lion’s hat and the kid was drooling.

“You still like turkey kid?” old Jeremy asked.

The kid stood to his full height. “Yeah.”

The black lady looked at old Jeremy then at little Jeremy. “I’ll leave you two alone for a bit.” Then she walked away.

The kid slumped then.

Old Jeremy reached out a hand. “Do you need help kid?” he asked.

The kid caught himself. “Turkey.”

“What?”

“I said turkey dude.”

“I know. I heard you.”

“What’s your game old man?”

“What’s your game kid?”

“You can do stuff to me.”

“I know.”

“But you won’t.”

“I know.”

The boy drooled a bit.

Comments

Make of this what you will folks. But I think it's good.

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I agree, but then I wouldn't expect anything less from you.

Answer 6

“If Anyone Here Knows” by Ron

The day had finally arrived. The bride was resplendent; her gown was beyond description. The church was decked out. The organist could actually play. The groomsmen were all healthy, young, good-looking men. The bride’s maids were gorgeous and their dresses weren’t pumpkin or scarlet - or purple.

The groom entered to a packed church; both sides. The organist rocked out then settled down to the traditional. All eyes turned to the back.

And my father entered. And on his arm was my sister. Holy Jesus she was a knockout. I couldn’t believe she was over forty.

She was trembling with her bouquet and her excitement as she approached the altar.

All eyes followed her. All eyes settled on the two stars of the show.

The preacher began his shtick.

And when he got to the part about “If anyone here knows of any reason why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace.” I gulped twice. I felt perspiration on my forehead.

The preacher started to go on.

I cleared my throat.

“Well,” I said, “I guess that would be me then.”

Among the numerous gasps in the congregation (or is it audience for a wedding?) the preacher looked to me as if I had just killed his dog – intentionally. “What?”

I stood. My old grandmother cried. My father snickered. The other side of the aisle all glowered at me. “I said sir I guess that would be me.”

“You what?” the preacher asked.

“I know of reasons why these two should not be wed.”

My sister started shaking violently and bawled. The groom and groomsmen each wanted to kill me in particularly painful ways.

The preacher was obviously confused. He’d asked this question a thousand, heck, several thousand, times and this had never happened. He tried to reason with me. “Are you sure you want to do this son?”

“Yes sir.”

“In my office then: You two,” he gestured to the bride and groom, “Join us.”

“No sir.” I said. “Right here. Right now.”

I walked to the altar. I took the microphone there and pointed at the young kid on the board at the back. The kid was a little excited as he switched on my microphone.

I turned to the crowd. My gaze fell to my older sister and her beautiful gown. Then I looked the groom in the eye.

Then I looked out over the gathered family and friends. I looked at my father. I looked at my grandmother. I looked at my sister’s children; my niece and nephew.

And I spoke.

“Sis I’m sorry. But this is wrong.

“No one else sees it. I think maybe one of your kids does but how could they say?” I did not glance towards my niece.

I looked to the groom. “Dude I’m sorry – I really am. But this is my family and I have to do what no one else will.”

I looked to the crowd. “This man,” I said, indicating the groom “is perhaps the best man I’ve ever met.

“Let me tell you a story about him.

“He lost a leg when he was three. I see some of you are surprised.

“Yes. He’s got just one leg but most of you don’t even know that. He’s managed it so well and succeeded beyond his handicap to the point he doesn’t really have one.

“He lost his leg on a farm – he was mucking out cow stalls. They have this machinery that pulls a big chain around to eliminate waste from the stalls. The kid’s job is to shovel the shit out of the end of the apparatus. He tripped – and he fell into the chain where he was trapped. His sister was six and she tried and tried to push the emergency stop button. But she wore over-sized gloves and couldn’t press past the safety guide on the button. The boy was pulled around the turn and the chain ground his leg against the concrete until the machine stalled.

“When his father and older brother arrived they used jackhammers to crush the cement until they finally freed the child.

“The family drove seventy miles to the nearest hospital where the amputation was done immediately.

“The boy was hospitalized for seventeen weeks.

“The boy’s mother gave birth to his youngest brother two days after the amputation.

“With a new baby at home and such a great distance and the needs of the farm – the young boy was left alone at the hospital during his recovery.

“He was three years old.”

I saw a groomsman pretend to cough and mumble “Bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” I asked. “What is bullshit?”

The preacher spoke into his lapel microphone, “Such language.” He said but the kid in the back had turned him off.

The groomsman stood to his full height and said “You are. This is.”

“May I finish?”

“Whatever.” He looked disgusted.

“If I may?” I addressed the gathered crowd again.

“The boy grew up. His life was hard. But he got fitted with a decent prosthetic and he carried his weight. He worked hard and played hard. He was a good boy and a farm boy. He played football, basketball and baseball in high-school. He spent all his time on the bench but he worked out with the teams and was always there – ready to go in whenever he was called. He was never called.

“He graduated and enrolled in local college for a certificate degree in heavy machinery.

“He graduated there too and received his degree with honors.

“And the day after graduation he had a job lined up. He drove a big truck for a landscaping company and he earned his way.

“He never missed a day of work. He used to drive a crew of Mexicans from Maryland to North Carolina every day. Look this up on a map.

“He met a woman. He married her. They had a child.

“The woman’s father was a handyman. Mostly he painted houses.

“The young man quit his job and went to work for his father-in-law. He did well for himself.

“Eventually – he started his own company. He never advertised. His business spread through word-of-mouth and he found himself making over a hundred thousand dollars a year.

“My sister,” I looked to the still-crying bride, “has this friend. Her friend and her husband were her age but had started their family a little earlier.”

“As their family grew they needed a larger house earlier than anyone else in their group of friends.

“So they upgraded. But they didn’t have much money. So they bought a house that needed some work.

“And they asked the real estate agent for a recommendation for a handyman.

“And they were given his name.” I gestured to the groom.

“And he painted their house for them.

“At the same time – my sister was at her wit’s end with her angry, belligerent husband. They had made two beautiful children but had never really been happy. She divorced him and he moved out.

“She could not afford to buy a new house so decided to refurbish the one she already had. She had such a long list of things her ex-husband had never attended to. She called her friends for recommendations.

“And now we’re here.

Answer 7

"If Anyone Here Knows" continued

“And this might sting a bit.” I looked the groom dead in the eye.

“I could talk about myself all day – I do that. But not today.

“Just a quick story…

“I’m an alcoholic. I drink to relieve the boredom of everyday life. I drink a lot.

“Four years ago I quit a really, really good job.

“And for a while I lived off my savings. And I drank more.

“Then I started really drinking.

“My savings ran out. So I refinanced my house and took the equity.

“That bought me another year.

“Then I was broke; flat broke and busted.

“And I guess my sister intervened because he,” I indicated the groom, “called me and asked if I had ever painted before.

“I hadn’t and told him so. He hired me on anyway.

“So I learned to paint. He paid me twenty dollars an hour under the table and this provided me cigarettes, gas and vodka and, oh yes, food – occasionally.

“After a while I lost my house. And I moved in with my sister.”

I looked to her now and I knew she knew and that I was right but that everything was wrong.

“And he had moved in.

“And I watched them. Year after year I watched them.

“He doted on her. He brought her flowers for no reason.

“He loved her, heck, loves her – more than anyone, anywhere.

“And I was so happy for her; truly.

“My nephew adores this man.

“But there’s always a ‘but’ in these stories.

“’But’ I saw something else.

“I saw how much he loved her.

“I began to notice, over time, that it was too much.

“I realized he would stay up until four in the morning if she wasn’t tired.

“We’d work together the next day and he’d be dragging ass and I’d ask what was up.

“He told me once, ‘I can’t go to sleep if she’s still up – I feel like there’s a tension – I’m afraid she’s mad at me or something.’

“’Maybe she is dude.’ I said back to him.

“And that’s when I realized the truth.

“This perfect man – the absolute best match I could ever pick for my own sister is, in fact, an emotional cripple.

“They got a dog. The cutest puppy you’ve ever seen. I’m a cat man but this pup made me a believer.

“He was adorable.

“But he,” I looked to the groom again, “was a stern master.

“He is a stern master.

“He is now in charge of my nephew. This kid is a handful – let me tell you. But he’s a musical genius and the funniest person I’ve ever met. They have him on drugs, a lot of drugs. I know drugs. I know his drugs.

“They fed their puppy a cup-and-a-half of food a day when he was tiny. He’s fifty pounds now and you can count his ribs. The dog is always hungry and is forbidden to beg. I don’t know dogs but this dog is confused; and hungry. They still feed him a cup-and-a-half of food per day.

“This man my sister loves: He is a stern man who has learned stern lessons.

“And he’s trying so hard to teach those same lessons.

“But Sis,” I implored my sister, “do those lessons need to be learned?”

“This man dotes on you – he is a cripple without you. And I am not referring to his leg. Look at his own daughter – a girl who has exactly zero social skills. She does everything right at all times but she lives in fear and can barely have a social conversation. And she’s starving…

“And your own dog – he is starving…

“And your son. Your own kid has been grounded fifty-one weeks out of the past year. He’s sullen and barely responsive. He used to be so vibrant and alive.

“And your daughter;” I looked now to my niece and saw her beaming at me, “She cannot stand this man.

“And you. You Sis. Look at yourself. You’ve slept nine days out of the past twelve. He loves you so much but you go into comas to get some space from him.

“I haven’t had a single conversation with you since you met him. Not once. Because you’re always sitting on his fake leg. Every time.

“When was the last time you laughed?

“We used to laugh all the time.”

I saw my father starting to nod.

“There is such a thing as loving too much. This is it. He loves you too much. He needs you too much.”

The preacher stepped in then. “That’s enough!” he yelled over his dead microphone.

He looked at me with hatred in his eyes then turned to the bride and groom. “What do you want?” he asked.

My sister fled the room.

They married the following week.

I was not invited.

They divorced seven years later.

She hasn’t spoken to me since.

Answer 8

“Read This!” by Ron

Everyone has been touched. Even a stillborn baby was touched by its own mother even if just in the womb.

There are people in the world who understand this on a different level. They are not mystical, they are not magical and they are not superhuman. They’re just people like you and me. But they all share a sense – a sense of touch so sensitive that they can perceive, while touching another person, every other person that person has ever touched.

They can practice this skill and become very good at it; so good, in fact, that they can begin to perceive every person that ever touched that other person and every other person they ever touched.

And once in a great while there is a man or woman who can perceive through the third and fourth and rarely, the fifth level: everyone touched by everyone touched by everyone touched by everyone touched by everyone touched by any person they themselves touch.

Let me put this in the first person by way of explanation.

I touch you. I can perceive you and step into you. I cannot Read you or know anything about you. But I can perceive everyone you have touched, ever. And I can step into any one of them like a doorway. Again – I cannot Read them or know anything about them. But if I step into them I can sense every person they ever touched. And I can step into them as well, if I’m really good anyway.

But it’s a bit deeper than that. If I’m really, really good I can walk backwards in time this way – back through the generations – all the way back – again – if I’m really, really good.

But no one is that good.

So what’s the point of all of this?

If you have this trait: It’s about walking all these connections and finding another like you – another touch-walker.

And this is the exciting part.

When you find another like yourself – you can Read them instantly. You can know everything about them – you can actually become them in a sense. You know everything they know, you’ve experienced everything they’ve experienced – you do not lose anything of yourself but you can Read them completely.

But they know when they’re being Read. And they can take steps, if they’re good, to stop you.

These people all know each other. They call themselves Readers and they’re all pretty good at it.

But they’re just regular people. And people, for the most part, are good people.

This is not a comic book. There is no evil overlord who controls his minions and looks to take over the world. It’s just a bunch of ham radio operators with a different set of equipment and frequencies.

But in this group there is much speculation and some mythology and even some basic facts.

One fact is this. There is no Reader alive who is a Prime.

A Prime is considered a fable. The best Readers have traveled as far back as possible and there are only six people who are even considered to have been Primes.

An average Reader can find another average Reader through two levels in about a day. It takes a lot of hops from person to person to find another average Reader. Once the connection is established it is relatively easy for two Readers to reconnect. Groups can form in this manner.

Great Readers can find another Reader in an hour and can go through three levels and seem to possess the ability to avoid bad hops and go right to other Readers.

A Prime, mythically speaking, can find any other Reader in a single hop. It’s mathematically impossible but the Reader-lore suggests the Six have, in fact, existed but have blocked themselves from being Read or even detected.

This trait is not completely uncommon in the general population. But the majority of Readers have no idea that this perception is outside of their own mind-view. They call themselves “creative” and “imaginative” and “perceptive”. Most writers, lyricists and poets have the trait. But they never drop to the next level and rarely, if ever, meet another Reader or are ever Read themselves.

But among the Readers there are the great and the really great. And the really great maintain contact. They Read and allow their own minds to be Read with just enough invasiveness to carry on normal conversation. Many also maintain contact at a “Motherhouse” in America. They live and work there and compile their lore. The house is in North Carolina, in a small town called Carey. It’s a simple townhome.

This “Motherhouse” was established by Sir Walter Raleigh (yes, the tobacco guy) when he first touched an American Indian and made connections no European had ever made.

It was this connection that stemmed the ultimate myth among Readers: The bPrime.  The bPrime was transcendent. The bPrime was a Prime with an additional skill. The bPrime could connect with Readers in a single hop in the present, in the past but also in the future. The bPrime was a complete myth. But the American Indian Readers who encountered Sir Walter Raleigh and allowed themselves to be Read all shared this idea and belief in the bPrime.

At the townhouse in Carey a young black man entered the main office.

“Sir. I was just Read. It was so fast I couldn’t stop it.”

The head of the Readers looked up and sighed. “I know. I was too.”

Comments

This is as high-concept as I'm capable of. I think I "get it" but maybe even I don't so if you don't I'll understand.

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Interesting idea, telepathy (of a sort) with a little hint of time-travel thrown in.  Think I mostly get it.  (A little longer than the 5 paragragh limit though :) )

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a BIT over five paragraphs. :) lol

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I like it. It reminds me a bit of Robin Hobb, though I've only started reading one of her books. I think you could develop it further if you wanted to. It's a good concept.

Answer 9

Just an experiment.

TORMENTED

Father Grogan entered the priesthood in his early 20s.  He was a very loyal, compassionate and dedicated man.  Whether he was being called upon to counsel a marriage, or someone on their deathbed, he was very compassionate.

Nobody understoood how he did it - since he was celibate, never married, and had been estranged from his own family when he was only 18.

Grogan spent 40 years delivering lively sermons, reassuring the dying, and doing charitible works.  Then he got diagnosed with terminal consumption and his mind fell apart.  He prayed hard, but couldn't keep the fear away - wondering if he had ever really believed his own  teachings.

It drove him mad,  And he was often heard wailing at night in his room.  The townfolk  tried to help him out and show all the love that he had shared with them, but it never worked.  After a while, they got very aggravated with his loud moaning.  At night, the children would wake up crying and the town sounded like a bunch of screeching alley cats.

R.I.P

Father Grogan

1695 to 1758

A tormented soul

Comments

Midnight.  I did take your constructive criticism well.  I rewrote it and thanked you.  Also I wasn't insinuating that you didn't know about word usage.  You obviously have a good grasp on English.  The only criticisms I reject are when someone says "You're terrible.  Give up."

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G-
I don't want to argue with you. I didn't tell you that you're terrible and to give up. Quite the contrary, I said you had talent and to work on refining it. If you reread your comment about my typo, it did come across more as insinuating that I did not know proper word usage than pointing out a typo, rather you meant it that way or not. Hugs.

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M
It wasnt you I was talking about.  Others have been over the line with rudeness - not you.

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everyone online is rude. it's the beauty of not having to look someone in the face while you're being a douche. I try not to be rude. Okay, sometimes I go out of my way to be rude, but at least I admit it. And I'm only rude when it's called for. But I'm going to refrain from commenting on your stories from now on, because I'm always inclined to want to pick apart your stories. That's not because I think you suck and should stop writing, but because I see potential that needs a lot of polishing. I don't want to make you feel bad by pointing out every error I notice in a story or how I  think it could be done better. We all have our own styles. So, I'll just say one more time: take your time on something...CARE about it...and it will be great if you put in the time and effort. Stop rushing your writing.

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I might have a suggestion. Think about adding another paragraph at the end. It seems to me that it kind of gets cut off without making a true point. In a way, I was expecting someone to kill him just to make the noise stop.

Answer 10

I continued on not knowing where i was headed. Everywhere around cars cluttered the streets. Not a soul on the road besides my own. My footsteps echoed off of the dreary skyscrapers. The dress I wore was something that fit in a prom. It's grey body faded down to the stringy tips that barely covered my knees. It was fitting in the rain and fit me well. I had taken it from an empty shop. I look into the back of a van and see a six  pack, which soon after becomes a five pack. I slowly make my way on with no shoes and a beer in my hand.

 

Mama had always said not to drink until i got older or I'll end up in a cell with my daddy. I remembered him sometimes. The old him, i mean. He wasn't there for all these years until just yesterday. It took one look to know who he was. It was ten years since he left, forty years left in prison.

 

He told me about the end. He told me about where to hide and what to do and who to tell. He then gave me the suit. The suit. It was a plain black thing. It was hideous. Gripped me like a spiderman outfit. I did as i was told and haven't seen him since. I don't know if i would see anyone again. It was both haunting and calming to be the only one.

 

And so that was it. I was it. Who else survived? I gave Johnny my spare suit, but somehow he didn't make it, considering he was gone after everything. Everyone was gone. I don't know why i was chosen, but i had to find someone. Soon. If i went crazy because there was nobody else. Fate had hated me before.

 

I stop and take a peek into a van. Two car seats. Two. How would you be able to choose? Everybody who had at least a penny to their name made it on the ship. I was told to stay and i did. I was told i could survive and i did. I stop and look up at the sky just long enough to hear the echo of my steps combine with someone elses.

Comments

There seem to be problems with verb tense in this. I'm inclined to say I like it, but I'm left very confused because of tense changes. I'm intrigued to say the least...you seem to have something here.

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CreativeBrick:  I agree with midnight's assessment.  There is something there, but maybe a bit more polish.  I love the whole idea of your story.  My two favorite "old" movies in the world are the original House on Haunted Hill with Vincent Price and Omega Man starring Charlton Heston.  Your story immediately reminded me of Heston venturing out into the empty city after the "end" of the world came.  Good story premise, but needs some work.  Welcome to ThinkWrite and keep writing!

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I was reminded of Omega Man as well.  I found it intriguing that the sex of the narrator was somewhat ambiguos through out.  Interesting tale.

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I agree with Poet, the tense changes are really distracting. The lowercase "i" is not in itself distracting, but it's something you should really take care of if you are serious about writing. There are a few other typos, but they are irrelevant. As for the story, overall I like it. I think "It was both haunting and calming to be the only one." was your most powerful sentence and could use some more exploring. It would be nice to see you comb through the story once more and see if you can polish it.
Also, welcome to the site. Please, stick around. :)

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Didn't I see this in the 80's? "Night of the Comet" I think it was called.

Welcome to ThinkWrites. You'll hate me soon enough. Everyone else does. LOL.

I love your story. I really do. I have a thing about the dead but I think the dead are apopular thing right now with Zombieland and AMC's The Walking Dead. But this really rings back to that movie "Night of the Comet".

I think zombie tales should continue to be told. But this story doesn't make a lot of sense. It's very, very hard to follow. And yes, I know it's five paragraphs. In the future - just ignore those rules. Tell your story. Don't write it for the rule-setter. Write it for the readers. I love Night of the Comet. Always have. Break the rules and write better. I'll read it. I promise.

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haha, i haven't actually ever seen any of the movies people are talking about. :) tehe.