Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette

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Admin!
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"How does that even work?"

Posts: 2,469

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 1, 2011 22:18:12 GMT -5

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Post by Admin! on Nov 1, 2011 22:18:12 GMT -5

It's writing challenge time! To enter, just post a ficlet (300-4000 words suggested) in this thread. When the voting for this month's OTM winners comes around, a voting poll will go up for this as well.

The Challenge: Go to This Site. It will generate a starting point and a plot point for your story. Take these, and have fun. Be sure to include your prompt in the post with your entry.

The rules:

Characters must be in Hammel canon, but the ficlets are not site canon unless expressly stated.
Entries must be more than 300 words.
You can enter no more than three ficlets. Any ficlets posted after the original 3 will not be considered for voting. If you want to post more, however, have fun.
Ficlets must be titled.

Sam Caraway
Retired

Unemployed
Probability Manipulation

Feeling lucky, punk?

Posts: 215

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 9, 2011 17:43:19 GMT -5

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Post by Sam Caraway on Nov 9, 2011 17:43:19 GMT -5

The story starts when your protagonist cheats on a partner
Another character is a thief who stole your protagonist’s cell phone

-

Las Vegas, Nevada, 2009

When I wake up after a night of heavy drinking – and at the moment, I’m prepared to admit that most of the drinking I do I could be accurately described as ‘heavy’ – I go through what I like to call the ‘Hangover Storyboard.’

You know the one I mean.

You wake up, and you groan because you feel so awful. You lie in bed for a couple hours working out if staying in bed for the rest of your life is a viable option, and after a while (when you feel a little more human) you decide to force yourself into a sitting position on the bed/couch/futon/bedroom floor/living room floor/nightclub floor and then it hits you: the first section of the Storyboard.

Figure #1: I’m sitting in a bar, talking to a pretty girl.

Not too bad, you think, but what you fail to realise is that the rest of the Storyboard is yet to come. The torture is going to be slow and painful, and as your headache sets in (why do hangover headaches always wait until you’re sitting up to take effect?), things get worse.

All the way through your morning routine you get these flashes. They pull you up short in the hallway, the kitchen, the shower. They literally stop you in your tracks, force you to take a moment to work out what’s going on in the picture you suddenly have in your head.

Figure #2: A few lines later I’m somewhere else, some club. Same girl.

The most interesting thing about the Hangover Storyboard is that the images never come through in the right order. After a few hours, you need to sit down with a very large cup of very strong coffee and have a conference with yourself about what actually happened last night, where and when everything took place. And the more tableaux you see of the night before, the grimmer you know it’s going to get.

But the worst part – that torture I was talking about – is the things you never see. You know, for instance, that you ended up with that girl in the toilets of that club; but you never find out if you took any sort of precaution. You know that you started chatting someone up, but you can’t remember if you succeeded or made a fool of yourself.

And what about the bruise on your back? How did that get there? What could have caused it? Should you go to the doctor?

Some mysteries are never solved.

Figure #3: Aislin goes off in a huff because of something I’ve said. I order another Scotch.

So I’m awake, on my feet by the bed, and I look down at myself. Still clothed, no visible damage – although the knees of my jeans look like I tried to shred them.

Figure #4: She’s a redhead and she looks a little too much like Aislin and I know that we’re not going to last much longer as a couple and…

I fall back on the bed with a groan, and cover my eyes with my hands. This must be some sort of record: Aislin and I have been exclusive for just a month, and I’ve already managed to cheat on her with some redhead in a bar. Great. Just great. Frankly, I’m proud of myself – not everybody has the ability to make as much of a mess of things as I do.

I mean, Aislin’s amazing. On the SDS, she scores at least a 9. Gorgeous, intelligent, funny, likes having a good time…

(I may never have told you this, but I judge every woman I meet on the Sloane Devereaux Scale. The categories are: Looks, Intelligence, Dress Sense and Je Ne Se Quoi. And while Aislin may not have the Dress Sense, she scores a perfect ten in Je Ne Se Quoi.

And come on, she’s Irish. That’s like winning bonus points.)

Figure #5: I crawl from the taxi to my apartment. That explains the state of my jeans.

But once again, Sammy Caraway lets a good thing get away from him.

Best thing for her, I guess.

I’m in the kitchen when I check my jeans’ pocket: no phone. I feel my way back to the bedroom and turn everything upside down – still nothing. Eventually, after I’ve finally managed to navigate the kettle, I have a coffee steaming in front of me. I pick up the landline to dial my cell.

To my surprise, a female voice answers: ‘Hello?’

‘Hello.’ I know that I sound as shocked as I feel. The girl waits for a moment.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I…’ This has thrown me off, and it takes a sip of coffee to get me back in action: ‘I’m sorry, I thought this was the number of my cellphone.’

‘Why would you phone your phone?’

I pause. Not the response I expected. ‘I can’t find it.’ I tell the mystery lady.

‘Oh.’ She appears to consider this for a moment, and I can hear her breathing. Then: ‘Hold, please.’

There is a click and a dial tone. I take the receiver from my ear and look at it. She hung up on me! That crazy girl had the nerve to hang up on me! I dial the number again, and when she answers she sounds exasperated:

‘Hello?’

‘Me again,’ I tell her. ‘Can I have my phone back, please?’

‘Please wait,’ the girl replies. ‘Normal service will resume shortly.’

She hangs up again.

I dial again.

‘What?’ She sounds angry, this time.

‘This is my phone,’ I say as sternly as I can. ‘And I want it back.’

‘Mmm. Mm-hmm. Uh-huh.’ I can almost see her nodding. ‘We apologise for the inconvenience. Please – ’

‘We?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘Who’s ‘we’?’

There is a long pause. Have I wandered into a Pinter play by mistake?

‘Mr Caraway,’ she’s adopted a more conciliatory tone, now – it makes her sound like an air hostess. ‘Please try to stay calm.’

‘I would be calmer if you told me who you were.’

There is definitely a smile in her voice: ‘I am unable to disclose any information to you, at this time.’

Something is pressing at the edges of my mind, trying to get through – another section of the Hangover Storyboard. I close my eyes and will this piece of jigsaw memory puzzle to slot into place.

‘Listen,’ I tell her. ‘I can make very bad things happen to you. I’m a meta human. You have no idea how much I can – ’

Click.

Brrrrrr.

Figure #6: There’s a brunette at the other end of the bar – definitely at least an 8 on the scale. She gets up, walks past me, leans in to whisper something. I feel her hand brush my leg, and don’t notice that my pocket is lighter when she takes it away. ‘You’re a lucky man, she tells me in my ear, and I look at her sharply. She just smiles and walks away. I fight through the crowd. When I make it out of the bar, she’s gone, disappeared into air. Into thin air.

How did she know?

Who was she?

That afternoon, an envelope comes through my door – it has a phone in it, although it’s not mine. It’s a newer model.

Some mysteries are never solved.

Conscience? It's a dangerous thing - it fills you full of obstacles. Every man who means to live well endeavors to trust himself and to live without it.

Cobalt Weaver
Retired

Attorney
Shadow Manipulation
Played By Kayla

"It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us."

Posts: 953

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 9, 2011 21:28:34 GMT -5

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Post by Cobalt Weaver on Nov 9, 2011 21:28:34 GMT -5

The story starts when your protagonist tries to stop a robbery. Another character is a schoolteacher who doesn't know how to tell your protagonist something important.
-----------------------------

Off Guard

Blood pounded in Cobalt’s ears, and his breath was catching painfully in his throat. The cold tile pressed against his cheek. Well, he thought numbly, the sideways-tilted world spinning, that was stupid of me… His chest felt cold, and he could almost hear Leila’s voice reprimanding him in his head:

How could you be so stupid? Of course you had to go and try to stop that stupid robbery off-duty. What is Ben going to do now?

Ben…Cobalt closed his eyes and coughed, wincing as it caught and stabbed painfully at his chest. He instinctually pressed a hand to his chest. And it felt warm and wet. He wondered why.

***

“So how are the kids?” Cobalt asked, staring over his round glasses at Ben as the younger man enthusiastically dug into his box of chow mein. Ben shrugged.

“Oh. You know. They’re fine. Parent-teacher conferences are coming up soon,” Ben winced dramatically, “Those always make me nervous.” Cobalt gave Ben a gentle grin, reaching over to squeeze his hand before returning to his carton.

“Well,” Cobalt shrugged, affecting an unconvincing air of innocence, “If any of them give you trouble, I could always arrest them for…” He squinted for a moment, “Nope, you’re on your own.”

Ben laughed, “What an awesome boyfriend I’ve got.” He waved his chopsticks at Cobalt, forgetting that they were still full of food. Noodles flew across the table, and Cobalt threw his arms up dramatically. Both men laughed.

“There was no call for that,” Cobalt said, brushing the food onto a napkin. Ben grinned.

“Sorry, sorry. You know I can’t help it when I get upset.”

“Yeah. No food is safe from you.”

“It’s terrible, really.”

“I don’t know how you manage.”

Ben looked up at Cobalt, watching the smaller man smile. Common consensus agreed that Cobalt didn’t quite have a face for smiling—all angles and harsh lines and stubble, lined in a way that ran exactly contrary to laugh lines. Ben would never understand that, because he always thought Cobalt looked amazing when he smiled. He’d even said as much once, but Cobalt had thought he was joking.

“Well,” Ben said finally, “I probably manage because of you.” He swallowed audibly. He could do this, he just needed to man up and do it. “Um, Cobalt? I kinda…have something important to tell you…” He winced at the way his voice cracked in nervousness. Christ, he wasn’t a teenage boy. He could do this.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Cobalt looked up at Ben with those wonderful blue eyes and all of Ben’s words piled up behind his throat. God, how was he supposed to do this?

“…You have noodle in your hair,” Ben said finally, sighing slightly. Cobalt pawed at his thin, dark blond hair, grinning as he pulled the offending noodle out.

***

This would be just my luck, Cobalt sighed inwardly, his thoughts scattering and his vision narrowing. The voice of Leila still reverberating around in his mind:

You were off-duty.

I’m an officer of the law. I’m never really off-duty.

You never let me have that excuse.

You’re not the Captain. You’re just a sergeant.

Oh, that’s nice.

No offense.

What’s Ben going to do?

The question, however delusional, gave him pause. Blue and red light flashed at the edge of his vision.

***

“You’re acting weird,” Cobalt observed absently, looking up at Ben with slight concern, “Is everything okay?”

Ben jumped, looking slightly guilty, “Oh! Yeah. No, I’m fine.”

“It just seems like there’s something you want to tell me,” Cobalt commented, reaching over to grasp Ben’s hand gently. Ben gripped his hand back, smiling nervously. Cobalt tilted his head to the side, giving Ben a look that he learned to recognize as his Analytical Look. “If there’s something wrong, we can talk about it.” He shrugged awkwardly, “I know I haven’t been all that great at that in the past, but—”

Ben interrupted Cobalt’s half-apology by kissing him. When he pulled away, he didn’t go far, resting his forehead on Cobalt’s. “It’s nothing,” Ben assured him, “It’s, uh…I wanted to ask you something. It’s kind of important—”

Cobalt’s cell phone rang.

They both froze, and Ben recognized the look Cobalt was giving him. Ben grinned, “Go on and arrest some miscreants, I’ll tell you later.”

***

What was he going to ask? Cobalt wondered, his fingers growing cold. There was shouting, but Cobalt couldn’t really tell what they were saying, or

You’re so stupid, Leila’s voice chided, an echoing imitation of her exasperation, You know what he was going to ask. What are you going to do about it?

***

“I’m going to the bank, be back in a sec!” Cobalt called, grabbing his keys from the table by the door.

“Okay!” Ben called from the living room. He stood up and caught Cobalt by the hand, “Hey, hurry back, will you?” Ben’s dark blue eyes flashed nervously, “I’ve got, um…something important to tell you.”

Cobalt nodded, a little mystified, “Okay. I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

He stood in line, thinking about Ben and the semi-perpetual nervousness that had settled on his face of late. Something was bothering him, and it worried Cobalt. He was deep in concerned thought when a voice interrupted him:

“Everybody on the ground now! This is a robbery!”

Perfect.

***

I’m tired, Cobalt thought absently, closing his eyes.

You’re giving up, the Leila-voice chided him.

I hurt, Cobalt protested, and I’m tired and it’s cold.

What do you think Ben is going to say, if you give up now?

I suppose he’ll get by.

You and I both know that’s not true.

I think I know what he wanted to ask me.

What are you going to do about it?

I’m so tired.

***

When Cobalt opened his eyes again, he was assaulted by bright, white light and the smell of anesthetic and morphine. His chest felt heavy, and every breath caught painfully against his ribcage. Through the myopic haze, he was finally able to focus on the blurry outline of what looked to be—

“Ben,” Cobalt coughed, the additional strain of talking causing his chest to ache more. Ben leaned forward, his worried face transitioning into sharp focus.

“You’re awake,” Ben cupped Cobalt’s face in his hands and rested his forehead against Cobalt’s. It occurred to Cobalt a second later than it should that Ben sounded like he’d been crying.

“What happened?” Cobalt remembered most of it, but he didn’t remember getting here. He also remembered Leila, but he was fairly certain that had been a dream…

“You were shot,” Ben said, almost redundantly, “They…they called me at home. I wondered where you’d been…”

“Oh yeah,” Cobalt said, almost dreamily, the morphine and anesthesia doing its work; Cobalt didn’t feel much beyond a dull ache, but that also meant his brain wasn’t working so well, “I got shot.”

Ben barked out a shaky laugh, “Yeah. You did. You dumb son of a bitch, you weren’t even on duty—”

“’M always on duty. S’my job.”

“That isn’t even true, how—”

“What were you going to ask me?”

That stopped Ben mid-thought. He stared down at Cobalt, small and drugged-up and drowsy, but alive. His eyelids were drooping, and so Ben just smiled, taking Cobalt’s hand and stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

Ben leaned back in his chair, folding Cobalt’s thin fingers around the small ring box.

“I’ll tell you when you wake up.”

Last Edit: Nov 9, 2011 21:30:49 GMT -5 by Cobalt Weaver

Joshua Bernstein
Local

Civil Rights Lawyer
Non-Powered
Played By Dryope

And Justice For All

Posts: 3,962

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 15, 2011 20:47:29 GMT -5

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Post by Joshua Bernstein on Nov 15, 2011 20:47:29 GMT -5

Iras and Charmion

The story starts when your protagonist goes on a blind date.

Another character is a sports editor who believes s/he is the reincarnation of a famous person.

She wanted to make a good first impression. She didn't know him, but Florence and Mii had heaped so much praise upon him that she'd been unable to say no despite having only seen his picture. He looked cute enough (and oddly familiar) from the photo her friends had shown her, and if he were really as charming and funny as they claimed then he must have had so many other, younger choices. She was almost forty and still single; the dating pool shrank more and more each year.

She slowly teetered toward the cafe they had agreed to meet at, unsteady in the strappy black heels she'd donned for the occasion. She'd chosen them because they added height to her petite frame, but that didn't mean she was used to them.

Bright blue wings caught her attention, and she gnawed at painted lips nervously. What if he wasn't interested? But at least he hadn't stood her up. She tugged at her slinky purple dress, adjusting it to show just the right amount of cleavage before making her way toward him.

"Hello." She flashed him a smile full of bright white teeth. "You must be Feivel."

He stood as she approached, grasping her wrist in a firm shake. "And you must be Cleopatra."

She stared at him in shock. He looked like the man in the photograph Florence had shown her, but he was waiting for someone else...?

He must have noticed her distress because he hurriedly reassured her. "I'm sorry. I know, your name is Esme now. I shouldn't call you out like that in public."

"I...uh....okay." She tugged at a strand of her dark hair, hovering uncertainly. This wasn't what she had expected from the description Mii and Flo had given. Perhaps the other women's idea of hilarious sense of humor didn't quite match up with hers where attractive men were involved.

He pulled a chair back from the table, the sound of iron against concrete scraping hideously, and she cringed before gingerly sitting down, arranging the folds of her dress carefully so as not to accidentally flash him. "Thank you."

He gave her a smile and handed her a menu. "Greek food, they say. It's not quite like what you used to serve at court, but the modern variant isn't bad. The owner, Pyrrhos, is from Greece. I wonder if he'd understand if you spoke to him?"

Esme busied herself perusing the menu; she wasn't at all sure how to respond to her date's odd statements. She settled on an uneasy, "Uh huh."

"Iras---Florence tells me you're a scientist now," He continued, leaning over to pat her hand affectionately, "Scholarly pursuits always did suit you more than governmemt."

"Uh, yes, I really love research." She agreed, focusing on a topic that was of interest to her, "It's so fascinating, and I always did well in the hard sciences. You're a journalist, right?" She was pretty sure that was what Midori had told her, anyway.

"Sports editor, actually." He confessed easily.

"Oh! That's so interesting. I love hockey," She beamed up at him, once again trying to make a good impression despite the fact that the first one he'd made was of an odd-ball. Still, he probably wasn't so bad.

He raised an eyebrow at her, "A hockey fan, huh? I would've thought you'd be more into rugby. But I guess hockey sees a few teeth knocked out now and again."

And he was firmly back in weird territory. She set the menu down on the table, pressing her lips together as she glared at him. "Listen here, Mr. Silverstein, I know Florence said you're supposed to be funny, but this is a first date and I don't even know you so please take this seriously."

He gave her a wounded look, clasping a hand across his heart, "Don't know me? But Cleo, I'm Marc. Didn't Iras and Charmion tell you?"

She stared at him.

"Marc Antony. We died for one another. I've been reincarnating for decades trying to find you again and you're going to say you don't even know who I am?"

Esme scrambled out of her seat, shaking. "This date is over. You're taking this stupid joke too far. I don't care how cute you are, this is weird. I'm sorry, Mr. Silverstein, but..." She trailed off as he grabbed her by the wrist, turning it over to show two tiny birth marks.

He rubbed a thumb over them musingly. "Bit by an asp." He murmured before raising his shirt to show a birth mark across his stomach, "And I stabbed myself."

She dropped her hand to her side, gazing at him with anxiety and dread, "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about." She told him, backing away slowly. "You're insane."

She was almost running by the time she got to her car, balance still unsteady but fear lending her agility she didn't know she had. Feivel was nuts, there was no two ways about it.

And she was never letting her handmaidens set her up again.

Signature Credits/Thread Tracker++Plotter++Profile

Dr. Sean Neville
Institute Official

Psychiatrist
Telepathy/Memory Manipulation
Played By Sean

The One and Only Seangularity

Posts: 8,987

Gender:: Male

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 25, 2011 19:51:39 GMT -5

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Post by Dr. Sean Neville on Nov 25, 2011 19:51:39 GMT -5

Wednesday Morning, 3:00a.m.

My life seems unreal,
My crime an illusion,
A scene badly written
In which I must play.
Yet I know as I gaze
At my young love beside me,
The morning is just a few hours away.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The story starts when your protagonist receives a strange e-mail.

Another character is an attorney who doesn't know how to tell your protagonist something important.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Sean couldn’t sleep. While he suffered from insomnia, the cause of the lack of sleep was far simpler: it was too hot. Vermont summers were far too humid, far too warm, and occasionally the upstairs suffered from greenhouse conditions. Because it was too hot to sleep, the telepath needed other means to pass the time.

This was how he came to be on his computer at 1:00a.m., browsing one of the debate forums about the DSM Fifth Edition revisions. He had his doubts this would be published on time, but he liked to remain aware of progress. Then there came a telltale ping alerting him to a new email.

Sean couldn’t imagine who would email him at this hour, particularly not on his personal email address which meant it wasn’t Hammel. Perhaps it was Ryan; as a recent college graduate, the young man kept strange hours. Sean opened his email folder and was surprised to see it wasn’t from Ryan, but instead was from Josh.

He was surprised for two reasons: 1) Josh didn’t suffer from insomnia and thus wasn’t usually awake at this hour unless he’d been up all night partying, and 2) the attorney had been busy lately; so busy that he’d turned down Sean’s invitations for supper or after work drinks, so busy that recently there’d been no phone calls and Josh hadn’t returned his attempts to call.

But perhaps that had changed.

For Your Eyes Only.

The subject line caused Sean to frown to himself. He hoped that Josh wasn’t in any sort of trouble; if he had been arrested again, he wouldn’t use email, so Sean took comfort in that. Perhaps it had to do with the arson the other month...or Josh had been doing research and needed his opinion. There was only one way to find out.

The telepath clicked the email open.

No research questions followed. Instead, Sean was greeted with

Thought youd like these!!!!! and an attachment. Curious, unprecedented (given the time of night, the lack of greeting or signature and the poor spelling and included typos). But this was Josh (and his antivirus software told him the email was clean), and thus he opened the attachment.

He was greeted with blurry photos of Josh almost making out with Danny Silverman. Of Josh’s hands up Danny Silverman’s shirt. Of them embracing and making ridiculous faces at the camera that were no doubt intended to be alluring but failed miserably given the blurriness of the photos and the fact that they were probably drunk. If the red in their cheeks was any indication, they were very drunk.

The telepath wasn’t sure what to make of this. Josh had twin fantasies; he’d known this since they’d dated in college. Josh likely had twincest pornography in his home, although Sean didn’t make a habit of checking drawers when he woke up there or visited for the night. Undoubtedly, Josh and Danny had realized what everyone else who met them had, namely that they did share a striking physical similarity at first glance. Then they’d gotten drunk and decided to take these photos. And to send them to him.

Sean didn’t know what his reputation was in their circle of friends that he should get this email, but perhaps everyone thought he was a dirty old man. Or that he was monitoring their sexual activity, assuming Cobalt had discussed his Christmas presents, which was unlikely. But Josh knew better. Perhaps they’d sent them to him because he’d been physically intimate with both of them.

He didn’t know, and he wasn’t going to ask.

Instead, the telepath closed the photos, exited his email, and after a moment’s consideration, shut down his computer. That was enough Internet for the night.

*******************************

The next morning, Sean made himself coffee, eggs, and toast for breakfast. There was no apology email from Josh, no message telling him to discard the previous email or not to open it in case he hadn’t already. The telepath assumed that this would simply go down the memory hole, and they could both pretend it had never happened.

After breakfast, Sean called Griff and asked him if he wanted to go out with him on the boat today; afterward, they could get supper and the shorter man could spend the night. The Welsh doctor agreed, and after hanging up, Sean smiled to himself; it would be a lovely day.

On the other side of town, Joshua Bernstein woke on the floor of his house with a massive hangover and Danny Silverman draped over him. Both men were (thankfully) clothed, both were mortified by the events of the nights before; both were hopeful that they hadn’t actually sent those pictures to Sean and then both were crushed to find that they had.

Danny made short work of leaving Josh’s house at the first available moment, too embarrassed to process the night before with Josh present. The attorney was left alone with the computer and his own humiliation.

Only when he was alone did he dig through his email history, making sure that the photos were the only email he sent. Fortunately it was, because that same email was in his Saved Drafts folder, the same email that had been there since the night Sean had informed him that he was dating Griff. The email he’d written in hurt and anger and insecurity; the one he’d never finished and never planned to send, but he couldn’t make himself erase for some reason. Maybe it was his unwillingness to face the fact Sean had stopped talking to him and somewhere inside of him, he hoped that this would change the telepath’s mind. Maybe it just felt like a last link to his friend. Maybe he was crazy.

Josh didn’t think he wanted to be crazy, but being crazy was probably better than being a fifty-one-year-old man who was so petty, insecure, and jealous that his best friend wanted to cut all ties with him, and so useless and pathetic that he couldn’t blame the older man for doing so. So weak that if he let his mind focus on it, he felt his eyes tear up again. So incapable of living his life on his own that he’d taken drunk faux-sexy photos with a friend of his and sent them to Sean for...he didn’t even know. Sober Josh didn’t usually understand drunk Josh’s thought processes, which he admitted was probably for the best.

Still, on top of not wanting to ever speak to him again, Sean was probably now disgusted with him too. What if he showed them to Griff and both men were laughing at him and Danny?

The attorney felt guilt which was doubly awful because there was nothing he could do to rectify it. He couldn’t apologize to the telepath, or joke about it to draw significance away; he couldn’t even talk to him to see if the other man would shrug them off and ignore them the way he had everything else these past twenty-eight years. Not since Sean had finally reached his fill of the attorney.

He glanced quickly at the draft and his fingers hovered over the send button; maybe if he sent this to Sean as an apology, the other man would understand and forgive him.

Dear Sean:

If I could take it all back, I would. I know you deserve better, and you don’t feel this way about me anymore, but I thought telling you might make you reconsider letting me back into your life...

He quickly snapped himself out of that train of thought. Sean wanted nothing to do with him and vomiting his emotions all over an email, after sending an already humiliating email, would do nothing to curry the telepath’s favor. So he left it where it was, rose to his feet, and decided to look for coffee and Tylenol for his hangover.

Some secrets were best kept to himself.

You want to graduate? Listen to Sean talk about condoms.

Edward Scott
Retired

University of Vermont
Non-Powered

Angel's [Obsessive flirt]

Posts: 106

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 26, 2011 1:49:29 GMT -5

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Post by Edward Scott on Nov 26, 2011 1:49:29 GMT -5

Crazy is as Crazy does

The story starts when your protagonist drives down the wrong street.
Another character is a spy who has been forging your protagonist's name.

Days could have been better. Days could have been worse. Today was somewhere in between. No one said being an adult was easy. No one said living up to your father’s expectations were simple. Hell, the chances that Tanner would were slimmer then Leonardo DiCaprio’s chances of being able to play a eighteen year old boy ever again.

So it had been down to Craven to show a little bit of loyalty to his father and take Junior CEO of the company. Poor Johnathan had been shoved out of his position the very second Craven had found himself graduated from Hammel. Gia had fallen pregnant back then and Craven had to man up, take care of their little family.

The baby had made things worse. That was more than natural. Relationships took on strain when a third party entered. Craven knew from experience. Adrianna. Romeo and now their little Abigail Rose. He’d always liked the name Abigail. Since Rose was big enough to understand her name was important, Craven had told his little niece that because she was an aunt, she had to share this very important name she was giving by her two fathers.

She’d readily agreed of course… Craven groaned as he stared out the front wind shield. Why was he thinking about this? He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this. He was supposed to be driving to Gia’s. Well where Gia lived now. Their marriage had been short lived until he started fighting with her about the tiniest things.

At that point it was obvious that things were over. They wouldn’t be able to patch anything up. They’d separated and not divorced. That was why Craven was driving down … the wrong road?! What the hell! Craven pulled up sharply against the curb and glanced around at the houses, dark, unfamiliar, eerie. Oh God…

This was way too much like a horror film. All he needed was a scream in the background. Just as that thought washed over his mind a caw from a crow sounded and Craven screamed ducking away from the window when Jet came fluttering to pitch on the frame of the window peeking in at him. Craven shot her a dark glare.

”Hilarious. Ha ha ha.”
The flash of headlights in the rear view made Craven flinch when a car turned up the road he was on. As soon as it had completed the turn it seemed to stop and the lights flickered off instantly.
”What the hell…”
Craven switched on the ignition and started to drive again.

Gia’s road had to be somewhere and this street he was on was just far too creepy to stay on especially with random weird cars stopping on corners. Funny thing with that was that ever since his signature had turned up on all sorts of documents, Craven had felt like he was being watched. Like someone was constantly following him.

This thing with Gia? Her signing divorce papers because he’d sent them? It had to get straightened out. He didn’t want a divorce… This random strange signature forcer did….The headlights in the rearview made Craven flinch once more. Who was this and what did they want? Craven’s heard was racing. A murder of crows were already being called to attention.

He sent the first murder into attack mode when the headlights followed at Craven’s slow pace down the next road where a right had been taken. The birds squawked and squeaked, constantly at the ready for their attacks and the car screeched to a halt. Craven’s did the same and he was out the door…. Hitting the ground before he could untangle his foot from the safety belt.

Craven gave a groan as he lay sprawled across the floor.
”Crave! Crave! Are you okay?”
Craven gave a frown and lifted his eyes to what sounded like a familiar voice to him. A light hand fell on the center of his back and he jerked away from it scrambling backward away from the girl before him.

Not girl. No. The girl he remembered was gone. After Adrianna’s mother had died things had just gotten worse between them. In fact, she’d just gotten worse. Last he’d heard she’d been taken into a facility. Craven’s eyes were wide as they locked on her.
”You?”
Craven’s voice sounded betrayed.

Her? His best friend. His constant companion. His everything and now? Now she was stalking him like some kind of freak?!
”Craven I had to. I said I’d always look out for you. I’d always have your back.”
Craven stared at Adrianna in disbelieve, eyes wide, body wrecked with trembles. No way was this possible.

”You made me divorce my wife!”
”She was making you miserable. I have papers in my car. We can get Abbey Rose and it will be like old times again. I won’t let anyone make you sad. I promise.”
Craven froze when her hand came out to touch his face. He remembered her touch. Was she that crazy? Was she right? How was he to know?

Gia was making him sad of course. But he was making Gia sad too. He’d always managed to make someone at least constantly sad. That just happened to be Gia most of the time. Craven slowly took Adrianna’s hand in his and helped her to her feet. He lead her to her car and helped her inside of it. Then got in on the other side.

”Wanna know what the definition of crazy is? Doing something over and over again and expecting different results to what is practically a given out come.”
Adrianna watched him, her hands on the steering wheel, her dark brown eyes catching pieces of light from the lone flickering street light over head of the SUV they were in.

Craven turned his eyes to meet hers.
”Technically, Adrianna, I’m the crazy one. Remember how to get to Romeo?”
Adrianna smiled and nodded.
”Let’s go…”
Craven smirked darkly as the car pulled away, watching his own black jaguar, door ajar like he’d been taken by aliens instead of a slightly off best friend who had agreed to help him scare the hell out of his former lover.

What was the fun in being crazy and twenty one when you couldn’t serve your dish called revenge, cold?

Well… It could have been better. Then again… it could have been worse….

Last Edit: Nov 26, 2011 1:56:09 GMT -5 by Edward Scott

medstudent.flirtatious.curious.obsessed with meta-humans and their dna

Matthew Waylan
Retired

Greenview Community College
Non-powered

Posts: 183

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 26, 2011 4:10:29 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Matthew Waylan on Nov 26, 2011 4:10:29 GMT -5

The story starts when your protagonist goes to a party.
Another character is royalty. who put a curse on your protagonist.

A Knight's Cursed

He was at another party, this time of his own accord. He knew that it wasn't like him, but he also knew he should try something different. A fresh start right? The lights were low and the music was high. He wondered why he had come again. Everything was different this time around. He was looking at everything with a new set of eyes, that seemed to swallow you up whole. He was smiling against the rhythm of the party, nodding his head against the music.

The fact that he was smiling made all the difference as well. Now he wasn't unapproachable. He was actually normal, a human among them. Them who seemed so foreign and different who didn't understand him. He knew what he was doing was rare and forbidden. Especially for one of his kind. The cursed. It made no difference to him that he was smiling, but it would make a difference to the king.

The king had ruled the land with a soft and gentle hand, but firm when needed. The nation had prospered under his reign, that much was certain. It was his slightly hidden habit that made everything different for the royal court. Instead of having a concubine of the female sort exclusively, every so often a knight would have the pleasure of bedding the king.

There was one that got away though, one that, to the kings chagrin refused his offer each time it was presented. The insolent knight did not know what he was getting himself into. When he was publicly refused by the knight, in front of his court to say, the king decided enough was enough. The king would get what he wanted, one way or another, with or without the knight's permission.

Using his royal abilities the knight was assigned to be the king's personal guard. It irritated the hell out of the knight and pleased the king ever so. The king was shameless in his pursuits and it was decided that the knight would be given the rooms adjacent, as permanent housing. These rooms were normally given to the kings favorite, as they were the closest and allowed for easy access. The knight was not happy about having to move but was required to do so. The king could behead him after all I he wished. The knight had no choice.

Sighing the knight gave up, and began to accept the king into his life. After all the king had absolute power given to him by the gods. Who was he to go against the gods? Day after day the knight and the king grew closer. Each wanted something from the other, and neither was going to give an inch. The two were playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse that neither was good at hiding.

In fact it was ever present, even at this ball. The knight was dressed in royal finery's much of a nobles. The king in his royal jewels. The crown atop his head made it all the more known that he could assert the power when ever he wanted. The knight watched the king as he ceased talking with the jester of the court and motioned with one finger for the knight to come.

Sighing the knight slowly made his way over, bowing low upon arrival. “Yes my king? What is it you wish from your humble knight?” His face flamed, as he knew he was being put to the test by his stubborn king. It really irked him that just because he was the king, the knight could be commanded by him. To the knight it was just a spoiled brat using his power to get what he wanted. A smirk lit his face. There was one thing he wasn't getting.

“Arise” The knight watched as the king waved his hand signalling his arise. Still smirking only slightly the knight stood straight and proud. “You have a smile upon your face knight. Pray tell what good has happened.” The knight looked at his king and smiled once again, nodding at the baffled look that was placed upon his face. “It is a ball your majesty, what else is there to do except smile? After all we are celebrating the alliance between our and the neighboring lands.”

The knight wasn't only smiling about that though. He was smiling because his sister had attended this ball, with her fiance, Lord Wilkes. The two were close through the letters and writing that they exchanged and the Knight was glad that he was able to converse with his sister. He genuinely missed her and had taken this position to protect her, and his country. Her engagement was drawing to a close and the wedding was not far off. He would have to get on the kings good side if her were to request leave to attend her wedding.

“ Is that so? You were never happy about it before my knight. You are hiding something from me. I demand you tell me what it is.” The knight's eyes widened as the King began to speak. They hardened as the king emphasized the word mine in his sentence, announcing to the court what the Knight was to the king. “ I assure you I am not hiding anything King. You are mistaken.” The knight met the kings eyes, a glare forming. “ You are mistaken.”

This was not something he was going to discuss in front of the royal court. All of them gossiped and all of them would know then of what was going on in The knight's life. This is why he rather be out in the country, or on official duty. The knight felt as if he was being made fun of by the king, being assigned to this position. It was considered a great honor in others eyes... yada yada yada

They didn't know the truth of the matter, it being a curse. He wasn't allowed to tell them the nature he was being kept. The king was keeping him prisoner in this over glamorous world. To them it was a blessing to have the king so interested in you. To them it was a gift, a magical spell which could make you extremely popular. To him it was a curse, an imprisonment that kept him here. He had no free will, and couldn't defy him. The fact that he had gotten away with it for so long astounded even him. He could only push the king so far.

The knight was still testing the limits.

As the king was going to reply to the knight a window nearest burst, a blond entered the room dressed in black. Quickly The knight moved in front of the king drawing his sword to fight. It was a lengthy battle but eventually the knight prevailed. Just as the assassin was being taken away another entered through the window, stabbing a knife into the kings back. The knight stood still for only a moment before moving to catch the king, rushing him to the infirmary, where the chief healer was on board.

“ You really are a curse My king.” The knight muttered as he set the man down on the bed. The old healer immediately shooed the knight out of the room. Demanding he be brought the wizard. The wizard had as soon as summoned, and immediately began to work.

It was a long night for the noble knight. He didn't sleep and instead went on the search for the assassins. He found the two in the stables, where they were stable hands. Almost immediately they gave themselves up. They had been promised money and a future together, if they had done this. Shaking his head the knight had to hold back his contempt. “ The king will deal with you all in the morning. Until then you enjoy your stay in the dungeons.”

After escorting them both to the dungeons he paced the halls worried for his king. What was going to happen would the king be all right? He better be. The king if The knight thought about it, was his only friend. Even if it was a misguided friendship. When the Healer finally came out and let him in the knight rushed to his kings bedsides and made sure they were together. He wasn't letting go, the king shouldn't either.

“ Don't you dare give up on me now Ethan.” With those words the knight passed his lips over his beloved. “ I need you...” these words were muttered as the knight fell asleep by the kings bedside, clutching his hand. It was fitful, but it was much needed rest.

It was morning when he awoke, refreshed. The king was sitting above him looking down at him. “Finally up dear knight?” Yawning the knight sat up, and blinked. He nodded at the king as he was getting up. “Hell of a party.” The knight managed a smile to show his gratitude. He was glad the king wasn't awake to hear what he had said, it wasn't for him to know. It was the knights greatest secret after all.

The king took one look at the knight and laughed. "It was my knight, but here is the thing. You're stuck with me.” Grinning the king took his knights hand and kissed it slowly. “After all you need me. I can't pass on yet now can I?”

The knight's eyes widened at the words. He remembered? Did that mean he remembered that as well. Matt looked the other way, hoping it wasn't true. The king seeing his knights reactions only smirked and shook his head. " You will be moved to my rooms as of tonight Matthew, I can't let you down after all.”

Groaning Matt looked over at Ethan and shook his head, his face red. “Damn curse...” He muttered, looking at the ground. All that could be heard through the halls was the kings laughter.

Mitya Makarov
Retired

Powers Trainer
Telekinesis

Posts: 104

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 26, 2011 20:47:27 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Mitya Makarov on Nov 26, 2011 20:47:27 GMT -5

The story starts when your protagonist spies on someone.
Another character is a soldier who stole money from your protagonist.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry To Pop In Unannounced

The cloaked figure lingered by the medical supply closet, readying himself for the battle ahead. It was lucky that Nathan wasn’t really expected to do much of the actual fighting, since he wasn’t very good at it... but he was exceptionally good at sneaking. Better than anyone else on his side, which was well-known. Since that was the case, he fully expected the other side to be on alert, actively searching for his presence. So he had to make sure that every track was covered, every breath controlled and quiet, every glint of his knife disguised before he was discovered.

He had decided to disguise himself as one of the opposition, a team member that wouldn’t have been too suspicious to be seen hanging around behind the rest of them. Knife in one hand and cigarette case in the other, he snaked his way past enemies, being extra careful not to get too close, in case someone realised that he wasn’t one of them. So far, so good. No-one suspected a thing.

Snooping around the front of the base, he couldn’t find anything interesting, working fast to disable a sentry and keeping an eye on the soldiers up ahead. One soldier took out one of Nathan's own as he watched, before standing over his corpse and taunting him crudely. Realising then that he recognised this soldier as a former ally, Nathan burned with rage. Tim Lyne had once been a very good frie... well, a great acquai... a cool... he’d been entertaining when they were still on speaking terms, and after a certain incident when he’d caught the soldier stealing from him in broad daylight and out in public, they seemed to have drifted apart. They’d each been far too busy, of course. But he couldn’t help but wonder if guilt had stopped the other man from speaking to him, if on some level he was feeling too ashamed to be seen by...

Oh who was he kidding? That guy was far too self-absorbed for taking notice of feelings like those, assuming he had them at all. So he was murdering his own friends now? He didn’t think the man could stoop this low. He was going to have to do something. He was going to get vengeance for his fallen teammate.

Silently, he pursued the soldier as he ran for cover from incoming missiles. He was becoming single-minded in this task, and nothing was going to stop him from taking that son of a bitch out. It was just as well, then, that he was light on his feet, managing to dodge the bullets that rained in on them and the enemy soldiers who crossed his path.

Finally, he caught up with Lyne, his knife in his grip, a sneer on his face as he raised it above the other man’s shoulders. With one swift stab, the enemy soldier fell. Taunting him by pressing ‘g’ on his keyboard, Nathan allowed himself a sardonic grin as the exasperated young man yelled.

“God, Nathan!” he protested, and the doctor could only imagine that he was smashing the keyboard with his fists. “Will you quit dominating me for, like, five seconds??”

“Not a chance,” he laughed back, managing to take down a Pyro and a Demoman immediately after taking out the Soldier. “This is what happens when you steal from Nathan Reed.”

“I said I’d pay you back, didn’t I? I took it for good reasons!”

Nathan rolled his eyes and left the respawn area disguised as a Sniper. “Yeah, I don’t call continuing to ply young women and yourself with alcohol ‘good reasons’. I mean you could have just asked or something.”

“It was, what? $5??” Nathan smirked.

“Yes, it was, but it wasn’t yours, now, was it, Timothy? Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to touch things that aren’t yours?”

The timer on his cloak ran out and he dove into a secluded area of the map.

“Hey, it was a one-off emergency, okay? I’ll give you the money next week; are you happy now?”

“Quite satisfied, yes.”

There was a grumble that sounded a bit like 'I hate this stupid game', and off in the distance, Nathan could see HotStuffTim, now a Heavy, approaching his position. Activating the Dead Ringer, he chuckled down the mic.

“Hey. Hey Tim?” he managed through giggles, uncloaking behind the soldier once more with an easy backstab. A stream of profanity graced his ears. “That was doctor-assisted homicide.”

-----
I apologise for any OOCness but ultimately regret nothing in the way I interpreted the plot =T

Profile || Plot Page

Dr. Sean Neville
Institute Official

Psychiatrist
Telepathy/Memory Manipulation
Played By Sean

The One and Only Seangularity

Posts: 8,987

Gender:: Male

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 27, 2011 0:05:03 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Dr. Sean Neville on Nov 27, 2011 0:05:03 GMT -5

Sure Don’t Feel Like Love

Who's that conscience sticking on the sole of my shoe?
Cause it sure don't feel like love
How does it feel?
Feels like a threat
A voice in your head that you'd rather forget.

_________________________________________________________________________

The story starts when your protagonist chooses a particular book at the library.

Another character is a psychologist who has amnesia.

Note: This is best read in conjunction with my March 2011 writing challenge fill "Like" which explains the origin of Sean's amnesia and his living arrangements.
_________________________________________________________________________

Josh browsed the towering stacks of the Pilot Ridge library, fingers running along the edges of the books which lined the shelves. He squinted at the titles, reading each one in turn as he tried to find the ones with which he’d been tasked to borrow. The titles were gibberish; while he understood all of the words involved, when combined into phrases they lost all meaning and might as well have been in Greek.

However, after several minutes of searching, he found one of the books from the list. None of the others could be found, and he resigned himself to only taking the single one with him. His conversation with the librarian was short, wherein she expressed her surprise at his choice, and he merely smiled and said that he wanted to broaden his knowledge base.

The attorney lived close enough to the library that the ride back didn’t take too long. Since the weather was unseasonably warm, the ride felt as though it took even less time than usual. Admittedly, he tried not to linger away from the house when on errands; it was rude to his house guest, and, more importantly, being away made him feel guilty. Josh had never been responsible for another person before; rabbits, yes, but not other people. It was humbling in a way; it was also anxiety-inducing. He tried to do his best, but he didn’t think his best was good enough.

It wasn’t good enough to make any progress.

He dropped his bicycle in the garage and then tucked the book under his arm before entering the house. As was to be expected, he found his house guest seated on the living room sofa which doubled as his bed; in the other man’s hand was a framed photograph. Josh craned his neck to get a better look at it and was unsurprised to see it was the law school graduation picture, the one that his mother had forced him to have done by a professional. At thirty, he’d had no resistance to his mother; now at fifty-one he remained susceptible.

The other man didn’t lift his head when Josh entered the living room, and that was still weird to him. Sean always knew when he was close, had always sensed his presence regardless of how quiet his footfall was. But now...

“I, ahhh, I got you one of the books you wanted. But only one; the library didn’t have any of the others.”

The other man set down the photo and looked over at him, surprised to find him home. The doctors said that Sean still thought like a telepath, in that on some unconscious level he expected to receive information through telepathy and thus didn’t rely on his five normative senses in the same way that everyone else did. That he lacked telepathy didn’t enter into the equation, and thus he went through the day with less input than the average person, rather than more or the same amount through different channels. He didn’t hear as clearly, or he did but he didn’t know how to listen. The same with touch, the corporeal telepathy of bodies and general interpretation of body language was almost entirely absent to his friend.

In that, Josh mused, they were on even footing.

“Which one?” Sean climbed off the sofa and moved closer to him, his expression open and curious.

Josh held the book out, and the former telepath took it, smiling as he read the title. He didn’t appear the slightest bit disappointed that this was the only book that had been brought to him. The Psychogenesis of Mental Disease.

“Thank you.” Sean cracked it open to the table of contents and skimmed briefly. “This should take me a few days. I hope it wasn’t hard to find.”

Josh didn’t mention how lost he’d felt in the psychology section of the library, or how all of the books had looked the same, or how he’d considered just going to the other man’s house and raiding his personal library because he had to own these himself, in his previous life. Instead he shook his head and said, “It wasn’t hard; only took a couple of minutes.”

Sean wasn’t able to tell when he was lying anymore. Besides the loss of his telepathy, there had also been the loss of fifty-three, almost fifty-four, years of knowledge: of his identity, of simple facts; and almost thirty-three years of knowledge about Josh: the tells of his face and in his voice, of what a terrible liar he was, of how he truly was less competent than the average adult in many areas of life.

Sean couldn’t remember any of that, and thus he didn’t look for it and didn’t notice when Josh’s face or voice might otherwise give it away. Instead he nodded again and smiled. “Good.” He shut the book and set it down on the end table next to the law school graduation picture. “I thought I could help with dinner tonight.”

Josh inwardly winced at that; it was such a little thing, but Sean never used the word dinner; in the Neville family, it had been supper, something Josh barely noticed and never corrected, until suddenly the other man was mirroring the language that the attorney used. But he didn’t call attention to it, because he didn’t want Sean to feel worse.

He also didn’t want Sean to try to cook. He knew the other man didn’t remember any recipes, and if he did, he was supposed to tell Josh immediately and then call his doctor. And there were barely any recipes or cookbooks to be found in Josh’s house; he had what little that his mother had given him which he’d examined once, found to be too complicated, and had never looked at again. Sandwiches were fine. “You don’t have to,” he reassured the other man.

“I know. But I was watching the Food Network and the host talked the audience through a chicken recipe that sounded very easy. I wrote it down.” Sean smiled at him and gestured at the legal pad on the other end table. “I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed some paper, but I didn’t know what else to use.”

“It’s fine.” Josh gave Sean free run of the house, for what little it was worth. It was the least he could do when Sean couldn’t live by himself, couldn’t travel to his home for supplies because of his fear of cars, and couldn’t talk to anyone from Hammel which consisted of most of his social circle. Besides, this was all Josh’s fault: the loss of memory and the lack of progress. “But you still don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Sean assured him. He picked up the legal pad and held the recipe out to Josh for the shorter man to look at. “That doesn’t seem so bad, does it?”

The recipe lost Josh at “two tablespoons of cinnamon.” But he didn’t want to discourage Sean from trying to rekindle his hobbies. He also didn’t want to take away what little he had to help him pass the time since he had barely any friends who could visit (none, unless he counted Riley who was there for Josh and not Sean, but still never failed to engage the former telepath), and couldn’t go to work and had to limit his time other places.

That was the same reason he let Sean borrow his bicycle whenever he could.

“Do we, ahhh, do we have everything you’d need for this?”

“I checked. We’ve got it all,” Sean replied with an affirmative nod. “So, do you mind if I make it? Unless you had something else you wanted to eat tonight.”

Josh had planned on seeing if there was any turkey left for sandwiches. “I didn’t have anything else in mind.”

“Good.” Sean took the recipe back and left the living room; he went into the kitchen and began to pull out ingredients from the refrigerator and from the cabinets. “This should be good for us; we shouldn’t eat sandwiches and Pop Tarts all of the time anyway.”

That sounded more like the old Sean, who was the real Sean, rather than the amnesiac who lived in Josh’s living room. Because he was worried, and because Sean’s doctors told him to ask questions if it seemed like the taller man’s memories might return, and because he took the trusted position seriously since he was allowed to interact with Sean daily when deliberate walls were built around him to otherwise preserve his fragile psyche, he asked, “Did you, ahhh, did you have any day dreams?”

“Not really.” A frying pan that Josh didn’t even remember owning was pulled from one of the cabinets. “Just the car crashes like I told you.”

Chicken cutlets were pulled from the refrigerator, and Josh vaguely remembered his mother bringing those over on Shabbat; those must have been the leftovers.

A moment passed, and completely foreign spices appeared, all lined up in a row on the counter. Josh was awed that the other man, absent his memory, could do this when Josh knew he couldn’t manage to make it even this far with cooking, despite being whole. Sean, however, seemed less impressed, and he was focused on the recipe, looking like he wanted to be particularly careful to avoid mistakes.

The air smelled like cinnamon as Sean began to cook. Over his shoulder, he finally continued, “But I had a silly thought.”

“Hmmm?” Josh hadn’t expected to hear anything, and then he regretted asking that way. He should be clearer when encouraging the former telepath to talk.

“It’s silly,” Sean insisted, and he refused to turn around to face Josh. But he did ask, “But did we used to get drunk a lot? Before the accident, was that something we did?”

Josh kept his drinking to a minimum now that he had to watch over Sean, and besides, neither Cobalt nor Riley drank, and drinking alone wasn’t fun. Sean mentioning this was very much progress, and he nodded accordingly. “Yes. At parties or on weekends.”

“That makes sense.” Sean became quietly contemplative while the oven was turned on, and he looked for bread crumbs. “But I had a thought of you smelling like beer and something else.”

“Beer and what?” Josh half-expected cigarette smoke, since that’s what he was told he smelled like by most everyone else; he thought it was an exaggeration since he didn’t notice it half the time. Then again, he also didn’t make a habit of smelling himself.

“I don’t know.” Sean shook his head to himself and seemed almost embarrassed. “I don’t know the word for it, but it was comforting and musky and heady. Like home. Not like how your house smells but like home if that makes sense?”

Josh felt himself tense with the description. “Did you...did you think of anything else? Or feel anything else?”

“I had a brief flash of being on top of you. But if we used to get drunk together that explains it. No coordination or balance when you’re drunk.” And Sean went back to cooking without giving the experience any additional thought.

Meanwhile, Josh stood there, studying his friend’s back. He didn’t know what to think; that was a memory, sort of. Part of a memory, and it was the first memory that Sean had recovered, had shown any indication of recovering. And it was of him, of them.

Josh didn’t know what to make of that.

You want to graduate? Listen to Sean talk about condoms.

Deidra McKay
Retired

Illusions

Posts: 79

Writing Challenge: Plot Roulette Nov 27, 2011 1:36:18 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deidra McKay on Nov 27, 2011 1:36:18 GMT -5

Steal a piece of Time

The story starts when your protagonist breaks something made of glass.

Another character is a teacher who is the most attractive person your protagonist has ever met.

CRASH!
The sound woke him from his sort of dream-like flash. Violin was playing softly from his stereo, accompanied by light piano. On the floor broken glass flashed like macabre glitter. He looked at it, tears slowly leaking from his eyes. The man didn't even like photos, not anymore. Once upon a time long ago they had been something he loved, a beautiful thing. But beautiful things had lost thier touch on him once she died.

His fingers typed rapidly across the slick black keyboard. Formulae rolled across the screen as he did so. He should have been grading papers for his next class, but no. He had been so distracted lately. That woman,, the one who worked in the art department. She was.... she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And from what he had gathered they enjoyed some of the same things. Chess, cooking......it just fit into place. He had only talked to her a few times, but it didn't matter. For him it was almost love at first sight. Of ocurse, the question for him was, did she reciprocate said love?

His fingers were bleeding, cut glass digging into the tender flesh of his hands. He hadn't even realized it before. It hurt like hell, but there were others things that hurt more. He stood, remembering just in time not to rub his eyes. It would be horrific if glass got them. Theo wasn’t sure what to make of himself at the moment. His senses were dulled, he had been drinking. He was always drinking a little bit here and there, or going out to the clubs, but never like this.

Sometimes his memories manifested as dreams, dreams that were much to vivd, strong, and alive for him. Every memory of her made him cringe in pain, and guilt. He was a doctor! He should have seen it, should have been able to help her. More than that, he should have been there more when she needed him. The man had retreated into a shell oh his work, resigning his life before the verdict was even given. Nothing could have made her better and he knew it. Their medicine only slowed the advance of her disease.

“ Theo? Dr. Theo Atwell?” The man spun in his chair, almost dropping the precious instrument. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was standing there, smiling at him. Her hair was like sable, eyes warm honey colored. Her skin was softly alabaster. Theo nodded his head slightly, setting the violin down on the stand so that he could rise.

“That I am. And who are you to grace this lonely hall with your prescence?” Yes, he really had talked like that for a while. But it was okay, because his thick accent made the words sound magical. The woman giggled slightly before answering him.

“ I’m Noellia Cameron. I work in the art department here at Kocher.” Her accent was a smooth british one, a contrast to his own Scottish accent.
“ I heard you playing from the hall. I’d never realized you liked violin.” She said. Noellia was watching him very carefully, as if she had more to say but couldn’t make herself say it. Theo raised an eyebrow slightly.

“I see. I myself never knew that you enjoyed the violin.” He responded. She smiled and moved closer, to the point where he could hear both their heats beating wildly in unison. Was it possible that she felt the same as he did? One look at her was all it toon for the answer.

Oh Noelle….oh why did you go. He had gotten the glass cleaned off his fingers alongwith the blood. Little red weals were everywhere, closing rapidly to prevent more of the his lifes blood from escaping. He mourned over the loss of the glass, because it had held his favorite photo. It was a worn things, tones slightly faded from all their time on display. In the picture two people smiled happily, as if they had no care in the world. Seeing the younger photo of himself and his deceased wife made the man breakdown completely.

He stumbled into the other room, seeing that it was day. Noontime sun streamed through the stained glass windows of his kitched, the one he had designed for their house back in Switzerland when they had worked for Kocher. But he had never been able to give her that home. The light lit the room in a blazon of golds and ambers, the color of her eyes. Just the sight of it made the tears rolling across his face come harder. What could you expect from a man with a broken heart?

“ I’ll never leave you Theo.” Her face was so close to his as they lay together, ready to go to sleep. They had been married a year now, and were as madly in love with each other as they had been since they first saw eacher other.

“ I’ll keep you to that love.” He replied, wrapping his arms around her. She only smiled and snuggled closer to her love. Nothing would ever be able to physically separate the two of them, ever.

There was another crash as he threw and empty alcohol bottle across the room. Everything was so clear, oh so clear. The look on her face when he kissed her, when they danced or played chess. Her favorite foods had a special place in his recipe book, and he still made them from time to time. But now every pent up feeling of guilt, sadness, horror, and helplessness ate at him. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been there when she needed him most…..

It rained. The sky was overcast, as if mourning the loss of so fine a human being. The casket was open and her face looked so peaceful, as if she were merely sleeping instead of no longer being among the living. Everything was so somber, when it should be bright. Things around her were always bright. So many people, teachers, students, and locals had shown up for her funeral. Everyone shuffled past Theo, offering a handshake or a sympathetic hug. Few words were exchanged with the man, and it was easy to see he hadn’t been sleeping properly. His eyes were red around the edges and he just looked tired. Everything about him screamed sleep deprived.

But he had to be here, because it was the last things he would be able to do for his wonderful Noellia. His love, gone. Seemingly at the drop of a tear, she was just….gone.

Theo tried to stand, but failed. He only stumbled back into the chair in the kitched. For a few minutes he stared aimlessly at the ceiling, limbs growing heavier, and heavier. With a rolling thud he hit the ground, having fallen asleep. All the emotions drained from his face, leaving him looking tired, and old. In the morning he would wake, and get ready for the day, pretending none of this had ever happened. It was a pattern that had been all too frequent of late, but he didn’t know how to stop it. Couldn’t. So ignoring it was the next best thing that he could achieve.

And in the background, violin played a sad lullaby for a sad, broken man.