Short Story Contests discussion

Instructions:
Please do not use a story previously used on goodreads. After the week's contest, you are welcome to put it on your profile writings, but please refrain from using stories you have already put on there.

You have until Saturday afternoon to post a story on here. Please post it directly onto this topic, rather than posting a link. Also, please do not discuss stories on here. You must go to Weekly Short Story Contest Discussion (http://www.goodreads.com/topic... for that. This will avoid any clutter and confusion, so that people can simply come on here and read the story, without having to read comments on the story.

This week's Topic is Sadness. If anyone has any objections to this topic, please go to the Objections post. The rules are pretty loose. You could write about being sad, someone else's sadness, whatever, as long as the word sad is in it...

Weekly stories must be at least 500 words long to 2,000 words long. (if the whole story won't fit in one post, divide it into two)

Good luck!

Clare

P.S. PLEASE say if you would like to have your story on Short Story Galore, if you win. This way it wouldn't take me ages to get your consent afterwards. This includes adding a link to your stories. If you want to have your story on the Short Story Galore, but not the link, just say so.

my story doesn't really have "sad" in it! But it IMPLES sadness. this is one of my stories from my writing ....hope its okay!

Title: River of Hope
Author: Adrienne
Words: 1,234

I can still remember the day she said it. It was quick, maybe too quick. It left me hanging like the ending of a book. And, of course, it left me with trickles down my cheeks. She was the one I would have confinded in. But she was gone. She was gone forever.

I can still remember the time we rode home on the bus. Together. Together for the last time. I tried to say something, something to reassure her that we'd keep in touch. Yeah, right, I told myself. It wasn't like she really was a great friend. It was just that she was the only friend I'd ever had. For as long as I could remember, Megan had been at my side. Maybe not standing up for me. But she was there. She was always there for me. Until now.

I'm sure it was the way she said it. With that cool, happy voice with just a ting of sadness. She looked as if she couldn't help it, but that life would just move on. Maybe for her, but not for me. I felt like I had hit a roadblock and now I had to push my car the rest of the way. Then she had given me a little smile, and moved on to tell her other friends. I knew I should have said something. Like, "I don't want you to leave me!" or "It's not fair!" But instead I just gave a little, "Oh. Oh, okay." I had just been thinking. I guess Megan realized how hard it was for me or something, and that smile appeared on her face. I hate it. I hate the smile. The dumb smile that says it's all going to be okay but it's not.

So here I'm sitting on the cold bus seat, our legs brushing. And she was humming a little tune I recognized to I'm moving on. Moving on. Is that what she called it? Moving on. Was it something as little as that? Moving on. Life. Moving on. Life was moving on. She turns to me, her elbow supporting her chin, smiling. "Cheer up," she says. "Really. It's not that bad."

"Yeah," I say. "Not bad. Not bad at all." Not bad. Not bad except you're the friend I only had and that's going to New Jersey or wherever I don't care but it's somewhere, somewhere far away leaving me here in this poor little town with nobody behind me at all. The sides of my mouth are stubborn; they won't turn up. And when I force them up they turn into this stupid banana so I stop. She looks at me with the face that says, as usual, "You're ... wierd."

I'm sitting by the window seat and she's facing the aisle, talking with some who-knows-who people. I sit there, drawing on the condensation. I don't draw anything, really, more like scribbling. It makes my finger numb and cold but that's okay. A little cold can't hurt when life hurts more. Right?
Megan lets out a laugh. Her accent is southern, so her laugh is a wonder. Her blonde hair whips behind her and she laughs. I look over her shoulder to see who made her laugh. It's that popular girl she hangs out with. I guess you could say I hang out with her too, but so far she hasn't said a word to me but, "You're Megan's friend, right?" But I take those thoughts to the drain, and instead think about her leave. It was going to be tommorow. Her parents had hid it from her, it being a secret, and she hasn't known. But she's cool about it. How can someone be like that? Sadness drains to anger. Anger equals sadness. Sadness ... sadness is sadness, and it will stay until you start to push your car.

I looked at my drawings. Those scribbles were symbols to me. A circle: Earth. Wings above it: a bird. Squiggly lines ... somewhere out there. Somewhere better than here. Somewhere I want to go. With Megan.

"Somewhere out there," i breath dreamily, erasing all my drawings with the warmth.

Megan elbows me. "What?"

"Nothing." I manage a weak smile. "Nothing at all."

***

A jumble of noises announces home. The shrill whistle of a kettle, the neighbors' dog's barks echoing from the window, and Mom's, "Welcome home." She turns, wipes her grimy fingers on her apron and gives me a smile. "So ... need anything?"

"No, Mom," I tell her and clambor upstairs. I know I have a lot of homework. I moaned about it all 3rd period. Because that was the period before lunch. The period before Megan told me.

I hug my knees and stare out the window. It was rainy outside - but what did I expect? Bad moods are topped off with rain like ice cream and cherries. I watched each individual rain drop make their way down through the air.

What were they feeling? Perhaps excitement. Or, on the other hand, the hand I always follow, they were being thrown off a cliff and were dying. Hallelyah.

I don't know how long I thought. It was until Mom called me down. We bite at the stale bread, both knowing how bad it is, but neither saying it. If I look at her she seems to feel it and smiles at me. But it's a nervous smile. A weak smile. The one I gave Megan. The one everyone gave me when Daddy died. The one I hate.


The rain refuses to stop. The grass is growing high around my feet in the meadow. Th ebig yellow dinasour of a bus lumbers towards my house. In a second the doors are thrust open and the bus driver's cheery face gives me a smile. What is it with people and smiles these days? I skip the steps and flounce into the bus. 10 aisles give me a hard look. They're all full. I scan the faces that aren't even looking at me. None has a brilliant voice, blue eyes, and blonde hair.

I take slow steps, pushing my car as far as it will go using my wimpy strength. It goes to the back of the bus. There is a girl sitting there, flipping through her book. I sigh. "Caisithere?" I mumble. She turns to me, as if expecting it.

"Sure!" she flashes her white teeth. "I'm Cheryl. Who a' you?" Cheryl scootches over a bit, and pats the seat. I plop down, tell her my name, and turn to look at the people beside us. She starts chattering away.

"Why you not talkin' to me, Becca?" she asks all sweet. "I've never seen you on the bus before. Are you new? Don't worry, I'll hook you up. I see you've got everything already! Becca, that's great!"

"Megan," I whisper, so the talking Cheryl doesn't hear. "Megan, come back. I really, really need you. I need somewhere to sit at lunch and the bus. I need someone to hang out with at recess. Please. Please come back." And I picture her smiling, saying, "No, Becca. No, Becca."

The smile doesn't curve up at the edges. But it's a smile. They bend like a meandering river spread acrost her face, her face and everyone else's. A river. A river of hope. A river out there. Somewhere. With Megan.

Wow, very good!
I would, however, perfer if you didn't use stories already on goodreads, just so you know for the future...

oh, sorrry! and i forgot to say: yes, its ok if its on Short Story Galore.

awesome!

Name: Sadness

Words: 1,340

Genre: Fiction

By: Clare

Notes: Yeah, as you’ve probably guessed, this story was originally thought up for last week’s contest, but I didn’t have time to write it, so I molded it to fit Sadness instead…. It’s about time I wrote another story, huh!? XD hope you like it!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sadness.
What would be considered sadness? Not just something sad, but a thing. A sadness.
I think the thing that comes closest to be sadness, in noun form, is death. Is there anything sadder? When you hear that a bride broke her leg the morning of her wedding, you think, “Oh, that’s so sad. She must be so depressed right now.” But eventually the idea of the bride breaking her leg on her wedding day becomes humorous. Maybe not to the bride herself, but over the years, the irony of such a thing grows to be a joke. “Oh, watch out for Sally! She bound to break the other leg on their anniversary this year!” So after time, the whole thing become a joke, or is forgotten in the many other memories that one accumulates over the years.

But death.
Ah, death.

I think of it often, as I am doing right now, sitting in front of my desk, with an empty page of paper and a pencil waiting to be used, lying in front of me. I am a writer, so perhaps that is why I think of things differently or more often than most people. The average man would be thinking of his car, financial problems or girlfriend/wife, maybe kids, right now.

But I don’t.

I don’t have a wife or kids. I don’t even have a girlfriend. My parents are dead, no relatives, nothing. Twenty-nine years old, and besides a few unremarkable books I have written, I have nothing much to show for it. I live alone in a pathetically empty feeling house. I’m lonely, but I am a loner. Can one be both? Here I am, all relatives dead, along with my childhood best friend. Maybe these are all reasons also, why I am always finding my thoughts wandering back to the subject of death over and over.
What could be worse than death? But then, is it really so bad? I believe there is a God, and have high hopes that there is a heaven, so it can’t be all that bad when you die?
But to leave everything, everyone, you know seems… terrible. I suppose it would be different for someone with a family, with friends. And yet, here I am, alone as ever, and still afraid to die. Would it be painful? Probably not. I would be able to stand the pain even if it was. But that’s not what I’m worried about. Is there really a heaven? I said I believed in all that, but everyone has doubts. What if I am wrong? I can only hope that it is how I believe. To be in a cold hard ground for the rest of eternity would seem…harsh.

But, ah, my thoughts are wondering yet again to death.
I try to shake it out of my mind, and get back to writing. My books aren’t exactly best sellers. My thoughts tend to leak into my writing, making it not the most fun to read.
I pick up my pencil and roll it in my fingers. Day in and day out I try to think of something I can write down and sell, but lately it has been hard.
Randomly I start to scribble, trying to think of something, anything!, that I can write about. I look down at what I’ve drawn and groan, dropping my head going into my hands. Death in big thorny letters is scrawled across the page. Why can’t I stop thinking about it?

Have you ever tried to think about eternity? Time without end? Can you picture it? It’s impossible for me. Everything has an end; even the longest things in time have an end here on earth. Even the earth itself is bound to end sometime. So it’s so hard to grasp the concept of forever.
For me, it’s like this for death. To me, they’re one in the same. Gone from this world forever. Am I scared? Heck yeah.
I take a sip of my now cold coffee. I wince as it goes down and get up from my seat.
I sigh and grab my coat before walking out the door into the sunshine of mid-afternoon. I exhale again. Everything looks so peaceful. A few people wandering around, enjoying the beautiful summer day. There’s a mother pushing a stroller containing a cute baby. She was calling, “Jamie, come here Jamie,” looking in the bushes by the side walk.
My face starts to frown as I stare about confused. Something not right.

Oh crap.

There’s a small blond, angel looking boy wandering in the lane of oncoming traffic. I stare horrified. A car is approaching swiftly, and doesn’t seem to see the two year old, who is out of view for most cars. I don’t even think. I jump off the stairs that lead up to my door, with an energy that I thought I had lost long ago, and rush towards the happily oblivious child. I hear the horn of the car about to run over the child blaring in my ears, and the screech of tires, just as I manage to grab the boy and hug him tightly, protecting him with my body. Then everything goes black.
The world comes back hazily, and I can hear a little kid’s screaming. I remember what has just happened, and look around with blurred vision. I’m on the road, partly on my side, partly on my stomach.
I’m half laying on something; I struggle to make my head look down. It causes a shooting pain down my back. I’m lying partly on the angelic looking boy. I shove myself off him with an extreme effort. There is shouting all around us and a few people run up to me. There are gasps and screams.
My vision starts to get darker, and I look frantically at the boy to make sure he’s alright. He has a huge scrape on his arm and a smaller one on his head, and small cuts and scrapes on his hands and legs, but they must be shallow. He is crying loudly, so that must mean that he is ok. I see his mother scoop him up, kissing him and crying hysterically.
My vision goes black, and I know I’m dying. How ironic. There I was just a few moments ago, thinking about it, and now I am dying. Death always seems so far away, and yet here it is. Ready to pounce at any moment. Even when you know you could die any moment, it still seems like its years away.
I was right about one thing. It was painless. At least in my case it was. For a half a second it hurt horrible after my vision failed, but then it all went numb, which was a relief.
I pray hard in these last second of my life, hoping that I will be going on to an even better life soon. I can still hear the screams and the, “Is he dead?!”’s.
“Call an ambulance!”
“Is the kid ok?”
“What happened?!”
But soon it all fades. I feel my lips curve upward. I’ve finally done something worth remembering. Even if no one will remember me, even if no one shows up at my funeral, even if no one speaks of me ever again, I’ve still done something that is worth something. I am dying a hero’s death. And really, it’s not as sad as I thought it would be. At least not for me. Not nearly as sad as it would have been if the child had been killed. I exhale one last time, letting go. I am finally hap---
…….
……
…..
….
…
..
.

The End.

That was AWESOME Clare!!

Name: A Dream within a dream

Word count: 870

Genre: Fiction


I wrote this based in an Edgar Allan poe poem 'A dream within a Dream'. I put part of the poem in the story and i hope you guys like it!!!

*********************************
A dream within a dream.


I can remember a time when we were happy. When I would be able to look at pictures of us and smile. When I could afford to remember.
I had never seen it as a luxury before. But now, now I had lost the will to bring back even the slightest memory.
It all just hurt too much.
Occasionally his face will flash in my mind. Reminding me of his smile and of his laughing eyes. I try to push the images away—not to forget but to save myself from the pain. My heart was still raw from loss; these evil memories will just be the insult to the injury.
I know that the pain will never stop, that I will never stop missing him. Maybe someday the pain will be tolerable. Maybe one day, I will be able to appreciate what he had given me so far. I will thank him for paving the road for me. For showing me right from wrong.
For thinking in my best interest—in life, and in death.
And for being the best big brother in the world.

The sheer and unfiltered depression that washed over me in the hospital room is indescribable. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, and I wanted to laugh at this sick joke that we call life. But I did none of that. I just held his hand and stared into his eyes. I knew he was in pain, and I knew that I wanted him to stay. But I also knew that he simply could not.
“I love you.” I said. My eyes boring into his soul. Looking, begging for the will to live.
“I love you too.” He mouthed. I felt a single tear betray my eyes. I didn’t bother wiping it away. I let it drop—the single droplet of water onto his hospital gown. He gave me one more smile, a loving and happy one.
Trying to tell me that this was okay. That he needed to go. In his eyes he asked for my forgiveness. I did not know what he could possibly have to apologize for, but I forgave him in my heart. His eyes were beginning to slip closed. As if he were tired. More tears fell from my eyes as I watched him. He seemed so at peace. If I didn’t know better, I would think he was sleeping peacefully.
The tears came faster now, my heart pounding in disbelief. I ignored the sound of the monitors near his hospital bed. I ignored the sounds of the nurses as they unplugged it. I just looked at my brother. For I feared that it would be the last time I would ever lay my eyes on him.
They let us stay there with him for a while. I watched, waiting for someone to come out and tell me that I’ve been fooled. That it was all a joke. My brother didn’t have cancer. He wasn’t dead. It was all some twisted prank.
Somewhere I heard my mother crying. She was being so loud and obnoxious. As if she were reading from a script. Everything seemed so fake all the sudden.
The sympathetic smiles. The ‘I’m sorry for your loss crap. It was all fake.
No one cared. Nobody knew what I was feeling right now. I felt as if my lifeline had been ripped out from underneath me, and someone was there telling me to live. They were telling me to keep going. But it wasn’t encouraging. It was a mockery. It was a mockery of my pain, and of my life.
I wanted to talk to him so badly. I wanted to tell him how sad I was. I wanted him to help me through the pain.
But he couldn’t. He was dead. And he was never coming back.


I felt cold shiver up my body as the realization sunk in. Chris would never be back. He would never talk to me about school, or teachers or mom and dad.
He was gone.
But he had left me one thing. More than I probably could have asked for.
I went to my backpack and pulled out the large and heavy poetry book that Chris had given me. “The complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe” It read in shiny gold letters. I flipped quickly through the pages until I found it; His poem. Our poem.



“Take this kiss upon the brow!
And in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”


I tore out the page, and slipped it into my pocket. I went up to the nearest nurse and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Id like to see my brother please.” I asked, my voice shaky. “Well he’s down in the—the morgue.” She said looking embarrassed. “What did you want to see him for?” She asked.

I took out the poem from my pocket.

“He forgot something of his.”


THE END.

omg!!!! :*( that seriously made me want to cry! It was sooo...wow!

Did you want that on the Short Story Galore if you win?

wow that was seriously awesome!

Thanks!!!
I would LOVEEE to have my story on short story galore (if i win :P)

wow u guys!! u hav really good stories!!! that was so great!!!!!!

I LOVE ALL OF YOUR STORYS CHANDANI I LOVE THEM SO MUCH THEAR SO AWSoME!!!!!


you a really good writer!!!!


:) hehehehehe i hope you WIN good luck :)

Thanks

hehehehehehehe!

Title: None
Author: Fiona
Words:759
*************************************************************************
A tear fell on the cold gray desk where I lay my head. No! I had to hide this. I couldn’t let her see, let her get excatly what she wanted. I just kept my head down.
Lynne Barrestein just wanted me to be miserable that was her goal in life. A goal that had begun back in the kindergarten. Lynne simply walked into the classroom on the first day of kindergarten and picked me. She might as well have pointed and said, “You! Joanna! You’re my victim.” Lynne had not done that, but that is what must have gone through her mine.
Now, we were in the eighth grade. I did not understand why she didn’t get over it. I had never even done anything to her. I had gone through the humiliation of wet spots on my jeans, paint all over my hair, pen scribbled on my round face, the teasing and the taunting. The most horrific yet was being betrayed.
I couldn’t believe that I had been so stupid. I guess all I wanted was for the misery to end. Lynne seemed so sincere when she offered a truce. When she offered me her friendship. I had trusted her, taken her advice, bailed out on the very few friends I had had to hang out with her. Worst of all, I had become her. No more chubby, bright Joanna. I was thin as a rail now, my hair styled different, dyed a blondish color and layered. The eyeliner that was so not the old me dripped down my face now along with the mascara and the tears, the black staining my itchy white sweater. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to scream out, but I’m sure my geomatry teacher would not have appreciated that.
I dared to sneak a peek at Lynne, who was unfortunatley in all of my classes. Lynne was staring back at me, when she saw the tears a satisfied grin spread across her perfect face. I turned back around. I began to feel light-headed. I thought I might pass out. But I couldn’t risk Lynne think that I was going to the nurse because I was a coward who wanted to go home and cry. Oh my god. I was having trouble breathing.
I ignored Lynne and shot my hand in the air, using the other hand to fan my sweaty face. My geomatry teacher, Mr. Sloan looked at me, alarmed. “Yes, Joanna?”
“I need to go to the nurses office,” I said.
Mr. Sloan took one look at the pale mess I was and nodded. “Would someone please take Joanna down to the office, I don’t want her falling…”
I knew no one would volunteer. “No! That’s fine. I’ll be okay.”
Before he could answer. I grabbed the hallpass and ran out the door. I started walking down the hallway. The lights were too much. My head throbbed. My breathing was forced, I had to think hard to do it. I fell.
My eyes opened slowly. Before I even noticed where I was my hand reached for my head. It hurt so bad. I looked around. I was in a hospital. My mom was sitting next to the bed.
“Joanna? Honey, are you awake?” she whispered softly.
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
She called for a nurse. A few minutes later, a woman in scrubs smiled brightly at me. “You feeling okay,” she asked.
“No,” I told her. “I want sleep.”
The nurse nodded sympathectically. “Yes, of course. Do you need anything to eat?”
My mom looked like she was about to cry.
I wasn’t hungry, I shook my head.
My mom gave the nurse a look that said, “Bring her something anyway.”
The nurse nodded again and left. My mom turned to me. “Love, you need to eat something.”
I frowned. “No, I don’t.”
Mom shook her head. “You do! Don’t you know why your in here?”
I did. Absolutley I did. But I couldn’t tell her that I was pretty sure what was wrong with me. Maybe it was something else. I said nothing.
“You do don’t you?”
I couldn’t lie to my mom. “I…is it…well…” I stuttered. I couldn’t say it.
“Anorexia!” I blurted.
Mom’s eyes got wide and wet. “Why? This is all my fault…I should have payed more attention.”
“No!” I cried. “No! You can’t blame yourself, Mom.”
She was crying now.
“I haven’t broken my leg because you weren’t watching, Mom. I don’t have an infectious disease and you didn’t take me to get my vaccination. I have anorexia. I don’t have it because you were a bad mother. I have it because I was stupid.”
Mom just cried harder. I wanted to keep yelling, but I had lost the energy. I breathed deeply. “I’m sorry. I....”
I felt dreary again. I thought I might pass out again.
“Joanna?” Mom called.
I didn’t answer.
Her voice was filled with sadness and fear. “Joanna! Don’t go!”
“No,” was all I said.
Then, everything was black

Wow that was really good! Everyone's have been awesome this week! (Is that even grammatically correct? Whatev, this is just a comment post! :)!)

Wow no kidding! (my was prob the worst! lol )

Everyones was really good! Chandanis yours made me cry(she told me to say that.) Clare yours was soooooooooo good too.

Name: Dry Kisses

Words: approx. 990

Genre: Fiction

By: AjC

Notes: the subject sadness called up for something about sadness. Actually Monday I spent the day in the country and brought a book for reading. Some dried out plants being plucked out of the indoor kept pot spilt leaves all over my cover. Normally I’d think nothing of it, but it stuck in my mind this once. Later Monday after seeing ‘sadness’ I composed this story.

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

Dry Kisses


Lying on the Nile. Wrestling the earth away from the Earth dirt the so-called sand. I was preparing myself for my journey back returning to my homeland. Far away from Egypt. Much too far.

It turns out I sequestered too far from home and was on one of my escapes. Mirror, maroon, mirages.

Sand here is technically located in every direction. Not a real commodity. Although people have been known to buy bottles of this stuff.

I have no intention of stealing from architecture from these plains, the only true old plain of our civilized world.

Sand, plains and automobiles. Doesn’t really work together, has but a catchy drifting rift sound like that.

Especially now if when I was on the other side of the world, I would sit exhausted on a curb or ducking into shades that stretch numerous times throughout the day in some parking lot to be alone.

Often ducking into alleyways. In quests from my loneliness and always seeking darker shadowy shades of coolness away from the city’s hustle and bustle.

I have often seen more people than I care. I am a kind of a one man loner. The road is calling me and everything I can do not to answer and find myself lost on them alone, without any sense of direction is playing music.

Not catchy you say. And I agree?

I'm positively in a grunge. I’ll mood swing. I shall defeat my own purposes to possess my head logic. To get everything in this world will mean being content with what life adjusts and allows. Slave. Slave to machinations. Music has been my only release.

So I took a vacation. And the sand and pyramids came fully into my mind of eye.

I mean, as if I had listened carefully to the drums of this kind of funky jets in the air before, now I’ll be reborn. The first aircraft, cheap, and not even first class, I arrive in. In ancient cities, Pelusium my first stay. My first intention was to sunburn.

Pelusium far off from modern Port Said, the closest municipality, for the first time I actually had to check into my hotel. Then leisurely way, I have found myself indulged in pool life. I had bought new clothes. Even cheap, but suitable for my modest income. I indented myself, wearing my purchased clothes in a pool side lounge position on a campy chair. Ironically, hearing cheering and laughter. More accustomed to the Egypt sun now and better dressed, did you know that it emits 80 Celsius even in the season’s spring weather?

I have my brochures. The “Way of the Sea” has its own favorite restaurants, some quite fancy, dining, dancing, night life. During tours one can eat pizza, visit graves and an exhibit leading to even the Dead Sea scrolls. I did not have the time for every scroll plundered or mystery way under every old man buried in gold, even though this is the reason why I came at all.

In truth, I wanted to get out and find a way in the way of life here. Equally important in the search for comfort, it is somehow sharing with others. I did not imagine shops bare and obscure, such as New Mexico. I did not think it would be the maximum richness of Arizona. All in all, I wanted to Egypt treatment myself.

In one week, I found a few praiseworthy restaurants to my taste. Where I finally choosing a favorite. And before I return home I wanted to eat there again and again. One night I met the new waitress Martha. I did not realize you could laugh so much. Or simply to find satisfaction with mute smiles. We began spending evenings together. And one night we went along a long beach together.

I began to realize that her smiles and laughs was also a kind of old-fashioned blush. We never came close. In three nights we had not even hold each other's hands.

"Martha you are beautiful." I thought they would be honest, like other girls in America, and squeeze tight and perhaps, only in my favor, open up. She turned to smile with her rosy blush.

My ordinary face blushed too, was I trying too hard with a naive waitress I just met? We stopped and she held her breath.

We both just stood there holding still. We looked into each others facial expressions. She blushed far too long to think I was getting through as I really believed I felt.

Then she came forward, and she touched my cheek with her palm of the hand. She brushed away my color when she stroked my face, lifting her hand away again. Did they touch me? I felt something brush past me.

"Martha, I'm glad you feel for me, what I'm feeling for you."

The horizontal sun darted over the edge of darkness into obscurity.

She wound her fingers inside mine, and we embraced. First it was a touch like a drying plant has been reaching for maturity and in the air. It was pressing its lips on my cheek. Then she gently teased by moving towards on my neck. Where she discovered senses. Then brushed our cheeks together.

Her bony cheeks always rested with increased pressure each time they made her pass.

The river rushed behind us. The fast flow, their sound as innocent noise die in our background. I felt the urgency come to me to do the red blushing this time.

Her throaty kisses reminded me to move into a closer embrace and hold her. She would seal within my security and eventually she will break free. Together, we would solve a mystery of being romantic dogs.

A faint sound of odd winds from over the other side of the great river made me think about the khamáseen.

I felt good from her caresses. Dry Kisses.

Sadness.

wow!!! Oh, I'm soooo torrrn... I have no idea hope I'm going to pick only 1 story.... It's awesome Arthur!

OMG THEY WERE ALL SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO FRIGIN GOOD!!!!!!!

:P

argh everyones has been too awesome this week, IDK who ill vote for... whoa people, like give me an easier choice! JK :) Seriously, they were all really good!!!!!! And the weeks not even over!

LOL!!!!!!!

hahahahehehehahahahahehehe

???
ANywho, what are the word requirements for stories again? I wrote my first one that I want to post!! YAY!!! I always read and vote in the polls, but I'll post my first story soon!!!!

:D

YAY!!! I can't wait to read it!
The instruction are at the top of the page. All you have to do is read it though like once, and then look for the key words in the futre... you'll get what I mean when you read them...

:P I LOVE THIS GROUP!

ya i know

me 2!!! XD!!! wow this week is going soooo great! We already have 5 stories and 1)they're all AWESOME and 2)Its only Wednesday!!! Ahh the hardest thing is going to be voting!!! Which to pick?!

I knoww!!

YAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!! every1s is sooo good!! :P.
lol the day i wrote mine we had been watching a degrassi episode about eating disorders in health. What can i say? i wuz inspired! lol.

hahahahha funnn

Lol

Name: "Happy" Birthday
Word Count:536
Genre: Fiction
***********************************************


It feels good to smile.
It feels good to release your cumbersome burdens at the end of a long day.
Today is my birthday. When I was younger all I wanted were presents. Now all I want is to have a family, a real family.
I can still hear my mother’s voice in my mind. It was like it was last year when I was four years old again, and she was lying with me on this same patch of grass. I can her laugh as if she were still here. It was like nothing had changed except for the amount of rain that had fallen.
I was lying on the ground re-living my memories. I used to be happy. I used to smile. Now I have lost control of my body all together.
Looking up at the imperfectly drawn clouds I started whispering the words over and over again...


"Late last night I
Set on my steps and cried.
Wasn’t nobody gone,

I was cryin’
Cause you broke my heart in two.
You looked at me cross-eyed
And broke my heart in two-

So I was cryin’
On account of
You."

My mother died last night.
This poem is the last thing she said to me.
She would sit down with me every night and read me a poem.
As she read my room would glow with light from her body. Illuminating the drawing of the sky we had painted on my ceiling. Then as she leaned in closer to kiss me good night her long, curly brown hair would brush against my cheek. I could have sworn back then that that moment would last forever. As I know now, no one knows,(they can guess, but not one person knows) when you are going to lose a loved one.
I miss her so much. She was the closest thing I had.
My dad left me before I even knew him, and my brother, Elijah, died of tuberculosis when I was just two years old. I can’t even remember him. The only thing I know is what I learned from my mom’s stories about him.
I would have paid anything to have my brother back. To have someone to talk to.
Now I know you cannot put a price-tag on love.
This would be my last day of freedom before they ship me off to Lady Brackhose’s Orphanage for Girls in London.

I washed my torn overalls in the stream.
I looked at the sky.
My bare feet touched the grass...
........
.......
......
.......
....
...
..
.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I slowly opened my eyes.
“Whe-where am I?”
“You got hit by a school bus.” The Barbie doll look-alike nurse “reassured” me.
“You’re in the hospital.”
“Wh-what?”...
I felt a sudden pain in my chest.
The walls were closing in around me. I couldn’t breathe!
There was a single green line on the monitor next to me.
I looked out the window. I couln't see the sky.
I whispered the poem again.

"Late last night I"...

I died that night.


The next day the doctor found out that my mom was still alive.
She was suffering for an extreme blow in the head.

I died thinking that my mom was dead.

That one glimmer of hope might have saved me.


THE END

I know it is kind of on the short side but I think it is OK.

Oh, I forgot If I win I would LOVE to have my story on Short Stories Galore!!!!!!!

OMG THAT WAS SOOO GOOD ARIELLE!

Thank you!!!

I don't know???

The poem I used is called Late Last Night by Langston Hughes

OMG!!! Sad but great! I'm glad you managed to stay within the limits, I know its hard to do sometimes... : D Thanx for write a story though. Wow this week is turning out to be really awesome!

yeah!

Thank you.

Jer belvum.

(Thats my new language)

which would be?

Chantalk

jow bar vew?

(How are you?)

cool... I'm 'supposably' taking spanish, but its so frickin hard to do that on a computer...!!! AHHH lol