Story #2
posted by story on August 28th, 2008 at 12:42AM

It was 9:31 p.m., and Joelle sat hunched over at her desk furiously trying to write a story.   It was dim in her room.   All she had was a pen, some paper and a little lamp hovering over her desktop next to her head.   She set it up in just this way to inspire herself.   She had often envisioned the best writers writing under similar conditions.   She stared at the sheet, began to write, jotted down the first two paragraphs, and then stopped.   A moment later, she started up again and again, abruptly she stopped.   She paused with a pensive gaze out the window in front of her desk, as if she were transfixed.   As her gaze fell back onto her desk, she started again, stopped, and continued in this fashion until she decided to go and have a drink.   She was thirsty, or so she told herself.   Perhaps she thought it would help her write.   "How can I write when I'm dehydrated?   I need to have a drink now before my dehydration retards further my mental processes."   She tended to think things like this: lies that helped her rationalize her procrastination.   "But at what point did awareness of one's bodily functions become synonymous with procrastination?"   She often asked herself this question, always answering plainly: at no point would it.   She continued with her trip to the kitchen.

Seventeen minutes passed.   It was now 9:48 p.m.   Joelle thought perhaps it best to start from scratch.   Now discarding all of the previous plans, she turned off the little desk lamp and flicked on the main lights in her room.   She crumpled the paper, tossed it into her recycling bin, and opened her laptop.   In her usual methodical way, she devised a OneNote notebook to hash out all of her ideas.   She thought, "Well, I could use Excel, or Word, but nothing quite gives me the flexibility I want in rearranging ideas that OneNote affords me.   I don't want to be restricted this early in the writing process.   I need a tool that will let my thoughts flow freely, and I will reorganize what I find when the time comes."   And on that basis, she began typing hysterically -- words everywhere, tabs for themes, tables for ideas, highlighting words, drawing diagrams, colouring shapes, and all.   She hoped that some combination of themes therein would surface, she would be enlightened, and the plot of her story would reveal itself!   Much like a Platonic ideal: she decided to conceive of her story as pre-existing, waiting merely for the artist to bright it to life, into the world of existence.   Sometimes, much like this time, she felt like being particularly symbolic of a philosopher.   At this interval, she chose Plato.

At 9:54 p.m., she got tired of typing and looked at the fruits of her labours.   It was a mess of words - hundreds of words coupled and uncoupled, in sentences and not, meaningful and less so.   She began by trying to assimilate each individual idea, but there were too many.   Individual ideas ranged from that of "living dangerously" to "the meaningfulness of conviction": they were in the hundreds.   Next she tried to group ideas into themes, but they were too equally balanced -- none pervasive, all equal in value to Joelle.   She had considered incorporating all of the themes, but then she would certainly exceed the word maximum, not to mention how the work and time involved in incorporating dozens of themes was something she wouldn't dare expend.   She wanted to write a story, but it wasn't worth that much effort.  

It was hitting 10:00 p.m., and she was officially beginning to panic.   She decided to take a Facebook break: login, look at her home page, see what her friends are up to -- the usual.   "When troubled by something, it's best to get it out of your mind completely and revisit it with a clear mind!"   Well, that's what she would tell herself when she was just on the verge of completing something.   She just never managed to fight the distraction that she never realized that this was always a critical moment for her: this was when she would find success.   But she never learned this lesson.   These thoughts always interrupted her concentration, and they always gave her a rationalization for her inaction.   "But at what point did awareness of one's mental state become synonymous with procrastination?"   She was convinced she was doing what was best for her writing -- clearing her mind so that ideas could flow.   It was most likely a hindrance.   After all, by how much was her mind genuinely "cleared"?   Perhaps she never knew what it really meant to have a "clear mind".   Or perhaps she knew, and preferred the comfort one gets out of lying to oneself to avoid a reality that required effort.

"10:09 p.m.?" she wondered to herself.   "How could that be?   I only checked my notifications and Inbox, popped open my gmail, replied to a couple people, and here we are -- nearly ten minutes later."   She decided to have some coffee.   She tended to view coffee as a miracle drug that was made available to the general public.   But it wasn't.   It hardly had any effect on her, really, besides increasing her heart rate, inducing increased and frequent urination, dehydration, and forecast the highly probable uncomfortable night's sleep she have if she were to have it after 5:00 p.m. / which / she was about to do - it was about 10:12 p.m.   But she sat and thought about the coffee, and thought about how she would have the coffee, how enjoyable the coffee would be; about how the coffee would help her, ... And somehow amidst the sitting and thinking volumes of nothingness about coffee, she wasted six minutes -- it was 10:18 p.m., and she hadn't even yet made the coffee, let alone drunk it.  

Minutes later, while sipping at the delicious coffee, the thought crossed her mind of potentially recycling an old idea that she had previously used in a past one of her stories: "Coffee: It's the bitter tastes we take sometimes just for a reason to sit."   It was about a girl who hated her life.   She would go far out of her way every morning to have her coffee -- neither because she liked coffee, nor because she enjoyed the café, but rather because the act of sitting and savouring her coffee gave her a few moments of clarity while alone with her thoughts, all before embarking on yet another miserable day.   And for just a few seconds, while sipping at her sweet, dessert-like home-made coffee, into which she had added vanilla flavouring, Bailey's, and topped with whipped cream, she thought she could incorporate the idea.   And just as quickly, she changed her mind.   Perhaps it was the fact that she was enjoying every tasty sip of the coffee.   Perhaps it was that she saw the unfairness to the other contestants that exists in the act of recycling her own work for a competition based on creativity in light of strict deadlines.   But more than likely it was the fact that she could no longer relate to such an ungrateful, morbid creature that was the inspiration of her former protagonist - her "bitter coffee drinker", ambiguity intended.   The last thing she could do was be dishonest.   "At what point does honesty with oneself become synonymous with procrastination?   If I continued in this fashion, and incorporated this idea, ripped off my own writing, and pretended to currently relate to this character, I'd be lying.   I can't do that."   She had an answer for any insinuation that she was procrastinating.   Not that anyone besides herself made the accusation.

After sipping at her caffeinated beverage for some time, all the while dreaming of being hundreds of miles away, walking on white sand beaches at sunset under a colourful sky, in her dream, a piece of paper floated past her, and she snapped out of it.   She jerked her head toward the clock to see the time.   She'd gotten so carried away with her fantasy of being in a situation of not having anything to do, and envisioning what it is that would be a perfect way to pass the time.   "10:47 p.m.?   What the heck?!"   She hurriedly returned herself to her desk.   It was too late for panic; she just acted purely out of adrenalin.   She closed the curtains to the window, turned on both the room and the desk lamp, closed OneNote, and opened Word - as if these were all indications that she would now focus and stop wasting time thinking about things that were at the moment absolutely inconsequential.   "It's useless to try to adopt a new routine for writing, or to search high and low in an attempt to incorporate every possible idea," she thought. "It was pointless now to daydream."   She began to do what she always did when she buckled down to write: she began typing in Outline View, created a basic outline for the document with headings, chose the ideas that happened to currently resided in her mind / precisely / for that reason, added points under each heading, and began to type, effortlessly stringing together points as if she were playing connect the dots.   She began to relax.  

As per usual, the discomfort from the caffeine began to take full effect.   Her hands were shaking, her heart was racing, and her thoughts ran amok.   She convinced herself that the caffeine had given her the energy she needed to persevere past the physical roadblocks, and power through to the glorious end that would be having a completed story.   The only theme that ran through her mind was one she'd thought up the other day, and had been hoping since for an epiphany on how to present it in an inspirational way:

To live by one's convictions: at the very least, you were honest with yourself, in the best scenario your way of life inspired others to live similarly.   That is, others saw success in what you deemed valuable.   When Nietzsche challenges us to "live dangerously", this will be how I do it.

Granted, it was some deviation of all existential themes, but the particular wording was hers.   And maybe tonight would not be the night that she methodically determined how to exploit it, but that was ok.   It was now 11:34 p.m., and she knew she had to let go of that intention.   Her hands and her thoughts were flowing as if they were controlling her - as though she were the spout pouring the current of ideas forth without there being any way of slowing it, or any reason to alter it in any way.   It was beautiful just as it was.   "The ideas are pure, and since the words flowed uninterrupted, then they are honest and true."   They were illustrations of a girl who doubted herself, and the descriptions of her means of frustrating herself.   This was a girl who had success in questionable methods, but never acknowledged it as such; a girl who fought all instinct with failing attempts to find new methods.   Her story was about a girl who could not tell if she was on track, or lost; a girl who did not know if she was rationalizing her actions and inaction, or if her reasons were legitimate.   It was a story about the unnecessary worry that accompanies self-inflicted pressure.   And in her honesty, her values surfaced - this story was her representation of what it meant to her to write a piece of art.   In writing it, she was honest to herself.   She stopped trying to do all of things that she was told or read that successful people do.   In wreckless abandon, she could write - without intention, decidedly curious to see the values that would surface so she could learn about herself.   Perhaps, after all her story did illustrate her precious theme.  

12:00 a.m.   Joelle closed her laptop, and went to go have some blueberry pie before she rested.   She was finished.

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posted by Nylorac on August 28th, 2008 at 12:41AM

No, and too late.   I forgot to use the login i set up, and frankly, I don't give a crap.  

You posted yours too late.

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Story #3
posted by story on August 28th, 2008 at 12:40AM

"There coudn't have been another explanation."   Margo had tried again to consider all the possibilites, it contorted his face.   I shifted my attention to the squirrel running over the cables between houses when it suddenly paused as if in thought.
"It must have been blue!" Margo cried out.
"What do you mean?" I asked him,   watching as the squirrel continued on its path in merriment.
"Well" said Margo "there is simply no other way that things could have ended so badly!"
Alas, Margo seemed resolute.   I turned my attention away from the window.
"I didn't think that a colour could have such an impact!"
There was a seemingly infinite collection of papers all over the table.   It had taken Margo nearly a month to discover that his clients had been feuding over the purchase of his latest artpiece.   It was something that neither had wanted to admit to the other.   To me, it was a petty thing, their argument.   But perspectives are bred to be different.   It seemed, for Margo's clients that the mood-sensing statue he created had become one of those things that neither client had wanted to talk to eachother about.   The statue had revealed concealed emotions.   It had remained blue, the notorious hew of saddness.   It had eaten a way at them until a once considered impossible situation became a little more than possible.  

I shrugged in exhaustion.   It was almost a full day since I last made contact with my ever so inviting pillows.   I envied Furball who looked so comfortable curled up by the window.  
"There really is nothing else to explain how it all came to an end." Margo seemed exhausted.   His vacation was long over due. The mess of papers were a collection of sleuth work, receipts, letters, pictures, phone bills, listings of various credit card payments and so on; all had been gathered by Margo over the past month, and all were for the goal of finding Rick.   Rick had gone missing.   Rick was more than just a client to Margo, he was the inspiration for his latest piece of artwork.   Rick was his savior, and somehow not being able to find him was destroying Margo.

"Just because something came to an end doesn't necessarily mean that it ended badly" I said. The purchase of Margo's latest piece had ended a twelve year relationship between Rick and Jocelyn.   They were as solid a couple as one could imagine.   Actually, even I would have gambled a hefty amount on   their upcoming nuptials.   I wouldn't have considered myself a gambler.   Jocelyn was doing remarkably well.   She hadn't heard from Ricky but she seemed to be accepting of any fate that lay before her.   There were little, hardly noticeable things that she did that exposed her true feelings.   Mostly those things involved being aroung things that wer blue.

"I think I might know where he might be!" Margo said suddenly
"Oh?" I replied.
"Sunny Valley in Blue County"   Margo was excited now.   "The latest credit card charges have been around that location for the last couple of weeks."
"That's not so far"   my mind was beginning to drift to a restful sleep.   I was barely able to reply.
"You're right" Margo seemed pleased.   "I'm going to try to make it there tonight!" He began to throw some of his things together.   The drive to Blue County was roughly three hours.   Given the time, I would judge he would make it there by nightfall.   Wow, just thinking of nightfall makes me feel like I would succumb to it's early invitation.   Furball awoke from Margo's bustling around the room.   He curled himself around my stretched toes, and this time when he closed his eyes, I did the same.

When I awoke Margo was gone.     Furball had returned to his customary position by the window.   It appeared to be early morning.   I had slept well.   I glanced at the itinerary.   My overtime hours had earned me the next week off.   I was going to meet with Jocelyn today.   She had some important news to share.   I was looking forward to the change of pace.   My job as a paramedic was gruelling and seemingly constant.   Any time off was always time off well spent.   I was wondering how successful Margo would be at finding Rick, when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hey man, it's Margo" he continued "I came too late, they told me Rick had left before I came"
"That sucks, maybe he'll be back?"
"Ya, I was thinking the same thing, and so I'm going to be staying here for a week"
"That's cool, keep me posted" I was almost happy to see the house free of Margo's maddening search for Ricky.   Joceyln would be relieved as well. Margo's impestuous barage of questions had kept Jocelyn from coming over too often.

After a few hours of lazing around, the doorbell rang.   Jocelyn had arrived.   She stumbled in past the doors and paced the floors until I sat comfortably on the sunken couch.
"I have to tell you this.   Margo is insane.   He's made me worry about everything, absolutely everything, right down to the very foods that I eat, the very foods that I so love to eat!!   He's made me worry about my job, my writing, I really think he's driven Rick a way" Jocelyn was almost breathless, I was beginning to see another perspective.   Jocelyn continued "Rick is gone and I'm not going to worry anymore! I'm not going to worry about deadlines or word limits!! The thing I came to tell you is that I've learned to stop worrying, and love blueberry pie!!" I was stunned.

The End.

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Who is the misfortunate world short-story champion?
posted by story on August 28th, 2008 at 12:39AM

Voting is now open until next wednesday, September 3rd, at which point the world champion will officially enter the record books.

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Story #1
posted by story on August 28th, 2008 at 12:35AM

"Unn", she moaned softly as my hands gently traced the curves of her devastating hips. The curls of her long black hair slowly brushed against my face, each one conducting a fataly immobilizing electric charge. "I", I blew behind her left ear, "love" into her right, "you" into the nape of her neck as I inhaled her hair and exhaled my pressed cock between her juicy ass cheeks. She swung her arms back and clawed into my ass. Her head fell back onto my shoulder. Her eyebrows scraped passionately against my cheeks. I was on fire.

She took a step back and tripped me into the chair behind us. Then she twisted around and leaned forward, her rigid arms locked into the arm rests, caging me under her hot breath. She leaned a little closer until our lips were infinitessimally close and infinitely far. The humid smells from her mouth rolled into my nose and mouth along with the words "Don't be stupid". She suddenly pushed away from the chair and walked back towards the window of her apartment. It was gray and overcast outside--but the most beautiful gray imaginable. It gently sillhouetted her form, hugging her around her hips and shoulders.

"You know what I meant." I said with a hint of desperation. She leaned into the window and scanned the streets below.

Montreal was bursting at the seams with creative energy. It was alive. I knew from the instant I stepped onto it's civilized streets that there was something special here. It was the beautiful nest for some equally beautiful and magical creature, hiding somewhere, feeding off of the energy.

She walked towards the counter and fumbled into her bag in search of some cigarretes and a lighter. "Look--I didn't mean it", I self-reproached. "I got carried away". Her delicate hands briskly produce fire and a momentary distraction. Then her powerful eyes dart up into mine. "Shut up," she begins. "You idiot. I was afraid you were gonna do this." My forehead creased in frustration. She takes a deep puff and returns to the window. "I'm not like you." Another puff. "I can't just throw everything that I've built out the fucking window. This is only for today. You don't mean any more to me. OK?" I leaned forward, clenching the chair, my heartbeat accelerating. I couldn't let this beautiful creature escape. I stared longingly through it's tight jeans. It's irresistible thighs.

I first met those irresistible thighs at an open-air film festival; one of many that Montreal is famous for. It was an oddly interesting contrived black and white introspective on circus freaks. Despite being made in the fifties, it held a timeless quality. Having arrived a little late, I had to stand off to the side, until out of the dark she beckons me to join her. The cool evening breeze carresses us closer together. "Are you a freak?" she probes quietly and slyly into my ear. I had found the creature! "Of course" I reply with pride. A conspiratorial grin crosses our lips. We lean against each other and rekindle our body heat.

Ever since that fateful evening, we had met pretty regularly at the local musical haunts. The city was fertile with them. Quiet, modest and unsuspecting, they spoke to the soul far more eloquently than words ever could. She was pretty hesitant at first, but the routine slowly grew on us. We needed the regular visceral dose to jog our minds. Our kinship inevitably grew stronger, to the point where we were now naked together in her apartment.

I drop to my knees and crawl toward her thighs. Between her thighs. She reaches for my head and closes her eyes. "Ummm."

The delicious thin skin covering her wet juicy berry sent shockwaves through my body. "Don't stop!" She was blueberry pie. Her claws dug deep into my skull. I was drooling. She was drooling. She began shaking violently, almost screaming. I secured her body to the floor. She was mine. "I love you!" The sweet juices of her blueberry pie drenched my mouth. I bury myself between her thighs until her trembling subsides. We were just getting started. A distant thunder burst the silence, but we didn't care.

KABOOM! I jumped slightly from my chair.

"And for his unwavering dedication to Holtz & Holstein, we are delighted to present this year's H&H Man Of The Year Award to none other than Mister Bret Guilame."

Dazed slightly from the jolt, my stomach took a marked turn for the worse. Nevertheless, on cue, I put on my plastic smile, stand and wave to the crowd. I was sick amid this ebbing and flowing sea of fellow blind plastic faces; shining plastic faces, with no eyes. The heavy rain outside amplified the running liquid in my bowels. The pristine red carpet indoors forbade any relief. My colar was soaking wet.

"Congratulations Bret!" an ugly female eel bubbled out. "Bret-meister you fucking shark. Good on ya'" blurts another male creature. "Way-da-go Mister G" an infantile female shrimp bleats. The eel and the shark and the shrimp and all the plastic creatures begin to spin slowly around me. I focus all my energy on following the perfect red carpet through the parted sea of hideous noisy plastic creatures. As I approach the stage, a blinding blazing burning spotlight hones in on me.

"Throughout the year, Mister Guilame has shown on countless occasions how much he values his work here at H&H; and what invaluable work it has turned out to be! Our most recent victory in the ISP-Freedom case was won mostly on the back of this exemplary young man. You showed those Toronto bastards who's who!"

I had left Toronto about a year ago, shortly after I married Ann. We were young. I was fresh new blood in the up-and-coming Imaginary Property game, and I was in hot demand. We had everything laid out in front of us. I was promoted to an executive position here in Montreal with twice my old pay. We were given a beautiful solid townhouse near the old city, with sixty percent of the mortgage already covered by the company. I never would have imagined, only a few years ago that I would become the quintessential 'company man'.

But Ann didn't seem to mind. I knew she would love the city. Music was her passion, and Montreal's stages were always captivating. We originally met at just such a stage while I was a bass guitarist back in Toronto. Sometimes I feel guilty that we can't share our common passion together, but times are tough. I got this job for her. For us. I'm sure she understands that. I wish she could be here tonight.

I don't get to play much any more. The only songs I sing nowadays are the same old monotonous cease-and-desist tunes. My latest gig was with the giant Bell against the Association of Independent Internet Service Providers. My role was simple -- get the feds off our backs.

"Aside from being the Man Of The Year for H&H, he's also the man of the year to his wonderful wife; they were recently married, I've heard." Whistles pierce the ocean below. Where the fuck is she anyways? "And so, without further adieu, Mister Guilame, please accept this award, and this cheque, on behalf of Holtz And Holstein and everyone here. We all wish you and your lovely wife the best of luck here in Montreal. Keep up the good fight." She promised she would try to show up. The storm outside the hall surrounded the brewing storm of plastic creatures inside who surrounded the churning gurgling storm in my bowels. The blazing spotlight burned brilliant spots of color across everything in sight.

The plastic creatures simultaneously stand on their feet like a massive tidal wave surrounding me. Their thunderous clapping echos and re-echos in my ears. Rain drops ricochet against the window panes outside. My compatriot, Jean, offers another glass to subdue the motion; the emotion. "Here's to Ann." we clink our glasses, spilling more red wine across the once pristine white tablecloth. "To Ann."

Jean was a hopeless perpetual drunk. He was a sad man. One of the only people in the world who could brighten my day. He had recently lost Nexant -- a big client. His wife too.

"To better times." I add. Another sloppy clink.

"You know Bret, you're one lucky kid." His thick arms and alcoholic breath surround my neck. "I was once like you." His head turns to stare deeply into the center of the table. "I had it all." He mumbles something inaudibly. "God damn it!" For a second I spot a tear welling up in his eye. "As easy as it comes, it fucking goes! It'll go buddy. It will go. It'll leave you. All of it." He releases my shoulders and drinks the rest of his cup. Then fills it up again. The others at our table pretend not to notice; their fixed smiles still point sharply in my direction.

What was I doing here? Where was Ann? Why? How? Pressure was building up within me. I could really use some fresh air about now. But it was still raining outside. There was a choking humidity. There was nowhere to breathe! Maybe Ann had gone to a performance. I wouldn't be surprised. Why would she be here in this humid plastic swamp when she could listen to cool mind-bending freely vibrating strings instead.

My jaw drops open and the pain and loneliness and the sickness, the abandoned dreams, self-violations and betrayals, along with the calamari red wine and shrimp all erupt up through my gaping mouth and onto the table. The warm stream up my throat is soothing. The small dark chunks of partially digested calamari spread evenly atop the crisp tablecloth remind me of blueberry pie; my favourite. My parents used to make them every summer when I was younger. The encroaching tidal wave shrinks into silence, and the pitter-patter of the rain brings a natural soothing cadence back into my ears. My compatriot places his arm around my shoulder again and steadies me from the stormy seas beyond.

"I really fucked up Jean"

We sit for a minute, staring together at the warm, sweet blueberry pie on our table. I wish Ann could be here to experience it with us. Things were going to change! The juices had soaked through my dress shirt by now, and a cool breeze chilled my body. A deep shiver shook me back to reality.

"Jean. I love you!"

I spring to my feet and begin my frantic escape away from the sea of plastic people. Forever.

"Aaann!"

The golden evening sky splashes into the kitchen window and highlights her peaceful gray hair. The heavenly smell of hot fresh crisp blueberry pie floods the house.

Our son had moved away recently to Montreal. He was now some fancy lawyer there. It's hard to criticize him. A stable comfortable job and a beautiful home can be pretty tempting. We tried to teach him the benefits of our bohemian life style, but apparently all in vain. We weren't really ashamed of him--but definitely a little frustrated; perhaps even a little dissapointed.

When he was younger, he was wild. We worried that perhaps we wouldn't be able to tame him. He would always sing loud and confidently. Jumped; never walked. He read ferociously. We imbued within him our same love of reading, and once he got started, nothing could stop him.

"Come 'n gedit while is hot!" She beckons. I set my notebook aside, and meander into the kitchen.

"Babe... do you ever worry about our boy?"

She darts a quick glance towards me. "What for?"

"I dunno. Maybe we should have done things differently."

"It was never up to us. You know that."

She was right.

"Stop worrying so much doc" She carves out a slice. I drop my worries and pick up the blueberry pie.

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