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4 years ago
Commended by mizal on 2/13/2020 7:05:04 PM
Like Thanksgiving Day session was a success and fun I think that Make a Valentine's Day jam could be really fun. Like with Thanksgiving. session. You can share your work either in a linear post or in a CYS Choice story. RULES 2,000 words maximum Valentine's Day with a twist THIS IS NOT A CONTEST I am a noob so I am not in a position to do a contest, this is for fun and practice maybe to encourage you to write something. You won't gain points or get in shame. This has no pressure. Deadline, of course, Valentine's day


4 years ago
A pit of shame forms where a pit of shame can. This natural occurance is not within your control.


4 years ago
This is not a contest, you won't gain or loss points. So it can't be part of The official Shame pit. That is Endmaster power.


4 years ago

Anyone currently in the SHAME Pit that participates in this thing has a chance of getting out.


4 years ago
Thanks, End, I hope that can be a help for them. After all, It is less than 2,000 words in 10 days. If they don't do anything about that, is quite lame


4 years ago
That sounds like a contest to me. I see the invisible strings.


4 years ago




It is like said that the 100 words thread is a contest.

Writing jams or sessions based upon determined datas are normal in many places, you share your writing and read others without any competitive pressure.

I did one for Thanksgiving and Bill made an awesome story same for shadowdrake and many others.


4 years ago
I dunno. Fake News is prominent these days. Iowa even has Fake Apps.


4 years ago
I am a noob I have no power whatsoever to organize a contest ever if I wanted to. So no, no contest at all. It is a writing chill fun thing that doesn't require a lot of work as it is limited to 2,000 words the small size would make faster the reading and bring more feedback from other.


4 years ago
Out of interest who is in the Shame Pit?


4 years ago
There’s a big list in the Writing Workshop that End updates every contest.


4 years ago


4 years ago
Hi, This is the first page of the first story I am writing Venetian's tears. Feedback will be appreciated. VENETIAN'S TEARS

Alone, with no one to help me. You are as always at the control panel of the shelter, observing the outside wasteland hardships. In a way, reminds you of your old days as a military spy prototype.

Venice, like the whole planet, has gone to hell; muddy and stinking water completely covers St. Marco's Square and the shady slate roofs reverberate as the acid rain perpetually falls over the lost sinking city.

You grab your firearm, sensing its comforting icy touch, your only friend mission after mission. Now, you don't need it, after all, there are no human beings alive on Earth.

Still, you chuckle, old habits don't die; you walk around the immense bunker. Once it was proudly the last bastion of humanity. Your human masters have succumbed to treason after survive the biological plagues and the nuclear winter. It is so tempting the idea of just finish everything.

You carefully press your temples, showing your self-destruction button. One step and the last vestige of human technology would vanish in time. You sigh and close it again, breaching the perpetual silence:

"I have to fix it, I will fix it. The time travel machine project is about to be completed. Humanity will rise again."


*It is Saint Valentine's, It's time to relax in my private rooms. Me and I are the best couple.

*It's time to enjoy the leisure of the bunker. Drugs, rock and roll and ahem, electronics toys.

*Check the current state of the project.


4 years ago
Commended by mizal on 2/13/2020 7:10:58 PM

I'll leave some additional comments at the end, but red is for marking for editing and blue is for my comments.


Alone, with no one to help me this sentence seems out of place. I would make it its own paragraph or change it to second person. You are, as always, at the control panel of the shelter, observing the outside wasteland hardships. In a way, it reminds you of your old days as a military spy prototype.

Venice, like the whole planet, has gone to hell; muddy and stinking water completely covers St. Marco's Square and the shady slate roofs reverberate as the acid rain perpetually falls over the lost, sinking city.

You grab your firearm, sensing its comforting icy touch. It's your only friend mission after your last mission. Now, though, you don't need it; after all, there are no human beings left alive on Earth.

Still, you chuckle; old habits don't die. You walk around the immense bunker. Once it was proudly the last bastion of humanity. Your human masters have succumbed to treason after surviving the biological plagues and the nuclear winter. It's so tempting: the idea of just finishing everything.

You carefully press your temples, showing your self-destruction button. One press and the last vestige of human technology would vanish in time. You sigh and close it again, breaching the perpetual silence:

"I have to fix it. I will fix it. The time travel machine project is about to be completed. Humanity will rise again."


*It is Saint Valentine's; it's time to relax in my private rooms. Me and I are the best couple.

*It's time to enjoy the leisure of the bunker. Drugs, rock and roll and, ahem, electric "toys."

*Check the current state of the project.



Overall, this is a really good start with an interesting premise. The only real errors here are grammar and word choice, but other than that, the content is very good and I'm curious to see where this goes. Keep me posted!


4 years ago
Thanks for the editing, I posted an unedited one by error. But anyway, I still missed several of the ones you pointed out


4 years ago
I haven't seen a good post-apocalyptic story in a while. Looking forward to reading this one.


4 years ago

Okay, done. That was a little rapey, but I liked it. I'd be interested in seeing more of this world.


4 years ago
I NEED A PROOFREADER, s if anyone has a merciful soul, please say it here or send me a private message


4 years ago

Here you go:



4 years ago
You are lucky of being in another continent, right now, because if you were here you weren't making so retarded jokes in my face.


4 years ago

That is so totally true.  I would be deferential and polite. 


4 years ago
Here is My First Story for the Saint Valentine's Day writing jam's-tears


4 years ago
Commended by mizal on 2/13/2020 7:05:16 PM
Quick short story, since I don't think I'll manage an actual storygame for this. She understood you like no one else. The two of you had your rough patches, but she was a gentle soul. No matter how much of an idiot you were, at the end of the day her eyes were warm and compassionate, welcoming you home. When you dream, her presence still lingers. Her form sleeps peacefully next to you in bed, and you never question it, never truly appreciate it until you wake. It never occurs to you until it's too late to tell her you love her, you miss her. Dishes clanging merrily in the kitchen, or a presence beside you when you're driving. A waft of fragrance, a brown glass bottle with a plain white label, AMBER ROMANCE printed on it, just a bit lopsided and off center. The two of you walking hand in hand at the craft fair that Saturday morning, Valentine's Day, when you had pointed it out. The name had caught your eye, because it was her name. But the fragrance, a deep and sweet and mysterious one, had so intoxicated her that the bottle had come home with you both and the scent became inseparable from her in all your memories. It was mostly a sandalwood and vanilla fragrance, with other notes mixed in, you'd been informed by the middle aged woman running the booth. Her eyes were tired and sad, and the man sitting nearby with the cash box was so utterly indifferent. He was bored, and impatient, and only here so that later on he could make a point of how he'd done something he didn't want to do, just for her, and keep her in her place if she ever dared to complain. You and Amber hadn't spoken of it, but you'd taken it all in at a glance, and with a desperate look at your wife had inwardly vowed never to become that couple. And of course you hadn't. Amber died years ago. She was the one you'd wanted to be with for all time, but fate had parted you and life had widened and widened the gulf. Whenever you think of Amber these days, like you're thinking of her now, it's with a pang of guilt that you can't bring her face to your mind's eye without the aid of a photograph. The couple at the craft fair booth; them you remember perfectly. Funny how that works. But the warmth of Amber's eyes, the sunlight in her smile, those you haven't forgotten. But would she even look at you that way anymore, if she were standing beside the bed right now? You eventually married again, you had kids, you divorced, you broadened, you coarsened. You eat bad food, you're unapologetically lazy, you're selfish. There's little left of the man she loved, if there had been anything truly worth loving even back then. You're not so sure, now. Fate took her away from you, and now it's rapidly moving you towards her again, and the thought fills you with a strange panic even as your consciousness fades. This angel in your mind, she's young and glowing with beauty still. She has walked on streets of gold and looked out over crystal seas, and spoken with the greatest minds of history. You can never be anything but inadequate. But you still love her so much. God, you love her so much it aches to think of her. "Augh, but I was never anything but an anchor weighing her down..." "What's that sir? It's going to be all right, just hang in there!" Usually you try not to think of her, and this is why. If she remembers you on the other side or looks upon you at all, it could only be with pity. If only you had gotten your life together, become a more compassionate person, a more successful person, a healthier person, a more interesting person, someone worth Amber or anyone at all giving a single shit about. 'If only, if only...' The words beat against the inside of your ears in time with the frantic beeping of machinery as you slip down a dark tunnel. "I think he's waking up! Dad, can you hear me? Dad, you were in an accident, do you remember?" You blink heavily, lick dry lips and mumble an affirmative. Your eldest daughter squeezes your hand. With a shock you realize she must have flown in from out of state. You haven't seen her in years. "Greta honey, you came all the way here? How long was I out?" "It's been about four days since the accident." Your ex wife, Carly, puts her laptop aside and stands. "It's February 14th. They had to do some surgery, but you made it through." "Heh, happy Valentine's," you rasp, coughing a bit and wincing at your body's violent protest as you try to sit up. "Don't try to get up yet! But you're going to be okay, that's the important thing," Greta says with a relieved smile, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "You had us pretty worried there," says your son Matt. He leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He hates hospitals all of the time and dislikes you most of the time, so you know it really must have been serious, if he's here now. Thoughts of Amber soar away on angel's wings to come again another day, as you gaze at the family around you in the here and now. None of them are perfect, and God knows you aren't either. You've all had your differences driving you apart, but maybe those things don't matter so much after all when push comes to shove. Life will go on, failures and disappointments and all, and sometimes feeling warm and loved might still be possible whether you think you deserve it or not. "Thank you. Thank you all for coming. Can I get a glass of ice water?"


4 years ago
You have a gift. for writing meaningful stories with really few words. I like your use of smells and tact to describe love and affection. The end is maybe a little to fast paced, and predictable. But overall, great work as always Mizal.


4 years ago
Commended by mizal on 2/13/2020 7:04:55 PM

Candles and Cake


You always liked burning scented candles and incense at the same time. I thought you were crazy, of course, but I could never understand girls like you. Girls at all, if I'm honest. But regardless, I got the candles and incense. I even found that weird scent you like. What is it called? Galbanum resin, I think. I couldn't find it at any of the stores, though. I had to chase down some shady street vendor to get it.

Those guys are funny. Have you ever seen them when the police ride by on their horses? Oh my god, it's hysterical. They scatter like cockroaches when you turn on a light. I know, I know, I shouldn't be such an asshole, but I can't help it. Anyway, this guy, I think he was an Iranian immigrant, he had the Galbanum resin incense. And yes, I'll admit it: I bought a couple cigars from the guy, too. Hey, don't judge me. I know I shouldn't smoke, but I think you can appreciate a little R and R after all the shit that's happened the last few years.

Oh, and of course, I almost forgot the best part: I brought the cake. German double-chocolate, your favorite. The lengths I had to go through to get it, too... if I told you, well, I'd have to kill you. Ha! Yes, that's a bit dark, given the circumstances, but if there is anything I have ever understood about you, it's your appreciation of dark humor. And cake. I remember that time we had that food fight, and you got chocolate frosting in your hair. It was so much fun, but I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of mourning in your eye when we were done, a deep sadness that you didn't get to eat it. Well, fear not: you'll have the whole cake this time, my dear!

Er, well, at least most of it. I have to confess, I did eat a slice of your cake. But can you blame me? Who doesn't like German double-chocolate cake? The rest is all for you, though. I'm sure some birds might steal some, too, but you always loved birds. My therapist thinks I'm a nutjob for doing this every year. She might be right, especially if you consider the opportunity cost of not eating the entire cake! But in all seriousness, I know it's hard for a kid to have a birthday on a holiday, especially Valentine's Day when she has a divorced father spending every year trying to snare a wife. And that's all I was back then: a single dad spending all his time looking for love.

I wish I wouldn't have been, though.

If only I wouldn't have gotten a room at that expensive hotel to impress her. If only I would have driven you to your slumber party instead. I wouldn't be sitting here, crying in front of you, laying out these candles and incense. Why did I trust someone so young? I don't blame your friend Amber, but she was only sixteen, driving all the way to the city on a Friday, in a van full of teenage girls. It only takes one second of distraction. I blame myself. I knew better. But no one ever thinks about that sort of thing. Least of all someone in love.

But what I'm most sorry of all about is that we fought about it earlier in the day. God, you were so angry, saying she was some stupid slut and would be gone in a few weeks. Well, you were right. We lasted a while, but she couldn't deal with me, especially after what happened.

What am I doing? I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about all that. Let me change the subject.

Do you like these flowers? I don't know if you notice, but they're the same ones you wore in your hair in that play you did in sixth grade. I think they'll look nice here. I'll be sure to replace them every few weeks.

Well, I probably ought to go. The sun's setting, and your little brother's baby sitter is probably getting anxious to get home. Don't be sad that Max won't come. He's still young. When he gets older I'm sure he'll want to come with me. One day we'll all be a family again, I know it.

Happy birthday, my sweet daughter, and happy Valentine's Day. I love you, and I'll see you again soon.


4 years ago
A very interesting choice. You nailed the tone of a person conversing with himself. Maybe the pacing is too rushed towards the twist,bbut in a plot perspective, it makes sense. I also miss a description of the place at the end about how the father go away from the graveyard in a sad day or something like dad. But that is personal preferences.


4 years ago
I think this is my favorite so far.


4 years ago
Commended by mizal on 2/13/2020 7:02:47 PM

In the interest of time, I went with a linear story! I will read the other ones as well, but I am very busy until at least next week. My story will appall Mizal with cheesiness. The actual story is 1,987 words. As per usual, feedback is welcome. Let me know how much you all hate it!

Oh, it is also rated high on the inappropriate scale (particularly compared to my other stories).

Cheesy Valentines Day Story

Sam tapped her pen on her desk, staring out the window, blue eyes vacant, brown hair untidy. She wasn’t a bad student, but since she dropped down to remedial math, classes weren't a challenge. Being made fun of in middle school as the token nerd had prompted her to make a change. That change led to her rise in popularity; however, she felt empty most of the time.

"Samantha, care to answer the question?" Mr. Coventry said, catching her spacing out. 

Sam looked at the board and replied, "Three, ‘X’ is equal to three." Immediately after her answer, she turned back to the window. Shaking his head, Mr. Coventry wrote the answer and continued to drone on about linear equations. Sam sighed and kept her mind blank until the bell rang.

Gary was waiting for her at her locker like he always was. He was tall and muscular, with long dirty-blonde hair that gave him a striking resemblance to Sunshine from Remember the Titans. They played the same position as well: Gary was the high school’s starting quarterback.

"What's up, Sam?" Gary asked as Sam opened her locker. 

"Nothing, just trying to get through the day," Sam responded. She grabbed her books and turned quickly to head to chemistry.

"No one said that you had to be to class on time!" A devilish grin spread across Gary's face as he winked.

"Gary, if I’m late to another class, my parents won’t let me go to the dance tonight." It wasn’t the truth, but Sam knew it was the only way to get Gary to leave her alone.

"Oh, so you are going then?"

Sam cursed under her breath and said, "Yeah, if I get to class on time."

"God, your parents suck. I’ll pick you up at six though, and make sure you have an excuse for the after-party at Kelly’s House!" 

Sam wanted to protest, but Gary was out of earshot before she could open her mouth. She had been trying to avoid going to the dance with him for weeks. All of her hard was undone in an instant, which only made her last class of the day more frustrating. 

Leslie and Kelly, Sam’s best friends, wouldn’t be any help. They were both simultaneously trying to set Sam up with Gary and sleep with him. Being popular had its drawbacks, but it was better than being considered a weeb.

After chemistry, Sam texted Leslie to let her know that she wouldn’t need a ride home. She wanted to be alone and could use the long walk. Walking helped Sam clear her mind and feel normal. In her haste, she plowed into the back of a slower moving classmate as they were exiting the school.

"Watch it, Nerd!" Sam exploded, not even bothering to look at the other student.

"Sorry about that, Sammy," a calm voice responded. Looking up was no longer necessary, Sam knew she had run into Van. 

"I told you to stop calling me that!" Sam yelled at the average-sized Asian boy with spiky black hair. 

"And I told you that I wouldn’t,” Van responded. “I mean, I’ve been calling you Sammy since we were five."

"We’re not five anymore!"

"Obviously. You also stopped talking to me the moment we started high school, so does it matter what I call you anymore?" He handed Sam a stack of papers that had fallen from her bag.

"I guess not, bye." Sam grabbed the papers and stormed towards her house.

After a few minutes, Van cleared his throat and said, "We are walking in the same direction. If I call you Sam, can we talk?"


There was an awkward silence that followed. Three and a half years of separation hung between the two old friends like an iron curtain. Sam twirled a lock of her hair in her fingers and studied her shoes; Van scratched the back of his neck and coughed.

"So, are you headed to the Valentines Day Mascaraed?" Van asked after far too long.

"Yeah, I'm going with Gary, I guess," Sam sighed.

"Ugh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Gary happens to be the best athlete at the school!"

"And a moron..."

"He... Yeah, sort of."

"I know he likes you. He tells everyone you are 'his girl,' but I am kind of surprised to hear you feel the same way about him."

"What does that mean?"

"Sammy, I mean Sam, let's be honest for a second. You are the smartest girl at our school, and even if you deny it, you would rather read a comic book than Gary's twitter posts. Meanwhile, Gary might not be able to read. Lie to the other girls you started hanging out with if you want, but I don't buy that you are into that jock."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you used to."

"Maybe I don't, but I would like to know what happened to the girl I used to know if that is the case."

"Okay, let's not psychoanalyze my life right now, please. What about you, are you going to the Mascaraed?"

"Dances aren't my thing."

"You love to dance, Van. Don't you remember dragging me to those dance lessons in the park?"

"I am surprised you remembered, but I meant school dances. No one dances at them anymore."

"That is true." Sam spent school dances making fun of anyone who was dancing, with Gary, Leslie, and Kelly. "So, you are not going?"

"I was debating it; however, it doesn't seem like it would be worth going anymore."

"Why not?"

"I was going to go with an old friend, but she already has a date," Van said before turning down the side street leading to his house. "It was good talking to you, Sam!"

Her house was only one street further, but Sam remained frozen on the corner where Van left her, waving. Part of her wanted to make the familiar walk to Van's yellow rancher; his parents both worked late so they would have had some time to talk alone. She could have asked him some of the questions he had left in her head with his parting words, and rekindle the best friendship she ever had.

Instead, she continued down the road to her house. Sam's mom, an annoying helicopter, started with her interrogation as soon as Sam entered the house. Questions about the school day were easy to answer, but the interview got tougher when Sam brought the dance up.

"Who are you going with?" she asked

"Gray is picking up Leslie, Kelly, and I." Sam lied.



"When will you be back?"

"I might go to Leslie's after."

"Is it just you two or some wild party?"

"Just us two."

"I'm calling Leslie's parents and checking!"


"You are doing drugs, are you?"


Conversations like this had become regular between them. Both of them would get worn down and angry; this was no exception. Sam stormed into her room to get dressed and do her makeup, slamming the door to make a point.

Six o'clock hit just as Sam finished getting ready. Gary was on time, but he didn't come up to her house. He blasted his horn in the driveway, honking two or three times before Sam could get downstairs.

"Why do you hang out with these kids?" Sam's mother asked as Sam put her white high-heels on to match her feather gown and mask.

"They are my friends, mom!" Sam shouted in response.

"What happened to your friend Van?"

Sam was cut off by the horn and ran out to Gary's mustang. He nodded from the driver's seat as she climbed in the passenger side. Once her door closed, Gary peeled out of the driveway fast enough to leave tire marks. A Grin spread across his face as he raced out of her subdivision towards the school.

They didn't talk much on the way to the dance, but Leslie and Kelly made up for it at the dance. Talking was all they did. Teasing every other kid was their sport; no one could compete with the sharp words they had for anyone and everyone at the dance. Before long they had spread rumors that Jonny was gay, Tim had an STD, and Gary was Sam's boyfriend. 

Only a few lucky classmates escaped their tongue by hiding their identities well with their masks. Sam was too frustrated to join in or care. She was being called "Gary's girl," and being with him at the dance seemed to be the only proof peopled needed to make the label stick.

A memory popped into Sam's head. She was ten years old again and back at the park halfway between her and Van's house. He was dragging her up two a group of around thirty people that called themselves the Swing Dancing Society, a silly grin on his face. 

"Oh, Van, you brought a friend this week!" an older girl said with a friendly smile.

"No, this is Sammy!" Van responded as if that explanation perfectly described the shy girl hidden behind him.

"Well, it is nice to meet you, Sammy! My name is Nora."

"Hi," Sam squeaked from the safety of Van's arm.

Sam found herself wishing that she could take off her mask. Not the feathery one that covered her eyes, but the false life she had built over her entire high school career. All of the people Gary, Leslie, and Kelly were calling lame for dancing, looked like they were genuinely having a good time. Alternatively, Sam was forcing a laugh to fit in with the people she thought would make her happy.

Turning up the music, the DJ called for everyone to hit the dance floor. Gary grasped Sam around the hip and ushered her to the dance floor. Protests fell on deaf ears or were drowned out by Leslie and Kelly's cat-calls. Either way, there was no avoiding this dance.

Gary led Sam to the center of the dance floor, where a sea of grinding classmates swallowed them. Both of Gary's hands moved below the waist and latched on to Sam's butt, pulling her against his pelvis as he swayed off beat to the music. Sam screamed and tried to push away, but Gary either misinterpreted her actions or didn't care as he gripped her tighter.

Other girls had their dresses lifted, with their partner dancing closer than clothing would allow. This was not how Sam wanted to spend her Valentines Day; however, Gary was trying to lift her skirt anyway. Desperate, Sam looked for a way out, but everyone around her seemed to be pushing her in and cheering Gary on.

"Can I cut in?" a voice shouted above the music from beneath a wide-brimmed hat and black mask.

This stranger spun Sam out of Gary's hands and into a person-sized gap between two preoccupied couples. Confident dancing guided Sam away from Gary and out of the mass of bodies, as Gary turned red and tripped over a hockey player and cheerleader. The former punched Gary for interrupting their "slow dance," buying the masked stranger time to spin and twirl Sam to the opposite corner of the dance floor.

Sam's mask savior tucked an arm behind her back as the song ended, positioning her for a dip. Sam leaned back into it as the stranger pulled the hat down to cover his mask from view. Not that Sam needed to see his face.

"Van, no one else knows how to partner dance... why even hide your face?" Sam asked.

"Because it is way cooler," Van responded, followed by a familiar laugh.

"I thought you weren't coming?"

"Well, I am not staying... I just came to pick someone up. Unless, of course, you wanted to stay here."

"Hell no, let's get as far from here as possible!"

"Let's go, Sammy," Van said with a grin spreading beneath his mask.


4 years ago
Don't worry, it's hard to avoid appalling cheesiness with these.


4 years ago

That is true. I also underestimated how many words I needed, so the story starts slow and then slams into an ending...


4 years ago
Commended by mizal on 2/13/2020 7:08:28 PM

I wrote this one after running down the street, looking up at the sun:

My love is like a flower,
A rose in the bud, in bloom.

Its scent, intoxicating,
Gently caressing my spirit.
It touches my heart and nose,
Makes its presence feel like an oasis.

Like the moonlight a vision of me,
In the morning when I first kiss her.

My love is like a flower,
The fragrance, heavenly, inviting.

My mind becomes calm.
Like the moon at its highest time,
Waiting for the sun to rise.

It was a tender and peaceful night,
As the moonlight darkened my dreams,
And a gentle breeze carried the scent.
Ah, isn't it a dream?

My love is like a flower,
Petals abloom, awakening.

Wake up, my love.

That night, is my treasure.
By how the night devours me, I want to meet it again.

Though I only slept through the night,
Let me love thee.


4 years ago
Nice job Lar, you are quickly gaining a reputation as one of the best poets on the site!


4 years ago

Thanks! I hope to try more poetry here and show the community that you don't need to be an expert to have an interesting and successful online persona. I also hope to encourage others to do what I've done: share their writing and tell the world who they are.


4 years ago
Well, We are all here to learn more about literature. And you are far better poet than me.


4 years ago
Supply and demand, baby. It’s hard to get keep this level of love production when the demand is so high. I need only to point my finger to get what I want. Fine, fine, I need only to point my finger after paying the john. Hey, not all of us have time for candlelight dinners, movies, or cruising in your dad’s state-of-the-art speeder. Some of us work for a living. Art just doesn’t steal itself, despite all the advances in technology. I can’t promise you a ring on your finger, but I can give you one hell of a ride (I mean in your dad’s speeder, although I like the way you think). Thrilling, quick to the destination. Oh, yes. I can give you one hell of a ride. This time, leave your daddy's speeder at home, baby. Good ol’ Cara X. There’s not a finer space station in the galaxy for someone like me. It’s heavily populated, far too much that seems safe. Not to mention, the lawmen have an appetite for credits. I keep them well-fed and leave plenty for myself to eat. There’s not a finer space station in this sector, and speaking of fine, the governor’s daughters aren’t bad on the eyes. The fact that they take after their mother is a benefit to us all. If I was the type to keep a secret stash of photos for “personal use,” they’d likely all be of Danielle, the first born. You know what? While I’m at it, I might as well include some photos of their mother. I've never seen the second-born, but imagination's a powerful tool. I don’t mean a physical box, obviously. I’m talking about memories stashed in the strongest lockbox. A virtual, no not virtual… A memory bank with an uncrackable combination. It’s truly the only secure vault, and trust me, I’ve been around plenty. The contents are kept intact, untouched, and pristine, not like the filthy, stained-up shoe box underneath your bed, kiddo. I stare up at the neon sign in front of me. Charlie’s. It’s not a bad place for a drink. Hell, is there really a bad place to drink? The answer is yes. Remember, that kids. There are bad places to drink. The automatic door slides open with a whoosh, and I give a tip of my cap to the bouncer. He doesn’t see the gesture. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Guess what? I don’t care either (secretly I do though). Lining the shelves is every kind of booze imaginable. Blue whiskey, moon vodka, American tequila, you name it, they got it. I push my way past a smoochin’ couple, and hold up my fingers in a number two position. “As cool as that looks, I don’t know what the fuck you want,” the bartender says. “Means ‘peace.’ Don’t you read the holo-magazines in your own bar’s bathroom? There’s a surprising amount of content on the Hippy movement,” I say with a slight hint of superiority. “No, I don’t. I’m usually busy doing other things,” the bartender replies while tying his long hair in a knot. Just to be clear, men going bald on top shouldn’t have ponytails. “I wondered why there were waist-high peek holes in the stalls,” I respond. “God damn vandalizers. I thought I filled up all those holes already.” “The holes were filled all right,” I answer. “Back to the point, there’s another meaning behind holding two fingers up like this.” I create a “V” shape with my hand showing the bartender for proof. “See, if you put your tongue in the center—” “Alright, that’s enough. Just tell me what you want,” he cuts me off mid-sentence. Aw. And I was just getting to the good part. No matter. I’m sure my tongue will get its exercise soon enough. The drink calls for me, and I’m pickin’ up the phone. Also, sex. “A whiskey for me. None of that blue crap either. And one for that pretty dame over there,” I say to the bartender nodding at the lone girl at the bar. “Friend, every man in this place had their go at the lass. I’m just warning you, it could be a short trip.” “I’m different though.” “Yeah, how?” I show him, fully, the second meaning behind the “V” gesture. With my hands of course. Not…fully. I take my whiskey from the bar top and meander through the patrons to reach the girl. She sits alone, staring into her drink. She’s almost through and finishes the final sip just as I arrive. She makes a slurping sound through her bright green straw. Her soft blonde curls tickle her bare shoulders. She looks like the object of every hero dressed in a spotless trench coat and fedora. All she’s missing is a cigarette — as the thought comes to my mind, she rolls a joint and turns toward me while licking the doobie shut. “Nice form you got there,” I break the silence (and ice I might add). “Gets the job done. Thanks for the drink. Newman said it was from you,” she says. Her voice sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe a bit like Ms. Marcy, my former babysitter…among other things. Most of which were academic related. A babysitter, tutor, and designated captain of the Spank Police, Ms. Marcy could do it all. “I wasn’t talking about the joint,” I say with a handsome wink. She takes a moment to think. Her brow furls like cute kicked-off covers. “Tee-hee,” she giggles, lighting up her handiwork. “What’s your name?” “Not Weasel.” “I don’t understand the reference.” “Honey, I’d be surprised if you did. You tell me your name, and I’ll tell you mine.” “I’m Annie. Do you like unicorns?”


4 years ago
You have a real talent to write accurate monologues. The intro of your story wrote for a less talented writer would destroy the story flow would be slow and destroy the atmosphere, where you almost can see the protagonist swag and soul inside the rambles. The dialogue with Annie is good but it is the part I less like.


4 years ago
Commended by mizal on 2/15/2020 8:30:07 AM


(Image courtesy of my best friend because drawing dragons is a chore!)


I had to lie to him.

But I did not lie to him.

I just withheld the full truth from him.

I could not tell him the love of his life of whom he pined after day after day was sitting in front of him.

And I read his palm. He was insistent about it, as if the lines upon that rugged hand were going to change.

They never did. His life line said he would live well and long. His fortune line said he would not be rich but certainly not poor, and his love line pointed directly at me, no matter how he moved his hand.

Oliver would come to me after every mission he was sent on by the king. He was a royal knight, served the king with issues from kidnapped princesses to tax collecting.

We knew each other well.

"Darcy," he would call and I heard the bell ring above the door to my shop.

He would parade around and startle whoever I was reading at the time.

"Get on," I shouted at him. That meant, Just a moment, make yourself useful.

He admired my potion bottles and my charms. He asked me questions about it all. He was more fascinated by my job than I was.

I could read the future and perform magic unlike the other hoaxes in the city.

And my future I saw standing before my crystal ball as a young woman thanked and paid me.

I took gold coins, tucked them away while Oliver remained on my heels.

"What do you expect now?" I asked. "You know all you can about your future, all about your conscience and soul. I really can't offer you anything else, my dear."

I took his scruffy chin in my hands and squished it.

He took my hand and kissed it.

He was affectionate that way. It still made my heart beat.

"I always have another question for you, Darcy," he said.

"You keep me in business," I teased.

"Indeed. So you ought to be thrilled to have me," he said.

Oliver was big and large like a knight should be. And when he wasn't in that shining silver armor of his, he wore clean shirts and pants decorated at the seams, and brown boots that clicked when he stepped.

He had dark hair and white skin and a crooked smile I thought about often.

And like most knights, he was proud and confident, carried himself like he smited dragons for amusement.

I led him into my magic room, lit the crystal ball with a touch of my hand.

He took a seat, set down the sword he carried on his hip.

"What is your question today, my curious knight?" I asked.

The day I discovered what love rested in Oliver's path was like any other day I had seen him.

But my crystal ball was exceptionally hot to the touch and flashed with colors I had never seen before.

I looked into Oliver's eyes when he asked, "Who am I destined to fall in love with? Forever?"

The question struck me through the chest. I felt tingling magic in my fingertips as I gazed into Oliver's future.

"Life isn't like fairytales," I warned him.

"There must be someone for me," Oliver said.

I looked at myself, as if my crystal ball was a mirror.

I looked into my own eyes. I was smiling.

Oliver was startled when I was startled.

And suddenly the magic was gone. The warmth, the light, myself, disappeared.

I looked at Oliver.

"What did you see?" he asked.

I said, "A woman."

"Clever, Darcy," Oliver teased.

I did not realize I cared so much for this knight who visited me often. And I never thought I would ever see myself in my crystal ball.

And I never felt my heart beat so heavy and wild out of my chest where Oliver's question remained.

"She had red hair," I said.

I had red hair.

"Light eyes."

My eyes were green.

"Fair skin."

I was not exactly fair-skinned.

Oliver was very interested, said, "Is that all? Can you tell me more?"

"That is all."

"Well," mused Oliver, "the universe is mysterious about love, isn't it?"

"My visions aren't always true. Do not take them all to heart, Oliver," I said.

"Your visions have never been wrong, Darcy."

Oliver stood. I felt as if a string was tied from my chest to his, pulled and ached me when he stepped away from me.

He threw me a few coins, said, "Thank you, Darcy. I'll be back soon."

I heard the door shutter and close.

"What does that mean?" I hissed at my crystal ball.

My crystal ball was not alive, but the universe was, and I heard it whisper to me. I heard it taunt me as my heart swelled with passion I had never before felt.

I heard it say, You should have told Oliver the truth.


My mother gave me the shop when she died, along with all her books and potions.

And I was reading through those books one calm afternoon, trying to discover why, and how, I saw myself in my crystal ball.

Perhaps I would have to shatter it and enchant another. I could not tell people lies, and if this blasted crystal ball was at the root of it, I had no other choice.

But Oliver was correct. I had never read a false future.

So why was every part of me disagreeing with every part of the universe which told me otherwise? Why did my stomach ache at the thought of Oliver getting himself killed out there? Why did my heart flitter when he kissed my hand?

That was love. I was not blind. I knew I was in love, even if it was sudden.

Perhaps I had casted a spell upon myself in my sleep. That was unlikely but not impossible.

But if I did love Oliver, he would never love me. I was a fortune-teller, a witch. He was a royal knight sent to kill witches.

He never killed me.

Was that love?

I gasped as I felt hands on my shoulders. My third eye must have been asleep.

I looked up from my place on the floor. My books were all opened and skewed about, mostly on the topic of love.

It was Oliver.

I immediately flicked my wrist and sent all my books back to the shelves.

"What are you up to?" Oliver asked, watched with wonder all my books find their places.

I stood, straightened my skirts.

"You should know better than to sneak up on a witch," I scolded.

"Oh no, will you turn me into a frog?"

"I have far worse spells than frogs, my dear," I said.

I moved past him.

"What were you reading?" he asked. "You did not even hear me."

I supposed I hadn't. It must have been his silent, knightly ways.

His knightly ways were overwhelming to me. The far window was open. The light struck his face, seemed to glitter on his skin. He smiled at me.

"Familiars," I lied. "Ever since I lost Sylvester I feel a void in my heart."

My crystal ball glittered with green light.

"Your old crow," Oliver said.


"I'm sure you'll find someone in time," he said.

I had! He stood behind me!

"How can I help you today, Oliver?"

"I want to know more about this true love of mine."

Hells, I thought. Oliver exhausted me.

I went and found my herbs. He followed me.

He watched me press the herbs and slice them into fine bits and then pour them into a teacup.

"What is this? Some potion that should aid with love-seeing?" he asked.

He was full of questions, all the time. I liked that about him.

"Tea," I said. "I need something to be able to deal with all your mindless questions."

"What's the matter, Darcy?"

I poured water into the teacup, touched it with my hands to make it hot.

It was easy because when Oliver asked me such a thing, I felt very hot.

I wanted to tell him what I saw, who I saw. I wanted to tell him I saw myself in that crystal ball.

And I saw myself in the reflection of his questioning gaze.

I looked into that dark tea, watched the steam roll off the top.

"Darcy," insisted Oliver.

"I think I ought to ask you some questions instead, Oliver," I said.

We took seats by the window. That afternoon sunlight was impossible, made Oliver seem handsomer than he was.

Perhaps it was my eyes.

"Go on," he said, "I'll read your future, Darcy."

I smiled.

"I already know every part of my future. I know how I'll live. I know when and where I'll die. Curiosity is vicious, you know."

"I don't come here just for your readings, Darcy," Oliver said.

He took my hand from my tea cup, set his own on top of it.

"I enjoy seeing you," he said.


"It's true. My life is so unexpected and chaotic. It is nice to be here sometimes. You know everything. You're always so calm."

"What do you see, Oliver?"

"Nothing you don't already know."

We shared a silent moment, looked at one-another. I lost myself in his eyes.

He broke our gaze when he stood, kneeled beside me.

I blushed, said, "Oliver, what are you doing?"

"Her name is Malina," he said.


"She has red hair and blue eyes and fair skin. I met her today. I met my love today."

Oliver seemed so passionate about this statement.

And I felt my heart sink in that chest of mine. Had I been standing I would have collapsed.

"Oliver, I told you my readings are not always correct," I tried.

It was a plea. Oliver couldn't have been that blind. He was a keen knight!

"You are always correct, Darcy."

"No, I'm not. Magic is fallible just like anything else."

"Not yours," he said.

"Hells, Oliver! Can't you see?"

He was taken aback by my words, but there also came a storm in the clouds above us.

Lightning struck outside my shop, shattered the windows.

Oliver reached to shield me, pulled me close to him.

In the distance, a dragon.

She spewed fire at us. I locked eyes with her and she moved towards the shop.

Oliver pulled us out of the shop, unsheathed his sword.

There was fire in her wake. This was a dragon made from ash. Her wings were large and faded into the sky like the storm clouds above her. Every whip of her tail sent dust flittering into the air.

We stood before her. She was frightening. But Oliver was not frightened.

He rushed towards her, his sword before him.

When the dragon saw him, there was recognition in her golden eyes.

"Oliver!" I shouted, but with a powerful sweep she struck him with her claws, threw him backwards.

I gathered as much energy as I could from the ground, lifted my arms and struck at this beast.

Green bolts of light. And when they struck her, formed holes in her dark scales.

She hissed at me but did not lunge at me.

She turned to Oliver who writhed on the ground, pressed her claws into his chest.

"No! Oliver! Get away from him!"

I moved towards her. She blew smoke at me, as if to warn me.

I shielded my face, felt tears in my eyes.

"I lied to him," I called. "I told him she had fair skin!"

The dragon turned its head at me, ushered the words from my mouth.

"It was me," I said. "I saw myself in his future."

Oliver groaned, tried to call, "Darcy. . ."

"Let him go! He doesn't die like this!"

But my magic and my readings were fallible.


4 years ago
I love it. The final takes a great flow that contrasts with the slow beginning. Great twist


4 years ago
My second game for the jam. HUMOUR GAME DON'T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY


4 years ago

Okay, now that this is officially over I guess Fluxion gets taken out fo the SHAME pit for writing Mizal's favorite piece out of the lot.

Pretty good deal considering he was double SHAMED.


4 years ago
It was a really good one.


4 years ago
Actually I like MHD's better now, but good effort from Fluxion. I like those kind of stories told through one sided dialogue because I've never been very good at them.


4 years ago
Thank you oh God of Death.