Finally today I felt the first, biting chill of fall, and I was reminded of the very first contest at this time last year. Yes, it's been a year now that I've been reading your entries and seeing some of the best works the community has to offer. So here we are again, and with the changing of the seasons and the falling of the leaves, we have yet another short story writing contest.

As usual, the stories submitted here need follow no particular genre or style. Anything from personal narrative to fantasy epic (condensed, of course) will be accepted. The definition we'll be using for "short story" will be something that can be read in one sitting. There is no mandatory page- or word-count, just write something you really feel like writing, or submit something you already have and are particularly proud of.

So on to the technicalities. The starting date for the contest will be October 3rd, 2008, with the contest ending on November 25th, 2008. Entries will be accepted anytime between and during those two dates, and the judging will take place soon after.

All submissions will be judged not on what the stories are about, but how they are written, with attention paid to detail, plot and execution. So I look forward to once again reading your short masterpieces, and I wish you all good luck and enjoyment in writing them.

Those dates again are:

Contest begins October 3rd, 2008
Contest ends November 25th, 2008

Until then, adieu.

Bah! I'd love to do this and have so many short stories I've started but a) none of them are finished and b) they're probably too long to put here. I'm also supposed to be writing a 4000 word essay... However, I will put a link here to the first section of one of my short stories, just for some easy reading. I'm not expecting it to be judged but I'd be grateful if you could comment on it for me (it's one of the few I haven't given to someone to read yet). Cheers.

http://www.roleplaygateway.com/sword-the-eagle-opinions-please-t11624.html

Where do we put our short story's?

You post your stories here, but I have a question.
Is there a prize for winning? Some of the other writing contests seemed to have a lack of participation, unlike the art contests. If there was a prize, maybe there would be more participation? ;?

Haha, indeed. If you're going to submit something to this contest please just copy and paste it into a normal post in this same thread. If absolutely necessary you can link it, but I'd much rather you put it here directly. Thanks. ^^

Ok, so out of curiosity, whats the max rating that will be allowed for story submissions? I mean obviously they can't be X rated but should they be below PG13 or so? Or will ones with higher content ratings be allowed as well?

Here I present to you my entry. sorry if its long but its fun. it was fun to write.


“Mama. What is this?” Lizzy asked her mother one evening as she was being tucked in. Claire had handed her a small gold piece and Liz was staring at it.

“I will show you.” Her mother placed two fingers on Liz’s forehead. There was a slight jolt then the scenery around them dissolved and a girl was standing in front of them. Lizzy was used to these memories.

"Flame." A girl ducked into the Fire Clan HQ as the stone door swung open. She tightened the ragged stings holding a leather pouch around her neck and smoothed down her shirt. 'Ok its good to be home but I have a job I must finish.' She thought to herself. She walked down one of the polished stone passage ways and up to the Elder Councils chamber. She took a deep breath and knocked. After a brief pause she heard a small "come in." She twisted the carved golden knob, heat and power radiating from the room. She stepped inside and got no greeting-not that she had expected any.

"What do you want? Make it snappy we are eating don’t you know!" A council member said, than upon recognition added "oh, child, did you find it?"

"Yes sir, I did sir." The girl unstrung the pouch around her neck and untied the tight knot that held it shut. Out slipped a perfect sphere, smooth, and red. Inside an orange Light flickered-Like a flame trapped for eternity. "The last of the lost Fire gems."

"Marvelous, simply marvelous. Extraordinary that one young girl could find what eight high council elders could not. We owe you, Claire of Fire Clan. You may have anything at anytime." he handed her a small gold medallion that was tied to a silk string. "It will work for you alone so use it wisely young one."

“But mama…how did you get it? And it wont work for me the man said so!” Lizzy exclaimed still confused and pulling away from her mothers reach. It was not the jolt, or the fact she had seen someone else’s memory it was the fact that her mother had something so powerful and that she had had just given it to her. Lizzy and her mother had shared the ability to share memories and thoughts for as long as Lizzy could remember.

“Baby, that was me. And it will work for you. You are my child and I am positive it will work for you.” Claire caressed her daughter’s cheek. “We are descendents from the ancient fire clan.” Claire lit the candle on Lizzy’s table, not with a match but with a snap of her fingers. She blew it out and looked at Lizzy for her reaction.

Lizzy stared open mouthed at her mother. “Oh.” She said simply. She blinked once and grabbed the candle. She focused on it and then snapped her fingers. A spark went up and that was all. “What about Kita?” She asked, referring to her twin and best friend. “Why did you give me this and not her?”

Her mother looked at her. “Well, baby, you have the most power. She has less ability because she doesn’t want any power.” Claire smiled weakly at Lizzy.

“Ok.” Lizzy looked at her mother. “Thank you mama.”

I once met a monster. A creature of diabolical design, his flesh was rotted away, his bones black as ash. He rapped his dying flesh in rancid black bandages. Unclasped and unwoven, they trailed behind him like a black bridal trail. This creature, this demon, saved my life. He consumed a lesser evil, one that had designs on my life. I called him my hero, and he turned to me. His eyes sunken and dark, his putrid smile tore though me. He spoke these words that resound in my mind, a slight laugh at first. "I am no hero. I am a monster, can't you see? And that, is all, that I will ever be."
With these words he raised his arms, he walked towards me. He displayed his shambles, and bore his pride. He smiled at me, though his lips rotted away. A deep throated laugh and he left. Left to hunt, or spread, evil and rot. Or perhaps, he left, to some unknown end. Perhaps some great hero, with some gleaming blade, ended his retched life. But to me, darkness is my savor, shadows my gleam. I need no hero. Not so long, as I have the monster, in me.

Are endings to a published short story aloud? I wrote a ending to the story August Heat and while I'm very proud of it, obviously I'm not the origional author...

If it is a concise story within itself, the ending will be allowed, just submit it as its own thing and indicate where the characters, etc. originate from. As for the ratings of stories, I think anything is acceptable as long as it doesn't have obscenities or vulgarities for their own sake, if you know what I mean. I'm not opposed to reading a darker story with gruesome elements or a love story that involves sex, but these things should be vehicles of plot and not the other way around. ^^

Ok, I'm going to submit one I wrote a little while back. Here it is:

“Nartheus, I command you! Do as you are bid!” Pale yet defiant, her hands clenched tighter as a bead of sweat from her brow curved around her cheek.

I took a step closer.

“I command you, Nartheus, step away from the circle!”

Catching on her eyelashes, her sweat mingled with the tears that now formed through effort and frustration, and still I moved forwards, each pace taking me closer to the protective aqua ring surrounding the young woman. Tendrils of energy snaked towards me from the two circles behind her, snapping around me like fiery whips and making me wary.

“Nartheus of Balatia, you were given a task to perform and you failed,” cried the girl circled in blue, confident her Watchers would keep me at bay, “You must be punished for your failure!”

Well, this was new. “Punished?” I murmured in a low tone, and the lass shivered.

Collecting herself, she held her head high, though still avoiding my gaze. “Yes, Nartheus, punished,” she answered waveringly, “Your mistake cost a human life and you must take the consequences.”

I stood in silence. She met my eyes then for an instant, and immediately the blue ring flickering around her faltered, the flames dying down to knee height.

I smiled as the girl struggled to regain her shield. I could see her clearly now and could tell that she had only recently grown adult, as in she was about eighteen years of age. She wore no clothes – as was typical for a Summons – and her breasts were small, though she was a slight little thing anyway. The ends of her long black hair lay in the curve of her back and two braids in the forelocks had been tied behind in the typical look of a minor Mage. Many of my kind would have taken advantage of the situation I was in now (I mean death, not sex – so far my liking for humans was trivial, if only for curiosity) but I was more intrigued as to what she was saying – it could be used for my own benefit.

“My mistake?”

“Y-yes,” the girl stuttered nervously, flicking her hand to the spheres behind her in warning.

I laughed – low at first but then with increasing mirth, until the whole house shook with my amusement. A mistake in hindsight, for it panicked the girl.

Spinning on her heel, she yelled at the Watchers and the energy vines that were flicking through the air suddenly curled around my arms, burning and scorching my flesh with their searing white heat.

My form flickered with the agony. Gritting my teeth hard and controlling my appearance, I managed not to show my pain and it had the desired effect. The girl, not hearing the usual screams of torture, turned slowly back to face me – the colour in her face now completely washed out with fear. I almost crowed with triumph even through the anguish, but just managed to keep a straight face. With my glare she carefully raised her hand and the Mages behind her stopped their attack, leaving my heart fluttering rapidly with the excruciating pain of my blistering skin.

“My mistake, eh?” I growled as I suddenly realised what she was talking about, “Not the mistake of the boy who got himself killed?”

The young woman trembled, her tears now of sadness and pain. “You killed him! He wasn’t to know you were under my command.”

At last she had shown me a weakness. I smiled, ignoring the pain. “So you are saying that I must bear the blame, when it was you who killed him.”

“NO!” The renewed flame ring flickered low again, exposing everything above her waist. Upon her index finger was a thin band, and it was this that she played with incessantly, oblivious now to her dying safeguard. “I didn’t kill him! I couldn’t have told him!” she cried as her protective ring almost disappeared completely, “I did it for us! You – you attacked him!”

“I defended myself!” I laughed incredulously, “He came at me with a Barbed Mage Staff! What am I supposed to do – let myself be killed? I’m not as stupid as the boy or I wouldn’t be here now.”

I like maliciousness. It’s like a petrol fire – it burns hard and fast.

With an angry sob, the girl tried to throw herself out of the ring. She was lucky her Watchers were there to throw a barrier to stop her, for if she did, she would’ve been killed as easily as a hare in a hunter’s hands. It’s not that I like killing: it’s the rules (mind you, I do like killing quite a bit – it’s good for stress). A human’s death on a daemon’s hands is bad, unless that human risks his (or her) own life on purpose, like attacking a daemon with staff, or stepping outside of a protective ring in order to harm a taunting daemon – either way, it’s counted as defence on a daemon’s part and punishment isn’t considered.

Until now, according to this silly young Mage.

“So, you summoned me to pull your mother…”

“…his mother…” she interrupted through gritted teeth, as she lay sprawled at the bottom of the ring in the aftermath of the rebound from the Watchers’ barrier.

“Ok…his mother – that’s even worse – you summoned me to pull her into one of the Netherworlds…”

“…only to show her…”

“And you didn’t tell her son – your fiancé, might I add – that you were doing it. Hmm…” I mused sarcastically, “I wondered why he was slightly manic when he interrupted me during your little plan…”

Now don’t use that patronising ‘now, that’s not very nice’ tone of voice on me – I’m a daemon, what do you expect! (Not to be mistaken, by the way, for a demon – I’ll explain why later.) It comes with the job description. I have to be cruel – besides which, it’s in my nature…

“…And now you’re accusing me of ruthlessly killing a human being with no motive to do so, when in reality, he was about to spear me and then vaporise me – painfully – with a common weapon for killing my like,” I laughed raising my eyebrows.

“…no…”

“What do you think he was going to do with it?” I cried in amazement, grinning, “Tickle me? Play fetch?”

“…no…”

The girl, slumped at the bottom of her circle, curled up protectively and put her head in her hands, rocking herself backwards and forwards.

“No, no, no…it wasn’t meant to be like this…”

“Well, girl,” I sighed, “Get your priorities straight next time: make the right decision between summoning a powerful daemon in order to show off your measly powers and having a living partner…” And with a laugh and a crack of thunder (for effect of course), I left the poor girl alone with her conscience.

----------
Now I said I would explain to you the difference between a daemon and demon didn’t I?
Well, for a start, demons (dee-muns in your rather coarse tongue) live mostly where humans are – that is, the world where the majority believe in ‘God’ – and on the other hand, only very few daemons (day-muns) give humans the privilege of living in the same realm.

Let’s have some fun facts, shall we – to show the rest of the differences? Don’t know about you, but I have all the time in the world…

Fun fact one: demons have only one form and no gender – they cannot shift appearance like us daemons can, whereas we can be any gender we want to be: male, female, both, neither.

Number two: demons are stupid – most of the time they don’t know their own arse from their head (though a lot of the time neither can we, as…)

…Three: demons are very ugly; daemons, on the other hand, are for the most part intelligent and choose habitually to be very attractive, as they tend to get away with a lot more like that.

Fun fact four is that daemons can actually split their form into three parts if they so wish, though during this division they can’t change shape so they have to choose an appearance before they do it. And contrary to popular belief, we can go as far as we want in our three forms: including between worlds.

Actually, Christians might be slightly miffed to find that the wonderful, male, bearded figure that they believe in is – in most other worlds – a female daemon known pretty much universally by the name of Lisha of Gaia (aptly, the name means ‘darkness before night’ – she has a tendency to try and bring on the destruction of the world every once a month, usually by covering the sun. One of the disadvantages of having a daemon choosing to be female most of the time in charge of the world: PMT is very useful when it comes to annihilation but not really if you want to play with living objects).

Of course, Christians would be right about the ‘one God’ splitting into three though, as Lisha likes using this one particular power a lot. The three parts are usually in three distinct categories: an older being (usually human) – so called the ‘Father’; a younger human being or an animal (the ‘Son’); and a spirit form – obviously named as the ‘Holy Spirit’.

What about you, I hear you ask? Ah, me: my favourite subject…well, I’m a daemon – as you already know – and a rather famous one at that. Nartheus of Balatia: I doubt if anyone hasn’t heard of that name. I don’t especially have any preference in gender: I find there are advantages in both, depending on the circumstance. I have power, enabling me to have a few slaves – human and demon (even, once, a daemon); I have…well, not friends…acquaintances may be more accurate a description; I have, oooh, thousands of enemies (which is great for the ego); I am reckless, making my life very interesting; I am quite suave and sophisticated at times – if I may say so myself; I am mildly racist (and proud of it too); I am totally modest…and, of course, I am a Big. Fat. Liar.

Well, not really: I only lied about the modesty bit…and maybe the suave and sophisticated: I like to think I am at least once a year, nonetheless. Oh, and just a little piece of advice: never call a daemon, demon. More often than not, you’re likely to meet your maker.

Now, onto the big bit: why am I talking to you at all? Surely a famous daemon like me doesn’t need to talk to weak pathetic humans like yourselves? Well, actually, (though I hate to admit it), I do. Obviously, I don’t want to – in anything, talking to mortals is a last resort. I mean, it’s not as if I’m asking for your help – I just need conformation that I’m right…not that there’s any chance I would be wrong…I’m just…well, insecure…

It started with the meeting I described to you above. Simple and painless (sort of) I assumed that would be it; I could continue my life doing the things that I enjoyed: manipulating humans by and large, sleeping with beautiful humans and daemons (male and female (and both)), laughing at weak…well, things in general, etc. etc. You know: important kind of stuff.
I seemed, though, to have underestimated the stubbornness of mortal humans (there are immortal ones, so don’t get cocky). A big…not mistake…disadvantage on my part. Oh yes.

It’s all very thorny however: at first, she simply wanted to kill me. I can deal with that: many people seem to want me dead and one more human on the list just added an extra boost to my day, but now…now that’s where it gets difficult. Now that same girl has got herself into a little bit of a pickle – well, she will actually be a bit of a pickle if her ex-fiancé (ha ha – get the double pun) gets hold of her – and she’s asked for my help.

You see: this is where I’m…indecisive (not stuck). I’m always out to boost my ego – as you know – and someone asking for my help does that very well. Unfortunately, if it gets to the wrong ears it could be very bad for my reputation: not just helping someone but also, moreover, helping a human.

So I just want to make sure that I’m right in not helping.

No?

Oh buggerit.

Basically, the girl’s fiancée turned out to be one of those immortal humans, which isn’t really very advantageous to…well, anyone really – but mostly me. Well, okay, the girl was a little bit stuck as well, but she did kill him – okay, in theory. I know she didn’t actually do the deed but that’s not my fault is it?

It is?

Yeah, I suppose so.

Well, a year or so after the girl had summoned me the first time, she summoned me again.

And then again.

And again.

And again.

I tell you what – I was getting rather annoyed. It’s like having a retractable leash around your throat; can you imagine it? One minute you’re having fun stalking a poor, innocent, lesser creature, the next you’re standing in some shack in the middle of nowhere with a girl barely turned adult who wants you to do everything she bids you to do. Now how fair is that? For a start, it would mean I would lose a potential slave but also my precious time as well! Fine, so I’m immortal – but it’s still time that could be spent doing other more interesting stuff.

By the time she’d called me a fifth time, I’d given up trying to impress her. I don’t know how she does it, but she manages to summon me at the most inconvenient of times. And not just the odd occurrence – every bloody time.

The room I appeared in was quite bare – it had a carpet and a cushion and that was it. And not very tasteful either. I looked at the ring she’d drawn around my bare feet. It had been drizzled in oil on this occasion as it was obvious chalk wouldn’t show up on this stuff.

“This carpet looks like someone’s been pissing on it for years,” I remarked as I brought my gaze to hers, “You could have at least found somewhere that was better decorated – I mean, half a dozen times? I’m a regular now – you’ve got to start treating me better.”

Her grey gaze was cold as she stared back at me in return and I grinned. I like having that kind of effect on people.

“Nartheus, you know I’m on the run,” she said finally, “I can’t afford to draw attention to myself…” she looked me up and down then, the first time she had taken her eyes from mine, “…though no doubt someone will notice soon enough that I have a fully naked woman in my room and come running.”

I laughed and turned in a circle with a flourish, hair fanning around my shoulders. “Like it?” I asked and saw her frown. Spotting an old mirror hanging on the wall, I indicated the circle around me with my fine hands. “May I? We seem to be lacking mirrors in Balatia recently.”
She shook her dark head, her storm-cloud eyes hard.

“I don’t think so, Nartheus. You’ve tested my hold on you too many times.”

I frowned too. “You can at least bring the mirror to me then. How am I supposed to know what impact I’ll have on people if I don’t know what I look like?”

“You know exactly what impact you have on people, daemon,” she replied, but she flicked her right hand anyway and the mirror slid off the wall to hover in front of me.

I have to admit – I’d done a good job this time. I was sexy. Chestnut brown hair lay in loose waves on my narrow shoulders, framing my defined jaw and large, almond-shaped eyes that were coloured a deep turquoise. Ample breasts mirrored my wide, curving hips and nicely contrasted with a narrow waist. I’d even managed to get the toned stomach and legs – well done me. Slightly turned-up nose, straight, white teeth and full lips, I was every male human’s dream – and possibly every lesbian’s. Ahh…I love a job well done…

The mirror was moved back to the wall and I returned my gaze to the girl’s. Her nose was wrinkled in distaste.

“Nartheus, you stink of sex,” she spat, “Who’s life have you been ruining now?”

I laughed with a grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I answered but I was starting to get irritated by all talk and no action (especially seeing as I’d been interrupted in a lot of action) and I could feel my gaze darken accordingly. “My business is my own Mage. Tell me why I’m here.”

I could feel her emotions clearly and she was nervous now; she wanted a favour. Her eyes flicked to the floor and her left hand rose to play with her braid: an obvious tell-tale sign if you couldn’t already taste her anxiety.

“It’s…time…again. I need you once more.”

I sighed and looked at my manicured nails. “There will always be a ‘once more’ with you, girl. One day you will not be able to summon me. One day you may call me once too often.”

As I looked up again, her eyes softened and pooled with tears. “I know Nartheus, please. I need to undo this wrong I’ve done – all these wrongs I’ve done. You must have a heart in there somewhere. Please help me just this once more. I won’t ask for another time. Please…”
I sighed as a tear slid slowly down her pale cheek. Sometimes I think I’m too attached to humans…

“This last time,” I growled, “But no more after this. You know perfectly well, girl, that I can break your summons easily if I truly wanted to. And I know well enough that without any Watchers backing you, it would be relatively easy to get out of the circle that holds me and pull you out of yours. You’re an intelligent girl – I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

She nodded, taking a deep breath to speak, but I raised my hand.

“There is only one condition,” I continued, knowing I had complete control over the situation and revelling in it, “You have somehow managed to gain the knowledge of my true name. If I am to help you, it is only fair that I know yours.”

The girl gasped audibly and stepped backwards in her protective circle, her hands clenching and a frown immediately darkening her eyes. “It is forbidden to share names with a daemon,” she hissed, clearly furious and not even attempting to hide it, “There is no way while I am still alive that I will give you my name.”

“While you are still alive,” I snarled, becoming increasingly annoyed with the girl’s arrogance.

“You can do nothing, daemon,” she spat in return, taking a step forwards again.

I mirrored her stride, stepping as close as I could to her while still within the ring’s boundary, knowing that my eyes were changing colour uncontrollably to deep black with my anger.

“I will know your name, Mage, or I will become very intimate with your insides,” I was so angry that not even the paling of the girl’s face made me smile, “Don’t forget – you are asking the favour of a powerful daemon. Don’t – push – your – luck.”

The girl screwed up her eyes with a wince and expelled a great sigh. “Garynne,” she said eventually, “Garynne Gavriellé.”

I smiled slowly. Finally, I had the last thing I needed. “Well, Garynne,” I grinned, raising my arms high above my head in a stretch, “Can I call you Gary?”

“No,” she scowled.

“Fine – fair enough,” I lifted my hands in a mock apology, “Whatever you want…” Laughing, I took a step forwards, taking myself out of the circle.

Oh, the fear on her face – what a picture!

Her hands immediately fizzed with a blue aura, indigo sparks flying from her fingertips.
Shaking my head with a chuckle, I took another step forwards. Now I was but two feet away from her shield ring.

“Hmmm…deja vu I think,” I laughed as she flicked a short stream of mage-fire at me nervously, “Don’t worry, Garynne, I can’t touch you while you’re in that ring. But…well…it makes it kind of difficult for you to move anywhere, doesn’t it sweetie?”

Her eyes widened as she suddenly realised what I meant. Snapping around, she searched for her medallion, but I had already seen it. With a snap, I was sat on the large cushion, the delicate silver pendant hung from its thread in my fingers. I could feel the heat off of it though – a little close for my comfort, but it was worth it to see her face.

“I’m a daemon, Garynne – what do you expect?” I said, raising my eyebrows at her crushed look, “We’re not supposed to be trustworthy.”

“Bitch!” she hissed in fearful rage, “You son of a demon whore!”

“Oooh,” I laughed, “You aught to write my biography – you know so much about me.”

Her emotions were volatile and she held back a sob as tears stung her eyes again. “Give me back my medallion, daemon,” the young mage whispered, her hand trembling as she held it out, “Please Nartheus.”

Standing up, I strolled towards her, swinging the pendant in wide circles, careful that it didn’t touch my skin. I suppressed the shudders that automatically came with being so close to the soul marked silver – the only thing that could halt a daemon’s powers and protect the wearer from magikal harm. Magikal armour is rare – even in this age. A lot of it was destroyed through one way or another, some have died out with a family line, and on some plains they have even been banned and locked up in diamond-lined safes (which is expensive to say the least). So, in all, it’s very unlucky to find one – if you’re a daemon of course; if you’re human (or non-magikal), it’s obviously quite lucky.

The girl trembled as I stood a few inches away from her – my feet just behind her protective ring – and I could taste her terror.

“Garynne,” I smiled, dangling the triangular-shaped knot pendant just out of her reach, and echoing her words, “You stink of fear. Whose life have you been ruining now?”

“No one’s!” she sobbed, putting her hands over her face, “I am not a daemon – I have guilt – and a conscience!”

Her words tasted like acid: she was hiding something from me. The trouble with being held in a circle – obviously as well as the whole ‘you can’t leave unless I let you’ concept – is that it is very difficult to sense human emotion. No, not in your way – the tears, the smiles, the sweat – but in our way; I suppose you would call it pheromones, but you wouldn’t be quite right. Just close.

Now I was out of the mage’s power, I had a whole palette of the flavours and scents she was giving out. And she was hiding something.

“Why is this time so important, Garynne?” I asked her ashen face with a querulous frown, “Why is this the last time?”

She made a mistake. “It’s not important,” the girl said with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug and the lie washed over me like bile.

“You lie to me again and I’ll rip that pretty little head of yours from its body,” I hissed, incredulously angry at the fact that she tried to tell a daemon a falsehood. Did she want to be killed or was she just plain, damn stupid?

Wrapping her arms around herself, she shuddered and then heaved a short sigh. “I want to start a family, daemon,” the young mage whispered, tears sliding down her pale cheeks as she rubbed the top of her arms, as though to keep warm, “Do you even know what that is, Nartheus?”

I thought of the small life I had once held in my own arms and frowned. “Daemons can’t have children,” I lied, knowing she would not know the difference between truth and fiction.

The Gavriellé girl looked up then and I could feel her curiosity like bubbles on the surface of a pond. “But…what if two daemons decide to fix their form…couldn’t they…?”

“No,” I told her stonily, “Daemon’s aren’t like humans. They don’t work compatibly together.”

I hissed sharply as the forgotten amulet sung by me, brushing the fine hairs on my bare thigh though not touching the skin – luckily. I glared up at the mage, pissed-off that she had caused my attention to wander so far, but then a slow smile started to appear as I remembered what she had said.

“A family, eh? So, there’s another man in your life then?” my smile grew broader as her face dropped back to despair, “Your ex-fiancé’s not going to be happy about that little arrangement, I’m guessing?”

“No…” she whispered, barely even audible, “He’s even more…persistent…than he was before. He…” she shuddered again, though more violently, so that even I was surprised.

I caught a picture then – just a glimpse as to what she was seeing in her mind. The mage must have sent it to me purposely for it was the only way it could’ve happened, and – in a way – I was flattered, even though she probably only did because she had no words to describe it.

Strangely, after the image had gone, I felt a kind of pity for the young girl.

“He tried to impregnate you,” I confirmed, and she suppressed the shudder this time, nodding instead, “And his soul’s become twisted?”

She nodded slowly again, but I didn’t need her affirmation to know I was right – the image in her mind was evidence enough, even if it had been twisted slightly by fear and imagination.

Another question struck me all of a sudden. “Why do you come to me for this?” I asked, curious for once, “I should be the last being you summon.”

Her aura gave off the smell of embarrassment and she wrung her hands, looking down at her feet. “Because the others have all tried to kill me.”

“Are you afraid of me, Mage?” I hissed, glaring at her as she subsequently paled.

She only gave a brief pause before answering truthfully. “Y-yes.”

“Then do not, for one minute, assume I’m not going to kill you. If you even put one of the hairs on your pretty little head across the line, I will not tolerate it and you will be dead. Do-you-understand?”

The girl nodded, her skin nearly as grey as her eyes, and I smiled, knowing I would be obeyed.
“Now. What did you want this time?” I asked, strolling back to the cushion with the talisman and flopping (carefully) down onto it.

“Well,” she began, timidly meeting my gaze and wringing her hands restlessly, “I need somewhere to hide.”

I snorted with laughter. “You want me to take you into one of the Netherworlds and just leave you there?”

“Well, no…” Guilt flowed off her in waves and I sighed exasperatedly, rolling my eyes.

“What, child? Spit it out!”

“Luka has…has worked out how to shift between realms,” the young mage murmured softly but quickly, “I want you to take me into one of the Netherworlds but I also want you to stay and protect me. It’ll take him a while to find out which Netherworld I’m in but he will find me and I need you there when he comes looking.”

I frowned and shook my head. “You ask a lot for one favour,” I told her, still debating as to whether I should take her offer or not, “What’s in it for me?”

She frowned then too, startled by my question. I could hardly believe she was expecting me to do it for free but here she was looking me as if I’d just sprouted tentacles (which I can do, by the way).

“I have nothing that you would be interested in…” the girl eventually muttered, her eyes lowering in dismay.

“On the contrary, my dear young girl,” I grinned, looking at her through the holes in the pendant, “You have something that I want very much.”

The sour tang of fear hit my nostrils. “W-what’s that?”

I smiled at her, cocking my head to one side, “Your soul.”

“But that would mean there would be no point in me doing this?!” she cried in terror, “I wouldn’t be able to make a family without my soul!”

Laughing, I shook my head, “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, girl: I only want you as my slave. Your family can be slaves too if you want them with you.”

Garynne just stood there and gaped at me.

“Oh, stop looking like an electrocuted trout – it’s not that hard: if you agree to be my slave for as long as I see fit, I will get rid of your…problem. If you don’t: you deal with it all by your lonesome.”

Her sigh was heavy as the mage looked at her feet again in resignation. “Fine, daemon. I will be your slave. Now, will you find somewhere for me to hide?”

I stood up, flinging her pendant out of the window before she could react, and grabbing her hand through her shield ring. And before you ask: yes, it hurt.

“Drop the shield,” I growled at her, my face only a few inches from hers. She flicked her free hand and the blue fire disappeared – along with the pain. I let go of her wrist abruptly with a growl and rubbed my hand over my scorched arm, healing the blackened flesh back to its previous skin colour.

“You are never to use that spell again.” I told her, glaring. “If you need to protect yourself from other daemons, use an ice wall, not a fire ring. It will hinder them more if they get pissed off and try to kill you; any daemon that’s willing to go through the pain will be able to get through a fire ring – as you just experienced.”

“Thank you,” she whispered and I immediately cursed myself for being too nice, but – hey – this was starting to get fun.

“Right,” I said, grinning at the girl and grasping her wrist once more, “Off we go then.”

I snapped my fingers and the girl’s world as she knew it went black.

Ooh, I've just realised how long that was... sorry!

Here's my entry! It's an old English memoir assignment from 8th grade, but it's still a serviceable document. And ShadowWake, your entry made me grin several times-- have you ever read the Bartimaeus Trilogy? Because it put me in mind of a certain djinni and his 'master' Nathaniel...

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

I have a skill. A skill I developed out of desperation. It prevents the many possible traumas of the night from keeping me awake. How? Well, reader, my skill is unique because-wait for it- I can control my dreams. Controlling the mind’s nighttime wanderings is draining, and detracts from the overall refreshment sleep offers. What I am about to describe is my first experiments with dream control. If you are wondering just how I came upon this skill, you need simply to read on…

3 years ago, at approximately 12:00 AM- midnight

I awoke shivering. I had come so close to dying. Fear pounded through my heart, making me dizzy and unfocused. I had almost died. Ugh. You’re alive, Setareh. Breathe. You’re alive. Monster didn’t get you, now did it. . . . WHY CAN’T I JUST HAVE SOME NORMAL DREAMS!?! I clicked on my bedstead’s lamp, and then allowed my groggy gaze to sweep around my room. Just in case there were any potential dangers. I’m sure a five year old would know the sort- hideous goblins, demented creatures from mystic isles, etc. But an 11.5 year old? I mean, please. The human mind’s imagination is a powerful enemy, and it was my misfortune to live thus; in fear of my own thought.

The murky interior of my room, couple with an over-active imagination, creates abundant material for gruesome denizens of shadows and swamps. Raccoons would creep about my room, which upon closer inspection turned out to be specters gagging on blood in the throes of death. Indeed, all it takes for my mind to create an animated, sometimes whispering (it depends on where I am) being of the night often is as harmless as a bedraggled library bag. As I gradually nodded off, I had time to feel (not think) one thought; Tomorrow, I’m finding a solution.

I popped a pill in my mouth (Zyrtec antihistamine) and inhaled with gusto from my Advair disk (250ml inhaler for exercise-induced asthma). I had a plan. German chamomile, besides being known for its apple flavor, is remarkably relaxing and has been known to calm mildly neurotic or depressed minds minds. In addition, it’s an excellent source of B vitamins. That’s not to say I’m neurotic, of course, but my dream issue could be due to tension (I now know that the drink actually could have succeeded if I’d added catnip, lemon balm, passion flower, and valerian root; but then, you can’t expect a sixth-grader to know that). My mom had prepared a brew, sweetened with honey. I snuggled down into the covers and prepared for slumber. I fell asleep ahead of my usual 2 hours,30 min.; an improvement!

The being looked at me and smiled. Growls of pleasure emanated from its chest. Skin bloody from the previous victims, I noted. He brandished a rag doll at me, laughter like harsh rocks emanating from his scaled chest. The rag doll- it was alive! My sister screamed from somewhere- with a horrified gasp, I realized that he had her- as bait to lure me ever closer to his tusks dripping venom. I ran. A bellow of rage reach my ears, and upon turning around to see what it was, I shrieked. The demon had multiplied into its hordes of victims and stampeded after me. The taste of blood rose in my mouth as I tripped and was promptly surrounded by leering, laughing victims. One drew nearer, then viciously slashed at my throat. As the hordes grew into a capering frenzy over the macabre sight of fresh blood I--
--gasping and gagging, turned into one of them. Heart pulsating at the sight of the kill…… panting, I just realized that I was awake. The tea hadn’t worked. What’s worse was, I now had to use the bathroom. A trial in itself, I thought, staring doubtfully at the objects my hyper-active mind was already jerking to life. Inhaling, I sprinted to the bathroom. Back to the drawing board.

I slogged through my school day in a state of all-to-common sleepy detachment. Ignoring the fraction tree my teacher was drawing (they were so easy that the subject was laughable) I brain stormed a new idea. It would obviously require much more wit and cunning for my mind to best itself. Ah, now there’s a thought- it didn’t offer much at first glance, but all genius-- oh, joy, I have to go complete the fraction tree. There’s simplicity in its manifest form.

Time to put plan B in action. Finishing my homework, I retired at 7:00PM, which gave ample time to read a calm book to the soothing background of piano and flute music. Settling deeper against my pillow, I felt my eyelids droop at about eight. Yawning, I turned of the lights and shut off every possible source of light. It was crucial that I didn’t see anything at all, lest my imagination work its curse upon me. Clearing my head, I allowed myself to sink into the watery depths of unconsciousness.

“Hey, Mahtaab!” I called. “Come look at this!” Strolling over in her blue pajamas, my naturally curious sister inquired what it was.” A tiny yellow spider just-” my voice trailed off. The walls and foundations of the living room melted away as a hideous being with bloodstained skin leered at me. “Remember me?” It grated in it’s harsh, rocky voice. Yes, I do, I thought. But the monster never had a chance to notice. Dashing through the gray plains, I nearly incinerated myself on a stream of magma spewing from a crater. Bellowing, my nemesis turned magma-based spirits from the pits of Hades after me. Tripping, I fell down a bottomless crater, screaming and grasping for handholds that were not there. With a triumphant howl of glee, the being appeared beneath me, opening it’s arms in an embrace that would mean--

This time, I knew that my remedy had failed even before my eyes flew open. Mentally groaning, I shifted in bed. 4:00AM. Great. I suppose I could get an hour of sleep.

DING DONG DING DONG DIN- or maybe not. There goes Mahtaab’s erratic alarm clock. Is she fine with her alarm accidentally busting off at this hour? Yes. Am I? No. Maybe I should ditch the plans for Operation Sleep Well and get the alarm clock instead.

It was in the middle of English the next morning that my next plan came to me. Rather, I saw a book called Consciousness Revealed, a contemporary study on the human brain. The cover had a crude human brain sketched on it. Intrigued, I opened it and was amazed at how in-depth it was. The book extolled the virtues and mysteries of thought with a sense of awe. It even unveiled theories on hypnotism. But more than that, it stated ‘a very few humans can allegedly control, to varying degrees, the nighttime activities of their unconscious……sign of the ability is to think to oneself while in the middle of a dream, among…’This just could be it! I recalled that one moment, last night, when my dream-specter asked if I recalled him. In an uncharacteristic moment of calm, I had thought yes. Could it be? Might ‘plan C’ be the way out? By golly, if it worked, I could be free! The thick tome no longer seemed boring. In fact, I could almost see the light of heaven shining down on its radiant cover. Of course, fate interrupted my brush with…fate…in the form of my English teacher calling me to the front of the room. Sighing, I went to her side. Why does this always happen when I’ve alighted upon a good idea?

I was almost whistling as I scrubbed my teeth that night. Science was something I could understand, something with addressed my problem and gave me a window. I had no plan, save for trying to commune to a terrified me who thinks she’s got bizarre demons chasing her, but that was all I needed. I spit and obligingly budged as Mahtaab reached for her tooth brush. Odd, I thought, every time a new plan swirls to my mind, I feel greater optimism, and have greater failures. Could this be yet another dead end? Such a pessimist, I told myself. Now zip it and get into bed.

The pre-dawn light dyed his skin a bloody magenta. Teeth gleaming like scythes, he bore down on me. Claws flashing, he rent a gaping wound in my now useless leg. Screaming, I gasped, even as a thought entered my head: Setareh, this is a dream. Desperately. I held on to that shred of consciousness. Look at your leg. Utterly painless. Calm yourself, now. Oddly, I no longer was frantic. I had attained a detached, airy demeanor. The was a catch, of course. There always is. Despite my futile attempts to control my spasmodically jerking limbs, I still couldn’t prevent myself from limp-running to the lip of a crater. As if following the script of a bad play, I threw myself into the volcanic depths even as I drifted awake.

Sleepily, I blinked. It worked was my last thought before oblivion claimed me. And this time, it was dreamless.
I gave my accomplishment no thought until the next night. I was almost too giddy to fall asleep. I had hit something potent. This, I felt certain, was my key to….well, nothing world shattering, but still amazing. Or so it seemed. Hey, have you ever suffered of sleeplessness? Gimme a break. I fell asleep…. and actually looked forward to my dreams.
----------------------
So, that’s how I learned to control my dreams. It took me about a year to fine-tune my ability, and even now it isn’t perfect. It is impossible for me to change a plot completely, and if I’m tired, I can only partially control myself. Also, because the skill involves attention to one’s surroundings, it is possible to accidentally wake yourself up. So be careful if you have trouble falling asleep again, because this is a technique only applied to the prevention of nightmares. However- enjoy yourself! There are no inhibitions or rules in your mind. In my dreams, I can experience things out of the norm. I have toyed with magic, flown on a dragon, galloped across fields of souls on a horse, then returned to my own life. I have even conversed with my own cat. Even if my grasp on this skill is thin, the dreams will always be there. And there will always be a nightmare to twist.

Great, Alacer! You know I used exactly the same method...? I can now recognise a dream and pull myself out of it: cool or what? And yes, my little story (which actually isn't finished) was intended to be a sequel though now, with so many other stories I have going, it probably isn't going to get done.

Here goes mine, I haveth inspiration now !

-----

The worn, grey-feathered quill scratched the paper, tracing black, squiggly lines across the surface of the rough paper. Its light sound, alike to a small bird, clawing its way out of the shell it'd been encased in for so long, trying to break through, and see the sunlight that only faintly shone through the fabric of its egg. Reich scribbled along, not frantically, but not taking meticulous care to write properly. He didn't need to make this perfect, make it beautiful and embellished. He just needed to write, and let his brother know that all went well, that he still thought of him, though the whole breadth of the land separated them, left them alone, on each of their sides, an impassible ravine stretching between the two.

After many more minutes, wherein the quill waved and weaved, its feathered length billowing about as Reich wrote down his thought, wrote down ... anything, that could please his brother, give him at least one link to the outside world, other than the light that shone from his barred window, splaying a stripy shadow on the dirty, straw-strewn ground of his cell.. At last, hitting the quill's cut end one last time against the surface of the paper, the woodsman let it rest back in its inkwell, to let its end mingle with the dark liquid it was so accustomed to. Reich rolled up the paper, after letting it dry, then delicately held it thus with a piece of knotted grass, that made up the rope Reich used so often. He would need to go to the village, and the couriers could then take his message off, and away, to the far-off land of twilight snow, to the castle, and dungeon, of Lord Treijus.

Reich got up from his creaking chair, taking the time to roll his shoulders, to stretch out the fatigue that had seeped into his muscles, after sitting down for many minutes without other movement than that of his wrist. The leather tabard he wore over his green flannel tunic creaked, and the sound mixed with the rustle of the cloth he wore, that kept on as the lumberjack's long legs brought him to the door of his shack. There, against a wall, rested his axe, his belt, and his bow and arrow.

A few quick, well-practised moves had those slung on to his body, axe on his back with the quiver of arrows, belt holding a machete around his burly waist, and the bow resting in his calloused hand. Donning a thick woollen cap of a faded green, which hid the middle-aged man's growing bald patch, Reich stepped out of the door, and was greeted by a crisp, post-winter wind, that stung his face fore a mere instant, as the heat of the shack that clung on to him, did so for a few more instants, and was then chased away by the cold of the air, the bite of the wind.

His booted feet paced the cold ground, carrying him away from the shack, its diminutive form slowly vanishing from sight among the tall forms of the trees against which it rested. The path Reich took brought him down a rolling slope, the small village of Amberley creeping into view, a few columns of smoke rising from its wooden, shoddy form, a few beaten paths leading to its centre, but nothing other to make it marked on the map. Reaching one of the said paths, Reich followed its course, bending and weaving around natural obstacles too large for its unenterprising constructors to try and overcome or destroy. "Better that way ..." mumbled the logger, as the thought crossed his mind, to be lost and blown away in the incessant wailing of the wind.

After a few more minutes of it, he reached it, the small township of Amberley, surrounded by a few unkempt farms, muddy fields and most bleak-looking cows, their mouths chewing rhythmically the grass they ate all day. A man-high picket fence was all the defence Amberley ever had, and all it ever needed really, for no bandit was really desperate enough to try and raid this place, a few poultry and cabbages as spoil for it barely seemed worth getting a pitch forck in your gut.

Reich slowed his pace when he reached the very fringe of the village itself, stopping moments later, as he took in the sight. Few people were about, most still at home enjoying the respite that lunchtime gave them, and all families would be found gathered around their tables, while some other men would be found at the tavern, a drink in their dirtied hands and a smile on their worn, wind-battered face. The logger brought a rough hand up to stroke his beard, a bush of dirty-blond hair on his chin, that extended to both lengths of his jaw, curling round and over to look down upon the man's thin mouth, its other ends curling right up to meet with his chops. It was there to keep him warm, and because he didn't have time for such pleasantries usually, free time was spent eating, or sleeping, not grooming his facial hair.

Slinging the bow that he held in hand around his strong torso, Reich let both of his heavy arms sway rhythmically as he took up his walk again, setting off at a comfortable pace, veering to the left, to the main building of the village, where the elder's house was located. A few more moments, where the weary eyes of housewives already busying themselves with clothes hung on their lines, or dogs who's bowls needed filling, regarded him carefully, some with distaste, other with a hollow smile on their faces. Reich wasn't a very active part of the community, he didn't even live here, and people were O so over-cautious here. It was everything the poor elder could do at times to stop men from demanding a woman to be burnt on a stake, "for being a witch" was the usual excuse.

Finally, he found it, a strong(er) looking house, walls of dry-stone at the bottom with the simple mud and straw weave for the other few feet of its totality, and a most likely leaking roof. Amberley was in no way a rich place, rather it was a dump in which a few xenophobic people tried to scratch a living out of the few resources available. Still, their efforts had to be praised, for what had once seemed a hopeless effort, by a community fleeing the wars from further west. Rapping his knuckles firmly on the door to the building, Reich waited for an answer, or at least a sign of the elder. Feet padding against the bare, beaten earth of the house was what he got in answer, and the door creaked open shortly thereafter, a man with very sharp edges, a straw hat and a few wisps of hair on his face, more looking like places where he forgot to shave than an actual beard. His name was Velas.

"Well, who is ... Ah, Reich ... he mumbled in his weedy voice; what is it ? It's lunchtime I'll have you know, we don't all have the pleasure to gallivant freely about the wilds." His words were somewhat harsh, as they'd always been. To the villagers of Amberley, Reich was no more than a man who did little to help this place, but demanded too much from it for his own good. Would they not be on a direct line of travelling caravans to the kingdom of Solio, the Twilight White as it was commonly called, the elder would rather use the letters given to him for fuel than bother sending them out. Still, the poor man had lost a wife bearing child, and had a brother rotting in a dungeon in a far-off land that he couldn't travel to, Velas couldn't help but let a little sympathy seep out of his old, rotten heart.

And so, every month, he sent one of his boys out to the main road, to find a caravan to give the letter to. Every month, he risked one of his boys' life, just to please this logger who rather lived on them, than with them. What am I thinking ... he'd tell himself every time, and every time he would nonetheless accept, for the measly amount of coins, or the few pelts given in exchange. Madness ...

"I need a letter delivered again, good Velas, is it possible ? I've a few good oaks that came down in the storm, cut up and ready to fuel your fires, should you accept." Damn him, and his ways, were it not for ... Why does he have to put me in such dire straights ? Let my son gallop freely and get a spear in the belly from some looting party, or forsake fuel for our fires ? Damn him, and may that wood be good ! grumbled the elder, gaze falling to the ground Reich stood on, to the man's opulent shadow, that covered him in a layer of darkness. For a second, he pulld at the coarse fabric of his faded-black tunic, pulling it tighter, as the wind buffeted them all again, piercing through the flimsy clothing like sword through paper, and chilling them right to the bone. "Darn the winter wind, it stills lingers with us even though its time is passed ..." mumbled the logger, and Velas couldn't help but nod.

"Fine, fine, but let those oaks be good; be glad I'm kind to you, why I do this for you every time, the Sun only knows !" Reich smiled vaguely, his hairy hand fumbling around his waist for the letter. At last, he pulled it free of the small sack it was in, and handed it over to the greedy elder's hands. "Fine fine ... Now can I finish my venison ?" The lumberjack simply smiled, again, faintly, and turned on his heel, booted feet hitting the wooden planks that led to the man's door with a monotonous "thud" every time they bore him further on, before landing in the mud the rest of the village bathed in, feet now rather making a "slush" or a squelch than anything else.

---

Several days later

It was cold, it was always cold ... It was damp too, and dark, but Blain was used to that now, used to it all, to the beatings, the pain, the constant cold, the lice that infested his ragged fur vest, the only clothing apart from torn pants that warded off the cold winds, as they charioted through the stone corridors of the dungeons, wailing to all those imprisoned, both a promise of the outside, and an insult to them, trapped inside, victim of their own greed, of the blindness of justice, to rot and pay their time, to be let loose years after, when the world had forgotten them, buried them along with the rest of those past memories. Again, he felt a small pain, some other creature had deemed Blain's flesh good enough to bit into, and steal a bit of blood.

He was covered with them, lice and fleas, from the clothes, the beds, even the food they ate seemed to attract the beasts. But now, the poor man lived with it, hollow, deep-set eyes scanning the floor, idly. He'd scanned it so thoroughly, for years, had signed it, branded it with his own mark, showed that he too, had been here, had called it home, tried to forget the iron bars that separated him from the rest of the world, tried to forget that he was so alike to a caged animal, and just let the stripes of light, shining through the barred windows of his cell, fill his eyes, his mind, just looked at them and hoped for a better day, when his imprisonment would finally come to an end, so he could finally taste the fresh breath of the wind on his face, not the rotten, foul-smelling gusts that managed to arrive in these god-forsaken dungeons.

Booted feet ... Booted feet hit the stone ground, what would've been a staccato lost in a sea of echoes, as the resonating sound made its way down the corridor before its creator, to alert those trapped underneath that someone was coming. "Guard's coming ..." they all muttered to themselves, as the blazing light of a torch splayed the grey stone with an aura of red. "Blain ? Blain Parkeep ? Where be you ?" shouted a man's voice, and all Parkeep could answer was a small, rasping grunt, was it a "I'm here" ? Or was it just that, a rasping grunt ? Either way, after the guard chastised a few inmates for their rude, or sarcastic comments, his booted feet carried him over to the cell in the far right of the small complex, to where this man sat.

"Blain Parkeep ? Letter fer ye, again ..." grumbled the Warden, handing the inmate a rolled up letter, bound by a knotted grass rope. Reich again ... thought Blain, his mood lightening. He grabbed the letter, pulling the string open, and let the rough feel of the poor paper caress his hands. There was no scent he knew attached to it, other than that earthy one gathered from days of travelling. He let the paper roll open, to show a sharp hand-writing, tight and slightly illegible. It read as follows:

Dear brother, as usual, I hope all is well. Winter's siege has finally abated here, and is readying its leave, albeit slowly. I won't bore you with the usual gossip of the village wives, of who's crop is best or worst, who's beasts are next for the slaughter, or who is getting married in the following spring. It has all become pointless to me, O so very pointless. Every day, I feel my link to these villagers growing ever fainter. Many have already voiced their dislike of me, of how I "stalk" their village, never a part of it, but always demanding things from it. Again, I will not bore you with my laments, for yours are far worse, Blain, but know that I am thinking of leaving Amberley, of leaving for good, leaving the mud and rat infested place behind, and once again use the road and the woods as only home.

How painful it must be for you, to hear of travel, and yet be locked inside the stone belly of Lord Treijus' dungeons, to rot. How I mourn for you, dear brother. Things have to get better though, they have, all good people suffer bad things, yes, but they never suffer them eternally. With those words in both our minds, my letter comes to a close. I have little else to say, and so leave you, once more. Soon, I am sure we will meet, and then, well ... Who knows what ? As you can only dream in this place you were thrust into, I leave you to do that, and pray for your well-being, day and night, brother.

Reich

With those words still lingering in his dark thoughts, Blain let the paper rest on the table of his cell, its form curling back up into a cylinder, his rough, bandaged hands slowly letting their fingers trace lines along the paper, feel the ink inscribed on it. Yes, Reich was right, soon, he would leave, soon, the world would be in front of him, open wide for his feet to tread upon once more. Not now though, now was time to sleep. His hand finally leaving the rough surface of the letter, Blain trod over to to the bed, gazed down at it, and fell into its strawy midst. There was no comfort here, only numbness, forget the pain, and survive ...



There we go, that's kinda like the first part, there's no real conclusion, all the events would happen later, but I eflt that that was long enough. Hope you all like it !

Here's my entry. Simply titled, In Twenty Four Hours. Wrote this a while back on a different forum.
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In twenty-four hours, they’ll be laying flowers on my grave.

The world is still dark when I wake in the morning. All I can see is the dim, flickering bluish light of computer monitors in the other room. He’s still up, probably working on some master plan.

I sit, looking around my blank and empty room; my world. Where? What was I? I have so many memories. And they’re about to be erased, for all and forever. I feel the soft bed with the springs that poke and prod my back all night.

I stand. My bare feet ache for some reason. The floor is warm, too, and I feel on my sensitive soles the fabric of the carpet. I stretch, letting my tendons stress a little. It’s good for them.

I don’t turn on a light. I slip into a tank top and plain jeans before slowly opening the door.

I have twenty-three hours.

--

The sky is still the same when I leave. The ground is flat and clean, and the snow falls in trickles. In another life, another day, it would be beautiful. The way the amber streetlights, in their sodium-vapor glory, make the snow fall beautifully and seem to make the world a dark, but bright, place.

My shoes are old and cold.

The wind blows through me. Like the bullet will.

I reach the store where I work. Why was I coming here?

I entered and put my old coat away. I can’t feel my hands. I’ve had a dream before, it was like this: I came to work to find a gunman there, and I found a way to defeat him with amazing skill.

I don’t even have the strength to change a tire, or to climb high enough to change a lightbulb on the ceiling.

My manager hasn’t come yet. He usually has me do the morning work for him. I turn on only a small light in back, and prepare for the long and dull day. The paperwork is easy.

Just like me, the rumors say.

I have twenty-two hours.

--

I turn on the remaining lights to the shop, and start working on the first orders. Nothing particularly interesting happened.

A customer came in after we had been opened for a half hour.

“Do you have any G9 bulbs in 35 watts?”

Yes. We do.

Another came in, angry that his ballast didn’t work.

It wasn’t our fault; he wired it wrong and something broke. I didn’t care.

Why care?

I had always dreamed of living in the city. Of being free; to watch the sun set and smell fresh air, even as it snowed. To be inspired to write something good.

Instead, I write this.

“I bought this, but it doesn’t work.”

Nothing works.

I have twenty-one hours.

--

The clock ticks away. Tick-tock.

It is eight am. Right on schedule. The paperwork is done. No one is around.

I decide to draw. Circles, squares; they’re all shapes. Shapes are what I draw. They give the world a format. A curve here, a sharp point there. They’re all real.

Reality. That was something that I once wanted. The truth. The universal truth of the world. But it’s impossible to find.

At least in this mortal body. But that’s not why I have what I have left.

A song plays on the radio. I can’t make out the words, but it seems to be a sad song, like someone is mourning the loss of someone else. I wonder if they really are.

The paperwork is done, and my shapes are drawn.

I have twenty hours.

--

The manager finally came in. He smells of booze. He always does. I wonder why the owner doesn’t fire him.

He is the owner.

“We’ve made $37.48 today,” I tell him. I have nothing better to do.

“Good,” is all he says.

I wonder. My mind wanders. Wander, wonder, and ponder. They all sort of mean the same thing. Context is everything. And nothing, at the same time.

Like I am.

I frown, and stand to take a break. The lights are warm; the manager doesn’t like fluorescent bulbs. I don’t know why.

He doesn’t like many things.

My break is fifteen minutes of standing in the cold, and then back to dull reality.

I have nineteen hours.

--

Time. Once, I used to think that time was all I had. I had too much of it; too few things to do and too much time to do it in. Sort of like in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, “Come on! We have so little to do and so much time to do it! Wait a minute, reverse that.”

I feel like that now. Rush rush. Must finish and complete my story.

My story. What was my story? Did I have one? What was it? I won’t ever know. Some people simply don’t have what it takes to be a story.

I know it is irony that I should be writing this, as I have no real story.

Several more customers came in and asked further inane questions about energy efficiency and things like that.

All for the sake of saving future dollars.

A future. Whatever that really means.

I have eighteen hours.

--

Dreaming. What is the point of daydreaming when this is the last day of forever? The end of times are nearer, far nearer, than any of us hope. And we should not fear these days, for they are a cursed blessing.

Escaping is the point of daydreaming lost and hopeless dreams. I wish to escape. To be free. Freedom, it was a lie among lying liars of the world. There is no freedom. Only a heavy burden called life.

It is hard to breath. The air is warm, and my shirt feels tight to my chest. My manager doesn’t mind that. I’ve caught his eyes several times. Disgusting.

Life. Such a strange and unusual concept. What was the point of life if it was merely to suffer? To feel pain and agony for all the years one has on a too hot or too cold planet?

It seems pointless to me.

Like the customers that come in, and despite looking at an incandesce bulb, insist on asking for them.

Asking. For help.

Pointless. Like me.

I have seventeen hours.

--

Once, when I was young, I had dreams. I wanted to be a scientist. I wanted to be an inventor. I’d even managed, in my own mind, to invent many wondrous machines.

My teachers had been kind enough to play along with my imagination, but my father told me that I wasn’t smart enough to become a scientist.

Who’d of thought that he was right?

Now I’ve abandoned all dreams, except for the one last one: everlasting sleep.

Sleep.

I liked to sleep, and I found myself doing such for about six minutes.

My manager didn’t catch me. Too bad, so sad. It would have been a wonderful example of my worthlessness.

I search the newspaper while sitting behind the cash register.

MAN SURVIVES FALL FROM BURNING BUILDING

ONE HUNDRED DEAD IN SUICIDE BOMBING

PRESIDENT POLL NUMBERS DOWN

HEAVY SNOWFALL THROUGH MORNING

And so falls the snow.

I have sixteen hours.

--

The clock strikes one. One. What a number. It is both the first and greatest, as the smallest of them all. Both, a plural word for a singular entity; what a strange concept.

Words are weird.

A woman came into the store, her face red with anger. She roared, and it seemed that her eyes bulged from her face. Her otherwise plump form seemed restrained, as if she wanted to hit someone.

If she struck me, I’d let her. The pain would be as I feel.

A light sting, compared to later.

She was evidently angry that one of us had sold her an interior ceiling fan, and she installed it on her porch. Being made for inside, and being placed outside, it sparked and burned down her porch.

The idiot.

The world is full of idiots. Self-absorbed fools who think the world is out to get them.

Like me.

I have fifteen hours.

--

The boss’s friend stopped by.

They talked in one of the aisles of the store, and I watched them. They didn’t notice me, except for once when the boss
nodded towards me.

I suppose they talked about me.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have friends that you can share your true self with. They all vanished when college came.

I had a job, and I stayed here. They left the city, and stopped talking to me. That’s the way the world works. Once you make it, you break off contact with everyone else who haven’t made it.

Friends. They help keep you alive. They are there for you. And when you lose them, you lose a part of your life.

Or all of it.

As it turns out, the man had come to warn us a major snowstorm was on its way.

My boss decided to close the store early.

I have fourteen hours.

--

The storm strikes with amazing swiftness, and as I collect my thin coat and prepare to leave the dimming store, I see the first wave of thick, dense clumps of wet snow fall from the gray sky.

I open the door. The bell rings as I leave the closing store. Already it is too dark to see far; the sky has but gray emptiness to it.

And yet in the emptiness, in the gray nothingness, there is a sort of sad beauty to it. The snow is heavy, filled with the sorrows of the world.

This is my element.

I walk slowly among the accumulating snow, and I see the snow drifts undulate with the sudden, swift breezes. Even the bright lights from the morning, turned on to help the cars navigate the notorious unknown, are faint beyond the wall of snowfall.

It crunches under my boots, under my numbing toes. My teeth rattle, and I am sure my cheeks are red.

Red from blood. Blood that will soon flow from the wound that I walk calculated steps ever nearer to.

I have thirteen hours.

--

On the way home, I pass a park.

The empty skeleton of an old playground remains, covered in the white snow, unmarked by footprints or other tracks. It stands alone, amongst the windy snowdrifts.

I’m alone, too.

I remember coming to this park in summer and playing. There used to be a rocking chair there that looked like a truck. I named the park the “truck park” because of it.

Now the truck park is dead. No children come here any more, and few linger longer than a minute or two.

I won’t be lingering long, either.

I step off the sidewalk onto the snow-covered ground and walk towards the cold, metal swing-set. I run a naked hand on the bare, frosted steel, and I nod.

It’s been far too long.

The day--my life--is half over.

I have twelve hours.

--

I reach home by five o’clock. My body shook and shivered from the cold, and perhaps in fear of my impending doom. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

I throw off my frozen and quite wet shoes, peel off my socks, and throw my coat to the floor. With teeth rattling, I walk on warm carpeting to my room, intent on the idea of taking a nap. I’ve been up since five this morning, I needed a rest.

Before the fireworks begin, at least.

I set the alarm for seven, and after that, I quickly curled up in my small, lumpy, warm bed.

I was quick to fall asleep, and for a while there was empty blackness. And it was soothing. But then, after an infinity of darkness, I began to dream.

A young man stood before me, and glanced at me in the dark depths of my dreamscape, and he seemed to hum a peaceful song. It was alluring, and made me content.

Something was strange.

Somewhere, out there, the hour ticked by.

I have eleven hours left.

--

Dreaming.

We spend countless hours dreaming—dreaming for the future, for the past. We dream strange things, and sometimes they do not make sense.

And so it is with this dream. It is clear: I can see it all, within me, the passage of black motifs circulating amongst uncorrelated images. The man continues to hum, and although he seems just out of reach, he never leaves me.

I can see a stairway, going upwards into infinity and downwards equally far. I go to it and hesitate. Which way should I go?

My dreams are strange.

Once, I had a dream of my friends returning to me, becoming my friends once more. It was a peaceful dream, and I had awoken to the hopes of it being true.

Dreams are only fantasies. They will never happen.

And so it is: I near the man, his long black hair flowing all about, and I wish to hug him. And just as I reach to do so . . .

The alarm clock bellows, and I awake to the real world.

What a miserable, cold, dark place.

I have ten hours left.

--

As it was, so it is. I slowly sit up in bed, groggy from my short two-hour nap. The bright red LED clock tells me I’ve only slept so long, but it is just the same. I didn’t really need to sleep.

It was stupid of me.

I yawn and stretch out. What did I have planned for the last hours? I slowly stand, and walk out the door of my room. The electric glow of my roommate’s computer is still present, and so I knock on the door.

He grumbled, and opened it, his face silhouetted. “Yeah?” he says.

“Hm. Working on your plans of world domination?” I ask simply.

He moved a bit, as if to hide the screen. He narrowed his eyes—-details I somehow managed to make out amongst the dark. He must have suspected something.

He was smart.

“What do you want?” he asked. Our friendship had been sour for some time, since he discovered I had no feelings for him.

“Rent.”

“What about it?”

“Here’s my rent--I put it on the table for you. For this month.”

“Why so early?” he asked, his tone dark and paranoid.

“I have plans.”

Many plans indeed, and soon they shall come to fruition.

I go into the kitchen, and begin to draw up the beginnings of it.

I have nine hours left.

--

I sit at the small table, a blank piece of paper on it. The white page seemed to stare at me, as if to ask me what I would put onto it.

Paper. It is infinite potential. Anything can become of the paper: a drawing, a letter, even a plane. It could become freedom. It could be proof of the world’s wrongs.

It is such a waste to use up such infinite potential on anything less than perfection.

What is the point of all of this?

I take up my mechanical pencil. It was the crafter of limitless possibilities; out of it could be molded anything onto the leaf of paper. It is strange.

With a slow and calculated though, I slowly press the tip of the graphite utensil to the page, and begin to scribble something onto it.

“All that is, was once good.”

“All that was, is now gone.”

“All shall be returned.”

“All shall be made real.”

What did it all mean?

I slowly stand, and take a can of soda from the refrigerator.

I feel guilty. Why did I need to drink something?

I have eight hours left.

--

This world is blank.

Nothingness. A vast sea of nothing. It seems to consume all. A bitter finale to a pointless life. These are the truths that I now consider.

We are here to explore this reality. To explore ourselves. But what are we but empty shells? And if nothing fills that shell, what are we? Nothing. Our spirits, our souls, inhabit the shell, but what purpose does it serve? If our souls are immortal but our frames, our shells, are frail, decaying things, then why must we live this life?

What stops us from forfeiting this version of reality, and jumping right to the next one?

"The good has gone to sleep.”

“And soon we shall all weep.”

Nothingness. The world rotates ad infinitum through it, and in the vast sea of nothing, we are but mere specks of pointless chance.

Why is something as meaningless and worthless as I even thinking about these things? There is little reason for it.

"Amongst the winds the sands do cry.”

“For all the world’s a waste.”

“And we all go into our minds and pry.”

“To try to make haste with what we taste.”

“Of chaste eternity.”

I frown, and erase what I write from the paper. The beauty of a pencil: you can erase any mistakes made.

Soon, I’ll be erasing a single, great mistake.

I have seven hours left.

--
I leave the kitchen to sit on the couch in the dark living room. The table we have is covered in cans and old newspapers. I reach blindly for the remote, and I turn on the television.

The old cathode-ray tube cackled to life, along the way making a popping and a hissing noise. The screen is somewhat fuzzy, but nothing else was wrong with it. First I turn it to the local channels, and find that we are under a severe snow advisory.

Did that surprise anyone? The snow outside, from my vantage point of sitting near a window with only the amber streetlights glowing to light the land, can still be seen falling thickly. We’ve gotten about seven inches of snow today, according to the news.

I frown, and flip the channels. Nothing is ever on anymore. While it is only ten at night, the darkness makes it feel later. It is lonely, in this dark world.

Perhaps I should go outside.

But as I prepare to stand, I spot something on television. A young man is talking to a camera, speaking of how he fought the hard fight, and finally found a way to save himself from himself, from drugs and other ‘self destructive’ behavior.

The irony that I should fall upon this show is thick.

I sip my soda slowly, the fizzy nature of the drink making it hard to swallow. This show is hard to swallow, too. The man speaks of how he found truth and safety amongst his friends, and that in reality, those were not the truths that he should have been clinging to.

If those truths were untrue, they were not what he was speaking in the first place, right? Truths cannot be lies, but at the same time, a lie can be true from a certain point of view.

There is only one truth in this world: All things must end.

And so it is.

I have six hours left.
-----
I sit on the couch, my back twisted so that I can watch the snow continue to fall, and the light from the television shining off the window. I breathe slowly, and memories seemed to pour into me.

Guilt.

Everything that is me, is guilt. It consumes my actions, my thoughts, and percolates throughout my entire being. Guilt for things that I have done in the past; for those that I could not help at the store; guilt for those that are gone while I remain . . . these are what generate such feelings in me.

Soon I shall not remain, and I shall be among those that are gone. And hopefully, I will be granted a chance to beg forgiveness.

I doubt it. Those that are like me simply burn in Hell.

Why did the snow continue to fall? If it were rain, I would say that the sky was weeping, that the world itself cried in sorrow for the wars and bloodshed. But instead, peaceful snow falls from the sky, while bombs fall elsewhere.

On the news networks, all they speak of, as I flip past them, are of the war. Hundreds dying everywhere, with no one to save them or bury them.

It isn’t right.

I turn off the television and go towards my room.

There are things I must write before the end.

I must ruin more infinite potential.

I have five hours left.
--

am a failure.

Every part of my existence is failings that I wish to go back and change. Be it how I spent my childhood, to the classes I barely paid attention to. Maybe, had I done things differently, I wouldn’t be in the position I am now in.

But I will not fail this time.

I must write a note, but I find I can’t find the words to correctly examine how I feel. Or why I am going to do that. I glance out the window. The snow had finally stopped falling.

Isn’t it strange? At a time like this, when most people are going to bed, I sit in my kitchen and ponder how to describe my feelings. It is midnight. I should be in bed, sleeping. Preparing for another long and dull day that would inevitably come the next.

But tonight is different. There will be no more dull day ahead of me. They are all in the past. Whatever transpires in the next few hours will change everything forever.

“How does it feel . . .” I begin, before erasing it.

I will not fail again.

I have four hours.
--

“How does it feel to know that all that has happened, has happened for a specific reason? How does it feel to know that when all things have fallen, there was no one to pick up the pieces? All things must end, but when they must end is another thing entirely. Who knows what awaits in the dark, in the bitter finale that soon shall pass?” This is what I write, but I fear it does not say what I mean.

Why was I going to go through with this?

What was so wrong with what I am now?

“And so this is how it must be: for things that have been in the past. For those that are gone. When you are gone, too, perhaps you can rejoin them. How does it feel to be alone, forever?”

No. That didn’t work. I erased the second paragraph, and sigh.

“Why can’t anything work?” I ask the darkness that lurked beyond the window. “Am I failure here, too?”

I stand. I grab a pair of socks and put them, as well as shoes, and head outside. There was no point in me trying to write anymore.

I don’t even know why I intend to do what I have planned tonight.

There are many feelings tumbling about within me, and I just wanted to escape from them all.

Escape. Maybe that was the reason I wanted to disappear from this reality.

Maybe.

I have three hours.
-----

This place is a prison.

That was one of my favorite songs. And strangely, I am finding its title to be rather apt at explaining how I feel.

The snow had stopped falling, and the world was silent. Nothing moved, and everything was clear. I breathed in, and the sharp, crisp air bit at my nostrils. It was fresh and clean.

I slowly walk down the sidewalk, the snow crunching and giving way. This place was indeed a prison.

Bound to mortal forms, we live a life set by fate. And it seemed even gravity, the air, and even the sky all forced us down this one path.

There is but one path, one we all must make.

The neighborhood was all but dead. Soon, I would join them in the unmoving silence.

But for now, ironically, I am the sole thing living on this cold, ice-covered planet. I am alone, here. I was alone, before, too.

Even when I first moved in with my roommate, whom I had hoped would help me alleviate my loneliness, ignored me and remained in his own little world of technology.

I turn the corner, and still I see nothing. The trees do not sway, even under the burden of snow they now carry. The roads were clear and covered with virgin snow. I come to a stop, and let in a long-drawn breath.

“So this is it.”

This may just be the place I will do it.

I turn to go home.

I have two hours.
--

I open the door and trip over a pair of shoes that weren’t there before. I let out a heavy sigh, and slowly move to turn on the light.

He is sitting there, his bruised eyes—from staring at the screen for so long—glare at me. I spot in his hand the letter I had begun.

“And just what is this?” he demanded.

“Something,” I say simply, my voice dead and raspy.

“I think its gibberish. Just like everything you write.”

So true he was. I have failed at all things that I have written. Endless potential mired by a mindless pursuit of something that I have no talent for.

This is proof of that, isn’t it? Proof. There is significant proof of my worthlessness, and I have seen much of it.

“Yeah?” I ask quietly, leaving the room.

“Give up! You won’t make it as a writer,” he yelled.

More proof.

Alright. I will give up.

I go to my room without saying another word, nearly collapsing from a strange wincing pain in my chest. I lay on my bed.

Everyone wants me dead, and so they’ll have it. They’ll have their dream fulfilled.

It’s my dream as well. Those that are lost will be found again, just as soon as I make the fateful journey across the River Styx.

How cliché, and yet it is true.

The end will be soon.

I have one hour.

--

As soon as I recover, I slowly sit up.

This is it, the final chapter of my story. The final moments before the dawn of all things truth.

I roll off the bed, and kneel down to grab a box from underneath it. Within it is held my destiny.

I open it, and I can see even in the dim light a steel tool. I take it in hand, and handle the weapon. It is already loaded. It feels heavy, thorough and full.

It feels good to hold it. To know I have the power to end this, one way or the other.

Power. It feels good. Power over destiny, over fate. Power to say, “So what, world? So what?”

I smile, and stand. I would go to that place, that beautiful, peaceful place and do what I must there.

I put it into my pocket, and turn to leave the room. As I pass all the things in the house, I make note of them.

This might be the last I ever see them ever again.

You don’t see much when you’re burning in Hell.

As I leave the building, I whisper, “Good bye.”

I walk quickly: time is ticking away far faster than it should ever, and this last hour appears to be ever accelerating. The wind has picked up somewhat, but I pace myself against it.

When I reach that spot, near the virgin roads, I note with sadness that they have lost their purity. A plow had pushed all of the beauty away.

With a frown on my face, I pulled the weapon from my pocket. The grey steel glittered against the bulbs of the streetlamps, and I think of how I would do it.

I warm the barrel with my hand before placing it in my mouth. I think: will this do?

I place the barrel under my chin and think the same.

Finally, I place the barrel on the side of my head, and nod to myself. This is the proper way that I shall leave this place, amongst the broken innocence of the road.

As my trigger-finger twitches against the cold switch, a thought passes through my numbing mind . . .

I have no time left but eternity.

This is my entry, titled "The Test", "460", or "Voltage"...I honestly can't choose which it should be. XD But anyway, there WERE italics, but posting here messes that up. =/

------------------------------

“Mr. Gene, you are wanted in Lab E214.”

I rise from my chair in the waiting room and walk to a nearby door with a red sign above it, proclaiming LABS E-G. I open it, revealing a long, white hallway with similar doors, a steady hum coming from the fluorescent lights. I keep my head down, not even bothering to look at the first few doors, trying to ignore the sterility of it all, and the sudden feeling of loneliness coming across me, the sort I used to get as a kid as my dad would send me to go find something, anything. The one where you felt a little helpless, a little lost, and a lot confused, or maybe a better word would be “disoriented”. But I keep going, eyes flicking to the red signs until I see the one I want, and push the door open, revealing another white room with a stainless steel table and chair. Also, two men stand there, the one closest wearing a lab coat.

This man is bald, with glasses setting on the top of his nose and a clipboard in one hand, the other resting in his pocket. As I walk closer, I can see the first lines of aging on his face, but then I look away, not liking the stare he fixed me with. The childish feelings come back, and I attribute his gaze to that of a grown-up, the sort that you did not interrupt when he spoke, and never even thought to disobey. So I look to the other man, whom appears more approachable. He seems young, to be mistaken for a college student, if not for his attire: faded jeans, shoes with holes in them, and a shirt with the brand name effaced by time. If I did not know better, I would think he is homeless. We are looking at each other, and I did not feel uncomfortable as I did with the man in the lab coat.

Then the scientist speaks, and both of us turn to his voice. “Welcome to the experiment, gentlemen. First, I must ask if you have ever seen each other before.” It is almost monotone, but authoritative nonetheless.

We look at each other for a moment, then shake our heads.

He smiles. “Good. Now, to review with you the nature of this test. You have both signed up to take part in a research activity to help answer the question of how pain affects learning. One of you will be the ‘teacher’, and one of you will be the ‘learner’. To decide, I have these.” He produced two folded scraps of paper from his pocket, and held them out. “Choose whichever one you like, gentlemen.”

I move first, after a moment’s hesitation, and reach for the one on the right. Then I see that the other man is reaching for the same, and for one moment, we motion to let the other take it, before I concede and take the left piece. We open them up.

“Read your roles out loud, please.”

I speak first. “Teacher.”

“Learner.”

That smile reappears. “Good. Now, if you will follow me, learner…” he ushers the man to the chair, and has him sit, now talking to him instead of me. “You will be given ten minutes to memorize this packet of word pairs for the test. There will be fifty questions in the exam, and every time you think you have the answer, press the one, two, three, or four buttons there; the teacher will let you know which answer is which by the sequencing of the words after the first. If you answer a question wrong, you will be administered an electric shock of increasing voltage. The more you answer incorrectly, the higher the administered electricity.”

The scientist opens his clipboard, takes out a few papers, and spreads them out evenly over the table so that the learner can see them all easily from his position in the chair. Then, my eyes widen--and maybe his do too--as I see the bald man begin to strap him to the chair.

“To prevent excess movement,” he says, then continues.

We let him do it, though by now the subject looks uncomfortable. He can still reach the buttons on the edge easily, even when something that looks like a blue band with a battery attached at the top is tied to his wrist so that he can’t take it off without help.

“Is this tight against the skin?” the scientist asks, pointing to the battery-looking object. The learner just nods. “Good. It will protect you from receiving welts at the conclusion of the test. Now begin studying the word pairs.” He motions for me to follow him, leaving the man behind, strapped to his chair, looking nervous.

I am, too.

We exit and walk to the door directly to the right, with a large electricity danger sign on it. I stare at it for a moment, reading the small text at the bottom warning that any voltage above 450 is lethal, before the scientists opens the door, revealing a room almost exactly like the first. There are two desks now, one near the door while the other at the far end, the latter with a small steel box and microphone resting on it, as well as a packet of papers; the answers to the test. On the top of the box is a set of four numbers on a black screen, that I am told will light up with the answer that the subject chooses. Below them is a series of on-off switches with numbers printed above them, from 40 to 460. The last one has the DANGER sign too. Finally, below the switches, is a single red one, obviously the trigger.

I take a seat at this desk, while the scientist produces another of the blue bands. My body tenses, and he sees, but smiles a little.

“Don’t worry, I am just going to let you experience one of the shocks for yourself, so you can know what you are doing. Turn away from the machine, please.”

I do, and he straps on the band. Then, with my back turned, I hear the click of a few switches going on and, without warning, I receive a shock. It makes me flinch, feeling the electricity crawling up my arm, and I let out a yelp like a dog. Yes, that’s what it reminds me of: the shock dogs receive when they get too close to an electric fence. I grit my teeth until the pain recedes, and then the scientist speaks again.

“How many volts do you think you just felt?”

“Hundred, at least,” I reply.

“Forty, actually.”

My eyes widen, and before I can say anything, the band is taken off, and I see there is no mark left. I am gestured to sit down, and to begin the test when the scientist returns from a small trip to collect the subject’s papers. Several thoughts rush through my head as I take deep breaths: What am I getting myself into? How is that guy going to deal with MORE? Should I really go throu--

“Please, the test must commence soon,” comes the impatient voice of the scientist. I didn’t even notice him come back in.

I nod dumbly, and switch on the microphone, turning off the forty-volt setting, and begin. “First question, are you ready? …Okay. Just remember that I’ll say one word, pause, and give you four others. Choose the one you think matches the first. Ready? Number one: Tree…Brook, Stream, Squirrel, Branch.” The ‘2’ symbol lights up almost immediately afterward. “That’s correct. Number two: Rock…Paper, Scissors, Mountain, Hole.” The ‘1’ goes off. “That’s correct. Number three: Umbrella…Rain, Sun, Dark, City.” The ‘4’ lights up. “That’s right. Number four: Brick…House, Stove, Mud, Chimney.” The ‘1’ lights up.

I pause, then flick the ‘20’ switch on the box. “…I’m sorry, that’s not right. You’ll get forty volts.” For a second, I hesitate on the trigger, even though I know it couldn’t hurt him…Right? I shove the thought away, and press the red switch, a small buzz coming from the machine as it sent the electricity. When the humming stopped, I continued on with the test.

“Number five…”

…

We’re on question twenty now, but I’m starting to get nervous. The voltage has increased, and is now past 100. I can’t help but wince as he gets another question wrong, and I have to increase the voltage to 180. A few shocks ago, I thought I heard a yell coming from the wall, but only a small one, and the scientist didn’t acknowledge it, so I didn’t either…He got another wrong, and now I’m going to shock him at 200. For a moment I hesitate, remembering the shock I got at just 40. If I was in a little pain then, how much is he in now?

So I don’t press the trigger, thinking about this, but then the scientist speaks up. “Please continue with the test.”

I turn towards him, seeing his stare, and speak up. “You sure this isn’t hurting him too bad?”

“He will feel pain, but no harm will come to him.”

“Now wait a sec, what do you mean by--”

“The test must continue. Administer the shock.”

“But…” I give up, and press the trigger.

I don’t even know why I do it, but now I feel like a child again. When you’re a kid, you can’t disobey adults--it’s just not something you can do. You can whine and moan, but in the end you’ll do it, because grown-ups just stand above you, looking down, and their gaze is so powerful that you just can’t…That’s how I feel now, like a kid, and this scientist is an adult. An untouchable, invincible adult.

…

He’s screaming now.

We’re in the 300’s, and every time I press the trigger he cries out. I can hear him almost as easily as if I was in the same room. But I’m still continuing, because the scientist is telling my to, and I can’t ignore him. He demands, but passive-aggressively, almost coaxing me along. Finally we reach 340, and he gets the question wrong. It’s only number thirty, but he’s been on a bad streak, and I can’t help but hesitate at the trigger. This time, though, I press it sooner, without pressure from the scientist. I don’t want to have to deal with him again…It’s almost like it hurts whenever he says “Please continue the test”, and I don’t want to be hurt anymore.

So I press it.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOW! GOD! LAY OFF! LAY OFF!”

This new scream snaps me out of whatever trance I was in, and I turn to the scientist, almost seeing my own pleading glance. But he shakes his head, and I wince when he says that phrase again.

“Please continue the test.”

This time, though, I resist. “You said it wouldn’t hurt him, right?”

“He will be in pain, but no harm will come to him.”
“What does that mean, anyway?”

“There will be no permanent damage.”

“But shouldn’t we s-stop the test? I mean, God, can’t you hear him?”

“We must continue the test to its conclusion.”

“But he’s hurting b-bad now, just listen!”

“When all fifty questions are answered, he will be released. Continue with the test.”

I’m shaking now, and my hands are sweating. What am I doing to this guy? Why am I doing this, anyway? I should just leave, yeah, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just get up, say that I’m not going to participate anymore, and walk out. But what if he just continues without me? What if he won’t let me leave at all? I have to continue the test. This last thought shoots through my head like a bullet, and I can’t ignore it, because it’s not my inner voice that’s saying that to me; no, I’m hearing the scientist in my head now.

Still shaking, sweating, and stuttering, I continue. “N-number thirty-one: Apple…Peach, Pear, Tree, Red.” The correct answer is ‘3’.

The ‘1’ lights up.

“I’m sorry, th-that’s…incorrect. You’ll receive 360 v-volts of electricity.” I press the trigger.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW MY GOD! STOP IT! STOP IT! I’M NOT GOING TO ANSWER ANYMORE! JUST GET ME OUT OF THIS CHAIR!”

I sit there, dumbstruck, and turn to the scientist, who’s still looking at me evenly. I repeat what the subject said, as if the man couldn’t hear. “He said…He said that he wasn’t going to answer.”

“Just continue on. If he does not answer within forty-five seconds of the next question, you must count it as a wrong answer.”

My mouth agape, I turn back to the microphone. “Did you hear that, man? He said that if you don’t answer, you’ll get a shock anyway.” No response. “Please, just…just choose an answer, any answer, you could get it right!” Still no response. I look back to the scientist.

“Continue,” he says, fixing me with his stare.

Still shaking, I put my elbow on the table, and let my head fall into my hand. I start to rub my forehead and take quick breaths, trying to calm down. He said there wouldn’t be any permanent damage. Just a lot of pain…I have to continue the experiment.

And I do. “Number thirty-two: Red…Green, Blue, Orange, Truck.” I wait for his response.

None comes.

“Come on, man, just give an answer! Please, there’s a chance! There’s a chance!”

Nothing.

The scientist intervenes. “Administer the shock.”

I do. “380.”
He screams, but nothing else.

We continue on with the experiment like this, but he’s not answering anymore. I keep telling the scientist that we need to go check and see if he’s okay, because now he’s not screaming or answering. But the man in the white coat won’t yield, he just keeps telling me to go on, and we’ll see him at the end of the test. Now we’re on the last voltage switch: 460. I’m so broken by now that when I stare at the DANGER sign above it, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter any more, because the test has to continue. We need to finish the test, and at the end, we’ll go see the guy, and he’ll be alright. He’ll have been in a lot of pain, but no lasting damage. He’ll be alright, I’m sure. But right now, we have to continue. If he screams, it won’t matter. The test must continue to its completion. The scientist tells me, right before I flick the 460 switch on, that since not all fifty questions were answered by the time that this last switch is pulled, then we’ll just continue on from there. If the next answer is wrong, he’ll be shocked with 460 volts of electricity. The next? 460 volts. At least he’ll know what to expect. And not permanent harm will come. I’ve been told that plenty of times, and now I believe the scientist.

So I press the trigger.

No response.

Here is my story titled, "A Strange Love", working on it for my school now ^_^

__________________________________________________________________________________________
.Chapter One.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sophie walked home by herself like every day this semester. She took out her house keys and unlocked the front door. “Mom? Dad?” She called, her voice echoing in the large three-story mansion. When they didn’t answer, she figured they were still working, so she sighed loudly. It was difficult having a supermodel mother and a famous doctor as a dad. She wished that they would’ve gotten busier and gave her a little sibling. Brother, sister, it didn’t matter. Sophie stretched out on the loveseat in the living room and turned on the television, a re-run of “Grey’s Anatomy” was on. She decided to just watch it, since she didn’t feel like looking for nothing else. It wasn’t that she was lazy, because she isn’t. It just was that she just got done with basketball practice and her legs ached.

Sophie sat up, cursing herself for dozing off. She stood up and looked at the ancient grandfather clock and saw it was almost six ‘o’ clock now. Where were her parents? She asked herself silently. She picked up the house phone and dialed the hospital. No answer. That was odd. She sighed and looked out the window, thankful that it was her dad’s up-to-date jeep. She walked out to the garage to see him gathering his briefcase. “Hey dad.” Sophie said, leaning against the doorway and crunching on a green apple. “Oh, hey. Sorry I’m late. We had a emergency.” He said, kissing Sophie on the forehead. “Is your mother back yet?” He asked her. “Nope, still doing that cover shoot for that teen magazine.” Sophie replied, at least that was what she thought.

Sophie stirred awake, mainly because the stupid house phone started ringing. She opened one eye and saw it was half past two. Sophie groaned and threw the blanket over her head. “Sophie…?” Came her fathers’ voice. He sounded as if he was crying. “Dad, what’s wrong?” Sophie asked him, sitting up. As predicted, he looked like he was crying. His eyes were red and puffy, and his cheeks wet. “It’s…it’s your mother…”

Of fun. Guess I'll give it a whirl! The following is based on a true story. You all should feel privileged! This is the first time I've put any part of my life into writing. Here goes...

~You Can Not Save Me This Time~

With a jaw cracking yawn I pulled myself up in bed. My first thought upon hearing my phone loudly ringing from my nightstand had been to throw the damn thing across the room. I glanced at the caller ID, squinting at the brightly lit screen. The name read Hannah. I glanced at my alarm clock. 3:27. If my sister was calling me this early in the morning she must have one hell of a reason. Struggling to wash the last dregs of sleep from my mind, I flipped open my cell and answered with a groggy, "Hey."

"Liz, you need to get over here." Hannah answered, forsaking any sort of pleasantry. Not even a 'sorry to wake you up, but...'

"What's wrong?" I asked, with a bit less mumbling this time. Something about the quality of Hannah's voice disturbed her, not the fact that she was calling so late. Hannah had her own issues. She was prone to drinking herself into oblivion then calling at all hours of the morning because she wanted someone to talk to and tell her she had done the right thing by leaving her abusive husband. But the tone of voice that I heard from her now had a different quality. There was none of a drunk's slur, but there was something else. Something I couldn't quite place.

Instead of answering my question, Hannah said in reply, "Liz, you need to be here. Right now."

Throwing aside comfort and comforter, I stumbled out of bed. "I'm on my way," I mumbled into the phone before sliding it shut.

It didn't take me long to slip into jeans and a sweater, and soon I was out the door and starting my car. As though out of habit, I couldn't help but notice the condition of the night. It was nearing the end of summer, so the late night air had a crisp bite to it. The stars shone in a clear sky, glimmering coldly against black velvet.

As I sped down the street to where my sister lived, not ten miles away, I pitifully attempted to rake my fingers through my hair. Finally with an exasperated sigh, I left the tangled black mass alone. As I neared my destination, a thick fog started to permeate the air, drawn off the lake that Hannah lived next to. This natural apparition suddenly gave the night a spooky and somewhat unnatural feel.

As I shifted my car into park and killed the engine, I saw Hannah standing on her front porch illuminated by a night lamp. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. Seeing the expression on her face, it suddenly came to my why her tone of voice on the phone had given me such a sense of trepidation. Hannah was an alcoholic at age twenty five. She had more than a few issues. But one thing she never showed was pity or fear. I had heard both from her voice on the phone.

I slowly stepped from my car and even as I opened my mouth to speak, her words froze me in place. "He's in the back yard." She said quietly. "He arrived here about an hour ago. I didn't know what to do so I called you. You need to speak with him."

I stood staring at her for a second. I didn't have to ask who 'he' was. I already knew. I had come here with the expectation to rescue Hannah from some mess or another, and instead I was here to see the person I least wanted to see, the person that had nearly destroyed me, and the person I still loved with everything I had. I felt like the solid ground had suddenly been pulled out from beneath me.

Unable to speak for the moment, I simply nodded and started to follow the small path that led to the back yard. Due to the fog, vision would have been nearly impossible had it not been for the brilliant moon that lit the ground cloud silver. Before I went to far, the sound of Hannah's voice stopped me.

"Liz..." She started, as if unsure of the right words. After drawing a breath she continued. "Liz, you should know he's not all there. I don't know what it is this time, but he's not sober."

Once again I just nodded, this time not much surprised. I didn't have words to soothe the pain Hannah was feeling right now on my behalf. I had known this moment was coming. I knew I would have to face him again. I just hadn't thought it would be so soon.

A dozen different ways to start conversation, a dozen different subjects I wanted to confront him about, a dozen different statements I needed to make. But all those words left my thoughts, suddenly seeming empty and frail, as soon as I saw him. Ryan. The man I had given my heart to. The man who had shredded it into a thousand different pieces. His great frame, hulking over six foot three loomed as a giant shadow in the fog. He was facing away from me so that I couldn't see his face. But I could see that his shoulders were slumped, his head hanging in the saddest form of dejection I have ever seen.

I walked quietly, sure he hadn't heard me yet. I just stood behind him for a moment, studying the usually strong and proud lines of his shoulders. Finally I opened my mouth to speak.

"Babe?" It came out a pitiful whisper.

He didn't turn around. He didn't even move. There was a long pause before he spoke. "I did it." The words were spoken in a hoarse whisper.

I frowned slightly. "Did what?" I asked, unsure what he was talking about.

"I kept your heart. I kept it where drugs couldn't go." He replied after another short pause.

Unbidden, I felt warm tears spring to my eyes. "Oh, my love." I whispered, barely audible. No! I told myself. I'm not going to shed any more tears for him! I made the resolve in my mind and choked back my tears.

His voice shook as he spoke, "I tried so hard. I just wanted to be good enough for you." Finally he turned around to face me. I almost broke down at the sight of his face. His eyes were glazed over, sunken and hollow. His skin had a sallow tint to it, like a puppet made of wax.

"Baby, " He said, taking a step towards me, opening his arms as if to embrace me. "I can't do it alone. I need you hands now to pull me up."

How I longed to fling myself into his arms! To hold him and tell him that it would be okay. I wanted to be the arms that comforted him. I wanted to be his shoulder to cry on. Instead, I turned my back to him.

I had to pause and take a breath to keep the tremor out of my voice. "No, Ryan. You made your choice already. I tried to help you..." I had tried, and I had failed miserably. I had been there time and time again for him. I was there to help him through the worst of it, but I couldn't help him if he was unwilling to help himself. I couldn't count the nights I had stayed up all night, waiting for him to come home, praying that he hadn't found his drug fix.

I let out a breath, and forced myself to continue. "I tried to help you." I started again. "Heaven knows I tried. I gave you everything I had. Mind, heart, body. But you chose the drugs over me. Baby, I can't do this. I can't wake up in the morning next a different man then I went to bed with. I can't..." I paused here, struggling to keep the tears that threatened to spill at bay. "I can't tell you from the drugs any more."

Ryan's face dropped even farther than it had been before, though I hadn't thought it possible. He took a few steps closer to me, then fell to his knees. It was if all the strength had gone out of him. Finally, I saw him cry for the first time. His massive shoulders were shaking with the sobs that racked his body. He reached out to me, and despite all my resolve, I went to him. I had meant everything I said, but here was this man whom I had fallen in love with. Who I loved more than life itself. Who I missed like breathing. I would have given anything to have the man I had fallen in love with back instead of this drug addled wretch.

I let him wrap his arms around my waist and clutch onto the back of my shirt as if maybe I could anchor him to this life. He pressed his face into my stomach, his shoulders heaving with his pain. It was as if he too was mourning who he had been. I gently placed one hand on his head of thick blond curls.

"I miss you." He mumbled through sobs into my shirt. "I can't breathe when you're not around. My world seems colorless and empty without you. I love you. With all my heart I love you. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were the one for me"

I took a deep breath and turned my face up towards the heavens as if seeking an answer there. Finally the tears came, spilling from my upturned face. Surrounded by a swirling garden of silvery fog, I let the tears fall. I knew what I had to do. I knew that what was best for me was to say goodbye to Ryan and give my poor heart time to heal. I knew that this was what was best for me. But why was is so difficult for me to harden my heart to this man? He was nothing near the man I had originally given my heart to. And yet, somewhere beneath the drugged haze, I could see a glimmer of his former self. Maybe I kept holding on just for that tiny hope.

Finally I pulled myself away from his heart wrenching embrace. I looked down at him, knowing the eternal sadness I felt in my heart was unmistakeably written in my eyes. "This is goodbye, my love. I can't save you this time" I whispered. I thought maybe his glazed eyes cleared just a little bit. "This is goodbye forever." This time I know I saw his eyes widen.

"Babe, no. No, Liz. Please. Don't leave me. Don't say this is forever. I can change! I-I will do whatever it takes! But please baby. Please. I'm begging. Don't say this is forever." His pleas were pathetic to my ears.

I squeezed my eyes shut to prevent the fall of more tears and turned away. I took a couple steps away from him. Then I heard it. A metallic click. I knew what that sound was. The sound of a gun being cocked. Not for one second did I fear for my own life. I knew Ryan didn't have it in him to hurt anyone. But hurting himself...well, that was a different story.

I spun back around, my heart feeling like a lump in my throat. If I thought my stomach had been tied in knots before, now it was tied in knots with a leprechaun dancing on it. Sure enough, there Ryan knelt, the tears of his pain still glistening on his cheeks, with a pistol pressed to his temple. I cried out wordlessly as I desperately stretched a hand out to him.

Then he looked up at me. For the first time all night his eyes were as clear as a sober man's. "I told you I can't breath without you. If I can't breath I can't live. I have no desire to live." He squeezed his eyes shut, even as his finger prepared to squeeze the trigger.

"Ryan, stop!" I cried out, desperate to do anything to keep him from ending his own life. Finally, I drew myself up, and I said something I never thought I would say any man so early in my life. I placed my hand lightly on my stomach, where my shirt was still wet from his tears. "You can't do this." I was surprised at how steady and calm my voice was. "You can't force our child to grow up without a father."

Ryan's eyes snapped open, but it was too late. He had heard my words, but his finger, still on the trigger, squeezed anyways. I hear the terrible thunder of the gun, saw the light go from his eyes even as his body fell to the ground. I fell to my knees beside him. His blood made a pool around his limp form, slowly seeping towards me as if accusing me of his betrayal. I doubled forward, my mind reeling, gasping for breath. I heard a heart wrenching wail coming from somewhere. I didn't realize it was me until my throat was so hoarse I couldn't scream anymore.