noon2009 in Comedy

216 reads

Why so serious?

Road-trips left us in the dust.

Why so serious?

An inattentive shoulder.

Why so serious?

Careful not to care fully.

Why so serious?

No evidence of happy.

Why so serious?

Disregard and disdain.

Why so serious?

Discarded from an old deck.

Why so serious?

Is it that bad to be friends with me?

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Black_Irish

99 reads

Apathy

I shattered to the sight of my reflection in her eyes which at that moment were wrapped up in sheets of tears, swelled up with threats to roll down her cheeks. What a sorry sight I make, a dried up well in a thirsty town. Deep, dark and hollow like a pirates eye missing an eyepatch.

P.S. This is his sister not him.

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Challenge

Yet another "short but sweet" : look around wherever you are and pick out an object. Write something funny about it. entertain yourself in your mundane or strange surroundings. (don't cheat!.. or do. we wouldn't know.) The catch: you only have 15 words to draw your reader in.

jwelker76 in Comedy

147 reads

It Came With the House

A urinal mounted on my basement wall. It doesn't work, but that hasn't stopped people.

19

4

5

Challenge

We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.

kaykay01

152 reads

A Face is Worth a Thousand Words

It’s interesting how time slows when you pay attention to it. A hum of applause radiates in the background as I make my way to the stage. Glancing down at my Ralph Lauren silk dress, a deep royal blue to match the hue of my eyes, I count the seconds as I walk up the stairs. One, two, three, four. I look up and stare into the eyes of the presenter, who greets me with one of the most genuine smiles I’ve ever been blessed to see and a cheerful, “Congratulations! You deserve this award more than anyone I know.” She doesn’t know what I’m about to do. I treasure the look on her face, so contagious you can’t help but feel a warmth inside your soul. It’s probably the last time I will see that genuine smile again.

My assistant, God bless her, catches me at the stage’s curtain before I make my way to the podium, and hands me what I need. She has no idea how thankful I am to have her at that very moment. She will be my crutch. I almost feel sorry for what I’m about to put her through. God knows she is going to be working even more hours than she already puts in for me.

I take the package and make my way to the stage. Rachel looks at my side and her glance questions the light blue box, but she ignores her suspicions and gives me a reassuring smile before letting me pass with the award.

I don’t realize how much my hand trembles until I try to place the award on the podium. It takes two hands working together to accomplish the task. I fold apart my neatly prepared speech that I wrote a month ago, long before everything happened, and begin.

“Thank you, Rachel, and everyone here tonight who thought I was deserving of such a prestigious, honorable award.” Applause ensues. If only they knew.

“I can’t begin to tell you how humbled I am standing at this podium today. I was told the reason I am given the award this evening is because of how courageous and brave I have been throughout my work trying to bring awareness to the poverty in Haiti.”

For the first time since beginning my speech, I look up. I don’t see much as the spotlights are trained on my every moment; however, something, or someone, catches my eye. I see him. Not HIM, mind you, but his attorney. He is watching my every move, and I know that this speech I so carefully constructed a month ago is about to be torn to shreds by him in court next week.

“You know, I used to think the bravest thing I ever did was get on a plane to Haiti for the first time by myself. Everyone asked me, ‘Are you sure you want to go there alone?’ ‘Do you know how bad it is there?’ I did realize the potential dangers, but I was also asked those questions when I traveled to Los Angeles. I figured that many times, people are usually afraid of what they do not know; what they do not understand.”

I take a deep breath and hold up the light blue package. “Some of you may have noticed that I brought this little package onstage with me. I must thank Leslie, my dear assistant and friend, for taking this last-minute request from me. Unfortunately, she will probably regret that after this evening is through. I came here tonight thinking this was a night I could escape, but if I have learned anything, it is that you don’t escape from domestic violence gracefully. You never can. If it was that easy, more wives, girlfriends, daughters, and mothers would leave. I thought this evening would be focused on this award, not the restraining order. But alas, the questions I received before taking this stand were regarding my face, my mannerisms, and the impending trial. You see, there is a man standing in this room who is watching this speech. He has seen me answer all the questions I received from the reporters while on the red carpet. He will take every answer I have given and will break them apart to be used against me in court next week. Every question asked of me will be mentioned in court. I know this because this is what I have learned throughout the course of this ordeal. So, if everything I am going to say is going to be torn apart anyways, I might as well say exactly what I want to say.”

I open the tab of the blue package and take a white, wet cloth. “For those of you who do not know, I began getting ready for this ceremony at 10:00 a.m. this morning. You may be thinking, ‘But the event didn’t begin until 8:00 p.m.’ I am fully aware of this; however, there were reasons. As you know from the police report that was released earlier this week, I sustained significant injuries from my soon-to-be ex-husband and was photographed to show the proof of the bruising. I thought to myself, ‘There, I did it. I showed the world what happened to me. Now, I can cover it up and enjoy an evening that is not about my relationship and abuse.’ Unfortunately, as many of you also know because I was asked these questions this evening, tonight was no longer about bringing attention to a cause near and dear to my heart. It was about my face, about my restraining order, and about my integrity and honesty. My integrity has never been in question to my face before; however, it is ironic that the physical abuse to my face is what caused my integrity to become in question. So, since my face is such a hot topic of discussion and cause for questioning my integrity, I would like to apologize to Angelica Simpson. For those of you who do not know her, she is my makeup artist, who came to my house at 10:00 a.m. and worked on my makeup for four hours figuring out a way to cover the hideous bruises the world has already seen because, apparently, since the world can no longer see them this evening, that means this must be a false claim I am making.”

I take the first cloth and wipe it across my brow. I rub it in full, wide circles, folding it to find a clean side and finish taking off the makeup to my brow. I hold it up to the audience and say, “Angelica, I thank you for the time and effort you put into to try and make me feel pretty again, to help try to make this evening more about my achievements than about my face. Unfortunately, we failed on that front.”

I take a second cloth. “The second person I would like to thank is Leslie. I know I thanked you before, but I want to thank you again for not blinking an eye when I told you to run to the pharmacy across the street and buy these cloths. You did it, knowing what I would do with them, and knowing how it would affect your job, and you still did it because you knew it was important to me. I cannot thank you enough for how much you have been my rock through this journey.” I rub the cloth across my right eye and right cheek. One swipe, fold, then swipe again. I know when the audience can begin to see the bruising on my right cheek because the murmuring and slow gasps start to seep through the white noise.

I take a third cloth. “The third and last person I would like to thank is my mother. Gwen, my dear mother, thank you for telling me I was making a mistake for coming forward. Thank you for telling me that the world would never believe me. Thank you for telling me I was destroying my career. Thank you for telling me that I would never work in this town again. Thank you for telling me I deserved the fallout from coming forward because it would mean you would not be able to have the monthly allowance I’ve given you. Thank you for telling me this was my fault, and that if I had just listened to him, this wouldn’t have happened.” With that, I run the cloth over one last time over my left eye. “I’ll need two cloths on this side since Lance’s fist made contact with both my eye and my cheek, so Angelica had to add more concealer to this side. Excuse me for a moment while I get another cloth.”

The murmurs continue as I wipe the cloth across my cheek. A huge gasp comes from someone in the front row, and many people begin talking as my bruises become more noticeable. I figure once the voices become louder that another cloth is not needed.

“I am receiving an award for bravery this evening. What better way to show bravery than to stand in front of my peers, my critics, my rivals and confidants, and the attorney for my soon-to-be-ex-husband, than to take away the concealer, the makeup, and actually accept this award as I am: a battered wife who is trying to seek justice in an unforgiving, judgmental society. Thank you.”

For the first time since I began wiping my makeup off, silence combs through the audience. I bow my head briefly in another silent node of thanks, and I hear applause to my left. The presenter is applauding me, with tears in her eyes and that genuine smile brighter than ever.

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Challenge

We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.

kaber116

155 reads

My Son

"Could you buy me those shoes?"

No "please."

No "...if I work...could you loan me..."

Just deep, dark green eyes that stare blankly though my own bright blue eyes. The chestnut brown hair that I so lovingly combed when he was a child falls across his forehead, matted under an old baseball cap.

His left hand instinctively moves toward the front pocket of his jeans. Jeans that are so tight that the outline of his ever present iPhone has worn a rectangular shape into them.

I shift and glance at my weary husband before I return my attention to the conversation at hand.

Is he going to answer that right now? In the middle of a conversation? Why?

Imperceptible; the feeling that tore him away from his demand, but I could feel it.

I knew the phone would go off.

Just as it had countless times before.

When we had been arguing. When he told me that his father and I were the worst, that we were ruining his life. That he couldn’t stand us. That we were nothing to him.

But that doesn’t happen anymore; the screaming matches.

He has once again retreated into that screen. The world of likes, shares, and controlled emotions on display.

A glimpse of white, and the slightest hint of a chuckle escape from my son. My attention toward him falters, and I look to his father who too has perked up at the sound of our only son’s first display of happiness since the accident.

He’s on the mend, I think to myself. Good. I’m glad. It’s time for us to both move on.

But just as quickly as it came, the smile disappeared and my son looked up from his phone and tucked it into the same spot in the same pocket without a second thought. He looked to my husband. My husband quickly withdrew his wallet from a similarly worn back pocket and handed it to our son without a word.

My husband clung to his wallet like my son clings to his phone.

A wallet is a different sort of crutch for the suburban man who had grown up in the rural south. A man whose calluses from working on his family’s farm caused him to have trouble completing his school assignments on his mother’s beat up type writer as child. A man who had received a scholarship that funded his collegial education— a man who decided that his wife and child would not want for anything.

As he watches our son walk into the store to spend an obscene amount of money on sneakers that he doesn’t need, and will only wear with matching t-shirts, I look at the bags under his eyes and my gaze falls to the haphazardly tucked in shirt that now has an abundance of room for the belly that is no longer there. The belly which I had previously encouraged him to exercise away for so many years.

Now he was becoming gaunt. The accident was slowly killing him.

I can do nothing but watch him wither.

Our son walks slowly back to where we both wait for him. The cell phone in his right hand, stealing all of his attention. He wordlessly carries his bag and my husband’s wallet in his left hand. When he gets near to his father he wordlessly hands the wallet to my husband without taking his eyes of his screen.

The two turn swiftly and pass through me as though I am not even there. And as far as they know I am not there. As far as they are concerned I am drifting at the bottom of the lake which they have to pass over each day. On the way to work, on the way to school, even on the way to this mall.

Each day they have to pass over the bridge with the mismatched concrete where my car broke through.

The memory of my accident haunts them daily…no wonder they have changed so much.

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Challenge

Write about a terrible character—a monster, a villain, the worst person you have ever known—and make that character sympathetic to readers.

“The villains are all parts of me. For years I've been wondering what it would be like if all those negative elements were forced onto the main character's side. I can understand a character with that kind of anger."---Hayao Miyazaki. (Think Magneto in X-Men, the Ice King in Adventure Time, The Phantom in the Phantom of the Opera...) 100 coins to the best work :)