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Written by Jumotki

Directions After Death

Bury my ashes at sundown, under a crescent moon. Mix the gray swirl of my bone fertilizer with rich, black earth, raise a cairn made of clay, and plant a sapling there. Something strong and resistant—oak, cedar, yew. I want to see your shadow hover over my mound in the light of the moon. I want to see you struggle with shovel, use your full weight on the blade to drive it like a pogo stick into the earth. You use the back of your hand to wipe away sweat, leaving a smear of me across your forehead. Your sweat and blood drips into the dirt. There I’ll flourish. There I’ll grow. Fast forward a few years. You're married to someone else now, with some kids. They don’t know about me, about my burial place. They don't know that you hear my voice rustling on a windy day, my branches tapping like bony fingers at windows when you're lying next to your wife, and how I laugh wildly in storms that lash me with rain and things ripped from clotheslines and backyards, stripping leaves and sloughing off pieces of bark from my thick trunk. Or that, on the days that you tell your new family that you're running errands, you spend them lying between my forked roots, looking up at the dapple of sunlight through my branches, delighting in the cool of my shade, the fan of my leaves. As you grow older, they pressure you to purchase a family plot and look for headstones. At night, you see me more frequently outside your window, swaying and beckoning, with the moonlight shining in my reaching arms, you see my many faces in the whorls of my trunk. In the end you choose me. You have your ashes planted next to mine under the light of a curved nail of moon, by someone hired in secret while your casket is filled with stones in your family plot, and I wait patiently for you to match my height as I have waited for you these many years—we will grow side by side together, rising majestic to the sky, and live forever.  

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by Jumotki
Directions After Death
Bury my ashes at sundown, under a crescent moon. Mix the gray swirl of my bone fertilizer with rich, black earth, raise a cairn made of clay, and plant a sapling there. Something strong and resistant—oak, cedar, yew. I want to see your shadow hover over my mound in the light of the moon. I want to see you struggle with shovel, use your full weight on the blade to drive it like a pogo stick into the earth. You use the back of your hand to wipe away sweat, leaving a smear of me across your forehead. Your sweat and blood drips into the dirt. There I’ll flourish. There I’ll grow. Fast forward a few years. You're married to someone else now, with some kids. They don’t know about me, about my burial place. They don't know that you hear my voice rustling on a windy day, my branches tapping like bony fingers at windows when you're lying next to your wife, and how I laugh wildly in storms that lash me with rain and things ripped from clotheslines and backyards, stripping leaves and sloughing off pieces of bark from my thick trunk. Or that, on the days that you tell your new family that you're running errands, you spend them lying between my forked roots, looking up at the dapple of sunlight through my branches, delighting in the cool of my shade, the fan of my leaves. As you grow older, they pressure you to purchase a family plot and look for headstones. At night, you see me more frequently outside your window, swaying and beckoning, with the moonlight shining in my reaching arms, you see my many faces in the whorls of my trunk. In the end you choose me. You have your ashes planted next to mine under the light of a curved nail of moon, by someone hired in secret while your casket is filled with stones in your family plot, and I wait patiently for you to match my height as I have waited for you these many years—we will grow side by side together, rising majestic to the sky, and live forever.  
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by ArmandChascour

The New West

The hills behind your house reminded you of the intro to M*A*S*H, which you learned was because it was filmed forty miles to your west on the same latitude.  You were looking at bald hills of Southern California with much the same terrain as Malibu Canyon.

You saw the trails a mile away, clawed by dirt bikes through the chaparral. You saw them exercising and heard their droning engines.  Sometimes you even heard the loudspeaker of the deputies in the copter ordering them off private land.

You tried to attempt the track up the east slope of the mountain a few times, but found it so steep that you needed both hands and your feet to climb.  The graded track of the west slope was easiest and you even saw track teams from the high school using it.  Even the powdered dirt and sand of the central route up the valley was better than the east slope.

Your parents are going to sell the house and you won't have a base at the foot of the mountain anymore.  You decide to climb it for the sixth time.  You are damn fool enough to do this at 4:00 a.m. in the light of a full moon.  After you get stuck in a fifteen foot barranca with nothing but moonlight, you decide to wait for some daylight.

You suck at your canteen of water and rest on a rock.  The moon sails down into the sky.  The valley is shades of grey and black in the moonlight.  You have spent nearly an hour tramping across the fields, passing wide of some homeless people sleeping in their cars under a tree, you are at the foot of the western slope.

The hint of day comes to the eastern horizon.  The sky is now changing to a hue of blue. Time to get moving again.

You miss the pole that marks the start of the western trail but find it again by circling back.  Now begins a steep slog over very broken rock.  This was nearly a road three years ago.  What happened?  You worry about twisting your ankle up here. Your phone doesn't always work.

The valley of the south face of the mountain is like a giant figure 8.  The eastern, western, and central routes up the valley meet a third of the way up.  A single trail winds around the upper curves of the valley like an S ending in the peak.

You find the trail is badly eroded up its entire length.  At some point it was able to handle a station wagon, because there's the wreck of one high on the mountainside, but in places you have to climb on all fours to get up the trailside.  The closet pole you have taken as a stave comes in handy more than once.  Your knees regret this trip.

The peak is nothing but a sandy lot with low scrub all the way around.  You meet people climbing from the San Bernardino County slope.  It is easier, they say.  You vow to try that next.  You will find it isn't hardly possible for you, but that's in the future.

Now to return down, in blaring sunlight.  You resolve to visit the east slope.  The lines of the trails are not so sharp.  As your knees protest, you ease your way down the trail head to the junction of the three trails.  You remember twenty years ago when you ran down this trail to beat the setting sun.  You are not as young as you once were.

The east trail is not as visible as it used to be twenty years ago.  Coming down the spine of the 8 you lose it, in fact.  You have to traverse a rockfall with your stave without any sign of a trail.

Now you have reached the point on the eastern peak where you recall a very steep descent to the cliff by the old van in the barranca.  You see the barranca, you seen the eucalyptus trees where the old van was, you see the cliff below you where dozens of shooters emptied shotguns and AK-47s and AR-15s and once, at least, a .30-06 rifle into the van.  You collected the shell casings as a boy.  What you don't see anymore is the trail down.  You take your bearings on the cliff below and begin your descent through the sagebrush.  It becomes apparent, standing in what was once the trail, that the sagebrush is evenly spaced throughout the hillside.  There is no more trail down the eastern slope.  You are blazing a path down a seventy-percent grade based on twenty year old memories.

When you tell this story later, you say you got stuck and died up there.  You tell it straight and wait for people to catch on that you are fibbing.

But the Lord is good to you and there is still a grade, not a drop, and you stagger onto the sandy path back down the valley.

You hear, years afterward, that they are actually grading the slopes again to build houses twenty-six years after they gave up when the 1991 recession hit.  Your whole memory of the valley will be as forgotten as the eastern trail.  It is the Old West now.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by ArmandChascour
The New West
The hills behind your house reminded you of the intro to M*A*S*H, which you learned was because it was filmed forty miles to your west on the same latitude.  You were looking at bald hills of Southern California with much the same terrain as Malibu Canyon.

You saw the trails a mile away, clawed by dirt bikes through the chaparral. You saw them exercising and heard their droning engines.  Sometimes you even heard the loudspeaker of the deputies in the copter ordering them off private land.

You tried to attempt the track up the east slope of the mountain a few times, but found it so steep that you needed both hands and your feet to climb.  The graded track of the west slope was easiest and you even saw track teams from the high school using it.  Even the powdered dirt and sand of the central route up the valley was better than the east slope.

Your parents are going to sell the house and you won't have a base at the foot of the mountain anymore.  You decide to climb it for the sixth time.  You are damn fool enough to do this at 4:00 a.m. in the light of a full moon.  After you get stuck in a fifteen foot barranca with nothing but moonlight, you decide to wait for some daylight.

You suck at your canteen of water and rest on a rock.  The moon sails down into the sky.  The valley is shades of grey and black in the moonlight.  You have spent nearly an hour tramping across the fields, passing wide of some homeless people sleeping in their cars under a tree, you are at the foot of the western slope.

The hint of day comes to the eastern horizon.  The sky is now changing to a hue of blue. Time to get moving again.

You miss the pole that marks the start of the western trail but find it again by circling back.  Now begins a steep slog over very broken rock.  This was nearly a road three years ago.  What happened?  You worry about twisting your ankle up here. Your phone doesn't always work.

The valley of the south face of the mountain is like a giant figure 8.  The eastern, western, and central routes up the valley meet a third of the way up.  A single trail winds around the upper curves of the valley like an S ending in the peak.

You find the trail is badly eroded up its entire length.  At some point it was able to handle a station wagon, because there's the wreck of one high on the mountainside, but in places you have to climb on all fours to get up the trailside.  The closet pole you have taken as a stave comes in handy more than once.  Your knees regret this trip.

The peak is nothing but a sandy lot with low scrub all the way around.  You meet people climbing from the San Bernardino County slope.  It is easier, they say.  You vow to try that next.  You will find it isn't hardly possible for you, but that's in the future.

Now to return down, in blaring sunlight.  You resolve to visit the east slope.  The lines of the trails are not so sharp.  As your knees protest, you ease your way down the trail head to the junction of the three trails.  You remember twenty years ago when you ran down this trail to beat the setting sun.  You are not as young as you once were.

The east trail is not as visible as it used to be twenty years ago.  Coming down the spine of the 8 you lose it, in fact.  You have to traverse a rockfall with your stave without any sign of a trail.

Now you have reached the point on the eastern peak where you recall a very steep descent to the cliff by the old van in the barranca.  You see the barranca, you seen the eucalyptus trees where the old van was, you see the cliff below you where dozens of shooters emptied shotguns and AK-47s and AR-15s and once, at least, a .30-06 rifle into the van.  You collected the shell casings as a boy.  What you don't see anymore is the trail down.  You take your bearings on the cliff below and begin your descent through the sagebrush.  It becomes apparent, standing in what was once the trail, that the sagebrush is evenly spaced throughout the hillside.  There is no more trail down the eastern slope.  You are blazing a path down a seventy-percent grade based on twenty year old memories.

When you tell this story later, you say you got stuck and died up there.  You tell it straight and wait for people to catch on that you are fibbing.

But the Lord is good to you and there is still a grade, not a drop, and you stagger onto the sandy path back down the valley.

You hear, years afterward, that they are actually grading the slopes again to build houses twenty-six years after they gave up when the 1991 recession hit.  Your whole memory of the valley will be as forgotten as the eastern trail.  It is the Old West now.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by TheLoneWriter

The Greener Grass

(Inspiration from the saying "The grass is always greener on the other side")

You approach the short fence with uncertainty. The familiar feeling of unknowing trickles down and sinks into your cold feet. Your lungs start to burn, and before you know it, you're struggling to take in a single breath. The world begins to spin around faster and faster. It feels as though a monster is in your brain, and it's pounding against your skull, trying to escape. The monster starts scratching and clawing at the sides of your head, forcing burning beads of teardrops to trickle down your cheeks. Everything hurts. Everything is blurry. You can't see. You somehow manage to force yourself to reach the fence, but you can't see the other side. All you know is the cold, grey side you are on. The urge to move takes control. It jolts you forward.

And you jump.

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Written by TheLoneWriter
The Greener Grass
(Inspiration from the saying "The grass is always greener on the other side")

You approach the short fence with uncertainty. The familiar feeling of unknowing trickles down and sinks into your cold feet. Your lungs start to burn, and before you know it, you're struggling to take in a single breath. The world begins to spin around faster and faster. It feels as though a monster is in your brain, and it's pounding against your skull, trying to escape. The monster starts scratching and clawing at the sides of your head, forcing burning beads of teardrops to trickle down your cheeks. Everything hurts. Everything is blurry. You can't see. You somehow manage to force yourself to reach the fence, but you can't see the other side. All you know is the cold, grey side you are on. The urge to move takes control. It jolts you forward.
And you jump.
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Written by Tylasmith

Lost in the stars

you said to yourself you were going to kill yourself, you were helping the world by making it better, you said you were going to kill yourself after your graduation on May 20th you´ve  been wasting all your damn time preparing everything, you even worked your ass so damn hard perfecting the smiles and grades and the mask , you burned all your journals last night that encased your poems , you keep all your social media platforms up , you made sure that none of your posts gave any hint that this was going to happened , you made sure you read all the signs of suicide and made sure you didn´t follow any of them to avoid causing concern and someone intervening and moving in your way, you told nun of your friends about having depression and you let them believe you were so happy and they believed it . you applied to go to the Chicago art institute culinary and you had it all planned out that it was going to look like you were going to be around next year, you made sure everyone was okay , you pushed everyone away to get off your fucking back so when they these expect it you go down by the river by your house and drown in your sorrow, you do this so no one will feel guilty that they didn´t do their best to help and they didn´t see the signs, in reality, she is too smart for the playmakers of the game of suicide. she cut on her thighs not on her wrist because they would draw attention to the fact she was going to kill herself and she isn´t looking for sympathy she is looking for a way out. then she met this damn boy who had came in her path of destruction and he is hooked unto to her and she doesn´t want to him to get caught in her path  and she is trying to push him away because she needs to get  him off her guilty conscience

Dear reader, you´re wondering if this is fiction or reality 

it sounds so planned out 

yes it is planned out 

in the stars 

 

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Written by Tylasmith
Lost in the stars
you said to yourself you were going to kill yourself, you were helping the world by making it better, you said you were going to kill yourself after your graduation on May 20th you´ve  been wasting all your damn time preparing everything, you even worked your ass so damn hard perfecting the smiles and grades and the mask , you burned all your journals last night that encased your poems , you keep all your social media platforms up , you made sure that none of your posts gave any hint that this was going to happened , you made sure you read all the signs of suicide and made sure you didn´t follow any of them to avoid causing concern and someone intervening and moving in your way, you told nun of your friends about having depression and you let them believe you were so happy and they believed it . you applied to go to the Chicago art institute culinary and you had it all planned out that it was going to look like you were going to be around next year, you made sure everyone was okay , you pushed everyone away to get off your fucking back so when they these expect it you go down by the river by your house and drown in your sorrow, you do this so no one will feel guilty that they didn´t do their best to help and they didn´t see the signs, in reality, she is too smart for the playmakers of the game of suicide. she cut on her thighs not on her wrist because they would draw attention to the fact she was going to kill herself and she isn´t looking for sympathy she is looking for a way out. then she met this damn boy who had came in her path of destruction and he is hooked unto to her and she doesn´t want to him to get caught in her path  and she is trying to push him away because she needs to get  him off her guilty conscience
Dear reader, you´re wondering if this is fiction or reality 
it sounds so planned out 
yes it is planned out 
in the stars 
 
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Written by writteninink

You Played Love Like A Game of Chess

You never meant for it to be this way. Eyes darting across the class, desperately trying to avoid eye contact, yet hoping to be seen. Your eyes meet his deep, chocolatey brown ones, then flit away. An endless game of tag.

No, you never meant for it to be this way. Because you weren't that kind of girl. The kind of girl that got butterflies, and a goofy smile at the sound of his name. You were the girl who played love like a game of chess. Strategic, calculated. You were a queen. Invaluable.

The idea that he could change it all... Well maybe that meant that you finally found your king.

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Written by writteninink
You Played Love Like A Game of Chess
You never meant for it to be this way. Eyes darting across the class, desperately trying to avoid eye contact, yet hoping to be seen. Your eyes meet his deep, chocolatey brown ones, then flit away. An endless game of tag.
No, you never meant for it to be this way. Because you weren't that kind of girl. The kind of girl that got butterflies, and a goofy smile at the sound of his name. You were the girl who played love like a game of chess. Strategic, calculated. You were a queen. Invaluable.
The idea that he could change it all... Well maybe that meant that you finally found your king.
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Written by bakedinapie

Blood's Total Package

You are blunt and honest when you say that you never signed up for this. You signed to kill. You signed to ride with the big boys. But they never explained what's included in the package.

The blood stains deeper than the skin. It penetrates the bone. The air outside nips your skin as if teasing your conscience. Dim morning sunlight makes long shadows of the canyon walls. The ringing of ADare's scream still holds thick in the air.

The rest of the posse has all but gone. You are the only being left standing by the crippled body. A glass box of guilt seems to surround you, seems to trap you here.

Your gut twists and rolls inside. Acid rises in your throat. You bend over quickly and heave out what is left of last night's dinner.

You fall to your knees in exhaustion.

"How does no one else feel this side affect?!" you yell in demand.

The lone reply is your echo.

" Is sympathy a weakness?!" you try again.

This time you see that you have caught the attention of a vulture. The runt of a bird circles above you in temptation.

You realize someone must bury A'Dare, the poor guy. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have happened to any traveler.

You dread to touch the body but it won't move on its own. Slowly, you get to your feet to start digging that hole.

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by bakedinapie
Blood's Total Package
You are blunt and honest when you say that you never signed up for this. You signed to kill. You signed to ride with the big boys. But they never explained what's included in the package.
The blood stains deeper than the skin. It penetrates the bone. The air outside nips your skin as if teasing your conscience. Dim morning sunlight makes long shadows of the canyon walls. The ringing of ADare's scream still holds thick in the air.
The rest of the posse has all but gone. You are the only being left standing by the crippled body. A glass box of guilt seems to surround you, seems to trap you here.
Your gut twists and rolls inside. Acid rises in your throat. You bend over quickly and heave out what is left of last night's dinner.
You fall to your knees in exhaustion.
"How does no one else feel this side affect?!" you yell in demand.
The lone reply is your echo.
" Is sympathy a weakness?!" you try again.
This time you see that you have caught the attention of a vulture. The runt of a bird circles above you in temptation.
You realize someone must bury A'Dare, the poor guy. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have happened to any traveler.
You dread to touch the body but it won't move on its own. Slowly, you get to your feet to start digging that hole.
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Written by SelfTitled

West Coast Boys

You start your day off with a smoke at the bus stop. Your eyes are dark with bags collecting under them from all of the sleepless nights. Your mind has been active thinking about the things that you've seen over the years. The things that you've heard.

The second part of your day is sitting in the back of the bus, watching Baltimore pass by your eyes. It's not like the buses are segregated, but your Nana says that its for your own safety if you want to avoid trouble. There's a cafe a little ways downtown that you've been working at for over a year, probably two years now. Your family has no money to send you to college, but you take all the pay you can get. Sooner or later you'll get there, even it it's Howard University, just around the corner. Your Ma wants you to travel up North where its safer, but no one in the family has the money for those places.

Your daddy off and left you all five years ago with a little lady from Alabama. You swear to God sometimes, even when you shouldn't, that it was that Southern Belle twang that had him jumping out of his skin for another piece of skin. Then you wonder how a man like him with little success and name to himself can draw in a white woman and run off all the way to California. He told you that he was going out to go buy some cigarettes. Cigs in Cali must be better than the ones in B-More.

When the bus stops off for the third time, you know you're getting close to the neighborhood the white boys live. They board the bus in a group, getting comfortable in the front of the bus, saying their good mornings to the driver. You keep your eyes low, but you know they're staring at you. Some of them. One of them.

Out of the five, there's this one that you can't help but to peek up at. He's blonde with green eyes and you don't know his name. Your eyes lower back down when one of them, probably Italian, glances back at you with a raised eyebrow, then back at his friend and slaps his shoulder. He mentions something about his friend staring at a coon making a sort of a growl form at the back of your throat.

You hate that word, but they've called you it for awhile. Not just them, but people. Your high school became integrated in your junior year and you had to deal with all of them for sometime. Some of them, you befriended. Had classes with. Study with. But they couldn't let you over their houses. You couldn't sit with them at lunch. So you stuck with your clique where its safe. Where the unhooded lynch-mob would let you pass.

Your third and so-on actions for the day are at the cafe. You change clothes in the back and head out with a pen and notepad, ready to take orders. Then you see it-- him. The blonde with the pretty green eyes. Sitting next to the windows. They needed to be cleaned, you quickly note, but then you go back to the young man sitting there, waiting for someone to take his order. You wonder if he's waiting for someone, which is strange because the cafe is predominately negro. Someone like him shouldn't come to places like this, you think, but he seemed so relaxed there.

You suck in a breath, ready you notepad, and shuffle over to him. He looks up at you when you clear your throat, and suddenly his eyes seem even brighter with golden specks in the pupils. You're shocked at how intricate a person's eyes could be: all of the wonders in each nook and cranny of that puzzle called the windows to the soul. You can feel your face heat up and you quickly look back down at your notepad, readying your pen.

"What can I getchu?" You ask, darting out your tongue to wet our lips.

"Strange accent," he comments aloud, and you eyes shift back up to raise an eyebrow at him, trying to hide your offense. He smiles and quickly shakes his head. "Not a bad thing of course. I've just never heard one like it."

"Guess you've haven't been in Baltimore that long."

"No," he answers, "comin' from California."

"Oh." You try to keep your baggage against California to yourself. "Come a long way then."

"Got that right," he laughs a little. You can't help but to smile at the way it sounds. He holds out his hand to you, which catches you off guard. "Name's Konrad Schneider."

Hesitantly, you shake his hand, eyes shifting back and forth in the room to see if anyone was looking at them. There were a couple eyes on you, a few tense faces, but nothing to keep you from recoiling from him and fleeing back into the kitchens.

"German?" You ask. He sends you a lopsided grin that nearly has you melting.

"Got me." Then, "what's your name?"

A white boy never asked you what your name is. And no boy made you smile so hard as you head back into the kitchen to get his coffee once the conversation took a recess.

Sometimes, nowadays, you're afraid that he'll want to leave you and your daughter and stop by the corner store for some cigarettes only to find a woman from Alabama and high tail it back to California where the sun would shine extra bright. But he never does. He helps you out through school. He helps bring the bills in to pay for school and housing up North. Your family is reluctant whenever you bring him back down to Baltimore to visit or the occasional funeral. But he stays.

You've stopped smoking to start your mornings. It's easier to sleep at night.

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Written by SelfTitled
West Coast Boys
You start your day off with a smoke at the bus stop. Your eyes are dark with bags collecting under them from all of the sleepless nights. Your mind has been active thinking about the things that you've seen over the years. The things that you've heard.

The second part of your day is sitting in the back of the bus, watching Baltimore pass by your eyes. It's not like the buses are segregated, but your Nana says that its for your own safety if you want to avoid trouble. There's a cafe a little ways downtown that you've been working at for over a year, probably two years now. Your family has no money to send you to college, but you take all the pay you can get. Sooner or later you'll get there, even it it's Howard University, just around the corner. Your Ma wants you to travel up North where its safer, but no one in the family has the money for those places.

Your daddy off and left you all five years ago with a little lady from Alabama. You swear to God sometimes, even when you shouldn't, that it was that Southern Belle twang that had him jumping out of his skin for another piece of skin. Then you wonder how a man like him with little success and name to himself can draw in a white woman and run off all the way to California. He told you that he was going out to go buy some cigarettes. Cigs in Cali must be better than the ones in B-More.

When the bus stops off for the third time, you know you're getting close to the neighborhood the white boys live. They board the bus in a group, getting comfortable in the front of the bus, saying their good mornings to the driver. You keep your eyes low, but you know they're staring at you. Some of them. One of them.

Out of the five, there's this one that you can't help but to peek up at. He's blonde with green eyes and you don't know his name. Your eyes lower back down when one of them, probably Italian, glances back at you with a raised eyebrow, then back at his friend and slaps his shoulder. He mentions something about his friend staring at a coon making a sort of a growl form at the back of your throat.

You hate that word, but they've called you it for awhile. Not just them, but people. Your high school became integrated in your junior year and you had to deal with all of them for sometime. Some of them, you befriended. Had classes with. Study with. But they couldn't let you over their houses. You couldn't sit with them at lunch. So you stuck with your clique where its safe. Where the unhooded lynch-mob would let you pass.

Your third and so-on actions for the day are at the cafe. You change clothes in the back and head out with a pen and notepad, ready to take orders. Then you see it-- him. The blonde with the pretty green eyes. Sitting next to the windows. They needed to be cleaned, you quickly note, but then you go back to the young man sitting there, waiting for someone to take his order. You wonder if he's waiting for someone, which is strange because the cafe is predominately negro. Someone like him shouldn't come to places like this, you think, but he seemed so relaxed there.

You suck in a breath, ready you notepad, and shuffle over to him. He looks up at you when you clear your throat, and suddenly his eyes seem even brighter with golden specks in the pupils. You're shocked at how intricate a person's eyes could be: all of the wonders in each nook and cranny of that puzzle called the windows to the soul. You can feel your face heat up and you quickly look back down at your notepad, readying your pen.

"What can I getchu?" You ask, darting out your tongue to wet our lips.

"Strange accent," he comments aloud, and you eyes shift back up to raise an eyebrow at him, trying to hide your offense. He smiles and quickly shakes his head. "Not a bad thing of course. I've just never heard one like it."

"Guess you've haven't been in Baltimore that long."

"No," he answers, "comin' from California."

"Oh." You try to keep your baggage against California to yourself. "Come a long way then."

"Got that right," he laughs a little. You can't help but to smile at the way it sounds. He holds out his hand to you, which catches you off guard. "Name's Konrad Schneider."

Hesitantly, you shake his hand, eyes shifting back and forth in the room to see if anyone was looking at them. There were a couple eyes on you, a few tense faces, but nothing to keep you from recoiling from him and fleeing back into the kitchens.

"German?" You ask. He sends you a lopsided grin that nearly has you melting.

"Got me." Then, "what's your name?"

A white boy never asked you what your name is. And no boy made you smile so hard as you head back into the kitchen to get his coffee once the conversation took a recess.

Sometimes, nowadays, you're afraid that he'll want to leave you and your daughter and stop by the corner store for some cigarettes only to find a woman from Alabama and high tail it back to California where the sun would shine extra bright. But he never does. He helps you out through school. He helps bring the bills in to pay for school and housing up North. Your family is reluctant whenever you bring him back down to Baltimore to visit or the occasional funeral. But he stays.

You've stopped smoking to start your mornings. It's easier to sleep at night.
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Written by justaperson

You open your weary eyes inside a still vehicle. Your long brown locks cover your face, stuck to your forehead with something. Your idiot brother must of done it, but no, he couldn't have you think. Your brother is possessed by a demon and nearly dead, but burning in Hell itself. Your angel friend has left you. Gone to Heaven, he said, leaving you behind, with all of your friends missing or dead, and physic dreams still haunt you. You're sitting in your brother's car, Baby, as he liked to call it. You think that, smiling, remembering when your brother first got it. He was nearly overjoyed, and now it's yours, but because of bad circumstances. You could disappear, kill yourself, or you could continue. Continue looking for him, continuing the family business, as your brother convinced you to do years ago. You left collage for your dad, and your dad died years ago. Your brother is possessed and burning in Hell, and you are all alone. It is constantly going through your head. It started with Jessica, the person you were going to ask to marry you, but she died on the ceiling like your mother. You get out of the car, and go to the back hood and open it. Pulling out your brother's gun, you put it to your head, moving hair out of the way, and ready the pistol. You pull the trigger and the last thing that leaves your mouth is, "I'm sorry."

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by justaperson
You open your weary eyes inside a still vehicle. Your long brown locks cover your face, stuck to your forehead with something. Your idiot brother must of done it, but no, he couldn't have you think. Your brother is possessed by a demon and nearly dead, but burning in Hell itself. Your angel friend has left you. Gone to Heaven, he said, leaving you behind, with all of your friends missing or dead, and physic dreams still haunt you. You're sitting in your brother's car, Baby, as he liked to call it. You think that, smiling, remembering when your brother first got it. He was nearly overjoyed, and now it's yours, but because of bad circumstances. You could disappear, kill yourself, or you could continue. Continue looking for him, continuing the family business, as your brother convinced you to do years ago. You left collage for your dad, and your dad died years ago. Your brother is possessed and burning in Hell, and you are all alone. It is constantly going through your head. It started with Jessica, the person you were going to ask to marry you, but she died on the ceiling like your mother. You get out of the car, and go to the back hood and open it. Pulling out your brother's gun, you put it to your head, moving hair out of the way, and ready the pistol. You pull the trigger and the last thing that leaves your mouth is, "I'm sorry."
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Written by pandaTapJR

sing me to the mountain

        There you are, standing strong and beautiful even as the sandpaper wind tears through your hair, grains of cheap gold settling deep and painful against your scalp. The mountain stands large and looming ahead of you, the same distance away as it has been since the very first time you saw it. The pickup besides you sputters in protest as you fill it with oil, baby blue paint long since blown away.

        "Hey," he says, leaning so far out of the truck bed that you fear he will lose his balance and fall. "How much longer do you think it'll take?"

        You shove him back to safety before your heart can beat itself out of your chest, and only when he laughs in delight and settles in do you make a show of peering at that enormous shadow in the distance, hand rising to shield your eyes from the wind.

        "Soon," you tell him. "We'll be there soon."

        The sun sets in blood, sky stained a red so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it directly. He's barely awake, head lolling limply as the two of you bump on towards the mountain.

        It's late, you think.  It's probably not safe to keep driving. So you pull into a roadside hotel and carry him into a room, locking it safely behind you both. You let him have the first shower, and as the drumming of the water builds, your thoughts wander back to the city you passed some time back. You have nightmares, still, of the bodies that piled high into the air, but you are more terrified of the ones that had turned towards you in hunger as you passed.

        You thank whatever greater being may be out there for the small blessing that had come in the form of his frequent naps, grateful that he, at least, had not seen the same horror that you had.

        He emerges, then, shaking his head to fling off excess water, and you take your turn, heart thumping painfully as you strain your ears for any sign of movement in the hallway outside. You turn off the shower before the water runs cold, too fearful to stay any longer.

        "Don't worry," he whispers when he sees you, breaking into a small smile. "They said San Fran's still safe."

        You smile back and toss him an armful of the hotel's finest courtesy snacks, and try not think about the bodies in the town you passed by days ago. You do not tell him that you are no longer headed to San Francisco.

        "Hey," he says later when the stars shine through the window, eyes swollen and voice soft and low from exhaustion. "How much longer do you think it'll take?"

        You smooth his hair back and tuck the blankets close, hands closing tightly around the gun that he can not see, that you will not let him see. You are all that stands between him and death.

        "Soon," you tell him. "We'll be there soon."

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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by pandaTapJR
sing me to the mountain
        There you are, standing strong and beautiful even as the sandpaper wind tears through your hair, grains of cheap gold settling deep and painful against your scalp. The mountain stands large and looming ahead of you, the same distance away as it has been since the very first time you saw it. The pickup besides you sputters in protest as you fill it with oil, baby blue paint long since blown away.
        "Hey," he says, leaning so far out of the truck bed that you fear he will lose his balance and fall. "How much longer do you think it'll take?"
        You shove him back to safety before your heart can beat itself out of your chest, and only when he laughs in delight and settles in do you make a show of peering at that enormous shadow in the distance, hand rising to shield your eyes from the wind.
        "Soon," you tell him. "We'll be there soon."

        The sun sets in blood, sky stained a red so bright it hurts your eyes to look at it directly. He's barely awake, head lolling limply as the two of you bump on towards the mountain.
        It's late, you think.  It's probably not safe to keep driving. So you pull into a roadside hotel and carry him into a room, locking it safely behind you both. You let him have the first shower, and as the drumming of the water builds, your thoughts wander back to the city you passed some time back. You have nightmares, still, of the bodies that piled high into the air, but you are more terrified of the ones that had turned towards you in hunger as you passed.
        You thank whatever greater being may be out there for the small blessing that had come in the form of his frequent naps, grateful that he, at least, had not seen the same horror that you had.
        He emerges, then, shaking his head to fling off excess water, and you take your turn, heart thumping painfully as you strain your ears for any sign of movement in the hallway outside. You turn off the shower before the water runs cold, too fearful to stay any longer.
        "Don't worry," he whispers when he sees you, breaking into a small smile. "They said San Fran's still safe."
        You smile back and toss him an armful of the hotel's finest courtesy snacks, and try not think about the bodies in the town you passed by days ago. You do not tell him that you are no longer headed to San Francisco.

        "Hey," he says later when the stars shine through the window, eyes swollen and voice soft and low from exhaustion. "How much longer do you think it'll take?"
        You smooth his hair back and tuck the blankets close, hands closing tightly around the gun that he can not see, that you will not let him see. You are all that stands between him and death.
        "Soon," you tell him. "We'll be there soon."
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by Nalla_Shellan

Mystery House

The night is filled with crickets and frogs chirping hidden in the tall grass. The full moon lights the way to the abandoned mystery house in the corner of the neighborhood. The houses along the street are silent and dark, the inhabitants long asleep.

Your breath rushes past your lips, your feet slow and hesitant as you walk down the sidewalk. The house is looming closer, the front porch sagging with rotten wood, the shutters hanging from rusted hinges. You swallow nervously, the warm night suddenly feeling cold as the shadow of the house falls over you.

You stop, your heart plummeting to your stomach as you gaze up at the black iron gate in front of you. Most of the spikes are missing, enough for you to squeeze through to the unkempt yard beyond.

You are tempted to forget the whole thing, to turn around and go back home, crawl under your warm blankets and forget about the night your little sister caught you sneaking out of your house.

His little sister blackmailed him to take pictures of the house, she was a fan of horror and macabre scenes. The mystery house had always intrigued her, but their parents strictly forbid her to go anywhere near it.

You unconsciously touch the camera in your jacket pocket, she wanted pictures of the inside of the house.

You had refused, but she blackmailed you, “Sneaking out of the house is against the rules Mason, if mom and dad found out that you snuck out you can no longer be in your club.”

You reluctantly agreed, your club activities the only reason you endured school. You look back at the house, the blackened cracked windows like soulless eyes staring at you. You take that step off the sidewalk to the walk path to the gate.

It’s a tight fit trying to squeeze through the hole in the fence, your chest not allowing you much room to squeeze by. You hold your breath and ease in, your sneakers crushing the tall grass.

Its colder here, more silent, eerie. You ignored it as you carefully pick your way to the front porch, the smell of rot filling the air. You gag and press the back of your hand against your mouth unwilling to vomit, unwilling to admit the thought of going in the house alone was tangling your stomach into nervous slimy knots.

The front porch groans and the wood beneath your feet creak as you climb the broken steps, the smell is stronger under the porch. The smell of wet wood and dank death filling the air.

You reach out for the rusted doorknob, silently praying it will be locked. It turns in your hands, but the door won’t open. You shove a shoulder in the wood, feeling it splinter on your jacket. It swings open, the old hinges squeaking.

The inside of the house is pitch black, you fumble in your pocket for the small flashlight, twisting the top until a thin beam of white cuts through the darkness.

You sweep the light around the room, seeing furniture thrown in random locations, pictures and vases broken along the floor. The wallpaper peeling off the walls and cracks appearing in the molding.

You step forward hesitantly, the floor giving with your weight. You take a deep breath and charge for the staircase, your panic seizes your chest, squeezing down until you are gasping for breath.

You leap for the first step, not pausing on the quick ascension up. The stairs wobble and creak beneath you, terrified they will crumble beneath you your pace slackens. Your heart pounding against your chest as you make it safely to the top floor.

You bend at the waist, bracing your hands on your knees, you made it. You laugh at your own silliness and search for the next staircase. Your light sweeps across the walls, stopping on a picture frame with a family.

Curious you wonder closer, wiping the buildup of dust away. A family of three smiles up at you, the daughter smiling happily, her parents hand on her shoulders as they look down at her with bright parental smiles. A happy family photo, but something about it doesn’t sit right with you. Something seems off with the scene.

The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you jolt away, nervously wiping your sweating hands over your neck. Chills course down your body as you quickly spot stairs peeking from behind a sagging door.

You mount these steps quickly, your heart pounding as you near the top of the attic. The door is opened, the moonlight shining through the round attic window.

Nervous sweat beads on your forehead the attic hot and stifling. Your breathe is shallow, the taste of mold and the feel of moisture making you fear asbestos making you lift your jacket lapel to your mouth.

Your breath is hot now against your face, making it harder to breath. You ignore it. You aim the camera at the broken window of the attic, the window the daughter was thrown from. You snap a picture, the quick shutter sound like a blowhorn in the quiet room.

Your breath is escalating the room growing cold as you turn and take a picture of the door you came from, stepping into the middle of the room to focus it. The father broken his neck on the stairs, his body found twisted in the hallway.

You shiver, your breath coming in white puffs of air. A whispering sound floats behind you and you spin in fear. In front of you is the white apparition of the daughter, her ghostly form wavering in the moonlight. You drop the camera, the lens cracking down the middle as she turns to look at you.

A scream builds up in the air, felt but not heard. She pitches herself out the window, a blood curdling scream forever engraved in your memory

2
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Juice
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Write a story in SECOND PERSON, which is using second case pronouns ( you, your) to write a story. 50 coins to the best written story!
Written by Nalla_Shellan
Mystery House
The night is filled with crickets and frogs chirping hidden in the tall grass. The full moon lights the way to the abandoned mystery house in the corner of the neighborhood. The houses along the street are silent and dark, the inhabitants long asleep.

Your breath rushes past your lips, your feet slow and hesitant as you walk down the sidewalk. The house is looming closer, the front porch sagging with rotten wood, the shutters hanging from rusted hinges. You swallow nervously, the warm night suddenly feeling cold as the shadow of the house falls over you.

You stop, your heart plummeting to your stomach as you gaze up at the black iron gate in front of you. Most of the spikes are missing, enough for you to squeeze through to the unkempt yard beyond.

You are tempted to forget the whole thing, to turn around and go back home, crawl under your warm blankets and forget about the night your little sister caught you sneaking out of your house.

His little sister blackmailed him to take pictures of the house, she was a fan of horror and macabre scenes. The mystery house had always intrigued her, but their parents strictly forbid her to go anywhere near it.

You unconsciously touch the camera in your jacket pocket, she wanted pictures of the inside of the house.

You had refused, but she blackmailed you, “Sneaking out of the house is against the rules Mason, if mom and dad found out that you snuck out you can no longer be in your club.”

You reluctantly agreed, your club activities the only reason you endured school. You look back at the house, the blackened cracked windows like soulless eyes staring at you. You take that step off the sidewalk to the walk path to the gate.

It’s a tight fit trying to squeeze through the hole in the fence, your chest not allowing you much room to squeeze by. You hold your breath and ease in, your sneakers crushing the tall grass.

Its colder here, more silent, eerie. You ignored it as you carefully pick your way to the front porch, the smell of rot filling the air. You gag and press the back of your hand against your mouth unwilling to vomit, unwilling to admit the thought of going in the house alone was tangling your stomach into nervous slimy knots.

The front porch groans and the wood beneath your feet creak as you climb the broken steps, the smell is stronger under the porch. The smell of wet wood and dank death filling the air.

You reach out for the rusted doorknob, silently praying it will be locked. It turns in your hands, but the door won’t open. You shove a shoulder in the wood, feeling it splinter on your jacket. It swings open, the old hinges squeaking.

The inside of the house is pitch black, you fumble in your pocket for the small flashlight, twisting the top until a thin beam of white cuts through the darkness.

You sweep the light around the room, seeing furniture thrown in random locations, pictures and vases broken along the floor. The wallpaper peeling off the walls and cracks appearing in the molding.

You step forward hesitantly, the floor giving with your weight. You take a deep breath and charge for the staircase, your panic seizes your chest, squeezing down until you are gasping for breath.

You leap for the first step, not pausing on the quick ascension up. The stairs wobble and creak beneath you, terrified they will crumble beneath you your pace slackens. Your heart pounding against your chest as you make it safely to the top floor.

You bend at the waist, bracing your hands on your knees, you made it. You laugh at your own silliness and search for the next staircase. Your light sweeps across the walls, stopping on a picture frame with a family.

Curious you wonder closer, wiping the buildup of dust away. A family of three smiles up at you, the daughter smiling happily, her parents hand on her shoulders as they look down at her with bright parental smiles. A happy family photo, but something about it doesn’t sit right with you. Something seems off with the scene.

The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you jolt away, nervously wiping your sweating hands over your neck. Chills course down your body as you quickly spot stairs peeking from behind a sagging door.

You mount these steps quickly, your heart pounding as you near the top of the attic. The door is opened, the moonlight shining through the round attic window.

Nervous sweat beads on your forehead the attic hot and stifling. Your breathe is shallow, the taste of mold and the feel of moisture making you fear asbestos making you lift your jacket lapel to your mouth.

Your breath is hot now against your face, making it harder to breath. You ignore it. You aim the camera at the broken window of the attic, the window the daughter was thrown from. You snap a picture, the quick shutter sound like a blowhorn in the quiet room.

Your breath is escalating the room growing cold as you turn and take a picture of the door you came from, stepping into the middle of the room to focus it. The father broken his neck on the stairs, his body found twisted in the hallway.

You shiver, your breath coming in white puffs of air. A whispering sound floats behind you and you spin in fear. In front of you is the white apparition of the daughter, her ghostly form wavering in the moonlight. You drop the camera, the lens cracking down the middle as she turns to look at you.

A scream builds up in the air, felt but not heard. She pitches herself out the window, a blood curdling scream forever engraved in your memory

2
1
2
Juice
10 reads
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