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Short Story with a twist! Throw something totally unexpected at me. Don't forget to tag me!
Written by Harry_Situation in portal Flash Fiction

Impossi-Paul vs Madame Manic

"It's over Madame Manic!" cried Impossi-Paul, swooping down through the air like a speeding bullet. It was an age old battle between good and evil. Lieber City's greatest superhero, Imposs-Paul, defender of justice and truth, has come to thwart another doomsday device from his archenemy, the maniacally mechanized Madame Manic, who was attacking city hall. 

Madame Manic cackled, "I think not, hero. I'm afraid you're a bit tied up at the moment."

In a flash, a large spherical projectile launched out of her bazooka. The projectile exploded and ensnared all around the brave superhero's body with metallic coils. The coils constricted his movements like a snake around its prey. The superhero crashed into the floor in front to the doomsday device.

"In a matter of minutes," the vile villain exclaimed, "my device with destroy city hall. But what comes from destruction will also come creativity. In its place a new city hall will be instantly built, but it will be done in my image; and I shall rule over Lieber City. 

Impossi-Paul tried to break free, but the coils wouldn't budge. "Struggle all you want," Madame Manic mocked, "Those coils are pure titanium. They're impossible to break."

"Impossible, you say," The superhero said, a smirk curled on his face. "Nothing's impossible for... IMPOSSI-PAUL!"

Impossi-Paul flexed out his muscles against the constraining coils. One by one the coils broke apart from is immeasurable strength. Madame Manic gasped when she saw her archenemy snap off all the coils as if they were made of tissue paper. It took her hours trying to make those coils unbreakable, and yet her nemesis proved them useless.

Impossi-Paul flew at the doomsday device, grappling it with both is strong hands. With all his super strength he lifted the device into the air and began swinging it around. After the final swing, the hero hurled the device towards the sun at incredible speeds. He saw the device burn up in the sun's fiery atmosphere with his super vision and smiled at his accomplishment. 

"You may have won this time," Madame Manic cried as she jettisoned away the battle in her rocket high heels, "I will be back, and I shall have my vengeance."

The defeated villain disappeared from the scene and the crowd cheered for their hero. Impossi-Paul gave them a wink and a heroic salute as he flew off to the blue horizon. Now that he was out of the public's view he found himself meeting his nemesis again.

"How was that, sweetie." Madame Manic asked, the tone of her voice was much gentler than before. "Did they buy it?"

"Oh yeah, they're convinced." Impossi-Paul replied. He floated over and gave his supervillain girlfriend a soft kiss on her cheek.

"So see you back at the apartment?" she asked.

"You bet. Need me to pick up anything while I'm still out?"

"Just milk and eggs. Love you, honey-hero."

"Love you too, cookie-crook."

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Short Story with a twist! Throw something totally unexpected at me. Don't forget to tag me!
Written by Harry_Situation in portal Flash Fiction
Impossi-Paul vs Madame Manic
"It's over Madame Manic!" cried Impossi-Paul, swooping down through the air like a speeding bullet. It was an age old battle between good and evil. Lieber City's greatest superhero, Imposs-Paul, defender of justice and truth, has come to thwart another doomsday device from his archenemy, the maniacally mechanized Madame Manic, who was attacking city hall. 

Madame Manic cackled, "I think not, hero. I'm afraid you're a bit tied up at the moment."

In a flash, a large spherical projectile launched out of her bazooka. The projectile exploded and ensnared all around the brave superhero's body with metallic coils. The coils constricted his movements like a snake around its prey. The superhero crashed into the floor in front to the doomsday device.

"In a matter of minutes," the vile villain exclaimed, "my device with destroy city hall. But what comes from destruction will also come creativity. In its place a new city hall will be instantly built, but it will be done in my image; and I shall rule over Lieber City. 

Impossi-Paul tried to break free, but the coils wouldn't budge. "Struggle all you want," Madame Manic mocked, "Those coils are pure titanium. They're impossible to break."

"Impossible, you say," The superhero said, a smirk curled on his face. "Nothing's impossible for... IMPOSSI-PAUL!"

Impossi-Paul flexed out his muscles against the constraining coils. One by one the coils broke apart from is immeasurable strength. Madame Manic gasped when she saw her archenemy snap off all the coils as if they were made of tissue paper. It took her hours trying to make those coils unbreakable, and yet her nemesis proved them useless.

Impossi-Paul flew at the doomsday device, grappling it with both is strong hands. With all his super strength he lifted the device into the air and began swinging it around. After the final swing, the hero hurled the device towards the sun at incredible speeds. He saw the device burn up in the sun's fiery atmosphere with his super vision and smiled at his accomplishment. 

"You may have won this time," Madame Manic cried as she jettisoned away the battle in her rocket high heels, "I will be back, and I shall have my vengeance."

The defeated villain disappeared from the scene and the crowd cheered for their hero. Impossi-Paul gave them a wink and a heroic salute as he flew off to the blue horizon. Now that he was out of the public's view he found himself meeting his nemesis again.

"How was that, sweetie." Madame Manic asked, the tone of her voice was much gentler than before. "Did they buy it?"

"Oh yeah, they're convinced." Impossi-Paul replied. He floated over and gave his supervillain girlfriend a soft kiss on her cheek.

"So see you back at the apartment?" she asked.

"You bet. Need me to pick up anything while I'm still out?"

"Just milk and eggs. Love you, honey-hero."

"Love you too, cookie-crook."
#fiction  #adventure  #shortstory  #superheroes 
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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by H_Fields in portal Simon & Schuster

Temporal

Have you ever wondered what happens when a grandfather clock stops ticking? Probably not. I imagine you’re the practical sort that merely winds its gears when they slow down. That was never the case for me. I’ve counted my heartbeats with every pendulum swing of the old long case clock that sits importantly in my study. Tall and sturdy, I once amused myself by imagining this solitary thing as a reflection of myself. My, how things have changed. My body aches and my breathing strains against tobacco lined lungs. My skin, once supple, now wraps around my bones like old leather casing. But the clock ticks on, the same steady rhythm, mocking as I pull at my graying beard.

Dying weighs heavily on my mind. I can feel it peeking out at me from within the clock’s keyholes as I sit in my worn upholstered chair. I pretend not to notice, but I know it’s there. Waiting. And why should I make it wait? I’ve been handed an abundance of time to do my life’s bidding. I’ve laughed. I’ve cried. I’ve loved. I’ve suffered. That would seem to be enough to satisfy the hunger of this ghost as it judges my days from the dark corners of this room. Still, it hungers for a penance I no longer have the strength to give.

It’s comical really, the art of dying. We are born to fill empty seats of an orchestra that never plays at exactly the right tempo. Life is our continual audition and we’re always sent home just as we’re about to strike the perfect chord. Where we’re sent, well, that’s up for speculation. I’ve always thought it was a damned shame that we never had the opportunity to choose for ourselves. Each place differs depending on who you ask, but the outcome is usually the same. Either we win the prize of singing ourselves hoarse for eternity or we’re destined to exchange our flesh for fire.

I, myself, have never been fond of these theories. I’ve spent hours musing and measuring my alternatives by the slow movements of a drooping clock face. If I had it my way, my soul would be set free into the universe. I’d wrap myself around nebulas and constellations, melding myself within their infinite wonder. There would be no celestial fanfare awaiting a refurbished fabrication of my gratitude. Instead, there would be a limitless plane of beauty I was never granted on earth. I would find peace among the cosmos. We are all made of stardust, they say.

Instead, I sit within this cramped room surrounded by old books and faded papers. I can feel the gears slowing as the ticking becomes a faint whisper of my lifetime. Was I ever alive or were these passing years a suspended animation of some unconscious god forced to be human? These are absurdities we dream up when the curtains are preparing to close. It eases the silence that has overtaken the room, cuing my leave.

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Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by H_Fields in portal Simon & Schuster
Temporal
Have you ever wondered what happens when a grandfather clock stops ticking? Probably not. I imagine you’re the practical sort that merely winds its gears when they slow down. That was never the case for me. I’ve counted my heartbeats with every pendulum swing of the old long case clock that sits importantly in my study. Tall and sturdy, I once amused myself by imagining this solitary thing as a reflection of myself. My, how things have changed. My body aches and my breathing strains against tobacco lined lungs. My skin, once supple, now wraps around my bones like old leather casing. But the clock ticks on, the same steady rhythm, mocking as I pull at my graying beard.

Dying weighs heavily on my mind. I can feel it peeking out at me from within the clock’s keyholes as I sit in my worn upholstered chair. I pretend not to notice, but I know it’s there. Waiting. And why should I make it wait? I’ve been handed an abundance of time to do my life’s bidding. I’ve laughed. I’ve cried. I’ve loved. I’ve suffered. That would seem to be enough to satisfy the hunger of this ghost as it judges my days from the dark corners of this room. Still, it hungers for a penance I no longer have the strength to give.

It’s comical really, the art of dying. We are born to fill empty seats of an orchestra that never plays at exactly the right tempo. Life is our continual audition and we’re always sent home just as we’re about to strike the perfect chord. Where we’re sent, well, that’s up for speculation. I’ve always thought it was a damned shame that we never had the opportunity to choose for ourselves. Each place differs depending on who you ask, but the outcome is usually the same. Either we win the prize of singing ourselves hoarse for eternity or we’re destined to exchange our flesh for fire.

I, myself, have never been fond of these theories. I’ve spent hours musing and measuring my alternatives by the slow movements of a drooping clock face. If I had it my way, my soul would be set free into the universe. I’d wrap myself around nebulas and constellations, melding myself within their infinite wonder. There would be no celestial fanfare awaiting a refurbished fabrication of my gratitude. Instead, there would be a limitless plane of beauty I was never granted on earth. I would find peace among the cosmos. We are all made of stardust, they say.

Instead, I sit within this cramped room surrounded by old books and faded papers. I can feel the gears slowing as the ticking becomes a faint whisper of my lifetime. Was I ever alive or were these passing years a suspended animation of some unconscious god forced to be human? These are absurdities we dream up when the curtains are preparing to close. It eases the silence that has overtaken the room, cuing my leave.
#fiction  #shortstory 
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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by Confusheyusss in portal Fiction

I Said NO!

“I am sorry,” he said.

“Why didn’t you just stop?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t.”

Shattered were remnants of insubordination

Betraying mutilated trust, she stared.

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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by Confusheyusss in portal Fiction
I Said NO!
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Why didn’t you just stop?”
“I don’t know, I couldn’t.”
Shattered were remnants of insubordination
Betraying mutilated trust, she stared.

#challenge  #shortstory  #consent  #NoMeansNo  #LimitedWords 
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Written by SelfTitled in portal Fiction

The Death of Rome.

She was only seventeen had the ability to make an arena flooded with the entirety of her city roar at her arrival into death. Spaniard, female, barbarian, slave, filthy, dark-skinned. She was the audience favorite and the beautiful image of fear when all she ever did was look bored out of her wits.

She was most commonly known as Pluto. Ender of One Thousand Men. No one could bring the slave to her knees and execute her. She was the voice of the hopeless. She gave them something that the Emperor and Senate could not. Togetherness. Together they could bet on her. Together they could cheer for her. Together they would fear her.

Only seventeen, Bellona Amezquita De Santiago Brisco was the face of terror. She had been condemned to bondage for a decade now, but she was not ignorant enough to openly complain. She grew patience through watching her fourteen siblings die one-by-one at seven-- some by her hands and some at others,-- through whippings and torture from her masters, through sleepless nights tending to a lustful owner. Only seventeen, Bellona was diseased with bloodlust and hatred towards those who both wanted her to rise and watch her fall.

Enter the Colosseum. Each time her chains are unlocked from her ankles and wrists and she must step her bare feet onto the sandy earth, she can smell death. Death has a scent that smells like her mother’s tears as she prayed over her and her siblings when they were dragged into Italy from their village in cages. And then it has a very specific taste. It tastes like Alonso's blood when she, only seven, slit his throat in order to survive. Death looks like a false image of survival, too. A faulty one that lies with a smile. An albino woman that draws in deranged men, taking them away somewhere that wasn’t a Heaven or Hell.

But enough about death. And not even survival. What Bellona stared at was four men, all twice her size and weight, masked with bits and pieces of half-assed armor protecting what they believe to be vital organs. They were alive. Her objective wasn’t to survive. It was to provide Death a vacation day.

Bellona didn’t do masks. It made it seem like she has something to hide. She shamelessly stared down her next kills, taking in their choices of weaponry and defense. Two with broadswords. One, the farthest, armed with a bow and arrow. The biggest with a battle ax and a shield. All masked. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she unsheathed her sword, the old metal flashing with the intrusive sun. The crowd screamed for her just from that one action, all thirsty for blood. They wanted her blood most of all. Everyone wondered if she, this stupid barbarian, would shed some eventually. Inwardly, she scoffed. If someone were to take her blood one day, she’ll serve them for the rest of her life.

“One of you should take the first swing and make this really easy on yourselves,” she sighed, fighting away a yawn. She didn’t get much sleep the night before. A new slave was bought yesterday and they were forced to share her cot to make space. Unfortunately, they sobbed all night and it took Bellona beating them senseless to get them to shut up. She apologized so she didn’t really feel bad about it.

One of the men took a shaky step towards her, then another. The bowman in the back nocked his arrow and drew it back, ready to fire once the action started. The axman stood closer to the back to protect his long-range from any harm. From the looks of it, if she died, they would all be able to live. How annoying. “I guess it is my go then.”

The swordsman to her right was incredibly inexperienced from what she could tell. The poor bastard lead with his left leg and had the audacity to place all of his weight there for an extra boost when he would charge; it was obvious that wasn’t his dominant foot from how awkward he stood. She didn’t use her sword. She ducked down and swept his leg leg from under him, the gladiator falling forwards and dropping his sword to catch himself. Bellona snagged the collar of his vest and dragged him in front of her as she stood, using him as her shield when the archer shot at her chest. She had to admit, the archer had good aim-- he shot directly into his comrade's heart.

The other swordsman that was close to her cried out something in an African language Bellona didn’t understand, but charged. She shoved the dead body in her arms into him as hard as she could, knocking him down. Picking up her sword from the ground, she stayed low to avoid the bowman, tumble-rolling to her enemy and impaling him downwards through the corpse’s back. The African screamed and choked on the blood that erupted from the back of his throat, in the process of meeting that cruel Death.

The axman, now with no choice but to attack, sprinted at Bellona while she was down, hacking at her on the ground. She didn’t have time to yank her sword out of the kabob of bodies she created, so she hurried and rolled out of the way, narrowly dodging the arrow that went whizzing past her head. The man chased after her, swinging wildly at her, but Bellona continued lunging out of the way each time. The audience had a mixed reaction, some laughing and others booing at this redundant game of keep-away.

The thing that no one realized about Bellona was that she had been fighting for most of her life and knew how to play her cards in ways that wouldn’t get her killed. For instance, she knew that the strong, big, muscle-heavy gladiators most likely did not have the best endurance. It didn’t take long until her opponent began slowing down in both his running and his swings. Swiping up the sword of her first victim up from the ground, she lifted herself to her feet while the axman stood over her, stabbing the blade through his neck. The beast of a man wobbled then tumbled to his back when Bellona jerked the bloodsoaked weapon out from under his chin.

She nearly lost her life to the arrow that soared in front of her barely-dodging face, the head grazing the bridge of her nose, blood shooting from the cut in the process. Spectators intoxicated themselves on watching her blood fly from the gash in her face, most never seeing the foreign lifeforce in their lives. She was stunned momentarily, not used to another gladiator harming her, but the rage inside of her stomach boiled hot into her chest. While the archer attempted to nock his final arrow and end the Spaniard, she hurled her sword at his unsuspecting place kneeled on the ground.

She took his neck. He fell backward, arms outstretched, head somewhere she didn’t care about, blood everywhere. There was a long silence that Bellona loathed with everything in her.

“Are you not entertained, Romans?!” She boomed, face hot; voice carrying itself offensively across the inappropriately silent audience. “You come to this arena for blood, do you not? Regardless if that blood is mine, you want to taste death like I do. You love it! Be grateful that I, this humble slave-- this savage beast, has provided you with it! Look now! These filthy barbarians bleed!” She was not meant to use her voice. Glancing at the emperor out of corner of her eye, she saw him and the few Senators around him tense with emotions she couldn’t make out. Guards rallied at the gates, ready for her to continue speaking. If she did, they would have her blood. Finally. And that was her curse.

Rome grew into a frenzy of screams and moans of excitement at her victory. Bellona, stern-faced and absolutely disgusted, turned on her heel and abandoned the bodies of her fallen equals to the slaughter of starving lions stolen from their homes just like her. The gates opened for her and when she was cloaked back in the darkness, her fellow slaves broke into their own madness as she passed. She felt like she would throw up if she acknowledged any of them. She didn’t face her master as she went by. She knew that she would suffer the consequences of being his favorite toy later on.

(c) SelfTitled, 2017

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Written by SelfTitled in portal Fiction
The Death of Rome.
She was only seventeen had the ability to make an arena flooded with the entirety of her city roar at her arrival into death. Spaniard, female, barbarian, slave, filthy, dark-skinned. She was the audience favorite and the beautiful image of fear when all she ever did was look bored out of her wits.

She was most commonly known as Pluto. Ender of One Thousand Men. No one could bring the slave to her knees and execute her. She was the voice of the hopeless. She gave them something that the Emperor and Senate could not. Togetherness. Together they could bet on her. Together they could cheer for her. Together they would fear her.

Only seventeen, Bellona Amezquita De Santiago Brisco was the face of terror. She had been condemned to bondage for a decade now, but she was not ignorant enough to openly complain. She grew patience through watching her fourteen siblings die one-by-one at seven-- some by her hands and some at others,-- through whippings and torture from her masters, through sleepless nights tending to a lustful owner. Only seventeen, Bellona was diseased with bloodlust and hatred towards those who both wanted her to rise and watch her fall.

Enter the Colosseum. Each time her chains are unlocked from her ankles and wrists and she must step her bare feet onto the sandy earth, she can smell death. Death has a scent that smells like her mother’s tears as she prayed over her and her siblings when they were dragged into Italy from their village in cages. And then it has a very specific taste. It tastes like Alonso's blood when she, only seven, slit his throat in order to survive. Death looks like a false image of survival, too. A faulty one that lies with a smile. An albino woman that draws in deranged men, taking them away somewhere that wasn’t a Heaven or Hell.
But enough about death. And not even survival. What Bellona stared at was four men, all twice her size and weight, masked with bits and pieces of half-assed armor protecting what they believe to be vital organs. They were alive. Her objective wasn’t to survive. It was to provide Death a vacation day.

Bellona didn’t do masks. It made it seem like she has something to hide. She shamelessly stared down her next kills, taking in their choices of weaponry and defense. Two with broadswords. One, the farthest, armed with a bow and arrow. The biggest with a battle ax and a shield. All masked. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she unsheathed her sword, the old metal flashing with the intrusive sun. The crowd screamed for her just from that one action, all thirsty for blood. They wanted her blood most of all. Everyone wondered if she, this stupid barbarian, would shed some eventually. Inwardly, she scoffed. If someone were to take her blood one day, she’ll serve them for the rest of her life.

“One of you should take the first swing and make this really easy on yourselves,” she sighed, fighting away a yawn. She didn’t get much sleep the night before. A new slave was bought yesterday and they were forced to share her cot to make space. Unfortunately, they sobbed all night and it took Bellona beating them senseless to get them to shut up. She apologized so she didn’t really feel bad about it.

One of the men took a shaky step towards her, then another. The bowman in the back nocked his arrow and drew it back, ready to fire once the action started. The axman stood closer to the back to protect his long-range from any harm. From the looks of it, if she died, they would all be able to live. How annoying. “I guess it is my go then.”

The swordsman to her right was incredibly inexperienced from what she could tell. The poor bastard lead with his left leg and had the audacity to place all of his weight there for an extra boost when he would charge; it was obvious that wasn’t his dominant foot from how awkward he stood. She didn’t use her sword. She ducked down and swept his leg leg from under him, the gladiator falling forwards and dropping his sword to catch himself. Bellona snagged the collar of his vest and dragged him in front of her as she stood, using him as her shield when the archer shot at her chest. She had to admit, the archer had good aim-- he shot directly into his comrade's heart.

The other swordsman that was close to her cried out something in an African language Bellona didn’t understand, but charged. She shoved the dead body in her arms into him as hard as she could, knocking him down. Picking up her sword from the ground, she stayed low to avoid the bowman, tumble-rolling to her enemy and impaling him downwards through the corpse’s back. The African screamed and choked on the blood that erupted from the back of his throat, in the process of meeting that cruel Death.
The axman, now with no choice but to attack, sprinted at Bellona while she was down, hacking at her on the ground. She didn’t have time to yank her sword out of the kabob of bodies she created, so she hurried and rolled out of the way, narrowly dodging the arrow that went whizzing past her head. The man chased after her, swinging wildly at her, but Bellona continued lunging out of the way each time. The audience had a mixed reaction, some laughing and others booing at this redundant game of keep-away.

The thing that no one realized about Bellona was that she had been fighting for most of her life and knew how to play her cards in ways that wouldn’t get her killed. For instance, she knew that the strong, big, muscle-heavy gladiators most likely did not have the best endurance. It didn’t take long until her opponent began slowing down in both his running and his swings. Swiping up the sword of her first victim up from the ground, she lifted herself to her feet while the axman stood over her, stabbing the blade through his neck. The beast of a man wobbled then tumbled to his back when Bellona jerked the bloodsoaked weapon out from under his chin.

She nearly lost her life to the arrow that soared in front of her barely-dodging face, the head grazing the bridge of her nose, blood shooting from the cut in the process. Spectators intoxicated themselves on watching her blood fly from the gash in her face, most never seeing the foreign lifeforce in their lives. She was stunned momentarily, not used to another gladiator harming her, but the rage inside of her stomach boiled hot into her chest. While the archer attempted to nock his final arrow and end the Spaniard, she hurled her sword at his unsuspecting place kneeled on the ground.

She took his neck. He fell backward, arms outstretched, head somewhere she didn’t care about, blood everywhere. There was a long silence that Bellona loathed with everything in her.

“Are you not entertained, Romans?!” She boomed, face hot; voice carrying itself offensively across the inappropriately silent audience. “You come to this arena for blood, do you not? Regardless if that blood is mine, you want to taste death like I do. You love it! Be grateful that I, this humble slave-- this savage beast, has provided you with it! Look now! These filthy barbarians bleed!” She was not meant to use her voice. Glancing at the emperor out of corner of her eye, she saw him and the few Senators around him tense with emotions she couldn’t make out. Guards rallied at the gates, ready for her to continue speaking. If she did, they would have her blood. Finally. And that was her curse.

Rome grew into a frenzy of screams and moans of excitement at her victory. Bellona, stern-faced and absolutely disgusted, turned on her heel and abandoned the bodies of her fallen equals to the slaughter of starving lions stolen from their homes just like her. The gates opened for her and when she was cloaked back in the darkness, her fellow slaves broke into their own madness as she passed. She felt like she would throw up if she acknowledged any of them. She didn’t face her master as she went by. She knew that she would suffer the consequences of being his favorite toy later on.

(c) SelfTitled, 2017
#shortstory  #Bellona  #MyCharacter  #GodOrigins 
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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Fiction

Din

The knocking woke me up.

What the hell, I thought.

I sat up and stretched.

There it was again, louder.

I began to shake uncontrollably.

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Write a short story with only five sentences, and each sentence must have only five words.
Written by nfaulk6 in portal Fiction
Din
The knocking woke me up.
What the hell, I thought.
I sat up and stretched.
There it was again, louder.
I began to shake uncontrollably.

#horror  #shortstory  #flashfiction  #amwriting  #FiveWordsFiveLines 
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Written by peachpoetry in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Repressed Memory

(INTRODUCTORY:

At 11:01 PM on May 5 I wrote in my journal:

"I write to escape. But how do you write about a moment you can barely remember yourself?"

It took me about an hour of attempting to scrap together words before realizing that the answer for me was to write a story. However, I also wanted to write a poem and rhyme. So I did both. Whether you can relate or not, I hope you can enjoy)

*   *   *

There is a way inside the mind

It was an abrupt find,

After hiding from the silhouettes

Which sprang from my head

Like Athene from Zeus:

All set with armor and ready to fight until dead

Forget your abstraction of a truce!

I locked myself in my gloomy bedroom,

Under a heap of blankets

Which consumed all sources of light

Many people like to believe their

Problems disappear overnight -

I am one of those people,

Though without the deceive

I never could find relief

From what I dread

I rubbed my eyes until nothing

But phosphenes filled my head,

Until the stars themselves produced

A sky of their own, staring down at

Where I was induced:

An old farmhouse residing

On the hill that is my brain

Besides the tombs hiding underneath,

This is where my memories strive -

A recollection of pain and

What has kept me alive

Inside a deceivingly simple home,

Brimful of countless rooms

Which are very systematic:

The darkest lay in the basement,

The purest play in the attic

While neutrality stays in between their placement

Though I did spend a lot of time

Dancing with impressions,

It wasn’t long before my exploration

Took a turn for the begrime

I found myself yet again in a gloomy locked room,

Similar to but still so different

From where I assumed at the start

Of this expedition

And in the corner there was a chest

Which was exempt from a key

And held a piece of my heart

Though the closer I came,

The louder the screams exclaimed

That inside there was a girl,

A moment repressed -

My mind’s attempt at an abolition

And although it will hurt me,

I know I must set her free

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Written by peachpoetry in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Repressed Memory
(INTRODUCTORY:
At 11:01 PM on May 5 I wrote in my journal:
"I write to escape. But how do you write about a moment you can barely remember yourself?"
It took me about an hour of attempting to scrap together words before realizing that the answer for me was to write a story. However, I also wanted to write a poem and rhyme. So I did both. Whether you can relate or not, I hope you can enjoy)


*   *   *

There is a way inside the mind
It was an abrupt find,
After hiding from the silhouettes
Which sprang from my head
Like Athene from Zeus:
All set with armor and ready to fight until dead

Forget your abstraction of a truce!
I locked myself in my gloomy bedroom,
Under a heap of blankets
Which consumed all sources of light

Many people like to believe their
Problems disappear overnight -
I am one of those people,
Though without the deceive
I never could find relief
From what I dread

I rubbed my eyes until nothing
But phosphenes filled my head,
Until the stars themselves produced
A sky of their own, staring down at
Where I was induced:
An old farmhouse residing
On the hill that is my brain

Besides the tombs hiding underneath,
This is where my memories strive -
A recollection of pain and
What has kept me alive
Inside a deceivingly simple home,
Brimful of countless rooms
Which are very systematic:

The darkest lay in the basement,
The purest play in the attic
While neutrality stays in between their placement

Though I did spend a lot of time
Dancing with impressions,
It wasn’t long before my exploration
Took a turn for the begrime

I found myself yet again in a gloomy locked room,
Similar to but still so different
From where I assumed at the start
Of this expedition
And in the corner there was a chest
Which was exempt from a key
And held a piece of my heart
Though the closer I came,
The louder the screams exclaimed
That inside there was a girl,
A moment repressed -
My mind’s attempt at an abolition
And although it will hurt me,
I know I must set her free
#poetry  #shortstory  #poem  #darkpoem  #repressedmemory 
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Written by pennywithaney in portal Paranormal

Before Sunrise Strikes |a not-so-well-done Cinderella Retelling|

Note: This story was originally posted as a contest entry on Wattpad. While it did end up winning the contest, it does have its flaws and failings, and while it did well on Wattpad, I do know that some of the tropes featured will probably give me some backlash anywhere else. But I'm posting it anyway because I felt like sharing it. Hopefully, even with its mistakes and bumps, you'll still enjoy the story.

Part One:

Moonlight broke through the clouds, making Eleanora's pale skin seem luminescent and her blonde hair shine. Shivering despite her inability to feel the chill in the night air, Eleanora hurried along the quiet forest path, noticing as the trees began to thin out.

Sapphire blue skirts swishing around her and over every rock and root beneath her slipper-covered feet, Eleanora grit her sharp teeth as the glittering palace came into view, its golden lights seeming unnatural in the darkness of night. She wasn't used to seeing such brightness, nor did she want to be.

For a moment she paused, her eyes focused on the palace. She didn't want to be here, but as her eyes landed on the palace gates and the heads of her deceased brethren that topped each spike, each gilded spear, she felt her resolve harden even as her stomach churned with the fear she couldn't shove away.

Eleanora  pursed her lips, the words of her stepmother playing in her head like the classical music playing in the air as it drifted from the palace.

"You must complete your mission by sunrise. If you do not, you will be nothing better than that ill-fated guild."

Yes, that ill-fated guild whose heads now lined the palace gates of the Wizarding Royal Family. Eleanora felt her eyes prickling with tears she couldn't cry. She could do this for them, since it was clearly not for herself.

She couldn't let her fear get to her or the premature sense of grief. She was to give up it all so her people could be free from the wizarding population that hunted them for sport.  Steeling herself and her fingers, that, were they human, would've been quivering, Eleanora rushed forwards, her hair ruffling in the gust of wind her movement created. She was going to go through with the plan.

She was no weak-minded human, she was no simple maiden in a pretty dress like the ladies going to and from the palace that stood close by to the shadows of the forest.

No, she was a vampire, and she had a prince to kill, even if it would hurt her more than any wizard in the world ever could.

Part Two:

No one noticed Eleanora as she slipped through the gilded gates, keeping her eyes averted from the bloodless vampire heads lining the spiked fence that surrounded the palace of the Royal Wizarding Family. For all intents and purposes, the enchantment cast upon her by her stepmother held, making her look like just another young Wizarding lady. It hid her unnaturally pale skin and her lack of the glowing eyes that were a testament to wizards everywhere, and it kept her head from joining those already perched atop the palisade.

She hoped the enchantment would hold. She had no wish to become a head on a stick or a pile of cinders in the middle of the palace ballroom because of the palace's rune defenses.

Brushing past the ball-goers, Eleanora kept her own eyes averted from the forms of those coming from the ball. If she wished to escape from the palace alive, she couldn't draw attention to herself. The enchantment could only take her so far; she'd have to do the rest herself.

Ignoring the multiple pairs of glowing blue eyes that surrounded her as she hurried past their owners, Eleanora tried not to quake with fear as she walked under the marble archway leading into the palace. Carved into the stone with runes that told of fire and death were the same words that gave the palace defenses the power to smite any vampire who dared to step foot in its halls.

The runes were how her father died, her mother passed, and those runes would kill her if she didn't get out of the palace before the sun rose.

As she walked under them, the runes failed to flare up like the wizards who'd cast them a century ago had intended, and Eleanora let out a silent sigh of relief. Her stepmother was right. It was as if she was still human, not a being who required darkness and blood to survive.

Although the morning hours creeped steadily closer, the ball still went on at full swing, the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling bathing the dancing couples in a warm glow that made Eleanora's head hurt. A number of the ornately dressed party-goers now sat at the edges of the ballroom or leaned up against pillars, trying to catch their breath or rest their no-doubt aching feet, yet it appeared the ball wouldn't burn out until the sun came to greet them.

Onyx eyes scanning the ballroom, Eleanora allowed herself to follow the movements of the crowd, not dancing of course, but just swaying as if she was just another starry-eyed girl enjoying herself. No, it was her eyes that did the dancing, sweeping a piercing search over the ballroom, not pausing even to look at the King and Queen more closely. She had no need to. She had no interest in them; they were murderous tyrants who killed blindly, not stopping to spare even those who were once their close friends.

Breaking free from the crowd, she gave into her instincts, although not her vampire ones-- those were too swamped with the scent and sounds of the moving bodies that surrounded her like fog. No, instead she listened to her other instincts, the same ones that allowed a mother to find a wandering child in a crowd, or the instincts that led a pair of lovers to find each other's gazes across a crowded room.

Turning her head, her blonde hair swinging about her shoulders, Eleanora watched as a tall, dark-haired figure clothed in white walked out to the doors she'd once entered through herself as a human. They were the doors to the balcony overlooking the rose garden and she knew the figure was him instantly. Even though the only hint provided was a clear outline of a crown amongst his tight curls, she knew the figure to be Prince Julius from the way he held himself.

If her heart still thumped in her chest, she knew it would've skipped a beat or two, but alas, just like her heart, Prince Julius was a friend from another life. He was a friend she'd first met as a little girl while wandering the rose garden, waiting for her mother to be done having tea with his mother, the queen.

With all of her stone cold and silent heart, Eleanora wished she didn't have to follow him, but in her mind she knew she needed to. If she did not, more of the creatures she called family would die. What was one life in exchange for thousands?

That thought didn't make her feel any better.

Breaking away from the crowd, Eleanora followed the prince on silent feet, her quiet countenance and unassuming demeanor letting her fall into the shadows like the monsters she descended from. No one trailed after her, not a single soul glanced her way, and she had eyes only for the Prince.

Coming up behind him, she paused. If she wished to, she could do it now. He'd never see it coming, she'd never get to have the memory of killing her childhood best friend. She'd never have to see the betrayal on his face.

It was for that same reason that she cleared her throat.

They were supposed to be mortal enemies now because of what she'd become, but that did not wash away over a decade of friendship that came before it, nor did it sweep under the rug the fear, adoration, regret, and sorrow coursing through her veins like blood.

Julius turned his head to the side, his crystalline, blue eyes meeting hers. To his credit, his eyes widened, but he did not react otherwise. He didn't take a step back, or even reach for the wand hidden away on his hip. A single spell from him and she would die. A single shout and the plot would be exposed.

He did neither of those things.

"Eleanora," he whispered her name, his mouth barely moving but caressing the sound of her name all the same. Just the way he said her name made her heart clench and her stomach churn. He said it like a priest would whisper a last prayer, and she felt her chest tighten as if her own lungs sought to betray her, kill her, before she had the chance to kill him instead.

"Julius." And she said his name like a sinner asking for a savior. He peered at her, taking a single step towards her and lifting a calloused hand to her face. She leaned in to it, unable to stop herself.

"What are you doing here? You promised me you'd never return unless..." He left the rest of the sentence unsaid. She knew how it ended, they'd agreed to disagree on the subject for three years now. Indeed, she had broken her promise, but she'd always known that she'd never be able to keep that particular promise. She placed a hand over his wrist, taking it away from her face.

"I'm sorry, Julius," she murmured, apologizing for more than breaking her promise. Her eyes locked with his, and she felt as if she'd been stripped bare under his inspection, her body shivering without her consent. He tugged the wrist she held in her hand free, his own hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, forcing her closer, his body pressed up against hers.

"I understand."

"How can you say that?" Her voice came out strangled. "You know why I'm here."

"Yes, I do, but I don't care. Now do it, before the sun rises and you're burnt to ash." Eleanora stared up at him, his black eyebrows, his high cheekbones, his riotous curls, his pink lips- she couldn't do it.

Behind him, the sky had begun to lighten, and Eleanora knew that if she made the wrong choice, there was no going back, but she couldn't do what she had come for. She couldn't do what her stepmother wanted her to do, she couldn't complete the mission she'd been handpicked for. Who better to kill the prince than his best friend? Who better to kill the prince than the woman he loved? How better to break her heart and force her into submission than to make her become a murderer by killing him?

"I can't do it," she answered, and Julius pulled her tighter against him, his nose hair-widths away from hers. In a single intake of breath his mouth met hers, his lips caressing hers, scorching hers, drinking her in, while his hands gripped her ever closer. Eleanora wished she could cry, that this moment just before dawn could last forever.

With a rush of air, he pulled back from her lips, still holding her to him.

"You can and you will." Julius hid his head in her neck, leaving his own bare and unguarded. Eleanora looked over his neck as the horizon began to glow a deep red, announcing the lack of time before the sun arrived. Her fingers dug into the silken, white fabric on his back, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt the heat from his breath, and then from his mouth, scalding against her neck.

She knew what she had to do. She'd been trained for months. Eleanora knew what her stepmother, what her family asked of her... But she also knew what Julius asked of her.

And who was she to say "no" to a prince?

----------

And so in the true spirit of short stories, I end this story with you all probably wandering what she decided to do. What do you think Eleanora decided to do? Did she kill Julius? Did she allow herself to be burnt to cinders? Did she turn him into a vampire or run away with him off into the sunrise? Let me know what you think she did in the comments below!

Thanks for reading!

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0
0
Juice
18 reads
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Juice
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Written by pennywithaney in portal Paranormal
Before Sunrise Strikes |a not-so-well-done Cinderella Retelling|
Note: This story was originally posted as a contest entry on Wattpad. While it did end up winning the contest, it does have its flaws and failings, and while it did well on Wattpad, I do know that some of the tropes featured will probably give me some backlash anywhere else. But I'm posting it anyway because I felt like sharing it. Hopefully, even with its mistakes and bumps, you'll still enjoy the story.

Part One:

Moonlight broke through the clouds, making Eleanora's pale skin seem luminescent and her blonde hair shine. Shivering despite her inability to feel the chill in the night air, Eleanora hurried along the quiet forest path, noticing as the trees began to thin out.

Sapphire blue skirts swishing around her and over every rock and root beneath her slipper-covered feet, Eleanora grit her sharp teeth as the glittering palace came into view, its golden lights seeming unnatural in the darkness of night. She wasn't used to seeing such brightness, nor did she want to be.

For a moment she paused, her eyes focused on the palace. She didn't want to be here, but as her eyes landed on the palace gates and the heads of her deceased brethren that topped each spike, each gilded spear, she felt her resolve harden even as her stomach churned with the fear she couldn't shove away.

Eleanora  pursed her lips, the words of her stepmother playing in her head like the classical music playing in the air as it drifted from the palace.

"You must complete your mission by sunrise. If you do not, you will be nothing better than that ill-fated guild."

Yes, that ill-fated guild whose heads now lined the palace gates of the Wizarding Royal Family. Eleanora felt her eyes prickling with tears she couldn't cry. She could do this for them, since it was clearly not for herself.

She couldn't let her fear get to her or the premature sense of grief. She was to give up it all so her people could be free from the wizarding population that hunted them for sport.  Steeling herself and her fingers, that, were they human, would've been quivering, Eleanora rushed forwards, her hair ruffling in the gust of wind her movement created. She was going to go through with the plan.

She was no weak-minded human, she was no simple maiden in a pretty dress like the ladies going to and from the palace that stood close by to the shadows of the forest.

No, she was a vampire, and she had a prince to kill, even if it would hurt her more than any wizard in the world ever could.

Part Two:

No one noticed Eleanora as she slipped through the gilded gates, keeping her eyes averted from the bloodless vampire heads lining the spiked fence that surrounded the palace of the Royal Wizarding Family. For all intents and purposes, the enchantment cast upon her by her stepmother held, making her look like just another young Wizarding lady. It hid her unnaturally pale skin and her lack of the glowing eyes that were a testament to wizards everywhere, and it kept her head from joining those already perched atop the palisade.

She hoped the enchantment would hold. She had no wish to become a head on a stick or a pile of cinders in the middle of the palace ballroom because of the palace's rune defenses.

Brushing past the ball-goers, Eleanora kept her own eyes averted from the forms of those coming from the ball. If she wished to escape from the palace alive, she couldn't draw attention to herself. The enchantment could only take her so far; she'd have to do the rest herself.

Ignoring the multiple pairs of glowing blue eyes that surrounded her as she hurried past their owners, Eleanora tried not to quake with fear as she walked under the marble archway leading into the palace. Carved into the stone with runes that told of fire and death were the same words that gave the palace defenses the power to smite any vampire who dared to step foot in its halls.

The runes were how her father died, her mother passed, and those runes would kill her if she didn't get out of the palace before the sun rose.

As she walked under them, the runes failed to flare up like the wizards who'd cast them a century ago had intended, and Eleanora let out a silent sigh of relief. Her stepmother was right. It was as if she was still human, not a being who required darkness and blood to survive.

Although the morning hours creeped steadily closer, the ball still went on at full swing, the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling bathing the dancing couples in a warm glow that made Eleanora's head hurt. A number of the ornately dressed party-goers now sat at the edges of the ballroom or leaned up against pillars, trying to catch their breath or rest their no-doubt aching feet, yet it appeared the ball wouldn't burn out until the sun came to greet them.

Onyx eyes scanning the ballroom, Eleanora allowed herself to follow the movements of the crowd, not dancing of course, but just swaying as if she was just another starry-eyed girl enjoying herself. No, it was her eyes that did the dancing, sweeping a piercing search over the ballroom, not pausing even to look at the King and Queen more closely. She had no need to. She had no interest in them; they were murderous tyrants who killed blindly, not stopping to spare even those who were once their close friends.

Breaking free from the crowd, she gave into her instincts, although not her vampire ones-- those were too swamped with the scent and sounds of the moving bodies that surrounded her like fog. No, instead she listened to her other instincts, the same ones that allowed a mother to find a wandering child in a crowd, or the instincts that led a pair of lovers to find each other's gazes across a crowded room.

Turning her head, her blonde hair swinging about her shoulders, Eleanora watched as a tall, dark-haired figure clothed in white walked out to the doors she'd once entered through herself as a human. They were the doors to the balcony overlooking the rose garden and she knew the figure was him instantly. Even though the only hint provided was a clear outline of a crown amongst his tight curls, she knew the figure to be Prince Julius from the way he held himself.

If her heart still thumped in her chest, she knew it would've skipped a beat or two, but alas, just like her heart, Prince Julius was a friend from another life. He was a friend she'd first met as a little girl while wandering the rose garden, waiting for her mother to be done having tea with his mother, the queen.

With all of her stone cold and silent heart, Eleanora wished she didn't have to follow him, but in her mind she knew she needed to. If she did not, more of the creatures she called family would die. What was one life in exchange for thousands?

That thought didn't make her feel any better.

Breaking away from the crowd, Eleanora followed the prince on silent feet, her quiet countenance and unassuming demeanor letting her fall into the shadows like the monsters she descended from. No one trailed after her, not a single soul glanced her way, and she had eyes only for the Prince.

Coming up behind him, she paused. If she wished to, she could do it now. He'd never see it coming, she'd never get to have the memory of killing her childhood best friend. She'd never have to see the betrayal on his face.

It was for that same reason that she cleared her throat.

They were supposed to be mortal enemies now because of what she'd become, but that did not wash away over a decade of friendship that came before it, nor did it sweep under the rug the fear, adoration, regret, and sorrow coursing through her veins like blood.

Julius turned his head to the side, his crystalline, blue eyes meeting hers. To his credit, his eyes widened, but he did not react otherwise. He didn't take a step back, or even reach for the wand hidden away on his hip. A single spell from him and she would die. A single shout and the plot would be exposed.

He did neither of those things.

"Eleanora," he whispered her name, his mouth barely moving but caressing the sound of her name all the same. Just the way he said her name made her heart clench and her stomach churn. He said it like a priest would whisper a last prayer, and she felt her chest tighten as if her own lungs sought to betray her, kill her, before she had the chance to kill him instead.

"Julius." And she said his name like a sinner asking for a savior. He peered at her, taking a single step towards her and lifting a calloused hand to her face. She leaned in to it, unable to stop herself.

"What are you doing here? You promised me you'd never return unless..." He left the rest of the sentence unsaid. She knew how it ended, they'd agreed to disagree on the subject for three years now. Indeed, she had broken her promise, but she'd always known that she'd never be able to keep that particular promise. She placed a hand over his wrist, taking it away from her face.

"I'm sorry, Julius," she murmured, apologizing for more than breaking her promise. Her eyes locked with his, and she felt as if she'd been stripped bare under his inspection, her body shivering without her consent. He tugged the wrist she held in her hand free, his own hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, forcing her closer, his body pressed up against hers.

"I understand."

"How can you say that?" Her voice came out strangled. "You know why I'm here."

"Yes, I do, but I don't care. Now do it, before the sun rises and you're burnt to ash." Eleanora stared up at him, his black eyebrows, his high cheekbones, his riotous curls, his pink lips- she couldn't do it.

Behind him, the sky had begun to lighten, and Eleanora knew that if she made the wrong choice, there was no going back, but she couldn't do what she had come for. She couldn't do what her stepmother wanted her to do, she couldn't complete the mission she'd been handpicked for. Who better to kill the prince than his best friend? Who better to kill the prince than the woman he loved? How better to break her heart and force her into submission than to make her become a murderer by killing him?

"I can't do it," she answered, and Julius pulled her tighter against him, his nose hair-widths away from hers. In a single intake of breath his mouth met hers, his lips caressing hers, scorching hers, drinking her in, while his hands gripped her ever closer. Eleanora wished she could cry, that this moment just before dawn could last forever.

With a rush of air, he pulled back from her lips, still holding her to him.

"You can and you will." Julius hid his head in her neck, leaving his own bare and unguarded. Eleanora looked over his neck as the horizon began to glow a deep red, announcing the lack of time before the sun arrived. Her fingers dug into the silken, white fabric on his back, her eyes fluttering closed as she felt the heat from his breath, and then from his mouth, scalding against her neck.

She knew what she had to do. She'd been trained for months. Eleanora knew what her stepmother, what her family asked of her... But she also knew what Julius asked of her.

And who was she to say "no" to a prince?

----------

And so in the true spirit of short stories, I end this story with you all probably wandering what she decided to do. What do you think Eleanora decided to do? Did she kill Julius? Did she allow herself to be burnt to cinders? Did she turn him into a vampire or run away with him off into the sunrise? Let me know what you think she did in the comments below!

Thanks for reading!
#fantasy  #fiction  #romance  #mystery  #shortstory  #paranormal  #vampire  #wattpad  #fairytale  #Cinderella  #retelling  #fairytaleretelling 
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