a couple short stories

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a couple short stories

Postby el_shek » Thu Nov 12, 2009 10:13 am

here's a couple short stories i wrote for a creative writing class this semester. they are a little disturbing so...yeah. and for class we had to put disclaimers on the stories with objectionable content. so that's why they're there.

Disclaimer: This story contains strong language and mild violence.

The Lucky One
by Tim Savage

Peter parked his car outside of the office, half an hour late. It was the third time this week, and he hoped his boss wouldn’t let him go because of it. He grabbed his coffee, and jumped out of his car. Raindrops exploded on his overcoat like pumpkins dropped from a high altitude. He slammed the car door and turned to leave, but realized he had shut part of his overcoat in the door. He yanked the handle, causing his car alarm to go off. After he turned off his alarm and freed himself from the car door, he began the sprint to the double glass doors, muttering colorful words on the way.
The dreary gray of the outdoors was replaced with a blinding florescent glow of the indoors. Peter’s shoes squeaked on the floor, as if the molecules in the floor were screaming for help. He walked past the receptionist’s desk, where Shelly was sitting. Shelly stood up and screamed at her computer just after he passed.
“rootin' tootin' you rootin' tootin' you rootin' tootin' you rootin' tootin' you...”
Her computer always seemed to freeze as Peter walked by every morning.
Peter slammed the elevator call button on the wall. The doors opened with a pleasant ding. Why did his office have to be on the 14th floor?
As he exited the elevator, there were ten co-workers moving into it. As the door slid shut, he heard a loud noise followed by a screech that continued to diminish until another loud crash was heard.

“An elevator malfunctioned today at the ------ building today at -------. Ten people were pronounced dead at the scene. The police have not ruled out foul play. This is ------- for -------- news.”

Needless to say, Peter got off work early today. He exited the building (using the stairs of course) and got back into his car out of the pouring rain. He popped a CD-R of his favorite songs into his CD player and pulled out of the parking lot.
Peter reached his apartment complex just as “All By Myself” by Eric Carmen was wrapping up. Peter got out of the car just in time to see Mrs. McDowell struggling to throw a large trash bag into the blue aluminum dumpster outside of the complex. She had one hand positioned on her walker, and the other attempting to gain enough momentum to swing the bag into the dumpster.
“Need a little help there ma’am?” He asked.
“Oh, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“No problem.”
Peter did just as anyone with a conscience would have done. He took the bag from the old lady and threw it in the dumpster.
“Thank you so much dear--”
Mrs. McDowell fell to the ground, eyes still open, not moving. Peter yelled for help, but to no avail. He knelt down on the ground and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
“the tiles are swollen with water, we will have to move!”
Peter stood back up and pulled his phone out of his pocket to call an ambulance. His phone’s battery was dead.
“the tiles are swollen with water, we will have to move someone help! Please!”
A woman that apparently lived on the second floor of the complex opened her door and ran to the railing to see what was the matter. She ran too fast, and didn’t stop herself soon enough, and screamed as she flipped over the railing. Her neck landed just perfectly on the edge of the sidewalk. There was a sickening crack, and she lay there motionless.
Peter screamed. After a few seconds, he came to his senses, and searched the other woman’s body for a working cell phone. Right at this moment, the landlord, who was an obese man with dark hair wearing a greasy wife-beater.
“What now my sentence makes no sense are you doing?”
“I’m looking for a phone! We need to call an ambulance!”
“Get now my sentence makes no sense away from her!”
“Sir I just-”
The landlord pulled out a hand gun that was tucked into the back of his pants.
“Get the my vocabulary is poor off my property!”
Peter got up slowly and walked to his car, breathing hard and dripping with sweat and rain. He got in his car and pulled away just as the landlord started screaming into his cell phone. Peter got on the interstate and drove for what seemed like hours. He got off the interstate and parked at a rest stop. He turned on his radio.

“The elevator incident today at -------- has been linked with a double murder at the --------- apartment complex. The man’s name is.....”

Peter turned off the radio, and switched on the CD player. The song was still playing.

“All by myself. Don’t wanna be all by myself...”

And here's the next one:

Disclaimer: This story contains sexual situations, violence, and alcohol use.

The Angel Enjoys His Bourbon
by Tim Savage

“Just get out.”
“Cecelia, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t want to see you again. Just leave.”
I walk out the door. I don’t want to, but I do.
Cecelia had been away on a business trip, and I got a little lonely. I had picked up a prostitute, and right at the most inopportune moment, Cecelia came home early. She wasn’t supposed to be back until the next week.
I won’t deny that it was the wrong thing to do. I should have just taken care of it myself. If there were no prostitution, this wouldn’t have happened. Divorce rates would be down, and I would still have Cecelia.
There are no words to describe my feelings right now. Sadness, anger, hate, heartbreak, those come to mind, but they aren’t enough. I need to take action.
“Seth, I’m so sorry.”
The prostitute is still on my property.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Yes it was.
“I can still make it up to you. For free.”
someone who has made certain decisions poorly.
“Okay, get in.”
We get into my car and drive to her apartment.
Am I insane? Why is she in my car?
I need to get rid of some stress.
There’s better ways to do that.
But this is what I want. I need this.
No, I don’t.
There’s too many thoughts going through my head. Stop.
Stop.
We get out of the car, and walk up to her apartment.
What am I doing?
Shut up.
Please, don’t do this.
Shut up.
She opens the splintered wooden door into her apartment. There’s a trash can next to the door, full of used condoms.
I don’t need this.
Yes, I do.
She takes off her clothes and lays on the bed. Her hair is the same dark color as Cecelia’s.
Moment of truth. Don’t do it.
I’m going to do it.
I shouldn’t.
I grab a pillow and bring it down over her head. I hold it there until her body stops flailing.
For a brief moment, I feel nothing. There is ice in my veins. It’s almost as if my body killed her without my brain telling it what to do. For a second, I am invincible.
Then, reality hits me. I just killed her. I didn’t mean to do it. It just happened.
I have just killed a human being.
She wasn’t a human being. She had this coming. If I wouldn’t have done this, a disease would have. I have saved someone else’s marriage. I have saved someone from pain.
No, I just have an adrenaline high.
Shut up. I am no normal human being. I am a vigilante. I’ve saved someone from heartbreak.
I walk out of her apartment, and continue to the bar across the street.
“What’ll it be pal?”
“Bourbon. A glass and a bottle.”
I’m close to halfway through the bottle when I see red and blue lights flashing through the glass door. I smile. They can’t catch me. I’m invincible. There will be others, more marriages saved, more diseases that will never be spread.
More adrenaline highs.
No, this is for real. This is what I should be doing. I am the angel of death.
I am judgement.
"Convincing people that dumb quotes were written by historical figures will always be funny." - John Wilkes Booth

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Re: a couple short stories

Postby ThePhamily » Thu Nov 12, 2009 11:53 am

Both stories are great. I like the second one more though. Just my personal opinion.
"Candy is good."
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby Obsessive Writer » Fri Nov 13, 2009 8:11 pm

Dude, yes. They were good.
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby Matt » Fri Feb 05, 2010 1:03 pm

MC: I eat taco bell at least twice a week.
clayton wrote:i want some
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby heavymetal_dante » Fri Feb 05, 2010 1:10 pm

MC: Matt is being a weirdo
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby Matt » Fri Feb 05, 2010 1:25 pm

Dude, this isn't the Guy's Only forum. :/ What's wrong with you?
clayton wrote:i want some
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby heavymetal_dante » Fri Feb 05, 2010 1:28 pm

:roll:
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby dee_rules » Fri Feb 19, 2010 5:04 pm

I like the last one. Its insanely good.
wewillbelegends wrote:jeremy's number is 911 cause his good looks can kill.


Eat some ice creams, do some bombs....
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby GiraffeInMyThroat » Fri Feb 19, 2010 10:50 pm

Wow, both of those really moved me. Short stories don't ever do that to me. Good work.
meh.
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby Metre » Sun Jul 03, 2011 8:38 pm

rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you rootin tootin you
blood
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Re: a couple short stories

Postby PaperweightHarmonica » Mon Feb 13, 2012 6:28 am

Posting this here because.

This was my night. I typed it up this way because I've been trying to practice writing about things that have actually happened to me, and tonight's events seemed perfect for this. This was entirely typed on my phone in the last couple of hours, and I didn't edit it at all, so bear with me. It's not really that exciting as a short story, but I also didn't make any of it up (besides making it sound a little more dramatic or whatever). Weird night.



A stretch of black highway is behind us. We're not far from home, but I've never been here before. It's night time, so the horizon and the sky don't really seem to be separate entities anymore. They're merged into one colossal sheet of darkness, indistinguishable from each other. Looking forward, it's all just one big, black mass, the darkness broken only by the glimmer of our own lights bouncing off the reflector posts lining the edge of the road, and the few visible stars leering over our heads.
We've only seen one other car since we turned off the main highway. We saw it from a long ways off, pulled over in front of a stop sign. All we could see were its tail lights, peering back at us through the darkness like unblinking red eyes. By the time we got to the sign it was gone.
We've already turned around once, I guess she doesn't know where she's going as good as she thought. She just laughed when she realized she’d made a mistake somewhere up the road. I'd just told her I wasn't interested in her anymore, after almost four hours of her avoiding the conversation. Knowing this, I can't help thinking that’s the reason her laughter seems a little bit forced.
The speakers of my car's stereo have been spewing the terrible pop chart-crawling filth she calls music for over an hour now, since we first left her house after she asked if I wanted to go for a drive.
Once she finally figured out where we were, we ended up on a dirt road, where pale, brown grass stands a foot and half tall, growing along the sides of the road and down its center, in between two ruts in the gravel where other car's tires had been here before us. She'd warned me before not to drive too far down the path, because it was blocked off, and we'd have to hop a fence to get to the house.
"If you're not paying attention," she said, "You'll run right into the gate." But when we approached the fence, you can see there's no gate up, so I kept driving.
"Weird," she says. "I guess someone opened it."
I drive as far as I can, until the overgrown grass and weeds are too thick to get through in the car. I have no idea if we're still on the dirt road anymore. We park, and with the brights still on you can make out the faint shape of a house in the distance. When I turn the car off, it's like we’ve closed our eyes. There aren't any cars or street lights for miles, just pitch black darkness.
"Do you have a light on your phone?" she asks me.
"Yeah," I say, pulling it out of my pocket. I start searching through my applications for the one marked Light. Right now, sitting in the dark, the faint glow coming off my phone's LCD screen might as well be the sun.
I find the flashlight application, and we step out of the car. It's February, and though, strangely, there's not much snow on the ground, it's still cold. Ten degrees fahrenheit, tops.
"Come on," she says, motioning her hand. The words slip out her mouth in frozen, silken, knots, and dance against the night sky, only to evaporate like an echo. She leads me, following, and we trudge through the weeds and grass getting closer and closer to the house.
I'd heard a little about this place before from other people, but I had no idea what to expect, and I didn't really care enough to go look at it myself. I'm not sure why she wanted to take me here. Or at least I'm not sure why she wanted to take me here now. It seems like a weird thing to do after the conversation we'd just had.
"Too bad we're not in my car," she’d said, staring out the passenger side window.
"Why?" I asked, confused about why it would matter.
"Have you ever seen that creepy old house out past Breene Road?"
"No," I said. "I haven't."
"Well," she said, looking back at me. "I would show you, but it's a ways out and I don't want to waste your gas."
I'd just filled the tank, maybe ten minutes before she asked about the house, so I told her I didn't mind, and now we're here, out in the middle of nowhere.
Well, the town we live in is in the middle of nowhere. Maybe this is in the outskirts of Nowhere.
When we get up to the the front of the house, the door's fully opened, barely hanging from its hinges. The windows are all broken out, the paint's cracked and worn, and I think the only really scary thing about the place is worrying about it falling down on top of you.
"So,” I say “It's just a really old place that's falling apart at the seams?"
"Just come inside," she says.
We walk through the door, only able to see a square foot of anything at a time, nothing visible without my phone's light. The floor's covered in broken glass and dirt, bits of wood and all manner of debris. Looking up, no lightbulbs are visible. I don't even see any fixtures on the ceiling or switches on the walls. The tall weeds are growing into the house from the broken window panes, some of them even seem to have forced their way straight through the walls.
"Keep your light on the floor," she says. "We should be getting to the cat soon."
"Cat?" I say.
"Yeah," she says. She says, "Don't step on it."
A little further in, past what was once an entry room, there's a rusted washing machine sitting on end in the middle of what might have once been a dining room. She points to a cupboard and says, "I found a newspaper in there that was dated 1941."
"Cool," I say, not really knowing what else to say.
"Yeah," she says. "I'd really like to learn the history of this place. I wonder who owned it.–Cat!" she says, interrupting herself.
"What?"
"Right there," she says. "It's a petrified cat."
I turn my light toward the floor where she's pointing and see a brownish pile next to a broken coffee cup. It is, as she called it, a cat. "Petrified" may truly be the best way to describe it. It has no fur, and no eyes. Its mouth is wide open, and there's little broken teeth sticking out of its rotted gums. You can see the outline of its skeleton through its body, and its skin is sagging onto the floor. It looks like its flesh has bonded with the wood. I didn't try, but I bet if you poked it, it would be rock hard.
"Creepy, right?" she says.
"Yeah," I say.
"Yeah, and look in there!" she says, motioning towards a bathtub that's sitting a little ways away. It's hooked up to plumbing, I think. But there are no walls around it forming any sort of privacy for a bathroom, and no toilet or sink anywhere near.
"Do I want to look in there?" I say.
I walk over to it, past an old, torn up mattress with springs sticking out of its frame and stuffing spilling out on the floor. I shine my light in the tub, and inside there's branches and dead leaves, and the bones of what I can only hope was once an animal. It looks like ribs, and there's dark, brown bits of dried out flesh still on them.
I think this was about the point where I quit talking.
Pointing at a door to our left, she says, “If you go through there, there's a back way out, and stairs down to a basement.” She says, “It's scary down there.”
Another set of stairs lays to our right.
"That's the attic," she says. “Let's go up.”
Climbing the stairs, we see more torn mattresses, and more random household items. There's an old coffee can and some broken bowls on the floor, and a few pieces of silverware. I think these items are what really scare me, because they had to be put here by someone. Some human being brought all these things here, ate from these bowls and slept in these mattresses at one point. Despite the fact I know that it’s likely that they were all put here by highschoolers with too much time on their hands, thinking that someone could have actually lived in this mess makes my skin crawl.
In the middle of the room, hanging from a rope tied to the ceiling's peaked roof, is what appears to be the severed leg of a deer or antelope. Rotting and falling apart, I'd assume it would be covered with flies if it wasn't so cold.
We can only walk about half-way into the room, because the far side of it is covered in feces. Massive clumps of white, dried out dung are strewn all along the floor, piling higher the closer they get to the far wall, stuck against the wall's wooden face in some places.
"I think I'm ready to go back," I say, and I turn to go down the stairs. As I turn I bump into her, and she almost falls on the animal leg hanging from the ceiling.
"Sorry," I say. "I didn't see you," I say.
Downstairs the cat and the bones and the washing machine are waiting for us, along with God knows what else I haven't noticed yet.
She turns again to the only other door we've come to besides the one we came in by. It's closed.
"Did you want to see the basement?" she asks.
"I guess," I reply.
She starts opening the door, handing it off to me as she passes through, my hand opening it the rest of the way from there.
It's the first and only thing I've touched, and feeling the rusted metal handle and the splintered wood make me feel uneasy.
Past the door, there's another small room, on the left there's a doorway with no door hooked on its hinges, open to the outside. On the right, there's a set of stairs leading down. I shine my light down them, and at their base sits a red sofa, ripped and faded, turned on its side, blocking the path past the steps. I put my left foot on the first step, when I feel her hand on my shoulder.
“Let's not,” she says, “I don't want to go down there again,” she says.
This is the first time since we've been here that she's actually sounded scared. It's not something I'm used to hearing in her voice. And, as curious as I am, I don't want to go down there either, so instead of venturing into the basement, we both exit the room through the open back doorway.
We leave much more quickly than we came in.
Walking around the back side of the house, we get to my car, and just seeing it makes me feel like I've stepped back into reality after being on the set of a bad horror movie.
As I unlock the doors, I joke about the people who could have lived in the house, making references to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Norman Bates. She tells me to shut up. “Just open the car,” she says. I think sometimes I tell jokes to hide the fact that I’m scared.
On the way back home more of what she calls music dribbles through my car's speaker. We talk a little, about what we're planning in the coming week, and about the sounds coming from the stereo.
And the whole way back, all I want to do is ask her what's in the basement.
But I don't.
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