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Non-stop writing challenge/contest

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Postby Echo » Sun Aug 04, 2002 11:32 pm

Write a story. Where's the challenge? You can't stop typing for more than 7 seconds. If you do you just stop writing and post whatever you had at the time. You must name your story. If you manage to finish your story then that's a very good thing but doesn't garantee that you are any further ahead than the rest. It's how good the story is that matters. Want further explanation of this? Ok:

You start writing and write a lot, sometimes pausing for a few seconds but never more than 7 seconds. You are quite far into the story when you hit a wall. You try and you try but you can't get around it. 7 seconds over and you must stop typing. You name your story and put it as a reply to this post.

If you want to finish the story even if you've stopped for more than 7 seconds you can do so. Just be sure to tell me where you stopped your non-stop writing. I know it is very easy to cheat in a contest like this but I know that most of the 'Drifters are honest people and will go by the rules. If there are any who will cheat and get in 1st, 2nd or 3rd they really haven't earned their place there and they will know it and feel bad about cheating.

Start writing and don't stop!
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Postby Mercury » Mon Aug 05, 2002 12:36 am

..



Edited By Mercury on 06 Aug. 2002 at 12:50
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Postby Echo » Mon Aug 05, 2002 12:51 am

You can plan a bit about what you're gonna write about, but only the genre(horror, comedy, romance) and the main characters. You may not prepare any sentences you want to use in the story.



Edited By Echo on 05 Aug. 2002 at 00:51
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Postby ds490 » Mon Aug 05, 2002 1:12 am

Wasted
I tried to fight the large man, but his grip was overpowering. He jostled me around painfully, trying to push my squirming body into a large wooden box. My head hit the edge a couple times, knocking my wits out of me more than once. After a few moments I was in the box, his hands holding me firmly inside. My knees were uncomfortably close to my face, my whole body contorted and crammed to fit in the box.
The man wore a plain black suit with a black tie and black leather gloves. He had a grimace on his face. No, more like a sneer.
A second man, one you intentified as Tony. He was a mobster. A big one.
You owed Tony big, and like the f*** up you are you didn't meet his deadline. He expected $200 000 from you when you had a single digit balance in your bank account.
The stripper, Penny. She was supposed to me a middle-man for the money that was going to be given to Tony. But the coke you gave her to sell apparently disappeared. The bitch probably sniffed it all.
The coke money was your last shot at paying off Tony. It failed.
So here you are, on the docks, in a tiny little box.
"I thought I could trust you, James," Tony said to you, challenging you with his eyes. "You owe me a lot of money. Hence I owe other men money. You see, when you don't pay me off, it creates a chain reaction. This effect sends ripples up the ladder. People in high places are pissed of because of you're ####in' mistake." His tone changed from calm chastisement to anger- almost fearful anger.
"I tried, Tony. But the bitch lost the coke- I swear, give me another chance-" You start to beg, but this time he doesn't let you.
"No, James.. Ever time I give you another chance, you f*** it up! This time I'm just gonna kill you and steal your life insurance money." He grins. "You do have insurance, don't you? 'Cause if you don't I'll have to pay my superiors out of my wallet."
You begin to cry. You've been trying not to but it's hard. You know you're going to die.
"James, I like you. You're like me, in a way. But you f*** up way too much, my friend. If only you'd kept it all in order- maybe given the coke to a more trustworthy person for delivery. That reminds me, I think I'll kill Penny for this too."
"Yeah, Tony!" You clammer for some way to barter for your life. "It's her f*** up. Kill her! You can get the coke and sell it...so you can get your money! Let me go and I'll help you!"
"Look at this George," Tony smiles at his assistant. "The little f***'s trying to save his own life." He turns back to you. "I'll take your advice,"
You smile, thinking maybe he won't kill you.
"Except, of course," He continues with an evil grin. "The part about sparing your life."
"No..." You yell. "You can't ####in' do this to me! Come on, it won't happen again! I swear it! Damnit!"
He looks at you with what looks like sarcastic pity.
"You're damn staraight it won't happen."
"f*** you!" You cry. "You ####in' bastard!"
"Tie the mother ####er up," Tony says to George as he walks off somewhere.
George appeared over the box with rope in hand. He wound it around your ankles and wrists.
You heard Tony say out of view, "Goodbye, James,"
With that, you began to cry.
George shut the lid of the box, plunging you into soul-piercing darkness. You cried until your throat hurt.
You could hear George tying the box shut with thick rope.
You can think of nothing but your son, Larry. He's about six, you think. you haven't seen him in a year.
He's with foster parents, since you couldn't take care of him and his mother was a hoar.
You contemplate your life, realizing without much suprise that you never made the world any better. You squandered your whole life on illegal s***. You never had any real friends. If you did, they died before you got to know them.
You feel a strange sensation as the box is tossed into the lake. You can hear the water around you as the box plunges deeper and the water seeps in.
The box hits the bottom of the lake within a couple seconds. In about two minutes the box is full of water, and in about five minutes you are unconcious.
Too bad. You wasted your life.

**********
That was hard to do. I started one or two other stories and wasn't able to stop typing for less than seven seconds...
I think I may have went over just before the last paragraph, though, but I didn't count exactly.
~ ds490
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Postby Mercury » Mon Aug 05, 2002 2:45 am

..



Edited By Mercury on 05 Aug. 2002 at 04:01
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Postby Mercury » Mon Aug 05, 2002 2:47 am

..



Edited By Mercury on 05 Aug. 2002 at 04:01
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Postby Mut » Mon Aug 05, 2002 2:52 am

Pyre

I strike a match, and the flame bursts into life. Twisting, turning, dancing in the near-dark of the room. My eyes watch the blossoming light as they have so many times before, and as always I feel a sense of accomplishment. I've created something. I have given it life. And now, it must grow.
Slowly, I lower the match down towards the carpet. At first the flame is nervous, unknowing of its task. It reaches out small tendrils, touching, probing the fabric on the floor. Understanding dawns, and it connects.
The flame grows now, racing across the rug at breakneck speed, relishing its freedom. Soon, the floor is covered in fire.
Smiling, I strike another match. This one is hesitant; it doesn't light. Frowning a bit, I try to coax it into being. I whisper to it, murmuring words of hope.
I strike again, and this time it lights. Like its brother, the flame is eager to grow. Holding it against the silken curtains, I can feel the delight as it starts to feed.
Towards the bed, now. Towards the sky-blue sheets, the cloud-like pillows, the prone form of my wife. Her eyes plead with me, her mouth strains against the bonds. She makes muted cries of protest, but they fall on deaf ears.
Reaching into the box, I extract the final match. Lifting it up high, my gaze wanders along the length. The soft, white head ... the darkness of the body ...
Bringing the match under my nose, I inhale its scent. The musky scent of death, and the pleasant scent of life, both bound together in this vessel of light. Softly, I touch my tongue to it. The flavors ...
My eyes grow hard as they settle again upon my wife. My cheating, whoring skank of a wife. No longer, I tell myself, no longer.
The flick of my wrist is hard, angry, as I ignite the flame. I hold it up high, for my wife to admire the life that I have created. Far better than the life inside her. The life of her and her lover.
A tear clouds my eye. Is it for the love I lost, or that which I have gained? Unknowing, uncaring, I drop the match.
This one is hungry. Very hungry. The smells which now assault my senses are both wonderful and horrible. Burnt cloth, burnt flesh. Burning.
The last sound I hear as I walk out the door is my wife's screams. It seems that the fire has freed her bonds. Not for long, though. Not for long.
I wonder if they will ever catch me? After all, how can they? I know the flame, and it knows me. Together, we are unstoppable. We are one.
R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson (1937-2005)
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Postby Mut » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:05 am

I should ask ... are we allowed to write multiple stories here? What are the rules on that?
R.I.P. Hunter S. Thompson (1937-2005)
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Postby Mercury » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:07 am

..



Edited By Mercury on 06 Aug. 2002 at 12:51
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Postby Mut » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:12 am

Wha- Oh, come on! There was nothing wrong with your story! I rather liked parts of it! (The multitudes of cans comes to mind)

*Sigh!* Well, what's done cannot be undone, I suppose. Thanks for the compliment.



Edited By Mut on 04 Aug. 2002 at 23:12
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Postby Echo » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:21 am

Your story was really good Mercury. Why did you delete it. Put it back there. Now! :D

Multiple stories are allowed, but you must choose which one you'll be entering into the contest. After a few days I'll post a poll with all the stories (might have to make a few polls depending on how many choices I can have in a single poll) and let people vote on the story they liked best. The winner gets... nothing. Well, he will be the one who won... that's it.
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Postby ds490 » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:22 am

Becky
Becky was tired of it all. Her life as a mother and a wife had gotten too stressful to bear. Life hurt.
Becky's husband, Frank, used to be a good person. Well, that's what she liked to think. The sad reality is that Frank wasn't a good person. Becky just got to know him more when she married him.
After a year of marriage and two children, stress at work and at home pushed him over the edge. He began hitting Becky and the kids. Soon it became a regular daily event.
He always looked sad.
Becky hated Frank. He had scarred her and her children one time too many. She tried to fight back sometimes, but he always just backed her into the bedroom and overpowered her.
She knew the children listened when he raped her. She knew they felt the pain, not only the physical pain but the emotional strain it put on the family.
It was one cold november night when Frank came home.
He was drunk, or stoned. Did it matter?
As soon as the screen door slammed, Becky gritted her teeth and prepared for the worst. As she nervously washed the dishes, Frank kicked off his boots, leaning wobbilty on the door.
Jill, the youngest of their children at five years old, sat at the table behind Becky. She slowly sipped from a cup of hot chocolate.
Frank walked in, his thick winter jacket still on.
"Honey, I'm home," He slurred.
"Hi, Frank." Becky replied.
"Hon, it's late. Let's go to bed."
"In a minute, Frank. I need to finish doing the dishes," Becky replied in a calm tone, trying to avoid a conflict.
"No, I feel like it now," He advanced on her.
"Honey, just wait," She tried to fend him off verbally, but failed. Frank grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close.
"C'mon, baby. Let's do it in the kitchen."
"But Jill's right here. And I need to do the d-"
Frank turned to Jill, a sneer on his face. "Get the f*** out of here,"
"Don't talk to her like that!" Becky said courageously.
"She's my daughter an I'll use whatever ####ing language I want!"
Jill, sensing the oncoming conflict, fled to her bedroom.
"Come on, I want you," Frank pulled Becky closer.
"Just wait-"
"Shut up!" He pushed her to the ground. "I'm the man of the house, so I make all the ####ing decisions!"
Becky stoped talking, knwoing it would only make things worse.
Frank violently pulled he up and pushed her up against the counter. He pressed his face against hers, exposing Becky to the stench of vodka.
She didn't fight back. From experience she knew he was stronger and it wouldn't hep at all.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jill peeking in from another room with tearful eyes.
Frank held Becky painfully tightly as he kissed her.
Becky was entranced by her daughter's gaze. She couldn't bear to have her own child see her like this. Not again.
The child had seen her father rape and beat Becky many times. This was no different.
Becky suddenly was filled with rage.
How dare her husband hurt her children, or expose them to mentally scarring events? How dare he hurt the one he married.
How dare he hurt her?
Becky looked her daughter in the eye.
Suddenly, she snapped.
She grunted loudly, as there was no other sound that could represent her rage like a grunt.
Frank was taken aback. He withdrew slightly and said, "What the f*** was that?"
"I hate you!" Becky screamed with all the energy she could, drawing from the rage of a hellish life and mountains of pain.
With that, she wriggled out of his grasp and found a knife on the counter.
Fred fell to the ground and was confused. But no matter what emotion he felt, he always expressed it by beating Becky. He was going to do just that.
But Becky thrust the knife down, into Fred's back. She withdrew it in a short spurt of blood.
He rolled over and looked up at her.
"I-I'm gonna kill-"
He was cut off as she plunged the knife into his chest again and again, even after he was dead.
After a few moments, Becky stopped and slumped in the corner.
Jill entered and sat next to her mother.
"What have I done?" Jill broke into tears.
She sniffed for a minute, then looked her daughter in the eye once more. But now her eyes weren't tearful.
"The right thing, mommy," Jill replied.

********
I just had to do another one...
~ ds490
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Postby ds490 » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:30 am

Pyre was great, Mut.
Mercury: you had a potentially good story...but you cut it.
~ ds490
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Postby Ambrosine » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:43 am

My hair is wind-tangled, my skin sun-baked, and my clothes wet through and through with precipitation. The road ahead affords no reassurance, nor can I fortell what lies ahead.

(7 seconds exactly)
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Postby ds490 » Mon Aug 05, 2002 3:56 am

Believe
The terrorist cocked his gun. It was pressed against your head, the cold metal chilling your skin. You tried not to cry. It worked for the most part but your mind was already contemplating your life.
You hated these people. They killed and died for their cause, which in itself you considered noble, but they were passed off as insane people. Western civilization snuffed these people because they believed too much.
This group has had you, a tourist from England, as a hostage for a month now. They've held a gun to your head many times, this time no different from the rest.
When they first abducted you from Jerusalem you thought you were going to die. They threatened you and hurt you sometimes bet after a week you realized it was all a fasade. Whatever their cause was, they had all dedicated their lives to it. They weren't about to kill you and therefore void the little insurance they had.
The Americans had them surrounded. But the terrorists didn't care. They had you, and as long as they did they were safe.
When you were captured you met a member of the group. You didn't know his name, or anything about him. But he was the closest thing to a friend you had. He was good to you whenever he was in charge of guarding you. He played cards with you once. The two of you didn't speak the same language but he understood your terror. And you did your best to understand his commitment to his cause.
The man was killed. Shot by a sniper when he was taking a smoke outside one day.
They brought his dead body in to take what he had. It was the most savage act you'd ever seen. They scrounged around on his person, taking whatever they found.
You sat and stared at him. He was the only person you knew, and after that you didn't want to live. You were convinced you were going to die any day, but death never came.
Sometimes the terrorists would drag you out of the shleter and put a gun to your head, just for show. The Americans watched. You wished they would do something.
So it's been a month. A month of hell.
Here you are, gun to your head. The Americans had attempted to advance on the shelter in the night, but the Terrorists figured out the plot and were quick to put you at gunpoint.
The soldiers slowly back off. You shiver partially from the cold night, and partially from the fear.
Suddenly you heard a crack, and blood splattered all over you. They shot the terrorist holding the gun at you. The soldiers charged past you into the cave and shots were heard.
You fell to the ground, sobbing.
It was over.

But you realized painfully that it would never be over. People will never stop believing deeply and dying for their cause.
You can kill a believer but you can't kill a belief.

*******
I can't stop writing these...



Edited By ds490 on 05 Aug. 2002 at 12:36
~ ds490
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