Prose | of | the | Season no. 4[entries are due on November 29th] NaNoWriMoJudges: TBD Alright, and we're officially back in business! This is the fourth Prose of the Season after what was a pretty long hiatus. I'm really glad a lot of you really seemed to want it back (and voted for it to be back!). It's pulling my wee fruit heartstrings ;~;. Anyway, as stated above, the theme of this round will be NaNoWriMo. PotS Guidelines The topic of the Prose of the Season will be NaNoWriMo. If you are participating in it, you may enter either the Prologue (Chapter Zero) or First Chapter of your story for us to read! Not doing NaNoWriMo? No worries!If you have the first chapter of an original story you've written recently (from Summer up until now), you may enter it it as well! Again, entries will be judged November 29th. Must be a Prologue or First Chapter (rough drafts are fine and encouraged!). The chapter must follow the Writer's Nook rules and regulations If you wish to know the criteria used for judging, you may see it HERE You may post in this thread, but please keep it spam free. Discussion is permitted.
Jiku's right. It has to be an original piece, no fanfiction (KHV or otherwise) allowed in this one, sorry. ;c
Prologue Spoiler You know one time, I really wanted my parents to come to this stupid class play that was I was in. Back when I was in elementary and stuff. And my mom said she’d come, “of course,” and my dad said he’d take off of work. I was so excited. But then I was on stage. The lights were on me. I swear it felt like stardust all over my skin. I was shivering. I looked out at the crowd and tried to find my parents because I wanted them to see me, and I wanted to show them that I was becoming a star too, but I couldn’t find them. I didn’t see their faces in the sea and I started thinking that maybe they were there and I’d only missed finding them. And I heard the line before mine and I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to say. I looked at all the others on stage but there was no one. No one was out there. No one to help me. They all just looked at me and wondered if I’d say what I needed to, but I couldn’t remember so I started crying. “Where are they?” I asked, “Where are they? Where? Where are they?” and I still can’t see them. SILENCE Sarah... SILENCE Sarah was off stage, waiting for me. So was Wathers, who taught fourth grade then. She gave me a hug and said, “Oh, honey." That was when I knew I'd ruined the play. Wathers kept going around afterwards to find my parents but nobody came to pick me up. She drove me home, said that even if she wasn’t supposed to she needed to. “Teachers help kids,” she said. “We’re just not allowed to hurt them.” SILENCE I can’t remember what happened next. There’s a gap between that night and seventh grade. The night there was the '97 accident, when the passenger train went off the rails and into the river, is the next earliest night in my memory. There probably isn’t anything worth remembering, anyway. Sarah said there wasn’t anything to be remembered. We didn’t do anything then. Two years of school and of parents being parents. I know that in that time my mother died. I know that in that time Sarah first started cutting up her sides during our lunch time. She once said I used to stand outside to make sure no one would come in and see her. STATIC So I’d write on the rail, SARAH GO CONFESS and she’d see it and write back, ARE YOU A GHOST? because the only people she knew she thought were dead. I AM NOT A GHOST, I’d write, and she’d sit there staring at the letters while I watched her. she was stunned by the fact that I was not a ghost. The next night I wrote, SARAH PLEASE CONFESS and she wrote back, HAVE I SINNED? and I told her YES SARAH YOU HAVE SINNED and the next night SARAH DO WHAT’S RIGHT and she wrote back MATILDA, MY GOD TOLD ME TO and on the next rail MY GOD IS GOOD. Her hands had been shaking when she wrote it. She was like a child scribbling uncertain phrases on the track in that red, red writing. Sometimes she cried while she sat there. Once she was on the tracks and they rumbled because the train was coming and she lay flat out across the rails as if she were already dead. I climbed down from the tree and stood in the bushes and waited as it came closer and closer and then I was about ready to burst forth and move her when she rolled out of the way, down into the ditch so close to me I could hear her breathing ragged and short and heavy and I was terrified because she might hear me or see me but I just watched as she kept on crying. I wanted to rush out and hold her and stroke her hair and say, “Oh, honey,” because we were so young and yet we’d already done so much evil. SILENCE We’d already ruined so much of our lives, thinking how they could end any day. She looked at her wrist at her watch and the words daniel had written all down her arm “you’re mine i love you stay with me please sarah don’t go don’t do this to me please sarah don’t do this sarah i love you sarah stay please sarah you’re mine i own you you’re free with me i can give you wings you can’t leave me sarah i need you.” She had to go. He'd be home soon. STATIC
Friendly reminder entries are due this Thursday. Winner should be announced Friday night (Saturday at the latest).
Since the theme is NaNoWriMo I decided to forgo editing. Yes, that's why. Not because I just wrote more than half of this. Impossible. Hahaha. Spoiler The rays of morning light splayed themselves weakly over the uneven tiled floor, reaching feebly for the foot of the lumpy purple clothed bed but inevitably failing as always. But in the shadows of ever newer and taller building projects, this was the best one could hope for. The purple sheets rustled as a small device began shaking and screaming up a storm. Within seconds the small plastic brick was silent once more. After some silence and some rolling about, the room's sole occupant made her presence visible. She had three colors of hair sharply changing in layers from bottle blonde at the bottom to dull gold in the middle to rich caramel about the topmost. She looked across the floor to the dirty cracked mirror and frowned. “I look like shit.” Without a second thought she stood, slung a towel over her shoulder, picked up a bag filled with plastic bottles and soaps, stalked into the hallway and then the bathroom, turned on the shower and stopped thinking about all of the things she had to be doing for twenty minutes under the icy droplets she took rather than pay for coffee or a heating bill. Far from refreshed but undeniably more awake she returned to her room to dress and pack. She had to be at the office at eight, the restaurant and noon and the school at six. She had just enough room in her messenger bag to stuff a neatly folded uniform a file binder and a few books. She looked in the mirror again. “Passable.” The dull echoing clack of her flats against the slowly peeling, composite tiles as she crossed the room and traversed the hallways of the apartment served as a reminder of how alone she was this early in the morning. In short order she joined the dregs of the night shift and the vanguard of the day on the streets. There were fewer people at this time of day than you'd see at any other time in the city. It was almost refreshing, until she climbed the stairs onto the University Shuttle and flashed her ID. “Today is gonna be another zinger.” The ten sets of eyes flashed up to meet her gaze for half an instant before dropping back down to their smart phones. She edged past Mr. Josef Basche, the portly Janitor/Busker/Comic Artist and took a seat next to Miss Ramona Freely an undergraduate TA/full time student/aspiring YouTube celebrity. The trichromatic haired girl pulled a book from her bag and began reading. For the next ten minutes she lost herself in the exploits of a daring young lad on and adventure to restore the kingdom of Antalk to its former dragon riding glory. It was typical time filling trash fantasy, but it was better than her life, so she read on until she was stepping off the bus onto the cracked sidewalk of the university, staring at her current place of study in the fine arts house as she stowed her book away glumly. “It's only until work starts.” She took a moment to arrange her hair by the reflection in the front door's windows before entering. She hardly had to dress in full business casual to do her research but she had noticed that just dressing like a normal human made her look like an undergrad that everyone was allowed to ignore. The extra effort in dressing herself up made up for itself in the time she didn't have to spend tapping her foot and waiting for someone to, “have time,” for her. When she got to her desk, she was greeted by a particularly unwelcome face. “Hello, Mark.” She smiled. If she was good at anything, it'd have to be smiling. She could smile whenever she wanted and look as genuine and natural as the real deal. “Hey.” Now Mark was, is and forever shall be scum. A worthless neckbeard with delusions of grandeur. If he ever gets a wife it will be an abusive relationship one way or the other. And suddenly he begins his trademark ****** lean. Arm parallel to the ground, planted firmly on the nearest wall just above her head level in a mockery of nonchalance so he can take the opportunity to shove his face into hers and attempt not so surreptitiously staring down her blouse. Not that he could with it buttoned up and covered with a sweater vest, but that didn't seem to stop him from trying. It was almost sickening. “How are you?” She asked pleasantly. “Cards lost last night.” He moaned. “That's too bad. Won't be watching the playoffs then?” Making small talk was a strong point of hers. One she wished did not exist. If she was awkward and incapable a speaking without putting her foot in her mouth no one would bother with her and she wouldn't look like she was being rude. “Of course I'm gonna still watch the playoffs, gotta see if the team that beat them gets their due.” He went on. Perfect. “Oh. Well, I hope they do.” When he saw the girl trying to pass him and reach the stairs Mark flung his free arm across the hall rather dully and tried to resuscitate the stillborn conversation. “Yeah, so you doing anything Friday night?” “I've got work. I've always got work. Bills won't pay themselves.” She smiled apologetically. “Right, you live alone now, don't you?” “I've got roommates. Lots of roommates.” “Seeya around then.” “Disgusting.” She breathed venomously the second he'd rounded a corner. Without another thought she began her walk up the spiral staircase to the library. Upon entering her destination, she saw her boss. Professor Roddingham, a man in his late forties, still single, still searching. He greeted her formally and gave her the day's assignments. Before and after class she had to alphabetize some books and update the new arrivals into the database. Nothing difficult. That's why she had chosen to put her degrees in English and art history towards library science. She only had to deal with books, computers and the occasional librarian. For the most part, it was a dream job. She already knew SQL, she already knew how to script, she already read half the books in the library and she already knew the history of the world from 6000 BCE to 1980 CE. Getting the degree and doing the internship was almost a matter of going through the motions. “Good.” The professor concluded. “I hope you have a good day, happy hunting.” “Thank you. I will see you later.” She sighed and started to work. And work. And work. Silently, diligently, tirelessly. She continued on until her class for which she left for three hours and promptly returned from. In her final hours at the library she finished up her progress report and left it on Roddingham's desk. He'd pick it up and read it in a few hours and sigh as always. She was a bright girl he always said to his colleagues and other interns. She was capable and driven. More so that anyone he'd ever seen. He told her time after time that it'd be better if she would quit her other jobs and stay at the internship all day but she would always reply, “Stacking books isn't paying the bills yet and with all due respect I don't see you replacing me.” “You're early.” Meena was a deadly serious woman in her early thirties in spite of her appearance barely cracking her late teens. She seemed to glare though as he coworker entered the kitchen in her tacky yellow uniform. “I'm never early, I'm always precisely and exactly on time.” She countered haughtily. “You're trying to steal hours again.” “My shift starts in two minutes, I haven't even clocked in and I'm a waitress while you're a dish washer.” “You should wait outside until you're needed.” The elder of the two insisted. “I'm not gonna hang around on the street. I get hit on enough as it is in here. Out there it'd be nothing but a torrent of, 'HEY GURL! 'emme get yo' numbah gurrl, I'onna take you home,' and all that ****.” “Back in India, the boss would agree with me and you'd be outside.” She sounded pretty disgusted, and disdainful not that she ever sounded much of anything else. “Well, good for me we live in the great country of not India.” “You're late for your shift.” “I'm on time. I'm always on time.” Meena, if that is her real name, was supposedly a surgeon back in India, if that is where she's actually from. A decent one supposedly, but a malpractice suit or some other scandal and a few covert trips to the emigration office later had her studying culinary arts here in Fawlinbrook. She said she can't handle cutting on something living after what happened back there and decided that she needed something else to do so while she's going to school she's working as a dishwasher/de facto daytime chef at this cruddy little restaurant. “Go. Shoo.” Meena made a matching hand motion and her counterpart finally took to the floor. Without a second thought she composed her face into a pleasant but not too friendly smile and took her first set of customers. Greg Grey, Luke Lawrence and Henrietta Hughes. They were regulars at the diner and were probably the only example of good customers their waitress had ever seen. They decided promptly and communicated their decisions precisely. They didn't talk too loudly or leave a mess and they tipped twenty five percent cash. The waitstaff had a suspicion that they might be some manner of super hero group. The alliterative names and overall too good to be true quality they seemed to exude made it seem like that was the only possibility. “Hello... Carol today? I think I liked it better when you were a Wendy.” Greg joked at her name tag. There had only been one set of name tags made up for the diner. Carol, Gloria, Harris, Sylvia, Stanley, Benjamin, Josie, Cody, Wendy and Natalie were the original waitstaff of Mel's Diner. And Mel's Diner was a cheap, run down hole in the wall that Sun Min Luang had started thirty years ago with the idea that Mel's Diner was a very American name. He was right. He'd since gotten a better gig on Wall Street and sold the diner to the less than savvy businessman who now owned it, Larry. Larry Kreug was half German and half Italian. He worked with Italian efficiency and German hospitality. Everyone who talked to him for more than two seconds hated him and everyone who worked with him for more than a day hated him. “I always thought I made a great Carol.” Their waitress smiled perfectly. Just enough to seem friendly without being overbearing. Plastic as it was the three just smiled back and asked for the usual. Carol whisked away their menus, gave them an ETA on the food in and moved on with her day without missing a beat. “Meena. Do you ever miss India, if that is where you really lived?” Carol asked was she waited for the last bit of meat to brown on the Daily Special. “No. It is more relaxed here, easier to criticise people.” “Is that actually why you like it here?” “No. I was being funny. I like I here because I am away from home. No more family problems.” “Don't they still call you every day? Sometimes during your shifts, even.” “Yes. But that is better than then walking in while I am trying to cut open a patient, yes?” “Okay. Admittedly. But--” “Food is done. You take it out.” “Nice talking to you.” Carol's shift was over after that last group. So she removed her nametag and took the return bus to the campus for the night's battery of classes. She didn't actually need to take some of these classes Roddingham had told her at one point. But Roddingham was the type who still believed the internet was a fad and that computers were fancy. Taking a few CS courses and an extra Library Science course would get her out a semester early and improve her resume. The girl scoffed slightly at the thought. She hadn't spent a whole weekend planning her next two years out for nothing. Roddingham meant well, but if the road to hell truly is paved with good intentions, he's getting himself into a mighty nice hand basket. Then she snickered slightly at the mixed metaphor and continued writing out her notes. After the final screen went dark in the computer lab it was ten o' clock at night and the evening shift at the diner was about to begin. Today Noel was sick and no one else was around to fill in the hours so Carol was scheduled to appear again. She sighed. Normally her day would be over by now, but it felt as though she was just starting. Not that she minded the extra pay and extra time to talk to the Chef. For a man in his late forties with a weight problem, he was probably the most attractive person the trichromatic haired girl knew. She personally didn't think much of him in that way, but she did feel that if anyone deserved to be loved and appreciated in this world, it was him. “You're late.” Meena groused on her way out the door. It was time for her classes to start. “You should be glad I'm here at all.” “Hi, Carol.” The Chef beamed as he handed over her nametag. “We really need to stop it with shuffling these around. Gotta pick a name and stick to it.” “But we've got six extras that way.” Carol pointed out. “Larry might eventually fill those positions.” The Chef shrugged his enormous shoulders. If he lost about two hundred pounds, he'd probably look really good for his age. He was six foot four and broad shouldered. From what Carol could glean he also had decent bone structure and didn't seem to be wrinkling or spotting with age at all, yet. She could never get up the heart to tell him though. After his wife died in that car accident he could only find solace in his cooking and asking him to stop eating seemed like it would be in awfully poor taste. Larry also insulted him enough about his weight. “You know he can't afford it.” “I know, but hope springs eternal in the hearts of man.” “Good thing I'm a woman, then.” “Come on, you've got a bright future ahead of you. This is just a pebble sitting on one of your stepping stones to greatness.” “Chef. You're impossible.” “I'm improbable.” He corrected with a wink as Carol left for the floor. It was completely empty. People wouldn't be rolling in for another hour or so if history was any indicator. So Carol groaned and moved back into the kitchen. “Chef. It's gonna be empty again.” “Don't worry, Larry will fire you last.” “I feel like that'd be the height of stupidity given as I'm not cookstaff.” “It is Larry.” “What was all that about hope springs and bath houses?” “A whim.” “So, Chef. Anything interesting today?” “No, not really. Same as usual. I have to say though, I'm beginning to suspect that you're right about Meena.” “Why's that?” “She hit me today for dozing off in the afternoon and I have to get back at her somehow.” “You could always just leave a single fingerprint on anything in her station and not tell her who did it. That's a good way to annoy her.” “That'd be mean.” “Can't get revenge without opening up that can of worms. You're too nice for your own good. If you didn't have more life experience than me, I'd tell you that the world was gonna chew you up and spit you out.” “But I do have more and I say you need to relax a bit more. You're way to schedule and goal oriented.” “I am what we call efficient, okay? I work with Italian personality and German ethic because I need to. If I was doing what pleased me, I wouldn't be helping my parents with bills. They're both garbage and--” “You shouldn't speak about them that way.” “They're not your parents, you don't have to defend their honor.” “It's not nice though. You are pretty much half of each of them.” “The better half, apparently. I can't believe they really provided my genetic material, though. I bet I'm secretly adopted.” “The world works in strange ways.” “I like how you didn't say God just to spare me the aggravation.” “I don't actually believe in the traditional Christian, Big Man Upstairs either.” “But you do believe in the Cosmic Chick of Salvation or whatever she is.” “It just makes more sense for God to be a woman.” “How so?” “God is a representation of life and creation. Women are associated with life and creation. God is easy to count on. Women are easy to count on. God is incredibly scary when incensed. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. God--” “I get the idea.” “See?” “I don't actually care. I don't profess a belief because I don't have time to figure out which one is best. The scheduling just doesn't work out.” “Oh, you.” “I could say the same.” “Is that a customer?” “Where?” Carol spun around, she'd been so preoccupied with conversation that she'd forgotten to periodically check the door. But when her eyes survey the diner she found it just as empty as before. “You got me.” “Never let your guard down, Carol. Never let your guard down.” “That whole contest is stupid, you know that right?” “You're only saying that because Meena is beat you now.” “She's imperturbable. You can't get her to blink, much less turn around.” “I've done it.” “I can't.” She corrected herself. “It's because you're not a people person. You're an actor.” “I have no idea where you get half of this stuff.” “And the other half?” “You clearly pull from your ass.” “Everything I say is a hundred percent honest and pure.” He pouted. “Whatever.” The girl shrugged. The Chef was like the father figure she always wanted. Smart, funny and most of all, accepting. He let her think what she wanted but didn't skirt the topics that they disagreed on to avoid arguments. It was such a shame that his wife died. He should find someone else, Carol decided. Around midnight a single customer showed up for some coffee, eggs and bacon and promptly left when he'd finished. At one Carol's nametag was in the bin with the rest of them and the trichromatic haired girl was leaving for home. The Chef had offered to close up for her but she ended up bullying Larry into doing it instead. Larry lived in the diner after all. It should be his business locking it up. Upon arriving home the girl stripped off her uniform and fell into bed. There wasn't anything left to do but check messages and sleep. Oh how attractive sleep seemed. Her phone cast a pale blue light over her face as she thumbed through her menus. One voice mail. For a moment she thought about just ignoring it. When she saw who it was from, she decided against it. So she lay awake, with her phone next to her ear, listening intently the the ringing sound issuing from it until it connected to voice mail and put the message through. “Hi, Paige. I know you're busy. You're always busy. I can't really see how you manage it all, but you do. You're great. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to wish you a happy twenty third birthday. I know you don't like people reminding you, but it's important to me. You're important to me. When I'm in town again-- click” “Fuck you. Stay in New York.”
ARE YOU READ GUYS PUT YA GUNS ON Anyway, your PotS results are here! Kudos to the "Russian Japanese Babe (more like mustachioed man amirite)" Kites for assistance in judging.~ To get on with it, Winner☍ Jiku Neon Spoiler: Plums and Kites: COMMENTARY It was a really tough decision, but we both ultimately chose Jiku's piece in the end because there was a strong grasp on the characters, which was made really apparent through how natural the dialogue was. It enhanced the brief insights given about the characters before they were introduced, and quite wonderfully conveyed the actor role that the Protagonist was playing. Runner-Up☍ Sumi Spoiler: Plums and Kites: COMMENTARY Dat imagery. <3 While about half the length of Jiku's, the story told was still just as profound. The opening started out strong, but we felt there was a bit of ambiguity with it after the timeskip. We thought Matilda was a ghost but we weren't quite sure. ;c Still an amazing piece nonetheless! As always, the prize is a pin, which is still in the works, lol. Congrats to both of our entrants, and hoping to have any of these soon! Thanks everyone. <3
