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A Series of of One Shots


DarthBrendo
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This is a completely un-beta'd, unchecked one shot I just knocked up. I don't think it'll go anywhere, but it's the first creative piece I've written in over 18 months, so I'm pretty happy with just getting something done.

 

Read, enjoy, let me know what you think, and if it sends you off with an idea, feel free to use it.

 

-----

 

It was the slapping of the rain on the mud next to face that woke me up. As I slowly opened my eyes, pain wrached my body, leaving me feeling like I'd been given shock treatment. Minutes passed, and I found myself still unable to move. It was almost if I was paralysed; my brain was telling my arms to move and roll me over, but the signal wasn't getting through.

 

More rain

 

I was cold now. A shiver made its way up and down my body as I closed my eyes again, I could taste dirt in my mouth, and as I moved my tounge around, I discovered I had some loose teeth.

 

What the hell happened? I wondered.

 

I suddenly realised I had no idea where I was, or how I got there, so I tried to think back to the last place I could remember being last night. It was like being sucker punched in the gut, and having the stuffing knocked out of you. I was empty as a bottle of milk that had been used up.

 

I realised the rain was starting to ease off. Thank God for that

 

There were tumbleweeds blowing abuot in my mind. All I could feel was pain, and the cold of the wind and rain, but inside, I was like a candy store raided by ten year olds with endless pocket money. I couldn't remember anything.

 

Crap.

 

I fell back to sleep. When I woke up, I felt light. Not light weight, as if I could float, but light, as in a spirit who can move without a body holding it to the earth. That thought seemed to trigger something inside of me, and I don't know if a great weight lifted, or if a switch was thrown turning me back oin, but I was able to roll over onto my back.

 

I immediately wished I hadn't. The only thing I got to see was a boot coming down on my face. Hard.

Edited by Guest

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Very interesting! I wish it wasn't a one-shot, because now I'm intrigued. Who is this guy? Who is beating him up? And why?

 

But I guess those are questions that I won't get answered.

 

Very nice descriptions. I really felt his pain, and the addition of the rain was a nice touch. You did a very good job capturing the small focus that comes sometimes with that much pain; how you tend to notice the small annoyances like the rain on your face and push the larger pain into the background.

 

I really enjoyed it, and it was good to read something by you!

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SHE MEANS TO END US ALL!!! DOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!!11eleventyone!
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That's right, it needs to not be a one-shot so we can find out who was beating him up. But it's well written, solid descriptions and a bothersome sense of tormenting discomfort...

 

A terrible cliffie too, for a oneshot!

 

I'm glad to see you writing again. Honestly, it was exciting to see you show up in fanfic after a couple of long years... and even if you haven't written in a long while now, your writing's still sharp and descriptive. (It just wants spell check in a couple spots, but you did say it was unchecked. Really, though, for something unchecked the actual writing is very vivid.) I hope this is a start for many more exciting stories...

 

If you're not going to continue it, maybe we will have to.

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Yeah., My big problem has always been fleshing a story out properly, and having a direction for it to go in. I just kinda wing it.

 

This one...I got the idea, the moment came and I had to get it down. So I did.

 

If you want to use it, go for it!

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This is a completely un-beta'd, unchecked one shot I just knocked up.

 

Wow, I don't even know what to think about that.

 

I liked this piece. The pain and the rain was good. I liked your description. The final blow, so to speak, was interesting, but I liked where it was going before that. It had me thinking and wondering if the narrator had died and was experiencing the sensation I can only imagine as ”œdesoulment”

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This is a completely un-beta'd, unchecked one shot I just knocked up.

 

Wow, I don't even know what to think about that.

 

In a good way or a not so good way?

 

I liked this piece. The pain and the rain was good. I liked your description. The final blow, so to speak, was interesting, but I liked where it was going before that. It had me thinking and wondering if the narrator had died and was experiencing the sensation I can only imagine as ”œdesoulment”

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This is a completely un-beta'd, unchecked one shot I just knocked up.

 

Wow, I don't even know what to think about that.

 

In a good way or a not so good way?

 

In a very good way. Or at least, an interesting way. Like in the movie Knocked Up!

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Fair enough

 

It was a case of I got the idea and it developed very quickly and I needed to get it down and I also knew that if I tried to check it and make sure it made sense, it would end up totally different, and probably not as good. Also, I didn't want to wait to get it beta'd. No point when I couldn't see me actually doing anything with it.

 

Though I would like to. I had a few ideas of where it could go, but I'm like GL..I can have an idea, but I can't write the story.

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Rather then make a new thread, I'm just going to use this for random one shots I knock together.

 

This is one I put together at work today

 

 

--------------------

 

 

Life sucks.

 

Its just that simple. You spend your whole childhood carefree, swimming in the river with your mates, and then you grow up and get caught in the stress of adult life, constantly fighting a battle swimming upstream.

 

It's damn lonely as well. I'm here now, surrounded by a whole bunch of friends, and I feel completely alone. Just one salmon jammed in against all the others. And it's wet too. It makes me feel cold and clammy as I move around, and I swear I can feel the water running down my back. It's like putting on wet clothes. It just feels uncomfortable.

 

Sigh.

 

Swimming upstream every day; thats what it means to be an adult apparently. Swim upstream your whole life, unable to break out of the pattern and do something different. I want to be able to relax; to learn to hit a homerun, to spend time with my family and not be working all the time.

 

And then theres the dreaded mid-life crisis; the obstacle in life. Some of us get past it, and go on to live long lives. Others, well, they don't do so well and the jaws of death snap around them. Take Mick for example; he hit the obstacle yesterday apparently. Now he's gone, just like that. Plucked from the water of life and never to be seen again. I'm due to hit it soon. I'm not looking forward to it. It's so random. It doesn't matter what you do, because it's luck of the draw whether you get eaten or not.

 

Damn I hate being a fish.

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Don't worry, we know what it's liek. When it's in your head there's only one way to get it out, no matter how it sounds. I have so mnay stories that I've just written parts of, or notes on or storylines for but nothing more than that because I just had to get it down.

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  • 3 months later...

Another one shot. un-beta-ed because it's not going anywhere else.

 

------------------

 

The area was full of journalists shouting questions at Little Johnny.

 

"...well as you all know, Matt, I'm a prize thoroughbred. For this to happen to me is ghastly. I'm better then this. But that's the joys of being a thoroughbred horse.

 

"Bil Smith, from Horsing Around, " shouted one of the journalist, waving his microphone towards Johnny, "can you tell you tell us exactly what happened in the race?"

 

The room suddenly went still, thick with tension that could have been cut with a spoon wielded by a lollipop sucking four year old child. Johnny's eyes went vacant as he remembered back to the idyllic day.

 

"We all lined up in the starting gates, just like normal. I had a good gate, number four. Not right on the inside, where you can get stuck in the middle of the pack if you don't have a good start, but not away on the outside where you have to make your way in to have any chance of winning. I got a good start, and went out in front by a length, there was the usual jostling as we jockeyed for position and space leading around the front half of the track."

 

Johnny's eyes went misty as he continued to remember what happened.

 

"Leading into the home straight, I was half a length off the pace. I'd been so long coming second and third I decided THIS race was going to be mine. This time I'd get first place. So I'm racing down the home straight, neck and neck with Pharaohs Dreams, and suddenly I went tumbling head over hind. The next thing I know, I'm lying there, shrieking in agony, my rider unconscious, and the rest of the pack thundering by, showering me with dirt and grass, and all I can think of is 'it's my leg. It's my damn freaking leg'."

 

"I've had problems with it my whole career. Sprained my ankle early on but that was able to be healed and I was just now coming into prime as a racer. And now I've broken it. If I had two legs, I'd be fine. They'd put me in a cast and let it heal. But oh no, not me, not with four legs that'd be to hard. What's that? I'm leaking sarcasm? Sorry Bill, I'd wipe it up for you, but ya know, I'm for the knackery. I'll set as fast as I run thoguh, so I'll be good glue to have around."

 

At that word the whole crowd went into an uproar, shouting out questions as if they'd only just realised they were about to run out of time with the star thoroughbred. Cries of 'equality for equines!' sprouted out amongst a few onlookers, but it was all to no avail. Little Johnny, winner of the Grand National last year, was led off to be made into glue. For the simple crime of having four legs, and breaking one of them.

Edited by Guest

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Little Johnny, winner of the Grand National last year, was led off to be made into glue. For the simple crime of having four legs, and breaking one of them.

 

Nice. I think it encapsulates your current state of frustration and glue-factory fears perfectly.

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Wow - nice stuff here, DB! They are all very different from each other, so I'll do a quick run down rather than try to encapsulate it all.

 

First one - Incredible descriptions! Particularly for a one shot that you didn't edit.

 

You did a very good job capturing the small focus that comes sometimes with that much pain; how you tend to notice the small annoyances like the rain on your face and push the larger pain into the background.

 

I completely agree with Ami - you did a great job of bringing us to focus on the small things that you would notice in that situation and drawing us into the story that way! Like LAP, I was wondering if he was supposed be dying towards the end there. And like EVERYONE, I'm wishing we knew more of the story and why he was getting beaten up!

 

Second one - Amusing and very well put together analogy there. I liked the constant references back to being a fish and how you continually tied it in - it was full of great imagery that easily identified between being a human and being a fish (haha - not that I'd ever thought I would compare those two before! )

 

Third one - What a twist! You took the commonly found athlete being interviewed after an event and instead whipped it around to make a very pointed remark about the importance we place on the sanctity of human life vs animal life.

 

There were, of course, some little grammatical things here or there but all expected when you are doing it quick shot off the top of your head, with no edit or beta. Like Tiana said, the descriptions are way better than what I would normally expect for an unedited one shot!

 

Well done! I would love to see more of these!

"It's always these little worlds that get you in trouble. Like Tatooine. I'm still living that one down." - Han Solo

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"Let us hold unswervingly to the faith we profess, for he who promised is faithful." -Heb. 10:23

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  • 2 weeks later...

Thanks Gimpy. Am glad to see you back around these parts.

 

Another one I knocked up on the train home today.

 

-------------------

 

Every morning I wake up and look at the mirror. And every morning it's empty. I keep hoping that one day I'll see something. Anything, even a vague outline would help. But that's not my lot in life.

 

Heh. Life. Not what I lead. It's more of an existence without end. I've been doing it so long now I don't even remember a beginning. If there was one.

 

I better get ready for work. An almost scalding hot shower might help. But as always, no.

 

Predicting the future is easy. Just look to your past because without an intervening force the next thirty years will be the same as the last thirty years.

 

I don't know why I keep expecting something different. There must be a small part of humanity left.

 

I towel off an wander into my walk-in wardrobe. Glad I built the ensuite next to it. What shall I wear today? The black cloak with silver trim? Or should I go for something a little outrageous and wear the silver with black trim?

 

What a dilemma.

 

Sigh.

 

No one will notice either way. That's the whole future / past thing again.

 

Time to go. I'll take Old Bessie. She's always been reliable. Cuts through bone like butter, and I've got a lot to do today. Lots of old chaff to cut down. Some new chaff too. I don't know which is harder.

 

Sigh. I wish I knew how to hand the role on. I'm been doing it to long now.

 

The worst part of it isn't even the job itself. Call my a psychopath for enjoying my work, I know I fill a vital role, it's the lack of recognition.

 

Just once, just ONCE I want someone to tell me I'm doing a good job. But no, they can't see me. How could they see a spirit? Some of them can sense me, and animals certainly can.

 

But mostly it just get on with my job. Thankless and lonely.

 

Why do I do it, you ask?

 

I shrug.

 

Someone has to be Death. That someone is me.

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Interesting.

 

 

It's a little hard to describe my response to this, so I'm going to go with a series of adjectives: Interesting. Morbid. Unique. Sad. Well-written.

 

Yeah, that kind of sums it up. Too serious to be humorous (although a different write on this same concept could easily be so), and too sad in its description of the never-ending "present" that Death lives in to be simply "morbid". Not my own take on how that stuff works , but a reflective and unique little blurb to be sure.

 

Nice job personifying the "Grim Reaper." At first I thought it was just a really depressed guy, but when you started mentioning "Old Bessie" it became clear that this was either a butcher, a serial killer, or something along those lines!

"It's always these little worlds that get you in trouble. Like Tatooine. I'm still living that one down." - Han Solo

Your barnacle has carnivorous salamanders the size of whales.

"Let us hold unswervingly to the faith we profess, for he who promised is faithful." -Heb. 10:23

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Very nice! I liked it. It made me start wondering who he was when you talked about the clothing, then like Gimpy, I knew it was a killer when Old Bessie came up. But you still kept it veiled--to tell the truth, I was half expecting it to turn out to be a Sith.

 

Love the idea that Death wants recognition for a job well done.

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I LIKED this. That was really... well... it made me keep thinking about who he was. I loved that. And he was so sad I almost felt sorry for him. But you find out it's Death and you kinda think "Yeah, he HAS to be like that."

 

It was a cool short.

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A very short piece I knocked together on the train the other day.

 

----------------------

 

Everything felt light and airy, while the flowers were standing proudly in full bloom as the bees harvested their pollen. The air itself was singing with joy about the new day as the children raced about squealing with delight.

 

It was a grand old day, the stuff of Disney movies, and fairy tales. At any moment I felt like I would see the Seven Dwarves, or Cinderella wander across my path.

 

But nothing could take away the sense of flying and lightness. It was magical. I felt I was superman and could leap a tall building with a single bound.

 

Then I woke up. I wasn't flying, I was crashing, as my 1966 Chevy, fully restored and in immaculate condition, soared out from the road, with more of the cliff rushing by every second, headed down towards the rocks.

 

At least I'm going out in style I suppose.

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Wow, you're on an uber-ironic journey of depressingness recently, aren't you? Nice juxaposition of all the imagery associated with positivity and happiness before revealing that the guy's killing himself in style.

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My, that is something. It reminds me of the countless times I've been driving, only to regain my full attention and awareness after some undeniably dangerous day-dreaming. Of course, I haven't crashed because of that too many times.

 

Interesting. Is that going to develop into something else, or just remain as the brief, "premortem" moment?

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  • 4 years later...

So I've been doing some writing again. In my current role, I'm the 'technology and research skills' teacher in the school, and I've been working with students on improving their typing skills, trying to move them away from index fingers only and move them towards using their other fingers as well. I've been using two methods to do this, the first is to put up a sentence on the board, and its a series of knockouts to see who the quickest typer is, but this results in frustration from the kids who get knocked out early. The other thing I've been doing, and which has been much more successful, is to put up an image (or multiple images) on the board as a stimulus and give them 15 minutes to write anything they want; poem, description, short story etc. based on the image. When I've put up more than one image, I've told them they can use more than one of the images, but they need to be connected authentically. The kids have been loving the freedom to write, and have been completely engaged, which has mean that other than walk around and offer feedback, and I've been avoiding doing that as I'm not wanting to interrupt their writing flow, I've not got anything to do. So I've been writing with them. Doing that has also provided me with some teaching moments, as I can have some students read their writing out and then read mine out and we can talk about the difference in language and the differing quality of the mental image we can create. Anyway, I thought I would post the writings here. None of them are finished pieces by any means, but it's been quite enjoyable to get in and write something again.

 

I've been frustratingly unable to re-find the image that prompted this piece of writing.

 

The Rose

It was a blisteringly cold, and snowy night in July when I saw the man. I was walking Dog, my pet Labrador in the pre-dusk light when I saw the old man sitting upon the snow-covered bench. The timber slats were covered with a light dusting of fine powdery snow, and the iron legs were creaking with the cold. Behind him, the wan light was suffused with a gentle glow from the street light that stood behind the man, lighting up the intersection of the pathways.

 

The man was oblivious to his surroundings, not realising that he himself had a light covering of snow on his shoulders, legs and the top of his fur hat. His white beard was crusted with frozen breath, giving him the appearance of a very lifelike snowman. I could see, rolling slowly down his grizzled cheeks, skin looking like worn leather,a big rivulet of tears, and his eyes were clearly focused on the beautiful red rose in his hands.

 

I wondered what it was that he was mourning. He was hunched over, and had the look of someone who had not moved in quite some time, stiff and sore, and his eyes, what I could see of them, were, despite looking straight at the rose clasped tenderly in his hand, were not focused on anything at all.

 

I had stopped when I noticed him, my curiosity stilling my fast pace, and I started nervously as Dog pulled at the leash impatiently, a gentle whine escaping his lips. I knew that he was cold, but I was concerned for this man. If he didn't leave soon, and go home to get warm, then he ran the very real risk of getting sick, or worse, if he didn't leave at all, freezing to death overnight. My conscience couldn't allow that to happen and I had to do something to try and help him.

 

I nervously, hesitantly, worriedly, sidled over towards the man, Dog following at my side, and sat down on the other end of the park bench, the snow crackling and crunching under my weight. Looking straight out in front of me while I gave Dog a reassuring rub across the top of his head, between his ears, I opened my mouth and spoke in the direction of the man.

 

"The night is cold, friend, and the snow weighs down heavier every minute. Do you have somewhere warm to go?"

 

I closed my mouth, not wanting to say anything further and come across like an annoying babbling stranger and waited for him to respond. Eventually, after what felt like an age, his mouth opened and I heard a voice that was completely bereft of any emotion, that had qualities to it I would expect to hear from a gnarled, old wise man.

 

"Aye, I do. Not sure that it's worth going there though now that my beloved has gone."

 

It was as if these few words had broken a dam, as the old man hunched over, his shoulders heaving as great big sobs wracked his old frame. I hesitated, not sure what to do next. I didn't know him well enough to go and put an arm around him as I would a friend, but neither did I want to leave him alone, without succour.

 

Eventually, he paused, sitting up straight, wiping one sleeve across his face, wiping the tears away from his eyes with a sniffle. The man looked at me with a kind look etched on his face while his eyes were full of sadness.i made a move to say something,and he waved me say gently, with a soft smile on his face.

 

"I thank you. I've sat here, wallowing in my own misery f[end time]

 

 

This next piece came from three images:

house-on-the-edge-of-a-cliff-500x657.jpg?w=299&h=393

 

ce6d3148d2a0430809d459646b0a6764.jpg

 

The last one I can't find, but it's an image of a half eaten apple sitting on some grass, with some miniature figures who look like they're harvesting the apple.

 

Toby

Toby leaned forward, lowering the front of his body down over the hole in the floor as he searched for those pesky mini-people, his long orange tail waving gently as he got his eye nice and close to the gap. Looking through into the cavity beneath, he saw the same thing that he had seen each day for the last few weeks whenever he had checked.

 

A set of miniature stairs led down to a landing, at the bottom of which was a rug of some sort, and a set of minute shoes. Across from the stairs sat some miniature couches, which were all facing towards a small TV. Toby hmpphed in frustration, as he was once again foiled in his search for the small people. It all started a few weeks ago when he had been out hunting along the the outskirts of his home village, perched up high, atop the ridge of Mt Insanity, overlooking the valley of OnlyCrazyPeopleLiveUpThere.

 

He had been stalking quietly through the brush on one of the rare landings just outside the village wall, perched precariously at the top of a long and deadly drop to the valley floor below, when he had heard noises that sounded very much like the noises his owners made when they communicated to each other. The only difference was that these voices sounded like they were coming from a long way away, as the voices were so faint, but Toby knew, instinctively as only a hunter can, that they were quite close, as he could hear exactly what was being said, though he didn't understand the words, as he had never learned to communicate with his owners.

 

The voices in question belonged to Mergatroyd, Alvin and Gertrude, three farmers of a race of beings known as the Little Ones. These three farmers had been out surveying a new site for their family to live, and so far were impressed with what they had seen. There were plenty of cavities in the buildings of the big folk in which they could make their new settlement, there was easy access to plenty of water due to the fresh water river which ran through the big folk's town, and there was plenty of food, particularly on the few grassy outcropping so on the cliff edges just outside the town wall, which landed there when the big folk through away what they called scrap food. Finally, there were plenty of the creatures that the big folks called cats, which the little people loved to hunt.

 

Toby knew nothing of this, all he knew was that he had heard a sound which was unfamiliar to him and which did not fit in with what he knew of the sounds of the town and its surrounds, and that made him curious. Toby flattened himself to the ground, eyes and ears open and paying careful and close attention to his surroundings as he stalked silently closer to where he had heard the unfamiliar noise.

 

Unbeknownst to him, Mergatroyd, Alvin and Gertrude were not just farmers. Though they had spent the day digging into the overripe apple, they were aware of Toby, having spotted him perched atop the village wall, as he lazily slunk along its top. They were on guard against an attack from the predator, an attack which they were confident they could escape from, if not repel.

 

Fortunately for the three farmers, Toby was not quite as quiet as he thought he was, and they heard his padfalls as he stalked closer to them and immediately began to pack up their equipment, ready to escape. They had scouted out a ledge just below that was large enough for one of their miniature campsites, but, fortunately for them, not big enough for Toby to get to. They immediately made their way to the escape rope they had hung to make their emergency getaway, and slid down it to their campsite, and made it before Toby had realised they were moving.

 

Toby, in his cautiousness with the unknown sound, had moved to slowly, and though he was able to trace the scent with his keen nose, he did not recognise the miniature rope for what it was, and though it odd that the scent disappeared at the end of the cliffs, not being able to see down to the little folk on their ledge, safe and secure, below.

 

Thus began a campaign of what amounted to hide-and-seek, which continued unabated over the next few weeks, until Toby realised he had not been able to discover the location of the unknown scent for a few days. Toby sat, tail swishing gently back and forth, atop the uppermost roof in the village and vacantly looked into the distance, pondering the strange happenings of the last few weeks.

 

It had been some time since he had initially come across the unknown and strange scent while out hunting, and though he had attempted to find the scent again, it had seemingly vanished, only appearing very occasionally, and in very different locations. It had been a chance encounter that had led him to the hole in the floor and the miniature stairs down to what he had deduced was the home of the little folk. Toby had been returning from a hunt, grinning smugly as he enjoyed the feeling of having a rat in his belly, when he saw something that he had only ever heard of from his crazy Uncle Bill from the big city in the next valley over. He would not have credited it unless he had seen I

 

What had Toby confused and concerned was what they were doing there. Once he [end time]

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