Week 5: Write a short story or script that includes an unexpected cliffhanger ending - HITRECORD

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Week 5: Write a short story or script that includes an unexpected cliffhanger ending

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\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1695409/index.html)

I hear the scream of the smoke detector as soon as I open my car door but I don’t think much about it. The sound is distant and I have trunkful of groceries to deal with. It’s thanksgiving weekend and someone is bound to burn a turkey somewhere in my neighbourhood. I don’t think much about the noise until I see her pacing in the driveway. We have lived across the street from her for two years now and I don’t know her name. I worried about her once when the power went out in the summer, I knew she lived alone and was on my way to check on her when her son arrived. Her lawn is always perfect, cut weekly by some young man; maybe a grandson, I’m not sure. I like my privacy and so I assume others do as well, but I have thought of her from time to time, worrying about her living all alone at her age. I pause for a moment when I notice her there in the driveway, she looks confused and she gestures towards my husband. Something about her mannerisms tells me this isn’t a job for him, this job may require delicacy and compassion. I leave him with the kids and cross the road to see if I can help. “Something is happening in my house.” She says“What’s the problem?”“There is a sound, something is making an awful sound and I can’t get it to stop.” Now I know my instincts were correct, the sound is clearly the smoke alarm, but she doesn’t mention that. She doesn’t tell me that she can’t turn it off, that she burnt some toast, or forgot to open the flu of her fireplace. She says nothing of the smoke or fire, she just seems confused. “Okay.” I say reassuringly. “Let’s see if I can figure it out.” The detector is over the basement stairs so I silence it quickly. The house is filled with smoke. “Did you burn dinner?” I ask as she hovers near the door, ringing her hands.“What was making that noise?”“It was just the smoke alarm. Was there some sort of fire?”“I turned off the stove and the noise didn’t stop.”“Well the house is pretty smoky. Why don’t I open some windows to air things out?” The kitchen windowsill is covered in nick knacks, small glass figures and miniature wooden birds that I have to move to the counter before I can pry the window open; it squeals as I force it up. In the sink I see the charred remains of a dishrag and a teapot with something synthetic melted to the side. There is also a pot with canned stew in the bottom, a beige gelatinous mess. Dinner for one. She must have been heating it up and left things too close to the element. There are no other signs of fire so I figure I can leave her once the house has aired out. I want to find another window to open but they are all covered by storm screens, though the summer is just ending. They must stay up all year now, sealing her in to this lonely place. The phone is an old fashioned one, blue plastic and mounted to the wall, but the receiver hangs uselessly to the floor, dangling by its cord. I settle it in its cradle as I walk past to check the windows in the back room. The house is immaculate, but despite the fact that everything is clean and in its place, there is an overwhelming feeling of shabbiness. Each room is cluttered with things. China, doily’s, unused ashtrays and delicate crystal dishes filled with ancient candy in yellowed plastic wrappers. Nothing has been boxed up or thrown away. Her lifetime of memento's are all on permanent display. I don’t want to be like this when I am old, fading away in a house that was once a home but is now a museum. I don’t want to spend long years alone, without my husband. I want him with me till the end. I don’t know what else to do for the old lady, so I assure her that we are just across the street and if she needs anything she can come by anytime. She shakes my hand then, finally telling me that her name is Effie Pepper. I can’t stop the tears as I walk back to my family. The kids are running around on the grass and my husband is watching them play. The groceries melt in the trunk, waiting for our attention. ***** It’s late when the bell rings and I am surprised at first to see her there. Her house is dark behind her and she stands on my stoop, peering in through the frosted glass of the front window. I open the door, struggling to remember her name, something cute and related to food. Was it Mrs. Salt? In the end it doesn't matter. I just say hello and wait for her to talk. "The heat is out and my house is cold.""Come in." I move away from the door giving her space to enter the house. "Do you need to call someone?" "I wouldn't know who to call. Not this late." "I'm sure they wouldn't mind." "Really I couldn't trouble anyone with this. Could I just sleep here tonight?" I answer without thinking because really what alternative is there. She is a quiet old woman who is alone and cold, she needs our help and our company. I settle her with a cup of tea and leave to make up the guest room. The kids are asleep and my husband is at the gym, leaving the house quiet, peaceful. When I return to the kitchen I see that she doesn’t hear me. She sits bent over the teacup, the steam washes across her cheeks and her hands shake ever so slightly against the porcelain. I imagine myself like her, alone and old after my children have grown and my husband is gone. I picture myself wandering through this house with its comforting ghosts, wrapped in the memories of the life I have already lived. Her skin hangs in soft silky folds, it is beautiful, pale white and almost shimmery. She looks up then and smiles at me with teeth that are somehow grey in between her thin cracked lips. “All set.” I reach for her hand like I would with a small child. She grips my arm as we slowly climb the stairs and I lead her into the room, settling her into bed. I shut the door and return to my own bedroom to wait for my husband. Tomorrow I will help her to fix the furnace, I will try to get in touch with her son and he can decide if she should continue living alone in the old house. ***** When I wake in the dark room it is to the feel of someone settling on the foot of the bed. I can barely see in the moonlight, but I know it is her. “I don’t want to be alone. Do you mind?” She pleads and I don’t have the heart to turn her away. I nod and tuck my knees up to my chest, leaving her a spot at my feet. My husband wasn’t woken by her arrival in our room. I think I should tell him, but he looks so peaceful and she doesn’t take much space. She curls around herself like a cat, a flexibility I wouldn’t have imagined was possible from someone so old, and then she seems to fall instantly to sleep. My breathing slows and my eyes begin to droop. Just as sleep is about to claim me I am suddenly brought back from the edge by her movement. She crawls across me, creeping towards my husband. She is balanced on her fingers and toes and moves in a fractured, jarring way that seems almost reptilian, it makes me shudder. She hears my sudden intake of breath and stops, her eyes darting to mine. I see something in those eyes, something I had missed before. A glowing, not warm, but angry like molten lead or smoldering embers, it spills out from the edges of her eye lids, and the cracks in her paper thin skin. She reaches a boney hand towards my sleeping husband and I suddenly know her for who she is. She is death, she is the reaper, she is the shepherd of Hades and she is here for him. “You can’t have him.” I want to sound strong but my voice comes out in a whimper. “I need him still” She hisses at me, and from the furnace inside her, seeps a poisonous mist, it clouds my brain and my body turns soft around me. I fight to stay awake, to raise my hand towards the man I love, he lies peacefully beside me, but I am powerless to call to him, my voice swallowed by fear. I hear the old woman cackle beside me and from her mouth, stretched wide, the smell of death spills out along with the violent glow of fire. Helpless, I fall unconscious. ***** When my eyes open the sun shines through the window. Visions of the old lady and her nighttime visitation are gone. I sigh deeply, trying to push away the dark horror of the nightmare. I can hear my son singing in his bedroom, he always wakes up so happy. I roll towards my husband and my breath catches in my throat. The man I love, the man around whom I have built my whole world, lies cold and stiff, stolen in the night by a creature I invited in. My sobs will frighten the children and I know I have to find a way to get up, to pull myself together and deal with this loss. I walk on shaking legs to the hallway with the phone gripped tight in my palm. As I dial the numbers with trembling hands, I stare at the tousled bed in my guest room, the sheets are empty and the old lady is gone. She came like a thief in the night and stole my world. The 911 operator answers and as I clear my throat to speak I hear a sound from my son’s room that makes my blood stiffen, frozen in my veins. Another voice joins his in song, frail and wavering next to his sweet clear notes. I lower the phone and enter his room. He sits on Effie Pepper’s lap, her seemingly frail arms wrapped around his small shape. With shaking hands and my heart pounding in my ears, I join them. *** I felt like being spooky today...Happy Halloween HR

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1695843/index.html)

Weekly Writing Challenge #5 (contribute here) My mom and I walked into the waiting area. She signed me in. By that age, some of the kids signed themselves in, but I still let my mom do it for me. I was probably ten. A dozen or so boys my age (and their moms or guardians) sat waiting as well. Some were studying their lines. Some were playing Game Boy. That was all normal. But this was not a normal audition. If you want to be an actor, you have to audition. No, let me rephrase that. If you wanted to work as an actor in television and movies in the early nineties, you had to audition. I started going on auditions when I was five years old. I’d go on three, four, five of them a week, often two on the same day, after school. My mom would work on the material with me. Also she’d drive the car. Auditions have their ups and downs. On the one hand, it’s great practice to study and perform all that different material trying out for different roles, day after day. On the other hand, it frames the whole thing as a competition, a yes-or-no question. Did I get the part? Yes or no. I’m not sure that’s the healthiest attitude for a budding artist to have towards the creative process. Ideally, art is about self expression, embracing the present moment, things like that. Not about winning or losing. These boys were there to win. So was I. It was a cool fucking part. To play a Klingon! For those of you who’ve never watched Star Trek, a Klingon is a kind of species that has a body very similar to a human’s, but a head and face that’s pretty different. Their hairline is way high on their head, like a Samurai, and the top half of their skull ripples into menacing bumps remnant of some kind of dinosaur. Also they’re the baddest warriors in the known universe. There had never been a kid Klingon before. But there was about to be. When you go on an audition, you never find out until later whether or not you got the part. After you’re done performing, they say thanks very much, you leave, and you wait. Usually, you wait for days. Sometimes you hear back, and most of the time, you don’t. If you don’t hear back, it means you didn’t get the part. I’d been doing it for years, so I had gotten used to this. My mom and I always used to say: “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” meaning don’t get your hopes up about any particular part, but instead let it be a wonderful surprise if it works out. And that approach worked most of the time. But like I said, this was not a normal audition. Today, after performing, they asked us not to leave. We all stayed. And we waited while each boy went into the casting director’s office, came out, and sat down as the next boy went in. It was because of the extensive prosthetic makeup involved in playing a Klingon. The production schedule was tight, so whoever got the part would have to go into makeup tests that very night. That meant they were gonna read all of us, and decide on the spot who’d be sent on to makeup. When I went in, I thought I was pretty good. I had built up a decently accurate radar for reading a room. Sometimes I left a room just knowing I was gonna get it, and usually when I felt that way, I was right. Although sometimes I thought for sure I’d blown it, only to be surprised several days later with good news. And of course, sometimes I thought it had gone well, but then never got the call I’d been hoping for. This time, I thought I did a pretty good job, and I thought they liked me, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I thanked everybody in the room, took my exit, and sat back down with my mom, while the casting director called in the next boy. We waited. My mom asked me how I felt about it. She never put any pressure on me about getting parts or not. She just wanted to support her kid doing something I clearly loved doing, and she put great care into not letting the process fuck with my head. I was fortunate. Not all “stage moms” are so cool. One by one, all the boys went in and came out. After the last boy was finished, the casting director came out, thanked us for our patience, said they were gonna make their decision as quickly as they could, said she’d be back out shortly to tell us who was getting the part, and then disappeared. We waited. Finally, the casting director reemerged. Everyone stood up, although we hadn’t been asked to do that; it was like we were compelled by some kind of unspoken competitive instinct, bravely awaiting the news of our fates. “Thanks again for your patience, everyone,” she said, “you guys all did a great job, and it was a tough decision.” My optimism had been growing inside me over the last half hour or so since I’d been in the room. I imagined hearing my name coming out of her mouth. There was a pregnant pause, and then she spoke again. “The role of Alexander will be played by…”

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1696426/index.html)

----------10/31/2014 Friday---------- You're late!6:03 PM On my way 6:04 PM Doors opened 5 mins ago!Have you even left yet?6:04 PM Driving now 6:05 Do you have the tickets?6:05 PM Yes 6:06 PM How long?6:06 PM 10 mins 6:06 PM Hurry up! It's cold!6:07 PM WTF! Where are you?!6:21 PM The first band is starting NOW!6:34 PM I'm FREEZING!6:47 PM Are you almost here?6:53 PM Now it's snowing! Where the fuck are you?!7:01 PM They're playing now, I can hear it throughthe doors. WE'RE MISSING IT!!!7:17 PM Fuck this and FUCK YOU!!I'm going home!7:29 PM Don't call me EVER again!7:33 PM Hey. Are you okay?11:57 PM The formatting on this is the most infuriating thing I've ever done. It's still not right. And I'm not sure this even qualifies as a cliffhanger anyway.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1697727/index.html)

The Neighbors (Writing Challenge 5 – Cliffhanger Story) Lena was pretty sure that her new neighbors were responsible for her brother Ricky's recent disappearance. He'd been a terrible brother, and she didn't miss him, so it wasn't sisterly love that drove Lena to seek an explanation, just boredom and morbid curiosity. A year before he disappeared, on the night of her 13th birthday, he'd offered his friend Chuck the opportunity to have sex with her in exchange for fifty dollars. Fortunately, she'd attached a string of jingly Christmas ornaments to the doorknob so that she would wake up if Ricky came into her room (he liked to sneak in at night and punch her half a dozen times on the arm or leg, shouting: "Ninja attack!"). When the Christmas bells rang, Lena was up and armed with an umbrella in no time, driving Chuck backward with the pointy tip while Ricky roared with laughter in the hallway. Their father had woken and come staggering up the stairs in a drunken stupor, baseball bat in hand, shouting that everyone had better shut up because he was trying to sleep. He never hit people, only walls, but Chuck didn't know that, and in his haste to escape, he'd fallen down the stairs and sprained his ankle, after which he crawled out the front door onto the rain-soaked pavement, sobbing like a baby. Lena had wished that the universe would just take Ricky away then, and one year later, it had. A couple of days before Ricky disappeared, she'd heard him babbling on to Chuck about the amazing home entertainment system, fancy computers, and other "awesome shit" that their elderly neighbors had, and how he could see it all through their back windows that faced the alley. "Those idiots always leave the back door open, so they pretty much deserve to get robbed," he'd said, and "I'm just the man for the job." Ricky was always bragging about what a tough guy criminal he was, and Lena didn't take it seriously. But then Ricky and Chuck had disappeared two days later. Lena had spoken to the old woman from next door a couple of times. Mrs. Mackenzie had brought a home-baked apple pie over a couple of days after she and her husband had moved in, a kindly gesture that had nearly brought tears to Lena's eyes. Her own mother had run off when she was three (she couldn't even remember what the woman had looked like) and both sets of grandparents had died before she was born. Lena had chatted with Mrs. Mackenzie again a few weeks later. She often walked home via the alleys and there was a great view of the Mackenzies' garden over the low fence. The garden was magnificent, and it had actual fruits and vegetables growing in it. Lena hadn't known it was possible to get food any other way than from the supermarket if you were a regular person. She'd thought that only rich women in shiny magazines did stuff like that. Lena had stopped at the fence for a few minutes, making small talk with Mrs. Mackenzie and fantasizing about living in that home where gardens were tended and apple pies baked, and again she felt tears prickle at the backs of her eyes. Lena never saw Mr. Mackenzie outdoors. Mrs. Mackenzie had said he'd had a stroke, and Lena had once spotted the old man shuffling through the livingroom, a dark silhouette in a brightly lit space, surrounded by the couple's ridiculously expensive-looking home entertainment system and slick, fancy computers that must have cost a fortune. As Ricky had said, it was all right on display, visible from the windows facing the alley. It was as though they were going out of their way to attract scumbags, like the whole place was a venus flytrap for assholes. Ricky's picture had appeared in the newspaper alongside the other missing young men, under the headline: "A Vigilante Among Us?" Local bastards were disappearing in droves, and people were starting to notice. Lena had researched the missing men online, finding their stories remarkably similar. Cody Tranger was a petty thief who had done time for breaking six bones in his girlfriend's face. Robert Whittier had done jail time for theft – violent home invasions targeting the elderly. Bart Combs had also done time for theft, and was notorious in his local neighborhood for killing a dog – not in self-defense, but just for fun. The rest were similar, as though all the men had all been manufactured in the same shitty factory. Over the past five months since the Mackenzies had moved in, 27 local scumbags had gone missing, and Lena thought that the sweet old couple with far too many shiny electronics on display might have something to do with it. She began staking out their place, sitting behind a row of tall recycling bins, watching through the slim spaces between them. She had nothing better to do, because she no longer had any friends. Ricky had seen to that. Although he'd been 23 at the time of his disappearance, he'd been dating a popular 16-year-old at Lena's school, and he'd convinced her to plant a rumor. After Ricky's girlfriend told everyone that Lena had been caught having sex with a dog, the two girls whom she'd thought were her best friends had made the pragmatic choice to cut her loose. She didn't think they actually believed the ridiculous story, but they understood that hanging around with a pariah would be social suicide. Lena barely went to school anymore, where whispers and snickers followed her and a bubble of cold, empty space opened around her as she drifted listlessly through the halls. She usually spent her days at the park, sitting on a swing with her headphones blasting angry music, or walking back and forth along the alley in the hopes of catching her elderly neighbors doing something cool. It couldn't be the husband, who shuffled along like the walking dead. It must be Mrs. Mackenzie, with a gun or maybe something even better, like a spiky ring that shot poison or a laser weapon. Seeing that old woman killing a scumbag with a laser would be so freaking awesome. Lena began sneaking out to watch the Mackenzies' place each night, though she supposed that she couldn't really call what she did sneaking, not like what kids with real parents did, jumping out a window and climbing down a tree. Walking past her father, who lay snoring on the sofa with a bottle clutched to his chest, didn't require any stealth. She just strolled out the front door wearing dark clothing and hoping that it didn't rain again. On the sixth night of her stakeout, something finally happened. A couple of young men stopped in the alley to peer through the Mackenzies' brightly lit back windows at their electronics showroom. "This is the place," one of them said in a low voice. "I see what you mean." "Yeah, and the back door is open, as usual." The first man pulled a gun from his jacket and slipped through the gate, which was not only left open, but oiled so that it didn't squeak when touched. Lena felt a vicious glee rising inside her as she watched the men make their way up the garden path, which was lined with soft bark mulch for a silent approach. Everything about the Mackenzies' home was designed to put the bastards at ease, make them feel as though they had the advantage. The Mackenzies were rolling out the red carpet to their asshole disposal unit. Lena emerged from her hiding place and moved to the fence for a better view, but the men were inside now and one of them had yanked the curtains shut. Lena felt a surge of fear then. What if she was wrong? What if the Mackenzies were nothing more than a sweet old couple who were about to be beaten, robbed, and perhaps worse? She could have warned them or called the police, but instead, she had just crouched behind the recycling bins like an idiot and watched, entertaining some bizarre fantasy about elderly vigilantes that was starting to seem really stupid. Guilt rose like bile in her stomach and she surged forward, taking the path in leaps and bounds, wrenching the back door open wide. She would take the bastards down herself, find a weapon, a vase, something. And the Mackenzies would be so grateful that they'd invite her to live with them in their clean house with its pretty garden, a place where nobody shattered walls with baseball bats or punched anyone in the night. As she moved through the doorway, she grew confused and wondered if she had somehow read the situation wrong, because she could hear Mrs. Mackenzie chatting cheerfully to her husband. "You finish up your supper dear. I just have to check that my shows have finished downloading, and then I'll be back to help with the cleanup and—" The old woman shut her mouth abruptly when she saw Lena emerge from behind the open door, frozen in place by the bizarre scene before her. Mr. Mackenzie was crouched on the floor, feasting alternately upon two bodies that lay on a sheet of plastic covering the livingroom carpet. He paused in his enthusiastic chomping to look up at her then, and it was not the vacant look of a corpse on his ghostly pale, blood-decorated face, the look that dozens of zombie movies had taught her to expect; it was more like the perplexed curiosity of a small baby. Lena looked down at the thug's gun, which lay at her feet, and then up at Mrs. Mackenzie, who stood rooted in place, watching her, as the tantalizing smell of apple pie drifted in from the kitchen. This is a continuation of a story called The Spider's Parlor that I wrote about six months ago. I also wrote a sequel for this.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1616190/index.html)

When scientists and doctors started looking at aging as a disease rather than an inevitability, things changed.Serums. Surgical procedures. Diets. These things were developed, tested, manufactured. And then, finally, they found the fountain of youth. It’s not an actual fountain, of course. No. It was a tiny aqua colored pill—the color paying homage to the water Ponce de León was tasked in finding. But youth was not cheap. How could it be? Something that was so elusive. Something that starts happening the moment you’re conceived, you’re aging. So it was only the rich and powerful who were able to buy this pill. I watched as these men and women stayed young while the poor around them grew old. They were always on television or some tabloid magazine.I watched as they enjoyed their life. Grabbing the remote from my nightstand, I turn off the TV. The tubes get in the way—my arms connected to machines that are suppose to keep me alive—but I’m too tired to fuss with them. There’s no point. I’m in a room. A nice room. A room with nurses and doctors looking after me 24/7. A room that’s part of a mansion that’s by the ocean so that the salty ocean air wafts into my room when I ask for the window to be opened. The sheets aren’t the threadbare ones you find in hospitals. They were soft and smooth and ornately patterned—hand painted, maybe, but I don’t ask about that stuff. I abhor it, in fact, but what am I suppose to do? I’m too tired—too old to care anymore about the money being spent on me. There’s no use arguing over the bills. They will all be taken care of. “Good afternoon, Miss Eve,” Belinda, my main nurse, says to me as she comes in and checks the tubes and chemicals being pumped into me. She has long blonde hair I’m envious of. I’ve always had my hair cut short much to my mother’s dismay. She wanted me to be a little princess. “Hey there Belinda—” But then I get into another fit of coughing. Belinda’s quick to help me drink from a glass of water. “Thank you.” “Of course.” She sets the glass down on my nightstand and then goes to open one of the windows facing the ocean. “So are you excited today?” “About what?” I ask. My mind gets foggy sometimes. Some things I can remember. Some things I’m suppose to remember, I forget. “About your visitors, of course!” My visitors are already thirty minutes late if the clock on the wall is correct. I grunt in response. And then I hear them. They’re chatting away with my doctors about how nice it is outside and how they’re going out later with their friends. A moment later they come into my room with their fake smiles and their fake tans. Have their teeth always been so unnaturally white? “Eve! My Eve!” Clarissa comes over and hugs me gingerly, whether it’s because of the tubes or because of the old people smell, I’m not sure. Victor stands by the door for a second before coming over and giving me a quick hug. Belinda escapes, closing the door to my room behind her. “Hi, Eve,” Victor says, a pleasant look on his face—as if he actually missed me. I know they both would rather be elsewhere than visiting me right now. “Hi, Clarissa, Victor.” I hug them back as best as I can but my old bones aren’t meant to strain so much now that I’m well into my nineties and bedridden. Clarissa sits in a chair by the bed while Victor stands behind her. “So, did you watch my new movie yet? I had the studio send over a copy for you to watch,” Clarissa says excitedly. It’s really the only thing she loves in the world—acting. I mean she’s a terrific liar so it comes naturally to her, I guess. “I did, I did. It was lovely. Very sad.” They movie was about a young woman, played by Clarissa, who falls in love with an android. “Did you like the movie, Victor?” I ask him. He half shrugs. “I liked it enough.” “He’s totally lying. He absolutely loved it. I think I may have even saw him cry right at the end when they’re about to destroy the android and I come in and rescue him.” I nod along to what Clarissa says because I’ve found that’s the best way to deal with her. “How’s the hotel business?” I ask Victor. Victor inherited his family’s business when he turned twenty-seven and has been fueling Clarissa need for wealth and attention with that money among other things. “It’s good. We have plans to build on Mars next.” Victor’s stoic. He’s very much like his father. When I saw pictures of them together, they always stood stick straight and had this intimidating look about them like they always mean business 24/7. Clarissa’s phone rings. “Oops,” she says when she takes it out. “I need to get this.” She leaves, closing the door behind her. Victor looks away from me, like he can’t bear to look at me—at how age has ravaged my body. I hold out a shaking hand to him and for a moment when he looks at it, I think he may not take it, but then he does, and we curl our fingers around each other’s hand. “This house feels empty without you two,” I tell him. “I know, but you know how Clarissa is—how busy both our schedules are.” A single tear runs down my cheek but I’m too old to brush it away. “I know, dad. I just miss being a family—the three of us together here in the house I grew up in.” I see him clench his jaw when I call him the D-word. “I know, sweetheart.” He comes closer and kisses my forehead like how he use to when I was a child and he would put me to bed every night. “I know.” And then he sighs, looking at me with the saddest expression on his face. “Why didn’t you just take the pill, Evey? The three of us, we could’ve been together for so much longer.” “Because, dad, it wasn’t for me.” I had so many chances to take that pill, and while I could’ve been young forever, I wanted to live a full life. Not an unnatural one. Clarissa comes back in. She ignores our moment as father and daughter. “Babe, our flight to New York tonight was cancelled but there’s one leaving in an hour that we need to get on.” “Right,” Victor says. He lets go of my hand. “It was good seeing you both,” I say. I don’t want them to leave no matter how insufferably or cold they are. But they have to. They’re busy people with busy schedules. “It was good seeing you, too, Evey.” Clarissa—mom—comes over and kisses my cheek. “Bye,” I say and then I’m alone again as they leave.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1696352/index.html)

The Talk (WWC - Week #5)HER Please, say something. HIM What do you want me to say? HER Anything. Call me a- bitch; anything… HIM Uh… HER I wish I knew what you’re thinking. HIM Don’t think you do. HER God! This is so… fucked up. HIM You don’t say? HER That’s not fair. It’s not like I planned on falling- HIM What?! HER It was not just my fault. You know this. HIM You love him? HER Her. I love her.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1695593/index.html)

“I try so hard,” he thought bitterly. “I do everything she asks of me yet I still get rejected. What does she want?” “Stop sweating it, dude. Play it cool, don’t care about what she thinks. Just do your thing.” “You don’t understand. I need her. I want her. I’m going to have her. She’s mine.” “She’s an elitist. She’s mercenary. She’s a bitch.” “Shut the fuck up, I’m marrying her.” Rob’s internal dialogue is interrupted by people entering the elevator of his apartment building. The sounds of actual voices conversing made Rob severely aware of how lonely he really was. He was obsessed with Haley much to the chagrin of his family and friends. She was young, exciting and in the beginning showed interest in him. She encouraged him to open up to her. She flattered Rob and seduced him. They were intimate but not exclusive and her waning interest in him was driving him mad. The harder he attempted to impress her, the more rivals he had to contend with. There was only one thing to do. He would kidnap her. Once on the road together alone he would be able to convince her to elope with him. All he needed was a little time. Haley was having a big 25th birthday celebration with hundreds of guests. Using a service uniform, Rob would fool the security guards, mingle amongst the invitees and find Haley. He knew she would be angry to see him so he would have to act fast. Using the stolen sedative from his paramedic box from work he’d inject his paramour and put her to bed. He’d remove her clothes and his getting in under the covers with her. People would see them together and assume they wanted privacy. Once alone he would sneak her into his car and drive all night until they were safely across the state line. It was a perfect plan. The elevator doors slid apart and Rob shuffled to his apartment, keys in hand. As he turned the knob he felt the door open without him pushing. Haley was standing in front of him wearing an apron with a large kitchen knife in her hand. Her eyes sparkled and she had a sickly sweet smile on her face. There was nothing cooking on the stove. “Hello darling,” Haley purred, “You’re just in time.”

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1634560/index.html)

EXT. TWILIGHTA MAN, probably in his mid-30's, is dressed in a rumpled dark gray suit, shoulders slumped. He holds a tattered briefcase, swinging slightly at his side as he walks away from the subway station and down the sidewalk to his apartment building. And then we hear it...the click.MAN VO: It's always there. Don't you hear it? That click, click, click. It never stops. INT. APARTMENT BUILDINGThe MAN enters his building and walks up the creaky stairs case to his third floor apartment. Everything in there looks broken or used/2nd hand. More CLICKING. He drops his briefcase by the door along with his keys on the wall and his jacket in the coat closet. MAN VO: When I eat. When I sleep. When I'm taking a shit. Always clicking.The MAN goes to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of scotch, nearly empty, from a high shelf. He downs what's left and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, hissing as the alcohol burns his throat. More CLICKING. He throws the bottle into the recycling bin with a thud and goes to his bedroom, the CLICKING noise insistent. The bed is still unmade from this morning. He flops down, face first into the blankets and breathes out. A moment later, he grabs his pillow and screams into it.MAN VO: Always that DAMN CLICKING. ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS. Despite the clicking, he falls asleep. INT. MORNINGThe MAN gets up and goes to the bathroom to take a piss and use the shower. He starts singing. More CLICKING. When he finishes, he gets out, the walls of the bathroom no longer have peeling wallpaper but bright white tile. Shiny and new. The MAN doesn't notice.After getting dressed, he goes to the kitchen. The MAN does a double take when he finds a new oven where the old, broken one was.MAN: Hmm...He makes his coffee. EXT. SIDEWALKThe MAN leaves his building, on his way to work, but he stops at an ATM on the way. He's astound when he finds 1 million dollars on his account. MAN: What the hell...But the MAN just shrugs it off. EXT. TWILIGHTThe MAN gets home from the subway station with a grocery bag. He's in the same rumpled suit with the tattered briefcase. After getting home, he puts the food away. The bottle of scotch is last. When he tries to open it, it suddenly appears in the counter beside him. He makes a grab for it, it moves out of his reach.MAN: What the hell...More CLICKING as the MAN wrestles with whatever invisible force is keeping him from his booze. CLICKING. More CLICKING. And then a shadow appears over the city outside his kitchen window. He looks out. A BIG WHITE ARROW slowly moves across the sky. More CLICKING. The MAN screams.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1698065/index.html)

At a party. Person 1 notices Person 2 following her around wherever she goes. After talking to someone Person 1 turns around and bumps into Person 2. Person 2Hi. I'm Eric. Person 1Hi, I'm Linda. ERICLinda, excuse me for being forward, but you are gorgeous... I can't stop looking at you. LINDAThat's very nice of you to say. Thank you. ERICI mean you are stunning. I've been dying to talk to you all night long. LINDACan I smell your breath? ERICExcuse me!? LINDAI would like to check something. ERIC (blowing awkwardly in Linda's face) LINDAI can't smell anything. ERICSmell what? LINDADo you mind if I ... (she holds Eric 's head with both hands and leans in for a kiss. Eric is kissing her back. She is pulling back, while Eric tries to keep kissing her). LINDAI knew it, vodka soda, people don't usually talk to me that way unless...

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1696513/index.html)

Closure (WWC - Week #5) She was practically pushed inside. There was no time to think before she found herself sitting by his bedside, softly holding his skinny hand, too afraid to hurt him. There was still life in him but she could almost feel it leaving his body. When he opened his mouth she urged him to stop. He shouldn’t tire himself out and, in all honesty, she couldn’t have that conversation. Not anymore. “Shh… You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.” She almost jumped when he opened his eyes to the sound of her voice. There it was; the distinct look of a father who hadn’t seen his daughter in twenty five years. “Mary…” Her heart clenched. She had to fight back the tears and the urge to hold that fragile figure lying in front of her. “You came” he gasped; his eyelids too heavy to hold up for too long. “Of course” she replied. “I need you to forgive me, Mary.” Her hand immediately retreated from his. And she didn’t know what bothered her the most, if the fact that he brought it up at his death bed or that he wasn’t actually apologizing. As he waited for her reply, his eyes shut once more. The silence was unbearable; thick and deafening and it broke her in the end. “It wasn’t your fault, daddy. We all trusted him…” And she placed her hand on his, again, only to be left in pure terror at the cold touch. “Daddy…? Did you hear what I said?”

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1695586/index.html)

It was not at all like she had expected, or remembered, it to be. She found it hard to believe it had only been a few months, and even harder to accept it was really over. A sane person might have felt discouraged upon discovering her key didn't fit anymore, possibly even felt a tinge of reality finally slap her in the face, but that was not the case. It only made her more determined to get in to where she felt she belonged. She pulled herself up into the unlocked kitchen window, careful not to disturb any of the dishes in the sink, and crawled across the counter, almost knocking over two fragile wine glasses waiting to be washed. She held them up to the kitchen window to inspect them in the moonlight, once she quietly hopped down onto the floor. She knew it, they were the same wine glasses from a set they had received from his sister last Christmas, and one of them had traces of lipstick around the rim. She pulled the biggest knife she could find from the set of knives sitting only an arm's length away, another gift from his sister, given to them on their first Christmas together. True, her senses were heightened, due to the stark darkness of the sleeping house and the excitement of it all, but she swore she could smell perfume. She considered, only for a moment, of using the nauseating sweetness to guide her to his bedroom, but instead decided to rely on her own sweet memories of them together, to take her to where he lie dreaming his last dream. There were so many nights, when they returned to this very house after an evening out, too drunk with lust to bother turning on the lights, their bodies bouncing off walls, fumbling and fucking their way to his bedroom. She relived those passionate times, letting them lead her to the living room, where she found herself praising him for the most mundane things, ever so grateful for his lack of imagination when it came to the arrangement of his furniture and decor. There were very few obstacles in her path, and sparsely framed pictures and artwork to avoid as she clung to the walls, carefully making her way to the hall. She could finally see a little light towards the end of the long hallway. The dim, flickering glow of a barely audible television lit up a piece of the hallway wall, across from his open bedroom door. They had always slept with the television on at night, they found it soothing. She used that light, and concentrated on the familiarity of the scene to keep her calm, as she continued down the hall, past the dark, cold bathroom, stopping just before reaching the open bedroom door. Suddenly, she heard movement- real movement, not the simple tossing and turning of a restless sleeper. She froze, hearing her heart thumping in her ears, and held onto each breath till she thought she'd burst, secretly hoping she'd pass out before being found. She gripped the handle of the huge knife hard and started to pray. She prayed even faster, ripping through Hail Marys and Our Fathers, when she heard footsteps creeping closer, but couldn't see any shadows on the wall, directly across from where she was hiding, flattened against the hall wall. Finally, she could see a shadow growing towards her, but was unable to make out a definite shape. The dull glow of the television only revealed a poorly defined figure edging closer, now just steps away from discovering her. She could hear quick, short breathes, and knew all it would take is a single step forward, and they would be standing side-by-side. She prepared herself, her fist tight and fingers growing numb, wrapped around the knife, ready to strike. Then, completely caught off guard, she heard the unexpected growl of his new companion.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1697846/index.html)

"Angels walk this earth, you know?" she said. "I don't believe that...and how could you tell unless they told you?" I replied. "You have to look closely...you can see their aura," she said. "Like a halo?" I asked. "No...like a subtle glow," she said. "So, if I see one should I go up to her and ask 'Are you an angel?'," I said. "If you want...and it can be a 'he' just as easily as a 'she'," she said. "Oh, and they probably wouldn't realize they're an angel anyway...although they might," she added. "So what's the point of this conversation?" I asked. "No point, really," she replied. Then she looked at me oddly and added: "Except for this...

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1695220/index.html)

I just knew this was going to be one of those days, you know what I am talking about? Those days when you wake up and something just seems to be off. You may not be able to put your finger on it , but you know something ain't right. In these situations I never know what to do, should I stay home all day? Would that even help? Probably not. By the time I got on the bus to work the feeling had become undeniable. And as soon as I got off, there it was. It had happened again...

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1698663/index.html)

After a few hours of wrestling, John wakes with webs over his eyes. He opens them slowly, shaking the strain from his long slumber and realizes; he is finally free. For the first time in a long while, he looked around his home and it was in a state of disrepair. Whatever wasn’t covered in dust was instead made rotten after years of being exposed to a broken skylight window. “The house didn’t even warn me about anything being broken. I’ll get to that in the morning.” John moved from room to room, but it was the house that was the specter of its former self, not he. He was the only living thing here now. The kitchen was dark with only the meal-bot coming to life every so often to bring him his protein drips. Everything else was left static; kitchen utensils, plates, cups and old food in the refrigerator, frozen all the same. He walks over to his bathroom, just as dark and empty. Water was still probably flowing through the pipes, but he wasn’t sure if he’d paid his gas bill so a hot shower might be out of the question. John found it funny; this room was so useless over the last few years. “It’s time for a change. I gotta get some light in here.” He revisits every room again. Each was once again flooded by familiar pale electric light as soon as he touched the switches. It made him squint; a painful sensation but a welcome one. Breaking down the dry wall and ripping out the wires is the first thing he needs to do. It was a strange experience, seeing again. Realness is often overlooked when surrounded by it 24/7. Or maybe the feeling overtook him because every sensation came flooding back to him with every blink. He could smell the fresh air from the broken skylight. Long trails were left upon every surface he touched, a temporary dustless imprint. He was lost in reality, just as he was lost in the unreality for years of his life. Another smell struck John sharply; waking him from his still moment. “I smell like shit.” So he tested the showers; the water was cold but he didn’t care. He was just happy to take a shower. Afterwards, he cleaned his home as best as he could with whatever supplies were left intact. Working with his hands made John feel great; sweat was starting to bead and roll down his face as he took the rag and struck each dust covered surface with the vengeance of hundreds of unemployed cleaning ladies. Hunger struck him soon after. He opens his freezer and hopes something was left unmolested by the passage of time. “Bacon, fuck yeah.” Cooking the porky treasure produced a delicious smell which wafted all around the kitchen. Suddenly the screen installed on his dining room table lights up with the same digital glow as the bulbs on his ceiling. The message read. “We hope you are enjoying WiredIn’s VR update 2.0. New features include better sensory simulators and an enhanced behavioral predictive algorithm. WiredIn, bringing you everything your heart desires with the click of a button.” As soon as he finished the message, John fell to the floor in a panic. He wasn’t free at all. The AI tricked him. John would have to fight again, he refused to be trapped in this VR hell. Tonight, he’d cry himself to sleep. After a few hours of wrestling, John wakes with webs over his eyes. He opens them slowly, shaking the strain from his long slumber and realizes; he is finally free.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1698782/index.html)

It's really strange how things can become normal. Can become accepted as if they always were, as people start to forget that there was anything before how it is now. That things could even be different. I never really thought about it before, because I guess I never really took the time...I was always so busy. I have time now. At least I hope I do. I wasn't alive when the decision to start using the train was made. I guess there really weren't many other options. As fossil fuels began to run out, other options just weren't viable enough to keep the planet going. Sure we still have wind, water, and solar power to augment the train, but as the population kept growing so did the demand for energy and God forbid you take people's internet away! So, the power train was born. It was quite an ambitious project, but also so simple. With all the people in the world, why not use them to create the power? A human powered locomotive that circled the entire earth turning it into a giant centrifuge! Ingenious! And it actually doesn't take that many people to keep it going, and they were not lacking in volunteers. There were literally thousands of people willing to participate. In a way, it was kind of like participating in a marathon; a marathon that lasted about 6 months! The perks that you get being a volunteer totally outweigh the physical demands and time sacrifice. That's what I am...a volunteer. Like I said before, it doesn't take that many people to keep things going, but there were times when volunteers weren't so plentiful and people had to be forced to participate. That was back before the perks were put in place and things had gotten pretty ugly. One of the biggest perks is the free power credits for life. That got a lot of folks wanting to participate. And with each additional tour you could add family members as well. This is my 5th tour on the train...and I guess my last. The work isn't that bad. It is physically demanding, but only for short periods of time during the day. That's when having more people helping out pays off...it makes the job easier for everyone. It's a lot like riding an exercise bike for a few hours at a time, 4 or 5 times a day. The rest of the time you're on your own. There are onboard dining cars, and movie theaters. Free wifi and internet ensures that we are always in contact with our loved ones, and the outside world, so it's not as bad as a lot of people think. It does suck to have to be without your family for 6 months, but there are a lot of jobs that call for that kind of sacrifice. I like to stay in shape, so it was really a no brainer for me. One of the more interesting things, is that the train never stops. There are satellite cars the take care of the embarking and disembarking procedures, but the train itself supplies a constant stream of power to the entire planet. It's really a thing of beauty. Although, I'm not sure what's happening now. 2 hours ago something changed. It was my down time, and I had been reading quietly in my quarters when I felt a jolt. It's funny how you can get used to something and not even notice it. That's how the motion and sound of being on the train gets. I never really thought about it until I realized it was gone. I made my way out to where the common area in my section is and joined my teammates at the bay windows. I have seen some awesome views as the train has passed some truly spectacular scenery. It's another perk I really love. This was much different. It was very dark outside. The diming lights on the outside of the train showed us sand and occasionally something would flit by. The train had come to a stop and we were where people never get on or off. We were at the bottom of the ocean. Not sure how this came to mind, but I was waking up this morning and this story just kept running through my head. Weird. Not sure if it actually qualifies as a "cliff hanger" but it's the closest I could come. It is a bit long, but I hope you all like it. =]

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1699272/index.html)

INT. DRESSING ROOM - DAY. PAUL and HENRY are sitting almost in the dark. They're both wearing tuxedos. PAULIt's normal. HENRYIs it? PAULSure. HENRYShe's… 65 minutes late. PAUL (adamant)It's normal. JIMMY enters. HENRYAnything? JIMMY shakes his head. HENRY shoots PAUL a panicked look. PAULNormal. Come on. You saw what she was like at New Year. You were lucky you made it by midnight. JIMMYYeah. Didn't you say you almost left without her? HENRYI guess. JIMMYYou said she tried on six different pairs of boots. HENRYYeah but this is different. It's one pair of shoes. One dress. PAULShe'll be here. HENRYJimmy, will you go out and check again? JIMMY nods and leaves. HENRYWe had to pick the venue with no phone signal. PAUL and HENRY sit in silence for a while. PAUL is playing with the button on his sleeve when it comes off. He quietly slides it into his pocket so HENRY doesn't see. HENRY checks his phone for signal. HENRYNothing. JIMMY opens the door. PAULWell? HENRYAnything? JIMMY nods.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1695695/index.html)

‘So, are you hoping for a boy or a girl?’ the midwife, Ally, smiled at us. ‘Well, as long as it’s healthy we don’t mind’ said Tessa, and she squeezed my hand. ‘Any names picked out?’ ‘Well’, I said, ‘we were thinking Connor if it’s a boy, after my grandfather, and we are in two minds if it’s a girl’. ‘Jessica, or Margaret,’ said Tessa. ‘Which we would shorten to Maggie.’ ‘Don’t feel any pressure to throw my name into the hat, guys’, said Ally. ‘You’d be surprised how often people feel the need to!’ ‘Even though it would actually suit a boy or a girl!’ I joked. ********************* ‘OK, guys, nothing to worry about yet, but the monitor is showing that the baby is feeling some distress with each contraction. Birthing is very stressful for the baby, but like I said, nothing to worry about yet. We’ll keep monitoring the situation, we’ll keep an eye on how you’re progressing, Tessa, but what I’m going to do, is get my supervisor in here, get a second opinion on how we’re all doing.’ ‘Dan?’ Tessa looks at me. ‘Yes, love.’ ‘I don’t care anymore, if it’s a C-section, forceps, suction. I don’t care. Whatever gets Baby here.’ ‘Yes, love. I’m sure they see this all the time. She said it was nothing to worry about yet.’ I rub Tessa’s hand, and stare at the door, willing Ally to return. *********************** ‘Tessa? Things are not going as we would wish. Baby is distressed, Baby’s heartrate has dropped. Now, try and keep calm, breathe, breathe, what we are going to do is wheel you into theatre. Your epidural means we will be ready to go; the surgical team will meet you, they will prep you for a C-section; it’s important that we get baby out as soon as possible. Dan, please wait here, a nurse will give you scrubs, and then you will join us in theatre.’‘But…’‘Dan, please wait here.’‘Tess, it’ll be ok. I’ll see you in a minute. I love you’.As Tessa is wheeled through the double doors, she starts sobbing uncontrollably.‘I’ll be in in a minute, Tessa. Love you. Love you.’

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1696549/index.html)

Nurse The sweet sound of birds chirruping and the rays of sunshine attempting to break through the curtains awake me from my slumber. I rise with a deep sigh, quite aware of the long day ahead of me and wash my face in the clean cold water I run in the sink. I quickly retrieve my starched uniform from the wardrobe, aware that time is of the essence. Once dressed, I pin my long, curled hair into a neat bun and check that my shoes are polished. After all, I do not want to be accused of being unkempt as well as tardiness. I quickly retreat from my room and make my way down the never-ending corridor, the smell of disinfectant filling my lungs. Nurse Norris is busy checking patient prescriptions. I smile knowingly at her, aware that we both have long shifts ahead of us. She returns my smile with a slight nod. I retrieve the chart for my first patient and make my way down the long corridor. As I approach Mrs Hanson’s bed, my heart and mind conflict. For standing before me is Doctor Shepherd. My fluttering heart is telling me that I can barely stay focused in his presence. My palms are sweating. My heart rate raised. My mind is telling me to stay calm, composed and professional in his presence. For tonight we have a date. A chance for me to do away with my smart uniform and be viewed as Anna, rather than Nurse. Some may say that I have been guilty of focusing too strongly on my career rather than my love life. Although, there was a boy once. His name was Fred Walker. He did propose but I don’t suppose it amounted to much. The words “Nurse, can you please take Mrs Hanson’s temperature,” awaken me from daydream, and I blush with the realisation that I have been distracted by a handsome gentleman. Poor Mrs Hanson becomes rather distressed, everyday it breaks my heart that she can no longer recognise her loved ones. Her husband is a stranger, she could pass her sons and daughters in the street and not realise that she was the one that gave them life. I feel sorry for her. Sorry for the life she once led, a life that is now alien to her. Not even a faint recollection. Yet despite my empathy for poor Mrs Hanson, I find my thoughts wondering to my date this evening with Doctor Shepherd. With a sigh of relief I finish my long shift. I retreat to my room to rest my weary feet and prepare for my date with the doctor. I slip into my best dress, stretching to pull the zip up my back. I fix my lipstick and add a touch of rouge to my cheeks. My heart skips a beat as I walk along the corridor to Doctor Shepherd’s office. However, as I pass Mrs Hanson’s room I quickly catch a glance of my reflection in the mirror above her wash basin. The sight fills me with horror. I expected to look in to the mirror and see an attractive twenty six years old with flawless porcelain skin, her soft brunette curls styled into a tight chignon. There must be a mistake. A dreadful mistake. The sight I see before me is of an old and vacant woman, her face full with wrinkles and deep crevices. Grey hair flowing wildly around her head. I look down. I am no longer wearing my best dress, nor my nurse’s regulation uniform. No. I am wearing a patient’s gown. My gnarled feet are bleeding with the relentless pounding of the hospital corridors. The corridors to which I no longer belong. I am not a nurse. I am a patient. I scream. This is not the life that was meant for me. Nurse Norris rushes to my side and gently holds me in her arms, attempting to stop my screams of horror and realisation. She then calls for Doctor Shepherd, “We need a sedative for Mrs Walker.”

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1623570/index.html)

They were wrong about the sun. The scientists—they were wrong. We knew that Earth was turning to shit by our own hand, but we just brushed it off, thinking that it wasn’t our problem—that the next generation will deal with it.But now there isn’t going to be a next generation. Because the sun is going to explode.We thought we had billions of years before that would happen—everything being destroyed. But now we only have just a few hours. Only a few hours to say goodbye.Only a few hours to do whatever the hell we wanted. Only a few hours until it’s too late.I wanted to see Paris. I wanted to bungee jump. I wanted to fly into space and never come back. So many things I never got to do because I thought I had more time to do them. Why the hell did I ever put them off? Money? Money doesn’t matter anymore. All the money and all the endless hours I spent at a desk job I hated just for this one moment when it would all be gone. What the hell is wrong with me?I use to be fearless. And now here I am hiding in my apartment, waiting for the inevitable.Now I’m just a coward. All those kisses I could’ve stolen. All those messages I could’ve sent. And now I’ll never get to do either.I wonder if Oliver is thinking about me. Right now. Right at this second. I wonder if he’s thinking that maybe he should’ve asked me out when we had all those chances. I should’ve just asked him out. But we were too scared.Always scared. Always scared to live our lives.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1695470/index.html)

Charlie and Isabel are asleep at a hotel on 47th street. New York City is alive and bustling. The ball dropped on a new year just a few hours ago. For Charlie, the party began around 7pm when he anxiously presented Isabel with a small box. She said yes. The band rocked the crowded streets. Strangers hugged and wished each other well. Charlie and Isabel celebrated with champagne as the multi colored paper fell from the rooftops. It littered the ground like tie dyed snowflakes. Charlie snatched one from the air and tucked it safely in his wallet for the memory. The hotel lobby is flashy and posh. New Year’s Eve in the city is a costly night out, and their room is no bigger than a closet. Just enough to fit a bed, a TV, and a clock radio. Even so, it cost nearly a thousand dollars a night, and Charlie was glad to pay it. Isabel would never forget this night, and he knew it. Tomorrow they would climb in the car and drive home to Virginia. Isabel will be excited to share the news with friends and family. Around 4am, Charlie is awakened by a raised voice in the next room. He doesn't understand the language being spoken, but the man is loud enough to wake the dead. Charlie calls for the hotel staff to quiet him down (at least enough for them to get back to sleep). Moments later Charlie hears a hotel clerk at the door of his noisy neighbor. The clerk politely asks him to keep it down. The man next door says very little, but apologizes in a broken English and sends the clerk on his way. Not ten minutes after the clerk leaves, Charlie hears the raised voice again. It sounds to him that his neighbor is arguing with someone over on the phone. Charlie’s head is pounding. His body promises hours of sickly dehydration. Isabel begins to stir and tug on his shirt to lay down beside her, but Charlie can no longer rest. He calls the clerk once more to silence the man next door. The clerk arrives again. Charlie hears his loud neighbor open the door. The clerk asks that he lower his voice because people are sleeping on this floor. The noisy neighbor’s voice reaches a fever pitch as he confronts the hapless hotel clerk. Charlie hears a scuffle, a muffled scream, a snap, and a hard impact to the floor in the hallway. The familiar clicking sound of a phone disconnecting gives way to silence. Charlie hears the slow cracking of the floor boards in the hallway, footsteps approaching, and a knock at their door.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1698523/index.html)

"Eat this," he commanded, shoving the piece of food in her mouth. She wasn't hungry and didn't really want it, but he held her mouth shut in such a way that she had no choice but to swallow. It was dry, too dry for her already parched mouth, and she struggled to get it down as she had been told to do. Recognizing this, he pulled out a water bottle and poured it into her mouth, but she was unprepared and it just dribbled out of the corners. "Come on, drink it," he said in a more gentle tone. "I'm just trying to help you out here, you know? I really do care about you and want you to be okay. You need food and water to survive, right?" He took the water and gently poured more into her mouth. This time she swallowed and as the water slid down her throat so did the chalky morsel he had given her to eat moments ago. He felt her throat during this process, assuring himself it had all gone down. "Okay, lay," he said, putting his hand on her head and pushing down, as he also threw some blankets and clothing over top of her. "It's cold out there and I want make sure you're warm." She knew this routine by now and knew what was coming next. "Stay here and be a good girl. I have some things I need to do. You know the rules, don't move and don't make any noise. Don't forget, I could be sitting out there just waiting to see if you do try anything, and we both really don't want that to happen, now do we?" She didn't bother to respond, knowing it wouldn't really make any difference, as he got out and slammed the door shut behind him. She listened to his footsteps crunching through the fall leaves as he moved about outside, her ears tuned to the slightest of sounds. Suddenly the footsteps stopped, but they had been too loud and too close, he was waiting to see what she would do and she knew it. "It's okay. I can wait too," she thought, as her eyelids slowly closed despite her best efforts. She awoke suddenly. Her eyes flew open, but she still felt so drowsy and had to fight not to close them again and drift back off. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest and with each beat she could feel her body coming alive, until she was once again completely awake. Thoughts flew rapidly through her mind as she chastised herself, "How could she have fallen asleep at a time like this? What was wrong with her? This was no time for naps. She needed to be free. She needed to run, but wait, where was the man?" She forcibly quieted her racing mind, listening intently to the sounds outside, but nothing greeted her ears. She debated the situation in her head. "Maybe he was out there waiting, and if he caught her looking that could be very bad, but what if he weren't?" "This might be your only chance," she thought to herself and she knew in her gut it was true, and with that realization, she made her decision. Slowly she rose up in the seat as the blankets and clothing fell off around her, and taking a deep breath, she lifted her head and looked out the window to see what awaited her. Eh, this seems kind of dark, but that is where my mind went with a cliffhanger. My writing is very rusty and I'm not accustomed to writing like this in, oh you know, well ever really, so constructive criticism and advice is welcome.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1696149/index.html)

Forever Endeavor. Amen. (WWC #5) Scientists have now confirmed the object approaching Earth to be the ‘Forever Endeavor’ which they believe left Earth’s atmosphere some 52,000 years ago. It was commissioned by a billionaire philanthropist named Joseph Gordon-Levitt who also travelled on the vessel, aged 1111 when it set off. It’s mission was believed to be a search for one of the pagan gods popularly worshipped by humankind at the time, 50,000 years ago. As your President it is my job to protect you by whatever means necessary. Although we have detected no life aboard this craft someone - something - aboard has been communicating with us. This is what we now know. We were wrong. We were wrong to doubt. We were wrong to think we could understand the universe based solely on our own viewpoint. In one hour’s time, this craft will crash into the Earth and at that point all life on Earth will end. I repeat, at that point all life on Earth will end. As your President it is my job to protect you by whatever means necessary. And this course of action is the only way to save your souls. I wish there was some other way but there is no hope. There is no future. There is only ‘Forever Endeavor’. Amen.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1696788/index.html)

"Sorry I'm late" Sarah says with an apologetic smile as she slides into her chair. "It's alright." I tell her. "After five years of marriage, I don't expect you to arrive on time." She sighs, "I've had a shit day. Forgive me if I don't laugh at your jokes that expired two years ago." My hand grips the whiskey glass a bit tighter. I've been up since 4 cleaning up messes, but I'm always up early. African warlords don't run on Eastern Standard. "What happened?" She waves down the waiter, "Oh you know, classic client who hires us because we're experts but then doesn't believe a word we say." "I'm sorry." I remember the Cambodian military who called me in. Asked for my advice on weapons against the farmer uprising. I told him he needed more things suited for gurellia fighting: night vision goggles, camouflage, and most importantly moles in their organization. Instead, he wrote a check for $10 million in missles and tanks. I took the money. It paid for the house. The waiter finally arrives, "What can I get you ma'am?" Sarah looks at the menu. Will she go for liquor or red wine? My chances of some rough sex go up when she has liquor. Wine ensures a more lazy seduction. "What gins do you have?" She asks. And after a list of some decent gins, she orders a gin and tonic. I smile, thinking about the leather waiting by the bed. "I can hear you thinking, Natasha." Her voice jars me out of my reverie, "Gin doesn't always mean you get lucky." "Not always." I admit, "but sometimes." She blushes, always so easily embarassed in public. "So, how was your day?" I think about the 6 am call to Pakistan, the 9:30 meeting about our ongoing negotiations in El Salvador. "Same old, same old." "You were up early this morning. I stirred at 5 am, and your side was already cold." "It's a bit busier than usual. We're closing a contract soon in Sir Lanka. So I'm trying to get as much as I can done before that." "You always go to rough and tumble countries. Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Colombia. One of these days can you have work some place with fresh water?" She teases. I drink a bit more of my whiskey, "Sorry, won't be anytime soon." "Fine then," She fake pouts, "When will you be leaving?" "Oh, not for another week." "You know, we've been married five years." She looks intently at her drink, almost like a guilty child. "Sarah, are you worried that I've gotten senile? Because I can still count." I joke, but the cold suddenly starts spreading up from my fingers, into my bones. "No, you're quite sharp. In fact, I think you're smarter than you look." She still won't look at me. "What do you mean?" I say, with enough confusion I hope it comes off authentic. "We've been married five years." She finally looks up, "dating for three before that. In nearly a decade, you still haven't told me what you do." Why is she bringing this up now? "Yes I have. I told you, it's terribly boring, but it's international asset consultant. I happen to specialize in managing areas in high conflict. It's highly technical. My dad fell asleep the first time I told him. I'd rather spare you the details." Sarah cries when dogs die in movies. I couldn't bear to tell her about half the shit I've seen at client sites. She looked back down at her drink, slowly twirling the gin around and round. "Do you know every one of your business trips has gone 6-12 months before major conflict erupts in a region?" "What are you trying to say Sarah?" "I'm saying tell me the truth Nat." Fuck. I always hate being cornered. And I can't gaslight Sarah. I feel myself internally looking for a way out. "If what you were saying were true." I cringed at myself using this terrible hypothetical. "You realize you knowing that kind of thing puts you in danger?" "I married you. You don't think that if something bad happened to you, I'd be killed anyways? God, if you start saying shit that sounds anything like a superhero movie. You won't get laid for years." I roar with laughter. The kind that makes her embarassed and I always regret. The kind of laugh that isn't pretty and everyone notices. I laugh until it hurts. "God damnit Nat, stop laughing and answer the question!" She hisses. "Does it matter what I tell you? If I'm not some sort of prophet of conflict, you won't believe me. If I am, would you trust me? I can't win." "I'm your wife. I deserve answers. Not answering me won't make me trust you." The waiter finally returns, "Are you ready to order?" "I think we'll need a few more minutes" I say as I look down at the menu. Suddenly gunshots ring out, and I feel the shock of three rounds in my chest. The menu slips out of my hands and I hear Sarah yelling at me. I guess I'm not getting lucky tonight.

\ \ Weekly Writing Challenge Project\ \ Writing Contribution](/content/records/1698114/index.html)

Vivian just couldn't help herself when it came to men, they made it so easy. A little rouge, skin tight dress, they were clamouring to be the one she took home. Night after night, week upon week, slowly Vivian tired of the lustful advances that never ended the way she hoped. She decided to leave this city and go some place to start anew. By fall, she found a quiet little town nestled beside a lake surrounded by mountains. A perfect escape, a place to relax, recharge, and refresh. She had forgotten how comfortable jeans and flannel could be, how a hike through the pines can clear your head. Vivian decided to go by Anne to break from past. She went from a valued paralegal to volunteering her time at the small county library. It was a great fit because she truly enjoyed helping people find an answer, and sharing her love of Homer and Ovid. Many times she felt like she was finally some place where people could accept her for just her mental prowess and not just her physicality. Of course, she had changing her appearance upon leaving the city. Gone were the platinum locks that fell to her waist replaced by a non-descript brown bob. She feigned the need of glasses which were too large for her face. No make-up touched her face except some occasional clear lip balm. But autumn had turned to blustering winter that was now melting into spring, and soon summer would be coming. Summer brought tourists, the mountains and lake people from around the region, all longing to cool their heels and forget their troubles. Anne did her best to avoid them but with the library being one of the few places with reliable internet access she had no choice but to deal with them. Most of them paid her little heed until an older gentleman came to her hoping to solve a disagreement with his wife over the authorship of a quote. His eyes glanced at her curiously as she typed in the words. "You don't need to do that." "Don't need to do what, sir?" "Look it up on the computer. You know the answer. I remember you, you look so different from all those years ago. You helped me find what I needed. The nametag says your name is Anne but I know what you are."

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