April 2015 -- 75-word Writing Challenge -- VICTORY TO CULHWCH!

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DAYLIGHT ROBBERY

That's me. Chapter 1, page 15, character 3, passing the crime-solving duo. 200 quid that cost the missus in the charity raffle. Worth it, though. Know anyone else who's been on page 15 of a Graham Grendall novel?

Actually, that's nearly a tenner a page before you get to me....

CHAPTER ONE

Passing the two dead detectives, Jed (hey, that's me!) smiled: this crime was his to solve.
 
The Quiet Side of my Real Life​


I am a writer.


You've just said it to yourself, as I unconsciously do.

My stories, take a back seat to my dull, no where job.

Dreams of creating novels, are just dreams. I'm not great, but people say I'm good.

God says it's good to give happiness to others, so in a way, I have.

I smile, as friendly aliens from else where, also, approve of my talent.


Thank you God, and my friends.
 
No Reason At All​



The two knights charged at one another, their swords clashing. The brunette knight growled and slammed her shield into her opponent’s face. The blond knight let out a cry of pain and threw her helmet off, wiping the blood from her nose.

“Why the hell are we doing this, anyway?” the blond knight asked.

Her opponent huffed. “Blame the guy at the keyboard. He‘s the one making us do it.”
 
TO NOT BE READ UNTIL THIS DAY’S DATE

Faltering, Gyozo submits, for left and lost alone a man will be true to his self, and that season he had seen clearly the sombre shade of his soul.

To dwell behind forever? Too long. Too long silently heard, muted by written word and the paper wall between.

Like scarlet ink, his eyes are red and wet when the choice is made to introduce his blade.

He speaks to you.

“Touch the page, friend.”
 
Generation Gap

The younger generation is so undisciplined.

Huh?

That is exactly what I mean. "Huh?" is not a sentence.

Better than "!*-!".

You show your elders no respect.

As if you show us any respect!

You don't deserve my respect. You are so unstructured.

Like, really? Structure? It's the message that matters.

A correct sentence has a subject, a verb and an object.

_. _. _.

Don't roll your i's at me!
 
CHEKOV'S GUN

“Where’d you get it?” Tannen nodded toward the rifle on the wall. “It’s a beauty.”

Anton ignored him. “Raise you five hundred.”

Horripilation on Tannen’s arms. He scolded himself for the tell. “You’re a lousy bluffer, Anton.” His cash went down.

Four tens.

Tannen stared at his crummy flush. The red mist rose. He saw the rifle, and he twitched in understanding.

He stood up and extended his hand.

“Well played. Same time next month?”
 
Conflict of Little Interest


"Oi, 'Chekhov's Gun'! I wanted #26."

"I was here first."

"Only by minutes. C’mon, swap, before anyone reads us."

"Sigh. Okay …"

"No, don’t capitulate! We need to conflict."

"What? Conflict should arise from opposing goals, not artificially to meet the theme."

"At least I do meet it ..."

"As do we all, and with proper stories. There’s no point to you but postmodern cleverness."

And HareBrain’s entry wept, for it was true.
 

Logos​

In the beginning was the Word.
And the word was, and am, 'Bang!'
And chaos implied narrative.

But chaos contains all possibilities, and order was a tiny subset of it, and the bang was light, and illuminated everywhere, for 'darkness' had not come to being.

Within order there was matter, energy, and ultimately life, as all possibilities must materialise in organised chaos.

Mind bore witness to disorder, and there was rock music.

Bang, bang!
 
And so the story goes

Sitting on the park bench I hear two people discussing writing. Trying to create the vision - never totally succeeding.

I open my laptop, exhilarated: I type. On the park bench my protagonist overhears two people arguing about writing. She opens her laptop and types. Her protagonist overhears two people fighting about writing. Trying to capture the vision.

Fingers ache. The bench I’m sitting on is cold. I open my laptop and type.
 
Epic Spelling War at the Mountainous Moon of Madness



The writer, deep in the moment, types

-With iridescent swirls of colour-

then a voice in his head pipes up.

'Don't you mean color?'

He replies to himself. 'No, it's spelt colour, c o l o U r'

Then the argument begins.

'Nope, it's color. ask The Judge.'

'Your Honour...'

'It's Your Honor?'

'Don't talk nonsence,'

'You mean nonsense,'

'It depends on which side of the Atlantic you reside.'

'Don't you mean Artlarntic?'

'Idiot!!'
 
Struck on White


Across our pristine landscape, their dark forces assembled. Troups of black darkened our fair horizon.
Overtaken bit by bit.

Our unwritten futures, cast into shadow by their ever growing body, their great machine rolling us under.
The sorrow, as we fell beneath their dark onslaught.
Our stories shared, now muted, our tales untold. Silenced by their superior purpose.

There, they spewed out our fate.

Forever branding us.

...printer test complete.
Just another recyclable.
 
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To be or not

Make a decision, the author told himself as he watched The Man sleep.

Outside: the hush of wheels on wet tarmac; the only light a positive-negative flash on The Man's face from the liquor sign blinking through the tawdry curtains.

Imp on one shoulder, angel on the other; which to follow?
It's easier when you say 'The Man' instead of 'me’, chuckled the imp.

The author pressed the pillow over his serene face.
 
White Space

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. The keyboard chattered away as I fought against the blank whiteness of the screen.

"You cannot win!" it challenged.

"Yes...I...can," I said.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

"You attempts are futile," it said. "I have beaten many before you, and will defeat more in the days to come! I am the whiteness of eternity spanning to infinity. You cannot win."

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
 
INSIDE OUT

I live inside another person, I see what he sees, I hear what he hears, yet he controls everything. He controls the walking,talking, decision making. My wife kisses him. Sometimes he

"Mr. King, MR.KING!, time for your meds." "Hows that story coming?, will it be ready for group at 2:30?"
"It should be ready, it's about a guy trapped inside another guys body, really good stuff, my best work so far."
 
I'm a Storyteller, not a Miracle Worker

Muse? What a quaint label.

I am time and space and energy.

I am the echo of the infinite planes of existence.

I am the lost whispers of the cosmos.

Whose voice are you hearing right now?

Did you really think it yours?

Come with me, dear writer,

Journey with me through the multiverse,

Let us find you a story worthy to be told.

What? You want what?

What the hell is “tudorpunk”?
 
Ever been afraid of the thing that you made?

With spiderweb coated whiskers, Neris tried to squeeze through the hole.
As she struggled Amutilla pounced, hungrily sinking her fangs into Neris's neck
Neris screamed.
The spider withdrew, all ten eyes fixed on her.
Neris pleaded, "Why make the timid mouse the victim?"
"Revenge..."

Avoiding the glaring laptop, Amutilla scuttled across the floorboards and onto Sancho's shoulder. Ichor dripping from her fangs, Amutilla chittered to the unsuspecting writer, "...For making me the killer!"
 
WHILE THE IRON IS HOT

"Whats my motivation for this scene?"

"Motivation? You're a bloody orc!."

"I'm not doing this cold."

"OK, either you do or I'll bloody well set you alight"

"Right, that's it. We're out. You haven't heard the last of this."

And I haven't. My computer is currently being picketed by a half a dozen orcs, a handful of goblins and something that smokes (and coughs) all the time. I think its a balrog.

Bloody character unions!
 
When a wizard writes your spellcheck program, and its effect upon your character.

I wrote magic realism.

Spellcheck changed that to magic is real.

I wrote lying my way out of trouble.

Spellcheck said you lay your way out of trouble.

My protagonist isn’t that kind of girl!

Spellcheck rewrote you are that kind of girl now!

I was a boy!

Spellcheck said yes, you were.

Now I’m that kind of girl, my writer will never write me in first person again!
 
Writer's blocked

He drew his sword…no. I’m more likely to get a vote if it’s more sci-fi. He drew his raygun…there, surely I’ll get at least one vote…but I’ll lose the fantasy buffs…He sheathed his sword…aargh…dull…He plunged his sword into the orc (there, that’ll sway the Tolkien vote)…then drew his blaster…arrgh…raygun and…and…what? What’s it all for? It’s all…pointless…
 
The Case of The Shropshire Writer

“Watson, what's that you're scribbling?”

“Err... just making a few notes, Holmes.”

“Well don't. It's distracting.”

“Oh... sorry...”

#

“Watson, I thought I asked you to stop that.”

“I did, Holmes, but the words just keep appearing anyway.”

“What? Impossible! Let me see! Hmm... fascinating...”

#

“Holmes, I think we're looking for some chap named Conan Doyle.”

“Nonsense! We're up against a fiendish devil who'll stop at nothing to force us read his stuff.”

“Moriarty?”

“No – Mosaix!”
 
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