500 Words

500 words

I want you to write. It doesn’t matter what, as long as it’s good. My English teacher puts a gun to my head and screams at me. I want money, child, and your story’s going to get it for me. It’ll be the best you’ve ever written, you hear? For a contest.
Air shoots on my neck. Her finger quivers, the trigger moves just so little. You can’t do anything, honey. You scream, I shoot.

I ask her how many words the story needs to be, she raises five fingers. Five hundred. I am goddamn scared, the arctic metal’s against my temple and if she pulls the trigger, my brains will splatter crimson on the classroom floor and I’ll die.

I can only take the gun and shoot in self-defense. She’ll shoot me if I scream. Outside it’s jet-black and nobody will hear me, they are all asleep. And anyway, if they come she could throw the pistol down and say that I threatened to kill her if she doesn’t give me an A in the class.

Goddamn it. Why do I have to be so good in English?

Now she plays with my curls, crazy woman. Your mom is going to miss you, sweetie. Her smile is huge, and there’s lipstick spilled all over her crooked, yellow teeth. Eyes bloodshot olive, auburn hair spread out like a fan across her chest.

Almost done, sweetie?

N-no. About t-two hundred more.

My hands move like slugs across the paper. Maybe somebody would walk in, see her holding a gun to my head while I write, write, write.

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock above her head rings danger.

A plan: I thrust my head back swiftly and grab two pencils from the desk, she is screaming, firing at the wall, turning around and fires one shot, but I duck and the white board is in cracks.

Arghhh! You can’t do one thing, after all those good grades I gave you?

I come behind her just before she turns and stab one of the pencils in her neck. Screeching, crying, but I know she isn’t dying, and raven death is still in her palm, she can murder me anytime she wants, and she is trying, goddamn it, she is trying.

I stab her again, this time at the crown of her scalp, and she takes hold of her head with the hand holding the gun. You will pay for this! The gun rolls on the floor, but with all her pain she rises, grabs a box of scissors, and tosses them at my face. Blood trickling all over my shirt now. But I just plunge between her legs and grab, ice pouring between my fingers.

No! Don’t you dare, you little worm!

It hits her straight in the stomach, and in a few seconds there is red flowing out of her mouth, gurgling all over the floor. It’s all over now.

I betcha I am gonna win the contest. Five hundred words. Done!

*Rated R for language.*

Hi people.

This short story is breaking one of the most basic rules of writing. You guessed it! You're telling, not showing. Show us what's going on in the writer's head, rather than telling us. Show us how his hand quakes, how his foot taps nervously, how he can't think with that icy black killer pressed against his temple. Make us panic. Make us bite our nails and make us want to kill that nasty teacher. And, if you do decide to heed my suggestion and add those things, maybe go for a thousand words instead, and use the other five hundred adding little details.

I have a few minutes, so I thought I may as well go ahead and crit this.

Well, carelessaussie13 has already told you the number one thing you need to work on, so I will go further into detail with my crit.

My English teacher puts a gun to my head and screams at me to write. It doesn’t matter what I write, as long as it’s good. She wants me to write because she knows that I am her best student, and she just wants money, she just wants to enter one of the biggest contests and win hundreds of bucks.

Air shoots on my neck. Her finger quivers, [I think you MIGHT be missing a word here, but I don't know WHAT word exactly.]trigger moves just so little. Can’t do anything, honey. You scream, I shoot.

I ask her how many words the story needs to be, she raises five fingers. Five hundred. I am goddamn scared, the arctic metal against my temple and if she [s]plugs[/s] pulls the trigger, my brains will splatter crimson on the fucking classroom floor and I’ll die.

I can only take the gun and shoot in self-defense. I can’t scream, not only because she’ll shoot me, but because it’s jet-black and the only people around are either sleeping or watching TV. Nobody’s gonna hear me. And anyway, if they come she could throw the pistol and say I threatened her to give me an A in the class.

Goddamn it. Why do I have to be so smart?

Now her fingers pull my hair; crazy woman. Your mom is going to miss you, sweetie. Her smile is huge, and there’s lipstick spilled all over her crooked, yellow teeth. Eyes bloodshot olive, auburn hair spread out like a fan across her chest. <<< Fragment.

Almost done, sweetie?

N-no. About t-two hundred more.

My hands move like slugs across the paper. Maybe somebody would walk in, see her holding a gun to my head while I write, write, write.

A plan: I thrust my head back swiftly and grab two pencils from the desk, she is screaming, firing at the wall, turning around and fires one shot, but I duck and the white board is in cracks.

Arghhh! You can’t do one thing, after all those good grades I gave you?
I come behind her just before she turns and stab one of the pencils in her neck. Screeching, crying, but I know she isn’t dying, and raven death is still in her palm, she can murder me anytime she wants, and she is trying, goddamn it, she is trying.

I stab her again, this time at the crown of her scalp, and she takes hold of her head with the hand holding the gun. You will pay for this! The gun rolls on the floor, but with all her pain she rises, grabs a box of scissors, and tosses them at my face. Blood trickling all over my shirt now. But I just plunge between her legs and grab, ice between my fingers.

No! Don’t you dare, you little worm!

It hits her straight in the stomach, and in a few seconds there is red flowing out of her mouth, gurgling all over the floor. Thank god I am so smart.

This is a good idea, with great potential, but it was kind of unrealistic. There are other kids in the classroom, yeah? How come the children who are watching TV don't go and get help? They must notice that their teacher is a lunatic, right? I mean... they're awake and all. And, as careless stated, you didn't describe anything. Everything was just told, so there wasn't anything for the reader to visualize.

Work on description and you're halfway there. Good luck with the contest.

~Sydney

You didn't use quotation marks for dialogue, which I didn't understand. You swore quite often and it added little to the story. If anything it detracted from it since the use of profanity is a sign of iggnorance and you wrote "if only you weren't so smart." I understand the situtation is stressful, but I dont find the thought process very realistic.

The odd little battle they have is confusing. You're descriptions are not quite strong enough to offer a good image of what is happening. Then you jump to another action and another making it difficult to follow.

Overall I'm not crazy about this. It seems far to rushed and the telling is dull. I think you can polish it though.

This was...disturbing. And not in a good way!!! I didn't know who to feel sorry for--the English teacher or the student! They both were nasty!

Hmm, you definitely need to work on the telling/showing part. From your previous draft, this looks a lot better, but this story just didn't make sense. Trust me, I'm all for experimental fiction, but I didn't understand what the purpose of the story was. You might want to go back and revise this so the teacher has a purpose for putting a gun to her student's head. It'll make more sense, and the 500 words will flow.

Best of luck! ^_^