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Sun Jun 05, 2016 4:29 pm
FallWolf says...



GUYS! Any story prompt you make up, as long as it's not a romance-y one, write it down here and I will write a story for it. And as an intensive, every month I will pick my favorite story prompt that was posted that month and give the writer a prize :D

Looking forward to whatever craziness you guys throw at me ;)
-FallWolf
  





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Mon Jun 06, 2016 3:17 am
Meerkat says...



Short story idea:

It's tough living through the zombie apocalypse. You've got to deal with avoiding the undead, fighting off looters, and maybe (if you're lucky) beginning to rebuild society. That's where Survivors Anonymous comes in. A diverse group of people who've managed to outlive most others, the members of SA gather together to share their stories and offer support during troubled times. Come and join us! After all, what better time to make new friends than the end of the world?

Meetings take place Tuesdays and Thursdays at sundown behind the abandoned warehouse. Complimentary refreshments (canned beans and rainwater) will be provided.
"Sometimes it is better to light a flamethrower than curse the darkness." –Terry Pratchett
  





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Tue Jun 07, 2016 6:22 pm
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FallWolf says...



Torney At Eleven

I don't dart through the shadows, or any other crazy "mission impossible" stuff. There's no use in being hide-y when there's probably twenty scouts and guards around me. I mean, this is the base of the largest known human population left on earth; no zombie's gonna get near it.

Pulling my oversized jacket closer, I kick an empty briefcase. Then i clamber over a piece of car, my hands slipping against the slick surface of a window. This road is riddled with junk, and not for decoration either. It's a good defense, better than most of the other little pockets of human civilization I've been to. Before, clean roads meant people. Now clean roads mean zombies. But maybe I'm being a bit too over-dramatic. On the other hand, its the end of the world. Can't get more dramatic then that, can it? Still, I don't especially like thinking about all the people who are dead, so I look up from the dirty, broken concrete.

Abandoned offices loom above me with broken eyes. Some of them are nothing but emptied shells, while others look as if they were built yesterday. It creeps me out, and I look down. Bicycles lean against each other in a line, chained to a metal rail. A tv lays in the middle of the street, and looking up I can see large, once-expensive speakers hanging out a window, dead still. There's no wind in the cities. It's only been a year, and most places haven't yet been taken over by nature, thought you can see little sprouts and flowers here and there, braving this strange new world. And, almost in the middle of the road, sprouts a clump of Johnny Jump Ups. I bend down and pick them. Hey, they're good for eating. It's not like I was being girly or anything. Anyways, SA will need every bit of food to feed the people shambling towards it's headquarters; the old Expo center, once home to hockey games and other exciting activities, now home to crouching, scared citizens of this once beautiful, stinky city.

How far the mighty have fallen, eh?

~

It's crowded, even with the bleachers taken out. People press against the walls, sit in dirty circles, or simply stand, looking around with emotions ranging from calm but watchful to outright hostile. I see guns, knives, staffs, bows, even a scythe. A small Case tractor is teeming with little children. Outside, I know, are gardens protected by high walls. Some of the people have fingernails caked with fresh, loamy dirt, the same dirt once hidden by concrete and cars. Others have fingernails caked with... less inciting things.

Sound booms out of fuzzy speakers, and half the stadium jumps, quivering and tense. I sigh and sit down. Through the brand new "skylight" in the ceiling, I can see that the sun has set, leaving a trail of fake gold across the sky. Others also glance up, noting the time. Some have watches, though I don't see the point. Why keep time? So that you can tell exactly how long it takes for you to get killed?

"Ahem," a voice comes over the speakers, sounding like it's in the middle of a dust storm. "Welcome to the fourteenth meeting of Survivors Anonymous! We're glad you could make it. For anyone willing to stay and help us rebuild this community, food, water, and blankets will be provided."

Yeah right, community. And I know most people will take the food and water anyways, regardless of if they're staying or not.

A new voice comes over the speaker, a woman's voice."Tonight, we ask you to give us you tales of the outside world. We want to hear your stories, your trials. We want to help you."

The usual spiel of warmheartedness, always given by a woman or sometimes even a child. All they want is outside info; where the best loot can be found, where edible plants have started to grow, where zombies can be avoided. Or not. Avoided, I mean. As usual, though, people are more than ready to tell their woes. Paper is handed out, along with pencils and pens and markers. I get a super fancy art pen, something that would have cost at least seven bucks in the old world. But I don't want to just write down my story. I look around. Seems like that's the best thing I can do, sometimes. It's a good talent though, because I spot the people who are giving the disembodied speech over the speakers. They are holding hands. Sweet.

I shove forward, my small frame once again working to my advantage. Someone tries to grab my backpack, but I immediately drop, and the person lets go in surprise of the sudden dead weight in their hands. The two speakers murmur together, but soon find interest in this dirty blonde pushing her way towards them. The woman smiles, bending down to look me in the face, but I push against her shoulder to make her stand up again.

"Seriously lady, get out of my face. Please. All I want is the mic."

They just stare at me with almost cute looks of twin surprise and befuddlement, so I grab the mic out of their hands.

"Hello? Heyo, testing one-two-three." I like how my voice sounds older over the speakers. I like how people stare at me, like I have my own personal spotlight. "Hey hey people. I'm Torney. I have a story I want everyone to hear.

"A month ago I was foraging, you know how it goes. My backpack was half empty, and I was running low on food." People all around nodded. They knew how it was. "So I was being careful-like to stay out of the zombie's way, but I saw this really old music store.

"I'm not being nostalgic or anything, but I loved music, and decided that a nice viola or guitar would go a long way to make a lot of people happy. So I crept inside.

"It was darkish, like twilight, but I didn't turn my flashlight on. That would've ruined my eyesight, and I only had so many batteries. So there I was, and it was spooky because no-one had been in the store. Guitars were still hanging up, and pianos stood in all their stolen glory. Albeit a little dusty like. So I found this nice violin, even grabbed a little banjo. Love those things. And I was just about to head out when I heard a noise.

"I know, I know, I should've cleared out of there immediately. But I was curious, and I had a big fishing spear in my hands, so I went to investigate. I thought maybe it was an animal, cuz the noise was so small. So I crept up, you know, all scary-like around the corner. Except it wasn't a cat.

"It was a girl, and she was reading a book.

"Her skin was grayish-like, and she was missing a couple fingers, their stumps all black and moldy-looking, so I knew she was a zombie. Except zombies aren't supposed to read like that. And she was crying. So I walked the rest of the way around the corner, and crouched in front of her, holding my spear out. I was curious, but not dumb. And she looked up at me.

"Why haven't you killed me yet? she said. Yeah, she spoke. I was surprised too, surprised enough to rock back on my heels. But she didn't get up, didn't move except to lower the book, so I talked back, ya know? Only polite. ''Cuz zombies aren't supposed to read, or talk.' I said. 'Or cry, for that matter. Why aren't you like the others?'

"She looked at me scared-like, and then got up. And then she ran away."

Murmurs resounded around the room. I'm guessing no-one had heard anything like what I'm saying before. It disappointed me, that humans weren't curious anymore. I shook my head, slightly. I rocked back and forth. I knew that I was just delaying the next part of my story. I couldn't help it, though, because no-one else had seen what I had seen, so would they even believe me? I coughed.

"So I thought, maybe zombies are intelligent. But the ones you see wandering around aren't intelligent... or friendly. Then I realized that all the zombies that you usually see, they're all grown-ups. So where were the children? Were they all dead, or were they smarter?"

People have started to shift nervously. Hands tighten around gun stocks and knives, but I plow on.

"They're not dead, that's for sure. They're alive, more alive than the grown-up zombies. Something about how kids are still developing, their brains still growing, means that they can survive the disease that kills the brain cells of grown-ups. So maybe, just maybe, kid-zombies can help us find a cure for the adult-zombies, right? Can a doctor or somebody in here say that's right?" Even over the speakers, my voice sound a little scared. The crowd is an ocean of human heads now, with weapons as pieces of driftwood.

Someone shouts from the crowd in a croaking voice. "How do you know this? You said yourself that it was dark in that building, you saw wrong! She was just another kid trying to hide out, like you."

This isn't how I planned it. People are scared, crying even. I don't understand, shouldn't they be happy? Come on, we could end this! And here they are crying like a bunch of wimps.

"Nah, I know it's real." I have to shout over the speakers, the crowd's too loud, and I hear shouts of disbelief. "But it is real!" I insist, pulling off my jacket. My gray skin glows softly in the pale light, contrasting strangely with my pink t-shirt. "See?" My voice breaks, but I still stand there, in front. This isn't how I planned it. This has to work. They have to believe me now that they know I'm infected.

The crowd is silent, and I allow myself to hope.

It only takes one second for the bullet to zip though the silent stadium and shatter my brain.
  





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Sun Jun 12, 2016 5:54 pm
Meerkat says...



Fantastic story, FallWolf! I can't wait to see what your next one's going to be about.
"Sometimes it is better to light a flamethrower than curse the darkness." –Terry Pratchett
  





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Sun Jun 26, 2016 7:00 am
Dracula says...



Hmm... how about a short tale about a young fox who gets lost in a forest, and discovers a bees' nest?
I bought a cactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert.
-Demetri Martin
  





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Sun Jun 26, 2016 8:43 am
Zolen says...



A old man visits the decrepit school of his youth, a place he unintentionally bought, planning to knock it down for a line of stores. As he wanders through the halls he hears the ghost of his childhood, hints of his bigger and better plans before he was washed away by reality.
Self quoting is the key to sounding wise and all knowing.
  





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Wed Jun 29, 2016 5:42 pm
FallWolf says...



@Dracula
Psychology

S: “Imagine you’re a fox.”
A: “Seriously? That is so childish!”
S: “Oh come on, just do it.”
A: “Look, I signed up to help college students get their masters in psychology, not to play make-believe.”
S: “Just… argh. Please? This study counts as thirty percent of my grade!”
A: *Sighs* “I’m going to regret this.
“I’m a silver fox.”
S: “Um… okay. Now imagine you’re in a forest-“
A: “Nooooo! Why does it have to be a forest? Why can’t it be like a city or something? Or a cave. Caves are cool.”
S: “But foxes live in forests.”
A: “Well not this fox. This is a city fox.”
S: *Sighs impatiently* “Maybe she’s going on vacation.”
A: “One, foxes don’t go on vacation. Two,
“…
“Two doesn’t matter. Fine, here I am, lalalala, in a forest, it’s so magical.”
S: “I’m ignoring your sarcasm… for now. So you are walking through the woods… you’re following a trail.”
A: “Nope, nope, and nope-er. This city fox is lost. And super annoyed at herself for leaving the city.”
S: “But I-“
A: “And to top it all off, it’s started to rain. Good grief, could it get any worse for this poor fox?!? Her beautiful silver coat is matted down and covered in muck from all the times she tripped or slipped (remember, this is a city fox, not used to tree’s and roots and holes in the ground) and the rain is that dumb drizzle that filters down through the trees, and makes her even more angry.”
S: “…
“What happens next?”

A: “Well, what would you do if you were in a forest, soaking wet, and rain was trying to drown you?”
S: “Um, I wouldn’t know…”
A: “Duh, look for a nice, big, branchy tree to stop under until this infernal rain stops. So that’s what the fox does. She scrambled through the undergrowth and find this big honkin’ tree. She finally gets some rest, yeah? So here she plops down, all wet and miserable, but starting to feel a bit better ‘cause hey, no more rain soaking my fur! Well, that’s where it really goes south.”
S: “What???”
A: “Well I had the luck to find the only tree in the entire forest that, though huge and comforting and seemingly awesome, had a bee’s nest in it. So these bees, they come out and start stinging me, yeah? But it’s not exactly like I can blame them, ‘cause they’re just protecting their queen and stuff, so I skedaddle out of there.

“And I just want to figure out what I did wrong, you know? I didn’t know that they were there. I didn’t know I was going to get lost, that the dumb trail would just up and leave. But then when I try to backtrack and figure out why everything’s going to the dogs, you know, all I can figure out is that I should’ve taken a dumb map and looked up before just plonking right below a bee’s nest, that I should’ve prepared more before leaving my home, yeah?

“Hind sight’s 20/20, you know.”
S: “You don’t have to beat yourself up about this, you know that, right? If you spent all your time preparing, you’d never feel ready enough to actually do anything. And, hey, maybe your mistakes don’t turn out all that bad in the end.”
A: “Why?”
S: “Because an owl came by and helped you out.”
A: “Heh, an owl ‘cause they’re all-knowing? You know, you’re still just a college student.”
S: “Nah, an owl because they want everyone to believe that they know everything.”
A: …
S: …
A: “We should do this again sometime.”
S: “Or we could actually meet in person. Where do you live? We could figure out a meeting place near both of us.”
A: “Uuuuuuh…
“Um, I live in the dorm room across from you…”
S: *Snorts* “No way!”
A: “Yes.”
S: “This is so awesome!” *laughs* “I am coming over, right now.”
A: “What?!? No! Not cool!
“Hey!
“Great.”
  





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Wed Jul 20, 2016 6:14 pm
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FallWolf says...



Business is business, even if things have been forgotten. After all, Manour would never had thought that the leaning, crumbling school was anything more than some building to be crushed, to make way for other memories.

If only the memories being crushed were not his own.

The foundation leaked mold and the door handles were rusty, but Manour could remember when they were new and shining, chrome and white, spattered with the fingerprints of a couple interested students and many more uninterested. He used to bounce up the steps, but now he walked solemnly, making sure that his polished leather shoes were not scuffed. He frowned. When did leather shoes take up so much of his interest?

As a teenager Manour had flowed down the hallways, and when he was surrounded by the chatter and thrall of so many others he felt as if he was of something bigger, something better than what one person could be. Though the halls now echoed empty, Manour could still hear his own voice, higher and younger, calling out to friends.

"Summer, here I come!"
"Seriously? I have to work at McDonalds all summer to pay for university. Plus I've already been working there part-time."
"Oh so that's why you got a B- in chem. Hah!"
"Aren't you working, Manour? You are so lucky if your parents are paying for your college."
"Nah, not working and no parental donations either. I'm getting right into the thick of things; entrepreneur, ya know?"
"Yeah, you keep dreaming that dream, Manny. Maybe the real world won't catch up to you as fast as the rest of us."


Manour stopped to adjust his coat and tie, trying to stare disinterestedly around. There was Cressida's locker, the girl he thought he would marry. And through a leaning doorway, he saw a classroom, still full of dusty desks and with the blackboard clean, as if any moment now children would rush back in with a clatter and hum that no teacher could quiet down. Shaking his head, Manour moved on with footsteps muffled and projected by the metal lockers and paper-strewn floor. A little over a month ago he had found out about this place, an old school that no longer held to the high standards of businessmen. Manour had bought it without a thought, knowing only that it was a prime piece of real estate, another crisp cheque to place with the others. He had signed the contract with a hundred-dollar pen, on a thousand-dollar desk, in a million-dollar workplace.

Money. Money made the world go round.

Manour's first year out of school was good, his online business was going better than expected, he was moving into a better apartment, buying a new suit. The world needed a fresh new face, and Manour, for a while, was glad to fill that void. He was energetic, with a spark in his eye that still told of those days when he was surrounded by other eager friends, ready to make the world a better place.

Soon Manour could buy his own manor, and his list of friends grew to a multitude, a river like no other. He could buy love, even. Any kind of pleasure was his to enjoy. And he triumphed over it, standing on a pedestal made by his own hands. And he forgot, he forgot some things that should not be forgotten.

Of the schoolrooms once filled with teenagers with binders filled with doodles and dreams now stood nothing but air and the rusty door handles. But what could Manour do? He closed the door and walked out to the shiny limousine. After all, business is business, and old dreams fall to dust.

Spoiler! :
Sorry for not getting this story up sooner! I hope everyone enjoys it :D
  





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Thu Jul 21, 2016 11:05 am
Zolen says...



Very well written, I like it. :D
Self quoting is the key to sounding wise and all knowing.
  





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Tue Jul 26, 2016 3:01 pm
FallWolf says...



Thanks :)
  








“I don't talk things, sir. I talk the meaning of things.”
— Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451