# Let's write a story!!!



## Austin Silver (Aug 31, 2017)

Okay.  Let's write a story that anyone can add to.  There are, however, a few minor rules.  It must flow.  We will be writing in first person present tense (with the exception of frame narratives).  Also, if you're not going to write more than a paragraph, don't write at all.  Remember, a paragraph is 5 or more sentences.  Spelling and grammar is encouraged greatly.  Those who do not exercise proper spelling or grammar may or may not be cursed.  Last but not least, in medias res...or so the Greeks put it.

"I don't want to be late."
"Late for what?" He asks.
"Late for my death," I tell him smiling.  He nods slowly, then steps out of the way.  I glance down at my watch, half past three it tells me, ten minutes left.  My brown leather boots hug my feet uncomfortably as I hurry down the stairs of my flat, my tie sits stiffly around my neck like an angry viper.  "Dapper till the end," I tell myself before I open the door.  The familiar feel of the neighborhood follows me as I hurry through the yard, I always acknowledged it, but never felt I was a part of it.  Nine minutes, no time to contemplate.  I'm running now, frantically trying to find the place that constantly haunted my dreams.  Twists and turns in the path struggle to throw me off, almost screaming at me to stop.  Eight minutes, I can't stop now.  Another minute passes almost as fast as the suspiciously green grass of the local park beneath my feet.  Sweat runs down my face, humidity builds up in my suit jacket, and I begin to slow.  Six minutes left, my foot hits the asphalt of the next cross street and I'm off again.  Five minutes, cars blare their horns at me as I run, one almost hits me but I find myself safe in an alleyway, allowing myself a moment to catch my breath.  Four minutes, a man steps out of the shadows and points a gun at me.  "No!" I try to say, "it's too early!"  He fires anyway.
I find myself on my knees, bleeding profusely.  My hands shake as I bring them up to my face, covered in blood.  Then he calls.
"Hello?"
"Hey, just...wanting to see if your alright.  You left in kind of a strange mood."
"No, no, I'm fine," I assure him, panting softly.
"You mentioned something about death?"
"You know, my boss, he called me in for a meeting....you know what it's like when he does that, it's practically judgement day."
"Okay...just do me a favor?"
"Yeah,"
"Don't commit suicide."
I stop for moment, why would he care.
"Uh...okay?"
"Seriously dude, I know you haven't been doing well..."
"I've been doing fine," I snap, almost angry.
"Look, people care for you."
I laugh, "who?"
"You're friends."
The statement causes me to laugh again, harder.  I glance down at my wrist, two minutes.  "I don't have any friends."
"You know that's not true."
"You know what...know what...it is.  It is true.  I don't need to surround myself with people.  They don't like me, and I don't like them.  Emotions are so fleeting and rarely genuine.  Nobody is ever a true friend.  They lie, they deceive, they hurt...it's their nature."
"No, your wrong.  Friends are honest with each other, they care.  Granted they make mistakes, but you need to give them a chance.  People like you."
"Nobody likes a psychopath.  And nobody is ever honest.  Any given moment, someone can lie to me.  Why give them that chance?  People are only ever concerned with what they want."
"What about me?"
"What about you?" I look down, one minute.
"Do you think I'm a liar?  Do you think I deliberately use you?"
"How would I know.  The sanctuary of one's mind is private, only knowable to the respective individual.  You do what you do and I can't control it."
"Not always.  Sometimes people share what's on their mind."
I look down.  Thirty seconds.
"Grr...Look, I'm sorry.  I understand nobody can really be perfect, if I had one friend in this world it was you."
"What do you mean 'had' and 'was'?"
"No time, gotta get to that meeting.  Just...I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For being a shitty friend."
I hung up.  Five more seconds.  I bend over in pain.  Four...three...two...


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## fallout19980 (Sep 1, 2017)

I’m going to be late. I’m going to be late.

I feel dizzy. The world is unfocused, spiraling into vertigo. I take out my handkerchief from my jacket pocket and apply as much pressure as possible to the wound. Mild blood loss, body starved of oxygen. I take deep breaths to compensate. My eyes are tired. My body feels light. I breathe, I apply pressure, I drudge on.

I’m close. So close.

Out of the alley and into the open streets.

The people around me are horrified. They stare blankly at me like some sort of morbid attraction, but at least they have the common decency to get out of my way. Some of them gasp and cover their mouths with their hands. Hushed voices, like fleeting wisps, surround me.

“Oh my god is he alright?”

“Should we call an ambulance?”

“Good lord, that’s a lot of blood.”

“What happened to him? Is he going to be alright?”

“Should we do something?”

“Hey man, you alright?”

“Dude, you should get that checked.”

I parade myself through the crowds of people like a clown entertaining his patrons. I groan and pick up the pace. I check the watch. 30 seconds late. Crap.

Just a few more steps and I’m there. “I can afford a minute or two.” I reassure myself.

I’m almost at the door.

Something is holding my shoulders. A woman.

“Sir, you should sit down. You’ve lost a lot of blood” she says. I look down and see that I’ve left a trail of blood drops behind me. I didn’t notice that the handkerchief is soaked thorough. Behind us, people have stopped and are staring, anxious to see what happens. Some of them are recording me. Pricks.

She gently tries to move me to a nearby bench. “You should sit down. An ambulance is going to be here soon. What happened? Who did this to you?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ve got to go.” No point in delaying the inevitable.

She doesn’t let go.

“Sir, you must- “I push her off the side and storm away.

Gasps. A male voice shouts from behind. “Hey! What the hell are you doing? She’s just trying to help.”

I check the watch. A minute late. Come on.

The door swings open. I’m in.


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## Sergei Sóhomo (Sep 1, 2017)

Hey there I'm Carlton Banks. You may know me from such works as worship, The Fresh Prince and _Hey, isn't he Carlton Banks? He's like WAY COOOL!_


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## nitroglycerinewaffles (Sep 25, 2017)

"Spelling and grammar is encouraged greatly. Those who do not exercise proper spelling or grammar may or may not be cursed." - I hereby curse you with the curse of the mighty god Youreyour. From now on, whenever you try to type your or you're, you must type THE OPPOSITE of the one you WERE going to type. And cluck like a chicken in real life. Also your hair will catch on fire somehow.

Errata for part 1:
"Hey, just...wanting to see if your alright. You left in kind of a strange mood." - change your to you're
"You're friends." - change you're to your
"No, your wrong. Friends are honest with each other, they care. Granted they make mistakes, but you need to give them a chance. People like you." - take a wild guess

~ And now the story

"Welcome to the Fairbanks Euthanasia Clinic, where our motto is, 'Life sucks, and then you die. We can help you with that!' Whoa! SOMEONE got a little impatient!" the receptionist said, eying my injury. Are you Mister Williams?"

I nodded silently. "You're a minute late," she said.

"I know," I answered. "I was unavoidably detained."

"See that it doesn't happen again," she said with a chuckle. I didn't laugh.

"Get it? See that it doesn't happen again?"

"I get it."

"Well, the doctor is waiting for you, please step through that door."

I opened the door she pointed to and closed it behind me.

"What happened here?" a bald man in a white labcoat said. "Oh for crying out loud. Another one? You're going to get blood everywhere."

"I didn't do this to myself," I defended. "I was actually assaulted by a man with a gun."

"REALLY! That's. I don't know, ironic? But you're here now. Did you kick his ass?"

"No, he just shot me and left."

"He didn't even bother to take your wallet?"

"Nope."

"Then can I have it?"

"What?"

"Your wallet. You're not going to need it, right?"

"You're already being paid by... the reason he didn't take my wallet is because I didn't bring it, all I brought was my ID card."

"Oh. I wish our customers would tip more often. Gratuity would be appreciated."

"I'll try to keep that in mind next time."

The man grumbled. "Anyway, Mr. Williams, I have your questionnaire sheet here. I am required by law to ask if you would like to make any changes."

"None."

"I still have to ask you each one, I'm afraid."

"All right, you do what you have to do."

"Chosen method of death, asphyxiation with nitrogen. Do you want that method?"

"Yes."

"What would you like us to do with the remains. You wrote in 'donate any usable organs, soylent green for the rest', is that still what you want?"

"Yes."

"An admirable choice. You've got some meat on you, I'm sure it's enough to feed a family for a week."

I sighed. "I've been trying to slim down."

"Next of kin to contact about your passing, you wrote 'none', but according to the state records, you have an ex-wife."

"It's ex for a reason."

"I see, I see. I completely understand. I've been married twice myself. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, well, I guess it was shame on me. The second one took almost everything. That was why I was hoping for gratuity under the table. They've got my wages garnished. I don't get to keep a penny I'm paid."

"Sorry to hear that. I feel your pain," I said in mock sympathy. "Either that or it's the bullet wound."

"Here's the one I like. Would you like any last religious rites performed. You wrote Bokononist calypso dance. That's pretty funny. A lot of people wouldn't get that."

"You can just forget it, that was just a bad joke."

"Well anyway, do you want anything for real?"

"No. Religion is bullshit."

"Choice of music and or images to be shown, you chose Vivaldi's The Four Seasons and a cat being petted. Good choice. Is that still what you want?"

"Yes."

"All right. Then I guess we're good to go. Please step this way." He led me through a glass partition in the room. There was a soft bed there. I wondered how many had died on it before. The music started. The big screen on the wall lit up. And I heard the quiet hiss of flowing gas.

I started to get light-headed as I lied on the bed. I was undecided as to whether to close my eyes, and then decided to keep them open. I wanted to continue seeing the cat being petted until the end.

And then there was a violent explosion that rocked the lab. The glass partitioning the room to contain the gas shattered and flew everywhere. A few pieces bounced off of me without cutting me. That was lucky. I guess. The doctor was lying on the ground, motionless, but bleeding.

"God damn it," I said. "Why can't anything ever go right?" I got off the bed and walked over to the doctor's prone form.


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## Austin Silver (Sep 25, 2017)

nitroglycerinewaffles said:


> "Spelling and grammar is encouraged greatly. Those who do not exercise proper spelling or grammar may or may not be cursed." - I hereby curse you with the curse of the mighty god Youreyour. From now on, whenever you try to type your or you're, you must type THE OPPOSITE of the one you WERE going to type. And cluck like a chicken in real life. Also your hair will catch on fire somehow.
> 
> Errata for part 1:
> "Hey, just...wanting to see if your alright. You left in kind of a strange mood." - change your to you're
> ...


Love this ^^^^


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## Simo (Sep 27, 2017)

I touched the doctor's wrist, feeling for a pulse; nothing. His chest neither rose nor fell; he'd stopped breathing, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. I wiped my forehead with a sweaty palm. Dead, and no doubt about that. I walked back into the lobby, but the receptionist was nowhere to be found. I picked up the desk phone: No dial-tone. I reached into my jacket pocket for my phone, but found nothing. But even before, I knew I'd find nothing.

I stepped outside, and into the neon-lit Los Angeles strip. It was dark, easily past nine. I felt slightly drunk, and almost wanted to laugh, stumbling into traffic as I crossed the Boulevard. A '71 Buick Riviera blasted the horn. A black '69 Thunderbird almost plowed into his rear, as the first car skidded to avoid me. What was this, some kind of crazy vintage car show?

"Hey, mister!", the guy in the T-Bird called out. "What kinda shit are you on? You're gonna get yourself killed", and he sped off.

I had to laugh. Sure, get myself killed. Or, maybe I already had? I looked around. Was I on a movie set? Lots of long hair, bell bottoms, and from a cocktail lounge, I could make out the Stone's song, "You Can't Always Get What You Want". I walked in, and took a seat at the bar, on a stool covered in black vinyl; the floor was carpeted in bright red, the walls done up with some sorta shimmery gold wall-paper. Without asking, the bartender poured me a drink, Johnny Walker Red, on the rocks, a double, and slid it towards me, without speaking, and walked away. A grimy clock advertising Michelob beer read 10:17 PM, yet the place was empty.

"Hey, you! Wait! What kinda place is this?", I shouted to the barman as he walked away, as if to some imaginary customer. I downed the drink, reached into my pocket, and lit a cigarette, staring at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I rubbed the back of my neck; it felt stiff, and I sighed, exhaling a calming plume of smoke.


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## Mabus (Sep 27, 2017)

Simo said:


> I touched the doctor's wrist, feeling for a pulse; nothing. His chest neither rose nor fell; he'd stopped breathing, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. I wiped my forehead with a sweaty palm. Dead, and no doubt about that. I walked back into the lobby, but the receptionist was nowhere to be found. I picked up the desk phone: No dial-tone. I reached into my jacket pocket for my phone, but found nothing. But even before, I knew I'd find nothing.
> 
> I stepped outside, and into the neon-lit Los Angeles strip. It was dark, easily past nine. I felt slightly drunk, and almost wanted to laugh, stumbling into traffic as I crossed the Boulevard. A '71 Buick Riviera blasted the horn. A black '69 Thunderbird almost plowed into his rear, as the first car skidded to avoid me. What was this, some kind of crazy vintage car show?
> 
> ...



(Yeahyuh! You check dat radial pulse boi!..... now call the coroner. D: )


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## Kellan Meig'h (Oct 7, 2017)

I took that cancer stick down to a stump, then I stubbed it out in a convenient ashtray before I lit another. As if on cue, the barkeep refilled my glass with more Johnny Walker Red and walked back to the other end of the bar without a word exchanged between us. The clock said 10:26 PM and I could swear I felt like I was being watched. All I knew at this point was I needed to get back home and contemplate what was going on. Something was wrong but I didn't know what it was.

Since I had been drinking, I didn’t trust myself to get home safely without help so I decided to call the one that I considered my only friend. He had an Amazon two door coupe so he would come pick me up if I asked. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I once again realized I didn't have my cellphone in my possession.

“Hey! Barkeep!” I shouted, garnering his attention. “You have a phone I can use to call locally?” I asked, giving him my best cheesy smile in hopes of increasing my odds of success. He reached under the bar, lifted into view an antique phone with a rotary dial on it and unceremoniously placed it in front of me. He still said nothing, however as he returned to the other end of the bar.

I looked at this refugee from a museum for a moment then decided maybe, just maybe, the bartender was a bit eccentric. It was odd, that the phone should look so nice, like it was almost brand new. How strange. I lifted the handset to my ear and dialed my friend's number only to have a recording tell me I didn't dial the number right. A second, then third attempt gave the same results. I mean, I could have mis-dialed the number, since I relied more on my cellular to dial for me than recalling from my sometimes faulty memory.

I started to ask the barkeep for further assistance when I noticed the date on the calendar behind the bar; April, 1972. That couldn't be right! I was going to question that information when my eyes noticed a tab receipt on the counter. It was April 17th, 1972.

Rubbing my face to try to clear my head, things were adding up all wrong. The cars outside, the clothing and hair styles, the calendar and the phone sitting on the bar in front of me . . .

The room began to spin and my eyesight went dark as I passed out.

***

“I don't know what to tell you, Doctor.” the policeman offered up. “I ran this identification card we found on him and it doesn't come back as being valid. Never seen one like it, either.” The officer flexed the plastic card again, wondering where it had come from or if it was just a poor counterfeit.

The sawbones looked up from his clipboard and nodded. “He was out when the ambulance brought him in here. By all means, he should be sitting up talking to us but for some reason, he's out cold.”

The two men regarded the enigma laying on the gurney before the lawman spoke up. “Odd thing is, the address on this card is just an empty lot off Van Nuys Boulevard. Why would someone have that address, even on a fake identification card?”


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