fiction

We're having fun
Trying accents
Laughing at
Each other

Laying on my
Sleeping bag
Scared in by
The thunder
And lightening

We're trying
To write
Fiction novels
And we can't
Think of anything
So late at night

I say
Something funny
We laugh
Hysterically
It's something
You would've heard
If it wasn't
Summer now

We think
About how
We couldn't
Put the tent up
Because it was
Inside out

How we
Took it down
Faster than
Anything we've
Ever done before

We didn't want
To get struck
By lightening

I keep thinking
That I'll be able
To tell you guys
About how funny
It was

How stupid
We felt

And then
I realize
It's summer

You guys
Probably
Won't read your
Emails

Or reply back

This leaves me
With an empty feeling

Like my friends
Just died
And I have
No one left
To tell our
Funny stories to

Professor_Zoom and I challenged each other to write a short story that both began with the sentence "The sea was filled with angry monkeys." and contained the phrase "hairy ocean fruit." We made this challenge on monday, it is now wednesday, so our time has been limited. We have also not read each others stories. I look forward to reading his.

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So, this was an idea me and secular.mosh.pit. had, where we decided to try and write a short story. There was one main condition: We had to start the story with the sentence "The sea was filled with angry monkeys", and figure out the rest of it from there. The one other requirement was that the phrase "hairy ocean fruit" had to be used at least once in the writing. So, without further ado, here is what I hope you will see as an extremely bizarre piece of writing.

The ocean was filled with angry monkeys. Not just any monkeys, mind you, but angry ones. And you won’t like them when they’re angry. I should know. Pardon me, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Edward Fox, professional monkey fisherman. Now, when I said “angry monkeys”, I mean it. Normally they’re all docile, just floating peacefully in the waves like hairy ocean fruit, ready to be picked.

Not so when there’s a storm at sea.

It's fiction, I swear I'm not being abused (and I don't have a seven year old brother either)

He scares me
because about a year ago
he stopped being my dad
and started being a drunk
who beat up his kids
all because his wife had died in a car crash
and when the teachers at school ask me if I'm okay
And I say I fell down the stairs
I wish they wouldn't look at me like that
because they know there's something more
they know there's a reason no one is ever at the parent teacher conferences
and they know there's a reason I come in late all the time
with broken fingers
and black eyes
And then there's my brother
who's only seven
He's only seven, for christ's sake!
Already he's had
two concusions
and four contusions
and three broken arms
no seven year old
should have to make up stories to tell the emergency room nurse about why his head is bleeding.
Sometimes
I wish I really did fall down the stairs
so I could start telling the truth

Sometimes
when I'm talking to someone and they ask me how I'm doing
and I say
"I'm fine"
I want them to look me in the eye and say
"tell me the truth"

(fiction, no one has to ask me if I'm okay)

"Lets play truth"
"alright"
"have you ever kissed anyone"
"no"
"no"
I don't answer, I just hold up a numer two on my fingers
"WHO!?"
"you don't know them"
"How old"
"I was ten, they were eleven and..."
"and?"
"fourteen"
"I don't know if I'm quite comfortable with that age difference!"
I am now being pummeled with pillows
"ya well, it was truth or dare"
"SO!?"
"so, it didn't count"
"it does to count!"
I don't want it to count

Malik groaned quietly as he felt the pull of awareness in his mind. His entire body ached so much, and he wasn’t sure why. What had happened last night? Why did he hurt so badly?

Golden eyes snapped open when memories of the previous night came flooding back to him. Jay! Jay had caught him when he was trying to get home! But where was he now? Malik could feel soft cotton beneath his hands and the slight firmness under his back told him that he was on a bed. How did he get here?

Slowly, trying not to disturb his wounds which someone seemed to have bandaged while he was out cold, he sat up and looked around at his surroundings. He was, indeed, on a bed and was covered with a floral patterned comforter. The bedside table next to him had a basin of water upon it with a cloth hanging on the side. It seemed as if someone had been caring for him. The room he was in was small, but nicely decorated and furnished. It looked like he was in someone’s home.

AN: Our English teacher wanted us to write a story about a freak. So here's mine. Enjoy!
________________________________________________________

The moon shone high above the town of Gravesend one night, and the wind whipped about grasping at anything that was not held tightly to the earth. The streets of the slums were barren. Nothing was there save for some cars and garbage cans outside of the houses. People had been off the streets for hours. They were all warm and comfortable, protected by the walls of their homes. Everyone was sleeping peacefully, safe and sound in their beds.

Save for one.

There was a man, renouned through his land,
he was the Duke of Norr.
Greatly feared, and greatly admired,
he was the Napolean of his day.
His lands stretched from asia to london, it is told,
And as his realm grew, so did the greed inside.
Greedy glutton, feast on the poor!
For long and hard was his terrible reign,
but no one could blame it on their king.
"He is not bad, it is we to blame"
so they shuffled as they went.
And bore the burden of the man,
because they could find no fault
with the ones they admired.

AN: This is just a story I started one day, and I'm not really sure if I should continue it or not. Feedback is very much appreciated!
_________________________________________________________________________

The wind blew throughout the forest, grasping anything that it could with its ice cold fingers. The crescent moon high in the night sky cast an eerie light over the ground and caused long, dark shadows to stretch across the forest floor.

A girl in her late teens was crouched up in the branches of the a large oak tree, waiting for something. Her eyes were trained on the gap between two huge stones that looked as if the gods had placed them there as a gateway to the forest. A stick cracked soundly behind her, causing her to jump and snap her head around towards the origin of the noise. The darkness was all around her and felt as if it was pressing in on her eyes. She couldn't see a thing, and eventually she turned back around and looked towards the gateway once again.

A chill suddenly wracked her body, making her shiver in apprehesion. The icy fingers of the wind pulled at her clothes and ran down her spine. She quickly shook off the nervous feeling and continued watching, never blinking.

He was coming.

Out of nowhere, a black shadow seemed to emerge from the rest of the darkness. The putrid smell of blood and death rose up to meet her nostrils, adn she immediately covered her nose, trying not to gag. The shadow glided on. The cloak the shadow was garbed in fluttered behind him. The girl rolled her eyes. He always was one for the dramatics. A glistening, silver sword could be seen beneath the cloak, and a dark smear covered a part of it. Judging by the way the moonlight glimmered off of it, the girl was almost positive that is was the crimson life that had just been taken from the man's latest victim. She curled her lip in digust at the realization.

Dear C,

I’m sorry if I flirted with you, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. I didn’t mean to. I don’t want

I ripped the paper into a thousand little pieces and swept them into my backpack.

C,

Sera has this idea, and

This time I let the ragged-edged sections flutter to the floor, like snowflakes that refuse to melt.

C,

It’s starting to change the way I think of him, talk to him. How much of what he says is him, not whatever part has this theoretical crush on me. (Shit.) When he says he likes my drawings, is it my art he likes—or me?

It’s hard to believe what he says.

Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t he be the same C I tease and talk with anyway? Sera could be wrong. (She’s never wrong.) She didn’t talk to him that long.

(But she’s still never wrong.)

I’ll just treat him like I normally do: as a friend, dropping references to Leo whenever I can. He knows I have a boyfriend, right? Yeah, he does. I think I mentioned Leo last week when we were discussing the likelihood of Mr. O being married.

I’ll just hope Sera’s wrong.

What’re you writing?

No. No. Bad time.

A story.

Cool. What’s it about?

Umm…

Fish.

Can I read it?

It’s not finished yet. Give me a moment.

‘Herbert the goldfish was very lonely. One day he decided to travel outside his home, which was a fishbowl. He journeyed to the ocean, had many adventures, and died tragically.’

It’s good!

No, it’s not. It’s the worst thing I have written since kindergarten.

Dammit. Sera’s right.

Shit.

"He likes you," Sera told me at lunch.

"What? Who?" The smell of steamed corn and liquefying shepherd's pie was making me lightheaded.

"Christopher. He has a massive crush on you. You've got to have noticed."

What’s Mr. O going on about? He’s kind of mumbling.

The steam engine. As usual. As always.

God, how long has he been talking about this? Since the beginning of the year? Four months, then.

Not quite. I think the first day he had us all introduce ourselves.

So four months minus one day.

God, this is so boring.

I have a theory. Mr. O had a traumatic incident in his childhood, so no he can't stand to think about any event after the steam engine.

Ha! You're right, he probably is that old. Or...perhaps in his youth, he fell in love with a woman who was obsessed with steam engines.

Maybe he fell in love with a steam engine.