Power Pros Forum

Oh god what.

That was incredible

Incredible job, dtigers! Well done!

NOTE: This isn't my writing, I just figured I'd post it


Why did the chicken cross the road?

His family was experiencing financial troubles, and needed money. He tried applying for many jobs, but they just didn't quite work out. After ending up in the drug business to support his family, a deal went bad and he was shot, landing him in the hospital. The night his family arrived to check on him, the same shooter made his way to his room, and murdered hiswife and 3 children, and somehow managed to evade police.

Months after this incident, Ralph, the same chicken who was in the hospital and witnessed his family's murder, was finally released. He had nothing to live for, nothing to look forward to in the future. He took up alcohol abuse for some time, until realizing what truly had to be done. He began tracking down his family's killer, and with each day spent, he became closer and closer to discovering the dealer's whereabouts. One day, he finally figured out who it was.

As he arrived at the killers' home, he took one last deep breath, then stormed in.

After fighting through many of the dealers' body-gaurds, Ralph finally reached the notorious drug dealing murder, Froghorn Leghorn. As a bloody battle ensued, it was clear who the winner would be..

As Ralph staggered out of the destroyed home, bloodied, yet victorious, he realized something. All the tracking, all the killing, all the bloodshed he had created, was all in vain. He realized that taking Froghorn's life didn't, and wouldn't, bring his family back.
Finding himself dumbfounded, he began to trot, head down, through the field where the bad drug deal happened, almost a year ago now. He took one last deep breath, looked at the stars, and took his first step on the road. This was it he decided, he was finally going to reunite with his family again once more.

As the headlights raced towards him, he heard his family in unison whisper to him "You're finally home Ralph, you're finally home."

That, especially given the header, sounds like a really creative response to a college essay prompt.

It's fourth and short early in our first football game, and coach Chris Webster puts me in to run a special play. I line up several yards behind the center and take the snap. I follow my blockers for a couple of steps, then stop and release the ball. The football seems to hang in the air for over 4 seconds, but it travels downfield for a good 50 yards. It is right on target to my intended receiver, wideout Stephen Mills. The entire team rushes down, including myself, so the offense can run a play quickly. Mills catches the ball and runs forward, but fumbles. The center has gone all the way down the field and he falls on top of the ball. The referee signals a first down for our team and I come off the field, replaced by senior QB Brent Samuels, who threw for 31 touchdowns last season. Several new players enter with Brent, including my best friend, sophomore tight end Edwin Scott. I come in only three more times in the game- twice on the play that I described, and once as the holder for a field goal when our usual holder, third-string QB Richard Bell, left with a knee injury. After the game I am congratulated by my position coach for totaling 133 yards on just the 3 plays, but Brent gets all the attention because he threw for 315 yards and 3 touchdowns.

I'm a punter.

Too bad, but good job on the play.

It's fourth and short early in our first football game, and coach Chris Webster puts me in to run a special play. (a punt) I line up several yards behind the center and take the snap. I follow my blockers for a couple of steps, then stop and release the ball. (he drops it onto his foot, so he can punt it away) The football seems to hang in the air for over 4 seconds (nice hang time), but it travels downfield for a good 50 yards. It is right on target to my intended receiver, wideout Stephen Mills. (the opposing punt returner) The entire team rushes down, including myself, so the offense can run a play quickly. (the opposing offense) Mills catches the ball and runs forward, but fumbles. The center has gone all the way down the field (as long snappers often do) and he falls on top of the ball. The referee signals a first down for our team and I come off the field, replaced by senior QB Brent Samuels, who threw for 31 touchdowns last season. Several new players enter with Brent, including my best friend, sophomore tight end Edwin Scott. I come in only three more times in the game- twice on the play that I described (the punt), and once as the holder for a field goal when our usual holder, third-string QB Richard Bell, left with a knee injury. After the game I am congratulated by my position coach for totaling 133 yards on just the 3 plays (an average of 44.3 yards per punt), but Brent gets all the attention because he threw for 315 yards and 3 touchdowns.

I'm a punter.

Now I get it!

Well... it's finally done. This was somewhat of an attempt at a noir piece, but I don't feel like I really capture that genre very well.

I don't really have a title... I'm not good with those.

----------

Richard Hale lifted a fresh cigarette to his mouth. His feet on his desk, his papers scattered about, he inhaled the fresh nicotine and exhaled heavily. There was a knock. With a sigh, Richard unseated himself and sauntered over to the frosted glass door.

“It’s Mickey,” came the voice from the other side.

Richard closed his eyes and took a deep breath, sucking in as much as he could before opening the door.

“We’ve got a new case,” Mickey explained.

“That so?”

Mickey nodded. “Morphine.”

Richard stared out the window to the streets of L.A., a trail of smoke rolling off his lips. “Again?” he asked, slightly frustrated.

“Again,” Mickey confirmed. “Say, Richard, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t smoke in the office. And I’d rather you didn’t at all, it’s really not a good habit.”

Richard turned to look at his partner of seven years. His movements slow and methodical, he lifted the cigarette to his mouth once more, eyeing Mickey and blowing a stream of smoke up into the air. After one last puff, he smothered the flame and disposed of the cigarette.

“Thank you,” said Mickey. Richard seated himself once more, leaning back and resting his size nine leather shoes on the cluttered desk. Mickey cleared his throat. “I have a few leads,” he stated. Richard gave an inquisitive look. “About the case,” he continued, “I believe I know who the supplier is.”

Richard stood. “Lead the way.”

Mickey stepped outside and into his Chevrolet Styleline, Richard following at a steady pace. The car slowly accelerated, as Mickey was careful about his things, particularly his car. They sat in silence, other than a single attempt by Mickey to initiate conversation. Eventually, they arrived at a bar downtown. Mickey led the way inside.

The bar was filled with cigar smoke, and Richard took this as an invitation to light up one of his own. Mickey dared not say a word, and ignored his partner’s actions as he sauntered over to a table occupied by three men. He sat down, leaving Richard to stand, as there were only four seats.

Richard swore he had seen the man in the middle before. The pale, round face and striking blue eyes screamed of familiarity, but Richard failed to determine from where. Mickey initiated conversation.

“How’ve you been, Ballard?”

The man across from Mickey gestured towards Richard. “Who’s this,” he asked in strong a Bostonian accent.

“This,” replied Mickey, “is my partner Richard.” Richard’s brow furrowed.

“I don’t like him.”

Mickey turned to Richard, a pleading look in his eyes. “Could you wait out in the car? I’ll be ten minutes or less.” Richard looked at the two man and left the room without acknowledging either man. Minutes later, Mickey emerged.

“Sorry about that,” he apologized. “Tom is… uncomfortable around strangers.”

“What I’m more concerned about is why you don’t fall under that category.”

They drove in silence until arriving back at the office. “Don’t wait for me,” Richard instructed. “I’m in no mood to go home to my wife.”

“That’s not a good attitude to have.”

“Don’t lecture me, Michael.”

Once inside, Richard sat down at his desk and closed his eyes. He enjoyed being in the office, it being the calmest place he knew, but was only able to grasp a moment of respite before being interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. With a sigh, he answered it. A woman’s voice on the other end went into details about a case.

“Hold on,” said Richard, “I need a pen.”

Richard set the phone down and opened a drawer. He fiddled with papers, but found nothing, so he reached over to Mickey’s filing cabinet.

It was the first time Richard had ever looked into Mickey’s filing cabinet, which was always kept locked. Fortunately for Richard, the key had been left sitting directly on top of it. Opening the top drawer, Richard peered inside.

“Son of a bitch,” Richard muttered to himself under his breath, as inside, bound together with a rubber band, labeled “T.B.,” was nothing but a three inch high pile of cash. He leafed through it… all twenties. Richard closed the drawer and went back to the phone.

“I’m going to have to call you back.”

Before the woman could protest, Richard hung up the phone and dialed his partner’s number.

----------

The night was quiet as the clock struck ten. Far from downtown Los Angeles, Richard Hale stood, waiting. A car passed, then another. Neither was the one he was waiting to see. Thunder rumbled in the distance, yet not a drop of rain had fallen. He slid his hands into his coat pockets, feeling the items within. The smooth paper in the left, the cold metal in the right.

Richard heard another car and looked up. A maroon Styleline rolled to a stop in front of him. Out stepped a man.

“What’s so urgent?”

Richard drew his left hand from his pocket, revealing the stack of bills.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

“I should be asking you the same thing.”

Richard watched as the man’s face twisted. He motioned for Richard to approach him. Richard obliged, and watched as the trunk of the car opened. He glanced inside, then back at the man before him.

“You know,” the man said. “I can get you in on this.”

Richard glared. “I thought… I thought you were better than this.”

The man’s face twisted into a wicked grin, a grin far different from the one Richard had known for so long. “Every man has his price,” he said, grinning at the ground as rain began to fall. He looked up. “What’s yours?”

Richard pulled his right hand out of his coat, the object within in his grasp. The man’s smile disappeared, his eyes widened.

“No… Richard, please, no.”

Richard shook his head in disgust. “You were a good partner.”

The streetlights cast a shadow on the streets of LA. As the rain poured, a figure in a trench coat walked off into the distance, alone.

Richard Hale lifted a fresh cigarette to his mouth.

I think that that was pretty noir. And quite good too!

Well done, Caulfield!

Nice job, Caulfield!

I agree with PPfan. It maybe drifted away from noir a little bit in the middle, but that last part was perfect.

The date is 24/3/52.

It’s 8 o’ clock, and the morning commuters are exiting their homes to head to work, myself included. No one questions this act; it is performed without command. I step into my vehicle, close the door, and begin to drive.

As I make my way down the light gray side street lined with colonial housing, I look around to see my fellow men. My rear-view mirror shows a Caucasian man of indiscernible age. I have never seen this man before. I may never see him again. I am surrounded by hundreds of thousands, and yet I am alone.

I reach the end of my street and turn right onto a four-lane avenue, headed toward The City’s commercial sector. A perfectly arranged row of trees is to my left as I continued to drive east into the inner part of The City. Cars line the avenue, chunks of them disappearing on occasion. No one seems to notice this. I can only hope that such a thing never happens to me.

I suddenly become aware of the haunting quietness. I turn on the radio. The Morning Announcements are playing, a female reporter speaking.

“Mayor De Facto’s approval rating is up to twelve out of twelve. City citizens are calm and content. City population is now-”

I quickly switch off the radio, preferring the silence to the endless stream of statistics that is the Morning Announcements. I’m not entirely sure why they’re referred to as such, as the Morning Announcements abruptly become the Afternoon Announcements at noon and the Evening Announcements at five. All three are exactly the same.

I eventually reach the end of the Residential District and enter The City’s Commercial Sector. I make a few more turns and arrive at my place of work, Chalmers Co, at precisely 9 o’ clock. I am one of 75 workers. Each day I perform my duties as employee from nine in the morning until five at night. I do not know what I do at the company, only that everyone else seems to be doing it as well. I look around, surrounded by a mass of cubicles. With walls of drab gray and carpeted floors of ambiguous color, Chalmers Co. is the pinnacle of modern business. I find my cubicle and sit down, booting up my computer as I do every morning.

“Hey there!” says an excited voice.

I turn, looking upon a chubby face. I’ve seen this face and heard this voice every morning for the last eighteen years. “Good morning,” I respond quietly.

“Did you hear?” the man asks. I give a confused look. “The Mayor has zoned for expansion of the Commercial Sector,” he explains. “Westward.”

“Westward?” I question. He nods.

“By the end of the week, The City will have the largest commercial sector of anywhere in the Nation!” he exclaims.

I think for a moment. “Westward… wouldn’t that spill over into the Residential District?” The man nods once again. “Where will the people go?”

The man’s facial expression twists into one of utter confusion. I am looked at like a foreign object. He walks away.

I turn back to my computer, which has successfully turned on. I access the internet, entering the search query, “Map of Nation”. My result is brought to me instantly.

“No search results found. Did you mean Mayor De Facto?”

I sit back in my chair, staring at the screen. A burning desire to break out of this mind-numbing routine begins to build up inside of me as it has several times before, and I fear I can’t go another day without acting upon it. I take a deep breath, and set to work. My vision darkens.

With a sudden jolt, I come to. I check the time; it is 5 o’ clock. The work day is complete, and my co-workers are packing their things in preparation for the evening commute. Briefly, I fear that I have fallen asleep on the job, but I inspect my monitor to find a full day’s worth of typing.

“See you tomorrow!” says the plump man as he passes my cubicle without waiting for a response. I gather my belongings and head for the door.

I step out into the parking lot, which is already nearly empty. The workers are all headed home or out into to the Shops. I have a different plan in mind.

I enter my vehicle and pull out of the parking lot. Rather than turning right, to head westward towards my home, I turn left. The needle of my speedometer is stable at fifty as I cruise, at all times staying five feet in front of the car behind me and five feet behind the car in front. The City is quiet as always.

As the clock hits six, traffic begins to disperse. I can tell I am nearing the edge of the Commercial Sector, as the buildings start to diminish in size. I pass several diners, car dealerships, and small shops. I realize I have never been in this part of The City. I eventually reach the end of the Commercial Sector, which transitions into a Residential District, but a Residential District very different from the one I know. The houses here are small, many are run down or abandoned, and a thin layer of smog fills the air. The avenue on which I was travelling condenses into a two-lane road. People watch as I drive past, staring.

The smog thickens as I drive and I come to the understanding that I am approaching the Industrial Zone. I have never been near the Industrial Zone; it is kept away from the other parts of The City, and is rarely mentioned other than for reports of productivity. I can see why, as even with my windows rolled up, my eyes begin to water. I keep driving.

I infer that the low-density housing here is home to the workers of the factories that make up the Industrial Zone. I suddenly feel thankful for my monotonous occupation at Chalmers Co. This part of The City seems to give off an aura of sadness. I continue to drive, eventually crossing over into the Industrial Zone itself. I am now completely alone, not another vehicle is in sight. It is 7 o’ clock, and the sun is setting. The City’s street lights have not yet been activated, but the lack of traffic makes for a simple enough time driving. Factories line the street. I am surrounded by dirty, filthy industry. I see a particularly large building that seems to be emitting a sizable portion of the smog, all from six large pipes located on the center of the roof. Long, thick wires are attached to it. I have no idea what it is for, but I can only guess that it is vital to The City’s prosperity, or else such a pollutant would surely not be tolerated.

I continue to drive, and the sun continues to set. Just as I begin to feel that Industrial Zone may never end, the structures stop abruptly. I lay off the gas pedal and roll to a stop. I am surrounded by endless grass on three sides and The City on the other. The smog, which had completely smothered me just moments ago, has now completely vanished. I attempt to open my car door to step out, but the door is jammed. I climb to the passenger side, only to discover that this door ceases to open as well. I start to panic, and an eerie sensation that I am being watched falls over me. I fight the sudden urge to return to my home, where life’s daily routine is not only safe, but seems curiously satisfying now. I refuse to give in, however, and climb back into the driver’s seat. I slam on the gas pedal.

I watch the needle on my speedometer, as it approaches seventy, then eighty, then ninety. I eventually reach over one hundred miles per hour. I need to get away. I glance in my rearview mirror as The City grows smaller in the distance. As my distance from The City grows, as does the fear inside me. I have never been so afraid, and perhaps the worst part is not knowing why. It is 8 o’ clock now. My instincts tell me to continue driving, but I feel an outside force compelling me to go back. But I can’t… I can’t go back.

I feel like I am thinking clearly for the first time in decades, yet I am more confused than ever. The emotions within me seem to be at war with one another, and I cannot tell which side I am on. The City in the background is now about the same size as the full moon in the sky. I push forward. It is 9 o’ clock. I can see nothing past what my headlights show me. I am terrified. The City is now a speck in the distance, so small that one may not notice it had he not known it was there. And as The City disappears entirely, I break free.

The fear, the longing for home, and the confusion are gone. With a swift realization, I discover that I hate The City. I hate The City, and I hate the Mayor. I hate the Residential District and the Commercial Sector and the Industrial Zone and the Morning Announcements and the Afternoon and Evening Announcements and everything else in The City and I always have. I try saying it aloud. It feels even better to say than to think. I laugh out of the sheer pleasure of defiance. I look down at the speedometer, which has fallen to eighty. I pump the brakes and begin to drive more slowly. I close my eyes, only to reopen them a few moments later.

The headlights of my vehicle light up nothing past twenty feet, then fifteen, then ten. With a horrible realization, I slam the breaks and screech to a halt.

I open my car door and step out. I look down into the darkness. The road ends abruptly, as does the ground. Looking at the location of my vehicle, I realize that I came within three feet of falling for eternity. The world simply ends. I turn around, and I see the vague outline of a structure approximately thirty feet away. Curious, I step into my car and turn it around to cast light on the edifice. It reveals itself to be not a building, but a sign. It reads:

“Welcome to SimCity.”

Nice job, bravo, encore