Power Pros Forum

Well, here it is. I suppose we should generate some guidelines? Things like how long stories should be, etc.?

Or we could just jump right into it. I had a story prepared but it turned out to be more of an event than a story. I might expand on that or work on another piece entirely.

In the meantime, feel free to post any of your own work!

If I ever finish any of my projects*, I may post them.

In the meantime, enjoy.

*not school projects, writing projects.

It's not too much longer than it was originally, but it has a little more substance.

It doesn't have a title, it's extremely short, and it's not really that good... but oh well. I suppose it's more of a writing sample than anything else.
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The sinking feeling in my gut escalated with every passing moment. Each new person's entrance to the room brought about anxiety, followed by relief upon the realization it wasn't him. The fleeting moment of respite was soon replaced, once again, by an unprecedented apprehensiveness. I was trapped in a vicious cycle contained in the hell of my own guilty conscience.

The past two days had been particularly hard. I found myself unable to enjoy my days off, unable to forget. Burdened by guilt and fear, time passed at a lethargic pace. I waited. My weekend’s work was untouched; my meals went in a similar fashion. My mother worried, but I had brushed it off as a passing illness. She knew better than to believe that, but also knew better than to interfere. She let me be.

He walked in and was, by all appearances, unaffected by the situation at hand. I called out, but my voice was lost in the cheerful gossip of my peers. I was bothered, inexplicably, by their oblivion to my misery. I looked left and saw him sit. He spoke, smiled, and laughed, his attitude entirely indistinguishable from that of anyone else in the room, all while I sat alone, tormented by the idea of losing a friend. Our eyes met, but he maintained his positive demeanor, all without giving me a second thought. In the blink of an eye, I was gone.... Forgotten.

And now, so was he.

Bravo! Well written!

I may do one soon.

And it is now time to begin.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

As I sat down, I started to get nervous. "What if this doesn't work?" I thought.

Then he walked into the room.

It was my worst enemy, Mason. He had started by tackling me, football style, in a soccer game. Then he started giving me swirlies daily. And now he had stolen my girlfriend.

But now, things were gonna change.

I waited until he sat down, and then I went over to him.

"Hi, Mason," I said unhappily.

"Hey, nerd," he responded with a smirk.

"So, uh, you wanna hang out after school?" I asked.

"Sure," he responded, still with that smirk pasted to his face.

After that, my plan began to formulate. I would slowly pull out the rudeness.

So we went over to my place and played Modern Warfare 3 the rest of the day. Every time Mason shot me, he punched me in the shoulder, but I could tell it was working.

Over the next few weeks, I was able to work it all out of Mason, and we became good friends.

The End.

A guy walked into a bar, and got knocked out.

The end.

Anthony, you might need to work on your endings a bit more

Hmm, I'll jump in here, since writing is so big for me. I might post my favorite piece of writing ever later (It's a thousand words, but not that long to read), but for now here's a snippet of something I wrote for a story about a year and a half ago... also, be forewarned, it's really dark:

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Beep. Beep. Beep.

This was what my heart was reduced to. The simple contracting and expanding was getting harder, more strenuous, and ready to give out at any given minute. It was, to use the old phrase, ticking like a time bomb, and if someone didn't cut the right wires I was going to blow.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My stomach acids had staged a revolt, eating away at the lining, wolves eagerly feasting on a deer carcass. One kidney was on strike, and slowly coaxing the other to join. Taking a simple piss set my genitals on fire. Every breath was bated, strained, reluctant. My body was working so poorly, you'd think they were under a failed communism regime. Hey, if the kid lives through the day, we're fine.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

This was what my days were reduced to. It was like a countdown clock, but nobody knew when it would hit zero. All I knew was that it kept me in some sort of constant panic. I'd almost gotten used to it, strangely enough, but that'll happen when you've been lying in a hospital bed for a month. They tried every medication, any medication. They even tried pot.

Nothing worked. My body was deteriorating like old paint.

The last thing you want to hear a doctor say is "I don't know." It symbolizes hopelessness, being desperate. In other words: the end.

I heard it two days ago.

They tried not to have me hear. The doctor hid behind a corner and told my parents. He hushed his voice and spoke calmly. Hey, he was too jaded by being surrounded by death every day to really care. So I heard him say it. I heard the stunned silence, then the choked-up breaths of my mother. My father was trying to stay calm, but I heard him begin to break down as well. And as I lie there on the hospital bed, a sobering thought pierced through my head, cracking my skull wide open.

I was going to die.

--------

The other one I wanna post later, by the way, isn't as blatantly dark, but it's not sunshine-y either.

I like it, sjax. The repetition of "Beep. Beep. Beep." creates a... somber effect, and the sentences have a nice flow.

And I love creating a new paragraph for the last line of a story.

Bringing this back, because why not

---

You know what’s nice? Seeing your friends succeed. There was a group of four of us back in college, Victor, Michelle, Darrel and myself.

Victor went off to become a doctor, what he had always dreamed of. He became an oncologist, as his father was. Dedicating his college days mostly to studying, he wasn’t the most popular guy, but once you got to know him, he was a blast to hang out with!

Michelle, who, at one time, was my girlfriend. Luckily enough, the breakup was smooth. She went on to finalize her dream of becoming a filmmaker. Her first movie is actually due out in about a month, so keep your eye out for it. It’s about some romancey stuff, so I don’t think I’ll be going to see it.

Darrel has been my friend since my sophomore year in high school. It was complete coincidence that we ended up going to the same college, he on a complete football scholarship, and me on a full not-scholarship. He was drafted into the NFL in his junior year. We kept in touch, but I haven’t spoken to him in a little while.

And then there’s me. I dream of, someday, becoming the best concert pianist the world has ever seen. Since I was young, playing the piano has come very easily. Some went as far as to call me a prodigy!

On October the 27th, 1997 there was an accident. Someone was driving on the wrong side of the road at 1:38 AM. Now, they ended up smashing head on into an oncoming car coming around a turn. The driver who was going the wrong way came out of the accident with two broken vertebrae, and will never be able to walk again.

The one who got hit wasn’t as lucky. They, along with the milk they so desperately needed on the cold fall night, were crushed on impact. When the body was found, the legs were horribly deformed, their head indented from the steering wheel, as the airbags didn’t deploy, and their left eye hanging out of its socket.

That person was me.

I died that day. Cursed to watch those around me succeed and live their lives while I’m perpetually stuck at twenty-two years, doomed to simply watch for the rest of time. I will see people die, I will see people be born. Life will continue on, even though I will not.

They have no idea what gift they have been bestowed.

It's good, PPfan. I like how the narrator is speaking directly to the reader.

Thanks for posting.

Thank you, Holden!

I like it Tweav.

In the meantime, I'm finally done with my piece. It's a bit lengthy, but I hope you all enjoy it.

The Box

I absentmindedly flipped through a magazine as I sat, uncomfortably, in a seat too small for anyone over 150 pounds. I shifted around, but was unable to get comfortable. After about thirty seconds of this, I gave up and returned to my magazine.

“Excuse me?”

The voice came from my left. I looked up to see a small man, about five and a half feet tall, with a mousey face and short brown hair. He was carrying a package about the size of a shoebox.

“Um, yes?” I asked.

“You dropped this,” he informed me, holding out my wallet. I suppose I must have looked suspicious of him, because he quickly added, “I assure you everything’s in there.”

“Oh,” I replied. “Thanks.”

He nodded and took a seat next to me. I thought back, to earlier. I could’ve sworn my wallet had been safely tucked away in my back pocket; there was no way it could have fallen out. I opened it up and flipped through it, just to make sure. Not much was in there, but then again, not much had been in the first place. Two credit cards and $25 cash were all that I had on me. I slipped my wallet into my front right pocket and returned to my reading.

“Excuse me, sir,” I heard once again. I looked up at the frail man. “You’re flying to Philadelphia, correct?”

“Yes… I am.”

The small man cleared his throat. “I-I know it’s a ridiculous thing to ask, but,” he held up the package, “would you be willing to take this with you?”

I, taken aback by this request, didn’t manage to respond before he continued. “I assure you it’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ve already been through security, you see, and I am willing to offer a generous payment for this small favor.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I just received a call – my brother’s in the hospital. I need to go see him.” The man looked anxious as he said this. I took a moment to think.

“A generous payment?” I asked cautiously.

The man nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash.

“I have $500 right here... you can count it up if you’d like. Please, sir, I’m begging you.”

I was suspicious still, but the man seemed trustworthy and the pile of cash beckoned to me like a Saturday morning’s bacon.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“My name? My name is Frederick O’Donnell.”

“Is it? Funny, you don’t look Irish.”

“Yes… I know.”

I took the package from him shook it, trying to get a feel for its contents. I looked him in the eye.

“What’s in it?”

He looked back at me. “It’s… a personal matter,” he explained.

“Well, what do I do with it when I get there?”

“My friend Gregory will be waiting near the luggage carousel. He’s a big guy, a shade over six feet tall with broad shoulders. He’s got dark hair. He’ll see the package and know.” Frederick checked his watch. “I’m sorry, I have to get going now. Thanks so much for this.”

“Not a problem, I suppose. I hope your brother’s all right.”

“What?”

“Your brother. I hope he’s okay.”

Frederick seemed dazed. “Oh, right. Yes. Thank you. I really need to get going. Goodbye.”

I watched him quickly walk away, then stared down at the rectangular brown box that was now sitting on my lap. I placed it under my chair and picked up my magazine.

* * *

The mob of one hundred something passengers stood up nearly in unison. I watched from my seat in the back of the plane as a steady stream of people began to slowly exit the plane. I slipped my backpack on and reached into the overhead compartment for the package. I took it out and looked at it – no label, no wrapping, no nothing. I recalled who I was looking for. Gregory… tall with dark hair. Got it.

Some ten minutes later, I was over near one of a few luggage carousels. I had no luggage with me, just the backpack, so I focused on looking for Gregory. I didn’t see him anywhere, and was starting to wonder whether he had actually shown up, when I made eye contact with a man fitting the description given to me. I started to walk over towards him, lifting the box to show it to him while I made my way through the crowd. He realized what I was holding, and rushed over to meet me.

“Are you Gregory?” I asked when we reached each other.

“Damn it, Louis. Why can’t you do your own work for once?” I was confused.

“Louis?”

“That’s who gave you the package, isn’t it? Short guy, brown hair, looks scared all the time?”

“That sounds like the guy… but he told me his name was Frederick.”

Gregory shook his head at the ground and mumbled to himself, “I told him he doesn’t need a fake name.” Looking back at me, he asked, “Did he say why he was giving it to you?”

“Something about his brother being in the hospital,” I explained. Gregory grunted and gave me a look that told me that, too, was a lie. “Look, can I get out of here?” I asked. The entire situation was giving me a bad feeling. “I’m in town to meet up with some friends, and-”

“Don’t worry about it. But I feel bad about this, and I’d like to give you something in return.”

“Well, Freder – Louis already gave me some money.”

“Well, I’d like to give you a little bit more. Come with me to my car,” he instructed. “And call me Greg.”

I followed reluctantly, seduced again by a generous payout. I followed Greg outside. The area was bustling with activity. A cab pulled up in front of us, hoping to find a passenger, and pedestrians all around us went about their business. The city contrasted greatly with my small hometown in Illinois.

Greg stopped suddenly, putting his arm out in front of me to stop me as well. He looked around.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

He continued to scan the area, working right to left. He looked about ready to give up on whatever he was looking for, but his deep blue eyes focused on something ahead of us and slightly to his left.

“What is-”

“Get down!”

With a yank on my arm, Greg pulled me down. I tumbled down behind the yellow taxi that had parked in front of us. Chaos ensued. The sound of shots being fired rang down from above. Screams came from all directions. Glass shattered, a man went down with a hand over his chest. I attempted to shout to Greg over the commotion. “What the hell is going on?” I screamed in panic. Greg ignored me as he stood up partially to peek through the cab window. He quickly ducked down once again and motioned for me to be still. I sat, dazed, not a single thought running through my head.

The shooting ceased. I remained frozen, my heart bursting through my chest, beating with a rapidity that I had never felt. I turned to Greg, who sat, eyes closed, chest heaving, box in lap. His eyes opened, and a sudden sense of urgency was palpable. He quickly stood up, opening the door to the cab and scrambling inside, where the driver sat in stunned silence.

“What… why…” stammered the cabby.

“Please, sir, if you could-” started Greg.

“Is this because of you?” accused the cabby, eyes wide. “They’re shooting at you, aren’t they?” he grew more hysterical with each word, with each thought. “Get out of my cab!”

“Please, sir, just drive!”

“Get the hell out of my cab!”

“Drive!”

Greg lunged forward at the driver, and the cab tires screeched as we accelerated. I sat quietly, too flustered to speak. Greg turned and looked out the rear window of the cab, cursing under his breath. I looked to see a single car 100-some feet behind us. It was pitch black with tinted windows, and it was nearing with every minute.

“Step on it!”

The driver floored it, but it wasn’t long before another black car was approaching us from the front.

“Stop!”

I, unprepared for the sudden braking, was flung forward into the seat in front of me. As the cab rolled to a stop, Greg opened my door and pushed me out. I rolled onto the ground, and Greg hastily helped me up as we ducked into an alleyway. I heard a single gunshot, some shouting, and looked back to see two men chasing after us. One fired another shot, but we were far enough away that he missed. Greg turned right at the end of the alley onto a crowded street that was completely oblivious to the shooting.

Greg shoved pedestrians aside, ducking In and out of the crowd, and I followed close behind. All thoughts had now exited by brain. Primal instinct had taken over; I was only vaguely aware of what was happening.

Greg suddenly ducked into a building, and I followed. We continued running through the bar inside and into the back lot, right into a dead end.

We were trapped. Left, right, and ahead, there was nothing but walls. We stood in silence, hearing the door open behind us. Greg and I slowly turned to see a single man… a man with a gun.

A sneer plastered on his gritty face, he looked us both over. He wore a flannel shirt, drenched in sweat and dirt. I turned to look at Greg, who, hands in air, was stolid. How can he be so calm? I thought. Then I noticed something…

Both hands in the air…

The man with the gun, smirking still, opened his mouth to speak, but noticed the same thing I had noticed just moments ago. His smile faded and his brows furrowed.

“Where’s the box?”

I looked at Greg, whose expression remained calm. Across from us, the man in the plaid shirt’s anger grew with each moment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Greg stated, his voice clear and without a shake.

“I’m serious! I’m not messing around here!” the man shouted. He appeared flustered and suddenly seemed quite unintimidating, despite his having a weapon. “Where is it!”

Slowly, Greg lowed his right hand, extending his index finger to the dumpster located directly next to the door. The man turned and walked over to it.

“It’s in here?” he asked, and Greg charged.

Greg clearly had some sort of formal combat training, because within three seconds he had the gun in his position, and within ten the man was on the ground. I can’t explain exactly what happened, as I was still in somewhat of a daze, but this scrawny man was no match for Greg’s large frame. Greg pointed the man’s own gun at him.

“You stay away from me, my friends, and my family. You got that?” The man nodded, and Greg unloaded the gun, placing the bullets in his pocket before tossing the gun back to him and heading inside.

Once inside the bar, Greg reached under a seat just past the door, pulling out the box.

“I didn’t see you put that there,” I told him.

“If you had,” he replied, “it wouldn’t be a very good move, would it?

We walked through the bar and back out onto the street. Greg hailed a cab, and gestured for me to get in with him.

“It’s on me,” he promised. “You said you were in town to meet some friends?”

“Yeah… we’re meeting at Tony’s Place, over on Frankford Avenue.”

“You heard the man,” Greg told the cabby.

We rode in silence for about twenty minutes, when we pulled up. I looked inside and saw a couple of my friends had already arrived.

“Go on,” Greg told me.

I looked at Greg and opened the door. I stepped out, but hesitated for a second. I looked back into the cab.

“What the hell is in that box?”

Damn, son. Nicely done!

very nice indeed