Sparrow's Short Stories, And Alliteration Also Options

[X-M-O]

Those are great! =]
I wonder if you'd be interested in joining a writing competition when we have one here on RRR.

[Sparrowsmith]

why thank you, and I can almost guarantee I'll be on board for a competition;)

However, a writer thirsts for criticism about as much as they thirst for compliments. So if there's anything you didn't like about my writing, feel free to point it out.

[X-M-O]

Well, I don't normally give much "creative" critique to writing, as I consider any writer to be a competitor of mine.
However, I will gladly assist in technical aspects. =]

One that caught my eye was spelled correctly, but the wrong word:
Problem: "He's good, but he's not that good." I tired to convince myself again, "Not that good."
Solution: "He's good, but he's not that good." I tried to convince myself again, "Not that good."

[Sparrowsmith]

Well, I don't normally give much "creative" critique to writing, as I consider any writer to be a competitor of mine.
However, I will gladly assist in technical aspects. =]

One that caught my eye was spelled correctly, but the wrong word:
Problem: "He's good, but he's not that good." I tired to convince myself again, "Not that good."
Solution: "He's good, but he's not that good." I tried to convince myself again, "Not that good."

Thankfully I picked this up today and corrected it, as well as several other little things, before handing it in.
So the updated version should be posted soon, or soon enough. I'd like to see any more criticisms that people may have before updating.
Tomorrow I will try to post Deadly and The Bleeding Holloway, and The Crimson Arch may be coming soon as well. So if you enjoy reading then there's plenty of stuff just around the corner.
Hopefully The Other David will win this competition I've entered it in (and £50 )

[Unversed Angel]

Do what X-M-O Said and enter any writing competitions here on RRR, This site has so many talented people on it

[X-M-O]

Oh, good luck winning the $78!

I look forward to seeing your other works, and will attempt to give better criticisms sometime. =D

[Sparrowsmith]

I return with a short story I intend to turn into a game (possibly).
It's a detective novel, but it's very shaky at the moment. I'll give you what I've got so far though I can't guarantee that it's anything special:

[Show/Hide] The Amber Hall

Chapter 1

It starts soon and I'm tired of waiting. My hands are sweating with anticipation, my legs with exhaustion. Thirty hours packed inside a desolate manor, surrounded by a plethora of strange faces with stranger voices. Nothing more than the promise of the greatest act we could ever bare witness to for common ground. Fortunately for all of us, it starts soon.

I find myself crammed with the others in the ancient hall, an open space of woods and marbles in desperate need of repair. Surrounding the circular room, exactly eighteen windows glaring with a furious amber light. Many of us had speculated, in our own ways, just what caused the light, but we were assured by the staff that it was all part of the show.

The hall itself was furnished with dull shades of red and blue. I would love to explore the descriptions further, but there is not much else to say. A cold cobalt carpet with blood red rings underneath us, plain ultramarine walls, and a ceiling shrouded in the darkness just beyond the light from the windows. The manor, while astounding from the outside, was not decorated to entertain.

Some mercy was given, though, like the private quarters for each of the forty two guests and the vast library which I had still not even seen the far wall of. The library was of spectacular interest to all of the guests, containing authors and titles none of us had heard of before. However, the Count, a strange character indeed, had forbid us from touching a single page until after the show. This had, of course, only added to our curiosity. One man, Norwegian I believe, had tried to skim over a work that caught his eye – but he was swiftly taken by the staff and shown to the door.

Other such oddities had occurred. A Frenchman, a chef, was absolutely tantalized by the supper we had the evening before, and implored the Count to reveal what it was. I will admit, it was like nothing I had ever tasted. I backed the chef somewhat in requesting a recipe of some kind, or at least to meet the man who had prepared such a banquet. The Count, of course, refused. In his simple yet enigmatic way he stated that the answer would blow our minds, and that we should wait for the show.

Early the next day I was talking with an American journalist, my most favourable among the rabble, who insisted we ask why we had been kept in such confusion as to this act. Upon requesting this information, the Count whimsically retorted, 'Suspense, of course.' Far from the answer we had wanted. Still, we walked on, pondering what spectacle could be so precious that so few and so random could be the only invited to witness it.

The rest of the day has passed fleetingly. The American journalist, Robert, has kept me preoccupied during our mutual suspense. He is lost somewhere in the crowd. Always on the job, the last I saw of him he was trying to get an interview with another American – a famous physicist of some kind. Now I can hear the masses shuffling, gasping, watching. The Count has arrived. He hops onto the small stage before us, shrouded in the darkness just outside the amber light.

He drops a match into a canister and lights up in a vigorous flame. While we're captivated by the spectacle, he advances into the light. His appearance contrasts with his humble home. Immaculate black aviator shoes standing straight, a pinstripe suit from ankle to collar highlighting his narrow frame, a navy blue shirt shining from underneath the suit, overlapped by a pencil thin violet tie, and that's just his clothes. His tanned skin shines in the fire light, only made darker by his perfectly white hair standing straight upwards. His gleaming ivory smile as blinding as his pitch black eyes. His strangest feature, his brow, which is lacking in any hair whatsoever, heightens as he smiles.

“Welcome, one and all, to the Amber Hall. I am here tonight to inform you of the most incredible and unbelievable news you have never heard of – but probably imagined. What I am about to tell you will change your life, and may even cut it short considerably. There is nothing random about your presence here, nothing hostile either I assure you, but absolutely everything to lose should you not listen carefully.” He spoke like a showman addressing a king, a magician with an ace up his sleeve. Pausing momentarily, he lets the silence bite into us. The curiosity was, by this point, unimaginable.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I regret to inform you, with the heaviest of hearts, that something terrible has happened during your time in my home. I regret to inform you, with the heaviest of hearts, that you must trust me entirely if you wish to continue existing. For you see, Ladies and Gentlemen, I regret to inform you, with the heaviest of hearts, that I am here tonight to educate you in a matter of severe importance. For I am here tonight to inform you that last night, then night before this one, the world did end. The world ended, Ladies and Gentlemen, and you were not informed. The world ended, Ladies and Gentlemen, and we are all that is left.”

We stand stupefied, and turn with him to the windows. “What did you think that glow was? Hmmm?” he asks as if it were obvious. I turn to face my peers, they are equally as lost. Part of me longs to run out of the doors no more than fifty metres away, but another wills me to stay – for what if it's the truth?

I'm still writing The Other David (AKA A Rose by any Name), and William's City, though I'm awaiting further criticisms from multiple sources here and there...
I regret that I couldn't get 'Deadly' or 'The Bleeding Holloway' off of the college computers and upload them, but I'll do that in January.
I'm also Writing a short called 'The Crimson Arch'

so you have plenty to look forward to.

Anyway, I'd love criticisms (especially really mean ones )

[Sparrowsmith]

Very mild update, just a few changes here and there, mostly grammatical. This is mostly just a bump...

[Show/Hide] The other david

The other David

The door knocked for a third time. Eight neat, little raps echoed from the wood to my ears. Standing on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor, half dressed and half shaven, I craned my head around the open frame of the bathroom and into my bedroom. My eyes hovered and bounced along the plain white wall until they reached the perfectly defined digital clock. It was only six, she wasn't meant to be coming until seven. A fourth knock and I gave up my denial and marched for the door. I stormed out of the bathroom, through my bedroom, out into the lounge of my two bedroom apartment and finally arrived at my gloomy, grey door. Buttoning up my chequered shirt and quickly checking myself in the mirror adjacent to me, I opened the door.

“David?” An astonished and familiar voice called out, “But that's not right. Mark said it was David Thirsk that lives here.” Her eerily enticing blue eyes scanned over me and lit up with what I could only guess was fear. “Oh god! I haven't gotten you're name wrong, have I?” she asked innocently enough.

“No. Me and David are flat mates. You'd be surprised how often shit like this happens when you have two David's under one roof.” I explained as precisely as I could. I'd considered moving out plenty of times to avoid all this carry on, but all David wanted was company. He made enough off his odd jobs to pay most of the rent, but he needed human interaction- and the confusing conversations my presence caused would often spur his writing prowess and within a weekend a two minute chat could evolve into a diverse novel.

“So, David Thirsk does live here? Blimey, how do you tell the difference?” She asked the obvious questions, and I forgave her out of sympathy. I was still trying to piece together who she was, it seemed so obvious. It wasn't that I couldn't remember, it was that I didn't want to. My eyes slowly dripped down from her straight blonde hair with styled flicks at the end, ending just after her ears, down past her half open mouth, and past her chequered dress – and that was what brought it back.

“What are you doing here, Rose?” I asked as calmly as I could muster, but the bitterness was all too obvious. Seven years earlier we had been as close to an item as you could possibly call two people, we even wore matching outfits to special occasions, and it seemed we had both kept our current attires even after we went our separate ways. I could see that she'd noticed this as well. I couldn't match her confident glow or lack of empathy, but I could certainly play the wounded puppy after seven years – regardless of how far from the truth it may be.

“Mark, my agent, he said that he's been looking into a Television Drama that's looking for a lead female role. He mentioned the writer and I remembered him from college, I thought I'd pop by and say hi before auditioning.”

“You mean butter him up? Why not just let him choose on the day?”

“Oh don't be so cynical! Is it wrong for me to catch up on old friends?”

“It is when they live in my apartment and only bother to drop by once their friend, and I say that as loosely as possible, gets a break. You're such a leech.”

“And you're a prick, David, now how about letting me in? I'm here to see Thirsk, but if you're still sore about us then maybe we need to have a talk.” This proposition was music to my ears. I backed from the door and swung it open, letting it catch against the wall where it stayed.

“Make yourself at home.” I joked in a less than welcoming tone. Nonetheless, she proceeded to stroll through the lounge and onto one of the two black leather couches, a two part set. She kicked off her heels and placed them next to the fuchsia rug almost methodically. I'd forgotten the little things she did like that. I traced her footsteps back and sat on the opposite couch, a glass coffee table gleaming between us. To my left, the mirror I looked in before, capturing us both dynamically, like a silver screen moment frozen to my wall. My dark, casual jeans and smart shirt; Combed hair, no socks and just a little bit too much stubble on one side of my face. Omit the small details and it was like looking straight into the past: The happy couple reunited.

“So how've you been, David?” she asked nervously, a composure so thin you could break it with glass.

“Do you really care or did the silence become too suffocating?” My eyes met hers. She always said it was impossible to lie to eyes as dark as mine.

“Can't you just answer a question? Jesus, this is why we stopped talking!”

“I just think we can do without all the formalities. You had no intention of contacting me, or I you, for any reason whatsoever ever. The only reason this is happening, is because I live with some writer who's ass you wanna kiss!” My arms swung through the air, pointing and emphasizing my points. She stood up in retaliation.

“I was just trying to make the best of a bad situation, but no, you're still the most arrogant bastard I've ever had the misfortune of meeting! How the hell do you even know Thirsk?”

“I know a lot of people! Why do you suddenly take an interest in my life now? You had three years to learn a single thing about me, and you can't even remember my fucking lyricist? We met at one of my gigs, he was there, how can you not remember that? Did none of it mean anything to you?” I'd snapped, but not how I intended. A cold silence spilt out over us as she sat back down. My arms fell into my lap and closed around me, she leaned forward with that caring frown I'd only seen twice before.

“Why didn't you tell me it hurt you this bad?” She asked as if she didn't know, and for a moment I thought that maybe she really didn't.

“Why don't you tell the moon it causes the tide?” I answered rhetorically, “I thought it was obvious, and even still, you wouldn't understand.” I could feel a tension lifted. Like the atmosphere that could once have been cut could now only be spread at best.

“Acting...” she began, but her voice trailed off, “Acting is a competitive business. I did what I had to do, that's how these things are. It's how they've always been.”
My eyes snapped back and met hers. I arched my brows and leant in.

“You think that's what this is about? God no. I was pissed off, sure, but we had one little fight and you never made an effort again. It's like that's where it ended with you.”

“Well why didn't you ever try anything?”

“Because I knew, I know what you like. I know your tastes, your personality, your friends, but you never learnt mine. Every time you did anything, I knew why, but when I did something you'd always have me wrong. It's like talking to a stranger and after three years you're meant to make an effort. You are.” She struggled to maintain eye contact, glancing away just long enough for me to breathe a sigh of empty victory.

“We were good, weren't we? Sometimes at least, right?” She asked, half to me and half to the mirror. I caught her hand across the table and joined her in looking at the mock reflection, the moment that only romantics dream of occurring. That picture perfect moment. Only it wasn't.

“Yeah. We looked the part, but I don't ever think we wanted the same things, Rose.”

“What did you want, Dave?” her voice broke slightly as she spoke, her thumb stroking my knuckles. My eyes tried to close and my lips tensed. Part of me wished we could go back to fighting, but we were past that now. Such a small detail in life, the author of a television drama, but here we are – locked in this moment by a lyricist and author who crossed both our lives twice, and was the same man each time: The other David.

“I wanted you, but you just wanted someone. I think we can both face that, honestly. When we met, I said we could have been any two people in the world, well even when we left that was still half true. I loved you, but you just wanted someone to love, and that's fine. That's good enough for it to look right, but it was never going to be enough itself. I'm sorry.” It was strange to hear myself say it, after all these years of resentment and there it was, laid out on a clear coffee table like a snake biting its own tail. Our hands released as she finished what I was thinking.

“Then why were you so mad at me? Unless, you weren't. Were you?” I could just muster to shake my head in agreement.

“I can't blame you if I want something you don't. Didn't. I can't blame you if I wanted something you didn't.” I had to hang my head and look away. For such an inconsiderate person, Rose had a way of listening without judging. I wish I had something to hate in her then.

“Well you can't blame yourself either. We're all just people, David, and we hurt each other, but there isn't any way around that. In all the time I've known you, you've had this personal war on society because it's so self destructive, but that's just what people are. We hurt ourselves more than anyone else can ever hurt us. We hurt ourselves by loving those who hurt us most, that's just a risk we take.” her words were oddly profound, I was used to the wild mannered actress – I never imagined her to play therapist.

“You've changed. You never said anything half that insightful when we were together.” I laughed through rising tears, unsure of why the moment has such an impact on me, but I welcomed it.

“I've spent the past seven years practising.”

“In case you ran into me again?”

“In case it got me a job, don't flatter yourself, David, you're special – but my life never revolved around you.” we laughed, it was almost like old times.

“You never thought of anything you wanted to say to me?” I asked, my curiosity and hopefulness as obvious as it ever was.

“I’m not great with words, I usually just work with what comes to me. David’s the writer. Speaking of which, I have to ask, just where is David?” the question weighed on my mind heavily for a moment.

“That's a good question. He said he was popping out, but that he would have a guest around later, a lady-friend for me. Said she was gonna swing by at seven, said I should clean myself up.”A strange thought ran through my mind, and I could see it racing through Rose's as well.

“You think he set this up?”

“No, that's impossible. He's a little bit of a genius when he wants, but there's no way he knew you would show up unannounced.” I couldn't deny how well it worked out though, how easily he could of tipped off Mark and played us for inspiration, “He's good, but he's not that good.” I tried to convince myself again, “Not that good.”

[Trickster]

"And you're a prick, David"

This line makes the story insta-win, congrats!

OK, OK, I'll justify my spamtastic post with proper stuff...
I honestly think your strongest portion in writing is your dialogue. It flows, and captures me in a charismatic way. Also, I notice a lack of adjectives in your stories (may have mentioned this before). Now perceive this as you may, I personally like it. You describe actions and scenarios through clever wording rather than simple descriptive words that any idiot could pick out of a dictionary. Then there's sentence strucure. Your appearance descriptions seem to be a bit... All over the place, as if they don't belong, though I like the contrasting sentence length. One sentence is 10 words long, suddenly it's followed by a 4 word long sentence. It's a manner that I myself use, and feel it works brilliantly to build drama and tension.

So my only real complaint is that your non-dialogue sentences aren't very... "Elegant", which is a shame since your dialogue is truly beautiful to read.
Am I being OTT? Maybe a little. I just luff literature. ;3

[Sparrowsmith]

wow, that's some great feedback there. Really appreciated.

You describe actions and scenarios through clever wording rather than simple descriptive words that any idiot could pick out of a dictionary.

This is exactly what I go for (though often when I RP I do the exact opposite through lack of effort...)

One sentence is 10 words long, suddenly it's followed by a 4 word long sentence. It's a manner that I myself use, and feel it works brilliantly to build drama and tension.

Exactly why I use it, took me a while to learn but all my original critics (english teachers, friends) insisted I do it very thankful that I went with it.

Your appearance descriptions seem to be a bit... All over the place, as if they don't belong

always my weak point. I hate describing things. I absolutely hate it
When I read I see scenes, not scenery.
When I write I write scenes, not scenery.

Any advice you could give me on this would be appreciated... Or you can read some of my other works and tell me if they handle it better.

Are there any parts you think I could have written better? I'm constantly looking to improve my art.

your dialogue is truly beautiful to read.

I have no problems admitting that The Other David is the only thing I've ever written with such powerful dialogue. It just ran away with itself, I wrote this in two hours.
For some rather poor dialogue, read William's City. (chapter 1)

Anyway, if you give me some quotes from the story you think I could improve, I'll work on them immediately.

PS: Thank you for the insta-win, I hope the judges see it that way as well It is quite possibly my favorite line, I'm glad you agree.

[Sparrowsmith]

Well I regret to inform that I did not win the contest but there's always next time...

So I'll leave you with neither a short story, nor an alliteration of any kind, but a little extract from my best kept secret:
"The Back to Front Book"

-Film-
When we are young
Raindrops can stop the
World, wash it clean,
And roll it like the
Reel of a film.
~ Sometimes we'd watch
The picture from
Windows.
Sometimes the picture
Would look back,

[Sparrowsmith]

hmmm, well it's been a while. I should update William's City soon, but I've been distracted.

I present to you an extract from a short story I am currently writing, and I intend to finish this one (honest). It is a complex sci-fi disguised as a horror written from the murder's perspective. Enjoy:

[Show/Hide] Sticks

I'm sat in front of the television. That's my first memory. Saturday morning cartoons flash away in front of my eyes. Though I am exp​ressionless, I am happy inside. I enjoy this one, or did at the time. I knew I had seen it before – but this is as far back as I can recall now. My mind won't work like yours does. The bruises on my side ache a little as the credits roll, I can't touch them though. I can't move yet. That's the problem.

Mommy and Daddy enter, or as I know them now, Misery Smith and Cole Elm. Mommy's name is not Misery, that is a ridiculous notion, but that is her name to me. I turn my head to them as they enter, just barely pulling what could pass for a smile. To this day I know not whether it was fear or human contact that caused me to smile, but they are equally as bleak.

“Look at her!” Mommy spits, contempt in her eyes, “she won't walk, Cole. Not now, not ever. Not with your lazy techniques.” She brushes her shoulder-length curly blonde hair towards her back and stares up into Cole's eyes. I'll admit, she was a very pretty woman when she wasn't poking me in the sides with a ruler. Daddy glances over. I catch his attention for an entire nanosecond before he looks elsewhere.

“When Thomas gets here I doubt he'll be happy to know you've beaten this child to a pulp. We can get her to walk by next week.” Daddy's voice is detached. I'm not a human being, I am business. I am cold, hard cash in a suitcase for whoever 'cures' me. He is short greying hair, a black tie, a white shirt, a grey suit, two black shoes, one white face: He is the monochrome monster.

“She can barely take a step and she's been here five years! If Thomas arrives and she isn't as clever as a ten year old, we lose everything. So I'm willing to take a risk.” Mother growls with the affection of month-old mould. At this point I feel compelled to describe my surroundings. They are white, and padded, and so very cold. I vaguely remember a smell, difficult to describe. If one would be so absurd as to call a scent 'rich' then I could only call this smell 'poor'. I try my best to recall these times, but I was barely myself then, it was a lifetime ago.

Father turned up his lip. His discontent as visible as words in the sky. For a moment I thought he might care for me. Not like a true parent, but as a passer-by to a dying animal. I was wrong. I remember my ears ringing with despair quite viciously as he opened his mouth and willfully engaged my death sentence; my prison break.

“Okay, Misery. Do with her what you will.” he spoke. He did not speak in the way a person speaks. A person talks. A person commands. A person has a personality, it's part of the title, part of the being, part of the species. A machine, a lifeless husk, speaks simply. Cole is the only one to ever speak so sickly disconnected to me. All others beheld some rage, disgust, pity, even pride, over me. Cole was a different breed. I want it exquisitely clear that when I opened his chest it was only to discover if he had a heart. I will not reveal whether he did, not yet.

Father left, and why wouldn't he? Mother was intent on beating me into motion, the way one may whip an animal. My mind could not grasp the concept, but by all that is rational I knew I deserved better. This was no long held grudge, this was a sudden understanding of the vile torment I had suffered, not just in these five years, but in the twenty five that preceded it. A fast emerging pattern that called to my primal instincts. I could not consciously understand my misfortune, not then, but even a wasp is capable of knowing a face that has done it wrong, and here I was: Sharpening my sting.

“Stand child” Mother commanded. My legs shook as I attempted to raise myself. I understood what had been asked of me. An instinct, that's all it was. I stood, eventually, on my own feet. I was unaided, on top of the world. As cruel as it was, I enjoyed standing. Then came the cruelty. Then came the carved wood jammed in the side, the measuring stick of my own incapabilities. A testament to three decades of disappointment to all who gazed into my eyes. I saw the hand prepare, I could almost feel the pain.

“Good.” she uttered the words with no real praise, “Now walk.” The solitary room held but one occupation other than the television, and that is the mirror. I could see myself. Imagine, if you will, a child aged thirty, but appears not a day over ten, with the mental cognition of an infant. It is difficult, and I am one of the only two people alive – as I write this – who has ever witnessed it. This is the first time I witnessed it. So intrigued by my own reflection, that I only just began to understand was my own reflection, I attempted that first step forward.

The next thing I knew I was crawling on my knees, cheek bruised and bleeding from the fall. To understand why it is so difficult to walk on legs, attempt to walk on your hands. When one is not familiar with a task, no matter how simple, it is all but impossible. And so it was, I whimpered in pain from the fall, and bore the harsh tongue of my mother as she raised her voice into a shriek.

“Get up.” the words crawled in my ear, burrowed into my brain, and played dominoes with my synapses. In an instant I heard the words spoken countlessly over days; over years. A thousand shrill calls bloodied my memory in one hallowed instant, and I obeyed like a dog trained to roll. It must have taken minutes, minutes that Mother watched with scrutinizing hatred, but I stood again.

“Good. Now walk” she repeated. While the walls were padded like an institute, and perhaps that is what it was, the floor was a harsh stone. Any time in five years they could have remedied that mishap, they could have lightened my suffering. I hope to incite fire in you when I say that once upon a time there had been carpet, and they had removed it specifically to increase my pain, in the selfish hope that I might walk sooner. So when I graced the harsh touch of gravity and stone against my face again, and cried in the only way an infant suffered thirty years can, and I assure you that such a cry is unknown even to me. It is a cry that all who heard are now dead, and deserving of such. I will spoil no expense, I won't tantalize you with secrets. This is how things are. I am now perfectly 'human', if that is what you want to call it, but I assure you those who I killed were not.

Mother left, a mortified look of shear shock on her face. Even that witch-devil turned at my cry and ran. I was left alone for several hours after that. I think in some way they knew I was different to yesterday. That finally I had 'broken through'. All I knew was that my reflection now made sense, and I was filled with decades of curiosity.

I crawled towards the young girl in the glass. Messy, long blonde hair. Gowns that would have you believe I am both sick and contagious. Eyes so much older than the frame. Such a pretty face. I finally had a friend, but she was I, and there was a sadness in that fact. I opened up my lips and attempted words. I had whispered before, or rather, I had repeated things other people had spoken. Never before had I been compelled to say words of my own accord. This was the beginning of my will to ascension. This is when I became who I am. The breath escaped me, and broke through the air as quick as a clap of thunder, and I beamed as I heard them.

“Hello."

Fun fact: Anyone reading this who is aware of/ is playing my RP Section Seven, they take place in the same universe. Sticks is crucially tied to the designer of Section Seven and the 'apocalypse' that seals it off from the world. I doubt she'll make an appearance in the RP, but the two are linked. I thought you might like to know.

According to the one person (other than myself) to read this so far, or hear the overall plotline, it's well-written, but I'll let you guys decide.
Remember encouragement/criticism = update
ignoring = lack of update

Also, please point out typos. My open office refuses to spell check for some reason

[X-M-O]

[Show/Hide] Sticks with fixed typos.

I'm sat in front of the television. That's my first memory. Saturday morning cartoons flash away in front of my eyes. Though I am exp​ressionless, I am happy inside. I enjoy this one, or did at the time. I knew I had seen it before – but this is as far back as I can recall now. My mind won't work like yours does. The bruises on my side ache a little as the credits roll, I can't touch them though. I can't move yet. That's the problem.

Mommy and Daddy enter, or as I know them now, Misery Smith and Cole Elm. Mommy's name is not Misery, that is a ridiculous notion, but that is her name to me. I turn my head to them as they enter, just barely pulling what could pass for a smile. To this day I know not whether it was fear or human contact that caused me to smile, but they are equally as bleak.

“Look at her!” Mommy spits, contempt in her eyes, “she won't walk, Cole. Not now, not ever. Not with your lazy techniques.” She brushes her shoulder-length curly blonde hair towards her back and stares up into Cole's eyes. I'll admit, she was a very pretty woman when she wasn't poking me in the sides with a ruler. Daddy glances over. I catch his attention for an entire nanosecond before he looks elsewhere.

“When Thomas gets here I doubt he'll be happy to know you've beaten this child to a pulp. We can get her to walk by next week.” Daddy's voice is detached. I'm not a human being, I am business. I am cold, hard cash in a suitcase for whoever 'cures' me. He is short greying hair, a black tie, a white shirt, a grey suit, two black shoes, one white face: He is the monochrome monster.

“She can barely take a step and she's been here five years! If Thomas arrives and she isn't as clever as a ten year old, we lose everything. So I'm willing to take a risk.” Mother growls with the affection of month-old mould. At this point I feel compelled to describe my surroundings. They are white, and padded, and so very cold. I vaguely remember a smell, difficult to describe. If one would be so absurd as to call a scent 'rich' then I could only call this smell 'poor'. I try my best to recall these times, but I was barely myself then, it was a lifetime ago.

Father turned up his lip. His discontent as visible as words in the sky. For a moment I thought he might care for me. Not like a true parent, but as a passer-by to a dying animal. I was wrong. I remember my ears ringing with despair quite viciously as he opened his mouth and willfully engaged my death sentence; my prison break.

“Okay, Misery. Do with her what you will.” he spoke. He did not speak in the way a person speaks. A person talks. A person commands. A person has a personality, it's part of the title, part of the being, part of the species. A machine, a lifeless husk, speaks simply. Cole is the only one to ever speak so sickly disconnected to me. All others beheld some rage, disgust, pity, even pride, over me. Cole was a different breed. I want it exquisitely clear that when I opened his chest it was only to discover if he had a heart. I will not reveal whether he did, not yet.

Father left, and why wouldn't he? Mother was intent on beating me into motion, the way one may whip an animal. My mind could not grasp the concept, but by all that is rational I knew I deserved better. This was no long held grudge, this was a sudden understanding of the vile torment I had suffered, not just in these five years, but in the twenty five that preceded it. A fast emerging pattern that called to my primal instincts. I could not consciously understand my misfortune, not then, but even a wasp is capable of knowing a face that has done it wrong, and here I was: Sharpening my sting.

“Stand child” Mother commanded. My legs shook as I attempted to raise myself. I understood what had been asked of me. An instinct, that's all it was. I stood, eventually, on my own feet. I was unaided, on top of the world. As cruel as it was, I enjoyed standing. Then came the cruelty. Then came the carved wood jammed in the side, the measuring stick of my own incapabilities. A testament to three decades of disappointment to all who gazed into my eyes. I saw the hand prepare, I could almost feel the pain.

“Good.” she uttered the words with no real praise, “Now walk.” The solitary room held but one occupation other than the television, and that is the mirror. I could see myself. Imagine, if you will, a child aged thirty, but appears not a day over ten, with the mental cognition of an infant. It is difficult, and I am one of the only two people alive – as I write this – who has ever witnessed it. This is the first time I witnessed it. So intrigued by my own reflection, that I only just began to understand was my own reflection, I attempted that first step forward.

The next thing I knew I was crawling on my knees, cheek bruised and bleeding from the fall. To understand why it is so difficult to walk on legs, attempt to walk on your hands. When one is not familiar with a task, no matter how simple, it is all but impossible. And so it was, I whimpered in pain from the fall, and bore the harsh tongue of my mother as she raised her voice into a shriek.

“Get up.” the words crawled in my ear, burrowed into my brain, and played dominoes with my synapses. In an instant I heard the words spoken countlessly over days; over years. A thousand shrill calls bloodied my memory in one hallowed instant, and I obeyed like a dog trained to roll. It must have taken minutes, minutes that Mother watched with scrutinizing hatred, but I stood again.

“Good. Now walk” she repeated. While the walls were padded like an institute, and perhaps that is what it was, the floor was a harsh stone. Any time in five years they could have remedied that mishap, they could have lightened my suffering. I hope to incite fire in you when I say that once upon a time there had been carpet, and they had removed it specifically to increase my pain, in the selfish hope that I might walk sooner. So when I graced the harsh touch of gravity and stone against my face again, and cried in the only way an infant suffered thirty years can, and I assure you that such a cry is unknown even to me. It is a cry that all who heard are now dead, and deserving of such. I will spoil no expense, I won't tantalize you with secrets. This is how things are. I am now perfectly 'human', if that is what you want to call it, but I assure you those who I killed were not.

Mother left, a mortified look of shear shock on her face. Even that witch-devil turned at my cry and ran. I was left alone for several hours after that. I think in some way they knew I was different to yesterday. That finally I had 'broken through'. All I knew was that my reflection now made sense, and I was filled with decades of curiosity.

I crawled towards the young girl in the glass. Messy, long blonde hair. Gowns that would have you believe I am both sick and contagious. Eyes so much older than the frame. Such a pretty face. I finally had a friend, but she was I, and there was a sadness in that fact. I opened up my lips and attempted words. I had whispered before, or rather, I had repeated things other people had spoken. Never before had I been compelled to say words of my own accord. This was the beginning of my will to ascension. This is when I became who I am. The breath escaped me, and broke through the air as quick as a clap of thunder, and I beamed as I heard them.

“Hello”.

Spelling error corrections are in red text. =]
It's looking very nice, by the way.

[Sparrowsmith]

many thanks. I've fixed those typos and one bit of grammar that I missed the first time.

I'm quite determined to finish this story. I already have the entire plot outlined (it's fairly simple) and it's part of a much larger series (which eventually becomes Section Seven, and then goes on further). Since I should be able to finish this story in a matter of weeks (and a few more to polish it off) I see no reason why I should let this die like my other short stories...
Well I hope anyway.

Criticism, as always, is appreciated

[X-M-O]

You're welcome. ^^
Your story is written in a very lush and colourful manner, and I liked it overall. I don't currently have any criticism aside from the fact that it is short and doesn't seem to begin or end (from what you've got thus far).
I think I'd need more to be able to really give any good critique (and would need to devote more time to critiquing when that happens).

[Sparrowsmith]

It's a bit longer now, and I've edited several parts. It's been pointed out to me that the dialogue fails to establish the character, and is breaking the fourth wall, so I'm gonna try and spruce that up a little. Should have a second draft up in the next day or two.

[Sparrowsmith]

Aside from Sticks I haven't been able to write anything good lately. In fact, I looked over my old stuff and found it truly terrible.
Then last night, not 24 hours ago, I sat down and inspiration came.
1,400 words in a single sitting.
Tonight I repeated the feat, another 1,400 words.

So here is 2,800 typo ridden and almost completely un-proof read words.
I hope you enjoy, give constructive criticism, and patiently await for more. I have no idea exactly what direction this is moving in, but it has a life of its own now.

[Show/Hide] The Closing Winter

1

Her words were harsh, and the lurking winter cold did nothing but sharpen her icey tone. I met her eyes and she gazed back with intense indifference; her presence physically pushing against mine.
“What do you think it means?”
I stood for a moment, letting my soul linger with the silence until my body could catch up, like two beats phasing out of time. I could feel her breath on my neck – words waiting to form – as I turned and forced myself over the frozen path that would take me home. I must have still been in eyeshot when I burst into a run, first jogging then sprinting, in spite of the ice. The dry wind found it's way through my hair, wrapping itself around my ears and numbing them with its insatiable desire to rob the world of warmth. The air picked the dusty snow from off of the ground and generously heaped it at my face, wetting my brow and cutting my cheeks as I continued to flee from the harpy waiting by the door of her home. From time to time my foot would dance across the frost, finding the bare minimum grip required to keep me upright, but I refused to slow my pace all the while. The wind picked up, blurring my vision with spirals of white peppered before my like approaching stars. I would find myself halfway between curbs with no knowledge of what lay on the road inbetween. Convincing myself that the disturbing silence of the one o'clock morning would be enough to warn me of any traffic, I pressed on.
I arrived home, a shoddy house two friends and I rented from an old middle-class couple, some time later. My hands were raw with cold. I was shaking so badly I dropped the keys several times before giving in and knocking. I had the distinct feeling, more of an educated guess, that David would still be awake. I knew as the door opened not moments later, like a light calling me back from the dead, that he'd been waiting for me. His sillhouette enveloped the night. Without speaking he wrapped his arms around me. I buried my face into his cardigan and sobbed. Truth be told I did not cry. I made sounds like a wounded animal as his tall frame cradled me out of the cold and into the warmth of the house, closing the door on the prying wind as he did so, but I did not cry. He didn't say a word, but led me through the light of the house, my head still buried in his chest, and into the sitting room. There, by the fire, he placed me onto the couch he'd aquired by some undertermined means, and looked me in the eye with a perfect mixture of concern and understanding.
“I already know everything. You don't have to say a word if you don't want to” he said melodically, soothing the brittle bones of my spirits. I nodded slowly. He sat down next to me and placed his arm over my shoulder. It was only then I noticed the third occupant of the room, Chris, the other roommate, sitting crouched on the armchair just to my left, toying with a teapot on the table before us. When he became aware that I'd spotted him he turned away awkwardly then tried to be comforting. It wasn't his strong suit, but I appreciated the effort.
“We made tea.” he stuttered slightly as he spoke, pouring out a cup as if to check I knew what tea was, “If you want some, I mean.” his uncertainty was apparent. I nodded without enthusiasm, but in all honesty it was exactly what I needed. He fixed up the cup he had just poured to how I like it, a spoon of sugar and a good portion of milk. He passed it over and I embraced its warmth. I felt like I'd been involved in some kind of accident, and despite my knowing I would hate myself for letting them treat me like this, it was how I wanted to be treated. I felt a pressure on my feet and looked down to see David untying my shoes. I opened my mouth to speak, but the air just crept out with no purpose, brushing past my throat still sore from the cold.
“You can't wear these in weather like this.” he fussed, referring to the soaking fabric of my trainers, “You'll freeze your feet off, Ben.” The name sounded foreign coming from him. I took a gulp of my tea, warming then burning my throat, and tried to correct him. I had only one small plea for the timebeing.
“Benjamin” I murmered weakly. She had called me Ben, and all reminders of her had to be quickly and efficiently removed from my daily routine starting immediately with the name.
“Back to Benjamin, eh?” Chris interjected. David cast him a warning glare as he removed my second shoe. Chris looked down then away to the clock on the wall opposite me. I knew he wasn't trying to be mean or crack jokes at my expense, in fact I didn't mind the insinuation that I changed my preferred name every few seasons, it was true, but I also knew David had his mind set on helping me recover as quickly as possible, and Chris could rarely help with that. I still wanted Chris there, though, even if he was a duck out of water in these situations.
Eventually Chris found the courage to pour David and himself some tea, and the three of us sank into the furniture, our worries melting before the open fire, our doubts released in the most British way possible as he drank. It wasn't until the clock in the hall, an old and beautiful thing belonging to Chris's grandfather, may he rest in peace, rang once that we realised we'd spent nearly ten minutes in perfect silence. I looked over at my two closest friends in the world. Chris turned to me, and I immeditaly recognised the look on his face. David's approach to my problems was to wait them out with me, then allow me to open up in time as he would listen and comfort. Chris's methods were more abstract. Chris had a habit of 'adapting' absurd philosophies and teaching them, but rarely practicing them himself. This was one of those moments.
“Ulysses S. Grant” he said in a tone which suggested, contrary to the true nature of events, that a name could fix all of my troubles. The American civil war general and later president, who I was well aware of, seemed entirely unrelated to recently transpired events. However, despite David being half-desperate to shut Chris up, I found myself listening intently.
“Go on.” I said, permitting him to say whatever petty wisdoms he had for me.
“He had nothing to lose.” Chris continued, a point almost emerging, “At first at least. He had no reputation to speak of. He had nothing to lose by taking risks. A lot of people think that's why he succeeded where other generals failed.” I began regretting letting Chris speak, my temper rose a little.
“Why should I care?” I asked, but any harsh tones were wasted on Chris, and he continued as if I had charmed genuine interest.
“Right now I'm betting you feel like you've got nothing. That's why you should care. You can't be cautious. Caution is for those who built something up slowly and are scared of knocking it down again. Pull a Grant. Take risks. Succeed.” Every word hovered in the air, not dense enough to sink in, but not meaningless enough to float away. “Silver lining, you know?”
“You sound like a life coach.” I said, smiling, “A bad one.” I curled into a ball and rested against the arm of the couch. Even with my eyes closed I could tell, from the movements on the couch, that David was trying to silently tell Chris to shut his mouth. The odd thing was, as hollow as Chris's words were, he did have a point. I had nothing to lose. I toyed with the idea briefly, before realising it was little more than fantasy. One can't choose to take chances. They present themselves and, if we're lucky, we may find ourselves making the right decision. Anything past that is wishful thinking. I could feel David's eyes burying into the side of my head.
“Benjamin” he spoke, cutting into the establishing silence, “How about you tell us what happened?”


2

I grew weary of the nothingness; under the pressure of their caring gaze my exterior crumbled and I caved, confessing every moment from her invitation to her rejection, and descent from those steps home. The short of it, that is, but the long version requires more than a sentence to be understood.
“Ben” David repeated, then corrected himself, “Benjamin” I nodded, “What happened?”
“I thought you already knew” I croacked meekly, like a child caught misbehaving, I was ashamed of my emotions in that moment. Weakened by them.
“We only know what was on Facebook.”
“What was on Facebook?” I asked. Chris and David exchanged glances.
“It's official.” David replied. I looked down into my near empty mug, and before I could think I lurched upwards and threw it against the wall. Pieces scattered behind every conceivable shadow in the room. Chris jumped about in his chair in a frenzy.
“Jesus Christ, Ben!”
“It's only a cup, Chris.” David asserted, having not moved an inch during the commotion. “And it's Benjamin, remember?”
“Sorry,” he turned from the broken mug back to my grim exp​ression, “Benjamin.”
“We thought you knew.” David finally said to me, drops of tea dancing down the opposing wall.
“I knew.” I said, “It's just one thing to hear it and another thing to hear it again.” David leaned over and hugged me. I felt like a child. He was only a small fraction taller than me, and not too much healthier, but he was always the parent in situations like this. He had a bolder presence, like he'd lived more years, like life had nothing ill to throw at him or those in his arms.
“Okay, well tell us the rest of it.”
The opening of winter had not bode well for me. With the cold season growing colder, and the dark days shorter, the need for company became excrutiating. I found that company in the warmth of an old friend, Sarah, and despite my best intentions, I slowly came to consider her as much more than a friend. These things can be kept casual, and other times they can't. I should have left the moment I knew she would not reciprocate the feelings; but I convinced myself her heart would soon follow her body's desires as well. Such a time never came. I had to endure nights spent with her in my arms and I in hers, burning with confessions that could not be uttered. Of course, she realised this; Company is worth breaking hearts.
Even if superficial, we had each other, and for a foolish heart that would be enough. But it was boxing day, and the arrival of an old flame was enough for chance to pry open our seasonal cocoon and rummage through our business. She invited me over that night, and that's as much as I can say. David and Chris heard it all though.
“She's a bitch.” Chris stated accurately, but still grazing my feelings as he did, “What gives her the right to treat people like that?” He stood up and began pacing, he really could get his blood boiling over a passionate enough cause. David hadn't said a word in some time. He didn't so much converse as guide. He once told me language is a way of expressing one's own opinions and world views, and you could never help anyone by speaking; you had to listen.
“Then I ran back here.” I closed by statement, “No more, no less.” I pushed myself up from the couch and walked around it to the nearest door. I stepped through it and found myself in the kitchen, opening the fridge door and grabbing three bottles of lager. I wasn't sleeping sober tonight. I went back through to the sitting room. Chris was already taking out his bottle opener; he knew me well. David didn't seem too keen on the idea, but went along with it because he understood pain better than any of us, even though he never explained how. It wasn't our place to ask, either.
The night began to pass with a more certain rhythm. Drinks came and went, and by the time the clock announced half past two we had achieved an applaudable collection of empty bottles. It was only then, after over an hour of drinking in relative silence, that the mood finally lightened. It was Chris, in his infinite uncertainty, that relieved the atmosphere. He left for the kitchen, under the pretense of getting another drink, only to return with two bottles of German liquor.
“For Christmas, you know?” he replied to our vacant stares. I immediately burst into a smile. The three of us hadn't been together since before Christmas, having other arrangements to attend, and none of us had bothered to say a word.
“We never buy each other presents.” David interjected, though his tone suggested he was still very supportive of the idea. David could be that way. He hated to start drinking, but once he started he really loosened up.
“Was on sale.” Chris admitted, placing the two bottles on the table, “Besides, I'm having some too.”
“If you're lucky.” I scoffed, eyeing the bottle. For the time being my troubles seemed a lifetime away, thankfully. “Have we got anything to go with this?” I asked to David, who was the only reliable source of inventory in the house.
“I think we have a few litres of energy drink left over from Haloween.” he said, flashing me a wolfish grin and standing up, “just let me go check.”
As he left the room I turned to Chris, beaming from ear to ear. I was aware that the positive feeling wouldn't last, but I was intent on clinging to it. He returned my gaze with his bashful half-smile, before turning up to the clock and then back again, a nervous habit of his.
“Cut it out, man.” he laughed, “Stop looking at me.”
“Thanks for this.” I said, adimently ignoring his pleas, “perfect present.”
“Happy Christmas, Benjamin.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“And a happy new year” David chimed in, somehow carrying four litre bottles of various energy drinks and three pint glasses. “I assume, gentleman, that regular rules apply?”
“No one sleeps until everything is empty.” I said, predicting my eventual regret of those words. “Any half-sessioners can and will be punished in whichever way the judge, jury, and executioners, AKA the surviving sessioners, deem appropriate.” I continued as David and Chris measure out each pint. Roughly one part liquor for six parts mixer, but as the night progressed the ratio was bound to tip dangerously. We each grabbed a pint.
“Please direct all complaints to the toilet bowl.” we hap-hazardly sang in unioson, attacking the drinks with gusto as we did. The sweet concoction flowed down my throat in mouthfulls, and I found myself pulling back the glass with only a third of the cocktail remaining. Chris had managed slightly more, David slightly less. It was a custom to compare, at least briefly, after each round to see who would pour the next. The skill was in drinking just enough to avoid bartening duty, but not so much as to be left with an empty glass and nothing to drink. Chris and I turned to David, holding our glasses to playfully mock him.
“Okay, okay” he conceeded, “I know the rules. I was just thinking.”
“What about?” I asked.
“If Beth and James are still up, we could always give them an invite, could even get a party going.”
“Not a bad idea. You text them. BYOB of course.” I instructed, before downing the last of my pint ceremoniously and placing it on the table. I had barely finished speaking as he began texting. Beth and James were two friends from college who David had always been better friends with than Chris or myself, but they'd grown on us, mostly due to living so close. I knew Chris would ask the inevitable soon, so I beat him to it.
“You should invite Amy over.” I asked.
“She won't be up” Chris answered, trying not to blush.
“Do it anyway, just in case.”

3

Edit: I apologize for the format. It's laid out very nicely on my word, but doesn't translate here very well.
Also, it's 2,863 words which puts it just short of William's City (which took me weeks to write and never finish).

[Sparrowsmith]

Well it's at 5,795 words now... Which is quite daunting actually. This is the longest thing I've ever written, academically or leisurely.
Anyway, here we go again, I apologize for the format and general lack of editing (hence the need for criticism).

[Show/Hide] The Closing Winter

1

Her words were harsh, and the lurking winter cold did nothing but sharpen her icy tone. I met her eyes and she gazed back with intense indifference; her presence physically pushing against mine.
“What do you think it means?”
I stood for a moment, letting my soul linger with the silence until my body could catch up, like two beats phasing out of time. I could feel her breath on my neck – words waiting to form – as I turned and forced myself over the frozen path that would take me home. I must have still been in eyeshot when I burst into a run, first jogging then sprinting, in spite of the ice. The dry wind found it's way through my hair, wrapping itself around my ears and numbing them with its insatiable desire to rob the world of warmth. The air picked the dusty snow from off of the ground and generously heaped it at my face, wetting my brow and cutting my cheeks as I continued to flee from the harpy waiting by the door of her home. From time to time my foot would dance across the frost, finding the bare minimum grip required to keep me upright, but I refused to slow my pace all the while. The wind picked up, blurring my vision with spirals of white peppered before my like approaching stars. I would find myself halfway between curbs with no knowledge of what lay on the road inbetween. Convincing myself that the disturbing silence of the one o'clock morning would be enough to warn me of any traffic, I pressed on.
I arrived home, a shoddy house two friends and I rented from an old middle-class couple, some time later. My hands were raw with cold. I was shaking so badly I dropped the keys several times before giving in and knocking. I had the distinct feeling, more of an educated guess, that David would still be awake. I knew as the door opened not moments later, like a light calling me back from the dead, that he'd been waiting for me. His silhouette enveloped the night. Without speaking he wrapped his arms around me. I buried my face into his cardigan and sobbed. Truth be told I did not cry. I made sounds like a wounded animal as his tall frame cradled me out of the cold and into the warmth of the house, closing the door on the prying wind as he did so, but I did not cry. He didn't say a word, but led me through the light of the house, my head still buried in his chest, and into the sitting room. There, by the fire, he placed me onto the couch he'd acquired by some undetermined means, and looked me in the eye with a perfect mixture of concern and understanding.
“I already know everything. You don't have to say a word if you don't want to” he said melodically, soothing the brittle bones of my spirits. I nodded slowly. He sat down next to me and placed his arm over my shoulder. It was only then I noticed the third occupant of the room, Chris, the other roommate, sitting crouched on the armchair just to my left, toying with a teapot on the table before us. When he became aware that I'd spotted him he turned away awkwardly then tried to be comforting. It wasn't his strong suit, but I appreciated the effort.
“We made tea.” he stuttered slightly as he spoke, pouring out a cup as if to check I knew what tea was, “If you want some, I mean.” his uncertainty was apparent. I nodded without enthusiasm, but in all honesty it was exactly what I needed. He fixed up the cup he had just poured to how I like it, a spoon of sugar and a good portion of milk. He passed it over and I embraced its warmth. I felt like I'd been involved in some kind of accident, and despite my knowing I would hate myself for letting them treat me like this, it was how I wanted to be treated. I felt a pressure on my feet and looked down to see David untying my shoes. I opened my mouth to speak, but the air just crept out with no purpose, brushing past my throat still sore from the cold.
“You can't wear these in weather like this.” he fussed, referring to the soaking fabric of my trainers, “You'll freeze your feet off, Ben.” The name sounded foreign coming from him. I took a gulp of my tea, warming then burning my throat, and tried to correct him. I had only one small plea for the time-being.
“Benjamin” I murmured weakly. She had called me Ben, and all reminders of her had to be quickly and efficiently removed from my daily routine starting immediately with the name.
“Back to Benjamin, eh?” Chris interjected. David cast him a warning glare as he removed my second shoe. Chris looked down then away to the clock on the wall opposite me. I knew he wasn't trying to be mean or crack jokes at my expense, in fact I didn't mind the insinuation that I changed my preferred name every few seasons, it was true, but I also knew David had his mind set on helping me recover as quickly as possible, and Chris could rarely help with that. I still wanted Chris there, though, even if he was a duck out of water in these situations.
Eventually Chris found the courage to pour David and himself some tea, and the three of us sank into the furniture, our worries melting before the open fire, our doubts released in the most British way possible as he drank. It wasn't until the clock in the hall, an old and beautiful thing belonging to Chris's grandfather, may he rest in peace, rang once that we realised we'd spent nearly ten minutes in perfect silence. I looked over at my two closest friends in the world. Chris turned to me, and I immediately recognised the look on his face. David's approach to my problems was to wait them out with me, then allow me to open up in time as he would listen and comfort. Chris's methods were more abstract. Chris had a habit of 'adapting' absurd philosophies and teaching them, but rarely practicing them himself. This was one of those moments.
“Ulysses S. Grant” he said in a tone which suggested, contrary to the true nature of events, that a name could fix all of my troubles. The American civil war general and later president, who I was well aware of, seemed entirely unrelated to recently transpired events. However, despite David being half-desperate to shut Chris up, I found myself listening intently.
“Go on.” I said, permitting him to say whatever petty wisdoms he had for me.
“He had nothing to lose.” Chris continued, a point almost emerging, “At first at least. He had no reputation to speak of. He had nothing to lose by taking risks. A lot of people think that's why he succeeded where other generals failed.” I began regretting letting Chris speak, my temper rose a little.
“Why should I care?” I asked, but any harsh tones were wasted on Chris, and he continued as if I had charmed genuine interest.
“Right now I'm betting you feel like you've got nothing. That's why you should care. You can't be cautious. Caution is for those who built something up slowly and are scared of knocking it down again. Pull a Grant. Take risks. Succeed.” Every word hovered in the air, not dense enough to sink in, but not meaningless enough to float away. “Silver lining, you know?”
“You sound like a life coach.” I said, smiling, “A bad one.” I curled into a ball and rested against the arm of the couch. Even with my eyes closed I could tell, from the movements on the couch, that David was trying to silently tell Chris to shut his mouth. The odd thing was, as hollow as Chris's words were, he did have a point. I had nothing to lose. I toyed with the idea briefly, before realising it was little more than fantasy. One can't choose to take chances. They present themselves and, if we're lucky, we may find ourselves making the right decision. Anything past that is wishful thinking. I could feel David's eyes burying into the side of my head.
“Benjamin” he spoke, cutting into the establishing silence, “How about you tell us what happened?”


2

I grew weary of the nothingness; under the pressure of their caring gaze my exterior crumbled and I caved, confessing every moment from her invitation to her rejection, and descent from those steps home. The short of it, that is, but the long version requires more than a sentence to be understood.
“Ben” David repeated, then corrected himself, “Benjamin” I nodded, “What happened?”
“I thought you already knew” I croaked meekly, like a child caught misbehaving, I was ashamed of my emotions in that moment. Weakened by them.
“We only know what was on Facebook.”
“What was on Facebook?” I asked. Chris and David exchanged glances.
“It's official.” David replied. I looked down into my near empty mug, and before I could think I lurched upwards and threw it against the wall. Pieces scattered behind every conceivable shadow in the room. Chris jumped about in his chair in a frenzy.
“Jesus Christ, Ben!”
“It's only a cup, Chris.” David asserted, having not moved an inch during the commotion. “And it's Benjamin, remember?”
“Sorry,” he turned from the broken mug back to my grim exp​ression, “Benjamin.”
“We thought you knew.” David finally said to me, drops of tea dancing down the opposing wall.
“I knew.” I said, “It's just one thing to hear it and another thing to hear it again.” David leaned over and hugged me. I felt like a child. He was only a small fraction taller than me, and not too much healthier, but he was always the parent in situations like this. He had a bolder presence, like he'd lived more years, like life had nothing ill to throw at him or those in his arms.
“Okay, well tell us the rest of it.”
The opening of winter had not bode well for me. With the cold season growing colder, and the dark days shorter, the need for company became excruciating. I found that company in the warmth of an old friend, Sarah, and despite my best intentions, I slowly came to consider her as much more than a friend. These things can be kept casual, and other times they can't. I should have left the moment I knew she would not reciprocate the feelings; but I convinced myself her heart would soon follow her body's desires as well. Such a time never came. I had to endure nights spent with her in my arms and I in hers, burning with confessions that could not be uttered. Of course, she realised this; Company is worth breaking hearts.
Even if superficial, we had each other, and for a foolish heart that would be enough. But it was boxing day, and the arrival of an old flame was enough for chance to pry open our seasonal cocoon and rummage through our business. She invited me over that night, and that's as much as I can say. David and Chris heard it all though.
“She's a bitch.” Chris stated accurately, but still grazing my feelings as he did, “What gives her the right to treat people like that?” He stood up and began pacing, he really could get his blood boiling over a passionate enough cause. David hadn't said a word in some time. He didn't so much converse as guide. He once told me language is a way of expressing one's own opinions and world views, and you could never help anyone by speaking; you had to listen.
“Then I ran back here.” I closed by statement, “No more, no less.” I pushed myself up from the couch and walked around it to the nearest door. I stepped through it and found myself in the kitchen, opening the fridge door and grabbing three bottles of lager. I wasn't sleeping sober tonight. I went back through to the sitting room. Chris was already taking out his bottle opener; he knew me well. David didn't seem too keen on the idea, but went along with it because he understood pain better than any of us, even though he never explained how. It wasn't our place to ask, either.
The night began to pass with a more certain rhythm. Drinks came and went, and by the time the clock announced half past two we had achieved an applaudable collection of empty bottles. It was only then, after over an hour of drinking in relative silence, that the mood finally lightened. It was Chris, in his infinite uncertainty, that relieved the atmosphere. He left for the kitchen, under the pretense of getting another drink, only to return with two bottles of German liquor.
“For Christmas, you know?” he replied to our vacant stares. I immediately burst into a smile. The three of us hadn't been together since before Christmas, having other arrangements to attend, and none of us had bothered to say a word.
“We never buy each other presents.” David interjected, though his tone suggested he was still very supportive of the idea. David could be that way. He hated to start drinking, but once he started he really loosened up.
“Was on sale.” Chris admitted, placing the two bottles on the table, “Besides, I'm having some too.”
“If you're lucky.” I scoffed, eyeing the bottle. For the time being my troubles seemed a lifetime away, thankfully. “Have we got anything to go with this?” I asked to David, who was the only reliable source of inventory in the house.
“I think we have a few liters of energy drink left over from Halloween.” he said, flashing me a wolfish grin and standing up, “just let me go check.”
As he left the room I turned to Chris, beaming from ear to ear. I was aware that the positive feeling wouldn't last, but I was intent on clinging to it. He returned my gaze with his bashful half-smile, before turning up to the clock and then back again, a nervous habit of his.
“Cut it out, man.” he laughed, “Stop looking at me.”
“Thanks for this.” I said, adamantly ignoring his pleas, “perfect present.”
“Happy Christmas, Benjamin.”
“Merry Christmas.”
“And a happy new year” David chimed in, somehow carrying four liter bottles of various energy drinks and three pint glasses. “I assume, gentleman, that regular rules apply?”
“No one sleeps until everything is empty.” I said, predicting my eventual regret of those words. “Any half-sessioners can and will be punished in whichever way the judge, jury, and executioners, AKA the surviving sessioners, deem appropriate.” I continued as David and Chris measure out each pint. Roughly one part liquor for six parts mixer, but as the night progressed the ratio was bound to tip dangerously. We each grabbed a pint.
“Please direct all complaints to the toilet bowl.” we haphazardly sang in unison, attacking the drinks with gusto as we did. The sweet concoction flowed down my throat in mouthfuls, and I found myself pulling back the glass with only a third of the cocktail remaining. Chris had managed slightly more, David slightly less. It was a custom to compare, at least briefly, after each round to see who would pour the next. The skill was in drinking just enough to avoid bar tending duty, but not so much as to be left with an empty glass and nothing to drink. Chris and I turned to David, holding our glasses to playfully mock him.
“Okay, okay” he conceded, “I know the rules. I was just thinking.”
“What about?” I asked.
“If Beth and James are still up, we could always give them an invite, could even get a party going.”
“Not a bad idea. You text them. BYOB of course.” I instructed, before downing the last of my pint ceremoniously and placing it on the table. I had barely finished speaking as he began texting. Beth and James were two friends from college who David had always been better friends with than Chris or myself, but they'd grown on us, mostly due to living so close. I glanced at Chris and saw his eyes lost in a compassionate space in some corner of the room. I knew He would ask the inevitable soon, so I beat him to it.
“You should invite Amy over.” I asked.
“She won't be up” Chris answered, trying not to blush.
“Do it anyway, just in case.”

3
Chris remained curled up on the couch for minutes. He looked around in agitation from time to time, awaiting a text message that was breaking his heart with its absence. David and I exchanged glances; there could be only one cure. He began pouring out another round and Chris, begrudgingly, accepted the invitation. We repeated the routine. This time as I lowered my glass I saw David smugly smiling back, a fraction less remaining in his glass than mine. I heard Chris's glass make contact with the table, and knew immediately that he had finished it in one. I swore under my breath and accepted the duty of refilling for the next round.
The mood was once again altered. David's phone began buzzing. Beth and James had just arrived back from the local pub with a handful of guests and were looking for a place to take the party. As David finalised the invitations with a devilish smile encompassing his face, Chris took off out of the room, as an obscure ringtone played from his pocket. David and I waited in silence for his return. Some time later, he announced her verdict.
“Amy's on her way.” he said, beaming from ear to ear. We were about to burst into applause when he continued speaking, “She's bringing friends.”
We spent the next few minutes tidying the place up a little for the guests, but mostly preparing ourselves. By the time the we heard knocking at the door, you could have believed we spent every early morning dressed to impress.
Beth and James were the first to arrive, but they were not alone: Standing quite triumphantly in the cold, despite wearing a red cocktail dress, she met my gaze for the first time. David clarified the mystery.
“Chris, David, this is Eve. She works at Beth's office.”
“We had a late Christmas party.” she explained. I then noticed Beth was also dressed very formally, though not quite as revealing, “So I hear you boys are throwing a party?” She led the way in without waiting for confirmation. We followed her through to the kitchen where she proceeded to reach down the front of her dress and produce a small bottle of vodka. She turned back to us mischievously before grabbing a plastic cup and pouring her drink in.
As she leant over the counter, her dress inched up her legs. She revealed just enough to be suggestive, but still leaving something to the imagination. She shook slightly as she poured out the last few measurements. I stood transfixed. It was only after David coughed I realised I was quite noticeably staring at her arse. David and Beth both shot me amused looks. David then gave the subtlest of nods, arching his eyebrows and looking over at our new guest. The look translated into English perfectly as: 'Talk to her'.
“You want something to mix that with?” I asked as soon as she'd finished.
“That's sweet” she said, smiling, but with a hint of something else, “You got any cranberry juice?”
“We do.”
“How 'bout orange juice?”
“Coming right up.” I walked to the fridge next to her and pulled out both cartons. “We don't have any peach schnapps though.”
“Well it's not Sex on the Beach without the schnapps.” she replied, taking the cartons off me and fixing up her drink all the same. I resisted the urge to make cocktail jokes. I noticed, this time, that she barely leant over to pour her drink at all.
“I suppose you'll have to make do.” I said, collecting the cartons and placing them back in the fridge when she was done. I turned so I was standing next to her, the two of us leaning on the countertop
“You got some nice juices.” she decided after a sip. In the moment it took me to think of a response, she'd already continued talking. “looks like we're alone” I hadn't realised until she said it, but she was right. I turned to look at her; there was no doubt about it, she was gorgeous, and a mile out of my league.
“So tell me a little about you, Eve, what's your story?”
“Oh I think you know.” she said coyly, rolling her eyes and smiling at me. I was taken aback, I really had no idea what she meant.
“Sorry, I really don't.”
“Typical.” she laughed, she was unnervingly light-hearted, “You don't remember.”
“Remember what?” I replied, worried. I was a bit of a drinker, but I'd never forgotten a one night stand, though I was being hopeful when I even considered that.
“We've met before” she answered.
“I think I would have remembered you” I said, inadvertently undressing her with my eyes.
“Well, Benjamin, I suppose I'll just reintroduce myself.” She smiled whole-heartedly, holding out her hand for me to shake, “My name is Eve Rose.”
“That's a very pretty name.” I shook her hand as I spoke, her exp​ression changed from a smile to a giggle.
“Now you're just repeating yourself.” she said, letting go of my hand.
“Sorry” I said, beginning to feel like it was all some crude prank, “I'm”
“Benjamin Baker.” she interrupted me, “I remember names.”
I waited about for a few moments, the awkwardness was unbearable. She knew me, of that I was certain, but I couldn't remember anything about her. It was maddening. That's when she said the strangest thing of all.
“You still like to be called Benjamin, right?” she said, laughing lightly. I nodded slowly, confused, I hadn't answered to Benjamin before tonight since at least seven months ago. There was a growing fear that overpowered my embarrassment. She was enjoying this too much. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I began to form a picture. She somehow read this on my face and leaned forwards. “Here, let me jog your memory.” she kissed me lightly on the cheek, then pulled away and smiled at me.
In a second I'm looking out on a field. The sun is setting, casting long strands of gold across the blue sky. Shadows stretch out behind clouds, forming ripples in the sky like twisting bedcovers. There are faces I just barely remember mingling to and inbetween the step I'm sitting on, but I paid no attention. In the distance ahead, someone is walking by. I blinked and found myself once again looking into Eve's magnificent blue eyes.
“I should probably get back to David and Chris.” I stammered, walking for the door.
“What's the rush?” She asked back with an almost childlike innocence.
“I have to pour the next round.” She looked at me vacantly, “It's a thing we have.” She shrugged and followed me back to the others. On any other night I may have tried, but there was something in the way she kissed my cheek. My mind fluttered back to that memory that seemed a lifetime ago. I couldn't place it, but there it was. A face glancing at me briefly from across a summer evening. Her face had changed, but her eyes never could. Those deep brown eyes. That was the night I met Sarah.

4
Some time later Amy and two of her friends arrived. I recognized them from college, very pretty, but I'd never spoken to them. I scarcely said a word as they entered. To be honest, I can't remember even acknowledging their existence. The embers of a fiery memory were glowing before my eyes, obscuring the importance of events around me. Time would pass and they would cool and cease, then a simple breeze of thought would revive them. I began moving through two opposing emotional states. The first of bliss; A shear lack of care. A love of life and all things temporary and ethereal. For lack of a more concise definition, it was an embracing of the present. The second was a darker nostalgia, roots of unrequited love buried in a haunting memory that seemed to have been born that night. I hungered to recover the thought, to be one with it again, but every sense I remembered pulled heavily on me. One moment I was free falling through life, and the next I was buried up to my neck in it. For the hundredth time that night I tried to escape it.
The number of guests grew unimaginably. It seemed inappropriate for so many people to be awake so late – yet here they were. It was like they had been called; Perhaps they had been. Most of the time when I saw new arrivals, as I drifted between the rooms of the house and observed them, they would approach the woman in the red cocktail dress. It was like they'd waited the whole night just to hear her name spoken, without ever realising why. To some she appeared as a siren. They could not leave her presence. Others saw her as something more holy or sinister. This wasn't limited to the male guests either; everyone had beauty to learn from her presence. I decided, after a while, to meet some of my guests.
I approached a kid with messy brown hair. He looked younger than most of the guests, but not much, maybe seventeen. He was sitting on the armchair when I found him, another piece of furniture David brought home one day. I sat down on the arm.
“Enjoying the party?” I asked. He was distracted, and took a few seconds to answer.
“Yeah.” his voice trailed off, “Who are you?” he asked, turning to look at me.
“I'm Benjamin, this is my house.” I explained. Before I could ask for his name he was already talking.
“Oh! So you live with Eve?” his exp​ression lifted into something haplessly enthusiastic.
“No.” I shook my head and smiled at his naivety, “I just met her tonight, she doesn't live here.” His head turned from me and he muttered under his breath. I had little desire to hear what he'd said. He raised his hand and sipped from his bottle, which I noticed was empty.
“You want me to get you another drink?” I asked, but his mind was somewhere else. I patted him on the shoulder and stood up. “Have a good night then.” He didn't flinch. As I approached David to get another drink, I saw a red blur move by the doorway in front of me.
He was talking to Amy's friends when I found him, no doubt working some kind of wingman angle. I joined him in the frontline.
“Alright, David.” I greeted him, then turned to Amy's friends. “You two arrived with Amy, didn't you? I'm Benjamin.” I shook their hands, their names were Jamie and Nicole.
“Anyway, Benjamin, I was just about to get the ladies a drink. Take care of them while I'm gone.”
“Sure thing. Get me one too.” As David left I turned to the two friends. Chris had been head over heels for Amy for some time, and it was my solemn duty to make sure these two didn't interrupt them. “So tell me about yourselves.” The two of them did a shy shuffle. A sort of dance of glances to see who would speak first. Jamie took the reigns.
“Well we're both kind of artists.” she said quite confidently, “I'm into graphics and Nicole is more of a painter.”
“That's really cool. Do you have any pictures? I'd love to see.”
“Sure! Nicole has photos on her phone.”
“You don't wanna see them.” Nicole laughed with feigned modesty, “They're really not that good.”
“Rubbish, show him The Librarian.”
Hesitantly, Nicole took out her phone and began scrolling through her photos, with all the genuine stealth of a teenage girl. After a while she arrived at the photo and stopped hiding the screen. She passed it over to me. It was a black and white painting of an attractive woman looking down at something in her hands. Her fingers were perched on parted lips, her exp​ression focused and intrigued. Very subtly on the reflection of her glasses, I could make out words painstakingly drawn mirrored. It was a far more impressive work than I'd been expecting.
“This is brilliant.” I said, beaming from ear to ear, “Seriously, keep at this.” I was just finishing the compliment when David returned carrying four bottles. Two lagers for us, two alcopops for the girls. I showed him the picture.
“Yeah, I've seen this. It's hung up in the art department of college.” he turned to Nicole, “So you're that Nicole, eh? You must have got full marks for this beauty.”
“Pretty close yeah.” she said nervously, “Jamie nearly did too. She did this awesome comic thing!”
“That sounds so nerdy” Jamie laughed, rolling her eyes, “It's what we had to do it on.”
“We believe you.” David stated sarcastically, putting his arm around her shoulder and rubbing her arm humorously. I opened my bottle and began drinking.
The night warmed terrifically, and some time after my conversation with Nicole and Jamie my previous experiences of the night were well and truly blurred. A fictional event seasoned with overdone emotions – I placed them out of mind. The characters of the room span more and more into fanciful colours and laughs and smiles and crude behaviour. I collapsed onto the couch, where I had been sitting not a moment before the guests started arriving. I was not sure how long I'd been out of my seat, or how long the drinking game had been abandoned, but something felt off.
I looked to my right, the powerful presence of Eve captained the seat by mine. She was sitting with a tall glass I wasn't even aware we owned, sipping on a straw and watching nearby antics through the television screen – so as to avoid detection. She bit her lip and smiled as she saw the raunchier couples roll over each other meters away. Slapped across her face, an alarming mixture of disappointment and arousal. Without moving her eyes she began talking.
“Look who's lightened up.”
“How would you even know?” I joked, “You're not looking.” Her attention turned from her faux-television 'entertainment' and to yours truly.
“Better?” She asked without a hint of earnest. My eyes darted as I searched for an answer. She was showing enough thigh to make the nuns down the road shriek profusely, but she continued to leave just enough to the imagination. Her clothing was just an extension of her personality.
“Much.” I replied, throwing her a cheeky smile, “You have to let me know where we've met.” I admitted at last, the strange imagination from before still ebbing in my mind's eye.
“That takes the fun from the game, dear. I'd rather let you figure it out yourself.”
“You have no idea how uncomfortable that makes me.” I confessed, trying to hide my honesty with laughter.
“Benjamin, sometimes there are things you don't get to know; things you shouldn't know. You can't let that stop you from acting.” There was a sinister honesty to the words she uttered, like they could be brandished in all situations and find meaning there. Her lips were half open, waiting to close the statement she had begun, but the first half begged me not to hear it.
I leant forward and kissed her, my fingertips brushing through her hair. She tasted sweet; forbidden. She put her hands on my chest and gently pushed me away, not much, just enough to speak. I hung weightless for inches of time, waiting for something, anything, to interrupt the silence between our lips.
“That's more like it.” her voice was like song as she embraced me and kissed me back. Barely a moment passed, however, before she pushed me down and stood up. “But you'll have to do better than that next time!” she waltzed away from me and disappeared into the crowd. I was left perplexed and determined by her sudden swing of passion. Vices had taken me before, but never to this extent. She was the entirety and extent of man's pursuit of beauty, and even if I had just one more chance, that was two chances more than the rest of the world.
Life had taught me only one thing: You cannot make an opportunity. My personal key to happiness was to try when I could, and forget when I couldn't, and while it did not always work, it served me well. With this in mind, I made no attempt to find Eve among the crowd of the party, which had somehow grown far beyond the meager number we had originally invited. An arm reached around me, and pulled me into a torso that embraced me.
“Benjamin” David shouted enthusiastically. I was about to reply when he pointed me towards the kitchen. Inside Chris and his love interest were locked together, eating each other's faces ravenously. He glanced over at us. Spotted, we had no choice but to tease him.

5

[X-M-O]

I don't usually like getting into written works, but I did want to mention that you've pretty much got a good piece of work there.
Not much editing would need to take place in terms of the technical aspect (Chris's should be Chris'), so I'm assuming you're wanting critique that isn't based in writing style, but more of ideas?
I won't actually offer much in that regard, but I can say that I'm pleased you've put a bit of effort into this. ^^

[Sparrowsmith]

I was never sure how to use apostrophes in that sense.
I thought it was:
Dan's: Dan owns it, Dan is.
Its: It owns it.
It's: It is.
Girls': Several girls own it.
Chris': Several people named Chris own it.
Chris's: Chris owns it, Chris is.

I could be wrong, grammar is so freaking complicated, especially depending on whether you use UK English, International English, U.S English...
anyway,
thanks for the input I'm glad you like it, I don't think it lives up to some other stuff I've seen on RRR though, so any criticism at all is welcome