Sleuth Home - Message Boards - Message Board Game Room


0 0
CONTEST: Mr/Miss/Mrs (Blank) Lives for a Day
  <<First Page  |  <Previous Next>  |  Last Page>>  

Violet Parr
Violet Parr
Thespian

Jan-30-2010 07:30


(Creative Writing Contest)

In the wonderful spirit of giving and universal oneness Sleuth is showing, I have decided to host a contest I have wanted to do for a while. The premise of this contest is inspired by a charming little movie I watched a while ago called “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day”, whereby in the course of twenty four hours the character of Miss Pettigrew is introduced, developed and, by the end of the movie, gets her romantic destiny achieved.

The contest is this: Write a creative piece in which you introduce a fictional character to the reader, develop it as much as you can with interesting detail and have it fulfill some sort of destiny within the course of one day in the character’s life. The rules are as follows:

1. The character has to be fictional -it can be your detective’s or another one that you’ve created.
2. The piece you submit is limited to 6,000 characters (i.e. 3 posts as a maximum.)
3. Your piece must be entitled: “Mr/Miss/Mrs (insert your character’s name) Lives for a Day”.
4. The entries will be judged on writing, creativity and entertainment value.

The judging will be done by yours truly. I promise to endeavour to be as fair as humanly possible.

The winner will receive a 6-month gift subscription to Sleuth Noir. There is also another optional prize if the winner is a role player and would like to start a new thread on the stage: I will offer to join his or her story as the Violet Parr character or as a character of the winner’s choosing and design.

All entries must be submitted by the deadline of Saturday, February 6th, 2010 at 23:59 hrs, Sleuth Server Time.

I encourage everyone to give this contest a shot, enjoy writing and have fun!


Replies

Cordelia Falco
Cordelia Falco
Battered Shoe

Feb-5-2010 03:27

^ what SS said!

Riza Hawkeye
Riza Hawkeye
First Nomad

Feb-5-2010 19:50

Miss James Lives for a Day

It was very cold squatting behind those trash cans. Cold and smelly and dank. I wrinkled my nose. What was I even doing here? Was I insane? I knew right away the answer to that question. No, I course not, I wasn’t insane. I was just a stalker . . . and that had sounded so much better in my mind. I frowned as I stared across the street into the window of a small run-down apartment on the Upper West side of Manhattan. A man was inside, moving around and making coffee in his bathrobe. A smile lit up my face.

Every morning for the past month, since I had first seen him at Central Park, I had walked by his home, watching him. I couldn’t understand why, but I felt strangely attracted to him. I had never felt this way about anyone before. Mother always said to stay away from men because they were dirty rotten pigs who were only after one thing. And I had listened to her. But I was a big girl now. I could make decisions for myself.

I was obsessing over this man and I didn’t even know his name. As I saw him move to the bedroom and begin to undress, I turned my head away, lowering my eyes to the ground and blushing furiously.

Five minutes later he exited the building; I followed up close behind him, hiding alternately behind lampposts and mailboxes, and brushing off remnants of garbage from my stockings.

I looked down at myself. A wrinkled yellow blouse with a faded purple skirt and green hole-ridden stockings. It would have to do. I couldn’t afford anything better presently, not with mother to care for. I nodded curtly to myself. This was something I had to do for myself.

Two blocks forward, one left turn, and three blocks more led me to the bookstore at the corner. “Hey, watch it, you klutz!” a man yelled as I bumped into him, causing him to reel backwards and spill hot coffee all over his front.

Riza Hawkeye
Riza Hawkeye
First Nomad

Feb-5-2010 19:50

“Sorry, sorry sir,” I apologized profusely, giving a small curtsy. Goodness, I was so awkward. I hurried on, not wanting to lose sight of my target.

I followed my man inside and hid behind a shelf of Sherlock Holmes books as I watched him thumb through a book on psychology. I smiled to myself. Oh, how educated he must be! How sophisticated his tastes! As he turned to face me, I quickly picked up the book on the table closest to me. I literally hid my face behind the book. Was he looking? It felt like he was. Well at least I looked cultured reading a book about . . . Chronic Halitosis! Eeep!

I could feel my face burning. When I thought it was safe to look, I peered out from over the top of the book, my eyes shifting slowly from side to side. He was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief and shook my head.

Ten minutes later I took a seat at the table of the local diner, throwing my head into my hands, running my fingers through my messy blond hair. My mind was in complete turmoil. What was I doing? This was so unlike me: chasing a man through the streets of Manhattan, staring at him, adoring every fiber of his being!

What had happened to the respectful polite girl that my mother had raised? She was gone. Gone as fast as the flick of a wrist as soon as I had seen him. I had seen him and known nothing about him, and yet…I had known everything about him. And what insane train of thought had led me to believe he would even take a second look at me? A poor city girl? I shrieked in frustration and pounded my fists on the table, causing the whole diner to turn and look at me.

My heart skipped a beat as I felt a hand brush my cheek from behind. I slowly turned around. I stared into bright blue eyes. It was him! I panicked as thoughts raced through my mind. Did he know I had been stalking him? What was going to happen now?

Riza Hawkeye
Riza Hawkeye
First Nomad

Feb-5-2010 19:51

But he didn’t look angry. He was smiling. “Hi, I’m Matthew. Matthew Johnson. I think you dropped this?” He held out a pack of breath mints. I blushed deeply red, horrified.

He laughed kindly. “I’m just joking. I saw you this morning at the bookstore. Actually, I see you there every morning, always with your head buried in a book.”

“O-oh,” I stammered, “I do like to r-read. And my n-name is Amy. Amy James.” I smiled unsurely. I had always had the worst luck with people. I wasn’t really a social person to begin with, and being around a handsome man wasn’t helping my confidence at all.

He walked and stood right in front of me, and lifted my chin with his finger. “You know, you have a very pretty face,” he whispered. I almost stopped breathing.

“How would you like to go out sometime?” he asked, flashing me a smile.

“I-I’d love to,” I answered sincerely. My goodness, I could not believe that this was happening to me. Me of all people. Was I dreaming? No. I wasn’t. A big smile spread across my face. For the first time in my life, something was going my way. And I was more than willing to let fate take me wherever it would.

Anais Nin
Anais Nin
Thespian

Feb-6-2010 00:46

Mrs. Coleman Lives for a Day

She stared at the horizon as the sky slowly lightened from the bluish-grey of night just before dawn to the orangish pink of the sun rising. Another sleepless night, another sunrise witnessed. Alone.

Her wrinkled hand ran along the smooth grain of the wood of the porch swing as she took another deep swallow of her strong, smooth coffee. Darrel had carved it. It was his present to her after twenty five years of marriage. And it was still here. What Darrel built lasted, even if Darrel did not.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she saw in her minds eye her eldest son get down on bended knee while the woman he loved sat in happy shock on the swing. She saw her daughter sitting on the swing telling her proud parents she was pregnant with twins. She saw the army officer walking up to her as she sank onto the swing and was handed the flag and was told her youngest son was never coming home.

Tears leaked down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away. She let the memories assail her. She needed to remember, to feel again. It had been so long she had felt anything but numb.

The sun was up now. Still low in the sky, yes, but rising steadily and taking on a yellowish hue. The sky turned the light blue of a cloudless sky and birds sang.

With effort, the woman heaved herself off the swing and tottered inside. She rinsed out her mug and forced herself to toast some bread. How long had it been since she ate? She couldn't remember. Not since the last of her children and grandchildren had left her a week ago. They were worried, she knew. She wished she could find some way to comfort them, but she couldn't. She had seen her son and daughter with their heads together, whispering like naughty school children sneaking glances at her. She had pretended not to notice them, pretended that she would be alright.

But nothing was alright. Darrel was gone. Nothing could ever be alright again.

Darrel. They had been together so long that she could hardly remember a time without him. When she had moved into the house next doo

Anais Nin
Anais Nin
Thespian

Feb-6-2010 00:47

Darrel. They had been together so long that she could hardly remember a time without him. When she had moved into the house next door to him when she was all of nine, she had declared to her thirteen year old sister that Darrel was the man she would marry. Angie had laughed at her, telling her she was too young to make such statements. But she had known it was true. Darrel was her other half. They immediately became best friends, not caring for the teasing they received. In high school, they started dating. The cutest couple, they had been named. The two years in which Darrel had gone off to college and left her behind in high school had been some of the worst in her long life. On her eighteenth birthday, Darrel had taken her to the fair. At the top of the Ferris wheel, he asked her to be his. They almost fell out of the basket, she remembered with a sheepish smile, when she had squealing thrown her arms around him.

Seventy three years they had lived as man and wife. Now he was gone.

Restlessly she wandered the house they had lived in for fifty three years. Her children and grandchildren had been after her and their father to move into a retirement home. She snorted. "And leave my home?" they had always replied. Since Darrel had gone, her family was more insistent. She stopped at the front table and looked down on the pile of literature about Spring Village and other such nonsense places. A brief flare of anger took her as she swatted the whole pile to the floor. Never.

She wandered to the living room and turned on the television, hoping the mindless drone would help her stop the memories from coming. She didn’t want to remember now. It hurt too much. The numbness was what kept her from tearing apart. The senseless plot of the soap didn’t help. It made her think of her family, her life. It made her remember. She turned it off and wondered what she would do.

She didn’t know who she was, not without Darrel. She still expected to find his warm, now wrinkled body in bed beside her when she lay down. She expected to see him out in the garden w

Anais Nin
Anais Nin
Thespian

Feb-6-2010 00:47

She didn’t know who she was, not without Darrel. She still expected to find his warm, now wrinkled body in bed beside her when she lay down. She expected to see him out in the garden when she looked out the window, to hear him call out when he came in, she expected…

At times, she could swear she did hear him. Feel his presence. But that was silly, she knew. He was gone. Dead after a long, rich life. Dead before her.

"YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULD NEVER LEAVE ME!" the cry ripped out of her. "You promised," she whimpered as she pulled her shawl tight around herself.

She fell asleep finally, noon day sun high in the sky. She dreamed, fitfully tossing in Darrel's armchair, remembering even in her dreams.

When she woke, it was to the phone ringing. "Mama? It's Abigail. How are you?" her daughter asked anxiously on the other end. She placated her daughter and promised that she would go eat dinner before finally getting off. She shook her head at her daughter mothering her.

A short time later she sat in the swing again, this time with a PB&J, and watched the sun sink low in the sky. The light blue of day turned orange and pink and yellow and purple and filled her with peace. Peace. That was what she wanted, craved. She was tired of living, the daily struggle to survive. When Darrel was alive, she lived for him. But he was gone, and she was tired. Her life had been good, not without the rough patches, but the rough patches made the good times all the more sweet, she thought to herself as she sat and watched the sun's top most edge sink below the horizon.

The first stars started to twinkle in the early evening sky. She wished on the first star she saw. She wished, with all the conviction, all the love, the hope, the need within her, to be with Darrel.

Wishes do come true.

Peter O'Neil
Peter O'Neil
Old Shoe

Feb-6-2010 16:56

Miss Phaedra Lives for a Day

Saturday Night Fever - men and women reveling in the spirit of weekend partying, most unaware of danger on the prowl. Watching, waiting for a chance, an opportunity, the right opening, evil lurks.

The sky was clear, the air was warm, the smell of the sea blended with flowery perfumes. Inside, the strobe lights flashed, the music pounded and pulsed, the crowd swirled and spun, couples in unions of motion. This was Phaedra’s passion. This was what drew her out this weekend night. This was what thrilled her. Nothing in her 25 years compared to these nights. The music reached for her, it melded with her body, and she succumbed to its embrace. Her partners were only important if they added to the experience. Most did not. The rest only filled the time until the next great song. Never one to run with the pack, never one to allow attachment, never like those silly, insecure girls running to the bathroom to gossip and share their not-so-secret secrets, Phaedra found them tawdry and boring. She was there to enjoy the music and to dance.

Too soon, the inevitable time for closing comes and Phaedra returns alone to her car, still carrying that excitement which gives her so much vitality. Suddenly, she is rushed by three gang members who kidnap her forcibly, thrusting her into their vehicle, brandishing guns and knives. But it is not those weapons which capture her attention (for she cares nothing of death), but the baseball bat and the promise of pain and deforming injuries " injuries that would forever steal her ability to dance, and with it her will to live. Meekly, almost willingly, she does not resist. She is merchandise now, for they speak of selling her at auction. Key West is their destination, and one of the many yachts in a very exclusive marina. Throughout the area, other young women are being collected and assembled for the pleasure of those rich enough and powerful enough to feed and consume the basest of human commerce.


Peter O'Neil
Peter O'Neil
Old Shoe

Feb-6-2010 16:57

Unusually youthful in appearance, the kidnappers had figured her for a runaway. That, she thought, might be her salvation. Allowing them to think of her as young and gullible, Phaedra feigns excitement at the prospect of a yacht party and pretends that she is enjoying the prospect of a new adventure. Later she would think about how she deserved an acting award, but for now she is feeling like a caged animal - hoping, waiting, and searching for the right moment to make her escape.

At one point, as they were driving down the highway, a police cruiser came up behind them. The radio was playing “Celebrate (we’ll have a good time tonight)”, an unsettling irony. Aware of the law officer behind them, the men warned her not to try “anything stupid”. She just tossed her head back and laughed, telling them she was enjoying the music. “Turn it up!” she said. Then reaching back, she started tapping out the familiar Morse code dots and dashes of S.O.S. on the back of her head. If only he would notice…! But “Serve and Protect” was oblivious to her silent plea, only interested in checking the vehicle’s plates.

Hours later, they arrived in Key West and she was taken to the prospective buyers - ruthless traders of humanity cloaked and hidden in their opaque luxury. Two vicious Doberman Pinschers patrolled the deck of the yacht, discouragement to passersby and peering eyes, and to any who might try to leave unescorted. The haggling and negotiations followed, and although Phaedra couldn’t quite hear all that was said, she sensed some disagreement. She remained ostensibly unconcerned and disengaged as she peered at the video collection in the corner.



Peter O'Neil
Peter O'Neil
Old Shoe

Feb-6-2010 16:59

Abruptly they left, and drove to a posh and secure inn. One of the men got out and obtained a room, strategically located near the back door. This clever detail allowed them to secrete her into the room without concern for any attempt on her part to call out or run. The men were relaxed; the deal was all but done. The transfer had been postponed to a later time and that would come soon enough.

Wanting to rest, they had to make sure that the "merchandise" was knocked out first. When they told Phaedra she was going to have to take a Quaalude, she contrived gratitude and hopped directly onto the bed. Laying on her side and facing the wall, Phaedra salivated from the corner of her mouth, not daring to swallow, allowing the drug to run out onto the pillow. For 15 minutes (an eternity), the men noted her rhythmic breathing before deciding to pop their own “'ludes.” They passed out quickly, but Phaedra waited. Endless time passed before she was certain they were asleep.

The door, though only a few steps away, could have been miles from where she stood. Freedom was separated from her only by her own will to reach for it. Quickly, quietly, she moved to and then through the door. Once in the hall she ran, flashing past unwelcoming doors as the blur of room service platters passed by, on the longest run of her life.



  <<First Page  |  <Previous Next>  |  Last Page>>  

[ You must login to reply ]