All you have to do is write a romantic short story. The rules are: Only Original Stories... Also don't make the ending or body too cheesy. I'll decide the winner after let's say... 20 Entrys? First place gets ratings for all stories and comments on ones with no comments. Secound place gets ratings for all pictures or drawings. If none then I'll rate 3 or 4 stories. Third place gets ratings on 2 stories/pictures/videos. Cool? Cool!
Mmm... I don't really do Romance... good luck with the contest though ;)
People call you a risk-taker.
I used to think the same, but who was really the risk-taker? What I remember is how I took all the risks. There was no obstacle for you, no hurdles to jump, no mountain to climb, no plane to fly. It was smooth sailing for you and a rocky ride for me. I looked up to you for how you rushed carelessly into a situation, oblivious to the consequences. How stupid does that sound? I looked up to you.
I wasn't confident in myself at all. I thought, "Why can't I take risks like he does?" But today is the day I realized, you are no risk-taker. You're a coward.
This is how I remember things;
I was the one to write you love songs. I was the one to give you poems and journals and read aloud my diary entries. I was the one to ask you out, knowing you would say no. I was the one who compromised, even though I knew the consequences would be harsh. I was the one who dealt with the hardships and shoved them in the past so I wouldn't think about them day in and day out. Because if I had really thought about them, I would have left you.
Now you may say, "Those make you look weak. You never stood up to me, stopped me." But those were the little things, I haven't even gotten to the good part.
You knew from the beginning you wouldn't have a single consequence. No punishment whatsoever. I believed your punishment would be losing me (that doesn't change the fact that in a year's time, I would disappear from your mind like a temporary mist). I knew I would be punished from the start. And the farther we ran from the guidelines, the more punishment I would receive. You got a good talking to from your older brother. I got all trust taken away. I couldn't go anywhere without my parents being suspicious. I didn't talk to my dad for a month, and probably developed a hate for my mom that lasted even longer. I lost all internet and phone privileges, my brother's love. And while I was working so hard for your approval, I lost the approval of everyone that mattered. I risked it all to be with you. But now you've forgotten me.
So go ahead and tell your newest girlfriend about how you like to take risks. But the next time those words escape your lips, remember who the real risk-taker was.
Michaela Lang awoke with a start. She looked around and saw that she was in a strange, white room with a bump on her head and all her friends staring at her. She rubbed the back of her hand against her pepper blond hair. “What happened?” she croaked. Her best friend Tyler Flowers let out a whoop and held out her suntanned hand to Terrylee Brewer, Michae’s best friend from drama camp, who rolled her bright blue eyes and placed a ten dollar bill in the other girl’s hand. Michae raised an eyebrow.
“Tyler bet that you would say, ‘What happened?’ and I bet that you would say, ‘Where the Fiji am I?’” Terrylee explained with a dirty look in Tyler’s direction.
“Now that you mention that, where the Fiji am I?” Michae asked. Terrylee snatched her money back and exchanged glares with Tyler.
“Hey, Terrylee? Do me a favor,” said Cayden, Tyler’s obnoxious younger brother. Terrylee’s face softened and she turned to him.
“You know I will, Cayden,” she told him lovingly. He smirked and held out a hand.
“Let me have ten bucks.” Michae rolled her eyes as Terrylee immediately handed it over and ‘accidentally’ let their fingertips brush.
“Now that we’re all debt free, would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Michae asked/ordered firmly.
“Sure, Michae. I will,” said a deep voice unexpectedly. Michae’s heart jumped in her mouth and she nearly choked.
“Reece?” she breathed. Reece Harris nodded his blond head and pushed his glasses back up his nose bridge- a gesture that any ordinary person would have found nerdy. However, Michae was not an ordinary person and she found it extremely attractive.
“Well, Cayden, Terrylee, and I all went to the movies together to see a really stupid movie-“He was cut off by a squeal of protest from Terrylee, who had picked out the movie. Cayden sighed and put a hand over her mouth. She immediately shut up and Reece continued. “Alright, so we got there and we didn’t have enough money for tickets to anything. Terrylee called you and asked you to come and join us. Of course, she just ‘happened’ to mention that I was there, and that sped up the process a little to much…..you kind of banged your head in to a tree in your rush to get here and you got knocked out.” He smiled narcissistically. “You were apparently to busy thinking about me to watch where you were going.” Terrylee scoffed and muttered something about egotistical nerds through Cayden’s hand. Tyler raised her eyebrows at her brother’s hand and he took it away quickly to reveal a smiling Terrylee. She quickly wiped off her grin, but there was still a hint of a smile around the corner of her lips.
Let's make it 10 entrees.. k?
As subtle as a shadow, she jumped through the open window rolling once to her feet on the soft rug. The bedroom was quite big, compared to her own anyways. She walked across the room nearly blinded by darkness but it didn't take long for her age perfected night vision to make out objects. A closet door half open, a desk positioned near the window, and a bed. A bed that contained none other than the sleeping form of Christine Anthony. Her next victim.
She stepped carefully over astray items as she made her way to the side of the bed. Leaning over the sleeping women, she pulled back her black hood, revealing so much long and thick black hair that almost looked blue in the moonlight. Her eyes were rimmed with dark blue and black liner with creamy silver shadow on her lids. Her eyelashes looked spidery, long, and voluminous.
Pulling a switchblade out of her black combat boot, she whispered into the blackness, "Are you afraid of the dark?"
Christine twitched but didn't awaken. Sympthia smiled showing her paper white teeth that practically glowed. The blade flipped out of the knife handle with a fairly quiet pang! Christine's eyes flew open, as this was right next to her ear. Before she could scream Sympthia's hand was over her mouth, holding the knife to her throat.
When Sympthia was sure Christine got the message not to scream, she carefully removed her hand. Christine's gaze followed the shiny black polish of her claw shaped nails.
"Who are you?" Christine whispered in a barely audible voice.
At that Sympthia smiled and said, "Let's just say you have had nightmare's about me." She paused, then her malicious grin widened. "Including this one." Christine's blue eyes widened in fear. Before Christine could even scream, Sympthia pushed the blade into her throat and pulled it along until the whole blade was out. Christine made a gaging sound, then went limp. Blood gushed out of the slash wound in her neck.
"Oh," she said using the tip of her switch blade to draw a bloody number 7 on Christine's forehead. "You can call me The Nightmare. " She threw her head back laughing in an eerie shriek like tone. Hearing voices in the hall, Sympthia (the Nightmare) ran to the window and launched herself out onto the porch roof below just as Christine's door flew open.
In the moment the light flashed on the whole town was filled with the screams of horror and pain. Just like the last six people The Nightmare visited. But Sympthia was long gone when the police would arrive.
This town was a haunted place. The Dark Huntress (named by the townsmen) seemed to always disappear. Will she be found?
Sympthia walked down the silent night street, wiping the blood off her switch blade with a black unused handkerchief then tossing it in the gutter on the side of the road. She closed the knife and stuck in back down her black combat boot. Pushing her hair into her hood, she struggled to pull it over her head. A little way down the street, a man walked toward her with one hand around a cigarette and one hand grasping something in his pocket.
Sympthia planned to leave him alone but it didn't appear he felt the same way. He quickened his pace toward her and she could finally see the other thing he carried was a revolver. The end stuck out of his pocket. That gave her an idea. She smiled to herself as he approached her.
"Hello there," He gave her a toothy grin. "Are you lost? Do you need help?"
Sympthia laughed aloud at the stupid question. Clearly he thought he was the dangerous one.
"Do I look lost to you?" she raised her black sharply defined eyebrow underneath her hood, her eyes were concealed as well.
"Why don't you come with me, I won't hurt you." He said doing a horrible job of faking innocence. "My house is that way." He pointed a crooked finger down a dark alleyway.
"I'm fine, I'll be going now," Sympthia said the whole time pretending not to notice his hand holding onto the gun in his pocket until he brought it out and aimed it at her.
"Come. Now." His tone dripped with acid. Play an act of being frightened, she followed him into the dark alley. As soon as the night cloaked them she went into action starting with a blow to his hands making him drop the gun. He tried to punch her but she effortlessly used her forearm to block it then brought up her foot and sharply kicked his stomach. The force sent him flying back. While he struggled to get up Sympthia bent down and picked up the revolver.
He froze when she aimed it at him. "We are going to play a little game," she said the last shred of her saneness fading if not already gone. "It's called Russian roulette."
His face paled and he sputtered, "Are you crazy?"
"Yes," she said confidentially. "Yes, I am." She began to remove all the bullets accept one, throwing the rest down by her feet. The second she was done he lunged at her but she was faster, bringing her knee to his gut in one swift motion. When he doubled over she brought her elbow down on his back and he crumpled.
"Behave." Sympthia grinned, using her free hand to take her switchblade out. Putting the blade between her teeth she spun the barrel and clicked it shut. "First you." she aimed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger.
Still smiling she put the gun to her head, "Now me." The man's eyes widened, stunned that she would take that risk. Sympthia pulled the trigger.
"You again," she turned the gun to him.
"No wait! Please don't shoot me!" He cried.
"Okay," she snickered taking her knife out of her mouth. He screamed as she plunged the blade into his heart. After mere seconds he slumped over. Dead.
An amused look crossed Sympthia's face, "I forgot to introduce myself. You can call me the Nightmare." His blank eyes starred at the sky, unmoving. Sympthia aimed the gun at the stars and pulled the trigger...Another click.
She pulled it again..................
"If only he would've played one more round, he would have gotten away." The Nightmare laughed, "To bad."
Before she took off down the alley she dropped the gun by the man and pulled her switch blade out of his chest. Quickly drawing a number 8 on his forehead, she bounded off into the night listening to the wailing of sirens drawing closer.
She sighed, "I love winning."
TO BE CONTINUED...
oops, I'm sorry, I thought i read your guidelines but i guess i didn't. just ignore my short story there is zero romanticness in it, it's more like a horror
sorry bout that
It's ok I liked it. you can be in the contest anyways. But only because urs was good.
Wait for me! I'm stll writing mine!
relax! theres only 3 entrees! :)
It was 2 AM. Mary Anne was dead asleep after a long week at school. Everything seemed to have fallen apart all at once: not only had her boyfriend of six months broken up with her, but she had also been fired from her job at the River Street Diner for screwing up all of her orders on the day he did it. To say she was tired was a bit of an understatement.
Despite being in a comatose state, Mary Anne somehow woke to the sound of something at her window. *Crack* She was roused from her sleep at the first hit, thinking maybe it was just some sort of drunken bird. *Crack* "Wow, that bird must be pretty f*cked up," she thought, still half asleep. At the third *crack*, she sat up fully alert (or as alert as someone could be at 2 AM) and shuffled to the window.
Mary Anne peered out into the darkness looking for the source of the noise. Hearing a guitar strumming, she looked down. There, playing Friday I'm in Love was her best friend John.
"You idiot," Mary Anne called down to him. "How'd you know I love The Cure?"
"I took a wild guess," John replied sarcastically remembering not only the old band tshirt Mary Anne wore Friday, but all of the cover band concerts she had dragged him to over the years.
"Wait there. I'll be right down."
He loved her most in September, when her freckles still carpeted her body, a slightly paler shade of brown than in the summer. When he had first looked at her, all that he could notice was that she had freckles – a million of them. They spread across her face, big and ugly and so obviously there no matter how she tried to hide them. In the summer they blanketed her shoulders until her skin was more brown than white, and certainly not from the sun. Then they faded, mere memories of the heated adventures, reminiscing about the good times of freedom.
She loved the rain. Not just when she was inside and it was outside, no. She loved to run in it, screaming about anything at all. Life, death and the universe. The importance of flowers. Why the first Toy Story movie was a million times better than the second. She would always be sneezing after if it had rained the day before, because of course coats were ridiculous inventions. Blocking out the rain defeated the point in going out in it at all. He always made a point of putting tissues in her locker, slipping them into her bag when she wasn’t looking. Not that she would have thanked him if she’d noticed.
She would cry when she saw old people. She never wanted to grow old, would rather die than live past sixty. Why would anyone ever want to still be on earth when all they could do was watch, helpless, as their body failed them and everyone they loved returned to the dust? It didn’t make sense to her.
She didn’t make sense to him. Yet no matter what she did, or how utterly crazy she acted, all he could hope was that she would notice him. It was all he ever thought about, every waking moment. At night, she would haunt his dreams.
The things that made him want her were the things that made everyone else stay away. The way she laughed through the sad parts in films. How she could be brutally blunt, then never even apologise for a single thing she did. When she would throw things and yell until they suspended her from school. Then she’d come back and just do it all over again.
Most of all, he was in love with the way she made him feel. Hopelessly and utterly alive.
He could have written a novel on all of the things which made him love her. He could have, but he didn’t. There were too many and they were too specific, the sort of observances that would have made him seem insane if someone had heard them. And they were odd things – they made no sense, not even in his mind. To him, she was an utterly perfect mess.
I can feel the very essence of the dust that billows around me, causing the spectators to double over in a fit of coughing. That used to be me, but it certainly isn’t now. I’d adjusted to the lack of fresh air in the arena very well, and my skill at wizardry probably helped me do that as well. I face a Gilalord, a giant lizard, beast of the Flaring Deserts. It hisses and stomps towards me. I do not run.
I am expected to kill this creature, this legendary, enormous lizard. Its forked tongue flicks out occaisionally, and I am reminded that it is a miracle that there was a lizard this size left in the wild. Not wild anymore, but once. I could always take my javelin and send it sailing into the heart of the beast, but I won’t.
The obvious solution is magic. Magic is the ultimate escape, a way to turn from your enemies. But it is also the route of a coward. It is the route that one chooses when they want simple solutions to complicated problems. It is the solution I have taken all my life. No, today I will not use magic.
I don’t kill the lizard, however. I grip my javelin tightly, and though I know I have horrible aim, I hurl it into the stands, straight at the head of the Gladiator Prince. I am thirty feet off, and I doubt that he is aware that the spear was meant for him, but it doesn’t matter now. I have made my point clear, clearer as I walk out of the arena with indignance radiating throughout my being.
I have not beat them. Not yet. But I have beat myself.
By the way, I forgot the title on that, but it is called The Gladiator King
By the way, I forgot the title on that, but it is called The Gladiator King
By the way, I forgot the title on that, but it is called The Gladiator King
except its not exactly romantic, but I can submit another one, right?
Uh well if you wan't to be in the contest then it has to be romantic. So yes you can post another, but the first one won't count. It was still good.
Thanks. I can do romance. I'm a total sap. I'll work on it tonight.
I don't know what he is now. Before he was a friend, but in the past months he has become something else. I never got the chance to talk to him, though, what with business as a private eyes. But now I am wishing that I had spoken. Because now he is dead.
I first heard the news this morning. My secretary burst in, panting, and I leaned forward, hoping for an interesting case. I did not expect investigating the death of my dear friend Antonio, but life is full of surprises. So is death, I suppose.
My secretary had put his hand on my shoulder and said to me, "Meridian, I'm sorry. But he's dead. Antonio's dead. Shot down like an opossum this morning. They shot him eight times, but killed him only once." It was the kind of talk I would only hear in a small town, where nothing exciting happens. But as exciting as a murder may be for some, it left me distraught.
So now I sit on the back of my horse, vowing to investigate Antonio's death. Vowing to catch whoever shot him and kill them with the very bullet they used to kill my dear friend. My secretary leads me over to the sight, where the body has already been removed for burial. I suppose that is a good thing, though. I don't think I would be able to handle the sight of Antonio's body sprawled on the desert ground.
I search for evidence of who killed him, but all I find is his satchel, which I consider odd, because he was most likely shot by a bandit, who would have taken his satchel and sold its contents. All I discover in the satchel is a ration of grain and a gold chain with a locket on the end.
I pull out the chain, curious as to what is inside. I unhook the chain and open the locket. When I see what is inside, my throat closes. My breathing becomes ragged gasps, as if my very heart and soul are being ripped from my body.
Inside the locket is a picture of me.