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Ahhoy2 posted this thread...
Jan. 16, 2013 at 1:09 pm

So, I am not new here and I am getting back into teenink. (Some may know me from a past contest). So, I want to make a contest and hopefully you will find it fun. ^_^
 
Contest:
So basically all you have to do is write a story, poem, song or anything about a character coming back or going away. If your doing a story, describe a little of why the person left in the first place or is going away. I don't care it if is the most romantic story in the world or the funniest thing I will ever read.
Prizes:
(You ready for this?)
1st) 15 stories rated and commented
2nd) 10 stories rated and commented
3rd) 5 stories rated and commented
4th) 2stories rated and commented
 
Deadline is when I can get at least 10-20 people to get in or the 26th of March. Which ever comes first.
Have fun and good luck! Sorry for any spelling errors!

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LinkinPark12 replied...
Jan. 19, 2013 at 11:23 am

This Time it's the End
 
 
My head and heart’s a total wreck; I knew this day would come, I just wasn’t expecting it so soon. The only thought that’s going through my brain is: “Not my Mom. Please, not Mom.”
 
I got the call an hour ago and rushed (tripping over countless objects in the process) straight to the car and sped to you. At last, your house towered over me, a chip in the corner of my old bedroom window, still visible when you look closely, reminding me of the days that have gone past. Days where you weren’t so ill.
 
I don’t really want to go inside. I don’t want to see you like this, not now. Is this how I will remember you? Taking a deep breath, I convince myself it won’t be as bad as I think.
But deep down, I know it will be.
 
I knock, I’m not sure why, it’s my second-home, but it seems polite. You don’t answer the door like you usually do, instead someone in a white gown with a hard, stern face. She doesn’t care about you, does she? She just cares about her pay check which is undoubtedly a large amount – being a nurse pays well, or so I’ve heard.
 
I barge straight past her (no time for formalities) and head to the bedroom. Voices echo down the stairwell, concerned and distressed voices. My mother among them. I’m crying inside, weeping, wishing for things to be different, screaming, praying to God, doing everything I can to help you. It won’t make a difference.
 
My footsteps are heard and the voices quieten down as I enter, only to be greeted by the pitiful looks on the nurse’s faces.
“Hey, Mom,” I whisper, hurrying to your side, trying to ignore the nurse’s expressions.
“Sarah…” she mutters under the breath.
“Sarah? I think it’s best if we talk,” the stern-faced nurse has followed me up the stairs.
“I want to talk to my Mom first,” I reply coldly, but soothing again when I glance at my Mom’s feeble state.
“Very well,” she nods and exits, ushering the nurses along with her.
“Hey, Mom,” I repeat, begging God or anyone, anyone who cares, for this not to be true.
“Sarah.” She sits up slightly and opens up her palm, asking silently for my comfort. “I know this past year has been a roller-coaster and I’ve recovered the past few times, but…”
“Shh, Mom. It’ll be okay. Just stay strong,” I whisper, swallowing a sob. I tug at some of the wires attached to her body, reassured by the steady beat on the heart monitor.
“Sarah…”
“Mom, don’t go.” A silent tear slips down my cheek.
“The cancer’s too over-powering.” My heart quickens as I realise by the heart monitor that hers is slowing.
“I love you, Sarah.” Another tear, followed by another.
“I love you too, Mom,” I reply, going high-pitch at the end as I can’t hold the sob back this time. I squeeze her hand and lean down and kiss it softly.
 
The heart monitor slows and my Mom utters her last words, barely audible as I feel the life drain from her body. “This time it’s the end.”
 
((I know this story is about death, but technically the person is going away. Hope you liked it.))

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Jan. 20, 2013 at 9:34 am

What once was Lost
 
The night was an oil painting hung to dry, textured patches of blue and black fluttering in a slight breeze; the dim light of the street lamps wavered ever so slightly as an enigmatic figure passed beneath its arching neck. The woman was a living shadow, whispering soothing words that were lost in the wind, destined to spiral through the night sky for eternity, echoing the woman’s voice to the emptiness beyond. She was quite out of place in a world where optimism was determined by electronics, and wars settled with explosives rather than people.

    Her burden was physically quite light, though it weighed on her heart like an iron rod bent and coiled over her chest. It writhed in a bundle of animal pelts, her only child, oblivious to the biting cold, conscious only of the song that her mother murmured to her through the darkness.
She did not understand the words that vanished as they melded with the night, the breeze blowing them steadily away, lithe and swift, more so than the fastest sprinter alive. Yet as tranquil as the song seemed to be, her mother was left with the bitter irony of her music. How cruel it was that the tale behind the restful song was the tale that gave rise to such a journey on a raw winter night. But as the dry cold began to seep into her bones, the woman spotted her destination, a golden speck in the distance that flickered as the snowflakes passed over its glow.
    She started toward the light, both relief and dread spreading throughout her mind, bringing a dull ache to both her fingers, numb with frostbite, and her heart, which she wished could numb, only to end the pain of that night’s trip.

    Still she flitted from shadow to shadow; still she clutched the young girl in her arms. But although two people had left on their journey, only one would return, and the woman would be left with only half of her heart.
 

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Ahhoy2 replied...
Jan. 22, 2013 at 4:03 pm

(((Bump))
(Great work guys!)

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RarelyJadedThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. replied...
Feb. 2, 2013 at 10:39 pm

Broken Home: I am not yours and you are not mine. This scares me. We used to belong to each other, but now you won't even look at me. A father to me, you used to be this, but not anymore — not ever again. You came along at the worst of times, when I was open like a book. You entered my heart and wrote your story there, and I kept it locked up tight. Yes, you read me and I read you, but now we're blind. You held my hand when I was scared and you cried for me when I was sad — I was always too proud to cry on my own. You taught me what it is to forgive, for I've never forgiven anyone so much as I've forgiven you. But now you're gone. You gave me a choice: to love you or not. And while I called you by your name, not "Dad", in more ways than one you were more than that. Your skin was dark, mine was paler than snow, but our blood was always thick with love. Yes, I loved you and you loved me, but now I think you might hate me. You left. This is the scar on my heart, on our story, interwoven with equal measure of pain and forgiveness. This scar, it will not heal, because though it is bad enough that you left, you took my love with you. And I've had to patch up the broken pieces of our family, five large and heavy pieces that you dropped — forgotten — when you fled this home. And now I think I hate you. You left. But you left behind many things: hatred, confusion, shame. You left behind two beautiful babies who miss you, but who will forget your face over time — you never show it. And you left behind two teenagers — not your blood, but we never noticed — and a wife who can't forget. We will always remember, the good and the bad. I think you like it that way. You left. But you never came back. And while I've decided to forgive you — decided to try — I cannot forget you. Trust me, I've tried that too. Last night I found some pictures of us, Dad, and I couldn't see your hatred. I looked for the insanity, the thing they call bi-polar, but all I saw was a smile. You were happy, then. And I liked it that way. I am not yours and you are not mine. This used to scare me. We used to know one another, like father and daughter, but now you are a stranger. And one day I'll pass you on the street, and walk right by you. You won't even see me. I'll wonder where you are going and what your story is, but I won't know. I'll have moved on, and so will you. And I think that's the saddest thing of all. — this is a true story about my stepdad leaving

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RarelyJadedThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. replied...
Feb. 2, 2013 at 10:40 pm

That did not post well... It had spaces between crucial parts... I wanna post it again the right way:) sorry I'm a perfectionist

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RarelyJadedThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. replied...
Feb. 2, 2013 at 10:41 pm

I am not yours and you are not mine. This scares me. We used to belong to each other, but now you won't even look at me. A father to me, you used to be this, but not anymore — not ever again. You came along at the worst of times, when I was open like a book. You entered my heart and wrote your story there, and I kept it locked up tight. Yes, you read me and I read you, but now we're blind. You held my hand when I was scared and you cried for me when I was sad — I was always too proud to cry on my own. You taught me what it is to forgive, for I've never forgiven anyone so much as I've forgiven you. But now you're gone. You gave me a choice: to love you or not. And while I called you by your name, not "Dad", in more ways than one you were more than that. Your skin was dark, mine was paler than snow, but our blood was always thick with love. Yes, I loved you and you loved me, but now I think you might hate me.
You left. This is the scar on my heart, on our story, interwoven with equal measure of pain and forgiveness. This scar, it will not heal, because though it is bad enough that you left, you took my love with you. And I've had to patch up the broken pieces of our family, five large and heavy pieces that you dropped — forgotten — when you fled this home. And now I think I hate you. You left. But you left behind many things: hatred, confusion, shame. You left behind two beautiful babies who miss you, but who will forget your face over time — you never show it. And you left behind two teenagers — not your blood, but we never noticed — and a wife who can't forget. We will always remember, the good and the bad. I think you like it that way.
You left. But you never came back. And while I've decided to forgive you — decided to try — I cannot forget you. Trust me, I've tried that too. Last night I found some pictures of us, Dad, and I couldn't see your hatred. I looked for the insanity, the thing they call bi-polar, but all I saw was a smile. You were happy, then. And I liked it that way. I am not yours and you are not mine. This used to scare me. We used to know one another, like father and daughter, but now you are a stranger. And one day I'll pass you on the street, and walk right by you. You won't even see me. I'll wonder where you are going and what your story is, but I won't know. I'll have moved on, and so will you. And I think that's the saddest thing of all.

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RarelyJadedThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. replied...
Feb. 2, 2013 at 10:42 pm

Ugh never mind. Sorry

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