Survivor Island: Readers Vote on the Second Challenge
Survivors,
Your time is up. Well done. Your fate now lies in the hands of your readers.
Write_away authors, read the following three stories and vote for your favorite. Do so by responding with the color of the team whose story you like best. You have until midnight, Sunday morning (GMT).
Huckleberry Blue Bandits
It was a dark and stormy night exactly like the last few nights. The palm trees outside shake and whistle. It reminded Karen of witches, and her summer spent believing she was born to become one. She wore all black, loaned as many books on witchcraft as the library had and pored over them at night, the only time she felt brave enough to bring them from under her bed. Ah, how silly.
Shaking her head, she turns back to the hot chocolate she had poured herself a few minutes ago. "Remember that one summer I refused to wear anything other than black? How old was I? Twelve, eleven?" She takes a curious sip, trying not to suck up the melting marshmellows drowning in the brown.
The music-like laughter of the only man she had ever loved did more to warm her than the hot chocolate could ever hope to accomplish “Twelve, I think, kiddo… you sulked around the house and we called you the princess of darkness.” He was lost in the fondness of the memory, lost to her now, strangely close to the ‘her’ of so long ago. “You wore black eyeliner and lipstick, and all I could think was 'better witches than boys.'” He gazed up at her and smiled.
He looked the same, smelled the same as he always had: somewhat hapless and wrinkled, almost second hand. His big hands swallowed the glass of scotch Karen had poured at his request. Dispite the years or because of them, he was the same (some of the golden tawny of his hair had been replaced with distinguished silver, and his face had become more care worn, but still) she could see it in his eyes.
“I remember,” She smiled heartbroken “that was the year you left.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, unsure of what to say. Karen felt like she had broken some unspoken agreement. He’s here now, and who knows how long until he's back again. His smile faltered, and shame shot through Karen's gut.
She was nine again, and she had broken his great-grandmother's vase. She was thirteen, and telling him to go to hell. She was fifteen, didn't need him anymore, and made sure he knew it. He just smiled, knowing-hoping-she didn't mean it, understanding completely, making her even more furious for lack of a parent to hate.
"I guess it was, kiddo." He looks down at his glass thoughtfully. “The years...once you get here, they start to meld together.
She’s fifteen, and he’s walking out the door for the last time. She gets a phone call at three a.m., and she’s a little girl again. She’s burying herself in daddy’s jacket with her eyes shut tight. She’s a little girl again, with a little girl’s imagination, and if she pretends hard enough, he’ll come back.
"Karen?" His voice brings her back. “Kiddo, I’ve got something I have to ask you, and you aren’t going to like it.”
The End
Twelfth Yellow Knights
I never believed in ghost stories but that was before we moved into the house on Mulberry Street. At first glance the house had a shabby, charming quality, but when I looked closely I could almost feel the hate radiating from it. I tried to tell my parents that we shouldn’t move in - that the house was evil - but they dismissed my warnings. And who could blame them? Who would have listened to an eight-year-old who had just been pulled away from everything she had ever known?
I think that perhaps, if the ‘disturbances’ - and I use that term as a severe understatement - had started sooner my parents might have seen the connection. They might have seen that it was the house that was causing it. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe nothing could have changed what eventually happened. Maybe I did everything I could. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It all started on a chilly Saturday morning in October, three months to the day we had moved in. My mother had gotten up early to make my pancakes before my morning cartoons started, but when she walked into the kitchen, she saw that the box of pancake mix had been set out on the counter, ready to use.
Mom thought my father had set it out, another one of his recent niceties. Before moving here, for years, his mood was, at best, preoccupied, distant, and at times-- worse. He had never done the little things he did now, like place a new welcome mat at the door, replace a torn screen, or set the utensils next to the plates at dinner. It was pleasant to see Mom smile unexpectedly. Each time, her eyes would still flicker briefly with a storm warning of apprehension, but her smile cleared away her old fears- a decision made each time to accept Dad’s efforts, however small, without suspicion.
Even though I was not next to her when she stepped into the kitchen, I could hear the pause and the decided smile in her voice when she said aloud, "Pancakes it is!"
A moment later I heard her make this choked noise- an disturbing sound caught between anguish and disbelief... I dashed to her, to see the box still uplifted in her frozen hand. Emptied from its bottom, laying in piles where they fell, were bloodied fingernails which still had meaty pink hunks of flesh around the edges. My eyes might have popped out of my head as I stared, but Mom threw down the box, wrapped her hand around my forehead, and shielded me against her stomach.
“Don’t look!” she replied sharply. “Richard!”
The next I knew Mom and I were in the foyer as Dad came lumbering down the stairs in his ratty flannel robe and hot pink slippers-they were actually Mom’s but he liked them.
“What’s all the yammering?”
“Is this some sick joke? Did you do that?” Mom said, her hand retracting from my forehead and motioning to the kitchen. I watched him move into the kitchen and study the counter. He rubbed the back of his neck then turned to us with something in his hand.
“What’s the big deal? Looks like they put Frosted Flakes in the box by mistake, they come from the same company.” He shrugged and popped it in his mouth. Mom screeched and I almost heaved until he moved away reveling a pile of cereal.
“Mom,” I whispered. “I saw fingernails…now they’re gone.”
“Fingernails?” She glanced down at me. “Not fingernails, honey, it was just cereal. It's okay.” She smiled and smoothed my hair, then sighed and looked up at Dad. “The welcome mat and the screen were nice, but are you sure we can keep a living boy here?”
“Oh,” said Dad. “Can we talk privately for a minute?”
As soon as Mom let me go and closed the kitchen door behind me, I shoved my feet into my pink Keds and fumbled hurriedly with the laces. Mom and Dad - they’re in league with the house, I thought. I grabbed the handle of the sliding door, but it wouldn’t budge. The lock was stuck. I backed up to the other side of the living room, planning to rush the door. But when I looked up at the glass, I stopped in my tracks. Blood-red letters had appeared across the sliding door:
I made your father happy. Don’t you want to be happy too?
I screamed as loudly and shrill as I could. Immediately a shock wave of the worst hate and malice I’d ever felt silenced me and knocked me back onto the living room rug.
I woke up in my bed. Despite all that had occurred, I smiled and thought, I love this house…
The End
Gatsby's Green Team
No story has been submitted
Your time is up. Well done. Your fate now lies in the hands of your readers.
Write_away authors, read the following three stories and vote for your favorite. Do so by responding with the color of the team whose story you like best. You have until midnight, Sunday morning (GMT).
Huckleberry Blue Bandits
It was a dark and stormy night exactly like the last few nights. The palm trees outside shake and whistle. It reminded Karen of witches, and her summer spent believing she was born to become one. She wore all black, loaned as many books on witchcraft as the library had and pored over them at night, the only time she felt brave enough to bring them from under her bed. Ah, how silly.
Shaking her head, she turns back to the hot chocolate she had poured herself a few minutes ago. "Remember that one summer I refused to wear anything other than black? How old was I? Twelve, eleven?" She takes a curious sip, trying not to suck up the melting marshmellows drowning in the brown.
The music-like laughter of the only man she had ever loved did more to warm her than the hot chocolate could ever hope to accomplish “Twelve, I think, kiddo… you sulked around the house and we called you the princess of darkness.” He was lost in the fondness of the memory, lost to her now, strangely close to the ‘her’ of so long ago. “You wore black eyeliner and lipstick, and all I could think was 'better witches than boys.'” He gazed up at her and smiled.
He looked the same, smelled the same as he always had: somewhat hapless and wrinkled, almost second hand. His big hands swallowed the glass of scotch Karen had poured at his request. Dispite the years or because of them, he was the same (some of the golden tawny of his hair had been replaced with distinguished silver, and his face had become more care worn, but still) she could see it in his eyes.
“I remember,” She smiled heartbroken “that was the year you left.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, unsure of what to say. Karen felt like she had broken some unspoken agreement. He’s here now, and who knows how long until he's back again. His smile faltered, and shame shot through Karen's gut.
She was nine again, and she had broken his great-grandmother's vase. She was thirteen, and telling him to go to hell. She was fifteen, didn't need him anymore, and made sure he knew it. He just smiled, knowing-hoping-she didn't mean it, understanding completely, making her even more furious for lack of a parent to hate.
"I guess it was, kiddo." He looks down at his glass thoughtfully. “The years...once you get here, they start to meld together.
She’s fifteen, and he’s walking out the door for the last time. She gets a phone call at three a.m., and she’s a little girl again. She’s burying herself in daddy’s jacket with her eyes shut tight. She’s a little girl again, with a little girl’s imagination, and if she pretends hard enough, he’ll come back.
"Karen?" His voice brings her back. “Kiddo, I’ve got something I have to ask you, and you aren’t going to like it.”
The End
Twelfth Yellow Knights
I never believed in ghost stories but that was before we moved into the house on Mulberry Street. At first glance the house had a shabby, charming quality, but when I looked closely I could almost feel the hate radiating from it. I tried to tell my parents that we shouldn’t move in - that the house was evil - but they dismissed my warnings. And who could blame them? Who would have listened to an eight-year-old who had just been pulled away from everything she had ever known?
I think that perhaps, if the ‘disturbances’ - and I use that term as a severe understatement - had started sooner my parents might have seen the connection. They might have seen that it was the house that was causing it. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe nothing could have changed what eventually happened. Maybe I did everything I could. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It all started on a chilly Saturday morning in October, three months to the day we had moved in. My mother had gotten up early to make my pancakes before my morning cartoons started, but when she walked into the kitchen, she saw that the box of pancake mix had been set out on the counter, ready to use.
Mom thought my father had set it out, another one of his recent niceties. Before moving here, for years, his mood was, at best, preoccupied, distant, and at times-- worse. He had never done the little things he did now, like place a new welcome mat at the door, replace a torn screen, or set the utensils next to the plates at dinner. It was pleasant to see Mom smile unexpectedly. Each time, her eyes would still flicker briefly with a storm warning of apprehension, but her smile cleared away her old fears- a decision made each time to accept Dad’s efforts, however small, without suspicion.
Even though I was not next to her when she stepped into the kitchen, I could hear the pause and the decided smile in her voice when she said aloud, "Pancakes it is!"
A moment later I heard her make this choked noise- an disturbing sound caught between anguish and disbelief... I dashed to her, to see the box still uplifted in her frozen hand. Emptied from its bottom, laying in piles where they fell, were bloodied fingernails which still had meaty pink hunks of flesh around the edges. My eyes might have popped out of my head as I stared, but Mom threw down the box, wrapped her hand around my forehead, and shielded me against her stomach.
“Don’t look!” she replied sharply. “Richard!”
The next I knew Mom and I were in the foyer as Dad came lumbering down the stairs in his ratty flannel robe and hot pink slippers-they were actually Mom’s but he liked them.
“What’s all the yammering?”
“Is this some sick joke? Did you do that?” Mom said, her hand retracting from my forehead and motioning to the kitchen. I watched him move into the kitchen and study the counter. He rubbed the back of his neck then turned to us with something in his hand.
“What’s the big deal? Looks like they put Frosted Flakes in the box by mistake, they come from the same company.” He shrugged and popped it in his mouth. Mom screeched and I almost heaved until he moved away reveling a pile of cereal.
“Mom,” I whispered. “I saw fingernails…now they’re gone.”
“Fingernails?” She glanced down at me. “Not fingernails, honey, it was just cereal. It's okay.” She smiled and smoothed my hair, then sighed and looked up at Dad. “The welcome mat and the screen were nice, but are you sure we can keep a living boy here?”
“Oh,” said Dad. “Can we talk privately for a minute?”
As soon as Mom let me go and closed the kitchen door behind me, I shoved my feet into my pink Keds and fumbled hurriedly with the laces. Mom and Dad - they’re in league with the house, I thought. I grabbed the handle of the sliding door, but it wouldn’t budge. The lock was stuck. I backed up to the other side of the living room, planning to rush the door. But when I looked up at the glass, I stopped in my tracks. Blood-red letters had appeared across the sliding door:
I made your father happy. Don’t you want to be happy too?
I screamed as loudly and shrill as I could. Immediately a shock wave of the worst hate and malice I’d ever felt silenced me and knocked me back onto the living room rug.
I woke up in my bed. Despite all that had occurred, I smiled and thought, I love this house…
The End
Gatsby's Green Team
No story has been submitted