YT Story Comp

          Story #1

Liza slowly pushed her bike along the bumpy, gravelly road, listening to the crunching sounds the rocks made under the rubber tires. She'd never learned to ride a bike, but her aunt had gotten her one for her sixteenth birthday. Her parents refused to teach her, as did her sister, Charlotte, so she planned to teach herself. Everyone always said learning to ride a bike was easy, like beer and skittles. As she inspected the rough, uneven road, doubts welled in her mind. What if she fell? What if she started to bleed?

    She put the negative thoughts out of her mind, brushed a strand of strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes, and casually strolled on. She thought about her sister, Charlotte. Charlotte was an arrogant little 17-year-old bitch, but Liza still yearned to befriend her. Charlotte placed her own achievements on a pedestal, and she insultingly made Liza's sound like mud in comparison. Charlotte was president of Ecology club at school. Charlotte was in all the school plays. Charlotte completed 6 hours a week of community service. Charlotte was the top student in her German class.
    What most people didn't know was that Charlotte also cheated Liza out of her allowance often, left giant wads of hair in the shower drain, and had an unsightly mole on her butt. She also used a sickeningly sweet baby voice around her mother, who treated her like a queen. Liza detested Charlotte. If not for Charlotte, Liza may have had half-decent self-esteem. If not for Charlotte, Liza would have auditioned for the school plays. If not for Charlotte, Liza may have befriended the neighbourhood kids. Instead, they joined Charlotte in insulting her.
    Liza stopped abruptly. She straddled the bicycle, put one foot on a pedal, and struggled to maintain her balance while pedaling. Attempt Number One had failed. Liza laid on the ground, clutching her right knee.  After a few more attempts, she was swiftly riding past the houses, silently cheering to herself victoriously.
    Liza rode all the way home and opened the door to her house. Charlotte was sitting in the living room. "Have a nice ride, idiot? I bet you fell about a hundred times. I didn't fall at all when I started to ride a bike." Liza rapidly rushed to her room, closed the door, and opened her laptop.
    Before long, she was engaged in a heated argument about America. "I think we're too militaristic," she typed. "I don't actually support our troops. I think they're stupid and we could easily go without them. War is stupid."
    "War is necessary!" They retorted. "If not for war, our economy would be even worse than it is now! Plus, world peace is impossible."
    After a few more replies, it got personal. "Why don't you just kill yourself?" One opposer said. "America would be thankful to lose an ungrateful idiot like you."
    Liza was suddenly overcome by emotion. Those people didn't know her at all, yet they spewed ad hominem remarks like America's smoggy, polluting steamstacks. "Maybe I will," she typed aloofly. She closed her laptop. She murmured to herself, "Maybe I will."
    Downstairs, Liza ate a quick dinner of rice and vegetables. Afterwards, it was time for her to take her pills: One Wellbutrin and one Paxil. She took a sip of her lemonade. 8 Wellbutrin and 6 Paxil should do it.  One, two, three... she swallowed the fourteen pills in succession and sighed. Now, it was time to write a note.
    "I guess I'm just not good enough," she wrote. Short and concise. That was, after all, how she felt. She never seemed to meet anyone's expectations or demands. Liza scurried upstairs to put on her pyjamas. She then tried to drift off to sleep.
    What seemed like a few hours later, Liza's vision turned red. She convulsed slightly, and felt like vomiting. She suddenly realized that seizures were a side effect of Wellbutrin, and she felt terribly foolish and guilty for choosing to end herself that way. She ran to the nearest bathroom, but she vomited before she reached it. "Oh, sh*t," she gasped.
    The next thing she remembered was awakening in a hospital, disoriented and frightened. "What ... happened?" She queried to no-one in particular.
    "In the morning, we found you passed out on the floor covered in vomit, honey. You wouldn't wake up, and we thought the worst." It was her mother, in a chair next to the hospital bed.
    Then, a doctor entered. "We need to ask you some questions, Liza. Did you do anything out of the ordinary yesterday?"
    Liza then burst into tears, narrating the story so far.
    "Liza," the doctor said exasperatingly, "You really, really shouldn't have done that. You need to speak with your therapist."
    "I know," she sobbed. She probably should have taken more pills, she thought. Then she wouldn't have to deal with doctors and her mother and everyone.
    Liza thought to end it all, when her whole life was ahead of her. Most would advise her not to, but very few would actually try to help her. Her predicament is a very delicate one. Her story, like many others, illustrates the importance for research about depression, especially in adolescent cases. Some would say Liza was one of the lucky ones, but she thought otherwise.

           Story #2

Marnie glanced out the truck window nervously, his anxious eyes darting between the square stop sign on 3rd Street and the hydrangea bush on the sidewalk corner.  The vehicle was moving too fast to be safe.  The scent of cigarette smoke filled his nose and he caught a glimpse of the driver's silver handlebar mustache, still clinging to the remnants of his lunch.

 

            "Excuse me, sir?"

 

            The driver showed no indication of hearing Marnie, his clear blue eyes remaining on the twisted road ahead in a blank stare.  Marnie coughed.  Loudly.

 

            The driver slowly turned his head around to face him, and his face sent chills down Marnie's spine.  His empty eyes screamed for attention, and the crooked smile he gave proudly displayed the holes where his teeth were missing.  He held his head at a twisted angle, and Marnie wondered when he was going to speak or even turn his head back around to watch the road ahead.

 

            "I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence,"

 

Marnie recognized this verse of a poem by Robert Frost; he had to read it for English class once, and it always gave him shudders when he heard his wrinkled old witch of a teacher read it in her crackly voice.  But hearing it from this strange old man whom he had never seen before was far worse.

 

He continued, his hands slowly leaving the steering wheel and reaching for Marnie's throat.

 

 "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."

 

Marnie struggled against the old man's wrinkled hands, but he had a strong, bony grip on his neck.  The old man's eyes rolled up in his head, and as he laughed a maniacal laugh, the truck veered off the path.

 

Suddenly, the truck crashed into a wall, the old man's hands loosened around his neck, and without thinking, Marnie threw his body over the old man's.

 

 

Marnie woke up with a cool layer of sweat coating his body.  His pillow lay near the top of the bed pathetically, beaten to death, as if Marnie was a victorious wrestler and it was the opponent.

 

He fixed himself a bowl of Wheaties and thought about his recurring dream.  What did it mean?  Why was he having it repeatedly?  What was the old man supposed to be?  Where and why did Robert Frost come in?

 

After scarfing down 3 servings of the breakfast of champions, his mother came into the kitchen wearing her bathrobe and asked if Marnie had everything he needed for school.  He nodded yes and then escaped back to his room to get dressed.  Polo shirt and khakis, as always.  He heard his mom reminding him about Sunday School this week, and yelled back that he'd already finished the work he needed.

 

On the way to school, Marnie took note of the frost forming on the windshield of his dad's car and walked faster.  If he could get to school early, he could ask Mr. Werner about the solubilities of KNO3 and NaNO3 in alcohol and water.

 

As Marnie entered the school doors, he saw the project from his 5th grade art class hanging on the concrete wall.  All of the other kid's projects had been taken down nearly four and a half years ago, but his teacher thought Marnie's was so artistic she had it framed and hung where everyone who came to the school could see it.  This wasn't really respecting Marnie's modesty, but everyone praised him for it.

 

He went to his locker.

 

"Yo!" Marnie felt a hand pat him on the back, and turned around as he entered his lock combination.  It was Eddie, Marnie's partner in the community service club, and the only kid in the school proud enough of his stereotyped heritage to wear a rasta hat with fake dreadlocks attached.  "Our next meeting's today after school, don't forget!  We're hitting the nursing home to feed the oldies."

 

Marnie gave him the prom committee pamphlets he asked for, and then took off for the science lab.  Ms. Hawkins stopped him in the hall and asked if he was going to play in the band again this year.

 

"I really don't know, Ms. Hawkins," he replied, scratching his head.  "I'm doing a lot of stuff this year and I might not have time."

 

"I don't think math club would interfere like it did two years ago," Ms. Hawkins smiled her old friendly smile and patted him on the shoulder.  "We'd love to have a French horn as great as you."

 

He thanked her and continued on to Mr. Werner's lab, whose class he had first.  He cleared up his KNO3 and NaNO3 solubility questions, then Mr. Werner gave him his science test back.  95.  "Great job, Marnie," he said.  "You've really worked hard this year."

 

Marnie settled into his seat and waited for the other students to arrive.  They trickled in by groups, and Mr. Werner started reading the announcements.

 

Class was going just as planned, until Marnie caught sight of a police officer standing outside the classroom door.  The officer motioned to the other one standing next to him, the two whispered, and then pointed to Marnie.  Marnie tried to focus his attention on what Werner was saying, but the police officers were starting to creep him out.

"Today's lunch is spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and—say, can I help you gentlemen?" Mr. Werner asked when he caught sight of the police.

 

Policeman number one said, "We were informed that one student in your class is in illegal possession of marijuana.  Where is Maynard Griffith?"

 

Marnie's throat got dry and he watched as Mr. Werner raised a shaking pointer finger to him with wide, worried eyes.

 

"There must be some sort of mistake," Werner said nervously.  "Marnie wouldn't do that."

 

The policemen picked up Marnie by his arms and dragged him out of the classroom.

            Story #3

Okothis stepped into the old man’s prison. He was lying on the salmon-pink bed with wires stuck in his skin and up his nose. His face was still youthful, but he was cursed with a body that gave up during his half-century life.

            He sat in his usual place beside the old man, taking care to remove the diary placed there. As much as Okothis persisted, the old man refused to let him read any of it. Instead, the old man would get a nurse to read his past aloud in order to remember a little better.

            ‘What’s up, old man?’ he asked, placing the diary on the end-table.

            ‘Oko,’ the old man replied. He struggled to sit up and Okothis had to help him. ‘It’s about time you showed up. How’s the ship?’

            ‘Ship’s doing fine; running like a charm. Bit lax on the work, though. Not like the old days, eh?’ Okothis replied, his lips curling into a smile.

            Back in the heyday, the ship had gotten plenty of work. People all over the ‘verse hired them to run around with their cargo. Things had eased off as more and more people bought their own ship and permanent crew.

            ‘She’ll do well another few years, don’t you worry,’ the old man replied. ‘Just keep her right.’

            ‘Not a thing has changed since before I got on board,’ Okothis replied. ‘How are you feeling, though?’

            ‘Like I’m venturing into the Great Unknown,’ the old man responded.

            ‘Oh, and the last fifty years have been so predictable, I bet,’ he said.

            ‘Most of it, yeah,’ the old man answered. Okothis’ eyes narrowed at him, trying to figure out that sentence. ‘As I get sicker, my psychic abilities seem to get weaker.’ The old man’s face broke into a smile, unable to keep up his charade.

            Okothis rolled his eyes. His former Captain still held his respect and fit into his unusually high standards despite his fragile state.

            ‘Have you ever thought about dying your hair?’ the old man asked. ‘Changing your eye colour? Anything?’

            ‘You mean bots?’ he asked, wrinkling up his nose in disgust.

            ‘Now you’re against bots?’ the old man asked, shocked. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

            ‘Nothing,’ Okothis replied. ‘I don’t have a problem with them if they are really needed, but for cosmetic purposes it’s pointless. Besides, what’s wrong with how I look?’

            ‘Nothing wrong. Did I say anything wrong?’ the old man asked. ‘I just thought maybe you would want to change your look, is all.’

            Okothis shrugged. ‘Why are you so hard pressed about this? You think someone on the ship should be able to change their appearance?’

            ‘It is helpful, you got to admit,’ he said. ‘I think you should think about it, at least.’

            Okothis paused, thinking about what he was hearing. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

            ‘What if I order you to implant bots?’ the old man asked.

            ‘You’re not my Captain no more, old man,’ he replied. ‘You can’t order me around.’

            The old man nodded. ‘No, I guess I can’t. But, I’m still going to.’

            ‘And what are you going to do if I don’t go?’ he asked. ‘You’re stuck in a bed.’

            ‘Don’t forget I own this hospital! I don’t need to leave this bed to make you get bots. I can also take my ship away from you, remember?’ he replied.

            Okothis shrugged, trying not to seem threatened. ‘I’ll make an appointment, okay?’ he said. ‘But, I’m not guaranteeing anything. I still think it’s pointless.’

            You might think it’s pointless, but I assure you it’s not. I have my reasons for asking,’ the old man said. ‘Trust me will you, kid?’

            ‘You know I do,’ he replied. ‘I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me these-‘ he was cut off by the door opening.

            A middle-aged man walked through the door. He was very slim and wore a hat. His shirt was bright pink and he had a goatee.

            ‘Markus!’ Okothis exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

            ‘I was requested,’ Markus said. He walked into the room, sitting down on the opposite side of the bed. ‘So, today is the big day, huh?’ he asked. He looked suspiciously at Okothis.

            ‘What big day?’ Okothis asked. ‘You two are playing at something; what is it?’

            ‘I need you to do two things for me,’ the old man said. ‘Very important things, okay?’ Okothis nodded, slightly. ‘First, and I know you don’t want to, but I need you to get bot implants.’

            ‘You are serious about that?’ Okothis asked. The old man looked at him sternly. ‘Am I going to be in trouble ‘cause of the next thing? You know I love you and I don’t have a problem doing crime, bit if it’s this serious, I don’t think I’m the person to do it.’

            ‘Do you believe in time travel?’ the old man asked, not even acknowledging what he had heard.

            ‘Time travel?’ Okothis asked, confused. ‘What do you think this is? Science fiction?’

            ‘You’re the Captain of a space ship, Oko,’ Markus said.

            ‘So?’ he asked. He shook his head. ‘Yeah, but space travel is possible. Time travel ain’t. Period.’ He argued. ‘Why?’

            ‘It doesn’t matter if you believe in it or not. Just get the implants and go to these co-ordinates,’ the old man said, handing over a slip of paper.

            Okothis opened it, but couldn’t understand the destination. It wasn’t on any map he had ever seen before.

            ‘Don’t worry. The ship knows where it’s headed,’ the old man said.

            ‘You’ve been here before?’ Okothis asked. ‘How come it isn’t on any maps?’

            ‘It’s on a few,’ he replied. ‘Promise me you’ll do that, though? Right now-ish?’

            ‘Right now?’ Okothis asked. ‘I don’t have an appointment or anything. It takes weeks to get bot implants.’

            ‘I’ve arranged everything for you. You’re appointment is in twenty minutes,’ the old man said. ‘Here!’ he said, picking up the diary. ‘Take this, too. But, don’t read the date ‘til it’s happened.’

            ‘This is going way too fast. What in the world is going on?’ Okothis asked, but he grabbed the diary, resisting the urge to read some of it.

            ‘Everything will become clear, don’t you worry your pretty little head,’ the old man said. ‘Just think of it as another job. You don’t get all the ‘tails on a job.’

            He shrugged. ‘I guess. But once this is done, no more, okay?’ he said. The old man nodded. ‘Alright, old man, get better, kay?’ Okothis got up and left.

            ‘I’m scared, now,’ the old man said, as the door slammed shut.

            ‘Oh no, Oko,’ Markus replied. ‘You have to live your life in the unknown like everyone else.’


         Story #4


My little daughter couldn't have been happier with her mission. I gave her a lacy basket and told her to hunt for all the pretty eggs and bunnies that were hidden in the backyard. She skipped away, and I watched from the kitchen window as she squealed with delight upon discovering each jeweled egg and gold-plated bunny.

And then she skipped into the kitchen, pulling out each precious bunny, singing “Mommy, Mommy! This one is named Fuzzlers, and this one is Pantalaimon, and-” and she looked up and dropped her lacy basket on the floor when she saw me munching away on a bunny's ears, its chocolate blood stained upon my fingertips.                                     


Story #5


Boom! Crackle … another shell burst and a thousand red sparks rained down. Boom! Here, a column of emerald smoke; there, what looked like purple lighting. Boom! and the air was still until a gasp came from city, followed by a cheerful uproar as a silver shower fell over the spires.

Magnificent, he thought, leaning on the rails of the balcony, admiring the fireworks down below. The evening was cool, with a gentle warm breeze, and every time a new shell burst, his face would light up with a different colour – orange, gold, now indigo. He tore his eyes from the spectacle for a moment, to look into the glass he was holding. The sparkles were dancing in the reflection in the surface and this, he thought, made the wine taste even better.

Another uproar came from the crowd and rolled up the hill on which his lonely mansion stood. But he was not all alone that evening. With him, a small bird the colour of peach. It sat on a branch just over his right shoulder, its wings a canary yellow and its fat underbelly a crimson red. He watched it change its colours like a pearl under the sunlight as the shells continued to erupt. Strangely, he noticed, it was not at all bothered by the noise and flashes. Perhaps it thought it was a passing storm – a whim of nature that one does not get too concerned over.

It’s missing a great show, he thought, turning once more to the fiery symphony playing out over town. The bird’s beak, a black needle that pricks the hearts of flowers, was still pointed to the house, its small ruffled tail defiantly staring down the man-made spectacle.

Yes, the best one so far, he added, a smoky rose veil falling over the main square. The light in the sky was overwhelming. Before three flashes could be extinguished, another four took their place, and all shells falling as if from a shimmering dragon circling gracefully over the centre of town. The cheers now were without pause, the crowds were ecstatic.

His mind wandered to the crowds. Their hundred faces bobbing up and down in the streets, turning corners and flowing around the statue in the main square. He used to live below the hill. Used to find his face in one of the small windows which you could open and a dozen people that you dislike would cheerfully tell you “Good morning!” He loathed them all, and the more there were, the worse it was. Now, they were all gathered in a heap, all piled out of their little houses spilling into the streets and clogging them, all burning up precious oxygen, and in his age, he wanted to be able to breathe in a full chest of fresh air.

He exhaled and followed the imaginary path of his breath to the outskirts of town. The marble of his expensive balcony railings was rather cold, and he had so much wine in the cellar that he would never be able to finish even if he drank a bottle a day until his days ran out. Perhaps he should go there – take the long walk down the steep gravel road and join in the festivities.

No, that would be a bad idea. Nothing good could come of it, he thought, as exiled images crept back into his mind. A particularly loud “boom” made him forget all about it, and he turned his mind once more to the performance in the sky. A flash of vermillion, followed by a trail of deep violet that almost touched the ground. A hissing sound when a boa of faint yellow fell softly around the tips of the buildings. His glass was empty.

As he searched absent-mindedly for the bottle he left standing somewhere nearby, he again noticed the little peach-coloured bird, that still sat on the same perch above his right shoulder. Its eyes were two smooth black beads, and underneath, a small trail of blood seeping from the socket and running down its stiff body. He touched it gingerly, only with his fingertip, but the death grip had loosened and the small body fell down to the rocks below, landing with a sickening wet thump.

The poison gasses must have already crept up, he thought, and the entire fantasy had unravelled. The city was ablaze; its skyline ruined. The coloured smoke had turned into shades of black and grey, and the scene was awash in the oranges and reds of tongues of flames that licked through the streets. The cheers had mutated into screams of agony – women, children and old men, writhing in a mass of flesh in the city down below.

The bird was dead. This meant he would go soon, too, he realized. And if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before they realized that there were some more houses up on the hills to which they could take their travelling sideshow. He pictured the beauty of the fireworks again, but the image quickly fizzled, leaving nothing but the carnage in the night.

Bloody bird, he thought, dropping the glass over the edge and listening to it shatter down below. There was no use of staying out here, now. He went back into the house, shutting the large double-doors behind him. The blasts were reduced to mere echoes inside the expansive walls. His fireplace crackled and spat out a cinder that fell short of his armchair. Perhaps a book, he thought, sighting the novel sitting on a side table. Anything for a little quiet, the city is just so loud today.

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