Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

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So, since finals are over for me, I was thinking about reviving the weekly writing exercises. It would be a good excuse for me and others to write some short short stories as well as grow as writers and refine our skills, as well as have someone read your stories. I don't want to put the effort into it unless 3 or 4 people, hopefully more, show at least some interest of participating, which was the downfall of the last WWE (I think it needs a new name!). I would make a new thread each week, ask people to post directly into the thread, and give a thorough examination of each one and hope for some reciprocity. I'm not a writing teacher, so I will research whatever the topic is beforehand and try to share the knowledge.

Anyone interested at all? or got some good suggestions?

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Two questions:

What is the purpose of this collab? There must be something else to it than personal fulfillment. Funding this seems like it would take a bit of money.

Second, are there any limitations, such as word limits, and is it limited to genre fiction? What about essays, poetry, meta fiction, etc.?

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At 12/1/11 06:22 PM, escobargames wrote:

Well I think its obvious whom I am referring to in this stanza. Although I express heartache there is a bigger picture to the poem.

The problem isn't whom, but why. I don't need to know who you are talking about, but why should I care. The "bigger picture" (theme) is mentioned but never developed. Why should I care about you finding God? Her finding God?

I am trying to portray a relationship with the 'King', not a religion. The irony is she helped my relationship with him because in Christianity we were 'living in sin'. Line 6 has a connection because I am saying I will go to heaven and she will not in the current state that she is in. Although, I hope she will change one day.

God=King=Religion. Look up metonymy. Living in sin is not a reason to pursue religion(false cause/effect), and also, you never made a reference to that. Also, line 5 and 6 can be connected (anything can), but they aren't unified. One idea is about finding God and living a good life, and the next is about petty grief.

I am trying to blend the two. Why is a detour a bad thing?

Why is it a good or even acceptable thing?

I think it is, they certainly are judged for it. I look up to them because some of them come from nothing then get to the top, and everyone tells them they won't, and they stick to their guns and eventually make it. I don't see anything wrong with money or fame despite my religious beliefs.

If you feel that way you got to say so, or at least intimate it. You can't assume the reader will be able to derive that idea by reading this poem (egotism (in the psychological sense)). If you don't see anything wrong with money or fame, why are you denouncing it -_-

Lines 14 and 15 have no connection. You say "this" flame, but you have never mentioned anything about a flame, or something that could be symbolized by a flame/fuel. And then you get to wishes...

I am referring to the 'King' who keeps me going, but eventually I will die.

This has never been established, goes against the idea of perseverance of God (and the transcendence, and doesn't relate to the earlier topic of rich/famous or people being caught in the ratrace.

I would use it on you.

I am trying to take you through the poem to the last line to say, despite all of this, and what I desire, I would give it all up if she would find God.

Well, you gotta put it down. If not, just type what you said. If the whole point of a poem is the end, then rest is pointless.

Thanks for the help, I appreciate it.

No problem.

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It doesn't follow the same meter as TBBT theme song and it's a mouthful. Maybe rewrite the words so it is easier to sing to the tune?

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At 12/1/11 03:56 PM, thdrkside wrote:

It is a common trick that writers use to keep ther reader interested. Tell you that a person is running but dont tell why, so they reader keeps readin to find out why.

There's no action and there's no reaction. The narrator is faceless and impersonal. The whole point of the the in media res hook is that the scene have significance and consequence (even if it is not known at the time). Without context and this basic idea of action/reaction, there is no point in continuing to read, even if the narrator's life is on the line, for all I know this is just a scene from Saw 24.

But then again, this is just one paragraph told to be horror.

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Well, I played your last game (which had some very obscure and somewhat silly questions/responses thrown in with ridiculously easy questions) and I'm not really sure what you are going for or who your target demographic is. Is it for American History students (What was the bloodiest single day battle during the Civil War a) Bull Run b)Antietam c)Gettysburg) or something that your average Joe should be able to deduce (Which country built the Maginot Line as a defense from Germany? a)France b)Mexico c)England). What kind of questions/answers are you looking for?

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For some reason, most of your periods are commas, which makes it surprisingly hard to read, especially since there are many punctuated sentences (pun, hahaha!). In all seriousness, please fix that :O and I'll be happy to read the rest of it.

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There is nothing special about this sole paragraph that makes me want to keep reading. It is very simple and uninspired, as well as a bit redundant (if the narrator is hiding, we know that he doesn't want to die. That whole sentence about life/death is unnecessary). The use of ellipsis the second time is unnecessary. The final sentence is a cliche. The thing as a whole is simply not scary; you're telling us it's dark and scary, but take the place of the reader; he can just take your word for it.

I don't understand why you posted only one paragraph. From the sound of it, you have much more. Judging an entire story on one paragraph is impossible, and we could give you better feedback. One paragraph is hardly enough. Horror takes lots of development and edge to--well, develop.

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At 11/28/11 08:42 PM, escobargames wrote: I tried to tell you.
I tried to help you.
Inside, I felt you.
I cry without you.

InternalWarfare is correct, but somewhat vague and unhelpful. Take this first stanza. It is exceedingly simple--which is not the problem. The problem, I think, is that there are emotions here, but the reader can't relate because you are simply telling us how you feel for no reason. Also, poems about heartache are stale by nature.

You helped me see, the one and only King.
I fly without you.
I'm tired of you.
One day, I hope to see you at the gates.

Line 5 has no connection to the next two lines. (I assume) She helped you find (again, I assume from the text) religion. While still holding fast to the religious ideals/dogma, you thanklessly disregard "you."

I figured you would not listen.
Yeah, I know, you're not any worse than my friends.
I was just playing a game.
It's called life, most people play it the same.

Well, aside from the egregious change in tone and language, which becomes very informal (and a bit whiny), this stanza doesn't do much to get whatever you want to get across. Is this poem about sharing your feelings, or is it about playing the game of life and being caught in the rat race (a cliche in itself). It's ok to write about both, but your poem just took a sudden detour.

I look up to the players who made it to fortune and fame.
The world looks down upon them, but I say to hell with this game.
One day, this flame will cease to exist.
If I only had one wish.

I like the role-reversal that the world looks down on the rich and famous, but that's not really so. Why would you quit the game then, although a better question is why did you look up to them in the first place.

Lines 14 and 15 have no connection. You say "this" flame, but you have never mentioned anything about a flame, or something that could be symbolized by a flame/fuel. And then you get to wishes...

I would use it on you.

Careful with your choice of words. "Use" connotes that it's like a tool you are taking for granted. "On" connotes petty harassment.

I don't mean to bust holes in your poem, but this is the Writing Forum. I owe it to you to point out things that could use work.

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First, this is not really a chapter. This is a vignette in one paragraph. Second, the action is very fast to the point where there is zero development. Why do I care about any of these characters. Finally, there is too much showing. Show us that they are scared (don't just type "I mean really scared"). Don't use caplocks when typing stories; if someone is yelling, tell us they are yelling and show us that the son is tense.

Needs a lot of development, man.

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The thing that struck me the most was the repetition; it is unnecessary. The refrain that alternates after every line is too much, especially for such a short poem. I think two times is good; once at the beginning and once before the end. However, another thing that really bothered me is the lack of development (again, because it was so short). There are three lines of positivity before--BLAM--an unexpected turn. There is no reason for the sudden volta except for the sole purpose of pessimism, negativity, or depression, which a lot of writers mistake for quality. Anyway, the effect is undesirable.

However, I do view this poem as a mere exercise in rhyme scheme. Was there a reason you only spent two minutes on this poem? If you are practicing flow and rhythm and rhyme, then this is good. But if you are writing poems for presentation, you should be spending most of your time revising.

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So, when the soldier blacks out he is suddenly a finder? The finder is clearly a doppelganger of the soldier, as you mentioned, but I'd like to hear more of how the two tales not only intertwine, but are codependent on each other.

Here's an idea I got from reading your notes. The idea of fate is interesting, and there seems to be a bit of a duality there, so, at some point the two tales not only converge, but the two characters meet. They are just one entity, but they both realize that there are larger forces at work and that infinitely more universe exist, and many more men like them exist as well. But, the soldier chooses to live his life how he wants, breaks away from just being a part of a whole, and goes on to become a philanthropist (or something less cliched) that he always wanted to be. In a similar scene, the finder realizes that fate is in control and in a paradoxical decision, chooses to remain a slave to fate, and never escapes. Maybe the entity was fated to drink himself to death because of his self-deprecating and regretful nature?

Anyway, just some ideas.

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At 11/23/11 08:38 PM, TrevorW wrote:

Try not to get a Bonner.

ah, cockjoke

Bonner? Sorry, I don't get it.

If you mean boner, you're too late, man.

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At 11/23/11 06:55 PM, TrevorW wrote: Why act with subtlety when I can make the image paintfully obvious?

Why act with transparency when you can use subtlely? What's the reader gonna do when penile imagery keeps coming his way (lol)?

Check, your move.

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Not very subtle (fairly obvious I'd say), but entertaining nonetheless.

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It sounds like you've got the whole thing ready to go. So, I assume a script would just be mostly banter and rough one-dimensional stereotypes (not criticizing, just saying). Are you going for a pastiche of gangster movies (like an episode of the Simpsons where a bunch of gangsters "drop their forks" and "go to the bathroom" at the same time, to get their guns, then, a man from the anti-Italian-American defamation league stops them, only to pull out a gun, because "IT REALLY BURNS MAH CANNOLI!"). The vibe I get from the waiter's face reinforces this thought.

So, I thought a simple, straight, Gangster drama would work, except with a very "classy" comical touch that involved mostly around wordplay. It would be a bit tense and dark (such as the Boss pulling out a gun) and involve zero punchlines, although I think lines such as the "cannoli" one could work.

Just some thoughts.

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This is the Writing Forum. Please take this to the Audio Forum.

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Very nice. Funny and full of whimsy, which I appreciate. Arachnophobia is super common, so not only was the preface unwarranted, but it left a very bitter taste in the beginning and started your story with a prissy and self-absorbed tone (which if refined, can be incorporated, to use the tone for the story; the story is very anecdotal, anyway).

Good job :)

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At 11/11/11 02:35 AM, BrokenIdeasCompany wrote: Can't someone please write something about my story? Is it good? Is it bad? Or don't you even bother to read it because it seems uninteresting? SOMEONE ANSWER ME.

Ask and you shall receive.

Simple-but-sandy's critique was not only appropriate but spot-on. The "problem"--I guess you could say--is that the "story" is a mix of summary and narrative. So, there cannot be constructive criticism, per se, because you haven't written the story yet. All we can do is offer advice on how the story should be written and comment on the plot, as well as other elements such as language, development, and conflict. "Constructive criticism" is criticism that is useful and will help build the story, which I consider Simple's comments to be.

I don't know what you want, but it seems like you want attention and adulterated criticism.However, that isn't helpful, and whatever project you need this for will suffer. You criticize us for "accept different thinking," but we are trying to help you. Not every person you present this to will think like you--you must know that--and unless the ultimate demographic is for a group of very like-minded individuals, than you'd be better off adhering to logic and literary conventions. They exist for a reason.

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Yes, this is something I can write about. A historical drama sounds pretty good, with some subtleties of a thriller; plus, it will give me a chance to get my creative juices flowing. I'm interested but it's late now, so I'll work on it tomorrow. Expect a rough outline tomorrow night. I do prefer to work via pm, but I also use email, skype, etc.

P.s. I don't know if this changes anything, but I did get A's in AP US History (both semesters) and got a 5 on the AP exam, although we didn't really focus on Kennedy through W. Bush. Still, I've got a knack for US history.

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At 11/5/11 12:30 PM, BandSreviews wrote: Hello my name is Benjamin...

Hey, nice to meet you. I look forward to seeing you on the forum.

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At 11/5/11 12:25 AM, J-Rex wrote: Hey would I be considered a regular here in the Writing forum?

I suppose. I've seen you here since about the time I've been here. As long as you continually read and critique others, as well as write and submit pieces, you are a regular in my book.

At 11/3/11 12:57 PM, Fro wrote: Okay, I'm going to start writing a book.

Nanowrimo? I am totally going for it this year.

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At 11/3/11 12:07 AM, RedCup wrote:

Send it to him via pm, dude.

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I'm still recovering from finish my submission to the writing contest, and I decided to give Nanowrimo a shot, but know that I am also working on this.

Expect it later tonight.

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At 11/1/11 07:58 AM, Daze36 wrote: Thanks for including me in the finalist list! Good luck to all of you!
Also, when do we usually find out who the winner is?

The last two have taken about 10 days. So, about 2 weeks? There are many more submissions this time 'round, after all.

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At 10/31/11 10:12 PM, Ship wrote:

At 10/31/11 03:48 PM, J-Rex wrote: So how many of you guys think you will win?

Well it'd certainly be nice... I could use some free money. But I don't really know my shots. Who judges this anyway?

You look pretty good, my friend. Judging solely on format and length and spelling, it seems that (unfortunately) not many people stand a good chance. The people who will definitely be finalists are Kai-Kasume, ScaryPicnic, Ship, Daze36, tinytim, and myself (:D). I usually hope that everyone who enters has a good story with lots of effort in it, but I think some people got overzealous and posted to soon and without proofreading/revision. I haven't read past the first paragraph of any of these, but they seem pretty solid. If you want a full review, I'd be happy to oblige, but I don't really feel like it :O

Usually Coop and a friend do the judging. Since it is actual money this time and not store credit, I assume the friend is someone who works at NG.

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Note: This story was adapted from an episode of "Courage the Cowardly Dog." While searching for inspiration, I saw the episode, and was so deeply impressed, I knew I had to write about it. I tried to remain true to the series, while letting the story be different enough without it being plagiarism....

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"Charlie Ain't So Bad - Part III"

When he heard the men exit, Charlie peered through the window, witnessing Beth's battered body laying naked on the bed, both arms chained to the bedposts. He rattled the gun against the glass and caught her attention. "Oh God no!" she shrieked. Charlies pulled his index finger towards his lips. He wrapped his jacket around his elbow and broke the window, making his way in. Beth struggled in the handcuffs, crying hysterically. He found the keys on a nearby table and unchained the young woman. She quickly retreated into a fetal position in the corner. "Shh. It's okay," he offered, holding his jacket, and draping it around her. "Charlie said, 'I'm sorry,'" he whispered in her ear, and showed her Katie's switchblade. Beth's eyes lit up, and she hugged Charlie tightly. He picked her up and began for the window.

A strong pound sounded on the door. "Yo, Beth, honey. I'm sorry; I'm a little drunk. Please...," and the door opened.

Charlie instinctively shot two rounds into the door. The room was insanely quiet. However, he heard an unfamiliar click before booms started entering the room. Amid the gunfire, Charlie gave Beth the knife and the gun and the two snuck out the window and Charlie frantically ran towards the diner, carrying Beth in his arms. A heavy, distorted beat entered the dark air as bright lights engulfed the street.

Charlie had carried Beth to the truck, and threw her in the flatbed, entered the driver's seat, and pushed the truck for all it was worth. He only had a headstart on Loc Boy for a few seconds, before the monstrous muscle car pulled up beside him. Four shots rang out and the muscle car collided into a near by hydrant, flipping over. Charlie looked in the flatbed, seeing Beth throw the gun away, curling up. He stopped the truck momentarily, picked her up, and rested her head on his lap as he drove away.

~

Charlie and Beth returned early in the morning to the farm house. He ran inside and attempted to find appropriate attire for a pretty young woman, among his mother's historic ensembles. He helped Beth to the bathroom and walked towards his parents' bedroom, and unlocked the door. However, his folks were asleep, apparently giving up on escaping.

He walked towards Katie's room and unlocked the door. As soon as he opened it, A white blur kareemed into him. "You bastard!"

Charlie and Katie wrestled on the floor until a familiar voice called out, "Katie!"

The girl turned around and ran towards her friend, embracing her. The two held each other for a long time, caressing each others' tired bodies. "Charlie saved me from Loc, Katie." Katie looked at him in disbelief. Charlie managed an awkward smile. "C'mon let's get outta here, Beth," and Katie led her away, downstairs. Charlie followed the couple and saw them walk away in the morning twilight. Katie's dress waved blissfully in the cold morning, and Beth still wore Charlie's jacket over her get-up. "Hey, you guys aren't so bad, aren't ya, Charlie?" Katie yelled as she blew a kiss from a distance.

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"Charlie Ain't So Bad - Part II"

As night reared its ugly head, Charlie walked down the hall, and noticed the guest room's door was cracked a slight inch. Stealthily, he approached the door, and peered inside:

Katherine sat on the bed, hanging her head in a dejected manner upon her hands. She fumbled her hand inside her dress pocket, pulling out an apparent handle. She caressed the item and placed it upon her pillow. She reached behind her head and tugged at the zipper, revealing hair of beautiful bronze. She took the mask off entirely.

Charlie was taken back by how incredibly beautiful she was; her face reflecting perfectly in the moonlight. She laid back in the bed, flipping the handle through the air. Charlie silently watched the girl until she stopped and squeezed the handle, revealing it to be a switchblade. Charlie muffled a scream and froze, watching the stranger until she fell asleep. He creeped downstairs and obtained the set of room keys, and returned to his post. He pondered his actions; Katherine was clearly dangerous, and the knife only convinced him to alert the police. His modest farm did not own a telephone, so he would make his way to the city. He made his way into her room, and stood before her dormant body. He reached for her dress pocket, very gradually, and grabbed the knife, However, the knife triggered open and he retracted his hand, ripping her dress. She woke instantly, but Charlie was out the room even faster. He locked the room and ran to his parent room, locking it as well. Pounding resounded through the house as Katherine and his parents realized they were trapped. The young man fell to the ground in temporary relief, before grabbing his jacket, running outside, and starting his father's truck. The beastly machine turned over as Charlie put it in drive and punched the gas, and the ancient truck coughed forward, towards the city.

~

Charlie's stomach churned louder than the piece of junk he was in, and stopped by an all-night diner, hoping to receive directions to the police station in addition to a quick meal. He planted himself in a creaky stool and fidgeted with the knife he acquired. A burly waiter recognized it and approached the young man.

"Where'd you get that? You friends with Katie and Beth?"

Charlie simply nodded yes.

The waiter continued:

"They was the sweetest girls in this piece-of-shit city. They was always together, dreamin' things. But then Beth got involved with that gangster, Loc Boy. Katie tried to save her from that crazy motherfucker, and actually succeeded, don't you know? Loc Boy wasn't havin' it, though. The son-of-a-bitch tore the two girls apart and forced Katie to run away. Police in this city ain't no help, boy. It breaks my heart to see friendship like that-and I mean the truest friendship I've ever seen-end like that.

"I still see Beth occasionally, but that friggin' bully is always pushing her around, mistreating her. I wish that I could do something about it, but I'm just an old, dried-up man. Ya must know Katie, and how sweet she is. If you're gonna do something, those sons-of-bitches hang out in the abandoned warehouse downtown, on Main. If you see Katie again, tell her Charles said, 'Yo'. She'll understand."

By now, Charles, the waiter, held his head low. "What'll you have, kid? It's on the house." Charlie ordered a turkey burger, since Katie didn't let him eat earlier.

The waiter returned a few minutes later, with Charlie's, the farm-hand, meal. "Hold on," Charles the waiter muttered, "Lemme give you some napkins. He walked to the register and searched for something below. He returned with a large napkin, with a snub-nose revolver inside. "Tell Beth and Katie I said 'Yo,' and that I'm sorry, alright, kid? It's on the house...," and the waiter vanished.

Charlie was at a loss. He looked at the knife and then the gun. He opened the chamber and revealed six shiny bullets. He walked down the street in a pathetic conviction, reminiscing on Katie's splendid figure and gorgeous features. He dashed behind a car when he heard loud music pursuing him. He hid for a while until a car passed him, heading towards the factory. Charlie followed the blasted music downtown, towards Main.

~

He remained hidden in the cover of the new moon. The dim lampposts barely illuminated the road as he watched an old muscle car park in front of the factory, along side other modified cars. He noticed a very muscular, vicious man exit the driver's seat. He walked to the other side, opened the door, and held his hand out. A petite hand latched on, and Charlie noticed a stunningly pretty figure emerge. No doubt, he thought: Loc Boy and Beth. Two more figures withdrew from the vehicle and the four made their way inside. Charlie felt a mesmerizing pull towards Beth, and with the confidence of a firearm, snuck around to the factory.

From the entrance, Charlie saw that Loc Boy and Beth were surrounded by an atmosphere of murky haze and delinquent characters. He could see, however, that they entered a room opposite the entrance, and Charlie made his way around the factory, again.

The air was fetidly chilly and Charlie peered into the room, where Loc Boy and Beth sat on the bed. He continued to survey the two, and witnessed the scene:

"C'mon, baby, I know you're upset about your little friend. Let me take care of you," Loc Boy stated as he tried to kiss her neck. Beth resisted. "C'mon, don't be like that. You know I love you. Katie was just straight-up jealous; that's why she left you. Not me, I'll take care of you, baby." He brushed her hair, revealing several bruises along her neck. She pushed him forward softly, and began kissing his, reaching behind him ... and grabbing the handcuffs chained to the bedpost, restraining Loc Boy.

He began yelling and cursing as Beth panicked and grabbed her purse, and the hustled to the door. The door bursted open, and two of Loc Boy's cronies appeared. They shoved her back inside, as one of them pinned her to the ground, and the other freed his boss. "Why'd you have to do me like that, Beth?," he whispered loudly, as he ripped off her clothes.

Charlie ducked and began sobbing. He held the gun and the knife tightly in his hands as sounds of abuse and pain echoed in the night.

~

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"Charlie Ain't So Bad - Part I"

Charlie awakened to the sight of a girl in a white dress, with a white theatre mask, clenching a monkey wrench tightly. Charlie reflexively backed into the nearby chicken coop, defenseless. The girl ambled up to him, hypnotically, and raised the wrench.

"Charlie! Who's your friend? I thought you weren't doing anything for Halloween!" his adoptive mother interrupted from a distance. She waved her plump, white arms.

Charlie stuttered and stammered gibberish, unable to verbalize his tremors. It was the Middle of Nowhere, USA . The October orange heat of the setting sun grazed over the farm and ranch of Maribelle and Eugene Bates.

Charlie's ebony skin glistened under the sun's rays, and his heart pummeled inside him. He looked at the stranger, unable to gauge any facial context clues behind the eerie mask. The mask was clearly humanoid, with the features of a beautiful woman. In its perfect emergence, was something ineffably deformed, ugly, and bothersome. The wrench came down in a mighty and swift swoop, striking Charlie in the cheek, and dissipated blood and anguish.
"You're all the same," she said.

Maribelle approached, sweat beading down her hoary hair. Her face was red and moist, typical results after a day of toil and labor. The stranger was motionless and still, wrench still in hand; Charlie was tremulous and quivering, wiping the sweat from his brow and concealing his fresh wound.

"Charlie doesn't make many friends--maybe it's because we don't get many visitors. At any rate, you are welcomed to stay for dinner, if ya like" Maribelle offered, mannerly. Charlie began "But Ma!" and clenched his aching cheek tightly, wincing.

"Charlie! Don't be rude!" She reprimanded. "I insist our guest stays. Well, now, see you later, in the house!" She trotted off, whistling a tune, blissfully naïve.
The stranger's beautiful dress flowed freely along her contours in the dancing front as she strolled towards the Bates' house and Charlie slumped to the ground, wondering what was happening, tending to his injury.

~

Charlie, the stranger, Maribelle and Eugene, quickly and discreetly sat at the kitchen table for an early dinner. The stranger was still in costume as the locusts buzzed outside.

"So, what is your story? Are you dressing up for Halloween? Such a lovely outfit" Maribelle commented.

Eugene countered, "Eh-that mask's creepy-take that thing off at the table, will ya!"

"My name is Katherine, and I am looking for a place to rest. I have been through terribly tough times-"

"But, M-ma! Pa!" Charlie sputtered. Maribelle turned to Charlie. "Let her finish her story, Charlie," she scolded. "Yeah," Eugene joined, "Don't interrupt, boy!"

"He's just like them," Katherine said.

"Like who?," Maribelle asked.

Katherine began: "Just like those damned gangsters....

"I am from the poor neighborhood several miles down the road. I held many small, mundane jobs, trying to avoid the ugly scum roaming the streets. I shared a room with my best and only friend, Beth; the room was small and empty, but I was happy living with her. I supported her and provided for her.

"But then, she started dating a no-good gangster, known as 'Loc Boy'. He was involved in many dirty deeds: drugs, pimping, guns, you name it. Every day was a torment of misery and abuse. Beth always came home sobbing, with bruises covering her arms and neck. I tried to console her and convince her to leave that f-damned mutt. But she stayed with that dirty miscreant. I knew, I just knew she was scared of him, so I told her about my plan to run away from that godforsaken jungle. But she stayed with him.

"So I confronted Loc Boy, wielding a switchblade I had. I demanded he leave Beth alone, and to stop bothering her. But, he didn't like that, so he quickly caught me off-guard and forced me to the ground. He pulled out his gun, and threatened my life!"

Maribelle dropped her fork, and lost all the rose in her cheeks. "Oh, my...."

Katherine rested her arms on the table, sniffling very quietly. Charlie bowed his head, and tried to gaze through the mask. Maribelle chimed in, "You're welcomed to stay the night. I'll set the guest room upstairs."

Charlie squirmed in his seat. Maribelle hummed loudly while chewing her food; Eugene snarled quietly as he ate. The stranger cut a piece of turkey from her plate, and brought it to her face, however, the mask was in the way. She tried to lift the chin and sneak the morsel in, to no avail.

"Take that damned mask off, so ya can eat!" He yelled, "Whatcha hiding, anyway?"

Katherine slammed her fist against the table, rattling the dishes and silverware. "You think I'm hiding something? I'm not hiding anything!"

She stormed off, navigating through the quaint living room, and finding her way to the disheveled guest room. Her plate remained full. The family was dumbstruck, and sat motionless.

" Eugene , I reckon we don't say anything about her mask?" Maribelle's distressing wrinkled features became apparent in the dusk's light. Eugene retorted, "It's my house, I'll ask about anything I damn please." Charlie moaned softly.

~

After the ordeal, Charlie helped Maribelle clean the dishes and retreated to the living room, resting his body on the sofa. His anxiety faded somewhat, but he turned on the rustic television and watched old cartoons. The black and white static covered the screen, with dim images frolicking about, in childish and asinine splendor. He didn't notice Katherine's faint footsteps falling down the stairs.

She approached him from behind, and wrapped her arm around his neck in a chokehold. The young man frenetically writhed in her grasp, overpowering her and sending her reeling backward, as he stumbled forward simultaneously. Charlie stood up, rubbing his neck. Katherine, too, rose to her feet, grabbing a lamp.

Maribelle entered the room. "What's the raucous, children? Supper's ready! Let's eat!" And she departed, humming a familiar tune. Charlie began, "Ma!" before Katherine's fist came upon his face. Before Charlie could even ponder retaliation, she stomped away.

The strike didn't hurt, even though Charlie took the brunt of the blow. He composed himself, and warily entered the dining room.
~

The family and the girl rendezvoused at the dining room table. A thick aroma filled the room, indicative of the pleasant meal. "Pass the mashed potatoes, please, Charlie,"

Charlie obeyed and handed the mashed potatoes to his mother. Eugene posed the same question: "What are ya hiding from? Ya can't eat with that stupid mask on!"

He received a familiar response: "I'm not hiding from anything. I don't want to accept the fact that I'll never see my best friend again. But are you so different, Mr. Tough-Old-Man? When people don't think you're watching, they show their true selves, isn't that right, Mrs. Bates? I mean, how much food do you need to gobble after skipping your work on the farm?" Maribelle was silent. "Yeah, Mr. Bates, do you think that no one would catch you looking at dirty magazines while you were supposed to be fixing things 'round the house?"

"Why, you ... I'm off to bed. Good night!" Eugene brought his plate down with authority and promptly exited. Maribelle stared at her plate. "I think I've had enough as well, good night." She followed her husband. Charlie sat nervously across the stranger, her menacing stare urging him to finish putting away the plates quickly before retreating to his room. He heard a tinkling of forks and plates as he made his way upstairs.

~