Well, if there is a thread for lyrics there might as well be one for posting up your short stories.

I like this one. I used a rather difficult-to-follow format here, but when you finish reading it you'll probably understand it. Unfortunatly, paragraphs cannot be indented here, but that is a minor set back.

Schizophrenia

I don’t know how long they forced me to live in that hole. Nor could I quite say how long it was until I was forced to return. I am lucky, by all accounts, not to even remember the acts that brought me here twice. It seems so long ago. Memory comes and goes. That is the way of things. I needn’t tell you about my past life. It is irrelevant to what happened and what is happening.

(Is it happening?)
[I cannot be too sure of anything anymore. Perhaps. Perhaps not.]
(Doubt in self leads to trouble, Alex.)
[Or so you keep telling me.]
(Go on, Alex, your guest looks bored.)

The worst part of that place was the loneliness. It ever-sank upon me until by bones creaked and my soul could not move; only watch, as my body went through the routine of each day. Though my mind thought, these thoughts could not be perceived. All there was, in this little hole of mine, was loneliness. I understood little but to eat when food came through a slot in the door and to go to sleep at night.

(What night? There was no clock or light at all.)

I thought- I knew that I would die in that place. Everyday my grip on reality slipped a little further. This became my life, and I grew to accept it. I grew to accept that I would become insane after a few more years (weeks, days?) in Solitary Lockup, for I knew I would never leave the place. I almost welcomed madness.
Before madness could grip me, after an eternity in this dungeon, help came to me. I heard the voices. I heard my new friends. They called my name, at first so softly, but as time, its passage invisible to me still, progressed in its hidden journey, I found that the voices grew stronger. I could be sure I really heard them. When I discovered the way to reply to the calls, they talked to me, and kept me company. It was simple: all I had to do was think words to communicate with them. Thinking was something I hadn’t really done in a while. We chatted of all things, from the darkness of the room to the smell of mold that issued from each wall. I talked of the outside world, and the voices listened intently. It was but a few days after I began conversing freely with these voices that I felt vicarious of their will, and felt as though they were speaking my own mind’s inner thoughts, and not their own.
I got rid of this thought as I came to understand that these were not voices in my head. They were people, invisible but friendly. I could not feel them. No doubt they could see better than I in the dark, and avoided my hand. They told me this.
It was still an eternity that I spent in the Hole, as we liked to call it.

(Twenty-five years, to be precise.)
[I swear it was an eternity.]

I was freed from the place after an-

(Don’t make me repeat myself.)

-After about twenty-five years. The light of the corridor outside my room was so sudden I had to shield my eyes and retreat a few steps. Outside, the sun shone upon fair weather, leaving me in awe. It left my friends in awe as well, for none of them spoke. The air was fresh. I couldn’t smell the mold anymore. I took my belongings from the guard who escorted me out of the building. My friends agreed with me when I later would say that he hated us to the brink of not wanted us to go free. I swore to him I did nothing wrong, but-

(You mean you don’t remember doing anything wrong, Alex.)

-But he didn’t seem to believe me. My psyche was aflame with wonder of the outside world, a wonder that would not pass even when I returned to another Hole, the one you see me in now.
A week after returning to the open, life was great. I have an apartment a few blocks from the prison to go to. Food was no longer bland and tasteless. There was enough food to be full after meals. Light was everywhere. New smells filled my nostrils. The loneliness was gone. The loneliness...
I suppose the reason my friends came was because of the loneliness. They were trying to save me from insanity.

[Did they succeed?]
(Do not doubt yourself.)

After the loneliness subsided, the voices followed. My friends’ words became but a whisper, and even that faded into nothing. My friends went off to help some other inmate at the Hole. All but one. I call him Alex. Oddly enough, that is my own name. Alex helped me through a tough time in my life. When my friends left, it was hard to adjust. Alex helped a lot. He reassured me, he helped me think, and he told me what to do if I myself did not know. I am dependant on him. Soon every action I made had to be sanctioned by him, or else I may make a mess of my new life. After that, I did only what he told me to do. That way I knew I wouldn’t make a mess of my freedom. I lost all conscious thought, and sank into the bliss of a body that is controlled by another. The pressure to make good decisions was upon Alex, and he made them with ease. I only had to exist, deep within my body’s mind, enjoying the rest.
Soon Alex said I could look through my eyes. I saw what he chose for me to see, and it was wonderful. It was as wonderful as the rest had been, only more invigorating. He showed me mountains, forests, and grasslands.
He then showed me something I had never seen before.

[Or had I?]
(You do not remember, but you had seen it before.)
[So this is your doing? How long had you been with me?]
(I was always here, Alex. I stayed quiet until you needed me.)

He showed me murder. He brought a young woman into the house. He told her to sit and wait. He returned with an axe. I watched in horror as he pulled it from its place in the shed, brandishing it with a grin. I could not see the grin, but I could feel the grin. I could feel his amusement at my horror. He leapt at her with a roar, and, before she could react, buried the blade of the axe in her scalp. Her expression showed surprise and mortal terror. Blood spat out from the wound, and trickled down at a constant rate. I wanted to run, to get away. I couldn’t. I could only watch as he showed me. He then sat, axe in hand, and called the police. He dropped the axe on their command as they came in, and they put cuffs on his hands and shoved him- and me- into a police car.
We had a trial. Alex put me back in charge, and I couldn’t deny that I had killed the girl. They wouldn’t believe me if I said it had been my invisible friend named Alex, who had given me a break from controlling my body.
Once again I need companionship, no that I’m back in the Hole. I get to see the outside world sometimes, in sessions called “hearings”. My next one is in a month. Alex has assured me that he did what he did for my own good, and I trust him. Where would I be without him? Welcome to the Hole, my new friend. I hope you will be good company. I shall call you Alex. Solitary confinement can be so dull without friends like you.

I like this one too. This, however, is a comedy. It's an old idea that I've advanced countless times until it looked like this.

Bob had a Big Head

Bob had a big head. People stared at it daily, and he had few friends. He could not fit into cars or buses, so he couldn’t go anywhere without the help of his best friend’s pickup truck. He had to ride in the back! It seemed like Bob, already in his thirties, was doomed! He tried surgery, but the doctors wouldn’t go near him. First, they drew straws to select a doctor for him, but the loser jumped out of the window! The secretary scheduled an appointment for February 30th, and sent Bob on his way.
The South Spring mall was one of the few places to get a bite to eat within walking distance, besides the hobo who sells mystery meat sandwiches behind building next to the dumpster.
He was used to ignoring the glaring eyes and screams as he passed, not to mention the occasional 9-1-1 call. As he approached the hot dog stand, he turned and saw the most beautiful and radiant woman he had ever seen before. Her hair looked like flowing blonde ropes, her face… a little hairy. She had the five o’ clock shadow of the angels. Her belly came out like it was filled with love, and her dress was tattered with the hardships of the world that Bob intended to end.
He approached her, and got her attention by standing next to her. She saw his four-foot head and smiled, exposing her bright, ocean-green teeth. He greeted her nervously and complimented her muscular arms. He started by saying, “Hey, uh… do you have dinner plans?”
The woman’s smile broadened, and she told him, “Actually, tonight I was going to have another microwave meal and cry the hours away until bed.”
“What a coincidence!” exclaimed Bob.
She carried on, with a glint in her perfect, crusted eyes, “I am free Wednesday night, though. Pick me up at 6:00?”
Bob nearly shouted confirmation, and, forgetting food in his excitement, ran full speed at the exit.
A few hours later Bob woke up on the doormat of the mall with a lump on his head from where the doorway hit him. People were casually trampling him on their way out. The woman of his dreams was standing over him. She told him that she forgot to mention something. “The first date has to be at your house, okay? I only date guys who make great hot dogs. See you then!” she said, and promptly walked over his face to get out.
It was later, at his house, prancing for joy, that he realized he had no idea how to make a hot dog. It was already Monday.
And so it was that he called his friend with a pickup truck, Osama, and got a ride to Hot Dog Depot. At the store, bob took half an hour to choose a brand name. It was no bother to Osama, who was busy holding a gun to all the cashiers. Him and his shenanigans! Bob laughed as they left the store, Osama trailing behind with a big bag of cash.
On the way home, Bob dropped the hot dogs and back to the store they went.
Back at home, alone with the hot dogs, Bob tried to prepare one. First he put it in the microwave. All of a sudden time slowed down as Bob yelled “NOOOO!” and leapt under the table. The microwave blew up in slow motion, bypassing the area under the table, like in an action movie. Time sped up, and Bob salvaged the hot dogs still in the ‘fridge.
Next he tried broiling the hot dogs. Let’s just say it’s lucky there was a fire extinguisher on hand. All attempts to make a hot dog worth eating went up in smoke, as did the hot dogs. It took him a month of postponing the date to make a decent hot dog.
Finally, the date came. Bob eagerly walked the woman, who identified herself as Jamie, to his house. Her masculine yet gentle voice hypnotized him. They came to his house and walked in. They went into the basement because the police were in the house searching for some wanted man named Osama Bin Laden. It must have been a mistake, for his friend said he was going to be gone all week, and couldn’t be in the house.
In the basement the pair chatted to each other pleasantly. At about 7:00, they ate. Bob brought out the hot dogs and Jamie ate them hungrily. She then said, “Wow Bob. You’re an amazing guy. When I first saw you I didn’t think you would be interested in… someone like me.”
“What do you mean ‘someone like you’?” Bob asked, puzzled.
Then she said, meekly, “You know I’m a drag queen, right?”
From the fireplace, a cough erupted, and Osama emerged, saying, “Are they gone yet?”
Jamie looked back but Bob was nowhere to be seen.

The End

Wow. I like your stories!

Have any more?

Sure. This one was made for a school project, but the last paragraph I added afterwards.

“The Adventures of Bob and John”

On a small but busy street in Manhattan, New York City, two businessmen ate lunch in a crowded restaurant. The buzz of dozens of voices surrounded them as they finished their hamburgers. One of these businessmen, Bob Bobsven, had asked for extra ketchup, but the hamburgers were otherwise identical.
Bob was wearing a black suit with a “Looney Tunes” tie, and bright red socks could be seen above his untied shoes. He was thin and tall, his black hair blending in with his suit. He was the owner of an up-and-coming corporation, which designed and manufactured high quality toothpicks that came in six different colors and five different flavors. He was working on making a reusable toothpick when his inventors went on strike, demanding a 10% employee discount, a large raise, and more cream in the coffee room. Needing money for the raise, he invited a bank employee to lunch, after which he would give him a tour of his business. The bank worker would make the decision whether or not to give Bobsven a loan, and therefore invest in the reusable toothpick idea.
The bank employee, John Smith, was of average height, shorter than Bob. He was also very thin, as if he did not have the money for food, but his expensive clothes gave the impression that he got hooked on Slim Fast and couldn’t stop. Contrary to what many people believe, his blue suit, tan tie, green shoes, and white tube socks went together well, something that had to be seen to be believed. His blonde hair was combed over, despite the fact that he was not balding in any way. His business-like attitude contrasted Bobsven’s cheery but nervous attitude.
Halfway through his Happy Meal burger, Smith began his interview. “So you think that your business is worth the bank’s investment of $2,384.59?” he began in a serious but monotonous tone, as if he interviewed business owners daily. In fact, he only interviewed them Monday through Saturday, which would make anyone wonder how he got so good at it.
“Yes, I think that my company will make so much money off this idea that the bank will be paid off before the year after a decade from 2:45 PM tomorrow. I am hoping to pay the bank off in a few months, but you never know. I will give you a tour of the building later. It’s in Brooklyn,” said Bobsven, smiling cheerfully.
“Why, then, are we eating in Manhattan?” shouted an irritated John Smith.
Bobsven whined annoyingly, “This is the only McDonalds in the area that has frosties on sale $0.49 cheaper with any $1.80 or more purchase.”
The table’s waiter came along at that time, his nametag reading “Carl Personson.” His Ronald McDonald costume obviously was not making him feel any better about his nonexistent wedding ring. He spoke in a nasally voice, “That will be $24.99, sirs.” The two businessmen each left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and left. Bobsven barely remembered a $15 tip. He could not remember whether it was supposed to be $15 or 15%, but he decided on $15, just to be safe.
The two got in Bob’s car, a ’98 Toyota Corolla painted pink with glitter thrown over it. He had won it in a Barbie sweepstakes. He made it to his business, Toothpick Bob, in twenty minutes and thirty-four and a half seconds.
Bob was known for his short and violent temper. Along the way, the sound of car horns, loud people on cell phones, airplanes, helicopters, and a train aggravated him so much that he blacked out for a few seconds and almost crashed. This happened often, so he was used to almost crashing and dying. John wasn’t, so he fainted of fright and needed to be awakened at the door. The doorman, Gerry Deinfeld, brought a bucket of ice water he kept under his desk and splashed Smith.
Gerry told the businessmen that it was 2:45 PM, which was forty-five minutes after the interview began. Once Smith got inside, his curiosity and lack of a good attention span got the better of him and all he did was poke through cabinets and desks, paying no attention to Bobsven’s ravings about his company.
“You seem to like lemon scented Febreeze, seeing as it is all over this hallway,” said Smith, interrupting Bobsven.
Bobsven seemed delighted that he had noticed, and said, “I’m delighted that you have noticed. I replaced the water in the sprinklers with some, so as long as we do not have a fire, we have nothing to worry about.
As he spoke, smoke could be seen through the other side of the hallway, and a few minutes later, everyone in the building was drenched in Febreeze. Smith had not noticed, busy stealing gum from someone’s desk. Bob dragged him outside, and Smith said, back to his business-like manor, “I am afraid I must deny your request, as I seem to get the impression that your company is burning down.”
At this point, sick of Smith’s behavior and angry at his denial, Bobsven yelled and chased Smith down the street, shouting violent threats. The chase went on for quite some time, until Bob tripped over his untied shoelaces and fell down a sewer hole. Both of his arms and legs were broken. He then realized that he had just lost his only chance of keeping his company, for without the loan, it would go out of business.
Two weeks later, Toothpick Bob closed its doors, and Bob realized that, on top of losing his company, wealth, and the ability to move for the next few months, he had learned a lesson! With indescribable horror, Bob realized that he had learned the lesson that temper will get you nowhere.
Unfortunately, after Bob recovered, the doorman, angry at being laid off, broke Bob’s legs with a toothpick from the remains of the factory, and threw him into a ditch, where he would be found by angry wolves.

Your stories are really good. Keep it up!

Anyone else got a story? If you do, please post it (unless you want to publish it, that is).

I've read the first two so far, I just want to comment on 'em now while it's fresh (I'll get to the third eventually). Hopefully this is constructive criticism.


Schizophrenia- I liked it. The beginning was good enough but I really liked the ending (and to me those two things are the most important, especially the beginning). It was interesting enough that even though not a lot happened it wasn't a chore to read. I wouldn't consider the format confusing, either, but it was definitely effective. I have no bones to pick with this story. Good work.

Bob Had A Big Head- I don't know how serious you are as a writer, maybe it's just something to pass the time for you (although Schizophrenia seemed like a serious attempt at literature), but if you take pride at all in what works you present, I wouldn't show this. Osama was unnecessary, and I can understand how Bob didn't see the drag queen twist coming because he was stupid but it was painfully obvious (and yeah, I know you basically shouted it out a few times during it) and by the time I got to that point I was like "oh finally." If you had to market this, I would say, market it to 10 year olds. The The comedy comes off to me as a forced attempt at random and it really didn't succeed. Even the name of the character seems like an attempt to make people go "heh heh, his name is Bob, THAT'S FUNNY." I don't really think there's any redeeming qualities to it, so I don't really know how to improve it. I think you should just scrap it.
Don't get me wrong, I understand how sometimes when people are bored they do **** like this to entertain themselves and if it entertained you, good on ya, but the minute you chose to show it to the public it became a target for praise or criticism.

Oh, btw, as a writer myself, I know how hard it can be to write effective comedy. I don't think I can do it. Trust me, I've tried, I once started to write a re-write of History, trying to add a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy flare to it (I had Earth and the Sun talking to each other...) and I thought it was funny until I sat back and looked at it and realized how sad and pathetic it was. And this was my reaction:

What the **** did I just do?

So sorry for how long this post is and if you think I'm attacking you I'm not, I'm just really disappointed by your Bob story. Like I said, ****ing excellent work with Schizophrenia.


I'll post a short story when I write one that isn't garbage (however, if you really want to see the one I have and have Microsoft Word, PM me, I don't think it's good enough to show to the public.)

Thanks for the post, Obdurate. Most people just say "Yeah that's good" and leave it at that. Some people even say why, but harldy anyone analyzes it and picks out parts to comment on. Yeah, the Bob story wasn't really serious. I wouldn't try to publish it. Nor would I try to publish The Adventures of Bob and John. Both thrive solely on random humor, and that alone does not make literature good. Schizophrenia WAS a serious attempt, the kind I may try to publish. Anyway, I'm working chiefly on more serious stories currently, so I'll better things to post.

You know, it would be a TON easier if you made a new paragraph with the changing speaker.