Fanfiction and Short Stories

[HappinessMan]

Instead of threads clogging up the infant Literature forums, post what you have written as fanfiction, or your own short stories. I figure theres alot of Video Game fanfiction lying around Explosm.

[Crabstick]

I wrote this last year for my creative course. Got published, lemme know what ya think. Heads up, it's kinda long.

The Red Shirt


Ambition. Desire. Knowing that there’s something more out there. A sense of belonging.



These were all things that had never occurred to Doug.



Doug was at best a simple man, so full of mediocrity that he was practically unable to argue, never had any of his own opinions and believed in zero variety. Life did not rush him by, nor did it drag on for him at any point. He was never late, rarely early, and always greeted people with a respectful yet unsurprisingly plain greeting. He spoke only when spoken to and asserted his authority upon nobody. He caught the bus everywhere, always sitting in silence, staring out the window. To the school kids on the bus, he was something of a joke. But Doug didn’t mind, he just blinked a few times when they laughed openly at him and resumed his intimate staring routine.



Power. Respect. The ability to make people fall in line.



All feelings that Doug never wanted.



Doug was a departmental regional assistant managerial supervisor of pre-production in a hose factory. His job required him to ensure that everything was normal, and nobody did it better than Doug. He would spend all day measuring the width of the hose openings, the quality of the plastic tubing and ensuring that everybody who worked under him was functioning at a normal level. He did not believe in pushing his inferiors (a term he felt he might dislike if he considered it for long enough) so let them work at their own pace. He met with his boss on a weekly basis, assuring him that everything was normal. His boss would erupt into laughter every time, although Doug didn’t quite understand why. Jokes often went over his head, but on the few times he realised they had done so he did not feel any sense of loss or misunderstanding, because he didn’t really believe in living in the past.



Opinion. Charisma. A penchant for exploring the unknown.



All his life, Doug had lacked these things.



Doug was an eye-catching person, for all the wrong reasons. He was an unobtrusive and plain, never turned heads but was still noticed, often as part of the backdrop or scenery. His ability to make himself so unimportant in appearance was second to none. The chameleon, some called him, because it was widely believed he could be sitting alone in a room and you could look straight past him as you walked in. He had apparently never stumbled across the realisation that clothing could be colored. He wore black or white, and on certain occasions he had a grey sweater that he felt was suitable to wear. All his shirts were plain button-ups, he pressed his slacks were in an identical fashion each day and he wore grey loafers, which did not require polishing while at the same time did not show any scuffs. His hair conformed to his clothing, black with a touch of grey, parted straight and neatly up the middle, and sat flat and still by itself, without the aid of any creams, lotions or other hair care products (although it’s not known if this is because he chose to adopt an all-natural look, or because he never realised such things existed). He was clean shaven, never showing even the slightest sign of a protruding facial hair.



Companionship. Compassion. Love. The undying affection of another.



Doug never really knew why people desired such things.



Being that he never really got worked up or stressed out about anything, Doug did not have to unwind like most normal people. He had an extensive book collection in his house, and spent most of his time at home sitting on a plain wooden stool at his kitchen bench, immersing himself in the safe world of non-fiction. He had been given a few fictional books as a child, but never really saw the attraction to something that wasn’t real. He preferred to live in the real world, where the most adventurous thing he had ever done was walking the last block and a half to work after his bus broke down. He ate well, but plainly, never using spices or trying new recipes. He had no television, no radio, no sofa and no computer. The only accessory in his house was a clock his workmates had given him for Christmas last year. He would often stare at the black hands flicking their way along its white face, counting seconds for as long as he could. He didn’t blink very often. He slept in a single bed, always sleeping at the same time and waking up at the same time in exactly the same position as when he had dozed off.



Rebellion. Risk. Letting go of life’s reins and seeing where it charges off to.



Doug would never even think of such things.



Until the red shirt came along.



It was the last day of work before Christmas, and as was routine at this time of year there was the traditional giving of presents to co-workers. He had just given someone he hardly knew a gift voucher, the practical but not too personal gift, when his boss handed him a parcel that felt like clothing. Doug felt a trace of hope that it was a new white shirt (but tried to contain his hope, as he didn’t want to get carried away). Unwrapping the parcel, he pulled out a red t-shirt. He blinked twice, trying to understand just what he was holding. His boss roared with laughter as usual (at which point Doug began to suspect his boss was one of those crazy people he had heard so much about), and a few other people chuckled quietly to themselves. Doug didn’t get the joke, but thanked his boss for the gift, still trying to get his head around it. He put the red shirt in his bag and returned to the party, spending most of it drinking water and listening to other people talk. On the bus ride home, he could feel the shirt in the corner of his mind, an unwelcome passenger sitting in his bag, silently mocking him. He put it his bag under his feet on the floor, but could still feel its gaze boring into the back of his skull. As he arrived home and laid the red shirt on his bed he felt as if something was very wrong, and having such a feeling just made him feel worse. He picked up the red shirt and dropped it in the corner (he always considered throwing to be such a violent act), where it lay, burning through his eyes and mocking his very soul. He searched around for something to shield himself from its presence. He found his umbrella, and opened it, blocking the fiery entity from getting to him again. He fell asleep on his back as usual that night, but woke up the next morning lying on his side.



Fear. Courage. Living a moment as it was intended to be lived.



These were not feelings I ever expected to come across.



Something was nagging me as I slept, some shadowy unseen premonition that something was terribly wrong. I wrenched myself from my sleepy haze and slowly opened my eyes to look at my ceiling. I didn’t see my ceiling. I saw my wall. When you’ve woken up and seen your ceiling every morning for as long as you can remember, the concept of waking up and seeing something else is extremely peculiar. I felt as if I had woken up in a completely different location. It troubled me. I tried to remember why I was troubled, and as I reflected on whether I’d had a good night’s sleep or not I recalled that my mind had been heavy when I lay myself down for the night. I rolled over onto my back, taking small comfort in the familiar sight of cracked, peeling paint high above my head. I gazed at the roof for some time, then sat up, trying to bring back to mind what it was that made me troubled. I saw my umbrella, opened and blocking off the corner of the room. For only the slightest moment did I wonder why my umbrella was opened and inside my room. Then I remembered it.



The shirt. It was red. I don’t know why he gave me a red shirt. Red isn’t my color. I remembered the red shirt toying with me. It spoke words to me but I couldn’t hear them. It laughed, but I didn’t know anything was funny. If I saw it out of the corner of my eyes it burned them, yearning to be looked at. If I looked at it, it just stared back. I didn’t like this shirt, and it didn’t like me. I jumped out of bed, pulling my doona with me as I rose. Slowly I approached the umbrella. I didn’t want to alarm the shirt, so I took my time, keeping my eyes fixed on the umbrella, willing it to shield me from the perils of the red brute. I drew nearer and nearer to the corner, then paused, ready to strike. A bead of sweat ran down my face and I stood there, poised, waiting to see if it reacted to my presence. After a minute that stretched into a day that took an eon to come to pass, I lunged towards the umbrella, covering it with the doona. I heard the shirt cry out in surprise but did my best to shut my ears to its horrible voice. The doona muffled the sound, and I left the room quickly, pausing long enough only to take a white shirt and a pair of pressed slacks from my dresser.



Anger. Frustration. Allowing myself to be disrespectful.



I never even knew such feelings existed.



Have you ever felt like there was a shadow, or some sort of looming presence following you? As I sat on the bus that morning I could see a red blur in the back of my mind. Every time I turned my head it remained just out of sight, tugging at the corners of my eyes. I tried catching it out; turning my head quickly to grab more than just a fleeting glimpse of it, but no matter which way I turned or how quick I was it just stayed where it was. I was vaguely aware of the school children sitting a few seats behind me. I heard a comment, followed by snide laughter and a rude judgement. On top of everything I was facing due to my red demon, I now had to deal with arrogant teenagers. I turned and looked at them, lounged haphazardly across several seats, their feet up, acting for all the world as if they owned the bus. They noticed me looking straight away. Most of them looked nervous, refusing to make eye contact. One stared straight back at me however, his eyes showing no remorse that he had offended a total stranger. I turned back to the front, and all manner of words and expressions popped into my head. I envisaged myself doing things, acts of violence and bullying. I was scared. These thoughts weren’t mine. As I tried to shake the thoughts and reclaim control of my mind, the school kids started filing off the bus. They walked past me without incident, save for the one. As he passed my seat he let his bag slip slightly from the shoulder, and it hit me in the back of the head. I did something I never have before: I reacted. Full of rage and pent-up retaliation, I stood up from my seat and grabbed the idiot boy around the wrist. He turned in surprise, and I saw a look of fear flash briefly across his steely eyes. As I stared at him, trying to figure out my next move, my eyes were caught by his attire. He wore his school sport’s uniform, and from underneath the black and white sports jacket I saw a monstrosity. A red shirt. Not a t-shirt like the one that sat brooding in my house, but a polo shirt. I let go of his wrist and sat down quickly, forcing myself to stare at the floor. The boy looked at me for a moment before turning to join his friends. This trouble, this treachery ran deeper than I thought. The red shirt had contaminated other forms of clothing. It was breeding.



Coldness. Hunger. Being lost in the dark.



I was being held prisoner by cotton.



I stood in the kitchen at home that evening. I was afraid to go into my bedroom. The shirt was able to resist the umbrella and overcome the doona. I needed to block its evil or get rid of it. But how would it react to its imminent disposal? Would it consume me entirely and leave me wandering in a miasma of my own despair? I looked around for something to block its hatred. My life of self-inflicted minimalism, I now realised, was nothing more than a pre-emptive strike by the red shirt. It had been manipulating me for years and now it came to claim my soul. I grabbed the clock off the wall, and holding it like a shield, I advanced slowly into my bedroom. The small pile in my corner radiated hatred, but the clock’s moving hands provided me with a sustainable barrier. Holding my shield above my head, I grabbed my mattress and pushed it into the corner, leaning it up against the wall. The sheets that were still on it fanned out, creating a pyramid of sorts. As a final touch, I placed the clock on the mattress. The shirt would have to navigate the clock’s circuits to get me. I backed out of the room and shut the door, realising as I did that my hands were shaking and I was drenched with sweat. My breathing was short and fast, and soon my head began feeling empty. I felt my consciousness slide away and fell to the floor.



The ability to take life.



The power, I realised, lay dormant within everybody.



My dreams were hunted by the red shirt again. The clock had turned red, and each tick of the second hand was like a tiny demon stabbing me in the back of the head. I didn’t sleep much, waking up frequently on the uncomfortable floor and each time crying from the horrors that sat in the corner under a makeshift barrier just metres away. I knew I had to get rid of the shirt, but the idea of it scared me. Confronting fears is one of those clichés everybody uses, but to do it would be something else. I stood in the kitchen and watched the sun drift slowly through the window as I thought of freeing myself from the red shirt. Without hesitating a moment longer, I threw open the door to my bedroom and charged in, tearing away my barrier and seizing the shirt. Its very touch burned my hand, and I could feel its mocking laughter in my head, a cruel entity laughing at the suffering of an inferior being. I shoved the shirt into my bag and left, still wearing the previous day’s clothes. The bus ride to work was uneventful, and the aching pain of the shirt increased at it realised its own doom was imminent. The boss’s car was the only one parked at work. I walked straight into his office and told him he needed to take back the shirt. He laughed. I don’t know why he laughed, but to him, my suffering and the hell I was living in was just a joke.



Rage overwhelmed me. Adrenaline seeped into my being. Armed with this red shirt and these newfound feelings, I was a god. Nobody laughs in the face of a god. I screamed a gargled curse in a long-dead tongue and vaulted over my boss’s desk. His surprised reaction had only just registered when I collided with him, knocking him backwards and causing his head to crash into the ground. I knelt on his arms, pinning him to the floor. Taking advantage of his momentary stunned state, I seized the pens and pencils from his jar. Holding them high above my head, I prepared myself to undo all that had been inflicted on me. As he blinked his eyes clear and looked at me full in the face, I think he realised what he had done. I drove the pens down, stabbing them into his stomach. He screamed, and I felt a rush of exultant power. I stabbed him again, and again, numb to his screams and cries of pain. I don’t know how many times I stabbed him, or how long after his body lay still I kept going. I heard the bell over the front door open, the tinkling bringing me back to my senses. I shook myself mentally and stood up slowly, taking in the scene I had created. My boss lay on the floor, a look of fear and helplessness on his face. His body was stained with red. I now understood. He had been contaminated by the red shirt; his very person now oozed red from his puncture wounds. I dropped the pens and looked at my hands, my implements of death. The red had spread to me. I glanced at the mirror on the wall. The red had started to contaminate even my white shirts. Half-covered in red, I fled the scene, taking my bag with me. I knew vaguely that I had to end it, stop myself and the shirt before anything else evil came to pass. I cleared my mind of all that had built up over the last few days.



The wind battered Doug’s hair as he stood on the bridge. He knew the red shirt had to be destroyed, and was prepared to sacrifice his own life in order to stop it. Doug pulled the shirt on, ignoring the burning it inflicted upon him and the pure evil that now radiated throughout his entire body. He summoned all his willpower to fight the unnaturalness and climbed onto the railing on the side of the bridge. For a moment, Doug had known what it was like to hold the power of life in his open hands, and the rush of pleasure it brought to clench those hands shut. He had known fear, he had known confusion and despair. Aggression had not served him well, and submission was not an answer. He held his arms out, embracing the sun for one last time. Then he leaned forward and began to fly. He could hear the red shirt screaming, tearing at him to try to get loose. He held it in place, feeling a huge rush of victory. As the wind swept his hair and the ground below came rushing up, he knew he had won. He knew the shirt was afraid of him, afraid of the permanence of death. Not Doug though, he wasn’t afraid.



He was free.

[timbot]

Hmm...it kept me reading, but in the end I was disappointed. It was an interesting technique to give those key words about what Doug was not, then write a paragraph. But, it seemed like most of them were pointless. He doesn't ever achieve any of them, really. When did he ever "Live a moment as it was intended to be lived," for example And, if the point isn't supposed to be that he will eventually reach those things, what is the point? I don't understand why his thoughts on love and companionship are relevant to the story. You never really say if those things you mention--power, respect, the ability to make people fall in line, courage, fear, love, companionship--are good or bad. Are those things Doug should be experiencing or not? The general feeling I get is that this story is saying yes, those things are good. But, you never really give a reason why. And, if they are good, and he really never experiences most of them, I return to my previous question, "what's the point?"
Also, why is he free at the end? Free from what? Is your point that death is freedom? It seems to me that in the end, Doug is the loser, not the shirt. What has Doug gained? Courage, and an evil streak. The shirt, while it may have had bigger plans, seemed to have Doug's destruction as part of it's plan, and at least gained that. Doug gains a misguided courage, and loses his life.

Or, did he just go crazy?
In short, it all just seemed like one cliche after another. I feel like you were trying so hard to be deep by bringing up "deep ideas"--love, courage, freedom, rebellion, living life--but didn't really put anything else behind them.

Ok, I'll shut up and let you commence hating me now.

[timbot]

Oh, and here's a story I wrote. I don't want to be that guy who rips someone's story and doesn't post one of his own to get criticized. I hope you hate it, because a lot of my friends liked it.
P.S. It's not short.

They lay on the bed in the dark again. This had happened several times already. After spending the day together, they made their way back to her place where the bed was waiting. It had entered their relationship on the night they met--probably his first mistake. He had been excited to meet someone new when his friends had told him another girl was meeting them at the bar. However, his first impression of her was a major disappointment. She did not seem immediately attractive to him, and he thought she was too wild for his tastes. Yet, as the night went on, he warmed up to her and found that she was much like his friends. Later in the night when Shaunica pulled him aside and said, "She wants you to come home with her tonight. What do you think?" His response had been that he didn't think it was a good idea. "Going home probably means something different to her than it does to me."
On the car ride home, they had ridden in the back seat together. What exactly happened during the trip, he had been too drunk to remember clearly. Perhaps they had held hands, maybe kissed; whatever it was, it was enough to draw some attention from their friends in the front seats. As they approached her apartment, he thought more and more about what he had told Shaunica. He liked, her, and she obviously liked him, so why be uptight and prudish? Where had it gotten him with women so far? He had thought to himself. So, in the parking lot of her apartment, he decided he would go up with her.
Lying in her bed that first night, naked, or near it she had said to him, "Nannetta made me promise not to sleep with you tonight, but otherwise I would." He knew that in her mind the first part had been an explanation and the second a reassurance and a compliment. Yet, in his mind, the first part had been the reassurance and the second a compliment only because he recognized the intent, not because it produced the desired effect. She had meant it to say that she found him desirable, but he heard it more as a confession she lacked self control. Of course, he didn't say that. He was inexperienced, perhaps a bit naïve, but not stupid. He knew that her thoughts at that moment more closely machted those of the majority of twenty-somethings in such a situation. So, he tried to be understanding: "It's ok," he said, "there's plenty of time for that." He impressed himself with his diplomatic handling of what could have been a tough situations. And really, he thought it might actually go that way.
They spent the night wandering between sleep and semi-conscious wakefulness; that state he had noticed before and would experience later, not a state of discomfort--which is unenjoyable--but of lack of comfort. The next morning they got up slowly. Her alarm clock went off early to give her plenty of time to get to work. They lay in the bed, neither making a move to get up, both trying to get a few more precious moments of sleep. Yet, later he wondered if it was sleep they really wanted, or just the covers. When she got out of bed, she quickly covered herself, wrapping the blanket around her. It was as if to be seen now in just her black panties would cross some line. It was as if, under the cover of night, in the dim light of her bedroom, four senses could be indulged, that they could know each other's bodies by touch, smell, taste and hearing to whatever intimate extent they desired, but to approach that level of intimacy through sight would be reason to blush. Or, perhaps, she was simply afraid that, without the dim view provided by the moonlight shining through her curtains, and the dimness of mind provided by the alcohol they drank, he would see her and realize he had made a mistake, that she was not quite the woman he had thought her to be.
He, too, had been slow getting out of bed, but not because he was tired, nor really because he felt some morning modestly. He simply didn't know what to do. It was like attending a formal dinner for the first time with not etiquette training and not knowing which fork to use, or what conversation to make. What did one say in this situation? "I had a great night. Oh, and that thing you do with your tongue. . .wow! Well, maybe I'll see you around sometime?" How much could he assume this meant? She had said she'd like ot have sex with him, but she'd never really said she liked him. He was leaving soon, it would be easy enough to never meet up or talk again. Things like that happened in movies, and in real life, though he had never been able to figure out quite how common it was. Eventually, though, he had no choice but to get out of bed and face the day. Thankfully for him, the morning was easier than he expected. Most of it was filled with talk of headaches and how much it sucked to get up for work.
He followed her to the restaurant where she worked and ate breakfast there. He didn't even mind that Nannetta was there, after all, she knew where he had been all nighte whether she saw the two of them together in the morning or not. In a way it made him feel mor adult, as if going home with some girl and being seen with her were some sort of rite of passage.
He was glad when she asked for his number so they could get together the next day. He had not wanted this to end up as a sort of one night stand. He knew how easily it could happen, especially considering he lived six hours away and met her on his vacation. Yet, he was afraid to assume it would be or could be more--his feelings and understanding of where a relationship stood always seemed embarrassingly off target.
They made plans, and met up before lunch in Brown County. They spent most of the day together walking around the little shops and at the park, sitting together by a small lake. They sat eating their lunch by an unlit fireplace in stuffed arm chairs pulled up to a small table. They were easily the youngest people at the restaurant and in the most conspicuous seats. He liked the attention they seemed to be drawing from some of the other diners, and she seemed to like it too. As they talked during lunch, she brought up one of the things he would later name to his friends as one of the top two things he liked about her. When he started talking about books, she told him that her favorite author was one of his favorites as well. People who knew him understood why he had been smitten by this revelation. The second thing he named made most of his friends laugh, but may have had a bigger impact on him than the first. She told him that she was a Star Trek fan. Enough of one to have six seasons on DVD, and to have been to a Star Trek convention. He did not like this because he, too, was a fan--he had never seen a full episode. What he liked about it, what made it attractive, was the sheer nerdiness of it, and the fact that she would admit it on what was essentially a first date. It was after that lunch that she went from a cool girl to a chick he had a crush on. These were the things that made him truly interested in her, and gave him the impression that she wasn't simply trying to impress him because she thought he was good looking.
He did not see her again before he left for his apartment back in Michigan. He went home on Friday, and when he got back, he went to his favorite bar and restaurant as he always did on Fridays. He walked in brimming over with excitement. He had never been good at hiding his excitement, especially when it was over a girl. He had told everyone about his last girlfriend, toting around pictures she had sent him, showing them off like a new father would do with pictures of his baby. So, when he walked into the restaurant, the hostess was immediately curious about his mood.
"Hey, you look happy tonight! What's up?" asked the hostess.
"I just got back from Easter break, and I met a girl," he told her, smiling like a fool and blushing.
"Awwww..." she cooed.
This had long been a troubling point for him, that his relationships should be seen as cute, especially by people who were younger than he. Cute was a word for puppies or babies, not grown men. kAntiquated, but innocent notions and actions are cute, but not adult relationships. An eight year old boy talking about his "girlfriend" was cute. He didn't like the idea that people looked at him and his relationships the same way they looked at puppies and babies. That thinking of him with a girl elicited the same response that they would give to a little boy and girl stealing quick blushing kisses on the cheek. Sometimes it made him want to tell stories about his experiences, to try to prove he was an adult, that he was not "cute." But he was too modest to say such things to the people who made him feel taht way, and any attempts would probably backfire unless he grossly exaggerated his real life experiences. This time, though, he felt no desire to prove himself, he was too happy, and besides she was sixteen, and the type of girl who would probably call anything cute.
He walks on to the bar waving and smiling at the people there he recognizes.
"Two-Hearted?" John the bartender asks, more of a statement than a question as he almost always gets the same beer.
However, this time he decides on a manhattan. John makes a good manhattan, and it makes him feel sophisticated to drink them. To others it probably just makes him seem old. He's twenty-three, he should be drinking Jager bombs and cheap domestic beer. His idea of a mixed drink should be an appletini for the girl next to him. Maybe a martini for him, but with vodka, not gin. Old people drink gin. But, he likes his manhattans, especially the cherry at the end, all soaked full of bourbon and vermouth.
John doesn't seem to notice or care about his obviously glowing dispostion at first. This often bothers him. Is it that John doesn't really care for him and his stories? No, John's a good worker, he's just taking care of his job before chatting idly, right? Besides, what does he want from John anyway? Just his attention, for John to listen to his story, to hear that he met a girl. Of course, there wasn't much else to the story, the conversation would go much like this.
He: I met a girl back in Indiana.
John: Awesome.
Then he would try to think of more things to say, things that might be somewhat interesting to John, details of how they met, what they did. Of course, none of it would be terribly impressive. She wasn't a dazzling beauty, (He would later try to impress a friend by explaining that she had been in Junior Miss beauty pagaents, but had been told her breasts were too big. Halfway through the story he had felt silly for trying to brag in such a way, and when his friend was distinctly unimpressed he felt even more shallow and embarrassed.) neither was she "amazing" in any other way. He couldn't even tell details about their sexual encounters. What they had done was nothing to be considered note-worthy by anyone else, and he had never been comfortable with such talk. John had once told him about making out in a bar bathroom with a girl they both knew. There had been banging of people against walls and stall doors, kissing and biting, a whole, angry, violently lust-filled encounter. Though John had not "gotten very far," the story was great. His girl had tattoos and piercings and his story had so many great details, wild abandon and a bit of kinkiness--because we all know those tattoed, pierced girls are all freaks. There were no such fun details in his story, however, and so, he mainly kept it to himself. John did eventually ask him about his mood and the conversation went much like he expected. John, and Dave--who arrived a little later in the night--did listen a bit to his concerns about where exactly the relationship stood. Oveall, though, he was too happy to be very concerned.
When the first bar closed, he followe John and Dave to another, and soon enough to a third. It was at the third bar that he started talking to the ex-stripper. She was the one in the group he always sought out and talked sex with. He wasn't sure why she was always the one. He supposed it was something to do with the blend of her experiencial knowledge--though she wasn't a slut....anymore--and she, like he, tended to talk about sex a bit more philosophically, with a more detached sort of interest. She didn't talk about sex because she was flirting, though she had once told him that she wouldn't mind getting him in bed simply because he was a virgin. He talked to her a bit, but his attempts to get her somewhat alone, to get all of her attention failed and he found it equally difficult to get the kind of attention he desired from anyone else. So, after just a short time at the third bar, he felt sad and dejected and stumbled down the street to his apartment and slept.

[abbey]

This stuff should go in Showcase.