SF's "Write Your Butt Off!" Writing Competition XIV

[Jotari]

Flashback should be fine.

[Kotovii]

I've just found this post, but I'd be interested in perhaps writing something if I have some time to do so? If that's okay.

[Jotari]

I've just found this post, but I'd be interested in perhaps writing something if I have some time to do so? If that's okay.

More than okay. Activity here seems kind of low recently. The current prompt is a story written in a single scene and so far no one has submitted any entries.

[Kotovii]

It doesn't have to be FE related, does it?

[Magical Glace]

It doesn't have to be FE related, does it?

Nope. My last entry was Pokémon Special related for example, and other entries have been related to a variety things, and some were original as well.

[Kotovii]

I think I am quite terrible at writing a succinct narrative, so do go easy on me. However, I have completed this little project of mine. Please go easy on me, as it is my first attempt.

Title: A minute in the rain

Universe:[ ]

Word Count: 1431

Pitter patter, pitter patter.

The raindrops splashed softly on the cement and stone, and petrichor filled the air.

A searing pain came from the side of my head. Sharp, then dull and throbbing. I touch my hand to my temple as a single stream of blood drips down my neck and into my already damp shirt.

“You should get that looked at, son.” An old, gruff voice called out to me.

To my left an old man sat, wearing a brown dirtied coat and a frayed hat. I could tell that he hasn’t been in a home for a while, though he didn’t see the type to be living on the streets.

“…Yeah, do you know if there’s a hospital nearby?” I said, putting pressure on my wound.

“A hospital…” As I looked over, an ironic smirk flickered across his face. “No, not around here. Though, you’re welcome to wait with me for the bus. It should be here soon.”

I suddenly realized that I was sitting at a bus stop. The sign read ‘Line 44 – Buses hourly’

Letting out a sigh, I leaned back on the seat.

“What ever happened to your head way out here?” The old man turned to me, a kind and solemn look in his eyes.

“You know, I don’t quite remember.” Strange. I’m usually good about remembering things. Must be the head trauma.

The old man reached into his battered and worn suitcase and pulled out a rather nice handkerchief. “Here, this will help with the blood.”

“Oh, thanks. I appreciate it.”

He sat, bemused for a moment. “Don’t think anything of it.” Grateful for the cloth, I quickly wiped off my hand of blood and pressed the cloth to my head.

“Do…you know where we are?” I asked.

“Oh well now… let me see. We’re about 12 miles from . It’s really a nice town, I normally take a walk up here to clear my head, but since the rain has started to come down, I’ve decided to take the bus back today. That, and… well. My legs aren’t what they used to be.” He softly patted his thighs. True, his legs did look worn from years of service. His pants slacked in a way that almost gave indication to their wear.

“I’m sorry, what was the name of that town?” I asked, unsure of what I heard.

“ . I’d say you’ve probably never heard of it but then again, here you are. Hahaha.”

I couldn’t recognize the town’s name. No… it was more than that. I didn’t recognize the sounds in the name. Well, I can’t have come from there, it sounded so foreign and unfamiliar.

“Are there any other towns nearby?”

“No, I don’t believe so. That’s the closest one.”

“Then this bus…. Will take us there?”

The old man looked over briefly. “I imagine so.”

The two of us spent a time watching the raindrops hit the ground and listening to the calming sounds wash over us. It was only when my hand started to itch from the stillness that he spoke again.

“Why don’t you call your wife? She must be worried sick about you.”

Oh. That’s right! I’ve got my phone somewhere…

Odd. My phone’s not in my jeans pocket. It’s not in my jacket pocket. Seeing me shuffle around and feel for my phone, he offered his to me.

“Want to use mine?”

“Oh, thank you. I can’t seem to find my phone…. Maybe I lost it when I hit my head.”

Pitter patter, pitter patter.

I took his phone and went to dial in the first digit. Was it a 1? Was it a 4? 5? This is impossible. I’ve dialed this number hundreds of times. Never mind forgetting the number, my body should remember.

“Can’t remember the number?”

Pitter patter, pitter patter.

“….Yeah. Sorry.” I handed the phone back.

“You kids these days, with your digital phonebooks. To not know your wife’s number!” He laughed.

I wanted to say something back, but I couldn’t argue with him. I couldn’t even remember my wife’s number, after all.

My wound had started to cool down. I wiped the blood off of my ears and sides, and touched my hand to my temple again. The bleeding had stopped.

“Sorry about your handkerchief.”

“It’s no problem. Getting dirty is what it’s used for, anyway.”

The old man began to stretch, taking in a deep breath of the rainy air.

“Do you have any family?” I asked, pondering what kind of people would let an old man like this walk the mountain trails alone.

“I did. They’ve all left now, busy and all that.” He responded solemnly, his voice cracking a little in the end.

“I do hope they visit sometime.”

“They don’t, but they would if they could. That knowledge is enough for me.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Quite a while, I think…” He seemed to douse himself in a reverie as he trailed off.

Pitter patter, pitter patter.

The rain seemed to be letting up a little.

This time, it was he who broke the silence. “Family is important, don’t you think?”

“Of course. I…” I paused. Who were my family again? “To tell you the truth, I can’t remember them right now. Maybe it’s because of my concussion, but even so I have the feeling that it’s the only thing keeping me going.”

“Yes… it is important.” The old man seemed to ponder for a time.

Pitter patter, pitter patter.

“Perhaps… you would do better to return to them quickly.”

I let out a small chuckle. “Unfortunately, I can neither remember their names nor their contact information. Their faces though… I do think I still remember their faces.”

“They’ll come back in time, I’m sure.” He reached into his suitcase and pulled out a notepad, and brandished a pen from his pockets somewhere. He jotted something down, and quickly put everything away.

“It seems the rain won’t be much longer.”

“Yeah, it’s really starting to clear up. Hopefully we haven’t caught colds. I think- Oh. Do you hear that?” A dull sound echoed from beyond the mountain bend. The sound of gravel being crushed by wheels, mixed with the moist splatter of mud being tossed to and fro. “It sounds like the bus is almost here.”

The old man looked up as if surprised by the news.

“Ah… well, yes. So it is.”

In mere moments, the bus pulls up to the stop, and opens its doors for us to get in. The old man rises from his seat, and lines up in front of the door. However, when I got up, I felt a slight reason for pause.

He turned. “I assume you’re coming with me?”

An…inkling? Would you call it? But more…substantial. Like a tug on the hem of my sleeves. As if my-

“Look buddy, you comin’ or not?” A far younger man asked from inside the bus. I look up and I see the man dressed all in white. Quite peculiar for a bus driver.

Strange as it was, I didn’t feel like I should go with him. “I think I’ll stay awhile longer… I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel like I haven’t done something.”

For the first time, the old man wore a genuine smile. “That’s good. A man should finish what he starts.”

“Well I mean, even if I’m wrong and I haven’t forgotten anything, it’s not like the bus won’t come again, right? The sign says it comes hourly.”

“That it does. Keep the handkerchief. You can return it next time.” With that, the old man turned and stepped up onto the bus. It closed its doors and drove off into the distance, a curiously droll rumble of an engine echoing from the mountain sides.

I folded the bloodied cloth carefully into my breast pocket. The dull, throbbing pain had worsened over the last few minutes, but…

The strength of my legs gave out, and the last thing I saw before the darkness came rushing into my eyes was the world turned on its side and the last drops of rain that struck the pavement.

“….ddy!” A familiar voice called to me, interspersed by the annoying beeping of a machine. I recognize this voice, yes…

I saw a blur of action as bloody hands worked on my chest. I felt myself being carried up and being loaded on some kind of vehicle. I realized where I was.

I felt a small patch of cloth as I began to loosen my clenched fist, convulsed from the pain.

I knew that everything would be okay.

Pitter, patter.

[Jotari]

I couldn’t recognize the town’s name. No… it was more than that. I didn’t recognize the sounds in the name. Well, I can’t have come from there, it sounded so foreign and unfamiliar.

Must be somewhere in Wales.

[jankmaster98]

Got something over here, not sure if it followed the guidelines completely correctly but I think it did.

Title: Drink to the Future and Remember the Past.

Universe: My own universe that has been seen once before, but hopefully you don't need to know much to get it....

Word Count: 1895

No real warnings to speak of...

The little town of Red Haven had not seen many travelers in the last few years. The types of folks who once came along this route rather often now found themselves a new way to venture westward to California or Nevada. It was plain supposing that 1893 was when the age of the horse was dying and the age of the iron horse was beginning, Preston Carmichael wistfully thought as he cleaned a glass that didn’t really need scrubbing. There hadn't been enough customers in the last few months to need more than two or three mugs available at any given time. Even the locals and old timers who had been living in Red Haven since their hairs were bright instead of gray were starting to drift away. The two buildings next to Preston’s bar were once a general store and a tannery; now sitting empty as their owners moved off to the bigger cities where perhaps there trade could still be plied. Thought from what Preston had heard this phenomenon was not unique to Red Haven, towns all over the place were finding themselves drying up almost as fast as they had began, their once storied and colorful locales nothing but dust and history as time moved forward. Still the Carmichaels had been a Red Haven family since its beginning and would be a Red Haven family till the end, for some reason despite common sense telling the man it would be easier on his wife and children if they packed it up and let this town town go.

No, there was too much history here, too many memories to simply say goodbye to this bar, this town, this home he’d grown up in all his life. It was a stubbornness that could only be born out here on the frontier, even as the frontier closed up and the wild west wasn’t so wild anymore. As Preston continued to scrub absentmindedly with his rag he heard a sound he’d not heard this clearly in some time. It was the clop-clip-clop of a horse’s hooves. The town was so quiet that these days the sound nearly echoed even as the dirt underneath clambered from the stomping of the animal. With some interest Preston listened intently as it sounded like a man dismounted from his horse, his spurs going jingle jangle jingle jangle as they went along. They clanked on every step as they got closer and closer and soon it wasn’t long before Preston saw the silhouette of man in front of his double doors. The who stood before him was an older gentleman, not nearing the end of his years perhaps, but certainly with age and his roughhousing days behind him. He was dressed plainly in a nondescript duster and a an old rancher’s hat that looked as though some bullet holes had gone through the thing. What stood out about the man the most however were three things, his brown eyes which seemed to see everything and yet focus in and bore into Preston’s soul, his stance of walking in which he carried himself like a man larger than life and with authority to match, and finally the gun holstered at his side. An ornate Colt Navy Revolver that looked polished and cared for to perfection.

The man didn’t introduce himself until he gazed over the place a good minute or two before letting out a sigh. He then looked to Preston and finally began to speak.

“I suppose it’s not George Carmichael who’s running this place anymore is it?” He asked, as if he already knew the answer.

“No sir,” Preston responded, “My father’s been dead for four years, the Blue Moon bar is mine now. Well, what’s left of it anyway...”

“Four years... and I never even knew...” The stranger muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry sir, but did you know my father?” The bartender questioned as he put down the glass. “I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen your face before.”

“No. No you probably wouldn’t know me, but I did know your father. In fact, I knew most people in the town at one point.” He looked thoughtful for a moment and then he continued on, “Say... Do you know if Doc Carson still practices around here, if there’s one person I’d like to see, it’d be Dr. Carson.”

Now that name he knew, if there was another soul as determined to stay in Red Haven it was Benson Rudolph Carson. The man was getting on there in years, but he was nothing short of a godsend as one of the few decent medical practitioners left within a week’s distance.

“Doc Carson is still running his practice up on the north side of town Mister. If you wanna see him he’s probably there still.”

“Thank you, son. It’s good to know at least one familiar face still lives around here.”

Another several moments of silence passed before Preston found his voice again and remembered he was still a businessman.

“I don’t mean to impose on you or anything, but you wouldn't want a drink would you? This town ain’t easy ta get to and you might’ve slaked up a thirst on the ride.”

“Oh that’d be just wonderful, I’d like a Sunset Sarsaparilla please, with a dash of whiskey if you can.”

Preston quickly got to work on the order. Opening up a rather musty wooden cabinet he reached in for a bottle of sarsaparilla and next to it a flask full of Tennesse hard whiskey. With the glass he’d just finished cleaning he poured in most of the sarsparilla, before adding just a hint of the liquor and sliding it over the counter. The man with no name moved steadily to sit down and take a long swig from the glass, his gasp afterwards expressing his apparent satisfaction with the drink he’d been served. Quickly after he’d taken a slip he reached into his pocket and threw at least four coins into the counter. Closer inspection revealed them to be Yankee Silver Dollars, more than enough to pay for the drink that he just been served. Questions upon questions piled into Preston’s mind as his customer downed the rest of his drink in relative silence, taking only as long as he needed to to breath between sips. Who was this man who came riding in one day without so much as a name, but with a mind knowing many of the people of this town, Preston’s own father included. This was a mystery that Preston wouldn’t just let rest.

“If it’s not too much stranger, I’d like to know your name. Not too many chances I get to learn about travelers these days.”

“Hmm? Oh, time in Sacramento must’ve left me without my manners! I’m Jim, and I used to something of an adventurer around these parts. Hm... It musta been.. what- thirty years ago I first came to this town.”

“Thirty years,” Preston muttered to himself, “Than you had to have been here when the Blue Devil called these parts home!”

A sliver of a smile came upon Jim’s face as the name hung in the air. Whether he was remember good times or bad Preston couldn’t tell, but he did know the look of a man who’d seen incredible things and lived to tell the tale.

“So that’s the name they’re using now... Say, kid, this place ain’t as busy as I remember it being, this town fallen on hard times these days.”

The frown on Preston’s face deepened, partly because Jim had rolled around the conversation and partly because this was a topic he knew he nor the rest of the few remaining residents could escape.

“Yeah, don’t really know how much longer I’ll be able to stay here. It’s a damn shame though, this town’s got a lot of stories to tell, and soon it’ll be nothing more than another ghost town of empty shacks...”

Again there was a long silence that descended upon the bar, and the only things to be heard was the creaking wind and the movement of the horse tethered outside. Soon though Jim stood on up out of his chair and looked Preston dead in the eye with an expression that conveyed complete seriousness. Behind an old weathered face and a grey beard scraggly and unkempt, Preston thought for a moment he saw the face three men, a young soldier, an experience cowboy, and an wisened old man all at once. There was no other sounds that could be heard at that moment as Jim held his firm gaze and asked a single question.

“Mr. Carmichael, do you believe this town is worth fighting for?”

There was no hesitation when the single word came out of his mouth.

“Yes.”

The look on Jim’s face softened a bit after that quick and speedy response. The brown eyes that once seemed battered and boorish now at once looked as though there was an old twinkle in them. As if time had gone backwards Preston thought he saw a man half this fellas age come into this bar. As if the West was young and wild again, and the century of the rancher was not yet done.

“Then it’s probably a good thing I bothered with this.” Jim said as he took out from his satchel a piece of paper.

Handling it with care he gave it over to Preston who only took a moment to discover this wasn’t some scrap parchment. This was fine official document type work from something you’d expect back far east in New York or D.C. WIth curiosity Preston saw first the official stamp and seal of the Central Pacific Railroad, and began to realize what this was. In big bold letters at the top of the unraveled document was a pronouncement.

For Services rendered by Mr. James B. the Central Pacific Railroad has agreed to extend services and lines to one Red Haven, Colorado. Construction of the new line will begin as soon as time allows. Meantime several donations in cash will be made to the treasury of the Red Haven city hall in preparation for rebuilding and further establishment....

Signed E.B. Douglass Central Pacific Railroad President

P.S. Jim I don’t know why you chose this of all things as your favor, but you always have your reasons. God go with ya you sonofabitch.

Preston wasn’t quite done reading the thing before Jim, or James or whoever was already walking out the door. Without so much more time to ask much more, and with too many things going through his mind only one question escaped his lips.

“Why?”

With a tip of his hat and a broad smile he answered before leaving the doors behind.

“Because at one time this town helped me get back on my feet.” As he said this he rubbed his head absentmindedly and clutched his revolver. “And I think it only proper to return the favor.”

With that, he walked out the door, and Preston Carmichael was left to wonder at what the future would now hold. But in his heart he now held a hell of a lot more hope than he woke up with. In preparation for perhaps another flow of customers in the future he continued scrubbing glasses, because soon there would be customers aplenty again.

Got something over here, not sure if it followed the guidelines completely correctly but I think it did.

[Jotari]

Right we have two submissions now and have passed the deadline so I'm going to declare this one closed. Do I need to change the poll on the voting thread? I've always assumed it was something only the topic creator could do.

[jankmaster98]

I think you have to talk to Sunwoo or Eclipse or something, maybe try PMing them, or just see what you can do. The polls have always been on that same thread so I'm not sure..

[Sunwoo]

I'm here, and rather exhausted. I'll see if I can change the poll later when I'm in my right mind.

[jankmaster98]

I'm thinking maybe I should make the Bosun thing a full set of western dime novel type stories, a real throwback they of thing...

One of my other ideas was to set another story with a detective Noir storyline featuring a grandson of the western character in a another type of genre throwback. If done right do you guys think people would be willing to read that stuff, or those are genres that have been just done to death?

[Jotari]

You write it I'll read it. Genres are more flavour sauce to the real meat of a story in my opinion.

[Sunwoo]

Ugh, I'm really sorry. I thought I was going to have time to do stuff, but then life happened. I have no idea where we are in this competition, so please let me know what, if anything, needs to be done.

[Jotari]

Ugh, I'm really sorry. I thought I was going to have time to do stuff, but then life happened. I have no idea where we are in this competition, so please let me know what, if anything, needs to be done.

Pretty sure the poll still needs changing.

[eclipse]

. . .which will have to happen tomorrow. It's super-late here.

That being said, knock me over the head with a PM!

[Rapier]

Will there be any next rounds?

I know, I never participate, but sometimes I feel like it and then I spend 90% of my time not feeling like it.

[Magical Glace]

If the poll ever changes, probably.

[jankmaster98]

If the poll ever changes, probably.

Polls, Polls never change...

[eclipse]

Hey guys, YOU CAN PM ME!

Since I have a spot of free time, I'll see if I can get something up.

[Sunwoo]

… Yeah, that said, I most DEFINITELY didn't have time to do anything yesterday or today. My school and work schedule is a bit shit right now and I'm trying to settle into a new routine. I'm still up for this thing continuing if enough people want it to, but apologies if I'm even more of a flaky host than I already was.

[jankmaster98]

bit bummed only two folks turned out for this round, but I'm sure that they'll be more next time! especially if people who found they enjoyed writting in the scribbles competition find this place!

[eclipse]

Writing can be exhausting, but it's fun. I use this competition to churn out ideas. Sometimes, they take root.

[Jotari]

I hope its the Scribbles competition that has led to the reduce activity here the past while. Once the scribbles is over we should advertise pretty heavily on its thread to draw in new entires. I'm sure there's plenty of users who entered that forgot or don't know about the Write Your Butt Off.

[eclipse]

Well. . .you can always include a link to this competition in your sig~!