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


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Title: Dal Segno

Word Count: 1118

Mother bought me a piano when I was young. It was so silly. I was so small, my hands could only reach four notes from thumb to pinky. The notes I played were loud, brusque, and untempered. Unpracticed and raw, but pure, Mother had said. At that time, I didn’t understand. I had thought that maybe Mother wanted me to play it for her, but she really wanted me to play it for me. It would become my worst friend - my best friend, and a pillar that would support me all my life.

My hands brushed across the ebony and ivory, longing for the day where they would reciprocate the feelings I had toward them. Crisp clear notes resonated as I pressed down, as if encouraging me to continue. Despite the cacophonous music I made, my piano responded wonderfully to my keys, as if happy about just being played.

This small voice, the tiny insignificant voice of my piano can only reach as far as the end of my room. Even so, I continue playing so that one day perhaps, just maybe my voice would be able reach you.

Mother signed me up to a music school. I started playing day in and day out, and I relished it. Maybe this would be enough for me, just playing and basking in the music I made together with my best friend. I had never thought about performing for anyone, and I was content to stay that way. But as everyone that had come before me, and everyone that would come after, the day of judgement came. The day of the recital.

I was so unsure of myself. My friends played much better than I could. Their voices stretched farther, more sweetly, and more beautifully than I could ever stretch mine.

I was so frustrated. I loved music just as much as they did. Why did their voices reverberate so much strongly than mine? So much more colorful? Did I not practice enough? Did I not have the talent?

This small voice - the tiny voice of my piano can only reach as far as the end of this recital hall. Even so, I'll continue playing so that one day perhaps, just maybe my voice would be able reach you.

Mother was in the hospital. Playing had been so much fun that I had forgotten almost everything else. I wished that I could play for her forever and always. That Mother could listen to my voice sing forever. Wouldn’t that have been great? What point was there in playing now? But she said that I should continue playing, that if I did something good might happen.

I remembered the times that Mother pushed me forward when no one else would. The times that I had spent dejected because of my own inadequacy were only overcome with her help. The times when I fell, and couldn’t get back up by myself. When I was betrayed by my friends. Even when I injured my hands, and couldn’t play my best friend anymore. She was my pillar. She had been my music.

But Mother had passed. The sounds of my voices became strained and harsh - and I had almost given up playing, singing. I had always played for her, after all. Without Mother, who would I play for? But through the salty tears I continued. Sometimes to mourn her death, sometimes to celebrate her life. The quality of my voice changed, and I began to finally hear myself from the other side of the stage. I could hear my mother in myself. In my voice, my mother sang her lullabies. With my words she sang out to comfort me, and pushed me forward. She lived on, in the timbre of my melody.

My voice would reach you. And your voice will always be with me.

This small voice - the voice of my piano can reach the ends of this auditorium. I’ll continue playing so that one day perhaps, just maybe my voice would reach you.

This is it. My debut. I looked back on myself with blurred vision and calloused hands and I wondered if I would have been proud of myself. Of what I had become, and what I had accomplished. Would I have smiled and told myself ‘good job’? What would Mother have said? This small step seemed so large for me. When I stepped out on that stage, would I still be singing with my own voice?

You had always pushed me forward. You had given me strength. Would my voice reach you? I had always hoped that it would.

I stiffened my upper lip and stepped into the light. The heat was almost too much. It beat down on me like a burning blanket, blinding both my eyes and smothering my throat. I paused, unsure of myself before looking across the stage. But through the crushing lights and the icy stares of the audience, from a place of comfort sat my oldest and most loyal friend waiting for me to sit beside her and sing together.

I’ll play, Mother. I’ll play with everything I’ve got.

So that the people who hear my song will never forget me.

So that the people who hear my song will never forget you.

Because… I am a musician. Because we were musicians.

This voice - the voice of my piano can reach the halls of any conservatory. I feel like my voice will reach you now so please, listen.

I’ve finally come back to our town, but the streets and buildings are all so unfamiliar to me. The swing set we used to play with, the beach we stumbled in, and the old driveway that I skinned my knee on - they're all gone now. But even without those places here, I remember that I can still play. Those places still exist in my memories. And they’ll live on through my songs.

My calloused hands brush across the ebony and ivory, longing for the days that had come and gone. My friend as always, encourages me to keep playing. Songs of sorrow and songs of joy, songs of heartbreak and songs of life.

The playing may eventually stop, and the life of my keys may fade away, but the tempo of life goes on. My songs passed from Mother to me, and will pass to you. Play them, so that you might reach one step further than us. So that you might reach even one more person, that they might remember us.

This small voice - the tiny voice of my piano can only reach as far as the beating of my heart. One day, when I get tired of playing, please stand by my side.

Unnamed characters again >.>;;;
I'm not used to writing in first person, so I used this as an opportunity to practice with the medium. I hope it wasn't a total trainwreck.
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And so blah the Prussian makes his triumphant return to Write Your But Off, with yet another WWII piece. Jesus Christ, I don't know why I write so much about WWII, but as the saying goes, write what you know. I'm quite happy with how this turned out; it is short, but I feel it shouldn't need to be long. This is, by the way, Alternate History, and how it is alternate history will be explored in the piece.

Title: Death of a Demigod

Fandom: WWII, Alternate History

Words: 1293

1945

Tokyo was in ruins. All across the cityscape, the remains of a great metropolis moaned and creaked in the wind. Where once there were skyscrapers, there were now only burnt out husks. And yet, in the center of the city, there was one building untouched by the firebombing: the Imperial Palace. In that palace, there was a room dominated by a single table, around which 10 men sat.

At the head of the table was the only one of these men important for our story. He was tall and thin, with a military uniform that looked horribly out of place on him. A pair of rounded, thick glasses adorned his face, as did a moustache that recalled that of the leader of his country’s ally. Indeed, had he not been born into the most important family in all of Japan, he may have lived a quiet life, as a mild mannered school teacher. And yet, he had been born into the Imperial House, and so here he sat, with these men of war, discussing what amounted to suicide on a national scale. Emperor Hirohito was not having the best of days.

It could be said, and probably reasonably, that he was not having the best few years, either. He had spent the last few years watching the madmen in charge of Japan lose the empire he had inherited. Now, the Soviets had even taken Korea, the Empire’s former crown jewel. As he recalled this, he felt his eyes welling up. Blinking, he fought back the tears. The history books will not say, he thought to himself, that the last Emperor of Japan cried.

He looked around the table, at the men who were dooming his country. He did not do them the honor of remembering their names. They had been mere officers before that fateful day. Before Hiroshima; before the Americans had shown that they had the power of the Gods available to them. Truman could say a single word, and a city would cease to exist. What could he, who was a mere descendant of Amaterasu, do against that power?

The answer, at least to Hirohito, and to a good deal of his former cabinet, seemed painfully obvious: surrender. Unfortunately for Hirohito, and for Japan, the men sitting around the table disagreed, and, well, they were the ones with the guns. Hirohito should have expected that it would not be as easy as declaring that Japan had surrendered. When the military got word of his plans, after the bombing of Nagasaki, they stormed his palace and murdered his cabinet in front of him. Hirohito had not been stupid enough to fight. He was the descendent of a god, but, to paraphrase Joseph Stalin (another man Hirohito had significant issues with), “how many divisions has god?”

So here he was, now, watching a bunch of fanatics destroy his country in his name. He wondered, again and again, if he could have changed things. Maybe he should have opposed Pearl Harbor. Maybe he should have negotiated a peace deal before Roosevelt announced his damned “unconditional surrender”. Maybe he should have opposed the invasion of China.

Maybe, Hirohito thought to himself ruefully, I should have never been Emperor.

Suddenly, a messenger, his face red, burst into the chamber, gasping. Rising from his bow, he began: “Your Imperial Majesty, our scouts report an American bomber flying towards Tokyo. Reports indicate it contains the same bomb as the one deployed against Hiroshima and Nagasaki!”

Kenji Hatanaka, the leader of the coup that had stopped peace, spoke up. “So it seems the arrogant Americans believe that they can stop us with their bombs! Little do they know, the fighting spirit of Japan will never surrender! Your Imperial Majesty, please accompany us to the bunkers under the palace. You shall be safe there, I promise.”

It was then that Emperor Hirohito, for the first time in his life, acted like an Emperor.

“No.”

A brief look of shock flashed across Hatanaka’s face. “Excuse me, your Imperial Majesty?”
“I said NO!” Hirohito exploded. Hatanaka and his henchmen stepped back, shocked.

“You have made a coward of me for too long,” the Emperor continued. The calm, serene nature that the man was known for was completely gone, replaced by wrath. “For too long, you have been telling me how to run my country. Me! The Emperor! As if you have any right whatsoever to tell me how to run my country! I was not the one who got us bogged down in China! I was not the one who declared war on the sleeping giant in Washington! I was not the one who LOST THIS WAR! Well, I know how the chips have fallen. I know that you have the guns, and that I cannot prevent you from destroying my country. But I will not let you stop me from dying with it!” At this Hatanaka sunk down into his chair, in stunned silence. Hirohito continued, “You are arrogant enough to think you can save Japan? That you are the new Nobunaga? You are not Nobunaga. And I-“ at this his voice broke- “I am not a Meiji!”

The Emperor strode towards the large, oak door that marked the entrance to the room. The two Imperial guards, (that they dared to call themselves that made Hirohito laugh) who had been watching in stunned silence this whole time, rose their guns, as if to block the door. Hirohito glared at them, and the weapons fell to the floor with a clatter. The Emperor strode out of the room.

After about 5 minutes of walking, he came to the Imperial garden. He remembered all the fun times he had here as a child, playing with his brothers, Chichibu and Nobuhito. Things were far simpler then. Father may have been insane, yes, but Mother, and the servants, were good caretakers. Hirohito remembered the last time he had seen mother. She had urged him to make peace then. That was in 1944. How he wished he had listened to her, before the responsibility was stolen from him.

He thought of his wife, Kojun, and son, Akhito. They had been sent away when the bombing raids began in earnest. He wished he could say goodbye to his son, but he also appreciated the fact that those monsters in the military could not use his son against him now. That was for the best. His son would be Emperor of an American puppet. Depending on how the Soviets did, his son might not even rule over all of Japan. The Emperor was almost glad he was to die rather than see his people enslaved to Stalin. That was one responsibility he was not pleased to hand to his son.

The sound of the air raid siren cut through the serene morning air, snapping the Emperor out of his reminiscing. The siren had been going off repeatedly for years now, but every person in Tokyo knew what this one meant. After Hiroshima, it was obvious. The siren meant death. It meant the bomb.

Hirohito looked up at the sky, searching for what amounted to his executioner. He saw it, a B-29, carrying the same type of bomb that had leveled Hiroshima, and Nagasaki. Then, a small dot fell from the plane, towards Tokyo. It was unmistakable what this meant. Tokyo had a minute to live.

Hirohito’s legs shook under him. This was the end. He knew it. His city knew it. He fought the urge to run away. He was done running; from his people, from his responsibilities from his mistakes. The speck was closer and closer to the ground now. It wasn’t even a speck anymore.

The last thing Emperor Hirohito ever saw was a flash.

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Here I go, first time on SF's Write Your Butt Off. I've written some things on here, but I've yet to actually attempt this. I don't expect to win, but I will at least try to put out something decent.

Words:1,402

[spoiler=Desert Sands] We all knew it was coming. Weeks, no, months in advance, Munara was scrying for this very moment. But it did nothing to quell our shock, our fear, and our anger and hatred. We had not prepared, because we had not needed to, not because we were ignorant or the like. Many times our enemies over the millennia had attempted to assault and besiege Altora Fortress, sometimes having sieges decades long, but all were for naught. Unlike the proud Irilethian Legions of past centuries, Canfalia wasn't daft enough to try such a drawn-out affair, much less open war with Azodon. They wanted something, something my father was all too happy to give them.

"Akkar," my father started. "I fear as though this current state of affairs will only become more complex and convoluted the longer you remain here. They seek nothing I can't give them, and everything I intend to. Having you stay will endanger neither of us, but leaving will allow things to go such much easier for all involved. I hereby request that you leave for a destination of your choosing. Leave at your leisure, but I would suggest doing so before the morrow." As much as I understood the position my father has allowed himself to be put in, I silently objected, but still openly obeyed. "What if I am seen and captured?" Was my reply to his mandate. "Seen, you very well could be, but even though Canfalia has assumed a position of hostility, they have yet to assume one of dishonor. You should very well be able to make haste." Ever the logical monarch, he once again assuaged any trepidation I might've had in leaving. "If I am to leave before the morrow, what provisions might I take, perchance?" He handed me a bag with a book inside and a curved blade one cubit long. "Choose how you will meet adversity. Will it be with knowledge? Or with strength? Neither decision is wrong, but making one inappropriate to the situation could cost you a valuable ally."

With that, I just left. The stables in the undercroft, while dark, were cleaner than any surface stable I had seen. Granted, most of the ones I saw were covered in sand. I mounted Ordo, my black steed, and set out for the hidden door at the back of the stable. I knew the other of this wall was one of the less-fortified areas of Altora Fortress, and that I could use my blade to surgically displace the wall. However, that might allow Canfalia to smuggle out the remaining mounts. So I took the book out of my bag and utter the marked phrase. "Lokomotorr." The wall parted, and I rode out at a canter pace. The throng that was the Canfalian rank and file suddenly parted, as though Ordo was the all-encompassing feature of my persona. I wondered if they didn't want to fight, or were so confident in their victory that they deigned to even consider fighting a smaller skirmish with a single opponent. Regardless, my escape was all but secured, and the massive siege engines that were aimed at Altora were disarmed. My father had surrendered, and Azodon had effectively fallen. A warrior my father is not, but a king he definitely was in that time.

From the desert to the steppes of Irilethia, I came to a small settlement. Just a simple village with simple folk, they eyed me with some suspicion, but being that no one crosses the Western Border into Azodon after the last War of Succession in the Irilethian Empire, they must've known I was Azodonian. I was approached by an older man. "Setea, traveller. Mind you stay a while here as your horse rests?" I had forgotten funds in my rush to escape, but I had no reason to threaten them with such an imposing weapon as my scimitar. I then proceeded to pull out my book, and uttered a phrase. "Little material I have, but the blade I wield can cut wheat as well as foes. I offer it to you, should you need it." The man smiled, although his laugh sounded rather melancholy. "Who wrote that? They are either a fool, or a sage. Either way, it seems you intend to repay every kindness done in equal measure. Do not worry about money, for we don't. For at least today, you are one of us, stranger. Come sit at our table for a while." With that, I dismounted Ordo and ate. I had failed to remove my hood for reasons unknown, but no one minded that I never showed my face. Even though these people were as foreign to me as the Canfalian Army, they embraced me as though I was a man of their village. I took the time to read more of the book, and in it were a collection of tavern songs. I was average at best in music, but my mastery of dialects and language meant that I could pass for a travelling bard, if a rather poor one. I continued to play into the end of the meal, but then I saw a dust cloud coming from the East. "They're coming again. Get the women and children inside. Militia, to arms!"

The leader of the band was as broad as his face was triangular. The crudeness of the farm tools the men of the village had were no match for the iron weapons that were brandished by the troop. The outfits they wore were old Irilethian Legion uniforms, probably dating back some 200 years. Such armor was designed around protecting against unorthodox weaponry, like pitchforks, and was used during the Thanic Wars. They had little chance of survival against these bandits, whereas my weapon was perfect for it. The leader tried to sound militaristic, but I was unconvinced. These were little more than bandits and slavers. "The Thane demands his taxes. I suggest you surrender the funds in the proper currency." I grew increasingly disgusted by the barbarous leader, playing himself off as a humble tax collector. "We fear you no longer. We will fight to protect them." The bandit chief would have none of it." You dare challenge the might of a Thane?" The mayor of the town was going to get himself killed if I didn't intervene. "How about you challenge the might of a prince!" I pulled off my hood as a chorus of gasps came across the townsfolk. There was no hiding who I was now. "Come." The underlings came first. I cut them down as they charged, cursing as they choked on their own blood. Only the leader remained, and he only looked at me in contempt and spat. "If they had waited, you wouldn't be standing. Yes, you would especially fetch a fine price at the market. Many men would kill to see a prince bow to them and wash their feet." I would not dare bow to anyone, not even to my own father." It is you who will end up on their knees, ruffian. Single combat doesn't diminish the effectiveness of my blade. But enough talk." Once again, it was the other who charged. I sidestepped and hit him with the broad part of the blade. He got up and charged again, but then he stopped. The village mayor picked up one of the swords the other bandits had used and pierced the leader's abdomen. "Not again. I will not let another fall because of my failure again." The brigand fell over, the plastered look of shock on his face. "Apologies, Prince Akkar. We'll not keep you any longer." Today, my blade was stained with the blood of the wicked, but I knew that swords has other properties, too. "I will leave you with this gift. You are Lord of the East Road, a title which bears no standing, but will stand without bearing to learn lordliness," The man rose, nodded with tears in his eyes, and handed me Ordo's reigns. I pulled down my hood as I rode away, watching the village disappear with the sunset. "I never realized, Father. You give the best gifts."

Edited by Hylian Air Force
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Hey, guys, hit me over the head via PM if you need mod stuffs!

I don't mind doing it, but I've got a bunch of other stuff, so if I'm ignoring this, it means I forgot.

EDIT: If I do a story, it'll either be posted at the end of today, or never.

Edited by eclipse
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Hey, guys, hit me over the head via PM if you need mod stuffs!

I don't mind doing it, but I've got a bunch of other stuff, so if I'm ignoring this, it means I forgot.

EDIT: If I do a story, it'll either be posted at the end of today, or never.

I wish you didn't make this comment. You made a similar one a while back and I was all prepared to PM you when the time came. Now that you've restated the message I don't feel half as attentive or initiative(can that word be used that way? It looks strange).

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Gotta bit of story folks, part of what I hope to make a larger universe.. The Bosun Saga!
Anyway it's about 2,600 words, warnings for mild Violence

Title: Getting a Job

Pitter patter pitter patter, that was the tune of the rain that scattered on windows of a small office building on 2300 Martin Street at 6:37 P.M. on October 24th, 1925. Martin Street had an interesting history to be sure, folks said that long ago a tribe of Indians had lived on this land before it became a part of the waterfront district of Chicago. Course that didn’t matter much to Justin Bosun, what mattered to him was that he was behind on his rent and barring a miracle he wasn’t going to have this office much longer. In fact the past few years just didn’t seem to be good years for Justin, booted out of the police force for daring to break up a speakeasy the Chief frequented, kicked out of Pinkerton for refusing to turn a blind eye to the corruption of his superiors, and nearly kicked out of Chicago itself for spilling water on the major that one time. Justin hoped that maybe his skills could be put to work as an independent Private Eye for those who either by wealth or circumstance could not take their problems to the police or to any other organization. Well, then again how could any honest man trust anyone else in these days? 1925 wasn’t a year for morality and upstanding behavior, it was an era for illegal booze, murderous gangs, and just a general time of lawlessness in this country. Right now Justin was reading an article in the paper about several men linked to the Irish and Jewish Mobs being killed near the industrial park area of the city. It looked like another case of the mob violence that was threatening to take over this city, but strangely it appeared these men were not killed by bullets but by arrows. Things only seemed to get stranger around these parts, but hardly did an odd killing like this have much relevance to his situation.


Sighing mightily Justin looked upon his desk to a picture of his grandfather Sheriff James posing with his Colt Navy in front of some saloon he must’ve frequented. Justin wondered if times were any better now then they were back then. Had society merely traded the bandit gangs James Bosun had fought with Mobs who ruled over men with equal or greater brutality? How much easier would it be if Justin could simply set out after the men who wronged him and bring them down with the pull of a trigger? Grandpa James had done it, took down Red Harrington’s gang and won back his treasured Colt Navy that now hung on a plaque in Justin’s own office. An office that Justin was bound to lose if he couldn't pay his rent in two weeks; Mr. Livermore was a kind man, but even he had his limits as a landlord. As the dark haired Private Eye prepared to close up his office for another disappointingly empty day the bell rang and in through the door stepped in an older gentleman alongside a younger man probably a little less than Justin’s age carrying a briefcase. They had the look of money about them if their tailored suits were any indication but Justin tried not to make assumptions about people or their wealth, not after that last case....

“May I help you gentlemen with anything?” Justin asked as the soaked pair hung up their coats on the rack and left their umbrellas in the basket.

“Well, my boy thinks you can, and I trust his judgment so here we are.” The older man said, his accent revealing an upbringing or at least, some time spent in New England.

“I heard from a friend that you’re a man who can do things discretely without involving too many folks, is that true Mr. Bosun?” The person Justin now assumed to be the other man’s son questioned.

At second glance, Justin could see the resemblance in the figure the two cut. The same defined cheekbones and dour expression framed by green eyes. Justin also wondered who it was the could have referred these two to him but it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth so he turned his mind back to business.

“Well that depends on a lot of things sirs though neither of you gave your names, I'd think that'd be an important thing to know about any potential clients."

“That’s fair,” The old man chuckled as he extended his hand and rain-soaked sleeve, “My name’s Frederick Preston and my son over her is Frederick Jr.”

“Most people call me Fred, but not Freddy please don’t call me that.” The son added on as Justin shook the father's hand, there was a tone of embarrassment hidden behind a veneer of calm, but that was probably a personal story not best to pry into.

“Anyway, person whose missing is my daughter, Junior’s older sister Megan.” As Frederick Senior explained this Junior slid over a picture which Justin held up to his desk light for a better look. “She’s the person on the far left next to my wife.”

The picture was an old family photo it seemed. The background was an old looking manor house with several fancy windows and a front porch that almost looked like a city block. In the distance was the coastline of an ocean or lake, but most important were the people in the photo. Off to the right stood Mr. Preston and the younger sir, that was no surprise. The figures Justin did study, however, were the three off to the left and middle of the photo. One was an obviously older woman about the same age as Mr. Preston, probably his wife. The second was a younger man, at least, compared to the age of Mr. Preston and Fred, and curiously he was fair haired compared to the brown hair the rest of the family shared. Then of course, there was the sister in question Megan Preston, who appeared tall with long brown hair cut at around shoulder blade length. Leaving the photo on his desk for a moment Justin turned his eyes back to his potential clients.

“I assume you have more for me than just a name and a family picture? And can I also say it’s a bit odd you only have this family picture of your daughter rather than a personal one, as you gentlemen don’t seem to be folks of hard means.”

“Ah.” Mr. Preston scratched the back of his head, also muttering with a little bit of embarrassment. “Well, that’s the best photo we have on hand because Megan never liked taking pictures herself. Trying to sit her still has been a nightmare ever since she was in diapers, and it hasn’t changed since.”

“As for the other thing, we’ve got Meg’s address here and also attached is the last letter she sent out to us. You’ll see the date right there in the corner too.”

Justin looked over the address the letter was sent from first. Apartment number 22 on floor D 1138 Cremark Avenue. The PI briefly mulled over the street name in his head and wondered where he’d heard that before when it hit him. That was the was of the outlying streets of Chicago’s small but growing Chinatown. He’d gone to the Oriental’s blocks a few times for a few cases. They were always good for their credit surprisingly, and there was even a few times solving a case there earned him a hot meal. Even chicken’s feet and rice wrapped in leaves were better than the slop he could normally afford. Justin also eyed date written on the corner to find it labeled November 29th 1924, that was over a year ago. It was strange that in this age of the telephone the last contact that a family would have with one of their own was through written letters. However there was an admitted charm to holding the piece of paper and reading the words someone bothered to pen by hand, but in either case, it was still a bit unusual.

“This is the only communication you’ve gotten in three months?” There was a little incredulity in his voice

“To my wife’s great sorrow, yes it is. We kept telling Megan to get a telephone but she always was a stickler for the written word. She sent us a letter almost every two weeks, but when they suddenly stopped coming we started to get antsy.”

“We phoned a few of her friends living here but they didn’t seem to have seen hide nor tails of Meg, fact most of them thought she was visiting with us for awhile.”

“And so after you thought she was in trouble you came here, did you talk t the police at all?”

“Well we talked to the local chief, and he said the policemen here said they were too busy with mob violence to deal with a singular missing person’s case.” Junior mentioned.

“And the Pinkerton’s?”

Mr. Upton’s face drew into a hard line at the mention of the organization, and he shook his head with a small amount of anger.

“Let’s just say there’s a bad history between mine and theirs and leave it at that. People say you're one of the better private operators in the city, and so if you want it the job is yours.” Bringing up the Detective Agency was a mistake it seemed, as the formally gentile individual grew significantly hot under the collar. “We’ll find Megan one way or another but we could use someone who knows the city and isn’t tied to any organization in particular.”

“What pa means to say is, we could use your help. And we’d be willing to pay you upfront to help you cover expenses. Which if my math is right should be about 3,000$”

It was at that point Fred Junior opened up the briefcase he was carrying revealing it to be filled with 10$ bills in several neat stacks. Unless there was a backing of newspaper, which might not be out of the question. Still, even if it was just the first line that was actual money it was more than Justin had seen in a good long while. If this was the upfront money he literally could not afford to say no to this case. Between rent, gas, and food there living in Chicago wasn’t cheap.

“So are you interested Mr. Bosun? Or will we have to take our business elsewhere?”

There wasn’t really a choice here, he needed this work. Even if something in the back of his mind telling him something was wrong.

“Alright.” Justin finally acquiesced. “I’ll just have you sign some paperwork and then I’ll be on your case first thing in the morning.”

Out from one of his drawers he pulled out a few papers outlining costs and a few liabilities for his work. Also the contact information for reaching the two in a pinch, phone numbers, the address to a P.O. box, and the number of the home phone in Massachusetts in case the PI thought the information might be needed out of Mrs. Upton. The amount of money paid upfront if any and the amount to be paid after the completion of said case. When Justin saw the amount they claimed they would pay after the deal was done his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. 20,000 dollars, enough to almost live a year here in the city. Bosun had a feeling these were well-to-do people but he could never have guessed these people were that well supplied in terms of cash.

“Who exactly are you people?” Justin asked, forgetting all tact and decorum at the moment.

“If you’re wondering where the money’s coming from, don’t worry it’s clean.” Fred reassured with a smile, “Our family’s one of those old fishmonger families, our fishing fleet is the biggest in New England which in turn leads to just a bit of cash for us.”

He would have to check out their story, but it probably wouldn't be too hard to verify or deny their claims. After all, how many fishing families were there in New England?

“Hmph, well I suppose I should consider myself fortunate you of all people chose me of all people to handle the disappearance of one of your family members.”

Mr. Upton flashed a gruff grin in Justin’s direction as he briefly went into his pocket for a cigarette.

“That you should boy, that you should. Well, I should expect you to start on this job first thing in the morning. I believe that it would be the proper time for me and my boy to bid you farewell.”

“Thank you very much for helping us Mr. Bosun. You don’t know how much it’s been a worry wondering about Meg.” Fred added on as he and his father went to get their coats and umbrellas.

The two stepped out the door without much further fanfare, and it was only after the door shut and several minutes had passed that Justin remembered he had forgotten to ask the identity of the other person in the picture. Just as he was hurrying to put on his trench coat and hat and chase after the two, the sound of bullets in the streets rang through his ears above the rain. Thinking quickly Justin grabbed his Colt M1991 pistol and hurried out into the storming streets. It was dark and storming but Justin could see plain as day two figures on the side of the street with one on the ground and the other kneeling beside him. It was Mr. Upton and Fred underneath the light of a streetlamp with Fred cradling the moaning figure of his wounded father. Also, he thought he heard the rush of footsteps not his own from a figure retreating from the scene, but could not be sure. Justin rushed over to the Uptons’ location and saw Fred being remarkably calm given the circumstances what with his father wounded and bullet holes filling their car. The younger man was applying pressure to the bullet wound in his father’s shoulder all while ripping up bits of his father’s torn coat to presumably use as a tourniquet. When Fred noticed Justin’s presence he looked visibly relieved and turned to him briefly.

“Not the best way for another meeting huh?” He snarked casually, “Since you’re here help keep the blood from flowing too much while I get the tourniquet ready.”

Wordlessly Justin obeyed, still a little in shock at the sudden change in circumstances.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Mr. Upton cursed loudly while Justin felt his hands and the cloth become soaked with blood and rain, “Freddy did you see the bastard that done did this! I’ll kill him myself if it’s the last thing I do!”

“Sorry pa didn’t get a look at him, but you don’t look like you’re hit too bad so you should praise the lord for that.”

“I’ll praise the lord even more if he can help me find that jackass and let me knock out his teeth and then some!” The old fishing tycoon responded with fire in his voice.

“Before any of that Mr. Upton we gotta get you to a hospital!” Reminded a bit panicky just as Fred finished tying a good wrap around his father’s shoulder.

All in all, this was turning out to be a crazy night for Mr. Justin Bosun. Between a missing person’s case, being employed by wealthy New Englanders, and having said New Englanders getting shot in the streets; Justin was wondering just what the hell had he gotten into when these two gentlemen walked through his doors. Still, he had signed those papers attesting to the fact he would see this case through; and it was probably also basic human decency (not to mention a good business practice) to help a person shot in the street get to the hospital (especially if said person is your employer). So it would look like Justin Bosun was going to have his hands full, and God only knew where this whole affair would lead him.

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I need to stop writing depressing stuff.

Title: Choices

Words: ~1300

Universe: Original

Other notes: Don't read this if you're in a bad mood. Please.

"Will you take it?"

I stared at the sticker on my teacher's wrinkled finger, a shiny pink flower that smiled back at me. My teacher's equally fake smile, which didn't even reach the crow's feet by her eyes, greeted me. Rather than answer her, I turned around and walked towards the playground. At least the monkey bars were honest about insulting my weakness.

---

"Will you take it?"

Perhaps I'd be able to grasp smaller objects, like a pencil. The little aqua pill, which cost more than what my dad made in a month, sat in the center of a plain white napkin. I reached towards it, and gasped when I felt a strong hand on my wrist. A nurse hauled me up and out of the room. My mother stood outside, tears on her cheeks and a check in her hands. My father sat on a faded red chair, his head in his hands. The doctor shook his head, his expression betraying no compassion. His cold gaze was broken by my mother's warm embrace, and her equally warm tears on my scalp.

---

"Will you take it?"

After the drug trial, which I had been rejected from due to my parent's lack of money, I focused on speech-to-text technology. It meant that those test with bubbles were all but impossible for me, but as long as I could speak my answers, the board was willing to accept the test results. I looked back at my parents, and the baby sleeping in the stroller next to my mom, then down at my own useless hands. I'd go to a college where every last expense was paid, but then who would watch my little brother while my parents worked? I met the recruiter's gaze, my answer etched in my pursed lips.

---

"Will you take it?"

Jake knelt before me, a ring in a box. After all the choices I'd been offered in my life, I stayed silent in shock. THIS was a choice I'd wanted to make three years ago when he spoon-fed me popcorn from his bag after his drink landed all over my clothes, and into MY popcorn. Or when he changed his master's thesis from database analysis to speech-to-text. Or when his parent's friends, upon hearing about my hands, got me into a clinical trial for something that would change my hands from extensions to tools. The sea breeze brushed my tears away as I ran to him and held him tight.

---

"Will you take it?"

My barely-ten-year-old brother, Adrian, held out a sheaf of papers. I felt tears slip down my cheeks, a rather common occurance in the month since my parents lost their lives to a drunk driver. Court orders were to be expected, but why was HE the one that had to deliver his own fate? I put a reflexive hand on my slightly-bulging stomach, unsure of how a second mouth would affect our already tight finances. My husband was nearly finished with his doctorate, but in the meantime, we stayed afloat on my clerk's salary. I pulled Adrian close, and held him the same way my mother used to hold me when I cried about my hands.

---

"Will you take it?"

The house stood alone, at the end of a road that few knew about and even fewer would want to venture down. The stale air was lightly perfumed with mold, and yellowed wallpaper wilted down the sides of the walls. Yet it had the three bedrooms we'd need, now that Adrian was old enough to have a room to himself. Perhaps if my little Casey had been a boy, we could've gotten away with two bedrooms. A light scratching from behind a wall echoed through the eerily silent house. My husband looked down at me, his expression neutral. It was all we could afford for now.

---

Adrian chopped the vegetables for tonight's stir fry, while Casey bobbed her brown curls to the knife's rhythm. She blinked, then picked up a crayon from the scattered mess she'd left on the table. My husband walked into the dining room, and mussed his daughter's hair, which caused her to giggle.

"Whatcha drawing, sweetie?" he asked playfully.

"It's my family!" she said proudly. "That's you, daddy! And that's mom, that's Adrian, and that's me!" She pointed to the paper, my husband's face lighting up at every family mention.

"We're eating in fifteen minutes," I said, a slight chuckle breaking the semi-serious tone of my voice. I handed Adrian a freshly-rinsed carrot, then worked on cleaning the mushrooms as best as I could. Adrian was due to leave for college in six months, and I still didn't trust my motor coordination enough to handle a sharp knife.

Dinner preparations were interrupted by the sound of glass shattering in the living room. My husband leapt up and ran towards the sound, with me a few steps behind. I stopped when I heard him scream. He staggered back into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, his blood staining the wallpaper we'd put up when we'd bought the house, five years ago. Adrian's eyes went wide at the sight, while Casey huddled under the table. I heard glass crunch towards us, and a man with bloodshot eyes entered, the muzzle of his gun unsteady.

"Which one of you BASTARDS ripped my family apart?!" he bellowed. I stared at the intruder, hard. The gun pointed towards me.

"What do we have to do with us?" I demanded. Adrian wrapped a dish towel around my husband's bloody arm.

"You--YOU are the ones that PUT HIM BEHIND BARS!" he shouted, his breath rich with alcohol, and his attention on me. "So I'm gonna make sure that trip was worth his time!" While the intruder's back was turned, Adrian quietly slipped out of the dining room, towards our bedroom.

"Your brother must've been the drunk that killed my wife's parents," my husband said through gritted teeth. "That's his fault, not ours." The intruder pointed his gun at my husband, who sat on a chair near the dining room table. There was no way he'd be able to move in time! Suddenly, the chair tipped over, sending my husband sprawling. In her panic, Casey had grabbed the closest thing, which was the chair leg. The chair, in turn, had collapsed. This caused the intruder to miss. He yelled and pointed the gun at Casey.

"It's your fault for being a bad person," she said flatly, still clinging to the chair leg.

"NO IT'S NOT!" he yelled. The table stood between me, Casey, and the bad person who threatened to shoot my daughter. I shot my daughter a smile as I shoved the dining room table with everything I had. Something warm punched my gut, and Casey started crying.

"Maybe if we hadn't had this house. . .all the way out here. . .the police would already be here. . ." I said to the intruder, through the haze that clouded my mind. "And maybe. . .if I hadn't married Jake. . .I wouldn't have to protect my daughter. . ." I stared at the ceiling, as Jake cradled me with his good arm.

"Kat, hang in there!" he yelled. I heard another shot, and an unfamiliar scream. Adrian must've grabbed a hunting rifle, and put it to good use.

". . .but I made those choices. . .and I'm proud of them. . ." I gasped out. I wasn't sure if I heard the sirens of our home alarm system, or if the multicolored lights on our ceiling were my welcome to heaven. All I knew was that the pain was exhausting, and I really wanted to sleep.

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So this round ends tomorrow and, for like the first time since I've joined, we actually have enough entries to finish things in the time frame dictated by the opening post. Even so, I feel it courteous to ask if there's anyone out there who needs a day or two extension to get their submission in on time. If not then we can start voting tomorrow.

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I might. Unfortunately...

I always check this thread when the entry period is over ugh oh well, I'll submit something next time.

Do you think you could have something by Wednesday?

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I don't think anyone will object if we extend it a few more days.

procrastinator guy who never participates' opinion, but I approve. I might think of something if I get a few days' worth of an extension.

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Do you see the little #549 (or whatever number at the top of your post? (It's below the quote button on the post about you.) If you click that, it should pop up with a url you can copy and paste.

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