Thread: 7/30/09 - Second Person POV

Welcome again, boys and girls, to yet another round of everybody's favorite LM Challenge.

The prompt is as follows:

In no more than 500 words, write a story on a topic of your choosing. Evil flying monkeys with an affinity for tea and crumpets or a heartbreaking tale of a man torn between his dreams and his responsibilities--the sky's the limit here. There's only one catch: Write it in second person.

For anyone unsure of how that would work, here's a short example of second person writing:

Originally Posted by Tom Robbins, Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas

“The day the stock market falls out of bed and breaks its back is the worst day of your life. Or so you think. It isn’t the worst day of your life, but you think it is.”

Ox posted another excerpt of second person writing in the coffee shop.

Thanks to The Backward Ox for the excellent prompt!

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers' Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges are welcome to participate, but their entries cannot receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time (EDT) on August 13th.
The judging will be from August 14th - August 20th.
The results will be posted on or before August 21st.

Best of luck, everyone!

The judges for this round are:
Hawke
Leyline
Robosquad
Myself

You Realize -- 500 words, 2576 characters

As the dawn nears, you feel apprehension.

Another night of endless partying, looting, and all around terrorizing of the town has come to an end, and you will soon return to your hideout to count the bounty of the day.

But you still feel as though something is wrong, but you cannot quite place your finger on it. Is it that your best friend was unable to show for the revelry? Or is it the look that lady in the red dress was sending you while you stole glances and fine ale?

It also could have been the way one of your comrades was caught by the guards and severely beaten as you continued to run. You know deep in your heart that you could not save him, and that the motto of your clan is Every Man For Himself, but that still does not ease the ache of the loss.

But you feel as though it is something else. You scuff your boot along the sidewalk. You realize that it is not the excitement. You realize it is not the passion. You realize it is not the loss.

You realize it is the moment.

The moment that is replaced by another moment, which is then replaced by another. Every moment that passes takes you away from the last moment. And, you realize, that there is not an endless supply of moments. The moments will end.

You don't want them to end, you think as you look to the impending sunrise. The orange and red lines streak the sky, stretching forth to remind you that the day does not belong to you. You want each moment to last forever, especially this moment. The excitement, passion, and loss. It is the sum of your life.

One of your friends looks at you funny as he tears a hunk of meat from a leg of mutton. "What's up with you, chap? You look glum all of a sudden. It ain't because of Renaldo, is it?"

You shake your head. "No, that's not it. I think it's just..." You pause. You don't quite know how to express how you feel to him. Do you think you are wasting your life away running around? Yes, yes you do. Or at least, that is part of it. You are only wasting your life by not fully experiencing the moment. And that has been what you were doing. Just laying about in the chaos of your life, and you realize that the last few years have been a blur. And with life being so precious... you cannot afford to NOT experience it all. Every breath, every laugh, every single damned moment.

And so you look into those quizzical eyes and say, "It's nothing, really. Just something I realized."

"What did you realize?" he asks.

"That it's time to get the hell out of here!"

You and your friend laugh, and with the others retreat from the approaching day.

You have seen her pass this way many times before. Usually her tiny hand is almost invisible, wrapped up in her mother's. But not today. Today her hands are waving about as she dances alone, sashaying from one side of the street to the other. The tuneless singing grows louder as the awkward, lunging footfalls crunch the gravel at the end of your driveway. She has never been closer and a light breeze carries what you imagine as her scent to your nose, awakening your taste buds. You swallow hard to clear your mouth of the inexplicable torrent of saliva. The girl is still singing. She's skipping now instead of dancing. Just before each little foot hits the ground, the air catches the hem of her skirt and holds it aloft for just a moment. Pink panties with lavender hearts.


She smells of cherries.


You try to call to her but your mouth is again full of spit, resulting in an uneven gurgle and a bit of wetness on your chin. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand and try again, saying what a pretty song she's singing. She laughs and skips up to the flagpole a few feet from your front porch. As she twirls herself around the pole, hair streaming behind her like a banner, she tells you matter-of-factly that she made up the song all by herself and someday she is going to be a famous singer and be rich and have twenty kitties and fifty ponies.


The smile you give her is warm and sincere. She will have to make up many more songs to be rich enough for twenty kitties and fifty ponies, you tell her. Perhaps she would like to sing a few more before she goes home.


The girl sings another awful sounding song that makes you want to fill your ears with plaster. You watch her, nodding encouragingly, as she dances around your flagpole, bits of dust settling on her lacy white socks. Her hands look so small coiled around the cold aluminum. Her fingernails have been painted pink, the polish immaculate, applied with a steady and loving mother's hand. The polish mimics the color of the candy bracelet adorning her wrist.


Her hands look so small.


As the last shrill note fades, you push yourself out of the crusty wooden chair and applaud furiously. Of course she will be a famous singer, she is absolutely amazing; she must give you an encore. The girl happily complies, and after another off-key rendition you cheer again and insist that such beautiful music be rewarded with ice cream and chocolate cake and cookies and pie. You promise her that you won't tell her mother about eating sweets before dinner.


The touch is light, the skin soft and smelling of cherries. Her fingers feel like tiny, uncooked sausages and the small fingernails look like candy. Your mouth is full of saliva, and her hand is almost invisible.

***JUDGE ENTRY***NOT FOR COMPETITION***JUDGE ENTRY***

In The Hall Of Kings, Hungover

(500 words)

Do you even remember losing the eye?

Oh, pathetic. You really are, and you know it. Lost his eye, he says.

Traded it away.

What have you learned from such a trade, you silly pup?



You're something of the office legend for the toys, little never-before-seen miracles of electronic engineering. The newest, most cleverly crafted.

"Did you find a place to park? This rain is ludicrous."

"I've got the new Mitsumi transport build. I just fold her up and slip her in my pocket."

People laugh, but your smile is a little strange.



You were always so ambitious. That stern image of the responsible eldest, so well played. But, in the end, you didn't mind stooping to melodrama, battered godsbody stretched naked on the tree of the world, crucified and bound on the spears of the Norns, for nine and nine.

Showoff.



Death is near and you have lost all fear of it. You call to it, ready. Fretful visions of a showdown with a grinning skull face, a fine white sculpture of billions of grains of secret laden white dust. Foolish little heroic fantasies. Even close to that ultimate edge gods and men bow to them.

For nine days you've hung here, and the universe has changed. The cardinal directions are variations in pain, each subtly shaded with meaning, intensity and flavor. A sense of direction burnt through pain, discipline at the core. Only the occasional trickles of water register as pleasure in such deep meditation.

And after the ninth night you find yourself rudely awakened. Cut from the great tree and dragged through the forest. Given a poor man's bed of leaves and sticks by a fire hidden in that little valley.

They say if you hide in the world of men, you'll find giants.


Cardinal points war with nerve flash as new directions are discovered.

The first thing you think when you wake is: Oh now I understand.

And you do, and it's dreadful you discover. Another burden to be shouldered, such final knowledge, one eyed and myopic.

You see the unavoidable steps that lead up to the final fires and darkness. See that they are a logical and inarguable fact. You are convinced, left with nothing but to plod on towards Ragnarok, almost eager.

Now you're remembering!

Travellers are still your kind and the horizon still as elusive. The roads are as cold and inviting as ever, and faster oh faster.

One eye wary you step into these whirlwind lives of men, to crisscross great masses of land and souls. To while away these last few long years till death and glory and the good high ring of steel.

You and I are on the same damn road, brother. Half brother, like it or not. Kin of giants both. We gods are messy.

The same damn road, drifting away these last long years. Left dreading, waiting, finally accepting and exhilarated. You are left waiting for the end of the whole dirty story.

Oh blow, horn, blow.

I posted my entry here:

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1303253

Thanks.

Self Deprecating Writer

500 words - A few rude ones


You’re writing an entry for a challenge on your writing forum. You’re not all that confident with the style. You know that as long as you say ‘you’ a lot that you’ve basically got it.

But who are you talking to?

You’re not sure whether you should try and make the reader feel as though they’re a character in the story, like telling them who they are and what they’re doing. You know when you read stuff like that it kind of pisses you off.

You’re an ugly man and you’re sweating in the sun.

You think: Actually, I’m a mildly attractive female (fuck you) and it’s cold as shit, but thanks for rubbing it in.

You know you could also get all tricksy and have your narrator seem like they’re talking to themself, then at the end have this wicked gasp-inducing-reveal, where it turns out they were talking to someone else, and they’re going to kill them, or something.

Or, you could make it sound like this narrator is talking to someone, but then the reader realises that they’re talking to themself. Problem being that then the boundaries get all blurry because it kind of crosses out of the point of view you’re going for.

Yeah, really not confident.

But you like to look on the bright side, and the challenge has been up for a while now, and not many people have entered, and for you it really ain’t about winning. You just like the finger exercise. You know that you always wait until the last minute for these things. Bad habit, bred into you early from school. You work better under pressure, or so you always told people. The truth of course being that you’re a lazy procrastinator. Sounds like some sort of awesome robot, doesn’t it? The Lazy Procrastinator 6000, batteries sold separately.

Now you’re just being an idiot. Sometimes this is how you like to write. Prattle on, (you’ve had coffee, haven’t you?) and then hope, blindly, that somehow you will think of some killer paragraph to end it all and everything will tie up nicely and the foolish readers will believe it was all part of the plan.

You tell yourself that this is the biggest piece of shit ever written. You tell yourself this often. It’s counter-productive to say the least. The inner-critic always strikes at this milestone. Your keyboard is being an asshole. Your kitten is trying to snuggle. You’re sick of your own words and feeling nothing but pity for the poor saps who read this.

You still don’t know how to end it. You wouldn’t even call it a story. You just realised you could give it a killer title like Self Deprecating Writer and it will explain away the terrible quality. You are such a cop out.

And now you’re here, and there’s no awesome reveal, and this sentence probably won’t tie it all together. All that you’ve achieved is five hundred words, and an embarrassing result. First Prize!

That's all for this round, ladies and gents. Judges, have at her!

*EDIT: Reopened again for one day. Depending on the number of late entries, the judging period may be extended.