FF - Exiled . . . finally!!

Fast Fiction is fiction written fast. The object is to get your brain thinking about a given subject without interference from “reason”. Go for the 30 minute time limit.

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FF - Exiled . . . finally!!

Postby JillStar » Fri Apr 15, 2005 12:55 pm

jillstar wrote: Fast Fiction is just that... fiction written fast. Please visit What is FAST FICTION for more information.

Look at the subject for today's Fast Fiction at the end of this post... once you have the slightest beginning to your story… begin to write. Don't stop to ponder the meaning behind your writing or try to "fix" it so it's perfect... just write.

If you want to include your Fast Fiction finished product on WordTrip, simply add it to this thread. We would love it!

REMINDER: Please keep your stories PG13 if posted on the site. If you want a critique after you are complete, please consider using your writing group for help in that area or send a PM to one of us.

... try to stick to the 30 minutes time limit... ready, set... WRITE!

SUBJECT: Exiled . . . finally!!
Last edited by JillStar on Thu Apr 21, 2005 1:31 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby pengwenn » Sat Apr 16, 2005 1:14 am

Can we do a modification? "Exiled.......again!"
Is this my reality or yours?
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Postby JillStar » Sat Apr 16, 2005 10:52 am

Absolutely . . . so long as the original Fast Fiction gives you some kind of idea to write. :)
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Postby Quicksilver Wolf » Sun Apr 17, 2005 2:36 am

476 words. Written in 16 min 30 sec.


Enough was enough. The place I was staying was literally falling apart, and not one person living there seemed to mind. Of course, not one person living there was trully living, or sane for that matter. I began packing everything I owned into a large travel bag, my life's worth of worldly possessions crammed into a single tiny space. Shirts, pants, undies, spare shoes, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a handful of CDs, another handful of burnt mp3s on dvd, about six books and some pens. If it didn't fit in the travel back or the backpack, it wasn't going with me. That really got me thinking about what was important. This was all I had. It wasn't much, but these things were mine and mine alone, not something borrowed.

Stepping out of my room, I noticed one guy running around in a pair of boxers with green paint all over him and on his head, one of those things you strain spaghetti with to let the water down the sink. Another guy was chasing him around the house, wielding a cricket bat like a sword, roaring and red-faced as if the person he was chasing had slept with his daughter. Actually, that might not have been that far from the truth. I couldn't remember. It wasn't important.

There was a woman lying on the couch in slinky semi-clothing, one breast hanging out of her boob tube, her hair a mess, her face even worse, and a bottle of vodka slipping from her hand. The hand lost the tug-of-war contest with the floor, and the bottle shattered. No one moved. The guy sleeping on top of her, drooling, moved his leg like a dog when you scratch him on the belly, but that didn't count.

A chunk of pizza fell from the roof, right into the path of the guy being chased around the house. He slipped and fell. Hard. Just like the cartoons, only this was pizza and not a banana peel. Oh well, same difference.

I spoke up.

"Anyone who wants out, come with me. I'm leaving this hole."

"I might join ya when i'm done teaching this gigolo not to sleep with my daughter," said Frank, the guy who owned the buidling, before giving spaghetti-head a series of pummellings with the edge of the cricket bat. The Landlord; that's what they called such people.

"See ya Frank," I said. His response was another application of the cricket bat to spaghetti's head.

I secured the bags on my shoulders, and stepped out the door. I turned around for one last look at the place where I'd wasted my life for the last two years. The door fell off its hinges. It was time to leave this dump.

I was an exile, but that was perfectly fine by me. It was about time I left anyway.
I like stupid people. They're like cupcakes, only stupid.

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Postby JillStar » Sun Apr 17, 2005 12:54 pm

Hey Wolf . . . I liked it. I especially like the fact you sat down and let the words flow in a set amount of time. It felt right when I read it. A bit disturbing to imagine people living like that . . . but glad to see your character GETTING OUT!

Keep it up and thanks for sharing it with us!! :D
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Postby timberline » Sun Apr 24, 2005 10:01 am

Okay, Gang, sorry to be late to the party, but here's my 698-word, 30-minute exercise in total recall of life on the Lower East Side.

Sammy was gone at last. Exiled and told personally by O’Neal himself never to return. This posed several problems for Sammy. First, O’Neal’s watering hole was the first place Sammy’s wife Caroline always went to look for him, because he was never able to keep a leash on his wallet and it usually led him on a merry chase that ended a long walk with a short beer. Once, Caroline had even found their two-year-old daughter crawling on the bar playing with beer bottle caps.

Second, Sammy had recently lost his job. He was a translator of Russian technical publications. That dried up as soon as the current occupant of the White House made friends with the current KGB guy running Russia. Who wanted to read their secrets about social science, stuff about cutting off rats tails until enough generations had passed that rats decided they didn’t need tails? Problem was, Sammy had given the employment agency O’Neal’s telephone number as the business phone where he could be reached.

O’Neal said, “I got nothing personal against Sammy. I don’t hold it against him.”

“I wouldn’t hold anything against Sammy,” Klein the Biker answered. “I’d be afraid of getting terminal depression or some social disease.”

There were some general grunts of amusement among the slackers at the bar that Saturday afternoon.

“But I couldn’t put up with it no longer. Last Saturday there was these home boys came looking for him. When I seen that big revolver they plopped down at a table, I knew I couldn’t have this no more. I hadda call a cop.”

“”Hey,” Klein said, scratching the fur on his face like he was trying to encourage some words to come out from behind his yellow teeth. “Hey, remember the time he brought the box into the bar?”

“Christ, I can’t forget,” O’Neal said. O’Neal was wall-eyed. This allowed him to carry on a conversation staring you in the eye while the other eye waltzed up and down the bar to see who needed a refill. “Margie just hadda ask him what was in the box.”

“Margie, what a hot number! She couldn’t give it up, pestering Sammy till he turned the box over and out came this snake.”

“Jeez, that was a time. Or when he passed out in the basement and the cops called me and woke me up, and then I hadda come down and unlock the door. He was still drinking when they arrested him.”

“And the argument he gave the cop,” Klein said, with the beer snorting out of his nose. “He said he couldn’t be busted for breaking and entering because he was already inside, and you have to go outside in order to break in.”

“Where do you think he is now?” I asked. “He used to hang out at Pete’s Tavern.”

“Nah, he wouldn’t walk to Irving Place. Maybe that Ukrainian place on Avenue C,” O’Neal said.

Klein gave a thumbs up for a refill of O’Neal’s watery tap beer. “I remember the time he brought that whaddyacallit, that falcon in here.”

“Oh, the bird. Jeez, I almost forgot,” O’Neal said. “Big mother.”

“Sammy saw it flying over the East River and when it landed, down by the Williamsburg Bridge, he hit it with a rock. Knocked it out cold. I heard he sold it to the Central Park Zoo for twenty bucks.”

O’Neal sighed. “That would have paid his bar bill.”

“Guess, we won’t see Sammy around here anymore,” I said.

“Or his wife and kid,” Klein said. “Kid was okay. Wonder how it got born to those two.”

“A genetic sport. That’s what they call it,” O’Neal offered. O’Neal was a surprisingly smart man for a guy with an eighth grade education. Shows what knowledge you can pick up in a bar.

“Like maybe there was a sale on DNA at Macy’s?” I suggested. “Think Nike can merchandise genetic sports?”

They both looked at me like I was in the wrong place.

“You understand,” O’Neal said. “I hadda exile him. It was getting out of hand.”

“You didn’t have to put a sign out front telling everybody he was excommunicated from O’Neal’s bar, did you?” Klein asked.

“The Liquor Commission was getting antsy, and I hadda pay extra to the precinct ‘cause they came down here so often!”

“Face it, O’Neal, you’re a Pussy,” Klein said. “The cops are more important than your customers. Look, even the jukebox is broken and we don’t have Sammy for amusement.”

“Well, gents, excuse me, but I for one am going to see if Sammy is hanging at the Uke’s place on C.”

“Wait a minute, I’ll go with you,” Klein said slugging down the last of his beer.

O’Neal looked shocked and both of his eyes got together to look at us. “You ain’t being loyal! What kind of patrons....”

Klein stared back. Little black eyes behind the fur on his face bored into O’Neal. “Take down the sign, O’Neal.”

“He’s exiled. I’m like the priest, and I can kick anyone out of my bar....”

“Him or us, O’Neal,” I said.

“Don’t you guys know how long it took me to exile Sammy? And finally when I do it you twist my arm to let him back in here. You’re not being fair!”

“Exiled is such a harsh word, O’Neal," Klein said. "At school, we used to call it recess.”
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Postby JillStar » Sun Apr 24, 2005 2:03 pm

Poor Sammy . . . kicked out of his favorite drinking place. But hell . . . he got friends; loyal friends. :)

Thanks for sharing your story Timber!
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Postby timberline » Mon Apr 25, 2005 9:31 am

Tkx, Jill. This was an easy one since all the stories are true. I'm sure the perpetrators are mostly dead by now, but they brought a smile to the lips and a tear to the eye.

Sammy (the real one) was last seen as a professor in Guam married to a child-bride Thai. He had been kicked out of every American college he taught at--usually for trading grades for personal ministration. Oh, the heartbreakof academia!
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Postby pengwenn » Wed May 04, 2005 3:54 pm

It took more then 30 minutes but I had to write until the story was finished.

Exiled...Again!


“What are you doing?”

“I’m packing.”

“Why? Dain tell me what’s going on.” Madella wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist and walked over to the door to the bedroom she shared with her husband.

“I have to go Madella. I can’t stay here anymore. It’s too much risk for you and the baby…”

“What are you talking about? I don’t know what any of this means. You left to go help old Styver Congar and you come running home talking about leaving. What did you do?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want you to get in trouble with the King’s Men.” Dain took his cloak from the peg by the door and entered thekitchen. He stepped into the pantry and hunted around before emerging with a sack stuffed with dried fruits and meat.

“What did you do that you’d be in trouble with the King’s men?” Madella looked over at their son sitting happily on a blanket in the corner of the kitchen.

Dain placed the saddlebag of food next to the other bag filled with his clothes on the table and walked over to his son Brendi. He picked up the child and placed a kiss on his head before whispering to him “You take care of your mother now. Live well my son.” After he said his goodbye he placed the child back on the blanket and turned to his wife. He saw the worry in her eyes and the confusion furrowing lines in her forehead. He sighed and grabbed her in his arms. “I really did love you and I really wanted this to work but I have to go or they will kill me.”

When he pulled her away from him he saw tears streaking down her cheek. “I don’t understand.”

“I healed Styver.”

“That’s why his son came for you. You’re the best healer there is out here. Why all the farmers send for you when they get ill-“

“I healed him with magic.”

“What?”

“I’m half elf, Madella.”

“No, that can’t be. You came from Adderel up in the West Mountains.”

“Not exactly. My mother was an elf living in Lilithanel when the King’s Men came to burn the elvan village, the last elvan village this side of the West Mountains. Some of the soldiers captured and raped my mother.”

“They wouldn’t do something like that. The King’s Men are good.”

“They would and they did.” Anger welled up in Dain as his eyes colored to a deep green. “For months they raped and tortured her before they were hunted down and murdered by some elves that escaped the village before it burned. They saved her and took me in when I was born but I couldn’t stay with them…” His voice dropped off as his mind wandered into reflection as painful memories came back to haunt him.

“Dain this isn’t right. You’re not an elf. You don’t look…”

“I’m half-elf. My father was human.”

“Your ears aren’t pointed. Your nose-“

“The tops of my ears were burned and my nose has been broken many times in more fights than I want to remember.”

“No Dain...I don’t know who told you that crazy story but I know you…” her voice broke in a pleading squeak.

“Look into my eyes Madella. They’re green. Have you seen anyone-any human-with eyes as green as mine? Like wet moss in early spring or young leaves on the aspen trees.”

“There are lots of people with green eyes.”

Dain grabbed her and spun her around so she could look into his eyes. “Look Madella and see. I am a half-elf. My ears were burned to remove my weak elvan features and exiled by the elves before I found my way to Adenmaeda in the West Mountains.” Madella moaned as his fingers gripped tighter into her arms. “I found you and I fell in love with you and I thought that would make everything okay. You accepted me and I thought I could pass as a full human. But Styver was dying and there was nothing I could do…as a human…to save him. I prayed, Madella, and power filled me. I knew what I could do, as an elf, and I knew I could save him.”

Dain released his wife and turned towards the table. He gripped the ends of the table clutching tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “I forgot about Styver’s son. I became so…so enamored with the power that flowed through me I forgot that he was there watching. He must have seen what happened. The power flowing through me, into his father. When it was done I was exhausted and called for water but he wasn’t there. He was the one who came for me, I knew he was there, but he saw what I did and he left.” Dain straightened up and started to sling the saddlebags of food and clothes over his shoulder. “If he rode into town the garrison commander will be here before dinner. I have to go Madella. Now, before they get here and make things worse for you and Brendi.”

Madella could only star at her husband, a man she thought she knew, as he walked through the back door and headed towards the stables. She made her way to the door and watched as he led their horse out of the stables already saddled and loaded with his saddlebags. “Dain…” she whispered but could not express her distress.

Dain took one last look back at the house and called out. “I love you Madella…” he turned his head to look around the side of the house startled by a sound only he could hear. “They’re coming already. Styver’s son must have put the fear of the Creator in them if they’ve come so fast.” He turned back to his wife. “If you love…if you ever loved me…you’ll stall them. They can’t push their horses too fast after they’ve rushed to get here, but every second you can stall them will give me a larger lead on them. Please Madella.” He turned and looked out at the road and saw puffs of dirt coming down the far hill.

“Dain…”

“I love you Madella and,” he hung his head and wiped a falling tear off his cheek, “I’m sorry.” Dain climbed on his horse and heeled it out of the yard and towards the forested hills at the back of his fields.

Madella stood and watched until Dain and his horse disappeared in the dark tangle of trees. She turned back into the house and gasped as a hard pounding came at the front door rattling the frame.

“Dain Tresbenen open up. It’s Commander Forven of the King’s Men.”

Madella started towards the door but stopped to pick up her son who had crawled his way off the blanket towards the back door and his retreating father. She straightened his hair and weakly smiled into his eyes. They were green. Light and vibrant, like wet spring moss. She flinched her gaze away from those eyes, elvan eyes, and walked towards the front door.
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Postby luminosity » Wed May 04, 2005 5:07 pm

Wow, Pengwenn...you've got a really good story going there. I want to hear more! What becomes of the mother and baby? Do the King's Men realize Brendi is part elf too and try to take him? :cry: It's not fair...fast fiction is just too short sometimes!
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Postby pengwenn » Wed May 04, 2005 5:30 pm

Does she turn her husband in (and maybe her son) or stall for time so he can get away? Hmmm. :-k My original thought was she stalled for time but once I decided the baby had elven eyes I didn't know how the story was going to go. I still don't or why humans are trying to destroy elves. I think it's one to set aside for awhile and develop more fully later. I liked this one. I'm so glad I didn't lose it completely in my computer mishap earlier.
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Postby Dionysus » Sat May 07, 2005 7:58 am

I cannot believe this man is finally gone. Pushead. I cracked a bottle of beer (champagne is for wimps); actually my ninth beer, for celebration sake. But experience tells me slime like this always finds a way to slither back. Then again, he has hurt so many people, abused what power he had and lied so often, I can't imagine he has anywhere to go. The lowest of the low.
We do get sucked in though, don't we? Everyone lost and lonely and hurt and broke - we hope and hope and wish and wish, we keep buying the words that promise the dream. But all we ever get are the words.
Like your buddy O' Shaugnessy who sucked you into that get rich quick scheme. You knew it was bullshit; you know the man and his crooked ways. Christ he hasn't held a job since 1989 but he's always got money in his pocket. And his eyes are permanently located in the corners of their sockets - slipping back and forth from one corner to the other. You also knew your boss was dung, and that the word future lost it's definition every morning when you walked through those prison-like corporate doors. So you went for it and ended up with a suspended sentence and eighteen months probation.
What about Victoria? Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, tasted like chocolate. Soft to the touch, lips to get lost in and a tongue that did gymnastics. Night after night of indescribeable pleasure, and suggestions that increased in urgency. Dating exclusively, sharing an apartment, a joint checking account.
And she and your money were gone.
They steal your money, they steal your dignity.
But this guy took it to another level. The ultimate level. And it's not like you didn't see it coming; his smile seemed insincere, he stumbled over words intended to be smooth. Your gut said huh? but your mind said what the hell. He promised everything, then took it all away. He stole your dignity, your life, the things that are naturally yours as a human, and he did it boldly, arrogantly and by lying through his teeth. You got sucked in again and you just can't believe it.
Still, he got away with it despite a collective queasiness, until they caught him with his pants down. Literally.
His assistant walked in on him, down on his knees, pants around his ankles, a picture of Richard M. Nixon on the floor in front of him, as he chanted his mantra "You are my true love, tricky Dicky and I shall carry on your legacy through the gates of hell and into the devil's arms. I will use your inspirational example to smite the devil down. I will rise up into heaven and sit at the right hand of the lord, except my throne shall be a little more elevated than his, as it should be." At the height of his delirious inspiration he decorated Nixon's photo appropriately and simultaneously sucked the stale wind out of his own falsely inflated sails. A combination digital camera and recording device caught it all. $1,000,000 put the photos on the front page of every major newspaper the next day ( with tastefully appropriate shadings); the text of his prayer provided Letterman and Leno with material for months to come.
So he's exiled, finally. And in grand style. They brought him naked out onto the white house lawn, dumped molasses and honey (which immediately went sour) on him, covered him with rat feces, tied him to the back bumper of a Hummer, and dragged him to the mojave desert.
Somehow the bastard survived. Like a cockroach. So he lives out there now in an adobe hut, surrounded by his only true friends. Scorpions and snakes.
And he seems to like it.
We can never know about tomorrow.
Still we have to choose which way to go.

He not busy being born is busy dying.

Speak these words when I die: "Either hell just got more cheerful or heaven got more fun."
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Postby timberline » Sat May 07, 2005 5:49 pm

Cool, Dion. Reminded me how happy I was I didn't buy Enron stock. And that I survived a week in Tucson this past January. GD energy companies and cactuses!
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Postby crazinasian » Tue Feb 28, 2006 5:07 pm

wasnt dionysus the greek god of drama?
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