Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28060931-20161116004550/@comment-28060931-20161124230000

So I took all of your advice to heart. I think I worked pretty hard on this story, but then again that's what I thought the last time. Anyway, here's the revision,

A broad grin stretched across Jack's face. Mr. Key commended him on his story in front of the whole circle. Jack felt he deserved it. He read hundreds of articles on writing and wrote ten drafts of his story. He usually was the centre of attention at the writing club. He and that cocksucking slut Ellie. She wrote shitty romance fan-fics, yet she was always Mr. Key's pet; she probably sucked his dick.

After Mr. Key read the last line of Jack's story, "And so in that flurry of kaleidoscopic colors, Connor was thrust into a time warp." Ellie snickered horse-like and whispered to her giggling girlfriends,

"Pffft, time traveling? I bet he never read a real novel, just picture-comic trash."

After Mr. Key finished glorifying Jack's story, he said "But the most important elements of writing are characters and plot. And those shine the brighest in Ellie's newest story, "Chris' Secret Desires." which has been awarded the 'Best Monthly Story'. Give it up for Ellie, everybody."

Everybody clapped except Jack, whose hands fell limply to his side. He wanted to kill that bitch; rape and blow her fucking brains out. He worked on his story the hardest.

--

"Jack! Did you win? Tell me you won." His mother said as Jack lugged himself in, looking dejected.

"Yes, I look like I won, don't I? No! I lost. Do you think I'm a masochist?" Jack said and stormed upstairs.

Jack raged in his room.

Suddenly, his face snapped up and he burst into a laughing fit. When it passed he said to his towering bookshelf, "My next story, yes, my next story. It's going to be the greatest. No other story could hold a candle to it -- not even Ellie's. Pacifists will kill to read it."

No child or adult exerted themselves to the limits Jack had. He lived in a small, low-income town and his family was the wealthiest. Thus bribing teachers to let him pass three or four lessons so he can work on his story was easy. He also wrote and edited a novel in six weeks while completing the twelfth draft of his main story. Jack felt he practiced enough to write the final draft; he took a minute to plan each sentence and re-read the sentence five times. After each paragraph was finished, he looked over it for half an hour.

The story was about a kid who returns from school to an empty home and embarks on a quest to discover what happened, only to unearth his mother's mangled body. It turned out that a frenzied ex-husband killed her because he wanted revenge.

The day came when stories were submitted. After a week everyone gathered in a circle, tension filled the air and suspense mounted. Jack was fervent.

"Folks, the winner of this month is some story. Jack, would you be interested in talking with me after our meeting. With this talent, there's colossal opportunities out there, m'boy."

After the story was finished, everyone was amazed.

"Jack, the corpse's description is livid; the slimy blood coating the ripped cord of intestine, and the boy's grief is the most sincere portrayal of emotion since Hamlet. God, if I didn't see your mother in the shop the other day, I would think she actually died."

Well, Mr. Key, that was the last time anybody saw her -- she's dead. I had to do it. One cannot sufficiently portray an emotion without experiencing it. She always did say she's do anything to help me with my writing, Jack thought.