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

A broad grin streched across Jack's face as he clenched his fists in excitement. Mr. Key commended him on his story in front of the whole circle. Jack felt he desevered it. He read hundreds of articles on writing, wrote ten drafts and analytically read hundreds of books. This story was to be his best. 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 little 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 dimensional warp inbetween realities." Ellie snickered horse-like, and whispered to her giggiling girlfriends,

"Pffft, dimensional warps? I bet he reads comics and pretends he's an alien from planet Xenrox."

Jack's nostrils flared and veins bulged in his neck.

After Mr. Key finished glorifying Jack's story, he said " But, what really is important is charecters and plot. And those shine the brightest 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... and the research. He ditched his part-time job so he could take a bus to town where no-one knew him, and pretend to be a begger so he could put himself in his charecters shoes, and that compensated for his job, in fact -- it overcompensated. Sixty cent per hour more.

--

"Jack! Did you win, c'mon tell me you won." His mother said as Jack lugged himself in, looking dejected.

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

Jack raged in his room. Suddenly, his face snapped up and he engaged in a lengthy laughing fit. When it passed, he said to his towering bookshelf "My next story, yes, my next story. It's going to be my greatest. Nobody will be able to touch it, nobody -- not even that whore, Ellie; pacifists will kill to read it."

No child or adult has exerted himself to the limits Jack had. He read half of Shakespeare's plays in two days, while taking pages of notes on them. He lived in a small, low-income town and his family was the wealthiest, so bribing teachers to let him pass three or four lessons to write was easy; he also wrote and edited a novel in six weeks; while completing the ninth draft of his main story. He did all this in order to practice and improve.

The story was about a kid who returns from school to an empty house and embarks on a quest to discover what happened, only to unearth his mothers mangled body.

The day came, stories were submitted and after a week everyone (except Ellie who called in sick) gathered in a circle, tension stiffing the air and suspense mounting. Ellie had submitted a story, but Jack knew she would not win -- not with his to compete with. Jack was fervent.

"Folks, the winner of this month is a long one. But -- oh man, is this some story. Jack, would you be interested in talking with me after our meeting. With this talent, there are colossal opportunities out there, m'boy."

After the story was finished, everybody was amazed.

"Jack, the corpse's description is livid; the slimy blood coating the ripped cord of intestine, ow. And the boy's grief is the most sincere portrayal of emotion I have experienced since Hamlet. God, if I didn't see your mother the other day in the shop, I would be calling the cops on you, boy."

''That was the last time, Mr. Key, that you saw her; that was the last time anybody saw her. I'm sorry, but it is impossible to express yourself sincerely without sufficient research into the true feeling your exploring. She always said she'd do anything to support my writing'' -- Jack thought. 