Writer's Challenge (Classic)

[thewrongvine]

21. A character borrows money, but the intention behind the action is not what it seems. A character is greedy throughout most of the story. During the story, a character misunderstands someone.

Man 1: I would like to borrow some money to buy a cow. When the cow works, I will pay you back.
Man 2: Sure!
Man 2 gives money to man 1.
Man 1: Thank you!
Man 1 goes home, and buys a horse instead.
Man 2 sees the horse the next day.
Man 2: Hey! I thought you said you were going to buy a cow. I must have misunderstood you.
Man 1: Oh, you said I could get the cow? I thought you said "Get a horse instead."



There...

~Hai-Bye-Vine~

 

[Miz]

Man 1: I would like to borrow some money to buy a cow. When the cow works, I will pay you back.
Man 2: Sure!
Man 2 gives money to man 1.
Man 1: Thank you!
Man 1 goes home, and buys a horse instead.
Man 2 sees the horse the next day.
Man 2: Hey! I thought you said you were going to buy a cow. I must have misunderstood you.
Man 1: Oh, you said I could get the cow? I thought you said "Get a horse instead."



There...

~Hai-Bye-Vine~

BTW here's #19

19. A character gives birth. During the story, a character is attacked. The story must involve a candle in it.

 

[thewrongvine]

Wow....

Challenge#19 = Star Wars #3 = Released On the 19th = My Birthday = 19!

With Padme or whatshername. Attacked by Anakin. Then... a candle somewhere... lol.

~Hai-Bye-Vine~

 

[BANANAMAN]

the candle could also be figurative.

 

[Seb!]

Oh my bad. Can I have 26?

 

[thewrongvine]

the candle could also be figurative.

Hao so?

~Hai-Bye-Vine~

 

[Ninva]

Spoiler

There was little for me to fret about in 1989. I had a job, a wife, and a home. And I still do. My friends, who lived at the bar, enjoyed my company for I owned their home. Actually, they had wives and jobs too. They just weren’t as committed, I suppose… or I just had it easy.

I played the sax. It was a beautiful brass tube with holes in it. My fingers would cover these perforations and sometimes my fingers would slip away allowing the long pipe to work out protracted, rigid sounds. This noise would then be organized in such a way that people would find the clamor to be ironically pulchritudinous.

But I suppose anyone that can appreciate my saxophone’s voice, can admire its strong allure. And I suppose the greatest example of that draw was when a rich man came in one day. He spent the whole day sobbing and crying at his own modest table. Whenever someone came to calm him, he would retort and praise my sax playing. Hence for I continued to rip long hard notes of mournful praise, I did not know at the time why I played in such a manner. I thought I was being expression. Oh how wrong I was!

At the end of the day, I packed my sax away. The rich man wiped away his tears. His eyes focused on me and the sax. I did not know what he wanted from me, and I have to admit my fright when he stuck his hand into his over-coat. But the man did not pull out a gun, nor did he pull a police badge from his coat pocket. Instead he showed me a fat wallet filled with Benjamins. He smiled at me, that rich man, as he placed the money into my palm. Then he walked away.
Five hundred dollars was in my hand. Five hundred dollars! My wife arose with a profound beam. She hasn’t been so proud since she was young. I smiled too, and we danced to an imaginary song, which was in my head. It was a happy tune.

The next day more men with fat pockets and hungry souls came into my wife’s bar. They demanded nothing but spiritual satisfaction. My wife nearly threw me out of bed at their arrival. I approached the stage rather stiffly, but I couldn’t help myself once I began playing that saxophone. The frustration of my mind morphed into blue sorrowful pity upon this human world. Every sad tune made me ever gladder – ever gladder.

Six hours into my performance, I felt winded. And I removed the strap of my sax from my shoulder. My head sweated and felt warm. The men in the room bellowed in glorious extol. My grin stretched across my face. I was in seventh heaven.

After a short break of thirty minutes, I reentered the stage with a larger crowd all pacing around themselves. It was a sight to see once they acknowledged my presence. A huge wave of men and boys cheered. My wife shrugged her shoulders to me, and I laughed. Then, I played the song of fear. The instrumental told a story about a man at war fighting for a cause he did not know. Then in the end before he dies, a friendly soldier weeps, “This is no way to die!”

The men wailed with wild compassion for the soldier. They all knew their young selves back in the war. Then they remembered me and told me in a unison voice that my life shall be forever happy. But it was not me who felt sad. No, it was my sax that played. He was the saddest because it wasn’t easy thing to do – to live without a heart or brain. Yet through me, we both lived. We had a mutual feeling for music. That’s why I play sad when I’m actually happy.

Need help with the thread, Miz? I want 22, please.

 

[BANANAMAN]

Hao so?

~Hai-Bye-Vine~

Think real hard you'll get it eventually.

 

[Miz]

Spoiler

There was little for me to fret about in 1989. I had a job, a wife, and a home. And I still do. My friends, who lived at the bar, enjoyed my company for I owned their home. Actually, they had wives and jobs too. They just weren’t as committed, I suppose… or I just had it easy.

I played the sax. It was a beautiful brass tube with holes in it. My fingers would cover these perforations and sometimes my fingers would slip away allowing the long pipe to work out protracted, rigid sounds. This noise would then be organized in such a way that people would find the clamor to be ironically pulchritudinous.

But I suppose anyone that can appreciate my saxophone’s voice, can admire its strong allure. And I suppose the greatest example of that draw was when a rich man came in one day. He spent the whole day sobbing and crying at his own modest table. Whenever someone came to calm him, he would retort and praise my sax playing. Hence for I continued to rip long hard notes of mournful praise, I did not know at the time why I played in such a manner. I thought I was being expression. Oh how wrong I was!

At the end of the day, I packed my sax away. The rich man wiped away his tears. His eyes focused on me and the sax. I did not know what he wanted from me, and I have to admit my fright when he stuck his hand into his over-coat. But the man did not pull out a gun, nor did he pull a police badge from his coat pocket. Instead he showed me a fat wallet filled with Benjamins. He smiled at me, that rich man, as he placed the money into my palm. Then he walked away.
Five hundred dollars was in my hand. Five hundred dollars! My wife arose with a profound beam. She hasn’t been so proud since she was young. I smiled too, and we danced to an imaginary song, which was in my head. It was a happy tune.

The next day more men with fat pockets and hungry souls came into my wife’s bar. They demanded nothing but spiritual satisfaction. My wife nearly threw me out of bed at their arrival. I approached the stage rather stiffly, but I couldn’t help myself once I began playing that saxophone. The frustration of my mind morphed into blue sorrowful pity upon this human world. Every sad tune made me ever gladder – ever gladder.

Six hours into my performance, I felt winded. And I removed the strap of my sax from my shoulder. My head sweated and felt warm. The men in the room bellowed in glorious extol. My grin stretched across my face. I was in seventh heaven.

After a short break of thirty minutes, I reentered the stage with a larger crowd all pacing around themselves. It was a sight to see once they acknowledged my presence. A huge wave of men and boys cheered. My wife shrugged her shoulders to me, and I laughed. Then, I played the song of fear. The instrumental told a story about a man at war fighting for a cause he did not know. Then in the end before he dies, a friendly soldier weeps, “This is no way to die!”

The men wailed with wild compassion for the soldier. They all knew their young selves back in the war. Then they remembered me and told me in a unison voice that my life shall be forever happy. But it was not me who felt sad. No, it was my sax that played. He was the saddest because it wasn’t easy thing to do – to live without a heart or brain. Yet through me, we both lived. We had a mutual feeling for music. That’s why I play sad when I’m actually happy.

Need help with the thread, Miz? I want 22, please.

No Thanks, I have just been busy for the past few days and forgot to update it. (Thread has been updated, please report any errors)

As you Wish Ninva

22. The story is set during an election/political decision. The story takes place a thousand years into the future. The story must involve a casual outfit in it.

 

[Monsterous]

Number 22's choices blend easily
Should be easy peasy - especially for Ninva :3

 

[Genkora]

May I have 24 please?

 

[Tharius]

If it isn't taken yet, can I get #25?

 

[Miz]

May I have 24 please?

24. The story must have a chemist involved in the middle. The story must involve a stained-glass window in it. A character gets a new hairstyle, but the intention behind the action is not what it seems.

If it isn't taken yet, can I get #25?

25. The story is set during a charity event. The story takes place a year into the future. During the story, a character finds out a dark secret.

 

[thewrongvine]

24. The story must have a chemist involved in the middle. The story must involve a stained-glass window in it. A character gets a new hairstyle, but the intention behind the action is not what it seems.

Chemist wants to get a new hairstyle so that he can get a disguise for something. He drops a chemical as he is cutting his hair, and it stains the stained-glass window.

Working on 19 slowly... busy...

~Hai-Bye-Vine~

 

[Krys A Night]

3. A character will visit the doctor. A character becomes misunderstood during the story. During the story, a character discovers someone has been pretending to be them.

Spoiler

I sit in the waiting room, looking around at all of the people that are there. It’s a wonder that someone doesn’t get worse, just sitting in the waiting room. Everyone there is sneezing and coughing. The disinfectant companies make a killing on doctor’s offices alone probably.
“Ms. Familiar,” a nasally voice calls.
I stand up and walk to the window. The woman glares at me like I’ve done something wrong.
“The doctor will see you now, come around,” she snips.
All the other people stare at me in envy, like I won the lottery. Do they think that the people in the office throw all the names in a big pot and pull at random. Measured and weighed I’m led to the waiting room that is assigned to me.
I stare at the posters on the wall, reading about what effects a stroke as on your brain, and how they can be prevented when the door swings open and the doctor walks in.
“Alright Ms. Carl, looking at you chart you have a severe blockage in the blood flow of your leg and you will have to go to the hospital as soon as possible. We will call an ambulance if you need one,” the doctor says.
“I’m not Ms. Carl, and I’m here just because I’m having a little difficulty breathing,” I tell him.
“Ms. Carl, why didn’t you mention this earlier, one of the blockages has moved from your leg to your lung. I’ll call the ambulance for you immediately.”
“I’m not Ms. Carl, and I don’t have any blockages in my leg. You have the wrong woman.”
“It’s alright Ms. Carl, you’re just a little delusional, it’s the lack of oxygen getting to your brain. You have to let me go so that we can call an ambulance to get you to the hospital.”
“Check it with one of the nurses, I am not Ms. Carl, I do not have any blockages in my leg. What are you doing?”
The doctor walks out of the room and I get up to follow him.
“Ms. Carl, please go back and sit down, you should not be on your feet, you can’t put any more stress on your body, more of the clots might move up into your lungs,” the doctor snaps.
I roll my eyes, going back into the room. As I sit down one of the nurses comes in and looks at me.
“What’s wrong with you Ms. Familiar?” she asks as she sits down.
“So you don’t think that I’m Ms. Carl and have a blockage in my leg,” I snap.
“Who said that you were Ms. Carl?”
“The doctor who has just been in to see me.”
The nurse looks at me weird and walks back out of the room. When she comes back in someone else wearing the same white coat that the doctor had been wearing earlier.
“Is this the doctor that you saw?” the nurse asks.
“No, that’s not the same doctor. The same coat though.”
“It looks like we have another escapee in the office, pretending to be a doctor.”

Can I have number 23 please?

 

[Miz]

Spoiler

I sit in the waiting room, looking around at all of the people that are there. It’s a wonder that someone doesn’t get worse, just sitting in the waiting room. Everyone there is sneezing and coughing. The disinfectant companies make a killing on doctor’s offices alone probably.
“Ms. Familiar,” a nasally voice calls.
I stand up and walk to the window. The woman glares at me like I’ve done something wrong.
“The doctor will see you now, come around,” she snips.
All the other people stare at me in envy, like I won the lottery. Do they think that the people in the office throw all the names in a big pot and pull at random. Measured and weighed I’m led to the waiting room that is assigned to me.
I stare at the posters on the wall, reading about what effects a stroke as on your brain, and how they can be prevented when the door swings open and the doctor walks in.
“Alright Ms. Carl, looking at you chart you have a severe blockage in the blood flow of your leg and you will have to go to the hospital as soon as possible. We will call an ambulance if you need one,” the doctor says.
“I’m not Ms. Carl, and I’m here just because I’m having a little difficulty breathing,” I tell him.
“Ms. Carl, why didn’t you mention this earlier, one of the blockages has moved from your leg to your lung. I’ll call the ambulance for you immediately.”
“I’m not Ms. Carl, and I don’t have any blockages in my leg. You have the wrong woman.”
“It’s alright Ms. Carl, you’re just a little delusional, it’s the lack of oxygen getting to your brain. You have to let me go so that we can call an ambulance to get you to the hospital.”
“Check it with one of the nurses, I am not Ms. Carl, I do not have any blockages in my leg. What are you doing?”
The doctor walks out of the room and I get up to follow him.
“Ms. Carl, please go back and sit down, you should not be on your feet, you can’t put any more stress on your body, more of the clots might move up into your lungs,” the doctor snaps.
I roll my eyes, going back into the room. As I sit down one of the nurses comes in and looks at me.
“What’s wrong with you Ms. Familiar?” she asks as she sits down.
“So you don’t think that I’m Ms. Carl and have a blockage in my leg,” I snap.
“Who said that you were Ms. Carl?”
“The doctor who has just been in to see me.”
The nurse looks at me weird and walks back out of the room. When she comes back in someone else wearing the same white coat that the doctor had been wearing earlier.
“Is this the doctor that you saw?” the nurse asks.
“No, that’s not the same doctor. The same coat though.”
“It looks like we have another escapee in the office, pretending to be a doctor.”

Can I have number 23 please?

23. A character takes a test. A character is happy throughout most of the story. During the story, a character is attacked.

 

[Seb!]

Could I have 26 please?

 

[thewrongvine]

Can I not do mine till Spring Break which is in a few days? I might be over 2 weeks but... I will do it, just need time, in Spring Break.

~Hai-Bye-Vine~

 

[SerraAvenger]

(Just checked the awesome side and got these results:
"The story takes place a thousand years in the past. The story must have an angel in it. During the story, a character is killed." Cool, exactly the topics I would love to write about )

EDIT: Forget about it No time.

 

[Genkora]

24. The story must have a chemist involved in the middle. The story must involve a stained-glass window in it. A character gets a new hairstyle, but the intention behind the action is not what it seems.

I cut my hair today. I cut it short, it was so long before. It's a funny thing, you don't miss it.

I said; you want to know what I said? I said, "I needed to get a job." That's what I said. But that's just what I said right? It's not like it really means anything. But I said I needed to get a job and should cut my hair.

It was a message on a phone. I shouldn't have looked, but it sat right there, an outgoing message to her friend about me. She had forgotten it, so I looked. You want to know what it said? It said, "I don't like long hair on guys." So I chopped it off. A job. Yeah right.

It was chemistry, our teacher, he's a chemist. I liked chemistry, but that was before she was in this class, now it's a class about her. I don't remember what chemistry is, and our teacher drones on about something. But I have short hair now, maybe she would notice.

A message on a phone, I'm an idiot yeah? Such an idiot, cut my hair, screw me. I'm sure she would have been much happier if I had just given her the phone that she forgot. But I guess I'm stupid.

I learned something today. Once a long hair always a long hair. I was somehow a creep, and that's just how it is. Not much I can do, not like I can sway someone's emotions.

I looked out and realized one thing, life is a outgoing message painted red through a stained glass window.