Multi-Prompt Collaborations

CSM Creative Writing presents our latest collaboration in the form of short stories.  Each author chose from one of the following prompts, wrote a beginning, then switched and continued another author’s story.

Prompt 1: Write a story for this picture or for this picture

Prompt 2: You receive a gift with a note that says, “I hope you never have to use this.”

Prompt 3: Your grandmother leaves you a journal with a lock, and a key. What is written inside?

We hope you enjoy these newly crafted stories!

If you like what you see, check out our amazing authors’ other works, or follow us to get notifications each time we update.



Written by: Amber Hill, J. West, and Grant DeShazer

Prompt: 1,

The moon swam above in an inky sky. Why he had chosen such a clear night, he didn’t know.

The kingdom was distracted. Not only by the death of the princess, for whom they were grieving on this night, but by the feeling of being on the eve of war.

Durbroch couldn’t bring himself to stand in the little boat as it approached the shoreline. He had never been very sure-footed on the sea, nor did he want to risk being seen in the silvery light that spilled over him. His mission was simple, but surely not easy, and he wouldn’t make it any easier by drawing attention from the silly folk on the hills surrounding the proper.

The bag at his feet rocked as the boat bumped against the sandy bottom. Durbroch was on his feet in under a breath, the bag slung up onto his shoulder in one swift movement. He stepped off into the water, and trudged up toward the treeline, his heavy armor surprisingly soundless across his broad shoulders.

There was shouting from the city walls, to his left. He jogged the rest of the way to the trees, and lifted the heavy iron mask that guarded his not all too pleasant face. Catching a breath was always an issue in this gear.

He placed the bundle down once out of sight and straightened long enough to check the shore again. He made briskly for the boat, kicked it away, and watched it float aimlessly for several heartbeats before turning back for his prize.

The bag was stirring when he found it again in the shade cast by the cone-shaped trees. He knelt down, and quickly shirked the bag.

The princess glared up at him, surprisingly sober.

“You could have at least let me poke my head out.  I could hardly breath in there,” she whined.  “I hired you to fake my death and bring me to Allion so I could find my brother.  I thought you were trustworthy and smart, but I never imagined your manners would be so crude.”

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers,” said Durbroch irritably.

“Well, I’m a princess, and I can too choose.” she snapped, standing up to stretch her aching muscles.  She’d been cramped in that bag for far too long.

Durbroch regarded her with restrained impatience.  “We’ll camp here tonight.  Tomorrow, I’ll find us some horses in Halcyon, and we can ride to Allion from there.  We’ll arrive at nightfall.”

They made camp in silence, still able to see the lanterns floating above them in the sky like golden guardians poking through the needled branches.

“Do you think my parents are sad?” she asked suddenly.  Her tone was casual, but Durbroch detected something like regret underneath.

“Are you sad?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I’ll miss them.  But I miss my brother more.  And if they had anything to do with his disappearance, I don’t know how I would feel.”

“You’re pretty brave for someone as young as yourself.”

“I’m only brave because I have to be, Durbroch.”

And he saw her steel herself, silhouetted in the twilight.  It was a look he was rather familiar with.  A look many men wore before plunging into the depths of battle, blade in hand.  But, it was never a look that stuck for very long, even the strongest warrior would be swept up in a battle and thrashed mercilessly against the shore until nothing was left in their eyes except a forlorn emptiness and an animal instinct to survive.

This princess might very well be brave and strong now, and perhaps with his help she would remain that way.  But it very well could come to pass, that she, like so many of the men he had once commanded, would be swallowed by a cruel and unforgiving world.


The Blue Bottle

Written by:  Richard Sebastian-Coleman, Amber Hill, and J. West

Prompt 2

A small bottle containing dark blue liquid that instantly evoked a sense of being far from heaven. The spy’s last resort, should he/she/it get caught while on the inside. The two vertical lines of the ‘H’ of hydrogen on the label formed two ominous pillars that seemed to border the door to the land of the dead. Such a strange thing, that such a small amount of pretty blue hue could lead one out of this world to the next. A small note from John at The Company accompanied the blue hue in its little brown box, ‘‘Hope you never have to use this.”

Yeah, he hoped he never would have to too. The plane would take off shortly, and this would be stuffed nicely in his carry-on, under a different label of course, probably Tylenol. Why The Company bothered to properly label the things for their agents was a little beyond him. Ah well, if it got lost in the mail probably best someone knew what it really was, wouldn’t want some kid getting at it. The ‘C’ on the label was as ominously curved as the pillars of the ‘H’ were straight. So close to being a sickle.

He slid the bottle carefully into the pocket at his breast and moved toward the plane, donning a pair of sunglasses and spitting his gum onto the asphalt. Several flight crew members were scrambling about at the base of the steps that would lead him to his final mission before an early retirement. He smiled to himself, nodding in response to some wordless thought.

He mounted the stairs slowly. Not due to his age – the thought made him laugh, as even his seniors weren’t talented enough to have been able to quit so young. He just wanted to savor this feeling. The last steps onto this cursed plane.

He reached out for the door frame, and the moment his fingertips brushed the metal, the plane exploded.

He didn’t know how far he was once he came to again. He couldn’t have been out for long; the ringing in his ears still hadn’t faded. His eyes fluttered, but the sun blinded him. He rolled carefully, ignoring the twisting and pulling in every inch of his body, and let out a long groan as blood dripped onto the pavement just inches from his gaze.

He started to crawl – just as he had been instructed to do from day one – and tried to push with his legs. One foot was surely broken. He assumed that was from being thrown. He moved his gaze ahead. The shrapnel of the plane was beginning to crumble almost forty feet away.

Suddenly, a heavy weight pressed down between his shoulder blades, driving him into the hot ground.

“Where do you think you’re going, Agent Four?”

He couldn’t and wouldn’t answer.  Not when he was so close to being done.

“Where is the treasure?” The man pressed, stepping harder on his back with a heavy boot.

“I have it,” Four said, rolling over.

He pulled out the blue bottle.

“Drink it, and experience true enlightenment.  It’s a treasure from the jungle,” he said in what he hoped passed for a dejected voice.

The man reached down and uncorked it, unaware of how he straddled the line between life and death.

And then, as Four had always done on his missions, he watched as the man uncorked it, then closed his eyes and waited.  

He always knew when to close his eyes.



Written by: Grant, Richard, and Amber

Prompt: 1,

It was raining.  Hard.  She could feel it hitting her scalp, running down her neck and soaking the collar of her shirt.  She probably should have felt cold, or made some effort to find cover in the drenching downpour.

But it wasn’t a bad thing either.  It made the grip he had on his katana slippery, made his movements sloppy and weak.

She reminded herself that she was in control this time.  She let that determination play across her face.  He was nothing now, a nobody that didn’t deserve even the smallest kindness.  Not after all he had done.

To think that he was someone that she had looked up to, someone that had even trained her to be the best she could be and all he had done was destroy that.  He’d been using her from the start.

“Are you scared?” he hissed, “Scared to shoot a former mentor?”

“If I wasn’t ordered to bring you in, I’d have already shot you.”

He turned towards her a bit more, light flashing off the polished length of his katana, a slight grin crept across his face.  “You should be.  Taking a life should never be so easy.  Besides, do you really think you are in control right now?”

She took a step back, but kept her pistol leveled with his head.  She wouldn’t back down, she wouldn’t let him intimidate her!

“Can you honestly explain why you were ordered to bring me in?  Surely everyone knows how dangerous I am.  There’s certainly no doubt as to the things I’ve done.  So why is it that you are to keep me alive?”

“Quiet!  Backup will be here any minute.”

He cocked his head and took a step towards her, his grin growing. “Oh I don’t think so, not unless you replaced the radio in your command box since I was last with you. Elsewise your shouts for backup have disappeared into the ether.”

“You’re lying” she replied quietly, but saw her own hand shake out of fear that he was right.

“If I was lying, then I would have run.  After all, I’m quite talented with this blade but not quite talented enough to take down four helicopters who have me surrounded on a rooftop, this isn’t a videogame afterall.”

“X-1 to Base! Do you come in Base!” she shouted into the radio, giving into the fear that she really was alone, but keeping the gun pointed at him. The radio didn’t even echo back with a static buzz, had she imagined that it did earlier? In that moment of questioning he struck, with a simple flick of his wrist he sent the katana blade straight towards her hand sending the pistol flying across the roof. He then brought the blade back down towards her head but he had trained her too well to be hit by such an obvious blow. She dodged and rolled towards the pistol. He moved to block her, but exoskeleton suits really helped with that sort of leap.

“If you want to keep any honor then get out of the suit and fight me as human to human.” she yelled, just as her fingers wrapped around the pistol grip.

He hardly hesitated. The taste of the game was surely too much for him to bear. There was a faint buzz, a hiss, and the face mask fell away to reveal his face. The one she had spent months driving from her memory. “Honor,” she chuckled, rolling on to her back and raising the pistol to rest directly between his eyes. She pulled the trigger without blinking.



Written by: J. West, Grant, and Richard  

Prompt: 1,

Ali liked it on the roof.  No one else had the agility to follow him up there, so he was able to achieve total privacy.  The roof was the one place he could be completely and totally himself.  He was not donning a metaphorical mask as he did among the others in his village.

They didn’t understand him.  Not completely.  Not that it was their fault.  No one can truly understand another because each person hardly understands himself.  Ali knew this.  So he allowed himself to take on personas depending on his situation.

With the man selling swords, he was abrasive and intimidating because it got him a discount.

With Lila, he was romantic and charming.

With his brother Gil, he had always been honest and cheerful.  But he would no longer need that persona.  Because Gil was dead.

Gil was dead and Ali was on the roof and he was always himself on the roof.

But who could he be now?  Without Gil tying him to reality?  Without Gil’s need for his honesty and optimism?  What did the absence of that mask leave space for?

The lanterns from his funeral were still rising from the streets below Ali’s feet.  They reminded him of glowing pumpkins rising to the charcoal heavens.  And the full moon backlit them with the subtle intensity of an angry whisper.

Are you there watching me? Ali wondered, imagining Gil was peering down at the lantern spectacle from his place among the stars.  Can you see me on the roof?  Do you finally understand me?  Why I had to do what I did?

Ali clenched his fists.  He may have been an assassin.  He may have taken lives.  He may still own a sword that had tasted blood.  But with that money, he’d kept Gil out of trouble.  He’d been the disappointment so Gil could succeed.

And now he was dead and Ali was a murderer for nothing.

Was it worth it?

He pulled the blade out from its sheath and stared at his reflection in the metal.  It was worth it.  It had to be worth it.  No matter the terrible things he had done, Gil at least had been able to live a life worth living, free from the family’s expectations.

And if he was really being honest, Ali liked what he did.  There was nothing that made him feel more alive.  Perhaps he really did have his father’s blood running through his veins, loath as he was to admit it.  He’d always hated that man, hated what he had done.  But now looking down at the blade cradled in his hands, he realized he was no different than his father.  He killed for the sake of the people closest to him.

A red lantern drifted overhead, illuminating him for a moment.  He sheathed his blade and rolled his shoulders.  If he looked hard enough he could see all the way to the edge of town to where his next contract was to take him.  It was a special contract, unlike his usual bunch.  Try as he might, his brother had gotten caught up in this mess.  And now he would have to finish it.  Father had already made that very clear.

And so, however much he liked the roof, however beautiful the view of the lanterns, he left that and returned to another winding dimly lit alleyway. When he was boy these types of places scared him, because someone with bad intentions might come down them and do him harm. Now he was the man with bad intentions, and the children were afraid of him. He would wrap up the mess with Gil, then return to Lila. Return to the one true gentle embrace he had ever known. Then he stopped and shivered. He had done all he had done for Gil, now there was no Gil, because of all he had done. What if there was no Lila? The wind that had whistled overhead stopped, and he was alone. He saw the shadow of a boy peep out from behind a doorway then immediately dart back inside. Yes, he would finish this, father had made that clear. But the final closure would be himself.

Title Photos courtesy of:



The cement wall is rough and cold against my back. My knees whistle in pain, but I have to ignore them. The footsteps are fast approaching and if I so much as breathe, they will find me between the trash cans in the alley.

I duck my head, ignoring the pounding behind my eyes, and place my forehead against my kneecaps. I never used to wear denim jeans. I never left my flat wearing anything but custom, hand-made slacks. The idea of that seems ludicrous to me now.

I feel hot tears stinging behind my eyelids. In a matter of a month, everything has been turned upside down. Maybe I was given the chance to right it all – no, without a doubt I was given the opportunity, many times – and I ignored the signals. I ignored my employees. I ignored my manager, Cline. I had grown up with my gift. Who could have known more about it than me?

I hear shouting. Angry, terrified shouting. Those people are afraid of me.

I try to fight the return of the image, but my memory has overpowered me recently. I seem to have lost more control over my own body in the past month than the crowds of horrified people – my former adoring fans – who haunt my every waking moment.

I recall for a brief moment the day before all this began. I was standing on my porch step, handbag hooked on my elbow, tossing a disinterested wave over my shoulder and the crowd of screaming children and grown admirers. They were celebrating the fifth time my face adorned the front cover of a magazine. Cline stood beside me, a hand between my shoulders, trying to guide me into my apartment safely. Two of my security guards kept the crowd at bay, but I could feel the pulse of their excitement. I paused for just a heartbeat to drink in the feel of their eyes, the sound of their exquisite adoration.

And then a strange hush fell over the crowd.

Fucking freak!

I turned just in time for the assailant’s aim to be true. The glass shattered against my temple, sending me staggering into my door. The guards were already after him, shoving through the crowd toward the man wailing at me from the back. Telling me I was dangerous. Telling my fans that I couldn’t be trusted.

Anger lit in my belly like a torch exposed to oxygen. I suppose that the flame had been there all along, waiting for the fuel.

I slid out of Cline’s hold, ignoring the blood running down my cheekbone. I still stood above the crowd by several feet, and my attacker was clear to me. A perfect shot for him, a perfect shot for me.

I raised a single hand, fingers curled together as though holding a tiny, plastic doll. The man’s screaming halted in his throat. His body lurched, and before he could begin to fight the invisible hold I nearly crushed him with, he was several feet in the air, at the will of my power. My telepathic reach. The ring that granted me my gift glinted on my right ring finger, displayed before the crowd.

There was a scream, and then another, and then the entire crowd was bustling to get away from me. Before, all they wanted was to touch me. And now, they couldn’t get far enough, fast enough.

Cline stepped in front of me, stealing my attention, and took hold of my shoulders. I didn’t release the attacker until Cline’s voice finally cut through the pounding in my head.

Let him go. This is what he wants.

And then I saw the man’s smile.

I surface from the memory as though it were drowning me. My jeans are stained with tears, and the feeling is close to normal now. I straighten my neck and listen to the shouting at the end of the alley. I glance down at my hand, where the ring glimmers just barely through the grime, and I tear it off my finger. I pocket it quickly, and feel the power ooze out of my body. I am not a weapon.

The footsteps slowly fade. I hear dogs barking, but only faintly. I can’t tell if they’re heading for me or away, but I don’t want to take the chance of finding out.

Slowly, I get to my feet and stretch my legs. I face the opening of the alley and the twilight-stained street beyond. There are police calling for my arrest. The government is looking for me now. Their promise to let me be expired when I nearly killed someone with the very power that had granted me so much fame.

I furrow my brows and stare down at the floor for a moment. The damned ring. I can’t let it go – my power is the only thing protecting me. And it won’t do someone else any good, either. It will only give me power. What was once entirely my own gift is now entirely my own burden.

I glare out at the street once more, and then turn on my heel, resorting to climbing any fences I must to remain out of the public’s eye.

I freeze in my place, the barrel of a gun nearly touching my brow.

I raise my hands instinctively, as if to use my power, despite the weight of the ring against my belly in my jacket pocket. And then a car rolls past the alley, and for a heartbeat a pair of green eyes light up.

I swallow the bile that rolls up into my throat, and move my hands to motion for surrender.

“Colin,” I say, and it comes out on a breath. I can’t add voice to my words. “Colin, please. I’m not wearing it. It’s not on. I don’t have my powers.”

The gunpoint doesn’t waver. I can see his jaw working, and I imagine his mind is doing the same. He was tasked to bring me in, undoubtedly for testing, with the rest of his agency. His putrid agency.

His eyes light up again for the span of a breath, and I am taken back for a moment to the nights when we met. First, when I was still an angel, a goddess. He was to be hired as a security guard. He even came to interview with Cline. And then he met me, the real me, dragging another man into my apartment late at night and nearly collapsing with the weight of alcohol in my brain. He spat in my face, and refused the job. He refused to be a babysitter to the most pampered, temperamental woman in the country. I drove him away, the first person to ever willingly leave.

We met again after my fall. He was the only person I could think of. I was nearly dead from exhaustion, having fled for days from his agency, and he let me stay at his home. He gave me his bed and his food, and one night, he gave me himself. A week into my stay, he found me sobbing in the corner of his kitchen. His agency had hunted my mother down and were “unsuccessful at discovering my location before termination of the subject.” I donned my ring and used my power to hold him at bay across the kitchen. I couldn’t bear to let him touch me, to soothe me. I fled out into the night, and I blocked out his voice shouting after me.

Now his gun doesn’t waver. I continue to show him my palms, letting the tears flow down my cheeks. His eyes glisten in the headlights of another passing car, and there are tears in his gaze as well. I realize in this moment that he is the only human alive who knows exactly who I am: not a super villain, not a murderer, but a broken human being with too heavy a task to bear.

I realize that the man that I love could take all this pain away in a single fraction of a second.

I remember the feel of his lips on mine. I remember the way he looked at me, as though he couldn’t bear the possibility of never looking at me again. I remember the promise he made while cradling me during a fit of tears.

I’ll never let anyone hurt you.

When I see his long forefinger move to the trigger, I can’t decide if he is honoring this promise.



Sometimes it was so easy to forget that Oliver wasn’t whole.

Sometimes he could make it an entire day without thinking about it, without someone commenting on it.  Those days were often the best days.  Then he at least felt more human.

But today wasn’t one of those days.  It had started early this morning when, while packing himself something for lunch, he had accidentally cut his finger.  Or rather, he cut the artificial skin covering his mechanical hand.  It wasn’t a big deal.  It stung a bit, and it only took him a minute to fix the minor cut.  Normally letting a knife slip like that would have resulted in cursing and blood.  It was the first reminder that day that he wasn’t normal.

The second had been when he had shaken a new client’s hand.  The man instantly recoiled, as if he had been bitten by a snake.  Oliver had, of course, been required to explain why his hands were so cold.

And now, here he was, at the gym.  One of the few places he completely resented.  He, of course, was supposed to come here everyday just to keep his torso strong.  It was all part of his contract.  Four years of service.  Of course that had been changed to 2 years active duty and two years on reserve.  Today marked the first anniversary since he’d nearly died.  Most people would have been grateful that they were still alive, and while he wouldn’t say he was ungrateful, he’d rather that the doctors had been able to save his arms and legs.

Even though he wasn’t out fighting any longer, he still had to fight continually to keep what remained of his body in shape.  As a result he usually would come here late at night, when there were only a few other people here.  That way he could work in peace without someone openly staring at him.  He couldn’t workout with the artificial skin on.  He had to take it off.

But today a friend of his, Brant, had invited him along to workout at the end of the day.  Oliver hadn’t been able to say no.  There was no way that he could, he’d been putting it off for a few days now.

Oliver completed his last sit up and climbed off the machine.  Brant gave him a thumbs up before getting on for his last set.  “Hey man, listen, a friend of mine invited me over for dinner tonight, I think you should come along.”

“Who is this friend of yours?”

“Just a single girl I met a while back before we were shipped out.  Since Nadine and I are dating, I thought maybe you might have luck with her.”

Oliver frowned, he doubted it, most women looked at him like he was some sort of monster.  “What is her name?”

Brant grinned, “You will just have to come along to find out.”

Brant climbed off and rubbed at his shoulder where his mechanical arm met with what was left of his original arm.  “Feels like there is a storm coming.  Stump aches…Anyways are you in or not?”

Oliver didn’t really feel any desire to go.  Whenever anyone found out that none of his limbs were real, they acted as though something was wrong with him.  Sometimes the shock was so much that they couldn’t even say a word and would just stand there gaping at him.  At best, they might apologize or thank him for his service, but even then, he could always tell they thought of him as an outsider, as inhuman.  It was especially worse when they found out despite the artificial skin he wore because then they felt as though he was trying to trick them.

“Look, I know how things are when people find out,” Brant said, “But she isn’t like that.  I promise you will have a good time.”

“What if I say no?” Oliver said, turning to go to the locker rooms so he could head home.

Brant pulled Oliver to a stop, “I will drag you there by force.  You need to get out some.  Smell the roses every now and then.”

“Yeah, whatever man.  She will just freak out, like everyone else.”

“I swear Oliver, you are so dense sometimes.  Here’s the address.  If you aren’t there we will come to your place and party there.”

Oliver rolled his eyes but took the slip of paper anyways.  Normally he would have just ignored a threat like that, but Brant really was the kind of person that would move a party to Oliver’s house just to make Oliver socialize.  It had happened before.


Oliver shifted nervously in front of the bright green doorway, hands jammed into his coat and his hood pulled over his head to block out the rain.  What was he doing here?

He freed one of his hands and looked down at the dark metal that made up his palm.  He wasn’t wearing the skin tonight.  Might as well get the alienation over with right away, then he could just slip out early.

Brant’s clear laughter could be heard through the door, along with some faint music.  Oliver took a deep breath and turned back to the dimly lit street.  Maybe he should just go home and lock his door.

Without really meaning to he turned back towards the doorway and knocked.  Even the sound his clenched fist made against the  door sounded artificial to him.  But, tonight, he would do his best to forget about it.

The music inside grew quieter, the laughter stopped.  Brant said something and the sound of footsteps making their way towards the door drifted through the air.  Oliver found his heart pounding heavily in his chest.  He was already mentally bracing himself for the inevitable.  Maybe he should have worn a long-sleeved shirt.

Even if this girl was smart enough to not act surprised that he was mostly mechanical, there would still be signs.  Little pauses in her speech, moments when she would glance at his hands and arms.  And even then, he could always see the look in someone’s eyes.  Everyone always had the same look, the look that said he was different, that he wasn’t normal.  He hated that look more than anything else.

There was a slight pause between when the footsteps stopped and the door opened.  A pause that almost seemed to say that he shouldn’t be here, that maybe the person on the other side of the door would just close it the moment they saw him.

The handle turned in a smooth motion and the door swung inward bathing him in warm yellow light.  Luxurious and inviting smells from cooking food drifted out, embracing him.  The interior of the house was inviting and cozy.  He could see Brant down the hallway, a crooked grin across his face and Nadine tucked under his arm.  For a moment Oliver felt like he did whenever he returned to his parents house.  The light felt warm and comforting, like he belonged here.

And then she stepped out from behind the door, a warm smile on her face, eyes dancing with life, gorgeous brown hair tumbling down over her shoulders, a red blouse and blue jeans.  Oliver felt his heart skip a beat and he struggled to keep his jaw from dropping.  What in the world?  “Lu…Lucy?  Is that really you?” he stammered, stepping back.

Shock quickly spread over her face, her hands covered her mouth and she managed a little nod.  Oliver took another step back and crashed down the stairs.  He lay there, on his back, for a long time, rain dripping down onto his face.  So she was alive.  Lucy had survived.

He heard the door up the stairs close, shutting off the warm light.  He didn’t blame her, not after the way they had left things.  He wouldn’t have wanted to talk to himself either.

Oliver blinked, well, that charade was over, it was time to go back home and forget tonight ever happened, forget her address, and move on.  His heart was still pounding heavily in his chest and he felt sensations that he had thought had long since vanished.

“Are you alright?”

Oliver looked up at Lucy, who stood over him with a concerned look on her face.  He pushed himself up, “I should get going.  Sorry.  Forget I was even here.”

She put her hands on her hips and scowled, “And where will you go?  Huh?  Just go back to being alone?”

He started to say something but she cut him off.

“You always were bad with people.” She said softly, offering him a hand up, “Come on, let’s go inside,

Without meaning to he reached up, but then he saw it, the flash of surprise and confusion the moment she realized that his hand wasn’t real.  He snatched his hand back and got to his feet.

“Your hand…”

Oliver nodded, straightening his jacket, “Yep, and my arm.  Both arms really.  Oh and my legs too.  Brant didn’t fill you in?”

She shook her head, “What happened?”

“I served the country.  That is what happened.”

Again she covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide.  There was sadness in them.  He jammed his hands back into his pockets, “I should just go, you have guests to look after.”

Before he even took a step she crushed him in an embrace.  She felt so warm, even in the cold rain.  The bitterness and distance he felt for the world seemed to just melt away into nothingness.  He returned her embrace and for the first time since he had returned, his body truly felt whole again.


Dialog Challenge

The CSM creative writing club is proud to present our dialog challenge.  The prompt for this challenge is as follows:

“Create two characters and have them meet and discuss a topic. The topic can be anything you want: philosophical, political, advice, hypothetical, etc., just so long as they are discussing something. If you have the time and/or will, try to bleed in character development/definition or teach us about who they are.”

We hope that you  enjoy these pieces!

The Cabin

By: Richard Sebastian-Coleman

Scene opens to two friends in the main room of a small mountain cabin, there is a large fireplace, a nearby couch and chair, and a small dining room table. A window above the sink looks out into the mountains. 2 is trying to get a fire going while 1 looks at him from a nearby chair.


1: (exasperated, he’s evidently been watching for a while) You don’t know what you’re doing! Here, let me get the fire started.

2: I know what I’m doing just fine, it’s just that the wood is wet so it’s creating a lot of smoke

1: The wood’s fine you’ve just got blow air on it for a while and not stack the logs so tight that it can’t get oxygen. (1 comes over to fiddle with the fire, to no success)

2: Oh now look who’s so smart. You pushed the wood apart and it lost all the heat!

1: Fine I’ll push them a little closer, look it’s coming back, just blow on it with me.

2: (Laughing) If that’s what you’re into.

1: Shut up you know what I mean, just get down here on your knees and when I breathe in you breath out, we’ll keep a continuous stream going.

2: You’re not helping yourself

1: I’m not the one who needs helping! You’re the one who crashed the car in a cabin without a telephone during a snowstorm.


Both stand to face each other, ignoring the fire. Their argument becomes more heated as the sound of wind outside becomes greater.


2: You were the one who reserved a cabin in the middle of nowhere that didn’t have heating in the middle of winter!

1: Yeah because we both thought it would be fun! A nice peaceful getaway in the mountains.

2: (mocking) Oh now you make it sound like we’re in love.

1: Look I’m sorry your girlfriend decided to dump you and couldn’t come with, work through that on your own time, don’t take it out on me and the fire.

2: (Moving towards him aggressively) Listen you…


Suddenly the wind roars outside ceasing the fighting temporarily, it’s pitch begins to rise steadily until it’s bloodcurdling and almost human. It lasts for several seconds but it’s eeriness makes it seem to last an eternity.


1: (Slowly) What… the hell… was that

2: (rationalizing) Must have just been the sound wind makes when it comes through the pass

1: No…mountains don’t make noises like that

2: Well…nothing else could’ve made it except for the mountains

1: We know something that’s supposed to..

2: Dude, no, we get one wind blast in the middle of the snow storm and now you’re psyching yourself out about witches and demons!

1: Shhh…shhh…I don’t want to bring down any curses, they say just talking about her draws her to you

2: Oh really? Who’s they? Everyone who’s come up here, camps, and makes it back just fine to tell ghost stories to scare little kids?

1: (Angered, in defending himself he forgets his previous advice to not talk about her)  No, I’m talking about the hunters who find deer hoofs and bear claws in their traps but the rest of the body torn away, because she kills what cannot escape.


The wind roars again and starts to climb in pitch but then settles down


2: You see, clearly we were just imagining, it’s nothing but the wind coming through the pass.
Thunder crack and the apartment illuminates for a second from the lightning, a pause as it becomes dark again, then a soft green pulse of light from outside. 1 and 2 turn their heads to the window, the green light pulses again, they begin to cautiously walk towards the window. Unnoticed by either, the fire begins to grow rapidly in the fireplace.


By: Grant DeShazer

The shop door swung shut behind him with a hiss of hydraulics and jingle from the door bell.  In all likelihood Roman would be the only one who would actually use the door today.  Afterall his clientele tended to consider doors as more of an annoyance rather than a proper form of entry.  The last client he had worked with still gave him nightmares.

The first thing to do today was to layout the contract and then get together the things he needed to make it a binding contract.  After that was finished he would go through the steps of projecting himself beyond this realm, it was only then that his new potential client would actually be able to show up, at least for this first time meeting.

Once the steps were finished he sat down on a plush couch, contract laid on the table before him and a simple tape recorder, well it looked like a tape recorder but its function was far more involved.

In a clear voice he said, “I close my eyes and open my mind to the other.  Come to me, friend of mine, spirit of the realm beyond–”

“Stop that!  I am already here.  Idiot.”

Roman’s eyes snapped open, sure enough she sat right across from him, plain as day.  “How did you get here already?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?  I’ve always been here, just been waiting for you to be strong enough to contact me.  I have so many things I want to tell you.”

“I could have guessed that from the last time we talked.”

Illia chuckled, “So what is it you wanted to talk about today?  You made some serious preparations by the looks of it.  How did you learn all of this anyways?”

“That’s not really important, what matters is, if you want your story told, I need you to read and sign this contract.”

Illia smiled mischievously, “But I already did?  Can we get onto talking about me now?”

“Wha–” Roman hastily flipped through the pages of the contract, to his surprise her signatures had appeared everywhere “–but how?”

“Like I said, I have some interesting things to tell you.  Why waste time over some silly piece of paper like that?”

“What do you mean silly?  You realize this is binding right?”

She shrugged and put out her hand, “Let me see it really quick.”

Roman begrudgingly handed over the contract, feeling more than a bit skeptical that she really know what binding meant.  She paged through it momentarily before tossing it aside onto the floor where it promptly burst into flames.

All he could do was stare in shock at the burning papers.  In a few seconds the fire went out, leaving not even a trace of smoke in the air, or a mark on the floor.  He opened his mouth but Illia spoke first, “I warned you yesterday, I am not like the others you’ve worked with before.  I am here for a very specific reason.  Something that you are not even capable of understanding yet.  But we will get there in time.”

Illia paused and moved dangerously close to him.  It wasn’t her proximity to him that bothered him, it was the breath he felt, warm against his neck that sent chills down his spine and froze him in place.  No ghost, spirit, or otherwise, should ever have a warm breath.  “Just understand one thing Roman,” Illia said, just above a whisper, “I am here for your story, as much as you are for mine.”

“So anyways let me tell you about this great place I went to get food the other day!  I think it would make the most interesting story for you!”   Illia said, back in her spot across the table, a smile spread across her face.

He swallowed, he could still see the fire burning in her eyes.  Roman was afraid of her.


If Only

By: J West

Peter flinched as the door to his apartment banged open behind him.  He didn’t have to turn around to know that his friend David was standing there.

“Are you ever planning on telling me your secret?” he huffed.  Peter took his time answering, wanting to sound as acidic as possible.

“Not really.”

“It’s pretty selfish of you, you know,” David spat, walking toward where Peter was standing.  “I thought that you of all people would understand that keeping your friends in the dark usually gets everyone killed.”  

Peter kept his back turned and his face hidden.  What happened to Tara was not your fault.  You tried to save her, he thought, but the image of his dead girlfriend still appeared in his mind with a sickening jolt.

“Keeping this secret keeps you safe from Mastermind.  You know that.  If I told you what I knew, he could weasel the information out of you.  He’d find out that I told you everything I discovered when I was helping Shadowman and Grimspeak.  And then he’d kill you.  Don’t you understand that?”

“Well, last night, I almost fell to my death because Shadowman couldn’t save both me and Tara from being cast off that roof by Mastermind.  He had to choose which of us to save since Grimspeak wasn’t around to help him.  And he picked Tara, but didn’t make it in time.  I was sure I was going to die as a human pancake on Sixth Avenue.”

“I am aware, I saw the news,” Peter said with a dark, humorless smile.  He was trying to stay as stoic as possible, although the thought of his friend lying dead terrified him more than anything.

“Do you know how I survived?”

There was a pause.

“Of course you don’t.”

“Tell me.”

“Not unless you tell me your secret.  One for one.  Otherwise I walk right out that door.  We need each other to defeat Mastermind, and you know that, Peter.  I need to know what you know.  And you…well…you need my skills.”

Peter frowned.  What skills?

There was a thick silence as he weighed his options.  He’d always known his secret would come out eventually, and he was fairly sure that David wouldn’t take it well.  But he was too curious to turn down the offer to hear his friend’s confession.

“Fine.”  Peter turned around.  “But you’re going to hate me.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Just…don’t freak out, okay?”

David said nothing, but spread his arms.  Go on.

“I’m Shadowman,” Peter said, sighing heavily.  As proof, he raised his hand and conjured a black smoke that spun effortlessly up from his palm.  David’s eyes widened, but Peter started talking again, rushing to tell the whole story.  “I’ve been working with Grimspeak ever since the accident gave me my powers.  I’ve been trying to save people and stop Mastermind from taking over the city.  As you know, defeating him solely as Peter Davies the Corporate Bigwig isn’t really working very well.”

He expecting David to have a shocked or angry expression on his face.  But his friend was…smiling.

“I should have known.”


“Well, if that’s your secret, it makes me feel far better about telling you mine…”

“Just tell me already!”

I’m Grimspeak.”

Peter was nonplussed.  “Seriously?”

David nodded, looking amused.  “Luckily, I could defy gravity long enough to stop my fall last night.”

Peter paused for a moment, then laughed.  “You know, we probably should have figured this out a long time ago.  If we’d worked together and shared our secrets, Tara might not have slipped through my fingers…and you wouldn’t have had to save yourself last night.  We could have been so much stronger together.”

“If only we’d taken off our masks.”

“If only.”



By: Amber Hill

“How are you feeling?”

“Did he tell you to ask? Or do you really care?” I take the glass of water Nas offers me and sip at it gingerly. My throat burns, and I ignore the tinge of red underneath my fingernails.

“The Lord lives and breathes by you,” Nas says, wiping at the corner of her mouth. I suppose she’s just finished a succulent meal as well.

“Does he, now?” I glare up at her, and I know my gaze continues to startle her. If the pure, animal ferocity behind it wasn’t enough, my eyes’ silver, mirror-like quality regularly renders her speechless. She generally avoids eye contact for that reason alone.

“You are his finest creation,” she says, and scratches at something just above her ear. She is watching the glass instead of me.

“I am his finest vessel.” I cock my head at her slightly, reading her dull expression. “I’ve less right to this body than he does. I – this-” I twist my hand at her, showing her the blood in the cracks of my palm “- does not belong to him.”

She swallows deeply. “You’ll excuse me.” She bows her head slightly, and turns to leave the room.

I reach out gently with my mind – it doesn’t take much with her frail figure – and she rocks to a stop, arms pinned to her sides.

“You’ll wait for me to excuse you,” I say over the rim of my glass. I feel my presence roiling through her blood, rooting itself in her deepest veins. The pulse of her heart feels all around me, and yet very far away. I could crush her from the inside out.

She nods, and I relinquish her. “Send for Caster,” I say, without looking at her again. I don’t have to watch to make sure she does as is commanded. She leaves the room in a hurry, and beside the door I catch a glance at my reflection.

I lick the blood away from my lips, halfheartedly.


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March Collaboration: Poetry

The CSM Creative Writing Club proudly presents its latest collaborative venture into the world of poetry.  We’ve gained some fabulous new members, and are proud to showcase their work here.

Each of these poems was written in the following order:

  • The first person creates a title and first line
  • The second writes a metaphor relating to the title and first line
  • The third includes personification
  • All proceeding lines are alternating writers continuing the poem.
  • The last person in the order finishes the poem

We hope you enjoy these pieces.  Feel free to let us know what you think in comments, and follow us for future updates!



Written By: Richard Sebastian-Coleman, Braden Egtvedt, Brody, J. West, Molly, Clara Levy, Richard, and Braden

Out of the mud come roots which then become the trunk

As if hit by Bunyan’s axe swings, the top becomes something new; alive

The tree smiled and breathed in the cool morning air

Stretching toward a sky it knows it can never reach.

It feels the fatigue of gravity and takes an alternate path:

Outward, outward!

And, Upward, upward!

For what is sky to the tree but home?

A sigh of relief, a stretch in the sun

The tree more content and happy than I can ever be

But as I see what a tree can have

Why can’t I have a sky for me?


Written By: Clara Levy, Braden Egtvedt, Richard Sebastian-Coleman, Brody, J. West, Molly, Clara, and Richard


He wasn’t so much a looker, but he was lovely.

Being near his heart was being near a small warm star

The heat of his personality welcomed you in, offered tea,

Like the scent of fresh baked cookies on a cold winter’s night,

His presence brought joy to the room.


His hands were soft electricity

His smile was a live wire.

A conductive yet lopsided grin

that somehow, magnetically lured you in


Oh! How he was lovely!

Because he was an exemplar of what love could be

Light without shadow, magnetic pull without rejection

He wasn’t a looker but that wasn’t the point.



Written By: Molly Baron, Clara Levy, Richard Sebastian-Coleman, Braden Egtvedt, Brody, J. West, Molly, Clara

Twisted metal coated the concrete

The concrete accepted the offering, though it inflicted pain

The body heaved as it was gutted, turning into a corpse, it felt it had a noble death

The metal and the glass and the brick felt the disturbance of a

Trumpet, playing for their funeral.


The song instilled a pain in me,

A cold reminder of my loss, while my eyes held back an ocean

Part of me has died – I have a hole where something was

I cannot hold myself up when what was once inside is gone.


And as the slow chew of the demolition crew works

the gnawing widens the hole to a cavern…


And then I pass. The sound drifts away.

I can no longer hear the ripping, the gutting, the pain

Until another day, until another day.


Spring Morning

Written By: Brody, Molly Baron, Clara Levy, Richard Sebastian-Coleman, Braden Egtvedt, J. West, Molly

crisp wind and a flower in the snow,

two skyscrapers bursting through dense , winter-white clouds

blood dripping from the feet of the black brick steps


This tiny point of chaos resonates and ripples through the sleeping  forest

Stirring from under its blanket the shoots, the stems, the tiny legs, the ruffling fur

Spring has come as the blanket melts away

Life stirs as colors do

Inspecting the newfound companions


the first time i’ve really felt at home, the first time i’ve belonged

it’s like the first time feeling the warm sun

But deep down, it is marred by my past – I know what I did.

Is there forgiveness in spring?

But as the radiance of sun warms my skin, it heals the winter beneath

and I know

I have been born anew.



Written By: Braden Egtvedt, Brody, Molly, Clara, Richard, Braden, J. West


The tree was the mother and the animals her children

tugging at her bark apron, as she reached up into the cupboard of sunlight to feed them

The mother loved her children, even when they could not understand

“Let me provide for you” she said, “let me be your life”


May my roots hold this ground for you,

May my leaves give you breath,

May there be shelter under my branches,

and may everything that walks and crawls on me call you friend


Let me comfort you when you get full

And let me help you when you are sick

I will be someone you can always look up to

Someone you can always count on


I’ll give you all that I can spare

What I have I will always share.



Names: J. West, Molly, Clara, Richard, Braden Egtvedt, Brody

Some people sip sunlight in honeyed glasses

Refractions of fluid dance into their welcoming mouths

It is as if they tease the person sipping


Tickle the throat and warm the gut

to let sunshine grow within the body

It nourishes that which is weak

And humbles those who are strong


It keeps everyone together

With hope and peace and sweetness

This is what makes good things great



Images courtesy of,, and respectively.


February Collaborations

The Creative Writing Club is proud to present our February collaboration pieces.  Each writer was given approximately five minutes to write.  At the end of that period they would pass their piece off to the next person who would then continue the story.  As per usual for this blog, the authors that worked on each piece are listed in order at the beginning of the piece.

The prompt for these collaborations are as follows:

Write about a movie director with chapped lips.


Finish the following phrase and write a story that follows it: I’d love to ____, but my _____ just _____!

Please enjoy what we came up with!


By: Grant, J, Richard

“I’d love to write a fantastic story, but my lips are just so chapped!” Jeff exclaimed, pounding his fist against the table, causing the keyboard to jump up.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Shell said, “Just get yourself some chapstick and move on with your life.  Besides what do chapped lips have to do with writing anyways?”

Jeff’s anger withered a bit, “But my lips, they really hurt…”

Shell rolled her eyes and let out an exaggerated sigh, “I swear, you are the writer between the two of us.  I am just here to tell you what to write.”

“And what if I don’t want to write?  Your story isn’t really that interesting anyways.  All you ever want to talk about is the most interesting food that you ate.”  He shifted and cracked his knuckles, “What was it last week?  Octopus or something like that?”

“No!  It was sushi made by one of the world’s most famous chef’s.  Why didn’t you write that down!”

“Because,” Jeff said, a bit annoyed, “People only want to read stories that are interesting and have something to say.”

“Alright, fine, you really want to know?  I’ll tell you.  It started when I was young….”

“No, not that again,” Jeff grumbled.  He tried to make a grimace, but then winced as his chapped lips began to crack.

Shell frowned.  “Why do you have such a particular aversion to my life story?  You make life stories for a living.  Even if they happen to be mostly fictional.”

“My dear, when you write stories for a living and they end up as films, it makes real life seem so…ordinary.”

Shell began rummaging in her purse.  “You’re so sure my life is ordinary.  I’ve done things that would shock you.”

Jeff rolled his eyes.  “I’m sure.  What are you looking for, anyway?”

Shell pulled her hand out of her bag in triumph.  “Lip balm, of course.”

“For you or for me?”  Jeff dared to hope Shell would take pity on him.

“For me.”  She winked and put it on slowly, watching Jeff agonize over it all.  “Unless, of course, you use my life story in your next movie,” she said.

Jeff closed his eyes, and held out his hands in acquiescence.  “Fine.”

“Good” Shell said, “I’ve already scheduled a meeting with the producer for tomorrow morning at 11, you’ll be there.”

“Good grief, you knew I would cave to you, again and again and again.”

“Well Jeff, don’t be dismayed, my life was full of adventure.”

“Really, like what?”

“Well, I once saved a baby from a shark attack.”

“Bull shit” Jeff retorted.

“Absolutely true, it was at the aquarium, his mother was holding him over the stingray (which are a type of shark by the way) petting pool and he wiggled and she dropped him, but I, with cat like reflexes swung my arms below the babe and caught him, my own arm just next to the ray’s tail.”

“Who’s going to want to see that dramatized on film?”

“Well dear, when you dramatize it you can make it better. After all, you clearly thought I meant something more interesting when I first told you I saved a baby from a shark.”

“Yes I did, I thought you meant you saved a baby from a shark attack!”

“But I did. I told an absolute, scientifically verifiable fact. If you write a scene where I am a mile away from shore and happen across the baby Moses floating in the water about to be consumed by a Great White then you would have told an equally scientifically verifiable fact.”

“So what is the truth?”

“I don’t know dear, you’re the artist.”


The Anniversary

By: Braden Egtvedt, Grant, J

“I’d love to go, but my lip just burst!” is probably not how you should respond to your wife’s idea.

You see, we were about to celebrate our ten year anniversary and my wife wanted to do something “extra-special,” as if going to a nice restaurant, cliff diving in Peru, and giving the dog a perm isn’t special enough.

What was this idea that is so delicate that it’s inhibited by a chapped lip? Going to see Lloyd the Squirrel that makes you smile. Have you ever tried to smile, or at least stretch your lips when they were dry before? It hurts… and doesn’t really stop the bleeding.

But she insisted anyways, and here I was standing in the middle of a crowd, grinning from ear to ear, tears streaming down my face and blood oozing from the deepening cracks in my poor dry lips.  As you can imagine, I’d do almost anything for my wife, anything at all.  Just a simple look and I can’t really say no.

And well, I guess, she never really had any sort of reason to regret begging me to do something, after all her ideas usually turned out to be rather wonderful.  Yet this time, that wasn’t really the case.  Maybe it was the combination of my terribly dry lips or the grin that had spread so undesirably across my face and my failure to prevent it from doing so.  Once people turned to see me in my miserable state of being, they instantly broke into a sheer panic, pushing and shoving their way past me to get out.

Looking back you’d likely say that I am a bit presumptuous to assume that I was the only source of panic, but I guess my wife had somehow come across as being even scarier.  She was giving me the glare.  The kind of glare that makes even the manliest man quiver.  I’d warned her that my lips were in no condition for this sort of activity.  But, what can a good husband do when his wife begs so much to go to a single event?

I took her hand, hoping she’d soften her expression just a little, but we were suddenly distracted by two teenagers decked out in Lloyd the Squirrel hats and shirts.  Lloyd actually has a pretty intense cult following; oddly enough, most people who used to be into Twilight now follow him pretty exclusively.

“Omigosh,” gasped the girl, clutching her hair, which was braided and dyed the exact shade of Lloyd the Squirrel’s fur.  “Are you a vampire?”

I just stared blankly, not sure what kind of answer to give.  Maybe she was still into Twilight.

Her apparent boyfriend joined in with the gasping.  “We’ve never seen a real one before,” he told my wife, who only deepened her scowl.  If the area hadn’t been as full of people trying to stampede out of our general area (probably my fault), the teenagers might have actually heard her growling.

But my wife was able to successfully fend off the fangirling teenagers with her frown, and then we stood alone.  Ten years of marriage could not really prepare me well enough for our situation:  my face was dripping blood, we were alone with Lloyd the Squirrel (which should have been awesome but was actually kind of creepy), we were in Peru with a dog that had just gotten a perm, people thought I was a vampire, my wife had just given me the glare, and this was possibly the worst anniversary ever.


By: Kelsey A-M, Braden Egtvedt, Grant

Sandra looked down. To think it all began with a missing chapstick. Her right shoe slipped off her foot and twirled through the air on it’s long journey to the ground floor. Plop. A soft sound among the bustling traffic and rushing pedestrians. The clothing article was hardly noticed sitting sole up on the cement sidewalk. Only a young boy saw the shoe’s long journey to the ground. He pulled at his mother’s skirt, pointing at the woman who stood so many floors above. “I’m on the phone,” she said, pulling the fabric from the boy’s hand. “We will get ice cream later.”

Sandra shivered as the wind violently whipped her burgundy scarf. She was sitting on the roof of the downtown mall, watching the city live. Well, that and hiding from the police.

She slowly slipped her second shoe off, watching as it followed its twin. She had to get rid of those shoes. They caused enough trouble for the day. And besides, it’s not like they were hers. Now she was returning the shoes to the city she apparently stole them from.

It wasn’t every day that you woke up five minutes before you were supposed to leave for work. Well, not for normal people, anyway.

Sandra let out a dismal sigh as she watched the other shoe complete its plummet to the ground, bouncing once, unceremoniously off the pavement before coming to a halt only a few feet from where the first had settled.  Then again, she thought, normal people don’t exactly worry over the state of their lips, or at least, normal people didn’t have to worry so much about the minor details of their day to day lives.

She could easily imagine not having to sweat the minor details.  Days where she could show up in simple clothes with her hair in disarray and the signs of sleep still clinging to her face.  Sure, some might point out that there were entire months where she showed up to work in that manner, but then again, those were merely costumes.  Her real job was far more dangerous and required significantly more attention to detail than any other job.

So to her, losing that one stick of chapstick, no matter how minor of a problem it may have been to any other person, had now set off her disguise entirely.  A dangerous scowl spread across her face and she got to her feet, she’d have to set things right before she could truly start her day off.  It was essential.  There was no telling the sorts of problems that might arise should her disguise fail.



By: Richard Sebastian-Coleman, Kelsey, Braden

She smiled and then realized that that made her mouth bleed so she stopped. Probably everyone thought she had some sort of disease because just because she couldn’t find chapstick in her bag. One fails to acquire a $1.25 tube of wax and suddenly can render oneself on the fringe society, looking like some modern leper. Perhaps it was a good thing. She still had no idea how these actors actually felt about her. If they didn’t like her at least now they might fear her. Machiavelli had said it was better for the Prince to be feared than loved right? But then Dylan had said sometimes people who are loved have more power than anyone could ever fear. Both were men whom she’d never known so why she should care so much about what they thought she still wasn’t quite sure.

Ugh, that thought caused her to grimace, which sent another trickle of the red red kroovy down her chin. Must focus on the set. Something good must have just happened or else she wouldn’t have smiled, what was it? Oh right, Roger had tripped on a lighting cable and face planted on hardwood, nice. She sort of liked Roger though, maybe she shouldn’t laugh at his pain. That caused her to stretch her mouth and bleed again.

“I’m sorry everybody, does anyone have any chapstick?”

Roger craned his neck up off the floor, the lighting guy stopped repositioning the light Roger had nearly caused to tumble, and the rest of the cast previously caught up in private conversations with each other turned to look at her.

“I do!” Roger said. Redirection being his solution to cover up his embarrassment. He reached in his pockets to find the little tube. His eyes bulged suddenly. Where was it? He had just used it twenty minutes ago. He looked at her, an apologetic expression on his face. “I can’t find it.” He admitted after thorough rifling of all four of his pockets. Her mouth was set in a firm line. His eyes dropped to the floor. Thankfully, just as the silence threatened to consume Roger, Sara, the sound technician, yelled out, “I’ve got some!” She stood up from her booth and made her way over to the stage.

“Here you go, Tori.”

“Thanks.” Tori applied the wax to her lips, then realized that she got blood on the stick. “Oops! Sorry about that, Sara.”

“Eh, it’s alright. Kind of expected really. Go ahead and keep it. I’ve got. like, five of them at home and no one really goes through them all the way, anyway,” Sara replied with a bit of indifference.


By: J, Richard, Kelsey

I’d love to go to your wedding, but my cat just got married.  It’s kind of a big deal, and I’m sorry and I hope it doesn’t ruin your perfect day.  I just can’t take two weddings in one month, especially when one of them will never be topped.  I’m referring of course, to my precious Siamese named Perkins.  When a sparkling white wedding of that magnitude happens, ones like yours seem so small and…dare I say…off-white.

Surely your RSVP response card wasn’t intended for this kind of “Not coming” response, but as you felt it was your duty to announce your imminent yet sadly unimportant marriage, I felt it was mine to announce the reason for my obvious absence.  I’m sorry if you’re offended, but my cat really means everything to me and Perkins leaves for his honeymoon the day after your wedding.  He needs me, and his new wife needs me.

They actually do.  Who else is going to feed them?

Some people might think that I am a bit too loyal to my pets.  And while that’s probably true, I must admit that I prefer their company to most people.

“Dear, you can’t write this to Chelsea and Mark.  They’re going to think you’re crazy.  Not to mention rude.”

“But – “

“Not one word.  You go get another piece of cardstock and RSVP yes to their wedding.”

“With a plus one?”

“Obviously, darling,” my wife says.

I do as she says.  But what I don’t tell her is that my plus one is actually going to be Perkins.

I don’t think Perkins has ever been to such a nice hotel! I’m glad I came to this wedding just so I could share the room with him! I found it rather inconsiderate that Chelsea would pay for a hotel for all her guests yet neglect to find a pet friendly hotel. What a bitch. Did she never consider the possibility that someone might want to share in her joy with a friendly wonderful Persian cat on her lap? Ah well no matter. Perkins fit very nicely into my suitcase and didn’t make a peep at the front desk when we checked in (small amount of vodka really helps). Oh I feel like a Cold War spy sneaking into this hotel with Perkins, what an adventure we’ll have!

Dear Diary,

Chelsea was “not amused” when Perkins showed up at the wedding rehearsal. Apparently Mark’s mother has a serious fur allergy and now they have to have the place cleaned up by men in hazmat suits. Apparently now I’m the bitch for not considering that Mark’s mother might have a long family history of cat allergies and nearly dying at fancy events when such animals were introduced.  Ah well, at least they’re sending me home.

“What a lovely nap.” I say, stepping into the kitchen and placing a kiss on my wife’s cheek. With that important task done, I next call out to my other two darlings. “Perkins and…Yoouu!” I wait, but hear nothing. No light paw steps on the hardwood, no insistent mews. I feel the blood drain from my face. I drop the box of treats to hear them scatter across the counter as I race to find my darlings. They’re not in the bathroom, the den, the master bedroom, the study, the prayer room. I place my hand on the door knob of the guest bedroom. And behold quite a scene within.

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