Stories we have written:

Do you like to write stories? You're welcome to post some of your short stories/beginning of stories on here.

I wrote a story called "Time Machine." It's about a boy who is trying to write a report for school about what things have changed over time. His older sister tells him that he should build a time machine. (she was joking) He takes her seriously, and, well… it ends up being pretty funny, but with a good message at the end. You can read the whole story on my blog, if you want. I have a list of "stand-alone" pages on the side bar, and the story on the one called "Time-Machine". This is the link to the homepage of my blog: www[dot]2timothy2[hyphen]15[dot]blogspot[dot]com.

By the way, the three girls he meets in his time trip are actually supposed to be three sisters that I am close friends with. The story originally was supposed to be a play, but we never got to act it out. Anyway, that's who the three girls are; the boy, "Benjamin," is my brother Landon, and his sister "Brittany" is me. :)

I'm off to read it :D

I loved it! You did a very good job with it!

Now here's the beginning of a story I wrote last year :)

What in the world? By Rachel C

It was a boring day. The rain was coming down in sheets, and a lone figure standing in the door frame to her home.
“Oh dear,” Rachel sighed. “Such a lazy boring day. So much so I don’t know what to do!” Just then the ring of the telephone broke into her thoughts. She bounded inside as she pick up the receiver.
“Hello?” she answered politely.
“Hi! Is this Rachel? This is Pauline.” Rachel’s good friend Pauline replied.
“Yes, this is Rachel. How are you?” Rachel responded, looking very happy. “You haven’t called me in ages!”
“I know!” Pauline exclaimed. “For some reason I couldn’t see very well to type an email. That’s why I called. I’m probably tired.”
“I know how that is.” Rachel went on. “You know, I’m cold! I should put some socks on.”
"Sounds like a good idea!" Pauline laughed.
“Hold on a minute.” Rachel said quickly and hurried down the hall to her bedroom. She opened her sock drawer and began looking for her favorite pair of fuzzy socks. “Oh dear,” she said despairingly. “here’s one of them, but where’s the other?”

I wrote this story about my friend and I …she moved away and I was missing her so I wrote this funny/crazy story about the 2 of us :)

Hmmmm… If I posted all my stories in their entirety, I would probably get sued for using up too much room, and I don't have a blog to post them on…well, wait a minute, I do have a blog (well, not personally) that I could put them on. I'll see about doing that.
I do have a short write-up for a LONG story that I am currently writing that I will post, and I could do short sections of some of my other stories.
Hey, I really like Time Machine! Great job!

I have written a story once, it was a futuristic story, but it was lost when the computer I was using crashed. I am always writing stories in my head though, maybe one day I'll write them down.

Okay, here it the write-up/teaser for my long story (novel)…

  "Almost hid for the wreath that mists about its crown, the mountain rises to dizzy heights of power. It is massive, an upheaval of the very bowels of the earth, as it were; rough and jagged, dark and unlovely, huge and looming, filled with a foreboding: a mountain of doom. As a shepherd attracts sheep, so the summit of this rocky mass attracts clouds to itself, and they wreath about the mount, covering it, laving it with cool, gloomy hands of mist and fog. It is only for rare minutes that the sun’s piercing light breaks like a triumphing warrior through a small breach in this wall of clouds. The trees, though they find little on which to feed themselves, grow scraggled and twisted on the mountain’s shoulders, thorny, struggling, and bitter. Their roots are filled with a strange malice, their branches with anger, and their leaves tremble with rage though no breeze bends them to and fro. Vines, grasping, strangling vines, grow rank among the trees, ever spreading, ever growing, never satisfied.
   On this mountain, within a rocky theatre, a castle stands. Gray and gloomy like the mountain, made from the ancient bones of the earth, evil seems to emanate from within the fortress like unseen, groping fingers. A hand, invisible to all except the soul, hangs over the castle, beckoning, drawing people, nations, and kingdoms into its grasp. A dark hand, black as night, filled with malice that only death, blood, and power will satisfy; a dark hand, black as night, holding a master’s whip, which only total subjection, slavery, can satisfy; a dark hand, black as night, in which the whole world lays helpless.  The mountain is Mt. Varkaldi, and the castle is evil."

Here is the beginning of a story that I started writing for a story contest held by Vision Forum a few years ago. This is all I got written…

 "John set out to retrieve his father’s flock of sheep from the canyon into which they had wandered. But before he had got halfway to where the sheep were, they, as one body, with many cries of fear, turned tail and fled out of the valley, coming directly toward him. John, suspecting that bandits were attempting to steal some sheep, wisely hid himself in a thicket. He waited, but saw no movement in the forest except for the frightened sheep running headlong out of the valley. But why do they run so? John asked himself. Then the answer came. John, feeling a shadow fall upon him from above, looked up and saw it. Huge and strong, it flew low over the ground on vast, leathery, bat-like wings that were black as night; and where it passed, the grass seemed to wither, and the ground to reel and smoke in torment. Its large eyes were filled with an evil fire: the lust for blood that filled its dark soul shone fiercely in its eye. Armored all about with dark scales, the giant beast stooped down with its mighty legs like a hawk plucking a rabbit from the grass, and picked two sheep from the mob of flying creatures. Its breath was belched forth in clouds of evil smoke, which hung about it and trailed behind, entwining with its long and powerful tail like a shadow of doom. As it passed over, the reek of the beast smote John like a blow, and he quailed under its shadow. But then the beast wheeled about and was gone, gliding back to its den of evil. Not all was the same after it had gone, however, for a shadow had fallen over the place that would not fall away for many days.  The dreadful beast was a dragon. 

 As he made his way through the thick forest undergrowth, John meditated on what his new life would be like. As a matter of course, his father had told him everything he would have to do and what to expect in and from others, but still, his future lay in a shroud of uncertainty and boyish speculation. He had on his knapsack, and all his worldly belongings were within it. A sturdy staff, which could do good service as a weapon, helped him on his way. A new pair of sandals guarded his feet, a parting gift from his father.  
     Suddenly, the forest on both sides fell away and revealed a splendid view of the castle Darbrind. There the good knight Sir Olfeus had his holding, and a strong place it was indeed. Perched upon the top of a hill like a hawk brooding over the countryside, the castle Darbrind, an ancient castle of the family of that name, was considered impregnable, and rightly so. Its walls were… 

This is an assignment for school, and it's not quite a story, but I figured this is a good place to post it. It is kinda like a parable, and in this story I am criticizing the welfare system/government entitlement programs.

The Wild and the Tame Rabbit
"One fine, sunny, summer afternoon, a wild rabbit, wild not by appearance but by nature and the life he led, came quietly up to the cage of his tame cousin, for the purpose of having a chat and to ask his cousin some questions. After introducing himself, he alluded to the fact that he was “wild and free, and loved his freedom, even if he had to work for it.” This elicited a scornful reply, “A lot of good your freedom does for you when you must nearly starve all winter long. And besides, I see that you scratch yourself because of fleas. When I have fleas, I am given a bath, and the fleas go away. Don’t you wish you could be given baths when you have fleas?” “Yes,” said our wild friend, “I dearly wish for such comforts, but not if they are purchased at the price of my freedom! You say that your food is free, but don’t you see that your food is not really free? For in partaking of it, you lose your freedom! You must realize that our food should be the fruit of our own labors, not the fruit of our sittings.” “Too true,” replied the tame cousin, “but how could I labor in this cage?” “You cannot, which shows that you have truly lost your freedom,” replied the wild rabbit. The satisfied prisoner was still not convinced. “You say these things very strongly, cousin, but I cannot see what is the danger of my present condition. Rather, your condition seems the more dangerous. Was it not just last week that you told me you were chased by a hound? Here, I have neither fears nor worries. I am comfortable all through the year. I am well cared for, and I cannot rebel against such kindness.” The wild rabbit made one last appeal. “The cage door is easily opened, and I could do it for you just now, but I am afraid that you do not rightly value your freedom. Simply say yes or no, and I will act accordingly.” With a heavy heart, the wild rabbit saw his tame cousin turn from his offer of freedom. “No, cousin, I cannot accept your offer. I am happy here. I could not think of leaving.” Just then, the owner of the tame rabbit, the one who made sure he was comfortable and well fed, walked up to the cage. The wild rabbit ran into a nearby thicket, where he stayed to see the upcoming scene. And what a sight he saw, for there, right in front of his own eyes, his satisfied and comfortable cousin was decapitated, stripped of his natural covering, quartered, and bagged.
Our furry, free, friend quietly crept away after seeing firsthand the result of willing resignation to imprisonment, feeling to the marrow of his bones that, “it is better to be free with hardships, than not to be, and to lose all freedom.”"

This is the beginning of a longer short story that I started several years ago, and have never finished. It is much longer than this, but these two paragraphs show the dilemma that this story circles around.

"Once upon a time, in the wide, wide world, a family of Pine Martens lived snugly in their house, which was situated in the immense hollow of a large tree, whose age was inestimable. This ancient tree was in the midst of a great forest, Brightree. Mother and Father Marten had four children. They were named, in age order, Harry, Charlie and Daisy (who were twins), and the youngest of all, Rose. They lived with their grandfather. Harry was thoughtful, but not overly quiet, well fitted as a leader. Charlie and Daisy were full of mischief and fun, though most of the time, Charlie was the ringleader in their activities. Charlie and Daisy were the most alike in the family, both of them having great athletic ability and wonderful aspirations. Rose was a generally agreeable little thing, though almost in a fair way to be spoiled. Her tender conscience and heart, however, kept her from this fault.
The animals of the forest lived at relative peace with one another, until there came a period of trouble- when a young bear came to “live” in their forest. His name was Thunderfist, and he wanted power over the other creatures of the forest. He was dreaded by most of the animals, excepting some various ill specimens of many animals - panthers, snakes, etc. and so on. To these few, Thunderfist gave great promises of future glory, if they would help him to conquer the rest of the animals, who believed firmly in the principles of liberty. Charlie and his best friend, Robert, a raccoon, thought that the forest creatures should rise and dispose of the troublemaker and his minions, but everybody else thought the time was not yet come, that the bear would move on to other portions of the land and continue in his course of destruction, if they but kept a low profile and did not encourage his wrath."

In this story, the Grandfather is going to tell stories from his childhood, but I haven't written that part yet. Here's what I have written so far:

It is the year of our Lord one thousand, eight hundred and seventy-nine, the seventh month of the year; the time is two of the clock. A young lad has just exited from the kitchen door of a sprawling, ranch-style home, whose roof and sides were worn and weather-beaten, but still steadfastly in place. The boy is headed for a barn, which looks to be the same age as the house. The barn is not a traditional one; it is not red, nor does it have the typical barn roof. Instead, the roof comes up at a rather steep grade, with a large shed-like attachment on the side facing the house, for housing livestock.  ‘What a job to muck all these stalls!’ thought Christian to himself, as he picked up a pitchfork and began to clean out one of the horse stalls. He whistled at his work, intent on finishing as soon as possible, but not bothering to do his best. Before ten minutes passed, another boy, older than the first, came out to the barn. He stood looking at his brother Christian for a little. Then he said, “You know you’re going to have to clean these out again, don’t you?”  “No, I don’t have to clean these out again! I’m doing well enough, Josh. Joshua turned to the tool rack and got a pitchfork, saying as he did so, “I have to help you because Mom told me to, but don’t expect me to clean all the stalls.” A grunt sufficed as Christian’s answer.

Inside the house, a squall was brewing, and it was a strong one. Two children were tugging on a pencil…
“Gimme my pencil, Liz, or I’ll hit you!”
“Hey, you know I hate that name; Mom said you’re not allowed to call me that. Besides, it’s my pencil, Sammy.” Elisabeth knew Samuel did not like the name Sammy.
“No, it’s mine; see, I wrote my initial on the back. And Mom said no one was allowed to call me Sammy either.” At this point, he punched; it did not exactly hurt Elisabeth, but served to further raise her ire, and she returned the favor.
Just then, an elderly man opened the front door. His beard was white, but sprinkled with a little gray. As he entered the room where the children were fighting, he was shocked at such unrestrained anger among siblings.
“Children, children, stop fighting! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” The old gentleman was the children’s grandfather. He looked at them with disapproving, keen gray eyes; but if one looked close enough, you could see love and pity there also. Love, in that they were precious to him; pity, in that he knew they weren’t disciplined in the ways of God.
“Oh! Hi grandpa! Sorry we were arguing.” The children, being rather uncomfortable, quickly changed the subject: “How did you get here?”
Instead of answering their question, grandfather continued, “I will tell you in a minute, but right now I want you to remember the verses in the Bible that tell us to “Let love be genuine” and “Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor.”(Rom. 3:9-10) How you were just acting was not right. You were not showing brotherly affection.”
“We’re really sorry Grandpa; please forgive us.” Genuine sorrow showed clearly on the children’s faces.
“I forgive you, children; but what are you sorry for? Are you sorry that I witnessed your bad behavior, or that God saw your angry words and actions? God hates sin, and will punish those who disobey his commands.
‘Ask forgiveness of each other as well; and pray to God that he would forgive your sins for Christ’s sake, and ask him to help you when you are tempted to fight. As for how I got here… I do have two feet, don’t I?”
“Grandpa, you didn’t walk all the way here, did you?” Elizabeth said, pretending to be shocked, but knowing that he was teasing them.
“No, dear one, I came in my carriage, and arrived here just less than five minutes ago.”

mouth drops open

I am speechless… I didn't know you wrote so much–and so well! Great graphic wording, especially in the first one with the castle. Your mind is full of ideas that I wish I had. :D I've wanted to be an author for the past few years, and it seems that I should get started now! Keep up the good work! :)

P.S. Of course, I am not completely without ideas for novels as of now. :) I've got at least two up my sleeve…

Aww thanks.
Yes, indeed, the sooner and more you write, the faster you will write well.
Here's a school assignment that I wrote about writing…

-If Only I Had Three Days To Write-

 The thoughts of one unable to write;
          Which have been herein transmitted onto paper,
            Through the means of the disabled person’s dear friend-
                                                                                          Octavius Andrews
 
 Oh, what joy is to be had by reading? But what greater joy is to be received from writing? The joy of invention, the pride of creation, the happiness of accomplishment, all would be fulfilled, all would be satisfied, if only I could write- if only for three days. To read over what I had written, when the three days were over and done, would be to relive the happiest time of my life, if it were really a true time and could really occur.
 All those who have read, and all who have reread, are well aware of the power of the pen, if well used, but equally evident to the reader is the sadness of the meager scratching of the pen when abused. If such sadness at the misuse, and such gladness at the well use of the pen, then why not go on to write those works of art (for truly, writing is an art) - to write those well-written books, to use the pen well, so that others may also see the beauty of a well-used pen? Why not write books that will awe and inspire other readers? That is the driving force of my desire to write; that is the reason for my urgent want to use the pen. Not merely do I desire to write, but I desire to write well. So let us say that if I was given the ability to write for three days, I would also be given the mind of one who can write well, for what use is there in writing that is not written well, in writing that has no purpose, plot, or plan?
 Sit still for a bit, and keep reading, pay good attention to what I will say, and I will be honored, for to write is a thing I desire, but to be read is the desire of all who write, and is an honor to the author. Listen and I will attempt to show you what I would do, by a rather detailed outline of my Three Days To Write, narrating in the present tense.

 Because all writing needs a good plot, on the morning of the first day I brainstorm; I create plots in great number with numerous twists and turns; bright, dark, sunny, oppressed, warm, cold, welcoming and inviting, cold and hostile, the moods of my plots change like the leaves on a tree, and the other side, the end of the story, the finis, is barely visible, a pinhole in a black canvas that covers a bright light. The end, to the reader, is unknowable, and the end of the story will always seem far off, until the end; then at last the reader will understand.
 Oh, the characters are so varied, they come, each complete with accent, character, strengths, weaknesses, oddities, normality’s; each character completely its own person, for its own story, its own place in the story, and its own actions in its story. They are dangerous, safe; exciting, dull; loving, hateful; tender, harsh; humble, proud. All of them I have created; and I sorrow with them, knowing the misfortunes they will have to endure; rejoicing with them, knowing the triumphs they will have; and all of them exist because it has been given me to write, but only for this short time. Whether they are to be murdered by the stroke of my pen, or to live happily ever after, they are all there, on the paper right in front of me. 
 Details. Those details. They’re innumerable, flocking into my brain like passenger pigeons in full-fledged migration; but somehow, I manage to jot down the majority of them; names, animals, times, people, things, metaphors, ironies, symbolisms, etc., as I think of them I write them down, and soon my hand becomes tired. So I take a break for breakfast. During breakfast, I write an inspiring essay about my favorite foods (inspiring in that they inspire me to want to eat them!): how to prepare them, why I like them, and etc. After breakfast, I go back to my desk, clear it off, and start again into the world of writing plots. 
 With lunch coming up soon, I decide to go to Marc’s to get some more notebooks- or rather, some boxes of notebooks.
      After getting the writing necessities that I need for the next two days, I decide to skip lunch, and head to the forest, where I use my forest plant guide, to look for strange or unusual plants and trees, which I record in my notebook. I do this so that I may be able to write well-rounded stories - fantasy, fact, fiction, history, and etc. – and an unusual tree or plant now and then is very refreshing to the reader. 
 That done, I begin to research about the subjects that surround one of my plots (mostly the subjects that I don’t know very well).  I don’t forget to record the facts. I continue in this manner until dinner, after which I take a precisely one hour and forty-five minute nap, for I have been awake and working since dawn. After my nap, I am very refreshed; so I continue to do the necessary research, until I fall asleep in my chair, pencil in hand, a full sheet in front of me, a stack of World Books on my desk, but with a blank mind.
 Next morning, I wake early once again, not wanting to waste a precious moment in “useless slumber,” which I would normally do - if in my normal state of incapability. 
 Please understand that the ability to write had permeated even into my dreams, creating in me the subconscious realization that I should take advantage of the fact that I could write. So I woke up early, and got to work on my first story. Fleshing out the details took a lot longer than I thought, so I decided to shorten my plot; that too, took longer than I thought, and reading it over, I figured that the original plot was best after all. So I went back to the original plot, and continued on with my writing. By mid-morning, I was done with the first story; I felt that I could no longer think. So I ate a snack and daydreamed for 10 minutes, which helped a lot. Have you ever noticed that a help to ease an overworked mind is to daydream?! Just let your mind wander into the land of fairies, dragons, or whatever you please, and relax. 
 By lunchtime, I had finished two other short stories. I had made good progress, considering that both stories were rather long (for a short story, that is), but I still felt dissatisfied at the amount I had accomplished, it was so little next to the great number of proposed plots that I had still to finish and make into real stories. But then a great idea came to me. What if I just worked superficially on plots, say, until they had good form, but were still not complete? That way, when my three days were over, I could read through the rough outline and imagine the rest! And every time I imagined that story, it would be just a little different, so as to make it new and different every time; and that got me going again. When I come to a story that I feel must be completely finished, then I do just that, but with the majority of them, I just finish them halfway, fill in half of the picture, and leave the other half hazy, indistinct, and changeable. In that way I work again until ten of the clock (I worked as I ate dinner), at which time I am inclined to be rather irritable. Because my cat (a large marmalade tom-cat) has sat upon my desk (without permission, mind you), I push him off; he is accompanied by a large number of notebooks, which, as they land on the ground, make a resounding crash, so resounding in fact, that my cat (by the way, his name is Sir Albert d’Adelaide [Al for short]), after recovering himself in half of a second, took to his heels, for it began to rain notebooks again. To calm myself from my irritable mood, I write a comic essay on the dangers of confronting an easily irritable man at an ungodly hour in the night (especially if you are a cat). That gives me a good breather from my rigorous work, but I am still tired, and convinced that I will not be able to work efficiently if I continue until midnight (my proposed bedtime); so I go to bed.
 Early the next morning, try as I might, I cannot write; my wrist is so tired and swollen from yesterday’s work that I cannot write; so I go back to bed until breakfast. Then I, while eating my breakfast, try to write a poem or two in order to get my wrist back into working order for the day. This is what ensued: Breakfast Bacon and eggs, Toast and cheese, That is what I like to eat.

Soup and roast-beef,
Tea and crackers,
I greatly enjoy.
Because that didn’t work out so well, I try a different poem, one that I didn’t author, but greatly enjoy. It is, The Pride of the Pickled Pepper, by Aldert Roosa, one of my favorite poets. To my great surprise (I am a pessimist, you know [joke]), my wrist is back in working order, and my mind is clear of distractions and ready for the day, after writing another poem or two from memory; so I begin to get things ready for the day. I have to get my new notebooks out of the living room and into my study (leaving room for me to squeeze through into the study); get a new supply of pencils from the pantry shelf, sharpen them up, and prepare my mind while massaging my wrist and trying to squeeze through the doorway into my study. I am ready for my last day of writing, my last day of bliss; but please don’t take that to mean that I have never been happy before in my life, or will never be blissful again (for I will derive bliss and happiness from remembering and reading what I wrote on those three blessed days), but it is simply the only time in my life that I have wrote, and that indeed is felicity.
Writing is so misused in this present day; nobody writes, and if they do at all, then they do not know how to write well, neatly, or organized. Look at the writing of your grandma, or even of your grandpa, it is as a rule neat, cursive writing. Nowadays, we text, email, call, or type (exactly what my secretary is doing for me now), and writing is largely forgotten or misused. What a blessing to be able to write neatly and organized, don’t you think so? I know so. It is a well-known fact in my secretaries house that his writing is very hard to decipher; but - know this as well, he can write neatly if he wishes, its just the sloppy stuff that’s hard to read.
With new technology, it is true that writing letters to people, or writing any sort of document, is made easier, but I argue that this is a case where older is better, where old-fashioned is of much more worth than the new. The thrill of receiving a neat, handwritten letter is much greater than the “thrill” of receiving a computer-typed, formal, uninspiring bill. To use one’s own hand and fashion something that actually has value, beauty and worth, and has no technical complexities, is highly preferable to anyone in his right mind! The technical “complexities” which I refer to are made apparent below, and also in the ‘note to the inquiring mind’. When writing a letter on the computer, it is most necessary to push the correct button on the keyboard at the exactly correct time, and additionally, it is undeniably essential to make sure that the size, color, and font of your type is agreeable to the senses; and the only way that you can do this is by having complete mastery of this little mouse-like object that attaches to the computer by way of a monstrously long tail. More about this ‘mouse’ is said below. (To the inquiring mind: If, perhaps, you would like to know how the user can demand what color, size, or font of letter the computer puts up on its screen by using the ‘mouse’, I will explain: Such a process would begin by first of all putting the “mouse’s” hand [which moves in accordance to the movements of the mouse itself] on top of a button on the screen of the computer; this done, the user must now push the left-most button on the mouse; pushing this button will send an electrical signal to the computer; the electrical signal in turn tells the computer screen to put up on its face letters or shapes in whatever color, size, or font the user has demanded. Notice that everything on the screen is not ‘really’ up on the screen, but is merely the product of electrical signals and lights projected up onto the screen.)
As another note to the reader, I just want to say that the only reason that I am now able to write good books is because before this wonderful period of three days, I read very many good books, and studied how to write well, though not able to write at all. If you have had no classical literary education, and know nothing of the forms and elements of literature, but yet wish to dive into the vast ocean of authorship, then you are as a babe attempting to swim in his father’s lake. Thus, my council to the one desiring to write is this: no one can write well unless they have read well and extensively. Do such. Also, no one can write appealingly to the reader unless they have first studied the above-mentioned forms and elements of literature, and have also practiced their skills in writing often and much. To those who long to author, I wish you good luck in your literary aspirations; practice your skills often in order to improve them, read much and comprehensively, and study the different styles of literature diligently.
Having completely finished my stack of stories-in-the-making, at the time of 11:47 p.m., I will hereby sign off - forever. This is a very hard thing to do, for it is the very last time that I shall write, the very last time that my hand shall comprehensively grasp that powerful pen, over which God had granted man authority, so that we might communicate in other ways than by verbal speech.
Thank God diligently, dearest reader, for that wonderful gift which He has given mankind - the ability to write. Thank those who can write well for using their capacities in such a way that they can inspire others to write well, to write often, and to write much.

Signed by Octavius Andrews for his dear friend - Martin L. Detwiler

I wrote a science fiction adventure story 23 pages long…

Cool!
I don't think I could write sci-fi.

I could, as I have a hyperactive imagination. Maybe I will……

Since my brother posted such long stories in a row I guess I am going to post a story I wrote for the Vision Forum Story contest last year. Sorry it is so long but I think it is still shorter than all of Octo's put together :-) Hope this is a blessing to all who read this:

           “Hold me up in Mighty Waters”

 Annie tossed restlessly in her bunk. Her mind was filled with all that had happened in the past four days.  Her family was traveling on the Titanic’s maiden voyage. She had seen so much with her older brother exploring the beautiful rooms and walking on the vast deck. Annie finally started to doze off when she heard a low grinding sound. The cabin slightly jolted. Annie lay listening. The monotonous throbbing sound of the engines suddenly stopped. “Dick,” Annie whispered, “are you awake?” There was no response.  It’s probably nothing, thought Annie, and fell asleep. A quarter of an hour passed, Annie and her family quietly slumbered.

“Bang, Bang, Bang.” The cabin door shuddered under the force of the knocks. Annie’s father jumped out of bed, and hurriedly pulled on his robe before he opened the door. A tall crewman was standing in the hallway. “Sir,” he said in a commanding voice, “all passengers on deck with lifejackets.” 
Annie buttoned up her coat; her bright blue eyes shining with adventure and her heart beating fast with the possibility of danger.   
“Dick, help me get the lifejackets.” Annie’s father stooped and started pulling the lifejackets out from under the bunk. 
“It’s just a false alarm,” Dick complained.
“But we must follow orders, it’s better to be prepared for the worst.” 
 “But Father, the Titanic is unsinkable!”  Father stopped what he was doing and turned towards Dick, “Proud men think that the Titanic is unsinkable, but God is greater than any ship.”  Dick soberly looked his father in the eyes, “I’m sorry Father.”  
“I forgive you, now let’s hurry on deck.” 
“Wait James, shouldn’t we put the lifejackets on?” asked Mother anxiously.
“We’ll put them on later if we need them.” Annie’s father picked up the lifejackets.
“This is fun,” panted Annie to her older brother as they hurried from the cabin, “It’s splendid having a real adventure.”
 As they stepped onto the deck the cold air seeped through Annie’s coat, and her breath drifted away in little white clouds. The deck was full of bewildered passengers, few were dressed for the cold weather; some were dressed in thin evening gowns and others were still in their nightclothes. Confusion reigned. Annie’s father quickly comprehended their danger as he noticed that the steamer was listing to one side.  
“We’re going to get into a lifeboat,” father’s voice rose above the commotion on deck, “stay close together.” Annie, oblivious to their real danger, held tightly to Dick’s hand; they kept as near to their parents as they could, but the deck was full of passengers.  A group of people pushed their way between the two children and their parents.
 “Annie, which way did they go?” asked Dick, trying to peer through the wall of people around them.
“I don’t know,” cried Annie, “I couldn’t see. Those people almost knocked us over!” 
“Don’t worry,” soothed Dick, squeezing her hand, “we’ll find them.”  Nearing a crowd of people Annie shouted, “There’s Daddy!”
”Where?!” 
“And there’s Mommy too!” cried Annie pointing to her parents frantically searching for them.
“Thank God we found you!” exclaimed Dick hurrying towards their parents.  
 “Dick, help your sister”- her father’s voice was suddenly silenced by a loud voice that rose above the clamor on the deck.    
“All men stand back, women and children first!”  The words cut to Annie’s heart and the thrill of finding her parents suddenly vanished.  Fear began enveloping her.
“Dick, help Annie with her lifejacket.” 
“Wait, Dick,” said Annie laying her hand on his shoulder in appeal, “Why can’t we all go?” He looked down at his sister’s upturned face and gently brushed a tear away, “The women and children must be saved first.”   Annie was silent; her heart was in turmoil. 
“But Dick, what will you and Father do?”
“Don’t worry about us, Annie.  Trust in God. He will help us.”
As Dick hastily fastened Annie’s lifejacket, Annie looked over at her parents. Her mother was wearing her lifejacket and was locked in her father’s arms. Annie turned her face away, tears welling up in her eyes.                                                                                                       
“Father!” shouted Dick, “The boat’s almost full.” 
The lifeboat swayed as Annie and her mother were lifted over the railing and into the boat. Her father, seeing the fear in Annie’s eyes, bent over and whispered in her ear, “Be brave Annie. God will hold you up with his mighty hand.”  Annie determinedly smiled, but choked as she said, “I love you, Daddy.”
 As the words left Annie’s mouth, the boat started its downward descent down the side of the Titanic. The boards under her feet groaned and the ropes squeaked as the pulleys lowered its heavy burden. Annie gripped the side of the boat and looked down at the churning water far, far below them. She quickly looked away and tightly scrunched her eyes closed. Her stomach turned.
There was a splash as the lifeboat hit the water, and then Annie heard the creak and splash of the oars. Annie opened her eyes and was struck with what she saw. The brilliantly lit steamer was sloping into the water.
As the lifeboat rowed farther away from the Titanic Annie hoped that the Titanic would stay afloat. But as the minutes passed the steamer continued to tilt precariously into the water.  Streams of music floated out over the water from the Titanic’s band and filled everyone with an inexpressible nearness to God. Annie’s mother began softly singing to the music of the brave band that fearlessly stood on the Titanic’s perilous deck.  Her voice rose and Annie joined in; tears streaming down their faces.

“God of mercy and compassion,
Look with pity on my pain;
Hear a mournful, broken spirit
Prostrate at Thy feet complain;
Many are my foes and mighty;
Strength to conquer I have none;
Nothing can uphold my goings
But Thy blessed Self Alone.”

One by one, grief-stricken voices joined in the hymn, rising above the sobs. Soon the whole lifeboat was filled with the heart-rending words:

“Hold me up in mighty waters;
Keep my eyes on things above—
Righteousness, divine atonement,
Peace and everlasting love.”

For a moment, the Titanic stood upright, sticking up out of the water. Annie held her breath in terror. The Titanic plunged forever beneath the waters.

The hours slowly passed. As morning dawned, the Carpathia appeared on the horizon; filling the frozen and emotionally exhausted survivor’s with hope. 
Once on deck Annie and her mother leaned out over Carpathia’s rail. They eagerly looked at each rescued passenger as they were hoisted out of the lifeboats. Annie’s heart swelled with hope, but as each passenger was lifted onto the ship’s deck her heart sank. The last survivor was lifted up. Annie’s head fell on her mother’s bosom; sorrow shook her small frame. 
“Father and Dick are dead!” Annie sobbed. They wept in each other’s arms.         
 “Annie dear,” her mother calmly whispered, “don’t despair. God carries all his children through the waters of death.  Dick and Daddy are safe, they are with our Savior.”           “
“Just like the song we sang last night?”  
“Yes dear, God upholds us through mighty waters and will bring us to our everlasting home.”

Should I post it? I am the main character :)
EDIT: Or maybe it's too vilant…

As I can tell from your name :P

It's up to you. If you think it's too violent, I wouldn't post it, esp. because some kids on here are pretty young.
I must say that when WhateverHisNameIs said he has a hyperactive imagination…he was understating reality.

I love the story you wrote! I think I remember you were in the middle of writing that when you taught me how to crochet. You did a great job!

Oh and, BTW, how did you do in the contest?

That story was amazing! I loved it!

Yeah, I mean we blow up lots of aliens… and invade bases… and almost die at least 10 times… and get stuck in a time warp…

Sounds awesome. You should make a movie.

POST IT! POST IT!

Okok, I'll email it to you when I get a chance.

lol yeah, but I wouldn't be allowed to watch it.

Your own book ?

well… It's hard for me to know, since It's pretty unlikely that they would make a movie out of it…
EDIT: Also, it is written in first person, so that might be tricky to make a movie out of.

They made Hunger Games into a movie and it was written in first-person

Oh? Well, I haven't read the Hunger Games.

Rachel, the beginning of your story is great!! :) You wrote it really well, with good adverbs and such - like, I could see what was happening really clearly in my mind. Thanks for sharing it!

Bethany, your story would be SO much fun to act out in a play!! And it does have a good message at the end. :) Your blog is really neat, too, by the way. ;)

Octavius, I agree with SavedByGrace, your writing is amazing! :) Esp. the first one, the teaser for your novel…but you can't leave us hanging like that! Could you possibly post the whole thing somewhere where we could read it?

Christ's Handmaiden - your story is incredible!! The emotion is so strong, and you wrote it so well! And I'm wondering the same thing God's Maiden of Virtue is - how did you do in the contest?

Soo…I like to write…but I haven't - not really - in a while. :P I have had a ton of ideas that I've written a bunch of beginnings to and everything, but I can't seem to stick with anything…so I'd have to dig around to find something complete. :P Ah, well. Sometimes I write poems and even songs (coughpartsofsongscough)…

P.S. Btw, Sparky, your name is much easier to remember now. ;)

Thank you! Do you want me to post the whole story?

Yeah, that'd be great! ;)

Everyone, great stories! Apparently there are many more aspiring authors out there than I thought… and it seems that everyone has gotten a head start on me! I'm still just brainstorming…

P.S. Aidan B., that sounds like an awesome story! :D It'd be cool to read it sometime. :)

Thanks Nicole and Rosie! I did not make it to the first or second place or the honorable mention in the contest. I don't know how far I made it because they only announced those three places. Even though I did not win it was a really good learning experience. And next year if they have another story contest I can enter and maybe do better! I had not read my entry since I entered it in December and I realize now why I did not win :-) Your understand if you read the winning stories for the Titanic Story contest! If you want to read the winning stories go to: http://www.visionforum.com/news/blogs/doug/2012/03/ (they are in the March 5 entry close to the bottom of the page). I really like the honorable mention poem!

Here you are! Be prepared for some laughs :D
_______________

It was a boring day. The rain was coming down in sheets, and we see a lone figure standing in the door frame to her home.
“Oh dear,” Rachel sighed. “Such a lazy boring day. So much so I don’t know what to do!” Just then the ring of the telephone broke into her thoughts. She bounded inside as she pick up the receiver.
“Hello?” she answered politely.
“Hi! Is this Rachel? This is Pauline.” Rachel’s good friend Pauline replied.
“Yes, this is Rachel. How are you?” Rachel responded, looking very happy. “You haven’t called me in ages!”
“I know!” Pauline exclaimed. “For some reason I couldn’t see very well to type an email. That’s why I called. I’m probably tired.”
“I know how that is.” Rachel went on. “You know, I’m cold! I should put some socks on.”
Come to think of it, I’m cold too!” Pauline laughed.
“Hold on a minute.” Rachel said quickly and hurried down the hall to her bedroom. She opened her sock door and began looking for her favorite pair of fuzzy socks. “Oh dear,” she said despairingly. “here’s one of them, but where’s the other?”
As she furiously searched in her drawer for the missing sock, loud voices came across on the telephone. “What in the world?!” Rachel thought as she grabbed a pair of orange socks and sat down to put them on. She lifted the receiver to her ear and was greeted with a shriek from Pauline.
“MOM!!” Pauline squealed. “George is…”
“Pauline?! What is happening?! Rachel wondered.
“Oh my.” Pauline gasped.
“what?” Rachel was getting worried.
“My brother George is, is…freaky.”
“Why? He always seems so…”
“But George was trying to stick a pickle in my ear!” Pauline shuddered.
“A what?!” Rachel could hardly believe her ears.
“A pickle! Pauline said again.
“No, a PICKLE?!” Rachel squealed in disbelief.
“Yes. It was terrible.” Pauline was horrified. “I like pickles, but in my ear? Ugh!”
“Oh well, things like that happen.” Rachel said matter-of-factly. “How’s music lessons going?” Rachel changed the subject.
“Pretty well, and yours?”
“Fine. I love playing the piano. It’s probably my favorite instrument.”
Their conversation flowed on…
Soon…
“Oh my goodness….” Rachel slowly said.
“What?” Pauline was curious.
“I’m sitting on my bed, and…and…” Rachel stammered.
“come on. Tell me!” Pauline demanded.
“Never before had I… WHAT?!” Rachel yelled.
“WHAT??” Pauline was upset. “Tell me!!!”
“My teddy bear just talked!”
“Huh?” Pauline was confused.
“My teddy bear…it just talked!”
“Okay….let me get this straight. A TALKING teddy bear? Probably the work of a ventriloquist!” Pauline said matter-of-factly. “Never before had I seen a teddy bear that talked to himself.
“Oh, but he did! He did!” Rachel said shakily. “He said Hi! I heard him!”
“Oh well, it’s happened, and will probably never happen again.” Pauline stated. “Anyway, I got to go. Bye!”
“Bye!” Rachel said.
~~~~~~~~~
Later that month, Rachel sat down to email Pauline. This is what it said.
Dear Pauline,
I found out why my teddy bear talked. We got it 2nd hand a few months ago, and we never realized it could talk. There were batteries in it and I guess that enough energy was left in them that caused the bear to talk.
Love, Rachel
~~~~~~~
And later, when Pauline read her email, she replied:
Dear Rachel,
I also found out why George stuck that pickle in my ear. He said he read somewhere that if you were having trouble seeing, and you stuck a pickle in your ear, it’d help. VERY crazy and it DOESN’T work. Anyway, Dad took me to get my eyes checked, and I had to get glasses. I don’t mind it much, although it takes a bit getting used to.
Love Pauline

The End.

What did you all think? :D

@Rachel:

Bwahahahaha…ridiculously random! I'm sure you and your friend had BUNCHES of fun writing that one!

I really like the pickle in the ear! LOL!

Okay, here it the write-up/teaser for my long story (novel)... "Almost hid for the wreath that mists about its crown, the mountain rises to dizzy heights of power. It is massive, an upheaval of the very bowels of the earth, as it were; rough and jagged, dark and unlovely, huge and looming, filled with a foreboding: a mountain of doom. As a shepherd attracts sheep, so the summit of this rocky mass attracts clouds to itself, and they wreath about the mount, covering it, laving it with cool, gloomy hands of mist and fog. It is only for rare minutes that the sun’s piercing light breaks like a triumphing warrior through a small breach in this wall of clouds. The trees, though they find little on which to feed themselves, grow scraggled and twisted on the mountain’s shoulders, thorny, struggling, and bitter. Their roots are filled with a strange malice, their branches with anger, and their leaves tremble with rage though no breeze bends them to and fro. Vines, grasping, strangling vines, grow rank among the trees, ever spreading, ever growing, never satisfied. On this mountain, within a rocky theatre, a castle stands. Gray and gloomy like the mountain, made from the ancient bones of the earth, evil seems to emanate from within the fortress like unseen, groping fingers. A hand, invisible to all except the soul, hangs over the castle, beckoning, drawing people, nations, and kingdoms into its grasp. A dark hand, black as night, filled with malice that only death, blood, and power will satisfy; a dark hand, black as night, holding a master’s whip, which only total subjection, slavery, can satisfy; a dark hand, black as night, in which the whole world lays helpless. The mountain is Mt. Varkaldi, and the castle is evil."

You are SO good at writing descriptions! Brilliant, Octavius! :D

Your story was also great, Handmaiden :)

I have tons of ideas for stories, and I do write stories sometimes. I write fan fiction, believe it or not :P

I started writing for the Titanic contest, but didn't finish. The story takes place in 2058 and the actual Titanic part is just a story that this woman tells her grandson, who has been selected to go on a test flight to Mars.

Yeah. I know. Pretty weird. It's just what I felt like writing. :P

Glad you like it, Nicole! Yeah, I wish I could act it out with my friends, but we just don't have the places or time! :) Anyone else is welcome to try, though!

Sheesh!….I'm not that good!
And to the person who said I can't leave you hanging like that….well….I kinda have to leave you hanging, because so far, I have about sixty pages written (full-length Microsoft Word pages) and I'm only starting my novel. It's probably going to be AT LEAST 150 pages long…..and I might not even ever finish. ;-(
Yeah….that'd be a little too long for this.
(Well, I guess I could maybe post it in sections….no…that would be too boring. It's kinda something you have to read all at once.)

BTW, my novel (what there is of it) is called A Tale of Khartur.

CH - Great job, sista'!

That comic story is funny! So random! ;-)

What's fan fiction?

Well, Mr. Deranged Algebraic Evil Sword-Wielding Giraffe, you name change didn't fool me!

I have started at least 50 stories, but have only finished about 10 or so. :-}
I like to write about animals mostly. Not talking animals, but they will talk to each other in animal language.

A Tale of Khartur (now Tales of Khartur: yes, it has grown into three books) is now available online!!!
If you want to read it (what I have finished of Book 1, that is) simply check out:
www.talesofkhartur.wordpress.com

Please enjoy!

A caution to younger readers: I have some graphic battle descriptions, and some bad character traits exemplified in (of course) the bad characters, so if you are younger, please have your parents or an older sibling preview my story first. Thanks!

P.S. Please do not respond to this comment. -Thanks

Okay, I won't respond to your comment Octo, as I am completly aware of the fact that you enjoy it when people honor your wishes. You won't see me post a word here in response to this comment AT ALL! I won't even dream of replying to your comment, and that's sayin' something! So don't worry, I won't respond.

The point of asking everyone not to comment was so that I wouldn't get caught up in a silly conversation…very much like the one you just started. sighs exasperatedly
Oh, well, what can you expect from someone with his head stuck in the clouds. (Elendil the TALL; get it?)
I am not answering your comment, however. To presume such would be to presume much….too much. I am merely, totally, completely, and entirely (and only) letting you know WHY I said not to reply to my comment.
Thanks for complying with my wishes. I know I can always trust one faithful friend who will always do what I ask.

P.S.- Don't respond to this comment either.

Uh, you better make that two faithful friends who will always do what you ask. Because I'm just writing to say that I'm totally gonna do what you say and not respond to your comment. I would never do something so directly against your wishes.

Thanks. Your compliance is greatly treasured.

P.S.-Don't respond.

Whatever you say!