March 6-13

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March 6-13

Post by Titanhawk 881 (JT) on Sun Mar 08, 2015 6:44 pm

This week's challenge is write a story of any genre but the main character has to suffer amnesia.

Challenge by Jerryth
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A New Beginning

Post by Melody on Mon Mar 09, 2015 6:03 pm

Who am I? This is perhaps one of the most profound questions humanity can ask, though I inquire not for philosophical thought, but rather, out of necessity. Nearly five months ago, I found myself encased in a tomb of muddy earth, slowly suffocating as my nose and throat succumbed its powerful force. The moments that followed next are hazy: I remember clawing my way to the surface. My entire physical being was covered in mud—it was raining.
I somehow found my way to an old logging road. I followed it for what must have been hours. Eventually, I came to the main highway, exhausted and bleeding. I ran to the centre of the road, as if by some unexplainable instinct. As headlights came racing towards me, their soft light illuminating the raindrops like a million falling diamonds, it did not occur to me that the car might be unable to stop on such short notice, on a corner, in the pouring rain, at night.
But stop it did.
A man got out of the car—I don't remember his name. I never saw him again. I collapsed on the pavement, suddenly aware a thudding pain in the back of my head, screaming for my undivided attention. I am not sure if what happened next is really my memory, or if it is some concocted story my mind made up from the facts it knew; I vaguely remember two men loading me onto a gurney, and carefully loading me into an ambulance. What I remember most is the sound: the monotonous wail of the siren blending in with the rain, intertwining together in fiendish harmony.
I didn't awake fully until the next day. I laid in a clean smelling bed that had a distinct chemical odor to it.
“That is quite a nasty bump on your head, young lady,” a man said from the corner my room. Dr. Mason I learned later.
It didn't take long for them to learn I was suffering from acute cerebral trauma—amnesia. I could not remember anything beyond that night. They ran traces on my DNA and finger prints, but who I was remained a mystery. No one knew me, no one missed me. Eventually, when my memory showed no signs of returning, I was allowed to sift through an old baby book and chose my own name. I selected Rachelle—there was something serene and strangely familiar about it.
Since that first morning in the hospital bed, to this day, I have been constantly surrounded by hovering swarm of police and reporters. One thing was certain—I had buried myself. Someone was trying to kill me.
Some days, I wonder what kind of a person I was, that someone tried to kill me in such a cruel way. Was I really that horrible? Or had I just crossed the wrong people?
One day, I'm not sure how it happened, I found myself standing in front of a church. The building was old, and most of the paint has long since worn away. But the yellow wooden cross that stood perched atop the roof shone bright as the sun.
This building intrigued me. I was half way toward the chipped white doors before I realized what I was doing. I entered quietly. Inside, on one of the dozen or so rows of benches, a gray haired old man sat. He was reading an ancient looking book.
“Welcome,” he greeted me, setting it down beside him. “Are you looking for something?” I still remember his smile. It was warm and inviting.
“Yes,” I answered. I still don't know what prompted me to say that. Even I did not know what I was searching for. Answers, maybe. Answers to my past, answers to who I was.
The old man beckoned for me to sit beside him. Slowly I began to tell my story, what little of it I knew.
A look of thoughtfulness came over his face when I had finished—I remember it well. “God knows you,” he said with conviction. “He knew you before you were even born. He knows you past, and your future.”
Who was this, that could know so much about me! At first I thought the man was joking, but the sober tone of his face told me otherwise. I listened, enthralled, as he told me more about this mysterious Creator.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked me.
It took me several moments to answer. Was it all a hoax? How could someone be so powerful and fantastic!
“I do,” I answered. Something in me knew He was real.
“Are you willing to follow Him?”
“I am.”
In that moment, if felt like my past melted away. Whoever I was, whatever I had done, it did not matter. All that mattered was who I was now. A daughter of God.
Who am I? I am part of something large, something great. I am loved, I am forgiven.
A week ago, I returned to that church. I wanted to thank that old man. But the place was empty, and several boards lay nailed over the front door. I stopped to ask a person on the street about it.
They told me the church had been closed down and sealed off by the city. No one had been in it for eight years.
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Crumbling Cookies

Post by Wlonnie on Thu Mar 12, 2015 12:12 am

Author's Note: I decided to do a short scene instead of a full-on short story this week. No, you're not getting more details. That'd kill the whole purpose of a scene. It is unedited, so I apologize for the errors. Enjoy!

The first thing she remembered was the sound of her own raw scream. The second: a warm feather duvet tucked in beneath her feet and around her thighs. A symphony of smells reigned in the air, something like Greek salad and chocolate chip cookies. She didn’t know where she was, why she was – who she was. The only thing she knew for certain was that she hadn’t eaten in a long time, and the savoury flavours filling her mouth were becoming unbearable.
“Cookies?” She croaked uncertainly, the words lingering in the air around her as though they weren’t sure where to go.
A string of words in a language she didn’t recognize flooded the room. Heightened senses and vibrant colours painted the air. Were they dangerous? Could this voice be trusted? The girl felt a knot forming in her stomach, threatening to make her throw up. She didn’t dare move. The sheets seemed too crisp, too glasslike. She was scared the worst would happen if she so much as breathed the wrong way.
Finally, someone entered the room. Honey-brown curls and eyes like fresh rain met her gaze. The newcomer was male. He was tall and bronzed and elegant, yet the smile on his face seemed to be the product of a nuclear reaction.
“Chahna!” The boy darted to her bedside and sunk to his knees. “You’re awake; oh, thank goodness.” His fingers swarmed around hers like smoke, and the vibrant words he whispered into her ears caused her eyes to flutter open once more. She sat up in a daze and stared into his eyes.
“Do I know you?”
Blue eyes collided with brown. The boy froze, as though he was being held captive by the enchantment of her gaze. Or was it something else?
“Chahna,” His voice was strained. “What do you remember about yesterday? Do you . . . do you remember anything?”
Chahna. My name?
She blinked. Once. Twice. The boy seemed so desperate, so savagely concerned. How could she tell him that she didn’t know who he was? Should she have known him? An irrevocable guilt gnawed at her insides, but she pushed it away in a selfish frenzy. No. She didn’t need to feel responsible for a boy she didn’t know. He would be just fine on his own. Finally, she voiced the only words she was sure of.
“I need food.”
“Okay,” His tone seemed eager to please, yet laced with an air of unhappiness that made Chahna’s heart sink. “I’ll grab you a kale salad from the kitchen; it’s your favourite!”
But I wanted cookies. Chahna didn’t voice this thought. She didn’t want to add to the mystery boy’s suffering.
It would be impossible for her to know just how deeply the cracks ran in his heart.
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Re: March 6-13

Post by Admin on Thu Mar 12, 2015 1:44 pm

I dislike how the forum refuses to pick up my "tabs" at the beginning of each new paragraph. I hope the section breaks are still discernible, this one has a particular amount of lacking paragraph indentations.

Johnny Chapman stepped out of his Hawker 400 as he lowered himself down the protruding steps, carry-on in hand. The warm afternoon sun reflected off his pallid-dry skin as he departed from beneath the shadow of his private jet. He was finally home! He had waited so long for this moment, for as long as he could remember. Yet, something seemed oddly “Alien” about the place he called home.
Following the signs across the runway to the private immigration checkpoint, he was met by a short, lithe figure in grey flight-attendant attire, complete with matching heels which gave her at least a few inches. Even so, she barely came to his chin.
“Mister Chapman!” she shouted, vigorously waving her left arm.
Johnny approached her, smiling at the bubbly girl.
“Welcome home, Mister Chapman!” she said once he was only a pace away. Wasting no time, the flight attendant snatched his bag and began walking, almost as if expecting him to follow. She radiated an energy that Johnny found contagious. He very much liked this woman.
The flight attendant pushed her way through the crowds of people, clearing a path for Johnny as she fought to the front of the immigration line, his bag in tow. The officer on duty seemed to recognize him.
“Afternoon, Mister Chapman.”
Johnny tilted his head curtly at the officer before proceeding with his documents, not a question asked.
The flight attendant hurried him outside, as if he were late for an appointment.
“Your driver will be sending you home today,” she said, smiling gallantly.
“Thank you, Misses…” Johnny paused a moment, straining to read her nametag, “Bower, Margaret Bower.”
The flight attendant flashed a look of confusion, border lining on offence, before lightening up in a gleeful chuckle, cuffing him on the arm. “Oh you!” She’d waited until Johnny was seated securely in the backseat of the car before taking a step back. Johnny gave her a curt wave, one she repaid with a hint of simper.
“Where to, driver?” Johnny asked.
“Why home, sah.”
“Very good.”
“Would you like some music sah?”
“No, I’ll be just fine.”
This seemed to satisfy the driver, who returned to his restful, detached-state.
Something vibrated in his pocket for a split second before emanating an embarrassing ringtone. Johnny quickly grabbed the cell, pressing the “answer” button before checking to see who it was.
“Hello?”
“Hello Johnny.”
Johnny paused, unused to hearing his first name spoken in such a way.
“Hello…” he replied with wavering uncertainty, the restatement border lining comic stupidity.
“You’re probably wondering how we got this number.”
Not in the least bit. He didn’t say this of course, rather choosing to remain silent.
“I just wanted to remind you of our business agreement in Belize.”
If there was a look for blank confusion, Johnny now displayed it perfectly.
“Sorry sir, I’m drawing a blank.”
“Don’t play games with us, Johnny Chapman.”
“No really, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Dangriga.”
The name rang a bell, almost as if it held some significance in a previous. He knew it was a city located in Belize, why it sounded familiar he had not but the slightest clue.
“We know where your wife and children are hiding, where the kids go to school…”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have a wife, or children.” Looking up into the review mirror, he made brief eye contact with chauffeur, who hesitantly returned his gaze to the road.
“So this is the way it’s going to be,” came the voice on the other end of the line. “Very well, Mister Johnny Chapman. I look forward to seeing you in San Ignacio again very soon. And maybe with your wife and kids this time, heh?”
“What?” Johnny said with the upmost confusion and audible uncertainty in his voice.
“You know where to contact me.”
The line went dead. Johnny sat back, perplexed, half dazed as they drove up to the driveway of his house. Once again, he was met with the alien feeling he’d received when he’d first stepped out of his private jet.
“Thank you, very much,” he said, offering the chauffeur a tip as he went in.
“I think we’re well passed that by now, sah,” was the man’s simple reply, hands kept promptly behind his back. Nodding curtly, Johnny made his way to the door. Before he could find his keys, the red cedar entranceway burst open as two joyous young kids came rushing out to great him. His reflexes kicked in as he caught the younger girl who flung herself up in the air and into his arms. He smiled from the adrenaline, setting down the girl only to get tackled by the slightly older boy. The children appeared to be around ages six and eight. Standing in the doorway was a beautiful middle-aged woman, with fiery red locks that came down just past her shoulders in wavy strands. She smiled, briefly closing her eyes as he came towards her. She engaged him in a passionate, unexpected kiss before releasing him to go inside.
“Daddy’s back!”
“Daddy is back!”
The kid’s shouts became distant and echoed as Johnny began to realize, this had to be his home. A thick bead of sweat developed on his brow as he continued to sport his plastic grin.
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Re: March 6-13

Post by LittleDancer on Fri Mar 13, 2015 5:36 pm

Cracking open a bottle of wine before a performance was a tradition with the band. They would drink a toast and then go out on stage and play their one of a kind Jazz. People came to see them from all over town, each night it was packed full of people. Karl tentatively picked up his cello from its case with his bow in the other hand, his friends followed him onto the stage covered in music stands, guitars, and electrical cords hooking up to amps and other instruments and lights. The song started and the baseline picked up, his bow was left forgotten on the floor as Karl plucked the strings with his fingers sending a reverberating sound through his chest and leaving a deep throaty sound echoing around the large room.

xX***Xx

“You guys go on ahead I’ll gather up the stuff” Karl said gesturing to his friends and shooing them away.
“Alright, alright we are leaving” Cried Martin throwing his hands in the air playfully in defeat.
Karl smiled to himself as he gathered up electrical cords and music stands, he loved to be alone in the room. Just him and the instruments, he picked up his cello from its stand and laid it softly in the velvet case, the satisfying sound of latch being done told him that he could go home. He picked up the case and music stands and headed out to his Civic.
The night was colder than usual in November but he simply pushed his chin into his scarf and put everything in the trunk of his car.

xX***Xx

A faint beeping sound was all he could hear, the thought of opening his eyes made his head pound more than it already was. He lay on a bed listening to the beeping sound, he thought he heard it get louder and then it grew quieter, and then he heard a door open. He made the effort to open his heavy eyelids and see where he was. It overwhelmed him, the brightness of room, his head felt as if it was swimming. A woman dressed in a sickly blue/greenish outfit stood by his bedside, he thought he heard her speak but the sound was muddled and far away.
“Mr. Narkiss” She repeated. He looked at her dazed and scared. “You have been out for a few days, you were in a car crash on November 14th of 2005.” He again stared at her blankly.
“Where am I?” He asked weakly.
“You are in Barnum General Hospital, I am your doctor Elizabeth.” He gave a slight nod which looked as though it took all the strength he had.
“The tests show that you are suffering from Amnesia, do you remember anything?” She queried.
“Amnesia?” He asked mulling the word around before remembering what it was. “No…”
She pursed her lips in a thin line and nodded warily, she adjusted something beside her.
“This might help with remembering something” She said as sound filled the room, it was a news broadcast on the radio. She left quietly and closed the door.
He fumbled to reach the radio and turn it down, the channel changed to music and his heart leapt for an unknown reason. He heard the sound of the base in the back reverberating sound through his chest, he smiled and lay back down listening to the music and slipping in and out of consciousness.
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Re: March 6-13

Post by ScrambledMemories on Fri Mar 13, 2015 5:48 pm

When my eyes open, after what felt like years, I'm in a cell. 



It's dark, and there isn't any windows that I can see, even when I was taken to the showers. There’s others around my cell, wearing filthy clothing, grime caked onto their faces. They were offered showers and fresh changes of clothing but refused.



There’s one man, who scares me. He stares at me a lot, grinning non-stop. He called me Harley-pie once, and I just shook my head, backing into a corner. He looks disappointed but doesn’t persist, instead making scathing remarks to the other inmates, and the workers.

His laughter scares me, and his smile is grotesque, but there’s something about him that just… Attracts me.



It’s obviously a prison, where I am. The cells, locks, electrical barriers, and the guards. I once asked to be let outside but they refused, saying something about how I was a ‘Level Six, and anything over a four wasn’t allowed to be outside.’



I can hear them coming down the hall again, bringing the meals on their trollies. The food is horrible, and I have this urge to grab the hand that’s reaching in, wrench it to the side and grabbing the keys, escaping from here.



“Don’t try anything funny.” The guard warns me, hand reaching towards his gun as I go to take the tray. “I wasn’t thinking of it.” I answer grouchily, sticking my tongue out as I skip back to my bed. As they move on, delivering the trays to the inmates the green haired man is watching me again, his eyes cold and calculating. 



“Harley, what do you remember?”



I look up and there’s a woman in a crisp, white lab coat standing before my cell, holding a clipboard in front of her. Moving to a crosslegged position, I frown, trying to think of anything that might help.



“Nothing really… What am I supposed to remember?”



“Nothing? We’ll start with the basics then. Can you remember your age, your birthday, your name?”



“Well… I think my name is Harley? And I don’t know how old I am, or when my birthday is. It’s like this large, white, blank space.” I gesture with my hands as I speak, and when I’m finished they flop back down to my sides. 



“Yes, your nickname is Harley. Your full name is Harleen Quinzel. You are around the age of twenty-eight, and your birthday is September eleventh.”



“Oh, okay! So now I can celebrate my birthday when it comes around!”



The doctor scribbles something onto her pad, nodding her head slightly as she checks things off. “Now, do you remember why you’re here in Arkham?”



I shrug, leaning against the wall with my hands behind my head. “Probably did something bad… Kill someone? Lots of people?”



“Yes, in fact. You assisted in many murders, and escape attempts alongside the Joker.”



“Er… Who?”



She gestures with the tip of her pen to the green haired man, who gives a slight wave of his gloved hand. “Him.”



I stare at him a bit longer this time, looking him over. Purple pinstripe suit, greasy green hair, and that creepy maniacal grin. Green eyes, extremely pale skin, with a long, skinny frame. Joker… so that’s his name. 

“How long am I staying in here?”

“You have a life sentence.”



So, I’m a mass-murder, who works alongside a manic, and has a life sentence in prison. Doesn’t seem too bad.

Another guard comes near the cell, and I grab his arm, twisting it inside. Fumbling around his pocket I grab the keys, grabbing his gun and shooting his companion in the head. "Here!"

After I unlock my cell I toss the keys to the 'Joker', and he does the same. There's something about the way we work that seems like we've done this many times before, as he grabs a gun and shoots another behind me.

The other prisoners are shouting, and as we go down the lines, unlocking the doors, I can't help but smirk and think, 'A girl could get used to this.'

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Re: March 6-13

Post by Natarsha on Fri Mar 13, 2015 6:37 pm

When I awoke, the room was dark. The only light coming from the gap in the curtain, I looked around and saw a man slouched in a chair beside me holding my hand, he looked familiar but I couldn’t figure out he was. My eyes made their way around the room, noting the how whit the walls were, Where am I? I asked myself.

I felt my hand being squeezed and I looked over to the man he mumbled something under his breathe but I couldn’t make it out, I tried sitting up but I was unable to, the man obviously feel my movement and woke up his grey eyes wide and his smile even wider.

“EVELYN!, your awake” He got out of the chair and hugged me how does he know my name? I thought, I smiled softly “Um hi...” his smile drops suddenly “Do you remember who I am?” I look at him the thought nagging at the back of my mind,
“You look familiar I just can’t remember how I know you” I say worried,
“That’s okay, the doctor said this might happen, do you remember your name?”
“My name is Evelyn… Rose Smith?”
He sighs with relief “You remember name, especially your new last name... just not me” he smiles softly and I giggle
“Who are you?” I ask
“Your husband, I’m Derek Hunter Smith” He smiles

“That explains why you look familiar… what are you doing?” He leans over the bed picking up something rectangler
“It’s our photo album the doctor said you have mild Amnesia and have a chance to get it back by like smells, photos and music, so I want to help get it back” He smiles and kisses my forehead and heads out of the room, I wait for him to come back in with the doctor who tells me what happens, my husband and I we’re in a car crash and I’ve been in a coma for three months but there’s a 75% chance my memory comes back. Once he leaves I start looking through the photo album tears sprung to my eyes as I flick through the pages,

“I don’t remember these people… but I should...” I say in between tears, my husband hugs me “It’s okay it will take some time don’t worry my love” he kisses me softly through the tears and turns on the radio, the song Wherever You Will Go begins playing and sit up, listening to it, I look up at my husband “I remember…” I say softly he sits himself beside me and asks what I remember,

“The night with the um flowers, and the water thingy’s” He looks at me confused and I start bawling my eyes out, “This is hopeless I’ll never remember..” he hugs me tight,

“Evelyn… Evelyn... Evelyn...” I hear my name being called and I get shaken awake, I jolt up in bed and I look around,  I’m in my own room I look and my husband and hug him tightly “I love you” I say my face buried in his neck he laughs hugging me “I love you too”
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Re: March 6-13

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