celestialhost
New member
Yes, that was very well done.
Short-Story Academy
- Thread starter Copperfox
- Start date
Copperfox
Well-known member
A Should-Have-Happened Story
Jean Valjean, in his guise as Monsieur Madeleine, sat in his office at the bead factory he owned -- the factory he had been able to invest in because of the silver a saintly bishop had given him. He was hoping that he had done the right thing by allowing the young woman Fantine to be fired. He felt he had to do what was for the greatest good of the greatest number.
There was a knock on the door. The visitor was none other than the famous General Lamarck, that rare and exceptional advocate of justice for the lower classes in France. "Monsieur Madeleine," he declared, "I must inform you of something which has escaped your notice. The foreman of your factory has lied to you; it WAS NOT Fantine who caused the recent disturbance here. It was, rather, THE FOREMAN HIMSELF who created the trouble, by his crudely lustful behavior toward the female workers."
Valjean profusely thanked the General. Three minutes later, the evil foreman was fired and hurled bodily out of the building. Then Valjean began a search, which did not end until he found Fantine. Begging her forgiveness for misjudging her, he swore to make amends to her. Since he had found her in time to prevent her from catching tuberculosis, making amends proved easy enough to do. Four days later, Fantine's daughter Cosette was freed from the tyranny of the Thenardiers; the Thenardiers were under arrest for fraud, giving Inspector Javert a different case to think about; and Cosette was able to attend the wedding of her mother to their benefactor.
Don't be too upset, Victor Hugo -- it's a happy ending!
Jean Valjean, in his guise as Monsieur Madeleine, sat in his office at the bead factory he owned -- the factory he had been able to invest in because of the silver a saintly bishop had given him. He was hoping that he had done the right thing by allowing the young woman Fantine to be fired. He felt he had to do what was for the greatest good of the greatest number.
There was a knock on the door. The visitor was none other than the famous General Lamarck, that rare and exceptional advocate of justice for the lower classes in France. "Monsieur Madeleine," he declared, "I must inform you of something which has escaped your notice. The foreman of your factory has lied to you; it WAS NOT Fantine who caused the recent disturbance here. It was, rather, THE FOREMAN HIMSELF who created the trouble, by his crudely lustful behavior toward the female workers."
Valjean profusely thanked the General. Three minutes later, the evil foreman was fired and hurled bodily out of the building. Then Valjean began a search, which did not end until he found Fantine. Begging her forgiveness for misjudging her, he swore to make amends to her. Since he had found her in time to prevent her from catching tuberculosis, making amends proved easy enough to do. Four days later, Fantine's daughter Cosette was freed from the tyranny of the Thenardiers; the Thenardiers were under arrest for fraud, giving Inspector Javert a different case to think about; and Cosette was able to attend the wedding of her mother to their benefactor.
Don't be too upset, Victor Hugo -- it's a happy ending!
The Spanish Inquisition
New member
I have two very short Les Mis fics!
1. “I, er, borrowed this a long time ago,” said Marius. He held a huge leather-bound book, so large he had to hold it in two hands.
He knew the gravestone could not answer him, but he paused anyway. He looked at the tiny stone peeking from the dirt. No name there, only an initial: M. Tiny Wildflowers, yellow, purple and white sprouted all around the stone. He would like that.
“You leant it to me, actually. You said I would enjoy it.”
Again he paused, as if his old friend could answer from the grave.
“I never actually got around to reading it. I had forgotten all about it. Love does that, I suppose. I think I almost forgot to breathe.”
He shifted the weight of the volume in his hands.
“I forgot until I saw you again at the barricade. But you were gone, by then.”
Marius found it difficult to find the words.
“I’m sorry. I’m terrible at returning things. You had so many books. I wonder if you ever remembered I had this one.”
He placed the volume at the foot of the grave, stood a moment in silence, and then left.
Over the years, the gravestone and the book grew over with flowering ivy, so that none could find it unless they knew it was there.
2. To pass the time and calm his nerves before the battle, Jehan muttered poetry to himself.
In his final hours, he wanted to remember his verses. His heart ached to know that nobody else would. He’d written many romantic poems, and this was his favorite. He was glad, at least, he’d finished it before he died.
“Did you make that up yourself?”
Startled, Jehan looked around. The old man sat next to him.
“That poem,” the old man said again, “Did you write that?”
“I did, monsieur.”
He smiled, more gum than teeth.
“I used to write, you know. I am a great lover of books. When I was your age, or younger, I had nearly half a novel written. It was a romantic novel, I think. I never finished it.”
“You ought to,” said Jehan, “Why don’t you go home and finish it?”
“That poem of yours. Is it truly complete?”
“I suppose not,” he said, “Nothing ever is.”
“You see, then,” said the old man.
“Please,” said Jehan again, “This is no place for an old man.”
“Is it a place for a young one? Is it a place for anyone?”
“You’ll die.”
“So will you.”
The old man smiled a little.
“Your words are beautiful,” the old man said. He pressed Jehan’s hand, “It’s a pity they die with you.”
He limped away and left him alone with his thoughts.
1. “I, er, borrowed this a long time ago,” said Marius. He held a huge leather-bound book, so large he had to hold it in two hands.
He knew the gravestone could not answer him, but he paused anyway. He looked at the tiny stone peeking from the dirt. No name there, only an initial: M. Tiny Wildflowers, yellow, purple and white sprouted all around the stone. He would like that.
“You leant it to me, actually. You said I would enjoy it.”
Again he paused, as if his old friend could answer from the grave.
“I never actually got around to reading it. I had forgotten all about it. Love does that, I suppose. I think I almost forgot to breathe.”
He shifted the weight of the volume in his hands.
“I forgot until I saw you again at the barricade. But you were gone, by then.”
Marius found it difficult to find the words.
“I’m sorry. I’m terrible at returning things. You had so many books. I wonder if you ever remembered I had this one.”
He placed the volume at the foot of the grave, stood a moment in silence, and then left.
Over the years, the gravestone and the book grew over with flowering ivy, so that none could find it unless they knew it was there.
2. To pass the time and calm his nerves before the battle, Jehan muttered poetry to himself.
In his final hours, he wanted to remember his verses. His heart ached to know that nobody else would. He’d written many romantic poems, and this was his favorite. He was glad, at least, he’d finished it before he died.
“Did you make that up yourself?”
Startled, Jehan looked around. The old man sat next to him.
“That poem,” the old man said again, “Did you write that?”
“I did, monsieur.”
He smiled, more gum than teeth.
“I used to write, you know. I am a great lover of books. When I was your age, or younger, I had nearly half a novel written. It was a romantic novel, I think. I never finished it.”
“You ought to,” said Jehan, “Why don’t you go home and finish it?”
“That poem of yours. Is it truly complete?”
“I suppose not,” he said, “Nothing ever is.”
“You see, then,” said the old man.
“Please,” said Jehan again, “This is no place for an old man.”
“Is it a place for a young one? Is it a place for anyone?”
“You’ll die.”
“So will you.”
The old man smiled a little.
“Your words are beautiful,” the old man said. He pressed Jehan’s hand, “It’s a pity they die with you.”
He limped away and left him alone with his thoughts.
STARTING WITH SOME ITEM AND WORKING BACKWARDS
I love to start with something and then assign it significance afterward. Authors do this all the time with mysteries but it is also a great dramatic technique for other kinds of storytelling. What follows is rough because I'm writing it for this post and not spending a lot of time on it. Still I think it makes the point.
THE BUTTON
Lord Rhoop looked at the button in the palm of his hand. It was large, gold, highly polished and embossed with a lion's head. In the shank remained a few ragged bits of thread that had once stitched it to the cuff of his brother's woollen overcoat. A moment sooner and a life might have been saved. A moment sooner and he might have held more than one small souvenir in his trembling hand. Rhoop closed the button tightly in his palm and wept by the edge of the precipice.
I love to start with something and then assign it significance afterward. Authors do this all the time with mysteries but it is also a great dramatic technique for other kinds of storytelling. What follows is rough because I'm writing it for this post and not spending a lot of time on it. Still I think it makes the point.
THE BUTTON
Lord Rhoop looked at the button in the palm of his hand. It was large, gold, highly polished and embossed with a lion's head. In the shank remained a few ragged bits of thread that had once stitched it to the cuff of his brother's woollen overcoat. A moment sooner and a life might have been saved. A moment sooner and he might have held more than one small souvenir in his trembling hand. Rhoop closed the button tightly in his palm and wept by the edge of the precipice.
Narnia_bookworm
New member
Billowing clouds erupted beyond the forest. Daenerys was looking out over the mountains. She couldn't believe that this was happening to the village that she grew up in. She would pay back whoever was causing this, with dragons on her side if she must. It was time to prepare for battle. She would defend her land or die trying. She stood in front of her people with her brother by her side.
Daenerys growled into the night time air. A loud fluttering sound was coming from the opposite of the forest. A red dragon flamed it's way through the branches. Daenerys immediately jumped on it's back. She growled once more and it took off into the air, spurting flames every step that it went and was trying to find the source of the chaos. A different kind of piercing growl escaped Daenerys mouth, and the dragon's flames stopped.
"You must not attack yet. I will let you know when too, Tamenim."
The dragon turned it's head and it's eyes locked on Daenerys and gave a nod to show that she understood. Daenerys felt alive again, being on top of a dragon and flying towards the source of evil that was threatning her lands. The dragon rose higher and was nothing but a scarlet image against the night time sky. Daenerys hung on tightly as the dragon twirled circulary in the sky. Her blond hair was flowing deeply backward as it blew in the breezy air. A blast shot out of nowhere and she felt a force hit her in the arm. She was holding on tightly to one of the dragon's horn, but it wasn't enough.
The dragon did another spiral twisting turn and Daenerys was starting to plummet to the ground. She was 20 feet away. Now 15. When she was just ten feet away she could see the grass tips standing up in spikes, as if they were protesting her fall. Before her body reached the ground she jerked awake and realized that she was laying in her body. It was all a bad dream. She was shivering of cold, although her body was hot and there was a cold wash cloth on her head.
Daenerys growled into the night time air. A loud fluttering sound was coming from the opposite of the forest. A red dragon flamed it's way through the branches. Daenerys immediately jumped on it's back. She growled once more and it took off into the air, spurting flames every step that it went and was trying to find the source of the chaos. A different kind of piercing growl escaped Daenerys mouth, and the dragon's flames stopped.
"You must not attack yet. I will let you know when too, Tamenim."
The dragon turned it's head and it's eyes locked on Daenerys and gave a nod to show that she understood. Daenerys felt alive again, being on top of a dragon and flying towards the source of evil that was threatning her lands. The dragon rose higher and was nothing but a scarlet image against the night time sky. Daenerys hung on tightly as the dragon twirled circulary in the sky. Her blond hair was flowing deeply backward as it blew in the breezy air. A blast shot out of nowhere and she felt a force hit her in the arm. She was holding on tightly to one of the dragon's horn, but it wasn't enough.
The dragon did another spiral twisting turn and Daenerys was starting to plummet to the ground. She was 20 feet away. Now 15. When she was just ten feet away she could see the grass tips standing up in spikes, as if they were protesting her fall. Before her body reached the ground she jerked awake and realized that she was laying in her body. It was all a bad dream. She was shivering of cold, although her body was hot and there was a cold wash cloth on her head.
celestialhost
New member
Interviewing Beyond Expectations
I have never liked interviews. It is so tedious to find that after just one or two questions, the candidate turns out to be utterly unsuitable for the job. So often it is the worst candidates who are the most eager and enthusiastic for the job. It is so painful to have to turn some of them down.
I had interviewed two candidates already for my investment business. One of the women I interviewed was a graduate with absolutely zero experience and the other was a quite loathsome woman who smelled of cigarettes. I keep my personal office in my home and I could not bear the thought of that last woman turning up at my house five days a week.
The next lady was due to arrive at 2:00 PM. In two minutes time in fact.
I glanced at the name written in my diary. Ruth Teller. The name sounded familiar on my lips.
The doorbell rang.
I opened the door and was met with a woman of about 40 years of age. She had medium length dark hair and an attractive heart-shaped face.
She was a very elegant woman, dressed in a dark grey skirt and jacket and a pair of stylish high heeled shoes.
"Ruth Teller I presume?" I said. Where had I heard that name before?
"Yes, that's right," she said in a refined voice.
"I'm Grant Farrow. I'm really glad you could make it here today, Ruth. Do come in."
After she had stepped through the door, I glanced down at her stilettos and grimaced.
"Would you mind taking your shoes off, Ruth?"
Ruth looked a little surprised at the request, but obligingly slipped off the heels, before following after me, moving softly on her stocking feet.
The carpets in my house are very light. Although I have had the shoes-off rule for six years, I still feel slightly embarassed asking people to take their shoes off, especially if they are visiting on business purposes.
I showed her into my office and offered Ruth a seat.
Ruth Teller. I finally recognised the name. Was this the same Ruth I was thinking of?
"I have to ask, are you the author of the Vichy novels?" I realised I would be a little embarassed if it was indeed a different Ruth.
"Yes, I am," she said modestly.
Naturally, the author of such a great series of books would have to be an elegant and stylish lady like this.
"I never expected to be interviewing an accomplished author of historical fiction!" I exclaimed.
"I'm flattered. Though I wish my books were as famous as you suggest," said Ruth.
"They deserve to be. I'm amazed at the level of research you put into the Vichy books. You really brought the whole complexity of Vichy France to life, not only its politics, but how the ordinary people in France lived in the Second World War," I said.
"Thanks. It certainly took a lot of work," said Ruth. She seemed a little embarassed at my flattery.
I had always had an interest in the Second World War, but before reading Ruth's Vichy novels, I had not had an awful lot of knowledge about Vichy France. The books had opened up my eyes to a world of collaboration and resistance, ideology and intrigue as well as both brutality and heroism.
"Are you a professional historian?" I asked. It seemed surprising that somebody with such expertise would be seeking a job as a PA.
"No, I'm just an amateur," she replied. "Though I have recently taken up some part-time study for a history degree. It helps having a very understanding husband," she added with a laugh.
"I hope the study won't delay the fourth novel," I said.
Ruth laughed.
"Oh no, the fourth novel will be on its way."
"I can't wait, Ruth. Can I ask what led you to write about Vichy France?"
"My mother is French. It's part of my heritage. When I was younger, I spent quite a bit of time in France and found it things that very much shook my world. I found it so fascinating that I had to bring it to life."
"It was really interesting how you went beyond just Vichy France in the third book. You brought in the work of German spies in Vich France. I have always had an interest in the Third Reich, but I had no idea about all that rivalry between those two intelligence agencies, sorry I forgot the names... the SS agents and the ordinary military intelligence.." I said.
"The Abwehr and Himmler's Sicherheitsdienst," offered Ruth. "The reasearch for that part was very difficult because I don't know German."
"I'll tell you what I really love," I said, getting ever so enthusiastic. "It's the character of Vincent, the police inspector. He is such a balanced character, not a hero, but not a villain either. He's so torn between his hatred of Communism and his disgust at the Third Reich."
"In a way he embodies the conflicting attitudes of the Vichy authorities," said Ruth.
"Will he marry Louise in the fourth book?" I asked.
"I'll tell you if you give me the job," said Ruth with a smile.
I had completely forgotten about the interview, having got so caught up in my enthusiasm for Ruth's novels.
"Forgive me, I am letting my enthusiasm carry me away," I said.
I pulled out Ruth's curriculum vitae and studied it carefully.
"It looks like you have an awful lot of secretarial experience. Did you never want to write full time?" I asked.
"My books don't sell that well. And my husband never gives me enough spending money," said Ruth.
I laughed. I knew I couldn't possibly turn Ruth down.
"I think you have the skills for the job and I'd be proud to have such a brilliant author working for me. Are you alright to start next Monday?" I asked.
"Wonderful," said Ruth.
"As you will have gathered, I don't allow shoes to be worn in the house. You might want to buy some slippers to keep here. If you bring me a receipt on Monday, I'll give you the money," I said.
"I'll go slipper shopping tomorrow," said Ruth.
"Excellent. Now before you go.."
I rushed out of the room and came back with three paperback novels.
Ruth sighed and took out a pen to sign the books.
This was one interview that I had enjoyed.
I have never liked interviews. It is so tedious to find that after just one or two questions, the candidate turns out to be utterly unsuitable for the job. So often it is the worst candidates who are the most eager and enthusiastic for the job. It is so painful to have to turn some of them down.
I had interviewed two candidates already for my investment business. One of the women I interviewed was a graduate with absolutely zero experience and the other was a quite loathsome woman who smelled of cigarettes. I keep my personal office in my home and I could not bear the thought of that last woman turning up at my house five days a week.
The next lady was due to arrive at 2:00 PM. In two minutes time in fact.
I glanced at the name written in my diary. Ruth Teller. The name sounded familiar on my lips.
The doorbell rang.
I opened the door and was met with a woman of about 40 years of age. She had medium length dark hair and an attractive heart-shaped face.
She was a very elegant woman, dressed in a dark grey skirt and jacket and a pair of stylish high heeled shoes.
"Ruth Teller I presume?" I said. Where had I heard that name before?
"Yes, that's right," she said in a refined voice.
"I'm Grant Farrow. I'm really glad you could make it here today, Ruth. Do come in."
After she had stepped through the door, I glanced down at her stilettos and grimaced.
"Would you mind taking your shoes off, Ruth?"
Ruth looked a little surprised at the request, but obligingly slipped off the heels, before following after me, moving softly on her stocking feet.
The carpets in my house are very light. Although I have had the shoes-off rule for six years, I still feel slightly embarassed asking people to take their shoes off, especially if they are visiting on business purposes.
I showed her into my office and offered Ruth a seat.
Ruth Teller. I finally recognised the name. Was this the same Ruth I was thinking of?
"I have to ask, are you the author of the Vichy novels?" I realised I would be a little embarassed if it was indeed a different Ruth.
"Yes, I am," she said modestly.
Naturally, the author of such a great series of books would have to be an elegant and stylish lady like this.
"I never expected to be interviewing an accomplished author of historical fiction!" I exclaimed.
"I'm flattered. Though I wish my books were as famous as you suggest," said Ruth.
"They deserve to be. I'm amazed at the level of research you put into the Vichy books. You really brought the whole complexity of Vichy France to life, not only its politics, but how the ordinary people in France lived in the Second World War," I said.
"Thanks. It certainly took a lot of work," said Ruth. She seemed a little embarassed at my flattery.
I had always had an interest in the Second World War, but before reading Ruth's Vichy novels, I had not had an awful lot of knowledge about Vichy France. The books had opened up my eyes to a world of collaboration and resistance, ideology and intrigue as well as both brutality and heroism.
"Are you a professional historian?" I asked. It seemed surprising that somebody with such expertise would be seeking a job as a PA.
"No, I'm just an amateur," she replied. "Though I have recently taken up some part-time study for a history degree. It helps having a very understanding husband," she added with a laugh.
"I hope the study won't delay the fourth novel," I said.
Ruth laughed.
"Oh no, the fourth novel will be on its way."
"I can't wait, Ruth. Can I ask what led you to write about Vichy France?"
"My mother is French. It's part of my heritage. When I was younger, I spent quite a bit of time in France and found it things that very much shook my world. I found it so fascinating that I had to bring it to life."
"It was really interesting how you went beyond just Vichy France in the third book. You brought in the work of German spies in Vich France. I have always had an interest in the Third Reich, but I had no idea about all that rivalry between those two intelligence agencies, sorry I forgot the names... the SS agents and the ordinary military intelligence.." I said.
"The Abwehr and Himmler's Sicherheitsdienst," offered Ruth. "The reasearch for that part was very difficult because I don't know German."
"I'll tell you what I really love," I said, getting ever so enthusiastic. "It's the character of Vincent, the police inspector. He is such a balanced character, not a hero, but not a villain either. He's so torn between his hatred of Communism and his disgust at the Third Reich."
"In a way he embodies the conflicting attitudes of the Vichy authorities," said Ruth.
"Will he marry Louise in the fourth book?" I asked.
"I'll tell you if you give me the job," said Ruth with a smile.
I had completely forgotten about the interview, having got so caught up in my enthusiasm for Ruth's novels.
"Forgive me, I am letting my enthusiasm carry me away," I said.
I pulled out Ruth's curriculum vitae and studied it carefully.
"It looks like you have an awful lot of secretarial experience. Did you never want to write full time?" I asked.
"My books don't sell that well. And my husband never gives me enough spending money," said Ruth.
I laughed. I knew I couldn't possibly turn Ruth down.
"I think you have the skills for the job and I'd be proud to have such a brilliant author working for me. Are you alright to start next Monday?" I asked.
"Wonderful," said Ruth.
"As you will have gathered, I don't allow shoes to be worn in the house. You might want to buy some slippers to keep here. If you bring me a receipt on Monday, I'll give you the money," I said.
"I'll go slipper shopping tomorrow," said Ruth.
"Excellent. Now before you go.."
I rushed out of the room and came back with three paperback novels.
Ruth sighed and took out a pen to sign the books.
This was one interview that I had enjoyed.
Copperfox
Well-known member
My Dad was a World War Two veteran. Like most American servicemen, he despised the Vichy French, some of whom ACTIVELY FOUGHT on the German side.
As for this story, I was waiting for something momentous to happen with this Ruth Teller, like she reveals that she's the long-lost cousin of the narrator character. But I was actually perfectly happy with the peaceful, amicable ending.
Or is there more to come??
As for this story, I was waiting for something momentous to happen with this Ruth Teller, like she reveals that she's the long-lost cousin of the narrator character. But I was actually perfectly happy with the peaceful, amicable ending.
Or is there more to come??
Miss.SunFlower
New member
Incredibly Short The Immortals Drabble!
One thing Daine loved so very much about her husband were his hugs. They were all-encompassing, often lifting her off her feet and leaving her breathless. She loved their... calmer embraces, too; when he was content to simply hold her and run his fingers through her wild mass of brown curls. Petting her, almost.
It was in one of the latter embraces that that description rose up in her mind and brought an idea with it. Resting her head on Numair's chest, the wildmage summoned up the smallest partial shift to her body, hoping he wouldn't notice. If he did he showed no sign of it, so as he continued preening her hair, she concentrated and let the sound emulate from her.
Numair stilled, pulling away to look at her with a expression torn between fascination and amusement on his face. "Daine, my dear, did you just... purr?"
She only grinned and did so again.
Just ramblings about my favorite fictional couple and the up-sides to having a shape-shifter for a wife. XD
One thing Daine loved so very much about her husband were his hugs. They were all-encompassing, often lifting her off her feet and leaving her breathless. She loved their... calmer embraces, too; when he was content to simply hold her and run his fingers through her wild mass of brown curls. Petting her, almost.
It was in one of the latter embraces that that description rose up in her mind and brought an idea with it. Resting her head on Numair's chest, the wildmage summoned up the smallest partial shift to her body, hoping he wouldn't notice. If he did he showed no sign of it, so as he continued preening her hair, she concentrated and let the sound emulate from her.
Numair stilled, pulling away to look at her with a expression torn between fascination and amusement on his face. "Daine, my dear, did you just... purr?"
She only grinned and did so again.
Just ramblings about my favorite fictional couple and the up-sides to having a shape-shifter for a wife. XD
Copperfox
Well-known member
Another Should-Have-Happened Story
The arrogant, snobbish, narcissistic Lady Catherine de Bourgh, aunt of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, had just spent nearly fifteen minutes relentlessly insulting Elizabeth Bennet, complete with nonsensical accusations which the old hag had simply made up in her own empty head. All this, because she had become vaguely aware of her nephew falling in love with Elizabeth. Now Lady Catherine climbed into her ornate coach, harrumphing: "I take no leave of you! I send no compliments to your mother; you deserve no such attention. I am most displeased with you."
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth suddenly pulled open the carriage door, hissing, "Then I might as well displease you a bit more!" Clamping a hand in the shrewish aristocrat's hair, Elizabeth yanked her bodily out of the carriage and flung her to the ground. The dull-witted coachman started up his horses without even noticing what had just happened. Lady Catherine's mousy daughter did of course notice... but she said nothing, only gave Elizabeth a thumbs-up gesture as the coach bore her away.
The astonished snob, scarcely able to conceive that someone might retaliate against her for her intentionally abusive behavior, struggled to regain her breath, her dignity, and a standing position. She did not regain any of these, however, before Elizabeth caught her hair again, and pulled her face into a rising knee. The knee strike knocked Lady Catherine unconscious. As there was little fun to be had in beating an unconscious enemy, Elizabeth fetched a pitcher of water, came back out to where her enemy lay sprawling, and poured the cold water over her bruised face.
As Lady Catherine sputtered and tried to gather her senses, Elizabeth crouched in front of her and snarled, "Money is not moral character, you disgusting cow. In most social circles of England, your nasty behavior would earn you a lot worse than what I've done to you so far. But I'm the heroine of this story, so I'll give you a chance to avoid a major butt-kicking, by apologizing to me now."
"APOLOGIZE???" Lady Catherine shrieked. Scrambling to her feet, she hurled herself at Elizabeth, wildly swinging at the younger woman with clumsy and rather feeble fists. Elizabeth, filled with a FAR more justified anger, stood toe to toe with Darcy's aunt, her own blows landing three times as hard as Lady Catherine's. The pampered aristocrat, unable to keep up this unequal exchange for long, soon broke off and tried to run away. But Elizabeth overtook her before she went a dozen paces.
Spinning Lady Catherine around to face her again, Elizabeth forced her to renew the lopsided fight. Lady Catherine's punches were even weaker and less accurate than before, while Elizabeth's were MORE accurate and MORE effective.
With both eyes blackened and her nose bloodied, Lady Catherine tried again to flee; but this time she barely travelled five steps before being caught again and pummelled further. All she could manage now was to try to block the younger woman's blows, and she failed even at this. Elizabeth let her stagger backwards, never letting up her vengeful hail of punches. At last, the desperate aristocrat had her back to a tree, panting and staring in terror at her punisher.
Now Elizabeth stood back, jeering, "What, my lady, aren't you going to put me in my place? Aren't you going to show how superior you are? What, no answer? Then I guess you had better give me that apology, before I get REALLY rough on you!"
Finding one last bit of energy, Lady Catherine made one last attempt to run away -- only to be tackled from behind. Turning her over on her back, Elizabeth sat on her thoroughly-defeated foe's chest, slapped her a few times with lazy contempt, then leaned close. "You, Lady Catherine, are not even worthy to talk to my idiot sister Lydia, let alone to the rest of my family. You WILL give me that apology now, a VERY good one, AND swear not to interfere with me and Mr. Darcy anymore... or else I'll call in all the OTHER long-suffering heroines from Jane Austen novels, and let ALL of them have their turn pounding on you."
Out of Lady Catherine's mashed mouth came a groaning response: "I suppose I might have been SLIGHTLY excessive in my description of your shortcomings."
It took another two minutes of merciless beating to put Lady Catherine entirely in the proper mood; but she finally begged for mercy with utterly abject submissiveness, confessing herself (quite accurately) to be morally and intellectually inferior to every drunken chimney-sweep in the worst neighborhoods of Liverpool.
Very soon after this, Elizabeth Bennet married Mr. Darcy, and they lived happily ever after, with absolutely NO troublemaking by Darcy's aunt.
The arrogant, snobbish, narcissistic Lady Catherine de Bourgh, aunt of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, had just spent nearly fifteen minutes relentlessly insulting Elizabeth Bennet, complete with nonsensical accusations which the old hag had simply made up in her own empty head. All this, because she had become vaguely aware of her nephew falling in love with Elizabeth. Now Lady Catherine climbed into her ornate coach, harrumphing: "I take no leave of you! I send no compliments to your mother; you deserve no such attention. I am most displeased with you."
Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth suddenly pulled open the carriage door, hissing, "Then I might as well displease you a bit more!" Clamping a hand in the shrewish aristocrat's hair, Elizabeth yanked her bodily out of the carriage and flung her to the ground. The dull-witted coachman started up his horses without even noticing what had just happened. Lady Catherine's mousy daughter did of course notice... but she said nothing, only gave Elizabeth a thumbs-up gesture as the coach bore her away.
The astonished snob, scarcely able to conceive that someone might retaliate against her for her intentionally abusive behavior, struggled to regain her breath, her dignity, and a standing position. She did not regain any of these, however, before Elizabeth caught her hair again, and pulled her face into a rising knee. The knee strike knocked Lady Catherine unconscious. As there was little fun to be had in beating an unconscious enemy, Elizabeth fetched a pitcher of water, came back out to where her enemy lay sprawling, and poured the cold water over her bruised face.
As Lady Catherine sputtered and tried to gather her senses, Elizabeth crouched in front of her and snarled, "Money is not moral character, you disgusting cow. In most social circles of England, your nasty behavior would earn you a lot worse than what I've done to you so far. But I'm the heroine of this story, so I'll give you a chance to avoid a major butt-kicking, by apologizing to me now."
"APOLOGIZE???" Lady Catherine shrieked. Scrambling to her feet, she hurled herself at Elizabeth, wildly swinging at the younger woman with clumsy and rather feeble fists. Elizabeth, filled with a FAR more justified anger, stood toe to toe with Darcy's aunt, her own blows landing three times as hard as Lady Catherine's. The pampered aristocrat, unable to keep up this unequal exchange for long, soon broke off and tried to run away. But Elizabeth overtook her before she went a dozen paces.
Spinning Lady Catherine around to face her again, Elizabeth forced her to renew the lopsided fight. Lady Catherine's punches were even weaker and less accurate than before, while Elizabeth's were MORE accurate and MORE effective.
With both eyes blackened and her nose bloodied, Lady Catherine tried again to flee; but this time she barely travelled five steps before being caught again and pummelled further. All she could manage now was to try to block the younger woman's blows, and she failed even at this. Elizabeth let her stagger backwards, never letting up her vengeful hail of punches. At last, the desperate aristocrat had her back to a tree, panting and staring in terror at her punisher.
Now Elizabeth stood back, jeering, "What, my lady, aren't you going to put me in my place? Aren't you going to show how superior you are? What, no answer? Then I guess you had better give me that apology, before I get REALLY rough on you!"
Finding one last bit of energy, Lady Catherine made one last attempt to run away -- only to be tackled from behind. Turning her over on her back, Elizabeth sat on her thoroughly-defeated foe's chest, slapped her a few times with lazy contempt, then leaned close. "You, Lady Catherine, are not even worthy to talk to my idiot sister Lydia, let alone to the rest of my family. You WILL give me that apology now, a VERY good one, AND swear not to interfere with me and Mr. Darcy anymore... or else I'll call in all the OTHER long-suffering heroines from Jane Austen novels, and let ALL of them have their turn pounding on you."
Out of Lady Catherine's mashed mouth came a groaning response: "I suppose I might have been SLIGHTLY excessive in my description of your shortcomings."
It took another two minutes of merciless beating to put Lady Catherine entirely in the proper mood; but she finally begged for mercy with utterly abject submissiveness, confessing herself (quite accurately) to be morally and intellectually inferior to every drunken chimney-sweep in the worst neighborhoods of Liverpool.
Very soon after this, Elizabeth Bennet married Mr. Darcy, and they lived happily ever after, with absolutely NO troublemaking by Darcy's aunt.
Saruman
New member
I confess it's a side of P&P I would never have thought or imagined! I found myself gasping in shock at the unconventionality of the whole short story. Yet it was brilliantly written. I suppose it conveys the feelings of many Austen fans towards the domineering and pompous Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
It would be good to see a discussion of inanimate objects as characters. By this I don't just mean some sort of self-guided search-and-destroy tank that went bezerk, but references to the environment, weather patterns, waves, etc that seem to reference them like characters in the story.
A good example is a river that an experienced boatman talks about as if it were a woman. She's fine when she's calm and steady, but about yonder ways she gets a might excited, breaking into rapids and whirlpools. She'll kiss you, then she'll kill you if you don't watch out....
Things like that.
A good example is a river that an experienced boatman talks about as if it were a woman. She's fine when she's calm and steady, but about yonder ways she gets a might excited, breaking into rapids and whirlpools. She'll kiss you, then she'll kill you if you don't watch out....
Things like that.
Copperfox
Well-known member
The late Ray Bradbury did something like that in a short story whose title I recall as "There Will Come Soft Rains." It took place far enough in the future to imagine a house with an artificial intelligence to provide services. The house was empty, because those EEEEEE-vil military people who always wanted to blow up the world, had at last gotten around to blowing up the world, so everyone in or anywhere near the robot house was dead. But the house kept on meaninglessly functioning.
The Spanish Inquisition
New member
I am not posting the whole thing (it's going to be very long) but here's the opening paragraphs of my newest draft:
This is the account of the life of Ivan Ivanovitch, a man of little to no importance, detailing his descent into the darkest glooms of humanity, his valiant rebirth, and premature death. Though his story spanned less than thirty years, I have followed it for this greater portion of my life, tracing it from the gutter of Petersburg to the remotest corner of Siberia. It has taken me the better part of fifty years to collect the necessary information, but now I think I can tell his story with reasonable accuracy. Yet, there are patches of darkness upon which no amount of probing can shed light, and I hope that I may be forgiven for the occasional embellishment.
His story, for all its miseries, is common enough. Men like Ivan have existed through every period of time, and will continue to exist until the world falls. Ivan was a man of the most ordinary sort: neither highborn nor heroic nor learned. Although his story was stamped across newspapers in his time, it has now faded into obscurity. A common criminal. A petty murderer. A madman. Just one face among many. At the same time: an older brother, a fighter, a true friend. There are far too many stories about extraordinary men. Why shouldn't the ordinary have their place in stories?
I have walked the path he walked. I have met people who saw him, or
knew of him, or perhaps even were frightened of him. I have met only one who spoke kindly of him, and that man is years gone. I first heard the vaguest details of his journey from this man, and when I heard it, I wept. I followed his trail, picking it up from peasants and convicts, priests and thieves. And what can I say now, about this man whom few people loved, many hated, and most forgot? I can only say that I must tell it, as impartially and fairly as I can manage. And perhaps he will be remembered after all.
This is the account of the life of Ivan Ivanovitch, a man of little to no importance, detailing his descent into the darkest glooms of humanity, his valiant rebirth, and premature death. Though his story spanned less than thirty years, I have followed it for this greater portion of my life, tracing it from the gutter of Petersburg to the remotest corner of Siberia. It has taken me the better part of fifty years to collect the necessary information, but now I think I can tell his story with reasonable accuracy. Yet, there are patches of darkness upon which no amount of probing can shed light, and I hope that I may be forgiven for the occasional embellishment.
His story, for all its miseries, is common enough. Men like Ivan have existed through every period of time, and will continue to exist until the world falls. Ivan was a man of the most ordinary sort: neither highborn nor heroic nor learned. Although his story was stamped across newspapers in his time, it has now faded into obscurity. A common criminal. A petty murderer. A madman. Just one face among many. At the same time: an older brother, a fighter, a true friend. There are far too many stories about extraordinary men. Why shouldn't the ordinary have their place in stories?
I have walked the path he walked. I have met people who saw him, or
knew of him, or perhaps even were frightened of him. I have met only one who spoke kindly of him, and that man is years gone. I first heard the vaguest details of his journey from this man, and when I heard it, I wept. I followed his trail, picking it up from peasants and convicts, priests and thieves. And what can I say now, about this man whom few people loved, many hated, and most forgot? I can only say that I must tell it, as impartially and fairly as I can manage. And perhaps he will be remembered after all.
Copperfox
Well-known member
This will almost certainly be the SHORTEST story I ever post on Dancing Lawn. It's another Jane Austen pastiche. Think of it as an "alternate path" arising before the end of Sense and Sensibility.
There was a knock on the door of Barton Cottage. Elinor Dashwood answered it, to find Colonel Brandon holding out a bouquet of roses to her.
"My dear Miss Dashwood," said the kindly Colonel, "I've been doing some thinking. You've been in love with a wimp, and I've been in love with a girl who, even if she is your sister, is awfully ditzy to put it mildly. Why should we go on putting up with this? I'm the man with the most wisdom and integrity in this novel, and you're the woman with the most wisdom and integrity. Let's get smart, marry each other, and let the fools be fools without our help."
Only when it was put to her this way did Elinor realize what a great idea it really was. "Cool, I'll do it!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around the Colonel's neck and kissing him fervently.
So Colonel Brandon and Elinor lived happily ever after.
THE BRANDON SOLUTION
There was a knock on the door of Barton Cottage. Elinor Dashwood answered it, to find Colonel Brandon holding out a bouquet of roses to her.
"My dear Miss Dashwood," said the kindly Colonel, "I've been doing some thinking. You've been in love with a wimp, and I've been in love with a girl who, even if she is your sister, is awfully ditzy to put it mildly. Why should we go on putting up with this? I'm the man with the most wisdom and integrity in this novel, and you're the woman with the most wisdom and integrity. Let's get smart, marry each other, and let the fools be fools without our help."
Only when it was put to her this way did Elinor realize what a great idea it really was. "Cool, I'll do it!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around the Colonel's neck and kissing him fervently.
So Colonel Brandon and Elinor lived happily ever after.