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Bi-Weekly Story Prompts

Writing Prompt “Dominoes”

Theme: Dominoes

A story in which cause and effect are quite central to the plot. Perhaps something bad ends up leading to a good outcome after all. Or the opposite. Or to something surprising. There may be a case of “the butterfly effect” too, where the slightest of things causes disproportional consequences. One of the characters buying a pizza from Domino’s doesn’t count.


  • Somewhere in the text there should be the phrase: “One thing leads to another, and…”

Word Count: 1,200

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  1. One story per author. You may post more than one, but only the first story will qualify for voting.
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The writing prompt for September 30, 2021, will be chosen by Marien Oommen.

55 thoughts on “Writing Prompt “Dominoes”

  • CJ Rosemeck

    Read the stories here:

    (If you don’t see your story linked in this comment within a day or two, feel free to use the contact form to let Carrie know she somehow missed it.

    Meanwhile, please be patient, there is only one moderator, and she is not always online. We’ll get to it as soon as possible. Thank you.)

    • Trish
      Signing in to read more great stories!
  • RM York
    Signing in … gotta run, my domino shipment just arrived..
  • Vicki Chvatal
    Carrie, hope you’re feeling better.
    • CJ Rosemeck

      Thank you – I feel 1000X better!

      • Good Carrie. Continue on the path of good health and etc. We missed you!
  • Trish
    Rumple- I. Loved. Your. Story. The last line was perfection in today’s society. I liked the noir-ish aspects. I thought your plot was clever and surprising and fresh. Simply loved it. Think this one’ll be hard to beat!
  • Trish
    I love Terry Pratchett too! Think his concept is brilliant of the Wee Free Men who assume they are living in heaven because everything they like is here. I also enjoyed the little people who lived in the department store who made a religion out of the marketing signs. Very enjoyable writing that had interesting concepts underlying…
    • Trish
      That book is called Wee Free Men and it stars a witch named Tiffany Aching. It’s part of a five book series that is set in Discworld. It also includes a lovely concept where witches know the date of their death so their custom is to hold their wake before they die. I love that idea bc then you get to go to the party that truly is all about you.
  • thebelledameng
    This was so witty and imaginative. I loved the riffs on old movies too. Didn’t get the Pratchett refs I’m afraid, I was in the Adams camp it it was very much a Blur/Oasis thing when I was reading them! Maybe I should give him a go now I’m all mature.
  • Rumple,

    Well, I’m not sure where to begin. If I had anything at all to do with this story, then I am flattered. It is, by far, the best thing you’ve ever submitted to this site, IMHO.

    I found some things, however, I won’t go into them as it would be taken as nitpicking, even though I think it would help this story be even better. They are small, and therefore shall go unsaid. If you would like to hear them, let me know. I will be glad to illuminate you with my take.

    You had me from start to finish and like Trish said, this story may be hard to beat. This group, however, is more than capable of writing excellent stories, so I’m sure there will be something to judge and have a toss up or two.

    I liked where you went with the prompt and loved the entire concept of being able to smoke without smoking. There have been innumerable stories about sex without real women, but stories about other ‘pleasures’ are far fewer, I think, and for that reason it feels fresh and new.

    The writing, with some minor exceptions, is excellent. Good job, Rumple, although I get this uneasy feeling we aren’t all ‘quite’ square yet.


    • Rumple,

      OK lad, I’ll take your word that were square. It’s interesting that I reread my Pink Martini story and as I looked at the last line, realized it is totally author intrusion, although it is written in the first person, I feel it is author intrusion because of the way I phrased it. If you reread it, you’ll see.

      When I critique, I tend to critique those things I see that I do and I know shouldn’t be done. But enough about author intrusion. If it’s good enough for your man TP and others, and my guy, Stephen King, then what the hell, let’s just go for it. Author intrusion for all, I say. You’re the writer. Write it your way! damn straight.

      However, I will continue to nitpick, just so you know.


  • Phil Town

    “Your turn.”

    “I’m thinking.”

    “I know that – I can hear the cogs whirring.”

    Lawrence searched the table for something to throw at Andrew. A match served the purpose; it bounced off Andrew’s head.

    “Oy!” Andrew yelped.

    “Let that be a lesson to you!” Lawrence’s attention returned to the tiles standing on their edges in front of him, and the lines of play already down, forming a small cross. He took a sip from a glass of juice.

    In the meantime, Andrew lit another cigarette, leaned back in his chair and stared out of the window at the blue sky, with just one or two fluffy clouds edging their way across it.

    “That reminds me,” he said.

    Lawrence was engrossed in his tiles and said nothing.

    “I said that reminds me,” Andrew insisted, raising his voice. Lawrence looked up, frowning at his concentration being broken.

    “Of what?”

    “That other time, when I threw something at YOU.”

    Lawrence smiled now, remembering.

    “The Maths exam.”

    “Old Mr Morgan.”

    “Madman Morgan.”

    “He was certainly mad that day.”

    The two stared out of the window now, their minds rolling back to a sunny May afternoon, fifty years before.

    * * * * *


    Lawrence was scribbling furiously away, oblivious to Andrew’s desperate attempts to attract his attention.


    Still nothing, though others were glancing round now. A grey-haired teacher in a black robe sat on the dais at the front of the room reading a book, also oblivious to Andrew’s desperation.

    Andrew’s desk was in the row behind Lawrence’s and on the other side of the central aisle. His interjection proving useless, he searched in his pockets for something to throw at Lawrence. He found nothing so ripped a corner off a sheet of rough paper, coughing to hide the sound. The teacher looked up, cast his eyes about the room then went back to his book.

    Andrew rolled the paper up into a small ball between finger and thumb and flicked it expertly at Lawrence. It bounced off his shoulder and landed in front of him on the desk. Lawrence looked round and caught Andrew’s eye. Andrew held up three fingers: Question 3.

    Lawrence shook his head. Andrew put his hands together, pleading. Lawrence, still shaking his head, scribbled quickly on a sheet of rough paper, screwed it up into a ball, turned and threw it to Andrew, who caught it. When Lawrence turned back, the teacher was glaring at him from the dais.

    “Townsend? What was that?”

    Blushing, Lawrence stammered: “Wha- what was what, sir?”

    The teacher stood up and addressed Andrew.

    “Wilson. Bring that here.”

    “Bring what, sir?” Andrew said, more confident than Lawrence with cheating technique.

    “Don’t try my patience, Wilson. Bring it here immediately. And you, Townsend. You come up here too.”

    The two stood and slouched to the front; the other boys had stopped writing and were observing events, some taking advantage of the teacher’s distraction to do their own cheating.

    Mr Morgan held out his hand and Andrew reluctantly gave him the screwed-up sheet of paper. The teacher smoothed it out, glanced at it briefly and nodded.

    “I thought so. Go to the headmaster’s office, both of you.”

    “But sir–” Lawrence began.

    “NOW!” boomed Madman Morgan.

    “And the rest of you, continue with the exam,” the two friends heard the teacher say as they shuffled away along the corridor.

    * * * * *

    “You were good at Maths,” Andrew said, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

    “I was,” Lawrence agreed.

    “I know I’ve apologized before but … sorry, Lawro.”

    Lawrence looked over at his friend, a trace of a smile on his lips.

    “It changed my life, that bit of paper.”

    Andrew’s crumpled face betrayed the regret he was feeling. Lawrence continued.

    “I was disqualified from that exam …”

    “I know,” Andrew said.

    “… and I didn’t get the place at Cambridge.”

    “I know.”

    “So, I had to stick around for a year to re-take the exam.”

    “I know all this.”

    “And I got a job in an office, part-time.”

    Andrew gave up protesting, leaned back and lit another cigarette. Lawrence wasn’t even speaking to him but more just letting the words flow out of him into the ether.

    “I was glad to have a bit of money in the bank. I lived with my parents, so I had no costs. But that young, and having money … it was booze first, then drugs. It’s always like that: one thing leads to another and … My parents got fed up with me and gave me a hell of a hard time, so I left home and got a room, but the drugs carried on and I lost my job. I ended up on the street. I was heading for the chasm, a one-way ticket, but then …”

    He paused in his musing, looked over at Andrew and smiled.

    “Someone came along and saved me.”

    Andrew shifted in his seat.

    “It was the least I could do, wasn’t it? I mean, I’d got you into that mess in the first place really.”

    Lawrence shook his head.

    “You know what I think sometimes? I think that piece of paper was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

    “How can you say that? It was a disaster!”

    Lawrence took Andrew’s hand …

    “We would never have got together I don’t think, if I’d gone to Cambridge.”

    … and kissed it.

    “And I would never have been this happy.”

    Andrew drew Lawrence’s hand to his own lips.

    “Thank God for me cheating, then!”

    They laughed the laughs of a companionship aged like fine port wine.

    “Now lay your bloody tile, you slow bugger,” Andrew said.

    “I’m thinking,” said Lawrence, smirking mischievously.


    • Hey Roy, always enjoy your words. The prompt mentioned you cannot be buying a Domino Pizza, but I liked how it started with a game of dominoes and progressed to the plot from their. Unexpected as always. The characters were likeable and believable and the interactions between them as well. Another wonderful interpretation of the prompt. Thank you, well done.
      • Phil Town
        Thanks for the kind words … er… Dave! 😉
        • My life is complete. My words have been mistaken to be those of that marvelous writer, Phil Town. I can die happy now.


        • oops, must be a senior moment, or such….. brain fog, brain freeze. Sorry Phil. I have read so many wonderful stories here that I get confused about the writer and don’t look too clearly. I will know who to vote for though….. LOL.
    • Phil,

      What a marvelous line, ‘They laughed the laughs of a companionship aged like fine port wine.’ Well done, just like the rest of the story. At one point, I thought the dialogue telling the remembrance sequence was a trifle non-dialogue, but after rereading it, I thought, Nah, it doesn’t really need changed. Maybe a little, but not enough to quibble over. Maybe Lawrence says the words, Then you remember that – preceding the line – I was glad to have a little money in the bank. I think that would have cleared that up for me nicely. There, I couldn’t help myself. I had to get that in there. Otherwise, I don’t have any other quibbles with this nicely told tale.


      • Phil Town
        Thanks as always, Roy, for your positive words.

        I can see what you’re saying about those lines, but the fact is that Lawrence is reminiscing to himself, really, and is oblivious to Andrew’s repeated “I know” … which is why Andrew eventually gives up trying to interact with him at that point.

        • That ‘splains it, pretty much. Good counterpoint. This grasshopper will learn eventually.


    • I did not see that coming! You wrong fitted me because it started out a little bit like a Beckett play. Lovely story, made me smile.
  • Surprised by the way you interpreted the prompt. Well done. I do enjoy your words, I like the direction they take. The inner dialogue is great, everyone does it, in real life, so why not our characters. We make them real and believable.
    The reference to history and pop culture are wonderful, again we all know them and can relate to them when others speak or act that way. Well done.
  • I am struggling again with this one, maybe overthinking it a bit. I will try to get it into some kind of readable state soon.
    by Ken Miles
    (1,200 words)

    Laura wouldn’t entertain that thought. She loved Laurie too much. He was all she had. She loved him each time he got near her. Which happened often: some eight-thousand times a day. Each time was like the first time.

    It was a fleeting form of love. She’d love him and then sort of forgot she did, forgot he even existed. But she soon enough loved him again, within seconds, each time they swam back past each other from the other side of the bowl. The moments of forgetfulness were brief enough, almost negligible. Cosy feelings took hold of her whenever she saw Laurie’s glistening orange scales approaching her. It was all she lived for. It was a beautiful life all in all.

    But that horrible thought now consumed her. It was a thought she’d never had before. And it was becoming bigger than the love she had for Laurie. It was something more basic, more instinctual. The “hand of God” – Julie’s, really – that appeared over the bowl everyday, generously sprinkling flakes of Fish-O-Rama hadn’t materialized for two days now.

    Laura was starving. Something deep in her fishbrain told her she must eat Laurie. Laura was the larger fish, and the rule was that the big fish ate the small. It’s just the way it is. The horrendous thought gnawed at her from the inside. Each time she spotted Laurie, every 14.2 seconds, instead of feeling awash in love, anguish now ravaged her. Laurie was starving too; eating him would lift him out of his misery, her innate voice told her. But then she’d be alone. Sad. Forever. It’s a terrible thought.

    Julie popped another handful, swallowed all the pills in one gulp. The shrink’s prescription said ‘one-a-day’, but she’d now lost count. The rumor about Zach turned out to be true. And the mysterious gal was no-one but her bestie Marcia. Julie’s devastation was complete. She didn’t care if she overdosed. If she’d die. If not showing up for work at the launderette for two days would get her fired. She didn’t care about anything anymore. She just stayed in bed looking into the void. The TV had been on day and night, but she hardly noticed.

    Someone in the crowd threw something at Donald Trump. An immense uproar follows, and a mob of hardliners held the culprit down. Luckily, whatever was thrown at the Presidential Candidate, didn’t quite harm him. The TV played the scene over and over, from every possible angle, in slow motion, in even slower motion. Trump’s facial expression was priceless. Ego melted into shock, a flicker of fear, maybe even embarrassment, then rage. Absolute rage. It was actually very funny.

    “Get him outta here!” he commanded the mob. He rubbed his face theatrically like in some great pain, with gestures of a hero surviving extreme adversity. Julie laughed. She didn’t know how she did it. She hadn’t laughed since Kerri whatsapped her those pictures of Marcia on top of Zach. She didn’t think she’d ever laugh again. But Trump somehow cracked her up.

    His name was Sergio Rodriguez. An ordinary thirty-something Texan instantly became a household name. He’d wheeled his ageing dad, Marcos, to Trump’s electoral rally.

    “But Dad, he doesn’t love us Mexicans!” Sergio protested. His dad insisted on seeing Trump while the campaign trail was nearby.

    “Not us! It’s the scum that’s entering the country these days he’s got a problem with!” Dad said, shifting himself in his wheelchair as he smoothened his t-shirt with an American flag and Make America Great Again spanned across it.

    “We’re fine, son. We’re Americans too! I’ve been American since that day I saw Neil off. I’m proud of what Donald’s saying about America.”

    Marcos remembered the times when America was great. He was there on that greatest day in 1969, a junior-technician at Cape Canaveral. He was one of the last men on earth to see The Three going. Armstrong passed right by him.

    “Do it for all of us!” Marcos cheered him. Armstrong just tilted his head a little.

    When the astronaut stepped down that ladder, he felt over the moon. Earthrise wasn’t only spectacular, but emotional too. That little blue ball in the sky – that’s where everything happens and ever happened, all of human history. Armstrong recited those great words he was told to say. He also remembered what that technician told him, just before he boarded Apollo-11. It’s one of those awesome moments one thinks of nothing and of everything at the same time. Magical.

    Armstrong tilted his head a little when he made his great small step. Nobody noticed it in those grainy black-and-white TV images, only Marcos did. Armstrong only got to the moon, Marcos was in seventh heaven. For the first time, Marcos felt more American than Kennedy.

    Marcos’s dad, Sergio’s grandad, had come to America to make a fortune and then return to his beloved Mexico. When he ended up buying the struggling gas-station he worked for, little did he know that one thing leads to another and he’d eventually own his little big desert-roadside empire. He never returned, but his heart remained in Mexico, didn’t even learn English. He nevertheless afforded Marcos a good American education, earning him his fab job at NASA.

    “I don’t like him, I just don’t”, Sergio reiterated, “But I’ll take you, Dad, since you wanna go so much, I’ll get the truck ready.”

    At the carpark, an anti-Trump protester handed Sergio a flyer. Sergio just crumpled it up in his fist, not giving it a thought. He needing both hands to wheel his father through the thickening crowd. They managed to get to the very front, right under Trump’s podium, as people graciously made way for the wheelchair to go through.

    Marcos listened proudly as Trump made several passing mentions of America’s glory days of old, and even mentioned that triumphant day he remembered so well.

    Sergio put up with the whole charade. He was angry at both Trump and Dad. But never mind, this wacko was no way gonna win the election!

    It was when Trump said something about a wall to keep “ ’em rats” out, that Sergio’s blood boiled over. A strange energy took hold of him. He hardly realized that his hand had gone up and that he’d tossed whatever it was he had in it – that crumpled anti-Trump flyer – at the Candidate. Later, beaten and bruised in hospital, he found out he was a world celebrity.

    Julie laugh on, like the happy girl she once was. The more they showed of Trump’s funny grimace and theatricals, the more she chuckled. She sat up and turned on the light. The sudden glare startled the fish, their fins fluttered, splashing some water.

    “My poor Laura and Laurie!” Julie muttered, “You must be hungry!”

    She sprinkled a good serving of Fish-O-Rama, which both fish devoured voraciously.

    Laura was thankful. For the food, but especially for not having to think anymore of eating Laurie. It was a big deal for her. It took Man going to the moon and back to save Laurie’s life. But it was all worth it. Laura just loved Laurie too much. Eight-thousand times a day.

    • Ken M.,

      In my humble estimation, this may just be the best story you’ve ever submitted. From start to finish. At first, I said, well, he’s given away the fact these are just goldfish in a bowl, but then, you showed the domino effect of how all of our lives are intertwined with inconsequential things – we think they are inconsequential – but the cosmic wheel that turns ever so slowly and relentlessly, does not think anything is inconsequential. Right down to the smallest goldfish.

      I even loved the typical children given names for the goldfish and I’m wondering as I write this, if our own Mr. Miles owned a couple of those precious fish as a youngster; whose entire existence is bolstered by carnivals and well meaning parents. “Let’s get the kids a couple of goldfish before we move on to the larger pets to see if they take care of them, first.”

      I remember back to a story of my two daughters when they were young, somewhere in the neighborhood of 7 and 9, when I came home one day and found both sitting on the couch sobbing uncontrollably. As a concerned father I asked what was wrong. Between sobs they managed to choke out the words that Becky and Kimberly died. You need to know at this point in the story that Becky and Kimberly are the names of my twin nieces who were about three years old at the time. I hugged them, consoling them with tears in my own eyes and walked in the kitchen where my wife was busy making something on the stove. I asked, with a heavy heart, “What happened to Becky and Kim?” Nonchalantly she looked up and said, “They died. It’s no big deal.” I said,”How can you be so callous? Jesus, what’s wrong with you?” She looked at me puzzled, thought for a moment, then said, “Oh honey, not our nieces, the girls’ goldfish,” then started laughing. Took me a while to get over my first reaction, but when it settled in who actually died, I had to admit I was laughing along with her.

      Great job man. This is an excellent story. The only quibble I’ve got is the fact Julie swallowed a handful of pills, and I think you should point out they are basically harmless, but she THINKS they are going to help her take the final way out. Or something along those lines.

      Now, I need to spruce my story up a bit and see where it will line up against three already great stories this week. I’m already having a tough time thinking who is going to get my first, second and third place vote. It’s up for grabs right now.

      Well done, Mr. Miles. Good to see you in the fold again.


      • Thanks, Roy for your nice words. I’m quite fond of this story, too. I tried to sort of turn Bradbury’s “butterfly effect” the other way round: instead of the little event (the butterfly on Travis’s boots) having immeasurable consequences on the big scheme of things, here we have the big event (the moon landing – for some the apex of human achievement so far) ultimately having a life-saving effect on the little guys with fins. And without the time-travelling complications.

        Your true-life mini-story of Becky and Kimberly was a good laugh (although still sad about the fish). I see what you mean about kids being induced to pets by starting with the rather low-labor intensive fish-in-the-bowl, and then see how it goes, before moving on to larger animals. But that wasn’t me. Believe it or not, the first personal pet I got was a lamb! A.Real.Lamb. Her name was Sheila, and in no time she grew into a sheep, outgrowing me by several feet.

        Pity you didn’t manage to post your story in time! I was waiting for it…


    • Woah! That was some impressive use of the butterfly effect!
  • Enough is enough
    It started small when she was only five years old. Her mother was brushing her hair rather vigorously.
    “OUCH. It’s hurting. You hurt me.”
    “Don’t be silly child. You have knots. You need to keep your hair tidy.” This was accompanied by vigorous brushing and pulling. “Any way your hair is your best feature. Did you know that?”
    “Owww, no. It hurts.”
    “Oh goodness, don’t be such a sook. I’ll plait it in a moment. As soon as we get these knots out.”
    “Please, Mummy NO. Can’t I have short hair? Like the boys?”
    She takes her child by the shoulders and turns the girl to face her. Then she gently takes the child’s chin in her hands.
    “No. You cannot. Your hair is your best feature. You’re quite plain. You haven’t got the most attractive face. Freckles. That Irish complexion. Not very attractive. Your hair is lovely. It is the only thing about you that is attractive. You certainly haven’t got my looks. Unfortunately. You probably will not find a good husband with those features. A pity.”
    She proceeds to plait the girl’s hair, pulling the hair up high and binding the auburn hair into tight braids high on the girl’s head ignoring her protests of pain.
    “There you go. You are presentable and tidy. Now. Go out and play. Look after your brother.”
    So, she went out dutifully to do as she was told.


    At seven she overhears her mother talking to an aunt.
    “Such a plain child. I often feel she is not mine.”
    “Nonsense. She will be ok. She should develop more personality. She’s insipid at times. If she’s able to be more sociable, it’ll make up for the lack of looks.”


    At fifteen she is at the breakfast table with a cousin and his friend.
    “We both had sex with you last night while you were sleeping. You’re not a virgin anymore.”
    They make jokes about her breasts, sausages and cheese sauce. Her mother is busy with toast. Her also brothers laugh. She feels mortified as her cheeks flush hot.
    “I would have woken up. So, you didn’t.” She manages to stutter. Her cousin and his friend laugh.
    “I put something in your tea last night. You were dead to the world.”
    His friend says, “Yeah you were moaning.” And he demonstrates.
    “Robert, are you alright?” Her mother says coming to place a plate with toast on the table.
    John grins widely at her and smirks before saying, “He’s alright. Just clowning.”
    “I hope you are amusing the boys and being nice to them.” Her mother says to her.
    Both of the boys chortle. “Yes, she’s being nice. Very nice.”
    She flees the table.
    On her return to boarding school a few days later, she keeps pounding her stomach for the rest of the term daily, sure she must be pregnant thinking through what she will do if she is pregnant from sex that she does not even remember and has no signs of sexual activity, but if they said it was so, then it must be so and furthermore sure the baby will be, if it exists, deformed as they are cousins.
    She is horrified and hates her cousin from that moment on at the breakfast table and his equally repulsive friend.


    At 21 she gets married, and her husband is abusive both physically and mentally. When he has thrown her through a window in the house they were renting to the horror of their flatmates, she decides to leave and go back to her parents in another state.
    When she tries to explain to her mother the failure of her marriage, her mother chides her.
    “Well, you married him. You were lucky someone married you. You haven’t got much to offer anyone, have you?”
    “But I can’t stay with him. He’s violent and taking drugs.”
    “You vowed to stand by him. Til death do us part, did you not?”
    “Doesn’t that mean natural death or death by disease? Not violence inflicted by one party on the other?”
    “Don’t get smart with me. If you were a good wife, he would not have had to beat you. I remember what you were like as a child. We’d had to whip sense into you at least twice a week, if not more.”
    “I can’t stand being hit all the time. Please.”
    “No. You must learn to be a good wife. And things will change when you have children in tiem.”
    “NO, NO! I am not having a child with that man. Bad enough that he’s beating me. I can’t stand to think what he would do to a child.”
    “Well, if you leave him, then you can’t come back to your father and me. You will not be welcome here.”
    “Fine. I’ll get a job, but I am not staying with him. He hasn’t any control over his temper. I can’t.”
    “Right. Then not only do you not have the looks to get a good man, you are also flighty. You can’t stick it out. You are stupid.”


    At 36 she remarries a man who tells her she is lucky that he married her because no one else would. He disrespects her parents and has her stepchildren call them by their first names. For that and other reasons, their marriage eventually fails.

    At 42 she decides it is enough. She buys a bottle of Southern Comfort. She visits five different doctors and gets sleeping pill prescriptions from each one and is careful to go to five different pharmacies to get the prescriptions filled. She has enough. She gives away her prized possessions and finds homes for her two cats and then books a room in a country town motel. She decides to tell her best friend at Uni that she can have her car if anything should happen to her because that friend has taken her cats in. The friend thinks that she is just going overseas for a holiday for a few months. She does not realise.
    She takes the bus to the small town in the north of the state. She has a calm state of mind. It just feels so right after all. She has the pills and the southern comfort tucked into her rucksack and when she arrives at the motel, the room is prepaid, so she just gives the receptionist her details and picks up the key.
    It is a pleasant room, in pastel lemon shades with a mustard trim. It even has a real monstera plant. She likes that touch. She always hated fake plants with plastic leaves. They would usually gather a fine film of dust.
    She draws up a bath. She nurses the first tumbler of liquor. It will be easy to swallow the pills and she calculated she would need 36 tablets combined with the alcohol to drift off into another existence.
    When she finally slips into the warm water, two tumblers of comfort and 24 tablets later, her vision is hazy.
    She examines her wrists. She wonders if she should get a razor blade to slice the veins. It is a fleeting though as her head slips under the warm water.

    • Ilana, I felt empathy fo this poor human. I could imagine the cascading dominoes, each one that fell to the next causing further disaster and something she could not forecast or control. One the cascade commenced, she was lost. Loved it, I was hoping that something would change for her, but as we know with such an upbringing and life, it is hard to feel mentally well and to change. Dominoes have fallen.
  • Oops, too late. The dominoes have fallen.

    Journal notes: June 1788 to January 1789. Captain Henry James Pemberton H.M.S. Merlin.

    These pages contain my personal recollections of my journey to, and my experiences in this great land.
    I am extremely fortunate to have escaped death on the tragic journey here. I found this land looking for India or the Spice Islands, put off course in wild storms floating sail-less, into the bay of what you call Sydney Cove. One thing leads to another, one disaster begat another. These documented statements, anecdotal accounts and happenings prior to and since my arrival.

    The First Fleet sent, was not in fact first, nor second or third. The land mass thought to be New South Wales was not uninhabited, but colonised by European settlers, French, Danish, Spanish and Portuguese. With a race of intelligent, advanced humans, the First Nation folk of this southern expanse. It would be wise to stay put in the Motherland, the would-be colonisers are in constant war and the introduced disease and the poverty amongst them is vast.

    The natives are not involved in these feudal conflicts, it seems the intruders are set against each other in hope they destroy the other.
    The natives observe, but strongly suggested they have thought control abilities and can ‘order’ others to compete for the limited resources, which are dwindling from stores brought from their lands. The natives in opposition appear to survive on almost nothing we would consider edible.

    The First Fleet arrived and immediately taken hostage by the feuding colonist. The natives of the land are concerned that more people are invading their land, they are not a violent people. They say in their limited English, drawing, and gestures that they are the custodians of the land, no-one can claim, or own it. Lost in time for many centuries and indeed for millennia, these people are advanced but appear as primitive and simple in their cultural and political ideas and actions.

    Their physical weapons are few, mostly used to obtain food. Their greatest weapons are intelligence, knowledge of the ways of the land, the wildlife, flora and fauna and the climate diversity, these can be monitored by the moon and stars. The Europeans will perish without assistance or advice from the inhabitants in this harsh unknown territory.
    The land abounds with creatures that are only imagined by our greatest storytellers, but they exist here. They can walk, fly and swim. There are large rodents, which bound on two legs, they call them either kangaroo or wallaby. Some taller than the average man. Reptiles, named goanna or crocodile are bigger than any I have ever seen, more akin to the history and scientific books of palaeontologists. The birds of prey with a wing span of over six foot wide, can claim sheep in one swoop, it is said that babies have in the past been taken. The natives have a wild dog, they call dingo, it is domesticated to some degree, known to attack small children too.

    The natives have tried to assist the invaders to survive on their arrival, but they did not take kindly to being told by a primitive culture. They now keep to themselves, as advised by their cultural elders, but they keep a watchful guard over their people, and would intervene if the colonists were in any danger. It has been told they assisted with food choices, some plants are poisonous, the animals which are venomous or vicious, snakes, spiders, scorpions and the like. The crocodile can take animals, even full grown adults in a death roll to drown in the waters. Giant, mysterious carnivorous fish thrive in the rivers, lakes and oceans.

    The colonists have taken a lives of natives which sparked wars but not with the natives. The natives were saddened by the deaths but still wanted to assist the arrivalists. The feuds were between warring arrivalists who stated they have claim to the land.
    The colonist numbers have dwindled to almost nothing and this will be the same fate of the First Fleeters if they do not turn back or take heed. Are you aware that neighbouring islands have natives that are primitive and even cannibalistic and warmongers? The Maoris seem to be the most vicious. Captain James Cook was killed and eaten on one of those islands.

    These natives having been isolated for so long, are not accustomed to our cultural ways, diet or even illnesses. The common cold or the addictive rum or tea, may be unknown to them.
    I would advise that we avoid New South Wales and other southern lands. The convicts we were to send, we can rehabilitate or gaol them, or execute them as we see fit by law. Their crimes are mostly of a simple nature, theft for the family to eat, as income and work are not achievable to this class. The free-settlers, government and spiritual leaders should not be put at risk in this devilish place.

    We could send another Fleet to collect our kind before they are killed or die from lack of commodities needed, and the love of God is lacking. The natives worship the sky, gods for everything and they appear as creatures, believing their gods are present in the animals around them. Not one god but multiple, the land is god, look after it and it shall look after you. Their mystical and magical abilities are not understood, but they have dances and ceremonies to call for what they need, such being food or rain. They do not build permanent structures or homes, they are nomadic around a certain perimeter. They take only what they need from the land and leave it exactly as it was found. No Christianity at all, but so much more intelligent and advanced than us in other ways.

    On reflection, leave the colonists here as we would not want the negative influence on return. We would be losing more of our people on the journey over and the rescue. I shall return once my ship is seaworthy and bring home our most valued and esteemed scientific and medical personnel. Space is limited. My departure for Britain should occur within the year, a crew of convicts working six days a week to get the ship repaired.

    Our colonialism wherever we go is like a parlour board game, dominoes line up, standing on end and then topple to destroy what is ahead in a believed triumphant conquest. Take for instance our advance to the North American continent, and the African lands. Now we are wanting to conquer and take control of these pacific lands. We should be content with where we are and not attempt to take our English ways to other places. Leave these people alone.

    That was the last entry. Captain HJ Pemberton did not return to England. These journals were found in a ship’s safe, recovered two-hundred-and-twelve years later by chance. Recreational divers exploring the sunken wreck of the H.M.S. Merlin. It would seem a pity that these sage words of advice were never heeded by the powers that be in the Motherland.

    Word count: 1191.

    • Echo that. DId not deserve last past the post. Needed to be higher up. The story of Australia’s colonization is brutal. I can not forget or forgive how our first nations’ people were treated and how they were robbed, but the story is similar in many countries. Look at North America for example. Doesn’t excuse the Australia massacres though.
  • CJ Rosemeck

    Good morning writers, this story thread is now closed.
    The voting page will be up in just about 4 hours!
    Happy reading 🙂

    • Well, bummer. I was just going to post a story. Maybe it’s for the best.


      • CJ Rosemeck

        Roy if you want to post it – I actually have time today before the voting time I’ll be able to add it.
        That goes for anyone who gets this message and wants to post the story in the next 45 minutes!

        • I didn’t see this, but it’s OK.


  • CJ Rosemeck

    *To clarify – I wanted to end the story submission earlier in the day because I get pulled into a lot of meetings on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. So after creating the Voting Page and then having to go back and edit it – is sometimes difficult for me.

    But Maybe adjusting from 4 hours before the time when voting begins to 2 hours before would be easier for folks.
    I just can’t update it when someone posts their story with only 15 minutes to go.

    If that makes sense.

    • No problem, Carrie. Having been in your shoes, I understand. It was just that I thought we had until noon CST. As I said, it’s OK, maybe it was for the best. Now that I know, I’ll be sure to post my stories well in advance to avoid this sort of thing, for both you and me.


      • What? I’m late. I think I’ll cry on my computer.
        Oh, well, as they sayin sports, there’s always next season.
    • Phil Town
      Hi, Carrie

      There are five boxes on the scoring grid and only four stories apart from our own. I’ve voted and had to put my own story in 5th, so please cancel my 5th-place vote.


      (And thanks for deleting my story the other day.)

      • CJ Rosemeck

        Thanks Phil, I was going to put only four options, but we have non story submitters who vote and didn’t want to negate their fifth place choice. Appreciate you putting your story in the fifth place!

        • D’oh! Hadn’t thought of that, Carrie. Thanks.
  • Hey Rumples, this is good, real good! I loved the noir-feel, the cynical urban setting, the cultural references… and the suggestion that the whole thing is (possibly) inside god Vishnu’s Dream (called Virtual Reality, in more modern terms, as we get to know by the end of your piece: that’s a masterful stroke of foreshadowing, the Vishnu bit (for those who want to see it the way I do).

    I’m pleased that my prompt in some small way gave rise to this little big gem of yours. Together with Roy (for the inspiration you talked about) and Cartisano (for the “bet my hat on it” contribution), it’s good to think I may have had a little hand in this story too!

    And you didn’t need to worry about the three-dot triplets! They weren’t intended to be reproduced literally (or dottily, shall I say?) – they simply meant: “…and continue this sentence in any way your heart desires”, or “et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

    There are numerous great lines in your story. These ones coming up are for keeps, my top faves:

    Why would a god like that dream of a dope like me?
    I lit a cigarette and took a long, blissful drag just for me. There was no posturing like Bogart against the skyline and waxing suave. Not this time.
    The buildings still twinkled and loomed enticingly, but now I saw them for the lemon trees that they were: impossible to eat. Cardboard constructs designed to impress.
    Men were supposed to lean into the night air over the railing and say something impactful in these types of situations, and then the saxophone starts up.
    “You’re no quitter. You will smoke until the day you die.”
    I took solace in the fact that she missed my precious coffin nail
    I squinted into the inky darkness and marveled at my extended journey down.
    But cigarettes have a way of falling apart on you when you need them most, and this one was uncharacteristically stalwart.

    But the lines in between where almost all just as great (just that I didn’t want to re-paste your whole story here!)

    When the cigulation bit came up, explaining what was going on, I was somewhat disappointed for a brief instant – oh, it’s one of those marvelous stories that then end up being just a dream the character was having… But as I read on, the ideao of “cigulation” got retro-integrated into the story well-enough to make it sound very convincing. And then the mask bit at the end gave the whole thing that humorous punch (and a feel of contemporariness, rooted in our times).

    Well done!

  • CJ Rosemeck

    Ok writers!
    The votes are in!!

    1st Place Winner: “Eight Thousand Times a Day” by Ken Miles

    2nd Place: Chain Reactions and Chain Smoking by Rumplefinkies
    3rd Place: All’s Well by Phil Town
    4th Place: Enough is Enough by Ilana Leeds
    5th Place: The Dominoes Have Fallen by ozjohn66

    The story with the favorite character is: Laura from “Eight Thousand Times a Day” by Ken Miles
    And the story with the best dialogue is: “Chain Reactions and Chain Smoking” by Rumplefinkies

    Congratulations Ken!!

    • Phil Town
      Congratulations, KenM!

      Yes – 1st and 2nd was a difficult choice … both great stories.

    • Thanks everyone! I’m pleased you liked my fishy story 🙂 Laura and Laurie flapped a fin for you, too…

      Congrats to all – not many stories this time, but all were solid good.

      Thanks also to those who commented.

  • Ilana Leeds
    Congratulations all. I put one story twice in 5 th and fourth place rather than my own story.
  • Hi Ken,

    Haven’t seen much of you lately so it’s great to see you back in harness. I had you and Ilarna at the top, one point apart on my marking system so well done to you both.

    My sincere apologies for not sending in any comments. I am going through a non-creative patch and can’t seem to get motivated to write anything.

    Kind regards,

    Ken Frape

  • Congratulations to Ken M., and a welcome from the bridesmaid club president to Rumple. Agreed all the stories were superb, tough choosing, but I do admit that Rumple and Ken M., were a bit above the rest. Almost glad mine didn’t make it, but there’s always next time. And, speaking of next time, I’ve got some story writing to do. Gotta get it in on time you know.


  • Rumple-taters,

    Well. I think your second story was much better than your first. Even the name was cool. What was it? All Fallow’s Eve? (No, no. I’m just kidding.) Fallow Your Dreams.

    Yeah, this story is, well, it’s very well put together, first of all, that much is blatant, you know? It’s very well written. Then, the reference to a boss and the fact that the boss, (later master) can sleep for centuries (well, one, at least) and is entirely unimpressed with human progress. (So far, we have a lot in common.)

    And, whoever he is, he seems pretty pro-human, (check) but I don’t think there are enough clues to determine WHAT he is. So I’d have to go with ‘proto-tagonist.’ A character ‘outside’ the typical character guidelines, this is interesting in that he’s also the main character. (this is called ‘pulling an L. Ron Hubbard, where you stumble on a definition for a word you don’t know, so you invent a new word for the old definition).

    At first, considering your character’s boss by his various efforts and interests, it was hard to tell exactly who he or she was. Grendel?;
    Vampire, vampire-zombie?;Vampire-zombie-meshugginah?
    Werewolf?; nowherewolf?;
    crypto-octogenerian-time-traveling-kleptomaniac? (how do you think I got this?);
    William Shatner?, (a specific thespian);

    Enough guessing. In short, I didn’t know. But clearly, he was a liberal, so I was ready to support him no matter what. But he slept in a coffin and his butler called him ‘master.’ So that was a little weird, but I’m a liberal, so I’m okay with it.

    But then:

    “So it’s a demonic cause we’re promoting?”

    “Yeah-ahh. You didn’t know? Where have YOU been?”

    “I don’t know. I thought he was kind of a good guy. With good—ideas.”

    “Sure Honey. Whatever you say. Look, this guy is worse than Bill Gates. Remember all those babies he nuked? Underwater?”

    “Are you thinking of the Godzilla movie?”

    “What? Noooo. I’m talking about our candidate and the movie I was referring to was Lloyd Bridges.”

    “Lloyd Bridges was an actor, not a movie.”

    “Whatever, Mr. ‘Details.”

    But I DIGRESS, Mr. Manfield. Plus, you did actually name the character, and the coffin thing is an obvious tip-off. Pretty much.

    I like it. I like the set up. It’s something I would have argued against, but I feel like you knew what you were doing and pulled it off nicely. And it helped me understand the story, it was like a guide post because it didn’t give anything away while laying the groundwork.

    It’s an interesting story, and I think it’s part of a longer, larger work, isn’t it? Or this is a recurring character that you’ve used several times. (I’m pretty sure you mentioned this guy, but I’m afraid I don’t recall the specifics right now.) Feel free to straighten me out where that character is concerned. (Desmond.)

    Not sure what promethean means. Wasn’t he the guy who flew too close to the sun wearing wax feathers? Or am I thinking of a different victim of Olympian humor? (don’t go all ‘Dennis Miller’ on me, Finkle. I don’t care how much you ‘think you like him.’) I’m still wondering what vouchsafe means.

    I never heard of the book, ‘Flatland: A Romance of Many Dimensions.’ But it sounds fabulous. I will have to get it. (It’s probably full of obvious points and one-liners.)

    Your first story, (last week)
    just as interesting, wasn’t nearly as polished as this one. I thought it was a bit confusing for what is a very minor contrivance, a virtual cigarette. Don’t get me wrong here, John. As a fellow former smoker, of just a few years, the idea of a virtual cigarette is EXTREMELY attractive. I love the story idea, it just needed some kind of clarity a little bit sooner. As I was reading it I got a little lost, but I trusted you and kept reading and it all came together and made sense, but I shouldn’t have gotten lost at all. And I’m not sure exactly where I got lost and that’s not as important as the fact that I did. So… something needed to be clearer, sooner. Hope that helps in some way.

    • Rumple,

      You seem to be a really well rounded fellow. But, I noticed in your next to last paragraph regarding Prometheus something that I’ve often pondered about. If, in fact, and I don’t doubt your words, Prometheus was cursed with the gift of prescience (or forethinking) wouldn’t he have foreseen that if he made men out of clay and stole fire from the gods that he was going to be chained to a rick forever with his liver being eaten every day by an eagle? And, then, kinda found a different way to do it, or not done it at all? (I know about the Jesus thing, and all, but still.)

      It was like the night we were watching AGT and the guy who could read minds was one of the last two semi-finalists. My wife says do you think he wins, and I said, I don’t think so because if he can really read minds, he already knows if he won or lost and he looks like he’s worried. If he was going to win, he’d be more stoic. He didn’t win. So, there we are. Mind reading must be true. It’s all in how you look at it.

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