Working Title Shorts

This post is an old one from our old blog, but since I’ve been moving all our content from there to here, I just had to share this again. Fun stuff from fun people…

Friday, April 20, brought some fun and interesting shared stories penned by a group of talented individuals who are still trying to figure out what exactly transpired that such words should touch paper. Read on for the brief, albeit wonderful bits of wisdom which are truly anything but.

He Only Plays for Tips Now

There once was a creature. This creature was feared by all but afraid of all. Except for one girl whose spirit matched his own, or so he thought. He focused on her, his mind wandering to places it hadn’t ventured in years. For some reason, he found himself thinking of the time he spent playing trumpet for a cantina in the Bahamas. His memories swirled like the swirling voices of the musical group: his trumpet, a brash and fruitless love, the accompanying clarinets, the chatter in the café where they had met, the many strings, a world of business about them and the drums, a percussion of ever advancing time. He couldn’t take it anymore; the memories were rushing in too fast to keep sanity about him. He howled, his mind flowing into the past.

Stick the Landing

“I would never take a bullet for you.”

“You would if I shot it-”

He was cut off by the popping of a balloon. He started and began to slip. The rope tore through his hands, burning them as it slid, just as his eyes burned in fear of the approaching ground below. He gripped the rope tighter though it did no good, for he hit the ground with a hard smack. He rolled, taking some of the impact in his shoulder and continued to roll as his shoulder weakened under his weight, awakening him to his true calling as a gymnast.

Be Still, For I Cannot See Thy Face

Once upon a time, as all good stories start, there lived a very beautiful princess. She lived in a very large castle on top of a giant hill. The castle was made of fine marble that glimmered atop the hill for all to see. Until eventually one day the darkness ceased to give way into dawn. The people began praying to all sorts of idols- living for the day the light would return. Their altar was a candle, the only functioning light source still available. But it didn’t make a difference if they made it or not; they had each other and that’s a lot for love.

From Tamara, With Love (P.S. I Dead You)

From behind the crumbling corner of the wall, a man in a bowler hat appeared. He cast his shaded eyes towards the middle of the street and they landed upon an inert, lifeless form. Bitter tears began to pour from his eyes, mourning the loss and hoping that his beloved friend might return. He watched as the bus rolled up, anxiety building up inside him to the point in which he thought he might burst. He took a deep breath in unison with the hiss of brakes, releasing the tension at once. The last sound he heard as he succumbed to the swirl of lights, letting himself become a part of Owen’s slow and painful demise, was a loud scream. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” And then there was silence. The man smiled.

Where Do Hot Air Balloons Go When they Fly?

A brilliant sunrise passed the skyline. A red hot air balloon rose against it, projecting a dark outline against the brighter star behind. It rose higher and higher, as did my spirits as I watched it. The sky swallowed it up, floating out of view amongst the sea of clouds. And then a great void, a stillness, as it was no longer visible and therefore did not exist. The stillness had a feeling to it, a vibration, that grew stronger until, strangely enough, the sounds of a harmonica, dully buzzing, could be heard. Only Paris had this stillness, only its fountains had their coolness, only the faraway dock, where, by a strange coincidence, another harmonica played, could compare with the bright nature of the city where the adventure had started.

Thanks to Matias, Kya, Alex, Tamara, Myself (Owen) and every other member of the Working Title Writing Club who was there in spirit.


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