Write and post your own short stories on CC

[Anden]

My idea is for people who like to write such as myself. The idea is that you write a short story and then post it somewhere in the club forum (you can also write poetry). When it is posted other CC users can read and say what they thought of the story. It can be non-fiction or fiction or if you want even a biography. It can be of any type of story (ie. war, adventure, horror).

[AK_iceman]

My idea is for people who like to write such as myself. The idea is that you write a short story and then post it somewhere in the club forum (you can also write poetry). When it is posted other CC users can read and say what they thought of the story. It can be non-fiction or fiction or if you want even a biography. It can be of any type of story (ie. war, adventure, horror).

We already have a forum for this. It's called the Social Lounge.

[hawkeye]

Post it in spam hall or what ever it is now.

[hecter]

My idea is for people who like to write such as myself. The idea is that you write a short story and then post it somewhere in the club forum (you can also write poetry). When it is posted other CC users can read and say what they thought of the story. It can be non-fiction or fiction or if you want even a biography. It can be of any type of story (ie. war, adventure, horror).

We already have a forum for this. It's called the Social Lounge.

You got fast posted.

[hawkeye]

We all did.

[hecter]

Spam is my domain, and fast posting is an aspect of spam

[AK_iceman]

Spam is my domain, and fast posting is an aspect of spam

Sorry, but you can't compete with me.

[CBlake]

Spam is my domain, and fast posting is an aspect of spam

Sorry, but you can't compete with me.

She's actually right for once ^^

[hecter]

I dunno, over 2000 posts in 2 months. That's an acomplishment. O and congrats on your 4000th post

[IronE.GLE]

Hooray post count

If you want to read a short story, just search my posts or tahitiwahini's posts.

[boberz]

i enjoy writing stories but how short are we talking about because i cant write a good 1/4 page story because im not that good but im not sitting here typing for 3-4 pages either

[tahitiwahini]

If you want to read a short story, just search my posts or tahitiwahini's posts.

Hey! Those aren't stories. For one thing they don't have a beginning or, as some have pointed out, an end. They start in the middle and go on and on and on...

[Anarkistsdream]

Why don't you post it on a forum or website devoted to writing and then just post the links in one single thread? Let's not fill up the site with anymore BS...

Go to Deviantart or something and post it there.

[Hitman079]

inspired by "the blue hotel" by stephen crane
Blue Moon Draw

BANG! The saloon doors of the Blue Moon Tavern flew open,
smacking the walls and kicking dust up into the air. A tall, shadowy figure stood in the doorway, panting. He glanced around the interior of the tavern. The patrons looked over their shoulder at the newcomer, and, uninterested despite such an entrance, went back to chatting and drinking. The figure trudged to a barstool, swung his legs over it, and sat down.
"What'll it be?" grunted the bartender, looking up from drying mugs with a cloth.
"Whiskey and a water," he ordered. He pulled down his white ten-gallon leather hat to his back to reveal messy, sweat-drenched, blonde hair.
"Yeh ain't a reg'lar, are ya?" asked the bartender as he set down two mugs in front of his customer. The newcomer poured a strange portion of whiskey and water, almost entirely alcohol. He downed it in a few gulps, and with a grimace on his face wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Nosiree," drawled the newcomer.
"What's the name?"
"What's it to ya?" he snarled.
"Nothin' at all...nothin' at all," mumbled the bartender, going back to wiping down the mugs.


At a table in the far corner of the tavern, three men were chatting amongst themselves. They observed the man intently, and one of them, smoking a cigar, looked up from gazing at the cards in his hand. "Whaddya think, Tyler?"
"Loaded? Iono. Call him over."
"Hey, Mister!" called out the smoker.
The newcomer peered over his shoulder and responded indifferently, "What?"
The man with the cigar blew out a ring of smoke and held up the cards in his hand. "A game of cards?"
The man at the bar seemed to be interested. He walked on over and sat down on one of the chairs. He looked around the table, and greeted, "I ain't too friendly around strangers, but I'm a sucker for a game'a poker."
"Well, we ain't gonna be strangers soon!" laughed the smoker. "Name's Moore."
They shook hands. "This here is Tyler, and the other one is Clark."
"Call me McCormick."
Both nodded. Tyler was a rather tall man, with high cheekbones and his silver hair slicked back, creating a heart-shaped hairline above his forehead. His hair went past his ears and was tucked behind them. His eyes were narrow to the point a shadow was cast over his eyes, and he had a prominent nose. His mouth was sort of in a frown, and he exuded nobility, which was accented by the black suit and matching bowtie he was wearing.
"You look honest enough," remarked Tyler. "I say we let him play a bit."
Clark grunted in agreement. Clark had a beard that started near his upper lip and covered his chin, going back to his ears. His beard was brown, and it looked like it was combed and well-groomed everyday. His hair was combed to the side with hair grease, and tufts of it on the side fell upon his ears. His nose sort of resembled an exclamation mark. His eyes were puffy, showing that he had been deprived of sleep the last few days.
Moore's eyes were similar to Tyler, but his hair was brown. It circled in a ring around his entire face, and was accented with a upside-down \_/ mustache. He wore a normal beige hat. "Like yeh hat," commented Moore.
"Same t' yeh too."
"Well now, enough chattin'! Let's git on t' playin'!" boomed Clark.
"Let's hav' sum' drinks over here!" called out Moore. Tyler remained silent.
After a few minutes the four were chatting and laughing like old friends who had just reunited for the first time in years. The drinks kept coming, and the money kept going.
Whenever Moore would play a good hand, he'd slam down the cards on the table, bringing a smirk to his face and a frown from his peers.
After the game raged on for what seemed to be hours, McCormick had started to notice that Moore almost always folded or called at the right moment. From time to time Moore's predictions would be wrong, but more often than not they were correct. He was pretty sure it was not sheer coincidence. When it was his turn to receive cards, he requested for two. He noticed something strange- an almost imperceptible black dot in the left corner of the card, hidden among a sea of red and white patterns. Maybe he was seeing things; his vision faltered ever so slightly for short periods. He kept staring at the card, and lifted it up to see what it was. It was an ace.
McCormick decided to ignore the spot and tell himself that he was seeing things. So the game continued. As the game persisted, McCormick knew he wasn't seeing things. The spots started to appear here, there, everywhere on seemingly every card that had greater value than ten in a multicolored rainbow. Throughout the game, some dormant feelings in him had been aroused from time to time. Now it was a burning, raging passion within him struggling to burst free. By now Clark was flat broke; a majority of his money was mostly with Moore and the remainder of it with McCormick and Tyler. Tyler was looking desperate, and so was McCormick. Only a little more than half of his money was left. Once again, Moore smirked, and McCormick winced at the mere sight of seeing the corners of Moore's mouth crinkle. However, McCormick knew better. Moore was most probably bluffing; no one would let evidence of the value of their poker hand show so clearly on his face.
"Fold," sighed Tyler.
"In," announced McCormick, calmly placing his poker hand face up on the table. He had a full house, the fourth most valuable hand; he was pretty confident he'd win the dollar pot. It was not meant to be.
Moore smirked again, and slammed down his cards on the table. McCormick stared stupidly at the cards that presented themselves before him. A sickening realization came over his mind; it was a straight flush the second most valuable hand. His face reddened with anger as Moore cackled wildy. McCormick could bear it no longer. At that instant moment passion won over reason. He shoved Moore furiously against the wall.
"YOUSE CHEATIN'!" he thundered.
Moore gasped in horror, a look of indignation on his face.
"Boy, I ain't cheatin'," he slurred.
McCormick swore vehemently and shoved Moore to the wall even harder. His face expressionless, Moore repeated, "I ain't cheatin'."
"You lie! Lying ____!" He brought his arm back like a spring, about to slug Moore in the face when a strong hand grabbed him from behind.
"Sirs, you better take this outside, or yeh'll both never set foot here again, ya hear?" threatened the bartender.
Mumbling angrily, the four shuffled and staggered outside.
"Look, man. I swear on mah mother's grave I ain't cheatin'!" exclaimed Moore.
"Swear on yeh own grave, cuz' that's where you're goin'!" teethed McCormick.
"Now, now, we mustn't fight like barbarians," Moore soothed, backing up from the advancing, rip-roaring drunk McCormick. Knowing he would surely lose in a brawl, Moore suddenly found courage when he felt something hard poke him when he backed into the wooden wall of the Blue Moon Tavern. Confident that he wouldn't win in a scuffle, but would in other forms of combat, Moore suddenly stood rigid and stood up to McCormick.
"Sir," Moore cried, "I challenge you t' a duel!"


"I ain't got no gun," snarled McCormick. "It's a coward's way of fightin'."
"Fightin' is an idiot's method," countered Moore. "All brawl and no brain." Moore tapped his noggin to further the point.
"Fine," McCormick agreed. "Gimme a gun."
Tyler handed McCormick a large silver revolver, handle first.


"D'you know how t' duel?" inquired Moore.
"Sorta. I've seen it before."
They walked out to the center of the wide dirt road that bordered the bar. They stood in the center of it, back to back.
"Pace!" barked Moore.
McCormick was so drunkedly furious he paced briskly away from Moore when the duel started.
"Stop!" Both spun around to face each other, finding they were about twenty yards apart from each other.
McCormick fingered the gun, which he had stuffed in his pocket, waiting for Moore to make a move.

Moore had absolutely no fears at all. He was 100% confident he'd win. However, Moore was still on the cautious side, slowly inching his hands toward the pistol in its holster. He hoped to gain every inch's advantage possible before drawing and killing McCormick.

McCormick saw Moore's attempt to subtly get his hands nearer to his holster, so McCormick decided to make his move. Time seemed to slow as his hand shot towards the gun in his pocket, drew it out, and let his finger rest on the trigger. He pulled it, and saw the hammer draw back ominously, and then thrust forward to ignite the gunpowder inside the bullet that would find its way into Moore's skull.

Moore was caught off guard as he saw the event happening. His mouth fell open, and he started to reach for his own gun- but he knew it was too late.

McCormick waited for the satisfying BLAM! to be emitted from his revolver. However, it never came. Instead, he heard a horrifying click. He realized in a split second that the revolver Tyler had handed him was empty.
"Aw, sh-"
BLAM! Moore's pistol barked, and it bucked back brutally in his right hand. The small, superheated ball of copper shot through the air, out of the smoke created by its firing. Moore heard it penetrate the air with a whoosh! and heard the sickening sound of it hitting its mark.

McCormick's eyes widened as he felt a hot, searing pain as the bullet sailed past his skin and shatter his left shoulder blade. He staggered backward, let out a gasp, and clutched his injury, trying in vain to stop the bleeding. Another report of Moore's pistol followed. BLAM! The wind was knocked out of his gut as he felt a knife of pain slice through his stomach as if it was made of soggy paper cards. He hunched over, begging for the pain to stop when another BLAM! entered his ears. This time it struck him square in the chest. He felt an excruciating pain as his heart was torn apart by a bullet. He tried to gaze up one last time at his murderer, but his vision blurred and all he saw was blackness

Moore, shuddering at having killed a man, walked up to McCormick's limp body. At the exact same instant, he sobered up. His hands felt wet, as if stained with the blood of the young McCormick. He kneeled at the corpse and tried to whisper a prayer of begging for forgiveness, but the words never left his lips.
"The man's dead, Moore! There's no use!" consoled Clark.
"The man woulda been dead anyway, Moore. He was r-rip-roarin' druink," whimpered Tyler.
Moore glared at his two peers.
"Y-you know t' truth," he bawled. "Hain't no use denyin' it! We cheated, and we cheated 'im good! It all started with a game'a cards- and- and the whiskey!
Moore choked out, "That pistol was empty! Y'know it! The man's dead! He's dead! DEAD! May God have mercy on our s-souls!"
[the ending was rushed]