Hello! I am hosting a short story contest...
- Locked due to inactivity on Aug 4, '16 4:28pm
Thread Topic: Hello! I am hosting a short story contest...
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Okay, Will you chat with me...Please
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Can I post mine? It's a bit longer than ten paragraphs.
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Joker, it had to be submitted yesterday
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I saw deaths post in recent posts and thought she was making joker submit >.>
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^ Huh?
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Oh, now I know what you're talking about.
Well before I do, you must answer these questions.
1. How old are you?
2. How attractive are you?
3. How big are your boobs?
And, 4. Do you like guys with black spiked hair?
I am done. -
And, 5. Are you a chick?
Oh, and 6. Are you related to me in any way? -
Whut
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Whut
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Whut
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Huh?
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^And that's why I hate my phone
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1. 64
2. 10/10
3. D
4. I prefer well groomed blonde women.
5. No
6. No
Now, onto the story. What kind of scrub needs more than ten paragraphs?
Is anyone else fascinated by phone booths? Of course, I don't mean the old dingy things you have over there in America; where you're more likely to find a gun and a quarter pound of illicit drugs in the ceiling than you are a light, but I mean the old red and blue British phone booths. What is it about them that fascinates people so much?
The Doctor traveled the universe in a blue phone booth. Two young Americans did the same in their American counterpart. A trio of magicians also used a phone booth to travel across the globe. And lets not forget the superheroes. Has Superman ever changed in a dressing room? No, of course not, because it's all about phone booths. Everyone is amazed by them, and yet they're such simple contraptions.
Which is why it's strange that they're all disappearing. Does it amaze you to know that there are only three hundred red and blue phone booths left in England? And that number is steadily decreasing? Now why could that be, when so many people adore these bastions of history?
A girl called Taylor Fritz disappeared several years ago. You won't find her name in the papers, and I doubt it's the same on that crazy web you have. She was last seen arguing with someone over a red phone booth.
A man called Fredrick Jones disappeared the same way. Different booth, same circumstances. Always a red or blue phone booth, always an argument, always a disappearance. Jeanine Yorks, Jack Travolt, Carrie Smith. If the evidence wasn't so thin I would probably be able to count all the way back to the first phone booth.
Who were they arguing with? What connected them together; made them targets? Only the phone booths, in retrospect. And now the phone booths are being removed, despite this entire cultural illusion of their safety. An illusion I plan to shatter, tonight.
The phone booth outside my house has been ringing for days now; and the plans to remove it tomorrow are underway. It rings for me; knows what I plan to do. And once I disappear, these notes will be all that remains to remember me.
But I must know. I must know the man behind the calls; must know the fate of those who answered, must know who, or what, is behind red and blue phone booths. I don't intend to return, but that is fine. I was never good at ending letters, and especially not one like this, but I feel it must end like every other letter written in the past. With a teary goodbye.
Farewell, dear reader. Aren't phone booths amazing things?
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