Short Story Contest!

[Jasae Bushae]

Short Story Contest!

Every Month, a short story contest will be held. Anyone, except those in judgin postitions, can enter a story. win at least 5k if your story is judged the best.



Rules:

1.)This story must take place in Byako, and contain an character someone has created. You can do your own character or someone elses.

2.) PG-13 meaning no sex...though blood and guts and mass violence is okay.

3.) most be contained in one post. if taken up more then one post, feel free to edit it down, or create a seriel.

4.) one short story for each person per month.

5.) at least 5 people must be entered to win the prize money for each month


It is not required, but is apprcieated if you ask permission of the character's creator for their use.

Judges:
Fighter for all and Jasae Bushae.  

[light_goddess18]

do you want the stories to be posted in a reply in this topic, or a pm to you?  

[Jasae Bushae]

post it please 3nodding  

[light_goddess18]

Ok, I'll have to see what my little brain can come up with, won't I? Thanks for the info ^^  

[Steff-Chan]

Poop Mate

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I last took a dump. I'd try to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was running home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that "Big Things" would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the Byako mall to pick up an order for my friend. I completed the task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the Byako mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 0 though 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:

0. Occupied
1. Clean, but bathroom protocol forbids its' use, as it's next to the occupied one.
2. Poo on seat.
3. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
4. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.

Clearly it had to be stall number one. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers and sat down. I’m normally a fairly shameful shitter. I wasn’t happy about being next to the occupied stall, but “Big things” were afoot. I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for the cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 DB’s louder than it needed to be. Out of shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mrs. Shitter was blathering to Mr. Shitter about the shitty day she had. I sat there cramping and miserable, waiting for her to finish. As loud as the conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I too, had a crappy day, but I was to polite to yak about it in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier. Finally my anger reached to a point that over came shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude--a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off the wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently. Once my a** cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:

1. The next-door conversation had ceased.
2. My colon continued seizing indicated that there was more to come.
3. The bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.

It was as if the gateway of hell has been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way underneath the stall and began chocking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended her conversation in mid sentence. “Oh my God!” I heard her utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking and then “No baby, that wasn’t me!” she coughed and gagged again, “You could hear that?!” she gagged once more. Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poo had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side and onto the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride. Next door I could hear her fumbling with the paper dispenser as she desperately tried to finish her task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my a**l symphony:

“Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... Oh God!...” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching. Alas, it is evidently difficult to holds one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by a string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped her phone into the toilet. There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision her standing there wondering what to do. A final a**l announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard her running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

After a considerable amount of paper work, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth. As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had she flushed her phone? Or has she plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty hands? The world will never know. I washed my hands and exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring back at me. But I saw no one. I suspected that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it will be a long time before she can bring herself to poo in public--and I doubt she’ll ever again answer her cell phone in the loo. And this my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

=^_^=