Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Story Contest (theme: Escape)

I'll be honest, I'm not going to give this story much thought. Maybe it will end up being accidentally awesome.

At first, it seemed as though all the clocks in the house were wrong. Some were too fast, others were too slow, and others still didn't even have hour hands. When the grandchildren walked through the house, they couldn't help but wonder how their granddad had managed to arrive anywhere on time. They continued to wander around, remembering how the Old Man had lived and died.

A catcher's mitt would bring back memories of sunset baseball, a frying pan would recall sizzling bacon in the morning. But these were pleasant memories, and therefor rare. Most things reminded the children of how cold hearted their grandfather was. "I'm glad he's gone" someone whispered. No one tried to seek out the speaker, because they were all voicing similiar thoughts in their heads.

There were no objects to bring back memories of the darkest times, because no objects were needed. The grandchildren bore the scars of the past on their backs and hearts. The grandchildren neared the bedroom, and the memories managed to stay hidden in the past. But suddenly, seeping from the floorboards, a blast of sound:

GONG. GONG. GONG. GONG.

The grandchildren looked at each other, hoping to see their own fear mirrored on their kin's face. They were all startled equally, and thus avoided any lonely embarrassment. When they calmed down, a flurry of conversation started up:

"It sounded like a grandfather's clock."

"All the clocks are Grandfather's, idiot"

"Shut up, you knew what he meant."

"Where did it come from?"

"I didn't see a grandfather's clock on the way up, did you?"

"No, it sounded like it came from below."

"Maybe it's him. From Hell."

"Shut up. It's probably just in the basement."

"Yeah, let's go look!"

But before they were halfway down, the sound came again:

GONG. GONG. GONG. GONG.

This time, noboby jumped. A silence fell over the group. And then one said what they were all thinking:

"Why is it four gongs again?"

"Well, it is four o'clock. Maybe it just rings twice every hour."

"It's not four o'clock, idiot."

"Yeah, it is. Look at my cellphone."

"That's impossible. We got here at five."

"Hey, that's right, we did."

"Wait, my watch says it's four, too."

"So does mine."

The grandchildren started again towards the cellar. But now, they grouped themselves as though they were simultaneously approaching a dragon and fleeing a demon. The tallest, bravest boys walked in the front, while the most watchful gaurded the rear. They were interrupted twice more by the booming clock, always sounding in groups of four. The third time the clock's gong rung out, the group stopped yet again.

"When did he die?"

"A Tuesday."

"No, he means what time of day."

"I think you know when."

They all shuddered, and resumed the journey. The house seemed impossibly large; they must have gone down twenty flights of stairs and walked down fifty hallways. But finally, the door to the basement stood in front of them. It took a long time for one of the grandchildren to reach for the door handle. And when he finally made contact, the sound came again:

GONG. GONG. GONG. GONG.

He didn't let go of the handle, and managed to open the door despite the fact his whole body was shaking. Before them, glowing black in the dark, stood a grandfather's clock.

The children walked closer. Every step they took was matched by a quartet of gongs.

Reflected in the glass on the face of the clock was another familiar face. All the children saw the same face, but with different expressions. One saw a mocking smile while another saw a hateful lear. The hands of the clock, forever frozen at twelve and four, mirrored the oldman's battle scar.

"Let's burn it."

"Should we take it outside first...?"

"No. We burn it here. We burn it all... the whole house, everything."

"Yeah. Here's a lighter."

"Here's mine, too. Emtpy the fluid onto it."

And so the grandchildren coated the clock with lighter fluid. The largest of the group, the same one who had opened the basement door, took the final lighter and touched it to the clock.

GONG. GONG. GONG. GONG.

The clock went up in flames, faster than any of the grandchildren had thought.

"Man, let's get out of here!"

But before they could even turn around, the basement door slammed shut.

The fire spread to the floor, the walls, the ceiling. But the grandfather clock never stopped soudning.

GONG. GONG. GONG. GONG.

The door would not open, even when they all leaped at it as one. The grandchildren clawed at the walls even as the fire seared their flesh. But the plaster only gave way to reveal brick and concrete.

GONG. GONG. GONG. GONG.

The ceiling collasped, raining down fire and timber on the grandchildren. They died, screaming.

The next morning, firemen digged through the debris looking for bodies. One managed to find a charred Grandfather clock. When he touched it, it rang out four times, and started ticking again.

escartian, I thought you were giving proper feedback today?

XSilentPhantomX says:
heya just my opinion of the stories,
to me, Jezz's, The one about the clown, and mine, were the best "well" put together. the one with the Zulu and the monster under th hill seemed very unedited, and both had the "monsters" or what-not introduced to quickly to me. (and the zuluseemed especially out of place tto me.)

no offense to any who wrote the after mentioned stories.... XD

May I ask two questions?
I'll do it anyway.

What is the current theme about, and why don't you get someone to change the title so people won't get confused a bunch?
Otherwise it would probably be better to make a new thread for each round, otherwise people will see the first theme, and go by that.

Cenere, could you change the title when the theme changes so people don't get confused a bunch?

Cenere, could you change the title when the theme changes so people don't get confused a bunch?

What is the american day of the week? Cristian and jewish weekends aren't the same thing.

Here is my story for the video games thing (I wanted to write about it ) and my next post will be stopped clocks.

I'm trapped in here.
I never realized that shooting video games were so real. They always seemed so fun. But now I'm trapped in one. My wounds are real. I can feel the blood trickling down my arm. I can feel the shock of my gun's backfire. I don't know what to do. Will I ever get out of here?
I can see people dying... but they are never really dead. They reappear at the starting point, with recovered health and ammo.
This war is endless. When a team âkillsâ a certain amount of enemy team members, we go on to the next level. It's boring.
I'M TRAPPED! HELP! I CAN'T GET OUT OF THIS!
I don't know if I'll ever get back to reality... but I know that if I do, I will never play another shooting game in my life.
I can look at my arm and see the pixels. I feel no emotions when I kill someone, because they just revive. I am trapped inside a virtual reality that's fake. I'm not human. I am just computer programming. I can hardly remember my normal life... I don't know how long I've been stuck in here, but I don't age. My wounds heal, although they are painful before I revive. I am forced to fight against my will... I must keep shooting, even when I want nothing more than to get back into my real life. I can look at my teammates, but they have no expression. They fall and die the same way every time. None of us can communicate correctly because what we can say has already been chosen for us.
What do I do...?!

CR, I think you should make a thread for your poems and stories, if you haven't already. They're pretty good.
You do realise this story can't get judged though, right..? Well, it wasn't really a story, it was more like a.. an exerpt.

Yes, Jezz, I know. I'm posting them anyway.
I don't really want to make a thread... I just like posting them on other stuff. I might, though. Sometime.

Now my stopped clocks one:

My body is tied to a grandfather clock.

I know... it's strange. It's a mystery why. Ever since the beginning of my family, so long ago, every 117 years a child of this family tree would be born tied to that grandfather clock, and were immortal until they eventually died of old age.

Every time it stops or gets jammed or is broken temporarily, my body stops, too.
When I wake up, I remember nothing except that family curse. I forget everything else... education, friends, names, pets; and I have to start over each time. The last person whose life was tied to the clock died and never revived when the clock collapsed. They rebuilt the clock of the same materials as the previous clock, and were left to wonder if anybody else would ever be possessed again. It seemed a curse, but for some reason everybody in our family feel attached to the clock, although they aren't physically and mentally tied to it against their will, like I am.
I don't know what to do... it's horrible being tied to it. It makes me feel like my being alive is insecure. Although I can't rely on my own body or health.
I have never been physically sick. I have never gotten wounded or even scraped. I am immortal.
Some people might say that being immortal seems cool; but it's not. I hate being immortal. I feel like a fictional character from a fairy tale or something.
I can't change it, though.
Maybe it will go on forever, but I doubt I have any hope of ever being released from this haunting family curse.

BTW, I didn't mean like physically stuck to the clock. I meant like, souls and mind and consciousness are connected.

*Jess

Aww that's a shame because you can only really post something you've written that relates to the current theme, when I'd enjoy reading things that you've written at random.

ummm.......I thought Escartian was going to judge this on Monday, Tomorrow is Thursday...soooo when are you going to judge it pal?
I'm just asking I'm not trying to rush anything.

Arg!!!
Sorry about judging late (I didn't visit armorgames.com for some time now)

So this is what I thought of the stories (the places are at the end)
CrimsonRose
The story is interesting as well as the idea but what really ruined it was this part

Some people might say that being immortal seems cool; but it's not. I hate being immortal. I feel like a fictional character from a fairy tale or something.

Mike walks down stairs and pours a cup of coffee. Mike takes a sip of coffee and takes a deep breath of air. Mike looks at the coffee pot and back at his coffee and back at the pot and back at his coffee.

First problem that bothers me (don't know if it bothers anyone else) is that the whole thing is made into one giant paragraph. Another thing that bothers me straight away is that you don't start a new line when a new person is talking. This is easy to fix, but it leaves me uncomftrouble from the star without even reading the story.

I just don't understand the grandchildrens' thinking...why burn the clock...why not just leave?