When the blog began, Matthew served you up with the idea that each week he would take some sort of challenge from you, and write a story from it.
The challenges were fake.
How do I know this?
An easy answer, because I wrote the stories he claimed to have created from the challenge ideas. Each story, like so much of what is on this blog, were originally written for Fear In Fear Magazine, there was no weekly challenge, there was no charm or skill involved, there was just lies.
Starting today, like I am with the 50 word stories, I will create NEW, ORIGINAL stories based on the supposed challenges each and every Wednesday, until I have taken back what is rightfully mine, my stories.
The first story Matthew used as a YouChallenge was one he renamed The Final Request, but when it appeared in issue 342 of Fear In Fear Magazine, it was called Lost Days, and the challenge itself, was to write a story about an old man sitting on a park bench, feeding some pigeons.
You can go HERE to read The Final Request, or continue downward to read my NEW story, created for and using the aforementioned challenge, ‘an old man sitting on a park bench, feeding some pigeons.’
He looked down at them moving, with one single purpose, to be the first, because being first meant you would not only garner all the rewards, but you would also ensure your survival. He dug his hand into the brown paper bag, and grabbed another handful of the seed, then tossed it in front of him, and again, they flocked from everywhere, to be the first. He allowed himself to smile, taking great pride in the fact that these poor creatures might not survive, if it wasn’t for him.
“You seem pretty happy with yourself?” A voice says, he jumps with fright, quickly looking around the dirty, run down park for the owner of the voice, only to find no one, he shakes his head and grabs another handful.
“It won’t make up for it all, if that’s what you’re hoping,” the strange voice says.
This time the old man leaps to his feet, he spins in a circle, frightening all the birds away with his sudden movements, “Who are you? It’s not funny sneaking up on an old man!” He yells.
“Please excuse my theatrics, I assure you there is no humor intended, I’m just making polite conversation,” the voice replies, as black smoke oozes up from cracks in the ground, and a figure takes shape before him. He stands several feet above the old man, dressed in a stylish black suit, with a deep red shirt, the old man sucks in a breath and holds it. “Oh, I’m sorry, is this not helping the situation?” The man says.
“Get your words out Norman!” The man snarls.
Norman’s eyes widen, his skin goes pale, and his lip trembles, “H-H-How do you kn-kn-kn…”
“Oh for the sake of all that is, how do I know your name? is that what you want to know?” He asks, Norman nods his head quickly. “Well, what a grand question, sit, feed your feathered friends, and let me tell you all about it,” the man says, gesturing for Norman to sit, he hits the seat with a thud and begins to quickly empty the contents of the bag in several large handfuls, not taking his eyes off the man, who smiles as his sits beside him.
“Do you remember a short time ago, when you begged, pleaded, cried and screamed for help, when your beautiful wife Millicent was dying? Do you remember?”
Norman’s lip trembles again, and he nods his head.
“Remember when you prayed for a miracle, prayed that she be saved no matter what the cost?”
Norman nods his head again.
The man smiles once more, and leans towards him, extending his hand to shake, “Then Norman, I’ll answer your first question of who I am, I am your cost,” he says, as Norman stares deep into his eyes, and feels flames lick his very soul.