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October 10, 2006


Here's a great theme suggestion (from the Theme Submissions box) submitted anonymously:

Losing One's Voice

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Jim: And Then A Whimper

“Help me.”

Those two words, spoken by a child, cut through the radio static like a knife.

“This is Tango Zebra 1245.” I used the call sign out of habit. “Please repeat.”

“Help me,” sobbed the child. “I’m afraid.”

I squeezed the microphone. “Where are you?”

I wish I’d heard silence. Silence meant an open mike. Instead, I got static.

“Please come back,” I begged.

I sat in my shelter, listening on that frequency for hours.

For most people, the world ended when the bombs fell. For me, it ended with a child crying for help that would never come.

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Laurence: The Dotted Line

Diva Chandelier and the record company fought for years, but in the end her army of lawyers fell to the combined might of the entire music industry.

The facts were clear: she had defaulted on an exclusive billion-dollar ten album, five concert tour deal.

But what was worse was that she had taken to singing in public... for free.

"A contract is a contract," said the judge from inside the record company's pocket. "Judgement is for the plaintiff, the defendant will surrender her voice."

Her last public statement before going into the clinic for forced cauterization was a profanity-laden curse.

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David: Block

The author hit the Delete key and groaned in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” his girlfriend called from the other room.

“Nothing,” he replied automatically. “It’s the words. They’re not coming out right.”

She stuck her head in the door. “What? How is that even possible? Are the ones you’re typing not showing up on the screen?”

He chuckled despite himself. “They make sense. They’re in order. They say what I want them to. They just don’t sound right. They don’t sound like me.”

“Well, who do they sound like?” she asked. “Maybe he got your words by mistake. You could trade.”

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Stacy: Under the Weather

He stormed into the house, threw his briefcase at the expensive flower arrangement in the foyer, and stomped upstairs to their bedroom.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?!” he exploded, fists clenched in an attempt control himself.

She sat silently on the bed, the box in her hands forgotten.

“I trusted you,” he raged. “I trusted you with my future, my LIFE!”

He swept the contents of her vanity table to the floor, powder and kohl mixing with diamonds and pearls.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” he screamed.

She looked helplessly at the bronchitis medicine in her hands.

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