100 Words
Author's note: I am presently in the final two months of my final year at University; therefore I'm becoming a little STRESSTED!!!! Ahem, as a result of the stories that I'm writing are nothing more short of written masturbation. That is except for this piece and "Judas". Anyway, this story came about after one too many emails to a PR company I was trying to get work experience at.
In no less then 100 words and citing with example, where appropriate, describe how your experiences make you a valid candidate for this company.
From the moment you leave high school, your life is governed by application forms. College, university, employment; all these areas of you life need you to give short, sharp answers in order for you to actually get anywhere. In a way, we've all become little ad execs. You need to sell yourself to have someone take notice. Need someone to bring all those reports in on time, maybe even before the deadline. Then call: 1-800-NOONAN! Yes, Noonan! For all your office needs. In the near enough future we'll all be filling out forms on our death beds.
In no less then 100 words and citing examples where appropriate, describe how your life up until these point makes your corpse a valuable candidate for our silk trimmed coffin.
Can't sell yourself? Then expect to be thrown into a pit with about twenty other coffin hopefuls and covered in lime.
All this, morbid as it sounds, has come to my mind as I find myself kneeling on the sidewalk outside a 7-11 with my hands behind my back and the barrel of a gun firmly pressed into the back of my skull. Attached to the gun is a well manicured hand which belongs to a reasonable man with a reasonable proposition. Decide what I want to do with my life or have the contents of the gun pushed at full force through my brain. One moment I'm walking past this weird guy who keeps talking to some imaginary friend of his, the next I'm on the floor wondering why no one is doing anything to help me. Fuck this city!
"I ask you again, John C. Noonan." Says the manicured hand, "What do you want to do with your life?"
In no less then 100 words, explain why you should be allowed to continue to live.
Then it hits me, I have no idea. I have the proverbial gun against my head and I couldn't give you an honest answer if I tried. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was five. Then a journalist, a psychiatrist and even the idea of being a screenwriter has crossed the spoilt matter my parents thought were brains. So, if I can't come to a clear conclusion at the end of 25 years, how the hell does this guy expect me to come up with one now?
In no less then 100 words, explain why you don't think things through.
I always meant to have a plan, but it easier to sleepwalk through life. Half-asleep, you protected from the pressures of growing up. Mortgage, kids, wife, job satisfaction. All these and more are things I haven't even given thought to until now. Right now, with the metal cylinder attached to my head as if it were a birthmark, my only thought is that if I survive I'm gonna have such a headache. I hear the safety click and finally I blurt out my answer.
100 words is not enough.
"I don't know and probably never will." I shout, "Life, as I see it, is something I should grab. Why be tied down with a well paying job before I'm ready to appreciate it?"
"Go on" says the hand,
"I don't think I'll ever know what I really want until I reach rock bottom and amazingly, this isn't it."
The hand laughs deep and hard and I feel the gun being removed from the back of my head.
"You can go John C. Noonan." It says, "And I'll see you tomorrow at Lou's Place."
I hear the hand walk away, but I don't turn around. I hear the mad man from before berating his 'friend' from doing "such a stupid thing in such a public place, Tyler".
When I think my would be assailant has gone, I turn around and find my wallet lying behind me, minus my driver's license. Why did that guy not shoot me? Tomorrow, I'm gonna find Lou's Place and believe me I'm gonna kick that guys ass. Even if he's surrounded by a ton of his biggest friends. Though, after saying that, a little part of me thanks him. He's ever so slightly opened my eyes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go home and smoke some pot. This has been some fucked up shit.
In no less then 100 words, if you had a gun pointed to your head, how would you react?
Don't forget the examples.