So, my local amateur theatre is running a writing competition, for people to write a play no longer than 10 minutes long. So, I was wondering if that could be adapted for here: write a short story ... but how short is short? I just looked at one of my own very short stories, and it was around 2600 words.

So, the task: write a short story in 2500 words or less. It will, I am sure, include braces.

The theme (although NOT the title!) will be the same as for that 10 minute play: "Snakes and ladders". Interpret it how you like.

I don't consider what AI programs can do as writing. It is just taking what real writers have done and copying it with a few tweaks to make it seem different. If you actually take what the AI gave you and turn it into a real story, I would enjoy seeing what you come up with.

I'll be honest, I can't write short stories that are worth reading.

I could tell before they said it was by chat gpt. They are all about resilience and growth and it has metaphors that no human would actually use. They hate it, and then they love it by the end, purely because the characters are so optimistic and see the bright side of things when times get bad.

ChatGPT adds a lot of rubbish and fake to our times, so it matches them. So sad! 

I have an idea for, what I think, would be a good “snakes and ladder” short story.  I worked it out in my head on the drive home.  But no orthodontia is involved.  Would I be wasting my time to type it out here?

It's only a short story, so yeah, go for it!!!! I don't remember a rule that all postings / stories must include braces!!! :-)

Yup, it seems so:

https://dereferer.me/?https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/who-invented-the-board-game-snakes-and-ladders/articleshow/3585003.cms

also: https://dereferer.me/?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snakes_and_ladders

"The most widely known edition of snakes and ladders in the United States is Chutes and Ladders, released by Milton Bradley in 1943. The playground setting replaced the snakes, which were disliked by children at the time."

(and you thought that sort of thing was a 2020's thing?)

Takiing up Sparky's challenge, I offer version 1.0 of a story entitled "Melissa":

MELISSA

Myths develop like pearls.  A story becomes embellished with each retelling, until it no longer resembles the speck of grit that started it all.  So it is with my myth too.  Perhaps more so because mine had already matured, and even fragmented into different versions, many generations ago.

My childhood could hardly have been happier or more fortunate.
As the youngest of three sisters, and something of a late lamb, my every whim was more than satisfied.  That's what everyone said, anyway, and I have no reason to doubt it.  I was certainly doted on.

Dad ran a shipping company.  Literally -- Gordon Shipping.  His wharfside office provided endless opportunities for a pretty little girl with a mop of unruly red hair to play hide-and-seek, to splash paint onto crates, or to help fishermen mend their nets and baskets whenever I wasn't in school.  We had a house with a garden not far away from the docs, but I loved being fussed over by his many clerks and assistants too much to spend much time at home.

I was twelve when Mr Novotny first strode into the office as though he owned the business.  Finely tailored clothes advertised his wealth, and that he hadn't inherited it.  Arms like thighs waved hands like paddles that flexed fingers that looked like wrinkle sausages from working hard for every penny.  More than a few of those pennies had been traded for the gold hoops that weighed down his earlobes and the chains tangled in the the coarse hair that sprouted from somewhere below his collar.  The rest of his hair, with one exception, would have dripped pomade if he'd spent too long under a hot sun.  Inky eyes noticed nobody between him and the stairs leading to the mezzanine balcony.  Two leaps and as many hauls brought him to the top, to Dad's desk, onto which he flung a banker's note as if it were a sack of gold coin.  Everyone downstairs suddenly had work to do.

It was the same every time he darkened the doorway to do business with Dad.  Until I was thirteen.  Those black pits of eyes spotted me, reading in a coil of hawsers.  Those boots tacked away from the office.  Those terrifying hand plucked me out of my nest while making it clear that I wasn't being asked to comply.

I stopped feeling pretty after that.  That's the first gritty grain of truth in the tale.  I resisted becoming a young lady.  I resisted the well-intentioned ministrations of my sisters who were themselves perfecting those arts.  My hair resisted their efforts to brush out the tangles until it was clear that my curls could never be restored to their former glory.  My braids were left to mat.  My skin sallowed until even my pimples had pimples.  My smile vanished as my eyes darkened and my teeth grew ever more crooked.  Despite their and Mom's best efforts, if I absolutely had to attend my first ball, would be in a frock of mousy velvet and leathery wings rather than in a froth of white lace.
I looked cadaverous, and I preferred it that way.

Percival was the last person to whom my family would have turned in search of a miracle.  I'd been lectured, blessed, incanted and prayed over, bled, prodded and poked.  I'd seen shamans, druids, herbalists, apothecaries, surgeons, physicians witches and even a priest to exorcise my demons.  Vile potions, acrid smoke, icy water, leeches.  Mom baulked at the idea of trephination, but nothing else had achieved the results they all prayed for.  I'd turned into a fang-toothed hobgoblin, and it seemed that nothing and nobody could turn me into their beautiful daughter and sister again.

I actually burst out laughing when he rapped on the door.  He looked barely older than I was, twice my height, half my weight and clinging to his ornate walking staff to avoid being blown away by the breeze flapping his trouser legs.  He looked ridiculously adorable with his skew-whiff hat, skew-whiff glasses and skew-whiff tie at his collar that looked several sizes too big.  We got on immediately.  He was as antithetical to machismo as I was to femininity.  I was wrong about that, but it was the only reason I gave him the time of day.

He liked Dad.  Not only in the way that one likes a wealthy prospective customer.  It was that Dad pronounced his surname correctly immediately after seeing it printed on his calling card.  Asklepiades.  Probably only because Dad had several Greek clients.  But, as sceptical and even cynical as everyone had become this time, and in light of my appearing less resistant than usual, Percy accompanied me and Mom upstairs for an examination.

"Helping you to regain your confidence will take time," he said when we'd all reconvened downstairs again to hear what he had to say.  This was generally a source of entertainment for the family and anyone else who happened to be visiting at the time, but Percy was the first healer who had ever addressed me rather than the person he'd hoped would pay him.  "If you'll allow me, there are several things I can do, but it will mostly be time that will do the work while we're busy."
"What will it cost?" Dad asked.
"A dance, but only when we've finished," Percy responded as I thrilled at the idea.  "Do you have a scarf, or maybe a wig?  We'll have to start by cutting those elflocks of yours.  Your hair is such a pretty colour.  And you have such a lovely smile."
"With teeth like that?" Mom said.  "I"m sorry, honey."  It was true, though.  On a scale of one to vampire, my fangs were well beyond werewolf.
"They don't have to look like that forever, Mrs Gordon.  It's not as though they're set in stone.  We know that bone is alive because it can heal after being broken.  Perhaps it can be moulded as well."

It did take time.  Lots of time.  My skin healed first, most likely as a result of long walks with Percy.  They'd started out chaperoned by one or other of my sisters, but they soon had better things to do.  I looked rather unappealing anyway, with a knitted hat over my bum-fluff and the bronze framework in my mouth that was gradually pushing and pulling my teeth into position.  Kissing would certainly be awkward, but everyone was sure I'd be able to shout if I needed to.  I was the only one who was sure I wouldn't need to.  It did take a long time, and it was painful, but eventually it was apparent that the metalwork he'd so painstakingly fashioned and then repeated refashioned was doing its job.  He'd been correct in his assumptions, and my teeth were looking better.  At least whenever he removed the framework to make some adjustment.

Percy earned far more than a dance.  He's the love of my life, and afterlife.  And we both laugh at the myth.  There never was a bronze mirror.  Unlike most men, and despite my best efforts, he was never afraid to look at me, and to see the vulnerable young girl behind the mask she'd created.  My head remained firmly on my neck.  All he took to show others were sketches as he brought my fangs into alignment with the rest of my teeth.  By then, my snake-like elflocks had long-since been consigned to the fire.  I never did regain the spectacular fiery curls of my youth, but I did have a lovely strawberry-blonde mane until it faded into whiteness as we aged.  Percy never minded that.  By then, he'd begun to rely on his staff to get around.  We'd had a similar one made for me, although the spiral on mine was never as clearly defined as the snake that climbed his.

Oh, and as for my name -- it's Melissa, although the myth probably does fairly reflect my mumbling through pursed lips and crooked teeth before Percy saved me.  Yes, he killed Medusa, but we still live happily ever after.

I like the ancient setting of the story. Having the braces handmade and adjusted by someone not specifically trained is a nice touch.

Thank you.  I had to try long and hard to come up with something that would come close to Sparky's wonderfully quirky storytelling.

I like the detail in your story too, and I'm a sucker for a squishy ending.