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Weekly Contest #352
Winston Montag sat in a corner of the small cafe, staring down at his weathered hands in mute shock. His left hand gripped the grey paper cup, welcoming the familiar burning pain of the hot black coffee within. An old black and white television - there were no new ones in this grave new world - was broadcasting the morning news. A plain looking woman in a military style jacket spoke to the cameras. Winston could not make out what she was saying, but he assumed she was praising one vicotry or another in the war, and assuring him that his sacr...
Weekly Contest #350
Life in the Big Cave was no picnic, especially if one was a light sleeper like Wee-nee. The Big Cave went on and on into the mountain and there were animals living deep in the dark that made high, squeaky noises and low, growling noises. Wee-nee and the tribe stayed near the opening and the animal stayed away from the fires, but none of that made Wee-nee sleep easy. As usual, Wee-nee was the first one awake. Sounds of snoring, crackling fires and windy cheeks filled the cave. Wee-nee wrinkled his nose in disgust. He pushed a dirty finger in...
Weekly Contest #306
BROTH LOGLINE: A family trapped in an unending snowstorm must face the unspeakable horrors that each one brings to the table. FADE IN: EXT. SMALL HOUSE - WINTER DAY A small house is blanketed in snow. The drifts reach almost to the roof, and taper off just below the highest window. Dark smoke escapes from an ice-crusted chimney. Leading from the front door is a narrow path, flanked by ten feet of snow. It ends a few yards past a large woodpile. There are no other houses. It is snowing heavily. Everything is white and the only sound is wi...
Weekly Contest #275
If you want happy, look somewhere else. I can only promise to give you an ending in ninety seconds – one way or another. At 20,000 feet, you have ninety-seconds before you hit dirt. That information was generously provided to me by Sal Gianni, right before two of his goons threw me out of the plane. There may be things worth dying for, but, between you, me and that cornfield, Camello Gianni ain’t one of them. I met her in a Dairy Queen. She was blonde and knew how to wear the fuck out of a pair of Christian Louboutin high heel ...
Weekly Contest #272
“I hate her!” Jesse whispered to the empty room. "I f-f-fucking hate her. Shame and excitement roiled through his eleven-year-old body, "I fucking hate her," he repeated, not wanting to let go of this feeling. His face felt hot, as if he'd been standing in front of the basement furnace. It was a familiar feeling. The anger and the heat. Tears escaping like steam. If he'd stop to think about it, Jesse would be hard-pressed to remember a week when she hadn't done some petty, cruel act that set him off. It was a ritual ...
Weekly Contest #271
On a clean, deceptively bright morning, the storyteller lowers himself onto his usual bench. Even that small effort makes him wince. He has the misfortune of attaining an age where he aches in more places than not. He tries and fails to ignore the stranger standing behind him and off to the side. The stranger claims to be a nurse, but this does not fool the storyteller. There is no one here, other than the two of them. The storyteller and the stranger are always alone. Part of him knows this isn't exactly right, but most of him be...
Weekly Contest #264
It's 6:45 a.m. A gritty, mundane magic pervades the air at "Valentine's Cove" in the Hamilton Hotel, known for its three and half star service and rooftop views of the New York City skyline. Silver troughs filled with thick wedges of French toast, pounds of flattened, cardboard-like bacon, mounds of shiny sausage links, and piles of other artery-clogging goodies shine proudly side by side on a long faux wood table. All the tables are draped in white linen cloth. Large stainless steel urns of strong, hot coffee stand guard over the holy of h...
Weekly Contest #263
Fred's ruined face stared back at him from a fractured, mold-spotted mirror. The remains of breakfast pooled around his feet. A pair of lace panties clung to his shoe, glued there by God knew what. Bits of flesh stuck between his yellow teeth, along with the sodden remains of a "hand wash only" label. There was no denying that he'd seen better days.Being a zombie is no picnic. Compelled to pause and take stock of himself, Fred wiped his gore-stained hands on a filthy shirt, unsure if he was cleaning the hands or the shirt. His right eye...
Weekly Contest #262
WKTU promised the two-week heatwave was winding down. The overly optimistic DJ promised a break in the heat as early as this evening. Too little, too late.George wiped his brow with an old dishtowel and pushed his sunglasses back up upon his nose. Everything ached. Overused muscles throbbing over arthritic knees and hands.The sun was climbing over the hills in the east and the world wasn't boiling quite yet, but the night had been one for the books and the ceiling fan didn't cut it. Everything was in a sort of suspension. Like a staged ...
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