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Weekly Contest #327
Wilhelmina's cat Wilhelmina’s old witch’s broom was her pride and joy. The holiday was coming up, so she meticulously cleaned and repainted its stiffened bristles with lamp black. Then she oiled the hardwood stick handle, giving the old grain a new finish. Polished its brash fittings and stirrups to a high gleam. Replaced the badly perishing, right over left, handed-grip along the haft, one procured from only the finest quality manufacturer. And made sure the side-view mirrors were positioned just right, never worried about the reflected re...
Weekly Contest #325
The journalist doesn’t hear the shots. The attached silencer ensures that. And oblivious to the muzzle flashes, dimly visible through the grimy windows, the journalist walks to the front of the old building, his blasé attitude clueless in the drizzling rain, and about to knock... ‘Freeze, prick!’ a chilling voice behind him demands. ‘Hands up.’ Cold and hard, a pistol presses against the back of his skull, ‘Get ya hands up.’ The journalist instantly obeys. ‘Down on your knees.’ Again, he complies, dropping to his knees one by one. He is roug...
The hot breeze brushed against the old prospector’s leathery skin. Yet he ignored the hardship it presented for the moment, as he hitched a rope to his mule. Then bitching as he usually did about the pestilent flies and heat, the miner led the mule forward as she hauled yet another bucket load of burden to the top of the mine shaft. Then, hitching her off with a length of measured rope against a post, the miner trudged back toward his mine. Precariously balanced near the edge of the rapt chasm, the old-timer struggled with the stubborn and ...
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