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Weekly Contest #152
The bounty hunter rode through the valley, an empty canteen and loaded gun banging at his thigh. The sun beat down on him, causing his open-throated shirt to be soaked with sweat. He wanted a beer. Whether it be unexcitingly flat or painfully bubbly, he wanted one. But first, shade. Something that couldn’t be found in this winding valley at high noon. The mule underneath him seemed to be tired of the heat as well, but what did he care? It had been free, after all. Stolen from the last man he hunted down. He had already forgotten the man’s na...
Weekly Contest #113
This is my worst nightmare. I’m headed down County Road 13 in the back of a 1960 Cadillac Eldorado with a revolver—a fucking revolver!—held to my right temple. Viktor Fedorov, who I had called a friend for fifteen or so years, is the one holding it, telling me to keep calm and that if I don’t make a fuss my kids don’t have anything to worry about. The man driving, Ivan Popov, has a cigarette in his mouth that tincts every time he inhales, which pisses me off, considering he was in on the whole plan, too. But, maybe I should give credit wher...
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