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Weekly Contest #376
CW: Violence, kidnapping The clouds blow a purple over the bluffs when storm's coming. That's how I knew one was. But I was stopped in my leaving town by three men. Only one of whom did I recognize. Pat Ragnell. He stood in front, blocking my path, regarding me. It didn't look too violent, but I kept a hand 'neath my jacket, knowing better than to trust how it looked. Pat spoke. Listen Lawman. We think it wrong t'yure doing. And we've spaken to the priest. He concurs. So, we are credentialed in this opinion aren't we boys. The boys cried...
Weekly Contest #363
Day 1: April 28th. Take Off. It's me, Patrick (Burger), Trevor (Burger), Lam-lam, and David. The fellas ready and waiting. Patrick is a little pissed at me for being late. Trevor seems a little awkward and nervous. His first chase – he's fifteen or something. Not sure if David is staying with us. I hope he's not; dude's a little annoying. Game plan; dry line building in NM. We aim to be in the OK panhandle late 29th. Patrick leading. We are stopping at Walmart for supplies on the way out. Sundry necessities; e.g. water, Cheetohs, caffei...
Weekly Contest #362
'You got fans,' said the new guard, taking his place in a plastic moulded seat by the bars of the cell – not too near – removing his hat and sipping cafe-au-lait. 'Fuck 'em.' 'Is that how you feel about it?' The inmate lifted his oiled head from the cot to glance at the clock high on the far wall. 'Yeah,' he said, resting his head again, 'useless fuckers. So fuck 'em.' 'When was you first scheduled?' The guard and the inmate knew each other like cubicle neighbors, and had been able to share such easy uninspired talk. Sometimes the inmat...
Weekly Contest #350
The first one Martin Kempt noticed was the one in the middle. The one with the straw-dry salt and pepper hair, crinkled back behind his ears - part of a panel of three who would be interviewing Mr. Kempt – who had his attention directed downward to a small stack of papers which he shuffled with such deliberation as to look affected. Martin, already laminated in perspiration under the strain of the impending interview, now gushed. His clothes became thick and soggy and moved strangely against his skin, and -- dare he believe it -- already ex...
Weekly Contest #339
'Tea', I asked, 'I'll make.' 'Yes, thank you. I have bags in the cupboard. Irish. I hope you don't mind.' Ordinarily I would not have the bad manners to offer somebody tea in their own home, using their own teabags and milk. But Mrs. Rutherford I had known since the age of two, and though our relationship had not the clarity of a parent, or even a grandparent and child, she occupied that level of familiarity. The teabags, as I knew, were on top of the fridge. I did my best not to show the correction, nor break stride as I felt her freeze ...
Weekly Contest #325
CW: Gore, body horror The house was in tatters. The house was always in tatters. A clamor came from within, and belched out as the toddlers Marcus and Freia spilled into the yard, overgrown and strewn with plastic toys. Freia cried and swung at Marcus; Marcus, oblivious to his sister, ran with precocious ferocity, chasing a trio of squirrels. Their father, Baron Cobert, forty-two and feeling every bit of it climbed from his vehicle. He wanted to swing the door shut behind him; but knew the car was likely to drop its bowels at such a gestu...
Weekly Contest #324
I was suspended, momentarily, in an eddy. Gentle fingers of some submerged vegetation tickled my ankles and tousled my hair, which was coaxed fully away from my face and into the water. A gelatinous finger ran across my back, but I didn't even shudder. I turned slowly, round and round, with time to consider the sky. I was floating down the Murk, that brown heady effluent of the Broad River, drifting slowly through hick, shibbolethic America, its wooded banks alive with lurid eyes. Yeah, I had hated that Murk for a very long time; living wi...
Weekly Contest #303
He texted Billy to meet him at the bar round seven. Billy's response was terse, 'K'. A lump had been set in his throat for a while now and was, he had noticed, linked to his increasingly fragile psychological state. Any slightest hurdle in social or moral interaction set this thing alive and made him want to puke, then cry. This single syllable 'K' from Billy was just the sort of trivial perturbation to set it off, jumping like a bean in his esophagus. He called Marci. Told her how much he loved her, missed her, and wished he would see her...
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