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Weekly Contest #149
Cara climbed up to her studio apartment between the gun shop and the chicken hatchery, along Indiana’s scenic Elkhart River. The door opened with the usual spine-chilling squeal, although the landlord had lubricated the hinges a half dozen times. “Hello, dear,” her mother’s ghost said. “How was school today?” “Don’t bother her, Dorothy,” her father said. “She’s clearly exhausted. Don’t mind your mother, Cara.” “Supper is almost done,” her mother said, slipping into the navy wool coat she’d died in. “Ten more minutes should do it. Don’t wo...
Weekly Contest #128
“Spot o’ tea, Vicar?” “You have got to be kidding me,” Gilly said. “That is how you’re going to open our screenplay?” Darnel Miller glared at his writing partner over his tablet; Gilford—Gilly—Simmons sprawled in the chair opposite Darnel’s desk, tapping his teeth with a pencil. “What’s wrong with it?” Darnel groused. “It immediately sets up the scene—England, probably the moors or some such moody location, fog or mists or what have you—and that it’s a mystery.” “And I suppose the protagonist is the local priest.” Darnel made a rude nois...
Weekly Contest #123
“That’s it. It’s over,” Astoria said from the backstage shadows, as she stepped into Queen Gertrude’s gown for Act 5. “Good night, sweet ladies.” “Maybe not,” Kingsley said, fondling the props for Scene 2. “There’s Kickstarter and Lidia’s new influencer gig for Ben Nye makeup. We can still save the theater.” Bernard made a rude noise. “No one is going to pay for greasepaint tripe.” “You’re delusional, Kingsley, my dear,” Astoria said. “After this travesty, we’ll be lucky to extricate our own acting careers let alone the theater. There are...
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