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Weekly Short Story Contests > Week 419 (July 26-August 1) Stories Topic: Sunset

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message 1: by C. J., Atm Seeker in the "Lin Kuei" (last edited Aug 02, 2018 09:19AM) (new)

C. J. Scurria (goodreadscomcj_scurria) | 4216 comments You have until the 1st of August to post a story and from the 2nd to around the 6th of August, we’ll vote for which one we thought was best!

Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group. Only one submission per person is allowed.

Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long.

REMEMBER! A short story is not merely a scene. It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

This week’s topic is: Sunset

The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject/photo but it must relate to the topic somehow.

Most of all have fun!


message 2: by Garrison (new)

Garrison Kelly (cybador) | 9094 comments AUTHOR: Garrison Kelly
TITLE: Incelbordination, Chapter 7
GENRE: College Fiction
WORD COUNT: 1,477
RATING: PG-13 for language




The sun set on a dreadful Friday and Oswald couldn’t have been more grateful. In its place was a beautiful Saturday morning, complete with sleeping until noon and all the weed he could smoke in one sitting. He still hadn’t decided whether or not he wanted to torch the C- laden paper. He figured maybe he should’ve dragged his little ass out of bed to make those necessary corrections. Then again, correcting things never helped him in the past. Those C’s still gazed into his soul every time he laid eyes on them. Perhaps a nice walk in the afternoon sunshine would do him a few favors here and there.

MP3 player? Check. Ready roll? Check. Zippo? Double check, motherfucker. He certainly wouldn’t have accepted another book of matches from Antero no matter how desperately he needed them. Once the trench coat was on and “Lonesome Town” by Ricky Nelson soothed his aching ears, Oswald headed for the streets without telling his roommates goodbye. Then again, they wouldn’t have noticed even if he did.

The streets were nearly empty at this time of day. Normally people would be partying it up on a Saturday. Either that or Oswald was just as ignorant of other people as they were of him. As soon as those negative, lonely thoughts crept in his mind, he pulled out his ready roll. Even with his Zippo clearly in the palm of his fucking hand, he could hear a familiar voice from behind asking him if he needed a light. “Oh no….oh hell no…” the dwarf moaned while shaking his head.

He pulled off the headsets and turned around to see Antero Magnus holding a book of matches. “Well, it’s Groundhog Day…again,” joked the Incel.

“You motherfucker!” shouted Oswald. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t punch you in the dick right now! You trying to get me in trouble or some shit?! You knew what you were doing when you gave me that gift card, you sick prick!”

“You’re right!” retorted Antero as he leaned down to meet Oswald’s eyes. “I knew exactly what I was doing. I was trying to teach you a lesson. You didn’t even need an ass-load of tuition money to learn that.”

“You ain’t helping your case, buddy! I’ve still got one more punch in me and it’s aimed at your….”

“Listen to me, damn it!” snapped Antero. “I know you’re upset and you damn well should be. Those girls who hang out at Mickey D’s are underage, yes, they are. They’re young, naïve, immature…and yet they’re the only girls in this world who find us attractive.” Oswald’s fighting stance eased up at that statement. “Think about this for a minute. Our one safe haven for finding love and the government outlaws it. Tell me again how everything’s not stacked against us.”

“So you’re mad because you can’t fuck little girls?”

Antero stood up and sighed. “Obviously, I’m not getting through to you. Take a walk with me for a minute. I’ve got something to show you.”

“Let me guess: you’re going to introduce me to your dead Uncle Tuomas? Yeah, that’s right. I almost got sent to jail over what you put me through. The cop who picked me up told me all about your Uncle Tuomas! I bet you’ve got an Aunt Floor Jansen and a Grandma Anette Olzon too!”

Antero chuckled, “I never get tired of hearing those Nightwish jokes. But yes, it’s true: I’m of Finnish descent and my Uncle Tuomas is dead as a doornail. But I’m willing to bet you anything the cop only gave you the Cliff’s Notes version of what happened. Cliff’s Notes are good, but not in a college setting where C-‘s are staring you in the face with a murderous grin. Come with me. Let me set you straight.”

From there the two of them had a brief walk to the local cemetery. Oswald never let Antero out of his sight in case the sly bastard had a knife he couldn’t wait to coat with midget blood. For the most part, the incel leader seemed sincere in his gestures. And then shit got real when the two of them approached Tuomas Magnus’s grave. The poor guy died young, as was the case of a lot of suicide victims. The cold hard fact wasn’t lost on Antero when he removed his sunglasses and gazed down at the grave with sadness etched in his features.

“Oswald, I want you to pay close attention to something I’m about to point out to you.” The incel pointed at various graves and said, “Bouquet of roses” to each of them. “Now I want you to take a look at Tuomas’s grave and tell me what you see.”

“…No roses.”

“That’s right, Oswald. Nobody bothered to leave him one single rose. Not my deadbeat dad. Not my bitch ass mom. Not anybody in the community, in fact. They all gave up on him. They bought into the rape charge bullshit like it was the word of god. The police will tell you that they had more than enough evidence to press charges. Then again, the police have never been trustworthy to begin with. They can delete body camera footage at the drop of a hat. They can beat and shoot anybody they damn well please and get a paid vacation for it. Uncle Tuomas was just another victim of this unjust system. One little girl cried rape and now everybody descended upon him with pitchforks and torches.”

Oswald sighed, hung his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I get how fucked up false rape accusations can be, but what does your dead uncle have to do with me?”

Physically leveling with his “friend” yet again, Antero said, “Well, you’ve seen the lack of roses on Tuomas’s grave. Tell me: who’s going to leave roses on your grave when you die?” Oswald’s face grew solemn. “I’d leave them, but I might not be around for much longer if this police investigation keeps up. How long do you think you have left on this earth, Oswald, before the Chads and Stacys cripple you to death? Three years? Maybe four? You’re a young man. Young men with English degrees don’t do well in this piss-poor economy. The only other option you’d have left is to marry a woman with money. The only question is…who’s going to want to blow their trust fund on you, Oswald?”

Wiping a solitary tear from his eye, Oswald mustered up, “I have a few friends…”

“A few? I’m sorry, Oswald, but a few doesn’t make up an entire funeral congregation. You’re lonely and you don’t want to admit it. You have nobody you can turn to in this world. Not your teachers, not your so-called friends who’ll backstab you in a heartbeat…not even your dead parents.”

The dwarf gazed up at Antero with tears pooling in his eyes. “Is my Face Book profile that obvious?”

“More obvious than an anvil falling out of the sky, my friend.” Just as Oswald was about to burst into an ugly sob, Antero held his shoulders and said, “It’s true. I know all about your parents’ deaths. I’ll never forget that angry rant you posted. Your mom and dad were killed by a drunk driver. But instead of giving that Night Train-drinking bastard lethal injection, the judge gave him a few years at most because of his sudden love for Jesus Christ. The cops can arrest us anytime they want. But what if we just made up the Jesus Christ excuse once the heat got too hot? Together, we can change the world. Together, we can show the Chads and Stacys that they don’t run shit anymore.”

Antero extended his hand to shake and all Oswald could do was stare at it with tears falling from his face. He then slapped the hand away and hugged his newfound friend around the neck. The incel leader awkwardly hugged him back and allowed the dwarf to cry on his shoulder.

“Let it all out, little guy. Let it all out. Incelbordination is here for you. The cops don’t give a shit about you. The Stacys don’t give a shit about you. But I do. Come join us for a support session. You can talk all about your feelings and eat fast food until your belly explodes. Maybe you can smoke that joint and get hungry for some more food. A Quarter Pounder with Cheese won’t judge you.”

Oswald broke his embrace and wiped his tears on his trench coat sleeve. Nodding, he said, “Count me in, Antero. Don’t leave me out here with these normies.”

“I knew you’d see the light one of these days, my friend. It was a foregone conclusion since the day you were born into this fucked up world.”


message 3: by Edward (new)

Edward Davies | 1727 comments Title : Co-Operative Operative (Helen Singer, Chapter 22, Part One)
Author : Edward Davies
Word Count : 1192
Rating : PG13

To cut a long story short, Michael Hamelin was at home.

“Can I help?” he asked when he answered the door, “I was about to turn in for the night – I’ve got a five o’clock start tomorrow, Sergeant Singer.”

“I know,” my mum said, a little sadly. She’d allowed me to come along with her, as well as my dad. I thought at the time it was a little strange, but in hindsight she probably just wanted to keep us all together. Now that the sun had fully set, the monsters in this town were free to roam the streets.

“So what is it?” Hamelin asked. He sounded more irritated than concerned, which made me think that maybe he didn’t know what was going on.

“There’s a possibility,” my mum said cautiously, “that you may be cursed.”

“Cursed?” Hamelin said, looking both astonished and amused, “What are you…” he paused, then his amused expression changed to one of real concern, “is this Ichabod Flamel?”

Did everyone in this town know about the curse?

“I’m afraid so,” my mum continued, “we were hoping you could come with us to the station…” my mum hesitated, “…well, we’ll put you in a hotel room and keep you under observation, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course,” Hamelin nodded, “so, when was I cursed? I can’t remember anything weird.”

I answered him, “I think it was on the weekend,” I told him, “Saturday or more likely Sunday.”

“Really?” Hamelin frowned, “That’s weird, I can remember what I was doing on those nights.”

“It’s just a precaution,” my mum told him, “just in case you change. We want to ensure that no other children go missing.”

“So what do you think I was cursed to turn into?” Hamelin asked, sounding more than an odd amount of happy about the turn of events in his life. He really was taking the idea that he may be responsible for the abduction of a number of children in the area in his stride, “I always thought it would be weird if I changed into Michael Myers from the Halloween movies.”

“We think you’re the Pied Piper,” my dad chimed in, “but we’re not one hundred per cent sure.”

“The Pied Piper,” Hamelin nodded, “I guess that makes sense. So why haven’t I changed already? I always though the curse starts in the evenings.”

“This might be more of a subtle curse,” I suggested, “one that only presents itself slightly. I mean, we don’t think you transform into a monster or anything like that.”

“Glad to hear it.” Hamelin said, “but it doesn’t explain why I can remember what I was doing on those nights.”

Hamelin did have a fair point. Iskander hadn’t remembered transforming into a Basilisk, and had actually been terrified when he’d woken up naked with no memory of where he’d been or how he’d got where he’d found himself in the mornings. If Hamelin could remember the events of the last few nights, no matter how banal they might have been, then maybe he wasn’t the Pied Piper after all.

“There could be any number of reasons for the discrepancies,” I said, “but if you could… humour us, at the very least we might be able to discount you as a suspect.”

Hamelin picked up his jacket from a coat hook next to the door, “Anything to help,” he shrugged, throwing the coat on, “is it okay if I grab a book to read?”

“Of course,” my dad smiled. He always liked seeing other people reading.

Hamelin disappeared into another area of the house where we couldn’t see him. For a moment my heart jumped as I worried that he was going to make a break for it out a back door or window or something, but after a minute or two he returned carrying a few books in his hands.

“In case I finish one,” he said. My mum told me later that she’d observed Hamelin to be one heck of a reader, quite often getting through a book or two while manning the front desk at the police station.

It didn’t take us long to get to the hotel where Basil Iskander was being kept, and thanks to a deal my mum had made with the hotel manager she was able to procure the room next to Basil at a reasonable rate.

“That way I don’t have to call in another officer to watch the doors,” my mum said, “And these rooms have alarms on the windows so Basil and Michael won’t be able to get out that way if they decided to do so.”

“Why do they have alarms on the windows?” I asked, not really sure what reason a hotel would have for alarming their windows in such a way.

“The manager puts guests he thinks look suspicious in those rooms,” mum told me, “in case the credit card they leave at reception is stolen. It just means there’s one less way for them to get out of paying their bill at the end of the day.”

“Well, not to worry,” Hamelin beamed, “I’m not going anywhere. I know how the law works.”

“Thanks for making this easy, Michael,” my mum said, smiling at her colleague.

“Not a problem, Mary,” Michael replied, “I’m sure I can settle in quite nicely for the night. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

And with that Michael Hamelin retired to his hotel room.

“Well,” I raised my eyebrows at my mum and dad, “that was pretty easy.”

“He’s a good man, that Michael Hamelin,” my mum said, “he knows that this is all for the best, and that it could clear him of being infected by the Flamel curse. If no-one else disappears, though, we may have found our next victim.”

“We may need to anaesthetise him,” I said, “it worked for Mr Iskander.”

My mum and dad stared at me in surprise, so I explained about Wendy Goldsmith and how Fran and I had come to the conclusion that if we could identify the cursed people would could drug them before they transformed at sunset.

“And that worked?” my mum asked, then nodded, “And that worked.”

“We weren’t sure it would,” I admitted, “but you were there…” I paused, “and you don’t remember. We managed to change him back from a giant Basilisk to his old self. If Hamelin changes, it should be a breeze to knock him out. It’s not as if he transforms into a monster now, is it?”

“I’ll call the station when we get back,” my mum said, “I’ll ask Officer Wolf to drop some tranquilisers off to Officer O’Malley when he finishes shift in an hour.”

My mum waved at the officer who was sat in a chair between the doors to Basil Iskander and Michael Hamelin’s hotel rooms. He waved back, then carried on watching television on his iphone.

“So what now?” I asked.

“What now?” my dad smiled, “Why, we go home?”

“And do what?” I added.

“Get some rest,” my mum pulled my hat off my head and ruffled my hair. I hated that, “You’ve had quite the day.”


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