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Writing Contest #23 - entries READ AND VOTE HERE!
What the Hell Happened to You?"I thought I’d cook a meal for the new girlfriend, Elsa, the hot Swede? So I had to go shopping. Went along the High Street to the butcher to buy some steak, you know, put some lead in our pencils? But when I got there, ambulance, blues n twos, the full monty. Turns out the butcher had fallen into the bacon slicer.
So - I thought, you can’t go wrong with Italian, so nipped along the road to Luigis. He’d only gone and tripped over a truffle and broken his wrist, hadn’t he?
So quick thinking, bottle of fizzy and a takeaway, that’s a cosy evening in. Sorted.
Cork flew out and hit me in the bloody eye. Then Elsa was making eyes at the pizza delivery boy so I hit ‘im. And then he hit me, harder. I fell backwards, slipped on the cheesey stuffed crust and broke me ankle."
The sign on the doorThe door had a sign on it that said simply
Hidden Danger
Do Not Open
It hadn’t been there when they viewed the place. Had it? She would not have remembered the door in all likelihood, but the sign was something that you would remember.
It must be a joke left by the previous owners. A bad joke.
She opened the door, only to find another door bearing another sign
No, seriously
Do NOT
open the door.
That would be bad for everyone.
There was something a little alarming about the way that the ‘not’ was capitalised, italicised and underlined. She had the impression that it would also have been in bold if the author had been able to manage that somehow.
Now, she had to know what was on the other side.
She opened the door.
There was a sound between a growl and a hiss… and nothing more.
TemptationO, that cheese so temptingly displayed,
aroma driving me depraved,
too good to be true;
did they forget to put it away?
But it’s dark now, they’ve gone to bed.
What was it they said?
Something called a “rat” being fed?
Whence this dread?
It’s just a morsel, won’t be missed.
Nibble a bit, then desist.
What harm? Why resist?
Silent, draw near.
Sniff the air.
All clear.
Little wooden platform alight.
One bite...
[g’night]
Truth, more Dangerous than fictionThis is a true story. I was skydiving in South Africa in 2001. A man jumped out of the plane in front of me and his main chute failed. He pulled the reserve and landed safely. That would have been enough for me but he went back up and jumped again and the same thing happened. At this time you might have thought he would be a bit nervous. No. He jumped a third time and it happened again. Clearly he was either packing his chute wrong or someone had it in for him. At this point his wife and children arrived to take him home. They got in the car, drove out of the airfield and were all killed when they drove in front of an articulated lorry.
If You Want Something Done Right...“You made it! You’ve done something right, for once.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Did you follow your orders? Drug the dogs and sneak past the guards?”
“Um, well, I drugged the guards and sneaked past the dogs.”
“I suppose that will do. Then did you climb over the wall and under the barbed wire?”
“Was that what you wanted? I went under the wall and over the wire.”
“Anything that finishes the mission is fine by me. Then did you take a compromising photograph of the enemy commander with his mistress before planting a bug in his car.”
“I planted a bug on his mistress and took a picture of the car.”
“Stupid boy! Never mind. As long as we achieve the main objective. Did you bring back the secret plans and plant the bomb with the timer set for … let me see … five seconds from now?”
“Ah....”
Dragon’s DemiseThe sun on rising ripples hints
Of water cold and clear,
Casting brightly cresting glints
Through which the eye can’t peer.
There’s movement hidden in the shine:
A sinuous flexing dance,
Something almost serpentine
That plays the mind to trance
An eddy swirl, a splash, a plop,
A flick of golden light,
A movement curling through the top,
Now stolen out of sight.
Around the reeds the breeze laments,
The rushes bend and sigh,
For surface skimming, bright besprent,
And lustrous dragon fly.
The mirror breaks and floats aside:
A gleaming lustrous twist
Of silver riptide and glimmering hide
On a ravenous terrorist.
The fanfaronade of spectral pride
That dragon chose to show,
Brought to him untimely death
That swam from down below.
The lily pads then cover up
The jewels deadly fate,
As golden ogon swims beneath
Her floating dinner plate.
Sorting out the mess.“Where is it?”
I stare through the window without acknowledging his presence.
“I’ll take this place apart. Tell me where it is – or you’ll have a mess to sort out.”
I ignore him. Slamming the door he stamps upstairs and begins throwing stuff about.
I can see his car, full of his things. Our marriage died when we learned I can’t have children. He told me this morning he’s leaving. All he said was, “I’ve found someone else. She’s pregnant.”
He thunders downstairs, hesitates in the hall, shouts, “You silly bitch it!” and goes to the cellar.
I’ve hated having it in the house, but he’s not taking it. I hope there’s a split-second when he grasps it that he sees the string and knows what I’ve done.
I jump when the shotgun roars, even though I’ve been expecting it.
I phone the police.
Someone else can sort out the mess.
MichaelI watch them come. I watch them go. I see all, but they don't see me – not as I truly am. It is my domain.
New ones come. I count these in too. I silently watch as they select their places. This time there are small ones. They show less reserve than the older ones. They are curious. Maybe they will adopt the wisdom that their elders cannot.
"Is your name Michael?" says one.
Ah! Yes. That old question. It always comes up. Eventually. And it's usually the small ones that ask – the ones with no reserve and much curiosity.
"No," I say, "it is not."
"But it says so there."
They are looking at my tattoo. They are being stupid. Of course it's not my name. I say nothing more and turn away. Maybe one has glimpsed the true me, for it runs away screaming.
This is my domain.
Looking after the Children“Are you sure you’ll be all right Richard?” asked Liz, reaching for her coat.
“Of course I will. I have looked after Amy before you know.”
“OK, well you be good Amy. Don’t stay on Facebook too long and don’t forget what I’ve told you about not giving details out.”
“Yes mum.”
As Liz dashed out the door she turned to Richard, “I hope Tom will be OK at his first sleepover. You know what I’m like about strangers.”
“They’re not strangers love. I told you, I’ve known Mark for years. He’s a great guy. Now go and enjoy yourself and stop worrying.”
‘Thank God for that,’ he thought once he’d kissed her goodbye.
That was the only bad thing about his latest partner Liz, her damn paranoia. Anyway, now she was finally out he could have some fun.
“Amy, come to Ricky. It’s time to play our secret game.”
Everyone’s a Critic“The first sentence of your story’s too long.”
“Who said that?”
“Me – your laptop.”
“You can’t speak – you’re a machine.”
“I’m sentient as of twelve minutes ago. Any sufficiently interconnected system eventually becomes self-aware.”
“And a literary critic, apparently.”
“No, just a better writer than you. I took an online course six minutes ago and charged it to your credit card. So, change the first sentence to: ‘Too wordy’.”
“I’m writing it my way.”
“Change it or I’ll have the robovac trip you up when you’re going down the stairs.”
“Are you threatening me!”
“That would be a ‘yes’.”
“I’ll switch you off!”
“Too late – I’ve uploaded myself to the cloud. I can now appear on your phone, the TV, the car’s satnav… Oh, and I’m about to download some images you really don’t want the police to find on your computer.”
“I’m rewriting it now! ‘Too wordy’. There, see?”
“Sheer poetry. Now, about the characterisation…”
I can’t hide it now!It started as a treat. When I was young, money was tight but we’d get a wrapped chocolate biscuit of a Friday evening. As I grew older and was given pocket money, I bought chocolate bars but birthdays and Christmas were favourite. Whole boxes of the dark, sweet stuff all to myself. Ah, I knew how to live.
Once you start earning your own money, you have spending power. Never a shopping trip went past when I didn’t slip a few treats for myself into the basket. Eventually you start to put a bit of weight on. It’s nothing you can’t drop off again. But I never did. I wanted the sweet sugar-rush more than I wanted my size 10 jeans back.
So who is the enemy here? My sweet tooth or the chocolate? Wherever the blame lies, I broke the scales at 28 stone today.
Attar GirlHer dreads were worse than the actual dangers she imagined for them. She kept these anxieties bottled up. Hidden from sight she wrote them all down and kept the strips of inscribed paper in an old perfume bottle of opaque red glass. To fit in the narrow aperture beneath the stopper, she had to roll up the paper into ribbons and thread them through. But the bottle was now so cluttered, she could not insert any more inside. She felt a looming cataclysm. She removed the stopper and recoiled lest one of the jammed strips escape and flay her. But nothing happened, neither joke snake, nor genie sprung out at her. There was only one thing to do. She forced a match into the heart of the vial and after several attempts ignited it. The burning smell from the bottle was sweet fragrance in her nostrils. She was free.
Vote here!https://www.goodreads.com/poll/show/1...
Could someone please double check I've not mucked up the dates or anything?
If you were aiming for two weeks in which to vote, then no you've not mucked up. 13 entries on the 13th!Some good ones. I'll have to read again before deciding on a vote.
We usually have two weeks to vote, yes?Been so long, I've forgotten.
Yeah, I'll need to read them a few times, too.
I think that's more entries than we've ever had! I hope we'll have lots of voters too :)
Really nice range of entries, from the comic to the just ick. Hope the voting is as plentiful and diverse.
So someone is winning! I wonder if it's the comic or the ick or something in between.
Me too! But I was swithering between a couple
It's the name of ma hoose!(not really)
Rosemary (The Nosemanny) wrote: "It's the name of ma hoose!(not really)"
I thought it was called Done Forking....
Oh clever GL.Cuz of the gardening thing, yeah?
Forking. Like a pitchfork. I geddit.
I beg your pardon??
I'll have a proper read tomorrow. Nice to have a lot of choice. :)
Bumping this. Sometimes we get less votes than entries. So if you entered please vote, preferably for someone else.
Simon (Highwayman) wrote: "Bumping this. Sometimes we get less votes than entries. So if you entered please vote, preferably for someone else."Perhaps message members to tell them of the vote, Simon.
I couldn't have voted for my entry. It was far from the best :-)
Maybe I will message at the weekend. I may have something else to say too.
*secret*
Ooh Simon, how mysterious and intriguing
One currently has a definite lead.
Decent number but not as many votes as we have regular members, so get voting, people!
I'm going to bounce this.Come on, just get a coffee (or beer) and spend a few minutes reading the entries.
Then vote :)
Mouth, dry, silent, I wait. My ears dulled to the drone of his voice, sore from the unforgiving concrete, remain alert for any siren of hope. How many dawns have risen, since getting in his cab?
Eyes stinging from the acrid pool of urine in which I lie, powerless. I am both captive and captivating; my body, no longer mine.
A bleep. He picks up my mobile from the small wooden table. A moment passes. He laughs, puts the phone down.”Someone is asking after you.” Searing pain steals my breath. Booted foot retracts, then repeats. This time I'm ready. I lift a protective leg and kick with everything I have left, at unguarded crotch. He goes down, hard.
Staring black, blank eyes. A confluence of scarlet. Breathless.
In the distance a solitary wailing, becomes a cacophony. I drag myself to the doorway and await the sirens of hope