In the comments, use the 10 random words below to create a cohesive, creative short story tying all the words together. And remember: after you finish, highlight your words and click the bold button to make them stand out and help you determine if you forgot any words (if you’ve missed some challenges, go back and try those too).
- Bubble wrap
- Sick Fucker
- Gumdrop
- Culmination
- Horseback
- Ammonia
- Little by little
- Irregular
- Scapegoat
- Birdcage
{ 3 trackbacks }
{ 122 comments… read them below or add one }
That is one sick fucker she thought, as she wrapped up the birdcage in bubble wrap. Gumdrop was the bird’s name, she thought oddly. Strange the things that pop into your head after such a culmination of events. Muttering under her breath, she turned to grab the reins of her horse and climbed on, fumbling awkwardly with the cage. Little by little she moved the horse forward, the irregular footfalls falling on uneven ground. The scent of ammonia drifted from the cage, only slightly muffled by the plastic of the bubble wrap. “Can’t believe I’m his scapegoat – again!” No one was there to hear her as she faded off on horseback.
Kool Aid. You hit it out of the park with this one. I’d love to know where this story goes. Hints?
Loved it.
thanks!! I didn’t really have a plan with it, I was just trying to write it quickly and as short as possible – although it wasn’t very short. I will say this, originally it wasn’t the birdcage wrapped in bubble wrap
Really terrific, Kook Aid!
Er…
Awesome, Kool Aid!
: )
Really great. Have an awesome weekend.
I don’t think these stories are going to be G rated!
No Loran. I believe these will be pay-per-view.
Into autoerotic asphyxia?!
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A culmination of years of highly irregular testing, our products delivers exactly what you sick fuckers crave!
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“It’s too expensive,” isn’t a legitimate scapegoat anymore either! At just $9.95 each, our product is the cheapest no-air-brainer in town! Besides, our payment plan allows you to pay for your twisted pleasure little by little each month!
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Call 1-800-SIK-FUCK… TODAY!
I think today you might win the sick-fucker creative writing award, Shane! giggle.
I shall wear it proudly (around my mouth) if I win!
That was awesome pay-per-view!
Speaking of sexual asphyxiation, have you seen the World’s Greatest Dad with Robin Williams?
No, I haven’t seen that one yet. I’ll have to now.
Shane,
Wow, now that’s a story! Hysterical and twisted. Oh, the search traffic you’ll get…
Really really super funny, Shane.
You could say he was a tad passive-agressive but that would be an understement. His thought process would seem quite irregular to any casual observer, but anyone who really knew him knew what a sick fucker he really was. This incident was just a gumdrop in the candy store of his twisted little life. He was tired of being the town weirdo, the scapegoat for unsolved incidents and petty crimes. Fuck them all! They could go to hell on horseback as far as he was concerned. The world crowded in around him as though he were some sort of deformed bird in a birdcage at a freak show. But today was just the culmination of a lifetime of pent up resentments. The scent of ammonia rose up in the air little by little as he carefully peeled away the layers of bubble wrap that enveloped his huge glass jar of accumulated piss. Tonight was the town’s anniversary party and he was not invited. He was not bitter. ..no, he was not bitter.
After all, He was going to generously make a huge contribution to the community punch bowl.
Margaret. I think this is your best to date. Really creative. And the punch!!!!
Can you edit it, however, and add “little by little” somewhere?
whoops, sorry Shane…it was in my head, but fingers moved beyond my brain….
The scent of ammonia rose up in the air as little by little he carefully peeled away the layers of bubble wrap…….
thank you! That punch recipe is available in the Rachel Ray “recipes for revenge” cookbook.
ok…did you mean you would buy a SUCKY cookbook, or you would SUCK a cookbook(hahaha) thanks for fixing my post…Sean wrote a letter about me today, go into Writerdad and check it out!
shane, sorry to bug you, but the “little by little” was put in the wrong place….check my correction again. thank you.
Thanks. Fixed my typo. I’ll check out the article now.
“This incident was just a gumdrop in the candy store of his twisted little life. ”
I like that sentence a lot, Ma.
Sorry we missed you last night. Your letter is up on Writer Dad right now.
Love ya.
It happened little by little, at first just a gumdrop in a giant bag of candy.
But that was before Johnny had a scapegoat.
Having someone else to point at was like a layer of bubble wrap around his life, leading him steadily toward a culmination of crazy.
Sniffing ammonia while riding horseback naked, carrying a birdcage packed with piles of rotting feathers, his sack smashed down on both sides of the saddle.
Johnny’s irregular quirks were getting worse.
I wish I could tell you what Johnny’s doing now.
But I can’t.
I think it might be illegal to write it.
Johnny is one sick fucker.
Sean, call me biased, but I believe you had fun writing this one! The words just jump out at me yelling “THIS WAS FUN.”
I like how you use words in ways others don’t imagine, such as how you use bubble wrap above.
Thanks guys!
Yes, I do enjoy using words in unexpected ways. It helps to crack the code.
Ari, your entries are infinitely enjoyable.
Cognizant of an irregular pain in her urinary tract, the Texan gumdrop, Alma Sue, walked into the medical complex known locally as The Birdcage — named after the high-pitched shrills emanating from the gynecological wing — and skipped to Dr. Tim Scapegoat’s office.
“You sick fucker!” exclaimed Scapegoat as Alma Sue walked in and hung her jacket on the wall hook, freshly installed and out of its bubble wrap (which the doctor had placed under his last patient, giggling every time the patient moved and caused popping sounds).
“What brings you in this time?” Scapegoat asked. “Another horseback cowboy romp last night?”
Alma Sue nodded and explained she awoke with a pain she was unaccustomed to, though clearly the culmination of the ammonia-drenched tongue of the cowboy who was an alcoholic and had run out of gin and needed a fix earlier that day so poured the rubbing alcohol and ammonia concoction down his throat.
“Little by little, those cowboys are going to kill you,” muttered Scapegoat as he asked her to lie on the partially-exposed wrap and spread her legs.
Homerun Ari!
I laugh a little more with each one I read from you. Very creative, sir.
Thanks.
(Continued from CCC #9)
After the overdose I improved little by little. Even though my heartbeat was irregular, they released me. No insurance. I can’t bear the thought of going back to dance at the Birdcage. Those sick fuckers that come in every night are on my last nerve.
I went home, got out my bag of spicy gumdrops and started popping bubble wrap. My dog looked at me warily. He’s so tired of being my scapegoat. There’s some dim memory of him trying to lick my face before the paramedics shoved ammonia under my nose. I didn’t think they used that shit any more.
What’s the culmination of all this drama? Ride off into the sunset on horseback with Hugh Jackman?
A continuation piece! Awesome Loran. I had a thought back in the beginning how cool it would be to try and carry a story through all these challenges. Kind of wish I’d have tried, but alas, I’ll settle for reading all of yours.
Thanks
Absolutely. I wish I’d tried to carry the same tale all the way through, too. Good thinking.
We’ll see what the next batch of words bring–I just might have to keep it up!
It’s not too late man! I may just do the same thing. Although it could overwhelm some people’s inboxes, I hope everyone is subscribing to comments on all of the challenges. That way if any of us go back and add new stuff, everyone will know about it.
I never thought of that… maybe I’ll give it a go next time too.
LOVE that you wrote a continuation piece. Awesome!
I’m a special agent, not a fucking Mountie.
Redding tried to wrap his arms around the fat guy’s waist without seeming affectionate. He was mortified at the prospect of this horseback excursion turning into a fatal bounce down the mountain. Little by little, they inched up the slope until the culmination of the journey. They were at the cabin.
The fat guy, with a mustard yellow sausage casing of a deputy’s uniform, helped him off the horse.
What now?
Wait here.
The door was open. You could smell the ammonia. Redding didn’t bother pulling the gun. The bastard was long gone and he’d scrubbed the hellhole down. They should’ve listened. He warned them that the chopper Deckler ordered would tip the asshole off.
Victim number six. In the corner. Locked up in an oversized birdcage on an irregular mat fashioned from bubble wrap. The candy bag was right next to the chair again. One red gumdrop stuck to the bottom.
What kind of sick fucker sits there eating candy day after day watching a girl starve to death?
They were always one step behind this guy.
Redding wanted to break something. To scream. Things were about to get worse. He’d make the trip back down the mountain, clawing at the deputy’s love handles. Deckler would scapegoat him for the failure.
And in a month, he’d be staring at number seven.
DAMN YOU DECKLER!!!!!!!!!! I can hear Redding screaming this.
Once again, great write Carson. When’s your book coming out?!
That. Was. Awesome.
Carson,
Wow. I love this one! So… cinematic. I can see the whole thing perfectly.
My favorite phrase: “a mustard yellow sausage casing of a deputy’s uniform.” That is a fabulous image.
The culmination of fumes from the sick fucker’s ammonia-laced gumdrop weakened the birdcage-making scapegoat little by little as he fled on horseback atop his irregular saddle made of bubble wrap.
Jaced, next time someone gets me upset, for shock value, I’m calling them a Birdcage-making scapegoated sick fucker.
Once again, you deliver.
I think that birdcage-making scapegoated sick fucker is my new favorite insult.
He liked this one.
Bobby had finally found a shrink who let him be who he really was. He straddled the lounge chair as if on horseback, trying to seem tough, but with the 15-year-old’s thoughts and wounds trapped as if in a birdcage, Bobby looked anything but. He sat popping bubble wrap, soothed by the activity and the tiny noises, and this shrink let him take his time, every time—irregular as his silence was. From under his white sweatshirt’s hood, his dark eyes stared blankly into his past. Little by little he eased into a kind of a trance before he could speak.
“The gang was the only choice in my neighborhood if you didn’t want your friends to think you were a pussy. It was fun at first, running for the big guys, but I was little— ” his fluttering hands worked faster over the remaining bubbles— “and everybody…”
The psychologist looked straight into his thin face, a shadow beneath his hood. The culmination of months of trying to earn the boy’s trust seemed to be within reach today.
“Go on. You’re safe here, Bobby.”
There was a long pause before the whispered confession: “Everybody wanted a piece of me.” If his face could sink further away, it did at that moment. The psychologist waited for him to continue.
“Guys, you know? Jeez. An’ me I didn’t even know girls. Twelve years old! They said I was… such a pretty boy. At first it made me want to throw up. Then it made me want to get tougher. I thought if I did all the jobs nobody else wanted they’d leave me alone.”
“Did it work?”
“Sometimes. I think—I think I must have looked like a queer, though. Shit, look at me. I’m still their little girl, even after all this. Well, I just kept raising the stakes so people would stop thinking of me like that. One day… this dude had been making noise like he was getting out, maybe gonna talk to the cops so his mama could have some peace or somethin’ like that. I said I’d go with ‘em, to tell him to shut up. The guys I was with held him down while I watched the door. I mean, I was still only twelve and they were afraid I’d chicken out. They poured ammonia down his throat. He made an awful bunch of noise…” Bobby stopped to catch his breath. Fifteen minutes might have passed while he popped those bubbles and resumed his trance, but this was no time to hurry him.
“When they thought he was dead we all ran.”
“You went to jail alone, Bobby. How did that happen?”
“E-Z. The dude wasn’t dead. And he was one of the ones who…” Bobby closed his eyes. Blocking it out or remembering?
“He was one of the first ones, but I wasn’t scared to say No yet. Yeah, I told him no fucking way. It didn’t work, but I did throw up on his shoes. He kept yellin’ at me afterward about those new shoes. I guess he remembered that. The other guys, they’d be back for him if he said something, but those cops wanted to know whose head to crack. He says, the little guy, Bobby Slim.”
“He made you the scapegoat.”
There wasn’t a bubble left on the wrap, but Bobby continued to knead the plastic obsessively. “In juvvie—almost three years for attempted murder—I found out those guys on the outside gave it to me easy. I looked just as queer in the hall and there was no way to act tough to get them to back off.”
Bobby stopped, clearly exhausted. He leaned over to a small table past the psychologist’s chair to pick a gumdrop out of a crystal bowl. The doctor reached out to touch his delicate hand as Bobby drifted off into his own world again. The touch brought him back to the present, to the warm, safe room he’d been visiting twice a week since his probation started; to the new life he hoped these sessions would help him start.
The touch was a release, almost as powerful as his confession had been. He relaxed visibly for the first time in months. Maybe in years.
The doctor placed his hand atop the boy’s head and eased the hood back onto his shoulders. He brushed a lone tear from Bobby’s cheek while the two sat in drained silence. Finally, this shrink who knew him so well broke the quiet.
“Sick fuckers.”
Bobby laid his head down on the spent bubble wrap and cried.
Wow! In my opinion, that’s hands down the most powerful submission thus far. Gripping. Revolting. Tragic.
Fantastic write Kelly.
Thanks Shane! (I edited a bit of it out… even on a challenge including “sick fucker” I’d let the art speak a bit too loudly in the original. Hope I balanced it well in the final version.)
Kelly. Colour me intimidated. If anyone needs me, I’ll be hiding under my desk. Drawing stick figures with a purple crayon.
Aw, shucks. Thanks, Stacey!
wow. very well done kelly. i tip my hat to you!
My favorite entry on the site so far. Outstanding.
Thanks, Lisa. Thanks, Sean.
programming note
In case someone has not seen my comment on #9 about why I decided to drop the f bomb in a challenge, I’ll repeat the comment below
As Stein on Writing says:
I want us to be free to write whatever we want, but if you guys have some reservations, let me know. ps. I don’t plan on doing many with these curse words, so never fear.
Whew. I’m famously terrible at swearing in print!
One in 10 isn’t bad right! I think we’ll be okay if we use the other 30,000 words at our disposal other than the curse words. Ninety nine point nine percent of the challenges going forward should be curse free.
Honestly, I kinda liked it – sick, I know
. I don’t swear much in real life, but just having “sick fucker” in the list took my creative thoughts to dark places I normally only read or watch in movies. In fact, I found myself holding back a little and changing what I had written so it wouldn’t be so… sick. I hope I’m making sense.
I can’t wait until #11. I’m loving these challenges.
You make total sense. Some words are so powerful, they are impossible not to influence in that way. Even if we don’t use an curse words in the lists, by all means use them if you feel like it.
I enjoyed it. Writer Dad has such a neat picket fence around it, it’s nice to be able to let loose outside of email.
And the BOLD is AWESOME!
The sick fucker arrived on horseback, or perhaps more aptly “reindeer-back”. He was dressed in nothing but his birthday suit, surrounded by a thin layer of bubblewrap. It totally blew my mind.
It was late, the lab was cold and it fucking reeked of ammonia from the cleaning staff. That nauseating smell had crawled up into my nostrils and embedded itself in my gag reflex. With every forced breath, I just wanted to heave the contents of my stomach onto the sterile lab floor. My boss needed a scapegoat for the last project’s screw-up and I was at the bottom of the shitheap, so here I was, working late again on some project I cared absolutely nothing about. The last batch of toys that went out for delivery were full of irregular modifications; three legged dolls, trucks with square wheels, trains that caught fire. Boy did we catch hell for that mess. Right now, I just wanted to go home, curl up with a cup of warm tea and a bag of gumdrops in front of the t.v and call it a day. Robin William was playing in “Birdcage” on pay-per-view and his hairy little man-body turned my crank, even if he was playing for the other team in that movie.
I spent most of the night shift surfing the net on my ipod while waiting for my ancient, useless computer to start the production process. Little by little the status bar was progressing across my monitor. The lab’s only ambient noise was a low hum from the air conditioning unit and the whir of the fan in my computer. That was the one thing I liked about working late in the lab; the peace and quiet. Tonight however, it was kind of creepy, especially when the weird noise started down the far end of the hall.
Clop-clop thump… clop-clop thump… clop-clop thump…
As whatever horrific creature could be making this deathly sound came nearer and nearer, the overhead neon lights began to flicker intermittently and my monitor screen began to flash in random bursts. The culmination of my anxiety seemed like it was going to overcome my senses at any moment. Fear dripped from every pore. My pointy elf ears began to twitch and the lab doors flew open in one climactic boom that echoed throughout the building.
“HEY BABY… WANNA POP THE LAST BUBBLE?”
Santa was piss drunk again.
Oh, noooo! Not Santa!
My illusions are dashed. PPV day at Creative Copy Challenge has certainly been an eye-opener.
Dashed illusions or no, I’ll be laughing over Santa’s line for a long time. Scary-funny, Lisa!
Lisa that was hilarious, and so good. Really.
I’m so happy you guys are here giving me so, so much creativity to take in. It really means a lot to me.
Again, what a great write. Probably one of your best, if not the best.
Santa was piss drunk again = AWESOME closing line.
Kelly – thanks! It’s one I won’t be letting my son read for a very LONG time! I’ll let him keep his illusions. (…and Santa was always drunk at our house… mighta been the beer and chips we left instead of cookies and milk lol)
Shane – Thanks. See what happens when someone gives you the opportunity to unleash the creative juices. I thank you !
Shawn- I was always told that writing is like photography, if you can get one good line (shot) in a hundred, you are doing good! (… I suck at photography lol)
The escapee from the birdcage was a sick fucker and a scapegoat. Little by little, despite the irregular ammonia smell, our heroine pulled off the bubble wrap so she could race on horseback to the end, and the culmination of a healing gumdrop.
Whew, another one down
you’re, once again, added to Friday Fun For Freelance Writers – but not exclusively this time:
http://www.aboutfreelancewriting.com/2010/01/friday-fun-for-freelance-writers-3/
Thanks Anne. You’re quite a promoter of our site. I thank you kindly. And as always, great submission.
Yes, Anne. Thank you so much for the links each week. It is very kind.
“You sick fucker!” The culmination of my rage had hit the breaking point, and I tried to stuff the bubble wrap in the victim’s mouth. “Try to use me as a scapegoat for your problems, eh? EH?!”
Alright, so that was a little irregular for one of my usual hits, but the instructions did say “subdue, wrap up tightly and stick victim in birdcage.” No problemo.
I stuffed the bubble-wrapped body into the cage, little by little, ignoring the muffled shouts for mercy. “Take that, you rat bastard… Hope the stink of ammonia makes your eyes melt!” I even gave her a good swift kick in the ass before slamming closed the door. I set the bomb – cleverly hidden in a gumdrop on the side of a brick – nearby and let it tick away the seconds.
And then I left. On horseback. What better way to say goodbye to this ghost town?
Ooh. I like the gumdrop-bomb, James. Hit man supplies are getting mighty small these days, aren’t they?
I think I’m gonna have nightmares from the bubble wrap in the mouth. That’s a potent image. Blech.
Pretty twisted, James, but I like it.
Bubble wrap. *shudders*
I’m loving your assassin character James. Please continue on!
Yeah, not sure what I liked better – the gumdrop explosive or the bubble wrap in the mouth – but both were pretty awesome.
Oh for god’s sake, I hate this bolding thing. Four attempts to correct now… to hell with it!
The bold definitely adds an extra challenge to the Challenge! And what’s worse is the clock ticking away mercilessly on the correction phase.
One hates to kvetch, especially when I love this place so much… it is kind of a pain. Is there a plugin where there could be a button above the comment pane, so we could just highlight a word and click-to-bold?
Hooray for bold highlighting!
Seventeen Skittles and a gumdrop. That’s what was in my pocket when I woke up, dazed from that sick fucker who annointed me with ammonia before wrapping my head with the plastic. I had initally hoped that more of my memory would come back, even if just little by little, but there was nothing there. Nothing but the torture. The door had been left wide open in my mind’s birdcage and so the culmination of my life had come down to some candies now covered in denim lint.
Who was I? Where was I?
I tell you this: there is an irregular reality when forced to look at the world through the lense of bubble wrap. Lines blur and faces all look the same. It was torture, yes, for sure, but it was magical, too. For it put everything in the world on an even plane. Finally all the world outside of me was pretty much the same – blurry and distant and gray.
There is a certain, sad beaty in losing your memory. You have a freedom to wake up and wander, not knowing who you are, not worrying about being late, just living a new life. But maybe your old life was full of wonderful people and beautiful things. It was hard to not consider that. Well, for a minute I toyed with starting over, just moving on from there, riding off into the sunset of my new reality on the horseback of mystery and not looking backwards for anything more.
But then I would be the scapegoat of the world, wouldn’t’ I? Because everyone needs to answer to someone, to carry some baggage. Everyone needs to have a past.
It all came back eventually, but seeing the world through that foggy plastic for a few hours changed everything. Sometimes, even when forced, a new perspective is more than necessary.
Patrick, Welcome to the party first off. Second, that was outstanding man.
Glad to see a Vermont author stopping by. Very. Good. Write.
Thank you for stopping by and I hope to see more from you.
Patrick,
You have a nice way of turning a phrase. I really got into the mood you created here!
Shane & Kelly – thanks to both for you for the kind comments. Look forward to doing this more in the future! Just found it today.
We look forward to seeing more from you. I’d love for you to give the 1st 9 challenges a go. You can catch up on the off days when we don’t post challenges. How did you stumble on us by the way?
You had me at “Seventeen Skittles and a gumdrop.”
Gave it a shot…
*Pop* *Pop*
The irregular sound of popping bubble wrap, mimicked with near-precision by her little gray parrot, Alfie, made Lucinda feel like her head was going to explode. Putting a blanket over the irritating animal’s birdcage, she shut it in her bedroom and returned to her news feed. Some college students had attacked a cop on horseback. The officer was fine, but the horse had been fatally injured. “What kind of sick fucker shoots a horse?” she wondered. The incident was the culmination of a week of rioting caused by the increase in public transportation fares. She’d have to adjust her commuting benefits before the month was over.
She popped another gumdrop in her mouth and grimaced. Year-old Halloween candy and coffee made a terrible breakfast; she’d have to go to the store tonight. After George had left, she’d started slipping, little-by-little. It was easier to pick up takeout on the way home than to shop and cook for one, but this was disgusting. George and his damn hookers. His damn hookers in her lingerie. Good riddance.
A crash from the kitchen and the sharp smell of ammonia brought her sharply out of her reverie. “Whiskers!” she screamed. The frightened cat dashed out the kitchen door and hunkered down between the recliner and couch. She could see a puddle of cleaning fluid on the floor. Mopping it up would probably make her late for work, but if she left it until later, she knew it would stain the linoleum.
With a sigh, she headed to the broom closet. On her way, she kicked the cowering cat. It yelped and slithered under the couch. Whiskers was just a scapegoat, of course, but the knowledge that he was George’s cat made that kick especially satisfying. From within the bedroom, she heard the popping sound start up again.
“One day,” Lucinda thought, “I’ll ‘forget’ to close the damn cage door. If I’m lucky, they’ll tear each other to bits.”
*Pop* *Pop*
*Pop*
Mrs. Micha, that was awesome. I loved it. Poor Whiskers huh? George sounded like an ass. Great submission. I like your site too. I’m sure lots of people going freelance could benefit from the knowledge you offer.
“His damn hookers in her lingerie.”
ROFL. That is a great line.
Thanks! I’m very excited about this. I write almost entirely non-fic right now and my mind loved the challenge. I also have plenty of room for improvement.
Fantastic. I’d love for you to do the other challenges too. You can catch up on the off days we don’t have challenges.
Hey Mrs. Micah! Awesome to see you here.
It is a lot of fun to get away from nonfiction and straight copy, that’s for sure. There’s no doubt my passion is in fiction, so it’s always a nice diversion.
I think the TinyMCE Comment Editor plugin would do the trick.
http://www.techmixer.com/add-wysiwyg-comment-rich-text-editor-on-wordpress-comment-using-tinymcecomment/
Programming Note
Bolding appears to be an issue. Sorry for that everyone. But, I’m glad you brought it up so we can address it as we’re learning as we go with this new (awesome) experience of running such a site. I’ll pass along Carson’s suggestion for the plug in to Dave and Sean and we’ll try to add either that or something. Like you, I believe bolding is a bit of a bitch!
Thanks everyone.
Here you go gang, BOLD! Thank you to Carson for the excellent plugin suggestion!
Oh, rock on!
Funny, I knew I’d seen this plugin somewhere, and I thought about asking a few challenges ago. Guess I don’t have quite the cojones that James does.
Thanks, Dave!
Thanks Dave!
That’s AWESOME!
Adds a whole different dimension.
And makes it easier to do things quickly
And makes it fast!
Thanks Dave!
That’s AWESOME!
Adds a whole different dimension.
And makes it easier to do things quickly
And makes it fast!
Not sure about how to use the plug in – it’s too early in the morning for me – but I like <b>bolding</b> the words.
After 25 years on the force, homicide detective, Brett Connors, had seen more than his share of depravity. It never ceased to amaze him how cruel humans could be to other human beings. Maybe that was a good thing. Brett hoped he never got used to the likes of the latest sick fucker terrorizing the quiet beach town of Encinitas.
Called the Birdcage Bandit by the local media, the serial killer once again left his calling card – a gilded birdcage ornament, dangling from the victim’s big toe. The killer’s propensity for dumping the body on one of Encinitas’ 11 beaches kept little of his M.O. from the public eye. It added to Brett’s problems in solving the crimes.
What started as an isolated case a year ago, had hit every form of media with the culmination of threats that “heads would roll” if the killer was not found. As the lead investigator, Brett became the scapegoat. Little by little, his private world ended and soon his image was on news shows nationwide. Us Weekly dubbed him “Maverick” from a photo taken of him on horseback. The paparazzi had invaded Brett’s final means of escape. And it pissed him off.
But, murder pissed him off more. There had been seven murders within the last year – a birdcage ornament hanging from each victim’s big toe. The killer, however, had secret messages hidden on each victim. Recently, he addressed them Dear Detective Maverick. Each time Brett found one, the rage inside him built. The latest message was written on an ammonia-soaked cloth, crammed in the victim’s mouth and secured with bubble wrap circling her head. The cloth was now laid flat on the coroner’s table.
Dear Detective Maverick: What have we here? As I dragged my knife across this poor girl’s lovely breasts, I could feel her heart beat right through my knife and up my arm. It seems I may have been a tad overzealous in my attempt to revive this poor girl from her irregular heartbeat. I didn’t have any smelling salts so I used the ammonia. Alas, her heart beats no more. It’s what a whore deserves! Until next time…happy trails.
P.S. I left you a sweet treat for all your hard work.
“Brett,” the coroner murmured. “I think I found your sweet treat.” He held out his forceps that held a cherry red gumdrop.
“Where did you find that?” Brett questioned.
“Don’t ask.”
Cathy,
Wow. More nightmares for me, but well worth it. Excellent storytelling. The birdcage on the toe was a superb detail.
Thanks, Kelly. This is so much fun!
Cathy, that was great and I loved the ending. I love where you took my mind on this one.
Thanks.
;-D
I won’t ask…
Wow Cathy, that was awesome. I liked it a lot. Dark, but in just the right way.
Thanks, Sean. It’s fun. I’m a business writer so not much chance for the “dark side.”
ah, now I can click for bold rather than html… lovely, thank you thank you thank you…
Woops-screwed up the bold…oh well…
I fixed it.
My hero–thanks.
Wooo, see what a little complaining suggestion can get you? AWESOME!!
Last thing I want to do is upset an assassin.
My post was the poster child for WHY we needed this.
Where can I get it?
Never mind–I found your link. Thanks!
Little by little, the Irregular scratching from the Birdcage beside his bed woke him from his dream, the Culmination of which had been being ridden out of town on Horseback, facing backwards, as a Scapegoat for the sins of the residents of Gumdrop, Arizona. Now, he rolled out of bed onto his knees and repeated his morning-after mantra: “Hasten, Jason, bring the basin. Oomph, plop! Bring the mop.” Crawling to the bathroom, he sniffed the Ammonia bottle beside the porcelain fixture until his nausea subsided. “I am one Sick Fucker,” he said. “Never again!” He reached for the Bubble wrap to calm himself until next time.
Wow, Jorge, that is twisted and awesome.
“Hasten, Jason, bring the basin. Oomph, plop! Bring the mop.” That’s a great line.
Thanks for stopping by. Continue to do so.
Jorge,
I think there should be an award for the only sick fucker who was actually sick. Too, too funny!
Excellent, and like Kelly said, it’s pretty awesome that you’re the only one who actually had a sick fucker out of all the other sick fuckers populating the thread for the last two days!
Welcome!
Hooray for plug ins! And CREATIVITY!
Jowls, you sick ______, what’cha putting bubble wrap ’round dat dude fo’? Dis like da culmination ‘o some kinda vodoo ritual? Sheeet, man. I know da man’s a gumdrop and smell ‘o ammonia and walk like ‘e been a horseback ‘is ol life, but e’en yo gots ta admit it’s a little irregular fo’ yo’ ta be doing dis. Little by little yo wrapping ‘im up likes he a birdcage yo shippin ta yo Grams. Sheeet, man. All ‘e is is a stupid scapegoat! Da man aint e’en no kingpin, no how.
(2,1,4,3,6,5, etc.)
Cleve, that order is just insane! It’s hard enough doing these in order. Insanely cool sir.
Song wasn’t amused. And I was tired. My bowel movements had become irregular—the culmination, no doubt, of my Cracker Jack and gumdrop diet. And my ass hurt—as if I crossed Texas on horseback in a thong. And I had writer’s cramp.
“So we’re NOT on the same wavelength,” she said at last.
I didn’t answer.
Little by little, I could see her patience slipping away, but there was nothing I could do. If she wanted to make me her scapegoat, there was nothing I could do about it.
I awoke to the smell of ammonia, rolled in bubble wrap and crammed into a birdcage.
I had no idea what a sick fucker she was.
Troy, I love this tale. I’m going to copy and paste this whole saga into one file and re-read it to soak in all the goodness.
“Sick fucker,” Tanya muttered.
Bradley just laughed.
Bubble wrap ensconced her entire jeep. Irregular patterns of gumdrop splatter dotted her windshield, the sticky mess dripping little by little in the summer heat.
“Sure, make me the scapegoat!” she exclaimed, eyes filled with fury. “I wasn’t the only one making fun of him! All I did was admit that I liked The Birdcage. It’s not like I killed his Akita with ammonia or anything!” Not that she hadn’t thought about that one. A lot.
Her years of tormenting her very conservative brother-in-law must have finally taken their toll–this act of vandalism serving as his ultimate act of culmination.
“Looks like you’re traveling by horseback for the rest of the week,” Bradley snickered.
“Shut up!” Tanya said.
@Sara: What comes out in your writing as I read is you really love to write. I love when I can “spot” this!!!
Thank you Shane, what a nice thing to say!