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).
- Stupidity
- Deathtrap
- In the name of love
- Switchblade
- Gunpowder
- Clobber
- Kindergarten
- Sorrow
- Goatee
- Asylum
{ 2 trackbacks }
{ 182 comments… read them below or add one }
The deathtrap that is sorrow enveloped her like a soft mist. The asylum was quiet and silence always brought the sadness. Switchblade was the orderly with the goatee and he worked nights. She had no idea what his real name was. She couldn’t remember such mundane things in her current state. Her doctor, Gunpowder, said that her stupidity left her in the mental state of a girl just starting Kindergarten but that wasn’t true. And, of course, it wasn’t in her medical records. Such jargon was frowned upon. She just had a thing about not remembering names.
Switchblade was her hero. His taunts and jabs were solace to her in the dark night. They reminded her of the love her stepfather showed her, those dark nights of childhood. He had a goatee, too. Softly, she approached the door to her room, gazing out through the small window for her hero. She knew he’d come; it was part of his routine. And he did. It was in the name of love that she clobbered him with the old wooden chair rail that she had smuggled in from the rec room. She was always the quiet one so no one had taken notice.
His face changed, flowed really, from shock to despair to anger then peace as his crimson lifeblood ebbed. Just as her stepfather’s had. And the sorrow that had enveloped her lifted and love filled her heart.
Holy Bleep! Kool Aid, that was your best one yet.
Fantastic!
Whoa.
I love what happens here in so few words. Great one, Kool Aid!
Thanks! I was actually considering having another go at it, only not so dark this time. Maybe tonight after the kids go to bed I’ll give it a shot…
Yes, yes, yes! (insert Calgon shampoo reference here)
I absolutely loved this one! Kudos!
Very Nice.
I would have done the same thing as she did.
Thanks Lisa and Eric
. Much appreciated
Dirty Johnny.
We all know him.
At least we think we do.
Yeah, he’s that dirty-mouthed kindergarten kid we use as the basis of our jokes. Tough kid that Johnny.
But, it may bring sorrow to the soul to learn Dirty Johnny is actually a real life kid and he’s much, much worse than expected.
He brings gunpowder and switchblades to class. He clobbers his playmates to death for the slightest of infractions. He ruthlessly ridicules his teachers for their inherent stupidity…then eats them. He sports a goatee and tattooed eyelids, drives a deathtrap Ford Pinto to class because he can, and lives in an abandoned insane asylum just for kicks.
In the name of love, it’s this Johnny who asks his newest of unsuspecting substitute teachers if hearts have legs. Inquiring as to why, Dirty Johhny answers his sub’s naïve question with, “Because yesterday I heard my old man tell his hooker sweatheart to open her legs for some lovebone.”
Eats them?
Eww. Dirty Johnny is one nasty dude. Shocking from start to finish, Shane.
I was going to say eating boogers, but his teachers sounded better.
LOL I could write a whole ‘nother challenge with all the things I’ve edited out of these challenges. I hear you… and good call on that.
Excellent Kool Aid!
And yeah, I’ve wanted to do a couple of these more than once as well. That bastard Time, though, always playing tricks!
Hmmm… not sure why it did that.
Kool Aid’s was supposed to be up top. Oh well.
This one is supposed to say..
DANG! I’m glad my kids aren’t in Johnny’s class!
Private school for my kids thank you.
Did I mention Dirty Johnny goes to private school!
This was a deathtrap. That was his only thought as he scratched the fake goatee while observing the asylum from the alleyway. She would clobber him. All he had was a switchblade in his pocket and some gunpowder to create a diversion.
Brains, though. He had brains. More than she did.
Stupidity, really. Hits like these weren’t even worth his time. The victim was playing the “I’m innocent!” card, like some child from kindgergarten, putting on a face full of sorrow and claiming it had all been done in the name of love.
James knew better. It had been in the name of greed. And now she had to be stopped.
“This is a deathtrap,” he muttered, then crossed the street to begin his hit.
I’m amazed at how fast you can do these James! Really, and to continue on with your assassin theme is pretty amazing. Thanks.
She cursed her stupidity for setting out on her journey in this deathtrap of a car. She was doing this in the name of love, but now that she had some miles behind her, she wanted to clobber the guy she was chasing. He really belonged in an insane asylum. He had drawn her in with his cute little goatee and his puppy dog expression that hinted of deep sorrow. She felt duped. “A kid in kindergarten would have shown more sense than me,” she lamented. As she sped farther and farther away from her hometown, she wondered if a switchblade would make him behave, or if she’d have to use the gunpowder to smoke him out?
“It’s just another tale of love gone sour,” she noted wryly to herself.
Wow! Today appears to be the day. I think this is your best to date, too, Karetha.
Nicely written.
Thanks! I like the opportunity for feedback on these.
My kindergarten teacher had a goatee. Yeah, Mrs. Pennypacker was scary. From the switchblade pencil sharpener she kept in her ammo belt to the time-out chair which she affectionately called, the asylum, she whipped at whiners with her snotty handkerchiefs and clobbered classmates with her own spitballs, made with actual gunpowder. At least that’s what Minty said.
Minty was my best buddy. He was filled with the kind of stupidity and brilliant courage that you wanted your best friend to have back then, you know? You didn’t want to be the kid barking back at the bullies or jumping out of the window when the substitute was there, but you definintely wanted to be friends with that kid. What normal kids saw as a deathtrap, Minty saw as opportunity for fun.
I’ll ever forget the day he really took it to Mrs. Pennypacker. It was February 14. I brought in G.I. Joe Valentine’s for everyone that my mom bought at Ames, but Minty brought in hand-written poems. The one he gave to Pennypacker was his best.
If I drank coffee, then we’d both have brown teeth.
You smoke in our classroom, it’s a wonder how we breathe.
But I would not trade you for any other teacher.
For you sleep drunk during reading, and that is your best feature.
In the name of love, yes I say this without sorrow,
Happy Valentine’s today…please stay home sick tomorrow.
Patrick, I had to hold back tears of laughter starting with your first line.
You can write my friend…write well! I think this is your best so far, too.
Is this a trend I see?
Many thanks Shane. This site is a blast and such a great idea! I only stumbled upon it last week (not sure exactly how), so I am new to it, but I hope to become a regular. I needed this on a Monday morning!
It would be a sin if you didn’t go back and do the others. I can’t begin to imagine what you would come up with, and that there is the magic of this stuff.
Each time I compile a list of 10 random words, I get nervous that I won’t be able to think of anything, yet each time I magically do. These things have a way of willing creativity out of my brain in a way that I love.
So, I have a hard time thinking of one theme, but each time we do a challenge, there are like 5 to 20 other themes that people come up with, all fascinating in their own way.
So, each challenge proves that there are countless creative veins for us to pierce…if we only have faith that they are there for us the whole while.
Patrick,
Ah, poetry. Such power to… make me laugh out loud. Hats off to you on this one!
Mrs. Pennypacker. *snort*
Yeah, that was really awesome, Patrick. Thanks!
one word my friend – awesome!
Attention!
Just want you guys to know that some of the stuff you guys have submitted to this site in these 11 challenges is incredible. It’s better than 99% of the published books I’ve read.
I can’t stop going back and rereading the challenges. How many times can we say that about the books we own?!
Thank you guys for this.
Shane,
You’ve let the lunatics out of the…
crazyhouse. ;)
We’re just repaying your own creativity and kindness.
Thanks Kelly. This community rocks.
I have done a few submissions and have commented a few times. How do I get my own photo instead of a default avatar?
Steve, it’s been so long for me since I’ve thought of these avatars, but I believe you go here: http://en.gravatar.com/
That was easy!
After taking the healing gumdrop in the name of love, our heroine realized she was in the kindergarten of romance which often felt like an asylum. Wondering at her partner’s stupidity she clobbered their goatee-wearing assailant; he dropped his switchblade. Scattering gunpowder in the air, she lit it with great sorrow creating a defensive deathtrap.
Wow, it also copies the bold I added from word… double way kwel.
Anne, you’re the best! I love reading your patented short gems.
Thanks.
When was the last time your kindergarten-age son came home with a look of sorrow in his eyes and the aftermath of a switchblade kick to his backside? Did he tell you about the black-as-gunpowder-drawn goatee the girl drew on his jawbone? Stupidity, you say, not thinking it would ever happen? Think again. TV violence is a deathtrap – and in the name of love, any asylum-released kid can clobber your boy.
Ari “Word Slayer” Herzog!
I hope my two kids don’t run into Dirty Johnny or that goatee-drawing girl.
Ari makes it seem effortless.
Well, not the best, but thanks anyway… I’m wiggling with pleasure… this was my first pass at carrying forward from 10 – that’s why we’ve got a healing gumdrop again… it makes it an extra challenge.
“Deathtrap,” was the neighborhood.
Even the kids in the kindergarten
grey and peeling and smelling of piss at the entry
(oh junkies loved that place on the weekends)
knew the nickname.
When Devón ran away
got himself a goatee and a fancy degree
and came back to clean up the old ‘hood
even his mama’s best friends acted
like he’d been let loose from the asylum.
“Gunpowder took your mama away, boy,”
they said,
eyes hard
with too much sorrow.
“What you think you can do?”
“Clean
the piss.
Clobber
the dealers.
Get other kids goatees
and fancy degrees,”
Devón replied.
He had a switchblade pulled on him more than once.
He didn’t run, when they thought he would.
“Stupidity,
boy.
You had your chance.
Ran out on us once. We’re waiting
for you to run again.”
Like a lover who doesn’t think she deserves her man
the beautiful people hated themselves
and wished he’d stop trying to save them
stop trying to bring them joy
stop lifting them out of crime
and grime
stop
trying to bring them a kindergarten that smelled of sweet
children.
“Why, boy?
Why?”
One look at Mama’s picture
brownskin brightsmile timestwentybehindtheschool
teaching those glowing children right and wrong
he was ready for another day.
“Once I was your boy.” The neighborhood—
the entire neighborhood listened when Devón moved his goatee.
“I came back a man. I came back
in the name of love.
Love don’t need to run.”
BANG!!!!!!!
That’s the only word I could use to describe this submission. It made me read faster and faster as I went along, but I couldn’t read fast enough. Totally drew me into it. That’s a great submission. I hate to keep saying it, as I don’t want it to loose it’s value, but I think this is your best one yet, too.
Shane,
I don’t want it to lose its value, but aw, shucks. Thanks once again!
Love this one!
Thanks, Karetha!
Kelly – where do I sign up for your fan club?
maximumcustomerexperience.com , dahling. New fans always welcome, though the switch to nonfiction may throw you at first. LOL.
& thanks.
Love what you do with the poetry, Kelly. I might just have to give it a go next time!
Sean,
Oh, do. The name of the site is “Challenge,” after all.
And it is such a great place to stretch your wings!
Love, love, love it! Like Shane, I couldn’t seem to read it fast enough. This one I’d like to hear, too.
Kool Aid,
I read it to The Kid a little while ago (I get to edit the icky parts that way)—it does read pretty well. Glad you liked it!
Well here we go:
The bank robber scraped the gunpowder out of his goatee with his switchblade, and then sought asylum in the kindergarten classroom of the nearest elementary school.
In reality, this turned out to be a deathtrap for him, so he had to clobber the good looking teacher to keep her quiet so he could escape.
In the name of love, the teacher’s fiance, who was bringing her lunch just then, jumped the bank robber and beat him to death.
When the teacher regained consciousness, she exclaimed, with great sorrow, that her fiance had just killed her brother, and she would have nothing to do with him ever again.
Let this be a lesson to all, even in the name of love, stupidity sometimes rears up and bites you in the posterior.
Steve, that was an awesome twist of tales. What if that really happed man? That would be suck a mind-bleep. Thanks.
I have been told that my mind is twisted before, but I am glad you liked it anyway.
No more than our history books right!
In the name of love! How the hell do I get myself into these situations? Some would attribute it to sheer stupidity. Others would say that I did my kindergarten in an asylum. Whatever the case, the true sorrow of this whole thing is that I now must don my goatee, climb on that deathtrap fire escape , jimmy the window with my switchblade and be prepared to clobber anyone who gets in my way. I have to be really careful to not get caught. I’ve watched enought CSI shows to be extra careful and not forget that wearing my gloves will prevent any gunpowder residue. I hate it when my neighbor bakes all those pecan pies and leaves them sitting on her kitchen table in plain sight for me to lust after!! The things we do for sugar!!
Very good!
I like the flow and the conclusion tying it altogether.
I liked the line, “Others would say that I did my kindergarten in an asylum ” a lot. Cool beans, Ma.
Okay Ma, pecan stealing neighbors. That’s so cute and funny. I never would have thought of such a thing. Thanks for making me smile yet again.
My stay in the asylum was short-lived because I was able to overcome the situation due in fact because the guards lived in a world of stupidity and treated me and others as if we were in Kindergarten and made it so easy to escape. All I had to do was clobber the guy with the goatee and I was overjoyed that I didn’t have to use gunpoweder or knives to do it. I was happy, though, that I had in my right pocket a switchblade and in the name of love and everything that was decent and good, escaped the low-life deathtrap those idiots put me into years ago. All because I killed a guy who laughed when I tripped one day while walking into a bank. As you can see, I feel no sorrow for any of them!
Toni, what’s that saying about a woman scorned?
Loved it. Thanks.
Thanks for your comments. As always, enjoyed the trip!
I must confess, I was inspired by Sean’s writerdad post today which I had just commented on. It was all about dieting and sugar deprivation! This one’s for you, Seany!
I read his story, too. I wondered if you had read it before posting this. Too funny.
public service announcement
For those of you who would like to update the avatar that appears next to your name with a picture of yourself, you can do so by going here: http://en.gravatar.com/
Abraham shifted gears and growled through a yawn.
He hated the haul from Miami to New York, might’ve been his least favorite from any of his routes; the distributors in Florida were devils and the wholesalers in Manhattan were shining models of stupidity.
He would’ve felt like he was rolling along the road to Hades if it weren’t for the stopover in Richmond, where he found sorrow and sanity from dusk to dawn.
Though it was slightly off the path, Abraham was willing to punish the drivetrain of his 18 wheels if it meant he could steal a few extra hours on Greenbriar Road. Lorena’s street was cracked and old, with concrete crumbling and street signs askew.
So Lorena always met him at the truck stop. He’d leave his semi in the lot, boxes stacked in back, then they’d drive the short two miles to her house on Greenbriar, mostly quiet, though their thoughts were always loud enough to hear.
Every breath seemed to fog the windows in the name of love.
Or regret.
The joy was instant, but the acclimation took a few hours. And just when he felt like he never wanted to go, it was always time to leave. The quiet drive back to the truck stop was 10 minutes of a cold switchblade at the base of his neck. Weeks to months of anticipation; the last hundred miles full of short breaths and sweat beading his brow. Then one amazing night and BOOM! went the gunpowder.
See ya’ in another who knows when.
But what could he do? He had nothing to offer Lorena. He was great at driving a truck, and decent at loving her in the way he did. But that was only for a single night at a time, without enough predictability to pencil a calendar.
It was just as well. A broken boulevard of bad mistakes was a rather blinding reminder of his life’s many failures. Odds were, he’d be just as bad at loving Lorena for anything longer than a twelve hour stretch. No different than anything else.
Still, something told him to hope; a quiet whisper urging him to press a little harder. Life wanted to clobber him, but Abraham was sure if he could make it work with Lorena, the remainder of life’s shit would finally settle into place.
The thick clot of lament that always lodged itself in his throat during the last two miles was enough to choke a man. Fortunately, Abraham had learned how to swallow.
He swung the semi off the freeway and into the rest stop, capping the end of the row next to an old Peterbuilt deathtrap that looked as if it had been crossing state lines two decades before NAFTA.
There she was.
He could see her pale skin rinsed in the washed out light blinking from a row of overhead fluorescents. He could see her smiling, her tiny hand inside her mother’s; the most beautiful kindergartner in the world. His daughter, Lorena.
Abraham smiled, nodded, then tipped his head in her direction, not sure if she could see him up so high and just beyond the glare. He stroked his goatee, opened the door of the truck and jumped to the ground.
His boots crunched gravel as he walked toward his world’s only asylum.
DAMN YOU SEAN PLATT! I didn’t see that curve ball coming at all. Super cool!
You had me thinking another whole direction…very cool ending
Yeah, ditto those remarks! Awesome, Sean
Yeah man. This is my favorite story here. Great work.
Mindfreak!
Awww!!!
Naturally, my mind was some. place. else. You got me.
Well done, Sean.
P.S. “Thick clot of lament” is an awesome phrase.
Shane, Karetha, Kelly – thanks guys. This was the longest I’ve spent on one, and on a morning I couldn’t afford the time, but it’s probably my favorite as a result.
Patrick, Eric, Kool-Aid…
Thanks. I took my time with this one. I think I’ll have to do poetry for the next one as I promised Kelly (smile), but I enjoyed the longer form and will probably return to it next week.
It wasn’t the garbage bag full of gunpowder in the trunk of my ‘86 Datsun deathtrap that did me in. It wasn’t the blood-soaked switchblade in the glove box, or the fact that I clobbered a homeless guy as I passed the kindergarten playground (and sped on, without displaying an ounce of sorrow, for which I do apologize). It wasn’t the fact that U2’s “Pride (In the Name of Love)” was blaring from the PA speakers duct-taped to the roof that landed me in the isolation ward of the asylum. Nope, it was the goatee. Because, in reality, obeying this one simple rule can allow you to do pretty much whatever you want and avoid looking like a complete asshole on the police dashboard cam, and on subsequent episodes of “Cops.” Especially if you happen to be drunk — Never, never allow the moustache and beard portions to connect. Doing so bridges the gap between “eccentric creative type” and “crazy redneck,” and any attempt to make it work for you is an excercise in sheer stupidity. Be warned.
WHAT!!! That was freakin’ outstanding Peter. You are representing LA very nicely.
No wasted words. Tight writing.
Nice job and welcome to the fun!
Thanks, and thanks for the interesting post… New subscriber gained.
Peter, you have to go back and do the other challenges man! That would be awesome if you did.
I’ve gotta echo Shane, that was some tight writing.
Peter,
1. I was waiting for Pride to show up. Now I feel better.
2. If Patrick’s kindergarten teacher did a little shaving, maybe she could be just an eccentric creative type?
3. You painted a great picture here. I was smiling through the whole odd scene. Nicely done.
Haha, re #2, that’s definitely the case. (Damn, Patrick, I say damn!)
Brilliant post, Peter. I think I’ll have to bring Mrs. Pennypacker back someday with a subtle shave and just see what happens…
There’s just no cure for stupidity. At least that’s what Danny’s teachers tried to console themselves with, when they realized with sorrow that almost 12 years of schooling had left the kid no kinder, brighter, or saner than he’d been in kindergarten. Back then the psychologists wanted to put him in an asylum, but the social workers managed to get him mainstreamed through the state’s new “In the Name of Love” program. They thought a little maturity and socialization would end his violent tendencies, that peer pressure alone would do a better job at reforming him than drugs or attempts to clobber his brain into submission with electroshock therapy.
But they were wrong. 12 years later and that chubby face now hides behind an unkempt goatee, those merely mischievous hands now carry a switchblade, and that troubled child will now forever be known as the Guy Fawkes of Hadley High School. Seems his plans to blow up the school were as screwed up as all his other life plans, with not nearly enough gunpowder to structurally damage the building, but more than enough to end his life when the auto-locking gym doors turned his make-shift bomb into an ironic deathtrap.
Jeff, that was awesome. Reading “when the auto-locking gym doors turned…” for some reason I thought of the scene in Weird Sciece when the two main characters get their pants pulled down to “Hey, check us out!”
Excellent write. I was wondering when you’d return.
Sorry for the radio silence. Got really busy while on the road and wasn’t able to keep up with everything. But I love this site, so I’ll be kicking around for some time to come.
No worries. I have not stopped by your website in a while, so we’re even.
Deathtrap
I named my bike “Deathtrap” because of a boy I knew in kindergarten.
The boy–Jimmy–rode an old gunpowder grey Huffy to school every day. It only had one pedal, but he made it work.
One afternoon his teacher, a fat man with a limp and a ragged goatee, said to him, “I’ve never seen such stupidity! You’re going to kill yourself on that deathtrap!” We all laughed as we watched Jimmy pedaling across the parking lot, faster than his teacher could run.
Then one day the bike disappeared. Jimmy snapped. “I’m going to clobber you,” he yelled at no one in particular. It seemed liked a pretty strong reaction, but I’d never seen such sorrow—and I haven’t since.
A few days later, Jimmy came to school with a switchblade and went looking for the person who stole his bike. The custodian caught him before he could hurt anyone, and they put Jimmy in an asylum. He was only there for a few days, but he never returned to school.
We found out later why Jimmy was so upset. His father had given him the bike. He couldn’t afford a new one, so in the name of love he bought the broken-down Huffy at a yard sale. When his dad finally left it was the only memory of him that Jimmy had. Now it was gone, too.
Hey Anthony. That was a touching submission. I had a Mongoose bike with no breaks (other than my shoes). Brought back good memories for me. Thanks.
This is a continuation of sorts… but it will still drive Shane crazy. Stay tuned…
What is?
The ship was one hyperspace jump away from becoming a floating deathtrap;. I thought again about the stupidity of it all, but this was no time for regrets. I could have them later. If there was a later. If not, it wouldn’t matter much.
I was wedged between two heavy containers of something that smelled like gunpowder, watching a couple of the crew play a game of Clobber. One of them looked like he’d spent the night at a low-rent disco; tight pants, shiny shirt under a fake leather jacket, gold chain around his neck, too much of something in his hair, and an attempt at a goatee. He looked like he had a hangover. He also appeared to have the upper hand in the game.
His opponent was as clean cut as they come. He had the kind of face that you see on subspace commercial airlines pilots or kindergarten teachers. Except I knew he’d walked away from the Asylum after taking a switchblade to two guards and a nurse.
Goatee smirked and shook his head in mock sorrow. He was close to winning. I could see the tension in Asylum guy’s shoulders. He stood up, clenching his fists.
He had a tattoo on his left biceps. All I could read was, “In the name of love.”
I held my breath, watching.
DAMN YOU STACEY! (I’m liking saying this today). You’re right. I am going crazy, but in a good way. Can you email me and tell me how it ends so I don’t have to wait any longer?
Heh. I could tell you… but then I’d have to kill you.
Plus I don’t know yet, either.
LOL.
Awesome as always, Stacey.
This was the third time he’d been caught with packets of gunpowder in his backpack. The ride out of town in the squad car seemed unending. As soon as the thick steel doors closed behind him, David knew the asylum was a deathtrap. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks. Sorrow overtook him.
Running his fingers through his overgrown goatee, he wondered how he could either reclaim the switchblade he’d left at the front office or find something quick enough to clobber the smart-ass “kindergarten-cop” guard.
David asked himself, “How, in the name of love, did I allow myself to end up here?” The answer: sheer stupidity.
Top notch submission from a top notch parent. Glad to see you joining the fun Michael.
Thanks.
Shane — it was a blast! I’ll have to do this more often.
P.S. Thanks for the tip on the MS Word to Blog Comment conversion. I’ll make sure I don’t hose things up for you!
–michael
no worries, Michael. I can clean them up if you forget. ps. Please go back and give the other 10 challenges a try. Then you’ll be an old-timer member with scars to show for it like the rest of us.
Scares? It is scary, there is getting to be a LOT of COMPETITION!
Opps! Thanks Loran. I fixed the typo.
Scares, scars, they all come from the same place.
PROGRAMMING NOTE!
DAMN YOU COPYBLOGGER! I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER I CAN HANDLE THE MODERATION LOAD CAPTAIN!!!!
PS. EVERYONE. Copying and pasting from MS Word doesn’t mesh too well with blogs. I always paste into notepad first, then paste that into the comments. Try that and it should work without a hitch.
‘This is the height of stupidity’, Mary Ellen told herself. Yet she continues on her journey to Clobberston Asylum. She had not seen him since she was a child in Kindergarten, but she was her mother and she owned her a visit if nothing else. So she drove down the long dark road where nothing but sorrow awaited her.
Andrew “Switchblade” Turner, Mary Ellen’s father had been a powerful and wealthy man, when he married Donna Banks, Mary Ellen’s mother. He was a tall handsome Texan with icy blue eyes and a distinguished goatee. It was love at first sight. They lived a life of privilege and luxury in their mansion on the hill. They were the American dream, the perfect family. How could he tell his adoring wife and young daughter that it was all gone? The money, the cars, the houses. All of it gone. How he to know that one bad choice was would be the end of his fortune? He thought that it would bring him even more riches, money that would secure his family’s future, He did it for them. What had done, he did in the name of love, for Donna and Mary Ellen.
Donna was not the strong woman she appeared to be. The shock of losing everything was too much for her. Mary Ellen could still remember the faint smell of gunpowder in the air. What was that loud noise? Why was daddy lying on the floor? Donna Banks-Turner was declared legally insane. But that was 20 years ago.
Why am I doing this? It’s crazy’. She felt as though she were caught in some sort of deathtrap with no way out.
Clara, that was awesome. Clobberston Asylum! Fantastic. Welcome aboard.
Excellent first submission. Thank you!
TO DO:
1) Clobber the asylum guard
2) Walk to parking lot, find Buick
3) Shave goatee with glove-box switchblade
4) Drive straight to Newport
5) Pick up supplies
6) Kaboom
Time to correct their stupidity in the name of love and justice. Only one person understands. Thank God, medication doesn’t blur the message. The need.
There’s gonna be real sorrow. Two boxes of gunpowder in the closet of a kindergarten? Gonna clobber those kids. It’ll be a deathtrap.
That’s great stuff once again Carson. I like the style of this one.
I love the to-do list format, Carson!
(More nightmares for me…)
HAAHAHAHAH!!!!
Awesome.
Bonus points for accidentally using clobber 2x?
Bonus points for you! (must read in Soup Nazi voice)
Since kindergarten she had an obsession with gunpowder. The power it had given and taken from her. She seemed elated at her feat, “Mommy’s been clobbered!” she screamed. Her dad left sobbing the deep tears of sorrow only a child’s father could bear as his wife lie dead behind this now damned deathtrap of a house. The house they had once savored as their love asylum from a darker past seemed like life’s new eternal prison.
The stupidity was daunting. How could he in the name of love have left his young daughter alone with that old gun? He peered at his gaunt and aging face in the mirror, and pulled out his switchblade and began shaving away the goatee only she had loved.
Welcome Kelly, and wow that was powerful. Thank you for stopping by and hope to see more from you. Ps. We have another Kelly. Woohoo!
Thanks Shane! This was great fun and I had never done anything like that before. I guess I’d better be KellyH from now on – sorry I didn’t notice the other Kelly.
Hahaha, you can never have too many Kellys (Kellies?). Good story, Kelly!
We have a Kelly quota. It has now been reached.
I can’t make myself get off the couch long enough to stop wallowing in the sorrow of my disastrous life.
Of course Hugh Jackman isn’t going to rescue me, not even in the name of love. I’m on my own and it’s my own stupidity that got me here.
I could blame it all on Mom and her multiple visits to the asylum. Or what about the time my sister Cecily pulled her switchblade on Joe? He tried to clobber her one too many times after she wrecked his truck. She got sent so far away I can’t even visit her. My piece of shit deathtrap Vega would never make it.
Maybe I could ask that goody-two-shoes Sonya for help. Ever since she’s had Jaiden she’s been trying to disown me, especially after the day Jaiden went to kindgergarten and told the teacher, “My Aunt Christina is a pole dancer!” (It was career day after all.)
Glancing at the morning paper I read the headline, “Birdcage Burns Down.” Someone used gunpowder to blow the place up. Takes care of the option.
Looking at the entertainment section I see Brad Pitt with that idiotic goatee smiling with Angelina and their six kids. Maybe they need a nanny. I’ve got great references.
Just a little note: I incorporated CCC# 5, 6, 9, and 10! If this keeps going long enough I might be able to include them all and keep it going! Maybe….
That’s awesome Loran, and quite an undertaking I might add. “goody-two-shoes Sonya” is my favorite part.
The two dogs ran across the yard, clobbering each other in the way only dogs can. Switchblade and Gunpowder were their names. I stood there watching, chuckling to myself and mumbled, “all in the name of love.” They had belonged to an old girlfriend but she followed a job overseas and the dogs couldn’t go with her. The cynic in me thought that love was a deathtrap and while that may be true, I still liked the dogs and didn’t regret the decision. I stroked my goatee absently.
“Stupidity must run in the family,” I heard from behind. I turned and looked at my sister. She wasn’t really my sister, not by blood anyway. My parents adopted her when we were in kindergarten. I remember vague whispers about her parents and an asylum but she never talked about it and I didn’t really care. Her gaze followed the dogs and before I got offended, I realized she was talking about them and not me.
“Sure does, I mean, you’ve met our uncle right?” She laughed. I love to make her laugh. The sorrow fades from her eyes when she laughs. We both turn and watch the dogs wrestle in the yard, enjoying the comfortable silence of a lifetime of shared joys and pains.
Wow Kool Aid, you really did it!
Two in one day, with the same prompt!
You are too, too cool!!!
What can I say? I’m lovin’ this kind of freewriting. I can’t wait until #12 :)
Kool Aid, light of our lives, fire of our forum. Our sin, our superstar. Koo-laid-Ahh: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Kool. Aid. Ahh.
She was Ko, plain Ko, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Kool Aid in literary slacks. She was Grits at school. She was Gretta on the dotted line. But in our arms she is always Kool Aid.
That’s a reworded of the opening paragraph of a book called Lolita. I reworked it as my way of saying, “Kool Aid, you rock.”
That. is. so. cool. Thank you, very much.
Switchblade McGee leaned in towards the students as the teacher stood by, transfixed. She could see mysterious traces of gunpowder in his goatee, which the kids thankfully mistook for magnet shavings. “Get yourself out of this asylum before it’s too late,” he warned. “See that door over there? It’s locked. Go on, see for yourself.” Then he leaned in and whispered: “It’s a deathtrap in here.”
They were terrified and intrigued. One little girl stood up and tentatively pushed at the locked door before retreating to her seat in silence. It went on like this for almost 20 minutes as he spouted his stupidity with the confidence of a movie villain.
So much for Bring Dad to Class Day. The good will of ten dentists, therapists, and stay-at-homes erased by a lone curiosity. Gail Watson vowed, then and there, never to subject her kindergarten class to the whims of such a strange man again – no matter how popular it made Jimmy McGee. (Admittedly, it was the high-point of Jimmy’s year. And it would buy him several months of newfound respect.) What in the name of love was this ‘Switchblade” character even talking about? How does a grown man get that way?
Driving home in her old, reliable Civic, Gail replayed the day’s events in her mind. For one thing, she was relieved that her new principal decided against sitting in on the day’s fiasco. But as she opened the garage door and let out a good-natured sigh of relief, all she felt was sorrow.
It had been a long career.
Ryan, I hope people read your story twice and see just how nuanced it is. Such sadness in that teacher’s career. She failed to realize the father is doing anything to bring excitement to his son’s day, even making a fool of himself. This should have been a happy event for all involved. At least that’s the way I read it. Why was your character filled with sorrow? God I love these things. I’m so glad you stopped by. Please make it a habit.
Nice layers.
And sad.
In the name of love and stupidity, the sorrow-filled goatee-sporting kindergarten teacher clobbered the pint-sized asylum-bound troublemaker and confiscated a barrel of gunpowder, a homemade switchblade, and a curiously out-of-place bootlegged VHS tape of the 1982 thriller Deathtrap starring Michael Caine, Christopher Reeve, and Dyan Cannon.
Jaced, the fact that you referenced (and can remember) the movie Deathtrap makes you the mac daddy king of challenges in my mind. Christopher Reeves was evil in that movie, no!
I never saw the movie, I just remember the Mad Magazine parody called DeathCrap.
Jaced,
LOL—that’s another one I’ve been waiting for all day. (I almost changed my whole piece because I wanted to work it in so badly.) Rock on with obscure movie references!
I’ve known some pint-sized asylum-bound troublemakers. Poor teacher!
Hahahaha… I forgot about Deathtrap.
Since I was a little girl in kindergarten, all I wanted was to be loved. My day-to-day living was filled to the brim with sorrow, more grief than any little girl should ever be subjected to. At the age of four, I cried to deaf ears as the ambulance drivers escorted my mother to an asylum. To that point in my young life, she had been my safe haven, my port in all manners of stormy weather.
My father, the village drunk, was gone three months later. Crawling out of bed one chilly fall morning, I padded to the kitchen to search for some cold cereal to fill my growling tummy. Amongst the landscape of empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays, I found Daddy’s body slumped over the kitchen table. His brains decorated the patio curtains, complementing the orange paisley pattern. Even today, I can smell the ghostly odor of gunpowder whenever fear takes over, niggling and worming and eating its way through logic into my own paisley-filled mind.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world,” he whispered in my ear as he crawled into my bed, dragging in the cold air with him. The smell of whisky wafted off his crumpled clothes and his scratchy, disgusting goatee (that I had begged him repeatedly to shave) irritated my neck as he tried to perform his version of foreplay: breathing.
Stupidity chained me in this warped and distorted marriage for five years. It was a constant rollercoaster of emotional upheaval, my need for love getting clobbered and battered by his womanizing, his drunken sprees and lengthy absences, and then romanced by his guilt-ridden apologies.
Little did he know that tonight he was crawling into a deathtrap. This would be the last time he would soil my sheets and break my heart. As I held the comforting cold steel of the switchblade close to my heart, I listened to the sound of his breathing getting shallower as he slipped into drunken subconscious where dreams never fly.
Sleep tight my darling, and forgive me, for I do this only to preserve your memories in the name of love.
Lisa. That. Was. INTENSE, CAPTIVATING, GUT WRENCHING, TRAGIC, AMAZING!
This one hit my brain with the awesome! Thank you once again Lisa. Wow!
Thanks Shane!
These challenges are becoming my drug of choice, lol. After completing one, I am checking my emails daily to see if you have posted the next challenge. Keep ‘em coming! I need my fix!
*raises hand* Three a week’s nice…
We have three. Do I hear four?
three is good. a nice do-able number!
I vote for three.
I definitely vote for three, but I’d love to see four
We’ll be supplementing with something similar, but totally different, over at the Inkwell starting next week. So anybody who doesn’t get their fix here, can go mainline some more there.
saweeet!
echoing the words of kool-aid on another place to get that creativity fix–SHWWWEEEETTT!!!!
Lisa,
Wow. The father scene was perfect. And the hubby… “The smell of whisky wafted off his crumpled clothes…” —what a great image.
You captured all my senses with this story. Love it!
Thanks Kelly! It is an honour to hang out in one of the coolest sites and write alongside some incredibly talented people. Your stuff rocks!
That may have been my favorite, and I agree with Kelly – the line about the whisky wafting from his crumpled clothes. I felt this story.
It all began at kindergarten. Instead of playing with skittles and rattles, pom-poms and pillows, John Wolfenstein would conjure his own simplistic switchblade with a broken plastic knife and sticky-backed plastic.
As he grew, so his tastes in weaponry changed. From the physical to the emotional. Wolfenstein was a havoc of a man, a charmer, lothario, Casanova and politician of passion.
Outwardly he was suave. Inside, he was a deathtrap: a maelstrom of fear and loathing, desperation and stupidity. A ticking timebomb, with one predictable outcome. The gunpowder was always waiting to be lit; that it had lain dry and meekly harmless in his cerebral asylum for such a time was a miracle that even Jesus would fail to fathom.
The mirror told a tale of discretion. Dressed in the finest clobber, his messy beard now reduced to an a la mode ‘v’ goatee and angry throat freshly fragranced, Wolfenstein looked the everyman. But history had told, and future would tell, an altogether different tale.
Dressed up after a dressing down at work, Wolfenstein was in military mood, ready to inflict carnal carnage as he took his war to a bar. Any bar. The only prerequisite was in female form, and it was available wherever he chose to inflict his merciless ladykilling ways.
For whoever was his next prey, there would be no sorrow – just an electrifying ending that always drove him past the point of caring. His was a world of ultimate adrenaline for him. Hers, to pay the ultimate price in the name of love.
Dave. STUNNING!
You’ve got some serious writing chops my friend. Damn.
All of these phrases you used brought the awesome! Thanks for stopping by, and for all of our benefit, I hope you stick around, and I hope you do the other challenges.
As you would say, “Be a glutton for life…and for our CCCs.”
Thanks man.
The cold dark winter wind bit at Jerome as he sat in the back of the old pick-up truck. He bounced around as the vehicle raced down the interstate. If he didn’t think he was going to die soon, he would never have jumped in the back of this deathtrap. He held pressure on his lower abdomen to keep the bleeding to a minimum. He was thankful for the Samaritan who said would give him a ride to San Antonio from Houston with no questions asked. As cars passed, light would sometimes reflect on objects inside an old hubcap sitting next to him.
His friend, Casper at the liquor store said it was called a USB drive. He was begging for change at a familiar intersection when a car sped by and tossed the object out of his window. Jerome had no idea what it was; it was shiny and looked expensive. He’d been away from home for ten years. He thought maybe he could exchange the treasure for some liquid at Casper’s that would drown a sorrow or two. Casper tried to pull something up on his computer, but nothing happened. Only a name appeared, “Jericho”. He gave it back to Jerome and a forty for his time.
Jerome had gone to his corner to sit and enjoy his liquid amnesia. He noticed a couple of non-descript cars pull up to Casper’s a few minutes later. The visitors left a couple minutes later as quickly as they entered. Within seconds the place exploded. Jerome wasn’t sure if they saw him leave earlier or the stupidity of running from the scene that tipped off the visitors, but it wasn’t long before he noticed the burning in his side and the smell of gunpowder. He didn’t know why they left him for dead instead of following up on their initial attack. Maybe they thought an old homeless drunk wouldn’t be a threat.
He managed to get the bullet out with the old switchblade that currently rattled next to the USB. Is this where his decisions in life have taken him? His mind raced ten years ago to when he left his wife and daughter. He looked at the crumbled picture he always carried of him and his daughter Rose. Ten years on the street did a lot to the good looking man with the sharp haircut and trimmed goatee. He couldn’t remember if Rose had been in kindergarten or first grade in the picture. Regardless, he didn’t know how much time he had left. All he did know was that he needed to tell her something before he might die.
The Samaritan stopped a block away as promised and Jerome jumped from the truck bed. He felt the pain radiate through his torso the second he landed. He grimaced and limped his way back to the familiar house he once shared with his wife. He remembered bringing Rose home from the hospital. He thought of how scared he was when she got real sick shortly after the picture was taken. He couldn’t take the pressure of all the treatments, tubes and tests that were constantly attacking his daughter. A part of him died each time he saw his daughter in pain. So he just left.
For ten years he has beat himself up constantly about his decision. He would fight and clobber and wrestle with his fear of failure to find some excuse not to go back. The six months in what was generously called an asylum didn’t help much either.
So here he was, waiting for her to come outside to go to school. He needed to tell her something. She was the only one he trusted. Maybe the only one that could possibly trust him. If only for a minute.
The five hour trip and two hours of waiting finally paid off. Rose came out the front door. He never knew that someone could be so beautiful. He wondered how someone as dirty and broken as he could have a daughter as wonderful and pure as this young lady. He knew it would be hard on her, but he had no other choice. Time was running out. He came out from behind a car as she approached.
“Rose.” Jerome softly spoke.
Rose jumped back and screamed.
“Wait, it’s me. Dad!”
“What?? Who?? Daddy?!?”
“I know I have a lot of explaining to do, but I don’t have much time left. I just need you to know that I’m sorry for leaving. I regretted the decision every day the past ten years. I love you very much and you’re the only one I can trust with this. I hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me someday. Take care of this please, the person on this has caused a lot of hurt and needs to be dealt with. In the name of love, please take this.”
He put it in her trembling hand and walked away. Rose stood frozen, not knowing what to do, say or feel. Jerome turned the corner, sat against a fence and died.
Rose wiped the tears from her eyes, opened her hand and cried as she pressed the picture against her chest.
Eric, you just keep on producing the goods. I’m sure everyone would agree that the scenario you developed with Jerome’s surprise giving of the picture could become the climax of a full length movie. You had me fooled my friend.
Also, it’s funny the stuff I can think of when I read these challenges. When you mentioned sitting in the back of a truck I thought of the movie Planes Trains and Automobiles. When you mentioned the picture, I thought of the song “Jolene” from The Zac Brown Band.(If you have not heard it yet, listen to it as you read Eric’s story)
Awesome.
Thanks for the kind words Shane.
I’m just worried about what’s going to happen to the Samaritan now that the USB is still in the back of his truck.
Eric, the cool thing is, in here, you are God, so your characters will do exactly what you tell them to do!
Hey all,Dropped in by way of Kelly. I took up the gauntlet, and this is what I came up with.
Stupidity got me into this deathtrap. Plain, unabashed stupidity. Who turns down a blind alley? Better to stay out in the street — at least that way there’d be witnesses.
I threw myself flat against the wall where it jutted back. It wouldn’t afford much cover for long, I knew. But at least I had time to catch my breath. From one of the windows above, I could here the mocking voice of Bono straining: “In the name of love…” What a world we live in, this still gets played on the radio! Still, the words were apt. Timeless even. La plus ça change…
I became acutely aware of the ridges in the hilt of the switchblade digging into my palm as I gripped it all too tightly. It had been so long, yet it still felt so natural, like an old familiar T-shirt…
My hand was ready long before I would be. ’Course my brain knew the problem of bringing a knife to a gunfight. “The pen might be mightier than the sword” (so says some 18th century ponce in his tower office — I’m not convinced), but gunpowder takes no prisoners.
Clabbered milk. Not sure why that popped into my head. There was a restaurant downtown that served clabbered milk. I never tried it (those few times my Mom trotted us down for a fast meal on the way to somewhere else), but I always had the vision of Mrs. Harvinen’s kids coming home ready to clobber milk in the bathtub with some baseball bat in time for the evening dinner rush. I’m not sure how effective (or focused) a pair of Kindergarten girls would be swinging twin baseball bats, but there you go.
Probably as effective as… There it was, the first sign: a pebble, skipping down the alley, kicked by some menacing boot. He’d held up and sauntered into the alley, knowing full well there was nowhere for me to go.
“Yo, Rick-ah!” he said. “Just let’s talk about it man!”
I could picture him, waving his gun around as he talked, trigger at the ready.
“We were partners, weren’t we? Now you’re out free, we can be partners again. We’ll split it all, 50-50.”
I knew he already had found it. The box. The money. I wasn’t a partner any longer; I was a loose end. I’m sure he found no sorrow in that.
“Come on, Ricky-boy!”
I flattened myself up against the wall. Waited. Counted, to force myself to wait. One. Two. Three.
I let my right arm arch out before me, swinging my body around with it. Claudio was definitely startled, but he also was about three feet further into the middle of the alley than I expected. Damn echoes. His goatee seemed to grimace and flinch for a moment. Just for a moment, before it pulled itself up into a smile.
Then somehow I was on the ground, listening to the song drift down from above. “…shots ring out, in the Memphis sky. Free at last…” Slipping, slipping. Slipping into the cold, beckoning promise of redemptive asylum.
~Graham
Welcome aboard the fun Graham. That was “killer” man! Really.
I love how you allowed your character to drift off into obscure thoughts in the middle of his approaching encounter. Very nice write.
It’s awesome to have you here. Please try the others so you can catch up.
Write on!
Thanks Shane!
I think I’m going to have some fun with this…
~Graham
Matrix movie quote:
Morpheus: Don’t think you are, know you are!
Great one – loved the entire scene setting. I’m not sure myself what “clabbered” milk is so I’ll have to look that up!
Thanks Kelly!
I must admit, I’m not quite sure what clabbered milk is either, but they serve it at one of the Finnish restaurants in town. And I’ve never tasted it.
~Graham
Sorry guys — couldn’t get the formatting to work for me! This last one is close enough, I suppose. You can delete all the preceding ones…!
Great idea you have here! Looking forward to more.
~Graham
Was it her stupidity that caused her to land in this lunatic asylum? Or was she just another victim in the name of love? She hated him. She should have never followed him to this shack in the middle of nowhere. She had made the wrong decision.
Each day when darkness began to descend, she felt as if her belly was full with gunpowder. One more spark, and she would explode. Soon she would hear the roar of his clumsy truck. He would kick open the door and start treating her like shit. He would call her bad names and clobber her until she begged him to stop. Drops of sweat would trickle down his filthy goatee. She would hate him even more.
She heard the truck that battled to climb the hill. Soon the noise got louder and then stopped. He kicked the door open. She thought the walls shook and trembled.
“How ya doin’ little nuthin?” he snorted.
She hated his hyena grin. She felt she would stop breathing if she heard his voice again.
“Come here! What you doin’ over there?”
She prayed he would stop. The heat wave started in her belly and moved up. Her cheeks were on fire now.
“Why you starin’ bitch?”
In two boorish steps, he was next to her. He grabbed her by the hair, like he always did. She knew he wouldn’t stop until it hurt enough.
“Please, ” she said. She sounded like a child in kindergarten, begging a bully not to break her toy. “Please…”
“Aha!” he said. “Learned your lesson, huh?”
She turned around slowly and pushed her face against his chest. He smelled of tobacco and grime. She closed her eyes as he clenched her. She embraced him caressing his neck with one hand.
His hands were all over her, and he was breathing like a rabid animal now. “Little bitch,” he hissed.
The gunpowder exploded. Only she could hear the noise of the explosion. She thrust the switchblade into the back of his neck. “Bitch…” he hissed again. Then he released her. His hyena grin had vanished.
She walked to the door. Her ears were sealed. She grabbed the doorknob, with her red sticky hand. ‘No sorrow,’ she thought. ‘I’ll have no sorrow. I’m out of this deathtrap.’
(Don’t forget that English is not my mother tongue! This was a nice break in the hassle of the day. Thanks!)
C.A. that was fantastic. Gripping and heart wrenching. And considering English is not your mother tongue (what is?), that makes it even better.
Welcome to all of the fun we are having here. You are a most welcome member of our community now. Please give the other challenges a try and start interacting with the other members. I’m sure you will quickly find out, they are as cool as these challenges.
Thanks!
And the answer is ‘Turkish’.
Yes, I hope to participate in the upcoming challenges as often as I can
That’s awesome. You write better than probably 70% of native English speakers.
All In the Name of Love
Odd, the things we focus on while ending a person’s life. The glint of his switchblade arcing toward me. The bedlam of Kindergarten recess, sounding more like an asylum riot. The silver hairs scattered in the chin of his ridiculous goatee. The impulse to clobber him with a chair, because it would mean less cleanup. The deathtrap of a Buick my first lover drove. The stupidity of this man, thinking he could best me. And after, the smell of gunpowder, an acrid stamp on my hands. And the simple, clean sorrow that escapes me as his life ebbs away.
Ohh! You are good! So glad you stopped by Victoria. Welcome her to the club everyone!
I hope you go back and do the others, too.
You guys realize we’ve had 30 submission for this challenge! That’s so cool. And in case you haven’t noticed, when you come to this page you have to wait for the scroll bar to catch up. You know you’re a mac-daddy when you’re blog’s scroll bar starts to lag!!!!!
Thanks to everyone.
The only downside is having time to read all the submissions and comments! You’re doing a good job keeping up. Are you feeling better?
Allow my next submission in CCC#12 to be your answer!
In The Name of Love
The driver pulled the team to a stop. They were magnificent animals, with obvious Arab ancestry. Both were as grey as gunpowder with black manes and tails and hooves as polished as the brass in their harness. They stood squarely and absolutely still. Well behaved, well trained and well cared. The driver of the cab called out to me.
“Whatcha got goin on here, some sort of horsey kindergarten?” He followed that with a hearty laugh and swung down from the drivers’ seat. All the while he never took his eyes off the black filly at my side.
“Good morning Joe” I answered. I knew this day was coming but I had hoped it would be at a time of my choosing. I took a deep breath.
“Naw. We got a problem,” he said tugging on a corner of his silvered goatee.
“What now?” I asked exasperation and curiosity competing in my voice.
Joe walked around to get a better view of the filly as he spoke. “Very nice,” he said running an experienced hand over her top line. “Heard she was for sale. Think I’ll buy her. What’s her name?”
“ ‘Stupidity’, if I sell her to you.” I tried to look stern but I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
“Ooee! Looks who’s buying a boat load of sorrow now. Someday you’re gonna regret not selling me one of your bloodstock. A filly like this crossed on one of my stallions. We’d clobber them in halter class. Performance too. She’s favoring her off hind leg there.”
“Yes she picked up a stone. You have a jackknife on you?” I held out my hand. Joe always carried a knife.
“Jackknife!” he scoffed. “A fellow of my demeanor carries a switchblade or nothing.”
He handed me the knife as I lifted the filly’s hind foot. Sure enough there was a stone wedged between the shoe and the sole of her foot. I pried it loose and handed the knife back to Joe.
“A man of your demeanor belongs in an asylum.” I said dryly.
“Me! You’re the one what’s getting married. Walking into a deathtrap if you ask me.” Joe was smiling and his eyes twinkled. “Come on, how much you want for this filly?”
“Joe this filly is already spoke for.” I tried to hide the pleasure in my voice.
“No! You’ve sold her?” The disappointment was so intense I almost regretted what I had said.
“Well not exactly,” I temporized. “She’s a gift. An engagement present so to speak.”
Joe’s expression was priceless. I will never forget it.
“To Sal? You’re giving this filly to Sal?”
“Yes Joe. This filly belongs to Sal.”
Joe stepped back, then turned and climbed up into the driver’s seat. “You’re a fool. You know that? Doing something like this…what…in the name of love?”
“In the name of love,” I nodded.
Joe laughed and gathered the reins.
“Wait! I thought we had a problem.” I called up to him.
“No. No problem at all,” he called out as he drove away. “And start calling me Dad.”
Mary Ann, that was outstanding. I married into horses, so I was totally into this piece.
Well written, and the ending was great. Thanks.
Thank you for your kind words. I used to raise horses, Arabs of course. I love the way stories unfold as you try to use the words. Good practice! i may become a writer yet….
psss! Let me tell you a secret! You already are a writer. Don’t think it! Know it!
It really is sad all of the stupidity we commit in the name of love. I should be sent to the asylum for dating that kindergarten teacher. I walked right into her deathtrap and had no idea of the danger I was in until I saw the switchblade on the table and smelt the aroma of gunpowder in the air. She looked like she was filled with sorrow when she tried to clobber me and missed. It really hurt man! She caught me on the side of the face, right above my goatee. Now she’s doing 15-20 in the state pen. The sad thing is, I really liked her, and so did class.
Cleve, that sounds like a couple of my teachers in middle school! Good write.
I had no idea what a sick fucker she was, but I was about the find out. Our next stop was the Asylum, a popular haunt for flattish characters, a deathtrap tonight. DJ Clobber was spinning In the Name of Love when we strode onto the club.
Song wielded her chrome quill like a switchblade.
After the carnage, I sat down next to Song at the bar. She poured me a drink. “This will wash down the sorrow,” she laughed. I laughed, too.
Her gunpowder perfume was exquisite. I leaned in to kiss her. And I woke up with her boot on my throat. Before meeting Song I hadn’t had my ass handed to me by a girl since kindergarten.
“Your stupidity is disappointing,” she said.
“And by the way, that goatee isn’t working for you.”
I love this series, Troy. Fascinating stuff.
It was sheer stupidity for the Birdcage Bandit to keep playing his game. With each murder, he became increasingly bold, taking deathtrap chances with his life. But, where was it written that murder followed rules?
Homicide detective, Brett Connors, had been working the case for a year. Each time he thought he had the killer, he found another woman, murdered in the name of love. Or was that a game, too? The killer had called them whores, and his one true love. So much of it felt like he was playing them.
The press had a field day, speculating on the meaning behind the birdcage ornament, hanging from each victim’s toe. Now, homicide had something new – something they kept from the press. Lying beside the bloodstained bed of the latest victim was a switchblade.
The Gray Titan with the gunpowder-colored handle was sold as “double edge, double action.” The coroner’s office confirmed this blade had seen a lot more than “double action.”
“Getting sloppy, asshole,” Brett murmured. Or had they gotten that close? At times, Brett swore he could feel the disturbed breath of the killer. What would they have found if they arrived five minutes sooner? Why didn’t he just clobber the doorman who stood in his way?
“Don’t go there – not yet,” Brett thought, but, it was hard not to. The latest victim was a kindergarten teacher, for God’s sake. What had she ever done but try to start a kid’s life out right? He could still hear the wails of her mother’s sorrow.
Witnesses saw someone running from the victim’s home. As was so often the case, the descriptions varied so much, you’d think an army of men had fled. He was bald – he had long hair. He had a goatee – he was clean-shaven. What they had in the description department was a whole lot of nothing. Ouija boards and insane asylum patients made more sense.
Somehow, Brett had to figure it out. It had gone on far too long. Far too many women had died. He couldn’t let it continue. He couldn’t destroy another family’s life.
@Cathy: You’re in the zone with this story. Well done again.
“Your stupidity will not qualify for your asylum, dear brother,” Shayna sneered, flicking her switchblade out.
Sorrow lined Adrian’s face and his goatee quivered as he asked, “Please, dear sister? In the name of love?”
“I’ve been saving your ass since kindergarten,” she hissed. “I never let a single bully clobber you. And after all this time, this is the thanks I get.”
“I set the deathtrap like you asked!” he insisted, waving his gunpowder-tipped fingers as evidence.
“Yes, you idiot, and you fucked up,” she said flatly, advancing on him. “And now, I have to get rid of the trail that leads to me.”
@Sara: Super Write! Nuff said!