Writing Prompt “Unforgettable”
Theme: Unforgettable
The story can be anything relating to the tag line. “Why they say Men are from Mars”
Requirements:
- a pumpkin.
- Mention of Pumpkin without Halloween.
Word Count: 1,200
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The writing prompt for November 4, 2021, will be chosen by Phil Town.
Read the stories here:
Does the story have to include the tagline (i.e. the exact phrase)?
Not necessarily.
As I understood the prompt you could reference the book, or that men are like space aliens or that “I swear my husband is from another planet sometimes” or that sometimes men and women seem like they’re from different planets.
It’s pretty loosely defined.
Do you think there is the possibility of an extension to submit and vote this time? I have been so caught us with other things and have not really had the chance to read or comments form last prompt or even think of this one. I do have an idea but just getting it down is the struggle. Fingers crossed. Thank you.
Which is why Marla, who has her own enormous secret, is a force to be reckoned with and begins working on a formula that will turn pink pumpkins into….
I feel like you have the beginnings of a beautiful story there Ken. You better be careful. You might become a writer or something……
My characters don’t change their names on the whim of some aloof and distant moderator, no matter how ravishingly beautiful she might be. Speaking of names, didn’t you used to have a different name?
If KC turns into something, we gotta run.
Like your idea Ken …hahaha.
Probably because I am so darn tired at present. Six more weeks to the summer holidays and just sleep in for a week or two. Gotta go to Kangaroo Valley late November and may book a motel to sleep rather than a sleeping bag in the back of the 4 WD Hilux. It does save money. I believe that you pay too much for substandard hotel rooms and if I can find a BNB I will stay there for an extra day to chill out.
This is a strange prompt. I like that we do not have to mention Halloween. I hate Halloween and would not answer my door on Halloween,. I think it is a dangerous and stupid festival, but many Australians appear to love it. Horrible goblins and witches on sale in KMart and Woolworths and Coles. Just shows people must be mad. All those plastic figurines with begging plates on them going to be dumped in landfills. Maybe have them come to life in another dimension and go through the portal to gobble up the Halloween participants and then poof no more Halloween. Or at least make it an Australian Affair and call it Waltzing Matilda Festival and have figurines of swaggies, kangaroos and emus wandering up to gardens where there are swags filled with Anzac biscuits and damper plus tim tams and vegemite. Then people in the houses can pretend to be bunyips and police officers and the visitors have 2o seconds to grab some loot and make a run for the gate before the trick happens which could be a number of things. Having fingers caught in pegs, bird poo dropping down on you, splashed with water etc etc
At least we have a half dozen or so camels visiting Churchill on Switchback Road. Poor things are freezing their humps off in the wet and cold weather.
I just posted the winners in the ocean prompt. I was waiting on one last new writer vote, and she voted about midnight last night.
A lot of really great stories that round!
The Shnook I know is Yiddish and means either – “An incompetent person who is deserving of pity but is also likable.” or “A customer easily persuaded, i.e., a sucker.”
I personally like stories that include a few unknow words.
I’m not Jewish (at the moment), but generally speaking, I’ve found that it’s best not to over-think Jewish compliments. Keep it under your hat.
I need to either edit my story or remove it and repost. Is there still an edit function?
What’s your advice?
Ken Frape
I just sent Carrie and email regarding the winner’s thing. I just hope everything is OK in Carrie’s world. It’s not like her to wait this long.
Roy
Not his kind of music at all. No. Never. His toes clenched at the beat drop and his nose twitched at the key change. In spite of this, he’d never tell anyone, partly out of fear that he’d ruin the party. Partly because he thought he just wasn’t drunk enough to enjoy it. Surely he needed more. Yeah, more sounded good. More. Good choice, he reassured himself silently. Walk to the punch. Like a normal person. You’re enjoying yourself. One foot in front of the other. “Left.” He shuffled forwards. “Right.” He shuffled further.
Until she noticed the weirdo in the corner muttering to himself, it had been a shockingly boring party for her. Well, maybe not that shocking, given it was hosted by the football team, who interpreted ‘party’ as ‘hit on as many girls as possible’. As she watched this onslaught, she thought “maybe Freud was right”. Since it was a costume party, everyone had taken the opportunity to flaunt their spray-tanned biceps and anything above a C-cup. She was all for bodily autonomy, but if we all have to do it dressed as a bunny or a cat, then what’s the point? Admittedly, the sexy pumpkin was a new one. Though after she saw him across the room like she was the living embodiment of a romcom, it became a much more interesting night.
“Has this punch got cranberries in it?” he asked to no one in particular. There was certainly a fruity scent to it. With a tentative grip on the ladle, he filled his small-but-not-too-small-red-with-a-white-rim-plastic-probably-bad-for-the-environment standard party cup. First hurdle cleared. Or was the first hurdle walking over here? Two hurdles cleared then. This was actually shaping up to be an exciting night. Third hurdle – tasting it, and not throwing up over a sexy cat in a drunken state. That had happened last time he went to a party. Too embarrassing. Way too embarrassing. One thought wriggled into his mind. “This has definitely got cranberries in it.”
As she drank the cranberry punch, her favourite flavour, and possibly the only reason she was still at the party, the weirdo, now at the punch table, continued to hold her attention. Even though his glum face somewhat saddened her, the temptation to speak to such an odd figure was crushing. Approaching him was easier said than done, shoving through all the teenagers sharing their saliva, but eventually she was so close that she could hear his mumbling. “You like cranberries?” she was aware of how poor an icebreaker it was, but she also knew he wouldn’t care. He mumbled something, but there was no indication of it being directed at her. Then he fell into her arms. Which would’ve been romantic if he didn’t puke immediately afterwards.
To wake in a room you’ve never seen before is heavily distressing. Luckily, he was so disoriented that he didn’t even realise he was in a different room until he noticed he was the only one there. Why was he the only one in there? “You’re not alone.” He heard over the now faint music. He looked to his left. But there was no one there. Was this room haunted? Had he- “Other way.” Oh. Still disoriented. The voice was on the right. A girl, whose face was as soft as the voice it fashioned. He wanted to kiss her. No, he’d just met her, he couldn’t do that. Also his breath would smell like puke. So he asked where they were instead. “Parents’ room, I’m guessing. Figured you’d need some space. So what’s with the vomit?” Having to explain his allergy to cranberries was a bit humiliating when he knew she’d watched him drink the punch. Stupid. So stupid.
During his cranberry monologue, she was focused almost entirely on how stupid he sounded. You wouldn’t drink the punch if you knew one of the main ingredients was something that makes you puke. While he spoke, she wondered if all the guys are from Mars, or just this one. There was a small part of her that was focused on his cheeks though, the way he blushed when he looked at her. She sensed he was afraid, to some extent. Those dulled brown eyes couldn’t directly meet her blues, but he turned to see her anyway, as if each time might have a different outcome. Cute. Then he started to hum. She couldn’t tell if he was doing it consciously, but it wasn’t even the same song playing downstairs. Entirely ignoring the blasting speakers, he’d taken it upon himself to provide backing music for their time together. She didn’t recognise the tune, but she picked it up, and hummed in harmony. For a short time, that was the only thing that mattered.
Was she joining in? There was another pitch. Slightly higher. Not completely overpowering his, but beautiful enough to make him forget he was humming altogether. It sounded like how he imagined floating through the air might feel. Probably the first time that night his heart wasn’t beating worryingly fast. “I want to kiss you.” The humming had taken away so much of his stress that he’d let it slip out. She chuckled. Which isn’t what you want to hear after a comment like that, but he didn’t let it ruin his newfound confidence. He realised she was looking at him. It would’ve scared him if he hadn’t already fallen in love with the smooth blue shades of her eyes.
She didn’t love him. How could she? They’d just met. There was no denying his awkwardness was sweet, and the dim brown of his eyes calmed her, and the nervous blushing made her giggle, but… No. She couldn’t. She was leaving next month. University in a different country. Maybe if they’d met earlier. Maybe. She couldn’t afford to think about that though. And she couldn’t let him either. She hated to be arrogant, but even a monkey could’ve picked up on the signs that he liked her. As she stared at his face, she felt almost nothing. Nothing real, at least. It had been a fun night, but she wasn’t ready to start anything long-term. They were looking for different things. He deserved something better. She was holding him back. It wasn’t him, it was her. Always her.
Screw it, he thought. He’d checked his breath. Four times. When he leaned in to kiss her, she moved away. It seemed instinctive. Like she barely knew she was doing it. Her face had changed. There was less joy to it. Replaced by sorrow. Why? He thought things were going well. He took the chance. He loved her. “Why?” he whispered, knowing she understood what he was asking. She told him that he didn’t know her. “I want to. Let me know you. Give me the oppor-“ she silenced him with a kiss. He liked it, but even for a first kiss, he could tell she didn’t. She apologised, before leaving the room. She didn’t even turn around. Though he never told anyone about her after that, never asked any questions about her, never searched for her in the school, he never forgot her. He couldn’t.
And she didn’t forget him.
Absolutely great last line. It made me stop and think in an entirely new direction wondering what her thoughts were, although after thinking about it, I might have said, And she NEVER forgot him, which I think adds even more punch. Well done.
As always, my comments are. suggestions only, if you care to listen to them, but after reading my opening line which states it’s an absolutely great line, I then suggest changing it. Just me, don’t mind my ramblings.
The only other thing I noticed was the opening line of the fourth paragraph. As she drank the cranberry punch. It stopped me for a second because the entire previous paragraph was regarding HIS cranberry punch and I thought I’d misread the third paragraph and reread it. I think if the line read as: As she drank HER cranberry punch, it wouldn’t stop readers like me in their tracks.
Lots of information regarding his going to upchuck at some point, maybe you can tone that down a bit, but it might just be me as having people vomit on you is truly disgusting.
I was at a party once and was seated next to a young lady who was having a really good time. We were in a tight spot as our backs were to a wall and people actually had to move out of their chairs for the people in the middle to get up and leave – which is where I was sitting. She was drinking a lot quickly and soon you could tell she had finally passed the point of no return. I thought she was going to lay her head on the table, but she simply leaned over, picked up the edge of the table cloth and proceeded to vomit completely down my left leg and into my shoe and all around me on the chair I was sitting in Let me tell you, that does not bode well for an enjoyable evening, which, by the way, was before dinner even started.
I think your story is very well written and is truly unforgettable … which by the way, is why I suggest adding the word never in the last line.
Roy
However I have no issue with your second point, adding ‘her’ certainly would’ve helped. Purely a case of me picturing her stood on the other side of the room with her drink, but forgetting to actually describe that image to the reader (a problem I’ve encountered before).
I also find vomit incredibly disgusting, but likely drew on personal experiences of watching my friends not realising how much they’d drunk… As your own memory proves, it’s not a fun experience, so I do apologise for having to mention the v word, even if I don’t regret it.
Thanks for your comment Roy 🙂
I thoroughly enjoyed this story. Although many years have passed since I was the age of your storytellers, I could still sense that anxiety, the excitement and the anticipation. Boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, girl not that bothered. All too familiar until the boy, perhaps now a man, meets woman and bingo, all set fair for a long future.
The dialogue works well or should I say, the way each of the two tells their own part of the story.
Beautifully poignant last line.
Good stuff, Peter.
Ken Frape
Yes, well…
Uh…
All right, all right. You can all stop cheering now. I get it. Very… Are you all done?
Very. Very funny.
You’re all laughing now, but who’s gonna protect you from Vicki while I’m gone? Hm? Have you thought of that? Have any of you (besides Roy) thought of that? Who’s gonna stand up to her? Rumples? One of his other personalities? I hope you’re not counting on Carrie. Carrie’s on another plane of existence. Phil? Too vague. Ilana? She’ll just piss her off. Who else you got? R.emmett? Hah, she’s impervious to noir. Who else? Ken? Which one. Frapes? He could do it, he could go toe to toe with her, if he wasn’t locked in his ‘Ivory Wine Cellar.” Ozjohn420? Maybe. Peter’s got a good story already. In fact I can’t imagine how anyone could top that story. (Except, well, you know.) I suppose with Ken Miles and Fiona as back-up, there’s a slight chance, (an insulting chance for sure) that you’ll need to call Marion in to survive the whole thing. I’m sorry, there are no other options. My wife, has spoken.
Good luck.
I’ll do my best to send my usual words of discouragement as and when I can. (If I feel like it.)
Cheers.
WHAT’S’ISNAME
“I’ll never forget what’s’isname.”
“Wasn’t there a film called that?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Anyway, what WAS his name?”
“I forget … but I remember him well enough.”
“Seems strange that you’d forget the name of someone you remember so well.”
“The memory plays tricks …”
“If that’s your excuse, then so be it.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“What?”
“ ‘So be it.’ ”
“Why?”
“Because he was an S.O.B.”
“What did he do?”
“What didn’t he do?!”
“I don’t know. Never met the bloke.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“Which one?”
“Never mind.”
“So …”
“So what?”
“You’ll never forget what’s’isname because …?”
“Because he was one big S.O.B.”
“Yes, we’ve established that. But why?”
“Because of where he was from.”
“Where?”
“The worst place in the whole universe.”
“Grimsby?”
“Worse!”
“There are places worse than Grimsby?”
“And then some.”
“Go on.”
“Mars!”
“What’s’isname was from Mars?”
“Correct.”
“And why would he be an S.O.B. just because he came from Mars?”
“Have you ever met a Martian?”
“No, can’t say that I have. Though there is that saying, isn’t there?”
“Say what?”
“Saying.”
“What saying?”
“That all men are from Mars.”
“Ah, that’s piffle.”
“Say what?”
“Piffle. Nonsense.”
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
“Say what?”
“Nonsense.”
“Because I like that word and I once promised myself I’d use it in conversation whenever possible.”
“Piffle?”
“Precisely.”
“But back to the saying. Why do they say that?”
“I don’t.”
“No, but ‘they’ do. Why is it?”
“Beats me. Which …”
“Which what?”
“Which brings us back to why what’s’isname was a right S.O.B.”
“He beat you?”
“To within an inch of my life.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Well … it wasn’t SO terrible really.”
“He beat you to within an inch of your life and it wasn’t so terrible?”
“No.”
“How so?”
“Well … because I kind of asked him to.”
“You asked him to beat you to within an inch of your life?!”
“No, no … well not exactly.”
“Go on.”
“I asked him to beat me a little bit.”
“Why would you do something like that?!”
“It’s nice. You should try it.”
“No thanks!”
“Really. It can be very pleasurable. But don’t use hard things like hammers or blocks of wood.”
“What then.”
“Fruit and veg. Bananas are good. Cucumbers. Marrows. He was using a pumpkin.”
“The mind boggles.”
“You can be quite creative. Raspberries. Cauliflowers.”
“Yes, well … anyway … there was an inch left obviously, because you’re still here.”
“Yes. I was enjoying it so much that I forgot the safe word, and he, being a Martian, had no empathy so couldn’t see that I was suffering TOO much.”
“But then you remembered it?”
“Yes, eventually.”
“What was it?”
“The safe word?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Remind me never to tell you to remember something important!”
“Remind you…?”
“Never mind. So, you survived.”
“Of course. But he didn’t even stick around to see that I was all right.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Exactly. Got in his ship and took off with ne’er a toodle-pip.”
“That’s out of order!”
“I know, right? A girl likes a cuddle after …”
“You poor thing. Remind me … I mean, I’m never going to date a Martian now, that’s for sure.”
“Za’arg!”
“Are you okay?”
“Why?”
“Sounds like you’ve got something stuck in one of your throats.”
“What do you mean?”
“That noise you just made.”
“Noise?”
“Zarp. Or Zart? Or …”
“Ah, no. Za’arg. I’ve just remembered – that was what’s’isname’s name.”
“Oh, I see.”
“But you’re right about never dating a Martian. Now, Earthlings …”
.
I just loved this story. The dialogue is wonderfully silly with each speaker taking it in turns to misunderstand or to go off at a tangent ( I love doing that too) . The daftness of dating a Martian and letting him beat you up is so absurd but why couldn’t it be true?
This is a masterclass in daft dialogue and we all know how challenging dialogue can be. You hit it head on and nail it.
I loved the way you included the pumpkin. It actually made me laugh out loud and that doesn’t happen often enough these days. The picture of a Martian beating up “another creature….( species unknown”) with a variety of fruit and veg is so good. Another laugh.
I did see the clue near the end but won’t say the word in case it spoils it for others.
Great work, Phil. As ever.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
Roy
(How many throats have you got, Roy? 😉 )
Martian license perfectly in place with all those alien words! And pumkin’s in place!
Who knows those words may enter the Cocksford Dictionary by 2030!
👏🏽👏🏽
Marien
I give you an A for inventiveness.
And, you clever fellow, did a complete halloween story without it being a halloween story, didn’t you?
All in all an enjoyable read. No problems at all for me with the writing to quibble about. The plot, now, that’s a different story (pun intended)..
Roy
Roy
She says, “Did you see where that potato went?”
I hear ‘palmetto.’ “You want me to get the bug spray?”
She says, “Spud spay? Why would I want to neuter a potato? On Christmas eve?”
And so on, you get the pitcher.
Great fun, Phil. (Sorry I couldn’t be more negative, but I’m getting old and losing my eggs. I mean edge. I’m losing my edge.)
Final version below.
I’d like to think I’m one of those critics who points out a possible flaw in your story and backs it up with an explanation. I don’t want to sound nit-picky, and I know it probably will in spite of my protest, but I don’t think you can have quicksand at an ocean. Rip tides, acting like quicksand and dragging her away with the undertow? Certainly. But, alas, no quicksand. And, to make matters even worse, one cannot (let me repeat that – CANNOT) drown in quicksand. It is physically impossible – the scientific explanation being the body is less dense than the quicksand and after getting to about waste deep, one cannot go any further. All those deaths you saw in the movies and on TV growing up are all pure fiction. It can’t happen. You can die of a jillion other things while you’re trapped, but not drowning, unless you stick your head in the water and don’t come up for air on purpose.
Now that I’ve thoroughly savaged your premise, it’s any easy fix. Undertow in place of Quicksand fixes it nicely without even having to add a word, as one can quickly sink to their knees before being carried off by the vengeful surf.
There, have I redeemed myself? I hope so, because the rest of the story is absolute killer. Great job and I jumped from paragraph to paragraph waiting for Sam to jump out from somewhere at any moment, knowing for sure that miserable s.o.b. was still alive. Nice twist at the end, my man, enjoyed it, along with knowing as authors we can kill off our characters with impunity. I did of agree with Phil a bit regarding his face, but that can easily be explained by road rash – him trying to get out of the way of the speeding car and scraping his face on the pavement, maybe?
Otherwise, it had good flow and kept me on the edge of my seat, literally and figuratively.
Nice to see you back at the writer’s desk. Hang around for awhile.
Roy
Oh doggy balls!!!
I have done my research now, belatedly I admit, regarding quicksand and this science lesson has been very instructive. You are absolutely right that is is scientifically impossible to sink completely into quicksand and “drown.” I also understand why.
I can see how to amend my story in one of several ways.
Thanks Roy and I do mean that. To someone who knows about quicksand, it is a glaring error. All those years I have believed what I saw in films and in comics.
I hope there is time to ask Carrie if I can edit and repost.
Cheers,
Ken F
Thanks for the positive comments. I quite enjoyed this one though not sure if it will be “unforgettable.”
That’s a good point about Sam’s name but I think Bethany saw him as a nice guy and Sam just fitted. Naming characters is a really challenging part of the story too. I have found some fantastic names by looking at the credits on TV or films.
Insofar as his face being a mess, my intention is that the wheels went over his legs, or perhaps he was face down or perhaps the exhaust or the underbody caught him but I really wanted the fact that he was still alive to be unexpected to the reader as well as to Bethany. Anyway, it’s my story and he’s alive! Tee hee!!
You know. those dramatic films when the character that looks dead suddenly springs to life like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction
In this case, there has been quite a time lag so the reader has got used to the idea that Sam IS dead
I spent ages on the final paragraph, juggling various endings and watching the word count. Poor Sam ( if poor is a suitable word for such a brute….but now he is sober and penitent) will now endure a long and lingering death.
I will read and reread and see if anything really does need to be changed.
Cheers my friend,
Ken Frape
PS I will comment on your story in a separate thread.
You are certainly a busy boy, aren’t you? The amount of time and effort you put into this site makes me feel totally lazy!!
I have read through the comments already posted and the message seems clear so I’ll sum it up as I see it;
Good story, well written, no dialogue but good, clear storytelling. You set out a problem (ie what kind of people, creatures are Keith and Wanda) and then you set out to solve the mystery. That is fairly standard, classical story set-up.
The fly in your ointment is the actual denouement. You set it up really nicely, keeping us poor suckers holding on and holding on and then, in just over 100 words, you drop it on us! Admittedly, some clever wordplay at the end but it was like having the carpet pulled out from under our feet.
A suggestion:
See if you can knock out a couple of hundred words from the first part of the story and use them to beef up the ending. I have found that when I have written something freely and not counted my words and then I am hundreds of words too many, it is possible to adjust and get rid of unnecessary words, description and the like. Best of all, the end product is nearly always much better, leaner, sharper. So, get out your literary scalpel and get cutting……..if you think I may have a point.
You are a good writer. Don’t forget that amidst our various critiques. We wouldn’t bother if it wasn’t worth the effort.
KInd regards,
Ken Frape
The Sand Between Her Toes
They met at the corner store. Bethany was arranging the season’s first delivery of pumpkins into a neat pyramid. Sam was her first customer of the day.
“Nice pumpkins,” he said with a cheeky grin.
Later, he turned up just as Bethany finished her shift. He just sat there, in his sleeveless denim jacket, cigarette dangling from his lips, one muscular arm resting on the doorframe of his truck, passenger door open, inviting.
“Watch that one,” her bestie Erica had warned her when she saw them together that morning.
“Oh, I’m watching him,” Bethany said, laughing.
“He’s dangerous, Beth. You know what they say?” Erica went on.
“No, what do they say, Erica?”
“ Men are from Mars. Mars, the red planet, Mars, the bringer of war. Red spells Danger, Beth. In my experience.”
Bethany knew all about Erica’s bad experiences with two brutal ex-husbands but she sensed something altogether more earthy with this guy. Something about him really excited her. She felt herself blush.
“Well, in that case there must be another man planet, Erica ,” she quipped, “cos this guy sure ‘aint red or dangerous!”
They laughed like school kids then but when Bethany got into Sam’s truck Erica crossed her fingers.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Bethany fled the cabin in blind panic. There was still whisky in the bottle and Sam wouldn’t stop drinking until it was empty. Then he would beat or rape her. Again. Her breath came in rasps, agony through bruised ribs. The contents of her handbag spilled onto the ground as she fumbled frantically for keys, her eyes darting all around. She cried with relief as her fingers curled around the key fob .
As she glanced up she saw him. His face was a savage mask of anger. Fuelled by days of alcohol and drugs, he raced towards her. How dare she try to leave him.
But the truck was facing the wrong way!
Bethany dived into the driving seat, gunned the engine and rammed the gear shift into reverse, swinging the wheel hard over. The car threw itself backwards in a half circle and turned to face Ben, its motor growling.
As Bethany crunched the gearbox into forward he stepped in front of her and raised his fists. She screamed in terror as she floored the accelerator. The truck knocked him down then bounced over him, first the front then the rear wheels. She could hear herself screaming like a maniac as she sped away and she could see his body sprawled on the ground in the mirror.
“You fucking bastard!” she snarled through bruised and battered lips, banging her fists on the steering wheel. No one could survive that she told herself. It’s over, he’s dead. She slammed on the brakes and leaving the engine running, she got out and took a few tentative sideways steps towards him, ready for instant flight.
He was lying on his back and his face was a mess. Seeing him lying there, helpless now, aroused no sympathy in Bethany. She looked down at him feeling only contempt for this man who had so cruelly used her and abused her.
Constantly glancing nervously at his motionless form, Bethany hurriedly scooped up her few scattered possessions. She had no other luggage. When they left town, he had insisted that they should just leave everything and get away.
“My old cousin has this cabin in the woods overlooking the sea. No one ever goes there since he died years back. We can stock up on the way and stay as long as we want,” he told her as he drew her to him in the rumpled motel bed.
“Let’s just disappear. No one will miss us.”
All too soon, Ben’s drug and alcohol fueled binges turned to anger and paranoia.
No one will miss us. Those words came back to haunt Bethany. If he kills me, no one will miss me or come looking for me.
But now she had turned the tables and she was the murderer.
As the mists of panic cleared a plan began to form. Bethany backed the truck and drove it to the edge of the steep slope. Then, grabbing both of Ben’s booted feet she dragged him to the open door and heaved him into the driving seat, shuddering at every touch. Then she released the brake and watched as the truck slid over the edge, smashing its way down through the undergrowth and tree branches, sending birds screeching in alarm. When Bethany looked down it had completely disappeared.
Bethany knew she would never find her way out of the woods. It had taken an hour in the truck but surely there was another way out, she reasoned. She decided to scramble down to the beach and find another path, perhaps even a road.
At dawn, after a night full of nightmares about her trial for murder, Bethany descended into the gully towards the beckoning sea. It was very steep but the tree branches and undergrowth gave her some handholds and the sound of the sea getting louder encouraged her as she slipped and slid further down.
Bethany didn’t see the truck at first. The undergrowth had almost swallowed it up. She could easily have missed it but as she slipped on the loose foliage her hand hit something metal.
The door.
The driver’s window was smashed.
The vehicle was empty.
Bethany stepped back in alarm, her hand stifling her scream, her eyes darting all around in panic.
“ Oh, God, no!”
Slipping and staggering the last few metres, looking all around in a blind panic, oblivious to the branches that whipped at her face and arms, suddenly she was in the open, on a pristine strip of golden sand. The waves gently lapped backwards and forwards in the early morning sunshine. No sign of him. Bethany heaved a sigh of relief.
She spotted an incongruous object being lifted and dropped by the waves. As she got closer she could see that it was a boot. Sam’s boot. With blood on it.
Bethany stooped to lift the boot, her eyes still wildly scanning for any signs of her abuser. She felt the outgoing seawater suck the sand from around her feet and then she realized that her feet had sunk beneath the surface. She tried to step clear but she was held fast and before she knew it, she was up to her mid calves, then her knees. Struggling only made things worse.
Quicksand.
And an incoming tide.
Bethany held Sam’s bloody boot aloft in a kind of final defiant salute. Just before the relentless waves finally engulfed her she screamed,
“No one will miss me.”
But she was wrong. Despite his dreadful injuries, Sam had somehow managed to crawl on all fours back to the undergrowth, away from that deadly sand, minus his boots.
Now, sober and penitent, he watched in horror as Bethany died. His croaking voice couldn’t carry above the sound of the waves and wind, couldn’t warn her.
“I’ll miss you,” he mouthed the words through his cracked and bloodied lips.
Ken Frape October 2021 2000 words.
BTW, is the man called Sam or Ben? There are several mentions of ‘Sam’ and one or two of ‘Ben’.
It’s an exciting story, Ken. I suggest that you stick with one name for your bad guy. Is it Ben, or Sam? (I mean, unless I’m mixed up, I saw two distinct names for one character.)
When Sam races toward her and she dives into the car, you might want to state that he ‘stumbles towards her with fury in his eyes’ rather than ‘races.’ (He is stinking drunk, after all.)
Your word count says it’s 2000 words when it’s safely under the limit.
Still not sure the quicksand is believable as a means of death in any circumstance, except maybe dehydration, heat stroke or starvation.
As for Ben’s or Sam’s face, the damage to his face could easily be sustained by asphalt or the car’s undercarriage without being terminal. I had no problem with him surviving being run over.
Throwing all of that aside, it’s too bad that, since he survived everything she threw at him, it would be even more incredible if he tried to help her, after all that, only to fail.
Whether he dies sooner or later is not very clear. It seems that in your version, he gets religion (so to speak) and dies
shortly after that anyway. It would be great, but not necessary, if that was clearer. (But, I understand the word limits preclude much more explanation without removing some detail somewhere else. and detail in a story. As Phil pointed out, it’s a toodle-pip.)
Like everyone else, I think it’s a terrific story (except for the name confusion, everything else I can live with, including the quicksand.)
Perhaps the truck could have tumbled to the beach, in her shock and confusion, she gets a foot caught under the cars frame in the mud and a rising tide spells doom and seals her fate.
I don’t know if any of that helped or not. Probably not. I think it’s a great story as it is, but it could be better. Sometimes you just have to let go of the biggest thing that you built the story around. Quicksand. Aye, there’s the rub, lad.
I can’t even finish my story, haven’t worked on it in a week. Maybe I’ll give it a shot this morning and see if I can’t get it submitted in draft form by tomorrow. Doesn’t look promising. Maybe Carrie will consider extending the contest to get a few more stories in. I think that would be nice. But I can’t imagine my story even competing with what I’ve seen so far this week.
She must be pretty busy, maybe a postponement would be helpful to her as well.
Doesn’t matter to me, but I’d like to see some of our other talented writers submit something as well.
ciao
I am really annoyed with myself for the name confusion. It hadn’t been mentioned before so perhaps it was not in my original version. So much for editing.
I am going to stick with the quicksand idea. Roy pointed out, quite correctly, that you cannot drown in the stuff so I did a lot of research that suggested that it is very hard to get out of and if the tide came in you could drown in the sea. Also, my research said that you can find quicksand on beaches, although it is not common. So, in the end, I have two choices: First, I might pull the story completely as I now feel it has too many holes in it or, secondly, I might just leave it as it is. I suppose there must be a third option but not sure what it is.
As ever, I accept all comments in the great and positive spirit that I have come to appreciate.
By the way, the Christmas story you mentioned was my first on this site and this current story is my 50th.
Cheers,
Ken F
Ha. I would name this story, ‘American Literary Revenge.’ I can’t add much to Phil’s observations, which are spot-on, other than to say that I too found myself admiring the conversational writing style. (And I think that constructing such smoothly delivered prose is probably like a lot of other things that are much harder to do than they look.)
I have yet to look up ‘republycanthrope’ or at least the roots of the words to better understand the pun. (It IS a pun, isn’t it?) but a misanthrope is some kind of hater, isn’t it? (Anthrope is some kind of attitude
But my irrepressible joy is derived from the references to ‘Joe and Mika’ and James Carville and Mary Matalin. I knew exactly what you meant and who you were referring to, and could be summed up with the line, ‘opposites attract.’ It reminded me of the time that Ken Frape referred to some holiday crooner playing over the loudspeaker in a café in England. (One of his first submissions to this site.)
I, of course, had no idea who or what he was talking about, and all of the English writers chided me for being so perturbed at (yet another) foreign reference point that leaves ordinary Americans like me completely baffled.
Now that you’ve done it, I enjoyed it, (you turning the tables on them), but must stick to my original philosophical reasoning. When writing for such a generally international ‘readership’ as this, it behooves us to search for more general references to make a point. (Fay Wray and King Kong?) (Spike Lee and Martha Stewart?) As you can see, I usually just end up deleting them altogether.
Whatever else one may say about this story, one thing is obvious, you’re an excellent writer.
One mistake, ‘But I did became secretly obsessed…’ (Obviously an editing malfunction.)
Didn’t mean to ghost you there buddy, just needed time to do a little more research. Found some funny stuff related to republican were-wolves. Republycans. So now I see where the words come from. What I read was that Lycans and were-wolves are two distinct and different mythological creatures. Like ‘a true love’ or ‘an anonymous benefactor.’ (But I digress.)
I just wanted to add to my previous comments that you’ve cleverly woven a mythological construct into a political reality and hangs in there very nicely, no matter which side you’re on, (because I’m sure that both sides see each other in similarly outlandish ways.)
I’d add to this but someone needs to catch a plane.
by RM York
1081 Words
Eddie: I remember when I first met her. I was on my way to a college football game with some fraternity brothers and she came walking around the corner with a few gal pals of her own. She stuck out of the bunch like a blooming flower in a field of weeds. Maybe that’s too harsh on the other girls, but it’s the way I remember it.
Of course, the animals that I was with were up to their usual misogynistic ways and started whistling at the girls, calling out things like, “Hey baby, wanna see my room?” and “I got something I wanna show you.”
I just stood back from all that. Two of the guys knew a couple of the girls and started chatting them up. She hung back and I thought, ‘this girl is different than the rest. I don’t stand a chance, so don’t even think about it.’ I was right. I didn’t stand a chance. What I took for her interest in me was apparently all in my imagination. She walked by me like I was invisible.
I found out from one of her girl pals her name was Wanda. When I tried to talk to her, I was ignored. Perfect I thought. Wanda the Witch seemed to fit. She avoided me like I had the plague.
It was quite a few years later, when I caught up with her again. I’d been working on a new project when my partner, Doug, walked in and said he wanted me to interview a new hire. “I think she’ll be perfect for your new project. And, there’s an added benefit.”
“What’s that?” I responded. “Does she work twenty-four hours without stopping? Because that’s the kind of help I need right now.”
“You’ll see,” he said. “She’s in the conference room. I told her you’d be right there.”
The cold, angry stare he got was well earned. My partner had a habit of giving orders or doing things without consulting me first. But, that had nothing to do with her.
She was standing by the window overlooking the park, which was several stories below. She turned as she heard the door open.
The recognition was instantaneous between the two of us. She smiled. It was her all right. It was Wanda the Witch in the flesh. If anything, she was even more stunning than I remembered.
Wanda: Meeting Eddie in that office was one of the best things that ever happened to me. I had been struggling, trying to make ends meet and this was a last chance. First glance from the look in his eyes, and I realized I had a second chance to make a first impression. I remember holding up my hand, palm out, as I walked across the conference room. “I remember you, but you may not remember me. I met you in college,” I said. “You’re Eddie. Am I right?” He nodded and extended his hand.
I took his hand and shook it with a firm grasp. “And, I remember you,” he said. His disposition was somber and all business. “Doug says you can help me in my project. Why don’t we talk about that. College was a long time ago.”
I must have bruised his ego. I needed this job, but I wasn’t going to lap dance for anyone, not even a prospective employer. He was going to hire me because I was going to help benefit his project, not because I’m easy on the eyes. Believe me, that is more of a hindrance than you might think.
Most men hire with the thought, ‘If this doesn’t work out and she’s not going to play ball, I can always fire her for one reason or another.’ I’ve left many firms when the late night work sessions were turned into “My wife doesn’t understand me. You look like someone who does. Why don’t we talk about it over dinner.”
Eddie was different. The interview went well and I was hired. It wasn’t until we’d been working together for over a year when it happened.
Eddie: It took me by surprise as much as her. We got along well at work. Very well. Our work lives were in perfect sync. She could anticipate what I was thinking almost before I knew where my thoughts were going. It was the other things that we didn’t agree on, like tea instead of coffee – small things.
We had been on a weekend conference in Atlantic City. Doug thought being away from the office would do the entire staff some good. “To refresh ourselves,” he said.
I was sitting in a lounge chair on the beach when she walked up in this ridiculous bikini and asked, “Wanna go for a swim?” My eyeballs must have given me away as I mentally tried to push them back into their sockets
“New suit?” I asked as casually as I could.
“What? This old thing? I’ve had this since college. It’s the first time I’ve worn it in almost ten years. It’s the only swimsuit I own.”
“It fits you well,” I said.
“Damn,” she said. “I forgot my towel. I need to go back and get one.”
“I’m going back,” I said. “I’ll walk with you.” When we got to her room, I said, “See you tonight at dinner. Doug wants us there at 7:00.”
‘That gives us enough time for a drink or two. You game?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let me go get changed and I’ll meet you … “
“I was thinking just a quickie in my room,” she interrupted as she opened her door.
I stopped. “That has two meanings,” I said.
She blushed. “I guess it does,” is all she said.
I followed her in. We were late for dinner. One thing though, as our relationship progressed, we were like fire and ice. We thought differently about almost everything but work and our continued passion for each other.
She doesn’t care for meat. I don’t like vegetables. She hates chocolate, I love it. She can’t wait for pumpkin season, I don’t care for anything pumpkin. She’s an evening person, I’m a morning person. Almost everything about us (besides work and sex) are opposites. Whoever said men are from Mars and women are from Venus knew what they were talking about.
It’s been a wonderful relationship for almost twenty years. So far her husband and my wife don’t have a clue. I’d like to keep it that way.
Thank you. I read your comment just before I went to bed last night, and it was a great ending to an already good day. I had nice thoughts as I wrapped myself up in sleep. that was one of my ‘sit down and write’ stories.
I already had the beginning formed along with the ending, and I just had to sit down and fill in the middle as my characters played their parts in my mind. It was a pleasant and easy write. I decided to do it in first person with each character adding a part and I liked the result when done as I think it gave two perspectives.
Thanks again,
Roy
Thanks, I appreciated the comment. It was excellent. Your comment, I mean. Good endings are hard to find sometimes, but this one was just sitting there, all by itself, waiting to be picked.
Roy
Well done my friend. Clearly one of the pick of the bunch.
It is a really well set out story for starters. It trips along nicely and the ending comes too soon. It’s a great ending,by the way, but I was simply enjoying the reading.
. .
Cracking finish that final paragraph and no warning…caught me by surprise.
Reminds me of how potentially dangerous reunions can be when people hark back to their youth or college days and put on the rose-tinted specs. Do we see the people as they are now or as they were or as we wish them to be?
Added bonus: No quicksand and no changes of name!!
Kind regards,
Ken F
Thanks, Mate. I’m beginning to have misgivings about the way I pointed out the ‘quicksand’ thing on your story. I was pretty adamant and maybe went a bit further than I should have, so mea culpa for that. Not that I wasn’t right, but that I was so exuberant in pointing it out.
Having a good ending I have found is a good thing from several vantage points. A surprise ending is a bonus for making the ending even better than it probably really is. Looking back, I have found that my stories with the snappy endings do far better than the stories (except for a few well written classics) that I write more often than not.
I think people like being surprised, and I like doing it. It isn’t easy to do, however. I remember quite a while back I wrote a story about guy and a relationship leading the reader to believe it was his girlfriend when all the time he was actually talking about his car, a ’57 Chevy. That one went over very well, also. The problem with that is, if you do it regularly, people will start looking for it and then there is – SURPRISE – no surprise.
Thanks again, Ken. Appreciate your comments.
Roy
Better still had they been widow ‘n widower. For then it would’ve fitted into the moral compass much needed in this fallen world.
Liked that line about the eyeballs needing to be pushed back 🙂
‘I’d like to keep it that way.’….such alien covert thinking should be shot into the farthest corner beyond Neptune.
All said and done, it’s well written as usual. 🙂
Marien
Be that as it may, I do understand where you are coming from, since I read what you wrote about this, and thought about it, I wondered if I could have done that somehow (widow and widower) and still retained the story’s heart and soul, which was they were so opposites in most things, it only worked for the sex and the work they shared.
Nahh, they’re just going to be lecherous and try to keep this a secret until either the passion gives out, or their own moral compass kicks in one day across the breakfast table from their unsuspecting spouse and realize what they have done and how it might destroy the person they truly love.
Maybe that’s the sequel to this story. So, I ask you, since you brought it up. Should they confess or carry the secret to their graves as they stare at their significant other over their pancakes?
Roy
Since you asked, I’d think any confessed sin would lead to ulcers /indigestion/ insomnia. The whole works.
The pancakes would never taste any good.
My suggestion, on the other hand, would be a sweet surprise.
Or maybe they had huge portraits of their dearly beloveds, now passed on, to which they would each feel a twinge of guilt, as they walked beneath. One actually decides to break it.
Just kidding.
It’s your story. Go for it. You’re a fantastic story teller.
🙂 marien
Sit down, take a chair.
Or stand wherever.
I’m going to tell you the story of how Jakoh came to live on our earth. It was a time everyone did what they wanted for themselves. They quite forgot their Creator.
Jakoh flew in from a far distant planet called Flummox.
The beetles flying around couldn’t say Flummox.
They droned, making their most unusual sounds. Buzzing is what they did best and all you heard was.. ‘Mahzz, Mahzz, Mahzz’ as they buzzed.
Finally their Chief Captain Bee decided to rename the planet Mars.
This was the time when new planets were added to the list of the galaxy.
Luckily for Jakoh, he landed near a good home, Mars being pretty close to earth.
Now Jakoh was terribly good looking and quite aware of his charms. Very soon he fell madly in love with the Vision of Delight set before his eyes.
You thought cake? Nahhh!
It was a full blooded woman and their meeting was prearranged by some old aunts who made it their business putting people together. Being good looking added an aura to their schemes.
The two were given a choice to do a final assessment of each other’s wits, faculties, features and fetishes. After a couple of pointed questions from both sides, akin the Border Inquisition, Jakoh decided to make her his wife. She thought he was no small fish.
The right thing to do, you’d say, was to be pleasantly compliable.
Their response made everyone happy and the aunts sat around at the reception taking the entire credit for bringing the young ones together.
That’s how they began their life together in faraway Platonia.
Myra, the vision I told you about, very soon got herself a decent job. Looking after her household, doing laundry, cooking, managing a full time job and giving tuition to make the extra buck. Jakoh had nothing to complain about. Their life took on all the challenges pretty well.
I mean with her doing practically everything while he sat in his office looking at data.
Important datum.
She had no complaints and was happy to do everything.
But he wanted his salad cut in perfect rounds, not grated. As long as it wasn’t grated, it was fine. Salads must look like salads. So round it was. All the carrots, cucumbers and zucchini were so round that the dish when served looked as if planets had fallen down right onto their oak dining table.
Jakoh didn’t explain why he had this fascination for all things round. If only Myra had studied Mars she woulda known its vegetation is all round.
Don’t tell me that there is no vegetation on Mars.
Visit with me and I’ll show ya.
One day Myra felt different. You guessed right. She was pregnant. The news made them both very happy.
Soon she became quite rotund. Not round like salad but just a lady-like kind of rotundness. Her blue veins began to show around her neck.
“Hey Jakoh, look at my veins. They look huge. It’s the pregnancy. Everything is puffed up.”
“Nothing great about it. I have those poofy veins too. See my hand. It’s just a lighter shade of blue than yours.”
“But it’s the pregnancy. You are NOT pregnant!”
“What pregnancy? They’ve been pregnant since Adam arrived!”
“It’s not a competition. My veins ARE different from yours!”
Myra was annoyed but she didn’t want her growing foetus to feel any tension.
So she let it pass.
The reason again was because in Mars nobody got pregnant. They didn’t know the workings of the female body. Inhabited only by the male species, how it came to be, science still has to unravel.
Now you see, don’t you?
For everything there is an explanation.
So do join my singing…
‘I can see clearly now the haze is gone
I can see no obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It’s gonna be a bright sunshiny day.’
Alack! Some of you don’t like singing. That’s pardonable. You just need to understand where everyone comes from.
The other outstanding feature of Jakoh was that he loved talking facts. It was as if he had all the facts and nobody else did.
It was true. In his home on the faraway planet, all the facts were bundled up in a huge trunk and its inhabitants were given ten solid facts daily to mull over at dinner time. Chew them as dessert. It could be any fact. But factual, it was.
A fat fact, no doubt.
Not an opinion. Neverrrrr!
Opinions were the prerogative of women on this beautiful earth. And opinions kept changing like women changed their lipstick.
One day the unforgettable happened.
Jakoh wanted to return to Mars but he was absolutely clueless how to fly back.
Not that he didn’t love Myra any longer. He loved her very much, but he was out of hardcore facts. He couldn’t for the life of him remember why people around were acting weird about their political leanings. Why were people divided?
Back on Mars, they all thought the same. Just one empirical, indisputable objective proof for a given moment. Their brains could handle one problem at a given time.
In contrast, Myra and her ilk could figure out what’s cooking for dinner, while stitching buttons on the lapel, discuss the latest movie, stirring up a curry storm in the kitchen.
“Beta, do your math. You need to apply the theorem properly. Where does that Y go?” She questioned her young Einstein, chopping onions which got her teary-eyed, while reading the flood of Whatsapp messages of some explosion happening on their island with the women going ballistic, some mortally afraid.
One conveyed her heart rate had gone up to 120.
Another woman suggested the best cardiologist in the hospital she should go see.
Another began talking about a gas leak causing the explosion.
“Women have no other work, “ muttered the even-tempered, good-natured Jakoh who never complained.
With the milk of human kindness by the quart in every vein,
A patient man, down to his fingertips
The sort who never would, never could
Let an insulting remark escape his lips.
A very gentle Higgins, was he.
Myra had absolutely no desire to let him go. His stability was something she admired.
One day he signed up for a test ride of a spaceship flying people to Mars.
A two way ticket assuring Mira he’d be back.
Frantically Mira consulted her island group about this impending trip and what the women thought about it.
Would he return?
“Stop him at once,” opined one.
“Be extra loving, he won’t go away.”
“Join a dance class together. He may be bored.”
“Do botox, girl! He needs you lookin’ good.”
A husband of one of them suggested Myra remove the main screw of the flagship.
The fact was without screws, no ship would fly.
It was dress-up day.
Myra, cleverly camouflaged as a pumpkin, single mindedly rolled towards the airfield, which was very close to a pumpkin patch.
With a screwdriver.
Not a soul noticed her.
Facts prevail after all. Opinions hardly matter.
.
Liked your story and the way it was written. I look forward to your stories because I like your sing-song style, for lack of a better name. This one was no exception and you had a great ending and good last line. Very well done, my dear.
Roy
WC 1199
It was a day like any other day, except it was night, Friday night, and the thirteenth to boot. I come home from work, close the door, and my wife says, “Is that you, Jack?”
This made me pause just inside the threshold, because my name is not Jack. I look around at the familiar furnishings, the pictures on the wall. I throw my gloves on the little table by the door and enter the dining room.
She looks up and says, “Hello?”
Like, I don’t know. So I say something like, “What hello?” And she says, “What hello like who the hell are you?”
So—first, like a schmuck, I start laughing, and she starts laughing. And I think it’s a great joke and I’m congratulating myself on my luck at having married such a funny woman when she stops laughing and says, “No really. Who the hell ARE you?” Real serious like.
I get just as serious and I say, “I’m the fucking butler. Naturally.”
And she, without so much as cracking a smile says, “Is that why you look familiar?”
And I say, “I should look familiar, I’m sleeping with you.”
She laughs, and looks me over in one painfully skeptical glance and says, “That’s not realistic.”
“Maybe not,” I admit, unscathed by her scorn, “but it’s true,” as I try to muster a look of latent lust. Which bounces off her personae like so much confetti off the flank of a blimp.
She cocks her head and says, “I bought you that shirt. Why would I buy you a shirt?”
“I needed one,” I said, “plus, I’m also the chauffeur.”
And that—seemed to get her tracks mired in the mud for a while. She finished making dinner, we sat down and ate, but she still didn’t really seem like she knew me.
Of course I thought she was playing some kind of practical joke, but it continued for the entire weekend. I mean Christ, who pranks someone for an entire weekend? When she questioned why I had my feet on the coffee table while watching the Sunday football matches, the discussion got a little heated. When she asked me how much she paid me, I told her I paid HER for the privilege of being her butler and driver. Which was not true, and while it seemed to pacify her for a time, behind her calm façade I could see that she was still perplexed. At least she left me in peace to watch the rest of the game.
But Monday morning, when I got to work, no one recognized me. I refused to answer any questions. I waved my arms, pushed my way past the foreman and went straight to the employee bathroom, because I knew exactly where it was. I’d been working there for, a while. I went to the washroom and splashed water on my face and felt it with my fingers before I got the courage to look up into the mirror. No surprise awaited me. It was just me. My big round orange head, saw-toothed smile, lantern-like eyes. I don’t know what I expected to see, what horror or conjugation of nature’s hijinks, but the face I saw was the same one I’ve been wearing for all of my adult life.
I was tempted to use the ploy I’d used on my wife, when confronted by my employer, but they had records, I gave them my I.D. and told them to look for my name in payroll, and there it was. Leroy Jones. Not Jack.
They still seemed pretty doubtful until I put my mask and coveralls on, and went to work. The faster I poured those candles, the less they cared about my identity. Which, for me, was pretty normal. But I could tell that, on breaks and quitting time, none of my fellow workers even recognized me. Bizarre.
I went to the bar. ‘Nimmies’ on 45th and Rind. I steeled myself before entering. Everybody knows me at Nimmies. They don’t all like me, but…
I walked in, waited for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, expecting a flood of raucous merriment at my surprise appearance, as well as a few cat-calls, recognition of some kind, but the place was like a funeral, or a morgue. Belinda, the bar’s permanent patron, was perched on the stool nearest the door, her pointy hat sat on the next stool, gyrating to the sounds coming from the jukebox,
“What happened? Who died?”
Nothing, no reaction. A shrug maybe. I ordered a drink. The bartender acted like he didn’t know me either. “What’ll it be pal?”
‘Pal’? “Drinks all around,” I said. “On me.”
Five minutes later he noticed me again and said, “Can I help you?”
“No, I’m fine,” I told him. “I’m just waiting for someone.”
He never asked me to pay the tab, not this one or the previous one.
I tossed a few spare beans on the bar-top for a tip and skedaddled.
I was in for a surprise when I got home. A contingent of goblins and gnomes were waiting for me in the ante-room. My wife stood with her arms across her chest, the universally recognized pose of perdition.
“Christ,” I growled, through mushy teeth. “What now, Venus?”
“You see?” She all but howled at the assembly of ghouls. “He doesn’t even know my name.”
I sighed. “That’s my nickname for my lovely wife. Surely you all have pet names for your partners and pals.” I made my plea directly to the goblins who all nodded sympathetically as a murmur of agreement swept through the small group.
I strode confidently across the room, pulled aside the curtain and looked out the window at the children, scattered around the patch, the smaller ones huddled around the scarecrow for protection.
“No, no, no,” my wife persisted. “My Jack has a perfectly straight stem. Look at his stem,” she commanded. “Does that look straight to you? Any of you?”
I was now the object of intense scrutiny by the ghoulish crowd. I sensed the group was turning against me. All for the tilt of my stem.
“But I’m old,” I say. “The months have not been kind.” I threw a withering glance at my wife, who felt my disdain, if nothing else. The goblins were sympathetic, but clearly on her side, and the gnomes? Well, they’re mute. Hard to know how they really felt, ever.
I retreated to the bedroom and began to pack my things, the few that I had. I gazed sadly at the bed, the large dent from my head in the pillow still in evidence. But it all came down to my stem.
And that’s when I woke to the sound of my wife’s gentle snoring. I started to slip out of bed quietly but my movement woke her from her shallow dream. I caressed her velvety shoulder tenderly and she rolled over to face me, eyes still closed. But a smile had already formed on her round green face. She was the sweetest honeydew I’d ever met and I thanked my lucky stars as I got out of bed to make coffee.
Talk about being clever. You wrote a Halloween story, without writing a Halloween story. Pretty damn good.
What the hell are you drinking? ‘Cause I want some. A thoroughly confusing, warped story and have I told you that I friggin’ hate ‘it was all just a dream’ ending in stories? Just mentioning it in case you didn’t know.
Seriously, however, I found the reverse twist on the ending pretty cool. Glad you like honeyed melons, because I do, too. Green face and all. Too bad about your twisted stem, but that does happen when you get older. Get used to it, it doesn’t get any better.
Anyway, it will be interesting to see how this latest trip you took us on will end up. I’m betting OK. One thing though, I was wondering how a guy could get a woman to make him dinner when she didn’t think the guy was her husband. Oh, that’s right, you did it with a ‘dream ending’ where all things are possible.
Dreams are pretty interesting things. I remember dreams fairly well, at least parts of them, and know they are dreams when I wake up. But the latest one I remember was strange. Might be a story in it. It was about me helping a black, pregnant, telepathic cat have her kittens in a cardboard box. Gotta be a story in that.
Good luck in the vote today.
Roy
Ok writers! The times for submitting stories has come to a close.
I’ll be posting the voting page in about twenty minutes!
Ok writer’s time is up!!!
Here is the voting link – you have 24 hours!
https://fictionwritersgroup.com/voting-for-unforgettable/
Ok writers!
Here are your winners!
1st Place: Memories Revisited by RM York
2nd Place: Through Your Eyes by Peter Holmes
3rd Place: WHAT’S’ISNAME by Phil Town
4th Place: Headcase by Ken Cartisano
5th Place: The Sand Between Her Toes by Ken Frape
6th Place: The Truth About Bipartisanship by Rumplefinkies
7th Place: Be My Little Pumpkin by Marien Oommen
The story with the favorite character was the narrator in Peter’s “Through Your Eyes”
The story with the favorite dialogue was Ken Cartisano’s “Headcase”
Congrats to all!
I’m actually disqualifying myself – I didn’t have time to vote today and just logged on to do it now … and found that the votes had already been totted up! This is the first time I haven’t voted without warning Carrie, and I was a bit disappointed that more leeway wasn’t given – there are normally stragglers that are given hours to get their votes in.
A bit miffed, tbh. But anyway … you’re 3rd, KenC! 🙂
That figures….the one time I was on the ball (I was even two hours past time posting the winners)….. Sorry!
I didn’t disqualify you because you really do always let me know if you need more time.
I tallied everything and was actually posting the winners when I realized I hadn’t gotten your votes/notifications and had a 6 hour meeting ahead of me and was afraid I’d forget.
Sorry about that!
Seriously, my apologies, I’m trying to keep up with it all!
I know and I do apologize, usually they get some leeway because it works out for me.
This week was a rare “I might actually get stuff posted on time” weeks.
I promise you it probably won’t happen again for a while 😂
Good job Peter, Phil and the dialogue and character winners.
Roy
Well done for creating another great bunch of stories.
Well done, Roy, Peter and Phil but specially Peter to have broken into the top three ( 2nd even) . You are in exalted company.
Kind regards,
Ken Frape
Roy
I enjoyed this very much. My top vote for you!
I hear the snarls! Grrrrr