100 mph. Light’s not red yet. So what if I kill that kid?
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Grammar Ghoul Press’ Shapeshifter 13, #49!
The color prompt is Yellow
The challenge is to create a microstory in exactly 13 words.
The media prompt can be seen here.
Writing submissions may be enjoyed at http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/shapeshifting-13-49-kickoff/
The gavel cracks through a cacophony of cheers, shrieks and flash bulbs. The cuffs snap; the chains jingle in response. The spittle hits my face as they curse, while bailiffs drag me toward the door that leads nowhere. The world itself has burned to ashen grey, except for my new orange clothing.
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Grammar Ghoul Press’ Shapeshifter 13, #48!
The color prompt is Orange
The challenge is to create a microstory in exactly 52 words.
The media prompt can be seen here.
Writing submissions may be enjoyed at http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/shapeshifting-13-48-kickoff/
“Vuh-NAY-dee-um”, said Vera.
“Vanadium. And why this?” said Dad.
“C’mon, Dad! V, Vera, V, Vanadium? If I have to build an atom model for science class, it should be one that says me. And when you look up ‘Vanadium solutions’ online, you see vials filled with these amazing, shiny blue, green, purple and yellow liquids. Totally cool.”
“Ah, so this is why you’re painting the styrofoam balls in different colors.”
“Yep, 23 Purple Protons, 28 Teal Neutrons and 23 Silver Electrons!”
“I can see it now, New this fall! The Fashionista Physicist! Only on NBC…” said Dad.
“Dad!” said Vera, with perfectly feigned annoyance.
“Leaving you to your work, Doctor.”
—
Vera was an eleven-year old of equal parts scientist, fashion designer, karate student, literati and pop singer. She was also the wisest and kindest child that Dad had ever encountered. He liked to say that he was expecting Tibetan monks to appear at his door, letting him know that Vera was going to be the next Dalai Lama. Vera had always exhibited the type of outward-facing compassion usually not seen until a child was grown, and often not ever. They were at a birthday party when she was four, and a much older kid at another table was telling a highly animated story. He knocked his glass right off the table with a wild arm gesture. He was so into telling his story that the crash and splash of the glass hitting the floor caused the boy to burst into tears. Observing this event from their table, without any prompting whatsoever, Vera grabbed some napkins and leaped to the boy’s aid. She touched his hand and said, “Don’t cry, happens to everyone, it’s okay. Here, let’s clean up together.” They crawled around on the floor, wiping up the spilled drink, as Vera continued to console him. She even asked him what his favorite drink was, and turned to ask Dad if she could go get the boy some more. That special four-year old had only gotten more remarkable as the years flew on.
—
After Vera had gone to bed, Dad decided to help out with some cleaning of his own. The dining table was strewn with all the things one needed to reconstruct an atom in wire, foam and paint. There were a number of unused styrofoam balls which got swept into the garbage along with bits of tape, empty paint bottles, cut wire and all manner of unidentifiable effluvia. “Creative minds are rarely tidy,” thought Dad, and he was certain Vera would be happy that she didn’t have to clean up after herself this time around.
The next morning, Vera was up early, excited to bring her creation to science class. As they drove towards school, Vera turned the model, looking at it from many angles. As she observed, she said, “You know, it’s really cool to make things. We get all these parts that were made in some factory somewhere, and none of them had any idea they would become a model of a Vanadium atom. It was my job to help them find their destiny. Like I was the guardian of their future. Sitting there in a bin at the craft store, plain, just like all the others, now these balls are protons and neutrons! This wire is part of the orbital cloud of an electron! Even this wood is now a cool stand. They were all there waiting in the store, and now they know who they are. They get to teach the other kids about my atom, just like I’ll learn from theirs.” And then Vera sighed in the contentment of balance, a creator, a giant who stood tall to touch these rough pieces and imbue them with purpose.
Dad smiled proudly as Vera ran up the stairs into school. He wheeled the car about and headed back to their home as fast as he could. He had a job to do. As soon as he hit the driveway, he beelined to the garbage can and began digging. Those unused balls of styrofoam were his daughter, filled with undiscovered promise. He had seen them as junk, unneeded after the project. She saw them as possibility, as the uncarved block that could become anything as long as desire and hard work were given. She drew no line between herself and these objects; innately she knew everything deserves the chance to find its destiny. Dad couldn’t wait to see what life Vera would bestow next.
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Grammar Ghoul Press’ Mutant 750, #25!
The word prompt is Guardian (A person who protects or defends something).
The media prompt can be seen here.
Writing submissions may be enjoyed at http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/gg-writing-challenge-25/
“Eastside Abortion Clinic, no fetus can beat us, Bob speaking.”
“Do you accept walk-ins?”
“Sure, why not?”
She arrived seconds later, for the call was placed at the front door.
“Just get it out, this is the sixth clinic this week.”
She straddled the table and spread her legs.
Bob’s eyes flew wide.
The homunculus aimed and fired.
“Six down, a million to go…” it said.
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This week at the Grammar Ghoul Press’ Chimera 66, the word prompt is: homunculus. Exactly 66 words, no more, no less, should be written with the word “homunculus” included.
Look here for more stories answering the prompt: http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/chimera-66-writing-challenge-9/
“Get the fuck out of here!” said Preacher.
“I kid you not. 37 hours.” said Spike.
“You’re fucking shitting me.”
“You know, for someone named Preacher, you sure curse a lot.”
“You know, for someone named Spike…well… fuck you.”
“37 hours. A new record. Guy needed to piss so bad, his hair turned yellow. You want that bike, that’s what you’re up against.” said Spike.
“Fuck.” smiled Preacher.
—
2:36 AM. First one there. Preacher could smell that bike. A brand-spankin’ new H-D. Maximum Swagger. Forty Fucking G’s. For suckers who paid full boat. He was getting his for a lot less.
The rules were simple, spelled out on the flyer:
“KISS THE HOG” CONTEST BENEFITTING MDA!
MARCH 14TH, 2015!
$500 ENTRY FEE!
NO FOOD BREAKS! NO BATHROOM BREAKS!
It’s that time again, folks! Woodinville Harley-Davidson, in cooperation with The Motor Company and the Muscular Dystrophy Association, are holding the 9th annual “Kiss the Hog” contest!
All YOU gotta do is Kiss That Hog!
Harley-Davidson is generously donating the bike, and we’re donating the money, all for the cure! Ten bikes to kiss, come early to claim your spot. Once those lips start smoochin’, they can’t leave the bike or you’re out! Last one kissing rides off with a 2015 Harley-Davidson CVO Road Glide Ultra, a $45,000 value!
Preacher had no clue what muscular dystrophy was, never understood why you’d give someone a trophy just for pumping up their body, I mean shit, he did that just by going to work every day. None of that mattered. No wheels since his accident, his beloved ’05 Springer totally trashed right along with his body. It had taken months to recuperate. No luck and no insurance meant no bike. Preacher had spent massively on that ride, gone.
The quiet night helped calm him as the parking lot started to fill up. The line began snaking out and around the building. At last, the sun came up and the dealership doors flew open, just after the television crew set up. Preacher strode in like he owned the joint. There was the bike, resplendent, chrome screaming like a thousand sirens to all the women he’d inevitably have riding bitch. Yeah.
Ten kissing bikes all parallel, space left for officials to fit through. Preacher ran to the far end. He reached into his pocket, pulling out an air pillow. A few puffs and he had a cushion for his neck. There was space behind the front tire to lie down and slide his head in. All he had to do now was lean and his lips would be planted. Since he was leaning, his lips would stay in place even if he fell asleep.
Twenty-two hours in, he awoke from a dream of rolls and fresh-brewed coffee. The pillow strategy had worked. Listening to that hot TV reporter do her check-in, he learned that there were eighteen contestants left. At one point, she came towards him and asked how he was doing. He wasn’t about to fall for that shit. He carefully turned, making sure his lips were still on the tire, and spit out, “Fine, ain’t tired no more.”
“Don’t you have to use the bathroom?” she said teasingly.
“Nope!” said Preacher, with all the confidence in the world.
Thirty-one hours. Just two remained, Preacher and some old bag. She was a fighter; he had to hang for almost three hours more before she cried uncle. Somebody said later she had bent the rules by wearing Depends.
Preacher wouldn’t move until he heard the official announce twice that it was over. He creaked to his feet and let out a weak cry, but his eyes shone like the chrome he had won. People crowded him, whooping in congratulations.
“How do you feel, Mr…?” asked the hot reporter.
“Preacher. I feel like a guy who wants to see your fine ass perched on the back of my new bike! What do you say to meeting me here when I come get her?” he howled. The reporter’s wink told him everything he wanted to know.
Spike was waiting outside to take Preacher home. Still weak on his legs, Spike helped him into the truck. As they drove away, Preacher looked at him and said, “Hot damn! When I dropped the Springer and spent all that time in the hospital, never in a million years did I think a catheter and a colostomy bag would end up being my best friends!”
“Heard that!” said Spike.
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Grammar Ghoul Press’ Mutant 750, #24!
The word prompt is Tired (In need of sleep or rest; weary).
The media prompt can be seen here.
Writing submissions may be enjoyed at http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/gg-writing-challenge-24/
Forgive the way that I fantasize,
About your imminent demise,
Need to watch how you gasp and claw,
Agony from your rancid maw,
There is no redemption left for you,
If I can’t have you, wretched shrew,
Coffin, it waits, only for us,
And there on the stone, shall be written thus,
“Life was choked from these two souls, hers by neck, and his by holes.”
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I cheated a little on using the prompt word, I hope that’s okay…
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This week at the Grammar Ghoul Press’ Chimera 66, the word prompt is: Fanatic. Exactly 66 words, no more, no less, should be written with the word “fanatic” included.
Look here for more stories answering the prompt: http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/chimera-66-writing-challenge-7/
“The finest thing about ricin,” Ralph said to no one at all, “is that it’s invisible. Less than a thimble full can take a hippo down. Heat and cold don’t affect it. It’s a guaranteed kill, and the autopsy shows death from the flu.”
He heard the door being shoved open.
“Come in Alice, so glad you’re here. I’ve just put some coffee on for you.”
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This week at the Grammar Ghoul Press’ Chimera 66, the word prompt is: Thimble. Exactly 66 words, no more, no less, should be written with the word “thimble” included.
Look here for more stories answering the prompt: http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/chimera-66-writing-challenge-6/
