Markey Mark is our highlighted entry this week. I totally dug his descriptions of the cigarettes and how white his knuckles were, among other things. Mark painted a fascinating scene by simply using descriptive words. Great job, Mark.
The Captain
By Mark H.
Darryl jammed the stick into drive, smashed the accelerator to the floor, his thick fingers turning white as he gripped the searing hot steering wheel. Cold ashes fell from the open ash tray. Jagged tears in the weathered vinyl seats gnawed at his legs as he fought to control the fish-tailing car.
Darryl had just jumped to warp speed as he reluctantly left the last session of the 42nd annual Star Trek Convention. For a brief few minutes longer, he was not Darryl, he was Captain James Kirk, brilliant commander, supremely confident, the ultimate player.
Soon, only Darryl would arrive at his empty one bedroom apartment, alone once more.
Gimme some more...
Memories
By Linda Gail A.
“Hold it right there.”
A light flashes and I hear the camera click.
“Perfect! You can come out now.”
I duck out from behind the cardboard cutout that resembled my first car to watch as my photo is downloaded into a computer and then emerges slowly from a digital printer. I pay the outrageous fee and take my now cardboard framed photo. I glance at it and happy memories surge back.
“Man, back then I was going somewhere,” I think.
I sadly shake my head and shuffle away to climb into the bus to take me to the nursing facility I now call home.
The Practical Joke
By: TresK
His tires spinning gravel, Jocko wished he’d spent the money on those Goodyear retreads. The Chrysler 380 short block had enough power to get him out of here, if he could only get some traction. Finally hitting the tarmac, Jocko smiled; he’d be almost to Galveston when the barn blew.
It had been a while since Jocko’d done any demolition work, but it all came back; the smell of the powder, the cool touch of the blasting caps, the curious combination of calm and butterflies as he wired the final connection. Jocko started humming, imagining Brian’s face when he found his barn spread over half of Brazoria County.
You Get Your One Chance and You Better Not Blow It
By: Jerry H.
The blonde had left him. Stupid old biddy anyway, paying him to cruise the Sunset Strip each evening. Fourty six years is a long time to drive the same stretch of avenue looking for testosterone infected young men, Oh God night after night why?
He came to California to be a movie star, now the only part available, a corpse on CSI Vegas. They were paying drivers in Bagdad ungodly amounts of money; a little adventure and then retirement. He was leaving this life behind, the memories and dreams of that American Graffiti weekend were just nightmares now.
Pig Squealer
By: Jenny S.
Thoughts raced thru Bobby Joe’s head as he pressed harder on the gas pedal.
“Six months of my life I gave up for this stupid pig squealing contest. I dropped everything that was important to me – my mistress, my job…”
Truth be told, Bobby Joe didn’t really have all that much going for him beforehand. His ‘mistress’ was his favorite dancer at Boobs, Boobs, Boobs and by ‘job’, Bobby meant whatever he hadn’t gotten bored with yet.
The first person to have a pig come up and hump their leg won Pig Squealing contest and $500. Bobby Joe just ended up with stained jeans and his photo in the newspaper.
Car Ride Home
By: Randy H.
Larry's car hummed a deep growl as it idled in front of room 12A. He waits for her. This is not the first time; in fact, they had grown accustomed to these secret encounters. Larry flicks the gray head off his cigarette and draws in another dose. As the nicotine mixes with the idle fumes, his mind suddenly begins to race. The muscles in his gut tighten and guilt overwhelms. Larry curses himself wondering why he cannot control his urges. Frustrated, he turns up the radio trying to kill the conviction and fear. Still waiting for her, the conviction and fear win out. Larry revs the engine and drives home.
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