I like to play with words and decided not to wait for the next prose competition (primarily because catfoodtim could organize a break out from a wet paper bag much less a competition).
This is an relatively open format, no deadline, entries are public, less than 1000 words, judged by your pears. The subject is "Loss" and must be done in with either a 'Film Noir' detective theme or told as a psychological/horror thriller.
Originally posted by Hand of HecateI would prefer judges to be peaches please.
I like to play with words and decided not to wait for the next prose competition (primarily because catfoodtim could organize a break out from a wet paper bag much less a competition).
This is an relatively open format, no deadline, entries are public, less than 1000 words, judged by your pears. The subject is "Loss" and must be done in with either a 'Film Noir' detective theme or told as a psychological/horror thriller.
Loss:
Lost in the reverie of The Work I was startled by a flashing light on my security monitor. Not the perimeter alarm, just the phone. I put down my instruments and made my way upstairs to answer the call.
My wife. Ex-wife, I should remember this. “David, I want the bear and the pictures of Michelle.”
“I don’t have them Margaret. I haven’t seen them since I moved out.”
“I know you have them. They disappeared when you did.”
“I promise you I don’t have them. I left everything.”
“Yes, yes you did. You need to come and get your stuff. All of it. I need to move on just as you seem to have done.”
“Sell it. Give it away. I don’t care. I don’t need any of it anymore.”
For a moment I thought the line had gone dead. Nothing. Then, “Very well David, but, I want Sarah’s bear and the pictures back, you don’t deserve them.”
“Goodbye Margaret.”
“You bastard…”
I hung up and returned to The Work.
He was awake again and struggling uselessly against his bonds. Difficult to be very effective at anything without your thumbs much less just having had your genitals removed with a blow torch.
Muffled by the gag, the usual torrent of pleas for mercy, professions of innocence and plaintive weeping assailed me.
I don’t usually talk while engaged in The Work. One might sooner explain oneself to a pile of steaming excrement as to a child rapist and murderer. Still, the night waxed melancholy and a sudden draft rustled my collection in an almost placative fashion.
With my voice cracking slightly I said, “There’s no use my friend.” Waiving my hand towards what looked like a couple of dozen pieces of canvas stretched tight across an artist’s frame I explained my intent, “ Very soon now I’m going to flay you alive and hang your stretched skin with the rest of my collection of miscreants.”
More muffled screaming ensued as he realized the finality of what was in store for him. Gently wiping the sweat and blood from his face I said “Quiet now. Try to be a man for once in your misbegotten life. I know what you did. I was your lawyer after all. Do you really think I didn’t know you killed that little girl?” I could see in his eyes he’d thought that I’d represented him so passionately because I believed him to be innocent. It hadn’t occurred to him that I just didn’t want him in prison.
I realized that I was screaming like a madman as I yelled almost incoherently, “She was so like my little girl. So young and innocent. You broke that innocence, strangled her, raped her and discarded her in a shallow grave. You’re going to pay with pain and fear. Horror will be the prevailing sentiment accompanying your departure from this life.”
As I carefully flensed the skin from his writhing body I started to laugh. My hysterical laughter drowning out his tortured screams. It was suddenly clear to me that The Work would never end. God, I hope I can stop laughing.
As the incinerator hummed contentedly I finished stretching the skin over the frame and hung it to dry. The others rustled almost happily as if glad for the new company. I checked the security system and with its status unchanged headed upstairs to my office. I clinked a small handful of ice into a glass and spilled a generous portion of single malt Scotch over the settling cubes. With a reverence approaching that of some somber and ancient ritual I pulled a box from my safe and set it on my desk.
Lifting the lid revealed a ragged little teddy bear and a book of pictures of my daughter. The book was stuffed with little things she’d made for me and yellowed newspaper clippings. Much as the pictures told the story of Michelle’s short life, the clippings detailed her disappearance and the ultimate discovery of her mangled body. As my tears ran into its fur I imagined I could still detect the smell of my daughter on the little bear.
an original poem by reinfeld ( if i stole it..prove it ! ...and my use of quotes is not good evidence )...
"my hearts in the highlands,
my heart is not here,
my hearts in the highlands,
a chasin the deer.
a chasin the deer,
a following the roe,
my hearts in the highlands,
wherever i go."
( no fools, i did not steal this from robert burns...i wrote it myself two days ago. i guess robert burns and i think alike..where is mary ? ).
Originally posted by Hand of Hecatethe word "sir" is "peers" and not "pears" which is a fruit from a tree. if you know many fruits or have not been to school then i understand why you do not know the great historical english word "peers" ( which in your case, either by fruit or education means your "betters" )....in any event...in a great degree of samartian kindness ( having found you wounded on the ground ) i wish you the best and worst of times depending on the city and social class you find yourself in ( do you get the reference ?...most likely not )....reinfeld.
I like to play with words and decided not to wait for the next prose competition (primarily because catfoodtim could organize a break out from a wet paper bag much less a competition).
This is an relatively open format, no deadline, entries are public, less than 1000 words, judged by your pears. The subject is "Loss" and must be done in with either a 'Film Noir' detective theme or told as a psychological/horror thriller.
Originally posted by Hand of HecateSounds cool but the category (s) put me out of this comp instantly.
I like to play with words and decided not to wait for the next prose competition (primarily because catfoodtim could organize a break out from a wet paper bag much less a competition).
This is an relatively open format, no deadline, entries are public, less than 1000 words, judged by your pears. The subject is "Loss" and must be done in with either a 'Film Noir' detective theme or told as a psychological/horror thriller.
But I'll read and vote.
You need to work on your spelling! It messes up the intended wit.
Originally posted by SunburntApparently, I'm not starting this out very well. Just tell us a story about skull collection and I'll be happy. Preferably about harvesting Divegesters tiny little noggin.
Sounds cool but the category (s) put me out of this comp instantly.
But I'll read and vote.
You need to work on your spelling! It messes up the intended wit.
Originally posted by reinfeldPeers doesn't mean "your"betters"".
the word "sir" is "peers" and not "pears" which is a fruit from a tree. if you know many fruits or have not been to school then i understand why you do not know the great historical english word "peers" ( which in your case, either by fruit or education means your "betters" )....in any event...in a great degree of samartian kindness ( having found you woun ...[text shortened]... ass you find yourself in ( do you get the reference ?...most likely not )....reinfeld.
It is true that one meaning of peers can mean a member of the British or Irish nobility (ranks of duke, marquess, earl, viscount or baron) but in this instance the useage is as of "peer group" which is a group consisting of people of approximately the same age, status, and interests.
Please don't belittle people for a simple miss-spelling with an over bearing pompous statement including an inaccuracy. Its not very nice 😉