K: Although in the end this week didn’t match last year’s week of the same theme, it was still very interesting to see the different ways this one can go. In the end, I think we were missing a lot of subtext and clever ways to get around the speech, although I want to stress that this was a very clever list of premises.

Please keep in mind that everyone votes this week, including those who have Immunity.

Tom Morgan

Sitting next to the bed, alone with his wife for the first time, Tim realized that a hospital room is never quiet. But the rhythm and beeps of the various pumps and monitors allowed him to begin unwinding and provided the beat with which he unraveled his emotions. The nurse had told him that his wife was lucky to survive the accident. It was true that her life would never be like it was, but intense rehab should allow her to regain some semblance of normalcy. And when she told him that the man who was driving Sara’s car had not been so lucky, the nurse had also confirmed to Tim, without realizing it, what he had long suspected: Sara had been having an affair.

Tim looked at the white board on the table next to the bed. Because Sara’s many injuries included severe lacerations on her face and head and the bandages made it impossible for her to open her mouth and difficult for her to hear, the doctors and nurses had been communicating with her by writing yes/no questions and watching as Sara lifted her fingers, one for “yes” and two for “no”. Reading only half of these conversations did not answer too many questions for Tim; he wondered if he could correctly guess how his wife had answered. Six months ago he would have been confident-now he felt like the woman sleeping in the bed next to him was a stranger.

He had known for months that something was not right. Instead of staying in with him, Sara was spending most evenings after supper out. At first he believed her when she told him she was bowling, shopping or at the movies. Eventually, though, he mustered the courage to see all the lies. When he told Sara he was done and had given her permission to tell anyone she wanted that it was Tim who abandoned the marriage if she would just, please, tell him the truth, Sara had begged him to stay. She swore up and down that she was not lying, that Tim was her soul mate. Her pleas were so convincing, and he wanted to believe her so badly, that he stayed. And the next few weeks were the happiest of their marriage. Sara was with him nearly every night. She looked him in the eyes; she smiled.

Tim was calmly watching the I.V. drip when he felt Sara wake up. An accomplished actress couldn’t say as much with her eyes as Sara did in the seconds after she awoke. Joy, recognition, and sorrow flashed over her face.

Tim had been waiting a long time for this and he wasted little time picking up the white board.

“You weren’t at the casino with Sherry were you?” He wrote.

Tim watched her fingers. Finally, she raised two. No.

“You know Jared died?”

Another long pause, one finger. Yes

“You never quit seeing him?”
Sara thought a long time about how to answer. It amused Tim that she seemed to think there was something she could “say” that would affect his decision. “Maybe,” she seemed to be thinking, “if I tell him I did quit seeing Jared, that this was a one-time relapse, he’ll forgive me. Or maybe if I’m honest he’ll forgive me.”

No.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Yes. And her eyes added an exclamation mark. Yes!

“Do you miss him?”

Nothing.

“I need to know.”

Yes.

“Thank you. I love you. “

Yes!

“Goodbye, Sara.”

Tim passed the nurse’s station on his way out. One of the nurses looked up and said, “We’ll take good care of her.” Tim smiled and gave her a brief nod. He hoped so, for her sake. He looked down the hallway at the sunlight pouring through the hospital’s front doors and, smile still on his face, walked away.

K: There’s a solid concept here, but writing out a conversation is a sidestepping of the rules that I can’t say is forbidden, but others are likely to find cleverer ways of silent communication. All in all, I like this, although the moments of silence and subtext were the best, and I wish ALL the moments had been like that.

B: Straightforward and solid, though the grammar in the first half could use some work. This reminds me a bit of the courtroom scene from last season. Nice use of her eyes as exclamation points; it adds some emotion to this scene in a succinct manner.

Peter Bruzek

Becky’s dad had always called it “pressure that didn’t mean anything”. It was an interesting theory, but as she walked around the pitcher’s mound for what had to be the fiftieth time, it seemed like nonsense. It was only the local girl’s little league championship, but she was playing on the same field that all the local heroes had played.

And here she was, being careless with her team’s lead.

The inning had started out easily enough – a strikeout and a weak pop fly. Then the weight of what was happening dawned on her. Usually she was so good at brushing it off, but with two outs in the final inning, it began to eat her alive. First she walked the opponents’ worst hitter, and then she gave up a couple of hard hits. Now, everything was on the verge of unraveling as the Rockies’ slugger came to bat.

Becky took a couple of deep breaths and one last walk around the mound before taking her place and gazing at her catcher for the sign. Nothing seemed like a good idea. Of course she was over-analyzing – she only really knew how to throw two or three pitches – but she had already shaken off at least five before finally deciding that she may as well throw a fastball. The batter just stared out at her with an amused smirk on her face. Becky quickly decided that she hated the batter and made a point to put everything she could into this next pitch.

It was a bad idea, as the catcher had to nearly leave her feet to catch the ball and keep it from going to the backstop. The smirk continued as Becky got the ball back. She briefly thought about throwing the next one at the hitter’s back before realizing that not only would that tie the game, but she would be ejected. Suddenly she realized – she was beating herself. The batter was not Babe Ruth; she was a 14-year old girl. With a renewed calm, Becky came set and threw the pitch.

The girl swung hard, but did not connect solidly, only able to muster a slow ground ball straight back to Becky. She picked up the ball, set herself and threw the ball…four feet over the first baseman’s head.

Everything seemed to slow down – everything except the baserunners, of course. The rightfielder didn’t even bother going to retrieve the ball, she just put hanged her head and began walking back to the dugout. Becky fell to her knees in stunned disbelief. The batter ran by, not bothering with eye contact (but wearing that same damned smirk) as she joined her teammates in celebration as Becky picked herself up off the ground and walked without a word off of the lit field and into the darkness of the visitor’s dugout.

K: Using baseball on me is a bit like shooting fish in a barrel, but the bait worked. I have to say, I didn’t see this coming; I figured our protagonist would conquer her demons and win the game. I would have taken a stronger pair of character arcs, however; Becky was nervous and downtrodden and then lost, while the hitter was cocky and smug and ended up winning. Turning the tables would have been a stronger choice.

B: When I was 12 I was pitching during our Little League Championship. Though we didn’t have a lead, I too grabbed a bunt and threw it over the first baseman’s head, allowing two runs to score. So, yeah, I feel this. The last paragraph (and the last sentence) is a bit wordy for my taste.

Brooks Maki

The_ship’s_generator_surged,_punching_a_hole_in_the_universe_
that_swallowed_the_Tinnitus.EEEEEEEEEEEEThe_noise_began_
immediately.EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEThe_ceaseless_shrieking_drone_of_hyperspace.EEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEPraza_stared_at_his_screen,_praying_this_would_be_
his_last_jump,_guiltily_hoping_that_an_unbug_(for_the_first_time_
in_over_a_decade)_would_appear_in_the_nets_so_he_could_finish_
this_job.EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Claudia,_his_mentor,_trainer,_and_the_last_active_unbug_wrangler_
in_the_fleet,_was_the_first_to_see_the_flash_indicating_a_catch.EEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEShe_bolted_toward_the_airlock.__Everyone_moved_
faster_in_hyperspace,_minimizing_time_spent_there_was_always_a_
priority.EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEBy_
the_time_he_caught_up,_she_was_out_into_the_concrete_gray_of_
hyperspace,_moving_toward_the_nets_where_an_antenna_writhed,_
sprouting_from_the_amorphous_blob_of_an_unbug,_the_only_living_
thing_in_this_hell_outside_of_reality.EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEIf_he_had_caught_her,_perhaps_he_could_have_gone_
out_instead,_but,_he_reminded_himself,_she_had_previously_harvested_
dozens_of_those_antennae,_the_backbone_of_the_interstellar_
communication_network_and_never_showed_any_remorse_for_the_
creature_she_was_mutilating.EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWatching_her_drift_
toward_the_defenseless_animal,_he_confirmed_her_safe_return_through_
the_airlock._The_captain_didn’t_ask_twice,_he_immediately_pushed_the_
ship_toward_its_home_universe.EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Suspended_alone_in_the_unending_gray,_she_screamed_as_long_and_
loud_as_she_could.EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

K: I love how much the visual adds to the style here. It obviously wouldn’t work in a novel, but in the confines of a short story, it effectively added to the tension. Both characters made choices, and both will face strong consequences (inwardly as well as outwardly) as a result. Very fine work here.

B: This challenge forces the creativity out of everybody. Not sure why, but the simple repetitive letter really does awaken my senses to this other dimension. Obviously, this style only works as a short story, but it maximizes its potential here.

Dean Carlson

Rob hated being a twin. From his earliest moments he hated it. One would think floating in amniotic fluid would be peaceful, but not with Randy right there next to you. Even as a fetus Randy was getting in the way. He was always stretching out (Jesus mom’s not that big!) or getting tangled in an umbilical cord. Randy was a pain and took up too much room in what was pretty confining space as it was. Plus Randy seemed to like that crappy Baby Mozart their mother would play at night and would start kicking, which of course made her play it even more. (Although Rob thought it was kind of cool after their mom would fall asleep and someone (dad?) would switch the music to Blonde on Blonde).

Rob thought that after they were born things would get better, to no avail. They had to share beds, clothing, and affection. Their mother was constantly putting them in matching onesies and trotting them out for the neighbors to see. Randy, being the bigger baby, could muscle his way to an advantageous position to receive food and attention. Plus Randy’s diapers were always foul. They sucked from the same tit, how Randy could produce such noxious, eye burning shit was beyond Rob’s 40 day-old comprehension.

Rob was lying in his crib, bored out of his mind when he realized that he was hungry and mom was nowhere to be seen. From his crib Rob lifted his head (hey, I can lift my head, sweet!) and looked around. There was Randy in the ducky-festooned bassinet quiet as a lark. Randy was probably mesmerized by the black and white checkerboard pattern hanging above his head; it didn’t take much to entertain that guy. Rob thought that he could get some undivided attention and started to quietly whimper his “I’m hungry” cry and waited for his mom. Unfortunately their mother was watching General Hospital and didn’t come right away. Just then Randy awoke from his stupor and figured out that Rob was crying for some sweet, warm breast milk. Randy was always hungry and started to whimper too, but louder and more aggressively than Rob. That’s when their mother came straggling in. “Hungry again? Jeez guys I just fed you. “

Rob watched in horror as his mother picked up the clearly agitated Randy, unbuttoned her patterned blouse and brought him to her chest. One could see the anger in Rob’s face: That son of a bitch! What the hell?!? I was hungry first, and he gets first suck?! By the time it’s my turn there will hardly be any left and mom will be all sore (Randy liked to bite on the nipple). She’s got two of them, why can’t she set both of us up at the same time?

This was it, Randy’s not going to get the best of me again thought Rob. I was the one who was hungry; I was the one crying for mom, I should get fed first. I’m not taking this, but what can I do to get mom’s attention? I can’t talk. Then Rob remembered the one thing a baby can do besides eat and sleep: leave a mess in his diapers. Rob, using all the energy his little 18-pound body could muster, proceeded to fill his diaper with the foulest, most rancid green-colored shit one could ever imagine, the majority of which came from the depth of his tiny little bowels. As the horrific stench filled the room Rob’s mother took one whiff and was up like a rocket. “Jesus Christ! Are you o.k. Rob?” She put a now wailing Randy back in the bassinet, buttoned up her blouse and went over to tend to Rob. “Is everything alright Robbie?” she cooed, “let’s clean up that nasty diaper and get you some food. Dan!! Can you come get Randy and take him into the living room? I have to take care of Rob for a bit.”

K: Two babies! This is a new one. The characterizations are funny here, though I think I would have preferred Randy’s thoughts to be a little more childlike than the rest of the narration, just for variety’s and character’s sake. A very strange and unexpected entry that still totally fits the prompt, but it had one major problem in that the narration occasionally changed from third person to first.

B: This premise is hilarious (I especially love the womb stuff), but the perspective here changes from third to first person several times, which is jarring.

Tanya Laumann

Sheila was the nurse for Dr. James Phipps. She had taken a call for the doctor while he was in surgery. She ran to the man as he walked out of the OR and gave him the message. The surgeon’s son and daughter-in-law were in a terrible car accident. They were hit by a pregnant woman on their way to a benefit. His daughter-in-law survived without sustaining any injuries. But his eldest son died shortly after the police arrived at the scene. The events of the last 10 hours played out for him like a silent nightmare.

The car that hit them was traveling at an incredible speed. James Jr. hadn’t been paying much attention to the road. His wife had been arguing with him for the last 10 minutes about this and that, and the nagging nature of her voice forced his attention far from this place. It was the shift to panic in her tone that brought him back to the present.

When he walked out of the operating room that evening he was sure he had never seen anything quite like it. James had been a surgeon at this hospital for 32 years. The woman was 9 months pregnant and was covered in a mosaic of glass and blood. The surgeon knew he must work quickly to get the baby out of the womb, if the mother was going to have any chance of surviving. Looking down upon the healthy baby girl as he handed her over to the nurse his attention snapped back to the babies mother. Working ferociously and seamlessly with his team, they were able to attach the limb that had been partly torn from its socket, and reconstruct the major veins and arteries that had been severed in the accident. The team was in surgery for over 9 hours, and it had been successful. Both the mother and the baby would survive.

K: While this story does capture my attention – too vividly, frankly, and it’s tearing me up inside a little – it does seem like a pretty easy way to get out of talking. Despite this criticism, I do like the prose – in all but the first paragraph, which pumps too much information that isn’t relevant and causes a slight problem with clarity.

B: I like the first and last paragraphs quite a bit, the middle confuses me. Did we shift to James Jr? If so, how do we know his feelings? If we didn’t switch to Jr., how does Sr. know that the wife was nagging? With some work this could really bring out the emotional impact for the surgeon.

Matt Novak

His final breath slowly eased from his lips as his body released the tension of life. His lungs constricted. His heart stopped pumping. The brain ceased sending signals, the neural highways vacant.

His dreams had yielded before his body. His last dream was of home: a warm fire and a full belly. Before that he had dreamt about being young and energetic: the chase, the glory. When he had first drifted into sleep his dreams were more scattered, hadn’t yet settled on any one story to follow. They had been filled with images of trees in the park, familiar faces, walks with friends.

It was comforting that his dreams had turned to happy times. Fitting in a way, though strange, for this was not a voluntary sleep. The drugs had pushed their way through his veins, muscling out the more sustaining intents of circulation. He had felt the surge when the Doctor compressed the plunger. He had felt the subtly sharp pinch of the needle when the Doctor slid it into the vein. He had felt it even though the Doctor had numbed the area with anesthetic; a generous, ironic gesture.

He had laid on the table, right where the Doctor had indicated. The Doctor kept a somber approach to the business as he readied his materials. It was just the two of them in the room. The Doctor had led him there, indicating the way through the swinging dual doors. The doors were a painted metal, no warmer than the slate block walls of the hallway they had walked through. The sound of hard soles rang through the hallway as the Doctor transferred him to the chamber at the end.

It wasn’t like a movie where that final procession is played at half speed; the Doctor’s pace down the hallway was brisk, and he was glad for it. It felt good to move his legs after being cooped in that tiny cell. The agony had grown quickly. The cage was small, isolated, and he’d been put there, alone, to wait. Someone else, a Stranger, had brought him to this holding cell. That had been a cruel trip, from the outer room to the inner pen, accompanied only by the unflinching Stranger.

It had been the Doctor who had directed the Stranger, waving the Stranger over to take him away. Before the Stranger arrived, the Doctor had been in the outer room for some time, tending to unseen machinations. There were others there too. Most were unknown to him. One Man – he knew the Man well – had spoken to the Doctor. His tone were hushed. The Doctor nodded knowingly. A gentle inquiry from the Man. The Doctor returned something to the Man: a thin plastic card. There was a flurry of pen strokes from the Man. Things had started to move once the Doctor entered the outer room.

Before the Doctor arrived, he had been sitting with the Man for nearly ten minutes. The Man spoke sparsely, words of comfort falling where no comfort could be had. There had been others with the Man earlier, others who had been ushered out. It was those others whom the Man had been able to comfort.

“There is,” the Man had answered. The question had come, quietly, from the girl, “Daddy, is there a doggy heaven?”

K: This ending nullifies the vast majority of my critique, which was to say that leaving out character names was alienating. Of course, telling me the protagonist’s name was “Fido” wouldn’t have allowed this story to work on the level it did. It’s a little prolonged and cold, but the prose is interesting and I absolutely loved the line “He had felt it even though the Doctor had numbed the area with anesthetic; a generous, ironic gesture.” Like many of the stronger entries in this game’s history, a second read is necessary for the full effect.

B: This isn’t the first time the protagonist has been a mutt and I was none the wiser until the last sentence. At first I was thinking, “They don’t do lethal injections with no witnesses, do they?” The broad, banal descriptions of good times now seem quite poignant with this knowledge of who enjoyed them. However, I question that a dog would know how it goes in the movies? Also, are there a lot of movies where dogs are put to sleep? Anyway, I’m nitpicking. Love the plastic card; it almost feels like a weapon. And The Doctor got paid to use it.

Dan Kautz

I’d been coming to that club for years, and the openers always sucked. That night was no different. The cacophony of fuzz, distortion and feedback washed over me as I watched the mass of people in front of the stage. Some, with their skinny jeans and angular haircuts, barely swayed as they stood there, eyes blank; others, clad in backwards baseball caps and gym shorts, bounced up and down to a rhythm that must have been set to some beat coming from somewhere else.

I figured I had at least an hour before what I’d gone there to see started, so I turned and headed to the bar in the back of the room. I stood there for a moment before I caught one bartender’s eye, and pointed to a beer in the fridge door behind him. He followed the line of my finger to its object, and raised an open palm in response. I pulled my wallet out and laid six ones on the bar.

As I turned back around, I saw her there, standing behind me. My heart leapt into my throat and I had to tighten my grip on the bottle to keep hold. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, with deep auburn hair flowing down past her shoulders and piercing blue eyes that stood out even in that dimly lit room.

As I stood there staring at her, she met my eyes and arched an eyebrow. I opened my mouth and tried to say something, but nothing came out. She watched me and smiled, showing dimples at both sides of her lips. Flustered, I smiled back, trying to think of something and still failing. She smiled wider and winked, her eyes glittering at me. She held out one arm and motioned me forward, then grasped my hand as I stood rooted to the spot.

She led me back out onto the floor, tossed her hair back around one shoulder, and started to dance. I joined her, awkwardly at first, but soon our movements were united and elegant. I never took my eyes off her; she, in turn, kept her eyes locked onto mine.

Confident now, I leaned in to say something witty, but she smiled again, put a finger up to my lips and held it there for a moment, then wrapped her other arm around my neck. Time seemed to slow down as we moved together, but the ringing in my ears only got louder. I thought at that instant, it might be the greatest night of my life.

Then a searing pain shot into my back and rocketed through my body. My knees buckled and collapsed, and I fell to the floor. Blood gushed from the wound in my back as a broad-shouldered man stepped over me. As he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, I could see the knife clasped in his hand. She leaned up to meet his mouth with hers.

The ringing in my ears had stopped, and the sea of noise around me dissipated. I watched as she turned around in his embrace to meet my eyes again. She held my wallet up in her hand and waved it, then winked and smiled at me one last time.

K: Poor sap. I thought this one was a story about a strip club, but no such luck…sigh. I like what we have here, but I’m most definitely missing what we don’t. What’s the protagonist’s motive with this woman? Why her? What’s her motive? Simple theft? If so, I want the motive to be stronger and more personal. Plus, aren’t we in a crowded bar? Wouldn’t witnesses be a problem here?

B: I like the atmosphere here, but unfortunately the ending was predictable to me. However, what bugs me is that this couple commits these crimes in crowded clubs? Yeah, it may be noisy, but I have a feeling they’d get caught after doing this a couple times. Granted, there are stupid criminals, but I don’t get the sense that the ones in this story will be better off. Don’t get me wrong; this still follows the rules. It just doesn’t have the impact it would for me than if the criminals were more sly.

Shawn Ashley

Tick, tick.
The only sound swirling around the room. The sound of her grandfather clock.
A bottle of old Kentucky Bourbon sits between them, certainly not forgotten. Their respective glasses sit in front of them, marred with smears of bright lipstick; hers a bright red, hers a racy pink.
Tick, tick.
Ella raised a perfect eyebrow over the top of her cards that are fanned out in front of her face, as if to say, “You going to play anytime this century?”
Rose’s face was in a slight scowl, her eyes focused down into her hand. One pink manicured nail flicked the edge of her left card. Maybe in nerves. Maybe unconsciously showing her good card.
The ice cubes in Rose’s drink fell, causing her to jump. She tried to play it off, by grabbing the glass and taking a long drink.
The corner of Ella’s lips rose slightly in a smile and she covered it by picking up her glass and taking a small sip.
Finally, Rose made a decision and placed a card down on the pile.
There was silence.
And tension.
Ella didn’t make a move. Rose didn’t breathe.
“You are STILL playing that game??” Rose’s youngest daughter Maureen came clomping in the room. “I swear you two have played that game every Sunday afternoon for 30 years. You’d think someone would finally win!” She snorted. She walked over to the table and stood looking at both of them.
Neither lady made a sound. Or a move.
“Well,” Maureen said loudly, “Have it your way. I’m going back outside. It is nice out there, ya know.” She shook her head and hoofed it back down the hall.
Ella’s eyes flicked to the card Rose had discarded.
So did Rose’s.
Then their eyes met.
Rose challenged her stare. What are you going to do?
It doesn’t matter what I do, Ella’s smug stare retorted.
Ella slowly picked up some cards from the pile, then rearranged her hand.
Rose picked up her drink to take a sip and realized her liver-spotted hand was shaking.
There was a pause, where nothing moved. Even the clock seemed to be holding it’s breath.
Ella put down her cards and sat back in her chair with a slight smile on her perfectly painted lips.
Rose stared in disbelief. No…
Gin.

K: Oh, for cute. I suppose I should have known where this was going, but instead I was thinking one of the old women would die (but would that really improve the position of her friend? Oh well, I’m an idiot). I love the amount of tension given to this very small-scale story. They don’t all have to be life and death to be brilliant.

B: I thought in Gin you only picked up one card at a time? I’ve played variations where the discard pile is splayed, but never called it gin. Anyway, just minutiae. The last line is telegraphed a bit too much to be powerful, but it still works okay in this non-verbal story. I really like the descriptions of the two ladies. The tense changes from past to present a few times; had it stayed in one it may have worked better.

Ryan Sorrell

The dry scratch of dirt against metal was swallowed by the walls of the hole as the boy once more stepped on the shovel and drove it into the ground. The dim light from the Coleman lantern nearby was barely enough to guide his dig. His arms ached as he lifted another scoop and heaved it over waist high wall and onto the growing pile.

He turned and leaned his back against the wall of dirt, resting his hands on the handle of the shovel. He’d barely taken in a full breath when his head was rocked forward from the swift kick of the old man’s boot. After regaining his balance, the boy quickly returned to his task. The message was clear, “hurry the fuck up”. There was no need to turn around and confirm it, as the ever-present scowl on the old man’s face surely would.

The old man’s supervision alternated between cursing him from the lawn chair and pacing around the grave, all the while knocking back his Old Milwaukees. He’d been digging for awhile now and dirt filled his shoes and blisters were forming where he gripped the shovel. Each time he bent over, his jeans reminded him of the painful welts on his lower back. Each time he stood up he tried to avert his eyes from the sack lying next to the pile of dirt. Each time he failed, catching sight of those little feet sticking out. He succeeded at not crying, as that would certainly only bring another swift kick or worse.

He had failed as a brother, failed in his promise to his mother to protect his sister. He had cowered in his bedroom as his father had visited his sister’s room once again, then cried himself to sleep. After shaking him awake, his father had unconvincingly told him that she had died in her sleep. He was yanked out of bed, told to throw some clothes on and handed a shovel soon after. So here he was, in the woods behind their property, digging the grave that son-of-a-bitch deserved.

He was jarred from his thoughts by the crushed beer can that bounced off his head. The old man was still walking around the hole, but stopped at the lawn chair long enough to replace his empty. He continued his pacing, stumbled a bit and nearly fell right in. The boy quickened his pace, eager to get out of this terrible hole.

A few minutes later the old man kicked some dirt from the pile into the side of his face to get his attention. The hole was apparently deep enough, as the old man motioned for him to get out. He hoisted himself up, bracing his foot against the opposite wall as he struggled to get out. Finally finding the strength for a last push, he rolled over onto the ground and lay there catching his breath. The wind made by the old man’s boot just missing his face got him moving again. The old man pointed toward the sack and shuffled over to it.

The boy couldn’t move. Frozen in place by those little feet protruding from the sack, he just stared.
The old man was bent over, trying to move it, but he could hardly keep his balance as it was. He turned and scowled at the boy once more and violently motioned him over before returning his attention to the sack.

The boy looked down at the shovel, then back up at the old man bent over. He picked up the shovel and walked purposefully around the grave and positioned himself directly behind the old man. He grabbed the handle tightly with both hands and raised the shovel blade high over his head. He spared a moment for one more quick glance at those little feet, took a deep breath, then brought the blade down with all his strength. At the same moment, the old man started to stand up and turn to look at him. Instead of connecting with the old man’s skull, the shovel bounced off his shoulder blade.
They both stared at each other wide eyed for a moment before the old man threw down his beer can, the scowl returning to his face. The boy quickly raised the shovel again and swung it at the old man’s head, but the swing was weak and the old man caught hold of the handle. They struggled for control of the shovel. The boy held on desperately, but the old man shoved the handle forward, hitting the boy in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. While the boy was hunkered over trying to catch his breath, the old man turned the shovel around and quickly smashed the shovel blade into the side of the boys face. The blow knocked him unconscious, sending him tumbling into the hole.

When he came to, he was staring up at night sky that filtered through the tree branches. He tried to sit up, but a searing pain shot through his rib cage. Something else besides the pain was restricting his movement. He looked down and found himself staring at those little feet. Those little feet protruding from the sack that was now partially covered with dirt. Then he heard the scratch of the shovel and a scoopful of dirt flew into view, striking his face. He spat out what had landed in his mouth and started to cough up some more. That brought the old man’s face into view. He towered over him, the ever-present scowl now gone from his face. Instead it had been replaced by a wicked grin. The boy tried to scream, but all that would come out was a low groan. The wicked grin disappeared from view and the sound of shoveling returned. He continued to groan, staring helplessly up at the night sky until a brown blanket completely cut him off from the world.

K: Always nice to finish with a heartwarming story. I’d like the reason for the silence to be clearer. A drunken man seems more likely to bark out orders, but if we understand that humanity isn’t far from here, we have a reason for the quiet and the whole thing is even more heartbreaking in the end if we have a false sense of security because people are SO CLOSE, you know? This one is right there near the top of my list, so I’ll have a tough decision here.

B: This reads a lot like a Koontz short story, and from me that’s a compliment. I am glad it didn’t go for the “happy” ending, as it would have felt false. I think the old man cursing at the boy violated the whole mime thing a bit. While the words are never spoken, it is implied that he’s talking, even if it’s just one-word statements. That said, pretty well written horror.

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Kelly here. There surely wasn’t a dearth of strong writing here, but the most creative entry gets Immunity from me: that being the deep space adventure in #3. If Beau also gives Immunity to this one, I’ve got a much tougher decision looming.

Beau: I loved all of these premises, and was amazed you guys came up with nine more original ideas after we had nine great ones last year. We’re not scoring anymore, but I do want to give props to more than just one entry, so here are my medal winners.

3rd Place: Gin Game
2nd Place: Puppy Euthanasia

When I’m debating between a couple of entries for immunity as I did here, I think, “Which entry am I going to remember a year from now?” And that one is:
Immunity: Claudia Joins the Unbugs

I just realized all three of these end with someone’s death. You guys are sick.

Kelly: Well, damn it. Okay, here’s my issue: there are definitely no bad ones, but every one of them has at least one aspect that was done better by a bunch of other entries.

Apples vs. oranges. Well, I’ll favor bourbon. I loved the simplicity of the gin game, despite the entry’s tense misstep. I want to give honorable mentions, but if I did, they’d go to every single other entry, so it would be a pretty pointless exercise.

So, Brooks Maki and Shawn Ashley win Immunity, and you also can’t vote for Matt Novak as he uses up one of his Immunities from last week. You all have until Tuesday at 2pm Central to cast your votes for any of the other six Survivors; ties will now be broken by game-long head to head score (as in, how many times did A outscore B, and vice versa).

Cheers, Survivors. I eagerly await these votes, because I have no idea where this game is headed.