Alright, Prosers. You had to write stories about towns or villages of 100 people or fewer. What was the result?

Well, the result is that you’re all f*&^ing weird. This was great fun, people, and seriously taxing for the brain late at night. I had a bitch of a time scoring these, and I love you for that.

Alexa Kocinski

Maribeth Hamsterwheel and Angelica Tropolis met inside a threat-level orange Dunkin’ Donuts in Britt, an unincorporated mound of dirt with a post office. Angelica had flown in from New York.

They greeted each other warmly in front of day-old glazed.

“What’s on the agenda for today?”

“Tonight,” Maribeth said, “the DQ Brazier is hosting an open mic!”

Angelica winced, then eyed Maribeth’s clutch. “Is that a Comme Des Garçons?”

“Actually, it’s a Winkle Pig from the Bug Hut. The place next to the carpet outlet?”

Later on, the two girls headed to the local DQ for hot eats, cool treats, and slam beats. The show had started. One guy was angrily mixing metaphors.

“I will not be shoved down into your sinkhole to sink to your hole. I am a wage slave. Never to rise, never to leave. I’m a placeholder for the next placeholder for the next placeholder!”

The man stepped down to light applause, adjusted his visor, and took his place behind the cash register.

Angelica noticed three men in black licking their dipped cones. With briefcases full of blinking technology and conspicuous earpieces, they really stood out. After the sixth poet, fed up with the status quo and whole sentences, finished, the men left quietly, slipping out almost undetected were it not for the loud WEEP! WEEP! WEEP! sounds emanating from their pants.

“That’s the government,” Maribeth said casually to Angelica. “Know what effects change more than anything else during economic hardship? Slam poetry. Agents listen to the poems, parse them for complaints, bring the gleaned information to the President. He writes bills to accommodate the wishes of these fucking Illuminati townies. Who do you think is really running the country? It ain’t the one-percenters! It’s the Mike Hoosiers working the Pickled Chitlin kiosks!”

K: We have a big city girl sighing at the antics of a small town (though I think a town of 100 is unlikely to have a DQ, and even less likely to have an open mic night), which is a little obvious, I guess. Not much happens here (there’s a lot going on, but not much is happening, if you feel me) and it sort of fizzles in the end, though I smirked at a few bits, particularly the idiotic slam poetry.

Matt – Wait… what? I suppose the author is going for the contrasting “look, the small town folks aren’t really so small” angle, right? But this is one of the sharpest turns I’ve ever seen a story on the CdL take. I dig both the first half of the story and the second half, but those last two paragraphs feel like a different story altogether – long paragraphs, monologuing, etc. And yet, I’m somewhat enchanted.

MLD: I liked the beatnik town and the slam poetry cadence of this story. I think the “effects” was supposed to be “affects”, but after the “incorrect your” fiasco of PwtP Round 1, I don’t trust my eyes when reading these anymore. This story was cute. I enjoyed it. BRONZE

Gary Slapshanks

This is a very Smurfy Smurf of a Smurf. The guy who suggested that the topic was in reference to the Lottery story is dumb. Unless you are combining the Lottery with the Smurf’s then you have a badass idea.

The problem I have with the Smurfs is that Papa Smurf is 534 years old and the other Smurfs are all 100 year old kids. What happened to all of Papa Smurf’s contemporaries? How did the new batch come to be? The point is that you have to have faith in the Smurfs and not try to logically understand them. The 100 Smurfs are one Smurf.

The Smurfs get along for the most part except their inexplicable disdain for the Brainy Smurf who probably believes in evolution. They evade being turned to gold better than most blue beings, but even the best Smurf can be tempted.

They just sing a bunch and don’t procreate. Make the Smurfs red instead of blue, keep the hats, and the allegory would have been obvious decades ago.

If Papa Smurf ever died at the hands of the Romans they would blame Gargomel and persecuted the Jews for his crimes for millennia.

Anyhow, all 100 Smurfs Smurf then Smurfing leads to more Smurfing and Papa Smurf is killed on the cross to absolve the Smurfs of their Smurf. Papa Smurf rises 3 days later. They write a few different versions of the story and eventually have to deal with the difficult evolution of being a religion of peace into a religion in power that must protect its piece. Followed by seismic growth that shapes the history of mankind for better and often worse ending with the creation of Matt Novak, everyone’s favorite Smurf. .

K: That was…different. I never did laugh out loud, but I did read on incredulously at the absurdity of it all, which I guess is something. It’s another story that relied so heavily on gags that the story’s barely there, which is the larger problem.

Matt – I’m shaking my head here. I know who you are, dear author. And I’ve medaled you the past couple weeks. You make me laugh, but… there’s just not enough story here. I guess you took a vacation because Easter is a pretty important holiday for you, right?

MLD: This was an attempt to avoid a non-sub, wasn’t it? Mildly amusing. And it *was* about a small town. Didn’t score with me, though. :/

Dean Carlson

The sun was out and the winter snow had begun to melt so Miles Standish decided to walk around the Colony and check out the condition of the palisade. Considering the hacked-limb walls were hastily put up in the middle of a snowstorm by a bunch of religious fanatics, Standish was surprised at how well it stood up. “Fear of savages can inspire even the physically weakest of men,” thought Standish, “I’ll need to use that fear to further organize the Colony.” Standish’s thoughts turned back to the Palisade: “it survived the winter, yes, but these walls need to be strengthened. I’ll organize another party today.”

The condition of the palisade was only one of Standish’s worries. The winter took nearly half of the Colony’s population, including his wife Rose. The Separatists were woefully unprepared for the harsh conditions of that first winter and many died of disease, cold, and hunger. Some of the dead Standish knew would never survive the winter — too many old bones who surprised him by even surviving the Atlantic journey — but other dead included strapping young men who Standish had hoped would help him with the Colony’s security concerns. “Fifty souls left by my count, we will need that supply boat soon or we’ll all perish” said Standish to the squirrel watching him quizzically from atop the Palisade.

Standish’s presence didn’t just interest hungry squirrels, however. Hiding in the woods stood Samoset. He had seen the scraggly band of white people come ashore in the late fall and somehow survive the winter. Although they tried to hide the burial of their dead, Samoset knew their numbers had dwindled significantly. “This man looks stout and worthy of trust” thought Samoset, “he could prove useful.” With that Samoset entered the clearing and declared “Welcome Englishman!”

K: Poor Samoset. Standish is not here to help you! This is an abrupt ending, as the lead-in to the payoff is probably only the last fifty words or so. The story attempted to tell too much of the Myles Standish story and ended up feeling rushed. I did enjoy the writing, however (and read up to see how much of this was true; this story did indeed utilize a lot of known facts about Standish’s struggles..

Matt – I have a guess as to the author… I like the language’s appropriateness for the time. And I recognized Standish right away, so I caught this reference too… I had to look him up for a bit of specific detail, but I think this is a pretty solid historical fiction entry, not too vague a reference. At least, for me… It could have used a bit more engagement/action. Perhaps if there was another person for him to have spoken with as he examined the palisade? A very solid entry.

MLD: I feel like this was a story based off an entry in Wikipedia on the first European settlements in the U.S. The punctuation was iffy, but other than that, I had high hopes at the beginning that this would turn into some kinda awesome alternate-reality pilgrim tale…or something other than a re-telling of what happened. Unless I’m remembering history wrong.

Margaret Martin

When I’m not in Finley, I call it home.

Finley lies on Wisconsin 80, its houses huddled between the road and the snowy woods. Finley is Gaelic for “Fair Warrior,” but there aren’t any Irish here except the Dunns, and Dunn means “dark-haired.”

It’s Good Friday. Opening the carved wooden church door took both hands when I was little, when Dad was alive and Mom remembered me. Our family always sat up front. I sit near the door, a stranger now.

Mom’s old neighbor, Mr. Gottschalk, sits next to me, his nylon Packers jacket crackling as he wrestles it off his shoulders. His eyebrows are white and scraggly, and they grow horizontally, like little visors. Keeping the sun out of the old trucker’s eyes. Gottschalk means “God’s Servant.” I smile.

He smiles back. “You’re home den?” He pronounces “th” like “d.”

“Yes, for Easter.”

“Tell your Ma “Hi,” den.”

My gaze drifts to the widows in the front pew. White hair and wool sweaters. I used to think all lonely old women were nuns; I didn’t know about widows then.

There’s a new priest. I listen to his accent. From Southern India, probably Kerala. The old priest, Father Koenig, died awhile back. Koenig means “King.” We have no king but Caesar.
The choir sings the Passion Chorale. It has the same melody as Paul Simon’s American Tune: “Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken, and many times confused.”

The words in the prayers have changed, and I make many mistakes. God’s Servant chuckles. After mass, I take an updated prayer card for Mom to use in the nursing home. Prayers still matter to her.

Rhymin’ Simon’s immigrant song echoes in my mind as I turn onto Hwy. 80: “So far away from home. So far away from home.”

K: This story is small enough to fit the size of the town, and I felt a great sense of community here. The characters were well-drawn and I’d like to see where their little lives go for a while longer. I rather enjoyed the gimmick with the name meanings as well. The story’s lone sticking point for me was the superfluous explanation of “th” = “d.” If you show us, there’s no need to tell us. SILVER

Matt – I love this. A few extra explanations that could have been trimmed (the “th” = “d” thing, for example), but it’s so real. So concrete. I’m forced to wonder if we’ve got a fiction on our hands or not. It reminds me of Flannery O’Connor in a way, and that’s about as high of praise as I can give. GOLD.

MLD: We got a lot more variation, this time around, in the interpretation of the theme. This was a slice of life of Wisconsin, a description of a culture I am wholly unfamiliar with in general but kinda feel like I’m more familiar with now thanks to this writing. Clearly well written. I’m sort of biased towards wanting an actual plot line, though. I feel like I shouldn’t be biased towards this, but I think that’s the only reason this didn’t score as high with me as it could. It just…didn’t seem to go anywhere?

Matt Trueblood

The cliché would have been laughable, if the situation appeared less dire. Mrs. Raymond was in her terrycloth bathrobe, with curlers in her hair and a cigarette dangling from her lips. Not that Mr. Morrissey was noticing. His focus, I was sure, was on the shaking gun barrel she was trying to level at his chest.

“Well, okay,” I said from the bottom of the stairs. “What’s going on?”

“He’s been fucking his whore all goddamned day!” Mrs. Raymond screamed. “Do you know how thin our walls are?” She was gesticulating with her right hand, the cigarette flying, leaving smoke trails. Her left hand was still bobbing, but the gun stayed trained on Mr. Morrissey well enough to keep him still.

“That whore is your daughter!” Morrissey snarled. He opened his mouth to continue, but something in her eyes stopped him. I think he thought she was full of it until that moment, but suddenly, the gun was level, and he froze.

“Jesus, Morrissey,” I said. “It’s been, what, four days?”

“Four days is a long time if you haven’t slept,” he said, defiant. His eyes fell, though. “Four days is a long time if you saw what I saw.”

I had to hand that to him. Morrissey and his new girlfriend had been outside when the bomb hit. He’d pushed her to the ground and covered her, to protect her from shrapnel, but when he went to pull her up, she screamed, weakly. She had been burned beyond help, because one of the things about a nuke is, it melts concrete. He had picked her up, carried her here, but she was in the pile outside the door. Survivors only here. Eighty-nine of us so far. There’s enough food for a while, if people don’t kill each other first.

K: And we go from a very small story to a very large story. This could effectively open a horror-thriller, or perhaps a dark TV drama that I’d probably be into. I like that we got our town of 100 or less in a much different way from the norm, and I want to know where things progress from here. BRONZE

Matt – Ooh, that’s a heck of a thing, ain’t it? We think we’ve got slice of life, and then the current gets pulled back. I got a bit confused by the “girlfriend” thing, thinking it was referring to the daughter, but it’s not, right? I would have liked a last paragraph here that brought us back into the moment, maybe ratcheted up the tension. The action is fantastic, the standoff palatable. Nice work. BRONZE

MLD: Intriguing. A post-apocalpytic small town that appears to be entirely inside one building. I appreciate the portrayal of “normal” drama occurring against an unusual backdrop. I think it was the surprise in the setting that got me liking this one better. I’m left wondering various things, however, including where the bomb went off. Was it nearby? Because it seems it’d be useless to just hangout inside a building and dump the bodies outside. Everyone’s going to die of radiation poisoning. And Morrissey should be dead, too, if he happened to be on his girlfriend when the bomb went off and *she* got melted. Or am I missing something? Is this an ode to a Morrissey song? Because my hope that it is has given this a slightly higher score. BRONZE

Christina Pepper

David told us his dad was a surgeon, that they were loaded, that his dad could fly us to Aspen on the family’s private plane. He didn’t say his dad was a drunk. Might’ve been nice to know.

No matter, we’re all still alive. We sort of landed, sort of crashed high up on some mountain in the Rockies. David’s dad hit his head pretty hard on the way down, so he’s not much help right now. Luckily, we could get at our luggage and we all layered on clothes and ski gear. The sun hasn’t gone down yet, so it’s not too bad.

Everyone has something to do. We’re like our own little village. Or maybe a tribe. David is sitting with his dad. Chase and Preston found a bottle of vodka that didn’t break. Maddie’s keeping an eye on the consumption rate, making sure no one gets shitfaced. Jessica and Derek are trying to work the radio to call for help. They keep saying things like, “Do you read me?” and “10-4.” I’m the self-appointed scribe. Nothing bad’s going to happen to us, of course, but this way it’ll all be recorded accurately and when we get back and Anderson Cooper and Good Morning America and everyone else calls, they can talk to me.

Here comes Maddie to check on me. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold and I think she might be about to cry. But even in her snowsuit, she still looks hot.

Wait, is that the sound of a helicopter? I wonder if I can get Maddie alone for at least a kiss or two before it gets here. It has to be coming for us. I mean, I’m sure everyone is looking for us.

K: This feels truncated. There’s a fairly clear indication that these are going to be false hopes in the end, but I think it would be more impactful if we were with the narrator when he had the realization. The story’s heavy on description, and told in a passive way. I get that this probably felt necessary to explain the small “tribe,” but I would have taken more show and less tell.

Matt – Taking the concept away from an actual town into a semi-metaphorical one is a quality move. I’d like a little more revealed about the narrator right away – his age? His motivations? We get a bit of that here or there, definitely towards the end, but earlier would have helped. I like the self-awareness that this group – especially the narrator.

MLD: A “surreptitious” sentence about them feeling like their own little village, huh? Sneaky. 😉 I liked the point of view of this. I’m a fan of unreliable narrators. They’ll probably all die, and yet it’s got a funniness to it in their names being Chase and Preston. It’s totally believable that people are actually looking for them, though, since they sound like really rich white folks. Nancy Grace probably had an entire documentary out about them within minutes of them being called in missing.

Colin Woolston

Jake tightened his hold. Not much longer now.

Allen squirmed and whimpered and the sound rocketed Jake back 45 years to when he had held his own son something like this. Kyle had been stung working on the woodpile and Jake knew it was going to take some time for the ambulance to get all the way out from Red Lodge and the shock from Kyle’s allergies was kicking in fast, and so Jake just held him so tight and prayed, and wept.

This wasn’t no bee sting, hell the bees were probably dead too. Everything else was. The whole damn town was dead save Jake, and Allen, and the idiot Norris boys. It had been a shit year.

First Elsie had decided to die right on goddam Easter weekend, like she didn’t think herself holy enough of a wife already. Then the bank went and took Kyle’s house so they all moved in with Jake, just when he was getting used to the peace and quiet. The next two months the only thing it seemed anyone could talk about in town was how Kyle was a deadbeat living in his mother’s house. It wasn’t even her goddam house.

Then everyone got sick, and then all the animals got sick, and then the whole goddam world lost its mind. That had been over the summer, and now there wasn’t any food that could be eaten and sure as shit no one cared about Bearcreek Montana.

Nowhere to go, nothing to eat, and winter on the way. Nothing left to do but die, and Jake wasn’t about to watch his grandson starve to death. Nothing left, but mercy. Alen was finally still. Jake started to pray, but decided that it was a bit late.
Jake held him so tight, and wept.

K: Has the world gone to hell in a somewhat literal sense here (like, the End Times), or is it just a shitty year? That’s not completely clear, but either way, it works at about the same level. I liked the story a lot when I thought it was just a story about how a simple bee sting could kill someone when they were far from a reasonably-sized town, and it lost me a little as it went through a long list of dead characters. I’d cut that angle and strengthen the narrative of the main story, which was well-written. BRONZE

Matt – You are a cruel author. I’m having a rough day, and now I gotta go and read this kind of stuff that makes me want to cry? Pretty effective stuff. I’m wondering a little bit about the circumstances being such that everyone died and he can’t leave town… But I really like the “eternal recurrence” approach, harkening back to the earlier events and such. BRONZE

MLD: Two apocalyptic stories in one night? This one actually far more depressing than the last. Ugh. Dead babies make me sad. Babies being dead because it was the preferable option makes me sadder. Sad stories mysteriously make me like them. Score this low because it makes me want to die? Or score this high because…it makes me want to die? That is the question. SILVER

Will Young

I gazed across the horizon from left to right. I counted a smattering of buildings (no more than twelve) including the post office, church, hotel, and, most importantly, Roy’s Motel and Cafe.

As I walked closer to a building to inspect its appearance, I inspected the collage of colors on its exterior. The colors, baked by the sun to duller hues, indicated years of neglect. Bird poop comprised the outer later. The birds had run the town for years. Even now, while perched on the roofs, their chatter, like oboes piercing the air, overcame any sounds created by the faint wind. In the areas the birds had not hit, the faded paint (likely made of lead) was peeling off the rotting wood.

When I peered into Roy’s windows, I saw a dusty stove on which millions of burgers had been flipped in a busier time. Blenders for malts were stacked along a wall. The fixtures were outdated and badly in need of repairs. The dirty, dusty floor was covered with footprints: a promising sign that nostalgic tourists still passed by on occasion to gawk and remember the days forty years earlier when the Interstate did not exist.

Knowing I would be throwing money away (“It’s only money,” people always say), I decided to buy the town. I bought Roy’s, but also the mailbox, the church, the hotel, the water system, the landing strips, and everything else. Amboy was now mine.

K: In spite of myself, I chuckled at the ending. I probably haven’t thought of Amboy in fifteen to twenty years, despite growing up close enough that we played them in baseball. I don’t think the payoff worked within the story’s mood, and I would have liked it to end on the same melancholy note that made it so enjoyable, but that’s a quibble I can live with.

Matt – This is another entry where I’d like to know more about the narrator earlier. It’s a cool idea, but the story doesn’t really exist until the last paragraph, it’s all description before that. There’s a few really strong descriptions, so I feel like this author is definitely heading the right way…

MLD: I am not sure what to think of this. Nothing seems to happen. It has a nostalgic feel to it like this is based off of the writer’s memories or has some kind of personal meaning. Or that it’s perhaps based on a true story. I don’t know. It doesn’t speak to me, however.

Erik S

“Tyler! Why don’t you take a break for a moment?” John yelled out across the field.

Tyler put down the paint scraper and walked over, sweat pouring off his wiry frame.

“Boy, how on earth do you work in long sleeves in mid July?”

Tyler mumbled something about fair skin and accepted the beer that John handed him.

“You’re doing a helluva job on that old shed. Shoot, might probably have the whole west side scrapped clean by sundown at this rate.”

Tyler allowed that it wasn’t too difficult.

“You know, I was surprised to see you come back from California. Perhaps them movie star dreams didn’t quite pan out, eh?” John chuckled.

Tyler smiled wanly and guessed that they hadn’t.

After a short silence, John said, “Look, I was real upset to hear about your parents. That was a damn shame. Sheriff Jenkins always said Ol’ Man Fischer would probly kill someone on the road one of these nights. Told me it broke his heart to found out he was right. Pity you couldn’t make the funeral.”

Tyler admitted that it just didn’t work out at the time.

“I’m sorry, you probly don’t wanna jaw on about this. I’ll let you get back. You know, there’s plenty of work around here if you want it, boy. I’d be glad to have ya.”

Tyler said he might take him up on that and thanked him for the beer.

Walking back to the shed, the sweat continued to soak through Tyler’s shirt which covered the tattooed swastikas, shiv scars, and old needle marks; all reminders of a life Tyler hoped to move past, but would always remain just under the surface.

He only hoped his demons, both those with and without flesh, would never think to look for him at home.

K: Well, huh. This unfolds in a strong, gripping manner, and although we have a twist, it didn’t feel rushed or like it didn’t belong. “Both those with and without flesh” is a nice turn of phrase, and Tyler is immediately one of the most riveting characters of the season. GOLD

Matt – Strong dialogue here – and very effective use of non-dialogue for Tyler’s responses. That’s a quality decision there, one I’d never think to make, so I love it even more. And am filled with jealousy. My only critique is that the last two paragraphs condense a little too quickly, and say a little too explicitly, what’s really going on. GOLD

MLD: Hm. This is yet another one that was more a picture of a moment than a story and yet, at the same time, it did manage to tell a story just in that one conversation. I appreciated the writing in this one, and the resigned silence of the anti-hero. I knew I must be coming up on some “surprise twist”, but the “surprise twist” was more of a bittersweet … normalness? He wasn’t going to California to follow his dreams, as his parents probably lied to their neighbors. There’s a lot to imagine about what went on behind the scenes of this story. GOLD

Zack Sauvageau

George and Esther had moved to the village of Wild Rose 37 years ago during the oil boom. Esther was offered a job as the principal of a new school so they moved west to follow the opportunity. Once they arrived George found work in the oil fields. They loved Wild Rose. Their life was perfect there. After the oil dried up fifteen years ago, people started to leave town in droves. George and Esther vowed to stay. Only 13 others shared their enthusiasm.

That spring, Esther got sick. She encouraged George to start doing odd jobs around town to keep himself busy. Her hope was that working in their village would give the attachment he needed to go on. She’d always hoped he went first so she didn’t have to leave him with a broken heart. As it always did, the thought brought Esther to tears.

George worked one day a week to spend as much time with Esther as possible. His project this week was a new welcome sign for Wild Rose. He was proud of his home, and he wanted the village to have the beautiful sign it deserved. When he came in for lunch, Esther was waiting for him in the dining room. She was weak, she couldn’t speak. She just motioned for him to kiss her. He knew it was almost her time.

He held her hand and smoothed her hair the way she always loved until she passed. She’d been a part of his life for the last 60 years. Everything became a blur. He went back to his workshop in an attempt to clear his head. He finally broke down crying when the sign was complete.

Welcome to Beautiful Wild Rose. Pop. 14.

——-

K: This should be pure schmaltz, but for whatever reason, I’m on board with this drama. It’s smartly told, with the population count mentioned as a point of interest that doesn’t telegraph any sort of payoff. The story’s a bit passive and I’m pretty sure I was manipulated here, but despite all of that, I liked it.

Matt – This is so sweet and sad. These characters have a lot of effective definition to them, even without a single description of their appearance. I’d like more showing, as this is pretty much all “tell.” I think that would have knocked what is already an emotional story up a few notches more.

MLD: Seriously, people. Seriously. Is this what you all think of when you think “village” or “small town”? I’m a city girl. I admit, small town life sounds like a depressing hell, and you guys are starting to convince me that this is the case. Everybody dies a sad, lonely, or wistful death in a small town, if I’m to take you all seriously. Or they show up in small towns post-apocalypse. Can we go back to a big city theme after this so the sad heeby-jeebies can go away!?

Sarah Wreisner

A freckled boy squinted as the stranger slowed his car. Others shied away, backing into squeaky screen doors. A baby held a broken plastic rattle in a bruised fist and a girl peeked from behind an apple tree. Her cotton dress fluttered over legs zippered pink with scars.

One young man stepped forward. “How did you get here?” The stranger winced: one side of the boy’s face was scooped out where a cheekbone had been. The stranger looked away, unfolding a map on the dashboard. “What town is this? I haven’t seen a sign in 40 miles.”

A baby gurgled, stuffing a wooly dandelion in her mouth. Abandoned bicycles were scattered in the street, their rainbow streamers flapping in the breeze. “Is someone’s father or mother home?”

The young man shrugged and turned his back on the sun. “This is just a town. It’s not really a place. This is just where we ended up.”

“Ended up? I need to get to the main road.” He waved his crinkled map at the boy.

A pale teenager with chestnut braids picked at a maple tree’s trunk. The stranger gasped: he had seen her before, in the same lavender dress. Her picture was pinned to every corkboard in town: kidnapped, the fliers explained.

The young man turned back to the stranger. “Sir, I don’t know where we are. We just ended up here. Some don’t even know what happened to ‘em. But I really don’t think you belong here.” He pointed to the west. “You’ll want to go back that way.”

He’d promised to call for help as the boy waved him off. Two girls giggled and picked up their bikes.

He’d driven back with the sheriff. They found a miserable town, broken and weedy, but the children were gone.

K: It would seem that someone was paying attention when it was pointed out that I’m a sucker for unexplained disappearances. I’ve said this plenty of times this week, but I desperately want to read this story further. The large, bizarre injuries on the children raise the question: are they dead? There was a kidnapper who killed them, yes? For once, I’m okay with the fact that I’m not real certain. This story hinges on the unexplained factor, and it did that aspect expertly. GOLD

Matt – It’s clear from the start something supernatural is going on, but the tone never verges too deeply into the creepy territory. It’s more mysterious than scary, and I, for one, appreciate that. I feel a little let down by the ending somehow… not because things aren’t revealed to us (how are you going to resolve this mystery? You’re not, of course), but because I think it might say too much. Not enough left hanging out over the edge, because the stranger’s experience here is resolved, even though the town’s story isn’t. Great details on the descriptions of the town. SILVER

MLD: Creepy. This had a lot of potential, I think, to be a very rich and metaphorical story. It’s right down my alley. I feel like something was missing, but I’m not sure what. It felt like the bare bones of something awesome. I’ll score it high for concept, though. And for somehow being less depressing than all the other stories, despite being about kidnapped, mutilated, and/or potentially dead children. SILVER

Ian Pratt

“We’ve been driving for seven hours,” Jess said, stretching her legs, calves taut upon the dashboard, toes just touching the windshield. “Let’s call it quits.”

We decided to stop for the night in the very next town we saw, leaving us with enough daylight to wander around and snicker at the quaintness of it all. The sign said Libation, Pop. 63.

“We was founded by bootleggers in ’24,” the bartender explained. We were in the heart of downtown Libation, which consisted of a motor lodge (thank God, I was sick of camping), a drug store, and the dank little hole where this greying bear poured us beer from a tarnished row of taps.

“Some boys from Charlotte set up stills, some cabins, and got to distilling in what was then the middle of nowhere.”

“It was the middle of nowhere then?” I asked, giving the old man a sly wink. “What is it now?”

The bartender laughed, erupting in a series of high, girlish “hee hee hees” that belied his burly frame. He kept up this wheezing giggle for several minutes, occasionally punctuating it with delicate hiccups. His laugh was so incongruous with this rusty hamlet that I couldn’t help but laugh myself until tears streamed from my eyes. Jess just bugged her eyes at me, her signature move when something was too ridiculous for words.

“You watch it, missy,” the bartender scolded me once he regained control. “We got pride here in Libation.”

We finished our beers and walked out into the waning sun. Jess grabbed my hand and swung it around. The town was empty save for us.

“Hee hee hee!” she squealed, a perfect impersonation of our bartender.

“Hee hee hee!” I giggled back.

“Hee hee hee,” we shouted all the way back to the motor lodge.

K: Simple little town, simple little story and characters. It meanders into nowhere, but there’s a specific scene and a realistic slice of life. The ending goes on for longer than the story’s able to sustain, but the setting of the scene was interesting and the dialogue was fun and believable. BRONZE

Matt – What a nice, tight little narrative. I expected more, but wasn’t displeased when it ended without some sort of cannibalistic-clown showing up. Those are the sorts of things I expect from the CdL. Glad we’ve got some new blood around. (Colin or Pete or Will wrote this, right?). I do think a little more at stake – maybe a stronger hint or two at budding romance with Jess, or something along those lines – could have bumped this one up a class. It was very close for me – balanced well with dialogue and description, and I enjoyed it.

MLD: This was a bizarre tale. Wait, what am I saying? Of course it was. Small towns are not only depressing and filled with sadness, they’re just outright strange. If I’m to continue taking these stories as truths about the world. The point of view was slightly confusing at first, but other than that, I enjoyed the tone and style. I’m not sure what was going on and wonder if this is yet another ghost story, but that’s my only complain: that I’m not sure what happened.

Pete Bruzek

Matty left when I was thirteen. I didn’t see him again for four years.

I barely recognized him. Time was, he lived in his overalls. Now, all his shirts had collars. Our parents greeted him with hugs and kisses. He greeted them with an awkward smile.

That night during dinner, Matty opened up. He was seeing a girl, he said. She was a writer, like he. When Ma asked when we were going to meet her, he got quiet. Pa broke the tension.

“We had some last month” said Pa, “but it’s a special occasion.” He produced a flask.

Matty looked like Pa had pulled a rattlesnake from his trousers.

“Nothin’ wrong with a little of Grandmaw’s Sipper.” I said, swilling the drink.

He said nothing for the rest of dinner. I heard him arguing with Pa after I went to bed. Pa said Matty was disrespectful. Matty accused Pa of kidnapping, and that Millersbrook was a lousy place to die. Then he said he was leaving – that night – and never coming back.

I sneaked into Matty’s room as he packed. Wordlessly, I pounced. Time was, he’d have kicked my ass; the city softened him up. It just proved that I was doing the right thing.

I took the fight out of him with a punch to the gut. He resisted weakly, but I pried open his mouth, and poured the syrupy liquid into it, forcing him to swallow like you would a dog its medicine. Coughing, Matty just stared with the saddest expression. Then he laid down, staring at the ceiling.

The next morning, I woke up and Matty was in his overalls, half done with breakfast. He looked up and smiled the way he used to.

“Glad you’re back, Matty.” I said.

“Hell. Good to be home.”

K: This story is a little ambitious, the way it speeds through several emotions and scenes. I think we have a potentially interesting story, but the pacing drew me away from it a little bit.

Matt – Is this a dark comedy? A cautionary tale of the tragic effects of alcoholism? An exploration of voodoo broos? (eh? eh?). It’s a tale I want to hear more about the making of. A good balance of dialogue and action, and a “neat” concept. BRONZE.

MLD: This was insidious. I have to confess, however, that I don’t think I quite caught what was happening here. (This seems to be a theme tonight for me). I liked the mystery of it, and the fact that I’m sitting here scratching my head and wondering who kidnapped who or if kidnapping even happened or if, as seems to occur throughout these stories this PwtP season, everybody’s actually dead already. Whoever wrote this should explain it to me when they get this critique. BRONZE

Brooks Maki

Early Tuesday when no one was looking the moon doubled its size while Mrs Highsmith the designated moonwatcher was fucking Johnny Swanson instead of performing her duty and couldnt give a time that the transformation began when she was questioned by the furious townspeople gathered in the square small eyes darting furious glances at the negligent astronomer who had thrown the entire mission of the town into uncertainty because how could the walls come down timed exactly with the new tides if they didn’t have that time and why couldnt she tell them why she couldnt tell them only Mr Highsmith knew about the fucking and that was the part he was more furious about but ever since Johnny Swanson had managed to get him declared dead after manufacturing evidence that he had gone over the wall no one listened to his complaints about who should really be to blame for the current predicament in fact no one so much as cast a second glance at Johnny Swanson who Mr Highsmith noticed was the only one not in the square so he set out in search of him eventually finding him in the grocery cleaning out the till and stuffing the money into a duffel bag that bulged with something that Mr Highsmith only briefly caught a glimpse of but a glimpse was enough to be certain that it was the tidal energy generator the one the town had planned to make use of with the arrival of the enhanced tides the one that Johnny had no right to but Mr Highsmith was dead so he could only follow Johnny as he sprinted to the edge of town and went over the wall and the brighter light from the bloated moon let Mr Highsmith watch him run for miles and miles

K: Jesus. That’s one hell of a ballsy concept, and I love you for it, Ian or Brooks. Do I love the story? I do like it, but the gimmick wore a bit thin before I got to the end. Then, it came back around. I had to take some time after this one and reread it to figure out what I thought. I think I like it quite a bit. SILVER

Matt – Huh. If this was the quickest entry ever thrown together, you’ve fooled me. It’s a great approach. The story idea is fascinating (though I don’t get the part about Highsmith being declared dead… there’s some of this created world that needs more explaining – but still… great created world!). The caution I have is that, even though you’ve taken this approach, there is still cleaning up that needs to be done, within the intentionally-messy text. I’m sure editing would be a more difficult task for this story than most. SILVER

MLD: Holy crap. This totally worked for me. It was frenzied and made my brain tie in knots keeping up, but it told its story remarkably well for being one gigantic run-on sentence. The imagery was lovely. It had a magical edge. Loved the reference to trying to control the moon but fucking it up (kinda like coyote always did in his trickster tales). It was different, a strange mechanism by which to tell a tale. Seriously. This worked for me. GOLD

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Congratulations to Erik Assbutt for getting on the board with a triple-gold! Don’t you wish he’d stop being a little bitch and accept these medals under his real name? So do I, Prosers…so do I.

These were really enjoyable, guys. I wasn’t in a dark, absurdist mood before I started reading these, but now I can’t imagine feeling anything else. It’s kind of weird that you almost all went that way, though. Seriously, three challenges in and you’re all already on the same cycle?

For your next challenge, give us a story about a secret meeting place. That’s as specific as I’m going to get…I trust you all to take this to interesting places. We’ll keep the old word count at 300 (probably all season, as I suggested before) and the due date and time is Sunday at 9pm Central. I’ll be at work for another hour-plus at that point, so once again, these will probably go up rather late. Sorry about that. Retail, and all.

Keep it up, Prosers.