#ThursThreads - This one is rather neat. The prompt is a sentence from the winning story the week before and it is always the first thing in the writing.
Week 5
Sure you are, tough guy, was the last thing I heard Johnny say, other than the screaming.
We were just a couple of punks hittin’ up some suits for cash. They don’t usually come into this part of town late at night. So when they do everybody knows they’re lookin’ for somethin’ that’s not quite legal. Otherwise why would they be here, right?
It was late, cold, and raining. We saw this guy, all bundled up and stumbling into an alley. We’d already scored some cash but it wasn’t enough for Johnny.
“Man,” I said. “It is fuckin’ freezin’ out here.”
“One more,” Johnny said.
We followed the guy.
Most suits just cough up the cash. Nobody gets hurt. But this guy wasn’t gonna’ roll easy.
That’s when shit got crazy.
I heard Johnny say, “Sure you are, tough guy.”
When Johnny moved, this guy moved faster.
I heard a ripping sound and Johnny stopped. Something was sticking right out of Johnny’s back. It was like a dark blade but thick with ridges like a steak knife.
Johnny screamed.
I just stood there. Frozen.
Then the guy yanked the thing outta’ Johnny and turned towards me.
I’m not a fast runner, but that night? I ran like a motherfucker.
I can still see the guy’s face. His eyes were huge. His skin looked like it was, well, like a shell or something. His jaws looked weird, like moving side to side instead of up and down.
Fuckin’ weird, man. Weird.
Week 4
“His name was Milo Scaggins,” Sergeant Marcciano said.
“Is that his real name or the name on his convention badge?” Detective Jones asked.
“Same thing, according to his passport,” the Sergeant replied.
“Passport? What is his country of origin?”
“England.”
“Where in England?”
“Uh, it says, ‘near the Withywindle River’. Sir.”
Kneeling down, the detective lifted one corner of the plastic covering the body.
“Witnesses?” Detective Jones asked.
“The hotel lobby was full of convention attendees and almost everyone saw him land, but not before.”
“Can you tell what he is supposed to be dressed up as?”
“Uh, well,” the Sergeant began, “I <i>would</i> say he was dressed up as a hobbit, Sir.”
“’Would say’,” the Detective repeated. “You would say but you won’t say?”
“Correct, Sir. He doesn’t appear to be wearing a costume.”
Detective Jones looked back under the blanket. The pointed ears and the big, hairy feet seemed to suggest otherwise.
“Apparently,” the Sergeant continued, “all of that is real.”
The Detective looked again at the Sergeant and then looked away for a few seconds.
“Probably cosmetic surgery,” he said. “Some of these fanatics will do anything to look like the characters from their fake worlds. Any personal effects?”
“Backpack with a frying pan, a pot, a tea kettle, a dozen eggs, a small chicken, some herbs and spices, and some oat cakes wrapped in leaves.”
The Detective looked at the Sergeant. “What does that sound like to you?”
“Sounds like first breakfast,” the Sergeant replied. “Sir.”
Week 3
“It had been so for centuries, but it had not always been so,” he said, as the four children sat listening. “Long ago, in galaxy far, far away, there was a—“
“Hey,” the oldest boy said, “that’s ‘Star Wars’, Grandpa.”
The two girls, one the same age as the older boy and the other a few years younger, remained silent. The youngest boy sat absently tugging on the footies of his pajamas.
“What? No,” the old man said. “It may sounds like it, but it isn’t.”
The oldest boy looked doubtful, his mouth twisting to one side as he shrugged his shoulders in reply.
“Okay then,” the old man continued. “Long ago in a galaxy far, far, far away,” he emphasized the final ‘far’, “there was a quaint little place filled with peaceful, rolling farm lands and little people and one of the little people was having a birthday party! His name was Milo Scaggins.”
“Grandpa,” said the oldest girl.
“Huh? What?”
“That’s ‘The Hobbit’, Grandpa.”
“Can we go watch T.V., Grandpa?” the oldest boy asked.
“Fine,” the old man said. “Go watch T.V.” The two oldest children were gone in a flash.
The old man looked, crestfallen, at the two remaining.
“Stowy, Gwampa. Stowy,” the little boy said. The little girl smiled and nodded her head.
The old man smiled. “Alright then. Well, it just so happens that Milo Scaggins was turning, oh I don’t know, eleventy-three, when suddenly a house fell on the wicked witch of the…”
Week 1
"Contrary to popular belief, angels come in all shapes and sizes, with all kinds of wings.” Annette stood in front of one of the tall library windows to better see the aging text she held in her hands. The light of the afternoon sun shown through the and glinted off the golden ringlets of her hair. Outside the sound of carriages and the clop of horses gave life to the dusty room. “What do you think of that?” She turned to the older woman who sat knitting by the fireplace.
“Apostasy!” the older woman replied. Her knitting needles seemed to clash and click more intensely to accentuate the hard, guttural consonants of her speech. “Contumely to God as are those who would proselytize using such vulgarity to provocate baser minds.” As she spoke her eyes flashed.
Annette sat down on the broad window sill, a sly smile spreading across her face.
“Your father the Vicar,” the older woman continued, needles clicking furiously, “God rest his soul, would never have allowed you to read such contrary dribble.”
“Speaking of fathers,” Annette replied, “how is Father Albright?”
The needles stopped.
“It seems I saw him coming from your apartments just this morning. He appeared rather flushed. I do hope,” she said, feigning concern, “he is alright.”
The older woman sat still as her face darkened with rage.
“Contumely,” Annette said as the older woman fled the room. “Such a strong word.”
“Apostasy!” the older woman replied. Her knitting needles seemed to clash and click more intensely to accentuate the hard, guttural consonants of her speech. “Contumely to God as are those who would proselytize using such vulgarity to provocate baser minds.” As she spoke her eyes flashed.
Annette sat down on the broad window sill, a sly smile spreading across her face.
“Your father the Vicar,” the older woman continued, needles clicking furiously, “God rest his soul, would never have allowed you to read such contrary dribble.”
“Speaking of fathers,” Annette replied, “how is Father Albright?”
The needles stopped.
“It seems I saw him coming from your apartments just this morning. He appeared rather flushed. I do hope,” she said, feigning concern, “he is alright.”
The older woman sat still as her face darkened with rage.
“Contumely,” Annette said as the older woman fled the room. “Such a strong word.”