| 1 2 3 |
"Inside Out" (the thirty-ninth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
4 5 6 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Inside Out" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), November 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Inside Out by Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| the stage, but see - how spare: no curtains, just worn wooden boards and swirling, smoky air, demanding spotlight, center… into this pantheon I enter - stage left. as always - bare, bereft, clothed only in my meagre skin, but dancing, moving slow, in eager undulations syncopated to the ages’ hidden beats, entrancing … my shadow meaning rippling dreaming out to you. in mesmer’s unctuous grip you lurch and trip into your crusted velvet seats and perch – dry-eyed and wetted-lipped in hushed anticipation of the show, until mid-bump, mid-grind, mid-stage… I stop. and from that inquisition spot begin, I, my confession… come, see - the things you think you need to know. and, so... first, sharpened tips rend skin… thin, spongy, twirling strips, coccooning scab. freed from compression, by handfuls, now - the flesh, the meat - in slabs, chunks, hunks - flung far - fast down to sinew, tendon, gristle, then to the brittle white. enthralled, you signal your delight with clap, with whistle, and urge me, through my sudden stall, to dig you deeper treats - expose the all - parade my stark entirety before your slavering sight and I... but servant to your satisfaction, give climax to the action, raise trembling white to white and crash. smash - shatter – smite them to their prickly dust – the must that is my final darkest deep: the all there is - a heap of pulsing shreds, and pools and sharps, of shards and beats and gouts… …of everything I be inside… turned out. exposed. and done. the reveling in the levelling of the field now sighing afterglow - well-sated by the kenning of my tenderest wiles, of all my hidden ayes and me’s revealed... you yawn and rise and stagger up your sticky aisles, into the blinding sun then off to lurk within the hiddens of your happy, hollow, homes. abandoning me to my hushed alone, to gather up my outed-ins - my throbbing scraps and scattered clots, to piece my puzzle gently back to whole beneath the softly buzzing center-spot, to leave - stage left - embracing to me, in my mended skin, the all I had, the all I still have got, those grinning things you bought, but were not sold - the "me" you think I am, that I am not. the "me" I am - that you will never know. |
| Inside Out by Sideline17 lazdom@ono.com (Entry #2) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Joan stepped carefully into the
darkened room, her eyes fixed on the body sprawled unnaturally at the far end.
A wave of nausea washed over her as she set her mind to the task at hand. She
heard her partner come in behind her and pause, surveying the scene. "What a mess," he said under his breath. "Looks like something pretty nasty exploded in here." Joan wrinkled her nose, "Smells like it too." She edged her way back towards the door, knowing she shouldn’t get too close the young woman lying in front of them, limbs hanging over the bedside like dead weights. She gave a nod towards the body, ""What do you think, Pete?" "Doesn’t look much like an accident," he said, scanning the room. "Do you know anything about all this?" "Not much. She’d said at about seven she was going to the library to study with some friends," Joan shook her head slowly and sighed, "the next thing you know she’s here, like…that." Pete gestured towards the door, "Let’s talk outside." The move was for her sake; Pete knew scenes like this bothered her, and if he wanted her to be thinking clearly it would be best to head for neutral ground. Not that Joan was entirely fooled by his tough exterior. They’d been together long enough for her to know that what had happened was making Pete’s blood boil, though he’d never want to show it. In the safety of the hallway Pete shrugged, "Well?" "Hmmm," Joan paused for a moment, "Her keys were on the table in the entrance, so she was ok then." "Ok, so she lets herself in," Pete processed the image, "did she lock the door behind her?" "No," Joan said quickly, "seems she forgot to." "Big mistake," Pete replied, his jaw setting tightly. "But that’s not the worst of it," Joan added, "Did you see the sweater?" "The black one on the floor?" Joan nodded. "Yeah, I saw it. Looks like she pulled it off as soon as she got in the room." "Well it wasn’t inside out." "What?" "It wasn’t inside out." Joan insisted, "It’s a turtle neck, right? So if you’re going to take it off, you pick it up from the bottom and pull it over your head and it ends up inside out." Pete began to feel uneasy, "Well, maybe she pulled it over her head carefully, like arms first or something." Joan stared him down, "Not in her state; looks like she was pretty drunk at the time. Besides, the sleeves were all bunched up. If she’d pulled them out first they would have been straight." Pete avoided her gaze, "So what are you saying exactly?" "I’m saying that the only way the sweater could have ended up on the floor like that was if she’d come in wearing it inside out. That she’d taken it off earlier, put it back on in a rush and in the dark didn’t notice it was inside out." Joan paused to let Pete process the idea. "Then she came in here and pulled it off and dropped it on the floor. I’d guess she lost her balance and that’s when she knocked over the table and broke the fishbowl." "You don’t miss a thing, do you?" he said slowly. "Nope. That’s what mothers are for." Pete grimaced, "I guess she’s not exactly our little girl anymore. But I tell you, if I find out who the little shit was that was with her..." his voice broke off, "One thing’s for sure, she’s going to be grounded for a year!" "I’ll tell you something," Joan said, putting her arm around her husband as they headed back to bed, "If she comes home in that state again, she’s not grounded, she’s dead." |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #6 Second place tie: #1 & #2 Others receiving votes: #5 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Inside Out lee10@host365.com |
#1 of 6 |
| 1209 | |
| "Then the lights went out!" I shouted and thumped a switch. The lamp on the table by the side of my chair went out. In the almost dark, the children squealed. I looked down at my five nieces and nephews sitting on the rug at my feet, their faces rouged in the dying fire's light. "Listen," I hissed. The squeals died to frightened whimpers. "The hobgoblins are coming!" I tapped my fingernails on the polished tabletop. The youngest boy, six-year old Simon, gasped and clutched my leg. "Then," I whispered, "even worse than the pale, ghostly hordes; even worse than the hobgoblins with their nasty, evil faces;" Simon's grasp on my leg tightened; "then...... in came the wicked, warty, old witch!" The lounge door opened. The children gasped and turned their heads. My mother-in-law, the children's grandmother, stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the hall. I smiled. Her timing was incredible. "What do you mean by sitting in the dark, frightening the children?" Her voice was harsh as usual. "If you'd have had any of your own, you'd know better." She stormed across the room and snatched at the curtains, viciously, as though she was tearing me apart. "And who gave you leave to close the curtains during the day?" "Oh, Grandma," twelve-year old Jason said without thinking. "You've spoilt Auntie Ruth's ghost story. She was just getting to the good bit." "Shush, Jay," I warned. Too late. "And you, young man, will apologise for your rudeness before any of us move from this room." She folded her arms across her thin chest, twitched, and waited. Her face was a picture of spite and bad temper. "Sorry, Grandma," Jason apologised, a flush of humiliation spreading across his face. My own face felt hot and must have been bright red too but I dared say nothing for fear of making matters worse for Jason. So I took a deep breath and held my peace. My mother-in-law scowled at me as though I'd just crawled in under the door. "As for you, Miss. You have caused trouble for the last ten years, ever since you first came to this house. It is about time you learnt to act like an adult." I clenched my teeth to prevent an answer slipping out; one that I'd be forced to regret for the following twelve months. As usual, two days into the holiday with my husband's family, and my jaw was beginning to ache. "Go and help Tamsin in the kitchen." She unfolded her arms and stalked from the room, all five foot of her vibrating with anger. "But before you do, sweep the pine needles up from under the tree in the hall." Me Cinderella; you, all the ugly sisters that ever worked in pantomime, all rolled up into one venomous bundle, I thought, seething inside. But I followed her from the room to do as I was told, for my husband's sake. John, the second son, found it hard to handle his mother's foul disposition and pleaded with me every year at this time to keep quiet; to let her have her own way. And after that first, awful Christmas, before I'd learnt to keep my thoughts to myself, when we'd had a dingdong of a battle over the turkey, I've bitten my lip and listened to her carping without retaliating. On occasion, my face has reflected the turmoil I've been feeling inside and then I've had it in the neck. At such times, only the sorrowful look on John's face has prevented me from throttling the woman. * I was helping Tamsin, the children's mother, a pale, frightened woman and wife of Robert, the favourite son, when mother-in-law came nosing into the kitchen. She glared at the saucepan I was working on. "Can't you stir faster than that?" she nagged. She snatched the spoon from my hand, spattering gravy down the front of the cooker. "Now look what you've made me do. Wipe it up." Tamsin was close to tears. I grabbed a cloth, gritted my teeth and kept quiet. "I'll finish this," the harridan squawked, "or we'll never be done in time for The Queen." The gravy bubbled furiously. I knew how it felt. "Well, don't stand around looking stupid, girl. Dinner's ready. Go and tell the boys to get the children up to the table. And make sure they all sit where they are supposed to. You made a mess of even that small chore last year, I remember." I did as I was told and we were soon enjoying the old bat's cooking. I'll say one thing for her. She could cook. And she carved the turkey with the skill and precision of a surgeon. Pity there was no milk of human kindness in her soul though. And every five seconds, ad nauseam, there was a command of, "Sit up straight at the table, Amy," or, "Simon, don't talk with your mouth full." John and Robert kept a discreet silence throughout. I kept my elbows off the table and the only remarks I made were inane ones, calculated not to upset anyone's feelings. While the 'boys' were making the coffee, mother-in-law started on me again. "It's two-thirty," she said. "I noticed you let the fire go out while you were telling silly tales to the children." She sniffed. "I want the room to be warm for The Queen at three o'clock. Go and get some coal and make the fire up." I was beginning to relax and she caught me unawares. "I'll just have my coffee," I stupidly replied, as John and Robert rattled into the dining room, each holding a tray of china cups. "No, you won't," she snarled. She stood up to take the tray from Robert. "You'll do it now or the room won't have time to warm up." Turning her back on me she smiled at Robert. "Thank you, dear." She took a cup from the tray and put it to one side. "Ruth will have hers later." * In the coalhouse, I picked up the axe, felt its weight; turned it over and with the blunt end, tapped a large lump of coal into two; wondered if heads would split open as easily. I felt a draught behind me as the door opened and I heard, "I knew I'd find you daydreaming. You never do anything right, do you? You're totally useless. I don't know why John ever married you. Give me the axe." * A few minutes later, I walked into the hall where the children were playing with some of their new toys. Jason laughed as a bright, red globule dripped onto a white floor-tile from the axe I was holding. "I like the tomato ketchup, Auntie Ruth. Are you going to tell us another ghost story?" Simon put down his car. He gave me a nervous smile. "Auntie Ruth," he asked. "Is there really any such thing as ghosts?" I giggled. "I very much hope not sweetheart. Or your grandmother will be with us any minute now." Every Christmas for ten years I'd held my feelings inside. Now they all came out and the echoes startled even me, as my manic laughter went ricocheting round the walls. |
|
| Inside Out by Sideline17 lazdom@ono.com |
#2 of 6 Runner-up |
| 631 | |
| Joan stepped carefully into the darkened room, her eyes
fixed on the body sprawled unnaturally at the far end. A wave of nausea washed
over her as she set her mind to the task at hand. She heard her partner come in
behind her and pause, surveying the scene. "What a mess," he said under his breath. "Looks like something pretty nasty exploded in here." Joan wrinkled her nose, "Smells like it too." She edged her way back towards the door, knowing she shouldn’t get too close the young woman lying in front of them, limbs hanging over the bedside like dead weights. She gave a nod towards the body, ""What do you think, Pete?" "Doesn’t look much like an accident," he said, scanning the room. "Do you know anything about all this?" "Not much. She’d said at about seven she was going to the library to study with some friends," Joan shook her head slowly and sighed, "the next thing you know she’s here, like…that." Pete gestured towards the door, "Let’s talk outside." The move was for her sake; Pete knew scenes like this bothered her, and if he wanted her to be thinking clearly it would be best to head for neutral ground. Not that Joan was entirely fooled by his tough exterior. They’d been together long enough for her to know that what had happened was making Pete’s blood boil, though he’d never want to show it. In the safety of the hallway Pete shrugged, "Well?" "Hmmm," Joan paused for a moment, "Her keys were on the table in the entrance, so she was ok then." "Ok, so she lets herself in," Pete processed the image, "did she lock the door behind her?" "No," Joan said quickly, "seems she forgot to." "Big mistake," Pete replied, his jaw setting tightly. "But that’s not the worst of it," Joan added, "Did you see the sweater?" "The black one on the floor?" Joan nodded. "Yeah, I saw it. Looks like she pulled it off as soon as she got in the room." "Well it wasn’t inside out." "What?" "It wasn’t inside out." Joan insisted, "It’s a turtle neck, right? So if you’re going to take it off, you pick it up from the bottom and pull it over your head and it ends up inside out." Pete began to feel uneasy, "Well, maybe she pulled it over her head carefully, like arms first or something." Joan stared him down, "Not in her state; looks like she was pretty drunk at the time. Besides, the sleeves were all bunched up. If she’d pulled them out first they would have been straight." Pete avoided her gaze, "So what are you saying exactly?" "I’m saying that the only way the sweater could have ended up on the floor like that was if she’d come in wearing it inside out. That she’d taken it off earlier, put it back on in a rush and in the dark didn’t notice it was inside out." Joan paused to let Pete process the idea. "Then she came in here and pulled it off and dropped it on the floor. I’d guess she lost her balance and that’s when she knocked over the table and broke the fishbowl." "You don’t miss a thing, do you?" he said slowly. "Nope. That’s what mothers are for." Pete grimaced, "I guess she’s not exactly our little girl anymore. But I tell you, if I find out who the little shit was that was with her..." his voice broke off, "One thing’s for sure, she’s going to be grounded for a year!" "I’ll tell you something," Joan said, putting her arm around her husband as they headed back to bed, "If she comes home in that state again, she’s not grounded, she’s dead." |
|
| Inside Out mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#3 of 6 |
| 1902 | |
| "Honey, please be reasonable." Hector caught the
airborne piece of clothing, which he recognized as his best dress suit." What
have I done that you are kicking me out? Big fucking deal!" "I don’t want to hear another peep out of you!" Helen screamed "Get the fuck out of here, you jerk!" "Yep," Hector grinned. "Women are not the most logical people in the world." Seeing his things flying through the door, Hector tried to catch them and put them on top of the suitcase in an, at least, somewhat organized manner. "Just be honest with me. Be honest! I can forgive anything. Anything but the dishonesty!" she was always assuring him. But, here we go. Be honest with them when they acted like this if you were? In retrospect, of course, he realized involving Helen in this probably wasn’t very smart but, at the time, it seemed like the natural thing to do. *** It all happened at the Halloween party thrown by his best high school buddy, Max. The puzzle had been presented to them during the down-time right after the novelty of the costumes had started to wear off and right before the local TV news reader would come on to give the latest hockey scores. Rick, his unspoken adversary throughout high school, had formulated it thusly: "OK, so, you got these three chicks, see? Hot numbers, real babes. And they all want it. Real bad. But, see, like, they all want it NOW. Tonight. And, another thing… you know how these slags are nowadays, all over the fucking place, doing any piece of crap who’ll buy ‘em a beer. So you can’t be too careful, no telling what they’ve got. OK? So, Ok, here’s the thing, then: you’ve got these three hoochies, and they all want it, and you’re too much of a gentleman to say ‘no,’ so, sure, you’ll do ‘em… BUT… now, you ready? OK, here’s the puzzle… you got only TWO rubbers. So the tricky part is not only to protect yourself, but also to make sure the other babes woudn’t catch it from a dirty rubber, get it?" He sat back with a smug smile. "Three quiffs, two rubbers. I’ll bet none of you guys’ll be able to solve this." Rick took a deep swig of beer. "Hell, it took ME," he raised his index and middle fingers of his right hand and waved them in their faces, "two weeks to figure it. TWO WEEKS!" He stopped and peered at Hector. "What, Hector? What’s wrong? Why you looking at me like that?" Not that Hector ever made a big public deal out of it, but deep down inside he knew what he knew. He wasn’t just some bookworm, but a pretty bright guy. And he never backed down from a mental challenge. If he came across a problem – not some nerdy math kind, but a real practical one – Hector jumped on it and held it in his bulldog grip till it was resolved. "You mean if the rubber would protect completely?" Hector’s eyes narrowed in thought. "Of course," Rick rolled his eyes, "So you think you can do better than two weeks?" "Sure," Hector nodded, pushing his chin forward and up. "No sweat." "Yeah? OK – how soon?" Rick grinned condescendingly, circling the guys who stood in a loose formation, taking periodic slugs from their bottles, calling them, with his gaze, to be his witness. "I dunno’. One week?" Hector shrugged. "You’re on! One week it is!" Rick crowed. "OK, then – twenty bucks?" "Fair enough." Hector nodded. *** Feverishly, Hector went through several possible scenarios but the problem just didn’t compute. ‘OK, if I use the first rubber with the first girl… and the second one with the second girl… then, what about the third one? If she’s got something, I could get it, too. But… if I re-use one of the rubbers to do the third one… what if the second one had something? Then the third girl could catch it." For the rest of the party, Hector sat absently in the corner and, if approached, answered with variations-on-the-theme of "Huh?" The permutations spun through his mind like an idle computer loop, each just as useless as the last. That night he dreamed about the problem. In his dream he found a brilliant solution but, after waking and jumping up for a pen and paper to jot it down, to his chagrin, he found he couldn’t quite remember it. In frustration he spat a short and lonely indecent word. Reflecting on the problem, Hector now wasn’t so sure who was going to win this one: the puzzle, or him. Grabbing at straws, now, Hector concluded that only by simulating the situation, creating it in practical example, would he be able to at least, perhaps, come up with some sort of idea. But how to simulate such an unlikely event? Assistance came unexpectedly from an expected source. Helen, Hector’s girlfriend, was returning from a trip to see her parents in Ohio. It was certainly only one woman to work with, but he figured she, as a female, was sufficiently… "outfitted"… to do the job. *** "Hi baby," Hector smiled widely kissing her in the airport and giving her flowers, "I missed you so much." "I missed you too," Helen smiled back, kissing and hugging him in return. ‘I should leave more often’ ran through her mind. *** As far as the experiment was concerned, things turned out much to Hector’s favor. After being away for two weeks, Helen was immediately responsive to his advances, and they began by devouring each other in sixty-nine. Making sure that Helen arrived at the first finish line, Hector - focused on his ultimate goal - held strong and didn’t let himself go. He just quickly changed the rubber, turned Helen on her stomach and began slowly preparing her for the second and, technically, most problematic part of the experiment. Certainly, in his time, he’d been around the block a few times and had pretty much tried everything. And some things more than once. But he, like everyone else, had his preferences – and one of them was not what was next on the menu. No, he’d never been much of a "back door man." But… in the interest of …"science"… he was willing to make the sacrifice. "You want to do it like this? What are you, gay?" Helen rose on her elbow and turned her head to stare at him in disbelief. "No, honey, no – of course not." Hector kissed her back and caressed her haunches. "Just let me try this one time. It won’t hurt, I’ll be very gentle."Saying this he used his lowest contralto. "I don’t know why, but I was fantasizing about this while you were gone." Shaking her head, silently, Helen buried her face in a pillow and steadied herself. After a moment or two of gentle struggle, Hector leaned his face down to nuzzle the nape of her neck and whisper, softly: "Yeah… like that. Just like this. Good girl, good girl." Lullabied, Helen’s remaining resistance subsided and Hector began to slowly work his way in. "Mmmm?" he looked at her cheerfully when she turned for a kiss. "Not so bad, huh?" Actually, Hector wasn’t excited at all. Doing it this way seemed as weird and even repulsive as it had any other time he’d had to do it. Usually to please his partner, fulfill some fantasy. "Just as well," he told himself. "Cold and clinical is the best way to do an experiment." Suddenly Hector saw the problem with unprecedented clarity. All its components positioned themselves firmly in his imagination as if revealed by ultra-violet light. More importantly, a new development budded off the trunk of his fixated understanding. But this bud was timid and fragile like the expectation of a first kiss. As Hector was trying to nurture this delicate thought, Helen suddenly began moaning and muttering a word so uncommon to her usual vocabulary that Hector knew, immediately, she wasn’t disliking her role in the experiment as much as he’d feared. "Oh - don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t sto-oo-oo-oo-op," he heard through the muffling pillow she appeared to be biting. ‘CRAP. Stop it, stop it, stop it – stop moaning already,’ Hector thought, suddenly frantic. ‘You’re going to fuck up the experiment!’ Helen, apparently, didn’t much care. "Oh… jeez…." "Godammit." And so the solution that seemed just about ready to be reeled in, slipped quietly off the hook and disappeared. ‘Phooey on you!’ Hector thought, not knowing, exactly at whom, or what, he was phooeying. *** "What are you, crazy?" An angry wrinkle ran across Helen’s forehead when frustrated Hector, given up on solving the problem, suggested finishing things up the usual way. "How hygienic is that going to be? Use your brain!" Hector slid to the edge of the bed to get another condom, but the pack he pulled from the dresser was empty. ‘How could it be, I could have sworn I had at least a couple more there.’ Confused, he turned to Helen. "Honey, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any more." He put his finger through the empty pack. "Use first one," Helen offered. "The one you took off after sixty-nine." She giggled. "She’s right." Hector grabbed the condom that lay on the top of the dresser where he’d tosssed it. He turned it in his hands. "Wait a second," he tried to recollect. "When I took it off… did I just pull it off, or did I turn it inside-out?" He turned to Helen. "Do you remember which side is clean?" "What’s the difference? You shouldn’t have taken it off in the first place, silly." Helen pulled her lips back like a boxer before the fight to reveal her two rows of "Spick 'n' Span" whites. "Mmmm…." "Wait a second," Hector gave himself a mental command. "Wait just a second," he continued as little nibbles of frost ran up-and-down his spine. "BOTH sides! Of COURSE! You IDIOT! BOTH SIDES! Eureka!" "You do the first girl with the first rubber. And you take it off and save it. Then use the second rubber on the second girl. And, then… and this is the kicker… you turn the first one inside-out and put it over the second one, so that two potentially contaminated surfaces would be sandwiched, facing each other, and the previously internal surface of the first condom would be now on the outside." Hector felt ecstatic. Now he was surely going to win that bet with Rick. Twenty bucks? Who cared about that? More important than that, he was going to show the guys who was the smartest ass around the campfire! "What are you doing there for so long, honey?" Helen asked playfully, with just a hint of impatience. "I am coming, my love, I am coming." With the utmost attention Hector flipped the first condom inside-out and pulled it over the second one. "Just like this," he mentally commented with satisfaction and, winking to himself, he sank into Helen’s embrace. *** Yep, too bad, in excitement, he opened his big mouth and told Helen about the experiment. In retrospect, he realized it wasn't such a smart thing to do. She sure blew things way out of proportion while was it really such a big deal? |
|
| Inside Out gc_13@yahoo.com |
#4 of 6 |
| 46 | |
| Words I've lost my appetite for reading massive amounts of words. Maybe it's something like writer's block blocking words being written from 'Inside Out.' This is the reverse. I just see words without a beginning or end. My block won't let words from the 'Outside in.' |
|
| Inside Out gingerdog43@yahoo.com |
#5 of 6 | |
| 2493 | ||
| Prologue: This is not going to be one of those
stories where I try to scare you, get your fur up somewhere toward the end of
the allotted number of words, then insult your intelligence by revealing it was
all just a dream. I’m going to tell you here and now that most of it was a
dream. Therefore, with that in mind, I’ll leave it up to you, reader, to
decide if you wish to continue or not. If you choose not to, then tootle-loo.
Maybe I’ll see you next story. However, if you’re feeling somewhat
curious about the nature of the dream and my compelling need to share it with
you, then please, read on: ------------------------------------------------- A friend and I took off on a weekend outing to this hunting camp somewhere in backcountry Kentucky. Neither of us knew the place existed until my friend, Frank Sutton, received an invitation from an associate of his to attend a special "survivor weekend" at the camp. At the last minute, the guy couldn’t make it, so he told Frank to pick one other friend in his place and go ahead. Frank chose me, Pete Adler. Frank and I had deer hunted together a few times but had never bagged one, so we were pretty hyped about this trip. We drove over to Kentucky from Winston-Salem, North Carolina and arrived at the camp around 10 p.m. There was a heavy iron gate across the unmarked dirt road leading in. Two large fellows in matching camouflage uniforms and armed with rifles met us at the gate. They verified our names on the guest list, then eyed us over somewhat surreptitiously before letting us pass through. The gate was connected on each side to a 10-foot tall, chain-linked, electric fence. I commented to Frank how I felt like a criminal being carted into a maximum-security prison. We drove on about a half-mile through a densely wooded area and came to this 2-story log structure nearly obscured under a heavy thicket of pines. Frank parked his Dodge Caravan; we grabbed our duffle bags and checked in. The saggy-necked man at the reception desk introduced himself as "Gobbler" and gave us our room keys. "Don’t be late for breakfast," he warned, then pointed out the rustic dining hall to our left. We went up to our rooms. I don’t know about Frank, but I immediately passed out on my bed. The next thing I knew it was time to rise, not because of sunshine gleaming through my window, but because the damn, unseen bugler blowing Revelry at the top of the stairs said so. I got dressed and met Frank in the hallway. He was still in his long johns, but had his boots on. We headed down to the dining room. My watch showed 6 a.m. as we walked in. The two guards from last night and Gobbler from the front desk were milling around a breakfast buffet. The guards were still wearing their camo uniforms. A couple of other fellows were also in the breakfast line. One was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and the other was wearing blaze orange coveralls. An older fellow dressed in camo and wearing a lodge badge sat at the head of a long, knotty pine table. We got a plate of food, some coffee, and sat down. The room seemed stuffed with mounted deer heads, squirrels, coons, pheasant and turkeys staring lifelessly at me. Most hung on the wall, but some were in stance poses adhered to floor mounts. A black bear posed in full carriage with teeth bared stood in a corner next to a stone fireplace. I could have sworn his claws protruded in and out for a second as he glowered menacingly at me. The older fellow stood up and introduced himself to us guests as Gunner Green. He pointed to the muscular looking guards and introduced them as Big Ben and Bobcat. "I believe you met Gobbler last night," he said as we all gave them a nod. "This here," he gave a nod toward the other two guys, "is Johnny Via and Teddy Voss, a couple of Connecticut Yankees." At that last comment, Big Ben let out a huge belly laugh. Gunner gave him a hard look and he suddenly quieted down. "Men, this survival weekend is about just that—survival. Other than breakfast today, you’ll be served no other food except what you kill and bring back here for supper. Possum, the cook, will skin and cook it up for you." He motioned to a short, chunky looking man with thin wiry hair, close set beady eyes, and a sharp nose standing at the kitchen entrance. I could see how Possum got his name. Gunner walked around the table and passed out maps of the camp to each of us. "Now here’s the rules: Each of you will be assigned a marked section of woods on these maps. You must hunt within your section only, and you must hunt alone. No pairing up or teams allowed. You only get one shot at anything you see as fair game within the boundaries of your section. Once you kill your prey, bring it back and sign in on the numbered sheet attached to the back kitchen door. Then take the corresponding number tile off the pegboard and keep it with you. Give your gun and your spoils to Possum. He’ll take it from there and do the skinnin’, cleanin’, and cookin’. You have until 5 p.m. to get back, either with or without your dinner tonight. If you come back empty handed, don’t bother comin’ in here. Sign the sheet, turn in your gun, then take the back kitchen stairs and go on to your room. We’ll not see you again ‘till breakfast tomorrow mornin’. If you earned a meal, bring your number tile and come back here to the dining hall at 9 p.m. sharp to feast with the victors. Place your number tile in front of you and Possum will serve you your game accordingly. Remember, you are limited to one shot. If you miss or it gets away, you go hungry." Frank and I looked at each other a little uncomfortably. Neither of us could actually hit the broad side of a barn. The four of us guests, along with the two guards, followed Gunner out in the hallway where he unlocked a massive gun cabinet. He passed out the rifles and handed each of us one shotgun shell. With a nod, he opened the door and ushered us outside. Big Ben and Bobcat led us around back to the top of a hill where several paths met from different directions. Bobcat pushed me toward a post with a black ribbon tied to it. It marked a path leading off to the left of the lodge. I saw Frank, still in his long johns, disappearing into a wooded thicket to my right. I walked for what seemed an eternity, careful to stay inside the black-ribboned tree trunks that signaled my domain. Now and then I stood still, silently waiting for something to come along. The only living things I saw were a swamp toad and a crow. Occasionally, I heard shots in the distance and squirmed with envy at the very thought of Frank carting a 10-point buck back to the lodge. I was down in a low gully when I dead-ended at a section of the high, electric fence. I turned to head back up the hill when all of a sudden a bullet whizzed by my head, grazing the top of my ear! I ducked and yelled out. I covered my head with my arms and looked back toward the fence. No one was there. I yelled out again but no one answered. Hot blood trickled down my neck as I scrambled back toward the lodge. I stumbled through the kitchen door at 4:30. According to the sign-in sheet, I was the first to arrive, and empty-handed to boot. Possum came toward me with his nose in the air. He stood there sniffing the crusted blood on my ear as I signed in. I handed him my rifle, then took the stairs up to the second floor. I layed down on my bed and must have drifted off for a spell. I checked the time. My watch showed 8:45 p.m. I slipped across the hall and tapped twice on Frank’s door. No answer. Was it possible Frank had had a successful hunt? I couldn’t believe he had actually shot something and would be sitting downstairs feasting on it shortly while I sat in my room starving. I decided to sneak down to the dining hall and look for Frank. I tiptoed downstairs and across the reception room. The light above the desk was switched off and Gobbler was nowhere around. Cautiously, I peeked in the dining hall. Frank was nowhere in sight, and neither were the other two guests, Johnny and Teddy. The only people at the table were Gunner, Big Ben, and Bobcat. They had changed out of their camo clothes. Bobcat was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, Gunner had on orange coveralls, and Big Ben had simply stripped down to his long johns. I watched as the three men sat there greedily stuffing themselves. Big Ben forked up a hunk of meat and stuffed it in his mouth. In a flash his head and body began to shake rapidly and inverted into itself. He looked as if he were morphing! I froze. "My God!" I gasped under my breath. I continued to watch in horror as Big Ben continued to change shape, all the while looking more and more like… Frank! I dragged my eyes toward Bobcat and Gunner. They, too, were morphing! Bobcat was changing into Teddy Voss and Gunner sat there fluctuating between himself and Johnny Via! I screamed out and turned to run when Possum appeared out of nowhere and grabbed onto me. He held on with such a firm grip I had to bite him to make him let go. His flesh tore away easily. I dashed through the reception area, flung open the front door, and ran out into the night. I could hear the others chasing me, calling out to me using their own voices and those of Frank, Johnny, and Teddy. I kept on running until I came to the electric fence. I attempted to climb over, but the electric current burned my hands and knocked me down. I lay there breathless as the others caught up. Possum leaned over me, squinting and sniffing. His arm was bleeding from the open wound where I had sunk my teeth. Suddenly Gobbler squawked out, "You bastard! If you hadn’t moved so quickly when I shot at you today, I’d be having my supper tonight too." Just then, he morphed into a huge turkey and came at me with his sharp beak! It is at this point in my story that I screamed and woke up in a sweat, realizing I had been dreaming. Yes, this is where the dream ended, but it is also where my nightmare began: ----------------------------------------- This morning I saw Frank walking downtown. I ran across the street to see if he wanted to have lunch, as I was eager to tell him about last night’s dream. I caught up to him, said "hello," and offered the invitation. He gave me a blank stare as if he didn’t recognize me, and then told me I must have him confused with someone else. He turned and strode away. I was taken aback, but I pursued him. "Hey, what’s going on, Frank? Why are you pretending you don’t know me?" I asked. "Because I don’t," he replied. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" He kept walking. "Why, it’s me, Frank. Pete Adler." I was feeling very confused now. Frank stopped in his tracks and gave me a cold, icy stare. His next words cut through me like a knife: "Look pal, I don’t know you, don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but this is some sick stuff right here. You are not Pete Adler, you don’t look anything like Pete Adler, and there’s no way in hell you could be Pete Adler ‘cause Pete Adler’s dead, pal! He’s been dead for a month!" I choked and couldn’t catch my breath. I felt extremely faint and grabbed onto Frank’s arm for support. "Dead?" I managed to wheeze out. "No, it isn’t possible. I am here, Frank. It’s me, Pete. I’m alive!" Frank shook off my hand and glared at me. "Look, I’m calling the police if you don’t get away from me," he warned, and quickly headed off up the street. I stood there, speechless. In a mental daze, I walked back down the street past the library, when a thought struck me. I went inside and asked to see all of last month’s newspapers. Slowly and articulately, I searched them; volume after volume, until a headline dated 3½ weeks earlier gripped me to my core. ‘Local Research Scientist Accidentally Killed by Turkey’. My breathing shallowed as I read:
I stand here now at my bathroom mirror, staring intently at the face reflecting back at me. It looks vaguely familiar with its close set, beady eyes and sharp nose. I can feel the scar on top of my ear and can trace the chain-link fence pattern burned into the flesh on my palms. I feel as if my sanity has been turned inside out. Did I ever actually exist as Pete Adler, or does Pete Adler now exist through me? I may never know the answer, or how and why this nightmare came to be. But I do know one thing for sure: This is not a dream. |
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| Inside Out by Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com |
#6 of 6 Winner |
| 397 | |
| the stage, but see - how spare: no curtains, just worn wooden boards and swirling, smoky air, demanding spotlight, center… into this pantheon I enter - stage left. as always - bare, bereft, clothed only in my meagre skin, but dancing, moving slow, in eager undulations syncopated to the ages’ hidden beats, entrancing … my shadow meaning rippling dreaming out to you. in mesmer’s unctuous grip you lurch and trip into your crusted velvet seats and perch – dry-eyed and wetted-lipped in hushed anticipation of the show, until mid-bump, mid-grind, mid-stage… I stop. and from that inquisition spot begin, I, my confession… come, see - the things you think you need to know. and, so... first, sharpened tips rend skin… thin, spongy, twirling strips, coccooning scab. freed from compression, by handfuls, now - the flesh, the meat - in slabs, chunks, hunks - flung far - fast down to sinew, tendon, gristle, then to the brittle white. enthralled, you signal your delight with clap, with whistle, and urge me, through my sudden stall, to dig you deeper treats - expose the all - parade my stark entirety before your slavering sight and I... but servant to your satisfaction, give climax to the action, raise trembling white to white and crash. smash - shatter – smite them to their prickly dust – the must that is my final darkest deep: the all there is - a heap of pulsing shreds, and pools and sharps, of shards and beats and gouts… …of everything I be inside… turned out. exposed. and done. the reveling in the levelling of the field now sighing afterglow - well-sated by the kenning of my tenderest wiles, of all my hidden ayes and me’s revealed... you yawn and rise and stagger up your sticky aisles, into the blinding sun then off to lurk within the hiddens of your happy, hollow, homes. abandoning me to my hushed alone, to gather up my outed-ins - my throbbing scraps and scattered clots, to piece my puzzle gently back to whole beneath the softly buzzing center-spot, to leave - stage left - embracing to me, in my mended skin, the all I had, the all I still have got, those grinning things you bought, but were not sold - the "me" you think I am, that I am not. the "me" I am - that you will never know. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club