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"House Rules" (the ninety-second ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
4 5 6 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "House Rules" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Apr 15, 2009 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| House Rules By thomassbcampbelll@hotmail.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| In a smoky rough hewn saloon
smelling of liquor and punctuated often by the yells of yahoos, sat a shabby
Lefty Tompkins, slumped over his last whiskey at a rear table away from the
raucous rabble. His plump and active wad had been reduced by poker and redeye
over the past three days to mere coins. Over to his table sauntered a young
man, fairly well dressed, but lightly coated with the dust of the trail. The
opening remarks of Jack Montrose, for that was the other man’s name,
contained ‘buy you a drink, friend’ so Lefty eagerly waved him toward
a chair. “I heard tell, Lefty, that you’ve been a little down on your luck lately.” “You herd right, I’m flat butted Mister…” “Montrose, Jack Montrose. Perhaps I could interest you in a little job that would make us a lot of money. Wouldn’t be within the law if that doesn’t bother you.” “Don’t bother me atall. I don’t keer a tinker’s ham for the Martial’s arts.” He leaned forward a bit and added, “ I think he’s about a few bullets short of a bottle anyway. I’m mighty tired of settling here in this smellhole anyways. I want to soar like a beagle. Whut’s it all about?” “What say we take a stroll and I’ll tell you.’ It was a fine night in Hog Jowl, Nevada. Someone had remembered to turn the stars on and the wind off as the two men sauntered out back of the livery stable. “Here’s the plan. It’s payday for the miners Saturday, day after tomorrow, and the money will be coming in by train around dawn. The money car is pretty well guarded but once they unload and move on, the bank’s all ours.” “Hot diggity frog. So we jest walks in and takes it.” “First thing in the morning when the bank opens and the vault is unlocked. We’ll have a couple of fast horses waiting and all you have to do is stand guard and make sure nobody makes a move or comes in the door. It shouldn’t take me more that five minutes to collect the dough. “We’ll make the split 60-40.” “60-40!” “All right, 50-50.” No, you said 60-40 first.” “Fine,” Jack said with a bemused smile. “We’ll meet right back here at quarter to nine. You still have your gun I see.” Yeah. It ain’t been soiled yet, like anybody would bye it.” “And no breakfast or wandering the streets. We don’t want to show our faces.” “That’s dern smart. I’ll be as quiet as a bug in a mug.” They met as planned the next morning. “You sleep well, Lefty” “Naw, I was too nerveless. This is like Chinese waiter torture.” In a few more minutes it was 9:05 and the robbers sidled into the bank, pulling their bandanas over their faces first. “This is a holdup, “ Jack said in his most menacing voice. “ All you move over there.” He said waving them over. They seemed a bit scared and confused so Lefty added: “Line up by the wall. Them’s the horse rules.” “House.” “How’s what?” It’s called house ru… , oh never mind. Keep ‘em covered while I go into the vault.” “Now y’all keep nice and still and quiet-like or I’ll blow yer sheds off.” “Bag’s full,” Jack said. “Let’s move.” ‘Urethra, we got it.” They skedaddled out, jumped on their horses, and had galloped about a mile out of town when Jack motioned them to stop. “We better split it up now,” said Jack, “and go our separate ways.” “Sounds like a good plain. What parts are you beheaded fer.” “I was thinking San Francisco. A man can get into a lot of trouble there. If you make it out there, you’ll probably find me at Rosie’s Saloon in the Castro.” “Mebbe I’ll do jest that. Good luck and don’t let the bedbugs fight.” Two separate clouds of dust went north and south. Lefty Tompkins thought to himself : “That ol’ Jack Montrose is purty smart but he warn’t smart enough to notice when I switched the saddlebags. I’m the smart on, the ineffectual.” Jack Montrose was smiling to himself. He had put the money on Lefty’s horse and turned his back to take a leak in the bushes, knowing Lefty would switch them. |
| House Rules By Glen glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| There have to be rules, plenty of
rules; irksome instructions are one of the tools the woman must juggle throughout the day, to control all her children, at school or at play. There’s a rota for baths and another for eating – there’s too many mouths for only one sitting. Breakfast’s at eight and lunch is at one. Tea is at six, then there’s chores to be done. A dog to be fed, a cat to put out. There’s a list to be ticked, in case there’s a doubt. There’s lawns to be cut and pots to be washed, beds to be made and floors to be brushed. “Please switch me off!” say notes on the lights and one on the fridge tells young appetites, “Keep out! I’ll not have you spoiling your tea!” forestalling some child’s, “But I’m hungry now!” plea. There’s no end to the rules but what else can you do, when you've too many children and live in a shoe? |
| 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): #3, #4, #5 Fifth place: #1 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| House Rules brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#1 of 6 |
| 96 words | |
| DON'T burp at the table. ______DON'T slurp up your tea. ____________ DON'T fling your used smalls ________________________ to obstruct the TV. Leave your socks on your feet. ______CATCH THAT MOUSE! ____________What's that smell of dead skunks and garlic? Son, scrub yourself well! There's thick mud and goo on your anatomy. You resemble a sloth upside down in a tree. Your hair is festooned with flull, gel and gum. with that loud blaring music you can't hear your Mum! From your discarded lunch box squirt ominous oozes. Your legs are splattered with dot-to-dot bruises. Time to go. Grab your stuff. Give your old Mum a hug. A present for me? ________________________Oooooh!..a slippery slug! |
|
| House Rules magecon@gmail.com |
#2 of 6 |
| 1221 words | |
| Sent on June 7th Dear reader, this is the local Chris Teller. I wish you luck. After reading her first journal I was naturally shocked. It had been a long time since I read her notes. Back then I worked in a government sponsored corporation specializing in mail distribution. Part of the deal was a house, from which I could operated the business. I had plenty of maids to care for the wooden boards and glass panels, and even for the red line stretching across the first room. Obviously it was quite large to support both me and an organization and as such quite lonely. But sometimes I like the stone statues by the court yard where the wind is fresh and the sunset clear. As I reread her journals it becomes apparent to me that she sent the mail without knowledge of the receiver. If that’s a sign of trust, than so be it, but I believe it was more likely out of necessity. The reasons you’ll find in her writing, of which I feel I must send to you through alternative channels. I look back and I’m not one for reminiscence, but I get the touch sensation that we were much alike. 2nd Entry May, 12th 12 years and 2 months I am afraid that my name no longer matters, but I’ll do my best to illustrate some of the vital occurrences in my life. Long ago, there was an uprising in my country and despite the remaining sane peoples’ most strenuous actions there developed a new regime, a totalitarian one. It destroyed all current ecclesiastical institutions, spoiling them and restricting the common citizen. It wasn’t much of a surprise. Society is an eternal coil, ours especially! Every 10 years a new development would occur, the following 10 of tension, the next 1 of bloodshed, and after that… Well that’s my story. This is my second journal entry and I fear its discovery. The government is beginning to impose itself upon mail distribution. I can compare it to being withheld by a cement blockade, while it becomes part of a larger structure. Well… I’m beginning to see the vices in it. Today I will attempt to usurp their control through leaking information on their next campaign to the resistance. It entails their hope to capture the rebel leaders collectively. I know the resistance will avoid a climatic battle as it’s too early for them, but I hope the leak will allow time for the rupturing of a nearby damn, which would send a flood of water towards me. I had hoped to become a member among their ranks. They are the only brothers I have left. Ha! Missing brothers. Whether I succeed or not it doesn’t matter. If I fail, I’ll be captured, tortured, and after that horribly executed as a sample for the remaining segments of the population, which of course will make me a martyr… All that ends well is well. Or, I’ll die by the flooding of my home. 3rd Entry May, 14th 12 years, 2 months, and 2 days Well… I’m reporting in again. I must say I failed to get captured and to succeed in leaking information. How convenient…. 4th Entry December 20th I’ve made some nicks and crannies in the concreted wall, but to no avail. I am currently living in a mud pile, which could be associated to a surf’s house. Water leaks in through the ever opened archway just above my fire place. It makes it a challenge to cook what meat I can find. It’s not the greatest way to live, but sometimes I have dirt cake which is better than mud cake as it’s dryer. The main point of incident however lies with the infamous lack of names concept now institutionalized by the totalitarian regime. 5th Entry January 1st What’s new about New Years Day…? Well, I had a lot of alcohol due to a recent right enacted by the government. I wanted to remain at home plotting another way to get out of this mess, but unfortunately a right also happens to be a restriction… Regardless, I have developed an alternative plan. No… It does not include committing suicide. I am by far too weak for it. My life isn’t a happy one, but it isn’t depressing enough to end it without cause. This time I will be capturing a convoy full of resources for the resistance. It’ll be proof of my loyalty. 6th Entry February 3rd I did succeed in capturing the convoy and its riches for the rebels, but I lost an eye in the process. I hope it sounds quite dreadful to the reader, but now that I have an eye patch it doesn’t look that bad. Although they still call me a Cyclops. I’m annoyed, but I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with the handicap, but instead a symbol for the manner in which I stole the goods from the convoy. I charged them. 7th Entry June 7th It’s been over a year… a long time. The bright side is it would appear that we’ve almost won. Battle after campaign makes my life perhaps more strenuous, but worth living. I can officially, well almost officially as we haven’t succeeded yet, say that I am happy. Furthermore I have been promoted to one of the highest ranks of seniority and am now plotting an assault on the capital of which I’ll be leading directly. As of now I am awaiting an urgent report on the enemy’s numbers. 8th Entry June 8th It arrived. It’s as little as I expected: 1238 men on standby. I will be leading the charge tomorrow. If you are wondering I did make it out of that damn, an eye for an eye, but now am leading an assault back into the graveyard. They always said the more bodies the better. 9th Entry I’m afraid I couldn’t place a date for this entry… it’s been too long since I was captured. The rebellion remains, but I have been captured. The cell is a little like the surf hut that I used to live in, but it’s still better than the others, likely due to my rank. Interestingly I am allowed to send mail. I have no concerns over this letter reaching you as it is outside of national boarders; however I’m afraid it will be my last entry. I want you to know that the message I received was faked. I have served this country well and now I prepare for a final speech. A martyr… Now that I think about it I wanted to become one at the time I sent you the second letter. Well… I guess I’ll get my wish. I am to be executed in 9 days. I would have been angry at the messenger who faked his report for the sake of optimism or wealth, but I’m either too tired for it or have reached inner peace. I am half way done my preparations for death. All that remains is the guillotine. For the 9th letter I give you 9 waves, 9 child tails, and 9 lives as a final gift. Do with them as you will and in your future exploits I wish you luck and let that be my legacy. |
|
| House Rules J. Haara jhaara@sbcglobal.net |
#3 of 6 |
| 621 words | |
| There they are. The same as almost every night.
They eat. They watch a box with something making noise that they call a television, and they call what they watch “the evening news“, “a movie“ or “a show“. He sits, gripping what she calls “the remote control“ which makes the box change the pictures inside of it. He changes the pictures in the box a lot, which makes her frown at him. Most of the time, both of them have blank expressions, except once in a while they give each other a brief glance of amusement over something on the big box that changes pictures. Poor fools, they don’t have a clue. Then, I see it. Every night. But they never do. It starts slowly and seeps out of the living room corner and up from the spot where the wall and the floor meet. It forms a dark gray, wispy mist. They can’t see it. It dances and curls around the room, and circles them, taunting them. Once in a while, she wipes her nose because it touches her. Once, it played with the hair on the back of her head, ever so lightly. She raised her hand to brush her hair back down flat. But she didn’t know it was the mist. He has never indicated that he sees it. Not even when it comes and chases me and even rolls me on my back and tickles my belly. Or, when it pushes my ball down the stairs and I tear off down the staircase to catch the ball in a frenzy. They just laugh and point at me. They never point at it. I remember the day we moved into this house. I saw it the first night. I chased and chased it. It chased me back. They were so busy unpacking, they didn’t even notice. They wondered about the electricity in the house, because lights mysteriously turned off and on. The heat settings changed often, and they blamed each other. It stole socks out of the washer. It moved their eyeglasses from the spot they left them to another room. It made banging and footstep noises in the attic. It hid things away in different cupboards so they couldn’t find them, to trick them. They would laugh and say they “must be getting old”. That first night in the house, when they had gone to sleep, it found me. It told me that it liked me because I played with it and I amused it, and that it was going to spare me by making a pact with me. It told me that I must unfailingly follow the house rules, and the rules were that I must never show them, or anyone else that visits the house, that it exists. I almost did, once. It came so fast out of the house’s walls, that I looked up at it in surprise, my eyes following its every movement. She poked him and pointed at me and asked him what I was looking at. I held my breath. Luckily, they thought I saw a fly. After they got tired of watching me watching it, they got bored and went back to watching the box. According to the mist, if I follow the rules by not ever revealing the existence of the mist to them, I will be allowed nine lives. But I feel sorry for them. Because whenever the exact moment the mist decides, it is going to chase them and then when each of their time comes, they will finally see it. But, it will be the last thing they ever see. |
|
| House Rules Ken Staley kstaley@gmail.com |
#4 of 6 |
| 2407 words | |
| “I told you and told you and told you,”
Raymond shouted. “There aren’t many house rules here. But what there
are I damned well expect you to obey them. I hoped to Jesus that my rules were
simple enough that even a sixteen year old boy could catch on. Are you that
stupid, Timothy? Do you need me to spell them out again? More slowly this time
perhaps?” Timothy tried to smile – tried to shake his head – but nodding was just too painful. Such things as house rules didn’t seem to matter any more. Any movement, however simple, required far too much energy to complete. Better he just sit and rest. At least on the floor, he was out of the way - of the brunt of Raymond’s outburst – of any further gunfire from outside. RJ slid to the floor an arm’s length away his brother, afraid if he got near enough to touch him he might be the cause of unbearable pain. “Tims?” He asked quietly. “You hurting Tims?” Timothy turned away from his raging father, a slow motion movement that furrowed his brow and caused him to inhale sharply. Everything hurt – and nothing. Pain enveloped him in such a way that he couldn’t pinpoint any one special place. “Like a big wasp sting,” Timothy smiled weakly at RJ. “Sort of all over though.” RJ reached out a tentative hand and stopped half way. Brothers in everything but birth, he’d been there for Tims first buck, a grand 8 pointer; for his first elk; on a bear stalk that came up empty. Tims was the best shot in the family, far and away, then came RJ, then Raymond. RJ cast the best fly and knew the best fishing holes, but Tims was close behind. Tims could track any game now and tell you how long ago the trail was laid down – something he tried to show RJ time and again without success. “Say them all again with me now! SAY THEM!” Raymond issued orders to his stunned family, his rasping voice bouncing from the walls of the small room. “One, no one leaves this house alone, ever.” They chorused weakly, even Timothy tried – and gave it up as a bad cause. “Two, no one, and I mean NO ONE, goes outside without my permission and an itinerary approved by me. I want to know where you’re going, what you’re doing, and when you’re coming back. You do NOT leave the mountain under any circumstances. “Three, make sure you have your weapons carry permit on you at all times, especially if you go outside.” His blood up, two veins popped out above each of Raymond’s black eyebrows, meeting just above the bridge of his much broken nose. He had a tendency to storm around the small cabin, kicking aside furniture, tipping over the table and chairs. Tonight, Raymond’s anger interrupted RJ’s final connection with his half brother. “Shut the hell up!” RJ roared at his father, his eyes never leaving Tims. Tims grimaced at the sound and shook his head “no” ever so slightly, as much as he could. “We know your rules. No one broke your rules.” RJ ran out of steam, his anger evaporating much quicker than his father’s when he saw Tims close his eyes. Fear gripped him. The rest of the room froze in still life fresco. “Ray? This is Sheriff Edward Bings,” a voice called from the head of the clearing. “You know me Ray Ray. Everything alright up there?” Only a very few of his closest friends got to call him Ray Ray – and Bings was not on that list. “You killed my brother you fat tub of shit,” RJ shouted back towards the shattered window. Small pops from silenced rifles accompanied a merry tinkling glass that showered Tims before they chipped splinters from the log wall across the room and buried themselves deep in that pine. “Nice shooting goobers,” RJ screamed in return. “Nine panes of glass and you guys managed to hit three more. Wanna try for a clean sweep? I always thought you government types were supposed to be crack shots!” “I’m going to come up to the house, Ray Ray,” the sheriff insisted. “You guys make sure you got your safeties on! We don’t want no more foolishness here.” “You come ahead!“ RJ howled back as he saw life draining from Tims’ eyes, “and they’ll scrape your sorry carcass off the pine cones!” “Don’t make this worse then it already is, Ray!” Sheriff Bings called. “You know I ain’t alone out here. It’s all I can do to keep these fools from smokin’ your ass outta there. I’m comin’ up now, Ray Ray. You shoot me and won’t be no one left to hold a hunnert of these fools back any longer. They may not wanna leave nobody alive. You hear.” “Yeah, I hear,” Ray sighed and sank back, staring at his dying son. “I’m sorry Tim.” RJ watched Tims’ breathing grow fainter and fainter. Moments stretched to hours, then to years. “Remember Big Ralph?” RJ whispered to his brother when he could stand the painful silence no longer. He felt instantly rewarded when Tims cracked a brief smile, which quickly faded into a quiet grimace of pain. “We hunted the stream for years for that fat rainbow bastard. Nearly had him so many times felt like he was laughin at us every time we cast. You finally managed to snag his ass just before the ice set in.” “Let him go,” Tims’ voice barely reached beyond his lips. “Had to. He deserved it. Catch him again though, I bet you will.” “I’ll wait until the thaw a bit more,” RJ smiled at his brother. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as badly wounded as it seemed. Tims cracking funny had to be a good sign. “RayRay?” Sheriff Bings spoke quietly from in front of the porch. “Just don’t nobody in there make any sudden movements. I’m comin in.” “You can stay where you are, Bings,” Ray replied. “Say your piece and leave. We can hear and they can watch.” “How’s Tims?” “Dying,” Ray snapped as he looked carefully at his son and at his wound. His anger evaporated, then ebbed again like a red tide. “Shot in the shoulder but you bastards managed to clip an artery. Leaked most of his blood out down his back already.” “You want I should take him down with me? See if we can’t get him some help?” Sheriff Bings asked, true concern in his voice. “I know that kid for a long time Ray. Good kid. Deserves lots better.” “We take care of our own, Bings,” Ray straightened at the thought of Tims leaving the mountain. “That’s what we do, always have. We’ll bury him up in the hills here where he can’t be hurt no more. Them government guys don’t get to cut this one up like you do most.” Through the open window spring breezes cleared away a drudge of winter chill and soot. Now and then, a gust helped the curtains dance, as though they enjoyed the fresh spring sun. Now and then, one panel would flap wide enough to show wild daffodils and dandelions scattered around the clearing. Squirrels danced between the trees, scolding angrily when they paused on a limb, berating those intruding on their territory below. Crows gathered down the valley, their raucous “caws” adding to the chorus. Somewhere a pair of blue jays argued about nesting places and mating displays. A cloud shadow darkened the room now and then, adding a surreal - almost kinescope feel as images cleared, faded in the darkness, and flickered back to light. “One goddamned rule,” Raymond whispered to the floor, his sorrow overpowering his anger. “Couldn’t follow one simple goddamned rule.” “Sorry,” Timothy tried to reach over from his seat on the floor and put his hand on his father’s balding pate. Again the movement took just too much energy and Tim let his hand slide numbly to the floor, like a piece of dead meat. Golden sun splashes danced first across his shoulders, glancing off Raymond’s bald spot, then filling the room. “I wanted to see the squirrels just once. I’m really sorry, Dad.” “Ain’t your fault.” Raymond squared his shoulders and wiped his eyes and nose with one sweep of his sleeve. “Not your fault at all. Them sumbitches outside there. They’re the ones gunna be goddamn sorry, let me tell you. You just rest.” Raymond’s tasks had kept them all safe and healthy to this point. The shock, aside from seeing blood leaking slowly from Tim, was that his planning and skills as a woodsman and survivalist failed. Sure, it wasn’t his fault, but still… Missy stood paralyzed to the very spot she’d occupied when the rifle bullet sang through the window and nailed Tim where he stood. Unable to move, her silent tears soaked her shirt collar, an over-sized hand me down once worn by her brother. His death was unfathomable by a nine year old. “What about Miss and Elvira?” Sheriff Bings asked softly through the window. “I can take them back with me. I promise they’ll be safe enough until this is all settled.” “They stay,” Ray set his jaw, glaring at his youngest even as his heart melted. Bings was right, this was no place for a nine year old girl with freckles and such a sunny disposition. “She stays,” he repeated, knowing his interests were selfish. He needed her sunny disposition with him. “Besides, you ain’t sheriff no more, just a retired one at best.” “And Elvira?” Bings didn’t have to ask who ‘she’ was. “She’s my wife. If I stay, she stays,” Raymond said sharply. “Look, let me at least take RJ and Missy down the mountain,” Bings said. “Federal papers don’t mention either of them at all.” Jays and crows traded raucous curses from the tree tops as time hung in the spring dust motes. Nature filled the silence with quiet woodland scatterings. A ground squirrel dashing across dry leaves somewhere near the house; a brush tailed squirrel leapt across the branches carrying pine treasures, the sound of its claws scratching the bark of a nearby spruce. Nature’s own time piece. “She’ll come,” Ray said finally, fresh tears streaking his face. Missy wailed loudly in the background. “You go on down the mountain. I wanna see ever one of your posse at the base of that clearing. I give you my word nothing will happen to them. You know me, Sheriff. If I give you my word, that’s it. Once I figure they’re all out there, I’ll send Missy down sometime before the sunset. Elvira too, if she wants to go.” “I’ll tell ‘em,” Bings said as he turned and crossed the open field. Missy retreated into a far corner, wailing out her objections in sounds that defied enunciation. “You’ll take her,” Raymond said to his wife. He didn’t ask, Raymond issued orders and expected them to be carried out without question. They’d all agreed, years ago, that in emergency situations of any sort, Raymond was their captain – their leader. This was their first – and last – test of their resolve. “No,” Elvira shook her head. “You can send her if you want, but I’m stayin.” She crossed the small room and knelt beside her dying son, adding her tears to those of Raymond and Timothy. “Don’t cross me now dammit!” Raymond thundered. “We got too damn much goin on for you to cross me now Vi. You know I always wanted the two of you out of this. This might be your last chance. This might be my last chance.” “We all knew, Ray,” Elvira said from the ground. “I didn’t say we all agreed, but we all knew. Not this time. I’m staying with you. There ain’t nothin you can do about it neither cuz you can’t carry me and carry your rifle.” Ray swore and marched around the cabin, kicking things out of way as he went. Each time he would pause and stare his wife, but she simply and calmly stared back and sent him on his way. As gently as possible, she cradled her son’s head in her lap. “Go help pack a kit for Miss,” Elvira said to RJ. “She can go to my sister’s house. I’ll send a note down with Bings. He knows my sister. He’ll see it done.” As the afternoon melted away, the cabin settled around them, waiting for Tims to die, waiting for Missy to leave – waiting for what must be inevitable. RJ held his brother’s hand and watched as his breathing grew more and more troubled. Ray pulled a chair next to his dying son, unable to cope with the loss or the tragedy that brought it on, unable to cope with the idea that his master plan, his simple, well thought-out house rules couldn’t protect his family. Elvira made time linger as she stroked Tim’s brow and crooned softly, almost beyond hearing, for his ears only. She didn’t know what she would do when Timothy finally passed. For her, there was only now. Sending Missy away didn’t have any more ring of finality than a dying Timothy. Time stopped for Elvira. She didn’t have long to wait. “He’s gone,” RJ whispered as the last of Tims’ death rattles faded away, leaving the place in complete silence except for nature singing Tim’s requiem. A new, different round of wails came from Missy’s corner. Raymond’s head sunk further beneath his knees. “Get her bag,” Raymond said. He turned to call out the window. “Bings, you come and get Missy now. She don’ wanna go and you might need to carry her down the hill.” The retired sheriff crossed to the cabin door and took the small bag Elvira handed out. “There’s a note inside,” she whispered. “Make sure she knows there’s a note inside the bag.” “I’ll tell them,” Bings said. In less than five minutes, Missy’s screams and wails faded into the forest and nature resumed its eternal requiem. In the distance, Raymond heard the last of her pleas as a door slammed and a car roared away. Elvira crossed from watching Missy disappear to the closest window, picked up a lever action rifle, and began firing –indiscriminately - at anything that moved. RJ followed her lead, with a bit more caution. He tried to pick his targets from the rifle flashes that laced out towards his mother. Raymond picked another window and fired a hasty fifty shots. “Remember what the 4th rule is,” Raymond called across the noise of rifle’s firing and the thump of return fire on the wood. “Rule 4: Make every shot count. Short bursts….” |
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| House Rules Glen glenlee10@sky.com |
#5 of 6 Runner-up |
| 164 words | |
| There have to be rules, plenty of rules; irksome instructions are one of the tools the woman must juggle throughout the day, to control all her children, at school or at play. There’s a rota for baths and another for eating – there’s too many mouths for only one sitting. Breakfast’s at eight and lunch is at one. Tea is at six, then there’s chores to be done. A dog to be fed, a cat to put out. There’s a list to be ticked, in case there’s a doubt. There’s lawns to be cut and pots to be washed, beds to be made and floors to be brushed. “Please switch me off!” say notes on the lights and one on the fridge tells young appetites, “Keep out! I’ll not have you spoiling your tea!” forestalling some child’s, “But I’m hungry now!” plea. There’s no end to the rules but what else can you do, when you've too many children and live in a shoe? |
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| House Rules thomassbcampbelll@hotmail.com |
#6 of 6 Winner |
| 690 words | |
| In a smoky rough hewn saloon smelling of liquor and
punctuated often by the yells of yahoos, sat a shabby Lefty Tompkins, slumped
over his last whiskey at a rear table away from the raucous rabble. His plump
and active wad had been reduced by poker and redeye over the past three days to
mere coins. Over to his table sauntered a young man, fairly well dressed, but
lightly coated with the dust of the trail. The opening remarks of Jack
Montrose, for that was the other man’s name, contained ‘buy you
a drink, friend’ so Lefty eagerly waved him toward a chair. “I heard tell, Lefty, that you’ve been a little down on your luck lately.” “You herd right, I’m flat butted Mister…” “Montrose, Jack Montrose. Perhaps I could interest you in a little job that would make us a lot of money. Wouldn’t be within the law if that doesn’t bother you.” “Don’t bother me atall. I don’t keer a tinker’s ham for the Martial’s arts.” He leaned forward a bit and added, “ I think he’s about a few bullets short of a bottle anyway. I’m mighty tired of settling here in this smellhole anyways. I want to soar like a beagle. Whut’s it all about?” “What say we take a stroll and I’ll tell you.’ It was a fine night in Hog Jowl, Nevada. Someone had remembered to turn the stars on and the wind off as the two men sauntered out back of the livery stable. “Here’s the plan. It’s payday for the miners Saturday, day after tomorrow, and the money will be coming in by train around dawn. The money car is pretty well guarded but once they unload and move on, the bank’s all ours.” “Hot diggity frog. So we jest walks in and takes it.” “First thing in the morning when the bank opens and the vault is unlocked. We’ll have a couple of fast horses waiting and all you have to do is stand guard and make sure nobody makes a move or comes in the door. It shouldn’t take me more that five minutes to collect the dough. “We’ll make the split 60-40.” “60-40!” “All right, 50-50.” No, you said 60-40 first.” “Fine,” Jack said with a bemused smile. “We’ll meet right back here at quarter to nine. You still have your gun I see.” Yeah. It ain’t been soiled yet, like anybody would bye it.” “And no breakfast or wandering the streets. We don’t want to show our faces.” “That’s dern smart. I’ll be as quiet as a bug in a mug.” They met as planned the next morning. “You sleep well, Lefty” “Naw, I was too nerveless. This is like Chinese waiter torture.” In a few more minutes it was 9:05 and the robbers sidled into the bank, pulling their bandanas over their faces first. “This is a holdup, “ Jack said in his most menacing voice. “ All you move over there.” He said waving them over. They seemed a bit scared and confused so Lefty added: “Line up by the wall. Them’s the horse rules.” “House.” “How’s what?” It’s called house ru… , oh never mind. Keep ‘em covered while I go into the vault.” “Now y’all keep nice and still and quiet-like or I’ll blow yer sheds off.” “Bag’s full,” Jack said. “Let’s move.” ‘Urethra, we got it.” They skedaddled out, jumped on their horses, and had galloped about a mile out of town when Jack motioned them to stop. “We better split it up now,” said Jack, “and go our separate ways.” “Sounds like a good plain. What parts are you beheaded fer.” “I was thinking San Francisco. A man can get into a lot of trouble there. If you make it out there, you’ll probably find me at Rosie’s Saloon in the Castro.” “Mebbe I’ll do jest that. Good luck and don’t let the bedbugs fight.” Two separate clouds of dust went north and south. Lefty Tompkins thought to himself : “That ol’ Jack Montrose is purty smart but he warn’t smart enough to notice when I switched the saddlebags. I’m the smart on, the ineffectual.” Jack Montrose was smiling to himself. He had put the money on Lefty’s horse and turned his back to take a leak in the bushes, knowing Lefty would switch them. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club