Home | Contest | Write A Book | Write Ebooks For Cash | Be A Travel Writer | Write Children's Books Write For Newspapers | Write An Ezine | Write A Blog | Writing Skills & Tips | Novel Writing Software Please take a moment to bookmark this site and join our free hot tips list. Read & Rate Our Writing Contest Entries! See what other people have written, and rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. This is an opportunity to view a wide variety of short stories and see what kind of original material is being submitted to us on a daily basis. After you rate an entry, you will be randomly redirected to another entry to rate. You may read and rate as many entries as you wish! The user-rating system is simply a fun way for writers to receive a public opinion of their work, and does not affect the judging for the cash prizes. If you wish to enter the contest, you may enter for free here. Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Brandon Buck “Pull my finger,” said he. His twisted finger—due to carpel tunnel—seemed only held together by skin and no bone and no joints. His hands were not clean and they were not dainty. They were torn hands, ravaged by battle. Their trembling—severity, depending on time of day—wasn’t bad, for it was early afternoon. Upon first observation one would think the hands belonged to a godless wretch, instead, though, they were inviting, offering warmth and security. The hands were strong and they were good and they had seen so much. But this time, all I had to do was pull his finger. So I did. Of course, flatulence followed and we both giggled, and I squirmed, and his face turned red. His face always turned red when he laughed. It was not a dark red or a light red, but something in between, a color unique to his face solely. He raised his driving cap and brushed his thinned snow-white hair across his crown. A strand fell loose and wafted slowly to the floor. Only twenty-seven left. He rubbed his temples and smiled. His teeth, but a fraction of the pearls that once were, now a mangled mess, tainted and crooked, spoiled and decayed, spelled joy and complacency. His sandpaper stubble scratched my face as I stood on my tiptoes to kiss him. He rocked back in forth in his chair and watched the automobile race on television. His left foot tapped up and down. The well-used, comfortable slippers mocked the detriments of time, and still carried out their warming duties far longer than was required. “Can you get out your medals?” I asked. He didn’t hear me. I spoke louder. “Can you get out your medals?” I asked again. He looked towards the ceiling, squinting his right eye. Seemingly deep in thought he replied, “Sure.” He pointed at the old army trunk buried deep in the closet. He rattled off the combination to the rusty master lock. I tried for some time to open it, but to no avail. He stood. It took some time, even with the cane in hand, to steady himself. He shuffled the short distance across the green carpeting to where I was and knelt down. The trembling hands made the tedious task turn arduous. He struggled for some time--I know not for how long. Finally, a click; it was open. Like a pirate finding treasure, like Sherlock finding the one clue that puts the case together, I stood in awe. Overwrought with glee, I began slowly feeling everything, staying careful not to disturb the tenements of a happy life. Of course, I had seen the contents of this trunk numerous times, but each time it was like the first. I immediately put on a set of headsets. I then pinned a few medals on my Oshkosh t-shirt. The bronze star still shimmered, gleaming with nearly the brightness for which it stood. I remembered all he had taught me; I was ready for battle. I boarded the B-29. Sitting in my chair, I strapped on my safety harness. I studied the map and went over the mission, once, twice, thrice. Before ignition, I cleared my mind. It was now or never. The engine roared beneath. The digital barometer read “3:29 p.m..” That was also my fuel gauge. I swung my head side to side to release the kinks in my neck. The bomber took off. Upon ascent, I made sure to write down my coordinates. The damn Japs were about to feel my fury. My orders were to search and destroy and that is what I was going to do. The tail gunners could be both felt and heard all around. Planes were dropping like flies. I had to make very quick movements to avoid other aircraft which was not an easy task considering the size of my plane. The g-force racked and wrung my mid-section. The blood rushed to my temples, pounding, pounding, pounding. I peered into the viewfinder to spot the target. Feverishly trying to steady the plane, I took aim. I inhaled meditatively, released the trigger, and sat staunch. Would it hit? Sure. It was a direct hit. I could see, vaguely, the remnants of the fireball, now only a big, black, glorious plume of smoke and ash. Victory was mine. I turned back and headed into base. The landing was rough, but nothing to a veteran like me. The ignition was in the off position, but the engine still murmured. I exited the cockpit to find the trouble. I climbed out of the chair to report to my general. It became clear that the engine sound was not an engine at all. I saw him; mouth wide, and eyes shut, and head back. His throat rattled with the tenacity of the great diamond back. I maneuvered my way onto his lap. He awoke. He licked his lips, smiled, and looked at me. “We won,” said I, “we won!” “We always win, my boy, we always win.” And that was all he said. River, deep. River, wide. people have rated it so far. is the current average. |
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