Weekly Writing Challenge

[Zuul]

Over in this thread vison made a great suggestion that I thought might be missed by those not following that thread:

I wonder if I might make a suggestion? A little group I belong to, we set ourselves a challenge now and again. We pick a "topic". And then we want you to do a fast 100 - 200 words.

I was thinking about taking that idea and having a weekly thread with a challenge, maybe rotating who starts the thread and gives the challenge each week so everybody gets a chance and we get a wider variety in challenges.

What say you, my good people?

[vison]

Hey, this is great and, no, I don't mind that you went ahead and started the thread.

[Zuul]

Awesome. Thanks, vison. If we get a couple of other people interested, do you want to toss out the first challenge or shall I? I've got a couple of ideas for writing prompts. :mrgreen:

[cmyk]

I'm here... fire when ready...

[pepperlandgirl]

I'm interested, too.

[vison]

Okay.

"Donald wore his striped pjamas to work."

[iampunha]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work.

He figured, "Hey, if not showing up to work at all last week didn't get me fired in this economy, whatever."

He also hadn't checked his e-mail or BlackBerry since that mash note Donna had left for him.

He didn't dislike his job, but he worked at a company where the only difference between the 15th floor and the 20th floor was which buttons stuck on the soda machine.

Oh, and ffter five years at Econocorps, his boss still thought he liked to be called Donny and he had to park two blocks away from the building -- thus making today's walk particularly adventuresome.

But he didn't care. He didn't have his ID card with him, he didn't have a tie on, and he didn't have a care in the world. Nothing could go wrong.

So when he walked in to work a half-hour late, he expected his boss to all but ambush him with questions -- or to just have a note on his monitor saying something neutral, like "Please see me when you get to work today.

Donna."

[fachverwirrt]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work.

This wasn't unusual. He dressed the same way every day, as did his coworkers. He wished it were otherwise. He wished he could wear something new and different. Hell, even the old suit and tie would be preferable. Those were the days, when he could wear a suit and tie, or on casual Fridays, khakis and a polo. But now, now always the striped pajamas.

The striped pajamas, of course, were not, strictly speaking, pajamas. Donald didn't worry about such petty things, though. The fact is, "Donald wears striped pajamas to work" simply sounds better than "Donald works in the prison laundry."

[cmyk]

Ok, I'm a tad over 200, but what the hell, this was fun...

____________

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. The flannel ones, with the snowflakes all over were far too whimsical (if not seasonal), and his red satin pair with the velvet trim seemed to make the wrong statement today. Wearing nothing but his terry cloth robe was only for Fridays or working the weekend. No, the striped pajamas were perfect, right between classic and understated. It spoke of confidence and power.

When he came out of the elevator, at the 112th floor — the executive department — everyone was glaring at him. Pure jealousy, plain and simple. You just can’t compete with a fine piece of couture such as this. And besides, his briefcase was the perfect complement to the whole attire. More of an attaché, really which he picked it up at a thrift store a few weeks ago. It had subdued colors of green and blue, with a splash of pink thread that stitched the whole thing together. It was sublime.

He finally made his way, past the expensive wood and frosted glass décor of the office space, and opened the door marked 'Donald Buchanan, II – CEO'.

Startled to see a strange man, in an expensive Armani Suit sitting at his desk, Donald exclaimed, “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

To which the man relied, “Oh God, dad, did you go off your meds again?”

Awkward silence.

“And what’s with the purse?”

[pepperlandgirl]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. Well, they weren’t really his.

The memo in his box informed him that everybody would be participating in Pajama Day for Spirit Week, whether or not they wanted to. Donald had tried to talk his way out of it. First, he pointed out that it was difficult to teach chemistry on the best of days, but pajamas would completely undermine him. When that didn’t work, he shifted directions. Yes, he agreed that teachers should show school spirit, but teachers should also be professionals. Pajamas were not professional attire. Finally, he claimed it was a safety issue. His long sleeve could get caught on a Bunsen burner, or he could trip and fall face first into acid. The principal was not swayed.

“Just wear whatever you sleep in,” Principal Spinelli finally growled, shooing Donald out of his office.

“I don’t sleep in anything!”

Spinelli’s eyes turned to flint. “Get the hell out of my office.”

So he wore his boyfriend’s striped pajamas. And spent the whole day holding the pants against his thin frame, listening to the teenage tittering, and cursing his attraction to bears.

[ulfhjorr]

“Donald wore his striped pajamas to work.”

“Wait. He did what?”

“I’m serious. He walked right through the door, tossed his jacket over his chair, and logged on to the computer. All in these ridiculous, striped pajamas.”

Jess looked at Roger like his was crazy.

“Why on earth would he do that?”

Roger just shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Jess still couldn’t believe the tale as Roger walked back toward his desk, cup of coffee in his hand. Donald was the normal one in the office. Sure, that might not mean much, but still, coming to work in pajamas was a bit of a stretch. She stirred in the creamer and bit her lower lip.

Jess picked up her coffee and, after grabbing a file from her desk, circled around toward the back of Donald’s cube. There, looking over his shoulder, she found her answer – Donald was typing out a post on a message board. One glance at the title and Jess burst out in laughter: “In which I thunderfuck Laundromat thieves.”

[ulfhjorr]

That was my first thought, too, fachverwirrt.

And I love it, pepperlandgirl!

[LurkMeister]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. He had gotten used to the strange looks from his fellow commuters on the train, although these had lessened over the weeks. His co-workers pretty much ignored it by now. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered why his supervisor had never said anything to him about it. Perhaps she had decided not to press the matter when he had returned to work after his brief absence.

The morning after the funeral, he had woken up and decided that there was really no need to get dressed, since he hadn't planned on leaving the house, and had just put his pajamas back on. Two weeks later, when the leave he had requested ran out, he had automatically done the same thing, not realizing his mistake until he was at his desk. Nobody had said anything then, although a few people had dropped by to offer their condolences.

He booted up his computer, and when the smiling face of his wife appeared he said softly, "I miss you, dear" before pulling up the day's case files.

[sistercoyote]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. They were old, and maybe a little frayed around the ankles and the wrists; his fingers twisted the loose threads before he pulled on the new, royal blue velour bathrobe that had been the last present he'd received from his late wife. After carefully tightening the belt, he checked the part of his hair. He thought, for a moment, about putting on the pale green necktie his daughter had given him. But the stripes on his pajamas were red, and he had no desire to look like Christmas.

A person should face their last day with dignity, after all.

[Liberal]

Please bear with ths old OCD bastard. I don't understand. By "topic", do we mean "first sentence"? Or do we mean that we can weave the topic into the story. Does it have to be exact words and punctuation (in this case, a period)? If it is a topic sentence in the classical sense, can it be in the middle or at the end of a paragraph? Or can it be used as a dependent or independent clause?

Thanks for any responses that migh help clear this up for me.

[cmyk]

For me, I kind of like the idea of having to use it verbatim. Not sure if it must be the opening line of the story, but it increases the challenge.

Great submissions so far, this sort of thing is a blast. Good exercise.

[Liberal]

But it can be used "verbatim" within punctuation such as quote marks, as in post number... hmm, no post numbers. Well, it's obvious anyway.

[vison]

Goodness, no, it doesn't have to be the first sentence! But the rule is, yes, verbatim. Can be in quotes, whatever.

These are WONDERFUL!! I am enjoying this thoroughly and will try to find time to do one myself.

I could say, "this is the most fun you can have with your clothes on", but then . . . well, I'm dressed, anyway. It's cold in this room . . . .

[Zuul]

"Is this what you're going to wear?" Dr. Jacobson asked archly, holding up Donald's striped pajamas.

He snatched them out of her hands before ducking into the cubicle set aside for changing. "You said it should be comfortable."

"Well, naturally. We simply haven't had anyone in our employ who wanted to be quite that comfortable."

Donald changed quickly, trying to keep his thoughts even and calm. The pajamas he'd brought were a gift from his wife and, before, he'd always worn them when he was away from home on business. They made him think of her, which seemed to magically make all of the stresses fly away. Since the company had failed he'd been struggling to find any work at all, though. In the end, Neuronet Industries was the only company to give him a response. Typical, that. A place that had no interest in his resumé would be the only one to call him.

Once he was changed, he stepped out again and Dr. Jacobson showed him to the chair to sit down. He settled himself in, closing his eyes and thinking of his wife and children at home, the reason he was doing this. The electrodes placed at strategic points on his skull tingled faintly as the machinery hummed into life.

When he opened his eyes, he saw Dr. Jacobson smiling down at him. "I hope you enjoy your first night as part of the mainframe," she offered gently, before hitting the switch.

[Liberal]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. Stumbling a bit from arthritis and age, he offered a cart. "Welcome to World Mart."

"Mommie, look at the retard!" The mother tugged her daughter's hand, "Don't say things like that." They veered away to avoid the old man, and selected a cart on their own. No eye contact was ever made. He watched with wounded pride and weariness as they rounded aisle twelve and disappeared.

"I need a cart, if you please."

Donald was terrifed to see the young man's pleasant smile and twinkling eye. His step faltered. "No," Donald said. "Please not now."

"It's time, Donald," the young man said quietly. "Give me the cart."

Donald clutched first his arm, and then his chest before he fell to the floor. The young man scooped him up, cradling him, and walked forward into a blinding light. People began to gather, looking at the body and the puddle of blood under Donald's head.

A witness told security, "He just started talking to himself, and next thing you know..."

[sturmhauke]

He did not sleep well that night. The harassment had been bad for a while, but the previous day had been untenable. Phil dumped a cold pot of coffee over his head, Jack threw a tuna sandwich at him, and Roy pulled his shirt up over his head while Courtney wrote “stupid fag” on his stomach with red lipstick. The new girl at the reception desk was nice to him at least. He couldn’t remember her name, but she helped him clean up the worst of the mess before he stumbled out to his car. He resolved to ask her, before the end. He reach past the half-used, useless bottle of clozapine and curled his fingers gently around the .38 Special.

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work.

[vison]

Donald wore his striped pjamas to work as Lornar suggested. He was always first in, and before anyone else arrived he set the transmitter to the frequency Lornar had ordered.

He waited patiently all morning, ignoring the puzzled and dismissive looks he got from his co-workers.

Right at noon, as promised, the enormous green flying saucer landed in the parking lot, crushing nearly all the cars and taking a large chunk out of the building. While everyone else screamed, panicked, tried to flee, Donald sat at the window watching.

The squads came through the building, vaporizing everyone. Donald stood up as Lornar came into his office.

He wanted to say, "I did good, didn't I?" but he was afraid to sound like a dweeb. But he couldn't stay quiet. "When do we leave, Lornar?"

Lornar raised his blaster and pointed it at Donald. "You're not going anywhere, Donald. What use do we have for a man who would betray his whole world?"

There was just enough time for Donald to feel shock and horror, then he was just atoms.

[tirial]

A fast 200.

Donald wore his striped pajama's to work. His mistress liked them and what the Duchess wanted the Duchess got. The frail old lady looked up at him from her easy chair.

"I would like to go out today." She stated quietly, far too well bred to make requests, but he understood. Carefully he lifted her into the wheelchair, placed the slippers on her tiny feet and the blanket across her lap. The cold cut through his thin pajamas as he pushed her outside, down the path to the lake.

"Two years since Dougie died." She said softly. "I still miss him." Donald said nothing, waiting silently while she looked at the water. "Do you think...never mind." Greatly daring he laid a hand on her shoulder, deliberately not noticing the tear on her cheek. They stood like that for a moment and then she straightened and drew a breath. A hand like parchment took the handkerchief he was already offering and brushed the tear away, once more the dowager lady.

"Still, I suppose, you carry on. It's all you can do." She murmured, more to herself than him. Donald nodded, butler's duties resumed, and pushed the wheelchair back towards the house.

[Duke]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. As he walked in from the parking lot, he was joined by his colleague Brian, who had opted for a T-shirt and boxers.

"I swear," Brian started, "I will kill Jim for this. Miss your sales quota by five f*cking windows and you get treated like sh*t. F*ck him sideways."

"I hear ya."

"Not my fault nobody wants to buy our sh*t. Like selling rubbers to eunuchs."

"Yeah." They got to the front door and Donald pushed the door open. Brian thanked him with a grunt. As they walked to their cubes nobody looked twice at the strangely-attired pair. Jim was always pulling sh*t like this. Last week he made Ted wear clown shoes and a paper bag over his head.

"And this week Ted quit," continued Brian. "Great morale-booster, Jim! Way to put your fist up everyone's asses!" Brian reached his cube and slammed himself down in his chair. He swiveled around to face Donald and slipped on the headset microphone. "Next week, when I miss my sales quota again, I'll boost my morale by taking a dump in Jim's chair."

Brian reached behind him and tapped the call button. Some poor sap was about to get a storm-windows pitch. Brian's face pulled into a rictus of a smile. "Hey, this is Brian from Store....f*cker."

Donald laughed. It was going to be another sh*tty day.

[vison]

Duke. What's with the asterisks?

[Duke]

Is swearing allowed here? I wasn't sure.

[Liberal]

Fuck no.

[vison]

Fuck no.

Hmph. :mrgreen:

[Speusippus]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work.

He wore his checkered pajamas after work. He wore his plaid pajamas when on a date. When travelling, he wore his blue pajamas. Around the house, he wore green camo pajamas. While cooking, he wore an apron over pajamas with chef’s hats all over them. In bed, he usually wore nothing at all.

Donald had friends. They were the kind of people who can tell you, regularly, sincerely, in public, “Hey, nice pajamas!” then join you at the bar.

He was wearing green pajamas when Nicole broke up with him. Standing in his doorway, gathering her things, she’d explained. “It was cute when we started out. But I told you you needed to stop. People won’t serve us in restaurants. It’s embarrassing.”

As she opened the door, he said in a panic “But I thought you liked it!”

“No, Donald. It’s gross. It was cute for a while. But now it’s just… yuck.” She turned to leave. She turned back as she shut the door, and glanced down. “Put some god damned shoes on!” she yelled. And with that, she was gone.

He watched her through the window as she stomped to the car. Her pajamas had kitties on them.

[vison]

I like that!

Goldang.

I was sorta weaning myself off playing on the net and then I landed up here.

Sux.

[maggenpye]

Okay, I promised myself no more writing challenges, but I just couldn't resist...


Donald wore his striped pyjamas to work. He raised an eyebrow in casual greeting when he met Steve at the lifts. Swimming trunks hitched up in one hand, Steve fished for the waist cord with the other.

“Morning boys.” Mona said, sashaying past in a sports bra and G-string.
“Looking good, Mona. Have you been working out?” Donald asked with a grin.
Giggling shook the many layers of Mona.

Steven rescued and tied his trunks before the lift opened beside Brenda's cubicle. She wasn't wearing a sports bra and g-string, Donald noted with the usual disappointment. Her trim figure huddled beneath the folds of a voluminous caftan.

It was awkward at morning tea time. Nigel was complaining about the air conditioning. He couldn't find a comfortable place to sit. No-one wanted any chair that had supported his naked buttocks.

Donald sighed and looked at Steven with resignation. “Ever think we're taking casual Fridays just a bit too far?”

[fachverwirrt]

Monday morning. As Kate ran out the door, heading on her week-long business trip, she turned to Donald.

"Don't forget to do a few loads of laundry. Also, your suit is at the cleaners. Pick it up tomorrow."

"Yes, dear," Donald said, absently. Donald did everything absently. He was a good husband, but most of the time could be described, charitably, as an airhead.

Tuesday evening. "Did you pick up your suit?" "No. I forgot." "Laundry?" "I'll do it tomorrow." "You'd better. You're going to run out of clothes."

Wednesday. "Honey, have you seen my suit?" "It's at the cleaners, Donald. You were supposed to pick it up yesterday." "Oh. When will you be home tonight?" "I'm out of town, Donald. I'll be home on Friday."

Thursday. Donald didn't answer the phone. He couldn't find it. It was buried in the pile of clothes. He vaguely wondered what he was going to wear tomorrow. Oh, well, Kate would throw in a load of laundry when she got home that night.

Friday. Donald wore his striped pajamas to work.

[Dosipede]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. Not every day, mind you, but often enough that it wasn't a big deal. Sometimes he'd wear his plaid pajamas. That, also, didn't create much of a stir around the office.

But when he came to work Monday wearing a red teddy, black stiletto high heels and carrying a fifth of gin, the boss called him in for a little talk.

A small crowd gathered around the door. Fireworks were imminent, and nobody was going to miss this one. The nosy secretary pressed her ear up against the door, but couldn't make anything out.

Eventually, the door opened, and out walked a smiling Donald, past his desk, and out the door. The boss followed, clutching the half-empty bottle of gin.

"Stacy," the boss said to his secretary, "book a room for me at the Hyatt. Make sure the champagne is chilled."

On Tuesday, everyone wore striped pajamas.

[phouka]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. They didn't pay him enough to have a tailored ritual set made, so store bought would have to do. After he joined the circle, he eyed a mousy woman in hooded robe.

"You're new here, aren't you?" he asked.

"I thought this was a traditional firm," she snapped. "Honestly, who wears pajamas to a Summoning?"

He traded an exasperated glance with Malique. The new ones either learned quickly, or they weren't a problem anymore.

Generally, Summonings were performed on Wednesdays. It gave a nice rhythm to the week. This particular summoning required the dark of the moon, which fell on a Thursday. They called quarters, lit the candles, and added their offerings to the chalked pentacle.

Their new person was miffed when the offerings included more things like dark chocolate M&Ms than virgin's blood. The chants went without a hitch. Smoke curled from the center of the pentacle, and the demon took form. Everyone wearing their pajamas remembered to make jazz hands, keeping the demon at bay. Except the new lady, who stared with disgust at their antics before being grabbed up and eaten by the demon.

[Beadalin]

Fun! Let's see if this works. 212 words.
_____

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. His clients tended to prefer the traditional look: long pants, button-down top, piping along the collar and cuffs. Unless a client requested specific attire, Donald stuck with non-threatening flannels and cottons.

The background checks were exhaustive and the pay minimal, but being an active Teddy had certain advantages. In a client’s bed, his slept easily, dreamlessly, skimming through the hours toward dawn with none of the anguished wakefulness that had marked his nights at home since Marcie left.

He knocked on the client’s door. An empty-nester, husband on military deployment, cat recently dead. She opened the door, stood awkwardly aside, clutching her robe.

“Hello. Thank you for inviting me over.”

She smiled uncertainly. “Now you’re here, I don’t know if this is going to work. It just… it feels too weird.”

Donald gave her the spiel gently, sincerely, ending with, “We will only sleep. I will not touch you. Scout’s honor.”

She invited him in, offered a cup of tea. First-time clients usually wanted to be talked into going through with it; once he got them past the initial nerves, the rest followed easily, naturally. It wasn’t prostitution, after all. It was only sleep. To hear someone else’s breathing in the crushing loneliness of night.

[vison]

Hey!
Well done, Beadalin.

[Savannah]

Donald wore his striped pyjamas to work. It was all he could think of. His slippers would work for footwear, and he didn’t bother shaving in the morning. For his hair, he mixed in some of his daughter’s styling goop, and deliberately disarrayed his usual neatly combed style. At least his winter coat covered up the ensemble, and the slippers fit in his briefcase.

Jessica was Marilyn Monroe, though she couldn’t quite carry it off. The latest receptionist—he could never remember her name—was a vampire, one on the slutty side. He had no idea her cleavage was so impressive. This was going to be a good day.

The old bat from accounting was a witch—a crone, hunched over her calculator like it was a helpless frog bound for the caldron. Who knew where she found the green makeup, but it suited her.

There were pumpkin cookies in the lunchroom, and orange cupcakes with bats on them. It was turning out to be a fun idea—the costumes his co-workers wore all said something about them. Who they wanted to be, who they wished they were. He’d already burst into laughter more than once going from the office entrance to the coffee machine, heading for his desk.

At last, he sat down, mug in hand, and turned on his monitor. He flipped his calendar open, smiling. It was going to be fun day at the office.

He was just really sorry he’d forgotten that the meeting with their most important client was this morning.

[Beadalin]

Donald wore his striped pyjamas to work.

Flag on the play! That ain't how you spell "pajamas."

And thanks, vison. I'm glad you got this ball rolling!

[welby]

Donald wore his striped pajamas to work. He did this because his last fashion attempt, the wildly chromatic tattoo across his face and chest had been poorly received. As was the hair, dyed electric blue and yanked out in clumps to leave his scalp a landscape of bright blue, red, and white. And the gnawing off of his thumbnail during the staff meeting.

After the hair and tattoo and thumb the pajamas seemed almost tame, like the last whisper of a snowfall or the final echo of an alleyway scream. Horrible and sad. He entered the office, scalp and thumb still aching, the tattoo itching like a rash, and went to his desk. Behind him the whispers began, as his co-workers, they of the shining silver skin or effervescent bubble suits or even the stark nakedness tinted only lightly with pastels began to evaluate, and then dismiss him. Donald was ashamed. Not everyone is comfortable with their body.

[Savannah]

Donald wore his striped pyjamas to work.

Flag on the play! That ain't how you spell "pajamas."

It is if you're Canadian. Or British.

1 MAINLY UK (US USUALLY pajamas) soft loose clothing which is worn in bed and consists of trousers and a type of shirt.
2 loose trousers that are tied around the waist and worn by men and women in some Asian countries.

[vison]

Hey, Savannah. How's the weather over there? I'm near Abbotsford.

Sorry. I know that's sorta hijacking the thread. Just ignore me.

[Zuul]

Since it's been a week since we opened this challenge up, I thought I'd toss out a new challenge. Please feel free to come up with your own prompt for next week, if you're interested!

The same basic setup stays the same. See what you can write in around five minutes, around 100-200 words, though there's no word count written in stone.

And the new challenge is:

"The broken clock was sitting in the road."

[Savannah]

The broken clock was sitting in the road. It was pale blue, and for two years now it had cheerfully ticked breakfast at seven, a nap-time hour at three, and bedtime at eight. A sodden, dirty teddy bear was off to the side, where the weeds met the asphalt, amid strewn cigarettes and the glitter of broken glass. Lacey picked it up and walked on, clutching it to her breast, trying to not to think. Only to look. Rain was near, and she was cold, but she had to keep moving. If she kept following the clues, she would know which way he’d driven.

She wouldn’t stop walking until she found them. Ben was only six, but he was smart. Smart enough to leave her crumbs of clues, just like the children who escaped the oven. That old storybook was his favourite.

But there were worse nightmares than an old witch and a gingerbread house. Ben’s father was one of them.

***

Hey, Savannah. How's the weather over there? I'm near Abbotsford. Sorry. I know that's sorta hijacking the thread. Just ignore me.

It stinks! It was snowing yesterday. I want my money back--I'm paying for Victoria's fabled climate, and not getting it.

[concrete]

The broken clock was sitting in the road. Clara stood with her toes hanging just over the curb. Then she turned to her brother standing beside her.

“Robbie, look what you did!”

“I didn’t do anything.” He squinted up at her, tugging at the brim of his baseball cap.

“Of course you did, you threw the clock into the road and now it’s broken.”

A car drove past them, swerving around the clock’s wreckage.

“Robbie, go get it.”

“But Clar-ra.”

“It’s your fault. Go.”

“I’m not supposed to go into the street.”

“You baby.”

“Not unless I’m holding someone’s hand.”

Clara looked at Robbie and then looked up and down the street. Her pigtails flipped back and forth.

“No one’s coming.” Clara grabbed Robbie’s hand and the two of them dashed into the street. Clara used her free hand to grab the clock face and Robbie reached down and clasped the big hand. They ran back onto the sidewalk and lay the clock pieces on the grass.

“I think it’s broken for good,” Robbie said.

Clara looked at the cracked glass clock face, some of the numbers were chipped. The hands were gone but something still ticked, struggling against the bent and broken pieces. Before Clara could catch herself, tears were running down her face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Robbie said.

“That was dad’s clock, Robbie. Why did you ruin Daddy’s clock?”

Robbie pulled the baseball cap brim down so it hid his face. “Because he’s not coming back.”

[vison]

The broken clock was sitting in the road. A block or so farther on lay a cowboy boot, and beyond that, a set of moose antlers. Not real big, but real.

I had it figured out. A break-up. The broken-hearted lover going along the road flinging the detritus of love out the car window. Must be a woman.

This, I could relate to. I hadn't done it, but I could have. I wanted to, in fact. I could have gone home right then and got a bunch of Darrells's shit and put it on the front seat beside me and driven past Arlene's house, and then started throwing. His bowling trophies. His paintball mask and gun. His porn collection. Just thinking about it made me feel better.

It had come on to rain. Now there were sodden clothes on the road, every fifty feet or so, and there, just at the intersection, was the other cowboy boot. About a half a mile beyond was the car and the woman. She was standing in the rain, looking back at the trail she'd left. She was crying, and shouting in a helpless, arm-waving way. I drove past, pretending I couldn't see her. There's something really terrible when people do private stuff in public like that, have a fight outside a bar or on the front lawn. Everyone looks away, everyone feels embarrassed.

That's what stopped me from going home and getting Darrell's stuff. Embarrassment. That, and knowing he was laying there with half his head blown off. I figured I'd make it to Revelstoke before they caught up with me and I wanted to enjoy the scenery.

[iampunha]

(A little slower than y'all are looking for, but I hope it's worth it.)

Pierre knocked on the door twice, then waited two seconds, then knocked again.

A sliding panel roughly head height slid open. Eyes peered out casually.

"Can I help you?" a casual voice asked.

"Oh, I'm here for a ... meeting," Pierre said more casually.

"I don't know anything about a meeting," the voice returned. "Perhaps you'd better check your date book."

"Oh, maybe. I was just told to be here at 5 o'clock Thursday, and as luck would have it, it's 5 o'clock Thursday, so here I am."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you," she said more loudly. "This is where the road and bridge department meets on Wednesdays, so unless you've something to tell us about a local road or bridge, I'm afraid you've got a far more exciting night ahead of you than you thought.

The sliding panel closed.

Pierre was dejected. Road and bridge department?

::blink::

Pierre knocked lightly on the door.

"Can I help you?" a casual voice asked.

"Yes, I think so, Pierre said. "I have a road concern for you."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Well, yesterday, I saw this clock. A broken clock. And the broken clock was sitting in the road."

"Would you like to file a service request?" the voice asked, expecting an affirmative answer.

Pierre paused.

"If you'd like to file a service request so someone can handle that broken clock, you'll have to come in," the voice said politely.

"Oh, yes, yes, they really should get that thing out of the way," Pierre said, having only then received his ration of clue for the day.

The door opened. The woman pulled him in as harshly as possible without arousing suspicion. She closed the door quietly.

"Were you followed? Were you watched?" she asked, this time fiercely urgently.

"No ... I don't think so," Pierre said, shaking his head.

[Dosipede]

Tick. Tick. T-t-t-t...

Tick. Tick. T-t-t-t...

A dry, hot wind sent a handful of dust across the cracked blacktop like an artist's brush wiping across a canvas. A tumbleweed skipped and turned over a couple of times before coming to a rest against an old pickup.

Tick.

A buzzard glided to a soft landing between two scrub bushes. The bird turned its gnarled face about, scouring the landscape for food. There was none to be found, so the bird took a running start and lifted back into the sky.

Tick

A coyote, its hair matted and its ribs covered with but a thin layer of flesh, trotted up to the side of the blacktop and looked both ways.

T-t-t-t...

The coyote, treading lightly on the hot tar, loped across where the broken clock was sitting in the middle of the road, and disappeared among the tumbleweeds and dry scrubs on the other side.

Tick

The clock stayed on the road, where nary a vehicle had disturbed it for years.

Tick.

The second hand struggled on the 47-second mark (T-t-t-t...) then fell back to number 44. Time continued without it.

The broken clock was sitting in the road. It had sailed there through Arthur's window where he had thrown it, rather heroically, when it had gone off that Saturday morning, rousing him from a fitful drunken slumber. Arthur didn't work Saturdays, and so therefore had no reason to be awake Saturday mornings, and even less reason to be awakened by the clarion call of the cursed alarm clock, but the clock had stubbornly refused to acknowledge that fact. Arthur hated the blasted thing. It would sound off repeatedly with no regard for his schedule, its willful digital belligerence alternately blaring him into wakefulness or startling him badly. He'd tried to destroy it many times now, but it would always wind up right back on his nightstand at the end of each day, good as new and waiting for an opportune moment to frazzle him again. At least he'd be able to get a little sleep this morning before the nightmare started again.

[sturmhauke]

Well I guess this got to be a bit long, but here goes:

---

The broken clock was sitting in the road. Alan's fingers curled and recurled around the sawed-off shotgun as he stepped carefully towards the corner, listening. Parts of the sign overhead had broken and fallen off, but enough remained to make out the word "MART". There might still be food or medicine inside, but there might also be other scavengers. The half-healed knife slash in Alan's forearm throbbed at that thought. He hoped to find a new first aid kit at least; the one in his backpack was running low.

Hearing nothing but the growing wind and his own heartbeat, Alan peered around the wall's edge. Glass shards glittered in the late afternoon light. Keychains, postcards, lottery tickets, and other useless things lay strewn about, memories of yesterday that seemed so remote now. Alan squinted down the street and saw more debris scattered here and there. He thought he saw a body also, but at this distance it was just a black silhouette.

Turning his attention back to the store and still hearing nothing, Alan moved around to the front. The door hung precariously from one hinge. From here he could only see broken shelves and trash. He held the shotgun out in front of him and slowly entered the store, trying not to crunch too loudly on bits of glass and paper. And then - a soft gasp, a flash of something pale in the darkness ahead.

Alan strode more quickly forward now, straining to look everywhere at once. The shotgun seemed slippery in his grasp. As he approached the ruined refrigerator cases, the stench of rotting milk hit him like a right cross. Gagging, he forced himself to stand straight again.

In that moment he met her gaze. Her eyes were pale blue crystals, frozen open in shock. Alan could guess what horrors she had seen. She was dirty and too thin, her dark hair lank and matted. He supposed she was a few years younger than him, which would make her about twenty. She might be pretty if she wasn't so gaunt and grimy. Of course, Alan wasn't much of a sight either, with his tattered sports jacket and sketchy beard.

"Don't come any closer." Her voice was thin and weak from disuse. Alan looked down then and saw the glint of metal in her hand - a revolver, maybe, though it wasn't pointed at him.

Forcing himself to ignore the stink, he raised one hand and lowered the shotgun with the other. "I don't want to hurt you, I'm just looking for a place to hole up for the night. I'm Alan."

She continued to stare at him, saying nothing. This could take a while, he thought.

[Zuul]

Dang, but you guys have some pathos going on in some of these. I like it!

Here's my effort:

***

The broken clock was sitting in the road. It had been wrapped in tinfoil and had a clothes hanger antenna attached to it. Several scratched CDs were hanging from the trees, sparkling in the wind like strange ornaments. A seemingly random collection of computer innards had been constructed into some sort of sculpture on the sidewalk. Little bits of copper wire connected all the pieces.

Beth and Joe silently picked things up, trying to move as quickly as possible before he came out. Before the sun came up. Before the neighbors saw.

"What's this one for?" Joe asked as he pulled down the CDs.

"He said bending light would bend time and power it."

They shoved the collection of orphaned motherboards and hard drives into the trash bag. "And this?"

"The computer, of course."

When Beth grabbed the clock to toss it into the bag, the tinfoil wrapping it tore and the clock tumbled free. It laid on the road, ticking, which surprised her since it had been broken the last time she saw it. In all his delusion, had her father managed to fix something?

"And that?"

"The 'time travel mechanism.'"

On closer look, it wasn't fixed after all. Somehow he'd managed to reverse all of its workings. The second hand ticked away from the five, back up towards the four.