The conversation since Monday has been excellent, I think. Thanks to those of you who contributed, both from the religious and non-religious sides. Thanks also for keeping it civil.
But it's been a heavy sort of conversation, all this existence-of-God stuff. Let's do something fun, OK?
My favorite contests here are always the five-sentence story contests. I'm always pleasantly surprised at the quality of the writing. Surprise me again, please.
Please take a look at this recent photo:
This is a Five-Sentence Scary Story Contest. Your job is to come up with a creative and frightening story to explain this photo (please submit your story via comment), while adhering to the following five rules.
Rule #1: It doesn't have to have anything to do with the actual real-life subject/explanation of the photo.
Rule #2: It has to involve a character nicknamed "Hambone."
Rule #3: Why "Hambone"? Because it's a silly name, and I want to see how you turn a funny nickname into something scary.
Rule #4: Your story must contain five sentences. No more. No less.
Rule #5: Your story must be frightening, moody, mysterious, or otherwise scary in tone.
The winner gets a choice: Either you get a free signed copy of Pocket Guide to the Afterlife. Or you get a free Certain Sons of Belial t-shirt in whatever size you prefer (Adult S, M, L, XL).
The contest will last until 9 am central time tomorrow, at which point I'll choose my favorite five-sentence submission. To get things started, my own submission is below. (Don't worry, though. I refuse to pick myself as the winner, except in my daily morning ritual which has nothing to do with this contest.)
--------------------
The snow was deep. Too deep, Hambone thought to himself, as he steered his ancient Corolla into the ghostly white beyond, where the drifts met the sky. Last night, the storm had ravaged these wheat fields with a blizzard for the ages. But the frigid cold was nothing compared to the arctic chill he felt in the pit of his stomach. Or, to be more accurate, to the left and right of his stomach, where his kidneys had been.
--------------------
Need inspiration? Here are my previous Five-Sentence contests:
+ The inaugural Five-Sentence Scary Story contest
+ The Five-Sentence Romantic Story contest
+ The Five-Sentense Suspenseful Story contest (with shark)
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Five-Sentence Scary Story Contest: Snow
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
25 comments:
Her car slowed to a hault like a dying heartbeat up that slippery slope. Fargo, the nearest town; was over 50 miles away and she hadn't saw a car for the past 20.
Bloodlust was beginning to set in and Hambone had succumb by gnawing at Tommy's bloody flesh in the back seat. Getting him to the hospital was out of the question, Since the gas tank was now empty and Tommy's corpse was whiter than the snow that towered around them. Should she silence the grumbling in her stomach by resorting to what Hambone was already feasting on?
It wasn’t the first time he made this trip. Hambone had spent many hours up and down the Moses Mile. This was the first time, however, in the winter and he realized that without the fear of the walls of water consuming his vehicle, the excitement was gone. So, with his gas tank nearly empty, Hambone decided to fashion some ski’s out of the pines up the road. He knew it would be at least a few more hours before the Egyptians would be right on his tail.
The panicked 2am escape seemed surreal on the one day of the year where the sun never sets, but it was no less terrifying. The thug behind me had specific orders from Hambone to either get his money or my body and I wasn't willing to give up either. Just as I thought I had lost him, I came to a steep incline that may as well have been a mountain for my pitiful all-seasons. Suddenly I heard a sharp popping sound and watched in my review mirror as the road behind me began to collapse. My relief was replaced with dread as my car stalled out and began sliding back toward the ever-widening abyss...
Twenty-eight hours ago, Hambone never figured he'd be in this situation - 1,200 miles from Port Canaveral Florida, in the middle of nowhere Minnesota in January, a rental car running on fumes, and a young woman stuffed into the trunk. He and his wife had enjoyed a three-day Carnival cruise to the Bahamas while Grandma watched their two children back in Michigan, but he had his eye on a young single woman the entire three days. At the Orlando airport, Hambone ditched his wife by excusing himself to the bathroom and then, sneaking around the corner, convinced the single woman from the cruise, Jennifer, to come with him on a road trip. They rented a car, and after stopping for dinner at a skeezy truck-stop in Kentucky, he overpowered her and duct-taped her mouth, wrists, and ankles. Now, with the muffled moans for help coming from the trunk of his rent-a-car, Hambone prayed - yes, prayed - for a way out of this mess...or at least a gas station in the next five miles and that the remainder of his cash would last until they hit Canada in the middle of the night.
Hambone looked out the window and cursed the empty driveway. He fumbled with the lighter in his hand, no longer interested in his morning cigarette. As the flames spread from her pillow to his, he wondered if he should call in sick.
On the outskirts of town, the masked man stroked her ear with the barrel of his shotgun.
"Perfect day for a long winter's drive," he grinned.
It seemed strange that this road was the one that Hambone had recommended. The frigid air outside the car did nothing to alleviate the perspiration that was now burning my eyes. I strained to focus on the white path ahead, but could not shake the image of her eyes pleading with me as she took her last stifled breath. The duffel full of unmarked bills that was riding shotgun did little to relieve the anxiety I felt as I came to a stop. I knew at that moment, as Hambone approached, that I no longer needed to worry about getting caught, but instead about making peace with my maker.
"C'mon, Hambone, you can make it!, I yelled. But the combination of ice, incline and balding tires was too much for her aging V6 and we careened backwards down the hill and her engine stalled. The sun would be setting soon and if I got stuck out here it would be a long walk back to town. I could already hear wolves in the distance. Could I tough it out in the car until morning?
As I tried to pinpoint the location of the smoke rising above the neighborhood, I saw him running and wearing what seemed to be a bloody University of Montana sweatshirt, but I didn’t see his face due to the hood. I know he had a camera because I would recognize that Canon X70 anywhere; I own one myself. A week later, a friend of mine who works at a printing shop, told me about this kooky, hooded individual who came in to develop these unconventional pictures and signed his name as “Hambone”. The pictures were of a burning tree house, a crowded playground, and this picture of a car stalled between snow banks. If only I knew of these photos when the police questioned me about the two decapitated bodies found in a white car on Porkchop Pass and the missing toddler; the day I saw the hooded man running towards the 1st street playground.
Wow. These are really grim. Shudder. (Good job, everyone!)
Each snowflake fell slowly, silently, adding its own microscopic mass to the already infinite depth of the surrounding white. Hambone watched from his perch in the tree, his breath shallow, his heart barely beating, as the small car struggled through the blinding snow. He hadn't eaten in five days. His naked and distorted frame could no longer feel the cold as the car finally slowed to a dead stop. He licked his lips.
Hambone suddenly realized something was terribly wrong when the icy road caused his car to start sliding slowly backward. He quickly put down his cellphone and Big Mac only to realize his hands, covered in secret sauce, were not able to grip the steering wheel. "OH GREAT BALLS OF SNOW!" shouted Hambone as he frantically checked his rearview mirror and searched for a napkin. Luckily, there were no cars behind him at this time but, he realized this could change at any moment. Hambone shivered as he recalled the last words of warning his wife gave him as he left the house that morning.
The northern village of Hambone, Saskatchewan, had just experienced its highest recorded snowfall, totaling over 5 feet over just one day, followed by its lowest recorded temperature, well below -50 degrees.
Mr. Johnson had spent better part of the last two days shoveling snow off his driveway, freezing off both of his earlobes in the process, then lost half a pinky while desperately trying to start his old, rusty sedan - only to get stuck thirty feet from his yard, on a gentle but quite slippery slope. Quite visibly upset, Mr. Johnson first walked, then, after being bitten on the shin by a rabid badger, limped the remaining 50 yards to the general store.
He was frostbitten, bleeding profusely, suffering from hypothermia, blood poisoning and quite possibly rabies, and he had less body parts properly attached to his body than he had had before leaving his house. Therefore, it was perhaps understandable that on the one to ten scale of humanly possible rage, Mr. Johnson recorded a strong eleven, right after being told the store was all out of Twinkies.
(I know it's not a character named "Hambone", but I have a bad habit of stretching creative rules)
An infinite gorge ahead of me and a trail of bad memories behind. Even further behind, the one they called "Hambone" looking to get the sweet desert of revenge. As I sped up the car, I remembered all the bad decisions that had led me to this moment; from Evel Knievel to the "strawberry" pop-tarts, and felt my eyes turn to a fiery red. Pressin my foot to the gas pedal I had come to my last resort, either complete this mad dash to freedom or be crushed by the gargantuan tires of "Rollin and Tumblin." As I looked out the rear view mirror, hoping to catch my last glimpse of the so-called solution to all my troubles, my heart dropped as the battle axe came flying from the driver's side of Rollin and Tumblin and was on a crash course for my skull.
"No, honey I don't mind picking up some Taco Bell.
You're nine months pregnant and you deserve to have whatever you want whenever you want it.
I know it's been snowing and the buildings are covered in snow, but I would do anything for you and little Hambone junior."
Car stalls and dies as the radio dee jay anounces that a serial killer is on the loose in that area.
But really, what's scarier, a serial killer, or my wife if I can't make it back with her Taco Bell?
John loved his girlfriend Connie more than she could ever love him back and they both knew this was the reason that she had cheated on him.
As they slowly drove along the snow covered back road the night appeared darker than usual as the snow banks rose higher, swallowing their existence whole if only for that night; and John was counting on it. The unusually mild-mannered John looked at Connie in the pale moonlight that night with love so fierce that it immediately became an urge to repossess the heart that he had surrendered to her which he believed was hidden deep within her own heart and so he lunged at her, her scream muffled by the sound of the snowstorm.
In the morning all the police found was the pearl-colored four door vehicle covered in snow containing the dead body of Connie Young, girlfriend to John Spellman aka Hambone, the murderous lover of five separate women who had failed to love him to his desired standard. Within the apple sized cavity created by johns own hands was a note that read: My search for a woman that matches my love is far from over so please expect to find as many women as it takes – Hambone.
"Hey Hambone," I shouted cheerfully, foot pressing the accelerator into the floor of the car, "some pickle we've gotten ourselves into out here the snow, eh?"
I hadn't prepared for the rough Manitoba winter, and had foolishly assumed that All Weather tires would do the trick in, well, all weather.
"Ah well, it'll be a story to tell the grand kids, eh Hambone?"
Hambone didn't respond; he was bound and gagged in the trunk, of course.
I giggled as the tires spun.
Since snow in Tennessee is such an uncommon occurrence, Hambone took this opportunity to dispose of the evidence he’s harbored for so long. He thought to himself; “White car with a full trunk headed to a white grave, this will be an ending they’ll never forget!” He put down his cigarette and in a continual motion picked up the Big Mac sitting on his passenger seat. He ate that sandwich as though it were the last meal he would ever enjoy. With one last sigh, Hambone threw the car in drive, gunned it up the hill and thought to himself; “I may not be the luckiest man who has lived, but today, I am the smartest.”
Methusela had begged his older brothers for a nickname, but hadn’t expected it to be something as lame as “Hambone,” which sounded so trite, so very porcine. Soon enough, Methusela thought, he’d be free from this condescending dump, this frigid wasteland, and out on his own. He was the most handsome of the whole lot, according to the judges, and he was Mrs. Holland’s favorite. Suddenly, the barn door flew open to the sound of the other pigs squealing, and Methusela spotted the rancher wielding his meat cleaver and shouting, “Dang woman, wreck my car – I’ll show her what’s for dinner! Wher zat dang show pig?!”
Who would nickname a car, Hambone?
Seriously, he thought, as the grrr, grrrrr, grrrrrrr, of the dying battery mocked him as he sat transfixed, looking at the hula girl dashboard figurine slowly completing another revolution around the broken rearview mirror from which he could see the very odd dwarflike man he'd met just 30 minutes earlier when he stopped at his house in response to the Craigslist ad for a 'good runner' of a car that he liked to call Hambone.
Now, out to nearly heck-and-back, the 'good runner' could hardly make it up the long ditch dug between the snowbanks of the hill country near Branson where the freak storm had deposited 8 feet of snow in just a few hours.
Every light on the dashboard glowed red as he tried again to get the engine to fire, but it wasn't going to happen for either him or the man who now was rummaging through a bag while muttering to himself.
He finally found what he was looking for and let a small cackle of glee escape his pursed lips as he leaned forward into the front seat, past the stunned driver who let a slow moan escape his own lips as the potato man jammed an 8 track of Bobby McFerrin's Greatest Hits into the stereo.
Hambone is what they call him, a hermit who is rumored to roam these lands. Why Hambone? Because a hambone is what he uses to subdue his hapless victims. If this is true, then I may be the next victim, stuck out here in this wintery wasteland.....What was that noise?!
She remembered the nauseating transit: weightlessness, the endless spinning, the darkness; he remembered the THUD!
Hours, days or light years away, when Maria and Hambone regained consciousness, spared not from a bump or two from the journey, in raspy voices they muttered what could be only interpreted as, “Where are we?” And not a moment passed before they began screaming other words – cold! cold! – and scratching at the seats, the doors, the floors and then each other. That white stuff surrounding them and their coupe seemed to possess something unnatural, something utterly foreign and ethereal with the power to freeze and to chill, not like the white stuff from their own land, but something ... alien.
They kept screaming and screaming and screaming in fear, as all Mercurians do on their first venture outward, until finally they passed out in shock, locking Maria and Hambone in terrestrial soap suds called snow.
When Hambone's otherwise nightmare of a wife unexpectedly gave him a GPS and a "surprise trip because she loved him", the only explanation that came to mind was that she was on day 3 of the Love Dare. He trusted her, and so although he wasn't familiar with this route, he got into the passenger seat and allowed her to drive to what he figured was a couples massage or better yet, Home Depot. But after passing the last town an hour ago, it seemed like she had more of a nature theme in mind when she stopped at the top of a ridge and told him they were at their destination. With his peg leg as a constant reminder of his time off at war, she knew he couldn't walk well, especially not on ice, but as he hobbled towards the back of the car he couldn't wait to see what she had planned! Seconds later, after she dashed back into the car and pulled away, he realized that his marriage, and probably his life, was over.
After the cross-hairs were set, the brain matter was splattered, and the cigarette was lit, Mr. Shifty removed himself from his perch. When he was below the barns roof, the attempt to remove his blade from its sheath was failed, due to frost, and the thought of not being able to mutilate his victim’s goat, infuriated him so much, that he removed his coveralls. After noticing that my mother’s panties would not be appropriate attire for the ritual act of his Earth Day sacrifice; he removed them. I could tell Hambone enjoyed being naked in front of me, but what bothered me most, was watching how affectionate he was with his kill. Every April 22nd, as I give my mother a sponge bath, I am reminded how I lost my father and why I am missing my left pinky.
Post a Comment