August 2014 Story Postings

Word prompt story:  

Fifty-one   Torrent    Bodacious    Gutter    Flim-flam

Covenant    Alias     Apostle     Fleeting      Jackstand

Select 7 of the 10 words listed and craft a drama in three paragraphs.

Use the remaining 3 words in a short bio about you.

PLEASE NOTE: the photo with this page is not intended as a photo prompt, but if you wish to use it that is fine. If you do, please try to write a story that will stand alone without the help of the image. There is no judging or “winners” for this story.

 

10 thoughts on “August 2014 Story Postings”

  1. anonalana said:

    Prior to the summer of fifty-one, it was a safe time to raise a family – before the apex of post-war shysters and their torrents of flim-flam, get-rich schemes: chinchillas, minks, Japanese imports, and salvation.

    Tent-revival apostles using one alias or another began to creep from their carney tent environments onto the TV screen, offering viewers without hope or belief a covenant of salvation, regardless of how fleeting, in exchange for a few dollars, or less.

    Rarely less. Often more.

    .
    I am a writer with a bodacious appetite for the unusual, the sick, and the tormented. I prefer stories of the gutter over those of people propped up on ivory pedestals like Cadillacs on jackstands going nowhere.

  2. jeffswitt said:

    Fifty-One Shades

    The book taunted fifty shades, but there are actually fifty-one.

    I discovered fifty-one on a muggy Thursday night in April at Johnee’s Tavern, 6th at Rosedale, where I hooked up with two bodacious babes, one blonde, one black, both from the gutter of life. They said they were flight attendants named Bonnie and Trish, and I made up some flim-flam story about me. I, too, used an alias, and I didn’t use a credit card. I flashed a wad of green and bought them drinks and fed them Johnee’s famous burgers topped with slices of smoked onions and a tasty line of bullshit. They knew it was a torrent of lies, and they didn’t care. It’s how the game is played. We danced a lot. Me and Bonnie. Bonnie and Trish. Me and Bonnie and Trish. Bodies grinding. Mouths kissing. Hands groping. And a couple of white lines inhaled from the nape of Bonnie’s neck. What didn’t go up my nose, Trish lapped with her tongue. When our eyes were glazed and our bodies soaked with sweat, they took me to a room. Where, I don’t remember. My memory of what followed is fleeting. A thousand-piece puzzle with no straight edges, no corners to build from, and lots of missing pieces. That was four weeks ago.

    My wife finished the book yesterday. She read all fifty shades aloud to me in a scornful voice. None of them rang a bell.

    I am an apostle of the dark side of life with a personal covenant to write about what others might dare not, and a jackstand of support for those who refuse to scribble their words within the confines of other people’s lines.

  3. It was one-fifty-one in the morning when I heard the pounding rain as that bodacious storm struck, tearing the gutter from the side of the rig in one fleeting instant.

    They had named it Apostle, the first big storm of the season, and it was frighteningly powerful.

    It seemed the weather gods had made a covenant with the devil. There was a raging torrent strong enough to tear the jackstand from beneath our motor home. It looked as if river was running on both sides of our rig, and we knew we were going to have to evacuate, since there was no way we could drive through all that water. Holding tight to one another, we waded across the rushing water, losing our footing several times before reaching the safely of the camp store. There was another couple there who told us their rig had washed away just as they escaped.

    ~

    Feeling like a flim-flam artist disguised as a writer, I face this fleeting life with new enthusiasm, promising myself I’ll write every day. I’m Jeri, alias Meegiemom.

  4. Deck of Fifty-One

    We sat in my dimly-lighted motel room as a torrent of rain beat on the window. Through flashes of lightning, I watched neon pulse through the darkness of the most bodacious rainstorm of the year.

    I had two aces in the hole, a deuce-four-six-ten showing, and five Gs in hundreds stacked neatly in front of me. Landry showed king-jack-king-three. Big Wally didn’t have shit, two-four-ten-jack, and he kept looking at his hole cards. I had made a covenant with myself that if I got away with it, playing with a deck of fifty-one, missing the king of hearts, it would be for all their cash and my last game. The final deal came, cards down. I peered at a third ace through poker-face eyes, and gave the two players a grunt. Wally folded. Landry gave me a stare, looking for a tell. He bet, two thousand, cash pulled from his inside coat pocket. I called. We flipped our hole cards, my three aces shined. Landry spread his hand revealing four kings including the heart.

    I never saw his right hand go for the jackstand at his feet, but I screamed like a bitch as it slammed onto the table, crippling my hands which sat frozen on my cards. Landry scraped up his winnings and all my cash as well, while Wally laughed his ass off. As I stifled my screams of pain Wally said, “Get your ass out of here and don’t come back with your flim-flam game … if you want to live another day.” Wally opened the door while Landry shoved my on my face. Water poured over me from the swollen gutter above. I thought I heard laughter, and someone said “sucker,” as I tried to roll with the next blow.


    I am a writer who once had fleeting hopes of playing tournament poker; but after several losses I was forced to adopt an alias as praying for help from my favorite apostle fell on deaf ears.

    • Really good story Jeff. You worked the words in so well that I forgot they were a challenge, but instead seemed a necessary ingredient of your story. Just your usual run of the mill excellence.

  5. Aw, shucks, Jeri. you are way too kind, but thanks nontheless! Jeff

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