#SwiftFicFriday W87 – Vote!

#SwiftFicFriday W87 – Vote!

Another prompt, another round of great stories to choose from. Check the stories out below and vote for your favorite!

White Bread

In his twenties, close to the big 3 0, Lance Billows, trapped on the cliff of semi-self doubt about his lifes journey, decided to be a writer. By then, he had lived a relatively full life and by his measure it had been a emotional rollercoaster of heartbreak and romance. He’d been in love three times, twice with the same woman, and dumped three times, twice by the same woman.

With that lothario-light resume, and two complete cross country return train trips and one return bus trip to Moosejaw, Saskatchewan to catch a glimpse of the Mac the Moose monument, Lance figured he had the experiential cajones to craft a most exciting novel.

After a week of intense writer’s block, Lance decided that he needed some writing guidance. He went online and saw that Whitford Wonderly, the editor in chief of the bi- weekly Turnersville Times was offering a night school course on writing entitled, So, You Wanna Be a Writer. The course would begin in a week’s time. Lance signed up.

The 8 week, 2-hour course began at 7 the following Wednesday. Lance arrived at 6:00. It was a tad early. By 6:44, Lance was seated along with four other aspiring writers. At 6:45, Whit Wonderly, sporting a red beret and wearing jeans and a brown corduroy jacket and suede patches arrived.

Whit spent the two-hour introductory session talking about his first and only novel, written in the 1980’s and how it was mostly luck that determined a best seller. His main point: you have to write what you know, who you are. No expropriating other lives. Keep it real.

At that moment, Lance felt the weight of his dull genetic code.

He was white bread all the way.

There was no other way to slice it.

300 words by Bill Engleson, @billmelaterplea

Karl Victorien stopped the three-quarter-ton pickup with one hand and allowed it to drop to the pavement next to him. Alert for any more airborne automobiles, he frowned at his singed sleeve.

“Should we be doing something about that?” Karl nodded toward the source of the downtown destruction.

Caldwell Keller called back from under the exposed wires of another truck’s steering column.

“Normally I’d say yes. The bounty on Tiny is huge. But we should’ve been on our way to Europe hours ago, and Boss Lady says a cleanup crew is already en-route.”

Caldwell extricated himself from under the dashboard to rev the engine.

“Should you be doing that?”

“What’s a little expropriation in an emergency? Way I see it, vehicle might not survive the rampage anyway.” Caldwell climbed into the driver’s seat. “Now, where’s Wenona?”

It only took the men a moment to spy their wolf-pelt-wearing associate dashing up the broken street toward the giant clown ripping the city apart with his bare hands.

“What’s she doing?!”

The fatty parade balloon-like monstrosity turned on the wolf girl, distorted helium laughter cycling as from a broken voice box. Karl pinched the bridge of his nose regretfully.

“Our oversized adversary may remind her of myself.”

Wenona effortlessly leapt nine vertical feet to the clown’s eye level then rushed through midair to smash her palm heel into his honking red nose. Briefly blinded, Tiny howled and flailed for Wenona with meaty arms. Digging her claws into his wrist, she rode his punch out and back again to plant both feet in his face. From there Wenona balanced a rapid bicycle kick on the mad clown’s mug until the giant was laid low.

Caldwell whistled, “What’s she got against you?”

“She feels my father expropriated her forest.”

294 words, by David A Ludwig, @DavidALudwig

Unbreakable Rules

“Tell me.” My client resumes his seat. His drink already in his hand. “Do people like you, have rules they live by?”

“When was the last time you met a thief who followed the rules?”

He swirls the remains of his whiskey around the offensive ice cube. “I mean codes of honour.”

“The Robin Hood style crap? Only the bad ones.” I check my watch, hoping he’ll get the hint.

“Pity.” He takes a sip. “I always saw something romantic in it.” The rich clients always say that. Probably helps smooth their souls after they pay you to steal something which will ruin God knows how many lives. They’ll call it something else, borrow, expropriate, transfer, but it all means the same thing. If you ain’t handing it out, you are receiving it. Brutally but true.

His drink, empty, returns to the table for the last time. I count down from five and get to three.

“Here.” From his suit jacket, he hands me an envelope. “Everything’s in there apart from the payment. I swap that for the files.”

“Always fifty per cent up front.”

“Not with me.” He flashes his teeth as if he is a Rottweiler. They’re fake, he’d barely beat a chihuahua with those.

“You sure?” I offer him a final out. Always be polite as mother used to say.


I pick up the envelope and walk out. The conversation is clearly over. Brushing past his jacket, I take his credit card as well.

248 words, by Stephen Shirres, (@The_Red_Fleece)

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