Messages

Pity there's no shot from Blazing Saddles with Mel Brooks riding a horse, but the two Mels probably wouldn't get along all that well, anyway.

You mean the famous one from 1994, right? Oh, Maverick, will you never learn? 

Well, he was blue in the face in both scenes, so close enough.

Yup, as the thread title says, the theme is whatever you want, no word limit.

We've had open rounds before, and I thought it's been a while so about time for another.

Remember to stay honest and write a story within the set time limit, not just copy/paste one you have already written. We are on the honor system here.

FREEEDOM! (Just imagine Mel on his horse, I can't be bothered hosting one)

Open until end of day, August 4th.

Oh, cool!. I will get a new round up now!

Baron:

Spoiler

Great stuff. Kept me reading at a breakneck pace. Loved the convoluted ways the officers got injured and the broom closet "exploration" got a chuckle from me.

[close]

Sinitrena:

Spoiler

Excellent and touching story. I think everyone probably has this kind of thing in their lives where they wonder what it would have been like with another partner, and you handled those feelings in the story very well. This one got my vote.

[close]

brushfe:

Spoiler

Wonder short little story. Nice foreshadowing at the start of something sensational happening down the line. Chilling ending where we find out we are listening to a recording. Really neat!

[close]

Jailed Fortune

     

Spoiler

      I wallow in a jail cell, my punishment far outweighing what I still refuse to call my crime.  It's been almost a decade since my incarceration.  The time has flown by, as if someone had their unaware heel on the fast-forward button of a carelessly dropped remote that just happened to be pointed at the TV.

      That's what my whole life has felt like, to be honest: one long, static-barred fast-forward on a TV screen, one that I barely knew I owned, with a heel always pushing down on me.  The solid steel door opens.  The guards in their riot armor have their guns trained on me against their shoulders, each crab-stepping to opposite sides of the doorway, faces invisible behind black plastic curves.

      Am I really that dangerous?

      Between them, walks in the priest.  Some things never change, it seems.  I hold out a palm at him, fingers spread.  He nods sadly and turns away.  I don't need his last rites.  I close my eyes and focus.  I don't want to be conscious for my execution as they pick me up under my armpits and drag me out the door and down the industrial-green corridor to where I know the killing machine waits, squat and purposeful, in the room at the end of the hall.  I find peace.  My mind goes back:

      This feels more real:  It's nine years earlier.  I wake up in a bed.  My eyes snap open at a sharp, cracking sound and the ceiling is on fire with swirls of violet and yellow light.  I'm grabbed under the armpits again and dragged toward a door I cannot understand the physical reality of.

   
      At this point in my scrawlings, I'm gonna let you off the hook and write down what I am and what led me to this outcome.  Because I have to leave soon.  Never mind my name, call me Joe, if that helps.  If you are reading this, you found it behind the air-conditioning grate of this awful room.  If you're a cleaner, get some of the dust caked in there out, please, for the sake of humanity!  It's an inch thick!


      Here I go, then: The first time it happened, I was eight years old.  I woke up just knowing that my little sister, Deirdre, was going to stub her toe on the corner of the stove, and start squealing.  So, I saved her.  I was there to pull her away right before the moment when it would have happened.  How did I know my dream was real?  Well, in it, I'd seen her wobble into the kitchen and pick up speed, then she turned.  Her plump little fingers of one hand, outstretched at the edge of balance, had clipped the hindquarters of "Chief", our tabby, who had jumped right off the chair he'd been on, onto the breakfast table, spilling dad's cereal bowl.  Dad had sworn a bad word.  Mum had looked over cross at him, then'd stood and gone for a sponge.  As she'd raced around the table, one of her hands on the edge on the tablecloth at one corner had slipped, and she'd clutched the cloth and dragged everything down on top of her as she went down on her butt with an 'OOMPH!".  So, I woke up, raced down the staircase, not having seen myself in the dream; I wasn't destined to be there.  I guess I was still supposed to be dozing upstairs. And that's how I managed to pull my sister away from the fate of a painful stubbed toe.  Nobody noticed my heroism, of course, what with dad helping mum up from the floor, both of them laughing, mum's hair full of cornflakes and milk, tablecloth still draped off one shoulder, Chief long gone out the cat flap.  My parents hugging far above, me hugging little Deirdre while she struggled in my much larger grasp, trying to bite my face.

     
      I really have to leave soon, but I'll keep writing, because why the fuck didn't I get to see Deirdre die in a car crash ten years later?  All I'd been able to do was cheat on a few answers on some tests in middle school and predict the number Mr. Hill wrote on the board when I wasn't supposed to be paying attention.  Seeing that number nine, or whatever, in the dream didn't even help, because the dream warned me to pay attention anyway.  What a useless gift!  I'm so sorry, sis.


      FUCK!  Then, up through high school, there were quite a few, admittedly explosive, dreams that taught me a bit about the proper finger work needed in the backseats of cars with girls, each girl's bits needing different strokes.  I guess that was what you'd call the hot streak of my physic career?  I peaked at wet dreams?!

      And, I really need to stop writing this shit.  But there's still a bit of midnight coffee left in the cup, and I really want to try to tell someone, even if it's just a cleaner who throws these papers away in the trash at a glance, what it's like to have a superpower that only shows you trivial crap.

      Here's a brief list of people I've 'saved':

      Some guy who was about to pay a dodgy mechanic five-hundred bucks for putting in a faulty transmission.  Told him he was being ripped off.  He got it down to a hundred bucks for consultation fees.  Not like I even saw he'd die in a car crash later, so fucking sorry, sis, down the line or anything.  Just ended up saving the guy four-hundred.

      I once pushed a lady to the side who was about to walk into an opening door.  Got a punch in the face myself for that one.  Crossed the country for that.

      Paul (the dream had provided a glimpse of his passport as he'd boarded the plane for Thailand).  He was one of the very few out of inconsequential hundreds that I knew the name of.  Can't complain that much, really, though.  I would have never gone to Thailand otherwise, and the food was amazing.  Paul still caught a very minor STD anyway, just a different one from a different boy.

      So, yeah, there's actually another really good one that I even went to Iceland for, but time is running short, I'm about to be put to death, but yeah, that was me, the globetrotting superhero, saving folk from the only minor accidents my powers allow me to see.  Why did I even bother?  Because I could, all right?  I was the only one who could!  Shut up!

      The reason for my upcoming execution was just another case of many: 

      Yeah, I call these things "cases"; I even have a corkboard on my wall back home in my superhero-styled "b'what?-cave" room with various colored yarn connecting pins stabbed in sketches and notes.  It's all I have to justify this compulsion every time I wake up from one of these fucking dreams.  Anyway, this one was a guy in Florida who was gonna burn his toast beyond redemption five days from then.  He didn't have another slice of bread in the house, and would have gone to work hungry.  YES, these are the exact kind of EMERGENCIES my superpower warms me of constantly. I was in Paris at the time, saving a kid from getting splashed from a puddle by a passing car.  But, yeah, I made it there to Florida on a maze of connecting flights, two days ahead of time.  Now, I'm a professional by now, as you can imagine, so it was a simple task to just buy an extra loaf of bread from his local 7-11, lockpick my way into his house while he was away, and plant the bread in his cupboard next to the one that would run out two days later.  I'm SO DONE by now with talking to people face-to-face.  Got that broken nose that time from doing that.

      When I stood trial for 'time-crimes', after being dragged and ripped through the horizontally swirling violet-and-yellow tornado at the foot of my bed by black-armor clad, plastic-visored brutes, in this very motel room, the prosecution started out with some legal babble about how psychics were some anomaly that science and the law didn't fully understand yet, but were some kind of world-destroying paradox.  The evidence stacked up against me in the case of the guy whose toast I'd prevented burning going on his way to work fifteen minutes later, stomach satisfied.  Because of this, the scar-faced lawyer, burns having seemed to have melted half a cheek halfway downward, spoke out his closing statement:

      "The accused is obviously guilty.  By allowing the zero-subject, Person A, to leave his house a quarter of an hour later with a full stomach, this caused the traffic accident at the intersection of Helm and Justin to occur.  Person B, a child passenger in the afflicted car, was killed.  Person B would have grown up to become a serial killer, killing Persons C, D, and E through M, as you can see on the monitor chart-web.  Person J, here...," and the prosecutor waved his VirtuaWand at the screen, drawing circles around the relevant boxes of the web of names, "...now lived, instead of dying, going on to found a bakery that produced a bad hotdog, here, that caused Person O to get sick and take a day off work, which made his Secret Service brother, Person P, lose concentration in a Presidential briefing.  The momentary fact he missed was a minor point, just a peanut allergy, of Person Q, here, but Q died at a politically funded event down the timeline, here, from eating a Thai shish kabab that was supposed to be only miso-coated.  Because of his death, Person R, his wife made a speech at his funeral that annoyed Person S, the deceased's sister who went home with a headache instead of stopping at Home Depot and buying the faulty electric stove that would later, instead, be shipped to Person T,  a gas station attendant who had to put out a housefire instead of manning the pumps, which caused Person U to have to wait and not attend the vital talks that would allow a rat infestation bill to be passed in Congress.  Two decades later, Person X, the President of the United States, eyes bloodshot, mouth foaming with rabies, would launch nuclear strikes on a whim and that's why we, People Z, are living in this unintended radioactive wasteland.  ALL BECAUSE OF THIS ONE MAN!" and he stabbed a finger over at me.

      Thankfully, finally, my lame superpower had found its back foot on the starting block for a running head start.  The dream I'd woken up with, the one I fast-forwarded through like a heel on a remote in the middle of the night, made me pen this, and yeah, years of experience and meticulous scribbling made me a stickler for detail.

      I know I still have time to stash these papers in the air-conditioning grate and go on the run before the violet-and-yellow portal opens at the foot of the shitty motel bed I was supposed to be asleep in when they'll arrive to take me.

      Wish me luck.  I love whoever you are.  There's a tip enclosed

[close]

First draft of mine done. Will let it simmer a few days and then get it ready to post.

Bloody brilliant theme, well presented!

@Sinitrena The difference in that one other sentence is not really worth any thesis-writing: it's just that the long, complex numbers involved in the counting couldn't make the story end up at the wordcount needed to be exactly double the short version.

Votes (for now, to make deadline)

Short
1st: "My name is John, and I'm a clone." by Stupot
2nd: "Lejeune Landing" by brushfe

Double
1st: "Lejeune Landing" by brushfe
2nd: "The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity" by Mandle

(First time in FWC history where it's acceptable (even necessary) to vote for one's own story? I chose the one that has zero chance of winning. I mean, by that logic, I could have just left it blank, but this seemed like too historic a moment to miss out on.)

My second entry, where I have disregarded the word-count for syllable-count, instead, under my FWC-certified poetic license:

HIGH COUP


17-syllable version:

Spoiler

Abraham spoke out,
Slavery needing crushing,
His face growing grim.

[close]

34-syllable version:

Spoiler

Trump sat, TV on,
Ass-groove of sofa fitting,
His face all agrin.

His tin soldiers fought,
Crushing, doubting their reloads,
As the slaves pushed in.

[close]

The Stupid Things They Have Us Do in Hell to Pass Eternity

600-word version:

Spoiler

      So, there I was, recently dead, at the doors of hell.  The gatekeeper, a guy with each half of his two heads slewing off in magma eruptions of boiling flesh, for whatever sins he had committed in his long-ago life, pushed a flier into my hand.  I read it:

"WELCOME TO HELL.  WE APPRECIATE YOUR EFFORTS.  YOUR FIRST TASK:  FOR EVERY PIECE OF LITTER YOU THREW AWAY IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE, YOU MUST PICK UP ONE BILLION.  NO TONGS ALLOWED.  YOU CAN ONLY BEND FROM THE SPINE.  AND YOU MUST KEEP COUNT."

      I scanned down to the bottom of the page.  I had thrown away 1674 pieces of garbage, anywhere from burger wrappers to cigarette butts, it seemed. 

      So, I started down the edges of parks and roads they had set out for me:

      "One... Two... Three...," my back already hurt, but I continued on through, stuffing bits of trash into the bottomless bag, "two-hundred-and-five... two-hundred-and-six," until I finally lost count around the three-thousand mark.

      So, I started over.  I got to just before five-hundred-thousand the next time, if I remember right, before I miscounted on an orange peel and the demon overseers dragged me screaming back to the start with their many, many limbs.

      Forever later, not having had a single bite of food or drop of drink in several millennia, I miscounted "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-two," when it should have been "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-three."

      They dragged me back to the start, again.  Fuck, my back hurt as I began over: "One... Two... Three... Four... Five...."  I once got up above a trillion after a million or so more attempts, before I flubbed a number again.  I think it might have been on, "One trillion, three-hundred and sixty-five billion, nine-million and forty-five thousand, three-hundred and seventy-one."  That time I flubbed it by misspeaking the "billion" part as "sixty-fife" instead of "sixty-five" through a slip of my parched tongue, for fucks sake.

      Now, I'm on my something-billionth or trillionth run.  So many runs before this ended just because of me saying "Fuck this!" or "Screw you!" in the early hundred-millions or billions, back when I was a newbie and thought I didn't care if this ever ended or not.

      But now I really care, as I approach the goal, trying really hard this time not to flub a single line:

      "One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine..."

      The demon overseers gather in on me, flaming tentacles racing across the tarmac, hot bubbling asphalt in their wake, their millions of eyes intent on me, as I finally utter, "One trillion six hundred forty-seven billion," flawlessly.

      A guy I'd spoken briefly with a few million times, in passing, flies by above, dragged across the flaming sky on the impossible wings of his captors, giving me a thumbs-up and shouting down something I can't hear, but smiling.

      He's happy at least, and I am, too, as an icy spider-claw hands me the next letter of instruction.  It reads:

"HELL HERE, AGAIN.  MUCH LOVE.  YOUR SECOND TASK:  FOR EVERY PERSON YOU EVER LIED TO, YOU MUST TELL A BILLION OTHERS ONE UNIQUE AND ABSOLUTE TRUTH.  NO DOUBLING UP!"

      I turn around and there's a line of people right in front of me, reducing off into the distance.  I tell the first lady, "Coffee is good for you in moderation."

      The line shuffles and reforms.

[close]

1200-word version:

Spoiler

      So, there I was, recently dead, at the doors of hell.  The gatekeeper, a guy with each half of his two heads slewing off in magma eruptions of boiling flesh, for whatever sins he had committed in his long-ago life, pushed a flier into my hand.  I read it:

"WELCOME TO HELL.  WE APPRECIATE YOUR EFFORTS.  YOUR FIRST TASK:  FOR EVERY PIECE OF LITTER YOU THREW AWAY IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE, YOU MUST PICK UP ONE BILLION.  NO TONGS ALLOWED.  YOU CAN ONLY BEND FROM THE SPINE.  AND YOU MUST KEEP COUNT."

      I scanned down to the bottom of the page.  I had thrown away 1674 pieces of garbage, anywhere from burger wrappers to cigarette butts, it seemed. 

      So, I started down the edges of parks and roads they had set out for me:

      "One... Two... Three...," my back already hurt, but I continued on through, stuffing bits of trash into the bottomless bag, "two-hundred-and-five... two-hundred-and-six," until I finally lost count around the three-thousand mark.

      So, I started over.  I got to just before five-hundred thousand the next time, if I remember right, before I miscounted on an orange peel and the demon overseers dragged me screaming back to the start with their many, many limbs.

      Forever later, not having had a single bite of food or drop of drink in several millennia, I miscounted "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-two," when it should have been "five billion, three-hundred and twenty-two million, seven-thousand and thirty-three."

      They dragged me back to the start, again.  Fuck, my back hurt as I began over: "One... Two... Three... Four... Five...."  I once got up above a trillion after a million or so more attempts, before I flubbed a number again.  I think it might have been on, "One trillion, three-hundred and sixty-five billion, nine-million and forty-five thousand, three-hundred and seventy-one."  That time I flubbed it by misspeaking the "billion" part as "sixty-fife" instead of "sixty-five" through a slip of my parched tongue, for fucks sake.

      Now, I'm on my something-billionth or trillionth run.  So many runs before this ended just because of me saying "Fuck this!" or "Screw you!" in the early hundred-millions or billions, back when I was a newbie and thought I didn't care if this ever ended or not.

      But now I really care, as I approach the goal, trying really hard this time not to flub a single word, my future on the line:

      "One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and sixty-nine... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy ... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-one... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-two... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-three... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-four... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and seventy-nine... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-one... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-two... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-three... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-four... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-nine... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-one... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-two... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-three... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-four... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-five... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-six... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight... One trillion six hundred forty-six billion nine hundred ninety-nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine..."

      The demon overseers gather in on me, flaming tentacles racing across the tarmac, hot bubbling asphalt in their wake, their millions of eyes intent on me, as I finally utter, "One trillion six hundred forty-seven billion," flawlessly.

      A guy I'd spoken briefly with a few million times, in passing, flies by above, dragged across the flaming sky on the impossible wings of his captors, giving me a thumbs-up and shouting down something I can't hear, but smiling.

      He's happy at least, and I am, too, as an icy spider-claw hands me the next letter of instruction.  It reads:

"HELL HERE, AGAIN.  MUCH LOVE.  YOUR SECOND TASK:  FOR EVERY PERSON YOU EVER LIED TO, YOU MUST TELL A BILLION OTHERS ONE UNIQUE AND ABSOLUTE TRUTH.  NO DOUBLING UP!"

      I turn around and there's a line of people right in front of me, reducing off into the distance.  I tell the first lady, "Coffee is good for you in moderation."

      The line shuffles and reforms.

[close]

Ah, I think maybe the "write the same story again with double the words" might be better as an additional challenge, rather than mandatory. Maybe it could decide tiebreakers if it comes down to that?

Because, I for one, will NOT be writing the same story twice. Honestly, I can't imagine anything more tedious. Even writing the long version first and then paring it down to half means so much planned filler that it makes my head spin.

EDIT: After my initial response, I see there are ways to make this work and for it to be interesting for both the writer and the reader. All good. (The double-story part might still work better as an optional step, though)

Sorry, I'm the straggler. Here's my votes:

Spoiler

1st: ABC on the Line by Sinitrena
2nd: The Intern by glurex

[close]

One brief note:

Spoiler

I really expected Sini's story to end with the kids going away to play at the fair, and the teacher having to break up four of them lined up at a shooting gallery because passers-by where laughing... and the C,F,K, and U students going away confused at why they got called out.

[close]

['Come as is']

COME AS IS

Spoiler

      The sign on the seedy motel placard was hard to read, the neons behind it buzzing and blinking.  What Simon could make out read: "Faux Reunion", but there was a dark line between, where the tubes must have fizzled.  He had no idea what a reunion of foxes meant.  Whoever planned this was a moronic speller.  Or probably one of those arts graduates trying to do everything in French.  Looked like fucking French for "fox".
    He got his wife and kids out of the car.  Had to slap Jason round the head a bit.  Seven years old and still reaching back, whining for his plushie to take with him: "Mr. Winton"; what kind of name was that for a kid's stupid support toy?
    "Aw, grow up, you little fuck," Simon said, missing the final slap as his kid ducked.  Had his dad's sports' reflexes, at least.  Simon's eyes almost attempted pride, but then he looked over at where his daughter was headed and shouted, "FUCK, Fiona!  The retard's getting away!"
    He turned away from his wife scrambling across the tarmac, chasing down Lia, and back to the motel itself.  The drive-in reception window was dark.  Probably run by immigrants.  Only eight o'clock and already slacking off.  Turning his head on its pillar neck, he saw that the main entrance was lit up, though.  Between rows of dark windows, the entrance to the motel's conference hall was ablaze with light.  Was it even too much light?  Were those two extra spotlights on either side, running off a droning petrol generator somewhere out back, his tradie ear asked him, even needed?
    As his wife finally roped in his daughter behind him, and the probably gay son of his raced ahead, Simon walked down the cobbled path between the spotlights and into the hallway leading to the school reunion.
    Behind the family, across the cracked, weed-ridden parking lot, the "Faux" at the top of the motel's sign turned off, and the darkened neon row below it came on.  The complete sign now read: "Foe Reunion".

                                                                                                                                                  ***

      Roth sat in the cracked, moldy chair of the control nest he had built after buying the abandoned motel site.  After ten years of planning, and a vast swath of inherited McMillen fortune, the third victim of his revenge cycle was here.  The first two, Greg Stavros and Lakey Wilbury, had already been dealt with.  Over the blue-and-white feed of the security monitor, Roth saw the child dash by. 

                                                                                                                                                  ***
 
    Simon called out, "Hang up, Jason!" down the crumbly, moldy corridor, starting to feel worry.  It was mainly the smell.  Three decades of money entrusted to a classmate should have resulted in at least a slightly better place than this.  The hallway spilled out into the motel's conference hall.  Jason was shouting back ahead, somewhere through the darkness, "Hey, dad, there's no one else here yet!"
    Simon took out his phone and tried to remember how to turn on its flashlight to look for his son, real worry starting to growl in his heart.  Then the lights came on, anyway.

                                                                                                                                                  ***

    Taking his clunched knuckles off the rows of switches he'd pushed up, Roth looked down over the deck of his elevated room.  The floodlights he'd had installed, around the corners of what had once been a disco back in the '80s, fixated the arriving family in four overlapping ovals. 

                                                                                                                                                  ***

    Simon whipped around, looking for where his wife and kids were, protective instincts kicking in, but the blazing lights blinded him.  Putting a forearm over his brow, he peered around, and shouted, "Fi!  Where's our kids?!"
    "I can't find 'em, hun!" came back her desperate-sounding call.
    Simon put his heels under him and ran out of the fanlights.  His eyes adapted slowly to the dark of the corners, but he quickly found Jason curled up under the shelf of a crumbling DJ table.  The kid was bawling, mumbling, "mr. winton... mr. winton...," drooling snot from his nose.  That hurt Simon's heart.  The damn kid wasn't even calling for him.
    "Can't find Lia!  Have you?!" Fiona yelled back from the dusty darkness beyond the stabbing lights.
    "NO!"

                                                                                                                                                  ***
   
    "Who are you, mister?" a small, high voice from behind Roth said.
    He spun his chair around.  In the doorway of his nest of hate he saw a little girl.  She had pee running down from her cut-off jeans, into her tiny sneakers. 
    Roth looked into her face, so earnest and small, and said, "I'm just some guy that got angry, sweetie.  Go back downstairs.  I'll turn off the lights."
    He pulled his fingers back down the switches.
    She left.  They'd done better than his other guests.
    "Yeah, 'Come as is', indeed," Roth said, looking over those words on his invite list, at the names remaining below, as the family fled back to their car.

[close]

My votes, for now, feedback later:

Spoiler

CaptainD: 3pts
Stupot: 2pts
Sinitrena: 1pt

[close]

HOW MY THREE-DAY VACATION TURNED INTO MUCH MORE

Spoiler

[close]

Congratz, soulstuff. And cheers for the good word!

I was very conflicted between both the choices, as both were very cool and fun and well made, but went with:

Spoiler

Weaving Time by Soulstuff. While both games had excellent endings, the moment that tipped my scales very, very slightly in this game's direction was the mood meter jumping up to 200% when the partner got home. That was an inspired and charming touch!

[close]

This is getting worse.

It's getting horrifying.