ROUND 2 Theme
"SMALL TOWN LIFE"
SMALL TOWN LIFE — use this as loosely/directly as you'd like.
Memorialize your youth in a small town? Maybe try the Lynchian model of a small town with dark secrets? Invent an alien mini-city at war?
Do your thing, drabblers!
Enjoy these drabbles written during Round 1 of the
March 2014 DRABBLED Tournament
March 2014 DRABBLED Tournament
round 2
match 1
DRABBLE A
WILLIAM Every year he put the sign up: FIREWORKS. With plenty of stars and stripes. Everyone would be able to see it from the interstate. He poured some cheap whiskey in his coffee. May was early for fireworks customers. His mind drifted and he was back at school. "BUCK-TOOTHED BILLY" echoed down the halls and throughout Creston, Illinois. Hot tears rolled down his tomato-red face as his legs moved under him. When he couldn't sleep, he'd walk down to an abandoned field with the fireworks he'd saved-up all month for. All of his torment exploded and faded away in that field. by C. Card |
DRABBLE B - WINNER
COPPERTOP Rejection is our first death, and none knew death better than the Rajanimis. They were penny-people; formed in the earth and left to be prospected. But Mohawk, Michigan was only home to 4,004 people in the 40s and copper mining claimed more lives each year. The Rajanimis fell through the cracks like the pennies they were. Alcoholism took Bill. Rage took Wayne. Both men were poisoned by years of poverty. Both men died at least twice. On a busy street, from the cup holder of your car, in the forgotten spaces of familiar places, the Rajanimis gather and speak. by Praji Noskes |
ROUND 2
MATCH 2
DRABBLE A - WINNER
DOGGED STREET A town of two homes. That’s it. Across the road from one another! Rivals whose obsession pushed everyone else away. The Clarks moved first, tired of Garr Buford’s boasting. The Wendells were next, dispirited by the rants of Randall Gowns. Gowns used to be so kind! He once let little Wendy Wendell pick all the flowers from his garden. Now his garden is guarded by wolves. And Buford’s garden is lit by bulbs in his basement. Ah, they burrowed, deeper into their respective shelters, until every home on the street, then the town, became only houses, empty, save the two. by Mr. Medusa |
DRABBLE B
MY LAST NIGHT IN BOWLING GREEN, KY “You look like a fag.” There were five of them on the sidewalk and another seven on the porch. The ground rattled beneath my feet with the bass tones emanating from the frat house. I could feel the rain pounding down and the roaring of my heart as it pumped rum-soaked blood through my veins like a fire hose. "Fuck you, frat boy," I said and kept walking. They laughed at me as I passed them in the darkness, "What are you gonna do about it, faggot?" "I'm going to keep walking," I said, and did. I wish I hadn't. by MTMyers |
ROUND 2
MATCH 3
DRABBLE A - WINNER
FAT BUDDIES "I hate living in skinnies. Mortgage is too expensive. Not like livin in a fat guy," Julian complained. "Stop naggin! Ain't no way to switch fat cells an if there is, I don'wonna'no'ow!" chuckled Michelle. They were a pair of Gwenus cacaris—microscopic parasites. Fat-eating worms. "Luckily they haven't found us yet." Julian was a worrier. "Come on! Dey can't may dem mi-cro-scopes tha pow-ful, nah nuff ta see us, nu-uh! They's just frus-rated they lived in da—" NOTE: The narrator couldn't/didn't care to understand their slang at this point and stopped doing his job. Don't gimme that crap. by Bland Bananarama |
DRABBLE B
SOMETIMES YOU JUST GOTTA SAY FUCK IT Arriving back to my childhood home, I feel sick. The town has been broken in half like a wooden match. I remember the days when my father would quietly justify his "business trips" with a timely visit to church every Sunday. Quiet. Always quiet. Sitting in my car, I feel anxious and depressed. It's hard to swallow. I hate when it's hard to swallow. Motherfucking Catholic guilt—used to put the goddamn fear of death in me. These days, death means little. Just another thing. The last joke in a series of really fucking bad jokes. Time to go home. by An Owl Hoo Says What |
ROUND 2
MATCH 4
DRABBLE A
PURGATORY On weekends, I occasionally indulge in the nostalgia of the small village where I grew up. Driving through the countryside past the little run-down party store brandishing the local game hanging from poles, hunters eyes aglow, flames from the bonfires flickering off their excited faces, I think back to the time when I worked at that very store. I continue driving down the road and experience the burnt down strip of where the hardware was and the hair salon, memories forever ingrained in my mind, but invisible to this generation. Always glad to escape the village. Always glad to return. by Katelin |
DRABBLE B - WINNER
YOUNG AGAIN Where had the cascade of my wild youth gone? Down what twisted, conditioning coil? Through what perverted effort of this small, Midwestern town? The color, playfulness, and lightning-bolt-energy had all but vanished from my earthly container. I was better prepared for a walker than an exciting twilight with a young lady. Yet there she was, Rachel Cooper, intent on prying wide my thick, guarded gates. “We’re going to get you reeeeeeeeeee-connnnnected!” She led me to the graveyard and pushed me into one astonishing somersault after another. Holy shit, it was good. We locked hands, leaping high into the nocturnal air. by Laszlo Pentagram |