I had forgotten I’d written these! They were for the Pikes Peak Writer’s Conference competition in 2018 (before I took over, because people got upset that I won every year). But I wrote them out on paper, and hand counted all the words – so I had no soft copies of this anywhere until it popped up in my Facebook memories from when they announced the winners. Both are 99 words, and I won 2nd and 3rd place for them. Enjoy!
Rules of the Gala
Intergovernmental galas are such a pain in the ass. Inconsequential turds with gargantuan egos arguing over stupid shit like whether or not “Thundersnow” should be added to the dictionary.
They’ve outlived their usefulness…
“If you’ll reach under your seats, ladies and gentlemen,” I say. “You’ll find your weapon du jour.”
I’m gleefully mindful of their confused chatter.
“The doors have been locked from the outside, and they won’t open until the conditions of our session have been met.”
Puzzled looks mingle with the indignant ones, incomprehension coloring them all.
“Only ten of you will leave alive. Ten… or none.”
Thundersnow
The wind nearly blew me off the mesa, and that parochial prick just sat and stared.
“Thundersnow’s a-comin’,” he said calmly, smacking his lips.
“No shit, you illiterate bastard,” I snarled, bracing against the incessant squall. “Thanks for helping me.”
The grizzled old coot shook his head. “No help for you here. Thundersnow’s a-comin’.”
I was suddenly mindful that the gales had died down, and another sound filled its space. A different howling that had nothing to do with the snow and climate around me.
Thundersnow was not the weather I thought he meant…
Thundersnow was a fallen god…
