2012 RHP Prose Competition - VOTING THREAD

Hi readers

First of all thank you to all this years entrants, this thread will show the amount of talent we have this year 🙂

Please take a look through the entries and i would like everyone to pick their favourite three. If you wrote an entry you can't vote for your own entry. Please post your votes in this thread and the deadline for votes is SUNDAY 29th JULY

Here are how the points work

Your favourite - gets 5 points
2nd favourite - gets 3 points
3rd favourite - gets 1 point

comments are welcome but authors you need to keep anonymous (i.e. dont say which entry is yours)

Happy reading

Silverstriker

Entry 1 - Tick


Chiappini’s is an old gas station. It looks like all gas stations did in the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s before they lost their mechanics and became self pumping mini marts. Their two pumps sit under a roof attached to their store which also serves the small community of Melrose, Florida as a drinking establishment.
He didn’t have much truck with the Chiapinni’s having had a falling out a number of years back but he still set up next to their establishment and sold Mayport shrimp to any commuter passing the intersection where Chiappini’s sat where State Rd. 21 crossed State Rd. 24. Everyday he picked his shrimp from the shrimpers up at Mayport, north of Jacksonville, and carried it back in two big ice chests to his spot at the roadside. He’d put up his table and umbrella and sit through the heat of the day as customers lazily pulled their cars to the side of the road got out and examined the shrimp and bought or did not buy depending on whatever fancy they took. This was his routine. It didn’t pay much but no job in North Central Florida paid much these days.
Tick wandered down Rte 21 with his dog Leb. His head was down and the man could discern the nature of the problem. Tick, short for Bostick, was an 11 year old towheaded boy whose home was half a mile from the crossroads where the man sold his shrimp.
“Have a seat Tick. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothin’”, said Tick scratching Leb’s head and ears.
The man knew however.
The day was a North Florida summer day with high fluffy clouds surrounded by heat you could almost eat. Tick had been pretty much quiet in the 45 minutes he had been sitting alongside the man as he sold his shrimp. Whenever he came to the man it was to get out of the house. Things weren’t good there.

After a couple of hours the man asked Tick if he’d watch for customers as he wanted to get a beer. He bought Tick a Pepsi and headed across the street to the Blue Water. It was hot and the Blue Water’s fans, just about moving, pushed the heavy air this way and that but never enough to generate so much as a breeze. Kimmie was tending bar as it was Kerry’s day off and the man’s entrance distracted Kimmie who had been looking out the window enjoying the heat and traffic from the confines of the dark bar.
“I see ya got Tick again.”
“Yup” answered the man as Kimmie served him a cold Budweiser from an ice chest.
A voice down the end of the bard sai he had seen Vel at the Keystone Saloon last night.
“Drunk as a balled owl and half as smart.”
Vel was Tick’s father.
“I thought as much”, said the man though whether it was Keystone, Hawthorne, Waldo or Starke made no difference. Vel knew them all.
The man had known many men like Vel. The area was full of them. Nice young men once. Then lost. Never to come back. It happened that way for some reason. Angry at everything and everyone who stood between them and whatever it was they wanted.
Roy Orbison’s “Blue Bayou” oozed from the old juke and curled around the inside of the bar.
The man finished his beer and headed back to the table and Tick and Leb, who now laid immobilized by the heat beneath the table. The man laid down a bowl of water Kimmie had sent over so that Leb might not die of the heat. Leb looked up and laid his head back down not up to the effort.
Round four o’clock the traffic slowed and the man began to pack up his gear. The unsold shrimp would be sold the next day at half price. As he and Tick loaded everything into the back of the man’s pickup a beat up mid 70’s Pontiac pulled up next to the man’s truck.
“Get in Tick!”
It was Vel the man knew him.
“You okay Tick?” asked the man.
His head down he said “Yes I’m okay. Thanks for the Pepsi.”
The boy and Leb moved to the car and Vel said “Leave that dog!” The boy turned to the man whose look told him it was okay. The boy got into the front seat and Vel sped away. Leaving the man and Leb to finish the day.

Entry 2 - Hints of Spring in the Air


The first day of spring, comes not soon enough for me
That sweet scent of freshness, it could make one's soul sing
The barren trees shine in many shades of bloom
As patches of green grass, begin to renew
Our small feathered friends,arrive with sweet song
Building nests for the wee ones,coming along
Bluish-gray skies,spread far and wide
As gentle winds whisper,of on-coming showers
A few brief hints of glorious sunshine, that warms up the air
As lingering clouds about,filled the skies above
Spring is sometimes tricky,as most of us know
One day is warm,the next one it's cold
Even some snow,can find a way in
But leaves in a hurry,as a warm-up sets in
Spring showers comes along,to many for some
But Mother Nature will change,this season in time
The farmers fields will come alive
To the arrival of the lambing season
Those new arrivals, so little and fragile
Protected by mums in the fields up by the hills
And all gardens and flowerbeds,will begin to colour and thrive
To the sites of daffodils, tulips and crocuses
A New birth, a new life
This is a welcoming change
We all love these hints of spring.

Entry 3 - Hotel Anywhere


Unseen conspirators by day

incorporate by candle:

resonance will soon invade

the easy lace.


It will not focus

too obliquely under eyelock,

nor stop too force

the unseeming question


with a prowling stare.

Instead it will content itself

with some astute inaction,

a deft reconnaissance


of symmetry and safety,

assessing the supple distances

and risk of knee

or chin. Napkins and coasters


will advance, and smartly,

unlit cigarettes

playing prelude to assault.

Alias will again haunt


the house of synesthesia.

Connection of lyrics and perfume

will be remembered.

Horoscopes will be utilized,


proper persons, places and things

partially named.

Off stained cushions

and discreet naugahyde


conviction will be born.

Along crowded piano bars

trivial ideas will be taken in

as deserving orphans.


Brave indirection will contrive

by the small wattages

of the garish lounge.

Innuendo will be busy.


Velvet beggars will huckster

the thin soled pun.

Double entendre will teach

the careless and the faithful.


By exquisite accident

resistance will be unbuttoned.

Overreaction will not alter

contingent plans.


Hatreds will go incognito.

In the midst of plenty

generosity will become poor.

Disdain will smile.


Random guilt will comingle

with the tight promise

of its earringed sleep.

Logistics will be forgotten.


Cowardice will soon invent

a different prayer.

Further debriefings will occur

by sinks, at midnight,


and vague appointments

again confirmed by doors ajar.

Emotion will excrete

in the straw hat of intuition.


Prerogatives will atrophy.

Dreams will unsynchronize,

as they descend unused exits

to pause on the quiet


landings of recarpeted stairs.

Acceptance will be chauffered.

Hope will define fragile.

Bystanders will be struck by cars.


Hotel lobbies will reconfirm

many of yesterday’s reservations.

Propinquity will lose her luggage.

Frayed Velcro day ends


will mesh and gradual hooks

of quasi friendship attempt to cling.

And rowdy gatherings

will continue to assemble,


elsewhere, to festival the promise

of the unloved night

and to await the second advent

of the helpless moon.

Entry 4 - Kilcan


I hail from a town known as Karseus. Karseus is located on the north side
of a mountain range we call the Yandelius mountain range. Yandelius was
the lord's g-grandmother or something like that.

The town is surrounded by farm land and is ruled by a pompous shirt-tail
cousin of the royal family. He is wealthy enough to support a small
castle and uses the guard to keep the town and surrounding farm lands
safe.

The wall is made of a mix of stone and wood. An impressive stone gate and
iron portcullis on the main road greets the visitor and the rest of the
wall is constructed of wood between stone columns. Don't be fooled it's
quite sturdy and secure against attack. I had guard duty over trading
caravans passing through the area. The lord charges a fee for trading
caravans to pass through Karseus. In exchange he guarantees safe passage
including military escort. Otherwise who knows what may befall the
travelers. Trader money made this remote town surprisingly prosperous.

I was a scrawny lad the 5th son in a family of eight. Not really liking
farming and with no chance to inherit land. I was happy to be bound to a
young guardsman just starting his career of service to the lord's guard.

There I learning the names of weapons. Was able to see the damage they
could inflict on an opponent. And of course learned firsthand how heavy
each weapon was. As I grew up, I filled out with thick muscle and found I
had a natural aptitude for any weapon. I burned with a deep seated desire
to absolutely master each and every weapon I could get my hands on. I
worked hard and was allowed into the training classes.

The senior weapons master, Iftal, was older than dirt. I mean really
ancient. Iftal had scars and wrinkles all over to the point you couldn't
tell them apart. He wasn't completely human, not sure what all he was.
No one, including me, had the nerve to ask him what he was. Iftal was not
exactly mean just very unforgiving, especially of stupidity. After
running a recruit out of the training salle I remembering Iftal saying to
himself "Ignorance can be fixed, stupid is forever."

Iftal may have had a soft spot for me. He caught me training alone, I was
trying to perfect sword moves. First he beat me with the flat of a wooden
practice sword for not using the sword properly. Then he taught me how to
parry and avoid getting slapped around. As I mastered one weapon he
taught me another. Some were so strange and old their true name belongs
to the mists of time.

As I graduated out of regular training I was set to standing watch on the
main road, riding through the farm lands, following traders. Only the
occasional band of brigands kept duty lively.

Sometimes an outlander from the caravans would request a sparring partner.
We would spar, I would win and we would then get drunk together. I'd buy
the drinks and they would tell tales about the wide world on the other
side of the mountains.

With the same certainty of the daily sun raising and the evening sun
setting I approached my 30th season, wanderlust and boredom overtook me.
I hired on with one of the traders as a guard. That carried me around the
Yandelius range and I caught my first glimpse of the magnificent lands
south of the mountains.

After we arrived at the traders destination I struck out on my own as a
sell-sword. I traveled the lands meeting people and sharpening my
fighting skills battling raiding brigands or defending city states from
greedy neighbors. That kept my purse full. I found tavern brawls to be
the most fun. The idea of a free-for-all unplanned spontaneous fight
really gets my adrenaline flowing. They are easy to find. Find a tavern
in the less prosperous part of town with heavy tables and chairs, and then
sit quietly in the corner. Unless it's raining, a fight is bound to
start. Raining? Very few are dumb enough to start a fight that will get
them dumped out in the muddy street.

I have no desire to settle down. I fully intend to die honorably with my
sword in hand, covered in my enemy’s blood. Not old and feeble in a bed.

This tale telling is thirsty work. Barkeep, another round.

Entry 5 - Untitled

Johnny, seeing that the outcome of the situation was at best bleak, took it upon himself to take control of the ship and ordered the helmsman to turn the wheel hard aport. Johnny was not a sailor, nor had he ever found himself aboard any water bound vessel but he had seen a movie once, whose name escaped him. Little did he know that what he should have said was, hard "the other way". The result of this "error", was the ship hit the dock at 30 knots buckling the wooden structure and throwing all and sundry there upon into the shark infested water. At seeing the carnage he had caused Johnny also remembered, from the same unamed movie, that the captain of the ship was supposed to go down with the ship but since the ship didn't seem to be ging down plunged into the water anyway (he felt obliged for whatever reason) and was quickly eaten by a nurse...shark. His epitaph read "If you're not sure what your doing, don't do it".

Entry 6 - The Crawling Spring of Times

Spring can be interpreted in two modes of depth. It is the aftermath of death killing winters and yet the opening of birth filled summers.


Spring can be blind following what has taken place, and yet full of insight of what is to become. Spring is alone in this academy of seasons.


My winter was brought alive when walking in a fogged field. There was no low cloud, and the sun was bright and the filed glistened and sparkled with the fog. This fog was not in the air, but strewn across the blades of grass that swayed and bobbed up and down in the gentle breeze.


It was 6.42am as I strolled the field, with Labbie far away running the distant morn’ run. I looked down, as my foot was caught amidst a mass of silk. My boots were wrapped, tarnished with whitening gloss, and I realized I had disturbed nature.


The fog was webbing. It was the early morn’ catch that I had unwearyingly strolled into, and I had unwantonly trodden upon the paths and homes of ‘the spider’. I looked up. I gazed. I saw wonder in this so beautiful fog that lay across the fields untouched; there by dawn, not there by morning or day, and the night I knew of nothing.


I leant down, to enquire and try to understand more. The bundles of silk, stretched, layered as they wrapped about the blades as the gentle breeze caused their motions like fishing boats in a gentle harbor – swaying, upping, downing and glistening upon the silken waters.


Thence she came. I had touched her home, and she came to see who was knocking at her door. First a leg, then another, and then four and an eye of four. She was calm and unhesitant. More legs and more eyes, until I could see her in her stardom, at full stretch slowly traversing across the rounded ball of her creation from hours of old.


She had survived the winter of cold, and now was her time to prepare for the summer ahead, as she bore to fight for her land on this mild spring morning. I watched her in her full adornment, and closed in to inspect her being. Her legs were like pillars, spread far apart as they tread her unknown trap, and yet they supported this majestic temple of being. I had disturbed her, and yet I was calmed also. For if I hadn’t stopped to observe this wondrous fog, I may have missed her.


She was unafraid of me, and yet I knew she was watching. She sensed I would not destroy her castle, and yet unknowingly I had already disturbed many before stopping to watch the sheet of fog swaying in the early morning breeze.


I went again, next day, to her place of warmth that suffered springs cold night. Labbie went off running yet again, but she sensed what was around her and always kept to the side of the field. She was knowing more than me of what the morning fog, playing the field, meant.


I approached the spot carefully, this new day, to close in on the silken home of my new found interest. I touched her spin, and sure enough there was a leg, then another and she came to inspect her home. I was heartened that there she was, after another cold spring’s night. I could almost feel her looking at me, trusting me, knowing that her home and her feeding ground was safe. I spoke to her, alone in that field, and shared moments of my own thoughts. Dawn is a good time to prepare a day. I left her gently, made my way, and Labbie came chasing, as we returned home.


Sunday came, and as usual I took Labbie for her dawn walk. I re-approached the spot of my new friend. There was little fog across the field that morning, and I assumed it had rained. I looked, lowered myself, and to my disappointment there was no leg that came. I got lower, and still no leg, but then I saw. My friend was there.


However, she was laid on her back, and not moving. Meandering across her were hundreds of tiny copies. She had given her life to feed them. They were strong, and she had gone. I won’t forget that first or last walk of dawn, in spring, to her spot. Fog never looks the same!

Entry 7 - The Tailor's daughter

The traveling minstrel was performing at the road side inn for a meal and a room for the night. He juggled and sang and told wonderful stories to the delight of the crowd in the main room. At the end of the evening he sat at the bar with only the innkeeper remaining. One more story, the innkeeper asked. I will keep your mug full and bring out whatever food is left in the kitchen.
The minstrel smiled, have you ever heard the one about the tailor's daughter?
The word had spread throughout the kingdom, the prince was returning from his adventures abroad and there was to be a ball held in his honor. The tailor and his daughter worked night and day in the little shop sewing and mending and hemming dresses. The prince was a handsome and kind man. Visions of living in the castle and never wanting for anything again danced in the heads of the single ladies throughout.
The tailor's daughter took some material that was left over and made a dress for herself. She did not have visions of marriage and happily ever after. She was happy living with her father at the edge of the woods, spending her days cooking and gardening and reading aloud at night by candlelight. However she did want to see the castle and attend what was going to be the party of her generation.
The day arrived and the gala was all they had envisioned. There was music and dancing, food and drink and the prince himself. The future king danced all night and towards the end, the tailor's daughter from the edge of the kingdom got to dance with his Highness. It was love at first sight. The prince was smitten with her dress and her face and her easy laugh. The night ended with fireworks, as the tailor's daughter made her way back to the edge of the kingdom to tell her father about the prince and the wonderful time she had.
The following days the prince and his men travelled the kingdom searching for the beautiful, laughing girl he met at the end of the dance. The tailor and his daughter were surprised when the horse drawn carriage came up their rutted road one afternoon and stopped in front of the small house.
Walk with me the prince said, and that night they began a daily ritual of walking together after dinner. They walked the woods and the roads and were seen smiling and talking and everyone knew that he had found his princess. Finally the day came and the prince found the perfect hill overlooking the kingdom and he asked her to marry him and move to the castle to someday be the queen.
She kissed him gently and said no.
She like the prince, liked him very much actually, but she loved her life and her dad and her garden and had no desire to have the finer things and lifestyle of a queen. What does the castle have that I don't have at home she asked? I have books and a garden and love and important work to do everyday. Our kingdom needs a tailor and a tailor's daughter. If I move to the castle I will spend all my time trying to mimic what I already have. We can plant a “queens garden” to placate me and maybe the chef will let me cook sometimes. Maybe you will find time to read with me after all your duties are complete. We can try to make a complicated life simple. No thank you my dear. Please find a queen who wants the things you want.
It was the last sentence that he carried with him the day he left the kingdom and probably carries today. Wants the things you want, he did not know what he wanted, never thought about it really. His life was decided for him the day he was born, decided that is until he left one day a few years ago, and was never seen again.
The minstrel finished his mug and started towards his room for the night.
What do you think happened to the prince the innkeeper asked?
Nobody knows the minstrel said. You would have to be crazy to walk away from a beautiful kingdom and a life in a castle, he is probably dead or a derelict living in the woods.
Yes, said the innkeeper with a smile, or maybe he became a traveling minstrel.

Entry 8 - A night on the rocks

The trip there was almost perfect.

Train on time to the airport, no hassle through passport control, flights on time taking off, even landing early. The hire car left something to be desired: booked was the “VW Golf (or equivalent)”; waiting in the airport car park was definitely the “equivalent”. Still, it wasn’t that sluggish and there wasn’t that far to go to the crag. An hour or so in the car and then on to the 300 meter vertical wall of climbing bliss waiting for us.

Here’s where we made the first mistake. The time difference from the UK to France is only an hour, but going so much further south meant that the sun dropped much quicker. It was November so what would have been a gradual twilight in the UK around London was going to be quite a sudden lights out in the Verdon gorge. This was a fact we had sort-of overlooked.

The flight had been an early morning one so we were able to get to the top of the gorge (the easiest way to climb there is to abseil in and then climb back out) by about 2:30 in the afternoon. This, we figured, left plenty of time to abseil in, enjoy the view then climb back out on an easy route before sundown. It was November, but there was brilliant sun and the abseil down was fantastic. At each belay chain we carefully threaded the ropes through the bolt rings and carried on our descent.

Climbing back out after getting about 150m into the gorge was brilliant. We had an old guide book and the grey rock was a bit difficult to read sometimes. We obviously strayed off route. The easy-peasy route we’d picked (French grade 4c) quickly becoming a bit more technical (6b+). It was within our limits though – I’d climbed 7b+ and Frank had climbed much harder stuff. On we went.

The lead-outs were awesome. 200 vertical meters above the valley floor, hot sun on your back and fantastic limestone to pull you up to the summit. This holiday was going to be brilliant.

Our serene bubble burst at the next belay point. It was now 5:30pm and we were scarcely beyond the half-way point back to the top. We needed to get motoring.

Frank started up the next pitch and soon disappeared from sight. When he got to the next set of chains he called for me to follow. I stowed everything loose, collected the slings and karabiners into the rucksack and prepared to follow. We were each tied into the end of the rope – me at one end and Frank at the other. When Frank started to bring in the slack so that I could start climbing we found the next mistake.

Whiz, whiz, whiz went the rope as the slack disappeared. Whiz-wap and the rope stopped. There was still a load of slack below me however. The rope was jammed in a small bush.

I called for slack and set about flapping the rope to try and get it out of the clutches of the tree. All the while it’s getting darker and darker. It took an age to free the rope – lots of flapping, lots of curses. I was all ready to untie completely and solo-down to untangle the thing when ‘sping’ it freed itself.

It was now dark.

By the time I got up to the next chains with Frank we were still 50 meters from the top (at least) and there wasn’t any light. We could barely see each other, let alone work out the route and get to the top safely.

All we could do was to abseil back down and find the ledge we’d started the climb from. Climbing up was clearly too dangerous - one slip and we’d be toast. Staying put wasn’t really an option as the belay point was not comfortable and we were going to be stuck for some hours. Going down wasn’t exactly a picnic either as we were three rope lengths from the ledge and it relied on us finding the belay chains as we went down so that we could tie in and secure the next abseil.

Off I went into the dark trying to find a route back to the chains. By the time I got to the end of the rope I’d not found any belay point, but I did find a tree. I tied in and Frank followed down. Luckily for us we found the next chain and that got us to the ledge.

It was dark. It was cold. It was a long night.

Never has the sun rising been such sweet joy to me. The warmth, the light, the realization that you’ve been a complete pillock.

Entry 9 - A winter's run

The solemn air was drenched with white clouds each time I breathed out. I was in solitude, and in rhythm, as I led afar. The cross-country competition was mountainous and, after I hit the peak, I was on my way down before the others, pacing with ease, and jumping the boulders and frozen rocks at speed.

The cold morn was bitter yet I was warm, as I sped ahead with no lingering pains in my thighs. Winter could be cruel on the high peaks in early morn, but my adrenalin kept me at bay from the cruel breeze, and I was singing as I raced ahead.

I saw my coach at the side of the final road, shouting with glee as he shivered to expose his words. I knew I had won, but more that my coach was winning too; for ‘twas his hard work that’d prepped me to sail through the frozen fog clouds of that Winter’s Run.

I crossed the line with ease, looking behind to see where the nearest sufferer was but, alas, nothing to be seen. It was then that I felt my pain. My adrenalin had stopped. The work was over. I had achieved my goal.

Stinging came to my iced shins, and as I looked down I saw the slices of skin open and weeping. I had crossed a river, as we all had to; on the way up the other side from the start. Reeds like frozen knives hid below the water’s surface I had ploughed through, and unbeknown at that time they had sliced my legs with anger in being disturbed.

My hands became hot, and I viewed them with disdain. My fingers were hard and red, and I couldn’t move them. They were shaped into flats that slice the air as I run, but now they couldn’t yield to even a curve.

A second came, with a look of terror and pain. He hadn’t enjoyed the chase, but smiled when he knew who had won, and came to hug me. His hands on my back made me stoop, for he was also frozen in this harsh race of Winter.

Then the third and fourth arrived, the latter crying with pain and misfortune. He fell to the floor in disarray and was picked up by a turmoiled parent. He gave me a last look, a squint, but followed with a wry smile. He knew who he had been beaten by, the best, and he respected that; the work we had all done to prepare to beat Winter’s glory.

The sun slowly awoke, and my legs and hands didn’t want the warm blanket which aroused further pain. I wanted to remain cool for some time, but there was nowhere to avoid mother’s earth from coming to warm me.

It was trophy time, and I duly accepted my award. I held it aloft as the cool handles warmed my hands, and then I noticed a fogged figure crying. In the moment of adulation, my time, my championship, I made out the image of my coach. He didn’t come to the fore, but he stood in the distance, still trembling in the cold fog of the morning; stood alone. His job was done, and he wanted no credit for that.

He was the one up at Winter’s crack of dawn, training me, working me, making me pound the roads; yet we all forget the Athlete’s Coach, the mentor who is around, but never takes credit. He was iced too. I was ready, through him, to take on the harsh winter’s dawn, yet I took the credit. I could only look on with sadness; as he had made my championship, my friend, my trustee and my Father.

I went to the changing rooms, exalted. I had achieved my goal, as National Cross-Country Champion. I wanted to dress, put on my shirt, and to the celebrations go. However, the Winter’s Run had taken its toll on my feeble digits.

I couldn’t button up my shirt. I couldn’t hold a button to find a hole. It was then that a warm cool hand game from behind my neck and completed my shirt.

“Well done, Son!”

Entry 10 - All summer long

She stopped breathing. Just as … right as … only for the first couple of seconds, as always - like closing her eyes when she sneezed.

The sun was blinding her, through the only window, but there was no way she was going to stop him now – he was surprisingly smart and gentle and he was certainly focused. With her eyes closed tight her other senses took over. The air in the room was the right combination of man's sweat and man's deodorant. The touch was just right – hard and smooth with the quickening pulse she loved. How did he know. The only sounds were her hopelessly ineffective portable fan and the street music below.

They moved together, neither leading nor following, from the small kitchen counter across the room to the small bed.

Amazed or amused she started to fill with the kind of a sparkly joy she forgot she once knew. Yes sparkly joy, it was the only way she would be able to describe it later. If there was a later. Maybe this was one of those afternoons that never came up in conversation. No, it would come up.

She actually had some lemonade in her refrigerator on this crazy heated afternoon. It was the powdered, diet type, mixed early that morning. But it was lemonade and perfectly fake (fine) for the moment. He smiled at the taste, or maybe the irony, or maybe both she wasn't sure. This was going to happen and there was nothing fake about that. It wasn't exactly that she was surprised, it was hard to surprise her anymore. She was a little shocked though that she didn't know his name yet. Shocked was always good.

The door was unlocked as always. She didn't have a key to the third floor flat, or a working lock either. On another day she might fumble around and pretend she was opening the lock. It wasn't smart letting her newest friend know there was no lock between her and the big city. It wasn't another day. Nothing about this afternoon was smart. It was sweet. It was hot and sticky and sweet. But no, it wasn't smart.

Of course he got off the bus at her stop. It was serendipity right? Or maybe he did it on purpose. Maybe this wasn't his stop at all. No, it had to be his stop. Yes and no and no and yes, her brain was slightly fuzzy from the humidity. Do you have any lemonade in your kitchen he asked. She said yes when in fact she didn't exactly have a kitchen. It was more of one pea green peeling wall with two pea green appliances.

The bus was stuffed. The after work strangers were wet and stinky and they were not smiling. If it wasn't the hottest day of the summer, it was certainly … she lost the thought when she saw the skinny freckly guy with the tiny red hair. He was smiling, at her? Was that a beard, of sorts? He smiled and her tingly spot got all tingly. She smiled back and she meant it, or she meant something. Whatever, he was cute and she needed a lot more cute.

She left her teller job at the famous bank and walked the five blocks to her stop. The search of the sky for a cloud proved pointless. At 5:25 she caught the number 14 right on schedule, as she did every afternoon, all summer long.

Entry 11 - The Crossroad Demon

There are crossroads demon in town; a lonely one, a saddened one but all still a demon. Demons don’t like normal folk, they are jealous. Jealous of what we are, and something they will never be. The crossroads demon, well he looks normal. He looks just like you or me, he could even pass as human but make that mistake and it will be the last thing you will do. Ever.

The main difference between us and them is that we have a shadow, they do not. It doesn't matter who you are, black, white, poor or rich - a crossroads demon doesn't care.

You drive down to the roads, just where the train track and the actual road meets and you’ll see him there. He’ll be standing there, a wry smile upon his face but his eyes aren’t blue or brown or green, they have the colour of scarlet but the lack of sparkle. That bloody damn colour. He’ll smile at you and wave you closer as if he is asking for help. Beware

Only a demon has that power to stay in the world of the living and actually be seen by the living without a shadow.
There ain’t no hell and there certainly ain’t no heaven if you got no shadow. That crossroads demon, he’ll walk right up to you, talk to you and stare. He’ll bend down like he’s dropped a coin and he will pick up your shadow. Then he’ll run to the other side of the tracks and that’ll be the end of it. You’ve just lost your life, just as easy and as quick as that and even with a smile served.

The crossroads demon hasn't no name he doesn't need it, but know this that every person that crosses those tracks just disappears, never to be seen again. Again purely cause we can’t see the dead. The shadow ain’t just your soul, it’s a combination of your soul and your flesh, hence why we never see no bodies. No blood or gore, just poof you’re gone.

A crossroads demon cant be reasoned with its impossible. I drove into town the other day, drove right past a woman and a little girl walking to the other side; A man was walking right up. He smiled and waved and did this thing, bending down to pick up a coin. He snatched those shadows right up and ran, and I mean ran. Faster than a human can.

A crossroads demon don’t care about your family, or your working life. They ain’t care you got a mortgage to pay or a thousand bills. They see right into your soul and they know exactly what burdens you got hanging right over your head but again they don’t care.
I keep thinking if I find the crossroads demon that took away my wife maybe I’ll have some closure but when I get close enough to the edge its that sinister smile. It just paralyses you. How many times now have I come so close to that death?

Oh don’t get me wrong, I’ve shot him. I’ve pumped shotgun shells into him. I’ve done everything I can to him, but nothing ever works. He simply heals up quick as a flash and stands there smiling like the world’s on fire but he’s too happy to care.
Your only option is to high tail it outta there and past those crossroads because a crossroads demon can’t pass the barrier that makes the road a crossroad. They can’t pass those barriers because that’s where the living is the strongest.

The wait is unimportant to them.

Their world is boring to them, it has too much power, too much corruption and not enough humor. Every time now that I drive by an intersectio, I see them. I see those people just standing at the lights and the crossing and sometimes, just sometimes I see someone without a shadow.

A crossroads demon ain’t one to be messed around with because if you do, there won’t be a body to bury. It’ll be like you never even existed at all. No one will EVER find you.
Maybe pay attention the next time you cross a pedestrian crossing. Look around for the person without a shadow and if you see them, step off the crossing onto the road. If a car hits you, at least you know you’re hurting enough to know you’re alive.

You see anyone picking up a coin you’ve dropped, get out.

Entry 12 - Summer Holiday


Janice had been looking forward to her summer holiday for almost a year. She had such fond memories of Margate passed onto Her by Her paternal grandfather, and although she had never been there herself she felt that she would be returning to a familiar haunt.

Janice always took summer holidays, she never took a spring break, or a winter skiing trip, and as for autumn, or as she called it the dying embers of summer, Janice could not imagine anything more depressing.

Apart from spending Her holiday period at Her grandfather's childhood home, Janice was looking forward to spending time with her new partner Shaun, who had promised to meet her on the beach.

As Janice settled into her seat and allowed the attendant to make the necessary adjustments her mind was anticipating all the sights, smells and tastes that her grandfather had tried to reanimate from a diseased and crumbling memory.

Before she could complete her reveries she had arrived, and true to his word there was Shaun on the beach with what looked like a Mr Whippy ice cream cone in each hand. Janice hoped Shaun would interpret her eagerness to reach him as a positive sign that their newish relationship was built on something more stable than the sand under their feet. As she closed her lips around the top quarter of her grandfather's favourite childhood ice cream Janice was transported back to her own earliest memory's and the visits that grandpa paid to the nursery and reminisced out loud about the past, partly to entertain Janice and partly to console himself regarding what he considered to be the harsh reality of the present.

The pair investigated their chosen holiday environment for several hour's and opted for the seaside stalwart of Cod and Chips eaten from newspaper covered in salt and vinegar, the small wooden prong discarded and replaced with fingers and laughter. As the warmth of an early summer evening enveloped them they selected a B&B that was a weak stones throw from the beach and strongly recommended by Grandpa.

That night they left the windows wide open, making love to sound of waves landing on the beach accompanied by the smell of hot dogs and candy floss machines.

The couple spent the next 10 days taking leisurely promenades along the beach and investigated the nooks and crannies of the coastline, occasionally chasing and in turn being chased by the rock pool crabs. The nights were divided between the gently archaic offerings of the 'Winter Garden' theatre and the more adrenaline based entertainment of the amusement park.

On the eleventh morning Janice awoke as if being drawn out of thick fog by a gentle but insistent force. This was not Jan's first holiday and her eyes quickly adjusted to the low light level of the travel module and sat passively whilst the attendant retracted the necessary stimulation probes from her brain and major muscle groups. She looked to her left and returned the half conspirital half melancholic smile that she found on Shaun's face.

As Janice wandered back to her 'cot space' her mind was wandering between Shaun, Grandpa, and her child Alice who would be waiting impatiently at the dome's nursery. Janice had decided that she would regail Alice with the edited highlight's of her trip to Margate and try to instil the same long lived fondness for the only old world home she had any first hand knowledge of. She viewed these memories passed from her grandpa to her daughter via herself as a worthwhile inheritance.

With the remaining few days of her holiday period spent at the nursery with Alice and the communal areas with Shaun it was time to go back to the hydroponic fields of the enviro dome and her workload as an irrigation monitor.

She wondered how long the Earth would take to recover from the catastrophic environmental changes of the 2030's that claimed the lives 70% of the Human race and sent the survivors scurrying into hastily erected Enviro Domes. She had long given up on a life in the open, but she wondered about Alice, or possibly the generations to follow Them. One thing she was determined to pass on to those that came after her, was Grandpa's Margate.

A lot to digest there but you have until Sunday 29th July to cast your votes

your top three please posted in this thread - 1st gets 5 points, 2nd gets 3 points and 3rd gets 1 point