Fortnightly Writing Competition "SOMETHING PUNCHY" Results!

[Baron]

Well, as promised I've come up with something punchy for this fortnight's theme.  But it's not official until it's in a big, bold font, right?  So our next theme is....

Something Punchy!



Allow me to digress into English semantics for a moment.  Something punchy usually refers to a short, impactful piece of writing.  While this can be as short as a headline, I'd prefer to get more bang for my buck by having even punchier submissions of up to 600 words.  Remember, punchy writing often uses short, direct sentences, but I'm not against you beating up a bit of purple language for literary effect.  But wait, there's more!   Something punchy can literally refer to something with lots of punches, so feel free to knock yourself out in that regard.  In fact, there's no reason that it couldn't refer to actual fruit punch, in which case some sort of soirée or juice factory might be à propo.  Indeed, punchy can refer to someone who has imbibed too much alcohol and is therefore punch drunk in the sense that they are completely inebriated.  Of course there are mean drunks and happy drunks, but it is possible to be pleased as punch about something, so I leave you to draw your own conclusions on that one.  Confusingly, punchy in cowboy slang can refer to a perfectly sober tough guy, so you could always take the broody loner approach over the Pecos and up the dusty trail.  And finally, I'm not altogether against something pun-chy, in that your work makes perfectly horrible use of intra-word puns for comedic effect. 

So, in a nutshell, write a short punchy piece that somehow includes a figurative or literal interpretation of something punchy.

The deadline for this contest is set at midnight Hawaiian time on Sunday November 14, with voting to commence the following day.

Good luck to all participants!

[Mandle]

How I Beat Your Mother

Spoiler

Sit down and shut the fuck up.

Bradley!

If you fucking do that to your sister again I will rip your fucking head off!

Stop crying!

If I hear any more crying then someone gets a time-out.

You know what I mean, right? RIGHT?!

Yeah, that's right... a time-out!

One like Harry almost got last night... outside in the dark where the monsters can get you!

Okay...

This is the story of how I beat my wife... your mother.

I need all of you, especially the boys... Lookin' at YOU Harry... to take in this lesson, learn it, and live by it.

Understood?

Okay, wipe the snot off from under your fucking noses and stop sniffling and listen up.

My first punch was a quick jab to the face to stun her and push her back into the corner.

You gotta stun 'em first or they might make some clever come-back.

Shut their mouths first and foremost!

Next, I tried for a quick kick to her knee to take her down, but, even in her bloodied state, you mother... Fuck...

Damn her, she was quicker and stepped aside.

I pulled my kick just in time to avoid landing it on the wall.

Your mother was keening in a shrill voice I couldn't bear any longer.

I picked up the silver serving-tray from the sideboard and swung it with both hands at her head.

At the last second, just before I landed the hit, I thought...

I thought I saw her eyes plead with me...

BRADLEY! I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL...

Okay, eyes on me!

Boys! If you see something like that... Like your wife's eyes pleading with you...

Don't hold back like I did.

I pulled my swing.

She ducked under the tray and bit deep on my arm... Here...

Look!

See it?!

I fought through the pain.

I looked down on the top of her intact head for the last time and then... then I...

I smashed the tray down on her head, leading its edge, and ended her, but...

WHAT IS SO INTERESTING OVER THERE, KRISTY?!

You can go the fuck over there and not hear this if you want!

Is that what you want?

Yeah... I didn't think so.

Dry those fucking tears and listen hard.

I don't have much time left.

I'm telling you all, my... little ones, this whole thing because...

Ah! It's so unfair, but I can't stay with you and you have to know.

I killed your mother because she had turned like I'm gonna turn.

I'm gonna turn into... one of those monsters like there are outside.

NO! SHUT UP AND LISTEN!

I loved your mother and I... I... I fucking love all of you.

You are all little but you are many and you just have to know that it's okay to kill when you have to.

Even if it's one of you. You have to gang up and kill it.

Now go, I have to take care of myself before I turn.

No time for hugs. GO!

Close the door behind yourselves and never come back into this room.

Goodbye, my sweeties...

Yes, goodbye Harry. Goodbye Lisa and Kristy. Goodbye Joseph and...

HA! Well done, my beauties. You shut the door behind you like I would never have been able to.

Survive, please.

I'm pleased as punch with you all and I'm sorry.

And I'm sorry to you most of all, Christie, my beautiful wife.

I doubt I'll be seeing you soon... but I hope I do.

BLAM!

[close]

[Mandle]

Special thanks to Stupot for providing the perfect title to my story back before he knew the whole tale. His title also gave me a whole new angle on how to tell the story, much better than the way I had in mind.

[Baron]

Did Stupot happen to mention any good titles for my next submission? 

[Stupot]

Did Stupot happen to mention any good titles for my next submission? 

The Big Whollop Theory.

[Mandle]

Did Stupot happen to mention any good titles for my next submission? 

The Big Whollop Theory.

Hahaha! Took me a moment to see the running of the joke.

How about even a bit more oldschool like:

The Brady Punch

or

B*A*S*H

[Sinitrena]

I feel like I might need some title help here as well...

Why is this topic giving me such difficulties? I come up with an idea, think a bit further about it, work out the kinks and plot holes - and suddenly it doesn't fit the topic anymore because adding more details and structure just removed the "punchy"-element. Gah! 

Still thinking, still figuering it out. I will come up with something.

[Stupot]

This has happened to me too. I’ve come up with an idea, wrote a 300 word outline, but the more I try to flesh it out the less punchy it seems. But the outline on its own isn’t really enough to submit. Still working on it though.

[Baron]

Aw man, good ideas that don't pan out are always a shot to the gut!   

[Mandle]

Aw man, good ideas that don't pan out are always a shot to the gut!   

I dunno, they can be reworked without completely throwing in the towel.

[Baron]

Touché.  Hit us with another one, why don't ya?   

[Mandle]

Touché.  Hit us with another one, why don't ya?   

You fight like a cow.

[Baron]

That smacks of hubris.   

[Sinitrena]

Christmas Tree

A hit to the stomach. A kick to the nose. He stumbles back. Falls. The enemy. Broken. Screaming. Felled. Like a tree. Like his axe had cut him. Bled him.

Blood gushes. From the nose. From the cut on his brow. From the split lip.

He looks up. An eye turns purple. No comprehension there. No acknowledgment. Just… confusion. Anger.

The other one: The attacker. Her breaths heavy. Every one a thought. Short. Choppy. A staccato of words. Of ideas. Of fears. Of memories.

The axe is in her hands. The shaft is bloody. Shaking. In her hands. Her hands shake. Always shake. Her whole body. Tremors. Tremors, always tremors. They never go away.

A hand. On her arm. A body in front of her. Pressing against her. Holding her. With force. Holding her arm. Prying the axe from her hands.

“Mary.” A word. Faint. At the outskirts of her thoughts. “Mary!” Too silent. Too far away. Too strange. “MARY!” There. It hits her. Punches her in the face. Calls her away. Calls her back. Calls her here.

Memories leave. Stay. Leave.

“Mary!” Slowly, slowly fade. Of the attackers. Of the dark alley. Late at night. The knife in the man’s hand. The knife at her throat. How it glinted â€" like the axe. The moment she could not fight. The moment she did not remember her training.

Now it kicked in. Now it told her what to do. Now she acted. A soldier, eliminating a threat. A soldier fighting an enemy. Wrong enemy.

The threat gone?

Must be. Must! Be! Joseph holds her. Holds her tight. Would not be here. Would not be in the war. Wasn’t there that night. Wasn’t there! Joseph, her husband.

She slumps. Into his arms. Her breaths get faster. Faster still. Ragged. Short. Her lungs cry. Cry when she can’t. Won’t. Scream when she can’t. Won’t.

Her fists pound his chest. Her eyes fill with tears.

A voice. White noise. “He wanted to cut the tree. Just the tree. Not you, honey, not you. Just the tree.” Meaningless words. The truth; still meaningless. White noise.

“The Christmas tree? A real fir for our new apartment? We wanted to decorate it tomorrow? Put it up tonight, let it acclimate over night, put the lights and baubles and tinsel on tomorrow morning?” Soothing words.

Soothing words. Take the tension from her body. Let her fall. Onto the frozen ground, into the snow.

Hands brush gently over the scar on her neck. Cold fingers tickle her back into reality.

“What the fuck, lady!?!” the vendor screams. Screamed the whole time. Stands close to her know. Over her. Screams into her face.

The words whip her. Whip her back into panic, into fear, into fight or… No or. Fight.

Fight! Against the arms holding her. Against the man pushing her down. Against the stranger. The strangers. The knife! The axe! The enemy!

She tumbles backwards into the snow. The cold water seeps through her jacket. Joseph kneels on her chest, holding her down. She struggles and kicks and screams and he holds her down. What choice does he have? The axe is too close. The vendor too. What choice does he have but hold her and press her down and let her scream her heart out until she is hoarse and her clothes are wet in equal parts from the melting snow and her tears?

He does not know what comes first, her utter exhaustion or the police.

--------------------------------------

What do you know - complain to the forums about your lack of ideas and swoosh - there's one just like that. It's not fun like the other ones I had that didn't pan out, but it fits the topic.

[Baron]

Bam!  Inspiration strikes!   

Three days left for the rest of you to take a shot at this contest.   

[Stupot]

Well, I managed to bash this one out just before the deadline. It clocks in at under 500 words.

A Fistful of Punch

Two men wait. No lights, no engine, Barrow’s auction house behind them, car key damp between the forefinger and thumb of the man holding it.

“What’s taking them so long?” says Mint, adjusting the rear-view mirror for a better view of the entrance.

“They’ll be out.”

“I don’t like this, Sage. What’s he need it for, anyway?”

“Stop asking questions. You’re paid to drive.”

“And you?”

“To make sure you don’t fuck up again.”

That stung. The last time wasn't all Mint’s fault. He swerved to avoid a cat and ended up in a ditch. They had to leg it and Basil dropped the diamonds in the scramble. They got away... but Boss-man, Thyme? He wasn’t happy. He had a gun to Basil’s head. Was about to “prune” the guy for dropping the bag, but Mint begged him not to. He was the one who crashed.

“I’m just saying. They should be out by now. The plan was they-“

“I know the fucking plan. I was there.”

“Then, why-“

“It’s a priceless punch bowl. Diamond encrusted. In a guarded safe. Pars and Rose are the best in the country. They'll be out. Trust them.”

"I do, I do. It's just--" Mint sighs. "Well all right, asshole, tell me a joke."

"I don't do jokes, dickhead."

"What do you mean you don't do jokes? Who the fuck doesn't do jokes?"

"I don't do fucking jokes." Sage was starting to lose his cool. Mint was starting to forget what Thyme was paying him for.

"All right, well at least let me tell you one."

"Well fucking hurry up then."

"All right, so I'm at the skate park, right? And I meet a guy who sells half pipes. I says to him, 'Hey, how much is it per vert?'... then he punched me."

A pause. "That wasn't funny."

"That was funny, Sage. You just didn't get the punch--"

A piercing screech shatters the air behind them, a high-pitched wail shrieking inconsolably.

“They’ve tripped. We’re fucked,” Mint fights every urge to step on the gas and save himself.

"Wait for them. They'll be here." Sage swipes Mint's arm away from the ignition. He's sweating as well now, though.

A car pulls up beside them. A VW. And Sage is already out of the door.

“Where are you… what?”

“You wanna know why Thyme wants that bowl?" says Sage. "I’ll tell you why... he doesn’t.”

“What?”

Parsley's driving the VW and Rosemary and his shit-eating grin are in the back seat. Mint is slow to cotton on. Rose bungs the priceless bowl to Sage, who swings it into the Escort, shutting it in with Mint.

Sage clambers into the back of the VW with Rose. And in a blink they're gone. Mint twists the key but the car doesn't even give him the courtesy of spluttering. He’s alone, and he's fucked. He sees the blue and red flashing down the street and smashes his fist into the punch bowl.

[Mandle]

Baron, everything okay? Are you on strike?

[Stupot]

Baron, everything okay? Are you on strike?

Maybe he suddenly got bashful.

[Mandle]

Baron, everything okay? Are you on strike?

Maybe he suddenly got bashful.

You are the GOAT at this kinda stuff!!!

[Mandle]

I am seriously getting worried about Baron... He hasn't been online in AGS since Saturday, the day before this round was to close.