Tad Winslow's Stories

The Year is 3090

2008-05-29T04:57:38Z

The year is 3090.

What was once Australia and New Zealand is decimated, and a free range jail for the worst of humanity is what remains.

The days of prison are over. The condemned live free on the continent, encircled by the largest man-made enclosure ever constructed—visible even from well beyond the moon. The new Earth Law will cleanse these lands every fifty years for the sake of sterilizing those with “sick genes” as a rightous act of population control.

Earth is now a tropical desert steeped in pollution and ruled by the conjoined forces of China and the great United States of America.

The destruction of New York city laid the foundation for a world wide revolution. Millions died after the atomic bomb named,The Manhattan Target, detonated. Global commerce palpatated like an ill heart for decades only to emerge from the rubble with an alliance that flourished and gained control.

To many made a fool, Earth Law has yet to achieve peace—a resistence has risen from The Fall of Russia.

A Soldier Shooting Shadows

2008-05-24T12:03:33Z

A heart doesn’t beat in a shadow. The color of hair and the temperature of skin is represented only as a vague, black outline. That’s what makes it so easy to kill those that cast them.

Shadows don’t bleed. They don’t have faces of terror that solidify in your dreams and curse you with insomnia. Shadows don’t have names or families. They don’t belong to a nation or have a home. They start only at the rubber soles of the enemy.

Try shooting a little girl point blank after she’s been taken hostage by a desperate guy with a gun. Bet you couldn’t. Not if she’s more than a shadow. Not if she’s more than an object in the way of your target.

No hesitation. Afterall, shadows don’t cry. They don’t feel pain and are never afraid. They serve as a bull’s-eye only, and are not to be negotiated with.

The shadows aren’t like me. The difference is—I’m going home someday. In the meantime this is the idea that will ensure my survival. Sanity is a small cost to pay for the preservation of my life.

Soldier

2008-05-24T10:42:36Z

He doesn’t see them as human—he just puts a bullet in them, wipes the dust off his boot with the shirt of a fallen soldier and moves behind a cement plastered wall, shielding himself from both return fire and the tormenting desert sun. He reloads his assault rifle with haste and skill.

An automatic weapon spits in the close distance. Hot metal whips past, inches to his left, whistling just below the sound barrier like potential promises to end his life. Particles of sand explode at his feet like shrapnel—stinging his face. He winces, then waits.

The silence means they’re either busy reloading, or pretending to—hoping that their prey senses an offensive weakness and decides to peer out with thier enemy eyes for a shot at glory. Then BAM ! another breathless mother is holding a letter back in America.

Maybe they've left, he thinks just before the patters 
of footfalls grow louder.

His headset crackles, “Area secure,” the seargent assures. “Get back into formation soldier.”

The Sharp Teeth of my Bite (200 something challenge)

2008-05-21T21:59:10Z

I AM …

I am December to the seasons.
I wonder how bitter I can be.
I hear the claw of bare branches.
I see Ice float in the sea.
I want to quiet warm hearts.
I am making you dead like me.
~

I pretend to be nothing.
I feel your spine with a shiver.
I touch the root of vitality.
I worry of him, the life giver.
I cry snowflakes on saplings.
I am a gun in control of its trigger.
~

I understand the night.
I say threats to the sun.
I dream of vanishing light.
I try to coil god’s hand, and make it go numb.
I hope to steal you away and have you tied tight.
I am forcing you to bleed with the sharp teeth of my bite.

Like That of A God

2008-05-18T09:43:32Z

The moon, a dusty orange orb, hangs low in the skyline,

fringing the wind ushered clouds—outlining the early

morning darkness like a curvy line of fire floating above

the farm.

Addison watches the spectacle of nature unfurl with eyes

woken much earlier than usual. He gazes through the

shifting tentacles of a weeping willow, head positioned on a

soft moss covered root. The moss spreads out wide and

thick beneath him—compressing comfortably around his

boney pressure points.

The scarecrow had controlled the laws of physics yesterday,

encasing Clayton in a cast made out of his own headstone,

and unnaturally sent him up into the atmosphere and

beyond the moon.

Thoughts overflow Addison this morning, splashing

onto his wooden protector like holy water, wetting his image

of the scarecrow in utmost affection—like that of which he

can’t give his unknown and long since dead parents.

Like that of a god.

Blimpy and the Butterball Baby (Silly Story Challenge)

2008-05-15T01:11:44Z

Josephine is growing. Sure, she’s pregnant and that’s expected—but my god. She’s one sugar cube away from a full-blown double chin.

That’s my sister I’m talking about in the first paragraph—the obese pregnant one. If she ever got a hold of this journal entry my lungs would surely collapse after being sat on, so let’s keep this one under wraps.

The truth is I’m a victim of sibling abuse. Just recently I received the most painful purple nurple of my life after engaging with that bloated rhino.

I’m innocent. I was inspired by how she sweats melted butter after NASA -like lift offs from the sitting position, and because it’s apparent that she defeated the Hulk and ate him. Impressive.

So I thought up a new sitcom and made her the star. I called it, Blimpy and the Butterball Baby. I mean, what a gift of imagination right? Oh no. She lunged at me like a tuskless walrus, grappling my nipple with the pinchiest sausage fingers, and twisted with the violent intent to rip flesh.

How ungrateful!

A Part Of Addison

2008-05-14T01:17:03Z

Addison watches the crow chisel C-L-A-Y-T-O-N into the headstone with it’s beak and he marvels at the small bird’s resilient power. Worry creeps in as the bird bashes away at the rock. Each hard impact loosens the beak and chips it, nicking the edges.

Fragments form into larger pieces, falling off, but the crow remains steadfast—smashing the stone at an unrelenting pace.

“Stop.” Addison moves toward the crow. “You’re hurting yourself.” He says as he reaches to restrain his sleekly feathered friend.

The beak breaks off with a swift and crushful force. It’s whole face implodes in a crumble like a condemned skyscraper made of pottery. Pieces of the crow unexpectedly liquify and evaporate in a quick sizzle—a wavy mirage of heat rises, capturing Addison’s eyes, and dissipates to reveal his own hands holding the chisel and hammer where the crow had once been. It’s he who has been chiseling all along.

The crow is merging with me, Addison realizes in a pause.

Late Nights

2008-05-11T22:20:17Z

John laid painfully awake in his bed and tried so hard to shut his eyes. His bottom lids acted as bouncy rubber—top lids plummeted his veiny eyes into darkness only for an instant before hitting the bottom trampolines that propelled his Insomnia. He sat upright in mental wrenching, letting his stomach crinkle like the cloth of his brain being wrung.

His tired eyes drifted out the window and caught the trees movement. John imagined that they spoke a rare language—a tongue that had expired when the heavy book of history shut, severed, and placed its record on pages long since desintegrated by the elements of time.

SMASH ! The window shattered. John’s alarmed senses snapped turtle, he instinctively hid under the blanket’s soft shell and waited for whatever had come to rip off the sheets and kill him.

Silence.

Finally popping his head out from his sheet shelled sanctuary he saw a helicopter of branches spinning like rope whips quietly above him.

What A Crab!

2008-05-09T07:02:09Z

If my school morning mentality could be expressed by a trumpet I’d say it would sound like a half hearted push of air squeaking out from the brass muzzle like a fat kid farting on a hard plastic seat—a real elephant trunk wheeze if you will, that trails off as I roll over and snooze some more. In case you need my crass opinion to understand, mornings blow, and if Garfield were real I’d give him a pound right now.

On this particular morning I was chatting to my buddies in home room when an all too nosey Mrs. Pierce eaves dropped in uninvited. “Tad, I would like to see you in the hallway please.” Her tone annoyed me.

“I can see that you bleached your hair and I heard that you havn’t told your parents.”

“Uh-huh, you OVERheard. I did it last night and went right to bed, woke up this morning late,” in a wheeze I thought “after my parents went to work.”
“Yes, well, it’s a disturbing thing to know, it being picture day and all.”

Mrs. Pierce—always wanting a part in the punishment. What a crab!

Intent to Murder

2008-05-08T20:41:06Z

Clayton watches Addison go—he’s begun counting how many times Addison will turn his back on him. One trick is to interact uncomfortably, creating off beat conversations as a front.

Hiding his true intentions behind a stupid but harmless persona, Clayton builds disgust and pity for himself word by awkward word. Intent to murder lingers—disguised by a self baked, dumb-nut-bread demeanor.

He wins everytime Addison dismisses him with his back turned. The silence is almost broken each time by the glee of success boiling to the lid of Clayton’s closed lips. It’s the kind of dismissal that will leave Addison knifed, or better yet, expose him to the terminal affliction of a tunnelling bullet.

Calculating and devious Clayton remains patient. Washing the vegetables, shucking the corn, and keeping internal tabs on Addison’s reactions with all of the prudence of a profiling police officer.

A smirk fades from Clayton’s mouth like the cold black back of a submerging killer whale.

The hunt is on.

Grand Prize -- 2nd & 3rd (Pen Name Challenge Wrap-up)

2008-05-06T04:41:33Z

3rd Place —-—-—-—-——> MELIA

She wrote a realistic slice of Wil Wheaton’s life. Check it out Wil and comment, we all have! Superb job Melia.

2nd Place —-—-—-—-——> Eckhouse

Anyone who can seamlessly fit in Tabernacle Mormons and high fiving Squirrels gets my vote everytime.

GRAND PRIZE —-—-—-—-> THX 0477

Who else could it possibly be I ask you (rhetorically)!? His story about Melia is as far fetched and creative as they come—yet so thoughtful of how her personality shines through in her ficlets. And it’s extremely funny to boot. A+ THX 0477 .

Thankyou everyone for making this challenge great fun. I’d also like to mention a few other authors that deserve recognition for making the selection process so hard fought.

—--> Valley Fey/ Pin Prick Really funny and ridiculous story.

—--> More Ways Than One Wonderful story about inspiration.

—-—> Trifalmadorian_Gameshowhost Loved the pace of the action.

Awards

2008-05-06T03:51:00Z

Without further ado here are the Winners for the Pen Name Challenge.

Up first may you please put your keyboards and mouses together for Bartimeaus for winning the Best Teenage Romance award. Band Baby should be proud, even though she doesn’t play the french horn, lol, french horn—one of the funniest instruments ever. Excellent job.

Up next is Uselessness. He wins the Well Written But Extremely Odd Description award for the penning of Throatwolf’s uncanny desire ”....I wish I could be on a plate beside the leftovers and the pitcher of iced tea, even for half a minute. Smothered in margarine.” Way to go man, for more than just that, the story in it’s entirety was very good.

Now, will Ana Christina please come up and receive the Risky, Far Fetched, Highly Creative award for your story about uselessness and his double agent status (Applause and cheers). And while you’re up here why don’t you take the Best Ending Line award as well—you earned it.

And now for the GRAND PRIZE …....

the Penguin Perp and the Live Gorilla (Pure Randomness continued)

2008-05-05T01:19:18Z

Speaking of penguins—as they waddled off one of the more blubbery specimens let loose with an all too liquidy vanilla bean bowel movement. I followed the line of ooze directly to the stubby tailed tookus of the ice cream perp. “I knew you’d slip up sooner or later theif!” I cried waving a clenched fist. The penguin perp turned and blushed, effectively topping off his gross display of manners with mind numbing cuteness, eliciting Awww’s from the crowd of Asian Monks that had gathered.

One Monk turned and said “do these robes make me look fat?” the other monk interjects, “No way girlfrieeeeend, you looking like a million pieces of warm appealing pie!”

I rub the self conscious monk’s head for good luck then dismiss him with a forearm shudder and a Bruce Lee like howl of satisfaction, “wwwwwaaaaaaaaa” I screech into the cherry blossom breeze.

I decide at once to get away from it all so I jump in my live gorilla vehicle, which isn’t a vehicle at all, literally it’s a live gorilla and ….

The Randomness Must Go On

2008-05-04T09:33:16Z

I opened the door and was greeted by the Cleveland Browns, that’s right, the entire team. Forty plus players rumbled into my living room and huddled up.

“Aprons please, gentlemen!” I squawked at them. After all they are MY hired maid service. The linebacker pulls out a danty duster that looks all too much like a flamingo at first, but no my eyes were deceiving me. A flamingo? I laugh to myself. That would be nuts. I was relieved to realize it was actually a perfectly normal peacock. Silly me.

The penguins start playing full tackle cricket inside of my freezer which happens to be a regulation size field upon looking in—huh, who knew? “HEY! Which one of you flubbery rubber mitts ate my ice cream?” no answer. Stupid birds, can’t even fly. I shut the door in a huff and walk down stairs to my attic. I try to sit in my phone booth recliner but the space is too tight.

The television sighs, picks up the remote and changes me to another channel of thought. “Must design timemachine” I drone.

The Royal Beauty

2008-05-04T05:25:35Z

The diamond emitted its own energy—projecting the color of the caribbean onto the otherwise white linoleum floor.

“It’s spectacular, Derrick.” The awe of the moment stole the emphasis and emotion from my words. I stated them blankly, distracted by the immense beauty of the intricately cut and otherworldly size of the diamond.

I was ashamed. Such a magnificent treasure sat in the kitchen of my trailer home like royalty would in a horse barn.

I’d never tell Derrick how dissatisfied I was with my own life. But the instant I looked away from the diamond I saw the same rat grey cabinets and the same mouse brown counter. Dirty dishes were piled high. One mocking plate stuck out, still crusted with ketchup from my two-hot-dog-dinner four nights ago. The rusty red ugliness smeared the plate and clashed against the emanating blue beauty.

I lost control.

“John?” Derrick noticed my silent tears fall. He put an arm around my shoulder. My self hatred poured over, trickling in the faint glow.