This week we got to the challenge I created several weeks ago during an optional week.  Basically, the rules was to get three wishes granted to the main character.  One had to turn out very good, one very bad, and one ambiguously.  And the wishes had to be extraordinary.

Desiree clutched the ticket in her hand. Twenty-four. The LED lights shone sixteen. Not eager to guess her upcoming fate, her mind drifted to the events of the past two months.

***

“Fuck! Trish, that was awesome” he said as he pulled out and laid beside her.

Desiree liked her pseudonym. It sounded fun, not trashy like her given name.

“You know what?” he continued. She lit a cigarette, ignoring him. “You’re not like the other girls. I really like you.”

Desiree had two kinds of repeat customers. There were the men who had a particular kink that she was willing to oblige. And then there was this type, the lonely ones who genuinely thought they could fall in love with a few thrusts and a hundred bucks. There was really only one way to deal with them, and that was to pretend not to know them the next night.

“I need to shower,” Desiree said without inflection, avoiding the inevitable attempt at cuddling. Kicking off her heels, she got out of bed.

“I gotta leave, hun” he said, jumping up and putting on his slacks. “Conference downstairs, but I’m here all week. Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” she lied, grabbing her purse off the bathroom door and then closing it behind her. She enjoyed her shower more than usual, knowing he wasn’t going to be there when she was done.

The night still young, she reapplied her makeup before slipping on her dress and heels. On her way out, she saw a hand-written note on the bed:

I COULD LOVE YOU. ASK FOR ANYTHING YOU WANT.

There was a blank line underneath. Desiree smirked. Grabbing the pen, she wrote “a fucking tip”.

***

The LED display now said eighteen.

The next day, Desiree had received a shock when a tobacco shop clerk outside her usual corner delivered an envelope. “AS YOU WISH” was on the outside. On the inside, a thousand dollars.

Her tempered excitement didn’t last long, however, as later that night her pimp had found out about the extra money. He took it, of course, but not after taking it out on her.

***

“I’m sorry,” she told him, shivering. “I’m just too sore. I can go down. With a discount, of course.”

Shaking his head, he sat up beside her. “What’s wrong, Trish?” he asked, not out of annoyance but with genuine concern. Desiree did not know what came over her, but she told him everything. Not just about the night before, but troubles and
feelings she hadn’t shared with anyone. By midnight, she found herself next to him, her head on his chest.

“You know I can’t have sex with you anymore.” she said, somewhat embarrassed.

“That’s okay,” he said. “This is better, anyway.”

“Maybe. If only I could charge you for talking.”

“Look. I have plenty of money. I can make sure you always bring home the right amount.”

She squeezed his hand. A tear fell.

***

“Twenty-one!” a voice called in the distance.

Their arrangement had worked really well for a while. Even on nights when he was not around, he gave her enough money to make it looked like she was doing business. And she felt like she was slowly developing a friend. The following month had been one of the best of her life.

But eventually word got back to her pimp that she was noticeably absent on the streets at night. She cracked under interrogation and spent a night in the hospital for “falling down the stairs.”

***

“Now why did I have to pick you up at the corner tonight?” he asked. She told him.

“We can’t continue like this,” she said. “You’ve been amazing, but it’s just too risky. This has to be the last time.”

He was visibly frustrated, but held her closer. “Dez, do you think we could be more?”

She looked into his eyes. “Than friends?” She paused, then couldn’t finish her thought. Averting his eyes, she choked up. “I wish he was dead.”

“I’m better for having known you,” he said through his tears. Turning her chin, he kissed her. There was no hesitation. And for the first time, they made love.

***

It hit the front page two days later. Double-homicide. Two men, their connection unknown to everyone except Desiree. Both dead from gunshot wounds.

And now, a week later, Desiree was broke and homeless waiting to speak with a welfare worker. She felt a tug at her sleeve, breaking her thoughts of self-pity.

“Mom, when is Daddy coming back?” His brown eyes looked up at her.

“Daddy’s not coming back, hun. Not ever again.”

Her boy hugged her leg. “Are we going to be okay?”

She found the strength to hug him back. “I hope so, sweetie. I hope so.”

The counter changed to twenty-four.

K: I don’t know what to say about this one that y’all can’t already see. I absolutely loved these characters by the time of the surprise but fair ending. Desiree might be my favorite female character ever written in Spookymilk Survivor, and I’m not exaggerating. I would follow her through any number of words. 5

DK: Man, this is really good. I was really drawn into the situation and I liked how the wishes played out. I guess I don’t usually like things that start in media res, but this used it pretty effectively. 4

K: I almost exclusively like things that start in medias res. Huh.

First of all, the Vogons are back to their winning ways, so no elimination for our team this week.

Secondly, thank you to the judges for the compliments.  I am in love with this competition.  I’m writing better than I have in my whole life and it’s damn good fun.

I decided early in the week I wanted to write about a hooker.  I quickly decided the ending (sans child) as well.  Took me three days to come up with the actual wishes.  But when I started writing, it took me about two hours.  There’s really no background I can give as I didn’t base this off anything.  It just came out.

Spooky mentioned that I tend to write women well.  I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt more comfortable writing from a female perspective.

When we last met, stories that had cliffhangers were written.  This week, we had to take someone else’s story and provide the ending, while keeping the style as well.  With the holiday week, and the degree of difficulty this challenge had, this one was really tough.  I stayed up late on Friday, spending midnight to 2 am writing mine.  I decided to go with Andy Rustleund’s story.  Here is what he wrote last week:

The Crocville Library was nearly empty this time of year, with the summer sun burning away most students’ interest in books or studying. Earl Toulouse was normally the kind of kid that wouldn’t be caught dead in the library, even during the school year, but the library seemed to be the only place in town with the answers he needed.

Earl had always thought it was a little strange that they never got any new students in class, or that no one ever seemed to move away. Sure, most of the land in the area was a muddy swamp, but there were plenty of nice neighborhoods, a new Super Wal-Mart had just gone up on the edge of town, and the schools were supposed to be the best in the county.

But in history class, no one ever seemed to know exactly when Crocville was founded, or by whom. It wasn’t until the subject came up again later that week with his best friend Martin that Earl really got curious.

“Are you telling me you don’t know anyone who wasn’t born here?” Earl had persisted.

“That’s what I’m telling you, man. I even asked my dad,” huffed Martin on their way to the baseball field. “He said we were Louisiana’s best kept secret or something. Who gives a crap, anyway, man. We gotta get down there before they start without us. I’m not getting stuck in the outfield again.”

As Earl stood in right field, waiting for popups, he decided there had to be some other way to get more information. Tomorrow, he would make up some excuse and get down to the library. There had to be something there.

The town librarian beamed at Earl when she learned that he was interested in Crocville’s history.

“You’re in luck, young man. Mr. Porosus from the Historical Society is here today doing some research himself. Why don’t you two put your heads together and see if you can’t help each other out.”

Earl found Mr. Porosus in the back of the library hunched over a rather large tome, muttering to himself. “Excuse me. Sir…” said Earl tentatively.

Mr. Porosus looked up at Earl slowly. His wispy white hair peeked out from under a checkered hat, and although this part of the library was quite dim, the old man wore dark, gold-rimmed sunglasses on top of an long, pointed nose. His face contorted into a toothy smile.

“Mr. Toulouse. I’ve been expecting you.”

And here’s what I followed it up with:

“You have?” asked Earl, confused. Mr. Porosus beckoned with his hand. Earl walked up, pensive.

“Indeed, son. I hear you’ve been asking questions about our history. I’m always pleased when a young citizen shows interest.”

Earl relaxed a bit. “What are you reading?” His eyes widened as Mr. Porosus stepped aside.

“This,” Mr. Porosus said proudly, “is the entire history of Crocville. Quite fascinating, really. Did you realize our town’s founder was just four years old when he settled here?”

“Wow, really?”

“And that’s not it. It says he promised that nobody in Crocville would ever be lonely or hungry.”

“Cool.” He glossed over the open page detailing Crocville’s first organized baseball team. “What was his name?”

“Bobby Dunbar” said Mr. Porosus. “Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute. Go ahead, take a look-see. I’ll show you more when I return.”

“Yeah, okay” Earl whispered, hopping on the stool. Excited to learn more about Bobby, he flipped the book closed. On the edge of the stool, Earl opened to page one, which was blank. Turning another page, he found the next one blank as well. Then another. And another.

Turning more rapidly, Earl saw only white. Placing his index finger where he felt Mr. Porosus was reading, he skipped ahead several hundred pages. More white. Hands shaking, he flipped back the final pages, reaching the last one. It was not blank. Two words stared up at Earl. His breath caught.

“Like what you found?” said the now ominous voice of Mr. Porosus. He placed a hand on Earl’s neck.

His touch was ice. “What the…” was all Earl could mutter before feeling a swift pain shoot through his spine.

************************

Martin followed Earl to the library, hoping to make fun of his friend, the nerd. From behind the stacks, he watched his friend turning pages frantically. Then, a gangly man came by and appeared to calm Earl down.

Shortly, the man left the library. Martin walked towards his friend.

“Hey Earl!”

“Oh, hi Martin.” Earl yawned. “What’s up?”

“Dude, you looked scared for a minute. The book… is something strange in there?”

“Oh, that? Just some history stuff. Like you said, who gives a crap? See you at practice later?” Not waiting for an answer, Earl walked past Martin and out the library.
Nerd, Martin thought. Before leaving, he walked over to the tome and read two words:

THE END

And now for the judge’s thoughts:

Spooky: Mr. or Mrs. Survivor, you are trying my patience by asking me to like a meta story. However, I have to admit it’s working. Andy set up an excellent eerie tone here, and this story pays it off in a way that’s true to the tone and not in any way obvious. As Earl flipped through the book, I found myself anxious. Well done. 5

DK: Again, not as surprising a direction as some, but I think it pays off that direction really well, and it hits the mark on Porosus’s change effectively. 5

Honestly, I was hoping for 4/4.  Thanks for the compliments gentlemen.  My first ever perfect score couldn’t have come at a better time, as the Vogons suffered their first loss of the season and are now forced to vote somebody out.

As for the story, when I finished I was at 555 words and had to cut it down to 400 to meet game requirements.  Believe it or not, what you read above is virtually the same.  I eliminated a bunch of superfluous words and some flavor text that I wish I could have kept, but I did not have to change any part of the story.

It was a blast to write this.  I immediately knew I wanted Mr. Porosus to be this slick, evil dude who held  the secret of Crocville that needed to be kept.  My mind drifted to the children’s book series about the Tripods and the “capping” process used on teenagers to essentially turn them into non-questioning servants of the aliens.  The part about the book actually being blank except the final page was an addition I made while I was writing.  Martin’s appearance at the end was also something I threw in at the last minute which put me way over the word limit.  But I knew I had to keep it to give the ending a final kick, so I went editing away after that.

By the way, for those who didn’t Google, Bobby Dunbar is a real four-year old boy who went missing in Louisiana some hundred years ago.