In honor of the Writers' Police Academy this weekend, I thought I'd re-post the first piece I wrote for the Golden Donut Award contest a few years ago. (And just a little bragging - I was a top ten finalist).
The picture that year was of a neglected, dilapidated building.
Here's my 200 word story, with a beginning, middle, end and that pesky proverbial twist!
BURIED SECRETS
The picture that year was of a neglected, dilapidated building.
Here's my 200 word story, with a beginning, middle, end and that pesky proverbial twist!
BURIED SECRETS
I blame Grandpa for my current predicament.
He filled my head with bedtime stories after my parents died. Made up stories, he said. But I saw the looks Grandma gave him.
Grandpa tucked me into bed, covers pulled up to my chin. I listened to tales of trickery and thievery. The hero was a clever fellow, pulling off daring heists. For years the stories thrilled me.
I grew up and moved out of the old two story, isolated family home. Grandpa died. I pieced together the clues scattered throughout his tales. I checked out newspaper archives over donuts and coffee. The stories were true. I set out to find his stash of stolen goods hidden somewhere under that neglected house of my childhood.
The overgrown grounds almost engulfed the abandoned building. I sweated and dug in that dank basement. All I uncovered for my trouble was bones.
So many bones.
Suddenly, in between the decrepit house’s creaks and groans, I heard the sounds of stomping down those rickety steps, dragging something heavy and cumbersome.
I stood paralyzed. Nowhere to hide and no way out but up those very stairs.
I wondered - who will dig up my bones?
