Wednesday, August 10, 2016

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!


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?

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