Gettin’ Outta Here!: WOW 555 Call for Entries

photo credit: Everybody Put Your Hands In The Air via photopin (license)
photo credit: Everybody Put Your Hands In The Air via photopin (license)

When I set the prompt for this week, I had no idea my site was going to take me so literally. It decided to come down with a nasty case of malware and I had to take it down before it tried to infect all of you. Luckily, we were able to take it down, nurse it back to health (thanks to some professionals who really know their way around the coding game), and get it back up in time for tonight’s call. I’m still testing out a few things to be sure functionality hasn’t been lost anywhere, so if you find a few glitches, please let me know.

But now, it’s time for the call! What kinds of stories do you have for this week’s theme? I hope they’re not as real-world and stressful as a sick baby – er, website. As always, you have until 5 pm Friday to get your stories in!

Watch for the hashtag #WOW555 and retweet/share as often as you like.

Rules can be found in the drop down menu on the WOW 555 tab. The winning story will be featured with next week’s prompt while the author gets a little well-deserved two-day promotion on social media! (I’ve been neglectful on this recently, but it’s coming back!)

Before you post your responses into the comments, remember, by doing so, you’re giving me permission to publish your stories without attribution or links until Monday. This is an attempt to keep the focus on the writing. So don’t forget to give your story a title!

The Monday post will identify all authors and include links and Twitter handles if you’ve provided them (hint: include your links and/or Twitter handles with your submission). The story with the most votes will be featured while all others will be listed by title.

Now, get those entries in!

You can either copy/paste your entry in the comments or provide a link to your story. You have until 5 pm CST Friday.

P.S. To help you keep up with the writing prompts and the calls for entry, especially when the site goes down unexpectedly, join the email list just for this contest. Emails will go out each Monday and Friday with very simple, short messages. Monday’s emails will deliver the week’s prompt directly to your inbox while Friday’s emails will be little more than a reminder that the call for entries is live. You can also opt to be personally reminded via Twitter simply by entering your Twitter handle.

13 thoughts on “Gettin’ Outta Here!: WOW 555 Call for Entries

  1. The Apostles

    They came together every two years; old friends, each living separate, solitary lives. There was a comfortable familiarity amongst them; men who’d once shared a confined space, a space and a time called adolescence, a long lost time that draped over them like a blanket woven of spiders webbing.

    “I have never been as close to anyone as I am with you, my friends, ” Wakefield said as they assembled this most recent time at the Carthage Hotel Saloon and Grill, a way-station outside of Porter, Idaho.

    Wakefield always seemed to need to summarize their gathering in a minute, Hallmark-like capsule.

    “Yes, yes, Wakey,” Scott Hodges groaned. “Close! Bonded! A brotherhood! Jesus, you’d think we were still the twelve apostles. I mean, if we still were twelve. But we’re not, are we?”

    Wakefield hung his head, a recognition that the years had decimated their “club,” a grotesque pun on their deadly origin.

    Scotty was so right. They were now only five.

    Time HAD taken its uncaring toll. They HAD been twelve. Back in ’64. As time had run its course, they had been whittled down.

    Hank Lockland had been the first to go. Early, in 1968. A bad acid trip, then a reckless midnight swim in Lake Oswego. Body never found.

    Fred and Jack Haggerty, the crazy, flying Haggerty’s, daredevils, brave and doomed. Their Cessna had crashed in the Rockies in 1972. The remains, hipbones and one skull were found a couple of years later; no one doubted their pointless, albeit epic, demise.
    None died in Vietnam. Three, however, Vets all, died of exposure on the homeless-ridden streets of, respectively, Chicago, New York City and Patterson, New Jersey.

    There was one lone suicide; Walt Howell, five weeks earlier.

    They were now, truly, only five
    The Apostles Racing Club had been founded in 1952. Its Charter mandated that only the 12 best drivers would be members.

    It flourished for a dozen years. Its secrecy maintained; its aura unsoiled.

    Scott Hodges had never lost his bitterness. That night, that bright spring night when their straightaway lives got all twisted, IT haunted him.

    Walt’s death also haunted him. He had flown up to Walt’s cabin the week before his suicide. Fifty years and he still whimpered. “Nothing’s gone right, Scotty. That night ruined it all. If only…”

    “That never helps, Walt. We were young. We made a terrible mistake.”

    “Mistake? THAT’S what you call it?”

    Yes, thought Scott Hodges, that’s the name for it. The stranger with the MG, he and his woman, flaunting whatever it was they thought made them better.

    “There ain’t one of you I can’t take,” he’d boasted. With that, money they didn’t have was wagered.

    The MG blew past them all. The Apostles were devastated.

    “I’m outta here, fellows, soon as you pay up.”
    Panic and anger set in.

    In a flash, all 12 of them swarmed the couple, pummeled them into a bloody heap, buried them deep by Skips’ Crossing, drove the MG to a neighbouring town and left it parked on a side street.

    Their club disbanded; their lives unravelled.

    Five Apostles remained, grimly counting their days.


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