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Challenge of the Month XXXV
R.I.P Challenge: This one is from our social media director, and it's a staff favorite. In our fashion, the winner takes the $100, and this one is judged solely by the social media department. 500 word minimum. We can't wait to read these! In this writing challenge, you will be tasked with creating a story in which the old version of yourself is killed off and a new character is introduced. This new character should be a transformation of the old you, representing the growth and change that you have undergone. To begin, you will need to think about what aspects of your old self you would like to leave behind, and what qualities you would like to cultivate in the new version of yourself. Consider what events or experiences led to your transformation, and how you have grown as a result. Next, you will need to develop your new character, giving them a unique appearance, personality, and backstory. As you write, be sure to incorporate elements of your own life and experiences, as well as any symbolism or themes that are important to you. Finally, you will need to craft a story that brings your old self to an end and introduces your new character. This could be a tale of redemption, self-discovery, or personal growth. Whatever direction you choose to take, be sure to make it a compelling and meaningful journey for your readers.
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Ferryman
148 reads

Kept Secrets

Two men sit in the crowded living room of a single-wide trailer. The front door stands open, kept ajar by a broken cinder block. The small screened porch keeps buzzing mosquitoes and irritating gnats at bay, and an early evening breeze wafts in. Night is quickly falling, and cigarette smoke drifts up to catch it. The smoker perches on a sturdy wooden kitchen chair turned backwards. He leans his elbows on the back, contemplating his companion.

The owner of the mobile home is handcuffed, bleeding from several cuts on his face and a split in his lip. His left eye is one large, swollen bruise. His breathing comes in ragged gasps, and there are tiny, bursting air bubbles in one corner of his mouth. He's pretty sure there are broken ribs in the mix.

The visitor stares at the man on the couch, and he quietly smokes his menthol.

"I fuckin hate Virginia Slims, did you know that?"

The man on the couch answers by spitting blood on the thick, green carpet that was new before Sajak ever spun the wheel. The smoking man's eyes dart down, observing the long matted fibers that remind him of a Grinch costume. "Nice place you got here, slick."

"I think I need an ambulance, man." His teeth are pink.

"Probably. But I'm feeling like we need to have a chat."

"Lawyer. Doctor. Doctor, then lawyer."

"Yeah? You workin' through the list of things your mama wanted you to be when you grew up?"

"Go to hell."

"Oh, buddy," He takes a long drag, and he speaks as he exhales warm smoke. "Let's talk about hell for a minute. You don't know it. It's real. Well. It's metaphysical, and it's physical, but only when you're, y'know, incorporeal, so, what is reality, right?"

His audience stares, out of witty retorts and laboring to breathe.

"So the hell that goes with you. Let's examine that. That's the culmination of your experiences, your trauma, as the cool kids say. My hell is way, way behind us, so to speak. Chronologically, anyway. You familiar with a little something called the la Drang valley?"

The man on the couch breathes, sighs, doesn't respond.

"Yeah. So, the thing is, I'm a lot older than you'd believe. Bet you have a hard time with the fact that a man in his seventies whipped your ass, right?"

This time the uncomfortable shifting isn't because of bruises or broken bones.

"Yeah. I get it. Jesus, you stink. Hang on." The detective fishes another menthol from his pocket and lights it with the clink of a Zippo. "My fuckin' partner thought it was cute to grab me these things when I sent him on a run this morning. Joke's on him, though. I'll smoke anything menthol." He puffs, stares, and rejoins his story. "La Drang. It's in Vietnam, shitheels. Damned thing of it is it's a beautiful country. Great food. Not such a good vacation spot for thousands of 18 year old American boys back when all we heard from our dads were stories of Patton or Rommel or Korea. When I showed up in 'Nam, I was a five-foot-two kid from Appalachia, barely 120 pounds. Hell, I basically looked like an ARVN, but paler."

He breathed in more tobacco and continued.

"Those were the good guys. Well. On paper. At least they only shot at us when we weren't looking, I guess. Mostly. Before they managed to just run the fuck away or skip a fight altogether. Anyway. When I finally came home, I'd hit my growth spurt, you could say. Six-three, 210, built like a goddamned running back, long and lean. Crazy, right?" Folded over on the back of the chair, it's hard to see that this description still largely fits the detective. He's grayer, a little heavier, and wisdom lines his face, but he is often mistaken for a man in his late forties or early fifties.

The man on the couch grunts in what almost sounds like agreement.

"Yeah. The thing is, my family, that little town I'm from? We're different up in those mountains, slick. Puberty, I guess, hits us harder than other folks."

"What the fuck are you goin' on about, old man?" But it comes out as "Whafah are you goggabbou, olemah?"

"Oh, shit. You're sounding worse." He smiles a wolf's grin and smokes like a fiend.

"Okay, okay, I'll get back to it. So, I'm this scared little kid when we go into the jungle, but when I come crawling out of that shit a week later, the only way they recognize me and believe I'm who I say I am is by my dog tags." Inhale. Smokey exhale. Grin. "That's funny, in retrospect." He shakes his head, chuckling, smoking. He uses the nearly spent cigarette to light another. It's a chain of stinking, burning vice that keeps him talking and his hands busy. "I went in with a fireteam, a squad, a platoon. I came out alone. Naked. Barefoot, covered in dried blood and other things people are made of, and none of it was mine. War is hell, slick, and hell is here with us right now in this trailer. My hell ain't your hell, but I'm sure as hell your hell."

"Yeah?"

"You got no clue yet."

"Gonna beat me some more?"

"I only beat you as much as I needed to. Ain't touched you since you got cuffed."

The guy on the couch grunts again, maybe in pain, maybe in agreement.

"What you don't get is I changed in that jungle."

"Yeah, boss, I got that."

"Oh! He speaks again. Does he roll over and fetch?"

The prisoner spits blood on the floor once more. Talking broke loose some scabs.

"I wanna thank you for being my therapist today. And thanks for the workout. For what it's worth, you were never going to win, so don't feel so bad."

"Take the cuffs off, let's go round two." Taggacuffoff lezzroundoo

The old man shakes his head. "Nah, you don't get it. See, I went into the bush a little kid drafted from North Georgia. I came out of the bush a grown monster. Overnight. In a day. Tuesday, I was a Yorkie. Wednesday, I was a fucking Rottweiler. But Tuesday night? When Charlie came to camp and he tried to kill me? Slick. I was somethin' else."

"Cool war story, bro."

"You don't fucking get it, and that's why we can have this little chat. I can't exactly tell this story to anybody else. So I picked you. You're a shitty little man in a shitty little trailer in a shitty little part of the world nobody will ever notice you're not in anymore, and I know what you really are. Monsters know our own, but some are much scarier than others."

"How's that?"

"Oh, at minimum? I know why your sister doesn't invite you to her house.

Ever. She loves her kids."

The bubbly, wheezy breathing from the man on the couch stops for a beat.

"Yeah. Uh-oh, cats outta the bag, Chester. But don't worry, your secret is safe with me, just like I know my secret is safe with you."

"Ah shit man. Shit. Shit man, take me in, skip the lawyer I'll sign whatever you want. Shit man, what're you doin?"

The detective has finished his last cigarette that he'll smoke in this trailer. He stands, flicks the butt at the man on the couch, and slowly steps over, squats down in front of the prisoner. Leaning in, his voice becomes a whisper. "To this day I'm not sure who killed those men who were with me when I went into the jungle. Hell, I reckon the old me died, too. All I know for sure is that everyone around me ended up dead. I can confess that I was disappointed when we left in '75. Find something you love and you'll never work a day in your life, right?"

The prisoner's one good eye widens in horror as the detective's eyes glow amber and seem to flash. The change only takes a scattering of heartbeats, but where there was the smoker's-tooth grin of an old man there is now a mouthful of yellowed wolf's teeth, complete with snarling snout. Hands that end in razor-sharp claws reach, grasp, and tear as a gurgling scream is cut short.

No one is nearby to hear or care, anyway.

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