Much like those annoying Pokemon things and their ever changing forms, TWOS has taken the next step in online literary evolution. And like those weird lil’ anime creatures, our name has changed.
www.shelldisability.com Questions about your Social Security disability claim? We can help. Click our logo to visit our site.
We are now… Fiction Vortex! Check us out at our new page.
This change has been made possible by you our followers, our staff, and a good friend that saw value in what the TWOS community was try to accomplish. So thanks to Ernie and his company for funding our next step.
3 Words: Flavor, Estimate, Brown (The LAST Prompt Ever)
by Jon Clapier
Walks-with-fire lay in the long grass of a prairie ridge and watched the war party of Kiowa far below. The morning sun warmed his back as the sight of the warriors chilled his heart. They were four times the number of his fingers and were slowly working out the trail of his people. So many, and his family were so few.
His pony, Buffalo Runner, was hidden in the depression behind him, and a few miles beyond that his family fled from their enemies.
For three days Walks-with-fire and his two brothers had skirmished with the Kiowa, harassing them, slowing them and giving time for the women and children to escape. Walks-with-fire shivered, remembering how his brothers had saved him and he breathed a silent prayer that their spirits would be allowed to help him from the other world before they began their eternal hunt in the sky. Continue reading
This is goodbye, dear friends.
But only for a while. The time has come to make significant changes to how things happen here at TWOS, and there’s no time like the present to throw a wrench into a perfectly serviceable system. This isn’t the end, though. It’s the end of the beginning. TWOS has evolved since it began, and we’ve learned much along the way. It’s time to use what we know to make TWOS better.
3 Words: Eat, Greedy, Expedition (December 21, 2012 prompt)
The Hazards of a Small Business
by Jon Clapier
A man, disheveled and unshaven, rolled out of bed in a dim studio apartment. He picked up a sawed off shotgun from against the side of his bed and walked to the bathroom. He leaned the shotgun in a corner by the door only after checking the bathroom. He emerged some time later, shaved and with his hair combed into a wave. Carefully he dressed and then, taking the shotgun with him he unlocked multiple locks on the door before standing back to open it carefully, gun raised. When nothing happened he yawned and stepped out on the landing and took a short flight of stairs up to the roof of his small apartment building.
He repeated the unlocking-and-pointing-the-gun procedure at the door, finding nothing and then stepped out onto the roof. Buildings flanked the roof on three sides and an open street with more buildings across the way stood empty. Walking over to the edge that sat above the front of the building, he peeked over the short parapet to the street two stories below. A horde of about twenty soulless ghouls clawed ineffectively at the reinforced steel doorway. A few turned rotting faces up to him and growled like dogs with cut throats. Continue reading
Remember last year when your New Year’s resolution was to write more? So how did that turn out?
Perhaps you’ve heard the old saying about shooting for the moon and landing among the stars, which never made much sense because you’d have to really, really, REALLY overshoot the moon to land among the stars. So does that mean you did far better than expected, or you just have unbelievably bad aim?
It’s the Friday before Christmas. Lets be honest with each other. The last thing you’re thinking about is writing a short story.
Frankly, we can’t blame you. But we can bug you about it.
So, if in this crazy upcoming week of family, food, falalas, fights, festiveness, friendship, and freaking out you feel the need to escape into your own mind, try one of these word prompts. Run away into a happy narrative about beaches that don’t allow your Uncle Harry in.
It’ll be the best gift you’ve ever given yourself.
3 Words: Hotel, Complain, Royal (December 7, 2012 prompt)
by Rahn Olaso
It was the last day of my trip, and it was pouring rain. Every day before this had been bright, sparkling, and perfect, and I had spent them all in a boardroom discussing trade tariffs and delivery schedules. I had purposely scheduled my flight home a day late in order to do some Christmas shopping, and now the shale colored sky was seeking to prove that Noah’s deluge was a historical possibility.
Now that the day was here however, I was not going to fail. Tensions in this part of the world were escalating, and I might not make it back for some time, if at all. Three steps from the hotel to the taxi left me drenched, the wind making my umbrella less a help than a genuine nuisance, but at least the market was covered.
Forget jetpacks, I want the future to bring me a device that can tell me the truth. By that, I mean tell me exactly what people are thinking about me at any given moment.
For instance, when a manager leans back in his chair after my presentation and says, “Interesting,” I want to know if he is unimpressed, actually interested, or just barely swimming up out of a daydream that involved custard and the lady in Accounting.
3 Words: Cobbler, Purge, Forgotten (November 30, 2012 prompt)
by Jon Clapier
A young woman sits by a table at an open air café, checking her watch often.
“Would you like to order now?”
She notices the waiter is getting impatient and thinks it’s a bad omen coming from someone so good-looking, “No thank you. I’m sure my Aunt will be here any minute.”
“Can I refill your drink for you?”
She wants to say yes, but feels self-conscious about a third refill, “No, thank you.”
He nods in resignation and moves to another table.
An Ode to the Desk, that once-sturdy piece of glued and compressed wood shavings, which had long since grown creaky and unsteady as the plastic Ikea joints holding it together loosened and broke.
How lovely you looked in your disrepair, old friend, with your faux-wood veneer peeling up at the corners. There, on the left side, was the shallow scar from when the loose corner caught on my shorts as I passed, tearing a hole in the fabric and chipping off a nickel-sized chunk, almost as if you were made of obsidian.