I knew that degree would pay off

About a week ago, Josh entered a contest over at Pointless Drivel. It was a micro-fiction writing contest. Mr. Fab started the story and you had to finish it. The catch? The entire story could only be 400 words and Fab's part was already 175 words. That left a measly 225 words.

Josh was up for the challenge. Entered his story and won! Here's the story (Josh's portion is in bold).

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It was a dark and stormy night. John and Marsha stared glumly at the fuel gauge in their Ford Taurus, which read empty.

“I guess we get out and walk from here,” sighed John, “Maybe we can find someone still up at this hour.”

Wordlessly they bundled up as best they could, got out of the car, and began to walk down the road. The rain had let up some, but they were still going to get soaked. After about thirty minutes of walking down the dark road, they rounded a bend and came upon what looked to be a farmhouse. Every light was on in the house, and as they got closer they could hear music coming from inside.

“Well, we may be in luck, ” exclaimed John.

The couple walked up onto the porch and after a moment’s hesitation, John knocked on the door. They waited, but no one came to and answered. John knocked harder. The music stopped. Silence. Then after another minute, they heard the lock turning and the door swung wide open.

“Well hello!” said…

…The bailiff’s club to John’s cranium.

It had been hours since he was locked in the darkness behind those heavy oak doors. John pounded with less enthusiasm, partly from the pain of his battered knuckles, mostly from the hopelessness that fell upon him like a red needle upon the E. The needle; his car…reality seemed so far away now he wondered if he hadn’t spent his entire life in a damp cellar, with a throbbing head and that insane fucker dancing around on the squeaky floorboards above.

John remembered the man’s mustache, how it curled to tiny points at either end. He thought of that old cartoon character, Snidely Whiplash. A black club then a black space. John had no time to react. That little twitch in his eye returned. Marsha. What could he be doing to her? His head pulsed. Now he was waiting, listening, cowering in the dark. He pissed his pants and began pounding again.

Marsha swirled and dipped around the man’s body. She giggled with delight as the two twirled about the room. Pathetic little John she thought to herself as she danced.

The man stared back at Marsha. She had finally come back and with a prize—fresh meat for the cellar—just like he had told her. She was such a good girl.

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So what did he win besides bragging rights? As if anything else is necessary. He wins an autographed copy of It’s a Guy Thing by Scott Seegert.

Congrats Josh!