Yes, the official anthology of TIW challenges is out!
Here is the Kindle version on Amazon...
..and on Smashwords for a dollar cheaper...
Hey! I have a new interview here! Come and read :-)
Plus just got trounced in Grudge 12 with my 'tribute' to Huxley's Brave New World, co-written by Mathew W Weaver. My part of the story examines my state at this time, in a box, waiting in the dark...unfortunately, not many of the judges could relate to that. Here it is...
UPDATE: a piece of feedback..spot on, I think...
must add that "As Stated" was a very well stated position on
meaninglessness, and the futility of existence within mans
ineffectiveness to find meaning through "the law"; his own attempt to
establish a utopia .... as stated. It reminded me of Plato's, "The
“As stated under Regulation 16″ (Grudge 12)
“As stated under Regulation 16 By-law 22 Section 2 Point 4.1 Appendix 3 Paragraph 42 of the Manifesto Issued by Those Within The Box, as of now, it is my turn with the red Lionel toy train.”
Watson grabbed the treasured object and tugged. John held it closer to his chest. The damp, mouldy cardboard box shook with their wrestling and wrangling, straining the rips in the corners.
“It’s mine!” John snarled.
“Guys, please, mind The Box!” warned Bernard, fed up with their confined, disease-ridden dystopian world.
“Quack,” Howard agreed.
“Oh, shut up.” John let go, and Watson retreated in triumph to his corner.
“Why bother learning, Howard? When was the last time we had a duck in here?” John sighed.
“You never know…QUACK.”
The misery, the oppression, the overcrowding…Bernard couldn’t take it anymore, the insanity was torturing.
“Don’t you wish you were free?” he asked, struggling to his feet, his head jammed against the top of The Box.
“No,” a voice from another corner muttered.
“Squalor is next to ugliness,” Watson commented, train in hand. He giggled, “My precioussssssssssssss……”
“Oh, miserable old box…I so love having rags for clothes,” grumbled John.
“Is it just me, then?” Bernard demanded as ants nested under his moist patch of fear. “The dirt, the smell, the insecurity of it all? Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Go if you want. We can do without you,” Watson snapped, annoyed at the interruption to his play. John tried to swipe the toy train back and missed.
“Look at you! You don’t even know what’s out there!” Bernard jabbed a finger in the air. “Don’t you care? We’re Schrodinger’s cats as far as anyone or anything out there is concerned!”
“I hate cats,” murmered John.
“I like quacks,” Howard interjected, “How about we all be Schrodinger’s ducks instead?”
“My preciousssssss,” Watson hissed.
“Are we…are we alive or dead?” whined Bernard.
“Dunno. If we’re Schrodinger’s ducks, then we’ll only know if someone opens The Box.”
Bernard looked around at his companions and saw the miserable, pathetic life they had, never once wondering what it was like outside. Surely there was more than this…
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Good riddance, you and your ‘oppression’,” mumbled Watson.
Bernard shook his head, and looked up at the sagging roof inches from his nose. He sucked in, and punched upwards into the unknown. Whether or not the others were watching he did not know or care; his fist sank through the rotting cardboard like a clenched hand through thick, wet paper. Light shined through, and madness seized him. He reached, grabbed, and pulled himself out.
A flap closed on the hole in the top of The Box, and the light dimmed once more.
John leaped forward, “My turn! MY TURN WITH THE TRAIN!”
“Quack,” Howard said, shifting aside as they rolled past him.
Soft tapping on the side of The Box cut through their yells and made them pause.
“Can I come back in, please? It’s cold out here.”