One day, a giant undulating pile of trash at the landfill I managed sprouted several sinewy grasping arms and unblinking milky clouded-over basketball-sized eyes. The laborers snapped pictures and recorded videos of it. A hairy, sallow arm snatched a worker by the wrist and pulled him into the heap kicking and screaming; more limbs exploded from the mound and dragged the other laborers in wailing — that was my last day.
“Life is hard. But things always get better,” read the letter in front of me from my past self, circa 2013. “Remember that.” I started writing these letters to myself back when I was a kid. I’m 30 now. There’s a pile of them that sits on the corner of my desk, held down by a crucible - a fitting symbol. My personal alchemy. A poignant reminder that I am gold.
The rigid hair; perfect work-shy nails, essential oils; essential spas; her insipient friends “Her husband’s into crypto”; lip fillers; the maid; the insidious pinkness; the loss of his “dresses poor” friends; the property porn; dining for show; the shadow of his former self; shag pile carpet in... the bathroom?!.
That’s where they found that tiny trace of her blood.
Hi friends. I'm a regular participant in these challenges and this time I've decided to post my 70-word Stack on my blog. I invite you to take a look: https://rolandoandrade.substack.com/p/the-mounds
Black stiletto heels. Ruched mini dress—cherry red. Lace thong.
What will her cheating husband and his girlfriend think when they walk in? Wonder how Jill got in the girlfriend’s townhouse. No way to know Jill wore the dress for a locksmith: Jim.
Jim’s upstairs. Naked. Hard. Ready to get caught fucking Jill in her husband’s girlfriend’s bed.
She looked around, taking in the stacks needing to be sorted, labelled, arranged, catalogued: notifications issued, disposal forms filled out, identification checked and, more often than not, transport to be organised.
º
She was, by nature, a tidy person and she had always found satisfaction in bringing order to chaos.
º
But in the rubble that once was a hospital, she felt only despair over this pile of bodies.
Nigel and Elizabeth were talking over their dessert, alone at the 12 seat dining table. “It’s been fun,” said Nigel, “but you have to admit that living in a 19th century Victorian mansion has also been a lot of work.” “Not to mention the expense,” said Elizabeth. The plumbing is bad and the roof leaks. They looked at one another and said, “Time to get rid of the old pile.”
The top floor luxury suite is a shambles. Pictures, lamps on the floor. Tables, chairs toppled. The two grapple. Shirts torn, bloody. A solid punch from Stapleton sends Jupe reeling.
Ava, Jupe’s fiance, is sprawled awkwardly on a couch. Legs frozen straight, a final overdose spasm. Eyes dull, unseeing.
Jupe’s screaming charge, pile drives Stapleton through balcony glass doors and over the railing. The unforgiving sidewalk separates their death clinch.
Innocent. Not too high. A footprint of two or three feet. But that was on Monday. By Wednesday, it blocked the light from the windows, and only the edge of the Aubusson rug poked out from under it. I sucked it up with the Electrolux. Friday it returned, vengeful and bigger than before. The Electrolux was no match for it. The shop vac balked, then fizzled. The pile had won.
Welcome back! I've been waiting patiently, just like everyone else. Happy to play along!
We stepped into the book store, not knowing what to expect. The broken sign said: "Used Books.” The floor was plywood, scuffed and worn down through years of neglect. There were shelves, and bookcases, and piles of books stacked on the floor standing waist high. In the background, there was music — Classical, of course — and in the air, the musty smell of old books, like an old man standing alone.
The plan worked to perfection. The money handed over. No silent alarms, no security guard and the cameras were out. The teller seemingly knew the drill, how to respond. She filled the sports duffel handing it to me with a smile.
It was flawless until I escaped and opened the bag. The indigo blue pack exploded and ruined that pile of money and my disposition. No wonders she was smiling…Bitch
(This one is called 'F150', in honor of all the guys I know who get in their work truck every morning, even when it's -15 fahrenheit and the windchill makes it "feel like -34")
“We’re lucky the sun is out today. Otherwise…” Caleb made a fountain of frozen breath and shook his head at miles of empty highway.
Josh shivered. “The boss said the battery is new, too.”
“Pile”
One day, a giant undulating pile of trash at the landfill I managed sprouted several sinewy grasping arms and unblinking milky clouded-over basketball-sized eyes. The laborers snapped pictures and recorded videos of it. A hairy, sallow arm snatched a worker by the wrist and pulled him into the heap kicking and screaming; more limbs exploded from the mound and dragged the other laborers in wailing — that was my last day.
“Life is hard. But things always get better,” read the letter in front of me from my past self, circa 2013. “Remember that.” I started writing these letters to myself back when I was a kid. I’m 30 now. There’s a pile of them that sits on the corner of my desk, held down by a crucible - a fitting symbol. My personal alchemy. A poignant reminder that I am gold.
Thanks for joining in Joshua!
He had hated her, in the end.
Hated it all.
The rigid hair; perfect work-shy nails, essential oils; essential spas; her insipient friends “Her husband’s into crypto”; lip fillers; the maid; the insidious pinkness; the loss of his “dresses poor” friends; the property porn; dining for show; the shadow of his former self; shag pile carpet in... the bathroom?!.
That’s where they found that tiny trace of her blood.
Hi friends. I'm a regular participant in these challenges and this time I've decided to post my 70-word Stack on my blog. I invite you to take a look: https://rolandoandrade.substack.com/p/the-mounds
Great to have you back, Miguel!!
The Clothes Pile – 70-word erotica
Jill strips. Piles her clothes in the foyer.
Black stiletto heels. Ruched mini dress—cherry red. Lace thong.
What will her cheating husband and his girlfriend think when they walk in? Wonder how Jill got in the girlfriend’s townhouse. No way to know Jill wore the dress for a locksmith: Jim.
Jim’s upstairs. Naked. Hard. Ready to get caught fucking Jill in her husband’s girlfriend’s bed.
Who says confrontations can’t be fun.
https://emastonig.substack.com/
Microdosing Fiction - 70mg of a Pile
===
The madman was truly pinned down.
His captors gathered nearby, enjoying the spectacle.
Thick, warm liquid dripped down his forehead, his eyelids, and traced his lips. The stench told him it’s blood.
He laughed hysterically. Mission accomplished.
The chief inspector, an equally mad man, asked, ‘Can you feel them? Victims of your brutality.’
They watched the piles of cow carcasses – everyone they could gather – holding the madman to the ground.
Pile - 70 words
She looked around, taking in the stacks needing to be sorted, labelled, arranged, catalogued: notifications issued, disposal forms filled out, identification checked and, more often than not, transport to be organised.
º
She was, by nature, a tidy person and she had always found satisfaction in bringing order to chaos.
º
But in the rubble that once was a hospital, she felt only despair over this pile of bodies.
PROMPT: PILE
THE POKER CHIPS
As soon as he realised what was on the table, he started licking his lips.
The pile was huge.
And it was all going to be his.
Within moments, he was panting with excitement, and pawing the whole impressive stack towards himself.
As a voice angrily said, “I told you it was a bad idea to use kibble as poker chips!”
And several hands desperately tried to pull him away… 😎
🐶
Haha! 🐶😎🐶
Pile in 70 words.
Nigel and Elizabeth were talking over their dessert, alone at the 12 seat dining table. “It’s been fun,” said Nigel, “but you have to admit that living in a 19th century Victorian mansion has also been a lot of work.” “Not to mention the expense,” said Elizabeth. The plumbing is bad and the roof leaks. They looked at one another and said, “Time to get rid of the old pile.”
Prompt: Pile - exactly 70 words
The top floor luxury suite is a shambles. Pictures, lamps on the floor. Tables, chairs toppled. The two grapple. Shirts torn, bloody. A solid punch from Stapleton sends Jupe reeling.
Ava, Jupe’s fiance, is sprawled awkwardly on a couch. Legs frozen straight, a final overdose spasm. Eyes dull, unseeing.
Jupe’s screaming charge, pile drives Stapleton through balcony glass doors and over the railing. The unforgiving sidewalk separates their death clinch.
70 Words
Pile
Innocent. Not too high. A footprint of two or three feet. But that was on Monday. By Wednesday, it blocked the light from the windows, and only the edge of the Aubusson rug poked out from under it. I sucked it up with the Electrolux. Friday it returned, vengeful and bigger than before. The Electrolux was no match for it. The shop vac balked, then fizzled. The pile had won.
Welcome back! I've been waiting patiently, just like everyone else. Happy to play along!
We stepped into the book store, not knowing what to expect. The broken sign said: "Used Books.” The floor was plywood, scuffed and worn down through years of neglect. There were shelves, and bookcases, and piles of books stacked on the floor standing waist high. In the background, there was music — Classical, of course — and in the air, the musty smell of old books, like an old man standing alone.
Welcome back Miguel, you were sorely missed!
Thanks Ken! I missed y’all too 🦝
70 Words Pile
The plan worked to perfection. The money handed over. No silent alarms, no security guard and the cameras were out. The teller seemingly knew the drill, how to respond. She filled the sports duffel handing it to me with a smile.
It was flawless until I escaped and opened the bag. The indigo blue pack exploded and ruined that pile of money and my disposition. No wonders she was smiling…Bitch
(This one is called 'F150', in honor of all the guys I know who get in their work truck every morning, even when it's -15 fahrenheit and the windchill makes it "feel like -34")
“We’re lucky the sun is out today. Otherwise…” Caleb made a fountain of frozen breath and shook his head at miles of empty highway.
Josh shivered. “The boss said the battery is new, too.”
“Really? Cuz it’s a pile of...”
“Don’t, it’ll hear you.”
“Think it’s warm enough yet?”
They both laughed.
“Has to be warmer than it was,” Josh concluded.
That old Ford V8 roared. Two young men howled.
I can relate to this.
My husband's old F-350 has the same problem. 😅