Did you butts know that there was an entire MOVIE based off the premise of last week's prompt? Yessiree, it's true: Ryan Reynolds and his handsome abs won critical acclaim for Buried, in which he stars as a man trapped in a coffin with only a lighter and a cell phone—and what I wouldn't give to be in there with him, sweating up a storm and trading tips about our exercise routines. But my unbearable creepiness aside, what I'm saying is that WE'RE ALL FAMOUS, BASICALLY. Just by responding to last week's prompt, you pretty much became a celebrity. And your abs improved ten-fold. Congratulations. BUT, as always, even though you're all winners in my book, only a few of you can be winners on the internet. And here they are:
Sparklers' Choice (with 19 votes): yodaitlin! Here's her hilarious twist on Twilight!
Oh, not AGAIN.
Seriously, this whole buried-alive thing was getting so old. You’d think she could think of a better revenge tactic, you know? But alas, it was the same thing every time. She’d get all ornery, and even murmuring in my velvety voice or chuckling darkly (she was always a sucker for the sinister giggling) wouldn’t calm her down. Nope, it was a full-fledged tantrum. A Swan Spasm. A Cullen Conniption Fit. A Bella Bully Fury.
Man, I am clever. Clever AND sexy… the whole package. So why was I being buried alive?!
I attempted to shuffle around in the tight confines of my earthly grave. There wasn’t much wiggle room. I managed to shove an arm up into the ground above me. I frowned at the sight of my pale, sculpted bicep; because there wasn’t any sun down in, you know, THE GROUND, my arm was seriously lacking in sparkly luster. It made me feel insecure. Without my glitter… who was I?
I contemplated this deep and personal question as I slowly dug my way out of the ground. I also thought about blood. And Bella. Honestly, Bella could be such a pain. I probably should’ve spent a few more months with her before I made a commitment like making her immortal. I thought making her undead would be fun, right? But these days it’s just “Do you think Renesmee is rebelling against us?” or “I think Renesmee is hiding things from us!” and “Did you see that? I think Renesmee has a tattoo!” and mostly “Teenage vampires are so uncooperative. Let’s go eat some gazelle”.
Maybe I should just move back to Alaska. Bella’s always so mad, and all my daughter does is make out with that werewolf who used to make out with her mom.
And that’s how, after clawing my way out of a shallow “time-out” grave for the umpteenth time during a tiff with my teenage vampire wife, I realized that my life is just a plotless teen fiction story. I seriously considered dropping it all and pursuing my jazzercise career full time, but then…
I was half out of the grave. Once again above ground, the sun was shining on my beautiful body. And, once again, all was right— my world was perfect once again, for I WAS SPARKLING!!
The End
Dagger's Choice: CrepuscularSnidget! Because I totally got a re-born Sirius Black vibe from this shizz:
I did my waiting. Twelve years of it!
And now, I'm out.
The coffin cannot hold me. Its feeble planks, already weakened by time and rot, give way easily, splintering under my pressure. But splinters don't hurt me, not any more. I claw my way through the dirt, six feet of it. It doesn't want me to escape from its confines, choking me. But I don't need air, not any more. The cool night air is the first sensation my hands feel. I clutch at the air, the sweet, sweet air. Painstakingly, I pull myself out.
Twelve years since I've seen anything but darkness. Twelve years since I've smelled anything but the earth. Twelve years since I've heard anything except the soft tread of feet over my head. Twelve years since I've felt anything except the decaying fabric of my shirt and the rotting wood of my coffin.
I'm out.
I pause at my gravestone. Twelve years ago, they laid it over my head after they dropped me into the ground. I don't remember that, of course. It was later, that I opened my eyes. And then came the waiting.
They don't know the truth. It wasn't a car accident. I was murdered. It wasn't a shard of metal from the car that pierced my heart, but a murderer's knife. I didn't drive myself off the road--he put my dying, bleeding body in the car and shoved it into the river. They found my body ten days later.
I thirsted for vengeance. But they didn't know, didn't have a clue that I wasn't just a reckless teenage driver. But I'm out. And he has no chance now. It's been twelve years since I died. Twelve years I waited for revenge.
Every second will be worth it.
Dagger's Runners-Up:
EXCELLENT WORK, SCRIBE-A-SAURS (that's like "dinosaurs," but with "scribe" in it? Yeah? Schmaybe?) Now for this week's prompt:
Write a short story (300 words MAX) about being best friends with your favorite celebrity/celebrity crush. What would you do together? Do you have nicknames for one another? How did you meet?
If you think this prompt is boring, YOU AREN'T BEING CREATIVE ENOUGH. In my story, which shall never see the light of day, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and I meet at a pie-eating convention and bond over our love for Sparkitors with cankles. Then we go on a hot air balloon ride with his pet panda, Harold, and eat a bunch of cheeseburgers while watching all 3 LOTR movies (because the balloon has a flat-screen television, obvi). Harold sits in my lap.
Related post: Writer Wars archive!
Image credit: http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_XCAGfudUHKk/THsVJEU-PyI/AAAAAAAAAJM/Lh5VMYnyxx0/s1600/Buried-pic-3.jpg
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