What a crazy midsummer we’re having! Vacations, family visits, and wild weather everywhere! Thank you to everyone who turned out this week. Hugs from our families to yours! 😉
Underboss | Runner Up | @msbbrumley
Cara Says: It’s the final paragraph that sinks the hooks into this latest installment of Woe. I nearly cheered when the little girl complimented Woe’s wings. Perhaps there’s hope for our fallen girl yet!
Ruth Says: Man, Woe just sucks me in! And those closing lines were sweet perfection!
Boss | Winner | @billmelaterplea
Cara Says: This story is a feast for the reading senses. It’s sweaty, impassioned man of the almighty dollar Granger who really captures the moment. Despite an obvious “time is money” attitude, he proves a willing ally in the search for Hazel Twigg.
Ruth Says: It was the fabulous descriptions that did it for me! Phrases like ‘the politely pious stampede’ and ‘presence of a monogrammed man.’
The Winning Story: The God of Business by @billmelaterplea
Hap Granger was a long-winded fellow. His sermon, if that was what he delivered, went on for half an hour. Large men make imposing messengers. Even from the back of the church, we could see the sweat spilling into the spongy furrows of his forehead, dribbling around the bramble of his eyebrows, coursing through the bulging, wide-eyed sparkle of his messianic furor, sopping down his fleshy cheeks, dripping into his extremely dark suit, disappearing out of view into the pulpits pit.
I thought he’d made his key point right out of the chute: Whatever God doesn’t do, business will. No one in that Church had any doubt that Hap Granger wanted to be the God of Business in the heavenly city of Crowbar.
After he wrapped up, the congregation sang two more uplifting hymns.
Reverend Halop shared a final hope that “the lord will carry you home safely and we’ll see you all next Sunday.”
The joy of ritual finally ended.
We stood aside, avoiding the politely pious stampede.
They were led by the surprisingly fleet-footed Minister and the barreling businessman who rushed to the front to glad hand the departing flock.
As the throng diminished, John and I approached Granger.
“Mr. Granger,” Quarry asked, “could you spare a few minutes?”
Granger was eye-level with John. Though about the same height, Granger took up a lot more space. He still had embers smouldering in his deep blue eyes. Sweat had pooled on his drenched brow. He wiped it away with a white handkerchief. I could see the H.G. etched in its corner as it flopped along his glistening skin. We were in the presence of a monogrammed man.
“Always have a few minutes to spare, friend,” Granger kicked in to a broad grin. He tagged on a gratuitous, “Even if time is money, which it always is. What’s on your mind?”
“A confidential matter, sir. Could we talk over there?” John asked, pointing to a bench beneath an emaciated tree.
“Let’s,” Granger said, wrapping his bulky right arm around John’s shoulder and escorting him to the bench. I followed, amused and suddenly hungry.
Once Granger deposited himself on the bench, he sucked in some dry, dusty air and said, “Fire away. Who are you and what’s so damn confidential?”
“My name’s Quarry,” John told him, adding, “And this attentive fellow is my colleague, Woody Staples. We have been engaged to look into the disappearance of Hazel Twigg.”
Granger nodded, and said, “Hazel’s has been gone a long while. Mind saying who’s footing the bill?”
Granger chuckled with a deep rolling laugh and flashed his massive grin.”Hell’s bells, I am tickled pink that someone is looking. Hazel was an old friend. She’s been missed. So, how can I help?”
“We’re reviewing the case. You were the last to see her. Care to go over it one more time?”
“Happy to oblige.”
In the next hour, Hazel Twigg, Granger and Crowbar City came fully alive for us.