The first Super Writing Prompt contest.

HELLO! This was a simple writing prompt that we decided should be more. We have had numerous indie authors from the writing community contribute to it. We would also like anyone to reading this to vote for their favorite contribution so that we may put their name on the proud winners list page under the competitions tab of the website. We will hold these prompt competitions monthly and will eventually create bigger and better writing contests with genuine rewards that benefit authors. Assuming the amazing support continues and grows. W hope you like this prompt story. Leave your comments bellow it, including who you thought made the best entry.

How the body got into his apartment George will never know, but it was there. All dead and stiff and not moving. George closed his eyes in the hope that he was still in some messed up dream and the cold lump of lard on his sofa would disappear upon re-opening. No such luck. It was still there. Shit. He edged his weight forward and stumbled over to the corpse. ‘Hello…’ No reply. Still dead. Dead as a doornail (thanks Dickins) and a lot heavier than most doors judging by the bulging neck and the impressive penis hiding gut. 

Think George, think. The last thing he remembered was running out of milk – the watery kind that tastes like piss and was supposed to help him ‘lose weight’. ‘Evil little red top. Give me the pure stuff any day…’ (Chris Hooley @ChrisHooley2020

There was no blood at least. Blood made him feel sick and the smell of it lingered for days. That was why he’d paid for the second costume. It wasn’t as nice as the original one but it was never a good idea to be covered in the remains of villains when the press turned up after a battle. Everything is about appearances. Which is why a dead man on the sofa wasn’t going to look good. If he’d been blessed with superhuman strength he’d have moved it himself but George wasn’t that kind of superhero. In fact, he was distinctly lacking in the ‘super’ aspect of things. There was something familiar about the naked man on the sofa. If only the head wasn’t missing. (Ross Young @Inkdisregardit

The missing head, yeah that was bothering him. George decided he needed something to take the edge off and went to his kitchen. He cracked open a bottle of Hernic-BayFusion single malt and poured a decent measure. Thinking he’d add some ice he went to the freezer and that’s when he noticed the slightly pink stains under the humming refrigeration unit. Steeling himself, George whipped open the freezer door. ‘FUCK ME’ he yelped as there was the corpses head – not whole but carefully arranged in components laid out in a Hannibal fetish tribute on each level of the freezer. The scalp at the top, the chin and neck stump at the bottom. The other shelves held the eyes, the ears, the nose and mouth – in a tableau that would have brought tears of joy to Damien Hirst. (Matt Adcock @Cleric20) 

George stared down at his glass and let out a deep sigh. No ice. Fuck it, he thought, grabbing both eye balls. The sound of ice-balls dropping in the golden, fermented grain gave a satisfying click and pop. He stared down at them as they began to defrost, at the emerging hues of blue and green. No sign of a glaucoma. Nope, he didn’t recognise the eyes staring cross-eyed back at him. Then there was a knock at the door. The clock was about to hit 10am; his masseuse wasn’t due for an hour. Gotta play it cool, he thought, closing the door to his refurbished Kelvinator quietly. He waited. They will knock again then eventually disappear, he told himself. “George, I’m not going anywhere,” a female voice called. “I can see you standing there.” Dammit, Janice had the gift of x-ray vision - nothing got past her, except, maybe, the lead of the freezer. It would buy him some time. (Richard Mayers @spikez_novel)

After about an hour George decided to blow caution to the wind. He pulled open his sliding balcony door. The balcony overlooked the river. Below him was three floors of apartments and then the main pedestrian walkway. If, and that was a strong if, he could manage to throw the frozen body parts clear and free of the walkway, apartments and restaurant tables below. Then he would be able to relax. Luckily George was fairly fit, and there was a pretty decent (seven or eight foot) run up to the balcony through his open plan kitchen/dining room/ lounge where he’d have enough momentum to launch the body clear over the railing. The only problem George pondered on, was how he would get the trajectory with his left leg stuck in a cast. (Rich Staplehurst @RShursty) 

George pressed his back up against the wall. It felt cold against his skin. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the dismembered and fractured chin bone that belonged to the mysterious guest that was speckled around his freezer. He could hear the traffic and the bustle of a busy street flowing into the apartment and he knew time was against him, all the while his mind desperately searched for answers to questions he did not know how to ask. He threw himself forward, bouncing on his cast every other clumsy step. With just a few feet left until the window George slipped, sending the fleshy and partly defrosted chin bone out the window, destined for the street below. He slid into the wall smashing his cast opened in the process. He screamed in agony as the fractured femur strained in the impact. He looked down expecting to see blood, there was none. Yet something caught his eye that took his breath and attention from the pain. He slowly reached in, peeling back the plaster cast, revealing a note. “If you are reading this then it is too late, I left what we spoke about in locker 14, please, please make sure no one sees you open it. Especially not….” The remainder of the message smudged and damaged. George allowed his head to drop, letting out a large sigh. (C AGGETT @CJAggett)

What to do? Pondered the now-lamed George, simultaneously considering ambulation, sans-plaster, as the lure of the locker No. 14 tugged, his massage a tingle of anticipation, I could use a massage about now, and the whereabouts of that gnawing jawbone. He considered his options. He continued considering his options while hobbling toward the sofa and took a seat next to the body. “What do you think, mate? You wouldn’t mind some alone time while I pop out for a quick…” talking to a corpse wasn’t quite the same as to one who could respond, well, one with a head to be frank. Shifting to one hip, George freed his unnecessarily large cellphone from his back pocket. Brill, not damaged. Pausing to run through the list of ‘who could I ring?’ he decided, no, a voice-to-voice venture may not be best. Text. Who can I text? And, how am I going to rig a way to walk? His elbow brushed the leg of the corpse, as an idea began to form. (Evan Knapp @movementwhere)

Hmmm....there is a perfectly good femur bone in this leg George thought. If I ca