SAWYER_Bri's Child_The Ringer_Stupid Prizes
Catalog Guide:
SAWYER
Smoke drifts up into the night sky. It travels into the clouds and imitates their shape. Below the smoke is SAWYER, 25, tall and skinny with a pampered face and a sharp stubble beard. He smokes a cigarette. Sawyer sits atop a snowy drift set at the edge of Basecamp Everest.As the crisp air buckles beneath his hair, Sawyer looks towards the Mountain. It is still, yet it seems to look back at him. The Mountain challenges him and says bring it on!"Sawyer!" A Man shouts. Sawyer eyes JOHN, 46, grizzly and tempered, stands outside his tent. Sawyer flicks his cigarette onto the ground and puts it o...
Bri's Child
Bri looked back down at her phone, opening it in a rush to reread the email he’d sent her. Her eyes scanned over each word, anxiously drinking them in, hoping they would read differently than last time. But the words on the screen weren't magic, meaning Peter either lied, got caught up somewhere, or was in deep trouble.Lost in thought and worry, Bri easily lost her balance when someone slammed into her as they speed walked past. The infant in www.onedoor.ccBri’s arms let loose a scream and started crying hysterically. Bri pushed herself off the wall she’d fallen into and hugged her daughter close to her ch...
The Ringer
“Congratulations, you’re in luck!” Fredrick suddenly appears behind me with a slap to my back. The new batch of flour I just made coughs from the bag and sprays me with its powder.Luck. As if that were a real thing. I’ve learned to leave Fredrick to his wild attempts of a better life, always in and out of jobs while trying to drag me along with him. Truth be told, my ‘so-called’ luck couldn’t be worse. Granting him this moment of appeasement, I carefully set down the bag and follow along. “I really should be working,” I say while tiredly brushing the mix from my apron. “I can’t afford to take ...
Stupid Prizes
I hate car chases, thought the balaclava-clad man sitting behind the wheel of a rented BMW as he careened through the streets of Istanbul. The ancient city, bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, passed by in a blur. Enzo Ricci white-knuckled the steering wheel as he darted between cars, vans, and trucks, occasionally swerving into oncoming traffic to keep pace with his target: a black Mercedes just a few cars ahead. He did not care what he had to do; the man driving that Mercedes would be dead before the sun had set. It had been quite a long time since he had been involved in a car cha...