Wipeout
This story made it to the Sweet 16 in the Final Showdown of the Verdant Raven Writing Battle 2026. My prompts were Trade Secrets, Shut-In, and Surfboard. Everyone dreads the "surfboard" prompt.
I stare, unfocused, at the surfboard hanging above a muted TV. Static loops endlessly, rolling like waves beneath the pristine board; the dim glow casts looming shadows across my rubbish-ridden room. A moldy sofa serves as a throne for the champion.
Me.
Muffled voices from beyond the blacked-out window disturb my torpor:
“—stealing it, babe. Rocco’s board is somethin’ special.”
“Judges are gonna recognize the champion’s surfboard, right?”
I blink, cracking the seal of my entranced gaze. The surfboard’s presence presses my unwilling meat into the threadbare couch. The promise of visitors replaces my lethargy with a dreadful panic and draws my vision toward the intruding sounds; my jaw creaks open in a silent scream.
“New paint, who’s gonna know?”
They’re at my backdoor. My gaze veers back to the board. I feel it smile.
A wave of horror, grander than any I’d ever carved with it, floods my emaciated body. I try to move, but the call of the surfboard’s yew core vibrates within the hollow carcass of my soul.
Your debt remains unsettled, Rocco.
A frustrated tear seeps from my eye. I hear the backdoor click open.
“Ugh, the smell!”
“Does he live here?” The voices grow closer.
Entering, they see the remains—stains, shredded clothing, bones—and me, forever leashed, a desiccated husk.
I lift a finger to point—to warn them—but it crumbles away like unfired clay.
“F—Fuck! Rocco?” The man sputters before my surfboard finally exhales, appearing behind them.
The crunching is the part I hate most.