>>24735127
Give it all to /WIBAC/ fucking write! no gooning, no /pol/, no Kant, time to take your shirt off at the beach and show us what you're working with.

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>>24735127
see this folder for a PDF of last month's /wibac/ and /lwc/ winners:
https://mega.nz/folder/usNllbQC#yWk55Mj355BvqwtUrfbYeg

September's issue is a WIP
the top three /wibac/ entries will be included

>>24735127
Hell yeah. Looking forward. Will down some tall ones tonight and just write.

"TrukOasis" was just a name on a sign. Really, it was a way to out yourself as an out-of-towner: those in the know knew it as the Sodomy Stop, whether they approved or not.
It was a pleasant evening in June, and Paco was changing the oil on the last ride of the day, hitting swigs of moonshine between huffs, sweat seeping through the wife-beater that barely contained his rippling form. "After este maldita puta de trabajo," he said, "I'm gonna blow out some stress, coño." We knew what he meant.
Marty took the lead, tailing him from two blocks behind. Hank made calls to his pals saying don't patrol the dirt roads tonight. I drew the short straw, so I had to wait at the meeting point myself. The maricón was already more trouble than he was worth.
I did my best not to be noticed, to blend in without appealing. Pink shirt, cowboy boots, the works, all a little ratty. But what won't a faggot fuck? "Hey, precious, you come here often?" said a leather-clad hunk. I told him I didn't do other white guys.
Marty tells me that the faggot was a real slow driver. Paranoid or something, I don't know. Maybe he had a family over the border he was hiding it all from, some reason not to be found out. It didn't do much for him in the end, though.
I guess I'm the one who made it messy, but I didn't need them crawling all over me. I don't consider myself a racist, just someone who keeps a standard of safety, and damn it, knows a man from a woman, so when those two black guys started coming my way, it was just by pure instinct that I pulled my knife out. "Basher!" someone cried. I didn't even know Hank was there as a look out; I guess I would've been a goner had it not been for him. Marty says that's when the whole plan went sideways.
Anyway, after I wrapped my bruises in the rags of that faggy pink shirt, and while Hank was reloading his shotgun, that's when Marty came running. "Morons, fucking morons," he was shouting, "you scared the spic away!" Hank went white as a sheet. "Got any shots in?" he asked. "Shit, I dunno if they hit him," he groaned.
I guess I got real unlucky, drawing the short straw twice in a row. Hank swore up and down that he'd called the patrols off, but I guess a rookie had seen the flashlight and come for me anyway. I didn't even find nothing either: just a torn bit of bandana. The faggot must have run.
Family hasn't visited me for some time. I guess times have changed and they're embarrassed. That suits me: from where I'm sitting, I'd be embarrassed to be on the outside these days. TrukOasis closed in '99, I'm told, and the fags got tired of boning each other in the bushes and started doing it in the open. New arrivals look at me like I'm some sort of monster; me, I just don't wanna live in no world that's one big Sodomy Stop.

Rack, Shack, and Benny


I see him standing over my body and I almost feel bad for him. He’s fiddling with the lighter in the dark. His fingers are stubby, like stumps of slick wax leveraged against the spark wheel, slipping and slipping. Benny is looming over him, making faces. Once the spark ignites he shirks back, floats over to where I’m standing. It’s past midnight and I think of what Caroline will say when she turns on the TV in the morning.

She’ll have to cancel the trip to Greece, call a representative for ten minutes to explain everything. They’ll probably nod and say “we’re so sorry, we understand,” maybe even give her a refund. And she’ll repeat that little ceremony each time she picks up a piece of our life dismantled, upended by this fool fearfully hovering a lit branch over my gas-soaked cadaver.

His name is Rich, but his friends call him Rack. Benny calls him “dickface” and I’m inclined to agree. But since a kid shouldn’t use that language, I told him to just call him “Richard” and he laughed in my face. He isn’t laughing now, he’s squinting at the fire. He asks if he can hold my hand and I say sure. I try to turn him away from the sight of my death, from the site of my bones smoldering into ash. It’s silly to think I could protect his innocence, as if that hasn’t already burned. When I turn away, I’m doing it for myself.

After a few minutes we hear Rack huffing and puffing. He’s slowly trudging up the grassy knoll, flashlight in hand. According to Benny, he drinks a lot of soda, so he burps a lot and breathes heavy and cries. We’re at the lot now and Rack’s stumbling along the rows of trucks. Benny is staring at the big neon sign and pointing out how expensive gas is these days. He floats up to see it closer and the reddish-orange light strikes his small face, like napalm igniting the translucent scars across his skin. It was twenty years ago and Rack still calls it an accident.

We reach a small garage at the end of the lot and inside the truck is pristine, besides the few pathetic bumps my body left. The blood was sprayed off hours ago. Rack’s in the driver’s seat now, slumped over. The soda cans are glinting like small silos on the floor. Benny is next to him, asking if he’s finally done. Rack shakes his head.

He says forgive forgive please forgive. He didn’t know better with the fireplace and he was going to bring help. He says he joined a church and for twenty years he was good with God. He fumbles for a rosary and we don’t tell him it’s under the seat. We just stare and bear witness as he cries and cries.

Outside the grass bends to the wind and my burned marrow follows the breeze, floating like a second specter, an anti-me stretched lengthwise across the stars like a drifter in the dark. The sirens sound and the hum of the engine is drowned by his sobbing. It has been hours and when he lifts his hand to spark the lighter I can see his face clearly.

I Was Driving With my Deck “Turbo Green Blue Splash Red Maybe,” which is a midrange-tempo-control aggro idea, and the night was like a busted monitor. I see the neon sighn: TRUK OASIS. Prices look like mana costs, 3.89, 4.05, ouch. I Park my cousin Civic and climb this rude bush hill with a flashlite clenched in my tooths, because rumor from Friday Night Magics says a secret booster was buried here by history.

The Hill is slippery like cardsleeves in soup. Trucks sleep on top, very square dragons. A Guy in a reflective vest pops out and goes, “You Can’t.” I say, “I’m planeswalking actually,” and cast Traverse the Bushlands (homebrew). He shrugs treaty style.

At The Peak there’s a rusty hatch buzzing under the sign like bee homework. I Kick it due to skill. Inside is not treasure but a tool box, screws, and a map with a goblin in trucker hat pointing to the diner, Table 7, ketchup bottle with lightning crack. Wow Lore.

We Go In. Under the table is a napkin: “Counter this if you can,” plus one old booster, Mystical Seige of 2003 (maybe counterfeit, my soul says yes). I Tear wrong but succeed. Out flops “Truckstop Djinn,” 3/3 Flying, Whenever You Pay For Gas, Scry 2. The Foil glows like my hopes that are dented.

We Build a mini deck from fries and wrapper tokens. I Play the Djinn on Turn 3; it attacks literally nothing for emotional lethal. The diner claps except no one. Vest Guy says, “Pretty mythic tho.”

I Walk back down. The sign hums like it knows sideboarding. My deck is bad but capital-I Important. The Map keeps whispering new tables. Life taps, sometimes for colorless, still enough.

good to see the submissions coming in already. we have one contender, one appreciable effort with questionable qualities, and one non-contender that's possibly AI slop. can u guess which is which?
I will be looking for structure. choose a solid conceit and fully commit to it. thats how u impress me.
ill grade on structure, prose, and creativity, but these wont determine my votes, since a submission that excels in one category can still impress more than one thats just okay in all

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>>24735127
>ineptiatranny actually picked a good piece of art this time
A step in the right direction, however the current /lwc/ proved you guys are nothing but a clique of faggots jerking each other off

Fuck your circlejerk contest
#justice4MetaAnon

Jap hoe jap hoe jap hoe

The grass smelled like wet
The drive-in smelled like vagina
And I cried

When Sarah died, the Skylark family hired an exorcist. Rumours of sex ghosts haunting the family’s TrukOasis franchise had been a major draw for years, rumours none of the Skylarks believed, but somehow the risk of Sarah coming back to turn tricks in spirit was too great. The donation made to the diocese was a hefty one. She was their only daughter, after all.

I hadn’t believed in ghosts before she died, but I was also unable to believe she was gone. We weren’t close; Sarah Skylark had been assigned as my lab partner in high school chemistry class, and I developed a slight crush on her. Once, reaching past me for our worksheet, her breasts brushed against my arm. That was enough in those days.

Several healthy measures of self-delusion were needed to justify my going to the TrukOasis. I wasn’t trying to fuck the ghost of my old lab partner, just grieving the all-too-soon loss of one of my cohort. I didn’t believe the ghost rumours anyway, and even if I did, the exorcist had already been through before me. I had to climb escarpment rather than drive up to the motor inn, well, because the direct approach seemed inappropriate somehow. I knew this didn’t make any sense.

I reached the massive parking lot, phone flashlight in hand. I began scanning between the rows and rows of trucks and camper vans, searching for something, any sign at all. Accidentally, I shined my light into a trucker’s cab, waking him. He rolled down his window, made a piercing finger-in-mouth whistle at me, and blew a raspberry. “Sorry,” I replied in a hushed, feeble tone. I felt so fucking stupid.

Returning home more than slightly ashamed, I went to bed. What was I thinking? I didn’t let the question torture me too long before falling asleep. In my dreams, I saw a Sarah-shaped apparition. She floated to my side, and her chest pressed lightly against me as it had done years ago. No way. There’s no way the sex ghosts were real all along. Her ethereal form went further, past my arm, and came inside me.

I saw a vision. I was Sarah, driving her gleaming white Vespa at an incredible speed. It was a beautiful day with fluffy white clouds and a sweet-smelling breeze. I took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. There was a hard snag; I opened my eyes to see the back of a UPS van. For a brief, perfect moment, Sarah Skylark took flight. I had crashed, and was rocketing head-first into the van. I closed my eyes again, and all was severed. When I woke up, there was a sticky blotch in my boxer shorts. Ectoplasm, surely.

>>24736676
I like this one a lot, but the closer I look the more unanswered questions or maybe inconsistencies are found. Was Sarah actually a truckstop pro? At her own family's business (!)? If so, wouldn't her death there more likely have occurred at night, either hit on foot on the hiway by a truck, or at the hands of a john? The white vespa sequence is very nice - but is this just the MC's fantasy, refusing to believe his highschool crush turned to prostitution and most likely drugs and in fact was strangled/stabbed by a disgruntled client?

>>24736676
damn, this good as fuck.

>>24735127
It was impossible not to notice Rhonda as she walked past you. Not because of her bright neon tops which seemed to only cover one of her breasts at a time or the clacking of her heels across the lot. Her scent made her presence known before anything else. The base fragrance was shared by most lot lizards, sweat masked by cigarettes and a faint hint crusted body fluids. Rhonda never washed, or if she did I never noticed. She wasn't attractive and there was no signs of that she ever had been. But I wasn't looking for attraction.

The way deviants like me get off can only be described as evil. At least to those who view the world in those terms. When you make your living as a trucker you'll soon realize you are part of the lower caste of society. I always wanted to be respected and hold power but wasn't good enough for it I guess. Power can however be bought as I learned through pestering of hookers at the stops. They'll let you do anything do them as long as you pay which is no good for a sick fuck with too much cash. I wouldn't even bust my load with most of these broads. That came later as I tugged along the highways to the memories I'd bought.

I guess my thing if you break it down was to induce fear in these whores. I'd put a knife to their throats or pull out a gun. Heck I'd beat them unrecognizable just for kicks. I'd play around a bit of course, have them degrade themselves, hell I might even fuck them if the moment was right. Anything that'd make them feel dirty I'd do really. If I was the type to psychoanalyse I'd probably say that this was due to my own feeling of worthlessness and how inflicting this feeling on others made me feel in powerful. But to me it was just exciting.

Rhonda could usually be found on the TrukOasis lot. She had dull senses and it was only when I'd draw blood with my knife that her eyes would light of with the fear I chased. The last time I'd seen her she'd gotten used to the routine which bothered me. I guess I took out my frustration on her but when I left I think she was breathing at least.

As I drove past the TruckOasis the tonight on my return trip I saw a man with a flashlight looking through the brush where I'd left Rhonda. I got a bit excited I must admit, my rotten pecker was engorged as I came to realize that I may soon become a wanted man. This is probably beyond comprehension for you folks, but I felt alive, truly.

I stopped at the TrukOasis and walked over to the end where I'd seen the flashlight. Along the way I noticed officers in the lot questioning the other truckers. I looked at the man with his flashlight and took out my hog and began to stroke it. He didn't notice me. As I approached climax I took out my gun and called out to the officer. He looked up and I shot him dead as I shot my load.

So there's my statement officers, can I get that pack of smokes now?

>>24736931
A couple leaps of logic here:

1) she had to be a prostitue in life to be a sex ghost in death

2) if she was a prostitute, then she must have met a sordid end

I think you got hung up on the phrasing “turn tricks”

>>24737500
Good points, thank you. But unless I'm totally alone thinking the text leads us to maybe believe Sarah could be a pro, then it could be clearer. One sentence would do it: "Though Sarah never turned tricks herself, the Skylarks didn't want to run the risk." Or something similar. Otherwise the family's fears seem even more farfetched - Sarah, non-pro, dies in a Vespa accident (at the TrukOasis? or miles away?) and for some reason they fear her returning as a sex ghost haunting the family business

Ray pulled the Peterbilt down the slope behind the truck stop, tires crushing frost-brittle weeds. The lot below sat in darkness except for the barrel fire where three men stood chewing gas station hotdogs. Their breath poured out in small ghosts.

Vic stood closest to the fire, his watch catching orange light when he lifted his food. Two Kenworths sat behind him like sleeping cattle. His own rigs.

"Ray," Vic said. Not hello, just marking him.

Ray killed the engine and climbed down. His phone buzzed. The screen's white light hurt his eyes after the dark highway. He put it away in his shirt pocket.

"Still running solo," Vic said. Took a bite. Grease on his fingers shone like wet silver.

"Making ends meet."

"Surely." Vic turned the hotdog in his hand, studying it. "Remember when you couldn't make nothing meet nothing? When I found you at that Pilot in Laredo?"

The other two drivers looked away. One spat tobacco juice into the weeds. Of course Ray remembered. Of course Vic never let him forget it.

"Offer stands," Vic said, squinting at him now, one eye shut as if peering through a gunsight. "Three years' work. Truck's yours after."

The barrel fire popped. Sparks rose and faded in the cold air.

Vic smiled. Fed the last of his hotdog to the fire, watching it blacken. "They ain't lepers, Ray. They're just looking for work," Vic said. "Same as you."

"Yeah." Ray held no enmity for those men, he understood their hunger. He was only worried after his own. He had made promises to his wife.

"Surely."

One of the other drivers threw his paper plate in the fire. "I'm headed out." He climbed the slope, boots slipping on wet grass. The other followed.

"You helped me before," Ray said.

He nodded. "I don't help many people."

"Three years?" Ray asked.

"Maybe not even. You keep your head down."

Ray's phone screen lit his pocket from inside like he'd swallowed something holy.

It was the ultrasound. A white smudge in black static. A white curl floating in darkness, waiting like smoke in a man's mouth. His thumb moved across the screen. The screen light pure and cold and true.

"No," Ray said, so soft he wasn't sure it was him.

Vic's eyebrows rose. First surprise Ray had ever seen on him.

"No?" Vic repeated. Amused now.

"I'm sorry," Ray said.

"Surely."

He climbed the slope. Vic called something after him but Ray kept walking. At the top, the truck stop's neon blazed. The parking lot full of drivers with their seats all the way back, drivers stepping out from the showers in wet slippers, coming and going, no pause in the roar of their engines or tires. The hips of their hula dolls in eternal sway.

His phone lit again. He answered it this time.

"Hey baby," she said. "You get my picture?"

"I got it."

"Isn't he perfect?"

Ray looked back once. The fire below just a red eye in the darkness.

"Yeah. He is," said Ray. "I'll home soon,"

Damn, not one complaint about the image, anons love the dark truckstops

>>24738507
Few submissions too. Maybe the cross board drama was the engine last time.

>>24735478
this is great, well done bro

I have some feedback prepared, but I’m not going to share it until after the deadline.
32 hours left!