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by BP | Score: 5650

The camp was derelict. Cabin doors lay swinging on rusty hinges; windows, cracked and broken from local kids and the weather--a tree branch hung out of one which, now that Matthew thought of it, was probably the work of kids too--dotted the buildings giving them a distinct haunted look; and rotted singles lined the buildings like gangrenous lichens (?). When he received the letter in the mail offering him a camp director position, he didn't realize it required rebuilding the camp. Still, the first  paycheck had already arrived and he was in no position to turn down money.

Now he just needed to learn how to rebuild an entire campsite.

A beat-up old volkswagen rolled past what Matt assumed used to be an old fence. Gravel and dead leaves crunched under its tires and when it came to an abrupt stop inches from Matt's legs, the girl behind the wheel stopped smiling manically for a second to show a moment of shock, before realizing that, no, she had not, in fact, just run over her and friend and the police would not need to be called.

Leslie had been a friend since grade school. The two had swapped more sob stories about broken loves and unrequited love than Matt felt comfortable admitting, and despite their friendship occasionally dipping into something more physical, neither considered the other a viable option and so they were able to remain friends without much awkwardness.

In her excitement about having nearly killed him, Leslie whipped off her belt and started to leave the car causing it to roll forward again, almost completing the job. She howled in laughter. Half in and half out of the car, she hopped along with it while her foot stomped in search of the brake. When it finally found it, she dipped back in to make sure it she shifted it into park then put the emergency brake on for good measure.

"That oughta show it, Lez."

When Leslie laughed--and Matt knew what a real Leslie McMichael laugh truly was--she would take in big gulping breathes of air like she had just spent the last three days under water and whatever joke or comment she had just heard was her first real taste of oxygen. If you didn't know any better you'd think she had asthma or some kind of allergy and was about to drop to the floor and croak right there in front of you.

Face red, hands slapping her forehead, Leslie finally emerged from the car, her record of hitting pedestrians still standing firm at a respectable two--the first, in her defense, hadn't been a true "hit," rather, she had simply rolled over someone's foot. The reason why her friends counted it as a hit was because it happened to be the foot of the man conducting her driver's test. Unfair as it was, context mattered. The second had been definite and, in truth, far more painful. She was backing out of her driveway on her way to meet friends for ice cream when she got into a shouting match with her parents. Distracted, and in the emotional headspace that only parents are capable of placing you, she turned around to guide herself out of the driveway--in addition to people Leslie also had a penchant for striking mailboxes, curbs, and scraping against the stonewalls that lined her family's driveway--she'd forgotten it wasn't in reverse and slammed into her father who, to his credit, managed to leap onto the hood to avoid any serious injury. Leslie's mother, who had followed her husband out to the front of the house to help in chastising their daughter, believed she had just witnesses an attempt on the life of her husband, screamed till she cried and, after running between Bob (her husband), Leslie (her daughter), and the general vicinity of her front yard screaming a litany of gibberish no human being could decipher, ran inside to retrieve the phone and call the cops. Had the murder attempt occurred several months ago, Mrs. McMichael may had reacted differently. Having been raised in a stoic Irish family, she hated invited outsiders into her family affairs, but she had spent the past several months falling deeper and deeper into the growing national delusion that Satan worshipping cults were springing up all over the country and that you--yes you!--could have a Satan Loving Heathen living in your very house. And so, mistaking adolescence for hedonism, and flakiness for homicidal rage, Mrs. McMichael had to have the phone rung out of her hands by both her daughter and husband before finally relenting and collapsing on the couch next to the family dog, Scruffy.

Having been a witness too many a blowout at the McMichael household, Scruffy took his leave of them and promptly got lost in the woods. They found him a week later a little worse for wear but still alive and still very much over the antics of his adopted family.

"You try and hit all your friends with you car or just me and your dad?"

"Fuck you!" Leslie squealed and ran into her friends arms, hugging him tight around the neck.

Matt took a moment enjoying the feel of his friend again, before speaking. "How was the drive?"

"Terrible. I almost hit a family of ducks."

"No one is safe."

"They lived!"

"All of them?"

"Yes!" Leslise shouted, smacking M

Matt covered himse, 

Completed challenges

The following challenges were completed during the writing exercise:

Begin Start typing to begin
Words Reach 50 words
Location A camp
Words Reach 100 words
Words Reach 200 words
Words Reach 300 words
Words Reach 400 words
Words Reach 500 words
Words Reach 600 words
Words Reach 700 words
Words Reach 800 words
Words Reach 900 words

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