It only took me two and a half years, but here I am. I decided on a collection of tries that I made to expand one of my 75-word challenge stories. I never liked any of them, which is why there are so many starts and no finishes, so it won't break my heart if you rip them to shreds. 
At first, I tried for the after-the-fact angle of my original story, but that didn't seem to be working, so I tried starting at the beginning of the episode in question, but never got anywhere with that, either. I hope it's ok that I left them color-coded to distinguish between separate tries.
*****
Here's the 75-word challenge story, to refresh your memory or to provide a starting point if you weren't here then:
The Breakfast Club
“[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]He was a quiet guy,” I told the reporter, “Never any trouble.”
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Across the fence, police excavated his backyard. They would find only bones, and not all of those.[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]It was true, he always killed quietly, and it never troubled him when I took the blood, the zombies took the brains and the werewolves polished off the bodies.[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]He helped us survive undetected, and we disposed of nearly all his evidence.[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]What are neighbors for?[/FONT]
*****
And here are the later efforts:
[/FONT]
#1:
“He was a quiet guy,” I told the reporter, “Never any trouble.”
I spun a tale of suburban domesticity for the benefit of the viewing audience, all neighborly puzzlement on the outside while inwardly I worried for the safety of my co-conspirators.
Admittedly, the controlled chaos of official activity surrounding the house next door served to cast more than a little doubt on my story.
The television cameras looking over our shoulders recorded the colorful tableau of modern man's inhumanity to man: flashing lights atop police vehicles of a dozen styles and colors, yellow crime scene tape forming a barrier more psychic than tangible between decent society and horrors unknown. A clean white tent provided a focus for speculation as it swallowed and disgorged crime scene techs in equally clean white Tyvek bodysuits, a surreal, sanitary cover for the gruesome excavations within.
I was the only logical choice for spokesman among our bunch, the only one who could put on a respectable, public face; when John was taken off to jail and the investigations started, the rest of our friends had gone deep into hiding. I was the only one who was known in the neighborhood anyway, so here I was in front of the cameras, doing my bit.
#2:
“He was a quiet guy,” I told the reporter, “Never any trouble.”
I spun my tale of suburban bliss for the TV audience, painting a picture of neighborly bewilderment while I secretly worried for the safety of my fellow conspirators.
The scene behind us cast more than a little doubt on my peaceful story. Police cars filled my neighbor's front lawn, lighting the windows with alternating strobes of red and blue; the white crime scene canopy hid forensic proceedings from the news helicopters buzzing the area like so many bees. If I hadn't seen it all a dozen times before, I might have gotten rattled.
It was only logical that I should be the spokesman of our bunch; I was the only one known in the neighborhood and the only one who could put on a respectable, public face. The others went into hiding as soon as John was taken from the house next door in handcuffs.
#3:
The smell, that intoxicating perfume of fear that is distilled only by humans, told me that we had found a new neighborhood. It was perfect timing, since we needed a new house anyway. I abandoned my walk home from work and looped around the block to sniff out the exact location of our next neighbor, the serial killer.
A week later, paperwork done and boxes moved, we were all settled into a two-tone brown split-level with a neat front lawn and a big backyard surrounded by a six-foot “good neighbor” fence. It wasn't the best house we'd had in the last hundred years, but it was far from the worst, and it shared its back fence with the man who didn't know yet that he was going to be the new best friend to a werewolf, two vampires and a zombie.
We were an unlikely combination, I reflected, as I stepped onto our neighbor's front porch. But we'd been together for a long time, and centuries of watching friends die from unsafe hunting practices had honed our survival skills to perfection. Now we just let someone else take the risks while we shared the rewards.
The newest someone else didn't seem inclined to answer his doorbell, and of course I knew why: though his victim made no noise, her terror called out to my senses like a beacon in the darkness, and it was all I could do not to tear the door off its hinges. By the third chime, he had apparently decided I wasn't going to go away on my own, and the door opened a crack to reveal one brown eye under one thick, furrowed eyebrow.
“Yes?”
Unlikely as we four were, I was nevertheless the obvious public face of the bunch, and to anyone watching I was an ordinary, respectable visitor who would never be suspected of eating human flesh and howling at the moon. However, this man was not the general public, and he was about to find out who his new friends were, so I put up no pretense. I stuck my foot in the crack of the door, stepping up to shoulder through the gap, and before he could react I was inside with the door closed behind me.
#4:
It was his smell, that intoxicating aroma of human terror distilled only in the darkest midnight of the soul, that told me I had found a new relationship. It was time to move anyway, so I cancelled my flight and followed him home.
We've made it a rule, over the years, not to live too close to them; this time I found a house two blocks down that looked like it would do nicely, signed the papers and paid the property managers. I called the others, told them to pack and how to get there, and after dark I went to scout the territory. His house was a two-tone brown split-level with a nicely fenced backyard and neighbors on either side who either went to bed early or went out at night without leaving any lights on.
At first, I tried for the after-the-fact angle of my original story, but that didn't seem to be working, so I tried starting at the beginning of the episode in question, but never got anywhere with that, either. I hope it's ok that I left them color-coded to distinguish between separate tries.
*****
Here's the 75-word challenge story, to refresh your memory or to provide a starting point if you weren't here then:
The Breakfast Club
“[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]He was a quiet guy,” I told the reporter, “Never any trouble.”
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Across the fence, police excavated his backyard. They would find only bones, and not all of those.[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]It was true, he always killed quietly, and it never troubled him when I took the blood, the zombies took the brains and the werewolves polished off the bodies.[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]He helped us survive undetected, and we disposed of nearly all his evidence.[/FONT]
[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]What are neighbors for?[/FONT]
*****
And here are the later efforts:
[/FONT]
#1:
“He was a quiet guy,” I told the reporter, “Never any trouble.”
I spun a tale of suburban domesticity for the benefit of the viewing audience, all neighborly puzzlement on the outside while inwardly I worried for the safety of my co-conspirators.
Admittedly, the controlled chaos of official activity surrounding the house next door served to cast more than a little doubt on my story.
The television cameras looking over our shoulders recorded the colorful tableau of modern man's inhumanity to man: flashing lights atop police vehicles of a dozen styles and colors, yellow crime scene tape forming a barrier more psychic than tangible between decent society and horrors unknown. A clean white tent provided a focus for speculation as it swallowed and disgorged crime scene techs in equally clean white Tyvek bodysuits, a surreal, sanitary cover for the gruesome excavations within.
I was the only logical choice for spokesman among our bunch, the only one who could put on a respectable, public face; when John was taken off to jail and the investigations started, the rest of our friends had gone deep into hiding. I was the only one who was known in the neighborhood anyway, so here I was in front of the cameras, doing my bit.
#2:
“He was a quiet guy,” I told the reporter, “Never any trouble.”
I spun my tale of suburban bliss for the TV audience, painting a picture of neighborly bewilderment while I secretly worried for the safety of my fellow conspirators.
The scene behind us cast more than a little doubt on my peaceful story. Police cars filled my neighbor's front lawn, lighting the windows with alternating strobes of red and blue; the white crime scene canopy hid forensic proceedings from the news helicopters buzzing the area like so many bees. If I hadn't seen it all a dozen times before, I might have gotten rattled.
It was only logical that I should be the spokesman of our bunch; I was the only one known in the neighborhood and the only one who could put on a respectable, public face. The others went into hiding as soon as John was taken from the house next door in handcuffs.
#3:
The smell, that intoxicating perfume of fear that is distilled only by humans, told me that we had found a new neighborhood. It was perfect timing, since we needed a new house anyway. I abandoned my walk home from work and looped around the block to sniff out the exact location of our next neighbor, the serial killer.
A week later, paperwork done and boxes moved, we were all settled into a two-tone brown split-level with a neat front lawn and a big backyard surrounded by a six-foot “good neighbor” fence. It wasn't the best house we'd had in the last hundred years, but it was far from the worst, and it shared its back fence with the man who didn't know yet that he was going to be the new best friend to a werewolf, two vampires and a zombie.
We were an unlikely combination, I reflected, as I stepped onto our neighbor's front porch. But we'd been together for a long time, and centuries of watching friends die from unsafe hunting practices had honed our survival skills to perfection. Now we just let someone else take the risks while we shared the rewards.
The newest someone else didn't seem inclined to answer his doorbell, and of course I knew why: though his victim made no noise, her terror called out to my senses like a beacon in the darkness, and it was all I could do not to tear the door off its hinges. By the third chime, he had apparently decided I wasn't going to go away on my own, and the door opened a crack to reveal one brown eye under one thick, furrowed eyebrow.
“Yes?”
Unlikely as we four were, I was nevertheless the obvious public face of the bunch, and to anyone watching I was an ordinary, respectable visitor who would never be suspected of eating human flesh and howling at the moon. However, this man was not the general public, and he was about to find out who his new friends were, so I put up no pretense. I stuck my foot in the crack of the door, stepping up to shoulder through the gap, and before he could react I was inside with the door closed behind me.
#4:
It was his smell, that intoxicating aroma of human terror distilled only in the darkest midnight of the soul, that told me I had found a new relationship. It was time to move anyway, so I cancelled my flight and followed him home.
We've made it a rule, over the years, not to live too close to them; this time I found a house two blocks down that looked like it would do nicely, signed the papers and paid the property managers. I called the others, told them to pack and how to get there, and after dark I went to scout the territory. His house was a two-tone brown split-level with a nicely fenced backyard and neighbors on either side who either went to bed early or went out at night without leaving any lights on.
