?

Please vote for the piece you feel is most deserving:

  1. mootz - A Living Thing

    5 vote(s)
    45.5%
  2. My writer side - A Mujahdeen spectacle

    0 vote(s)
    0.0%
  3. Mr Hyde - Mother

    1 vote(s)
    9.1%
  4. NathanialRobb - Battle Hardened

    1 vote(s)
    9.1%
  5. Pythonforger - Bullet

    0 vote(s)
    0.0%
  6. cork279 - Pushed Over The Edge

    0 vote(s)
    0.0%
  7. thecoopertempleclause - Destructive Sacrifice

    2 vote(s)
    18.2%
  8. Force - Briefing

    1 vote(s)
    9.1%
  9. Erato - Tell Her

    0 vote(s)
    0.0%
  10. Rumwriter - Sunday in the Park with Bert

    0 vote(s)
    0.0%
  11. Cogito - Snake

    1 vote(s)
    9.1%
  12. nanipugz - It Started With the Kiss of Death

    0 vote(s)
    0.0%
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  1. Gannon
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    Gannon Contributing Member Contributor

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    Voting Short Story Contest 114: Flash Fiction Special

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Short Story Contest Archives' started by Gannon, May 14, 2012.

    Voting Short Story Contest (113) Theme: There was a choice: "Pastiche", "Sticks & Stones", "Battlefield" and "Cold Feet".

    Thank you for all your entries. The winner will be stickied until the next contest's winner is crowned. No more entries are allowed in this contest.

    Voting will end Sunday 27th May to give you all a chance to read the entries.

    It is possible to vote for yourself, but I would hope in the name of good sportsmanship that you would only do so if you have read all the other stories and given them your honest evaluation. You gain nothing if you base your vote solely on how you feel about the author or whether you have personally invested time and effort in the story. In the end, your conscience is your only judge.

    Any entries under or over the suggested word limit will be flagged as such - they are still entered in to the contest. It is for you to decide whether they are still worthy of your vote.

    Any entry not in accordance with the theme will be dealt with on a case by case basis to determine eligibility. Consider how the author has responded to the theme in making your decision.

    Good luck to everyone
     
  2. Gannon
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    mootz - A Living Thing

    “... it's benign,” Dr. Willow said, heavy brows knitting.

    The words came and went like a gentle breeze—one that knocked a small boulder off my shoulder. Still, one tumor down, two to go.

    “Just, the big one, doc,” I said. He shifted his stance, his weight falling back on a right foot that seemed to want to leave the room as much as I did. I don't think he realized how far away he seemed with that simple gesture. “The one--” I trailed off. “The one in my head.”

    He swallowed.

    “This isn't easy for me to say--”

    “Sticks and stones, doc,” I said with the last bits of courage I could muster. “No matter what you say, you can't hurt me. What's done is done, you can only help.”

    A curious, brief smile curled on the edges of his lips, only to disappear like a shadow caught in peripheral. False hope? Yes. My heart fluttered for that moment.

    “I admire your spirit.”

    “I admire co-eds with penchants for short shorts,” I wryly snickered. I kept my gaze level and the laugh that he replied with was as uneasy and burdened as I could handle at the time. My answer was there in his eyes, I just had to read it, though I wouldn't yet.

    “If we could've found it sooner--”

    My eyes glazed over. I could see his fingers twitching about his files—my files, or charts. I think they are called charts. My legs dangled over the edge of the gurney table and I couldn't feel the floor. With nothing to stand on, I felt alone. I was gone!

    No images flashed before my eyes. No farewells came to mind. No loose ends. As I slowly returned to my body, the doctor's words came back to me, as if the volume of the entire world rose.

    “--twelve months... maybe fourteen.”

    “In time for a check-up,” I chuckled. “In time for a check-up,” I repeated, voice low the second time. “Perhaps I shouldn't have missed so many in a row before now. Well, I did. I messed up and I can already see it on your face. I'm different now—I'm 'terminal.' Don't you dare think you can treat me like that! Don't look at me like I'm your grandfather with a foot in the ground. Treat me like a man, like your damn friend.

    “Say it, Willow. Say it! Look me in the eyes and say it so I know I'm not dead to you. Tell me 'I told you so.' Now!”

    A thousand muscles twitched in his face, ones only the doctor could name. Truth and honor, life and death, duty and disaster... I don't know what struggles were surfacing on that damn doctor's face. I just know he couldn't say it, and that I was too far gone to still be a living thing in the eyes of others.
     
  3. Gannon
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    My writer side - A Mujahdeen spectacle

    “Posing entities. No gratitude to anyone but themselves. Greed plagues them with corruption. Fucking posing entities.”

    Radi's tongue spat comments of hatred over and over again. He knew we could hear him; I'm sure he wanted us to hear him. It was his way of letting us know that he hated them just that little bit more than we did. That was Radi though, a true extremist in every aspect of the word.

    Nadir was different though. To look upon him you wouldn't think he was a hard core soldier for the Mujahdeen. He was somber, very somber on the day. I knew he had his doubts.

    “You have doubts, Nadir?” I said to him quietly trying not to let Radi hear. He nodded. “Then leave my friend. Do not partake unless you believe in your heart that this is what you must do.” Nadir stooped walking.

    “Nadir!” snapped Radi. “Come on.”

    “I'm not doing it, Radi.” he said shaking his head profusely. A dark shade of red grew upon Radi's face. His cream white eyes widened, shaking with fury he grabbed Nadir by the arm.

    “These fucking posers need to die.” His words were harsh, deadly and enraged. Radi was slipping into a dark place. Either that or he had already been there for a while. He put his forehead against Nadir's and spoke softly. “Teach these people a lesson, brother Nadir.”

    Somber Nadir obliged with a small nod. “Ok, brother Radi.” His words barely escaping his mouth. The scraps of words fell upon Radi and he met them gratefully. Pleased with himself he turned around and met my stern face.

    “He's not a martyr if you bully him into it, Radi.” I said glaring at him defiant.

    “I'm not bullying him into it, am I, Nadir?” he said turning around to look at him.

    All that was to been seen of Nadir, though, was a figure running down the street. His green robe flapping in the wind and his dirty generic trainers slapping on the pavement floor.

    “No!” shouted Radi white hot with range. He took off down the crowded London street after him.

    “Fuck sake, Radi. We must remain inconspicuous.” I said to my self as I too gave chase.

    Nadir ran into a public garden closely followed by Radi desperately trying to claw at him. I arrived at the garden entrance to see two soldiers of the Mujahdeen running through a British public garden with bombs in their back packs shouting at each other like two fighting school children. We were an embarrassment to our people but I couldn't help but laugh to myself.

    The spectacle continued as Radi tripped over and fell into Nadir knocking him into a pond. Walking over to the scene I was in stitches laughing. Upon reaching Radi standing at the side of the pond he noticed my laughter.

    “What's so funny?” he said enraged.

    “Hardcore soldiers of the Mujahdeen?” I said in hysterics. My laughter was clearly infectious.

    Radi burst into laughter. Pointing at Nadir, who was standing soaked in the pond, he said, “You sure as hell got cold feet now, Nadir.” Nadir burst into laughter.
     
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    Mr Hyde - Mother

    The last time I saw my mother I was twelve years old. It was 1989. We were living in a squalid crack-house of a flat in downtown London. My mother worked two jobs to sustain two lives. The first of which was ‘our’ life, a reality where her and I would live by the penny to eat, oftentimes on a diet of cheap bread and dustbin salad. Her other life was spent living free of problems in a reality of pharmaceutical escape, and that was the reality she was in when Social Services had scheduled their review.

    Five days ago I received a call.

    “Hello?”

    “Is this Tim Parson, son of Samantha Parsons?”

    “Yeah, can I help you?”

    “Samantha Parsons hasn’t turned up to her court-ordered Narcotic’s Anonymous meetings in two weeks, and you are her only family member listed.”

    “Right, well, I haven’t spoken to her in twenty years so I’m not sure whether I'd be of any help”

    “We were wonderi-”

    “I can’t. Sorry. But if she ever turns up I’ll give you a ring.”

    “Look, she ran off again. As it is we don’t have the manpower to track her down. Help would be greatly appreciated.”

    “This isn’t my problem anymore, OK? Do your job.”

    ~

    “Here she is, man. She’s all yours,” he says like a used car dealer.

    She lay slump against a beaten sofa, knees trembling and eyes skyward towards the dim warehouse lights. Her blotched make-up and birdnest hair spoke of last night, of turning tricks in cars for strange men with wrinkled wives. She hadn't changed at all.

    “You coke her up?” I ask.

    “She did it to herself. Heroin, the dumb bitch,” he says with a laugh. “But her pussy is still good, don’t you worry ‘bout that.” He tells me she’s worth at least £65, but he’ll give me twenty minutes with her for £30.

    “Have fun,” he adds before leaving.

    The warehouse was a steel mill once. The room smelled of copper and piss, and shapes of metal were strewn about the room like forgotten puzzle pieces.

    I slap her once, twice, three times to bring her around. She reacts as if being beaten is a warm embrace. Her eyes fall on me, but unfocused. She smiles a smile practiced a thousand times under duress, and her hand creeps its way towards my crotch in reflex.

    “Stop it. It’s Tim. We gotta leave,” I whisper.

    “Tim?” she slurs, “I knew-a Tim”. For a moment her eyes were abuzz with clarity. For a moment, I saw the woman who’d watch cartoons with me on our second-hand TV, curled up on our third-hand futon. The very woman who’d leave every night and be back by daybreak to see me off to school with a kiss.

    I pull her arm around my shoulders and pick her up. She smells of puke.

    “Where are we going?” She asks. “What was your name again?”

    “It was Tim," I say, "And we're going home.”
     
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    NathanialRobb - Battle Hardened

    The soldier bolted across the street grabbing a young Iraqi girl and throwing her into a bombed out schoolhouse, hitting the ground hard as the sniper bullet smashed into the street a few feet behind him. His head smacked into the ground, he stammered to his feet and ran into the schoolhouse as the sniper fired again narrowly missing.

    “Nate you alright?” his radio squawked to life, blaring into his ear from the helmet radio.

    “Concussion, I will be fine, status,” Colonel Watson said kneeling down next to the girl he’d just saved and checking her for injuries, silently.

    “Two snipers, RPG fire, mostly are sticking to the rooftops, Al Qaeda, no other survivors.”

    “All right, going to check on the girl, pick your shots,” the Colonel said smiling at the little girl. “Are you okay?” he said in Arabic. The girl nodded, grabbing the soldier around his neck and holding onto him for dear life.

    “I’m scared,” she said in perfect English.

    “You can speak English? What’s your name?”

    “I am Mikayla, my dad was a translator for your military, he taught all of my family English before he died,” she let go of the soldier and smiled at him.

    “What happened to your father?” the soldier asked.

    “They found out, they murdered my family while we slept last night, than they waited for you…” her voice trailed off. “I heard you coming I came out to try to warn you.”

    “You did,” he said smiling and giving the girl a small toy doll he kept on him for when he was in a village playing with kids. “You remind me of my daughters,” the soldier said thinking of home. “I won’t let anything happen to you, stay here and don’t move, stay down and out of site. Understood?”

    “Yes.”

    “How old are you?”

    “Thirteen.”

    “So is my youngest daughter, you and her would get along well…” he stopped clearing his mind and refocusing on the stakes at hand. He crawled to the door firing a three round burst through the chest of the terrorist outside the door. His partner hiding behind a blown up Humvee popped up blowing the brains out the back of another terrorist on the rooftops, a sniper lining up a shot on his officer. Then he turned and launched a grenade onto an adjacent rooftop the white phosphorous going up in flames reaching extreme temperatures burning a group of fighters waiting to ambush the soldiers.

    The colonel ran across the street, spotting the final sniper lining up a shot on the young Iraqi girl, the terrorist placed his finger on the trigger steadying his breath. The colonel ran up the stairs of the building adjacent to the schoolhouse diving across the rooftop as the sniper pulled the trigger, the soldier in midair pushed the sniper, his shot going astray as he stumbled, tripping over the edge of the rooftop and falling off the building into the cold dusty road below, smashing his head into the ground dying on impact.

    “Call for a Black Hawk, and get us out of here,” the Colonel said over the radio. “I’m going to go grab the girl.”

    “Reminds you of home huh Colonel?”

    “Yeah, Sam,” he said pulling out a picture of his wife and daughters. “Yeah.”
     
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    Pythonforger - Bullet

    The man was propped against the wall, the wrong end of a Beretta M12 stuck in his face. The soldier looked down at him. "Screw you," said the soldier. "Screw you. You don't mess with the Third Battlement unless you don't like living." He shrugged, then tapped a cloud of dust off his shoulders.

    "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Isn't that right, Mr. Ryan?"

    The soldier shot him in the leg. "How did you know my name? Tell me!"

    The man blew on his fingers. "There's no use making threats. Words, as I have already said, will never hurt me." The soldier's voice suddenly turned dangerous, soft, menacing.

    "What about a bullet? Will a bullet hurt you?"

    "Maybe." The man started to smile, and then there was a flash and a sharp crack, and the light went out of his one good eye.
     
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    cork279 - Pushed Over The Edge

    I awoke. Frozen from the waste down to the tip of my foot. Mounted upon the edge of a cliff; literally on it's edge. The ice held me onto the edge of the cliff, I could see the water below. Rocks pierced through the oceans surface, like knives. A fall onto them wouldn't be survivable, especially from the height I was at.

    I slowly regained full consciousness. I turned my head, noticing water drip from my foot as the ice slowly melt. Unsure of how I got there, I panicked. Terror-stricken, I flailed my arms like a mad-woman.

    “No!” I thought. I stopped, steady and still. In my silence I heard the ice crack. If my wild craze wasn't the key to my freedom, as it obviously wasn't, then what were I to do?

    Momentarily, I glanced across the ridge. I saw a rope, about 1 meter away. A corpse hung from this rope. In disbelief, I looked back down to see hundreds of bodies floating in the waters amongst the rocks, the water, red, now looked like a pool of blood. How didn't I notice this before?

    The cliff quaked. I looked up as two jets flew over. As they disappeared into the distance, I saw a cloud of fire and smoke appear over the horizon, an explosion. I listened to hear more panicking, though not me, someone was on the cliff. Their voices expressed fear; I myself began, yet again, to lose nerve.

    I heard someone say something about not being able to survive what was to come. After that, they said no more. Just silence, then a gunshot. A kid, no more than 5 years old, fell over the cliff into the rocks. The silence broke. Cries, and moans for God fell solemnly over the cliffs edge. Another gunshot, once more, there was silence. A man fell, again, to his death.

    The explosion in the distance grew in size. What the hell was going on?

    I was so confound, yet weeping in disarray, I knew I were to die.
     
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    thecoopertempleclause - Destructive Sacrifice

    I can picture the corners of my lips sealing themselves together. I can taste the salt in my sweat. I want to open my mouth but I wonder if it might tear at the skin. I've been sat here for hours. You stare at a clock long enough, it consumes everything you are. You're always just waiting for that next tick.

    Tock.

    We used to do battle out in the open. People would always stare. They'd look at us with the words "What," "The," "Fuck," tattooed across their eyes. Reaction is conformity personified. We spend our lives expecting the same. We spend our lives expecting nothing to change.

    Somewhere in Delaware, there is a man. His name is Brett Jenson. He owns the sports car that he's supposed to. He owns the TV screen with six-hundred channels that he's supposed to. He has the pretty wife with the massive tits that he's supposed to. Right now, he is fucking up her face because she did his eggs differently this morning.

    People do not like change.

    Sometimes we'd meet in underground parking garages. Sometimes in the dingy basements buried underneath our homes. Humanity spends every second fearing being buried. They run from this fate with their fat asses flapping in the wind. Yet here we are, buried, the only place we are safe from society. From conformity.

    Victor stood in the corner. He folded his arms and stepped forward.

    "These are the rules," he said. Circling round us like a tiger scouring for prey.

    "Two men per battle, and fellas, one battle at a time." He paused and smirked at the wall. "If this is your first night here. You will not be spectating."

    Spectating. Being an observer after coming here was like fucking Scarlett Johansson, then going home and jerking off over a picture of your Aunt Mabel. This is your reason to get up. Your reason to cut your fingernails. Your reason to scrub the shit from between your teeth. You aren’t alive anywhere except in this room. Everything else becomes a haze. A mirage. None of it is real.

    Your job.

    Your home furnishings.

    Your De’Longhi 15-bar pump espresso maker with advanced dual boiler system.

    It means nothing.

    Sometimes I’d see the people I’d meet here in “real” life. Out there we were nothing. We were the dregs of society. We were the skid mark on the ass of the world. You could go up to each other. You could even shake that man’s hand. Tell him he kicked ass last night. But the eyes of that man would not be the same eyes you stared into the night before. In this room we are kings. We are the all-singing, all-dancing, skid marks of the world.

    Right now, Brett Jenson is promising his pretty wife with the massive tits that it won’t happen again.

    People do not like change.

    Except us.

    "Gentlemen," Victor said. "Welcome to Chess Club."
     
  9. Gannon
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    Force - Briefing

    Every soldier is familiar with the mission briefing. Crowding around a map, or watching some presentation in some room. Calculating risks, raising questions, mentally preparing for the task ahead, be it easy or difficult. Nothing ever really happens. At worst, it’s still probably everyone’s favorite phase of the job.

    Not so for soldiers like Echo-09. Because for Echo Nine, the mission briefings happen right as she wakes up. And she wakes up while plummeting towards the ground at terminal velocity still half entrapped inside a block of ice.

    It was called ‘Cold Insertion’. Shades were rotated up to orbit while cryogenically frozen in a special isotope. Ready for deployment from orbit anywhere any time – only eight minutes required. That was briefing time, although most Shades only wake up in the last hundred or so seconds. Echo was awake; though she kept her eyes shut and gritted her teeth. The Nano-parasites were working constantly to repair the damage scientists called frost burn. The Shades called it falling through hell.

    The familiar voice of Delta-24 crackled across her headset, “This fucking hurts.”

    She cracked an eye open to see him watching her intently, falling parallel only a few feet away with a small grimace on his face. “Should tot—”

    Control, a female monotone voice, cut in. “The target is an old abandoned Japanese launch site. Its last use was in the year of 2006. Or so we had been lead to believe.” Her holoscreen flickered on in front of her left eye, showing her satellite images of the surrounding terrain. “It is marked as a nuclear contaminated zone.”

    “Uh-huh,” said Delta, “What’s this got to do with us?”

    “Lunarium Captain,” said Control, “We lost control of one of the shipments and tracked it to this location. The Midnight Light is currently holding position approximately thirty miles from the facility. A company was deployed but they are currently pinned down by Republican forces. There have also been reports of advanced Mechs operating in the area.”

    “Lost control?”

    “I am not authorized to discuss those specifics with you Captain.”

    “Fine. I assume you want us to take out the Mechs and bail out command from an embarrassing loss of an entire company?”

    “Your assumption is correct Captain. However your primary objective is to recover the stolen Lunarium. I’m sure you understand why.”

    Of course we do, thought Echo. Lunarium was what kept Shades running. It acted as fuel for the Nano-parasites that enhanced and healed each of them. The UN’s hold on this substance was what kept them in this war. Should the Republic develop and add Shades to complement their arsenal of Mechs….she shivered, shaking away the last of the ice.

    They broke through the clouds, twin streaks hurtling towards the firefight in the dark of night. Echo picked out the two Mechs immediately. Twin humanoid machines that towered over everything else: They were the entire focus of and subsequently controlled the entire battle. That would change soon. Echo grinned.

    “Let’s save time,” Echo suggested as the pair popped their chutes at five hundred feet. The landing would not be a soft one. “You slip inside; I’ll take care of those two.”

    He gave a small nod of agreement as they hit the ground. His eyes gleamed, “Let’s get this done.”
     
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    Erato - Tell Her

    As the sun set over the river, a figure began to move in the growing darkness.

    He was moving quietly, stealthily, skilfully, first on his feet, and then on his hands and knees. Despite moving along a hedgerow, he made surprisingly little sound, and it became clear as he emerged into more open ground that he was naked, and had blackened his normally pale body with paint. He stepped delicately over the bodies on the ground.

    The sentry, hidden a few meters off, was unaware of the intruder at first; but when the voices began he raised his head and looked.

    "Evan," said the naked man. "Evan!"

    There was a stifled sob, and the slight rustling of a uniform.

    "I'll tell Mom," he sniffed. "What you said. Last night." His voice gained strength. "I'll tell her that you were sorry."

    The sentry unfolded himself very slowly.

    "I'll tell her."

    The sentry raised his rifle.

    There will be no one to tell her.
     
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    Rumwriter - Sunday in the Park with Bert

    Bert sat in the park, soaking his feet in a metal bucket of ice. He'd been there for several hours, bored and lonely, as none of his friends were around to talk to today. No humans had even thought to come along and toss him some old bread. Bert's stomach grumbled just thinking about it. He reached over and dumped another bag of ice into the bucket. Bert shivered as little icy droplets shot upwards at him, but at least his feet were freezing nicely.

    As the water slowly warmed, Bert added another bag of ice, and a few hours later, he added another. He was six bags through when he finally heard a familiar voice call his name.

    “Hey, Bert!” shouted Mitch. Bert looked up just as his his friend fluttered down next to him. “I thought that was you!”

    “Hey there, Mitch!” said Bert, finally glad to have some company. “How've you been?” It was unclear if Mitch was ignoring the question, or if he simply hadn't heard it, as he was too busy circling around the bucket with his wing to his bill.

    “Say, Bert...I don't mean to pry, but...do you know you've got your feet in a bucket of ice?”

    “Of course I do!” scoffed Bert.

    “Well I thought you did,” said Mitch, stroking his bill in contemplation. “Just wanted to make sure, was all.”

    “Yeeep. Looks like I'm the only one though,” said Bert.

    “Yup. That's what it's lookin' like. By the by, Bert, you mind remindin' me why it is you've got your feet in a bucket of ice?”

    “'Cause it's Sunday, of course.”

    “That's what I thought,” Mitch replied, nodding along. “Just slipped my mind is all.”

    “I figured,” said Bert, stretching his wings and slouching down further into the ice. “You mind dumping another bag on there for me, Mitch?”

    “Oh...yeah, sure thing.” Mitch hoisted a bag of ice into the bucket and dumped it out onto Bert's feet. Bert shivered so hard that several feathers popped off.

    “Hoo yeah. Getting it really cold today.” Mitch scratched his head and stared at Bert, and Bert repositioned himself a little more comfortably. “Say Mitch, you didn't forget your bucket today too, did ya?”

    “Ya know, I was embarrassed to say anything, but I think I did...”

    “Hmm. That is a problem.”

    “Yeah. I thought it was...” said Mitch. Bert thought for a moment.

    “Say, Mitch, you wanna share my bucket with me? I got plenty of ice here for the two of us.”

    “Well I was thinking the same thing, yknow that, Bert? Only if you don't mind, though.”

    “Of course not!” said Bert and he gave a loud quack of a laugh. “Come on, hop in!”

    “Thanks a lot, Bert! I really appreciate it.” Mitch sat on the edge of the bucket and dug his feet into the ice. He flapped his wings and quacked, as the sting of the ice shot up his feet.

    “Wowza!” shouted Mitch.

    “Great, isn't it? Toss another bag on, Mitch!” Mitch did, and they enjoyed the rest of their Sunday afternoon together.
     
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    Cogito - Snake

    His name was Mark Coniglio, but everyone called him Snake. He got the name when he bit Scott McEvoy on the ankle in gym class. After that, wrestling was off the Physical Ed curriculum. Snake was big, and he was mean, and he was dumber’n a brick. He was a big sack of nasty.

    Me, I’m a runt, to put it plain. So of course, I was always the punching bag for every up and coming future thug. But Snake was the bane of my existence. Swirlies were bad enough, but he always chose the unflushed bowl to stuff my head into.
    I had enough. It being Jersey, it wasn’t hard to get hold of some hardware. I found a guy who knew a guy, and after some cash changed hands, I had a handgun and ammo, and felt five and a half feet tall.

    I knew Snake hung out near Vic’s Pizza. Vic sold beer, and Snake got people to buy a six pack for him. Then he’d cut across the scrub lot where Tony’s used to be to the abandoned buildings on Stark Street to drink himself stupider.

    I hid in a pile of burned bricks where Tony’s kitchen used to be, and waited. Finally, Snake swaggered into the lot with a sack of brew in each hand, looking like he owned the town. When he got close, I popped him. The gun was louder than I thought it would be. One of the bags exploded in foam and glass, and Snake’s look changed from scared to mightily pissed. He charged at me and I shot again. This time I hit him high in the chest. He stopped, gasped a couple times, then dropped to his knees. I shot a third time at close range in the head, then took off. I dumped the gun into a sewer drain. The thin rubber gloves went into a nasty dumpster behind the Taco Bell, and I heard the sirens converging on Tony’s lot.

    In the two weeks since, I’ve been scared spitless. But Snake was pronounced at the scene, and no one can trace the gun to me, even if they find it.

    Sticks and stones, they say. But bullets have the final word, and I’m finally free of that slimy bastard.

    Someone’s at the door, pounding louder than my heart. I look through the peephole. Crap.
     
  13. Gannon
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    Gannon Contributing Member Contributor

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    nanipugz - It Started With the Kiss of Death

    It started with the kiss of death, before the girl fell into a deep sleep. She had fallen into an abyss of darkness and for a while it was absolutely silent. Slowly the darkness faded and girl could see vaguely a shadow in the midst. She felt uneasy and unaware; she was frozen. The panic was finally sinking in as the dark figure came closer. Still frozen in the darkness, the urge to scream came rushing in. But silence was all that came; she was helpless and prey to the figure. Shutting her eyes she prayed to wake up. On the inside she was screaming and fighting the power that held her hostage. It was hopeless and she finally gave in as the she felt the figure’s hot breath run down her spine, giving her chills of fear. She opened her eyes to see a small pillar of light as if hope was breaking through, but it was all a trick. Finally, she heard a hollow grungy voice whisper, “You lost your freedom the moment you closed your eyes, my dear.” The tone of his voice stabbed the girl and she could no longer feel herself breathing, as if the man had taken her soul away and was left an empty carcass. She could hear him chuckle and could feel his warm sweaty fingers caressing her arms, creeping closer to her waist. She shuddered and finally grasped for air realizing it was too late; she was done for. His hands finally reached their destination and grabbed hold of her hips and thrust her towards himself. Satisfied with her obedience he was empowered and groaned with pleasure. She was terrified and began to cry suddenly realizing she was stripped down to her underwear. The panic arose once again as the man took her body into his. She was cold to the core as she attempted to find a glimpse of light that was immediately shut out by the man’s chest. She shut her eyes tight taking in a deep breath as a one last attempt to escape with no success. She could feel the man grab for her face and fail. His second attempt was successful and he forced her eyes open. As she gained focus the last thing she remembered were his fiendish yellow eyes before she fell into the abyss of darkness once again. v
     
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