This contest is honor of the fantastic and gripping suspense novel Rock Paper Tiger by Lisa Brackmann, now on sale and which you should definitely purchase for your suspense reading pleasure.
BUT DON’T TAKE MY WORD FOR IT. In a starred review, Publishers Weekly called it an “electrifying debut,” and the Miami Herald said it’s an “extraordinary portrait of an ever-shifting country,” and with a nod to the gripping travails of the main character, they add helpfully, “it makes you damned glad your life is boring.”
You may remember the plot of Rock Paper Tiger from Lisa’s most excellent query:
The Beijing ’08 Olympics are over, the war in Iraq is lost, and former National Guard medic Ellie McEnroe is stuck in China, trying to lose herself in the alien worlds of performance artists and online gamers. When a chance encounter with a Chinese Muslim dissident drops her down a rabbit hole of conspiracies, Ellie must decide who to trust among the artists, dealers, collectors and operatives claiming to be on her side – in particular, a mysterious organization operating within a popular online game.Rock Paper Tiger is a fast-paced, 108,000 word mainstream novel set in a China where the ultra-modern and cutting-edge clash with ancient neighborhoods and traditions, and in an America where the consequences of war reverberate long after the troops have come home. It will appeal to fans of William Gibson’s books with contemporary settings, Laura Lippman’s strong female protagonists, and almost anybody’s whacked-out travelogues about the world’s more surreal places.
Now then! For the Rock Paper Tiger Chase/Action Writing Contest Extravaganza (TRPTC/AWCE, as it shall be known henceforth), your prompt (should you choose to accept it:
Write the most compelling chase and/or action and/or suspenseful sequence. It may be something you have written for the purpose of the contest or from a work in progress.
The prizes (oh yes the prizes).
The GRAND PRIZE TRPTC/AWCE WINNER will receive:
– Their choice of a query critique, partial critique, or 10 minute phone conversation/consultation/dish session
– The pride of knowing you suspensed the heck out of me and your fellow readers.
Runners up will receive a query critique or other agreed-up on prize.
Now for the rules. Please note that all rules may and probably will be amended at my sole (and fickle) discretion.
1. Please enter one suspense/action sequence not to exceed 500 words in the comments section of this blog post. E-mail subscribers: you must must must must must (must) enter in the official contest thread. Please do not e-mail me your entries! If you need help leaving a comment, please consult this post.
2. You may enter once, and once you may enter. If you log in to post anonymously, make sure you leave your name or other identifying marker.
3. Spreading the word about the contest is not only encouraged, it is strongly encouraged.
4. Snarky comments, anonymous or otherwise, about entries, hobbits, ors, ents, or any other species from Tolkien’s Middle Earth will be deleted faster than you can say Isengard.
5. Please please check and double-check your entry before posting. If you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos, nor should you be.
6. I will be the sole judge of the contest.
7. You must be at least 14 years old and less than 138 years old to enter. No exceptions.
8. I’m on Twitter! You can find me at @nathanbransford and I may be posting updates about the contest.
9. The deadline for this contest is 4:00 PM Pacific Time on Thursday, June 3rd. Finalists will be announced Friday morning, and you will have the opportunity to vote on the winner, which will be announced on Monday.
There you have it! May the best chase/action sequence win!
UPDATE: TIME’S UP!! THANK YOU FOR ENTERING!
Ishta Mercurio says
Chase sequence, written for this contest but suitable for my WIP, entitled "HUNTER":
The almost inaudible hiss, followed by a soft click that echoed through the silent auditorium, sent a shock of icy cold down my spine and across my shoulder blades where a moment before I had been sweating against the plush velvet seat. Hunter snapped his head around to face me as I gripped his wrist, and I could see in his widened eyes that he had heard it, too.
“They’ve found us. Run!”
He grabbed my left arm and jerked me forward as we sprang up from our seats, launching ourselves over the rows in front of us, shoving past the handful of audience members separating us from the nearest aisle. My shins scraped against the seat backs and arms, but the bruises and the gasps from classmates and friends were nothing compared to the realisation that my Guardian was dragging me straight towards the stage, where the curtains had burst into flames.
We hurtled down the aisle, heedless of the chaos erupting around us as people noticed the fire. The alarm sounded, shrill in the growing madness.
“We’ll never make it,” I panted, stumbling on purses and panicked feet.
We reached the stage and Hunter boosted me up ahead of him, his strong arms urging me forward.
“Go. Stage right. They’re getting closer!”
And then he was next to me, hands locked around mine, dragging me past the flaming curtains, crashing through the dark, past wheeled set pieces and costume racks and screaming stage managers. Choking smoke filled our lungs, heat seared the hair on the back of my neck, and I looked back and saw the hissing, growling demons, their teeth a million scythes snapping at my ankles, eyes glowing with fire, yellowed claws scraping the worn boards just a few feet behind me. A cry escaped my lips, and I knew that the wetness on my face must have been tears.
Through a crevice, and then we were inside the walls, stumbling down the narrow passageway, the coarse wooden framework gashing my arms and legs, the hissing scrabbling demons nearly upon us, almost surrounding us, then we rounded a corner and half-slid down an incline. Hunter punched a knob in the wall and we exploded gasping into the night air, cool with the evening’s rain.
I blinked as I saw through my panicked tears a hot air balloon, gleaming white and gold, a beacon rising out of the near end of the field, and my tears became tears of relief. We sloshed towards it, Hunter leaping in and turning to lift me, but it began to rise, my hands brushing the rim of the basket just too late.
“No!” I cried, flailing at the ropes, the demons were closing in on me now, then my Guardian’s hands closed around my arms, solid and strong, as he hauled me into the basket, and I collapsed onto him, sobbing. “Am I dead?”
“No, not dead,” he breathed in his angelic voice, “Safe. For now.”
Dave Shepherd says
Drown
You wouldn’t believe the things that are buried underneath the beaches of California. Red shovels, blue buckets, a shoe with cash in the toe. Cause no one’ll look there, or something.
These are my problems: Why’s it dark, why’s it cold, and what’s the weight taped across my pecs?
Pull off the tape. Rips some hair out, but that’s cool, had to wax it anyway. My free hand catches the tube attached to my chest. Switch on one side.
Click.
Light.
Flashlight, if you’re into details.
Shine it around. Stuck in a wood box. There’s no room; think a cucumber trying to fit in a hotdog bun. There’s a pipe opening above my head. An air hole. So thanks for that, random drunk who choked me out in the parking lot.
Three old school polaroids stick to the wood in front of me. The first is a shot of my well-tanned self sitting a top my tower, protecting the beach, complete with ironic overuse of sunscreen on my nose. Aviators to hide my hangover. Next pic, a group of beach bunnies surround me, flirting. For obvious reasons.
Last one is a brown haired boy. Glasses. Will die a virgin. One of those loser school photos that even I don’t look good in. You know, where the photo dude makes you tilt your head to the side and plaster on a smile.
Cold water shoots out from the pipe above. Salty. Smells like seaweed. Tastes like it too.
It pools around my ankles. A second spurt sends it halfway up my shins. Goosebumps pop up on my arms, but not ‘cause of the cold.
Block the pipe. Take the tape that held the flashlight, ball it up, and block the pipe. No go. Pipe’s too wide. Backend of the flashlight can’t get the job done either, so I drop it.
More water. Less air.
I press my palm against the opening. Ignore the jagged pieces of metal that stab into the skin. Ignore the salty water that reaches into the little cuts. Ignore what seeps out past my palm.
The tide rises.
Past my knees.
Past my thighs.
The worst part — past my groin, making my manly shouts into little girl screams.
Stomach.
Chest.
Collarbone.
The polaroids float on top of the water, swirling through the ray of the flashlight. Still on cause the dude who choked me out sprung for the waterproof LED brand that divers use.
Water pours out of the pipe. A steady stream now.
Scream.
Scratch against the wood.
Ignore the splinters stuck under your nails. Ignore the mouthful of water. Ignore the burning in your lungs.
Can’t. Hold. On.
Last thing I see before drowning is that gonna-die-a-virgin brown-haired boy. Fuck, he’s familiar. So familiar.
Not sure why someone did this. But they did. You’ll find what’s left of me someday. You wouldn’t believe the things that are buried underneath the beaches of California.
Ishta Mercurio says
I just read through some of the entries, and boy, do I feel out of my depth. Hats off to everyone who entered, and good luck, everybody!
Amanda Acton says
Cathy’s fingers snaked toward Arrow’s neck. Arrow covered the jewellery protectively,
“Cathy?”
“Think of it as a Christmas present. To replace that silly book.”
Cathy made as if to pull her hand away, but then both palms shot into Arrow’s chest. Arrow stumbled backward, tripped on her own feet and fell onto the sand.
“Ow! Hey! What are you…”
Cathy didn’t wait for her cousin to finish. Instead, she sat right on top of Arrow’s stomach and snarled. Her fingers moved toward the necklace once more.
“No!” Arrow shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m taking what should be mine!”
Cathy grabbed at Arrow’s hands and tried to pry her fingers apart. She pressed her manicured nails into the back of Arrow’s fists. Arrow screamed and responded by bucking wildly. Cathy squeezed her knees into Arrow’s sides.
“Gerroff me! Cathy! Gerroff! Are you crazy?”
And then Cathy got a wild look in her eyes that said, yes, yes I am crazy. Her lips parted. She snarled and then her teeth closed around Arrow’s fingers. Arrow arched her back and yelled.
“Stop it!”
Cathy responded with a loud slap to Arrow’s cheek. Arrow’s eyes went wide. Cathy’s teeth dug into Arrow’s fingers again. The pain stuck in the bones and travelled down Arrow arm and up her spine. It jumped into her brain. Arrow’s head felt like it was about to explode.
“I HATE YOU!” Arrow screamed. She didn’t know why she screamed that, but she supposed it was true. Cathy was annoying and horrible and she was biting!
“I hate you so much!”
Arrow held on tight to the necklace. She kicked her feet. Cathy kept clawing and biting at Arrow’s hands and chest. Arrow grabbed Cathy’s hair and pulled.
Cathy shrieked in rage, “Oh you brat!”
Arrow felt hot pain in her chest as Cathy’s nails dug deeper, “Let me HAVE IT!”
“NO! You can’t!!”
“Give it to me!”
Arrow’s cheeks were stained with tears. The surface of her hands and chest were a map of red gashes.
“Stop it!” she begged. “I hate you! You hear? I hate you and I… I wish you weren’t my cousin!”
“Well I am,” Cathy sneered. “Now give it here.”
“NO! Go away Cathy! Gerroff me!”
“Not until you give it here!”
Cathy plunged her nails all the deeper. She bit Arrow’s pinky. A trickle of blood escaped from the skin. Arrow screamed. She raised her fists and beat them into Cathy’s chest.
“Go away! I wish you were never born!”
Cathy pulled her hands away and spat on the ground. Her spit was mixed with blood. She glared at Arrow.
“Do you really mean it? You wish I hadn’t ever been born?”
Arrow nodded.
“I don’t believe you,” Cathy said.
“Well it’s true,” Arrow spat. “I wish you weren’t real. I wish that you just never existed, that you weren’t ever born.”
The ground shook.
Pete Miller says
Here is an excerpt from my (work in progress) novella, "The Zeppelin"
Clark charged down the Zeppelin’s catwalk. Two Germans stepped onto the platform in front of him. Clark saw the insignia on their lapels and his blood went cold. They weren’t army officers. They were agents from the infamous Arkanen Streitkräfte — the most notorious, ruthless killers in the German Empire.
One agent went for his gun. Clark’s blade slashed first, gashing the man’s neck. Blood splattered the other agent in the face. He punched blindly at Clark. The powerful blow sent the American reeling to the gridwork.
The Arkanen Division agent with the slashed neck convulsed off the catwalk and dangled there by his belt. He seemed to be dead.
The other agent mopped red off his face with a black sleeve. He pulled a strange object from a leather holster. It looked a bit like a gun, but thick worm-like tendrils from the butt of the thing twisted and snaked their way into the agent’s arm.
Clark realized the gun-thing was alive. It opened its eyes and smiled. Clark ducked just in time to avoid the cold cerulean shock wave that emanated from the thing’s shrieking mouth. The blast wave rippled down the line of hydrogen gasbags along the catwalk and shook the whole airship.
Clark charged. The agent tried to get his gun up, but Clark was on him. The young American stabbed and punched and the agent just stood there and took it. Clark punched him again and again. After a minute of this, Clark tired. The German agent and his gun both smiled.
The American ducked just in time, but the blast vaporized the jacket and shirt right his off back. Clark screamed. His spine was a mess of red skin, blistering and bubbling like he got a full day sunburn in one second.
Clark looked the Arkanen Streitkräfte agent in the eyes. They were as cold and black as the depths of space.
Clark lashed out with his knife. The Agent flinched, but Clark hadn’t aimed for the German. He stabbed the gun.
Clark’s knife tore through the flesh and dug deep into the bone of the gun-thing. It shrieked and the agent howled in pain.
Clark twisted the blade. Bone snapped. The gun-thing made a wailing sound that threatened to wrench Clark’s soul from his body. It was an aria of agony that dropped the American flier to his knees.
The Arkanen agent kicked Clark in the head. Clark flipped over and sprawled on the catwalk. His knife clattered to the deck. Clark dug his fingers in and managed not to fall off the grid-work when the Agent kicked him again.
The gun-thing stopped screaming and died. The agent ripped it from his arm and threw it at Clark, swearing viciously in German.
Clark dodged the dead gun-thing. He knew some of the choicer words.
Clark stood up and said, “Shut your filthy mouth, ya dirty Kraut.”
The German said, “Time to die, Amerikaner.”
Kathy M. says
Action scene:
(Just the meat, not the potatoes.)
The blades slowly began to turn with the familiar pitch of the helicopter whining, then increased in sound as the blades picked up the pace.
“Please hurry Doug,” I pleaded as my eyes scanned the beach to see if the clones were closing in. The hairs began to rise on my arms and the back of my neck, and I knew they were near, my telltale method of intuition.
I grabbed Doug’s arm and whispered, “We have to hurry, they’re here.”
“I’m going as fast as I can, Tommie. This machinery, piece of crap hunk of metal, isn’t going anywhere until the rpm’s reach maximum speed,” he replied anxiously, his eyes scanning the beach also. I could hear the blades spinning faster and knew we were about ready for takeoff. Finally, Doug lifted us from the beach when several clones broke through the thick brush.
“Don’t look now, but here they come,” Adam said calmly, as he spoke into the mike that was attached to our headphones. “Three o’clock, Doug.”
I looked in the direction of three o’clock and saw another helicopter closing in fast.
“Hang on,” Doug yelled into the mike, as he instinctively turned us directly into their path.
“Are you crazy, what are you thinking,” I bellowed as they appeared closer than I wanted to be.
Their helicopter veered away from us as Doug hoped they would react. He corrected his position and continued towards Kilauea, the most active volcano in Hawaii. We finally approached the summit when I heard gunshots. Doug made a quick upward motion that took us up and over in a loop where we were now behind them.
Finally we were over the volcano and Doug began to drop as low as he could without getting caught in a downdraft that could pull us into the pit of its belly.
Maurice charged us again, and came too close for comfort. Feeling secure, I knew by now he could out maneuver the other guy. Doug slowed, circled the volcano, passing one more time. “This may be our last opportunity to do this. Adam are you ready?” Doug asked tensely. The guns hitting us with a barrage of bullets, they came at us again. Doug dove towards the wall of the volcano as if he would fly right into it, pulled up at the last minute, and swerved to the right to make a circle over the center once more.
I looked back to see them slam directly into the very same wall we had just pulled away from, fire bellowing out as it bounced off the wall, and pieces of the blade flying helter-skelter towards us. My heart was in my throat, as Doug pulled up again quickly, to avoid any flying debris. There was silence. It was over. We watched as the craft plummeted into the hot fiery lava and disappeared. The volcano burped and sent several globs of lava into the air, which quickly settled back into the pit.
cRs24 says
Chelsea looked up at me like a pathetically lost actress, her eyes rimmed with dust and specks of red paint. I opened my mouth to apologize but just then the door flew open with a tremendous crash and another dozen islanders shouldered their way into the pub. The place was already beyond capacity, bodies colliding and rearranging like marbles in a teacup and forcing the excess to its brim. I reached out for Chelsea but someone shoved me from behind while another elbowed me sideways. I staggered into a wooden pillar modeled to resemble a ship’s mast and held on for as long as possible while drinkers smashed together without regard, coarse wool rubbing against fishy leather with such vigor that it seemed as if someone was going to catch flame. Yet throughout it all everyone was laughing and singing and bouncing in place as if this were some joke I wasn’t privy to, some ritual I hadn’t yet undergone.
The mass ebbed and peaked like a wave, and on the return surge I was sucked back into the current. When the bar swam past I reached out for the brass railing but was only able to grasp it for a few seconds before the door swung open and yet more celebrants entered. As they strove for the grog bowl at the far end of the pub I was spun around, knocked backward and forward, crushed against fishermen’s chests and carpenters’ backs, spun again, slammed into another pillar, then finally spit into their wake and walled off completely. I stood there a moment, dumbfounded and aching, until someone fell from his stool and the crowd pulsed outwards, forcing me against the door right as someone pulled it open from the other side. I tumbled out onto the wet sidewalk.
“I hope you saved some for us!” a fat little woman bellowed as she stepped over me. The door swung shut.
My hat was gone – the storm was sailing it down the gutter. I pushed myself up and chased it. Despite the melee in the bar, the streets were oddly devoid of cars. As if everyone had simply been delivered. The exception was a lone blue station wagon making its way toward me at a phenomenal speed. I stepped back against a picket fence and did my best to disappear but the car skidded to a halt on the slick tarmac. Three men stepped out, their coats and ties and flared pants from a bygone era. The first man to reach me was sweating lightly, pink-faced beneath long black sideburns.
“Drink this,” he said, holding out a jar of clear liquid.
I swung a leg over the fence but the other men sprung upon me with freakish deftness. One bent my arm in the wrong direction while another turned my face to the sky and the third tipped the liquid down my throat. Within moments the world slipped away, along with the cold gray rain.
Melissa Pearl says
Harrison’s temples were throbbing when he came to. He licked the blood seeping from his mouth as he was hauled up the stone stairs.
Awareness kicked in and his heart broke into a panicky gallop.
Gemma.
Had she made it to the stables? Last he knew, she had been right behind him. An image of her bleeding in the hay had his fists bunching. He threw himself into a feisty bid for freedom.
The guard tightened his grip, but not fast enough to slow Harrison’s thrashing. He punched his way free, but didn’t get far. The guard lunged after him and they toppled down the stairs together. Harrison struggled for breath as the guard landed on him and shot an iron fist into his face. He barely had time to moan before he glimpsed the dagger.
Lifting his arms, he blocked the first blow and held the knife at bay, but knew his fight was futile. The guard was built like a bear. He forced his brain to shut-the-hell-up and pushed against the dagger. His arms were about to collapse when the man lurched back. His eyes bulged wide then his body slumped, an arrow piercing his throat.
Harrison whipped around and saw Gemma running towards him, bow in hand. Grinning, he pushed the guard off and struggled to his feet.
“Take my hand!”
She pulled him towards the stables, but quickly spun at the sound of clanging armor.
“Come on!”
They raced up the stairs and ran around the perimeter of the tower until they were forced to stop outside an immovable door. Harrison glanced behind him and saw the guards charging into view. He looked to Gemma who paced to the side of the wall and looked down into the courtyard.
“We’re going to have to climb down.”
He looked over the edge then back at her with wide eyes.
“I know,” she grimaced, throwing the bow aside, “but we’re running out of options.”
She jumped onto the wall and lowered herself over the edge.
“Hurry up.”
Harrison swallowed convulsively and followed her. Gripping the edge, he found a minute foothold. He wedged his toes in, clung to the wall, and began to shuffle.
The clamber of the four guards above them faded. The shouts rising from the courtyard suggested a contingent of pissed off guards were waiting to lynch them.
Awesome.
He took another step down, following Gemma’s descent, and felt his insides split in half as Gemma let out a feeble cry and her body jerked. Two arrows protruded from her back.
“Gemma!”
She went limp and fell. He caught her hand as another arrow shot past his head.
“Hold on!”
He fought against her sweaty skin, glancing up to his cramping fingers, begging them to stay attached to the wall. It was pure agony watching them slip from their hold. The air rushed past him as he plummeted for the ground. He closed his eyes and grasped Gemma’s hand, yelling against the feeling of her slipping from his grasp.
Dan Holloway says
From "Solid", in "(life:) razorblades included" (WIP)
(n.b. all punctuation and (lack of) capitalisation is intended:
The clock on the screen says it’s night so it must be dark out but I haven’t seen a window for days, or maybe hours, or since who knows when. I put the phone to my ear and listen but it’s not really words, or a voice, just a series of broken sounds punctuated occasionally with scared and help and square.
I listen and I think. I think, it must be dark out, but not as dark as it is in here in this room with walls and boards, and a ceiling and switches and fabric made from pain cut in strips so thick and woven so tight that nothing could ever escape. The sounds coming from the speaker are so much quieter than the sounds in my head and eventually they fade to a level hiss, and I throw the phone across the room.
Our bodies are slick and in the darkness it is impossible to tell how much of the liquid drowning us is sweat, and how much oil, and how much blood.
No matter how we bite and fuck and fist we still sit apart in the blackness, separated by skin, and as long as we sit and we fist and bite and fuck we will always be separated, and she says, I can feel every part of you beneath your skin and I can see your soul behind your eyes and I can press up against what’s there and the gap between us is infinitesimally small but it will never go away; and I say, What kind of torture is this? and she says, It’s just what it is to be human, to be part of this world, and I say then we must sit apart in the darkness forever and never see into each other’s soul, and never feel each other’s blood or hear each other’s breath, we must sit each one of us in our separate cells and keen into the night in our loneliness, and she says, No, that’s not the answer, and I say, What is?
and I hear the sound of metal and feel nothing but warmth and she takes my hand in hers and presses it against hers, and the warmth becomes heat, and the heat becomes cold, and from somewhere I hear sounds,
a different world. with different rules
dcharb says
I saw him three quarters of the way across the ice. His head and arms hung over the surface, the rest of his body invisible below the water line. Chunks of ice floated around him where the ice had given way. He appeared calm. His blond hair was slicked back and flecked with ice. His glasses lay on their side on the ice, the right lens cracked.
I panicked, screaming my brother’s name.
What do I do?
Oliver disappeared below the ice. There was still a current, despite the frozen surface. The ice was never safe to cross here on foot. Oliver knew that. Of course he knew that. He knew it as sure as I did. Why had he tried to cross without the damn swing?
“Oliver!”
Oliver’s face appeared again in the hole. His skin had tinged blue. He gurgled for help again. He looked so calm. How could he look so calm? I scanned the shore and found a fallen branch, six feet in length and several inches around. I banged it against the rocky shore to test its strength and held my breath before streaking across the ice toward the hole.
Oliver had turned a shade of gray the color of death. His yellowed eyes locked on to mine—pleading for help. He stopped flailing. His arms dropped and his head just bobbed at the surface. He was going into shock.
I dropped to my stomach several feet from the hole, reaching the branch toward my brother. I felt the rain puddles on the surface of the ice consume my jacket and pant legs.
“Grab it,” I urged.
Oliver just stared in response, his eyes vacant.
“C’mon,” I yelled, shaking the branch in frustration. “Grab it already.”
No response.
I cursed and tossed away the branch. I inched forward on my stomach toward the hole. The ice growled but held. I grabbed my brother by the shoulders and pulled. The water seemed to double his weight.
I pulled each arm out of the water and hung them over the ice. Somehow, the ice held. I gripped Oliver by his coat and yanked. Oliver inched forward but sunk backward into the water. I needed more leverage. I swung my legs around and dug my heels in at the edge of the hole. I grabbed Oliver around the collar, heaving him forward. This time I broke free of the waterline. I re-gripped him around the chest and locked my hands around him.
I had him.
I leaned back, rolled my brother onto his side, and collapsed onto the ice. I stared at the pale blue sky above and thanked whoever was up there. My headache was gone, replaced by the surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Beside me, Oliver sputtered something that sounded like thank you. I twisted my head toward him. His breathing was labored but steady and he shivered as though stricken with palsy.
“Almost lost you, Ollie,” I said. “Almost lost you…”
Tiffany says
From Shadows Fall Behind You
Suspense sequence
It was night. The mark stood in the center of a small clearing, his head bowed in heated discussion with his Johnson.
“Come on now, you can do better than that. Have some pride…”
A hot breath grazed his neck.
He turned.
The hint of a shadow retreated into the darkness.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
A rock skidded across his foot. He jumped.
“Not funny!”
He narrowed his eyes trying to discern shapes in a colorless night. Where had his headlamp gone?
Another rock hit him in the hand.
“Ouch.”
He jerked his hand up and stomped his right leg. “This really isn’t funny.”
He turned full circle looking for his assailant. “Jen?” He spun again. “Peter?”
Silence.
Mac’s body began to quiver. “God damn it, who’s there.”
First one rock, then another struck him in the back of the head.
Panicking, Mac ran for the edge of the clearing. As he did so, his attacker charged, taking him from the side with a tackle. They skidded across the ground, Mac’s face colliding with a tree trunk. His attacker jumped free and disappeared into the forest.
Mac sat up, spitting blood. “Fuck man. I’m sorry about your wife. She went after me. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
An unforgiving laugh echoed through the trees. “I’m not Peter, you swine. Try again.”
Heart pounding. “Who?”
“Think hard. You know.”
Realization.
A surge of adrenaline charged through Mac. He jumped to standing and flattened himself against the tree.
“You killed Brian?” he whispered.
“Yes, very good.” A laugh. “I expected you that day but made do with him.”
“Why me?”
“You destroyed me.”
“I’ve never met you.”
“You lie.”
Before Mac could reply, his attacker burst out of the darkness, driving his club into Mac’s abdomen.
With a whoosh of expelled air, Mac collapsed to his knees and then fell to his side. He coughed, gasping for air.
The killer kicked Mac roughly in the shoulder, rolling him onto his back. His knee landed heavily on Mac’s chest, pinning him to the ground.
Mac’s eyes met the soulless gaze of his attacker.
He grinned. “Remember me?”
As the club split his skull in a killing stroke, a final thought screamed through Mac's mind.
NO.
Holly says
The overweight male local plopped down and put his feet up. Locals in colorful uniforms bounced a ball and sprinted across a huge television screen. “Kings versus Wizards!” the announcer said. Nothing new there. Locals were in love with their television or something similar to it all over the galaxy.
And the television made a good distraction. I’m invisible. It’s okay. Go in. The alien opened the sliding door, crept inside, and peered over the top of the table. Too short to reach the food with the incredible smell. He grabbed a shiny green cylinder and popped it open. Cold liquid.
Tech 29 swigged the most delicious stuff in the universe. His cluster of eyes bugged out. Amazed, he guzzled the rest. Fabulous. Two seconds later his insides erupted, gas shot out of his mouth, and he shrieked just as cheering erupted from the television.
“Keisha, the quesadillas are done,” the male local called.
“Okay, I’m coming,” a female local said from another room. “I just want to finish this post.”
“They’re getting cold.”
“Be there in two seconds.”
“You’re missing the playoffs.”
“I said I’m coming.”
“Keisha, you better get off the internet.”
“I told you, I’m coming. Just get off my case.”
“There’s an alien in the dining room.”
“Yeah, right.”
“There’s an alien from outer space in here and he’s trying to get the quesadillas.”
“Terrell, you are so full of bull.”
The local’s voice rose. “I’m telling you, there’s an alien in here. He’s three or four feet high with a big head and a bunch of eyes and he’s got a Mountain Dew. He just belched. Now he’s stealing the Doritos!”
Still parched, stomach grumbling, Tech 29 grabbed another shiny green cylinder and a colorful bag. He couldn’t understand the male local’s words, but he understood the meaning. His camouflage wasn’t working. He could feel the local’s excitement and greed. Somehow the local wanted to profit off him. Suddenly the local crept around the dining table, hunched down with his arms spread wide, and angled in front of the door.
“Hey, little alien guy,” the local said. “You hungry? You want some ice cream? I got Rocky Road. I got pistachio, too, and it’s green just like you. I got barbecue ribs and cold shrimp and potato salad and potato chips and lemon cake and cheesecake. You like those Doritos? Take some more. Take the whole bag. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll bring you a nice big bowl of ice cream.”
The local was going to grab his arm. Tech 29 skittered into the condominium, looking for a way out. The dark hall didn’t feel like it connected to the outdoors. The male pounded after him. When the hall abruptly ended, the alien rushed into a narrow room with smooth blue tiles and slammed the door.
A key rattled in the knob.
“Okay, so where’s this alien?” the female laughed.
“I locked him in the bathroom.”
louisa says
Title: The Silver Strand
YA Fantasy
So you understand what's going on, the MC has been turned into a Toad. Thanks. Enjoy.
‘No, Max. Shoo,’ Isabelle said, hopping away from her dog, the trained toad hunter.
Max trotted along behind her yapping is his high-pitched warning tone.
‘Max, what are you carrying on like a pork chop for?’ her father, the toad killer shouted.
The beam of a flashlight skimmed over the stony ground ahead of her. A second later it stopped on her.
‘Good boy, Max! Get the toad.’ Her Dad’s boots thumped down the wooden porch stairs. Metal scraped against the pavement.
Her heart pounded. ‘Max, rack off or you’re going to get me killed,’ she squealed. His hot breath disappeared from the back of her neck.
‘Get the toad, you stupid mutt.’
With a quick glance over her shoulder she saw Max sitting on the pavement, his head turning from her to her father.
Then she heard Max’s galloped steps behind her. It wouldn’t be long till he caught up.
Besides the rock wall and garden beds lining the path, little cover remained to hide in. With Max hot on her tail, her father would kill her in no time. Further away from the house lay patches of ferns, trees and shrubs. If she could reach these she may survive.
Torchlight bounced up and down across her path. Wet leaves crunched beneath her father’s boots. Branches snapped and whipped as he tore through them searching for her. She stole a glance over her shoulder, only to catch the metal glimmer of the garden spade in the moonlight as it rose above her Dad’s shoulder. His eyes flashed with a wicked gleam. He wore a crazed smile. The tool thumped on the grass behind her. The ground quaked and she jumped higher than normal. Her trembling legs were slowing her down. She changed course toward the silver shed.
Her stumpy legs were no match for Max and within seconds he cornered her beside the toolshed. She backed away and yelped when her behind touched the cold metal. The sway of his tail shook his whole body. Her throat was so dry that she couldn’t swallow. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. She poked at him with her claws warning him to back off. He withdrew and growled.
Torchlight darted around the mowed lawn. It focused in their direction courtesy of Max’s barks.
‘Get it, Max, get it.’ Distracted by his master’s praise, Max let down his guard enabling Isabelle to scurry away. ‘Get it Max!’
Light darted about searching in the direction she disappeared.
The skin across her chest and back crawled as if thousands of ants marched across them. She disappeared into a cluster of shrubs. Her throat stung from her sharp, ragged breaths.
Max tracked her down in an instant. He sniffed, projecting watery blobs of mucous on her back.
‘Max, leave me alone,’ she panted.
The leaves of the shrubs parted. ‘There you are, you filthy toad.’
Her eyes widened.
a-r-williams says
Lorna grabbed the girl, jerked her around. “Johra?”
Her daughter stared at her, eyes clouded, then pulled away and ran down a side street that bent around a corner. Dilapidated shacks clung to the buildings and created patches of darkness.
Something was wrong. Lorna stalked forward, scanned the shadows as she moved. Three tattooed men in black leather stood in front of Johra and a six foot high wall.
“We been waiting for you, lovely,” the big man said. He looked at Johra and jerked his thumb toward the wall. Johra darted through a hole in the wall barely larger than her body.
“Well you’ve found me,” Lorna said. She drew her sword. “Do you think you’re going to stop me from getting my daughter?”
Sheridan came up behind her, panting. “I’m here my lady.”
The big man laughed. “Lovely. A woman and an old man. This will be the easiest money that we’ve ever made.”
“Who hired you?”
“None of your concern, lovely. The only thing you need to worry about is me and my friends.”
He motioned. His two companions branched out, one going to the left the other the right. The big man drew his sword and came forward, his cohorts continued their flanking maneuver.
Lorna balanced herself on the balls of her feet, turned slightly to her left. Sheridan angled right.
“I can’t wait to get a piece of this,” the skinny man said.
He swung his sword in an overhand arc. Lorna stepped in, met the blow with her sword and deflected it and then struck diagonally across her body at the big man. Both men jumped back.
She heard Sheridan engage the other assailant.
The big man came at her; his blows wild, fast, and strong. Lorna met them, held her own, but she knew from the way he attacked he was only trying to keep her occupied. Her focus narrowed, she turned to keep skinny in view, the big man in front of her.
Sheridan would have to fend for himself.
The big man engaged, again. His power forced her back. Skinny moved laterally to them, eyeing her.
Lorna turned her back to him, gave him the opening he was looking for. She stepped up her attack on the big man, her quickness and well placed feints forcing him to retreat. The big man’s mouth hung open as he gasped for air.
Was he faking? His eyes shifted, looked behind her and gave skinny away. Lorna pivoted and struck. Skinny’s eyes widened as her sword bit. Lorna kicked and knocked him back. His sword fell from lifeless fingers and clanged on the ground.
Behind her, she could hear Sheridan finish the other assailant. The big man screamed, charged forward holding nothing back. Lorna stepped in, avoided his blow and drove her sword up. Warm blood splattered her face and the big man dropped to his knees, then tumbled in a heap.
Steve Jensen says
Suspense scene from 'The Poison of a Smile':
Within a half-hour, I was home. Out of breath and nearly out of mind, I collapsed and slept for hours, days – I know not which – until the cold gleam of stark moonlight awoke me. I made my way upstairs and, eventually, forced my way into my brother's bedroom, having had no response to my calls and pleas for access. I did not know it at the time, but that very same night Matthew had received Alatiel and ushered her to his room; he had indeed welcomed Death.
Matthew was nowhere to be seen. The creature rested upon his bed, face-down and naked still. I was wary of disturbing her, as then I might have to look upon her face.
As I pondered on my next action, I observed that Alatiel's body was surrounded by countless sheets of paper. She might have been a water nymph, asleep on an outsized lily pad, its natural pallor withered by the attention of a merciless sun. Or perhaps the image of a grey slug – glutted, contented, at timeless ease – came to mind more readily. I shivered involuntarily and slowly removed a scrap adjacent to her lank hair.
Matthew left me a heartfelt confession of his folly; he had simply misunderstood the thing he loved. He understood her now but, alas, all too late…I read his last testament in whispered sorrow, for I was certain somehow that these were the words of a dead man.
I could restrain myself no longer, and moved to assault Alatiel. Yet my hand passed through her head and I felt the cold, fresh ink on the paper beneath it. Her mouth opened slowly but a hoarse grunting was the only sound to escape. I saw her, within and without: the mouth, bereft of bloom, lined white skin merely; the inside of her throat, entirely black, the colour of mourning, the colour of night.
In mental torment, I cried out and began to falter. As consciousness started to seep away, I fell against Alatiel, whose form shimmered like a body of water disturbed. She returned to her position of repose; in death or sleep, I know not which. I am unsure if she sleeps as humans do, but if she dreams, the dreams belong to others…
I dreamt: of her unclean kisses, the dull friction of her dry lips upon my body. In the absence of affection, the desire for my possession alone inspired her hateful love-making.
I never truly awakened again. I finally saw her as she really was when she admired her new face and body in the bedroom mirror – Alatiel looked like me. She had taken my life for her own. I was taunted with my own voice and she preened, hands on hips, turning this way and that. I could only watch through the eyes which were once mine. The tears I wept were of laughter, of joy, but all the while I died inside…
She lived, at last.
Steve Jensen says
Suspense scene from 'The Poison of a Smile':
Within a half-hour, I was home. Out of breath and nearly out of mind, I collapsed and slept for hours, days – I know not which – until the cold gleam of stark moonlight awoke me. I made my way upstairs and, eventually, forced my way into my brother's bedroom, having had no response to my calls and pleas for access. I did not know it at the time, but that very same night Matthew had received Alatiel and ushered her to his room; he had indeed welcomed Death.
Matthew was nowhere to be seen. The creature rested upon his bed, face-down and naked still. I was wary of disturbing her, as then I might have to look upon her face.
As I pondered on my next action, I observed that Alatiel's body was surrounded by countless sheets of paper. She might have been a water nymph, asleep on an outsized lily pad, its natural pallor withered by the attention of a merciless sun. Or perhaps the image of a grey slug – glutted, contented, at timeless ease – came to mind more readily. I shivered involuntarily and slowly removed a scrap adjacent to her lank hair.
Matthew left me a heartfelt confession of his folly; he had simply misunderstood the thing he loved. He understood her now but, alas, all too late…I read his last testament in whispered sorrow, for I was certain somehow that these were the words of a dead man.
I could restrain myself no longer, and moved to assault Alatiel. Yet my hand passed through her head and I felt the cold, fresh ink on the paper beneath it. Her mouth opened slowly but a hoarse grunting was the only sound to escape. I saw her, within and without: the mouth, bereft of bloom, lined white skin merely; the inside of her throat, entirely black, the colour of mourning, the colour of night.
In mental torment, I cried out and began to falter. As consciousness started to seep away, I fell against Alatiel, whose form shimmered like a body of water disturbed. She returned to her position of repose; in death or sleep, I know not which. I am unsure if she sleeps as humans do, but if she dreams, the dreams belong to others…
I dreamt: of her unclean kisses, the dull friction of her dry lips upon my body. In the absence of affection, the desire for my possession alone inspired her hateful love-making.
I never truly awakened again. I finally saw her as she really was when she admired her new face and body in the bedroom mirror – Alatiel looked like me. She had taken my life for her own. I was taunted with my own voice and she preened, hands on hips, turning this way and that. I could only watch through the eyes which were once mine. The tears I wept were of laughter, of joy, but all the while I died inside…
She lived, at last.
Anonymous says
Declan ballied-up and then scooched behind a bush and listened to the van idling on the car park. The engine died. Thrum of traffic somewhere out there in the night. A man got out of the van and walked towards the unit. Scooping food with his hands from a take-away tray and eating it on the walk. When he reached the door, he sucked his fingers and placed his snap on the ground. Curry. Declan shifted his weight and weighed his man from the shelter of darkness. Flabby middleweight. The man jangled a set of keys in the moonlight, flipped them up and around the ring and plucked out the key he needed and unlocked the door, leaving the keys in the lock. He picked up his snap and shoulder-shunted the door open and went in. The alarm started its countdown. The door slammed.
Declan stood and then tiptoed out into the shadows. His trainers squeaked with each soft step. He waited and listened. Flick of a switch. Light rayed through the space under the door. Four beeps. Alarm code. Declan scanned the night. Blackness and stars and the insouciant moon. Nobody. Stuttering shafts of light speared out into the night through the office window-blinds and settled, illuminating elongated stretches of grass between the unit and the car park. The blinds closed. Darkness.
He shimmied across and planted himself sideways on to the door. Knees slightly bent. Weight coiled back on his right foot. Chin tucked in to his left shoulder. Eyes fixed on the door. Orthodox. He’d measured his man.
When the door opened, the man stooped to remove the keys and presented the left side of his face. Declan’s right ankle twisted and propelled his waist and torso round, unleashing the full force of his welterweight body through a straight right, which snapped out to the backdrop of an exhaled whisht, and smacked the man plum on the jaw. The man’s head thumped the door and his legs buckled. He flopped forward. His skull thwacked the concrete. Declan studied the man for some time. The body lay between the door and the jamb. Prone. Sparko. Dark red blood percolated through the man’s turban into a slow swelling pool.
From the office, a telephone screamed and quietened and screamed.
Declan took the keys from the lock and pocketed them. Then he skipped over the man, turned and, clenching him by his ankles, dragged him into the passageway. The door shut. He let the man’s legs drop. Then he took the keys from his pocket and locked the door.
Declan squatted and reached out his right hand to check the man’s pulse but stopped short. Fuck, he said. He stood and peered through a hatch into the office and thought for a moment. Then he turned and walked down the corridor into the small warehouse looking left and right along the aisles. Pallets of cigarettes stacked floor to ceiling. The lights hummed.
The telephone’s screams shrilled through the warehouse. Shut-the-fuck.
Helen Rina says
Escape # 59
YA paranormal romance
Please, don’t let the last screw be difficult, I wheedled from my fate. Please. And after I fitted the screwdriver into the ridge and turned it, luck finally favored me—the screw turned eagerly. It might have also helped that I could wiggle it, the rest of the hose unscrewed.
When the screw was one third out of the wall, I sensed Fox. At first I thought I was imagining this. Fox was supposed to be in a detention cell, and there was no way you can escape it. Quite simply, it is a box made out of foot-thick titanium. As for the door, it doesn’t exist. I mean, it does when you enter the cell, but then it welds itself shut so that you wouldn’t pick a lock. The werewolves teach us to pick locks here. For a month you do nothing but pick locks. That’s why the door welds itself on you, and that’s why Fox could not have escaped from the cell.
And yet, there he was, out of the cell and coming, no, running toward the laundry room. He was not alone. Laraine Sorrena was running by his side. At this point I felt so confused it was physically painful. Why Laraine? Sure, there were only thirteen kids at this school, so we were all friends, but Fox and Laraine had never been close. What’s more, I knew for a fact that Laraine slightly despised Fox or at least thought him in the wrong. Not that I had ever been able to sense it in her. Her nerves were ossified, perhaps even atrophied from disuse, for her indifference was legendary. But she had once said for everyone to hear that Fox forgave me too much. She said that I could carve him with a knife, and he’d kiss my knife-holding hand. Fox just shrugged.
“A cut is a small price to pay for happiness,” he said.
What did I do this time that he couldn’t forgive? I threw this thought out. Now was not the time to think about that. I bit my lip and began turning the screwdriver as quickly as I could. Unfortunately, Fox was running faster. He was still a good fifty feet away, but I was already panicking, feeling overwhelmed by his fiery rage. My hands were jumping, and the screwdriver kept slipping off. I cut my wrist on the sharp edge of the hose. At one moment I confused left with right and imagined I was screwing the bolt in rather than out, so I began turning the tool the other way.
At last the screw was out. I yanked at the hose, and it dropped away, revealing a large dark hole. The door slammed open, but I didn’t turn my head—there was no time for this. In passing I thought about my pillowcase bag. It was a that’s-too-bad thought, not the one about grabbing it. The bag was too far away. Head first, I dove into the blackness.
Just then someone grasped my ankle. Okay, not someone. It was Fox. It was his aura right behind me, and it was his voice that echoed down the metal pipe: “You aren’t running away, are you, viper?”
E. Tanguay says
The Soothsayer
Young Adult
The sun rose reluctantly, hesitantly uncovering the secrets that had hid in the night’s shadows. A deep purple haze lingered behind, blanketing the forest’s interior. Its creatures slowly unleashed a crescendo that swiftly filled the empty air. Night merged into day, leaving only a small reflection of the waxing moon to hang lightly in the lake.
Flora stood alone, along the water’s edge, staring out towards nothing as the lake’s waves gently lapped against its small shore. Her body shook uncontrollably as she gasped for breath in short intervals. She looked around the serene surroundings with panic and began to give up hope. Time was running out.
She fell to her knees into the cold wetness. She began scrubbing the death off her hands, but the water did little to remove the stains that had set in hours before. She grabbed a rock that lay in the shallow water. She scoured her hands, with more effort and vigor, until they were raw. Still death remained.
She stopped in fear. A resonance that didn’t belong seemed to be close to the forest’s edge as a bitter wind blew across the water’s surface. She sobbed silently, trying to control her sounds as she stumbled to get up. To once again flee the nightmare that she had tried to escape earlier, but her legs weren’t willing to cooperate. The pain was too intense and powerful. She started to crawl, to try to do anything to get away from what approached her.
She pulled herself up, but she was moving too slow. There was no way she could not out run the beast that prowled inside the shadows. She faced the forest, as the fog intertwined through pines, crawling along the fern covering. She stood waiting, surrendering to death.
The figure emerged from the forests depths revealing itself to her.
Dawn had begun.
selfavowedgeek says
Title: Footpaths of Small Town Gods
By Berrien C. Henderson
. . . Ahead of them, a patch of shadow detached itself and rippled onto the path about twenty yards away. The thing crouched and shuddered and billowed like wind-touched silk sheets. Feeling grabbed her arm and ushered her back behind some azalea hedges. The thing hadn’t noticed them, and there really wasn’t anyone else around. A snuffling sound as it sniffed the air, turned part-way toward their location, then back around. Up at the trees.
In Feeling’s mind, he looped words, found associations and patterns and merged their thought-forms into protective chimeras, and for a moment the leaden sensation of the pouch surrendered the old familiar warmth. Security. The feedback loop of glamour he’d discovered within himself in Dun Sciath in Sidhe and even here at home when he’d met the witch again after so many years. Then the heaviness returned along with a maddening memory-image of the chthonic beast that nearly sent him into a fugue of anxiety, and he felt his grip on the glamour slip a cog.
“I’m scared, Feeling,” said Gabrielle as they eased behind a hedge bush to hide.
Feeling didn’t answer. Movement flicked in some tree limbs between them and the creature, which now sprouted a set of wings. Oh, my hells no, thought Feeling, growing cold as he watched the night-goer morphing into its true form.
Then three more leaped among the trees, and onetwothree came the heavy waves through his body as he worked to open himself to the glamour again. Nearby he felt Gabrielle’s trembling, and he reached for her hand and squeezed.
“Be cool,” said Feeling.
Somehow, Gabrielle’s ashen look didn’t scream confidence or reassurance.
A screech.
A hoot.
A jibbering convocation of these little Mockers.
Gabrielle and Feeling watched it all. For several quiet, tense minutes, they stayed put. Feeling motioned for Gabby to follow. As they eased to take another way out, she screamed.
No time to react.
The night-goers discovered the couple and cut off their egress.
“You saw,” said one.
Another said, “The boy smells new and old. He knows much, I suspect.”
Yet another said, “We will tear you to shreds and take our sweet time with her.”
Gabrielle vomited. The night-goers jumped back, and Feeling took advantage of their startlement. Blue-black flames licked around his hands as he rushed forward. He had pulled the only weapon he had–the lock back knife–and sent glamour to it. He barreled into them, and the night-goers swirled and flapped and slashed at him. He sent waves of glamour at them and cut and thrust for all he was worth. Their viscous blood splattered the ground and splattered him. The scent of charred flesh and crisped feathers roiled in the humid night air. But for the crisps and pops and Feeling’s grunts, all was silent.
One night-goer hovered, dripping his ur-blood. His brethren lay dead. It wheezed.
“One day, all come, boy.”
“How ‘bout you come on back yourself,” said Feeling. “We’ll test your little theory.” . . .
C. Bell says
A champagne flute hit the polished marble with conversation stopping suddenness and all the energy giants, oil tycoons and Houston socialites turned to see what happened.
I FOUND YOUR HOUSE.
Blindsided, Judge Haley Mabry froze mid-conversation and stared at the text message on her screen.
Without warning all the attendees of the black tie fundraiser watched Haley sprint from the River Oaks mansion in her black Oscar de la Renta.
A typical summer flash flood crippled her cell phone service and Haley couldn’t reach HPD.
Hard rain pelted the windows of her black Mercedes and the tires labored through the high water of old oak lined streets. Haley sped toward the entrance to the freeway. Through the deluge she saw a flashing yellow lights and a road sign that read, Closed for construction. Haley hit her steering wheel in frustration.
“Why did the city choose this weekend to work on the busiest interchange in town?”
Her cell phone chirped. She had another message.
SOMEONE LEFT THE DOOR OPEN.
The text paralyzed Haley’s breathing. She tried calling the police again without connecting. “Damned Verizon!” She kept trying. “Please be a joke; please be just some crazy nut with nothing better to do.” The phone chirped a moment later.
DON’T YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER?
Pure fear settled in the pit of Haley’s stomach. This wasn’t a joke. This was real. She floored it. Going 80 mph through midtown was neither smart nor safe but it might be the only way to find a cop. Haley prayed one noticed she just ran eight red lights.
Haley turned into her West U driveway. With her car still running she threw it into park. Every light in her house was on. Someone was in her house. Someone was looking for Macy.
Her phone chirped again. It was the last text message.
I GOT WHAT I CAME FOR.
Aneeka says
Flash fiction – science fiction. Title: Thirteen seconds.
Thirteen seconds. The love of my life is right in front of me. Twelve seconds. She lies, imprisoned and bound, on that great enemy ship. Eleven seconds. They had been quick, stealing her away. Ten seconds. Never knowing of the tracker I'd sealed in her skin. Nine seconds. But why is she on the main ship? The fools! Eight seconds. They haven't detected us yet. Seven seconds. One shot and this war will finally end. Six seconds. But so will her life. Five seconds. Everyone is looking at me. Four seconds. Wondering why I'm hesitating. Three seconds. Thousands of lives or her. Two seconds. I can't decide! Don't make me decide! One second.
Jane, forgive me.
Andrea -The Blogging Literary Mama says
The dark shadowed her movements as Holly walked resolutely towards the edge. The wind, cold and wet, blew her straight black hair around her face. Strands whipped into her eyes and she pushed them back uselessly. The salty tears mixed with the rain as they ran down her face. In her black silk dress and red leather boots, the cold cut her to the quick. But her goal tonight would not be deterred.
At the small wall that ran around the roof she paused. The images in her mind assaulted her; the silver tie on the white carpet, the discarded shirt. A single gold stiletto sat on its side hidden under the bed as if kicked off in a fit of passion.
Holly placed one hand on the small wall in front of her and placed her foot on top. The twinkling lights of New Year’s Eve sparkled down below. The last day of December was a turning point. It was the time for a new beginning. Or an ending. She stood now, unsteady but determined, poised for fate’s hand to set her free.
The images weren’t the only things fogging her brain tonight. The sounds sent her stomach churning in revolt and she grabbed onto the rail of the fire escape next to her. She could hear them as clearly now as when she had been frozen outside her own bedroom door.
“I love you Kim.”
“I want only you forever.”
The other sounds, the ones she’d buried deep inside, would remain there. If they came forward now she’d take the final step to her destiny. She needed a few more minutes because once she did take that step there was no going back.
The faces of her children swam before her and instantly her eyes overflowed; this time with love instead of pain. Two cherub angels, they were too little to know what their father had destroyed. He had destroyed all their lives.
Charismatic and handsome; cunning and manipulative; intelligent and warm – they all described Conner Fairchild. The day he had slept with Kim, likely one of hundreds of times Holly reflected, he stopped being her husband and became a man she no longer knew.
Holly let go of the railing. “If you do this, he wins,” she thought.
Her father’s voice answered in her head. “You’re a strong woman Holly Martin. For your children, you have to survive.”
“How do I do this alone, dad? He betrayed me.”
“You’re not alone. I’m here.” She could get down from this rooftop and go home and hug her children. This didn’t have to be the end. Her mind decided again.
“Holly! NO!” Conner screamed running towards her. Startled Holly turned towards him. The heel of her boot slipped and before she could right her balance she felt herself fall over the edge. Her mind cleared as the pavement rushed up to meet her. She hoped her children would remember that she loved them.
More than her own life.
authorsanon says
Thud, thud, thud and . . .slam the door behind, lock it, stop that panting, stop it, they’ll hear you . . .breath slowly, and stop that pounding sound in your rib cage, please, please, they’ll hear that too . . .
Listening now, getting the breathing down a fraction . . .silence ? No – there it is again. That shuffling, it’s speeding up now – quick, where else is good to hide – not the cupboard in the corner, nor the great chest – it’s either the other door opposite or the window.
Door first – won’t open. Must be locked from the other side. And the shuffling has turned to footsteps on the stairs, there’s the whispering again, quick, quick , think – the window : scrabble at the frame, the handles, pull, pull, damn you, before they reach the landing . . .won’t budge – panic panic – stop panicking – and panting – they may be sightless but their hearing is practically radar – what’s this ? An old rusty nail, one of the long ones left by a workman – still a sharp point, in with it, scrape and scratch away at the dried paint, try shaking –No, they’ll hear that as well . . try again . . and quickly now, because they’ve reached the landing . . . the shuffling and footsteps have stopped, only to be replaced by sniffing. That loud sniffing which had first indicated their presence . . .
Frantically scrabbling at the window frame now, try again and yes – it shifts up a crack. Good – now again and up it goes with a horrendous screech, years of disuse having virtually soldered it to its fra- That’s bad. They’ve heard it and the stumbling footsteps are moving up the stairs to your floor now with increasing intent, surely they have already worked out which room you have run to – No time to think, only to do – get a leg up, through the narrow space, try to fit the rest of you, the window is not very narrow, but you have to force it up and it just doesn’t want to, it’s actually digging into your back, hitting a nerve with excruciating precision, and this time you can’t help letting out a yelp – which is all they need.
Thump they go at the door, scrabbling and scratching, looking for a way in, you are tearing skin off your back in a mad frenzy to be gone, mindless of the drop beneath, the broken paving, shards of glass and pottery, debris . . .
The house will not let you go willingly, however; and nor will they, you can see the door about to give way under the incessant thumping and general weight, trembling, shaking, the hinges beginning to go – shove, push, get out of it – door’s creaking now –
Free. You hope. The old drainpipe you’re clinging to isn’t going to hold out long– though whether they can follow you down . . . .it’s leaving its moorings already . . .
Deniz Bevan says
Great contest idea Nathan!
Here's mine from my untitled snip, set in Spain, 1492, where Rose is creating a diversion in order to help her family escape the Inquisition:
She edged as close to the field as she dared, sliding her feet one by one across the matted layer of wet leaves. She stopped with one foot actually on the grassy verge, crushing a fragrant clump of stray [mint], peering from one corner of the manor to the other, straining to recognise Arcturus’ face in the fireglow. If the flames did not reach the house at all, they would never have a chance to run with Tante Rita and the others.
No one among the inquisitors besides Armando and the two men who had brought her there would recognise her. If she could pass among them pretending to be a woman from the town… yet everyone, regardless of whether they had seen her before or not, would remark on her tattered clothing, her unkempt hair, and if they called attention to her outlandish nature, appearing at that hour of the night, then the entire endeavour – and Arcturus – would be exposed. Unless…
Rose whipped around and plunged into the trees, heedless of the noise she made as she crashed through the limbs and branches of trees in her way. She followed the line of the field until she came to the nearest burning shrub, then yanked off her shawl and laid it on the flames. As soon as the fire was well and truly caught she tugged the shawl off the snagging thorns – sparing a passing regret for the loss of her mother’s delicate embroidery – and, holding up the burning cloth high above her head, ran screaming out of the forest.
“Help! Help! Fire! I’m on fire!”
She ran across the field, careening slightly to left and right in order to seem truly dazed, and plunged in among the bucket brigade.
“Help!” She yelled in the ear of one startled man, and before he could grab her, to offer whatever help he might have thought of, she slipped out of the line and ran toward the huddle behind the house, lashing her shawl about her as she went, so that dry stalks and hanging herb clusters caught the sparks, and flames began to lick slowly up the trellises along the walls.
“Help! Help!” She yelled, standing between Arcturus and Tante Rita. Armando was on the other side of the group, staring at her with a puzzled frown. Afraid he would recognise her at any moment, Rose threw the shawl as hard as she could, considering she had only two flame-free corners left to hold onto, directly at him. The flaming cloth landed at his feet.
A.C. Penn says
Tom returned to the front to greet the newcomer, a small, burly man dressed in a flannel shirt despite the hot weather. “Hi, Leonard. What can I get you?”
“I want what Ben has in his hand. Isn’t that for children — for a fever?”
“That’s the last I have, Leonard. Is one of your kids sick?”
“It’s Molly. She has a high fever and a rash. I’m worried about smallpox.”
Ben walked over to where the men were standing. “Leonard.” He nodded to the newcomer, who had earned a reputation as a hothead when he had roughed up a teenage umpire during a little league baseball game the previous summer. “I’m sorry to hear about your little girl. This is my granddaughter, Jessica. She’s running a high fever as well. Maybe Tom could split this bottle for us to share. Just until more supplies come in.”
“I need that bottle,” Barry said. “I went to the hospital. They don’t have any more of that stuff. Told me to split an adult aspirin into pieces. Molly won’t take a pill. Says her throat hurts too much.”
“I know how stubborn kids can be. Have you tried crushing the pill and mixing it with applesauce or yogurt? Your wife might be able to convince Molly to take that.”
“Look, Ben. Don’t argue with me. Just give me the bottle, man.”
“I’ll give it to Tom. He can give each of us half the bottle.”
“I don’t want half. I want it all,” Leonard shouted as he stomped out the door.
“He’s upset, Ben.” The pharmacist walked over to a shelf and rearranged some containers. “His wife’s sick as well — probably afraid his whole family’s going to die. Could you just give him the bottle and use the crushed up pills yourself?”
“I suppose.”
“That would be very gracious of you, Ben. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Worry, I guess. What with everything that’s been going on.”
Jessica whimpered and clung to Ben’s neck. “Poppie, let’s go.”
“We are sweetheart. In just a minute. Let me give this bottle back to Mr. Rhineholdt. Then we’ll see if he has any ice cream for you and Michael.”
Just as Ben started to walk over to Tom, Leonard burst threw the door. His sleeves were rolled up and he held a shotgun that he pointed at Ben.
“I want that bottle now, Ben.” The man’s voice shook and sweat dripped from his face.
Harold says
Harold says:
action sequence:
The youth with the bright red hair standing in front of the bench said, “Okay you had your chance.”
The youth reached inside his jacket and brought out his knife.
Put it away,” ordered the tall one but the order came too late.
“Hey old man, you don’t really think that your mutt there is really going to stop us,” said the red haired youth.
Whether it was the surprise attraction of the blade or the sudden bravado move of the red-haired youth, Abel let go of the leash and Blacky leaped and attacked the red-haired lad who instantly defended himself by trying to stab the dog.
The red-haired youth’s knife flew out of his hand and onto the ground.
A few minutes later Blacky lay on the paved trail, with blood pouring out of his stomach area. The short blond one leaned over him. He quickly came to the aid of his red-haired comrade, jabbed his knife into Blacky’s stomach causing the dog to instantly let go of his teeth grip on his friend’s wrist at the same time that the red-haired boy’s knife flew into the air. The short blond one now continuously stabbed the dog wherever he could put the blade of his knife.
“You punks! You punks!” screamed Abel who abruptly stood up and kicked the blond-haired boy somewhere on his body causing him to fall down. He watched the blood ooze out of his mouth.
“Get him! Get him now! Get him!” screeched the red-haired one as he held his wrist.
Then Abel felt the pounding fists hitting his stomach as the tall lad started administering blow after blow. Abel bent over in pain. As he did this, the tall one punched three good ones into his face. Hitting his left eye, breaking his nose, and his cheek bone. Abel fell over and hit the ground.
“What’d you do dat for? Huh? Man! Sometimes you just don’t think! Do ya?” shouted the tall one as he went into a tirade to the blond-hair lad. “I had my brass knucks on. I was doin’ just fine. You didn’t have to use that knife.”
All three looked at Abel lying still with the red-haired youth’s knife sticking out of his chest.
“Here! Wrap this around your wrist,” ordered the tall one as he handed the teary-eyed red-haired youth his handkerchief. He looked over at the blond one, sitting on the ground, on the verge of tears, and told him “Suck it up. Suck it up now.” Blood was still dripping from his nose.
“My face hurts. He really nailed me.”
“Shut up and somebody help me tie this around my wrist,” said the red-haired one. He tried the best he could to wrap his wrist. “Damn dog bit me! It hurts! Damn it!”
“Be quiet. You want to attract company? Listen up. Let me check something and then we must get out of here. Make sure we got all our knives? “
Anonymous says
Opening from—“Scars of the Prophet”—Political Thriller:
I cashed in my ticket and caught a cab from the airport to the Vegas strip where the neon haze lit the desert wasteland like an obscene cruise ship without water. The sidewalk was littered with the lesser fools in life, moving about the filth yelling and peddling forbidden wares that ranged from female flesh to drugs. I got a room at the Days Inn just off the main Sin City drag and sat in a chair watching the world through my peepshow window, it becomes a habit and you cannot explain the reason why.
You never notice the changes. They grow inside you and become defining traits and yet your view of the world hasn’t seemed to change. They mark you and those marks are eternal. The people that are closest to you are the first ones who will look at you differently. You catch their wary glances when they think you are not watching. But that’s just it, you are always watching. It has become you and it always will be.
When you go to a restaurant, you find the table in the corner, close to the back exit. You seek this spot out without thought but from that position, you can see everyone that comes and goes. It’s never a conscious act, it just happens.
When you enter or exit a building, even your own home, you give a quick scan to secure the area. Your wife asks you if you forgot something when you do your little security sweep. All you reply is, “Nope” because you can’t explain it yourself. It’s automatic. It’s embarrassing.
You find yourself checking locked doors a second or even a third time. You look at familiar surroundings as if for the first time. Common sounds that you’ve never noticed before give you pause: Deaf ticks of a clock in a lifeless room, bumps and thumps alert you and put you on guard.
You never take the same route on consecutive days, even to daily destinations. Your commute to work, your trip to a friend’s or relative’s house seem meandering and if someone is with you and asks why you are going a different way, you shrug and offer some obscure reason. But they are all bullshit. You can even fool yourself sometimes. Until a smell or a face or a feeling brings it all back and you remember the things that have forged the ‘new you’ and you feel a tightness in your chest because you want the ‘old you’ back. Even for an instant—just one fleeting moment of peace. Just one.
You want the old security. You want the old innocence. You look into a mirror and sometimes don’t quite recognize the stranger looking back and you wonder when it changed as if it were a single event or incident that brought about this transformation.
You never answer the phone on the first ring and whenever it rings, it startles you.
You look everyone in the eyes but it’s more than just being polite. It’s probing, looking for a change, misdirection, deceit. People can’t help but break eye contact with you because at some instinctual level, they feel you are dangerous. And you are.
You are always armed because you have become a weapon.
Massey
A. Lockwood says
The bird woman waits in the pines, sitting in the boughs, hidden behind the browning needles of the trees. Greta knows she's there, somewhere high, perched on a branch. Greta dares not make a sound or catch the eye of Lady Rook.
Black ants scurry across her toes, hurrying to feast on the candy trail that twists along the forest floor. Follow the candy crumbs, Greta, follow them home. Home to the orphanage where Hammy waits.
She hears the cry of a raven, just above her head, and then he flies. She is alone, perhaps, but for the bird lady, who has not seen her yet.
Greta ghosts between two trees, the candy trail always in sight (blackened now with the ants roiling over it). She flows from one place to another—flee, Greta, flee—oh, how she must maintain that fluidity or risk the notice of the darkwings.
A rustle in the undergrowth, there!—in the nook that Greta just left. One of the white-eye children crawls to the trail. He looks just like Hammy, the first time you gave him bread from your own plate. He paws at the ground, searching with his hands for what his eyes can't see. He finds the ant trail and grabs an indiscriminate handful of ants and earth and sticky, decaying candy. Clumsy fist moves to mouth, and he feeds; dirty streaks now cover his pale chin.
The birds do not come for him. He is already theirs.
Greta is light on her feet, ears open for the whisper of the Rook's wings. She melds from shadow into shadow.
The air stirs, and a heavy weight hanging from a branch begins its pendulous swinging. It is a man on the end of a noose, dressed in the red, white and black of a Santa suit. His bag hangs open. Full of toys? No, more candy, and there are flies droning over it.
Greta ducks past. The candy trail winds away, down into a thicket of briars. Careful now, Greta. A restless crow screams from a nearby holly, and Greta thinks she has been seen. She closes her eyes against the fear of the birds and the sharp harassment of their beaks and claws. But the cuts never come; she is still undiscovered.
The briars resist, unimpressed by Greta's efforts to peel them gently out of her path. A coil of thorns pulls out of her grip and whips against her shoulder. Greta swallows and waits, but the scratch is too shallow to draw blood.
Her relief comes too soon. She is distracted from her caution, and a thorn rips across her bare ankle as she takes another step.
Caw, caw! the blackbird cries. Blood, blood! A flock of ravens erupts from the elder tree where the birds have roosted unseen.
And there, the rasping sound, the screech of the Rook. The bird lady has heard, now swiftly she comes. Greta hears the flap of the bird lady's wings calling her name.
Deb Smythe says
Title: A Sinning Word
The rope pulled, bristles sawing his palm something fierce. He looked back. Girl had dug her heels in at the door. Didn't like the shed, he reckoned. Didn't like God's sunlight cut into dusty strips, maybe. Didn't like the blood, certain.
A pair of fresh-caught conies dangled from a ceiling hook. But her eyes were on the wall, on the blood, gone to black and spread like demon wings.
He hung his head. "I scrub the wall, every time. It don't come out."
A sinning word burst from her lips.
"Shouldn't spew such," he warned, quick pulling her into the shed. "Sir'll beat ya."
She laughed. The sound minded him of wood chimes. The sound made him rub his chest.
A sharp tug on the rope shut her up. "Why'd you laugh?"
"Just wondering if he's going to beat me before or after he kills me?"
"And that's funny?"
"No." She blew out a breath. "I'm Sky, by the way."
Sky.
"You?"
"Boy."
"Shit."
"That's a sinning word, a hitting word."
"Yeah, I figured. So, what? He's going to beat me, then kill me?"
"Nah. He ain't gonna kill ya." Sky.
She blinked once and slow. "He's not?" Kinda tired, her eyes, kinda nice…
She shifted. And a slat of sunlight dusted his birthday present. A slat of God's light.
Shoulders back then, reach and grip, tight, tight, sure and tight. "Nah," he told her. "Sir ain't gonna kill ya." The birthday knife slid easy from its sheath. "I am."
"Hey! You don't have to do this." Her Adam's apple bounced like she'd swallowed a tobacco-wad but she didn't pull back. Voice didn't shake neither, not even a smidge.
Wrong. He was doing this wrong. Sir'd punish him, certain. "Sit." Knuckles tight-aching on the hilt, he jabbed the blade toward the wall, toward the devil's stain.
"Please." Breath like butterfly wings on his cheek, breath like sun fire. "You could let me go."
"Go?"
"Both of us." She brushed her girl hands, still bound good and proper, over his arms, over his punishment marks. "We could both go."
Wind chimes in her voice. That hollow in his chest again.
"He'd track us. Find us." A too-quick turn, and his shoulder knocked her to praying. He looked down, met her eyes. "Sky."
#
Sir glanced up, a chunk of venison on his fork. "Did it eh?" He snorted, nose back in the stew. "Next time, clean your knife straight away. You drip on the floor, you'll lick it clean. Got it?"
Boy leaned in. "Yes, Sir." He nodded. Then taking up a napkin, he wiped the mix of Sir's blood and coney blood from the knife. Every drop.
Kaitlyne says
Something pressed hard against her head, and for a second she didn’t know what it was. She opened her mouth to ask, then she knew.
He leaned in, lips brushing her ear as he spoke.
"If you say one word to signal them, I will put a bullet in your brain before they even have a chance to think about kicking that door down."
She didn’t move, wasn’t sure she could. He went for her pocket with intent. When the first was empty, he tried the second.
She wished she had turned it off, that she could tell him it was just an mp3 player, but he knew better. He knew exactly what he was looking for. He pulled it out and gave it a wry grin before pressing the power button. The screen went dark.
"Do you really think that won’t tip them off?" she said.
He tugged the jacket from her shoulders. "I figure it’ll take them a minute or two to decide something’s gone wrong and you didn’t do that yourself, don’t you?"
The sickening part was he was right. Were they even ready? How much time had passed?
He threw the jacket to the bed. The gun was loose in his hand, but she suspected he could be fast if he wanted to. It’s okay. They’re coming for you. The entire building is surrounded and they’re coming for you.
"Shoes. Take off your shoes."
She hesitated, and he started to raise the weapon. The black metal glinted in the lamplight. She didn’t bother with the laces.
Then he patted her down for real, hands unforgiving. He stopped on the watch, considered it, then pulled it from her wrist and threw it to the bed.
"Is there anything else?"
She shook her head.
"I swear, I will strip search you and do a full body cavity search if I think you’re lying. Now is there. Anything. Else."
He spoke through clenched teeth, low but stern. His fingers were wrapped tight around the gun, so familiar. Weaver’s words came back to her. He was unpredictable. Who knew what he might do?
"No," she said. "That’s it."
He didn’t even try to hide the doubt this time, but the answer must have satisfied him. The gun stayed on her as he tossed the computer into his duffel bag.
"This is pointless," she said. "There’s a SWAT team down there. FBI, police, you name it. The entire building’s surrounded."
He pulled the chair to the center of the room and stood on it. The gun’s sights never left her.
"You say that like I’m planning to leave through the front door."
Debbie says
Out on the streets, the atmosphere was tense. At the main Palace gates, there were mobs of angry people and somebody had thrown a burning torch through the railings. The gate Guards were doing their best but it wasn’t hard to see that they were finding it difficult both to retain control and avoid sympathising too much with the rabble. Deeper in the city, there were houses on fire and anxious faces peering out from the top windows of boarded-up houses.
“Some people,” observed Jale’s escort, “will use any excuse for a brawl.” Without hesitation, he waded into the middle of a fight outside a shop and physically pulled apart the two men in the middle. “Go home,” he ordered them both, dodging a fist. “If you’re still here in ten, I’ll arrest you myself.”
“Says who?” One of the men spat a bloody tooth into the gutter.
“Says me.” He raised his eyebrows at Jale, then turned back almost casually, caught the arm raised against him and with the other hand, smashed his fist into the man’s nose. He shoved the man away.
“So where are going, Cala?” The incident was already forgotten.
“A church …” He wasn’t exactly sure where. It had been so long since he walked freely in Ariathen. Things had changed; there were new buildings, reclaimed shops that he was sure had been derelict in his childhood, and he’d never been a church-goer. Incense, stained glass and a religion that wasn’t big on tolerance had been the driving force behind the Cala’s exile and Jale could well believe they were ready for a second shot at appeasing their Gods.
“A church.” The man turned to his companion. “Well that narrows it down, doesn’t it? Any particular church?” he added to Jale, “or shall we just embark on an ecclesiastical journey of self-discovery?”
Jale didn’t reply. If these were the people entrusted with his safety, how much did the general population of Ariathen hate his kind? He searched for Jereth again in his mind, tried to pick up more of a location.
“Where’s the cathedral?” he asked after a moment. “Do they still use incense?”
The two militia glanced at each other. “Delusions of grandeur,” said the fighter. “But hell, let’s start at the top, why not?”
debbie.bennett4@btinternet.com
Shauna says
A female voice from inside the coach cried, “Save me, Lord. Jesus!”
Ortega doubled over, laughing. He whistled in the direction of our hidden wagon.
Paolo strolled into the carnage, an actor taking his cue—enter stage left. Orlando kept the injured stagecoach driver, still squirming, in his gun sight as his twin placed dismounting stairs under the door. He beckoned to the passengers. “Get out.”
Paolo ambled over and inspected the burgundy interior of the coach. A reedy man in a tailored broadcloth suit stepped out, head trickling blood and shaking hands raised in submission.
“Stand there,” Paolo said, pointing to the side of the road.
The screaming woman, momentarily subdued, came next. She had probably once appeared as fashionable as the man, but now she was a quivering mess. At the door of the coach, she took in the shotgun driver—dead, already gathering flies—and the stagecoach driver—bloodied, writhing; her body began to fold. Leaning against the doorframe, she looked at the rest of her audience.
“Dear God,” she gasped, blanching, “Paolo Diaz.”
Paolo bid me to come with a simple jerk of his head. I had hoped to be forgotten, crouched in my hiding place behind the bushes. But, I knew I couldn’t show any hesitation to participate in the robbery. I attempted to mimic Paolo’s casual strut onto the scene though my legs responded like boiled noodles. Death keens of the horse haunted the air.
Paolo jabbed his forefinger at the couple. “Get their money and jewels.”
I resisted a temptation to fidget with my bandana, staring at the passengers as they threw their baubles into my outstretched gunnysack. If they looked, I hoped they would see a kindred victim, but neither one accepted my eye contact.
“Come on, come on,” I rattled the bag, “don’t hold nothin’ back.”
Orlando, Paolo and the wagon drivers had retrieved the strong box and struggled by with their burden. Ortega stood apart, his gun and menacing eyes sweeping.
The passengers stared at the stagecoach driver, moaning and clutching his battered body, and shrank into each other. The twins bound and gagged all three.
Paolo regarded me. “Kill them.”
“What?” The air seemed heavy and empty at the same time.
“She said my name. They all need to die.”
The woman’s eyes were huge, pleading. All three prisoners raged against their gags. One of the twins turned, his gun trained on me, the other scanned the horizon. I would only have one chance. My aim had to be perfect. Once I shot Paolo, I would be murdered in turn. This was not the way I had intended to get my revenge against him. But, it would all be over in a minute or two. Unfortunately, I doubted my death would save the couple and the driver.
I raised my gun, pointing it at the woman. Paolo couldn’t know, until hit, that my one bullet was meant for him.
Luke says
Iron Mike loomed over the table. “I know some guys, Boss; some real busters. We could take care of those mics tonight.”
Mr. Canidou leaned back in his chair and raised a pink hand. “I want the sitters out, and I want the scabs in by Monday. I don’t want to know how…”
That night Iron Mike and seven others came through the main gate to Canidou Crane Manufacture, carrying an eight-foot log with railroad spikes driven in for handles. The windows of the factory were glowing and someone looked out, then disappeared.
“Yeah, that’s right. Tea time is over,” Iron Mike roared. Swinging the ram, they plowed through the big doors. Just after the doors burst wide, someone chucked a bottle, and the concrete floor around them exploded into flames. The busters dropped their log and scattered. Iron Mike jumped back, swore and stamped out the flame on his pant leg. Then he pulled a crowbar out of his belt. He saw a few mics by the rolling press, and took off in their direction. One of them ran when they saw the giant man with the crowbar, but two stayed back, nervously holding their hammers. Mike cocked back like Mickey Mantle at the plate when he turned the corner of the rolling press, and swung for the first sitter’s head. Mike connected with his jaw, and it shattered like a teacup, but the second man brought his hammer down on Mike’s arm, and Mike swore and dropped the crowbar. It rattled on the floor. He turned to face his attacker and sidestepped another swing. The man was at least a foot shorter than Mike, and half as wide.
“You could run away,” Mike offered. The sitter swung his hammer again. Iron Mike caught it by the shaft and ripped it out of his grasp, then punched him hard in the gut. The man fell to his knees and Mike brought the hammer down on his head.
“Could have run away,” Mike murmured and turned to look back out over the factory floor. Two busters were beating someone with a chain. A mic with a baseball bat was standing on a half-assembled crane shaft, trying to fend off a buster who was swinging sledge. The fire by the entrance had almost burned itself out, and the log was still lying there, smoldering.
A buster came flying down from the second floor. Mike could hear bones crack as he landed. Mike tore up the stairs just in time to see Clawhammer Dave chucking another buster over the wrought iron railing.
“Dave!?” Mike roared.
Dave stopped. “Mike?”
“I didn’t know you were sitting in.”
“Sally didn’t tell you?”
Mike laughed. “No.”
Clawhammer Dave leaned back against a welding station and folded his arms. “My own brother-in-law; trying to kill me.”
Iron Mike walked up to the railing and shouted loud enough to be heard over the violence below. “Pack it up, Boys. Put those doors back up. We’re sitting now.”
kdrausin says
Amelia rested her head against the window and watched the drops of rain slither down the glass until they disappeared. Occasionally, the trail of two or three raindrops would join together like tributaries of a river, and flow out of sight. She closed her eyes and listened to the hum of the old station wagon.
Suddenly she felt herself spinning in circles. Greg was screaming “Grandma stop the car! Stop the car!” Lightning flashed.
Amelia opened her eyes. She was dizzy. Fear gripped her. They were spinning so fast her neck couldn’t lift her head off the window. Amelia’s body was pressed against her seat-she couldn’t move. Faster, faster the car spun out of control. Greg yelled again. “Grandma make it stop! Hit the brakes!” She forced her arms up to the ceiling of the wagon to try and brace herself. She pushed against the ceiling and moved her head upright to try and see out the front windshield. The cooler slammed into her ribs and then flew back towards Greg. Her wheelchair crashed down on top of the cooler. Greg screamed.
“Grandma what’s happening?! Stop the car! Greg’s hurt….Grandma stop!” Amelia saw Grandma K. frantically turning the steering wheel to the left and to the right. Something huge and dark was on the hood of the car. Eyes the size of a human head were peering at her through the windshield. She tried to scream but terror shot through her veins and only a trickle of voiceless air escaped.
She dropped her arms. Her head rolled uncontrollably from side to back to other side. She swallowed, trying not to throw up. Tires squealed, thunder crashed, with each flash of light Amelia squinted, trying to see if the thing was still staring at her or if it was her imagination. Something was there….breathe. Lightning flashed… long oval yellow eyes with a cross of red in the center. Amelia gripped the door handle. Lightning flashed… sharp pointed fangs, extending down from its piercing gaze. Her heart raced. Lightning flashed… black wings with gold stripes that covered the hood and disappeared down the sides of the wagon. Lightning flashed… whispers echoing between roars of distant thunder, “The end has come….The end has come.” Grandma K. was shouting. It made no sense. “Siete deboli. Sono Forte!”
Amelia lowered her head, and covered her ears. Terror strangled her like a vine, it hurt to breathe. She didn’t want to die. Stop….please stop.
A loud crash and a sudden jolt sent Amelia’s body and the cooler flying forward, her seatbelt tightened and slammed her back into her seat. The cooler smashed through the windshield. She covered her face as shards of glass exploded through the air. Everything was still. Rain pummeled the roof. Her hands shook uncontrollably. Something wet was dripping down her face but she couldn’t tell if it was blood or tears. Was that thing still out there? Was it waiting for her? She peeked through her fingertips.
aryllian says
test
Ty says
Rex Canyon: Relic Hunter
Rex guns the throttle, sending his dirt bike rocketing over the jungle floor’s tangled tree roots. Ahead, another bike weaves in and out of view along an unmarked path. The driver, Aliah, navigates the getaway while her passenger faces backwards, discouraging Rex’s pursuit with a flurry of gun fire. Rex never loses sight of the thieves despite the dense foliage and hail of bullets.
The lead bike swings wide around a giant Strangler Fig, its skeleton standing where a mighty tree once grew. Aliah’s bike fishtails in the soft earth. She skids to a stop, narrowly avoiding a plummet into a rocky valley. The gunman reloads as the bike races forward once more. Rex sees his opportunity.
He ducks down behind the handlebars and jams on the gas. The bike threads the needle of the fig tree, rough bark scraping the skin from Rex’s arms. The motorbike launches into the air, intersecting the path of the oncoming thieves. As the gunman takes aim, Rex’s rear tire catches him in the chest and throws him from the dirt bike.
Aliah leaves her partner, racing off into the jungle once more. Rex catches a glint of gold peeking out from a pocket of her satchel. He leaves the injured gunman to the jungle’s mercy and resumes his pursuit.
Without the weight of a passenger, Aliah is able to keep Rex at a distance. Rex takes a parallel path on higher ground, knowing that the first one to hesitate loses this race. He can’t afford to make another mistake.
He converges on Aliah’s path, coming up on her tail only a bike’s length behind. The trees up ahead are thinning, the blue sky filling in the canopy. Rex presses Aliah in pursuit as they burst into a clearing at the edge of a raging waterfall.
Aliah locks her brakes, sending the bike into a wild death wobble. Rex, on the other hand, goes faster.
Aliah is thrown from her bike as it tumbles over the cliff. As she goes airborne, the pilfered golden idol floats out of her satchel, just exceeding the grasping fingers of the falling thief.
Rex speeds his bike off the cliff, leaping off of it into the air. One sure hand closes on the golden idol. After a freefall, his other hand finds a solid grip on a hanging tree root, jerking to a stop that almost rips his arm from its socket. Rex Canyon looks down and glimpses the falling body of Aliah disappearing into the misty sprays of the surging waterfall. A part of him almost misses her. Almost.
Rex claws his way up the cliff face. He hauls himself over the edge and admires his prize: the golden idol of the Umbuuti tribe. Smiling, Rex removes his pack and places the treasure inside it. Six darts whip through the air and imbed themselves in the knapsack. At the water’s edge, three Umbuuti warriors step out of their canoe, eager to reclaim the symbol of their god.
aryllian says
Somewhere to our right, a machine started up with a thump and a continuing rattle that drowned out the rattle of Victor's breath. I leaned closer, ignoring the blood soaking into the knees of my trousers, fearing to miss his final words. Surely he would tell me now!
"It…was…"
Blood splattered across my eager face. I scrambled for cover as the echoes of the shot faded. I caught a glimpse of lavender near the control room just before I ducked behind a heap of machinery, and that told me everything I needed to know.
Angelina! So it was a crime of passion after all, and my interference had put Hugh in danger, never pulled him out of it. She would eliminate him next — it would be easy in the confusion from the fire, and once Hugh was gone she would accuse me. There would be no one left who could uphold my innocence. I had to stop her.
I ran for the stairs at the far end of the building, then spun around and raced back as a quicker route unfolded in my head. A crane bridged the gap from the walkway to the control room; I pulled myself from one support to the next, and then jumped to the roof of the control room. The metal roof amplified my footsteps into the footsteps of a giant as I dashed to the other side and let myself down in front of the control room entrance.
The door was unlocked. I flung it open and then froze in dismay. The rocket belt was gone. Why would Angelina take the rocket belt prototype?
Did she know about the second rocket belt? My hands were shaking; it was hard to manipulate the key in the massive lock. When I finally got the door open, the second rocket belt gleamed in the harsh light. I pulled it out and threw it over my shoulder — a better position for carrying it than on my hips.
Too long. Faster. Faster. That was all I could think as I left the control room and sprinted down the hall to the conference room. The giant plate glass window there soon succumbed to a chair through the center of it. I used another chair to break off the jagged glass at the bottom.
I fastened on the rocket belt and then paused, just breathing. Rocket belts require control; I needed calm.
A whisper of doubt chose that moment to torment me. Anyone could wear lavender. What if it hadn't been Angelina?
I ignored the thought. I was committed to saving Hugh, and anything else was a dangerous distraction.
I took a final deep breath and then scrambled out through the hole in the window. I managed to balance on the windowsill for a second, then I deliberately leaned forward, overbalancing. As I started to fall, I hit the control on the rocket belt.
Nothing happened. I hit it again, and I was flying!
(Sorry about the previous test comment, I was having a hard time getting anything to post.)
Mari says
YA – Science Fiction Mystery/Adventure
————————–
Setup: Two young alien science students are in their final approach to Earth. Their covert mission: to observe Humans without being detected.
————————–
A piercing siren drowned her words.
Trompetina’s head whipped towards Marso. “What in the—” She raised her voice. “What’s going on?” She ran to the controls at her station.
Marso studied multiple displays. “I don’t know. I’m not even… karsion!” He shouted.
“What? What is it?”
“The stealth shield is failing!”
“That’s impossible. All systems were triple-checked and tested before we left.”
“Check them again. Maybe the stealth icon is malfunctioning.”
Trompetina ran the system-wide diagnostic program. She glanced at the results that scrolled in front of her. “It’s not the icon. We are fifty percent visible!”
“Reboot! Now!”
Trompetina placed a hand on the main controller icon and pushed it forward. Nothing happened.
“Trompetina, reboot!”
“I tried,” she cried. “The system is locked!”
Marso grabbed the engine control yolk. “I’m putting us in reverse.”
“We’re heading straight toward the station. They’re going to see us!”
The Bela continued its trajectory.
"Marso, put us in reverse, or—”
“Navigation controls aren’t responding. What the karsion is going on?”
Trompetina tried to reboot the navigation control programs again. Nothing. “Can you steer at all?”
“No!” Marso held the yolk with both hands, his lean muscles bulging against the thin material of his suit. “Try setting NAV to manual mode.”
“I already tried. I can’t even shut off the stupid alarm!” Trompetina tapped the flashing red alarm icon three more times.
Marso pulled the yolk towards him. “I can’t get us out of orbit.”
“What if I power down?”
“Don’t,” he shouted. “Systems may not come back. Activate our seat restraints. We’re going down.”
Trompetina tapped the holo-seat control icon, but nothing happened. Her body didn’t anchor to her chair. “What now?” She opened the emergency landing box beside her chair in search for anything that could help them. The box was empty. Marso’s was empty too. She darted toward the port door.
“Where are you going?”
Trompetina ran as fast as she could through the corridors of the ship, straight to her cabin. She opened her closet and grabbed the rubber packing straps she’d used to tie several of her suitcases together.
She raced back to the control room. Without a word, she used two of the straps to secure Marso down as best as she could. She sat in her own chair and tied herself down with the other two belts.
“Brace yourself,” Marso said , watching her tie a final knot, “it’s going to be a bumpy entrance.”
“Marso!” Trompetina cried. “One of their satellites is headed our way.”
Marso looked at the front viewer. “Karsion!” He placed his finger on the manual NAV icon while moving the ship’s yolk to the left.
“It’s not enough. Turn more. More!”
“I’m trying!”
Trompetina screamed.
Marso rolled the ship to the left. The effort wasn’t enough.
Trompetina watched in horror as the small alien satellite twirled towards them. It smashed into the Bela and shattered into thousands of pieces. She cringed. “We’re interfering.”
adsistla says
The demon scuttled forward on twelve stubby legs. It stopped just beyond swords-reach. A huge, bulbous head lolled atop a slug body. Yellowed teeth jutted out of its mouth as it howled.
Chimal attacked in mid-scream, and the demon scurried away. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He laughed. It felt good to be hitting something. "Tired of crying, Slugface?"
Slugface hesitated, then laughed in exact imitation of Chimal. With a slurping sound, the beast reared up on its hind legs and waved the rest of its clawed appendages. "Plenty of others came before you with conviction shining in their eyes. It didn't help them much though. I ate their eyes."
Chimal ignored the insinuations; he wasn't some starry-eyed idealist doing this for emperor, country, or fame. This was for Huatl. He took a deep breath and gagged at the rotten smell. Gritting his teeth, he circled the demon as he searched for a way to avoid the claws.
"Do you think they really believe you can kill me?” asked Slugface. “Your precious emperor and his cronies don't care. Their strategy is to keep throwing warriors at me, hoping that one will eventually be lucky. Heroes like you are like flies–innumerable, interchangeable, tasty."
It licked its lips with a fat tongue, pitted with mildew. "Why not just leave?" The demon held a claw over its mouth. "Shh. I won't tell anyone. It'll be our little secret."
¬Chimal hacked at the monster.
Under the constant barrage, Slugface backed away from Chimal and then tripped over something in its path. It flapped its arms to regain balance.
Chimal darted in and sliced off one of the arms.
The demon screeched and scurried out of reach, leaving a trail of bluish-orange fluid behind it.
Chimal's chest tightened when he caught sight of what had tripped the monster–a skull and a skeleton arm stuck out of the slimy muck. He saluted the unknown soldier.
"Master.” Slugface genuflected in Chimal's direction. "When the nahuali told me about a man who killed one of their immortal number, I vowed that if I ever saw him, I would lay myself at his feet and call him Master. The nahuali say you tricked her into mortal form and then murdered her as she took her first breath."
Chimal’s breath came in ragged gasps and the world spun around him at the memory of Huatl’s death. "It wasn't like that,” he whispered, more to convince himself than the demon.
Slugface bowed again and then bared its throat. "It would be an honor to be killed by the same man who killed a nahual."
Chimal reeled. "Stop it."
"Master, please, kill me.” The demon inched towards Chimal. “Tell me, did ecstasy engulf you when you took the life of an immortal being?"
"I didn't kill–"
With scrabbling claws, Slugface lunged forward and crushed Chimal's left arm in its jaws. Its teeth sheared his skin and snagged on his bones.
Jenny Coon Peterson says
Suspense/action sequence:
Right. I'm running.
Mellie glanced down at her worn boots pounding against the slick cobblestones.
Definitely running.
She pumped her legs and sprinted down a narrow alley squeezed between two buildings — London buildings. She pulled up short at a doorway and collapsed against it, sucking air. She took two breaths and inched her head out.
Down the alley, three figures slid into view, their arms reaching wildly as they forced their momentum into the tight turn.
She took one more breath and shot out the door.
I'm being chased.
The alley dumped onto gray docks crowded with moldy buildings sagging against the sluggish water below. She weaved between pallets stacked 10 high before spotting what she wanted: an open door.
Mellie struggled with the ratty pack strapped to her back and opened it: an apple, twine, matches and a velvet bag. Not exactly worth a Campfire badge.
But that bag, it tickled something in her brain.
This always happened: the disruption, the trickling back of identity. Whenever she jumped — and she was too new to this world to know exactly how many times that was — there was fogginess.
Right now, all she knew was three probably-bad guys wanted her, and it was because of the velvet bag.
Tiny taps caught her attention. She smirked and ducked her head through the loop attached to the bag.
"Is that supposed to be sneaky, lads?" she called out, strapping on the pack.
"You don't need to keep doing this," a man’s voice called.
"Do what, exactly?"
A woman stepped from the shadows, her hands held out like Mellie was a lion she was trying to tame. "Just give it to us."
Mellie held the bag up. "This? Why?"
From behind, a strong hand gripped her forearm, swiveling her around. Her leg kicked up of its own accord, slamming into the man’s gut with such force he grunted, jerking her hand as he stumbled backwards.
Whoa, she thought in the second it happened. What sort of girl can do that?
She shook her cloudy head and wrenched herself away, whipping towards the woman.
"Tell me why you want this?"
"It belongs to us," she answered. "You're a thief."
"Somehow, I don't believe you." She cocked her head, regarding the woman’s cautious steps. Suddenly, the woman pounced.
Mellie sprang as the woman swiped, running towards the patch of light at the building’s end.
She had to get out. Her thoughts were clearing, and one word stuck out: thief.
The woman was right. These weren't bad guys. She was.
She skidded out the door and to the river’s edge, ready to jump. But something held her back.
The third man, the one she should have been looking for, had her pack. Mellie shrugged out of it and ducked away.
"We'll find you," he promised.
"Yeah, well," Mellie said, shaking her watch down her arm. "Maybe not."
As her foggy brain shook off the last disruptions, she punched numbers into her watch.
"Don't go," he whispered, sounding desperate.
"Sorry," Mellie mumbled, feeling there were reasons he didn't want her to go that had nothing to do with the bag.
She glanced back at her watch, her hand hovering over the big blue button, and jammed her finger down.
She jumped, but she wasn’t alone.
Rachel Riddles says
Untitled
suspense/thriller romance (yup, chick lit!)
She kept her voice soft as she pushed Jimmie away. “Go – go find Jake.” She took a step back when a shot rang out. She saw Jimmie’s eyes fly wide open a second before he flew backward onto the ground.
Lily scrambled over to him as blood poured out of his shoulder. She put her trembling hands over the wound, trying to put pressure on it. She could hear the sirens and see the lights flashing from the parking lot, and she couldn’t keep from screaming.
Jason marched over to Lily and hauled her to her feet by her ponytail. Ignoring the sobbing, he started dragging her away from Jimmie, deeper into the woods.
“P-Please d-don’t do t-this. I-I’m p-p-pregnant Jason.”
He stopped and spun to face her. “What did you just say?” His voice was eerily calm.
“I-I’m pregnant.” Her body shook and her voice quivered; she hoped she didn’t make a mistake telling him. As Jason pushed her down to her knees she knew she had.
Twisting his hand tighter around her hair he shoved the gun into her cheek.
“You let him knock you up?” Disgusted, he unwound his fingers and shoved her to the ground. “You are nothing but a SLUT. Fuck this. I’m not gonna raise his bastard.”
He flipped her on to her back and straddled her, tossing his gun aside. He wanted to do this himself. Jason wrapped his hands around Lily's slender neck and squeezed. The pressure grew and she clawed at his arms but he wouldn’t stop. She tried hitting him, but everything turned dark and hazy and she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.
Then she heard it.
“Jason get off of her and walk back toward me.”
Jake. She heard the cocking of two guns, and knew Gordon was with him before she blacked out.
Jason didn’t answer, just slumped down and casually inched toward his gun.
“You ruined everything.” Jason’s voice was solemn. “She was mine; she was supposed to have my baby, not yours.” Jake looked over at Gordon, enraged.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Jason.” He calmed his nerves the best he could as he spoke. Jason chuckled to himself.
“She didn’t tell you, did she? God she really is a slut. You’ll be glad I did this, trust me.” He pulled his gun up, but before he could aim it at Lily, Gordon put a bullet straight into his skull, and his body crumpled on top of Lily. Jake and Gordon rushed over to pull his dead weight off her.
“Oh jesus – Lily? Baby?” He reached down and felt for a pulse, crying out to Gordon when he found one. "It's here! She's alive!"
(rriddles@yahoo.com)
cheekychook says
"When I said you could borrow my car I assumed you'd at least drive me to work," Daniel said.
Frank pulled up alongside a fire hydrant. "Just take the train. I'm gonna be late."
"Late for what? Who has meetings at 7am?"
“I’ll explain later."
“Fine. Whatever.” Daniel grabbed his briefcase and climbed out of the car.
He slammed the door and took a step. His eyes clamped shut.
“Shit.” He patted his pockets. He had forgotten his phone and wallet.
As he whirled to see if Frank had driven away, he heard it. The unmistakable screech. Tires against pavement. Metal on metal. Loud. Close. Then nothing.
***
Fluorescent lights whizzed by overhead. Daniel was flat on his back. The hospital scent made him cringe. People scurried by, babbling words he couldn’t catch. His thoughts moved in slow motion. Freezing.Throbbing.Dizzy.
He tried to focus. I was in the car with Frank. He struggled to remember. Thinking hurt.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?”
He realized the voice was speaking to him.
“Yes.” His jaw ached from the single word.
He tried to follow the barrage of questions. Yes, he could move his legs. Yes, he could feel his hands. Yes, he could follow the light with his eyes, though it hurt like absolute Hell.
“You’re going to feel a small pinch,” a nurse said. A scorching sting zipped into his cheek. “Just trying to get you good and numb before we stitch you up.” She sounded too cheerful considering the circumstance.
His eyes fluttered. He tried to concentrate.
“Where's Frank?” He watched the nurses exchange glances and shrugs.
“I don’t know, sir. We’re still trying to figure out who you are. Can you tell us your name?”
"Daniel Gardner.” Why didn’t they know his name? Surely they’d looked at his wallet. My wallet. He remembered getting into the car that morning. He had put his wallet on the center console and hooked his phone into the car charger; and he’d left them there…
“Daniel Gardner?” The nurse looked up from the chart, her eyes wide.
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought that was the name of…” She shot a look at one of the other nurses and hurried out of the room.
“The name of who?” he asked, but she was gone. “What? Why did she? Who? “ He tried to sit up. His head reeled.
“I’m sorry, sir," a nurse said. “You need to lie still. Try to relax…”
He saw her insert a syringe into the IV bag hanging above his head. An icy sensation slithered through the vein in his arm, and he slipped into darkness again.
angel says
“Who are you?” Lisa's voice was small in her own ears, swallowed by the void that surrounded her. “What do you want?”
Stepping forward, coming into the small circle of light that pooled at her feet, she could see two unearthly shapes. One red-skinned, the other blue, they approached her slowly, eerily silent. They each held large, deadly-looking iron clubs in their enourmous right hands, tapping the heavy ends in the palms of their left. Their movements were perfectly synchronized, like a murderous dance that had been practiced for milennia.
At once, they opened their mouths, and spoke as if with one voice, few mouthfuls of needle-like teeth that dripped with venomous-looking green liquid. Their small black eyes gleamed fiercely in the scant light, as they fixed her at once with all four of their eyes. “You should not be.” They said, and the complete lack of inflection was more threatening than anything Lisa had ever experienced. “You should not be, and you should not be doing what you have done. Your actions will bring about the end of the world. We can't allow that.”
Another step closer, and another. Lisa could smell sulfur and something sweet and ruined, like burned jasmine. Another step. Lisa could feel the intense heat radiating from their huge, gnarled, terrifying bodies. The 'slap, slap, slap' of the clubs in their hands stirred a breeze that she could feel on her face and arms. One more step, and she could have extended her hand to touch either one of them.
In unison, they raised their clubs, and Lisa tried her best to disappear. The whistle of the downswing caused a wind in its wake that made her heart stutter. Just when she expected to hear the crunch of bone, a blinding light flashed in her eyes. Her ears were assaulted by a completely different sound. A piercing, shrill ringing sound echoed off of the inside of her miraculously intact skull.
Yanked from her dark dream, Lisa fumbled for her cell phone. She scowled at the time on its screen, and swore under her breath at whoever called her from work at four nineteen AM. Secretly she was immensely grateful. She had no wish to see the end of that particular dream.
“Yeah”, she answered tonelessly.
“It's time, Doctor Pelham.” Those words sent Lisa into a flurry.
“Is everything ready?” She asked while sliding her slippers on in one move, as she jumped out of bed. She knew the answer of course, they wouldn't have called her if things weren't ready.
“Yes, Ma'am.” The Voice sounded irritated.
“I'll be down in five minutes. We can't have any delays.”
“We'll be ready and waiting, Ma'am.” The line went dead with a click.
Lisa hastily tossed her jet black hair up in a bun, and donned her surgical scrubs. If all went well, she knew that this might just be the most momentous day of her life.
ninidee says
I raced down the dimly lit street past the eerie Pine trees and abandoned vehicles. The breath of the beast slithered around my neck and I prayed for forgiveness. My legs wobbled but I refused to stop running. If only I could reach safety before he got close enough to devour me.
The smell of blood weakened my stomach and the sight of headless bodies confirmed this devil had no mercy. Evil snarls rocked my brain and the tune of hell blasted the air. A glimmer of light sparkled up above and hope replaced the fear that rushed through my veins like water through a hose. Run Mary run.
The warmth of ancestors past, reached for me. I was the rope being pulled in a game of tug of war and I had no idea which side would be victorious. A claw as sharp as a knife sliced the middle of my back but the assault failed to slow me. Screams of torture coincided with angelic hymns. I swirled around the eye of my fate and begged for absolution.
A crow as big as a pig thunderously flapped its wings above me and raced toward the pelican sized dove I knew was sent to protect me. The battle for my soul was being fought at the space between Heaven and Hell. An energy filled with love pulled me forward while an angry force inflated with poison attempted to suction me back. The sky shook. Within seconds I would know where I would spend eternity. The ground below began to crack. My shoulders slumped forward. I prepared for the descent. I accepted the verdict. I waited for the teeth of the beast to pierce my skull. I fell to my knees expecting the worst. A wing wrapped around me and a tear fell. It wasn’t the crow. It was the dove.
Anonymous says
He’s right behind her. Creeping closer. Soon he’ll reach out and touch her. He’ll grab her red wool coat. His fingers will seize her long brown hair. He’ll pull her close, twisting her endless nightmare into grim reality. He’ll bury her in his sinister madness and she’ll disappear forever into his shadow.
Christie knows who he is. He’s not a crack head, hiding among the cars in the underground parking lot, waiting for an easy mark to get money for his next fix. He’s not a car-jacker admiring her sweet red Saab. He’s not a sexual predator attracted to her classic beauty, her slim athletic build. He’s not a stranger.
She’s been waiting for him. She looks for him everywhere: in dark corners, in reflections from her rear view mirror, under her car, behind the bathroom door, outside her windows. And now he’s here, barely an arm’s reach behind her. She pushes her already exhausted legs to move faster. She imagines his warm breath streaming out, white wisps in the cold air, flowing close enough to stroke her skin.
She can’t outrun him. In seconds he’ll be on her. Christie debates turning and facing him. She could try to scream him away. But what if his icy eyes lock onto her sky-blue eyes, freezing her rigid? She’ll be powerless, easy prey. Then he’ll have her. So she stares straight ahead and calls on all the inner strength she can marshal. She limps as fast as she can toward the elevator, using her single crutch to propel her.
The dark form drops back a little, as if he doesn’t want to end the chase too soon. Christie understands he’s enjoying his pursuit, playing with her. She remembers how he smiled last fall when he pushed her fear to the breaking point. How he toyed with her, a predator obsessed with tormenting his victim. That’s what he’s doing now. Using her fear as his most potent weapon, waiting for her terror to betray her.
Christie strains to move even faster. The elevator’s so far away. What if the door doesn’t open? What if it’s stopped on another floor? What if he reaches out and touches her, as she focuses on the numbers flickering slowly from Level 1 to 2, to 3?
A whimper trembles in her throat. She tries to cry out, but her mouth is so dry only a faint whisper quivers in the air.
She looks for someone to help. Powerful lights illuminate the concrete parking garage. Shadows between the tightly packed cars push into the narrow driving lane, but none of them move. None resembles a human form that might save her.
She reaches the elevator and pounds the buttons, up, down, it doesn't matter. She's afraid to wait or it. He’s too close. She’ll have to try to escape through the parking garage.
She turns from the elevator, bends low and limps down a row of parked cars, deeper into the underground garage. She doesn’t hear his footsteps behind her, but then, she didn’t hear them before, either. She doesn’t need any sounds to know he’s still shadowing her.
She moves faster than she knew she could. Adrenalin is fueling her aching muscles. Ahead she spots a large SUV and ducks behind it, squatting by the left rear tire. Maybe he won’t see her in the deep shadow the big vehicle casts. She smells gas fumes and wet rubber, feels grit and water under her hands. She tries to quiet her gasping breaths. She looks around for a weapon, a rock, a stick, anything. She scoops up a handful of sand and gravel. Her only defenses are a small ball of grit, her briefcase and crutch.
She scans the driving lane, waiting for his silhouette to loom toward her hiding place. Then
she hears the sound of a car engine. The driver hesitates at the turn, deciding whether to head left or drive up the ramp toward her. Christie holds her breath and prays. The car continues up the ramp, increasing speed. She takes her chance. She limps out of her hiding space and steps directly in front of the oncoming car. It’s now accelerating, moving very fast. She closes her eyes, this time praying the driver will stop the car before it hits her.
Seven N Blue says
Young Adult Urban Fantasy
“Now,” he said looking back at me, “where were we? This is important.”
“You’re an asshole,” I said getting up. I clenched my fists starting to feel my hands again. Between the vision I thought I’d seen in his eyes, and the girlfriend revelation, it was too much for me to deal with. I was out. “I gotta go,” I said, standing up.
“Wait,” he said, following me. The blonde girl sat on his stool.
“No,” I said, “you got Itsy’s party to go to, don’t want to leave your girlfriend waiting.” I headed for the door. Who the hell calls themselves Itsy anyways? Like the freaking spider?
“She’s just a friend,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me close.
“Of course she is.” I yelled at him the same way I yelled at my parents, “that’s why you kissed her right in front of me.” I jerked my hand away, “You’re an asshole, and you are sadly mistaken if you think you are so hot that I would even waste another nanosecond talking to you!”
“Myla,” he yelled back and grabbed my hand again, “I heal the broken ones,” he pointed to the blonde girl.
“What?” I said. What the hell did that mean?
“The broken ones,” he said, this time looking directly into my eyes. I was feeling light headed. I couldn’t believe I was having a screaming out fight with a guy I had just met. A small crowd started forming around us. It was insane. Until the End of the World was just getting on stage and people were starting to push against each other. I pushed Christian off and walked fast to the exit door.
“Myla, please don’t go. Please…please wait.” I heard him say but when I looked back the crowd had pushed between us.
I steadied my pace to the trolley stop. I had a few blocks to go. I looked back to see if he followed, but he didn’t. What the hell was that vision I had seen in his eyes? Was that even real? Keeping a double life was not easy. Maybe I had lied to my parents so much that the line between truth and fiction blurred.
As I crossed the street I saw a skinny redheaded girl sitting on the sidewalk. Her back was leaning against the brick industrial building. She looked drunk. I slowed down and saw she had track marks on her arms. Junkie. She whimpered and suddenly I remembered I too had cried over something during the blackout night.
A cat. A black cat had pushed itself around my legs meowing but then it started shrieking. And then it convulsed, right at my feet, scratching my legs until it passed out, dead. I doubled over him in tears. And then there was a lapse after that. My heart started racing because I realized then that something important had happened to me and I couldn’t remember what the hell it was.
K.D Vassall says
Exerpt from The Spinner's Wheel
By K.D Vassall
The tunnel was dark. Sara took a few tentative steps forward but it was like walking blind. She knew that there was only one solution, but still she hesitated. It was dangerous, with Crassius lurking somewhere ahead of her.
It was possible that he might have reached the end of the tunnel and gotten out, if indeed this tunnel had an end. Regardless she had no choice, she thought, as she brought her hand behind her head and raised her sword out of her scabbard.
The sword blazed with a blue-white light, but Sara didn't have time to feel relief because the first thing that she saw was Crassius’s scarred face, twisted with anger and fear, lunging towards her, his sword pointing towards her heart.
Instinctively she spun away, pressing into the dirt wall of the tunnel, just missing the lethal thrust of Crassius’s sword. She drew Joyeuse fully out of her scabbard, and pointed its glowing length at him. Crassius skittered away, nearly stumbling over a large rock. He hesitated, eyeing Joyeuse before fixing his gaze upon Sara’s pale face.
Whatever he saw there must have given him confidence, because he took a deep breath and lunged again.
This time their swords clashed together and Joyeuse let out a clear high pitched hum. Crassius staggered back, startled, but he soon collected himself and attacked again. For several moments it took all the skill and concentration that Sara had to stay alive.
It was then, after a particularly vicious attack from Crassius, when he struck Joyeuse with incredible force and ran his sword up the length of her blade, that Sara realized that she had a bigger problem on her hands. As the last strains of Joyeuse’s song faded, the dirt walls, disturbed by the vibrations coming from Joyeuse, started to crumble.
Large clumps were falling from the ceiling, and soon the air was heavy with dust. They backed away from each other. Sara tripped over an uneven spot on the floor and fell heavily. Her face felt stiff with panic, and she looked at Crassius who was wearing a similar look of horror on his face. She saw him whirl around, vainly looking for an opening in the thick walls, she knew the moment that he realized that the only exit he was sure off was behind her and that he would have to go through her to get to it.
He turned to look at her again, and at Joyeuse, lying beside her on the floor, her hand still curved around its hilt. Raising his sword he stalked towards her. That was when Sara heard a voice, faint but familiar, calling her name. Evidently Crassius heard it too because a flash of fear crossed his face. Sara glimpsed something silver in Crassius’s hand, and too late she realized what it was…Atalanta.
“No! Don’t activate her…she isn’t strong enough to travel,” she screamed, but Crassius was already saying something, and before Sara’s eyes he disappeared.
Simon says
Belka remained still as the gate opened. Daestar closed to within a few feet of him before there was even a flicker of recognition, the primate raising his head with little concern as the professor reached out with an open palm. In the adjacent cage Strelka was more animated, hands gripping the wire, face pressed into one of the small loops as she watched Daestar collect Belka up in his arms.
The professor cradled Belka like a baby, right arm behind his head, and left supporting his hindquarters as he whispered into the monkey’s indifferent ear. He paced around the cage, continuing his silent lullaby while he walked. Belka maintained his apathy even as the professor stopped in the centre of the cage to adjust his grip. He inched his left hand up to take hold of Belka's right shoulder, taking the strain of his entire weight on his thick forearm and easing the fingers of his right hand around to raise the monkey’s chin. In one fluid motion Daestar then wrenched his hands in opposing directions and broke Belka's neck.
With the monkey’s body clutched in his arms, Daestar lolled Belka’s lifeless skull back upright and drew it tightly into his breast. Still mouthing an unheard comfort, the professor closed his eyes and lowered his head.
He held the dead animal in this paternal embrace for a minute, before manoeuvring Belka back into the death grip and duly unbreaking his neck. The pair then retraced their path around the cage, finishing as they had begun with Strelka sitting alone with at least a trace of life coursing through him, and the professor watching on from outside of the cage.
"You understand now why I could not talk on the phone?" Luc turned away from the screen as the video on his laptop continued to rewind. “Nobody knows I have this.” He unhooked the satchel from his shoulder, walked to the window and tugged the curtain at arm’s length, stooping to squint through the narrow gap and out into Bluebell Drive. There was no change. He eased the curtain to its original position and paced back across the small room to his laptop. He keyed in several commands and waited for the disk to eject—poking from the machine like the stubby tip of a silver tongue. “I thought you would know what to do.” Luc stepped away from the laptop. “I thought that you would help me.”
“Of course I’ll help you.” Vanderley reached out to take the disk.
JES says
Someone shaking him.
Lights out? Impossible. Lights never went out. Jesus the pain, maybe blind with new pain, the back certainly but his forehead too stinging-hot…
A small greenish light, held in the someone's hand, illuminating the someone's face, some kind of goggles… holy fuck it's Big Stan–!
Walker sat bolt upright, smashing his head into Stan's chin, knocking the light from his hand. Walker's forehead now wet, the pain worse.
Stan whispering, "Goddammit, sit still and shut up asshole." Stan grabbed the light from the floor, switched it off, paused, silent, listening.
Walker trembling, immobile. His back and head afire.
Stan's voice, still whispering, this time in his ear: "Don't say a single word, understand? Put this in your pocket." Slipping him a small metal ball.
Whispering back: "Don't have a pocket."
The voice, again in his ear: "Then hold it in your goddam hand. Just don't put it in your mouth and for God and your mother's sake don't drop it. Just be quiet, you'll be all right." Another pause. Hand on the back of his head. "Understand? Nod."
Walker nodded. Confusion. Pain. He swallowed, and suddenly in the blackness was lifted up off the cot, folded double, thrown like a saddle bag over Big Stan's shoulder. The pain sweet Jesus pain, newest scabs on his back popping open in a zipper of misery down his spine and across his shoulders. Walker gasped.
"Sssssshhhh! I said be quiet!"
Swallowing another gasp. Stan lurching toward what must be the door. Through the door. Turning, closing the door quietly behind them.
Blackness. Power out, completely? No generators?
Lurching down a long hallway, no turns, just the incessant bobbing pressure of Stan's shoulder on his stomach, iron grip of Stan's hands on his legs, little sphere held tightly in the palm of his hand, pain dulling a little as the routine motion set in, bob, bob, bob, duck, turn here, another hallway, the hell was happening, and why, and why was it happening to him?, after a long darkness and a long blankness suddenly the raspy whoosh of another door, Walker suddenly opening his eyes in panic Jesus Christ gas, they're gassing me…! but no, not gas, faint light through the doorway, sweet faint light and fresh air, drawing in a deep breath almost gasping with the sweetness, Stan without a word dumping Walker off his shoulder and seating him roughly but securely on the ground, the ground!, distant voices yelling, pinpoints of light flashing, the hands of someone new, no several someones, more whispered voices, Walker suddenly lifted up again and placed silently, carefully horizontal, onto a stretcher, a new whisper in his ear, "Be veeeeerry quiet!" and — laughter? people still laughed? — "We're hunting wabbits!"
Walker Bryce, flat on his back, bobbing, bobbing, the stars — stars! — overhead flashing on and off as he blinked. Glorious fresh air rushing over his skin.
Borne off into the starlit darkness. A small metal ball locked tight in his fist.