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!
Tchann says
Shivers tore through his body as he heard their cries, voices changed from melodious tunes to a terrible dissonance. His knees nearly buckled and he slowed momentarily before continuing his flight through the forest.
Unfortunately, it was enough time to allow two of the creatures to fling themselves onto Rian's back and arm, biting and clawing as they clung to his body. Crying out in pain, he reached around and grabbed the one from his back, yanking it off and flinging it at a tree as he passed. It hit the trunk with a satisfying thud, the creature's accompanying shriek echoing among the trees as Rian kept running. The second creature, however, took the opportunity to bury its teeth deep into his arm.
Stumbling again, Rian pitched forward and to the right as he strained to regain his balance. He wobbled as he ran, and managed to slam hard into a tree that had seemingly appeared from nowhere. While the crash knocked the wind from him, it luckily smashed the creature off his side. He slowly became aware of a sharp stinging in his arm, as well as the warm blood seeping into his clothes. Behind him the tiny horde drew nearer, and Rian again forced his legs to take him away.
Rian felt his feet grow slow and clumsy, only barely dodging a tree as he skidded down a short slope. He was used to long hours of labor in the field, but his body was protesting being forced to such physical extremes. Each step felt like his ankles were going to snap, and every breath felt like his chest was going to burst. “Keep running, keep running,” he gasped to himself, hoping that force of will alone would keep him moving until he reached safety.
Safety, however, was quickly becoming relative. The forest grew darker as he ran, the terrain becoming more twisted and dangerous as well as increasingly obscured by the canopy up above. Nearly every other step was on uneven ground, threatening to throw him to the side and ultimately into the reaching claws of the screeching creatures behind him. One of the little beasts took a flying leap and latched on to the back of Rian's thigh, gnawing and scratching at the thinly-covered leg.
It was only a matter of seconds before it tore through his trousers, digging its claws deep into the skin and muscle underneath. Rian shrieked, pain finally overwhelming him as he tumbled to the unwelcoming forest floor. Rocks and roots battered him as he rolled, knocking the creature free from his leg but leaving him floating through the brink of consciousness. When his body finally stopped crashing across the ground, he tried to push himself back to his feet, but his injured leg refused to hold his weight and he fell once more towards the dirt.
Pulling himself to a nearby tree, he propped himself up against the trunk and watched, helplessly, as the snarling horde descended upon him.
Simon C. Larter says
What the hey? Why not give it a go? Here, good sir, is my entry.
~~~~~~~~~~
The dim light from the bedroom lamp slid slantwise through the grilled wood of the closet door as Ann crouched cowering against the wall, clasping Emma’s small form to her chest and listening to the heavy footsteps on the stairs. Muted bursts of static from multiple wristcoms hissed down the hall to flick at her ears like serpent tongues. Her daughter, deep in sleep, sighed and smacked her lips against Ann’s shoulder. She cupped the infant’s head with a sweating palm and tried to arrest her own racing pulse.
The first of them entered the bedroom–tall, black-clad form, smoked-glass helmet, pulse rifle gripped at waist level. It stepped toward the bed, heavy bootheels thudding on the carpet, and two more figures slipped into the room behind it. Their slat-scored shadows loomed monstrous against the back wall of the bare closet.
Through the slits in the door, Ann could see three helmeted heads swivel, scanning the room. She willed her breathing to slow; her heartbeat triphammered in her head, impossibly loud, a hundred-beats-per-minute homing signal.
The lead figure bent over the bed, tugging at its wrist. The glove peeled off like a layer of skin to reveal a yellow-tinged, scabrous hand–unnaturally long fingers, black fingernails filed to a point. The snakeskin palm descended, hovered over the rumpled sheets, millimeters from the cooling impression of Ann’s body in the mattress.
Oh God, it knows. The bed is still warm. Oh God! Emma!
It looked up at its companions and gestured toward the closet. Two mirrored masks turned toward Ann. Two monstrosities took simultaneous steps toward her hiding place.
Emma they’re going to take us away Emma God please don’t let them take her away from me please please don’t….
The baby shifted on her shoulder, nuzzling a warm forehead against Ann’s neck. A small, warm breeze grazed her collarbone as Emma exhaled.
A black-sheathed hand reached for the door handle.
No…please!
Downstairs, the front door slammed open.
corp-minamiji says
Predator. Prey.
A pair of spheres glowed behind the veil of mixed shadows. Facts flashed against my mind as my feet racketed over the packed dirt: eyes set close – predator; thigh high – too big for fox. I prayed for coyote; the predator whose breath fell close behind my pounding feet was threat enough. Another pair of eyes stalked me from the grove ahead and to the left. Pewter light of the witching hour backlit the head against the eucalyptus. Round. Tufted ears.
Mountain lion. At least two to my left. The ravine to my right loomed with the teeth of its abyss. A root jutted from the path and caught the blunt toe of my boot. My fingers clawed into the rain-packed clay and gravel, nails tearing, palms tattooed by the earth. My ears twisted behind, seeking footsteps, heaving breath, crunching branches, or blessed, damning silence.
Mountain lions. My own breath rasped and seared the confining sternum. ‘Don’t run. Hold your ground. Look big. Don’t act like prey.” Great advice against cats. The beast behind me followed his own rules, set his own traps. I had been stalked and herded into the snare; now he had only to yank the rope to close the noose around me. Perhaps the cats weren’t hungry for terrified veterinarian.
Just another midnight call, a bad calving to pull me from the cocoon of comforter and smooth sheet with the promise of blood, slime, and frayed muscles. A woman made the call – a woman not in evidence as my truck crunched along the gravel toward the lone flashlight. I cut the diesel as I pulled alongside the four-wheeler.
“You can’t get the truck back to where she is. I’ve got water.” His hat, grey in the moonless dim, slunk low over his face. “Load your stuff in the bed of the gator. I’ll take you to her.”
“If we can’t get her up, that’ll make a C-section tricky if it comes to it.”
“Comes to that, I’ll just shoot her.” The hat raked across me.
My spleen froze against my spine. Ignoring the knots forming along my colon, the armored lure of my truck, I forced my body into the gator. The teeth of the tires chomped at the field. My driver said nothing. A dark mound loomed against the silver swells of grass.
“Doesn’t look like she’s moving much. Are you sure she’s still alive?”
The clouds hiding the moon shifted; the sickly glow hit the mound. Instead of the reflective black of sleek Angus cowhide, the moonlight tripped over clods of dirt and dropped into a pit. “What the –?”
“Sorry. Forgot to introduce myself. Leonard Weiss. We’ve met before.”
Cobwebbed darkness of the shed where I crouched behind the algae smeared pipes. Fuming, pushing breath, stale with whiskey. The misshapen nose of my uncle’s ranchhand leering around the tank. “Hey, little rabbit.” Piercing, nauseating pain.
I vomited across his lap and flung myself from the gator. Run. Just run.
Will says
He spoke, "Shoes, all kinds of shoes, the patent leather, the loafers, the boots, the soft leather, the hard leather, red shoes…bubble gum on the soles, bubbles, bubbles in the ocean, lobsters live in the ocean. Lobsters are red…red is the color of blood…blood is life.” He paused. The silence was complete…when it threatened to drive her mad, he continued.
"I like those thigh high boots," he said. His dark eyes darted from side to side in perpetual nervousness. His hand touched his crucifix.
She was terrified, her body shook. Her mind trapped, encased in a power to strong for her to escape.
It whispered to her of caged rooms, strap down tables and man’s folly. It caressed her thoughts, whispered sweet innuendos to her, and at the same time, showed her own madness within, cooing to her, assured her that she was insane, caressed her thoughts intimately.
"The razor edge of the path your bloodied feet walk leads nowhere…." his voice drew quite…the edge of hysteria absent…almost…
"The answers you seek so desperate will not be found without…." he paused…hand stabbed into his dirty jean pocket and pulled out a switchblade. His finger touched the switch and with a very audible click it sprung open, the sleek blade of steel posed…ready for its work…
"Will you dance with the midnight wolf as it howls its dark passion for you? Will you ride the crescent moon and give all that you are? Can you; would you? Will it be your blood dripping from it into the maw of the jagged tooth shark? Will you wear penny loafers when you dance with the beast within or will you wear thigh high boots to caress your creamy thighs?"
He reached down, the dirty broken nails of his hand a contrast to the paleness of his flesh. He grabbed her by her long hair…and very slow, very deliberate, he raised her head up and back, putting a strain on her neck. In his other hand the steel of the switchblade reflected the dim light back, caused a wave of light to dance off the nearby wall…
His eyes rolled in his head and on his face, he felt divine warmth. He felt sanctified in his judgment.
When her mouth flew open and that scream tore from her soul, he heard and his lips pulled back tight into a grimace of a smile. He grunted in satisfaction.
“No, wicked child, it doesn’t lie without you…it is within you…it must be brought forth…” his voice trailed off as the switchblade pressed its razor edge against her stretched jugular.
“I must bring it out of you; rip it out if I must, cut it from where it hides inside you, entwined around your dark soul…if you have a soul. Do you have a soul?” His voice disarmingly soft, a mere whisper…with an edge that hinted of straight jackets and padded rooms and electrical shock treatments and an eternity of madness and abuse.
Sha Boland says
I couldn't see where I was going. My lungs burned in my chest and my breath came in shallow, tight gasps. I tried to direct my breathing down to my struggling, exhausted body, but I couldn't take a deep-enough lungful for it to make any difference. My bare bloodied feet didn't care where they landed – on soft earth, grass, stones, broken concrete or glass, they just kept pounding, tripping, rebalancing.
It was a moonless night and I was shivering but sweating in my thin cotton dress which billowed out around me. The whispering in my ears grew louder until it became a soft humming chant. I realised that I was muttering and singing to myself – a fear-induced mumbling that I couldn't stop. My eyes were watering with the cold, mixed in with tears of terror which dried in tight tracks along my cheeks.
When I reached the tree line, the low branches clawed at me, desperate to trip me and I willed myself to stay upright, to keep going and not to fall into their mossy grip.
My pursuers were gaining on me from all sides. I could hear their quiet, effortless chase which deafened me with its sinister silence. I knew that they calmly accepted the inevitability of my capture, just as I felt the burgeoning terror that I would not escape. The forest was becoming denser and more tangled until I stumbled onto a path of sorts. Time was running out. I was nearly there.
I heard the strangled gurgling of running water to my left. In my panicked state, I could sense that the stream was widening out and that now the ground was becoming boggy with sucking mud. Then, within seconds, too soon, I was in the large grassy clearing. A small herd of wild ponies were startled awake by my sudden arrival. They snorted, whinnied and trotted quickly away into the forest, retreating from the approaching danger. Take me with you, I silently pleaded. But they disappeared and the clearing was empty, except for me.
A cloud moved to reveal a quarter moon. The stream bubbled its toil and trouble and the branches creaked and moaned.
They were coming…
They were here.
I had let myself be herded like a helpless lamb. I had always known that this is where they wanted me to be captured. From out of the trees, the dark hooded figures silently glided towards me; not running, but taking their time. I was a sapling, rooted to the spot, surrounded. I looked up at the racing clouds as they smothered the briefly hopeful moon again. Everything went dark.
Angelica R. Jackson says
Today is turning into a contest day, so many fun choices! Here's my suspenseful entry, from the start of my YA novel, Those Lost at Sea and Drowned:
"Where are you taking me?" I tried to plant my feet, but Miss Bonney roughly pulled me into motion again.
"I'm taking you to the east wing, to put an end to this superstitious nonsense once and for all," she answered, holding my arm in an iron grip. "I will solve two problems with one fell swoop—get some use out of that room, and cure you of lying."
"But I don't lie," I said, my breath coming in puffs as I trotted to keep up.
Miss Bonney snorted. "I suppose you deny telling the other girls that the ghost of the groundskeeper and his dog walk the gardens? Or that Tabitha's late grandmother wanted to speak with her? Some of those girls haven't slept in a week. You're nearly ten years old, Isabelle, you're getting too old for such stories."
"They are not stories. And I told the others that they didn't need to fear these spirits, they don't mean us any harm."
Miss Bonney turned left into a long gallery, raising her candle to get her bearings. This wing of the school was cold and disused, smelling of decay and mildew. I was more curious than
frightened—until we approached the door at the far end.
"What is this place?" I whispered, trembling now.
Miss Bonney fumbled with a ring of keys. "This apartment has been locked up for years; something unfortunate happened here and the staff are convinced it's haunted. But once you've spent the night in it, and you emerge unscathed, I'll prove to them there's no reason to neglect this space."
"And if it is haunted?"
"Impossible. There are no such thing as ghosts, and once you admit that I will let you out."
With a triumphant grunt, she turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open. I turned to run away, but she grabbed me and shoved me inside the room. The edge of a rug caught at my foot, tripping me, and before I could recover the door was closed and locked behind me. She had not given me the candle, but moonlight filtered through the cobwebbed windows.
It was quiet at this end of the building; all the students would be getting ready for bed in their dormitories by now. The furnishings in the room were years out of date and covered in a thick layer of dust. Chairs and small tables were knocked over and broken, from some long-ago disturbance.
Every one of my senses was on edge, alone in this room. My steps lifted the dust on the carpet, and I sneezed. At the sound, the silence in the room took on a new quality.
I froze in place, holding my breath and straining to pick up the slightest noise. Suddenly, there was a flurry of whispers around me, dry and fluttery as the cries of moths. The voices of three girls, overlapping and swirling together, so agitated that I could only pick out a few words.
toscka says
He’d never been a hunter. He’d never been prey either; he might have realised if he had. The boat left the bay and the wind changed direction and the dogs lifted their muzzles. They turned to the north east from where the wind now blew and barked, a deep barrel-chested bark, a bark dogs make when they weigh two hundred pounds and stand three foot tall at the shoulder. The bark of mastiffs stretching towards a scent.
He pressed his face flat to the rock wall. And they came. Curiously at first. Slowly. Until they picked him.
Quite something, mastiffs straining at the leash: the muscle on them, their front legs powering into the sand and the bouncers holding tight to their leads. The tall man streaked his flashlight along the beach. A hundred yards, fifty, closer, threads of saliva spraying from their jaws. One of the bouncers hauled back his charge and stopped and turned to his master. His master waved him onwards: see what’s there…
Coffee, alcohol, smoke, adrenaline, the blood of an Englishman: his smell, Max smell.
The splash of their paws as they bound through shallow water. Twenty feet away now, where the beach narrowed and the rocks began, where he was. The first of the dogs climbed with its head down, its nose where he’d sat not half an hour before, yellow eyes glinting in the moonlight and sniffing and turning and the other joining it. The bouncers climbed behind and the torchlight swept over the rocks. A search light. Camp guards in pursuit of a fugitive. Nothing but a rock wall between and no retreat, no way out, the ocean behind. The dogs lifted their heads.
Max slipped into the water like a seal. A bloated, middle-aged seal.
The flash of the torch
The tall man must have followed them, his torchlight arching over the rocks. Max’s belly broke the surface like a buoy. This was ridiculous. He should stand up. It was a hotel, wasn’t it? Nothing against a guest taking a midnight dip. He should introduce himself: Hello there! Water’s marvellous! You coming in? He wedged his hand beneath a rock and forced himself down, no phosphorescence thank God, just the warmth around him amniotic in the darkness and his breath held agonisingly in what passed for lungs. The torch’s light refracted on the surface, flickering on, and off . He couldn’t hold much longer; the air seeping from him, his body dropping, less buoyant, his breath rising as he sunk, the light flickering, barnacles at his arms, his lungs bulging, bursting, the deadening sound of water, his chest raging and the rocks pressing around him in the dark, and no, he couldn’t, he couldn’t last. He broke the surface and gasped for air.
Philip van Wulven says
“Hey, you guys’d better not land here,” I called, “or there’ll be trouble.”
Before I could tell them there was a much larger reception committee waiting nearby one of them called back. “Who the hell are you? Don’t fucking tell us what to do, kid. We’re a Rhodesian Government Action Force, and we're chasing some of those terrorist bastards.”
“This is Zambia here.” I answered. “You guys can’t just barge in and do what you like. You can fight your war in your own country. Don’t bring it over here.”
“Fuck off, kid,” said the one at the back of the Zodiac. He pointed his gun and sprayed a burst in the general direction of our old Government boat. Their Zodiac rocked as he cut loose, and some bullets hit the wooden hull or ripped through the awning overhead.
Time slowed, so that everything seemed almost frozen in place, and moved with gelatinous grace. Big splinters tore out of the varnished wooden gunwale and spun through the air in slow motion.
Japhet grimaced in pain and grabbed at his arm as the burst went on for an impossibly long time. Sounds faded away. The gunshots sounded muffled and distant.
Everything I saw faded away into a grey blur except for the men across the water who jumped into focus with amazing clarity, and the bright blood which began to leap from Japhet.
With the loaded rifle in my hands, instinct took over.
I raised it to my shoulder and shot back. The blond bearded guy in the Zodiac was clear through the V of the sights as I fired.
I worked the bolt and slid another cartridge in, then looked out over the rifle barrel again. The gun which had wounded Japhet flew out over the water, still spraying bullets as it went, and the shooter was nowhere to be seen.
Several other weapons opened up from the trees lining the far side of the bay, and from among the mud and thatch buildings of the village. Now the Rhodesians realised what they had been about to get into, and revved up the motor to a scream as they cut a great foaming loop around and out into the lake again.
Grey smoke coiled in the air, white foam marked the wake of the black rubber boat. Blood oozed between Japhet's fingers and ran down his arm.
Whistles and jeers broke out from their former quarry as the Action Forces left. Jubilant Freedom Fighters emptied their magazines in long bursts on full automatic, some up at the sky, others in the general direction of their enemies. All just noise and fury, since they were well out of range already.
A heavy silence seemed to lie behind their noisy elation, their voices somehow thin and distant over the still water of the bay and the thinning smoke of gunfire. The foaming muddy wake dissipated, the benches in the shade filled up again.
K Hoss says
A lot of good entries. Nathan, you've got your work cut out for you.
June Bourgo says
As I rounded the bend, I came within twenty feet of a grizzly bear. We both stopped short. I could see he was as startled as I.
I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. My mind worked overtime.
Should I run? No, never run from a bear, black or grizzly.
The bear let out a roar but stood his ground.
Okay . . . should I yell, appear aggressive and large? No, that’s black bears.
The grizzly started to paw at the ground. Then, he lowered his head and moved his shoulders from side to side.
Uh-oh . . . this is definitely a bad sign. Maybe I should drop to the ground and play dead. But what if he drags me away and buries me?
My mind turned to mush, too many questions; not enough answers. In truth, it didn’t matter if I did know what to do. My body felt frozen to the spot. My chest constricted and my breathing became shallow. All time appeared suspended as I stood perfectly still and watched. I knew you should never stare a male gorilla in the eye; he would think you were challenging him. Without a clue as to whether this would work with grizzlies, I lowered my eyes to the ground and waited.
Suddenly, the bear let out a deafening roar and charged. I stifled a scream and closed my eyes tight. Sucking in my breath, I waited with taut muscles. Nothing happened.
Helen says
Title: Webbed
Genre: YA
Julia tapped on the speedometer. “Thirty-one miles per hour — just how they like it.”
Dario glanced at his brothers. Palm down, he motioned with his hand, back and forth.
They nodded and all three crossed wake, leaning bodies nearly parallel, elbows inches from water. The brothers sliced again, a triple jetstream plume as their slaloms cut deep into the lake.
"They’re beautiful,” I whispered.
Julia peered into the rearview mirror and smiled. “Yeah, they’re something else,” she said. “But this is just their warm up.”
Dario put his hand out flat and they fell in line behind the boat. He looked at Luke behind him, and thumbed a jerking “out of here” signal.
Julia straightened in her seat. “Okay, here they go.” She slowed the boat a tick and adjusted the boat’s panoramic mirror. “Try to watch their skis,” she said over the roar of the motor. “We’ve already lost a couple of nice ones this summer.”
My eyes widened. “They’re dropping their slaloms?”
Julia watched me out of the corner of her sunglasses. “They don’t actually need the skis, Kat.” She chuckled at my confused expression. “Watch. You’ll see.”
For a moment, they balanced on one ski and a bare foot. Dario flashed a countdown with his fingers. On three, they hopped out of their bindings and dug both heels into the water. Three skis bobbed away, fading fast.
“Hold on,” said Julia. “This boat’s gonna start rocking.”
Dario quickly slid alongside Nic. He leaned back, plowing both heels in the fast moving water. The spray drenched Nic who flew right back over after Dario.
Julia was right; the boat listed sideways with the weight of them. I grabbed the seat.
Luke pulled in his rope until he was even with Nic. Grinning wickedly, he slammed into him then quickly let go, dropping back out of reach.
Nic recovered. Jumping wake, he tried to retaliate, but overshot and instead smashed sideways into Dario. I could hear the sickening whack of wet flesh against wet flesh, a brutal rugby of weaving ropes and full body contact.
I winced. “Ouch.” Straining, I peered over Julia’s shoulder. “Forty miles an hour?”
She smiled. “It’s the webs,” she said with a shrug. “We go faster, they have fun.”
Luke pursed his mouth, and pulled in, a tug of war against the MasterCraft boat. The muscles in his chest flexed and popped.
Dario saw him. With a war cry, he skidded back over the wake and used the swing of his weight to crash, full force, into Luke.
He couldn’t hang on. The two hurtled into water, ski ropes flying in the air. Nic dropped his, shaking his head as he sank into the water.
“They’re down!” I shouted.
Julia U-turned toward the bobbing dots.
I leaned over the windshield, counting heads. “Julia,” I said.
A frown crossed her face. She already had the boat floored. “I don’t see him either.”
LC says
The repetitious beating of the chambers in my heart faintly presented themselves in my mind, thump…
Thump… thump…
Then, I sensed nothing, no sound, no feeling, nothing, only him, smoothly pushing me away. I took a deep breath, inhaling all that I could, before he left my trembling lips. My eyes opened to the iridescent bubble that had protected us once before. My hands glistened, and once again, he had not killed me. Samuel’s eyes neared their white glow, the sign of the burden he carried. His body twitched the same way it had, right before he killed, Nate.
“I believe in you,” he whispered, ripping his own hands from my waist and stepping back. All of my senses returned. My heart began to race once more, as I became aware of my surroundings.
“Now, fly. Fly Jena, before I cannot contain this anymore.” His mouth roared, but his words didn’t effect me. I stood shocked, and suddenly more terrified than I had ever been.
Fly, with these wings? My reflexes were slow, as I studied the silent crowd. The elder spoke once more “Kill her Samuel, the girl must die by her birthday, you know this, or let her destroy us all.” He stood from his throne. “There is no place for her in this life, or in death. I demand you take her now!” He yelled, as he peered with his beady black eyes towards him. Samuel didn’t respond. His fiery gaze remained on me.
“Go Jena. Now!” His voice shrieked in demand and terror, above the old angels. His body looked larger now. Veins twisted up his forearms, from his cinched fists. I wanted to touch him. He was in so much pain. Everyone watched in amazement. Samuel, the angel of death, was not only about to disobey a direct command from them, but he was about to disobey his own reason for existence. My body did not give my mind or anyone else time to react. Strong now, my thin wings did exactly what they longed to do. I shot up towards the sky, but at the sight of me fleeing, like a dog chasing a ball, his instincts overtook him, and he leaped after me. Weak, he only grazed my leg, pain hit and shot through me like a bullet, disturbing my near fatal slumber.
I found myself hurling out of my bed, heart pounding. I’m awake, but more importantly, staring at my sweat drenched palms, I’m alive.
Jm Diaz says
“If I don’t see those toys picked up, I’m going to tear into your asses,” Lydia said.
The sound of her voice brought the man hidden in the closest back from the alcove of his memory. He pushed aside a perfumed sailor’s coat and placed his hand on the doorknob of the closet when he heard Lydia walking into the bedroom. He held his breath, listening to her, waiting.
Lydia sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. The sight of the flame took the man’s breath away. He closed his eyes as the memories from the most horrific night in his life replayed once again.
His mother sat on the floor, inebriated, half-asleep with a lit cigarette in her hand. After just a few minutes of stillness, her head bobbed and she jerked back up overcompensating for the momentary loss of awareness. However, just few seconds later, her chin went to her chest and this time it stayed. The cigarette slid from her fingers. The tequila soaked carpet welcomed the burning tobacco and ignited in a terrifying infernal dance, tracing the path laid for it by the spilled liquor. The flames danced over the bed and raced up Martin’s – her youngest’s – covers, combusting over the boy and his alcohol soaked pajamas. The searing pain on the right attacked Martin, his hand felt as though it was melting right off his body while the right side of his face felt as if he had been slapped y the devil himself. Perhaps, that wasn’t too off track.
Fear however, was more powerful, and Martin leapt out his bed without making a noise. He feared his mama more than the excruciating, torturing pain incinerating his body. He crawled over his brother’s bed on the way out of the bedroom, while flames followed his path. His pajamas melted onto his skin and then his skin melted over his flesh. He bit his lip, forcing himself not to scream.
Within seconds, the flames reached the mother’s pants and she jumped up in instantaneous sobriety. She saw Martin’s bed empty but the other bed with a body still laying on it.
“Enrique!” A yelp escaped from her.
The flames had encircled Ricky’s bed forming a wall. Outside the bedroom, Martin rolled on the floor hoping, praying and trying to put out the flames. He could no longer contain it and a wail of pain escaped his lungs. He screamed and kicked as the tears ran down his face. The heat of his cheek caused all moisture to evaporate before they left his scorched eye. His mother screamed. She called out to her oldest son but he did not move. The flames danced atop his bed.
She turned to Martin, as he still struggled on the floor, though most of the flames over him had already extinguished. He raised his hand out to her, his voice barely a whisper, “Mama.”
“You let him die, you coward. You ran out to save your own skin, and left your brother there.” She said to him, slapping away his pleading hand. She ran downstairs and called the fire department.
His eyes shot open and his brow knotted. Lydia sounded an awful lot like his mother.
Summer Foovay says
Miss Young and Pretty’s boyfriend and a couple of his thug friends were kneeling on the sidewalk peeking over the window sill through the parting in the curtains she had casually twitched aside. The boyfriend held a digital camera. He started taking shots of the big ugly rancher plying the teen prostitute with beers. The thugs were rather impressed when Gary peeled off his clothes to reveal a thick, muscular body crisscrossed with scars from a hundred accidents and a thousand whippings. The boyfriend felt the first twinge of doubt. This might not be a good man to cross. He looked pretty tough.
Gary shoved the girl down on all fours and entered her from the rear, thrusting so hard her head bounced off the headboard. Drunk as she was, she just laughed. He slapped her hard on the ass, leaving an angry red hand shape that quickly began turning dark with blood. She squealed – but with pain or delight it was hard to tell.
One of the thugs, believing that Gary would be a bit preoccupied with his dick sunk into tight teen pussy, crept over to see if he could get into the truck and get that big shotgun hanging in the back window. The boyfriend suddenly stood up, exclaiming “Fuck!” when he saw the big ugly man reach out and twist Miss Young and Pretty’s head around on her neck with a single swipe of his massive hands – the same move a cougar uses to snap the neck of a deer. A single loud crack and Miss Young and Pretty was Miss Young and Dead. And Gary heard them outside.
Still naked, he leapt out of the bed and was at the door in another stride. Jerking it open, he reached out with one long arm and snatched the boyfriend by his collar. The thug at the truck took one look and ran. The other was already running down the alley. Snarling, Gary yanked the boyfriend into the motel room and slammed the door.
The boy was young and quick, but he was no match for the massive, heavily muscled and experienced killer. Gary threw him on the floor, knelt on his chest and pounded the boys face with his fists as his weight slowly suffocated the kid. When the would be blackmailers face looked like pizza, Gary got up and kicked him in the ribs. Miss Young and Pretty lay dead across the bed, her head twisted at an impossible angle.
Gary smiled. Still naked, he walked into the shower to clean off the blood and sex fluids. Fifteen minutes later he walked out of the room, clean and dressed, and climbed into his truck. Checked on the shotgun – yep, it was still back there. Gary pulled out of the motel through the alley. No one had seen his truck, no one had his real name.
He was on his way to find Miss Perfect Lily.
The camera lay abandoned on the sidewalk.
Kam Oi Lee says
We came up against a two-story barricade of compacted garbage, one of many such structures in the enormous garbage dump. Old tires, glass bottles and household waste, rags and metal scrap and busted furniture. These strata had been accreting, layer upon layer, for more than a hundred years.
For a moment, we stared each other down. My quarry stood frozen, eyes wide and unblinking like those of a startled animal. Then, with a soft flicker of intent, he turned and bolted along the base of the wall.
He was lean and whippet-like, a fast runner. It was all I could do to keep him in sight. He ducked around a corner and I followed him into a maze where bulkheads of refuse cast deep shadows. We vaulted a ditch of raw effluent, then plunged into a narrow, wet tunnel and ran splashing along in near-darkness, finally to emerge in a bright clearing where a crew of ragged scavengers were disassembling some wreck of an ancient hovercar.
Uneven footing on the hard-packed ground. My breath coming in gasps into the frosted air. A welter of odors and sounds–garbage, oil, chemical reek, clink of metal on metal, phrases of groundslang tossed back and forth by the wrecking crew, the whisper of their emanations adding to the raging static in my head.
He sprinted to the edge of the clearing and leaped, catching some handhold he knew was there, scrambling to a jagged ledge. Spike of his triumph in my mind, laced with the arrogance I knew well. I put a hand to the refuse bulkhead, shoved my boot into a crevice, and hauled myself up on the ledge. A panicked moment, clinging to the rough wall with my fingertips until I got my balance. Inward curses at myself for being so out of shape. Touch of amusement from my quarry as he darted lightly along the narrowing ledge, then slipped through a hole.
I wedged the toe of one boot into the melange, reached out and found the opening with my hand. His escape hatch was a narrow slit I might have had trouble fitting through even before I got fat. Out of breath, gripping with my fingertips. Go through or drop down? Static and throb behind my eyes. I could still sense him on the other side, still close. Surge of intent quickly squelched. Something moving in his mind, like a weighted-down corpse in an oily sea. Danger danger danger–
I didn't come all this way to lose him now. I squeezed into the crevice, reached out blindly to tear away a chunk of the wall, and gasped as I felt something sharp, slicing open the palm of my hand. Ignored it and broke away more handfuls of trash, making my own path. Pushed through at last, breathless, my hands slick with blood. Looked up into the blunt metallic snout of a weapon, and above it, his merciless dark eyes.
Jalisa says
She yanked at the latch behind her back and slammed backwards into the door, trying to knock it open. It didn’t budge. “Dammit, open!”
The monster clicked up the stone steps, triangular head turning this way and that curiously. It reached its long clamp toward her, opening the metal pinchers as it drew nearer. She threw herself backwards as hard as she could and the doors burst open, sending her sprawling rearwards to smack her head on the wooden floor. Following her, the monster was forced to bow beneath door’s archway, much shorter than its tall height.
With her breath knocked out of her, Zoe struggled to get to her feet, barely getting to her hands and knees before the monster threw a bench out of its way to get to her. The bench exploded and splintered against the stone wall, spraying sharp wood chips across the room. Zoe flinched, ducking to crawl under the set of benches that lined the room. The monster following her made a whirring noise as if it were aggravated, tossing benches aside as if they were toys.
“You don’t have to do this,” Zoe called, thinking maybe to slow it down, give her time to think of something. It didn’t reply, of course. “You could just leave and act like you never found me.” Another bench flew into the air and Zoe closed her eyes for a long second before crawling out from under one of the few benches left.
The monster stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the broken pieces and splinters of the destroyed benches, some pulp still floating in the air around its great, metal head.
“Stop!” Zoe ordered as it jerked toward her suddenly. It stopped for a second before resuming its stride. She jumped behind the judge’s bench just as the monster’s clamp closed on one of her ankles. It snapped shut with a force that felt like it was crushing her bones. She squeaked in pain, her bag slamming into shoulder as the mechanical assassin attempted to lift her from the ground.
Zoe scrabbled for a hold, clammy hands slipping in their own sweat. She managed to grab a hold of a desk leg but her hands were ripped free, causing her hands to cramp from how hard she’d been holding on. Her fingernails left scores up the leg and across the desktop. She couldn’t hold on. It was impossible and the monster lifted her upside down, bringing her close to its glinting beak.
It prodded her painfully before turning its head, revealing glowing red runes etched into its golden metal and a black pit, which she assumed to be its eye.
“Subject Zoe Soul acquired,” it hissed. Its voice was like a whisper coming from a long, metallic hallway. The pit that was its eye widened somehow, the linked metal lid spiraling away in a soft shutter noise
“How nice to finally put a face to the name Zoe Soul,” a disembodied voice declared.
Eric S says
When the tusker handed Delilah Black the data capsule, she looked blankly at him. The short, furry alien said, “These files tell the history of the war between two species. The Tallikans were the first intelligent life that the Mokatas encountered. These video reports, made by the Mokatas, prove what happened. They exterminated the Tallikans. This information could erode their power, might even break the economic stranglehold they have on so many worlds.”
Delilah held the tiny capsule in her hand, considering. “You think that this information will incite rebellion?”
“Yes,” the old tusker replied. “The Mokatas play off other species against each other, but if their true aims were known…”
He stopped speaking as Tendavi entered the room with two Mokata security personnel.
“Excuse me, Ms. Black,” Tendavi said. “This person is wanted for questioning with regard to a crime.”
As the two guards came forward, Delilah stepped back, hiding behind them as she slipped the data capsule into the port of her aide unit. The tusker did not protest or even look at her as he was led away.
“What did he give you?” said Tendavi, betraying no more emotion than a Mokata ever did.
“A data capsule,” Delilah said. She reached into her pouch, removed it, and handed it to him.
“I will require your aide unit as well.”
“Impossible,” she said. “This unit contains sensitive files. I am not permitted to allow you access.”
“Sorry, Ms. Black, I must insist that you surrender your unit.” He reached for his communicator link.
She jabbed him with stiff fingers in the middle of his abdomen, as she had been taught, then hammered him once on the side of his head. She caught him as he fell, and eased him to the floor. She didn't know what chance she had of getting out of the Mokata section of the station before their security caught up with her, but it looked like she had no choice but to try. Her aide had loaded all of the files, and it was priceless information.
Delilah closed the door and walked quickly along the corridor, but did not run. There were certainly cameras that recorded everything in the area, but perhaps nobody had been watching just now. She might have a few moments left before they caught on.
A noise behind her. Two Mokata personnel were moving quickly in her direction. She turned onto a different corridor, and she bolted. She turned again and found herself at an airlock. She opened the door and stepped inside, pulled the door shut and quickly slapped the button that would release pressure and open the outer door. Then, as the Mokata guards pounded on the door behind her, she realized there was no pressure suit in the airlock. How long could she survive in the moon's thin atmosphere? Before the outer door fully opened, Delilah stepped out onto the sands of the alien moon.
jeffrey says
Action Suspense sequence:
Peering from around the corner of the building, Andrea studied the abode of her intended target. The old Hotel to most people appeared abandoned, however, looks can be deceiving.
Gnawing her lip thoughtfully Andrea considered the building for a moment more until, like a magic eye puzzle her vision suddenly blurred and reality snapped into place. Where the hotel had stood old and abandoned before, it was now maintained and secure.
The illusion had hid more than the building. Moving with liquid grace, a man slid through the shadows. He left no trace in the snow, and silence made more noise than he. Two others soon joined the first as he continued his patrol.
The fact that very little Intel had been given spoke volumes about the dangerous nature of her target. It took extreme resources to have vampires as your personal guards. One false step and there would be an opening in the hunter’s ranks.
Waiting for a lone car to pass, Andrea strolled out into the lighted area of the street. Long, sable hair rustled against the rich leather of her trench coat and black, knee-high boots cracked on the pavement as she strode with practiced innocence.
Notice me, Notice me, and then dismiss me as just another stupid norm. After all, she was merely a young woman who, having had too much to drink was simply out for a walk to clear her senses.
Stumbling closer to the side lot, Andrea pretending to check the strap on her boot, set her gaze past where the guards had gathered, trying to convince them with her performance that she did not see them. A nervous moment ticked by as they stood watching her. Andrea’s lips curled ever so slightly into a smile as they turned.
It was in this instant she sprang at them. Taking the first one in the head caused a satisfying crack of bone while the second was already clawing at his throat where Andrea's gleaming knife protruded.
The third reacted but far too late for him. Having time only to turn before Andrea plunged her fist into his chest, he stared in shock. Ripping his blackened heart out with a sickly sucking sound, casually she tossed it down.
Andrea breathed out with a satisfied sigh as she viewed the carnage she had wrought.
God, I love my job.
The truth was she reveled in watching as she quenched the spark of life in their eyes, but by necessity, these kills had to be quick.
Pity.
Silently moving to the side of the hotel, she looked to the lighted rooms of the top floor. Blackwell did not know it yet, but death was on its way and his suite would soon be his tomb.
Andrea started her accent, her fingers expertly finding purchase on the rough stone. The cold winter wind hammered in futility at her. She was death, she was the hunter, and nothing would block her as she sought out her ultimate quarry.
RaShelle says
Title: When Earth Freezes Over
When I asked death to come calling, I didn’t expect I’d have to carry her to my room. In fact, I never wanted to see home again. My life was over. The note had been written, explaining everything to my parents, who wouldn’t be back from their vacation in the Bahamas for three weeks. God love ‘em—or not.
I scored ten balloons just to be sure. No attempted suicide. Dad was always saying, “Son, you do something, I don’t care if its football or grades, you better damn sure give it one-hundred-and-ten percent.” Well that’s how this was gonna happen. I was still kinda new to drugging, having only tried Heroin once. The dealer knew me, though, since several of my dumbass friends had recently joined the rehab ranks. He figured I was stocking up.
After the deal and the note, I drove my Porsche up Farmington Canyon, which is in the Rocky Mountains of Utah. It’s paved until you reach the gate and there are houses lining either side of the road. I pulled up along the last house on the left and parked. Shutting off the lights, I got out, grabbed my pack loaded with the heroin-filled balloons and hiked the rest of the way. The moon was full, so a flashlight wasn’t necessary, neither was thinking too much. I had my plan and I was following through. When I reached the gate, I stepped over. It was gravel for about a hundred feet, after, the path became dirt. I was surrounded on either side by brush and trees.
I heard scurries of animals and crickets. You’d suppose I would’ve been afraid, but I felt right, for once. I wasn’t gonna go too far up the trail before I got down to business though. The idea of wild animals having at me didn’t thrill me, I’m not gonna lie. But having Anita, our housekeeper, find me at the house would’ve been wrong too. I knew someone would stumble on me out here before long.
I was pulling my pack off when I heard a sound like a plane and Fourth of July fireworks in the sky. I looked up to see a fireball falling and it was heading right toward me. It was one of those moments where I quickly glanced around, dying to know if someone else saw what I did, but I was alone. It was getting closer fast, so I booked it. All thoughts of suicide vanished. I was going down my way, not in a ball of fiery mass. When I reached the gate, I hurtled it, stumbling when the mass collided with the ground. It was smaller than I thought it’d be. I turned to look, expecting to see what, I don’t know. I guess a hole in the ground.
Instead, I saw a naked girl.
I ran back, kinda freaked. “Are you okay? Hello?
“Hello.”
“What the hell happened?”
She didn’t answer me. “What’s your name?”
“Death.”
Sommer says
From chapter 17 of my current WIP. YA/Dystopian/Zombies. 500 words on the nose
-Sommer Leigh
http://www.sommerleigh.com
——–
“Zoe!”
James hauled her across the roof by her jacket and the world spun and upended itself. She didn't know where she was or what was going on, only that there was screaming, lots of screaming, more screaming than six people can do alone, shingles scraped her cheek, and a monsoon sky of grays and blacks rocked above her like the sea.
She twisted to her knees, righted herself, and stood. Gazing across to the glowing horizon, she saw dozens of infected pouring from the forest onto the highway. They rushed the house, driven by human scent and madness.
“Zoe!” James’s voice broke her focus and she grabbed their bag of loot and dove through the window.
Sam and Molly led them east up the highway. Alex kept pace with Fenn, whose stamina wouldn’t hold out. Weeds and broken limestone did them no favors as they careened down the embankment, half-sliding on grass slick with morning dew. Somehow Zoe kept her balance and hit the concrete running.
Three minutes, maybe four, passed between James's first screams and the distance they'd already put between them and the house. Sam and Molly were furthest ahead, black shapes now and nothing more. With a cry James pivoted at his ankles and crashed. He was at once beside her, then gone.
She slid and doubled back as soon as she realized he wasn't beside her. He lay dazed from the impact.
“James get up! You must get up.” She dragged him up only to have him jerked back to his knees. He howled in surprise and pain and reached for his ankle.
“I…I can't stand! Get, Zoe. Get out of here!”
“No. Shut up.”
“Zoe.”
“No!”
Thorny weeds entangled his foot, but the vines were too tough and she was shaking too hard to free him. It wouldn't matter once she did; he could barely stand, never mind run, and the horde, braying like a pack of dogs, was closing in.
It was a fool’s task. She couldn’t rip him free, and she couldn’t leave him behind. She’d have stayed there until the very end, but Alex appeared, shoved her back, and sliced James free with a small knife.
“Get on your feet Zoe,” Alex commanded as he dragged her brother to his feet, “and run.”
She couldn't stand. She wanted to, but she froze watching them. Despite Alex’s set determination, they were both hobbled by James’s dead weight. Further away Sam, Molly, and Fenn vacillated over helping or leaving, but seemed unable to do either. Watching them all in the morning gloom, she now understood the Watch's rule, and they were each one of them fools. To try and save one, the one she loved most in this world, they were all going to die.
When James collapsed again, she was on her feet. Zoe caught Alex's arm, pulled his eyes to her, worried, determined, impossibly blue, and dug her nails into his skin so that he would understand her completely.
“Protect him.”
Anonymous says
By N.Coleman
Only a millisecond separated the sudden pungency from the realization that I was face to face with a grizzly. It had been almost entirely camouflaged by the brown forest foliage. Two things immediately struck me: its size and its indifferent glare.
I stopped mid-stride. Our eyes locked, and for a moment neither of us moved. Its breath came in low, heavy heaves. Be smart, I thought, ignoring the painful throbbing against my ribs. Be calm. The only advice I could recall–play dead, make noise, don’t run–was in reference to black bears and was hardly appropriate in such proximity. Maintaining eye contact, I took one shaky step backwards. It watched me with a vigilant stare. My plan was to slowly edge away, but when it let out a deep, powerful groan, my body turned on its own accord, taking off into the forest at an unprecedented sprint.
I didn’t need to glance behind. The popping sticks and trembling forest floor assured me I was being pursued. You can’t outrun a bear, my uncle had once told me. But I couldn’t stop. My body had adopted its own rhythm, was propelling itself expertly through the thick woods, ducking under branches, dodging trees and rocks.
For the first 20 seconds, I managed to maintain momentum. My muscles, though they burned from the sudden exertion, showed no signs of fatigue. Suddenly, my right foot caught a tree root and I was launched head first, falling hard into a tangle of brush and branches. I edged forward, crawling, grabbing frantically at ferns and saplings which instantly uprooted in my hands. The heaving and snapping twigs grew louder, but I dared not look. I reached for a bigger tree, pulled myself up, and took off again. It’s playing with me, I realized. It could have easily caught me by now. It’s just having some fun before the massacre.
My breath escaped in short heavy puffs and lactic acid stung my throat. Just as I felt my energy waning, the bear let out another roar and the heat of its breath on my back provided another burst. My limbs accelerated again, pushing me forward for another few seconds. This can’t go on. My rational mind had returned and was now searching desperately for a solution before my body lost its impetus. The eyes! Yes! That’s what you were supposed to do.
In an instant, I came to a halt and whirled around. As the beast thrust towards me I plunged my index and middle finger deep into its warm wet socket. It let out a wild bellow, recoiling in pain and confusion. I turned and ran again, tears obscuring my vision. I’m sorry. Forgive me. It was your eye or my life.
jaker says
excerpt from McGee's Justice – a completed novel. The good guy's been tricked into drinking whiskey laced with strychnine.
Once Kate disappeared, Jeb kicked open the office door with the sole of his boot, gun ready, and pushed Satch out. He expected to find himself staring into three or more guns. But the little dealer stood over by the bar, hands empty. Emil and the other gunman still sat at their tables. They seemed unworried, even confident.
Jeb swallowed against a sudden coppery taste in his mouth. What had he missed? They should have been waiting with Mickey by the door. Didn’t matter. A few more steps and the job would be accomplished. Then get the signed papers safely posted to W.H. Morgan.
Then he’d come back and clean out this place.
He forced Satch between empty tables to the middle of the barroom. Still no one confronted him. “Tell them to stay put,” Jeb ordered, and loosened his arm so Satch could speak.
Satch’s lungs heaved. He wheezed. In a raspy voice he said, “Do as he says.”
Jeb became vaguely aware of a shape forming above him among the black electrical wires tacked across the pressed tin ceiling and down to the chandeliers. A dark shape that was no more than a shadow, but seemed to widen into leathery wings the size of blankets. It swooped down from between the chandeliers like a thick woolen cloak. Terror gripped him so fiercely it took all his willpower to keep from fleeing in panic. He thrashed his arms at the hideous thing. The pound of a heavy object hitting the floor reverberated inside his head.
What’s happening to me?
Inches tall and far away, Emil rose from his chair. The tiny bald killer reached into a toy boot and jerked out something that looked like the tip of a sewing needle.
Waves of sheer panic gripped Jeb. He felt a scream rip from his throat. A tiny dripping sound from behind the bar sent bolts of unspeakable agony into nerve endings throughout his body.
Satch’s grinning face loomed into view.
How did he get away?
Jeb lifted his gun. It wasn’t there. He looked down. The weapon had melted into a shiny puddle of metal at his feet.
He looked up again.
Slow as the march of time, sheets of pink skin began to slough off Satch’s cheeks and forehead. The flesh peeled away. Cracks shaped like forked lightening crawled up the exposed yellowish bones and onto the skull.
A disembodied fist appeared, floating toward Jeb’s face.
The world exploded into a dazzling kaleidoscope of jagged colors.
Jeb couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut.
He tried to move his feet, but they refused to obey.
Knives stabbed and slashed inside his guts.
Knuckled claws swarmed under his skin and clamped down like iron vices on the muscles throughout his body.
The air whooshed from his lungs and he couldn’t draw more.
Icy, leathery wings folded around his head and shoulders and the colors before his eyes fluttered to gray vapor.
Air.
Why wasn’t he breathing?
Cottony dullness began to muffle his mind.
Anonymous says
NRT from Authonomy. computerone@live.co.uk
Title: Power Struggle.
Uninhibited testosterone fills the air within the lesiure centre. We are Saint Augustines. We are the hardest school in this area. Probably the hardest school in the world. With our blue blazers, grey trousers and yellow, blue and red ties, we are smartly attired; but we are lethal. All it takes is one look from the nancy boys of Heriot-Walsh Secondary and the battle lines are drawn.
If you stare us out, you challenge us, one and all. We are united. They are dead.
This day was supposed to be about choosing our future career paths. All of the local schools brought together in one venue. Stupid idea. What did they think was going to happen. We are not interested in the little tables with brochures, university guides and twee advisers telling us about the great opportunities which await us. This is about the here and now. This is about territory, respect and bragging rights. That's what gets the girls, that's what makes us men.
There was six of us. Quickly the word spreads and now there are ten of us. More on the way. But we can't do this here.
The walking dead from Heriot-Walsh make their way out of the main hall. We follow.
"You boys," our head of year Mr Walmsley calls out, "where are you going?"
"Toilet, Sir," replies Jamie, a mid-ranking soldier in our crew.
Mr Walmsley raises a finger. "Don't be long. Don't make me come looking for you."
Our leader, Johny Palmer, forces a fake smile. That in itself should've alerted old Walmsley of what was about to go down, but he's too much of a senile dipstick to even know what day it is. "Yes Sir," Johny says as we walk away; then he mutters under his breath, "Fuck you, Sir."
There are fourteen of us now. We make our way through the foyer. A few teachers are standing about; they are not from our school, so they have no authority over us.
Through the glass of the main entrance doors we see our prey.
What am I doing here. These are my boys; my gang; my posse; my brothers; but I don't really want to fight anyone. I'm the brains of the outfit. The rest of them are the bad boys, the remedial learners, the troubled children. My parents do not beat me, lock me in cupboards or deny me anything.
There are only about seven of them. Johny walks up to the biggest and ugliest member of their group. "You got a cigarette mate?" Johny asks.
"Nah mate, don't smoke."
"Go and buy me some then, prick."
The big kid from Heriot-Walsh straightens his stance. Squaring up to Johny Palmer gets you one thing…Smack; Right across the kid's face.
The rest of them from Heriot-Walsh show they're not so dumb and leg it. They sprint off round the side of the leisure centre. I hesitate. Not only am I the brains but I'm the fastest. I could catch them easy. I hold back, moving at practically walking pace. I can do the 100m in under eleven seconds. Now just doesn't feel like the time to show off that speed.
As I round the corner I see I'm justified in my restraint…It was an ambush.
Fair enough. We'll learn and come back harder next time.
Ermo says
The thwack-thwack-thwack of the helicopter blades drew closer. Its rapid search lights moved in the distance and higlighted section after section of cold sand. Manuel and I trudged forward in a slow race to the border. We felt secure under our blanket of darkness. The Sonoran Desert dune arched to a plateau and then opened into a vast expanse of sand. I turned back to look at Manuel. He walked several paces behind me. His burgeoning mustache reminded me that he was more man than I.
The fumes of the low-grade gasoline still dancing in my nostrils reminded me of our earlier dune buggy race. The bruises on my legs stood as intimate reminders of the near final turn rollover. I clutched the roll cage so hard my fingertips turned blood red. Still, I managed to right the buggy as it sent plumes of sand onto the cheering spectators.
A faint whinnie of a horse jolted me from my daydream. We stopped. The hushed conversation of strangers emanated from the darkness. Still as cacti, we waited for the voices to disappear. Manuel had more to lose. When the border control catches an illegal, they beat the sand out of them. At least around here. They catch me and I'll get reprimanded with angry eyes and a shaken nightstick. Grandpa will do much worse should he find out I crossed the border again.
Manuel tried to pass me on that final turn but I accelerated to the inside to cut him off. He made an abrupt turn of his buggy and smashed the corn stalk marker. Meanwhile, I had overcompensated for my spin out and I careened out of bounds.
A gentle breeze wiped the hair from my sun-drenched face and it carried no voices. We started walking again. The desert dipped and rose like a heaving chest and the chain fence marking the border appeared as a line on the horizon. Thwack-thwack-thwack. The helicopter crept towards us in the night sky. Manuel ran.
I swerved hard to the left and depressed the accelerator to the floor. The engine spat out a billow of black smoke. Manuel's buggy bounced past me towards the painted finish line. I swore I could see his dimples as he passed.
Manuel's sandals pounded up and down on the dune and I followed. The border fence just yards away. THWACK-THWACK-THWACK. The helicopter hovered above us. Its lights illuminated circles around us until one light swallowed Manuel whole.
My engine gave one last spurt of black smoke before it collapsed into a silent pile of metal. I could see Manuel's outstretched arms in celebration as he crossed the finish line.
A mounted officer knocked me down as he sped past. I picked my head up to see Manuel's outstretched arms grabbing the fence. The officer dismounted. Manuel struggled against his arms but he was subdued before I had spit the last grains of sand out of my mouth.
Susan says
Drew shouldn’t be here! my brain screamed.
This was my safe place, where because of his expulsion, he wasn’t allowed to be. All week I’d been telling myself that Josh and I were safe at school, that Drew couldn’t hurt us here. My stomach plummeted as I realized how stupid I had been, thinking I could escape him. All the fear of Friday night flooded back over me. He was here as a warning. Even in my crazy state of mind, I could comprehend that.
Drew was standing by his truck, flirting with a ninth grade girl. Suddenly, I wasn’t scared. I was angry. Angrier than I’d been the whole week. Angrier than I’d been in my whole life.
Angry.
Livid.
Vicious.
Rabid.
Crazy.
I wanted to hurt him.
He can’t do anything to you or Josh with all these people around!
The thought roared through my head, and I didn’t try to fight it.
I let it carry me.
Not even dropping my backpack, I took off on a dead run. It was as if everyone else in the parking lot was in slow motion except for me.
I. Was. Speed.
I flew over the gravel like a cheetah, the wind at my back. I’d never felt freer with all that adrenaline pumping through me. Just before I reached him, my backpack slid off my shoulders hitting the ground with a thud.
And I was airborne.
He never saw it coming.
I slammed into his back, knocking him face first into the gravel. Before we’d even hit the ground, I was punching him with both fists on the back of his skull. It only lasted a few seconds before he realized what was going on and tried to roll over under my weight. Without even thinking, I grabbed his left arm and twisted it behind his back, paralyzing him. With my right elbow, I shoved his cheek down hard into the gravel. There was a crowd encircled around us, and they were all looking at me as if I’d lost my mind. I didn’t care and no one tried to stop me—too amazed by the uneven fight happening at their feet. Drew was watching me, out of the corner of his eye. Fear pressed into his eyes, and I fed off of it. I knew I had only seconds before Josh and Cole got to me.
My fingers curled through his hair, ripping it from his scalp, wanting to give him a small taste of how it felt.
“I’m going to kill you, Emily,” he whimpered, though it was hard to understand with his lips contorted at a weird angle.
“Not if I kill you first.” I picked his head up and slammed it into the ground. “Don’t come here again or I just might go a little crazier, but I won’t let you hurt Josh!” I hissed.
Just then, two sets of hands grabbed me, Cole’s and Josh’s, pulling me to my feet.
Zeig-Zag says
DARK MOUNTAIN
Fantasy
Avoiding the outcropping of boulders, Jerrod oriented himself in the river, water eddying around his ears. The freezing water stiffened and slowed his muscles. He clenched his jaw to the involuntary chattering of his teeth. In the crook of his arm, Marta felt limp and cold.
With his free arm, he stroked across the river, flowing with the current to the shoals. White foam punctuated the water, splitting it with spray. The dark waves turned to milky froth along the edges of the rapidly increasing boulders. In a jerk, his body pitched forward in the torrents, the river plunging downhill to swifter waters. The horror of losing control frightened him. A flash of terrorizing realization broke through his mind.
The rapids.
The rapids led to the falls.
Free arm flailing in the rush, he navigated with his legs forward, hoisting Marta up on his chest. If they had any chance of survival, it was this way. Expending all his effort, he steered them clear of boulders. He thrashed about, hoping to grasp something to slow their pace, scraping his head along a jagged rock instead. The wound ached in the cold. He felt the life flow out of him.
Accelerating with uncontrollable speed, the river plunged his leg against another rock. Ignoring the throbbing bruise on his left thigh, he struggled to keep Marta's face above water, alternating arms to keep balance, praying she was still alive. Each turn dunked him under the flow, filling his mouth and ears with foam.
When he surfaced, all noise faded away except one large blur. At first, he thought the water muted his ears, until the sound, like of many winds, roared with unmistakable truth.
The falls.
Jerrod gripped Marta tighter, calculating his choices. He had not jumped in the swollen river to lose her now. But he doubted he could pull her lifeless body from the crushing undertow of the sixty foot falls. He wasn't even sure she was alive. If she was breathing, it was shallow. But he had to act as though she lived.
In an instant, he felt his airborne body forced downward by the rush of water. Blindly, he flung Marta's unconscious body far from the falls hoping to avoid the tow of the undercurrent.
Jerrod's gut felt suspended in the air as he plummeted downward. The turmoil of the frothy cataract blocked out any thought or movement. He struggled for breath the instant before he plunged into the water.
Under water, continuing pressure forced him downward as volumes of water oppressed him. He struggled under the inundation, trying to right himself. Disoriented, lungs bursting, he swam straight out, away from the cascade. In long strokes, he fought the undercurrent, despite his injuries. But the water hauled him back under. Aching, throbbing, his lungs burning for air, he exploded his muscles, forcing them to do his will, to pull harder, to kick faster. In his mind, he beat a rhythm to his strokes. "For Marta. For Marta. For Marta."
grafiksad says
I looked back, the two combines were rolling in behind us. A third was coming straight at us. Kitty slowed down. I heard the pitch of the engines go higher. They we're speeding up. Kitty had stopped so I stopped. They were less than a hundred feet away. I picked her up, threw her over my shoulder and started running. We had one chance, and our timing had to be perfect. I looked back one last time, they were thirty feet away. I shifted hard to the right. There was maybe three feet in between them. The paddles were deafening and Kitty started screaming. I got to the gap and threw us hard against the ground. The end rigging passed over our heads. It only took a couple seconds for them to stop and a burly guy was already climbing down. I grabbed the guy around the knees, ripped him off the ladder and stomped on his throat. He wasn't getting up again. I yelled at Kitty to get in the cab, then caught movement out of the corner of my eye. An old guy with a shotgun was coming around the other combine. I yelled at Kitty "Go…go" waving my hand. She threw it in gear and took off. The old guy squeezed off a round as I threw myself back in front of the combine. I was going to have to run again. Kitty was now a hundred feet away and the third combine was closing in. I yelled and waved frantically. The old man was back in his cab and moving toward me. The new guy was closing from my left. Kitty turned in my direction. I had to pick the perfect angle between my two pursuers. Kitty cut off the new guy passing right behind me and nailed the old man at full speed. I came to a stop and saw Kitty climbing down. The old man had pitched into the machinery and was screaming. New guy was pulling on an ax mounted behind him. I needed the shotgun and raced for the old man's rig as new guy climbed down. I hit the ladder and started climbing, turned around and saw new guy ten feet away, raising his ax. I wasn't going to make it. I turned and dove. The ax went over my head, but I had missed him. I got up fast but he was faster, so I ran. The ax, hit me in the back of my leg and I went down. I rolled over, the sun was in my eyes. He walked up to me and stood above me, blocking the sun in silhouette. "You weren't gonna make it?" he said. He reached over to pick up the ax. I saw beautiful Kitty standing behind him, her hair the color of the wheat flowing in the gentle breeze. New guy straightened back up and said "Bye-bye". I looked back at him and said "Have a nice trip." Kitty pulled the trigger.
Ashley says
The Chase
Kara runs after her father, “Daddy don’t, I’m fine!”
“Kara, get in the house!”
Kara clutches his arm. He easily breaks free of her grasp. Kara grabs a hold of him once more and pulls with all her strength.
Kara begs, “Please Daddy. Please stay.”
He glares at her without sympathy or remorse. Kara’s right eye is buried in bruises and swollen flesh while her left eye floats in a sea of tears. His baby girl is unrecognizable. Instead of beauty he sees pain and anguish, a vision of what Evan’s face will soon portray.
“Kara, I said get in the house!” He frees himself from her hold and tosses her aside.
He gets into the car. Kara runs to the passenger door and yells, “Than I’m going with you!”
He takes one last look at his daughter and locks the car doors. He turns on the ignition and leers over his right shoulder to focus on the road behind him.
Kara pounds against the window, “No Daddy! Please don’t do this!”
He throws the car into reverse and peels out of the driveway. He clutches the wheel, puts the car in drive and pounds heavily on the accelerator.
There is no sound but the thudding heart racing in his chest. The lights pass without color and other cars appear motionless. He finds comfort in the road and allows his instincts to lead the way.
His head moves like a magnet that’s found its match. Evan is at his regular hang out, a local dive bar. A sense of urgency runs through his body and he pounds on the accelerator one last time. He notices out of the corner of his eye, a truck headed his way. He doesn’t flinch, confident that his car is faster than the pick-up. He makes it into the parking lot just in time.
Before he can shut down the car, he hears tire screeches followed by a loud crash. He parks the car and immediately observes the scene. A small blue car is pinned between the pick-up and a light pole. It couldn’t be, he thinks and finds himself running to the crash. His legs move quickly underneath him. As he approaches the crumpled blue car he can’t remember running. “Call 911! Call 911!” He yells to the stunned truck driver as he drops to his knees.
He hadn’t looked through the rearview mirror, had he? The adrenaline must have blinded him. He should have listened and stayed. If he had, she wouldn’t have followed him.
He peers across the street and watches as Evan runs out from a crowd and into his car. He would face Evan later. After all, this began with him. He had warned Kara of this ending, if only he hadn’t been right. Kara was gone. She was a victim, Evan’s victim. He wouldn’t let her life be taken for granted, a payment was due. A life for a life, the chase begins now.
Lucinda Gunnin says
I hope this is suspenseful enough 🙂
I picked up a little red hand basket from near a checkout lane. Then, starting at one end of the contemporary novels, I began picking up one of every novel there.
Even in the middle of the afternoon, I relied on my flashlight as the store seemed darker and more cavernous after the others made their way to the parking lot. A field mouse skittered across my shoe and I jumped back, gasping and then laughing at myself.
“Great, Becky, you’re jumping at shadows now,” I said, somehow believing that speaking to myself might calm my nerves.
I scanned the rest of the aisle with the flashlight, noticing that the basket was getting quite full and looking for any other “must reads.” The light reflected off the shiny surfaces of the book covers and I gingerly stepped among those that had been thrown or fallen to the floor. Apparently, the rioters and looters had largely ignored the books.
As I was trying not to trip, I saw him. An emaciated man in a football jersey curled almost fetal at the end of the aisle, but with his hands raised above his head, and whispering so low that I couldn’t understand his words.
Shushing him and bending in closely, I shone the flashlight across his back. Wagner.
Jamal Wagner? The star running back for the Salukis?
The last time I saw Jamal, he was 220 and all muscle. He looked to be about 180 now, gaunt and hollow eyed. He was in my freshman English class, six, no seven years ago.
“Jamal? Is that you?”
“Please don’t kill me. We just wanted some food,” he chanted at me, failing to recognize that I was not a threat.
“Jamal. It’s Dr. Johnson and I won’t hurt you.”
He stopped rocking back and forth then, looking up at me with dawning recognition.
“Doc,” he began through cracked and bleeding lips. “You gotta get out of here. The mayor, the city…”
His eyes searched around us for another light, other movement.
“We know, Jamal. We have guards with us now, so you need to stay in here and be quiet, but we’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll get you out of here. Look for me then, okay?”
He nodded and I thought he understood, but the pleading in his eyes made me stop. Reaching down, I grabbed his hands and looked into his eyes. “I’ll be back for you, Jamal. I promise.”
“Becky, come on,” Todd yelled from the doorway. “The guards are getting anxious.”
I grabbed a few more random books so the basket was full and yelled, “I’m coming.”
To Jamal, and to myself, I promised again. “I’ll be back for you tomorrow.”
I stood up and scurried away, forcing myself not to look back and give away his position. Walking toward the door, I prayed silently that Jamal and the other mall rats would have another day to wait.
k10wnsta says
Something caused the air behind me to shift. Perhaps the oppressive summer heat had crushed it, causing it to curl up around me there at the edge of the clearing. Its confession was faint at first but unmistakable to be sure, the woods behind me softly spoke of death. But, as quickly as the scent revealed itself, it vanished. Breathing deeply, I scoured the now still air for some remnant of the odor and turned from where I stood to set off through the trees in search of it. I’d walked all of ten feet when I picked it up again, the fetid smell clung heavy to the humid air. As I ventured further from the clearing, it grew stronger and I scanned the ground between the trees for some sign of its source.
“What’re you doing?” Chase hollered. I heard him hop up from the log to pursue me.
There was no time for explanation. The smell was overwhelming and I knew its cause was near. Foraging ahead, I was struck by the realization that the drone of buzzing flies had come to overpower the distant hum of cicadas. I was fifty feet into the woods when I first caught a glimpse of the shiny black plastic jutting from a patch of green ivy some twenty feet ahead of me.
Having caught up to me, Chase’s hurried pace faltered, his last two steps falling in slow motion. I could practically hear his jaw drop as he gasped, “What…the…fuck…is that?”
“I dunno,” I said, “but I’d sure like to find out.”
Five separate 55 gallon trash bags lay scattered amid the ivy. Their ends had been tied off with twine and their sides were bulging from the volume of their contents. Enormous black flies came and went from a fist-sized hole in one of them.
Around the ivy patch, still more black plastic protruded from the brown underbrush of the forest floor marking the locations of another half dozen bags whose dusty matted appearance betrayed exposure to the elements. Some effort had been made in concealing these at least – a half-assed burial of some sort.
I simply had to see one of the bags contents but any efforts to get closer were thwarted by the smell. Words do not exist to do justice in describing how foul that odor was – the thought of my lungs having to process it made me cringe. Even when I plugged my nose, the air would trigger a powerful gag reflex as soon as it hit my throat.
I grabbed a nearby stick and drew as deep a breath as I could.
“You are off your fucking nut, dude,” Chase declared as I stepped briskly towards the bag with a hole in it.
Deprived of fresh air, my strength faded quickly crossing the twenty foot gulf and the weight of the stick seemed to have doubled by the time I hooked it on the hole of the bag. Slowly, I peeled back the plastic.
Brian Crawford says
When I reach the car, my baby daughter is smiling at me from the backseat. Madison’s eight months old today, out running errands with her dad. A breeze rustles a maple tree overhead and comes down through the open sunroof and paws at Madison’s hair. She looks ventilated, comfortable. It reaffirms my decision to leave her in the SUV while I went in for coffee.
Holding two cups of coffee, I tap on the rear window with my elbow and coo at my daughter. "Hey Madison. Hey Maddy-Paddy."
She clucks and runs her legs and lifts her hands to her mouth.
I reach up to set my coffee on the SUV’s roof so I can dig for the keys. As I release my fingers, I feel the slide of the cup, the ridge of the insulating sleeve. I feel the razor flick of the plastic lid against my palm. Then nothing. The cup doesn’t stop where it’s supposed to. It just disappears.
Synapses fire, muscles adduct, but not fast enough for me to re-clinch my hand in time.
I don’t have time to close my hand, but I have time to remember I paid $1295 for the Volvo premium package with the oversized, panoramic sunroof just so I could get the stereo I wanted. And I have time to think why did it have to be my black coffee, why not my wife’s latte with all that foam to cool it down so it wouldn’t—
Madison.
I rip the car keys out of my pocket and pulverize the unlock button. I have to press it over and over because I keep lifting the door handle at the wrong time. With the warmth of the coffee cup still on my hand, the chrome door handle feels bitterly cold.
Don’t look back there.
Now, I've always believed there's a limit to the shock we can absorb into our brains at one time. If we flirt with that limit, the brain gets saturated, and the bad stuff just floats around up there, fills in spaces, dulls edges.
Don’t look.
I once saw this kid get beat to death in a Brazilian favela. Even now I can remember the sound of his head against the concrete steps.
Don't.
And I remember thinking that those people, in the favelas, they saw things like that all the time. After a while it must fill up their brains, so that each successive horror dulled the edges a little more.
Tell me it missed her tell me it missed her please tell me.
I finally get the door open. I know that every second counts here, but I close my eyes and take a deep breath before opening them again.
Christopher in DC says
A knock at the fog smeared window. Bedrosian shot back into his seat. Baker zipped up her jeans and pulled down her shirt. Another knock. Louder. She raised her hands. What do we do? Drive off? Roll down the window? Bedrosian gave an impotent shrug. Fuck it. She turned the handle.
“Well hello there.” The voice echoed from the dark. “Baker, isn’t it?”
It was the cop – Don. There he was again, leering, and what if he saw the whole thing? What if . . .
Don's flashlight paused on Bedrosian. “Have you been drinking young man?”
“No officer.”
Don sighed. “Miss . . . Baker. Could you please step out of the car?”
Baker opened the door. Her panties were riding up, but she tried not to think about it because she didn’t want to draw his attention down there. He motioned for her to follow behind the car.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes . . . fine.”
“Sure?”
“Uh huh.”
“All right young lady. Has that boy been drinking?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t even know him. I . . . he . . . we just wanted to meet—”
Don grabbed her and moved closer. “Look. I know what you were doing. I could see everything.” He wiped her cheek. “You should stay away from him. He’s no good. He’s . . . dangerous.” He moved his hand down her neck and brushed over her breast. “You have to watch out . . . you know they only want one thing. But don’t worry.” He let go. “Everything will be fine.”
She stepped back from the sweaty clutch of Old Spice and onions and into a puddle as a truck flew by in the other direction.
“What—“
“—Just need you to get home. Safe and sound.”
She nodded.
“Good. Get in the car. Tell him to get out. Need to have a talk with that boy.”
“Should I wait—“
“What’d I say? Head home.”
She walked back and opened the door. Bedrosian was panting, tugging at his clothes, pulling at his hair. Eyes going tick-tock.
“Did . . . did he see us? Does he know—“
“He wants to talk to you.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“How does he know you? Was he—“
“Look, I have to go. Go home. Look, you better go talk to him.”
“Let’s go.”
“What?”
Bedrosian fumbled with the heat, mumbling. “We can get away, it must be happening, they found out . . . it was all—“
“Get out!” She screamed.
He looked up with puffy eyes, starting to cry. Then he looked back through the window, opened the door, and ran into the trees.
Anonymous says
He punched her in the face breaking her nose. Jennyrin growled, but tried to keep her head down so he wouldn’t see. But he grabbed her chin, forcing her head up and watched in amazement as her nose straightened itself. For a second he seemed puzzled, but then he hit her again, breaking her nose and watched as it repaired itself.
“You can heal yourself?” he asked, mesmerized at what he had seen.
Jennyrin’s worst fear had been realized. The wrong people knew her secret. If she could’ve killed with her eyes he would’ve dropped dead right there.
“Let’s test that.” He smiled wickedly.
“Yeah, like breaking my nose twice wasn’t enough.” Jennyrin spat.
The man pulled out a knife and drove it through her leg right above her knee. Jennyrin yelled in pain as the knife sliced through her flesh. “You son of Goin!” she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.
“I thought you healed.” He twisted the blade on the last word.
Jennyrin jerked. “I still feel pain, you moron!” she cried through gritted teeth.
“Where’s Tori?” the man asked.
“Find her yourself.” Jennyrin growled.
He twisted the knife again, carving out a hole in her leg. Jennyrin yelled, trying to jerk her hands free, anything to make the pain stop. “I don’t know!” She yelled defiantly.
“You wouldn’t be lying,” he twisted the knife more, “Would you?”
“NO!” Jennyrin screamed out.
Jennyrin could feel her leg starting to heal; it was trying to incorporate the blade into itself. It was excruciating. She gasped in a breath, “Pull it out!”
He obliged her by jerking the knife out of her leg. It sliced through the newly formed, raw, tender tissue that had been healing around it. It hurt as much as when he had thrust it in. A low throated growl escaped her snarling lips.
“Can you be killed?” the question sent a shiver down Jennyrin’s spine. She wasn’t sure herself. Surely there was a point at which she wouldn’t be able to heal, but how bad did the damage have to be before she reached that point.
“I know if you try, I’ll stab you in the eye with that knife.” Jennyrin warned.
“Spare me the violence, we know all about your Lecaren blood, and your Feahone blood. Odd combination. But this ability to heal….well, that doesn’t come from either species, nor does it come from humans. Or any other species I know of. Your DNA is very unique.” He paused, thinking. “Tori can be found easily enough.” He leaned down close so they were eye to eye, “Let’s see if you can be killed.”
Jennyrin knew what he was going to do a split second before he did it. Her eyes went wide and she gasped as he plunged the knife deep into her heart. She jerked, blood spilling from her mouth. Her eyes closed and her body went limp.
The man checked her pulse. Nothing. “I was hoping for a little more than that.”
BradleeD says
Title: Street Teeth
YA paranormal/vampire/suspense
The loud thumping music from upstairs made it impossible to hear his footsteps, but Drayden knew he was there. Waiting. He’d blast through the walls if they weren’t brick. Who uses brick anymore? He stared at the doorway, waiting for a sign. Then he felt it. The floor board beneath his boots shifted from the weight on the other side. Got ‘em.
Then nothing. Drayden readied for his stalker to jump through the doorway, but it never happened. The dance music continued to pound through the skeleton of the old building. Drayden couldn’t tell his pumping heartbeat from the bass pulsing in his eardrums. He peered down the long hallway as sweat ran the course of his nose. Doorways littered both sides every ten feet or so. Some open, some closed. That’s a lot of places someone could be hiding. A blinking exit sign, twitched at the end of the hall, and just beyond its dim light, he could make out the stairs leading to freedom.
The muffled music from upstairs rang clear and loud as a door from upstairs opened behind him. He turned to see Remy and Filth running his way armed with vulcanizers. It’s now or never. He knew he had to run for it. He sprinted past the open doorway, as a blast of blazing lead seared through his trailing trenchcoat. Before his hunter could load another shot, he twisted around and slid on his back, shooting his own Raleigh 707 hand-cannon through his pursuer. Gideon. It was always you, wasn’t it?
Gideon’s body, lurching back from the powerful explosion, jerked forward as two more gunshots rang through the hallway over the thumping bass and hit him in the back. Remy and Filth were getting closer and were going to kill Drayden at all costs, even at Gideon’s expense.
Drayden knew he had no chance if he ran straight for the exit, instead rolled into the next open doorway. The red lights from the hallway lit the room enough for Drayden to know he was in Gideon’s office. He looked around for the dead leader’s arsenal. He knew there had to be weapons here somewhere. His search stopped as he heard a deep rasping voice.
“Stop. He’s mine.”
Drayden’s heart skipped a beat and nausea almost took him. The voice was unmistakable. Gideon.
“You two, go up and bring the car around. I’ll deal with this traitor.”
Drayden looked around in a panic. How can I stop this drug addled-freak?
He knew Street gave its users adrenaline surges that to some felt like superhuman strength and stamina, but surviving three gunshots at close range was unheard of.
He crouched beneath Gideon’s oak desk as he heard a door across the hall slam open above the music. Almost out of ammo, Drayden slowly opened the draws looking for weapons. He didn’t find any, but what he did find might prove more effective. A full vile of Street, loaded in a dermal injector. Can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
Ann M says
TITLE: Seeking Refuge
Never in my life, and my life is far from ordinary, would I expect to tear across the dusty African savannah, pursued by a horde of men in blue business suits.
Kyle kept pace beside me, even though his strength was still not fully recovered.
“Some rescue!” he shouted at me, and despite our current peril, he smiled.
“How was I to know it was their hideout? You’re the tour guide!” I shouted back, with what little breath I had left.
I tried to be positive, but my body was wearing down. I felt only the pounding of my feet sending reverberations up my spine.
“There!” Kyle pointed.
Tears of joy and relief stung my dry eyes, for visible on the horizon was the jeep that would transport us to safety.
I slammed into the jeep and fumbled for the handle.
“It’s locked!” I cried.
“It doesn’t have locks,” Kyle said in frustration.
“What car doesn’t have locks?”
“You’re on an African savannah, not the streets of New York.”
“Oh yeah, I feel much safer here.” I rolled my eyes.
As Kyle battled with my door, I took two seconds to look behind me. Our wealthy criminal pursuers were closer than I thought.
With a loud grunt and a whine of metal scraping metal, Kyle yanked the door open. “Get in,” he ordered and rushed to the other side.
I jumped inside and, while I struggled to latch my stubborn door, Kyle started hotwiring the ignition.
Opening the door wide to build up for a momentous swing I felt an unexpected prick in my arm. I looked down and pulled out a dart, just as I heard the engine rev.
“Kyle,” I said foggily, holding the dart up to show him.
Kyle grabbed it from me, examined it, then relaxed, “Don’t panic.”
“Don’t panic!?” I repeated, on the verge of hysterics.
“Yeah, don’t panic.”
“Kyle!” I wailed, “I was just shot in the arm with a…”
“An anesthesia dart! Don’t be so overdramatic about everything. You're just gonna take a little nap. I'm the one that has to keep us alive!"
Anonymous says
My name's Erin, I forgot to leave it with my post. I posted the excerpt with Jennyrin. I hope this doesn't mess up my chances. Sorry
JenLT says
Danielle clenched the slick handle of the kitchen knife. Blood continued to run in a steady trickle down her arm, but the searing pain was the least of her worries as she stared at the man across the room.
Her knife was puny compared to the long blade he held. He noticed her attention on it and casually flipped it, easily catching it. He grinned at her, the smile too wide and lopsided.
Anywhere else, and the smile would have seemed fine. A bit off, but harmless. Here, it was like a lancet of fear, cutting through her. Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. There was no way out of the house except through him. She wanted to sob, to plead, to curl up in a ball and pray that this was a sick dream.
Giving in to the panic clawing at her brain would only ensure her death. She wanted to live.
He leapt forward, both feet landing on the floor with a thud and flicked the knife almost casually in her direction.
She whimpered, a hysterical sound halfway between a sob and a crazed laugh.
The killer’s laugh wasn’t so confused.
He was amused, toying with her.
She pressed back against the fireplace, the shock of the situation making it difficult to think. Twenty minutes earlier, she was reading. The book lay on the floor where she’d dropped it in surprise.
Panic overtook her and she threw the knife at him, as hard as she could. He swatted it out of the air. It was a waste of her only weapon.
He moved, his body quivering with anticipation. She jumped to the side, kicking the fireplace tool holder with a loud clank.
Danielle tried to scream; only a gurgle came out. Her hand clumsily grasped the fire place poker. The hard cold iron felt welcome in her palm. A surge of hope quickened her movements.
His eyes narrowed at the sight of the poker, and he menacingly slashed the knife downward. She was already moving. The poker slammed into his wrist sending the knife clattering to the floor. He grunted in pain.
Danielle tried to hit him again, but he wrenched it from her hand. She used the brief second his attention was on the poker, to jump past him.
He grabbed her shirt, his fingertips sliding off the fabric, but it was enough to make her stumble.
She kicked at him, and his hand closed around her ankle. She went down, thudding against the book on the floor. He straddled her.
Wildly, she grabbed the book and swung it at his head, catching him in the temple, momentarily stunning him. She swung it again, the corner digging hard into his eye. He screamed and grabbed his face. Blood began to ooze out of his eye.
She pushed him off her, dropping the book as she jumped up. Rock, Paper, Tiger. A damn good book.
She scooped up her phone as she ran for the front door.
Chad says
A scene from my YA novel, in which a trip to the corner store takes a strange turn for the hero and his date:
I glanced toward the front of the store and froze. Seven men dressed completely in black had slipped through the door.
The clerk behind the counter stared. “You’re a little early for Halloween.”
One of the men drew a sword. I nearly wet my pants.
“Whoa.” The clerk held up his hands. “Help yourself, man. Take whatever you want.”
Two of the invaders silently tied up the clerk and shoved him behind the counter. The others fanned out. They weren’t robbing the store. They were looking for someone. And I knew who.
I grabbed Hanna’s arm and pointed toward the front of the store. Her eyes went wide. I covered her mouth before she could scream.
“Trouvez le garcon,” I heard the ringleader say. “Vite.”
“We have to get out of here,” I whispered to Hanna.
She pushed my hand away from her mouth. “Are those ninjas? French ninjas?”
“They’re not French. They’re Belgian.”
Her jaw dropped. “And you know this how?”
“Because they’re looking for me.” I couldn’t meet her eyes, so I scanned the aisles, wondering how the ninjas were planning to attack. Other than the main entrance, the only possible escape route was a room marked Employees Only in the far corner, about a dozen feet away. It might be a dead end and we’d be trapped, but we didn’t have the option of trying the front door.
“Pierre, what is going on?” Hanna asked.
I took her elbow and steered her toward the back room. “I promise I’ll explain later. Right now we need to focus on not getting stabbed.”
I forced myself to look at her. Her eyes were huge and her lip trembled. I felt like a monster for dragging her into my mess. But there was no time to think about that now.
She took a deep breath. “OK. But how—”
A ninja fell on us from the ceiling.
Hanna screamed. I whirled and held up my hands. A blue flash, a moment of darkness and the ninja crashed into a rack of potato chips.
A wave of dizziness hit me and I had to lean against the milk cooler to steady myself. Hanna backed away.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“Hanna, please,” I said. “Don’t—”
In the next instant she had an arm around her throat, and a sword pointed at her neck. I could see her chest heaving as she tried not to hyperventilate.
“Give up now,” the ninja hissed at me in his Belgian accent. “Come with us and we’ll let the girl go.”
I met Hanna’s eyes, I took in her terror, and it filled me with rage. I was not this person anymore. I was finally building a new life for myself. I was happy. How dare they barge in and ruin that? What did the Noblemen even want with me anymore?
“Let her go,” I said. “Or you’ll regret it.”
The ninja chuckled. “Move and she’ll be dead before her body hits the ground.”
Anonymous says
From my days as a paperboy…
I tossed the Thursday newspaper, stuffed with circulars and weighing a solid two pounds, on a perfect arc to the front porch. As I flashed past the front yard, I saw the stoop was not empty. A large Pitbull was curled there, asleep.
The paper thumped the dog on the head like a heavy club.
It did not take Poison long to figure out who had rudely awakened him from his afternoon reverie. By the time I had stood up on my pedals and started pumping madly, he was halfway across the front yard, hot on my tail. I jumped my bike off the curb and started angling toward the other side of the street.
I learned two very important facts about him almost immediately. First, Poison was fast.
I realized immediately that I might be pedaling for my life. As I tore up the street, my knees banging against the canvas bags tied to my handlebars, I could hear his hot breath closing on me. I veered between two parked cars, jumping onto the sidewalk in an effort to shake him. He didn’t even falter. I could hear his claws clicking on the ground as he stayed in the street. As I flew along the sidewalk, I could see him out of the corner of my eye as he flashed past the spaces between cars. He was waiting for a chance to cut me off.
Fact number two: Poison was wily. I knew in that moment he was hunting me—and that he had done this before.
The screen of cars cleared and Poison turned toward me. The intersection at Kamala Street still looked miles away. I would have to fight it out.
I yanked a paper out of the canvas sack as Poison drew near. He lunged for my ankle. I rapped him on top of the head with a loaded Thursday. The paper was so heavy I saw Poison’s eyes cross as I cracked the hard corner of it across his head and snout. He yipped in surprise, faltering, falling behind my spinning back wheel.
Then he turned his muddy black eyes on me. Marking me. I could tell what he was thinking. No one had ever hit him before in his life. And here I come along, flinging projectiles at him, jerking him out of a light siesta, and when he tries to correct me for the behavior, I have the audacity to smack him on the head with a blunt instrument.
Poison uttered a furious growl. He dug his paws in, lowered his head, and ripped after me. The paper fell out of my hand as I got back to the serious business of pedaling.
The intersection loomed and I was facing a red light. As I hit the curve, I laid the bike on its side in a sliding right hand turn, dragging my foot, leaving a black swath of tire tread on the gray sidewalk.
grgmeister@aol.com
Rissa Watkins says
Karie looked into the witch's eyes and realized they were completely black. The darkness seemed to leak out of the bottom of her eyes as if they were melting. She tried to tell herself to be rational; it was a trick of the flickering candlelight or something. Her rational mind wasn't buying it, and terror flooded through her. The knife descended in an arc in the witch's hands. Panic bled into her smoke-hazed brain. Had she control over her body, she would have sobbed. She braced herself for the pain that never came.
Her brain recovered from the sheer terror in minutes, but it felt like hours. She still felt drugged, and the sight of the knife protruding from the witch's stomach confused her. Her muscles twitched as she discovered she still couldn't move.
Ruth had paused briefly in her chanting to impale herself, but started again in a softer voice. She grunted out the words while she dragged the knife from one side to the other.
The metallic smell hit Karie, and she tried to tear her eyes away from the blood, and worse, pouring out of the witch. Her gorge rose, throat burning as she gagged at the witch's self-butchery. Ruth didn't hesitate. She coated her hands in the gore coming from the wound. Raising her blood-stained hands, she rubbed them on Karie's forehead.
Karie felt the thick fluid ooze down her face. She glanced frantically to the side, telling herself it wasn't real, until she saw the scarlet out of the corner of her eye. Hysterical, but still unable to move her body, she slammed her eyes shut and prayed it was just another nightmare. She felt warmth on her hands and feet and knew the witch had painted them with her blood as well. The horror was too much for her. Her mind stopped functioning.
Ruth's voice reached a crescendo as she clasped Karie's necklace with both hands. There was an explosion of blackness. Karie felt as though her body was being ripped apart. The pain increased until she could no longer form a coherent thought. She screamed in mindless agony.
Karie felt disoriented, but the pain radiating from her body focused her mind. Her hands moved automatically to grab her stomach, where most of the pain was coming from. She felt a jolt when they bumped the knife. “You stabbed me. You lied,” she tried to scream but it came out a breathless pain-filled whisper.
Ruth laughed and said in an eerily familiar voice, “No, child, I did not lie. I did not stab you. I stabbed myself as the blood sacrifice needed to make the spell work. Life blood is the most powerful, so it had to be a fatal wound. I am afraid you will not survive your new body for long before death. But I shall enjoy my new young body, and I thank you for it.”
Karie realized the voice the witch was using was her own.
Ryan L says
Title: Prey
She pulled the cool air far into the recesses of her lungs. She could taste the pollen from the tall grass, the sticky sweet humidity. She could smell the light musk of the lion hunkered somewhere in the field, watching her, waiting for her to make a move.
Her heart beat against her chest, her muscles ached from fear.
Snap.
Left? No, right.
It was there, stalking her, moving closer on its powerful legs, crawling in for the kill.
Her mind whirled with possibilities. Run? Wait? Scream for help? Who would hear her? She had never ventured this far from home, this far from the safety of the farm house and her family.
Out here, in the fields, where the beasts came to hunt, she was alone. Her muscles cried out as she rose to a crouch. She had to move, find a tree or a… something the lion couldn't climb. Was there anything a lion can't climb?
Without thinking she ran. She didn't look back. She had seen them chase down animals before, wrap their jaws around the throat and clamp down, fling their prey to the ground writhing in death. If she was next, she didn't want to know until the end.
It was right behind her. Paws pounded dry soil and crushed the sharp blades of grass under them as the animal rocketed forward. All the power and strength in its massive muscles being exhausted in the effort of catching her, feeding on her. She ran harder. Up ahead she could see something, safety perhaps. The grass slapped her face, cut at her arms, sliced welts into her legs as she pushed through it.
There was the farm. She couldn't see anyone, couldn't hear anyone, just the rhythmic beat of paws growing closer. Closer and closer. Something snatched at her leg, razor-sharp shards protruding from short, furry fingers. One quick stroke and she went down face first into the grass, into the dirt, dust and silt rising from the ancient soil.
Rolling, she looked at the face that would end her life. The cat was looming over her. Muscles constricted and rippled, rolled over one another. Green eyes, vertical pupils staring into hers. The teeth, serrated and glistening with saliva, like pieces of frosted glass. She shuttered, tried to breath. The beast moved back onto its rear legs, the muscles balled in preparation for the final death blow. Lips pulled back and it let out a battle cry, then it lunged.
Everything slowed down. She watched as the beast rose into the air, watched the claws outstretch and the arms open to consume her. She watched its eyes, wet with anticipation of the meal, watching her as she watched them. At the last moment, a massive hand swung in and snatched the scruff of the lion's neck. Stopped it in mid air.
"Damn it!" A voice roared overhead. "Maggie, if you can't keep your cat off the baby, I'm getting rid of it."
Daddy. She was safe.
Katrina L. Lantz says
No glow lit the windows of the sleepy house, but he had to be awake. It was no ordinary nightmare that spurred this six-mile drive ending at his gothic steps. And if he could explain any of it—confirm her sanity—she might finally get some rest. Five angry knocks echoed through the vaulted hall; the hollow sound ricocheted back. Her arms erupted in goose bumps as the early morning moon cast pale light on the manor. Three months of daily visits had not diminished the spookiness of Will’s ancient acreage. Like Will, his house reeked of secrets.
Her mind spun with questions, some raised by the too-real nightmare; others had been brewing all along.
Never a scratch or blemish tainted his visage. Never a bad hair day rumpled his serene lifestyle. She could see him now in her mind’s eye, clear as the past: immersed in books, emerging only to lavish that academic passion on her, instead. But she was nothing like him, and didn’t belong in his world. Clearly, he sensed this. It must have been the reason for the insecure glances he often stole.
He knew she knew.
From the locked library to the forbidden second floor, Will’s behavior was increasingly secretive. But this was not the most disturbing development.
Her dreams of him were not only increasing in frequency, but in absurdity. Tonight, he had asked her to marry him, and then demanded she forget his mention. The weirdest part was that she did, for a moment, obey. It was as if the subject had never been raised.
Then his image twisted, and she saw an old man. Not old—ancient. White hair, silver eyes, and wrinkled skin: this was the real him. That sense hit her like a wave on the beach. For a brief time, it all fit together, and she understood him. Perfectly.
He vanished, and understanding vanished, too. In waking, she recalled only questions.
A noise to the left made her jump.
“Just a cat,” she exhaled.
Resolved, she reached for the handle. If it was locked, she would leave to return at a decent hour. But if it wasn’t…. This might be the chance she had waited for, the chance to see what lay upstairs in the forbidden territory of her boyfriend’s creepy mansion. She pressed the lever below the deadbolt and pushed.
The groaning door gave way.
His stairs creaked, as expected. She had never met a staircase that didn’t, but it would have been nice to meet one now. Her toes carefully reached—softly, softly. Finally, she stood in darkness at the top. The hall carpet made rushing easier; this confrontation had been long in coming.
Lost on his second floor, she wilted. Any room could be his. For all she knew, he slept in a coffin in the backyard. Her throat lumped.
“Too many vampire romances.”
She passed doors and doors. Twenty feet away, one screeched open, light pouring out.
Maybe he wasn’t asleep after all.
Bluestocking says
Genre – Historical Romance
Alex and Alric stood squaring off against one another. Alex's hauberk, worn over his coat of mail, was spattered with the blood of previous combatants, but Alric was relatively fresh, having avoided the bulk of the fighting, even though it appeared he had lost his ax at some point. Isobel could see her father’s blade catch the sun as the rebel slashed at Alex.
She stumbled as her brother steered her around a fallen solider. Julien swore to himself, and Isobel's head snapped forward to see Alric's sword catch Alex's arm before he was able to pull away and evade the brunt of the attack. She quickened her steps with Julien laboring beside her.
By now, most of the English lay injured or had disappeared into the woods, and only Alex and the rebel leader were still engaged in combat. Isobel stole a glance at the other side of the field and was relieved to see Kendrick helping Sir Thomas to his feet, his aggressors chased away.
But her gaze was pulled back to Alex. After a few more blocks with his increasingly scarred shield, Alex became more aggressive, backing Alric up with each thrust of his sword. Isobel eagerly watched, convinced Alric was tiring as he evaded Alex's attacks with less dexterity than before.
Julien pressed her hand and pulled her thoughts away from the fight. “Isobel, forgive me.”
She turned to him, confused by his words. What was left to forgive? “Julien?”
He took a deep breath and lurched over to where Alex and Alric remained in heated combat. Without her brother's support, Isobel tumbled to the ground, shocked by Julien's behavior. Frantically, she pulled herself into a crouch, frustrated her body was so unwieldy and weak.
All she could see was Julien barreling toward Alex from behind, who finally had the upper hand over Alric. The grin on the outmatched rebel leader’s face belied the strain it took for him to meet and deflect the swings of Alex's sword.
But her dear brother only quickened his pace and his cryptic words came back to her. She stiffened at the thought that he would go to such extremes. That he would attack a man from behind, risk his own life, simply because Alex was a Norman, because Julien could not bear the thought of his sister married to a brutal conqueror. It mattered not that by now Alex had forced Alric's sword away and was the victor in their fight.
Time slowed down as Isobel stared forward, unaware of the tears slipping past her cheeks. She thought she had gotten through to him. She thought Julien understood her position and the depth of her feelings for Alex. But she could not ignore the despair that filled her or the alarmed faces of the onlookers as they watched Julien explode upon the two men.
English, Norman… the designations mattered not as the three men converged upon one another. All she could do was scream.
John Ross Harvey says
James had just hopped out of his car to go to the bank, as he did; he heard the gunfire, the broken glass, and the 3 frantic bodies running from the scene. They had a hopped up Camaro, 1976, before headlights went square. There were no sirens, no cops in sight, they just robbed his bank and he was the only vehicle with a chance of catching them. He jumped back into his car, a less muscular 2000 Honda Civic. As they squealed the tires in their crazed exit from the bank, James started and revved his Honda. The chase was on. They turned right on a red light, narrowly missing cars on the other street; a few jumped the sidewalk curbs to avoid. James followed cautiously, hoping not to hit anyone coming through; he was in luck, as he went into a hard camber making the corner. He could still see the Camaro ahead, headed for the onramp to the Interstate, he could follow suit. Now what? He activated his voice controlled blue tooth. "Call 9-1-1"
The soothing female voice responded "Currently calling 9-1-1"
The operator chimed in "Emergency services, how may I direct your call?"
"Police now, high speed pursuit of bank thieves on Interstate 61."
"What model is the vehicle?"
"Camaro, '76, bright orange. I'm pursuing in 2000 Honda Civic metallic blue, we are northbound in left lane."
"Police have been dispatched, what is nearest exit?"
"Main St. coming up in about 2 minutes. I think they are headed off."
"Police are responding and will cover Main and following ramps."
"Thank you, oh crap, they spotted me." He ducks as his windshield shatters from a bullet. James brushed the concrete median and careens into the next lane, as the Camaro slows to shoot him again.
He ducks and prays, aiming for where the Camaro was. He hears sirens approaching, as he makes contact. He lifts his head slightly seeing the Camaro slide across his front bumper and to his right, police in his mirrors, a quick glance right spots the gun. He ducks again and brakes madly. All of his windows shatter from gunfire. He hears more gunfire from another direction, it’s the police, and they have the perpetrators cornered. Glass is everywhere. James looks back, the Camaro revs, and squeals its tires into plumes of black smoke, hitting a cruiser as it turns, headed direct to the off ramp. The cruiser is toast; radiator’s done, blowing steam. The cop looks right at him. “Here!” he tosses him a gun. “You’ll need this.”
Dale says
Sebastian Potter (Red to his few friends) wore his secret like a little boy wearing a big man’s coat. It was far too big for him and he knew it. A man is only as big as his dreams. Red dreamed small dreams–dreams of a home, a steady income, watching his daughter grow up. Those dreams would fit in a small corner of Red’s secret, if he wanted it—and could handle it.
“I don’t want it.”
A passerby glanced at the wiry man alone on the park bench and hurried on. Red looked at his ripped blue jeans and T-shirt. “Probably thinks I’m a homeless guy talking to himselF.”
Red’s grin faded. “I’m talking to myself, and sleeping in my car.” And yesterday he impulsively stole something for the first time in his life. “It’ll get me killed.”
Red pushed the edge of a dusty brown book back in the paper bag beside him. “I could leave it—get a job at another temp agency. But it’s September. Can’t live in my car all winter.”
He stood, contemplating the downward spiral of no showers or clean clothes translating into no job. The secret was too big for him, but it was a way out.
Red noticed a girl rollerblading toward him, her hair shaved into stylized silver lightning bolts on the sides of her head. The hair blended seamlessly with silver reflective sunglasses. She wore blue-jean shorts and a T-shirt sporting a cartoon biplane in a steep dive.
The girl slowed as she approached, and smiled. Red smiled back tentatively. “What time is it?” She sounded young, maybe sixteen.
“Almost three.”
The girl nodded. “It’s not too late.”
“For what?”
She leaned uncomfortably close, then kicked his feet out from under him. Red hit the sidewalk hard, and saw long legs and roller-blades moving rapidly but casually away. The book dangled from the girl’s hand.
Red scrambled to his feet, torn between anger and relief. Anger won, and he chased the girl. She glanced back and grinned. She didn’t pick up her pace, and Red closed the distance. As he got closer he read the back of her T-shirt. “HOW FAST CAN YOU GO BEFORE THE WINGS FALL OFF?”
Red noticed people watching the chase. What will they do if I catch her? She suddenly braked, sat on a bench, took off her sunglasses and smiled. He slowed, looking into her brown eyes.
She said, “Have a seat. I’ll tell your fortune.”
“Give it back!”
“Here’s your fortune. You pick it up, walk away, use it. You stop living. End of fortune.”
“And if I don’t pick it up?”
“Things happen fast. Maybe the wings fall off.”
Red hesitated. “What does that mean?”
“Change a society too fast and the wings fall off. What happens then? Visit a Plains Indian reservation to get a small taste. Visit a welfare cavern…” Her voice trailed off.
“Welfare cavern?”
“Maybe, if the wings fall off badly enough.”
rick m says
“You! You cheater!” she screams.
The phone hits the floor, and my wife lunges for me. Thrashing wildly, her pink nails bite into my face. I try deflecting the blows, but she throws herself into me, and I fall to the floor.
“I’ll fix you, Mr. Pro, Mr. Number One.”
She disappears into a side room and emerges seconds later, holding something behind her back. It has a black handle. She begins to walk toward me. Grabbing the edge of the couch, I try to pull myself up, but my socks keep sliding against the tile floor. She’s closing in. I finally stand and look up in time to see a titanium driver poised to tee off on my face.
Wielding my golf club like a battleaxe, she swings at me. I duck, and the club whips over my head and smashes into a lamp. Wrenching the weapon free from the wreckage, she spews forth Swedish curses—her frenzied blonde hair masking her face. She rears back again. Screw this.
I turn and head for the front door. The Nordic Terror follows. Reaching the entrance, I try the doorknob. It won’t turn! My fingers fumble with the lock as her shadow falls on me. Flinging the door open, I dash out. My black SUV is fifty feet away. I sprint over and jump in.
Looking back, I see my wife running at the car. Suddenly her foot catches the pavement. She stumbles and drops the club. Taking the cue, I start up the engine and begin driving away. Pop! What the…? Pop! My eyes shift to the rearview mirror. Holy crap—she’s smashing my back windows with the friggin’ golf club! That crazy…
The front end lurches as the vehicle jumps the curb. I jerk the wheel instinctively and veer away. Swerving out of control, the SUV clips a fire hydrant and hurtles toward an Oak tree. Oh Lord, the media frenzy—my poor sponsors! The airbag unleashes, and everything goes white.
pete boland says
Tanya’s long lean legs catapaulted her out of the store. The carrier bag crashed against her shins as her arms pumped up and down and her feet stabbed at the pavement. For someone who hated sports, she was built for sprinting, the only thing stopping her from achieving light speed was last nights bingeing.
“Hey, stop!” she recognised the voice behind her and was impressed. The fat boy was quicker off the mark than she thought. No bother, she could easily out run him. He didn’t look like the type to chase shoplifters. A few seconds later he had started to close the gap. His heavy breaths were getting closer and closer. They sounded like bombs going off. Tanya kicked down hard to shake him. He kept pace. Damn this guy was persistent.
Tanya was getting fed up with running. Paddling pools of sweat appeared in her armpits. It was only a matter of time before she started smelling like the guy chasing her. Maybe that was the reason for his BO: chasing shoplifters all day.
Time to end this. Tanya locked on to a group of blokes heading out for the night. She zeroed in on their position. They were all dressed the same: short sleeved shirts, jeans and smart shoes – their pulling gear, no doubt. They were ready for a big session followed by a lap dance a curry. So predictable. Tanya ran at them, eyes wide in terror.
“Help, help, that guy’s after me.” Tanya screamed.
The friendly boyish piss-taking stopped and they all flicked into protective man mode. Knuckles clenched, shoulders rose and adrenalin did the rest. Not that it really needed to, there were five of them and only one of poor bookshop boy.
“Don’t worry love, you’re safe now.” one of them growled, “get behind us, he won’t touch you.”
Tanya ignored him and just kept on running. A second later they had him. She didn’t look back but she could hear his rapid, breathless explanations. They weren’t listening. A fight was what they wanted and good fortune had given them one that was easy to win, without the need for beer’s Dutch courage. Thump after thump followed. The low thick sound of flesh being pummelled by bare knuckles.
Tanya slowed her running to a jog when she was certain she was clear of the fracas she had created. A bit of guilt rose up like bile in her throat. She quickly swallowed it back. Shit stuff was always happening to her so why not somebody else. It was like a reverse karma.
Malin says
The iron grip around his arm flung him into the elevator. He spun around to face his attacker, preparing to leap outside. The door was closing and PD wasn’t likely to get past the man in time.
He sure as hell would try.
The repair man slipped something out of his pocket. It could have been a phone, or a tazer. The next second garbed wire rasped, shrieking, through PD’s ears.
Next moment, PD was flat out on a dirty floor. He might have cursed but as all he heard was a painful ringing, he couldn’t be sure. He got to all four, despite his body still spasming from the shock of…whatever it had been.
Someone grabbed him under the arm and pulled him to his feet. PD would rather have waited a minute or sixty. He stared unfocusedly at the repair man as he dragged him down a corridor. Jagged pieces of memories fell into place.
He considered fighting against the grip. He then considered his wounded fingers, the last punches to his jaw and his stomach and the ringing in his ears. He decided against it.
The repair man pulled him into an apartment and let go of PD first at a window screen. The man put his weight to it and pushed it upwards. Foul-smelling air rushed in and cloyed the kitchen cabinets with smog.
“Climb out.”
The brusque push got PD close enough to see he wouldn’t drop hundreds of floors to the ground, but to a metal ladder. He clambered up on the sink and crept outside. The metal ladder was weaved together as a net, and revealed a lot of empty air beneath PD’s weight. He tore his eyes from it and stared blindly at the house opposite, huddling as close to the wall as possible.
“Get up, go there.”
PD followed the man’s pointed finger. Their landing wasn’t just a ladder, but there was a narrow bridge of sort to the other building. Tunnel-vision had kept him from noticing it, he guessed. He sure had the other signs of panic; like shortness of breath and shaking all over. He shook his head in refusal.
PD might not have been dragged across kicking and screaming but he sure wanted to do just that. Kidnappers had no compassion for fears. The metal was cold and wet as the fingertips at the end of his outstretched arms brushed against the frail-looking safety fence on either side.
He had never thought knees actually buckled when you got scared. They did.
He didn’t fall through the net to land on the looming street below, and soon the man had pried open another window. This time PD clambered through without any push.
His ears were still ringing from the shock when they reached a private air shuttle platform. He sank down on the plush inside the luxurious craft.
“You don’t look too good, James.”
For the first time, PD laid eyes on the smiling voice on the phone.
Graham Bradley says
I ran across the top of the plane and jumped down into the cargo area with Reuben. He hit the button for the hatch. It closed quickly, the sky becoming a small sliver of white as the gap shrank.
A gray gauntlet shot into the small opening, then another, then two feet. Chimera forced the hatch to open up again, grinding with a robotic snarl.
“Minerva, bank right, NOW!” Reuben yelled up to the cockpit. The plane turned hard to one side. I lost my balance and jumped to the wall, grabbing a handle and holding on as my legs swung up in the air, pulled to the back of the plane by excessive g-force. Reuben clung to the other side of the bay. The Jeep and the heavy motorcycle slid over and pinned him to the wall.
“Reuben! Use the railer!” I said, pointing to the strap around his chest. With a slap from the flat of his palm, the rifle swung around to his front and landed perfectly in his arms. Our jet quaked, making a steady aim impossible.
Chimera still held on, still tried to force his way in. He turned his body sideways and ducked his shoulder in to point his one remaining cannon at Reuben.
Reuben didn’t hesitate; he squeezed the trigger.
“Bright” and “loud” are the best words for a railer. The recoil punched me in the chest from across the bay. A copper slug shot out and struck Chimera right in the back.
Reuben missed. The bullet tore up Chimera's flight apparatus, destroying his navigational flaps, but it wasn’t a killing blow by any stretch.
My arms burned with the effort of holding onto the wall. Chimera would get in if we didn’t end this fast. I turned to the lockers for anything I could use against him.
Chimera's hand closed around my ankle like a bear trap, squeezing to the breaking point: bones snapped, and I knew this was it.
Then, right beneath me, a horizontal foot locker drawer opened under the g-force of the banking jet. Inside was Granddad’s claymore, the enhanced Wallace model.
I didn’t need a clearer sign than that.
I released the wall and snatched at the claymore with both hands. Chimera and I tumbled out of the rear hatch. The last thing I heard was Reuben's scream.
“RILEY!”
Chimera released my ankle, blocking a wild blow from the claymore. I didn't know how high we were, but I had to finish him fast. He fired off his rockets, blasting us across the sky at maximum burn. Instantly I realized the damage Reuben's railer caused: Chimera couldn’t steer. He couldn’t even control the flow of thrust. It was all or nothing.
Out of the corner of my eye, somewhere in the wild spin of our descent, I saw the Washington Monument, and I knew what I had to do.
I slammed the hilt against his head, jarring him enough so I could scramble onto his back.
Eric says
He eased down the long hall, shotgun resting in the crook of his arm as though he waded through uncertain, murky waters, each step slow and deliberate. Only his eyes were quick, darting about, betraying his nervousness. The floors creaked unforgiving even to his lightest footfall, calling out, here he is. Here is the intruder. Caleb’s eyes pinched to slits at each sounding. His worn, tobacco-stained teeth clenched and ground. He pushed on.
Caleb searched his recollection for whether he knew where the attic access might be. If there was a mad boy on the loose, there was a good chance the child had taken refuge there despite the heat. Caleb knew that to the mad, concerns such as food, thirst, and damning heat, were all but trivial. For those with the sickness, ironically enough, it was the trivial things or things of no importance whatsoever that seemed to govern their minds, guide their hands. A grown woman walking the town square stark naked in search of her lost doll. A butcher carving off his own thumb to be rid of a blister. These things Caleb had recently seen. He shook the troubling images from his mind’s eye. Focus, he told himself.
He worked to picture the boy. William was it? No, Walter. Caleb had not seen the boy in a long while, what with the Petry family keeping to themselves even more so than others. The boy only came into town with his father on rare occasion. He must be ten or eleven, Caleb reckoned. Old enough then to be as dangerous as a man if he was with the sickness. Sick and for certain armed with a knife, maybe worse.
Caleb suddenly wished that they’d had time to discern Bill Petry’s cause of death. It would be good to know right about now if the man had been shot. In the heat, with heart pounding to open the door of his chest and escape him, Caleb found comfort in letting his index finger stroke the shotgun’s trigger.
He cut short his breath when the roof just above him sprinkled his sweat-dappled face with fine sooty grit. Looking up, he spied the wood slats there ever so subtly shift to have weight put upon them. Another fall of grit. The child, the mad thing that’d stabbed its own mother, likely killed its own father, was hiding in the attic, cornered with no place to run. A few feet further along the hall dangled the cord to the drop-door of the attic. Caleb all but slithered to it.
The thick twine cord hung motionless inches from Caleb Sweet’s less than steady hand, its knotted end stained in the unmistakable dark umber of dried blood. The old man stayed his hand to allow a moment of doubt to catch up with him.
Who was truly the prey in this hunt?