300 words
Charge.
— by Lou —
Lightning crackled as the panicked creature fled through the city streets. A charred hole lay in the ground where the beast had burst through the false manhole leaving a window looking upon the bloodied floor of the laboratory. Heavy-duty cables lay scattered around a table bearing the shreds of various restraints. Technicians in specially modified clean suits mop the floor and tidy the debris as a single scientist in a lab coat and thick glasses looks up at the hole in disappointment. "Really thought we had the containment figured out for that one. I was sure it was all about magnetic fields." One of the technicians turns to the scientist, and leans on his mop. "You always think it's about magnetic fields. Have you considered just plugging it into a huge capacitor?" "Yes, and it exploded. Where do you think I got this?", he points to a patch of darkened skin under one eye. "Capacitors..." he mutters. The technician shrugs, and starts mopping again. The scientist looks at his watch, sighs, and turns to leave the room. Almost as an afterthought, he turns and walks to the table. From his left pocket he pulls a thick, clear plastic pouch, and from his right a pair of long tweezers. With the tweezers he grasps a small fragment of yellow fur. As the tweezers pinch the fur a spark jumps, and the scientist gasps, dropping them. Embarrased, he looks about him quickly, grabs the tweezers and quickly puts the now gently crackling fur into the bag, wincing as he does. He seals the bag, and scuttles out of the room. On the surface, bystanders watch street lights flicker and gaze in confusion at the patches of charred ground. In the distance a sound like a wolf howling is punctuated by rumbling thunder.
209 words
It Will Always Come To This
— by Ceejay —
It will always come to this. Empty moments and even emptier words sunk into liquids of varying viscosities, varying colours, varying amounts, all with varying abilities to obliterate, enhance, or make someone else smile. The eyes are all the same. Each sits in the same spot, arms folded on the cragged wooden picnic table stained with ash and the regrets of previous visits. No one has really moved since last week, last month. Last year for the old boy at the far end. Some say he was born here. Cigarette pinched between yellow fingers, skin wrinkled into stories that no one wants to hear anymore. He paints the brightest picture, because he already knows. He already knows how it ends. I’m still pretending. My own choice of amber poison doesn’t really reflect any crux of any matter within me. It doesn’t really define my choices or point out that I am incapable of understanding which choice I have to make. The fact that my breath will be sticky and sour is not my only tangible means of identification; it is not the only way, that I remember that I exist. I wake up in the morning, yellowed, expelled, and reaching for the bottle. It will always come to this.
266 words
In a moment.
— by Lou —
I have about three milliseconds to fix things. Well, in real time, anyway. I managed to extend that by squeezing time out of other moments and into this one. You know that feeling when something seems to be happening faster than you want? It's because your excited mind is compressing the event, and that extra time leaks into other moments, like when you're waiting for something you want. If you're clever, you can learn to redirect it. Two bullets, one heading for her heart, one for her head. I haven't got a lot of options. The first I'm pushing to the side. It's burning my hands, and takes a lot of strength and spare time. It will miss. Just. One bullet left. I haven't got enough spare time to move it out of the way. She won't understand how it happened but later, in shock, she will tell the story in fragments, voice filled with awe. The gunman is already making a run for it, dashing between discarded items, apparently frozen; a statue in amidst the flakes of the disturbed snow globe of his victim's life. Nothing for it now, so I step in front of the bullet in time to rest my forehead upon it's tip as I feel reality flood back into the room, and my skin begin to part. She gasps as my blood and my body hit her, throwing her to the ground. In my last moment I manage to pull a vague smile as she screams. I'll admit, this isn't how I envisaged the walk to work when I woke up.
132 words
The Transfer
— by Writer_738dx —
There are guards on every floor. We are searched on entering the building. We are searched when we leave. Security cameras were recently installed in the toilets. This includes cubicles. We do not talk about the information. We transfer the information. When a piece of information has been transferred onto the system the paper file is taken down to the basement where it is shredded and then burnt. This is done for security reasons and any deviation from standard procedure will result in instant dismissal. Criminal proceedings may follow. Possible imprisonment. An indefinite term. I have been here seven years. I do not know what the information means or why the information must be disposed of in this manner. I transfer the information. After that, it has nothing to do with me.
131 words
The Information
— by Writer_738dx —
There are guards on every floor. We are searched on entering the building. We are searched when we leave. Security cameras were recently installed in the toilets. This includes cubicles. We do not talk about the information. We transfer the information. When a piece of information has been transfered onto the system the paper file is taken down to the basement where it is shredded and then burnt. This is done for security reasons and any deviation from standard procedure will result in instant dismissal. Criminal proceedings may follow, Possible imprisonment. Indefinite term. I have been here seven years. I do not know what the information means or why the information must be disposed of in this manner. I transfer the information. After that, it has nothing to do with me.
299 words
The Brightness of Mourning
— by Nick —
The shadows faded as the sun waxed up over the hills. The valley slowly filled with golden light. Mari and Tomas stumbled down the rocky path, They caught each other as they tripped on loose stones and their ankles were snagged by those plants which had strived to escape the cleft in the landscape. No doubt they regretted it; their leaves were pale and mottled, branches dry and snapped as Tomas kicked past them. Tomas and Mari cast long black shapes into the declining darkness. It reached up eagerly to envelop them, and they ran into it with hope in their joined hands. The heart of the valley was twisted under itself and the river that ran through it was clothed in night throughout the day. It was not far. But the sun rises quickly. Its heat chased them down the bank. Mari slipped once too many and fell, her grip tugging him off balance, sliding and scraping down the sharp slope. The valley grew steeper as it raced towards the black river. They fell with it, rolling and tumbling, bouncing awkwardly. With every roll the sun grew closer. Desperately Tomas sought to control his descent, twisting and digging his heels in. His feet hit a rock and jerked him upright, but with too much velocity to slow he flipped over the edge of the cliff and was launched face down into the water. Darkness and cold embraced him and he gasped in relief, punching up for the surface. Mari wasn't there. No tell tale stream of bubbles and splashed wake. The cliff above him was out of reach, dust and pebbles streamed over the edge. As did the light. Tomas had no choice. He turned and swam into the safety of the darkness, the water hiding his tears.
299 words
Between Her Fingers
— by bohemianonrye —
Every breath is okay for the first few seconds, but when Que's stomach starts expanding against the stab wound, everything in her sight zig-zags painful colors and it's like she's running with a stitch and...she needs stitches, better get stitches. Until then...smaller breaths. The subway train roars in her ears. Doesn't help. It must be taboo in this part of town to remark on the blood she's leaving behind her in breadcrumb droplets. There is no 'are you okay.' There is no 'can I call a doctor for you.' There are vacant stares and an empty seat next to her that no one is going to take. Trembling starts in her shoulders, makes a bumpy trip to her red-slick hand. Adrenaline gone. Welcome, shock. She mumbles state capitals to keep aware. Richmond, Virginia. Juneau, Alaska. Um. She starts on song lyrics. He had pushed her against the brick wall she was passing by. Told her to give him her money, phone, ring. All he got was a wad of gum, some spit in his eye. Que walks back through the memory like she is stepping on shoeprint dance instructions. He made a grab for her throat, she stepped aside. The punchknife in his other hand grazed her side. No, a little worse then that. Sloppy. Then, she hit him so hard his nose bone disappeared into his face. She fingers his wallet in her pocket. At least it's over for him. It probably took some time, drowning on his own blood and cartilage. He won't be coming up on any other pretty thing in thigh-high boots and a short skirt. She'll never even take this subway again. Que silently promises her pocket full of stolen cash that it will be put to better use in better parts of town.
74 words
The Road Not Taken
— by Joe Potter —
Some forks in the road aren't as obvious as some. But the image of the lamp post is burned into my mind, the two signs showing the road taken, and the one available. I had arrived here on a camel, by eating fast food, and living a sedentary life. If I survive the pain running down my arm, maybe this time I can stop smoking, eat my veggies, and get off my butt. If...
66 words
Sword
— by me_of_course —
I opened my eyes to a splitting headache, a throbbing forehead and a heavy feeling in my brain. I'd gone to sleep after meeting a guy at the bar, a nice guy, a sweet-talking guy. He'd slipped me something apparently, that's the only explanation I have for why I woke up with my head in his hand. I should've questioned when I first saw the sword.
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