One. Two. Three. Clenched hands beat down his chest. Breathe. Second hand air fills his lungs. One. Two. Three. Breathe. In the darkness behind his eyes, swimming, shimmering light parts the...
One. Two. Three.
Clenched hands beat down his chest.
Breathe.
Second hand air fills his lungs.
One. Two. Three. Breathe.
In the darkness behind his eyes, swimming, shimmering light parts the shadows.
One. Two. Three. Breathe.
Shrieking words crash upon his ears like hammers on a sunken drum. "C- o-. W- u-."
One. Two. Three. Breathe.
"Wake up!"
He fights.
One. Two. "Come on!" Three. Breathe. "Wake up!"
He fights. Hands beat. Lungs fill. Words crash. He rattles. She stops.
He breathes pain. His voice fails. His eyes scream, 'No!'
She presses her thumbs against his throat. She smiles. "Again..."
Nicely written. I love staccato writing like that, and imagery well-described, "like hammers on a sunken drum." I'm not sure it follows the prompt, but I like it anyway.
Nicely written. I love staccato writing like that, and imagery well-described, "like hammers on a sunken drum."
I'm not sure it follows the prompt, but I like it anyway.
This was fun! This is the first writing challenge I've participated in. Feedback welcome :) The man was old, broken, and beaten. His jacket hung loose on his shoulders, the sleeves torn and...
This was fun! This is the first writing challenge I've participated in. Feedback welcome :)
The man was old, broken, and beaten. His jacket hung loose on his shoulders, the sleeves torn and fraying at the wrists. He walked with an odd hobble, as if he was used to walking with a cane, but it had been lost, or broken. His head hung low, a look of weary resignation on his face. The strong current of people on the sidewalk flowed around him, as if he were a broken log stuck in a raging river. I should have asked him "Are you alright?" Or "Can I help you?"... And yet I said nothing - noone did.
We sit on the edge of the narrow bed in my cold studio. Or what had been mine. I'm not sure. We got through the Loop. Same place, but are we the same people? Antonia's muffled sobbing abated. I...
We sit on the edge of the narrow bed in my cold studio. Or what had been mine. I'm not sure.
We got through the Loop. Same place, but are we the same people?
Antonia's muffled sobbing abated. I clench the old bedsheet, feeling its familiar texture.
"This is the start." Tonia, ever the silence breaker.
"Right. That was almost three years ago. Or now."
"And you said yes. That was all I cared about."
I knew then, and I still know: what could happen, would. But I didn't know what it would cost.
"I called him stupid once," I told the ceiling. "Who?" the ceiling asked back. "This kid I teach.” Taught. “Eddy. I've talked about him before." A rustle of paper. I looked across the room to see...
"I called him stupid once," I told the ceiling.
"Who?" the ceiling asked back.
"This kid I teach.” Taught. “Eddy. I've talked about him before."
A rustle of paper. I looked across the room to see my therapist flipping through notes. "Ah. Yes." I looked back at the ceiling.
"Turns out he was abused, yeah? I had no idea. Then..." I waved an arm at the air.
"Last Tuesday. I heard."
"I might’ve been right that he was stupid, but he– he was a good kid.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Should've told him he was a good kid."
I said a whole lot of things that day. Some of them were very clever, and some, I thought, were sad. Mostly they were lies. The Listeners did what they always do, and listened, closely. They...
I said a whole lot of things that day.
Some of them were very clever, and some, I thought, were sad.
Mostly they were lies.
The Listeners did what they always do, and listened, closely.
They didn't say anything.
They just sat there, in the same damp air as always, damp air filled with mildew and dead stars. More lies.
At the end of it, hours later, when I had said all the things I could think to say, I left. They stayed, like always.
I didn't know they'd wanted the truth. Maybe they would have decided to come home.
"So, again, to clarify, you only have eight words". Jonathan stood, arched over a keyboard with his finger hovering over the ENTER key, his neck straining to see the client. "Okay, Sir, I'm going...
"So, again, to clarify, you only have eight words".
Jonathan stood, arched over a keyboard with his finger hovering over the ENTER key, his neck straining to see the client.
"Okay, Sir, I'm going to start."
'Buy now to ensure your goodbyes' was the advertising slogan. Rich men would pay millions of credits to have their consciousness maintained for one final message.
Jonathan knew how this would turn out. He'd seen it many times.
The client spoke, quivering, and the transcription appeared on the screen.
I was. The terminal only accepted the first eight words and I liked the "ready." hanging there. Apologies for the confusion. E: You thought I wanted the > symbol there to denote a computer...
I was. The terminal only accepted the first eight words and I liked the "ready." hanging there. Apologies for the confusion.
E: You thought I wanted the > symbol there to denote a computer terminal. I getcha now! I wanted the formatting to denote the terminal.
One. Two. Three.
Clenched hands beat down his chest.
Breathe.
Second hand air fills his lungs.
One. Two. Three. Breathe.
In the darkness behind his eyes, swimming, shimmering light parts the shadows.
One. Two. Three. Breathe.
Shrieking words crash upon his ears like hammers on a sunken drum. "C- o-. W- u-."
One. Two. Three. Breathe.
"Wake up!"
He fights.
One. Two. "Come on!" Three. Breathe. "Wake up!"
He fights. Hands beat. Lungs fill. Words crash. He rattles. She stops.
He breathes pain. His voice fails. His eyes scream, 'No!'
She presses her thumbs against his throat. She smiles. "Again..."
I'm so confused. Awesome though
Strangling someone to death just to bring them back, over and over again. The victim just wants to die. The sadist won't let them.
Nicely written. I love staccato writing like that, and imagery well-described, "like hammers on a sunken drum."
I'm not sure it follows the prompt, but I like it anyway.
Hoof, now that you mention it. I realize I cut out the lines that more clearly tied to the prompt to keep it to 100 words.
This was fun! This is the first writing challenge I've participated in. Feedback welcome :)
The man was old, broken, and beaten. His jacket hung loose on his shoulders, the sleeves torn and fraying at the wrists. He walked with an odd hobble, as if he was used to walking with a cane, but it had been lost, or broken. His head hung low, a look of weary resignation on his face. The strong current of people on the sidewalk flowed around him, as if he were a broken log stuck in a raging river. I should have asked him "Are you alright?" Or "Can I help you?"... And yet I said nothing - noone did.
We sit on the edge of the narrow bed in my cold studio. Or what had been mine. I'm not sure.
We got through the Loop. Same place, but are we the same people?
Antonia's muffled sobbing abated. I clench the old bedsheet, feeling its familiar texture.
"This is the start." Tonia, ever the silence breaker.
"Right. That was almost three years ago. Or now."
"And you said yes. That was all I cared about."
I knew then, and I still know: what could happen, would. But I didn't know what it would cost.
The Loop disintegrated. The pain didn't.
I miss you, @Kat.
"I called him stupid once," I told the ceiling.
"Who?" the ceiling asked back.
"This kid I teach.” Taught. “Eddy. I've talked about him before."
A rustle of paper. I looked across the room to see my therapist flipping through notes. "Ah. Yes." I looked back at the ceiling.
"Turns out he was abused, yeah? I had no idea. Then..." I waved an arm at the air.
"Last Tuesday. I heard."
"I might’ve been right that he was stupid, but he– he was a good kid.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Should've told him he was a good kid."
I said a whole lot of things that day.
Some of them were very clever, and some, I thought, were sad.
Mostly they were lies.
The Listeners did what they always do, and listened, closely.
They didn't say anything.
They just sat there, in the same damp air as always, damp air filled with mildew and dead stars. More lies.
At the end of it, hours later, when I had said all the things I could think to say, I left. They stayed, like always.
I didn't know they'd wanted the truth. Maybe they would have decided to come home.
"So, again, to clarify, you only have eight words".
Jonathan stood, arched over a keyboard with his finger hovering over the ENTER key, his neck straining to see the client.
"Okay, Sir, I'm going to start."
'Buy now to ensure your goodbyes' was the advertising slogan. Rich men would pay millions of credits to have their consciousness maintained for one final message.
Jonathan knew how this would turn out. He'd seen it many times.
The client spoke, quivering, and the transcription appeared on the screen.
ready.
A beep. A message appeared: TRANSFERED.
'ready' was the ninth word.
I'll add some punctuation to try and make it clearer! (E: Hmm... I'm unsure on that one.)
I was. The terminal only accepted the first eight words and I liked the "ready." hanging there. Apologies for the confusion.
E: You thought I wanted the > symbol there to denote a computer terminal. I getcha now! I wanted the formatting to denote the terminal.