[x]

LateSammy paced.

This had never happened before. And tonight, of all nights! He glanced at the clock, grimaced, and paced some more. Where was he?

Behind the curtain, he heard the chatter of the crowd, the beat of the music.

Marv the Magnificent, the "compere extraordinaire", strode up to Sammy and gave him a questioning look. Sammy answered with a shrug. Marv looked at his watch, wiped his brow, sipped from a tin hip-flask.

"It's now or never, Sam. Do or die. I believe you can do this on your own - but he'll be here yet."

Seeing the fear in his star attraction's eyes, Marv put a hand on Sammy's shoulder. "He'll be here yet", he repeated.

S

Stationery Pt IStanley loved stationery.

He loved the way it smelled when you stripped away the crinkly cellophane wrapper. He loved the Spartan beauty of an unspoiled pad of paper (A4, plain, 260gsm). He loved the sound of a cap crisply clicking onto the top of a Biro. He loved the texture of a freshly-sharpened pencil and the flake of the finely-honed graphite point. He loved gazing over stacks and stacks of untouched Post-Its, each a perfect square of yellow, an army of ideas awaiting orders.

He loved everything about it. Stationery was neat. It was orderly. It was always needed, easily replaceable, and something that everyone can appreciate.

Stanley

Last Orders
And I looked and behold, a pale horse
And his name that sat on him was Death
And Hell followed with him.
-Revelation 6:8
"Time at the bar, gentlemen!"

Gary rang the bell, signalling closing time at the Pale Horse. He loved to ring the bell – it was his nightly ritual. Twice nightly, actually. Sometimes, when the regulars like Lloyd wouldn't leave, he even let himself ring the bell a third time.

That wouldn't happen tonight, though. It was Monday night. No-one ever stayed late on Monday night. One day, something interesting would happen on a Monday. Gary knew this: just as he knew that Lloyd would appear at 6 o'clock every e

Time Traveller's EngagementExactly ten years from tomorrow, we'll be married here. My wife doesn't know that, of course. In a certain sense, neither do I.

It's a beautiful spot, now. Now meaning today, when the sunlight is still pure, and the sky is still blue. The ivy still climbs in green snakes up the side of her father's chateau, the pennants of the House of Renard are snapping gaily over the towers.

I hear a lilting laugh that even now sends my heart into my throat. Euryale Renard. She is only a girl today, no older than my little sister is in the days I left behind. Even at twelve, my Ury's curls catch the sun like molten amber, with a flower basket flung wide

Another Take The human I live with calls me "Tommy Gun." Or "Kitty." Sometimes "Cat." Yeah "cat," but I'm really an alien. Though we got here first and are highly evolved, humans insist on calling us all these names. I think it's because they're unable to call us what we call each other. They can't hear us talk most of the time. We usually use what humans call "telepathy," except in extreme cases. We try other ways to talk to humans. Use "meow" umpteen ways and you'll see how hard it is.

I like my human. She's a beautiful girl calls herself "Mimi" when she's on stage. Yeah "Mimi," and she's definitely

Blood and Secrets: Chapter OneEvery step Zira took sounded to her like an elephant stampeding through a forest of percussion sets. She reassured herself that it was just adrenaline and that no one else could hear her. There was only one person still alive to hear her anyway, and he was sound asleep in the room Zira stalked towards now.

The door was unlocked, and as she pushed it open Zira wondered why someone as rich as Mr. Getty didn't have better security. The locks had all been easy enough to pick and she had had no trouble deactivating his securibots and automated alarm system. His human guards were clumsy and nervous men who had fallen quickly to Zira's skilled

Cecilia

It is a truth insufficiently acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a good education may become easily dissatisfied with the prospect of matrimony and marriage.

Miss Katherine Godbehere, known to all as Kitty, was the very exemplar of this unfortunate affliction. She had inherited from her late father, in addition to a benevolent yearly stipend, a prodigious interest in the Sciences, and read avidly every publication put out by the Royal Society. Perhaps as a consequence of the eye-strain caused by poring over such close-worded text, she was predisposed to a slight frown which tended to deter her

Saving the Angels, Smiting the Demons     His hands were covered in blood. The steering wheel, the back seat, it seemed that it would never wash out. That everything would always carry that rusty hue, the coppery scent, no matter how many times he scrubbed and washed and sprayed.

     But it was all right. At least she was clean. Pure, innocent, perfect. She was in the passenger seat, leaned up against the door, eyes closed in peaceful slumber. He smiled. It had been a long day for both of them, but she needed the sleep more than he did. He would let her rest.

     Time ticked by, and he drove through the dark to the old quarry. He could have left the headlights off and felt h

And Here Is JohnHere is John, beside me again. Sometimes when we meet he gives me a small, courtly bow, other times he's tired and he can only muster up a smile as the words "Bonjour, ma belle," fall out of his mouth. Sometimes his eyes burn feverishly, sometimes they're dull, sometimes he's drunk. It depends on where he's been that day. There are only two things constant about my John; he always manages to smile, and I can always see the fear deep in every line on his face.

Paris is grim, and John spends his time here waiting. His whole life now is waiting and fearing what could happen. No one knows what will happen, now. The front is moving closer to the

The Rainfall KidThere are raindrops on his fingers—a glistening cluster of perfectly silver droplets that read like some shining, ethereal roadway map—the night that he comes for her with the thunder of a summer storm rolling forward on his footsteps. The low rumble of it jolts her from a book induced slumber, the cover rough beneath hands and the jumble of last-read letters blurring on the underside of blinking eyelids as rain begins to fall. Although it's almost been longer than memory will allow, she knows that there is no mistaking the sudden upheaval of the outside world for anything other than his arrival—after all, it hasn't stormed in

CharlieI had a stalker.

I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.

I called him Charlie.

He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.

He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He

The August Rooster and the Eater of Pearls"Are you the spawn of Satan?" the woman asks me. She is wearing welding goggles and holding a clipboard.

"No," I say. "Hello. I'm--"

"Yes, yes, the potential apprentice. Sara, was it?"

"Samantha. It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"Lovely to meet you too, Samantha," the man says, stepping forward to shake my hand. His skin is cold, and I swear he has scales. "Are you ready go?"

"Go?"

"We're taking you with us for this afternoon's search."

"Ah. Yes. Okay then."

They both turn to leave, and I trail after them. They move quickly, and I end up having to alternate between walking and running to keep up.

"Out of interest, what exactly is i

GameAnd here I am, holding on for dear life
(but since when is my life dear to anyone, anyway?)
while you roll the dice one more time.
"Two," you say, and I sigh in relief because I'm number four. Number two gets dragged on the floor towards you and you kiss her on the forehead
(with a bullet)
and she falls to the ground and the men carry her away to the pit.
A new number two comes forth and she's prettier than the last one. But I look away. There's no point in finding beauty in this.
I actually heard the future being preached sometime before it happened.
"The gods are angry," the old priest said, "they'll turn against us."
And they did, alright, when they gave conscience to our robots and made them overtake humanity, that they enjoy torturing.
I know this is not your fault.
You're probably suffering even more than any of us
(after all, you're the one holding the gun)
but I don't know if I can forgive you.
Yet, I loved you once. It was a pretty and shiny dream. But also a crazy one. I was

stuck like glue it started with lightbulbs, and it ended with jail.

and when she looked back on it it seemed suitable, like the lightbulb he dropped on her desk was the universe's way of saying that this [whatever this was] was a great idea.

but it wasn't just lightbulbs. every day there was something new, a perfectly random little something dropped on her desk without a word of acknowledgment, like a cat bringing home dead things as gifts [but much cuter, of course] and every day she would tap her fingers with anticipation, just waiting for him to arrive with something new.

and they were always silent in class, barely speaking more than a few words to e

19. Lem's WarSame damn dream. Hot as hell. M-16 rifles pock-pocking like fireworks.
Gonna get you home, cracker. Gonna get you home. You hear me, Marine? Gonna get you home.
The first week after they'd left Pryor with the bishop, he'd had the dream every day. Then it was every few days, mostly because Lem didn't sleep. Sketch threw him a paper airplane one night as they were getting up. He unfolded it to find a cartoon of himself with giant, bloodshot bug-eyes.
Meanwhile, Melody's sign language was getting better. Lem. Look like shit. Like dead body.
He glared at her.

Go to library? Get some? She thought a minute, squeezing her fists in frustration. Get some air?
He nodded, and collected his bag of books. All of them were overdue.
--

Thought you forgot about me, Gunny. Corky was unloading the books from Lem's bag. You read 'em all?
Lem shrugged. Stuff came up.
Yeah, it's that busy, jet-setting corporate life you lead. Then, Corky nodded afte

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CarolineA little while later Dusty Rhodes found himself outside Grey's bar and diner. He took a moment to finish his cigarette and collect his thoughts before gently pushing the door open.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?!"

It wasn't unusual for Dusty to be shouted at when he entered a room – but he was nevertheless taken aback by the sheer volume of the shriek.

"Caroline, Kitten," he began, closing the door slowly but thinking quickly. "Ah, have you been waiting long?" It had been a long day.

"8'o'clock. Isn't that what you said? 8'o'bloody clock! I've been sat here for over an hour!"

She had risen to her feet from the far side of the

The Gunslinger

"You mean you ain't never heard of the Gunslinger?"

The bar was almost dead at this time of night, and the question seemed to echo around the room - emphasising the sudden silence, rather than masking it.

"No, boy, I ain't."

Only a handful of stragglers remained, the dregs of the evening clearing the dregs of their whiskeys. The lights shone dimly, and everything moved lethargically in the warm Texas night.

"Well I'll be. I thought everyone 'round here knew the story of the 'slinger'," said one of the stragglers – a tall, skinny man wearing a pale cowboy hat. A battered guitar rested on his knee.

"I'm new in town."

They sat at the

The Ballard of Eiy'ra Haiz

Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he don't answer any more.
Not the whiskey drinking Indian, the marine who went to war.
A beaten up jukebox played old country songs in the corner of the bar. Outside, the mid-afternoon sun beat down on the cracked clay floor. The rocks surrounding the small mining town of Cripple Creek almost seemed to glow in the heat, and the horizon was half-hidden by haze. The township went about its business under the watchful eye of the local Dominion garrison.

But those in the Pink Moon sheltered from that world. The barman, Townes, was an old war veteran with only one arm. In place of the other was a crude robotic substi

Cheese Sandwich"'scuse me mate, is that the cheese sandwich you've got there?"

"Er, yes"

"Is it any good?"

"It's a cheese sandwich."

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever had a cheese sandwich before?"

"Yeah."

"Did you like it?"

"Yes mate!"

"Then you'll like this cheese sandwich."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes, because it's a cheese sandwich. It's more or less exactly what you'd expect from a cheese sandwich. If I was to be critical I'd say it was a tad heavy on cheese and a little light on lettuce..."

"Right?"

"But it's still a cheese sandwich."

"Ok mate! Thanks!"

The man strode up to the counter and ordered an English breakfast. Dusty watched impassively.

Melancholy BeautyIn peace and silent benevolence,
Shining a light so cold and pristine,
The moon hangs in a calming reverence
And gazes over infinite realms unseen.
I watch from a frozen pavement
Trapped by mortal amazement:
For this is beauty,
Yes, this is beauty.

With joy radiating from her eyes
We share the night bus to our homes.
She feigns sadness but her smile belies
Her words as the conversation roams.
She says she'll have more fun with me
Than without, and as she smiles sweetly
All I see is beauty,
Oh, she is beauty.

Now, with candles idly flickering
In a darkened room sworn to silence,
I sit with my demons bickering.
A half-empty

LinesThere's a line, you'll agree,
Between happiness and misery.
A twisted line between love and hate,
And lines between a nations' states

There's a line that always divides
The gusting wind from the rolling tides.
But I've never seen one quite as divine
As that of your arcing neckline.

The only line that makes me stumble,
In my torment makes me grumble
And drives this silent soliloquy,
Is the unbroken line between you and me.

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Thrill

by ~monstroooo, Jul 22, 2012, 1:23:18 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

She felt it every time. The rush. The adrenaline.

The thrill.

It was an accidental discovery. She hadn't meant to... it just sort of worked itself out. There she was, cramped up on the tube with everyone else, when Jane noticed the neck of the girl in front of her. It was beautiful. Such clean, soft skin, lightly peppered with hairs, snaking down to the secrets held underneath her pinkish collar.

No-one was looking. And they were all packed in so close together. So she just gave it a little lick.

Just a light brush with the tongue. A dab. She barely even made contact - just the faintest of pecks.

And it was beautiful.

The lady barely even knew it had happened. She looked around, absently rubbed the back of her neck, but continued flicking over her iPad as if nothing had happened.

That was when Jane realised that people didn't expect the unexpected, and as such they didn't react to it. The rush she'd felt.. that fleeting intimacy, that slightly salty taste just tingling on her tongue. She thought about it for days. Nights.

And so, inevitably, she did it again. This time it was a gentleman, dozing in the seat opposite her. He'd been basically unconcious for the last two minutes, and Jane spent the whole torturous time staring at his neck. It was brown, brown like milk chocolate, and ever so lightly stubbled.

When the train stopped and she was left alone with him on the carriage, she didn't waste a second. She switched seats, leaned in, and raked her tongue greedily across his skin.

He woke up with a start.

Jane was prepared, though. She stared intently at a newspaper on her lap, trying desperately not to wonder if she was blushing, or how hot it was on that empty train, or ohmygodthatwasamazing.

The man left at the next stop without saying a word. He hadn't given the slightest sign that he knew what Jane had done - to her, that made it even more exciting. Such suspense...

It became Jane's private little game. Whenever she could, she'd sidle up to strangers on the train, hold her breath, wait for the perfect moment and then -

- then she tasted the thrill.

Thrillby ~monstroooo

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

This is NOT, in any way, autobiographical.

Produced in twenty minutes for WritersInk's Write Off. Lightly edited for typos

love 1 1

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~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

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~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Shyanne-Kai Aug 28, 2012

This sure is a strange piece! It's unique and works well, at least she's found something to do on the tube!

'...or how hot it was on that empty train, or ohmygodthatwasamazing' - I like this line, it get's into Jane's head and turns her strange rush into something potentially appealing to the reader.

~monstroooo Aug 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks! This one's proven quite a hit, which scares me a little

No-one else has picked out that line, but I liked it, too

Always appreciate the feedback

~Shyanne-Kai Aug 31, 2012

Haha, maybe it says something about your watchers

~monstroooo Aug 31, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

~kaleidofish Jul 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Eurghhh. I squirmed while reading this, haha. It was nasty, yet hilarious. Great job!

~monstroooo Jul 31, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks

Appreciate the fav, too!

~foodpsycho Jul 28, 2012 Writer

This is a really fun piece! I really enjoyed it: sneaky, exciting, with an air of strangeness... all mixed into one delightful cocktail. Paced perfectly.

~monstroooo Jul 29, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Cheers!

^neurotype Jul 27, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

oh man I would shit a brick if this happened to me...if I even noticed

Whimsical. Nice.

~monstroooo Jul 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Haha, thanks!

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