Staring sentence: "There was something brutal about him."

For the sake of doing something different, instead of a general theme to work from, I've provided what will be the very first sentence of every story. It'll be up to each writer to take their cue from that, and spin it how their imagination sees fit. The writer can alter the sentence a bit if they wish, making it present tense or even making it 'her,' though it should remain close to the original.

In the case of future challenges, winners might want to set a particular type of person, location, or object instead of a generalize theme to keep things interesting.

Word Limit: 1,200

Submission Deadline: Wednesday, 5/21 by 11:59 PM Pacific.

Voting begins Thursday, 5/22, and goes until Saturday, 5/24 at 11:59 PM Pacific

Submission Guidelines:

- All submissions must be written during the time of the challenge. We don't want a snippet of your doctoral thesis from 1996 being used here.
- One entry per poster. You can submit and then edit if you'd like, but finalizing before submitting is encouraged.
- Spelling and Grammatical errors can be used to great effect when the story, characters, and setting demand it. However, proofreading and spell-checking your writing will probably result in a more positive attitude towards it when people are voting.
- Using the topic as the title of your piece is discouraged. These challenges get a large number of submissions and if entries share the same title, it's difficult for the readers to separate them out come voting time.
- Any writing style is welcome, but remember that most people are probably going to vote for the well written short story over an elementary acrostic poem.
- There are many ways to interpret the theme for this assignment, we are all writers or wannabe writers, so keep that in mind when writing and critiquing others' works.
- Thousands of people read GAF, so if you don't want some masterpiece of yours to be stolen and seen in Hollywood a year from now, don't post it on here.
- Finally, there is a handy word count checker at www.wordcounttool.com. Nobody wants to be a word count nazi, but please keep your submission under the limit.

Voting Guidelines:

- Anyone can vote, even those that do not submit a piece during the thread.
- Three votes per voter. Please denote in your voting your 1st (3 pts), 2nd (2 pts), and 3rd (1 pt) place votes.
- Please read all submissions before voting, it is only fair to those who put in the effort.
- You must vote in order to be eligible to win the challenge. Critiques/comments are encouraged but not required.
- When the voting period ends, votes will be tallied and the winner will get a collective pat on the back and will be in charge of picking a new topic to write about and pick the word length.

Have fun!

Our sadly small list of entries (thanks to Cyan):

batbeg - "A Texas Tale" - A young man leaves home after a beating from his homophobic father.
nitewulf - "Duel" - An old soldier pursues justice.
Aaron - "Heart Loss" - An old man retraces the steps of a murdered boxer.
Great Rumbler - "Thirty Years Ago" - A man recounts a horrific tale from his childhood.
tetsuoxb - "Black and Blue" - A lawyer reflects on his empty life.
ronito - "3.6" - A bronc rider draws a deceptively docile animal.
Gattsu25 - "Fool" - Despite the knife, a one-sided fight.
Cyan - "Defense" - A high school coach cajoles a quitter.
Memles - "Body and Mind" - A man struggles to get his body and mind to cooperate.
DumbNameD - "The Cat" - A woman befriends a stray cat.
Aidan - "The Office" - A music writer is tempted to ignore her boss.

Previous Challenges:

#1 - "The Things Unseen" (Winner: beelzebozo)
#2 - "An Unlikely Pair" (Winner: Aaron)
#3 - "weightless, breathless" (Winner: Azih)
#4 - "On the way" (Winner: DumbNameD)
#5 - "The End" (Winner: Cyan
#6 - "Playing with Fire" (Winner: Aaron

Cool concept. I've enjoyed the themes, but it'll be good to try something new, too.

I can't wait to see how bjork makes a haiku out of this one.

Interesting...very interesting.

Can't wait to see how this turns out. Makes the "seeing writers interpret themes differently" thing more exciting, since we'll all have the common ground of sharing the first line, and it'll be interesting to see the direction that everyone takes from there.

There was something brutal about him. Brutal and beautiful, a magnificent display of muscle and craftsmanship that only thinly veiled the rage beneath him. When we made love he would destroy me, his hands rough and calloused but all the same mine, and warm. Such brutality is physically exhausting though, even for an Adonis such as himself, and our love making was always abrupt, always cut short by his powerful climax. The minutes after would have him collapsed on the satin sheets, spread out so that I could crawl into his warmth, and cover his skin with kisses. He wouldn’t show any affection towards me, as such, but he would suffer my love for a short time and then move from the bed and dress, knowing my eyes followed his every movement, obsessively basking in his aura.

The day my parents found out I was gay he was still there, entangled in my hold in the satin sperm soaked sheets. I pulled my gaze only half-heartedly as if at a distraction and my father only seemed further enraged by this, a vein bulging and his eyes popping. In two quick steps he had me by my hair and dragged me from my lover, thrown against my desk where childhood memories went scattering. He began to kick my naked chest, leaving red welts across my pale skin. I’d always dreamed of my lover calling me his Snow White, to say what beautiful pale skin I had.

“Your little fag cunt boyfriend going to do anything?” My father was not an intimidating man, and would not have stood a chance, but my lover was a cold man. I shook my head and my lover simply took out a cigarette while my beating continued, tears streaming down my cheeks and still sperm sliding down my leg. I couldn’t take the shame of knowing how I must look, how pathetic and juvenile I appeared. My tears blurred my vision and my father’s beatings left the rest out of sight, and after a time I heard the door close as my lover left. I was grateful. But it did not stop.

That night I packed what I could into my bag and left, leaving my town and leaving everything I knew. The neon skyline offered no promise and the gray cars no offers. I walked in solitude, plodding along by instinct as I tried to force all thought and feeling from my mind. When I was a few miles out of the town and on my way to no where in particular I collapsed, hitting the ground like a corpse against the hard ground. When I woke up my bag was gone, my shoes missing and my body felt like I’d been hit by an 18-wheeler then had someone shit in my mouth. I had cried so much the previous day that my eyes were swollen.

I stumbled up, immediately stepping in a blade of broken glass and wincing, eyes already swelling with tears, which only hurt all the more and made me feel like bawling. I threw my hands against nothing and forced my body forwards, dragging it pitifully but self-consciously aware of passing cars. There were a few times cars would slow down as if they would give me a helping hand, but seeing my battered body and the caked blood drove them off, slowly picking up their pace as if they had slowed down for some other reason, an almost apologetic acceleration.

The sun burnt, and the bruises and blotches from the previous day began to glow against my skin, delicate kisses left by the lipstick of my fathers boots and balled fists. When I had to go for a piss I tried finding as discreet of a place as possible, which ended up being behind the peeling paint of a What-A-Burger billboard, promising the most bitchin’ breakfast ever or something. I was so tired that I fell halfway through, only just managing to catch myself so as to not cover myself with my own urine. Thank God, if I’d smelled of piss then when I eventually did get picked up I would have been sent right out again.

It was as the twilight came upon the flat land that somebody took pity upon me, and as these things go it just happened to be an 18-wheeler. I don’t know if they’re the most desperate men of the road, or wandering priests of the southwest. Maybe they aren’t too different for them to be both, but all I know for sure is they will pick you up and they will know all the right things (or nothings) to say. This trucker had a pair of old, mud-encrusted boots under the seat, a remnant of some previous age which he’d never bothered throwing out. He passed me a beer even though I didn’t look a day over my fifteen years, and asked me to bare my soul.

“Got a girl pregnant, and her daddy weren’t none too happy to hear it. Mine wasn’t much better off either, matter a fact.” I pushed out a fake smirk and the trucker pretended this tale appeased him with a grunt, both of us taking comfort in our open lies. We moved on for a while in silence, before the trucker decided to put on some country station, but in the way people make it only just audible. Halfheard tales of broken hearts and drunken brawl fights moaned alongside the engine, the night cloaking us and the world only visible as far as the headlights reached. From time to time he would whistle out of tune, sometimes as if to an entirely different song though it could be hard to tell.

“What kind of guy was this daddy a yours, then?” It seemed an unlikely question, and it caught me by surprise.

I thought of the scattered photographs of him holding me, the football trophies from the games he drove me too. The nights of me helping my mom look after my little brother because my dad was working late at the workshop. The way we sat around the table on Thursday nights and played Monopoly. Fucking Monopoly is what I thought of. Then I saw his eyes locked on me, and I saw the conflicting ideas of love and hatred for his naked son. He must have felt what he was doing was good for him, and that hurt more than knowing he did it out of hatred.

“There was something brutal about him...” I started before tears streamed by dirty cheeks and sobs choked my voice.

--

I hope this doesn't offend anyone, and I'm certainly not implying anything about gay people having weak emotions or fucked up lives. I just started with the beginning and made it up as I went (hence the lack of a real resolution, I suppose).

batbeg said:

A Texas Tale

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Hmm. Well, I didn't find it offensive, but then I'm neither gay nor Texan. I'm not a big fan of the closeted-gay-gets-beaten-by-his-family story, but it was nicely written. Especially with the memories of his dad toward the end. The long descriptions of his lover didn't feel totally relevant.

I felt that what was missing was a driving force or a central conflict. What does the MC think about his lover abandoning him to be beaten? Does he just not care; is that what he expected? What does that say about their relationship?

This was well written in the details, but I think the structure could've used a little more thought. Good job for something put together so quickly.

Cyan said:

Good job for something put together so quickly.

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This was more or less all I wanted to do :lol I have a lot of writing to do right now so I just wanted to put something together while I felt determined enough to do it.

There wasn't much of a point to their relationship being the way it was, it was just to show what a fucked up relationship he had and some of the forces that made him who he was, ashamed of his sexuality and arguably quite weak.

This sounds of interest to me, I could be potentially engaged.

I think I'm going to try something more dialogue-heavy on this one. It's not my forte, but I'll see how it turns out.

I'd love to be able to write dialogue like some of the other writers here (DumbNameD in particular). Well, you know what they say about practice.

Word Count: 1203, MS Word.

Duel

There was something brutal about him. He approached the mountain pass in a slow gait amid the drizzling rain. It was his face, sun-burnt and ragged. His robe was torn, worn out and bloody. Quite contrary to the rest of his face, his eyes were very gentle.

A chill ran down Masaki Kobayashi’s back as he watched his old comrade approach. The devil of Miyazaki they used to call him. Killed 34 opposing soldiers in a single battle.

“It has been a long time Shimura Mizoguchi.”

“After the war, they threw me in prison, hoping I’d commit hara-kiri. But I lived. Never quite minded being a street dog.”

“They didn’t need our kind during peacetime I suppose. We became an embarrassment to polite society. I decided to settle down in this sleepy corner after wandering around for too long.”

“Looks like a nice place to settle down.”

“It, is. So, what brings you here, Mizoguchi?”

Mizoguchi’s eyes flared up for an instance, but only for that instance. They regained their calmness and he spoke in a lucid monotone:

“A pathetic rat raped and killed a young girl in the woods near the village. The whole village heard her screams. No one came to help. For the past 15 years I have been in prison, I kept my head down and survived like a dog. Because it was all meaningless, meaningless in a country where a war-hero one day can be branded a criminal the next. For two weeks I was free, wandering aimlessly. When I heard those screams, I ran into the woods, unarmed. She was dead, and he was standing over her like a forest-demon. I killed his henchmen with single strokes. I armed myself with the sword of the first man that came at me, killed him with my bare hands. I stood there, staring at the dead girl, and I realized I was still human. This was an act of humanity, not of a dog. The demon got on his horse and ran away. He was dressed like a noble, he came this way. I will kill him”

Kobayashi recalled the Daimyo’s son riding in like he was being chased by the devil himself:

“Kill anyone who pursues me Kobayashi. Do not forget who pays your retainer.”

He remembered the numerous castle guards riding back into the village. None came back.

The rain started falling heavily. The water turned into little streams that ran down the winding path. The two wizened warriors looked at each other across a screen of hazy downpour.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you pass Shimura Mizoguchi, former Division Commander of the Eastern Legion. You may be right from a humanistic perspective, but my allegiance lies with my lord.”

“I expect nothing less. I wish we met under different circumstances Masaki Kobayashi, former Division Commander of the Northern Legion.”

“It is a good day to die. The rain is thunderous. The water flows freely down this path. Like us, down the paths of our own lives, accumulating at uncertainty.”

“A good day to die, comrade.”

They circled each other.

Kobayashi’s movements were precise. Curt. Efficient. Perfect.

Kobayashi dashed close, evaded Mizoguchi’s horizontal slash with nonhuman accuracy, not even blocking, he approached like a thunderbolt across a stormy sky, closer. Closer. Suddenly there was nothing but the point of the sword. Mizoguchi wondered if the attack would come from his left or his right. He didn’t have the option to strike again. The sword slashed across his left, then came up on his right, ending with a quick and deadly horizontal slice cutting across his right to his left. Almost completing a perfect triangle. It was blocked mid-way. The blades clashed like two ancient elements. The sound was a furious shrieking howl in the deafening rain. Mizoguchi leaned on his left leg and held the blunt edge of his blade with his left palm, gripping the hilt with his right as the sharp edge of his blade guided Kobayashi’s blade a hair’s breadth away from his stomach.

Kobayashi dashed away. Lighting quick. Mizoguchi’s blade sliced air.

“You are the best swordsman I have ever had the pleasure of fighting, along with and against, Kobayashi.”

“Likewise Mizoguchi, I have always wondered who was more skilled. None before you survived that technique.”

“It is never easy to tell whether the attack will initiate from the left, or from the right. And even harder to evade the second strike due to your speed.”

“You did it with an admirable ease. Dancing away and then away again. Like a torrent of water rushing across a rocky bed.”

Mizoguchi was fluid, like the rain. His physical appearance belied his grace. He focused his blade at Kobayashi’s neck and ran with deadly accuracy. It was an offensive stance, leaving his body completely open. He ran closer, as Kobayashi studied his movement. Inches away from the expected point of strike, yet far enough to be safe from an attack, Mizoguchi turned on his heel as the sword curved a deadly horizontal arc across where Kobayashi stood, a completely unnatural strike given his momentum, and unpredictable given his stance and how he held the sword.

Kobayashi stood a few feet away and marveled at the technique.

“Brilliant. I did not know it was possible to move like that.”

“Well done Kobayashi, I did not know it was possible to evade.”

The two warriors circled and engaged each other in the ancient ritual. It was a familiar dance of death. They didn’t stay unwounded for long as each cut open the other. Blood flowed freely down their faces, sides. The salt of the blood mixed with the salt of the earth. Washed away by the hard rain. Their swords clashed with deadly force. Again and again. Momentary sparks died as soon as they were born and the swords birthed new ones.

Their movements grew more fluid as time passed on. As if driven by an unseen force. Kobayashi stepped back and forth, side to side, with short, quick steps, evading, countering with short, precise, deadly strikes. The sword cutting geometric shapes across the air as Mizoguchi whirled and twirled across his body, feinting, dashing, blocking and making elaborate patterns in the wind.

It stopped raining.

Their blades shone faintly in the dusk and illuminated their faces intermittently with a dark, red hue. They were ghosts in the approaching darkness.

They stepped away and stared at the setting sun for a brief moment. It was time to end it. It was a good day to die.

They dashed towards each other for the last time, clashing swords briefly, as briefly as a firefly flickering in the soft twilight. Like a whirlwind Mizoguchi split apart Kobayashi’s chest at the next instant. Blood gushed out, dark red seeped down the muddy path, painting the rocks red. Telling a tale of forever under the approaching night sky.

“Thank you Kobayashi.”

“The soul of an innocent young woman helped you. And as I said before, it was a good day to die. Bury me at the base of the mountain after you are done.”

“I will.”

Mizoguchi wiped his blade. Sheathed it, and ran towards the castle in the looming darkness.

Heart Loss
word count: 1,199

There was something brutal about him, aside from the fact that he was stone dead. It could have been his square jaw like the drawer of a filing cabinet, or the bundle of muscle that formed his thick arms. Yet there was a soft and knowing look in his eyes, frozen when his heart had been torn out.

"So it's murder then?" questioned the constable who kept his eyes averted from the corpse lying on the floor of this lavish apartment, twenty floors up and no sign of a break in.

"I was thinking it might have been indigestion," was my complete waste of wit on this thick-headed flatfoot, who only met my gaze with a fisheye bobble of befuddlement.

Gentle Sven had a reputation for being anything but. A boxer known to pummel just about anyone or anything he could get his fists on, but always fell cold to the mat just short of the championship belt. The sort of man who was never short of friends as long as he had a bankroll, and never short of enemies as long as he breathed. He had stopped me on the street only an hour before, rambling in his thick foreign accent over some great secret about our City before fading off into the crowd. He must have known something if he knew my Number, though the how and why were still unanswered.

"What precinct are you from, old ma--" was as far as this ape in uniform got before I applied a little prick to the back of his neck, and sent him to la la land.

*

"Twelve here," I spoke into the payphone after dumping the cop's limp form in the alley. He was going to have a killer headache in the morning, and this night would be nothing but a black blur.

"Eight here," came a familiar voice on the line, even though I hadn't dialed up a single digit.

"Requesting a clean up for room 2104 at Seaview Mannor. One body. Heart loss," I placed the order and hung up the receiver, stepping back into the cold, still night.

Sven's abode had been picked over. His killer had shuffled things around and scattered dust to hide the signs, but my keen eyes could spot the difference between mathematical chaos and a slob's true randomness. Heartless men tell no tales, but there was still a history in the trail they leave behind.

The gym was full of sweat and bruised dreams. Sven's manager was laying on the sagging mats with his arms spread and his chest torn open, a look of wide-eyed surprise locked in dead muscle. Didn't know what hit him. Not like Sven. Someone was in a hurry through. I found a towel boy shivering in the showers. He hadn't seen whatever happened, just the sound of the manager's final gasp and the name of the bar Sven frequented.

Mickey's was packed thick with patrons and shrouded in a layer of smoky dark that made everyone seem like shadows with button eyes. No more presents there from my nameless killer here, though it wasn't hard to imagine he was mixed in with the crowd, waiting for someone to leave this ritual dance and step out into the concealing darkness.

"Was Gentle Sven in here last night?" I ask in low tones of the easily bribed barman.

"Sure thing, grandpa. Every night he doesn't have a bout, and every night we got to haul his carcass home," the barman was quick to answer. "Last night wasn't so bad. Only stumbling a bit as he headed home around midnight. We tried to stop him..."

The smashed and lashed together condition of the front door made it clear how unsuccessful they had been.

*

I could have become Sven, stumbling out of the bar to know where he had gone, or his manager who he must have explained his experience to instead of the gibberish I heard with my own ears. If someone hadn't already beaten me to it.

Yet it wasn't hard to image the brute setting his feet on those empty streets, feeling the weight of the oppressive silence when even the clocks were quiet. All it would take is the smallest sound, say from the narrow alleyway off in that direction, to draw his interest. To catch a glimpse of a figure crouching beside a manhole before disappearing from view. He would follow down into the sewers, wandering among the filth, feeling lost and regretful, until he stumbled upon a unmarked and very locked door. With a strength too great to be deterred.

Sven truly had been a monster in life. The lock was crushed and the steel door warped. Someone had tried to jam it shut, but it was easy pull aside again, and see where all of this waste matter was being collected and processed by well worn machines greater than anything seen above.

Another door and a better lock, stained by the dried blood of a brutal boxer whose sobering up must have shot straight up to panic. Beyond was cleaner and more well kept, but grim and dark with only a scattering of light, and mainly occupied by long glass tubes all standing in a row. Numbered tubes with shadowy forms within. When I stopped at Eight I wasn't surprised to see a familiar face sleeping serenely in the greenish fluid within.

At Twelve, the dust that coated the tube had been wiped away, as if someone trying to catch a closer look, but the tube was empty, purged and dried of its contents.

"Early childhood memories are destined to be forgotten. Even from the records we hide within their hearts. Isn't that a tragedy?" a voice asked out of the dark. A killer's voice. My voice. "With all of us bound to forget our origins, how can we hope to understand what monsters we truly are?"

"I thought I was the first. That I came from something... inferior," I admitted, my voice shaking for the first time in my long life, or at least the first time I could remember.

"You were and you did, as I will be," the figure insisted as he stepped out of the dark; a mirror image of myself, but still vibrant and full of life, free of the City's black grime.

I couldn't remember my early childhood, but this room had been my cradle, as it had been for all the ones that had come before me. I carefully removed my coat and hat, setting them a safe distance away. "The City must run."

"The City must run," my young replacement agreed as he unsheathed a long knife, keen enough to slice through bone.

*

The sound of a payphone shocked me awake. I couldn't remember where I had been and what I had been doing. Only staring at the youthful face reflected in the glass.

"Eight here. The clean up is finished. Prepare for reassignment," a familiar voice spoke before the line went dead.

No rest for the wicked. I licked the blood from the corner of my mouth and adjusted my dark coat before heading off in the direction of the dawn.

nitewulf said:

Duel

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I'm a sucker for this kind of story. The beginning conversation feels a bit too expositiony, but the duel itself is really well done. Also, the ending fits. Overall, good story.

I'm working on mine slowly this time around. I write a little bit of it per day instead of before where I'd sit down in one big session and pump something out. Hopefully that turns out for the better because I haven't been very happy with my submissions. I should have it completed early next week.

mines developing slowly as well. I finally have a fairly complete image of what the story is about so it should start ramping up soon.

I don't know if I'd call mine developing slowly so much as not developing at all. I think I need to find a new subject, the one I chose just isn't working.

Cyan said:

I'm a sucker for this kind of story. The beginning conversation feels a bit too expositiony, but the duel itself is really well done. Also, the ending fits. Overall, good story.

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thanx. yeah i was setting up the fight basically...didnt wanna do a 1200 word continuous action scene.

I took a hiatus to finish up school, but this time I'm back and I'm going to be bringing the lighting and thunder with me! So you guys better get ready to have you shoes blown off, because I won't be holding back anything!!

I've never come across this thread before. It seems like a pretty interesting idea. Maybe I'll give it a try.

MrHoopla said:

I've never come across this thread before. It seems like a pretty interesting idea. Maybe I'll give it a try.

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Go for it, dude. We're always glad to get some new people in here writing.

Great Rumbler said:

I took a hiatus to finish up school, but this time I'm back and I'm going to be bringing the lighting and thunder with me! So you guys better get ready to have you shoes blown off, because I won't be holding back anything!!

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I'm not wearing shoes or socks, and I'm still looking forward to it.

Aaron said:

I'm not wearing shoes or socks, and I'm still looking forward to it.

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Well, okay, but don't blame me if your feet get wrenched off by violent, unseen forces.

Great Rumbler said:

Well, okay, but don't blame me if your feet get wrenched off by violent, unseen forces.

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This is starting to sound dangerous. I'm not sure if I can write under these conditions.

And here we go:

Thirty Years Ago
Word Count: 1200

There was somethin' brutal about him, somethin' fierce and almost animal-like. That was my first impression of him and I figure it's probably not too far off reality.

This is a true story, at least as far as I can remember. It happened some thirty years ago when I was just a child, living with my momma in some nowhere town out in the desert of west Texas. You’ve probably heard the story before, but not in the way I intended to tell it, not in so much detail.

I can say that because I was the only one who witnessed that day and didn’t end the week with six feet of dirt over my head. Sometimes I wonder why I was the only one. Maybe it was fate or just dumb luck. Maybe it was according to the design of a man whose thoughts made sense to him alone. I don’t know, nor will I ever know.

Regardless, I’ll live with those memories all the days left in my poor life and in the dark hours of the night I’ll be haunted by those images and that voice. It’s enough to make a man question whether there’s any sanity left in the world or if it all just flew away one mornin’.

I woke up that mornin’ and momma was already cookin’ breakfast. Griddle cakes, if I remember right. You could smell ‘em all over the house and they always smelled good. She told me to go bring in a couple eggs from the hen house, so I did just that. She scrambled them up with a bit of cow’s milk. It was like a feast prepared by the most talented chef in the world.

After breakfast, we went into town to pick up some supplies. Plantin’ season was right around the corner and we had to get ready to start just as soon as the frost stopped formin’ in the early hours of the day. Momma went in the store and left me outside so I could watch the people goin’ about their daily lives as I liked to do.

Sometime ‘round nine, a coach came into town. It didn’t have no markin’s on it like most did and it was old and worn like it’d been around for a long time. The driver up front had a wide brimmed hat and he kept it low over his face. The horses were steamin’ and they glistened with sweat, probably’d been gallopin’ as fast they could for at least twenty miles or more.

The door facin’ me creaked open and a man stepped out. He was dressed all in black and a silver six-shooter hung almost weightless from his belt. Not many people that came into town carried such a thing. The sheriff and the deputy did sometimes, but only if there was somethin’ they needed to take care of. He must’ve seen me starin’ at ‘im ‘cause he looked over at me and grinned. His teeth were pearl white except for one near the side of his face that was gold.

He walked over and leaned against the railin’ in front of me. I could feel the heat of his breath like I was sittin’ in front of a stove. It struck me as odd that his face was so smooth and clean, wasn’t a bit of stubble on it at all.

“Do you want to know a secret?” He asked in a low, hushed tone.

I nodded silently.

“I’m going to kill everyone in this town. Every man, woman, and child.” He pointed directly at me, “Except you.”

“Why?” Was all I could manage to ask and that just barely.

“There’s no why. There’s no reason. I told you that I’m gonna do it, so I will.”

He pushed himself up from the railin' and stood straight. With a long, hard look to his left and right down the busy street, he turned and strode off toward the inn, leavin’ me dumbfounded and mute.

I figured he was lyin’. No, I knew he was lyin’. There weren’t nobody that could kill a whole town full o' people, not by their own self. If anybody started shootin' or bein’ roudy, the sheriff'd come 'round and make 'em stop. People listened to the sheriff, even if they didn’t really want to. That’s just how things were.

Then I heard the scream. There was no other scream like it, either before or since. It was a scream of pure terror and pain. My head jerked in the direction of the sound and I caught a brief glimpse through the people, horses, and carts of somethin’ that I can neither explain nor properly describe.

John Maize, the old farmer who lived just a mile or so from our farm was standing in the middle of the street. Crimson blood covered him from head to foot and he held his arms out in front of him like they were live snakes. His body twisted and jerked in a way that weren’t natural. He screamed once more and was surely dead before his body touched the dirt.

Nobody said anything, nobody moved. They just stared at poor old John Maize as he lay there in the hot, dry dirt of the street. Some held their hands up to the mouths, while others just stared with blank looks that lacked any comprehension. Somethin’ bad’d happened, somethin’ so bad that folks couldn’t even begin to understand what it meant.

That death alone would have been enough to live on in the legend and lore of the town for decades to come as mothers quietly told the story to their children on cold, wintry nights when the fireplace burned brightly. But it didn’t stop there. It spread.

The sickness, which is the only thing I can rightly comprehend to call it, came to those closest first. Their flesh rippled and their blood boiled. It had no pity for young or old, it only knew to do what it was meant to do: Kill. In the store behind me, I heard the shatter of glass and a familiar cry. I wanted to jump to my feet and run inside…but I couldn’t.

“Can you save them, boy?” Asked the stranger. I turned to see him standin’ beside me, that grin still plastered across his face.

“S-stop it. Please!” I begged him, but he grinned all the more.

“I told you what I’d do, boy. Would you have me called a liar by going back on my word?”

A wretched sound emanated from inside the store and I knew then that my momma was dead. I turned back to where the stranger’d been standin’, but he was nowhere to be found.

A gust of dry, desert wind howled through the streets, kickin’ up a few tumble weeds as it went. When it was gone, the town was quiet. Even the horses, which’d been spared somehow, were silent. I stood up slowly and looked out across the square. You can’t erase a memory such as that, no matter how hard you try.

Their twisted and broken bodies lay in such a way as to spell out a single word: “Death”

ok. I've posted in the thread....hopefully it'll motivate me to submit something.

ronito said:

ok. I've posted in the thread....hopefully it'll motivate me to submit something.

Click to expand...

Trying this as well.

BrodiemanTTR said:

Trying this as well.

Click to expand...

Quoting Brodieman....hopefully this will motivate me to submit something....

ronito said:

Quoting Brodieman....hopefully this will motivate me to submit something....

Click to expand...

Quoting ronito. Hopefully this will motivate him to submit something.

*tear*

Good to see renewed and new interest in the challenge.

Was a bit bored, so I gave it a shot. Enjoy.

Black and Blue
950 words.

There was something brutal about him. The way life had beaten him down and contorted his face into a constant sour expression, as if his muscles had lost the will to smile. The tie knotted tightly, but slightly askew, around his neck was a tell-tale sign of a man going through the motions - not a knight donning his suit of armor, but a man wrapped in an Italian tailored straightjacket of conformity.

Everything was black. The suit jacket, a bespoke Tom Ford number costing more than the average middle class bi-weekly paycheck. The sunglasses. The 2007 Mercedes-Benz CLK he paid for in cash. The toy poodle his daughter begged for, then promptly ignored after two months. His wife's lingerie, mostly Agent Provocateur, normally contrasted against her pale white skin, but now strew around the room not by the throes of passion, but by a dispassionate passive aggression manifested towards a marriage that had long run its course. His coffee. His checkbook. His humor. His life. All black. Tainted by the trappings of excess.

He settled into the black driver's seat and turned the black key. The engine roared to life, 3.2 liters of sanitized German perfection, meant to be a joy to drive, assuming the driver could find joy to begin with. He flipped the radio to his favorite morning shock jock. He found the humor comforting. He could laugh at retards, debauched porn stars, and all sort of stereotype without fear of recrimination. He could laugh his callous, empty laugh, embracing his own shallowness along with the millions who constituted a 17 percent share on the morning drive. His black mug tucked tightly into the cup holder, he pulled out of the driveway, turning down the street of million dollar homes towards the overcrowded highway.

His toe slowly pressing down on the accelerator, he picked up speed as he climbed up the one ramp. The speedometer climbed past 60mph, then 70mph, then 80, before settling in at a comfortable 85mph. He clicked a button engaging the cruise control and then rolled his ankle around, the joint now liberated from its job as fulcrum of acceleration. He chuckled along with the radio shock jock at the misfortune of the host’s guest, a former drug addict afflicted with a bout of impotence on an arranged date with an equally addled porn starlet. The irony was not lost on him.

He gripped the wheel and pulled it slightly to the left, entering the other lane as his Mercedes passed a family of four in a convertible. Clearly they were headed to DisneyWorld, soaking in the oppressive Florida sun in their rented cabriolet. The father had the contented look of a man on vacation, one who had saved for a year and planned for a month. The man in black thought only how silly the father was, spending more time planning his vacation than planning his career. One day the driver of the rental would wake up and the kids he loved will have moved on, as will his savings, forcing “daddy” to work deep into his retirement, if he had the audacity to call it that.

Better to surrender on your own terms. Better to let your wife hate you. Better to surround yourself in the emptiness of luxury, because at least you will be comfortable with emptiness truly comes. His job, his responsibilities, brought no happiness to him. However, they also brought no betrayal. He was good at what he did. He defended those with enough money to afford him. He protected the high profile from the little mistakes we dismiss as “life”, but hold against those more fortunate. Today’s flight to New York was just another day at the office. He’d explain away why his client saw fit to invite a 17-year-old girl up to his room and then video tape their encounter. He’d apologize and check the client into rehab. Perhaps he’d even save his client from an embarrassing incident should he meet up with a certain porn starlet on one of his frequent trips to Vegas.

Lights flashed behind him, their blue and red masking the face of a man wearing black and blue. He slowed the car down and pulled over to the shoulder, exhaling in annoyance at this unintended interruption. The officer emerged from the patrol car and walked towards the black Mercedes, slowing his gait to a deliberate pace meant to invoke authority. The tinted window rolled down and the driver and officer were face to face.

“In a bit of a hurry, aren’t we?” the office asked as his opening gambit.

“Only as much as the other 15 cars going 80 in front of me,” the driver replied.

“So you’re admitting you were speeding. Not too smart for someone driving a nice car like this.”

“No worries,” the driver replied. “I got this car because most people are even dumber.”

“You backtalkin’ me, boy?” the officer replied, annoyed at the perceived slight as another patrol car pulled up to the scene. The second officer emerged, his portly frame shuffling the loose gravel of the shoulder below his feet.

“What have we got here,” the fat officer asked.

“A speeder. A good one, too. Talks faster than he thinks.”

“Listen,” the driver interjected. “I’ve got somewhere to be. So write me my ticket and send me on my way. And don’t forget to spell Mercedes right. It's German. I know how tough foreign languages are for you good ol' boys, and I’d hate for the ticket to be thrown out on a technicality.”

“Lookie here,” the first officer said, something brutal emerging in his eyes. “This nigger’s got a mouth on him.”

The driver never made it to the airport. He ended up black and blue.

All right, finished my first draft. 1201 words. :lol

I had fun writing it, but I'll have to check back tomorrow to see if it's any good. I went dialogue-heavy and first person, so... we'll see.

Looks like another last minute one for me. My final exams are tomorrow >_>

Probably won't be able to make this challenge, sorry guys. Gotta prep my screenplay to (hopefully) be sold.

god damnit, i wish i could have one fucking consistency in my life that has to do with productivity

lost the passion to write these things for the last few weeks, whereas before i was craving new contests

hopefully i'll get back in the spirit for the next one

I'll see what I can cook up when I'm at work today

you don't have to actually use the work "brutal" in your piece, do you?

read the first post.

There was something brutal about him. The way he sauntered out into the ring calm, self-assured, while the other broncs neighed and thrashed their manes about. He was a short Grey, pinned to his bridle was a little sign with his his name, "Arrow". The stat sheet showed this was his first showing, so there was no record of how strong of a ride he'd be. But I didn't need a stat sheet. The way he walked calmly letting the handler lead him, jet black eyes studying the ring, the way the muscles flexed at each step told me everything I needed to know about him. Anyone caught up in machismo would rule him out as being too small and mild mannered, but to the trained eye he was a formidable horse.

The other bronc riders were gathered together laughing and joking as they pointed out what horses they hoped to draw to ride. Many settled on a Paint that bucked a few times as he was lead around the rink. A horse that can really hurt you doesn't need to scare you and in rodeo that's the horse you want.Your goal is to ride the strongest/wildest horse possible for eight seconds. The amateurs could have their Paint, I knew the horse I wanted.

Time came to draw horse names from a hat to see who got to ride which horse. The other riders hooted and laughed when I drew the name "Arrow".

"Good luck trying to get that one to buck! I'm surprised he didn't have training wheels on 'im!" one rider joked.

"Well at least it wont be a long way to the ground." Laughed another.

I didn't say anything. I just looked at the small piece of paper with Arrow's name on it. It was a godsend. It would be the ride I needed. In rodeo the more dangerous and spectacular a ride was the higher the points awarded. I needed a good ride to stay in the season. I was betting Arrow would be it.

I paced back and forth in the green hall as the show began trying to mentally prepare myself. Eight seconds. That's all. Eight seconds then the buzzer rings and you're done. Anything less than eight seconds and you get nothing. The crowds cheers and laughter and moans all melded together in a cacophony of sound as I concentrated on the ride to come. Soon it was time, the floor manager called my name and I followed him to the stall.

Arrow was already there waiting patiently not in any great hurry to be anywhere. As I pulled on a leather glove I heard the buzzer go off followed by the roar of the crowd. Some cowboy just got his eight seconds. Mine would have to be better. The earthy taste of rope entered my mouth as I bit down hard on it and mounted Arrow's back. Arrow wasn't tense, he seemed completely at ease. One of the stage hands slapped Arrow's hind quarters to get a reaction. I gave him a reproachful look as I tied my left hand to Arrow.

Through the pulsing of my heart I heard the announcer read my number and name. It sounded like it was miles and miles away. Finally the rope was taught and I was settled. The time had come. A brief panicked thought of "What if the other cowboys are right? What if Arrow's a dud?" ran through my head. There was nothing for it. I looked up at the floor manager and nodded my affirmation.

The gate opened and previously relaxed Arrow burst out like a hellhound that had torn down the gates of Pandemonium. My body felt like it was insignificant. Up it went with Arrow and came down jarringly hard. It felt as my teeth were about to shatter from the landing. Surprisingly I stayed on. The mass of power below me pushed up again as it jumped. My legs flew free from Arrow's back and splayed behind me like a kite's tail. I tightened my grip. It felt like eternities had passed surely eight seconds couldn't be too far away. I could not give up.

I came down with a crash my torso hitting Arrow's back. I was sure my chest was about to burst but I held onto the rope. As soon as I had come down Arrow jumped again. It felt as if the rope had cut through the leather glove, my hand was on fire. I heard a slight crack as my nose hit Arrow's back followed by the rest of my body. Everything had melted away. The crowd, the announcer, everything was only a blur. The only thing that existed was me, Arrow and the rope.

I could feel Arrow tensing for another jump. I tightened my grip on the rope until I swore I could feel the rope cutting into my palm. My eight seconds were just another heartbeat away. The jump came with surprising force. It felt as if I was being pulled up instead of pushed. Through the blur of everything I heard a snap as my shoulder dislocated. The blur was instantly replaced by paper white pain which was immediately followed by brown and taste of dirt and blood.

It was over. I had won. There was no way anyone had a wilder ride than the one I had with Arrow. I could see the shadows with cowboy hats surrounding me.

"You alright?" someone said, "Good lord, you're a mess."

I reached up with my good arm and winced as I touched my nose.

"It's probably broken." Another voice said.

"Hoo boy! I ain't never saw anything like that before. I was wrong about him. That little horse did a number on you." I was able to make out a face of a competitor

"What did I score?" I asked.

"What?" a voice replied.

"My score. What was it?"

As my focus continued to get better I could see confused faces of the medics and some competitors around me.

"Don't tell me that wasn't eight seconds. I was on that horse forever. What was my score?!" I said annoyed as I propped myself up with my good arm.

Two the men shuffled a little and I finally caught sight of the timer. Emblazoned in red digits I saw 3.6 seconds.

"There must be some mistake." I said. But the grim faces I saw around me told me there was no mistake.

3.6 seconds. Not even half way. Off in the distance I saw Arrow sauntering back to his pen as if nothing had happened.

Ok Brodieman and Cyan. I've posted mine. Where are yours?

nitewulf said:

read the first post.

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Err, wow. Honest to Hubbard, I missed that line when I read the OP

Fool (535 words, Word)

There was something brutal about him. It wasn’t just the fact that he weighed around twice as much as I did nor was it really the fact that he towered over me even as he was lifting me off the ground by my neck. No, I think it was the fact that he wasn’t intimidated by the knife I held in my hands – the knife he knocked to the floor just before he knocked the wind out of me. He had begun to punch and kick me, then…a relentless barrage of bruise forming blows to my face, neck, chest, and thighs. Even as he was punching me with enough force to break my front tooth in half, it was my thighs that cried out in pain above everything else.

He was cursing at me now, telling me how disgusting I was and rhetorically asking me what I was planning to do with that knife. He drops me on the ground and my right leg gives way sending me to a hard landing on my left knee. The pain I feel is greater even than the pain in my thighs. I feel my shirt by my breastplate sticking to my chest and I look down at a splotch of near black blood soaking my shirt – blood that still runs from the ruins of my face. I hear concerned moans coming from my right. Susan, his sister is pleading with him to leave me alone and she tugs at his arm as she does. She’s crying. I look to my left, causing my entire torso to lean unhealthily, at the ground where my friends once stood. They had backed off and walked away before all of this began—well, before the knife the beatings the broken front teeth the shattered molars and the shard of glass in my knee, at least. He walks away and Susan, attached to his arm, doesn’t look back.

___


I eventually lumber toward the front door of my house and fumble in my pocket for my keys, a red hot pulse of pain throbbing through my ring finger as I do, and eventually get the lock open. I lumber inside and my cell phone begins to ring. I turn my phone off and walk up the stairs to my room, leaning against the wall as I do. With the door locked, I turn around and look around at the mess. I feel the comforting warmth of the tears streaming down my face. The clock reads 5:17am by the time that I have finished putting away all of the clothes and magazines that were strewn about my room, without any regard to the streaks of blood that I left on the floor. My dad is going to kick my ass when he finds out what I did last night and my mom is going to be disappointed in me, despite cleaning my room for the first time in over a year.

I walk over to the bathroom and turn on the light, staring into the ruined face that looks back, sympathetically. The person in the mirror smiles a red cruel smile and a steak knife falls out of his hand.

I’m coming, Dad.

Hey Great Rumbler. Your first sentence...

ronito said:

Ok Brodieman and Cyan. I've posted mine. Where are yours?

Click to expand...

Ack!

damnit i always miss these deadlines

Defense (1196)

There was something brutal about him. Primal. Like at any second, he might up and knock your head off for no good reason.

That was good. That was what I wanted to see in my boys. That was what I taught ‘em.

“Coach,” he said. “You don’t understand. I have to quit the team. I have to.”

You don’t understand. That was what they all said. As if I hadn’t seen it all in my years of coaching. As if their shitty problems were important enough that I even cared.

“Son,” I said. That’s one of my little tricks. Call ‘em son, instead of their name. In the first place, it helps you out if you’re the type to forget names. There’s nothing to kill a kid’s confidence like forgetting his name. He’ll never play as well for you again. But also, it shows the right relationship. It shows that you’re the boss, the dad, the big guy. And it makes it sound like you care. Who doesn’t love their son?

“Son,” I said. “I know it seems like everything’s tough right now. I know it seems like you’ll never be able to do everything you need to. Like you might not make it. But you just got to keep on pushing. Keep on pushing at your problems, like they’re some big ugly mug on the O-line. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Coach,” he said. He was frowning. Not a sad frown, but an angry frown. “I don’t think I can. I don’t think you understand.”

“Son, of course I understand. Of course I do. You’re having trouble with your classes, right? Happens to everyone—hell, remind me sometime to tell you about my tenth grade math class with Mrs. James. I about flunked out of the school! What you got to understand is that classes feel like a burden, but they can help you. If you can pass your classes, you get into college. And if you can get into college—well hoo boy, you’re one step from the NFL!”

His frown had eased slightly, but hints of it were still there around the eyes. What was the kid thinking? “I know coach, I know. I had some trouble in Biology… but that’s not the whole thing. I mean, it’s not just my classes I’m having trouble with. If that was it, I could handle it.”

“What is it, son? Girl trouble?” That was another one I had had my fill of. Damn high school kids and their damn puppy love and getting other kids pregnant and God knew what all. If they could just keep it in their pants… But I adopted my best fatherly expression. It wasn’t hard, I’d had plenty of practice with this one. These kids were all the same.

“Well, that’s part of it too, Coach.” The frown was back. Did this kid ever smile?

“You didn’t get a girl pregnant, did you?” A fatherly frown of disappointment.

“No Coach, no! Nothing like that. But my girl, well she’s gonna go to college.” There. There was the smile. So the kid was proud that his girlfriend was ambitious? This was a new one. “She’s a senior, she just got a letter from UCLA. She got in. She got in!” Too much of a smile, now. What the hell did all this have to do with quitting the team?

“That’s great son, wonderful news, but—”

“Coach, she didn’t get the scholarship.” Smile fading. “She got in, but she’s gonna have to pay. I need to get a job so I can help her out. Get her through college. We’ll live down there, she can get a good job when she gets out of school. We can have a family and not have to worry about money.”

So that was it. Should be easy enough to knock this one off course.

“Son, you don’t have to do that. Schools got these loans they can give you, they pay for everything, she won’t have to pay anything till she graduates and gets a good-paying job. I can get you all the stuff you need, help you fill out paperwork. You don’t have to—”

He was shaking his head. What now?

“Yeah, we know about that stuff, Coach. She did a lot of research about it. It’d be a lot of money.” He went wide-eyed. Know-nothing kid. “Those loans take years to pay back. She’ll have to get one anyway. But I can give her a little help, make the loans smaller, so we can have a family sooner.” Cute. White picket fences and a lot of little monsters running around.

“Son, I’m proud of you right now.” Oh, that was a great line. He lit up. “I’m proud of you. That’s a wonderful thing you want to do for your girl. But you don’t have to do it. You don’t have to sacrifice your whole football career. Do you want to look back in ten, fifteen years and wonder what if? Could you have done it? Could you have made it, and hit it big in the NFL? Do you still have it?” Oh, this was good. “Do you still have that fire inside?” I looked him right in the eye. Oh, I almost had him.

He was breathing hard. “I do, Coach. I do. But—”

Time to reel him in. I leaned forward, put a hand on his shoulder. “You gotta keep that fire burning. What does it matter how much student loans your girl has, if you’re making NFL money? What does it matter, son?”

“But Coach, my biology class… I don’t know if I can make it into college. And I know I could—but—I don’t—”

He was babbling. “Son, you’re not a quitter. I know it. You know it. You can do this. Listen.” I leaned across the table. It was time for the knockout punch. “They told me to keep this quiet, but I heard from UCLA a few days ago. They’re interested in Jackson… and you.” This was sort of true. I’d had a conversation with a defensive assistant, and he’d asked briefly about a few of my boys. “I sent them your highlight reels.” Maybe he’d even watch them.

The kid’s eyes were like saucers. “UCLA? I could go to school with my girl? I could get a scholarship?”

“Plenty of UCLA men move on to the NFL, son.” I had him now.

He shifted in his chair. “Coach.” He paused for a moment. “Don’t… don’t take me off the team just yet. I need to think about things for a bit.”

I nodded amiably, the proud father once more. “Of course son, of course. You think all you need to.”

He got up and left the room, walking slowly, with a slight smile on his face.

Poor bastard.

Even if UCLA followed through, even if he could somehow get his grades up to get in to college, there was no way he had NFL talent. What he did have was talent that I needed, right now, for this season.

My boys looked it, but I was the brutal one.

tetrisgrammaton said:

damnit i always miss these deadlines

Click to expand...

Haven't missed it yet. It's tomorrow!

ronito said:

Hey Great Rumbler. Your first sentence...

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Oh, that's just great. Well, whatever, I'm not changing it now.

I guess it should have been a tipoff that everyone else was using that as the first sentence in their story, well...it's in there anyway.

Edit: Argh! Double-post!

Anyway, I guess I'll change it afterall.

Hey, I just noticed a small error in the OP, Aaron. Under previous challenges, you c/ped your story title instead of the challenge title for the last one. Should be "Playing With Fire." Hehe.

Cyan said:

Hey, I just noticed a small error in the OP, Aaron. Under previous challenges, you c/ped your story title instead of the challenge title for the last one. Should be "Playing With Fire." Hehe.

Click to expand...

I don't know what you're talking about. You must be seeing things, old bean.

batbeg: very nice. Very strong beginning but the ending just tapered I agree with Cyan that it was probably because of lack of a driving force.Also what of his lover?

nitewulf: Voicing seems to be the biggest issue. In such a dialogue heavy piece voicing is essential and really both characters talk just like each other, using the same metaphors and similies. A good day to die has been used to death.

Aaron: That first line is fantastic. I like the Noir feel to it. Very well done.

GreatRumbler: The voicing was very nice but the beginning rambles a bit you didn't really need it. Also the ending was just a bit much.

tetsuoxb: You finally start going somewhere then it's over. You still had room and much of the beginning wasn't needed. The abrupt ending was just that. Abrupt.

Gattsu25: I feel like I might be missing something...

Cyan: Dunno what to say. I liked it. The end was a bit obvious, but still good. The conversation pattern was a bit too predictable. But otherwise strong. The narrative was really good.

Man... I really want to do this. Then the semester started. I WILL one day be part me this.