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One Shots

El Zilcho

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"What have you left to give, Mr Reynolds?" Her voice cut smoothly like a sushi knife through hot butter. Its allure matched her gorgeous, flowing brown hair, immaculate and at ease, yet rich and mysterious. One would swear it fell around her shoulders like serpents. At rest, but dangerous nonetheless. Duplicitous.


"I, I don't know. But I need this Ms. I'll do anything." While He squeezed his kuckles in frustration, She smiled seductively. Reaching out an arm, She clicked open an ornate ivory box at the edge of her desk. Carved onto it were a tapestry of torture and fire; illustrations of men boiling in cauldrons, demons piercing children, and good men led astray by blind prophets. Far from your average clutter.


In doing this, Her movements were subtle and curvaceous; as eye catching as the black dress She wore so commandingly. Just a glimpse of her figure would have a man distracted for the entire day, if not week. Taking a deliberate age so as to fully entrap Reynolds, She finally produced a single die from the box. Black with white dots and sharp corners, mercilessly unergonomic.


"You strike me as a strong, determined man. Would you care to gamble for what you seek?" The room was hit by an inescapable chill. The box snapped shut, independent of anyone or anything else. Mr Reynolds tore his eyes from it and up to Her. His gaze was pinned down by Her brilliant green eyes, tearing his last line of inner defence to tatters. She held intangible contact with him for what seemed an eternity, entirely motionless until he responded.


"I suppose I am, not that I have a choice. He paused in consideration, but his hands were tied from the start. Yes. What am I betting?"


"Yourself." She was forthright, sadistically enjoying the ease with which she forced him to writhe in discomfort. She was adept at pinching at you from the inside, stirring your instinct until you were a slave to evolution, a crumbling wreck and a drooling child all at once.


"Wha- we spoke about this. I thought that was off limits."


"Your family then?" Her rouged lips pursed in a smirk at this. He was putty. She tore into him with glee.


"Fine." Reynolds said, followed by a sharp intake of breath. She purred, the sound of her satisfaction seemingly penetrating the room from all angles. He was dejected; all other options beyond exhausted. His house would be repossessed within the week; barring the sort of deus ex machina She specialised in. The failure he'd bring his fledgling family would crush him beyond repair. Something had to be done to save them. Even if that meant damnation.


She proceeded to hold the dice between her thumb and forefinger, rotating it playfully in the manner of a little girl and a fly,

"I play fair, despite what the righteous say." Sarcasm laced her beautiful pronunciation "Pick 3 numbers between 1 and 6. A fair split, no? Always." That last word reverberated with a deeper, macabre tone. It didn't seem to be Hers.


"1. 3 and... 5." Reynolds gulped. A mob of butterflies threatened to overcome his stomach. Sweat broke on his brow like Pacific waves. He couldn't rise to the occasion with strength, but he knew that this simple and fleeting moment of life would forever rule his destiny. He was within Her clutches.


Lifting her slender arm, She dropped the dice and watched as it tumbled across the oak desk, bouncing and careening for an age. Every time it seemed to settle, it took energy from some unknown, untapped source and continued its journey across the expanse of the table. Both He and Her watched intensely - Her with a predatory, detached glare, and Him with the glazed eyes of a cornered deer. Eventually, as if in ether, it slowed to a halt. The dots facing up. Menacingly.


She stole his gaze for a moment more, before either could react. An instant of détente. Before the inevitable conclusion reared its ugly head...



Delusions of Grandeur


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She seeped radiance. Her bright blonde hair shone as bright as any sun, or street lamp. Max found her, intoxicating, inescapable. She floated through the hallways on heels of angel wings. He was certain that beneath that angelic face, with rays of light permitting their heavenly casts upon her, that she was a sweet girl. Max sat at the table and let his fork full of beans splat onto the white plastic surface with ignorance. Jessica Hardy found her own table and sat down on it. A few moments later the minions arrived, all of the men who surrounded around her seemed to invade the personal space with defying closeness. Jessica didn’t seem to mind it.


He couldn’t take his eyes of her. She was in conversation with somebody but those big brown eyes flitted right in his direction. He shot his head to the left, dropped his fork and jumped up to recoil from the remaining beans that barely missed his jeans. Eyes shooting back up, he looked back at Jessica who was in mid-conversation with another fanatic guy.


“So sad.” Said somebody across the table. Max shot his eyes to the man and noticed it was himself.


“What is?” he asked while he sat back down.


“Oh nothing, nothing at all.” He replied, his face buried in a magazine.


“No, go on.” He said to himself, perplexed and curious at what he had to say.


He lowered his magazine, turned his head to Jessica and then back to himself; eyes moving from one to another like he was watching a tennis match. He closed the magazine and leant forward.


“How many guys do you think invade her personal space?”


“In a day?”




“I don’t know. Uh…a lot?”


“That’s as best an answer you’ll get.” He continued to flit back and forth.


“Is there a point to this pointless conversation?”


“Go and talk to her, but do not, I repeat, do not throw yourself at her.”


“While she’s surrounded by the bubble invaders?”


“No, now!” He shot back to her, “There! Frozen yhogurt! Go go!” I looked over and Jessica had made it away from the group to grab what I, myself had noticed. I coolly walked up to her as if to grab an apple, I accidentally nudged her and she immediately turned with a look of annoyance. “Sorry.” I replied, to which to turned back around like I was just a nuisance. I was really. I noticed myself reading the magazine in front of her. He kept his gaze forward.


“You’re blowing it.”


“Shut up.”


“What?” she said, turning back around.


“I uh, nothing.”


“f*ck this,” said myself suddenly in front of me.


“Hey, Jessica, can I ask you something?”


She seemed taken back by the sudden change.


“Uh, sure.”


“How many of those f*cknuts invade your personal space every day?”


Her eyes exploded wide, as if the pauper had just told the princess to f*ck off.


“I don’t know what you’re implying but-“


“Do you like their breath on you?”


“What are you, some sort of creep?”


“No, I’m just curious as to why you’d torment yourself with that everyday.”


Red face, eyes wide. She was getting ready to snap, I could feel it. I nudged myself.


“Please, just stop now. You’ve f*cked this for-“


“I’m not as creepy as to get inches away from your face and consider us “friends”.’


Suddenly something came across my face with a stinging slap. Suddenly I dissapeared and all that remained was the normal me. She slapped me again and walked off with venom in her voice.


“Yeah, I didn’t think that one through, sorry.” He said back at the table with the magazine. “Guess she wasn’t as angelic as you thought, huh?”



Next theme: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

"I don't know about angels, but it's fear that gives men wings."


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Just get in the car. It's not quantum physics. Open the door. The door's not jagged and ripped. Buckle your seatbelt. It's not pressed against her... she's not swaying on it. Turn the keys. The engine is fine and so are you. Breathe. You can still do that. What can she do now?


Everything is fine, we're in the car now. Check the rear-view. Back up and pull into the street. It's a nice day. Everything is fine, we're driving past the neighbourhood stops. Stan's drug store on the left. Dillon's grocery on the right. There's a gas station a street over, and then the schools beyond that. Everything is fine, we're on our way to the schools.


Turn the wheel. It's an easy flick of the wrist, now. But before that it was against our face. Every little crevice along the wheel left marks that you could feel that stayed there until we got back in the car. Check the rear-view. The road is where it should be. The roof of the car looks up. The seat rumbles along with the wheels. It's the only sound now. It's a good sound.


Everything is fine, we're going to meet some friends. There are people on the road and on the sidewalk and in the shops and in the schools and on the playground. We are still okay. Breathe. Turn into the lot and wait. Everything is fine, we're still breathing.


Roll the windows down. There's no shattered glass on the ground. But it is hot out and the sun is baking us. Someone is laughing at the playground. But that makes sense. Nod and close your eyes. No. Don't. Don't close your eyes and think of hers. Her eyes are just frozen and horrible. They stare at nothing and they yell for you. You will not find them again. Forget them.


Everything is fine, we're just waiting. Close your hands and stop them, they're shaking. Breathe. Look at the school and the bricks and the trees and the see-saws and the swings and the merry-go-round. Everything is fine, we're just supposed to be here. Remember?







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I have always had trouble sleeping but I never why, maybe I'm afraid of not waking up or maybe I'm afraid of what I might dream of. After days of not getting any rest, I must try sleeping at least for a while and wake up quickly. I close my eyes and feel my body getting rid of all of the stressed that was stored, my muscles were finally being relaxed, and I was at peace.


After feeling all of that wonderful feelings I started to dream, but for some apparent reason... I was dreaming I was stranded in a desert. I look around and see nothing but sand, hills made of sand, little sand particles hitting your eyes as the wind blows right at your face. I was as if I was actually there because I was feeling the blazing hot Sun and the heat from sand burning my feet.


I'm so confused and scared as well, I started to run in hopes of finding a way out of here. I ran and ran for what felt like hours but it looked like I went in a circle because everything looked the same. All of that confusion made me forget I was dreaming and made me think I was actually in a desert suffering from the heat. After almost ten hours of walking through an ocean of sand I started to see an water source just a few miles away, I ran with a little smile on my face.


I finally made it, it was beautiful. I stood there looking at an ocean with cold water. I fell on my knees on the hot sand, moved my hands towards the water and feel the coldness touching my skin, I get a handful of water so I could drink it. As I'm about to drink the water, I woke up. I looked around in relief knowing that I was okay and not stranded in a desert. My phone rings and I pick it up, it's my friend inviting me to the beach, I declined and decided to go to a pool, where there will be no sand.



Your worst fear
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A lump sat in the back of my throat and my lips began to dry. The aircraft shook aggressively which woke me from a daydream, reminding me to check my altimeter wrapped around my wrist. The interior was gloomy and very dark; nearly impossible to read our alitude. A few men snored and huddled beside each other while I sat awake; my head tilted to the right, staring 30, 000ft down.


I swallowed with force to heave the dense lump back down my throat.


You would think that people in this situation would be nervous. I looked around again to see everyone fast asleep; yet, my knees quiver either from the coldness or the adrenaline pumping through my system. To calm my nerves, I squashed my hand into my tight pocket and opended a packet of chips. Everyone has there own resolution to nervousness; biting nails, shaking your hands or feet on purpose but I prefured to munch into a packet of plain chips.


I spat out the chips as I realised they lasted awful. Then I realised I some how snuck a packet of chicken flavoured chips.


The plane rattled like a maraca and suddenly, I felt my stomach growl. The pit of my stomach squabbled, following me gagging a few times. Any chip other than plain, made me sick. I always guessed it was the presurvatives in it, but I had no clue.


I gagged again.


"You all good back there," asked the co-pilot standing at the end of the hurcules doorway.


I gave him a thumbs up. My head barely visible in between the group of snoozing men.


It was only a short time after that I vomited all over my mate fast asleep. I sniffed the cold hair to escape the smell of puke. A man behind me chuckled.


"Don't worry about it laddy," he said with a strong Irish accent, "The altitude sometimes makes you qweezy... nevermind,"


He passed a hankie for me to blow the puke out of my nose.


"I'd give you some water but I drank all mind. I hope I don't wizz on exit," he joked, "In, out, arch, piss!" he continued.


"Thanks," I passed back the hankie but he had drifted off back to sleep again. I knew I needed some shut eye but it was like one of those nights were you sit in bed, wide awake for the entire night... tossing and turning. I checked my altimeter. The green light on the ceiling flashed.


"Wake up boys. Oxygen, breath... it's go time in 10 minutes," the pilot called through the megaphone. My worse fear was about to happen.



Next story: Ride the snake to the lake




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Mokrie Dela

The Shelby Cobra was my daddy's car for years. As a kid we'd go for drives in the california sunshine. Sundays would be spent at The Lake - i've no idea what it's called.

But daddy got ill. No he can't even walk to the bathroom. Not long left, we all know it but no one dared speak it, at least until the doctor came out.


Gone is my strong daddy who'd fight the world for me. The burley man who'd lift us up and spin us around, evenwhen we were ten. Where was my daddy? Was he still in there?


He had gone downhill, and even now didn't seem to know we were there.


One moment, brief but beautiful. He managed to turn his head to stare at the keys on the end table.

"One." He breathed, the word barely audible. "One more."


My heart was breaking but dammit! no man should die, withering in a bed like a dead flower.

Sure daddy, one more time.


I'd passed my test only a week beforehand. The engine started with an angry snort, but it started. Daddy smiled, weakly. He was happy, for a moment.


The drive was relaxing, and reminiscent of my childhood. It was longer than I remembered.


We finally arrived at the lake. I was thankful that i remembered the route.


I guided the Cobra - the Snake, daddy called it - right up to the water. It was late, and the sun wasn't far off setting.

"We're here Daddy." I said, resting my hand on his shoulder. His eyes opened and immediately my daddy returned. He smiled, no longer in medical pain, but now in joy. He sqeezed my hand, with more energy and strength than we've seen from him in the last year.

"Thank you." He said. His voice, while still weak, was animated.


Together we watched the sun set. It was the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen in my life, beating even the meeting and marriage of my wife, and the birth of our son. The scene was perfect, and we watched it in silence, our hands clasped together.

Finally as the orange turned to purple, i turned to my daddy.


I hadn't noticed his grip loosen, nor his head slump. I knew he wasn't sleeping.

"Goodbye Daddy." I said.



New Theme: The eyes of an Alien

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


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Morkie, that story was touching.



Graham had been working out in South Dakota's woodland for months. That's the thing that worried me. How could he have left everything he owned. Not how, why. More importantly, how could he have left his mother to me. Whining at me; 'the soups cold', she'd say. Why did she have so much hope that her son would return. Did she not see the other workers returning from the woodland. Battered and bruised.


Cuts as deep as the ridges in the sea floor.


That didn't seem to matter to her. Months went on, and she sat at the window sill throughout many seasons. She held Grahams necklace; a woodbeaker. For what. It angered me to think that he left his family to me to create a new life. No, that's just nonsense. I have my own mother, who I visit every week. I lay flowers over her and stand with grief.


Grief as meaningless as life.


Didn't Grahams' mother listen to the media. He was taken and he wasn't returning. She didn't care. I was the one to care. Care for her health, my own health and hoping Graham had his health rich. At the same time, I was hoping he was buried beneath the forest floor. I would of rather been there. Against the moist tree leaves, not having to worry. I wouldn't be lonely. I'd know that Graham and the other loggers would be out searching for me. Coming to think of it, is my deepest dream, in Grahams reality; is he sleeping with the moist leaves and knows freedom is on the way.


The media stopped carrying, and the rescue team threw the hats in.


That morning I woke up. To expect to see the his mother. She wasn't there. The emotions rushed. Did I want to her gone, and did I want Graham dead. Where did she go. Only god knows. This day must had meant something deep to her.


Deep as the ridges in the ocean. Beneath the layer.


The layer. I grabbed the key chain, accelerating down the main road. Driving red lights and dodging traffic. Until I got to the edge of town. I entered the gloomy forest; knowing someone was here. A woodbeaker got my attention, as I drove deeper and deeper into the forest until.




She laid in her night gown. Her grey hair spread along the tree leaves. The woodbeaker stared blankly down at her before taking flight. I rushed towards her; hoping for a pulse. No pulse. I began to furiously dig. Nothing. Where had he gone and why was she here. I knew asking all these pointless questions weren't going to help.


Maybe the media were right. Perhaps Extraterrestrial life took him in their fancy craft. Far away from this hole.


They went up and beyond the ridges of humanity. I would had hoped he had glanced at the eyes of an alien, rather than suffocated in a pit of pain and hope.



Next Theme: The abandoned junkyard

Edited by Coat.




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I'm sort of new at this...so...



"We're here." My uncle said. We got off the truck and he led me past his house and into a huge junkyard, surrounded by metal barriers and a huge gate with a sign that read "Do Not Cross". He was wearing his work clothes and he patted me on the shoulder as we got closer and closer.


We eventually reached the gate which he opened with a rusty key he scavenged for in his pocket, then he twisted the key lightly in the keyhole, to my surprise the gate snapped open and before it stood the most amazing riches any child could ever desire.


Massive piles of metal, odds and ends, trinkets. It was all beautifully scattered wildly along the plains of the junkyard. "Go ahead" my uncle motioned, and I looked at him in the eye and smiled. Then I proceeded to walk slowly through the path in the junkyard, stopping briefly at every pile of junk I encountered. I turned back, to notice, my uncle was gone.


I continued through the path and at the distance, a sudden flash of light seemed to appear. I blinked wildly, to justify wether I was seeing things or not. Clearly, I wasn't. There it was, the flash again. I walked slowly and carefully towards it, it was isolated, away from any other pile. My hands were pressed against each other, and a thin layer of sweat had formed on my forehead. I wiped it off with my hand, exhaled deeply and continued walking.


I eventually reached the shining object, but to be honest, at first sight, I was disappointed. It was partially covered, it seemed to be a cube of some sorts. Only a corner stuck out of the hard sand. I bent over and started clawing the floor, furiously wanting the object. My fingertips began to bleed, but I didn't care.


As I dug deeper, I managed to get a clearer view of what it was. A lexicon of some sorts, with alien like markings to the sides. I pulled it up, holding it highly with both my hands, and a tornado of lost memories and dreams blew in front of me.



A cabin in the woods.



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It lay dormant between two beautiful, yet scarred, red furs. Ivy spread all over it from the deep foundations beneath. All sorts of wildlife had sneakily burrowed their way underneath and into the old cabin many years before. When inside the warmth of the boxed in main room was like a sauna without such steam. Michael remembered it well. Of course it had been years since he had returned. His father had been dead for seven years now, and when he was -barely living- he spent most of his time up here. Michael knocked down the ivy in the front doorway with a kick, bringing down the dark green natural curtain with one swipe. Inside it was dark, yet Michael could make out the room like he'd never left. He stepped inside and felt that familiar feeling he felt last time he was here. When his stomach dropped. The room was wooden and bare, except for a single mouldy chair that was next to the fireplace. He moved to it, rubbed his hands over the course fabric and sighed as he remembered that night.


He was fifteen at the time, his father and mother had been going through a rough patch, and as the cabin was only a walk away from the main town, Gerald, had found the cabin to be a relaxing escape. He spent many nights here for many reasons; be it, arguments, drunken brawls, and when the in-laws were over. He remembered how dead his marriage was on the inside, and it made him wonder. It made him realize that he was just trying to find excuses to keep the small dying flame going. Eventually, after another argument, another excuse over Michael, he had decided he would spend yet another night up here. He called Ryan, his one true friend over for beers that night, and the two decided to recap on the days events at work; the intoxication getting worse.


Michael sat perched on the curb. He stared at his bike and waited for his watch to beep before setting off. He stepped onto his BMX and waited, thinking about what his mother had told him to do. "Bike up there, tell your father we need to talk, and then come right back! Do not do anything else, Michael! Promise me." He replayed it over and over even when he was speeding up the nature trail to the Cabin. The sun was setting over the town. The cabin gave a beautiful view of the residing forest and town. It was something Michael realized was a good reason to be up here. He took a breath and got off his bike. He walked up the steps and could hear something from within; voices? Two people?


He slowly opened the door and let it swing as it revealed an image that would bore into Michael's mind. Lay sprawled on all fours was Mister Ryan Clerkall, Dad's best friend, naked and panting as Michael's father f*cked him from behind. Both of them moaning and sweating vigorously. Gerald didn't notice his son watching him as he f*cked Ryan further and further. He felt guilt but he also felt something else, something deeper, something that that right. Ryan, in pure ecstasy turned his head to notice Michael who stared in complete rage. "Oh no!" he said before pulling off Gerald's dick. Gerald, infuriated with not being able to finish shot up. He turned to the doorway and stopped dead. For a moment father and son looked at each other, and Gerald, who was usually on the end of dishing out violence, felt like a child himself. A small child that had been caught doing something wrong. Michael spat onto the cabin and slammed the door shut on his father.




"I don't know about angels, but it's fear that gives men wings."


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  • 1 month later...




Michelle gripped the pistol for dear life, more bangs came from upstairs. A tear streamed down her smooth face out of her sexy blue eyes. Another bang came from the staircase. It was the top stair. She cautiously dashed to kitchen, she opened the large refrigerator door and crouched behind it. Now it was the lower stair. And again. A few seconds after, a darkly dressed man appeared in the pitch black dining room.


A torch beam searched the room, so did the man. He yanked drawers out and opened all of the cupboards. Michelle was unaware what he was looking for. Suddenly, he lifted his balaclava from his face. Michelle knew who is was, her ex-boyfriend, Damian Ghost. She wanted to stay still but her feet started to ache, she tumbled to the floor. In a state of confusion, Damian dropped his torch and slowly walked to the kitchen. He saw Michelle.


She hobbled to the couch and Damian pinned her on it, she unbuttoned his shirt as he lifted her blouse off. The kissed violently, rough love they called it. It got a bit too rough, Damian pounced down and accidentally headbutted Michelle. She was knocked out, Damian climbed off her and continued searching the room. He took his passport off the TV stand. Michelle shouldn't have still had it, they were apart for almost a year. He carried Michelle and her passport out of the house and into his Chryster and to the airport.


"This is it baby, we have waited so long for this. Away from here, away from your parents. We can finally live our life how we want. You shouldn't have broke up with me, we could have done this earlier" Damian repeated.


Michelle let out a smile as she continued to listen to Damian's rambles.

Edited by cammi
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Mokrie Dela
Michelle gripped the pistol for dear life, more bangs came from upstairs. A tear streamed down her smooth face out of her sexy blue eyes. Another bang came from the staircase. It was the top stair. She cautiously dashed to kitchen, she opened the large refrigerator door and crouched behind it. Now it was the lower stair. And again. A few seconds after, a darkly dressed man appeared in the pitch black dining room.


A torch beam searched the room, so did the man. He yanked drawers out and opened all of the cupboards. Michelle was unaware what he was looking for. Suddenly, he lifted his balaclava from his face. Michelle knew who is was, her ex-boyfriend, Damian Ghost. She wanted to stay still but her feet started to ache, she tumbled to the floor. In a state of confusion, Damian dropped his torch and slowly walked to the kitchen. He saw Michelle.


She hobbled to the couch and Damian pinned her on it, she unbuttoned his shirt as he lifted her blouse off. The kissed violently, rough love they called it. It got a bit too rough, Damian pounced down and accidentally headbutted Michelle. She was knocked out, Damian climbed off her and continued searching the room. He took his passport off the TV stand. Michelle shouldn't have still had it, they were apart for almost a year. He carried Michelle and her passport out of the house and into his Chryster and to the airport.


"This is it baby, we have waited so long for this. Away from here, away from your parents. We can finally live our life how we want. You shouldn't have broke up with me, we could have done this earlier" Damian repeated.


Michelle let out a smile as she continued to listen to Damian's rambles.

You forgot to add a theme.

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


Click here to view my Poetry

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In a rush, Crumpet slammed his whiskey on the bar. Silence filled the saloon as the old doors swung wide open. Gasps could be heard in the crowd. Even Mad Maherty cowered as a woman in a short coat appeared in a midst of dust. Tumbleweeds tumbled away. It was Krazy Karren, the most psycho gunslinger in the old west.


"You" She pointed at Crumpet. Just to make sure, Crumpet pointed at himself. Krazy Karren nodded, she left the saloon with her posse and the saloon customers following. She stood in the trail, waiting for Crumpet who eventually came over.


"3" The crowd cheered.






Before Karren had chance to take out her gun, she was filled with bullets. She fell to the ground as Crumpet holstered his gun and smirked to the crowd. Karren's posse took out there guns and dashed into the saloon. They shot the place up. Crumpet snook in and took cover behind the bar. The posse noticed him, there was five of them and only one of Crumpet. The posse leader shot a barrel of XXX ale and the bar set alight with Crumpet inside. He threw a flaming bottle at the chandelier above two of the posse members, it collapsed.


In the confusion, Crumpet had used a hatch under the bar to get into the cellar where he waited for the three remaining members to find him. The hobbled down the stairs and shot at Crumpet, every bullet missed. He just got annoyed and sprayed the room with lead. All of the posse were dead. Crumpet climbed the ladders back up to the bar which had set the whole saloon on fire. The owner chased Crumpet back out of Dodge City.

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Mokrie Dela

I think you've misunderstood - you write your peice, then at the end post the theme for the next person to write. Ziggy's last post ended with the new theme - "Hypocrisy", so your peice should be on that. Then you post a theme for the next person to write. I'm just going to post following Ziggy's theme to carry that on, as per the rules and to show you.





It's an old tale, one that's been told a hundred times before, yet the pages never get worn out, only they eyes. The words are the same but the character different, though they're often cut from the same cloth.


Let me introduce, for your consideration, David Jenson, thirty two, a police officer from Surrey. He lives with his fiance, in a small flat, decorated completely from Ikea. He buys the finest clothes he can, in his vain pride to look good.


His job was one of power. He got paid, but it was the control that appealed to him. He'd walk through the street on patrol - he hated being behind a desk - and let his eyes jump around, looking at doorways and checking everyone in sight. His pet peeve was kids. He hated them. They'd shoot around on their stupid scooter things or their tiny BMX bikes, causing a menace to the public. He enjoyed telling them, in no polite terms, to dismount. Those who dared to backchat would be slapped with a fixed penalty notice, something he'd been lectured by his boss by on several occaisions.

"Kids aren't subject to these rules."

"No, but their parents can pay. If they're going to have kids, they should at least teach them of the rules."


It was a thursday, in the middle of april. A mild spring and an even milder summer promised by the jetstream. David set off on his beat with his police jacket on, but by the time lunch was upon him, the weather had changed, and the sun, a stranger in this country, was enjoying the day. In other words, he was hot. So he bought a drink and some crisps.


It was outside a supermarket. Near a cash point, not that it mattered. The guy - twenty two, twenty three - was eating his lunch, tearing off parts of the cardboard sleeve that contained his fajita wrap and throwing them to the ground.

David intervened of course, and issued his favoured Fixed Penatly. The man was annoyed, but knew he'd done wrong. David began to walk off, feeling good with himself. He finished his drink and casually tossed the can over his shoulder as he strutted toward the underpass.


He arrived at the station to the scowl of his boss. He had no idea that the guy at lunchtime had clocked his badge number. He had no idea that he'd seen him.


"We can't be seen to do people for something that we then do ourselves. We are to uphold the law - something you've been good at," (read, earning us money), "but today?" His boss was an arse, he said to himself. Stuck up twat. "I'm sorry David, but you're suspended. The FPN has been revoked."

"I didn't do anything." David protested.

"It's on CCTV. I've seen it. You issued an FPN for littering, then do the very same! This is unacceptable."


Angry, at himself and the so called system, David cycled home, cutting through the town centre as he did so. Again, it didn't occur to him that he was guilty of the very thing he collared people for.



Next Theme:




Now, cammi, the next person to post, has to write their story on the theme i've set - "Feast". Once done, you set the theme for the NEXT person.


So the next theme is: FEAST

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


Click here to view my Poetry

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The King waited patiently as his chefs brought meals upon meals to the table. The King's best warrior Mordi staggered into the room.


"Mordi, how was battle?" The King asked, he seemed on edge but after all his kingdom was on the line.


"We won your highness" Mordi answered letting out a smirk.


"Great, well now we feast. Eat up." The King ordered.


Mordi torn some meat off the chicken and shoveled it down his throat. The King happily got out his solid gold spoon and sipped some soup.


"Don't forget to clean the plate " The King laughed as Mordi finished most of the food on the table.


"Don't worry I will save some food for you, your highness "


"Why do you call me your highness"


" Out of respect, your highness "


" You know you don't have to, you saved my kingdom many times"


"Well call me warrior then, your highness"


"Fine, warrior"


"It's great to know your respect me too, your highness"


"If I didn't respect you, we wouldn't feast together everyday, warrior"


"Your right please can I leave the table, your highness"


" Ok I will see you later today, goodbye warrior"



Next Theme:


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  • 2 weeks later...

The sound is known the world over. A palindrome of sound. Three short sharp stabs of sound, followed by three longer ones.


It's hard to hear over the sound of the storm. The rain batters the windows - tempered I'm sure, least I hope - and the distance rumbling of thunder seems endless. The angry howling of the wind somehow manages to make its way inside the so-called sealed hatches, the high-pitched ghostly sounds adding to the tension.


We picked it up an hour ago, a weak, distant signal that finally grew loud enough to understand. My morse code is terrible - none of us know any to be honest. We're just hired hands. Our only skill lies in our muscles and bravado. Crates need lifting and those who learnt the intellectual side of shipping suffered on that front.


There is no mistaking the message though. My eyes meet those of the other crew. Even the captain of The Mystic - our cargo ship - is a bit green. It's times like these that decisions needed to be made. The captain just stared though, not at us, but a the radar display. I can't read radar, but I hazard a guess. The circular display shows the blip at 2 o clock. That means ahead of us to the right - no, port, right? Isnt that what they call it? Why can't they just say left or right?


It's not until the signal is directly beside us that action is taken. The boat slows and the order to drop anchor is given. I expected the young captain to order us to turn in but no, that journey will be done on the ship's zodiac - one of them anyway.


There's a gun kept in a little lock-box that only the captain had the key to. Fittingly, it was the captain who took the only gun on board. The rest of us only had knives or our fists.


The rain is a shock as it attacks my head. Even the hat i wear offers little protection. The coat simply feels heavy and climbing onboard the zodiac is hard enough.


Ten minutes later i feel sick. We're thrown ten feet in the air, then plunged back down, the crashing on the waves enough to jolt the spine from my back.


Finally we see the outline of the ship, barely visible through the fog of rain. There's a flash on the horizon, enough to illuminate the vessel for half a second, and i swear i see a man standing on the deck.


We reach the boat and climb aboard. It's beached - crashed into some rocks. The entire ships creaks, as though our weight is too much for it to bear.


The bridge and quarters are empty. There's no one around. Stranger still, the ship's radio is not transmitting. Where the hell did the signal come from?


We decide against splitting up. Instead we look around. The cargo that this ship once carried - it's a lot like our own - is gone, likely washed away. Moss has begun to grow on the side, and i guess it's been here a while. If that's the case, what the hell was sending the signal?!


It was the captain though that at first confused me. It was mere seconds before my confusion led to fear.


The name on the side of the ship was clear, and all of a sudden things looked familiar. The dent on the side of the radar display, caused by a falling toolbox in a storm last month; the mismatched grating of a cheap repair job, the serial numbers of the equiptment.



I stare at the ships name, asking the obvious question.


What's more is the date on the clock. It has to be an error, right? It's set too far in the future - years. Someone messed up.


Suddenly there's a crash and i hear a call. The ship is sinking, and our Zodiac's gone.


I turn and stare at the name of what will become our watery tomb.


The Mystic.



New theme:

Working overtime

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


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  • 2 weeks later...




I scramble through the paper work, hoping for freedom. My finger are dry and can't fold paper- my tongue to dry to lick. The ventilation is making disturbing sounds and someones cat is at the window meowing for food. I stare down at my wrist watch, but realize that I left it in the car; locked. I stand up, bumping over paperwork and folders to look for the car keys. Rolling my eyes in disbelief, I know they are in the car. I spin around to get back into the chair but I crash my knee into the desk, knocking over the hot coffee and important paperwork.


The cat meows again, so I slam the window shut. I decide to ring the boss, if he's still awake. It dials... and goes to answering machine. I slam the phone down hard and run my hand through my oily and sweaty hair. I knew I should not of worked overtime. I try to pick up the wet paperwork and dry it on the window sill. But just as I do, a truck comes flying past, and the wind trailing behind the truck catches the sheets and takes it up in an updraft. Just as I thought it couldn't get worse, it does...


I wake up, knowing that today, I am due for overtime work.





Next theme: Where dry wheat grows.




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Where dry wheat grows.


Each day the night bows down in gentle grace

The sun, now master, rises over His kingdom.

Farmers full with breakfast take to the fields with haste

Ra! All-mighty, watches down upon them.

Forever swinging, burley arms chisel the earth,

Ploughing and seeding the barron soil.

Through heat and drought, they work till their muscles hurt

Another day of blood sweat and toil.


The months they pass, and still they work

Morning and night, through sun and rain.

And time brings with her, that precious first,

Glorious fields of wheat; evolved grain.


But the drought, like a cruel-hearted devil,

for the farmers, and the traders that travel,

permits no harvest, and the feilds remain levelled

No earnings this year, the fields are like gravel


And so it comes, as the sun goes down,

That the door is closed, and bodies turn

They walk away, leaving the only life they know

For there is nothing left, where dry wheat grows.



New theme:


The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


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  • 5 months later...

The beginning was thanks to all four of them

He, Her, His and None

Earth, the gift that the couple brought

Rest, the peace His own kin tried to trot

Every soul a gift never to be outdone


And with that we live to serve

Rest, the only presence that gives us none

Ending one present with another


Never shall we forget our blessed beginning

Or that divinity is such, self-fulfilling


Great are Those who watch over us

On every mind their knowledge nests

Divinity is theirs to pick and choose

So shall we serve until we choose to rest




Felt like this should be revived.


Next theme: You're happy and you know it.


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Love the poem, tyler. A nice flow to it.





"If you're happy and you know it clap your hands,"


Dozens of sticky palms come together like out of time snare drums, following a rhythm-less beat. I'm standing at the back, with the other parents, only none of the children here are mine. Well, not like that. I'm merely playing babysitter for my brother - i suppose that makes me uncle. 'Cool Uncle Alan,' they call me, but i don't feel it. All these kids, with their lunch round their mouths and encrusted on their tiny creepy fingers. Why does everyone speak so highly of them?


"Priceless, isn't it?" A woman says to me. No it's not. They're just kids. Icky, whiny, smelly brats. I bite my tongue and simply nod, watching the man who has to be a pedophile, surely, sitting in front of the kids, clapping with a smile that had to be given by narcotics. No one could enjoy this, surely?


"If you're happy and you know it, stomp your feet," Yeah, great, encourage them to make more noise. Why can't i just be sitting playing my online computer games, shooting zombies and elves in the head and mocking the twelve year olds as i do so, or perhaps watching the mindless TV after work. I don't want to be here; it's too warm, loud and smells. I think one of the younger kids has shat themselves. Disgusting vile creatures, children, unable to do anything, so dependent and needy.


I look at my watch, but then realize what it is i'm avoiding by not being home. Here I have the excuse of having my phone on silent, and i can extend that for a day or so. At least I won't have to talk to her, like it's my fault. She probably got her timings wrong - ninety seven percent effective... yeah right.


"If you're happy and you know it, shout 'horray!'" Great, now they're shouting, in their shrill, screeches. How they hell am I going to put up with this? Every day, waking up to it, only escaping when I'm at my crappy job, then coming back to it? All night, all day, All weekend. Where is my time to enjoy my life gone? Kidnapped - that seems a fitting word - by my girlfriend and now my.... sh*t, son? Daughter? f*ck...


The kids are laughing now, that game having clearly satisfied their demand for entertainment. God I hate that, we spend ten or so years giving our children fun, teaching them that life is fun. It's not, it's hard, it's work, work, work. All there is is work. You wake up, that time of day dictated by what time you have to be at work - 6 AM, 4 AM, the lucky would get up at eight. No one who has to get up that early is lucky! Then we spend the day doing sh*t we don't want to do because society demands we do so. It's tolerable when you get home, able to sit down with a beer, with the MMORPG booting up, or the TV show on while you eat dinner. But now, where's that gone? Taken by the dependent little creature growing inside my girlfriend. No more sex, no more adventurous sex anyway. Everything that makes my life enjoyable is gone! All because of that little f*ck! I'm looking at the kids in front of me, knowing that my one will end up like this, while I end up like all the other fathers - absent because they're at work, earning the money to spend two hundred dollars on some stupid toy with Disney stamped on it. I can't help but feel it the workhouses were brought back, things would be much better - the british had the right idea then. send the kids out to work, earn the money, and that way, everyone working half the day, with so much more time to enjoy life!


Music comes on next, and that brings a tear to my eye, though i resist showing it. I left school, part of a band with some damned good songs. We played gigs every week, two hours of pure joy, and were going to make an album. We even had scouts at our gigs. We could have made it, I could have been doing my dream as my job. Instead she turned up, and although I love her, she tore those dreams out from under me. Our band disbanded - the drummer had a kid, our bassist got a job in New york. I was going to go alone, record my own stuff, sell it on iTunes, but nope, that's gone, such plans eradicated by an unborn fetus. Now my life i doomed to daily grind, with an hour or so of entertainment at weekends, perhaps sleep being my only joy. It's my life, isn't it? Why can't I live it the way I want?!


My phone vibrates and I realize it's been vibrating since the "happy" song started. I look at the screen, seeing her name disappear, replaced with "18 missed calls" Jesus, what does she want now!? Before I can even blink the screen flashes again, and I almost drop the phone. I answer, curious more than anything.


The voice is a deep one, not of my girlfriend but of her father. Why isn't he at work? I took the day off to look after this little brat, thinking maybe my brother would do the same for me soon.

"Get to the hospital, now." He says. I call my... nephew? I dunno, and we leave.


I hate hospitals. They smell of death, antiseptic killers... It takes ages to find her, with the f*cking kid complaining. f*ck off and grow up - life is not rosy! Get used to it!


The doctor's coming out of her room as I get there.

"What's going on?" I ask, and am ushered into a small room, with a sofa and horrible brown wallpaper.

The doctor speaks but i hear no words, only those that matter. 'Miscarriage" is all i need to hear, and for some reason i begin sobbing at the evident death of my child.




(Pfft not that great!)


Next theme:



The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


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  • 2 months later...

Super Bowl


My friend Danny is going to the Super Bowl. As kids we had big dreams of playing for the Miami Dolphins. He was going to be the big time quarterback and I was going to be his star receiver. We were going to lead our team to the big game and eventually to The Lombardi Trophy.


My dreams dimmed long ago. A horrible accident stole my legs from me. It happened the afternoon after we had won the District Championship game. It was me and Danny’s second year on the Varsity squad. Danny played an amazing game. He could almost taste the championship. He threw for well over 300 yards. I had fifteen catches for a click over 200 yards and two TDs. The next day my life changed.


Eventually I did get my life back on track. I have Danny to thank for that. At times the adjustments got to be too much though. No football. No girls. After high school Danny went to Georgia Tech. I stayed close to home and earned a degree in Finance from Northwestern. I followed Danny during his time at Tech the best I could. Never saw him play in person.


The years passed quickly. After college, I started my own mortgage company. I’ve done pretty well for myself. Danny is keeping the dream alive. Miami picked him in the first round six years ago. He’s been leading the Dolphins to Divisional Championships for the last five seasons. My life is different now. I’ve finally truly come to accept my life and myself.


Last week I received a package in the mail. I opened it right then and there. Inside were three tickets to Super Bowl XXIV. One for me. One for my beautiful wife, and one for my son. He’s seven and he loves football. I’m going to see my friend play in the big game.


Next Theme:

A tree in the woods.


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  • 4 weeks later...



A Tree in the Woods


"...and I present you - this beautiful oak chair!" The host unveiled the special item in the auction. It is a rare oak chair, with hand carvings that made it even more beautiful.


"Price starts at thirty-thousand dollars!"


The crowd roared like a tiger that has never eaten for a long time. They want the chair. These collectors will do anything. They don't care for the price. They're rich, anyway, so why bother. They will give anything for this wooden chair.


They gazed at it. They looked at it. They stared at it like they never seen a wooden chair before.


...because they never seen any gifts of nature for the past 200 years



Year is 2395. May 17. I'm a reporter for the news channel, "YNN". The channel has been doing a documentary about the last natural items in the world, and I am one of the researchers.


Today, I decided to go to Grandpa Irving with my family. Grandpa Irving has a 'forest-like' garden, but of course, all of it is synthetic. I want to at least see what a forest looks like. Also, I want to have a chat with Grandpa about the last days of the trees in the woods.


We arrived at his place, and wow! The trees looks stunning. It's so amazing, you'll forget that it is actually burnt rubber, plastic and coated with a kind of paint that smells like methane. I took my family to the house, then invited Grandpa Irving for an interview. We talked about the mass logging, the greedy companies, the expanding of the city, and many more. But what made this interview more interesting, is that he showed me something. Something that he is trying to hide from everybody.


The last tree - the last tree in this synthetic woods.


I had to make sure that it isn't synthetic too. I smelled it. It didn't smelled PVC paint, it smelled something I can't explain. I never smelled something like this before. I was amazed. This is very special to me.


"You know, I'm trying to preserve this old tree. But it's dying already", Grandpa Irving said.


I looked into him. He's gazing at the tree with sadness. I looked into the tree. The leaves were falling. Then I looked up. There were little leaves left. Grandpa Irving, faced down, said, "I tried everything. He's the last of his kind."


"So take pictures of it, but don't show it the world. Wait 'till the world wakes up from it's greed. That is the time. Let this tree die peacefully, let this tree be uncut. Let this tree die like the other trees - rotting as the termites eat it. Let this tree be unused by mankind. He will be happy, so am I. And maybe you"


So I took pictures, every angle of it.


This is the last tree on earth


I hope, whoever you are from the past, can change our horrible future.







FOUND MAY 20, 2013*







Next Theme: Broken Typewriter

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Bradley sipped on his coffee while staring down the rusted machine on the desk in front of him. Thin vapors crept across his face and fogged up the bottom of his glasses - the same glasses that reminded him day in and day out of his physical ineptitude. Bradley sighed.


"You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" He told the heap of metal. God what am I doing talking to a typewriter? Nevermind that, he needed to figure out what to do with this damn thing in front of him. One broken key. A mistype: a finger punching too hard and breaking half the ancient bastard in half, basically. Why do I even own this thing? It is 2013, after all. May be that it's time to pack up the old thing and begin writing on the computer again.


The typewriter sat on the swollen tabletop in silence. Bought off some hooch in a small alley of a flea market in Albuquerque. There was still dust underneath the now-broken keys. Still the smell of some old woman who had no business owning a typewriter. When he first got the massive machine in front of him, Bradley had sprayed it with every cleaner he had, wiping it for hours at a time - san incessant need to forget the typerwriter's putrid past. He sighed again.


"What the hell do I do about this thing?" he said to no one. Bradley felt the need to look around and make his statement authentic, and not just the same, tired stream of confusion and neediness that it was. He sat his cup down, adjusting his tie with the other hand. Blowing out another steamy mouthful of air, Bradley tugged on mechanisms and tried pushing and pulling out different gadgets on the device. He had no idea what he was doing, but the act felt better than standing and staring. Damn it, why did I buy this thing?


Minutes passed and when Bradley gave up once again, he noticed that hours had passed, too. Time wasted. The hunk of junk in front of him continued to bask in the silence of the cramped apartment, its corroded surface not even putting in enough effort to reflect Bradley's confused and embarrassed face.


"I hate typewriters."







Next Theme: energy drinks.


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Mokrie Dela

This lives again!?



Energy Drinks.


Damon was a healthy young man. More so, he was one of only two white guys on the basketball team. A damned stereotype, he thought, but the black guys were not all drug dealers and gangbangers. Not many that attended school were. A few lived down East LA way; Crompton and the like, but not one - that he knew of - rolled with a gang. In fact, there was very little of that in the entire school.


Being the token white man was hard though. Some of these guys lived and breathed sports. A few were in the football team too, though they would soon drop that in favor of basketball. You couldn't do both. But Damon was determined to be the best. He was the white guy, and everyone knew white guys couldn't dance. He wasn't the best player on the team, but he was never relegated past the bench. He'd play in every game, even not for all of it. He was good enough, but he wanted to be on a level with Shaun.


Shaun was a beast of a man - and he was not done growing. He had discovered the gym and... sh*t, ten?! That probably wasn't true, Damon knew, but he was the kind of guy whose muscles had muscles. He could pick Damon up like he was a toy, and probably dunk him. He had once done some pressups with three guys sitting on his back - even done clapping ones with Damon humorously riding him. Yet he was the kindest, softest guy he knew. The bullies were scared of him, and he regularly sought out any such events in the halls. The mere sight of him made the bullies flee.


Jamie was the tallest, and was the star of the team, even though he wasn't the best. He shaved his head and looked like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, but with darker skin and scary eyes. The girls loved him - probably because his height and skin tone implied he was well endowed.


They were his idols. Damon trained hard. His lunchbreak would be spent running track, grabbing a quick bite before the bell, and after school he'd work out. He became addicted to the high-intensity workouts and Plyometrics - not out of joy, but out of determination. And he was improving.


The big night - as he though of it - was against Oakland. A home game, and the bleechers were full of fans - family members and students - even some out-of-school friends.

He slumped his bag down on the wooden bench and began to put on his kit. The tank top was beginning to cling to his body as he grew in muscle and stature. He was becoming a man, and becoming a true athlete.

He cracked open a can of that energy drink - not Red Bull, but a cheaper version of it. He hadn't even bothered looking at the name. He downed the drink in seconds and began to stretch.


The game kicked off, and he was on the bench - which was fine. Rumors were floating around that some NBA scouts were here tonight, and he found himself looking up at the bleechers to see if he could spot them - a futile exercise. He shrugged it off and picked up the can. He'd have a few of these for energy tonight. If there was a scout, he wanted his name to be on his list.


Finally he was on. He stood, feeling the buzzing through his body - he always got excited before playing, but tonight he felt electric. He jogged onto the court, waving his arms to loosen them. He felt a fizzy sensation in them. Pins and needles, he assumed, though that would be a first.



The man in the bleechers had been here before. Twice. He had three names on his list - Shaun Williams, Jamie Carter and Damon McIntyre. The list had been beaten down from five names, and tonight it might go down to two, though this school had been given three places in the tryouts. He was confident Williams would be going to college and in five or so years, be playing in the NBA. Whoever didn't get picked up tonight, he knew, would be snatched by another college. Such talents didn't fade out.


Damon impressed him. He was bouncing up and down the court, completely counteracting Oakland's star man - the speedy Will Smith - a name he laughed internally at every time he saw it, being a big fan of the actor/rapper. But Smith had already been snapped up, and he wasn't here for Oaklands' 'ballers. Nevertheless, McIntyre was all over him, blocking off all of his runs and keeping pace throughout. The physicality was impressive, but how much of it was his natural game and how much spurred by possible rumors of the scout's presence? He shrugged and made a note that regardless, this guy had it in him.


There were a few minutes left, and Oaklands were countering. McIntrye was sprinting back but didn't quite catch Smith. He'd tried too hard and was trying, the scout saw. Pace yourself, sonny.


The shot was snatched out of the hoop by Carter; his clawing shot hooking the ball right into the waiting hands of Williams, who seemed to take up half the court. He turned and, with no options, the scout saw the kid's eyes set on the far end.

Don't do it... the scout willed silently. Williams didn't shoot, thankfully. Instead he dribbled and used his strength and mass to - lawfully- fend off the opposition before hooking it behind his back into the hands of Johnson - one of the original names on his list. Johnson had surged forward, unmarked, and darted toward the hoop, dunking it to a pleasing cheer of the crowd.


But the scout's eyes had returned to Damon McIntyre.


Damon felt fatigued all of a sudden. He heard the cheer and knew his team had scored but it was hard to move. The fuzziness in his arms filled his entire body - something he put down to excitement.


But something was wrong. He needed a new tank-top. His training had made him too big, and it was too tight and -

Sweet mother of jesus!. He suddenly felt as though Shaun was giving him a hug. He looked around, seeing Shaun at the far end of the court and... everything was blurry.


The scout stood as he saw Damon drop to his knees. He had a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach.


Damon felt as though he'd been punched, stabbed and shot, all at the same time. His chest hurt like nothing he'd felt before and his arms were numb. Numb?! What the hell?! He couldn't move and suddenly realized he was laying on the polished wood, feeling its coldness on his check and smelling the stench of sweaty feet on it. He couldn't even cry out. It hurt - it hurt...


The scout was running down the bleecers but was stopped by a steward or something. The team's first aider was on the court, and the celebrations had turned to mild concern - most thought McIntyre had pulled something.


The first aider called over the coach, and a moment later medic ran on to the court. The basketballers were there too, but the first aider - having surrendered his duties to the ambulance crew that had become routine attendees over the years, ushered them back to give Damon some space.


Minutes passed, and everyone was on their feet, hands to their mouths. They stared in horror. Somehow, everyone knew what was going on.


It was half an hour, and another ambulance had arrived. Damon was eventually stretchered off - not even to an applause; everyone just stared. The coach and first aider spoke with the ref, and the ref agreed to abandon the game.


The coach and many of the team headed out to their cars, without even changing.


Frank Robertson had been a basketball coach for thirteen years. He had only once had a player rushed to hospital, and that was for a broken ankle.


The emergency room smelt as most did, clean but a smell that reminded him of uncomfortable visits as a kid. He sought out the nurse at the desk and within five minutes was talking to the doctor.


Damon was dead, from a heart attack.




New Theme: False Expectations[/u

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


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Paul’s forehead glistened with sweat, the glare of high summer pounding him relentlessly through the wind shield. On any other day, the heat would be daunting enough, but today was especially troublesome for Paul. He was a marked man; living on borrowed time and running up an expensive overdraft on those remaining hours as he waited outside a tenement. He was here for his girlfriend - his once feral fling, now tamed and inseparable lover, Annabelle. Together, they would soon be reaping the rewards of their audacious theft; they had ripped off an associate of theirs to the tune of $350,000. Annabelle would be bringing the money and the plane tickets out imminently, but despite this, Paul couldn’t help but swelter in his own fear. Their mutual friend was hot on their heels, and every moment he spent parked outside on the burning tarmac, was a moment closer to danger.


Lifting his hand to wipe his wet face, Paul jerked his head around to look onto the opposite pavement, and beyond, to Annabelle’s apartment complex. It was silent, eerily so. Paul was expecting to see her exiting about now, his imagination running wild at what could be happening to delay her. His eyes darted about from the rear view mirror to the side window and back again. And then it happened.


A hand slammed on the back of the car, startling Paul, who reached inside his jacket to his gun, clutching it surreptitiously and staring at the man responsible – a thuggish, darkly dressed giant with a head bald and glimmering in the sun. He was stood at the passenger side, hand on the door. This must be the man sent after him. Paul froze momentarily.


“Why are you parked here man?” A grizzly smokers voice addressed him.


“I’m waiting for a friend.” Paul readied himself to click off the safety.


“Well, can you go in and get your friend out? You’re blocking my drive.” Phew. Paul’s hand eased off the Glock, and dropped out of his jacket and onto his lap. A wide grin spread across his face, waves of relief cooling Paul. The man stared at his gormless smile with derision, before leaving once Paul had given his sincere assurance he’d be gone soon.


Another minute passed. Paul’s heart rate dropped again, relaxed once more but still sensing the delay of Annabelle markedly. What was going on? Finally, a figure left her building – but it wasn’t her. Rather, it was a scraggly looking youth, sporting shorts and trainers. Paul turned his head back to look at the rear view mirror, spying a black van parked five spaces behind. This unnerved him again, and he shuffled in his seat. Neither the driver nor passengers were visible within, and it had been there for a while, like a tiger in the brush, still but worryingly close.


Then came a rap on his door. It was the youth, and Paul, keen to remain incognito, turned to greet the slender faced boy, smiling falsely and shielding his eyes from the furious sun.


“Yes, can I help you?”


“Paul, right?” The boy spoke, and Paul paused. An eternity passed. A dog barking in the distance punctuated the silence, as man and boy looked at each other blankly.


“Yeah, why?”


Paul hadn’t expected this kid to know his name. He hadn’t expected anything of the sort. So, he sat surprised, but mostly still. He stayed that way, even after the boy had shot him square in the face.



'Smoke and Mirrors'



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Does smoke have a reflection in a mirror? Can it reflect the surface of a mirror or pass through the parallel universe and continue it's movement? May seem like abstract an questions but just think about it; smoke has no mass and brings no force, yet we can easily see it either from a lit cigarette, a house burning, and explosion, etc. but we can't touch it. I guess we can confirm that smoke has no feelings and floats through the air like a feather but can only go upwards.


But what about mirrors? How is it possible for a plane surface to reflect the current images in reverse? Is there actually a parallel universe behind it? These questions may have answers or they may not but it's because we never think about them. Why is it that we look in a mirror and we see ourselves as a copy or clone? Why is it that smoke can be seen but not touched? We await for the answer, don't know how long it's going to be analyzed and solved properly but the least we can do is wait.


Smoke is like a ghost trying to see its self once again before it becomes nothing; but it depends on the reflection it desires. Either from a mirror or water, but it will only get one result... none.



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Mokrie Dela

Very expositional. Too much telling and not enough showing. I liked the parallel dimensions stuff though and the ghost part







Dreams so deep they hurt.

Dreams so real they're a curse.

Dreams of home,

Of night and day.

I spend my life,

Dreaming my days away.



Sleep's so hard to achieve.

Every night I beg and plea.

Plea for sleep,

Of peace and rest.

I spend my nights,

Feeling so restless.



Escape into the realm of dreams.

Where nothing is quite as it seems.

I run away,

So afraid,

But in those dreams,

I finally feel safe.


Every night, I toss and turn and fight.

I chase my slumber, my mind over-encumbered,

And in a cruel twist of fate,

I fall asleep, a moment too late,

As dawn birds sing their melodic numbers.



Dreams of me and dreams of you.

Dreams so surreal and yet so true.

Dreams of tomorrow,

And of yesterday.

I dream you'll return,

And take the pain away.



New theme: forgotten

Edited by Mokrie Dela

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


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Mokrie Dela

Jeez how did I forget that??


New theme: forgotten


Seems appropriate haha

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.


Click here to view my Poetry

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Hold on to a prayer

Safely glaring upon open water

I'll wait out here...

Sifting under the moon and starlight.

My stomach's decay is that of evidence bags, but still they wait paralyzed under each gale.

A lonely, empty sky.


The storms inch closer, I'm not growing older; I fear I'm with peace and my story's now over.

I can taste death in the back of my throat. My story lives on, but my spine grows numb.


Lifeless and cold

Remove all sound.

Shore and one stone, I'm floating alone. God, are you there, waiting?


Changing shape as shimmering light grips a hold of my soul

Still floating alone, now the tides bite below.

A blackened sense of reality envelopes as I claw through miles of salt.

I touch ground. The story's now over... I'm where I belong.


I see a vision of a liquid sky; in fact, it's all I've ever seen or believed.

I can taste death in the back of my throat. My story lives on, but my spine grows numb.




I don't know what the fffffff*ck I'm doing.


Next theme: Drug abuse by curious elderly people.

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Old Grant the original O.G


The Theme Tune



Another day, another dolla was how the saying went although right now it wasn't another day. It was Four thirty in the afternoon and Grant had just woken up. A red stain crusted his flanel shirt. At one point it would've been blood but right now it was Pilchard sauce from his fish butty lunch.


The orderly Sarah was leaning over him. Her buxsome chest hung low, inches from his crippled legs. In his younger days he wouldv'e got an erection but his cock now lay silent. A limp spotted sausage in a sea of wrinkles. Unawakened from its slumber. She was saying something as her mouth kept on moving up and down but he couldn't hear. All he could hear was a high pitched ringing. It took him a moment for him to realise where the ringing came from. He hadn't tuned his hearing aid. With a sigh he set it in to the T position.


"Ehhhh. What you want bish?!"

Grant tried to sound tough and menacing but his question came out in a warble. The sound echoing inside his jowels.

"I want some of dat bare product you got baby"

Sarah gave a wink and put her hand on his thigh.

Grant urged his penis to move but it didn't.

"Bare product?. Be more specific bish. I'm a busy man, I got things to do."

Grant was not outright lying but he was certainly exaggerating. The things he had to do was watch a re run of Countdown then go off for a sponge bath. He also planned on devoting half an hour or so to eating a murray mint.

"I want some of that coke you got baby. Just a G, get me through the day ya know."

Sarah ran her tounge across her lips and her hand creeped towards Grants crotch.

Grants pendulous gonads shrunk inside the leathered sac and he could swear that for but a moment he felt a hot flush run through his meat snake. It left just as quickly though.

"Yeh I can sort you a G bish. Fraid my cock aint workin so your gonna have to pay me the other way. Cash."

"I aint got cash though baby. I'm paid mininum wage, I aint got enough to splash out on sniff... You sure I can't give you a quick hand shandy and we call it quits?"

"Well as much as I'd love a slag like you to tug on my organic pollen hose it just aint gonna work. It'd be like trying to peel the skin off an un ripe satsuma. It aint happenin"

Sarah frowned.

"Well don't say I didn't try"

She then pulled two crisp twenty pound notes out of her cleavage and passed them to Grant. Grant folded them quickly. His liver spotted hands knew this dance well and in return a small wrap was passed back to Sarah. She dabbed her little finger into the crisp white powder, rubbed the dab into her gums, grinned and walked off.


A smirk crossed Grants face. He felt good. Part of this good feeling came from the fact that he was eighty four years old and still hustlin. The other half of his euphoria came from the fact that he'd just sh*t himself and that Sarah, no doubt rushing off the coke would have to clean it up.


It felt good to be King.



Theme - Disgust

Edited by orbitalraindrops
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