# 7/7/7 | My Life as a Dead Body



## valeca

My Life as a Dead Body- You've just been killed. Most would say this is the end of your life, sure, but what next? In no more than 500 words, tell us about your life within the confines of the chalk outline.

Deadline for all submissions is Friday, July 20th, 2007. And as always, everyone is welcome to participate. (Note: Judges may participate, but their entries will not be scored.)  Please post entries in this thread only.

Good luck, writers!

Your judges for this round:
Hawke
Chris Miller
Eggo

Thank you to speakerphone2 for the topic of this LM Challenge.


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## Shawn

[ot]This was a strange one. [/ot]

*Life (Or Death) as I See it from Under a Piano
*
Wow... so this is what it's like to be dead: smelly linens and a piano.

What happened? Where did I go wrong? I was snacking on my hoagie, when that damned piano came down on me.

Choking on a hoagie is not the way to die.

What? What is this? Is this blood? God... I've been stabbed! I've been stabbed!

Geesh, I'm getting an erection. This is terrible. Think of something, man.... "Two priests, a rabbi, and a hot blond walk into a..." No, no... This isn't working.

I'm being moved! Christ, this is horrid. I'm being thrown in a van.

"Barton and Bros. Crematorium"

Oh, lord.

This is the end... wait... already is, isn't it?


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## Krim

"There is a certain finesse to being dead, and not everyone can pull it off. And when the time comes, _vis-à-vis_ with the prince of peace, you are supposed to roll a cigarillo(even if your hands are of ectoplasm) and ask when you are supposed to wield your flaming sword. If the time is sooner than you think and you must terminate your courtship of that will-o'-the-wisp beauty with the pearl skin and milky locks, to choke in surprise and collapse is generally regarded as one of the major ways to dishonor a host.

This the manner of the gentleman. The Path of Eight Folds to Dissuade The Wrinkling of an Undershirt. The Way of Social En-heighten-ment. In the Tao Te Ching it is said, manage a great nation as you would cook a delicate cat; and so you must handle gentlemanism the way you would cook a delicate kitten, though a gentleman does not eat undeveloped and barbaric meats.

The Tao Te Ching also makes claim:

'The sage does not distinguish between himself and the world;
The needs of other people are as his own.'

Gentlemen are like mother robins or blue-chested jays; they chew complexities into a fine porridge and perserve the flavor as best they can for their chicks. In this they are worldly, and so of the highest standing.

The messiness of death is irrelevant to presentation as long as you pass on the finesse; it is an example to the youth. If the gentleman is stabbed in the chest, the crimson should become sanguine; and if you are nimble with a handkerchief you may dab the blood to form a scarlet carnation on your breast. If the blade shatters the lenses of your breast-pocket spectacles, the trained gentleman can assemble the fragments of glass into a beautiful swan miniature; the Chinese are certainly fond of such things. Properly applied, blood can form an excellent(if temporary) coat of paint. 

It is the highest manner of praise, while dying, to hand the sanguine glass swan to a woman of your choosing. 

In ways dying is not unlike the way of the samurai so beloved of the Chinese. I am aware that upon the loss of a master, the failed samurai(known as a 'robin') is no longer allowed to wear his forearm hanging from the lower region of his formal jacket. So too is it imperative that a dishonored gentleman must cast his monocle into the sea, where only the most clever and gentleman-y of fish may assemble a sanguine glass swan; and so too must he always loosen the uppermost button of his formal jacket.

If you have failed in manners, this is necessary to a preserve your essence into the next life, or you become a zombie."

*- On Death, Speech, pg. 1213: "The Encyclopedia Of Failed Attempts To Convert Chinese Barbarians To Gentlemanism In The Year Of Our Lord 2008: From On to Op"*




*[an]Gentlemen overuse semi-colons. It's in the handbook.[/an]*


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## RoundEye

*The Harsh Reality of Death*

As I open my eyes to awaken, I think to myself “_holy crap, what in the fuck was that?_”. There’s a weird haze around me as I try to see what is going on in this sudden state of confusion. My eyes can’t seem to focus properly but as things begin to sharpen, I can see the outline of the letters “FORD” come into view through the smoke. Then I begin to notice the teeth mixed among the bits of broken glass and plastic. The shock of that causes me to jump to my feet and that’s when I notice that the haze was caused by a broken radiator. The gushing green water is running down and boiling on the red-hot exhaust of my motorbike. “_oh man, something is wrong here in a really bad way, if that’s my bike then how am I standing?_, the thoughts were hard to fathom, and even more then I wanted to believe. That’s when the surreality of the event hits me “_you stupid piece of shit, you just came around that turn too fast and face- planted your dumb ass into a god damn car!_”.

It was then that I realized I was dead, pissed off, but dead none the less. So here it is, death. The thing that we spend our whole lives trying our best to avoid, and now I get to experience it in all its glory. Well let’s take stock of it all. I can see, but I can’t smell the stench of the boiling fluid. I can stand but I can’t feel any pain. It’s odd but not too bad.

That’s when I begin to walk around and try to take in what all just happened. There’s the steam, the mix of broken glass and teeth lying amongst the blood and skid marks, then I see myself. At least I think what used to be me. OK, now it’s bad, but I can’t make myself not look. I’ve got that same morbid feeling as when I was alive. You know, that sick curiosity that makes us look at a bad car wreck as we drive by. We hope for the best for our fellow mankind, and yet we have that primal desire to see blood at the same time. Plus, this is me we’re talking about here, I’ve just got to know what the hell happen.

Upon closer inspection my worse fears are confirmed, it’s me all right. Except I am ruined, as in no more good to anybody, just a hunk of twisted and torn flesh with broken bones protruding through my skin. Standing there and looking at myself all crumpled up into the front of the car, I noticed I must not be dead yet, at least not by the medical definition of it. Through a large gash in what was my neck at one time, I notice the weak pulsations of my heart pumping out the remaining little bit of my blood, and then, it stops.


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## Voodoo

*A Smiling Goner.*

[an]My first attempt at LM, didn't know if this can even be accepted. I wrote this in a "good mood" so really, I can't be blamed. Hope it isn't too declasse.[/an]



I'm a cold gray, haggard
hagging and huffing to nothing,
snorted my chemicals, sniffed me light
cut that edge, sliced that white.

Dazzled at my artificial rain bow, a myriad
of dying lights flash like nothing,
a muzzle flash or paper in a dump
or the very tip of my cigarello,
laced with all kinds of kindness
smack and crack were yesterday.

Stop that shit, I'll never say
but once past death, 
my saying changed-
Wash your eyes.

My money packed in classic
plastic met my dough marked with
joe, filled my nose to heaven's lowest dose
Over none, a bridge of gold
A royce to the stars, a cramp of oath.

Tidal surges calm in time, pain
and redness waste my dime,

Every time I ask of god a pinpoint
of wisdom rhymed,
I kill my inner child's mind with
toxic snow, shadowed blind

Such a noble ivory vice,
a proven method of deathing mice
mauling around behind your eyes
it's no gambit, eight ball dice
strike like mountain ranges flown
across it's spidered edges, sharp to 
pierced wood, light to cover the night
with energized rant, religion smelled
and smelled like a rosy goddess.

A fiery sensation to moot your thoughts,
mute your image wrought 
of roughness to kill, to capture
everything from sun to plundered

Like no other scent it feels, ruled
with effect by no senate appeals
my friend through ashen, dusty nights
connoisseur of finer rights
like suicide that gives us pleasure
No reason vies, as to whether
it can ever be governed, nature's
silent enough as is.

One annotation, a slight wriggle
However can I die of riddle
A riddle fierce, came to tame
Ebony's no match, like the water thames
global massive, jeez its passive
as if pigs could fly, disco acid
not even close,
my sorrow's engagement knows no fashion

Why cry then smile, if other than pain
I've found a way to remember the lame, the
meek and torrid, of any race
men trodden rebel their graceless empire,
this world's smoking a holy fire.

Had blood living outside my skin
sons to kiss, daughters to adore
wife to support, sad to say the 
police report, covered in ink with 
my name in bold, 
said by time I'd grown cold 
that my cause to pass
was forged by the dead. 

I cry black, a funeral sighted
by my camel's stretching lashes, 
whipping and choking, 
opening my lungs for
their final, unheard scream when I know
my sadly loving lover's passed
on to another, I've willed myself
alone and bottled.

A cure too far, taken from its context
mother, I say sorry as only I can
I'm gone forever, 
forced a man. 

Seduced by the weaker of my sins
I pass along my diligence
to the next unwilling soul singing
their respective death, 
may their virtue pass the test.


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## Triquediqual

*Death After Life

*Beyond the valley, we witnessed an extraordinary accident, one of which would have been avoided had I listened to my parents.On the rocky platform, the pathologists bended down with subtlety and with the utmost of care and precision, they carried my body onto what seems to be a stretcher. I'm thrown into a corpse filled automobile avoided by the investigators due to the severity of the injuries. They made gestures suggesting a foul smell present. Of all the corpses, I had the best view overlooking the entire vastness and sunset filled landscape of the valley. The red and orange hues of the sunset matched my face in view, however this view was unmatched to the valley overhangs.

We all arrived at the morgue, black suits in fashion. The true reality of the situation now embraced our lonely spirits. We witnessed the downfall of our families, friends, and distant cousins crying and consoling one another, they look at me filled from the crown to the toe top full of sorrowful tears. I wanted to feel strength, strong enough to move my body and show signs of life. I decided to retire my spirit into my state of peace while the pathologists tore my remaining flesh, I wanted to say "Ouch, that's sore, please stop!", but I felt no pain. My parents arrived several hours later and it was like they were enjoying shopping. They had to pick my casket, it was mahogany with gold embroidered lace.

They locked me in the casket, those cruel bastards! Finally, I witnessed the natural light once more for my funeral when they re-opened the casket. They actually adored me with kind words, gestures and tears of joy. To my utter shock and distaste, I discovered that I was getting cremated! After the church ceremony, the casket moved at the slowest, most irritable pace backwards. I tried to escape the casket but to no avail. My personal hell awaited me......inside a church!!! I arrived in the crucible inside the furnace. Remarkably, everything looked calm and peaceful, that was until they turned on the blast furnace!  Flames engulfed my presence and shattered the mere existence my body once had. 

Seven weeks endured until the end was in sight for my parents. Off the coast of Australia, beside the Great Barrier Reef my parents stood still on a hilltop. They looked inside one last time at me, then scattered my presence around the bay. Finally, my presence blew carelessly across the reef with my particles touching life: turtles, fish and plants. In a sudden instance of brilliance, I endured the magnificence of death. I felt myself arriving at a better place, a place which welcomes all spirits and souls. While my parents masked in the pleasure of the paradise of life itself, I was welcomed into the eternal paradise of continued life and existence known as Heaven.


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## Loulou

*Rainy Day Coffin - 496 words*


I don’t know why they cry.

Yvette’s put weight on. Her middle looks like a black rubber ring. Bereavement isn’t agreeing with her. Allan’s being as patient as one can be with a wife who’s seen better days. 

Millie, who led the procession down the aisle, is organising the mourners into a row along the graves edge, which if I didn’t know any better goes in order of obesity. She was my friend for thirty years and I never had the pleasure of telling her she’s a malingering bitch.

I never swore when I was alive, you know - but then I was a catholic. I’m an atheist now. 

“The flowers look like a beautiful rainbow,” says Angel my youngest great granddaughter, the wind lifting her hair gently from her shoulder. Her cheeks are as pink as the roses on my shitty coffin.

Funny, neither of my children bothered with flowers on my birthday but today the grave looks like a fucking Chelsea Flower Show reject. Henry rang the florist a week ago and asked for something tasteful but cheap. They used my phone. Yvette was in my living room counting how many gold rings were worth selling. 

If only they could see me. Apart from the laugh I’d get out of seeing Yvette pass out it would be fun to be younger than my own son. I’m 30 again. I have tits that would stop a clock. I was 82 when my heart gave out. Allan’s would give out now if he saw my weightless arse.

It’s August. They’re all sweating. Yvette’s make up is running in rivulets down her cleavage. I’m not hot. I’m cool. I’m smiling. At least I think I am. It’s hard to tell with air light muscles and feather smooth skin.

“Remember that poem,” says Allan to a sobbing Yvette.
“What poem?”
“You know….how does it go? Do not stand at my grave and weep…. I am not here, I do not sleep…..”
Yvette makes a sound into her fist that sounds like a belch.
“She’s not here, love,” whispers Allan. “She’s not here.”
Bollocks to that. I’m right behind you.

The coffin was cheap. Yvette and Henry ransacked my Rainy Day jar to pay for it. I saw them two days after I died on the kitchen floor. I’d been putting spare housekeeping money away to buy a new fridge. 

Death is the truth you see. The truth.

Yvette is selfish. Allan is dying of cancer but doesn’t want to trouble her about it because he knows how much whisky she’ll drink. Millie is deceitful. Henry is spineless. And my little granddaughter Angel is as sweet and honest as a corpse. I loved them so in life, put up with their lies and their endless complaining. How much less I would have suffered if I’d told them what I thought. 

The truth does indeed set you free. It’s a shame we have to wait for death to realise it.


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## Rob

*My Life As A Dead Body*

Oh God! My mother is here!


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## Frabes

*Postmortem Musings*

This is not what my funeral is supposed to be like. Whenever I’d been morbid enough to imagine it, I’d think of countless beautiful women weeping while a video documenting my various adventures flashed across a giant television. I’d imagine someone with an amazing voice (read: James Earl Jones) reading unfinished poetry I’d written. I’d imagine a ceremony befitting a man of my seemingly unlimited potential.

What I have instead is a room full of distant family members checking their watches, looking outside to see if the rain is going to stop before they have to see me lowered into the cold earth. To be fair, I should have expected this; I’d been to a fair amount of funerals, after all. But no matter how many pointless ceremonies you go to, you never really believe you’ll be the reason for one. 

The priest, a man I’ve never met, says things about me he wouldn’t know, even if they were true. It’s not really his fault, though. For my own part, I’d never believed in God, never subscribed to any religion. They say there are no atheists in the trenches, but when I stared my own death in the face (in the form of an on-coming truck, as it were) I felt no urge to repent or offer a prayer to an invisible deity. All I felt was a horrible sickness, as though all of my unfulfilled dreams were manifesting themselves as knots in my stomach. “If death isn’t a relief,” I remember thinking, “then what is?”

When you die, there’s supposed to be some finality.  Your questions are supposed to be answered. Questions like “Is there a God?” and “What was the meaning of it all?” There’s supposed to be a white light leading to the open arms of your long-lost family members and friends. But in reality it wasn’t like that at all. There was no light, no answered questions, no family members. Just darkness, then the same world again but distant—like I was looking at it through the eyes of an insomniac. Just as invisible in death as I was in life, doomed to walk the earth alone for eternity,

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this isn’t all there is. Maybe the Catholics were right (in which case I’m eternally fucked anyway) and I’m in purgatory. Maybe my answers are coming.

Somehow, though, I doubt it. Life without connection, conscious unconsciousness, unanswered questions, existence without hope; these things, though I don't want to admit it to myself, sound like something I thought didn’t exist.
_[FONT=&quot]
Maybe I'm in hell.

[/FONT]_[422 words]_[FONT=&quot]
[/FONT]_


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## eggo

[ot] 
I know, I know I'm judging, but couldn't resist. For fun only of course
[/ot]

"Plan Ahead to Be Dead"- word count be damned!

http://writingforums.com/showthread.php?p=934218#post934218


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## seawings

*It Could Happen (400 Words)*

The car had come from nowhere. The screeching tires followed by the impact, then the slow motion spinning, the groaning twisting metal, shattering glass and the pain…and ohhh yes the pain!!! 

In a lightning fast flash it was over.

“Damn…life is hell” was my last thought.

Slowly the fog lifted in my mind and the bright light softened. Where am I? Am I still in the car? Am I in a hospital? 

Or…worse yet…am I dead? 

As consciousness returned I noted the deceptively normal surroundings. Where am I? It looked like a golf shop…people pawing through the clubs, testing new putters on the indoor putting green, discussing the pros and cons of golf balls and paying up for a round of golf. 

Wow…what is this? Where am I? 

While these images whirled in my mind and I sought to make some sense of what was happening a nattily dressed golf pro…well he looked like a golf pro, looking to be in his late fifties, walked up and asked…”Can I help you”?

“No” I said…”actually yes…where am I? How did I get here”?

Smiling deceptively the golf pro said…”Welcome to hell, I am Lucifer…the devil himself”.

“Hell you say!” I said with increasing dread and panic creeping into my voice.

“The one and only…but don’t look so glum, it’s not really all that bad” said the devil. “I know how much you like golf…play a round and then let me know what you think”.

Incredulously I was led to an awaiting cart, loaded with all the best clubs, my favorite golf balls lined up in the rack and ready to be tee’d up. At the first tee the reality of the situation began to sink in. Teeing up I noticed the club didn’t quite feel right, the dimples on the ball seemed oddly shaped and my grip and stance felt uncomfortable.

What is this I thought?

Wiggling and waggling I finally drew the club back and the results were horrible. The slice that had plagued me forever was worse than ever, my distance (never good in any game) was shorter than normal and finally the hole was full of water hazards and sand traps…and yes I was in one of the biggest sand traps he had ever seen!

"Damn" I said, forgetting I was dead…"Life is HELL"

Standing off the tee, the devil smilingly said….”And HELL is life…really!”


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## speakerphone2

[ot]I never thought the commonest way to die would be a car accident. I don't think I'm ever going in a car again, lest I become on of these people!

Oh, & by the way... would I be permitted to submit?[/ot]


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## apple

I’m dead and Mike is holding the gun.  I don’t know why I’m able to witness the aftermath of my own murder.  It’s not right.  It’s eerie.  I’m lying on the floor, half propped against the bedroom wall  in my red dress with the plunging neckline and the silver beading.  Wow, I love that dress. It makes my waist look so tiny and my boobs look huge.  My diamond earrings are really catching the light right now, and they actually sparkle against my hair.  It’s just all that blood spattered against the wall that I hate, and my hair is gooey on one side, and my legs are splayed all stupid looking.  Oh my God, my tongue! It's hanging out of my mouth and my eyes are wide open!  I swear, Mike better not leave me like that for all those detectives and forensic people to see.  If he does, I’ll just die.

This is so creepy.  I don’t feel a thing.  It’s like I’m absolutely alive, but I’m not.  I mean, I’m standing right here, but there I am, dead on the floor.  Murdered.  Looking ugly, but well-dressed.  Mike is pacing in circles and if the word "shit" was a prayer, he’s really praying hard right now.  Oh Geez, he’s vomiting.  He’s barely missing my new Prada pumps.  It would serve him right, though, if some of it splashes on my body and his DNA, based on stomach content, was discovered during my autopsy. Do we  still have capital punishment in California?  I hope so.  Bastard!  If I could just reposition my poor lifeless foot into that vomit, I would.

He didn’t have to kill me. All Mike had to do was present a first-class bargaining point. Money. I knew all about her. His little “Miss Rock My World.”  He can have her.  I don’t care.  Tit for tat.  I just want to enjoy the benefits of all his money….WANTED to enjoy the benefits, I mean.

I ‘m really, really, dead.  Shot in the head, just hanging around watching Mike sweat and swear.  And me, Leonora Collette Smick, once the prettiest little girl in school, is now being dragged by my foot, through vomitous DNA, and rolled into a pink blanket, probably to be buried out in some dark woods where wild animals will dig me up and chew my bones, and worms will….Oh Shit! No!  I’m not going to hover around watching THAT spectacle unfold.  If I can’t shop , then I don’t want to be here anymore. 

I’m getting scared now.  They say there"s a beautiful white light that people are supposed to walk into when they die?  I can’t see it. And  where are the dead people that are supposed to meet me and escort me in?   I can’t see them, either.

      " Ma!  Grandpa!  Auntie Ruth?  Come on out.  I’m ready.  Somebody?"

Hurry, before Mike buries me, and the worms and coyotes come….and he kisses Miss Rock My World, right in front of me.


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## Br0kenS0cial

*Blackness.*


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## vangoghsear

[ot]Here's my first attempt.  Hope I didn't screw it up too much.[/ot]I felt my arm go warm as the saline drip was started and the three chemicals were injected.  My toes and fingertips began to tingle and the warmth turned cold and stiff. Hell, if that was all there was to dying, bring it on.   The muscles in my legs jerked a little then the stabs and tingles began there as well.  Suddenly, I felt another warmth spread down my thighs.  

Through the window between the death chamber and the gallery, I saw the girl’s mother.  Red hair, just like her little nine-year-old daughter.  Mmm.  I wonder if mother was as good as daughter?  Her eyes stared at the wet stain on my pants and she gripped her husband’s arm as if to say, “Ha, we made him piss himself.”  

Big f_ _ _ing deal.  ‘They all do,’ just ask the goddamned guard.

My chest tightened and my lips felt numb.  I worked my tongue against the inside of my mouth and hissed, “There were five . . . ”

The warden leaned over me.  “Five what?”

“Other girls,” I hissed out my last words on this earth.  I hoped my eyes conveyed my satisfaction at knowing they hadn’t beaten me.  I’m taking the whereabouts of their five little bodies and the details of my crimes to my death.  He had to see the satisfaction in my . . . my eyes were not filled with satisfaction anymore, but with a terrible realization: I shouldn’t be aware of any of this!

“You figured it out, didn’t you Leonard?”  The warden leaned forward and whispered, ‘”We altered your drugs.  It was Mrs. Warren’s idea.  You remember Mrs. Warren, the pretty lady over yonder with the red hair.  At least, I’m sure you _knew _her little girl.”

My eyes sought out the red-haired woman in the window.  Her eyes burned right back at me, right through me.  My mind lurched as a stab of pain flashed in my feet.  My muscles were frozen in place.  My body didn’t budge.

“She read about a court case in O-hi-o,” the warden said.  “Seems these two death row inmates are claiming that O-hi-o’s method of execution is cruel and inhuman punishment.”

Damn!  My mind screamed in agony, my body unable to respond, except to feel the pain as my legs died and the death ate its way up through my groin, into my chest.

“See they use this here drug . . . ” he turned away and grabbed a vile and read the label, “Pan . . . pancur . . . pancuronium Bromide.  Huh, hell of a name.”

Arrgh! Ahh!  Goddamn!  A fiery sword stabbed slowly into my heart!

“See, it’s a paralyzing drug, but when combined with a certain quick acting anesthetic, it don’t work quite right . . . ”

My lungs kicked once gasping for air.  Then the 'sword' twisted again.

“The combination of drugs causes a kind of chemical block against the signs of pain, but not the pain. Vets won’t even use those chemicals to kill animals.  They say it’s like living through your own tortured death then dying anyway.”

I looked at the warden, defiance and hatred in my eyes.  I still won.  I alone know about the five other dead girls.

“On your way to hell you might think about this.  Your cell mate told us about the other five girls, in detail, in exchange for a lighter sentence.  We already found their bodies.  Seems you talk in your sleep.”

Goddamned.


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## MiloDaePesdan

*G'Knight, Mate! (500 words)*
Milo Devans​


I, Septimus Rath, a Knight of the Realm, lay charred in a field blackened by fire. The dragon that killed me has flown away with the damsel, a serpentine coil growing distant in a cloudless sky. How I can still see is a miracle; how I'm alive, an inconvenience. For every nerve below my neck is numb--to feel pain is a pleasure worth more to me than the armor blessed for this quest.

	Where had I failed? No, I ask the wrong question. When did I realize the damsel-in-distress was a succubus-in-disguise but happily ignored the warning signs--such as the hint of lilac perfume, the glimpse of horns under her reddish curls, the crafty gleam behind eyes of violet?

	Too soon, and too late. My knighthood will never rise again.

	I'm dying.

So. This is how I'll meet my end. Burnt of dignity on scorched earth, the nearest village priest leagues away to save my soul before I rot down to my bones unto the earth--

	I hear footsteps. Voices pitched in casual conversation. Stopped.

	Here I summoned all my faculties to speak in the hopes of fellow companions--and despaired in the thought of wicked folk.

I croak. 

"Hark, who goes there? Who dares tread softly on a man at the edge of death?"

Shadows block my patch of sky. Faces. Six faces of an Oriental cast, four women in the peculiar cut of kimonos, two men in the bamboo armor of the Rising Sun's warriors.

Samurai. Bushido code. Seppuku. Katanas sharp and sinuous, of rare metals touched by foreign suns. Kindred souls.

I'm saved--my salvation at hand! Oh, to end this misery--

	A woman snorted. "He don't look much, does 'e?"

	"Meat," hissed a smaller woman. Her deadpan expression contrasted with her words. "Crab. No, lobster. Yum!"

	Another woman covered her nose. "Ewww, like, that's sooo gross, Setsuna!"

	Setsuna eyed her sidelong. "Mistake. He smells like barbecue pig. Yummy pig."

	The fourth woman glared. "Ann, Setsuna, Mine--shut up."

	Ann wrinkled her nose. "He 'ent roses, Peach, that's f'sure."

	Mine grimaced. "Like, can we get this over with already? Let's, like, loot and get going before we get driven off."

	Setsuna sighed. "Hai. He is pig, though. Look at level."

	To my horror they peeled off my armor--my blessed armor!--and searched my item pouch. All the treasures and medals I collected in a lifetime...

	Gone! In the kimono folds of four women!

	I raged in a wild paroxysm. "How dare you! Desist, I say! Unhand my possessions at once!"

	In desperation I turn to the impassive samurai. "Why haven't both of you stopped them?! Do something!"

	"They're hired hands," said Peach. "They won't respond to anything but my commands. Won't you, boys?"

	"Hu!" both warriors exclaimed.

	"In other words, Aiyaiyai," Peach continued. "AI. You know."

	I sputtered. "How dare--"

	"Seems you've been online too long, kiddo. Get off, go home."

	"But--"

	She smiled. "G'knight, mate!"

	I croaked.


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## Mortar&Pestle

*The Afterdeath*

[ot]EDIT:Great. 500 words. I missed that part. I'll see what I can do to shorten it.[/ot]
[ot]EDIT2: Damn. Can't do it. I'll have to move this to another thread, and start anew. 
[/ot]


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## Rakashazun

*Tuesday's Bottle*​ “_Can I get a drink?”_  No one is here_._  I cried to myself.  Without the rush beneath my cheeks, but sudden like a rainstorm.  The stone cliff remained a ghost image as intense warmth disappeared from my legs up my knees in waves.  The feeling of miniatureness disturbed my last seconds of thought, before the water soaked through my bloody eyes and sight left me; warmth disappeared all over my face.   ​ _
Why did I get up?!  _A sudden dread crept in and I tensed without command and water escaped my ear chasms.   _I remembered falling!_

“_Try it on.”  _I slipped it over my bowl cut.  “_Thanks!  I wanted a Starter jacket so bad!”_  We hugged when I had it on and his brown gray beard scratched my temple.  Smoke dissipates from the candles.  _I like my birthday!  _The wall is painted crimson with tan wallpaper splitting the middle horizontally and we are sitting at our table.  I fiddle a yellow and black basketball on my knee and I have such a big smile.  The sting of my heart disappears.   
 _
“Has it stopped?”  I asked myself and thought yes._

Absence surrounded me.  Time stood shaped as a man in the void horizon.  Before the background unanimated, starlight fading from the Earth, before the moon and this sphere spun in accord, he presides before all.  I see time sitting on the iron stained banks, absolutely dissolved between sleep and day walking in  proximity to the moon and the Earth within him.  No fear grew inside me and I forgot the scene.

Weeds grew in the sandbox because of the sunlight.  I build bucket buildings and volcanoes anyway.  We swing together, Quentin and I, not after lunch, but when its warm.  Danielle comes over.  I get sand stickers when I walk there.   
 _
I felt the whimper of crying because I knew my memories this will make everyone sad because I'm dead.  Whenever they find out they'll sit together and let it out, they'll do it together loudly because I was young.”

I have to go to the bathroom._  No one responded in the classroom.  I forgot my manners and went without permission.  Later my cactus died in the window.  Mrs. Miller reused the pot and I had nothing to water.  We played outdoors during the week before winter and boys threw football and played smear the queer beneath the courtyard trees.

The warmth retreated, each thought became childlike, long strung, slow and dreamlike.  The forest up north enchanted my arrival._  My father and I fish the river.__  Beyond camp, away from firelight, I see myself motionless standing under a crescent moon.  _


----------



## Tellervo

*Stuck*

They say any day you don't wake up dead is a good day. Today was not a good day.

Granted it's interesting to wake up dead, but an elevator is hardly the nicest place to wake up, alive, dead, or undead, because it usually means something extremely uncomfortable happened before you fell asleep.

Me? My wife appeared in my office and announced she was pregnant by some random librarian, she was leaving, and she never wanted to see me again - after we shared a cup of absolutely delicious coffee and my boss' receptionist congratulated us on our sixth anniversary, which was last week. So much for wedding vows.

It's amazing how cynical one gets after dying. I never thought about it before. Who goes around wondering what dead people think about?

Anyway, she vamoosed and I went after her. Not sure what I would have done if I caught her, but her elevator left just as I got there, so I jumped in the next one. Which, of course, got stuck somewhere slightly below the fourteenth floor. Talk about subtlty!

And then I died, I guess. I wonder if there was something in the coffee. Figures. I finally get Jaime to make a decent cup of coffee and it kills me.

I want some coffee. Someone should invent a coffee machine for elevators, so ghosts who have the misfortune to be stuck in them have something to drink.

I sound like a whiney kid? Well, you try spending several hours in a tiny excuse for a room with your own dead body, and we'll see how cheerful you are!


----------



## Charlie_Eleanor

Holding Hands
By: Charlie Eleanor

You haven’t noticed yet.  The room has been silent for the last hour; the constant beep-beep from the machine beside me has subsided.  A window was left slightly open by the night nurse, and a cool breeze is teasing your auburn hair.  Beneath your eyelids there is movement, a dream.

Perhaps you are thinking of me before; when we used to go on long walks through central park attempting futilely to hold hands.  It didn’t matter that the age old practice of two extremities grasping one another was one of the most uncomfortable positions a body could experience.  It didn’t matter because we always wanted to touch one another, to know the other one was near by.  

It has been so long since I felt your touch, but I am grateful for this present gift.  I am grateful that the machines have malfunctioned and not alerted the nurse.  You deserve to rest.  I am grateful to see the face that I have only been able to dream about for the past five years.

Do you know that I have been dreaming of you?  I was always replaying some happy memory in my mind and trying to smile.  If I could have just made my body smile you would have known everything would be okay.  Your smile always comforted me.  

You were smiling and laughing when it happened.  The baby had just started kicking, remember?  You were so excited to get home so I could lie on your belly and feel him moving around.  It was your eyes that changed first when you saw the truck barreling towards us, going south on the north bound side of I-45.  I never got to feel him kick, but I will see him soon.

It is time for me to go now.  When you wake up everything will change.  You will be free; no stale cafateria pizza, no more Styrofoam coffee cups, no more tears of failed hope.  I hope you move on, experience life. 

But, please remember somewhere in the recesses of your mind that I never stopped loving you.  I can’t wait to hold your hand again.  Perhaps God has figured out the logistics and it won’t be so uncomfortable in heaven.


----------



## valeca

[ot]





> Oh, & by the way... would I be permitted to submit?


Sure, go for it, speakerphone2.  It's open to everyone.[/ot]


----------



## ebmadman

*Memory Lane*

The frigid night air stiffens Thomas as he stands near the playground on the hillside, overlooking the bright lights of the city.

“This place brings back memories,” he thinks as he stares at the swings swaying in the wind. “She always loved it here. I hope she gets here soon. She’s always late.” He turns and heads toward the baby elephant ride, worn and rusted from use and time.

“Silly little thing,” he thinks as he kicks it, causing it to rock back and forth. They’d take turns riding it, imitating the imagined sounds of a wild elephant stampeding through the wilderness. “That’s why I loved her so much, her wild imagination, so much like my own. No matter how silly or rude I’d get, she’d just join in and play along. Man, those were the days.”

The wind rustles fallen leaves from a nearby tree, gaining his attention. A smile forms across his face as he walks toward the weathered oak, memories flooding back.

“This was her favorite spot,” he thinks to himself as he kneels down and runs his fingers across the browned grass, staring at the spot. “I gave her so much grief about our raggedy gray blanket. Everybody else had a normal, red and white picnic throw down, but nooo…we had to sit on that old thing.” He shakes his head, smiling. “Sandwiches were good though.” 

Suddenly, his attention diverts to the bright lights of an oncoming car as it parks near the safety rails along the sloping hillside. Two older people exit the car and walk toward the railing. They stop and stare at the city below.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” the old woman whispers, her breath made visible by the frigid night air.

“No problem. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it last time…”

“Don’t worry about that. This is my silly little ritual.” She laughs as she places her hand around the older gentleman, hugging him slightly.

“I don’t expect you to carry on the burden of worrying. That’s a mother’s job. You’ve got your own life to live.”

“Mom…Tommy was always different, y’know? Always sad about one thing or another. There’s nothing you could have done.”

She kneels down and places a single rose on the ground.

“A mother should know,” she utters, her eyes beginning to water, familiar feelings of guilt and sorrow cascading her. “A mother should know her child’s so unhappy.”

Her son kneels next to her, placing his arm around her in solace.

“Mom, Tommy chose to come here and end it all, not you. You can’t keep torturing yourself like this. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I…I don’t know how to feel any other way,” she utters through trembling lips as she falls into his arms, weeping.

Thomas looks on at the two, oblivious to who they are. He turns his attention back to the worn piece of earth in front of him and his fond memories.

“I hope she gets here soon. She’s always late.”


----------



## Mortar&Pestle

*Dream*​ 
Jesse looked at his bare feet. He could see the waves of heat coming off the gravel covered roof. He wondered why his feet didn't hurt. "Ahh," Jesse said as he came to realize what was going on. Looking at the cityscape to judge his height, Jesse took a running leap over the edge.

He spread his arms wide as he fell, cheeks flapping in the wind. "Kinda annoying", he thought. The flapping stopped. He rolled over to face the sky and saw his brother falling above him, but faster. When he arrived beside him, he had a big grin on his face. Arms crossed, feet straight up, Jimmy said, "You might not want to hit the ground."

"Why not?" Jesse asked. "It's my dream. I can do what I want." On the other side of him, his mom replied, "Jesse, you better come back up. You know what they say if you hit the ground." For some reason, she was in pajama robes. She had curlers in her hair, and was holding a wooden spoon. "Ok, guys. This is my dream. Leave." They did not. Aggravated, he said, "Besides. It's a myth. How do they know what someone is dreaming if he's dead before he wakes up." All three roll their eyes, but for different reasons.

The thought tickled his mind. A little worried he turned his head to see how close he was getting. The ground was still a ways off, yet seemed a bit clearer, like the sun was shining a little brighter. Jesse moved into a reclining position; hands behind his head, and feet crossed. His eyes followed his pajama strings as they fluttered in the air. Jimmy and his mom inquired on when dad would show up. Jesse tried to block their voices out since they would not leave. He saw something in the distance above him. Squinting, he sees an old friend. "Pixel?" He questioned. "Pixel!? He's been dead, sorry honey, since you were 11." 

Sprinting through the air, tongue hanging out, and tail wagging, Pixel arrived with the gang. "What in the hell..." "Language Jesse!!!" His mom interrupted. "...heck...are you doing here?" Jesse finished. Pixel licked his face and in excitement, trickled a bit of piss. Luckily it had a lower velocity, and floated away from them. Jesse felt very uncomfortable about Pixel's arrival. He was glad to see him, but had a feeling that something was wrong. 

Looking again at the ground, he saw only a bright light.

_You know what they say if you hit the ground._

Jesse closed his eyes to think upon this. Upon realization, he opened his eyes. The perspective had changed. He no longer felt the sensation of falling. He was floating, and it was towards the light.

"Oh shi...." "Language!!!!" His mother replied.


----------



## mandax

*The Afterlife - 415 Words*
_Disclaimer: This is not about me personally._

She opened her eyes, though she couldn’t tell, because it was just as dark. She started twisting, or what she thought was twisting, to try and find any sort of light. Eventually, as if an external, natural glow was aiding her, her surroundings lit up softly. Wood encased the body she could see around her. She didn’t feel like part of this body, though she was partly inside of it. She accidentally collided with the body frequently as she spun in frustration. There was very little room in the coffin. Her fervent spinning and swirling continued in the confined space until the last tear had fallen on her grave from the funeral. Then, she felt a strange, forceful pull upward, as if gravity was going in reverse. She slowly rose through the layers of pact dirt and slid out into the open, where she could see everything – her mourning family, draped in black, trudging away; her elementary school; the intersection where she was killed.


The pull turned horizontally and tugged her toward a very familiar hospital. Many other beings were there, she could tell, though they looked solemn. They seemed to stare at her, these silvery, misshapen humans, as if she didn’t belong. She ignored them and glided slowly through the walls and cold corridors. She couldn’t feel the harsh tile or smell the antiseptic and decay. All she recognized was apathy.


Finally, the pull ceased, and she was left in the delivery room she had been in about a month before her death. Suddenly, a voice echoed throughout her.


“Many souls find themselves at hospitals after death. The deceased are always sent to the place where they experienced the most grief.”


There was a pause, as if she was supposed to predict what was to be said next.


“But you’re different from the rest. You didn’t watch a loved one die or find out you had cancer – you gave birth to a baby boy. A beautiful baby boy. Many would find this to be a blessing, maybe even the best moment of their lives.”


Another pause.


“But you were horrified, disgusted, _angry_. You were not willing to give up any part of yourself for someone you had created. And that is why you’re going to hell.”


The pull resurrected and went with gravity this time. She sank under the hospital tiles, through the layers of dirt, and beyond many layers she couldn’t identify. The destination was an empty, meaningless expanse.

But she didn’t care.


----------



## Dewgee

*Interview with Satan*



“Well then Jimmie, I see that your resume indicates that you worked in marketing while on Earth.  Even worked for a few fortune 500 companies.”


Satan wasn’t nearly as frighenting as the portrayal Jim had seen on the History channel.  Standing only five feet tall, his stomach seemed to be on the verge of popping his tight plaid suit, while his balding head shimmered in the light of forty foot tall flames that surrounded his desk.  Not even a mustache. This was quite a letdown.  


“You understand that over the past hundred years we have been consuming three times as many souls as compared to heaven, still there’s always room for improvement. Your skills might be just what Lucifer Corp. needs to take it up another notch


“What do you propose?” Saying this, one of Jim’s molars shot out from his mouth and landed directly in the middle of Satan’s desk, however this apparently slipped the fallen angel’s attention. 


 “First off let me say that this job does come with a lot of perks.  We can start off by housing you in the second level, in which the most annoying of neighbors will do nothing more than occasionally steal your morning paper, or spy on you in the shower… still good demons.  It will be of course a one bedroom deluxe apartment, heating is included.  We also employ demons commuting from the lower levels to take care of your meals, as well as any maintence you may need around the apartment.  Mostly petty criminals; carjackers, robbers- but hey, no need to worry these demons need their jobs.  They won’t give you any shit.” Saying this Satan leaned across the desk, or rather, sprawled across it with his legs hanging off the edge,  to give Jim a soft punch in the arm, and just as soon plopped back into his seat.


“What is it that you want me to do exactly?” Jim brushed his shoulder wiping away grime that had been left by Satan’s friendly fist.


“Well you see Jimmie-boy it all comes down to making the sale.  You see we need somebody who knows how to talk our product up to the consumer.”


“You mean you need me to sell Hell to people?”


“Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, we’re not selling hell buddy… in fact, never use the word Hell, hell, Hell’s not what the customer wants to hear.”  Lucifer gave a chuckle.  “Instead try phrases like: Ignorance is bliss; This is what God intends. Shoot you’re a smart guy, be creative.”


 “And how exactly do I reach the consumer?” Jim was about to get up from his chair, he’d deal with the sixth layer of hell.  This was low, even for a former extortionist.


Smiling, Satan leaned back in his chair and wiped beads of sweat off his brow.


 “No need to worry, they’ll come to you.”


----------



## defenestrator

*Life's Web*  (500 words)

It’s dark here. I’m suspended in a web, a fly caught on its way to death. The threads reach out into the emptiness towards life, attaching themselves to unseen anchors. Cautiously, I move my arms towards the threads so I can free myself. My friends pass before my eyes, in various stages of shock. Most faces are streaked with tears, and I cannot help but think of everything we shared – the days of playing tag at school, sleepovers that were actually awakeovers, projects that went late into the night. teasing traded, laughter shared. For some, there were the scrapbooks of memories we made for each other, the secrets we whispered into each others’ ears, the hopes and dreams and wishes we entrusted each other with. I take each thread gently into my hands, my whisper of their name fading away as the thread is broken. I cry.

My family forms the structure of the web, holding me fast regardless of how much I struggle. I can almost feel the touch of my mother’s hands as she strokes my hair, my father warmth as he hugs me, the drip of both their tears. All I want to do is reach out to them and hug them one more time, to comfort them as they so often comforted me. With shaking hands, I take one of the threads with two hands and pull. All I can see of it is a wet blur, and I can hardly find the strength to do what instinct says I must. As the thread strains, I can feel my heart straining with it. Just when I think I cannot break it, the thread frays and snaps. I break the other thread in the same way. I cry even harder.

It is the last thread, the thickest of all. I am scared to take hold of it, because I know who anchors me with such strength at the other end. Even so, I reach for it and brush my fingers over it lightly. My partner, my dearest friend. We’d sworn to be together through it all, and yet I am here and he is there. I see him on our bed, hugging my pillow tight, burying his face in it. I long more than anything else to reach out to him, to tell him I’m fine, to tell him not to cry for too long, to tell him it’s okay to move on with his life. I call his name until I’m hoarse, I strain towards the vision, but he cannot hear me and I cannot reach him. I look down, and with horror, I see the thread beginning to fray. Even when I hold myself completely still, it continues its decay, until there is only the thinnest of fibres left. I scream his name one last time, and as the thread releases me, I see him raise his head to look around in surprise, a teary smile forming. And as I drift away, I smile too.


----------



## Trap

My first attempt at Literary Maneuvers:

------


Jim Halpin screamed as the knife tore into his stomach. 

He had been padding down the stairs in his pajamas to investigate what his daughter Abby called a “Very Suspicious Sound”, although she was five years old and pronounced it “spishus”. These Very Spishus Sounds were becoming an almost nightly event, but that didn’t bother Jim. His wife, Mary, had recently given birth to their second child, and Abby was understandably a bit annoyed by the constant attention given to her little sister. If Jim could make her feel loved and attended to by checking the house for monsters every night, then he was glad to do it.

So, as always, he had given her a kiss on the forehead and began descending the stairs as she peeked down the hallway after him. He had only made it four steps when a tall man stepped up out of the darkness and stabbed him. 

Now he was curling around the blast of pain in his belly, trying to fall forward, but the tall man almost casually shoved him up and back with such force that he landed in a sitting position at the top of the stairs. Jim couldn’t make sense of anything. There was a man in his house, in the dark, with a knife, and this couldn’t be real, but oh, the pain! The pain was real and the screams were real and – screams? 

Abby. 

Dear God, Abby was in the hallway screaming, and this intruder, this knife-wielding madman, was getting close. Jim struggled to stand. He thought about Mary, feeding the baby, sitting next to the crib in their bedroom. He thought about Abby, not ten feet away. He would _not_ let them be hurt. He had to do something.

The tall man had reached the top of the stairs, and Jim grabbed at him, trying to push him, desperately fighting to stop him. For a moment the man swayed off balance. Then there was a flash of motion, and Jim felt something explode in his head. He was flung backward, limp as a doll. 

There was a knife buried to the hilt in his right eye. 

As he fell, time began to slow, and then…stopped. With an awful rip like the sound of skin tearing, the world came to a halt. Motion, sound, and color vanished in an instant. The moment hung in high-contrast black and white. The silence was crushing.

Jim was frozen in mid-fall, his feet still on the ground, bent at an impossible angle like a grotesque Limbo dancer. He could not move, could not breathe or blink. His remaining eye was fixed skyward; it stared past the knife handle at the dark gray droplets of blood which floated in an arc above him. At the very edge of his sight, Abby stood small and terrified in the hallway. 

Jim wished very badly that he could look at her. 

Tick.

He wished very badly that he could scream.

Tock.

Eternity began.

Tick.


----------



## huitzil

*Amazing Grace*

My father told me if we played Amazing Grace at his funeral he would break the casket open jump out and strangle the singer. Amazing Grace didn’t play at his funeral, but it did at mine. Nobody knew, but I hated that damned song more than he did. At least my mother had remembered I told her I never wanted to be put in a box. So I sat near the altar in a million little pieces of ash, some of which wasn’t even me. This was a compromise. My mother got the Catholic service, and I got cremated. I flashed back to third grade when I had asked my teacher why people couldn’t get cremated and have their ashes scattered. She said something about “bodily resurrection” when I persisted she simply said, “If bits of you are floating around in the ocean how can Jesus put all the pieces back together?”
The bits of me weren’t going to get scattered in the ocean, I was going near the family plot. At least I wouldn’t be lying oozing and embalmed ready to enter the afterlife with hairspray on my head and a cotton ball up my ass. Though I still wondered, and hoped even if I did get scattered, there was someone or something that could put me back together. At that moment and altar server sneezed violently and bumped into the pedestal holding the urn. I fell and shattered and in the confusion the door flew open and blew me into the canter’s open mouth. He gagged the last part of “wretch” and instead of continuing to sing “like me” he was trying to spit and wheeze out my remains. As I heard my father laughing I thought, maybe the universe does have a bit more of a sense of humor than I imagined.


----------



## Mike

Death Travelers​​A howling wind inverted Penelope to the other side. When she came to, she found herself floating in a placenta-colored chamber. Its walls pulsed and the ceiling was domed like an egg. If there was a floor she couldn’t see it.

She checked to see if her gear was intact and in that moment she realized she had no arms. Frantic, she looked to where her body should be. It wasn’t there. Aw, fuck.

She spun around in the void. Wasn’t there supposed to be a manual or a burning bush or a goddamned angel to give you the down-low?

She focused on the pulsing wall and found herself drifting towards it. Hey, not bad. This was fun.

Closer now, she could make out small hatches in the wall – there were so many of them! Next to each was a panel with an inscription – ‘A cursed life,’ ‘An adventurous life,’ ‘A glamorous life,’ ‘A life of scandal,’ they read.

Penelope was in awe. What was this place? 

Suddenly, there was movement below her. One of the hatches was opening. She backed away.

A turquoise blur shot out at an incredible speed and then came to an abrupt stop.

“Who’s there?”

Penelope remained silent.

“Who are you?” it demanded.

“P-Penelope.”

Silence. Then, “You shouldn’t have come, Pen.”

Penelope would have shivered had she been able. “Oliver? Is that you?”

“Who else?”

“Listen, Oliver, your body is fine. We’re preserving it for you until we can get you back.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“I…I don’t know. The tracker—“

“The fucking tracker!” Oliver laughed. “You used the machine, didn’t you?”

“But we made changes! We were sure that this time—“

“We can’t go back.” The blur that was Oliver approached her. “Look about you, Pen. We’ve pushed too far in our quest for immortality. We’ve crossed to the other side. I call this place the Eternal Womb of Death.”

“You always were a bit dramatic, Oliver.”

“How long has it been since you killed me? Two months? Three?”

“Twelve years.”

“My wife?”

“Remarried. I’m sorry, Oliver.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

They were silent for some time. Then, “What are these doors for, Oliver?”

“They’re reincarnations. They’re dreams. Imagine any life you want to live and you can live it. You can hunt dragons. You can fight demons with magical swords. You can push papers and go scuba diving on the weekend. But you can’t live them forever. It’s only a brief…encounter.”

“Is this it, then? Is this death?”

“It’s only an interlude.” Oliver drifted up. “Come with me. There’s something you should see.”

They rocketed upwards. At the very top of the chamber was a larger hatch. It opened as they approached. At the end of a tube-like tunnel was a faint light.

“It’s our fate, eventually,” said Oliver.

“How classic. Should we go, then?”

He hesitated. “I…I don’t know. I’m scared. What if we can’t come back? What if—“

“What’ve you got to lose?”

“My death.”

Words: 500


----------



## Jiieden

*How Demons are Made*

Tell me not of sins committed from beyond the grave, for I was due beatification.  Due, promised, but never paid.  Instead my fate is tightly bound up within this chest of stone, altered from what I deserve by what I did not do.  Justice never was so blind, as when it meted out expulsion and submersion to my three hundred year old bones.  

Thoughts fly apart, here, sealed within a stone casket.  My mind has long since rotted away, and yet I remain.  I watched the worms crawl through my bones, and I watched them turn to dust.  

I once sighed with pleasure at the morning mass, and cried at each funeral.  I was entrenched in the south alcove, watching light pour through stained glass. Once, I was enshrined in a holy place.  And yet time passed, and men passed, and politics changed.  Men sought to alter what had been _miraculous_ in the histories.  They cast me into the waves.

Thus, now I must sing hymns with fish.  Fish!  
I must resist the filthy amorous advances of the sea slugs.
I must gaze with fury as lobsters march over my home.
I must remember. 

This is not what I deserved.  

In these sullen depths, it is hard to remember that fact.  Once, I was princely, and wielded power beyond what mortals knew.   First among others was I, not among equals.  

Now I am at the mercy of the tides, the currents, the mercy of Neptune.  
Fish! False gods, foreign gods, fish!

Yet I am not fazed.  One day, years from now, these waters will recede.  They will boil away under the heat of war, the heat of power.  I will be made clear, preserved and waiting in my casket.  

They will haul me out of the mud and in to a church.  My presence will be restored, and my beatification completed.  Three miracles, I had to perform from beyond the grave.

Sins committed from beyond the grave.  The Lord has made us as he Willed us, and yet granted to some the chance of making better.

I made better once, to save a life.
I made better twice, to end a life.
Yet where was my third?  They cried.
Wait and see.
When the waters recede.
Wait and see.    

Tell me not of sins committed from beyond the grave, for they have seen nothing yet.


----------



## Hawke

[ot]I’m judging too, but like eggo I couldn’t resist this prompt either. Just for fun.[/ot] 
“Misconceptions” 
Word count: meh, it's just for fun anyway so does it matter?

http://www.writingforums.com/writers-workshop/66378-lm-entries.html#post940851 
Hope this link thing works.


----------



## speakerphone2

*A Lack of Color *
(301 words, incl. title)

I don't have a brain. Not anymore. It's sort of hard to come to grips with, you know? Well, you wouldn't really know, seeing as you're probably still in possession of yours. 

Perhaps I should explain. 

My brain has been removed, x-rayed, scanned, quartered, examined, sliced, scanned further, sectioned again, and finally stored in clear jars of that mysterious elixir known to those with-brain as formaldehyde. 

These days, I suppose my brain just calls it "cozy."

I don't think I should call it my brain, really. Because, you see--and I don't want to startle you-- I'm just the eyes. The nerves that connected me to my brain have been severed, naturally. So here I am, bobbing along in a slightly smaller jar of this stuff and I'm staring at my version of a calculator's motherboard. 

And here's something to complicate matters. You see, or rather, I see--everything upside-down. 

It is a little-known fact that the eyes, independently of the brain, observe the world upside-down. But the brain knows better--It miraculously picks everything up and rotates it upside-down, or, as the case may be, right-side up.

I know it may sound very confusing from the start, but now just imagine being suspended in the sockets and skull of a bungee jumper. One moment, you're processing everything normally, and then whoops. In a mysterious pattern of rotations, everything that is upside-down, is right-side-up. 

It boggles the mind.

I miss my sockets, and I miss being rolled to express annoyance, contracting and expanding to the light, everything. But mostly, I miss my brain. The one that has been so violently examined and pieced roughly back together again. it's grey now, not only because supposedly it's grey, but because everything is grey.

I miss seeing the world right-side-up.


----------



## Himani

Thomas could smell the sweet and horrible odor of death; the smell of his own diseased and decaying flesh. It was trapped in his nostrils.

He lay on a wooden cart, with bodies piled underneath him. Fingers and feet, toughened by death, dug into his back. A corpse lay on top of him, its head nuzzled into his neck like a lover’s. Another corpse was curled beside him, its face turned towards his. He could see the corpse’s blue eyes from the corner of his own. The eyes were foggy, like barely poached eggs. He wondered if his own eyes matched. He wondered if a man was trapped inside that shell, like he was trapped.

   He faced upwards. He could see the sky, which was a beautiful blue. Only the occasional shower of arrows marred it. When he stared at the sky, he could almost forget that he had lain in this cart for two days, traveling further away from his home towards another city’s walls. He could almost drown out the shouting of the soldiers around him, and ignore the sun glinting off their armor.

And, he could almost forget the twisting bitterness he felt. He had gone to Church as the Lord dictated, he had said his prayers. He had donated to the bowl when it fell upon his lap. Yes, he had seen his children cry from hunger and his wife look at him with hollowed cheeks, and he had still dug into his pockets for a little money.

 He wished he could cry, but instead he could only feel that sense of betrayal. He wished he could forget the memory of the sound of the cart’s wheels and the ringing of the bell; the screeching voice that called, over and over, “Bring out your dead!” How that man had hugged him close as he struggled to put Thomas in that cart with all the other corpses, each one twisted with near-black bumps. His own he still could feel underneath his arms, around his groin, and behind his knees. 

 But, if he stared at the sky long enough, he could forget everything and see only the beloved face of Marie, his wife, and his three little children.

 Someone lifted the corpse from above him. He felt a brief moment of elation, then someone shouted, “Ready the catapults!”

A soldier leaned down and his eyes met Thomas’s. He murmured, “Poor bastard,” and closed Thomas’s eyes.

 Thomas was now in a world of blackness. Terror rolled over him, and he prayed.

 He felt his body lifted and laid on something wooden. There was a thud, a horrible jerk, and then Thomas was flying.

 Time fell away from him, and then fear fell away. He wished his eyes were open. He saw Marie. He wished he could hug her one last time. He wished he could feel the wind around him forever, he wished…

 …hard, cold impact. The wet sound of flesh against stone. No pain, only darkness, and then…



 (500 words)


[an]If anyone has any ideas on a title, tell me. I can't think of one. [/an]


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## IrishLad

Thought I'd give it a shot (dead stuff seems to be my thing :thumbl: ). 
(485 words) 


Last Surrender​ 

I’m floating. The sensation isn’t what I would have expected, not Peter Pan at all. There’s Sammy, crying and clutching my niece to him so that she can’t see. I haven’t seen him cry since our father died, all those years ago. I feel a sudden flush of worry for him; he counts … counted on me so much. He’s thirty-three, and has always depended on me in place of Dad. Still, this will force him to grow, just as Dad’s death shoved responsibility down my throat, enough that I gagged before eventually swallowing. I was better for it in the long run, I suppose. I hope he will be too.

Mom is standing just outside the plate glass. I see her with the deputies. They’re comforting her. She is the most fragile and, at the same time, the strongest person I’ve ever known. I sense now that she doesn’t have much time left herself. It’s strange how the intensity of the situation has thrown such a clear light on her. I see a wrinkled, frail woman now, where before she exuded confidence and the bottomless well of sacrifice of which only a mother is capable. This will speed her into old age prematurely, and I’m sorry to be the cause of that.

I saw the man in the back of the cruiser before they hauled him off. He didn’t look remorseful, at least not about killing me. Maybe about getting caught, but mostly he appeared unfazed. I knew he was trouble when he walked into the store. I could have let him have the money, but I was tired of giving in, of surrendering. 

That’s what life was for me—a series of surrenders, each one wrenching more out of me, taking my passion, my pity, and my humanity. Maybe that’s what killed me, more so than the bullets. The idea of letting another piece of me go for lack of any means to control my surroundings—I just couldn’t bear it. 

I’m still tired, much as I was when I walked around in that bag of torn flesh on the ground below me. I think I could sleep just now. Yes, I believe I could. I don’t have to be up early anymore. It’s a comforting thought to drift away on.


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## kenewbie

*The minds eye*

The first thing that hits you when you die, is that you are not dead. Understand that there is no confusion or delusions of miraculous escapes. You know you are dead, only you cannot tell exactly what has changed. Not at first. 

It feels like a momentary loss of control, like you stumbled on something and fell to the ground. You realize that it was no normal fall, you just died. But if you died then why are you still here?

As you stand up to assess the situation, you find that your view does not change, staring floor-up towards the ceiling. In fact, even though you can feel your muscles respond as you lift yourself up, you are laying there as still as a corpse should be. This usually leads to intense panic; am I stuck here forever conscious with nothing to entertain me but my own dead self? What happens when I get enclosed in a coffin?

Eventually, as you start to come down from your panic-high, you convince yourself that you are standing. You take a few steps, and you really can sense yourself moving, but your view stays the same, chandeliers dangling above. Then something deep inside you awakens, and you remember how to close your minds eye.

You find yourself standing in a dark forest. As you blink and adjust to the darkness, you see friends and loved ones sleeping, scattered around you on the moss. People that are still alive. You grab your friend and try to wake him, but he does not respond. You shake him hard but he only sighs and mumbles. "Shhh, I'm sleeping", then he turns around and face the other way, his eyes never opening. You look around you as you are better adjusted to the darkness, and notice a stairway circling up the trunk of a nearby tree. You squint as you try to make out the top, but it is engulfed by the starless sky. You are startled by a high pitched noise tearing through the silence.

As you open your minds eye again, you are back on the ground, chandelier in sight. It only takes a few seconds, then you realize that you have always known this time would come. It is decision time, the mother of all choices. Do I stay here, forever immaculately locked within myself, or do I have the courage to move on?


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## Tarantula

Lye still

I could smell onions on his breath. Mingling with that scent was another that I could only describe as chemical.

My fingertips burned. The chemical smell grew more pronounced. I wished I could see what he was doing.

Overhead the ancient ceiling fan circulated stale air causing dust motes to drift as if in a current. This would be the last thing I saw.

I wished my ex wife could see me now. I wished she could Him. The bastard. Yeah, I see you, you prick. I hope you rot.

The burning in my fingers intensified. He spoke to me and I could smell onions again, this was preferable to the chemical smell. After that the world slowly dimmed and at some point the chemical smell went away. I wished it hadn't. I began to smell myself and I don't know for how long.

Yeah, that was when I figured out what the chemical smell was and why my fingers burned. I'm still laying here. I hope she finds me; its been so long since I saw her.


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## Foxee

*Iced*

Hope I'm not too late...I was editing this sucker until last night at about midnight. Then I couldn't get on the internet. Apparently I have water in my phone lines and they'll probably have to replace them. Monday. Grrrr....

Anyway, Iced is in the Writer's Workshop. 

:-#


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## valeca

Submissions will be accepted until 9pm est tonight.

Good luck, everyone.

Judges, you have your work cut out for you over the next week.  Good luck to you, too.


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## valeca

Submissions are now closed.


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