# November 2014 - LM - Saturday Night in the City of the Dead



## Fin (Nov 4, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​*Saturday Night in the City of the Dead​*


The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*Folcro*; *Jon M*; *Terry D*; *Pluralized*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.

Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Tuesday, the 18th of November at 11:59 PM, GMT time.
Click here for the current time.


*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## ArrowInTheBowOfTheLord (Nov 6, 2014)

*Epilogue, Prologue*​Only one moon shines through the clouds tonight. A barefoot girl runs across a street in one bound, a car barely missing her. She falls onto the grass beside a boy, panting.
“I won!” she says. “I did this time. I was closer to the car.”
“No,” he argues. “It was moving too slowly. _I _had to run in front of a transport, like always. You cheated.”
“There’s no rule! Besides, how would I know a car was driving through here? Only transports pass through the city.”
“Whatever. I won all the other times.”
All is then silent.
“Wonder what the car is doing here,” she muses, and then turns to him. “Ever feel like—well, it feels weird ’cause we’re walking where people have walked who have long since died.”
“That’s not weird. People _always _walk where people used to walk.”
“But it is weird, ‘cause we’re all alone. All we have for company are memories.”
“Well. . .at least people are trying to remember. Although—it is weird to focus so much on the past with the present in such a state.”
“Not weird at all.” She stands up, stretches her arms out. “Once a golden city, like Constantinople. . .”
“Not at all!” He interrupts. “This city was up to its ears in chaos!”
“Like life?”
“Hey, the sun rises every morning.”
“How much do you bet it will rise tomorrow?”
“Everything. Bet’s off if the apocalypse happens.”
“Deal.”
He stands, looks up at the moon, and turns to her.
“We should go home.”
“But—it’s Saturday!”
“Nevermind that. I have homework.”
“Let’s take the long way out of the city.”
“Whatever you like.”
They set out for home, and pass a ruined wall which once was the bearer of a mural of a crushed sparrow, once considered great in the city. Here, in time past, a boy stared up at the mural, sitting beneath it all afternoon, terrified, and cried himself to sleep that night because he didn’t know who the sparrow was.
They pass the shell of building, blown up inside out by a bomb older than most of the concrete in the city. Here a man with obsidian eyes once painted: a single brush, a single color, a single work made over a lifetime. Leaf after leaf, tree after tree, the forest was conceived, the doe in the shadows and the wide-eyed raccoon that meant everything. 
They pass an old, old bridge stretched lazily over an old, old river. Here two lovers strained to see shooting stars despite the streetlights. It had been a night when the moon was but a sliver, eaten away by the north wind that was so lovely because it seemed to come from a long time ago.
They pass an alleyway where a boy once stood under the stars, contemplating and waiting in quiet faithfulness.
They cross a highway, underneath is the place where the boy under the mural and the boy under the stars went adventuring, in the city. Under the highway, next to the river, was their destination, all mud and concrete pillars then, all rubble now.
They pass piles and piles of rubble that almost make a skyline. Here an ashen man gave a gift of a notebook and pen that was really a sword. Here the boy under the stars was shot to death, in a time of few memories and few open windows.
The last place they pass is a house, still intact, with a wooden balcony. A man, a real man and not just a memory, stands on the balcony, hoping for stars. He is standing in his own footsteps: he is the boy under the mural. In one hand he holds a necklace with a silver cross that echoes stars and Byzantium, in the other he holds a black paintbrush, black like obsidian.  
“The music box!” he whispers. “If only I could find the music box!”


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## InkwellMachine (Nov 6, 2014)

*Armature*

Hides, cured and tacked to the board at the back of the room. Skulls, milk-white and grinning from inside their book shelf. Smaller things, with their skins and their eyes and their tiny limbs still intact, floating in jars of formalin. All of them staring down at Lana, who was hunched over her desk, working on another piece for the collection.

Today, she thought, was supposed to be a foray into the social world. Today she was supposed to see people her age, and she was supposed to get to know them. They were supposed to be her friends. That's how today was supposed to happen.

She worked a new blade into the handle of her _X-acto _knife and pressed the tip into the fresh hide. Blood began to bead up at the edges of the cut, which was natural for a specimen so fresh. She dragged the knife in circles around the joints, cut long seams into the limbs.

The morning had been filled with preparations. Makeup, which she hated to wear, and which was now drawn into dark lines from her eyes down her cheeks. Food, too, despite her utter lack of skill in the kitchen. And the events; a whole evening meticulously laid out so that no one would spend a moment bored or wanting for attention.

She peeled the skin away neatly, sliding the knife back and forth beneath it as she went to sever any final bonds. The specimen was in surprisingly good condition. Taught muscles. Long, hardy sinews. Some fat, too, but that would be gone before long. She laid out the hide on one of the disposable plastic table cloths she used for the activity, and stared at it.

Of course, she tried to rationalize. She tried so hard to come up with some reasonable explanation as to why, out of the six people who said they would show, she was the only person who made it. She wanted to believe that there was something she was just unaware of. Weather, or traffic. Maybe she'd given out the wrong address.

The mount, which she'd been keeping in the closet for a long time now, was sculpted out of polyurethane foam. It was more perfect than she remembered--a shrunken, ghostly image of what it was created to look like. She wheeled it out onto the table-cloth and began to measure out the swatches of hide.

She tried their phones, and their websites. No responses.

The hide almost took to the mount more naturally than to its original frame. It slid on, and wrapped in such a way that there were no odd exceptions. No bubbles, no wrinkles, and none of the things that had been so glaringly wrong with the creature she'd taken it from.

After several hours alone, eating and packaging the food she'd prepared, trying not to tear too much and make her makeup run, she decided that she knew the reason no one showed up. It was the same reason her first marriage hadn't work out. It was the reason her relationships ended after the first month.

When the stitching was done and the hide was firmly in place, she fixed the figure with its finishing touches: green-irised marbles for eyes, a cascading wig of brown hair scalped from the top of her own head, and clothing, to cover the seams.

The reason she was alone. It was in all those things that she couldn't see, and that she couldn't fix.

The effigy smiled at her from the middle of the room. It was happy, and perfect, and always would be. She smiled back, and felt the blood seeping out of her bare muscles.

It was in the million flaws that were invisible to her.

Everything laid out. Everything clear, and put into its proper place.

It was in her.

It was her.


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## rockoo315 (Nov 11, 2014)

In the past week, I’ve held divorce papers, a plane ticket to Tromsø, Norway, and another man’s chest in my hands.  To say I’ve had one hell of a week would be an understatement.

This thought, this harsh realization, popped in my as Big Mike and myself stood outside of our hotel in Tromsø.  The time read “3:45 pm” on my watch but it was completely dark outside.  And my internal thermometer read, “F’ing Cold”.  How did I let Big Mike talk me into this?

“Big Mike, why in the hell would you recommend going into the Arctic Circle immediately after the she devil handed me divorce papers,” I asked.  I barely had enough energy to open my frozen lips.

Big Mike stood there, sporting a jacket that literally looked like a dead animal.  He had aviators sunglasses on, despite the fact it was completely dark outside.  And the weather didn't phase him at all, probably due to his portly figure.

“You always trusted my judgement, right,” Big Mike asked.

I hesitated for a second, dumbfounded by his question.  My face couldn’t have possibly concealed this as I turned to him.

“Big Mike, I’ve literally told you every single week for the past 10 years that I don’t trust you.  You were solely responsible for my divorce,” I said in a harsh but sarcastic tone.

“But you stuck around, though, right?  I knew from the moment I met the she devil, also known as your wife, that she was your downfall.  I’m your escape from your harsh reality, sir,” Big Mike said.

I didn’t have a response.  Maybe to some degree he was right.  But all I knew is I wanted to go back inside the hotel.  Before I was able to express my discontent and go back to the fireplace, Big Mike grabbed my arm.

“Here, try this,” he said. 

“What is this,” I asked, curious to see what Big Mike had in store for me this time. 

“Aquavit.  It’s a Scandinavian liquor.  Try it...goes well with fish but also makes you warm.  Trust me,” he exclaimed.

I was hesitant to trust Big Mike after his long history of horrible ideas and advice.  But hell, I was in Norway with a 350 pound man.  What did I have to lose?

So I unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to my lips.  But as the liquor went down my throat, I was instantly taken back.  Whew!  Big Mike say my eyes light up.  I never tasted anything like this before. 

“That kick you taste comes from the caraway plant.  Let it sink it.  Then take another swig.”

I did exactly as he said, eager to take another gulp.  The warmth was indeed there.  How did I miss this drink in my study abroad semester?

For a second, I lost track of time and focused on the pleasures of the drink.  I was almost glad I didn’t sleep on the plane.  Being up for the past 30 hours seemed to enhance the drink.

“Sir, now look up,” Big Mike said, taking me out of my trance.

“Huh,” I responded.

“Look up,” he said as he pointed to the sky.

And in that moment, that split second, I knew why Big Mike brought me here.

Coming out of the Fjord, and allowing a starry sky to be its backdrop, the Northern Lights made an appearance.  Colors of green and purple filled the lights, and were perfectly reflected by the lake.  Slowly but surely, the lights swayed back and forth, and literally seemed to be dancing just for the two of us.   I thought these Northern Lights were a myth.  I finally felt okay with everything: the divorce, my troubled friendships, and the monotony of daily life.

“The dead must come here every night, especially on Saturdays when they party, to observe this spectacle.  This would make anyone okay with their fate.”


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## thepancreas11 (Nov 12, 2014)

UNFINISHED 646 words


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## Ephemeral_One (Nov 13, 2014)

"The Lesson" 650 Words

	“Repeat the lesson,” He demanded of the cloaked youth. Both figures draped in the black robes of their profession, the youth pulled back his hood to speak, “When dealing with the dead, tone and mood are important to maintain.” Beneath the thick boughs ran a barely worn path through the forgotten graveyard. Once pristine statues now falling apart with whole chunks fallen onto the ground.


Running his hand along the rough marble the teacher asked, “Why?”


“Those are how one affects their energy and interacts with the souls of the dead,” Answered the student dutifully to step around a chunk. Each carried a lantern that cast long shadows against the trees and headstones. A particular tree had been knocked over and several grave markers now were stuck under it. The teacher sat down on it and let out a sigh as the pupil asked, “Why come the whole way out here?”

 	“I know how schools nowadays teach from the safety of books but there are some lessons you must learn first hand,” The older man sighed letting his lantern rest on the ground. With a chuckle he added, “You know the answer but you've not practiced it at all. Now, you have to learn.” Stretching one of his calloused fingers out straight, he indicated the student's shoulder. His blue eyes slowly drifted to the shoulder to see a pair of pale hands gripping his robe.


A hoarse rasping filled his ears as freezing breaths brushed the nape of his neck. To the student's horror, he was suddenly swung around to face a pair of hollow holes where eyes should have been. Long, blonde hair hung over its face and a hole ridden dress clung to its desiccated form. As the young man yelped in terror, he stumbled backwards.  

 	Though her fingers were thin, their icy grip dug into his throat. Flinging his arms at the woman, the student watched his fists pass through her harmlessly. She held him down, forcing him to stare into the abyss of her eye sockets. At the back, he could see something like a distant flame. It seemed to slowly expand and be drawn closer. It was inviting, like a warm room in the middle of winter. It's heat seeped into his muscles and bones, causing him to relax.


 	“And that's enough,” The teacher said with a laugh as he swung his thick leg at the woman. His limb connected, sending the woman tumbling backwards. The student let out a gasp as the air flooded back into his lungs painfully. Coughing fitfully, the student gripped his throat protectively as he said, “Thank you.”


“Remember, mood and tone. You're going to have to deal with her now that she's introduced herself,” sighed the teacher returning to the log.


“What? Why can't you?” The student demanded.


“Cause I can't see her!” snapped the teacher running a hand to pull back his own hood. Shaking out his dark hair, the student asked angrily, “Then how could you kick her?”


“It was pretty obvious with how you were struggling with your throat she was strangling you. So, I knocked her off but she's likely moved by now. So, do as you've been taught,” The Teacher ordered sternly.


Wincing from the verbal lashing, the student looked around. The woman had vanished once more. Closing his eyes, he recalled the lesson. He began to chant, “Mood and tone. Mood and tone.” Once more, a pair of clammy hands rested at the base of his throat and start to rise up. Turning around, the student grabbed the woman by the hips and pushed his lips to hers. She convulsed and fell backwards. Her body then began to ebb away into mist, a smile on her lips.


	“She was, lonely,” The Student commented placing a hand to feel the tears on his cheeks.


“They always are,” Nodded the Teacher pulling his hood up.


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## InstituteMan (Nov 13, 2014)

Another Saturday Night in the City of the Dead and Dying - Mature Content

649 words


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## Bishop (Nov 13, 2014)

*Boring Old Space Tomb* By Patrick C. Bishop


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## EmmaSohan (Nov 13, 2014)

SATURDAY NIGHT IN THE CITY OF THE DEAD - Mature Content

by Emma Sohan


Art: "Let's talk about things we regret."

Nate: "Can't we talk about something else? _Anything _else?"

Art: "I like talking about it."

"What else can we do, Nate? Pick up women? We can't touch anything."

"Get drunk? We can't drink. We're dead."

"Sit around and sleep? We always do that."

"We can't even talk about the weather. No weather."

Nate: "That's better than talking about regrets."

Art: "I'll go first. My secretary wanted to have sex with me. She was giving off all the signs."

Jacob: "And..."

Art: "She was young. No sagging boobs. No wrinkles."

Jacob: "_And_, Art, _And_. What happened? We don't have all the time in the world."

Nate: "We do, actually."

Art: "And I turned her down. I regret that."

Nate: "The live-life-to-its-fullest trope. That's so common."

Barry: "Ironic. My regret is that I _had _sex with my secretary."

Art: "Was it good?"

Barry: "Yeah. It was good. Really good."

Art: "I knew it."

Jacob: "And? And? God damn it, Barry, what's the _and_?"

Sudden silence.

Art: "Really, Jacob, could you not use his name in vain?"

Jacob. "Sorry. I forgot. Bad habit."

Barry: "And my wife found out. We stayed together for the kids, but I had a miserable three years. I guess we got back to being friends, but it was never the same."

Nate: "The do-what-is-right trope. Very insightful. Not."

Cal: "I also had an affair with a coworker."

Art: "Was it good?"

Cal: "Well, sure, you can't beat a new affair for good sex. After a while, we were just really good friends. With sex of course."

Barry: "Yeah, but what happened when your wife found out?"

Cal: "She never did."

Jacob: "And? And you got herpes? What's the _and_? Doesn't anyone believe in finishing a story?"

Cal: "It was, ya' know, something I had to hide from my wife, so I was always watching what I said. She was the mother of my children, we shared lives, but there was always that little barrier between us. I regret that."

Everyone looks to Nate. "It's a variation on the not-feeling-guilty trope. But nicely done."

Cal: "Thanks."

Don: "My coworker wanted to have sex with me, and..... I didn't."

Nate: "We already did that one."

Don: "It's deeper than that, Nate. Listen to me. I always wondered what sex with him would have been like. But I never had sex with _any _guy. Just females. I could still cum and all. But I don't know, I think I missed something."

Art: "Are you coming out now?"

Don laughs. "Never too late, right?"

Cal: "This is pretty close."

Everyone looks to Nate.

Nate: "The never-really-explored-myself trope. It's relatively rare."

Jake: "My turn. I wanted to have sex with this girl I was dating my last semester of college."

Everyone: "And...."

Jake: "Actually, I wanted to marry her." He looks around. "Don't rush me. I even bought her a ring. But I couldn't get up the nerve to ask her. When we graduated, we passionately kissed good-bye, then we went our separate ways."

Art: "Who did you marry?"

Jake: "No one. I never found anyone like her."

Art: "No affairs with your secretary?"

Jake: "Well yeah, two of those. And a couple others. But they aren't the same."

Nate: "The failure-to-seize-the-day trope."

Cal: "What about you, Nate?"

Nate: "No regrets."

Barry: "Tell us, Nate."

Nate: "Okay." He sighs. "Okay. I think...I had a lot of really nice, interesting people in my life. That includes my wife and daughters."

Jake: "And?"

Nate: "I categorized them. That's what I do. I'm not sure I saw them as real people." A tear comes to his eye. He wipes it away, then says angrily, "That's the fatal-flaw trope. Boring. Do we have to talk about regrets? You guys are all masochists."

Silence.

Don: "It's not too late to change."

Cal: "Pretty close."


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## Euripides (Nov 14, 2014)

*Passing On - 647 words*

Nursing what passed for a whiskey in this joint, I watched the young man at the end of the bar. He huddled against the wall clutching a bottle of water between his hands, looking shell-shocked. Three nights I’ve seen him here. By now they usually show some awareness, but they also don’t make the bar their first stop. Young, good looking in a non-threatening college-boy sort of way, looked personable. I wondered what his job was going to be while here. The living joke there’s only two certainties in life: death and taxes. Unfortunately for many of us, there’s only one certainty in death: taxes.

“Hey Sal, what’s the newbie’s story?” I asked the bartender with a tilt of my head in the young man’s direction.

Sal looked at me in the bar mirror and turned around. “Been here four nights. Tyrell. Late twenties. Atheist. Killed during a mall shooting. No job.” Sal ticked off the newbie’s pertinent stats in his maddening monotone, and turned his back to me. Sal did not have the friendly bartender shtick down.

_Interesting_, I thought and glanced at the young man again,_ no job, he’ll be here for a while. _Atheists always have a hard time comprehending the life after death thing, while the religious struggle to comprehend the afterlife isn’t at all like what they are taught in their books. Nobody gets it right. 

I felt the tug in my chest that always let me know when she was near. “Susan,” I said before she was able to greet me. I turned my stool to face her, and slammed back the rest of my whisky. 

“Harry, you know I hate it when you do that, gives me a start almost every time.” Susan adjusted the infant she carried to her other hip.

We could always tell when the other was near, linked as we were by her death. That’s my balance to work off, even if it was an accident, I killed her. I was shocked the first time I felt that pull and came face to face with her here; previously I had only known her from the pictures her distraught husband shoved at me during my trial. Not that we were now friends, but the shared guilt of each other's death brought us some closeness. I guess her husband killing me tempered her anger.

“Harry, I heard the Collection Agency is coming for you tonight, and they aren’t going to lengthen your contract anymore.” Susan looked worried for me, which felt nice. “What the heck, you were so close. What are you going to do?” 

I glanced at my gold Timex. Instead of reading five to midnight and holding steady, it was running backwards. I chuckled tiredly, “Ah well, guess I put off gathering up Mr. Hinkley one too many times.”

Glancing at Tyrell, I stood up just as the Goon Squad entered the bar, “I’m going to pass on my contract. If I can get him to take the remaining contract time before it’s officially terminated, he only has to work off the portion from when he accepts, and hopefully, I get stuck in system red tape until he finishes. Since it’s Saturday, the Agency can’t officially terminate ‘til Monday.”

I scooped up my coat, checked for the car keys and walked toward the new guy. He looked up at me as I thrust my coat at him. He took it from me, puzzled. I fumbled with my watch as I tracked the Goon Squad’s progress in the bar mirror. “Here, no time to explain; just say_ ‘I accept’._” I handed him my watch.

“I accept?” Tyrell asked as he took the watch.

“Sorry guys,” I said as I felt a hand on each of my shoulders, “it’s his now.”

Tyrell examined the watch and asked, “Why isn’t it running?”

I smiled, “Tyrell, welcome to the Reapers.”


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## J Anfinson (Nov 14, 2014)

*Saturday Night Cinema (Adult Content)*

“Are you going to the show?”

Somewhere far away a car alarm was going off, and from an alley behind us a woman screamed obscenities. Just a typical Saturday night for this place.

I looked up slightly from the pavement in front of my shoes, enough to give her a shrug. Abbey knew I had nothing better to do.

“Think they’ll let us watch something good this time,” she asked. A few strands of hair dangled in front of her eyes, and I noticed her brush them behind her ear. She was always lovely to me. I only wish things could have turned out different.

“We can always hope, I guess.”

Ahead, the entrance to the theatre was already crowded. People were dressed in everything from business suits to tacky Hawaiian shirts and cut-off jeans. Hopefully they’d have enough seats.

It seemed like we’d stood in line for hours before we made it inside. At the ticket booth I had a moment of panic when I reached for my wallet and it wasn’t there, but Abbey squeezed my hand and reminded me I didn’t need it.

“It’s free, dummy,” she said with a giggle. I love the way she laughs.

We took our seats at the back, high up near the projector. Dim white light spilled through the eye of the device, casting a ghostly glow upon the screen. Abbey leaned into my shoulder and I put my arm around her. It felt good.

“Everyone ready,” a voice called over the loudspeaker. There was a chorus of excited yelps and hollers, and the voice spoke again. “Tonight’s feature film will be…”

A hush fell over the crowd. I prayed.

“…the same as always.”

“Goddam it!” A fat man in the front row got up and stalked out. I couldn’t blame him, but he’d be back. The fact is, we don’t have a choice.

The screen flickered to life. We were looking at a bedroom, one we’d seen countless times. A blonde haired girl, no older than twenty sat on the bed. She had the barrel of a revolver jammed between her teeth.

“I can’t watch this again.” Abbey put her face to my chest as the gun went off. I knew the girl in the movie. She was sitting three rows below us.

The rope burn around my neck began to itch, and Abbey unconsciously stroked the side of her head that had been crushed when she leapt from the cliff. It was all my fault. If I hadn’t been so selfish she wouldn’t have followed me here.

The next scene showed a man in a bathtub. He stared at the razor for almost a half hour before putting it to his wrist. The blood flowed, and I hugged Abbey tight.

This was how we spent our Saturday nights. Watching the screen and seeing not only the people around us, but ourselves.


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## bazz cargo (Nov 16, 2014)

Saturday Night In The City Of The Dead. (Or Bad Joke Blues).(357 words)
 by Bazz Cargo.

Eric was bored. Floating about on a cloud playing a harp was all well and good but once he started trying to figure out the chords to Smoke On The Water he knew he was edging into loony land. He took his halo off the coat stand and adjusted it above his flat cap, then slung his wings onto his back and with his harp tucked under his left arm he flew slowly back to home in Heaven.

“What's up?” Asked Shirl as she hugged Eric tight.

“Oh I dunno.”  

 “Do I detect smouldering underwear?”

 “Ha! Yes. Shirl old girl, I'm bored.” _Year after year of being good, of working hard and being sober. Staying home and going to church, supporting charities and staying out of trouble_. “I'm in Heaven and it is just like I expected it to be.”

 “So go out for the evening.”

 “Oh yeah, where?”

 “I hear the Viking afterlife is fun.”

 At that very moment Serendipity knocked. It was a cherub delivered G.mail from Samuel Plank, a very old friend.

 Eight hours in Hell to visit an old friend, just walk through this doorway and be back on time.

 It was a wild night, singing, dancing, drinking to excess and wearing traffic cones. Samuel had converted an old pit of iniquity into a top of the range night club. They even tried a bit of carousing.

As they staggered back to the stairway to Heaven they sang 'The stars, the moon and a silver sea,
 dancing leaves, a choir and thee.'

 Eric swept his flat cap off in a part bow part salute. “Goodnight old friend.” Then he adjusted his wonky halo and stepped through the door.

A very grumpy St Peter eyed the tipsy Eric. “Enjoyed yourself have you?”

“Oh yes, live the afterlife to the max.”

“Right. Quick check: Halo, wings, harp.”

 Eric touched his halo, felt his wings, but where was his harp. Oh no! He took a stance with his hands on his chest and began to croon. “I left my harp at Sam Planks disco.”


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## godofwine (Nov 17, 2014)

Apple Zombies by Godofwine (650 Words)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ead-Workshop?p=1795905&viewfull=1#post1795905


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## Ibb (Nov 18, 2014)

*Empire's End (650)*

She came down the hill, still holding the basket. Markus, watching from the car, swore under his breath before leaning over to open the passenger side door.  

“What happened?” he asked. 

Alicia sat down, cradling the basket in her lap. “He didn’t take it.”

“What did he say?”

She shook her head.

“Alicia, what did he _say_?”

She looked up. “He knew it was from you, Markus.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“He _did_.”

“I know,” Markus said, cupping his face in his hands. “I know, I—I believe you. It’s not that.” He exhaled. “Jesus.” He dropped his hands, staring suddenly ahead. He shifted in the seat towards her. 

“What did he say, exactly? Up there?” 

She was watching the basket; Markus had filled it with whatever he could find. She’d been shocked by it the first time, its naivety, Markus trembling and telling her his foolish plan. Wild-eyed and disheveled, his voice near pleading; he’d heard. The word was out. Of it all, he’d receive nothing. Had he been shocked?

“What did he say _exactly_?” Markus persisted. “Alicia.”

She sighed. “He said he knew this is all you could do.”

Then he was out of the car. 

“Markus!” but he was already past the hood and onto the path that lead to the hill. She stood outside, leaving the basket on the seat behind her, and waited. 

Lydia Reyes knew darkness was coming. Alicia’s appearance had forewarned conflict, and Marshall, gentle towards his daughter, had become gruff, realizing her there for his son.  

“Take care, sweetheart,” she’d said to Alicia departing, and the little girl now grown had smiled and went away. It broke her heart; both had been sweet children. In the nighttimes Markus would cry out for his mother, and from down the hall in her sleeping quarters Lydia would wake and find him, lean at his bedside, and brush his hair until, whimpering for her, he’d return to sleep. Now a pummeling started far away at the front door, and she did not need to wonder; she had foreseen it all. 

Markus’ face softened seeing her. 

“Lydia,” he said. “Hi.”

She smiled, then frowned, seeing him the first time then seeing him the second. 

“Sweetheart, whatever you’re angry about”—

“I need to see him.”

“Markus,” she whispered. “Honey, you can’t. He’s”—

She saw he was shaking. He shouted past her into the dark of the home, “_I’m here!_” His voice trembled. “_Okay? I’m here! See? I’m here!”_

                The house did not answer him. He made to enter when Lydia stepped before him. “Sweetheart,” she said. “You know I can’t.”

                He stared past her into the dark, his eyes burning. 

From his bedroom, Marshall Carlton, wasted and withering, stared into the ceiling as his son shouted for him. He waited until the last curses were uttered and the door was closed and his son had gone away. He closed his eyes. When Lydia came to see him, she mistook his death for sleep, and left him alone; she would discover him there the next morning.

Markus said nothing, returning to the car. Alicia silently took the seat beside him. He drove her home. Just before she got out, he muttered, “Thanks for trying.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said. She watched from her doorsteps as his headlights receded from view. It was to be a beautiful evening. 

                Markus drove under pink skies and yellow clouds to the lonely crest which overlooked the city. There, he parked, and sat atop the hood of his car. He knew what he was; he had hoped he could go on pretending a little longer. He cried, seized by a sudden lurch of sobs, then dried his eyes and stared over the rooftops of the buildings his father had built. Night fell in waves. A stirring took up wickedly in his heart; and the red sun rolled slowly towards the grave of the Earth.


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## Guy Faukes (Nov 18, 2014)

Orphans
by Guy Faukes​


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## Fin (Nov 18, 2014)

*Just Another Saturday Night (650 words) Strong Violence
Anonymous Entry*​

Sheriff Don Keppart sat watching the blinking street light as Faron Young sang his song of salutation to his walls on the radio. Donald was not really listening to it or paying much attention to cleaning his service pistol. He leaned back in his chair and slowly worked the brass bristled brush down the barrel of his Browning, and thought of pie.
And his favorite waitress, Anita Price.
And the way the laces of her apron bounced atop the curve of her sculpted rear, snug in the black capris she always wore.
He looked at the clock, the second hand made its way around like a slow moving scythe harvesting minutes off the day.  Twenty til nine. Time enough to eat a slice of pecan pie and chat with Anita, and admire the laces of her apron.
That was assuming that his deputy would be in on time to relieve him.
His look went to the switchboard. Nothing happening there. Two thousand residents in Boliver and not a soul in sight.

Across the street, past the blinking caution light sat the credit union, its large glass windows stared back at him like black, soulless eyes. Headlights flashed in their reflection and then disappeared.
  He stood and saw a dark sedan come to a stop; the arc sodium lights cast a jaundice shade across the waxy finish. The driver and passenger suddenly leapt out. One wore a gorilla mask, the other a ski mask and low set Red Sox cap and held a brickbat in his right hand.
  Donald froze as they rushed the bank, sending the brick through the plate glass window with a deafening crash.  He drew his gun and shoved the door open.
  “Freeze!” he shouted.
  The two men turned in surprise.  They froze for a second and then darted for the car.
  “I said...” he was interrupted when a chunk of wall near his head exploded from the building as shots filled the air. Donald ducked and returned fire.
Gorilla-mask popped up from behind the fender and shot once more. Bullets whined off the bricks beside him. Boston-fan stood up from behind the trunk and fired a hefty revolver. Their guns had come from nowhere, it seemed. Donald shifted back into the cover of the doorway. Gorilla-mask sprang back up. He fired off a quick shot, getting lucky and seeing the man drop from the impact. His slide locked back, and reached for a fresh magazine but found none on his belt.
The loud revolver roared once more and a shower of wood splinters from the jam sprayed his face. He made a run for the gun locker and twisted the small Masterlock key in the lock.  Flinging the door open, he pulled the Mossberg from inside and racked the slide. He turned back to see Boston-fan sprint up the steps.
  Donald fired from the hip and watched as a crater formed in the man’s chest, a vomit of gore erupted from his back as he was thrown down the steps.

Donald jumped as the phone rang. He was sitting at his desk, the ramrod buried down the barrel of his pistol. He looked at the clock. Fifteen til nine. He picked up the receiver, “Yeah?”
  “Hey, Donny,” his deputy said.
  “Hey Carl. How was the date?”
  “It’s actually what I called about.”
  “Yeah?”
  “Dana invited me to come inside...”
  Donald sighed. No pie or Anita tonight, “So you’re going to be a few minutes late?”
  “Just a couple.”
  “Take your time, Carl. Hell, you don’t want to give her the wrong impression.”
  “Thanks Donny. How’s it been so far?”
  “Oh, you know. Just another Saturday night.”
  He looked out as headlights swept past the windows and a dark sedan pulled into the credit union lot and sat with the engine running.
  “Pretty dead, huh?”
  “Yeah,” Donald said, sliding the Browning snug in its holster, “pretty dead.”


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