# December 2015 - LM - First One to Die



## kilroy214 (Dec 2, 2015)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS
*
*First One to Die*​
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.  

This is a Fiction writing competition, and the prompt is 'First One to Die.' Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, as long as it's related in some way to the prompt. 

 The Judges for this round are: *20oz*, *StephLondon*, *Teb*, and* amsawtell.
*If you want to judge and I left you out, send me your scores by the deadline. If you're listed here and don't wish to judge, let me know at once (please).

 All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the LM Workshop Thread.

 All Judges scores will be PMed to *kilroy214*. 

All anonymous entries will be PMed to *kilroy214*.


*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. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk.
*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.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word is the standard for checking this. If you are unsure of the wordcount and don't have Word, please send your story to me and I'll check it for you.






*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 *Workshop* 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. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores are posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send the scores one week after deadline it will ensure a timely release of scores and minimize the overall implementation of porkforking. Please see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*

Tuesday, the 15th of December at 11:59 PM, GMT time. 

Scores would be appreciated by Monday, the 28th of December. 

Click here for the current time.


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## Teb (Dec 6, 2015)

*Memento Mori*

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...t-One-to-Die?p=1938765&viewfull=1#post1938765


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## Kat (Dec 10, 2015)

*Reunion-590 words*

It was a reunion of sorts, not the kind of reunion you wanted to attend.  But really, do you ever actually want to attend a reunion? 

That winter had been unexpected. The past few winters had been uncommonly mild, temperatures rarely dipping below freezing, dry to the point of drought. When the rains came we were excited, then they didn't stop. 

When I moved here I laughed at the signs for flood evacuation routes. The river was at the bottom of a deep canyon, and besides there were two dams upstream.

 We were forecast to get 3 inches of rain overnight. I never did find out exactly how much rain came but the heavens opened up and vomited water like a hungover frat boy. Praying for it to stop but it just kept coming and coming. Those dams had been built in the 1940s and who knows what kind of repairs of been done over the years. We shouldn't have been surprised. 

It's not so much the water but what the water collects along the way that you have to worry about. It took with it chunks of concrete and rebar, trees and houses surrounding the canyon. We had little notice. We just loaded up the car and drove, following those evacuation signs that I once laughed at. In all 307 people from our town of 2800 made it out alive. 

By the time the water has receded, we were stuck. The debris had completely destroyed the bridges and demolished roads. The grocery store and the gas station were gone. The school was little more than a pile of rubble. The mill was high enough into the mountains to be left intact. Electricity, cell towers, landlines--we would have needed a carrier pigeon to send a message out. We pulled up our bootstraps and survived for the two weeks it took the National Guard to make it up to our little logging town. 

This isn't a story about the ones that died because I could tell you stories about their bodies stuck rotting in the treetops. We wanted to burn the forest down just to bury the bodies.

This is a story about the ones that lived. Families that had been there for generations, that had made their livelihood depending on that land; we all left. We moved to mountains, and deserts, and tiny little islands so that if the big wave came at least it'd take us out. We kept in touch, sending pictures and postcards. Celebrating all the good that came to our lives after. 

When Mr Miller, my former history teacher, died of pancreatic cancer his last wish was to be buried with his wife. I've never been back, I don't know if anyone else had. That wasn't a celebration of life but a wallowing of misery. Mrs Miller had been buried in Fox Valley cemetery, just like generations of Millers previously. Fox Valley was situated on a bluff that overlooked the canyon. It had been spared the wash, it's tombstones overlooking the canyon of death. 

 All of us that could, came back for the funeral. The first of the survivors to die. We stood on the cliff and looked down to where our town had once been. We'd been born here, brought our spouses back here, raised children here, and in the end buried them all here. Everywhere we looked was life. Verdant growth had overtaken the shells of buildings. Mother Nature will always take you back to her bosom.


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## rcallaci (Dec 10, 2015)

*Killing Time (650 Words) (Language)*

Killing Time (650 Words)


Sam was excited, his new life was about to begin. He just tied up his last loose end in New York, and now he was off to Florida to be reunited with his wife and start his retirement. He gave the cabbie a big tip, went through the security check at the Train terminal and headed for Gate 25. His train was due to leave within the hour, so he checked in, got on the train, and looked for a place to sit for the duration of the trip. He sat down next to a young man with a welcoming smile.

Sam introduced himself to the young man and found him to be quite affable. They struck up a conversation that Sam would remember for the rest of his life. Sam started to talk about what he wanted to do during his retirement. The young man listened intently, smiled, and nodded in the appropriate places. A shift in the conversation occurred after Sam mentioned his desire to live a longer life.   

“I want to live for at least another twenty years; I got a lot of living left to do,” said Samuel Pickerford to the young man sitting in the seat next to him.

“Why would you want such a thing? Life is full of misery, we are born to suffer, and when our time allotted to us is up, we are then released from our suffering through death,” said the young man to Sam. 

“Huh, I’ve suffered some, that’s true, but I’ve had a lot of joy and happiness as well. I’m sorry if your life has been full of misery, but mine has not. You seem affluent and well educated, so I’m a little surprised at your line of thinking,” said Sam. 

“Happiness and joy are dangerous illusions. They warp the true message that God wants us to hear. Happiness and joy can only truly be experienced in Heaven. We were in Heaven before we were born, happy and serene. But Satan made a bet with God, that if man was thrown into a world without God’s presence, he would lose faith, and come to relish life under the rule of Satan. Those of the faithful who understand that life is misery without God’s presence will be accepted back into Heaven,” said the young man.

“What the hell are you talking about? You sound like some mad jihadist,” said an agitated Sam. 

“I can assure you that I’m quite sane,” said the young man. “It’s people like you who are the deluded and the insane ones who embrace the evil of this life. You choose to live in Satan’s house while I choose to live in God’s. Soon I will be in paradise and a hundred thousand virgins’ will welcome me in their arms.”

Sam felt a pinch in his arm; the little bastard stuck a needle in it. He felt himself nodding off, he thought of his wife that he will never again see, and of the retirement that was not to be. He tried to scream a warning but he couldn’t open his mouth. The son of a bitch incapacitated him.

“I really enjoyed our conversation Sam. For an infidel you’re really quite nice. I like you, and thank you for keeping my mind occupied, for I must admit I was a little scared. I wasn’t looking forward to dying alone. You and I will now be the first to die. You will be rewarded. Now, now, I know you are an unbeliever who has swallowed all of Satan’s lies, but I’m sure I can convince God to forgive you. You will live with me in Paradise as my servant, and if you’re good I’ll even let you have one of my Virgins.  God is good, God is great!” were the last words of the madman…

strangers on a train-
a hundred thousand virgins
unholy jihad​


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## Hairball (Dec 10, 2015)

My older sister, Corinne, was fighting ovarian cancer. She was a nurse, and no stranger to this.

"Joyce, can you come?" she asked on the phone. "I really need to see you."

"I'll be there soon, " I assured her. She didn't sound very good. I had a bad feeling; she had been fighting this for seven years. Two years ago, she was clean. Now it was back with a vengeance. She had declined any more treatments; she was terminal.

I spoke with my editor, my Lieutenant Colonel. I was a First Lieutenant at the time.

I explained the issue. He listened, and said, “How much time do you need?”

I replied, “I honestly don’t know, sir. I don’t know how long she has.”

He looked at me, and sighed. “I went through this with my mother,” he said, pulling out a paper. It was an FMLA form. I filled it out, and he took it and signed “indefinite.”

I thanked him. He said, “Pack up and get on the next plane to California. Go, girl, and give my regards to your sister.”

I thanked him again, and tore home. I called my husband, told him, packed, got a cab to the airport, got on a plane, rented a car and got to my sister.

They had sent her home with a morphine machine. She was hooked up through her IV line, and Hospice nurses were there. I talked to her, and then she said, “I can’t believe I’m going to die first. I’m only 48.” 

There are five of us sisters.

She was in and out for 12 days; sometimes we could talk, but not all the time. One morning we found her unresponsive. I checked her, as I was an EMT, and found nothing. 

My sister was gone. I told my brother-in-law she was gone and he called 911, but said it wasn’t an emergency, and explained it.

They came and got her body, and three days later I was at her funeral.

I’ll never forget her saying, “I can’t believe I’m going to die first. I’m only 48.”

I still have a hard time with this. Rest well, my sister.


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## Dubhthaigh (Dec 12, 2015)

*Piggies!*

The pigs squealed with unbridled gluttony as Anna approached their trough, bucket of fattener ration in hand. Three not so little piggies, Anna mused, and one especially not so little. “The first to die!” Anna declared with as much high-pitched grandeur as an eight year old can muster and touched the pale skin of the boar, called Curly, who was ravenously gorging at the recently replenished trough. 

Anna was proud of _her_ piggies, Daddy had entrusted their feeding to his little princess so there could be no denying Anna’s claim of ownership. Sure, Anna require a little assistance in the evening when the piggies got two buckets of ration, but the morning bucket was all Anna. After all, breakfast was the most important meal of the day, as Mammy used to say.

Curly was going to be the Christmas ham, Daddy had said. Anna secretly thought that Curly was too big to be the Christmas ham. Anna thought that Daddy had forgotten that there would only be two people having Christmas ham this year.

The eight year old girl in a puffy pink jacket and floral print wellingtons turned from her charges and went to exit the paddock, through the small rusted iron gate. She had gotten two paces when her foot caught in a root that had been exposed by the pigs’ excavations of the earth, Anna fell onto the wet muddy ground and her steel bucket clanged as it landed next to her. She heard the excited squeal of the pigs behind her and before she could get up, they were upon her.
***
Through the haze of his hangover, Bill heard the pigs’ squeal. Damn things haven’t been fed, he thought. He was about to get out of bed and scold Anna but the softer side of him won through. They really should be getting two buckets in the mornings, Bill relented inwardly, but ever since Marie had passed he had taken to drinking whiskey after putting Anna to bed and couldn’t face his daughter with a hangover. Pretty soon he’d have to tell Anna to stop feeding them without him. They were getting dangerously big.


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## Harper J. Cole (Dec 14, 2015)

*The road to Heaven is paved with bad intentions (content warning: racism) (640 words)*

My aim was perfect. I want that on record.

My name is Jason Henderson; doubtless you will have heard of me. Patriot, war hero, proud citizen of Lacertilia Alpha.

But you will also know me as a failed assassin. Nothing could be further from the truth. I did not come to Lacertilia Beta today to take a single life, but rather, to start a war.

None of this would have been necessary were we ruled by lions rather than dogs. Not one member of our cabinet understands the legacy of our world, beyond the dry facts inscribed in the history books.

Nearly a thousand years past, our ancestors found this system, with its two habitable planets: Alpha, wintry and cruel; Beta, verdant and nurturing. The choice seemed obvious, at first glance, but the 2[SUP]nd[/SUP] planet held a surprise – a small, pre-industrial society. The laws of the then-mighty Earth Empire prohibited the extermination of lesser species, so a choice had to be made: share a lush planet with aliens, or strike out on our own, and brave the Alphan cold.

The proud progenitors of our colony chose the harder path. While the Betans rolled in the dirt with the natives, cross-breeding to create a mongrel race, the Alphans kept our world as a bastion of undiluted humanity in the long dark of space. Small surprise then, given the diametrically opposed philosophies upon which our societies were founded, that we fought many wars against each other; thirteen in nine centuries.

It is an insanity of complacency that has seen our leaders seek the path of peace these two generations past. They lower our defences and let a weakened enemy grow strong again. Worse, a policy of immigration allows those of impure blood to walk among us, serve in our army, teach our children. It is the antithesis of the Alphan dream, an unthinkable insult to those who came before us.

Fortunately, there are still men like me who are willing to die to restore that dream. I travelled to Beta, disguised as a simple tourist, with no intention of ever seeing my glacial home again. I lay in wait for my opportunity, and today, when it came, I shot the Betan archduke with a guided laser, severing his left leg. I was able to do this from a distance of over three miles, well outside his security cordon – our weapons technology has always put theirs to shame.

When they search my body, they’ll find evidence suggesting that I was an assassin sent by the Alphan government to kill the archduke; the reality is that I acted alone, and wanted him alive. His deputy is a known pacifist, whereas this man, spurred on by the sight of his ruined leg, will surely push his planet into a final war, which we shall win. Then the enemy can be purged from this system once and for all.

Ah, I hear their security drawing near to the tower where I’m holed up; I shall encrypt this message, time-lock it for twenty years. By the time you listen to it, the war should be a glorious memory; the truth of my heroism can then be known.

My blood shall be the first spilled, but not the last. For future generations, this will be Henderson’s war, and when men say my name, they-

_Historian’s note_

_The recording ends here. Betan security forces, commandeering a neighbouring building, were able to get a clear shot at the gunman, and eliminated him at once to ensure public safety. He never encrypted his message._

_When he learned the reason for the attack, Archduke Pritta – previously guarded in his dealings with Alpha – became utterly determined to achieve peace. The Treaty of Lacertilia was signed five months later._

_Jason Henderson was the first and last casualty of his war._


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## chrisatola (Dec 14, 2015)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...t-One-to-Die?p=1941716&viewfull=1#post1941716


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## ned (Dec 15, 2015)

*Tryst*
.
One o’clock in the morning, Alice and I sit upright in bed as the booming bass of dance music emanates from the wall behind us.
“You’d think there would be a break when they change records.” Says Alice.
“I think they use two turntables these days.”
“Both with the same record?”
I let it go and motioned to get up. “I’ll have word with them…”
“No John.” She cut across. “You know they’ll be rude to you again and you’ll just come back in worse state.” I slumped back down and picked up my book - Twelfth Night to the rhythm of boom-boom tish boom.
Phoning the police was not an option, Alice insisted. She feared things would only get worse and couldn’t face the thought of any reprisals. And, in her own strange logic, “If the police make them turn it down, then I couldn’t stand the silence.”

Ever since the Murrays moved next door to our semi-detached council house, they have been the bane of our life. The father, mother and three children are all loutish and loud. If it isn’t parties, then it’s full-on shouting matches that shake the walls, and with me and Alice in our twilight years, we just want the peace to enjoy each other’s company while we can.
We both have serious health problems, that have us shuttling backwards and forwards to the out-patients clinic for tests and check-ups. Alice with her lungs, me with my heart, and often able to share a taxi together for the next doom-laden prognosis.

But something had to be done about the Murrays. The next evening, over dinner, I broach the subject. “I was down the library today, on their inter-web thingy.”
“Oh yes.” Says Alice vaguely.
“On the council site, I found out we can get an emergency move to another house, or maybe to another estate, due to our situation.. We can get a move within weeks and finally be free of the Murrays.”
“No John, I won’t hear of it. I’m not leaving the house we have shared ever since we were married. No, I’m not leaving my friends and the house I love at this time of my life.” She made her point, and that was that, I guess.
Then, pausing from her chicken casserole, she looks up with suddenly bright eyes.
“We can have a tryst.” She says.
“A what?”
“A lover’s tryst.” And grins like she hadn’t done for ages.

A few days later. I found her in bed, where she’d taken her nap, unconscious and breathing very shallow. The ambulance took her to hospital where she died that night, without ever coming round. A small mercy, perhaps. I held her hand throughout, sobbing as they told me to go home for some rest.

A few weeks after the funeral and things are quiet, not only through the loss of Alice, but I’ve hardly heard a peep from the Murrays. Maybe, they have found some sort of latent respect for my grieving - whatever,  I am grateful for the peace.
Then, I notice the furniture van outside the Murrays.
 “Yeah, an emergency move.” The driver said as he checked his ledger. “To the Saltwater Estate. They’ve already moved in, so we’re just picking up the furniture.”
“Emergency?” I enquired.
“Yeah, doesn’t say what, but it’s usually because of nuisance neighbours…” He trailed off as I narrowed my eyes.
“Or it might be infestation - they move you pronto if you get unwelcome visitors” 
Infestation? Unwelcome visitors? And I have to smile, remembering my tryst with Alice. 

We had written it down, and across the dinner table, we raised our hands and clasped them thumb to thumb, wrist to wrist, brittle vein pulsing brittle vein, looking into each others eyes as we pledged our lover’s tryst together.
“First one to die, haunts the Murrays!”


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## LOLeah (Dec 15, 2015)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...t-One-to-Die?p=1941984&viewfull=1#post1941984


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## Smith (Dec 15, 2015)

*Sick - 643 words*

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...t-One-to-Die?p=1942020&viewfull=1#post1942020

.


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## kilroy214 (Dec 15, 2015)

I am posting this for:

Godofwine

Something at the Door – Godofwine (645 words - Language)

William stood at the side entrance to the garage and screamed out through the pouring rain, “Sarah! Sarah! Please answer me!”

He stood quietly listening as the deafening silence frightened the entire group.

“Where did she go?” Angel said. “Why would she just run away like that?”

Sarah’s cries erupted from the darkness not far from the garage.

“Please! Get away from me!”

A shrieking scream pierced the night and ceased abruptly. 

Everyone in the garage fell silent. 

Each person stared at the other in disbelief. Tiffany shook off the fear, stood up, and closed, and closed the garage door. She turned around and met the glares of her friends. 

“She’s not coming back. I think Sarah’s dead you guys.”

“You don’t know that,” Angel cried, her face streaked with tears.

“Yes, I do know it. We all know it. And I don’t want to be next.”

“Tiffany’s right.”

“You would say that, Billy. I swear. No one would ever accuse you of being brave. Get the hell out of my way. I’m going after her,” Dan said, pushing past him.

“Look, Dan. You don’t even know where she is. It’s pitch black out there and we have no flashlights or anything. Why did she run out there in the first place?”

“So what would you have me do, huh, Billy? Wuss out in here sitting with the girls like you waiting for the boogeyman to come get me? She was…she’s my friend, alright. That means something to me - enough for me to do something about it.”

“Is there anything in this place I can use as a weapon?” he said looking at Angel as he headed to the rear of the garage.

Angel sat on the floor hugging her knees rocking back and forth.

“Angel!” Dan snapped, snatching the girl from her trance. “Is there anything I can use? Does your father keep tools in here?”

Angel pointed to the corner by the tractor, but said nothing and continued sobbing. 

“Ridiculous,” Dan mumbled under his breath as he headed to the back end of the garage.

Dan rummaged through a litany of plastic handles of garden tools and happened upon a wooden baseball bat. He lifted the bat high in the air admiring its beauty, and then slammed it into his hand to test its strength. A wry smile crept slid across his face as he slammed the bat into his palm again. 

“Got it,” he said as he walked toward the group, the bat slung across his broad shoulders. “Any of you coming with me?”

He looked at William and watched the man look as though he wanted to blend into the wall of the garage. 

“I…I…,” William said, but could manage no more. 

“Pussy,” Dan muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I just don’t think it’s safe. I mean, someone could come for us.”

“We’re out in the middle of nowhere, Billy! No one’s coming for us! We don’t even know what’s out there! We’ve got no signal on our cell phones, and this stupid house doesn’t have a damned land line! We’re screwed! Literally screwed! 

“If we don’t want to end up like Sarah, we can’t just sit here with our thumbs up our asses waiting to get picked off. We’ve got to take the fight to whatever it is our there! If you want to stay here with the ladies, fine. But me?” he lifted the bat by the handle. “I’m going to take my life in my own hands.”

Dan strode to the garage door and froze. Tiffany and William caught his reaction and gathered behind him, each one paralyzed with fear.

Outside the window, a werewolf covered in matted brown fur stood, barrel-chested, teeth bared and glaring at them.

They all looked down, stumbled backward, and prepared to run as they watched the door handle turn.


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