# September 2013 - LM - Don't Turn Out The Lights



## Fin (Sep 1, 2013)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Don’t Turn Out The Lights​



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:*

*Pluralized*; *wechtleinuns*; *BreakingMyself*; *Charlaux*


*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:*

Saturday, the 14th of September at 11:59 PM GMT time.
click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Fin (Sep 3, 2013)

*Darkness (649 words)
Anonymous Entry
*​

Silence and darkness. Alone. As always. I didn't want to see what the light always brought. In these moments I could pretend everything was as it should be because the tears splashing down felt normal. What they came from though wasn’t. The whites of my eyes weren't white at all. But I could pretend. 

The only door in the room creaked open, an explosion in the silence.

“Come eat, Kayvoe,” _she_ said. _She_, so happy, so pleased to be what we are. It was disgusting. Tara, the one who made me.

Eating. Called that because it’s our only equivalent. Without it, we die again. I tried to stop eating once. But Tara didn't like that at all. She tied me up, force fed me for a month. The screams of the victim as you take it in - it’s a scar that hasn't left me yet. I didn't try dying again. But I will.

The lights throughout the building were off. Tara compromised. When she wanted me to leave my room, she'd turn all the lights off.

But it wasn't complete darkness. The food,_the souls_, sat there glowing. I could see her face in the glow. It was just like mine, her face. The cracked skin, black sclera. The scarred lips from her teeth poking through. 

She took the souls in quickly. They merge with our being, we don’t actually eat them. I on the other hand manipulated the soul into its human shape. Wondering the life it had. Memories of Chirley, my wife, flooded in. The real food she made. The nights we spent doing nothing but talking. The moment of hesitation...

* * *​
The holidays. A block party going on outside. Music flooding in through the windows, and then there was us. Chirley and I were inside in front of the couch. Wrestling, a common form of foreplay for us. I went for a pin - I wish I didn’t, because the back of her head slammed into a shelf.

I shook her. Tried everything I could to revive her. I was crying then, too. It was when I stood there, phone in hand, ready to call the cops that I changed my mind. The selfish part of me. I’d just murdered...

I ran to the window, shutting the blinds and as I was getting ready to turn out the lights so the outside couldn't see, the whisper came.

“Keep them on,” a voice said. She revealed herself from the shadows and I jumped back, revolted by her appearance. Frozen, it was then that I first saw the soul taking process. 

Tara smiled, turned to me and said “Your turn.” She killed me then. Chirley became food for Tara. I became death’s servant - her partner.

It’s just the way it is. Some get eaten. Some get turned. The lucky ones don’t get caught and move on.


* * *​
The lights were on for once. Tara was out on her hunt, something I never did. For hours, or what seemed to be anyway, I stood, staring into the mirror, disgusted by my appearance. My fingers ran down the surface of the glass. My scarred hand...

I slammed it, shattering the glass.

It’s time to die again.

* * *​
I turned my room light on and left my door open. A curious sight. Every other light was off. 

Tara got home about an hour later, and as expected went straight to my room. I watched from the shadow as she looked in confusion. As she moved her hand to turn off the light, I spoke.

_“Keep them on.”_

She froze. I took that moment to pounce. I snapped her neck, but that wouldn't be enough to kill her - we don’t die like that. So I began the soul extraction. It was a glow unlike any other. Mangled, dark, disgusting. 

Then I sat in the same room with her body, turned the light off, and waited to die myself.


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## Dictarium (Sep 4, 2013)

It never listens.


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## InkwellMachine (Sep 8, 2013)

*Excision (615 words--disturbing imagery)*

*Excision
*By Benjamin Cook​
“Chaaaarliiiie,” the boy whispers, rocking back and forth on his gurney. A small, shriveled package rests in his cupped hands, plastic gleaming under the fluorescent lights. “I like your bubbles, Charlie.” He squeezes the package, watching the fluid gather gather around the fleshy lump at the center. Smiles. Brings it closer to his face. “They’re very good bubbles.”

The woman looks through the window into the room. She stares at the boy, soaks him in as best she can. “How long has it been since he arrived?”

“Less than a month. Probably a week and a half.”

“Really?” She raises her eyebrows. “I would have guessed longer. He’s making a speedy recovery, isn’t he?”

Tabatha nods, a bit surprised herself. “He is. It feels like it’s been so much longer. Between operations and therapy…” she sighs and shakes her head. “Poor boy.”

“I’ll say. Trapped in a closet for… how long?”

“The pediatrician says he’s ten.”

“Jesus. Did someone just leave him there?”

Tabatha shrugs. “Don’t know yet. He wouldn’t talk until we gave him the tumor back, and that was just this morning.”

“So strange.” The orderly stares at the child for another long moment. She smiles, giving her best impression of a worried parent, and turns to leave. “Well, I suppose he’s in good hands. I’ll leave you to it.”

“See you.”

Like everyone else, Tabatha is a ghost. She floats past the boy, invisible, and settles into a nearby chair. “Hey you,” says her disembodied voice.

The boy sits upright, staring in a seemingly random direction. “Hi pretty voice lady.” He smiles excitedly and holds the package up for her to see. “Look! My brother found me! Charlie’s such a good big brother.”

“That’s good,” says Tabatha, her voice a soothing monotone.

The boy squeezes the package, tilting it toward the wall opposite Tabatha so that she can see. “He found bubble-clothes. They’re fun to squish.”

“Are they?”

“Mm-hmm. They’re lots more fun than his skin-clothes.”

“Do you mean when Charlie used to be inside your shoulder?”

“Snug as a bug in a rug.” The boy wheezed, something like laughter. “That’s what mother used to say.”

“Oh?” Tabatha removes the pen from the top of her clipboard and scribbles something down. “What was your mother like?”

“Loud. Not as pretty as your voice.”

“Thank you. What did she look like?”

The boy furrows his brow and begins to search the room. “Like…” Finally, he finds the lights above and freezes, eyes glazed over. “Like that.”

“Like a light?”

“Like whiteness. A little white line in the scary dark.” He looks back down at Charlie, fingering the corners of the package. “And she started to smell bad, too.”

Tabatha pauses her notes mid-sentence. “How bad?”

“Well… once a little furry friend got past mother and played with me and Charlie in the dark for a bit. It had a nicesqueak-squeak voice.” He lowers his head shamefully. “I broke it on accident,though, and it stopped playing with us. After that it started to smell verybad, too. That’s how mother smelt when her voice stopped, only a lot a lotworse.”

“I... see.”

“But I know mother wasn’t broken like the furryfriend, cause she kept feeding me and Charlie.” He grimaces. “It wasn't tasty.And it smelled just like her. And…” The boy trails off.

“And...”

He turns toward Tabatha, two hazy eyes staringat a ghost. “And sometimes I couldn’t get it off the bone.” He smiles. Cracked teeth.

The blood drains out of Tabatha’s face. She stands up and stumbles toward the door, unable to bring herself to break eye contact.

“Are you going, pretty voice lady?”

"Yes... I..." she fingers the light switch. "I think it's time for bed."

"Please don’t turn out the lights. Me and Charlie…" he hugs the package close "we don’t want to be in the scary dark anymore.”


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## bazz cargo (Sep 9, 2013)

*Excerpt in development.*

Home. Myrna turned the key and leaned on the door, it swung inwards. Buster scampered in through the narrow gap and went straight into the kitchen to  his food bowl. Charley  carried the sleeping  child over to the sofa and set him down. Myrna dumped the bags in the hallway, closed and locked the door. She was determined to shut out the world.

Beside Squirt, Charley sprawled in an attempt to ease the weariness in his bones.

 From the kitchen, Myrna stage whispered, “Honey, you can have a moussaka out of the slow-cooker in about five minutes.”

Real food, on a real plate. Charley looked across the breakfast bar at his wife. “Will you marry me?” 

“Nope. You don't earn enough.”

 Only the snoring of Buster, the scrape of cutlery and the slurp of fruit juice disturbed the meal.
 Slowly at first, then with more certitude, Charley nodded off to sleep. Myrna managed to get him onto their bed before he was out like the proverbial light.

 * * *

 The world was shaking.  

 “Wake up.”

 No, not the world, just his body. “Unhung.”

 “I said wake up, you lazy toad.”

“Ungung. Ribbit.”

“Charles Lazy Toad Colins, if you don't get out of this bed immediately I will poor this glass of water over you.”

 “Wut time is it?”

 “Stop mumbling into your pillow. It's five o'clock.”

 Charley rolled over and peered blearily at his wife. In the dark room she was a shadow. “Eh?”

 The shadow sitting on the bed made him an offering. “Here are two tablets and a glass of water. Get them down you.”

 “Yes Boss.”

 The clock clicked over another minute. The streets were silent. No-one on the estate had a job that wasn't nine to five. All were middle aged, middle earning, respectable, golfing and home-baking types.

“Now do your teeth and splash some water on your face, you will feel a lot better.”

 “What? I mean, why?”

 “Listen very carefully. If you do exactly what I say and keep your questions for later, you can come. If you want to discuss this now, I will render you unconscious, tie you up and leave you behind.”

_This might not be the best time to start an argument.  “_Lead on.”

 “Good. Leave your phone, wallet and keys.” Myrna handed him a rucksack. “Be careful, Buster is asleep in there.” Little Squirt was sleeping comfortably in a papoose on her back.

 Through the house and out of the sliding patio door they left. At the end of the garden Myrna took hold of part of the fence and gave it a powerful pull, it came away in her hands. The next garden was mostly lawn which they crossed to the side gate. The street was deserted. There were slightly darker patches between the lights, so they crossed swiftly there.

 They stopped to hide behind a car. “Stay here.” Myrna handed Charles the papoose, then faded into the night for what felt like an eternity, but in reality was about five minutes. She had acquired a set of car keys.  “Right, time to make some distance.”  

 The stolen BMW started with barely a sound. Without using lights Myrna drove slowly away.


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## J Anfinson (Sep 15, 2013)

*Reconcile (Language- 627 words)*

One hour to go until my shift is over and all I have left are two more rooms. The wheels on the mop bucket squall as I wheel it along the hallway, making me wish I would have oiled them.

I stop at the entrance to the boys’ restroom. Even though it’s usually messier, I’m more comfortable going in there so I decide to do it first. I open the door and step inside.

There’s shit on the ceiling. Giant splatters of brown against the white ceiling tiles. The mirrors are caked over as well, and they left a squashed turd in one of the sinks. The stench is terrible. I turn to open the door again. Someone else can clean it up. They don’t pay me enough for that.

It won’t open. I twist the knob back and forth but it acts like it’s locked, which is impossible since there isn’t one. Pulling and twisting harder has no effect. Wonderful, I’m stuck in a shit covered room. I pull out my cell phone to call the superintendant but there’s no signal. A small window with frosted glass is at the far end of the room. Maybe if I stand next to it I can get a few bars.

Before I can move, the lights flicker and then go out.

There’s not enough sunlight to penetrate the frosted pane. I hold up my phone, hoping the display will allow me to cross the room without bashing my nose into a toilet stall, but my eyes haven’t adjusted enough yet. It’s then that the silence is broken by a scraping sound from one of the stalls.

I take a step back and my spine presses into the doorknob. As quietly as I can, I reach behind me and try turning the knob again, praying to God it’ll budge this time but no such luck. I raise my phone again and activate the display.

The screen illuminates the restroom in a pale glow, but I don’t see anyone. Taking a deep breath, I kneel and shine it from floor level hoping to see which stall the stranger is in, but don’t see anything. They must be crouched on a toilet seat.

_Gabe…_

A voice calls out softly. It sounds familiar, yet I can’t place it. “Who’s there,” I ask.

_I’ve come for you, Gabe…_

I hammer at the door. “Somebody help! I’m locked in here!”

The sound of a stall unlocking gives rise to panic. I put my back to the door and hold my phone up again. The scent of rotted flesh hits my nostrils, and bile comes up my throat, tasting bitter and acrid.

Johnny Wilson comes out of the stall. He was twelve years old when he died and, other than the decomposition, he’s just as I remember him.

_Look at what you did to me…_

 “You’re not real…”

_Look at me! Don’t I look real enough for you?_

A chunk of flesh comes loose from his cheek and hits the floor with a sickening splat. My denial shatters.

“Oh God, Johnny, I’m so sorry. But I didn’t know!”

_Then here’s your chance to make things right._

He reaches out to me with a dirt encrusted hand and grabs me by the arm, pulling me toward the sinks. He wipes a grimy fist across a mirror, clearing off a spot.

_Make it right. Call to her._

“Please, Johnny!”

_Call to her!_

It’s been over twenty years since that night, so I know I’m only talking to a ghost. All the same, he’s right. I dared him to do it, so I deserve to join him.

I take a deep breath, sure that it will be my last, and begin calling into the mirror.

“Bloody Mary…Bloody Mary…”


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## Ghosts of the Maze (Sep 15, 2013)

*Glimpse*

Inside, Bethany Kosar is different. Defanged. Stripped away from the games in the office where she would flirt with Michael one minute, before laughing too hard at Steve’s joke, making him wonder if his friend had been a rival all along. 

But inside, early in the week, when she wouldn’t go out, it’s different. She isn’t coy when she walks around her living room. Michael marvels at her flawed perfection when she takes off her makeup. The freckles that she glossed over earlier in the day. That shadow on her lip that makes him think for a moment that he has a chance. She gives him that intimate fantasy. A tease to the familiarity that he always pined for.

She dusts and waters her plants, and seems to smile in his direction when she makes dinner, but he knows she isn’t looking his way. He wants to say something. To participate. But she’s putting on a show when she steps bare footed along the wood floor, or reads on the couch with her hair thrown up in a bun. 

Michael used to want to knock the book out of her hands. He would picture her quivering while she looked up and took off her glasses. She would be confused when he told her to leave them on. He plotted twisted desires, which he realizes now weren’t as exotic as graphic, and only perverted because she’d never know what he had in mind.

But that’s not how he thinks anymore. It’s worse, he considers. It’s how he follows her from room into room, and fills in the gaps with his imagination whenever she walks away from the window. He sees her neat home, where there isn’t a layer of dust when she sweeps the corners. She’ll buy new things, but never hoards, knowing exactly when to discard something that had outlived its use. He wonders how he would ever fit in. How she would yell when he left his clothes on the ottoman, or dishes on the coffee table. Even in his dreams he can only disappoint. 

In here, he watches her read and memorizes the cover of the book so he can look up the author. He doesn’t watch TV, only the look on her face.

“I’m not dangerous.”

She would never need to study him the same way. She can joke at work, because she’s never the one who’s nervous. Never needs to hang on Michael’s facial cues or interpret the subtext of a simple hello. He doesn’t matter to her yet. He comes over at night and she doesn’t notice. And he could leave and she wouldn’t care. And everything will be the same when he sees her tomorrow. She’ll start friendly, and then try to set him up with Sarah, or Kelly, or even Justine, and he’ll wonder if she’s aware of how much he hurts.

He cares. He pays attention because he cares about her. He pays attention because he wants to imagine a future where he could make her as happy as her requited love would make him. When he could kiss her when the lights go dark, instead of going home.

She turns out the lights in the kitchen.

“Ten more minutes.”

The lights dim in the living room and he follows her upstairs where one by one the windows go dark before he’s ready.

“Not just yet.”

She washes her feet and gets into bed, and he can only pretend what it’s like to be at her side, and cringes for a moment before the last light goes out for good.

“Goodnight.”


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## bookmasta (Sep 15, 2013)

What Goes Bump in the Night (587words)​                                                                                                                                                                                                                   When I was younger it would come with sundown. Like a broken record, it would begin again, the fearsome monster that went bump in the night. I was only three, maybe four at the time but it made bedtime a living hell. It would start with my mom laying me down for the night. I would say, “mom please don’t turn out the lights or else the monster will come!”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                               She would give me a dry smile as if thinking I was only going through a phase. She would reply, “don’t worry honey.The monster is just a figment of your imagination.”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                       I would start to protest, but she wouldn’t hear it. She would close the door and turn off the lights and I would be alone with my thoughts in the darkness. Oh little did she know what would really happen. The monster always appeared at 11:00 sharp. No later, no earlier. The silence of night would be broken by the sound of my closet door creaking open. He would slip out from the dark abyss of the closet and come into view.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                              He was a slender fellow, no more than six feet tall. His translucent form shimmered in my room but his eyes, his dark red eyes looked like those of a blood thirsty serial killer gazing into the depths of my very soul. Thump thump. Thump thump. My heart would pound outof my chest. For a brief moment, it was he and I engaged in a staring contest, me against him. Just as I blinked he would start to float towards me. I would retreat under my covers, my only sanctuary from the beast where I didn’t feel scared. I could feel his presence looming above me. In the quiet, his cracking voice came to life like the sound of nails against a chalk board. 
                                                                                                                                                                                                                             “Come on child,” he said, “don’t hide from me, just take a look. I promise I won’t bite.”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Even through the blanket I could smell his pungent odor, one reminiscent of a dead bird. When I didn’t respond, he let out a loud bellowing laugh the shook the bed beneath me. Amidst my panic, I let out one glass shattering scream after another.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Hearing my screams, the all too familiar sound of my parent’s footsteps came rumbling down the hall. The door burst open and my parents were there to put an end to the torment. My dad would hold me in his arms. He would say, “it’s alright son, look the lights are on the monster is gone.” When I heard the sound of his voice, that’s when I knew I was safe again. He would tuck me back into my bed. I would feel secure again, warm and cozy in my surroundings. He would read me a bed time story until I was about to fall asleep. Then he would get up. Just before he would close the door I would say, “dad wait, please don’t turn out the lights!”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                              He would say, “okay son. Goodnight and sleep well.”
                                                                                                                                                                                                                           After that, I was be alone. The monster wouldn’t return and I would finally be able to sleep. After some time the monster stopped rearing its ugly head and it ceased to exist in my nightmares. Life went on. Whether the creature was a figure of my imagination or not, I do not know.  One thing was for sure. Never turn off the lights or face what goes bump in the night.
​


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## godofwine (Sep 15, 2013)

*Scratch, scratch, scratch…*(649 words)
*By Godofwine*

Gordon Linwood was lying in his bed terrified. He had just been rudely awakened at nearly two in the morning by the sound of scratching under his bed. 

They didn’t have pets, though he had wanted a dog for ages. “We just can’t afford one right now, sweetie,” his mother had said. 

He exhaled. 

He hadn’t even realized he had been holding his breath. He was 9, far too old to be calling Mom because of noises in the dark, but there it was again. 

“All you have to do is look under the bed, fraidy cat,” he said aloud. 

Then he heard a bumping sound and he bolted off of the bed to his parents’ room down the hall.

He tried to calm himself, but that proved impossible and he rapped on the door like a crazy person.

“Yeah, honey,” his mother said sleepily. “Come in.”

“Mom…umm,” he looked down nervously. “Could you…look under my bed? I heard something under there,” he said shyly as his father lay there snoring loudly. 

“Gordy, you are far too old for that and you know it. I have to go to work in…my God, four hours. Please go back to bed.”

He closed the door and pouted as he trudged back to his room. 

When he got to the doorway he turned on the light on the left side of the wall, and then knelt, straining his eyes to peer under the bed but saw only darkness. Seeing nothing, he still ran full speed and jumped onto the bed and underneath the covers.

Silence. 

Gordon looked at the Iron Man clock by his bedside and watched the minutes of silence tick away…but it didn’t make him feel any more comfortable after not hearing anything for five minutes.

Then he heard it again…

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

After another thirty seconds he heard it again...

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

And then the bumping noise, louder this time than the last.

“MOM!!!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

His mother ran down the hallway bursting into his room, her blonde hair tussled, her thin blue gown wrinkled.

“Gordy, are you alright?”

“I heard it again, Mom. Can I sleep in there with you?” he said already near tears.

“Gordon Jackson Linwood. You are far too old to be sleeping in Mommy’s bed,” she said sternly. “Now go to sleep. I don’t want to hear a peep, you hear me?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Goodnight,” she said reaching for the switch as she left the room.

“DON’T TURN OUT THE LIGHTS!” he yelled.

“Excuse me? You watch your tone, young man,” his mother said. “Okay. I’ll leave the light on…for tonight. Electricity costs money. Goodnight.”

His mother left the room and it was silent again, his eyes trained on Iron Man’s glowing digital Arc Reactor.

Two minutes passed…then five…then…

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

Gordon brought the covers up to his face as he lay there horrified.

Then came a low snarl just like the African lions on Animal Planet. 

The growling snarl grew louder and louder, then he heard the scratching again…

Scratch, scratch, scratch…

A low rumbling roar rose from beneath the bed and he lost his nerve.

“MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!” he cried, this time bringing his mother and father into his room, both with bloodshot eyes and sleepy faces as they sat on his bed. 

“What is it, Gordon?” his father asked.

“I…I heard something under my bed. Honest.”

“Do you want me to look?” his father said as the son nodded anxiously.

Mr. Linwood got down on his knees and looked under the bed. Without warning he screamed loudly.

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! Somebody help! It got me! AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!” he kicked his legs and then he went limp as Gordon screamed hugging his mother who looked just as frightened. 

His father stood up holding a dog’s cage and a walkie-talkie.

“Gotcha! Happy birthday, son.”​


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## Iggi (Sep 16, 2013)

646 words 

*A Love story*

James was my best friend. We were inseparable growing up.  When I left for University, he remained in the village. We lost contact. 15 years passed and on the occasion of a short visit home, I sought him out. I wanted to hear of his life and catch up on local happenings.  He was not at his home. A dour woman, speaking through a crack in the door, directed me to a local watering hole where he could be found.  

It was a filthy place, dimly lit and permeated with the faint aroma of rank, stale urine. There was raucous crowd inside; dirt-mottled farmers with worn faces, unkempt beards, gnarled hands and drink dulled eyes. A sprinkling of under dressed women in heavy make-up strutted about.

No one there looked like my friend.  No one looked like anyone I knew. I should have known them all. We grew up together and some were kin!

_"James MacEwan?"_ I inquired?

 A weathered fellow in greasy overalls stood up, peered over his glasses and asked gruffly, _“Who wants to know?”  _I recognized a characteristic flop of hair and tilt of head. 

_“Iggi Campbell,”_ I responded.

James ran to embrace me and so did a crush of kinfolks and old acquaintances. But my joy ended at this greeting. The homecoming went downhill thereafter.  For three excruciating hours I endured the same tale reworked and embellished after each swig of whiskey. James had no stories of our conquests on the soccer field nor did he mention how a freak wave washed us out to the sea and how we swan for hours to save ourselves. There was also no telling either of the many evenings on the beach with our girlfriends experimenting with booze, cigarettes and sex. My friend James told of how in high school the two of us hid under the stairs and peeked up Marcy McWilliams skirt!

It was the prelude a to popular village lore.  Others had their Marcy stories as well. Punctuated by loud guffaws, I heard of how various men screwed the daylights out of easy Marcy and in how many ways! One woman recalled she dished out a sound beating to the trollop for creeping with her man! Marcy left town, they agreed, because she got knocked up. 

_“That baby is truly a villager; we all added to its gene pool,”_ James screeched to loud cheers!

I did not remember the incident under the stairs. I would have.  I remembered Marcy and that was putting it mildly. She never spoke to me or even looked my way but she was my moon and stars. Sometimes I listened to her voice in the lunch room and knew I was alive.  

I had met her again in New York a few years earlier.  I was walking on West 57[SUP]th [/SUP]when I saw a red headed girl in the crowd. It activated an imprinting in my soul.   She turned and I glimpsed those unmistakable, magical, emerald green eyes.   

_ “Marcy McWilliams,”_ I shouted waving my hands frantically.   _"Please let her see me lord, don’t turn off the light," _I prayed for the first time

She looked up, clearly surprised to hear her name. And a most wonderful thing happened. With ethereal grace she glided through the crowd to where I was! 

I told her we were from same village and went to the same high school. She happily exchange brief snippets about village life and apologize for not knowing me

_“I so much miss the simple life and so many dear friends,”_ she cooed.

We chatted for 5 wonderful minutes. It was two kindred souls speaking to how and where they were located in the world.  I do not have a best friend or any friend in the village anymore. I have a good sense that Marcy and I are friends. She is, after all, my wife.


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## Lewdog (Sep 16, 2013)

*"Do the Lights Really Go Out?"*  (Language Warning)  649 words-  http://www.writingforums.com/thread...hts-Workshop?p=1668403&viewfull=1#post1668403


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## Pluralized (Sep 16, 2013)

*Doin' Dark Stuff - Language Warning, 650w*


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## Fin (Sep 16, 2013)

*Cooking Up a Storm
Anonymous Entry​*


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## Fin (Sep 17, 2013)

*Phoenix Lite (635)
Anonymous Entry​* 
Over sere outback, the sun-disk rises, heralding with Technicolor Jesus-rays another SPF95 scorcher. Four black chutes drop silently from the ozone hole. Below each dangles a trooper in full-armor regalia, including heavy-wheel pedi-tanks. In their earbud-implants, Wagner soars.

These matte-finish ghosts acquire target: a u-shaped building on the outskirts of Goomalling, former Budget Inn. A Punjab-trained clandestine, disguised as itinerant information technologist, has marked the roof with green, plastic, Phoenix lamps. Much like the kind good blokes put in their gardens.

Arranged around an empty pool, the hulking, two-story, economy motel houses the imperial residence of retired Admiral Crankyberry Stodgeworth. A glass façade wrapping the central wing glints with sunrise. Behind its reflection hide the Admiral’s lavish personal quarters and the Spartan office where he excoriates minions.

Solitary minions labor in each room, birthing Crankyberry’s world-web conquests. They emerge simultaneously each noon to individual barbeques where they roast outsize crustaceans and quaff enormous cans of ale. Stodgeworth exits his lair at first light, and, to prepare his head for daily administration, polices the patio equipment and sweeps shrimp shucks from the pool.

He does not notice his new angels descending. They surround the building and, confident in superior firepower, make their presence known.

External broadcast speakers on the four minis boom out together. “Ockypashun order nummer primo uno. Yawl lissen hyer. No more spoutin off in yer fernal aunty podean gibberish. Vile-aters gonna git themselves sum-air-ally dis-patch-ed.”

“Crappy voice recognition,” The Admiral says, but he knows the jig is up.

The Yanks have arrived.

Since before the Perestrokan collapse of the Soviet menace, Admiral Crankyberry has piloted, from his suspicious pile, a campaign to thwart the most powerful nation in the free world of its rightful leadership. By a couple decades into the new millennium, his cultural assault on the only remaining superpower bears noticeable fruit. What starts with innocent disco infiltrations, escalates into non-stop broadcasts in barbaric but irresistible English.

“G’day mate. Toss another shrimp on the barbie.”

Insidious subliminal demoralization leads to Stodgeworth gathering into his mitts reins controlling the globe’s most influential literary networks.

Corporal Lancestrong Testyheart spots Crankyberry in the pool and blinks a photo. In seconds his heads-up flashes ID recognition. “Don’t move,” screeches Lance through the modulator. “Don’t brake my play.”

Only slightly disgruntled, Cranky bolts anyway. Lance pinches off a round, which the mother-ship overrides while reviewing his decision to pot-shot a primary. They confirm, but too late, and Lance misses. Cranky reaches the door and moments later appears on the apex of the façade, muffled in bio-armor of living minion-skin.

In an effort to levitate him directly upstairs, the four troopers quadrangulate Crankyberry with focused quadrophonic maser beams of concentrated Springsteen. _Born in the USA. _Minion-skin crackles with static and puffs foul smoke, but the armor holds. The Admiral assesses his options.

The best cubicle jocks Madison Avenue can spare staff the Yank’s military high authority. They are housed in a logo-building of iconic stature—a five-side geo-prism—and branding campaigns is their life. For Goomalling-Stodgeworth, a flickering red, white and blue crossed circle overlays the green-phoenix-festooned headquarters in a living demonstration of superiority-powerfulness. CG mock is in the can, but live footage is best and much wanted.

The Punjabi has seeded a self-replicating lumino-montage. A thick cable into a bathroom window powers the rooftop apparatus. It’s camouflaged, but from above Crankyberry spots it.

Admiral Crankyberry Stodgeworth hasn’t risen to contest the media summits accidentally. He immediately realizes the display’s import.

He darts for the cable.

Nothing is apparent to Corporal Lancestrong Testyheart, except orders and priorities endlessly reiterated. _Protect power to the roof._ “Don’t turn out the lights,” he shouts, but freezes when the modulator snarls, “Don turtlenecks tonight.” Crankyberry yanks out the cable. For want of voice recognition, the Green Phoenix triumphs again.


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