# 3-22-07 | Wild Life



## silverwriter (Mar 22, 2007)

Hello once again, it's time for your next literary maneuver.

This maneuver can be a reflective one for you, but remember creativity and originality are things that will gain you extra points.

The theme is this maneuver is based off Mary Oliver's The Summer Day. (Studying the poem and submitting in her style of writing isn't going to gain you extra points; her poem is simply the inspiration.) You've likely heard or even written for this prompt before, but here it is:

You're going to die tomorrow. It's not something you can despute or fight. You're going to die and that's that. What do you do today? What do you do for the rest of your short life?

The challenge in this prompt lies in two things - not doing the typical "I would hug and kiss my mother" (which you can do if you want, but if you're the tenth person who does...), but also in that you're back to only having 500 words to tell me what you're going to do. Please, no stories about suicide and doing it before it can be done to you stuff. There's vast potential for thoughtful and even humorous pieces. 

Submission period: March 22nd-April 8th
Judging period: April 9th-16th
Scores posted: April 17th

Judges:
TsuTseQ
Chris Miller
Hawke
Sacred Circle

If you would like to judge, please PM me.


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## Amber Leaf (Mar 22, 2007)

I know what I’m going to do. Twenty-four hours. Mmm…. Just bought some flowers but now their no use. Another day would have done. Should have left the ones that were nearly dead. Mmm…. Like I am. Can I pluck up the courage? I mean it is the end of the world after all. Yes. That’s it. I will be bold. 

I should have told him by now. Have I left it too long? Will he have gone and disappeared to somewhere important for him?

So in haste I plot my plan. That man, that love that I’ve missed. On the top of my list of the things I need to do on my final day. Number two to see my mother and father away. I will go round to his place. Oh I wonder. Will we embrace? 

I look at my face in the mirror. Here is the worry and fear. Must leave the house in a hurry. Does he know my times up? I could be in luck if I catch him. Didn’t manage to book his time. 

But then what if I see him and hurt him with my news. He might have not wanted to know if he had the option to choose. 

So I’m decided on my parents. They reside on the other side of town. Down the stairs and onto the road. I will avoid every person for fear of them knowing. I don’t want to see tears just because I am going. I will do this alone. No need to phone anyone. No need to cause them pain or to have to explain why. It will pass them by without their worry. I won’t have to fit in goodbyes in such a big hurry. 

I’ll go to the park now its summer. The warm hair and the hum of the insects. My final music - amuse me until the end. Then I’ll write to my friends and explain why this is. And I hope them pleased and content with my passing. Remember the time that we’ve spent and fun that we had.

Then there’s this knock at the door and I wonder who it is. I look under the letter box and see legs of a man. I’m shocked as I’m not expecting but then on reflection of yesterday he said he was coming round. I don’t make a sound and there’s another knock. He never comes by and visits our block. I let the man in. It’s him here to see me. He was just passing by. He hasn’t a clue that I’m going to die.

So I tell him and he’s upset and I didn’t want to upset him. But he tells me a plan. He’s going to do whatever he can to make my last day the best day of my life. He even asks me to be his wife. And now I’m kind of looking forward to the day ahead because I’m spending it with him and not leaving my bed.

(edit) 502 words


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## Itsaboysname (Mar 22, 2007)

500 words!

*Gonna Die Tomorrow

*I should cut my nails.

They’re long and gross and got all sorts of gunk underneath them. I’ve always wondered what that stuff is, that black stuff that always gets there. I don’t play in dirt or anything and I’m good about washing my hands but there’s always this black gunk underneath them.

I grab back onto the chains and look at the children running up and done the equipment. There’s this little girl who has this crush on this boy and is following him around and giving him flowers and rocks and things, like as gifts I guess, and this boy doesn’t really give an anything about them. He’s just trying to play with his friends.

I look back down at the ground and trace a circle with my foot in the sand. I should buy new shoes. Some red Chucks. I’ve always wanted a pair but I’ve never bought any. I got some blue ones for my birthday one time. I was pissed about it cause I told my mother over and over again “*Red* Chucks mom, I want some *red* Converse.” And when I opened the box there those blue ones were and I smiled and acted like they were perfect but I was so just… Livid.

I was like, all angsty and all that. And I was polite. Full of who knows what sorts of hormones and I was polite when my mother got me the wrong freaking shoes.

I’m so gosh polite all the time.

I scratch an itch off of my head with my too long nails. My too long hair trails with my fingers as I pull them away. I should shave my head. I’ve never had a shaved head. I should get a tattoo up there.

“Hey old man, are you gonna swing or are you just gonna sit there?” These kids come up to me and ask me this accusingly, like I’m committing a crime by sitting on their swing. “’Cuz me and Billy actually want to swing and you shouldn’t hog it if you’re not even swinging.”

He’s right. I hate that. I’m just taking up space, not even swinging.

“Sure. Here you go.” I get up and move to the bench. These kids don’t even thank me. And what’s with calling me “Old man”? I just turned thirty for goodness sakes. Thirty years old. I remember my fifth birthday party. 

That boy finally told that girl to buzz off. She’s crying for her mommy but at least now he can play with his friends without that chick following him.

She’s crying loudly. I go over and give her some candy from my bag and smile at her mom. There’s no ring on her hand; I should ask for her number. 

I walk away from the park and finger the wad of hundred dollar bills I withdrew from the bank today. I should buy myself something sweet.

I sigh and walk into the local charity. 

I’m gonna donate my savings.


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## ebmadman (Mar 23, 2007)

*Dear Joshua*

Joshua hurries into his room, quickly closing the door behind him. He sits on the bed, staring at the crumpled envelope in his hand. He takes a deep breath and opens it.

“I know it’s been awhile since we spoke, and that’s partly what kept me away. But recently, I’ve come to realize that that decision was a mistake.

I won’t waste time blaming others. I left on my own accord, simple and plain. Your mother and I, we had problems, but in the end I made the decision to stay away. Our arguments became detrimental to everything. Not to mention her parents, constantly reminding me of my failings as a husband and father.

There I go again, trying to justify my fuckups. I hope you didn’t inherit that trait, because it’s a bitch to break! I just wanted you to know the truth.

You see, I was a dreamer. The kid with his head to the sky and his mind in the clouds. I always thought I was meant for something special; that God had some grand design for me and only me. And while I believed these thoughts, some people said I dreamed too much.

Your mother really believed in me. She supported whatever I set out to accomplish, no matter how illogical or unorthodox, even going against the will of her parents who became our lifeline after she became pregnant. I know you were too young to remember, but Grandma and Grandpa were the ones that bought you all those toys that Christmas, not us. You were so happy that day, happier than I’d ever seen you.

That’s the worst feeling in the world; getting married and promising a father that you’ll take care of his daughter, then three years later begging that same man for grocery money. It ripped me apart. 

Eventually, they gave your mom an ultimatum; she could either leave me and move in with them, or stick with me and suffer. I made her decision easy. I walked out.

I joined the army, hoping to find not only myself, but salvation for a wasted life. I’ve missed you guys every second since, wondering about every aspect of your lives, to the point of it becoming a permanent fixture in my thoughts. 

I just want you to know, despite the circumstances, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I love you.”

Joshua becomes startled, dropping the letter as his mother enters the room.
“Josh, I thought I told you to check the mailbox?”
Joshua stares at her as tears stream down his face.



Inside a dark cellar in Iraq, a wounded soldier slowly raises his head, as his captors enter the room. 

He see's one of them holding a large blade.

His world goes black as a sack is placed over his head. Only one thought permeates his mind in those last fleeting seconds; he hopes his letter got through.


(495 words)


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## Wombat Boi (Mar 23, 2007)

*On A Cold, Wet Night In The City.*

[497 words.]


Her soft, warm coat feels good around me – good around my bare skin, so soft and pink in comparison. Though I cannot open my eyes, despite many attempts at doing so, I know that I am surrounded by darkness no less black than the inside of my eyelids. I feel no warmth coming from above me, but I know what warmth feels like. I feel it inside her coat, I felt it inside her – earlier today, while the heat was high in the sky and there were loud noises making the walls around me vibrate with the pulsating sounds of city-life. Even though I am blind, I know without anyone having to tell me that she is my mother. Who else could make me feel so safe? I recognize her voice - soft, but demanding and forceful – I would never struggle with her, I know she would only ever do what she thought was best for me.


It's late now, and I no longer feels the walls shaking, but there is still a low humming coming from near where I lay. I feel other bodies, larger than my own, but I cannot reach them. I think they may be staying away from me on purpose – but my mother is not, and it's only her reassuring embrace that I need. 


Suddenly there are loud sounds. They frighten me and I cry out weakly – my mother is moving, squirming away from me and towards the others. I try once again to move towards them, but my body will not cooperate. The sounds quicken and I feel the other bodies twisting, forcing themselves on top of each other into a mass of moving flesh. I cry out again – louder this time, but I barely hear myself above the sucking noises.


Instead of trying to walk, I move my limbs back and forth and they are all but useless to carry my weight. Like a snake, I slither and wriggle towards the sounds. Something compels me to be near them, to be like them, but I can't figure out what to do. They are all buried against my mother, drinking in her warmth as though there were nothing else in the world, and indeed, there may not be. I'm pulling myself in against the rest of them but there does not seem to be enough room. One of them moves their body into mine, and I feel myself fall against the wall of our room. It's moist and thin. 


It's as if my head is full of water. I feel unbalanced, as if there is a great weight on me. I resign to laying still again and listen to the rest of them relish her heat and care. I shiver, and wish greedily for the fur that covers their bodies – fur like my mother's. I wait, because I can feel a spark of warmth inside of me and it's growing, and I hope that soon it will make me warm everywhere.


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## Dephere (Mar 23, 2007)

*Happiness*

377 words

Twenty-four hours to live, well, twenty-three hours and forty-eight minutes after that long relaxing trip to the bathroom. You’d think the dingier side of life would take a vacation when you’re going to die tomorrow, but no, excrement still must make its way out. Who can blame it. I wouldn’t want to be in me either. The difference, I can’t just jump ship whenever I feel like it. Sure, that gun would do nicely, or perhaps that bottle of pills, but I’ve never been one to tempt fate when it comes to the afterlife. I can picture me now, rotting in hell for eternity, cursing the day I went for the easy way out. That’d be just my luck.

I pull casually into the driveway, pulling the keys from the ignition out of habit and making for the door. Before I head in I cast a sidelong glance at the mailbox. Should I check it? No, I think I’ll let the bills alone for another day. What’s one more, right? 

I throw my keys on the side table by the door and rush up the stairs. Before long I have the phone in my hand and dial as quickly as I can. 

“Hello.” The other end rings with a resonate voice; familiar, and therefore comforting. 

“I need a few things...” I said hurriedly into my little black phone. 

Five minutes later I hear a knock at my door, and obediently head down. I know it’s Felch, the man I spoke to on the phone. I open the door and prepare for the awkward conversation. 

“How’s life?” Felch asks almost immediately as his rough visage comes into view. 

“Couldn’t be better.” I say in all seriousness. I silently give him a wad of bills and he hands me a bag of joy, putting a stop to any small talk that might have ensued. And so the last person I was to see vanished from my doorstep. I rushed back up the stairs and took out my goods.

I flicked my finger against the liquid filled cylinder and smiled. I knew true happiness, and here I was gifted with it upon my deathbed. 

With a deep sober breath I closed my eyes and stuck the needle in my vein.


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## heatherlouise (Mar 23, 2007)

*my last day*

(407 words)

So, this is my last day.  My very last.  I have sat for weeks, wondering how quickly this day would come and what I would do when it did.  I never got an answer.  And now it is here, staring me in the face.  Death.

I thought at first about going to see all of my family, kissing my mother one last time, telling my sister that I had always loved her and I am sorry for any fights we have had in the past.  I decided against it.  Instead, I jumped into the shower and washed my hair, then spend the next two hours applying make-up, curling my hair and getting dressed in my favourite outfit.  

Grabbing my purse from the counter I exited my apartment onto the bare streets.  I walked along, not 100% sure of my destination. 

After an hour or so I noticed that I had walked far.  Very far.  Instead of seeing large buildings and fast cars, I saw nothing but green.  Fields with a variety of crops spread out across the hills in front of me, with huge trees and bushed sprawling out upon them.  From the corner of my eye I spotted a gate and a little path, leading away through one of the fields.  I opened the gate.

Half an hour up the path I came to the top of a hill and looked down below me.  A stream twisted its way through the trees and out into the distance, and I could see a rabbit running for cover from the hovering eagles.  Walking down to sit by the river I came across a very beautiful tree.  Large pink blooms hung from every branch, along with soft pink fruits.  

Instinct made me stretch out my hand and take a fruit from its branch.  I brought it to my lips and sunk my teeth into its fleshy skin.  It tasted sweet.  Taking another fruit from the tree and placing it in my pocket I continued to the stream.  Closer up I could see little fish and newts swimming along between the rocks.  I removed my shies and sat with my toes dabbling in the water, a cool breeze brushing over my body.

That night I slept well, the thoughts of death the next morning no longer looming over me.  I felt like i had finally had the cover removed so that I could see the world for its true beauty.


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## Due on Maple Street (Mar 24, 2007)

*No tears the day before I die*

500 Words

She left the door open and the engine running, greasy black smoke exiting the exhaust. Her little chevy lolled to the side, a lemon yellow skate in his driveway.

Her imminent death had given her the courage to do this today. Of course it had to be today, it was her last. God she wished they still made Vanilla Coke.

Purposely she strode up his walkway, piano keys being played too hard. The scent of azaleas stopped her for just a moment as she stood before the heavy door, trying to see through the peek hole, Superman. They were the sweetest smell, she inhaled them deeply almost as if she were trying to eat them. Maybe she was. Maybe she should.

"Steady Amy, steady." she took a deep breath and knocked.

Loudly. LOUDLY!

There was no other way to knock, not today. This would be the last door she ever knocked on, she had best make it count. She knocked until her petite fist ached.

"Come on you bastard, come on, answer." Of course, there was none. She stood there waiting, thinking about how she could better spend this time. Get drunk, catch a show, max out her credit cards. But this was the right thing to do. She had come this far.

Then a light came on inside. She could hear voices, muffled and the shuffling of feet on his "oh so white carpet." She would tell him...

The door swung open, a mouth ready to speak, but speechless, and in it stood a tall athletic blond pulling closed a silk robe. Definitely a cheerleader. The blond bitch smiled.

"Can I help you?" her voice was syrup on pancakes, a condescending niceness.

She held herself back from punching the little skank in the all too straight nose. That might be permissible later. "Tell Bradley to drag his out of bed and come see me." She told the blond in her nicest tone, which didn't come out all that nice.

"Brad! It's for you!" The blond called before slinking off, back to the bedroom, surely.

Likewise, Brad was wearing nothing more than a flannel robe, the one she had gotten him for his last birthday. Before he had dumped her. His eyes widened when he saw it was her.

"What do you want?" he said to her tits as much as he did to her. He was still a man, which meant part dog. Besides, he had no idea that something was about to be horribly wrong.

"I have to tell you something." Sure as hell did!

Before he even asked she spat it out, it was her last day to live. The rules were different today."I have AIDS, you gave it to me, you asshole." He had been her first, and now her last.


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## seawings (Mar 24, 2007)

*No Fear of Tomorrow*
503 Words

The sun crept above the eastern horizon, its dappled light shining through the trees and curtains into my bedroom. Smiling, I rolled over for a few more moments of sleep, pulling the covers up around my neck, no hurry; I am dieing and will not wake tomorrow.

Later I am awakened by my hunger and need for a good strong cup of coffee. The hunger has a new sense to it; this would be my last breakfast. Today I can eat anything I want, no worry of fat, cholesterol, sodium or spicy hot sauce causing heartburn; this is going to be a good day!

Breakfast has always been a hurried affair, throwing something together, eggs and bacon or cereal and bananas, hurriedly wolfed down while scanning the paper for any earth shaking events…then rushing out the door, briefcase in one hand, tie flying and a last cup of coffee in the other hand. But not today.

Today I will look carefully into the cabinets, the refrigerator and the pantry for items that I buy but never seem to use due to their unhealthy attributes. 

I have always burnt my breakfasts, in a hurry, setting the temperature too high; I burn my bacon, my eggs and even my toast, but not today, I will take my time.

The skillet warmed, and coated with olive oil (nothing but the best today…and it’s a very expensive olive oil) I place two pieces of bacon in the skillet; ok why not, three pieces of bacon! With the bacon crispy and brown I add an egg, no make that two eggs and might as well add two pieces of toast with butter…an artery clogger for sure!

With my sumptuous breakfast spread across my plate, I sit down to enjoy and read the paper. As usual, murders, wars and corruptions, usually very depressing, but not today.

Breakfast is a long enjoyable experience, cutting everything up into manageable bites, sipping coffee and slowly reading all the paper, but not really caring.

The day progresses much the same as breakfast, a leisurely walk, coffee with friends, and actually seeing what was around me…sites I see daily but never pause to actually look at the details.

Lunch is consumed with an attention to taste and texture. Supper is savored with palate pleasing wines that enhance not only the taste but the experience. How lovely are these sensual moments of the daily experience that we so often rush past.

The sunset is full of reds, oranges and shafts of gold piercing the sky, as if an explosion, the colors bursts, flares then slips away, darkness envelopes the day.

I crawl into my bed, luxuriating in the warmth and smell of the linens. Snuggling into the covers and feeling the warmth it gives remind me that life, like these covers, offers comfort, warmth and pleasures…why had I rushed through life? So many little pleasures had been enjoyed today, that had been rushed formalities when time seemed endless, but not today.


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## Evelyn (Mar 24, 2007)

*A Day's Work*

Thank God for the internet. And for this startling freedom to blow through my modest store of cash like there was no tomorrow. Because, all of a sudden, there is no tomorrow.

I've got their addresses, work and home: my brother, my first love, and my father. My car rental is already reserved. Sitting here on the plane - a last-minute first class ticket, but hey, it's not like I can take it with me - is the first chance I've had to relax and take a deep breath since they told me, since they convinced me, that these twenty-four hours were the last I'd ever get. 

I've been wanting to do this for so many years; and now I can.  My death tomorrow is my freedom today.

I only hope I can find all three of them, can reach them all in the time I've got left. If they're away on business, or on vacation, or if I just miss them, passing them in the street unawares - well, those will just be the breaks. It's lucky enough that they all still live with a hundred and fifty miles of my old hometown.

I am free of baggage. We land, and my rental car and I head straight to a shopping mall. A brief visit to the House of Cutlery, and I am now fully prepared. 


Will I be able to finish it in the - sixteen, now - hours I have left? I've never done it before, but I don't worry about whether I will actually be able to kill another human being. Either I can or I can't: I don't see any point in worrying myself before the moment comes. 

First the man who raped me when I was child. Then the man who raped me when I was a teenager. Then the man who abused my mother all those years until her death. I'll kill all three of them, or I'll die trying.

_(375 words)_


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## Cornish Maid (Mar 25, 2007)

*My Death*

490 words

Before anything happens I know I’m going to die. A short space in time is all that’s left now for my life, such it is. You cannot see my tears for this life that remains now; they are hidden from view. ​ 
What will happen to me on the other side? How will it all feel once I’m there? I have questions that nobody here knows the answers to. 

I have gotten used to this life I lead now; the sounds and the way things feel. Why do I have to die? Why can’t I stay? I love it here.

I stretch my legs, cramped as they are, and move them to a more comfortable position. It was a good sleep; really relaxing, but now I can feel things moving around me, nothing of which I can see. I change position once again to try and alleviate the discomfort but it doesn’t really work. A new sensation grips my head, unfamiliar in its inexperienced form. Pulsating and unpleasant as it is, I bear it out and recognise it as part of my unpreventable death. I feel my heart beating against my chest as another stronger wave nearly wipes out all other sensations. As it slowly passes I notice that the other sounds around me have changed. Gone is the laughter that I’ve always known; it has been replaced with whimpering and shouting. Some voices that were once comforting and I’ve heard forever are now crying in their own pain. Yet there are others there as well that are new to me and I can’t clearly make out what they are saying. I strain to hear but it’s no good; death is too close.

My world gushes away and closes in around me. I close my eyes against an onslaught the likes of which I have never known before in my whole life. If only I had the strength left to ask what was happening, but who would I ask anyway? Does anybody know what’s going on?

I shut my eyes even tighter as the pain becomes unbearable on my head. I wish it would end soon. I don’t want to go through this any more. I have had enough and I need death to come quickly for me now.

My heart weakens.

The intense cold is the first thing I notice. I suddenly realise that there’s nothing around me any more; gone is the soft rosy womb of life that encased me. And then as I open my eyes, I’m blinded by the burning bright light; I shut them hastily. I’ll wait for a while longer before I do that again! All the sounds around me have changed too; they are much sharper now and hurt my head in a new, unfamiliar way. I cry out with my own pain.

I soon realise that things have changed drastically; from one world I have died and into another, I have been born.


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## Shawn (Mar 26, 2007)

*24 hours? Try eight!*

*9 words! *

_6:00 AM_

Crap... I don't want to go to work.


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## RainBeau (Mar 26, 2007)

*My Way*

I sidled up to him at the bar. I told the bartender not to take his money, that the shot and the beer were on me.
   “I’m not gay.” He said defensively. I laughed.

   “Neither am I,” I said. “I will tell you though, that I followed you from work to here.” He gave me a sideways look as his eyes twitched.

   “Are you a cop? A PI?” he asked tensely.  I smiled reassuringly.

   “No, I’m a client. Or more accurately, _will_ be a client.” He visibly relaxed and sighed.  He gave a short laugh.

   “You know, we don’t deal with the public directly. You have to make your arrangements at the funeral home.” he explained calmly. My silence bought more information. “They’ll send…your body over to our place, we do our thing and then back you go to them.” 

   “Yeah, I understand how that part works. I  just wanted to meet the guy who will be the last person on Earth to see me, (my body), in the shape that it is in now.”

   “Jesus, mister, that’s, (I’m sorry), that’s just _bizarre!_” he said, shaking his head,  “Besides, I don’t usually see the body. When it comes over to the crematorium, it’s in a cardboard coffin with a name tag on it. I just pop the whole thing into the cooker and ‘set it and forget it’”. I laughed as the image of Ron Popeil in his chintzy apron and bad hair plugs flashed through my mind; my body wired to a rack in a “walk-in” Ronco rotisserie. I must have laughed for a while because when I  recovered he was laughing with me.

    “’Set it and forget it’?” I asked, “That’s too much!” He shrugged and sipped his beer. “Listen,” I said, “I’m going to be dead tomorrow, my name is Robert Pommel: when _my_ cardboard box comes in, do me a favor and open it up and make sure you got the right guy, okay?” My left hand, with ten $100 bills folded under it, slid on the bar close to his right hand.  He saw this movement and saw the money poking from under my palm. 

   “You know, I used to deliver pizza,” he said slowly, “I got out of it because this job was easier, but I’ll tell you, I miss the tips. This is my first tip since I started working at the crematorium.”

   “Well, it’ll probably be your last too, after all how many people are going to do this, meet with you before the ‘blessed event’?” With that, I stood up and walked away, he asked after me, as I got to the door.

   “Do you want to know _my_ name?” I stopped, turned.

   “No.”


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## Benjirama (Mar 26, 2007)

*Just a quick disclaimer: There is lots of swearing in this.*
 (Edited as i left out a word of the title.)




*I AM THE FUCKING LAWNMOWER MAN* 
(499 WORDS- i think)
​ 
*9am:*
Today Mr Cuntface is gonna kill me; Mr Cuntface is a big fat bastard of tumour who’s hijacked my brain. My doctor, Dr Sweetlove has told me that he’s gonna pop today, MrCuntface will finally kill me. I hate him. But I got a plan.


*11.30am:*
The morons on the forum are flaming me again.




> Sepheroph4myass wrote:
> You emo retard! You don’t have a tumour, your just some 14 year old emo kid crying for attention.


 
I respond.



> Lawnowner wrote:
> Fuck off Seph.





> MrMungo78 wrote:
> What you suggest is impossible with today’s technology, even if you do manage to transfer you consciousness into the internet, it’s an information clone. The original you will still stay inside your body.





> Blitz wrote:





*3pm:*
“Ok cool the mike’s working, Si’s here.”

(Sound of door knocking)

“Yo Si, how’s you doing man?”

“I am cool, you sure Doc Sweetlove said Mr Cuntface is going to pop today?”

“Yeah she said the fat bastard could pop at any moment.”

“Ummm, Ben look I am not sure this is such a good idea.”

“Of course it’s a good idea! It’s gonna work innit?”

“In theory yes, but…”

“If it fucks up, at worse I die and I don’t get downloaded onto the net. Since I am dead in less than… fuck, nine hours. Well it ain't gonna have a huge impact on my quality of life index. Besides if I am not the first then anyone could be.”

“Could be one of the N.W.O”

“Or Dick Cheney”

“Fuck that, alright Ben lets do this.”

“I am the Fucking Lawnmower man!”

“Lol.”

[Idiotic laughter]



*6pm:*
[Sniffing]

“Ben what the hell is that you’re smoking?”

“Crack, want some?”

“What! No.”

“Chill man… Oh shit, I see why people mug grannies for this stuff… Look mate, you gotta drill a big ass hole in my skull, so I am gonna need some form of pain relief.”

“Spose so, where’d you get it?”

“Homeless Bob, I set light to his dog and then cracked his head open with a two by four.”

“Lol!”

“Sure you don’t want some?”

“Positive”

It turns out crack is really moreish.


*7pm:*
“Si, I feel really gay.”

“Sorry Ben but the brain plug is made for function not style.”

“Besides that, did you have to make the lead a male to female connection, I am the fucking lawnmower man, and I am not being fucked by the internet.”


*8.59pm:*
“Ok Ben, we’re ready!”

“Sweet, this is gonna rule so much.”

“You haven’t forgotten your part of the deal?”

“Fuck no, your account number’s 48579752 innit? How much you fancy, one, two billion?”

“Ten would be sweet.”

“Ok ten it is… Yeeeeehaaa! I am the Fucking Lawnmower Man!”

“Download in three, two…”

“Oh Shit. Ouch! Owww! Fuck its Mr Cuntface, he’s popped. Quick, download. Download!”

[Sounds of crashes, and screams.]



*11.35pm:*



> MrC.face wrote: W00t!!! I did it, I really fucking did it. I PWNED the internet!!!!!111


 



> Blitz wrote:


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## cat_smh (Mar 26, 2007)

*Honeybees*

478 words

  I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the honeybees bumbling through the long grass, their fuzzy drone a constant in the background.  My hand tightens in hers as I savour the warm sun on my face and the full scent of the hazy air.  _One day to go, one day to go _repeats like a mantra in the back of my mind but I firmly push it away, concentrating on the feel of her next to me.  _Lexie_.  I savour the sound of her name in my mind.  I could be happy anywhere as long as she was with me.  

_One day to go, one day to go, one day to go…_

  No, I won’t think of that.  Instead I will think of the sun shimmering off the small stream that trickles at the foot of our meadow, and the brightly-coloured ducks that enjoy the water.  Or the butterflies that flit from long-stemmed poppy to small, sturdy daisy.  

_One day to go, one day to go, one day to go…_

  I picture Lexie in my mind, the dark curling hair that frames her delicate face.  She has freckles tripping their way across her small, upturned nose, and her laughing lips, red as cherries, beckon in my thoughts.  I squeeze her hand again, glad that she and I are here, in our special place.  _I wish we could stay forever like this_.

_One day to go, one day to go, one day to go…_

  I concentrate on Lexie’s hand, blocking the insistent voice that keeps pushing its way into my mind.  Her small, warm hand that grips mine tightly, as if to say ‘don’t ever let me go’.  I want to cry out to her that I never would, not ever, but I don’t.  Instead I listen to the honey bees.

  The clash of the guard’s baton against the heavy steel bars of my cell shatters the dream and I crash back to reality with a jolt.  I am huddled on the floor of my cage, the wall cold against my back, my hands clenched to stop the shivers.

  Tomorrow, at noon, I am to be executed.  Whether I am innocent or guilty of the crime I am to die for doesn’t matter anymore, for Lexie is dead and without her I cannot live.  She is dead and cold in the ground, and soon I will join her and I am glad.  

  We will soon be in our meadow together, and there we will stay forever.  If I had one more day of freedom, and Lexie was alive, we would be there, holding tight to each other’s hands.  It matters not that my body sits in a cage; my mind is free, spending my last earthly day with her, as my eyes close again and I hear the faint noise of the bees becoming louder.

_Lexie…_


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## rboy27 (Mar 26, 2007)

*The Cedar Door*

*The Cedar Door*
500 Words

The cedar door sent a chilling moan throughout the cells; its iron hinges gripping the stone frame like it was their final moments, too. They creaked a horrible pain and shod centuries old rust onto the cold, unforgiving granite floor. I sat in my favorite corner and stared intently at the falling flakes of oxide. So too was my fate.

_What awaits us beyond the cedar door,_ we all wondered. 

Time meant nothing to us; with no windows and certainly no clocks, minutes and hours were merely words now from some ancient lexis.

Captives past etched crude sketches and somber journals of their incarcerations into the walls of several cells. Some were too far dated now to be legible, others were no older than a fortnight. There was no calculability between the prisoners; some wrote for a week, others months.

_When would be my time?_ I felt it was soon, though I’m sure we all did.

We clamored to see outside whenever the Red Cloaks would come to seize one of us. The door would fly open very dramatically; how it never splintered into a thousand pieces I’ll never understand.

It was, by my count, the 37th year of my imprisonment. Our feeding pipes dropped from their positions in the ceiling and poured the same tasteless paste into our mouths. Just as I finished salvaging what I could out of the cracks between the cobblestone floor, the Red Cloaks came, stopped at my cell, and escorted me towards the door.

Their hands were feeble and as frail as bones. _This is the grip of my feared captors?_ I thought to myself. _I’m going to make a break for it._

I kicked at the inhuman shins of my masters but found them quite unbreakable. Alas, my foot was not. They continued to walk unaffected and carried me and my shattered toes to the cedar door, kicking and yelling all the while, though I new it would do me no good.

Walking through the hallowed doorway, I closed my eyes, both from fear and a blinding light that surrounded me. I felt the petty grip of the Red Cloaks diminish and when I opened my eyes, they were gone. I was in a field with no sign of humanity or the cedar door.

I remembered learning in the Scouts to stay in one place if you’re lost and eventually someone will find you, so I waited. Hours passed but the sun moved not one inch across the blue sky. Hours later and still no sign of mother Moon. 

_I don’t know where I am, and I know I’ll never know. This will be my new cell._

I laid down on my side and began to laugh hysterically. Just then, I noticed the enticing shine of a hunting knife not two feet from my head. _I know it wasn’t there before. Then again, how can I trust what I know anymore?_

I grabbed my Serrated Savior and plunged him fiercely between my ribs.


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## cyberspecter (Apr 2, 2007)

I put mine in the LM section in workshop.


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## Mike (Apr 3, 2007)

The Chimichanga​ 

I still felt like confessing, even when using your hand was how it was done back in the day, back in Jesus Times. Her left eyebrow stood up, accusing me yet again of being a hippie.

“Did you wash with organic soap?” 

“Wash?” I scoffed. “With water privatization such as it is?” Sunlight filtered in through the kitchen window and dust lingered in the luminance. “I just wanted to know what it was like,” I continued. “My life is now complete.”

She didn’t look up from the crossword. “If you would like to know what it’s like to never again feel the touch of my body, please continue this disgusting habit. What’s an eleven letter word for a deep-fried Mexican dish?”

I leaned over her shoulder and tried not to feel dizzy. “It’s a, uh…chimichanga.”

“Nice.”

“Speaking of which, are you hungry?”

She looked up. “Do you really have to ask?”

Her hazel eyes held me until she looked away. I swallowed roughly and felt sweat drip down my ribs. Hurriedly, I turned and assembled all the ingredients on the countertop. Before long, the stove was sizzling with garlic, onions, mushrooms and kidney beans.

“God, that smells good.” Her voice startled me. I cursed myself for losing focus. I was supposed to absorb everything, to enjoy every moment. Looking at her now, I felt a twinge of regret. I should have told her the truth about the headaches.

“I’ll get the tortillas,” I said.

“No, let me. You always do everything.”

I would have argued. I would have told her to sit back down on the sofa and let me attend to everything. It was how I could love her. Goddammit, I could be dead tomorrow. But she was already digging in the cabinet, standing on her toes. A memory rekindled my spirit. I tried to keep from laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Remember the first time I gave you a massage?”

“Yeah, you ended up groping me half the time.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

She gave me a look. 

“I just remember that when I got to your feet you completely freaked out and peed on the bed. Remember that?”

Her silence let me know that she did, in fact, remember and certainly didn’t appreciate me bringing it up.

“It was cute,” I remarked.

She aimed the tortillas at my head and missed. “Cute? Puppies are cute. Drooling children with sugar and crayon in their teeth are cute. Our governor is an idiot, but he’s cute like that. Small, rabid wombats are…what are you looking at?”

“You.”

“You’re burning the onions,” she replied, brushing aside her hair.

I ended up making the best chimichangas I’ve ever tasted: the onions burnt, the beans overcooked, and the tortillas too greasy.

We washed dishes together, just like we had in the last eight years. Later, we’d stay home and eat ice cream for dinner. At sunset, we’d lounge on the porch and watch the wind scatter the leaves.

497 words


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## defenestrator (Apr 5, 2007)

*Last Breath*

In, out. In, out. 
The sound of my breathing overwhelms all other noises in the room. It's not that I'm breathing particularly loud, nor that the room is particularly silent. Yet when you know that before another day is through, it's a sound you will never hear again, you end up listening for it all the more. 

I wonder, what happens to that breath after it has left my body? That puff of air, floating into the unknown. In my mind, I follow its journey as it mingles with the stale air of the room, before eventually seeping through the small crack of open window. Unwillingly thrust into the atmosphere, it follows the call of the wind.

As it flows down the street, it will reach the park with its open spaces and rudimentary play equipment. Maybe it will join in one of the seemingly perpetual games of hide and seek. Teaming with the wind, the little breath makes a good seeker, thrusting aside foliage to reveal the whereabouts of one child, moaning through the tunnel where another crouches. Or maybe it will play in their game of tag, rushing in the wake of a scurrying kid, tagged by another which crosses its path. Then turning as the wind picks up again, now doing the chasing, now tagging someone else as it rushes squarely at their face, and blowing their hair back as it races away.

I can see it moving on to the old swing set, where the children pump away in pursuit of the mythical goal of going over the top. Possibly it, too, will make the attempt, leaving a swing creaking eerily alongside the others - but short of a gale force wind, it will never succeed. My little breath, buffered by the wind, will give up eventually, as most children do. 

Next in line would be the slide, where the more nervous children teeter hesitantly on the top. A precarious position, its little push is enough to send them speeding downwards in shock, with it in their drag. Then celebrating at the bottom, creating little tornadoes around the feet of the whooping child. 

Who knows where it goes next? Maybe through the shaky stick houses or the mock duels of children playing make-believe. My little breath, sharing the joy of those who find so much pleasure in the smallest wonders of life, who can live with such abandon for only today. But as the wind dies down, I hope that breath will come to rest near one of the infants being taken for a walk through the park. Even from this room, I can hear them breathing, taking in that little breath so their body will live another day.
In, out. In, out…


457 words


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## Foxee (Apr 5, 2007)

*The Mourning After, posted in Writer's Workshop*

My entry, *The Mourning After* _(499 words)_ is posted in the LM Entries section of the Writer's Workshop.

Thanks to the judges in advance for donating their time.


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## Matrim (Apr 6, 2007)

My Entry, Ash, is also posted in the LM entries section of the Writer's Workshop.

I hope you enjoy it!


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## mwd (Apr 7, 2007)

My entry is posted in the Workshop: http://www.writingforums.com/showpost.php?p=866340

Thanks judges.


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## eggo (Apr 7, 2007)

Mine is over at WW as well,

The Letter

http://writingforums.com/showthread.php?p=866425#post866425

Towards the bottom,

Thanks guys


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## ruksak (Apr 8, 2007)

*Bum Blue Roy* (499 words)

Because of Roy Martin I’ve been dying tomorrow since I was fourteen. 

Roy was a wheaty-haired, broad-chested child, with an unusually wide and mottled face. When he got excited or angry his face went blue. Not violet or rouge or even some distant cousin of blue - the poor kid went pure blue. We were told this was as he’d been born with a hole in his heart. I never have been sure how that happens, how people live through that, but that’s the truth, and that’s why he was called Blue Roy.

Seeing as Blue Roy was an odd looking kid he got picked on. We all did it. It was never physical though – more of out of fear we’d kill him than compassion though. All the same we’d goad him about his blueing complexion whenever we felt like it, which was often. This would make him particularly distressed and he’d turn a murkier, more sinister blue than during his usual upsets. That’s when we’d stop and make some feeble apology by saying we were just kidding. 

When puberty began to invade our year the taunting waned a bit. Most of the boys, out of the need to survive socially, began to talk about sex. This meant masturbating for almost everyone of course, but a talent for saying something coarse, beyond our age or embryonic experience was always appreciated. So, we called each other ‘bummers’, ‘pencil dicks’, etc without really knowing what those things meant. The upshot was, for a while at least, that Blue Roy was off the teasing menu.

However, one day a friend was baiting me about my naivety of a sexual proclivity or something and I retorted, spontaneously I guess, with ‘Hey, bum Blue Roy.’ Basically, telling him to go and have anal sex with Roy Martin, the kid with a hole in his heart. That was it – the phrase ignited the whole school. It spread from my group of friends, to the class, to the whole year, and finally the whole school. Within in a month everyone was saying it. The only way to go a day without hearing it several times was to be off sick.

In fact it happened one Friday when I was off sick. Rich Malton, a notorious bully, went for Blue Roy. Someone told me he’d said ‘Blue Roy, everyone in this school has been told to fuck you up the arse. The whole fucking school. How does that feel Roy?’

The following Monday morning our headmaster told the assembly that Roy Martin had died at the weekend. Nobody made a single sound in the minute’s silence. Roy was fourteen, like us. 

Shuffling out of the hall, Rich Malton pointed hard at me.
‘Oy! You! Bum Blue Roy!’

Plenty heard it, but nobody laughed. It was my fault it had started and it’s been with me since. If I’d know Blue Roy was going to die, I’d have never said it. I’ve not been saying it ever since.


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## silverwriter (Apr 9, 2007)

And there you have it.


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