# August 2014 - LM - Don't Look Back



## Fin (Aug 2, 2014)

Click here for the workshop thread


*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Don't Look Back​



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.


*Six judges this time. They are:*

*Pluralized*; *Terry D*; *godofwine*;  *kilroy214*; *thepancreas11*; *amsawtell*


*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:*

Friday, the 15th of August at 11:59 PM, GMT.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## aj47 (Aug 4, 2014)

*Even the Gods were Moved *(645)*

*It was fast. Venom usually is. The physicians describe it as an instant death, though living men have no direct experience of such things. My breath ceased. My heart stopped. Yet my eyes saw the sky and clouds, flowers and grass. My ears heard buzzing insects and bird calls. And Aristaeus.
He was most displeased. He used colorful language of the vulgar sort. It didn’t matter that I had no desire for him—he had wanted me. And I was lost to him.
Orpheus was heartbroken. What a price I had paid for my fidelity. And love him I do, though he is not brave or gallant or in any sense a manly man. It could have been simple. A dagger to the heart or a sip of hemlock would have brought him to me. Or even a viper bite to match mine. But no, he did what he always does—lost himself in his music.

And what music! Orpheus had always been a gifted musician. But when he had thought that was all he had left to him, he poured himself into it with an unmatched intensity. And the music he played was poignant, sad, beautiful, and full of love for me. Men wept. The nymphs who heard him wept, too.  Even the gods were moved.

It is unclear where the idea originated. After tiring of weeping, those who heard his music suggested he ask Hades to give me back. Perhaps when the Lord of Death became aware of how stricken Orpheus was, I might be allowed to return, at least in spirit form.

I was not aware of his coming until I was summoned by Hades. I had not thought the ruler of the underworld was capable of weeping. Yet I saw salt staining his cheeks and the redness of his eyes.
Hades ordered me to go with Orpheus back to the mortal world. It was something I would have gladly done anyway, but I was not consulted.

It sounded simple. That is, until he named the conditions. I was to remain silent and follow. I would be given my life back. Not instantly. It would be like my death, only backwards. And Orpheus, he had his condition, too. He was told not to look behind him at the god’s work, at my newly-forming body. Not until I was back in the realm of men. It sounded so wonderful, getting my body back. Maybe, I could bear Orpheus a son. I had thought that lost to me—the dead cannot beget new life.

Persephone warned me that I would be unable to call to Orpheus until we had both returned. It was a part of the process of giving me back my life—just as my breath had left first, it would be the last to return to me.

Step by step, we worked our way back. Charon, the ferryman took Orpheus then me. I could feel my heart beating and my pulse racing as I approached the natural world. I awaited the return of my breath, but the journey seemed to lengthen. I watched my feet then. Left foot, then right foot, stepping through the tunnels and caverns of the underworld.

He arrived then. He ran from the mouth of the last cave and stopped outside, with me following as fast as I could. I saw him standing, golden in the sun’s light as if touched by Midas. My breath began to fill my lungs and I started to run faster. I had had a great of time to think of what my first words would be. I would say his name, Orpheus, and tell him I wanted to bear him a son.

I was almost there. In three steps, I would be in the sunlight with him. I would tell him the truth of my love. Two steps. 

He turned around.


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## Jon M (Aug 5, 2014)

How is it Supposed to Feel?​


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## bazz cargo (Aug 6, 2014)

The Third Edit. (Language) (434 words)
By Bazz Cargo

Slowly the trapdoor lifted enough so that the intruder could take a good look round. Keff breathed silently and watched. She sat on a rafter, waiting patiently until whoever was under the wood had seen enough and was about to  push up into the loft. Then she jumped onto the rising rectangle, her weight smashed it down knocking the bastard off the ladder. There was a scream and Keff noticed the hatch had trapped the fingers of his left hand, his weight slowly dragged them back, stripping the skin off  as they went. There was a thud and a groan as he landed on the floor below.

 A moment later Keff dived out of a hole she had made earlier and lay against the tiles,  feet in the gutter she slid her body rapidly through the night towards the gable end. She pulled her sweatshirt off and hung it over the phone wire, grasped the sleeves and pushed off, the incline wasn't steep but the telephone pole wasn't far.  

 The sweatshirt went round the pole and she shuffled herself down, dropping the last three feet.  

 Now the garden Olympics, six-foot fence panel, across the garden, next six-foot panel, next garden, fortunately she was in good shape and pumped on adrenalin.  It would have been bad enough in daylight but in the dark it was easy not to see ponds, toys and other obstacles. Eye on the way forward, don't look back.  

 Think, come on girl, think. They, the eponymous they, would be ready for this, there would be a car waiting outside the last garden. Aha! A small child's trampoline, it didn't seem to weigh anything.  

 The last garden, place the trampoline just so, not too close to the fence, and yes, good sized pebble from a pond. Run, jump, bounce, fly... there... throw with extreme vigor. The pebble hit the man full in the face, the shock caused him to fire off a round from his revolver.  

 Keff pulled a perfect parachute style landing and rolled to her feet, she then took a few steps and kicked the guy as hard as she could in the nuts. While he was out cold she searched his pockets for  car keys.  

  Now she had a gun, the car would be good for a short while. What Keff needed was lots of people, crowds were easy to hide in and full of inconvenient witnesses. The mall would be in full swing, late night shop-a-holics, cinema and bowling, mime artists. Easy place to swap cars.  

 It was going to be a long night.


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## Plasticweld (Aug 6, 2014)

*Don't get caught looking back.  648 words mild language*

_*Don’t get caught looking back.*_

I have always told my kids, “If you can’t be good, be discrete.” I should learn to take my own advice. 

We are driving down the road, _the road to hell_.  Well maybe not hell, but to the mall. I hate the mall.  I know men go there, we just don’t talk about it, not with each other anyway.   Being the loving husband that I am, “_AKA pussy whipped_.” I am sitting with my wife, in the car, on the way to the freaking mall. 

 *
It starts out the same way, it has been almost 40 years and it always starts out the same way. 

“Let’s do something this weekend?”

 I am not sure, but somehow my wife always manages to add a layer of guilt to this question.  I have no idea how, but life with me is boring and it is now up to me to entertain her.  For some un-known reason, I been the one responsible for dull weekends in the past, and it is now up to me to make things right.

  My version of (something) is apparently very different of what my wife calls (something).  Kayaking, mountain biking, doing stuff,-- fun stuff, this is what I want to do.  This is not what my wife has in mind when she announces

 “Let’s do (something) this weekend?” She already knows what we are going to do, I have a pretty good idea too.  I am just not giving up hope without a fight.  

“We could go over to Little Lake and put in the Kayaks.”  I say it with the enthusiasm of a bright eyed ten year old. 
Before I could add more, she chimes in.

“We could go to the mall, walk around, maybe hit the book store and then get something to eat.”
 She sticks out her chest a little, arches her back and gives me a wry grin.  The only thing worse than a fool, is an old fool, I am weak.  I fall for this every time. 

“Why don’t you put on some nice clothes and we can get going.” 

I think, I am already dressed _fine,_ for going to the mall, but I know better than to argue with her, been there, done that.  I have never won –that-- argument.  I go upstairs and grab what --I think, looks nice, hurriedly dress, run my fingers through my hair. Glance in the mirror, I smile,-- not bad.  

I meet my wife at the bottom of the stairs. 

“You’re not wearing that.”  This, was not a question. 

“Those pants need to be ironed, that shirt does not go with them anyway. -- Back up stairs.” 

I am in my fifties and apparently I cannot dress myself.  Like a four year old, I take the clothes she hands me and put them on.  I look in the mirror again, I smile,-- not bad. 

We arrive at the mall and push through the throngs of people.  I am bombarded by the smell of potpourri and stale air.  My wife is in her glory.  

We hold hands while we walk.  Even though I would rather be someplace else, it is still good to be someplace with her.  She looks in the windows as we walk, we seldom ever buy anything.  I watch people, _love to watch people_.  The things in the shop windows do nothing for me,-- my treat, is looking at the people. 

I saw her first, _a beautiful brunette_, in her mid-twenties and very well put together. 
She strolls towards us and smiles, I pretend it is me, she is smiling at.  I know she is really smiling at the old couple holding hands like they were kids. 

As she passes, I start to turn to see if she looks as good walking away as she did coming.  My wife squeezes my hand and quietly says “Don’t even think about it.”


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## T.S.Bowman (Aug 7, 2014)

*Don't Look Back  564 Words (Language Warning)*

      The mind does funny things, sometimes. Why something my grandmother told me once happens to pop into my head right now I have no idea. All I know is that what she said was a lot of bullshit given my current circumstances.

             She said “Jimmy,you should never look back. Whatever is back there is of no concern to you because you can't do anything about any of it.” Yeah. Bullshit. I am pretty sure I should be concerned with the three assholes behind me who just happen to be carrying semi automatic weapons. I am also pretty sure that when a couple of no neck jackoffs tell you that you are in for a painful death, they aren't fucking around and you should probably be concerned about that as well. And when the Boss says there will soon be a price on your head, you should definitely be fucking concerned.

             So here I am now, with grandma's (God rest her soul) bullshit running through my head when what I _should_ be doing is coming up with a way to keep all of my appendages attached in their proper places.     

             Unfortunately, other than grandma, all I can think about is the pain in my side where the first bullet nicked me, and the runner's stitch in my other side from having been going full tilt for the past 15 minutes.  In desperation, I run into Mc Doogle's department store. I think I can maybe lose them once I get inside. I push my way through the revolving door and head for the escalator. If I can get upstairs, I can ditch these fucksticks in the men's clothing. Maybe I can duck into one of the changing rooms. No. That would be too obvious. Stupid idea. How hard would they look if I ducked into the lingerie area? Wouldn't it be great if they started searching and one of the broads working there thought they were a couple of pervs and called the cops? What the fuck am I thinking. I _have_ to find a way out. I'm sure one of them went around back, it's what I would do, to make sure I didn't come out that way. Then, it hits me, I'll just double back once I am sure they are deep into the store. This place is like a maze anyway. I should definitely be able to get by them.

           I hang out in the men's department for about ten minutes, then start working my way, head below the tops of the racks, back toward the main entrance. The only place I will have to leave myself exposed is the escalator. Maybe I should just take the stairs. Yeah, that's it! I'll take the stairs down to the first floor and keep close to the walls until I get to the entrance. I hustle over to the door for the stairwell and take a quick look around. No one is even looking this way. I push the door open and step through.     

             I don't realize anyone is there until I feel the end of the silencer pressed into my ear and hear Delucci's voice saying “Jesus, Jimmy. You never were very fucking smart.”

             My shoulders slump and my mind, up to no tricks this time, tells my grandma that I'll see her soon.

             And I won't be looking back when I get there.


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## CraniumInsanium (Aug 7, 2014)

Tweaking the Grid

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...on-t-Look-Back-Workshop?p=1761527#post1761527


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## Kepharel (Aug 8, 2014)

*Withdrawn*​


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## Circadian (Aug 8, 2014)

*Mother and World* *(569 words)*
​There was light.  The Thing on the floor reached out to it with clumsy sensory receptors.  It absorbed the photons and converted them into raw data.  In the light were fuzzy shapes that it tried to bring into focus.  It found it had lenses which it could adjust.  It did so and found itself in a room with dimensions it could not measure and white objects it could not identify.

One of the objects moved and focused twin lenses on it.
_
Two? _it chirped.

The first Thing made an experimental undulation toward the Other and extended one receptor.

The Other moved one of its own receptors.  _One,_ it said, indicating itself.  _Two_.  It reached out to the first Thing.

The Thing mimicked its motions and felt a sense of satisfaction coming from the Other.  It wanted to explore this world it found itself in and absorb more of the delicious light.  There was a curious opening through which a different sort of light emanated.  It waved a few receptors toward it.
_
World,_ the Other explained.  It undulated across the room and gestured to a wall opposite the opening into the World.  _Mother._

The Thing focused its lenses on Mother and saw a large square of blue light upon the wall.  Strange markings moved across the surface but other than that, Mother was still.

Making a soft, cooing sound, the Thing touched Mother with its receptors and absorbed warmth.  It took pleasure from the sensation, from the strange familiarity, and it curled up on the floor in Mother’s comforting light.

The Other waved its receptors in disapproval.  It pointed toward the opening.  _World._

The Thing let its lenses dim.  _No._

Waves of frustration came from the Other.  It undulated across the floor and touched the Thing with its receptors.  _World._
_
Bad_, said the Thing.  _Mother.  Good._
_ 
No.
_ 
The Other nudged the Thing into an upright position.  _World.  Need.  Mother.  Past._
_ 
Past?

Yes.

_The Thing adjusted its lenses and made a few undulations.  _Leave?_
_ 
Yes.
_ 
The Other was pleased.  It moved across the room and the Thing followed tentatively.
_
Why?_

The Other was confused.  _Need,_ it said.
_
Why?_

The Other seemed to contemplate this, retracting its receptors.  Finally it came to a decision.  _Explore._

The Thing again focused its lenses on the light coming from World.  _Mother,_ it said.  _Need?_
_
No,_ said the Other.

The Thing did not want to leave Mother.  Mother’s presence was comforting and warm and filled with good light.  The room in which they were was nice.  And yet the Thing was curious and the light coming from World tasted sweet.  The idea to explore this strange World was an intriguing one.
_
Return?_ the Thing asked.

The Other’s lenses shifted focus.  _No._

The Thing stretched its receptors toward Mother and then back toward the portal into World, tasting the light of each.  Mother’s was warm and safe.  The World’s was sweet and something else the Thing could not identify.
_
World,_ the Thing decided.
_
Good,_ the Other agreed.  Its receptors quivered in anticipation.

The Thing undulated toward the portal, the taste of its light becoming stronger and stronger.
_
Mother.  Bye, _the Thing said as it stretched a receptor through the portal.  A cold light brushed against it and it cringed.  _Mother?_  It wanted to look back just once more into the warm light.
_
No,_ the Other said.

The two fell through the portal and came out into World.


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## garza (Aug 8, 2014)

*Don't Look Back - 650 words*

'There's a line from a movie that sums up my life. This prize fighter's been cheated out of a shot at the title by a crooked manager. When the fighter finds out, he says ''I coulda been a contenda,'' and that's how I feel. Given a couple of breaks, I could've made the big time.'

'I remember that movie. The fighter was played by, you know, what's his name.'

'That's the one. He missed his big break. I missed mine.'

'So what happened? You have a crooked agent or somethin'?'

'Nothin' like that. Wave at Lee to bring us two more beers, willya? No, it was my ex significant other. My one true love. One day in '73 she shows up with a cheap little cardboard suitcase in one hand and our kid in the other. ''I can't take it any more,'' she says. ''He's yours. Goodbye.'''

'Man, you must've hated that. Was he a little juvie delinquent?'

'No. He was a good kid, but all boy. She wanted a girl. Any other time would have been okay for her to bring him, but at that moment I was packed, ready to go back to Vietnam. Remember, this was 1973. Nixon had said ''Okie-dokie, we win, we go home now,'' and pulled out U.S. troops. The South Vietnamese were getting their collective butt kicked. I'd been there in '61 and '62. I wanted to be there to see the end.'

'So you had to stay home and play daddy.'

'Play? Like hell it's play. You haven't had an eight-year-old you hardly know dumped in your lap with the parting words, ''He's yours. Goodbye.'''

'No, but I've raised two daughters and a son.'

'Not by yourself, and it didn't take you by surprise. Even in high school you said you wanted to get married and raise a family.'

'Yeah. I got no complaints. Kids all turned out great, and I've got five grandkids scattered around making Grandma and Grandpa proud. Were you and the boy's mother together for a while?'

'Three and a half years until we figured out that Dave Brubeck and Merle Haggard don't play well together. Have you ever really listened to a country song?'

'Not if I could help it. But didn't you know that before you started a family,? 

'We were slow learners. She'd tarted her way around Hattiesburg and entertained the troops at Camp Shelby for a couple of years before she settled down and stayed with me an entire night. The next day she brought over all her clothes and her own stereo. I already had a stereo and my own records. You should hear Conway Twitty accompanied by Miles Davis.' 

'So you split, and five years later she realises she ain't mama material. Yeah. Slow learner.'

'She's not a bad person. We stay in touch, but the boy has yet to forgive her all the way.’

‘There’s an edge of bitterness in your voice that tells me you wish you could change some of what you see when you look back. Like having to raise your son.'

'No, that I wouldn't change. It was a challenge that in the end proved to be worth any sacrifice.'

'You missed the big story 'cause you had to stay home and raise your kid and you wouldn't change that?'

'No. There was plenty to write about in those days without Vietnam, so I did okay. The boy turned out fine. He's had his own company since he was 25 and I have two grandsons to be proud of as well.'

'So what's the bottom line?'

'A barroom confession fueled by long-neck bottles of lager can't change what was, and I wouldn't change any of it if I could. Most likely I would never have been ''a contenda'' anyway. On balance, life’s been good. Best advice I can give myself is, ''don't look back.'''


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## NickWolfe (Aug 9, 2014)

*Bitter Sweet (643 words)*

_Often, the times of chaos and turmoil tend to also be the times where only positive thinking exists._

At least that is what Stephen thought as he sat cradling himself in the corner of the building's basement. He continued to rub his face, feeling the beard he had begun to grow beneath his hands. His curly brown hair was pasted to his forehead by sweat, and wrinkles from stress appeared that were not there a short time ago.

The rest of the group sat around a small Geothermal powered furnace, whispers sometimes being heard over the dull roar of the flames boiling inside the machine. They had locked themselves in once they heard the evacuation sirens sounding throughout the city. From there on out, they sat through the sounds of hell as it unleashed its power on the heavens above the ceiling where they hid. Stephen had convinced the group that since the building was made of top grade materials that were radiation-proof, it would still stand after the chaos had seized, and they would not get sick.

And he was right, for a week and a half him and his small band of followers stayed inside the humid yet cold basement. They had brought enough food to survive a few months and they had made it inside the basement right on time as they dragged in the last 50 gallon barrel of water, for as the second the doors were pressure-locked the entire building shook.  The ground beneath them wavered and felt as though it would give and they would plummet through miles of rock until they imploded due to pressure. But it didn't, they huddled in a corner and hoped, prayed even for the most positive of outcomes. They disguised their stress with nervous jokes, and their anticipation to survive with blank faces.

It was at the end of the day that marked 12 days when Stephen got up.

"Everything should be OK by now, radioactive suits are in the closet and we can begin making our way west to see how the rest of civilization fares."

The group stirred at his words, and a middle-aged women replied with faint amusement in her eyes

"Good, I have been getting tired of this moldy place anyway, a little destruction will ease me up."

Stephen gave a sad smile and helped her stand up. The rest of the group in turn got onto their feet and stood, waiting for the inevitable. Stephen volunteered to go first, and check if it was safe.

He walked to the western wall of the basement where a large cabinet was placed. He opened it up and pulled out a yellow hazmat suit. After he had garbed, he walked over to the basement door and turned his head. The group looked at him and he nodded, then turned his head back around and quickly opened and shut the door after he exited.
Light flashed at his eyes and he became dazed for a few seconds. Finally, his eyes adjusted. He stood straight, looking up and realizing that the staircase up lead to open ground.

_The building is gone._

Feeling a tug at his heart, he trudged up the stairs quickly to see what lay around him. When he got to the top of the stairs, he looked around and gaped in horror.

The world took on an orange glow, as if blood was used as a food coloring in the sky. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and the winds they brought blew dust into the air. The city was gone, nothing left of it except the shadows of buildings imprinted on the ground. It was the realization that he had to lost everything that made him stoop over and sob. He fell on his knees and looked up at the sky, wishing he had never escaped doom.


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## Hopeful Writer (Aug 9, 2014)

*Don't Look Back - 260 Words*

http://www.writingforums.com/threads/149402-August-2014-LM-Don-t-Look-Back-Workshop?p=1762276&viewfull=1#post1762276


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## W.Goepner (Aug 10, 2014)

*Don't Look Back (643 words)* 



     August 9, 2014.

 "Dr. Davison, are you ready to proceed?"

 The Dr. looked down at the man, before injecting him with the last of the hyperbolic drugs to help him endure the time warp they were about to attempt. Placing a hand on the the mans shoulder, the Dr. asked him, "Is there any thing you would change if you could?"

 The man in his early fifties looked up at him from the ergo lounge within the pod, "Yes doc. I would change the person I marry, or stay with the military, instead of doing what I did."

 "And when was that?"

 "I was 21 when I married, so about 33 years ago, make it April." The man chuckled as Dr. Davison patted his shoulder and exited the pod.

 "Where were you then?"

 "That was when I met my wife, at my cousins wedding. Better make it the end of March and I was in Fort Eustis, Virginia." The Dr. closed the door to the pod and walked to the control board.

 Looking at the halo screen he adjusts the settings for March 28, 1981. "Lets proceed." He said as he nodded to his team.  

 Working on the theory that the speed of light is also the time barrier, our technology could not make a device to move that fast, but with the aid of focused energy and light, it was discovered that an object can be slipped into the time stream.  

 One of the first tests was a letter marked to be delivered on a specific day, it was sent back in time and delivered to the facility by the postmaster the minute it was sent out. Postmarked twice, once in 1967 and then again on August 9, 2013.

 The second test was to send a package into the future one week, that test was successful. Then they did the same with mice and had them succeed, on multiple occasions. When they asked for a volunteer they did not expect a older man who had nothing to stop him from going.  

 Dr. Davison was about to press the power button, when the door burst open, the man runs up to them. "Don't do it doc."

 They look at him and the pod and him again. "Well it appears we did do it or you would not be here."

 "You push that button, he will go back and change my mind and I will marry another woman." The Dr. looks at him questioningly as he continues, "It is my choices after that I do not want to..."

 "Then don't do them. Don't make choices you will regret."

 "That's just it doc. The loop will never end. If you send him now. I go through twenty changes of mind. each one from where he tells me not to marry that girl. I then try my hand staying in the military, I crash in a helicopter I repaired. Then I choose to find the girl I knew as a child, We have many children and live a peaceful life until she decides to leave me due to lack of excitement. Then I try to rekindle a high school love, who thinks I am a cheating dog and well, the details don't matter."

 "Well then try to change something other than the marriage. Marry the girl and work to make it go." The man looks at Dr. Davison like he had said to chop off a single piece of his body.

 "Marry the girl that was too young to marry in the first place? Try to keep that relationship together? Then live my life as need be from there?"

 "If you tried everything else then what other choice is there?" The man turns with a shrug and walks out muttering to himself. Dr Davison, presses the button. "Attempt twenty-two."

 "Don't Look Back." Said his lead assistant.


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## Smith (Aug 11, 2014)

*Drama-rama (543 words)*

Candles lit up the excited atmosphere, the white-clothed tables providing much needed contrast amidst the red carpeting. Everybody enjoyed the exquisite food and great wine to boot. A beautiful banquet, attended by writers from around the world, bringing with them their own amazing cultures and customs. Of course, their best writings too.

Most of them would think Mr. Goepner didn’t just want to stand out from the crowd. He might as well have been trying to get kicked out of the banquet for the Writing Movements 2014 Annual Competition altogether. In fact, just moments ago two other writers - Sir Smith of Nottingham and Miss Kepherelia - had been caught by judges (that’s right, not one but _plural_) discussing their work with each other before the scores had been finalized.

Them and their families were never seen or heard from again.

“Please put your hands together folks for Mr. Goepner!”

He grumbled. _I wasn’t told I’d be the opening speech for scores._ Putting his dark shades on despite the time of 11:55 PM and being indoors, he found his way to the spotlight on stage.

Meanwhile, his agent remained seated at their table. Goepner could hear his whispers in his ear piece. “I set this up, since I knew you would have objected the idea had I told you. This is your big break. Just listen to what I tell you, and things will go smoothly.” The Head Judge then handed the microphone over to Mr. Goepner, who waited for the applause to die.

“Okay, first- Wait, wai- What are you? No, don’t take it out. Don’t you ignore me!” He dropped the ear piece to the stage and stepped on it.

“Drama is to be recognized. Earlier I saw two young individuals, who were excellent writers, be taken away in a manner most inappropriate. Why? Well, due to the misunderstood sarcasm of a judge. Actually, I recall there being plural of them. Regardless, that is not what writing is about! Self-critic and discussing your stories amongst yourselves is the way! Such action should not bring trouble. It is not a mistake that should have you wishing you could go back in time and fix, like the main character in my story.”

A collective gasp came from the crowd.

“He regrets his past love, so sees a scientist who might potentially help him set his life back on course, but instead creates a never-ending time loop. Or does it? I heard somebody say it. You’re right, it doesn’t. Just like it doesn’t matter if your entry is 1000 words. The 650 word limit is blasphemy! I refuse to withdraw my entry, just like Smith did, because to withdraw would be vanity. The point of this competition is to humble ourselves, and better ourselves as writers _and _better one another. It is, in the simplest sense, for fun. Scores are just aesthetic numbers spawned from sole opinion. I won’t voice myself beyond this last, basic fact: I’m disappointed.”

Mr. Goepner dropped the mic like it’s hot, and swaggered off stage. Maybe he’d be disqualified. Or, maybe he wouldn’t be. It didn’t matter to him. He walked down the steps and threw open the doors into the crisp night air.

He didn’t look back.


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## Ibb (Aug 11, 2014)

*Plummet (650)*

He felt in his stomach as he always had the sudden rising of bile. The wind buffeted his scalp and lifted his hair behind him in a fierce, undulating arc; it burrowed, bellowing, inside his ears. He would be okay. His first jump, at nineteen, had seen him roaring: he’d cried into the dark, “I AM NOT FUCKING JUMPING,” then plummeted, from 730 feet above the ground, into an abyss below. The seconds demanded attention; the minutiae within them demanded reflex. He had pulled his string 200 feet into the descent, hearing the gunshot whipping of the chute behind him, then rollicked about in the air—screaming triumphantly, terrifyingly—as the wind rushed up under his legs and arms, buoying the parachute, thus him. Still he’d landed sloppily that first time, coming in onto his knees, cutting himself against rocks in the earth and entangling himself in his own equipment. He had been gasping and laughing, calling Nicholas on the phone, oblivious to his running wounds, asking to be picked up.

  “You didn’t fucking do it,” Nicholas kept shouting, laughing deliriously alongside him. “No fucking—”

                “I did,” he’d panted. “I did, I swear to God, Nick… Jesus, Nick, you have no idea…”

                Nicholas beside him laid a hand onto his shoulder—bringing him back. He looked over at his friend, adorned in his own gear. Nick cast him a questioning thumbs-up. He nodded and returned the gesture. Together they looked out at the sea below: its blue flesh, its white rippling veins, the vast and slow palpitations of its dark, beating heart. Myriad specks either birds or fish drifted as though slowed in time beneath them, broken in sight by thick white plumes of clouds. The island appeared further ahead.

The interior of the shuttle was alit by a red, shrieking light. Into his earpiece came the pilot’s voice: “You’re clear, guys. Good luck.” 

Nick leapt from the shuttle. He watched his friend rapidly plummet toward the sea. He exhaled; his stomach churned once more before it settled. Peace overcame him. He followed into the great engulfing air. He dropped belly-first; then, easing into the fall, he straightened himself and pressed his legs together and his arms to his sides, forming himself into a plunging bullet. He darted past Nicholas then turned onto his back, playfully waving, receiving Nick’s middle-finger. A hailstorm of non-belligerent fuck-yous was roundly issued. 

The altimeter sounded inside his earpiece. Nick pitched his chute, suddenly diminishing in size beneath the wide unfurled black canvas while he continued away in fast descent. He watched him recede into a distant speck then turned onto his stomach, gliding toward the island. He did not yet want it to end. He had time.

The island was steadily widening in scope; soon he would be unable to see the ocean. Okay, he thought. He pitched. 

The slithering hiss of its jettison sounded clearly behind him, and he awaited and missed the tug of his body. A rattling warble whipped above him. He did not look back at the error but felt for his reserve chute. It sprang loose of his back and trailed deflated behind him. 

No. 

The island approached him like a great swath of bountiful green. He was struck by visions: His mother, at the foot of his bed, tears streaming, pleading he quit; Jimmy, pitching too early nearby a cliff and carried by winds into its jagged sides; his body tumbling like a bloodied stone; Nicholas, his first jump, hesitating at the cliff; and he saying: “Have fun. Be safe. Don’t die.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Nick had retorted. He’d jumped, screaming; and was found, later, bloodied and laughing.

A growl started deep in his stomach rose into his throat and carried all the way with him roaring into the thicket of trees, where he broke against multiple branches, dying instantaneously, before falling quietly onto the grassy floor.


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## Dubhthaigh (Aug 12, 2014)

*The Edge (644)*

‘Don’t look back’ she says to herself, her meek words obliterated by the hungry wind.
She stands on the edge, where she has always stood, in a sense. The darkness is swirling around her; she is like a leaf in a violent tempest.  A fragment of the darkness has always been with her, but it has never been like this. In the last year it has grown in a cancer-like fashion, consuming her.

She knows she shouldn’t look back, but she can’t help herself. It’s hard not to look back on your life when your toes are curling over the edge of a hotel roof.  She sees her little girl, Norma, chestnut curls and green eyes.  For a second the darkness is no more, she can feel the weight of her baby girl in her arms, she can feel the chubby hands pulling at the loose strands of her hair. Her maternal joy is stronger than her darkness. Norma is gone, she knows and so her respite is brief but by God is it sweet. The darkness slowly seeps back in, reclaiming its territory. _It’s not my darkness_ she realises with a disheartening jolt_, I belong to it.
_
Losing Norma had been the final blow, the only blow by comparison. To paraphrase that hyphen-mad lady poet   “it had caused her last plank in reason to break”. Her last defence against the darkness had crumbled and since that moment when the doctor had delivered the news in the paediatric ward of the regional hospital there had been no stopping the onslaught.

She is wearing the darkness like a vagrant wears a tattered overcoat on a cold night. She edges her left foot forward, a centimetre, never had such a small distance been so large. Her right foot joins its companion. Another centimetre is claimed by her right foot, again her left makes up the distance. Her toes are now clear of the roof. She leans her weight backwards in case a spell of vertigo ends it all in an ungainly manner.

‘Anna?’
His voice hits her from behind like a tonne of bricks. It shatters her completely .Articulate thought leaves her and all she can do is make a whimpering sound.
‘Anna, I want to watch. That’s all. I only wanted to let you know that I’m here.  Please, continue’
Her darkness abates, her darkness vanishes. Now it’s rage she feels, white-hot and all-consuming. She will not give him a spectacle; her death will not be a grotesquery, her ending will not be his show. He is the one who fed the darkness, nurtured it, but she had seen it too late, too late for Norma.

‘_Accidental death’_ the court had ruled, the spastic jerk of a hand, involuntary.
‘Help me’ Anna called, her voice now an equal match for the wind ‘I can’t. I just can’t’
She can feel his smile on her back. She steadies herself for what’s coming.
‘Of course my darling Anna, a small movement of the hand that’s all it takes’

The agent of her darkness shuffles his frail body across the roof until he is behind her.
Anna feels his hands on the small of her back. He’d have a parting word, she knows. He’s worked so hard for this moment. He’ll send her off with his sentiments.
‘Say hi to Norma for me’ he whispers into her ear and pulls back his hands. At the last moment Anna twists behind him as his hands shove outwards. His forward momentum causes him to stumble half a foot.  She ducks low and gives an up-thrust of her shoulder into his side to send him over the edge.
 He is gone, her respite was brief, but by God was it sweet. 

She is glad that she looked back.

The darkness comes back for her.

She resumes her position on the edge.


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## Euripides (Aug 13, 2014)

*Misinterpretation (644 Words)*

“I was thinking last night that my life is like the opposite of that poem, something about roads, and not travelling,” Mindy declared as she stabbed a cherry tomato from her plate and drowned it in bluecheese dressing.

With my fork halfway to my mouth I looked up at her,“Poem? What are you talking about?” I grimaced as a blob of vinaigrette fell onto my lap.

Mindy pointed her fork at me and drew small circles in the air with it, “You know that poem from high school…Mr. Jones’ English class, gawd, that was SO long ago. Talking about roads and taking the less worn path and not the easy one.”

I raised an eyebrow, and thought to myself. I vaguely recalled the poem. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” I blotted at the oily spot on my lap and mentally sighed, _t__hat is not going to come out.
_
“Well, doesn’t matter. Just agree with me if that poet guy had written an opposite poem, it would have been perfect as an analogyfor my life.”

“Sure. What brought this on?” 

“I was cleaning out crap from the garage and found a shoe box I had fully covered in stickers; you know those brightly colored rainbow ones from the 80’s, and it was full of this STUFF I had saved from high school and college. So I started going through it thinking I should throw it out.” 

I wondered if I should tell Mindy she had a tomato seed stuck in-between her front teeth. “A memorabilia box. I remember having one of those. I tossed mine when I went to grad school. What was in yours? I had all sorts of stupid things in it, like bottle caps. No idea why I kept them.”

Mindy sighed and rolled her eyes, “Ticket stubs from prom, some rose petals and lace from a corsage, love letters, photographs, a program from Brigadoon.  Typical stuff." 

“Wow that was almost 25 years ago. But what’s this got to do with the poem? And the name Frost keeps popping into my head.” 

Mindy picked up the bread roll from her salad plate and started shredding it into little pieces, “Well, there was also my acceptance letter to MIT. Reading that made me start wondering what my life would have been like if I had gone away to college instead of going to the local university.  Or what life would have been like if I hadn’t married Todd after undergrad and had gone to graduate school instead.”

“If I had gone to MIT I would probably be working for some big medical research facility, curing cancer, or genetically engineering the perfect human baby and making lots of money.  Not married, but with a really handsome boyfriend…who cheats on me by the way. I’d be hosting dinner parties for a bunch of superficial friends who would drink all my expensive wine and not help clean up.  I’d have a tropical fish tank and the only thing I’d be able to keep alive would be a bottom feeder.“ 

I laughed, “Ok, that started promising, but in the end doesn’t sound too great, what about grad school?” 

“I know right? Grad school is the harder choice to think about. I think my life would be pretty much the same as it is now, just…better. I’d have a better job, live in a better house, have a better husband. I wouldn’t be living in the same town I was born in.”  Mindy sighed and her shoulders drooped.  “But then Gavin came running into the garage and gave me a muddy hug and ran off. That got me thinking my choices haven’t been too bad so far.”

Mindy smiled and raised her water glass, “So screw Mr. Frost and his poem.”

I raised mine and clinked glasses in salute, “Screw him.”


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## Fin (Aug 15, 2014)

*Greater Evil Comes
Christina Matsuyama*​ 

The wicked king dropped the log on the brackets and retreated from the door as the ram swung against it.

He ran.

He took the child by her hand, dragged her through the corridor, shards of stained glass falling from around them.

Panting, the child looked into the light that now filled the hall, with her free hand lifted the pretty skirt that mired her stride.

Clear skies never looked so unfriendly.

The king had taught her everything while the people's lies of oppression and corruption rose against him; he saved her when the lies turned to daggers in the streets, when a goodwill tour became an ambush. He brought her back here, as the ambush became an uprising, to the place where they first met.

He slid to a halt at the doors to his throne room, took a knee before her, her hands into his, the door they left some hundred paces whence slamming ever inward.

She looked at it.

He brought her attention back to him.

"Focus, girl. Your eyes belong before you."

"Not when I'm fighting."

"Did I put a sword in your hand?"

The door blew inward--- rows of weapons military and rural stood black against a blue sky.

The rebel commander, her long hair tied in knots, calmly led her mob across the splinters of the shattered bar.

The king hauled the heavy doors open, pushed the girl inside. With a grunt, he pushed the doors back shut, barred them with another log over his tiny shoulders and trembling back.

He ambled backwards, as though confused, in a room where stood but he and she and a row of empty suits of armor.

He turned, first to the throne, for a moment stared at it with an unusual awe, almost seemed to be laughing at himself.

Sometimes he told her what his strange expressions meant. Usually he did not.

He looked back at her, and for the first time in months smiled true.

She smiled back.

He led her quickly to the throne, opened the seat to a narrow tunnel.

Once again, glass breaking around them, he took a knee. He held her small arms in his hands, raised his countenance upon her. 

"I always said this castle was no place for you. Now it's time for you to go."

The child's lips parted in confusion. "Won't you come with me?"

"No, girl."

"Why?"

"Because..." the king lowered his head to the floor. "Because I will not." He looked back up to her. "I built this place. Everything here is my responsibility. My successes... and---" His head shot to the door, which took the force of the ram, turned back to her. "This is my world, and I need you to forget it. Everything I've ever said and done."

Another slam.

The girl's eyes narrowed. "What about how to fight?"

The last of the windows collapsed, ropes falling in with the pieces.

The king rolled his eyes and nodded. "You can remember that."

"Reading and writing?"

The king's head fell again to the floor.

"And math---"

Another slam at the door and the bar began to crack.

The king grabbed her by the shoulders. "Forget _me_, girl!"

"Why?"

The king's brows tightened. "Because a man like me has no business in your life. I never did." He lifted her, lowered her into the tunnel. "Be the girl you always were. Teach it to your children: whatever it was my family never learned."

She sank into the tunnel and crawled through the darkness. Sewers, rats and hours passed her as she made her way.

She found the sky, red this time, as the sun made its way behind the forested hills on the horizon.

She looked behind, and the castle looked different. Perhaps it was that she had never seen it at this angle.

She looked ahead.


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## Ephemeral_One (Aug 15, 2014)

"An Exile's Return" - 645 Words

Every step from my mount sent sparks high from the cobblestone below as the flames that had spread throughout my hometown made it brilliant enough to see even under the new moon.  In the distance, looming over the city was the white palace of the Holy Empress, fifteen years had not dulled it's brilliance. Against my orders, the city was being put to the torch. The army I had brought east now fought amongst itself and the people amid the flames. I had been outmaneuvered, all the Empress had to do now was wait, if my own army wouldn't kill me, the people's bloodlust would have to be sated.

Rising in my stirrups, I could only smile at death's fingers around my throat. No one would mourn me, the exiled first son of the Empress. Tophen the black, named for his hair. Laughing as only a dead man can, I shouted to the Palace with my axe raised high, “I'm coming for you, Mother!”

A loose gang of bodies highlighted by the flames watched me pass and began to follow me on foot. I didn't bother stopping, they were likely more of my mercenaries looking to betray me. Instead, a voice called out to me in my mind, “My lord, we're with you.” I needn't see the source, it was a scaled monstrosity, bigger than a man but with a man's form. Though unable to speak, it could transmit thoughts and had proven to be my most staunch ally, possibly even a friend. He had been the one to slay every member of my family so far. Slowing my mount to a light run, the monsters I'd assembled in my exile followed me to the gates, without a single order given. Their footsteps somehow gave me a false hope I'd live to see the dawn.

Before the palace entrance stood the holy guards, their pristine armor emblazoned with the holy sunburst. Without my orders, the fight began when the guards advanced as a shield wall. I'd didn't even need to stop my horse as the assembled horde tore through the soldiers and knocked the gate aside. My friend's claws simply rended metal. Others wielded spiked hammers or hooked spears. Seated upon the steps of the white palace was an older man in a white suit, his once black hair now a gray. I shouted, “Hold! This one is mine!”

My monsters busied themselves finishing off the soldiers while I approached the man. Climbing down off my horse, I bowed my head, “I am home, father.”

“Yes, to bring down what I defended my whole life.” He observed, his voice the coldest I'd ever heard. In a practiced motion, his broadsword was drawn and I unhooked my axe. Our weapons clashed once, the moment I turned his sword away, I brought a dagger I had hidden in my sleeve to thrust into his side. He smiled up to me, “That was poisoned, wasn't it?”

I nodded silently, the guilt of my action making me mute. With a smile, my father said, “Good, that means you're resolved to do what is necessary, remember that in peace as well. I'm sorry that I didn't protect you all those years ago.”

“I never hated you, father.” I whispered softly as he fell to the ground.

“Let me hear the order that will make you king,” My father asked of me, rolling to lay upon his back.

Sucking in a breath, I summoned every bit of my fifteen year old grudge to shout, “Wipe them out! No survivors but, the Empress is mine!” At my words, my monsters let out a unified roar and charged past me into the Palace. Their entrance was quickly followed by screams. Then I joined them in the slaughter, recognizing the monster that I had become tonight. And the King I'd have to be tomorrow.


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## godofwine (Aug 15, 2014)

*Johnny Walker Black – by Godofwine (638 Words)
*
Harvey pushed _End Call_ on his cell phone, and stared down at the double shot of Johnny Walker in the glass front of him. His hands quivered slightly, but he didn’t touch the glass. Fifteen years since he’d had a drop of alcohol and still he could recall the taste like it was yesterday. 

The addiction acted as a crutch, it helped Harvey along when he couldn’t stand on his own two feet. He’d handle it better this time. Just one drink. Just until he was stabilized. 

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit!” he mumbled.

The bartender looked his way but Harvey waved him away and shook his head, “_No_.”

Fifteen years ago he went in for one drink, but he didn’t stop there and it changed his life forever. The addict’s lie of one more was just that – a lie. A group of people came into the bar chattering loudly about missing the bus and he drifted away to fifteen years before.

He never should have gotten in that car, but he only lived two blocks away. The short distance was the quandary, because the distance led him to believe that he could make it. Harvey stumbled out of the bar full of Johnny Walker Black, turned the ignition, and headed home. The windshield was like peering through an aquarium that hadn’t been cleaned in years, but he didn’t live that far. He got home, crossed his chest like a good Catholic, and passed out on the couch. 

He woke up Sunday morning readying his football tradition, turned on the pregame show and a news report of a horrific accident was on instead. 

“…Last night at approximately 12:30am, a car plowed into the number six bus shelter on Superior and Euclid killing four people, including a mother of three. Another man is clinging to life at nearby Metro Health Hospital. The vehicle has not been located. If anyone has any information on this accident please call…”

_Superior and Euclid was just down the street from where he lived. _

“_Those poor kids,”_ he said aloud.

 Harvey opened the refrigerator and there was one egg left, along with a single Coors Light. Football with no breakfast, and no beer wasn’t happening. He looked at his watch, with half an hour before the game he’d make a quick stop at the store and make it back before kickoff. 

He fished the keys out of the old Army jacket on the chair, opened the side door and was met by the wreck of twisted metal that used to be his car. His Nissan Altima looked like it had a run-in with a tank and lost big. The entire right front side was caved in, and the right front tire was bent at an angle that should have inhibited movement, but here it sat in his driveway. 

He closed his eyes tight, but not one memory of an accident surfaced until the news report from minutes before caught hold. The report replayed: “a car plowed into the number six bus shelter on Superior and Euclid killing four people, including a mother of three…”

“Oh my God!” he whined, as he collapsed, held up only by the screen door. He fumbled for the door handle, rushed in the house and slammed the door behind him. He’d wondered if they would find him, but they never did. For fifteen years he waited for that ominous knock on the door that never came.

Fifteen years later he sat in the same bar for one last look at the addiction that helped ruined his life when two police officers came in and stood behind him. He stared straight ahead and refused to look back at them. “I’d like to report a crime,” he said and wrapped his right hand around the glass of Johnny Walker Black.


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## Guy Faukes (Aug 15, 2014)

Escape from Hades
by Guy Faukes​


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