# May 2016 - LM - It Grows On You



## kilroy214 (May 3, 2016)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS
*
*It Grows on You*​
The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.  

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

 The Judges for this round are: *20oz,bdcharles, kilroy214*, and a judge TBA
 If you want to judge and I left you out, send me your scores by the deadline. If you're listed here and don't wish to judge, let me know at once (please).

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

 All Judges scores will be PMed to*kilroy214*. 

All anonymous entries will be PMed to *kilroy214*.


*Rules*







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






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







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




Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores are posted.

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

*This competition will close on:*

Sunday, the 15th of May at 11:59 PM, GMT time. 

Scores would be appreciated by Wednesday , the 25th of May. 

Click here for the current time.


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## godofwine (May 6, 2016)

Witches Brew - By Godofwine (650 Words)


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## kilroy214 (May 7, 2016)

Side Effects
by anonymous


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## CleverFox (May 11, 2016)

Straight from the Hand

REDACTED


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## rcallaci (May 12, 2016)

*Anywhere, but Here (650 words) (language Warning)*

Anywhere, but Here   	


Bang, bang, bang, rat, tat, tat, BOOM, BOOM, the sounds of carnage and war is deafening.  I find myself in a bug infested pit, lying in a pool of blood.  I smell piss, shit, and burning meat. Blood is pouring out of every orifice on my body. Half of my face is torn and ripped asunder, while the other half is making mewling noises.  I’m in utter agony; I can’t believe that I’m about to die, alone, unheard, and never to be remembered. I ask myself, how can you be remembered when you weren’t yet born? This is what you get when you play with Time. Playing God can be dangerous to one’s health. I always thought I was invincible and that I would live forever. It seems that I was wrong on both counts. 

“WHERE THE FUCK, AM I,” I screamed, no, no, not screamed, but gurgled, (how can one scream when you have a collapsed lung, mangled tongue and half a face). No one answers, the pain is unbearable, but I will myself to hang on. I know where my consciousness is, it’s in this goddamn foxhole in France during World War One, dying a slow and horrible death.  It’s my physical body I worry about. Where the hell did it go? Is it still in the lab, devoid of consciousness, or lost in some time stream, tumbling endlessly through the void? 

Oh shit! It’s so obvious; I just wasn’t thinking straight, dying would do that. The consciousness who occupied this body is now in mine. A consciousness transfer has never happened before. I’m in one dire pickle, if he has bonded with my body by somehow convincing my neural nanobots (they monitor, analyze and enhance my brain and body functions during time incursions and go in recovery mode when they sense any anomalies occurring) that all is well, and that he is me, then I’m cooked. I think now is a good time to put aside my agnosticism, and start praying for redemption.  

.......​
The last thing Major Rockefeller Rickerford remembered was the grenade that exploded in his foxhole. His body was ripped in half. Death was eminent. His last thoughts were of his beloved wife, Emily.

But alas, those weren’t his last thoughts. Rickerford found himself strapped in a chair with all types of tubes and gadgets attached to his body. He definitely wasn’t in heaven. He had female breasts, and instead of a penis, he had a vagina. Rickerford was in hell, that evil trickster Satan, made him a woman, in order to satisfy his carnal perversions. He was an abomination, an affront to God and his angels. Emily would weep for all eternity. He howled in despair and begged God to release him from this hell-wrought nightmare he found himself in. 

Dr. Felicia Fox’s neural nanobots went into parasitic overdrive. They grew neural adapters inside the hippocampus region of the brain where consciousness was located. They confirmed that a consciousness transfer took place during the Time incursion. They discovered the error that caused the transfer and proceeded to duplicate the exact sequence of events in reverse. 

.......​
I’ll be lucky if I have a few minutes left. The pain is excruciating. I can barely breathe. It’s getting dark; I’m going to die in this godforsaken hellhole. I’ve come to learn in my last seconds of life that the stink of death kind of grows on you. I’ve made my peace; it’s now time to...hold on, something’s happening, thank God in heaven, I’m being pulled out of here. Hallelujah, I guess I’ve become a believer, thank-you God. 

.......​
Major Rickerford found himself back in the foxhole. The agonizing pain was a welcome relief. His prayers were answered. As his life ebbed away he saw the light of heaven. His beloved Emily was on the other side waiting to embrace her Rock, and welcome him home.









The End​






RC
05-11-2016
​


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## Blue (May 13, 2016)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...t-Grows-on-You-Workshop?p=1997252#post1997252
Remember? by Blue (445)


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## KnightPlutonian (May 13, 2016)

*Blue Shimmer - 650 Words*


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## PockyPokolro (May 14, 2016)

Dreaming [647 words]


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## kilroy214 (May 15, 2016)

Anonymous Entry

It Grows On You (567 words)

The room was dark. Dice knitted his bony fingers together, leaning forward in his crimson red chair. “The Senator of New Aviv is corrupt.”

Charly laughed. “The whole government is corrupt.” She sat tilted back in her chair, with her head inclined backward and a cigarette between her teeth.

“Yes. But he is the kind of corrupt where if we catch him, we get a reward. The kind of corrupt we’re concerned with.”


“I see.”

“Fortunately, another gang has made our job easy. They’ve got the records that the Senator thought he’d destroyed.”


“So we steal the proof from them, bring it to the government, and we end up with the better part of the deal. Easy enough.” She got up from her chair. 

“One more thing,” Dice said. “Depending on how secretive you can be, you might have to kill some people.”

“I see.” She coughed on the cigarette smoke. “I see. Wouldn’t--wouldn’t be the first time.” A flush crept up to her cheeks.

“Oh?”

She glanced at his folded hands, looking mysteriously hazy in the cigarette smoke. She coughed again, and said, “It kind of grows on you, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“Killing.” Charly’s eyes were glassy now, the cigarette fallen from her mouth and burning a hole in Dice’s expensive carpet.

He laughed dryly. “Easy the first time?”

She stared at the cigarette on the floor. “Nah.” Then her mouth curved into a smile. “Well, easy enough.”

“How old were you?”

She faced him, and held up all of her fingers. His eyes were first startled, and then curious. 

“Schools on a little desert moon like mine are elementary through high school, and some teenager shot up the school with a gamgun. So I shot him up, too. With my Papa’s revolver. Justice, that was my first excuse.”

Dice paused. He cracked his knuckles, then said, “So tell me. Why did you join this gang? Are you looking for more excuses?”

“Maybe.” She grinned, and crushed the burning cigarette with the toe of her cowboy boot


Dice waved his hand dismissively. “Do what you want. It doesn’t matter to me how bloody it is, as long as the job is done.”

Charly laughed. “Thanks, Dice.”

Before she exited out the door, she tipped her hat to him. He was only in his thirties, but his hair was already graying. 

I’m growing old fast, too, she thought. Look at me now, Papa. You proud?

But she knew he wouldn’t have been. She had promised to only shoot rattlers, and now she’d broken that promise. . .how many times? She tried to count. Then she turned around, and saw Dice at his desk framed in the open doorway, melting into the half-light. 

“Dice, is it wrong that I can count the age I was when I first killed on my fingers, but to count the number of people I killed I need more than three hands?”


“What do you think?” he said, slowly. 

“I’m about to blow a lot of people to bloody bits, and I’m gonna like it. Is that--?”

“Wrong? Well, yes, I suppose it is. The question is, do you care?”

Do I care?

She left the room, and felt the two revolvers in their holsters. 

No. 

That was the most frightening thing of all, wasn’t it? She pulled one revolver from its holster, caressing it gently. The one she had first used. 

Sorry, Papa.


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