# May 2013 - LM - Killing Things Best When Selling Nothing



## Fin (May 1, 2013)

_​_*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​Killing Things Best When Selling Nothing​
*Reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner.*

The winner will receive a forum award which will be pinned to their lapel by Baron himself. Also, the winner will be awarded with a one month free subscription to the forums (FoWF) which will give you access to additional forums and use of the chat room where a there is a steadily growing community!

So, do your best!


*Our prompt for this month's competition is:*

*Killing Things Best When Selling Nothing*

In 650 words or less, write a story where the prompt above is in some way included in the story, such as the theme; object; setting, etc. So there should be many ways to connect to the prompt.


*The judges for this round are:*

*Leyline*; *Lewdog*; *Pluralized*; *Jon M*
A click of a judge's name will take you to their profile.

(To the judges, send your scores to *Fin* via PM - and if we could aim to have them sent within a week after the closing date, that would be ideal)


*Now a recap of the rules:*


The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
Of course, there can only be one entry per member.
No comments in this thread, please - Only competition entries (and links to) to be posted in this thread.
Also, please hold off on "liking" stories until the judging's done.


*There are two 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 want to someday submit the work to a magazine or something). *Take note: If you have elected to put your entry there in the Workshop thread, you must copy the link into the main competition thread or else it will not be counted.*

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:*

Tuesday, the 14th of May. To avoid confusion, the thread will close at 11:59pm (Tuesday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time. GMT/UTC-7

*Good luck, everyone!*​


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## Kyle R (May 4, 2013)

*A New Lease*
_(650 words)_
​ 


Swal flicks a lit cigarette at me and barks, "Real estate?"

Every muscle in my arm is shiver-tight. I resist the urge to knife-thrust his temple. Old habits die hard, they say. Try playing nice when you've been a killer for twelve years. "That's right," I growl.

Swal leans back, exposing his throat. _Knuckle-strike to the windpipe, suffocation in sixty seconds_. His melon stomach globes his shirt. _Elbow-smash to the solar plexus, collapses the diaphragm_. "You hear this guy?" He laughs, a little too loud. 

The grease-heads behind him chuckle on cue, clutching their pool sticks. I spot a winning bank shot by the corner pocket. The roid-monkey in the checkered shirt cuts the ball too thin instead, and blames it on the sparkle from the disco ball chandelier. Amateurs.

"I'm out of the business," I say, standing up. I reach for my suitcase, a decade's worth of back pay in unmarked twenties.

Swal slumps forward, siezes my arm with his Italian sausage hand.

_Down, in, and out,_ the Wing Chun movement flickers through my mind. _Wax on, catch and twist,_ torn rotator cuff, a lifelong injury that’ll never fully heal, that’ll always ache in the winter.

Instead I force a smile and tell Swal, politely, "Take your hand off, or I take it off for you." After all, guy’s been my employer all these years. He's earned the courtesy of a warning.

"This ain't no business, L,” he grunts. “There ain't no out.” He releases my arm and chin-jerks toward the door, then tells me The Reaper’s coming.

I tell him The Reaper better bring back up.

*​ 
Money goes far. New suits, a ritzy loft downtown. Girls that look expensive but smell cheap. A bank account deep enough to live off the interest. 

It's not glamorous, but it's a life.

I sit on the stairs of my apartment, and cry.

*​ 
I don't _have _to work, but I _need _to. Too many necks squeezed. Too many arteries severed. Too many cars torched. Everyone's beginning to look like a collection of nerves and organs.

So I drop in on Swal. 

He's not happy to see me. 

I hang around for an hour before stumbling home.

*​ 
Broken collarbone's easy to explain. I live in a loft. Fridge is downstairs. Sometimes, at night, I get hungry, it's dark.

Showering hurts like hell, but the blood washes clean like wine.

*​ 
I drown the car in the marsh. Scrapyard junk, bought with unmarked cash. No way of tying me to it.

*​ 
The nurse's name is August. Like the month. 

She smiles, tells me I should get a mini-fridge, put it by my bed, so I don't break the other clavicle. 

She looks cheap but smells expensive. Her hair is red. Not like blood. 

Like cherries.

*​ 
With my arm in a sling, my suit looks ridiculous. But I grin, telling Mr. and Mrs. Henala that _this _is a beautiful home. 

One I'd raise my kids in. Grow old in. 

A home to _die _in.

Mrs. Henala is pink, the color of strangulation. "It's a little above our budget," she whimpers.

"I'll lower it," I say. 

When they waver, I share the best part: game room, fully stocked. Pool table. Disco ball chandelier. 

Freshly painted walls.

But I leave that last part out, and just smile.

*​ 
August unwraps my sling, asks me, in her butter-soft voice, how I'm liking the mini-fridge. 

"It's beautiful," I tell her, looking right in her eyes.

August blushes like cherries, too.

*​ 
I sit on my stairwell, and laugh. I open the windows, the neighbor complains, and I laugh at her, too.

*​ 
In July I visit the Henalas. All smiles and hugs. 

Mr. Henala offers me a game of nine ball. I tell him thanks, but I've got a date.

"Who’s the lucky girl?" he asks.

August, I tell him. 

Like the month. 

But I leave that last part out, and just smile.


* * *​


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## Dictarium (May 4, 2013)

Kyle Theodore Barnum - 631 words, anyone who finds the prompt-related Easter Egg gets a cookie.


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## Deleted member 49710 (May 4, 2013)

a thousand cuts
language, violence


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## Pluralized (May 5, 2013)

Giggin' - 612w Language! -- Judge's Entry - just for fun

My family lived at the end of LaChaurd Bayou, where we was happy and lived for a long time. We fished right out of that murky water. We killed gators. When somebody got sick an’ died, we said a prayer and dumped ‘em off in the lagoon. Forever, we lived there in peace, mindin’ our own business, eatin’ outta the swamp.  


My brother Claude was a few years older’n me. He was a big ol’ boy, hunched way over in the middle a his back. Momma said it was from havin’ the flu. The front a his teeth was all black, and they was a big red splotch in middle a his forehead. I never asked Momma about them things, figgered they was none a my business.


I was nine years old, and we was out there one night to gig a frog. We went down just before supper and found a few willow branches. We carved us some spears and set out in the direction a that croakin’. 


Near the far end a that ol’ pier, in the evenin’ sunset, I reckon I could see a hunnerd frogs out there, hoppin’ all around, doin’ whatever it is frogs’ll do. They was so happy lookin’, I forgot we was about to kill ‘em. A course Claude, bein’ older, he killed a lot a them frogs, or at least said he had. We ran up on ‘em, and Claude just started a-stabbin’ and a-pokin’ like a wild man, jabbin’ them poor frogs right through the guts. I just went to cryin’, and couldn’t bring m’self to do it. Poor little ol’ frogs, never hurt nobody. 


Claude glared at me, made me feel awful about it, callin’ me all kinda names. “You sissy, get yer ass over here and gig these sumbitches. What else you think we’re gonna eat tonight?” He set his stick aside, grabbin’ them dead frogs and fillin’ his satchel. Some of ‘em wasn’t even dead yet, they was just floppin’ around, bleedin’ and I just dang near lost it.


I bit back my tears, and snuffled up a bunch a snot. “Claude,” I said, workin’ up as much courage as I could, “Them frogs never hurt nobody. Can’t we just eat some a them damn fish, or crawdads?”


“Get yer ass over here and help me gig, or I’m gonna tell Momma.” 


I couldn’t move my feet. Claude, lookin’ right at me with a mean ol’ look, dropped his bag a frogs and came stampin’ over to me. I put my hands up in front a my face and said, “Claude, leave me alone. I don’t wanna.” 


He kept on, just came on over and grabbed me by the wrists. “You little sumbitch, let’s get you giggin’.” 


The strength a his arms was scary, and he looked real mad. Them black teeth grindin’ and that red splotch was just glowin’ he was so mad. I stepped to the side, and Claude lost his footin’ and slipped, all his weight comin’ right down on me. He let out a horrible sound, a moan louder than I ever heard. He had fallen right down on my giggin’ stick and it went plum in his belly. He was squirmin’ all over and just sounded awful. They was blood all around, and after a minute, he just went limp. 


He made a big splash when I rolled him off the pier. I let them frogs out a his bag and threw his stick off in the water. It was dark, but I thought I saw one a them damn frogs smilin’ at me.


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## Kevin (May 6, 2013)

*Kim joggin'  649 words (exibit only- not an official entry)*

The first thing I want to say is that I am master of my own universe. Whether or not you remember that is not important.

The second thing I say is ‘Hello, I greet your cordially and in earnest.’ 

You may not like what I have to say but you must realize that your impressions are prejudiced; your media and government have duped you. They lie, constantly.

Thirdly, I will say… welcome. Share some food and drink. We will talk and be friendly (we’re not friends yet. I don’t know you) but come. I am familiar with many of your culture’s tastes. I love your music, good scotch and basketball. We’ll share music and drink. 

I have friends, you know, many friends from your country. Famous ones. They have been to visit. Your media would ridicule them for their friendliness. Do you wonder why I don’t trust your leaders?

Let us talk of other things and we will be pleasant…  

I see _you’re_ noticed my country’s women. Beautiful, no? Ha, ha, I have to agree. Later they perform singing and dancing for us. It will be televised. Does that surprise you? Of course we have T.V. Yes, a film crew will make a television program of them. We are not backward.  This is not the Dark Ages. 

Our people are frugal, not starving. That is a lie perpetrated by your C.I.A. Our children are every bit as flourishing as those fattened softies in the south. When we are reunited you will see. Only their constant plotting and devious natures keep us apart. Do you not wonder how they can continue this from my grandfather’s era? It is from pure greed and ignorance. I am amazed myself but I can see that only the most open-minded among you might guess the truths. 

Did I mention Mr. Rodman? We have enjoyed many good times together. He is the mind of poetry and so is completely honest; unlike the way that your government wants him. I worry he may be persecuted. I have many experiences in how they can act, my father too.

They constantly attack. That is why we build ourselves so strong. The weak country gets overrun. I will prevent that. Our patriotic people are one vast army; completely loyal to defend against any encroachments perpetrated against us. The full might of your military could not defeat us. That is because our peoples’ hearts are behind it. Yours are not. It is proof that you can never defeat us. Deep down, you are good people, not wanting to come and oppress others. It is just wrong. Your President Washington championed that, but you have become misguided.

We are for our nation, and not against anyone.  

Okay, please… sit, have a drink. You know I have this blue label, many blue label. I think maybe I’m their best customer, ha, ha. Did you know they make a special bottle for me? Yes, in appreciation they make me a special blend.


*   *   * 


Let me pour you another. Don’t be shy. It’s most excellent, wouldn’t you agree?  Ha, ha.  

Have some more of the beef? It’s _Kobe_. No, not Kobe…it’s Japanese.  Ha, too full? Okay.

Hang on…my assistant is signaling to tell me something private…

Yes…come close… tell me in my ear.

Oh. We have a surprise that I hope you are still ready for. Some of the performers have requested to come and have a private, um…_party_ with us. Yes, of course.  Ha, ha. What a surprise.

Ladies…come in. _Drake_; put on some _Drake…_ and some old-school, you know…to set the mood. Yah… come on in, ladies. We go-nah paaaah-tay! You killing it; not selling it. Yes. I love the way you move! 

How is this, my friend? Anything you want. They love me, and now they love you because you’re my friend.

It’s good to be leader…

Drink up, my friend.


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## moderan (May 7, 2013)

Killing Things Best When Selling Nothing (615 words) violence, adult situations.


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## Inchidoney (May 7, 2013)

"Can Anyone Help?" 643 Words. 


http://www.writingforums.com/lm-cha...est-when-selling-nothing-workshop-thread.html


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## J Anfinson (May 7, 2013)

Everything's Bigger in Texas - 638 (MS Word) Adult Language


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## FleshEater (May 8, 2013)

Business is Business (589 Words)

http://www.writingforums.com/lm-challenge-secure-entries/138591-05-01-2013-lm-killing-things-best-when-selling-nothing-workshop-thread.html#post1628506


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## Bilston Blue (May 9, 2013)

Archibald Eatwell Misses a Sales-to-Target and Customer Satisfaction Report Meeting (or a Very Short Story Highlighting the Dangers of Distraction Whilst Driving)​​


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## Kirra (May 12, 2013)

Killing by Saying Nothing




I enter what had been home. I didn’t mean to murder, but I wonder if I’m trying to resurrect the dead. They say family will always be there. They say I should try again, because you shouldn’t disappoint family. What they don’t understand is that it may already be done.​  *

When I applied to colleges, my father told me school was for men, and that no daughter of his would work when she should be marrying and raising children. That should have been a fight. I should have told him I could work and have a family. I should have told him my teachers told me not to waste the talents I was given- that I could always have a family, but striving for education is so much harder once you are a mother. I should have tried to convince him. After all, when it comes to work, selling yourself starts with each interview and continues with every attempt for promotion. How can I sell myself to employers, if I can’t convince my own family? I should have said so many things. I didn’t. ​  *

I left without saying goodbye. I had to leave most of my things behind, but between scholarships, student loans, and part time employment I believed that I could make it. And I did.​  *

I’ve learned that it’s easier to sell myself to employers than it is to sell myself to my family.  In interviews, they look at my transcripts and work history. I am given the chance to sell myself. I don’t have to try to slip my arguments in between curses or cringe in fear.​  *

It has been a few years. Maybe too many. I kept thinking my mom might call. I thought she might think of the daughter she raised. I thought she might remember how she told me to follow my dreams. Maybe she does. They say I should try, because family never leaves. I don’t know if they’re right, but I don’t know that they’re wrong, either. So I take in a deep breath and knock on the door. ​  *

I walk back out to my car and put my hands on the steering wheel, but before I can pull out of the driveway I notice that my face is wet. After all this time, I thought that I could sell myself to my family. I thought that I could make them see that my life isn’t what they planned for me, but that it is a good life. I thought I could make them understand that they made me the person I am today, and that I have never forgotten the lessons they taught me. I hoped for so many things. I knew that I might have killed the bond between us by walking out, but I had hoped the bond between parents and children might overcome that break. Maybe I was delusional. Maybe I should have known there was no chance for reconciliation. Today, I am sorry that I tried to resurrect what was my family. Today, I am sorry that the place that I called home isn’t. But someday, I think I will be glad that I tried. The guilt of broken blood isn’t just on my hands. Family is tied by blood, but blood ties aren’t enough. ​ ​


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## Rustgold (May 14, 2013)

Killing things best when selling nothing
By B.D.Branch 642 words
​
http://www.writingforums.com/lm-challenge-secure-entries/138591-05-01-2013-lm-killing-things-best-when-selling-nothing-workshop-thread.html#post1629772

(Caution: Mild language)


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## Gargh (May 14, 2013)

http://www.writingforums.com/lm-cha...ling-nothing-workshop-thread.html#post1629783


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## Fin (May 15, 2013)

Competition over


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