# 3/3/12 - LM - The Abyss



## ppsage (Mar 3, 2012)

_*LITERARY MANEUVERS
*_*The March Challenge**


A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.**
Their entry will appear in the WF Newsletter, which is a good chance to get your work widely circulated.**
Now we are also offering a Friends of WF (FoWF) subscription free for a month to the first place winner!**

So, do your best.*​


Another round of LM begins! And this time, the task requires looking into the face of humanity's merciless foe, the empty pit itself. Our prompt for this installment, courtesy of ppsage is:


*The abyss gazes implacably back**
*_In 650 words, write a story where the line above is either the title, or is included in the story, or is in some way the theme of the story. So there should be many ways to connect to the prompt.__
If you read back a ways in the LM Coffee Shop you'll can find a bit of discussion on the matter._ 


The judges for this round are *Kyle Colorado, JohnM, Bazz Cargo and Hawke*.
(To the judges, send your scores to Like a Fox via PM - and if we could aim to have them sent a week after the closing date that would be awesome.)
​*

Now a recap of the rules:
*1.The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
2.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 really, 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.
3.And of course, there can only be one entry per member.​As always, there are two ways to post your entry: 

You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread *which is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. 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 whatnot). 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.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your here entry in the *LM Challenge thread.

*Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.​
This competition will close on Sunday the 18th of March. To avoid confusion the thread will close at 11:59pm (Sunday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.


This will make it 5:59pm on Monday for LaF in Melbourne Australia...
It'll be 2:59pm on Monday for Fuhrer in the Phillipines... 
For anyone in Baghdad it'll be 9:59am on Monday morning...
If you're in the UK (London Time) it'll be 7:59am Monday morning...
If you're in New York it'll be 2:55am Monday morning...

Daylight Savings may cause some mistake ... if so, get it in an hour early to be safe!

If your area isn't covered, you guys can figure out when it'll be for you.
That's enough figuring of the world clock for anyone.


*No comments, please - Only competition entries (or links to) to be posted in this thread. Also hold off on the likes until the judging's done.* 

*Now that all's set, let the writing begin! *


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## Terry D (Mar 5, 2012)

*                                                                                       Choices*
                                                                   (621 words)


_A voice can lie_, Walker thought, _but eyes never do_.

He knew it was a cliché, but it was true, that’s probably why it had become a cliché.  Fifteen years of interviews and interrogations had taught him how body language can be faked, how statements can be manipulated, and facts twisted into a simulacrum of the truth.

_But the eyes tell the real truth – if you can see it_.

Walker could see it.  The truth in the eyes he was starring into now was ugly, like looking into an abyss of flesh and bone filled with evil.  He was reminded of a line from an old Who song; “_No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, to be the sad man, behind blue eyes_.”  But it wasn’t true, some people do know.

“I know what you’ve done,” he said “and soon everyone will.”

Two bodies had been discovered just outside of town buried in a lonely stripe of weed covered ground where the fences surrounding the airport and the landfill face each other like ranks of pawns on a chessboard.  That discovery had set into motion an efficient, implacable machine, a machine with gears which can grind a man to pulp without conscience.  The bodies would be identified, phone records checked, relationships established, and, eventually, the truth discovered.

“But we already know the truth, don’t we?” Walker said.  Even the lights in the room demanded truth; bright, direct, and cold, they exposed every flaw in the face, banished every shadow, but could not illuminate that which lay behind those eyes.  It took a man like Walker to see into the depths of that abyss.  It took a cop.

“Men like you and me make a choice every day, don’t we?” Walker said, not expecting a response.  “We wake up into a world of lies, and greed, and pain, and bullshit, and we have to choose which side we’re going to be on.  Temptation pulls at you all day long, every day, like hands grabbing at your clothes – constantly trying to pull you down.”

What Walker didn’t say was that it had become impossible for him to remember why he’d chosen his side, or even when he’d made the choice.  “What was it for you?” he asked the other, “Money?  Power?  Or maybe you’re just so pissed off at the whole damned world that you wanted to hurt somebody as badly as you’ve been hurt?”

Still no response.  Just those twin voids looking back at him.  Again the song whispered inside his head; “_No one bites back as hard on his anger . . ._”

Walker could see, in his mind, the bodies being zippered into their body bags, cold gray faces streaked with dirt and blood disappearing behind flaps of black plastic.  He could smell the nauseating mix of putrescent flesh, aircraft fuel, fresh turned earth, and the sour reek of the landfill.  There was no ID on the bodies, but soon enough the toe tags reading, John and Jane Doe would be swapped out for real names.  “It’s your fault,” he said.

The eyes never looked away, never showed the slightest hint of contrition, or regret.

“It ends here.”

The song echoed in his mind once more; _“And if I swallow anything evil, put your finger down my throat . . .”_

With a motion as fluid as oiled thought, Walker swept the Glock out of his holster, jammed it deep into the soft triangle of flesh behind the chin beneath those blue eyes, and pulled the trigger.  Blood sprayed the walls, the ceiling, the translucent plastic shower curtain, and ran in thick rivulets down the mirror as Walker disappeared into the abyss.


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## Kyle R (Mar 6, 2012)

*Ida Sees the Moon* - http://www.writingforums.com/writers-workshop/128306-3-march-2012-lm-abyss-gazes.html#post1509506​


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## LaughinJim (Mar 11, 2012)

*The Jailer on Death Row*

Sam spins the kiosk round. Each photo has a name and a number beneath. These are the pictures of each resident stuffed into the cells – the boxes – little boxes made of tickey-tackey, as the song goes.

He keeps a book for each prisoner, books that he leaves right out in the open. The guards do not understand his books because they are written in code, but they know what the spinning faces mean. They mean death.

He binds each book himself out of lined paper, heavy cardboard, thick thread, cheap linen cloth and glue; the type of linen that they use to wrap the bodies that lay beneath the grasses of Potter’s Field. Each book contains the content of any conversation that Sam has ever had with a prisoner, his victim. He saves them as reference for his memoirs. Sam has thousands of them.

Each night he dreams of the three crones, the fates: Clotho spinning her thread of flax, Lachesis rubbing her rod with wax, made of the finest boxwood in the land, graduated to measure out the exact length of each man’s life, and the dreaded shears of Atropos that grimly snip the length to signify…this is the end, my friend. In the background of his dream, he hears the weavers sing as the linen cloth looms large on the frame of yellow ash.

When the deed is done, he carefully wraps each body in its flaxen shroud; not the shroud that the sailor man used to strangle his wife, but the one that the jailor Sam, bought with his own money; for the body should be respected even though the soul was evil. There is no greater indignity than an irreverent burial. Even the lowest of the low deserves a proper funeral. There is always a chance that a corrupt soul may see the light. 

Now there is one man that Sam does have a problem with. No defilement is too horrible for the man with the small mustache, this mass murderer, this green eyed monster – this swine. He wants to chop him up as chow for the hounds.

He gladly pulls the lever that releases the gas, while he coldly watches this pig choke to death. At the burial he insists that a cold and naked body be smeared with dung and salt and hurled into an inexpertly dug pit. The gravediggers gleefully heap shovelful upon shovelful of dioxin laden river sludge into the abyss that gazes implacably back.

As he finishes his morning coffee, strong and dark like Sam himself, he hears the mournful wail of the Black Mariah drawing near. What devilish dish have they cooked up for me today? He drifted into a reverie of Pluto’s eccentric orbit meandering beyond the distant asteroid belt.


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## Forceflow (Mar 13, 2012)

*Mind Slip [Language]*

(650 words)
She watched the door shut. A resounding click and they were alone. They stood on opposite ends of the room, but alone nonetheless. He was motionless, with his back to her, gazing out into the endless snows. Silence reigned.

She studied him closely. As had been pointed out earlier, there was absolutely nothing significant about him – except his youth. As a human, he looked no older than sixteen. Average height and average build. His eyes still held the intensity and energy of a child. Unlike the others, he had shown no special skills or talents. His appointment as team leader was surprising to say the least. It was almost a guarantee that every other member had more experience as an Enforcer.

She knew she should apologize, but pride stopped her. Not to him. Not like this. She had no intention to confirm her position as the weakest member of the newly formed team. It could wait. She turned to leave, careful to make no sound on the cold stone floor. Her slender fingers were but an inch from the door when he broke the silence.

“So what’s it like?” His tone was neutral, pleasant even. It caught her off guard. She turned back. He hadn’t moved. Not one inch.

Not the reaction she was expecting. Her mind reeled. She feigned confusion to buy time to think. “What are you talking –”

“To fuck with someone’s head,” he snapped as he finally turned. “To dig up those buried memories: To show them that pain again and again without mercy or end.” Fury danced in his eyes. There it was – the rage. Like everyone else. Seeing it on his face was strangely soothing.

She opened her mouth to apologize. But the words would not come.

There was a sudden sharp pain in her abdomen as he appeared in front of her. She didn’t even see him move. Her mind registered her feet leaving the ground, then the wall at her back. The blur of a fist and for a second, she saw darkness and stars. Her feet gave way and she crumpled to her knees.

It had been a hard blow, even by the standards of her people. He hadn’t held back. Instinctively, her hands went to the pain on her face, a healing spell ready. But she didn’t.

“Evens?” he asked after a pause. She looked up to see an extended hand. The anger was gone from his eyes. Replaced by respect?

“Look,” he said earnestly. “If I held a grudge for every slight, I would be leaving behind a trail of corpses. Let the past sit where it belongs. I would rather we be friends than just mere allies.” She stared at him in disbelief. He had understood her dilemma, and given her an out. Her hands left her bruised face unhealed and grasped his. She would let time heal it. It would be her way.

“It’s like gazing into a bottomless void,’ she answered him softly, “An abyss lined by secrets, emotions, desires; thoughts and memories swirl all around. After I slip in, I need only look.”

“How long do you have?” She knew what he was really asking. How long had she been there till he noticed.

“I have until the abyss gazes implacably back. That’s when our eyes meet. And they know.” Her voice was a whisper, “They know that you know: Their most fervent desires; their darkest secrets. And they are forced to confront the ugliness buried deep within.”

“Always?”

“Sometimes consciously, usually not. Not everyone is fully aware of what their mind does or can do.”

“Then what?”

“Then comes the fear. It lights up their face. It shows in their eyes – if only for a second.”

“Always?”

“Yes.”

“Even me?” The tone was challenging, but uncertain.

She met his gaze. “Even you,” she said firmly.

“And you?”

She looked away. “So I am told.”


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## Gamer_2k4 (Mar 16, 2012)

*The Abyss*
(648 words)

--

"You think this is all there is? That we're thrust into this world, live our lives, and drop off it just as abruptly?"

The sharp questions startled me.  I had been conversing with a long-lost friend, and the topic of mortality had somehow arisen.  Had I noticed the twitch in his eye, or the trace of a grimace as we went on, I would have cut things off much earlier.  Instead, I foolishly barreled along, and the provocation had slipped through my lips scarcely before I had a chance to consider it.

"But every man ultimately passes out of existence, void and forgotten but for the legacy he leaves behind."

It was a mistake.

My companion followed up his questions with a hissing indictment.  "There's more, Arthur.  So much more."

"What's the matter?" I asked, not realizing my blunder.  "Don't tell me your studies drifted into the philosophical?"

"The philosophical!" the other exclaimed.  "I've spent the last several years immersed in this exact matter.  I've seen death - and I've seen beyond."

"Pull it together, Henry," I ordered.  "You're talking like a fanatic.  We both know there's nothing beyond death except a return to nature.  There's no need for anything more."

"Of course there isn't a need," Henry shot back.  "Not from our perspective.  But we're part of a larger, more terrible system."  He hesitated.  "The religious comfort themselves with promises of heaven.  The atheists discard the concept of eternity altogether.  But the truth is far deeper and realer than either group possibly imagines."  He spoke with such conviction that I found myself wanting to know more, despite the matter's absurdity.

"What's the truth?" I asked.

Henry wore a haunted expression, and there was a noticeable delay before he answered the question.

"The abyss.  The inescapable pit of damnation."

"You mean Hell?" I asked incredulously.  "Henry, that's just an invention to scare people into doing what their religion wants.  It no more real than ghosts or demons."

"No more real, but no less real, either," Henry answered with certainty.  "Why do you think horror contains so many archetypal elements of the fearsome and unknown? It's because, hidden deep within the human psyche, there exists a desire to avoid that above all else.  It's the very core of our self-preservation instinct."

I knew I had to bring him back to reality.  "We avoid death because life is all we have.  Once it's gone, there's nothing left."

"Once it's gone, we sink beneath the surface to a place of torment, a place of slime and blackness and terror.  A place where, if one doesn't feel despair, it's only because they're consumed by something worse."

"But-"

"You don't believe it because you haven't considered it," Henry accused.  "One only needs look at someone on their way to their execution to understand the truth.  Have you seen the fear, Arthur? Have you searched their eyes?"

"I haven't," I admitted, "But I've seen many on their deathbeds, just as serene as anyone."

"Because they've lobotomized themselves to the truth.  A sheep going to the slaughter is peaceful, too.

"Religion gives people something bright and beautiful to focus on," Henry continued.  "By keeping their eyes above, they learn to ignore what's below.  The only way to reconcile the horror is by denying it altogether."

"We ignore it because there's no evidence for it!" I exclaimed.  "No scientist has ever observed such a thing.  There's no empirical proof."

Henry's eyes were glossy.  "There's the proof of experience."

I blinked.  "What are you saying?"

"I've seen the abyss, stared so deeply into it that I felt consumed - and the abyss gazes implacably back.  It's there, so real it makes this world feel like a fantasy.  And that's what this world is: a brief, beautiful dream before the real existence begins.  Treasure it, Arthur."

"Henry-" I began futilely, but he didn't notice.

"Treasure it," he whispered.


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## garza (Mar 17, 2012)

Going Gentle into that Good Night

'You've come to watch me die.'

‘Ay, John, that I have.' The priest pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. ‘Your family’s coming, but your dying’s caught them off guard and far from home. The doctors fear this last attack means you’ll not last the night.’

‘Of all men, doctors fear death the most because they understand it least.’

‘I should think they understand it best.’

‘They understand the mechanics. They don’t understand death.’

‘Now it looks to be your death for sure tonight, John, are you ready to face the reality of the next life?’

‘Ah, that old song, is it? No atheists in foxholes? There are plenty of atheists in foxholes, Patrick. I’ve seen some godless men start to pray, and I’ve seen prayerful men stripped of their faith and curse the heavens when they see the brutality that the world holds. Some that prayed yesterday die with blasphemy on their lips today.’

‘But  this is no foxhole, and your death looks to be a quiet one. Tell me how you feel.’

‘Disappointed that I’ll not see my youngest grandson grow up. He’s a good lad. He’ll be a good man. Now I’ll not see him again and I’ll have no chance to say goodbye.’ 

‘I’ll pass along your goodbye. I’ll tell him,‘’Slán agus beannacht leat’’*’.

‘Ah, Patrick, how ever did I mistake you for a Dubliner? You’ve an Ulster tongue in your head for sure.’

‘And memories of Belfast streets as well, same as you. You’ve come a long way from your Gaeltacht home.’

‘It's been a good life, for all that, but a downhill slide of late and I'm finally looking over the edge. There's no bottom, nothing.'

The priest laughed. 'You never believed there would be.'

The old man made an effort to straighten himself on the bed. 'No, but until now I never knew the nothing would stare back.'

'Stare back?'

'Gaze, you might say. Seems to.'

‘Frighten you, does it?'

'Not in the least. ‘Tis not a fearful stare. But there’s no escaping. It’s a gaze that cannot be appeased except by surrender. So I’ve surrendered and I’ll go back.'

'Back to where?'

'Where I was before.'

'Now you make no sense. You don't believe in a hereafter. Do you now believe in a here-before?'

'If you'll hold me that water glass with the crooked straw for me I'll explain.'

The priest held the glass and the old man took a few sips.

'Thank you. As a reward you can say some farewell words at my burying for the sake of those in the family that hold to religion. But have respect for my beliefs. No mention of heaven or hell.'

‘Agreed.'

'Think of where we are before we are conceived.'

'And where might that be?'

‘An abyss. A great nothing. We are not. Then, with a single moment of union, we are. We awake in the light with darkness behind us and darkness beyond us. We take a few breaths, live a few years, and as our flame sputters, as mine does now, the darkness gazes at us, beckons us, stares us down, and will not be denied.'

‘Certain are you that it’s not God’s gaze trying to stare down your unbelief?’

‘Certain I am.’

The priest laughed. ‘I had to try one last time. How can an abyss, a nothing, stare you down?’

‘Because the abyss is made real in my own mind as I gaze back over the years right through childhood till I find there isn’t anything more at that end of my life. And just now I find there’s nothing more at this end as well. I think, yes, I know. It’s time to say good night, Patrick. Slan agus…'

The old man's eyes closed. The priest sat still for a moment.

‘John?'

No response.

'Good night, John.'

*Goodbye and blessings on you.


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## bazz cargo (Mar 17, 2012)

The Spirit Of Wells. (Judges Entry).
 By  
 Bazz Cargo.


 560 words.


 Stories are everything. Story tellers and consumers are what we are.  


 There were two brothers, not twins for they were born thirteen months apart. The eldest became a newspaper reporter, the youngest a local television presenter. Nearly every day they were out-and-about in search of stories and quite frequently met as they criss-crossed the county. On this fateful day they both met at the gateway to Effingham Hall.  


 Stan, the news-hound who travelled alone had been listening to the local radio station for company, he found the fireball-in-the-sky phone-in hilarious.


 His brother Eric had a camera forward slash sound tech' and a young girl Friday who gofer'd for nothing, as company. They had been listening to the same radio station.


 “Hi bro,” Stan called from his car. “You catch the great balls of fire story?”


 Eric rested his head on his steering wheel and groaned. “Must you always work in headlines?”


 “Of course. I'm working on 'Her Ladyship's Big Hole Dilemma.'”


 They formed a two vehicle convoy and made their way up the long driveway to the gravelled area in-front of the portico.


 Standing on the bottom step was an unusual looking man. Someone from an era gone by. Very short and very round: his clothes made of different coloured patches of corduroy, his boots big and covered in soil, his flat cap well battered and helping to frame a face that could have passed as a relief map of the Saharan desert.  


 While the television team were getting set to work: Friday, was holding an A4 sized mirror for Eric, he was checking his hair and make-up,  the camera/sound tech' getting into harness. Stan, carrying his SLR and trusty dictation gadget made his way to the weirdo.



 “Arternoon,” said the man.


 “Hello, I'm Stan Ding from the Local Echo.”


 “Pleased to meetcha.” The man held out a hand ingrained with dirt.


 Stan shook it, in his line of work he had come across pristine hands he would not have shaken. “Who are you?”


 “I be Reg Futtock, Her Ladyship's head bush trimmer.”


 “I see.”


 “Aye. Ever since the Old Lord died.” Reg doffed his cap. “She has become obsessed with neat bushes. But enough about that, you came to see the big crack round the back, didden you?”


 “Uh, yes.”


 “Right. I can see you're all ready, follow me.”


 Reg led the way, Stan and the news crew followed. They walked around the west-side of the mansion, then halfway across an enormous lawn and stopped at a massive crack. There was orange warning tape strung on wooden posts surrounding it.
 “Wow,” said Stan. “How big is it?”


 Reg spat accurately across the tape and into the Stygian hole. “Bout three hundred feet long and bout thirty at its widest point.”


 “How deep?”


 “Dunno. There be tin mines round here so it could be hundreds, even thousands of feet deep.”


 “Can I take a look in?”


 “No skin off my nose, but them health and safety blokes might moan a bit.”


 Stan got down onto his hands and knees and crawled under the tape to the edge, he looked in. There in the blackness, hundreds or possibly thousands of tiny glowing eyes stared implacably back.


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## rubisco (Mar 17, 2012)

Adam(647 words)
By Rubisco
　
　
The fruit left a bittersweet taste in my mouth, and for the first time in my life, 

I was not satisfied.

Somewhere deep within myself I felt an abyss open up, and I felt the strong urge to fill the void with something. Something, anything, if only it would make the emptiness to go away. 

I glanced over at Eve, she was staring back at me with fear in her eyes, and I knew she felt the same emptiness. I also knew that I was showing fear in my eyes as well, it was a feeling I had never known before, and right now it was overwhelming me. We had disobeyed God, chosen our own path, and now we knew what good and evil were. But what scared me the most was how easy it happened--how easy the serpent tricked us. Now that we had let sin in we would have to struggle between good and evil, being forever stuck in the abyss that separated the two. 

All these new words: fear, deception, sin, evil, emptiness. Somehow though, my mind now knew what they were, what they meant, and how they now had a death grip on my life. Death, another new word. The thing that would take away the things that I love. By love I was created, and now by sin, I had brought death into my world.

Trembling, I looked over at Eve, and my eyes lingered on her body with selfish desires. A whisper in my head told me I could fill the void within me if I used her body to quench my desires. I stepped toward her--then realized it was another lie. Waves of shame came over me. Eve! The gift from God so I would never have to be alone. I had almost twisted God’s gift into something it should never have been! I made loin coverings out of fig leaves for us. 

“What do you think God will do to us?” asked Eve with wide eyes.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “God is perfectly good and hates sin. Does that mean He will now hate us?” Deep in my heart I did not want to find out. I did not want to be rejected by my creator. So we hid when we heard God coming. 

But God called for us, and He found us. We confessed what we did, how the serpent tricked us. I awaited for the rejection that we were due. But it did not come, yes, God punished us fairly, but He allowed us to live. God then cast us out of the garden that we were given. 

As we walked out of the garden, the world looked different. I felt different. We felt the abyss inside of us, where God’s light used to be, and I knew we would search our entire lives for things to fill it.

“You know, there’s only one thing that would fill it,” said Eve, knowing exactly what I was feeling. 

“But now that we have sin, God can no longer reside there. How can we be made righteous again?” I replied. I looked down at the animal skin clothing God had made for us right before we were banished from Eden. It was the first time an animal had to die to cover us. Blood was shed for us. 

Eve noticed my glance. She smiled, for the first time since our fall. “Look on the bright side. God is still here, and we are still here. I don’t think He’s through with us yet.” 

We held hands and walked on. I hoped that was true. The more I thought about it, the more it resonated with the shape of the abyss inside of me. That place inside of me was made for God, God was all powerful and all good. 

One day, I knew, the abyss would be gone.


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## candid petunia (Mar 18, 2012)

_Don't usually write stories but I was forced dared by Hawke to enter this challenge.  *sigh* Here goes:_


Tarzan was on a rescue mission.  The hunters had come again and the jungle wildcats were in a frenzy – they knew they didn’t stand a chance against this horde of huntsmen.  While they scattered in different directions with the huntsmen shooting behind them, Tarzan emerged swinging from the trees and landed abruptly in front of the chase party.  To the surprise of the jungle cats, he didn’t have to fight against the men.  Tarzan just spoke to them in an authoritative tone and puffed his chest, showing off his body.  The huntsmen were probably bored by now, because they simply yawned and went their own way.

***​ 
Adam was excited; he had received his letter from Hogwarts yesterday.  He was a wizard! He hadn’t been able to sleep for a long time last night, his mind full of excitement of what all lay before him.  He’d wondered what house he’d be put in --- surely it would be Gryffindor, he couldn’t imagine anything else. And he looked forward to having his own wand, and of course, his own pet. He’d choose an owl, just as Harry had done…
This morning, he was trying out broomsticks. He’d crept into the kitchen while his mother wasn’t looking and swiped her broomstick. He wasn’t being a Mudungus, really, he meant to return it soon as he was done with it.  He took the broomstick to the backyard but no matter how much he kicked, it just wouldn’t fly.  Muggle broomsticks were different from the ones in the magical world, apparently.

***​ 
_Captain Planet, he's our hero,_
_Gonna take pollution down to zero._

It was Captain Planet’s mission to ensure the environment wasn’t degraded.  It was a thankless job but someone had to do it.  People weren’t considerate these days.  Like just a week ago, a piece of chewing gum had got stuck to his shoe while he was walking on this same street.  The street had a bad reputation of having no bins on it.  And a nail sticking out from a fence had torn his cape.  As he took another bite from his banana, he noticed a few boys littering the street.  They looked like the same boys who, he realized, had been littering the lake on a school trip.  He went over to them and gave them a talk on the need to save the environment by keeping it clean.  They seemed to be good children; they didn’t make a great fuss and apologized for their deed.  As Captain Planet walked back, he realized he had finished eating his banana.  Where had he thrown the peel?

***​ 
Batman stalked only at night, but in cases of emergency, he had to appear during the day.  Sarah’s doll had fallen down a chasm and she needed him to rescue it for her.  He wondered if this was what he’d been reduced to.  He, Batman, destroyer of evil and helper of the distressed. Not this kind of distressed though, girls always seemed to get what they wanted.
He had arrived at the scene of the incident.  As he gazed at the abyss, he felt the familiar gush of excitement through his body.  Just as he was about to jump, he felt someone grab hold of him…


9-year-old Adam’s father had caught his son before he could jump into the ditch in front of him.
“Adam!” he scolded, “How many times have I told you not to do anything foolish while playing _Superhero_?”

His father clutched his hand and Adam silently followed his father back home.  But Adam’s mind was already somewhere else.  Sparkling vampires would come next; all he needed was some glitter and face foundation.  He wondered if he could lay his hands on his mother’s make-up kit.


---xxx---​


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## Rusty Nail (Mar 18, 2012)

Time to RedecorateThe look on your face was priceless.  You turned around when the bedroom door opened.  Confusion, realisation, surprise and then horror flitting across your face. Your eyes popping wide open at the same time the flash went off, catching you and that bottle-blonde in our bed.She came down a few minutes later, dragging her high heels and shrugging on her coat as she slunk shame-facedly through the door.  You came down afterwards, contrite, embarrassed. You tried to explain, but what could you say? You were caught in the act, and you knew that you’d bollocksed up everything.  I almost even meant it when I said that I’d stick a knife in your guts if you stayed in the house one more minute.  You grabbed a few things and left.  Good riddance.So you weren’t there when I whooped for joy and called my new man and told him that our plan had worked and that you wouldn’t be a problem any more.  You didn’t see him come over later that evening with Japanese take-away  and a bottle of champagne.  We went to bed afterwards (I’d changed the sheets to get rid of that whore-stink) and later I fell asleep, exhausted and satisfied in a way you could never manage.*******You forgot one little thing, sweetheart.  The nanny cam. You remember?  When we thought the cleaning lady was pilfering?  It would send a live feed to our website and we could check from anywhere.I left, drove around for hours in a daze and then checked in to a hotel.  I knew that you’d take me for all I was worth.  The house, my savings and investments.  I was ruined.  What judge wouldn’t give you everything? I stared into the abyss of loneliness and despair and decided to end it all.  A bottle of Scotch and a handful of painkillers would do it.  Then I remembered the nanny cam, and I thought I’d take one last look at the house before oblivion.I saw you go to open the front door.  Saw the man with the take-away and the cheap sparkling wine.  Saw you kiss and laugh, and I knew that I’d been set up.I watched you eat and then later go upstairs. Afterwards, I saw him come back down.  He took a bottle of my vintage single-malt from the cabinet, sat on the couch and turned on the television.  You know, you deserve better than someone who guzzles down Scotch.  I doubt if any of it touched his tongue.He finished most of the bottle before his head slumped down and he fell asleep, the remote control falling from his hand.It was so easy to let myself in through the back door.  I even remembered to turn off the nanny cam and remove the memory card from your camera.  I selected a knife from the kitchen, tiptoed past Sleeping Ugly and up the stairs.I don’t think you felt anything after the second or third stab.Single-malt is really meant for sipping and savouring, not for tossing back in one gulp.  It’s potent stuff.  I wrapped his limp fingers around the knife handle and then let it drop to the floor.  I wiped my hands on the front of his shirt.I left the front door ajar and then went out through the back.  An anonymous call to the police from a public phone: “I heard a woman screaming at number 16 …” I waited down the street, watched them arrive and enter the house.  I didn’t realise there would be so much blood.  Well, it was time to redecorate the bedroom anyway.  Cheers.


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## Rusty Nail (Mar 18, 2012)

Okay, my entry came through as plain text, with no formatting, so I posted it in this link:

http://www.writingforums.com/writers-workshop/128306-3-march-2012-lm-abyss-gazes.html#post1511815

Hopefully that will work.


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