# April 2015 - LM - Bad Decisions



## Bishop (Apr 3, 2015)

*April 2015 - LM - Bad Decisions

Click here for the workshop thread

LITERARY MANEUVERS​Bad Decisions​


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.


The judges for this round are:

Folcro; Pidgeon84; KellInkston; 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.
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:

Sunday, the 19th of April at 11:59 PM, GMT time.
Click here for the current time.


Good luck, everyone.​
*


----------



## NathanBrazil (Apr 7, 2015)

Frenzy  (648 words - Profanity)


----------



## Narhval (Apr 8, 2015)

*Life
*
Rick was looking out at the view from the balcony of his New York penthouse apartment thinking about how his life had turned out. His parents had been strict to him never letting him wander down what they thought were the wrong decisions for him like joining a band or going to parties. He knew they had done it out of love wanting him to have a better life then they had growing up. Rick never wanted to let his parents down so he kept to their rules and aspired to meet their every expectation of him, so he went through all of the steps they had planned for him and now he was the CEO of a major corporation personally owning the entire high rise he lived in.

He was looking out at the evening sky drinking his glass of very expensive champagne wondering what he should do now. He was now 40 years old and had already done everything in his life that his parents had planned for him even buying his parents a brand new house upstate although calling it a house was a bit of an understatement it was more like a small mansion. He had a fiancé that was everything his mother had ever hoped for as a match for her son coming from one of the best families on the Upper East Side. 

He knew as he stood there with his friends and family inside celebrating his birthday that he should be thrilled and happy about how his life had turned out. He wasn’t. Nothing in life filled him with any sort of passion like the one he could see so clearly in other people’s eyes and sometimes he wondered why his parents could not love him for who he was, but only for the man they wanted him to be. He had achieved all of the expectations set out for him since he was a small child and now here he was with nothing left.

He breathed in the air looking at stars that he knew was there, but were impossible to see, and then he climbed up on the balustrade thinking, “_Maybe I should have made more bad decisions_.”


----------



## ppsage (Apr 8, 2015)

*Zombie Fish (warning: reproductive juice)*


----------



## rcallaci (Apr 9, 2015)

*A Run towards Madness (650 Words)*

Kristella’s lungs were burning as she continued running. She needed to stop and rest before she collapsed from exhaustion. She frantically looked around for a place that could afford some shelter and refuge. Her knees buckled as she tripped over one of those accursed vines that sent her tumbling sideways into a bed of wilted roses. The sickly vine wrapped around her leg but Kristella was quick with the knife and sliced it clean through. Its blood colored sap sprayed her legs and torso with its bubbling ooze.  As she lay panting for breath; the putrid smell of decaying roses, wafted through her nose, causing her stomach to growl its disgust. She was on the edge of madness as her sanity was slowly losing its grip. She closed her eyes to sleep, in order to keep the demons at bay— at least for little while …

_She heard Caleb’s screams as he was being eaten alive. She saw the monstrous tree’s wooden jaws and petrified teeth bite down on Caleb’s upper torso. The sounds of crunching bones and ripping flesh filled her ears. She didn’t dare stop to help him but kept running and running while hearing his pitiful pleas and agonizing screams...
_
She woke—covered in puke, sweat, and tears. She was relieved that the forest didn’t swallow her up while she slept.

The din of the forest was deafening. The roars and grunts of beasts unknown, the croaks and wails of bugs and slugs, the slithering sounds of slimy things, and the mournful moans and groans of those killer trees-- filled the night air. 

Kristella picked herself up and readied herself to continue on with her flight. She tried to steady her nerves by doing some breathing exercises Caleb taught her. The thought of him sent her back into despair and panic. She needed to get her wits about her. She needed to block out the horrors of this accursed Black Forest and the death of her Beloved. Survival was her only goal—Madness or Death—was hopefully not an option.

She looked around for the best path to take. This place was a living nightmare; everything was twisted, decayed and misshapen.  As she chose the path of least resistance, she heard a shuffling sound behind her. She felt its malevolence.  She dared not look. She had no desire to see what was behind her as she ran for her life. 

The thing behind her kept pace with her. She jigged and jagged and ran like the devil but no matter what she did, she still felt its stinking breath on her back. She needed to make a stand.   She stopped running, stilled herself, took out her knife and turned around to face and fight the unseen monster.

She stared in amazement at the dead and foul thing. It was Caleb. It was a mutilated piece of broken bones and half eaten flesh. It was foul and oozed blood and pus. The damn thing smiled at her. It was a fucking zombie. She froze as the thing started to speak:

“Ahhrfahhhfred Fmmmnpedght.”

After finishing its incoherent ramblings, it leapt upon Kristella and tried to take a large piece of brain out of her head. Kristella was tempted to let him just eat her and get it over with. It would be cosmic justice being that it was her idea to enter the forest in the first place--one bad, bad decision. She could at least offer up her brains to the man she loved even though it was now some dead zombie thing. But her survival instincts kicked in and she stuck her knife in its brains instead. It fell to the ground. She started to run again but never found her way out of the forest…

It is said: if you listen closely-- you can hear the wailing cries of the “Mad Banshee” of the Black Forest…


----------



## J.J. Maxx (Apr 9, 2015)

*Home [650 Words]*

*Home** [650 Words]*

Joanna stared out the window, watching each shuttle lift off the ground. A woman’s voice boomed overhead.

_Attention citizens. Gamma shuttle launch in sixty minutes. Please proceed to registration._

A man walked up behind her. “Joanna,” he said. She was surprised to hear her grandfather’s voice. “It’s time. We have to go.”

She traced a shape on the window with her finger. “Is there really nothing left?” she said softly.

He sat next to her and stared out the window. There was no grass, just black dirt and the occasional husk of a long-dead tree. The wind whipped up the black dust into sporadic whirlwinds that danced in the distance. “We’ve called this planet home for a long time,” he said. “We’ve taken everything the Earth could give us but when we depleted her core, we knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Joanna!” said her father, rounding a corner. “I’ve been looking all over for you. We─” He stopped short. “Dad… I didn’t think you were coming. I… I haven’t had a chance to…” 

“I know,” he said. “It’s alright. I wanted to tell her myself.”

Joanna snapped around. “Tell me what?”

“Jo,” said the grandfather. “Do you remember the lake?”

She tried to hide a smile. “Of course, grandma kept telling you all the fish were gone but I still found you out there every morning.”

“And do you know why I was out there every morning? It’s because I believe in this planet. I believed that this ball of rock still had some tricks up her sleeve.”

“But we never caught any fish. Never even got a bite.”

“But I still believed and that belief gave me some of the best memories I have of you, and your father… and grandma.” He looked past her, out the window and into the distance.

“Yeah…” Joanna said. Her smile faded and she tried to hold back the tears. A lump formed in her throat. “You’re… You’re not coming with us, are you?”

Her grandfather smiled. “I’ve decided that my place is here, next to that lake, with your grandmother.”

_Attention citizens. Gamma shuttle launch in thirty minutes. Please proceed to registration._

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “The planet, it’s dying. You’ll die.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “I believed that lake still had some life left in it and I believe that this planet, my home, might still surprise us all.”

Joanna scowled. “No! The planet is _dead_, the fish are _dead_ and grandma−” She lowered her head. “Grandma…”

“She was so proud of the young woman you’ve grown to be. By the time you reach your new home, you’ll be my age and I hope you have a grandchild that is every bit as remarkable as you are.”

Joanna lunged at her grandfather. She squeezed him tight, her face wet with tears. “I love you, grandpa.”

“I love you too, Joanna.” Reaching into his pocket, he said, “I have something to give to you.”

“What is it?”

“Here.” He dropped into her hand a flat, gray stone. “I thought that when you get to your new home, you might just find a lake to skip this on. Perhaps you could add a little bit of Earth to an alien planet.”

_Attention citizens. Gamma shuttle launch in fifteen minutes. Registration closing._

“I don’t want to leave you here.”

“Don’t you worry about me. Whenever you look up at the stars at night, picture me sitting by the lake, talking with your grandmother. I can’t think of any other place in the Universe I would rather be.”

Joanna and her father boarded the final shuttle before it lifted off. Her father placed his arm around her as they watched Earth shrink from view. She held the small stone in her hand and was happy that her grandfather was the only person who was already home.


----------



## LOLeah (Apr 9, 2015)

*A Bad Deed Punished - 649 words (Mild Violence)*

/www.writingforums.com/threads/156075-April-2015-LM-Bad-Decisions-Workshop?p=1849665&viewfull=1#post1849665


----------



## Sleepwriter (Apr 9, 2015)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ons-Workshop?p=1849694&viewfull=1#post1849694

602 words  Language


----------



## godofwine (Apr 10, 2015)

Into The Woods - Godofwine (650 Words)


----------



## ShadowEyes (Apr 10, 2015)

He Didn't Need To Know (650 words)


----------



## inkwellness (Apr 12, 2015)

Bad Decisions (620)

Warning: (Drug references)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...-Bad-Decisions-Workshop?p=1850459#post1850459


----------



## KnightPlutonian (Apr 13, 2015)

*Regret - 649 Words (Mature Content)
*
http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ons-Workshop?p=1851024&viewfull=1#post1851024


----------



## midnightpoet (Apr 14, 2015)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ons-Workshop?p=1851088&viewfull=1#post1851088


----------



## Meteli (Apr 16, 2015)

*Noble Affairs*

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ons-Workshop?p=1851800&viewfull=1#post1851800


----------



## TKent (Apr 17, 2015)

*Smart Decisions, Inc. - 650 Words*

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ons-Workshop?p=1852247&viewfull=1#post1852247


----------



## joshybo (Apr 19, 2015)

*Broken (595 words)*
by joshybo​


----------



## JustRob (Apr 19, 2015)

*Last Post Sunday Morning*

It was Sunday morning when he discovered the competition and decided to enter it. Perhaps that was a bad decision as entries had to be in by the end of the day. Surely a little work on a Sunday wouldn’t do any harm though and the piece that he had to write was quite short. The choice of subject was easy, no indecision there. For years he had been researching the life of an enigmatic man, a man who’d barely seemed to exist. Indeed sometimes it seemed that he might have been fictional, but the research had finally paid off. This persistent historian had found the proof in the corner of a legal document rescued from papers thrown out from a solicitor’s office.

It was astonishing that a man could have vanished from history so completely that his reality had been in doubt, but he had been a recluse locked away alone in his home for many years with his books and papers doing heaven knew what or to what purpose. He had never married and any relatives had also vanished without trace. Indeed his whole life had only been traceable through tiny references in occasional newspaper articles, membership lists and the like. The historian had the proof though in the man’s own handwriting. The handwritten note in the corner of the document, a deed relating to a transfer of land, read as follows.

“I certify that the land identified by the numbers 21, 22, 23, 24 and 25 on this map were in my possession at the time indicated and that nothing has changed since that time.” The enigmatic man had signed and dated the statement directly below, the only direct physical evidence that he had really ever existed.

The historian pondered the words as he ran his fingers over them, almost sensing the man’s reality as he did so. _Nothing has changed since that time._ The man had evidently died over a century earlier but the historian had managed to piece together an episode in his life that would have been scandalous had it become public knowledge while he was alive. Surely making it public now would not be a bad decision, would it? The words seemed to jump out at the historian and he realised that in essence being apart in time is no different from being apart in space. Somewhere over a century ago that man was still living his life in his own time. _Nothing has changed. _Time was pressing though, so the historian set aside his musing and wrote the piece about his remarkable discovery, that this man had not in fact been fictional. Hurriedly he submitted it to the competition and then relaxed. 

It was Sunday afternoon when the historian looked back at his entry in the competition and that was when he realised the mistake that he’d made. It was quite clearly stated in the rules that all entries had to be fiction, but he had written a factual account about his own work. How could he have confused fiction and his own real life in that way? Looking back at his life he realised that perhaps he too had overlooked life, working alone in his home for many years with his books and papers. Maybe while proving that other man’s reality he had sacrificed something of his own. On the other hand maybe there was a penalty to pay for working on a Sunday after all. Perhaps it had been a bad decision in the first place.

(Publisher’s note: While the history provided by this unknown historian has proved without doubt that the subject of his work was a real person I have been unable to discover anything about the historian himself. Perhaps he was himself a work of fiction created by someone else. I would investigate this further but I have better things to do with my life.)


----------



## M. Cull (Apr 19, 2015)

Our Fathers’ Lies (650 words)

“You were wrong. We’ve all been wrong for years, and now it’s too late to prevent disaster.” The sentence seemed to hang in the air.

“Dr. Martin,” the man at the head of the table spoke, and all heads turned to look. As the CEO of the world’s most hated company, the attention wasn’t new. “Tone down your doom-saying. We hired you to-”

“You _hired _me,” Dr. Martin interrupted, slamming his palms down and staring hard into the camera, “because I was one of the few scientists left that MansaCorp hadn’t silenced. You needed me for your PR campaigns.”

“And?” Zack Raymov sat back and tried to smirk. The scream pounding at the back of his mind told him the scientist was right. His own injection had been misbehaving lately.

“And…” Dr. Martin swallowed hard, then leaned toward the camera. His voice became a strained whisper. “Mr. Raymov, your PR machine isn’t going to make a difference this time.”

“How would you know that?” Raymov scoffed. “Do you even fathom the extent of our ability to shape hearts and minds? So there’s another mutigen breakout. Big deal. My teams have dealt with this before.”

“No, you’re not _listening!”_ Dr. Martin exclaimed, forehead veins protruding. “Your whole premise is flawed_. _MansaCorp’s genetically enhanced biomachinery has created an untreatable _plague!_” his control was cracking. “This isn’t just another breakout. It’s the end! The-”

The video feed cut off, replaced by MansaCorp’s corporate logo swirling slowly in 3D. No one moved.

“Well, don’t just _sit _there, you bunch of leeches, figure it out!” he bellowed. In an instant, everyone was scrambling to their feet, some muttering sycophantic apology, others still staring at the screen Dr. Martin had just occupied.

The last person to leave, Sarah Harper, was Raymov’s second in command, and his current lover.

“What have you _done_, Zack?” she whispered angrily, eyes wide. “You _said_ it could be contained!”

“Do you think I’m lying?”  Raymov asked, putting on cool confidence again. He hoped it was convincing.  He ran a finger along her well-defined jaw.

“Have we _ever_ been able to control the mutagen like you say we can?” Sarah whispered fiercely, slapping his hand away.

“Would we have built this empire if we couldn’t?”

Silence.

“Get to work, Sarah.” Raymov struggled to keep his voice steady, his gaze direct. “We need to button this up.”

The door slammed, and Raymov started to pace. This couldn’t be happening.

In M1C2, the incredible nanobotic biomachinery keeping him and the rest of the world alive, MansaCorp had promised the fountain of youth. Nano-sized doctors to repair every cell, to make everyone faster and stronger. The ultimate sell.

But what if they had been wrong?

M1C2 had somehow gone rogue. Some had ascribed the previous mass deaths to MansaCorp intimidation campaigns.

The truth was, MansaCorp was losing control. If they’d ever had it.

Raymov hesitantly pulled out his smartphone, which operated the calibration software that controlled the behavior of his M1C2 injection. He tapped the ‘relaxation’ button. Nothing happened. ‘Pleasure.’ Again nothing. It wasn’t responding. Dr. Martin was right. Raymov swallowed.

He was going to die. It was over.

In about a week, his insides would be a soup. His body would be torn apart by the biomachinery meant to protect it, and if _his _injection wasn’t responding, he would be followed by the rest of humankind.

“No…” Raymov said. He opened the part of the program he swore he’d never touch. Now it didn’t matter. He keyed the passcode twice, then saw the biomachinery function he was looking for. This one never missed. His hand started to shake.

TERMINATE. 

Alone in the conference room, the screams in Raymov’s head finally broke through, and he collapsed on a nearby chair. His grandfather had founded MansaCorp with the promise that technology was mankind’s ultimate savior.

“Our fathers’ lies…” he muttered, smiling mirthlessly.

He pressed the button.


----------



## Jorm Arcturus (Apr 19, 2015)

*Caught*


She walked in like a lost schoolgirl, and I knew that tonight wasn’t gonna be my night.

Grief etched her face, a poster girl for all the lost and lonely souls that walk into my office. They’re all looking for something. I help them find it, sometimes.

I glanced towards my ceiling fan and sighed heavily, the death in my lungs expelled, curling upwards. The smoke shifted as the blades of the fan sliced through it, bringing a smile to my lips.

You might say I’m easily entertained. I wouldn’t. In fact, mention it, and I might let Missy do the talking. She’s a Smith & Wesson, 9 mil, and a very eloquent speaker. I keep her closer to my heart than any woman.

You might also say I have a weird shtick going with my gun. I wouldn’t suggest saying that either.

The weepy dame called herself “Ms. Walker”. I sighed again. If this wasn’t a marital issue, I’d eat my hat. I hated marital disputes.

When she told me I’d be finding an escaped fugitive, I was about as shocked as a nun in a brothel. I wasn’t about to eat my hat, though. For one, I loved this hat. Classy, but understated. Secondly, polyester gives me indigestion.

Still, I hesitated. Why was she bringing this to me instead of the cops? The law always got upset if I stepped on their toes. I grinned humorlessly at the irony.

I looked at her with narrowed eyes. She suddenly seemed more like a snake in the grass, instead of a classic sob spiel.

When I confronted her about it, she got real slippery, like an eel on ice. Got real shifty-eyed. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to make connections. I listened and observed, got a few bits.

One, she had to be a fed. These types always get me real antsy. I should’ve seen it the moment she walked into my office, but I saw the tears and thought ‘business woman wronged’ instead of ‘FBI spook’. At first, she was convincing. But I‘ve been doing this for a while.

Two, she didn’t like coming here for help. In fact, this visit most likely wasn’t sanctioned. Those higher-ups in Washington must have hit a snag the size of Everest if she was talking to locals about it. Made me wonder just how deep she was in all of this.

And lastly, she was stunning.

She said something while I was staring, and I jumped like a startled pigeon.

“Care to run that by me again?” I said slowly. I must have misheard.

“The man’s name is Alexander Greyson. He’s wanted on numerous criminal charges, including murder.” Her smile suddenly seemed feral. “Is something wrong, _Greyson_?”

_How? I’d been so careful!_

I shoved the desk over, forming a shield at the same time as Ms. Walker dived for the doorway, scrambling around the corner.

I whipped Missy from her holster, aiming at the wall providing Ms. Walker cover.

“Introduce yourself, Missy!” I shouted, pulling the trigger. Missy made her presence known.

The paneled wood splintered as the bullets blasted through it. I grimaced. The paneling had been expensive. I could hear Ms. Walker shouting into a radio. She hadn’t come alone. I ducked as she returned fire.

I yanked open one of my desk drawers, fishing out another clip. I cursed as it slipped from my shaking fingers, barely caught it, then jammed it into my jacket pocket. Twenty-six rounds. Not enough.

I squeezed off a couple more shots, trying to come up with options. The building was probably surrounded. No way out from the ground floor. The roof was out too. Likely to be snipers posted. I could hear more breaking through the door on street level.

I growled as I pulled the trigger. I never should have come back to this town.


----------



## bazz cargo (Apr 19, 2015)

*Love, Lies and More Lies.*
 By
 Bazz Cargo (360 words)


 The warm body next to Julie started to snore, she deployed a well practised elbow.

“Sorry Mark,” the strange voice mumbled.

_What the? “_Who the hell?” Stomach knotted, Julie slid out of bed, in her rage she ignored her own nakedness and stripped the bedding off to reveal the equally naked man who had been sleeping next to her. “Oliver?”

 “Um, yes?” He screwed his eyes and blinked in the too bright sunlight.

 “What are you doing in my bed?” She realised she had a blinding headache, a taste of week old dead dog in her mouth and every joint ached. How much had she drunk last night?

 “Um, nothing. It did seem like a good idea at the time.”

 “Where is Mark?”

 “In the next room, probably.”

 Julie opened the bedroom door and looked along the landing, she stepped over a pile of clothes and opened  the spare room door, there her husband lay spooning with Jesus. “What the hell are you playing at?”

 Mark sat up. “Oh, hi Hon.”

 “Don't you 'hi Hon' me you rat bastard, what is going on? You turned bi or something?”

 Mark gave his little superior smirk. “No Hon, I've always been Gay.”

 “Twenty five years and three children and now you tell me?”

 “Surprise?”

“So you and your South American boyfriend are setting up home here, well not if I have any say so.”

 “It's an idea.”

 “If you are gay, how come we have three kids?”

 “Little blue pills, mechanics and a vivid imagination.”

 “This is two thirds of your bowling team, what about Alice?”

 “Total lez, fancies you.”

  Julie turned back to the master (Laugh) bedroom where Oliver was nearly dressed. “Go on Olly, get back to your gang.”

 She rummaged through the bedside drawer as she heard their laughter.  

 The spare bedroom door creaked open to reveal a naked, armed Julie. Three shots rang out.

 Jesus died instantly, so did Oliver, Mark slumped against the headboard. “Why?” He whispered.

 “Twenty five years of faking orgasms, what a waste.”

 As Mark faded away, Julie picked up his cell. “Hello Alice, it's Julie, I could do with a little help...”


----------



## J Anfinson (Apr 20, 2015)

*The Accident*

By: *Anonymous*


----------

