# November 2013 - LM - The Space In Between



## Fin (Nov 1, 2013)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​*The Space In Between*​



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:*

*J Anfinson*; *Folcro*; *Pluralized*; *Spartan928*


*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:*

Thursday, the 14th of November at 11:59 PM GMT time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## Ghosts of the Maze (Nov 1, 2013)

*The Space Between the Stones*

He held onto a small vase supporting a single stalk of bamboo, and decided that it had to go. There used to be more. Another stalk at its side, as well as two smaller nubs growing in front. He had given it to her, as a birthday gift seven years ago, when they had barely known each other. The trunks never seemed to grow, but imperceptibly slowly, their leafy branches managed to rise another foot. 

It was a cheap gift, but they’d only met a week before her birthday, and he wasn’t sure what to give. She moved in soon after, never bothering to take to her old apartment. She’d keep its cup full of water, and leaves dusted. 

The bamboo receded into the background. They had pictures that were thumbtacked to the walls, and discs and books that threatened to spill over the shelves. Artifacts from time spent together. He still held onto a few things, but the ones he’d kept were tucked away for another time.

They never married. She was younger. It never seemed right to him, so much older. In hindsight he wondered if he had been waiting for that other shoe to drop. For that day when she wouldn’t want to play mommy to a middle-aged child.

She never grew up either. He did just enough to keep her from leaving for good, even if she was around less and less. New jobs. New friends. He wouldn’t go out as much, and couldn’t help but notice that she hadn’t cleaned the dust from the corners the way she used to. Their collected trinkets clogged the space that they had since outgrown.

The bamboo became the dying canary. The growth-stunted stalks in the front yellowed, then flushed out to bone, before rotting black. She threw them out the next day. One of the taller stalks was gone the next year. He thought about tossing the one that survived, but held on and watered its cup for the first time in years. 

He’d wait for her in bed, only to find her in the morning, asleep on the couch, wearing yesterday’s makeup, while the barely audible television played in the background. Half-emptied beer bottles. A dusty mirror. Cellophane bags. He’d wanted to snap, but found dark notes in her pocket, jotted down on napkins. Memoirs ranting to nobody. He could only hope they were scribbled when she was high, and hadn’t meant anything. 

He tried. He told himself that he really did try. He picked up around the house when she grew tired, and took to watering and pruning the plant. He kept the bamboo alive for a year, afraid of watching it die. He thought about moving it to a larger vase. She couldn’t have removed the roots when she took away the three dead stalks. Their dead veins still took up precious space in between the stones.

When it was over, friends said the right things and invited him out, but never came to visit. He didn’t mind. He wanted to stay out of the apartment himself, always seeing her in the tub that final time. He slept on couches when he could, and told his friends that he would have to move. 

He held on to a few of her memories, but only the things that could be put away. As the last of the things he wanted to keep was packed into boxes, he walked the bamboo out to the garbage room on his floor. He looked at the withering plant one last time before throwing it down the garbage chute. He never bothered to look up how long the stalk of bamboo would last. Maybe, he wondered, seven years was a good run.


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## sokko (Nov 3, 2013)

*Spacing Out (631 words)*

The building rose like a tumor among the surrounding townhouses. A resonating lump rose in John’s throat as they approached. His heart rate had been rising since they entered the neighborhood. He clenched his hands into fists and concentrated on keeping his body from shaking. He couldn't let Rick see.

No one else in the department cared about John’s little idiosyncrasies. So what if he was a mild germaphobe? This line of work nurtures OCDs in everyone. Only Rick – the class clown, the playground bully, who undoubtedly joined the force solely for the perk of power tripping – wouldn't let it go.
One of these days he would go too far, and John would sock him one right between those impertinent lips. It would be worth a broken knuckle to give Rick a space between his teeth to match the one between his ears.

Walking toward the entrance, John kept his hands in his pockets and held back a couple of steps, allowing Rick to take the lead. Rick opened the door and pushed the elevator button, ushering John through with absentminded politeness.

The elevator door revealed a narrow space, faintly and intermittently illuminated by a flickering fluorescent bulb. John took one look and wanted to run out of the building, but then Rick would never let him live it down. He thought of the stairs, but they would be no better. John pressed his lips together and stepped inside. He froze after the first step, unable to propel himself further.

The steel floor of the elevator was glistening. A pool had formed in one corner where the floor was slightly depressed. The air reeked of ammonia. This was too much. He held his breath and turned back, but right then Rick barrelled in behind him and hit the button. The door closed and John felt the heaviness press against his body as the elevator began to rise. He kept holding his breath. The call was to an apartment on the sixth floor; maybe he could make it.
Two floors up, his lungs started burning. John began exhaling slowly to lessen the urge to breath. But all he had was the little whiff he took upon entering the elevator. It ran out quickly, and by the fourth floor he couldn't compress his lungs any further. He bent forward, contracting his chest and stomach muscles, fighting to keep his lungs from expanding for two more floors.

The six finally lit up, but John couldn't hold out any longer. As the door opened, he breathed involuntarily, and immediately began coughing and sputtering. He stumbled out and fell to his knees in the hallway.

Rick followed, incredulous. He stood still for a moment with a wide, silent grin. Then his body convulsed. He shook violently as his breath was let out in short, powerful bursts. After a breath, his voice joined the fray and filled the hallway with bellowing laughter.

John looked up in annoyance. What he saw turned annoyance into hatred, and then into fear. He saw Rick shaking with laughter. He saw the jaw hanging down, the mouth open wide. Between the bared teeth, he saw the red gums, the slick tonsil, and the pulsating tongue. The redness took over John’s vision. In front of him now was a glistening red microbe, a giant germ. He forgot about the smell of the elevator and the polluted air in his lungs. He forgot about breathing. In shock and horror, he lost touch with his senses completely.

His body, acting unconsciously, straightened up and backed away from Rick. His hands, which he had kept clenched in his pockets, withdrew themselves. His left hand shot forward in a warding gesture. His right hand reached back to his holster. It lifted the strap and drew the gun.


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## Smith (Nov 3, 2013)

200 Meters (Language, Violence ; 644 Words)


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## Euripides (Nov 5, 2013)

*Overlooked (650 words)*

Anita traced her pencil over outline on the map again, making the line a graphite atom darker, and where the trace wasn’t perfect, just that much thicker.  She had been tracing and retracing the property development outline on the engineering figure for the last hour while she sat and thought.

Anita looked up from the map and stopped tracing as Seth walked by and paused at her cube. Seth took a loud sloppy drink from his mug and leaned forward making the wall to her cubicle bow, “Something up?”

“No. Just finalizing plans on the Fryburgher Development. We have a meeting with the client this afternoon.” The smell of cheap coffee and Old Spice hit her. Anita wrinkled her nose and smiled at Seth.

“That was a nice plum you got. I’ve heard some of the issues you’ve had with the local residential groups. All smoothed over?” Seth smiled, with just a hint of malice. He had been juggling multiple smaller projects when this development design came in, and he was still a little chaffed that the lone woman in the office got the project. 

Anita gritted her teeth. She had proven herself on this project, convincing the client to upgrade facades, interior choices, and spend more money in landscaping. It meant the client would be able to charge more per home, and that the project would pull in more money for her company and their contractors. 

She had also smoothed over concerns that the City and County agencies had, and had obtained all the necessary permits on time. Only hitch had been the local residents who were upset at losing the wild green space in the middle of the city that they had been using as hiking trails since the Fryburgher estate had burned down early last century. Anita figured her best accomplishment was convincing the neighborhood groups that the slivers of green space that were going to be left on the perimeter of the development  would be adequate to preserve the flavor of the previous undeveloped area, and that they wouldn’t be priced out of the neighborhood with the completion of this upscale housing development.

“Yes. After the last public meeting, Jeff Thomas and Margie Seifert with the neighborhood coalition said that they would no longer oppose the development. So we should be in the clear now for groundbreaking at the start of next month.”  Anita sighed. Soon she would see the development from the design to the construction stage.

“Well good luck this afternoon, don’t count your chickens and all that.” Seth took another loud swallow from his mug, saluted her, and walked off.

There was one hitch, and if it was found out it could derail everything.  Anita had walked the proposed development area this past weekend and she understood why the neighbors would be angry to see it developed. It was uncommon in these fast-paced high-volume days to find such still and quiet so close to the heart of the city.  Anita had wandered off the edge of the hiking trail to sit at the edge of the little brook and look around before the machinery came in to rip this all up, when she spied a little purple flower. It would be easy to overlook, its fuzzy leaves were the same color as the dead foliage around it, and the little purple flower faced down.  It must have been overlooked during the EIS, but Anita knew that the presence of that flower could mean the end of the development. One was not allowed to plow under endangered species….if they were known about.

Anita chewed on the end of her pencil while looking at the map. _There is so much information that’s left out of the spaces between the lines on maps,_ she thought, _so much that can be so easily overlooked. _She then reached over to fondle the handheld gardening spade in her purse.


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## midnightpoet (Nov 6, 2013)

Allah’s Gift

645 words


Egan and Alia held hands as they walked up the steep path.  Behind them lay the bombed-out capital city.  Ahead of them stood the twin mountains that marked the border and the narrow, rocky path between them that was their only chance of escape.  Beyond the mountains lay the refugee camps of neighboring Tunistan, but the path was guarded by soldiers.  They watched from a distance as other groups were turned back. 

Egan had met her at the university, where she had enrolled.  He had come to Atria only a year before as a correspondent to cover the civil war still raging in the country, but now his only thought was to get her to safety. 

“We must seek out my father.  He is our only hope to get past the soldiers.”

“Are you nuts?  If your father finds us, he will kill us both.  His honor is at stake.”

He rubbed her swollen belly.  She playfully pushed his hand away and kept walking.

“Let me worry about that,” she said.  “As tribal leader, he has many loyal men at his disposal.”  She turned to face him.  “I’m only 20, and pregnant, and I think I’m braver than you.”

“I’ve covered wars before,” Egan said, lightly touching her shoulder.  “I think I’d rather be in the middle of a firefight than face your father.  Aren’t there some paths higher up we could take to pass the soldiers?”

“No, Egan. Any paths would now be covered with snow and ice. You want to go back to the city?  Get blown to pieces?  The only other pass through the mountains is many miles away.  I grew up here, remember.  I cannot make it that far.  Do you want me to lose our child?”

“No.  No, of course not.”


He remembered their escape from the city.  They were awakened in the middle of the night by a large explosion.  Half of the building across the street was reduced to rubble.  They managed to push through the crowds and back alleys until they were out of danger.  An abandoned truck got them so far, then they began the steep climb into the mountains.

Egan knew Alia was right, but he could barely contain his fear as they approached a small village, and a stone house, with a pen containing several smelly and noisy goats.

Alia’s mother came out.  “Alia!  Praise Allah, you are safe.”

Her father came out, anger in his eyes.

“Alia!  How dare you show your face here?”

He drew back his staff, as if to strike, but her mother stayed his hand.

“Hakim! No! You will not harm her.”

“She shamed our family.”

“No, don’t you see, it is a gift from Allah.  She is our only child, Hakim.  And she carries our only grandchild.”

Hakim looked into the eyes of his wife, and saw anger, determination.  He hesitated.

“How will you sleep tonight, Hakim?”  Her eyes narrowed.  “With one eye open, perhaps?”

He stroked his beard.  “She laid with an infidel.”

“Father,” Alia replied, “Egan is not an infidel.  I love him, and we are to be married.  But we need to get out of this country.  I am going to need care, and the camps across the border have medical staffs.”  She stepped toward him, looking him squarely in the eye. “Please.”

Hakim glanced at Egan. 

“I love your daughter, sir,” Egan said, some courage coming back.

Her mother spoke again.

“Hakim, you love me, you love her.  What is the matter with you?”

Hakim stared at his daughter for what seemed like an eternity.  The space between them was narrow, but they had been so wide apart.  Hakim closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his own path was clear.

“My daughter, the prophet has spoken to me, and my family is more important than my honor.  I’ll gather the men.”


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## Staff Deployment (Nov 7, 2013)

The Day I Became a Ghost
(650 words)​

On the day I lost my absurdly-sharp knife to the infinite void that gathers on the outskirts of reality, I called my ex to apologize. "Hello, Marlena. I’ve lost your knife; it slipped between the cracks. Sorry."

The phone line strained to hold us together. "Who’s this?" Her voice was groggy. For her, it would have been the middle of the night.

"It’s Fitzpatrick."

"Yeah, who’s this?"

"We dated for six months. You broke things off two weeks ago and moved to the U.S. Are you ... on drugs?"

"Maybe a few. I don’t remember this. I’m not in the U.S."

I paused to collect my thoughts. "This is Marlena, right? Occultist magician?"

"No, this is Carla. I’m in Adelaide right now, not the States."

"I’m in Sydney and it's seven in the evening here. Why do you sound so tired?"

"I mighta mentioned the drugs. What was this about a knife?"

"I had a knife so sharp it could cut through the very fabric of matter itself, but I sliced too deep, and my grip was too loose, and the knife was lost forever to the void."

"What do you call the ... the slash thing it makes? The slashy-slash. In the air. Cut cut slash."

"I call them Tears."

"Like tears in fabric."

"Yeah."

"You should get a needle and like, sew them back up. Can you sew them back up?"

"No, I just kind of leave them there. There aren't any needles sharp enough to -- why are we talking about this? I'm hanging up."

"No," she pleaded, with the desperate sobs of a woman cut off from society. "This is really funny, keep going. Can't you just reach into the tear and snatch it back out?"

"How did I even dial you? I dialled a U.S. area code."

"You must've slipped up. Did you try my suggestion?"

"I'm not sticking my hand in there."

"Why not?"

"Because when I do, I can feel every molecule shifting. My hand feels as tiny and as dense as a neutron star but, simultaneously, as big as the entire universe, feeling the texture of everything that has ever existed and ever will exist. It is a concept that my mind cannot hope to grasp, and it is painful."

"Ha ha! Cool."

"This isn't something to be taken lightly."

"Oh don't worry, I know exactly what you mean."

"I don't think drugs are a valid comparison."

"Look Fitzpatrick, we know where this is going, don't we? You're gonna say, wow your voice sounds so pretty Carla, and I'm gonna say, well aren't you just a perfect gentleman, and then you'll move to Adelaide and we'll make seventy-five perfect children."

"Seventy-five?"

"Seventy-five. What do you say?"

"Seriously, seventy-five? I can't tell if you're joking or if the drugs are telling you that's reasonable. You're very assertive about this."

"I was lying about the drugs. I've got your knife, Fitzpatrick. I snatched it from between the cracks in the air itself. Figured you'd call whoever gave it to you, so I hacked your phone lines."

"Okay, there are a lot of things I'd like to straighten out, but here's the least important one. How'd you know it was a gift?"

"It says 'To Fitzpatrick' on it."

"Okay. Why do you have my knife? How'd you snatch it out of the air?"

"Just kinda felt like it, you know? I mastered the technique a while ago and I haven't had much chance to try it out."

"Can I have it back?"

"Only if you find me."

"I'm going to have to find a single woman named Carla in the entire city of Adelaide."

"Nope, I'm right behind you."

There she was, through the folds between reality's cloth, ethereally beautiful, yet menacing, and maniacal. She stabbed me with the knife, and that was the day I became a ghost.


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## Fin (Nov 9, 2013)

*The Bins
 (Language Warning - Mature Themes)
Anonymous Entry*​
I was shit scared when I first saw him, all quiet-eyed and mysterious, hanging over the bins like they were his mates and like. He had our kind of street-togs on, looked like our blood. But he weren’t blood to any of us, and those were our bins. He was a fucken Chihuahua pissing on our turf. 

I mean literally, he was doing a piss.

Shit, he was a dumb fuck. Pretending like he wasn’t there. And worst off, he looked like me. Like, exactly like me. ‘Cept he had glasses like a pussy.

“Yo, bro!” Mallick yelled at him. Mallick’s the boss-man. Don’t fuck around, Mallick. He had us circling him before he could zip up his dick. “You defecating our property?”

Pussy said nothing for a while. Maybe he was embarrassed, but he didn’t look it. Looked proper fierce.

Mallick rounded one of the bins through one of the spaces in between. “You gonna talk, pussy?”

“Or you gonna meow?” said Jegger. He was circling beside me.  Got a few laughs for that.

“Yo, Mall, this shit ain’t talking,” said Gus. 

“Tell me something I don’t fucken know,” said Mallick. He was right up next to Pussy now. Could be homosexual rape, this close, if he hadn’t pulled up his fly. Mallick always leaves his open for some dumb fuck reason. 

“Talk,” Mallick spat.

And then this shit went into slow-mo. 

“So you and your little posse got a problem?” he said, all quiet like a mouse. “You gonna murk me over it?”

“You gonna get out of our bins?”

“Fuck your bins.”

“What’s your problem, pussy?” Mallick pressed his face right up against his eyeballs. “Sounds like you ain’t afraid to die over nothing.”

“Your boy,” said Pussy, going around Mallick’s mug. He looked at me, and then I realized, he’s fucken looking at me. “Browning wants him.”

“The fuck?” Jegger came into the middle. “Yo, Pussy, I don’t know if you’ve had lessons in what goes on round here, but-“

The glock came out of nowhere. All shiny and like. A real fucken piece. Right at the space in between my eyes.

“Twelve other men have got their sights on this spot,” said Pussy. He was calm, held it like a pro. Shit. He turned his head owl-like to Mallick. “Step away from him and we’ll take it from here.”

“I told Browning his bullies got no beef with us,” Mallick said. But he didn’t go for the gun. He must have seen, like I was seeing, the couple of snipers on the roof down the straight side of the block. “He ain’t having another of our blood. Said himself.”

“And how long ago was that? Was it before your head little cock-sucker did our north side up the ass?”

“Small-balls did what?” Gus croaked.

“Harry,” Mallick began, “didn’t tell us about no shit. What the fuck are you talking about, boy?”

“I’m talking about the police raids, the snatches.” He started towards me, the gun still raised. “The fucking DeChiros have our stocks now. The fucking DeChiros!”

“That ain’t our fault,” Mallick said.

He stood still for a moment, checking me out like he would a puppy. “No, it ain’t. But Browning wants this one. Says he’ll make for good fucking.”

I wanted to run, shrink down to a little greyhound so he couldn’t hit me, but even a flinch would make him pull the trigger. Browning fucks dead bodies, much as he fucks live ones. Pussy had me pinned, and I couldn’t endanger my blood.

“So what’s it going to be?” said Pussy. ‘Cept he wasn’t no fucken cat no more. Not a fucken Chihuahua neither. 

“I’ll come,” I said. “Long as you let them go.”

“Of course.”

And then he had me by the neck, the gun against my temple, marching me off. And the night swallowed me whole.


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## Dictarium (Nov 12, 2013)

*Windowals - 621 words*​ 
The sun came up from behind the distant mountains to greet the quaint valley below as its light slowly rolled over the Shinelite City Building. The orange glow of the bellwether of morning’s approach lit up the Shinelite Workers’ eyelids. In just a few minutes more, the warm morning sun would reach the light-sensitive alarms implanted in the bedroom walls a few feet above the Shinelite Workers’ happily sleeping heads and wake them up.

The side of the Shinelite City Building on which all of the bedrooms were situated – the side which faced the rising sun – was entirely transparent. Made completely of a clear, highly durable, glass-like material, the fourth wall – the windowal – of each Shinelite Worker’s bedroom was a constant reminder of what they were working toward: a better tomorrow. Windowal technicians were brought in every day from Shinelite City, a hundred miles from the Shinelite City Building, to ensure that every windowal was free of contaminants and absent of injuries. Every measure was taken to guarantee that, upon awakening at the beginning of every new and wonderful day, each Shinelite Worker knew that the scene laid out before him or her was just as beautiful as the future they were providing for the people of Shinelite City.

The Shinelite City Building was a power plant which generated enough power for all of Shinelite City. Unfortunately, the Shinelite Workers could never to go to Shinelite City to enjoy that power. They needed to be on-call 24 hours a day in case something happened which required emergency attention. One quick murmur in the system could lead to catastrophic consequences in Shinelite City, as it was completely dependent on the power of the Shinelite City Building.  This is what they were told.

The scene beyond the windowals reminded the workers of that job, that duty. It helped them realize that they needed to deal with the hardships of running the plant so that the people of Shinelite City could live better lives the next day. This thought was what had attracted them all to working at the Shinelite City Building, and it was the thing that kept them passively continuing to work every day. The Shinelite Workers could feel the warmth and see the beauty of that new day, but it was not theirs; it belonged to the people of Shinelite City. 

The hundred miles between Shinelite City and the Shinelite City Building was reduced to an inch in the form of the clear, impermeable windowals. That infinitesimal space in between the Shinelite City Workers and the beautiful view of the valley and the mountains and the sun and the sky was that which separated the day created from the day enjoyed. Cause from effect. Labor from fruit. 

And, unfortunately, happiness from knowledge.

***​ 
The power which was sucked from the The Shinelite City Building as a vampire sucks on the neck of an innocent young girl did not go to the fictional Shinelite City, but to the Shinelite State Prison one hundred and fifty miles to the East of the Shinelite City Building, behind the mountains on the horizon. The power went into the lights in the ceilings and the ovens in the kitchen and the electrical chairs and the lethal injection pumps. The power maintained the lives of those who violated the law. Rapists and murderers, gangsters and thieves were kept alive and warm by the labor of those laboring under the delusion that their work was for the betterment and advancement of a thriving, technologically advancement metropolis. 

The only Shinelite Worker who’d ever realized this reality was quickly and falsely accused of a crime which put him in jail for the rest of his life. On the back wall of his jail cell which pointed to the West he constantly wrote:

“Lies in the city – Shinelite City. Lies in the city – Shinelite City.”


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## Pennywise (Nov 14, 2013)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ace-In-Between-Workshop?p=1677466#post1677466 (640 words)


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## Pidgeon84 (Nov 14, 2013)

Junkie Logic (639 words, Heavily offensive language)   

“You fucking cunt.” He said as though it were a term of an endearment. He smiled at her, teeth yellowed and jagged. 


  “Don’t you fucking give me that tone.”  She retorted with her raspy Scottish accent. The day was cloudy and cold in the busy shopping district. Rory and Maggie didn’t exactly fit in. Business men and women in suits, gaudy jewelry, and done up hair. Healthy, fit, and some gluttonous. There stood Rory, tall and unhealthily skinny, not that you could tell with his big baggy jacket on. Holed and stained with God only knows what. Skinny jeans with black and white stripes, also holed to all hell. Chucks so worn that anytime he walked through the snow his feet got wet. His eyes were bright red and he never really stopped squinting. 

  “You are not fucking doing it! I fucking forbid it!” Maggie yelled as she smacked him on the shoulder as hard as she could. 

  “Come on, Maggie. I’m practically doing them a fucking service.” He laughed, though he truly believed in his own junkie logic. Maggie laughed back at him not so confident.

  “How the fuck do you figure that?”

  “Look at all these fucking wankers Maggie. Take a good look at them.” He stopped a man wearing an expensive watch. 

  “Excuse me sir, can you tell me what time it is?”

  “Why would I know, get off the shit crackie.”

  “Sorry for the bother sir.” He smiled at the man’s back. “You see that Maggie? That man was wearing a 3,000 quid Tag Huer. Barely fucking knows he even has it on.”

  “So fucking what? What are you on about?” She seemed slightly agitated.

  “I’m doing them a bloody favor by making them see their money can disappear at any fucking moment. That their materialism doesn’t count for shit. I bet 99% of these sheep are God fearing tossers. Yet they’re all stuck in this existential downward spiral of trying to find some sort fucked up purpose in money and possession. Jesus would be fucking disgusted with this lot of cunts. Jesus was fucking communist baby!” He seemed so proud of his philosophical revelation.

  “Eh?”

  “Don’t you fucking get? I’m humbling the righteous fucks. Making the space between us a wee bit smaller… I need a fucking drag.” He stops another man. “Oi, mate. Spare a fag?” The man hands him a cigarette without a word giving Rory a dirty look as he walks off.

  “Thanks mate.” Rory calls at him. The man waves without turning around.

  “None of that even made sense.” Maggie retorts bringing the conversation back. 

  “Fine, we need the fucking money for the bloody smack. Jesus Christ.” Pulling the cigarette to his cracked lips and taking a drag. He finished the cig and flicked the butt. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small mint case but mints aren’t what it was used for. Though you wouldn’t know at first glance. Rory pulled out a small white tab.

  “Gimme your bloody tongue.” He said to her and she smiled back and obliged.  He placed the white tab on her tongue. She pulled it in but he kissed her intensely and when he let go he stuck his tongue out to reveal the pill.

  “See you on the other side”. He winked at her and the space to his target shrunk as tunnel vision took effect.

  “AAAAAAAAAGGGHHH!” He ran off at full speed across the street and through the double doors to a high end clothing store. Maggie stared and contemplated how much she loved Rory as his screams came faintly filled the space. 

  “Get on the fucking ground! Everyone fucking one of you!” He yelled and she stared dreamily at the store in chaos. BANG! BANG! BANG! Shots rang out and she knew he was the one.


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## Fin (Nov 15, 2013)

*The Getaway – By Godofwine* (650 words - violence)

Carwell Morton sat surrounded by trash bags, boxes, and foul-smelling filth. Sirens blared down the streets around him as he sat huddled in a dumpster in the alley behind East 13[SUP]th[/SUP] Avenue in downtown Columbus. Only two hours before he had stuck a gun in the face of a teller at Key Bank without anybody even realizing what was going on. She handed him a bag full of fifties, twenties and other bills and it was just about to go off without a hitch when the security guard at the door grabbed him and he fired the gun twice in panic. 

“Stupid! Stupid!” he muttered pounding his head with his palms on either side. 

He hadn’t meant to kill anybody. Nobody was even supposed to get hurt, but sometimes the space in between perfection and totally screwing up was razor thin. 

The idea to rob a bank on payday Friday was planned out to the nth degree and detail. The prosthetics he wore changed the color and shape of his face, while the wig would confound any facial recognition program the police had. They would be looking for a brown-haired White guy and he was a dark complexioned Black male. His plan was brilliant, but the mask and prosthetics were right off of Mission: Impossible!

Once outside, the plan consisted of either slipping down a broken manhole about eighty yards south of the bank or sitting in a dumpster north of that location, but he ended up at the latter because an emergency vehicle sat near the manhole cover when he exited. 

He could barely concentrate through the rank odor which he could smell even with the nose plugs, but he’d have to make due for at least the next two hours minimum. The police were going to have this area locked down like the president was coming through. He knew that. 

“Why did I have to kill the guard?” he thought. 

Carwell pulled a tiny flashlight out of his pocket and began to count the money as he waited and found that he could barely contain himself as the number kept rising. After he finished, he counted it again in case the poor lighting caused him to get the number wrong, but it was dead on. $20,321 – more money than he had ever held onto in his life at one time. 

He thought of the teller, Tricia. He didn’t mean to scare her like that, but he needed the money. Facing foreclosure, he made too much to get help, but too little to cover the mountain of debt from the family home and his son’s cancer treatment. 

A sudden knock on the dumpster startled him.

“I know you’re in there,” someone said in a sharp Brooklyn accent. “Come on out.”

Carwell rose from where he sat on garbage bags and lifted the lid, his hands raised high, the gun tucked in the small of his back. 

“That’s it. Nice and easy,” the cop said with his gun trained on the man. “Climb on up outta there.”

He stood with the bag of money in his hand and the cop grinning at him.

“So what’d you get away with?”

“$25,000.”

The officer grabbed the walkie-talkie on his shoulder then turned his head slightly to the left, “Dispatch, I’m over on 18[SUP]th[/SUP] responding to a disturbance. Someone saw him go this way.”

Carwell smiled, snatched the gun from behind his back and fired at the cop’s neck dropping him. 

The cop was five blocks off from his supposed location. He might not get away with the robbery, but he wasn’t going to just give his money to a dirty cop. 

“Sometimes the space in between perfection and totally screwing up is razor thin,” he muttered as he ripped off the mask, tucked the gun behind his back then walked, not ran in the direction of the bank on N. High Street.


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