July 2017 Comp

Thu, Jul 13 2017 12:40pm IST 1
684 Posts
Thu, Jul 13 2017 07:37pm IST 2
John Alty
John Alty
60 Posts
I really like these competitions, they're addictive. But I can't do violence so I'll just offer this wimpy tale, lacking the required pace and tension and thereby saving me from the responsibility that comes with winning:

The Fight

I was having my first fight. It was also my last fight but I didn't know that at the time. A ring of twenty or thirty boys surrounded Tom Lack and me as we circled each other. Sid was officiating:
“Come on you two. One of you do something or we’ll be here all night”.

There are two kinds of blackboard eraser, (stay with me, I’ll get back to the fight), one has a hard wooden back and is usually stored on the gutter at the bottom of the blackboard. The other is made of two-inch-wide cotton material wrapped round and round like a Swiss roll and is bulky and sits on the teacher’s desk. This is the type Mr Hollies would throw – it gave off a satisfying plume of chalk dust when it landed on the offender’s desk or bounced off his head but didn’t do any lasting damage. This type of eraser also lends itself to being stapled to the teacher’s desk and this is what a group of boys had done just before Mrs MacFarland’s English Lit class. I don’t know if Mrs MacFarland was having her period but she was in a bad mood so that when she went to pick up the eraser and couldn’t, and the class laughed out loud at her, she went ballistic.

“Oh, you stupid lot!” she shouted, “That’s just juvenile and you’ve damaged school property. Who did it? Come on, who did it?”
At first there was no response.
“Right. If the perpetrator doesn’t want to own up we’ll just sit here in silence until he or she does.”
“I saw Alty do it” said Tom Lack. I was gob-smacked.
“Yes, me too” said Lack’s lackey, Phillips, clinching the case for the prosecution.

Despite my protestations of innocence, I had to present myself at the Headmaster’s office for sentencing, something I’d never been asked to do in my life before.

“So Alty, how many times is this you’ve been sent to see me this term?” I suppose we all looked the same to him.
“This is the first, sir” I replied.
“Alty, don’t lie to me. I’ll ask you again and you’ll give me the truth.”
“This is my third time, sir” I lied.
“That’s better. Right, one-hour detention, Friday afternoon” he decreed. Bastard.

Lack lunged. I’d been expecting something like this and I was ready. I flicked out my leg, karate style, my toe catching him right in the balls. He went down like a stone, clutching his scrotum, screaming. The fight was over.

“Alty wins” declared Sid. “Get up Lack and stop that horrible noise, you’d think he’d killed you.”

Sat, Jul 15 2017 08:34am IST 3
3209 Posts

No names, no packdrill


The first time he entered her, she was fifteen and a virgin. Afterwards he made her wash the stained bedsheet. Used half a bottle of white vinegar to clean the blood.

Her blood.

The second time she pummelled his hairy chest with her fists. He blacked her eyes and broke an arm. Fell off a ladder, he told the hospital. A doctor sucked the end of his pencil. Made a few notes.

She kept quiet.

Silent each time he took her until she became pregnant and bloated. Then he was injured in a car accident and confined to a wheel-chair. Both legs paralysed. Otherwise, still functional.

She aborted the foetus. Left it dripping on his chest, until he woke and screamed. Swore he’d make her pay when his body recovered.

Miscarriage, she told the hospital. A woman doctor scraped her clean, made a few notes and prescribed paracetamol.

A month later, at night, while she dragged his legs into bed, he sat up, wrapped his arms around her and hauled her on top. Ripped off her nightdress. Groped her breasts. Laughed at her distress.

It began again.

Pain and suffering in silence.

Contraceptives, she told the hospital. A nurse read her notes, gave her an injection.

When he was in the wheelchair she had leverage. Could pin him down for a minute or so. One Saturday, she visited the hospital while he drank whisky. A woman consultant sucked on her pencil, gave her stronger drugs, and when she got home he was slurring his words.

She ground the tablets into his half-empty glass, and helped him drink it.

All of it. Plus a refill. Thirty minutes later his eyes were closing, and she straddled him in the wheelchair.

Holding a sharpened pencil. From the hospital.

She told him he was dead. He began to struggle. Like a baby. Pushed his hairy arms into her chest, tried to wriggle free, but she rode him like a cowgirl, legs locked around his wheelchair.

He swore at her, spat at her until she clawed his face with one hand and thrust the pencil up his nostril with the other.

All the way.

Right up to the 2H mark.

He hurt me, she told the hospital. She opened her hand. Unwrapped the bandage. A woman psychoanalyst stared at the blood-soaked pencil.

And made a few notes…

396 words.

Sat, Jul 15 2017 05:48pm IST 4
280 Posts

All Things Come To Those Who Wait (394 words, including title)

Ten years I’ve waited for this moment. Ten years of keeping myself alive when I could so easily have ended it all by jumping off a bridge or swallowing cyanide. Ten years I’ve waited for you to come out of jail, reading about you sometimes in the newspaper. How you were a model prisoner and got a degree inside – psychology, oh irony of ironies, to make up for your lack of empathy and humanity, your psychopathic tendencies which you claim to no longer have now that you’ve found Jesus.

Well, I found something else: a passion to cut you limb from limb, to pare the flesh off your bones. To hear you scream as she must have done, so you know how that feels. I’ve dreamt of being smeared with your blood only to wake up and discover I still have to wait. But those dreams are the only time I’ve felt happy in all these years – so I have to thank you for that.

But today is the day. I stand with the crowd at the prison gates and watch you walk out, then follow you home to your parents’ place. Your slate wiped clean for the state. I rent a flat opposite to watch your movements. My binoculars trained at the window to see what you eat, what you watch on TV, when you switch off the light. In the morning I wait for you to leave the house, then follow you to the swings and slides in the park.

I sit on a bench nearby and observe you watching the children. See you get up and approach a little girl. Before you can touch her arm I remember the face of my child in the morgue – the bloodlessness of her features – and pull the breadknife out of my bag, thrusting it into your back, catching you by surprise. I witness you yell, whip around, fists balled to punch me as people scream and grab their kids from the sandpit. I plunge a second knife into your gut, hear your gasp, swear, roar. The violence I didn’t know I had quells my fear and makes me fast, not giving you time to react. But then you do and I’m on the ground in your blood, and in mine, writhing like a fish in the dirt.

Sat, Jul 15 2017 10:12pm IST 5
48 Posts
An ordinary life (397 inc title)

The raised eyebrow was the first clue.

‘How much have you had?’ She was filling the kettle before even taking her coat off. I was obviously about to be prescribed strong coffee.

‘Only a couple…ish’.

She switched the radio on and Women’s hour filled the kitchen. She bustled around tidying, heels clicking on the tiled floor. Picking up my discarded uniform with her fingertips she pushed it into the machine not even bothering to hide the grimace.

We’ve been here before, the familiarity washes over me; a set of nights, too much to drink then the violence.

Quicker now the heels click towards me. Bang. Forehead rammed into the table, everything blurs as the pain dances along my eyebrows. Groggy now, raising my head slowly, hands over my face. Nails scratch at my arms, digging and clawing at the skin. Red stains the worktop as I try to wriggle away. It makes the shape of a giraffe with a bent neck. I’ve seen enough blood already this week thanks, I don’t need to see it at home too. Hands around my throat now. Choking, struggling. I grasp her wrists trying to push her away, pushing for air. In…out…in…out, bruised but free.

“…and women must be given those opportunities to be equal to men…” the radio is still on, oblivious to real life.

Where is she? Dare I look? The fridge door slams shut. Glancing up the brightness of the kitchen is alarming. The pain in my head is worse. Heart pounding. It used to beat quicker for her when we first met, now when she makes it beat faster it is the rhythm of despair.

The respite is short lived. She pushes me off the stool to the floor. I’m heavier than her, how does she have this strength when she’s like this? Curled into a ball I try and protect what parts of me I can. She is between me and the door so getting away is not an option this time. The kicks come fast. Pain in my arms, my legs, back, head. I risk a look, coming towards me is the barely-there tread on her bright red heels, straight at my face, I can’t get out of the way as her foot gets closer. The room still smells of coffee and my world is limited to her shoe coming towards -

Sun, Jul 16 2017 12:53pm IST 6
Mashie Niblick
Mashie Niblick
1058 Posts
Sun, Jul 16 2017 01:01pm IST 7
1302 Posts

The Gingerbread Wars

Tutti spat the piece of cake across the kitchen. 'This has gone too far.'

Marleen stepped out of her grandmother's range. 'Oma ...' She spread out her hands. 'It's only lebkuchen. Just a little spice and batter–'

Tutti slammed her rolling pin down. 'The ancient food of warriors.' Her face was aflame.

'Yes, Oma. Of course it is.' Marleen ran cold water over a tea towel. 'Let this cool you.'

Flaying hands slapped the cloth away. 'You are too young and foolish.' Tutti straightened her apron. 'I will go and see the hackfresse.'

Marleen blinked as she watched Tutti bustle out. She understood her grandmother's anger but to say Frau Lidburg had a face of ground meat was too much. It was time to get her Opa.


Herman listened to the raised voices from the safe distance of Frau Lidburg's garden. He took hesitant steps back and forward. Tutti wouldn't get violent. He was sure of it. But then this was her gingerbread recipe that had been insulted.

He moved to the doorway as the first crash sounded.

Fragments of what had once been a mixing bowl skittered across the floor.

Throwing crockery wasn't good but Herman decided that must be the end of it. Two reasonable woman would stop there.

Tutti marched into his line of view. His jaw fell open as he watched his wife dig her fingers into Frau Linberg's hair and force her face into a tray of rising dough. It looked like pumpernickel, a particular favourite of his, but he thought that might not be seen as important at the moment.

Dark strings of uncooked bread decorated Frau Linberg's cheeks and forehead. Herman nodded. It was rough justice and he was glad it was over.

Water splashed onto the floor.

It dripped off the hem of Tutti's skirt and formed a small lake around her. Frau Linburg still held an earthenware jug but it was by her side rather than being brandished about.

Herman squared his shoulders. They were even now. All that remained was for him to endure Tutti's ranting.

His wife and Frau Linburg tussled over a large spice jar. Tutti got a grip on it and flung it behind her into the fireplace.

The smell of burning ginger filled the kitchen.

Herman set off at a trot. He was sure he was needed in the pig yard.

Sun, Jul 16 2017 05:49pm IST 8
Jenni Belsay
Jenni Belsay
683 Posts

The morning after Gaby buried the dismembered remains of her husband, the raiders returned. She’d watched the crane truck approach. Bastards would be after the generator. Not expecting trouble this time, there were only two of them.

Drawn by the squeals of her baby, they found her in the barn.

Gaby stood under the hayloft, next to the wheel rakes. Impossible to hurl those. The only decent weapon she’d found among the twine, screws and nails, scattered after the first raid, was a broken claw hoe. With the handle stub pressed into her palm, her fingers interlaced the prongs.

The older, bull-necked man gripped an axe. The other must have been about fifteen. Puny, and he seemed unarmed. She could smell their sweat.

Overhead, the baby’s cries grew louder. Gaby stepped into view from the shadows; her eyes flicked to the ladder – closer to the bastards than to her – and back to Bullneck.

He licked his lips. ‘Guard the door, son, while I turn off the noise. Can’t hear yourself kill in here.’

The ladder creaked under the man’s weight. Boots clumped across floorboards, but Gaby didn’t move. She watched the boy.

Watched his mouth open – at the splintering of wood, the hiss of cascading hay, and the thump of his father onto wheel rakes. Gaby turned her head. Tines protruded through the man’s neck and back. From within the bundle of blankets now pinned to his gut, the wailing intensified.

She turned back to the boy. ‘Mobile phone. Crap for communication since the cyber attack, but handy for recording. Best you go now.’

Instead, he charged.

Wait ... Wait ...

Gaby dodged, raked his arm, but the hoe – snagged in clothing or flesh – was ripped from her hand. His howl of pain galvanised her. She ran. Nearly at the door, rugby-tackled, she thudded to the ground. Dragged back against his reeking body, she felt his chin on her head, twine around her neck. He grunted with each vicious, victorious twist. Not so puny.

Heart and lungs bursting, she writhed and clawed. Darkness descended, while her beautiful baby girl waited, hidden in the forest. Orphaned at seven weeks.


Scrabbling in the dust, one hand found metal. She thrust up, back. In.

His grip released, without a scream.

On her knees, gasping, Gaby finally looked. Only the flat head of the six-inch nail showed in the boy’s left eye.

400 words excluding title
Sun, Jul 16 2017 08:19pm IST 9
T B Carter
T B Carter
2 Posts

A Rude Awakening

There was a man studying the documents that I’d left on the table last night. I took a couple of quick steps towards him and he suddenly noticed me, his eyes going wide and his hand darting inside his jacket but it was too late as I was way too close for him to even yell out. I caught him in a chokehold, my other hand over his mouth as I brought him almost silently to the floor.

My victim’s silent struggles ceased after a while and I doubled checked he was unconscious. Before I could find something to secure him with, a male voice called from the kitchen “Dan, you okay?” I tensed and a few seconds later the owner of the voice came through the door carrying a tazer.

He saw his colleague lying on the floor and had time to swear before I knocked the gun out his hand with the rather wimpy poker I’d grabbed from the fireplace. He reacted quicker than I expected, diving at me in a rugby tackle and we both went flying over an antique dining chair as I lost the poker but landed right by the tazer. I grabbed it. My opponent had recovered remarkably quickly in the split second I had taken grabbing the tazer and was moving towards me, I pulled the trigger aiming at his chest, he actually grinned at me as... nothing. I didn’t have time to react before he piled into me again moving fast, this was no amateur, this was someone who knew how to fight dirty. This was going to be fun. I used my opponent’s momentum against him and propelled him into the ancient wood panelling that covered the back wall of the great hall. He managed to turn as I jumped up and I threw the tazer at his head hitting him in the eye, he cursed as I followed that up with a slightly awkward left hook that he managed to block. I jumped back just missing being hit by an ambitious kick aimed at my face, I had my balance now and I grinned as I threw a fight ending right hook at his face and there was a satisfying thwack as I connected with my off balance opponent who went flying, hitting his head on the table with a sickening crunch.

395 Words Including Title.

Sun, Jul 16 2017 08:50pm IST 10
81 Posts

‘643 metres. No visible targets. Wadi is clear up to 23 metres from the target.’

Powells nodded as he checked his gear.

‘Time out is ZERO-THREE-NINETEEN- hours.... MARK!’ ....

And out he went.

Technically, they were over the border between Ethiopia and Djibouti. They could be just Boo Boos or more likely, Cuban Special-Forces or worst case, East Germans. In any case, they were on the wrong side of the dotted line which denotes “Us” from “Them”, and they had to go.

I watched as Powells snaked his way to their position. He moved like a serpent, effortlessly through the wadi to within a few metres of the parapet of the target.

He must have made a noise because as he crouched ready to spring, a head suddenly appeared above the edge of the trench.

Powells swung out with his entrenching tool and I could see the blood spray clearly through my rifle scope.

Powells jumped up and followed the target into the trench and I could see his back swing as he brought his entrenching tool down three more times in vicious strokes on the bad guy.

Powells signalled back to me by putting his hand on his head to signify that he was ‘OK’ and he moved off out of site.

I tracked left and right, looking for targets and signs of an enemy reaction to Powells taking out the sentry. I saw nothing...

Seven minutes later, I caught the image at the extreme edge of my peripheral vision, Powells clearing the enemy position and diving into a wadi for his return to our lines.

At ZERO-THREE- FIFTY-FOUR, as their relief guard moved up to the observation post that Powells had taken out, I noticed a flash and recorded a large boom as they tripped the booby trap Powells had set for them.

Their screams drifted across the desert night air into our position. I noted the languages as I waited for Powells to make his way back.

Two distinct Spanish/Cuban voices and one German were discernible from the screams. People always cry in their native tongue.

“Fuckem,” I thought. “Motherfuckers come half way across the world to kill us and then fall asleep in a night Observation Post.“

Powells dropped into my position covered in sweat and blood. He was breathing heavily and he smiled at me and winked and said, ‘Cunts sleep on guard! Stupid Motherfuckers...”

Mon, Jul 17 2017 03:47am IST 11
81 Posts
Please disregard this one as well. The iphone version. Dohh! Swearing and such,
Tue, Jul 18 2017 02:16pm IST 12
684 Posts
Wed, Jul 19 2017 12:20pm IST 13
684 Posts
So much activity on the latest wall, keep having to bump.
Wed, Jul 19 2017 04:30pm IST 14
8 Posts
Ohh good topic! I might write something.
Thu, Jul 20 2017 11:25am IST 15
684 Posts
Sun, Jul 23 2017 10:02am IST 16
684 Posts

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