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Story contest #3
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by
Camille
(new)
Aug 21, 2013 07:10PM
This sounds fun! If I have time, I'd love to participate! :D
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I'm working on it :) I think I got something going XD this was a good topic to choose
I'd love to join in if i can get it done in time, can you give an exact date? Oh, I LOVE this group!:D xxxxxx
The date is in like a week :)
Sweet :)
This is the beginning of mine. There's more in this link, along with some poems that go along with it.
The Combusted
The burn starts deep in our chests
Making us panicky, with little rest
Then it spreads outward, to the skin
At this point, we just can’t win
Last, and most painful, is the brain
Now this is more than we can contain
For the end is near to us
And it’s come time for us to
Combust
Jacque
The burn; the unforgiving agony ripping through my chest; it was too much. I had to make it stop. It coursed through me in layers, like an onion—each stab like a layer being peeled off. Each stab hurting worse than the one before; in the end, leaving only a shriveled core once it was done with me.
My mouth tingled with saliva, giving me the familiar feeling of pre-barf. I rushed to the kitchen on unsteady legs, reaching for the trash can.
Too late.
My stomach lurched, and my dinner was thrown onto the floor. Though the next body-wracking pulse made it into the trash can. Over and over until all that came up was stomach acid.
But this is only the beginning, my mind told me, we have many more agonizing tactics planned to ensure your discomfort is as high as possible.
I kneeled in my own waste, pounding on my head as hard as I could. That voice, it wasn’t mine.
I grabbed my ears. Maybe if I tore them off, the voice wouldn’t return.
My stomach churned again.
I crawled to the sink, and used the crusty counter to boost myself up. I reached, with a shaky hand, to the cupboard and pulled out a cup. The tap water was dirty as it slid down my throat, but it made my mouth taste less like a toilet.
Putting my face in my hands, I didn’t hear the door open. My older sister’s voice filled the room,
“Oh, Jacque!” She came up behind me, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. “Again?”
I nodded, fearing if I spoke, I would throw up again.
“You go lay down,” she ordered, “I’ll clean this up.” I turned and looked at the floor, at the ‘present’ I’d left there.
“No,” I protested. “You just worked a ten-hour shift, you go lay down, I’ll clean this up.” I stared up at her face, at the crusty skin around her eyes, nose, and mouth. She was further along than I was.
“You make yourself something to eat, lay down, and I’ll clean this up,” her tone stated that this was her final decision.
“You want anything?” I asked, feebly.
“Oh, no, Jacque, I’m not hungry.” She looked indifferent.
No, I thought. You never are.
This is the beginning of mine. There's more in this link, along with some poems that go along with it.
The Combusted
The burn starts deep in our chests
Making us panicky, with little rest
Then it spreads outward, to the skin
At this point, we just can’t win
Last, and most painful, is the brain
Now this is more than we can contain
For the end is near to us
And it’s come time for us to
Combust
Jacque
The burn; the unforgiving agony ripping through my chest; it was too much. I had to make it stop. It coursed through me in layers, like an onion—each stab like a layer being peeled off. Each stab hurting worse than the one before; in the end, leaving only a shriveled core once it was done with me.
My mouth tingled with saliva, giving me the familiar feeling of pre-barf. I rushed to the kitchen on unsteady legs, reaching for the trash can.
Too late.
My stomach lurched, and my dinner was thrown onto the floor. Though the next body-wracking pulse made it into the trash can. Over and over until all that came up was stomach acid.
But this is only the beginning, my mind told me, we have many more agonizing tactics planned to ensure your discomfort is as high as possible.
I kneeled in my own waste, pounding on my head as hard as I could. That voice, it wasn’t mine.
I grabbed my ears. Maybe if I tore them off, the voice wouldn’t return.
My stomach churned again.
I crawled to the sink, and used the crusty counter to boost myself up. I reached, with a shaky hand, to the cupboard and pulled out a cup. The tap water was dirty as it slid down my throat, but it made my mouth taste less like a toilet.
Putting my face in my hands, I didn’t hear the door open. My older sister’s voice filled the room,
“Oh, Jacque!” She came up behind me, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. “Again?”
I nodded, fearing if I spoke, I would throw up again.
“You go lay down,” she ordered, “I’ll clean this up.” I turned and looked at the floor, at the ‘present’ I’d left there.
“No,” I protested. “You just worked a ten-hour shift, you go lay down, I’ll clean this up.” I stared up at her face, at the crusty skin around her eyes, nose, and mouth. She was further along than I was.
“You make yourself something to eat, lay down, and I’ll clean this up,” her tone stated that this was her final decision.
“You want anything?” I asked, feebly.
“Oh, no, Jacque, I’m not hungry.” She looked indifferent.
No, I thought. You never are.
I'm not sure, either, I need to add more to mine :)
I'm not sure i'll be able to make the date... how much do we have to write?
Sweet :) i'll have to work on it more today
Let's try to get other ppl to join the contest... Except there isn't much time left... Hmm
Chained DogI saw her before, I realized.
That plump, middle-aged woman with billowing brown curls cascading around her shoulders. The “Science and Me” teacher at the institution; the one who introduced me to him, to this emptiness.
I know her.
Mrs. Hennings balanced her mass of molecular bonding papers on top of her car, as she moved to unlock it with her key. She has always had that car, even when I first saw her that one spring afternoon. She was so nice, so calm and composed; not like she is now.
Now, she rushes. She knows who is out to get her, knows what she’s done, who she has betrayed.
She just doesn’t know that I’m here.
Pulling on my black leather gloves, I stand up on the roof of the institution. Dressed in all black-including my leather jacket and combat boots-I blend in with the shadows. Those back at headquarters joke that sometimes they mistake me for a ghost with my “long blond hair shimmering white in the moonlight,” together with my skin.
I hate their jokes.
Guns latched in place on my back, I reach down to take out the knives hidden in my boots. The chill of the wind causes the sharp blades to fog a bit, having been kept warm in their holsters-
“Grant says to hurry it up so they can get the pictures for the murder articles,” Beck’s somber voice echoes in my earpiece, “He needs your confirmation on the dead body.”
“One minute, Forty seconds,” I take my finger off the transmission button in my ear. My voice was as lively as the gleam in my brown eyes.
There was never even a twinkle to begin with.
With my word, I jumped off the ledge of the two story building, catching myself with the flag poles as I descended, eyes trained on Mrs. Hennings.
As I approached, it seemed as though she still couldn’t find the keys to her car, the ones I took the moment she left her office to print out those precious papers.
She turned around swiftly, as if sensing my presence, and instantly calmed as her eyes took me in.
How foolish.
“Oh, it’s just you,” she smiled, putting a hand over her rapidly beating heart. “You scared the stomach out of me, Jessibell! Anyway, you’d best run home now, I’m sure your little brother...Max is it? Well, I’m sure he is plenty worried. I must be off as well. You know, there are many dangerous people out so late at night-”
“Amelia Hennings; Wife of George Hennings. Two daughters, Dina of age six and Darla of age eight. Only son Derek currently missing at age eighteen, just after he left your argument about his drug dealing. He was found dead in your basement, Amelia.” My tone certainly frightened her, but there was nothing I could do about it.
He made me cut ties with all emotions.
Amelia grabbed her papers, hugging them close to her chest as she backed away, her scared blue eyes really taking me in.
“You...” she gasped, “You...you’re the one they sent...? ...Y...you’re the one...the one who murders on command...who tortures....who-”
My knife contacted with her eye, sending sprays of hot blood against my hand, even splattering my cheek. My expression remained impassive.
Her screams erupted almost immediately as I turned on the transmission in my earpiece. Amelia tried to push me away, tear at my flesh as her bloodcurdling screams pierced the crisp night air, but sadly, she could do nothing to harm me. I’d already cut off her right arm, causing more of her blood to pool by her feet in clumping waves, practically slapping the pavement with its wetness.
Excitement sparked my system as her left hand tried to pull the knife out, continuously cutting at her palm. That excitement reached my smile, causing it to grow further, unnaturally so as I twisted the knife deeper into her head, the eye having already dropped down to the soaked concrete with a splat.
“You, Amelia, are the one who helped to make me this way. A dog sent to take orders from the very man who murdered my family! You, who killed your precious son for exposing your human testing on the sick for your own personal gain, even giving him the drugs he needed for his illegal business to keep quiet about it, must fall. Yes, Amelia, you have betrayed Grant’s ‘order,’ so they sent me. Now be a good wackjob and die prettily for the reporters,” I laughed over her screams, moving the knife to her throat. In her good eye, wide and bloodshot, my black eyes displayed the very darkness she would soon be suspended in, “‘You know, there are many dangerous people out so late at night’!”
The final slash, the final scream.
Stepping back and away, my smile faded, letting the composure take control. Crumpled and dismantled in her own bloody ocean, her precious papers no longer readable, Amelia Hennings lay dead. I clicked off the transmission. Now Grant knew, the murderer.
Looking down at one of the doused blades in my hand, I lifted it to my cheek and made a small cut, enough for a single drop of blood to drip to my fingertips. I stared at it for a second, before stepping forward to place that drop onto her eye, coating the iris in red.
“With that, you are free,” I said as I did to all of my victims. It is something that I will never be, living as an assassin in this dystopia of a living nightmare.
-Working for the man who murdered my family. The one who once held me in his arms when I was just a child. The one who found me again to take me away. The one who placed me on an operating table so that 250 needles would plunge into my body the liquid of an obedient murderer.
The one I used to call “Uncle.”
Once the sirens sounded a few miles away, I made my way back to headquarters.
It was time to receive my next assignment.
2 MORE DAYS!!!! X^D WHO ElSE IS GONNA POST~????
Awww, now I'll never win!!! Haha :) That was amazing!!! Plz tell me ur writing more!
Yeah, I'm guessing it's only us
I only write short stories--no chapters!
That's fine!! It's actually good for a contest like this
Anna wrote: "Awww, now I'll never win!!! Haha :) That was amazing!!! Plz tell me ur writing more!"Awww thanks! but I doubt it will, since its a bit gory... And there really isn't more because I'm unsure what to do with it, lol. But I was inspired by yours! As disturbing as this sounds, the vomiting inspired the amount of blood splashing to the ground~ So thanks for that!
And WAHOOO~!!! 4 PEOPLE IN THE RUNNING~!!! X^D
Okay I have to have my editor look at something but I will have it for you tomorrow.
Demonhunter wrote: "Okay I have to have my editor look at something but I will have it for you tomorrow."I look forward to it! ^-^
@Tormiester
Haha :) thanks. I'm glad my vomiting scene could help ya :)
@Demonhunter
U have an editor?
Haha :) thanks. I'm glad my vomiting scene could help ya :)
@Demonhunter
U have an editor?
My sister wants to be an editor and she does a fantastic job.
My sissy is my editor too :) but I have to pay her in Kit-Kats.
Demonhunter wrote: "16. yours?"mine's seventeen and grumpier than Eeyore
Mine played eeyore in a play and mine is only grumpy if she is tired or upset.
well, maybe mines just tired for the three hours a day she's awake for.
Sweet :) I WANNA KNOW WHO WONNNN!!!!!!!!
I just wanna know the next contest topic~! X^D I'm excited to write some more!
New to this group...Dangit...I love to write this topic...I wish I could have written in it :/
Dangnabbit! D: I didn't have time to enter! My internet was down for a while. :( Sorry, Jordyn, I know I told you I'd enter. :P But I'm excited to see who'll win! :3
Omigosh, guys I'm soooo sorry. You all have full permission to slap me. *displays cheek* Okay, so, if I'm correct, there were five entries and I'm going to pick one winner.
***WARNING: This is my opinion. So, if your story is not picked, that does not, BY ANY MEANS, mean you are a bad writer. You all did great jobs, and I had a terribly hard time picking a winner. :)***
And the winner is..... *drum roll* .... The Combust, by Anna!
You did an amazing job, Anna! I loved it! :D And I'm so extremely sorry for the long wait. :/
And great job to all of you other guys. I really liked all of yours, and it was super interesting to see all of your turns on a future society! Thanks for the patience, and cooperation! :)
THANKS Jordyn!!!!!! I win :)
It means a lot that u picked me! I worked really hard on it :)
Good job everyone else!!!
It means a lot that u picked me! I worked really hard on it :)
Good job everyone else!!!
Okay, i won this one, so i'm gonna make another writing contest :)
Sorry, mods, if i need permission before i do this, but it has been WAY too long without a nice, friendly writing competition.
Sorry, mods, if i need permission before i do this, but it has been WAY too long without a nice, friendly writing competition.
