WINTER 2015 SHORT STORY CONTEST

[Luminesa]

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

Hopefully I can find time to write something.

So what exactly are the site rules about content?

And also, how do I submit it from my OneDrive?

[Vancon]

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

Hopefully I can find time to write something.

So what exactly are the site rules about content?

And also, how do I submit it from my OneDrive?

Keep it PG-13, but you can fade to black, use swears, etc... Just pay attention to your writing and go at it.

As for the one drive, I have no idea, but you can always copy and past what you wrote.

[Britanania]

This is a little story I wrote one day when I was bored. I hope it's enjoyable

A Cool Night

"True horror is looking around and seeing the world for what it is-ordinary"-the Author

The night was cool when I left my office building, and I paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze. My respite complete, I began the trek back to my flat.. Halfway there, I absently checked my watch. 23.56. I sighed; I was getting home later than I would have liked, and no doubt she would be furious at my truancy, although by morning Kate would be her usual, chipper self.

I opened the back door and took the stairs to the 7th floor. Swiftly, silently I went to my flat door, and after fumbling around to find my keys, I realised I left them at the office. However, I noticed the door was left unlocked. I smiled. Of course Kate left it unlocked. I would rebuke her teasingly for being so trusting, I thought as I made my way gingerly through our flat.

She was already asleep as I crept cat-like into our bedroom. I smiled, gazing upon her goddess-like appearance and I thought myself the luckiest barrister in London for having her as my wife. I kissed her softly on the forehead before returning to our lounge and slept on the sofa. When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that Kate had already left. Odd, I thought, but not completely unusual. I also found my spare keys gone, some dubious prank on her part, no doubt, a playful punishment for my coming home late.

I left my building after quickly getting dressed. I was off work today, but I was in the habit of dressing for the office regardless. I took a walk around our Soho neighbourhood, hoping Kate would be back when I returned. She wasn't, and with my curiosity piqued, I checked the diary to see if anything was going on I forgot about.

I checked our answering machine to see if she left me a message but all I found was a recording from one of her friends, something about meeting up at a pub we frequent.. Thinking I'd surprise her, I went to their planned rendezvous.

As I was nearing her auto on foot, I saw the two of them get into our car and drove off. Naturally, and slightly perturbed, I followed. Traffic is always terrible so I was never too far behind, and always close enough to see the motorcar. Finally they stopped and entered a building-I didn't even check to see where we were as I shadowed them inside.

They entered a large room as I looked in terror at the sign perched on the wall.

"Loving son, friend, and husband murdered last midnight."

[Nerotysia]

I vill need to make a submission. I believe this is what's called a "tag."

[Nazi Flower Power]

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!

Hopefully I can find time to write something.

So what exactly are the site rules about content?

And also, how do I submit it from my OneDrive?

What Vancon said -- keep it PG-13 and copy paste your story into a post. Pay attention to formatting when you copy paste because you may need to add extra line breaks between paragraphs to stop them from running together.

[Respubliko de Libereco]

The narrator/protagonist of my story is turning out to be pretty racist. Should I include a disclaimer stating that the views expressed by the character do not represent the views held by the author, or is that unnecessary?

[Shaggai]

The narrator/protagonist of my story is turning out to be pretty racist. Should I include a disclaimer stating that the views expressed by the character do not represent the views held by the author, or is that unnecessary?

It can't hurt.

[Nerotysia]

The narrator/protagonist of my story is turning out to be pretty racist. Should I include a disclaimer stating that the views expressed by the character do not represent the views held by the author, or is that unnecessary?

Nope, it's totally unnecessary. It's not your fault if the reader is stupid.

[Furry Alairia and Algeria]

The narrator/protagonist of my story is turning out to be pretty racist. Should I include a disclaimer stating that the views expressed by the character do not represent the views held by the author, or is that unnecessary?

It should at the least tell that these views will be offensive, but if you want to go as far as to say they don't represent your views, then do so.

[Vancon]

The narrator/protagonist of my story is turning out to be pretty racist. Should I include a disclaimer stating that the views expressed by the character do not represent the views held by the author, or is that unnecessary?

No, since I hate disclaimers. Just somehow make it so that we can tell that the racism is part of the story, not just your own mind.

[Occupied Deutschland]

I think I'll put something in this time around.

And not like last time when I said I would do the same thing then promptly got sucked into writing 20,000 words before realizing that did not qualify as a 'short story' and was just mean to the judges.

And by 'writing 20,000 words...' I mean 'watching a bunch of cat videos on Youtube because procrastination is an evil temptress.'

[Laerod]

Less than two weeks! Aaaaaaaah! D=

[Luminesa]

This is a little story I wrote one day when I was bored. I hope it's enjoyable

A Cool Night

"True horror is looking around and seeing the world for what it is-ordinary"-the Author

The night was cool when I left my office building, and I paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze. My respite complete, I began the trek back to my flat.. Halfway there, I absently checked my watch. 23.56. I sighed; I was getting home later than I would have liked, and no doubt she would be furious at my truancy, although by morning Kate would be her usual, chipper self.

I opened the back door and took the stairs to the 7th floor. Swiftly, silently I went to my flat door, and after fumbling around to find my keys, I realised I left them at the office. However, I noticed the door was left unlocked. I smiled. Of course Kate left it unlocked. I would rebuke her teasingly for being so trusting, I thought as I made my way gingerly through our flat.

She was already asleep as I crept cat-like into our bedroom. I smiled, gazing upon her goddess-like appearance and I thought myself the luckiest barrister in London for having her as my wife. I kissed her softly on the forehead before returning to our lounge and slept on the sofa. When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that Kate had already left. Odd, I thought, but not completely unusual. I also found my spare keys gone, some dubious prank on her part, no doubt, a playful punishment for my coming home late.

I left my building after quickly getting dressed. I was off work today, but I was in the habit of dressing for the office regardless. I took a walk around our Soho neighbourhood, hoping Kate would be back when I returned. She wasn't, and with my curiosity piqued, I checked the diary to see if anything was going on I forgot about.

I checked our answering machine to see if she left me a message but all I found was a recording from one of her friends, something about meeting up at a pub we frequent.. Thinking I'd surprise her, I went to their planned rendezvous.

As I was nearing her auto on foot, I saw the two of them get into our car and drove off. Naturally, and slightly perturbed, I followed. Traffic is always terrible so I was never too far behind, and always close enough to see the motorcar. Finally they stopped and entered a building-I didn't even check to see where we were as I shadowed them inside.

They entered a large room as I looked in terror at the sign perched on the wall.

"Loving son, friend, and husband murdered last midnight."

Wow...mother of pearl, that is SCARY.

[Britanania]

This is a little story I wrote one day when I was bored. I hope it's enjoyable

A Cool Night

"True horror is looking around and seeing the world for what it is-ordinary"-the Author

The night was cool when I left my office building, and I paused to enjoy the refreshing breeze. My respite complete, I began the trek back to my flat.. Halfway there, I absently checked my watch. 23.56. I sighed; I was getting home later than I would have liked, and no doubt she would be furious at my truancy, although by morning Kate would be her usual, chipper self.

I opened the back door and took the stairs to the 7th floor. Swiftly, silently I went to my flat door, and after fumbling around to find my keys, I realised I left them at the office. However, I noticed the door was left unlocked. I smiled. Of course Kate left it unlocked. I would rebuke her teasingly for being so trusting, I thought as I made my way gingerly through our flat.

She was already asleep as I crept cat-like into our bedroom. I smiled, gazing upon her goddess-like appearance and I thought myself the luckiest barrister in London for having her as my wife. I kissed her softly on the forehead before returning to our lounge and slept on the sofa. When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that Kate had already left. Odd, I thought, but not completely unusual. I also found my spare keys gone, some dubious prank on her part, no doubt, a playful punishment for my coming home late.

I left my building after quickly getting dressed. I was off work today, but I was in the habit of dressing for the office regardless. I took a walk around our Soho neighbourhood, hoping Kate would be back when I returned. She wasn't, and with my curiosity piqued, I checked the diary to see if anything was going on I forgot about.

I checked our answering machine to see if she left me a message but all I found was a recording from one of her friends, something about meeting up at a pub we frequent.. Thinking I'd surprise her, I went to their planned rendezvous.

As I was nearing her auto on foot, I saw the two of them get into our car and drove off. Naturally, and slightly perturbed, I followed. Traffic is always terrible so I was never too far behind, and always close enough to see the motorcar. Finally they stopped and entered a building-I didn't even check to see where we were as I shadowed them inside.

They entered a large room as I looked in terror at the sign perched on the wall.

"Loving son, friend, and husband murdered last midnight."

Wow...mother of pearl, that is SCARY.

Yeah, I'm a little proud of it.

[Schiltzberg]

Here is my contribution to this contest. I hope that you like it!

The News Report
A short-story by Schiltzberg

I held the dagger between my fingers, and I thrust it into the depths of his being. Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My name is Robert Flange, and I am a humble news reporter for the famous Channel Four Nightly News. My job is to deliver America what she wants; a story, and I do not think that anyone can deny that that is exactly what I did.

The date: August 18. The time: precisely 10:08 am. Why or how I remember the time, I do not know, but I do. It is written in my soul, as if fate, luck, or superstition had planted it there like a seed in the soil. Because of this, I cannot forget the date nor the time; the event is of such great magnitude, such great power, yes, such great, glorious power.

At that time, 10:08, I walked into my boss’ office. Now, my boss, Mr. Forest B. Henson, was very strict, and he only wanted and received the best from his reporters. Today was a slow day in the news, as it had been for the last few weeks, and Mr. Henson was not going to hear of it any longer.

“How long until you find a real story, Flange?” he spat at me in a demeaning tone from behind his desk. “Our viewers can only take this crap about invasive species and dog shows for so long. Ha! And that’s what it is; crap!” He chuckled at his attempt at a joke, and continued toward the door of the office before he paused and checked his watch.

He turned and looked me right in the face. “You’d better get a good story by tonight,” he said, “or you’re fired,” and he continued out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Immediately, I felt a lump in my throat. I knew that there was no way that I could find a story that pleased Henson’s short-sighted brain in that time. I had heard rumors too. Ben Josephes had told me that once Henson threatened to fire you, he would keep his promise if you didn’t do exactly what he asked. Ben said that that was what happened to Robbie Jenkins, who I replaced when I was hired six months ago. I knew I was done for.

Now, I don’t know if I have said this already, but I was a mediocre news reporter, and I made a humble salary of around 25,000 dollars per year, which is not too much for a small family of three. Yes, myself and my wife Fanny lived in an apartment on the north side of Chicago, just a few miles from Lake Michigan, with our then-two-year-old son David. With Chicago prices being as they are, 25,000 dollars was only really enough to keep the apartment and put food on the table, and even though Fanny constantly dreamed of getting away on vacation, we simply couldn’t afford it. The thought of losing that job made my stomach turn in a knot, because I knew that we would certainly not be able to continue our humble lives as we knew them if I was not bringing in any cash. I had to find a news story, and I had to find it fast.

I started out in my usual spots, along Michigan Avenue, around the police station, and down the pier, but I couldn’t find anything. “Of all of the days for there to not be a shooting, it just HAD to be today,” I thought to myself.

I walked down to a McDonald’s to grab something to eat -- by now it must have been around noon -- and I ordered two cheeseburgers with no pickles; I hate pickles. While I waited for my order, I couldn’t stop thinking about my task. I kept telling myself, “You HAVE to find a good story today! You have to, or else Fanny and David are out on the street,” and then it hit me; if I wanted a good story, I would have to create one!

When I finally got my cheeseburgers, they had pickles on them, but I did not really care at that point. I ate them quickly, and got out of the restaurant to get to work.

I knew that I would have to carry out a crime, but the only problem was that I had never really broken the law before in my life, and I had no idea where to start. Furthermore, I wasn’t sure what I would have to do that would make a story interesting enough to allow me to keep my job. Then my phone buzzed. The text message was from Henson.

It said: “Hey Flang, make sure you get your story in by 6:30, and make sure it’s not crap XD!”

That was just too far. The thing that pissed me off the most was that he had spelled my name wrong. Everyone knows that Flange is spelled with an “e.” Even the jocks in high school who called me “Toilet Flange” knew how to spell it, and Henson did not. The rage inside me was already built up so much, and this text was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I could feel the steam screaming from my ears, much like how air screams out of a teapot. It was at that exact moment that I realized just how to get Henson’s attention: I would kill him.

Looking back on it, I realize that what I did was a bit extreme. Sure he was an asshole, but I guess he did not deserve to die. But then again, I was not getting paid enough for all of the crap that I had to put up with at the office, and with all honesty, I have to say that I have no regrets.

Just as these thoughts were filling my head, my phone rang in my hands. It was Fanny. It was as if God had sent her to call me at that precise second so that I would forget the evil thoughts that were causing me to dream of horrible things.

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

“Hi, honey,” she replied back. “How is work?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual stuff,” I lied. If she only knew…

“Will you be back for dinner tonight?”

“Yes, but I probably won’t be home until 7:00 or 7:30, because Henson’s on my ass again.”

She responded saying, “Rob, you need to stand up for yourself for once. If you do whatever Henson says, he’ll keep treating you like a bug.” She continued, “If you want to get noticed, you’ve got to cut the head off of the snake.”

I do not think that she realized the irony of her words, but this was just encouragement for me to kill Henson. I have said that perhaps her call was a message from God, and perhaps it was. Whether it went the way he intended for it to go or not, I will never know.

Fanny and I engaged in a debate about whether or not we should send David to preschool this year, and I was originally against it (Seriously, who sends their two-year-old to preschool?), but Fanny was very passionate about it, so I eventually gave in because I honestly couldn’t care less.

After she hung up, I went back to thinking about how much I loathed Forest B. Henson. As if on cue, I got a new text from him saying: “Flangue, it’s 2:47, and I haven’t heard from you yet. Where the hell are you???”

At least he didn’t forget the “e” this time.

As a news reporter, I had been exposed to most of all the best black markets, and it was not long before I found a weapons dealer. For the safety of his identity, I will call him “Bob” from here on out. Anyway, I met with Bob, and it took about half an hour to convince him that I was not in fact there to rat him out to the police, but once that was over with, we got down to business.

He had the whole bananza; guns, knives, ropes, wires, time-bombs, everything. He asked me what I was looking for, and I told him, “I want my victim to die a slow death, but still be in a lot of pain.” Bob suggested a knife.

The one I picked out had a red handle. Red; the color of Henson’s blood. It was a humble dagger, but it still had a fine tipped point that was certainly capable of getting the job done. It was small enough that I could easily conceal it by tightening it to my back with my belt without anyone suspecting a thing. Bob cut me a deal on the knife, and I got the five-hundred dollar dagger for a mere three-hundred-fifty bucks.

I did not have much money to spare, but the thought of life after Henson was worth much more than the price I paid.

Now, the time was about 4:17 when I make it back to the news station. I entered the lobby, got into the elevator, and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. Insanity started to set in. There was a shadow on a wall of the elevator. It started out as a dark blob, and I took little notice of it. Then, it started to move. The shadow took the shape of a bird, then it transformed into some sort of dragon-like creature. I was amazed by this, because I had never seen a shadow move in this way before.

By this point, the elevator had reached the sixth floor. The door opened, but no-one was there. It closed again, and it continued up very slowly. This elevator denied chronology. After passing the seventh floor, it went up to the eighth floor, then, while it still continued up, opened at the sixth floor again. Then, it continued up to the third floor, then the eleventh, and then it opened at the sixth floor again. I could not understand how or why this was taking place, and to this day I still have my doubts about whether or not it really happened.

I eventually made it up to the eighteenth floor, and I praised God for this. I proceeded directly to Mr. Henson’s office, but I found it empty. While I waited, I sat in the chair behind his desk, and stared at his picture of himself that was conveniently placed directly across from it.

I started to drift off, but then I heard his voice outside the room. The door creaked open, and he walked in on the phone.

“Yeah, could you get that done? That would be great. No, that was for tomorrow. Just a second.” He locked eyes with me and pointed at the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

He was on the phone for another four minutes, and then he hung up. Seeing that I was still in his chair, he asked, “Could you get up please?”

I obeyed, and went towards the door. I locked it, and then went back to sit across from Henson.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically, “just fine.”

“I didn’t get your report yet, you have something prepared right?”

“You see, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. I pulled down the blinds of the window that connected the office to the outside hallway.

“What are you doing?” he asked, legitimately confused.

I pulled out the knife and placed it on the table firmly. “This,” I said.

He was baffled, and he started to say something, but his voice trailed off.

“Get on the ground,” I ordered him. “Get on the ground!”

“Get on the ground?” he asked jokingly.

I grabbed the knife and held it up to his throat.

Slowly but surely, the words left my lips. “Get… on… the ground.”

He looked down at the knife, then up at me, then down at the knife, and back again. His hands slowly rose into the air, and he helplessly knelt on the floor beside his desk.

“Take off your belt!” I demanded.

“My bel..?” he started, but I cut him off by shouting “Do it!” in his face. His hands were shaking as he slowly took it off.

I tied his hands together with the belt. He started to cry, but then I kicked him in the stomach to shut him up. Then, I looked disappointedly at his face. He looked nervous, and I could tell that he was starting to sweat.

“Take off your sport coat,” I said. This time he didn’t complain. I ripped the right sleeve off of the blue coat, and used it to gag him.

Then I started to taunt him by threatening to stab him with the knife. By this point, he was in great desperation, and I have to admit that I was enjoying every second of it. I looked around the office for something else that I could torture him with. I grabbed the stapler, but only to see his reaction. The second I went for it, his eyes grew to the size of oranges and his face shriveled in terror. I softly chuckled to myself and set the stapler down.

I decided to taunt him some more.

“Do sit-ups,” I said.

He immediately started the exercise, and I had to cover my mouth to conceal my laughter. His face was like that of a sick dog; obedient and submissive, while on the verge of vomiting. I watched him rise and fall to and from sitting position maybe fifteen or twenty times, until fatigue overtook him and he was forced to stop.

“You look healthy to me;” I said, “ten more!”

He slowly went up for his first of the ten.

“Faster!” I shouted. “Faster you piece of crap!”

He moaned and wept, but I told him to shut up.

He lay on the ground, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He breathed heavily -- maybe sixty or seventy times a minute!

When he had calmed down, I got up and began to pick papers off of his desk. “You said you wanted a story, huh?” I said to him. “Well here’s your damn story!” I yelled, and I threw all of the papers at him. One of the books that I threw must have been five-hundred pages long. He lay on the ground defeated.

I continued by saying, “You said you were going to fire me right?” I pulled a cigarette lighter from my back pocket and started to light the papers on fire all around him.

He looked at me frantically and his eyes begged me to stop, but there was no going back now. I had taken this to the point where there was no turning back. I pulled a burning book from the flames, and I placed it neatly back in its spot on the bookshelf. Before long, the whole shelf was on fire!

The fire alarms went off, and water sprinkled from the ceiling. He murmured and squirmed away from the fire on the ground. His eyes rolled around wildly like bingo balls do when the carton is turned. I looked at my watch. 6:26. The time was right.

I grabbed a pen from his desk and began to scribble on my news report sheet. Red ink; how fitting. When I was finished, I thrust the paper at him.

“Accidental fire on the eighteenth floor of the Channel Four News building. One dead.”

After he was done reading, he looked up at me submissively. I laughed so hard that I threw up. I went to pick up the knife, and he resisted and kicked with all of his might. “Coward,” I said. I looked at him with pity, but wished execration on his soul. I held the dagger between my fingers, and thrust it into the depths of his being.

[Luminesa]

Here is my contribution to this contest. I hope that you like it!

The News Report
A short-story by Schiltzberg

I held the dagger between my fingers, and I thrust it into the depths of his being. Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My name is Robert Flange, and I am a humble news reporter for the famous Channel Four Nightly News. My job is to deliver America what she wants; a story, and I do not think that anyone can deny that that is exactly what I did.

The date: August 18. The time: precisely 10:08 am. Why or how I remember the time, I do not know, but I do. It is written in my soul, as if fate, luck, or superstition had planted it there like a seed in the soil. Because of this, I cannot forget the date nor the time; the event is of such great magnitude, such great power, yes, such great, glorious power.

At that time, 10:08, I walked into my boss’ office. Now, my boss, Mr. Forest B. Henson, was very strict, and he only wanted and received the best from his reporters. Today was a slow day in the news, as it had been for the last few weeks, and Mr. Henson was not going to hear of it any longer.

“How long until you find a real story, Flange?” he spat at me in a demeaning tone from behind his desk. “Our viewers can only take this crap about invasive species and dog shows for so long. Ha! And that’s what it is; crap!” He chuckled at his attempt at a joke, and continued toward the door of the office before he paused and checked his watch.

He turned and looked me right in the face. “You’d better get a good story by tonight,” he said, “or you’re fired,” and he continued out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Immediately, I felt a lump in my throat. I knew that there was no way that I could find a story that pleased Henson’s short-sighted brain in that time. I had heard rumors too. Ben Josephes had told me that once Henson threatened to fire you, he would keep his promise if you didn’t do exactly what he asked. Ben said that that was what happened to Robbie Jenkins, who I replaced when I was hired six months ago. I knew I was done for.

Now, I don’t know if I have said this already, but I was a mediocre news reporter, and I made a humble salary of around 25,000 dollars per year, which is not too much for a small family of three. Yes, myself and my wife Fanny lived in an apartment on the north side of Chicago, just a few miles from Lake Michigan, with our then-two-year-old son David. With Chicago prices being as they are, 25,000 dollars was only really enough to keep the apartment and put food on the table, and even though Fanny constantly dreamed of getting away on vacation, we simply couldn’t afford it. The thought of losing that job made my stomach turn in a knot, because I knew that we would certainly not be able to continue our humble lives as we knew them if I was not bringing in any cash. I had to find a news story, and I had to find it fast.

I started out in my usual spots, along Michigan Avenue, around the police station, and down the pier, but I couldn’t find anything. “Of all of the days for there to not be a shooting, it just HAD to be today,” I thought to myself.

I walked down to a McDonald’s to grab something to eat -- by now it must have been around noon -- and I ordered two cheeseburgers with no pickles; I hate pickles. While I waited for my order, I couldn’t stop thinking about my task. I kept telling myself, “You HAVE to find a good story today! You have to, or else Fanny and David are out on the street,” and then it hit me; if I wanted a good story, I would have to create one!

When I finally got my cheeseburgers, they had pickles on them, but I did not really care at that point. I ate them quickly, and got out of the restaurant to get to work.

I knew that I would have to carry out a crime, but the only problem was that I had never really broken the law before in my life, and I had no idea where to start. Furthermore, I wasn’t sure what I would have to do that would make a story interesting enough to allow me to keep my job. Then my phone buzzed. The text message was from Henson.

It said: “Hey Flang, make sure you get your story in by 6:30, and make sure it’s not crap XD!”

That was just too far. The thing that pissed me off the most was that he had spelled my name wrong. Everyone knows that Flange is spelled with an “e.” Even the jocks in high school who called me “Toilet Flange” knew how to spell it, and Henson did not. The rage inside me was already built up so much, and this text was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I could feel the steam screaming from my ears, much like how air screams out of a teapot. It was at that exact moment that I realized just how to get Henson’s attention: I would kill him.

Looking back on it, I realize that what I did was a bit extreme. Sure he was an asshole, but I guess he did not deserve to die. But then again, I was not getting paid enough for all of the crap that I had to put up with at the office, and with all honesty, I have to say that I have no regrets.

Just as these thoughts were filling my head, my phone rang in my hands. It was Fanny. It was as if God had sent her to call me at that precise second so that I would forget the evil thoughts that were causing me to dream of horrible things.

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

“Hi, honey,” she replied back. “How is work?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual stuff,” I lied. If she only knew…

“Will you be back for dinner tonight?”

“Yes, but I probably won’t be home until 7:00 or 7:30, because Henson’s on my ass again.”

She responded saying, “Rob, you need to stand up for yourself for once. If you do whatever Henson says, he’ll keep treating you like a bug.” She continued, “If you want to get noticed, you’ve got to cut the head off of the snake.”

I do not think that she realized the irony of her words, but this was just encouragement for me to kill Henson. I have said that perhaps her call was a message from God, and perhaps it was. Whether it went the way he intended for it to go or not, I will never know.

Fanny and I engaged in a debate about whether or not we should send David to preschool this year, and I was originally against it (Seriously, who sends their two-year-old to preschool?), but Fanny was very passionate about it, so I eventually gave in because I honestly couldn’t care less.

After she hung up, I went back to thinking about how much I loathed Forest B. Henson. As if on cue, I got a new text from him saying: “Flangue, it’s 2:47, and I haven’t heard from you yet. Where the hell are you???”

At least he didn’t forget the “e” this time.

As a news reporter, I had been exposed to most of all the best black markets, and it was not long before I found a weapons dealer. For the safety of his identity, I will call him “Bob” from here on out. Anyway, I met with Bob, and it took about half an hour to convince him that I was not in fact there to rat him out to the police, but once that was over with, we got down to business.

He had the whole bananza; guns, knives, ropes, wires, time-bombs, everything. He asked me what I was looking for, and I told him, “I want my victim to die a slow death, but still be in a lot of pain.” Bob suggested a knife.

The one I picked out had a red handle. Red; the color of Henson’s blood. It was a humble dagger, but it still had a fine tipped point that was certainly capable of getting the job done. It was small enough that I could easily conceal it by tightening it to my back with my belt without anyone suspecting a thing. Bob cut me a deal on the knife, and I got the five-hundred dollar dagger for a mere three-hundred-fifty bucks.

I did not have much money to spare, but the thought of life after Henson was worth much more than the price I paid.

Now, the time was about 4:17 when I make it back to the news station. I entered the lobby, got into the elevator, and pressed the button for the eighteenth floor. Insanity started to set in. There was a shadow on a wall of the elevator. It started out as a dark blob, and I took little notice of it. Then, it started to move. The shadow took the shape of a bird, then it transformed into some sort of dragon-like creature. I was amazed by this, because I had never seen a shadow move in this way before.

By this point, the elevator had reached the sixth floor. The door opened, but no-one was there. It closed again, and it continued up very slowly. This elevator denied chronology. After passing the seventh floor, it went up to the eighth floor, then, while it still continued up, opened at the sixth floor again. Then, it continued up to the third floor, then the eleventh, and then it opened at the sixth floor again. I could not understand how or why this was taking place, and to this day I still have my doubts about whether or not it really happened.

I eventually made it up to the eighteenth floor, and I praised God for this. I proceeded directly to Mr. Henson’s office, but I found it empty. While I waited, I sat in the chair behind his desk, and stared at his picture of himself that was conveniently placed directly across from it.

I started to drift off, but then I heard his voice outside the room. The door creaked open, and he walked in on the phone.

“Yeah, could you get that done? That would be great. No, that was for tomorrow. Just a second.” He locked eyes with me and pointed at the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

He was on the phone for another four minutes, and then he hung up. Seeing that I was still in his chair, he asked, “Could you get up please?”

I obeyed, and went towards the door. I locked it, and then went back to sit across from Henson.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically, “just fine.”

“I didn’t get your report yet, you have something prepared right?”

“You see, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. I pulled down the blinds of the window that connected the office to the outside hallway.

“What are you doing?” he asked, legitimately confused.

I pulled out the knife and placed it on the table firmly. “This,” I said.

He was baffled, and he started to say something, but his voice trailed off.

“Get on the ground,” I ordered him. “Get on the ground!”

“Get on the ground?” he asked jokingly.

I grabbed the knife and held it up to his throat.

Slowly but surely, the words left my lips. “Get… on… the ground.”

He looked down at the knife, then up at me, then down at the knife, and back again. His hands slowly rose into the air, and he helplessly knelt on the floor beside his desk.

“Take off your belt!” I demanded.

“My bel..?” he started, but I cut him off by shouting “Do it!” in his face. His hands were shaking as he slowly took it off.

I tied his hands together with the belt. He started to cry, but then I kicked him in the stomach to shut him up. Then, I looked disappointedly at his face. He looked nervous, and I could tell that he was starting to sweat.

“Take off your sport coat,” I said. This time he didn’t complain. I ripped the right sleeve off of the blue coat, and used it to gag him.

Then I started to taunt him by threatening to stab him with the knife. By this point, he was in great desperation, and I have to admit that I was enjoying every second of it. I looked around the office for something else that I could torture him with. I grabbed the stapler, but only to see his reaction. The second I went for it, his eyes grew to the size of oranges and his face shriveled in terror. I softly chuckled to myself and set the stapler down.

I decided to taunt him some more.

“Do sit-ups,” I said.

He immediately started the exercise, and I had to cover my mouth to conceal my laughter. His face was like that of a sick dog; obedient and submissive, while on the verge of vomiting. I watched him rise and fall to and from sitting position maybe fifteen or twenty times, until fatigue overtook him and he was forced to stop.

“You look healthy to me;” I said, “ten more!”

He slowly went up for his first of the ten.

“Faster!” I shouted. “Faster you piece of crap!”

He moaned and wept, but I told him to shut up.

He lay on the ground, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He breathed heavily -- maybe sixty or seventy times a minute!

When he had calmed down, I got up and began to pick papers off of his desk. “You said you wanted a story, huh?” I said to him. “Well here’s your damn story!” I yelled, and I threw all of the papers at him. One of the books that I threw must have been five-hundred pages long. He lay on the ground defeated.

I continued by saying, “You said you were going to fire me right?” I pulled a cigarette lighter from my back pocket and started to light the papers on fire all around him.

He looked at me frantically and his eyes begged me to stop, but there was no going back now. I had taken this to the point where there was no turning back. I pulled a burning book from the flames, and I placed it neatly back in its spot on the bookshelf. Before long, the whole shelf was on fire!

The fire alarms went off, and water sprinkled from the ceiling. He murmured and squirmed away from the fire on the ground. His eyes rolled around wildly like bingo balls do when the carton is turned. I looked at my watch. 6:26. The time was right.

I grabbed a pen from his desk and began to scribble on my news report sheet. Red ink; how fitting. When I was finished, I thrust the paper at him.

“Accidental fire on the eighteenth floor of the Channel Four News building. One dead.”

After he was done reading, he looked up at me submissively. I laughed so hard that I threw up. I went to pick up the knife, and he resisted and kicked with all of his might. “Coward,” I said. I looked at him with pity, but wished execration on his soul. I held the dagger between my fingers, and thrust it into the depths of his being.

Sounds like The Nightcrawler.

Good job. This scared the crud out of me. O.o

[Schiltzberg]

Thanks Luminesa! I had a nightmare about the elevator scene last night. Ha ha, is it weird to be scared of your own story? You should make a submission too, though; I would love to read another story!

[ImperialistSalvia]

I'll have a submission in sometime tomorrow.

[Fralinia]

I assume this is open to any genre? If so, I have a neat little idea for a tale that I'd love some feedback on.

Also, must it be in first person? All of the entries (I admit I did not read all of them) that I looked at were in 1p, and I want to know before I actually put this down.

[Vancon]

Any genre, as long as it is within the site rules.

[Forsher]

I assume this is open to any genre? If so, I have a neat little idea for a tale that I'd love some feedback on.

Also, must it be in first person? All of the entries (I admit I did not read all of them) that I looked at were in 1p, and I want to know before I actually put this down.

You could write it in 2nd person if you really wanted. I've entered most of these and I deliberately avoid using first person (which means 3rd, who uses second?).

[Vancon]

I assume this is open to any genre? If so, I have a neat little idea for a tale that I'd love some feedback on.

Also, must it be in first person? All of the entries (I admit I did not read all of them) that I looked at were in 1p, and I want to know before I actually put this down.

You could write it in 2nd person if you really wanted. I've entered most of these and I deliberately avoid using first person (which means 3rd, who uses second?).

Lae's one from the last contest is very different as well if you'd like to try something odd.

[Fralinia]

I assume this is open to any genre? If so, I have a neat little idea for a tale that I'd love some feedback on.

Also, must it be in first person? All of the entries (I admit I did not read all of them) that I looked at were in 1p, and I want to know before I actually put this down.

You could write it in 2nd person if you really wanted. I've entered most of these and I deliberately avoid using first person (which means 3rd, who uses second?).

Second person is for greentexts and CYOA books. I meant third, but now that I've looked at a few more of the entries I see that that's acceptable. Will probably be up tomorrow.

[Nazi Flower Power]

You could write it in 2nd person if you really wanted. I've entered most of these and I deliberately avoid using first person (which means 3rd, who uses second?).

Second person is for greentexts and CYOA books. I meant third, but now that I've looked at a few more of the entries I see that that's acceptable. Will probably be up tomorrow.

3rd person is fine, and any genre.

[New Kvenland]

Do very thinly-veiled mentions of suicide go against the rules? If they do, I'm afraid my entire story will get me a warning...