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The KnockOut
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For Love
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Voting closed: September 12, 2009, 07:27:21 AM

Author Topic: Short Story Challange #54 voting(Warning - some stories contain strong language)  (Read 3757 times)


  • Guest
Hi Guys, you are only allowed one vote so make it count!

Could dsome nice moderator sticky this and unsticky the challange pleas?
« Last Edit: August 31, 2009, 07:51:29 AM by DWin »


  • Guest
The Knock-Out

“I told you before the last round, keep …” shoulders wider than your average door slumped in exasperation; Grant “Bull” Malone exhaled loudly and growled “… keep your friggin’ feet movin’.”

His words were wasted; his prodigy was a bad tempered Scouser who thought the world was there to provide him with sex, drink and a good fight every now and again, and it didn’t matter if the fight was inside or outside of a boxing ring. ‘Belligerent bastard’ was a common utterance from Bull, but tonight he held his tongue, his man was losing the fight and it was Bull’s job to see that didn’t happen.

Eight rounds had passed without a glimmer of the power and aggression that Bull was used to seeing. Two rounds to go and the belligerent bastard needed a drastic change of tactics or a knockout to save the day.

Bull’s boy was Andrew Stone, a twenty one year old wannabe boxing champion, whose surname and craggy features lent themselves to his ring name ‘The Boulder’. He was not the smartest fighter around but he was building a reputation for his punching power. This was his third bout and he was unbeaten.
The timekeeper’s bell rang for the ninth round “Seconds away” the referee shouted as he waved his arms as in a half completed breaststroke. The fighters left their corners, one was evidently more confident than the other, light bouncy steps. If you concentrated on the movement you’d quickly recognise the fluid motions of the ‘nodding dog’ often seen in the windows of moving vehicles. By comparison, ‘The Boulder’ appeared to be dragging his feet through a cow trough. As he reached the centre of the ring he saw the uppercut that switched off his lights. he didn’t attempt to evade it, his gum shields crashed together like a head-on collision, his legs emulated the collapse of the twin towers of the World Trade Centre, and the only thing louder than the crack of his head on the canvas, was the roaring crowd.


He was only four, back in the dim reaches of his mind. Standing, stock still, halfway down the staircase of the tenement that stunk of burnt cooking oil, ashtrays and stale beer, gripping the handrail so hard that sweat from the palms of his hands dripped onto the grimy white stair tread. He’d been there exactly seventeen and a half minutes, listening to the incoherence of his drunken father and the screams of a beaten mother and then, everything went quiet. He was too scared to move and spent the rest of that night standing …looking at the sprawled bodies that adorned the cramped space of the living room, his grip on the handrail never diminished.


He saw the swinging fists and helpless defences. The winner was always the same person, his father, the loser his mother, he never intervened. Reflexes … at the sound of his father opening the front door Andrew would get out of bed and take up his position on the staircase, always the same step, always the same scene, always the same fear, always the same grip on the handrail, always the same square of shame. The only thing that changed was the time he spent there.

Pendlehurst strutted across the playground towards the bike sheds, in his wake two cronies were dragging a struggling figure that looked like Sidney Malone a bespectacled, scruffy looking twelve year old. Andrew had no friendship ties with Sidney, but Pendlehurst was the school bully. In that split second, and for no apparent reason, Andrew went cold inside; his clenched fists were once more gripping a stair rail, his mind’s eye recalled the impact of a fist on a face and he felt his head react in a dodging movement. It was a defining moment in Andrew’s life, behind the bike sheds, on a bleak December morning, he floored Pendlehurst with a single punch that contained, and released, fourteen years of pent up anger and frustration. For the first time in his life Andrew felt cleansed and he promised himself never to hold back in future.


She wielded the hammer with ease, the nail penetrated like an oily dipstick, “she should have done that a long time ago, and not to the wall” Andrew thought as he watched her hang his framed ‘O’ level Certificate next to her recently acquired print of the Blue Madonna.
His mother had changed, there was lightness in her voice, a loving smile replaced bruises as her main facial feature and she glided around the house discarding memories as she went. The divorce had been easy and long overdue. Andrew’s life blossomed; he loved her as never before.


He heard the monologue voices from the gym:
Bull – “I’ve been watchin’ you work out son, but there’s no focus in your routine, where are you goin’ with all this effort”?
Andy – “Just keeping meself fit”.
Bull – “Ever thought about takin’ up boxin’”?
Andy – “Nah not really”.
Bull – “What’s your name”?
Andy - “Andy … Andy Stone”.


He won his first fight on points, his second on a technical knockout after the ring doctor stopped the fight, his opponent’s eyelid had been split open. His reputation as a puncher was growing.
He felt his arm being raised in triumph, but never saw it fall back limply to the canvas.


Kelly’s face swam into view, for more than a year she had been ‘around’ him, watching, listening, seeing and putting up with the street fights, drunken returns after nights out with the boys.
She started the argument. He quickly reached breaking point and lashed out, a clenched fist that reshaped her flesh like putty in a child’s hand. The blow knocked her onto the coffee table shattering the glass top; she lay moaning amid the debris, blood dripped like molten wax from her chin onto the floor.
He walked the long route home thinking about tomorrow night’s fight, he never realised how tightly his fists were clenched until his nails started to bite into the flesh of his palms.


He opened the front door; the two of them were waiting, Kelly must have taken the direct route to his house; the night air had congealed the blood on her face. His mother’s features wrinkled like an angry tiger;
“You bastard, you’re just like your father” she spat at him.


The Boulder crumpled inside, his belligerence surgically removed by his mother’s tongue. He would never again throw a punch in anger.

“TEN – OUT!”

Bull knew he had failed, he threw the towel into the ring along with his dreams of training a champion.


  • Guest
For Love

The decision was going to be hard but what other choice did I have? Terrance had broken a sacred law; there was no going back. I could tell him to leave and never return, but one day I’m sure he would. Then I’d have to answer for not following orders. What a mess.

I would never again volunteer to babysit the newbs. Out of control, young vampires needed guidance from their mentors, but they were too busy making their own messes these days. If they would keep to their responsibilities there might be fewer incidences like this one.

The last thing I wanted to do tonight was kill Terrance.

“Last call, now boarding!” a voice bellowed over the intercom.

In front of me loomed the eleven eighteen to Middletown, New Jersey. I stepped onto the train, sure I had made my decision. I could have run the distance from New York, but something about a half-empty, late night train soothed my anxiety. The hour ride would give me more time to think too, clear my thoughts of any confusion that still lingered.

I took a seat near the back and hunched down. No need to scare the few passengers I might encounter on the trip. Wearing sunglasses at night, to cover my glowing irises, was like having a sign posted to my forward that reads, “Drug Addict, Murderer, Deviant, Take your Pick.” The long, black leather trench coat and knee high boots didn’t help matters either.

Only two other people boarded the same carriage. The first, a middle-age man in a cheap suit who kept fidgeting and bringing his hands to his forehead, and the second, a young woman, maybe a college student going home for the weekend. Neither seemed to notice my presence, which was for the best. I was in no mood to play human.

My thoughts kept returning to the orders I’d been given. Was I doing the right thing? Would the others understand my decision? Terrance had killed my maker. The council would not turn a blind eye to the murder of a vampire.


A placid voice broke through the torrent of my restless thoughts. I took a deep breath and tried to relax my hands, which were clenched tight around the armrests. Bits of fabric and foam fell to the floor as I brought my hands to rest in my lap.

“Your t-ticket please?” said the young attendant. The poor boy’s hand shook with fear. I must not be putting on a convincing show tonight.

With lightening speed, the ticket flew from my pocket to the attendant’s hand. I thought he might start convulsing right in front me. Instead, he bolted, running down the aisle, without even saying thank you. How rude.

Forgetting myself, I let out a high-pitched, piercing laugh. I quickly stifled it with my hand, but my outburst prompted the college student to turn her head in my direction. One look at me and she quickly turned back around; so much for staying inconspicuous.

For my own good I went back to staring out the window; watching the blur of alternating trees and neighborhoods pass me by. The short diversion had done nothing to quell my anxiety, nor had it changed what I had to do.
The true path in life isn’t always the easiest. That’s what my mother had always told me. Looking back over the last hundred years it was clear I had been avoiding that path. Now I stood on the edge, with the power of choice in my hands. Taking the plunge meant leaving my old life behind. Was I ready?

Some would say I owed my maker, that it was my duty to avenge his death. But in truth I could care less. Derek had made it his mission in life to obliterate anything that brought me joy. He saw me not as his progeny or even a companion, but as an object he owned and controlled.

His death had opened a door for me. I need only step through it.

“Now approaching Middletown. Please stay seated till the train comes to a complete stop.”

The hour had passed and nothing had been resolved. I released the air I’d been holding in my lungs, the closest thing to a sigh I could achieve.

“Why did you do it Terrance?” I whispered, gripping the wooden stake hidden beneath my coat.

Ignoring the conductor’s instructions I rose and headed for the doors. As the train decelerated I struggled to calm my thoughts, focus on what I must do and not what was expected of me. I hoped it was the right choice.

When the doors opened I faced a thick shroud of fog obscuring the entire platform. Even my preternatural eyes could not see through the grey wall before me. I paused, unsure and then I caught Terrance’s scent. It washed over me, threatening to drown me.

I leaped off the train, following Terrance’s essence toward the trees behind the station house. There among a hoard of rooks I found him, perched high on a limb. His long, golden hair glistened and flowed like liquid sunlight.
“Ruby,” he crooned.

My heart had ceased to beat over a century ago, but I swore something heaved inside my chest at the sound of his voice. I felt my world and sense of duty waver, but still I forced my hand to close around the stake.

Terrance plummeted to the ground only inches in front of me. I had to look up to meet his glowing, azure eyes.

“No, Ruby. I did it for you,” he said, and pulled the sunglasses from my face.


“I couldn’t let him hurt you anymore.”

In that instant, everything stopped, the decision was made. Pain I’d carried with me all these years melted away. The stake dropped from my hands as our lips met in unison.

I realize now some things are just out of our control. Life’s like that.


  • Guest

“But you don’t understand, Mom, if I don’t get away from both of you I will never have a normal life!” Kevin threw himself down on the leather couch with a melancholy sigh. Long gangly legs thrust out across the carpet as he sullenly crossed his arms and ducked his chin into his chest. His unkempt blonde hair swirled once more into his eyes and Merle longed to brush it aside. Fighting the urge, she shifted her gaze back to the cards on the polished oak table and spoke over her shoulder to her eldest son.

“All I said, Kevin, is that you need to start thinking of what you plan to take with you,” she said softly, her many gold bracelets jangling as she moved the Ace to a better location. “I don’t see the need for all this drama.”

Behind her, Kevin exploded off the leather couch once more. “I told you. I’m not going this year.”

Merle moved another card to cover the Seven of Spades. Her polished nails clicked on the table as she pondered her next move. “Don’t be silly. Of course you’re going.”

“Why?” Kevin whined behind her, and she thought she heard the slightest cracking in what had always been a child’s voice.

“Because you are too young to stay on your own. Besides, your Father and I need you, Kevin. You know that.”

“I am not too young,” Kevin argued. “And you have Bran. You don’t need me.”

Merle carefully placed the remaining deck on the table and turned gracefully in her chair to regard her teenage son. “Kevin. You know that Brandon is still too young. Another year or two and he’ll be ready to take your place. I promise.”

“That is such crap and you know it! You suck.” Kevin flung himself back onto the couch.

“Kevin!” Merle rose immediately out of the chair. “Damn it, that was uncalled for. I am still your mother. Apologize.” Her green eyes challenged his until he looked away.

“Sorry,” he mumbled while every muscle in his body showed her he was anything but. Still, she accepted the words.

She sat again at the table, picking up the cards and thinking of her next move. “You’ll have fun. You’ll see.” There was a long silence. She could feel him sitting there. Just sitting there. Then she heard a sniff. He rose slowly and then he was kneeling next to her knee.

“Mom, please,” he pleaded softly. “Jeff’s mom said I could stay with them this summer. They have a pool and everything. I promise I’ll be good. Please.”

Merle turned slightly to look down at her son. The blond hair he insisted on keeping long obscured his blue eyes. That she let him have his hair so long was a small point of contention between her and his father. The cheeks still held a bit of the baby fat he’d had as a toddler. But there was that small growth of hair above his lip that said he would soon be a man. Soon be beyond her control. She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek once. “No.”

“I hate you!” he shouted and flung himself away from her, pacing the length of her study. Merle smiled slightly and turned back to her cards. “No, you don’t.” she said, smiling.

Peripherally, she was aware of Kevin’s pacing and internally pleased. He wouldn’t leave the room without her permission. He knew better than to cross that threshold. Perhaps she could still control him after all. She barely stifled the laugh that threatened to bubble up from inside her, watching her baby stride and seethe. Really, he was being ridiculous.

“Enough of that, now, Kevin dear. Come. Give Mommy a kiss and let’s hear no more…,” her voice mocked slightly, “…about Jeff’s pool.”

She smiled at him, as he turned towards her, ready to accept his little kiss as a necessary obeisance. When he stood looking at her for a moment longer than she liked, the smile faded. “Kevin,” she said sternly. “That is enough. You are going and that is final.”

“Why?” he asked.

Merle blinked. There was no whining in this tone. There was no pleading. The man was emerging. “I already told you,” she said, dropping her eyes to her cards. Her fingers expertly gathered them together, dismissing the last play and ready to start anew.

“No, Mom. Why me?”

She looked up at him, seeing that little change in his stance that scared her. Anger rose. How dare he. How dare he question her in this manner? After all that she had sacrificed for him.

“Because I said so, Kevin. That’s all you need to know,” she said coldly. She refused to tell him how much the marks loved the little blond boy. How enamored they were of his blue eyes and good looks. How preoccupied they became with his little story of loss and pain. How gullible they were. How easy to manipulate. Brandon was still too young to tell the lies convincingly. She and her husband needed Kevin. Just one more year. Maybe two.

His voice brought her back. “I’m not going,” he said with some finality. “You can’t make me.” He turned and left the room, leaving her sitting in astonishment.

After a moment, Merle turned back to the familiar cards, shuffling them absently and never losing her rhythm or style. Can’t make me, he said. At fourteen, this was possibly true; Merle had to admit to herself. He wanted so much to be like his friend Jeff with the loving parents, the backyard pool, and no grift to remember. He was ready to defy her for that dream. That was something she could not allow. Things had to go on as before. With or without him. And if it was to be without him, well, he would have to be dealt with.

Even to herself, Merle could not articulate the meaning of that last thought. The finality of it. She shuffled the cards one last time and dealt out a new pattern, beginning the game again. The polished nails flashed red in the sunlight that knifed across the table. The thought refused to die. Her little boy was growing up, could she deal with that?


  • Guest

   The decision was going to be hard but I had no choice.  We weren’t compatible.  I had been trying to tell her that for over a year now, but she wouldn’t listen.  She was stubborn.  And smart, so it was hard to argue with her.  She made me feel dumb, but I would never tell her that.  That would be dumb.
   She already has too much control over me and it’s starting to piss me off.  I’m the man after all, so she should be listening to me. But she hardly ever does.  Listen to me, I mean.  Instead she has to analyze every fucking thing I say to her.  Or worse, she turns a question back at me instead of answering whatever I ask her. 

   Like the other night.  That was the last straw really.  She was making dinner and I was trying to be romantic.  I asked her what her name would be if we got married.  She can be such a bitch sometimes.  Did she answer me?  No. Instead she says, “Why would my name be any different than it is now?  What would your name be if we got married?”  As if I would change my name.  She should be honored to take my name.  I guess she doesn’t really want to marry me.  If she did then she’d be happy to change her name, right?  Exactly.  So anyway, I grab another beer and go turn the TV on to chill.  I figure, there’s no use arguing with her anyway.  She has her mind made up. 

   We don’t talk much through dinner.  I belch a couple of times, just to let her know she can’t change me.  If I want to burp at the table I will. Fuck ‘excuse me’.  She needs to know who’s supposed to be in charge.  “I’m going hunting with Billy tomorrow,” I tell her. 

   “Sure, fine,” she says, as if she’s giving me permission.  “I have a ton of work to get done around here. I’ll have dinner ready when you get home, okay?” 

   “Great.”  She can cook, I’ll give her that.  She’s like a gourmet or something.  I’d be happy with a can of clam sauce over spaghetti noodles.  That’s gourmet enough for me, but she doesn’t like that.  She thinks I should cook sometimes, but won’t eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  Like I said, she can be a bitch.
   I headed out early Sunday morning to hunt.  It had been a long day in the woods so I hung out at Billy’s drinking beers and smoking a bowl with him. What the hell, it’s the weekend, right?  When I felt the phone vibrating in my pocket I knew it would be her.  It was only eight o’clock for Christ’s sake, what’s she going to bitch about now?  I looked at the screen and rolled my eyes before I said, “Yeah?”

   “Where are you?” she questions me.
   “I told you I was going hunting.”

   “Well, it’s eight o’clock and I was getting worried. I thought you would be home for dinner.”

   “Whatever.”  I didn’t want to get into an argument with her again.  She needs to lighten up.
   “Last night I said I’d have dinner ready after you went hunting.  Did you forget?”

   “Yeah, well, we just got back and I was having a beer with Billy.  What’s the big deal?”

   “Forget it,” she said before hanging up on me.  Can you believe that?  She hung up on me.  That’s it.  I’m done with her. That’s when I finally made the decision.  Fuck it.  I’m staying at Billy’s tonight, and I won’t have to worry about her bugging me for sex. I’ll tell her tomorrow.
   So, yeah, I got home from work the next day around five o’clock, exhausted.  All I wanted to do was say my piece and relax, but she wasn’t about to let that happen.  As soon as I told her I didn’t think we should live together anymore cause she’s too controlling, she starts in on me.

   “Are you fucking kidding me?” she screams.  “Controlling?  I have been questioning myself for weeks now, wondering if I really was the insensitive, controlling bitch that you’ve been making me out to be.  And the answer is no.  I have put up with your impotence, and your road rage, your drinking and pot smoking, and your male chauvinistic attitude for two years, and rarely have I complained. But you? You complain because I cook too well, and I read too much, and I want too much sex. Hello?  Are you fucking kidding me, Dwayne?  You can take your passive aggressive controlling ass on out of here, now.”

   I told you she was a bitch and she proved it, right?  I’d known it all along, but sometimes you don’t listen to your inner man, and ya’ gotta’ take your lumps. Life’s like that.
« Last Edit: September 02, 2009, 07:34:10 PM by ma100 »


  • Guest
No Title 1

The decision was going to be hard but Catrain knew that she didn’t have much time to think it through. The fact of the matter was that she’d gone off and gotten herself pregnant, and her father would be furious no matter who she claimed as her child’s father. But what to tell him?

Her father, the king, would be horrified to know that his only heir was going to have the child of a faerie. He thought of the gentry as insects to be crushed beneath his boots, and he would surely cast Catrain out of the castle if he were to even hear of her associating with them, but what would be the price of her latest indiscretion? Exile? Death?

While pacing the length of her room felt very helpful, Catrain was well aware that it was just a waste of time, time that she could be using to make her decision.

Surely Hadrian would lie to her father for the chance to become king one day. And her father had been subtly encouraging her to take interest in a young noble such as him. Was Catrain bold enough to risk it?

She slipped into a plain red dress that she had bribed a young maid to sew for her and traipsed out the doors into the thriving village surrounding her home. Perhaps a word with her inhuman lover would help settle her mind. Kalen just had a way of making everything better.

It was a short walk from the human village to the faerie clearing, filled with beautiful flowers and patchy huts that the gentry were always rebuilding when the king’s soldiers ruined them on their routine patrols through the forest.

Kalen was sitting behind his hut, staring morosely into the small pond that he had chosen the spot for. A strand of short red hair fell in front of his solid blue eyes and he brushed it away, smearing too-dark blood on his cheekbone.

 Catrain stepped forward so that her reflection joined that of the faerie in the water, wavering slightly in the breeze. Kalen turned and looked up at her, revealing a blackened eye and cut on his left temple.

“What has happened?” Catrain asked worriedly, tilting his chin to inspect first his eye, then his temple. The cut would heal, but the she wasn’t sure about the eye. Maybe if the faeries had skilled healers. She didn’t know.

He paused in silent thought before answering. “Maya’s son was playing with some of the other boys, and he threw a stone that managed to hit one of your father’s men. I couldn’t let a child take punishment, so...” he trailed off, shrugging.

It would be so easy for Catrain to get him help for his eye. All she would have to do was tell her father that Kalen had given her a baby, and convince him not to kill them both. Well, it sounded easier before it was a completed thought.

“This is the extent of your injuries?” Catrain carefully inspected what little skin was showing past his long coat and high boots and gloves, finding no visible wounds besides a cluster of scratches in the glove on his right hand, shining red-brown with blood. But they were more than likely acquired helping someone or other rebuild their home.

“Yes.” Kalen’s voice was tight and it was obvious that he was lying.

“Then how do you feel about coming home with me to meet my father?”

The pale gentry’s mouth gaped open in a mix of horror and shock, but Catrain smiled as if he’d agreed enthusiastically. “Come, then, we shan’t want to be late, yes?”

He rose grudgingly and followed Catrain silently through the forest and carefully skirted the village so that they could creep into the castle through a servants entryway, sneaking up the rickety stairs to Catrain’s bedchambers, where she instructed Kalen to sit while she changed back into her gowns.

There was a loud stomping sound from the hall, and Catrain looked up in surprise. There shouldn’t have been any servants around there this time of night. They would all be  near the kitchen and dining room, or in their quarters. But the heavy footsteps continued, and Catrain’s door burst open.

“Those damned faeries are trying to provoke a war, I—“ The king choked off abruptly, the scene in front of him finally registering. Kalen’s too tall stature, and bone structure that was somehow off quickly identified him as gentry.

Kalen slipped off the bed, pressing his forehead to the floor in a deep bow, and before Catrain could even think to call out a warning, the king’s sword was biting deep into Kalen’s shoulder, grinding against bone in a sickening crunch.

Catrain fell to her knees next to Kalen, laying a hand comfortingly on his back. “What have you done?” she screamed at her father, salty tears streaking her face.

“What have I done? What has it done?”

“Father my child!” Kalen moaned as Catrain pulled his head into her lap, stroking his hair gently while she glared at her father in defiance. He seemed caught between horror and disgust, then, just as quickly as he’d stabbed Kalen, the same blade had been run through his chest, the bright red of his blood mingling with the dirty rust color of Kalen’s.

And that quickly, Catrain was an orphan. She was also a queen; one that had healers who would surely save her future king. Surely, she though, even though her hands and dress were stained with his blood. He would live.

You win some and you lose some. Catrain would win Kalen but lose her father and her king. Life’s like that.


  • Guest
No Title 2

The decision was going to be hard but especially as Liz Black is a seventeen year old girl who has recently moved into a flat of her own after years of squabbling with her parents, particularly with her father. Like a lot of teenagers she failed to recognize the difference between concern by caring parents, and outright nagging.

Monday, the start of what she knows will be another depressing week. After a few years of bitching and complaining of being treated like a child by her parents she finally moved out of the family home, now however, confronted by the reality of fending for herself she is finding it hard to cope. Worse still is the fact that her so called friends, seem to be every bit as bad as her parents with their snide remarks about her weight.

She knew that they whispered about her behind her back whenever they thought she could not hear them, but their shifty eyes and sly smiles told their own story... They were supposed to be her friends, but true friends don't slag you off behind your back.

Despite constant assurance that it was all in her mind things grew steadily worse between them; so much so that she cut herself from them and was now a prisoner in her own home, refusing to open the door to anyone.

"They must think I’m bloody stupid”, why they can’t just leave me alone"?
“I can't help the way I look."

On getting out of bed each morning she would go into the hall and stand naked in front of the full length mirror, there she would switch on the overhead light and open all of the doors leading off the hallway. The daily inspection of her body demanded all available light.

Standing in front of the mirror, she would look at her reflection with a feeling of loathing and disgust for the thing that stared back at her. First thing to be scrutinized was the pudding shaped face, the eyes almost hidden from view by the fleshy cheeks. "A fat pig that’s what I am she would constantly tell herself...never mind calling me Liz, just call me Miss Piggy."

Her eyes continued their downward sweep, taking in her pudgy neck and fleshy shoulders, before coming to rest on her large pillow like breasts, ugly and sagging like two over stuffed pillows.
At this point tears would flow, the lump that rose up in her chest she hoped... would burst and end it all.
Tears ran down her cheeks and dripped off the end of her chin washing her neat little feet, to her the only part of her grossly misshapen body that to her looked normal to her.

With vice like hands she would grab hold of the unsightly folds of flesh around her middle, wanting desperately to tear them from her body, and all the while the loathing grew stronger.
Closing her eyes she inhales trying to compose herself, almost finished she tells herself, only the legs left to do.

Red rimmed eyes take in her trunk like legs, she turns firstly to the left and then to the right, trying desperately to find a position that would make them look even a little bit slimmer.
In the midst of her selfpity she sobs uncontrollably, great lung bursting sobs wracking her body.
After a while she cries herself out and manages some degree of control, “enough she whispers, perhaps to-morrow I'll look a little better.”

As she turns away from the mirror and walks towards the bathroom the reflection in the mirror shows the true horror that is Liz Tolmie. A sight that screams the words ....Belsen, Buchenwald, Auschwitz, an image that conjures up a scene from Nazi concentration camps.

The walking skeleton enters the white tiled bathroom, and after bathing she dresses and goes through to the kitchen. For her is the worst part of the day.
After a slice of toast and marmite she has a cup of black coffee, smokes a cigarette and plans her day.Somewhere in her mind a thought stirs, and the image of the gross looking thing that confronted her earlier re-emerges.

Getting up from the breakfast table she walks to the bathroom; and kneeling on the floor with her head over the toilet bowl the pathetically thin figure pushes two fingers down her throat.
There is only one overriding thought in her mind, and that is to purge her hideously overweight body of the meager ration of food forced down gullet moments earlier.
Sitting slumped on the bathroom floor her face drained of all color she whispers...”perhaps tomorrow I'll look a little different”.

Deep down however Liz Tolmie Knows that the battle will continue, life’s like that.


  • Guest
And the winner is, coming back onto MWC with a whallop in more ways than one;

Big T

Offline amakepeace

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Offline Andrewf

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Offline ma100

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  • I don't need kinky boots, nothing will beat me.
Flippin' heck T. Now you know how to make an entrance. Well done mate. ;D