Poll

Here are the stories:

Hunted
Regrets
After the Rain
Feed My Will
Love Bites
19
The Opportunist

Author Topic: Flash Fiction Contest #35 Voting  (Read 724 times)

Offline scotty511

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Flash Fiction Contest #35 Voting
« on: November 01, 2011, 02:50:41 PM »
Okay, you know the drill. You have two votes to cast for your favorite. I’ll keep the polls open until November 6th, 12am (GMT)

Each story most be under 400 words and begin with a 17 syllable sentence that grabs you.




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Hunted


Katja surveys the dance floor from her vantage point in the dancer’s cage. She loves being up high, swaying with the music and catching the eyes of the men as they leer up at her, slavering. The throbbing rhythm of the music is inside her head, pulsing through her veins. It makes her feel alive. She is thirsty, her body is crying out to be satisfied and she knows she must select her next victim soon. A young man in the centre of the crowd below her fixes her gaze. They lock eyes, a barely perceptible smile playing on their lips. Katja runs her tongue over her teeth, the young man mirrors the action. Her fingers stroke her throat and she throws back her head in abandon. When she looks down again, he is gone.

She shimmies down the pole from the cage, scanning the crowd for his face. She doesn’t want to lose him, something tells her he is the one. She catches sight of him at an exit on the far side of the room. He is standing, holding the door open, looking back over his shoulder at her. The invitation in the look is clear. Katja pushes through the crowd, ignoring the irritated looks, desperate for her need to be satisfied.

He is standing in the shadow of the waste bins, at the back of the club. She isn’t worried about the venue; pride has no place in her life anymore. He holds open his arms and she moves into them without question. She rests her head on his chest.  She smiles to herself and lifts her face to meet his, her mouth opening in anticipation of the contact to come.

She is surprised at first, by his teeth. She wonders if this is a joke, a wind-up, that maybe he is in
fancy dress. She looks more closely; they look real and she draws back, afraid now. But his grip is strong and his fingers twist into her long hair, pulling her head further back, exposing her throat. His other hand holds her arms tight behind her. The start of a scream escapes her mouth before his lips meet the soft silken skin of her neck and his teeth sink into the pulsing vein.


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Regrets


Deidre most misses afternoons spent sunbathing at the lake, and sleep.  She doesn’t sleep anymore.  For her the days creep by, minutes turning slowly to hours, her mind ever alert, her senses sharp.

She is a predator, after all.

When night falls, she dresses.  She chooses satin – cool to the touch, just like her.  Lovely.  She’ll have no problem finding a taker tonight.

“Buy me a drink?” She singles out the largest buck.  He’s a trucker, probably, or a construction worker.  He’s strong, full of life.    He looks her over hungrily in a way she understands.  His blood is rising, and Deidre orders another martini to maintain her cool.

There, at the other side of the bar, is Caleb.  Dearest Caleb, her first.  He hunts her, haunts her. Caleb the ghost is there to remind her always of her betrayal.   Deidre sighs and leans in to kiss the trucker.

“Damn, girl!  You like to move fast, doncha?”  He’s downed six shots in the last hour.  It’s time.

“Let’s go back to my place,” she says.  The trucker stumbles and Deidre catches him.  She chances a peek at Caleb, but he’s gone.  He never stays long.

The man is Donald – not Don, or Donnie.  She says his name softly, crooning to him as he drives.  She allows him to run a hand up her leg.  He turns on the car heater, she’s so cold.  She will allow other things, she believes in give and take.  Poor Donald.

But something is wrong.

“You missed the turn, Donald,” she says.  “You can cut over at the next street.”  Instead, he pulls off the road and looks at her with a new expression.  How did she miss it before?   She’s never seen such rage up close.

“STUPID SLUT!”  He punches her in the face, but Deidre doesn’t cower as he expected.  Donald is surprised.  He raises his fist again, but for Deidre the game is over.  She see’s Caleb tapping at the driver’s window just as she grabs Donald and snaps his neck.

There are tears in her eyes for the first time in a long time.  “Forgive me,” she says.  Caleb smiles and for a split second she feels something - a twinge deep inside, and she remembers love.

Then he’s gone.

Deidre sets off for home, leaving Donald in the car.  This one she won’t regret, but she’s lost her appetite.


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After the Rain


He has been following me for three blocks, before I finally run.

It is late and has just stopped raining. Our gritty footsteps are the only sound on the dark street. His are heavy, muffled. Sneakered, I think. My sharp high heels echo in an increasingly quick staccato.

I glance back a few times. He is big, too big for me to engage. Dressed in dark clothes with his hood up, it is impossible to see his face.

Look strong. Don’t run. Don’t look like prey. I repeat it in my head like a mantra, trying to keep my panic down. But I can feel him gaining on me.

My door is three houses down, and he is 20 yards behind. Two houses now, and the gap is 10 yards when I hear him break into a lope. Keys out, I make a run for the door, bound the two small steps and insert my key. For once, the deadbolt slides away quickly, but not quickly enough.
 
I feel his hands around my throat, already squeezing. I can feel his hot heavy breath close to my ear.

I reach back and with long sharp nails rake him from scalp to eye. I can feel the skin under my nails like a mango. First peel, then pulpy and wet underneath.

His hold loosens ever so slightly and one step higher than him, I let my weight drop off the top step. My stiletto heel drives into his sneaker-ed foot somewhere between his arch and toes with a satisfying crunch.

He gasps in pain and I am free.
 
I spin around and grasp his neck and sink my teeth into his jugular. I suck the life blood out of him, feeling that old surge of power flooding my body. It feels so unbelievably good! When I am sated I release him and he limps off, dazed and confused.

Climbing the stairs to my apartment I reflect on what just happened. It isn’t fair! I have been trying so hard to give it up, depriving myself for months. But that one couldn’t be helped, I guess.
 
Oh well, I’ll start my diet again tomorrow.



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Feed My Will


“Here is my heart, now take my mind so I can live with you forever. Say the words. This about more than the life force pulsing through your veins. The nefarious supremacy of Firdrim-Sol, seeks power and knowledge and once your blood line is mixed in this marriage we shall travel through every dimension – fulfilled.” Camuel Vigée-Lebrun, known in some parts of the world as: Hermes of The Tormented lowered his eyes and drew from the energy in the room. An aura surrounded him and bathed in light he raised his arms to command its power within.

Zara stared and remained silent. She would not let him break her will. Without her consent he was powerless.

Several acolytes, cloaked and kneeling, moaned. Lebrun’s unspoken command drained them of their senses. Sucked dry of any sensibility, their agony crumpled them in twisted caricatures of asylum inmates.
“I need not blood to feed my power. How many more must suffer before you accede?”

Zara jolted and stiffened her body. She muffled a gasp and clenched her jaw. The bizarre scene couldn’t be real. Recent investigation into paranormal myths and the power of the mind had brought her to the MENSA study at the Stanford Research Institute. It had to be some sort of role play.  

Lebrun fixed a penetrating gaze at her. Within the cold, blue stare, ice clouds formed and mesmerised her. She saw visions of other worlds and a sense of longing overwhelmed her. Sharing her mind presented no difficulty, she was an academic. Her superior IQ allowed her to entertain myriad possibilities of alternative dimensions. But to bequeath her heart to this stranger, this monster who destroyed people in his insane thirst for knowledge was anathema to her.

Her heart – was it really that important if she could have eternal life? Zara listened to it beating. The earlier pounding had returned to a familiar, even rhythm. It was just a machine after all, a functional pump for this human form.

The ice clouds radiated an iridescence that throbbed in synchronisation with her settled pulse.

Lebrun closed his eyes and hung his head.

Zara wanted it. She wanted the sensation again and urged him to look at her. Emotion was irrational and this ‘feeling’ seemed a viable alternative to love or affection. “Here is my heart, now take my mind so I can live with you forever.”

“It is done.”  




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19


The thrill of killing for pure delight was better than an orgasm.

He lived by this rule. His victims died by it. Seventeen now. All young girls he’d picked up at nightclubs. He was good looking, almost roguish, and the girls just flocked to him. It was easy.

A few dances, a few kisses, and a small foil of powder into their drink. Putty in his hands. Out to his cabin too far from neighbours for cries to be heard. The drug lasted for hours – ample time to undress and wash them. Then the rapes began. Slowly, gently, almost as if he cared for them. Then rougher and harder until he was finished. Whilst they were still groggy, he’d line up the point of a thin stiletto between the C6 and C7 vertebrae.

Twice he’d gotten it wrong and they died immediately, but he was more careful now.

With a firm push of the blade he would orgasm again whilst severing their spinal column. Now they were his. They could still speak and whimper, but couldn’t move. Dead from the neck down. A head on a stick, he used to say.

They usually lasted between two and three weeks. He would use them as he saw fit, washing them and keeping them clean. If they were good and didn’t complain too much, a drink, maybe some food; if not, maybe a kicking.

When tired of the same body, gnawing through the carotid artery brought a jet of warm blood to him, relief and escape to them. He would drink his fill and save the rest for later. The longer they’d lasted, the sweeter it tasted.

He would use their bodies for another week, then dump them in the river.

 ‘Vampire victims drained of blood!’ the headlines screamed.

‘Sicko!’ the police knew.

They hadn’t caught him yet, but they would. Only a matter of time, they said. Then a lucky break. When he took victim eighteen, a friend remembered his looks. Four weeks later, with number nineteen in his sights, the police were waiting.

He tried to run, but bullets run faster. Wounded and bleeding he begged for his life. The officer’s daughter had been victim thirteen.

“It ain’t silver, but it will do the job,” the officer snarled, placing the barrel to his chest and pulling the trigger.


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The Opportunist


I assured her eternal life, which ended in a broken promise. Perhaps I was sincere in my initial motive but overwhelmed by my hunger for blood. Then again. Perhaps not.

She was a beauty if ever I saw one. Short and light skinned she stood with her hands behind her back and watched her boyfriend attempt to defeat the carnival game. Her blonde hair swirled in the night air as she turned her gaze to me, unable to fight the temptation to stare.

I walked towards her. Our eyes never parting. Her boyfriend stood aside and watched in awe as I swung the hammer over my shoulder and crushed his muscular strength with my own. The prize was mine.

Her face carried the lines of despair as I disappeared into the crowd. It wasn’t long before her scent lured me to the secluded restrooms behind the candy floss stand. She was waiting for me. Hoping. Yearning.

“You deserve better,” I whispered in her ear.

She swayed around, heart beat raised, moist with excitement. “Who are you?”

I stepped back, revealed the tips of my protruding fangs and beckoned her to follow.

She followed, overflowing with curiosity about my secret world. I grasped her shoulders and pulled her lips to mine, raising her into the air, pricking a small hole in her tongue.

Her enthusiasm was replaced first by uncertainty, then fear – my obsession.

I exposed the full horror of my nature with an array of bloodied teeth, red eyes and a pale white skin. Then I beckoned her attention to my most recent prey a few feet away. Sprawled in the bushes. Red stains on her pretty pink dress.

She ran. Everywhere she turned I appeared, blocking her path. The smell of her blood grew sweeter with every shot of adrenaline through her veins.

She stopped when she realised she was alone. Turned in all directions. Heartbeat louder than the monotonous carnival music.

I took one final glance at her beauty and soared down. She screamed in wide-eyed wonderment and I silenced her with a slash of my hand. She tumbled to the ground and I pounced. Pressed her hands down. Whispered “Where’s your glittering prince now?” and rammed my teeth into her neck.

There’s no sweeter kill than a good hunt filled with excitement, broken promises and young girls seeking everlasting love. How naïve.


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Love Bites


It is what is left of my poor soul that those chanting fools hunger for. Their screams echo and smash against my shadows, soon no place will be safe. Stolen sustenance still wet upon my pale lips fouls religious hearts. God’s sees not their hatred, nor bends his ears to cursed words stabbed deep then ripped.

Mary, my wife, lies gathered in cloth, scarcely breathing yet full of life.

“My dearest?” she whispers and holds tightly to our last remains of hope.

I calm her with a kiss, light on her lips but weighs heavy on my heart. “Sleep, my love, we are safe for a moment from these blood hounds that give chase.”

She sighs and with tiny flutters her eyelids fall shut, at peace for now.

“He’s taken Mary!” her father cries, anguished that his bed-toy is gone.

I am not the only beast who dwells in the shadows of this village.

The hellish sun sets, and with it, my power rises, and with it, thirst.

Mary tosses in her sleeps, never too far away from our horrors, throat exposed. She has offered freely before, but love goes beyond my carnal lust.

“They’re here!” a voice calls out not far from where we hide beneath a fallen bridge.

I leave my wife to silence his claims, quench my needs with his pulse of blood. He crumples completely  and will not rise to be a dark child of mine.

At last the night is full and we fade their angry shouts to soft whispers.

Far to the East we travel, aboard a ship of my loyal servants. Soon, in our castle, we will reign, as love is meant to be, together.

“Joseph!” she moans, feels her belly, pains from our child squeeze tight her blue eyes.

I go to her, holding her hand in mine, smile, try not to bare my fangs.

“She’s kicking,” she tells me with sweat beading heavily on her forehead.

I feel; my hand covering hers, the love we have created in sin.  

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« Last Edit: November 01, 2011, 05:22:16 PM by scotty511 »
Like all writers, he measured the achievements of others by what they had accomplished, asking of them that they measure him by what he envisaged or planned. - Borges