| General Fiction posted January 31, 2023 |
  |
The...contest entry
The Deadline
by DragonSkulls
The... Contest Winner
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
I had totally forgotten about this contest but had an idea for something I wanted to enter. At noon today, on my lunch break, I was checking the site out on my phone and that's when I saw there was only a mere twelve hours left before the deadline. I freaked out. I had to get home as soon as possible and start typing my ass off to reach the required one thousand minimum word count limit.
My mind was reeling at a hundred miles an hour. My co-worker, Doug, asked, "What's your problem, clown," seeing the look of sheer horror racing through my eyes.
I hated that guy. I wasn't sure if what happened next was instinct or impulse, maybe they're both the same, who knows or cares, but I jumped up and over the table and punched him hard right in the face. When he bellowed out in pain, I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. I then proceeded to cram my Subway, Spicy Italian foot-long sub, minus one bite, straight down his throat, along with about five inches of my fist.
Both of his front teeth popped out of his skull when I yanked my hand free. He was still gagging as I tore out of the break room toward my boss' office.
I kicked the door off the hinges and Mr. Gregory's eyes bugged out like a B-rated zombie movie actor. "I need to take the rest of the day off," I screamed.
"Look what you did to my friggin' door!"
"Did you hear what I just said," I hollered at the top of my lungs.
"Listen, Williams, I'm running a business here and-" His answer was clearly going to be no. I ran over to his printer, yanked it off his fancy, hand crafted, Persian shelf and viciously smashed it over the top of his head. As he violently convulsed, brain fragments and pumping blood splattered all over the walls and paperwork on his desk. I was in a rage. I snatched him up from his chair and threw him through the plate glass window where his still convulsing body flopped until it exploded on the sidewalk, eighteen stories below. I had a story to write, damn it.
I cursed the elevator music as I waited on its endless descent. It stopped at floor nine and once the doors opened, I just, full forced, kicked that chick backwards into the cheap wall painting hanging behind her. The glass spider-web cracked outward from where her head blasted into it.
Some dildo down the hall didn't see what just happened and yelled, "Hold the door!" As they were closing, he stuck his arm in. I twirled, grabbed his hand and wrist and yanked it backward, snapping his arm in half at the elbow. His screams echoed down the hallway as the doors slowly closed.
I ran past the splattered Mr. Gregory and his onlookers and jumped in my Toyota Camry. A cop saw this and stopped me before I started the car. Tapping on my window, "Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle." My boss couldn't have hit the ground less than eight minutes before so what the hell?
"This is an emergency, officer, I have to go!"
Again, "Please exit the vehicle, sir."
F me. I didn't have time for this. I got out, then I pointed toward my newly ex- employer's remains and yelled, "What's that?"
When the cop turned, I instantly snatched his holstered gun and kicked him forward. He turned with his hands up. "Now, son, you need to relax and- "
His skull burst like a watermelon from three quick rounds pumped into it. My Toyota was fast but not as fast as a cop car. I jumped over his nearly headless carcass, into his ride and the tires squealed in protest as I tore away from the scene.
Six miles from my home is when I realized they, the police and everyone else on this planet, were determined to keep me from joining this contest. I wasn't having it. Two cop cars came tearing up on both sides of me. I savagely veered right and careened that car into the homeless' tent city, under the bridge. At least twenty people met their death as the car rolled and crashed through nearly a whole city block.
The passenger of the second cop car had his shotgun aimed. I slammed on my brakes and he missed, blasting an Amazon driver returning to his truck. I got behind them and rammed. They lost control and soared over the guardrail of the Wellington bridge. The semi below couldn't do a thing but run them over.
That's when they pulled out the big dogs. The helicopter ordered me to stop. Out of the window, I flipped them off as I still raced to get home to my computer. Like a Die Hard movie, they started shooting at me out of the side door with a mounted machine gun. "Damn, it's just a story. What the hell," I thought.
When I drove into the Gaston Bridge turnpike tunnel, I stopped and exited the stolen cop car. I ran back to where I first entered and climbed the bank. The helicopter came back for a second searching round. I aimed my newly acquired, dead cop's .45. The instant the chopper came in view, I emptied the weapon, aiming at the pilot's seat. I watched machine gun tracer rounds fire off into nothing as the chopper plummeted and burst into flames on East Market Street.
I stopped by Pedro's, a well known local friend and arms dealer, and bought a sweet M72 Law rocket launcher. Well, we put it on my tab. Who has three grand in their wallet? Not me, that's for sure.
I parked a half a block away and sneaked up to my place. Yep, the SWAT team was already there. They had just arrived seeing as how they were just getting out of the van.
The Law rocket blast killed every one of the team in a single blow. Amid the guts and entrails, I pushed past the stench and gore. My girlfriend said I was all over the news. "You don't think I know that?"
I jumped on my computer and apparently didn't save whatever idea I had for this contest. I was lost. A thousand words to get in and I had nothing. That's when I decided to write of everything that happened leading to all of this.
I started typing like a madman. Nearly done, the chief of police gradually came through my front door and strolled up behind me. My girlfriend jumped in front of him but he just simply put a bullet between her eyes.
"Was it worth it?" he asked.
"You tell me," I replied. I swiveled in my chair and turned the screen toward him.
He read my little contest entry and said, "You know this is supposed to be a horror contest, right? Looks like all you have is a ridiculous action piece."
"You son of a bitch, mass murder is horror." I glared at him. "Don't worry though, my next piece will be a lot more horrific, that's for damn sure."
"What next piece?" He had a sinister smile across his face as he pulled the trigger.
I was blasted backward onto my desk. Choking on my own spewing plasma, I flopped over, reached for my computer keyboard and then, with a quivering index finger, clicked 'End Preview.'
I had totally forgotten about this contest but had an idea for something I wanted to enter. At noon today, on my lunch break, I was checking the site out on my phone and that's when I saw there was only a mere twelve hours left before the deadline. I freaked out. I had to get home as soon as possible and start typing my ass off to reach the required one thousand minimum word count limit.
My mind was reeling at a hundred miles an hour. My co-worker, Doug, asked, "What's your problem, clown," seeing the look of sheer horror racing through my eyes.
I hated that guy. I wasn't sure if what happened next was instinct or impulse, maybe they're both the same, who knows or cares, but I jumped up and over the table and punched him hard right in the face. When he bellowed out in pain, I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. I then proceeded to cram my Subway, Spicy Italian foot-long sub, minus one bite, straight down his throat, along with about five inches of my fist.
Both of his front teeth popped out of his skull when I yanked my hand free. He was still gagging as I tore out of the break room toward my boss' office.
I kicked the door off the hinges and Mr. Gregory's eyes bugged out like a B-rated zombie movie actor. "I need to take the rest of the day off," I screamed.
"Look what you did to my friggin' door!"
"Did you hear what I just said," I hollered at the top of my lungs.
"Listen, Williams, I'm running a business here and-" His answer was clearly going to be no. I ran over to his printer, yanked it off his fancy, hand crafted, Persian shelf and viciously smashed it over the top of his head. As he violently convulsed, brain fragments and pumping blood splattered all over the walls and paperwork on his desk. I was in a rage. I snatched him up from his chair and threw him through the plate glass window where his still convulsing body flopped until it exploded on the sidewalk, eighteen stories below. I had a story to write, damn it.
I cursed the elevator music as I waited on its endless descent. It stopped at floor nine and once the doors opened, I just, full forced, kicked that chick backwards into the cheap wall painting hanging behind her. The glass spider-web cracked outward from where her head blasted into it.
Some dildo down the hall didn't see what just happened and yelled, "Hold the door!" As they were closing, he stuck his arm in. I twirled, grabbed his hand and wrist and yanked it backward, snapping his arm in half at the elbow. His screams echoed down the hallway as the doors slowly closed.
I ran past the splattered Mr. Gregory and his onlookers and jumped in my Toyota Camry. A cop saw this and stopped me before I started the car. Tapping on my window, "Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle." My boss couldn't have hit the ground less than eight minutes before so what the hell?
"This is an emergency, officer, I have to go!"
Again, "Please exit the vehicle, sir."
F me. I didn't have time for this. I got out, then I pointed toward my newly ex- employer's remains and yelled, "What's that?"
When the cop turned, I instantly snatched his holstered gun and kicked him forward. He turned with his hands up. "Now, son, you need to relax and- "
His skull burst like a watermelon from three quick rounds pumped into it. My Toyota was fast but not as fast as a cop car. I jumped over his nearly headless carcass, into his ride and the tires squealed in protest as I tore away from the scene.
Six miles from my home is when I realized they, the police and everyone else on this planet, were determined to keep me from joining this contest. I wasn't having it. Two cop cars came tearing up on both sides of me. I savagely veered right and careened that car into the homeless' tent city, under the bridge. At least twenty people met their death as the car rolled and crashed through nearly a whole city block.
The passenger of the second cop car had his shotgun aimed. I slammed on my brakes and he missed, blasting an Amazon driver returning to his truck. I got behind them and rammed. They lost control and soared over the guardrail of the Wellington bridge. The semi below couldn't do a thing but run them over.
That's when they pulled out the big dogs. The helicopter ordered me to stop. Out of the window, I flipped them off as I still raced to get home to my computer. Like a Die Hard movie, they started shooting at me out of the side door with a mounted machine gun. "Damn, it's just a story. What the hell," I thought.
When I drove into the Gaston Bridge turnpike tunnel, I stopped and exited the stolen cop car. I ran back to where I first entered and climbed the bank. The helicopter came back for a second searching round. I aimed my newly acquired, dead cop's .45. The instant the chopper came in view, I emptied the weapon, aiming at the pilot's seat. I watched machine gun tracer rounds fire off into nothing as the chopper plummeted and burst into flames on East Market Street.
I stopped by Pedro's, a well known local friend and arms dealer, and bought a sweet M72 Law rocket launcher. Well, we put it on my tab. Who has three grand in their wallet? Not me, that's for sure.
I parked a half a block away and sneaked up to my place. Yep, the SWAT team was already there. They had just arrived seeing as how they were just getting out of the van.
The Law rocket blast killed every one of the team in a single blow. Amid the guts and entrails, I pushed past the stench and gore. My girlfriend said I was all over the news. "You don't think I know that?"
I jumped on my computer and apparently didn't save whatever idea I had for this contest. I was lost. A thousand words to get in and I had nothing. That's when I decided to write of everything that happened leading to all of this.
I started typing like a madman. Nearly done, the chief of police gradually came through my front door and strolled up behind me. My girlfriend jumped in front of him but he just simply put a bullet between her eyes.
"Was it worth it?" he asked.
"You tell me," I replied. I swiveled in my chair and turned the screen toward him.
He read my little contest entry and said, "You know this is supposed to be a horror contest, right? Looks like all you have is a ridiculous action piece."
"You son of a bitch, mass murder is horror." I glared at him. "Don't worry though, my next piece will be a lot more horrific, that's for damn sure."
"What next piece?" He had a sinister smile across his face as he pulled the trigger.
My mind was reeling at a hundred miles an hour. My co-worker, Doug, asked, "What's your problem, clown," seeing the look of sheer horror racing through my eyes.
I hated that guy. I wasn't sure if what happened next was instinct or impulse, maybe they're both the same, who knows or cares, but I jumped up and over the table and punched him hard right in the face. When he bellowed out in pain, I grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. I then proceeded to cram my Subway, Spicy Italian foot-long sub, minus one bite, straight down his throat, along with about five inches of my fist.
Both of his front teeth popped out of his skull when I yanked my hand free. He was still gagging as I tore out of the break room toward my boss' office.
I kicked the door off the hinges and Mr. Gregory's eyes bugged out like a B-rated zombie movie actor. "I need to take the rest of the day off," I screamed.
"Look what you did to my friggin' door!"
"Did you hear what I just said," I hollered at the top of my lungs.
"Listen, Williams, I'm running a business here and-" His answer was clearly going to be no. I ran over to his printer, yanked it off his fancy, hand crafted, Persian shelf and viciously smashed it over the top of his head. As he violently convulsed, brain fragments and pumping blood splattered all over the walls and paperwork on his desk. I was in a rage. I snatched him up from his chair and threw him through the plate glass window where his still convulsing body flopped until it exploded on the sidewalk, eighteen stories below. I had a story to write, damn it.
I cursed the elevator music as I waited on its endless descent. It stopped at floor nine and once the doors opened, I just, full forced, kicked that chick backwards into the cheap wall painting hanging behind her. The glass spider-web cracked outward from where her head blasted into it.
Some dildo down the hall didn't see what just happened and yelled, "Hold the door!" As they were closing, he stuck his arm in. I twirled, grabbed his hand and wrist and yanked it backward, snapping his arm in half at the elbow. His screams echoed down the hallway as the doors slowly closed.
I ran past the splattered Mr. Gregory and his onlookers and jumped in my Toyota Camry. A cop saw this and stopped me before I started the car. Tapping on my window, "Sir, I need you to step out of the vehicle." My boss couldn't have hit the ground less than eight minutes before so what the hell?
"This is an emergency, officer, I have to go!"
Again, "Please exit the vehicle, sir."
F me. I didn't have time for this. I got out, then I pointed toward my newly ex- employer's remains and yelled, "What's that?"
When the cop turned, I instantly snatched his holstered gun and kicked him forward. He turned with his hands up. "Now, son, you need to relax and- "
His skull burst like a watermelon from three quick rounds pumped into it. My Toyota was fast but not as fast as a cop car. I jumped over his nearly headless carcass, into his ride and the tires squealed in protest as I tore away from the scene.
Six miles from my home is when I realized they, the police and everyone else on this planet, were determined to keep me from joining this contest. I wasn't having it. Two cop cars came tearing up on both sides of me. I savagely veered right and careened that car into the homeless' tent city, under the bridge. At least twenty people met their death as the car rolled and crashed through nearly a whole city block.
The passenger of the second cop car had his shotgun aimed. I slammed on my brakes and he missed, blasting an Amazon driver returning to his truck. I got behind them and rammed. They lost control and soared over the guardrail of the Wellington bridge. The semi below couldn't do a thing but run them over.
That's when they pulled out the big dogs. The helicopter ordered me to stop. Out of the window, I flipped them off as I still raced to get home to my computer. Like a Die Hard movie, they started shooting at me out of the side door with a mounted machine gun. "Damn, it's just a story. What the hell," I thought.
When I drove into the Gaston Bridge turnpike tunnel, I stopped and exited the stolen cop car. I ran back to where I first entered and climbed the bank. The helicopter came back for a second searching round. I aimed my newly acquired, dead cop's .45. The instant the chopper came in view, I emptied the weapon, aiming at the pilot's seat. I watched machine gun tracer rounds fire off into nothing as the chopper plummeted and burst into flames on East Market Street.
I stopped by Pedro's, a well known local friend and arms dealer, and bought a sweet M72 Law rocket launcher. Well, we put it on my tab. Who has three grand in their wallet? Not me, that's for sure.
I parked a half a block away and sneaked up to my place. Yep, the SWAT team was already there. They had just arrived seeing as how they were just getting out of the van.
The Law rocket blast killed every one of the team in a single blow. Amid the guts and entrails, I pushed past the stench and gore. My girlfriend said I was all over the news. "You don't think I know that?"
I jumped on my computer and apparently didn't save whatever idea I had for this contest. I was lost. A thousand words to get in and I had nothing. That's when I decided to write of everything that happened leading to all of this.
I started typing like a madman. Nearly done, the chief of police gradually came through my front door and strolled up behind me. My girlfriend jumped in front of him but he just simply put a bullet between her eyes.
"Was it worth it?" he asked.
"You tell me," I replied. I swiveled in my chair and turned the screen toward him.
He read my little contest entry and said, "You know this is supposed to be a horror contest, right? Looks like all you have is a ridiculous action piece."
"You son of a bitch, mass murder is horror." I glared at him. "Don't worry though, my next piece will be a lot more horrific, that's for damn sure."
"What next piece?" He had a sinister smile across his face as he pulled the trigger.
I was blasted backward onto my desk. Choking on my own spewing plasma, I flopped over, reached for my computer keyboard and then, with a quivering index finger, clicked 'End Preview.'
The... Contest Winner |
I'm fairly certain that mass murder falls under the category of horror.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 
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