Is its mouth a circle?

I live in a world where death chases life. Death, as we call it, is not the slow decomposition of our cells that so commonly afflicts us. No, Death is a living, breathing creature. Ever so slowly, it traverses the world in search of its meal. We are but krill in juxtaposition. History tells us that we can move far beyond its reach, sometimes too far. The generations slowly forget, and the beast becomes legend, a tale to scare the old ones to bed. Yet the inevitable happens, and the stench of its breath creeps over the land. Run away?

The Distance

Excitedly crouched at the starting line, he waited for his moment to sprint. As the runners exhausted their energy by the final lap, he knew that he could outmotor any of the enfeebled competition. It was a risky move, but he felt it was time to show the world what he was capable of. He burst through the lanes, closing in on the frontrunners. He felt so free in the open breeze. The looks of shock and anger were priceless, and as he passed the runner in first, he knew the charges for public indecency would be worth it. Maybe.

Crazy is not an adverb.

 Sorry for going MIA this past week, but I've been so busy doing nothing that I've neglected my writing a tad. To make up for it, I'll post a few stories today that I've thought up over the holidays.

You might call me crazy, but leave the cats alone. They are personable and very normal. Sure, I might have more than average, but what’s wrong with a little company? They need me, you hear? Look at Fluffy there, mewling away for my attention. Would you dare to deprive her of my tender love and gentle care? Oh my! Take a gander at Paws over there. He’s hacking up a hairball, or so I think. Here, let me get my spectacles...ho! I was right. Now tell me you think I’m crazy. Oh wait, you can’t. Apocalypses are so lonely, Fluffy.

Sweet Dreams

The sound of her head hitting the keyboard was muffled by her own tiredness. “Huh, that’s odd,” she thought. “Surely that should have hurt more than it did.” A little weirded out, and still drowsy, she rose slowly to turn off the light. The switch did not cooperate. “Woah! Wait, I’m not animated though. Oh, duh! That was only in Waking Life. Stupid.” Elated by her newfound dream state, she ran unhindered by the boundaries of consciousness. Clambering up to the roof, she smiled and stepped off, into a coma. They fixed the light switch, but it was too late.

The Conclusion

“Any last words?”

“Yes. I may not convince you of my innocence in its totality, not today. Insofar as every action has a consequence, so too must I be judged for mine own faults. However! Let it be known that on a day in the future, it could be tomorrow, or years from now, realization will arrive of my genius, the very prescient nature of my deeds. The question is not when, but rather how much it shall affect you. Ergo, and thus, with regret...”

“May I kindly remind you, Jimmy, that this a book report and not an execution.”

What the...

He saw someone over yonder. It was too far away to make any accurate description. He walked quickly, hoping to find company at last. However, the figure remained distant. That is, until it tripped. He broke into a dead run. So close, and the figure turned. Shock was on both of their faces, and he tripped. It had been himself! His face was on that most ominous figure. They held their gaze, but he heard footsteps behind him. He spun around, only to meet the same ghastly visage. It stumbled, and crashed into him. They screamed, in succession, infinitely aware.

Applause

A big thanks to the storied Stories Inc. for yet another great submission. As always, you can find this story and many more here. 

 

Three minutes of fame was all she asked for.

A crew member signalled it was time. She nodded, getting ready. Standing in the opening to the arena, she heard the crowd roaring, stamping their feet, impatient for her. A bell tolled.

Insecurity crawled up on her. Should she smile or keep a straight face? And what kind of smile? Mysterious? Girl-next-door style? Should she be tempting, beckoning, maybe a slight bit naughty?

She plunged forward from the curtains, enshrined in spotlights, and strode across the catwalk in a leopard print bikini holding up a sign saying “Round 2”.

Applause resounded.

The Holiday Spirit

She heard footsteps. Ominous. She was alone. So alone, but also moving. Making footsteps. Her footsteps, the ones which she heard. Still ominous. The quickened heartbeat that remains after a close encounter with fear. She experienced it. After hearing her own footsteps. Which she heard no more. Stairs. Odd number of steps. Odd, but also scary. She heard creaking. Creepy. Creepy creaking. Her own footsteps. And her own creaking. What was that noise? Just physics. Creepy physics. Creaky footsteps. A light. Under her door. She did not remember leaving the light on. Footsteps. Not hers, and the light turns off.

The cake.

And so you sink amid the desert of time, each grain within grasp, yet impossible to sculpt. The landscape continues to drop, and you stumble desperately for an exit. An invisible fence blocks you. You will descend with the rest of us, good, evil, unaligned, all at the same pace and with the same end. Closer now, too close for comfort. Is the heat from the sun or from the unbearable anticipation? You looked forward to it once, but it gets faster every year. More familiar. They wish you happy birthday, but the hourglass simply turns over, feckless and cakeless.

All in All, You're Just A...

To call it a wall would be disingenuous; to call it anything else would be blasphemous. It was THE wall. No discernable end could be found, try as we might. And oh, we might. It stretched all the way across our side of the planet, a barrier to greener, imaginary pastures. Climbing over was considered suicide; all those who dared to ascend in search of that legendary mantle never returned. No cavern permitted entry to the other side, deeper only means more futile to us. All that remains is to ram our way through. What’s that? The doorknob works? Dammit.

A New Me

 Okay, finals are no fun. Hopefully I won't have to turn this site into A Week is Worth 100 Words. More to come.

I woke up today not quite feeling like myself. It should have come as no surprise, then, that my appearance was that of an elderly gentlemen. Not so. It was surprising, so I let out a scream. Fortunately, my scream was old and gentlemanly. Nothing more than a gruff moan escaped. At this point, I convinced myself I was dreaming, and that the pain in my heart was an illusion. I walked out of the room, to the unfortunate sight of an aged woman. “Hank! There you are! It’s as if you’re avoiding me!” she shrieked. I couldn’t blame him.

Killing time for the rest of us

He was more storied than the Empire State Building, which was largely unimpressive due to his short stature, and the fact that he really only had one story to tell. Of course, he spared his audience of such introductions, much to the relief of his restaurant's patrons. They preferred him to tell it as soon as possible. “I once knew a security guard,” he began, “who had a peculiar device. It was a wristwatch without any numbers. I asked him, ‘Couldn’t a thief steal something if you misjudge your shift?’ His reply? ‘Not on my watch!’” Repeat customers were few, thankfully.

Wintergreen is an oxymoron, I think.

The cold blanketed him in slight discomfort, in the very way a blanket wouldn’t. The pain was too mild to flinch at, yet too annoying to disregard. An enveloping mask of bothersome ice poked at him, taunting him. Too cold! He pulled away, grimacing as he breathed hard in an attempt to expel the cold from his mouth. Something kept bringing him back to the source of his displeasure. A force much larger, more intrinsic than the shivering cold shooting through his frame. His thoughts froze for moment. He put down his smoothie, turning to matters of more worldly importance.