Giving in wasn't an option. To surrender to that demon wench, horrifically taunting him with all the glories of his gender-bent body that he knew made him sick, was out of the question. He'd sooner stab himself, or worse, let his younger brother best him in their next bout.
He could not deny, however, he was getting cornered into a difficult position. There was something off about the way the chimera chose to come at him this time. Aside from letting watermelons of bosoms bounce and burst out of his vest at him.
He inwardly shuddered. That had to be...
She was a goddess.
Her sacrifices were mostly time; her father was procrastination, and through him most of her sacrifices were received. Her temple was the internet, the pub, every conversation which began "I read somewhere - ", or "I saw the other day - ", or "Am I right in thinking - "
Quizzes were her festivals. Celebrations of (arguably) useless knowledge. The glory of simply knowing something, with no comprehension of whether it was to be useful or not, the pleasure based in facts.
She was worshipped frequently, albeit unbeknownst to most.
She stumbled blindly through the woods, images of every horror movie she'd ever seen flashing through her mind. Admittedly there were very few of them, but they all seemed to involve people getting lost in the woods and meeting an untimely end. The Blair Witch Project had been the most recent, and she hadn't been able to sleep for weeks after watching it. But this was only a game.
Only a game. She kept repeating the words under her breath, letting them calm her. Only a game. None of this was real. Her best friend, lying motionless on the ground...
Running from the larva, Nick wondered if he could stop for a second, catch his breath. He carried on, the survival persona taking over, making him look ahead at the hovering helicopter, knowing his life depended on reaching it...........
This part of the dream would never go away, he'd been recording it for years, wondering what it meant. He'd never been anywhere with a volcano, or any life of death scenarios, or had any worrying health concerns that he could recall.
Every night at three am he would wake, drenched in sweat, shouting out 'wait for me' to the helicopter...
Good Lord! What is that old fool doing. He is out and about with only a tatty old dressing gown and a pair of mouldy slippers on his feet. Thank goodness - he appears to have his pjs on, under that disgusting robe. People like that should be looked after. It is disgusting how families neglect their old folk. I would hate to grow old like that - put me in a home - NO - put me down first. I would rather have euthanasia than be reduced to a quivering, brainless, incontinent wreck. Thank goodness I am still young...
I always imagined that I'd feel nothing. Instead, I feel everything. Every paper cut, every broken heart, everything. It's like a million voices echoing in my head, vying for attention. I tip my head back, letting the wind rip through my hair. It's calming. I feel the knots in my shoulders relax, the pounding behind my eyes ease. This is it. It will soon be over. The pain, the misery, this life. It is almost over. I glance down at the crashing waves. It's a long way down. Noone will ever recover it. Its time to say goodbye. Time to...
It approached. This was it. Now or never. It's funny, through all the months of planning, I never really thought about actually having to pull this thing off. It was all diagrams and plans and discussing strategies. But, here we were. D-day, as it were. Time to do it. No time for backing out now.
I swallowed hard, unable to shift the lump in my throat. Could I really do this? It all seemed so big. The stuff of Hollywood movies. It didn't really work out in real life. What did I think was going to happen? We would drive...
Sitting. Staring. Tears welling. Drip. drip.
No! I can't let her see my defeat.
Swallow these tears that blur my vision.
Feelings of worthlessness fill my mind, the characters on the page melt under the liquid weight of my tears. They fall to the ground with every drop of salt, under my desk. Swirling black ink meets the dirt as I grind my dreams to mud. Black, beautiful, calligraphy mud.
If only, if only...it would be so much easier to blame her. But I am the one at fault.
he ran into the room, his heart pounding, and his clothes soaking wet. He couldn't believe what had happened. Today had started off so well, everything going to plan.
He had woken early, before his alarm, excited as a kid at Christmas. He'd gone to work, where he had tried in vain to concentrate on his work.
Every second had seemed like an hour, but finally 5pm had come.
He had sat across from her at the restaurant, his heart in his mouth. She had looked lovely; more beautiful than she had ever looked. Her golden hair shimmering in the...
I am still half dreaming as I open my eyes against the night. The alarm hasn't gone off yet, shaking me awake with its awful, soul grating shriek, and it is not yet morning. I glance at the slime green display on the clock - 2.18am. Not good. Something has disturbed my sleep at this usually, thankfully, unknown hour and I just hope that I can ignore it and drift back down into my rest.
I try, but there is a sound, or some movement, or maybe it's both things, and my eyes are open again even though I wish...