Thread: 05/22/08 - Sacrifice

It has been decided that you have been given the challenge of writing a story on the following topic:

Sacrifice
Small and personal, or huge and metaphysical. Someone or something takes a loss for the good of another. Why? Out of fear? Guilt? Hope for long-term reward? Time or money, love or bone marrow. Anything. Explore sacrifice in no more than 500 words (not counting the title).
Prompt courtesy of Chris Miller

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges may participate, but their entries will not be scored.

Submissions will be accepted until June 5th (2 weeks)
Judging period: June 6th - 11th
Results will be posted on or before June 12th

Good luck to everyone!

Your judges for this round are:
Eggo
Foxee
Tiamat10
Sam Winchester

The Fate of a Cheeseburger

Bob McDougal knew that if he didn’t stop her once and for all, he would be destroyed.

“Goddammit, hold the mayo,” he said.

The waitress, unknowing that Bob had just prolonged his life by seventeen years, looked slightly offended.

She snapped her gum. “You want fries with that?”

“No, just the sandwich.”

Bob looked around the restaurant. Agitated, he scratched at his bald head and stared down at the plastic tablecloth. He rubbed at his belly, aware of every ridge and fold in its skin.

“Freeze picture.”

The image of Bob was frozen on the monitor. Eleven people sat in a cool, dim room, staring at the display.

“What do you see here, ladies and gentlemen?” said the same voice. “Is it agony? Is it despair? Or is it happiness?”

The room was quiet, expectant.

“Of course it’s happiness! Look at him. He looks sick to his stomach because he’s sick of his stomach, and he’s figured out a way to get rid of it. Had I not implanted the image of his fat demise in his dreams, he would be engrossing himself in every which fashion, affecting those around him, suggesting to others that it’s okay to be fat, that they too can let themselves go, that everyone is unique.” The voice was clenched, passionate. “We cannot let this happen.”

“This looks like mind control,” said a woman in the back.

“Mind control? What is a controlled mind but a panel of suggestions? And where do these suggestions come from? These people…these fat slobs…know, deep down, who they want to be, what they want to look like. All my technology does is to help them realize it. Don’t you see? It’s about small sacrifices every day, from eating to exercise, sacrifices that we can instill, to help the world become a better, healthier place.”

“Sacrifice?” said the same woman. “You call this—" she pointed at Bob, “sacrifice?”

“Of course. The adage, ‘no pain, no gain,’ applies perfectly. In the end, he’ll want to thank us for it. For allowing him to live just a little longer, in better health, all in exchange for a few gluttonous pleasures.”

“And at what cost to himself does he sacrifice his self-identity in exchange for yours?” A chair screeched as the woman stood up.

“What is identity but a mirage of—"

“And do you think you can really alter fate?” The woman stepped closer.

“Wait a minute…I don’t recognize you. Who invited you here? Wait! What are you doing—"

The woman held a gun. “You are a monster. You cannot create the world in your own image. You…you have sacrificed Bob’s happiness, and now,” she smiled bitterly,” now, I’m sacrificing yours.” She pulled the trigger.

Back in the restaurant, Bob stared at his cheeseburger. He had no idea what was happening in a cool, dim room hundreds of miles away. He was only thinking about his cheeseburger. It dripped with cheese. Maybe he should have ordered it without cheese.

RED

Red sky at night: Shepherd’s Delight. That’s what Jean used to tell us.

It was a cruel statement, but Jean only wanted to mother. As children, we were strung up by her words and believed them to be definitive wisdoms. The problem? The sky was always red. Delight and warning meant nothing because the weather above our slatted houses had neither rhyme nor reason and was painfully erratic.

Come nine, if Porth’s rooftops were burning crimson, Bev would send me in with perfected desperation, confident that it would prove fruitful in gaining us a few pennies to buy an ice-cream the next day.

Jean only ever shook her head, because “You won’t eat your warm rolls, and Mrs Wood’s ice-cream’s too expensive.”

“There’s a red sky. It’s going to be hot.”

“And you’ll be grateful that bread doesn’t hurt your teeth. Go on, away with you.”

Bev tried to convince me that Jean was just spiteful, but I was never too sure. She worked all day in the factories and a neighbour would collect us from school. And yet every night, without fail, she’d bake us rolls and tell us stories – “Because,” she’d say, “that’s a mother’s job.”

Bev would relish in reminding me that Jean wasn’t our real mother, and was only a “nasty substitute that won’t even buy us ice-cream.”

The morning after was always the worst.

It would rain just as much as it would shine, and this would only coax Bev’s bitterness. I’d reluctantly follow suit: not only was there no ice-cream, but Jean had also lied. The sky could have burnt to a crisp and it still would have poured down in a wet end.

For years, there was optimism and pleas and subsequent refusals, and for years we’d fall back into a sour disenchantment, resolved that this woman could never be our mother. It took an age to truly forgive her.

It was long after Bev and those streets that I tasted my first ice-cream. On a beach, a lady and I shared a ’99 and I discovered with wide-eyed horror that it really did hurt the teeth.

At sixty years old, I finally returned to Porth. Despite expectations, things hadn't changed: the sky was still red, afterall.

“I’ve only got enough for one,” my wife said, and I took the coin. Entering the shop, I noticed that the ice-cream didn’t smell nearly as good as it had once done. I noticed a young girl, a little in shadow, shaking her pockets. She knew that they were empty but she didn’t dare not try, and I remembered that feeling well. Looking at the menu, I realised that nothing there would ever be good enough, and placed the coin down on the counter.

“Here.”

I smiled at the girl but she only stared back, confused and a little worried.

“It’ll hurt your teeth, though.”

As I turned out into that crimson, I caught the little girl changing her mind, and taking a warm roll instead.

The Rudiments?

Several hours had passed since the Chighoulay flew overhead. It was nighttime, and the shamans had begun their ritual. They encircled a bonfire. They were completely saturated in bright red paint and wore ornate animal masks made of wood. Their glistening bodies followed the feverish rhythm of a nearby drum.

A distinct presence of fear was emanating from the crowd – the shamans had fully explained to them the implications of the Chighoulay – the “gleaming mosquito”.
It was an omen from Malatoyana, the forlorn god of insects. The shamans suspected that He had become enraged by the tribe’s neglect of praise, and had sent the Chighoulay as a demonstration of power. But the tribe made a fatal mistake, one that would surely lead to eternal damnation in Malatoyana's wormy hell: they had attacked the monstrous mosquito.

Whilst the Chigoulay was scouting their encampment, a fit of panic erupted, and the buzzing creature was pelted with the tribe’s finest weaponry. The ensuing assault of spears and rocks drove it away, but surely aroused Malatoyana’s wrath. He would interpret the attack as a rejection of his might...or so the Shamans claimed.
But the shamans were wise spiritual leaders, and their assertions were not challenged. Their wisdom was proven countless times. They had cured Ergil’s illness through ritualistic beatings. They had predicted a thunderstorm. They were even able to administer the sacred hallucinogenic plant.

Yes, the shamans knew best – and now they concocted a plan to quell Malatoyana’s rage. A young female virgin was to be sacrificed, to be burned alive in the god’s name. She was brought before the bonfire bound on a stake. She was thunderously beautiful and terrificly terrified. A shaman lustily threw mud at her, to symbolize her imminent union with the earth. When she was thoroughly covered with cool muck, she was thrown into the fiery orange glow. A scream could be heard, but it too was consumed by the inferno. The tribe was both disgusted and ecstatic; they peered through the flames in hopes of finding a husk of life, but all was charred to dust. The deed was done, and Malatoyana was appeased. Doom never rained from the sky, and the shamans paraded their success in saving the tribe’s souls.

The Chigoulay was a helicopter. The woman was not a virgin.

The Death of Manga

“There must be some mistake, Mr.….”

“Dantès.”

The guardsman looked at his clipboard. “Right. There’s no mention of your shipment on the receiving schedule.”

Dantès stepped forward. “This is the Yusuji Enterprise is it not?” The guard nodded. “Then I assure you, my shipment will be well received.” Dantès withdrew an envelope from inside his overcoat. “Here is a letter from the CEO himself.”

The guard took the envelope, walked over to the light, and withdrew a blank piece of paper.

“What is—“

Dantès shot him dead.

Quickly, Dantès dragged the body into the outpost. He hit the switch and the gate rolled open. He hopped back into his pickup and drove it across the abandoned lot, glancing to the large crate in the back as he passed over a speed bump.

Picking the lock was easy. Dantès knew there were no security measures aside from the one guard, but he was still cautious. He wheeled the crate down a carpeted hallway, past studios and conference rooms. Pictures of first-edition covers lined the wall, the cartoon characters in epic, ridiculous poses. Dantès sneered in disgust.

He pushed the crate past double doors and came into a wide hanger. Printing presses and cutting machines were surrounded by hundreds of pallets of cardboard boxes. Dantès had reached his destination.

He glanced into one of the boxes and saw it half full with small, colorful books. He snatched one up and flipped through it.

“Damn thing reads backwards,” he muttered. “Just ain’t right.”

He crossed his arms and studied the wooden crate. He had come far for this night.

Dantès was a true lover of literature, a patriot for words and the philosophies behind them. Of course, Dantès wasn’t his real name. He had given it up for the cause he and sixteen other men and women had committed themselves to. A war was going on: an ideological battle where the victor would either dumb down the world—reducing it to reading cute one-liners from big-eyed, big-breasted cartoons drawn by perverts—or liberate the world, opening the eyes of its children, inspiring the generations to come to reclaim the story as it once was.

Dantès opened the crate. A thick layer of books covered the bomb. He picked them up, one by one, stacking them gently on the concrete floor. Here was Dostoevsky, Eggers, Rand, Atwood, Dumas, Butler and many others. He smiled at a copy of Pride and Prejudice, wiping off its cover as if there was dust on it. He remembered the time when he had first read it and the satisfied feeling that came afterwards.

The box was nearly empty when he was finished. Only the bomb remained. Dantès looked at his watch. He was early. So he sat down and picked up one of his favorites.

Seven minutes later, there was a booming sound in the distance, followed by another, and another.

Dantès dog-eared his book and set it aside. He inhaled, exhaled, and flipped the switch.

Fun With Dick and Jane

Dick and Jane are not their real names. They eat in our restaurant every Sunday, always sit at the most wheelchair accessible front table, and always leave a tip. When they were young, Dick played professional lacrosse and Jane did home childcare. I believe Jane still loves kids. They both seem a little shy, but where Dick is soft spoken and staid, Jane is effervescent and engaging. Like it’s an effort for him to joke around, and for her not to. Though he sometimes does, and she sometimes doesn’t. I believe Jane was popular in high school, was once a prom queen and a flirt, and Dick, even though I’ve never once seen him miffed, was not the sort of guy you wanted to mess with.

Jane has advanced MS. I believe they’re both a little self-conscious about it. Sometimes they seem sheepish when I’m out bussing tables, like they’re in my way or something. Dick is still in good shape. He has to be to spend every hour of every day looking after Jane, like helping her use the special, high toilet they bought to replace the old one in our women’s washroom so they could still go out together. It’s so ergonomic and comfortable that sometimes I use it even though I’m not a woman. In the summer, they encourage others to enjoy their backyard swimming pool. I believe Jane sometimes watches from her kitchen window.

MS is thought to be caused by the immune system’s attacking nerves in the brain and spinal chord. There’s muscle pain and weakness, dizziness and nausea, sexual dysfunction and disinterest, incontinence and, of course, depression. And there is no known cure.

I don’t know how I know, but I know Dick’s never had an affair or even entertained the idea of an affair, and never will. MS’s ‘girdle’ of pain around the torso is said to be excruciating, like endless, childless labor. I believe if I had it I’d kill myself before it got too out of hand. I don’t know how I know, but I know Jane minds having to be looked after more than Dick minds having to look after her. In fact I don’t believe he minds at all. I believe he’d be bereft without her. So while I can see some huge losses are being taken here, I’m not sure who’s taking them. All I know is they’re an inspiration.

Reggie’s shell was amazing. It was almost green, almost blue and speckled all over with small orange markings. There were these two big yellow triangular spots, mirroring each other across the spine of the shell. And there was so much more to Reggie than a beautiful shell. Reggie was Apple’s closest and dearest confidante. She trusted no one and nothing more. He was her first love.

But it was when she met the man with the big yellow hat that she met her second and third love – the rabbits. The rabbits were grossly endearing. For a nine-year-old girl, the adorability of the rabbits was almost unbearable. She liked the man in the big yellow hat too. He had long white hair and a white beard. Apple knew her parents would think the man was dirty looking, so she never told them about her visits to him. The man had a shop that sold “exotic items”. Apple didn’t know what that meant. One day she asked.

“What do you sell?” she asked the man.

“Exotic items” he said. His face scrunched up and his eyes kind of squinted like he didn’t want to talk about it.

“I know,” she said “but what’s those?”

“Apple” he said gruffly “I kill animals and sell their parts. Those rabbits are just about big enough, and I’m going to kill them next week. I’m sorry. It’s just how I make my money.”

Apple was angry with the man but she thought about it and she knew, she wanted Reggie to meet the rabbits before he killed them. She took Reggie to the man’s shop and introduced him to the rabbits.

“That’s a beautiful turtle you have there,” the man said.

“I know” Apple said, she positioned herself between the man and Reggie “he’s mine.”

The man chuckled and said, “I know little girl. I’m not gonna try to take him from you. But I’ll tell you what, those two rabbits are only about as good as eight little feet. That turtle shell would go for a lot more.” He paused and studied Apple, “if you wanted to save those rabbits, I would take the turtle instead”.

Apple thought about it. She cried, knowing that she would sentence at least one of her closest friends to death. With a heavy heart she decided that one death was better than two. She left the shop that day with two rabbits and never came back.

So, what of sacrifice?

So, what of sacrifice? What does anyone else know about the hardships of life?

You know nothing, all of you.

*

I once again had to sit through a dull, lifeless lesson on Maths. What a waste of time – I can count well enough and I can’t see how I will ever use equations in life. It’s pointless. Like life. Just a dirty, pointless waste of time. Soon I’ll be free; soon I’ll quit having to sacrifice my time, my efforts and my life and be free to do as I please. Maybe then, life will become colourful and bright, like a Hollywood film ending. It’ll be better for sure.

The bell finally announced the end of the school day and soon I was swiftly weaving my way through the crowded corridors. I heard a snigger as I walked out the door – Marshall, its Marshall.

‘Hey pizza-face, runnin’ home to yer mommy,’ he said.

I could fight – I can fight – but I can’t. What would happen if I got caught would be too much. Too painful. I smiled at him.

‘Huh, bet he’s a virgin too.’ His friends laughed, congratulating each other with slaps on the back and punches.

I walked away. I always walk away.

*

Home. What a joke. Only me and mum. That’s not a home in the natural terms; it’s a half full glass of a place, a family without a leader, if you get my meaning? Let’s just leave it there.

‘Hey honey, how was your day?’ Mum. Always in the kitchen, never where it matters.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘It was fine.’ The sacrifices I endure.

Later I texted my friend John. At least he understands what I’m going through. No dad, no life and a mum who doesn’t help. I told him of Marshall, and again I lamented over my situation – how if keep getting into trouble and dad gets custody and mum has another breakdown. Surely this was some form of bribery on mum’s part?

Whatever.

*

I got my new computer for my birthday. Somehow. I mean mum doesn’t work and dad has vanished, so I’m guessing mum either stole it or bribed someone or something.

Well, I’ve got my computer. It’s not as if I don’t deserve it, what with putting up with not getting into trouble at school and helping mum with the shopping every now and then. Surely I should get something?

Mum’s changed recently. She’s not gone out, she’s drinking less and hasn’t bought any films recently that she loves. Adults are weird. They change their habits all the time.

*

I wonder what I’ll have to do now because my mum bought me the damn computer? What does she know? It’s not as if she even understands or makes any sacrifices like me? Is it?

Sandy - 500 words


Sandy rolls a piece of taffy between her sticky palms. It’s salt water. Her favorite.

I know it’s her favorite because I see her every day. Sandy’s hair is dark brown, though I’d like to imagine it blonde. Her pretty green eyes would look magnetic, simmering beneath shades of blonde hair. But that’s not important. I slide down the tree trunk, abandoning my perch between the two largest branches. It’s my favorite place to watch her.

But today is different. It’s Sandy’s birthday party. I have something special for Sandy. It’s her big day. She’s wearing a short purple dress and they’re cutting the cake. She pokes a hole through the top of the cake when her mother looks away. Only I see it. Only I know.

Sandy is a naughty girl. Ten years old but acting like she’s thirteen. Sometimes she wears lip gloss and stockings. She wants to be a big girl. I’ve watched her talking to the men in the park. I’ve never seen her father.

But today she strays away from the party. The other kids play on the monkey bars. They don’t really like her much but all the moms are friends. I can imagine them having Tupperware parties and owning pink vibrators.

I step out from behind the tree to greet her. Her shining green eyes regard me with suspicion.

“Happy birthday,” I say to her. The first words I’ve ever said to her.

“Thanks. I was wondering when you’d come down from the tree,” she says. Her eyes are flirting with me and I feel a jolt of excitement in my stomach. She’s been waiting for me.

“Just waiting for the right moment.”

“Well today is a good day.”

“Of course, it’s your birthday. Hey, I have a present for you.”

Now her eyes narrow suspiciously. Good girl. Wary of strangers.

“Why?”

“I see you here a lot. Thought it might be nice to give you something.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“I know you like salt water taffy. I know you don’t like kids your own age.”

“You must watch me a lot.”

I smile. “Yeah. I do.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“I have to go to my car and get it.”

“Do I have to come with you?” Again. The suspicious eyes.

“Only if you want to.”

I turn and she follows. The implication of choice must make it feel innocent. But she has no choice, not really. I’ve waited for so long. We turn the corner into the back alley that leads to the parking lot. She’s humming “Happy Birthday.”

That’s when I grab her. Bright green swims in a sea of white. She screams against my hand. My other one is already under her dress, groping between her thin pale thighs.

“Will you be quiet?”

She nods, the tears rolling down her cheeks. I remove my hand.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispers to me.

“Sandy, we all have to make sacrifices.”

She cries as I kiss her.

History.(500 words)

From the seat of his Liebherr bulldozer; John Katson pondered the evening ahead. In the morning as he left his wife for work they had argued over bills and lack of money. According to her; their shortfall of funds wasn’t due to him working long hours spent pulling down old seventies office buildings to make way for futuristic apartment blocks but due to his laziness and inability to sacrifice his own wants and needs for the sake of their future together.

As he used the blade to cut through an iron girder he was reminded of her at breakfast; using a knife to spread 18p Tesco Value margarine over bread that had gone stale after only two days. He remembered her voice telling him how they needed to live like this so that they could remain under the roof that they slept every night. Hunger rumbled in his belly and the fantasy of a steak with pepper sauce was disrupted with the all too familiar smell of over boiled frozen veg and cheap supermarket chicken fillets.

Looking around him he saw the half destroyed wall of the adjacent room in the building. It reminded him of pictures of the East End after the bombings in WW2. The drilling of cement seemed almost trance-like and he was drawn back into the classroom where he was shown videos of news clips from the era.

He remembered her at school. After lessons he would give her his notes and she thanked him by giving him the answers to Maths homework due in after the break. He was never good at Maths and she never had the ability to store information about important historical occurrences.

It never bothered him that she asked him to help her cheat in her History exam and the fact they loved each other meant he didn’t care when he was caught and stopped from completing his exams. After all; she was far cleverer than he. He was good at practical work and had already signed up as an apprentice for his friend’s dad’s building firm.

Three years after they were married and she decided she wanted to give up her job to have their baby he had trusted her when she said they would be able to afford it. When she miss-carried at four months he spent time off work to look after her and help her through depression.

A year later he returned to work as she had told him they would be financially un-stable if not. Her mood was still fragile and although he was unsure about not taking care of her; she insisted and he went back to even longer hours than before.

As he sat slicing up the last floor of Ebdon and Clark he realised he preferred the loudness of the machinery surrounding him than the repetitive accusation that he had made her sacrifice her career for him that awaited him at home every night.

Oh how he wished he was a History teacher.

In Pursuit of a Pulitzer

“A true journalist must sacrifice his very life for his craft.”
–Professor James Woodbridge
May 18, 2008


Video from a digital camera discovered by Franklin Platt at 0818 on 5/29/08 in the dormitory shared with sophomore Travis Jackson:

“Professor Woodbridge gave me an excellent idea,” says Travis Jackson as he plucks a piece of chalk from his pocket. “So here goes…”

Travis kneels and draws on the carpeted floor while mumbling indecipherably.

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Jackson,” says the as-yet unidentified male off-camera believed to be a Caucasian male.

Travis looks over his shoulder. “You him?”

“Yes.”

Travis takes a seat on a folding chair. “So… what am I supposed to call you?”

“‘Satan’ will do.”

Travis chews on the end of his pencil. “I guess we should discuss price, hunh?”

“If you wish.” The off-camera sound has been determined to be a man of approximately fifty kilos shifting in a stiff leather chair never visually verified by any student. “I wish to use your journalistic success as an advertising platform.”

“Cool, but why require sacrifices anyway?”

“Sacrifice is part of life for demons.”

“Since when?”

“I gave up life in Heaven to bring the truth to humanity.”

“So you’re saying you left Heaven to bring us fire and such?”

“Not just fire, but philosophy, science, music and art, Travis.”

“Funny, I thought you were kicked out and brought lies to the world.”

“I brought humanity imagination enough for art, and man used it to lie. If you hand a man a gun to protect his family, he will use it to kill his neighbor.”

Travis shrugs. “Speaking of sacrifice, what do you think of Christ?”

“I think that if he really cared for mankind, he would have sacrificed as I have. Death is easy; living is hard.”

“Hunh,” Travis says as he leans back in the chair. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you’re not what I was expecting, Mr. Satan. Even aside from your life story being a bit weird, you’re… umm… human.”

“What did you expect me to look like? Some cartoon with horns and a pitchfork? I learned a long time ago that my work is best done in the guise of a human.”

“Well, what do you really look like?”

A cracking noise believed to be the breaking of lumber supports in the floor sounds from off-camera. Travis leaps back in his chair and falls backwards, screaming.

The camera discontinued recording at 2316hrs on 5/28/08 due to lack of storage space.

Franklin Platt discovered Travis at 0138hrs on 5/29/08 and called an ambulance, which arrived at 0149. Emergency medical technicians pronounced Travis dead on arrival.

Travis Jackson has received six awards for his dedication to journalism since the video’s first publication 7/10/08. However, the decision to release the video has faced much scrutiny since then because of a rash of strange incidents and suicides, and the growing number of cults worldwide.

One More Good Day

Crisp white cotton sheets protect the green tapestry sofa. Antique cherry end-tables house tiny pill bottles standing like statues in a row. Disinfectant invades our nostrils, which makes Zelda sneeze. Michael has been lying there for three days, moaning, sweating and crying in pain.


Zelda drops her ball by his hand, pushing it into his fingers with her nose, willing him to pick it up. She breathes into his face, panting and whining but he doesn’t move. Amy's giant hazel eyes beg me to allow her to play a prank, just one, please? She thinks the laughter will make him feel better.

I pray that God will help him, because I don’t know what else to do.

Two weeks ago we were holding hands walking through the park, talking about our future. God answered my prayers when He led us to each other, but He didn't tell us we'd have to sacrifice so much to be together. Michael sang me loves songs that day, under an overgrown maple tree. I asked him for the millionth time to marry me. He smiled so wide that I could dive into his dimples. "Someday," he said, as he began to strum another song.


I try to remember those times on days like today, when his skin is yellow and his body shudders in agony. This time it's his lower back, the last time it was his shoulders. We never know when the disease will take over or how long it will last. The time before it was his hands and he couldn't play the guitar for two weeks.

We try to keep our lives as normal as possible but making plans is difficult, we never even really dated each other. We’ve had to cancel parties and leave family functions, he’s had to cancel gigs or find last minute replacements. People don’t understand, they think we’re rude. We’re just trying to survive, trying to get one more good day.

From the outside he looks just like anyone else, how sick could he possibly be?

I took him to a new specialist a few weeks ago. He didn't want to go, but his former doctor moved away so we were forced to change offices. He knew better than I did, the judgment, the disapproving stares, the pursed lips of the doctor who’s heard it all before but either doesn’t believe him or doesn’t know how to treat him. Dr. Wong looked at him like he was a leach looking for a free ride. She doesn't live with him and hold his hands while he's screaming and crying in agony, or rub his skeletal legs with swollen knees and ankles. She doesn't change the bed sheets three times a night after he sweats through them or help him shower away the itchy attacks that strike without notice.

She just looked over her tiny glasses and muttered an, "Uh-huh," before pointing us in the direction of the cashier. "It's probably stress," she said.

Yeah, stress.

Sacrificial Lamb

I don't know what I should do now. I planned and prepared for this moment, tried to sort out every possible detail and possibility, but standing over his still warm body I can't think of anything but the blood flowing into the bathtub, the frozen expression of disbelief and terror on his face. I can't even remember how long it has been since the muffled shot echoed dully off the tile walls and his face disintegrated into splattered, shattered chaos.

I love you, I've loved you since the day Mom brought you home from the hospital and I was so excited I ran around yelling, “Sister lamb,” as loud as I could holding up the little stuffed lamb I gave you for a present.

Don't you know that I would do anything for you, Leah? He hit you, demeaned you, he was a bastard in every way. Yet you loved this shit even though that love was slowly killing you, killing who you are. Why couldn't you see?!?! Mom knew, Allie knew, I knew, your friends knew. We all told you to get out while you could, to leave him, we would help protect you, we would testify, he would never be able to hurt you again. Oh, he'll never hurt you again, I've made sure of that.

All those hours of cold planning coupled with bright, burning hate are gone. Erased by the realization that I am a murderer. I have to grab the light fixture next to the mirror to keep me upright, my knees weak and begging to buckle under my weight.

I know I need to move, to get away, but the blood flowing over his neck, the specks and splatters on the curtain and tile, hold my eyes with undeniable power. I stare and shake, wishing there had been another way.

“Rob? Are you here?”

Leah. How does she know I am here? I look down and see with surprise that my feet are wrapped in plastic bags, I'm wearing latex gloves, and my clothes look like hospital scrubs. But I have no shoes on. I always leave my shoes by the front door. If the floor is dirty that fucker will make her clean it until it's spotless.

“Rob?”

“Leah, I'm sorry. I had to. I love you.” It came out as a whisper but I know she heard me. The sound of her breathing told me she was in the doorway.

“Is...is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I caught only the barest gleam of the knife in the fluorescent light before it sliced through my neck all the way to the windpipe. The warm liquid exploded from my ruptured arteries as I collapsed to the floor, soaking in my own lifeblood.

Staring and gasping as my vision tightened into a small circle surrounded by darkness, the last thing I saw was Leah wiping the knife handle and then pressing it into her late husband's hands.

Stalking an Angel - 500 words

She was wearing that old t-shirt again, the one with the cross on it. She did that when she was scared; it reminded her that God loved her and protected her, but it didn’t make the furrowed eyebrows or the down tilt of her lips any less noticeable.

Watching her browse through the produce section, Matthew wished that she would turn to him when she was scared. He would always protect her; he had vowed that with his life. Lately though, she was always frightened. The laughing expression and bright green eyes he had immediately loved were no more.

He had been searching for the cause for six months. He followed her everywhere, scaring off the other men who thought they could possess her. He took pictures of her constantly, to try and see what she saw. Still, he could not know.

It was a week ago that he had finally learned. The judge’s crinkled old face, the boomed words: “Matthew Reinfeld, why do you insist upon following this girl? You are terrifying her.” Him. He was the cause of her suffering, of her pain, of her tears. He was the cause of the look of horror on her face when he replied, “I love her.” Her response was too painful to remember.

He had spent the day watching a slideshow of her on his laptop. She was the most beautiful creature. The half-second of black between one picture and the next reflected his features; that, he was sure, was how they were meant to be, transposed on each other and joined forever. He had meant to delete them from all – it would only make her uncomfortable – but he found that he couldn’t. The world didn’t deserve her presence, but he could not shut it off.

Now though, he had to end her fear, make her understand how much he loved her and wanted her. Matthew watched her for several more seconds, than stepped out from between the aisles.

“Linda,” he said.

She whipped around in panic, the tomatoes in her hands falling to the floor. They smashed there, trailing blood across the tile, but she didn’t notice. She stood there trembling, mouth wide open.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, and he reached out to her, his eyes pleading for redemption. “I’d never hurt you.”

When she found her words, they were just as painful as the last time. “Go away! I hate you! Go away!”

“Do you really want me to leave?” he whispered to her. He pulled a gun from the canvas sack over his shoulder. “Do you really want me to?”

She shook even more and stared at the gun; it was pointed in her direction. Her answer took an eternity for him, and when it came out, it was weak and whispered. “Yes.”

He nodded then and looked thoughtful. “All right,” he said. “Remember, Linda – I’ll always love you.”

Swifty, he turned the gun towards his head, and with one shattering shot, died.

Ben and Odin - 489


I cried, on a bus full of students where a single tear fell from my closed eye. I hoped no one noticed.


My father beat the dog. It wasn’t too serious, but he was hurt. I guess my father wanted the dog to run away, because they were such a burden. I kind of agreed because it was true, we couldn’t afford to get them food all the time. I also disagreed because I love those dogs. Every day I came home from school, the two dogs waited at the front porch and looked at me hungrily. One was Ben, he was a big dog. He had a various bloody wounds on his body. The other dogs liked to pick on him. The other was Odin, small, helpless, but brave. It was always painful to look back, at their tucked in bellies and their sickly gaze.


My father finally decided to put them down. I agreed and disagreed. I agreed because we couldn’t afford to feed them, and it would be less a burden. I disagreed because I loved those dogs, and I knew I was lying to myself. We could afford them. Maybe just $30 out of the $100 I get every month, it would be enough, but I was so selfish. Did my personal luxuries really mean more to me then the dogs? I love them don’t I? They were adopted on my account, but I regretted that they weren’t adopted by another family, where they can be happy, and healthy. My father was so self sacrificing, he never asked me for any help. I wondered if the thought ever crossed his mind that he should.


I thought about it. Every day people are suffering and dying. So many of us could help, but we choose not to. We turn the other way, and pretend nothing is wrong, or make excuses. It would be so little effort to help someone. I thought about this, and concluded that I was no different, not even for my own two dogs. But after a while, I would convince myself that I was right, and everything was fine. It’s what we do after all.


The day came when they would be put down. I walked out the door, ready to go to school. I looked at them one last time, with the tucked in bellies and the sickly gaze, somewhat sicker than before. I wondered if they knew, and then I wondered if a dog values its own life any more or less then we do. I looked at them for one last moment, these dogs that I love, and then walked away.


The day went on normally. When I came home from school, they weren’t waiting for me at the front porch to gaze back. I felt relieved, as if I had a weight off my shoulders, but at the same time, it was a whole new burden all together.