Thread: 07/05/08 - Spontaneous Combustion

Hello, Dear Writers. Time to sharpen your pencils because here we go again. You are being given the challenge of writing a story on the following topic:

Spontaneous Combustion
Someone or something is gonna blow, physically or otherwise. And by "someone or something" I mean... well… let's leave it open: the car; your temper; the world; the neighbor’s cat; you? It’s up to you to decide what, why and how. Let’s get those creative fires going so to speak, in no more than 500 words (not counting the title).
Prompt courtesy of eggo

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 July 19th (2 weeks)
Judging period: July 20th - 26th
Results will be posted on or before July 27th

Good luck to everyone!

Your judges for this round are:
Chris Miller
Remedy
Mike
AnnoyingAlliteration
Hawke

The Explosive Bull 497 words

~The Kilgoolaroy Chronicle~

Thursday, 17th July, 2008

BULL AT CENTRE OF ONLINE SCAM

Morgan Blackbeard
Investigative Reporter


Following numerous complaints, an investigation into intermittent failure of the landline telephone service in Kilgoolaroy Valley has been undertaken by The Chronicle.

The enquiry has revealed the possibility of a related internet scam being perpetrated on local residents.

From what has been uncovered, it appears a bull is involved.

The bull, a pure-bred Chianina named Fred, is owned by Richard Hammermeister, a fifth-generation farmer in the valley.

A local ISP also implicated in this activity is at present aggressively promoting its satellite link; many residents are believed to be subscribers even though the satellite connection is double the price of the ISP’s landline plan offering identical service.

Success of the scam is understood to rely on Fred staying permanently in a certain paddock, instead of the usual practice of being moved around to aid pasture re-growth. Reports suggest Mr Hammermeister may be receiving inducements to maintain this status quo.

One source informed The Chronicle that Ms Tamara Jenkins, an attractive ex-farm girl who lives in the valley but is now a senior partner with the service provider, is regularly seen turning into Mr Hammermeister’s driveway on her way home, with bales of feed in her pick-up, then departing much later without them.

The informant, who declined to be named, said she wondered what the pair were getting up to.

“Whatever it is, that feed always subsequently appears in Fred’s paddock,” she said.

Speculation is widespread that Ms Jenkins may have become aware of two unrelated items and recognised a means of linking them for greater profits.

One such item is Fred’s apparent temper; it is believed that sudden movement frequently triggers an explosive reaction by him.

Another is the old overhead phone line which shortcuts across one of Mr Hammermeister’s paddocks adjoining a winding section of road. Ms Jenkins may have grasped a unique consequence of keeping Fred in this particular paddock and perhaps acted to bring it about.

An observer commented: “One minute Fred’ll be grazing, then often when a car comes into sight on the road, his head’ll come up, he’ll bellow, toss his horns, and charge.

“But he’s thwarted by the fence.

“In frustration, he’ll swing 'round and smash his fore-head against the nearest object – a phone pole.

“Those old-fashioned cable joiners shake precariously, and the phone service temporarily cuts out. Anyone using the phone to go online suffers. If they were clicking ‘Submit’ on a forum post, all they'd see now'd be ‘Server Not Found’.”

In summary, there seems little doubt that whereas the entire planet is poised on the threshold of unbelievable growth in the field of information sharing, here in the valley residents are being held to ransom by a schizophrenic bull.


When contacted about the possible scam, telecommunications watchdog HelloHello said they had no control over where a farmer chose to graze his livestock.

A spokesperson for the phone carrier declined to comment.

"Cyanide is pussies."

This is my favorite part.

Poc's got lotsa war stories. I always assumed they were about 'nam, but things are getting confusing. I'm starting to think that he was Nazi Viet Cong.

"Goddamn Jews followed us though the jungle the water come on off on their submarines."

I used to buy Poc booze, but things have been tight lately, and a gallon of floor cleaner's only two bucks if you buy the generic kind. At first I poured it into empty bottles of Fleschman's as a disguise, but I don't bother anymore. Now I buy the store brand and pour it into Clorox bottles so Poc doesn't think I'm cheap. Everyone else says it's cruel, but I'm not the one who told Poc he could stay with us, and I don't have cable. I take what I can get.

"Heebs caught us in Africa, stop ship with harpoons."

There's a lot about war that I never knew.

"Caught is good. Blew our ship up! Boom!" Poc raises his arms up above his head to show me what an exploding ship looks like. Boom! He spills on the floor. Clean spots dot the kitchen tile, each a mark of an exciting part of a previous story.

This is all foreplay. I steer Poc as best I can and ply him with more cleaning products. "Did they catch you?"

"No time to pass out cyanide pills. Caught in the submarine. No time for pills!"

This is my favorite part.

"Charlie Phips don't no cyanide. I not either. Taught good. Don't get caught! If you get caught?"

I wait, breathless.

"Boom!" Poc's eyes glisten as the man he used to be rises up through the chemical fog. "Caught Charlie Phips and asked him questions. Charlie wouldn't tell! Hurt him bad but no cyanide to bite. But Charlie don't need cyanide! We was taught good! We don't talk! Don't need pills to not talk!"

I can't wait another second. "What'd Charlie do if he didn't have his cyanide pill?"

"This!"

Poc closes his eyes. He clenches his fists and grinds his toothless gums together. His face constricts into a network of tight wrinkles, spreading out from his nose like the hairline fractures on a windshield. A low whine escapes from his nostrils.

The room starts to get hot; I open a window and stand by it, my heart racing. What if he does it this time, really does it, all the way? Will he just take the chair, or the whole kitchen? I almost run, but I don't. It's all part of the thrill.

This can go one of two ways. Most of the time this is where Poc shits his pants and passes out. But tonight I'm in luck.

I can already smell burning hair.

“Skee, me’s happy fo’ you but you no say he boom boom in end!” The troll lifted his hat and waved it in a gesture of rage. In the air he hopped from foot to foot and the lump on his nose bobbled alongside his ears, long and verdant. “You no say you practice dat’ magic, Skee, dat’ magic bad we know you know elder say so, Skee!”

Skee, the antithesis to his older brother, waved a hand and shrugged. “We fine, Oko, we fine, look, he better now.” Skee uncoiled the index of his fist and held it inches from the sweating child’s nose. “See? He breathe slow, Oko, he fine.”

“No, no, no stupid, stupid Skee, he sick now, he sick, dat’ magic kill humans! Kill, Skee, kill!” Oko descended onto the boy’s chest and ran to his nose and peered inside the black crevice. The boy, no older than five, wiped at the creature he could not see. The mother of the boy, leaned over and pallid in her worry, lifted a glass of water from a night stand and held the rim to the boy’s lips. She said nothing and ran her hand across his banes. An older man, who Oko and Skee presumed to be the father, entered the room and sat down.

“How you doing, champ, huh?” His voice was low.

The boy’s eyes fluttered, then shut. The mother’s lower lip trembled.

Oko returned to the air and smacked Skee across the head.

“Ow! What you do dat’ for, Oko?”

“You say’s you practice magic not kill magic you stupid, stupid troll! Stupid!”

“I not know it kill magic, look.” Skee snapped his fingers and before him emerged a tome twice the size of his body. He found the desired page and turned it towards his brother. Oko read, his thick brows furrowed, and pulled his hears down to his knees as he let out a shriek. “You used da’ boom boom spell! DA BOOM BOOM SPELL!”

“Boom boom spell?”

Oko thrust the page in Skee’s face and Skee raised an eyebrow, read, and then laughed. “Oh, me dought it was the snizzle spell, not dat’ one. I read da wrong page”—

“We go now!” Oko seized Skee’s hand and flew them towards the open window.

“Why?”

“Powerful spell you use, you stupid, stupid troll! Human kill, troll kill! Stupid!

From behind them the boy began to moan, and then came the undeniable cadence of a struggled retch.

“What wrong, Oko?”

Oko didn’t answer. They passed over the sill and Oko did not cease.

“Go! Go! Stupid Skee, go!”

Against the walls came the smacks of wet, leaking remnants, and the chips and scratches of pebbles, rocks, bones. Skee looked behind him and over the sill hung the gray organ and mucus of the boy’s intestines, splattered and stained in dark, scarlet red.

“Stupid Skee,” Oko muttered. “Stupid, stupid Skee.”

Two mighty opponents glared at each other on the field of battle. One of them had a stomach ache.

“I don’t care if the stars realigned themselves to spell out her name,” the dragon roared, wishing he hadn’t eaten the other traveler he’d come across that morning. “I saw her first!”

“My uncle’s pumpkin patch you saw her first, dragon,” the wizard shouted back. “This girl has been chosen! If you steal her away to fawn over your ill-gotten treasure, the world will come to grave peril the likes of which your puny brain can’t comprehend.”

Though the wizard knew that the dragon’s brain was actually twice, maybe even three times as large as his own, that didn’t stop him from crossing his arms and fixing the beast with his most intimidating stare.

Between the two foes, the princess regretted her decision to run away this morning. “What do you mean I’ve been chosen?”

“Quiet, girl,” the wizard snapped.

“Wait a second,” the dragon said. “If we’re in such great danger as you claim, I’d like to hear more about it.”

“Don’t dare question my honesty, dragon. This girl is the only person alive who can rescue the Very Impressive Amulet of Great Significance and save us all from its terrible power.”

“And did the stars tell you how she’s to find it?” The dragon raised its scaly, ridged eyebrows. “It’s possible that she’ll find it in my hoard one day while she’s polishing.”

“Balderdash,” the wizard spat. “She’ll have to go on a long and dangerous quest, of course.”

“I don’t know that I like the sound of that…” the princess mumbled.

“I’ll save you, fair lady!”

The three of them turned their heads to see a lone knight charging headlong at the dragon and brandishing his sword. All eyes were on the blade as it cut a deathly arc toward the dragon’s midsection. The princess stifled a scream; the wizard held his breath; the knight gritted his teeth; the dragon still wished he hadn’t eaten the other traveler.

When the sword connected against the dragon’s hard scales, a loud clang echoed off the distant hills. The knight’s armor started to rattle from the reverberations, and before anyone could react, a mighty burp erupted from the dragon’s throat, killing the other three the instant they breathed a whiff of the poisonous fumes.

Meanwhile, inside the dragon’s stomach, an amulet worn around the traveler’s digesting neck reacted to the force of the belch. The dragon’s massive body exploded in a shower of thick, red blood as the Very Impressive Amulet of Great Significance released its power, and everyone suddenly forgot where they’d placed their right shoe.

From that point on, up until the very unraveling of time itself, human beings walked around with only one shoe on, always muttering about how cold or hard or ticklish the ground felt against the exposed sole of their right foot.

Poor, Poor Bob - 486 words



One hot day in July, an American man named Bob was standing at a bus stop when suddenly the MP3 player he was listening to exploded, causing his clothes to catch fire.


“Oh God,” he screamed, waving his arms around in pain. “It hurts so much!” Bob suddenly remembered a lesson his mother had taught him at a young age, so he dropped to the ground and started to roll. Accidentally, the man rolled into the busy street and was hit by a passing car. He was killed instantly and his guts were splattered all over the windshield of the car that had hit him, blinding the driver.


The driver, a very fat woman named Suzie, screamed in horror and tried to slam down on the breaks. She pressed the gas instead, and slammed into a nearby gas station at a hundred MPH. The resulting explosion killed Suzie (poor gal) and incinerated the station and everything within fifty yards of it.


The explosion somehow registered as a nuclear missile launch on the Russians defense systems, so they retaliated. Fifteen nuclear missiles exploded in several major US cities, and millions were killed. The US fired back at the Russians, but the interference from all the explosions caused the missiles to drop onto central Europe instead.

After the war, aliens from outer space decided to strike at the weakened human race. They came in great warships and incinerated most of the remaining human civilizations. The few remaining humans retreated to secret bunkers, intent on retaking their once beautiful planet. The aliens were too strong though, and the humans were forced to live underground.


After a few hundred years, the creatures once known as the human race emerged from their dark holes. They had evolved into a wicked cannibal subspecies. They swept down with force on the aliens, who were now living on the planet in peace. The war went on for a long ten years, until one day, during a huge battle involving the bulk of the cannibal and alien armies, God’s voice rang out over the torn land.


“Stop this at once,” he cried. “I’m tired of writing this story!” The aliens and cannibals looked and each other, and then turned their gazes toward God. Suddenly they were on him, nipping at his gigantic toes and pulling at his gigantic beard. God cried out in agony and exploded. This would have been the end of earth, but Satan intervened and shielded the planet and it’s inhabitants with his underworldly power. The dark lord grinned at the aliens and cannibals with an evil, toothless grin.


“Party at my house!” he bellowed. The aliens and cannibals cried out in glee and made their way into the burning pits of hell as quickly as they could. There they saw a bunch of famous faces, such as Paris Hilton and Bill Clinton, who partied with them for all eternity.



The End

Overindulgence 485 words



He opens the freezer. Frozen french fries. No, he thinks, no no no. Opens the fridge and sees soda. No. Bread, ehhh, but BUTTER-No!

To the cupboard? No...what's the point? Chips, chips, chips and chocolate. Dammit! No!

Need, distraction, now, he thinks. Clumsy stumble, fall on couch. Remote! where's the-fuck it, get up rush to TV, ON! Black screen zizzles to lazy color spectrals organizing themselves into...News! Okay!

Couch. Sit. Sees his reflection, so serious. Ugly. Pathetic. Stupid. Sitting there, trying to ignore, pretending, idiot with the TV on and just watching himself so frustrated, stressed out, self-conscious, so desperate to not look at that face. Plain nasty.

This isn't working, he decides. What else is there? The computer, the internet. Job searches, online shopping, all just reminders of his problem. Hideous. Who would hire him? Who could bare to sustain eye contact?

The fridge needs food, healthy food. But the grocery store has people, lots of people, thinking of food, wanting to eat, wanting NOT to have their appetites ruined by his aura of arsenic. This bulge of waste, this mountain of bird shit can cause violent stomach pains, vomiting and dry throat on sight.

He should at least go to a drug store, though. Some drugs might help.

What I really need is some exercise, he thinks, or a shower. Showers clean me up, make me feel fresh, make me feel better about myself. Maybe if I showered more often, and got on a treadmill or a bike or whatever it is healthy people use I wouldn't have this problem in the first place. Fuck I want some chips.

His stream-of-self-pity stops when he feels his bladder. My only friend, he thinks, walking to the bathroom. Whenever life gets me down, you let me empty you. You let me feel release. At least I can get something out of you.

He skips into the bathroom with the prideless squeel of an entertained infant (not unlike the moans he makes with a mouthful of cheetos), but he peeks at himself in the mirror. You piglet shit, he thinks, wipe that smile off your face! He forces a sad face. Cry, let it out, get those tears out! Release!

Frantic search for zipper, get it down! Fuck the toilet seat! He watches the yellow blast bounce off of it as he corrects his aim. Cry you filthy bastard, cry as you piss!

But he can't, and his nineteen seconds of heaven are over.

He looks at the seat. So many years of practice, he thinks, and this is what I amount to.

Another sustained look in the mirror. He can't take it anymore.

Your time is up, he thinks.

He leans forward and forces his fingers to nose.

Push, POP! The volcano explodes.

Push, lava oozes, keeps coming. The little, little death.

No more.

Finished. The job is done.

He lights a cigerette, and wipes off the mirror.

Gnomeplosion 498 words

When Sparkfiddle decided to break with hallowed gnomish tradition, eschewing subtle, tricky gnomish illusion magic for the much showier and more destructive elemental fire magic, he threw himself into the endeavor with his usual frenzied enthusiasm.

He added spicy dragonsbreath peppers to all of his meals. Whenever he wanted a snack - and gnomes constantly wanted snacks - he pulled out a pepper, chewed it up, turned bright red, and exhaled a little puff of fire. After a few days, his eyes watered constantly and he began to feel dehydrated. The entire village could hear his screams when he visited the outhouse. But Sparkfiddle was willing to suffer for greatness.

The enterprising gnome further fostered his inner fire by constant anger. He stomped about, sputtering in rage, until the other villagers avoided him, which only made him angrier. It was their duty to help him become the best fire mage ever. He couldn't believe they would abandon him in his critical training period.

He stomped away through the forest to the nearby Grand Library of Elven Sages, returning with a slightly-charred tome entitled Fire Magic Made Easy, which he immediately began reading. His studies were soon completed, and he began to cast his very first spell. The magic fire formed within him, but before he could complete the incantation, his mother slapped him, breaking his concentration.

"Sparkfiddle, I know you're not about to loose a fireball in the middle of Gnomeville! Get yourself to the woods with this nonsense!"

Fuming, magic flames within him burning for release, Sparkfiddle stomped off into the woods. He swallowed five more peppers and began his spell again. The fire grew within him. But before he could release its burning fury, he was swatted hard across the clearing. He looked up to see Oakleaf, an ancient treefolk.

"Silly gnome, I know you're not about to loose a fireball in the middle of my forest! Get yourself to the meadow with this nonsense!"

Sparkfiddle, fires raging within, rose and screamed as loud as he could. But since Oakleaf could squish him like a bug, the frustrated gnome stomped off to the meadow.

Once there, Sparkfiddle ate ten peppers and began the fireball spell again. He would be the most powerful fire mage ever! The magic swirled within him in an inferno. He laughed in triumph and uttered the last few phrases of the spell.

But no sound came out. Sparkfiddle had lost his voice. A faerie hovered nearby, pointing at him and laughing. It had stolen his voice! Sparkfiddle screamed in soundless rage, and the fire within him grew and grew, until his body could not contain it. Gnome, faerie and meadow disappeared in an orange-red blast so colossal it could be seen seven leagues away at the Grand Library. Arathiel, student of Taliethor the Wise Elven Sage, saw the flash and turned to his mentor, elven eyebrow lifted curiously.

"Gnomeplosion," replied Taliethor, shaking his head gently before resuming his contemplation of more important matters.

The Phoenix Myth Revisited (500 words)

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1159199

Collateral (360 words)

Another minute of shopping and John Reilly thought he might explode. Standing in the corner of McEvoy's shoeshop, he watched his wife-to-be trying on her fortieth pair of shoes in an hour. This is Saturday! I'm supposed to be at home, watching the game. Not bored out of his mind, watching his fiance try on every shoe in the goddamn store, while his two-year-old daughter followed her around like a lost puppy. That's it. I've had enough.

His fiance, Samantha, looked surprised to see him coming, and even more so to see the look on his face. Unintentionally, she burst out in laughter.

'It's not funny!'

Samantha couldn't control herself as a paroxysm of laughter overcame her. 'I'm sorry!' she said while regaining her breath. 'I'll only be another minute. I promise!'

'You said that an hour ago! Gimme the damn keys! I'm going to the car to listen to the match.'

Samantha laughed again, holding the keys in her outstretched arms and teasing him with them. 'Aw, poor John! Does he miss his football?'

'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that!'

'Take Kimberely with you. She looks tired,' she said, finally handing him the keys.

'That wouldn't have anything to do with her following you around all day, would it?'

'I'll be out in five minutes,' she replied, ignoring his jibe.

'They're selling flying pigs over in the supermarket, too. Maybe you'll get one while you're at it.'

Samantha laughed again as her husband-to-be scooped up their daughter and hastily made for the exit.

Stupid woman and her stupid shoes! Reilly thought as he sprinted across the street toward his car, careful to keep Kimberely safe. Ripping the keys out of his pocket, he clicked the zapper, quickly opened the back door, and set her into the baby seat.

Five minutes later, he eyed Samantha approaching with three shopping bags.

At the exact same moment, less than ten yards away, a red Vauxhall Cavalier exploded. Reilly turned one last time to see his fiance hurled back by the force, and then screamed when the flames engulfed his body, as Lower Market Street in Omagh became engulfed in pandemonium.

BREAK (283 words, I hope that's ok)

I was on the roof of my apartment building, backing towards the edge. I couldn’t take it anymore. James was walking towards me as I backed up, his hands motioning frantically. I couldn’t hear his words: the violent winter wind blew them away. But I knew what he was saying…

“NO! Stop! Sparky! Don’t, please, for me!”

His spiky blue hair was becoming less spiky, buffeted by the harsh gusts that threatened to blow me off the building. I staggered away from him numbly, my black t-shirt and jeans scarce protection against the cold. If I could have seen myself, I know my lips would have been a deep shade of blue, and the frost on my eyelashes fuzzed my view of the one man I had been able to hold on to.

“Sparky, please!”

He was crying. He wouldn’t run; he knew it would only speed my progression towards death.

“Sparky! For me! For your mom, your brother!” He was sobbing now. Distantly, I felt so sorry for him. “Sparky!”

It wasn’t him, wasn’t for or because of him. It was me, mine, all mine: my suicide. I was in control of it, my life, my death, my end, my completion. My aching numbness…it was mine, not his to beg from me.

“Sparky!”

A shotgun, across the city; an accident, a misfire. My chest exploded in a shower of quickly-freezing red. I was silent as I stumbled the last few steps to falling. My eyes glazed as I reflected that even that wasn't mine, even my own death was in the end not mine to control. Falling, breathing my last breath, I hear James bawling.

Oh God. I was wrong. “James -.”

One More Time (497)

I looked to the skies. They were solemn; a blend of dark grey and white with a fluster of god rays. The wind was warm enough to stand, but cold enough to invigorate you. I was almost there, though I was in no particular hurry. I was far from town, but I could still smell that coarse smoke that rose from the town; the smell of burning wood. It was a very peaceful town that never minded the events of the world, only the gentleness that was the people.

I can hear it now, a melancholy melody being played by a violin. I listened to it with excitement. It was one of my favorite tunes that I devoted to memory. I played it in my head on the way here. Then finally I cleared a large hill, and I could see her, standing by that lone tree by the cliff with a bow in one hand, dancing fluently across the violin. It was our favorite spot. It was a large clearing with a devastating view over the cliff of the forest.

I made little noise as I approached. She didn’t turn to look at me as she was focused on her playing. I knew she knew I was there though. I just sat and listened quietly until finally, her bow slowly slid across the violin, marking the end of the song. I applauded. She looked at me, but her face didn’t have that aura of happiness in it. It was indifferent, but I could see the truth in her eyes. She turned away and walked to the edge of the cliff, taking in the view.

“So you came,” she said.

“Yes, of course I did. Where else would I want to be now? Especially now.”

“Yeah...”

“...So you heard the news cast?”

“Yeah.”

“So...what are we going to do?”

“...I...I don’t think I want to do anything.”

“Why?”

“I love this town. I’ve been here my whole life. I know I always said I wanted to leave but...where else is there to go?”

“I understand. I’ll stay here with you.”

“No, you should go, please go.”

“This is my home too. I think this is how I want to remember it.”

I walked up behind her and folded my arms around her. Then I heard it; a loud, coarse sound ripping through the skies. I looked up and I saw nothing, but I knew it was there. I turned my head and rested it on her shoulder.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“Smile for me; just one more time.”

“Ok, like this?”

“Yes lovely. Now, play it just one more time, I would like to hear it.”

“Ok.”

Once again, she moved her bow across the violin and played the first note. I listened to it as intimately as I could. Her violin was resonating through the air.

First it was a blinding flash, then a deafening blow to the ears. The lone tree was torn asunder.

A Hero’s Death [500 words]

Nigel sat in the dirty bunker. The mortars had been slamming their position for what seemed like an eternity. He had been off shift for 3 hours and was attempting to sleep when someone stepped through the door. Nigel opened his eyes and saw Sam walk over to his bed and sit down.

“Well hiya Nigel!” Sam squealed with glee.

“Hello Sam.”

“How’s your foot Nigel?”

Nigel winced thinking about the grim wound. Two weeks prior Nigel had taken a bullet through the foot in no man’s land, though he made it back to safety the wound became infected.

“Well Nig-,” started Sam, interrupted by a mortar blast.

“Well Nigel, how’s it look, Nigel?” Sam spat out quickly, afraid of being interrupted by another mortar.

Nigel’s blood pressure spiked, he hated when people repeated his name and Sam did it religiously. Sam was the worst soldier in the whole platoon and somehow he was unhurt and in good spirits.

“Bullocks Sam, it is fucking bullocks!”

“I’m sorry to hear that Nigel. That’s some real bad news Nigel.”

“Hey Nigel, wanna hear some more bad news?”

“Not really.”

“Well its important Nigel, I really think you should know Nigel.”

“What is it?”

“Well Nigel, you see, I was by the officers barracks and I dropped my watch, right? So I was searching in the mud Nigel, grabbing and groping-“

“Damn it Sam, what’s the fucking news?” Nigel snapped irritably.

“Oh, sorry Nigel. I overheard the officers say the Germans are getting ready for an offensive Nigel, an offensive,” Sam repeated for emphasis, his eyes wide behind his thick cola bottle glasses.

“This is trench warfare, for Christ sakes, everyone is always on the offensive.”

“But Nigel aren’t you afraid to die?”

“We’re at war Sam, most of us are going to die. All you can do is what you think is right when you think it’s the right time to do it.”

“Geeze Nigel, you sure are smart. My daddy said I would be a bad soldier because good soldiers are supposed to have brains. I guess he was right eh Nigel? I’m not a very good soldier. Maybe one day I can be more like you Nigel.”

But Nigel wasn’t listening, he had realized not a single German mortar had gone off in the past couple of minutes, which was the longest break all week.

“Shit Sam, they’re coming over the top,” Nigel screamed over the sudden commotion outside. Looking over at Sam Nigel could tell he was scared shitless, the kid was clutching his rifle like a safety blanket. A metal object bounced into the room and settled in the middle of the floor. It was a hand grenade, Nigel stared at it with horror then snapped his eyes shut and waited to die.

A muffled explosion was heard over the gun shots. Realizing he wasn’t dead Nigel opened his eyes and saw the small, broken body that was Sam Yardley, crumpled over where the grenade used to be.

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1158613

The Death of Bunny

A Testimony of Care [500]

‘It was quiet and that was the only thing I noticed. Like in the movies. You know, before an explosion, and there’s that moment, that vacuum where there’s nothing but you and every other moviegoer’s anticipation. You know something’s coming. You don’t know what, but it’s big. Or like, like in a song, that beat between the bridge and the chorus where everyone’s listening but nobody’s talking and it’s just, silence, it’s just...

And it was completely out of the blue, you have to admit. For breakfast I’d made her toast and offered an egg, none of which she ate, but see: effort? I’m caring. For the forty years we’ve been together, sickness and health, I’ve cared. We have our difficulties, but who doesn’t? Some people can keep them hush and seem so very happy and Rockwell but aren’t those the ones most likely to kill their children? Didn’t I read that somewhere? I think it was The Mirror.

Anyway. We were crossing the road. We needed to do the shopping, which I’ll admit I promised to do a few days ago, but... mind like a sieve. We were by the Old Post Office and there wasn’t a car on the road. You could have coloured me every damn shade of surprised because since they made it a one-way system it’s been lethal. You could use the zebra and you’d still be playing Chicken with your life. We should have petitioned. We knew it would only cause trouble. I would have organised something but I’m disabled and nobody at the Council could give a toss about what I have to say. How many times have I asked for a grant for a downstairs bathroom? Jimmy got one like that –

Click!

– just because his father’s collar was pearly white and mine’s bloody steelworker blue.

So we were halfway there to the other side when Linda, she turned to me and she said, blunt as can be and you have to wonder if she was feeling entirely compos mentis, because she said “I’m tired, Thomas, I’m just so fucking tired.”

I looked at her and I blinked, as you do, I blinked and my mouth half fell open and my eyelids curled. “Well, do you want to go back, watch some Countdown? Didn’t you sleep well?”

I thought her face was about to blister. Before anything else was said, a car came whacking round the corner and I tell you if there was a speed camera on that stretch, that driver would be out of pocket. She pushed me and my chair onto the pavement and into a lamppost. Thrown to the waste side.

“You could accomplish so much," she said, "but you’ve resigned yourself to this pathetic little role and I’m just so tired of your fucking chair!”

Off she went, don’t know where, phone’s off, could be in a ditch, could be on a beach. Forty years.

Doesn’t she care about me?’

The Doctor’s receptionist stared. ‘So, Mr... Thomas... What?’