Thread: Try to Scare Me

The rules of this game is as following:

Try to scare me in five simple, short declarative sentences, no more.

Whether it's fiction or non-fiction, I don't care.

Whoever can get my hairs to stand up, wins a prize.

Just not possible.

Sometimes, I get this urge, this almost sexual compulsion, to strangle someone. To feel their body writhe desperately, ever weaker, until it becomes still. You live far away from me, Truth-Teller. No one will ever know it was me. See you Sunday.

But I'll try.

The room is a sea of ink; the windows and doors are boarded. I put my finger to my lips and tell myself to be silent. There's something in the attic, nobody believes me, but there's something in there. I can hear the scuffling footsteps and look up to where I should see the ceiling. I strike a match and see my reflection on the computer monitor. In one hand the flame on the match stick is nearing my finger and thumb and in my other, the gun is resting against my forehead.

My house is empty. Clean and unobtrusive, it wreaks of loneliness, but no one knows this except my next door neighbors. Who are they to know that I consider them friends. I've spoken to them once in the ten years I've lived here. It was a pleasant diversion.

I peel off her skin like a wet coat and try it on for size. I button the cuffs, the tapered ends of her arms where her hands used to be and zip up the stomach. Then I fold the collar, bending and tugging her neck around mine. I wring out the ribs and watch as the blood drops kiss one another on the hardwood floor. I love Mother's Day.

We had bear bells, talked, possessed no food, and stuck to the hiking trails. A beautiful Alaskan summer day. My wife and I stopped and chatted on a bridge above a fast running stream. We then continued back to the Nature Center. My wife never saw him, I barely did.

I watch Gwen start removing her clothing as she get ready for bed once again, the same process she has done every night this week. I have my bag of tools beside me at the ready in the empty passenger seat of my van. The lock cutters to get her apartment, the vial of chloroform to initially stun her, the ball gag to keep her quiet, and my assortment of knives for me to create my art. The knives my favorite; they are the brushes I use to paint my canvas of beautifully crafted and arranged blood, organs, and limbs. Gwen will be very special but not my first victim, I perfected my artist method years ago; Gwen will be my best because my latest one is always better than all the others before it.

Your mind, your soul, is a manifestation of millions of electric impulses within your head. A wide array of sensory equipment turn outside sensations into these electrons that are fed into your mind, and then processed into an adequate reaction, generally known as your choice. All of these processes, and every single process in reality (to the subatomic level and beyond) shares a common trait of not being random, but rather calculable. Meaning that every motion in the universe is predictable, including the motion of photons to your eyes, and the motion of electrons in your head, a mathematical equation that started with the Big Bang.
Your so called free will is nothing more than a carefully crafted lie, because your every choice, your every thought, your every creation, was made in your stead long before you were born, long before the Universe was born.

It's comforting to know that there is no free will. That means what the Bible says is true. There can only be free will if in fact the Big Bang is true; think about it.

The winner of the "Try to Scare Me Competition of 07" is -- (drumroll)

SnowWhite.

Well done, honey. If you keep writing in that unflinching tone of yours, you'll apt to give someone a heart attack. Sometimes the characters motivation (or reason) is as important, if not more, than how she kills; that will certainly enhance your scene, and make each blood drenched fingertips even more agonizing to read. A true writer will be able to coerce the readers into rooting for the main character--even if they know what your protaganist is doing is inherently wrong. Nonetheless, well done.

The prize is two words courtesy of Truth-Tellers wise voice:

"Keep Writing."

Everyone give SnowWhite a round of applause. She got potential to become a great writer.