Purple

Judge ye no man, for no man is seen truly as he is.

The Labyrinth

He cocked the handgun, sliding the first bullet into the chamber, in close to his stomach trying not to create an echo in the long aisle. Looking to the right down the hallway, his dog tags rattled lightly on the guns barrel, making his breath freeze and his eye go wide in the semi-darkness.

There, he heard it, a rustling on the floor around the corner. It frightened him, his hands shook, more rattling. Damn he wished them tags were under his wife-beater.

Another sound, louder, closer, he bit his lip and his eyes swiveled madly. Crotch muscles loosed involuntarily and urine soaked quickly into his camo pants, its ripe stench flooding his nostrils. A wet spot spread readily down his crotch, warm at first but cooling quickly.

That sound again, closer, he whimpered and tucked the gun in tighter. He leaned his back up against the cement wall and crouched down on his feet. His thick soled, army issued boots swishing loudly on the floor as he shifted position. Piss ran slowly down his pant leg, lukewarm and honourless.

A bit closer it came he could here its nostrils inhaling deeply. It could smell him, his pissed camos, and the sweat that poured from his muscled and fearful body. Ha, laughter stifled in his throat, irony struck him in his last minutes.

It growled just beyond the corner, its rank breath coming in gusts around the wall.

Time to go out both balls in the air; he would show himself a man. He shoved against the wall pushing himself across to the other side of the way, gun out in shaking hands. He shot once then twice, the fluid motion of the semi-auto creating a smooth BLAM-whisk. He laughed freely now the sound mad and high-pitched he was alive.

Eight shots he got off, before he died bleeding, it feeding. Eight shots from that gun in trembling hands, the hands of his shit frightened body in his pissed up camos. A mess is what he was, but eight shots, he at least scared it a little.

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phurst

He cocked the handgun, sliding the first bullet into the chamber, in close to his stomach trying not to create an echo in the long aisle. Looking to the right down the hallway, his dog tags rattled lightly on the guns barrel, making his breath freeze and his eye go wide in the semi-darkness.

There, he heard it, a rustling on the floor around the corner. It frightened him, his hands shook, more rattling. Damn he wished them tags were under his wife-beater.

Another sound, louder, closer, he bit his lip and his eyes swiveled madly. Crotch muscles loosed involuntarily( delete previous and use bladder let loose as I don't remember 'crotch muscles' as part of human physiology.) and urine soaked quickly into his camo pants, its ripe stench flooding his nostrils. A('The' not 'A' ) wet spot spread readily down his crotch(Cotch again. Find a synonym), warm at first but cooling quickly.

That sound again, closer, he whimpered and tucked the gun in tighter. He leaned his back up against the cement wall and crouched down on his feet. His thick soled, army issued boots swishing (army boots swish or scrape?)loudly on the floor as he shifted position. Piss ran slowly down his pant leg, lukewarm and honourless.(is this more piss, the same piss, or old piss? Don't beat a dead horse)

A bit closer it came he could here its nostrils inhaling deeply. It could smell him, his pissed camos(again, find a synonym), and the sweat that poured from his muscled and fearful body(what's a fearful body? Use something more visula and actual). Ha, laughter stifled in his throat, irony struck him in his last minutes.(What irony?)

It growled just beyond the corner, its rank breath coming in gusts around the wall.

Time to go out both balls in the air; he would show himself a man. He shoved against the wall pushing himself across to the other side of the way, gun out in shaking hands. He shot once then twice, the fluid motion of the semi-auto creating a smooth BLAM-whisk. He laughed freely now the sound mad and high-pitched he was alive(this whole sentance is either 3 seperate ones or needs some commas and 'and's).

Eight shots he got off,(He got off eight shots before...) before he died bleeding, it feeding. Eight shots from that gun in trembling hands, the hands of his shit frightened body(shit frightened body? If you have to make the story longer to get in all the visuals you want then make it longer.) in his pissed up camos.(you should know what I'm thinking by now) A mess is what he was, but eight shots, he at least scared it a little.


Funny little flash fiction just work it a bit.

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