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04-03-06 | Revenge (1 Viewer)

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silverwriter



I think the subject is pretty self-explanatory. With April Fool's just gone and passed, I got to thinking about revenge. But by no means are you expected or limited to revengeful pranks. Write about any sort of revenge, any genre you like. Just keep it within the limits and have fun. :)

Judges:
Oasis Writer
LoneWolf
Aprilrain
FollowingShadow
Rico

PM me if you would like to judge or cannot judge.

Thank you to Ruben for the image.
 
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A

avatarOfDave

Peace

Damaged Peace
by David Erwin

Aaaah, yes, this is it! Finally! Another sigh came from deep in my breast - deep deep breath drawing air, bringing tingles of life throughout. Waves of goosebumps! I could feel them! They were divine. I smiled, then laughed.

For a second there, I thought everything was going horribly wrong. I thought this would turn out to be another trap he forced me into. Another action not my own. Another little death. But no, I realized what to do. This… would be perfect, simply perfect.

I laughed again, doubled over! I couldn't help myself and for the first time in years, I didn't want to. I didn't feel compelled to. Struck by a muse, I glanced away from the peculiar look on my companion's face. "This was the first time I've ever really laughed!" Understandably, he didn't respond. He was a bit tied up at the moment.

For the first time I was free. I was alive. I was myself and only myself. The mephitic substance that he had thrust into me throughout the eternity of my preadolescence was gone. Only I remained. I didn't think it would be like this at all.

I found to my surprise, it wasn't even about this draining piece of flesh that shriveled in my hand. 'This thing', I thought, 'really is quite pathetic.' It wasn't the way he brused or bled, as I'd thought. And what most surprised me was that it wasn't about his cries or protests either. I couldn't detect much of him in them, only an animal. Wild screaming, the wrong kind of pain. All he would do was ask over and over why I didn't just kill him. Maybe he was trying to fool me. Maybe he really didn't understand. But I knew from his techniques that he was far more than an animal, more than a body. There was much more to him. I saw it every night when I closed my eyes.

"Sorry dad." He hadn't killed me, not, anyway, straight up like that. “You’ll have to do that one yourself.” It wouldn't have been right.

I smiled, struck again by grace. I had just spoken to him honestly, straight forward like a person. No condescension, no hatred, no fear! God, at last; a promise fulfilled. The root of all my wishes, granted!

I moved in close, my naked body against his, and gave him a good long whiff of the perfume that had always brought out the coldness in his eyes. Smell calls out the most obstreperous memories. Have fun with them, dad. It was time for his eternity. He would be found (oooh I really hoped it would be mum!) but I would lie here on him forever. It would only take me one more thrust to put myself into him as he me. I could never escape, neither would he. The knife felt hot in my neck. His nose faced down so I was pretty sure he wouldn’t drown.
 
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Ruben

Senior Member
The Poet


“I care an eternal sin
so deep within
this emphatic heart”

He, with kid gloves, put down his pen, and lay it parallel with the paper bearing his first stanza. Pacing his breath, he let his poetic mind flow under closed lids. He was always more creative when adrenaline raced through his veins. Such ecstasy he got from shocks – big shocks, which he sought with great vigor.

Earlier, he got a boost when he stumbled upon his sweetheart with his best friend under sheets. Being cliché as it might, it thrilled him beyond passion. But the excitement didn’t last long, since his feelings for the girl never had been strong, and thus the sensation of her betrayal couldn’t either. He needed more, and found more.

I, the muse under blood-soaked linen, had felt his revenge.


[an]If you don’t understand the ‘plot’:
The Poet had killed (or severely injured) his girlfriend, or possibly his best friend, to get inspiration.
Word count:
135 words
Extra:
dilbert20122125060314.gif

You're welcome
[/an]
 
A

aprilrain

Dog Days

I belong to no one, and I belong to everyone. Most of the big, smiling people in these houses leave out food for me and pat me on the head on their way to work. The little ones rub my back, toss things for me to get (annoying, actually, but I don’t mind), and let me lick the really cold, sweet cream that trickles down their hands. I sleep under the porch at the end of the street, but mostly I just walk around and make sure everyone I see is someone I recognize.

My life here would be perfect but for one boy: Caleb. When the big people are around, he pets me and says things like “ahh, nice dog.” But he often seeks me out later when no one is around, not even the little ones. At first, he kicked at me, threw rocks, and yelled names until spit flew from his angry mouth. For a long time, I found it easy to dodge him, but his persistence was resilient. A few days ago, he grabbed me and drug me behind his house, tied something to my tail, and let me go. I thought the assault was over, but just a few seconds later, the thing on my tail exploded, sending a blinding surge of pain through me. I screamed and ran as fast as I could, listening in fright and then in hatred to his peals of laughter.

I see Caleb now walking toward me on the sidewalk, and I flatten against the earth under the prickly branches of some bushes. It’s important he doesn’t see me until I’m ready. Just as Caleb is a few feet away from the bushes, I see what I had been hoping for. I wait just a few seconds longer. Finally, Caleb is directly in front of me, and remaining in the shadows of the bush, I bark savagely from the depths of my belly. Caleb recoils and, in a reflex of surprise, jumps out into the street. The rumble of the garbage truck, right on time, masks the noise of my barks. Neither seen nor heard in the ensuing chaos, I slink away from the bushes and trot happily across the backyard.
 

Oasis Writer

Senior Member
Writingforums Ruined My Life

[an] Okay, I know, this is a few words over 500, but, since it is, I'm pleading ignorance and saying that I thought it had to be at least 500 words. I didn't go over 550 though. So, all be proud. Also, THIS IS JUST A JOKE-WRITTEN SUBMISSION! :D I can not stress that enough. Enjoy! :D[/an]

Writingforums Ruined My Life


We’ve all heard the phrase, “Myspace ruined my life.” Well, for me, it’s ‘Writingforums ruined my life.’ How could they do that to me? Well, let me monologue.

When I first came to Writingforums, I was fresh meat. So is everyone when they’re new. But I was growing fresh meat that wanted something. My passion for that site. I wanted to be a moderator, so badly too. But I was rejected, shot down by “The Enema Eight.” Beatrice Boyle, daniela, eleutheromanic, hollyoake, nae411, Pawn, Penelope, and rcallaci. The conspiring eight that made my dream a nightmare.

I hated it. I wanted my vengeance for destroying my vision. I had to. How would I go on? I had to get each one of those eight back…or at least gain a seat of power and control them. But how?

First thoughts were to let them die out. I’d take control when they were dead. However, Plan A was flawed, because when I typed there names into Death Clock , it showed the last of them dieing in 2078. Although, my accuracy may have been faulty as well, since I didn’t know anything about the eight of them, so I merely typed in that they were all four foot zero and weighted three hundred and fifty pounds. Since I wasn’t keen to waiting seventy-two years for power, I took the plan back to the drawing board.

Plan P was excellent, but I was shot down once again. I had planned to infiltrate their ranks by sneaking into the building via ventilation shaft, sneak around, slowly taking down all of the head honchos, and finally getting to the final boss…Chrispian, the Big-Head-Awesomous-Masterful-Boss of them all. But, as I said, the plan was a failure, because I realized that I’d never be able to go through with my massive espionage plan without a Tuxedo, because I’m broke.

Then I finally got to Plan Z and I was desperate. I planned to be a ‘good member’ and work my way up in the ranks, slowly gaining every ones trust and faith. I’d be extremely hard, frustrating, annoying, brown-nosingly maddening, and to some it up, very tough. But if I wanted to get my level up to God-Mode, I had to plan.

So, just like every evil genius in the movies, I’ll monologue my evil plan. :twisted:

First, I must gain the respect of the members. Especially the newbies. They are like children, the future of Writingforums. But it wasn’t only the newbies I needed. I needed support from some of the major posters. Some like silverwriter, Dephere, aprilrain, Titania, and several more. I would wait for the right moment to attack, then have all of us riot Writingforums, causing chaos. I would then hack into the server and make me the proper king of Writingforums. I’d rule with a green-thumb and a black-laced whip.

Then, when I finished watching my favorite episode of Kim Possible… I mean James Bond… yeah… I noticed something important after posting this. It wasn’t that every time the bad guy monologues his plan, he loses, or a simpler way to hack the system and take over. It was after posting this monologue… that I noticed… my Edit doesn’t work.
 
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Oasis Writer

Senior Member
[an] I knew people would get the humor I was aiming for. :lol: I'm glad you last two liked it. I had editted twice before Ruban pointed out my mistakes. Stupid thing takes forever to loud it. And for the heck of it, I'm editting all my posts on here.[/an]
 
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Blackhawk_t

Senior Member
They're Back
498 words


The frosty blades of the dew-covered grass glistened in the morning sun as I looked on from the kitchen window. A gurgling coffee pot beckoned me to pour a fresh cup of the hot brew, its aroma hovering in the air.

I didn’t see them at first, but one by one, they appeared, motionless and hidden amongst the lawn. Entering the bedroom, I roused my wife and ordered her to stay in the house.

“What is going on?” She asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“They’re back.” My deep southern drawl reverberated inside the room.

“Who’s back?”

“Look out the window.”

“No, not again!” She said in a hushed whisper, throwing off the covers. “I’ve got to check on the kids.” Stepping through the doorway, she paused. “What are you going to do?”

I took a long determined breath and looked up from the floor. “I’m going to end this today, right here, and right now.”

Sneaking out the side door and into the garage, I grabbed a large canister and some undiluted poison to mix inside it. They knew I was home, they had been expecting me.

“Ya’ll are back again I see. Last year was yours, but this year is mine.” My yells echoed down the block, acknowledged only by the neighbor’s heads peaking out from behind their blinds. They couldn’t help me and we all knew it.

More than a thousand to one outnumbered me, but I had to make a stand. If not for myself, than for my children and my future grandchildren if that were to ever happen. I would find out today.

I unscrewed the lid of the plastic canister, carefully pouring in the deadly broth, its stout odor burning my nasal cavities. I needed to get to the water faucet, but a few of them lingered close by, and if I didn’t find some way to dilute it, I wouldn’t have any chance at all.

I really need to see the doctor about my overactive bladder, but for now it was a sign from up above. Casually stepping behind the camping trailer, I fixed the problem.

Swishing around the newly compounded ingredients, I stepped out into the open. Methodically I pumped the small handle on the lid, listening as bursts of air exited the magic wand connected by surgical hose.

I looked at the window behind me, giving a confident nod to my wife and children who were safe from harm behind the double pane window. My heart pounded erratically and I was scared, but the whole neighborhood was depending on me.

“This is my day boys!” I yelled, loud enough for them all to hear me. “You have exactly three seconds to leave.”

“One,” I lifted the sprayer off the ground. “Two,” The wand gripped firmly in my hand. “Three!” Charging out into the lawn, the nozzle flailed wildly, dousing everything with copious amounts of volatile liquid. This was more than just payback. This was revenge. “I HATE WEEDS!”
 

Ruben

Senior Member
[ot]
Oasis Writer said:
[an] I knew people would get the humor I was aiming for. :lol: I'm glad you last two liked it. [/an]
Me too 8-[ I just loving being an ass. Sorry I made you use your edit button, hehe \\:D/
Edit(to Blackhawk): Whaha xD[/ot]
 
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Jiieden

Senior Member
Incarnate

Milking It For All It's Worth

This is a story about final straws, suicide bombers, and clashing ideologies. And cows. Lots of cows.

There were so many cows, in fact, that one must begin with the cows. An entire field of them – perhaps five hundred strong! A great majority, yet held hostage to the whims of their farmer. Such a dictatorship would be immediately condemned by the UN, but the cows were unaware of their rights – no one had read their rights to them (truly, a deplorable situation)!

The farmer selected, upon occasion, one or two of them to eat- a situation which was tolerated because of factions and rivalries in the cow herds, which prevented coherent action. But by chance, the farmer selected a cow of saintly character – a Mother Theresa, if you will – and that was that. The cows united to plot their revenge.

So it came to pass that the farmer returned for the next victim. And by unanimous action, the cows fled to the opposite side of the field – except for one cow, apparently too stupid to move. The farmer smiled at this ‘easy meat’, and caught it. He carried it off to the abattoir, unaware that the cow was not a cow at all. In fact, it was the vehicle of the cow’s redress, which they would have in blood.

Arriving at the abattoir, the farmer rapidly discovered that the cow was in fact a robot cow, and no real cow at all. It was made of metal, and virtually unstoppable. First, it killed the farmer by eating the man’s rump. The blood gushed everywhere, and the other abattoir-men panicked. One tried to electrocute the cow, but this merely caused the machine to go ‘mad’.

The police arrived on the scene with their guns and sirens to find a cow slavering at the mouth, blood dripping from it’s jaws. Of course, they shot it to pieces. And it did indeed die (if a robot can die).

Yet the cows were not finished with their revenge. They had secretly filled the robot cow with bombs. It exploded as the police investigated it, displaying the radical fundamentalist extremist tendencies of the cows in a most visceral and deplorable manner.

Escalation began – McDonald’s cut burger prices, the cows sought alliances with yaks, goats and llamas. As the entire situation spiralled out of control, some people attempted to negotiate. But the cows had become incensed (‘seen red’ so to speak), and refused to back down. One announced that hope for reconciliation was ‘udderly hopeless’ until the cow’s demands were met (the establishment of cow rights, compensation for their exploitation and a sovereign state known as Bovinistan). Only in India was the peace kept.

Years later, the event inspired a movie named Revenge of the Cows which was deemed a masterpiece exposition of the struggle for bovine rights; portraying both sides in all their brutality and humanity/mammality, it won Oscars for its controversial yet considerate take on those dark, rickety days.

495 words

[an] Obviously I've 'edited' my submission by changing it 100%. I hope that's alright - but this one is probably alot better. I apologize for the puns. [/an]
 
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Hodge

pliable
Senior Member
He Doth Protest Too Much

He Doth Protest Too Much



Chris adored women. He loved nearly everything about them—their warm, soft bodies; their flowing hair, in every shade and hue imaginable (he especially liked blondes); and of course their petiteness. Nope, Chris couldn’t think of much he didn’t like about a woman. Well, there was one thing. He didn’t like when they resisted.

Not that it mattered a whole lot if they did. He was stronger than they were, and alcohol (with the occasional roofie) helped wear down that resistance to virtually nothing.

It was as such this night. He had picked up one of those shy girls—they acted reluctant but he knew they wanted it more than he did, although in this case he wasn’t so sure. Her auburn hair (not brown, not red, but auburn!), slender figure, and especially her green eyes had captivated him, but after the fourth beer he was in total control. He’d taken her out back, and needless to say, it was a wild night.

The girl was lying in the alley, her panties pulled down and a mess seeping from her onto the ground, unconscious, and Chris felt pretty good about himself. He always did.

But as he walked down the street he felt dizzy and weak all of a sudden.

Too much booze, Chris thought, even though he’d only had two. I better not strain myself too much.

He decided to have just one more go before going home. Usually on nights like this he’d pick up three, maybe even four or five chicks and force his irresistible charm on them, but not tonight.

Outside the L’Aphrodisiaque, a woman with auburn hair and lovely green eyes (Chris was getting lucky with these rare hotties tonight!) leaned against the wall, puffing a cigarette. She could almost have been the other girl’s twin, if Chris didn’t know better.

She smiled as he approached. “Hey, big boy,” she said. “If I said you had a hot body, would you hold it against me?”

This is too easy, Chris thought. Far too easy.

He went for it just the same. Two beers and a little dissolvable pill later, he was in another alley standing over another unconscious girl, her panties pulled down and a mess (albeit a smaller one) seeping from her onto the ground.

But now Chris felt very tired, very sick. He decided to call it quits for the night and ambled back home, stopping every so often to catch his breath or to hold onto a streetlight for balance.

“I must be getting the flu,” he mumbled.

Stepping into the apartment had never been sweeter. Chris immediately took off his clothes and went into the bathroom to look for some cold pills, but before he could open the medicine cabinet he caught a glimpse of himself. Pale, sunken cheeks, bloodshot and lackluster eyes—and was that a spot of gray in his hair? This was one nasty flu bug.

Chris drank three caps of Nyquil and crawled into bed. It was a very warm summer night, yet he shivered as he tried to sleep.

“Chris?” he heard a voice say.

His eyes snapped open, and he saw a tall, succulent brunette standing over him.

“Ready for another round?” she said, grinning. He found her incredibly beautiful and alluring.

Chris didn’t say a word as the woman removed the sheets and climbed on top of him. He didn’t say a word as he realized her hair wasn’t brown, but auburn. Nor did he say anything when the woman’s eyes turned red and he could almost see the outline of horns protruding from her head.

In fact, Chris never said anything again.


[an]Five Hodge kudos points to the person who can identify which mythical entity is featured above. Save up a hundred Hodge kudos points and earn a free compliment![/an]
 

Ruben

Senior Member
[ot]
Hodge said:
[an]Five Hodge kudos points to the person who can identify which mythical entity is featured above. Save up a hundred Hodge kudos points and earn a free compliment![/an]
A Succubus! W00t! 95 points to go\\:D/[/ot]
 

AshBeanNun

Senior Member
A Secure Family
Word Count: 500

Annie turned the faucet on and put her hands under the water. It was cold at first but got hotter, so hot that the sink steamed and her hands turned sunburn red. But she held them there, rubbing back and forth on her hands the sweet pink soap from the scalloped dish.

She washed the suds down the drain with the burning water. A rough dish towel served to dry her hands, and she dropped it onto the dish rack, where a heap of plates scabbed over with old lasagna awaited proper scrubbing. There hadn’t been time for house chores, not since her parents had arrived. They filled the house with a nauseating miasma of I Told You So’s and We Knew It Would Turn Out This Way’s and You Deserve It’s. Normal life had been stalled for their false sympathy, hidden by Annie’s painful separation and the premise that her children were in desperate need of a secure family.

A secure family. The house would soon be under contract. The soap–even the soap dish–might come with her. But not the sunny kitchen with white laminate flooring, and the ceiling fan that wobbled no matter how often Annie tried to balance the blades, and the window over the dirty, soapy, stainless steel sink. Those would belong to another naive couple.

Outside, her daughters played with grandpa. He was on his hands and knees in the grass. A granddaughter hugged his back and another clung to his neck. He would rear up, pawing with clenched hands like a horse, and trot across the yard with his ponderous load. Angry thoughts bit at Annie–They are my children! They have no right to take them away! –and she glared in animosity at her father. I am their secure family!

He felt her gaze. The look he returned, as the girls giggled and pulled at his neck and hair, was smug. She could hear him whispering his victory to her: You were a rebellious child. You brought upon us countless worries and troubles and endless misery. And now you have your own misery. We won! We had the last laugh! We are the ones who survived! Be bitter on your own and let us enjoy our revenge.

Annie’s mouth tightened to a line. One part of her begged for an escape, and the other flared up against him, bright and hot in anger. If she had turned, she would have seen her mother watching her from the kitchen doorway. Her mother stared at her knotted shoulders, her wrinkled clothes, her sore dry arms. And it was a wonderment to her–to them both–that Annie did not fight against their accidental revenge. Instead she turned her head back to the sink, back to the secure home life chores, and began to scrub. She scrubbed at the scabbed dishes with burning hot water that steamed the window and turned her hands sunburn red. And the sweet pink soap was swallowed to nothing in her relentless sunburnt scrubbing.
 

darthwader

Senior Member
TASTE FOR BLOOD​


385 words​


I followed this man for many blocks, trying to stay out of hearing range. It wasn’t easy. Slowly, ever so slowly, I moved behind him, the scent of his breath thick in the air; hell, I could track him down just from that smell alone. I don’t know what it was about this day, or this man, but never had I felt so joyous about the prospect of stabbing someone, of satisfying my thirst for blood.

The sun was getting low, and a misty rain was slowly beginning to fill the air, beading on the dried patches of oil which dotted the road. Perfect, I thought, if this rain gets any heavier, he won’t be able to hear me until it’s too late. I gradually sped up, slowly gaining ground on my prey. My future victim’s trench coat was flailing in the wind, and I too was being buffeted around by the strong air currents, but still, nothing could keep me from my prize.

Practically salivating now, I was thrilled to see the rain come bucketing down in a torrential wall of chilly water. Of course, I never did care for rain myself, so I swiftly moved under the nearest shelter, watching as my quarry did the same.

Apparently resigning himself to the fact that he could not reach his destination without getting drenched, the man wandered three buildings over to a café, easing into one of the black, steel chairs. The area was crowded with people, a veritable smorgasbord of that precious crimson liquid that I loved so much.

Between the rain and the incessant chatter of the masses, my chosen target was completely unable to hear me; I was as good as invisible. Casually I drifted up to this man, gleefully preparing myself. Without any hesitation, I sank the razor-sharp spike into his neck, thrilled at the blood which gushed forth. However, it seemed that I underestimated this man’s awareness; I looked up to see a hand rushing at me, but it was too late for me to do anything.



A man sat in a chair at a local café, running a hand along his neck. “Damn mosquito, that’s gonna itch like hell.” He then looked down at the smear of blood which ran along his palm. “Oh well, at least I got you back.”
 
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Ruben

Senior Member
[ot]AshBean - wow, very special, I liked it
darthwader - I love the originality! xD

Keep on writing![/ot]
 
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silverwriter

[ot]glad to see all who have entered so far. keep them coming.[/ot]
 
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