Showing posts with label Exit Wounds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Exit Wounds. Show all posts
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
Exit Wounds by Meg Burrows
Sometimes words don't get into their lanes. They turn a U bend and get stuck in one way traffic. Mine certainly do, you've always known this. This particular time its 6pm and we're cutting it fine. Discussions have split themselves into statements, one easy declaration after the other. We're sitting in the brake lights, fighting about little tittle tattle that battles with things we should have flung away with your thesaurus, you know, the one that made everything so damn complicated.
Exit Wounds by Solomon Blaze
The sky is so beautiful.
The sun is bright; hot on my face.
The grass is green; the refreshing scent of morning dew in the crisp, clean air.
:
:
:
- SMACK!
Derik - dark hair, caramel skin, bourbon eyes, blood soaked features - jolts awake with a horrifying shock, tied to a wooden chair and surrounded by the smell of rot and death, ‘What the fu-‘
- SMACK!!
Darkness and spots, Christ, what the fuck is going on, where the fuck am I?!
Derik’s eyes open themselves cautiously, with fear-filled anticipation and looks into the eye of the gun holding him hostage. The gun lowers it’s gaze, revealing the one person Derik had expected – and hoped not – to see: Jason.
Oh fucking hell…
‘J-Jason…I’msosorryJasonpleasedon’tdothis, I’M SORR-‘
Jason - dark hair, crooked nose, cold, colourless eyes - cocks the gun, ‘Shut, the fuck, up, Derik.’ He says in a nervously disgusted way.
‘Jason, pleas-‘
‘SHUT UUUUP!!!’ Screams Jason as he tries to shove the killer into Derik’s soul.
Derik cries.
Derik is hysterical; snot pouring out of his nose, tears streaming.
Derik gets a hard punch round the temple that makes his whole body ring with pain.
Derik groans. ‘Why?’ he whimpers like a dying dog.
Jason scoffs his laughter, ‘why?! Are you seriously fucking asking me why? WHY DO YOU FUCKIN’ THINK?!’
‘…it’s her right…?’
Another punch, this time in the stomach.
…gasping for breath Derik coughs up blood and feels true terror – taking this opportunity to scan his surroundings; it’s an abandoned asylum – the ‘Kraken Asylum for the Clinically Insane’ to be exact; I’m going to die here, aren’t I…here, really…?
The asylum is covered in rust, dirt, blood, graffiti and god only knows how many bodily fluids, dried and stained over the many years of empty isolation. The walls are a horrible grey – or would be if not for the tapestry of disease that makes up the decoration, there’s a dripping coming from somewhere behind Jason, meat hooks hang from the ceiling, swinging tauntingly with the draft that seems to whisper, ‘run…’
The sobbing starts.
Jason’s fuse blows. ‘I WILL SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP!’
Warmth spreads across the inside of his jeans; he’s shit and pissed himself, Oh God…
‘Jay, you have to believe me,’ chokes Derik in desperation, ‘I never laid a finger on her, I w-‘
‘And I’m supposed to just believe you?!’ barks Jason in frenzied outrage – he feels nausea to the point of vomiting…
Jason Vomits. All over Derik’s lap, leaning on his knees for support.
– BANG!!
The gun accidentally fires, causing both men to throw themselves instinctively away from the blast; Jason skidding on his back, the sting of rusty grit tearing its way through his jacket and skin. Derik has flung himself backwards, cracking the back of his head on the decrepit concrete floor.
A small cloud of dust has gathered around Derik. Jason is no stranger to the man’s sickening skills; with the gun still in his hands, he moves to kill a man he once loved, because of a woman he once loved.
Stepping over the helpless Derik, who writhes in pathetic agony, Jason cocks the gun, loading another bullet into the canon he carries, sticks the thing back where it belongs.
Derik stares into Jason’s eyes, those cold, condemning eyes, and feels his own pain reflected back at him, I did this…I deserve this…, he lies to himself.
‘Any last words, you backstabbing piece of shit cunt?’ Jason says definitively.
Derik tries to look through the rage and suffering; through to the soul of a man whom was once such a sweet boy, and says, ‘I’m g-‘
- BANG!!!
But there is no sweet boy; there is nothing anymore, nothing of a life that did so little to cause so much chaos, just blood; blood and loss...
...Jason’s breathing is shallow and rapid, as he starts to realize exactly what he’s done, ‘what?!’ he shouts to the faceless mess beneath his stature...but there is no answer, there never will be again.
‘What?! WHAT?! WHAT WERE YOU GONNA’ SAY?!?’
Derik’s skull has been blown away by the force of a Dessert Eagle, stolen from a father by a grief crazed son.
Jason cries.
‘I didn’t mean for this...’ he spits through flooded orifices, ‘I just...I...’
Jason wails, then vomits all over the decimated remains of a life long forgotten, that he now cradles in his arms like a still born baby;
Sobbing;
Whimpering;
Dying............................................................
The sun is bright; hot on my face.
The grass is green; the refreshing scent of morning dew in the crisp, clean air.
:
:
:
- SMACK!
Derik - dark hair, caramel skin, bourbon eyes, blood soaked features - jolts awake with a horrifying shock, tied to a wooden chair and surrounded by the smell of rot and death, ‘What the fu-‘
- SMACK!!
Darkness and spots, Christ, what the fuck is going on, where the fuck am I?!
Derik’s eyes open themselves cautiously, with fear-filled anticipation and looks into the eye of the gun holding him hostage. The gun lowers it’s gaze, revealing the one person Derik had expected – and hoped not – to see: Jason.
Oh fucking hell…
‘J-Jason…I’msosorryJasonpleasedon’tdothis, I’M SORR-‘
Jason - dark hair, crooked nose, cold, colourless eyes - cocks the gun, ‘Shut, the fuck, up, Derik.’ He says in a nervously disgusted way.
‘Jason, pleas-‘
‘SHUT UUUUP!!!’ Screams Jason as he tries to shove the killer into Derik’s soul.
Derik cries.
Derik is hysterical; snot pouring out of his nose, tears streaming.
Derik gets a hard punch round the temple that makes his whole body ring with pain.
Derik groans. ‘Why?’ he whimpers like a dying dog.
Jason scoffs his laughter, ‘why?! Are you seriously fucking asking me why? WHY DO YOU FUCKIN’ THINK?!’
‘…it’s her right…?’
Another punch, this time in the stomach.
…gasping for breath Derik coughs up blood and feels true terror – taking this opportunity to scan his surroundings; it’s an abandoned asylum – the ‘Kraken Asylum for the Clinically Insane’ to be exact; I’m going to die here, aren’t I…here, really…?
The asylum is covered in rust, dirt, blood, graffiti and god only knows how many bodily fluids, dried and stained over the many years of empty isolation. The walls are a horrible grey – or would be if not for the tapestry of disease that makes up the decoration, there’s a dripping coming from somewhere behind Jason, meat hooks hang from the ceiling, swinging tauntingly with the draft that seems to whisper, ‘run…’
The sobbing starts.
Jason’s fuse blows. ‘I WILL SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP!’
Warmth spreads across the inside of his jeans; he’s shit and pissed himself, Oh God…
‘Jay, you have to believe me,’ chokes Derik in desperation, ‘I never laid a finger on her, I w-‘
‘And I’m supposed to just believe you?!’ barks Jason in frenzied outrage – he feels nausea to the point of vomiting…
Jason Vomits. All over Derik’s lap, leaning on his knees for support.
– BANG!!
The gun accidentally fires, causing both men to throw themselves instinctively away from the blast; Jason skidding on his back, the sting of rusty grit tearing its way through his jacket and skin. Derik has flung himself backwards, cracking the back of his head on the decrepit concrete floor.
A small cloud of dust has gathered around Derik. Jason is no stranger to the man’s sickening skills; with the gun still in his hands, he moves to kill a man he once loved, because of a woman he once loved.
Stepping over the helpless Derik, who writhes in pathetic agony, Jason cocks the gun, loading another bullet into the canon he carries, sticks the thing back where it belongs.
Derik stares into Jason’s eyes, those cold, condemning eyes, and feels his own pain reflected back at him, I did this…I deserve this…, he lies to himself.
‘Any last words, you backstabbing piece of shit cunt?’ Jason says definitively.
Derik tries to look through the rage and suffering; through to the soul of a man whom was once such a sweet boy, and says, ‘I’m g-‘
- BANG!!!
But there is no sweet boy; there is nothing anymore, nothing of a life that did so little to cause so much chaos, just blood; blood and loss...
...Jason’s breathing is shallow and rapid, as he starts to realize exactly what he’s done, ‘what?!’ he shouts to the faceless mess beneath his stature...but there is no answer, there never will be again.
‘What?! WHAT?! WHAT WERE YOU GONNA’ SAY?!?’
Derik’s skull has been blown away by the force of a Dessert Eagle, stolen from a father by a grief crazed son.
Jason cries.
‘I didn’t mean for this...’ he spits through flooded orifices, ‘I just...I...’
Jason wails, then vomits all over the decimated remains of a life long forgotten, that he now cradles in his arms like a still born baby;
Sobbing;
Whimpering;
Dying............................................................
Exit Wounds by Sara Travis
I thought I knew exactly what love looked like. Love looked like her collection of hair products lining the bathroom shelf. Love looked like the odd pearl earring I found down the back of the couch. It looked like the thick, red, bobbly scarf she left on the hooks by the front door, and it looked like the faint lipstick mark on the wine glass by the sink. Love was in the way she swished her hair as she walked, and the Raymond Chandler novels she read in the café around the corner. Love was the stack of glossy magazines on the coffee table, the freshly laundered lingerie on the radiator, the not-so-secret box of chocolates stashed under the couch.
Love was not who I was expecting, and it was not something I had predicted.
I hear the jangle of keys and my heart stops. She’s home. Where’s best to wait? I hadn’t thought this far ahead, the living room or the bedroom? Bedroom might be better, more romantic, element of surprise and all that, but I’d have to cross the hall to get there and now she’s coming through the door, I don’t have time, living room it is, and I’m fiddling with my tie, licking my palm to flatten my hair and left hand or right hand to offer the flowers? Right hand, does it even matter, because now she’s standing in front of me and our eyes meet and it’s everything I’d imagined it would be and more.
Silence. The keys hit the floor. She staggers back into the doorway and her eyes grow wild. I take a cautious step forward, proffering the roses and she … screams.
“Sophia …”
“How do you know my name? How did you get in here? Get out! I’m phoning the police!”
This isn’t going as I’d planned. I feel the panic rising in my chest, I don’t want to scare her, she just has to know how I feel.
“Sophia, please,” I cry, her screams drowning out my words, “I just had to let you know, I love -”
She throws a photo frame at my head, and I duck to avoid its impact. This is swiftly followed by a telephone book, an owl ornament, a potted plant, anything she can lay her hands on. I launch myself past her and sprint for the front door, desperate to get away from all of her. She slams it shut behind me, screaming and cursing. And then I realise my fingers are trapped in the door frame; an almighty yelp escapes my lips. My very own exit wound. Cradling my crumpled, bruised fingers along with my ego, I turn to leave.
I hear the jangle of keys and my heart stops. She’s home. Where’s best to wait? I hadn’t thought this far ahead, the living room or the bedroom? Bedroom might be better, more romantic, element of surprise and all that, but I’d have to cross the hall to get there and now she’s coming through the door, I don’t have time, living room it is, and I’m fiddling with my tie, licking my palm to flatten my hair and left hand or right hand to offer the flowers? Right hand, does it even matter, because now she’s standing in front of me and our eyes meet and it’s everything I’d imagined it would be and more.
Silence. The keys hit the floor. She staggers back into the doorway and her eyes grow wild. I take a cautious step forward, proffering the roses and she … screams.
“Sophia …”
“How do you know my name? How did you get in here? Get out! I’m phoning the police!”
This isn’t going as I’d planned. I feel the panic rising in my chest, I don’t want to scare her, she just has to know how I feel.
“Sophia, please,” I cry, her screams drowning out my words, “I just had to let you know, I love -”
She throws a photo frame at my head, and I duck to avoid its impact. This is swiftly followed by a telephone book, an owl ornament, a potted plant, anything she can lay her hands on. I launch myself past her and sprint for the front door, desperate to get away from all of her. She slams it shut behind me, screaming and cursing. And then I realise my fingers are trapped in the door frame; an almighty yelp escapes my lips. My very own exit wound. Cradling my crumpled, bruised fingers along with my ego, I turn to leave.
Exit Wounds by James D. Irwin
He stood on the balcony smoking a slim cigarette, and watched her walk away. It was an early morning, typical of Spring, that creates an illusion of warmth and sunshine, but ultimately reveals itself to be bitter and cold.
Appropriate he thought, and then wished he hadn't He still loved her. He thought he probably always would. But he thought that about every girl— the ones who’d left him, the ones who never loved him back, and the ones he’d never met.
He gazed down at the empty streets and cursed silently; it must be Sunday. He’d have to wait. The shop would open tomorrow. He could go then—early. He wouldn't get a fair price, but it didn't matter; he just wanted it out of the house. Even hidden away he’d know it was there, thumping away like the tell-tale heart.
The cigarette was dead and the girl was gone. He stepped back inside. Girls had left him before, and they probably would again. They always left a wound, and some were worse than others. Some were just bite-marks... he smiled at the memory and reached for a bottle.
He was an old hand with wounds like this now. He sat back and sterilised it with alcohol. It wouldn't heal, but the bleeding would stop... for a while, at least.
Appropriate he thought, and then wished he hadn't He still loved her. He thought he probably always would. But he thought that about every girl— the ones who’d left him, the ones who never loved him back, and the ones he’d never met.
He gazed down at the empty streets and cursed silently; it must be Sunday. He’d have to wait. The shop would open tomorrow. He could go then—early. He wouldn't get a fair price, but it didn't matter; he just wanted it out of the house. Even hidden away he’d know it was there, thumping away like the tell-tale heart.
The cigarette was dead and the girl was gone. He stepped back inside. Girls had left him before, and they probably would again. They always left a wound, and some were worse than others. Some were just bite-marks... he smiled at the memory and reached for a bottle.
He was an old hand with wounds like this now. He sat back and sterilised it with alcohol. It wouldn't heal, but the bleeding would stop... for a while, at least.
Exit Wounds by Lesley Whyte
"Nobody in the history of the world has ever felt like I do now. You just don't understand, how could you possibly understand? You've never loved like I have. Nobody has ever loved you like Pete loved me. You just don't get it. Nobody else has ever hurt like this. It's like I've been shot. Shot right here." She slapped her hand against her chest. "And there's no exit wound. The bullet's still in there, twisting around when I move and just causing more and more pain. Nobody has ever felt like this before."
"You know, stuff like this is why he dumped you. Get over yourself."
"You know, stuff like this is why he dumped you. Get over yourself."
Exit Wounds by Ben Hayward
“Nan, where’s Geoff?”
“Oh, it’s his time of the month.”
“You didn’t tell me... Wait. What?”
“Long Story.”
“Where is he then?”
“Out, in the woods probably. You’re welcome to wait for him if you would like.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sure. Would you like anything to eat?”
“I’m not staying too long.”
“You’re looking thin. How about a pie?”
“Fine.”
“Oh that’s him now. Could you just get the door while I make some tea?”
“Ok.”
“Geoff, what big teeth you have.”
“Oh, it’s his time of the month.”
“You didn’t tell me... Wait. What?”
“Long Story.”
“Where is he then?”
“Out, in the woods probably. You’re welcome to wait for him if you would like.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sure. Would you like anything to eat?”
“I’m not staying too long.”
“You’re looking thin. How about a pie?”
“Fine.”
“Oh that’s him now. Could you just get the door while I make some tea?”
“Ok.”
“Geoff, what big teeth you have.”
Exit Wounds by Nick Trussler
God damn it. God damn that son of a bitch. That’s all he could do now; swear. Call upon some false idol to curse the man that had shot him. He staggered, like a man drunk, a man whose vital organs are failing him one by one, like some cruel game of dominos.
“Motherfucker,” he whispered. Damn it. That couldn’t be his last word. But it felt good to swear. No, not good. Nothing felt good anymore. It was a relief. No. Damn it, his thoughts were becoming confused now. Obscure memories floated in his head, songs from a wild youth cascaded and broke their melodies apart in the blinking of an eye. Was this his life flashing before his eyes? A broken kaleidoscope of thought, not the fluid chronological progression you saw in films. Damn those films. They never showed dying as it really is. A man staggering, grim faced before turning and saying one final line through gritted teeth before falling to the floor. A hero’s death. It was not his death.
He felt numb. The sickening pain wanted to make him crawl in a ball and shed his skin like some snake. His mortal flesh destroyed and wounded but his soul would live on. But he was numb, numb inside his head. The pain as something separate, to be confronted later. He leaned one hand, palm outstretched against the damp underpass wall. The smell of urine hit his nostrils. He looked down. Thank God, it wasn’t his own. Not yet. That would come later. When Death finally cut him from this world then his body would void itself of all the slime and of all his humanity. An animalistic orgasm in the throes of death. His body would become a carcass, no different from any other animal. That higher intelligence that separated his species from the rest of the world would matter not one drop.
He hand slowly slid down the wall and his face gently fell forward, pressing his forehead against the damp of the wall. He breathed deeply, causing a trickle of blood to weep from his mouth. His eyes closed. He wanted to feel alive and indeed he did feel alive, more alive than he could ever remember. At least, in recent memory. He allowed himself a bitter smile. At the very moment of death he felt more alive than he could have ever thought possible. Death was ironic.
“Fuck you all, and damn you all to hell,” he murmured to the wall. Good last words, he thought. In one simple, perhaps crude, phrase he summed up his attitude to the world and to those that had now brought his demise from it.
His knees were the first to fail him. They buckled, like a tower collapsing from the inside. He fell, his hand still clutching the exit wound that the bullet had made.
“Motherfucker,” he whispered. Damn it. That couldn’t be his last word. But it felt good to swear. No, not good. Nothing felt good anymore. It was a relief. No. Damn it, his thoughts were becoming confused now. Obscure memories floated in his head, songs from a wild youth cascaded and broke their melodies apart in the blinking of an eye. Was this his life flashing before his eyes? A broken kaleidoscope of thought, not the fluid chronological progression you saw in films. Damn those films. They never showed dying as it really is. A man staggering, grim faced before turning and saying one final line through gritted teeth before falling to the floor. A hero’s death. It was not his death.
He felt numb. The sickening pain wanted to make him crawl in a ball and shed his skin like some snake. His mortal flesh destroyed and wounded but his soul would live on. But he was numb, numb inside his head. The pain as something separate, to be confronted later. He leaned one hand, palm outstretched against the damp underpass wall. The smell of urine hit his nostrils. He looked down. Thank God, it wasn’t his own. Not yet. That would come later. When Death finally cut him from this world then his body would void itself of all the slime and of all his humanity. An animalistic orgasm in the throes of death. His body would become a carcass, no different from any other animal. That higher intelligence that separated his species from the rest of the world would matter not one drop.
He hand slowly slid down the wall and his face gently fell forward, pressing his forehead against the damp of the wall. He breathed deeply, causing a trickle of blood to weep from his mouth. His eyes closed. He wanted to feel alive and indeed he did feel alive, more alive than he could ever remember. At least, in recent memory. He allowed himself a bitter smile. At the very moment of death he felt more alive than he could have ever thought possible. Death was ironic.
“Fuck you all, and damn you all to hell,” he murmured to the wall. Good last words, he thought. In one simple, perhaps crude, phrase he summed up his attitude to the world and to those that had now brought his demise from it.
His knees were the first to fail him. They buckled, like a tower collapsing from the inside. He fell, his hand still clutching the exit wound that the bullet had made.
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