Dark Paradise by Solomon Blaze

Singapore.

01:17am.

January 1st 1993.

I’m sat at an empty table, in an empty restaurant, on the 56th floor of a 75 story hotel, that I, fucking, hate; eating an extremely tiny chocolate cake, that, I, fucking, love!

The bottom 5 floors are positively jam-packed with businessmen of the orient (dirty gangsters; 369 gang, specifically) - I’m from a little place called England, maybe you’ve heard of it?

‘Lee, I could hear your clumsy footsteps the second you stepped foot out of the elevator. What do you want?’ I say abruptly to Lee: my closest friend (the only person at work that I genuinely trust). Lee is Chinese, the same as everybody else hear, save for a few Malaysians here and there.

Of course Lee stops dead, bows quickly – it always looks more like a tilt in my opinion – and walks right up to my table, with an everlastingly resilient politeness.

‘Sir,’ he says in Cantonese, ‘Three, Oh, and Three, from the 303 gang have...arrived.’

Rage froths my mind into a flickering frenzy that I quickly push back into my stomach, with a deep breath that I can’t help but turn to a growl upon exhalation, ‘what is that supposed to mean?’ I demand in Cantonese through gritted teeth.

Lee’s body shifts slightly; I revolt Lee.

‘Sir I-‘

‘No.’ I answer flat out.

‘Sir?’

‘I told Him I wasn’t working tonight; no work Christmas weekend; no work New Years Eve or Day.’

‘I have been instructed by him personally, to inform you that you will be rewarded the usual 200% bonus for High Jobs on a holiday, as well as a paid one month vacation.’ Lee says without turning his gaze from my eyes once; this is why I trust Lee.

I feel a little better about the whole situation after that; I won’t lie to you.

Sigh, ‘go on then Lee, one for the New Year and all that eh?’ I say in English with a crooked smile.

‘I’m sticking to my “no S&M” rule this year,’ Lee says in a perfectly natural American accent and the usual Wong Wink – name never fails to make me laugh.

‘Right then!’ I declare, slamming my pals down on the table after my last bite of cake, jumping up from my chair, and throwing on my jacket and holster, ‘let’s go make some money.’

Lee Loads his Glock 32, ‘Right on bruh,; another wink – ting!

We walk side by side to the elevator, strutting all the way; you’d think we had springs in our shins.

Christ, I love this job. I think as I admire the handsome Devil in the mirrored surface of the lift doors.

Dark Paradise by Ben Hayward

Her face has worn with time.
She is now little more than a bust,
Fit for little more than showing hats,
But we worship her.
We’re told that she was beautiful,
That the whole world marveled upon her,
They tell us that we should aspire to be her,
To be like that empty stone face,
That one sat in the corner of the crypt,
The one where nobody goes,
If we are, we will be rewarded.
With what is never specified, only told.
As I run my hand across her face,
I feel the coarse limestone stick to my hand,
Trapped like protracted tears.
Her hands are little more than blunted claws,
And her once feminine shape lost to time.
The stories of her vary,
Women tell us that she was the vision of a mother,
Men tell us that she was some ancient whore.
All we can guarantee is that she existed,
Paralysed in time by some long forgotten sculptor.

Dark Paradise by Sara Travis

When he comes to, he’s not entirely sure if his eyes are open or not. All around him is darkness, a perfect, unbroken darkness. He blinks once, twice, and feels his crusty lashes sticking together. He’s definitely alive; he can feel a feeble heartbeat through his thin, bony chest. Making an attempt to raise his head from the dusty, hard, concrete floor, he becomes aware of a dull ache in his lower back, and as he struggles to pull his torso up, the pain increases, spreading up his spine towards the nape of his neck. With a hoarse, strangled cry, he collapses back with a thud, but the pain burns now. He’s breathing heavily, the air rattling in his fragile chest, and he feels the panic begin to rise. There’s a sticky dampness beneath him, and now he’s aware of it, he’s sure he can taste copper on his dry, furry tongue, smell a metallic tinge to the stale air. His gut tells him to wiggle his toes, twitch his leg, just check, make sure he’s okay. But he already knows what that burning, throbbing pain in his spine is telling him.

Somewhere in the darkness, his mind reaches for a memory, and he winces at the fragments as they’re replayed to him. A fist in his face, blood in his eyes and mouth, and the loud, sharp spit of gunfire. And pain, more pain than he’d ever imagined, and then a cool blanket of darkness. He closes his eyes, scrunches them shut, and suppresses an urge to scream.

And somehow, behind the dark of his eyelids, an image stirs. It’s fuzzy at first, a blurry, white mass that slowly grows bigger, crisper. And suddenly there’s no pain anymore, no taste of blood on his lips, no cold, harsh concrete beneath his head. He’s looking at a woman, her pale figure hazy on his eyelids, her dark hair billowing around her as if under water. Her eyes are deep, her lips red and full, and slowly, she extends an ivory hand towards him. He doesn’t think twice, raising his stiff, heavy arm to meet hers, and the light emanating from her form erupts around him, engulfing, embracing.

Dark Paradise by James D. Irwin

The guilt bled into the pleasure, and the lies made it exciting.

He wondered what she suspected, if she suspected anything. He was a bad liar. She deserved better. She could never know— no one could, ever. It was 8pm. She’d be tucking them in bed and making excuses for daddy’s absence.

Daddy has to work late. Daddy worked late a lot now.

It was a reflex now, the silent vow to stop. A token nod to the shame he should feel. Whatever sincerity that first promise held was gone.

The leather straps tightened around his wrists. He was stripped. He felt helpless, like a child. He stiffened in anticipation. His was a dark paradise.

Dark Paradise by Lesley Whyte

Paradise, that's what they said. Well, they said a lot of things - safety, a fresh start, a world that wasn't trying to kill us, Utopia - but Paradise was the one that stuck with me. We filed onto the ship, excited to get to our new home, not even thinking about the fact that it would take us two whole years to get there. It was an inconceivable amount of time. But it didn't matter. We were going to find Paradise at the end of it. It was worth losing two years of my life. Besides, if I'd stayed on Earth, I probably wouldn't even have lasted that long.

What they didn't tell us is how wrong they were. Our new planet wasn't inhabitable. It wasn't safe. The air was toxic, the first wave of settlers all died, surviving just long enough to send back word that we couldn't come here, that it wasn't safe. Their machines took readings and sent data back to the Earth. Instead of looking for a new planet, they decided to persevere. They built tunnels, miles and miles of tunnels under the sand and the toxic air. They expected us to live underground like moles and never see the sun again. Never feel fresh air on our faces again. Never...

They didn't tell us. And now, for the first time, I wish I'd stayed on Earth. Paradise.

Dark Paradise by Nick Trussler

Vampires and things. That was his summary of this girl’s novel, ‘Dark Paradise.’ He tossed the book scornfully into the pile of Best Sellers. If I could burn this fucking bookshop down now, he thought, if I could stand here and watch the flames consume these dregs of literature, then I would truly be in a Dark Paradise.

Day Two

And today's prompt is...

Dark Paradise

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............................................................

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.

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.

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."

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.”

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.

Day One

And today's prompt is...

Exit Wounds

Have fun!