It has all ended.
Well, after all, that is the point. Nothing lasts forever. If it did, we’d get tired of it. But I never even got the chance to get tired of him.
His chest stopped rising and falling a few minutes ago. I can’t hear anything but my own sobs now.
No more snuggles, no more kisses.
As I lay in the road, motionless by grief if not from the wreck, I hate the idea of living without him.
A car approaches. It doesn’t see me.
But now I see him.
It has all ended well after all.
Noah looked worried.
He had never before been vomited upon by a pretty nurse and he didn’t know the protocol.
“Are you okay?” he ventured. “I could grab a paper towel or something.”
She started crying, tears leaving her face red, but slightly less covered in sick.
“I’m sorry,” she tried to say and found she couldn’t. Instead, she closed her eyes and breathed softly.
Noah found her beautiful.
“Would it help if I did the shot myself?” he asked.
The nurse looked at him and cautiously handed him the syringe.
Unfortunately, Noah couldn’t stand needles either, and promptly threw up on her.
The following is my 100 word story submission to Julia’s Place. The fact that there are 102 words shouldn’t dissuade you from reading it. The prompt words (“the 13”) don’t count toward the total. Enjoy!
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Many have mused over the thirteen cryptic ingredients of Haley’s Miracle Tonic, but only one has made a fortune by his interpretation—Jack Tupper.
“Obviously, the ingredients correspond to a unique mixture of spring water, cane sugar, ginger root, and some secret spices,” said Jack in a rare interview. “What else could ‘bubbling tears, honeyed rod, a red man’s toes’ and so on mean?”
Gruesome as they were, no one bothered to try the literal ingredients until Todd Winston came along. Only he knew that the miracle of the tonic was worth more than Jack’s fortune. With one drink, Todd became all-powerful.
I talked about it yesterday. Here it is.
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The police called it an accident, but witnesses knew it was an act of God. What else could cause the decapitation of the drum major?
Some blame the tuba player with the faulty spit valve. Others the percussionist.
Bitter cold knocked out four of the parade’s scheduled bands. The doomed drum major was secretly glad for the lack of competition.
He had no way of predicting the cymbalist’s loose grip, the deadly arc of metal disc, or the slip on the spit that took him down, then out.
Friends and family agreed that he died doing what he loved. His tombstone: “Time Marches On”.
Light filtered strangely through the mosaic ceiling. Lightning threw the faces into sharp relief as thunder gave voice to the demons depicted.
Jess stared, transfixed as she listened to the audio tour.
“The Baptistry of Florence has seen the baptisms of many notable figures. In fact, the poet Dante, famous for his Divine Comedy…”
The player abruptly died in unison with the structure’s artificial lights.
Rain turned to hail. Thunder laughed as the mosaic crumbled, revealing a blood red sky.
No lightning, realized Jess numbly as winged figures swept in with the hail but… Where did the noise come from?
“Careful,” chided Charles. “Criminals and curs camp close-by.”
“Chicken,” countered Cathy.
Captain Chadwick chuckled.
“Chaps,” called Chadwick, “Courage can cause cuts. Cowardice certifies calamity. Choose courage.”
“Captain!” called Carl. “Cannibals!”
“Canoes?”
“Canoes,” confirmed Carl.
“Curses,” called Chadwick. “Charles! Circulate cutlasses and clubs. Cathy, climb that cliff. Carl!”
“Captain?” consulted Carl.
“Carry my cap. Crawling covers it in crap.”
Captain Chadwick crouched. Chadwick’s company copied closely.
“Covert crawling for ten clicks, then charge,” the captain commanded.
Cannibals clamored from canoes, combing the crabgrass, closer and closer.
“Curs!” cried Cathy, cliffside, causing confusion.
“Charge!” called Captain Chadwick.
“Courage,” whispered Charles to himself.
“I can’t believe Lucy came. She’s so ugly,” whispered Jen, the troop’s top cookie seller. “Why would she want to come camping with us, anyway? Doesn’t she know she’s unwanted?”
The director finally finished relaying the campfire rules, and handed out marshmallows.
“Remember,” he said. “No swashbuckling.”
“What?” whispered Jen. “Swash-whating?”
The heat kept the girls a few feet out, arms stretched toward the fire. When Jen’s marshmallow caught, she started waving it back and forth.
“Stop,” said Lucy, “Weren’t you listening?”
“Shut up!” hissed Jen.
Then life changed when the marshmallow flew, and stuck to Jen’s face, flames and all.
“Hey Jane,”said Monica, “package for ya. From Richland.”
Richland Construction was Jane’s former employer. After years of getting passed over for promotions, Jane finally quit and started her own company, Athena Construction.
Jane approached the package warily. She flicked the packaging tape and popped the top. Sifting through some crumpled papers, she held a smaller box aloft.
“Pink nails!” she cried.
“”Who has time to paint framing nails?” asked Monica,
“Huh,” said Jane, eyeing a crumpled paper. “I doubt they meant to give me this.”
“What?”
“A list of bids on upcoming projects. Would you call Richland for me? Thank them for the nails.”
I took some liberties with the prompt. Yellow, in addition to being a vibrant color and a weakness of The Green Lantern, can also portray and idea of fear. Imagine that our main character is afraid of heights and it fits the prompt. Forgive me if that is too much a stretch for you.
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The masked bandit stepped tentatively onto the cable, steadying himself against the pole before taking hold of the top wire.
I hate heights.
Any other day, he’d be asleep in his nest of a bed, dreaming. But not today.
No. Today he shimmied across the expanse toward the house he once called home, evicted before he could move his stolen goods. Today was as good as any.
Twenty more steps.
Birds scattered, leaving a slick hazard that made his hands slip on the wire.
I’ll definitely be washing these later.
Ten steps to go.
I hope no one is watching me.
Rolf the royal coinmaster didn’t have time for this.
“The king won’t be happy if you kill his coinmaster,” he said, looking along the shafts. The points were sharp, but not as sharp as Rolf.
“His happiness ain’t our concern,” said a highwayman. “His gold is.”
“First, you may wish to authenticate the gold. His majesty oft uses counterfeits as decoys.”
One of highwaymen lowered his crossbow, picked up a coin, bit it and passed it to the other who did the same.
“Seems real enough to me,” he said.
“Good,” said Rolf. “Unfortunately, if it isn’t a decoy, it’s been coated with poison.”
Josh Mosey 