The cap? ~500 words. I hope you enjoy these blobs.
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Prompt #1: Whimsical murderer
Broken String's Version:
He licks his fingertips and smirks.
He could not remember why his
favourite colour had become red. It is a colour of such passion that he had
often, again for no particular reason, overlooked. But one day he discovered it
suited him well.
It was the end of a routine day
where, after his tedious work, his foot angled harder a notch than normal, and
he found his car stained with the dark red of twisted passion, and he stood
before a sprawled figure overlaid by innards and gaped.
The wounds. The battered face. They sent shivers down his spine, not of fear, but of quintessential pleasure. It was a beauty too great, the desire for which suddenly dominated the entirety of his existence. He suddenly wished to bestow this beauty to all of the dull mankind by his own hands and strength. He suddenly felt he had a purpose.
The wounds. The battered face. They sent shivers down his spine, not of fear, but of quintessential pleasure. It was a beauty too great, the desire for which suddenly dominated the entirety of his existence. He suddenly wished to bestow this beauty to all of the dull mankind by his own hands and strength. He suddenly felt he had a purpose.
He smirked, as he is smirking now.
The odour of the stains and the sight of the mangled organs excited him beyond
all expectations, and he could never forget the sensations again.
He stands surrounded by weak moans, stroking
the edge of a knife, eying the sea of red before him, and smirking. Human
beings are so much more interesting when at his mercy. Of the many voices there
are desperate begging, there are spiteful curses, there are painful screams.
He is almost tempted to yield to some of the pleadings he hear, harmonious
sounding as they are, adding to the beauty of the red around him. But all is
futile for the beggars in the end. All are at his mercy. All will succumb to
his might, and become his brush to paint the world a crimson, grimacing red.
He lets his blade run through the
skins. The dull sounds of the slashes mix with the shrilled screams and send
him shivers again, not of fear, but of quintessential pleasure. The red flows
onto his hand. Not enough. More! More! As adrenaline dominates his movements,
he laughs and thrusts the blade down, slashing, hacking, until the baggage is
opened and the beans spill out with the gushing fountain of red. This is
ecstasy. The acme of ecstasy.
He hooks the long line of digestive
tract with his fingers and places it under his nose. Ah yes. The smell, too.
The smell of red is the essence of it all. It is his favourite part of a
bloodbath. He leans his face in and sniffs and sniffs like a starved bloodhound,
and amidst the miserable cries of living subjects that are like music to his
ears, his senses rise a new orgasm of satisfaction, of joy, of
twisted passion of red, of strength of domination.
Yes, he thrills to kill; his purpose
is to kill, and he is not one bit ashamed.
He licks the intestines and smirks.
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EGM's version:
I left the office early and didn’t
have anywhere in particular to go, so I wandered down the trail along the
lakeside. It was a rainy November afternoon, so the usual crowd of nature
lovers wasn’t there. In fact, it was completely deserted, but I knew from
experience that every now and then a straggler would show up, hastening to some
important destination, inexplicably preferring the muddy path to the main road.
I hoped it wouldn’t be too long.
I found a nice quiet spot and stood
staring out at the water while I waited. I hadn’t been here for a long time.
I’d found other places to amuse myself – with a hobby like mine, you can’t be
too predictable – but this was one of the best. Not as cliché as a dark alley,
where all the other idiots went. People were on their guard in alleys;
sometimes they had weapons, and there was no point getting mixed up in all
that. Maybe the others enjoyed the adrenaline rush of the fight, but not me. I
preferred it quick and easy.
Finally, a boy came around the bend
in the path. He was wearing a backpack and slouching slightly from the weight –
probably a highschooler skipping class. He glanced at me without much interest
as he approached, then went back to staring at the ground.
I slipped my gun out of my pocket
and shot him in the chest before he even realized anything was wrong.
He flopped to the ground like a
marionette cut from its strings. I went and stood over his body to watch him
die. That’s the best part. His mouth opened as if to scream but only blood
dribbled out. His eyes did the screaming instead, flitting around wildly as if
looking in the right direction might save him.
Of course, it didn’t. I watched
eagerly as his eyes went unfocused, then dulled. The eyes fascinated me every
time. I would see something draining out of them, something imperceptible until
it was gone. This one drained fast.
When it was over, I left the body
where it was and headed for the main road. Somebody would find it soon enough
and call the police. I would read about it in the paper the next day, express
my horror around the water cooler. Nobody would suspect me; I didn’t even know
the boy’s name.
I don’t understand why people think
it’s so difficult to get away with murder. All those idiots who get caught?
They’re making such elementary mistakes. Honestly, if you just put a little
thought and effort into it, it’s the easiest thing in the world.
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And that, my friends, is your dose of disturbance for the day.
