Clueless (an acrostic poem)

Clark studied the scene in front of him

Little things seemed out of place, but there was no smoking gun

Undeterred, he knew he would crack the case

Eventually, something would click

Leaving the perpetrator unmasked

Every murderer made a mistake, like leaving the murder weapon

Soon as Clark found it he would be one step closer

Sarah sighed when she had to point out the knife in the corpse’s back

 

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Busy (an acrostic poem)

Being behind the eightball was Wayne’s usual position

Under the gun was his preferred work style

Since it kept him motivated

Yet while he was a whirling dervish of activity, he never got anything done

 

Image: gregwalcher.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/Tasmanian-Devil-Cartoon.jpg

Scream (a 150 word story)

The click of an empty chamber fell upon recently deafened ears.  It was finally over, or at least Margret hoped so.  Then there was the creak of a door opening downstairs.  She dove under her bed.  She had dropped a couple of rounds when loading last time.  She just needed to find them.

The stairs creaked and groaned as the cause of the noise climbed to the second floor.

Margret’s searching hand slapped away a smooth metallic object.  She stifled a curse and pulled herself further under the bed.

The door to the bedroom opened.

Margret felt tears fall from her chin.  She closed her eyes and said a prayer.  Her hand still searching, her fingers found the fallen round.  She slowly opened the chamber and slid it in.  She frantically tried to locate her assailant.

The floor creaked.

Something grabbed her ankles and pulled.

She never got to scream.

 

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Nightmare (an acrostic poem)

New sounds erupted from behind Marc

It spurred him to run even faster

Gun shots rang out, shattering the asphalt on either side of him

He made a hard right turn to get some cover from a parked Hummer

The tires on the vehicle soon flattened

Marc fumbled for his gun before peaking up above the hood

A silence descended on the scene, and Marc couldn’t see his assailants

Rapidly his heart hammered as he waited for a target

Everything exploded when his alarm went off and he woke up

 

Image: upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/9c/Hummer_H2_.jpg

Demon Slayer (a 100 word story)

I put one more shovelful of dirt over her grave.  The ground looks like hell, and it should.  She was a demon that possessed me.  I worry about her being found and released from her grave to haunt me.  I can hear the rumble of thunder in the distance, though for a moment I worry it is the armies of Hell with her as their general coming to exact revenge.  I laugh at the storm and pull out my gun.  I have killed the devil.  I put the gun to my head and pull the trigger to receive my reward.

Acrostic Poem #1

I found a writing prompt on reddit to write an acrositic poem based on mythology or proverbs.  I decided to go in a slightly different direction.  :>)  For those of you that don’t know…

Acrostic: An acrostic is a poem or other form of writing in which the first letter, syllable or word of each line, paragraph or other recurring feature in the text spells out a word or a message.


 

Until Nancy pressed the trigger, I didn’t think she could do it

Nancy was always the good girl

Faithful, loving, caring, never hurt a fly

Always the person who would go the extra mile

I watched as Eveline’s body pumped dark red blood onto the rug

Too surprised to do anything, I just sat there and recorded

Her soul leaving her eyes, those perfect emeralds

Furious, Nancy turned the Colt 45 toward me.

Until that moment I hadn’t regretted what I had did.

Lust ended as our two pools of blood intermingled on the carpet

Fighting Illusions

I looked into the unblinking eyes of my enemy.  My arm swung my weapon into position, seemingly of its own volition.  I retreated further into my mind to let my body continue its program.

I had never wanted to fight.  Well, that’s not really true.  There was a time when I was young and foolish when I romanticized the concept of proving my superiority physically.  Okay, I was young and foolish and on my arse after Mary Kay knocked me there for trying to steal a kiss, but that was not why I was here now fighting for freedom.

Freedom is an illusion that needs belief to exist.  That was my belief since I was twenty and arrested for defying my government’s call to arms for defending a country on the other side of the world, all in the name of preserving peace.  I couldn’t figure out then how war preserves peace.  My freedom was not believed by the people who imprisoned me, and therefore my illusion was shattered.

Illusion is one of the oldest forms of magic.  The ability to focus the audience’s attention on what was not important allows the illusionist to do things that seem impossible.  That’s why I joined up as soon as was released from prison.  Keep them looking the other way, allowing me to create an illusion where I had given up my freedom, but secretly I allowed them to run my body so I could keep the freedom of my mind.

Now here I was, my gun in hand, pointed at my enemy.  I kept waiting for the training to kick in, to make me more of a machine that was primed to kill.  Then I watched my enemy sink to the ground, a red stain blooming from his chest.  I then dropped my gun and decorated it with this morning’s eggs.   My illusion shattered, the thought I had while sinking to my knees was, ‘Is it possible to be unprogrammed?’

The Path Less Written

Three children played Candyland in the center of the living room floor.  They were surrounded by the debris of a day full of play and few adult interactions.

Charlotte pulled a double red card. “Yes,” she cheered.  “My favorite color is red.”

“Mine too,” said Fred.  “But I also like poopy.”  That caused Fred to develop a case of the giggles.

“Ew Fred, that is yucky,” said Bill as he picked the next card.  “I got blue.  I’m now in the lead.”  Spaceship sounds exploded from his lips as he moved his piece dramatically to its new space.

Fred was going to go, but doubt crept in and he looked at the door.

A man walked in through the door with a gun in his hand.

 

Geraldine pulled back from the computer screen and looked at me dumbfounded.  “What the hell?” she asked as she shook her head.  “What the hell were you smoking when you wrote that?”

“I wasn’t smoking anything.  I was just taking advice from Raymond Chandler when it came to being stuck in writing,” I said.

“And that is?” Geraldine asked.

I brought up a different window on my computer screen.  It read:  “When in doubt, have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand.” -Raymond Chandler”

Geraldine executed a perfect face palm.  “I don’t think he meant when children were playing a board game.”

“Really?  Then you better not read anymore,” I said.

“Why?” she asked.

“I used this quote as well,” I said as I bring up yet another window.

Geraldine leaned in and read, ““Writing a novel is actually searching for victims. As I write, I keep looking for casualties. The stories uncover the casualties.” -John Irving”  She put her head on the table and said, “Oh brother!”