This is The Hobbit/Edge of Tomorrow crossover written for fun and zero profit. The idea took my brain hostage and threaten to eat it until I wrote this down. If you like the result, please leave a comment.
The first time Bilbo dies, it happens in a cave deep in the Misty Mountains. The air is damp and stale, and it adds an unpleasant taste to the salty blood from his split lip. Dizzy and disoriented, Bilbo isn’t as fast as he should be when he draws his sword. The terrible creature, Gollum, pelts him with rocks, muttering to itself about all the ways it’s going to cook Bilbo, its spindly arms possessing deceptive strength for its malnourished body. And while Bilbo cringes and dodges as best he can, he is too slow. His vision swims, and the cave floor buckles under his feet. One of the rocks hits true, colliding with Bilbo’s temple.
The last thought he has is about the curious little ring he put in his pocket.
A writing exercise in slowing down time.
Her hand trembled. Sweat beaded her forehead. Her blouse was soaked and clung to her back, making her shiver. The wind picked up and blew hair into her eyes, but she didn’t dare to blink. Her gaze was glued to the figure standing before her. The man, his arm raised for a strike, the warm yellow light of a street lamp caught on the edge of the knife clutched in his hand. His eyes were manic, pupils blown wide, and white bubbles of froth surrounded his mouth. He was such a stereotypical psycho, it looked more like a parody.
The cold steel in Josie’s hand gave her a sense of comfort, but the urgency of the situation demanded action. Her fingers twitched, spasmed, clenched. The trigger went down; the hammer snapped forward; the pin struck the primer. A tiny spark that formed inside the gun ignited the gunpowder, and a bullet flew out of the barrel. It crossed ten feet that lay between Josie and Frank and hit him square in the chest, right over the large grease stain on his plaid shirt. Red blossomed on dark blue, and he stumbled. Josie kept pulling the trigger again and again. Each time, another bullet were set in motion. Each one hit the target close to the first, changing Frank’s momentum. She pulled the trigger until the clip was finally empty and the action resulted in only impotent clicks.
Frank wasn’t running anymore. His knife clattered to the ground, released by his suddenly weak fingers. Blood flowed freely out of six new holes in his torso, getting into his lungs, coming out of his throat. His innards were a shredded, gory mess, but his consciousness was not present. His glassy, far away look didn’t change at all as he hit the pavement.
Written for Chuck Wendig’s Pick a Sentence and Go flash fiction challenge.
Many thanks to kirajessup for the opening line.
The emerald ring was pretty enough, but the man offering it wasn’t. Helen stared at his crooked teeth, a piece of a dark green plant stuck between the front two of his pearly yellows. The sun glinted off the golden crowns that replaced his fangs. A sudden gust of the wind that hit the man’s back and tousled the wisps of his thin gray hair carried a sickly sweet smell of rot, and Helen suppressed a shudder.
“How much do you want for this?” She nodded at the ring lying on a greasy black cloth. Around them, the crowded market bustled with activity, but the man and his old wooden cart seemed to exist in a bubble of empty space. Nobody was in a hurry to approach him, not even a young fishmonger encroaching on the baker’s stall.
“Fifty Dragons, madam.”
“Fifty?” she scoffed, disbelief coloring her voice. “That’s a hefty price for such a simple trinket.”
“Fifty Dragons and not a coin less.” He picked up the ring and twirled it between his fingers, his dirty, too long nails clicking. Unlike the rest of the sellers, he didn’t look like a person inclined to haggle, the mulish set of his jaw attested to that. Still, she had to try. Continue reading
I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, so here it is: a micro-fill for FFChallenge. The first sentence belongs to John Freeter.
I followed the nice man to his basement. From where I stood, I could tell it was dark and damp. The man turned to me when I stopped at the entrance.
“Well, girl? Come on, candies are right there!” he said with a strained smile on his handsome face.
Sticking my lower lip out, I said, “Am I your guest, mister?”
Written for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Pick An Opening Sentence And Go
Many thanks to Matthew X. Gomez for inspiration.
I have to admit, being dead isn’t nearly as boring as I feared it would be. I died on Monday, on my way to work. Funny how it still didn’t excuse my not showing up that day. Next time I saw him, the boss man shouted at me until he was red in the face, his voice hoarse and raw. I think he might have disrupted his vocal cords. Good thing I was there for my last paycheck. But let’s backtrack a bit.
It was a day like any other, nothing extraordinary about it. The morning started with annoyingly persistent trilling of the alarm clock. I threw it at the wall — that’s the only way to switch it off — and went back to sleep. Forty minutes later an angry furball landed on my chest, effectively catapulting me out of dreamland. It was time to feed the devil masquerading as my cat.
Wrote a Sci-Fi story for Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge. The prompt was inspired by the Clean Reader debacle, so there’s profanity, some bigotry, mentions of drugs, rock-n-roll, and a murder.
One of those things is a lie. Care to guess which one?
And Landre pounced on him like a raehti on a fresh dewlen’s liver …
No. Just no. Do humans even know about raehtis? It being the species that inhabited only Wendella, his home planet, Gert sincerely doubted that. And anyway, do humans pounce? He scratched his mandible, thinking. Reina take it all, it was giving him a headache.
Finor’s hide changed its color to bright red, a clear sign of arousal …
At the next cubi-slot D’nol took a sip from a hold-bottle, his noisy slurping making the second pair of Gert’s eyelids twitch.
“Would you stop that?”
[My response to Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge]
I walked into my closet and saw a corpse. Swollen tongue lolling out of its mouth, it was hanging right next to my favorite suit (the color of wine, with black trimming). I screamed. Soon, all the household gathered there.
“What is this” — I pointed at the corpse, hand trembling — “thing doing here?” I asked, voice shaking, unable to contain the revulsion I felt.
“Sorry, mom,” said my youngest. “It’s just that” — he inhaled — “your closet is the best place to hang out.”
“Darling,” I said. “You should know better. It clashes horribly with my suit!”