October 5 – October 18, 2023 Writing Prompt “Bite or Scratch”
Theme: Bite or Scratch.
Required Elements:
- You must use the words exactly “Did you get scratched or bitten?” as dialogue somewhere in your story.
No variations.
Word Count: 1200
October 19th Prompt to be chosen by Marien Oommen.
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Halloween is my second favorite holiday, beat out only by Christmas. So I’m excited to get a Halloween style story in.
I still haven’t decided what I’m dressing up as this year, but maybe my costume will be inspired by my story!
Roy
“Did you get scratched or bitten?” Suzy asks, dabbing my face with a damp cloth. It feels good.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say, still gasping for air. The dash along the street from the supermarket, with half a dozen of them at my heels, just about finished me off. Malnutrition and lack of sleep can do that to you.
Harris is going through the bundle I brought back. He pulls out a couple of battered tins of cat food and a dusty pack of spaghetti.
“Where’d you find this,” he asks. He went to the supermarket last week and came back empty-handed.
“Under the shelves,” I say, breathing shallowly now.
Harris passes the booty to Suzy, who inspects it cursorily and nods in appreciation.
“We’ve got dinner for tonight, at least,” she says, going back to the dabbing.
“Thanks,” I say to Harris. He shrugs, but I have him to thank for still being in this world. They caught up with me at the street door and I had to beat them off with my club as I struggled down the corridor to the apartment. I was getting overwhelmed, and one of them had hold of my leg.
Then Harris appeared, taking his own life in his hands, and started swinging with his mallet, cracking it into skull after skull. I extricated my leg from the one grabbing on to me and removed his face with my club. By this time, the local pack had got wind of food and were crowding round the street door, bottle-necked in their desperation to get at us.
Harris helped me to my feet and we fell through the apartment doorway, Suzy locking and bolting just in time. They’re still outside; we can hear them thumping and scratching on the door and whining. We’re used to it.
I’ve got my breath back now and take Suzy’s hand. Our eyes meet; she will know from mine that I’m grateful – for the damp cloth and for her in general. I can’t voice that, though. She’s married to Harris, after all, and while circumstances have made their situation rocky at best, there are still civilized stances to be upheld.
“Yeah, I’m looking forward to dinner,” Harris says sarcastically, sticking a pot in the sink and turning on the tap. The brown water trickles out in a thin thread. Suzy opens one of the tins and the packet of pasta. I drag myself to my feet and clear the table. Suzy’s left the book there, open on the page she must have been reading when the commotion kicked off in the corridor.
We’ve all read ‘I Am Legend’ several times; it’s the only book we have (the bad luck of taking refuge in an apartment that must have been owned by a minimalist). We used to laugh about the irony of it, but irony and laughter are difficult now. We keep saying that whoever goes on a food run should bring back more reading matter, but when we go out, we’re very focussed on the essentials, and any dallying could be deadly.
Harris puts the pot of brown water on the stove to boil; it’s one of the saving graces of our predicament that there’s still a gas supply to this building. We’ve spoken about the possibility of those who were in the other flats at the time leaving the gas on, and there being an explosion from the leak. But really, speculating like that does us no good; we have enough danger to contend with as it is.
I stretch out on the sofa now and observe Harris and Suzy in the kitchen, pretending to look busy when there’s really not much to do. But work passes the time. It’s the one thing we have a whole lot of.
They’re good friends. It’s surprising that three months of being forced together like this hasn’t caused us to kill each other. I didn’t know them before, and it’s lucky that I actually like them.
I like Suzy more, and I think she likes me. Perhaps if we’d met in another time, we might have ended up having a surreptitious affair. No chance of that here and now, though. There’s little privacy and, to be frank, little appetite for carnal matters.
And another … thing … that … wait. What? Ow! That … Ooh, that’s hurting. A lot. Hold on … NO! NO! My … my leg!
Blood!
.
Maybe, though, that’s a reason to maybe have a slightly different ending that explains it better to people like me who missed it. I assume now that if he’s been bitten or scratched he will become whatever it was that was chasing him.
Otherwise, an interesting story, mate. You have ventured into apocalypse land, somewhere I’ve never tried to go, because the stories all seem the same to me. I’m a dreamer, I guess, but I always thought we’d all stick together when the going got really tough, but I guess watching the idiocy going on around me in the country I live in and seeing what I thought were intelligent people following a path of illogical and crackpot driven, unproven theories, has made me change my mind. Maybe it all will end up in anarchy and everyone for themselves and you only band together when immediacy requires it.
See, your story made me think. Isn’t that what it’s all about?
Roy
By Marien Oommen (1199 words)
“Is that all you can do? Stop it, silly dog!” Georg grunted harshly at poor Dolce.
Whenever the couple exercised, lifted those dumbbells or twisted the GC band around their creaky knees, Dolce got nervous. Then he’d scratch the wooden door and bite at the woodchips.
“Now I’ll have to get the whole door polished. Silly dog!”
“Don’t you dare call him that. He has feelings, you know.” Mae retorted, even-tempered, holding her heart.
These scratch-bite sessions happened tri-weekly in keeping with their exercise regime. The wooden door now had its own design- The Guernica of Scratch- which Picasso himself would have yearned to paint.
But there were other Guernicas at hand. The tremors of battle were sounding. Not in their city, but on the telly. The bloody faces of young innocents got her gut. Her heart was breaking.
Why is this happening? Covid’s over. Ukraine laid to rest.
Now a whole new battlefield was taking shape on a quiet October’s day.
They hear the distant drums of war threaten the boundaries of Israel. They hear of dehumanizing strategies which makes them wonder how man can be so cruel in this day and age.
Their own storms are laid aside temporarily. Just as…
‘One fire burns out another’s burning,
One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish.’
What’s the future for the grandkids? And this horrible AI. With ‘Professors’ teaching AI to young impressionable minds. Human intelligence will be laid to rest.
“I hear that Musk is making robots to do all the stuff at home. A wifebot. What more would a guy need?”
“Things are not looking good in the warfront, and it might just get a whole lot worse.” Opined wise Georg.
Mae was definitely worried how things would pan out. Yet her deep faith kept her bubbly.
Georg and her didn’t agree on most things. But still got along famously, he in his corner and she in hers. Like spiders.
Mae’s mind traveled back to September.
A worried daughter rings her from far away lands.
“Ma, can you come back? Kirrin has been sent home for the fifth time this term. Punished. There’s nobody to supervise him at home and I can’t get away.”
“Of course I’ll come. What are mothers for anyway?”
“That’s a relief.”
“Why is he punished this time?”
“Will tell you in a bit. I’m busy now. Got to get going, Ma. Love you.”
Mae was grandma once more, back in charge, doing what she loved to do.
She was making pancakes when Kirrin arrived, looking as happy as a bumble bee.
“So what have you been up to, my boy?” Mae asked.
“Bwaiching, skwatch.. No goo. No, No, No.” He wagged his little finger at Mae.
“Whaaat? Where? Did you get scratched or bitten? Or did you bite someone? Is that why you’re home early?”
Mae had some deep thinking to do.
What’s this about little kids that they want to bite?
The other younglings didn’t exactly look like strawberry cake with frosting or ice lollies either.
So why bite?
Reports of the incident were recorded and sent to the biter and the bitten’s family.
Luckily there were no teeth marks, no blood- so Kirrin was still in the clear.
“Ma, this won’t look good on his resume if he gets expelled from school.
At 1 year 10 months. How is he going into Yale at this rate?” His mama was genuinely worried.
Back from work, his mama inspected his teeth.
“Or there’s a molar coming in a bit too early. So that’s why he bites. Poor guy.”
“And everybody thought he was a crocodile.” Mae condoned.
His practical dad bought books on:
How Not to Bite Others.
How to Close Your Mouth in Company
How to Bite an Apple
How Not To Bite In Anger
Many more Hows and How Nots.
Grandma Mae reckoned these authors probably went through this same drama. Churning out books by the dozen.
Have a problem?
There’s always a self-help book in the store.
Everyday they sat Kirrin down in the corner and read the books out to him.
The next day he’d return with a new complaint.
Scwatch today..no bwaitch No goo. No. No. NO Kirrin.
Till the brainwave slapped down on them. Fix soft biteable ‘biter’ toys onto his shirt. He’ll bite his toy. Problem solved. So the next day, little Kirrin went off to daycare with two colorful biters on either side of his chest.
Blue and Yellow. The day went well.
Meanwhile on the other side of the Atlantic, Georg, getting ready for work, yells at Dolce whose incessant barking annoyed him. Mae wasn’t around.
Poor Dolce. He was just full of love for humankind. He neither bit nor did he scratch a single human.
Just the door.
Once he had sniffed and scratched around a dead rat. But that stinky misdemeanor had passed. Never again to repeat.
Grandpa inadvertently left the door wide open and Dolce knew very well he was not supposed to go out the front door. But he felt old enough, so decided to sniff out the front garden and sneaked away for the first time in his eight years in this loving home.
And then as dogs do, he wandered off a little more, then a little more.
He was lost, as one would say, in his canine mind.
Deeply sorrowful, his head bowed, he stuck to a huge brick wall outside. Wondering if he’d ever see his beloved alpha-female again…Mae, his love, his life.
A kind laborer, who was outside on his clean-up rounds in the community garden, saw the distraught dog, picked him up and came knocking to the closest home.
Dolce charged back in, his tail wagging like it would fall out.
‘Heaven. This must be heaven,’ he barked.
Georg knew he had been mean and made up by lovingly patting his head. All is well in peace, not war. Even among the canine kind. Everybody needs a home.
Mae had new concerns. She had to research more into this spontaneous biting phenomena. Everything had to be studied scientifically from the latest reports.
Will kids continue to bite another into adulthood? Will they scratch?
Approach it scientifically, as Georg would say.
How about if grandmas greeted their peers with a bite of love?
Mae telephoned her buddy Naina to bite their common friend in a friendly way- not too hard. But soft on the shoulder. And carefully note down her repartee.
Surprisingly Naina obliged at once though the request seemed weird.
But anything to advance research.
Their friend Kay had landed in town after a year of being away.
Naina went close behind and bit her as gently as she could. Kay swung her hand back in defense.
“What’s the matter with you, girl? Are you a dog? Is this how you greet me after a year?”
Naina held her mouth in pain. Her front tooth had cracked.
Kay was a lot bonier than she used to be.
Kirrin returns from daycare in a bit.
“Gwanma, kirrin no bwaitch, no skwatch today. Kirrin gooboiee.”
And he clapped his hands with the joy of a young heart, newly redeemed.
Not your usual sing-song approach to your story, this week, although there are overtones. I liked your story, but felt the scientific approach was a bit strong for Mae, who got a fractured tooth for her effort. I didn’t see that as something a person would really do, even though you softened it by saying she only bit gently, and if so, why the harsh response? Hit first and ask questions later, I suppose.
I did like how you handled the prompt, by using the bit and scratch theme with a toddler. I was told I was a biter when I was little, but I just shrug my shoulders. I was what, maybe Kirrin’s age? Kids bite. It’s a fact of life, and I did like the way you handled that in your story with a gentle approach, rather than a sharp smack to deter. Hitting begats hitting, is my motto. Kids learn to hate, they learn to hit and we teach them that by showing our hatred for others and by hitting as punishment. It never stopped me. A disappointed look on my father’s face was the worse punishment I could have ever received.
Once I took a golf club to a tree and whack the living daylights out of it. I remember doing it and I still don’t know why. No one noticed it for a few days, but my step- mother got all over my case. I denied it and my father took my side. He said, “My son wouldn’t do something like that. So there will be no punishment. Let it go.” I carried that guilt with me for years. One day when I was I my fifties, I told my dad about that incident and confessed. My step-mother had already passed away so it was just me and him. He said, “I remember that, too. But I figured the damage was done, and all I would do is inflict more damage. I did that hoping you would not do that sort of thing again.” Wise man, my father. It worked far more than punishment.
I also noticed some tense changes, like: ‘Kirrin returns from daycare in a bit.’ There were others, but that’s the way you write many times, so I just forgive it and move on.
As I said, I liked your story, Marien, I just felt there were a lot of moving parts, and was written more with a stream of consciousness rather than deciding how the story was going to go. Nothing wrong with that, but sometimes you lose structure.
Roy
🙄🙄
Roy
By Roy York
1164 words
The full moon was setting in the west and the sun had just started its daily journey over the small village of Valant. Dalon peeked up from his spot on the mountainside where they had spent the night hiding after encountering a large wolf on the way home and motioned to Thace. “How can we see the moon when the sun is out.?”
“Idiot, everyone knows the moon outruns the sun every night, then hides among the stars during the day.”
“If you know so much, then how can I see the moon right now during the day, but I can’t see the stars?”
“Dalon, No one can see the stars during the day; that’s why the moon hides behind them. Not even the sun can find the moon unless it wants to be seen. Don’t you know anything?”
“I know we’d better be getting home before Pa finds us missing from our beds.” Dalon stood up slowly and stretched. “If Pa sees these scratches on our arms, he will know something happened to us after we left the mill.”
“Don’t worry about Pa. He won’t be getting home from the mill until after we get home. You know he always stays all night to finish the new wood during the full moon. The grain is pure and the wood will last longer. Dad mills the best wood in all of Valant.”
Dalon shrugged. “That’s not going to help us if we get home after he does. I want to have our story straight. You just had to stop and see Faran last night.”
Thace thought about those stolen moments he had with Faran and smiled. He remembered the lingering kiss she shared before she sent him packing. “If we hadn’t run into that wolf on the way home we would have been home in plenty of time. Just tell him we were delayed and had to wait at Jondan’s after it got dark, then headed home this morning. Jondan will back us up if anyone asks.”
The two boys made their way and were safely home by the time their father got home. They pretended like they had just gotten up and greeted him. “Ho, Father,” said Dalon. “You look tired.” He glanced at Thace who had a worried look.
Thace piped in his own opinion. “Father, you look like you need to rest. How long has it been since you slept?
Rand looked at his two sons with pride. “You don’t need to worry about me. If you are so worried, perhaps you should go to the forest today and cut more wood for the mill, then I will stay back here and sleep.”
“You will allow us to go to the forest during the time of the full moon?”
“There are only two days left then the wood spirits will return from their monthly festival. The wolves run at night. I don’t know if I can cut enough wood alone. Are you willing to help?”
“Of course. Give us time to eat breakfast and we’ll be ready to go.”
“You know you have to be home before the sun sets. Arn lost two of his cattle last night. He and Jondan found them this morning at first light.”
“You saw Jondan this morning?”
“I did. He and Arn were coming down from rounding up the remaining herd and taking them to the pasture behind their barn until the time of the full moon passes.”
“By the way, what time did you get home last night? You left the mill way before dark. Your mother said you weren’t in your beds when she went to bed and she didn’t hear you come in when she brought me breakfast this morning.” He gazed intently at the two boys.
“Dalon shifted his feet and looked down at the floor. Thace cleared his throat and coughed for a bit before looking his father in the eye. “I cannot lie to you, Father. We did stop by to see Faran. Umm … well, I stopped by to see Faran. Dalon talked with Raf about the two new lambs and then we left. Right away.” He cleared his throat again and then shook his head.
“Go on, there seems to be more you want to say.”
Thace suddenly wished he was anywhere else but standing where he was telling his father he had disobeyed him. “We spent the night hiding on the mountain after we encountered what we thought was a large wolf. We hid in the old rock lookout. We were safe. Dalon had nothing to do with it. It was me, wanting to see Faran.”
Rand smiled, “Well, she is the prettiest girl in the village. Almost as pretty as your mother when she was that age.” Then the smile left his face. “Dalon, since my oldest son doesn’t want to tell me the truth, perhaps you will. How close was the wolf you saw?”
“We’re not even sure it was a wolf.”
“Don’t lie to me now. Did you get scratched or bitten?”
Dalon stood silently for a moment, blood draining from his face, then rolled up his sleeves and held them out for his father. “These are limb scratches from running through the forest. Neither of us got that close to the wolf. Thace has them, too.”
“Why do you think we tell you not to go in the forest after dark? It’s the time of year for the foaming disease. When bats and wolves go rabid and you come in contact with any of their saliva you can get the foaming disease yourself.”
Thace said, “Father, if anyone is to be punished it is me. Dalon is not my keeper, and I made him come along so I could see Faran.”
“Don’t the two of you understand? Each of you is the other’s keeper. You will not be punished this time, but the next time … “ He let the words trail off. “Never venture into the forest after dark. Is that understood?” They both nodded. “Go to the forest and start cutting trees. I expect a big load at the mill when I arrive there tonight. He turned and went to the cupboard and grabbed a cup.
He watched them walk away and thought. ‘They are getting older and headstrong, just like I was when I was their age.’ He set the cup on the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. ‘I should go to bed,’ he thought. ‘I’ve got a big night ahead of me. Now that Arn has moved his cattle, I’ll need a new hunting ground. There are only two nights of the full moon left.”
He could still feel the tug of the full moon hiding among the stars. He could feel the hairs along the back of his neck still growing shorter and watched his nails as they slowly receded. They would regrow as night would begin to fall. Rand smiled. ‘The hunting should be good tonight.”
Roy
Roy
By john Filby.
Word Count: 1113
“Did you get scratched or bitten? The Captain asked through the communicating badge. This could be operated without touch or even the verbal acceptance of the call.
“I don’t know, I didn’t really see anything, all so quick”, Doolan replied.
He looked at his hand and forearm, there was swelling, redness and what looked like two raised puncture wounds. “I am not a medic but it sure did suggest a bite of some kind”, he muttered.
“The air-lock is frozen and we cannot get to you”, the Captain responded, “It does that when there is a risk, we will get to you as soon as we can”.
Doolan knew protocol but he had never been on this end of it before. He guessed that if he was locked in here, then his assailant would be too. What could possibly have wounded like this without him even realising?
He looked around and everything seemed to move or have eyes staring at him. He could see ‘it’ everywhere, but nowhere at all.
He glanced at his arm, the redness and swelling seemed to be expanding and spreading. He had no pain or sensation and if he was not looking at it he would not even know anything was wrong.
“Doolan, the medic is here to advise you until we can get to you”, The Captain stated.
“G’day Doolan, this Medic Smith here. There is a medical treatment kit located in the second drawer to your left. I will instruct you with the contents”.
“Okay, I have got the kit. I don’t have the use of my left arm, no pain but loss of sensation and strength”, he told them.
“This is not unusual, but we need to see what the injury is and treat it accordingly”, Smith replied.
He was asked to describe the wound as she asked. He was cool as a cucumber but realised that he could lose his limb or even something more debilitating, death.
Doolan took the medication as instructed, and then applied the gel to the affected areas. The puncture wounds seemed to want to erupt with the movement he placed on them to clean and soothe them.
“Don’t rub too hard, we don’t want to assist with the spread around your body”, came her response.
The windows of his ‘fish-bowl’ enclosure were engulfed with faces of concern, his fellow colleagues and travellers, all who appeared to not know what was going to happen.
The numbness had now reached his shoulder, but was told it could have been much further without the medication and gel.
His brain and thoughts began to fog and cloud a bit. Was he losing consciousness?
“Hey Doc, I feel sleepy and like I want to fall down. I don’t know what is happening”, Doolan said to no-one in particular, but everyone nonetheless.
“Doolan, keep focused, keep talking, we are working on the door jam, we will be with you shortly”, The Captain spoke through my communication device.
All Doolan could hear was ‘blah, blah, blah’, he was not himself. His eyes began to close and he stumbled from the chair in which he was sitting.
“Doolan, respond. Doolan, respond”, Smith called.
“We have to get to him, as soon as possible, surely we can override this one door lock”, she urged The Captain.
“My responsibility is for the safety of all of us, if one sacrifice is needed to save the other 109, then I will take it”, The Captain continued.
“Heartless bastard”, Smith muttered under her breath, “I never liked him”.
“Doolan, respond”, Smith urged. He was her priority, everyone else was safe. Doolan was locked in with his predator, the contagion. Time is of the essence.
They could not get any response from Doolan. He was still and motionless on the floor of his work-pod. He faced them with eyes wide opened and no visible signs of respiration. The signs-of-life sensors for his pod were functioning, but the levels were extremely low, almost to zero.
“Captain, we have to get in, he is dying”, Smith cried.
“We do not know if the risk is too much, the creature is on the loose and if we open the airlock then we chance it’s escape to infect all of us. My decision is final. One life to save 109”, The Captain spoke assertively.
Smith could see the sense of that, containing the contagion, but she had worked with and known Doolan closely for five years since this mission threw them together. She was unaware if he shared the same feelings.
Through the safety glass the body of Doolan remained still. All eyes on him to see the slightest sign of life. The door lock remained fixed as did the Captain’s words and commands.
Then as Smith blinked, if only for a moment, she called out, “Did you see that?”
They all had caught a slight glimpse of a creature, unlike any they had ever seen, and they had seen many weird and wonderful creatures from all universes on their travels.
Smith described it as a mix of slug, spider and moth. It could therefore fly, slide and pounce making it an agile predator. But where did it come from? How did it arrive in Doolan’s work pod?
It was the size of a small bird, maybe a sparrow-size. It had fangs but also dribbled fluid which Smith imagined was the cause of Doolan’s numbness and swelling. The eruptions were obviously the fang marks with some kind of venom injected.
It had shown them was it was, but still they did not know where it was, and what it wanted. Hoping it was alone and not about to lay or hatch millions of young.
Doolan was the Planetary Zoologist-Biologist for this mission and he was not in a fit state to identify the creature or to advise the next steps. The lack of oxygen in the work pod was making Doolan’s life-signs fade but was it affecting the creature? Everyone knew that some creatures they had encountered did not rely on oxygen, was this one of them?
Doolan’s signs-of-life monitor flashed and beeped audibly but The Captain remained cool. The maintenance team had not been able to free the jammed air-lock door. Doolan was motionless and frozen into a foetal position, was he in pain?
All eyes watched as the contagion spread over his body, engulfing him in a cocoon-like wrapping. His humanity lost in the ribbons of the casing. He was gone. Smith let out an extremely loud, “Oh my god, he’s gone”.
With that both Doolan and Smith sprung bolt upright in the bed they shared, had they both had the same dream?
I reread my story and realised there were so many spelling errors and grammatical faux pas. Could you please remove that version and add the one below. Thank you.
The Bite.
By john Filby.
Word Count: 1113
“Did you get scratched or bitten? The Captain asked through the communicating badge. This could be operated without touch or even the verbal acceptance of the call.
“I don’t know, I didn’t really see anything, all so quick”, Doolan replied.
He looked at his hand and forearm, there was swelling, redness and what looked like two raised puncture wounds. “I am not a medic but it sure did suggest a bite of some kind”, he muttered.
“The air-lock is frozen and we cannot get to you”, the Captain responded, “It does that when there is a risk, we will get to you as soon as we can”.
Doolan knew protocol but he had never been on this end of it before. He guessed that if he was locked in here, then his assailant would be too. What could possibly have wounded like this without him even realising?
He looked around and everything seemed to move or have eyes staring at him. He could see ‘it’ everywhere, but nowhere at all.
He glanced at his arm, the redness and swelling seemed to be expanding and spreading. He had no pain or sensation and if he was not looking at it he would not even know anything was wrong.
“Doolan, the medic is here to advise you until we can get to you”, The Captain stated.
“G’day Doolan, this Medic Smith here. There is a medical treatment kit located in the second drawer to your left. I will instruct you with the contents”.
“Okay, I have got the kit. I don’t have the use of my left arm, no pain but loss of sensation and strength”, he told them.
“This is not unusual, but we need to see what the injury is and treat it accordingly”, Smith replied.
He was asked to describe the wound as she asked. He was cool as a cucumber but realised that he could lose his limb or even something more debilitating, death.
Doolan took the medication as instructed, and then applied the gel to the affected areas. The puncture wounds seemed to want to erupt with the movement he placed on them to clean and soothe them.
“Don’t rub too hard, we don’t want to assist with the spread around your body”, came her response.
The windows of his ‘fish-bowl’ enclosure were engulfed with faces of concern, his fellow colleagues and travellers, all who appeared to not know what was going to happen.
The numbness had now reached his shoulder, but was told it could have been much further without the medication and gel.
His brain and thoughts began to fog and cloud a bit. Was he losing consciousness?
“Hey Doc, I feel sleepy and like I want to fall down. I don’t know what is happening”, Doolan said to no-one in particular, but everyone nonetheless.
“Doolan, keep focused, keep talking, we are working on the door jam, we will be with you shortly”, The Captain spoke through my communication device.
All Doolan could hear was ‘blah, blah, blah’, he was not himself. His eyes began to close and he stumbled from the chair in which he was sitting.
“Doolan, respond. Doolan, respond”, Smith called.
“We have to get to him, as soon as possible, surely we can override this one door lock”, she urged The Captain.
“My responsibility is for the safety of all of us, if one sacrifice is needed to save the other 109, then I will take it”, The Captain continued.
“Heartless bastard”, Smith muttered under her breath, “I never liked him”.
“Doolan, respond”, Smith urged. He was her priority, everyone else was safe. Doolan was locked in with his predator, the contagion. Time is of the essence.
They could not get any response from Doolan. He was still and motionless on the floor of his work-pod. He faced them with eyes wide opened and no visible signs of respiration. The signs-of-life sensors for his pod were functioning, but the levels were extremely low, almost to zero.
“Captain, we have to get in, he is dying”, Smith cried.
“We do not know if the risk is too much, the creature is on the loose and if we open the airlock then we chance it’s escape to infect all of us. My decision is final. One life to save 109”, The Captain spoke assertively.
Smith could see the sense of that, containing the contagion, but she had worked with and known Doolan closely for five years since this mission threw them together. She was unaware if he shared the same feelings.
Through the safety glass the body of Doolan remained still. All eyes on him to see the slightest sign of life. The door lock remained fixed as did the Captain’s words and commands.
Then as Smith blinked, if only for a moment, she called out, “Did you see that?”
They all had caught a slight glimpse of a creature, unlike any they had ever seen, and they had seen many weird and wonderful creatures from all universes on their travels.
Smith described it as a mix of slug, spider and moth. It could therefore fly, slide and pounce making it an agile predator. But where did it come from? How did it arrive in Doolan’s work pod?
It was the size of a small bird, maybe a sparrow-size. It had fangs but also dribbled fluid which Smith imagined was the cause of Doolan’s numbness and swelling. The eruptions were obviously the fang marks with some kind of venom injected.
It had shown them was it was, but still they did not know where it was, and what it wanted. Hoping it was alone and not about to lay or hatch millions of young.
Doolan was the Planetary Zoologist-Biologist for this mission and he was not in a fit state to identify the creature or to advise the next steps. The lack of oxygen in the work pod was making Doolan’s life-signs fade but was it affecting the creature? Everyone knew that some creatures they had encountered did not rely on oxygen, was this one of them?
Doolan’s signs-of-life monitor flashed and beeped audibly but The Captain remained cool. The maintenance team had not been able to free the jammed air-lock door. Doolan was motionless and frozen into a foetal position, was he in pain?
All eyes watched as the contagion spread over his body, engulfing him in a cocoon-like wrapping. His humanity lost in the ribbons of the casing. He was gone. Smith let out an extremely loud, “Oh my god, he’s gone”.
With that both Doolan and Smith sprung bolt upright in the bed they shared, had they both had the same dream?
“G’day Doolan, this Medic Smith here. There is a medical treatment kit located in the second drawer to your left. I will instruct you with the contents”. Take out ‘this’ in the first sentence. Make contractions of ‘There is’, and ‘I will’.
“Okay, I have got the kit. I don’t have the use of my left arm, no pain but loss of sensation and strength”, he told them. Make a contraction of I have.
“This is not unusual, but we need to see what the injury is and treat it accordingly”, Smith replied.
Make a contraction of This is. You will save four words (a lot more in your story) with this change and they might come in handy in the future when you. are writing a tight story and need fewer words to reach the 1200 word limit
He was asked to describe the wound as she asked. He was cool as a cucumber but realised that he could lose his limb or even something more debilitating, death. In the first sentence you repeat your self. In the last sentence it sounds like he could lose a limb or death. It would be better IMHO if you would have said he realized that he could lose his limb, or have something more debilitating, his life. It’s a little thing, I know, but I think you might agree if you reread it. I read it at first as he could lose a limb or (he could lose) even something more debilitating, death. I mean, if he could, who wouldn’t like to lose death.
There are more, but again, I’m not trying to be picky, but I think you will benefit in the long run. People use contractions far more than you think in casual conversation. And not using them sounds unnatural, at least to these Yank ears. If you notice, Ilana uses contractions throughout her story, and she is one of our top writers (this guy thinks) and she’s an Aussie through and through.
Othewise, I liked the way the story unfolded, even without the dramatic ending – again which is not in my top 100,000 endings of story.
G’day Mate,
Roy
We have 4 stories posted, do we extend a week or just post the voting page as is?
Thoughts?
Roy
Roy
It does seem to be a trend that we extend them on a pretty regular basis. I wonder if we should make the contest 3 weeks as the norm?
Maybe I’ll send out a survey to see what people prefer. The 2 week or 3 week timeframe.
It’s not just us that’s suffering with lack of participation.
Two other writer groups I participate in are getting 3-7 stories nowadays, where it used to be more like a dozen or two.
Now another front may open up on the northern Israeli border with Hezbollah terrorists. The Israelis had a field hospital to treat syrians and Lebanese people caught in the web of these vile monsters and the people who came to the Israelis for help could not say where they had been treated as they would have been tortured and probably killed for accepting the Israeli medical aid.
The world is such a mess. I have spent days close to tears and my work keeps me sane, but another issue has arisen and I have been stood down for posting on social media, because my principal has told me I am not to be on social media because it brings the Education Department into disrepute. I have not posted anything of a hateful or inciting nature, but people have taken posts I made five to six years ago up from 2009 out of context and put other meanings on it and thus I am having a psychiatric review on the 27th to decide whether I should be a teacher at all.
I believe the principal has overstepped his powers and even teachers deserve a life outside of the classroom within reason. I have not incited hate against anyone, I do not advocate for child abuse of any nature, I act appropriately around students and have not indulged in any inappropriate banter let alone behaviour. I am NOT a feel good teacher but I do preserve a healthy distance between myself and my students that is respectful despite disrespect shown to me and other teachers at times. I demand work to be done and will not tolerate students who do not give it a go. But so often in today’s world, we are undermined by the Feel Good Fellowship (the FGF) I call them.
Such attitudes prevent learning and allow students to coast and sets up unrealistic expectations of the world in the future.
Darn, I need to get off my hobby horse. Work never hurt anyone and it does not give you time for foolishness and nonsense. It enhances basic skills and builds character.
16 But of the cities of these peoples which the Lord your God gives you as an inheritance, you shall let nothing that breathes remain alive,
17 but you shall utterly destroy them: the Hittite and the Amorite and the Canaanite and the Perizzite and the Hivite and the Jebusite, just as the Lord your God has commanded you,
18 lest they teach you to do according to all their abominations which they have done for their gods, and you sin against the Lord your God.
And there is a good reason for genocide of Hamas, according to Shaka Zulu of the Zulu tribe of the Nguni, “To subdue another tribe, you must strike it once and for all. Total war, total subjugation, and destruction to anyone who raises even a whisper against him! Never leave an enemy behind or it will rise again to fly at your throat! There’s no other way!”
Alternately, do as the Muslims do, i.e., react swiftly harshly, totally.
… (rather than) plodding, the Jordanians quickly hanged a pair of terrorists in their custody and began launching air strikes against ISIS targets on Thursday. Jordan’s King Abdullah ordered the actions after ISIS released the video purportedly showing the jihadists burning the pilot alive in a cage. The king sent half of his fleet of F-16s against the ISIS stronghold in Syria. Syria didn’t respond.
Unlike Jordan, the U.S. (and Israel) typically show restraint as a superpower. Unfortunately!
The principle of “an eye for an eye” is part of Sharia law. HAMAS’s rules of engagement necessitating Israel’s compliance.
Looking forward to your story. This is a hateful world, we live in. Good luck with the evaluation and just remember to keep your cool. You can do this Ilana.
R
By Robt. Emmett
The warm afternoon had cooled down, and as I wrapped the Hudson Bay blanket tighter around me, I wondered when it had become so worn-out. The fall breeze rustled through the trees on the terrace, carrying a faint scent of burning leaves. My eyes briefly shifted to Vivian.
“Doctor Alexander, it’s time for your….”
“Nurse ah….”
“Vivian, doctor.”
“Ah, yes Vivian, please call me Hank or, at the most, Harrison.”
“Mister ah, Harrison. Now….”
“And drop the mister. Can you?”
“Certainly, if you insist.”
“I do. Now, you were saying?”
“It’s time for you to take your evening medications. Would you like to come inside and join a few of the other residents by the fire before dinner?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
“No, thank you, Vivian. Out here on the terrace will be fine,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. “A few moments, please. Most of the leaves have fallen, and the view of the university’s gray stone bell tower is visible, and … and …?”
“Memories, doctor?” she interjected softly.
Yes, memories. After the one semester out east, I returned, received a degree from UMD (which I never used). My job was more of an application of my stamp collecting hobby than actual work. Retirement is not what it’s cracked up to be. But living here at Ridgecrest retirement facility has one redeeming point. It overlooks Stanbrook Hall and its beautiful, the gray stone bell tower of a women’s college.
Nodded, a wistful smile playing on my lips. “Yes, it was years ago, of course, but it started about this time of the year, just before the first chilling frost before when I met her. Oh dear, a senior moment. Her name is similar to yours and it was on the tip of my tongue a moment ago, but it seems to have slipped off.”
“Hank, do you want me to see if it’s under your wheelchair?”
“Vivian, your humorous nature is showing again.”
“Sorry Doc … Hank, I’ll me more careful.”
“You know, of all the things I’ve lost over the last eighty plus years, I think I miss my mind the most.”
“You think about the name, and I’ll be back shortly to take you in for supper and….”
“Vivienne! That was her name.”
It was a crisp fall day as I walked through the picturesque campus of Gray’s Creek University in the heart of New England. The leaves were painted in hues of gold and red, creating a breathtaking backdrop for the start of a new semester. As a transfer student from the University of Minnesota at Duluth, I was excited to explore this renowned institution and make new friends.
My first encounter was with Vivienne, a quirky and vibrant girl who flitted the falling leaves like a whimsical fairy. Her hair was a wild cascade of fiery red that matched her infectious energy. We instantly hit it off, becoming inseparable within days.
Vivienne introduced me to her good friend, Nathaniel, a brooding, mysterious young man. With his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, he had an enigmatic aura that was hard to ignore. Rumors circulated about Nathaniel being from a long line of mysterious New England bloodlines, but I dismissed them as mere gossip.
As the semester progressed, Vivienne and I delved into the fascinating world of academia. Our days were filled with stimulating lectures, heated debates, and nights spent studying in dimly lit libraries. We grew even closer, often exchanging late-night secrets over steaming cups of cocoa. I admired Vivienne’s passion for life and her unwavering dedication to her studies.
One evening, as the moon glistened overhead, Vivienne invited me to join her on a moonlit hike in the nearby woods. Intrigued by the idea, I agreed without hesitation. We ventured into the forest; on footsteps muffled by the rustling leaves. We walked along an overgrown path until we stumbled upon an old, moss-covered tombstone.
“Did you know this place is rumored to be haunted?” Vivienne whispered, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. She had a unique sense of humor caused one to question her intentions.
I laughed, dismissing her words. “Ghosts? Come on, Vivienne. This is New England, not Transylvania!”
Just as I finished my sentence, a chilling breeze swept through the woods, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. We continued our hike, but my heart raced with a mix of excitement and dread.
Abruptly I understood. “Did you get scratched or bitten?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.
Vivienne, transformed into a vampire, turned towards me with an alluring smile. “Bitten, my dear. And it looks like you have a choice to make.”
Confusion washed over me as I tried to comprehend the situation. My mind raced with the impossible notion that my best friend, my confidant, was a creature of the night. Her eyes pleading. “Will you join me? Embrace the darkness and live eternally with me,” Vivienne whispered.
“I can’t, Vivienne. I won’t let the allure of immortality consume my soul,” I replied, my voice trembling. Deep down, I knew my place was in the realm of the living. I backed away slowly, tears streaming down my face.
With one final glance, a mix of longing and remorse, Vivienne disappeared into the night, leaving me alone in the moonlit woods. I returned to Gray’s Creek University, my heart heavy with the loss of a dear friend and an impossible secret.
Years have passed since that fateful night, but the memory of Vivienne lingers in my mind. I’ve since graduated and moved on, embarking on new adventures, and forging new friendships. Yet, beneath the facade of a normal life, I carry the tale of the vampire lovers of Gray’s Creek University, forever cherishing the memory of a friendship that transcended the boundaries of life and death.
— Ԙ —
I know, I know, last time I said that one was one of the best I’d read, and then you follow it up with this. I don’t know what you’re drinking these days, but if it comes in a bottle let us know the name of it so I (we) can get some.
Loved this story by far more than anything you have done. I always felt your stories, while good, were fairly repetitive. Boy meets girl, cars were involved, usually a brief romantic interest and all set in the same time period. This was a total departure, well, not the romantic interest part, but the rest of it was. I especially liked the descriptive phrasing which was abundant, yet not over powering. Like this one: The fall breeze rustled through the trees on the terrace, carrying a faint scent of burning leaves.
Yeah, Rob, keep this up and you’ll be giving First Place in the tri-weekly contests (if that’s the way we go) a lot of attention. I don’t have any bones to pick with you over the story except this:
But living here at Ridgecrest retirement facility has one redeeming point. It overlooks Stanbrook Hall and its beautiful, the gray stone bell tower of a women’s college. The second sentence seems fractured and should read: It overlooks Stanbrook Hall and its beautiful gray stone bell tower.
Then the next sentence starts with: Nodded, a playful smile … It should read, I nodded, a playful smile … and so on.
Otherwise, a very good job Rob. You should be pleased.
Roy
The birds circling overhead spun; coiling black dots connected by invisible threads. It was a sign we feared.
“Something has died.” Jon stated flatly.
“Or someone.” I agreed. We both looked back to where Miriam was leading the children carefully over the muddy ground and wet slippery rocks by the creek we were following. I looked up at the circling dark splashes against the vivid blue of a clear spring sky. Sam was already taking the binoculars out from her backpack.
My brother Jon, his wife Miriam and their three teenagers Jodi, Lily and Cameron – Cam for short, had agreed to spend four days with me and my partner Sam camping and trekking through the Baalijin Nature Reserve on the north coast of New South Wales. Sam has always been a fit and regular bushwalker since her late teens. She was my second wife and love for her had inspired me to join a gym to get fit so I could share her passion for the bush and varied landscapes of our country. It also meant spending more time with her. She could not have been more different to my first wife Barbara whose idea of exercise meant a walk to Myers or a shopping mall or to the refrigerator to get snacks for a Netflix session. She had had several miscarriages, because she did not exercise and was too unfit to carry a pregnancy through to term. Our marriage ended when I came home unexpectedly and found her naked on the couch in our living room with my now ex business partner. Both partnerships ended in a divorce of one kind or another.
I remained in deep depression for several years – numbing myself with alcohol and anti-depressants until I met Samantha in a library. We were both at a talk on environmental issues. Sam is twelve years my junior and had recently broken up with her partner of five years when we met. I think I was her adventure fling after a tedious relationship that took a year to bite the dust so to speak. Our adventure fling was still going seven years later.
Sam viewed the circling birds through the binoculars. She gave an astonished grunt and handed them to me. The look on her face was a mixture of revulsion and fascination.
I examined the circling birds through the glasses.
“Shit! What on earth…?” Sam raised one eyebrow.
“Yeah. I was thinking a type of bat, perhaps?”
Jon walked over and took the binoculars from me. He peered through them for some length of time. Finally, he said, “Some type of bat, perhaps?”
“Give me another look.” Sam took the binoculars back.
“They’ve got almost human faces.”
“When you say, almost human…?”
“Yeah, the eyes are strange. Need to see one up closer… and the ears look like lynx ears.”
“Do you mean Spock ears?” My attempt at humour fell flat.
“And look at the shoulders! I can see what looks like small breasts?”
“Breasts? Really Jon?” Miriam had finally reached us with all three children in tow. “Revealing all our hidden fetishes, are we?” She gave him a loving pat and squeeze on the buttocks. She often did this out of some perverse pleasure and humour because she liked to see him cringe in embarrassment.
“No.” snapped Jon rather huffy. “Look for yourself. See!” He took the glasses from Sam who had been adjusting the focus.
“I see what you mean about the breasts…” she had begun fiddling with the focus knob before the binoculars were taken from her as Jon handed them to Miriam. Miriam was peering through the glasses and adjusting the focus when we noticed the shift in the flight pattern of the birds or bats or whatever you wanted to call them.
“They’re starting to circle down. Look!” Miriam handed the binoculars to Sam.
“Shit, yes.” She readjusted the focus. “It looks like they’re coming towards us.”
At this point, I grabbed the binoculars and stared at the descending circle of about twenty or thirty of these things descending in increasingly narrower circles that were headed in our direction. My gut told me that this was not a friendly look – see of some curious chiropterans but something a little more sinister.
“Miriam, Jon and Sam Let’s put the tents up. Quick.”
Both Jon and I carried a Gazelle T4 pop-up tent that can hold four people comfortably. You can put them up in under a minute. We did so and bundled Jon and Miriam’s children Cam, Lily and Jodhi in first with Miriam. They closed the flaps securely.
“Stay calm. Be quiet.” I stated calmly as we zipped them in.
Jon, Sam and I were getting into the second tent when the first of the things landed on the top of the children’s tent.
“Oh my GOD!’ Sam exclaimed. Jon and I swung around to look at it. It’s face was small with red hair sprouting every where except for wings that looked like naked black membranes and the parted mouth revealed rows of razor sharp teeth that glistened whitely in the sunlight.
“What the…” yelled Jon as the thing launched itself at him. Instinctively, I swung the metal pole I use for a walking aid at its head. The impact sent blood and brain matter over the tent we were about to enter.
Sam pulled her handgun out of her pack and shot down two of the things in quick succession. Good aim that gal as she was ex-police SWAT team after all.
Jon had a similar weapon and took aim as these things came down from the sky. They seemed to go for the tent with Miriam and the children.
The things exploded in mid-air scattering body parts and fur over the tents and surrounds. I was guessing we had killed up to fifty of these flying monsters with two handguns and my metal walking pike which I wielded with deadly intent.
“LOOK OUT. SAM BEHIND YOU!” Jon screamed as the last one of these things dropped from the sky onto her head. Its talons clawed at her canvas cap and lifted it from her head as its sharp talons hooked into it with some of her hair attached.
My pike flew with deadly accuracy smacking the beast on its chest and splitting it nearly in half. Its mouth opened as the head rolled onto her shoulder. Sam let out an ear-piercing scream.
Both Jon and I reached her at the same time, and Jon’s gloved hands ripped the thing’s head away from upper arm.
“Did you get scratched or bitten?” I panted. Her eyes were glazed in shock; she shook her head. She pointed towards the sky to the west where there was a black cloud of circling dots.
“What the hell?” Jon and I said in unison.
“Fire. Let’s get a fire going. We need to call for help. Fire can keep them off.” He sounded hopeful.
I thought of those sharp teeth and claws and the flimsy material of our tents.
I wasn’t so sure. But it was worth a try.
“No.” snapped Jon rather huffy. “Look for yourself. See!” He took the glasses from Sam who had been adjusting the focus.
“I see what you mean about the breasts…” she had begun fiddling with the focus knob before the binoculars were taken from her as Jon handed them to Miriam. Miriam was peering through the glasses and adjusting the focus when we noticed the shift in the flight pattern of the birds or bats or whatever you wanted to call them.
That above is kind of clumsy writing. I have to rethink and rewrite that.
Some great stories – it was hard voting this time. Always is. There are stories that appeal on some aspects and not on others. I often like a turn of phrase in a story but then in another story the plot or story line is strong and that carries it over the line, so to speak.
Hey writers!
Sorry for the delay!
Here is the link to the voting page – good luck!
https://fictionwritersgroup.com/voting-bite-or-scratch/
Now just waiting on Roy, I emailed him, it’s not like him to not respond, hope he’s ok!
Roy
Roy
It is:
You are on the verge of inaugurating your prize project/store/ business.
It’s making the news.
Who do you call as chief guest to preside over the day? What made you decide on this?
Hey, hey, hey writers!
Here are your winners!
1st Place winner: “A Memorable Autumn afternoon” by Robt Emmett!
2nd Place: Full Moon by Roy York
3rd Place: The Bite by John Filby
4th Place: The Bird Circles by ilyaleed
5th Place: In The Nick of Time by Phil Town
6th Place: A Mid-Autumn Biter’s Dream by Marien Oommen
The favorite character was Rand from “Full Moon” by Roy York
Story with the best dialogue: The Bite by John Filby
Congrats to all!!!!
Thank you for my third place and especially for the dialogue vote. Dialogue has always been a struggle for me and I tended to avoid it wherever possible but now I challenge myself with it. The sci-fi / futuristic / space theme also came as a shock for me. This was also out of my comfortable zone.
Looking forward to the next one.
extremely well written and certainly belonged in the winner’s circle at the top. Nice job John, and congrats. It is so nice to be writing well enough to earn your votes. Thanks for the validation.
Roy
Oops, sure how autocorrect grab that without me catching it, but I fixed it!
Not biting or scratching in the next tale, I tell ya’
Is there a way to get a feedback on the stories here or by mail for those who’d appreciate an honest critique?
This site calls for critiques, and I’d like to think that they are honest, but this time around, I wasn’t able to say much, as it was a challenge for me to get to the site itself. I mean it was difficult for me to get away to get to the site from what I was doing. But, I am going to correct that in a bit.
In answer to your question, I will be glad to offer a critique, either privately or on this site. Let me know. I think from time to time I critique your work, fairly, I think, but your writing is very similar each time you write. Because English is not your first language, (If I am wrong on this, then I apologize in advance, but it is not what I am used to when I read – and I read a lot. I have to think about how you write. I remember one of my first critiques hit upon that and it didn’t go well, because it came across as a critique of your use of English rather than a critique of your writing. I have difficulty separating the two. So, I no longer concentrate on punctuation, most of which now a days with Grammarly, AI and other devices, it’s more often a typo rather than poor punctuation or grammar. So, I don’t point that out.
I go for structure, meaning and how the story sits with me. You have a unique style, I’ve pointed that out before. I’ve grown to like it and look forward to your stories because you offer a fresh look at many of the prompts that are sometimes so far out there I wonder how you got to where you end up. Your stories are lyrical, poetic and in a different timbre than stories that most of the other authors write. They usually touch on the prompt well enough, but are so different that they are hard to define.
Having said all that, if you want honest critiques from us, I’m there for you. In the meantime, keep doing what you are doing and if I can help you refine that, fine.
Roy
You always give an honest writeup. And I appreciate that fully. I get crazy sometimes, nay oftentimes, in my writing. And use extreme poetic license in spelling ever since I became a gron’ma, gwanma.. never the staid grandma. Coz those grandkids have brought so much joy in my life. A certain release. I used to be the tough English teacher in my heyday.
‘Biting and Scratching’ turns out to be a true tale.. down to the onomatopoeic spelling. How dare I! 🙂 I have learnt Old and Middle English and they are nothing like our present use. Computerese is the pits. Wither goeth spelling?
I will never use AI. Can’t stand the thought of an artificial, unnatural brain giving me ideas. Would any day muddle along than make my writing starchy perfect.
Personal critiques via email are good too because it might bore the rest of the crowd.
Thanks again.
Wishing you the best in everything. 🙂
Marien, in the past, writers have added “feedback requested” or “critique requested” in the beginning of, or at the end of their story comment. And if you want it privately, just mention that and people can email you.
I always encourage a public critique. It helps everyone to see a critique of someone else as well as theirs.
But I understand that everyone is comfortable with that.
Also, you received four 5th place votes, and two 3rd place votes. So lots of people like your story, the other ones just scored higher. 😊
I have not been as interactive as I would like, sometimes only scraping through with a story. I would like to reply and peer critique each story as you post them, but I have not been able to of late.
I will try better in future. If anyone would like any peer critique let me know and I will try my best. Time is poor and may not be immediate, and might even occur after the competition closes. I don’t mind the critique being reciprocated on my stories, during or after each competition.
Thank you once again for the vote of confidence in my stories.
Peer critiques are great. I know it’s time consuming. But it does make us do better. So whenever you find time…