It was Jo-Jo’s plan.
Break, enter, grab the artwork, drive.
But, she was home. A shot was fired.
A delay – the painting, which one?
Then sirens and a chase.
He’d had years to think about it.
Vivid in his memory, the searing heat of the asphalt on his face.
Jennifer M. Smith is a thinker, a tailor, an author, a sailor, but she’s no thief.
He looked at me, eyes rain-readied, heavy and distant.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered quietly.
“All these years, I’ve been telling myself ‘tomorrow’.
“But then there’s another tomorrow. Followed by another.
“And then a tomorrow follows that.”
He blinked and the rain began. Slow and silent.
‘Until there’s no tomorrow. It’s over.”
Jon is from the North West of England and an aspiring writer, working in Local Government but with a background in Newspaper Journalism.
The roof shook; the walls shuddered. Then everything went quiet.
Muhammad peered over the windowsill. They were coming for him, like a dog that never tires, constantly hounding him.
He had caused this. Now they had found him.
But if Muhammad was to die, someone would take his place.
Liam likes to spend his free time reading. He plays hockey, basketball, and volleyball, and he also likes to snowboard. He is a 13-year-old in Grade 8 from Vernon Christian School.
Sakura ascended to the Throne amid cheers. The Vizier stepped forward.
“Highness, she is an undeserving peasant!”
In the silence, Sakura heard the twang of a bowstring. Her sword sliced the arrow before it could impact the Vizier.
“Seems deserving to me,” said the Emperor.
“Objection withdrawn!” gasped the Vizier.
M. Chronister is a long-time writer of all lengths of science fiction and fantasy. While so far unpublished, she persists in creating stories that will please and entertain, and perseveres in submitting them.
What a mess.
Wish I’d known it was staged from the start. These fools must’ve considered me a pawn, thought I’d turn and run when the bullets started flying. I was their plausible deniability…
But life doesn’t follow anyone’s script.
I’d better dump these fools’ corpses before someone happens by.
This story was based on the prompt “it was staged” at TypeTrigger.
Kevin clung desperately to the lip of the mile-high cliff, wondering which of today’s six poor choices had been most to blame for his predicament.
His sweat-slick palms gave way, and too late he noticed the ledge he could have dropped safely onto.
So, the seventh mistake, then.
Sigmund dove for cover, gunshots ringing in his ears.
“Hello,” said Carl’s ghost.
“Girly scream!” said Sigmund.
“You just killed me,” said Carl’s ghost.
“…Sorry?” squeaked Sigmund.
Carl’s ghost shrugged.
“Blam!” said Carl’s partner’s gun as it shot Sigmund.
“Girly scream!” said Carl’s partner.
“I’m really hungry,” said Carl’s ghost.