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Death Walks on Broken Wings is my first short story; a tale of loss, unexpected hope, and the cost of revenge. Oh, and there’s a man-eating Azhdarchid, so you have that to look forward to!

MUST read this short on ! Finished it in one go!! Such a clever twisty . Thanks for providing a platform for such talented writers!! The Murder of Ruchika Mitra at

In just over a month’s time you could have a successful finished and a clear plan of action for pitching it to an anthology or submitting to competitions. What are you waiting for? Only a few spaces left!

You HAVE to read this short erotic thriller on ! It's unputdownable and I finished it in one go!! 'The Murder of Ruchika Mitra' at

a quiet heart is blessed with a special pair of eyes to see you his own moonlight on the meadow next door while the whole world is sinking in darkness !

Werewolf tech vs. military sci-fi. A whole near-future urban fantasy world on one page. New One Page Worlds blog today: Silver's Last Reign. This is another I'd freakin' LOVE to make into a novel!

"Mix the ingredients in a rusted wheelbarrow and allow to sit in the howling wind overnight, where the ghosts of this land will enmesh themselves within your new varnish." To read more of Benjamin Kessler's "How to Build a Box," visit

I can’t quit grinding my teeth. My cheeks are iron. I wonder if there’s a prize for that — cheek bodybuilder.

Are you Brave Enough To Write? $1,000 best 18 & up, $1,000 best 17 & under. Winners eligible for BETW Lion of Literature Award 10K Words or less. Any genre except erotica. Enter Now!

Dear Followers. When I`m not writing . it`s "Birth of a Spy" New from the pen of writer Duncan Swindells . If you like and you`ll love it. Reading Drusilla Carr. .

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Die Kurve

Scheiße! Ich habe die Kurve nicht gekriegt. Sie hätte gedriftet sein sollen, aber sie war es nicht. Sie war geschnitten. Chris sieht mich fragend an. Ich schüttel nur den Kopf. Was das bedeutet ist klar: Ich bin unwürdig. Ich werde mir nur einen Trip schmeißen. Mein Schicksal ist besiegelt. Ach wäre ich doch in der Feuerwehr nur nicht so überstolz gewesen. Wäre ich doch nur bereit gewesen ,die zwei Paper durch vier zu teilen. Ich hätte ein kurzes”Hallo” in das Dunkel der Wohnkabine gerufen, wo sich Jonas und Axel schlafen stellten, der Test wäre bestanden gewesen “Swallow your pride”. Aber dann hätte ich zugeben müssen eine Schlampe gewesen zu sein. “Bitch make sandwich”. Vor mir die neue Schule mit den beiden, ein paar Kilometer zurück die alte mit Chris repräsentative Steffen, dem Don. In der Mitte ich. Wollen sie mich ficken? “Vielleicht sind sie so aufgeklärt.” “An meiner Wand hängt ein Bild von River Phoenix”. Ich geb zu, mein Zimmer war nie sehr aufgeräumt. Aber eine Schlampe? Ich ? Leckt mich! Ich lasse es darauf ankommen, save mir die Pappen und gehe schnurstracks zurück zum Auto. “Nein, Dan, Du gehst den falschen Weg.” Der Kies knatscht unter meinen Schuhen. Ich starte den Motor. “How you ever gonna push me when the race is in my head”. The race. Ich heize los, zurück Richtung Chris.”Dem werde ich was erzählen, mich als Schlampe zu dissen. Und das., wo wir uns schon so lange kennen. Es ist so schade und als ich Chris ansehe, weiß ich, dass auch er es sehr schade findet, als er die Pappe mit dem Mittelfinger von seiner Daumenkuppe schnipst.”Dan sie hatten mit der Sicherheit des Todes so fest an Dich geglaubt”. Ich werf mir meine ein. “Alles was ich weiß, es ist gerecht” singen But Alive, und trotz meiner Enttäuschung spüre ich, wie Recht sie haben. “Rob kommt nicht mit hat mal jemand anderes gesagt, ich glaube Chris oder Axel, oder so und auch er hatte Recht. Nur, dass er mit “Rob” mich meinte. Chris wendet sich ab und geht. Ach hätte ich doch nur geviertelt. Oder sogar geachtelt, wie es die neue Schule tut. “Die neuen Kids ticken anders”, daher auch der Eightball. Ich hätte den Weg des Teilens statt dem der Gier genommen (Es liegt auf der Hand, dass Gier und Schlamperei Übel des gleichen Ursprungs sind, derer ich mich allein durch die strahlende, mich läuternde Kraft der Einsicht hätte erwehren können!) Doch ich habe es nicht getan und damit den Anspruch auf gleichberechtigte Mitgliedschaft in meinem Viertel verwirkt. “Das hätte ich Dir auch gleich sagen können”: 

Gnossienne No. 1

  At the memorial service for the late Grand-mère Archambault, an assembly of uninteresting persons exchanged brief condolences and turned to small talk and gossip. Towards the back of the grand hall, by the doors, a man stood stiffly, obscured by greenery in elaborate pots, and straightened his collar. He was not at all invisible to the mourners, and that was not his intent, rather to catch glimpses of the night as the doors swung open to admit yet another unfamiliar figure — some third-cousin-twice-removed. It was very hot, even by the doors, and whenever they were shut, the man would turn sharply to a decorative mirror and watch the sweat bead on his brow. Then he would squint sideways, “Ah, the great work, Gnossienne No. 1,” he remarked to his own features.

  “So you are an admirer of Satie’s compositions, no?”

  The man turned to see a slender woman in a green evening gown.

   “I dabble,” he said shortly.

   She turned to the open doors, and stared intently into the night and she saw the darkness clearly, “Staggered rhythm, minor key. Unerringly monotonous yet unnerving nonetheless, as if he’d written it for the night itself.”

   The man looked at her surprised, and life sprung to his brow for the first time during the evening.

    “What a mysterious night it must have been,” he said solemnly. She tightened her mouth and he noticed that she had a very refined profile.

    “Indeed. However,  aren’t all nights mysterious, Erik?”

     He looked again into the blackness and it grew deeper as he stared, “Indeed.”

     Then he turned to her, but she was gone.


The rain was so heavy that none of us make any move to leave the comfortable place we were currently in. Too deep in each other conversation, either with our phones or maybe with living creature around us.

And yet I’m here. Staring at the same soul once again. The one with the same warm deep eyes but cold cover, so cold yet tempting. How am I not attracted to those eyes? I’m just an ordinary girl that maybe—just maybe—can’t ever reach his vision.

I know, I just made myself sounds like those poor girl that just got her first heart break. But actually I just want to remind myself, that me and someone like him is almost nonexistent. Too far away, just like how this seat rearranged. I can see, feel him, but completely untouchable.

- BlueSercph.

One fine beginning of a snowy day in Moscow

Snow, snow, and yet more snow
falling slowly near the window of an old widow
of my neighbour in town
some of them may fall down in some branches of willow tree
by the narrow road to way home
but, what I’m gonna do this morning just pulling my blanket and my pillow
yet my mom suddenly told me to borrow the garden hoe just now
from the widow, “why so sudden, mom?
she said we must close rows of burrows in the backyard
before it’s closed by the snow
as I start using the garden hoe
somehow my mom said what I did was wrong,
and it took me long just to close one burrow
I said this all because I don’t know how,
she then bows to take the hoe in ground,
and shows me how it should be done
as I start following her
somehow I see the swallow has flown all of sudden
following her mom to the vast plain of meadow grass
that was yellow for all hay but now has turned all white
by the snow in Moscow

Pekanbaru, 18th February 2019 | ©Hairatunnisa


As he leads me into his office, I spot the tissues prepped on his desk; so, it’s bad news then.

Tony used to come to these things with me. I suppose I can’t blame him though, and as much as I want to hate that Sarah, she has been good for him, and she still glows with that extra weight she hasn’t lost yet.

“No thank you, I promise I’m fine,” a third attempt to refuse. I’m beyond tears, I’ve done my crying.

Hobbling out defeated, his words stay echoing around me, though they sounded distant when he first spoke them. I’ve always wished for something to grow inside me, I thought having the hysterectomy was the end of that, but this is just some cruel trick. I guess I must have wished too hard.


I don’t like that I can see my scalp and the food here is terrible. I miss my mother’s cooking; I miss my mother. I’ve been thinking about seeing her again.

I remember before she passed, I asked her for all her recipes. I was so excited, but I never managed to get it quite right. I guess I didn’t deserve to cook like a mother.

I told Tony about it spreading to my lungs, I don’t know why. He came to visit, I don’t know why. Sarah didn’t come with him, that one I think I can understand. I’m glad she didn’t, I wouldn’t want her to see me like this anyway. He was reluctant to tell me about it all, as if I didn’t know and he was trying to protect me. It was sweet I suppose but that isn’t his job anymore. I convinced him to show me a picture, it wasn’t easy. I expected him to get out his phone, but he pulled out his wallet and had a tiny picture in there. He was always so cliché, I loved that. I do love it.

Angela is so adorable; I can’t believe she has such a beautiful head full of hair already.


Tony asked if he could visit again this weekend. I told him not to come anymore, not now. He said he’d been telling Angela about me, and she wanted to visit her “Auntie”, I told him to not call me that in front of her, not ever.

She’s three now. I see all the pictures Sarah posts of her on Facebook. She has inherited her father’s nose, Tony and I always joked that that’s the one thing we wouldn’t want ours to have but it suits her face so well. Sometimes I think I see my mother’s rosy cheeks on her but then I have to remind myself that’s silly, but how my mother would have swooned over her. She would have spoiled Angela silly, I know it, if only she could have.

Sarah really shouldn’t have her profile on public if she’s going to post pictures of her daughter. I wouldn’t have done that. I can’t believe she’s let that new man of hers into Angela’s life so quickly, it’s just irresponsible. I’ve always thought she was immature like that, I mean she was the new younger woman after all. I don’t think Tony has anyone new in his life yet, but I know he’s smarter than introducing them to Angela that quickly. It looks like it was a messy split; at least Tony and I are amicable about everything. I wonder if we would have worked out if not for everything. I shouldn’t think about that.

It’s probably not good that I spend all my time looking at that sort of stuff but I really haven’t got the strength to get out of the bed and do anything else these days. It’s hardly the most glamorous way to spend my last days. I hope Tony visits.


A place where the mind creates and manifests words that describe the images and feelings that dwell in the further most corners of your imagination. A land that thrusts you into fantasy and wonder so palpable that you can almost taste it.

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by Mike Stone

Excerpt from “Why Is Unit 142857 Sad? (or The Tin Man’s Heart)”

Chapter 0: A Star is Born

Day 0

There is nothing. It appears black, but black would be a color and a color would be something, but this is nothing. Clear, that is how it would be described; neither black nor white; nothing to stop the light or slow it down; in fact, no light at all, and no darkness; clear. Nothing to see, nothing with which to see, nothing with which to think about nothing. No spatial framework within which one could say that there is nothing here, even if there were someone to say anything. No temporal reference which one might use to measure the time during which there was nothing here. No here, no there. No now, no then. No one. Nothing. Nothing farther than the eye can see, farther than the mind can think. No thought, no mind, no structures or triangles or lines or points. Nothing. Never was. Never will. Not even the faintest possibility of the slightest thing.

Perfection. No limitations, no asymmetry, no deviations, no impurity, no seam, no change. Nothing to wish for. Nobody to wish. Nobody to grant wishes. Perfection.

Passing of time. Moments pass. The dimensions that may be perceived. There are another five spatial dimensions and three temporal dimensions that can only be conceived, just like paper constructions that are folded and unfolded continuously into different forms. Dimensions are perpendicularities in the space-time continuum. Each dimension, except for the singularity, is perpendicular to the one before it. We are built to perceive the first three dimensions. We barely conceive the fourth in a metaphor of unfolding and hyper-leaps. The fifth through eighth dimensions are symmetrically opposite to the first four, left-handed universes filled with anti-matter and quarks of fate. Laws of physics are strange in those dimensions (not that we have a clue about laws of physics in our own). The ninth is pointal time as we conceive of now. The tenth connects all the nows of time past and time to come into a continuous concurrent wander-lust from mutation to extinction. The eleventh collects all the timelines and ties them together in a Gordian knot.

A potency; a potential; a possibility, so minuscule and remote that it is like the combined voices of all the beings of all the worlds suddenly singing the same note at the same time. Slowly the possibility becomes an inevitability, ineluctable. There is another possibility and then there is a tension, the thinnest wisp of vibration, a narrow bridge of relationship between these two possibilities. There is a point, another point, and another point. The points begin to swirl. At first, they exchange places with one another, faster and faster until they finally form a continuous buzzing line. The line extends itself forward and backward. It shifts left and right, up and down, faster and faster, like a mad baton twirling out of control into a crowd of expectant spectators. Black lightning arches out among several points and several branches stretch out. Nodes appear, becoming branches, and myriad new nodes-becoming-branches appear and leap out, splitting and arching and splitting again, spinning around the axis of the main trunk in and out of shadow. Swirling points and nodes and branches coalesce into the face of a young man. The face shimmers and vibrates like shiny black sequins and changes into a woman’s face with long thick flowing hair. The pattern holds for a moment and then, like a flock of distant birds flying suddenly shifts synchronously to another direction, the woman’s face transforms into the face of a child. The child’s face hardens into the face of a young man whose configuration is somewhat different from the first face, and then shrivels into the face of a tin man, finally swirling away like a hubcap rolling off to the side of the road from a wrecked automobile. Photons, muons, lambda, and quanta are flung out in a whirling acceleration of proto-fury barely contained within an infinitesimal wormhole between nothing and nothing. They collide and veer off, going forward and backward in time in silent violence the way a thought is born in the tubular cilia of a lone axon.

Something is about to be born. It may be a universe. It may be a star. It may be an embryonic child. It is strange how we are conceived, like so many thoughts, like a triangle, conceived rather than perceived. Is this proof that we are thought before we are matter or is this mere sophist wordplay? At what point do we subtly change from thought to matter? What is the nature of that thought? Word or image? Abstract or concrete? In the beginning was the word. Deconstruct the word: letter or phoneme. Alpha or Omega, or just Ommmmmmm.

Not yet female. Not yet male.

[] . .. … …—…

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"You dogs. Ungrateful runts. I included you into my life and this is how you pay me back?! How can I ever trust you again?"

Tonight music from the 60s plays throughout my apartment. The guys came over for an impromptu party(read: orgy). I told them they were meeting someone important. So they brought their music and alcohol and began drinking and partying like animals.

About an hour into the party my best friend walks in through the open apartment door. And I know, right then, these guys are about to kick it to a whole other level.

They gather around my friend and because they’re drunk they’re testing boundaries. Seeing how far they can push the new guy as though it were a game.
“Hey, so we’ve heard everything about how you were this great hero to Klaus. But what we’re wondering is, would you be able to prove you’re as great as he says you are? I mean, we all know how easy thinking and reality can come undone, and leave a person in…imagination land. Ha ha, right? Isn’t that right guys?”
"Yeah!”  "Right-on!“
“So, what do you say ‘best friend’? Wanna show us your scars to prove your great heroic deeds?”

They had him in a corner. I had to do something.
So I turned into my superLion form and roared.

"That’s enough you dogs!!

They all had spun around in surprise, but now they were smiling ear to ear.
I had turned only halfway into my superLion form. The transformation was not complete.

"What’s the matter…Klaus. You’re kinda coming out the walls this time. You’re halfway-in, and halfway out. You’re a freak, ain’t ya?”

It was obvious. My transformation to them was incomplete, and they began moving closer all around me, stepping towards me with their guns drawn.
I called out to my friend, “Leave now. I wanna see your back going out that door.” He left quickly.

I had the stereo remote in my hand held high. And they had their guns pointed at me, moving in closer. I clicked the next track on the remote and then their guns began ringing out fire. Bullets were flying into me from every direction of the room.
Fools. They didn’t believe me when I said that the human form turned us into immortal beings as long as we understood its fundamental reality: That humans build inclusive connections because that’s what we beasts of the night feed ourselves on: Raw power. Exponential energy. And it’s exclusive to the holder of the connection.

And that connection just stepped out safely into the night. A mere human, yes, but a friend I would fiercely defend with my last life.
So these bullets…
moving into me…
…meant that they could make me dance like Vito Corleone, but they would not live long enough to enjoy the memory of this fiasco.

About thirty seconds into it the spree of bullets charging into me they began to peter off with the synchronous clicking of empty chambers and barrels trailing smoke. And behind the guns, were all my former friends, now turned into wolves. Guns in their paws. Sniffing at the gunpowder and barrel smoke. Panting like they’ve just turned to pussies after acting all hard just moments ago.

“You dogs. Ungrateful runts. I included you into my life and this is how you pay me back?! How can I ever trust you again?”
“We’re s-s-s-sorry…”(we didn’t meant to break your heart)
“Yeah? Well it’s not about you, cause your time is up.”

And just like that I Roared back into my superLion form, pushing the bullets out of my body and towards them, killing them as the bullets projected out from me then right through their Wolf bodies.

When it ended, they were floored, sloppy and dead. And ABBA’s 'The Winner Takes it All’ was playing. These poor dead and sentimental furry pussies. They never could understand the music they liked so much.
Which are you?

Meeker’s Tale…by Scott Connors

[Thousands of books and stories have been written about November 22, 1963. This one differs in that it was bequeathed to me by my dying father on his death bed. My father was a pilot, and on November 22, 1963 he was paid five thousand dollars to fly to Dallas, pick up a passenger and fly him to parts unknown. When my father died, he had no worldly possessions, but he had this story, and he left it to me to write so the world might know the truth.]

Meeker downed the last of his coffee, his half eaten eggs lay on the plate congealing. He stubbed out his cigarette in the eggs, put some cash on the table, folded his newspaper and walked out of the diner to destiny. The rain had stopped and the sun had come out. Meeker checked his watch, he had some time to kill before he had to be at the book depository so he strolled around Dealey Plaza. He had been here before and checked every angle and every approach and departure route. He had photographed the entire area, he had been in several of the buildings, on the rooftops, in the basements, in the parking lots, railroad yards, and even in the sewer at one point. Meeker had surveilled it all and he had come up with the perfect sniper’s nest, the ideal location to hit his target. Everything had been set in motion and like a train that had left the station there was no turning back now.

Meeker was a contractor and the best in the game. He had never worked for the FBI, CIA, or any governmental agency in any official capacity. He was not a member of the Mafia. He had no particular political leanings. But being a contractor, he had many contacts in both the government and the underworld. Money was what motivated Meeker. He sold his services to the highest bidder and in doing so, he held a vast network of resources. People in the know knew how to get in touch with Meeker if his services were needed.

Looking over the stockade fence from the rail yard towards Elm St. Meeker watched the traffic flow by. Earlier, this had been his choice from where to fire from, it was secluded and he could be in a car and gone in a matter of seconds. But Meeker was a perfectionist and after looking at this area from every conceivable angle he had changed his mind and his plan. The Texas School Book Depository would suit his needs better. The building itself provided the advantages; it was easily accessible, had several entrances and exits, gave him the height he needed, temporary employees were used so a strange face wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, and the most important advantage, he had a contact who already worked there. Meeker never met the man, but they had a mutual friend. Meeker knew the man only as Lee and their mutual friend had told him that earlier in the year Lee had made an assassination attempt on the life of General Edwin Walker. Meeker contacted their mutual friend and had him make some overtures to Lee. As the old saying goes, money talks and all Lee had to do to earn a quick five thousand dollars was to order a quality rifle through the mail and bring it to the sixth floor on November 22nd. Lee took the bait as Meeker knew he would and their mutual friend had been the go between so Lee would never know who Meeker was and Meeker would never know who Lee was, well until later that is.

Meeker lit a Lucky Strike and walked up Elm towards the book depository. He walked around the back of the depository and looked to make sure the package he had left there a few days ago was still there tucked between the dumpster and the loading dock. He checked the doors and police presence which was non-existent, the heavy police contingent would come later when the President’s motorcade rolled by on the way to the Dallas Trade Mart. He walked down Houston and turned onto Main where the crowds were five deep on each side of the street. The temperature was in the mid-sixties according to Hertz sign atop the Texas School Book Depository. Walking back towards what would become the sniper’s nest of the century he glanced up at the façade of the building, several windows were open while others were closed, perfect cover. Meeker passed a cop who didn’t give him a second glance, just another guy going to work. Meeker learned long ago the key to surviving in this trade is to blend in, act like you belong there. People see what they want to see. Ten people would walk by a homeless person in the street and “not see him” but look right at him, it was imperative to appear to belong to whatever environment you were in and today he was just an average Joe going to work even though the President was coming to town.

He walked around to the back of the depository, pulling his package from its hiding place, he removed the tool belt, strapped it on, stripped off his windbreaker revealing his Bell Telephone shirt, and stuffed the windbreaker back in the bag and proceeded towards the front of the building looking like a telephone repairman. He had used this ruse a dozen times or more and no one ever questioned him. He climbed the front steps of the depository, made his way across the first floor like he owned the place. At the northeast corner of the building he found the stairs and made his climb to the sixth floor. Once there he went to the southwest corner where Lee was supposed to have put the rifle loaded and ready to go. Meeker got to the corner window, the floor was deserted, he put his gloves on and pushed some boxes back, slid in behind them and moved them back into place so he was concealed from anyone’s view who might be approaching him. The rifle was on the floor between two boxes, he picked it up and examined it. “What the fuck?” he muttered to himself. Lee was supposed to order a quality rifle and here he held this piece of shit Italian made Mannlicher-Carcano. He checked to make sure the rifle was loaded, then peered through the scope. He figured he’d had to make at least three shots to get one good one after having to adjust the scope. Fucking dimwit Lee, he should’ve known better than to trust some idiot he had never met, but live and learn.

Checking his surroundings one more time to make sure his position was fully covered and masked by the boxes around him, Meeker settled in and glanced out the window. The motorcade had just turned from Main onto Houston. Meeker readied the rifle. He would take his shot as his target was coming towards him on Houston that would provide the majority of the target’s body. He was hoping for a clean head shot, but a shot through the heart would do the trick and he may have to make a lower shot due the shitty rifle he was using. The big limo had just made the corner onto Houston and his target came into view. He looked through the scope and saw the pink pill box hat, moved the scope a little to the left and saw JFK. His mind slowed and it was as everything had gone into slow motion. Meeker remembered meeting his employer and being hired for this job.

An airline ticket appeared in his mailbox one day with a note attached and instructions to fly to the designated city and go to a designated hotel room at a designated time for a possible job. This was not unusual in Meeker’s line of work. He didn’t necessarily work a 9-5 job and there was a vast underground network of people who knew how to hire guys like him. So when notes or airline or train tickets mysteriously showed up Meeker would go for a meeting and decide if he would take the job after meeting his prospective employer. He remembered that day, the hotel was four star and the room was a suite, the door unlocked. He walked into the semi-dark suite, all the curtains drawn. Meeker looked around and sat in one of the two chairs facing each other next to a small table with a lighted lamp on it. He waited. These things tended to be power plays, the employer wanting to make the prospective employee wait to show who held the power. Meeker had waited in coffee shops, diners, railroad stations, cheap rooming houses and waiting in a four star hotel suite wasn’t so bad. The door to the adjoining room, cracked open and his prospective employer walked in.

Smiling Jack Kennedy was taller than he’d imagined him. Perfect haircut, teeth white, suit perfectly pressed, and that Boston-Irish accent. He reached out and shook Meeker’s hand like he was courting voters. He motioned for Meeker to sit.

“Uh have a uh seat and thank you for coming today, Mr.? I don’t believe I know your name.”

Meeker sat. “Well maybe it’s better that way sir.” Both men laughed, an uneasy tension hanging in the air.

JFK smiled, “Mr. X will have to do. It’s a bit cloak and dagger, but I uh guess uh it’ll serve us for now.”

“Sir I’m not sure if I’m in the right place, you see I’m an –“ Kennedy cut him off with the wave of a hand.

“Mr. X I know exactly what you do. You come highly recommended from an old friend of my father and he assures me you are the best at what you do and that is why you are here.”

Meeker wondered why in the hell the President of the United States was in a room with him because most certainly these matters were taken care of at a much lower level for reasons of plausible deniability. Meeker shifted in his chair, he knew whatever this job was it would be a life changer. Kennedy stood and moved his chair closer to Meeker, his usual loud “Ask not” voice lowered to a whisper.

“Should you decide to accept this assignment, there is a half a million dollars in that case beside the couch. Upon successful completion of the assignment an additional half a million will be deposited into an account of your choosing anywhere in the world. Should you choose not to accept this assignment, well then this will remain our little secret, but then I’ll have to hire someone else and you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. If I’ve learned one thing in politics it is that it’s better to be on the inside looking out rather than be on the outside looking in.” Meeker listened. JFK laid out the “assignment” as he kept referring to it and the further he went, the more Meeker was astounded and astonished. He realized he was in way too deep to back out.

Back in the book depository Meeker sprung back to life like waking from a dream. Fuck! The motorcade was off Houston and onto Elm now heading away from him. He raised the rifle, slipped it through the window and aimed at his target. The limo rolled away from him gently descending down the slope of Elm St towards the underpass. He sighted his scope on the target, the pink pill box hat. His mind raced, but his heart beating normally, just another job. In that split second he thought of smiling Jack and his Boston Brahmin accent, that smug fucker. People thought Joe Kennedy was a ruthless opportunist, but this guy took the cake. This guy who for the past few months realizing the political capital his wife played in his presidency had brought them here. This guy who broke Secret Service and Presidential protocol by allowing and insisting that she exit Air Force One in the proceeding months so the crowds could see her first and so Meeker could get a shot if he decided to exercise his assignment on one of those trips. That was the other thing smiling Jack insisted on when they met that he not know when the shot was coming knowing it would make for better political reaction. This guy was something else but Meeker had to give him some credit. He pictured Kennedy at his wife’s funeral after she had been slain in public by some nut, holding his two young children’s hands consumed in grief. What voter Democrat or Republican wouldn’t vote for that guy? What world leader wouldn’t fear and respect for that guy? What woman wouldn’t want to fuck that guy? With one bullet smiling Jack would raise his political capital, eliminate the need for keeping his affairs a secret and his pussy quotient would go through the ceiling. He would be shoe in for re-election in ’64. And the best part was he had engineered the perfect murder.

Meeker pulled the trigger and the first bullet went astray. He ejected the shell and racked another into the rifle, his scope clear on the center of smiling Jack’s back as he squeezed the trigger and in that instant the world changed. The train left the station. Kennedy’s hand rose to his throat, Meeker ejected the second shell and rammed another one home. He aimed, fired and saw a rose colored red mist rise into the air as JFK’s head exploded. Meeker set the rifle down, made his way to the stairs, walked down assuming his telephone repairman role, exited the building, waked to the rear, retrieved his windbreaker, hopped in a cab and was gone. The cab took him to the airport where he had arranged for a small plane to be waiting, he wasn’t about to trust smiling Jack with his getaway. He boarded the plane and as it rose into the clear blue Dallas sky Meeker ceased to exist. Where he was going they’d know him by a different name and where he was going a half a million dollars was plenty to last a lifetime. He knew Kennedy would have arranged to have another contractor waiting at the bank and when Meeker showed to get the rest of the money he’d be killed. So he said fuck it, he’d screw big Jack and the whole Kennedy machine and forfeit a half a million in the bargain.

Weeks and months later sitting on a beach looking out into the ocean Meeker would smile as he read and re-read the accounts of the assassination and how poor Lee ended up being blamed for the whole thing. He especially smiled when he read Lee used the term patsy, he certainly was and that was Lee’s own doing. But Lee was stupid, all he had to do was sit tight and stay in the building, but he freaked and ran. Lesson one, act like you belong. And Lee belonged there, he worked there for Christ sake all he had to do was get rid of the rifle. Instead he freaked and ran. Once the police took an attendance of the depository employees and he was the only one missing and then they found the rifle well the rest as they say is history. He often wondered as did a lot of people how different the world would be if he had hit the pink pill box hat?

Villain Prompt #15

[ I legit scared myself by accidentally logging out from here and forgetting my email for a second ]

You plopped down into your chair once more and you ill-manner self put your feet on the table. The prisoner eyed you and they opened their mouth but before they could talk someone busted in, swinging the doors almost off the hinges.

“Who in the hell entered uninvited?”

You demanded to know as your guards inched forward to the figure, you noticed blonde hair and smirked and you didn’t hide it.

“Stop smirking like that you-”

“Shut [him/her] up. I want to see this guest of ours.”


So my goal is to writ 4 short stories this year. “Just the Way You Are” is my first. It’s all about that first love- a lost love that was never acted upon. It’s my first time writing anything romance but it’s fantabulous💕
#shortstory #shortstories #romance #firstlove #fromafar #love #interacialcouple #blasian #lostlove

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