Each of these stories is supposed to be 500-1000 words long, be a mix of two genres (which are stated at the bottom), and contains the phrase "the boy shot the wolf".

Poll ends on May 21.  If anyone wants to offer a critique of one of the stories, I suggest hiding the everything thing behind a spoiler tag (but don't wait the seven days, because if you feel like doing something, you should probably do it soon).



Story #1

   I sprinkled the line delicately across the top of my limp hand, dragging it in careful deliberate shakes of the small baggy, from between the knuckles attached to my middle and index finger all the way until the powder ran out. It was hard to say exactly what color it was, there, sitting in my car across the street from a broken street light and a half burnt-out pink neon sign, but it was at least close to white with little black granules littered throughout. I was already three shots of whiskey and an ungodly amount of barbiturates into the happy, distorted realm of intoxication, so snorting a bag-full of powder no one had bothered to identify really didn’t seem like such a bad idea. It wasn’t like I was on a job or anything. Something set off a chain of snaps, like psychotic pop rocks going postal in my nose. I’m pretty sure it was the little black things. Afterwards for the next five minutes, whenever I shook my head or turned my neck too fast, it sounded like someone was crumpling up a ball of aluminum foil that had just been wrapped around leftover Thanksgiving.
   I stared at the alley across the street and thought further heavy-handed thoughts while I waited for the drugs to kick in. She was a knockout, just like in the old movies. Bass-Drum hips and a pair of cans that could solve an African famine. And those big blue runny-mascara eyes. She was looking for her sister. Somewhere out in Buttfuck, Nowhere they’d met a charmer with broad shoulders. First he’d hit on Sister A, the one in my office, and when she didn’t put out, switched to Sister B, who did. Last this girl heard was a post card marked at a bus station between Buttfuck and Chicago, saying she wanted to come home. She was a brunette though, so I came this close to turning her down, when she offered me a couple grand for the job, enough to make rent and break even with my dealer.
   I climbed out of my Ford Rustang, checked around the neighborhood and decided it was seedy enough to lock the doors, then checked my package. I leaned back through the window, picked up the derringer that was sitting in the passenger’s seat, and tucked it back between my scrotum and penis and yelped audibly as cold hard steel met soft tiny testicles. With foreign substances in my system and six firearms on my person, I decided I was ready.
   The guy slid open the eye-hole after my blistered impatient knocking on the cast-iron door, but all I saw was mouth. Big, fat, hairy, gap-toothed mouth.
   “Whu’?” the mouth said, its corpulent lips smacking together somewhere between the apostrophe and the question mark.
   “The boy shot the wolf,” I said.
   The eye piece scraped shut and I heard the harsh echo of the lock being yanked out of place, followed a second later by a man who would have been better served by being two people filling the doorway. Yellow eyes looked me up and down from deep inside a fat, black, face.
   “Mmmkay, whutevah,” he said, then moved out of the way so I could get past.
   It was like something that could have only been dreamed up by a kid raised by Bram Stoker and an Orthodontist. The place was drenched in leather straps, piercings, period clothing, strobe lights, and grunge music. And sperm. Lots and lots of sperm. I was certain that a school of dentistry was going to wake up tomorrow and realize someone had stolen all of their shit.
   It was at this point that the drugs kicked in.
   Swollen primates in black costumes made wet slapping sounds as they banged into each other, vibrating to incomprehension pumped out at 11. At the bar, corsets of various size and gender poured libations down their throats that were so fucked up even I wouldn’t consider drinking them until I had at least two shots of something else first. There is only so much my-expanding you can do before your head turns into a big saggy porn star breast, and I was nearing my limit. I’m pretty sure I saw Captain Hook being fucked by a kangaroo.
   I proceeded across the floor, my feet sticking to the ground in ways I still refuse to think about, and after an unending moment of searching, found the girl I was looking for. She looked a lot like her sister, similarly built, though with longer, greasier hair, a bloodied nose, and a black eye that was bordering on a black face. Somewhere behind the massive swelling, behind her pleading desperate baby blues, I could tell that she was just a couple years younger than her sibling.
   They had her dressed up in a catholic schoolgirl outfit that was about 3 sizes too small and a principal, or a man doing a very good impression of a principal was busily smacking away at her ass with what appeared to be a large piece of sausage. We shall continue to assume that it was in fact sausage, as my mind is not capable of comprehending anything else, and I’ve done a lot of drugs so that says something.
   The sight managed to deprive me of my inertia up until the point where he came around and started punching her in the face, at which point I pulled one of the .45s from my coat pocket, and turned his brains into a Rorschach test on the wall behind him.
   It looked like a kitty.
   I unstrapped the girl from her leathering prison, had the decency, thank you very much, to wrap her in my coat, depriving myself of two of my guns in the process, and made my way back through the crowd who didn’t seem to have noticed, and that, Officer, is how we got here.

Genres: Noir Crime Fiction / Gonzo Drugged Out Surrealism


Story #2

The Sheep Chamber

Detroit Kahn was waiting in the dark. The fleece suit was stifling, but at least the sheep’s blood had dried. The rest of the flock soon arrived at the massive double-doors of the Exhibition. Weak, pre-recorded bleats played from the FX pockets of richer enthusiasts, setting off posh giggles and toots from the men inside. Excitement squirted into the dreary atmosphere of Block 178.

Detroit got in line. He finished his weasel liver bar with relish, balling up the wrapper and throwing it at the back of a giggling man ahead of him. The man shifted his weight. His frame shook from wheezing laughter. ToxiChews, Detroit decided, shaking his fleecy head. More giggles and splutters spread through the crowd. The whole damn lot was hopped up on ToxiChews.

The twin doors opened, and the Iron Shepherd emerged. The throng erupted in a renewed blast of bleats. Men and men-shaped silhouettes in the Shepherd’s mouth counted in unison. By one hundred and thirty-five, the Iron Shepherd’s heavy eyes closed and his form slunk. The men and the silhouettes stopped counting. Detroit made a break for the doors, his tight hooves clacked until the broken concrete turned into Metallack flooring. His aching feet added to the gentle clomping that filled the massive room. A splurting giggle reverberated through the lobby. Detroit twitched. The filthy beasts and their Chews. He had to bite his tongue to keep from devouring them all. He had gotten lucky with the Shepherd at the door, but Detroit would have to control himself if he wanted to reach the Sheep Chamber.

Ahead, the wall was ripped open. The bleating increased in pitch and regularity. It was no longer scratchy and artificial. Enthusiasts were bleating from their own throats; zea lotry filled their movements and forced them to leap over the fierce tear in the Metallack siding. Detroit played their games and followed, doggedly.

Beyond the tear were fields upon fields of grass. Sunshine kissed his stolen fleece suit and his skin sweat under the caked blood. But sunshine! Detroit hadn’t seen sunshine since he was a small boy on the ranch—it had smote his families best mongoose crop. This sunshine was not the cruel, blinding burner that destroyed their export, but the mild warmth of before the Solar Revenge. A single tear dripped down the side of his face. Matlock the Mongoose had been extinguished in that brutal flash.

Detroit bristled and refocused. The Alphas would be very disappointed in his lapse of concentration. The last of the enthusiasts had filtered through the gash. Small bleats and twitters echoed through the fields. The mission brief explicitly instructed him to follow the flocks or he would miss the small window of opportunity allotted for him to vanquish the Shepherdess and her Sheep.

The men in fleece suits knelt together, waiting expectantly. Detroit knelt with them, creeping up towards the front lines. Their gaze was transfixed on the hillock ahead, so he, too, looked to the hillock. Muffled giggles erupted as a golden-haired woman emerged from beyond with her companion--the Sheep with Golden Fleece, a prophet in his own right. A prophet that threatened the power of Detroit’s organization.

A child’s eyes stared out of Golden Fleece suit, for children were the only ones who could harness its power. He and the Shepherdess stopped before the throng of enthusiasts, who were beginning to reek of stale blood under the hot sunlight. The Sheep scanned the crowd coolly, eyes locking with Detroit’s. Shock and horror slowly filled the gentle blues.

“WOLF! WOLF!” the boy cried; his words paralyzed the men in the fleece suits with fear. Detroit lunged, his body ripping through the sheep’s skin that contained him. With his teeth and claw mods bared, he quickly closed the distance between him and the Shepherdess. Her throat came out cleanly. Blood sloshed onto the ground and fascinated onlookers.

“Bo Peep!” the boy cried, rage seeping into every fiber of his being. The boy shot the wolf the fiercest glare he could muster before Detroit descended upon him, tearing him to shreds. He gingerly removed the Golden Fleece from the little body to bring back to headquarters. The Pack would be very pleased.

Genres: (Surrealist) Science Fiction / Thriller


Story #3

“Gray Starkings sat in a nondescript room, on a nondescript stool, wearing nondescript boxer shorts, dripping nondescript blood into the nondescript carpet. It wasn’t the worst gunshot wound he had ever had, but it was grave. And in the past he’d always had a highly paid secret medical staff to patch him up. Or at least a secret hi-tech first aid kit stashed up his sleeve. But right now he had no medical staff, and no sleeves: Just the nondescript room, the nondescript walls, and the nondescript hole in his stomach.

He raised his eyes and stared at the wall, just to reaffirm that the nondescript walls did not have any kind of nondescript, or even descript doors attached to them. He lamented the fact that his earlier assessment was correct. There was no way to get out of the room.
Or, he thought, at least no visible way out of the room. If his fifteen years as a spy had taught him anything, it was that things are rarely what they seem.

Summoning strength, grunting loudly, and pressing his hand to his belly to ensure his intestines remained unspilled, Gray  stood up. He staggered to the wall and began to run his hand along it. It felt smooth, but other than that, remarkably nondescript. No nooks, no crannies, no hidden latches or buttons. Gray felt incredibly depressed.
“Bloody hell,” he said, as he leaned his back against the wall, and allowed himself to collapse to the floor. He looked at the carpet, and found woe in the fact that what was once a nondescript carpet was now a carpet dyed a lovely shade of blood red.
“Bloody hell,” he repeated, and then added, “Bloody, bloody hell.”
“I had the same problem once,” said a unicorn.

“What the fu-” Started Gray.
“Watch your language please,” said the unicorn. “I cannot stand for vulgarity.”
The unicorn was pure white, and its main was flowy like, and its horn was twirly and deadly looking, not at all dainty. It seemed to radiate light.
“You’re… You’re a bleedin’ unicorn,” said Gray.
“No, just a regular unicorn,” said the unicorn. “You however, are bleeding quite profusely.”
“You’re… A… You’re a unicorn!” Said Gray.
“And you’re an idiot,” said the unicorn.
“I’ve gone delirious. The blood loss! It must have cause hallucinations. Yes. Hallucinations. Hello Mr. Hallucination. The name is Starkings, Gray Starkings.” Gray said.

The unicorn blinked. “Okay, I’m leaving now.”
“Wait!” Said Gray. “How did you get in here? There is no door. There is no way in or out. All there is this nondescript room.”

“Silly, human,” said the unicorn. “I’m a unicorn.”
And with that it was gone.

Gray Starkings bled to death fifteen minutes later, but it was for the best, because if he didn’t he would have died of dehydration and/or starvation.

But his spirit didn’t die that night. And people say, on nights such as these, the angry ghost of the spy searches for anything that reminds him of that treacherous unicorn, and kills them horribly!”


A giant grin spread across Timmy’s face and he waggled his fingers.
“And that’s the story of the Spyish Stalker! OooooOOOOooooOOOO.”

The people around the bonfire blinked in confusion.
“You’re so full of shit, Tim,” said Leia.
“Whatever, Bitch,” said Timmy. “You still dig me!”
“…yeah,” said Leia, with a little sadness in her voice. “I do.”
“I didn’t like that story, the unicorn wasn’t pretty enough,” said Miranda. “I liked the unicorn in Peter and the Wolf!”
“There was no unicorn in Peter and the Wolf!” said Mark.
“Both stories were sad,” said Leia. “In this one the unicorn wasn’t helpful. In Peter and the Wolf the boy shot the wolf at the end.”
“Sad? That wasn’t sad!” said Mark. “The wolf ate Peter’s birdie friend!”
“The wolf was just being a wolf. Peter was a fascist!” Leia argued.
“God, you’re a stupid bitch, Leia,” Said Timmy.
“Whatever, assface,” said Leia. “I’m going to bed.”

Leia stood up and walked off into the woods.

“Dude, not cool,” said Mark.
“What?” asked Timmy. “It’s not my fault she’s a stupid whore.”
“You’re the stupid whore, Timmy,” said Miranda.
“Seriously dude,” said Mark. “Go apologize or something.”
“…” said Timmy. “Fine, but I won’t mean it!”

Timmy got up and went into the woods after Leia.

“Why the hell did we agree to go camping with that idiot?” Asked Miranda.
“Were being nice to him because his dad’s going to finance your political career, remember?” said Mark.
“Oh yeah,” said Miranda, shrugging. “Wanna make out?”
“Okay!”

***

Timmy unzipped the tent and slid in. Leia was sitting on the sleeping bag with her arms crossed. She glared at Timmy immensely.
“Baby, why you always gotta be keepin’ a brother down? You know you love me.” Timmy said, removing his shirt.
“I’d love you a lot more if you were nice to me, Tim.” Leia said pouting.
“Is that a promise?” Timmy asked, and then he kissed her softly on the lips.
“Maaaybe,” said Leia, grinning slightly.
“Because I can be veeery nice to you right this second.” Timmy grabbed the bottom of her shirt and began to pull upwards. Having almost removed her shirt completely he stopped, and his eyes widened.
“No!”  he exclaimed.
“What?” Asked Leia. “What is it?”
“You stupid bitch, you’ve doomed us both?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The name’s Starkings,” said a voice belonging to neither Timmy or Leia. “Gray Starkings.”

And their screams were heard long into the night.”

Eric grinned, “and when they found the bodies, the noticed that her left bra strap had a little stitched picture of a unicorn on it.”

“You tell the stupidest stories, Eric,” said Janey. “I’m going home.”

She walked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

“See you soon, my love,” Eric opened a drawer and pulled out a twirly horn, deadly, not too dainty. Okay, maybe a little dainty.

He chuckled, “Sooner than you think.”

Genres: Spy/Horror(/Fantasy)


Story #4

Aberforth squinted at the text in front of him and mumbled “ungo… capros” and pointed his wand at the two goats in front of him. His wand fizzles, pops, and propels some very disappointing purplish-grey smoke from the tip. “Bloody hell, alright, let’s try again…”

Albus came up on Aberforth from behind and said “I believe you want ‘iungo’, unless of course you’re trying to oil the goat up, and if such is the case I really must introduce you to this man, Freud, Madam Marchbanks was telling me about. Apparently he studies people with mental illnesses.”

“Oh do shut up, Albus.” Aberforth stared intently at the goats. “iungo… capros!” This appeared to have a bit more of an affect and spouted a double helix of orange and green sparks that connected with the goats. Albus’s glasses slipped a little bit as his eyebrows raised upon seeing the oddity in front of him.

The two goats hovered slightly and rotated, their back ends contaced and melded. Moments later the goats touched back down with a head on each end, facing opposite directions. Much bleating ensued.

Albus, slightly shocked, says, “Abbers, um… do you really think you ought to be doing this? I’m fairly certain there are laws against playing God… plus, God generally has better taste. If you were going to combine animals illegally, couldn’t you have at least amalgamated something useful like maybe an elephant and a sheep? Imagine just how much wool we could get from an ele-sheep. Do you remember, Abs, when Harold tried to make his dog into a wolf for Halloween?  Don't forget what father made that boy do; he said, "Creation belongs in the hands of god; no wizard or man should take that from him."  The boy shot the wolf, Aberforth.  Do you really think you can kill your creation if it comes down to it?  Mother will probably not be happy about this. She loved those goats.  ”

“That is precisely why you are not going to tell her, Albus.” Aberforth proclaims, inspecting his marvelous, well, impressive creation. “And just why would I not do that, Abbers?” Albus readied his wand hand and backed away slowly, his brother was older, but certainly not faster. “Because,” Aberforth slurred, making it apparent that butterbear was his favoured drink that afternoon, “you wouldn’t want to see your older brother incarcerated would you? It’s just a couple of goats, nothing worth going to Azkaban for… and you know Mum, she’s got too much of a conscience, she’d feel compelled to turn me in… or commit me…”

“Frankly, I think that might be a perfectly reasonable response.” Albus whipped out his wand and calmly muttered “Stupefy,” putting his brother into a rather nice nap on the lawn. He then turned and pointed at the goats, “abalieno capros” and returned them to their normal state of duality. “I suppose you’re right,” he whispered to his now snoring brother, “no one really needs to know about this. God knows those goats probably wish they could forget it…”

Genres: Fantasy/Comedy/ er... fanfic?


Story #5

The boy shot the wolf…

The words echo through Lyda’s sleep. She sits bolt upright in bed, looks to her left where Wolf is lying on his stomach sleeping the dreamless sleep of the conscienceless. She lies down again, snuggles against his warm back, closes her eyes.

The boy shot the wolf…

Even holding him in her arms the thought scares her. For three years they’ve been a couple, smuggling guns, information, sometimes even drugs. Their bed has been a warm, happy place despite, or perhaps because of, the risks they run. The thought of him being shot makes her want to scream.

The boy shot the wolf…

She can’t stand it any more. She nuzzles her face into Wolf’s neck and nips him just hard enough to awaken him. He’s never one to turn down sex, even if he’s sound asleep. He rolls over on top of her, enters her before he even opens his eyes. She closes her eyes again and this time it’s only a faint echo, blurred by endorphins: The boy…

***

Two hours later she’s dressing, preparing to make a delivery. As she picks up her Beretta to holster it at the small of her back the words from her dream come back again. The boy shot the wolf. She shakes her head to clear it. No one has shot anyone. She’s never even fired a gun in the three years they’ve been in business. She only carries one because her customers expect it of her.

She runs downstairs, kisses Wolf, picks up her coffee mug. His eyes reflect the diffuse morning light oddly, a result of low-light corneal implants. Wolf is in the smuggling business to pay for his costly and at best semi-legal modifications. The cybernetics are for the purpose of making the smuggling business more profitable. It’s an argument that eats its own tail, but if it makes him happy she’s willing to accept it.

***

Wolf drops her at the door of a nondescript business in the commercial district. He’ll park the car and wait for her, most likely sitting on the fender smoking a cigarette. He’s never yet had to run to her rescue, though once or twice she’s come close to giving the signal. Today she doesn’t expect any problems. The kid they’re delivering to is young, but he’s already an experienced operator.

She walks into the front offices carrying a nondescript leather briefcase. Inside is a highly illegal piece of cutting-edge technology: a prototype energy pistol. She’s not even sure whether the kid is planning to manufacture the things or use them. Her customers’ motivations are something she doesn’t tend to concern herself with.

The warehouse behind the offices is dim, quiet, and almost completely empty. The kid is waiting for her. Tall and handsome, she’s always figured that if the arms business doesn’t work out for him, he can always get a job as a model. She sets the briefcase down, shakes hands with him. None of his bodyguards are visible, though she knows they’re there. They make small talk, exchange good wishes for each other’s businesses. She picks up the slightly battered briefcase on the left of the one she set down.

As she turns to leave, the air erupts with the sound of gunshots. She instinctively hits the deck face down, draws her Beretta, rolls to her back to acquire a target. She doesn’t bother to look for cover. She already knows there isn’t any.

The kid is lying on his back in a pool of blood. Wolf picks up both briefcases. She looks around again, still expecting to be shot. “I killed the sentries.” His voice sounds flat to her ears, which are still ringing from the shots.

She scrambles to her feet, safes her gun and holsters it. Her mind is a whirl of questions, mostly having to do with where they’re going to go and what they’re going to do now that they’ve burned themselves. Most of all, she wants to know why he would do such a thing.

He answers that question before she can voice it. “He was trying to take you away from me. The boy was trying to steal you.” The prismatic reflections in his eyes make her dizzy. She’s been wrong all morning. Not The boy shot the wolf but The wolf shot the boy.

In that moment, she knows he is insane.

Genres: Romance/Science Fiction

Can we make it so that we can view the poll results? I don't feel good about voting for my own, and yet I'm too much of an egomaniac to vote for anyone elses...  

I see no gentlemans around here! 

I didn't vote for my own, but only 'cause I thought someone else's was better.

No, but I mean there's no option to view the votes without voting...

...laaame.

Where's the love, guys?

Dum de dum.

*signs up with 10 more accounts and stuffs the ballot box at random*

 

Hmm.  Next time there is one of these, I WILL participate.  Even if I have to not fit the requirements and get disqualified due to a lack of ample time.