The matador shielded himself with the red cape. Fancy footwork wasn’t going to win against this bull. Horns ablaze the bull huffed, grinding his front hooves against the dirt. It charged head down, and set fire to the fabric. The flame singed the matador’s skin. Sizzles and screams echoed against the arena walls as the smell of burning flesh filled the air. When the opponent was nothing but bones the bull raised the skeleton onto his horns to the applause of the audience and walked back to the gates he came from, the gates of Hell.
Tags: 100 word story, Arena, attack, Battle, blood, bull, bullfight, creative writing, dead, death, Duel, flash fiction, microfiction, scrawl brawl, short story
Tags: 100 word story, bull fight, creative writing, dead, death, Duel, flash fiction, heart, microfiction, scrawl brawl, screwdriver, shopping cart, short story, the despot, Vincent Crampton
“Get in,” said Jeff, rocking the shopping cart.
Quentin gulped. “That’s steep.”
Downhill, Martin shouted, “Yo, chicken shit!” He removed his shirt, waggling it matador-style.
Quentin growled, “Douchebag.”
“C’mon pussy!” called Martin.
Huffing, Quentin climbed in the cart.
Jeff handed him two screwdrivers. “Your horns.” Then he kicked the cart.
Quentin lurched. The cart careered downhill.
Martin swept his cape.
The cart juddered. Screaming, Quentin clenched the screwdrivers.
The cart hit a pothole. Quentin flew.
Martin’s cackles stopped with an “Oof!”
Quentin rolled off Martin, who gurgled, a screwdriver piercing his heart.
Quentin whispered, “Don’t die.”
Obliviously, Jeff shouted, “Olé!”
Tags: 100 word story, Arena, attack, Battle, blood, bull, bull fight, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, microfiction, scrawl brawl, short story, sword, torero, warrior
Antonio struggled to breathe.
His guts were spilling out but he did not panic. He had always fought with honor and respect for tradition. He would die as many of the bulls had, with grace.
A young, spindly man knelt beside him. “So what do you think?”
“He was the greatest I have ever faced. I stabbed him with many swords. I danced with him for an entire day. He never tired.”
“Awesome! It’s all robot bulls from here on out. Thanks for beta testing. Here’s an Amazon gift card for your trouble.”
Antonio wished he had Prime, but alas.
Nobody was dying from the sickness any more, but that didn’t mean that nobody was dying. The constant reminder that Tilda was dying was the wet sucking sound every time she breathed.
She couldn’t run. She’d die fighting, or from drowning – she never should have pulled the knife from her ribs, but it was the only weapon she could reach. She pounced from the shadows when her pursuer turned the corner. The knife slipped in between two ribs and soon there was a pair of dying women lying in the hall. Each died wondering if the other still breathed.
Tags: 100 word story, Apocalypse, attack, axe, blood, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, microfiction, murder, scrawl brawl, short story, survival
The knob jiggled; Katie positioned herself near the door. There was a second of silence before it flew open in an explosion of splinters. Katie swung her bat, but the intruder ripped it out of her hands, and smashed her skull with one nauseating crack.
I buried my axe into his neck before he could turn around. He dropped beside her, bleeding out onto the floor.
Another man entered. We quickly assessed each other.
He held out his hand. I grabbed my supplies before accepting it, and followed him out.
And that’s how I met your father.
Tags: 100 word story, Apocalypse, attack, blood, bloodthirsty, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, microfiction, mosquitos, murder, pandemic, scrawl brawl, short story, the despot, Vincent Crampton
The government’s solution to the mosquito pandemic buzzed in Dr. Meyer’s lab.
“Genetic manipulations, controlled releases, the parasites will soon be extinct,” said General Shaw, leading an assembly into the lab. “Right, doctor?”
Through his hazmat suit, Dr. Meyer said, “This plague will soon end.”
“When shall we release them?”
“Now.” Meyer pressed a remote. Dark swarms flew from trap doors. Huge, aggressive, bloodthirsty, they attacked the visitors. “You ask me to orchestrate their genocide?” shouted Meyer amidst screams. “This species predates the dinosaurs. The hubris!”
He stepped over desiccated corpses, opened a window, releasing the swarm. “Eliminate the parasites!”
The bandits fought like ancient street thugs. I grabbed a swinging chain and pulled. My attacker spun. I stabbed.
POW! The bandit leader’s pistol was pointed skyward.
“Join us and be initiated!”
I wasn’t near enough to do harm with knife or chain, so I freed my pipe from my sleeve. I blew.
The dart flew. All eyes followed until it sank into the gunman’s neck.
In seconds he was dead.
My comrades brought forth their own pipes.
The bandits dropped their weapons, raising their empty hands, realizing we had reached farther back into history for our weaponry.
Tags: 100 word story, Adam Francis Smith, animals, Apocalypse, attack, Battle, creative writing, flash fiction, microfiction, scrawl brawl, short story
He needed water. The cougar swung, clawing Aaron’s shoulder, spinning him. Aaron dived down an incline, gaining his feet only to face a bison that charged. Dodging to avoid the beast, he ran. Climbing a fence, he dropped to the other side. A pair of goats attacked, kicking. Battered, he forced his way into a barn. Feeling safe, he rested. Above, an owl screeched and launched itself from an ancient beam, talons raised. He ran again and was nearly trampled by a horse, but he rolled, righted himself and finally made it to the well. Now, where was that canteen?
Tags: 100 word story, Apocalypse, attack, children, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, killers, microfiction, murder, scrawl brawl, short story
Klip ran as fast as he could, chased by the Huffing Man. The man was the leader, so Klip decided he should be first.
The boy slid beneath the porch and scrambled under the house and out the other side. The Huffing Man tried to follow but was too big and was soon stuck.
Several children bashed in his head and watched as his body quivered before becoming still. They cheered, but the celebration was short-lived.
Klip came around from the rear of the house. “Drag the body to the barn,” he ordered, “while I go get another grown-up.”
The baby wouldn’t shut up, so I did what I had to do. It was ridiculous how large my hand was compared to his face. I covered his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He squirmed and huffed, but eventually his little body went limp.
I wanted to cry, there in that ruin that had once been a house. Rain poured in from the swiss cheese roof and ivy grew on the walls. My house used to be like that. Once upon a time.
I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. The dolphin’s hearing was too good.