Bloodbringer--Short Short Story

The sword was meant to taste blood before it went back in its sheath. Shimoro Hujusi had just taken out the sword when an enemy soldier beheaded him from behind and as his head rolled down the hill, Hujusi had only one dying thought, that his sword would go back in her sheath without tasting blood.

The enemy knew the tradition. So, they never sheathed the sword. The Bloodbringer was handed from generations to generation of the Shiosi clan before it ended up in the most famous museum of the world.

"The sword, once taken out from the sheath would only be inserted back in when it had touched blood, of the enemy, or the sword wielder would cut himself," the guide said, " it is rumored that a cut from the sword would never heal."

The girls in the group giggled. The boys looked at the girls with disdain in their eyes.

Shimoro Hujusi looked at the sword as if entranced.  He felt the soft hypnotizing female voice speak inside his head. The Bloodbringer called out to him. He broke away from the group, crossed the red ribbon separating the visitors from the artifacts. The alarm bells rang, the security guards rushed to restrain the crazy fuck who had broken the rules of the museum.

He pushed the heavy glass enclosure off its perch and it crashed into the marble floor with a loud bang.

He picked up the Bloodbringer and sliced his thumb on it. The sword sighed with the first touch of blood in a thousand years.

"Forward now," the Bloodbringer spoke in the boy's ear as he rushed towards the security guards with the sword moving like lightening in his hands.

He left the museum in the evening. 137 dead.

The Bloodbringer manipulated his mind further.

It was thirsty.
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All grammar and spelling mistakes are intentional, you complaining fucks.

The Wink-- Short Short Story

Words swirled in his head like rain water swirling down a drain and his fingers danced on the screen of his phone as he walked and typed. World around him was just a blur, a blur which had no meaning, a blur which was merely a distraction at best, a blur of which he didn't want to belong to.

The music in his head turned to steady flow of noise as the voices got louder and he typed faster and faster about sleeping princesses who dreamt of data, about dragons who owned corporation, about love lost in feverish lust and gained in a hale of anger, about understanding and hate. He wrote about what life and love mean to a dying man.

He wrote all that and more as he walked

He walked through the crowds towards his destination. He saved the file on his phone and put the phone in a passing woman's carelessly open bag. He saw Death, revving her bike, on the other side of the road. He walked forth to ride with her.

He saw Death smile and wink at him.

And even though his dead body was dragged under a car for 20 meters, he was already riding into another world, his arms tightly clasped around the tiny waist of Death.
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Of course, I could have used Pratchett's version of Death but I always feel Gaiman's version of Death is sexier. If you can't make head or tail of the last sentence, you need to catch up on a LOT of reading.

The Train - Short Short Story

The train rolls into the station and lets out a long, high pitched whistle full of steam. Coolies rush forward to grab the luggage of passengers who have barely gotten off the train. The first man looks out of the train, takes one step and falls flat on his face. His lips kiss the concrete of the railway station and smear a dirty blood kiss on it. A recently over enthusiastic coolie looks at the man as a small rivulet of blood flows from the man's prone body and collects in a small pool by its own.

Then, more bodies start dropping from the train. Soon, the railway station is full of dead bodies. Bleeding, gashed, and torn from limb to limb. Corpses cover the concrete and the coolies have long since disappeared. The train gives another mighty whistle and its wheels slowly start to move. Some bodies get crunched under the wheels, others just lie on the platform, staring vacantly at the passing train.

Soon, the first vulture arrives.

Life moves on.
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Someone asked yesterday if this blog is written by a team. No, well, we are just one person and very confused about our dual nature. Right dude? Yeah man, right. Dinner? yeah, let's go. Later Peeps. Later.

Reaction-- Short Fiction

It was a knee jerk reaction. The man had approached her on the street and before he said anything she had acted.

She slowly took the pen knife out of the man's cheek. It left a smear of blood as it came out and the wounds looked like a future scar. The man opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish sucking in air. A small cry of pain roused somewhere from deep within his throat. His expression of shock and fear suddenly turned to rage and he advanced towards her with hands spread like claws.

She clutched hard on the Taser in her bag, the man's reaction was exactly what she was hoping for.

After all, it would be an accidental death in self defense.

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If we don't have time to write long, we'll write short, but we WILL write! Be here tomorrow, we're planning to go regular. Because, i missed doing this.

So, this is what things have come to?

Found this link for a published writer's blog from WarrenEllis' Twitter feed. >> http://yuki-onna.livejournal.com/487082.html

I am for the time being working on some writing projects and also writing stories. There will be something here soon. Too long have I lazed, it's time to take this seriously. Wait, did I repeat myself back there?

Bah.