Inspired By Reddit Image Prompt: Blood Train (by Matt Lashley)

Inspired by Reddit image prompt "Tickets Please" (image credit: Joel Kilpatrick)

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Blood Train

by Matt Lashley

The recirculated air on the night train was tangy. The metal in it gritted between your clenched molars, coated the tip of your tongue, brushed against the roof of your mouth. Smelled like hot iron. Tasted like blood. Young mothers, old women and smart men don't go out on nights that taste like this.

Nobody ever called me smart.

"Today is your lucky day old man", the lanky, twenty-something blonde guy in the shiny maroon windbreaker holding the six inch Bowie knife said.

I pressed my lips together, sat still and looked away from the blonde standing over me. I slightly tilted my head down like an old wolf. A wolf not looking for a fight, willing to wait his turn. Willing to let the younger, stronger wolves eat first. A psychological trick they

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And Just Like That She Was Nineteen ...

 

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And just like that she was nineteen. He was sure when she went to bed the night before, she was seven.

He remembers kissing her, tucking her in and saying I love you.

He remembers turning out her light, standing in her doorway and watching her eyes, those big brown eyes, gently close.

He remembers the odd rush of feelings she inspired -- peace love, tranquility and the primal rage he would unleash on anyone who tried to hurt her.

Yes, he was sure about it, she was seven the night before. And just like that, she was nineteen.

 

Happy birthday my beautiful little princess. I can't believe you're nineteen. I love you forever plus one.

 

 

 

 

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The Ol' Switcheroo Writing Prompt: Tell A Story That Seems Like Horror, But Shift the Genre With the Last Sentence of the Story

chsarlie-brown-lucy-footballMark's legs felt wobbly, unsteady, as if all the cartilage connecting his tendons and bones had been replaced by strands of silly string. His heart beat hard and fast at an uneven tempo, like a first year band student was banging on a base drum embedded in his chest. And he was hot. Really hot. Sickly hot. The streams of sweat running down his forehead, over his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth tasted like a mixture of pretzel salt and lukewarm tequila shooters.

Mark wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. He was nervous. Really nervous. Sickly nervous. And why shouldn't he be? It's not every day a man knows his life will end.

The robed man standing above Mark intoned instructions in a calm, self-possessed voice that reminded Mark of the hum of an electric power station. Mark barely

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Matt Writes Anything

"I love talking about nothing. It is the only thing I know anything about."  - Oscar Wilde