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legs felt wobbly, unsteady, as if all the cartilage connecting his tendons and bones had been replaced by strands of silly string.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 comprehended the monotone words but when they ceased, he instinctively knelt before the man and lowered his head in submission.

For a moment, Mark tensed every muscle in his body and imagined jumping up and sprinting out the door, never looking back. But he knew any escape attempt would be met by force and when, not if, he was caught, there would be hell to pay. In the end, after the tears and screaming and threats, he'd end up back here. No, he thought, far better to accept fate with dignity.

After several minutes of agonizing silence, the robed man motioned for Mark to stand. Mark stood. The robed man resumed his toneless incantations then suddenly stopped, turned to Mark and stared down expectantly into the space just above Mark’s eyes.

Mark stared back dumbly, like a big hairy gorilla forced to momentarily stop eating bananas and masturbating in order to recite Pi to the hundredth place. The robed man, perturbed, repeated his incantation. This is it, Mark thought and he braced himself.

"Do you, Marcus Arnold Asbury, take Delores Francine Tilton to be your lawfully wedded wife to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

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Matt Writes Anything

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