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Daily Deviation
August 8, 2015
In Make It Count, ninjababy creates the perfectly tense atmosphere to keep readers on the edge of their seat until the end, and leave them wanting to know more.
Featured by TheMaidenInBlack
Literature Text
It’s fourteen steps from the door to the wall. I’ve been counting for an hour. The guard goes to the door, turns on his heel, then I count:
One. Two. Three.
I can’t hide forever. Either he will divert from his path and discover us or the others he’s with will come back. Regardless, anything changes in this situation and we're done.
Four. Five. Six.
His footfalls are sharp; precise. He’s wearing boots and khaki pants and a black shirt, like he’s trying to be military but not quite making it.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
There’s a whimper and I try not to make a sound of my own. The baby I came to rescue is stirring in the carrier on my lap. I can see his lips twitching, his head beginning to shift. I find the pacifier in the seat and hold it up to his lips. He opens his mouth automatically and takes the offering.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
My heart thuds in my chest. Fourteen is the scariest number, because at step number fourteen, he could look to the left and down and catch sight of my shoes peeking out from this alcove.
Thirteen.
The baby whimpers again. There’s a pause in the footsteps. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Please, baby, please, don’t cry. I hold my breath. The baby lets out a barely audible sigh and drifts back to sleep.
Fourteen.
I can’t hide forever. There’s a hammer in the corner of the alcove. I strain my fingers, trying to remain unnoticed as I stretch for the handle.
Turn. One. Two.
He doesn’t make it to three.
One. Two. Three.
I can’t hide forever. Either he will divert from his path and discover us or the others he’s with will come back. Regardless, anything changes in this situation and we're done.
Four. Five. Six.
His footfalls are sharp; precise. He’s wearing boots and khaki pants and a black shirt, like he’s trying to be military but not quite making it.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
There’s a whimper and I try not to make a sound of my own. The baby I came to rescue is stirring in the carrier on my lap. I can see his lips twitching, his head beginning to shift. I find the pacifier in the seat and hold it up to his lips. He opens his mouth automatically and takes the offering.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
My heart thuds in my chest. Fourteen is the scariest number, because at step number fourteen, he could look to the left and down and catch sight of my shoes peeking out from this alcove.
Thirteen.
The baby whimpers again. There’s a pause in the footsteps. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Please, baby, please, don’t cry. I hold my breath. The baby lets out a barely audible sigh and drifts back to sleep.
Fourteen.
I can’t hide forever. There’s a hammer in the corner of the alcove. I strain my fingers, trying to remain unnoticed as I stretch for the handle.
Turn. One. Two.
He doesn’t make it to three.
Literature
Breaking
One day, you will open the cupboard
to find a wine glass or some Tupperware
and the world will, without warning
or alarm, roll off the edge of the shelf
and coming crashing down.
The oceans will splash onto the linoleum,
onto the rug. All the dust in all the deserts
will rain down onto the couch and coffee table,
the hills will crumble, the mountains will break,
all the windows in all the cities will shatter
and fall, a thousand dangerous miles of glass
glittering on your kitchen floor.
Everything will hush.
Exhale the breath you are holding,
and go look for a dust pan, for a broom.
Literature
Disaster films are more honest than you realize.
It was a few years ago; I was eating in a Chinese restaurant with my parents. The place was built with a ton on windows going around the perimeter - you could see out three of four walls.
The entrance was set up oddly - the register cut off the corner where the door was to make a triangular lobby of sorts. Behind the register was a large aquarium. The fish could be seen from nearly anywhere in the restaurant; a few large goldfish, what I assume was a grouper of some kind, and even a black eel, amongst an assortment of smaller fish happily living together in the fake seaweed and castle.
My family and I were sitting towards the back of the p
Literature
(How funny, or maybe perfect it is,)
to think I am meat
and spirit
while I eat both.
Yet,
I persist
as matter and
nothing.
Of the static,
that door
still gaping,
a hole
in conception,
would it be real
if I understood it?
If I could just grasp
what I'm not
understanding?
Because language, even
these words, are
nothing.
Nothing outside
me.
Nothing before
me.
Maybe less
after me.
And
the idea?
Nothing.
Nothing but
meat
and even
the spirit
stammers
against
infinity,
against
inevitability,
against
itself.
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For Flash-Fic-Month Day 8!
Used the prompt: Hush, little baby, don't say a word... they're looking for us and we don't want to be heard... - by OnLinedPaper
Used the prompt: Hush, little baby, don't say a word... they're looking for us and we don't want to be heard... - by OnLinedPaper
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Woo! Suspenseful!