GAME 9

Story 1

Tom lay awake listening to it, counting the seconds between each sharp burst of sound. Somewhere down the street a door slammed. A car passed. The barking continued, frantic, hoarse, as if it were running out of air.

He pulled on his coat and went outside. The night was cold and smelled of wet leaves. The sound led him to the empty lot behind the closed shops, where a small terrier strained against a length of rope tied to a rusted fence post.

Its owner lay a few feet away.

The man was on his side, eyes open, one shoe missing. His phone lay face down in the dirt, screen cracked. Tom knelt, touched the man’s wrist, then his neck. Nothing. The dog lunged toward him, teeth flashing, rope biting into its throat.

Tom stood, unsure what to do. He looked up and down the street. No lights came on. No one else appeared.

He took off his coat and draped it over the man’s face. Then he untied the rope. The dog stopped barking at once, tail wagging weakly as it pressed against his leg.

Tom walked it home.

In the morning, the news said the man had died of a heart attack. No suspicious circumstances. A passerby had taken the dog in overnight. The reporter called it an act of kindness.

Tom watched the screen while the dog slept at his feet.

Story 2

Lucky Jonny had been playing darts for five years without ever hitting a 180. In practice, he could do it blindfolded. Put him in front of a crowd, and he fell apart.

He’d even won a few minor tournaments, which is how he got the name “Lucky.” The world knew the truth, of course. He was the unluckiest man alive.

His board was swept away in a flood just as he was on a 140. His best friend ran off with his wife in the very car meant to take him to the UK Amateur Championships, where he was the favourite.

But tonight felt different. He was playing well. The crowd was electric, the noise unbearable. He threw his first dart. Sixty. The wailing from the fans grew deafening.

He threw his second. BOOM. 140.
This was it. The moment.

Suddenly, the crowd fell silent. The emcee had even stepped out of his eyeline. Perfect, Jonny thought.

He threw his third dart. A perfect treble twenty.

As he walked to the board to collect his darts, he realised why it was so quiet. The hall was empty.

The wailing had been the fire alarm. The silence was his alone.

Lucky Jonny was unlucky once again.

Story 3

The old woman sat on the busy pier. She had kept her mum’s ashes in her house for over twenty-five years, but now it was time to let go. Recently widowed, she felt it was finally time to move on.

She started to cry. “What should I do?” she said quietly, to no one in particular.

A young woman approached at that very moment. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Can I help?”

The old woman was startled but happy for the interaction. She explained that this was her mum’s favourite spot and she wanted to scatter the ashes here.

The young lady suggested a small, quieter jetty within walking distance that had the same views.

The old woman knew the spot and agreed. The two women walked to the jetty. It was almost as if nobody noticed them. The old woman felt so comfortable with the young lady, as if they had known each other for years.

At the end of the jetty, the old woman was about to scatter the ashes, but stopped. She turned to ask a question that had been on her mind the entire walk.

The knife went through her neck so quickly she didn’t even see it.

The young woman robbed her of everything, then pushed her and the ashes into the water.

Story 4

Archie drove the last screw into the cabinet. John handed him a beer, and the two men sat on the shed’s couch, admiring their work.

‘ARCHIE!’ The cry came from across the fence. His wife.

John looked awkward and began to stand. Archie gestured for him to stay put.

‘ARCHIE!’ The second shout was sharper, more shrill.

Archie took a long swallow of his beer. ‘John,’ he said, ‘I’d like to thank you for being a wonderful neighbour, and for the laughs we have had.’ Then he left the shed.

John went to clear up, then realised that Archie still had the screwdriver.

‘There you are, Archie?’ said his wife. ‘Archie?’

Story 5

As Babs fought on the cold warehouse floor, Alex’s hands crushed her throat. Her fingers clawed blindly until they closed around a splintered pallet shard. A rusted nail jutted from it like a venomous barb.

She swung with her last strength.

The nail drove into the side of Alex’s neck, below the jaw. He howled. Blood jetted as he released her and staggered back. Babs collapsed, eyes vacant, already still.

Alex yanked the wood free. Blood soaked his collar, but the flow slowed. He stuffed a rag against the wound, drove home, swallowed pills with liquor.

At first it simply throbbed, crusting black, his throat raw as if he had swallowed glass.

Then his jaw began to seize. Mid yawn it locked, refusing to open more than a cruel slit.

Soon his neck turned to iron. Swallowing became fire, every attempt a fresh burn.

A spasm struck as he stared at his reflection. His spine bowed violently, skull cracking the mirror. Teeth shattered against each other. He collapsed onto the tiles, body locked in a grotesque arch, breath reduced to shallow rasps against ribs that would not yield.

Six days later, the final spasm came.

In the dim light, Babs’ lifeless gaze stared back from the shadows.

The nail had claimed its debt without mercy.

Click here for answer

Story 1 was the ai story, thanks for playing

https://ko-fi.com/flashfictions

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Same weird ideas, just bound together.
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