Short Story Contest

Last month I participated in a short story challenge.


The July 2016 Aspiring Writers Short Story Challenge


This is a LinkedIn group which has casual competitions each month. There is no real reward except the fun of it. If you ask me, that’s good enough. The theme last month was “The Dance”. I wrote a short story and I won ūüėÄ It’s not actually that big a deal, but here’s the story. I would love to hear some feedback and thoughts, thanks.


The Dance

The room was alive. Something rare and unexpected. The men were happy, they were young again. Life was good for at least a moment. He saw her across the room, as always is the case with love. She was radiant in her cheap dress. Laughing and singing. Young. Alive. As he approached her, she finally noticed him and smiled. “Care to dance?” he asked. She said nothing and took his hand. They danced for what seemed hours, but it was only a moment. A fading glimpse of a beautiful life that he would never have. Their Sergeant walked in and the music seemed to stop. “Its time, we deploy now” he ordered. The men became stiff. Not alive, not young. They were soldiers again. As he started to leave, he turned to her and said, “I’ll find you when I get back”. They smiled at each other believing in this naive promise. But he never came back. That moment was their first dance. That moment was his last.


Contract Killer

The dark room, the eerie quiet, the light of the cigarette. In his hand a plastic bag for the ashes and bud. Ah-ah Mr. Officer, no evidence here. He marveled at the state of the room, a masterpiece.

The bookcase vandalized, books scattered on the floor. The cupboards ransacked, the wardrobe too. Even a few chairs turned around. The killer was looking for something, but what? No money was taken, the expensive watches intact. The only thing missing was the USB, could that be a clue? Of course, our killer was looking for nothing but his victim. Killed in his sleep, but that simply wouldn’t do.

The poor-rich man was carefully pulled out of his bed, a few scratches here and there, a few punches, a sign of a struggle. You’d think that there would be evidence that the marks were made after death. We said no evidence. A silk scarf was placed over the victims face, chloroform, still alive but not moving. When the horrific beating was over, a silencer did the trick.

The empty cartridge delicately¬†removed. Not good enough. So he took a woodworker’s side float, enlarged the exit wound. He then¬†lodged a .45 caliber¬†bullet into the wall where the unfortunate was supposedly killed. Another puff of smoke enters the room.

As our assassin admired his work, he quickly checked his messages, the money was sent. In a week, it should be on his account. Last breath of his cigarette and he took out a small piece of marble. The perfect ashtray. The butt and marble placed in the bag. All done, the last piece of evidence is removed. Perfection.

He then¬†slowly left the apartment, checking no one was around, he turned to the living room, shot one blank in the air, and walked away. As he exited the building, he smirked. What would they make out of it? A robbery? An enemy of the victim?¬†¬†A secret love affair? Who knows. ¬†Even if they figure out¬†this was a contract killing, it would be way past the essential 48 hours. First they would have to realize that the evidence found on the scene was fake. Then they’d have to see the complexion of the whole setting. By then, our killer would have completed another job, removing evidence just as meticulously. But they won’t figure it out, he knows they won’t, he works with them every day.