Born blonde and Polish, Jennifer Turner writes action adventure thrillers and romances. She resides in Wisconsin with her husband Eddie, a red-headed Texan, and her three children, Dustin, Molly and Matthew. Raised by an eclectic assortment of artists and musicians, her upbringing helped shape and hone her imagination and dedication to the romantic arts. Between her commitments to family and writing, she actively pursues three things–white chocolate, dark chocolate, and more chocolate.
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This is a short story I wrote a few years back. I thought it might be sort of cool to share my writing here as I haven't in a very long time. So, here's my short story:)
College chums, college pals, maybe cold blooded killers. They come for him, intruding without warning to wrestle him from his dorm room. Trash bag ties bind his wrists, and visions of putrid green dumpsters fill his head. They pull a sham over his head, pull a scam on him, he thinks. His glasses fall and break, leaving a distorted view of the plaid inside the sham. Laughing and cussing they take him from his dorm room into the chill of an autumn night.
The rumble of the car, the squeal of tires and delight. Bouncing and jerking inside the back seat as they go round and round. Teeth snapping down on his tongue as his heart explodes.
Glistening copper fills his mouth. Jimbo, he thinks it’s Jimbo, shoves a whisky bottle beneath the sham, scam, sham. It’s a prank? he asks himself as he drinks the whiskey, burning the tender hole in his tongue.
Hands grabbing him, shoving him onto pavement. Asphalt peels the flesh from his knee and he shouts at the pain. He tries to speak, but they push, giggling and snarling all at once. He falls to his back, and the sham comes off. Blurry ghosts and Mike’s red Trans Am glowing like a grinning demon, doors open like the beast’s wings.
The black sky hangs low as he crawls away, bound hands thudding on the pavement, unable to suck in air to form a sound. They follow, taunting him.
He yearns to flee his pals, to run. He makes it to his knees, glaring at his indistinct hands folded together, straining at the ties. He imagines clubbing them to escape. They kick him. He sprawls, skinning his chin on the concrete, bloodying his nose. He hawks and spits blood to hide a whimper.
It has to be a sham, to be a scam, to be a prank, he thinks as their laughter turns vicious, tearing the air with monster teeth and gargoyle claws. They shout names, swimming toward him like ravenous sharks, after their chum. Pals, peers, when did he become their prey?
In the foggy distance he sees the end of the concrete. Cold blackness shimmers, but beyond it, the lights of salvation. Smelling blood, the sharks advance, throwing the whiskey bottle. It explodes with a pop and glass shreds the skin on his arm. He hobbles to his feet and runs, favoring his bruised knee. His heart beats in rhythm with his flapping feet.
They shout behind him, telling him to stop, to come back. His mind cannot focus any more than his eyes can see.
The concrete disappears, and the whooshing air surprises him. He is falling, falling, falling. The lights of salvation aren’t there, only a new pavement, rushing up to great him. It slams into him with the force of an angry steel anvil. His teeth disintegrate and, blood fills his eyes, washing the light crimson…the light.
Atop the parking garage, the sharks finally move like the reanimated dead, head’s hanging. They go back to the Trans Am, folding inside like rubber dolls, and close the doors.