Welcome to AUGUST FURIOUS FICTION!

This month, it’s all about descriptions, as we invite you to enter an original story with the following criteria:

  • Your story must include, word for word, ALL of the following SIX descriptions (describing whatever you want):
    • SHINY, SILVER
    • COLD AND GREASY
    • SCRATCHED AND WEATHER-WORN
    • SWEET AND PUNGENT
    • INK-STAINED
    • SHRILL, PIERCING
  • One of these six descriptions MUST appear in the first sentence of your story. (The rest, wherever you like.)

The shrill, piercing scream abruptly became a soft gurgle as her blade slid neatly through his trachea.

“Ick!” she exclaimed, as blood cascaded outwards. She held her victim awkwardly at arms length as he crumpled lifelessly to the floor, careful not to spoil her clothes.

“Honestly,” she said. “I just had these laundered.”

Her response came in the form of air weakly escaping what was left of a throat. 

“Yes, yes,” she muttered, and grabbed the dying man by his long, cold and greasy hair. She began to drag him along the floor. “You’re really quite filthy.”

The corpse did not respond.

She opened the sliding wardrobe and unceremoniously crammed the man inside. He looked like a sweaty, pink, overcooked prawn. She almost giggled.

Still clutching the knife, the immaculately dressed woman wiped the blade on the dead man’s trousers until it gleamed shiny and silver in the white room light. She attempted to close the wardrobe door, but it caught on his outstretched shoe. Frowning, she slammed it repeatedly until the man’s ankle broke inwards and it clicked shut.
“So noisy,” she scolded.

Returning the knife to its well concealed wrap around her thigh, she removed a small scratched and weather-worn journal from her jacket pocket. She took a pen and slowly crossed out the second last line, drawing a tiny sad face next to it. 

“We’re almost there,” she said.

The woman moved deftly, but was largely unconcerned. Occasional screams were not uncommon in this sad excuse for a hotel. Her final target was in 312, two floors above. After glancing at her reflection to make sure there were no untoward stains, she made her way down the corridor to the elevator, humming to herself. They would be proud of her, she knew.

With a ding, the doors opened, and a young man inside flashed her a smile. His cheap cologne poured out of the space, an overbearingly sweet and pungent odour that made her want to vomit. Her hand drifted absentmindedly towards her thigh.

“Going up?” he asked cheerfully.

“Blergh,” she replied, dry retching. She pressed the button for the third floor. The man fell silent and stared directly ahead.

“Mustn’t be distracted,” she said to herself as she left the elevator and the confused man. Her focus was room 312. Then she could go home and take a long shower. This dirty work did not agree with her, but she had to finish what they started. She was determined.

There. 312. She steeled herself and tried the handle. A bad feeling rose in her chest. It was unlocked.

“Room service,” she declared, barging in. The gruesome scene that met her made her head spin.

Her last chance at justice was splayed across the bed, face down. The back of his head closely resembled a dropped watermelon. Dried blood pooled black across rippled sheets, heavy blots like ink-stained paper.

“For heaven’s sake,” said the woman, her face pale. “No. No, no, no.”

Vengeance was so close.