Comments on: Writing Contest of sorts http://www.wetwired.org/2006/03/07/writing-contest-of-sorts/ Good times, Noodle salad Wed, 03 Dec 2008 19:32:30 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.6.5 By: shoes http://www.wetwired.org/2006/03/07/writing-contest-of-sorts/#comment-231 shoes Fri, 10 Mar 2006 23:11:51 +0000 http://www.wetwired.org/wp/2006/03/07/writing-contest-of-sorts/#comment-231 He throws down the last of his scotch on the rocks. The warmth of scotch chased by the coolness of the ice water. He wipes the side of his mouth with the backside of his drinking hand. He slams the glass down on the table. The ice inside clatters loudly and flies out of the cup. Landing in the red next to the dame. She was filled with more holes than a slice of swiss cheese and the red she lay in was starting to thicken. He throws down the last of his scotch on the rocks. The warmth of scotch chased by the coolness of the ice water. He wipes the side of his mouth with the backside of his drinking hand. He slams the glass down on the table. The ice inside clatters loudly and flies out of the cup. Landing in the red next to the dame. She was filled with more holes than a slice of swiss cheese and the red she lay in was starting to thicken.

]]> By: Beerslinger http://www.wetwired.org/2006/03/07/writing-contest-of-sorts/#comment-230 Beerslinger Tue, 07 Mar 2006 20:59:19 +0000 http://www.wetwired.org/wp/2006/03/07/writing-contest-of-sorts/#comment-230 He took his time taking his pants off, slow, careful, working not to strain his shoulder. His shirt and tie were more of a problem, and when he was done, he needed a drink. He needed to sit and think for just a moment. The hole the tiny bullet had left in his shoulder was small, and had stopped bleeding hours ago, but it was red and angry looking around the edges. Eventually he would need to have it looked at, but there were other things more important. He was going to finish his drink, patch his arm, dress, and he was going to run. With any luck it would be hours before anyone noticed him missing. All he had to do was stand up and run as fast as he could. He took his time taking his pants off, slow, careful, working not to strain his shoulder. His shirt and tie were more of a problem, and when he was done, he needed a drink. He needed to sit and think for just a moment.

The hole the tiny bullet had left in his shoulder was small, and had stopped bleeding hours ago, but it was red and angry looking around the edges. Eventually he would need to have it looked at, but there were other things more important. He was going to finish his drink, patch his arm, dress, and he was going to run. With any luck it would be hours before anyone noticed him missing.

All he had to do was stand up and run as fast as he could.

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