#ThrowBackThursday: BloodSport, Nipples and Dimes and the 12-Hour Challenge

by Vunderkind


Hello, guys. Me again. I finally figured out a way to keep my blog ‘active’ – it’s a cheat technique, but I’m hoping you’ll enjoy it. Basically, I found a memory card of mine where I kept most of my writings from years ago. Found some old books, too and Facebook notes.

This means every Thursday, I’ll be doing a throwback of those old posts. It was really interesting for me to see how much progress I’ve made since I began writing. Whew. And we aren’t even halfway there in this writing cycle. Whew.

You can critique, but note that these are old works; I’ve probably learned the lessons already. This is basically for your amusement – and mine.

Also, I have attached a little .pdf erotica ‘book’ I wrote for a client. The only awesome thing about this book is, I wrote it in under 12-hours. I won the contract and the client gave me 12 hours to turnaround. I started writing- no plot, no nothing. You should read it and lemme know what you think of me.

[Click here to read the The 12-hour Challenge] – (My bad. I never titled it, so 12-hour challenge is just as well, I guess…)

 

I also wrote a supposed-to-be action story titled BloodSport. Download here: BLOODSPORT

(A little BloodSport backstory: I wrote this coming down from my Suicide Samuel high, and it is rife with ‘showing not telling,’ ‘adverbs and adjectives’ and ‘unlikely events.’ Still, it felt epic back then.)

 

And now for an actual blog post from years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, I offer you: PAUSE

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skeleton head

PAUSE

As Pastor Luya spilled his seed into prostitute amidst thrusts and grunts, he had an epiphany.

Most people see their life flash before their eyes, but Pastor Luya saw it in slow motion. I am going to die. Dead God, I’m going to die in two hours.

He rolled off the girl and lay, panting, his bible opened to a random page, flipped by the evening breeze.

“Say – don’t I know you?” the girl asked.

And now is judgment come upon Israel, Luya thought. “No, you don’t.”

He was confident that she couldn’t know him. After all the disguises! He looked nothing like a pastor, with his fake beard, the dark glasses he refused to take off throughout the entire foray and his upbeat t-shirt and torn jeans.

The girl scuttled off the bed, still naked from the waist down, to peer at his face.

“Ohmigod, it’s you!”

“whoever you think I am, babe, you’re clearly mistaken.”

“Pastor Luya! It’s you pastor Luya!”

More subconsciously than anything, he clamped his hand over her mouth. “Shut. Up. Woman!”

Brushing the hand off, she began, less agitated. “Fuck you. A pastor. Fucking. Fuckin’ unbelievable.”

Luya thought: You are either naïve, or just plain stupid. Nothing unbelievable. Don’t you watch the news? I’m not the first pastor.

Luya regarded the girl he had earlier filled with his member only a few minutes ago. The weak tresses of hair. The sloping bosom flattened by the body-hugging tee shirt that boldly proclaimed: Officially Sexy! Rounded buttocks. Marble-toned thighs. All in all, a perfect specimen of creation. And the Lord saw that it was good.

Sigh. “I used to watch you, you know.” This, from the girl. Prostitutes are nameless. At least they are, until someone kills them viciously and they make a news item. “I used to say, you know, that people like you kept the world good.”

Luya said nothing. The accuser of the brethren thus taketh stance against me.

“You are scum. Scum!” Bitter, acid – tainted words. “Scum, you lead people to think you are good folks, when your life is full of shit.”

Luya contemplated for a few seconds. He reached for his wallet. “I know how this works. I have $200 in here. I’ll come back with more. Just hush up about this, okay?”

Sharp laughter. “I’ve got morals, Pastor. Quite unlike you. I’m not taking your bloody cash.”

Her stubbornness, her blatant refusal to grant him salvation caused arousal and anger to surge in his veins at once. He could feel his flaccid member take flight from his sticky thighs.

“Take the money,” he said, flatly.

“Go to hell.”

Surprising himself, he lunged. As if expecting it, she rolled off the bed, reached for the table and picked up a carving knife.

“I’m not stupid, bitchop, now get your trousers and get out.”

I’m really going to die.

Eyeing her coldly, Luya bent over the bed to pick his jeans. The knife gleamed soft moonlight.

Go, I will give thee victory. Luya flung his jeans, catching her in the face, she thrashed about, panicked, and Luya scrabbled for the knife hand.

She began to lose her foothold, and, toppling, dragged Luya with her. Falling to the ground, the knife sliced through soft skin, tissue and organ, and came to rest on cold granite floor with a muffled scrape.

It wasn’t Luya’s skin, nor his tissue or organ. Standing up, he watched the pretty prostitute, eyes facing upward, lips parted in a final cry of death.

He put on the now blood-soaked jeans. The door of the house looked like an invitation to heaven.

Behold, I have overcome the world. I will not die tonight.

The evening breeze embraced him like a long-lost lover.

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