Later. Still. (3/3) By Christopher Skolik

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3).

He goes through the motions. "I want the money." "Wha? Wha? Money?" Her voice thin, tremulous. "Yes. The money. The grand. Now." He had to dig deep to make it sound aggressive, this was not easy, not easy at all. He felt like an actor who can remember his lines but has no conviction in the part he is playing. The girl looks around; she scans the kitchen as if she might find the money or an explanation amongst the chaos. Her eyes close in on the crowbar in Calvin's hand.

Calvin sweeps the plates from the table - they explode across the floor in fragments. The girl focuses suddenly to where her heroin had been, panic behind her eyes, but Calvin has been careful not to touch it.

"Where is the fucking money?" "Don't have it. No, I don't -" She almost sounded as if she where interrogating herself. Calvin makes a grab for the bag of heroin, she is too slow, and as he snatches it away from her, her whole body dissolves into spastic pain; "No please, I don't have it, Really, Please…I don't care - you can have anything, really. I don't mind, but please, not my gear, please, I have to have it - do whatever you want -"

Even though she is standing, her tiny frame and pleading gave an impression she was on her knees. Body convulsed, movement's jerky, offering herself for a few crumbs of heroin. He places it on the table. She falls upon it as a doting parent might upon a hurt infant. Calvin turns and walks from the flat. On the route home he slides the crowbar into a litter bin.

Comments System Prototype Version 1.0 by Mo

Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Walking Into Doors By Nick Boldock

	She squinted into the mirror and looked at the bruise around her eye. Already it was turning a sickening shade of purple. It throbbed when she prodded away at it. The thick laceration in her bottom lip was stinging as well, as she dabbed at it with a wedge of TCP-soaked cotton wool. She knew she ought to be more careful. Less clumsy, less thoughtless. He'd say he was sorry, Read more...

Fiction - 100 Words Competition - The Graveyard Shift By Rich Mills

	The taxi office is beige with nicotine and age. Battling with the Sandman, my weapons of choice, cigarettes and coffee, dispensed from the whirring-gurgling coffee machine. Of things I've done for money this is the lowest. Six calls all night, only TV to numb the brain. Cups, and corners filled with cigarette butts. I wait for the dawn. Then my replacement comes on, Read more...

Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Big Slaughter By Kate Askin

	As Big Slaughter housemate 'Little Wee' Jim gave a final tug on the garrotte round the neck of the only other remaining contestant, he knew he had won...he knew... He knew by the sound of that last gurgle...It came from the throat of six-feet-six Thai hermaphrodite Om Lui (whose height was enhanced by foot-long calf extensions, no less). He knew, by the last desperate, Read more...

Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Debit Column By Patrick Henry

	Raymond, abrasively-witty, biography-reviewing journalist, worked during endless pub-going; volumes under arm; notes mental or beer-mat-jottings; from Five AM. around Smithfield Market, through mid-day Fleet Street, Soho; to evening Chelsea, exhausting his trail home. Early hours meant snatched sleep and eating; columns grittily-written: cold turkey! Five A.M. his taxi Read more...

Fiction - 100 Words Competition - The 1st One Hundred Words Are The Hardest By Rich Mills

	He'd started that first sentence many times, deleting it and starting over again. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen, taunting him, daring him to write something. He stared at, became hypnotized by it. Time ticked by, blink, blink, blink. His mind was just blank, blank, blank. Then in a sudden rush to fill the white expanse with black he started banging away at Read more...

Fiction - End Of The Line By Nick Quantrill
	This is how it happened... I was driving down Lowgate. There's got to be a better way than this, I thought to myself. But then I saw her, clinging to a lamppost, holding her hand out as her friend tried to stop her from falling over. I indicated and pulled over; she would do nicely. Her friend bundled her into my car. No respect for anything, least of all herself, I thought Read more...

Fiction - Another Brick In The Wall, Another Man In The Crowd By Steve Rudd
	'It doesn't look any different on this side,' the disembodied voice yelled over the void. 'I never said that it would look any different. But I bet it feels different,' ventured an old man's voice on the Eastern side of the wall. 'Not really,' the disembodied voice declared. 'At least not from where I'm standing.' To some people, the momentous fall of the Berlin Wall signified freedom Read more...

Fiction - Off To See The Wild West Show Part 2 Chapter 2 By Frank Beill
	It was too late in the day to visit Tweed Street school - the children and their teachers would be long gone by now. This left only the address I'd been given for George. Hessle Road was not a long walk from Princes Avenue but a tram ride was quicker or to be precise two tram rides were: one into the city centre and one back out again to get me to my destination. All the old reactions Read more...

Fiction - The Service By Joe Hakim
	I'm a professional. I get the job done. It's already getting dark as I arrive at the station. I make my way past the perimeter fence and park my car in the shelter. So begins the process of shedding everything that makes me who I am, in order to become somebody else. You can never tell what kind of night it's going to be, so even now after all this time the anticipatory adrenalin Read more...

Fiction - The Emporium of Illusions By Andy Bilton
	I cannot decide which foam bath to put in to the tub. Mood, I feel, is an important player in a first date situation and I do not want to fold at the first hand by getting in to the wrong one before tonight's encounter. So do I pour in some of the Marks & Spencers 'Tranquility' that has an unnerving resemblance to Rowntree's Lime Jelly and 'treat myself to an indulgent bathing Read more...

Fiction - The Horrible Death of Tony Clare: Retribution and Revolt By Sean Davey
	Tony Clare, British Premier, bringer of war, pestilence, famine and social impotence, died today. Killed by an unknown man. A man driven not by his hatred for the Prime Minister, but by his own need to right the wrongs that Tony Clare's society was responsible for. A society which neglected its own people, raped the land, taxed the workers and killed the innocent. Read more...

Fiction - Dig Your Own Hole By Joe Hakim
	Things were going well. We were on schedule and under budget, Chris Chambers, so my boss was chuffed to bits. "It's going to be a good year," he said slapping me on the back, a huge shit-eating grin plastered across his face. As he looked around the building site, he tipped back his hard-hat and his chest expanded like a proud father watching at his children running around. Read more...

Fiction - Charity Begins in the Toilet By Shep
	Like most stories this one starts at the beginning with a middle aged man kissing a middle aged woman on the middle of the lips. I'm not sure where the middle starts or ends but I'm fairly sure its centre is an equal distance from these two extremes. The man's head jacks back and forth like a mother bird trying to vomit out some nourishment to her Read more...

Fiction - Goths in Denim (I only dress like a Goth!) By Jason Ince
	'That can't be the time!' I scream, staring at the clock-slash-radio-slash-CD player. This is the last time I try a DVD marathon within one day, I'll kill Stanny for suggesting it to me. The phone starts to vibrate before the ringtone kicks in. It's Clark's tone...again, 'damn you, Clark!' I charge across the room and leap over the chair and snatch the mobile. Read more...

Fiction - Absinthe - A Cautionary Tale By Sean Davey
	In pursuit of the perfect high, man invented absinthe, and I among others regularly enjoy its powerful effects. But on some days, store-bought brands are far too timid for the task at hand. On these days we need the homemade stuff. Created in garages and lofts, jam packed with wormwood and all those other alpha-terpenes to get the brain synapses into full gear. Read more...

Fiction - Punishment By Nick Quantrill
	Punishment by local crime-fiction writer and thisisull.com contributor, Nick Quantrill, has won a nationwide short-story competition run by HarperCollins. Entrants were invited to submit a story of no more than 1,000 words in the crime-fiction/thriller genre. Here's what the judges had to say about Punishment : 'We were impressed with the use of Read more...

Fiction - Friday Feeling By Nick Quantrill
	Friday 3pm It was building up to being another busy Friday afternoon shift. It was probably no busier than any other shift, but the extra tiredness that Detective Constable Maynard felt by this point made them feel that much longer. He had been sent to Young's general store in East Hull straight after attending a suspicious death over on the other side of the city. It was Read more...