Last week’s ‘last line’ challenge caused a few problems with some writers contacting me to say they’d sit this one out. So I thought I’d keep this week’s new challenge simple and give you a theme:
A ghost story/poem.
I want to feel goosebumps as I read it so the scarier the better!
Huge congratulations to all those who gave last week’s challenge a go. To remind you, the last line was:
Perhaps tomorrow he would look at things a little differently and realise what a lucky escape he’d had.
Keith Channing’s story is highly entertaining, as I’m sure you’ll agree:
It’s A Mug’s Game
It was three o’clock in the morning when he eventually rolled in, drunk as a skunk, with a smell to match. His hair was matted with blood, there was an open wound on his right cheek and his clothes were filthy and torn.
“Hello, love,” he said. “I think I got mugged on the way home.”
“My God, look at the state of you. Don’t take your coat off, let’s get you to hospital and get that face looked at.”
“Why? Wassappened?”
“You have a massive cut, and it’s still bleeding,” I said, as I was putting some clothes on. “Come on.”
I drove him to the local A&E, about twenty minutes away. Unusually, it was quiet, and they had him straight into a cubicle. Within less than half an hour, he was being stitched. Because of the nature of his injuries, the hospital had notified the police, and two constables were waiting to talk to him as soon as the medics had finished.
Of course, he could tell them nothing. He had no recollection of anything beyond meeting a group of people and being hit by one of them. The police asked him if anything had been stolen. He had no idea at all.
“Was I wearing a watch when I went out, love?”
“Yes, you were,” I said.
“Which one?” he asked.
“I don’t bloody know. I just know you looked at it before you left the house.”
“I had a watch on, and it’s not there now,” he said to the policeman.
“Can you describe it, Sir? Make, type, colour or anything?”
Are you having a laugh? Of course he can’t.
“No, sorry.”
“Anything else? Wallet, cash?”
Yeah, right. As if he would have any idea how much cash he had in his pocket after a heavy night drinking.
“Not that I know.”
“Thing is, Sir,” said the other policeman, “there’s been a gang running around the city for a few nights now, jumping people coming out of pubs and clubs, stealing their valuables, and leaving them in a bad state. One man died last night, and one from earlier in the week is still in a coma.”
“Well, I don’t have any valuables on me,” my still-drunk husband replied, “so it wouldn’t have done them any good if they’d tried to get anything off me.”
“Quite, Sir,” the policeman said, “but if you think of anything else, you will let us know, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
Again – yeah, right. If he thinks of anything. Him? Perhaps tomorrow he would look at things a little differently and realise what a lucky escape he’d had.
Jasdeep Kaur’s character has a very lucky escape:
Left Behind
Tim waved good-bye to his team from the window of the room, where he lay with his plastered leg. He was the best player of the team and they had won all the matches till now. It was the final match of the tournament. He had huge hopes to make a record of winning the international championship as debutant. He tried to hide his frustration, but his gloomy eyes were revealing his heart.
The bus roared off. The team was excited as they left for the flight. The fervour in the bus was increasing with each mile they covered.
But there was dire silence in Tim’s room. It was past midnight and he was awake. The clock ticks started making him restless. He shouted, “Shut up!”
The bus was speeding towards the destination in the dark moonless night. The claps suddenly turned into a bang. The glass scattered and blood draped bodies flung all over.
Unaware of the mishap, Tim tossed his bat over and over on the bed. He cursed the moment when he fell breaking the bone of his leg.
Perhaps tomorrow he would look at things a little differently and realise what a lucky escape he’d had.
Jason Moody’s story will make you smile:
Marcus wrestled once again with the front door to his apartment, his body barely carrying him over the threshold.
He threw his case to one side and staggered into his bedroom. It had been a hard day of non-stop meetings all day. Some if the most important figures in the company had been there. He felt he had held himself well.
With eyes closing every second, he removed his clothes. Now stood in only his trousers, he swayed, like a drunked over to the mirror. He looked up, then he looked down.
He felt heart freeze as if cased in ice. He shook his head and peered down at his groin, then at the mirror. He groped near his groin to discover that there was no zip attached to his trousers. He looked himself straight in the eye, as if his reflection would offer some explanation.
He slumped on his bed. He thought of all the people he had spoken to today. All the one to one conversations he had had. He sighed. Only one thought occurred to him.
Has anyone seen my bits?
As it was Friday, he would have to sweat it out until Monday. Great. He tore off his trousers and cursed while he bit his fist.
He climbed into bed, pulled the duvet over his head and closed his eyes. What a nightmare.
Perhaps tomorrow he would look at things a little differently and realise what a lucky escape he’d had.
Esther Chilton 
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