GOT WINNERS?

Well, we said we weren't going to call them "winners." We received lots of terrific entries, but these were the four that really stood out. We are happy to present them here.

Don't forget to go back to Monday's post for this week's prompt. We've already gotten some terrific stories and can't wait to read more.

Have a wonderful weekend!

~Shari

Here's the prompt:

Raife clicked his blade open behind his thigh. He trembled but held the slim blade tight. His father walked towards him slowly, his hands balling into fists, his lips curling up into a smile.

Not this time, Raife thought. Not this time.

With an upward swing he pushed the blade deep into his father’s –

groin.

From: Charles DeMoss
This will make him stop, Raife thought. After all, Patches was never the same after being neutered.

His father grunted and collapsed in a heap onto the floor. Blood began to stain his jeans, slowly seeping into the once white carpet. His mother would be furious if she saw the state of the carpet, but she had died years ago. Her death was what started everything: the beatings, the days without food, and the thing that his father did to him which he was never supposed to talk about. Well, that all has come to an end.

Not knowing what to do next, Raife lay down and decided to figure it out in the morning.

From Matthew McNish:

Raife the Red
Raife clicked his blade open behind his thigh. He trembled but held the slim blade tight. His father walked towards him slowly, his hands balling into fists, his lips curling up into a smile.
Not this time, Raife thought. Not this time.
With an upward swing he pushed the blade deep into his father’s hand, then pulled back, making several defensive slashes, hoping, praying he could ward the beating off.
But his father’s hands were stone. When his rage rolled vaporous from the bottom of an empty bottle, he felt no pain—not even a deep gash from a cheap switch-blade.
Raife stumbled backward, fell over his untied shoelaces, and crashed onto the hard linoleum, his tail-bone jarring up his spine to snap his teeth together.
His father listed forward—the air thick with spirits and the scent of blood.
His hands opened, grasped Raife’s neck, and painted a red necklace around his throat.

From S.E.R.:

With an upward swing he pushed the blade deep into his father’s almost completely exposed stomach. It was enough to get away, enough to run away. He had wished and wished for it to be over, but he could not bring himself to do it. He had to run away his hatred and pain. Raife looked back only for a split second. His father was gripping the red spot on his shirt and grimacing widely.

From Kristen:

With an upward swing, he pushed the blade deep into his father's chest, allowing warm blood to spurt out over his hand, soaking the blade and dripping onto the floor with hollow, echoing noises. The noises were accentuated by the hollow, choking noises his father made just before falling to the ground, gasping like a fish before finally expiring at Raife’s feet.

            In the corner, his sister slowly stood up, walking over to Raife and putting her hand gently on her shoulder.

            “Is it over?” her voice was soft.

            “Yes,” he told her, turning around and gently brushing her hair away from her bruised face. “It’s all over, now. We’re finally safe.”