Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

In Coma

'Arm yourselves, men! The enemy's upon us! Some ' The man's voice was caught in the whirling shriek of white-hot shards of flying metal. He fell to the ground at the very feet of a large, young man in a black-streaked t-shirt, blood streaming from his open mouth, eyes already glazing over in a stunned face. The other man stepped back, hardly noticing the corpse as he searched his pockets anxiously. They had to be here somewhere!

'Yo, T-Dog!' came a shout from his left. 'Start up the tank. Let's whip these guys!'

'Yeah, yeah.' T-Dog replied distractedly, his mutter lost in the escalating screams of his dying mates. Maybe he'd left them in his tent. Sprinting between the battling figures and flaming canvas, ducking behind an idle truck as a grenade flew past, he made his way to his own tent. T-Dog dashed into the flimsy room, shadows treacherously lit by dancing flames and flashes from outside. Frantic now, he began throwing his meager possessions across the floor. Moaning with rage, he sat back on his heels. Where could they be!?! A sudden click behind him was the only warning he had. An ear-drum shattering crack, and his own body was thrown savagely to the hard-packed dirt. Whimpering, he felt warmth dribbling across his side. He looked at his left arm, barely hanging from his shoulder. Breath wouldn’t come now, and confused, T-Dog turned his ringing head back to the shape standing above him. The fires edged nearer for a moment, catching on a small pool of spilled gasoline, illuminating the grimly smiling man, gun leveled at T-Dog’s head, a ring with a key dangling in his other hand.

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