Sunday, April 3, 2011


"Get down! Quick!"


"Get down! Now!"

"But why?"

She rolled her eyes and yanked him to the floor before doing an army crawl toward the door.

"Because we're not supposed to be here, idiot."

"Oh, right." He followed her to the door, crawling on his hands and knees like a dog.

She reached the door and raised her hand, gripping the handle firmly as she twisted it. The door popped open and she peered outside into the dark street. Empty. She stood up, making sure her weapons were secure, then bolted for the edge of the porch. A shot went off and she heard a thud behind her. She hit the rail and vaulted over, landing heavily in the thick bushes.

Tearing her way through the clinging branches and leaves, she raced across the lawn, using the few trees as cover from the bullets whizzing past her head. As she neared the black sedan she arrived in, a projectile slammed into her shoulder, knocking her sideways.

She rolled with the impact, feeling the pain spiderweb up through her shoulder to her neck and down to her fingertips. Grunting, she launched herself to her feet and stumbled to the car. She could hear the guns still firing, the bullets thumping into the car's thick hide.

The car was unlocked, so she gripped the handle and ripped the door open. The glass in the window shattered as a bullet pierced it, spraying tiny, diamond-like pieces all over her. She hopped in the seat, ignoring the small cuts on her hands and face. The keys weren't in the ignition. She tried to remember where her partner would have put them. Fumbling around, she found them in the cup holder, then shoved the key into the ignition.

The car roared to life and the lights illuminated the street in front of her. She could see the gunman who had shot her window off to her left. Other figures moved swiftly through the shadows on either side of the street.

She slammed the car into gear and stomped on the pedal. The wheels screamed for several tense moments before the car took off. She'd gone only fifteen feet before a man with a rocket launcher stepped into her path, locked and loaded. She slammed on the brakes.

"Aaaand, cut! Excellent work everyone! Beautiful! Now we'll load up for the real action."

The woman opened the door and rolled out of the car, sliding to her knees to rest for a few minutes. She glared at the director. Real action? Explosions weren't real action. The real action was what she just did, without a stunt-woman. She stood and shrugged to alleviate her irritation. The shrug brought new pain.

Rubbing her wounded shoulder, she walked back to her trailer, mumbling, "I didn't think rubber bullets were supposed to hurt this bad."

**Origin of the story: There are 15-minute writing dashes at Milk Wood in Second Life every day at 5amSLT and 6:30pmSLT. This story is from the 3-28-11 morning dash, using the prompt "action."**

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