A weighty man wearing cargo pants and an extra large dirty white shirt stalks out of the verdure, toward our direction. From the dim light of the fire, I can already tell he's injured in one leg. He struggles to walk regularly, favoring the left. It is possible that he was wounded during the fights over the rafts. My fears escalate at the notice of a knife -- eight or so inches of serrated steel, a dark handle, and curved tip -- that is recognizable as one that could have easily tore through the escape rafts. His darkly gloved palm grips the blade, which is carried by his waist, instead of sheathed and kept in one of the pockets of his cargo pants.

I want to yell, but by the time I figure it all out -- what he plans to do to her -- his enormous, sprawling hand already latches to Kendra's petite shoulder.

He ignores her several deafening screams for help. He swipes the blade over her lower neck, just above the collar bone and squeezes the shoulder blades to hold her body in limbo. Her shrieks continue, as her throat spreads apart like her mouth, each orifice spitting up a running faucet's worth of blood. The dark crimson fluid streams through her cotton dress, across the short length of her slender body, and drips in quick little drops to the violet sand by her kicking feet.

Before the man can scrape the knife across her soft brown gullet again, I throw a punch and crack his jaw, but he's got me by at least seventy pounds. His face only deepens with focus, and I become his training mannequin. He sticks me in the stomach, five or so times, the legs, eight to ten times, before finally shanking me a couple times directly through my left breast and into my heart. His intense eyes are bulging, reddish, and bright as light bulbs, near to the same as my own, I imagine, staring back into the killer's wide, stoic face, and we read each other for a brief, solemn moment. He retrieves the knife from my torso a last time, silently, adeptly, and I fall to the sand, back to the same position in which I had gained consciousness. He wipes the red off with his gloved first finger and thumb. Then turns from my bleeding, prostrate body, on his way back to the jungle.


Ryan Gregory Thomas was a film student, but after leaving school became a fiction writer. He will forever be a life-long resident of California, residing in San Diego mostly, and -- of recent -- Riverside, and plays in a band. He has been published at and , and hopes to expand his writing resume with several more publications. Thanks for your time and effort!

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)