The Name Of The Game – Microfiction Short Story

The Name Of The Game

The room falls silent and all eyes fall on Catherine, as she pulls the knife from Flint’s throat, showering in a sea of deep red. She sneers then smiles licking her lips with self satisfaction, then meets their gaze with hers.

“I wasn’t going to let him think it was his to win, not when I had all intentions of winning everything for my self,” she announces matter-a-factly.

“B-B-But, th-that’s no-not what this is a-all about! N-N-NOT THIS,” Even’s stammers as he gestures awkwardly towards Flint’s bloody remains.

“Then what is it all about, if it is not a battle to the finish? What is it, if it is not about winning or losing? What is it, if it is none of those things?”

The sweat pours from Even’s brow, and he dabs it lightly with an already heavenly drench handkerchief. He looks desperately over to the producer who standing frozen in fear refusing to make eye contact with him, then to the camera operators as they continue to keep the cameras trained up the two of them.

“DON’T LOOK AT THEM, LOOK AT ME AND ANSWER MY QUESTION! TELL ME WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT!” she bellows through saliva drenched teeth.

He turns in abject horror towards her with trembling lips and shaking hands. “O-O-Okay! OKAY! Y-Y-Your right, t-they are w-what t-this sh-show is all about, j-j-just not T-THAT W-WAY!” he stammers once more, as he again gestures towards Flint’s lifeless corpse.

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