in #contest3 years ago

Hello guys, @pasaift here.
There are many writers here on steemit, and its nice interacting and doing things with fellow writers. So i decided to start a contest where we can all test our creative imagination, have fun and possibly win sbd.


This contest as the title potrays "Complete the story contest" is a contest where I would start a story and writers would have the opportunity to complete it. It would be nice getting to see other completion to the story. The best story wins 2sbd

Judging to select the best story would be based on selection by my team of impartial judges. There is no paticular rule to participate, this contest is opened to anyone interested in participating.
Note that the added submitted story should not be less than 250 word or more than 350 word.

This is the story for this week:
Mr. Smith just moved into a new neighbourhood. Seemed he had ran out of victims in his previous residential area. He was a loner and a serial killer who chose his victims at random. What he did was to stalk anyone he picked intrest in, monitor their movement, then attack. He would always take away a part of their body, get it fixed in formaldehyde then store it. This way he kept record of how many kills he had made. He was indeed a psychopath.

Good luck writing, and may the best story win. You can help resteem so it can reach a large audience.
DQmNuF3L71zzxAyJB7Lk37yBqjBRo2uafTAudFDLzsoRV5L.gif @pasaift


Above everything, Mr. Smith loved the secrecy of his past, for which the new environment seemed quite unwelcoming.

Here, in this new home, I man he never expected to see ever again was living next door. He was among the people Mr. Smith had mourned a long time ago when the news of their death arrived. But the news about this very man was misrepresenting because M.J Wood wasn't dead. He was only abducted and kept in the enemies' camp, from where he escaped much later.

Mr. Smith and M.J Wood were contemporaries of a war. So many soldiers died by bullets in that war. Many others were abducted and killed. For smith, he only got a bullet that stuck in his left ankle, but his behaviour made people think there was another bullet in his head.

Seeing Wood around his apartment over a decade after the war was exceedingly overwhelming – not for joy nor the rough old days. A lot have changed now. It was no longer the Smith that swore to keep his country safe even if the price meant his life. The new Smith was a habitual killer that loved terminating innocent lives.

This was not to continue from the day Wood paid him a surprising visit. If he was a good host, Wood neither knew nor asked. He only tried to maintain the closeness they shared at the war front.

But he was to realize the magnitude of danger he walked into when he barged into Smith's apartment to find him counting pinkies.

"Holy heaven!" he screamed in shock.

He wrestled to leave that apartment alive. If he did not make that visit, perhaps, his pinky would be the next to be counted.

Upon his escape, Wood ran to the police. And when Smith was arrested, the pinkies in his secret box were 69, stocked in a metal box beside a huge volume of formaldehyde.

Wow! This is nice. Didn't expect mr. Smith to attempt killing his friend. Nice story

Is good to see this, I will do well to join and follow up as well

Is good to see this,
I will do well to join and
Follow up as well

                 - theheralds

I'm a bot. I detect haiku.

Good initiative mate hopefully the heavens will grant me words so i can write....

I hope they do grant you words to participate

The next turn he made would bring the Benson's lawn right into focus. The street was neat, partially lightened and complete with glistening white picket fences. Gone were the pesty little children of the early morning.

"Damn pesty kids", Smith swore, picking a few stray flowers by the edge of Mrs Benson's well tended garden.
He would fix her drain pipe. Just that.
He gave a few knocks on the door. Reverberating sounds that demanded attention, you could tell he was impatient, by the sounds of shuffling feet. Smith placed his cheek on the front door, lessening his grip on Mrs Benson's fragile brain child, he would know when she got to the door.
He would smell her.
"Evening Smith" She said, sticking out her geriatric face through the partially opened door.
"Hello Ma'm". He resorted to giving her the intense look, maintaining the eye contact until she blushed, eyes finding the assorted flowers he'd picked.
Smith watched her, plain gloss smeared on her lips. Then stood behind her, following her lead as soon as she shut the door.

Taking in lungfuls of air, the smell of talcum powder nearly overpowered him.
"I would need those tools Ma'm". He pocketed his hands, resting his back on the kitchen cabinet while she rushed to get the rudimentary plumbing tools.
Oh, Smith, I have told you many times, he made to collect the tools "You can call me Samantha".

The words it seemed, were catalysed by too much talcum powder. It was disgusting, he thought, she was downright flirting with him. Making googly eyes at the dinner table while she watched him fix whatever it was that clogged her sink.

Tightening his hold on the nearest handy tool, smith made his decision.
"Samantha, sorry to bother, would you help with this". Dropping the knitting pins like a woman hypnotized, he watched her come towards him, wafting more talcum powder as she passed by.
Smith hid the jumbo wrench, wondering just how well the talcum would mix with his formaldehyde.

Solid story and a great start. Thanks am intrested.

Would be looking forward to reading your story

His new neighborhood has positively got no inkling of who and what they got into around. For Mr. Smith surely knows his way to charm everyone. Specially the youngest daughter of the senator that he got a doting.

He is a towering, broad shouldered man with penetrating deep seated hazel brown eyes which you can't fathom the abyss of its depthness, whether it is smiling in approval or simply smirking with a precognition of something evil working inside its pools.

Cultured as he is, he can laugh and be gay at any conversation. Soon, he was the apple of the eye of the crowd. Little did they know as to why the favorite crowd of the senator was slowly diminishing in number in every party he was fond of throwing lavishly.

The next day, the senator himself found his daughter bathed in crimson red wading at her bathtub. Upon further police scrutiny, was discovered that she's missing a pinkie.

At the funeral, Miss Miriam, the senator's wife was hysterically mourning at the loss of a daughter but garb in a crimson black sleeve dress.

Mr. Smith arrived. All air was cut short. Eyes fixed upon him. As he sorrowfully approached the coffin and cried. To the utter shock of everyone, he open the lid, grasp the off white knuckles of the senator's daughter, kissed it and mournfully shouted, "who did you this?!!!!! "....

The senator's wife run to his side to pacify him and to reprimand him to pay respect to the dead as what many had expected.

She shoved Mr. Smith in a hugged like manner, and whispered conspiratorially, "I did."

Mr. Smith stared at Miss Miriam disdainfully as if she has just grown three heads.