Horror First Line Game

The skin flapped around his chest like bloodstained flags.

The thing had claws.

The knife sticking out of his chest pulsed in time with the spurting blood.

When the alien blob-thing consumed his best friend in less than twenty seconds, Garlan knew his day was going to suck.

Being a demon's slave wasn't the sunshine and rainbows most people thought it was.

The darkness tugged and pulled, calling her like a long-lost lover--come back, come back, come back--and the more she fought against the sweetness the shadows promised, the more she knew it was a losing battle; the darkness always lied, but its whispers were too compelling to resist.

Bob decided he didn't want to be part of the Apocalypse.

They say dead men have no secrets, but they do, and sometimes those secrets come back, not to haunt your sleeping hours or trouble your daytime mind, but to bite and bite hard.

After it crawled out of his head, Bob's sinuses were finally clear - even if there was now a demon in his kitchen.

Girls like me never get the boy, never get that sweet goodnight kiss on the front porch, and no matter how fast we walk, we never get away from who we are on the inside; all we get are dead, rotting things with empty eye sockets and cold, cold hands.

Thre's a time for reaping and a time for sowing, but today was a time for slaying.

Somewhere, over the rainbow, empty-headed scarecrows pulled the heads off of Kansas farm girls.

The noise, a quick little clink like two glasses brushing up against each other, crept in a little after midnight while Maggie hovered somewhere between awake and asleep in that grey area that made everything blurry around the edges, even night noise.

Alice went down the rabbit hole much easier after the White Rabbit cut her up into tiny pieces.

He was eleven when night came up and swallowed him into forever.

She sawed faster and faster,blood squirting in her face.

Granted, she did wear a hood, but it was the red blood dripping from her fingers that really earned her the name.

Bucket 'O Blood Johnson never cared much for keeping his murders secret.

Don Mackey pinched himself, hoping against the evidence of his eyes that he was dreaming.

I poured myself the first Scotch of the morning and pondered the current weirdness that a capricious fate had deemed appropriate to saddle me with this time.

Jake whistled as he walked out his front door into the bright sunshine, unaware that in less than six hours he'd lose his job, his wife, his dog, and four out of the five fingers on his left hand.

I felt something burbling inside my chest moments before it wiggled it's way out of my nose.

Killing is easy, pull the trigger, slice flesh, hack off a limb, all bio mechanics, kiddies; getting caught, well, that is down-right-fucking scary.

Tin Man, that's really a good one in my opinion. Very reminiscent of J. A. Konrath's There's an art to getting your ass kicked."

FOTSGreg said:

Tin Man, that's really a good one in my opinion. Very reminiscent of J. A. Konrath's There's an art to getting your ass kicked."

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Thank you. Very kind of you!