Touch Down
By Kosative D.

The sun beamed down upon his helmet; he could even feel its rays through the shell's white and yellow, professional grade paint.  A sparkle, THAT sparkle could be seen glimmering from his half-shaded mouth, teeth chomped, smiling with glee.  He knew this time, this play was the one: the one they’d all been waiting for.

The grass beneath his slightly-scruffed chin sparkled with greens not of this planet, as his shadow shaded the color from its shine.  His cleats dug in quite nicely, straining the location his feet would stand—preparing for what had to be done; for it was, after all, the final play where the receiver would catch the ball for the touchdown of a lifetime.

Tyler was the quarterback of his High School's football team, The Jaws, and he loved each and every moment of it.  Glorious, with his crown upheld, he owned that team and did as he pleased and you see, he had quite a problem with the main wide receiver.

The wide receiver you see was Charles, and Charles had had a bit too much testosterone/adrenaline rushing through his veins to notice the off-weighted football in his hand.  

As the final “hut” was called the team sharpened their glances and forwarded their brows—each hair possibly christened with sweat.

A bomb has many different peculiarities you see, all one would need is a bit of acetone, hydrogen peroxide and muriatic acid—strangely common items found throughout almost any town.  Among those things a small container, a timer, a decent internet guide, and an imagination.

However, in this situation Tyler (being quite good looking and bright), had no need to look any further then his high school chemistry lab.  For as it were, manipulating Mrs. Finklebottom into exposing the whereabouts of the class’s chemicals was as easy as fucking his first virgin.

Tyler had practiced his stitching; stitch by stitch—his muscle-induced fingers were perfect for piercing the leather.  Each sewn thread would bring him closer to that gleaming moment—the one he’d waited all too long for.

As his hand gracefully up took the ball from the hutted position, Tyler could feel the button that lay just beyond the leather's thickened surface—the button he had placed there.  It was glorious conformation that his planned switch of the balls had gone through without flaw.

The team burst into a running gallop, each receiver attempting to be as open as possible to get Tyler to throw them the ball—to make that winning play.  But Tyler knew whom he was throwing the ball to.  It was Charles, and Charles was becoming wide open.


Tyler clicked the button within the ball and prepared with a big breath.  It was time and he could hear the ticking begin within the ball—the leather gently caressing his muscular hands, waiting to be tossed.  The timing had to be precise—from the time it left his tips, to the time it entered Charles’s grip; it had to be perfect, how else could a team score a winning goal after all?

After five brief seconds of waiting, Charles had opened up 20 yards from the goal line.  Tyler then wound up his hardy arm, aimed, and threw.


The ball, as graceful as a spring butterfly, flew—twisting in a spiral of perfection.

Charles’s face glowed as sunshine does right after a mid-afternoon shower—he would be making that winning catch—the catch of all catches.

Into his arms the ball landed, and as he gripped it tightly, he ran with all his might from that 20-yard line to the goal.  No one was near him; he had managed to become completely open.  Nothing in his way.

Five seconds remained.

Tyler, now on his knees, lifted his head from its previously downward position.  The sun cast a glorious shadow from his helmet to the tip of his chiny-chin-chin—the god's bone structure pronounced as always.  His eyes though unseen, were felt across the field; a wisp of doom, perfection, and accomplishment shot through the air.

Everyone in the crowd roared up in flame!

At the last second, Charles was a mere yard away from the goal line; his legs exploding with the energy released.


At this moment, the football exploded.  The bomb Tyler had placed within its leather frame went off as a rocket ship going to Mars; as a nuke correlating its mass.  Charles, whose muscles were just a second earlier enflamed with a win now spewed upon the open field.  His intestines were splattered—a delicious site for Tyler to see.  Blood gushed, like Carrie at the prom.

Though his eviscerated body spewed rampant and raw, his arms, which flew off in the blow, still clenched.  You see, though the bomb exploded—a single leather piece stayed in tacked in Charles’s unattached limbs.

His arms landed precisely over the goal line—leather still engaged within their grip.


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I write under the pseudonym Kosative D. In my middle school years I was struck with noetic power, the desire to create poems in everything. From this point on I just wrote and wrote and loved each second of it, though this was just a "hobby" of mine, I decided it was absolutely what I was destined for during my third year of college—I had traveled through many universities majoring in philosophy, creative writing, and film before I came to the conclusion that writing is just my thing. I love creating stories of madness and troubles and I try to be as poetic as possible in the midst; horrific strife in beautiful waves.
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