The Final Contestant
They called it The Game. Every month a new round began, drawing thousands of competitors. Most were insane, or simply suicidal. Its ten deadly traps, called Levels, had claimed their millionth victim just last month. The billion-dollar prize was seductive for those without hope. It was win, or die trying.
Nobody ever won, of course. Few even made it past the first Level. There were exceptions - a year ago, a woman from Iowa left her family behind and entered The Game. She got to Level Six, and her widowed husband got a book deal out of it.
I never knew of my dad's obsession. He never talked about it, never read the monthly results in the paper. So I was stunned when I saw the bold headline on the news one morning: JACK FRY COMPLETES LEVEL 9.
In the following weeks, I retreated from society, from interviews and movie deals. I spent my days studying my dead father's extensive notes, the scribblings of a madman. The Game was a disease. Our society was sick, and there was only one cure - I had to end it all.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (4 so far!)
Average reader rating 5.00/5
So, this is book jacket material.
- #2515 Posted 4 years ago
- 5 out of 5
I'm confused - is that good? To be fair, the synopsis on a dust jacket would typically make decent flash fiction, given its length..
- #2519 Posted 4 years ago
- #2522 Posted 4 years ago
Yes, Kespan. Good in the sense that I would have expected to find this on a published book.
- #2527 Posted 4 years ago
- 5 out of 5
- Published 4 years ago.
- Story viewed 14 times and rated 1 times.
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