Jet Walking

Stone cold sober yet with every step of the two-hundred-foot robot her world swam like submersed beneath six cans of beer. At each horrid glance over her shoulder its slasher smile beamed back at her, its face looming nearer and nearer. Gloria and Josh Brolin plunged into the semi-darkness of suburban Maidenhead, into the ordinance-inspired greenery and quaintly empty plots of local flora. Another quake disturbed every red leaf on each of the twenty or so trees around them and the swirling cascade of color gnashed into her mental receptors and overloaded already overloaded circuits. She couldn't. She could not. Not now, not when she thought it was finally over, not after sixteen years of this shit.

- Voeltz Finals