Writing Game - Practice Makes Perfect

[NewClassic_v1legacy]

I'll admit this thread is a little self-servicing because it stems from a writing exercise idea I had. The premise is pretty simple, you write a "five chapter" narrative and have wildly different characters examine the same setting. Each one is written in first person and practices different aspects of characterization and personality.

[19:28] Write a five-chapter short story. Make each chapter less than 800 words.
[19:28] The first chapter is about a murderer killing the victim. Feel free to use whatever motivation you like, but make the murderer as human as you possibly can.
[19:28] Second chapter needs to a beat cop at the scene of the crime examining the evidence from a purely emotional perspective, all internal.
[19:28] Third needs to be a detective taking it from a purely logical angle, same crime scene.
[19:29] Fourth a police chief that can't help but examine it from the perspective of a conspiracy theorist, looking for very subtle subtext in clues.
[19:30] And the last chapter is about the EMT who has to determine everything he can about the victim solely through what s/he's wearing and what's on her/his person.

[19:31] So, in order, 1: setting, 2: emotion, 3: logic, 4: subtext, 5: characterization through environment.

I was quite enthralled with this exercise, and figured I should try it. While I was at it, I figured I'd open the floor to criticism from other Escapists on my writing, where the writing was the weakest, and where it was the strongest. I also figured I'd open the floor to everyone else who wants to try this. Think of it as a weird hybrid of Forum RP and Forum Game.

So, I'm going to start up on my chapters and post them one by one. I'm hoping we can get a lot of people contributing, and maybe get a huge writing/critique circle going.

 

[Anarchemitis]

What a marvelous idea!

The problem I had with the Ratings Battle was the lack of criticism. I was told I lost, and then no one told me why or what I could do to improve if I chose to participate in a later edition, so I never bothered rejoining.

 

[The Salty Vulcan]

This sounds interesting. I may be a lil out of my league but I'd like to give it a try if its cool with you

 

[Ramthundar]

Well, here's my try at it. Hope you like it.

Spoiler: Chapter One

Bert walked into the kitchen. He did not run, for he did not want to run. Running would mean he wasn't thinking. And he was thinking about this very clearly.

Let's see...the 8 inch should do. Need a clean edge.

Still walking, Bert past the stainless steal counter tops and oak drawers. The counters were her idea. "Just that much more to cook on" she had told him, and he had agreed. He always agreed, and why wouldn't he? She was his wife, and he loved her. He was sure of that. The day he met her, he knew they were perfect matches. He cleaned, she cooked. He sang, she played the piano. She'd make jokes, he'd laugh. They both were good looking, hard working, and had respectable upbringing and jobs. Them together was logical.

Bert put a lot of his belief in logic. It was, after all, how the world worked. Planets spun, life grew, and laws stayed in place thanks to logic. Even the gods, which Bert kept a polite distance from, played some part in life. He'd even went through the whole tedious affair of a Christian marriage for her. She had made quite the fuzz about it.

Should be in the bottom left drawer, next to the fridge

Bert stared at the massive fridge, also stainless to match the rest of kitchen {it had been quiet the time to find it, but she had so insisted}. Splattered across the smooth, shiny surface was a couple dozen alphabets and shapes, all shining in bright primary colors.
It was a symbol of her promise. "One day, we're going to have some" she assured him. "Just not yet. I'm not ready." Bert did not mind the wait, even if it was given by the half-smile she always put on when she was doing something she didn't want to. But Bert had insisted. It was logical. They were both good specimens of their species, thus children made sense. He had bought the house in the pleasant suburb, near both a school and their jobs, for just that reason. The warm feeling he got when he thought of holding his own was merely a pleasant bonus.

Let's see...ah, yes.

Bert pulled out the large butcher knife, weighing it in his hands. He had been quiet upset when he found her with...him. It wasn't so much the fact she was cheating on him. When he had crept up the stairs to investigate the odd bumps, peeking through the crack of his bedroom door, he had seen them in his bed, making intimate love. It didn't take him long to figure that he was wearing no protection. And Bert knew that she didn't take the Pill. He forbade it. He didn't want his children having even the slightest chance of dysfunction due for the simple please of procreation. The idea that he might have his children had irked Bert quiet considerably.

But what really got him, what really frustrated him was the fact she denied it when he confronted her. "What are you talking about, silly?" she had asked, that half smile on her face. "Oh, don't be ridicules. I would never do such a thing." The worst part was that most he knew would believe her over him. It was all just so...unfair.
Bert looked down at the blade. This made sense. This was logical. This was fair.
He left the kitchen quietly, making his way up do the bedroom.
Quiet....a momentary scream....quiet again.

When Bert came in the kitchen again, the only mass of blood was on the blade. It had gone very well, the blade slipping through her light gown and into her chest in one clean motion. Their was little struggle, and then rest.

Bert took a seat, placing the knive on the kitchen table. Only his hands shook, but that should pass eventually. He stared at the blade, a soft smile on his face, and his eyes following the small drips as they slid of the metal.

"It was...fair." he whispered to himself. He lifted his arms up, crossed them on the talbe, and rested his head on them, sobbing quietly to himself.

Ok, so it's not first person, I know. I was halfway through before I realized this, and didn't want to turn back now.
Bert is human, I assure you. The odd behavior merely amplifies his already odd behavior {And I have met a few people that think like that.}

So....C+ at the best? Or fail? I welcome all opinions and/or advice.

 

[Khedive Rex]

This looks fascinating. I'll play.

Chapter one will be coming sometime soon. The 800 word cut-off should make it pretty easy to get one out quickly (... the fact that I no longer think of 800 words as daunting is a little distrubing. RW has messed me up royally.)

 

[NewClassic_v1legacy]

Okay, I was planning on getting the ball rolling, but Ramthundar's on the top of this thing already. Comments to come, here's my Part I.

Spoiler: Chapter One: The Murder

Part 1: The Murder

The first thing I noticed was that the streetlights were out as I jogged down the sidewalk. I bit my lip nervously as I ran. If you would've asked me a month ago if I'd ever contemplate murder, I would've called you completely out of your mind. Now on the way to the abandoned house in the suburbs, my plans were haunting my own mind. I knew it wasn't my place to judge, and certainly not to execute, but some transgressions really need to be carried out. Mark, my intended victim, was certainly the wrong kind of ass. He committed fraud on his bank, leveraging some bullshit lawyering to get off the hook, then he committed fraud against his lease and ran out on his girlfriend. She ended up crashing her life savings, and dropping out of college because of it. And thanks to some legal crap, he's going to get away to Mexico before the police could follow up on it.

Well, I wasn't going to let him.

The house had the porch light on, as if Mark was expecting company, or pizza delivery. Probably the latter. It felt weird to be carrying a knife in a hoodie pocket, but it was cold enough to not look too suspicious running around in a jacket. I got to the door, and knocked. Mark opened the door, and I slugged him across the cheek. Damn! It hurt like hell to punch someone. Mark fell on his ass, and I stepped over the doormat and glared him down. He stammered, and I pulled my fist back to slug him again.

He scrambled back, and I felt my grip weakening. What was I really doing here? Terrorizing some douchebag in his own home? No, he was a criminal. He ruined someone's life, and he was going to pay for it. Without another second of hesitation, I took the knife out, and I walked toward him. God, the idea of blood scared me, but some things were necessary, weren't they?

"Oh God," he stammered, getting up and turning to run. "No, no!"

The first slash caught him across the back. I wondered if Pampered Chef had designed their steak knives to cut something other than cow. God, blood was already everywhere. I slashed again, gloved hand wavering as the knife tore through his cheap shirt. The next slash took him across the arm, spilling both his hot blood and cold body into the bedroom. I turned in, determined to make the last blow to end it all. The room danced, blurring at the edges. I looked around as he bled on the carpet, candles were lit everywhere. He clawed at a vanity desk, trying to stabilize himself. He reached into a drawer, and I panicked. I lifted my blade to block whatever he was trying. Rose petals exploded all around me, and I jerked the knife back reflexively. A look of shock and horror sunk with Mark's face, and I could see part of his cheek exposed to the air. God, the blood was everywhere.

Mark fell to the carpet, dead. On the desk was a long, elaborate note, now covered in diced petals and human blood. I read the words, trying to ignore the disgusting knot in my stomach.

Sarah,

I know what I did was wrong, and that there's no true apology for it. I was glad you agreed to come see me, and I know I won't have the guts to tell you in person. I got a second ticket to Mexico, Cancun to be exact, and I wanted you there with me. What I did was wrong, and hopefully this can be the first of many steps to correct my transgressions.

With love,
Mark

My throat wretched, and I fought to hold my dinner in. The room spun, and I dropped the knife to catch the wall.

I did all this to avenge Sarah, and she had agreed to come out here and meet him. He was even going to apologize. God, what have I done? Oh God... Oh God...

From somewhere, I heard a doorbell. I hear Sarah's voice from behind a door. "Mark!? Mark, are you there?" The doorbell sounded several more times. Oh my God, what have I done?

I ran to the back door, sliding open the glass, and ran into the yard. I managed to flee into the woods, fearing I had just done something terrible.

 

[Ultrajoe]

What is your opinion on a more... eccentric take on events? You know how I write.

 

[Ramthundar]

*snip*

Well, very well done. Good description on setting, character, and emotion. But I feel that you were limited by the word count. You could of given the reader a better feel of the character and his emotions, giving them a better chance to attach to them. For example, a bit of history of the character and Sarah could of given us a reason why he went to murder for her.
But otherwise it was great. It's already got me thinking for Chapter 2. That's how it works, right? We write the next chapter after another's previous chapter?

 

[NewClassic_v1legacy]

This sounds interesting. I may be a lil out of my league but I'd like to give it a try if its cool with you

I encourage it. Writing exercises don't have skill requirements. Everyone's here to learn, and no one's here to judge.

What is your opinion on a more... eccentric take on events? You know how I write.

Make it happen. I want to encourage as many takes as possible.

I welcome all opinions and/or advice.

It's a bit hard to have some hard-hitting advice so early in the game, but you have a very rigid style of storytelling. I do feel vaguely like I'm watching the events rather than feeling them. Bert's a super eccentric character, but it makes him likable in a way. My problem is he's not very approachable, and ends up reading a bit like an alien.

Otherwise, I like the motivation, and the simple progression of thoughts. The exercise really kicks off with the next few chapters, so I'm really looking forward to those.

So far, I'd ask that you keep the audience in mind a little more. It's easier to get into the shoes of people we can empathize with, and I felt like Bert didn't quite have enough 'Uumph!' to really trap us in his head. But I'm excited about the next few chapters.

EDIT

That's how it works, right? We write the next chapter after another's previous chapter?

Whoops. No, we're actually writing after our own chapters. Although that's an idea for a second run-through, perhaps. I'll definitely keep this idea in mind for a second coming of the thread. Probably with a different prompt.

Edit[sup]2[/sup]
For the internal thing, I really think you should keep it as mental as possible, while restricting the dialog to important details. Really this exercise is about writing characters, so I don't want to bog down the piece with what happened, and instead why each type of cop thinks what happened happened, and how it affects their actions and outlook. It's really all about learning to write four different responses to the same stimuli.

 

[Ramthundar]

Ohh. Now I feel a little silly in what I've said in my second post. But thanks for your opinion, appreciate it.
I assume that I have to go from my Chapter then, yes?

EDIT: Never mind, you already answered it. Alrighty, time to get crackin then.

EDIT EDIT: Newb question, I know, but question for Chapter 2; When you mean internal, is that all through the cop's eyes and internal monologue, no talking to other guys unless its "and when I asked what happened, I didn't get much info. A theory here, a fingerprint there."

 

[RagnorakTres]

Hm! I believe I'll try this, though I tend to write spontaneously and then edit after a night of sleep (didn't do that in the RW, just wrote spontaneously. Hence why my entry vs. ninjablu was absolute shit) so a first chapter could be up in three hours or three days, I have no idea.

 

[The Shade]

Interesting. It's late here, and though my creativity also seems to increase alongside my fatigue (go figure) I'm not sure I'm in the right state of mind to delve into the motivations of a criminal just yet.

Perhaps if a different subject matter comes along I would make my sojourn into the creative writing world I have sadly forsaken. But for now I think I will merely observe, and appreciate.

...and he laughed the laugh of the damned.

 

[Ultrajoe]

I don't think I can do this Nuke, it's not the way I write. I keep trying to set up a story, but each character only has 800 words and no return to the story and setting changes. It's not a problem of word limit, it's a problem of options and... intent. I can't build on a theme with the five perspectives and style changes listed here, not in a way I find fulfilling. I feel like i'm setting out to write one of these.

See, either the idea is to not be concerned with overall narrative and instead dwell on the nuances of each... chapter, I don't think you can call this a character-driven piece, which rubs my plot-lust the wrong way so hard it bleeds, It's amusingly the polar opposite to how I like to construct a story.

That, or you'd like to see a story evolve, which I don't think you intended.

In short, Ultrajoe isn't right for this game, sorry.

 

[RagnorakTres]

<spoiler=Chapter One: An Assassination>I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. -- Revelations 22:13
I was calm as I shot the man. He deserved to die. More than that, he deserved to suffer, but I figured I could leave that up to God.

Something I've noticed in my years as a "holy assassin" for the Church, all men are simply men when you have a gun pointed at them. No matter how much power they wield in the political, economic or religious spheres, once you have a gun trained on them, they are flesh and blood, as easy to extinguish as a candle flame. They all take it differently of course, we're all different. Some of them cry, some of them beg, some of them offer bribes. Some of them even sit there and quietly accept their fate. Those last are few and far between, but this one, this ex-governor, had been surprisingly calm when he found out who I was and why I was in his house. As I cleaned the scene (doing my job: wiping fingerprints, setting the mark of my order in a conspicuous place) I considered what he had done to deserve such judgment.

"He" was Marcus Hadley, ex-governor of Georgia. He had been raised Catholic and left the church at the age of twelve. As governor of Georgia, he had fixed the tax system, created more than a million jobs, he had helped the entire state survive the hell America had gone through after the assassination of Ronald Reagan. He had also embezzled, committed adultery, sent people to their deaths, even been in the Mafia for a while (no one was quite sure how he got out; I have my suspicions, but nothing concrete). But none of those things were enough for the Church to order his death, at least not usually. I wondered about why they wanted such an old man dead. He had been certain to die in ten years, fifteen at the outside.

Eventually, I was satisfied with my work. I left the room and headed down the hall to leave when I felt something I had not felt in many years: guilt. I had worked hard to suppress this feeling since I joined the Diocese, but now it was back. "I'm not getting any sleep tonight, am I, Father." I continued towards the door as I half-talked, half-prayed. "I think...I think that was my last work in this vein. I don't feel Your voice here anymore. I need to get away. I think I'll go live in Japan, only place that has rejected the Church, probably only place safe for me. Maybe...Maybe I knew all along I shouldn't have been here." I walked out the door and straight to the airport. When the news of Marcus' death reached the news, I was already in Kyoto, building a new identity for myself.
------------------
It's been five years since I left the Church. I still hear about inexplicable deaths on the news that I know very well how they were orchestrated. I know my old order well. Unfortunately, they know me, too.

I always wondered what it would be like, on the other end of a gun...See what I mean? Half-an-hour. I think that's a record for me.

 

[The Salty Vulcan]

Felt like mixing things up. Not as great as the others but I hope you like it.

Spoiler

The cold, wet street makes my bones ache. The smell of dampness and cigarette butts, carelessly discarded on the ground, makes me nauseous. I feel like vomiting.

The buzzing, flickering street light above me brings no comfort either. As the adrenaline begins to flush itself out of my system, I once again look at the scene before me from my perch against the cold steel of the lamp. The crumpled body sprawled chaotically on the ground, the stained knife and the small pool of blood uniting all the elements together. "How did it all go wrong?"I desperately need a hit. I begin to cry.

After a few minutes, I raise myself up on my feet and wipe the tears from my face. I don?t know why but I start thinking of my mother and how she would always talk about God. "Dios te ayudará, hijo. God will help you". Of course I never believed her. I was dumb but I wasn't stupid. There was a time I used to make fun of her and her superstitions. Me, the big college boy. Where did it all go wrong?

The words echo through my head and out of desperation I look up at the street light and for a few minutes try to pretend as if God washing my sins away, but it fails. I still can?t wipe the memory of what?s happened out of my head. Though I shut my eyes tightly, the events are still so clear and they hound me.

I?m walking down this very street, the knife in my pocket is heavy and the handle is covered in my own sweat. I continuously tell myself "I need the money, I need the money" as I scratch and agitate the sores on my neck and my chest. "This will be the last time", I try to tell myself in my most convincing voice, but it?s a lie. For a few months now that?s all that?s ever really came out of my mouth.

As I dart my eyes, scanning the street I see her walking on the opposite sidewalk. Long red hair, tight blue sweater, denim jacket. Even in the dim light I can see the gold chain hanging loosely from her neck. It looks old, probably a family heirloom. I know a pawn broker over on 42nd who could give me money for it. I wait for her to past by before I cross the street and make my move. The street light is only a few blocks away; the adrenaline starts to kick in. I followed her for a while and briefly studied her; the way her hips swayed with each step, like it had some sort of orbit of its own. Her legs were great, dressed in skin tight jeans. For a split second I found myself smiling when I saw her shoes. Lime green All-Stars. I quickly hide the smile, I need the money. Forgive Me.

Through sheer force of will I bring myself to the present. I walk to the cold lifeless body before me; its partly opened lips are blue, its hands and stomach covered in blood. I begin to cry again and the memories come flooding back, there much more intense this time. It all goes by so fast.

As I approach myself behind her, I pull out the knife and grab her arm, she fight back harder than I thought she would. As we dance violently, trying to take control of the knife, our bodies come closer together and for a brief moment, silence fills our small world. We both realize what?s happened. As we look at each others fear bleached faces, we back away slowly, like lovers from the old movies. She starts to cry, blood is on her hands and stomach. My legs feel like jelly. She slowly turns and walks away, stumbling. I attempt to follow...I fall.

What happens next is a blur of visions and sensations, in truth I don?t remember what happened as I hit the concrete, but I didn?t see any lights, no familiar faces. I wake up, standing over my own body. Words cannot describe the sensation. My lifeless lungs gasp for air and I sit, stunned. That was 5 minutes ago. I lean on the steel of the streetlamp and bath myself in its artificial halo.

What?s going to happen to me? To her? I don't blame her...for what she did, if she ever had to face a court she'd get let off. Self defence against some junkie with a knife, a beautiful girl like her. It shouldn?t have been like this.

The cold emanating from my own bones is making them ache. The smell of this horrible, surreal new existence and my own lifeless body is making me nauseous. I feel like vomiting.

 

[NewClassic_v1legacy]

See what I mean? Half-an-hour. I think that's a record for me.

The biggest problem I can see with it so far is it's pretty cut-and-dry. The scene isn't very well set, which may lead to some confusion working into the later chapters. The only prop I can see coming into play is the calling card for the order, but you sound like you're introducing a thriller of the protagonist running away instead of focusing on this individual murder. Though, it's enough to work from, and I'm delightedly looking forward to the next chapter.

Felt like mixing things up. Not as great as the others but I hope you like it.

I like the point of view, and certainly told a story in a solid way. Bonus points for that, but I can't help but feel like you missed a little by segmenting the passage of time in a way that vaguely alludes to Tarintino. Regardless of that, the murder scene could be a little bit befuddled due to the fact that it's a busy street, and doesn't have a lot of treshold to really romp about in and sink the teeth into. Fair warning, you'll have a hell of a lot of trouble on chapters four and five. Otherwise, looks good, and I'll await further commentary until we get delved into the later chapters.

 

[Zombie_Fish]

May give this a try. Not tonight though, I'm currently dead.

 

[world_of_dragons]

I'll give it a go, but expect stuff to be up tomorrow at the earliest

 

[world_of_dragons]

Okay, here it is. Sorry if I'm not using original characters, but I'm using this to help me with a fanfiction I have in the works. Anyway

Spoiler: Chapter 1

Sometimes as long as three years ago can seem as recent as yesterday.

There they would sit, the huge candied spheres of heaven. Sitting there waiting. Taunting, even. When I look back at all the ceaseless toil of planning, constructing, all the blood, sweat and tears I put into his harebrained schemes, the attempts to trick some kids into relinquishing their hard earned money, the distances we?d run when such attempts backfired, the injuries we sustained, the evenings I?d come home battered and bruised: All of that, all of it for the sake of some candy.

I laugh. But whether I laugh from nostalgia or how pathetic we were, I can?t tell anymore. But I laugh regardless.

Sifu once told me that fate?s sense of humor tends to shift with time. When I apply those words to the here and now, it leads me to the impression that fate?s current sense of humor is either cruel or ironic.

I look back at that time again. I remember those few and far between moments fate allowed us some closure. Those few and far between moments where things fall into place. One of those few and far between moments where all just fell into place, and there were no strings attached; no last minute setbacks or backfires, no nagging sense of guilt and undeserving. In those moments all were right with the world. And when I look back at that moment I realize all that blood sweat and tears were for more than just a few jawbreakers.

It was the feeling of having accomplished a goal, having gotten somewhere, that maybe we weren?t the unluckiest kids on Earth.

I look back once more, and I realize that I didn?t possess such a fanatic craving for those candied spheres.

But I knew someone who did.

And it makes me wonder why I followed that someone in his ill-fated quests. Sure, I can remember being held in the grip of a megalomaniac, but that was after a terrible secret was released, and the rules changed. But I wonder what made me follow that boy before then, before he became so easily corrupted. Before he tried to grow from his brother?s shadow.

I find my answer when I take a look around. Even before I left this quiet Western American suburb for the remote and mystic mountains of Northern China, there wasn?t much for an adolescent to do for free. One could count that playground just around the corner, but as one grows older they find the past times of childhood such as going down a slide or riding a swing immature and to some extent; beneath them. Thankfully the town would provide much needed relief for those dog days of summer; bowling alleys with an arcade, movie theaters, go-carts and the candy store. But these things took on the likeness of a sleazy strip joint; one must pay the price if they wish to venture forth. And the fare would always be just outside one's budget.

But of course, not every kid is fortunate enough to receive a weekly allowance. So those who don't must barrow, or-in some cases-to my ever lasting guilt-con and steal from those who do. And so I bring you back to those long hours of planning, construction and execution. The endless toil and running to and fro, the setbacks, the obstacles and the constant failings, the evenings coming home to an empty house battered and bruised.

Much has changed, and not for the better: The bowling alley is now a beauty salon, the movie theater had been converted into a mini mall filled with identical fashion outlets, what used to be the go-carts now stands a parking lot and finally the greatest insult of all. My friends and I used to stand in this place with a mix of desire, envy and hunger carved upon our features. But those mixed feelings make way for a single disgust as our beloved candy is store is now a Starbucks. It's ironic how one spends three years of their lives giving themselves up and finding themselves again, only to return to find the very things they gave up in the hands of another or gone with time. Once again I point out I didn't have such a fanatic love for jawbreakers, but the sting of their departure is no less painful.

Then it hits me. This town has changed only in the physical sense. Back then, all of the wondrous places time and commercialism had done away held the same rules as the endless fashion/electronic/useless junk shops, salons and restaurants that stand in their place had one thing in common; a simple rule.

If you want to play, you have to pay

 

[Zombie_Fish]

Well, here goes. I'm open to comment.

Spoiler: Chapter 1- Remembrance

Chapter 1- Remembrance

The light of the moon reflected the through the window, sneaking past the barrier of the curtain into my eyes. This minor annoyance had finally forced me to rise from my slumber, with a throbbing headache and a dry mouth, as if I had just swallowed a whole beach. I lifted myself up and looked about, when my confusion began to set in.

It seemed that I had woken up in a kitchen. Not mine, nor did it seem to be one I instantly recognised. Cheap whisky poisoned the air and the carpets were sticky like a thin layer of honey had covered the floor that I had to trek over. I managed to stumble over to a light switch and push it, bright light temporarily blinding me, as I turned to look at the room I had woken in. It was a large kitchen, with a chequered floor, a cheesy, cliched, yellow painted wall, and granite sides, as you would expect. On the floor were a knife stand and a bottle of whisky, top off, on one side, spilling bronze fluids all over the rubber carpet.

I passed through to what appeared to be the dining room. The room was shrouded in darkness and what appeared to be Christmas leftovers was on the table, left out for possibly hours on end; I couldn't tell. I walked up to the table when something small and hard hit my leg.

"Ouch! What was that?" I looked down at what appeared to be the end of an oak chair leg. The chair itself had fallen down on its left side and seated in it was a figure with brown hair about half an inch long, his back turned from me, as if he was ashamed at me. This man wore a grey suit, like you see worn by successful businessmen or politicians. Either way, it helped to show that this was a man of importance. I turned the sleeping human over, noticing a deep cut across his neck, and some stainless steel scissors driven into his chest, the scarlet blood clashing greatly with the grey, white and silver cross-over that made up his clothes. I then looked up at the face, a face I could easily recognise, for it is one I've had to recognise for the past five years.

"Mr... Sanders?" I looked at the face. It was a face from someone in their late thirties, with a few wrinkles, a slightly pointed chin and before I even lifted up the cold, wrinkled eyelids, I knew instantly what to expect. Chestnut irises. This confirmed everything I was worried about. This man was definitely Mr. Sanders.

Mr Sanders was a businessman and a boss. To be exact, my businessman and my boss, and he were a corrupted one at that. He would overwork people for not enough money. He abused his power, and he was hated by all of us, especially me. I've wanted him dead for ages.

"Wait. I've wanted him dead for ages." I pondered this for a while when it came to me. I dropped instantly to the floor. I remembered everything.

I had had quite a bit to drink already, and had no idea what I was doing. Everything went blurred all of a sudden. Now I had just climbed in through a window on the second floor (It was the only one open) into what appeared to be the bedroom. Instinctively, I grabbed the first sharp object I could find in that room- which turned out to be a pair of scissors- before carrying on into the corridor, down the softly carpeted stairs and into the dining room. It seemed that this boss of mine was then just trying to start eating his dinner before my interruption. Before he could even attempt at reacting to this; I grabbed his neck and dragged the blade of the scissors across his neck and then drove them into his chest. I then shoved him onto the floor and ran into the kitchen, looking for more tools. In one of the cupboards I found a new bottle of whisky. I opened this wonderful beverage and reached for the knives, when suddenly, everything went black, and I fell onto the floor.

"No. It can't... be." I started to cry, the transparent tears diluting the blood on the floor. I was a monster, a murderer, and a nightmare.

Suddenly, there was a noise.

Sirens. Crap. I had to get out as soon as possible. I ran to the back door, but it was locked. I ripped out drawers to no success. In the end, I punched the window and used that as an escape route. By the time the cops arrived, I was already engulfed in the shadows of the night.

I struggled a bit to get within the 800 word limit but I hope it's okay.