Very good, though you misspelled Beach. Really gave the sense of an otherwise mild-mannered man taking out his frustrations in a drunken hazeZombie_Fish said:
Writing Game - Practice Makes Perfect
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BTW was my story supposed to be about a murder because I wrote about something completely different.... Sorry about that
Part 2: The Emotion
The first thing I noticed about the house was the smell. Not of copper, like I'm used to murders like these smelling, but perfume. I'm told a man was the victim, found by his on-again, off-again girlfriend. Perhaps a date, or maybe a marriage proposal. Whatever the case, something didn't seem right. The carpet and wallpaper was flecked with droplets of blood, but I suspected the worst was yet to come.
As I approached the bedroom, I smelled it. Vaguely like the smell I associated with keys as a child, blood was everywhere. His face was pretty much open from nose to earlobe, with appropriate amounts of blood splattered all over the wall above the desk. It was the kind of slash that was used like a baseball bat, and it splotched in a red mess all over the paint. The guy was handsome enough, if not a little pale, and didn't seem like he had a lot to say after the gash got him on the cheek. Judging from the way the blood pooled around him, and the gash on his arm, he got a few little cuts before he'd had his cheek opened up. It flapped a little when the air conditioner turned on, and I almost retched.
I turned, looking around the room. There were flower petals in the trashcan, almost as if the guy had scattered them around the room, and then decided against it. I ruffled through them with my gloved hands, and noticed a flower bouquet devoid of petals at the bottom of the trash. That confirmed it. The area around the body was also showered in petals, though these were violently slashed open. The shredded bouquet in his hand confirmed my suspicions.
The detective at the scene handed me a note, and asked me what I thought of it. Pretty typical of these types of things, an apology, and a trip to Mexico. Romantic getaway, I mused. Though I wasn't sure what to make of that.
The placement of the gash on the face and the fact that the bouquet was just as much a target as his face proved some pretty clear rage against the guy. I found myself suspecting the girl, Sarah. The logistics of the case were read off to me by some clerk. Guy was named Mark, and was moving out of country bright and early the next morning. In a few hours, oddly enough. He was currently between court cases, and was apparently capitalizing on the opportunity to accidentally end up across federal borders. Pretty slick, and the overseas back account would make for pretty nice digs. Apparently he had bailed lease, too, which mean he ran out on his girlfriend, Sarah.
Apparently, he was found by the very same girl. She showed no signs of a struggle, didn't have a knife or gloves anywhere on her person, and no one had even been in the kitchen in what must've been months. Still, Sarah seemed like the most likely suspect. The guy handed her an opportunity, shoved some ice-cold motive down her shirt, and rubbed it in by offering to rescind it by making her abandoning the remains of her life and trust his already-proven treachery in a foreign country.
I turned back to look at the guy, face sheeted in blood with a bit of artery swinging airily with the air conditioning. The flowers, and the blood all over the letter, seemed to suggest where he could shove his apology. Vendetta killings were often the most nasty, when people turn off their "don't rip this simpleton to shreds" senses and engage in something altogether more visceral. From the amount of blood around the waist, the back was a scratch. No more then bumping into a table, assuming the table is knife-sharp and you jostle it pretty good. The arm looked worse, almost like someone had run into him with a knife while jogging. The face was a pretty clear message, and it looked like the guy nearly lost his head in the confrontation. Every hit had more certainty to it. Resignation makes the blows look weaker, but this one got stronger as each blow lead to something more, something new.
Mark got cut suddenly, go gashed angrily, and got all 3 inches of vengeance buried into the side of his face. He died hard, and that kinda death doesn't come from cold professionals. Mark got a knife to his pretty little face, and he ended up just as cheeky in death as he probably was in life.
I turned away from the scene, and needed to go back to the station to fill out my report. Flakes of snow flurried to the ground, melting on contact with the now-wet concrete. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...
The first thing I noticed about the house was the smell. Not of copper, like I'm used to murders like these smelling, but perfume. I'm told a man was the victim, found by his on-again, off-again girlfriend. Perhaps a date, or maybe a marriage proposal. Whatever the case, something didn't seem right. The carpet and wallpaper was flecked with droplets of blood, but I suspected the worst was yet to come.
As I approached the bedroom, I smelled it. Vaguely like the smell I associated with keys as a child, blood was everywhere. His face was pretty much open from nose to earlobe, with appropriate amounts of blood splattered all over the wall above the desk. It was the kind of slash that was used like a baseball bat, and it splotched in a red mess all over the paint. The guy was handsome enough, if not a little pale, and didn't seem like he had a lot to say after the gash got him on the cheek. Judging from the way the blood pooled around him, and the gash on his arm, he got a few little cuts before he'd had his cheek opened up. It flapped a little when the air conditioner turned on, and I almost retched.
I turned, looking around the room. There were flower petals in the trashcan, almost as if the guy had scattered them around the room, and then decided against it. I ruffled through them with my gloved hands, and noticed a flower bouquet devoid of petals at the bottom of the trash. That confirmed it. The area around the body was also showered in petals, though these were violently slashed open. The shredded bouquet in his hand confirmed my suspicions.
The detective at the scene handed me a note, and asked me what I thought of it. Pretty typical of these types of things, an apology, and a trip to Mexico. Romantic getaway, I mused. Though I wasn't sure what to make of that.
The placement of the gash on the face and the fact that the bouquet was just as much a target as his face proved some pretty clear rage against the guy. I found myself suspecting the girl, Sarah. The logistics of the case were read off to me by some clerk. Guy was named Mark, and was moving out of country bright and early the next morning. In a few hours, oddly enough. He was currently between court cases, and was apparently capitalizing on the opportunity to accidentally end up across federal borders. Pretty slick, and the overseas back account would make for pretty nice digs. Apparently he had bailed lease, too, which mean he ran out on his girlfriend, Sarah.
Apparently, he was found by the very same girl. She showed no signs of a struggle, didn't have a knife or gloves anywhere on her person, and no one had even been in the kitchen in what must've been months. Still, Sarah seemed like the most likely suspect. The guy handed her an opportunity, shoved some ice-cold motive down her shirt, and rubbed it in by offering to rescind it by making her abandoning the remains of her life and trust his already-proven treachery in a foreign country.
I turned back to look at the guy, face sheeted in blood with a bit of artery swinging airily with the air conditioning. The flowers, and the blood all over the letter, seemed to suggest where he could shove his apology. Vendetta killings were often the most nasty, when people turn off their "don't rip this simpleton to shreds" senses and engage in something altogether more visceral. From the amount of blood around the waist, the back was a scratch. No more then bumping into a table, assuming the table is knife-sharp and you jostle it pretty good. The arm looked worse, almost like someone had run into him with a knife while jogging. The face was a pretty clear message, and it looked like the guy nearly lost his head in the confrontation. Every hit had more certainty to it. Resignation makes the blows look weaker, but this one got stronger as each blow lead to something more, something new.
Mark got cut suddenly, go gashed angrily, and got all 3 inches of vengeance buried into the side of his face. He died hard, and that kinda death doesn't come from cold professionals. Mark got a knife to his pretty little face, and he ended up just as cheeky in death as he probably was in life.
I turned away from the scene, and needed to go back to the station to fill out my report. Flakes of snow flurried to the ground, melting on contact with the now-wet concrete. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...
As I pulled to the side of the street, my sirens now turned off, I just sat there, taking deep breaths. My counselor had sworn to Deep Breathing like it was some sort of fucking miracle cure. "Just suck up all the frustration, and blow it all away!" she had told me, her massive frame of a body jiggling the bright little name-tag that declared to the world in bright pink "Hi! My Name is LUCY!"
I stepped out of my cruiser and quickly made my way to the house. If Doreen saw it was me going into the house to investigate,Christ, I'd never be able to get to sleep from her incessant squawking. I remember when I was investigating our neighbors break in. She kept me up till 1, asking me how their house was decorated. Then she said we needed to buy some new damn curtains! I could only shake my head, glad that at least she can see the world as something more then just another shit-hole waiting for the next meteorite.
I passed a few of my mates as I walked up the porch. I was used to getting quiet greetings from them, but now they barely looked at me. They did their jobs with mechanical precision, which only made me more nervous about this. When this guys start doing their job without fucking around, you know some bad shit has been happening.
As I walked into the house, I couldn't suppress a shudder. The plain tan wallpaper, the perfectly scrubbed floors, the 90 degree pictures wonderfully taken...it was to damn weird. Everything about this guy seemed so fake.
When Doreen dragged me to the BBQ, they had all their drinks and food laid out like they used a ruler. Then when I asked the husband of the couple, Bert, where the beer was, the guy looked at me with his gray eyes and robotic little smile. "I'm sorry, we don't partake in that sort of vulgar practice." I left within half-an-hour because I swear that freak was watching me, just waiting to call me out on anymore of my "vulgar practices."
As I passed the kitchen, I saw him sitting their, talking to one of the detectives. His eyes were blood shot and you could see the trails of dried up tears on his face, giving his side of the story. I didn't even bother listening in, but went straight upstairs to the murder scene.
I thought of mentally preparing myself for what I was about to see, but there were a few mooks standing by the door. Screw it, I've seen plenty of messed up shit when I worked in the cities.
Walking in the bed-room, I really wished I had prepared myself. It really took all of my will-power to prevent myself from screaming with rage when I saw her. Her eyes wide in terror, her light white gown soaked with blood, spilling onto her bed. The lights played of her blond hair, spread across the pillow, turning it into a bright halo.
I quickly turned to one of the detectives, demanding to know what happened. They told me that, as far as they can tell, it was a clean kill: a swift stab to the chest while she was held down. And the husband? He was on one of his nightly walks, saying he discovered the body when he got home.
Except the thing was, Doreen had been telling me about the wife, that apparently she wasn't happy with she had in bed....
As I went down the stairs, I saw the boys taking Bert away. No hand-cuffs, so he hasn't been accused yet. Maybe I was too hasty, there are some sick fucks in this world...
Before they took him out, I stopped Bert. "Hey man, um...sorry about your wife" I said, my voice coming out gruff as they tried to use unaccustomed sincerity.
He turned to look at me, and I saw his dead gray eyes, showing no emotion, no remorse, no fucking anything, and said "It's a horrible thing, but at least she's in a better place."
Says a guy who seems to think of God as another myth? I thought, watching the detectives take him to their squad car.
So, Mr.Perfect, you found that you weren't that perfect to your wife? Found that maybe life wasn't that neat and orderly, but thought "What the hey, nothing I can do about it!"?
"Bull-fucking-shit." I mummbled, before my sarge sent me off to finish off some grunt work.
How much breaths should I take now, Lucy?
I stepped out of my cruiser and quickly made my way to the house. If Doreen saw it was me going into the house to investigate,Christ, I'd never be able to get to sleep from her incessant squawking. I remember when I was investigating our neighbors break in. She kept me up till 1, asking me how their house was decorated. Then she said we needed to buy some new damn curtains! I could only shake my head, glad that at least she can see the world as something more then just another shit-hole waiting for the next meteorite.
I passed a few of my mates as I walked up the porch. I was used to getting quiet greetings from them, but now they barely looked at me. They did their jobs with mechanical precision, which only made me more nervous about this. When this guys start doing their job without fucking around, you know some bad shit has been happening.
As I walked into the house, I couldn't suppress a shudder. The plain tan wallpaper, the perfectly scrubbed floors, the 90 degree pictures wonderfully taken...it was to damn weird. Everything about this guy seemed so fake.
When Doreen dragged me to the BBQ, they had all their drinks and food laid out like they used a ruler. Then when I asked the husband of the couple, Bert, where the beer was, the guy looked at me with his gray eyes and robotic little smile. "I'm sorry, we don't partake in that sort of vulgar practice." I left within half-an-hour because I swear that freak was watching me, just waiting to call me out on anymore of my "vulgar practices."
As I passed the kitchen, I saw him sitting their, talking to one of the detectives. His eyes were blood shot and you could see the trails of dried up tears on his face, giving his side of the story. I didn't even bother listening in, but went straight upstairs to the murder scene.
I thought of mentally preparing myself for what I was about to see, but there were a few mooks standing by the door. Screw it, I've seen plenty of messed up shit when I worked in the cities.
Walking in the bed-room, I really wished I had prepared myself. It really took all of my will-power to prevent myself from screaming with rage when I saw her. Her eyes wide in terror, her light white gown soaked with blood, spilling onto her bed. The lights played of her blond hair, spread across the pillow, turning it into a bright halo.
I quickly turned to one of the detectives, demanding to know what happened. They told me that, as far as they can tell, it was a clean kill: a swift stab to the chest while she was held down. And the husband? He was on one of his nightly walks, saying he discovered the body when he got home.
Except the thing was, Doreen had been telling me about the wife, that apparently she wasn't happy with she had in bed....
As I went down the stairs, I saw the boys taking Bert away. No hand-cuffs, so he hasn't been accused yet. Maybe I was too hasty, there are some sick fucks in this world...
Before they took him out, I stopped Bert. "Hey man, um...sorry about your wife" I said, my voice coming out gruff as they tried to use unaccustomed sincerity.
He turned to look at me, and I saw his dead gray eyes, showing no emotion, no remorse, no fucking anything, and said "It's a horrible thing, but at least she's in a better place."
Says a guy who seems to think of God as another myth? I thought, watching the detectives take him to their squad car.
So, Mr.Perfect, you found that you weren't that perfect to your wife? Found that maybe life wasn't that neat and orderly, but thought "What the hey, nothing I can do about it!"?
"Bull-fucking-shit." I mummbled, before my sarge sent me off to finish off some grunt work.
How much breaths should I take now, Lucy?
Well, here's chapter 2. I thought that this thing was done when I heard NewClassic left, but rumors be damned!
And I'm sorry for the work. I had a spur of inspiration during a dry day at work, so I apologize if it's a bit long. To be honest, I had a several more things I wanted to add, but I tried keeping it all withing 800.
Also, I'm sorry if my cop is a little offensive. I didn't first want him so gruff, but after going for a few paragraphs, I enjoyed him better that way.
Anyway, hope you like!
Really works for the character. You pretty much nailed what the scene was looking for, on a level I hadn't even thought about, much less pursued. Good on you for it.Ramthundar said:
The writing feels a little hectic, jumping from thought to thought rapidly. I can understand it's to keep within the limit, but it makes it feel like everything jolts. The detective has got himself down pretty rock-solid. I'd almost argue he's too emotional, but since you've made it both realistic and within the purpose of the exercise I'd say you hit Chapter 2 dead-on. I can do naught but applaud. (And wait with bated breath for Chapter 3.)
Well, it's good writing and kept me interested enough to read to the end. And for the emotional exercise you did it well with the scene, giving an a good hypothetical answer to the question of the murderer.NewClassic said:
As for your detective...well, I don't know. I really didn't get much from him asides from his thoughts. I couldn't tell if he had no emotions about the murder or if they were just ignored in the narrative. It felt like if you did a third-person view over his shoulder, nothing would be changed except for the "I"s.
Heh, sorry if my reviews a little lame. Luckely, I'm taking an Intro. To Literature class, so I'll be able to review your and other's work with more pizazz.
Wow, very nice I have to say. Not much to do with the exercise, but still good.world_of_dragons said:
Very nice writing style, keeping me interested and lulled with it's quiet reflections. So much, in fact, that it took me till halfway through to notice exactly what it was about (so who was he? I'm guessing Edward).
Chapter 3: Logic
The first thing I learned in detective academy was that things are made by the brain. No matter whose secrets you sold for what reason, or why wives wake up early on Sunday and kill their husbands on the way to church, the brain is the birth place of the crime plot. As I walked into the doorway, I immediately saw the hallway flecked in blood, and the rugs pushed toward the door. Someone had run away from the front door. The killer took a brazen approach. The porch light was even on.
The first room was where crime had ended up. A bedroom, from the looks of things. The victim, a guy named Mark, was apparently getting ready to skip town. Checking his plane ticket, the flight would be headed off in no more than twenty minutes. There was a second one, paid off in the name of Sarah. Sarah, the person who discovered the victim, was now in the kitchen. I saw the flower petals about, and read the note. My detectives would be keen on a romance killing, but something didn't connect. If she had really killed the guy in cold blood, she would've taken her plane ticket and skipped town, cash in tow.
No, there was more to this murder than petty vengeance. Three lacerations, back, arm, and face. The face was the killer, not for the damage, but for the bleeding. The face has some pretty deep pockets, and catching the right spot killed him quite capably. Nasty way to go, bleeding out on your nice carpeting.
I went to the kitchen and had a dialog with the victim's girlfriend. She was an absolute wreck, and stunk of too many nights crying between showers. Her hands and cheeks were streaked with make-up, and I wondered how long it had been since she had showered. Normally unimportant, but she also had no blood on her clothes. I took the rest of the house in.
Two bedroom, two bath, kitchen and living area. Neither of the bathrooms had make-up or products of any kind. The only toothbrush in the house was embossed "Mark," and all the clothing was for the same-sized guy. If the girl had done it, she'd have to have some products there post-shower. She had no signs of struggle, none of the remains of Mark, and all too much of the day-to-day decay appearance brings. Either she had a make-up kit stashed to reapply after killing Mark, or she did it off-site.
I checked with the EMTs, it had only been an hour between the death and when we had arrived. That's hardly enough time to shower and dress, much less arrange your hair only to realistically muss it up again. Forget about the make-up. Sarah was a predictable choice, but she wasn't the right one.
I went back to the bedroom and looked at the victim more closely. No signs of struggle, no bloodied knuckles or bruising indicating a struggle. Each hit was uncontested, and the guy died running away. This murder didn't sit right with me. We needed more suspects. I went to the neighbor's house and knocked on the door.
Time to build the suspect pool a little bit.
The first thing I learned in detective academy was that things are made by the brain. No matter whose secrets you sold for what reason, or why wives wake up early on Sunday and kill their husbands on the way to church, the brain is the birth place of the crime plot. As I walked into the doorway, I immediately saw the hallway flecked in blood, and the rugs pushed toward the door. Someone had run away from the front door. The killer took a brazen approach. The porch light was even on.
The first room was where crime had ended up. A bedroom, from the looks of things. The victim, a guy named Mark, was apparently getting ready to skip town. Checking his plane ticket, the flight would be headed off in no more than twenty minutes. There was a second one, paid off in the name of Sarah. Sarah, the person who discovered the victim, was now in the kitchen. I saw the flower petals about, and read the note. My detectives would be keen on a romance killing, but something didn't connect. If she had really killed the guy in cold blood, she would've taken her plane ticket and skipped town, cash in tow.
No, there was more to this murder than petty vengeance. Three lacerations, back, arm, and face. The face was the killer, not for the damage, but for the bleeding. The face has some pretty deep pockets, and catching the right spot killed him quite capably. Nasty way to go, bleeding out on your nice carpeting.
I went to the kitchen and had a dialog with the victim's girlfriend. She was an absolute wreck, and stunk of too many nights crying between showers. Her hands and cheeks were streaked with make-up, and I wondered how long it had been since she had showered. Normally unimportant, but she also had no blood on her clothes. I took the rest of the house in.
Two bedroom, two bath, kitchen and living area. Neither of the bathrooms had make-up or products of any kind. The only toothbrush in the house was embossed "Mark," and all the clothing was for the same-sized guy. If the girl had done it, she'd have to have some products there post-shower. She had no signs of struggle, none of the remains of Mark, and all too much of the day-to-day decay appearance brings. Either she had a make-up kit stashed to reapply after killing Mark, or she did it off-site.
I checked with the EMTs, it had only been an hour between the death and when we had arrived. That's hardly enough time to shower and dress, much less arrange your hair only to realistically muss it up again. Forget about the make-up. Sarah was a predictable choice, but she wasn't the right one.
I went back to the bedroom and looked at the victim more closely. No signs of struggle, no bloodied knuckles or bruising indicating a struggle. Each hit was uncontested, and the guy died running away. This murder didn't sit right with me. We needed more suspects. I went to the neighbor's house and knocked on the door.
Time to build the suspect pool a little bit.
A bit short, but I didn't want to dip into the fifth chapter too terribly much. As usual, I'd love to get some more comments spewing about, and a few more takers, too.
Thanks Ram. This was for an EENE fanfiction I've been planning where the Eds come back from learning martial arts to find Peach Creek has changed. At the time I'd been having difficulty writing for the next chapter, so I came up with this lil' thing. And yeah it is EddwardRamthundar said:Wow, very nice I have to say. Not much to do with the exercise, but still good.world_of_dragons said:
Very nice writing style, keeping me interested and lulled with it's quiet reflections. So much, in fact, that it took me till halfway through to notice exactly what it was about (so who was he? I'm guessing Edward).
Eh, I'm sleep deprived and feel like doing something weird.
Commentary as always is definitely appreciated. I really don't know what inspired this peice or if the concept even works so anything you have to say would be awesome.
I'm going to bed.
Lilac in air. Sun is setting. I see him. He doesn?t belong. He holds gun and gun brings pain and makes family leave. I have less family now. I am more alone.
Gun is on shoulder, he is on knee, he takes water from lake. Silly white man. Crocodile floats next to him. Dangerous to drink. He is like his family, hurt in eyes. Doesn?t notice big things. Wants big things, but cannot see them. Does not see crocodile. Does not see red and yellow sky. Does not see ant-home under knee. Wants mountain. Wants forest. Him and his family, they take mountain. They take forest. Build large stone squares and make my family leave. His guns make me more alone.
He jumps. Ants on knee, they keep home safe. He shouts ?FUCK! OW! Fuckers. OW! Get the hell off me!? He takes off pants, throws in lake. Crocodile snaps. He jumps and scurries like field mouse. His family does not belong here. His family moves wrong. Lifts leg and puts down leg and leg slides on mud next to lake. He falls. Shouts ?Fuck!? Stands. Why did his family come here? They don?t belong here. They move wrong and their eyes are hurt and can?t see big things and they make my family leave.
He walks. I am near him and he doesn?t see me. I smell lilac. He hears my footstep. Puts eyes on forest. ?Whose there? Are you an Injin? Stay the fuck back!? He holds gun. I fear gun. My family is here and I don?t want them to be more alone.
Loud noise. Twice. The bad air flies over my head and I am still alive. He shouts ?I heard something goddammit. Listen here Injin if you know what?s good for you you?ll move your ass over to the reservation. Its safer for you. I killed three of your kind to get this land and god knows how many mountain lions and I ain?t giving it up.? Loud noise. How can he talk of making my family leave? He didn?t know their names. He has no right!
Loud noise. ?You hear me Injin? You got ten seconds to start running.? I can?t smell lilac now. Ears hurt. Heart hurts. Bad black smoke from gun burns nose and eyes. Indignity.
?Ten! Nine! Eight! Sev-ARGH!!!?
Ants keep home safe. I keep home safe. Brace back legs and jump and I taste his neck blood. Paws hit shoulders, carry him down. Claws rip muscle. I take his throat.
The gun-man is gone, hurt eyes see nothing big or small. I clean whiskers, lick paws. I don?t drink water, crocodile is still there, still dangerous.
I can?t purr, other gun-men could be near. But I am happy. They hunt us. They make us leave our home and they make us leave each other. Now his family will be more alone. They will know how it hurts. I leave, I go somewhere that is not home. My cubs play and when they see me they know I have no food for them. The gun men are not food. The gun-men are vile.
I lick my cubs clean and lay my head to sleep. They lay by my warmth. The place we sleep is cold. We are all hungry. I dream of days before the gun-men when I was just a cub.
I think those days are gone.
Gun is on shoulder, he is on knee, he takes water from lake. Silly white man. Crocodile floats next to him. Dangerous to drink. He is like his family, hurt in eyes. Doesn?t notice big things. Wants big things, but cannot see them. Does not see crocodile. Does not see red and yellow sky. Does not see ant-home under knee. Wants mountain. Wants forest. Him and his family, they take mountain. They take forest. Build large stone squares and make my family leave. His guns make me more alone.
He jumps. Ants on knee, they keep home safe. He shouts ?FUCK! OW! Fuckers. OW! Get the hell off me!? He takes off pants, throws in lake. Crocodile snaps. He jumps and scurries like field mouse. His family does not belong here. His family moves wrong. Lifts leg and puts down leg and leg slides on mud next to lake. He falls. Shouts ?Fuck!? Stands. Why did his family come here? They don?t belong here. They move wrong and their eyes are hurt and can?t see big things and they make my family leave.
He walks. I am near him and he doesn?t see me. I smell lilac. He hears my footstep. Puts eyes on forest. ?Whose there? Are you an Injin? Stay the fuck back!? He holds gun. I fear gun. My family is here and I don?t want them to be more alone.
Loud noise. Twice. The bad air flies over my head and I am still alive. He shouts ?I heard something goddammit. Listen here Injin if you know what?s good for you you?ll move your ass over to the reservation. Its safer for you. I killed three of your kind to get this land and god knows how many mountain lions and I ain?t giving it up.? Loud noise. How can he talk of making my family leave? He didn?t know their names. He has no right!
Loud noise. ?You hear me Injin? You got ten seconds to start running.? I can?t smell lilac now. Ears hurt. Heart hurts. Bad black smoke from gun burns nose and eyes. Indignity.
?Ten! Nine! Eight! Sev-ARGH!!!?
Ants keep home safe. I keep home safe. Brace back legs and jump and I taste his neck blood. Paws hit shoulders, carry him down. Claws rip muscle. I take his throat.
The gun-man is gone, hurt eyes see nothing big or small. I clean whiskers, lick paws. I don?t drink water, crocodile is still there, still dangerous.
I can?t purr, other gun-men could be near. But I am happy. They hunt us. They make us leave our home and they make us leave each other. Now his family will be more alone. They will know how it hurts. I leave, I go somewhere that is not home. My cubs play and when they see me they know I have no food for them. The gun men are not food. The gun-men are vile.
I lick my cubs clean and lay my head to sleep. They lay by my warmth. The place we sleep is cold. We are all hungry. I dream of days before the gun-men when I was just a cub.
I think those days are gone.
Commentary as always is definitely appreciated. I really don't know what inspired this peice or if the concept even works so anything you have to say would be awesome.
I'm going to bed.
Yes.Flying-Emu said:
I love the idea, and the execution, but I'm not sure how it would work out for the later chapters. Written well, and sets the scene. Not much to say now, looking forward to the next few submissions on your end. Good luck, and I'm stoked.Khedive Rex said:
I'm somewhat slow to the party, and drunk but oh well, being drunk means I struggle to put any human emotion into my murderer:
"This has been a long time coming." I tell him as casually as one can in this situation "The hard part won't be killing you, Fields; the hard part was waiting until I got you alone, away from those hired thugs of yours-."
The wind hits me like a sudden realisation, snapping me back into awareness of my surroundings. I glance over my shoulder at the dimly lit door behind me, still and silent as the night was until now. I relax again and look down at this dreadful excuse for a man, clinging to life by a thread that I hold without much value.
"You don't have to do this Jack!" he pleads, his fleshy cheeks wobbling in the moonlight. He is so pathetic it is almost disgusting to watch.
"Don't you be telling me what not to do boy, just keep your hands up there like that and your lips tight, so I can make this quick for you."
"But I'm too young. There... There is so much-"
"What's wrong lad? Feel like you haven't made enough of an impact on the world yet? Trust me you've done enough to get a place in hell with the rest of them, front and centre. After tonight I'm certain you'll have made your mark on the earth, I'll make sure of it, but I'm sure you'll be yesterday's news by midday, just like the rest of us."
I'm taking too long with this and I know it. I'm not normally one for procrastination or even enjoying this, a job is a job, but this fellow has been particularly nasty. They won't call me a saint any time soon for what I've done, but I'm ending this on my terms, and I'm going to try my best to clear my conscience before I do.
"Tell me something Fields, did you feel anything when you condemned those people to death or were they just numbers?" I ask him, more sincere than I intended.
"I was... following orders." He begins, looking up at me "Yes, yes! I fucking felt something. I felt like shit, is that what you want to hear? I did it because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't."
Fields tells a familiar story, I hold my finger up to my lips to silence him. I wish I could tell him how alike we are, but it is passed that point and I'm paying my dues, he wasn't, so I'd have to make him and I knew his bodyguards were looking for him.
"Time is of the essence, and we have something to share." My tone is flat. I am beyond caring now, this is the final scene in this travesty of a life. A rabid dog gets put down; one less child feels his bite. I take a step back from the edge.
The fat mans fingers were strained tight like old piano wires ready to play their last sad note before breaking; numb and bloodless now, tired and failing, they begin to slide across the smooth faux marble edge without my boots to anchor them. He doesn't scream, he simply takes a deep breath and sighs before slipping backwards. He holds my gaze as he falls, those big brown eyes asking silently how he got to this point. He only gets the same from me, and I watch his limbs flail peacefully in some farce of a Danse Macabre.
I don't hear the impact from thirty seven stories up, but then my hearing is fading with age. I light up a cigarette; ash has never tasted sweeter. Five breaths later I am running to the other side of the roof, I throw away the butt before the ground disappears beneath me, heaven forbid I start a fire down on the street. I am falling now, and I feel almost pleasant for once as the rush of wind grows around me. I just have time to realise I left the kettle on before I give the ground a hug.
The wind hits me like a sudden realisation, snapping me back into awareness of my surroundings. I glance over my shoulder at the dimly lit door behind me, still and silent as the night was until now. I relax again and look down at this dreadful excuse for a man, clinging to life by a thread that I hold without much value.
"You don't have to do this Jack!" he pleads, his fleshy cheeks wobbling in the moonlight. He is so pathetic it is almost disgusting to watch.
"Don't you be telling me what not to do boy, just keep your hands up there like that and your lips tight, so I can make this quick for you."
"But I'm too young. There... There is so much-"
"What's wrong lad? Feel like you haven't made enough of an impact on the world yet? Trust me you've done enough to get a place in hell with the rest of them, front and centre. After tonight I'm certain you'll have made your mark on the earth, I'll make sure of it, but I'm sure you'll be yesterday's news by midday, just like the rest of us."
I'm taking too long with this and I know it. I'm not normally one for procrastination or even enjoying this, a job is a job, but this fellow has been particularly nasty. They won't call me a saint any time soon for what I've done, but I'm ending this on my terms, and I'm going to try my best to clear my conscience before I do.
"Tell me something Fields, did you feel anything when you condemned those people to death or were they just numbers?" I ask him, more sincere than I intended.
"I was... following orders." He begins, looking up at me "Yes, yes! I fucking felt something. I felt like shit, is that what you want to hear? I did it because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't."
Fields tells a familiar story, I hold my finger up to my lips to silence him. I wish I could tell him how alike we are, but it is passed that point and I'm paying my dues, he wasn't, so I'd have to make him and I knew his bodyguards were looking for him.
"Time is of the essence, and we have something to share." My tone is flat. I am beyond caring now, this is the final scene in this travesty of a life. A rabid dog gets put down; one less child feels his bite. I take a step back from the edge.
The fat mans fingers were strained tight like old piano wires ready to play their last sad note before breaking; numb and bloodless now, tired and failing, they begin to slide across the smooth faux marble edge without my boots to anchor them. He doesn't scream, he simply takes a deep breath and sighs before slipping backwards. He holds my gaze as he falls, those big brown eyes asking silently how he got to this point. He only gets the same from me, and I watch his limbs flail peacefully in some farce of a Danse Macabre.
I don't hear the impact from thirty seven stories up, but then my hearing is fading with age. I light up a cigarette; ash has never tasted sweeter. Five breaths later I am running to the other side of the roof, I throw away the butt before the ground disappears beneath me, heaven forbid I start a fire down on the street. I am falling now, and I feel almost pleasant for once as the rush of wind grows around me. I just have time to realise I left the kettle on before I give the ground a hug.