Monday, September 20, 2010
Song Breakdown - "In My Head" by Jason Derulo
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Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Short Story Writing - Becoming Active (1st Draft)
Becoming Active
“C’mon, my grandma hops fences faster than you.”
“Hey man these things take time alright.”
“Just hurry up fool. I don’t like being here.”
With one final swing of my leg, I was over the cement wall. I tried doing one of those graceful landings but it didn’t work out like I wanted it to. I ended up with a handful of grass, but as I stood up and wiped my hands on my pants, I finally got a chance to see what we were up against. It was one of those new autumn nights that still felt like summer, and the moon only somewhat lit up the sky, so I was only barely able to see the endless silhouettes lined in front of me.
“Man, there’s no way we’re going to be able to find it,” I said out loud. Rows and rows of gravestones were standing in front of me, barely visible under the moonlight.
“Yeah, I think we should just go back. This ain’t cool man. We didn’t even bring a flashlight.” Tyler said as he shivered in the night. He was furiously rubbing his arms, trying to warm them up. I felt a little bad for him, but his fault for not bringing a sweater right?
“Nah don’t think like that. And we didn’t bring a flashlight cause it’d only attract attention. So don’t worry. We’ll find it in no time yo.” Daryl was standing with his back facing me, surveying the area just like I was. He was being over-confident, but it was his fault we were here anyways so I guess its only natural he’d feel that way. You see, nobody else in our pledge class is doing what we’re doing right now. They’re all ready and done with all their requirements. Us on the other hand, we’ve got this little added on bonus to the things we gotta do. You see, we’re on a mission. To go into the cemetery, find the inscription on our founding member’s tombstone, and make it back out, all without being caught. This was the last step to our pledging process. After this, we’re going to become active brothers of the fraternity. We’re finally going to get to wear our letters, have access to all those crazy parties you only see in movies, and of course, get in with those cutie sorority girls. All we had to do was get the inscription and make it back to the actives waiting at the school.
The reason why we were on this completely random mission was because my pledge bro Daryl here, had gotten caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Long story short, we were all busy partying it up for some random person’s birthday, and Daryl drank a smidge past his limit. He ended up making an ass of himself at the party, but worst of all, he threw up all over the president of the fraternity, who was graciously trying to take care of one of the pledges. Naturally, he got mad, and after almost beating him up a few times, he gave Daryl the task of finding the inscription on the tombstone. Originally, it was only supposed to be Daryl going into the cemetery to find the inscription, but after the president calmed down, he decided that going into a cemetery alone at night might be a little too mean. Also, there’s such a thing as risk management, so he didn’t want to risk him getting hurt or driven to madness by being left alone in a cemetery. So he decided to let Daryl choose two of his pledge bros to bring into the cemetery with him. Daryl choose Tyler because those two are like best friends and they got that whole bromance thing going on, and he choose me because I was the president of the pledge class and he was all like “C’mon Trev, you gotta step up for me man. You’re president so take one for the team aight?” Great right, because being president means sneaking into cemeteries at night. S’all good though cause he is my pledge bro after all, and that means a lot in our fraternity.
We just stood there for a little bit, with nothing but Tyler’s teeth clattering for noise, until Daryl started walking off on his own.
“Hey Daryl, do you even know where to start looking?” Not that I wanted to stay in that spot forever, but I wanted at least a clue on where we were going.
“Yee the actives told me that the inscription was on one of the tombstones inside the building with a giant cross on top of it. They also told me that its on Frank Bartle’s tombstone, so we gotta find that one.”
Those little bits of information were new to me. The name of the person’s tombstone we were looking for wasn’t really surprising. We had learned about that guy during the history lessons. Going inside a building for the inscription was a bit worrysome to me though.
“Wait, so we gotta actually go inside one of those mausoleums?” That whole thing really wasn’t flying with me. Not that I’m super scared of dead bodies or anything like that, but I’ve never been in one of those things and I really don’t want to be in one.
“Yeah man. Don’t worry about it though. It’ll only take like a quick second.” He had turned around now and was staring at both of us, as if the sight of his face would apparently instill confidence in us.
“Naw man, I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t wanna go in one of those things.” Tyler was wide-eyed. He had that tone in his voice where you could tell he’d be screaming right now if the setting wasn’t forcing him to be quiet.
“C’mon man just do it. It’ll be quick.”
“Naw fuck that, I’m going home.”
“Dude quit being a bitch and just do it.”
“No, no, you didn’t tell me we’d be going inside one of those things. You know I’m scared of ghosts man. Being here is already bad enough.”
“Man ain’t no such thing as ghosts. C’mon it’ll be fast.”
“I really don’t wanna do it though.”
“C’mon you’re my pledge bro. You want me to cross right? Do it for me.”
“Ughh fine. It better be fast though. I don’t wanna be making friends with the dead in there.”
“Fosho fosho. Lets do this.”
I just stood there watching this little argument unfold, all while thinking “yep, bromance.” I understood where Tyler was coming from though. Not that I believe in ghosts or anything, but I didn’t wanna risk anything happening. I mean, there’s hella ghost stories are out there so at least one of em has to be true right? We started walking again though, heading towards the one smaller building off in the distance that we all kind of figured was the mausoleum. It wasn’t long though till Daryl started messing around and going “wooooooo I’m a ghost!” and waving his arms in front of Tyler. Daryl got a good laugh out of this till Tyler once again threatened to go back home and then they went through that whole argument again.
It was ridiculous walking through the cemetery with barely any light to guide our way. It was hard enough trying to avoid stepping on the tombstones that were embedded into the ground. It was funny watching Tyler step on them though. Every time he’d step on one, he let out a small gasp, cross himself, and quickly walk away. I thought that guy was an atheist also, but oh well. We were tripping over all the flowers that were left on top of the graves too. The cemetery would have been pretty colorful if not for the absence of light, cause it seemed like there wasn’t a grave without some kind of flower on top of it. I always thought it was kind of weird to leave flowers on a grave anyways. I always thought flowers were a sign of life, and we’re leaving them on top of dead peoples graves? Feels kind of messed up to me.
As we got closer to the mausoleum, it felt like it got colder and colder. I don’t know if its cause the night was still growing or if I was just scared, but even I started shivering along with Tyler. Daryl was leading the pack, walking with that swag like he didn’t care where he was at the moment. I don’t know if it was all just an act, but he was doing a damn good job at keeping his cool, unlike me and Tyler. I was trying to keep myself distracted from thinking about all the worst case scenarios, so I started looking at some of the names and dates on the tombstones. I felt bad for Tyler cause the guy seemed like he’d already gone through every worst case scenario at least twice in his mind, so I broke the silence to help him take his mind off things.
“Man look at some of the dates on these graves. These people have been dead for hella long now. Look at this one. He died in 1917. That’s like ancient. I wonder what these guys did when they were alive.”
“Why don’t you start digging and ask them then?” Daryl wasn’t really the one I was talking to but hopefully our conversation would distract Tyler a bit, at least till we got to the mausoleum.
“Man, I’m just saying though. Look, he even has flowers on his grave. He probably still has family alive somewhere. Don’t you think that’s kinda cool?”
“Yo there’s flowers on every grave. I bet you nobody’s been to visit these graves in hella long. The people that work here probably put them on every grave so none of them look bad.” To prove his point, Daryl went and intentionally stepped on the small bouquet of flowers that was closest to him. I could hear the poor flowers squish underneath his shoe. Tyler didn’t take to kindly to any of this.
“Man what are you doing?! You’re disrespecting the graves!”
“It don’t matter. Not like these were put here by any loved ones anyways.”
“You don’t know that! Man c’mon, I’ve seen scary movies that start like this.”
“Yeah, well I’ve seen scary movies that start out with the main character waking up in the morning. Do you see me scared of waking up? Naw, so quit trippin.”
By this time, we’d made it pretty close to the mausoleum. We were finally able to see them cross on top of it, and it was a lot smaller than I expected. From Daryl’s description, I was expecting one of those huge crosses with Jesus all laid out on it, but instead it was just one of those foot long things that didn’t look special at all to me. The mausoleum itself wasn’t all that impressive either. It looked like a bigger, glorified version of a doghouse. There weren’t any windows at all, and the only doorway was a small cut out section of the cement. The only thing marking the mausoleum was a small, engraved metal sign hung next to the doorway that said “Bartle.” We all figured we were at the right place, but nobody made a move into the mausoleum. We all stood there for a second, looking in the dark doorway, hoping that someone else would volunteer to lead the way. Finally, Daryl broke the silence.
“Alright guys, lets go in and do this.”
“Hell no. You see how dark it is in there? You really think I’m going in?” Tyler wasn’t having any of it. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet anymore.
“Hey shut up. Being hella loud. And don’t worry about it being dark. I got my lighter so I’ll use it once we’re inside.”
“No alright. Why don’t you just go in by yourself? It’s your fault we’re here in the first place.”
“Naw man we stick together as a team. We came here as one, and we’re gonna go in as one. C’mon man, do this for me.”
“No man, it ain’t my fault you bitched out at the party and threw up on the president.” These guys were starting to get loud, and from what Tyler just said, I knew it was about to get louder. Daryl didn’t like talking about that night, because he felt he had a certain reputation to uphold. Before that incident, he used to brag about being able to hold his liquor and that he was one of those “I’m the life of the party” kind of people. Ever since that night, he’d been real touchy when it came to discussing parties in general, much less what he did that very night.
“Hey fuck you. First of all, you were supposed to take care of me, and you didn’t do that. Too busy talking to those girls to help your bro out. No, no, don’t tell me to calm down. You wanna talk about it, we’re gonna talk about it. You were the one pouring me hella shots also. This is your fault also so don’t bitch out on me at the last second.” Daryl was almost screaming at this point. Tyler wasn’t helping the situation at all. I couldn’t even get a word in with these guys going back and forth. A quick flash of light shut us all up real fast though. We all simultaneously looked towards the light and we could see it moving far off in the distance.
“What’s that?” Tyler whispered.
“It’s someone with a flashlight, and hes walking over here I think.” I said.
“Alright come on go in we gotta hide.” Daryl was behind us, trying to push us into the mausoleum.
“Wait no lets just run.” I could hear Tyler’s shoes scraping on the grass as he tried to push back against Daryl.
“No they’ll see us. Just get in!” With one final push, we all found ourselves surrounded in darkness.
“Ok just breathe guys.” Daryl was trying to calm us down.
“Light your lighter. Light your lighter!” Tyler whispered frantically.
“Naw, they’ll see the light.” I was staring out the doorway at the small speck of light that was moving in our direction. I kept on hoping that it would suddenly veer away from us, but it never did. Instead, it just kept on growing bigger and bigger. We all stood in the mausoleum, peering out of the doorway and trying to breathe as silently as possible. We watched as the speck of light turned into a moving spotlight, and then finally into a shadow carrying a flash light. It got to the point where we thought the person was going to come into the mausoleum, but after scanning the light around for a little bit, they turned and went the other direction. We all breathed little sighs of relief as we saw the light fade away into the distance. We waited until we were sure it was absolutely gone until we dared to speak again.
“Alright, lets do this and get the hell outta here. I’m gonna light my lighter alright.” We heard a few clicks and saw sparks fly, and all of a sudden the room was lit. The inside of the mausoleum shocked us all. The walls were lined with what looked like file cabinets. Each one had a name on it and a date, along with a golden colored handle. The floor was black and white tiled, but it felt like we were walking on carpet with all the dust lining the floor. Other than a small opening for air in the ceiling, there weren’t any other openings in the mausoleum.
“Oh my god we’re surrounded by death. Look, they all have handles on them.”
“You ain’t down to open one though.”
“You’re ruining my life Daryl.”
“Haha fine then start looking.” The three of us started scanning each little cabinet, looking for the name we needed.
“I think I found it.” Tyler’s shaky voice felt like a miracle to me. “See look, Frank Bartle. Born 1853 and died 1938.”
We all looked in Tyler’s direction and saw exactly what he saw. The name was right there, printed on the door of the cabinet in large golden letters.
“Do you see an inscription?” I asked.
“Its small. Daryl, shine the light right here. It says ‘The end of an adventure is never more important than how you get there.’”
“Deep stuff. Alright got it memorized? Now let’s get out of here.” Daryl flicked off his lighter and walked towards the doorway. “There’s nobody out here. Let’s go.”
We ran for it. We didn’t care how loud we were or who’s graves we were stomping all over. We made it back to the cement wall in no time, and we all hopped over onto the sidewalk below. Good thing it was in the middle of the night because we didn’t even look both ways when crossing the street to get to the parking lot where our car was parked. We all took a second to catch our breath inside the car before we all started smiling and poking fun at each other.
“Tyler you act just like a girl.”
“Pshh whatever. Least I didn’t throw up on the pres.”
“Hey don’t start that again.”
Daryl smiled one last time and began driving towards school.
“Y’all ain’t down to party tonight though.”
----
1st draft. Not all too good in my opinion but this was the easiest story ever for me to write. To be honest, I got tired of writing those stories with meaning behind every word and I just wanted to have a little fun so this is what arose. Hope you enjoy and any constructive criticism is appreciated.
“C’mon, my grandma hops fences faster than you.”
“Hey man these things take time alright.”
“Just hurry up fool. I don’t like being here.”
With one final swing of my leg, I was over the cement wall. I tried doing one of those graceful landings but it didn’t work out like I wanted it to. I ended up with a handful of grass, but as I stood up and wiped my hands on my pants, I finally got a chance to see what we were up against. It was one of those new autumn nights that still felt like summer, and the moon only somewhat lit up the sky, so I was only barely able to see the endless silhouettes lined in front of me.
“Man, there’s no way we’re going to be able to find it,” I said out loud. Rows and rows of gravestones were standing in front of me, barely visible under the moonlight.
“Yeah, I think we should just go back. This ain’t cool man. We didn’t even bring a flashlight.” Tyler said as he shivered in the night. He was furiously rubbing his arms, trying to warm them up. I felt a little bad for him, but his fault for not bringing a sweater right?
“Nah don’t think like that. And we didn’t bring a flashlight cause it’d only attract attention. So don’t worry. We’ll find it in no time yo.” Daryl was standing with his back facing me, surveying the area just like I was. He was being over-confident, but it was his fault we were here anyways so I guess its only natural he’d feel that way. You see, nobody else in our pledge class is doing what we’re doing right now. They’re all ready and done with all their requirements. Us on the other hand, we’ve got this little added on bonus to the things we gotta do. You see, we’re on a mission. To go into the cemetery, find the inscription on our founding member’s tombstone, and make it back out, all without being caught. This was the last step to our pledging process. After this, we’re going to become active brothers of the fraternity. We’re finally going to get to wear our letters, have access to all those crazy parties you only see in movies, and of course, get in with those cutie sorority girls. All we had to do was get the inscription and make it back to the actives waiting at the school.
The reason why we were on this completely random mission was because my pledge bro Daryl here, had gotten caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Long story short, we were all busy partying it up for some random person’s birthday, and Daryl drank a smidge past his limit. He ended up making an ass of himself at the party, but worst of all, he threw up all over the president of the fraternity, who was graciously trying to take care of one of the pledges. Naturally, he got mad, and after almost beating him up a few times, he gave Daryl the task of finding the inscription on the tombstone. Originally, it was only supposed to be Daryl going into the cemetery to find the inscription, but after the president calmed down, he decided that going into a cemetery alone at night might be a little too mean. Also, there’s such a thing as risk management, so he didn’t want to risk him getting hurt or driven to madness by being left alone in a cemetery. So he decided to let Daryl choose two of his pledge bros to bring into the cemetery with him. Daryl choose Tyler because those two are like best friends and they got that whole bromance thing going on, and he choose me because I was the president of the pledge class and he was all like “C’mon Trev, you gotta step up for me man. You’re president so take one for the team aight?” Great right, because being president means sneaking into cemeteries at night. S’all good though cause he is my pledge bro after all, and that means a lot in our fraternity.
We just stood there for a little bit, with nothing but Tyler’s teeth clattering for noise, until Daryl started walking off on his own.
“Hey Daryl, do you even know where to start looking?” Not that I wanted to stay in that spot forever, but I wanted at least a clue on where we were going.
“Yee the actives told me that the inscription was on one of the tombstones inside the building with a giant cross on top of it. They also told me that its on Frank Bartle’s tombstone, so we gotta find that one.”
Those little bits of information were new to me. The name of the person’s tombstone we were looking for wasn’t really surprising. We had learned about that guy during the history lessons. Going inside a building for the inscription was a bit worrysome to me though.
“Wait, so we gotta actually go inside one of those mausoleums?” That whole thing really wasn’t flying with me. Not that I’m super scared of dead bodies or anything like that, but I’ve never been in one of those things and I really don’t want to be in one.
“Yeah man. Don’t worry about it though. It’ll only take like a quick second.” He had turned around now and was staring at both of us, as if the sight of his face would apparently instill confidence in us.
“Naw man, I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t wanna go in one of those things.” Tyler was wide-eyed. He had that tone in his voice where you could tell he’d be screaming right now if the setting wasn’t forcing him to be quiet.
“C’mon man just do it. It’ll be quick.”
“Naw fuck that, I’m going home.”
“Dude quit being a bitch and just do it.”
“No, no, you didn’t tell me we’d be going inside one of those things. You know I’m scared of ghosts man. Being here is already bad enough.”
“Man ain’t no such thing as ghosts. C’mon it’ll be fast.”
“I really don’t wanna do it though.”
“C’mon you’re my pledge bro. You want me to cross right? Do it for me.”
“Ughh fine. It better be fast though. I don’t wanna be making friends with the dead in there.”
“Fosho fosho. Lets do this.”
I just stood there watching this little argument unfold, all while thinking “yep, bromance.” I understood where Tyler was coming from though. Not that I believe in ghosts or anything, but I didn’t wanna risk anything happening. I mean, there’s hella ghost stories are out there so at least one of em has to be true right? We started walking again though, heading towards the one smaller building off in the distance that we all kind of figured was the mausoleum. It wasn’t long though till Daryl started messing around and going “wooooooo I’m a ghost!” and waving his arms in front of Tyler. Daryl got a good laugh out of this till Tyler once again threatened to go back home and then they went through that whole argument again.
It was ridiculous walking through the cemetery with barely any light to guide our way. It was hard enough trying to avoid stepping on the tombstones that were embedded into the ground. It was funny watching Tyler step on them though. Every time he’d step on one, he let out a small gasp, cross himself, and quickly walk away. I thought that guy was an atheist also, but oh well. We were tripping over all the flowers that were left on top of the graves too. The cemetery would have been pretty colorful if not for the absence of light, cause it seemed like there wasn’t a grave without some kind of flower on top of it. I always thought it was kind of weird to leave flowers on a grave anyways. I always thought flowers were a sign of life, and we’re leaving them on top of dead peoples graves? Feels kind of messed up to me.
As we got closer to the mausoleum, it felt like it got colder and colder. I don’t know if its cause the night was still growing or if I was just scared, but even I started shivering along with Tyler. Daryl was leading the pack, walking with that swag like he didn’t care where he was at the moment. I don’t know if it was all just an act, but he was doing a damn good job at keeping his cool, unlike me and Tyler. I was trying to keep myself distracted from thinking about all the worst case scenarios, so I started looking at some of the names and dates on the tombstones. I felt bad for Tyler cause the guy seemed like he’d already gone through every worst case scenario at least twice in his mind, so I broke the silence to help him take his mind off things.
“Man look at some of the dates on these graves. These people have been dead for hella long now. Look at this one. He died in 1917. That’s like ancient. I wonder what these guys did when they were alive.”
“Why don’t you start digging and ask them then?” Daryl wasn’t really the one I was talking to but hopefully our conversation would distract Tyler a bit, at least till we got to the mausoleum.
“Man, I’m just saying though. Look, he even has flowers on his grave. He probably still has family alive somewhere. Don’t you think that’s kinda cool?”
“Yo there’s flowers on every grave. I bet you nobody’s been to visit these graves in hella long. The people that work here probably put them on every grave so none of them look bad.” To prove his point, Daryl went and intentionally stepped on the small bouquet of flowers that was closest to him. I could hear the poor flowers squish underneath his shoe. Tyler didn’t take to kindly to any of this.
“Man what are you doing?! You’re disrespecting the graves!”
“It don’t matter. Not like these were put here by any loved ones anyways.”
“You don’t know that! Man c’mon, I’ve seen scary movies that start like this.”
“Yeah, well I’ve seen scary movies that start out with the main character waking up in the morning. Do you see me scared of waking up? Naw, so quit trippin.”
By this time, we’d made it pretty close to the mausoleum. We were finally able to see them cross on top of it, and it was a lot smaller than I expected. From Daryl’s description, I was expecting one of those huge crosses with Jesus all laid out on it, but instead it was just one of those foot long things that didn’t look special at all to me. The mausoleum itself wasn’t all that impressive either. It looked like a bigger, glorified version of a doghouse. There weren’t any windows at all, and the only doorway was a small cut out section of the cement. The only thing marking the mausoleum was a small, engraved metal sign hung next to the doorway that said “Bartle.” We all figured we were at the right place, but nobody made a move into the mausoleum. We all stood there for a second, looking in the dark doorway, hoping that someone else would volunteer to lead the way. Finally, Daryl broke the silence.
“Alright guys, lets go in and do this.”
“Hell no. You see how dark it is in there? You really think I’m going in?” Tyler wasn’t having any of it. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet anymore.
“Hey shut up. Being hella loud. And don’t worry about it being dark. I got my lighter so I’ll use it once we’re inside.”
“No alright. Why don’t you just go in by yourself? It’s your fault we’re here in the first place.”
“Naw man we stick together as a team. We came here as one, and we’re gonna go in as one. C’mon man, do this for me.”
“No man, it ain’t my fault you bitched out at the party and threw up on the president.” These guys were starting to get loud, and from what Tyler just said, I knew it was about to get louder. Daryl didn’t like talking about that night, because he felt he had a certain reputation to uphold. Before that incident, he used to brag about being able to hold his liquor and that he was one of those “I’m the life of the party” kind of people. Ever since that night, he’d been real touchy when it came to discussing parties in general, much less what he did that very night.
“Hey fuck you. First of all, you were supposed to take care of me, and you didn’t do that. Too busy talking to those girls to help your bro out. No, no, don’t tell me to calm down. You wanna talk about it, we’re gonna talk about it. You were the one pouring me hella shots also. This is your fault also so don’t bitch out on me at the last second.” Daryl was almost screaming at this point. Tyler wasn’t helping the situation at all. I couldn’t even get a word in with these guys going back and forth. A quick flash of light shut us all up real fast though. We all simultaneously looked towards the light and we could see it moving far off in the distance.
“What’s that?” Tyler whispered.
“It’s someone with a flashlight, and hes walking over here I think.” I said.
“Alright come on go in we gotta hide.” Daryl was behind us, trying to push us into the mausoleum.
“Wait no lets just run.” I could hear Tyler’s shoes scraping on the grass as he tried to push back against Daryl.
“No they’ll see us. Just get in!” With one final push, we all found ourselves surrounded in darkness.
“Ok just breathe guys.” Daryl was trying to calm us down.
“Light your lighter. Light your lighter!” Tyler whispered frantically.
“Naw, they’ll see the light.” I was staring out the doorway at the small speck of light that was moving in our direction. I kept on hoping that it would suddenly veer away from us, but it never did. Instead, it just kept on growing bigger and bigger. We all stood in the mausoleum, peering out of the doorway and trying to breathe as silently as possible. We watched as the speck of light turned into a moving spotlight, and then finally into a shadow carrying a flash light. It got to the point where we thought the person was going to come into the mausoleum, but after scanning the light around for a little bit, they turned and went the other direction. We all breathed little sighs of relief as we saw the light fade away into the distance. We waited until we were sure it was absolutely gone until we dared to speak again.
“Alright, lets do this and get the hell outta here. I’m gonna light my lighter alright.” We heard a few clicks and saw sparks fly, and all of a sudden the room was lit. The inside of the mausoleum shocked us all. The walls were lined with what looked like file cabinets. Each one had a name on it and a date, along with a golden colored handle. The floor was black and white tiled, but it felt like we were walking on carpet with all the dust lining the floor. Other than a small opening for air in the ceiling, there weren’t any other openings in the mausoleum.
“Oh my god we’re surrounded by death. Look, they all have handles on them.”
“You ain’t down to open one though.”
“You’re ruining my life Daryl.”
“Haha fine then start looking.” The three of us started scanning each little cabinet, looking for the name we needed.
“I think I found it.” Tyler’s shaky voice felt like a miracle to me. “See look, Frank Bartle. Born 1853 and died 1938.”
We all looked in Tyler’s direction and saw exactly what he saw. The name was right there, printed on the door of the cabinet in large golden letters.
“Do you see an inscription?” I asked.
“Its small. Daryl, shine the light right here. It says ‘The end of an adventure is never more important than how you get there.’”
“Deep stuff. Alright got it memorized? Now let’s get out of here.” Daryl flicked off his lighter and walked towards the doorway. “There’s nobody out here. Let’s go.”
We ran for it. We didn’t care how loud we were or who’s graves we were stomping all over. We made it back to the cement wall in no time, and we all hopped over onto the sidewalk below. Good thing it was in the middle of the night because we didn’t even look both ways when crossing the street to get to the parking lot where our car was parked. We all took a second to catch our breath inside the car before we all started smiling and poking fun at each other.
“Tyler you act just like a girl.”
“Pshh whatever. Least I didn’t throw up on the pres.”
“Hey don’t start that again.”
Daryl smiled one last time and began driving towards school.
“Y’all ain’t down to party tonight though.”
----
1st draft. Not all too good in my opinion but this was the easiest story ever for me to write. To be honest, I got tired of writing those stories with meaning behind every word and I just wanted to have a little fun so this is what arose. Hope you enjoy and any constructive criticism is appreciated.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Short Story Writing - Red (1st Draft)
Red
You told yourself that last time was supposed to be the last time. You wanted a normal life. You wanted the simple things in life. Friends, family, a job. You wanted to walk down the street and smile at a complete stranger, and have them smile back at you. You wanted to pluck flowers from your neighbors lawns and wear them in your hair. You wanted to fly kites on a sunny day and stare at that brightly colored diamond up in the sky. You wanted all these things, but life wouldn’t let you have them.
You’re standing here now, covered in blood. Its cold out, and your breath appears in little puffs of steam, but the warmth of freshly spilled blood keeps your hands warm. The night is bright, and the moonlight reflects off the blood, giving you a faint red glow. The blood is still bright red, and you can feel the oxygen still alive in the blood, warmth being wasted away upon your skin. The knife you hold in your hand slowly drips away freckles of red. You stare down at the steaming mass of red and black in front of you and smile, ever so slightly. You reach down and feel around into the mass of redness, and eventually pull out a wallet. You flip it open and stare at the stack of bills tucked in the seams. A quick snap echoes throughout the alley as you quickly shut the wallet and stuck it into your sweater pocket. You don’t even give him one last glance as you turn and walk away into the night.
***
You didn’t want to be like this. You remember only bits and pieces of your childhood. You remember your mother as being small. Fragile would be a good word to describe her. She would always wear aprons, and keep her hair tied up in a ponytail. You always pictured her in a kitchen, chopping onions and smiling, telling you that dinner would be coming up soon, or standing above you with a schoolbook, trying to home school you in the basics of Dr. Seuss and multiplication. You remember her face as being naturally pale. The traditional asian mom, you always thought. You don’t remember how or why she died. She just suddenly disappeared from your life one day, and all you can remember is feeling empty for awhile afterwards. You don’t have any memories of your father at all. Nothing, not even a faded picture stored away in a locket or a casual retelling of his existence from a friend of his. You could only picture him through your own looks. Everything about yourself that you didn’t see in your mother became your father. Any mirror you could get your hands on became the closest picture of your father that you could remember. After awhile though, you stopped caring who he was, because he obviously didn’t care enough to find you.
You bounced from family to family for awhile, trading frowns from abusive foster parents for ignorant glances from social workers too busy to care you were there. Fourteen was the turning point in your life. The government decided that you were old enough to live on your own, so they sent you to the city. Living all alone as a young teenager in the apartment you currently reside in, with the only human contact coming from the government worker that arrived each Monday to bring you a box of groceries. You were amazed by the amount of freedom you had. You were finally able to eat ice cream for dinner and run around in your underwear like you always wanted too. These brief periods of joy quickly went away when you realized that the ever empty rooms of your apartment weren’t good for developing a social life.
You decided to take baby steps first, and explore your apartment building. That first night still haunts your dreams to this day. You poked your head out the door and looked from side to side, only to be met by empty hallways and flickering yellow lights. You stepped out and cautiously put each foot in front of the other, hoping not to cause any disruptions to any future friends. You walked close to the walls, hoping that it would provide for protection against any unseen dangers. Your fingers ran against the wall, scraping away flakes of dry wallpaper in clumps that fell to the floor, joining the ground level community of plastic penny bags, permanent dirt, and the empire of ants that marched along the unnaturally brown carpet. The silence was only marred by a distant door slamming or heavy footsteps from above.
You walked alone to the door to the stairway, and paused for a second. Your face looked almost scared for a second, almost as if you were contemplating running back to your apartment and becoming one with the sheets on your bed. You reached your hand out slowly to grab the doorknob and you let your hand reach fully around it. You could feel the rust breaking away from the iron onto your hand as you pulled the door towards you. You began to walk into the dark stairway when you felt your foot meet something rigid. Your eyes moved down to meet the two pale legs that were impeding your progress. Your mouth and eyes seemed to open wider in unison as the shock of finding random legs grew in your body. You wanted to run away. You wanted to escape to the comfort of your bed. Your morals wouldn’t allow it to happen though. You ran your eyes along the legs and found that they were connected to an unmoving woman. She was slouched against the wall, her head in her chest. Her messy grey hair was strewn along her body, falling everywhere in clumps that resembled an oil spill. She was clothed in nothing more then faded blue shorts and a white tank top that clung loosely to her skinny frame. You could see the veins through her lucid skin. Tiny red dots adorned her inner forearm, as if someone was sewing a patter into her arm and then decided to pull out all the thread. You began to move forward, trying to find any signs of life. Trying to see a finger twitch. Hoping to see her chest rise and fall with new air. Closer and closer you came, until you were nearly over her, You paused for a second, wishing for something, anything to happen, but finally you began to slowly retreat backwards. A quick hand around your wrist changed all that though. You saw two eyes, desperately yellow, staring straight into your own. You felt an unnaturally cold hand grasp your wrist, firm, but not much else. You heard a voice, barely able to escape cracked lips and crooked teeth. ”Save me.”
You ran back to your apartment and quickly dialed those three numbers that had saved so many before. You tried to calm your breathing as the operator answered with tiredness in her voice.
“911 emergencies, how may I assist you?”
“Help! There’s someone that needs help”
“Ok miss I’ll need you to calm down. Can you tell me your location?”
“I’m at the Rivera apartments. Please a woman is very sick!”
“Oh the Rivera place again? We send people there at least three times a day. Sigh alright well we’ll try sending someone out there”
You ran back to the woman and sat next to her, hoping to provide her with as much comfort as your arms could give. The only thing you could do now was wait and dodge the disapproving glances of those passing by on the stairway. It was well over an hour before the police arrived. You looked at them with bright eyes as they walked up the stairway, but they quickly faded as you saw the metal handcuffs being placed on her wrists and seeing her dragged down the stairs.
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“Taking her in. A good night in jail will sober her up enough for court.”
“But she needs help!”
“We are helping. By taking druggies like this one off the streets. Thanks for calling her in.”
You sat there, a look of defeat on your face. Help. That was all she needed and you had failed her. You walked back to your apartment and sat on your bed, stuck there with an eternal stare that lasted until sleep finally took over.
That was the end of your journeys outside, at least until school began for you. Freshman at a public high school after being homeschooled your whole life. You didn’t exactly know how to feel sitting in that chair in class on the first day, just a quiet spot in a classroom filled with noise. You could feel the stares of other students, but whenever you moved your eyes to meet theirs, they would quickly look away. That first day went by quickly. Nobody tried to talk to you, but a lot of people seemed to notice you. You thought it was because you were the new girl in school, but that’s not what was running through the minds of the students at school. No, you were just the new cute face at school. The boys loved how your hair hugged the sides of your face and curved ever so slightly underneath your chin. They loved how your sweater would catch your growing curves in just the right places. They loved how you seemed to almost glide through daily life. And the girls, they hated how you were able to pull all this off without even trying.
As time began to go by, the students began to take a little more interest in you. They would try talking to you, but ever since the incident with the drugged up woman, you’ve found it hard to put trust into people in this city. You’d just walk through campus and return all the greetings with a fake smile that you hung from your face. You began to notice that one boy was taking an even greater interest in you than all the others. You knew him as Alex Tate, the boy who would always walk you to class, the boy who would volunteer to be your partner for projects, and the boy who would insist on buying you lunch every day. The rest of campus knew him as the star guard on the basketball team with great grades. The only one on campus that had a future.
You can just barely remember the moment that changed it all now. It’s hard for you to tell the difference from truth and fiction with how long it’s been since it happened. It’s all just a blur with random images of the past quickly flashing by like a film reel with every other scene cut out. You remember that final project in lab class. You and Alex working away after school, just you and him in the lab. It all started with him asking a simple question. “Will you go to prom with me?” You remember saying no, and after that it mostly becomes numb. You remember two hands clutching your shoulders and being pushed back against the lab bench. You remember him angrily growling at you. “Do you know who I am? I get what I want!” You remember looking straight up, trying not to feel the hands invading the inside of your sweater or the cold air creeping over newly exposed legs. You didn’t fight back, knowing that you’d only get hurt more in the process. You just let it happen, keeping your eyes fixated on the tiles in the celing.
Lost. That was the only word that could describe you. You knew the school board would do nothing to harm their prized possession. They would just spout off something about how such an incident would ruin his life and the schools reputation. You could do nothing except go home. You tried to press down your tangled hair and clear the tears from your eyes. You tried to put your now ripped and stretched out sweater back on. You did your best to clean up the blood creeping down your inner thighs. You walked back to your apartment, and began the slow walk up the stairs. With each step, you could feel a new pain in your stomach as you felt wetness begin to run down your leg. You stopped at the final step and stared cloudy eyed at the spot where you found the woman. A slight smile came to your face as you knew what to do.
***
You’re showering now, washing away the stains of life as a constant river of red flows down the drain. You run your hands through your long black hair, picking out the small pieces of coagulated blood. The light bulb flickers violently in the small box that you call your bathroom. The shrill hum of the water coming out of the showerhead echoes off the ceramic tiles on the walls. You can hear the faucet squeak as you turn the water off and wrap a towel around your head. You walk over to the mirror and wipe your hand across it to clear the steam.
You slide the towel down your hair, drying it and letting it naturally fall into its layers. You quickly dry the rest of your body and begin to put on the layers of your life. A v-neck t-shirt to reveal a little skin. Plaid black skirt, for that school-girl look you know the guys love. A dash of black under your eyes, to make them look bigger and more innocent. A touch of lipstick for that added appeal. Finally, a red sweater, zipped up halfway, to make you stand out against the night. You wrapped the hood halfway around your head and stepped into your bedroom. You walked over to your laundry and grabbed the wallet out from the pocket of your sweater. You pulled out the stack of bills and tossed the wallet on top of the pile of wallets in your closet. You grabbed your purse and checked the inside of it. A familiar metallic shine met your gaze. You walked out of your apartment and down the hallway. You stopped at a door and softly tapped on the door. A woman answered, and smiled at you. You reached out your hand and handed her the stack of bills. “Here, get what you need.” She reached out a scarred arm and took the money from your hand. She mouthed thank you repeatedly as she squeezed your hands. You heard a child’s voice behind her and she looked at you once more with bright eyes, and closed the door.
You walked down the stairway and out of your apartment building. You were met with a cool gush of air from the night skies and it made the hair on your arms bristle up. You began to walk down the street, walking past dark alleys and dimly lit doorways. Eyes began to stare at you as you walked through the city, a streak of red painting its way through the night. You noticed a figure following you so you decided to turn into an alley. You heard hurried footsteps from behind and you felt a firm hand grasp your shoulder. “Hey little girl you lost? Lemme take you home with me.” You reached into your purse and one slash was all it took to end that voice. You felt around his body and pulled out his wallet. You know the cops wouldn’t care about finding an unidentified body around this area. You put the wallet in your pocket and began the walk back home.
Each time still feels as good as it did that very first night. Waiting for him to come home after his basketball game. You stood there on his porch, leaning ever so slightly against the archway. You kept one hand behind your back and the other hand you kept over the smile that appeared as soon as he got out of his car. He started towards you, hesitant at first, but your innocent look made him bolder with each step. He asked what you were doing there and you responded with “I understand now.” You smiled with your eyes as he came ever closer and asked what you understood. You opened your mouth to respond, as you plunged the knife you had carefully hid behind your back into his stomach. “I understand how it all works now.”
You ran back to your apartment building, afraid that someone would see you covered in blood, but the streets were empty that night, and if anyone did see you, they were probably more scared of a beautiful girl covered in blood holding a knife than you were of their questioning tongues. You made it to your apartment and ran into the shower, clothing and all. You almost screamed knowing that you had actually done it. You couldn’t wait to utilize the money you had just earned.
You remember finally seeing her, freshly released from prison, staggering down the hallway. You caught up to her, and grabbed her arm. You didn’t know if she recognized you or not, but the money you put into your hand from Alex’s wallet made her stare at you with those same yellow eyes. You told her for the first time. “Get what you need.” You walked away as she leaned against the hall, staring at the money in her hand.
Its been 4 years since that first night. You used to be scared. Scared that you’d fall into a pattern and just get bored and desensitized to the rush of feeling your knife in the stomach of a predator, but that rush hasn’t changed at all. You still feel the same whenever you take out their wallet and stare at the bills they keep inside. You still smile the same, every time you give her that new stack of money.
--
This definitely needs to be worked on. Theres alot I added in just for the sake of reaching the 10 page minimum. Darn those rules. This started out as a modern take on Little Red Riding Hood, but it ended up as more of a Robin Hood tale than anything else. Well I hope you enjoy and I will rework this as needed.
You told yourself that last time was supposed to be the last time. You wanted a normal life. You wanted the simple things in life. Friends, family, a job. You wanted to walk down the street and smile at a complete stranger, and have them smile back at you. You wanted to pluck flowers from your neighbors lawns and wear them in your hair. You wanted to fly kites on a sunny day and stare at that brightly colored diamond up in the sky. You wanted all these things, but life wouldn’t let you have them.
You’re standing here now, covered in blood. Its cold out, and your breath appears in little puffs of steam, but the warmth of freshly spilled blood keeps your hands warm. The night is bright, and the moonlight reflects off the blood, giving you a faint red glow. The blood is still bright red, and you can feel the oxygen still alive in the blood, warmth being wasted away upon your skin. The knife you hold in your hand slowly drips away freckles of red. You stare down at the steaming mass of red and black in front of you and smile, ever so slightly. You reach down and feel around into the mass of redness, and eventually pull out a wallet. You flip it open and stare at the stack of bills tucked in the seams. A quick snap echoes throughout the alley as you quickly shut the wallet and stuck it into your sweater pocket. You don’t even give him one last glance as you turn and walk away into the night.
***
You didn’t want to be like this. You remember only bits and pieces of your childhood. You remember your mother as being small. Fragile would be a good word to describe her. She would always wear aprons, and keep her hair tied up in a ponytail. You always pictured her in a kitchen, chopping onions and smiling, telling you that dinner would be coming up soon, or standing above you with a schoolbook, trying to home school you in the basics of Dr. Seuss and multiplication. You remember her face as being naturally pale. The traditional asian mom, you always thought. You don’t remember how or why she died. She just suddenly disappeared from your life one day, and all you can remember is feeling empty for awhile afterwards. You don’t have any memories of your father at all. Nothing, not even a faded picture stored away in a locket or a casual retelling of his existence from a friend of his. You could only picture him through your own looks. Everything about yourself that you didn’t see in your mother became your father. Any mirror you could get your hands on became the closest picture of your father that you could remember. After awhile though, you stopped caring who he was, because he obviously didn’t care enough to find you.
You bounced from family to family for awhile, trading frowns from abusive foster parents for ignorant glances from social workers too busy to care you were there. Fourteen was the turning point in your life. The government decided that you were old enough to live on your own, so they sent you to the city. Living all alone as a young teenager in the apartment you currently reside in, with the only human contact coming from the government worker that arrived each Monday to bring you a box of groceries. You were amazed by the amount of freedom you had. You were finally able to eat ice cream for dinner and run around in your underwear like you always wanted too. These brief periods of joy quickly went away when you realized that the ever empty rooms of your apartment weren’t good for developing a social life.
You decided to take baby steps first, and explore your apartment building. That first night still haunts your dreams to this day. You poked your head out the door and looked from side to side, only to be met by empty hallways and flickering yellow lights. You stepped out and cautiously put each foot in front of the other, hoping not to cause any disruptions to any future friends. You walked close to the walls, hoping that it would provide for protection against any unseen dangers. Your fingers ran against the wall, scraping away flakes of dry wallpaper in clumps that fell to the floor, joining the ground level community of plastic penny bags, permanent dirt, and the empire of ants that marched along the unnaturally brown carpet. The silence was only marred by a distant door slamming or heavy footsteps from above.
You walked alone to the door to the stairway, and paused for a second. Your face looked almost scared for a second, almost as if you were contemplating running back to your apartment and becoming one with the sheets on your bed. You reached your hand out slowly to grab the doorknob and you let your hand reach fully around it. You could feel the rust breaking away from the iron onto your hand as you pulled the door towards you. You began to walk into the dark stairway when you felt your foot meet something rigid. Your eyes moved down to meet the two pale legs that were impeding your progress. Your mouth and eyes seemed to open wider in unison as the shock of finding random legs grew in your body. You wanted to run away. You wanted to escape to the comfort of your bed. Your morals wouldn’t allow it to happen though. You ran your eyes along the legs and found that they were connected to an unmoving woman. She was slouched against the wall, her head in her chest. Her messy grey hair was strewn along her body, falling everywhere in clumps that resembled an oil spill. She was clothed in nothing more then faded blue shorts and a white tank top that clung loosely to her skinny frame. You could see the veins through her lucid skin. Tiny red dots adorned her inner forearm, as if someone was sewing a patter into her arm and then decided to pull out all the thread. You began to move forward, trying to find any signs of life. Trying to see a finger twitch. Hoping to see her chest rise and fall with new air. Closer and closer you came, until you were nearly over her, You paused for a second, wishing for something, anything to happen, but finally you began to slowly retreat backwards. A quick hand around your wrist changed all that though. You saw two eyes, desperately yellow, staring straight into your own. You felt an unnaturally cold hand grasp your wrist, firm, but not much else. You heard a voice, barely able to escape cracked lips and crooked teeth. ”Save me.”
You ran back to your apartment and quickly dialed those three numbers that had saved so many before. You tried to calm your breathing as the operator answered with tiredness in her voice.
“911 emergencies, how may I assist you?”
“Help! There’s someone that needs help”
“Ok miss I’ll need you to calm down. Can you tell me your location?”
“I’m at the Rivera apartments. Please a woman is very sick!”
“Oh the Rivera place again? We send people there at least three times a day. Sigh alright well we’ll try sending someone out there”
You ran back to the woman and sat next to her, hoping to provide her with as much comfort as your arms could give. The only thing you could do now was wait and dodge the disapproving glances of those passing by on the stairway. It was well over an hour before the police arrived. You looked at them with bright eyes as they walked up the stairway, but they quickly faded as you saw the metal handcuffs being placed on her wrists and seeing her dragged down the stairs.
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“Taking her in. A good night in jail will sober her up enough for court.”
“But she needs help!”
“We are helping. By taking druggies like this one off the streets. Thanks for calling her in.”
You sat there, a look of defeat on your face. Help. That was all she needed and you had failed her. You walked back to your apartment and sat on your bed, stuck there with an eternal stare that lasted until sleep finally took over.
That was the end of your journeys outside, at least until school began for you. Freshman at a public high school after being homeschooled your whole life. You didn’t exactly know how to feel sitting in that chair in class on the first day, just a quiet spot in a classroom filled with noise. You could feel the stares of other students, but whenever you moved your eyes to meet theirs, they would quickly look away. That first day went by quickly. Nobody tried to talk to you, but a lot of people seemed to notice you. You thought it was because you were the new girl in school, but that’s not what was running through the minds of the students at school. No, you were just the new cute face at school. The boys loved how your hair hugged the sides of your face and curved ever so slightly underneath your chin. They loved how your sweater would catch your growing curves in just the right places. They loved how you seemed to almost glide through daily life. And the girls, they hated how you were able to pull all this off without even trying.
As time began to go by, the students began to take a little more interest in you. They would try talking to you, but ever since the incident with the drugged up woman, you’ve found it hard to put trust into people in this city. You’d just walk through campus and return all the greetings with a fake smile that you hung from your face. You began to notice that one boy was taking an even greater interest in you than all the others. You knew him as Alex Tate, the boy who would always walk you to class, the boy who would volunteer to be your partner for projects, and the boy who would insist on buying you lunch every day. The rest of campus knew him as the star guard on the basketball team with great grades. The only one on campus that had a future.
You can just barely remember the moment that changed it all now. It’s hard for you to tell the difference from truth and fiction with how long it’s been since it happened. It’s all just a blur with random images of the past quickly flashing by like a film reel with every other scene cut out. You remember that final project in lab class. You and Alex working away after school, just you and him in the lab. It all started with him asking a simple question. “Will you go to prom with me?” You remember saying no, and after that it mostly becomes numb. You remember two hands clutching your shoulders and being pushed back against the lab bench. You remember him angrily growling at you. “Do you know who I am? I get what I want!” You remember looking straight up, trying not to feel the hands invading the inside of your sweater or the cold air creeping over newly exposed legs. You didn’t fight back, knowing that you’d only get hurt more in the process. You just let it happen, keeping your eyes fixated on the tiles in the celing.
Lost. That was the only word that could describe you. You knew the school board would do nothing to harm their prized possession. They would just spout off something about how such an incident would ruin his life and the schools reputation. You could do nothing except go home. You tried to press down your tangled hair and clear the tears from your eyes. You tried to put your now ripped and stretched out sweater back on. You did your best to clean up the blood creeping down your inner thighs. You walked back to your apartment, and began the slow walk up the stairs. With each step, you could feel a new pain in your stomach as you felt wetness begin to run down your leg. You stopped at the final step and stared cloudy eyed at the spot where you found the woman. A slight smile came to your face as you knew what to do.
***
You’re showering now, washing away the stains of life as a constant river of red flows down the drain. You run your hands through your long black hair, picking out the small pieces of coagulated blood. The light bulb flickers violently in the small box that you call your bathroom. The shrill hum of the water coming out of the showerhead echoes off the ceramic tiles on the walls. You can hear the faucet squeak as you turn the water off and wrap a towel around your head. You walk over to the mirror and wipe your hand across it to clear the steam.
You slide the towel down your hair, drying it and letting it naturally fall into its layers. You quickly dry the rest of your body and begin to put on the layers of your life. A v-neck t-shirt to reveal a little skin. Plaid black skirt, for that school-girl look you know the guys love. A dash of black under your eyes, to make them look bigger and more innocent. A touch of lipstick for that added appeal. Finally, a red sweater, zipped up halfway, to make you stand out against the night. You wrapped the hood halfway around your head and stepped into your bedroom. You walked over to your laundry and grabbed the wallet out from the pocket of your sweater. You pulled out the stack of bills and tossed the wallet on top of the pile of wallets in your closet. You grabbed your purse and checked the inside of it. A familiar metallic shine met your gaze. You walked out of your apartment and down the hallway. You stopped at a door and softly tapped on the door. A woman answered, and smiled at you. You reached out your hand and handed her the stack of bills. “Here, get what you need.” She reached out a scarred arm and took the money from your hand. She mouthed thank you repeatedly as she squeezed your hands. You heard a child’s voice behind her and she looked at you once more with bright eyes, and closed the door.
You walked down the stairway and out of your apartment building. You were met with a cool gush of air from the night skies and it made the hair on your arms bristle up. You began to walk down the street, walking past dark alleys and dimly lit doorways. Eyes began to stare at you as you walked through the city, a streak of red painting its way through the night. You noticed a figure following you so you decided to turn into an alley. You heard hurried footsteps from behind and you felt a firm hand grasp your shoulder. “Hey little girl you lost? Lemme take you home with me.” You reached into your purse and one slash was all it took to end that voice. You felt around his body and pulled out his wallet. You know the cops wouldn’t care about finding an unidentified body around this area. You put the wallet in your pocket and began the walk back home.
Each time still feels as good as it did that very first night. Waiting for him to come home after his basketball game. You stood there on his porch, leaning ever so slightly against the archway. You kept one hand behind your back and the other hand you kept over the smile that appeared as soon as he got out of his car. He started towards you, hesitant at first, but your innocent look made him bolder with each step. He asked what you were doing there and you responded with “I understand now.” You smiled with your eyes as he came ever closer and asked what you understood. You opened your mouth to respond, as you plunged the knife you had carefully hid behind your back into his stomach. “I understand how it all works now.”
You ran back to your apartment building, afraid that someone would see you covered in blood, but the streets were empty that night, and if anyone did see you, they were probably more scared of a beautiful girl covered in blood holding a knife than you were of their questioning tongues. You made it to your apartment and ran into the shower, clothing and all. You almost screamed knowing that you had actually done it. You couldn’t wait to utilize the money you had just earned.
You remember finally seeing her, freshly released from prison, staggering down the hallway. You caught up to her, and grabbed her arm. You didn’t know if she recognized you or not, but the money you put into your hand from Alex’s wallet made her stare at you with those same yellow eyes. You told her for the first time. “Get what you need.” You walked away as she leaned against the hall, staring at the money in her hand.
Its been 4 years since that first night. You used to be scared. Scared that you’d fall into a pattern and just get bored and desensitized to the rush of feeling your knife in the stomach of a predator, but that rush hasn’t changed at all. You still feel the same whenever you take out their wallet and stare at the bills they keep inside. You still smile the same, every time you give her that new stack of money.
--
This definitely needs to be worked on. Theres alot I added in just for the sake of reaching the 10 page minimum. Darn those rules. This started out as a modern take on Little Red Riding Hood, but it ended up as more of a Robin Hood tale than anything else. Well I hope you enjoy and I will rework this as needed.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Short Story Writing 14 Killers (Final)
14 Killers
Everyday you look at yourself in the mirror and sigh heavily. Whenever you shave away the sandpaper on your face, it reveals the wrinkles that come with old age. You poke at the lines growing across your skin and shudder a little, wondering how an expressionless face could produce such deep flaws. You dress yourself in the same color palate each day, solid blues and grays, and even though your job has no uniform, you look like the typical worker. Coffee has lost its effect on you, and only the slight burn of its heat on your tongue clears your mind of blurriness. Mornings haven’t felt good in years.
You stare across the table at your family and frown in disgust. Your wife hasn’t looked at you in forever. Her sullen eyes watch her hand slowly swirling a spoon in her coffee. You remember when she used to look at you and hold you and say “I love you.” Those days are long gone now. She cringes if you touch her like you used to, and you haven’t had sex in years. Your son sits there as if he’s waiting for a chance to escape. You look at him, dressed in his struggling gangster clothes, and wonder where you went wrong. You notice that most of the colors he’s been wearing lately have been red, and today his looks are following that trend. You give them a final glance over your shoulder before you walk out the door for work, show them a fake smile, and say goodbye.
You walk outside and your eyes water a little from the cold and the smog. You see your car sitting there, still slightly frosty from the morning mist. Your poor car, it was supposed to be your dream car. A brand new Mustang should be sitting here, beckoning your presence with its powerful nature. Instead, all that sits in front of you is a used station wagon, with paint fading away in all areas. You slam the door shut after you get in, and you start the engine. The car rumbles slightly, but it starts like the reliable piece of work that it is. The garage slowly moves away as you reverse down your driveway. Your house fades away as you drive through your neighborhood.
You drive through the streets and look around, wondering where all the beauty in the world is. You remember reading children’s books while growing up and seeing a world full of happiness and color. You would see a world full of people smiling. A world where even the cars and buildings and clouds would smile. You don’t see any of that around you now, though. A world of non-fiction flows past the windows of your car. Buildings of grey and brown, swirled by motion into one long streak of unsightly blurriness. As a child, you never even knew colors like this existed so commonly in the world. You never see anyone smiling either. Everyone has a look of depression on their faces, as if their shadows were taking control of their expressions. The surrounding world makes it impossible for the cars and the buildings and the clouds to look happy also. Your child self would be crying right now if he knew that his future world would be crushed just by drab colors.
The neighborhood you live in makes you sick. You wish you could close your eyes while driving, just so you could remain ignorant of the world around you. You see signs of the ghetto all around you, and these sights weigh heavily in your right foot. The grey clouds forever linger in the sky above. They set the perfect atmosphere for the depressing neighborhood that you’re now a part of. Clouds that are so lifeless and so dull that they seem to be an extension of the rooftops. You feel like you haven’t seen the sun in ages. You swear that God is somehow trying to cover up this blemish on the world, and that he’s doing a damn good job at it.
You feel your car rumble as it runs over cracks in the road. No, cracks aren’t the right word for them. More like trenches. Trenches caused by years of use and neglect. You eyebrows begin to furrow as you try and predict when one of these trenches will puncture a hole in your tires and send your car veering out of control. Your mood worsens even more when you think of how the roads will be once it starts raining. The trenches become creeks and rivers, eventually forming an urban ecosystem. A delta full of trash and filth, creating a river that matches your memories of the pollution from those old Captain Planet TV shows that you used to watch as a child. A low growl escapes from your mouth when your car hits one of the trenches, causing your teeth to jar together. You curse the construction workers, knowing that they’re too scared to come and fix the roads, but at the same time you understand why they wouldn’t want to be stuck on the streets in a place like this.
You look up and see the ever prevalent gang signs starting to flow past your car. Red XIV’s and X4’s spray painted everywhere. They think they’re so fucking clever. Those Norteños calling themselves N’s. The fourteenth letter of the alphabet. Romanize that fourteen and you get an XIV. Yeah they’re so fucking cute. You’re tired of seeing all these gang signs spray painted everywhere. You always see them, sprayed blatantly in the middle of fences, garages, and anything that could be branded with their mark. You’ve even seen someone driving down 10th street with XIV stamped right across their front wind shield.
You can’t do a damn thing about it either. There’s so many of them that getting rid of a few would just be pointless. You hate how the color of the signs stands out so much against whatever color its spray painted on. Bright red. Makes you feel like the neighborhood has been streaked in fresh blood. You think that they could have chosen a better color also. You hate how they represent red, a color you grew up on. A color you once thought was energetic and bold. You never used to associate red with blood, but now it’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see that color. Yet another strand of your childhood cut by the present.
You also know all the stories about people trying to remove the signs. You see freshly painted walls. Walls that used to be adorned with graffiti and red spray paint, now clean and new. You know that wall is going to be marked very soon. Another red XIV will soon appear there to replace its fallen comrades, but you know that this one will be a little different. There’s going to be a circle around the X, and your trained eye knows what this means. You think that the circled X looks just like an eye. Its watching the community even more carefully now, waiting for someone to make a mistake. You know that the X has now evolved into an emblem meant for more than just territory. The circle is a warning, telling the people not to mess with the N’s. You hate it when you see these community service organizations come into your neighborhood. Coming in with paint brushes and fake goodwill. Thinking that they’re helping out the community with some beautification project. You know they don’t feel any fear painting over gang signs because they don’t have to live here. They don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. They just soak up the rewards of their hard work, and go home and pat themselves on the back. You want to tell them that their actions are just going to make things worse. That they are just going to eventually cause more violence and more gang signs, but they’re not going to listen to you. Your words would fall on ears too plugged up with good intentions to even respond to your reasoning. You know the stories of your neighbors because you live in these stories and you become a part of them. Houses near freshly painted walls soon become covered in yellow police tape. It’s just a crime scene waiting to happen. A scene all too familiar to you.
Then you see the shoes. A pair of shoes tied together by the laces and flung over a telephone line. You used to think of this as nothing. It’s just a practical joke that the kids must do just to have a quick laugh. Just mischievous innocence. Thinking of little kids giggling and running away from their little terrorist act used to make you smile. It used to make you think that there was still a sliver of happiness in the world. You used to think this way until your son and his friends ruined everything. You remember it vividly. Your son and his group of rebels were lounging in your living room, invading your couch and TV. You were trying to be a good parent, and trying to ignore their conversation and their rehearsed to perfection ghetto accents. You stayed in your room just so that their voices would become muddled by the multiple layers of walls. You planned to lie on your bed all day and rest, but your stomach wouldn’t let you do that. It began growling, and as time went on, your kitchen started to sound more and more delicious. Slowly, you opened the door and stealthily walked into the kitchen, trying not to cause any noise, just so that your son wouldn’t think you were spying on him. You stood there in the kitchen, knife in hand, trying to make a sandwich, when their conversation suddenly struck you.
“Yeah man, them shoes are from that scrap the N’s jumped a few nights ago.”
“Aw shit no way. For reals man?”
“Yeah fool I ain’t lying. They threw them up there to show them bitch asses what’s up.”
“Damn man, those were some nice kicks though. Wish they gave em to me instead though.”
You stood there helpless as your thoughts of pure innocence were crushed by the N’s. You almost dropped your sandwich after hearing this, but you made it back to your room with food intact. Seeing these shoes now evokes the same emotions that you felt back then. You feel helpless as they dangle above you, taunting you with their fake innocence. These shoes remind you of your attempts to guide your son through life. You wanted to show him that there was more to the world than what was past his windows. You painted his room in bright colors and surrounded him with books full of smiles. You remember sending him off to school, watching him trot away with his bright yellow rain boots and matching rain jacket. None of it worked. Those bright colors eventually evolved into shades of red. Consequences of the public school system. He looks away from you now, as if he’s trying to escape your influence. All this comes to you, just from seeing shoes perched upon a telephone line. You slam the gas pedal and avoid the rear view mirror, hoping that they’ll just fade away into the sky.
You finally make it out of the ghetto and roll into the city. There’s more colors here to look at and feel, but this isn’t your life. All you do here is go to work in a box that’s been affectionately labeled a cubicle. Its walls are scattered with pictures of your family. Pictures of a time when your smiles weren’t forced and your wife actually held your hand. You sit there for eight hours a day, pretending to do work and letting your computer burn holes in your retinas. You remember when this job used to be promising. An energetic greeting and a firm handshake was all you thought you needed. Your bosses used to say you were going places in the company. You realize now that they were just trapping you in the company, slowly turning you into a mid-age worker with no hope of getting a new job, forcing you to stay forever. You just shake your head now at how naive you were, and all you can do now is stare at the clock and wish for it to go faster and faster. That second hand always seems to be running a marathon that it’ll never complete. Finally, your day is done. Your car is waiting for you in the parking lot, looking as defeated as ever. You start the ignition and begin to head home.
You feel like the drive home is just everything you saw in the morning in reverse order. It’s like life is just rewinding over the worst parts of your life and playing them back over and over again. Same red XIV’s everywhere you look. Same shoes dangling above you, taunting you from their peak up above. Same house you return to every evening. You see that something is a little different today though. You see people gathered around your house from a distance, and you wonder what might be going on. Your mind starts to race a little. You start to wonder if something exciting is finally happening in your life. Maybe they’re throwing a party just for you. Maybe they’re all excitedly awaiting your return so you can all smile and be happy again. When you pull up closer though, you see that it’s just your son and his dumbass friends, playing around in front of your street. Your eyes grow as soon as you see what they’re doing. They’re playing 14 Killers. You fucking hate that game. You think it’s the stupidest game they could have thought of. You wish they could just play tag instead of this shitty variation of it. You see your sons friends pointing at each other, hands shaped like guns. You can hear them yelling at each other. They’re running around, hiding behind cars and diving behind trash cans. The soccer ball you got them just so they wouldn’t play this game is sitting there, stuck up against the curb, still looking pretty new. You cuss to yourself in your car. God dammit, these fucking kids, I told them not to play that damn game. Playing that damn recruitment tool. Fucking little wannabe gangsters. You can’t stand watching them having fun while they’re fake killing each other.
You park your car in the driveway and they pretend not to notice you. You quickly get out your car and slam the door, and still not one of them even bothers to look at you. Must be too damn consumed in their game, you think. Hey, you say, as you walk down the driveway. You don’t notice it, but your fists are clenched and your eyes are blazing. A few of the kids shoot a cautious glance in your direction. Hey, you say, what did I tell you kids about playing that game? They’re all looking up at you now. They’re staring at you as if you’re the one about to shoot them. You’ve got your fingers raised, pointing at them, lecturing them about how they shouldn’t be play killing each other. You’re starting to make a scene. Neighbors begin to peek out of their windows, trying to get a glimpse of the commotion. None of them come out and help you though. They all stay hidden in their homes, all too willing to let you do all the talking. You scream and you shout and you stomp. Finally, you hear it.
Hey, you hear, can you shut the hell up. You look around for the source, and you realize with shock, that it’s one of your sons friends. It’s Dom, the outspoken ringleader. He’s stepped forward, that brave little bastard. Acting tough, just to impress his friends. Standing in front of you, dressed in clothes five years ahead of him. Red shoes, red belt, red shirt. His arms are crossed, arms that are blank now, but look like they’ll soon carry the script of the streets. And he’s staring at you, with his head cocked a little to the side. You hear his voice again, and its accent pisses you off. Hey, you hear, we can do what the fuck we want.
You don’t feel yourself moving forward. You just see Dom’s figure growing steadily. You don’t see his eyes growing with fear. You don’t see that he’s actually scared, that his little act has gone away. He’s running away now, along with his gangster buddies. You contemplate chasing them, but no, the thought of running after some punk doesn’t delight you much. You linger in the street for a little bit, staring at them running away as they become ants on the horizon.
You walk inside your house and eat your dinner silently. Your wife stands at the sink, only making noise with the dishes. You know she knows what happened, but you can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. You don’t want to talk about it, not with her. Her being nice to you now wouldn’t make up for all those years of denial. You finish the rest of your food and go straight to sleep.
The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and see all the familiarities of the morning. A cold breakfast, layed out on the table. Your wife sits there, and she doesn’t even give you a good morning glance. Your son is nowhere to be seen. Looks like he finally found that escape. You pick at your food and get up to leave. No fake smile escapes from your lips this time. You pull open the door and walk outside to your car. Your eyes water more than usual this morning and a familiar scent fills the air. You rub away the wetness in your eyes and look ahead. A small shock of warmth takes the place of the emptiness in your stomach. Your car is staring right back at you, red circle emblazed.
So basically the only drastic changes I made was cleaning up the ending. Making it seem more realistic I guess. I also added in parts concerning the history of the main character, such as his job and his relationship with his son. I'll be submitting this story to the contest at school so wish me luck.
Everyday you look at yourself in the mirror and sigh heavily. Whenever you shave away the sandpaper on your face, it reveals the wrinkles that come with old age. You poke at the lines growing across your skin and shudder a little, wondering how an expressionless face could produce such deep flaws. You dress yourself in the same color palate each day, solid blues and grays, and even though your job has no uniform, you look like the typical worker. Coffee has lost its effect on you, and only the slight burn of its heat on your tongue clears your mind of blurriness. Mornings haven’t felt good in years.
You stare across the table at your family and frown in disgust. Your wife hasn’t looked at you in forever. Her sullen eyes watch her hand slowly swirling a spoon in her coffee. You remember when she used to look at you and hold you and say “I love you.” Those days are long gone now. She cringes if you touch her like you used to, and you haven’t had sex in years. Your son sits there as if he’s waiting for a chance to escape. You look at him, dressed in his struggling gangster clothes, and wonder where you went wrong. You notice that most of the colors he’s been wearing lately have been red, and today his looks are following that trend. You give them a final glance over your shoulder before you walk out the door for work, show them a fake smile, and say goodbye.
You walk outside and your eyes water a little from the cold and the smog. You see your car sitting there, still slightly frosty from the morning mist. Your poor car, it was supposed to be your dream car. A brand new Mustang should be sitting here, beckoning your presence with its powerful nature. Instead, all that sits in front of you is a used station wagon, with paint fading away in all areas. You slam the door shut after you get in, and you start the engine. The car rumbles slightly, but it starts like the reliable piece of work that it is. The garage slowly moves away as you reverse down your driveway. Your house fades away as you drive through your neighborhood.
You drive through the streets and look around, wondering where all the beauty in the world is. You remember reading children’s books while growing up and seeing a world full of happiness and color. You would see a world full of people smiling. A world where even the cars and buildings and clouds would smile. You don’t see any of that around you now, though. A world of non-fiction flows past the windows of your car. Buildings of grey and brown, swirled by motion into one long streak of unsightly blurriness. As a child, you never even knew colors like this existed so commonly in the world. You never see anyone smiling either. Everyone has a look of depression on their faces, as if their shadows were taking control of their expressions. The surrounding world makes it impossible for the cars and the buildings and the clouds to look happy also. Your child self would be crying right now if he knew that his future world would be crushed just by drab colors.
The neighborhood you live in makes you sick. You wish you could close your eyes while driving, just so you could remain ignorant of the world around you. You see signs of the ghetto all around you, and these sights weigh heavily in your right foot. The grey clouds forever linger in the sky above. They set the perfect atmosphere for the depressing neighborhood that you’re now a part of. Clouds that are so lifeless and so dull that they seem to be an extension of the rooftops. You feel like you haven’t seen the sun in ages. You swear that God is somehow trying to cover up this blemish on the world, and that he’s doing a damn good job at it.
You feel your car rumble as it runs over cracks in the road. No, cracks aren’t the right word for them. More like trenches. Trenches caused by years of use and neglect. You eyebrows begin to furrow as you try and predict when one of these trenches will puncture a hole in your tires and send your car veering out of control. Your mood worsens even more when you think of how the roads will be once it starts raining. The trenches become creeks and rivers, eventually forming an urban ecosystem. A delta full of trash and filth, creating a river that matches your memories of the pollution from those old Captain Planet TV shows that you used to watch as a child. A low growl escapes from your mouth when your car hits one of the trenches, causing your teeth to jar together. You curse the construction workers, knowing that they’re too scared to come and fix the roads, but at the same time you understand why they wouldn’t want to be stuck on the streets in a place like this.
You look up and see the ever prevalent gang signs starting to flow past your car. Red XIV’s and X4’s spray painted everywhere. They think they’re so fucking clever. Those Norteños calling themselves N’s. The fourteenth letter of the alphabet. Romanize that fourteen and you get an XIV. Yeah they’re so fucking cute. You’re tired of seeing all these gang signs spray painted everywhere. You always see them, sprayed blatantly in the middle of fences, garages, and anything that could be branded with their mark. You’ve even seen someone driving down 10th street with XIV stamped right across their front wind shield.
You can’t do a damn thing about it either. There’s so many of them that getting rid of a few would just be pointless. You hate how the color of the signs stands out so much against whatever color its spray painted on. Bright red. Makes you feel like the neighborhood has been streaked in fresh blood. You think that they could have chosen a better color also. You hate how they represent red, a color you grew up on. A color you once thought was energetic and bold. You never used to associate red with blood, but now it’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see that color. Yet another strand of your childhood cut by the present.
You also know all the stories about people trying to remove the signs. You see freshly painted walls. Walls that used to be adorned with graffiti and red spray paint, now clean and new. You know that wall is going to be marked very soon. Another red XIV will soon appear there to replace its fallen comrades, but you know that this one will be a little different. There’s going to be a circle around the X, and your trained eye knows what this means. You think that the circled X looks just like an eye. Its watching the community even more carefully now, waiting for someone to make a mistake. You know that the X has now evolved into an emblem meant for more than just territory. The circle is a warning, telling the people not to mess with the N’s. You hate it when you see these community service organizations come into your neighborhood. Coming in with paint brushes and fake goodwill. Thinking that they’re helping out the community with some beautification project. You know they don’t feel any fear painting over gang signs because they don’t have to live here. They don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. They just soak up the rewards of their hard work, and go home and pat themselves on the back. You want to tell them that their actions are just going to make things worse. That they are just going to eventually cause more violence and more gang signs, but they’re not going to listen to you. Your words would fall on ears too plugged up with good intentions to even respond to your reasoning. You know the stories of your neighbors because you live in these stories and you become a part of them. Houses near freshly painted walls soon become covered in yellow police tape. It’s just a crime scene waiting to happen. A scene all too familiar to you.
Then you see the shoes. A pair of shoes tied together by the laces and flung over a telephone line. You used to think of this as nothing. It’s just a practical joke that the kids must do just to have a quick laugh. Just mischievous innocence. Thinking of little kids giggling and running away from their little terrorist act used to make you smile. It used to make you think that there was still a sliver of happiness in the world. You used to think this way until your son and his friends ruined everything. You remember it vividly. Your son and his group of rebels were lounging in your living room, invading your couch and TV. You were trying to be a good parent, and trying to ignore their conversation and their rehearsed to perfection ghetto accents. You stayed in your room just so that their voices would become muddled by the multiple layers of walls. You planned to lie on your bed all day and rest, but your stomach wouldn’t let you do that. It began growling, and as time went on, your kitchen started to sound more and more delicious. Slowly, you opened the door and stealthily walked into the kitchen, trying not to cause any noise, just so that your son wouldn’t think you were spying on him. You stood there in the kitchen, knife in hand, trying to make a sandwich, when their conversation suddenly struck you.
“Yeah man, them shoes are from that scrap the N’s jumped a few nights ago.”
“Aw shit no way. For reals man?”
“Yeah fool I ain’t lying. They threw them up there to show them bitch asses what’s up.”
“Damn man, those were some nice kicks though. Wish they gave em to me instead though.”
You stood there helpless as your thoughts of pure innocence were crushed by the N’s. You almost dropped your sandwich after hearing this, but you made it back to your room with food intact. Seeing these shoes now evokes the same emotions that you felt back then. You feel helpless as they dangle above you, taunting you with their fake innocence. These shoes remind you of your attempts to guide your son through life. You wanted to show him that there was more to the world than what was past his windows. You painted his room in bright colors and surrounded him with books full of smiles. You remember sending him off to school, watching him trot away with his bright yellow rain boots and matching rain jacket. None of it worked. Those bright colors eventually evolved into shades of red. Consequences of the public school system. He looks away from you now, as if he’s trying to escape your influence. All this comes to you, just from seeing shoes perched upon a telephone line. You slam the gas pedal and avoid the rear view mirror, hoping that they’ll just fade away into the sky.
You finally make it out of the ghetto and roll into the city. There’s more colors here to look at and feel, but this isn’t your life. All you do here is go to work in a box that’s been affectionately labeled a cubicle. Its walls are scattered with pictures of your family. Pictures of a time when your smiles weren’t forced and your wife actually held your hand. You sit there for eight hours a day, pretending to do work and letting your computer burn holes in your retinas. You remember when this job used to be promising. An energetic greeting and a firm handshake was all you thought you needed. Your bosses used to say you were going places in the company. You realize now that they were just trapping you in the company, slowly turning you into a mid-age worker with no hope of getting a new job, forcing you to stay forever. You just shake your head now at how naive you were, and all you can do now is stare at the clock and wish for it to go faster and faster. That second hand always seems to be running a marathon that it’ll never complete. Finally, your day is done. Your car is waiting for you in the parking lot, looking as defeated as ever. You start the ignition and begin to head home.
You feel like the drive home is just everything you saw in the morning in reverse order. It’s like life is just rewinding over the worst parts of your life and playing them back over and over again. Same red XIV’s everywhere you look. Same shoes dangling above you, taunting you from their peak up above. Same house you return to every evening. You see that something is a little different today though. You see people gathered around your house from a distance, and you wonder what might be going on. Your mind starts to race a little. You start to wonder if something exciting is finally happening in your life. Maybe they’re throwing a party just for you. Maybe they’re all excitedly awaiting your return so you can all smile and be happy again. When you pull up closer though, you see that it’s just your son and his dumbass friends, playing around in front of your street. Your eyes grow as soon as you see what they’re doing. They’re playing 14 Killers. You fucking hate that game. You think it’s the stupidest game they could have thought of. You wish they could just play tag instead of this shitty variation of it. You see your sons friends pointing at each other, hands shaped like guns. You can hear them yelling at each other. They’re running around, hiding behind cars and diving behind trash cans. The soccer ball you got them just so they wouldn’t play this game is sitting there, stuck up against the curb, still looking pretty new. You cuss to yourself in your car. God dammit, these fucking kids, I told them not to play that damn game. Playing that damn recruitment tool. Fucking little wannabe gangsters. You can’t stand watching them having fun while they’re fake killing each other.
You park your car in the driveway and they pretend not to notice you. You quickly get out your car and slam the door, and still not one of them even bothers to look at you. Must be too damn consumed in their game, you think. Hey, you say, as you walk down the driveway. You don’t notice it, but your fists are clenched and your eyes are blazing. A few of the kids shoot a cautious glance in your direction. Hey, you say, what did I tell you kids about playing that game? They’re all looking up at you now. They’re staring at you as if you’re the one about to shoot them. You’ve got your fingers raised, pointing at them, lecturing them about how they shouldn’t be play killing each other. You’re starting to make a scene. Neighbors begin to peek out of their windows, trying to get a glimpse of the commotion. None of them come out and help you though. They all stay hidden in their homes, all too willing to let you do all the talking. You scream and you shout and you stomp. Finally, you hear it.
Hey, you hear, can you shut the hell up. You look around for the source, and you realize with shock, that it’s one of your sons friends. It’s Dom, the outspoken ringleader. He’s stepped forward, that brave little bastard. Acting tough, just to impress his friends. Standing in front of you, dressed in clothes five years ahead of him. Red shoes, red belt, red shirt. His arms are crossed, arms that are blank now, but look like they’ll soon carry the script of the streets. And he’s staring at you, with his head cocked a little to the side. You hear his voice again, and its accent pisses you off. Hey, you hear, we can do what the fuck we want.
You don’t feel yourself moving forward. You just see Dom’s figure growing steadily. You don’t see his eyes growing with fear. You don’t see that he’s actually scared, that his little act has gone away. He’s running away now, along with his gangster buddies. You contemplate chasing them, but no, the thought of running after some punk doesn’t delight you much. You linger in the street for a little bit, staring at them running away as they become ants on the horizon.
You walk inside your house and eat your dinner silently. Your wife stands at the sink, only making noise with the dishes. You know she knows what happened, but you can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. You don’t want to talk about it, not with her. Her being nice to you now wouldn’t make up for all those years of denial. You finish the rest of your food and go straight to sleep.
The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and see all the familiarities of the morning. A cold breakfast, layed out on the table. Your wife sits there, and she doesn’t even give you a good morning glance. Your son is nowhere to be seen. Looks like he finally found that escape. You pick at your food and get up to leave. No fake smile escapes from your lips this time. You pull open the door and walk outside to your car. Your eyes water more than usual this morning and a familiar scent fills the air. You rub away the wetness in your eyes and look ahead. A small shock of warmth takes the place of the emptiness in your stomach. Your car is staring right back at you, red circle emblazed.
So basically the only drastic changes I made was cleaning up the ending. Making it seem more realistic I guess. I also added in parts concerning the history of the main character, such as his job and his relationship with his son. I'll be submitting this story to the contest at school so wish me luck.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Short Story Writing - 14 Killers (1st Draft)
Sean Harris
February 24, 2010
ENGL 2070
14 Killers
Everyday you look at yourself in the mirror and sigh heavily. Whenever you shave away the sandpaper on your face, it reveals the wrinkles that come with old age. You poke at the lines growing across your skin and shudder a little, wondering how an expressionless face could produce such deep flaws. You dress yourself in the same color palate each day, solid blues and greys, and even though your job has no uniform, you look like the typical worker. Coffee has lost its effect on you, and only the slight burn of its heat on your tongue clears your mind of blurriness. Mornings haven’t felt good in years.
You stare across the table at your family and frown in disgust. Your wife hasn’t looked at you in forever. Her sullen eyes watch her hand slowly swirling a spoon in her coffee. You remember when she used to look at you and hold you and say “I love you”. Those days are long gone now. She cringes if you touch her like you used to, and you haven’t had sex in years. Your son sits there as if he’s waiting for a chance to escape. You look at him, dressed in his struggling gangster clothes, and wonder where you went wrong. You notice that most of the colors he’s been wearing lately has been red, and today his looks are following that trend. You give them a final glance over your shoulder before you walk out the door for work, give them a fake smile, and say goodbye.
You walk outside and your eyes water a little from the cold and the smog. You see your car sitting there, still slightly frosty from the morning mist. Your poor car, it was supposed to be your dream car. A brand new Mustang should be sitting here, beckoning your presence with its powerful nature. Instead, all that sits in front of you is a used station wagon, with paint fading away in all areas. You slam the door shut after you get in, and you start the engine. The car rumbles slightly, but it starts like the reliable piece of work that it is. The garage slowly moves away as you reverse down your driveway. Your house looks smaller and smaller as you drive through your neighborhood.
You drive through the streets and look around, wondering where all the beauty in the world is. You remember reading children’s books while growing up and seeing a world full of happiness and color. You would see a world full of people smiling. A world where even the cars and buildings and clouds would smile. You don’t see any of that around you now though. A world of non-fiction flows past the windows of your car. Buildings of grey and brown, swirled by motion into a one long streak of unsightly blurriness. As a child, you never even knew colors like this existed so commonly in the world. You never see anyone smiling either. Everyone has a look of depression on their faces, as if their shadows were taking control of their expressions. The world around made it impossible for the cars and the buildings and the clouds to look happy also. Your child self would be crying right now if he knew how his future world would be crushed just by colors.
The neighborhood you live in makes you sick. You wish you could close your eyes while driving, just so you could remain ignorant to the world around you. You see signs of the ghetto all around you, and these sights weigh heavily in your right foot. The grey clouds forever linger in the sky above. They set the perfect atmosphere for the depressing neighborhood that you’re now a part of. Clouds that are so grey and so dull that they seem to be an extension of the rooftops. You feel like you haven’t seen the sun in ages. You swear that God is somehow trying to cover up this blemish on the world, and that he’s doing a damn good job at it.
You feel your car rumble as it runs over cracks in the road. No, cracks aren’t the right word for them. More like trenches. Trenches caused by years of use and neglect. You eyebrows begin to furrow as you try and predict when one of these trenches will puncture a hole in your tires and send your car veering out of control. Your mood worsens even more when you think of how the roads will be once it starts raining. The trenches become creeks and rivers, eventually forming an urban ecosystem. A delta full of trash and filth, creating a river that matches your memories of the pollution from those old Captain Planet TV shows that you used to watch as a child. A low growl escapes from your mouth when your car hits one of the trenches, causes your teeth to jar together. You curse the construction workers, knowing that they’re too scared to come and fix the roads, but at the same time you understand why they wouldn’t want to be stuck in a place like this.
You look up and see the ever prevalent gang signs starting to flow past your car. Red XIV’s and X4’s spray painted everywhere. You think they’re so fucking clever. Those Nortenos calling themselves N’s from the fourteenth letter of the alphabet. Romanize that fourteen and you get an XIV. Yeah they’re so fucking cute. You’re tired of seeing all these gang signs spray painted everywhere. You always see them, sprayed blatantly in the middle of fences, garages, and anything that could be branded with their mark. You’ve even seen someone driving down 10th street with XIV stamped right across their front wind shield.
You can’t do a damn thing about it either. There’s so many of them that getting rid of a few would just be pointless. You hate how the color of the signs stands out so much against whatever color its spray painted on. Bright red. Makes you feel like the neighborhood has been streaked in fresh blood. You think that they could have chosen a better color also. You hate how they represent red, a color you grew up on. A color you once thought was energetic and bold. You never used to associate red with blood, but now it’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see that color. Yet another strand of your childhood cut by the present.
You also know all the stories about people trying to remove the signs. You see freshly painted walls. Walls that used to be adorned with graffiti and red spray paint, now clean and new. You know that wall is going to be marked very soon. Another red XIV will soon appear there to replace its fallen comrades, but you know that this one will be a little different. Theres going to be a circle arount the X, and your trained eye knows what this means. You know that the X has now turned into a target. You think that the circled X looks just like an eye. Its watching the community even more carefully now, waiting for someone to make a mistake. The circle is a warning, telling the people not to mess with the N’s. You hate it when you see these community service organizations come into your neighborhood. Coming in with paint brushes and fake goodwill. Thinking that they’re helping out the community with some beautification project. You know they don’t feel any fear painting over gang signs because they don’t have to live here. They don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. They just soak up the rewards of their hard work, and go home and pat themselves on the back. You want to tell them that their actions are just going to make things worse. That they are just going to eventually cause more violence and more gang signs, but they’re not going to listen to you. You words would fall on ears too plugged up with good intentions to even respond to your reasoning. You know the stories of your neighbors because you live in these stories and you become a part of them. Houses near freshly painted walls soon become covered in yellow police tape. Its just a crime scene waiting to happen. A scene all to familiar to you.
Then you see the shoes. A pair of shoes tied together by the laces and flung over a telephone line. You used to think of this as nothing. Its just a practical joke that the kids must do just to have a quick laugh. Just mischievous innocence. Thinking of little kids giggling and running away fro their little terrorist act used to make you smile. It used to make you think that there was still a sliver of happiness in the world. You used to think this way until your son ruined everything. You remember it vividly. Your son and his group of rebels were lounging in your living room, invading your couch and TV. You were trying to be a good parent, and trying to ignore their conversation and their rehearsed to perfection ghetto accents. You stayed in your room just so that their voices would become muddled by the multiple layers of walls. You planned to lie on your bed all day and rest, but your stomach wouldn’t let you do that. It began growling, and as time went on, your kitchen started to sound more and more delicious. Slowly, you opened the door and stealthily walked into the kitchen, trying not to cause any noise, just so that your son wouldn’t think you were spying on him. You stood there in a kitchen, knife in hand, trying to make a sandwich, when their conversation suddenly struck you.
“Yeah man, them shoes are from that scrap the N’s jumped a few nights ago.”
“Aw shit no way. For reals man?”
“Yeah fool I ain’t lying. They threw them up there to show them bitch asses what’s up.”
“Damn man, those were some nice kicks though. Wish they gave em to me instead though.”
You stood there helpless as your thoughts of pure innocence were crushed by the N’s. You almost dropped your sandwich after hearing this, but you made it back to your room undetected. Seeing these shoes now evokes the same emotions that you felt back then. You feel helpless as they dangle above you, taunting you with their fake innocence. You slam on the gas pedal and avoid the rear view mirror, hoping that they’ll just fade away into the sky.
You finally make it out of the ghetto and roll into the city. There’s more colors here to look at and feel, but this isn’t your life. All you do here is go to work in a box that’s been affectionately labeled as a cubicle. Its walls are lined with pictures of your family. Pictures of a time when your smiles weren’t forced and your wife actually held your hand. You sit there for eight hours a day, pretending to do work and letting your computer burn holes in your retinas. You stare at the clock and wish for it to go faster and faster. That second hand always seems to be running a marathon that it’ll never complete. Finally, your day is done. Your car is waiting for you in the parking lot, looking as defeated as ever. You start the ignition and begin to head home.
You feel like the drive home is just everything you saw in the morning in reverse order. It’s like life is just rewinding over the worst parts of your life and playing them back over and over again. Same red XIV’s everywhere you look. Same shoes dangling above you, taunting you from their peak up above. Same house you return to every evening. You see that something is a little different today though. You see people gathered around your house from a distance, and you wonder what might be going on. Your mind starts to race a little. You start to wonder if something exciting is finally happening in your life. Maybe they’re throwing a party just for you. Maybe they’re all excitedly awaiting your return so you can all smile and be happy again. When you pull up closer though, you see that it’s just your son and his dumbass friends, playing around in front of your street. Your eyes grow as soon as you see what they’re doing. They’re playing 14 Killers. You fucking hate that game. You think it’s the stupidest game they could have thought of. You wish they could just play tag instead of this shitty variation of it. You see your sons friends pointing at each, hands shaped like guns. You can hear them yelling at each other. They’re running around, hiding behind cars and diving behind trash cans. The soccer ball you got them just so they wouldn’t play this game is sitting there, stuck up against the curb, still looking pretty new. You cuss to yourself in your car. God dammit, these fucking kids, I told them not to play that damn game. Playing that damn recruitment tool. Fucking little wannabe gangsters. You can’t stand watching them having fun while they’re fake killing each other.
You park your car in the driveway and they pretend not to notice you. You quickly get out your car and slam the door, and still not one of them even bothers to look at you. Must be too damn consumed in their game you think. Hey, you say, as you walk down the driveway. You don’t notice it, but your fists are clenched and your eyes are blazing. A few of the kids shoot a cautious glance in your direction. Hey, you say, what did I tell you kids about playing that game. They’re all looking up at you now. They’re staring at you as if you’re the one about to shoot them. You’ve got your fingers raised, pointing at them, lecturing them about how they shouldn’t be play killing each other. You’re starting to make a scene. Neighbors begin to peek out of their windows, trying to get a glimpse of the commotion. None of them come out and help you though. They all stay hidden in their homes, all too willing to let you do all the talking. You scream and you shout and you stomp. Finally, you hear it.
Hey, you hear, can you shut the hell up. You look around for the source, and you realize with shock, that it’s one of your sons friends. Its Dom, the outspoken ringleader. He’s stepped forward, that brave little bastard. Acting tough, just to impress his friends. Standing in front of you, dressed in clothes five years ahead of hi. Red shoes, red belt, red shirt. His arms are crossed, arms that are blank now but look like they’ll soon carry the script of the streets. And he’s staring at you, with his head cocked a little to the side. You hear his voice again, and its tone pisses you off. Hey, you hear, we can do what the fuck we want.
You don’t feel yourself moving forward. You just see Don’s figure growing steadily. You don’t see his eyes growing with fear. You don’t see that he’s actually scared, that his little act has gone away. He’s running away now, and his little gang is following him. You linger in the street for a little bit, staring at them running away as they become ants on the horizon. You walk inside your house and eat your dinner silently. You don’t look up at your wife, and you can’t tell if she’s looking at you or not. You know she knows what happened, but you can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. You don’t want to talk about it, not with her. Her being nice to you now wouldn’t make up for all those years of denial. You go straight to sleep after you finish eating, filled with victory.
The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and see all the familiarities of the morning. A cold breakfast, layed out on the table. Your wife sits there, and she doesn’t even give you a good morning glance. Your son is nowhere to be seen. Looks like he finally found that escape. You pick at your food and get up to leave. You walk outside to your car, and suddenly, the world stops. Your car is staring right back at you, red circle emblazed.
February 24, 2010
ENGL 2070
14 Killers
Everyday you look at yourself in the mirror and sigh heavily. Whenever you shave away the sandpaper on your face, it reveals the wrinkles that come with old age. You poke at the lines growing across your skin and shudder a little, wondering how an expressionless face could produce such deep flaws. You dress yourself in the same color palate each day, solid blues and greys, and even though your job has no uniform, you look like the typical worker. Coffee has lost its effect on you, and only the slight burn of its heat on your tongue clears your mind of blurriness. Mornings haven’t felt good in years.
You stare across the table at your family and frown in disgust. Your wife hasn’t looked at you in forever. Her sullen eyes watch her hand slowly swirling a spoon in her coffee. You remember when she used to look at you and hold you and say “I love you”. Those days are long gone now. She cringes if you touch her like you used to, and you haven’t had sex in years. Your son sits there as if he’s waiting for a chance to escape. You look at him, dressed in his struggling gangster clothes, and wonder where you went wrong. You notice that most of the colors he’s been wearing lately has been red, and today his looks are following that trend. You give them a final glance over your shoulder before you walk out the door for work, give them a fake smile, and say goodbye.
You walk outside and your eyes water a little from the cold and the smog. You see your car sitting there, still slightly frosty from the morning mist. Your poor car, it was supposed to be your dream car. A brand new Mustang should be sitting here, beckoning your presence with its powerful nature. Instead, all that sits in front of you is a used station wagon, with paint fading away in all areas. You slam the door shut after you get in, and you start the engine. The car rumbles slightly, but it starts like the reliable piece of work that it is. The garage slowly moves away as you reverse down your driveway. Your house looks smaller and smaller as you drive through your neighborhood.
You drive through the streets and look around, wondering where all the beauty in the world is. You remember reading children’s books while growing up and seeing a world full of happiness and color. You would see a world full of people smiling. A world where even the cars and buildings and clouds would smile. You don’t see any of that around you now though. A world of non-fiction flows past the windows of your car. Buildings of grey and brown, swirled by motion into a one long streak of unsightly blurriness. As a child, you never even knew colors like this existed so commonly in the world. You never see anyone smiling either. Everyone has a look of depression on their faces, as if their shadows were taking control of their expressions. The world around made it impossible for the cars and the buildings and the clouds to look happy also. Your child self would be crying right now if he knew how his future world would be crushed just by colors.
The neighborhood you live in makes you sick. You wish you could close your eyes while driving, just so you could remain ignorant to the world around you. You see signs of the ghetto all around you, and these sights weigh heavily in your right foot. The grey clouds forever linger in the sky above. They set the perfect atmosphere for the depressing neighborhood that you’re now a part of. Clouds that are so grey and so dull that they seem to be an extension of the rooftops. You feel like you haven’t seen the sun in ages. You swear that God is somehow trying to cover up this blemish on the world, and that he’s doing a damn good job at it.
You feel your car rumble as it runs over cracks in the road. No, cracks aren’t the right word for them. More like trenches. Trenches caused by years of use and neglect. You eyebrows begin to furrow as you try and predict when one of these trenches will puncture a hole in your tires and send your car veering out of control. Your mood worsens even more when you think of how the roads will be once it starts raining. The trenches become creeks and rivers, eventually forming an urban ecosystem. A delta full of trash and filth, creating a river that matches your memories of the pollution from those old Captain Planet TV shows that you used to watch as a child. A low growl escapes from your mouth when your car hits one of the trenches, causes your teeth to jar together. You curse the construction workers, knowing that they’re too scared to come and fix the roads, but at the same time you understand why they wouldn’t want to be stuck in a place like this.
You look up and see the ever prevalent gang signs starting to flow past your car. Red XIV’s and X4’s spray painted everywhere. You think they’re so fucking clever. Those Nortenos calling themselves N’s from the fourteenth letter of the alphabet. Romanize that fourteen and you get an XIV. Yeah they’re so fucking cute. You’re tired of seeing all these gang signs spray painted everywhere. You always see them, sprayed blatantly in the middle of fences, garages, and anything that could be branded with their mark. You’ve even seen someone driving down 10th street with XIV stamped right across their front wind shield.
You can’t do a damn thing about it either. There’s so many of them that getting rid of a few would just be pointless. You hate how the color of the signs stands out so much against whatever color its spray painted on. Bright red. Makes you feel like the neighborhood has been streaked in fresh blood. You think that they could have chosen a better color also. You hate how they represent red, a color you grew up on. A color you once thought was energetic and bold. You never used to associate red with blood, but now it’s the first thing that comes to mind when you see that color. Yet another strand of your childhood cut by the present.
You also know all the stories about people trying to remove the signs. You see freshly painted walls. Walls that used to be adorned with graffiti and red spray paint, now clean and new. You know that wall is going to be marked very soon. Another red XIV will soon appear there to replace its fallen comrades, but you know that this one will be a little different. Theres going to be a circle arount the X, and your trained eye knows what this means. You know that the X has now turned into a target. You think that the circled X looks just like an eye. Its watching the community even more carefully now, waiting for someone to make a mistake. The circle is a warning, telling the people not to mess with the N’s. You hate it when you see these community service organizations come into your neighborhood. Coming in with paint brushes and fake goodwill. Thinking that they’re helping out the community with some beautification project. You know they don’t feel any fear painting over gang signs because they don’t have to live here. They don’t have to face the consequences of their actions. They just soak up the rewards of their hard work, and go home and pat themselves on the back. You want to tell them that their actions are just going to make things worse. That they are just going to eventually cause more violence and more gang signs, but they’re not going to listen to you. You words would fall on ears too plugged up with good intentions to even respond to your reasoning. You know the stories of your neighbors because you live in these stories and you become a part of them. Houses near freshly painted walls soon become covered in yellow police tape. Its just a crime scene waiting to happen. A scene all to familiar to you.
Then you see the shoes. A pair of shoes tied together by the laces and flung over a telephone line. You used to think of this as nothing. Its just a practical joke that the kids must do just to have a quick laugh. Just mischievous innocence. Thinking of little kids giggling and running away fro their little terrorist act used to make you smile. It used to make you think that there was still a sliver of happiness in the world. You used to think this way until your son ruined everything. You remember it vividly. Your son and his group of rebels were lounging in your living room, invading your couch and TV. You were trying to be a good parent, and trying to ignore their conversation and their rehearsed to perfection ghetto accents. You stayed in your room just so that their voices would become muddled by the multiple layers of walls. You planned to lie on your bed all day and rest, but your stomach wouldn’t let you do that. It began growling, and as time went on, your kitchen started to sound more and more delicious. Slowly, you opened the door and stealthily walked into the kitchen, trying not to cause any noise, just so that your son wouldn’t think you were spying on him. You stood there in a kitchen, knife in hand, trying to make a sandwich, when their conversation suddenly struck you.
“Yeah man, them shoes are from that scrap the N’s jumped a few nights ago.”
“Aw shit no way. For reals man?”
“Yeah fool I ain’t lying. They threw them up there to show them bitch asses what’s up.”
“Damn man, those were some nice kicks though. Wish they gave em to me instead though.”
You stood there helpless as your thoughts of pure innocence were crushed by the N’s. You almost dropped your sandwich after hearing this, but you made it back to your room undetected. Seeing these shoes now evokes the same emotions that you felt back then. You feel helpless as they dangle above you, taunting you with their fake innocence. You slam on the gas pedal and avoid the rear view mirror, hoping that they’ll just fade away into the sky.
You finally make it out of the ghetto and roll into the city. There’s more colors here to look at and feel, but this isn’t your life. All you do here is go to work in a box that’s been affectionately labeled as a cubicle. Its walls are lined with pictures of your family. Pictures of a time when your smiles weren’t forced and your wife actually held your hand. You sit there for eight hours a day, pretending to do work and letting your computer burn holes in your retinas. You stare at the clock and wish for it to go faster and faster. That second hand always seems to be running a marathon that it’ll never complete. Finally, your day is done. Your car is waiting for you in the parking lot, looking as defeated as ever. You start the ignition and begin to head home.
You feel like the drive home is just everything you saw in the morning in reverse order. It’s like life is just rewinding over the worst parts of your life and playing them back over and over again. Same red XIV’s everywhere you look. Same shoes dangling above you, taunting you from their peak up above. Same house you return to every evening. You see that something is a little different today though. You see people gathered around your house from a distance, and you wonder what might be going on. Your mind starts to race a little. You start to wonder if something exciting is finally happening in your life. Maybe they’re throwing a party just for you. Maybe they’re all excitedly awaiting your return so you can all smile and be happy again. When you pull up closer though, you see that it’s just your son and his dumbass friends, playing around in front of your street. Your eyes grow as soon as you see what they’re doing. They’re playing 14 Killers. You fucking hate that game. You think it’s the stupidest game they could have thought of. You wish they could just play tag instead of this shitty variation of it. You see your sons friends pointing at each, hands shaped like guns. You can hear them yelling at each other. They’re running around, hiding behind cars and diving behind trash cans. The soccer ball you got them just so they wouldn’t play this game is sitting there, stuck up against the curb, still looking pretty new. You cuss to yourself in your car. God dammit, these fucking kids, I told them not to play that damn game. Playing that damn recruitment tool. Fucking little wannabe gangsters. You can’t stand watching them having fun while they’re fake killing each other.
You park your car in the driveway and they pretend not to notice you. You quickly get out your car and slam the door, and still not one of them even bothers to look at you. Must be too damn consumed in their game you think. Hey, you say, as you walk down the driveway. You don’t notice it, but your fists are clenched and your eyes are blazing. A few of the kids shoot a cautious glance in your direction. Hey, you say, what did I tell you kids about playing that game. They’re all looking up at you now. They’re staring at you as if you’re the one about to shoot them. You’ve got your fingers raised, pointing at them, lecturing them about how they shouldn’t be play killing each other. You’re starting to make a scene. Neighbors begin to peek out of their windows, trying to get a glimpse of the commotion. None of them come out and help you though. They all stay hidden in their homes, all too willing to let you do all the talking. You scream and you shout and you stomp. Finally, you hear it.
Hey, you hear, can you shut the hell up. You look around for the source, and you realize with shock, that it’s one of your sons friends. Its Dom, the outspoken ringleader. He’s stepped forward, that brave little bastard. Acting tough, just to impress his friends. Standing in front of you, dressed in clothes five years ahead of hi. Red shoes, red belt, red shirt. His arms are crossed, arms that are blank now but look like they’ll soon carry the script of the streets. And he’s staring at you, with his head cocked a little to the side. You hear his voice again, and its tone pisses you off. Hey, you hear, we can do what the fuck we want.
You don’t feel yourself moving forward. You just see Don’s figure growing steadily. You don’t see his eyes growing with fear. You don’t see that he’s actually scared, that his little act has gone away. He’s running away now, and his little gang is following him. You linger in the street for a little bit, staring at them running away as they become ants on the horizon. You walk inside your house and eat your dinner silently. You don’t look up at your wife, and you can’t tell if she’s looking at you or not. You know she knows what happened, but you can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. You don’t want to talk about it, not with her. Her being nice to you now wouldn’t make up for all those years of denial. You go straight to sleep after you finish eating, filled with victory.
The next morning, you walk into the kitchen and see all the familiarities of the morning. A cold breakfast, layed out on the table. Your wife sits there, and she doesn’t even give you a good morning glance. Your son is nowhere to be seen. Looks like he finally found that escape. You pick at your food and get up to leave. You walk outside to your car, and suddenly, the world stops. Your car is staring right back at you, red circle emblazed.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Short Story Writing - One Shot
He saw his prey from afar, and he could taste the excitement of a kill. His breathing intensified, and he could no longer control himself even after years of training. This always happened though, and this is why he loved the hunt. A pure feeling of instinct, no time to think, but just enough time to act. He felt his hands start to shake and he knew it was time to begin. He pulled back the bolt of his rifle and loaded in one bullet, because that's all he would need, and any further shots would be a waste of lead. He pushed the bolt forward and it clicked with glee at being given an opportunity to show off its skills.
The area was lined with a myriad of nature to disguise one self's movement. The overcast sky set the perfect backdrop for what was about to be done. He moved with a discreet swiftness, almost like smoke running away from a fire. Branches cracked beneath his feet as the forest of nature provided infinite paths to his prey.
One last tree and a field of bodies was all that stood between him and his target. He saw his prey, and smiled maliciously as he knew what was coming next. His prey was crouching beside a rock, as if it was trying to become stone itself. It's disguise wouldn't fool him though, because rocks didn't carry rifles. He crawled towards his stationary prey, through the bodies of many a fallen comrade. He could take him out from here, but no, that's too easy. The closer a kill, the more impact behind it. He moved slowly, slower than the air swirling above him. Even the dead would be impressed at his impersonation.
Finally, he thought, this was close enough. He slowly raised his gun and directed the sights right on his prey's head. He saw for the first time the face of his prey and saw it was dark, as if every shadow had gathered there. He knew it was time to act, and with one last breathe, he steadied his gun and felt the trigger. A loud snap pierced the sky, and his prey fell. His eyes grew and he felt a rush of warmth in his stomach. He hadn't pulled the trigger yet. He knew his prey hadn't shot because it was lying there, stationary as he was. He turned his head around and noticed another hunter, standing far away, soaking in all the glory that should have been his.
"God dammit ahhhhhh!!" he shouted, as he threw his controller on the couch. "That was my kill!"
He stared at his TV with a defeated look. He sat motionless, stationary, another dead body upon the suburban tundra.
Yay so my prompt this time was a very open one. I was basically supposed to write a story from a 3rd person perspective. No idea how this story came to be. Just thinking of Call of Duty probably. I actually kinda like parts of this one though. I wrote it in less than an hour so I think its pretty good for that amount of time. Cheers :)
The area was lined with a myriad of nature to disguise one self's movement. The overcast sky set the perfect backdrop for what was about to be done. He moved with a discreet swiftness, almost like smoke running away from a fire. Branches cracked beneath his feet as the forest of nature provided infinite paths to his prey.
One last tree and a field of bodies was all that stood between him and his target. He saw his prey, and smiled maliciously as he knew what was coming next. His prey was crouching beside a rock, as if it was trying to become stone itself. It's disguise wouldn't fool him though, because rocks didn't carry rifles. He crawled towards his stationary prey, through the bodies of many a fallen comrade. He could take him out from here, but no, that's too easy. The closer a kill, the more impact behind it. He moved slowly, slower than the air swirling above him. Even the dead would be impressed at his impersonation.
Finally, he thought, this was close enough. He slowly raised his gun and directed the sights right on his prey's head. He saw for the first time the face of his prey and saw it was dark, as if every shadow had gathered there. He knew it was time to act, and with one last breathe, he steadied his gun and felt the trigger. A loud snap pierced the sky, and his prey fell. His eyes grew and he felt a rush of warmth in his stomach. He hadn't pulled the trigger yet. He knew his prey hadn't shot because it was lying there, stationary as he was. He turned his head around and noticed another hunter, standing far away, soaking in all the glory that should have been his.
"God dammit ahhhhhh!!" he shouted, as he threw his controller on the couch. "That was my kill!"
He stared at his TV with a defeated look. He sat motionless, stationary, another dead body upon the suburban tundra.
Yay so my prompt this time was a very open one. I was basically supposed to write a story from a 3rd person perspective. No idea how this story came to be. Just thinking of Call of Duty probably. I actually kinda like parts of this one though. I wrote it in less than an hour so I think its pretty good for that amount of time. Cheers :)
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Short Story Writing - Plaid Shirts and Neon Kicks
The party was alive and well. Everyone felt warm and the world was spinning in all the right ways. Dim lights and a slight haze from cigarette smoke set an atmosphere of lust and sin. The room smelled a little like a skunk, but nobody complained, and some even said they thought it smelled good. Music meant that nobody was standing still, and nobody was a lonely dancer in the room. Bodies were pressed against one another without any fear of invading someones personal space.
CJ walked into the room and felt like he was at home. Already faded from smoking with his friends before, he smelled the smoke of the room and smirked. A quick shout across the room to his friends and a beer bottle in hand was all he needed to slip into the party. CJ walked through the room as if he was Jesus walking on water. He knew he was the unique one at this party, nobody else had the same colored plaid shirt as him. It came from the expensive section of Forever 21, and he knew none of the people at this party could afford it cept for him. Nobody looked as good as he did in his thick, black framed glasses or his neon purple and baby blue hat, cocked ever so slightly upon the top of his head. He was most proud of his shoes though, his limited edition Nike Dunks that color coordinated exactly with his hat and shirt. He liked to tuck his pants into his shoes to make them pop out more, and tonight was no exception. Yeah, he knew nobody in here could match how good he looked, and he carried himself with a swag, with his head held high and that ever present slight smile on his face.
The room was dark, but CJ saw something that grabbed his attention across the room. He couldn't see her face, but her little black dress caught her curves in a way that beckoned a second look. She's the kind of girl that needed more investigating, and CJ knew the best way to do that was to go say whats up. There was a crowd in between the two of them, but all CJ saw was the reward at the end of the tunnel. He grazed his chin with his thumb, put on his best smile, and started to stroll towards the mysterious girl. The crowd wouldn't let him through so easily though, and strangers were constantly bumping and rubbing, but he wouldn't let his goal slip out of reach. He was focused so much on his goal that he didn't notice the bottle of beer in his hand start to slip.
"Hey man, the fuck you doing?"
CJ was broken out of his trance. "What?" was all he was able to get out.
"You spilled beer all up on my shoes. Look, you still spilling."
"Ah my bad bro." CJ patted the guy on his shoulder and started to look for the girl again.
"Naw it ain't 'my bad bro'. You don't fucking understand. These are my new kicks."
"Seriously man, my bad." CJ started to walk away from the guy for good.
"Aw hell naw you is not trying to walk away from me. You trying to get your ass kicked huh? I'ma put your ass to shame."
CJ felt himself being spun around. He didn't have time to react. There wasn't a reflex to dodge. All that was left was a look of emptiness on a face that couldn't stop smiling.
Yay so my prompt for this one was to do a dialog between two people that escalates into a dispute. Mine didn't really escalate but oh wells. I wanted someone to get punched, so I just thought of the group of people that deserves it most. So yeah hope you enjoy.
CJ walked into the room and felt like he was at home. Already faded from smoking with his friends before, he smelled the smoke of the room and smirked. A quick shout across the room to his friends and a beer bottle in hand was all he needed to slip into the party. CJ walked through the room as if he was Jesus walking on water. He knew he was the unique one at this party, nobody else had the same colored plaid shirt as him. It came from the expensive section of Forever 21, and he knew none of the people at this party could afford it cept for him. Nobody looked as good as he did in his thick, black framed glasses or his neon purple and baby blue hat, cocked ever so slightly upon the top of his head. He was most proud of his shoes though, his limited edition Nike Dunks that color coordinated exactly with his hat and shirt. He liked to tuck his pants into his shoes to make them pop out more, and tonight was no exception. Yeah, he knew nobody in here could match how good he looked, and he carried himself with a swag, with his head held high and that ever present slight smile on his face.
The room was dark, but CJ saw something that grabbed his attention across the room. He couldn't see her face, but her little black dress caught her curves in a way that beckoned a second look. She's the kind of girl that needed more investigating, and CJ knew the best way to do that was to go say whats up. There was a crowd in between the two of them, but all CJ saw was the reward at the end of the tunnel. He grazed his chin with his thumb, put on his best smile, and started to stroll towards the mysterious girl. The crowd wouldn't let him through so easily though, and strangers were constantly bumping and rubbing, but he wouldn't let his goal slip out of reach. He was focused so much on his goal that he didn't notice the bottle of beer in his hand start to slip.
"Hey man, the fuck you doing?"
CJ was broken out of his trance. "What?" was all he was able to get out.
"You spilled beer all up on my shoes. Look, you still spilling."
"Ah my bad bro." CJ patted the guy on his shoulder and started to look for the girl again.
"Naw it ain't 'my bad bro'. You don't fucking understand. These are my new kicks."
"Seriously man, my bad." CJ started to walk away from the guy for good.
"Aw hell naw you is not trying to walk away from me. You trying to get your ass kicked huh? I'ma put your ass to shame."
CJ felt himself being spun around. He didn't have time to react. There wasn't a reflex to dodge. All that was left was a look of emptiness on a face that couldn't stop smiling.
Yay so my prompt for this one was to do a dialog between two people that escalates into a dispute. Mine didn't really escalate but oh wells. I wanted someone to get punched, so I just thought of the group of people that deserves it most. So yeah hope you enjoy.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Short Story Writing - Time to Sleep
Time to Sleep
Finally, I have some time to myself. I can slip into bed without any worries of being bothered by someone. For only the second time today, with the first time being waking up this morning, I am truly alone.
Throughout the day, I am never alone. Even on the drive to work, I don't consider myself to be alone, even though its only me in the car. I consider cars to be extensions of people, so if I'm stuck in a traffic jam, I consider myself to not be surrounded by cars, but by people, and slow moving ones at that. I don't consider houses to be extensions of people though, just in case you were wondering. Houses don't move, so they're not really much of a disturbance to me.
My job isn't an escape from people either. In fact, it forces me to talk to people. Being a telemarketer isn't exactly a job for the anti-social. First off, I'm stuck in a room full of noises that people make. There's the constant droning noise that everyones combined voices make. Then theres the shuffling of papers, the crunch of a stapler, booming footsteps of an overweight co-worker walking by. And then theres the phone calls that we are obligated to make. Ive memorized the script that we have to say to people when we call them. It goes something like, "Hi I'm a representative from Telecom Marketing Agencies and I wanted to let you know about our exciting new products that we have to offer you today", although I usually don't get past the first few words without hearing a click, and then dial tone. Nobody is ever nice to a telemarketer. Nobody ever says hi back to me, or asks me how my day is. Instead they just hate me, even though I'm a stranger, one that they'll never care to get to know. I've realized that this unnecessary hatred is the reason why I don't like other people. Other people don't like me and will never care to know me, so why should I like other people?
But enough about my job. I think enough about that purgatory while I'm there. I don't need to be thinking about other people while I lie in bed before I sleep. I just need to focus on the silence. Yes the beautiful silence before falling asleep. Its so comforting.
Crash
Dammit that sounded alot like glass being broken. Now I hear footsteps. Is this a person? A person breaking my moment of solitude? Why can't these people just leave me alone? Sorry, but I can't take this anymore. Ok good, the baseball bat underneath my bed is still there. Luckily I sleep with my door open so I can easily slip out unnoticed. My bare feet don't make any sound against the floor as I walk smoothly towards the muffled sounds coming from my living room.
I see you, but you're too busy searching for something to notice me behind you. The moonlight shining in from my broken window make it easy to see your silhouette. I don't even hesitate with the swing of my bat. Just one motion, and I'm alone again. Finally, I can get some sleep.
Ok so with this one, my prompt was to write in 1st person about someone with their house being broken into. I don't think I did a very good job of it, mostly because I only had a few hours to write this haha. Oh wells though
Finally, I have some time to myself. I can slip into bed without any worries of being bothered by someone. For only the second time today, with the first time being waking up this morning, I am truly alone.
Throughout the day, I am never alone. Even on the drive to work, I don't consider myself to be alone, even though its only me in the car. I consider cars to be extensions of people, so if I'm stuck in a traffic jam, I consider myself to not be surrounded by cars, but by people, and slow moving ones at that. I don't consider houses to be extensions of people though, just in case you were wondering. Houses don't move, so they're not really much of a disturbance to me.
My job isn't an escape from people either. In fact, it forces me to talk to people. Being a telemarketer isn't exactly a job for the anti-social. First off, I'm stuck in a room full of noises that people make. There's the constant droning noise that everyones combined voices make. Then theres the shuffling of papers, the crunch of a stapler, booming footsteps of an overweight co-worker walking by. And then theres the phone calls that we are obligated to make. Ive memorized the script that we have to say to people when we call them. It goes something like, "Hi I'm a representative from Telecom Marketing Agencies and I wanted to let you know about our exciting new products that we have to offer you today", although I usually don't get past the first few words without hearing a click, and then dial tone. Nobody is ever nice to a telemarketer. Nobody ever says hi back to me, or asks me how my day is. Instead they just hate me, even though I'm a stranger, one that they'll never care to get to know. I've realized that this unnecessary hatred is the reason why I don't like other people. Other people don't like me and will never care to know me, so why should I like other people?
But enough about my job. I think enough about that purgatory while I'm there. I don't need to be thinking about other people while I lie in bed before I sleep. I just need to focus on the silence. Yes the beautiful silence before falling asleep. Its so comforting.
Crash
Dammit that sounded alot like glass being broken. Now I hear footsteps. Is this a person? A person breaking my moment of solitude? Why can't these people just leave me alone? Sorry, but I can't take this anymore. Ok good, the baseball bat underneath my bed is still there. Luckily I sleep with my door open so I can easily slip out unnoticed. My bare feet don't make any sound against the floor as I walk smoothly towards the muffled sounds coming from my living room.
I see you, but you're too busy searching for something to notice me behind you. The moonlight shining in from my broken window make it easy to see your silhouette. I don't even hesitate with the swing of my bat. Just one motion, and I'm alone again. Finally, I can get some sleep.
Ok so with this one, my prompt was to write in 1st person about someone with their house being broken into. I don't think I did a very good job of it, mostly because I only had a few hours to write this haha. Oh wells though
Monday, January 18, 2010
Short Story Writing - Finding Emo
Finding Me
It's always lonely. Nothing but eternal darkness in all directions, black as the night sky, but without the stars to guide the way. They say the desert is an empty landscape, but at least you have all your senses intact there. Down here in the ocean bottom, you're lucky to sense anything at all.
Water, cold and omnipresent, that blocks out every feeling and every stimulation one would want. Warmth is nonexistent here, the suns rays can never find their way down to me. The only color here is black. Even when I look upwards towards the sun, or at least when I think I'm looking upwards, (you can never really tell which direction you're facing when you're surrounded by nothing), I can never see it. Nothing to taste but the saltiness of the sea, nothing to hear but the noises emptiness makes. Even my lantern does nothing more than let me know that my eyes are actually open, that I'm actually still alive down here. All there is to do is wait, floating, trying not to think about how alone it is down here.
I'm jealous of all the creatures up above, and theres nothing to do about it. My blood flows green through my body, the only other color I know personally. At first, curiosity guided me through these depths, hoping there was more to this place than darkness. Back then, my lantern would guide me along the ocean floor. Usually, all I would find would be the skeletons of my brethren, picked clean by the scavengers, but at times, I'd find something different from up above that somehow made its way down here unscathed. A shiny hook that reflected the light of my lantern in every way. A patch of sewn string, like a web. Discoveries like these gave me reason to believe that there was more to this world than the darkness all around.
Now though, all that curiosity has turned to anger and contempt. Years and years of emptiness had dissolved all the curiosity of my younger days, and now I hated everything that had to do with the world above. Thats why when I saw you, I exploded. You two found me, attracted by my lantern, as all other creatures down here do. You were different though. Both of you had a color and personality, something that nothing else down here had. A bolt of orange and white, looking desperate as if you too were searching for something. A streak of blue, carefree in an area that would scare most. I knew it once I saw you two, that you were both from up above, and something inside me snapped. Who knew that something that you had once longed for so much could create such an anger. If we had met just a few years prior, we could have been friends and I would have had an endless supply of questions for you, but now I didn't care. I wanted you out of my life and fast. I wanted you to go back up to your world filled with light and leave me to myself. You never cared about me all those years, so why should I have any feelings of hospitality towards you now? I chased you through the ocean, fueled by an uncontrollable rage that wouldn't subside.
You were able to escape though, as I became entangled in something from up above. For a second, as I floated there, unable to move, our eyes caught one another's, and I felt the guilt grow within me. A voice within me told me, "You just wasted your one chance at having a friend." You eventually left, a fearful expression on your face that said you'd never come down here again. Now I float on through this darkness, trying not to think, but thinking only of regret.
Alright well theres my short story. If you haven't guessed it already, it's about the Angler fish (the one with the big teeth and the little light) from Finding Nemo. My prompt was to write about a character that was deprived of a sense, and I struggled for awhile trying to think of just one sense to be deprived of. So I decided to find a character that was deprived of most if not all senses and this is what came to mind. I got lazy towards the end though, so its not as good as I think it could be, but this story is due tomorrow so oh wells. Kks thanks for reading.
(if youre tagged then i think you'll either enjoy reading this or be able to give me some criticism on what i could do better)
It's always lonely. Nothing but eternal darkness in all directions, black as the night sky, but without the stars to guide the way. They say the desert is an empty landscape, but at least you have all your senses intact there. Down here in the ocean bottom, you're lucky to sense anything at all.
Water, cold and omnipresent, that blocks out every feeling and every stimulation one would want. Warmth is nonexistent here, the suns rays can never find their way down to me. The only color here is black. Even when I look upwards towards the sun, or at least when I think I'm looking upwards, (you can never really tell which direction you're facing when you're surrounded by nothing), I can never see it. Nothing to taste but the saltiness of the sea, nothing to hear but the noises emptiness makes. Even my lantern does nothing more than let me know that my eyes are actually open, that I'm actually still alive down here. All there is to do is wait, floating, trying not to think about how alone it is down here.
I'm jealous of all the creatures up above, and theres nothing to do about it. My blood flows green through my body, the only other color I know personally. At first, curiosity guided me through these depths, hoping there was more to this place than darkness. Back then, my lantern would guide me along the ocean floor. Usually, all I would find would be the skeletons of my brethren, picked clean by the scavengers, but at times, I'd find something different from up above that somehow made its way down here unscathed. A shiny hook that reflected the light of my lantern in every way. A patch of sewn string, like a web. Discoveries like these gave me reason to believe that there was more to this world than the darkness all around.
Now though, all that curiosity has turned to anger and contempt. Years and years of emptiness had dissolved all the curiosity of my younger days, and now I hated everything that had to do with the world above. Thats why when I saw you, I exploded. You two found me, attracted by my lantern, as all other creatures down here do. You were different though. Both of you had a color and personality, something that nothing else down here had. A bolt of orange and white, looking desperate as if you too were searching for something. A streak of blue, carefree in an area that would scare most. I knew it once I saw you two, that you were both from up above, and something inside me snapped. Who knew that something that you had once longed for so much could create such an anger. If we had met just a few years prior, we could have been friends and I would have had an endless supply of questions for you, but now I didn't care. I wanted you out of my life and fast. I wanted you to go back up to your world filled with light and leave me to myself. You never cared about me all those years, so why should I have any feelings of hospitality towards you now? I chased you through the ocean, fueled by an uncontrollable rage that wouldn't subside.
You were able to escape though, as I became entangled in something from up above. For a second, as I floated there, unable to move, our eyes caught one another's, and I felt the guilt grow within me. A voice within me told me, "You just wasted your one chance at having a friend." You eventually left, a fearful expression on your face that said you'd never come down here again. Now I float on through this darkness, trying not to think, but thinking only of regret.
Alright well theres my short story. If you haven't guessed it already, it's about the Angler fish (the one with the big teeth and the little light) from Finding Nemo. My prompt was to write about a character that was deprived of a sense, and I struggled for awhile trying to think of just one sense to be deprived of. So I decided to find a character that was deprived of most if not all senses and this is what came to mind. I got lazy towards the end though, so its not as good as I think it could be, but this story is due tomorrow so oh wells. Kks thanks for reading.
(if youre tagged then i think you'll either enjoy reading this or be able to give me some criticism on what i could do better)
Monday, January 4, 2010
Short Story Writing - Three Points of a Triangle
I'm taking a creative writing class this quarter, so I'm going to use my blog to share some of the stories that I'm assigned to write. So my first assignment is to write a bad story, which seems pretty easy, but its actually kind of hard since I'll be doing everything that goes against what I consider to be good writing. Lets see how well this goes.
Three Points of a Triangle
Lying straight back on my bed, staring at my pale, white ceiling, counting the seconds slowly going by, like a pendulum moving ever slowly. Summer days never really lose their laziness, and today is no exception. The summer heat was able to walk into my room about as easily as my mother telling me to be productive and not to waste another day of my youth. Movement is always an option, one not really worth choosing at the moment. I carefully opened my brown eyes and scanned my room, searching for something that might hold my interest. I noticed no movement at all, except for my fish, gently floating in casual circles around its clear, glass bowl, with about as much care for the world as a rock. My fish is a mysterious one, ever observing the world from its perch upon my desk. One probably would have though my fish was dead, but people would probably think the same of me if they saw me at that very moment. I started to feel envious of my fish, not because of its apathy towards the world, but because I knew that the water in the bowl was the coldest item in my vicinity. It seems like my summer days have turned into me wishing I was a fish just so I could be in some water that would cool me down like sticking my head out of a car on the freeway.
In an effort to actually make something out of this hot and miserable day, I choose to do something that I could do without moving from my inclined position. At this moment, for me this was a quest much like crossing the Sahara Desert, I arose from my bed and I journeyed over to the corner of my room where my guitar was laid out on the floor, much like I had been on my bed just a few moments before. I felt a little bad for disturbing my guitars rest, because it obviously wasn't going to be doing much that day other than lie there if not for my bold intervention.
I picked up my guitar and sat on my bed. I observed my guitar for a few seconds before playing it, almost as if I was having a silent conversation with her, asking if its alright if I could pluck her strings and make beautiful music. Her body was black as nighttime, and her strings were golden like the suns rays. With a few gentle strokes on her hair like strings, me and her began making sweet music upon my bed. The sound broke the silence of the room like a hammer breaking a mirror and having all the glass shards falling on the floor, crashing in an endless symphony of reflections. There was nothing like playing a slow and sweet sounding song for a day that longed for nothing more than that. Even my fish seemed to respond to the broken silence; slowly swimming to the front of the bowl to face me, as if I was some sort of entertainment for him to watch.
Slower and softer became the sounds of my guitar, and I found myself drifting away into the realm of dreams. My dreams usually started in darkness, and today was no different. Eventually, the darkness faded away, only to leave me in my room, with a strange figure walking towards me. I stared in mystery and shock, as this figure turned into a girl dressed all in black. She sat down on the bed beside me, and laid across my lap, softly smiling. I ran my fingers through her golden hair and she sang out to me with a sweet yet calm voice. I stared into her eyes for a second, and suddenly had the feeling that we were not alone. I glanced up and noticed a mysterious looking boy sitting on my desk, staring right back at me with with a calm look upon his face. He nodded at me as if giving me his approval, and I could do nothing but grin back at him. The three of us together in harmony with one another, like the corners of a triangle keeping each other company.
I awoke to the sound of my mother calling out my name for dinner. I gently removed my guitar from my grasp and placed her on my bed, with a farewell pluck of one golden string. I walked over to my fish, stared at him for a second, and dropped in a tiny little pellet of food for him to eat. He stared back at me for a second, and then rushed to the food and ate it in one swift movement. I started out the door, and paused for a second, and glanced back at my guitar and my fish. I smiled ever so slightly, knowing that even though these summer days go by slowly, I'd never be alone through them.
Ok end of my bad short story. I might actually revise this one into a good short story because I kinda like the idea behind it haha.
Three Points of a Triangle
Lying straight back on my bed, staring at my pale, white ceiling, counting the seconds slowly going by, like a pendulum moving ever slowly. Summer days never really lose their laziness, and today is no exception. The summer heat was able to walk into my room about as easily as my mother telling me to be productive and not to waste another day of my youth. Movement is always an option, one not really worth choosing at the moment. I carefully opened my brown eyes and scanned my room, searching for something that might hold my interest. I noticed no movement at all, except for my fish, gently floating in casual circles around its clear, glass bowl, with about as much care for the world as a rock. My fish is a mysterious one, ever observing the world from its perch upon my desk. One probably would have though my fish was dead, but people would probably think the same of me if they saw me at that very moment. I started to feel envious of my fish, not because of its apathy towards the world, but because I knew that the water in the bowl was the coldest item in my vicinity. It seems like my summer days have turned into me wishing I was a fish just so I could be in some water that would cool me down like sticking my head out of a car on the freeway.
In an effort to actually make something out of this hot and miserable day, I choose to do something that I could do without moving from my inclined position. At this moment, for me this was a quest much like crossing the Sahara Desert, I arose from my bed and I journeyed over to the corner of my room where my guitar was laid out on the floor, much like I had been on my bed just a few moments before. I felt a little bad for disturbing my guitars rest, because it obviously wasn't going to be doing much that day other than lie there if not for my bold intervention.
I picked up my guitar and sat on my bed. I observed my guitar for a few seconds before playing it, almost as if I was having a silent conversation with her, asking if its alright if I could pluck her strings and make beautiful music. Her body was black as nighttime, and her strings were golden like the suns rays. With a few gentle strokes on her hair like strings, me and her began making sweet music upon my bed. The sound broke the silence of the room like a hammer breaking a mirror and having all the glass shards falling on the floor, crashing in an endless symphony of reflections. There was nothing like playing a slow and sweet sounding song for a day that longed for nothing more than that. Even my fish seemed to respond to the broken silence; slowly swimming to the front of the bowl to face me, as if I was some sort of entertainment for him to watch.
Slower and softer became the sounds of my guitar, and I found myself drifting away into the realm of dreams. My dreams usually started in darkness, and today was no different. Eventually, the darkness faded away, only to leave me in my room, with a strange figure walking towards me. I stared in mystery and shock, as this figure turned into a girl dressed all in black. She sat down on the bed beside me, and laid across my lap, softly smiling. I ran my fingers through her golden hair and she sang out to me with a sweet yet calm voice. I stared into her eyes for a second, and suddenly had the feeling that we were not alone. I glanced up and noticed a mysterious looking boy sitting on my desk, staring right back at me with with a calm look upon his face. He nodded at me as if giving me his approval, and I could do nothing but grin back at him. The three of us together in harmony with one another, like the corners of a triangle keeping each other company.
I awoke to the sound of my mother calling out my name for dinner. I gently removed my guitar from my grasp and placed her on my bed, with a farewell pluck of one golden string. I walked over to my fish, stared at him for a second, and dropped in a tiny little pellet of food for him to eat. He stared back at me for a second, and then rushed to the food and ate it in one swift movement. I started out the door, and paused for a second, and glanced back at my guitar and my fish. I smiled ever so slightly, knowing that even though these summer days go by slowly, I'd never be alone through them.
Ok end of my bad short story. I might actually revise this one into a good short story because I kinda like the idea behind it haha.
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