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.

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 :)

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.

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