This came completely out of nowhere the other day, I felt like writing and I did. I want people to read this and give me some tips on my writing.
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It is eleven past midnight. The night is cold with the whispers of the elder, who watch TV while waiting for their day to come. In this small town, full of older men and women, the night is silent on most places. Even the youth prefers to stay home doing whatever they do at that age than going out on weekdays. I myself like to go for walks on these silent nights.
Despite the chilly night, I feel no cold. As I walk down the pavement on the side of the road, the enormous tree in my front grows as I close in. Right in front of me is one of this town’s redeeming features, a gigantic eucalyptus measuring over twenty average men on top of each other. By the tree is the park; while full of stoners on a usual school day, at night it lies inert and dead, much like everything else here.
Two figures stand tall on the center of all the grass and trees this night, though. You can see from a distance that one is relatively shorter than the other. It is also noticeable that they are both drunk because of the unusually loud voices and sloppy walking.
I pull my handgun out of my jacket’s pocket. I look at it and I think how guns bear such a big burden. One simple click, one little movement of your index finger, and… ‘Heaven’… gets yet another soul. There’s that movie about the man and the spider, and “with great power comes great responsibility”, but, radioactive spiders aside, shouldn’t guns be considered a ‘great power’? The ‘great power’ of being able to put a man out of his misery, to spread sadness and pain all around his loved ones, to completely ruin any chance of a future, to rob a children of its innocence? What gives us the right? … It’s not like guns are hard to find or buy - in bigger countries, anyway. Luckily there aren’t any weapon shops available close to this region.
Less competition around.
I let the gun howl a scream of steel and thunder, and soon enough the bullet reaches the chest of the taller man. It takes his friend a few seconds to notice the increasing blood stain on his pal’s shirt. It takes him even more to grasp the concept that his friends is hurt, fatally wounded, with nothing but a bare thread of life remaining. At first his instinct is to run, but then, he pulls his cellphone and, I’m gonna assume, calls 911. I shoot the cellphone as it reaches his ear.
I’ve made a big racket, and while it’s easy to be spot on such a small, deserted town I don’t worry. Because, you see, I’m not running into any deserted street just yet. It just so happens that I am a man of many talents – and while this sounds so awkward, so out-of-this world, so completely unreal, it just so happens that one of my talents is to be able to watch into the ‘future’.
Those mere words bother me. I don’t… “look” into the ‘future’. Actually, I don’t even know if this should be considered as ‘the future’. I just focus for a second, and I see an outcome of a situation – any situation. Now, anyone can say this could just be my detective skills at work, coupled with a fine, calculating, mind. But they would be wrong to assume so. Through all of my life so far, I’ve noticed this is nothing but that – outcomes. Most of the times it is right – rare is the case when it goes wrong. I think it depends on me, my attitude. It’s extremely complicated, mainly because I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I’ve learned not too rely too much on it. It is a mighty fine help on cases like this, though.
I’ll never get used to this, although it doesn’t surprise me like before anymore. I see the whole world become blue, and then I feel like I got struck by lightning. In a mili-second, the vision strikes my head like a bullet on a shootout. The night is dark again…
…And today is still not the day I'm getting caught. I take my leave, half-running, half-walking.
It’s fourteen 'til one am. The night is cold and silent, for the whisperers are already dead.
--
Since this just a short story I tried not too include many details about the protagonist. I am a big fan of Frank Miller, as you can see by the narrative in the first person. I was hoping that writing in normal text would help me brush up my writing skills, since sooner or later I plan to create a comic story.
--
It is eleven past midnight. The night is cold with the whispers of the elder, who watch TV while waiting for their day to come. In this small town, full of older men and women, the night is silent on most places. Even the youth prefers to stay home doing whatever they do at that age than going out on weekdays. I myself like to go for walks on these silent nights.
Despite the chilly night, I feel no cold. As I walk down the pavement on the side of the road, the enormous tree in my front grows as I close in. Right in front of me is one of this town’s redeeming features, a gigantic eucalyptus measuring over twenty average men on top of each other. By the tree is the park; while full of stoners on a usual school day, at night it lies inert and dead, much like everything else here.
Two figures stand tall on the center of all the grass and trees this night, though. You can see from a distance that one is relatively shorter than the other. It is also noticeable that they are both drunk because of the unusually loud voices and sloppy walking.
I pull my handgun out of my jacket’s pocket. I look at it and I think how guns bear such a big burden. One simple click, one little movement of your index finger, and… ‘Heaven’… gets yet another soul. There’s that movie about the man and the spider, and “with great power comes great responsibility”, but, radioactive spiders aside, shouldn’t guns be considered a ‘great power’? The ‘great power’ of being able to put a man out of his misery, to spread sadness and pain all around his loved ones, to completely ruin any chance of a future, to rob a children of its innocence? What gives us the right? … It’s not like guns are hard to find or buy - in bigger countries, anyway. Luckily there aren’t any weapon shops available close to this region.
Less competition around.
I let the gun howl a scream of steel and thunder, and soon enough the bullet reaches the chest of the taller man. It takes his friend a few seconds to notice the increasing blood stain on his pal’s shirt. It takes him even more to grasp the concept that his friends is hurt, fatally wounded, with nothing but a bare thread of life remaining. At first his instinct is to run, but then, he pulls his cellphone and, I’m gonna assume, calls 911. I shoot the cellphone as it reaches his ear.
I’ve made a big racket, and while it’s easy to be spot on such a small, deserted town I don’t worry. Because, you see, I’m not running into any deserted street just yet. It just so happens that I am a man of many talents – and while this sounds so awkward, so out-of-this world, so completely unreal, it just so happens that one of my talents is to be able to watch into the ‘future’.
Those mere words bother me. I don’t… “look” into the ‘future’. Actually, I don’t even know if this should be considered as ‘the future’. I just focus for a second, and I see an outcome of a situation – any situation. Now, anyone can say this could just be my detective skills at work, coupled with a fine, calculating, mind. But they would be wrong to assume so. Through all of my life so far, I’ve noticed this is nothing but that – outcomes. Most of the times it is right – rare is the case when it goes wrong. I think it depends on me, my attitude. It’s extremely complicated, mainly because I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I’ve learned not too rely too much on it. It is a mighty fine help on cases like this, though.
I’ll never get used to this, although it doesn’t surprise me like before anymore. I see the whole world become blue, and then I feel like I got struck by lightning. In a mili-second, the vision strikes my head like a bullet on a shootout. The night is dark again…
…And today is still not the day I'm getting caught. I take my leave, half-running, half-walking.
It’s fourteen 'til one am. The night is cold and silent, for the whisperers are already dead.
--
Since this just a short story I tried not too include many details about the protagonist. I am a big fan of Frank Miller, as you can see by the narrative in the first person. I was hoping that writing in normal text would help me brush up my writing skills, since sooner or later I plan to create a comic story.
