Un tiss. Bass movements.
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Short.
Cruising down the highway.
In a 1926 Rolls Royce.
The engine busted years back.
But it's better than a Cadillac.
Eyes glaring, nostrils flaring.
Hardly hearing the wind over the radio.
The grin cracks over the man's face.
He'd forgotten how to ride.
For him. It was like forgetting how to breathe.
Medium.
With a gun in hand, her heavily booted foot crunched across the gravel. Admittedly, her boots were uncharacteristically thick and green, identical in every right to a pair of South African troop's standard issue. Down to the blood spilt on the front of the rubber sole that was yet to have been cleaned off. Possibly a memento. But they still looked very out of place on such a well dressed girl. Her delicately deliberate movements were that of someone who was trying hard not to be noticed but attempting to get somewhere in good time. A large white and green house loomed ahead, nestled in between a tall set of evergreens. The light in the attic was on, piercing through the dusty windows, framed by grubby white blocks of wood. A person with 20/20 vision to brag about might remark about how they needed cleaning.
The girl did not pay attention to any fact other than someone was home, and evidently that someone was of importance to her as she strode forth seemingly faster. With a well aimed kick, she sent some gravel scattering. The light in the attic flickered a few times and went out. She raised the gun to shoulder hight, her leather gloves making a heavy squelch as her hands formed a grip around the stock. As her gun fixated on the door, it's handle rattled, the bronze shining in the twilight.She drew her breath, as still and stiff as the gun in her hands.
Another rattle.
Another breath.
The gloves make another squelch, her hands starting to go numb as her fingers tease the trigger back, thumb sliding the safety off. Her body seemed to glide towards the door as her legs moved slowly, methodically until she She tugs it back brutally, gun kicking roughly, her arms rising and lowering quickly. The bullet slides around in the chamber, spinning and solidly bouncing off the bronze coloured knob. Behind the door, a loud thud resounds, breaking the silence after the gunshot. She laughs and kicks at the door with her boot, listening to the loud crunch of wood compacting, splitting. The rubber heats up a little, her leg swinging again and again. She shouts out loudly, putting all of her might into the heel of her boot, door giving a final creak before the wood lets it’s natural grasp on the screws fail. The door wrenches away from the hinges, falling into the house, breaking a vase on the way down.
Longer? Yeah. No.
Cruising down the highway.
In a 1926 Rolls Royce.
The engine busted years back.
But it's better than a Cadillac.
Eyes glaring, nostrils flaring.
Hardly hearing the wind over the radio.
The grin cracks over the man's face.
He'd forgotten how to ride.
For him. It was like forgetting how to breathe.
Medium.
With a gun in hand, her heavily booted foot crunched across the gravel. Admittedly, her boots were uncharacteristically thick and green, identical in every right to a pair of South African troop's standard issue. Down to the blood spilt on the front of the rubber sole that was yet to have been cleaned off. Possibly a memento. But they still looked very out of place on such a well dressed girl. Her delicately deliberate movements were that of someone who was trying hard not to be noticed but attempting to get somewhere in good time. A large white and green house loomed ahead, nestled in between a tall set of evergreens. The light in the attic was on, piercing through the dusty windows, framed by grubby white blocks of wood. A person with 20/20 vision to brag about might remark about how they needed cleaning.
The girl did not pay attention to any fact other than someone was home, and evidently that someone was of importance to her as she strode forth seemingly faster. With a well aimed kick, she sent some gravel scattering. The light in the attic flickered a few times and went out. She raised the gun to shoulder hight, her leather gloves making a heavy squelch as her hands formed a grip around the stock. As her gun fixated on the door, it's handle rattled, the bronze shining in the twilight.She drew her breath, as still and stiff as the gun in her hands.
Another rattle.
Another breath.
The gloves make another squelch, her hands starting to go numb as her fingers tease the trigger back, thumb sliding the safety off. Her body seemed to glide towards the door as her legs moved slowly, methodically until she She tugs it back brutally, gun kicking roughly, her arms rising and lowering quickly. The bullet slides around in the chamber, spinning and solidly bouncing off the bronze coloured knob. Behind the door, a loud thud resounds, breaking the silence after the gunshot. She laughs and kicks at the door with her boot, listening to the loud crunch of wood compacting, splitting. The rubber heats up a little, her leg swinging again and again. She shouts out loudly, putting all of her might into the heel of her boot, door giving a final creak before the wood lets it’s natural grasp on the screws fail. The door wrenches away from the hinges, falling into the house, breaking a vase on the way down.
Longer? Yeah. No.
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Not sure where I'm going with this. Probably nowhere. Just writing random gibberish that is fit for a text box, I suppose. I feel very rusty, and seem to have forgotten most of my deliciously long and devilishly confusing words.
Aaaaaah. Double Yuki head.
Aaaaaah. Double Yuki head.
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MegaTenLove wrote...
Too bad. It looked like it had potential if it was made longer.Potential, hmm? I wasn't going very far. It was just a girl walking to a house with a gun and an intent that developed slightly. Just on the fly commercial junk food really. But if you wish, I could string it out into a mild short story which didn't lack in plot. I shall sleep on it!
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I said this had potential because the character's motive is implied and yet still remains a mystery with the description of the boots (South African troop's standard Issue).
My main concern is that too often I run into people who only toy with the idea of being a writer. It's okay to play (God knows I like to write gibbirish and abstract stuff too once in a while), but many just take their talents for granted, saying, "Hey, this is a story that's seemingly original and can have nice depth to it. Should I finish it? NAH! I'll go fap instead!" And so another shot at hearing an original story from an up and coming author is destroyed.
-Thank you for working on it, but I don't want you to feel like you're being pressured into writing something you don't want to. Any kind of story will do, especially one with such a great atmosphere.
Though an unpublished writer's opinion matters little to most, I want you to know I think you've got a nice gift (one I see you already know you have). I look forward to seeing anything more from you, and if not, then I'll tell you what few ever told me: Please continue writing. You're good at it.
My main concern is that too often I run into people who only toy with the idea of being a writer. It's okay to play (God knows I like to write gibbirish and abstract stuff too once in a while), but many just take their talents for granted, saying, "Hey, this is a story that's seemingly original and can have nice depth to it. Should I finish it? NAH! I'll go fap instead!" And so another shot at hearing an original story from an up and coming author is destroyed.
-Thank you for working on it, but I don't want you to feel like you're being pressured into writing something you don't want to. Any kind of story will do, especially one with such a great atmosphere.
Though an unpublished writer's opinion matters little to most, I want you to know I think you've got a nice gift (one I see you already know you have). I look forward to seeing anything more from you, and if not, then I'll tell you what few ever told me: Please continue writing. You're good at it.
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MegaTenLove wrote...
I look forward to seeing anything more from you, and if not, then I'll tell you what few ever told me: Please continue writing. You're good at it.I agree completely with you MegaTenLove. Whilst I too am no expert on the art of writting, reading this has indeed sparked my imagination and interest. Not many literary works spark interest for me, but from your few sentences, you've done exactly that. This story does have, scratch that, this writer, has much potential.
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It makes for a warm fuzzy feeling to be praised for ones efforts. I'm happy that you've thrown your thoughts out there, and I'll be glad for a chance to polish the old brain-majigerwhatsit. I'll probably sit on it a bit so I can throw up something worth posting as a story, with characters that aren't extremely one dimensional, so don't hold your breath. But I'm sure I can whip something up before the end of my week. It's Wednesday today, here.
Then again, it could just turn to custard. So holding your breath is highly discouraged.
Edit: I added just a little bit.
Then again, it could just turn to custard. So holding your breath is highly discouraged.
Edit: I added just a little bit.