Creative Writing

[LowerWolf]

Re: Creative Writing

I majored in English with a Creative Writing emphasis.

Ditto.

I always said when I got out of journalism that I'd crank back up the creative writing. But that hasn't happened yet.

[Redacted01]

Re: Creative Writing

I haven't been much for creative writing since I was a kid. Technical and scientific writing has been my thing for the past several years. Problem is that it goes way over the head of people that don't have enough knowledge. It took me forever to get my thesis down completely, but I'd say it was easy to write. I'd hate to think what it would take to write a book.

Proofing is something I've always been good at though haha.

[DJ]

Re: Creative Writing

Ditto.

I always said when I got out of journalism that I'd crank back up the creative writing. But that hasn't happened yet.

Hmm ... I will have to send you a PM to discuss your journalism career. Hint, I was in journalism, too.

[WWF80sKid]

I run a college football website. Have grown since last November and now have five others who help me out. So I get to do that kind of writing as well.

[Bellsprout]

Re: Creative Writing

I've taken every Creative Writing class that I could throughout my too many years of school. I've sucked at many classes, many many classes, but I've never gotten anything other than an A in Creative Writing classes.

Just took one last semester, as a matter of fact.

I love them. I love the writing. I wish I wasn't too lazy to do it in my free time.

I guess I'll be the first one to throw out some writing. I wrote this for my class last semester. It's going to be published in the school's literary magazine this year, so I guess I'm already used to the idea of people in the public reading it, even if that does still kind of weird me out. Whatever.

Yes there is a homeless man getting peed on right at the beginning of the story. Just, you know, power through.

And yes, it's long.

Spoiler

“Dude. You should pee on him!”
“Yeah, man! You totally should!”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“Come on, do it, you *****!”
John could hear this conversation from inside of his cardboard box. It was a bit muffled, and he wasn’t sure if he was hearing it completely correctly, but he knew that once again some drunk college kids had stumbled upon his living quarters looking to cause trouble. A liquid began leaking through the roof of his box, causing John to spring up like a soldier awakened by the sound of enemy gunfire.
“Oh, **** dude, he’s coming out!” yelled one of the college kids and in a panic they all ran away down the street together.
“Cowards!” yelled John in their general direction, but he knew they wouldn’t come back. In truth he didn’t want them to come back, he just wanted to be left alone. He examined his house, as he called it. It would need to dry. He grabbed the blanket and the wad of newspaper he used as a pillow from inside and decided to sleep outside on the street.
Every night before John went to sleep he set a coffee can outside of his house with a cardboard sign taped to it. WAR VETERAN, PLEASE GIVE WHAT YOU CAN it said. It was a lie, sure, but John was desperate. He awoke the morning after the incident with the college kids and wandered over to his coffee can. There was always a nervous anticipation as he approached that can, would he have enough to buy food that day, would some rich person happen by and part with a hundred dollar bill out of sympathy, these are the questions that raced through his mind as he approached the can. As John grew closer to the can, he noticed a haze rising out of the top of it.
“No! No! No! No!” muttered John as he raced over to the can. He bent down and looked inside. Amongst a few crumpled up dollar bills, someone had thrown a lit cigarette into the can, which had ignited the can’s contents. John watched as any possibility to eat today burned away in the coffee can. This cycle of humiliation has to end, he thought. John examined the financial building that he had set up next to (hoping that the wealthy workers inside would prove fruitful) and decided that now was the time. He had always considered it, but had held out faith. Faith in humanity, faith in himself, faith that this was just a rough patch on the road to bigger things. He knew none of that was true now. That building is like 80 stories, he figured, that should be enough.
John walked through the doors of the financial building he had lived near for so long now, and it was like he had been transported into a different world. There were people wearing expensive suits walking around everywhere talking to god knows who on their cell phones, there was a bronze statue of a bear standing in one corner, hell there was even a fountain in the center of this lobby. Nobody was getting pissed on in here, John figured. At least not in the literal sense. He spotted the stairs and immediately began walking over to them with pace. He could feel every pair of eyes in the room on him, he had no business there and everyone knew it, but he figured if he looked determined he might be able to trick people before they could react to him. John didn’t want to take the elevator either. He knew that would be crowded and someone would ask him what he was doing there. So up the stairs he went, flight by flight, his legs aching with every step around the 30th floor. And then, on floor 77, out of the blue somebody stopped him. A woman, coming down the steps from the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” she said.
“I’m just, uhh, I kind of wanted to see the view from the top of the building for once.”
“Sure. Wait… are you the guy that lives outside the building in that box?” John didn’t really know how to answer this. This woman was so pleasant, and John was so embarrassed to have to answer that question. Even on his way to do what he was about to do, John didn’t want to make a fool of himself in what might be his last human interaction ever. “You are!” she exclaimed, cutting the tension and taking the choice out of John’s hands. “Oh my god, I am so sorry about this morning. I was in a rush, I couldn’t find anywhere else to put it, I just…”
“What are you talking about?” interjected John.
“My cigarette. I just, I don’t like throwing them on the street, you know? And I had to find somewhere to put it before I went in to work. I saw that can sitting there and I didn’t think anything was in it, but as soon as I threw my butt in there the whole thing started on fire! I am so, so sorry!” John wasn’t sure how to feel about this. Nobody had been this nice to him in years, but she did also burn his food money for the day. “What were you going to use that money for, anyways? Ugh, I feel so bad. Come on. Tell me so I can make it right.”
“Well I did have a couple hundred grand in there to buy myself a nice townhouse.” John said, smiling at her. She laughed and smiled back. “Seriously, though, I was probably just going to buy myself something to eat.”
“Let me buy you lunch, then! Come on, it’s the absolute least I can do!” John looked up at the stairs. He knew what was up there for him. He looked back at the woman, she smiled at him again.
“Yeah, absolutely. That sounds good.” agreed John.
“Awesome. I, umm, I don’t think I can exactly take you into the cafeteria here with me, is there any chance you could wait for me outside and I’ll bring you something?”
“Sure.”
“Cool”, she said, smiling at him once more. “See you down there.” And down the stairs she went. There was an ambition in her steps, she was so energetic, so alive, John sat there in the staircase for a moment thinking about her, thinking about what had just happened. He looked up the stairs again once more, chuckled to himself, and shook his head. Not now, he thought, I have plans.
John sat outside of the building next to his house (which was drying out nicely) waiting for the woman to come back. He looked around, watched the people go by, the world seemed a little brighter to him at the moment, and not just because there was not a cloud in the sky on this day. Somewhere amongst the crowd of people walking, John heard the frantic footsteps of someone trying to navigate their way against the tide of oncoming pedestrians.
“Sorry! Pardon me! Excuse me, sir! I’m just trying to get through!” said the person, politely, to every person she squeezed past. Finally, out of the sea of humanity, the woman emerged. She looked relieved. John laughed and took notice of her appearance for the first time. He had been a bit distracted and blindsided in the staircase. She was dressed in typical businesswoman attire, but somehow it was different. The black suit coat, the black skirt, the black hosiery, all of that contrasted sharply with the bubbly and cute demeanor of her face, her blue eyes belying a creativity and zest for life that her drab wardrobe sought to balance out. She approached him, two sandwiches in hand.
“Here you go!” she said, cheerily handing him one of the sandwiches. And that was going to be it, John thought. He smiled and took the sandwich from her, thanking her profusely for it, and then something she did something he didn’t expect. She sat down next to him against the wall of the building. “Man, it is just a beautiful day out. Absolutely gorgeous.” she said, John noticing the wonderment in her eyes as she examined her surroundings.
“Yeah, it really is beautiful out today.” John looked around for a moment as well and then decided he would just come out with it. “You know, you don’t have to sit out here with me. I’m totally fine, we’re totally even. I don’t want you to feel like you’re, like, obligated or something.”
“No, no, I don’t feel obligated at all. I just, I enjoyed our little chat in the staircase. You’re… interesting. I thought it would be nice to have lunch outside here with you today.” John smiled at her and nodded. He began examining his sandwich. Turkey, mayo, lettuce, on wheat. He took a bite. It was the best thing that John had had to eat in months. The ingredients tasted so fresh, he had forgotten what a sandwich of this quality tasted like. The lettuce, in particular, was so green and vibrant, it tasted like it had just been picked. She looked at him eating the sandwich and smiled. There was a sense of accomplishment there for her, John could tell. He knew she felt good about this deed, and he was glad to have made her happy. “How is it?” she asked.
“It’s, you know, it’s pretty good.” John lied, he wasn’t quite sure why.
“Come on! Be honest with me here, man! I put a lot of hard work into that sandwich!” she said, half-laughing.
“Okay, it’s the best damn thing I’ve eaten in months.” John said, smiling.
“I knew it!” she yelled, and then let out a Tiger Woods style fistpump. John looked at her and chuckled. “You know, I didn’t even get your name.” she said.
“It’s John.”
“John, eh? I’m Autumn.”
“Autumn? So most people call you Fall, then?” John joked. She laughed and gave him a playful shove. “What exactly do you do at this place, Autumn? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you walking in or out before.”
“I’m an executive assistant. One of the bigwigs upstairs, I coordinate his day for him, take his calls, all that crap. I’m like a glorified babysitter. Speaking of which, I should be getting back, I may need to change his diaper.” John laughed, she looked at him laughing and deadpanned “No, seriously, he’s really old.” John wasn’t sure what to make of this, but then Autumn couldn’t hold it together any longer and broke down laughing herself. “Bye, John!”
“Bye, Fall.”
And that was it. That was the most pleasant afternoon that John had had in months. He laid in his house thinking about her, about her smile, about the energetic way in which she carried herself, he tried to concoct a way in which this changed his life, but he knew in his heart that it had been an isolated incident, a pleasant afternoon sandwiched in-between all the misery. He tried to block out these thoughts, the thoughts that had driven him up the staircase the first time, he knew today that there was kindness out there, and he wanted to try to focus on the good for once instead of all the bad. His house now completely dry, John put his coffee can out and went to sleep.
“Sir, your can! Sir your can is on fire! Wake up sir!” yelled an indistinct voice, awakening John in a panic. He ran out to his can, he saw the smoke coming up from it again, he looked inside and saw only two little pieces of blank white paper on fire inside the can. Relieved, he put the fire out, turned around, and saw Autumn watching him, laughing so hard she was crying. “Oh my god, I know that was kind of mean, but you totally should have seen your face!” she said, still laughing as she talked.
“Wait, so that was you?!” he said, smiling. She smiled back at him, averting her eyes from his gaze.
“I don’t know. Could have been.” she said, playing the innocent. “Here”, she said, reaching into her pocket, “there was one, two, that’s a five, seven dollars in there. And a piece of used gum, but I kind of didn’t want to put that in my pocket so it burned with the paper.” She reached out and handed him the money. “I’ve got to, you know, go inside and do the whole work thing now. God, you should have seen your face. I wish you could have seen your face.” she said, another fit of laughter starting. “Oh my god, I have to stop laughing. I have to go be a serious businesslady now.” She looked at John, “Hmm!” and scowled her face. “Do I look serious?”
“You totally look serious.”
She started laughing again. “Dammit! Anyway, yeah, totally going to be late. Bye John!” she said, running away towards the building’s entrance.
“Bye Autumn!” he shouted after her, chuckling.
The financial building had a big clock on it. That was one of the things John liked best about it. It was around noon now, John had just been sitting there for a few hours. He looked at his seven dollars and figured that now would be a decent time to go get something to eat. So he stood up from his seat beside his house and took a couple steps in one direction.
“Where do you think you’re going?!” shouted a familiar voice.
John turned around and saw Autumn sprinting towards him. “I think I’m going to McDonalds.”
“No you’re not.” she demanded, tossing him a sandwich.
“Autumn, you don’t have to keep doi…”
“I want to, John. I really want to. I enjoy your company, now please eat with me.” Autumn said, interrupting him. John sat down beside her, they both began eating their sandwiches. They talked about her work day so far, how the creepy guy in the copy room had hit on her once again. They talked about passersby on the sidewalk. They joked with each other about their lives, about their situations, trading light-hearted barbs in the way that friends sometimes do. This began repeating itself daily. Lunch with Autumn became a standing appointment for John. It was always the best part of his day. She treated him like an equal, she wasn’t embarrassed to be seen with him, it was so refreshing to John to see someone act like this. He was so used to the nastiness of humanity, he didn’t think that people were capable of being this good. John felt something that he had longed for, something he wanted more than anything, he felt a reason to keep going. Autumn filled him with optimism about the world that he hadn’t felt before. For the first time, he was sure that this was only a temporary setback, that better things were on their way.
A few weeks later, John noticed something odd. It was about 3 o’clock on a Friday afternoon and several people were walking out of the financial building carrying boxes. He could see the heads of desk lamps hanging out of the top of the boxes, he knew what this meant. Those people had been let go from the company. There were 15 or 20 of them, John reasoned, and he felt sympathy for them. He had been in this situation before. One of the people in the group broke away from the rest and began walking towards him. As the person came nearer and nearer into focus, he realized that it was Autumn. He could see that she had been crying, she approached, set her things down, and sat next to him.
Autumn looked up at John, her blue eyes wet and glistening with tears. “I just lost my job. Layoffs. Times are tough, so they’re cutting back, and I just…” she broke down on his shoulder “I don’t know what to do, John. I don’t know what to do. I needed that job.” John put his arm around her, consoling her. He reached into his house and grabbed his blanket to put around her. “Thank you” she said, clutching the blanket, the tears fading away a bit. They sat there silently for a few moments. He held her close, he could feel her calming a bit, coming to terms with the situation. He reached into his house and grabbed a couple of sandwiches.
“You hungry?” he said, smiling at her. She smiled back at him and looked at the sandwiches.
“Wait… where did you get those?”
“…Don’t worry about it.” he said, and they both laughed. Her smile finally chasing away the tears once and for all. He held her a bit closer still and looked out at the world around him. “It’ll be alright.” he said, kissing her on top of the head. “It’ll be alright.”

[BenGerman]

Re: Creative Writing

Great to see some fellow creative writers.

My first novel (technically my fifth try at it) is in the early stages of being published locally, and I'm pretty darn excited about it. There will be little to no money involved for me, but it's still something. I've yet to really tell anyone because I'm convinced something is going to go wrong in the process. If anyone is remotely interested in it, I'll come back here and post a chapter or something.

Dayman, I absolutely loved the story. If you don't mind me asking, where are you taking classes?

[Bellsprout]

Re: Creative Writing

Dayman, I absolutely loved the story. If you don't mind me asking, where are you taking classes?

Was at UW-Fox Valley when I wrote that, which is a local 2 year college, but I'm transferring to UW-La Crosse this fall to finish my degree.

[WWF80sKid]

Here is the beginning of my zombie apocalypse book...

Spoiler

The room was quiet while the President spoke. It was regarding the terrorist attack that happened that morning. Around 9:00 am Eastern time car bombs blew all over the country. New York, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Detroit, Dallas…everywhere.

The President explained that obviously this was an act of terror and that, while we can not let this stand, we need to be safe. We can’t let it affect our everyday life. We need to still go to work, go to school. Live, but live cautiously. Hard to do when a massive terrorist attack just took place all over our country, and we have no idea who did it, or why.

While the President spoke, most of the nation was glued to the television. Some were sleeping, surfing the internet or playing their XBox. But most were watching.

As the President spoke about what our next step was, the picture froze for a moment. Just enough to leave the President staring into the screen. The picture skipped a couple of frames like it was trying to keep up, but just couldn’t. Finally, the screen went black. Then, green. A bright, blinding green color in the darkness of most living rooms. Then a sound. Not just any sound. Not a soothing sound. A high pitched screaming sound. Deafening. Something you’d never heard before. Something you’d never want to hear again.

--------------------------------------------------

A ray of light snuck through the curtains of the bedroom. A perfect straight line going across the bed, crossing across Christian’s closed eyes. A bird chirped, and his eyelids fought open. He woke up in a little bit of confusion. It seemed like he had slept way too long. He pushed himself up and turned to look at his clock. It was flashing 7:05 AM. Christian knew it wasn’t that early. He grabbed the clock to look at it. Not sure why he grabbed it. It wasn’t going to change the fact that the electricity somehow went out last night. And that he was late for work. He turned to the other side of the bed and grabbed his iPhone. He unlocked it and looked at the time. It was 9:05. The electricity went out right about 2:00 AM on the dot. He was supposed to be at work at 7:00!

“Sh*t!” He yelled, jumping out of bed and grabbing his khaki pants. Slipping them on and grabbing a polo from his dresser was something he had done before, he wasn’t always the most punctual worker.

He now ducked into the bathroom one door down from his bedroom and checked on his hair situation. It was a little messy, but that was in style nowadays. Screw it, it’ll have to work. He thought.

He now got into the living room where his German Shepherd Gina was lying on the couch sound asleep. Christian rescued her from a nearby animal shelter when she was a pup. He named her Gina after MMA fighter Gina Carano. The dog seemed to be a fighter just like Carano.

Christian grabbed his shoes and quickly slipped them onto his feet. The black socks on his feet were the same he wore to work yesterday. The same he feel asleep in right after the Presidential speech came on. What did he say about those car bombs? I bet it was China. We’ve been worrying about China for way too long. They finally got us- It’s too late for that! You’re late! He thought.

He walked into the kitchen and swung open the stainless steel refrigerator door. He thought for a moment about grabbing a quick lunch, but decided he’d stop by Rally’s at lunchtime. He loved their French fries anyway.

He pat Gina on the head and headed out the door with his keys in hand. A Cincinnati Reds keychain holding them all together. The dog watched as he shut the door, almost as to say, You didn’t let me out!

Christian approached his blue Honda Civic. As he grabbed at the door handle, he looked over and saw his elderly neighbor Mr. Walton leaning up against his gold car. He looked like he was possibly trying to unlock the door, but he wasn’t moving. Did he have a heart attack? he thought. Is he okay?

Christian dropped his hand from the car handle and walked toward his neighbor. Mr. Walton had to be about 70 years old. A heart attack could be entirely possible. As Christian approached he put his hand out to place it on Mr. Walton’s shoulder.

“Mr. Walton, you okay?” He asked placing his hand on his shoulder. Just then, he felt a warmth. It is November. It’s cold out here. Christian’s windows almost needed scraped. How is this elderly man warm?

Christian looked back toward his car, and then back to Mr. Walton. Now, the old man turned his head to Christian, and revealed that his dark green eyes were no longer there. They were replaced with blank white eye balls. Scary. Gross. Strange.

“What the hell?” Christian asked shocked, backing away from Mr. Walton.

The old man turned toward Christian. He let out a heart stopping growl, Rawwrrrr! Christian stumbled back and fell to the concrete. His head bounced off the black top. He backed away using his shoulders and legs to move from the approaching old man.

Mr. Walton reached down at Christian’s feet. Christian moved his legs rapidly, making sure he couldn’t get a hold of him. He had no idea what had gotten into his nice old neighbor, who always seemed to crack jokes while outside smoking his cigarettes when Christian took out the garbage. Christian finally, feeling he has no other option, planted his foot right square in Mr. Walton’s forehead. Walton fell to the ground and smacked the back of his head on the street. Christian heard the pop, and assumed he was now unconscious. That is until he looked up and saw that he was attempting to get back up to his feet.

Christian now popped back up to his feet. Still feeling oozy, he ran, almost tripping up the slight decline of his front yard, and jumped to the front porch. He unlocked his door quickly, slid in, and slammed it shut. He held the black door shut with his foot, and locked both locks.

“What the f*ck was that?!” He yelled as Gina had already jumped to all fours and was standing ready to pounce with her black and brown fur standing straight up on her back. “What was that Gina?!”

[BenGerman]

Re: Creative Writing

Was at UW-Fox Valley when I wrote that, which is a local 2 year college, but I'm transferring to UW-La Crosse this fall to finish my degree.

Awesome! Congrats on the story.

Matt the zombie book looks awesome. Hope to see you post more of it.

[Wazzup36]

Re: Creative Writing

Loving some of these stories I'm reading! Let's keep throwing them out there!

Anyway, here's a pretty simple short children's story I wrote last month. Let me know what you guys think!

Spoiler

The Race

“I’m way faster than you!” Evan shouted as he zigzagged a foot ahead of Connor.

Connor knew this to be true. Evan was the fastest in the colony, but that still wouldn’t stop him from trying. “We’ll see about that!” cried Connor as he flapped his wings as quickly as he could to catch up.

“Race you to the Fowler’s pool,” Evan shouted back at Connor, who was still a foot behind him. Connor groaned, as he knew the pool was a few hundred feet away. He couldn’t possibly keep up this pace.

Before long, they were racing into a small patch of trees that lined the Fowler’s property. The young bumblebees soared though the air, some fifty feet about the ground. Skillfully navigating under nefarious branches, around dangling pinecones, leaving behind nothing but a faint buzz.

Ahead of them, a squirrel is attempting to reach a pinecone that swings tantalizingly above of the squirrel’s small head. He is committed to gathering this particular pinecone and adding it to its winter collection. Nothing else matters right now, he must reach it.

A few yards behind Evan and Connor are still going strong. Evan’s lead is increasing every second, as Connor just can’t catch up! Evan ducks under a small leaf, but continues his brisk pace, not daring to look back. Connor decides to fly over the leaf, hoping that this path might be quicker. But, his path contains many more leaves and obstacles than Evan’s. He has to slow his pace a little to adjust to his new surroundings, allowing Evan to gain a bigger lead.

Evan, still not looking back, continues onward. He knows he’s almost through the trees. Directly ahead of him, he spots the squirrel trying to reach the pinecone and decides to have a little fun. He heads in a beeline towards the distracted mammal!

The squirrel, perched on its back legs, is so very close to the pinecone, he can taste it! But, suddenly from behind, he hears a faint buzz that seems to be getting louder and louder… He turns his head back and sees the bumblebee quickly coming toward him! His eyes widen! The bumblebee doesn’t seem to be changing course!

Evan smiles as he comes within inches of hitting the squirrel before he zags to the left. The squirrel, still on it’s back legs, loses its balance. “Ahh!” he yells as he starts to fall from the tree. Through some miracle, the squirrel is able to catch himself on the underside of the branch.

Evan chuckles to himself, proud of his prank as he makes it through the tree line and into the Fowler’s backyard.

“Phew!” the squirrel exclaims as he situates himself back on top of the branch; his heart beating much faster than usual. He takes a moment to collect himself and try’s to recall what he was doing. “The pinecone!” he remembers. He looks up at it, it still looking delicious. He extends himself on his back legs again and tries to reach his treat. He is so very close, when he hears something familiar approaching him from behind… A buzz! He shivers as he looks back and sees another bumblebee approaching him.

The squirrel quickly gets back on all fours and tightly wraps his legs around the branch and closes his eyes. His legs trembling enough to shake the branch.

Connor can no longer see Evan, but he does see a squirrel a foot ahead of him, he moves slightly over to his right to avoid hitting him. He yells “Excuse me!” as he quickly passes the squirrel.

The squirrel hesitantly opens his eyes, thankful he didn’t almost topple out of the tree again. He again positions himself under the pinecone and cautiously begins to get back on his hind legs.

Towering high above the Fowler’s yard, Evan can make out the pool in the distance. He hasn’t heard Connor in quite a while, so he feels pretty confident that he’s winning the race. He finally looks back towards the tree line and sees that Connor is just now getting through the trees. He begins to slow his pace; there is no need to embarrass Connor.

Connor at last makes it though the trees into the open spaces of the Fowler’s yard. He sees the pool in the distance. “Finally,” he thinks to himself as he makes his way towards the goal. He spots Evan about twenty feet in front of him. Connor knows that Evan is going to beat him to the pool, but he doesn’t want to be that far behind. With his last bit of energy, he starts flapping his wings even harder! Twenty feet quickly turns into fifteen! Ten! He’s closing the gap! He might finally beat Evan!

Evan, still flying at his abbreviated pace, can hear Connor getting closer and closer. He’s starting to get a little nervous. He doesn’t want to humiliate Connor, but he still wants to win. So, he begins to pick up his speed.

The young bumblebees are a mere ten feet from the Fowler’s pool. They can smell the chlorine in the air. Evan remains in the lead, but Connor is making up ground quickly. Five feet, four feet, three feet, Connor is just a few inches behind Evan, two feet! One foot!

It’s an extremely close finish! But, Evan manages to just beat Connor to the pool. He shouts in excitement! Connor lets out an exhausted sigh. The young bumblebees soon settle on the side railing of the pool. “That was way too close,” Evan says to Connor. Connor gasping for air, manages to blurt out, “I almost… I almost had you! But you’re… you’re too quick,” Evan chuckles and pats Connor on the back. “Someday you’ll get me.” Evan remarks.

The best friends look out onto the clean blue water; the humming of the nearby pump reverberating in the distance. The bumblebees sit in silence for a moment, enjoying the view of the sun flickering off the blue liquid.

Evan looks at Connor and smiles before saying: “Bet I can hover closer to the water than you…”


THE END

[WWF80sKid]

Remember that constructive criticism and compliments are definitely welcome here.

I'll have to post more of mine after a while.

[Beantown]

Re: Creative Writing

It's on my blog, but it's hard to follow there because it's fragmented. This is the beginning of the ****ty first draft (un-edited, not proofread, ****ty basic dialogue as place holders, some of the dates/timelines probably don't work out because that'll all get done in the first editing process - and I finally have a notebook written out to keep the murder dates and victims and such next to me) of the current serial killer story I'm working on. It hasn't started going yet and I'm just getting my feet wet with it with this opening interview, but I appreciate any comments/criticism.

Spoiler

November 20th, 2012

When Mitch Collins left his office at the newspaper and headed to his car, he had no idea that his life was about to change. By the time Mitch latched his seatbelt and started the engine, when the killer put a hand over his mouth and he felt a gun press against the side of his head, he understood.


November 20th, 2011

It was still dark out at four forty-seven as Frank Richards entered the park on his morning jog. He had his headphones pushed into his ears and did not hear the approaching footsteps behind him. They, two men, waited until he got deeper into the park and was away from the road before they moved closer to him. When he felt their presence, it did not take long once they were following close enough, he slowed and whipped his head around to look at them.

Both of the men wore black – shoes, pants, shirts, gloves – and plain white plastic facemasks. Frank never saw the third man, dressed the same, step into his path and he tripped over an outstretched leg and sprawled out on the walkway. Once he hit the ground, it was hard to keep up with what happened.

The three men were joined by two more and the five of them descended on Frank quickly. The one nicknamed Smiley arrived first and placed a piece of gray duct tape over Frank’s mouth. Two of the other men, Jack and Jill (a name the Six of them found quite hysterical), moved in as Frank’s shock began to wear off and he started to lift his arms to tear the tape that had appeared over his mouth off. Each of them kicked, Jack drove his foot into Frank’s left side as Jill connected with Frank’s right side and all of the air rushed out of Frank’s lungs and in an instant his shock had returned, coated with fear and pain.

As Smiley stepped back and Jack and Jill kicked again, this time Jack was blocked by Frank’s arms as the man balled himself up, but Jill’s kick landed square in the small of Frank’s back and the man yelled out, muffled by the tape, and his hands reached up to claw at the tape. Bandit and Brasco, the other two who had come onto the scene late stepped up and rolled Frank onto his back and each knelt down with their full weight on Frank’s arms. The man again cried out from behind the duct tape and began to flail his legs and squirm back and forth – which made the pain his arms worse as they tried to twist and turn under the heavy knees – in panic.

Frank kicked at the ground and to the sides and at the men and anywhere he could. He twisted his hips and tried to pull himself out from under the weight of the two men but realized he would not accomplish anything more than breaking his own bones if he continued to try that. He yelled and screamed but the tape kept the sounds to a minimum. He felt his heart racing and his breath getting short. He felt the pain in his sides and his back. He saw all five plain white masks staring at him. All five of the faces had the same eyes – white contacts to hide the color of their pupils – and all of the eyes were looking at him.

The man who would become their first victim did not see the sixth man, known as Six, watching all of this unfold from twenty feet away. Six was leaning against a tree watching, his arms folded across his chest and a smile on his face underneath his mask. The plain mask and the contacts he wore to conceal the color of his eyes were both red, not white. He watched, interested and delighted, as the other five closed in.

The beating was short and brutal. The group did not want to push their luck and they had no idea if there would be another jogger out for his or her morning run. Maybe even a dog. All of these thoughts had crossed through Six’s mind while he planned the attack and he had told them to be quick, but thorough.

As Bandit and Brasco kept Frank’s arms pinned below their knees, the other three began the assault, careful to avoid the downed man’s flailing kicks, while he could still muster the energy in the beginning. They kicked him anywhere they could, except for the jogger’s head. They stomped the heels of their shoes or boots down on Frank’s hands, and arms, and chest, and stomach. At the beginning the man’s screams were almost audible despite the duct tape, but it did not take long for the man to quiet down once the assault had picked up. When Frank could no longer kick, the men stomped on his knees and shins and ankles, and when the jogger stopped trying to scream in pain after each one, when it seemed like shock was starting to set in and the man’s tears were no longer flowing, they stopped.

Six took it all in from his spot on the sideline. He listened to each thud when a kick landed and heard Frank’s fingers break when his hands were stomped on. He heard the crack when Jill stepped on the man’s ankle. He never blinked, he never flinched and he never stopped smiling until all five of the men stood and stepped back, forming a small circle around Frank. Six tore his eyes from the man’s body, the sobs had begun again now that the onslaught had stopped and Frank’s brain had time to catch up and process each new pain. The screams would start again soon, Six was sure of that, and even though he saw no one else in the park or walking along the sidewalk off by the street, he wanted to take no risks this time.

The man in the red mask moved for the first time since everything had began, no more than five minutes earlier. They had been quick and as Six neared the downed body – Bandit and Smiley stepped aside to allow Six to enter the circle between them – he saw that they had indeed been thorough as well. He stepped over the man, one foot on either side of the sobbing man beneath him, and then lowered himself until he was straddling the man’s chest. The man below him started to beg, or at least that is what Six assumed the muffled words were meant to be behind the duct tape, and he did not stop until he saw the knife Six pulled from behind his back.

“You seem ready,” Six said from behind the mask, his own voice distorted by the plastic.

Frank’s eyes went wide with realization and then everything went dark as Six pushed the knife forward, the tip of the blade pushing into Frank’s throat right at the suprasternal notch.

Frank Richards, thirty-seven year old father of one, married to Isabella Richards, was the first victim of the “Sinister Six,” a moniker the Boston Globe would be given credit for (despite the fact that the person who offered it up in their meeting, once the media had a larger grasp on what was going on which would not come for another month or so, had done so as a joke having stolen it from an Amazing Spiderman comic book). He would not be the last.

November 20th, 2012

“Don’t make a sound or I kill you,” the man sitting in the back seat Mitch’s car said, his voice as distorted from behind the plain red plastic mask as it was a year ago when he first spoke with it on. “Don’t move unless I tell you to, or I kill you. Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do, or I kill you. I want to work with you, but I don’t need you and I will not hesitate to kill you. If you understand, nod your head.”

The man’s grip loosened over Mitch’s mouth, allowing him the freedom to nod his head without a word. Mitch directed his eyes to the rearview mirror and stared at the reflection of a red mask, with red eyes looking back at him. He knew who it was, the picture the Six had sent out to the media six months after they begun had accompanied one of Mitch’s own stories on the subject, and came to the realization that this conversation would end with his death if he did not go along with him. He was smart enough to realize that, if this man hadn’t killed him yet, he might have a chance of making it home alive. If he did what the man wanted.

“Good, Mitch, that’s real good,” the man pushed the barrel of the gun into Mitch’s temple, drawing a grimace and soft moan of pain from the reporter. “Take your phone out of your pocket and pass it back to me, slowly, please.”

Mitch ignored the pain in the side of his head and used one free hand to pull his cell phone from the right pocket of his jeans and then reached around the chair to hold it out towards the killer. The gun disappeared and he felt the cell phone be taken from his possession. Mitch never considered making a move while the gun was not there.

“Now, I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth. You will not speak until I tell you to. You are going to drive as if you are going home. Act like everything is normal. If you do anything I don’t like, I’ll kill you and find someone else.”

The man pulled both his hands away and leaned back into the backseat. He no longer felt the need to hold the gun on Mitch – he hated guns anyway – so he placed it down on his lap and cracked the knuckles on both of his hands. Mitch pulled the car out of his parking spot and started to drive home as he had been instructed. Mitch stayed silent, as did the man with the red mask behind him, until he was told to pull off the main road and directed down the back roads. He was told to stop and kill the engine after a twenty-five minute drive into the less-populated, wooded area of Northbrook, Massachusetts.

They pulled to a stop in front of a split-level house that had a ‘For Sale’ sign in the front lawn, no lights on, and trees on both sides of the house. Mitch could not see the neighbors’ houses on either side and across the street from the house were more leafless trees. After a moment of wondering if this was the man’s own house, Mitch dismissed the idea and let the next thought sink in for a minute. It was the perfect spot for the man to torture and kill him.

“Pull into the driveway, all the way up to the garage doors, and then kill the engine and lights,” the man had put extra emphasis on the word ‘kill,’ and Mitch thought he heard a quiet laugh from the back seat after but there was no way to be sure. Mitch did as he was told.

When they were out of the car, Mitch got his first look at his captor. The man was two inches taller than him, at least (and at 6’2 Mitch had thought himself tall) and carried himself well. He wore black long-sleeve athletic shirt that clung to a body that was kept in shape, black pants, black shoes and thin black gloves. His dark hair was buzzed and his skin still held the leftovers of the late summer tan. Take notes about everything, Mitch thought to himself, just incase you survive this.

“Walk to the garage and put in the code, it’s 6741,” the muffled voice from behind him said as Mitch started walking towards the door. Or you’ll kill me, Mitch though before he saw the gun held at the man’s side as he turned and reminded himself to follow along. The house looked familiar, but Mitch could not place it.

He put in the code and stood still as the garage door began to open, the light inside the garage turning on as the door opened. When the door had rise up, Mitch found himself looking at an almost empty, standard garage. There was one small storm window in the back right corner, but nothing else on the walls. Not even any shelving units. In the center of the room was a plastic folding table with a cushioned chair on two of the sides.
On the table there were six items: a notepad, a package of mechanical pencils, two water bottles, a tape recorder and a bag of skittles.

“Have a seat, Mitch,” the voice from behind him sounded happy as it spoke.
Mitch walked over to one of the chairs and sat in it. The red masked man reached up and pressed the ‘Enter’ button on the garage’s keypad and the door started to close. It sounded loud inside the garage, but Mitch was not hopeful anyone would here. How many times had he ever heard his neighbor’s garage door opening? And he lived right next door, with very little personal space between the two houses.

The man walked over towards the door that led into the house, checked the door-handle (it was locked) and then flicked on the garage’s interior lights, so that when the timer from the door opening ran out, the two of them would not be left in the darkness. Mitch pulled his eyes way from the man and looked at the table. His mind started thinking up ways of torture with the items in front of him.

“If you need some water, one of those is for you,” the man had walked back towards the table and sat down in the chair opposite of Mitch. The gun was placed in his lap and the man lifted his empty hands up onto the table. He titled his head, staring right at Mitch, and then lifted one hand up and pulled off the mask, and put it down on the table in front of him.

Mitch stared and once again the assumption that he was a dead man echoed in his head. Why would this man show him his face unless he was going to kill me, Mitch thought, but he still took in everything he could. Just incase. The man’s eyes were red, from the contacts, so that would be no help. There were no scars on identifiable markings on the man’s face. He had a thin, short beard that was little more than stubble on his cheeks, chin and jaw, but his neck was perfectly shaven. His eyebrows were thin, his nose was normal, his lips were normal, and his forehead was normal. Everything about him was unremarkable.

“I’m sure you’ve realized who I am by now, Mitch,” the man shrugged his shoulders as if this was not a big deal. “I go by Six, which was convenient when you guys were calling us the, what was it, ‘Sinister Six?’ That’s not my name, but it’s what you can call me. From this point forward, speak freely. I’m sorry about the dramatic kidnapping and introduction, but there seemed to be no other way. Anyways, nice to meet you.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” Mitch said before he knew what was happening. He regretted it until he heard Six’s laugh. As long as he could see both hands, he knew there was no gun being pointed at him. “Why am I here?”

“Do you recognize this place?” Six waved his left hand around, and then paused and shook his head. “Well, not the garage, you wouldn’t have seen that before I don’t think, but the house! The house you might remember.”

“It seemed familiar,” Mitch said, putting his hands on the table and locking he fingers together.

“I killed Tracey Wang in the entryway seven months ago,” Six smiled across the table. “You wrote an article about it. It was the first of many you ended up writing about me, or well, us. I guess I need to give them some of the credit, no? I read them all, by the way. Your articles. I didn’t save them, killers who keep trophies or mementos baffle my mind, but I read each of them multiple times. They were good, informative, and much better than any of the other ones. Even the national ones.”

“I’m flattered.”

“I’m complimenting you and that’s how you respond? Mitch, Mitch, Mitch…I told you I was not going to kill you unless you made me, so lighten up. We’re here to talk and if you don’t make me kill you, I just might make you famous.” The man paused, and ran his tongue along his top lip. “Well, even if you made me kill you, you’d be famous, but at the end of the day you’d be just another victim. The first one in three months, mind you, and the highest profile name, yes, but just another victim.”

“What are we here to talk about?” Now the paper and pencils and tape recorder made a bit more sense to Mitch, they were all interview tools reporters used in their day to day job, but none of that made him any less confused.

“Glad you asked, Mitch, glad you asked.” Six shook his index finger at Mitch and then leaned forward and pushed the tape recorder and writing materials across the table towards Mitch. “We are here to talk about what I have done and what I am going to do.”

Mitch felt his mouth open but no words came out and it did not close. He was shocked and it showed and it drew another laugh from Six that echoed in the empty garage.

“And you didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want to kill you,” Six was still laughing, though it was calmer by now and more quiet. “I’m here to give you the interview of a lifetime. What a great opportunity for you.”

“And if I don’t want to talk to you, then…” Mitch knew the answer, but felt the need to ask.

“Then I kill you and I find someone else who will talk. Are you up for a little game?”

November 20th, 2012

“My life is a game to you?” Mitch stared across the table at Six and pulled his fingers apart and set his hands flat on the table. He started tapping his fingers on the table.

“No, no, no, Mitch. Why don’t you trust me when I say I don’t want to kill you?” The killer’s eyes dropped to Mitch’s tapping fingers, regarding them for little more than a moment. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Let’s get that straight and out of the way. I could kill you right now if I wanted to. But I don’t want to, I want to talk to you and I want you to be the one to talk to everyone else for me.

“I get why you might not trust me, I mean, I’ve killed nine people in the last year. I get it. That makes you not want to trust me. But I implore you to believe that you’re not number ten, you play a much more important role. If you sit there and do your job and play along with my game, you see your family tomorrow. If you want to continue to give me attitude and if you truly want to be uncooperative, then we can end this now and you never see your wife or kids again.”

Mitch sat there in silence as he listened to Six speak. The man’s voice made everything sound so trivial and unimportant. He spoke as if he hadn’t held a gun to Mitch’s head, or as if this was a normal conversation. And he was smiling still. That smile was getting to Mitch. It was so familiar, so friendly and unintimidating. It was a sight that would stick with Mitch for quite some time.

“It seems like a pretty easy choice, Mitch,” Six said after Mitch gave no immediate answer. “Make yourself famous with a face to face, tell-all interview with a killer and live or be stubborn and die. I’m doing this for you just as much as I am for me. Think of the publicity, the book deals, the talk shows…you’re going to be the most famous reporter in the country by the end of tomorrow.”

“What do you want to talk about?” It was easier for Mitch to ask that question again than it was for him to agree to play the killer’s game.

“I already told you that: I want you to ask me about what I have done this year and then I will tell you what I am going to do in the future. I want you to take what I have done and turn it into your best story. I’ll give you creative freedom with that. You can write it out as an interview, you can do a piece-by-piece segment of stories or whatever else you creative writer types can come up with,” Six was getting excited about the thought and Mitch could tell. His voice was more and more animated as he continued and he had started to gesticulate as he spoke. “We’ll get to your options in relation to what I am going to do when the time comes. For now, let’s focus on the past, shall we?”

“Where should we start?” Mitch reached out, in a slow controlled movement, and pulled the reporter’s tools towards his side of the table. He opened the tape recorder, checked the tape and then closed it and set it down on the table inbetween the two of them. He pulled the notebook and pencils in front of him. Six watched everything but did not move at all.

“At the beginning, of course!” Six said, slapping the table in amusement. Just like I told a funny joke, Mitch thought, but kept himself from smiling. “The interview is yours, Mitch. This is your comfort zone, not mine, so why don’t you take the lead for a little bit and we see where this goes, huh?”

Mitch pressed the record button and looked up, across the table, at Six. Then he began.

November 20th, 2012

“What’s your real name?” Mitch smiled after he asked it, he could not resist, and Six laughed in response and shook his head. “Had to try. What do you want to tell me about what you did?”

“Anything you want to know,” Six said and leaned back in his chair, pulling his arms up and folding them behind his head. “Well, almost anything. I’m an open book with a few pages torn out of it for safe keeping.”

“When did you meet the rest of the guys?”

“About three or four weeks before we started.”

“How? Is there some serial killer dating website?”

“Ha. No, I met Jack at a bar, he knew Jill. We recruited Smiley and then Bandit and Brasco a week later.”

“How did you guys go about…approaching the subject?” Mitch scribbled down notes, key points he wanted to remember or visual clues that the tape recorder would not be able to tell him later when…if…he was allowed to write the story. “It’s not like you can just say ‘Hey, want to start killing people with me?’ right?”

“Of course not,” Six laughed and showed no desire in finding out what Mitch was writing down. He was looking around the room, watching Mitch’s face, or just staring off past him. “Jack got drunk, I was only a little buzzed, and made mention of an…anger management issue. I’ve wanted to kill someone for awhile now, don’t ask me why because I don’t know and I don’t care to know, so it just sort of blossomed from there.”

“Just like that?”

“Just. Like. That.”

“How did you go about recruiting the others?”

“As I said, Jack knew Jill from an anger management class the two had taken. We found Smiley after he got into a bar fight the next night and we discovered Bandit and Brasco at a gym. They had just gotten into a fight with each other and were thrown out of the place.”

“What were the recruitment speeches like?”

“‘Hey, you look pissed off, want to come find out a new way to take care of that anger?’” Six chuckled and then straightened back out in his seat, his hands coming to rest on top of the table. “And you think I’m joking, and I am in a way, it wasn’t that cut and dry and that forward, but that was the general message. I offered them a way out of their miserable, hate-filled lives and they bought into it.”

“And how did they react when you told them exactly what this new therapy was going to be?” Mitch crossed out something he had written down and scribbled something else above it.

“You might be surprised how many people in this world think, constantly, about killing another human being,” Six smiled, pulled his arms back and crossed them at his abdomen. “Or you might not be, you’ve been a crime beat reporter for a few years haven’t you? Oh well. Either way, they all reacted quite favorably.”

“No opposition at all?” Another series of scribbles in the notebook.

“I didn’t say that. Bandit and Brasco argued for a bit, again, but Jack, Jill and Smiley provided no disagreements. You must remember, all of these guys had, well, nothing going for them in their respective lives. They were lost and I found them. Simple as that. They were happy to have something to belong to, shall we say.”

“And just like that, the Sinister Six was born.”

“You know we laughed at that name every single time we read it. You guys stole it from a ****ing comic book, did you know that? Spiderman. A collection of evil super-villains. Shame I don’t have six mechanical arms, would’ve made things considerably easier.”

“You guys seemed like you had an easy time,” Mitch looked up from his notebook and saw that Six was smiling. “Nine dead bodies, nine crime scenes throughout Northbrook, no evidence other than that family photo you guys sent in which had no fingerprints or anything else of importance. Why did you send in the picture?”

“We were getting bored.”

“Why?”

“The cops had nothing, the cops knew nothing, so we gave them a lead to spice things up a bit. Make them feel like they finally had something.”

“They already knew there were six of you after the witness saw you with Mary Adler…”

“They knew how many of us their were, yes, and they knew that bull**** description that so-called witness gave them of what we looked like,” Six paused for a second, and Mitch thought for the first time that his voice sounded annoyed. “But they didn’t know exactly who each of the victims had seen when we arrived. We figured we’d let them in on that little secret.”

“So it was a taunt?”

“It was a photo. What the cops made of it is on them.”

“Why are you doing this interview right now?”

“I’ve told you that.”

“Checking to see if you’d change your answer,” Mitch flashed Six a smile. “Nine bodies in a year, but none in the last three months. You were bored six months in and sent the picture and then in the next three months after the picture you guys produced only two victims.”

“Glad to see you’ve been paying attention,” Six shook his head. “Are your little notes helping?”

“They’re not important,” Mitch used his free hand, the one without the pencil, to wave the thought off. He had gotten comfortable in the situation and had yet to decide if that was a good thing. “You were bored, two bodies in three months and then nothing in the last three months. You guys could’ve…no, you had disappeared and suddenly everything seemed like it was over…”

“It’s not over.”

“Then why have their been no bodies?”

“Because that part of it is over. But the game, the real game, begins once this interview ends, as long as you play your part.”

“How can you consider this a game? People have died…”

“That’s what people do.”

“But most aren’t beaten savagely and then stabbed when they die.”

“Well, that’s how nine people have died in the past year.” Six shrugged. This meant nothing to him.

“Why’d you do it?” Mitch leaned back a bit in his chair and stared across the table. He wanted to find something identifiable, something that would help if…when, Mitch reminded himself, not if…he got free.

“I thought we covered that,” Six laughed and tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. Then he stopped, leaned in and nodded. “We did it because we could and because we wanted to. We did it because each of us had lost something, or was missing something, or could not cope with something and we needed to find an outlet for all of those feelings that were bottled up inside of us.

“People these days, they think they need to hold everything inside. Society tells us that our problems are not important because every individual is focused on their own shortcomings or mistakes or faults. There is no sense of unity anymore. So the six of us, we came together and we found something to unite over. We found a way that each of us could take those frustrations that we had been keeping inside for years and instead of fighting each other in bars or losing our temper while we were driving and ending up in jail for some petty crime that meant nothing, we joined together and made something of ourselves. We became famous in just a few weeks. We changed the perception of an entire city – even if it is a small city like this one – and we did it happily. We did it because, while we were there in the park or the parking lot or up in the entryway of this very house, we were happy. Because while they were stomping out every hope and dream those nine people had, and while I was sliding my knife into their throat, we were free.”

Mitch stared in disbelief as Six spoke. When he finished the speech, Six had a smile that spread from ear to ear and his breathing had increased to a slight pant.

“So the killings made you guys feel whole?”

“Yes,” Six almost snapped at him. “It made us feel...alive.”

“How did you guys choose your victims?” Mitch needed to change the subject. Six enjoyed talking about the emotional side too much. Mitch wanted to calm him down and have him focus on the facts. It made the subjects much less volatile from his experience.

“We didn’t have any pattern or type, as you know,” Six took a few deep breaths before continuing. “There were six guys, three girls. Five white people, two black, an Asian and one Hispanic. We were equal opportunity.”

“So they were just crimes of…coincidence?”

“We went somewhere and we waited. Luck played a part in it, don’t think otherwise, because there were times when we wanted to kill and we were ready to kill and the opportunity never arose. We risked it once with Mary Adler, the fourth body, in the parking lot….Ha! That sounds like Clue…and that was the only time we almost got caught. We…honed our craft, shall we say.”

February 17th, 2012

There had been a storm the night before but when Mary Adler arrived to open the restaurant on Friday morning, the plow trucks had already cleared most of the roads and the restaurant’s parking lot was clean aside from a pew slush puddles. When she pulled into her parking spot, it was 6:45 in the morning and the rest of the plaza was empty. Other stores in the plaza opened at 11:00 A.M as well, but none of their managers seemed to have as much prep work as Mary knew she had.

She sat in her car for five minutes, waiting to see if any of the three prep cooks would arrive early as well. It was corporate policy that three people needed to be in the restaurant at all times, but it was cold outside and the restaurant had gotten slammed last night and there was a lot of work to be done. When Mary got out of her car and locked the door behind her, it was 6:51 AM.

Mary never reached the entrance of the restaurant that morning. The five initial assaulters were waiting for the first person to arrive, someone from the restaurant seemed to show up early every morning and with the storm the previous night they had hoped to catch one who left with more than enough time to deal with the roads and catch the others arriving late due to weather conditions.

Jack and Jill hid around one of the snow banks, crouched down in their black outfits (it would have been easy for Mary to spot them had she went the opposite way in the parking lot. Brasco, Bandit and Smiley all hid behind wide brick pillars that lined in front of the stores holding up the covering for the walkway. Six stood alone on top of the short hill at the back end of the parking lot, perched on higher ground to watch. It was further than he would’ve liked to be, longer walk to his victim when the time came, but it had the best vantage point.

Mary, as she walked towards the restaurant’s entrance, was too caught up in responding to a text message with one hand and digging through her purse with the other for the restaurant’s keys to see Jack and Jill stand up once she passed them or to see the reflections of the other three in the storefront’s windows. By the time she saw them, all of their white-masked faces and black clothes, it was already over.

Jack and Jill had perfected the initial grab after the first three victims. They closed the gap between them and Mary in seconds and each of them grabbed one of her arms (the cell phone fell out of her left hand mid text message and her purse slipped down from her right elbow and onto the pavement, spilling its contents in the slush) and pulled her down hard, face first into the pavement. She was caught mid-scream and lost the bottoms of her two front teeth when her face hit the ground. Six, from his spot in the stands, smiled beneath his red facemask, even if the force of the first blow could’ve knocked her completely out and ruined their fun. In the end, when Six would look back on that Sunday morning, the quickness of their assault had saved them.

When Mary hit the ground and felt two of her teeth crack, and then felt the warm blood flowing from her nose as it started to bleed, the remaining three attackers came from around their posts and joined in the initial wave. Jack and Jill had rolled Mary over onto her back and applied their weight down on her arms. Jack reached into the back of his pants and pulled the roll of silver duct-tape from his waistband, tore a single piece off and shoved it over her mouth. The tape stayed in place for a moment and then the blood from her nose kept it from sticking and it slid off.

She let out a scream, gargled through blood she was coughing up from her mouth and weakened by the pain, but it was loud enough for Six to hear which meant it would be loud enough for someone else to hear. The Five white-masks all turned up in Six’s direction, but the red-masked man simply nodded his head. Proceed.

Smiley was first to lash out, his black boot came down square on Mary’s nose, hard enough for all of them to hear the crunch of bone beneath his heel and confirm that if falling face first on the pavement hadn’t sufficiently broken her nose this dead. The explosion of pain from her face made her attempt to scream again, but that same boot sole that was now bloody came down and applied pressure to her throat, cutting off the sound and her flow of oxygen as Bandit and Brasco moved in like the final two dogs in a pack. It was 6:53 AM.

Bandit grabbed Mary’s left leg as it thrashed out and tried to kick him and Brasco grabbed her right. The two attackers looked at each other, tilted their heads, and then nodded. Both shifted their grip to Mary’s feet and, as if they had been counting down in their heads, twisted her foot at the ankle hard enough to snap the bone from its socket at the same time. Mary’s body lurched up from the ground, bucking from under Jack and Jill and forcing Smiley to drop down to the ground, soaking his knees in a puddle as he did (which he would complain about briefly later) and held Jack and Jill hold her down. The sound that came out when both of her ankles broke was loud and full of pain. By the time it had stopped, Six was already down the short hill, knife out and standing by them. There was no expression on his face, which matched the blankness of the red mask.

Mary was sobbing, her tears mixing with the blood on her cheeks and shaking when Six arrived and looked at her. He was disappointed with this one and he would be sure to let the others know about it when they were done. His head tilted towards one of his shoulders as he stepped over her body and lowered down to straddle her chest. He surveyed the damage to her face – her bloody teeth and misshapen nose, the pool of blood and water that was soaking her shoulders and head, the dazed look in her eyes as her brain tried to keep up with the pain that was emanating throughout her body – and then shook his head.

“I hate rushing. You’re not ready.”

Six spoke as he leaned forward, pressed the tip of the knife at Mary’s throat and then pushed forward, leaning his weight into the thrust. Mary’s eyes went wide, her body tried to cough as the blood filled her throat, and then she went as silent as the Six of the men around her now were.

Then they heard the sound of tires splashing through slush and puddles of water as it turned into the parking lot and all of the group turned their heads in the direction. The driver had yet to see them, but when he turned the corner around one of the random sections of grass that separated portions of the parking lot, he slammed on the brakes and stared at them.

He could not see it, but Six’s smile had returned beneath his mask. The cops would have something to go on after this one, which meant the hunt would intensify. They’d think they were close.

“Go.”

One word was all it took for the five white faces to scatter. None of them ran in the same direction but all were headed to the same place. Six wiped the blood from the blade as best as he could against Mary’s side, stood and waved with the blade at the driver of the truck. Then he took off, running diagonally away from the truck.

November 20th, 2012

“And by the time the cops arrived, you guys were all gone with nothing but your footprints left behind in the snow,” Mitch shook his head. Hearing the story from his perspective made everything seem worse than the news had made it seem, or than the bodies he had written about (which started with the victim after Mary) had seemed at the time. “Luck.”

“Luck, yes, but give us a little credit here,” Six yawned, which then meant Mitch yawned across from him, and then laughed. “We could’ve killed the guy, too, but we didn’t. I think we deserve a little credit for that.”

“You guys are regular humanitarians, that’s for sure,” Mitch eyed the man across the table and then shook his head. It wasn’t worth it to him.

“You mentioned the cops,” Six interrupted with a bright smile on his face. “And I know you’re supposed to be the one asking the questions, that’s why I brought you here, but I was hoping you’d tell me how the dear detectives are doing?”

“Why do you care?”

“Well, those two and I have been connected for almost a year now,” Six still wore that same smile as he spoke, but his body had stopped fidgeting and he appeared calm. “They were assigned to me, sorry…us…after the second body, right?”

“Yes, once it was determined the first one was not gang related.”

[WWF80sKid]

Re: Creative Writing

Sorry to bump such an old post but I wanted to talk more about creative writing. It had three pages going so it seems that people were interested.

Anyway, I was originally posting my zombie apocalypse book on this forum in pieces so that others could read it. I've decided to start posting my writing on my own wordpress website where I can post piece by piece so that people can keep up. Almost like "episodes" or "issues".

If anyone is interested here's the address. I'd love to hear any kind of feedback or comments.

http://itsmattlytle.wordpress.com

[The GIGGAS]

Re: Creative Writing

After reading WAAW's great piece, I got the fire to write something. I created a blog for it, and I took a writing prompt from /r/WritingPrompts, and went with it. It's nothing special, just something I wrote over an hour at the beginning of my day, but it let me feel like I was crafting something, which for me is going to be the point.

Anyway, here's the link:

http://thegiggas.wordpress.com/2014/09/11/someone-suddenly-decides-to-drop-everything-and-run-away-from-herhis-life/

[WWF80sKid]

Re: Creative Writing

I've posted three parts of my zombie apocalypse book on my site!