Kill the man--save the country. It takes sweating hands and a palsied conscience, but I can do it. Quick breaths, short breaths, tight grip on a Smith & Wesson that feels cold and clammy against my palm.
Bureaucracy and corruption had ruined this nation, fettering away at useless topics that accomplished nothing and killed the common man. I am the people's savior, and I will deliver them from the jaws of this government. They are sheep, but only a few of them know it and fight it. I am their champion.
His limousine--black glossy snake, mouth wide--curves around the corner now. I have sudden qualms flickering at the back of my brain, but no--this man has destroyed the country and I will save it. Quick steps now, up through the crowd, gun under sleeve. They push and cheer, blind and deaf. It saddens me, but spurs me. I am forcing myself down to a quick walk--fast enough to reach the car in time, with him emerging from the sunroof, smiling, waving, false. Two steps more.
His eyes widen as the two barrels empty themselves into his body. Immediately I feel the shriek of bullets tearing into my skin, but I smile, for my work is done. I am a martyr now. I am their hero...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Commentary: I was just perusin' the interwebs and "I Just Shot John Lennon" by The Cranberries came on iTunes. This isn't that specific event, of course, but it's obviously on the subject and what goes through the assassin's brain.
Showing posts with label realistic fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label realistic fiction. Show all posts
4/03/2009
2/27/2009
Frayed
Depression and disease never mix. Maybe one caused the other, or vice versa--maybe they were in constant symbiosis, conspiring with each other to wreak as much havoc on her body as possible--it didn't matter. What mattered was the repeating cycle of valleys and bumps--never hills to reach the top of, that would be too good to be true. Just deep and dark, low and lightless.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, eight-year-old springs creaking and sagging under her overweight body, she thumbed the Rx bottle in between her fingers, rolling it around and examining its label as if it would help her decide. The third time in that many hours she had had these thoughts, of oxymorphone and dyhydrocodeine, to swallow down to swallow her life.
Her job, that was gone; her boyfriend too. Religion didn't do much anymore. Her mother hated her--but that was a lifelong thing--and her apartment was barely big enough to fit her and the roaches. Oh, and no money for the rent either.
As her hand went for the pen and the back of the envelope that held the taxes she couldn't pay, it brushed against the phone. And it rang.
She stopped. Swallowed. Thought.
And picked it up.
There was a catch of breath on the other end, as if surprised to find an answer. "Lisa . . . don't," it finally said.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Commentary: Thanks to Mask by the Moon for the opening line to get me started. I need to try IM writing prompts more often.
As she sat on the edge of the bed, eight-year-old springs creaking and sagging under her overweight body, she thumbed the Rx bottle in between her fingers, rolling it around and examining its label as if it would help her decide. The third time in that many hours she had had these thoughts, of oxymorphone and dyhydrocodeine, to swallow down to swallow her life.
Her job, that was gone; her boyfriend too. Religion didn't do much anymore. Her mother hated her--but that was a lifelong thing--and her apartment was barely big enough to fit her and the roaches. Oh, and no money for the rent either.
As her hand went for the pen and the back of the envelope that held the taxes she couldn't pay, it brushed against the phone. And it rang.
She stopped. Swallowed. Thought.
And picked it up.
There was a catch of breath on the other end, as if surprised to find an answer. "Lisa . . . don't," it finally said.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Commentary: Thanks to Mask by the Moon for the opening line to get me started. I need to try IM writing prompts more often.
2/26/2009
Not Exactly Disney World
The two walked dazedly around the husk of the limousine, taking small, unsure steps as if not knowing what to do next. The cans that hung tangled in the branches clinked together softly as a slight breeze whispered by.
"The driver just texted," Chris said, shifting his weight from polished shoe to polished shoe. "He'll be back in about an hour with help."
Kathy sighed. "Well, this wasn't exactly the honeymoon we had planned."
"No." He squinted as the gold blob to the west melded with the horizon. "But you can't really account for panhandle weather."
They stood for a while, she clutching her flowers and he with his hands in his jacket pockets. His foot accidentally brushed up against the fallen tree, rattling the twigs. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he thought. Her family paid the dowry, half of which went to the wedding and half of which went to the trip immediately after. Now only half went to use.
Suddenly he looked up and walked over to Kathy, wrapping his arms around her shoulders from behind and rocking back and forth. His right hand went up to wipe her tears away. He felt her mouth move, but he couldn't tell if it was a smile or a grimace.
"Kathy," he murmured in her ear, "Florida sure is beautiful, isn't it?"
It was a smile.
"Yes," she said. Her nose was stuffy.
They sat down slowly, still rocking, tailored fabrics scratching on the concrete. In all of a minute, the humid air finally broke and rain dived down, scattering on the pavement like so many pennies. They smiled together, and then laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and continued rocking.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Commentary: I haven't written in a long time, and I knew I needed to get back into it. I Stumbled just once and found this picture, which I thought looked pretty writable.
"The driver just texted," Chris said, shifting his weight from polished shoe to polished shoe. "He'll be back in about an hour with help."
Kathy sighed. "Well, this wasn't exactly the honeymoon we had planned."
"No." He squinted as the gold blob to the west melded with the horizon. "But you can't really account for panhandle weather."
They stood for a while, she clutching her flowers and he with his hands in his jacket pockets. His foot accidentally brushed up against the fallen tree, rattling the twigs. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he thought. Her family paid the dowry, half of which went to the wedding and half of which went to the trip immediately after. Now only half went to use.
Suddenly he looked up and walked over to Kathy, wrapping his arms around her shoulders from behind and rocking back and forth. His right hand went up to wipe her tears away. He felt her mouth move, but he couldn't tell if it was a smile or a grimace.
"Kathy," he murmured in her ear, "Florida sure is beautiful, isn't it?"
It was a smile.
"Yes," she said. Her nose was stuffy.
They sat down slowly, still rocking, tailored fabrics scratching on the concrete. In all of a minute, the humid air finally broke and rain dived down, scattering on the pavement like so many pennies. They smiled together, and then laughed at the absurdity of the situation, and continued rocking.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Commentary: I haven't written in a long time, and I knew I needed to get back into it. I Stumbled just once and found this picture, which I thought looked pretty writable.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)