Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Blood on my Sleeve
I've not blogged in a while. Egads!
The fact of the matter is that I've been far too busy doing nothing. Yupp. Nothing.
Yes, I've done the odd bit of college work and yes, I've done a bit of writing, but that's about it.
As a result, I've got nothing to blog about.
Well... I could post up what I've written.
Hmm...
Yes. I'll do that.
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The fact of the matter is that I've been far too busy doing nothing. Yupp. Nothing.
Yes, I've done the odd bit of college work and yes, I've done a bit of writing, but that's about it.
As a result, I've got nothing to blog about.
Well... I could post up what I've written.
Hmm...
Yes. I'll do that.
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It felt like such a cliché, and perhaps it was. The rain beat down on the freshly-made corpse, water running into the smashed skull of that dear friend of mine. It couldn't wash away the blood, there was far too much. It just made the puddle spread even faster. I crouched down and looked into his face. He was forever going to have that look of shock on his face, the shock of realising who I was and that I was going to kill him. Poor bastard. I almost pitied him. He had deserved it, of course, but nobody especially wants to have their head bashed in against an art installation. I looked closer. I thought I saw his brain, perhaps, almost pulsing out through the cracks, his hair matted with blood. It was almost beautiful. He had always boasted about his brilliant brain, and there it was, just sitting there, useless.
I could hear people walking down the street behind me, their drunken cackles filling the air. It must have been past three by now. I decided to make my way home before my creation was discovered as they would surely discover me along side it. I sighed. I would have liked to revel in my revenge a little longer, but it wasn't the most sensible option. I cleaned off my leather gloves in a nearby puddle, pulled them off and stuffed them into my pocket. I could finally take my mask off; it was getting quite stuffy in there. I untied it from the back of my head and fastened it to my shoulder. That's when I noticed that my victim's blood had splattered up my sleeve. Such a bother. I'd have to wash my coat before anybody noticed. Oh well. Time to go home.
As I walked, I pulled the playing cards out of my second pocket and thumbed through them. Six cards missing. I flicked through until I found the five of hearts, separated it from the others and held it in my mouth as I put the rest away again. I got to the top of Linthorpe Road pretty quickly and stopped to look at the bells. Hell's Bells, I had heard them get called, since they were arranged I such a way that resembled a pentagram. If I'd wanted to be a little more poetic, I should have lured him here. Such a shame that I hadn't thought of it sooner. I shrugged. Too late now. I took the five of hearts in both hands and tore it in half, right through the middle and threw the pieces to the ground. Nice and symbolic. The fifth person on my list of the ones who tore my heart apart. And mind, probably. Even at this point, I was pretty sure that I'd gone mad. Or maybe they'd all gone mad and I was the only sane one left. I preferred the second explanation, of course. My actions were perfectly justified. I wasn't a psycho-killer. I wasn't just murdering people at random. They were the ones who had performed the 'insane' actions.
But, yes. The torn five lay on the ground under Hell's Bells, the rain darkening the jagged edges. I smiled at this, wondering if people would connect the ruined five to the corpse by the Bottle of Notes. Probably not. Even if they did, they wouldn't know what it meant. There's no way they could connect this to me, either. Nobody had seen me. Nobody knew I was going out. I hadn't gotten a bus or a taxi. I hadn't done anything sick like take a photograph of my work, and the combination of the very fact that my coat was red and the pouring rain was soaking into it meant that the blood could barely be seen. Oh, I'm far too clever for this world. I knew I'd have to take all the playing cards down from my walls when I got home. If someone did try to connect me to all of this, they would be a dead giveaway.
Dead. Nice pun.
I turned and carried on walking down Linthorpe Road. Right down the centre of the street. The only cars out at this time of night would be the occasional taxi, and I could easily jump out of the way of one of those. A smile grew across my face as I remembered a song I had been listening to that evening. I began to hum the tune as I walked, then danced along. I twirled, the tails of my coat spinning out around me, and I began to sing.
“He had it coming,
he had it coming. He only had himself to blame...”
The drunkards were just ahead of me, and they gawped at my joy.
“If you'd have been there,
if you'd have seen it...”
There were screams from the direction I had came from. Someone must have spotted my handiwork. I smiled again. Perfect timing.
“...I betcha you would have done the same.”
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Please, please leave me some comments! I kind of want to finish writing this story of murder and revenge...
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Charlotte Lusk and the unfortunate incident of being thought up by me
Pratting about on Facebook, I came across a draft-note.
Luke, my friend and fellow circus freak had asked me to send it to him after he'd asked me about one of my characters.
This is the best I can do, writing wise. Makes me sad.
Luke, my friend and fellow circus freak had asked me to send it to him after he'd asked me about one of my characters.
This is the best I can do, writing wise. Makes me sad.
The chains clinked together as I was dragged forwards, both those restraining my hands and the one connected to a collar that was placed around my neck. My neck, of all things. Surely these people knew the apparent reason as to why they were taking me away or, at least, they had seen the bruising around my neck. Not only did it hurt to be dragged along in a manner which resembled far too closely my supposed crime, but I felt degraded to the level of an animal. Was it necessary for me to be tied in chains? Did they fear that I would escape and, god forbid, try to hang myself again? Did they think that, given half the chance, I would turn on them and attack like some rabid dog? They think too much of themselves. I wasn’t going to waste my strength on them. There was only one thing on my mind. Revenge.
I was violently jerked forwards and tripped. Small, sharp stones cut into my knees. I struggled to right myself as it turns out exceedingly difficult to push oneself back to one’s feet with wrists that could move no less than a few inches apart and even less so from your waist. My neck-chain was tugged sharply, pulling my head up out of the dirt. An angry face glared down at me.
“Get up, Wolfe.” He said, his voice filled with disgust.
My eyes widened. Wolfe? What lies had she told these people? I dared not ask, but from that one word, I knew she had made up her own story, giving me the name from mine. I could not help but cry and my tears stung the gashes upon my left cheek as I forced myself to my feet. I would not give these people and, since this was all her doing, Elisa, the satisfaction of letting them believe I was weak. I was not going to suffer for their enjoyment.
I hate that I can create characters and have them live their lives seamlessly inside my head, but I cannot for the life of me get it down in words.
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