Just a really short story I wrote for my creative writing class. It's entirely different than my normal style, and I liked how it came out. It's not complete, but I'm not exactly sure where to add more. Any suggestions?
“Sorry,” he says.
“I like your shoes,” he says.
I say thanks.
“But not enough to stop me,” he says.
I should probably explain how I got into this predicament. I mean, I don’t think it’s an everyday occurrence when you’re hog-tied in a coffin, with a madman you don’t even know standing, watching, talking over you like a long-time friend.
“Your shirt is especially appealing,” he says.
“It’s a shame I have to kill you. If we could get to know each other, I’m sure we could be good friends.”
He says all this while slowly casing his hands with a sort of gauze, carefully snaking it above and below his fingers, meticulously wrapping, wrapping, wrapping, until each digit is an opaque sausage.
I guess he noticed me watching.
“I’m wrapping my hands. I don’t want to leave any traces. If I leave a trace, they’d be able to find me.”
That’s very smart of you, I say. My friend told me, if you’re ever about to be killed by someone, compliment them a lot, and they may change their mind.
“Isn’t it? I’ve had this planned out for a while.”
I guess my friend was wrong.
With each hand completely white, completely immobile, he reaches out of my view to pick up something. I should mention that I can’t see anywhere but straight up into the blue sky. A few birds were up there now, completely oblivious as to what was going on, simply cruising around at 1000 feet, probably just thinking about passing some gas.
He started chatting a bit more when he was looking for whatever it was. Apparently, after he had knocked me out, he put me in this coffin, tied me up, and put my head between two white marble blocks. Imagine running a marathon, playing a sport for 5 hours, doing whatever. Then you forget to stretch afterward, and all your muscles harden. That feeling you get, that’s how I am now. How you can’t even move.
You’re stuck.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” He waves what he’s holding into my line of sight.
It’s a gun.
“It’s a gun. Not just any gun, but a .357 magnum. You wouldn’t want to take a bullet from this. It may be old, but it still packs a punch.”
But a thought just crossed my mind. I can’t remember if I locked my car this morning.
I guess that’s not important now, with the situation I’m in. But I don’t even remember if I had enough time to lock my car before he hit me.
He yells, “It was you, all along. You kept on doing it.”
I was still dwelling on my car. I say, did you happen to see if my car was locked?
He wasn’t pleased with that response.
He pulls the gun into a threatening position, ****s it, and begins to whip it around as he rants about deliverance and material possessions. I ignore him; it isn’t hard.
But I do notice that every time he bring the gun around, his sausages slip a little. I don’t think he notices.
Finally, with one last shout, he brings the gun down, preparing to deliver me to a better place, or something. It doesn’t matter. The gun drops from the sausages, and slowly cartwheels down to the ground.
Obviously, it goes off. I was told that only happens in the movies, but I guess my friend was wrong again.
The bullet travels upwards, meeting flesh somewhere in the sweet spot between the neck and the jaw.
My assaulter gave a squeal and keeled over. No dramatic dying speech. I guess that really does only happen in the movies. This stranger, someone I had never known, and would never get the chance to meet, had just died. Had been delivered, without a trace of who did it. And all I was left with was the sky.
I yelled a bit. Finally someone found me. Turns out I didn’t lock my car, and it was missing.
“Sorry,” he says.
“I like your shoes,” he says.
I say thanks.
“But not enough to stop me,” he says.
I should probably explain how I got into this predicament. I mean, I don’t think it’s an everyday occurrence when you’re hog-tied in a coffin, with a madman you don’t even know standing, watching, talking over you like a long-time friend.
“Your shirt is especially appealing,” he says.
“It’s a shame I have to kill you. If we could get to know each other, I’m sure we could be good friends.”
He says all this while slowly casing his hands with a sort of gauze, carefully snaking it above and below his fingers, meticulously wrapping, wrapping, wrapping, until each digit is an opaque sausage.
I guess he noticed me watching.
“I’m wrapping my hands. I don’t want to leave any traces. If I leave a trace, they’d be able to find me.”
That’s very smart of you, I say. My friend told me, if you’re ever about to be killed by someone, compliment them a lot, and they may change their mind.
“Isn’t it? I’ve had this planned out for a while.”
I guess my friend was wrong.
With each hand completely white, completely immobile, he reaches out of my view to pick up something. I should mention that I can’t see anywhere but straight up into the blue sky. A few birds were up there now, completely oblivious as to what was going on, simply cruising around at 1000 feet, probably just thinking about passing some gas.
He started chatting a bit more when he was looking for whatever it was. Apparently, after he had knocked me out, he put me in this coffin, tied me up, and put my head between two white marble blocks. Imagine running a marathon, playing a sport for 5 hours, doing whatever. Then you forget to stretch afterward, and all your muscles harden. That feeling you get, that’s how I am now. How you can’t even move.
You’re stuck.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” He waves what he’s holding into my line of sight.
It’s a gun.
“It’s a gun. Not just any gun, but a .357 magnum. You wouldn’t want to take a bullet from this. It may be old, but it still packs a punch.”
But a thought just crossed my mind. I can’t remember if I locked my car this morning.
I guess that’s not important now, with the situation I’m in. But I don’t even remember if I had enough time to lock my car before he hit me.
He yells, “It was you, all along. You kept on doing it.”
I was still dwelling on my car. I say, did you happen to see if my car was locked?
He wasn’t pleased with that response.
He pulls the gun into a threatening position, ****s it, and begins to whip it around as he rants about deliverance and material possessions. I ignore him; it isn’t hard.
But I do notice that every time he bring the gun around, his sausages slip a little. I don’t think he notices.
Finally, with one last shout, he brings the gun down, preparing to deliver me to a better place, or something. It doesn’t matter. The gun drops from the sausages, and slowly cartwheels down to the ground.
Obviously, it goes off. I was told that only happens in the movies, but I guess my friend was wrong again.
The bullet travels upwards, meeting flesh somewhere in the sweet spot between the neck and the jaw.
My assaulter gave a squeal and keeled over. No dramatic dying speech. I guess that really does only happen in the movies. This stranger, someone I had never known, and would never get the chance to meet, had just died. Had been delivered, without a trace of who did it. And all I was left with was the sky.
I yelled a bit. Finally someone found me. Turns out I didn’t lock my car, and it was missing.
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