Short Story(s) testing.

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Atla

Atla

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Thanks to Oleg for allowing me to post this. Along with the comment of 'I like it very much'.

Look folks, I don't write. I've never been real good with writing and such. My first college English class I failed two times. Granted, my attendance was abysmal the first time. And the second time I just drank to much that semester...

But from what I turned in, the teachers weren't fans. Evidently I write, 'like I talk'.

I figured it was a compliment, since I don't use big words. ;>

But I like to read, a lot. And I read pretty quickly. So I figured I'd try my hand at writing stories, it seems to be all the rage on these boards right now anyways. I'm not up to some long fancy story yet. I'm taking baby steps if you will. This is the first one, just a brief short story. I'll post a bunch of them with the same character through different scenarios, just trying stuff out. (I'll admit my biggest fear is 'conversations'... trying to type those scare the crap out of me.)

So - here ya go. Nit pick it, whine about it, praise it, bash it, whatever.

This is just a trial run.

On with the show.

"I don't know why I get into gunfights. I guess sometimes I just get lonely."
-Billy Clanton, "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral".


My back was pressed against the dumpster, my legs spread out before me, my eyes on the alley entrance. My pants were soaked with rain water, stale beer, urine, and probably some vomit thrown in for good measure. If you ever have to run and hide, don't run and hide behind a bar. Not only is it filthy, it smells mighty bad also. The other side of the alley was made up of white bricks from a florists shop. I thought that painting bricks white took away from the brick type look when it comes to architecture, but then what do I know? I'm neither a painter nor an architect.

The blood from my wounds had smeared on a portion of the wall across from me... it looked better red. Shame I was leaking like I was, I might have been able to get another one of them before I boarded the black cadillac. I coughed... more red. How did that country song go? "They say heavens at the end but so far it's been hell'"... I didn't figure that feller who wrote the song had ever been shot up before, but he sketched the last fifteen minutes up pretty quick in that one line.

By the way, I'm Max and I'm pretty certain I'm dying.

I've never died before, so I can't be real sure. Heck, I've never even been shot before, broke a leg once though. Jumped off a roof in third grade to impress a girl but it didn't help my cause any when she fainted at the sight of my bone sticking out. Back to present time, it hurts real bad and I don't figure I can escape. I probably watched to many movies as a kid anyways... thinking I could get away with this. They don't do real gun fights much justice. Maybe if that first slug that hit me in the left shoulder had thrown me back 15 feet I would have missed the one that hit me through the lung. I also had to shoot them more than once to get them to die. Hell, I didn't even hear any music playing. I was cinematically ripped off.

Their buddies are on their way, I can hear the tires squealing as they arrive. I close my eyes and try to breathe. The screaming had finally stopped, folks on the street had taken off yelling and running the moment the shooting started. That little gray haired lady with the walker took off so fast she left it behind. I guess its high noon now. Since I'm dead anyways, I would have prefered to walk into the street to face them like a real hero.... or perhaps just lean around the corner and ambush them like a real scoundrel. Instead I'm laying on my rear surrounded by floating cigarette butts, rat droppings, and withering flowers waiting for them to find me.

This wasn't what I wanted. I had planned on getting away and I damn sure planned on not being shot. Both of them plans got shafted from the get-go.

I reached into the puddle and grabbed a floating reciept. $73.50. Focusing on the last line hurt so much that I didn't bother seeing if someone was in the doghouse with his wife or had a helluva party at the bar. I just crumpled it and stuffed it into the hole in my shoulder. By God that hurt like hell also. I wish they'd hurry up, death ought to be pretty pleasant after an evening like this. Certainly more peaceful.

I hear boots pounding on pavement. Gripping my pistol tighter, I try to remember how many rounds I have left. It carried fifteen rounds of .40 in a mag, I had three magazines with me when it started. I shot my first magazine to slide lock taking out the first two. Then I emptied an entire magazine trying to hit the last one. I didn't need all fifteen rounds, but it felt good to put the last few through his skull after he was already dead for good measure. His ability to fit that pudgy body of his under the car was truly miraculous anyways and I didn't want him to pull another miracle out of his butt. Course my aim might have been off, since he had put the slug through my shoulder beforehand and than another through my innards.

Now I see shadows falling across the alley entrance and whispered commands. I stifle another cough, choking the blood and froth back down. I raise my pistol towards the light, waiting for the shadows to step into view. I can feel my focus slipping, I wish I could lay my head back against the dumpster and close my eyes. I wish the pain would go away. I wish I could have a re-do. I wish a pretty brunette would patch me up.

The shadows move, my time is up. I empty my magazine down the alley. Empty brass shells make tinkling noises that are followed by small splashes as they land around me. I lower my pistol, I try to focus on the still forms in the light. I can't. I let my head fall back, I let my eyes close.

"I win."
Click to expand...


Since the first few sentences of every story is the most important... here's the first line(and a half) for the next short story.

"I licked my chapped lips and looked through the spotting scope again. The target was small, real small. Luckily for me he had a big head. Midgets are like that."
 
Atla: Great read and very sobering.

Everyone that carries a gun should read this story. This is another reason why I hope I never have to use a gun to defend myself!
 
Hey - thanks guys. Really.

Max may or may not be dead. And...he may not even be the 'good guy'. ;>

But he'll be the constant character throughout these stories, the time line be damned. I'm about halfway or so through the midget story as I stayed up late last night playing with it. So I ought to have more to offer you soon!
 
"I wonder how police do the chaulk outline if you push someone into a wood chipper."
-Unknown.

I licked my chapped lips and looked through the spotting scope again. The target was small, real small. Luckily for me he had a big head. Midgets are like that. The current problem was how to go about sending a 165 grain .308 boattail through that pumpkin. The little feller won't be still and he keeps pacing back and forth in his kitchen from window to window. I have a perfect shot from here through his living room patio door if only he would sit on his couch. Doesn't he know that theres an Austin Powers marathon on today?

Sighing, I reach over and pick up my rifle and flip the scope caps. I know why he's upset. I know why he's freaking out. There's a partial body stuffed in his fridge and he has two flat tires. I know this because I cut the tires this morning while he snored loudly with a decapitated head laying on the pillow next to him. Sure, I could have off'ed the little troll while he slept easily enough. I did slip into his house to braid the deceased's hair after all... I knew that'd freak him out come dawn. Well, that and I was hungry. I also could have popped him while he was stuffing the body parts in his trunk. Or while he was dragging the parts out of his trunk and back inside when he realized his Buick wasn't going anywhere. But sometimes it's nice to know you can make someone squirm.

I figure he would be more antsy if he knew I was sitting on the hill over-looking his house with a scoped rifle. I sling up and settle into the classic military prone position and rack the bolt to chamber a round. Peeking through the 10x scope, I move the mildot rectile onto his fishbowl. Yeah...real antsy. I wait for the red and white goldfish to move behind the shipwreck, no point in collatoral damage. Squeezing the trigger I send the spinning bullet at 2,650 fps through his window and explode his aquarium all to **** over his kitchen counter.

The little sadist leaves his dying fish behind and tries to save himself. He wasn't short on brains, so he moved away from the windows. But he wasn't real bright either since he took cover between them. The typical outside wall is constructed of 2x6 studs turned on edge, usually filled with a fiberglass insulation. On the outside of the house there is 1/4 inch plywood and siding. In this case, gray vinyl. The inside of the wall consists of 1/2 inch sheetrock and some paint. Judging from what I can see of the other side of the kitchen, it's blue. Sadly for him none of the materials used in the construction of his house is bullet proof. Especially the blue paint, even if there is lead in it.

I figure theres only three feet between the two windows. The average human body is 20 inches wide... well I guess that doesn't apply to gnomes. No matter. I rack the bolt again, a touch upset with myself since I should have done it sooner. I need to stop thinking about the mathematical improbablities of small people and get back to it. I place the crosshairs on the center of the narrow wall. I ought to atleast wing him...and squeeze the trigger. The split second before the recoil moves the scope, I see a hole appear in the vinyl and a splash of red spray in each window.

I don't hear any screaming, so I figure he's passed out or dead. And judging from the red spray I think I got him pretty good. I work the bolt and pocket my two fired rounds. Police probably won't care to much who the shooter is, when they've a dead feller with a three page rap sheet on his kitchen floor and body parts in the fridge. And they probably won't find where I'm shooting from, their departmental shooting range is only 50 yards and I'm well beyond that. But they could get lost and end up way out here. Might as well control what circumstances I can and hope to get lucky on the rest.

I peek through the scope again to make certain he isn't crawling off anywhere. No movement, and the pool of bodily fluids is getting bigger.

I also can see the opposite blue wall now has a splattering of purple on it, reckon I'm an artist after all.
Click to expand...
 
Atla, I like both samples/teasers.

I would recomend that you listen to your gut and feedback from readers and sales, NOT English Teachers. My apologies to any good English Teachers on the board, and yes there are a few of them. I've had precisely 1 (one) out of grade school, high school, and college.

If the english teachers know so much about writing why aren't they writing for a living? Again my aplogies to the rare english teachers who do write well and/or help/encourage their students to do so.

To avoid thread drift I shall shut up about english teachers.:fire: :cuss:

NukemJim
 
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The first one didn't really have the tone of a short story--it read more like a voice-over narration at the beginning of a movie. I could actually see the scene with the main character telling us the story over top of it.

The second one, I wasn't such a fan of. Your character seems to be taking great pleasure in terrorizing his undersized victim, and describes him as a "sadist?" For not rescuing a fish while under fire? I don't know, I guess the character seemed too amoral and casual about killing. If this story expands, I really hope he turns out to be the bad guy. Even at that, he's still pretty shocking.
 
"I won't be wronged, I won't be insulted, and I won't be laid a hand on. I don't do these things to other people and I expect the same from them."
-John Wayne, The Shootist.


I put down my welder, cut the power, and chomped down on my cigar. My death contraption was complete. It had been a long twelve hours and I was tired. My friends outside who had surrounded my house yesterday were trying to play mind games with me by flashing 10,000,000 candle watt spotting lights through my windows, blaring some hideous jazz music, and saying some rather crude things about my mother through their megaphones. That mind game crap coupled with a six pack of Jolt had kept me working through the night, though it did make it hard to concentrate sometimes.

They knew their shock and awe tactics would work when negotiations failed. They had performed this same tired routine on hundreds of hostage situations through out the past five decades. If I didn’t give in soon, they’d toss a handful of concussion grenades through my windows, breach the doors on both end of the house and use overwhelming numbers to take me down and maybe save what was left of their buddy.

My hostage was one of their informants.

When they wanted to talk to him, I told them that wasn’t possible and tossed his tongue out the door and into the yard. I was never a pleasant man to argue with. They’d find him in the bathtub, he was still alive a few hours ago. Might still be if they hurry when I’m done.

I decided a long time ago if it came to this I would play their own game against them. And change the rules as I saw fit. Always cheat to win if you can, I learned that lesson hard playing Monopoly with my sister when I was little.

It was high time they learned that when you push someone, they might push back.

Stepping up into the drivers seat, I took a moment to grasp the 1919A4 handle and check to make sure it would still swivel properly after that last weld. It was a simple task to take out the windshield, run a couple of steel bars across the dash and down to the Bronco’s frame. I then welded the tripod to the bars a foot right of the center of the hood. Shame they didn’t make these things feed from the right and not the left, it was a real pain in the butt to install a bracket to hold the ammo can between me and the gun.

I had picked this baby up several years ago, it was a semi-automatic version chambered in .308. It wasn’t an NFA registered gun with full auto. But a few hours in a machine shop and I fixed that little problem and hid the parts in my garage. I couldn’t think of a better time to ignore that silly law than right now. I had also taken the liberty of sawing down a couple of double barreled shotguns to a more convenient length and tossing them in the passenger seat. I was never much of a shotgun lover anyways, but they worked great for Ash in his Buick.

I flipped the cover and raised the extractor. Reaching into the olive drab can I took the end of the belt of ammunition and fed it into the feed tray and lowered the extractor. Tugging the cocking handle back I let it fly forward to chamber the first round.

It was a good thing I had backed into my garage yesterday after work. The news helicopters were outside above my house. If I had driven in, I’d look mighty silly on television trying to turn around while they were shooting at me.

I glanced around my garage one more time, then picked up a flare from the floorboards. I struck it and threw it at the bottom of the garage door. The used oil I had poured on the floor between me and the garage door began to burn. Hitting my remote switch, the door began to open while the reeking blue smoke filling the room and began billowing outside under the door.

I gripped the handle of the 1919 with my right hand and placed my finger on the trigger. My left grabbed the steering wheel.

"Here we go."
Click to expand...
 
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