Atla
Member
- Joined
- Feb 6, 2008
- Messages
- 350
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.
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."
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."
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."