aberration
07-12-2005, 09:20 AM
Ok, I'm pretty new to this whole thing. I thought i might try my hand at writing last year. Since then I've started a couple of novels which are currently dead in the water. So I decided to try and pen a few short storys to iron out my technical abilities....or lack thereof. I wrote this one yesterday. Tell me what you think. C'mon...do it. DO IT!
All Fun and Games – K. R. Graham
(first draft 11/07/05)
The soft glow of the late afternoon sun slowly stretched its languid fingers across the living room floor. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, frozen on this baking summer day. I don’t suppose it is shock that’s holding fixed my feet to the gaudy grey carpet. It can’t be shock. This isn’t the first time. The first time. Oh! what horror.
For two maddening months I had been lazily dreaming about it. I’m counting the ways that I’d love to kill you. In two months you can throw together quite a list. A blade perhaps, or maybe some of those lovely things under the sink with the brightly coloured labels.
I never imagined that I would get the opportunity to carry out my plans. Even if I did, would I have the gall to follow them through? So many times I came close. So close. But far too often my courage wavered. Some unseen force stayed my hand. Was it my conscience? Not likely. In what twisted world would the same force that allowed such vivid and delightful dreams prevent them from coming to fruition? I felt no moral objections, no ethical quandary. No, it was something else.
Fear? Possibly. Though there wasn’t much to fear I suppose. Nobody really cares for them anyway. At best they have maybe one person depraved enough to love them. One longstanding avenger. And even her devotion wanes from time to time. Nobody really cares for them. Where one departs another thousand are ready to take its place. I’ve proved that easily enough.
Still, to be caught in the bloody act would surely bring my own colourful life to a crashing halt. Even the most forgiving of arbitrators would be compelled to condemn yours truly to the fullest extent. There’s no escaping that simple fact. When I’m caught nothing will save me. And I will be caught. It’s not that I’m not careful. Quite the opposite actually. I’ve been doing this for almost a year.
I’m meticulous. I’m thorough. I’m calculating. I’m addicted.
Addiction. That’s why I will be caught. If history has taught us anything it’s that prolonged success will be met with profound defeat. Alexander fought his way across an empire before succumbing to a sickness. Napoleon conquered Europe only to be exiled by his countrymen. No matter how capable a man is, he cannot deny fate its coup de grace.
So many have already passed on by my delicate touch. My latest masterpiece is lying twisted in a paradigm of pain at my feet. Lifeless eyes stare back at me. Stare through me. There is no malice in that gaze. Just an expression of listless incomprehension. Nothing new there. She wore that same blank façade on her doll like visage for most of her life. The only difference now is that there is a substantial void between that pretty little face and her perfectly sculpted body. They all look the same. In death, as in life, her flawless form seems unmoved by my glorious opus.
Except, of course, for her head.
Maybe I’m doing her a service, ending an unconscionable existence. I could not imagine living a day in that artificial little world of theirs. It would destroy the soul. Perhaps that’s why they can tolerate it. That’s why they feel no pain. They feel nothing. She has no soul. Welcome to oblivion, Number Seven.
The fading sun continues to stretch across the room. It’s getting late. How long have I been standing here?
Too long.
Something is wrong. They should be back by now. But they aren’t. They can’t be. I would have heard the crunching gravel of the driveway. A scrape of keys in the lock. A bang of the door. Was I so deep in reverie?
A chill runs up my spine. The blood runs thick in my veins. My heart feels like it is being crushed by a dread fear. A whisper of cool air rustles my hair. The draft is coming from behind me, from the direction of the door.
But the door was closed! I’m not alone.
The hour is late. I should have known. The house was my own, only for a short time. With remarkable control I turn, jerkily, towards my fate. The form in the door is studying my face with apprehension. It’s Her.
She stands but two inches taller then me yet she seems a colossus in this moment. When her gaze wandered toward the pliers hanging loosely from my right hand I knew my fate was sealed. There is nothing for it.
Caught in the act. It’s a fair cop.
At first confusion adorned her face. Her eyes dart from the old pliers to the inert figure on the ground and back again. After what felt an age, her glare rests on yours truly. Her eyes are lit with comprehension, instantly turning to a smoldering fury rivaled only by the smoting fires of hell. Today’s special is Wrath, served in a delightful green skirt and garnished with the most exquisite pink ribbons.
It only took her a moment to piece together the scene. On the previous occasions I had hardly remained above suspicion but the disappearances could never be traced.
Meticulous. Thorough. Calculating.
I never left a sign. Time and again negligence was thought the culprit. Fault always rested with Her, though naturally she was never reprimanded. Not her. The picture of innocence. It’s enough to make me sick.
But now she knew. A year’s worth of malice is burning inside of her. So many lost by my hand and she knew. She’s gathering herself for the death blow. Despite her advantage in size, we both know that in a physical struggle she’ll have a hard time of it. But that doesn’t matter. She can call on a far higher power than mere physical strength. She commands the will of a being superior even to yours truly.
A twisted smile replaces the rage contorting her face, though her aura is no less malicious. The authority in that smug little grin is unmistakably malignant. I try to smile back, my face feels numb. I feel like I’m drowning in a sticky sweat. She savors the moment.
The seconds tick by. Neither of us is moving. The body at my feet is almost forgotten in this futile battle of wills. Finally, she’s draws in a breath. A deep breath. She opens her mouth…and screams-
“Mummy!”
Goodbye cruel world.
I start to laugh. No, it’s not a laugh. It is a giggle, brimming with wholly irrational mirth. An uncontrollable giggle. She seems taken aback. Still, the vile harpy doesn’t lose her composure.
In a flash, the Other is standing behind her. The same torrent of emotions crosses yet another face, this one hovering two feet over my contemptuous nemesis. Brace yourself. You know your fate. The giggling tapers off. Somehow this just isn’t funny anymore.
“Alex! Go to your room!”
There’s nothing for it. Judgment is passed. I tramp out of the room, crestfallen. As I leave, I hear my mother say, in a voice blistering with scorn-
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll buy you another doll tomorrow…with his allowance.”
Now is the winter of my discontent…****.
All Fun and Games – K. R. Graham
(first draft 11/07/05)
The soft glow of the late afternoon sun slowly stretched its languid fingers across the living room floor. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, frozen on this baking summer day. I don’t suppose it is shock that’s holding fixed my feet to the gaudy grey carpet. It can’t be shock. This isn’t the first time. The first time. Oh! what horror.
For two maddening months I had been lazily dreaming about it. I’m counting the ways that I’d love to kill you. In two months you can throw together quite a list. A blade perhaps, or maybe some of those lovely things under the sink with the brightly coloured labels.
I never imagined that I would get the opportunity to carry out my plans. Even if I did, would I have the gall to follow them through? So many times I came close. So close. But far too often my courage wavered. Some unseen force stayed my hand. Was it my conscience? Not likely. In what twisted world would the same force that allowed such vivid and delightful dreams prevent them from coming to fruition? I felt no moral objections, no ethical quandary. No, it was something else.
Fear? Possibly. Though there wasn’t much to fear I suppose. Nobody really cares for them anyway. At best they have maybe one person depraved enough to love them. One longstanding avenger. And even her devotion wanes from time to time. Nobody really cares for them. Where one departs another thousand are ready to take its place. I’ve proved that easily enough.
Still, to be caught in the bloody act would surely bring my own colourful life to a crashing halt. Even the most forgiving of arbitrators would be compelled to condemn yours truly to the fullest extent. There’s no escaping that simple fact. When I’m caught nothing will save me. And I will be caught. It’s not that I’m not careful. Quite the opposite actually. I’ve been doing this for almost a year.
I’m meticulous. I’m thorough. I’m calculating. I’m addicted.
Addiction. That’s why I will be caught. If history has taught us anything it’s that prolonged success will be met with profound defeat. Alexander fought his way across an empire before succumbing to a sickness. Napoleon conquered Europe only to be exiled by his countrymen. No matter how capable a man is, he cannot deny fate its coup de grace.
So many have already passed on by my delicate touch. My latest masterpiece is lying twisted in a paradigm of pain at my feet. Lifeless eyes stare back at me. Stare through me. There is no malice in that gaze. Just an expression of listless incomprehension. Nothing new there. She wore that same blank façade on her doll like visage for most of her life. The only difference now is that there is a substantial void between that pretty little face and her perfectly sculpted body. They all look the same. In death, as in life, her flawless form seems unmoved by my glorious opus.
Except, of course, for her head.
Maybe I’m doing her a service, ending an unconscionable existence. I could not imagine living a day in that artificial little world of theirs. It would destroy the soul. Perhaps that’s why they can tolerate it. That’s why they feel no pain. They feel nothing. She has no soul. Welcome to oblivion, Number Seven.
The fading sun continues to stretch across the room. It’s getting late. How long have I been standing here?
Too long.
Something is wrong. They should be back by now. But they aren’t. They can’t be. I would have heard the crunching gravel of the driveway. A scrape of keys in the lock. A bang of the door. Was I so deep in reverie?
A chill runs up my spine. The blood runs thick in my veins. My heart feels like it is being crushed by a dread fear. A whisper of cool air rustles my hair. The draft is coming from behind me, from the direction of the door.
But the door was closed! I’m not alone.
The hour is late. I should have known. The house was my own, only for a short time. With remarkable control I turn, jerkily, towards my fate. The form in the door is studying my face with apprehension. It’s Her.
She stands but two inches taller then me yet she seems a colossus in this moment. When her gaze wandered toward the pliers hanging loosely from my right hand I knew my fate was sealed. There is nothing for it.
Caught in the act. It’s a fair cop.
At first confusion adorned her face. Her eyes dart from the old pliers to the inert figure on the ground and back again. After what felt an age, her glare rests on yours truly. Her eyes are lit with comprehension, instantly turning to a smoldering fury rivaled only by the smoting fires of hell. Today’s special is Wrath, served in a delightful green skirt and garnished with the most exquisite pink ribbons.
It only took her a moment to piece together the scene. On the previous occasions I had hardly remained above suspicion but the disappearances could never be traced.
Meticulous. Thorough. Calculating.
I never left a sign. Time and again negligence was thought the culprit. Fault always rested with Her, though naturally she was never reprimanded. Not her. The picture of innocence. It’s enough to make me sick.
But now she knew. A year’s worth of malice is burning inside of her. So many lost by my hand and she knew. She’s gathering herself for the death blow. Despite her advantage in size, we both know that in a physical struggle she’ll have a hard time of it. But that doesn’t matter. She can call on a far higher power than mere physical strength. She commands the will of a being superior even to yours truly.
A twisted smile replaces the rage contorting her face, though her aura is no less malicious. The authority in that smug little grin is unmistakably malignant. I try to smile back, my face feels numb. I feel like I’m drowning in a sticky sweat. She savors the moment.
The seconds tick by. Neither of us is moving. The body at my feet is almost forgotten in this futile battle of wills. Finally, she’s draws in a breath. A deep breath. She opens her mouth…and screams-
“Mummy!”
Goodbye cruel world.
I start to laugh. No, it’s not a laugh. It is a giggle, brimming with wholly irrational mirth. An uncontrollable giggle. She seems taken aback. Still, the vile harpy doesn’t lose her composure.
In a flash, the Other is standing behind her. The same torrent of emotions crosses yet another face, this one hovering two feet over my contemptuous nemesis. Brace yourself. You know your fate. The giggling tapers off. Somehow this just isn’t funny anymore.
“Alex! Go to your room!”
There’s nothing for it. Judgment is passed. I tramp out of the room, crestfallen. As I leave, I hear my mother say, in a voice blistering with scorn-
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll buy you another doll tomorrow…with his allowance.”
Now is the winter of my discontent…****.