Thursday, January 7, 2016

2nd Story

Note: I'm aware that it was supposed to be horror/mystery and my original plan called for this, but it went more than slightly astray and it ended up just being another realistic fiction story

Hewar paused for a second. He heard the people on the other side of the street talking. It was too dark to see them; the street light had been burnt out here for as long as he had been here, at least. But he could hear them, the sound of a foreign tongue, a few words at first. But he heard. Turkish? He crossed the street and began to follow them. His initial intuition was correct; it was Turkish. So these people were Turks. He growled, silently, and began to walk quickly, passing them. He turned his head quickly as he passed, to get their faces.
He had been watching them for about a month now. He had pictures of them, he knew where they worked, which building and room they lived in. He kept notes on a board in his apartment, figuring out their schedule. He looked over his notes. Dine out on Wednesdays- Woman stays at home all day- Man leaves for work at 7:30, arrives at 8:00, leaves at 5:00 at gets home ~7:30- Man stays at another woman’s house after work, affair? It would be easy to execute. He knocked at the door at 7:00.  “Yes?” The woman had a heavy accent. Must have been a first generation immigrant. His response was a knife to the throat. She tumbled to the ground. He poured water where he had made contact with her. While he had gloves on, it was better to make sure there was no chance of fingerprints. He cleaned the wound, covered it up. He picked her up, and laid her on the couch. He closed her eyes. She would seem to be sleeping. He went into the closet, waiting. A few minutes later, the door opened. The man spoke in Turkish, calling for his wife. Hewar came out of the closet, and stabbed the man in the stomach. The man doubled over, beginning to shout from the pain. Hewar covered his mouth, and slashed at the man’s legs. Hewar put the man on the ground, and began to talk to him in Turkish. “The Kurds get their revenge,” The man's eyes opened wider, in his realization. He began to talk, but Hewar cut him off with a knife to the throat. He stripped down the man and his wife. He threw their clothes in the washing machine, and turned it on. He took the bodies and threw them in the shower. He turned on the water, knowing it would wash the traces of their contact off. He took a pen out of his pocket and scrawled a note on the note pad he had in his pocket.
Two days later, it was on the news. It was impossible to miss; it was on more or less every station. They hadn’t identified the suspect, but the police said they had a lead… Hewar turned to TV off, laughing. The officer was too nervous when he spoke to be telling the truth. More likely they had figured out the sequence of it all, but nothing leading to him specifically. So he waited, waiting to find more filth. It wasn’t too hard; the immigrant population here was high. But still, he waited, looking for the perfect target. But… He wanted them to take the hint. He had no idea as to whether they found it or not, so he decided to wait until they started asking around. He would bide his time. He already had his selection, long in advance.
It ended up being the family down the hall. He had known them to be arab, yes, but that alone did not warrant their deaths. But, finally, after a bit of observation, he found them to be Iraqi. It was a shame he had to learn such disgusting tongues, such as Iraqi Arabic and Turkish, but is was necessary for his work, of both kinds. He had his target. But, it was still time for him to wait.
Roughly a week after the murder, Hewar saw the police knocking at the Iraqis’ door. Asking them if they were ok, if they were safe. Hewar smiled. Oh yes, you’re quite safe. The officers seemed to be content with asking them a few questions, and they went on their way. Ah, the stupidity of law enforcement. This was much easier than he thought it would be. Not even an officer detached to their room. That night, Hewar decided to do it. Around two in the morning, he put on his protective clothing (to prevent fingerprint contamination).  He snuck his way into the basement, cutting the power. There weren’t any guards in the apartment building, so he was more or less clear. He returned to his floor, and  picked the lock into the Iraqis’ apartment. They were all asleep. This would be easy. He got to work, sealing all the windows and ventilation. Avoiding waking them was easy enough, they were all crammed into one room. Suddenly, he heard the door squeak. He stopped. His heart beat too loudly, it was difficult to hear where the footsteps fell. Carefully, he went up to the wall and pressed himself flat against it. His breathing a heartbeat calmed just enough for him to hear the footsteps properly. It was a young child; most likely the little boy who had just started school this year. Hewar felt a pang of guilt at first, but tried to brush it aside. He had something to do now, he could have his moral dilemmas later. The boy walked around the corner. Seeing Hewar, he froze. His eyes bulged, and his breathing stopped. Hewar grinned. As the boy began to open his mouth, Hewar’s hand shot out. He held his hand over the boy's mouth, and picked him up and brought him closer. Hewar, holding him still, brought him to the one window he hadn’t sealed yet. Opened it. It was certainly a drop, not enough to kill him, but it could knock him out if he went head first. Heward dropped the boy. The boy fell to the ground outside, and didn’t move. But… Hewar could see the boy’s chest moving. So he was alive. Hewar shut and sealed the window, and went outside the bedroom. No more children, it was the boy’s parents and grandmother. Hewar whispered a quick prayer, then dropped the canister close to the door crack. It began to open, and Hewar quickly left the apartment, and sealed the door on his way out. His work was done. He left a note on the door. This would be fun for them to decode. Let’s see… His note read in Georgian script (supplemented by IPA where there were no accurate Georgian characters), in Quechua. Oh, this will be quite interesting…  And, well, interesting was right.
Hewar awoke the next morning, and turned on the news. As he suspected, it was all reported. The family, the boy. The boy was in the hospital, apparently, in critical condition. Apparently they doubted he was going to make it. Likely, they thought he would be fine, but the media wanted to grasp onto every straw they could. But… Even if they were exaggerating his risk for mortality, it was still a pretty big chance. And what would happen to him? Hewar sighed, and turned off the TV. I could be done, he thought. It was certainly an easy thing to arrange. He had a gun, he had rope, hell, there was a bridge over a road not too far away. Meh. All that required a concerted effort to kill himself; at the moment, his drive for suicide wasn’t strong enough for that. So he’d probably sit here and not do anything.

The kid was out of the hospital. He was in foster care, with some family in Brooklyn. Hewar did a bit of research, and found the address. He opened his wallet, pulling out a slip of paper and began filling it out. I’ll let this kid have a future. I took his away, so I have the responsibility to replace it. Hewar finished signing the check, and sent it off in the mail. That was taken care of. So he began his walk to the bridge. Nothing was on his mind, really. He had resolved everything by now, it was just his final march to his demise. Nothing special about it. Eventually he reached the bridge. He walked up to the center. He inhaled deeply before climbing over and sitting on the edge of the bridge. Traffic below began to slow, and grind to a halt. Hewar just sat their, mind blank, with a mixture of despair and calmness washing over him. What was probably minutes went by within seconds. Eventually the sirens came. The police approached him, pulled him off. He could live with that. This would be the best way to deal with it all.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Realistic Fiction Story (sorry I'm bad with titles)

Well, of course it was childish, and she knew that. A couple of balloons, a birthday cake (still with candles for her age), and hats. That was perfectly intentional. She had no intention of trying to mature in a rush. What happened to her old friends in early middle school made sure of that. All of the drama and the boys and the gossip that made them get up in the middle of the night to cry… Well, she didn’t want that. It was so much easier to live simply without all of that stuff that came with being a teenager, even if it meant she acted 6 years younger than she was. It had been easy, she grew late, she never really got interested in boys. Unfortunately, her hormones had been kicking in the past year, so it was getting hard to pay no attention to those things. But, hell, she wanted to just stay a little kid forever. It might seem weird, but she was a lot happier than all of her friends. they came to her with their problems, and she helped them as best as she could, but it was never mutual. She didn’t have many problems, and those she did have she could wipe away in a moments notice watching shows meant for 4th graders. But…
“Alice?”
“Yes, mom?’
“It’s getting late. You’re friends are going to need to leave soon.”
“Ugh. Fine”
Alice was hesitant, but she decided to obey her mom. She wasn’t going to fight back and strain her familial relations, like her friends did. It made everything a lot simpler.
“O.K. everybody, time to go! Have a good night!”
She walked with her friends to the curb where they all split off, as she always did when her friends left. They didn’t talk about much, they had done so during the party. They just enjoyed each other's presence for a minute more. as they well all about to split off, a few men walked out of the alley.
“Hey.”
Her friends shrieked. Most of the seem to run, but Alice couldn’t tell. She was completely frozen, unable to move. Someone was tugging on her shirt.
“Alice! Come on!” The tugging relented. She must’ve ran as well.
One man in particular walked up to her. Caressed her face. Alice managed a small shriek, quickly muffled by the man’s hand.
Alice was curled up in her room. As usual. It was so hard to go out, do anything…
“Honey? You need to write thank-you cards for your friends from your party” Alice hesitated. Who cared about thank-you cards or a birthday or any of the bull? It was so… childish. But, it gave her something to focus on. So whatever, she might as well. She stumbled out of her room down the stairs.
“Alice?”
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you put some proper clothes on? You can’t just stay in your room, in pajamas forever.” Alice ignored her mom. She just went down to do her job.
“Alice…?” Her mom muttered timidly. She still hadn’t gotten used to Alice ignoring her like this, it was just so unlike her. Her mom had expressed hope that she could get over it within a few weeks, but… Her seclusion was growing. Alice didn’t really notice, though. As she replayed that night, continuously, introversion was the only normal attitude. Anything else was just… Weird. Inappropriate. Frightening, really… Meeting another person would be just… No, she couldn’t do that. Work on the thank-you cards. A card for her, and him, and her, and her… After a minute her mind was wandering again. Why? Why couldn’t she focus on something else, something other than… She replayed a part vividly in her head. She burst out into tears, all the cards she was writing becoming wet and ruined almost instantly. Her mom walked into the room.
“Alice?”
“N… N… No.”
“But…”
“NO!” Alice yelled and stormed out of the room. Back up to her room. To what purpose? She asked herself, as every time she secluded herself, replayed that… Nothing has any purpose, no one cares, you should just shut up now, stop yourself from crying. Well that was an amusing thought. She managed a chuckle, just barely, as she reverted back to sobbing. As if suicide would solve anyth… No, it could work. End this misery, end those endless replays, it’s not going to get better anyway, who cares?, no one does. The thoughts were ceaseless… She gathered herself together. No point in suicide, she could get help, fix it, move on… She stopped. She started cracking up, laughing hysterically, as if I could really get past this, stop deluding yourself, you’ll have to live with this forever, however long that’ll be. She fell back into hopelessness. She began to sob again, harder than before…
Alice woke up to the sound of her blaring alarm. She had turned it off so she could sleep in and be late to court, but her mom must have suspected that. The only thing she was smart about. Alice rolled over and fell out of bed. She heard a loud yelp. Her dog squirmed underneath her and ran out of her room. Alice stayed on the ground. She wasn’t going to go anywhere today. She had the school day off, so if she managed to hide from her mom she wouldn’t have to go to court and she could just sleep. At least during her sleep she *usually* didn’t replay that night repeatedly. Her mom walked in, slightly taken aback by Alice laying on the ground.
“Alice…?”
“What?” Alice grumbled into the floor.
“You’re going to have to get up. I noticed you turned off your alarm. Too bad, you’ll still have to go to court. Whoever did this to my daughter is going to get whatever he deserves, and the only way that’ll happen is if you’re there.”
“I don’t care… What’s done is d…”
“You’re coming to court. I don’t care whether you think it’s useful.”
Alice gave up. She lefted herself up, and got dressed as modestly as possible- she wasn’t going to give the man so much as a sexualised glimpse at her. She dozed off in the car, exhausted from the last night’s nightmares. Finally she exited the car and entered the courthouse, dazed. She didn’t have a coherent thought from the moment she stepped out of the car, just an underlying sense of dread. As she walked into the courtroom, the man turned his head towards her, and smiled. Alice stopped moving and couldn’t breath. She screamed, and collapsed to the ground and tears, dragged out of the court by her mother.
That night, Alice walked out of her room. The lights were off in her parents’ room, thankfully. She didn’t need to see anyone she cared about right now- she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to do the job with the remotest bit of interference. She had one job, and she had to do it. She wasn’t going to let herself skulk, or delay, or think about it She just had to- her thoughts were ct off, as her underlying feeling of hopelessness overwhelmed her. Before her conscious mind had registered it, she was in the attic, grabbing a rope stored there. She tugged on it a few times, making sure it was strong enough for the job. She climbed up onto a stack of boxes, fastening one end of the rope to the ceiling beam. She looked down- the drop wouldn’t end it immediately, but even going relatively slowly would be faster than wait. She began to stick her head through the noose, quickly backing out. Am I really doing this? she inquired, whispering it almost inaudibly. Yes, she replied, and stuck her head back in, putting on foot over the edge of the stack. As the noose began to tighten around her neck, her arms shot upwards, pulling on the rope and lifting herself back up. If I’m patient, I can finish school, move far, far away from here, meet someone have kids- She paused, then shot back at herself. Do you honestly think you can have kids of all things after that? Regardless, this will always, always, be haunting you… She stuck her hands at her sides, and pushed off with her feet. She began to gasp, and kick, and lung her neck forward. As she began to go limp, and blackness overcame her, she merely wondered: Why?























Friday, October 9, 2015

Scene and Summary Example

In the book, A Long Way Gone, the skillful use of scene and summary is especially essential. As it is a memoir of the author's life, he must summarize times where the details are not particularly important to the story, nor interesting. A good example of this is when the boy, fleeing from first his hometown than rebel captivity, comes across a group of other boys, and they begin to travel together. He states how they were often avoided, due to the fact that they were a group of teenage boys, and bands of such were often in line with the rebels. However, he doesn't go over every particular experience, as it would require to much time and be, frankly, boring. But this doesn't mean he skipped scene entirely. He recounts a scene from his travels with the group, where they were attacked by a village and forced to walk across sand, barefoot, in 120 degree temperature. He accounts the scene quite vividly (though I will not give the details here, as they may be found to be quite revolting), and in that one scene, illustrates the chaos and misery of his journey.