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a short story.

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A pop-up book of flowers from grade 4 are driving her insane...

a short story.

Postby thirdhour » 10/14/2005, 4:05 pm

Sorry, it's fairly long, and I know there's some stuff that really needs to be edited, so tell me if you notice any mistakes or awkward sentances.

I.

The table was set for two people. Though the dishes were simple, each place was set in meticulous detail, the crease of each napkin folded in such a manner that the corners lined up precisely, the spoon and the fork perfectly spaced, a bowl overturned in the dead centre of each plate. No food was placed on the freshly scrubbed table, nor did a scent of recent cooking fill the air. The plates lay unused, as if they had been part of a preparation for a special event that had never happened, and had simply been forgotten. Not a speck of dust had been allowed to gather on that table. The perfect setting lay undisturbed, save for the wine glass on the setting facing the east-lying section of the apartment. It had been crushed to jagged shards, but not moved from its place. Slivers of glass lay gleaming on the table, each crystal in feigned innocence tempting a hand to be sliced open.

The room that surrounded the scene relayed an outlook of destruction, of desperation. The light bulb that hung, exposed, in the centre of the room had long burnt out, and no one had bothered to replace it. The only light, a few weak rays of sunlight that seeped in through windowpanes yellowed with dust, cast long, dark shadows across the room catching in them ancient newspapers that were piled on couches torn to the springs and one dresser that was chipping a few layers of paint and missing a drawer or two. A gentle wind rustled the soiled curtain hiding a broken window, and blew silently into the room, causing a slight ripple in the blood that was beginning to pool across the hardwood floor.


II.
To those that heard of the events of that day, and there were quite a few, all have their own opinions on what took place. Each perceived his actions differently, from those directly involved to the most obscure of casual onlookers, but however each may have seen what happened, it played out exactly the way he intended them to. He planned each moment, each breath he would take, and not for a minute did he loose his composure. It was all about perceptions, the way they interpreted his sly smile, his casual laugh, his nervous pacing. Little did they know, each step was calculated to the utmost degree. While he played the part of the anxious, yet cold criminal, inside he felt nothing but a blissful calm that absorbed him and tore him from any reality he still had left at this point. The fateful shot will probably soon lead to talk of mental disturbances, crucial moments that defined a childhood that led to this psychopathic mind. In truth, there was nothing he cared about then except his perfect death.

He acutely understood his own motivations, though they were never immortalized in conversation with any other. For months now, he had become captivated by this idea that had begun brewing deep inside his subconscious, analyzing it until it consumed his every thought. He had become so enthralled, that in a way, he began to define himself by this idea, these words and emotions that filled his head, gnawing on his brain until he was caught on the edge of reason. Though his obsession had overwritten his desire to eat and sleep, it didn’t seem to bother him. All that mattered was this idea, which eventually turned into a plan, a perfect plan that only he could put into effect.


III.
It only took one simple moment. In the space of time that a gulp of air can be drawn into a pair of lungs, he had made his final choice. All he had to do was lift the gun, aim at the head of the man sitting across the table from him, and wait. All they needed was to think that an innocent life was in imminent danger, and they would shoot. He was to have his fatality, his dirty fight for a grave in a pristine action. His death would be pure. He had placed all the necessary elements into their places. So far, everything had played out like it was supposed to, like it had played out a million times on the movie screen in his head.

If you were there, looking straight on at him, like the police officer that sat across from him, pointing a gun with trained accuracy at his chest, through the wine glass that framed his heart, you could almost see his heart beating, ticking away each moment that remained on his life, the way the light in that room played tricks on your eyes. He lifted the gun, cocked the trigger. A shot rang out.
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thirdhour
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Postby beautiful liar » 10/16/2005, 1:58 pm

I like the opening description of the table. I thought it was great. There is some awkward phrasing, so watch your narrative voice, but well done. :thumbs:
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Postby happening fish » 10/16/2005, 2:31 pm

your writing has a way of leading the writer on, keeping them in your grip. i am consistently impressed with your choice of words, as well. twist the awkwardness out of the sentences and it will be a piece to be truly proud of.
awkward is the new cool
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Postby thirdhour » 10/16/2005, 2:38 pm

Thanks guys. I wrote it for my creative writing class, and I hope the teacher will help me with editing because I know which sentances don't work, I just don't know how to rework them.
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Postby happening fish » 10/16/2005, 2:39 pm

would you like me to try in Word? i can track the changes for you.
awkward is the new cool
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Postby thirdhour » 10/16/2005, 2:41 pm

If you want to, that would be awesome. However, if you have somthing better to do with your time, please don't. This is kind of pointless...:freak:
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