He walked fluidly, as if he was gliding through the world in slow motion. When he moved, it was as if no one could see him. It wasnt so much fast, as much as graceful. He shifted from foot to foot, sliding out of the way of people's shoulders and arms. If you werent in their way, blocking them from their destination, no one even noticed you, he thought. It was actually a little sad, the way people went through life with blinders on. They couldnt even fathom what was passing by them, not knowing that any moment could be their last. He relished this, he loved this. They were his for the taking. What better way to war against his worthless creator than to destroy his "greatest gift" to the world; people. They were his cattle, he was the wolf at their door.
The subway doors opened as he broke out into the air of an approaching morning. He could just see the dawn breaking over the horizon. He needed to get home, and he needed to get there quickly. Sometimes he would stay out until the tip of the spreading sunlight reached close to his feet. Then he would extend his hand into the light, feeling the sweetness that was pain.....exquisite. He moved swiftly now, very quickly, ducking in and out of different alleyways that made up the veritable plumbing of the great city. He reached the door just before sunruse had reached it, and escaped into the darkness of the stairwell. He followed the stairs up the windowless column until he reached the top floor, an expansive studio apartment with broad glass windows overlooking the city.
Heavy burgundy curtains made of thick velvet hung over the windows, covering the entire east wall. It was a sanctuary. His sanctuary. There were coaches, chairs, and rugs spread throughout, giving the apartment a cozy feel, but he needed to sleep and none of those would do. He made his way to the center of the room, which was devoid of furniture, and where the carpets and rugs didnt reach. The exposed hardwood sat in shafts below him. The only thing breaking the plain were eight small holes that looked to be just worn in the floor over time. The floor boards were waiting for the proper hand to divulge the secret hidden below. He slid his fingers into the holes and in a slow and nimble movement, pressed the boards down and across, through his legs, exposing his quarters for the next twelve hours. Seemingly cut into the floor was a velvet lined, padded compartment, spacious in its entirety, with goose down pillows. It was the most comfortable place he had ever slept it, but then again it should be. He built it himself.
He lowered into the compartment, the bed that he had created, and layed back into the plush comfort he remembered so well from the many nights before. He slid his fingers back through the holes in the floor from the opposite side and slid the boards back into place, concealing himself from the outside world. The compartment was cozy, and he knew that in no time, he would be resting. He thought about the night's events and licked his tongue accross the expanse of his jagged teeth. He was missing one, but no matter. It would be replaced by the row behind, once again completeing the neverending cycle of death bringers that filled his deadly aperture. He closed his eyes and settled in for the day, which to him, was a neverending night.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Some more story
Myles walked swiftly through the double doors of the precinct. People on both sides, sitting in or on desks waived to him, shouting their greetings. Myles barely heard them, but raised a hand and occasionaly nodded so they wouldnt approach him. He was heading straight to Jones' desk, up in the "loft," as he and the other cops called it. Jones was the last one there, and so he got the worst spot in the building. Myles remembered actually enjoying the loft when he first started; it was quiet, disconnected, private. It was easier to get detective work done when there werent a bunc of "good ole' boys" screaming in your ears, telling lude jokes, and ignoring their positions. Myles at least respected Jones' turnout in his cases. He was one of the few that actually solved a majority of his work.
As he approached the top of the steps, Myles could see Jones' desk coming into view from the back of the studio apartment that was the "loft." Jones sat behind, his head in his hands, staring at case reports, muttering to himself. Myles had been doing the same thing an hour earlier.
"Anything new?" Myles shouted from accross the room, moving quickly over the last step. Jones nearly jumped out of his chair.
"Jesus Myles, you scared the shit outta me." Jones recovered himself and set back to what he was doing with the case reports. "Yeah, you could say that. We pulled something out of the throat that you might want to see."
Jones tossed Myles an evidence bag containing something white, smeared with crimson. He looked down into it, feeling through the bag to pinpoint the small piece of evidence in a corner. What was it? It was small, and opaque white.
"What is it exactly?" Myles asked, searching for the answer himself.
"I dont know. CSI wont be here for another hour to tell me," he chuckled apprehensively, "and I cant figure it out myself. I left 'em a message to call asap when they get back. Looks like maybe a piece of porcelain, but it looks almost serrated."
Myles opened the bag and emptied the contents into his hand.
"What the hell are you doing, Myles? Thats evidence. You're going to contaminate it. Fuck me, man, you are losing it."
"Let me ask you something, smartass." Myles looked up into his eyes. "We havent found a shred of physical evidence on anything in six cases now. What makes you think we will on this. I'll wager we wont. In fact, I'll bet you coffee tonight that we wont, and that CSI hasnt found shit."
Jones smiled at him.
"You're on old man,"
The small piece of white and crimson had a very familiar feel to it, and Jones was right; it was serrated. It had a long flat end and it went down almost to a point. It was sharp. Myles moved the piece around in his hand, searching for something, anything to give a clue as to what it was. As he passed his thumb over the flat end and felt something. Ridges. He looked closer and saw shoots heading into the piece, as if it was rooted to something.........a realization.
"Fuck me........Its a tooth." Myles slowly slid the newly realized horror back into the bag and tossed it over to Jones."
"No way in hell. Why would there be a tooth in her neck? You are losing it Myles." Jones scoffed and tossed the bag on top of a stack of reports and loose paper behind him. "You're fucking losing it."
Myles could see that behind his cool, condescending eyes lurked real suspicion......and fear.
"Twenty bucks says I'm right."
Jones perked up. He loved a bet, couldnt resist, even though he had never won against Myles; never. Myles knew the one major advantage he always had over Jones. He was right. He laughed to himself, as Jones smiled at him.
"I got you this time, old man."
Myles couldnt help but smile. Sometimes, Jones was okay, Myles thought. Hes not such a bad kid. Their friendly, fake stare down was interrupted by Jones' beeping phone; beeping meant it was coming from within the building. Hopefully CSI was back and they could get some answers, and then Myles could get his coffee.
As he approached the top of the steps, Myles could see Jones' desk coming into view from the back of the studio apartment that was the "loft." Jones sat behind, his head in his hands, staring at case reports, muttering to himself. Myles had been doing the same thing an hour earlier.
"Anything new?" Myles shouted from accross the room, moving quickly over the last step. Jones nearly jumped out of his chair.
"Jesus Myles, you scared the shit outta me." Jones recovered himself and set back to what he was doing with the case reports. "Yeah, you could say that. We pulled something out of the throat that you might want to see."
Jones tossed Myles an evidence bag containing something white, smeared with crimson. He looked down into it, feeling through the bag to pinpoint the small piece of evidence in a corner. What was it? It was small, and opaque white.
"What is it exactly?" Myles asked, searching for the answer himself.
"I dont know. CSI wont be here for another hour to tell me," he chuckled apprehensively, "and I cant figure it out myself. I left 'em a message to call asap when they get back. Looks like maybe a piece of porcelain, but it looks almost serrated."
Myles opened the bag and emptied the contents into his hand.
"What the hell are you doing, Myles? Thats evidence. You're going to contaminate it. Fuck me, man, you are losing it."
"Let me ask you something, smartass." Myles looked up into his eyes. "We havent found a shred of physical evidence on anything in six cases now. What makes you think we will on this. I'll wager we wont. In fact, I'll bet you coffee tonight that we wont, and that CSI hasnt found shit."
Jones smiled at him.
"You're on old man,"
The small piece of white and crimson had a very familiar feel to it, and Jones was right; it was serrated. It had a long flat end and it went down almost to a point. It was sharp. Myles moved the piece around in his hand, searching for something, anything to give a clue as to what it was. As he passed his thumb over the flat end and felt something. Ridges. He looked closer and saw shoots heading into the piece, as if it was rooted to something.........a realization.
"Fuck me........Its a tooth." Myles slowly slid the newly realized horror back into the bag and tossed it over to Jones."
"No way in hell. Why would there be a tooth in her neck? You are losing it Myles." Jones scoffed and tossed the bag on top of a stack of reports and loose paper behind him. "You're fucking losing it."
Myles could see that behind his cool, condescending eyes lurked real suspicion......and fear.
"Twenty bucks says I'm right."
Jones perked up. He loved a bet, couldnt resist, even though he had never won against Myles; never. Myles knew the one major advantage he always had over Jones. He was right. He laughed to himself, as Jones smiled at him.
"I got you this time, old man."
Myles couldnt help but smile. Sometimes, Jones was okay, Myles thought. Hes not such a bad kid. Their friendly, fake stare down was interrupted by Jones' beeping phone; beeping meant it was coming from within the building. Hopefully CSI was back and they could get some answers, and then Myles could get his coffee.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
The story continues
Myles ran his fingers through his hair. It was getting long again, almost time for a cut and a shave. It had been weeks since Myles had been back to his barber. Everytime he thought about getting a hot shave, his mind flashed to those people, the ones without their throats, and the idea instantly turned into a nightmare. His supply of Ambien was growing smaller by the day and if he wasn't careful, he would be out too soon to call in for a refill. Instead, he would be forced to talk to that pretentious prick of a shrink, the one who always wanted Myles to open up, to share, to talk. Myles always thought it was kind of funny; he's paying a hundred dollars an hour to someone who wants him to do all the talking...what a crock of shit. But the department said he had to.
He leaned up onto his elbows and began to massage the crick out of his neck. He had to stop falling asleep at the table. Myles rubbed his eyes hard, chasing non existant shapes behind his eyelids, and then opened them to see the newest crime scene photos spread out in a veritable buffet of morbid, cadaverous suspicion. What the hell was he missing.....what the hell was he after?
He could feel it, something was there, something he wasnt understanding. Something he was missing. Maybe Jones had a clue. Myles got up, scratching his scruffy face, and grabbed his keys. He would head down to the station and see if Jones had anything new. He already knew the answer, but Myles hoped against hope that Jones just hadnt called him yet.
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He felt alive......so alive. He picked his teeth with his long fingernails. He wasnt cleaning them, so much as pulling pieces of flesh out from under the nails. He licked those fingers clean and then moved swiftly but silently to his pile of clothes, leaning against the wall of this dark alley. He wasnt cold....he was never cold, but he needed to blend in rather than draw attention to himself. The autumn air felt cold to everyone else but him, it seemed. His white dress shirt hung perfectly off of his chisled form, hanging down a little over his black slacks. His long black coat billowed out behind him as the October wind blew through the streets. He used to wear a tie, but realized quickly enough that people mistook him for a waiter, or sometimes even a Jehova's Witness; that was more annoying than anything.
The subway was mostly deserted at this time of the night. Those who were there payed him no attention as they tried valiantly to block out the lights and sleep, happy to have some warmth from the outside. He hated the smell, B.O. and piss, but this was the easiest way for him to travel quickly, and without being disturbed. Also, he didnt have to pass so many gaddamn churches. It was as if there was one on every corner, mocking him. He didnt hate the church, he wasnt repelled by the cross; he just hated God. He knew God was there, but he loathed everything about him.
Why was he created? Why did he have no purpose? He had awoken one night, just awoken, and that was it. He wasnt sure how old he was, but he had been at this now for close to fifteen years, never knowing his past, his roots, his purpose. The hunger was all that existed, though he never quarrled about that; killing was fun, a sport for him. He was the audience, as well as the player. If he could only find out why he existed. Not having a purpose was his plight, and he hated his creator more than life itself, as it was the thing that created him which led to this confusion.......this emptiness.
A stranger walked by, bumping into him. For a normal person, it would have seemed like nothing, but he wasnt normal. In a quick motion, he swung his arm up, gripping the man's arm. The hobo, stinking of wine, shrieked and dropped something. He stared into the man's eyes, tilting his head, much like a dog, searching for answers. After a minute or so of the strange staring, the man began to threaten him, hoping to free his arm and escape with a handout. He clenched his fist quickly and completely, crushing the man's forearm to dust. A loud shriek filled the rail car as the man stumbeled dazily into the next car. He leaned down casually and picked up the small sketchbook. The pages fluttered in the low light of the car, and the perfectly sketched images of beautiful death were shown quickly to the world. He slowly replaced the pad to his interior coat pocket but not before pausing for a brief moment on the last entry; a beautiful blond, breasts slightly exposed and smeared with blood. His lips retreated slightly over his jagged teeth, a small satisfaction for the ride home, he thought.
He leaned up onto his elbows and began to massage the crick out of his neck. He had to stop falling asleep at the table. Myles rubbed his eyes hard, chasing non existant shapes behind his eyelids, and then opened them to see the newest crime scene photos spread out in a veritable buffet of morbid, cadaverous suspicion. What the hell was he missing.....what the hell was he after?
He could feel it, something was there, something he wasnt understanding. Something he was missing. Maybe Jones had a clue. Myles got up, scratching his scruffy face, and grabbed his keys. He would head down to the station and see if Jones had anything new. He already knew the answer, but Myles hoped against hope that Jones just hadnt called him yet.
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He felt alive......so alive. He picked his teeth with his long fingernails. He wasnt cleaning them, so much as pulling pieces of flesh out from under the nails. He licked those fingers clean and then moved swiftly but silently to his pile of clothes, leaning against the wall of this dark alley. He wasnt cold....he was never cold, but he needed to blend in rather than draw attention to himself. The autumn air felt cold to everyone else but him, it seemed. His white dress shirt hung perfectly off of his chisled form, hanging down a little over his black slacks. His long black coat billowed out behind him as the October wind blew through the streets. He used to wear a tie, but realized quickly enough that people mistook him for a waiter, or sometimes even a Jehova's Witness; that was more annoying than anything.
The subway was mostly deserted at this time of the night. Those who were there payed him no attention as they tried valiantly to block out the lights and sleep, happy to have some warmth from the outside. He hated the smell, B.O. and piss, but this was the easiest way for him to travel quickly, and without being disturbed. Also, he didnt have to pass so many gaddamn churches. It was as if there was one on every corner, mocking him. He didnt hate the church, he wasnt repelled by the cross; he just hated God. He knew God was there, but he loathed everything about him.
Why was he created? Why did he have no purpose? He had awoken one night, just awoken, and that was it. He wasnt sure how old he was, but he had been at this now for close to fifteen years, never knowing his past, his roots, his purpose. The hunger was all that existed, though he never quarrled about that; killing was fun, a sport for him. He was the audience, as well as the player. If he could only find out why he existed. Not having a purpose was his plight, and he hated his creator more than life itself, as it was the thing that created him which led to this confusion.......this emptiness.
A stranger walked by, bumping into him. For a normal person, it would have seemed like nothing, but he wasnt normal. In a quick motion, he swung his arm up, gripping the man's arm. The hobo, stinking of wine, shrieked and dropped something. He stared into the man's eyes, tilting his head, much like a dog, searching for answers. After a minute or so of the strange staring, the man began to threaten him, hoping to free his arm and escape with a handout. He clenched his fist quickly and completely, crushing the man's forearm to dust. A loud shriek filled the rail car as the man stumbeled dazily into the next car. He leaned down casually and picked up the small sketchbook. The pages fluttered in the low light of the car, and the perfectly sketched images of beautiful death were shown quickly to the world. He slowly replaced the pad to his interior coat pocket but not before pausing for a brief moment on the last entry; a beautiful blond, breasts slightly exposed and smeared with blood. His lips retreated slightly over his jagged teeth, a small satisfaction for the ride home, he thought.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A Playlist of a Life (Part of The Unrestricted Saga)
A pendulum swings into the night
Much like the clock of my life
A soundtrack in my head plays the theme to my existence
Bleak with some humor for good measure
Singing away the thoughts of the past, Swinging away
"The end of the innocence," or another classic tune
To draw back the sadness of my youth
I sing along, shouting words to a superior mother
Or the shell of a legume, fallen under the steps
Of so many who’ve passed over me
If only they could sense the epiphany I’ve had
That I’m on my own with the 9 crimes I’ve committed
Relishing everything I once had, but have lost
Lost into the void of existence
Bleak, tireless, and without mercy…..
Time is growing short and as my end approaches…….
Sadness at the thought that I’m the only one left who cares
I remember how it was….I remember it well
The cold water rushing over me as I comedown
And finally embrace this time that consumes me
I take this as a final act, a final cut in the performance that is my life
This is not the end, but it isn’t the beginning
No final bows, No curtain calls…….just an empty stage
To set the scene for the end
And around here you can disarm me with a smile
But it only takes a second to realize we’re in a world gone mad
A world apart, focused on prom nights and homecomings
When the only real homecoming we need is the one we get at the finish line of life
When the darkness covers us, and we are heard speaking a monologue of autumn
Just remember, no mater how long we formulate lists and speculate ideas and ideals,
Nothing gets crossed out……Nothing ever gets crossed out
Until now, as time is closing in…….And I’m drowning like a brick in water
I hear footsteps…echoing their perfect symphony, bittersweet in my ears
But now it fades and I’m left alone again….Just four walls, a pillow,
And a mind…..too bad I don’t have mirror….I’d love to see what my face looks like now
The look is as numbing as a piano song in the night….searching and performing
A requiem for my dreams……………..
Much like the clock of my life
A soundtrack in my head plays the theme to my existence
Bleak with some humor for good measure
Singing away the thoughts of the past, Swinging away
"The end of the innocence," or another classic tune
To draw back the sadness of my youth
I sing along, shouting words to a superior mother
Or the shell of a legume, fallen under the steps
Of so many who’ve passed over me
If only they could sense the epiphany I’ve had
That I’m on my own with the 9 crimes I’ve committed
Relishing everything I once had, but have lost
Lost into the void of existence
Bleak, tireless, and without mercy…..
Time is growing short and as my end approaches…….
Sadness at the thought that I’m the only one left who cares
I remember how it was….I remember it well
The cold water rushing over me as I comedown
And finally embrace this time that consumes me
I take this as a final act, a final cut in the performance that is my life
This is not the end, but it isn’t the beginning
No final bows, No curtain calls…….just an empty stage
To set the scene for the end
And around here you can disarm me with a smile
But it only takes a second to realize we’re in a world gone mad
A world apart, focused on prom nights and homecomings
When the only real homecoming we need is the one we get at the finish line of life
When the darkness covers us, and we are heard speaking a monologue of autumn
Just remember, no mater how long we formulate lists and speculate ideas and ideals,
Nothing gets crossed out……Nothing ever gets crossed out
Until now, as time is closing in…….And I’m drowning like a brick in water
I hear footsteps…echoing their perfect symphony, bittersweet in my ears
But now it fades and I’m left alone again….Just four walls, a pillow,
And a mind…..too bad I don’t have mirror….I’d love to see what my face looks like now
The look is as numbing as a piano song in the night….searching and performing
A requiem for my dreams……………..
Friday, January 16, 2009
Terry Goodkind
Terry Goodkind....What can I say.....hes amazing...pick him up as soon as you can. Its great.
Here's a list of his books:
Wizard's First Rule (One of the best books I've ever read)
Stone of Tears (Even better)
Blood of the Fold
Temple of the Winds
Soul of the Fire
Faith of the Fallen
Debt of Bones
Pillars of Creation
Naked Empire
Chainfire
Phantom
Confessor
They are all part of a series called the sword of truth saga. Once again....its amazing and you should check it out.
Here's a list of his books:
Wizard's First Rule (One of the best books I've ever read)
Stone of Tears (Even better)
Blood of the Fold
Temple of the Winds
Soul of the Fire
Faith of the Fallen
Debt of Bones
Pillars of Creation
Naked Empire
Chainfire
Phantom
Confessor
They are all part of a series called the sword of truth saga. Once again....its amazing and you should check it out.
Untitled Short Story Pt. 2
"Same M.O. as before?" Myles asked, already knowing the answer to his question.
"Exactly the same. Jesus, I don't get it Myles. What the fuck is wrong with this sadistic bastard?"
Jones was only two years out of the academy, a young buck in the eyes of everyone at the station. Somehow, he was always first on the scene. Didn't need to sleep as much as the older guys, Myles thought to himself. Jones was a tall and lean, cocky son-of-a-bitch with dark har and a thin, pretentious looking goatee, topped all off with a fluffly soul patch. He looked like a stylized moron parading in a police uniform. Myles wasnt a fan of him, but he did solid police work so Myles rationalized to himself that it could have been worse.
"Anything on the scene?" Myles called, hoping for any shred of evidencethis time. The last four were completely clean, except for the quarts of blood smeared on the pavement, of course.
"Nothing yet. CSI says it looks just as clean as before. I dont know how many more of these cold case bastards I can take. We have to find something."
"Yeah, I hear ya," Myles answered, not really listening to Jones ramble on. His mind was elsewhere at the moment. Something had caught his eye; a sudden realization, something he hadnt figured out yet. "These incisions here," Myles said, gesturing towards the victim's chest. "What do they look like to you? I've never really put it together before, but look at them closely."
Jones stood back, eyeing the scene with fresh eyes. He extended his arm out in front of his body, superimposing his hand, and eyeing his fingers over the corpse; the bloodspots from the incisions lined up perfectly. Jones' eyes slowly reached a conclusion; One that Myles was too disturbed to emote himself.
They arent incisions," he slowly said, his eyes growing bigger, not blinking, as the words trickled from his mouth. "They are entrance wounds from a pair......a pair of....hands?! I...I...um....I dont really know what to say."
"I'm with you on that," Myles answered, stepping clear for the crime scene photographer to finish her work. Myles directed her to strip the shirt off of the victim and take numerous photos of the hand wounds on the chest. Myles turned from the scene, his coffee now stale in the face of such grim company. He had to do some work, something to keep his mind off of this for a second.
"Myles! Where are you going?" Jones shouted behind him, but Myles had all but checked out of the scene already. "Myles, what the fuck!" and then he could hear Jones muttering something under his breath. Myles didnt care. He'd been doing this job long before Jones had ever seen the inside of a police station. He wasnt worried what a piece of shit like Jones thought about him, only that he needed to get his mind elsewhere for awhile. This had weighed heavy on his mind for the past week and he thought, maybe with a fresh mind, he would be able to refocus and actually work on the case.
It haunted him...the sight...the very sight of the bodies. they werent just murdered........they were massacred.
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The warm liquid once again flooded into his mouth, spreading warmth through his body, opening his eyes wide, awakening his senses to the world around him. Another night, another life...….the blood streaking down his chin, spilling onto his chest, his fingers still embedded deeply in her chest. He loved the feeling he got when he hunted; envigorating. He arranged the body on the pavement , just as he had numerous times before; legs spread, arms out in a relative Christ pose, head tilted lightly to the left, exposing the spine which was visible now through the gaping wound that was once the throat. He stood over the corpse now, smiling, his teeth shiny with crimson, and stared proudly down at his latest work.
A sound echoed over the empty streetblocks. A car peeled out in the distance. He had remained here too long. In an instant he was gone, leaving no prints, no steps, no blood trail. His incredible speed saw to that. His smile faded, his lips curling back over his shark-like teeth.
"Exactly the same. Jesus, I don't get it Myles. What the fuck is wrong with this sadistic bastard?"
Jones was only two years out of the academy, a young buck in the eyes of everyone at the station. Somehow, he was always first on the scene. Didn't need to sleep as much as the older guys, Myles thought to himself. Jones was a tall and lean, cocky son-of-a-bitch with dark har and a thin, pretentious looking goatee, topped all off with a fluffly soul patch. He looked like a stylized moron parading in a police uniform. Myles wasnt a fan of him, but he did solid police work so Myles rationalized to himself that it could have been worse.
"Anything on the scene?" Myles called, hoping for any shred of evidencethis time. The last four were completely clean, except for the quarts of blood smeared on the pavement, of course.
"Nothing yet. CSI says it looks just as clean as before. I dont know how many more of these cold case bastards I can take. We have to find something."
"Yeah, I hear ya," Myles answered, not really listening to Jones ramble on. His mind was elsewhere at the moment. Something had caught his eye; a sudden realization, something he hadnt figured out yet. "These incisions here," Myles said, gesturing towards the victim's chest. "What do they look like to you? I've never really put it together before, but look at them closely."
Jones stood back, eyeing the scene with fresh eyes. He extended his arm out in front of his body, superimposing his hand, and eyeing his fingers over the corpse; the bloodspots from the incisions lined up perfectly. Jones' eyes slowly reached a conclusion; One that Myles was too disturbed to emote himself.
They arent incisions," he slowly said, his eyes growing bigger, not blinking, as the words trickled from his mouth. "They are entrance wounds from a pair......a pair of....hands?! I...I...um....I dont really know what to say."
"I'm with you on that," Myles answered, stepping clear for the crime scene photographer to finish her work. Myles directed her to strip the shirt off of the victim and take numerous photos of the hand wounds on the chest. Myles turned from the scene, his coffee now stale in the face of such grim company. He had to do some work, something to keep his mind off of this for a second.
"Myles! Where are you going?" Jones shouted behind him, but Myles had all but checked out of the scene already. "Myles, what the fuck!" and then he could hear Jones muttering something under his breath. Myles didnt care. He'd been doing this job long before Jones had ever seen the inside of a police station. He wasnt worried what a piece of shit like Jones thought about him, only that he needed to get his mind elsewhere for awhile. This had weighed heavy on his mind for the past week and he thought, maybe with a fresh mind, he would be able to refocus and actually work on the case.
It haunted him...the sight...the very sight of the bodies. they werent just murdered........they were massacred.
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The warm liquid once again flooded into his mouth, spreading warmth through his body, opening his eyes wide, awakening his senses to the world around him. Another night, another life...….the blood streaking down his chin, spilling onto his chest, his fingers still embedded deeply in her chest. He loved the feeling he got when he hunted; envigorating. He arranged the body on the pavement , just as he had numerous times before; legs spread, arms out in a relative Christ pose, head tilted lightly to the left, exposing the spine which was visible now through the gaping wound that was once the throat. He stood over the corpse now, smiling, his teeth shiny with crimson, and stared proudly down at his latest work.
A sound echoed over the empty streetblocks. A car peeled out in the distance. He had remained here too long. In an instant he was gone, leaving no prints, no steps, no blood trail. His incredible speed saw to that. His smile faded, his lips curling back over his shark-like teeth.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Untitled Short Story Beginning
The warm liquid once again flooded into his mouth, spreading warmth through his body, opening his eyes wide, awakening his senses to the world around him. Another night, another life…..at least that was the motto down at the 14th. Coffee was a way of life. Nothing woke you up to the the night life of the city like a cup of joe. Myles was now ready; homicide again, and just as before, throat ripped out completely, being removed entirely back to the spine, blood everywhere, staining the pavement around it for two feet on each side. What could be doing this?
“Fifth one this week, ehh Myles?” a voice shouted over his shoulder.
“Yeah it appears so….whats the time of death?”
“Can’t tell yet. We just came across this an hour ago, but the blood looks to have coagulated so I’d say a while.”
The stench wasn’t yet overwhelming but It was enough for Myles to bury his nose into his coffee cup, straining to smell anythng except the macabre in front of him. The M.O. was the same as the last five: Throat ripped out to the spine, ten perfectly placed incision marks about two inches deep into the chest, shriveled body with the skin barely hanging on the bones. He couldn’t take much more of this.
“Fifth one this week, ehh Myles?” a voice shouted over his shoulder.
“Yeah it appears so….whats the time of death?”
“Can’t tell yet. We just came across this an hour ago, but the blood looks to have coagulated so I’d say a while.”
The stench wasn’t yet overwhelming but It was enough for Myles to bury his nose into his coffee cup, straining to smell anythng except the macabre in front of him. The M.O. was the same as the last five: Throat ripped out to the spine, ten perfectly placed incision marks about two inches deep into the chest, shriveled body with the skin barely hanging on the bones. He couldn’t take much more of this.
Monday, January 12, 2009
No Country for Old Men
So I just finished reading No Country for Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy and I must say that it was amazing. I absolutely loved the movie, especially the ending that pissed off pretty much everyone else in the theater besides me. The Coen Brothers are amazing to me and in my eyes they can do no wrong. I mean......Fargo, The Big Lebowski, Burn After Reading, O' Brother Where Art Thou, The Hudsucker Proxy; How can you compete with that? You cant!
But I digress, the adaptation to film was almost flawless. I could see the movie in my head as it followed the book almost to a T.
The only thing they left out were a couple of scenes that weren't crucial to the plot and a couple of lines from Chirgurh, our own mystery murderer. He was just as bad ass in the book, if not more so than in the movie. Javier Bardem (Anton Chirgurh in the movie) was the perfect person for the job and as they have done in the past, the Coens put together the best cast possible for the movie adaptation. My advice to all of you out there not listening to me rant daily (lol) is that you should pick up the book and read it. It was short coming in at 309 pages and it flows so quickly. I read it in two days. Pick it up and enjoy. On that note, Ill leave you with my favorite line from the book. Later
"Chirgurh shot him in the face. Everything that Wells had ever known or thought or loved drained slowly down the wall behind him."
But I digress, the adaptation to film was almost flawless. I could see the movie in my head as it followed the book almost to a T.
The only thing they left out were a couple of scenes that weren't crucial to the plot and a couple of lines from Chirgurh, our own mystery murderer. He was just as bad ass in the book, if not more so than in the movie. Javier Bardem (Anton Chirgurh in the movie) was the perfect person for the job and as they have done in the past, the Coens put together the best cast possible for the movie adaptation. My advice to all of you out there not listening to me rant daily (lol) is that you should pick up the book and read it. It was short coming in at 309 pages and it flows so quickly. I read it in two days. Pick it up and enjoy. On that note, Ill leave you with my favorite line from the book. Later
"Chirgurh shot him in the face. Everything that Wells had ever known or thought or loved drained slowly down the wall behind him."
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Silent Hill
So last night I decided to once again feast my eyes on Silent Hill, the movie. I forgot how much I absolutely love it, aside from the cheesier-than-thou acting of Laurie Holden (Played the cop, who was much better in The Mist). The little girl, Jodelle Ferland, was terrifying in a fun way. Not necessarily scary in the traditional sense as much as she gave some sort of feeling that was uncomfortable. Especially with lines like, "It is the end of days, and I......am.......the reaper." By far my most memorable line from the movie. Well, that one and, "Mother is God in the eyes of a Child." because it was reminiscent of the Crow. Rhada Mitchell aside from being gorgeous is actually a pretty decent actress in my opinion, and Boromir himself, Mr. Sean Bean did a pretty convincing job. I guess that movies like that speak to me. I cant say as I know why but I do know that I love really dark movies and Silent Hill is definitely that. It isn't an outstanding movie but it is entertaining, especially for someone like myself who loves the games (aside from The Room....that was crap).
I will probably be posting movie reviews like this a lot because, if you've read the post before this, you know that I love movies. But, I promise not to list any spoilers and if I just cant help myself, well then I'll warn you.
Later
I will probably be posting movie reviews like this a lot because, if you've read the post before this, you know that I love movies. But, I promise not to list any spoilers and if I just cant help myself, well then I'll warn you.
Later
Friday, January 9, 2009
A Strange Obsession with Movies
For me, it seems strange not to divulge every second I have awake into furthering my ever-growing love of movies. I watch them constantly and when I buy, I usually buy in bulk of at least four or five, sometimes as much as 20. I know it sounds rediculous but I cant help it. Being able to escape into another world, even if for just an hour and a half is great. I love my life, my wife, and everything else but still....I feel something is missing. I've pretty much given up on the only dream I've ever had, but that is a different story for a different day. The movies seem to fufill some basic need that I dont or cant attain in my everyday life. I guess thus is the price of mediocrity......Lots of movies.lol. Im outtie 5000. Sorry....I heard that somewhere...Later
5 a.m.
It is now five o’clock and evident that sleep shall continue to evade me
That wonderous sensation of drifting off to another world is like a dream to me
As weird as that sounds, I wish for nothing more than to fall headfirst into slumber
But it seems this world has other things in store for me
Insomnia….
It is strange that a simple word and idea can hold so much sway over one’s life
Have so much influence on their being
I wish to no end a break from constant alertness
Its strange not sleepingIts strange not living the same way others do
I cant say that I hate it because I don’t….
The only thing that bothers me
Not laying down in bed next to my baby, my love, and staring at her beautiful face until I drift off
That would be most welcome….
But I guess I’ll wait and see
Another dawn to another day……void of sleep
Lets see what tomorrow night brings
That wonderous sensation of drifting off to another world is like a dream to me
As weird as that sounds, I wish for nothing more than to fall headfirst into slumber
But it seems this world has other things in store for me
Insomnia….
It is strange that a simple word and idea can hold so much sway over one’s life
Have so much influence on their being
I wish to no end a break from constant alertness
Its strange not sleepingIts strange not living the same way others do
I cant say that I hate it because I don’t….
The only thing that bothers me
Not laying down in bed next to my baby, my love, and staring at her beautiful face until I drift off
That would be most welcome….
But I guess I’ll wait and see
Another dawn to another day……void of sleep
Lets see what tomorrow night brings
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