@ Gigla. Pretty nice. Only real complaint is the phrase 'rolling more desperately' - doesn't really sound right to me. May be something to do with the fact you haven't referenced any rolling elsewhere.
@ Dwarfy. Very nice. Can't really comment in depth sadly, as poetry isn't my thing.
Anyway, as I'm trying to get back in the habit of writing, random prompt story inbound.
“Four serial killers in a week? Fine, I’ll bite. But one more and I’m quitting to join a daycare.”
The commissioner sat back in his office chair, breathing both a sigh and a cloud of smoke. He pressed the embers of his cigar down onto the the no smoking sign on his desk, extinguishing it. The sign had been put there by the health and safety people, the same ones who had been complaining about the increased use of tasers. That had not pleased the commissioner.
A bundle of notes was passed across the table, the commissioner's fat fingers ruffling it clumsily as he picked it up. The thin man sitting opposite him smirked, bony fingers tapping the desk impatiently. The office was not his, and yet he seemed to possess the room far more than the commissioner ever had. When he spoke, it was in a clipped, foreign accent - it told of a childhood spent in the depths of Europe, though the words would never tell so much.
“See, you do well of our business, Mr Policeman. When we met you were a thin man, like myself.”
A bony finger tapped the knot of a grey tie, and a silence settled over the room, waiting for the reply. It didn’t come, and half a minute passed. The thin man watched the commissioner's hands, which toyed with the notes, as the commissioner himself looked down at the notes, and past them, to the floor. The thin man’s smirk didn’t falter as he brought a cigarette of his own to his mouth, holding the inhale for a dozen seconds before exhaling quite audibly.
“When we met, I had a wife.” The fat man spoke slowly, a broken pause at the end of every sentence. “I had a child.” Behind the screen of smoke, one could imagine something glistening on his cheek. “Hell, I even had hair.” He laughed, a mirthless sound, full of cynicism.
“Look at me now!” He continued. Hints of anger flashed in his words, and they started to come faster. “My wife is dead, my children taken!” He pushed his chair back, heaving himself to his feet, a marshmallow mountain. “And then I met you!”
The last phrase came as a roar, and echoed in the grey space. Then the fat man seemed to fold in on himself, crumpling back into the seat, the hand holding the money flopping back down onto the desk.
“Tell me, did you kill my wife?” The fat man’s words came out whispered, and hopeless, the thin man looking on impassively.
“Would it matter if I had? You are not the law any more, Mr Policeman. You are another man, trying to get by in this little piece of Eden. And I believe we were making a deal?” The thin man’s fingers resumed tapping, a ticking clock.
The fat man seemed to become lifeless, his voice listless. “I’ll call the men off any address you give.” He shook his head, slowly, jowls wobbling. “Just… make it happen.”
The thin man nodded, and stood, making barely a sound even on the wooden floorboards. He straightened his tie, and reached into his jacket’s inside pocket. He paused on the threshold of the office, fingers brushing the pistol’s metal grip. Inside, he heard the commissioner sob, once, heavily, and his hand left the grip, instead reaching into his breast pocket, and plucking out a sleek mobile.
“Mr. Policeman is still with us. Have those four thugs ready for their sprees, and notify Mr. Editor of the scoop.” He clicked his tongue, a thought on it’s tip. “Oh, and have him send Mr. Policeman a bigger share. Remind him why he’s still on board.”
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 313845 times)