“I write best when I’m waiting for the train.”
Not sure what’s going on in this story but I love this style of writing. I can express my ideas in short bursts but still pack in all the information and feeling I want to deliver without giving a full-length novel like post.
Alley Murders. He liked to walk down alleyways, Where the smell was pungent and the air had a green tinge to it. He liked to breathe in deep, Smell the place where his soul left his body, the awful stench of blood and soon the shit-like smell of his rotting corpse. The sweet perfume of his killer becomes stronger as he reaches the spot where he was murdered. He liked to listen, To the sounds of his chocking breaths as the blood bubbled up his throat, and the oxygen to his brain dwindled. The clack clack clack of heels on concrete resonated in his head as his killer walked away; their steps hitting the floor in a slow anagonising pattern. He liked to open his eyes, To see the graffiti painted walls and black garbage bags lining the alley; The syringes and tissues that litter the floor, remnants of drug users squatting and passing through, uncaring. Semi-permanent residents in this semi-permanent world where even memories don't remain. He likes to feel, Feel the presence of others who have passed. Feel their pain as they fall to the floor. Feel their beating hearts as they pray to their God begging in vain for mercy in the next life, mercy in this life, repenting the sins they aren't even sorry for. He returns, Everytime coming back looking for closure that never comes. He wants to meet the one they all leave with. Night after night, after days in a year; He walks into the alley, Breathing in deep, Listening, Opening his eyes, and Feeling; Hoping to leave in a different fashion in which he had entered. They confront him, Right as he is leaving, At the mouth of the alley, giving up back to where he resides until his next visit. "You've waited a long time." He wants to see a being in all white emitting an etheral glow, holding an outstretched hand to him; He doesn't expect to know them. He doesn't expect them to grab his shoulder; Nor does he expect to feel the pain of his death again. The searing pain in his chest as the blade sheathed itself inside his heart, cutting off all his blood supply; And the preassure bulding up in his chest and lungs as oxygen fails to reach his brain; Blood starts pooling in his throat, chocking, he struggles to breathe. Red drops fall from his body and onto the concrete below painting the alley with his DNA, evidence the police will eagerly scrape up. Though no police will come this time. No one will see the blood. No one will see his body. No one will see him ever again. They looked at him as he lay there, Dead again on the floor where he'd lay years earlier, His face a grimice of pain and betrayal. He was lied to about the passing. "If you haven't left the earth they'll come for you and make sure you leave." He thought it meant a passing over to another realm, Not this, A second death. A pain twice over. Dying doesn't get easier.
What are your thoughts on dark, murder mystery stories? I love them and it seems like my stories are getting darker and darker but it matches my mood and that’s when I write best…
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With Love Bree xx
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