And posting this. A beginning of a story I began to write, but was too lazy to finish or continue. Comment on how bad it is.
EDIT; S'MORE.
EDIT; S'MORE.
EDIT; S'MORE.
EDIT; S'MORE.
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[ The Master ]
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I.
He believed it was his part.
He didn’t believe any sort of God had bestowed it upon him, or he was chosen to live this profession. He didn’t believe that it was his duty to deliver God’s messages or to teach the sinning kind what the Almighty Hand could do.
Instead, he believed it was a natural skill. Devils and angels, sins and holy choices didn’t mean anything to him. They all blurred into one line, right and left didn’t matter, he could wield the object in both if needed, if one had dared to get away.
Random horoscopes, which laid printed on newspapers that were stacked everywhere, meant nothing to him. A philosophy purely formed on his roots was all that mattered to him and the dull, proper blade. ‘Ist das gut’, ran within his mind, and it did feel well, exactly why he continued.
Yet the fluid of his thoughts, every night, were interrupted by the constant pounding in his mind. It throbbed in synch with the music that echoed into the night. His knuckles had grown white, the blood barely marching through his body as he glared out the window.
Unruly, they were. He’d killed many of them, and still they sat up every night, blasting that damned noise box and laughing so obnoxiously, he thought they would have drowned in their own oblivion. But unfortunately, they had not. That is why it had became his duty to, at least, stuff them in to the water. Maybe even kill them if he was provoked.
The block of metal, which had served him well, lay dormant underneath his bed in a square box that almost resembled the same material of the blade. He was careful when getting it out of the box and even holding it within his hand. The hilt was smooth, the blade was good and proper. As rough as his victims had been with it, he continued to deal with it as if he would a woman-- if he respected them.
The window, which resembled the shape of the blade, was a perfect view. He stood there, knife in hand before he opened the window, music pouring in like the blood in his head as he slammed it shut. It rattled and his eyes grew wide. He opened the window, then closed it. It rattled once more.
He’d have to fix that later.
His impatient steps flowed through the kitchen, heading onto the front porch as he slammed the door shut. Cats and small raccoons fled from the near by garbage build up beyond the fence that had separated his home from the others. He locked it and slid the keys into his pocket, his eyes looking both ways before he crossed the road.
With the blade in hand, he crossed the street, peering every which way every so often, watching for cars as mother had told him to do.
