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An experiment to try to write a proper story but i still didn't get there. |
The room was pitch black with the exception of a small lamp in a dusted table, lighting up a pair of hands dancing across an old typewriting machine. The man was sweating nervously with a tip of tears in the corners of the eyes. His cloths were turned apart with a mix of blood and dirt stains all over. The only light of the room, apart from the lamp, was from a small window that stood high up, near the ceiling that flickered every few seconds in an erratic sequence of light and darkness. As he typed restlessly in the dark, ”…the man that makes the streets of the ages old city tremble…”, he felt an heavy, fast passing breath in the back of his head. Two hands cling strongly to the back of his chair, squeezing the wood until it cracked slightly. As the writer finished, the person standing behind him grabs his shoulder. Frightened he turns, trying to face the man. -Is it good? Is it what you wanted? The man browsed through the text and with a grim that left the writer frozen in fear, he replied. –Good? No, it’s your best work so far. Congratulations. He’s hand slides to the writer’s neck -Now, there’s only one thing missing. He raised his right arm high above his head, showing a clean, shinning knife in his hand. The writer’s eyes opened wide but he wasn’t able to say anything, not even scream, as it cut through air and flesh, in an explosion of bloody violence. -The death of the artist is just the beginning. He twisted it deeper into the hearth, spilling blood over the table and into the floor. -The beginning of my art and the epilogue of your, so, smile and take it all in. He removed the blade from the dead body and cleaned it while walking over to the stairs. He reached to his pocket and grabbed a couple of photos of different person. One working in some sculptures, another playing the sax in a cheese club, a young woman painting in a crowed room, a well dressed man taking photos in the middle of the street … As he left the house, a grim filled his face as he looked at the photo of the young painter. -Maybe you can show to the world how I really am. |