Michael threw off the warm blanket that seemed to suffocate his body. He needed to brush his teeth. A random thought, to be sure, but a good one. He got up and made his way to the bathroom where he would complete the task that random thought suggested. Perhaps he would sit and watch a movie--perhaps not. After scrubbing his mouth to an unsurpassed level of cleanliness, he shrugged back to his bedroom where he changed into a fresh pair of clothes. 5:06am was no time for a movie but he would watch one anyways. He fed the VCR a video tape. 101 Dalmatians. It was a childhood favorite and one that would drive his mind away from his recent nightmare. A few minutes into the film and he was out like a light. Asleep, that is.
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If only his vision wasn't severely impaired. Maybe then he could make out what was going on. He craned his neck to the left. Six large, fuzzy, red figures gleamed at him. 1:43PM. He was horizontal, he knew that much. Maybe on a mattress or table, or even on a floor somewhere. He tried to get up but a sharp pain in his leg and chest prevented him from doing so. The uncertainty of his surroundings was simply more than he could bear. Before he could even think about getting up, light, hollow footsteps announced the approach of another person.
Michael snapped his eyes open and stared forward at a blurry, black figure. The dark shape began whistling. He bent down to Michael's level and grabbed a handful of his sweaty hair. His eyes were blazing orange. Michael strained to make any identification possible, to no avail. His tormentor wore all black, capped with a black ski mask. The man let out a slight chuckle and threw Michael's head back, releasing the handful of hair. He stood and walked over to a bookshelf and took down a Bible. He thumbed through its pages until he stopped at one. His finger slid across the page until it rested at a verse. Proverbs 28:17. He read it out-loud in a nasty snarl. "A man tormented by the guilt of murder will be a fugitive till death; let no one support him."
Michael's eyes began to widen. How would he know about--
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Snap -- 10/26 | 4:51am (Day Five)
--NOTE: 'Snap' is the title of story of which you are reading. 'Day Five' is the consecutive day of my blog on which this post was written/published. I will be beginning to name each post regarding 'Snap' with the following template: Snap: 10/25 | 7:58pm according to the title of story, date in which the story is taking place and the exact times. Due to the unnecessary usage of the 'Day xxxx' post format, I will be dropping it and starting with my new template. Again, it will mean the story title, date, and exact time of the story as it takes place. Thank you.--
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A man sat in the cold, dark reserve of his basement. In a corner, to be exact. He sat crouched over a large wooden table; one cluttered with newspaper clippings, photographs, pen-scribbled pieces of paper and various wrenches, pliers and other miscellaneous tools. A single fluorescent strip-bulb lit the immediate area. It was the way he liked it. Dark; or without the Light. He stood, the cold metal chair beneath him screeching with a pitch that would make a grown man cry. But he didn't because he wasn't. A grown man, that is. He wasn't even a man. But if Michael knew what this guy knew, the plan would fail and it would be 'game over'. Game over for him, game over for Michael, and game over for everyone else stupid enough to get in his way. But Michael wouldn't find out because Michael wouldn't live to find out.
Although the basement was cold and dark, he was warm. Why? Because he wore all black. Black boots; black pants; black shirt and coat; even a black pistol.
He was dressed to kill.
But its not as if just wearing black made him warm. It was the fire inside of him. A blazing inferno that crept through his eyes even now. He would have to learn to control this. He glanced down at the watch that hung loosely from his wrist. He would also have to learn to be on time.
He turned, and, flicking off the light, stepped out into the rain. It was then that he realized how much he really enjoyed rain. It generally meant that the sun was absent and the gray clouds cast a gloomy and depressing cast over everything. He let out a childish cackle then realized how much of an idiot he must've sounded like. He let the thought go.
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A man sat in the cold, dark reserve of his basement. In a corner, to be exact. He sat crouched over a large wooden table; one cluttered with newspaper clippings, photographs, pen-scribbled pieces of paper and various wrenches, pliers and other miscellaneous tools. A single fluorescent strip-bulb lit the immediate area. It was the way he liked it. Dark; or without the Light. He stood, the cold metal chair beneath him screeching with a pitch that would make a grown man cry. But he didn't because he wasn't. A grown man, that is. He wasn't even a man. But if Michael knew what this guy knew, the plan would fail and it would be 'game over'. Game over for him, game over for Michael, and game over for everyone else stupid enough to get in his way. But Michael wouldn't find out because Michael wouldn't live to find out.
Although the basement was cold and dark, he was warm. Why? Because he wore all black. Black boots; black pants; black shirt and coat; even a black pistol.
He was dressed to kill.
But its not as if just wearing black made him warm. It was the fire inside of him. A blazing inferno that crept through his eyes even now. He would have to learn to control this. He glanced down at the watch that hung loosely from his wrist. He would also have to learn to be on time.
He turned, and, flicking off the light, stepped out into the rain. It was then that he realized how much he really enjoyed rain. It generally meant that the sun was absent and the gray clouds cast a gloomy and depressing cast over everything. He let out a childish cackle then realized how much of an idiot he must've sounded like. He let the thought go.
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Friday, October 24, 2008
Day Four
The figure began whistling nonchalantly. It was the tune everyone whistled when they were up to no good, and he certainly didn't have anything good in mind for Michael. He wore all black--black boots, pants, undershirt and coat. He sported a ski mask that was just as black as the rest of his ensemble. He stared down at Michael with fiery eyes--an intense inferno that could not be quenched with even the largest amounts of water. Michael returned the gaze, not sure of what would come of the next few moments. The man walked over to Michael and crouched down on the balls of his feet. He reached out and grabbed a fistful of Michael's hair, clenching it without intentions of letting go.
A tear slid down the wounded man's cheek.
"Haha! Aww, is little Mikey going to cry?"
In a sudden rage, blended with uncertainty and fear, Michael made a fist and slammed his assailant square in the jaw, breaking it. He staggered back, astonished that Michael took the swing. Ripping the ski mask off his face, he pulled a .9mm from his black cargo pants and pointed the barrel towards Michael.
Time froze.
Michael's heart nearly failed as the man began to speak in a nasty snarl. "You filth! You pig! How dare you touch me!!" His voice was inhuman. Almost evil.
Almost without hesitation, the assailant squeezed the trigger and a loud thunderclap signaled the report.
Michael gripped his chest, forgetting about his numb leg. A flash of pain raced through his vains and then a heat wave washed through his body and limbs. Finally, a tsunami of an icy chill crashed over him and he fell silent.
It was then that he woke up. He fumbled with his shirt, searching desperately for a bullet wound.
Nothing.
He reached for his leg, and again, no sign of an attack. But the pain felt so real, so alive. He had a hard time believing that it really didn't happen.
A tear slid down the wounded man's cheek.
"Haha! Aww, is little Mikey going to cry?"
In a sudden rage, blended with uncertainty and fear, Michael made a fist and slammed his assailant square in the jaw, breaking it. He staggered back, astonished that Michael took the swing. Ripping the ski mask off his face, he pulled a .9mm from his black cargo pants and pointed the barrel towards Michael.
Time froze.
Michael's heart nearly failed as the man began to speak in a nasty snarl. "You filth! You pig! How dare you touch me!!" His voice was inhuman. Almost evil.
Almost without hesitation, the assailant squeezed the trigger and a loud thunderclap signaled the report.
Michael gripped his chest, forgetting about his numb leg. A flash of pain raced through his vains and then a heat wave washed through his body and limbs. Finally, a tsunami of an icy chill crashed over him and he fell silent.
It was then that he woke up. He fumbled with his shirt, searching desperately for a bullet wound.
Nothing.
He reached for his leg, and again, no sign of an attack. But the pain felt so real, so alive. He had a hard time believing that it really didn't happen.
Day Three (Compensation for Tuesday, October 23, 2008)
The voice over the phone began repeating Michael's words, " 'Today I will be starting a collection of short stories'--sound familiar, Michael?"
"Who is this?" Michael demanded.
"You have a lot of stories to tell, don't you Michael?" The voice was low and scratchy. Michael assumed his caller was also on a cell phone. It was the kind you'd hear in the movie 'Ransom' with Mel Gibson. The one where the guy who kidnaps Mel's son is also a police officer, and he wears one of those voice-scramblers to distort his voice. "Don't worry about who I am, just worry about yourself. Oh, wait! You do that anyways, don't you?"
Michael was becoming irritated. He wasn't about to sit here and take this from anybody. He snapped the phone shut and took it to the kitchen sink. He stared at it as the faucet drenched it in a continuous stream of hot water. Michael closed his eyes.
The phone in his living room rang. Michael turned and started toward it, leaving with water running. He snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"
"If I have your home address, don't you think I'd also have your home number? The cell phone facade was only for my amusement. And let me tell you: I'm amused."
Michael let out a hollow chuckle. He knew it wasn't funny and he knew it wasn't friendly. Whoever this guy was--whatever he was--was beyond him. He didn't know who he was, nor did he want to. He would rather have the guy stop calling. The gravelly voice came back, "Knock knock."
Not a second later, two pounds on his cherry-wood door announced a visitor. Michael spun to face the door. "What is this?!" He demanded.
"Answer it." The man replied.
Michael set the receiver down beside the phone. He walked over to the door and swung it toward him.
Nobody.
He peaked his head out and looked both the the right and to the left. No one. Nada. The only sign of movement was an old man across the street walking his greyhound. Other than that, the street in suburbia Connecticut seems calm--calm as usual. Michael returned and picked up the phone. "No one was there!"
"Are you sure?" The door slammed shut. Michael's heart skipped a beat. Footsteps. Then nothing.
Click.
The phone went dead in his hands. Michael set it in it's place quietly, trying not to announce his whereabouts. But he guessed that the man who knew his address--the same man who knew his phone number--knew exactly where he was.
Michael had to think quickly. If this crazy guy was in his house, he had plans for him. Plans that would make a grown man cry. He started toward the front door, hoping to get out. Maybe if he were in public, the crazy guy would be spotted by someone. Michael reached for the doorknob. A loud thunderclap screamed in his ears. A bullet slammed into his leg. Michael fell over, gripping his calf. The slug grazed his muscle, rendering it useless. He tried getting up, to no avail. Blood drained from his leg and he felt it going numb by the seconds.
A figure stepped out from behind a wall.
"Who is this?" Michael demanded.
"You have a lot of stories to tell, don't you Michael?" The voice was low and scratchy. Michael assumed his caller was also on a cell phone. It was the kind you'd hear in the movie 'Ransom' with Mel Gibson. The one where the guy who kidnaps Mel's son is also a police officer, and he wears one of those voice-scramblers to distort his voice. "Don't worry about who I am, just worry about yourself. Oh, wait! You do that anyways, don't you?"
Michael was becoming irritated. He wasn't about to sit here and take this from anybody. He snapped the phone shut and took it to the kitchen sink. He stared at it as the faucet drenched it in a continuous stream of hot water. Michael closed his eyes.
The phone in his living room rang. Michael turned and started toward it, leaving with water running. He snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"
"If I have your home address, don't you think I'd also have your home number? The cell phone facade was only for my amusement. And let me tell you: I'm amused."
Michael let out a hollow chuckle. He knew it wasn't funny and he knew it wasn't friendly. Whoever this guy was--whatever he was--was beyond him. He didn't know who he was, nor did he want to. He would rather have the guy stop calling. The gravelly voice came back, "Knock knock."
Not a second later, two pounds on his cherry-wood door announced a visitor. Michael spun to face the door. "What is this?!" He demanded.
"Answer it." The man replied.
Michael set the receiver down beside the phone. He walked over to the door and swung it toward him.
Nobody.
He peaked his head out and looked both the the right and to the left. No one. Nada. The only sign of movement was an old man across the street walking his greyhound. Other than that, the street in suburbia Connecticut seems calm--calm as usual. Michael returned and picked up the phone. "No one was there!"
"Are you sure?" The door slammed shut. Michael's heart skipped a beat. Footsteps. Then nothing.
Click.
The phone went dead in his hands. Michael set it in it's place quietly, trying not to announce his whereabouts. But he guessed that the man who knew his address--the same man who knew his phone number--knew exactly where he was.
Michael had to think quickly. If this crazy guy was in his house, he had plans for him. Plans that would make a grown man cry. He started toward the front door, hoping to get out. Maybe if he were in public, the crazy guy would be spotted by someone. Michael reached for the doorknob. A loud thunderclap screamed in his ears. A bullet slammed into his leg. Michael fell over, gripping his calf. The slug grazed his muscle, rendering it useless. He tried getting up, to no avail. Blood drained from his leg and he felt it going numb by the seconds.
A figure stepped out from behind a wall.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Day Two
"Today, I will be starting a collection of short stories--short thriller stories. Perhaps you will read one and you might like it. Perhaps I might continue the story. Perhaps not. Perhaps I should start typing the short story that I just finished telling you I was going to write. Perhaps not. Perhaps I like to use the word perhaps. And perhaps I'm only using the word to annoy you, and perhaps it is." He tapped at the keyboard with surprising speed. He had taken a course in typing two years before and it was proving beneficial now. He had no idea what he was typing, but only that he was. He glanced to his left, eying the bright red numbers that stared him in the face. 1:10 pm. It was Wednesday afternoon and a slight breeze whisked through the red and orange leaves on the trees just outside his bedroom window. A typical autumn day, to be sure.
But he would soon discover that all was not typical, and all was not as it seemed.
He leaned back in his chair, and, closing his eyes, searched for words. Finding them, he leaned forward and began punching at the keyboard. "Perhaps I should get up and get a drink, but my thirst is not one to be quenched by water, not satisfied by a cola." He pushed his chair out from underneath him as he stood. He looked around. His room was a mess to end all messes, literally. No one could mess a room like he did, yet he cleaned it regularly. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped brown hair. Perhaps he would continue his typing later--perhaps not.
A knock on the door sent him down the hall and into the dimly-lit living room. He wasn't expecting anybody. For being recently graduated from college, he had a decent place. Landing him a job at a local newspaper as a writer helped with the income, and when he was short, his parents provided. His life was going smoothly, as far as he knew.
He swung open the large cherry-wood door and with a skeptical look on his face, greeted the delivery man. The package was addressed to Michael Hall. Not the photographer or painter, but himself. He wished he was widely known, but his talent left him writing for a local newspaper. He closed the door as the UPS man left. He grabbed a knife and opened the package cautiously. It was ironic; he'd be using a knife more in the next few days than he had ever done in his lifetime.
He pulled at the packaging peanuts and retrieved a cell phone. 'How cliche', he thought. The second the thought left his mind, the phone chirped to life. Michael jerked, startled by the volume level.
He put the receiver up to his ear, "Hello?"
But he would soon discover that all was not typical, and all was not as it seemed.
He leaned back in his chair, and, closing his eyes, searched for words. Finding them, he leaned forward and began punching at the keyboard. "Perhaps I should get up and get a drink, but my thirst is not one to be quenched by water, not satisfied by a cola." He pushed his chair out from underneath him as he stood. He looked around. His room was a mess to end all messes, literally. No one could mess a room like he did, yet he cleaned it regularly. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped brown hair. Perhaps he would continue his typing later--perhaps not.
A knock on the door sent him down the hall and into the dimly-lit living room. He wasn't expecting anybody. For being recently graduated from college, he had a decent place. Landing him a job at a local newspaper as a writer helped with the income, and when he was short, his parents provided. His life was going smoothly, as far as he knew.
He swung open the large cherry-wood door and with a skeptical look on his face, greeted the delivery man. The package was addressed to Michael Hall. Not the photographer or painter, but himself. He wished he was widely known, but his talent left him writing for a local newspaper. He closed the door as the UPS man left. He grabbed a knife and opened the package cautiously. It was ironic; he'd be using a knife more in the next few days than he had ever done in his lifetime.
He pulled at the packaging peanuts and retrieved a cell phone. 'How cliche', he thought. The second the thought left his mind, the phone chirped to life. Michael jerked, startled by the volume level.
He put the receiver up to his ear, "Hello?"
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Welcome
Hello, and welcome to my blog. My name is Garrison (also known commonly as 'sky')
I have developed a passion for photography over the last few months and have decided that I will be going to college--Kendall University of Art and Design--to further my understanding and love of this particular field.
I have been an artist since birth. God blessed me with the talent of freehand art, and has given me the desire to pursue photography in the same light.
I am currently seventeen years old, with my eighteenth birthday around the corner.
Please feel free to wander around, view my photographic work, and buy yourself a drink.
Garrison | skyPhotography
I have developed a passion for photography over the last few months and have decided that I will be going to college--Kendall University of Art and Design--to further my understanding and love of this particular field.
I have been an artist since birth. God blessed me with the talent of freehand art, and has given me the desire to pursue photography in the same light.
I am currently seventeen years old, with my eighteenth birthday around the corner.
Please feel free to wander around, view my photographic work, and buy yourself a drink.
Garrison | skyPhotography
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About Me
- skyPhotography
- Hello, and welcome to my blog. My name is Garrison (also known commonly as 'sky') I have developed a passion for photography over the last few months and have decided that I will be going to college--Kendall University of Art and Design--to further my understanding and love of this particular field. I have been an artist since birth. God blessed me with the talent of freehand art, and has given me the desire to pursue photography in the same light. I am currently seventeen years old, with my eighteenth birthday around the corner. Please feel free to wander around, view my photographic work, and buy yourself a drink. Garrison | skyPhotography