#1
I wrote this for school and I was wondering what people think. If anyone could be bothered reading it.

I sat at a park bench trying to escape from the insanity of the world, taking in the simple pleasures of life. I was struck by the elegance of nature, surpassing that of any artwork, as the wind rustled through the autumn leaves, that, while at the end of their life exuded deciduous beauty. Suburbia. Simple, mundane, but stunningly awe inspiring. The wonderful harmony of aged leaves chosen from the finest pallet of nature, perfectly counterpointed by the playful melodies of playground equipment accompanied by children cheering, laughing and playing games; euphoric in their innocence.

Cruelly this moment was cut short; I heard the shriek of children, who, through their candid curiosity had discovered something sinister beyond their imaginations, the body of a dead man. At once I rushed to investigate the commotion, and perhaps naively, save what remained of the children’s innocence. I saw the body. Shot dead. One bullet to the forehead. That instant I recoiled violently as my head spun with horror. It was not the brutality of the crime that disturbed me but the precision by which it was committed. The dead man looked as though he could be lying in a coffin, save the bullet in his head. The streets, which only a moment ago were entrenched in beauty, were now hellish and the once elegant canopy became emblazoned, oppressing the senses. My heart throbbed, my blood vessels swelled, constricted by the cry of nature. I grabbed at the air, trying to find salvation. None came.

By the time I recovered myself some time had passed. The children had scattered, presumably to retreat into the safety of their mothers’ arms. So much for my heroic salvage of their innocence. I took another glance at the body before I reached for my mobile phone to call the police. Just as I put thumb to keypad I was stopped as I recognised something on the man’s chest. I didn’t know where I knew it from, but, subconsciously I guess, I recognised its importance. It was enough for me to postpone calling the police. I walked over to the body to retrieve the small ornament, a silver eagle, off the man’s chest. The figurine was no wider than a man’s thumb but it was immaculately crafted, the smallest details engraved with accuracy that seemed to surpass human skill, the eagle appeared like a gift from God of sorts, subtle layering causing it to glitter and sparkle in the autumn sun.

It was clear that this token was not owned by the victim, he probably never even so much as saw it. It was the calling card of the killer. Still, I knew I had seen the bird before. I decided that I shouldn’t call the police in case I was linked to it in some way. I had no way of stopping others from uncovering the corpse and concealing in would only incriminate me. I had to act fast. But the moment overcame me; I succumbed to the whirlwind of thoughts and scant recollections of possibly relevant memories.

When I woke, the moon had usurped the sun from its heavenly throne; the sky was now veiled in darkness. The rustling of once harmonious leaves became eerie. Recalling that I was now involved in what appeared to be organised crime suddenly brought on a pang of fear. Franticly I tried to retrieve my memory of the silver eagle. I assumed I had seen it in the vicinity of one of the bars I frequented, so, with a swig from my flask I set off. I could hear trains and sirens in the distance and the persistent purr of the main road but the area immediately around me was silent and my footsteps penetrated the darkness acutely. I arrived at the main road and was hit by a wall of engine noise, polluted light and polluted air, eager to escape I hailed the first taxi I saw. After directing the driver I observed the radio unit displaying green text that looked like it belonged in a 1980s sci-fi film. Usually I would keep an eye on the route the diver took, knowing he would probably choose the most convoluted one, but on this occasion I was too involved with my own thoughts to bother. The taxi driver pulled up at the cross street I had directed him too and asked for fifty dollars. I could not help but let my anger get the better of me (it was a fifteen dollar trip at most); the driver protested it was the traffics fault but I was already blinded by rage. I swore at him and threw him a twenty.

I squinted threw a sepia haze as I regained consciousness, hovering above me was the image I’d been searching for, around me was the stench of beer and urine. I stood up, dizzy, and still struggling to make out figure among the jaundiced streetlights. I keeled over and threw up on the curb. I felt like ****. After lingering for a minute I proceeded to enter the bar to which the silver eagle belonged, the taste of vomit still in my mouth but otherwise I was feeling better.

The experience inside was far removed from that of the street, antique furniture littered the room, which surprisingly for a Friday night was empty, however the aroma of cigar smoke still lingered in the air. The bar was unattended; I sat at a stool and waited to see if I had been detected. The coloured bottles behind the bar possessed yellowed labels and had gathered dust. I knew I would not be met.
In need of respite from the din of the bar I ventured to a room, illuminated from the inside, opposite the entrance. It was empty, but someone had been their recently, a lit cigar rested on a technicoloured ashtray that sat on a small, plain table. Strangely I could taste the cigar on my tongue before I opened my mouth. Aside from the ash tray a notepad and pen lay on table, a note half scrawled but just legible.

“I killed the driver.”

I stood back and tried to take in the pertinence of the situation. Was the man found by the children a driver? If so, who had written the callously simple confession? In need of answers I frantically searched the notebook for more details. I found rough sketches of the silver eagle, drawn quickly but with precision. I was certain that this was the notebook of the killer. Flicking through it revealed no details about him, I assumed it was a ‘him’, but only one callous confession after another. Deciding the note book was of no more use I left the bar.

When I stepped onto the street I was once again assaulted by the sensations of a main road: smoke, noise, light. I crouched in despair. I had found the source of the silver eagle but I had no knowledge of why. I checked my wallet. Empty. Really empty. No cards, no identification, no money. I walked home, inhaling noxious exhaust fumes as I went. My feet hit the pavement, my head spun, my mouth burned. I turned off the main road and gained some relief from its venom, the blaring noise now a gentle hum, the taste of exhaust only an aftertaste and streetlights dimmed to a soft glow. I felt at peace, the fresh air, ironically had an ethereal effect on my mind, dissipating my thoughts and replacing them with pleasure. As the dopamine rushed to my brain my night of panic, frustration and confusion was forgotten. I lost track of where I was, what I was doing, who I was.

My hands were wet, I looked down, I could see nothing, I could feel nothing. I stepped into the light. My hands were red.
Last edited by GuitarGuitar at Jun 25, 2009,
#2
Sorry man, I started to. Then I realized just how damn long it was.
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#3
Wanna show me the way to the nearest armoury base?

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#4
It's cool. Thanks for trying. I'm just putting it out there.

Quote by Zero-Hartman
Wanna show me the way to the nearest armoury base?


what??
#5
needs a sex scene, every story does
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#6
hmm. Interesting sugestion. Theres only one character though....

How bout if this thread gets x amount of replies ill write a sex scene for it???
#7
Quote by GuitarGuitar

what??

A hilarious UG thread written by a man with no skills in scriptwriting.

I did however read this, I found it very good. Some metaphors were a bit OTT, but otherwise I really enjoyed it

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youmakemesmile...

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Today I stole a girls tampons for being such an annoying bitch.





MUFC


My love for you
Is like a truck
Berserker.
#8
I agree, maybe overdid it with the metaphors

what exactly is the story about? Maybe I'm being dumb but I didn't quite get it
Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known.

¨°º¤ø„¸¸„ø¤º°¨
#9
Cool, you got a link for the script. Thanks heaps for the comments, which metaphors in particular?

Basically it has to be a crime story and otherwise I had free reign. I choose to make it really simple so that it had some depth. I used metaphor a lot because I was trying to convey the fragility and enigmaticness of the main character.
Last edited by GuitarGuitar at Jun 25, 2009,
#10
Is that all of it? It doesn't seem to come to any conclusion.

Pretty decent writing, though. The one thing that caught me off guard was the line 'I felt like shit'. It really doesn't fit in with the way the whole thing is written.

The story needs something more to keep the reader interested though. I sort of had to keep reading it, but purely for the purpose of critiquing it, not due to interest, although I did get interested near the end.

Am I right in guessing that the main character IS the killer? (EDIT: Actually, I'm pretty sure he is, I didn't see the last sentence, but I'd guessed it from the start)
Last edited by soulflyV at Jun 25, 2009,
#11
Quote by GuitarGuitar
Cool, you got a link for the script. Thanks heaps for the comments, which metaphors in particular?

Basically it has to be a crime story and otherwise I had free reign. I choose to make it really simple so that it had some depth. I used metaphor a lot because I was trying to convey the fragility and enigmaticness of the main character.

https://www.ultimate-guitar.com/forum/showthread.php?t=996135&highlight=armoury+base

Have fun

Metaphors: The gift from God one, 1980's sci-fi and the word usurp seems a bit over-dramatic, but that's just me I don't know much about actual storywriting. Also, I'm a little confused on what's happening, but that's a good thing I guess, it makes me want to know more. By any chance, is the protagonist the killer? A schizophrenic suffer?

Edit: Hi-5 soulfly.

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youmakemesmile...

Quote by sebastian_96
Today I stole a girls tampons for being such an annoying bitch.





MUFC


My love for you
Is like a truck
Berserker.
Last edited by Zero-Hartman at Jun 25, 2009,
#12
Quote by soulflyV
Is that all of it? It doesn't seem to come to any conclusion.

Pretty decent writing, though. The one thing that caught me off guard was the line 'I felt like shit'. It really doesn't fit in with the way the whole thing is written.



Yeh, that was the point. Plus I enjoy the prospect of swearing in an assignment. Your right about the ending. The main challenge with this kind of writting is that is that I was severely limited with a 1300 word count. So any more plot and you end up with really boring straightforward narration of whats happening. I understand where your comming from though. Thanks for reading.

Oh and the conclusion is inferred, I mean the 'detective' finds the 'killer' which is the essensial crime fiction resolution.

Zero, you got it all right pretty much, well done. The way you describe it is the exact effect i was going for. You make me happy
Last edited by GuitarGuitar at Jun 25, 2009,
#13
Quote by GuitarGuitar
Yeh, that was the point. Plus I enjoy the prospect of swearing in an assignment. Your right about the ending. The main challenge with this kind of writting is that is that I was severely limited with a 1300 word count. So any more plot and you end up with really boring straightforward narration of whats happening. I understand where your comming from though. Thanks for reading.

Oh and the conclusion is inferred, I mean the 'detective' finds the 'killer' which is the essensial crime fiction resolution.


Oh ok then. It was just weird going from metaphor city to 'shit'. I guess it worked the way you wanted it to then.

And it's a shame you can't expand the conclusion just a tiny bit further, because (IMO) it needs a long, descriptive realisation monologue or something to kind of wrap it up.

Quote by Zero-Hartman

Edit: Hi-5 soulfly.




Yeah baby!
#14
Actualy a realisation may work, it would make the ending less dramatic though. I'll definately think about it though. Thanks
#15


The 1300 word count must suck, because you could sap out so much more information and feelings from it. The main characters has so much more to offer than can be expressed in the meagre word count. I remember writing a crime thriller for English with a 1000 word count... never again.

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youmakemesmile...

Quote by sebastian_96
Today I stole a girls tampons for being such an annoying bitch.





MUFC


My love for you
Is like a truck
Berserker.
#16
I really enjoy writting so I could probably write a novel if I really wanted too. Probably not a good one; I don't have much experience. But I could lol. Yeh I remember in year ten I had to write like a 500 word story and I'd try and reproduce Lord of the Rings or something. Haha.