Here's Something I Prepared Earlier:

Hello all! Well, all three of my ‘followers’ (That makes this sound like some sort of cult or something doesn’t it?) and anybody else kind enough to drop by and give this meagre excuse for a blog a look. Since it’s been about a week since my last post -and in my renewed attempt to be a fairly prolific blogger- here is a new post, just for the sake of it. I have no real agenda at the moment, which is why I may just opt for the lazy choice of posting something old.

I love to write (When I’m in the right mindset and I actually force myself to) short stories, little novels, etc. It’s really just a hobby and I don’t really fancy myself as a writer in the true sense of the word, although someday I really would love to be. I’ve done a good bit of writing in the past and I’m recently trying to revive whatever sort of flair I had to begin with. Anyway, in the last few months or so I’ve started formulating a pretty disorganised plan for a new story which I hopefully will get around to actually writing this summer. I wrote a pretty rough introduction to this idea a few months back, partly just to get some of my ideas down on a page and also because of the enjoyment I get from writing whilst under no amount of pressure or time constraint. I’m just going to post the first few paragraphs here if that’s all good with you guys. Any criticism, constructive or otherwise is largely welcome of course. So, in that old Art-Attack vein, instead of actually writing a proper blog entry, here’s something I prepared earlier....

The Smoking Gun

At 1:08am, in a vacant lot on Boston city’s upper eastside, a heavy, wooden apartment door was being slowly opened. A relatively tall man wearing a brown leather jacket unzipped enough to allow for the collar of a cream shirt to protrude, with worn denim jeans and dark brown leather shoes stalked into the unfamiliar apartment and reached instinctively to his right for a light switch. The small room opened out onto a smaller kitchen by way of a sixties’ style beaded doorway. He continued into the linoleum and faux-granite kitchen parting the beads with his hands. Pulling a string-switch hanging from a fan in the centre of the room, the half drunk, unshaven Keaton Byers paused to take in his surroundings.

Just as he had hoped, the place was empty; you could almost hear a pin drop. Reaching into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes he heard something considerably louder than a pin. A hammer in fact, cocked with the barrel pressed cold against his left temple, he hadn’t checked the living room. He let out a brief chortle at his stupidity and, without looking at his assailant, proceeded to open his cigarette carton and flick a stick from the bottom which he took between his two fingers.

“Don’t fucking move!” a voice with a slight Italian drawl which faltered slightly yelled into his ear, displaying what Keaton thought to be a hint of trepidation. Shaking his head whilst popping the cig into his mouth and lighting it with a flash of his lighter, he said smiling:

“That’s just what’s wrong with these wannabe gangbangers today,” The voice attempted to interrupt but Keaton wasn’t finished, “I mean c’mon for fuck sake, every crook in this town used to have at least some smarts, then you, fuckwit, step up to me and press that pussy’s pistol right up to my fucking skull. I mean, I’m probably not at my most perceptive but if I was going to pop a guy I’d keep my distance, yano?” He paused, inhaling a plume of smoke and exhaling while saying- the cigarette hanging from his bottom lip- “Here I am talking, while for some reason, you, shmuck, with the fucking shooter in his hand, are shaking. I can hear you. And the fact of the matter is you’re right to.” The gunman was getting increasingly uneasy at the lack of fear he was evoking in Byers, “Just you wait a fucking minute-” but he wasn’t fast enough, Keaton had grabbed the pistol with his left hand while smacking the guy full force in his nose with his right, causing it to make a sickening, crunching sound. The skinny youth, not more than in his early twenties in Keaton’s estimation, squealed and fell to the floor where he writhed in the pain of his fractured nose, warm blood pouring over his now almost certainly shaking hands. Keaton looked down at him almost with pity whilst he idly shook the pain out of his bloodied knuckles. He took another drag of the cigarette and, opening the chamber of his assailant’s gun, laughed loudly. “I fucking knew it, blanks!” Then, hunkering down he leant into the glistening, bloodied face and wrenched the convulsing hands away from its snout. “Just who the fuck did you think you were sticking up here, you thick Guinea?” He spat out these last three words contemptuously then, glancing down at the pistol that lay between his palms, he pocketed it. Taking another deep pull of the cigarette and standing up again. “C’mon, get up” he kicked the Italian’s side lightly. “Fuck yourself!” through his whimpers, it seemed that this kid still had some balls.

“What you fuckin’ say?” Keaton instigated testily, no reply. “I think you’re overestimating your current predicament here kid, you are lying on the ground clutching your smashed nose while I stand over you with not one but two guns. Now, pretty fucking please, get up.” The Italian began to slowly draw his trembling hands from his face then in one swift, sudden movement flung one down towards his sock. This kid was quick, but Keaton was quicker. Grabbing what he believed to be the blank-loaded gun he drew and fired. He was genuinely shocked when he was met with a sickening splatter as his snub-nose detective special blasted lead through the kid’s face. Keaton watched as the Italian’s hand fell from his ankle grasping a small blade, one that would surely be embedded in his lower calf now had it not been for the immediate response. He stepped slowly back from the crumpled corpse, the gun still smoking in his tremor-less hand by his side. It had all happened so quickly, now he stood, jaw tensed as the blood- which appeared black in the dim light of the kitchen- began to form in a pool by the motionless head. He muttered “fuck” in a way that would indicate that his last shot of Jameson had affected his reactions. It was his killer instinct, more of a reflex action than a meditated one. He had intended to get some information out of the kid.

Over an hour later he found himself, beginning to gradually sober up knelt down on the hard linoleum of the kitchen floor scrubbing desperately at the large stain of blood cursing himself. What had he been thinking? Forensics would notice this in an instant, but that was just it, he hadn’t been thinking. When he was satisfied that he had mopped and scrubbed at it till it was almost indistinguishable, Keaton threw the now bright red towel into a black refuse bag along with the mop which he snapped in two over his knee. Tying up the bag he left it down for a moment and stepped into the living area, picked up the blue rug in the centre of the room and, dragging it back into the kitchen, placed it over what was left of the blood smear. Picking up the refuse bag in his gloved hands, he walked to the door and opened it out onto a dank, grimy corridor, this lead him to the deserted, run-down street that was Greenfields Avenue.

He glanced cautiously to his left and right before briskly crossing the moonlit road towards his black Pontiac Firebird, the only sound to be heard was that of a dog yapping loudly a few blocks over. Popping the trunk, he flung the refuse bag in, peeling his latex gloves off and tossing them in after it, he slammed the trunk shut before sidling over to the driver’s door, opening it and hopping in. The engine roared to life followed by the instantaneous flood of yellow light from the headlamps. With a squeal of resistance from the tyres, he spun the car around and drove quickly into the alleyway adjacent to the derelict, grey cement block of apartments which he had just left. He pulled the motor up beside the fire escape and hopped out, leaving the engine running. Wrenching the fire door out and picking up a large cement block that lay beside it to prop it open, he stepped inside. Treading softly up the corridor – he had been informed that this was a vacant building beforehand, but now was beginning to seriously question the authenticity of his source and wasn’t going to take any more chances. He made his way up to the door of the apartment and carefully, checking his peripheries, reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a credit card which he used to jimmy the lock open, stepping hurriedly to the bedroom once inside.

He emerged from the apartment moments later, this time with the deadweight of two teeming refuse bags duck-taped together and slung over his shoulder. Passing through the open fire exit, he kicked the block out from beside it, fishing in his pocket for the car keys. He pressed the button to release the trunk as the door behind him swung shut with a click. The red brake lights gleamed on his face as he lugged the corpse in beside the bloodied refuse bag. His watch read 2:45 am when he slammed the trunk shut and tore off into the night, the growl of the V8 accompanied only by the wail of distant sirens.

I realise that there’s a lot of polishing up to do here as well as cutting down on the overwritten parts and fixing the dialogue, structure, etc. However, I’d really be interested to hear your honest opinions. Should I scrap the idea? Re-work it? Any suggestions would be great.