Some Introductions.

 Here's a little snippit of a new story (or book? Or screenplay?) I'm writing. Just some brief character introductions. Enjoy, internet.

++++++++++++++++++++

 

Michael Brookstone woke up with an intense pain on the side of his head. He sat up in his bed, and held his face. He let out a sigh, and glanced at his wife. When asleep she looked so serene. So peaceful.

“Something wrong babe?” She opened her eyelids and exposed bright green, blazing pupils. She smiled her angel smile and stared at him. Michael touched her cheek.

“No, honey. Just have to go the bathroom.” Michael rose up, felt the cracks in his back. He stumbled into the bathroom and felt the cold tile in his feet. Gingerly, he grabbed the light switch, flicked it, and stared into the mirror. Jesus he thought.

His face was a book. An old, ragged book with the spine ripped off and with a hundred missing pages. A scruffy mustache. Skin wrinkled, eyes watery. His head hurt. Michael grabbed the chilled sides of the porcelain sink and looked down. Aside from the basin was a photograph. A younger, healthier, handsomer man stared at him, clad in a official NYPD uniform.

You can’t do this anymore. Old man. It whispered to him. Michael grabbed the side of his head and groaned. he went back to bed. Old man. The old man sat down on the bed and stared at his wife. For how long, he could not say. He touched her cheek, and slept.

Old man.

-=======-

Look at the sick puppies... they whimpered. They begged. They cried for their families, their friends, the police, the government. They cried for salvation.

But he would not allow it. In his hand, he held a small, rusted switchblade. He preferred knives. He always had. Guns were... fast. Easy. He hated easy.

Hands behind his back, he walked over to one of his captives. A woman, not even 30. She was crying hysterically; tears poured down her face like sniveling waterworks. He kneeled down. Stared at her.

Look at the sick puppy.

His gaze bored into her face with his black hole eyes. He stroked his beard, breathed into her mouth. No. Not this one. He got up, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked on. To the next.

-=======-

The Burning Question

          What makes a story amazing?

          When you talk to people about stories, books, or even movies, they'll oftentimes describe their favorite as "amazing". But what makes it amazing? This question, Dear reader has been bored into the side of my cerebrum for the last week. It pestered me and annoyed me and drove me to the brink of total insanity and grief until finally, like a ecclesiastical ray of light, it hit me in the gut.

             The villain. You absolutely, positively, have to have the best villain possible. The villain pulls the story forward and alarming rates, taunts the protagonist, and captures the reader's thoughts. Why did he do that? What will she do next? Can the hero stop this animal? Those questions are what push the tale forward and don't let the reader look away for a millisecond.

              So that's what I'll do. I'll make a villain that people will love to hate. I will birth a sick, twisted animal that conducts unspeakable acts of discord for the sake of being an evil monster. A villain that has no boundaries, and no limits. It sounds sick and twisted, but it must be done.

             And, with the antagonist in place, the ultimate protagonist will come to fruition.

              So there you go. Great villain=great story=great protagonist. Now let's begin.

I want to write something.

Something big.

Something that will blow minds. Something that will change the way people think. Change the way they view each other, their lives, and the world around them.

And you know what? I really, really, think I can. I concretely believe that all you need in life is the ambition to do something great, to do something great.

All you need is that little tiny spark that starts in your head, and fires down into your fingertips and fuels the burning furnace that powers freight train that will become something exceptional.

All you need is that little spark.

I start tomorrow.

"The Feeling That You're Being Followed"

Hey all.

Here's a little story that I've been mulling over in my head for a while. I had three ideas going into writing this: nondescript, simple, and powerful. I'm planning on turning it into a short film for my schools film festival. For this reason, it may not be too terribly mind-blowing since its basically a premise. Nontheless, I'll keep you posted, and enjoy!

*********************************************************

THE FEELING THAT YOU’RE BEING FOLLOWED

He took another sip. What he was attempting to suppress was easy to see. Another. Another, another, and another. The man opened his locket, and two gleaming faces stared at him, motionless and unblinking. A gorgeous, fair haired woman, holding a sweet smiling man close. Her eyes were like the sun. A scene preserved, and a constant reminder.

If you saw him now, the resemblance is nonexistent. As he sat at the bar now, the man was dreary and clad in a black duster. Ragged hair, scruffy beard, a shadow of what he once was. Again he took a sip, but felt only cold glass on his chapped lips. His eyes shot, angrily towards the tender, who said nothing. The barman’s gaze met with the pile of empty shot glasses on the musty bar. The man at the bar’s face morphed into a scowl. An evil, angry, vein-pooping scowl. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The man’s eyes were red and foggy, clogged by drink. “You think you can just deny a paying customer? Huh?”.

He lifted a glass and hurled it at the wall; it shattered into gleaming snow. The beserker’s eyes drilled into the tender’s face. His rage was rising... he was going to come at him...

Ding. The sound radiated through the man like a ripple in a pond. It changed him. The man swiveled, open mouthed and fidgitting. The figure was barely visible in a long trench coat and fedora. It held the door open. Moitionless. Faceless. But the man felt something.

A pulling, a spark. He moved towards the person. What was this force moving him? The figure backed up as he approached. The closer the man got, the more agitated the figure seemed. The man broke into a run. Before the man could see or follow it, the spectre swooped out the bar’s revolving door, and was gone.

The man kept following. He ran outside, felt the icy snow pile on him. His arctic breath dissipated into the winter air as he breathed in and out. He realized he still held the shot glass in his hand. He smashed it to the sidewalk. It shattered into the gleaming snow  Its nothing. He thought. Its not her.

The man twisted his head and looked back at the bar. The barman would soon walk out in pursuit. He had to move. The man walked.

/***\

He trudged down the sidewalk. The man shivered like a dead leaf, and the mucus dripping from his nostrils froze against his scruffy skin. At last,he reached a crosswalk. The man stopped. There. Across the way. He saw the same figure.

It couldn’t be.

The force grasped him.

The man ran across the sidewalk, ignoring the orange hand gleaming on the sign. Horns blared. Cars screeched. The figure disappeared again, and he quickly was thrusted back into reality. He yelled at the cars. In frustration. In hatred.

In unrivaled sadness.

The man twirled around, searching for the person. In vain. Tears in his contempt filled eyes, he ran down the street, in no particular direction. Through the snow he thought he saw the figure slip into a house. The man ran. And ran. And ran.

The man barrelled through the antique door. Photos of children and happy lined the walls. A family sat in their living room and stared at him. The mother sheltered a little girl.

She had eyes like the sun.

The father was about to ask the man what he was doing, and approached with an outreached hand. The man felt anger and loathing in the face of the kind gesture. He slapped the father. The mother ran to the phone. The man heard sirens outside.

The man cried. He clenched his locket.