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