A Night's Work

You all know about my wonderful illustrator ability? "What ability Hope?" Okay so I admit-I have none. I illustrated this story anyway.

Have you ever noticed that I love to have surprising and sudden endings to my stories? This one, in my opinion is one of my most surprising. I should tell you it's origin though so that you are not totally creeped out: One night I was reading my Bible and I came across a verse that inspired me to write this story.

One other thing before I actually give you the story-I have been told this is a very confusing story and I completely agree. However I am unsure how to clarify it while still leaving it the style I want it to be. Any ideas?

A Night’s Work

            Glancing out one of his four frosted window panes Roger noticed a strange black cloaked figure  hurrying along the crowded London street below him. There was something almost familiar about the cloak. It seemed to him, though he somehow couldn’t quite place it, that he had seen it before. Perhaps it was one of his many bitter enemies who carried around clinking gold in their pockets. It was getting dark outside and many of the street lamps, his usual signal, were already being lit, telling him it was time to go out. He turned away from the window, hurriedly dumped his pipes contents into the fire and snatched his own black cloak off a rusted nail by the door. As he was trying to shut his ever creaking door quietly he remembered something. With a grunt of impatience he shoved open the door, jerked open one of his bettered desk drawers and slipped something cold and steely beneath his cloak. In his mind he could see the strange cloaked figure hurrying down the street. He too must hurry if he wanted to be able to follow. Tiptoeing down the rickety stairs he slipped out the front door relieved to have escaped his landlady’s sharp ear for once.

Out on the street the wind nipped fiercely and bits of ice and snow cut at Roger’s face. He pulled his hood low over his dark brows and hurried against the wind looking for his man.

He soon found his and began following his at a short but safe distance.

A burly man with gold rings on his fingers bumped against the cloaked figure causing him to slip on the icy pavement.

“Pardon me sir! I wasn’t watching me steps.” The gentleman held out a hand.

“I can get up myself.” Roger heard the muttered reply and he bit his lip in concentration. The voice was familiar but yet he couldn’t place it.

The gentleman was also familiar and a passion for revenge against him boiled up inside Roger but he restrained it. He had someone else to deal with tonight.

“Tut man! I am truly sorry! If I had time I would show just how much by taking you to a pub but my wife is having a baby and I wish to get home as soon as possible. However here’s a few farthings to get yourself something.” A ringed hand reached into a bulging purse and removed several coins.

The mouth inside the hood made a noise and spitting on the coins struck them to the ground and turning on his heel marched away.

The gentleman looked shocked and offended and quickly passing off the wet coins to a nearby beggar he hurried on his way. Slipping into a dark doorway, Roger waited until the gentleman had passed and then descended back into the street. His eyes strained through the darkness looking for that black cloak. To his surprise he saw it hurrying towards him, the opposite way it had been going. With a sudden idea Roger stepped directly in front of the moving figure. He didn’t get to see the face of his man like he had hoped. The cloaked man coming even with him barley paused and then shoved him forcefully to the ground and out of the way.

Roger leapt to his feet with an oath and his hand sought the cold steel underneath his cloak.

A policeman passed him and glanced curiously at his mud stained cloak. No, here was not the place. He would wait, follow and bide his time. Wrapping his cloak around his head more securely he began to once more stealthily follow his man.

Three dark figures threaded their ways through the crowds each unaware of the other following.

The gentleman stopped and spoke to a little child and the cloaked man and Roger both quickly ducked into doorways. Roger listened intently to what the man was saying.

“You are quite sure taking this alley will take me to Haircourt Lane more quickly?”

“Yeth thir! Buth you wudden’th pay me to walk down ith. Too many ghosths!” The beggar child looked nervously around the gentleman and down the alley.

“Well I don’t have time for any ghosts tonight so I’ll just reckon I won’t have to worry about them.” The rings caught lamplight and his purse clinked with a beautiful sound of fullness as he dropped some coins in the child’s hand.

Yes I totally agree-both artist and photographer need some serious help. :)

The beggar child watched curiously for a while but after seeing nothing he passed on.

On tiptoe now both men moved silently into the street, each unaware of his following.  After turning a few corners the dilapidated and abandoned houses blocked out the noise of the bustling city street and it became harder to walk silently.

With a snarl Roger’s man leapt forward and with two bounds was on his victim. The ringed gentleman had not time to cry out before he lost his chance forever.

Roger waited for his chance as his man stripped the gentleman of his rings and transferred the heavy purse to some place under his cloak.

Roger’s hand grasped a cold steal handle beneath his cloak and he drew it out. Now! The moon glinted delightfully off the nine inch blade as he pounced. The cloaked man was off his guard but Roger missed his mark. The two men struggled silently for a few minutes each knowing he was fighting for his life. With a lightening move Roger ducked under the other’s arm and this time the blade went home. With a groan the man fell heavily to the filthy pavement. He gasped and then shuttered and then was silent.

Roger stood looking down on the two bodies. This was a good night’s work. Two fat purses and several rings with large stones. He smiled with the thought of coins dancing before his eyes. One thing more to make his night complete. He reached down and removed the blood spattered hood.

A black pointed beard, stringy black hair, shaggy black eye brown and the scar with curled the lip into a perpetual snarl and pointed upwards towards one of the staring black eyes—Roger uttered a cry of surprise and horror.

It was himself!

Proverbs 1:18-19

New American Standard Bible (NASB)

¹⁸ But they lie in wait for their own blood;
They ambush their own lives.
¹⁹ So are the ways of everyone who gains by violence;
It takes away the life of its possessors.

For those of you who don't like downer ending stories like this, here is the rest.

"On your lives Lestrade and Waston! Hurry or the man will have already accomplished his bloody deed!"

The sound of running footsteps came from behind Roger but he was still so stunned he didn't move. A grip like and iron vice fell on his shoulder and jerked him to his  feet and a panting officer clapped handcuffs over his wrists.

"I have got you at last!" the bulldog face of the officer was curled into a sneer. He turned to the tall gaunt man who had just let go of Roger's shoulder. "Holmes my dear man, if you continue on in this way you may yet become on of us professionals up at Scotland Yard!"

A smile played on Holmes' face.

"Come Watson. I think our job is done here and though you have been kind enough not to mention it I am sure you want a full account of how I came across my facts. I think however it would be more enjoyable at Baker Street over breakfast and a pipe."

Turning on his heel the tall gaunt Holmes strode away followed closely by his thick set companion.

"My dear man! I am at an absolute loss to see how you did it!" Watson was nearly bursting with impatience.

"Elementary my dear Watson. Very elementary I assure you."

Gone

    Sweat trickled down the back of his neck sending a slight chill throughout his whole body.  Any movement he made could reveal his presence which would mean almost certain death.  The creature was coming closer, carelessly breaking twigs as if wanting the whole world to know its location.  Slowly he raised the rarely used revolver while quietly sucking in a deep breath.  This shot had to be steady.  It had to do the job.  He closed one eye and aimed, slowly squeezing the trigger.  The hammer clanked harmlessly against a faulty primer.  Fear filled him as he yanked again.  Still nothing happened.  Above him he could hear the heavy breathing of the creature; its putrid breath filled his nose.  It stared down at him, a sneer on its face.  His heart dropped landing like a rock in his stomach.  “No!  Nooo!” he turned to run but a hand grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards, slamming him into the ground.  

    With the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth he looked up to see its eyes glowing eerily as it looked him up and down like a piece of meat.  "Now it is your turn." 

Story by H.A.G.

So-Grace came down and visited me a week or so ago. When she was here she got to meet Angela! Now...Josie if I could only get you to come down too...*Hint*. Anyway, the night Angela was at my house we all decided to write a story together. Each of us wrote one sentence. Here is what it turned out like.

Blue-Me (Hope)
Purple-Angela
Green-Grace

A Story by L.A.G.

He was dying; blood dripping from his mouth; his arm twisted and torn. Casper knew his time had come. His eyes fluttered open and he saw something white and small bending over him and bathing his forehead with water.

 It said in a gently voice “The time has come; and you are ready.”

Casper gasped, for it was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

The girl stroked his black hair and said gently, “You’re time has come as I said. But you are ready and you adventure will begin as soon as I am done nursing you back to life!”

“W-Who are you?” he whispered.

“My name is not for earthly being to know.” She tucked a purple lock behind her ear.

“Well,” He rolled his eyes, “Aren’t you something special!”

“Nothing as special as you, chosen one.”

“Me?” Casper blinked.

What do ya'll think? Should we keep going? One sentence at a time? Start a new story? Drop the whole bad (it was mine so I can say that without offending anyone) idea? Josie, do you want in on it? Do we want to do it via email or should I make you all administers and when it is our turn we could just go edit the post? Any other related question I have forgotten to ask? Any other unrelated question  I can think of to ask? Lol. Okay...so that is what being home alone for several hours does to me. 

Tiger Paw

 Have any of you ever tried writing under influence? And no, I don't mean the influence you are probably thinking of. I mean under the influence of music. Non of you, except maybe Josie ( I simply don't know having not actually been around Josie very much!), are probably as influenced by music as I am. I live in it, sleep with it in my dreams, breath it (but I don't mean that my ear phones are constantly in my ears). It is an enormous part of my life. I find myself irresistibly drawn to any type of it. It has always seems to tell me stories, especially music with no words. In fact, that is where I have come up with most of my story ideas. Anyway...this story was written under the influence of a song called "Tiger Paw"-thus the name. Tell me how you like it, err...dislike it. And guess what Josie, it is almost as morbid as some of yours and Patty's stories! :)

Tiger Paw

Rustle, rustle. The watchman sat dozing on by a grove of young bamboos. Rustle, rustle. The Cornel was asleep in his tent. No one heard. Rustle, rustle. It was coming closer, it was closing in, and it was surrounding His Majesties Royal Army. Rustle, rustle.

Snap! A twig snapped under a stealthy foot. The watchman jerked awake. Rustle, rustle. The watchman listened closely trying to discern if it was a sign of approaching danger.

A brown hand closed over his mouth muffling his futile cries and a shining blade was pressed to his throat.

The Cornel watched as the watchman continued to struggle. The blade flashed and the watchman was laid quietly placed on the ground.

Reaching his hand out slowly for his bugle to give the warning signal, the Cornel was vaguely aware of a slight movement behind him and then the brown hands laid him down also never more to rise.

Everyone was asleep. No one new of the eminent danger closing around them, getting closer every minute.

The Sheiks battle cry sounded through the camp and a moment later an un-aimed bullet whistled through the harmless trees.

“Shiks!” the cry had barley gotten out of the sergeant mouth when a bullet struck him and he fell to the ground dead.

Many said later that they had never seen such confusion. Indians with turbans, knives and guns where running everywhere killing all in their path. Soldiers ran for their guns only to be shot before they got within a hundred yards. Tents fell down as the camels, horses and donkeys stampeded after pulling up their stakes when the first shot was heard. Buffalo plunged wildly through the battle snorting and stomping and the Elephants rushed around trumpeting madly.

In the midst of all the confusion a bloodcurdling roar of and Indian tiger was heard.

 “Shinbad” a voice screamed the districts’ name for this particular tiger that was always doing damage in His Majesties camps.  As if his presence needed to be more clearly known the tiger with a loud roar sprung into the camp slashing left and right with his mighty paws.

 Several men succeeded in catching some horses and leaping onto their backs galloped frantically away from the fight.

The Shiks upon hearing the roar of the tiger and the screams of his victims fled into the woods followed by the terrified soldiers.  In the middle of the confusion a calm voice was heard shouting above the din.

“Nag! Nag, come here!”

As if irritated that something could be heard above his bellowing the tiger turned and pursued the short man.  Terrified the man turned and ran still yelling at the top of his lungs for “Nag”.  He ran for his life but every tree root seemed to reach out and grab him as if it wanted the tiger to catch him.

 Finally one grabbed him and pulled him to the ground still yelling. With a spring the tiger bounded into the air to land with a crushing force on his victim. But it was not to be. With a crash an enormous black shape came thundering in between the tiger and man and catching the tiger with a twist of his head and truck hurled him against a tree. The tiger fell senseless to the ground and Nag knelt on the orange and black form till with a few final gasps the tiger’s life passed from him.

And that is how dear reader, the 28 Division of His Majesties troops in India found themselves delivered from two enemies in one night. And there we shall leave them fixing their camp and burying their dead.

                                      The End

How Dare You Stay Calm!

Here is a story I scribbled nearly three years ago.  I say scribbled because I really put no thought into it; I was just writing for the fun of it.  It has some blatant grammatical errors, but I decided to post it as is...
Oh, and even though there is an 'I' in this story, it is not a true story.  Some of the events were inspired by real life happenings, but some I made up.

    It all started one morning in late January.  Eight inches of powdery snow had fallen the night before, and the sun shone brightly on it, nearly blinding me as I stepped outside.  I started to place one foot out into the snow and shuddered as I felt how soft the snow was.  If I stepped out of the comforting safety of the garage I would surely sink into snow knee-deep!  And who knew what all was hidden under that innocent cover of snow!
    After considering my options, I grabbed a hefty shovel and fought my way through the snow towards the barn.  Finally I reached the barn and momentarily set aside my weapon to wrestle the old rusty door open.  It squeaked loudly in protest as I shoved it open.  A beam of sunlight fell across the dirt packed floor, reflecting off the metal dog food dish and nearly blinding me again.  I swung my shovel up to cover my eyes and knocked myself in the head.
    When I recovered, I stomped through the barn doing my chores.
    The dog ran hyper circles around me, bouncing and barking his ears off.  (Well, nearly so anyway.)  I managed to finish my duties despite his rambunctious activity and climbed the ladder to the loft to see why the cats weren’t venturing out into the snow yet.
    They were all still sleeping soundly.  Typical cat behavior.  I lowered the makeshift elevator.  There was a pop!  It was a weasel!
    Barker (the dog) boarded the elevator and I hauled him up.
    “Get them cats up, Barker!”  I yelled.  Barker yelped happily and charged the cats.  They jumped and hissed and when they were done acting brave they scattered into their favorite hiding places.
    Barker looked up at me, panting happily as if to say, “I did a good job, didn’t I?”  I congratulated him and gave him his favorite treat before making my way back to the house through the more than knee-deep drifts of snow.  Barker bounced up and down beside me, never running out of energy.
    As we neared the house, I heard the sound of frantic voices break the calm stillness of the morning.  Barker and I raced towards the house, snow flying behind us.
    I burst through the door and kicked my boots off, one hitting the ceiling above and the other flying off into some dark corner.
    As I climbed the stairs I could distinguish some of what was being said (or rather, yelled).
    “How DARE you stay calm?!?  A terrible disaster has just occurred and you’re just standing there!  Do something!  Don’t just stand there!  HELP!”
    I flew up the remainder of the stairs, trying to prepare myself for whatever tragedy lay waiting for me.
    I turned the corner.  Another set of stairs loomed ahead, seeming to glare maliciously at me.  I fought my way up the slippery steps, gasping for breath as I wondered who had shined the floor with grease!  The stairs seemed as though they would never end.  It was like a dream; running as fast as you can and getting nowhere.  I was getting desperate.  Something terrible had happened and they needed me!  I leaned forward with one last surge of energy, heard a loud snap and felt as though I was flying through the air.  Suddenly I was at the top of the stairs, sprawled face down on the cold wooden floor.  I leapt up and banged through the kitchen door, stopping short.  The sight that met my eyes was one I had never imagined to be the cause of such frantic cries for help.
    Salt and pepper from a broken salt and pepper shaker set was strewn across the floor in disarray.
                    –The End—

Helpful Links

Here are some links that to articles that I though had helpful ideas about improving writing. I thought I would share them with you all.

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/2gVUuZ/www2.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/assign/e50xs2.htm

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/5EVTTp/www2.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/assign/e50xs1.htm


And here for you poets-Grace I think that means only you-is a free online rhyming dictionary.

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/2vVy7E/www.rhymer.com

I will post some of the other things I have in mind, soon, including ideas for things we could all do together. School just started for me and I am crazy busy however, so it may take some time. In the meantime-Josie, Grace, Angela-keep posting! I'll comment or post more when I can!

Untitled

    Screams of pain and anger rose up and assaulted Lyden’s ears as he fought.  Every moment he remained on the front line his life was in danger.  With a quick swipe of his sword, Lyden blocked an attempt to cut him in half, and then executed a few moves of his own.  In moments, he had disposed of the charging enemy. 

    He raised his eyes for a few moments, then tugged lightly on his horse’s reins and whirled back up behind the line of battle.  They flew up a hill made up of sand, rock, and scrub brush, then came to a stop in front of another rider.  “Captain!” he called, while pulling his foaming steed to a stop.  “How do things look?”

    Donear’s eyes clouded with worry.  “Bad.  They have far more troops than we have.   I’m afraid that we won’t be able to hold them off much longer!”

    Lyden turned in the saddle and looked out over the desert sands to where the battle raged.  As his heart denied what he saw, his mind was forced to accept it.   For at least a mile, the ground was covered with marching Aramens.  He quickly estimated that they had at least fifty thousand troops who had not even lifted a sword yet, compared to his measly three thousand which were already fighting.

      “Thank you, Captain,” he muttered, his voice rimmed with frustration.  He loped his horse down the hill, through his troops, and to the front battle line.  Just as he arrived, a company of men broke and ran, their faces a mask of fear.  He blocked their path.  “Onward troops!” he yelled twirling his sword high in the air.  “Onward, to victory!”  With that he let loose a battle cry and charged the enemy.

    Just in case you were wondering, there is more to the story, even though I don't whether I will post more on here or not.  Also, I don't have a title for this story; that is why I posted it as having no title.