Short Stories

[Rant]

Hey there, I've been browsing this sorry excuse for a writer's forum. Sure it's a GTA board, and sure it's likely to contain some sort of GTA fan-fictions, but it seems to be over done to hell. Especially the script style. This board needs more stories like Oxidizer, Saltinespike, Eminence, and anyone else who does non-gta, non-script style stories.

 

Anyways, in this topic, you'll find a collection of short stories I have written. I will have it updated on a weekly basis. Keep in mind, these stories may contain graphic scenes and/or sexual themes. That is just a warning, incase some angry parent comes after me for writing these without warning their stupid little ten year old kids who come on here to be cool. Anyways, let the stories begin.

 

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Scent - This post

 

Scent

 

As Sarge stood in the room, shining the flashlight on every empty jar lining the decaying wooden walls, he let out a long and exasperated sigh. Nothing was fitting together. It all seemed so distant. Nothing was related, yet somehow fit together.

 

The Sarge’s partner, Roger, walked back into the house. The floors boards creaked as he shuffled over. Roger was very young, new to the force. He was twenty two, and handsome. He was slim, yet had some muscle on his body.

 

This contrasted Sarge. Sarge was your stereotypical detective. He was about thirty four, a little overweight, and had a raspy voice. He rarely ever spoke. The only person he had ever trusted enough to speak to was Roger. He was not sure what it was, but something about Roger made him feel comfortable.

 

“So, you find anything Sarge,” Roger pulled out his notepad. It had doodles all over, mostly crude drawings, either violent or pornographic in nature. He flipped open to the next page and looked up at Sarge.

 

“Well, if you look here,” Sarge pointed to a jar with a label on it, a woman’s name printed on it. “A woman’s name is printed on the label, yet the jar in empty. It’s like he’s saving it for her or something.”

 

Roger quickly jotted something down, most likely another doodle of his to make it look like he is paying attention. “I see. But look,” he pointed his pen at each jar, “Each and every jar is empty. So he must have a long list that still needs to be filled.”

 

“True. It’s odd that not one is occupied. Usually, to be considered a serial killer, you need at least, what, ten kills?”

 

“Actually, three to four, with a cooling off period between,” Roger pocketed the notepad and walked over to the shelves, examining the jars. He took one off the shelf and looked it over, rotating it in his hand and examining every inch of it. “It’s just an empty jar. Nothing else.”

 

“Why would he have about fifty empty jars,” Sarge walked away from the shelves and towards a mahogany desk. He put on a latex glove and picks up a book. He rubbed the book in his hand. Leather. He opened the book and noticed that it was written in another language. “Hey, Roger, do you know what this is written in?”

 

Roger set the jar back in it’s dustless circle on the shelf and made his way to Sarge. When he reached him, he put on a latex glove and took the book. “It looks like it’s written in Latin.”

 

“Can you read it?”

 

Roger flipped through a few more pages, just paragraphs of Latin. “No. But if you look here,” he pointed to a date in the upper right corner of each page, “This looks like a diary.”

 

“A diary? A serial killer’s diary?”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t call him a serial killer. I mean, what exactly is his body count? Zero? Look at all those empty jars.”

 

Sarge snatched the book back and took out a zip lock bag. He put the diary inside and zipped it shut. “We need to find a translator for this. We also need this dusted for prints. We can come back here tomorrow.”

 

“No,” Roger had his eye fixated on a small, shimmering object on the desk. He took it and examined it. It was a small, golden key.

 

“What is that?”

 

“It looks like a key, Sarge,” he kept rotating the key in his hand. Trying to figure out what it unlocks, or locks.

 

“A key to what?”

 

After some more examining, Roger had an epiphany. “It’s for the basement!” Roger quickly dashed around the corner, down the hall, and to a rotting door. The door seemed to be swollen from water and some sort of vine was growing through it. Roger thrust the key into the keyhole and turned it. The door clicked.

 

Sarge came up behind Roger when he opened the door. “How did you know?”

 

Roger took the key out and showed it to Sarge, “It has a unique blade that is different than the house key. Also, it has a ‘B’ engraved in it, either standing for bedroom, or basement. And since the bedrooms in this house have no locks, then the basement was the last logical choice.”

 

“Good observations Roger,” Sarge went over and yanked open the door, the hinges destroyed and hanging off the door frame. Sarge looked down into the cellar and pulled out his flashlight, “It’s quite dark down there, Roger. Do you mind helping me out?”

 

“Oh, sure Sarge.”

 

“Thank you Roger,” he took two steps down the stairs and his flashlight died, “Roger, I could use your light now.” Just as this was said, Sarge felt a sudden force hit his back. He felt himself catapulted forward and hitting each and every step down until he hit the stone floor. He could not feel his body and could see Roger’s outline at the top of the stairs, just a silhouette. Sarge lay there, trying to reach up to Roger, but all in vain.

 

Roger chuckled and looked down at the dying Sarge, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take any risks, good-bye sergeant,” he shut the door, darkness enveloping the cellar.

 

Sarge lay there, trying to climb up the stairs using his upper body strength, but failing. He pulled out his cellphone, but to his dismay, found no signal. He used the light to look around the cellar. All color faded from his face.

 

Bodies were piled up on each other; the things done to them, unimaginable. One had their arm shoved down their throat and their eyes removed. Another was gutted and burnt with some acidic solution. Other’s were just burnt with fire, other’s were decaying and being eaten by maggots. Sarge started screaming. Screaming for help. Screaming to get out. But no one would hear him. He was in the middle of the woods, with only Roger and the bodies.

 

Roger approached the jars and took one in his hand. He unscrewed the lid and stuck his nose inside of it. He took a long breath and closed the jar. A sadistic smile consumed his face and he placed the jar back on the shelf. He stopped by the desk and picked up the book in the zip lock bag. He pocketed it and proceeded to leave the house. He got into Sarge’s car and started in reverse. He could faintly hear the Sarge’s screams from within the house. He switched back into drive and kept down the road. His cell phone rung.

 

“Hello,” Roger asked as he switched on the windshield wipers. It started raining as soon as he left the house. It was going to be a long night for Sarge.

 

“Well? Is the sergeant out of the picture,” a voice asked through the cell phone in a calm tone.

 

“If a sergeant is left alone to rot with fifty dead bodies in the basement of an abandoned house, screaming; will anyone hear the screams,” Roger chuckled.

 

“That’s good to hear Roger, good to hear.”

 

 

Please, give criticisms.

[saltinespike]

Though I am flattered by the compliment, I think you are being a bit harsh. Oh, and I only saw one story.

 

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As for the story, I have one thing to say: pronouns, pronouns, pronouns. You have a repetitive noun thing goin' on.

 

 

“Why would he have about fifty empty jars,” Sarge walked away from the shelves and towards a mahogany desk. He put on a latex glove and picks up a book. He rubbed the book in his hand. Leather. He opened the book and noticed that it was written in another language. “Hey, Roger, do you know what this is written in?”

 

"Book, book, book." We know, it's a book. "It" will do just fine for the second and third time.

 

 

After some more examining, Roger had an epiphany. “It’s for the basement!” Roger quickly dashed around the corner, down the hall, and to a rotting door. The door seemed to be swollen from water and some sort of vine was growing through it. Roger thrust the key into the keyhole and turned it. The door clicked.

 

Sarge came up behind Roger when he opened the door. “How did you know?”

 

“Good observations Roger,” Sarge went over and yanked open the door, the hinges destroyed and hanging off the door frame. Sarge looked down into the cellar and pulled out his flashlight, “It’s quite dark down there, Roger. Do you mind helping me out?”

 

“Oh, sure Sarge.”

 

“Thank you Roger,” he took two steps down the stairs and his flashlight died, “Roger, I could use your light now.” Just as this was said, Sarge felt a sudden force hit his back. He felt himself catapulted forward and hitting each and every step down until he hit the stone floor. He could not feel his body and could see Roger’s outline at the top of the stairs, just a silhouette. Sarge lay there, trying to reach up to Roger, but all in vain.

 

Roger chuckled and looked down at the dying Sarge, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take any risks, good-bye sergeant,” he shut the door, darkness enveloping the cellar.

 

"Sarge, Roger, Sarge, Roger, Sarge, Roger, Sarge, Roger..." It gets tiring. A simple "he" could replace the majority of those.

 

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Give us an exact number, heh. You estimate too much. He was about, there was about, etc.

 

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If you were not aiming for realistic, fine, but the scene is very unrealistic. There would be at least a few others on the crime scene. Unless Roger tricked him. Oh well.