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waxman.

Frankly

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waxman.

 

Frankly

 

"Good morning St Louis. It's yet another brisk morning here, with tops of 9 Celsius and mostly sunny..."

 

I stared through my review mirror. The traffic pilled car upon car; people screaming and yelling. Just my luck, stuck on the only bridge in the city and there's damn construction. It's disgusting really. In these short moments, when I do get to think, my thoughts are always negative. That's probably because I'm always so busy, and always doing this and that. I grip the thin, leather car wheel tightly - with anger.

 

"F*cking move your arses!" I yell as I slid my head out of the side windscreen.

 

This is why I get angry, and I always wonder why I am angry. You wake up in the morning... after you realize you forgot to set your alarm. You get up, banging your knee on the side of the bed as you leave the room - Bang, straight away, you are stuck in this negative circuit. This vibe can be felt by others, and especially in me. It bubbles in the abyss of my stomach. Boiling up my throat... until I explode.

 

I slam my hand on the horn with force.

 

My temper is frankly pitiable. It shouldn't be, because I have a nice car, a new house, gardeners and cleaners. Yet, I still hate my life... with a passion. I stare around at all the other moaning sobs, in their two door, rusted and outdated cars. Frowning, moaning, complaining. They surround me with their pricky attitude. The cars slowly moved forwards, and a scene on the side of the bridge came into view.

 

I really considered jumping off that bridge.

 

"And news just came in early this morning that a middle aged man, no names yet, has died after witnesses say he jumped from the Eads Bridge in St Louis. Fisherman, fishing for catfish, pulled him from the sea bed after drowning a few hours before, and yet..."

 

I gulped as the scene on the bridge was what seemed to be a forensic team parked in the center of the road. F*ckwits, I thought. I had a word to speak to them. I unbuckled my seat belt, and slammed the car door behind me as I walked in and out of the traffic. Several men stood around, towering over a body bag. In sheer fright, I turned away. A pale face had just looked at me.

 

One of the men turned around, "You aright buddy," he jogged over.

 

I fell onto my knees, holding my head. I had just witnessed something I wasn't expecting - frankly overwhelming.

 

The cop rubbed my back, and calmed me down before asking, "Do you know this man?"

 

I climbed to my feet and staggered back over to my car. I began turning the keys to start the car, as the police began approaching. I steered with one hand, and with the other, I pulled out my wallet. Swerving in and out of traffic. I swung the wallet open, pushing credit and membership cards out of the way. Red and Blue lights shinned through my review mirror. I pulled a small picture out and aimed it into the suns direction. A faint image of a long lost friend. Using the term 'friend', because he was not an important person in my life.. at the time.

 

My son.

Edited by Coat.

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VProductions

I like it, the suspense was perfect and this would make and excellent novel. One thing I did notice is how it changes from first person to second person mid-paragraph mainly in the extract below.

 

 

 

This is why I get angry, and I always wonder why I am angry. You wake up in the morning... after you realize you forgot to set your alarm. You get up, banging your knee on the side of the bed as you leave the room - Bang, straight away, you are stuck in this negative circuit. This vibe can be felt by others, and especially in me. It bubbles in the abyss of my stomach. Boiling up my throat... until I explode.

 

 

 

That was, as they say "EPIC" you should think about continuing this piece soon. There are so many paths that the protagonist can follow.

 

tounge.giftounge.gif

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waxman.

Thank you. The person's don't change, but the protagonist relates himself - thus being third in that paragraph.

 

If you want to look into another 'novel' I'm writing, check 'Peasant Blurs'. It's a drama/action.

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VProductions
Thank you. The person's don't change, but the protagonist relates himself - thus being third in that paragraph.

 

If you want to look into another 'novel' I'm writing, check 'Peasant Blurs'. It's a drama/action.

Oh.. And I will read Peasant Blurs sometime today. tounge.giftounge.gif

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Mokrie Dela

Very identifiable. More so because my days started sh*t?

 

I liked the little "twist", how the man's anger so quickly turns to shock and (i'm assuming) grief. Some power in that, and i liked the detail when he opened his wallet/driving one handed (thought some of this effect is lost in gridlock, unless he pulled out onto the shoulder or something).

 

Not bad stuff.

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waxman.

 

Chapter One

 

The Dead : Altered

 

It was only that one time, that really screwed up everything. One vacation... for a job of course, a conference. My eyes danced around the room to see this beautiful women in a silver, silk dress. First thing I did after the conference, was head straight to the bar to order her a beverage. She thought I was joking at first. After all, I only just turned twenty and was living in a rented apartment in downtown.

 

---

 

I felt like I did a crime, as I was locked in an interrogation cell. Just because I was blood linked this this, this kid. I don't know why he was in town for, and I don't even know if he knew me, but one thing was for sure. I looked at the door handle slowly turned, before two older looking men walked in, with a guard behind, as the door closed behind them. One of them spoke, "First of all, my condolences," condolences, don't start that trash. All they want from me is a plain, and simple answer. I leaned backwards on the chair slowly, stretching. The other men spoke, "You don't seem to care about the death of your son, Thomas Waters?" but I grinned at both of them.

 

I had to face the fact. My life wasn't getting any brighter, or even appealing to me. To be all honest, I won my car in a competition and the house I am living in was my dead grandfathers. I was living an utter lie. Even the suit I was wearing was used by my older brother at his buddies wedding. So when they asked if I cared that my own son died, you know what I said.

 

"I don't care," I gazed past them, and at the wall.

 

The two men looked at each other, as to think I was insane; I hoped they were buying it as well. One of them came up to my face, really close. He was trying to see what my reaction would be - either good or bad. I wanted to mix things up a little; play some mind games. When he moved back away from my face, I looked at both of them and said, "I did it," but they didn't really understand what I just said. They just still stood there, with their arms folded.

 

"You mean, you killed your son?"

 

I moved my sleeve back and looked down at my wrist-watch - it wasn't working. I flicked it a few times before looking back up at them asking, "Do you have the time?" but they rolled their eyes and took a seat. This time, they spoke with anger, "Shantanu, did you just not here me. Did you murder your son, Thomas Waters?" and that's how I wanted him to say it- with anger. Little did these cops know, I was teaching them how to become better. I smiled, "Yes, I did. I enjoyed wrapping him up in glad wrap and watching him fall from the bridge," they looked at me in disgust. They weren't falling for it. But what if I was telling the truth - these officers would be in some trouble.

 

They frowned, picking up their documented cases and left the room. A guard at the door, about six foot 9 just stood there quietly after they had left. I was confused, in a way. I wasn't sure if I was in trouble, they forgot about me or this man was blind and deaf; it was the cops that were playing the mind games with me. And when I thought I knew everything, I didn't - I was being watched from somewhere.

 

I scanned the room real shifty. The guard walked over to place a cold cup of water, right in front of me, "Now relax," he said, "We ain't trying to trick you or notin," he's voice spoke calmly. I didn't bother to drink anything, I wasn't thirsty. I just sat there, for hours on end. I just sat there, staring at this tall black man. It was getting too much for me, "When can I leave?" I finally asked. "I'd thought you'd never ask," and he walked over to me and handcuffed my arms. He nodded at the door and it slid open quickly. The room was dark and shaded, and the light pinched my eyelids. I was suddenly in a war zone, a battlefield.

 

"Mr Waters, what made you kill your son," a news reporter yelled, "He was a model citizen, why did you do it," another reporter yelled. The room was so loud, that it was quiet. Everything seemed to dull down, and nothing mattered. It was like a sad ending to a happy movie, something fantastic and different. I didn't give a sh*t about anything, anymore. Getting arrested was my last concern as well. This, getting yelled at, is the exact same being stuck in traffic; yelling people with meiotic lives. Sweat dripped from the end of my black, thick hair and landed on my suit. Lately, I couldn't help but think, I am being drugged.

 

Crowds of people rush to get a glimpse outside the police station. After all, the media give us false information that we eat and believe is good for us. It's far from that, they are drugging us. I was forced into a Chrysler 300, and it drove off. I was completely oblivious to what was happening. I didn't know why this was a big deal, I mean, I didn't even kill the guy- why blame me. That's right, cause the media said so...

 

Everything seemed to fade out like a dream. Strange enough, it was a dream.

Edited by Coat.

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