Month: July 2008 (Page 4 of 4)

Felix crouched down by the tree, aware of the fact that if the rain started to come down any harder he would not be safe from it even there. It was not so much that he was bothered about receiving a good drenching at the hands of random chance and more that he was far from home with his camera and no waterproof bag to protect it from this unforseen, heavy shower.

Left and right, across the park, he could see people running for shelter, bags and newspapers held over their heads, and then he saw her and the rest of the world fell away.

Felix had always loved Serena. From when they were four years old, playing in the sandpit in her garden, to her being his date for his leavers’ ball after A-Levels and onward. Even after she had left him for the dreaded Jonas, he had still loved her. He had not expected to see her on this trip to see his folks, he did not even know that she was back in Marlow. He watched her, enchanted that as others dashed to ‘safety’ she pranced gaily through the rain, playing with her hair.

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Olivia was still unsure of herself as she perched in the corner of the room, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. She had been trying to get into this party for about four months and now that she was here she was suddenly aware of the gulf between fantasy and reality. She checked that the green armband was visible, announcing to anyone who looked that she was present as a voyeur, only to be invited to join in by being asked specifically to watch; never to be touched. She also felt in her pocket for the red one she had been given in case she changed her mind.

Just to her right there was a staggeringly beautiful woman perched on the edge of a table, naked, with her feet on the shoulders of the woman who was eating her out, still fully dressed and dressed as a man. Olivia watched, mesmerised by the woman’s beautiful breasts as they rose and fell irregularly with her gasping breaths as she approached orgasm, her head thrown back and her long raven black hair sweeping back and forth on the polished table top.

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George rested the mop against his brow and fought back his gag reflex. It was, and always had been, his worst fear that one day he would be forced to do a job that had bad smells attached to it. Now, here he was, cleaning the toilets in a school and wishing that the children who attended were not such animals. Why did they feel the need to block the toilets, piss on the floors, smoke and vomit and whatever else they got up to in here? Surely the majority of them were horrified by the state of the first floor toilets for both genders when they came to use them?

In most cases the majority would and did make sure that the minority were aptly punished for standing out. Goth kids were beaten for being ‘spooky’, sporting failures were ridiculed for not being able to catch a ball. Why was it that the ones with no respect for their private spaces, who created this stink and mess, were not equally punished? George certainly knew what he wanted to do to them, but he also wanted to keep his job, even with the smell.

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Ferdie wondered if he was ever going to look at anything more than a blank screen. It was three weeks since he had written anything and his editor was starting to get really quite aggressive in his demands for material. Ferdie was not sure that it was okay for anyone to threaten to remove each of one’s fingernails with pliers if you did not deliver a blog article.

He had tried everything; drinking, getting high, sitting outside in the dark looking down on the lights of the city, smoking cigarettes and driving around the Venice streets looking for people that he used to know… Anything to find some inspiration, but nothing was working, and there was nothing there every time when he did one of these things and then reached in to try and find some inspiration.

There was nothing that had not already been said, nothing to believe in any more and it had been this way for almost exactly three and a half weeks. Why was this? Anyone could have guessed that it was because Vicky had left, but he could not see it.

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I wanted to buy Sara a present; that was made me understand what had really changed. It was a week before our fourth anniversary and a month before we were still due to marry. I was in town alone and I decided that I would buy her something for our anniversary. I knew that no gift was going to make it better, but I wanted to signify to her that I was thinking of her; thinking of her more than I thought she knew.

I wandered around her favourite stores, looking for something that would make her smile, that would let her know that I had thought about what she liked, who she was and then I had found the perfect gift. That was the problem though; I was looking, and she could not do that anymore. After about an hour it dawned on me, and crazy as it may sound, I think it was then that I really understood for the first time that she was blind. I could not buy her a beautiful painting or exquisite jewellery, things that would once have captivated her with the way they looked. Now that was only cruel, not thoughtful.

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Frank sat back and stared up at the fireworks exploding over the Potomac, the strains of patriotic music on the edge of what he could hear from the District.

There was something odd about being an Englishman on the Fourth of July; the defeated enemy watching the fete of his defeat. He had not received anything but welcoming and friendly overtures from his American hosts, but even so none of them had missed the chance to point out that he was witnessing the celebration of his nation’s own Waterloo.

There was really nothing like this at home. There was Saint George’s Day, which usually passed without mention apart from on conservative talk radio – a much less powerful force in the United Kingdom than he had found it to be in the US. There was the Last Night of the Proms, but that was not really even close to comparable. Having not been invaded for nearly a thousand years there was no great opressor’s downfall to cherish, no great uprising to remember. England was a rock, an island, and he liked Her that way.

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Layla sat looking at her phone, willing it to ring. The problem with not having an excuse to ring someone when all that you want is to hear their voice, is that very few people have the power to make that desired voice and the person attached to it make a phone call.

She placed the phone back on the desk by her keyboard and picked up her coffee. She took a sip; it was cold, of course. Most people might see this as the very last straw, but she was one of the true coffee fanatics that just saw this as unplanned iced-coffee experience, and carried on sipping as she flicked through RSS feed after RSS feed of work related internet mumblings.

It was one thing to ‘keep up’ with the comings and goings of the start-up world, but it was another dimension of madness, as far as she could see, to actually care about it. Sure keep a weather eye on any other companies in the same space, but does it really matter if start-up X operating in a totally different market has announced that they have their first round funding?

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John was pleased with the way that things had gone. As he cleaned off his Peacemaker, which had been spattered with blood and grey matter from the first shot, he reflected on a job well done. Mister Sparks was going to be very pleased.

He had already heard that the Police were mystified as to how the killings had occurred. In truth there was no riddle to solve; the five heavies were killed so that he could get to Smalley, if they had run after the first one fell he would have let them live – why waste the rounds?

Mister Sparks had been very clear about how he wanted Smalley to die, and though John was most pleased to perform surgical kills he was not squeamish over special requests. It had been hard to find a knife that was able to pierce an average skull easily enough that he could be precise about the entry points of the stab wounds. He had found the perfect one in a hunting store in Virginia a week before and paid cash. It was a small place with no cameras, so he had decided to keep the knife for now.

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Paul stared down at the scene from the catwalk above, trying to walk through the sequence of events in his mind, based on the resulting carnage.

The attacker must have entered to the left, shooting the first stiff in the back of the head as he walked past. This apparently casual act of violence clearly sent the remaining people in the room to seek cover – all of the overturned tables were pointing in that direction.

So the assailant, whoever they were, just kept walking, shooting as they went. The lack of bullet holes in the pieces of ‘cover’ that had corpses behind them suggested a high velocity load in his or her ammo, and a keen eye for shooting blind at a target behind cover. Whoever the assailant was, they had unparalleled confidence and actual ability with a gun.

One, two, three, four, five shots and five dead bodies. It was at this point that the only person left alive in the room apart from the mystery assailant was Smalley. He had only lived long enough to kneel and be stabbed thrice in the face.

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