(no subject)
I'm currently writing a story entitled Firefly. Here, for your reading pleasure, is the first chapter.
Torrents of rain lash down, turning the street into a flood of liquid mercury which shines silver in the light of the full moon. A cold wind is whistling through the trees that grow alongside the pavement.
It is a summer night, but you wouldn't know it. There is no warmth on this night. No deep crimson from the roses in people's gardens, meticulously grown but robbed of their beauty by the wind and the rain and the deep silver fluorescence of the moon. In the distance, a police car's siren begins to wail, destroying the scene's dream-like surreality.
The figure dressed in black slinks across a perfectly kept lawn. The house he's heading to is silent and its occupents are clearly asleep. It is late and all the lights in the house are out, leaving the moonlight to flow through the windows and illuminate the rooms within. The man stops suddenly and edges sideways. He has noticed a security light on the side of the house. The man rounds the corner of the house and stands still for a moment. He is thinking about what he has to do next. Squatting suddenly, the man detatches a leather pouch from his belt and lays it on the floor. It gets wet almost instantly, but it doesn't matter. He unfolds it to reveal a set of tools. He picks one out before folding the leather and reattatching it to his belt. The cold wind makes him shiver. When he is out at night like this, he likes to think that his heart is colder than the weather ever can be.
He moves along the wall, crouched down. The door he arrives at is made of thick oak and is painted a deep shade of brown. The man puts the tool into the lock and begins to pick it. A raincloud drifts in front of the moon and everywhere is plunged into darkness. The man is angered but he continues to twist the tool. There is a click as the lock is opened, and the man has entered within seconds.
The house is decorated with thick decadent carpets and lucious trailing curtains. There is an antique bust on a table in the hall, but the man is not interested. He knows what he wants. He sees the stairs at the end of the hallway and he moves towards them. The moon has come back out from behind the clouds now. He can tell by the moonbeam shining through a window at the top of the stairs. He will have to be careful. He climbs the stairs silently, grateful for the thick carpet absorbing the sound of his footsteps. He has reached the top of the stairs. There is a short corridor with three doors leading from it. They are all closed and there is no sound. He must be meticulously cautious. He moves silently to the first door and opens it without a sound. There is a bathroom, resplendent in the hues from the light reflecting from the gold plated taps. The door is closed again. He is not interested in anything inside the bathroom. He moves along to the next door and opens it. He smiles. He has found the right room. Despite the silver moonlight, he can see it has blue walls. There is a TV on a chest of drawers. A single bed lies in the center of the room. There is a body laid in it. He creeps quietly over to the bed and takes out a small cannister from his pocket. There is a slight hiss as he activates the cannister and he holds it near the face of the person laid there sleeping. He holds it there until the cannister stops hissing. The cannister contained sleeping gas. He picks up the person, secure in the knowledge they will sleep for five hours before they awake. He moves swiftly out of the room, pausing at the door to toss a small package onto the bed. It contains a specially rigged cigarette. It will start a fire in five minutes. It will look like the person in the bed caused the fire by leaving an unextinguished cigarette on the bed cloths. Nobody will miss the person. It will seem they were consumed by the fire.
The door to the outside opens again and the man steps out, still carrying the person. It has stopped raining now, but the ground still glistens. The rain has made the grass shine like shattered glass. The man walks steadily. He crosses the road and opens the back of a dark grey van. The person is loaded into the back and strapped down to a mattress. The man does not want the person to hurt themselves by rolling around. Satisfied, the man climbs into the van and starts the engine. It is well tuned and quiet. He eases his foot onto the accelerator, causing the van to glide away gently. It drives slowly down the street, its lights off. It turns right and leaves.
Inside the person's room, there is a hiss and a jet of flame springs up from the device on the bed. The room flickers as the flame begins to set the bed cloths on fire. The red and orange of the flame contrast beautifully with the silver coating from the sleepless moon.
Comments welcome.
Torrents of rain lash down, turning the street into a flood of liquid mercury which shines silver in the light of the full moon. A cold wind is whistling through the trees that grow alongside the pavement.
It is a summer night, but you wouldn't know it. There is no warmth on this night. No deep crimson from the roses in people's gardens, meticulously grown but robbed of their beauty by the wind and the rain and the deep silver fluorescence of the moon. In the distance, a police car's siren begins to wail, destroying the scene's dream-like surreality.
The figure dressed in black slinks across a perfectly kept lawn. The house he's heading to is silent and its occupents are clearly asleep. It is late and all the lights in the house are out, leaving the moonlight to flow through the windows and illuminate the rooms within. The man stops suddenly and edges sideways. He has noticed a security light on the side of the house. The man rounds the corner of the house and stands still for a moment. He is thinking about what he has to do next. Squatting suddenly, the man detatches a leather pouch from his belt and lays it on the floor. It gets wet almost instantly, but it doesn't matter. He unfolds it to reveal a set of tools. He picks one out before folding the leather and reattatching it to his belt. The cold wind makes him shiver. When he is out at night like this, he likes to think that his heart is colder than the weather ever can be.
He moves along the wall, crouched down. The door he arrives at is made of thick oak and is painted a deep shade of brown. The man puts the tool into the lock and begins to pick it. A raincloud drifts in front of the moon and everywhere is plunged into darkness. The man is angered but he continues to twist the tool. There is a click as the lock is opened, and the man has entered within seconds.
The house is decorated with thick decadent carpets and lucious trailing curtains. There is an antique bust on a table in the hall, but the man is not interested. He knows what he wants. He sees the stairs at the end of the hallway and he moves towards them. The moon has come back out from behind the clouds now. He can tell by the moonbeam shining through a window at the top of the stairs. He will have to be careful. He climbs the stairs silently, grateful for the thick carpet absorbing the sound of his footsteps. He has reached the top of the stairs. There is a short corridor with three doors leading from it. They are all closed and there is no sound. He must be meticulously cautious. He moves silently to the first door and opens it without a sound. There is a bathroom, resplendent in the hues from the light reflecting from the gold plated taps. The door is closed again. He is not interested in anything inside the bathroom. He moves along to the next door and opens it. He smiles. He has found the right room. Despite the silver moonlight, he can see it has blue walls. There is a TV on a chest of drawers. A single bed lies in the center of the room. There is a body laid in it. He creeps quietly over to the bed and takes out a small cannister from his pocket. There is a slight hiss as he activates the cannister and he holds it near the face of the person laid there sleeping. He holds it there until the cannister stops hissing. The cannister contained sleeping gas. He picks up the person, secure in the knowledge they will sleep for five hours before they awake. He moves swiftly out of the room, pausing at the door to toss a small package onto the bed. It contains a specially rigged cigarette. It will start a fire in five minutes. It will look like the person in the bed caused the fire by leaving an unextinguished cigarette on the bed cloths. Nobody will miss the person. It will seem they were consumed by the fire.
The door to the outside opens again and the man steps out, still carrying the person. It has stopped raining now, but the ground still glistens. The rain has made the grass shine like shattered glass. The man walks steadily. He crosses the road and opens the back of a dark grey van. The person is loaded into the back and strapped down to a mattress. The man does not want the person to hurt themselves by rolling around. Satisfied, the man climbs into the van and starts the engine. It is well tuned and quiet. He eases his foot onto the accelerator, causing the van to glide away gently. It drives slowly down the street, its lights off. It turns right and leaves.
Inside the person's room, there is a hiss and a jet of flame springs up from the device on the bed. The room flickers as the flame begins to set the bed cloths on fire. The red and orange of the flame contrast beautifully with the silver coating from the sleepless moon.
Comments welcome.