ex 6
Novel:
The hallways were dark. They were dark and the hard floors and walls reflected the echoes of Jim Leary’s footsteps. He had been wearing heavy boots, and he was running. In his hand, clutched to his chest, was a photograph of his father, crumpled with frayed pieces taped back together. It was something for himself, something he hadn’t planned to show his father, but he had to bring it with him. He was still young then, still believed in an ultimate goodness in all men. That was years ago. Many years ago, a young Jim ran down the dark hallways, long after visiting hours, managed to find his father’s room, sat beside his father’s bed, and prayed until morning. He had prayed, begging the all-knowing father to save his earth-bound father. And when Jim woke to the sound of his father’s voice-a sound he had feared he’d never hear again-Jim cried real tears, and he wasn’t ashamed, for the first time ever, for crying. Jim Leary thought that he and his father were getting their second chance. That’s what Jim thought.
Short story:
He moves closer to her, slowly because she sleeps. He touches her throat, touches the necklace that he gave her, a tiny golden strawberry hanging from a gold chain, warm from heat of her body. He holds the necklace, watching closely as she breathes, asleep. The darkness of the room is softened by a masked light that enters through the slits between the blinds, so he sees her mouth open slightly as she takes in a breath-a snore, a struggle for breath. He presses his hand against her throat, the necklace tangled around his finger. He pulls away from her just before she opens her eyes.
“A mosquito,” he says and reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He pulls a cigarette out of the pack and lights it. “Don’t worry, baby, I killed the son of a bitch before he could bite.” He leaves the room, taking in a carcinogenic breath.
The hallways were dark. They were dark and the hard floors and walls reflected the echoes of Jim Leary’s footsteps. He had been wearing heavy boots, and he was running. In his hand, clutched to his chest, was a photograph of his father, crumpled with frayed pieces taped back together. It was something for himself, something he hadn’t planned to show his father, but he had to bring it with him. He was still young then, still believed in an ultimate goodness in all men. That was years ago. Many years ago, a young Jim ran down the dark hallways, long after visiting hours, managed to find his father’s room, sat beside his father’s bed, and prayed until morning. He had prayed, begging the all-knowing father to save his earth-bound father. And when Jim woke to the sound of his father’s voice-a sound he had feared he’d never hear again-Jim cried real tears, and he wasn’t ashamed, for the first time ever, for crying. Jim Leary thought that he and his father were getting their second chance. That’s what Jim thought.
Short story:
He moves closer to her, slowly because she sleeps. He touches her throat, touches the necklace that he gave her, a tiny golden strawberry hanging from a gold chain, warm from heat of her body. He holds the necklace, watching closely as she breathes, asleep. The darkness of the room is softened by a masked light that enters through the slits between the blinds, so he sees her mouth open slightly as she takes in a breath-a snore, a struggle for breath. He presses his hand against her throat, the necklace tangled around his finger. He pulls away from her just before she opens her eyes.
“A mosquito,” he says and reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. He pulls a cigarette out of the pack and lights it. “Don’t worry, baby, I killed the son of a bitch before he could bite.” He leaves the room, taking in a carcinogenic breath.