Prompt #1: Whimsical murderer

It has certainly been a while since I last updated. But I have juicy updates for you at last. My friend (let us call her EGM, for now) - or, more accurately, partner-in-all-crimes - and I have begun a little writing expedition. We each write a take on a topic that we cannot relate to whatsoever, and compare our snippets. Yes, these updates you see are our attempts to become Vladimir Nabokov. Rest assured that we are not as twisted or as bone-headed in person as our characters appear to be.

The cap? ~500 words. I hope you enjoy these blobs.

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Prompt #1: Whimsical murderer

Broken String's Version:

He licks his fingertips and smirks.

He could not remember why his favourite colour had become red. It is a colour of such passion that he had often, again for no particular reason, overlooked. But one day he discovered it suited him well.

It was the end of a routine day where, after his tedious work, his foot angled harder a notch than normal, and he found his car stained with the dark red of twisted passion, and he stood before a sprawled figure overlaid by innards and gaped.

The wounds. The battered face. They sent shivers down his spine, not of fear, but of quintessential pleasure. It was a beauty too great, the desire for which suddenly dominated the entirety of his existence. He suddenly wished to bestow this beauty to all of the dull mankind by his own hands and strength. He suddenly felt he had a purpose.

He smirked, as he is smirking now. The odour of the stains and the sight of the mangled organs excited him beyond all expectations, and he could never forget the sensations again.

He stands surrounded by weak moans, stroking the edge of a knife, eying the sea of red before him, and smirking. Human beings are so much more interesting when at his mercy. Of the many voices there are desperate begging, there are spiteful curses, there are painful screams. He is almost tempted to yield to some of the pleadings he hear, harmonious sounding as they are, adding to the beauty of the red around him. But all is futile for the beggars in the end. All are at his mercy. All will succumb to his might, and become his brush to paint the world a crimson, grimacing red.

He lets his blade run through the skins. The dull sounds of the slashes mix with the shrilled screams and send him shivers again, not of fear, but of quintessential pleasure. The red flows onto his hand. Not enough. More! More! As adrenaline dominates his movements, he laughs and thrusts the blade down, slashing, hacking, until the baggage is opened and the beans spill out with the gushing fountain of red. This is ecstasy. The acme of ecstasy.

He hooks the long line of digestive tract with his fingers and places it under his nose. Ah yes. The smell, too. The smell of red is the essence of it all. It is his favourite part of a bloodbath. He leans his face in and sniffs and sniffs like a starved bloodhound, and amidst the miserable cries of living subjects that are like music to his ears, his senses rise a new orgasm of satisfaction, of joy, of twisted passion of red, of strength of domination.

Yes, he thrills to kill; his purpose is to kill, and he is not one bit ashamed.

He licks the intestines and smirks.

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EGM's version:

I left the office early and didn’t have anywhere in particular to go, so I wandered down the trail along the lakeside. It was a rainy November afternoon, so the usual crowd of nature lovers wasn’t there. In fact, it was completely deserted, but I knew from experience that every now and then a straggler would show up, hastening to some important destination, inexplicably preferring the muddy path to the main road.

I hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

I found a nice quiet spot and stood staring out at the water while I waited. I hadn’t been here for a long time. I’d found other places to amuse myself – with a hobby like mine, you can’t be too predictable – but this was one of the best. Not as cliché as a dark alley, where all the other idiots went. People were on their guard in alleys; sometimes they had weapons, and there was no point getting mixed up in all that. Maybe the others enjoyed the adrenaline rush of the fight, but not me. I preferred it quick and easy.

Finally, a boy came around the bend in the path. He was wearing a backpack and slouching slightly from the weight – probably a highschooler skipping class. He glanced at me without much interest as he approached, then went back to staring at the ground.

I slipped my gun out of my pocket and shot him in the chest before he even realized anything was wrong.

He flopped to the ground like a marionette cut from its strings. I went and stood over his body to watch him die. That’s the best part. His mouth opened as if to scream but only blood dribbled out. His eyes did the screaming instead, flitting around wildly as if looking in the right direction might save him.

Of course, it didn’t. I watched eagerly as his eyes went unfocused, then dulled. The eyes fascinated me every time. I would see something draining out of them, something imperceptible until it was gone. This one drained fast.

When it was over, I left the body where it was and headed for the main road. Somebody would find it soon enough and call the police. I would read about it in the paper the next day, express my horror around the water cooler. Nobody would suspect me; I didn’t even know the boy’s name.

I don’t understand why people think it’s so difficult to get away with murder. All those idiots who get caught? They’re making such elementary mistakes. Honestly, if you just put a little thought and effort into it, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

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And that, my friends, is your dose of disturbance for the day.

Wing

Source: Ooopic.com

“I want a wing,” she said.

“What an extraordinary wish,” he replied.

They lay atop a fresh field of glossy green grass and breathed the mid-April warm air. A stream glided gracefully by, gently leading last of the newly-melted snow into a nearby river. She let herself bathe comfortably in the mild sunlight, her eyes closed in blissful enjoyment. He was looking at her, a curious smile on the face.

“Can you fly with one wing?” he asked after a small pause. The grass was tickling his neck a little, so he turned away and faced the sky instead.

“Maybe, if it’s big enough,” She murmured wistfully, “I’m not sure if I want to fly anyway.”

He has always been amused by her oddity. “A wing can offset your perfectly proportional body, while taking away nutrients that belong to your other cells and harming your growth and well-being. If you want to fly, you should wish for a pair of wings that can appear whenever you want them to.”

“Ah, you’re scientific as always,” she laughed, her voice tinkering like a chime in the spring breeze, “Sometimes you can’t get the perfect wish. You’d have to make do with a flawed one. I’d rather lie here with a wing on my back, staring at the marvels of the sky, thinking that I’ve come close, than to be actually flying in the distance.”

“You’re inexplicable, fellow scientist.”

“I know. I daydream when I dissect rats; I think their intestines might come alive and strangle me.”

“I’m not sure if I’d call that a daydream, my friend. It’s more of nightmarish ridiculousness unique to you.”

“Touché.”

“Listen,” he sat up with a slight frown, and looked down at her lovely oval face, whose windows to the soul were still closed in reverie, “In our path, we soar, or we fall into an abyss.”

“That’s not true. ‘We are all in the gutter.’”

“Yes, ‘but some of us are looking at the stars.’ There’s a difference, my friend.”

“With one wing, I can look at the stars just as much.” She opened her eyes, revealing a pair of clear orbs that stared straight into his.

He grasped onto his curls in seeming annoyance. “But with two wings, you’re closer.”

“Is that any better?” She too sat up and hugged her knee, a quizzical smile lingering at her lips’ corners as she pointed a finger to a cluster of clouds that were passing by, “Look at that cloud. What do you see in it?”

He squinted for a while at the white blob, hoping he could see what she did, “Erm… a giant carnivorous marshmallow?”

She giggled, and he knew it wasn’t what she had seen. “Well what do you think it is?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I see a flock of sheep. But now imagine you’re up in the sky among those pieces of clouds. What will you see then?”

He pictured his latest plane ride. “… A pack of water molecules forming white streams, perhaps?”

She smiled.

“What are you trying to say anyway?”

She laughed. “Is it not better to sit on this comfortable grass and see marshmallows and sheep at our leisure, than to be imprisoned up in the cold sky and see the clouds for what they really are? Does not imagination make us soar in the sky already? Is there a need for two wings?”

“Cozying in the illusions, are you?” He was really frowning now, and he was feeling like he had taken enough bizarreness of mind for one day, “Does it not tempt you, the idea of absolute truth? Is it not a goal in the distance that you would like to get close to? Do you not want to see truth for what it is? Besides, if you’re satisfied with looking at the stars from the gutter, why wish for one wing? You might as well pick a cozy little spot in the gutter and stay there for life.”

She shrugged, and did not mind his irritation at all. “But that’s what I’m saying. I don’t know if truth will be beautiful when I see it up close; I don’t even know if truth is really there. I want to go check it out, but I don’t want to go either. I’m torn, you know. Calm down and show some sympathy for your torn companion, dear friend.”

He was silent for a while, and seemed to sulk a little, “Well I want to go check it out, however far I need to fly. I want two wings, but I do hate flying alone.”

“I’m sure I can still fly with one wing,” She jumped in front of his musing figure suddenly and childishly grinned at his face, “I just need somebody with two wings to lead me.”

The Flickering Street Lamp

Figure origin: Google search

They were fighting more than usual lately, or perhaps fighting had just become usual, he thought, as they walked home from the opera house along the dark side street. There was no moon, and in the darkness the houses loomed huge and unfamiliar. There were no street lamps save an old one far, far ahead, flickering feebly on and off in the distance. It was snowing and very cold. She squeezed her hand tighter on the straps of her cello case. He was trotted a few metres behind her, shivering.

“You know it’s all going to be fine,” he ventured, and took off his coat to put over her shoulders.

The girl stopped in the middle of the path and looked toward the faint lamplight ahead. The boy stopped behind her. She pulled the coat tighter around her figure. “I really don’t. I’m cold. I wish your jacket was thicker.”

“Can we maybe go to the mall and buy a thicker jacket?”

He stared at her blanched face. “Not now. You must be tired after performing. Besides, the malls are closed.”

She was walking again, and he followed.

“Remember the thick sweaters that Mama made for us?”

“How can I forget?”

“You can’t feel the wind at all when you’re wearing one of them.”

“No.”

She almost tripped over the accumulating snow. He hastened to steady her.

“I want to work in the opera house. I can become famous.”

His head jerked up. “No! Not after what that bastard of an owner demanded from you.”

“The pay would’ve been great. Much better than the salary of an orchestra accompanist.”

“We don’t need too much money. We’ve done that for the past years and we were all fine. Mama would die in shame if you agree to work directly under that thing.”

She sneezed. The old lamp ahead was flickering more intensely now.

“How much longer do you think Mama can stay with us?”

He rubbed his hands against the edge of his thin shirt and looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Mama will be able to knit big, fat sweaters for us again if I sing in the opera house and become a star, right?”

“Right.”

“Mama will be able to sit upright with us in a well-lit room at a nice, round table and drink warm eggnog again if I sing in the opera house and become a star, right?”

“Right.”

“Mama will be standing and waiting for us everyday under that old lamp–just like the old days when the lamp never flickered–that is, if I sing in the opera house and become a star, right?”

“Right,” his lips were quavering from the cold.

“I’m going to talk to him tomorrow.” She nodded to herself and kept staring at the flickering street lamp. He grabbed her by the wrist and forced her to stop again in the path. “Not a chance!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not right.”

She turned away from him and looked again toward the old lamp far, far away, now turning on and off in a spasmodic fit. “It’s going to be dark soon.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like darkness.”

“Yeah.”

The lamp light was more and more feeble and she squinted to see the light. “I don’t even like that lamp anymore. It used to give off such a steady, warm light, and under it Mama would pat our heads and wipe our brows and serve us dinner. I can’t stand it, this unsteadiness now. I’m going to talk to him tomorrow, and I’ll become a star and have a good salary, and Mama will get away from that bed and sit at our round table with us and taste the best dishes in the world, and Papa will come back to live with us and all four of us will eat under a warm yellow light, and I’ll have this old lamp fixed so that it doesn’t flicker anymore, and we’ll have all the jackets and instruments and jewellery that we want, and we can travel around the world with Mama and Papa, and Mama and Papa will never fight again!”

“You are not going to speak to that man about anything.” he replied. The light in the ancient lamp suddenly died, and darkness engulfed the two as more snow was dumped from the heavens.

“See, you can’t fix this lamp anymore because it’s too old.” He said, “They go away when they get old, even if you talk to that man and become a star and have stellar salary.”

She looked at her feet because she didn’t know where else to look any more.

“I’ll take care of Mama, so don’t you worry about anything. If Mama leaves, I’ll still be here. We’ll live on our own and we can manage. Trust me.”

“How can I trust you? It’s so cold and dark and I want light.”

He took out a box of matches from his shirt pocket and lit one. She shielded it from the wind with her hands and watched as it burned and faded again into the darkness.

He said to her, “I have light. I’ll find logs eventually, and then we can make a big, bright, warm bonfire of our own.”

She said nothing. He began to trot again through the heavy snow and, once he saw that she was not following, stopped and whispered to her, “Come on.”

She took a few large steps to catch up. Slowly, she put her arm around him.