One of the easiest ways to keep a short work short yet retain its meaningfulness and universality is by incorporating metaphors to which most humans can identify and relate to. That way, simply by making a connection to this human idea or construct, the writer is able to communicate a broad range of ideas or emotions.
Examples would be such as in Kafka's Metamorphosis where the main character turns into a cockroach. This may surprise you, but Kafka was saying more in the Metamorphosis than "you guys, look at this crazy dude who turned into a cockroach. that is so crazy." It was actually a metaphor.
The right metaphor is hard to come by sometimes. Obviously, if one is trying to say that the potato is a metaphor for the Irish in that it is very earthy, stalwart and can reproduce in almost any environment one has to be weary of the repercussions of such a metaphor. No metaphor is perfect and one has to choose which aspects of the metaphor one wants to highlight in the piece of writing. You wouldn't want to highlight that potato's are usually round, lumpy and are underground, because then it sounds more like you are describing gnomes rather than the Irish!
For even more effective metaphors, the writer can choose a metaphor that actually contrasts with reality and thereby makes a separate statement. Two statements in one, for the price of one word! Wow! For instance, the writer can choose to elevate and ennoble a subject that is otherwise doing a very mundane or demeaning task, one taken for granted. A tree can be compared to Atlas, Holder of the Globe, in that the tree supports life.
And lastly, of course, one can layer their metaphors for a truly confusing effect. For instance, in the example of the tree that is Atlas, suppose then that the tree was a metaphor for a simple janitor? He does his work diligently, without notice, as a tree does. Both are forces that clean the air. Then, comparing the tree to Atlas one gives the impression as well that the janitor supports the globe. And then one can go so far as to say that the janitor is a symbol for the working man and BAM. MEANINGFUL SHIT.
Anyway. Write something with a good metaphor. I don't care how fucking short it is. You could write a haiku, those things are short. They usually have metaphors involving spring and life. Or you could just write something like "From his skyscraper office he watched the city like Vesuvius over Pompeii, both a source of corporate prosperity and a financial explosive of devastating potential."
fuck. just make one of those comparison things they made us do in middle school that go like thought:man::flight:eagle
Last edited by That Frood; 09-07-2009 at 05:22 PM.
Since people aren't posting in this, I'm just gonna come up with something.
Live is like eating a pie without utensils. At first everything seems hunky-dory, but then reality sets in, and you come across the tough parts in life, like trying to scoop the centre of the pie into your gaping foodchute. There's a sense of pride in a well-lived life, just as there's pride in eating ann entire pie. But in the end, you can only hope for the best.
You can fill them with almost anything, they will often take it, you can only 'drink' what they've been filled with, they come in many different sizes and shapes, some are made for specific 'drinks', some are 'plastic', others are 'glass', yet more are of another type, and more often than not, you find them in groups.
A drink is how they act, while filling it is how they are treated.
Some drinks are cold. Others are hot. Some are tasty. Some are nasty. Some you have to wonder what the inventor was thinking. Some are a mixture of several, yet can be identified as none. Some look like one kind but are actually another. Some are bubbly. Some are flat. Some will you get you drunk until you're dancing like you're mentally handicapped. Some are even made specifically for energy!
Plastic and glass...sturdy yet average or fancy yet fragile.
Yet, isn't it true that some plastic cups can break easily? Yet are still average? Or that some glass cups are pretty tough? Yet still fancy? Yep. Or maybe the glass if pretty plain or the plastic very extravagant...
But what about the other types? There's too many to list them all, really.
Dealing with a bitchy wife is like dealing with a slowly dying tv. At first you stick around, thinking the minor annoyances will be worth it once you get through it all and let the pleasure set in. But it just becomes too much and it starts to effect you. You get snappier and think about getting another more and more. After awhile you just snap and start beating it until it works like you please or dies. Once that happens you have to clean it up, throw it out, and get another one.
I want that something to go wrong. It should start out as something simple, like cooking or doing laundry, or hell, brushing your teeth, but then snowball into some terrible disaster. I can be something like 'Oh god, I was just heating up some popcorn and now my house is gone', or 'Oh god, I was just brushing my teeth, but now my whole school now knows about my abnormally small penis' , or both. Be creative, and don't go too wild like, someone raking the leaves and then suddenly the world went into a nuclear holocaust because that particular leave flew into some guy and hitting the 'End World' button. Make it somewhat believable.
Good writing, all.
Edit: HUR HUR HUR HUR! SOMEONE FORGOT TO SET A DEBTLINE!
So I was writing a story for this contest, right? Just pippin' along, crafting the most wonderful story I can. Before I sent it in, I gave it to a friend to look over and tell me what he thought so I could edit it. Then, bam, my computer crashes and I lose the story, my only copy left being the one my 'friend' has. I put friend in 's because now he's demanding payment of five dollars if I want my story back...fine.
I open my wallet, intending to pay him, when I realize I'm out of money! So I decide to sell a kidney. The doctor is all 'blah blah blah complications blah blah high risk blah that's one hundred dollars.” and I'm like, shit, I'm even farther in the hole! I tell him to hold on while I go to a dank alleyway. Mold assaults my nose as a raspy sounded man, hunched over, approaches me. I tell him I want a “Number B” and he proceeds to inject me with a serum and I'm knocked out cold.
When I wake up, I have a nasty scar and fifty dollars are laying on my chest alongside a note. Reading the note, it says “Took three fourths of what your kidney sold for. Pleasure doing business with you.” Son of a bitch, he was only supposed to take half! Urk, I feel sick.
Anyway, I'm about to leave the alley when a big man comes up to me. “Hey there pretty boy, interested?” He shakes his body around in a poor attempt to be seductive.
I puke all over him.
He wrestles me to the ground and I don't know what happened then because I blacked out again. When I wake up, my money is gone and I have another note. “You were good. I took my payment.”
I decide it's not worth it anymore, I'm killing myself. Finding the closest piece of sharp metal, I proceeded to stab myself repetitively in the chest. I black out again...what is this, a theme?
Coming to, I'm in court with the rapist from before in a suit, defending me against the doctor for 'refusing to pay debts.' What the hell, how much of my life did I miss? I end up winning the lawsuit – that rapist was good! - but then the rapist demands twenty thousand in legal fees! AAARG!
I make a beeline for the judge's gavel and use it to beat my laywer/rapist (there's a difference?) into unconsciousness. The bailiff wrestles me to the ground and knocks me out with his nightstick – damn it!
So now I'm in jail and my ass is feeling mighty raw. Several guys, much larger than my lawyer, are smiling at me...I don't even care anymore! “GET ME OUT OF HERE!” I yell.
“You have one phone call” I'm told. Fine, I'll take it! I call up my 'friend' and let him know what happened. He tells me he'll come right over! Yes!
Anyway, he bails me out and I ask him for my story. He actually gives it to me, free! What the hell? This can't be right...
I get home, get on my computer, and proceed to log onto the website hosting the writing contest. I proudly hit enter after typing up my entry and smile, knowing I'll win!
And then a mod says “This was a month ago. Why are you posting?” … … … Balls.
Sometimes, in stories, the bad guy (or girl) completely overshadows the protagonist in terms of how interesting/competent/etc. (s)he is. Whenever the action focuses on the protagonist, readers groan, itching to get back to where the real action is: evil! (Of course, one doesn't necessarily have to be evil to be an antagonist.)
So your job for this writing contest is to write a short story that has an antagonist like that. One that we absolutely love to hate. Or, in some cases, love to love.
Bonus points are awarded if you manage to do this while focusing on the protagonist the entire time, never moving the action directly to the antagonist's perspective.
Contest ends a week from today, which is October 11th at 12:00 PM (Central Time)
The stain on the floor where the prison guard, O’Connor, beat the last inmate in this room to death still remains. Blood just doesn’t wash out of white like it should. I lean against the wall, trying not to think about it. To my right, Jack seems to have other ideas. His voice excited he asks,
“Think he’ll try to kill us? I bet if you let me have a shot at him-“
“No Jack. I’m never letting you take the reigns again.” With a sigh he walks around the room, circling the stain. Manic eyes coming to rest back on me he gloats,
“You can’t keep what’s mine forever, you know. They’re going to cure me.” Cure him, the thought turned my stomach. Cure the guy who crawled down a families’ chimney while they slept and tore them all apart. Flayed the daughter. Shot the father with his own gun beside the bed, and the wife…
“Jack Preston?” Janette Wilson gingerly steps into the room, white coat flowing behind her as O’Connor shuts the door. He grins at me and I wonder who belongs in the straight jacket more. I answer her,
“It’s me John still.” She takes a few steps towards me and behind her Jack checks her out, winking at me. She leans close and whispers,
“Well Jack, we’re going to cure you, it’s not your fault what happened.” Jack, the sane one. And me, John, his clinically insane disassociate personality. The irony is disgusting. I try to move away as she draws the needle, O’Connor roughly taking me by the shoulder straps and slams me into the wall. Her soft voice tells me, “We’re going to begin electroshock therapy, and see if you improve.”
I scream as she lowers the needle to my neck. For help, but they don’t listen. They’re convinced already. They think they know. I cry as the needle stings its way into my skin, vision already beginning to blur.
Can’t let them set Jack loose. No.
I want to live.
He’s behind them, laughing down at me now. The only clear image in the wavering room. His voice is all I can register now, cackling out, “Don’t worry John, I’ll be cured soon! I’ll be sure to thank the nice doctor for you.”
Everything fading, I buck one last time at my restraints, moaning incomprehensible gibberish. They can’t understand, and even if they could hear me, they wouldn’t try.
One day, a day much like today, a man, a woman and her husband sat in a small local coffee spot, unaware of the terrible events that were soon to follow that would leave them as the sole bearers of a truth of sinister proportions.
The three sat around a small circular table, sufficient only to bare three drinks and little else, as they discussed the weekly minutiae. The three sat equidistant from each other and spoke with an expertise surpassed by few others. They were indeed a trio of very knowledgeable people.
The married couple had been so for about ten years. They had no children but only because the wife was not yet ready. What the husband's opinion was on the matter is uncertain, presumably the same as his wife's. The wife had been friends with the single man across the table for some time, before she had ever become married, in fact. It was only through her marriage that her husband and the single man ever met. This was no problem, of course. Their relationship had only ever been platonic, so their friendship continued.
Her husband was a very hard working man. He was a writer who published a new book almost every two years. His books were said to be very popular among those who had read them. Certain websites had given them very positive reviews, he knew this because he had checked. The wife had also read some of his books and the bachelor had read some very thorough synopses.
The bachelor worked as a sales assistant. However, he told no one this.
The conversation went on as the husband elaborated on the plot of his new novel. He had everything worked out and it sounded wonderful, no doubt, he said, this would be his best novel yet. The only issue was that he could not think of an appropriate ending, nor could he think of a logical introduction! The bachelor asked the husband why he couldn't and it is there, at that question, we begin our true narrative.
Spoiler for second bit:
“Well, I wish there was an easy answer!” said the husband “But the fact of the matter is there isn't one thing preventing me from doing this.”
“Oh?” said the bachelor.
“Yes, you see... well. You might think I'm foolish to begin writing a novel without an appropriate introduction or ending, but...”
“-...I don't think Greg thinks you are foolish for not having an ending or beginning, he simply is curious what is preventing you from writing one now that you have the middle.” said the wife.
“Yes, exactly. Surely, with a middle, the beginning and ending must suggest themselves?” said Greg, the now named bachelor.
“Well, if only it were that easy! You see... in the middle you can write whatever you like, and you have so much time to fix your mistakes or elucidate more clearly in later paragraphs that it's all alright if it wasn't particularly well done. The ending and beginning, though, require conciseness, they require clarity and wit. What the middle can take pages to say the introduction must say in a paragraph.”
“And the ending?”
“The ending must put an end to everything you said in the middle!”
“Ah, but surely, with a middle already in place, you must've had an ending in mind?”
“Yes, yes... but... things happen. There are things that get in the way.”
Greg observed the husband with mock understanding. To an outsider it would appear Greg took issue with the husband, for reasons not immediately apparent, but in truth this behavior was the norm.
“Things get in the way? What things?”
“Things that distract you... you know.” said the husband, slightly agitated.
“I'm sorry, what do you mean distractions?”
Here, the wife chimed in. “Well, Robert has recently been having a lot of trouble focusing, what with all the reparations going on with the house...”
Robert, named at last, looked at his wife sadly. “Yes, you see Greg... we've been having trouble with some of the help we've hired.”
“Oh? I didn't know you were hiring help.”
“Oh, it isn't really 'help', per se. Robert is just trying to fix up some of the things that are broken around the house.” said the wife.
“Like what? Nothing seemed particularly out of order when I was over...?”
“Oh! It's nothing particularly grand, just some little things... the faucet, that broken sliding door...” she paused “...the television.”
Robert let out a moan. “Don't talk about the television.” he said, wanting to talk about the television.
“What's this about the television?” asked Greg.
“Well the repairmen...” began the wife
“The repairmen are a bunch of liars!” Robert interrupted, angry.
Greg looked at the wife quizzically as Robert sat staring angrily at his jasmine tea.
“Robert has had to hire several tv repairmen over the past month, it has been causing Robert a lot of trouble. He is obviously not very happy about this.” said the wife.
“Aha...” said Greg, amused by Robert's agitation. “Well, I fail to see how this should impact your writing to such an extent.”
Flustered, Robert responded “Well you aren't able to see that because you don't write. Writing is a very delicate process! It requires a state of mind! When I'm caught up worrying about these buffoons I've foolishly put in charge of my television, how am I supposed to come up with something worthy to put to paper? Especially something as important as the ending! And the beginning!”
“Well, perhaps you should do the job yourself.”
The wife let out a laugh “Robert? Fix the television?”
Robert gave the wife a bitter look. “I would, but... there's simply too much to it, I don't have the time. I need to finish this book. It's why I keep hiring these repairmen!”
“My God, how many have you hired if they've prevented you from writing a novel for an entire month?” said Greg, glad to have reason to mock Robert, and glad to see Robert's wife mock him as well.
“Well.” Robert tapped at his mug, pondering how to properly give the answer. His wife took up the job for him.
“We've hired three.”
“That's a lie! We've hired more than that!” interjected Robert. “You're only counting the ones that came to the house! I've spoken to other such vermin outside of the house.”
Greg pushed the subject further. “So, what is the problem with these repairmen?”
Robert let out a sigh. “Simply put, what isn't a problem with these repairmen? After having three come over to the house and having spoken to two outside of the house, they have absolutely failed to fix the television.”
“And what is preventing these repairmen from fixing the television?”
“Heaven knows what! Every time they come over they seem to be doing so much. They remove wires, they replace wires, they turn screws and bolts...”
“...and the tv does not work after all this?”
“No! This is the most sinister part! It works fine!”
“So... then the problem is...”
“The problem is that only a few days after, it ceases to work again!”
“What devious repairmen.” stated Greg.
“And so we are forced to hire another!”
“Although, I have to ask, if you are working so hard to finish your novel... why do you need a functioning television?”
“Well, you know, as they say, all work and no play...”
“You know...” began the wife “this reminds me of a story a friend of mine once told me. I hadn't thought of it before, but it is actually very similar!”
“Please, tell us your story...” said Greg.
Spoiler for the wife's story:
“Okay... it goes like this... I was meeting up with a friend of mine from college who I had not seen in a very long time. We went out for dinner and of course we talked about all of the big things that had happened to each other. I spoke about my job and the house and she naturally talked about hers... she works for a pharmaceutical company. Anyway, she was telling me about how at this work of hers there seems to always be a man there who doesn't work at the company! Isn't that peculiar? She was telling me about how, for the longest time, she would run into him in the hallway and could never figure out how she recognized him until one day she realized, he was the man who repaired the televisions! About once a week, there was always a man over repairing or installing the televisions!”
Spoiler for pondering:
“How strange...” said Greg.
“Yes! It's very strange!” said Robert, “...it's... well... I have a theory about all this.”
“Oh?” said Greg.
“I didn't think much of it at the time, but in light of the current circumstances...”
“Go on, Robert...” said the wife.
“Well, you know what it sounds like?” Robert began, excited “It sounds like they're making all the trouble!”
“Whatever do you mean?” said Greg.
“Well, as soon as a tv repairman enters the picture, every television in question seems to be in disrepair!”
“True enough!” said the wife.
“And once in this state of disrepair, they seem to never get out of it! We pay and we pay and we pay, and to no avail!”
“What are you saying, Robert?” said Greg, voice hushed.
“I am saying that... well... that...” he looked to and fro between his companions “...well, I don't know. I'm just saying that it is very suspicious, is all.”
“No no! You're right Robert. It is very suspicious.” said the wife, encouraging him.
“You know what it sounds like?” said Greg, attempting to one-up Robert.
“What?” demanded the other two.
“It sounds like... well. It sounds like the problem with the tv is trivial... the real problem lies in the repairmen!”
“Yes!” excitedly said Robert.
“And not only that, but the repairmen stand to gain from this whole affair!”
“Yes! Yes! It's the money! I've told you this already, haven't I honey?” said Robert, trying to show he had the whole matter figured out first.
“Yes, you have my dear.” replied the wife.
“Yes! I said, I said to her that they stand nothing to gain from fixing these televisions permanently! Instead, they only do half the job, so that they can keep repairing them!”
“Maybe... maybe that is true...” Greg paused and looked at his two companions. “You know... this reminds me of a story I myself have about these repairmen.”
“Oh?” said both the husband and wife, curious.
“Yes, I do.” said Greg, preparing a story in his mind to impress the two of them.
“Please, tell us...”
Spoiler for greg's story:
“Very well. Yes. Well... one day, I and several business associates were talking about the recent Olympic games. I was recounting the scores of the day before when one of my associates looks at me with surprise and asked me to repeat one of the scores. I did so and he was surprised to hear that the Koreans had in fact won that particular event... I can't remember which at the time. Everyone responded with equal surprise that he had not heard this news. Sadly, he admitted that his television had been broken for quite some time now, and that he had been attempting to fix it for weeks now. We told him he should hire someone but to this he replied that he would never do that. Curious, we asked why not and he then told us a story of how his father once struggled with the tv repairmen of his time! That they were all a bunch of cheats and would rob you of your money. In fact, he told us something that at the time I felt was simply ridiculous, he told us that they in fact removed cables and gears from your television, so it would break sooner, and sooner, and sooner. Naturally, at the time we all dismissed this as paranoia but, now that I hear your story, Robert, I feel like I need reconsider.”
This story struck a chilling chord that disturbed the whole party.
Spoiler for the narrator:
Now, dear readers, I, your narrator, will enter the story and tell you the disturbing thing that happened next. You see, it is no coincidence that I found this particular story intriguing for I too had a history with such repairmen, albeit one that followed a very different path. How was I to know what the conversation of these three middle class intellectuals entailed? It was because I sat at the booth exactly to the right of their table and, as I read the daily newspaper, I listened in on their conversation.
After hearing each member tell their suspicious tales of tv “reparation”, I felt the need to chime in.
Spoiler for the truth is approached:
“I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation,” I said, moving a stool over to their table, “as I was reading the morning paper here... but I found the subject of your banter quite intriguing. You see... I too have had many encounters with such tv repairmen. In fact, you might say I am very well versed in their behavior.”
The trio each raised their eyebrows and curiously regarded this new member of their discussion.
“And who might you be?” asked Greg.
“I may tell you later. What I was hoping, though, was to tell you what I know about these repairmen.”
“Oh? Do you know something particularly interesting?” asked the wife.
“Yes, I do. I know something very, very interesting about these repairmen, something that I feel comfortable telling only you three.”
“Why us?” they asked in unision.
“Because overhearing your conversation I can tell you are all of great intellect. Were I to tell any less intelligent people, they would not believe me. Indeed, they would likely laugh at me.”
This revelation of forbidden knowledge made a deep impression on the trio. I looked at the three very meaningfully. In a whisper, Robert asked “What do you know?”
I paused and took a deep breath... “I know that these tv repairmen are, in fact, working for the same organization.”
“You don't mean...?”
“You mean... well...” the three looked at each other, nervously, “...well, tell us what you mean exactly.”
“I mean, simply, that these tv repairmen are part of a global, villainous tv repairman conspiracy.”
I waited for this to sink in. It was plain that the monumental implications were already working themselves out in the minds of the three at the coffee table.
I continued. “Their sinister behavior saps creativity from our culture, much as it prevents you from writing, Robert. Its greed robs us of our wealth... and all of this it does secretly.”
The truth of the matter was irrefutable. It was, to any rational human, the only sane explanation.
The party sat in silence. In their minds there was no doubt as to the verity of what I had said, their silence was due only to the stunning yet obvious truth that had been revealed to them.
“Yes... yes of course!” said Robert.
“You see how it is true?” I asked.
“Of course! Of course it is true!” said Robert, in an excited whisper. “I have written extensively about the collapse of our culture, about the decay we all exhibit! Yes... this explains all of it!”
Greg spoke as well “I knew it. Yes, this was obvious from the beginning.”
The party sat in hushed silence. They looked at each other and at their drinks. Robert took a strong swig of his macchiato.
The wife spoke, in the quietest whisper she could manage.
“And how do you... how do you know this?”
All three looked at me intently. I looked at each of them, one by one. The seriousness of the matter was palpable, the air was as tense as the string of a violin.
“Because, you see...” I began.
They held their breath... their blood flow dropped as their heartbeat slowed. A machine behind the counter of the coffee shop began to whistle, like a suspenseful chord in an opera.
“Because you see...”
Spoiler for the shocking discovery:
“I am the ringleader of this entire operation.”
Spoiler for chaos:
All color fled the faces of the three individuals. The wife's eyes widened in disbelief. Greg's jaw dropped in disbelief and Robert simply sat there, in terror.
I watched them as they sat, dumbstruck.
The horror in their faces was apparent. No one dared speak. The terrifying situation they were in was now apparent. The colossal importance of the occasion struck them.
The wife was first to speak.
“H-how can we be sure you are the leader?”
I smiled. “Because only the leader would be able to tell you that he is the leader.”
“...of course... of course you are. Oh it is all so plain and clear. Oh God... it's so obvious...” Robert spoke in a near inaudible mutter, bordering madness.
It was at this point that a woman at the counter announced that a plain black coffee had been prepared. I stood up and calmly informed them that that was my beverage, and that I had to be leaving now. I folded up my paper and was a few seconds from leaving the table when Robert, suddenly emboldened, got off his stool and demanded I remain seated.
“You cannot leave, you fiend. We still have things to discuss with you!”
Again, calmly, I stated “No, friend, I believe there is nothing more to discuss.”
“Fiend! How do you think you can get away with this? We'll have you arrested!”
“Arrested? For what?”
“Arrested for fiendish intent to destroy society!”
At this I laughed. “Oh, my friend, you really expect that to get you anywhere? Alas, if only the public were as informed as you. But this is not the case! No, I'm afraid you will be alone in your knowledge of the terrible truth; the truth that tv repairmen work to undermine society itself in the name of greed and villainy.”
Greg sat slumped in his seat, already resigned to the horrible reality of the matter. “He's right Robert, we cannot do anything. No one will believe us and those that do will be unwilling to take action.”
“Surely, there is something we can do! We have the ringleader before us! We could simply apprehend him ourselves! We could do it now!” cried Robert. Other patrons of the coffee shop began to look questioningly at the events unfolding. Again, I laughed.
“You think I don't already have the law in my hand? The entire government answers to my checkbook. I have said already, you can do nothing. I will be going to get my coffee. I bid you ado.”
I walked away from the table as it fell into greater and greater panic. Without turning around, I could tell Robert had followed after me. I picked up my coffee and turned around to see him already on the verge of utilizing violent action. His overwhelming sense of morality, as well as his abundant intellect, were in full motion. “You will not leave this coffee shop before justice is served!” he shouted. His wife was at his side, begging him to step away. Fiendishly, I turned to the woman behind the counter with a frightened look in my eye.
“Sir, please stop harassing our customers.” she said in my aid.
“No! You don't understand! This man is behind the entire conspiracy of television repairmen! He is one of the many conspirators who are responsible for the degradation of our society!”
“Sir, please, I will have to call security.”
“You ignorant peasant! We could end all of our current troubles if we simply bring justice to this man!”
“Sir, please, stop.”
“Yes Robert, please stop.” I said, allowing a slight grin to escape my villainously innocent face.
“Robert please! This won't do anything! Oh Greg! Please, help me stop Robert!”
“Don't bring Greg into this! I don't want Greg helping me or doing anything!”
“It's okay, he's simply letting his own insecurities over you get the better of him! He was always suspicious about the two of us!” shouted Greg, excited by the turn of events, wanting nothing more than to embarrass Robert.
“You bastard!” shouted Robert, in a rage.
“Admit it Greg! You've always been intimidated by me!”
“Shut up! Shut up!” he screamed.
“Robert stop! There's nothing between me and Greg!” shouted the wife.
“Sirs please calm down! I am calling security!” yelled the coffee shop employee.
“You fool, they all work for him! We're doomed!” shouted Robert.
“Robert, stop trying to impress your own wife and let this go! You don't have the spine to do anything!” shouted Greg. With this comment, Robert threw Greg to the floor with primal ferocity. The wife screamed in panic and the glass of the coffee shop shattered as members of the military burst into the room to apprehend Robert. As he was being thrown to the floor and taken prisoner he shouted. “You fiend! You villain! You won't get away with this! I know the truth! I know the truth!”
Greg, in pain, stayed still on the floor and moaned. “Ohh... we're all doomed. This is all your fault Robert!”
Spoiler for an end:
“Why have you done this to us? Why do you do this?!” shouted the wife in hysterics, hands behind her head.
Suavely, I answered “Because I can, Julia.”
“H-how... how did you know my name?” she said, in terror.
I winked at her and said “I am everywhere. I know everything.”
I nodded to the commandos and I turned and left.
Last edited by That Frood; 10-04-2009 at 05:10 PM.
Right. Well, here goes.
There were only 2 people working in the office by the dim light of the midnight moon. They weren’t supposed to be working overtime, but there weren’t that many people in the force ever since Guillermo “The Saint” Rodriguez decided to fight for control of the capital.
“Here. Look at this.” said the man with a tone that betrayed both impatience and fear as he passed him a newspaper clip. ’Police Department receives yet another letter bomb, 15 officers left dead’ it said in big, bold, black letters. Raúl moved his sleeve as he cleared the sweat off his brow. It astonished him just how big Guillermo got over the last couple of years. How he pushed out cartels more powerful and influential than his must’ve required some sort of Machiavellian genius. Raúl chuckled internally at the idea of Guillermo being related to royalty, but it wasn’t an altogether inappropriate comparison. The poor and homeless were the ones who gave him the title of “The Saint”: not in the least because he financed the construction of new houses, renovated some of the older ones, and paid a small fortune to whomever finished their contracts with him. That he neglected to improve the most destitute parts of it, or that his contracts usually involved nothing short of suicide missions (he’d still give his monetary award to the contractee’s family) was either ignored or tolerated by them.
Raúl shuffled uneasily in his leather, swivel chair as he procured the crumpled, yellowed folder where the newspaper clip came from and tossed it into the desk. He began leafing once more through Guillermo’s dossier. He glanced through files, transcripts, documents. Strained his eyes to see the last couple of photos at the back of said folder. The Saint standing in the woods, conversing with a bearded man in olive green fatigues who was himself surrounded by similarly dressed boys wielding automatics. A dull reverbation was then felt, rather than heard throughout the office. They had been shelling this town for the better part of two days. It won’t be long until they have to move further into the city. The other man working at Raúl’s side was visibly shaken. Pansy-ass foreigners, he though. The powers-that-be had sent him this pale, paltry, pink worm of a man who had been charged with executing their joint-operation, their coup de grace on The Saint had failed miserably. And he’d known who the ones behind it were. Raúl could not help but hate the man standing by his side now, knowing that at the very worst; he could just stroll right into his embassy and watch the entire country go to hell under that utterly indifferent gaze of his.
There's nothing wrong with stretching the truth. We stretch taffy and that only makes it more delicious.