The Sunday Story

Chilling?

It’s that time again. Time for my one and only regular feature. So far it’s gone ok I think, but it is about time I added a bit of structure. Not that I’m going to, I’m just saying I really should. So instead, I’m going to do what I alluded to yesterday and try and start something of length. You probably won’t see any consequent writing that comes from this, but at least it’ll be a start right? Anyway, here it is.. I guess the theme could be justice, if you were ready to believe in intrinsic good or something. Personally, I think it’s probably something much darker.

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The uniform click of heels on cobble stones. She kept her head level with the ground a few feet in front of her. She wasn’t ankle gazing, but she was doing a good job of minding her own business. Handbag slung under one arm, a can of mace palmed in the hand of the other. It was late, it was dark, and it was quiet. She carried on, closing her eyes slowly and taking a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

Eyes on the back of her neck. Cheap cologne lingering in her nostrils. She span, one hand coming up to spray whatever unfortunate happened to be behind her. The alley was empty, lined with nothing but graffiti and discarded newspapers. She took another breath, slowly calming herself before she turned to continue on.

The hands went around her throat with a savage strength, fingertips digging into the pliant flesh and leaving instant bruises. She struggled, the can in her hand spraying impotently into the air. A strangled yelp came from her throat, barely making it to the narrow walls of the street. More hands encompassed her, slipping over her body like filthy thoughts, tracing every line of her form until she felt utterly unclean. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clamped her eyes shut, trying to shut it all out.

Just as her skirt began to give way, the threads popping like bubblewrap, all the pressure on her body began to slacken, then disappear entirely. There were muffled yelps, soft, hard sounds coming from all around her. Heavy impacts, the spatter of hot liquid on the cold stone. Half crumpled, she opened one eye.

Standing there, thin cane in one hand, was a man. The stick was a blur, coming up and down, delivering strikes with surgical precision to the heap of flesh at his feet. There was an anger in the movement that was startling, something almost primal. She backed up and tripped, her feet catching on cloth. Sprawled on the hard ground, she crawled away, eyes drawn to what her feet were pressed against. One of her attackers, neck twisted horrifically, eyes staring blankly up at the smog covered sky, lay there, irrevocably dead. She gasped.

“What… who… what are you?” Her voice was broken and quiet, little more than a whisper. At the sound of it the man stopped, his cane quivering in the air. He reached up, resetting a bowler hat on his head. Straightening, he glanced over at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. His free hand came up to the large moustache adorning his upper lip, and he bowed.

“You’re most welcome, unlucky lady. These pests shall not bother anyone any more. They have been…” He paused, savouring the thought. “… removed from society. Best for everyone, you see.” With a self satisfied nod, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Bringing herself up into a sitting position, the woman glanced at the scene before her. Immediately at her feet was one man, his unshaven face slick with sweat and blood, his neck twisted and broken. He was overwieght, a pot belly bursting forth from his sweat-stained shirt. Just beyond him was another man, thin and just as broken, both arms bent the wrong way. His eyes rolled back in his head, just leaving the whites, giving him an almost demonic appearance.

The final man was barely recognisable as a human. His face was a purple pulp, all broken blood vessels and swollen flesh. She turned away from him, not able to stomach it any more, and vomited. The meagre meal she had had earlier now adorned the alleyway, making nieghbours out of the grafitti and the newspapers. Wiping her mouth, she stood on shakey legs and stumbled away.

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About Phill Cameron

I've graduated, had a look at the world, and spat. Now I'm devoting my time to moving from 3/4 of a games journalist to 9/10ths. I figure I can get away with 9/10ths.
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One Response to The Sunday Story

  1. Ploddish says:

    Excellent. Now you just need to do a sci-fi.

    With the Bowler Hat Man, of course, as some form of creepy literary leitmotif 😛

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