Choose Another Building!   

Edited by Keith Planit. www.PlanitReality.com


Notice to PlanitReality.com readers: certain words have been CENSORED in this writing sample. This is most certainly not my usual practice, but as I am using this piece as an example of my editing skills, I have taken out a few harsh words. Areas where I have done this are marked as such: [censored]

Reflections from the Rear View


by David K. Leitner

© Copyright by David K. Leitner, 2000
E-Mail David about this story
E-Mail me with any editorial questions

          I know you think I'm crazy, but I've always had a good sense of people (Question: Why do we think he's crazy -- just because he's got a good sense of people? They almost seem like unrelated thoughts). I think I got it from my mother. Just a way of looking at someone and having an immediate read on him (Maybe "them"?). What does he like? What's important to him? What would he rather be doing than wasting away in the back seat of my car, being shuttled off to some mind-numbing meeting or redeye flight to London? Figuring these things out has always been a game for me, something to keep my mind occupied while I maneuver through traffic (Nice line, nice flow, gives a good visual). It keeps me out of trouble, for the most part.
          Now, you know that I'll be the first to admit that (I find "thats" to often be extraneous, the sentence reads fine without 'em) my job looks pretty boring. Driving a Town Car for Empire Car Service sure isn't glamorous, but it does have its perks. I don't have to sit in front (you mean "behind") of a desk all day. I have plenty of time to be outside, whether it's waiting for someone or just catching a smoke. I hardly ever have to deal with my boss face-to-face. And the people I meet, even for a short time, are interesting, annoying or just plain laughable, as long as I keep my cool (That's neat that he likes all types of folks, but I'm not sure I understand the connection between that and "keeping his cool." Maybe make it something akin to, "laughable, but as long as I keep my cool this job serves its purpous: it pays the bills and always keeps life interesting.") . (If you choose to alter the above, this needs changing too: ) It's all E easy enough -- sometimes, but tonight, in this July heat, it's not. The clock in my car says it's ten fifteen, but it feels like even the moon is hot. I could go back into the car and crank up the a/c, but I don't feel like sitting down just yet. Besides, my ten o'clock pick-up should be down any minute. These lawyers, they always take their damn time (yes they do!). They call for a car way in advance, knowing that they can get some more work done until I get here. That way, they just zoom down the elevator and hop right into the car. But they don't realize that I actually get where I'm supposed to be on time, and now this guy's kept me waiting fifteen minutes and it's starting to piss me off (small piece of clarification needed: I had assumed that he'd been driving since the story started, "maneuvering in and out of traffic," like he states in the first paragraph. Was he and we just skipped over some time, or has he been waiting the "fifteen minutes" since the story started?).
          Suddenly, a tall and broad shouldered man in a dark blue pinstripe suit walks out of the doors of the office building I've been waiting in front of. He moves briskly toward my car, eyeing the Empire sign saying "#41" that's perched against the window. He gives me a quick look, as I stop leaning on the car and move to open the door. Surprisingly, he says thank you -- albeit abruptly -- and he enters the car. (maybe cut out one of the "hes" above? It's a bit repetitive...unless that's what you were going for to excentuate the monotony. If so, I'd push it a little further to excentuate it more.)
          I close the door behind him and get into the driver's seat. "Eighty-fourth and Park, sir?"
          "Yes, that's right," he says, letting out of sigh of frustration.
          I put the car in drive and we're off. I cut quickly onto Park going uptown, just making the light. I glance at the guy in my rear-view. He's loosening his tie, which is blood red with some dots running diagonally across it. He runs his hands through his hair, grasping the back of his neck as he grimaces.
          "Helluva day, huh?" I say, starting some small talk. "This heat could kill someone."
          "I suppose," the guy replies dismissively. He obviously doesn't want to talk. He might be tired; probably spent his day looking over stacks of papers or arguing with a bunch of other lawyers. But, on second thought, that doesn't seem right (I like that). He's tired, but he also looks kind of agitated. He's glanced at his watch twice already, obviously anxious about something. He can't be thinking that I'm going too slow -- because I'm not, the hell with what the Mayor says should be the speed limit (also good!). And he's got to know that even if I get into a groove with all the lights going my way, it'll still take me a good ten minutes to get uptown. I doubt he's rushing home to go to sleep; too high-strung. He's probably meeting someone; maybe he's late. He looks like the kind of guy who could get wrapped up in his work, in himself, not able to think about other people and their lives. He's not wearing a wedding band on his watch hand (nice detail). Probably a girlfriend waiting on him. Yeah, that must be it (if he's "agitated" maybe say the girlfriend thing and follow it with a comment about "probably fought before he left this morning: he works too much, or she wants him to move in, or wants to know when they'll make it official..." Being agititated shouldn't simply mean he's IN a relationship [although some might argue that], it should be the relationship is STRAINED, and our guy seems to be the guessing-game type).
          Just as I'm getting to Fifty-Ninth Street, the light clearly changes to red -- not even arguable -- and I stop the car abruptly, causing the car to jerk to a halt. The guy slams his hand on the armrest on the door, clenching his teeth.
          "If you're rushing back to see the Yanks, I wouldn't bother," I say, trying to lighten this guy up a bit. "They were slaughtering the Marlins in the eighth."
          "I couldn't care less about the damn baseball game," he growls, just loud enough for me to hear.
          "Okay, okay, buddy," I say. "Just trying to make a little conversation."
          "I don't need conversation. I just need to get home. Quickly."
          "Hey, I just thought that you could use a little -"
          He lunges forward, violently grabbing the headrest of my seat. "Just leave me the [censored] alone!" he thunders through gnashed teeth, eyes piercing into my head through the rear view, his hot breath steaming down my neck, sending shivers down my spine. Suddenly, it feels like a spike was just driven into my skull. Pain reverberates from the back of my head up through my temples. Everything I see starts to take on a shade of red, like I'm looking through a stained glass window. A nauseous dizzy feeling is spreading all over me. What the hell's going on?
          The blare of a car horn from behind startles me, clearing my head for a moment, focusing me back to the now-green light. Instinctively, my foot slams on the gas, and the car lurches into action, throwing me and my rabid passenger into our seats. One by one the lights start changing from red to green in an obedient procession, apparently bowing to the will of this nut in the seat behind me. His rage is thick and choking like the muggy air outside (fun image! Heh).
          The pain in my head starts coming back, sharper now. Then, out of nowhere, an image comes to me. A platinum blonde-haired girl, wearing a white nightie (personally, I prefer "nighty" -- uh not to wear, I just mean that spelling, I feel it reads easier. But both are acceptable), shrieking at the top of her lungs, begging for mercy. With a rush of frigid excitement, a hand flies up in front of her, grasping a large serrated knife (I read this like the hand is grabbing for the knife; the knife not yet actually IN the hand), glinting in the bright light. I feel a sudden rush of exhilaration, a strange sense of erotic anticipation. Then, the blade comes down quickly (this sentence is stronger, punchier without the comma). It dives into the notch just below her throat. Blood spills out, cascading down her chest, trickling into small streams through her nightie. The blade comes back. It plunges again, over and over, all about her chest. Piercing her breasts. Pocking the whiteness of the nightie (try "skimpy night shirt" or "negligee" or something -- "nightie's" become repetitive) with large red splotches. Finally -- eureka! (? seems a bit comical for this intense moment)-- the knife strikes her heart and blood splurts out rhythmically. The world is flush, and the air tingles with energy, and everything feels fresh and wild and new (cool!).
          My mind snaps back into focus. All the confused images come crashing together into one utterly unbelievable fact. This guy is going to kill someone.
          I can't believe I'm actually thinking about this, whether he's going to kill someone, whether I'm going to try to get in the way. It sounds crazy, but I know this; it's as real as my hands clenched around the cool leather-covered steering wheel. Those images, those sounds were so graphic, I could never dream them up. Those thoughts, they'd never cross my mind. They couldn't be my thoughts. But how could they be this guy's? How could I possibly know what he's thinking? Is this guy a madman who's waiting for me to deliver him to his victim?
          Yes, I know what you're thinking -- because I'm thinking the same thing. Of course, I'm not about to challenge the guy (I'm unsure of your intent in this line -- however it seems like the comma shouldn't be there. More so, what I was thinking was not on the line of "Well, hey, don't try to tackle him yourself!" It was more like "Hey, man, you just had a wacky vision or spell or something and in but a moment it seemed no more odd than separating your darks from your lights !" Know what I mean? He adjusts to this new-found ability awfully fast.). He could have the knife in his breast pocket, making it pretty easy to park that sucker right into my neck. No, it's important to just keep driving and get this whack-job out of my car as soon as possible. Then, I'll call the police before he actually gets to that girl. (again, removing the comma here and/or in the next sentence would make a smoother line and help instill the feeling of the panic as the reader will be pausing less)
          Luckily, we're already approaching Eighty-Fourth Street. I don't even bother to ask which corner, but he mutters 'northwest corner,' and I immediately comply. From the rear view, I see his hand moving toward me rapidly, and I instantly flinch. But he's just giving me his Empire card to charge the ride. Don't be a stupid idiot with a killer behind you. I concentrate carefully on running the card through the scanner. After a very long moment of silence, it spits out a receipt, which I tear off very deliberately and hand to the psycho (heh. I like this line). He takes the receipt quickly and says 'good night' as he opens the door. I want to say something, anything that will keep him in the car, something to cool him down, but I can't think of anything as he exits the car and rushes toward the apartment building.
           My head still aches. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears and my chest heaving with each nervous breath (very nice). I can't just sit here and let this happen. The blonde woman's face is still too vivid in my mind. His anger is just too tangible to ignore. Besides, if not me, then who?
          I look at the duplicate ticket in the mouth of the scanner. Roland Thomas. Now, I just have to find out which apartment is Mr. Thomas's and then, then what? Go charging up there? No, I should really call the police.
          I flip open my cell phone and dial 911. After the long droning of the computer recording, a human voice finally speaks. "911 emergency. What is the nature of your emergency?"
          "Someone's going to kill someone tonight," I say with an unsteady voice.
          "Sir, what is your location?"
          "East 84th and Park."
          "And what is happening, sir?"
          "This guy is going to kill someone."
          "And how do you know this, sir?"
          "I just... know. I know I must sound crazy, but I know..."
          "Sir, are you aware that 911 is for emergencies only?"
          "But.... I..." I close the phone and put it back in my breast pocket. No one would believe me and why should they? Would I believe me? Probably not. But if the police won't help, and that woman gets killed, could I live with myself knowing that I could have done something? You can understand that, can't you? I'm sure about this, more sure than I've ever been about anything in my entire life. I've got to stop this 'Roland Thomas' myself.
          I get out of the car and walk briskly toward the entrance of the building. It's a pretty big (pretty & big or pretty big?) building with a doorman inside. I slow down and look curiously at my watch to stall for a moment. From the right side, I see two couples walking toward the entrance. They're gabbing away about who-knows-what. I move up behind them casually as they enter the revolving doors, slipping in right after them. As the four exit the doors, they move to the right, toward the doorman. Taking in a deep breath, I leave the doors to the left -- with long confident strides, as if I own the place -- moving toward the vestibule (it's not a vestibule if it doesn't lead to another doorway -- try "a nook where..." or "alcove where..." or something simple this guy might have in his vocab, like "a little hidden area where..."), where I can see the mailboxes. Behind me, I hear the echo of the couples, but nothing out of the doorman, -- (additon of an em dash here for something extra tossed in at the end of a completed sentence [or thought]) who lets me go on about my business. Above the rows of metal mailboxes is a convenient alphabetical listing of the residents. Quickly, I scan it to find what I'm looking for: THOMAS, R. 308.
          I peek out of the vestibule (?), toward the three elevator banks, waiting for an open door. I know I can't wait out there and chance the doorman stopping me. What would I say to him? He'd probably have me arrested or, at best, he'd buzz upstairs to let the killer know I was down here.
           (the following is a long, awkward sentence -- I've put my suggestions throughout the paragraph) Then, an elevator door opens, and the two couples start to enter it. (period added) , and I move swiftly, but not desperately, to get getting (much stronger than the passive "to get") into the elevator before the doors close and press the '3' button, as nonchalantly as possible, and I watch the doors close as the elevator engages("enages" sounds more like something Captain Picard would say, not this limo driver ) works its way up (or something...maybe "works its way up the longest three floors I've ever experienced").
In a short moment, the doors open and I'm on the third floor. The corridors (singular should cover it) stretches in two directions, well lit and quiet. Creeping along the corridor, I can see I'm going in the right direction. 302, 304, 306. I move slowly toward the next door, desperately trying to think of what the hell I plan on doing when I get there. 'Delivery?' 'Exterminator?' I'm not sure what possessed me to come up here. What was I thinking? Maybe it was that pain. Perhaps it was a brain tumor that just sprouted and drove me crazy. Maybe I was possessed. As good an explanation as any.
          I see the door coming up. 308. I figure I'll just knock. What else am I going to do, knock it down? Then I see the door itself. Where the deadbolt lock would ordinarily be, (comma not necessary but recommended here) there's an empty hole instead. It looks like the lock has been forced out somehow. There are scratches on the metal lock plate; they look like they were caused by a screwdriver or something (Hmmm...if the limo driver's passenger did that, it seems awfully fast for unscrewing a deadbolt off of a door -- maybe it's been pried open, and the object he used to do so sits by the door [considering your ending, you might want to step carefully with this however]? Better yet, a lone key could still be in the lock and the chain inside the door is busted, like he unlocked it then forced his way in). I lean near the opening, trying to peek through. As I get closer, I can feel a light breeze coming from the hole, together with a strange sound. Almost like animals grunting. Or people. People struggling with each other.
          I just move. No thought.
          I turn the knob and shove the door open. It swings aside effortlessly and I throw myself into the dimly lit apartment. The wooden tiles creak as my feet creep across the floor. From the light cast into the room from the hallway lights, I can see the white tiling of the kitchen to my left. I look straight ahead. There's a wide open space with large and medium shadows, but they're still. Must be furniture. Yes, I can see the couch in the diffuse (Is that word in character? Think about it. It sounds nice, and it's okay to keep it, but it might be a bit of a "big" word for this guy [although he DID know "vestibule"]. It makes me wonder if he's as simple a guy as you at first portrayed him -- is that what you want from your reader?) light being thrown off from the open door of the room in the back.
          Suddenly, the shriek of a woman! At the top of her lungs, she's crying out from the far room, and I bolt into a sprint across the dark room, hurdling a short object and leaping toward the brightly lit room.
          The blonde woman I saw in my head is thrusting her arms upward, pinned together at the wrists by Roland Thomas' large hand, trying desperately to hold back his other hand, which grasps a large jagged knife already wet with blood.
          His back is facing me, and I take advantage of that, dipping my right shoulder down and throwing myself into him like so many great linebackers I've seen on t.v. I hit him right in the center of his back. He falls off to the right, collapsing onto the floor under the unsuspecting weight of his own body and mine.
          I step into his back, as I almost lose my balance, and quickly jump toward the blonde who's lying on the floor. I can see that she's bleeding. I'm no doctor but it looks bad. Her nightie is stained with red splotches around her chest, though not as bad as I'd seen in my -- my what, vision? Her forearms have small gashes along them, probably from fighting off his slices. She's dazed I think. I hope. I wonder if she even realizes I'm here.
          I turn toward Thomas and it's a damn good thing because he's coming at me, eyes wide with rage, leading the way with the knife (If you wanted, now might be another time for him to make another one of his observations about lawyers always taking their time, without losing the flow -- good ironic, comedic moment). I launch my right hand out and grab the wrist of the hand holding the knife, using my left fist to punch him repeatedly in the side of the ribs, just like any decent boxer. He's a lot stronger than I thought, and he's about five inches taller than me. He pushes my right hand down harder, moving the knife toward my face. I'm not getting anywhere with these punches, and I throw my left hand up and onto my right and shove hard with both arms. He's surprised, thank god, and his hand moves back.
          It's now or never. I plant my feet on the floor and shoulder him in the chest. Rock hard, stopping me in my tracks. He winces slightly. Now I feel his arm moving down, faster than I can --
          The knife cuts across my right shoulder. Biting pain. Feels like battery acid on my skin. Hurting as my shoulder moves. I've gotta move, move away. I thrust myself backward, falling over but away from him, hitting my leg on a glass end table, which explodes to pieces as it hits the floor.
          "Die [censored]!" he's howling with delight as he dives back at her, flailing the knife in front of him like a blind man's cane. I see it fly into her chest again and blood starts erupting from her body. She's crying out, but not as loud as before. I hurt so bad. I'm such a [censored] wimp. I can't take this pain. Why? Why did I do this? Why can't I save her?
          I grit my teeth. Just ignore the shoulder. Move.
          I yell something and jump to tackle the sonuva[censored]. I plow into him, wrapping my arms around his waist. But he knew I was coming. He's able to stay on top of her, bathing in her blood as he slashes her over and over (Maybe add an observation, as he seems that type of guy, about what HE thinks drove the guy to doing this with such a fervor that a man only, what, 20 pounds lighter can't even budge him). I feel the warm blood wash over my face. The juices feel like watery gravy, splashing off a hot turkey fresh from the oven. Through my pursed lips the taste is almost spicy. I'm so nauseous. But I squeeze my arms together, clutching his torso, and try to -- god, my shoulder's killing me! -- throw him over. I scream as I force him off the girl. I fall down on top of her and she gasps in a raspy groan at me, just as my face plunges into her gory chest. Her body jerks for a moment and then nothing. Nothing at all. I can't hear her heart -- I can even see the still organ in her chest, right in front of my eyes. She's dead.
          I roll over slightly to face the madman. He's just staring down at me and the dead woman, just staring and heaving his chest in and out. In and out. His expression is weird, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. I'm still lying on the floor, with my right hand pressed beneath me, ready to spring up whenever I can actually move. I just don't know what to do. I can't say anything. I don't have a weapon. And I don't want to die. He moves -- quickly, without warning -- diving at me again with the knife above his head as he practically falls toward me. I thrust my left arm up, catching part of his torso, and my leg suddenly swings up, clocking him in the balls just as he's coming down. Not bad. He squeals with pain, collapsing down on me, the knife safely supported by my hands. I'm starting to pull at the handle of the knife, trying to pry it out. But he resists. I swing his arms. Right. Left. It's doesn't seem to be doing anything.
          Now -- intentionally this time -- I slam my knee into his groin, conveniently right close by, and then throw my hips over, heaving him away from me and the dead body. I don't know how it worked, but he's off me, and I've somehow managed to get my hands on the knife. He tumbles over me, landing with a crash. Sounds like something hitting the windshield hard, crunching glass.
          Glass? I thrust myself up to a seated position. Looking over, I see his face writhing in pain, teeth clenched in agony. It's not just his balls. Yeah, there's a huge shard of glass impaled in the side of his neck, dripping with fresh blood. It's a piece of the end table that I knocked over; it's still connected to the metal frame. The carpet under his head is quickly becoming darker as the blood soaks into it. I look at his face carefully, watching as the muscles loosen up. The wrinkles along his temples and eyes start to flow out like low tide, settling into the rest of the face. The lips relax, opening ever so slightly, revealing slightly reddish teeth. The fluttering beneath the eyelids begins to slow down until soon they are still. The face doesn't move anymore. That's all. (a bit simple, or flippant [depending on how you read it], for this excruciating experience, no?)
          It's over.
          I look around the room. It's a freaking nightmare. There are two dead bodies lying beside me. A woman slashed to death. A man with his neck slashed open. And then there's me. A total stranger. With the knife that killed the woman in my hand. With the blood of both victims all over me. In an apartment I don't belong in. With a door that's been forced open.
          [censored]! Why didn't the police come? But, didn't I call the police before? Told them about a murder that could happen here? Did they send someone here, just in case? Oh, no. What am I going to do?
          Think. What do they always do in the movies? Ditch the evidence. I'm not about to try to get rid of the bodies. I can barely hold myself up. And I feel so sick. Just need to lose the knife and my blood-soaked clothes.
          I rip my clothes off quickly, pulling my shirt over my head, slipping off my pants. I grab a small shopping bag off the floor and stuff the clothes and the knife into it. At least my underwear is still clean. I look around the room, trying to find something to wear. A crumpled navy blue sweatsuit is in the corner. I grab it and throw it on. A little big, but who the hell cares.
          I'm starting to feel the sharp pain in my shoulder more now as I move back toward the main room, toward the door. Wait, my face! I walk over to the bathroom, right off the bedroom. I use my elbow to turn on the light -- although I'm sure there are enough fingerprints in the room to get me anyway -- and gently bump the faucet on. I look like the monster in some cheesy horror flick. Blood is splattered across my face, starting to congeal into clumps. I run my hands under the lukewarm water and begin scrubbing my face hard. After a few minutes -- I think it's only a few minutes, but I've got no way of knowing -- I look up in the mirror. Amazingly, after the bloodbath in the other room, it's mostly gone. I grab a towel off the wall rack and rub my face and neck roughly. I use the other side of it to wipe the faucet and sink off, in case anything spilled, but I don't think so, but just in case, it can't hurt, and now this towel's ruined, so it goes in the shopping bag.
          Breathe. Time to get out of here.
          I walk carefully into the main room and peer out the still wide-open door to the apartment. Amazingly, the hallway is just as quiet as before. Or maybe not so amazingly. All the people of New York, all oblivious to what they don't want to hear. I start walking, boldly pulling my shoulders back -- gently -- trying to pull them square. I tap the elevator call button and wait. (above and below are all VERY nice, very intense...you feel his need to escape!)
          Wait. Wait. Just wait. I can feel the sweat dripping from my armpits and down my back, moistening the sweatsuit. Any minute. Really s (awkward) Soon the elevator will be here. (Could add "Really soon." here) The whole incident is in my head, just like instant replay, as if someone was trying to figure it all out. Any time now. I look to my right and left, anticipating someone coming out to throw out their garbage or pick up their laundry. Thankfully, the halls remain deathly silent. Suddenly, a noise--
          It's the elevator door sliding open and it's empty. I sigh and get in. I press the LOBBY button a few times. After a long hesitation, the doors shut and the elevator begins moving down. I'm hoping I can just walk by the doorman. Not as easy as before. I don't think I can time this without other people to distract him. Maybe I could wait in the elevator until someone walks by, but maybe that's just too suspicious. But maybe if I come out and walk past him too noticeably, he might say something, notice something, notice that I'm wearing leather shoes with a sweatsuit, or that I'm carrying a shopping bag stuffed with bloody clothes, a bloody towel and a bloody knife.
          Breathe. Just breathe.
          The doors open. The lobby is empty. Absolutely empty. Not a person here. I don't care why. I move with something like a light jog or a quick walk. Whatever it is, I'm getting through the revolving doors and onto the sidewalk. The air feels good inside my lungs, airing out the stench of blood. Is it cooler out here? I look quickly around the area. No police anywhere. No one in the dark of the night, not even the doorman. I move to my car. Almost there. Grab the door handle. Swing open the door and jump in. I turn the ignition, the car starts, and I'm outta there.

          So, Gina, my love, now you know what happened that night. I can only hope that you can see after listening to this tape why I never came home. I've wanted to come back, every single minute. But I don't know what the police would do. I just can't chance that right now. I wasn't sure I should even send this tape, but I wanted you to know that I'm not a killer. I don't know when you're going to get this. I hope it doesn't sound crazy, but I'm sure it does. I'm just trying to tell you everything that what was going through my head, to show you what was happening, and maybe try to make sense of it all myself.
          I'm not a killer. You have to know that. I just tried to help. I just thought... I don't know what I was thinking. Just thinking of myself, I guess. I wanted to be the hero. But I didn't think about you and Jenny. And now you're all I can think about. I just need to wait, to let things settle down. I just need to take some time to get my bearings, time to figure out how to straighten out this whole mess.
          Just do me a favor. Tell Jenny that I love her. Don't let her hate me. Don't let her think that I'm a killer. And know that I love you. And I'm so sorry -- sorry for doing this to you. When everything happened, I just didn't feel like I had a choice. I had to do something. But what else could I have done? I just don't know. Maybe you're right -- maybe I am crazy after all.

Dave, the intensity of the story definitely rises as we go and there are some beautiful details in your writing, but although you give us an interesting reason why he's recounting the story (to tell Gina), his fate is left open. I can see why you'd want that, but more of a resolution might be better for your reader. There are a number of thoughts I have on this depending on how you want to depict your characters...
          Following the last paragraph, skip a space, indicating the change in time and scene as you had done above the "So, Gina..." paragraph and put in one of these or something of your own device:

Something else which occurred to me is that our murderer was "agitated" on the way to his destination. If he had chosen to kill this woman in advance, and it seems he had, he might be nervous, but he was angry and bossy and loud. You'd think he'd be somewhat introspective at that point. Is the killer supposed to be totally insane or more like a murderer on "Columbo"? Either way, what we see does not seem consistent with what pychologists say about murderers. He's not in the "heat of passion," ready to kill her at that moment -- she's not there. He doesn't seem calm about what must've been a plan to kill her, since he broke in with a screwdriver he had on his person. Where's this guy's head at. Our narrator doesn't have to know, but you do.

Those are the ideas I have. Overall, really good piece of work. I enjoyed it (and recommend reading it while listening to the soundtrack of "Unbreakable.").

E-Mail David about this story
E-Mail me with any editorial questions



COPYRIGHTS | OPTION | DESIGN
EDITORIAL | KEITHEDRAL | RAILWAY CITY | HOME



white backgrounds are bad...don't use 'em! thank you.