A continuation
My name is Charles Xavier Lanson the Third, and I am a murderer.
The crowded intersection stared aghast, but the city had survived and one street over just as many people continued their life. Nothing had happened. The driver of the emerald civic eventually stepped out of his car. His hands shook and he was clumsy on the ice. His loafers held less traction than his tires. It was apparent that his mind was racing, his eyes fluttered and frantically looked everywhere besides the haggard, crumpled body that his speeding vehicle had crushed. His balding hair blew in the wind. A crowd was gathering around him; yelling, accusing worrying. Yet all he could do was search for the spirit he'd sent flying out of that drunken, emaciated man.
"You killed him." I broke down.
Shaking, the balding man pulled out his blackberry to dial 911, but his fingers would not function. He tried to speak, but his aging tongue would not form words. His mouth opened and closed, he stammered, the crowd grew more aggravated for every minute he took to recover. An ambulance could be heard from the distance, undoubtedly on its way here. He wondered how this could have happened. How could he have been so thoughtless, so careless... He had no excuse. The sirens were closer now, and more numerous. Finally he spoke, "Is the man, that man, ok?" Obvously a rhetorical question. He stomached a glance at the homeless mans body. Deceased, without question. A pool of blood slowly crept toward the side of the road, staining the glassy ice a crimson red. A leg was bent awkwardly at the kneee. However the wors was the head. Fractured, dented, as though some beastly, enraged, homicidal athlete had taken a metal bat to him. The ambulance arrived. They examined the body. They asked the driver questions.
He asked them one. "Will he be ok?" He trembled.
A medic shuttered. His blue shirt had smears of blood stained into it. The deceased's blood. The medic looked away briefly, his blue eyes searching hanging bill boards for the words to say, his five o'clock shadow aging him years. The medic couldn't have been older than twenty seven. He looked back at the driver, and their eyes met.
"You killed him."
Short story by Phill
Read 665 times
Written on 2010-01-10 at 18:04
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Untitled - Part 2
"A blurry reflection caught his gaze. In the ground floor windows of a skyscraper an emerald blur approached rapidly, it's chrome rims spinning wildly as their attached tires found no traction on the slick pavement. He inhaled one last time, and calm spread throughout his emaciated body."My name is Charles Xavier Lanson the Third, and I am a murderer.
The crowded intersection stared aghast, but the city had survived and one street over just as many people continued their life. Nothing had happened. The driver of the emerald civic eventually stepped out of his car. His hands shook and he was clumsy on the ice. His loafers held less traction than his tires. It was apparent that his mind was racing, his eyes fluttered and frantically looked everywhere besides the haggard, crumpled body that his speeding vehicle had crushed. His balding hair blew in the wind. A crowd was gathering around him; yelling, accusing worrying. Yet all he could do was search for the spirit he'd sent flying out of that drunken, emaciated man.
"You killed him." I broke down.
Shaking, the balding man pulled out his blackberry to dial 911, but his fingers would not function. He tried to speak, but his aging tongue would not form words. His mouth opened and closed, he stammered, the crowd grew more aggravated for every minute he took to recover. An ambulance could be heard from the distance, undoubtedly on its way here. He wondered how this could have happened. How could he have been so thoughtless, so careless... He had no excuse. The sirens were closer now, and more numerous. Finally he spoke, "Is the man, that man, ok?" Obvously a rhetorical question. He stomached a glance at the homeless mans body. Deceased, without question. A pool of blood slowly crept toward the side of the road, staining the glassy ice a crimson red. A leg was bent awkwardly at the kneee. However the wors was the head. Fractured, dented, as though some beastly, enraged, homicidal athlete had taken a metal bat to him. The ambulance arrived. They examined the body. They asked the driver questions.
He asked them one. "Will he be ok?" He trembled.
A medic shuttered. His blue shirt had smears of blood stained into it. The deceased's blood. The medic looked away briefly, his blue eyes searching hanging bill boards for the words to say, his five o'clock shadow aging him years. The medic couldn't have been older than twenty seven. He looked back at the driver, and their eyes met.
"You killed him."
Short story by Phill
Read 665 times
Written on 2010-01-10 at 18:04
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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