I had to write this as an assignment earlier in the year for our "Write-Like-Poe" unit (Edgar Allen Poe). Due to writer's block creeping up conveniently at every point I need to write something, I was only able to get over it the night before it was due. If it seems like this is written at ten to eleven at night (I haven't touched this at all since before posting it), it's because I was writing it at around that time.... While listening to this, followed by this, eventually finding myself here.
EDIT: Quick note - though I'm aware the rules state that these things must be above 1,000 words (mine's only 843), these were only intended to be short stories.
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It was the middle of a torrential blizzard. The world had already been engulfed in an abysmal fissure, only to be lit by a single ray of hope in the sky. He knew that it lie in wait, but for what was to be determined. Suffering? Torment? No, there has to be hope, for he has surely gone mad otherwise. His endangered Helen has been caught up in the whirlwind of bone chilling dust. Many hours had wandered aimlessly since her departure from their abode, going out into what was now the unknown; doinging something he'd just the equivalent knowledge of. What could cause her to abruptly leave like that with barely any enlightenment on why?
Days passed with no word. Of course, the snowstorm was still raging on, but even so, the news in this town has a way of spreading as fast as the flames consume the newspaper in which it was typically delivered upon. Then a note in the mail. Our mourning man had felt pity for the poor lad charged with the task of delivering it, but was overwhelmed with what was written on the piece of parchment he read many times over, violently quaking with every word printed. It was not the now petered out snowstorm in which killed his beloved Helen- no. A murderer.
“... How? Why? Something like this... Cannot go forsaken.”
The writer that wrote what now sat crumpled on the rich oak flooring obviously didn't suspect our grieving young man to burn with such passionate ire - under most circumstances, this type of mass assumption would be safe to guess. Written on the parchment was the killer’s first name. No last name. No address. But this was perfectly fine. Such details were not needed, as he already knew the killer by name and face after working with him on several occasions at work, and had attended a company party hosted there just one week before. As his vengeance soared with time, an ever-present question churned on: why? Why would there be desire behind reaping Helen from him? He couldn't stand it any longer. The deed needed to be carried out. Soon.
He no later packed my rifle and a mere five shots. After all, our pursuing young gentleman wanted to keep his encounter short, sweet, and tidy. If a murderous verman was to remain but a verman, then the only thing that would do for exterminating it would be with the gun used for hunting everything else of the kind. A journey like this would take him far, but time was a ladder concern. No longer than a day as our malevolent sir stood out front of his prey’s dwelling, late enough to hear a cricket’s tune. The anxious man grew impatient, but knew the back door was always unlocked for whatever means undescribed. Every advancement felt like another anvil being strung to his heart, until that moment of approaching the master quarters. A now ambivalent man stood in front of a grand doorway, creeping inside inch by inch.
There’s no going back.
A dire need in a change of plans. His gun would not do- oh the racket to be made by a cursory adjudicature in a very hasty and nascent cogitation. In another cunning effort, a knife was chosen to kill a now sleeping, alleged assassin. An embodiment of reprisal leaned over the peaceful figure, hand hovering over the mouth, knife ready to strike in the other. In the matter of an eagle’s pounce, the deed was done. It was almost as if the words “no, I...” sounded from a now motionless victim before being cut down. As tribute to the dead, a belladonna flower was left on his chest.
“She always had an affinity for these....”
Not one week after returning home from his “vacation” had pressure began to build from that fatal incident. Two days upon returning home and the local newspaper reported a mysterious death of a major town figure in a distant county. Neighbors of our accomplished assassin immediately began to turn their attention to him. Was it not a coincidence someone winds up dead immediately after leaving the same “vacation” destination? The gasket holding the pressure could burst at any moment it seemed; stress from both guilt and those around him began to consume. Weeks loomed by before the treacherous coward was faced with another reality: the man he killed was innocent; the pawn used was to act as a facade needed. As for what for, the young man would never find out. Fate has a cruel way of catching up to people who deserve it most, and he was far from an exception. In later reports, cause of death is given as a heart attack triggered by high stress levels.
Years passed. The investigation of who killed Helen was eventually solved and her killer given his just sentence. The crumpled note later found after her lover’s untimely death that sent a rush of spiraling agony in his final days was found to be written by her killer.
EDIT: Quick note - though I'm aware the rules state that these things must be above 1,000 words (mine's only 843), these were only intended to be short stories.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was the middle of a torrential blizzard. The world had already been engulfed in an abysmal fissure, only to be lit by a single ray of hope in the sky. He knew that it lie in wait, but for what was to be determined. Suffering? Torment? No, there has to be hope, for he has surely gone mad otherwise. His endangered Helen has been caught up in the whirlwind of bone chilling dust. Many hours had wandered aimlessly since her departure from their abode, going out into what was now the unknown; doinging something he'd just the equivalent knowledge of. What could cause her to abruptly leave like that with barely any enlightenment on why?
Days passed with no word. Of course, the snowstorm was still raging on, but even so, the news in this town has a way of spreading as fast as the flames consume the newspaper in which it was typically delivered upon. Then a note in the mail. Our mourning man had felt pity for the poor lad charged with the task of delivering it, but was overwhelmed with what was written on the piece of parchment he read many times over, violently quaking with every word printed. It was not the now petered out snowstorm in which killed his beloved Helen- no. A murderer.
“... How? Why? Something like this... Cannot go forsaken.”
The writer that wrote what now sat crumpled on the rich oak flooring obviously didn't suspect our grieving young man to burn with such passionate ire - under most circumstances, this type of mass assumption would be safe to guess. Written on the parchment was the killer’s first name. No last name. No address. But this was perfectly fine. Such details were not needed, as he already knew the killer by name and face after working with him on several occasions at work, and had attended a company party hosted there just one week before. As his vengeance soared with time, an ever-present question churned on: why? Why would there be desire behind reaping Helen from him? He couldn't stand it any longer. The deed needed to be carried out. Soon.
He no later packed my rifle and a mere five shots. After all, our pursuing young gentleman wanted to keep his encounter short, sweet, and tidy. If a murderous verman was to remain but a verman, then the only thing that would do for exterminating it would be with the gun used for hunting everything else of the kind. A journey like this would take him far, but time was a ladder concern. No longer than a day as our malevolent sir stood out front of his prey’s dwelling, late enough to hear a cricket’s tune. The anxious man grew impatient, but knew the back door was always unlocked for whatever means undescribed. Every advancement felt like another anvil being strung to his heart, until that moment of approaching the master quarters. A now ambivalent man stood in front of a grand doorway, creeping inside inch by inch.
There’s no going back.
A dire need in a change of plans. His gun would not do- oh the racket to be made by a cursory adjudicature in a very hasty and nascent cogitation. In another cunning effort, a knife was chosen to kill a now sleeping, alleged assassin. An embodiment of reprisal leaned over the peaceful figure, hand hovering over the mouth, knife ready to strike in the other. In the matter of an eagle’s pounce, the deed was done. It was almost as if the words “no, I...” sounded from a now motionless victim before being cut down. As tribute to the dead, a belladonna flower was left on his chest.
“She always had an affinity for these....”
Not one week after returning home from his “vacation” had pressure began to build from that fatal incident. Two days upon returning home and the local newspaper reported a mysterious death of a major town figure in a distant county. Neighbors of our accomplished assassin immediately began to turn their attention to him. Was it not a coincidence someone winds up dead immediately after leaving the same “vacation” destination? The gasket holding the pressure could burst at any moment it seemed; stress from both guilt and those around him began to consume. Weeks loomed by before the treacherous coward was faced with another reality: the man he killed was innocent; the pawn used was to act as a facade needed. As for what for, the young man would never find out. Fate has a cruel way of catching up to people who deserve it most, and he was far from an exception. In later reports, cause of death is given as a heart attack triggered by high stress levels.
Years passed. The investigation of who killed Helen was eventually solved and her killer given his just sentence. The crumpled note later found after her lover’s untimely death that sent a rush of spiraling agony in his final days was found to be written by her killer.
