YES. I AM DONE.
*sigh of relief*
Well, this is my first short story EVER, so I hope you guys aren't too critical. Please do post stuff that you think I could improve on, though; I know that there's plenty I can do to improve.
Peril
Based on a true story
A chill wind gusted through Bruce Steel’s home through an unclosed window, sending shivers down his spine. He glanced upward from Clear and Present Danger, got up from his chair and shut the window. No point in this place getting any colder than it already is, he reasoned. After closing the window, he heard a voice from the kitchen calling, “Bruce! I need you to go to the store with Ken to pick up the groceries!” “But Mom, it’s Greg’s turn today!” replied Bruce. “All three of you can go, then! The shopping list is on the counter.” Without waiting for his brothers, Bruce picked up the shopping list and left. He knew that there would be no arguing with her.
He and his brothers had worked at the local grocery store since he was seven years old. Ten years, he pondered. Ten years I’ve been stuck in this run-down pit. Life was fine, but there was something missing. Some piece of the puzzle that wasn’t there, that he just couldn’t find. For now, though, he had to get his family food.
The area by the store was badly maintained by the authorities but functional. The supermarket had been there since Bruce was born and was an integral part of his financial life. Bruce was strolling toward it when, out of nowhere, a fist crashed into his face, sending him sprawling onto the blacktop parking lot.
His nose was bleeding, but as far as Bruce could tell there were no other injuries. Time slowed down as he looked up at his assailant and saw a man in a hood with a pistol aimed at his head. The thief gestured toward his pocket with the gun, making sure to keep his face hidden. Bruce started to take his wallet out of his pocket when a voice shouted from far off, saying “Bruce! Where are you!?” It sounded like Ken, but he heard two sets of footsteps running his direction. That can’t be right, Bruce thought. The criminal shifted his aim toward the source of the voice and fired twice.
Glass shattering.
Screams.
Blood everywhere.
Sirens.
“Bruce! …Under the floorboard…you have to…”
The criminal’s hood falling as he escaped to reveal a tattoo of a snake covering the left half of his face.
Bruce couldn’t make any sense of the situation. He caught a glimpse of Greg running after the killer through a side alley. He turned to the direction that the voice had come from to see Ken’s prostrate corpse lying on the ground motionless. He rushed over crying, “Ken!” just in time to see the light fade from his eyes. He lay in a pool of blood seeping out from a bullet hole through the heart and shards of glass from the shattered car window next to him.
Bruce looked up as sirens wailed in the air and knew that the police wouldn’t be able to catch the killer. Hurrying to the alley the criminal and Greg had gone down, he searched the area up and down but could find no trace of the two. He could see a dim opening at the end of the alley and figured that that must have been where they went. It’s no use following them now; they’re bound to be far from here, he thought.
Ken’s last words echoed through his mind: “…Under the floorboard…you have to…” Bruce knew the floorboard he was talking about, it was located under the living room rug. They’d discovered that it was loose long ago. What was he talking about? We never found anything under there. What was he trying to tell me? Thoughts like this raced through Bruce’s mind as he dashed back home to discover his brother’s dying wish.
He snuck in quietly, making sure not to extend the door so far that it creaked. He didn’t want his mother alerted to his presence, just in case what was under the board was meant only for him to know of. Sliding the rug back, he spotted the telltale pair of loose nails that gave away his destination. Bruce lifted up the floorboard, but it emanated a loud creak. He froze, holding his breath and listening for any sign of activity from the kitchen. He heard a voice humming and the sounds of clanking silverware. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he turned back to the area under the board. At first he saw nothing, but then a glint coming from a metal surface caught his eye. He reached toward the object and pulled it out. His eyes widened at the sight he beheld. He cradled the object close to his chest as he carefully reversed the process he had just executed.
Bruce’s mother glanced back in the direction of the living room as Bruce left the house. God, she thought, horrified, only You can help him now.
Once outside, Bruce uncurled his hands to reveal a pistol not larger than his hand. He went to an abandoned lot to work on his aim. He knew what his deceased brother wanted him to do now, and swore to himself that he would honor it. Searching around for a target, he skipped over crumbling brick walls and rotting vegetation until he spied a crow perched upon a dead tree. Taking aim, he sighted the crow down the barrel and fired. Just as the shot went off, though, the crow took off. What happened next blew Bruce’s mind away.
A trail of crimson left the barrel of the gun and swerved to connect with the bird. With a loud shriek, the avian fell to the ground with a muffled thump. The trace of red that Bruce had spotted before had disappeared, leaving no sign that it had been there. For all he knew, it could have been his imagination. He walked over to the dead crow and examined its corpse. There were no bullet holes as far as he could tell; no markings whatsoever were present to tell a common observer what had killed it. This is impossible; thought Bruce, what is this thing? Gaping at the weapon laying in his hand, he pocketed it and set off in the direction of the store. He might be able to find some sort of clue as to where the criminal had gone off to. Maybe this is the missing piece I’ve been looking for.
Halfway there, he got stuck in a crowd thronging the street. Trying to push his way through, he bustled past several people before spotting a man wearing a black-hooded jacket with a tattoo of a snake on his face. “You!” Bruce cried. Yanking the gun out of his pocket, he began to pursue his brother’s killer. The man turned and saw Bruce coming for him from across the crowd. He ducked off into another alleyway with Bruce hot on his heels. People parted the way for him, not wanting to get knocked over.
When Bruce reached the entrance to the alley, he was relieved to see that there was no back exit. Less so to see the criminal’s gun pointed at him from the far end.
Time was slowing down again. He knew exactly where he needed to shoot. He lifted the gun and fired. An enormous report exploded from the weapon and a red streak again swerved to find Bruce’s true target. The murderer’s gun shattered from the impact, shredding the man’s face with shrapnel. He fell to the ground writhing in pain, even though he had only received superficial wounds. Not wanting to give him the chance to recuperate, Bruce took a couple of steps forward and took aim again, but this time he paused.
He couldn’t shoot this man. He was helpless before Bruce’s power, a miserable wretch. Am I doing the right thing? Even if Ken wanted me to avenge him…is it the right thing to do? He questioned himself.
Bruce Steel hesitated, and that moment of hesitation should have cost him his life.
The killer’s face, now covered in blood, contorted in anger. He drew a second pistol from his jacket and aimed it at Bruce, his face determined.
Bruce knew he would never get the gun up in time to defend himself. Forgetting his pistol’s power, he braced himself for oblivion…
A gunshot rang past Bruce’s head, knocking the criminal against the far wall. The killer stared in shock, gaping at something past Bruce as his last breath left him.
Electrified with shock at what had occurred, Bruce turned around to see his brother, Greg, standing in the entrance holding a gun with a smoking barrel in his right hand. His eyes looked as weary as if he had run a marathon.
“Greg?”
“Bruce?” Greg threw a pointed look at the weapon in Bruce’s hand.
Bruce stared down at the weapon in his hand with new eyes and tossed it onto the ground next to the killer’s dead body. He wouldn’t need it where he was going. He’d found the real puzzle piece. He looked up at his brother and said, “Let’s go home.”
Epilogue
Bruce Steel is now a history teacher at Westview High School in San Diego. He is in his late forties and has a wife and two children.
*sigh of relief*
Well, this is my first short story EVER, so I hope you guys aren't too critical. Please do post stuff that you think I could improve on, though; I know that there's plenty I can do to improve.
Peril
Based on a true story
A chill wind gusted through Bruce Steel’s home through an unclosed window, sending shivers down his spine. He glanced upward from Clear and Present Danger, got up from his chair and shut the window. No point in this place getting any colder than it already is, he reasoned. After closing the window, he heard a voice from the kitchen calling, “Bruce! I need you to go to the store with Ken to pick up the groceries!” “But Mom, it’s Greg’s turn today!” replied Bruce. “All three of you can go, then! The shopping list is on the counter.” Without waiting for his brothers, Bruce picked up the shopping list and left. He knew that there would be no arguing with her.
He and his brothers had worked at the local grocery store since he was seven years old. Ten years, he pondered. Ten years I’ve been stuck in this run-down pit. Life was fine, but there was something missing. Some piece of the puzzle that wasn’t there, that he just couldn’t find. For now, though, he had to get his family food.
The area by the store was badly maintained by the authorities but functional. The supermarket had been there since Bruce was born and was an integral part of his financial life. Bruce was strolling toward it when, out of nowhere, a fist crashed into his face, sending him sprawling onto the blacktop parking lot.
His nose was bleeding, but as far as Bruce could tell there were no other injuries. Time slowed down as he looked up at his assailant and saw a man in a hood with a pistol aimed at his head. The thief gestured toward his pocket with the gun, making sure to keep his face hidden. Bruce started to take his wallet out of his pocket when a voice shouted from far off, saying “Bruce! Where are you!?” It sounded like Ken, but he heard two sets of footsteps running his direction. That can’t be right, Bruce thought. The criminal shifted his aim toward the source of the voice and fired twice.
Glass shattering.
Screams.
Blood everywhere.
Sirens.
“Bruce! …Under the floorboard…you have to…”
The criminal’s hood falling as he escaped to reveal a tattoo of a snake covering the left half of his face.
Bruce couldn’t make any sense of the situation. He caught a glimpse of Greg running after the killer through a side alley. He turned to the direction that the voice had come from to see Ken’s prostrate corpse lying on the ground motionless. He rushed over crying, “Ken!” just in time to see the light fade from his eyes. He lay in a pool of blood seeping out from a bullet hole through the heart and shards of glass from the shattered car window next to him.
Bruce looked up as sirens wailed in the air and knew that the police wouldn’t be able to catch the killer. Hurrying to the alley the criminal and Greg had gone down, he searched the area up and down but could find no trace of the two. He could see a dim opening at the end of the alley and figured that that must have been where they went. It’s no use following them now; they’re bound to be far from here, he thought.
Ken’s last words echoed through his mind: “…Under the floorboard…you have to…” Bruce knew the floorboard he was talking about, it was located under the living room rug. They’d discovered that it was loose long ago. What was he talking about? We never found anything under there. What was he trying to tell me? Thoughts like this raced through Bruce’s mind as he dashed back home to discover his brother’s dying wish.
He snuck in quietly, making sure not to extend the door so far that it creaked. He didn’t want his mother alerted to his presence, just in case what was under the board was meant only for him to know of. Sliding the rug back, he spotted the telltale pair of loose nails that gave away his destination. Bruce lifted up the floorboard, but it emanated a loud creak. He froze, holding his breath and listening for any sign of activity from the kitchen. He heard a voice humming and the sounds of clanking silverware. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, he turned back to the area under the board. At first he saw nothing, but then a glint coming from a metal surface caught his eye. He reached toward the object and pulled it out. His eyes widened at the sight he beheld. He cradled the object close to his chest as he carefully reversed the process he had just executed.
Bruce’s mother glanced back in the direction of the living room as Bruce left the house. God, she thought, horrified, only You can help him now.
Once outside, Bruce uncurled his hands to reveal a pistol not larger than his hand. He went to an abandoned lot to work on his aim. He knew what his deceased brother wanted him to do now, and swore to himself that he would honor it. Searching around for a target, he skipped over crumbling brick walls and rotting vegetation until he spied a crow perched upon a dead tree. Taking aim, he sighted the crow down the barrel and fired. Just as the shot went off, though, the crow took off. What happened next blew Bruce’s mind away.
A trail of crimson left the barrel of the gun and swerved to connect with the bird. With a loud shriek, the avian fell to the ground with a muffled thump. The trace of red that Bruce had spotted before had disappeared, leaving no sign that it had been there. For all he knew, it could have been his imagination. He walked over to the dead crow and examined its corpse. There were no bullet holes as far as he could tell; no markings whatsoever were present to tell a common observer what had killed it. This is impossible; thought Bruce, what is this thing? Gaping at the weapon laying in his hand, he pocketed it and set off in the direction of the store. He might be able to find some sort of clue as to where the criminal had gone off to. Maybe this is the missing piece I’ve been looking for.
Halfway there, he got stuck in a crowd thronging the street. Trying to push his way through, he bustled past several people before spotting a man wearing a black-hooded jacket with a tattoo of a snake on his face. “You!” Bruce cried. Yanking the gun out of his pocket, he began to pursue his brother’s killer. The man turned and saw Bruce coming for him from across the crowd. He ducked off into another alleyway with Bruce hot on his heels. People parted the way for him, not wanting to get knocked over.
When Bruce reached the entrance to the alley, he was relieved to see that there was no back exit. Less so to see the criminal’s gun pointed at him from the far end.
Time was slowing down again. He knew exactly where he needed to shoot. He lifted the gun and fired. An enormous report exploded from the weapon and a red streak again swerved to find Bruce’s true target. The murderer’s gun shattered from the impact, shredding the man’s face with shrapnel. He fell to the ground writhing in pain, even though he had only received superficial wounds. Not wanting to give him the chance to recuperate, Bruce took a couple of steps forward and took aim again, but this time he paused.
He couldn’t shoot this man. He was helpless before Bruce’s power, a miserable wretch. Am I doing the right thing? Even if Ken wanted me to avenge him…is it the right thing to do? He questioned himself.
Bruce Steel hesitated, and that moment of hesitation should have cost him his life.
The killer’s face, now covered in blood, contorted in anger. He drew a second pistol from his jacket and aimed it at Bruce, his face determined.
Bruce knew he would never get the gun up in time to defend himself. Forgetting his pistol’s power, he braced himself for oblivion…
A gunshot rang past Bruce’s head, knocking the criminal against the far wall. The killer stared in shock, gaping at something past Bruce as his last breath left him.
Electrified with shock at what had occurred, Bruce turned around to see his brother, Greg, standing in the entrance holding a gun with a smoking barrel in his right hand. His eyes looked as weary as if he had run a marathon.
“Greg?”
“Bruce?” Greg threw a pointed look at the weapon in Bruce’s hand.
Bruce stared down at the weapon in his hand with new eyes and tossed it onto the ground next to the killer’s dead body. He wouldn’t need it where he was going. He’d found the real puzzle piece. He looked up at his brother and said, “Let’s go home.”
Epilogue
Bruce Steel is now a history teacher at Westview High School in San Diego. He is in his late forties and has a wife and two children.
