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Flash Fiction: The End

This is another old gem. I believe it was my first attempt, maybe second, at flash fiction. Its a story about an old man. I think the original title was the old man, but I thought it cheesy or something. Reading it now, it seems so short, but thats the whole point of flash fiction. So enjoy the short little read.

 

The End

The dark staircase creaked as he crept down to the basement. The even whoosh-whoosh of the washing machine was comforting to him. He reached for the light as he entered the room. A dim bulb blinked on above him. There was a small table across the room from the washer-dryer combo. It was his work station. Many hours of his life had he spent there on various projects.

            Upon reaching the desk he flipped a switch and flooded the table with greenish light. In the center of the table was a small wooden box, mahogany. A small latch hung on the front held shut by a tiny lock.

            The old man removed the key from a leather strap that he kept around his neck and placed it next to the box on the table. Then he noticed his hands had begun to shake, trembling ever so gently. Outside the night was cold and the wind was blowing. If not for the steady whoosh-whoosh of the washer, he could hear it howling, almost calling his name.

             The box on the table seemed to be staring at him, waiting patiently. He picked up the key. The washer stopped shaking and the room was silent for a moment. The old man put the key inside the lock and opened it. He pulled the small lock off and unhinged the latch. His hands were still shaking. He opened the box. A purple velvet cloth filled the inside and folded over the top of its contents. His hands were shaking harder now and he reached down into the box.

            His wife had gone years ago. Cancer had taken her. His only son had died two days earlier in a car accident. He had no living family or friends. No reason to go on at all. He was old and lonely and ready for it to be over. From beneath the velvet cloth, he pulled the .35. He put it in his mouth and thought of his wife and son. Then he pulled the trigger. The washer clicked off the spin cycle and the only sound left in the room was the wind, calling his name.

Read fiction? What do you think of this?

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So, I have always wanted to be a fiction writer. Horror, suspense, whatever. I don’t have what it takes to do it for a living. I was sitting there in the chair trying to determine how my night should go, and I logged on to steam. I looked through my games library and clicked path of exile (review coming soon) to load it up, the decided not to play and instead to write. “I have been working all day”, I said to myself. You need some expression. So, I did the old Stephen King method. I just started writing. After reading what is my rough draft story introduction, you will know as much about the story as I do. It is basically just me winging it. And since I am the kind of guy I am, there have been no edits to it at all. It is as rough as it gets. I don’t plan to edit it until I get further along. That is assuming that I go any further with it anyway. So tell me what you think, it isn’t very long, but I felt like it would draw you in, although I have had some alcohol. I was never told not to drink and write. So here it is:

As quiet as the night, even the sound of a pin could be heard if it hit the tile floor in the hall corridor. The lights were dark. It was the kind of bleak night you might see on a new moon, almost no light at all and everything bathed in darkness. From seemingly nowhere, footsteps. Click, click, one after another at an uneasy pace. It is not a run, but they are moving exponentially. Darin sits up in his bed. “Oh no,” he thinks. “Another one down. “ He assumes that one of the other inmates there have fallen ill and either an orderly found him or was called by the emergency button. The little window on the door reveals nothing.  The lights are still off out in the hall, but he thinks nothing of it. Darin only sits and speculates which one it could be.

His bladder weighs heavy on him and lets him know that he won’t be going back to sleep until he releases the weight. Darin was sitting up already so, what the hell, he says and gets out of bed. He knows he isn’t supposed to be out of bed after lights out, but doesn’t care. What’ll they do to me? Lock me up? And he laughs a little chort. He slides his feet into his favorite slippers and makes his way to the bathroom across the room. In the darkness he can barely see, but he knows his way around. His eyes are fully adjusted to the light and he can see a few feet easy.

As he passed by the door, he takes a glimpse out the tiny window in hopes of seeing which occupant has slit his writs, or had a heart attack, or whatever. In the darkness, he can make out a single figure dragging a body down the hall by the arms. The legs follow along on the floor behind. He can’t see faces, but he knew he had seen something he wasn’t supposed to see. What the fuck? He said to himself. Darin realized that he was in a vulnerable spot, and somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be and twisted out of sight of the little window. He was curious as to what he had seen, but scared to. He didn’t want to be pulled from his room. Solitary was no fun, especially with the crazies nearby.

In his facility, there was a hall of solitary cells. Twelve of them in total. Six on each side. On any given day, four or better were filled with the “crazies”. These were fucked up individuals that decided to spit in the guards face or do some other dumb shit for no good reason and ended up getting locked in solitary to spend time to think about what they had done. Often times, their solitary time was spent screaming out about how they were innocent or just mindless jabber. They gave Darin the creeps. He had no intentions of spending any time with the crazies.

Darin crept into the bathroom around the corner and urinated above the waterline in the oversized commode. Instead of a heavy, pouring out sound, it was more like a drizzle. The porcelain masked his presence well enough, he thought and a moment after he finished he closed the lid. He would flush in the morning. He crept back to bed and turned over under his sheets. His dreams were not pleasant.

In his dream, Marcy, the lady who killed her husband after she caught him cheating on her, was being tortured in the next room. He lie in bed listening to her screams, and somehow knew he was next. They were coming for him and there was nothing he could do. There was no escape. He lay still, so perfectly still as to vanish in thin air. Then the screaming stopped. Finally, they had put her out of her misery. He lay quiet and still, listening. Hoping they had forgotten him.

With a big thud, Marcy’s body hit the floor. He was certain it was her body because of the wet sound it produced as it hit. Then the door to her room opened and again, he saw out of his little window, a body dragged down the hall. His heart beat fast, and he heard it beating in his temples. Bom, bom, bom. The figure was outside his door now. He was next. He knew it.

When the door opened, white light entered the room. So bright, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He could not make anything out. He wasn’t sure what was happening. Instinct told him he was in danger and that he had better get out of there, but the light was paralyzing. The figure moved closer. The light consumed him.

 

I suppose I will pick up after his dream. I was going to pick it back up, but my SO, Addie, wants to play Munchkin. Off I go. What do you  think of my fiction writing? Was it compelling? Are you dying to know what happens to Darin?

Probably not right? He heard and saw something on a creepy night and as a result had a bad dream. He is in the crazy house so he might have hallucinated. Hmm, we shall see, if I am able to keep this going.