The Word
Call of the Wild :: Extras :: Stories
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The Word
by Amalgamator Thu Jun 13, 2013 6:02 pm
"Five years' gone bye..." booms a voice, a deep, husky voice lathered in anger, in emnity, in hate, "and not a single one of yeh' got my word."
The source of the voice turns the corner of the Threehog Bar and Grille, the fancy-lookin' place on the second floor of the corner of 54th street. Click clomp, his brightly-shined, black dress shoes tap the floor with each step. The figure's suit looks clean, too clean, too square and too perfect to be. He pauses, a cigarette protruding from his face as it hangs from his lockjaw'd lip, smoke shooting out his nose as he exhales and takes a deep breath.
Not a single eye remains unturned at this voice. Time freezes, motion stops, heck, even the television is muted in honor of the new, hulking figure, standing, staring, scaring the men. The casual Sunday attire of the men in the bar fitted the scene, the green-flannel tables, the wooden counter-top, the shiny crystal cups, the chandeliers, the everything. Tension rises, a few men cough, and time resumes, each man curious, nervous or drunk.
"An' jus who in da' hell d'ya say ya were? Eh' bub?" retorts a man, rising from his seat at the counter, holding his gin in a vice-grip as he shouts, "Ya can't just waltz inta' ou'r private bar like th's an' leave us hangin'!" a drunk grin on his face as he looks to the other men of the bar, searching for support. A few men nod, a few agree softly and a few watch the figure by the door, waiting to see what will happen next.
"Can t'day, boys." the figure in the door murmurs, his voice crackling with furiosity as he reaches into his pocket, "Cuz' taday," the figure pulls out a short, thick, black cylender labeled, 'word,' and finished, "Ya got told." He then throws the cylinder into the room, beeping sounds escaping from the cylinder as he turns and walks back down the stairs, frowning. Violent, terrorized screams sound in the bar behind him as he reaches the street, a gigantic 'BOOM' sounding behind as his violent 'word' is, at last, delivered.
The figure walks along 54th, his cigarette hanging from his mouth still, his suit eerily clean, his shoes shiny as silver, watching the people around him, watching their faces as they scream, watching them as they cower. "Today, the word's been said." he thinks, looking up at the sky, smoke slowly rising as the building collapses behind him. "Fire spreading, derbies falling, glass shattering and people screaming. Sirens sounding, people shouting, white, gray, terror, tension, life, death, beginning, end, screams, thoughts, words. All words. All must be said."
And with that, you have read my short story. Good job. Comment if you have any thoughts.
The source of the voice turns the corner of the Threehog Bar and Grille, the fancy-lookin' place on the second floor of the corner of 54th street. Click clomp, his brightly-shined, black dress shoes tap the floor with each step. The figure's suit looks clean, too clean, too square and too perfect to be. He pauses, a cigarette protruding from his face as it hangs from his lockjaw'd lip, smoke shooting out his nose as he exhales and takes a deep breath.
Not a single eye remains unturned at this voice. Time freezes, motion stops, heck, even the television is muted in honor of the new, hulking figure, standing, staring, scaring the men. The casual Sunday attire of the men in the bar fitted the scene, the green-flannel tables, the wooden counter-top, the shiny crystal cups, the chandeliers, the everything. Tension rises, a few men cough, and time resumes, each man curious, nervous or drunk.
"An' jus who in da' hell d'ya say ya were? Eh' bub?" retorts a man, rising from his seat at the counter, holding his gin in a vice-grip as he shouts, "Ya can't just waltz inta' ou'r private bar like th's an' leave us hangin'!" a drunk grin on his face as he looks to the other men of the bar, searching for support. A few men nod, a few agree softly and a few watch the figure by the door, waiting to see what will happen next.
"Can t'day, boys." the figure in the door murmurs, his voice crackling with furiosity as he reaches into his pocket, "Cuz' taday," the figure pulls out a short, thick, black cylender labeled, 'word,' and finished, "Ya got told." He then throws the cylinder into the room, beeping sounds escaping from the cylinder as he turns and walks back down the stairs, frowning. Violent, terrorized screams sound in the bar behind him as he reaches the street, a gigantic 'BOOM' sounding behind as his violent 'word' is, at last, delivered.
The figure walks along 54th, his cigarette hanging from his mouth still, his suit eerily clean, his shoes shiny as silver, watching the people around him, watching their faces as they scream, watching them as they cower. "Today, the word's been said." he thinks, looking up at the sky, smoke slowly rising as the building collapses behind him. "Fire spreading, derbies falling, glass shattering and people screaming. Sirens sounding, people shouting, white, gray, terror, tension, life, death, beginning, end, screams, thoughts, words. All words. All must be said."
And with that, you have read my short story. Good job. Comment if you have any thoughts.
Amalgamator- Good player
- Posts : 122
Join date : 2013-06-11
Call of the Wild :: Extras :: Stories
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