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Nothing Out Of Ordinary...
This is something I wrote one night when I couldn't sleep. There's no real plot, there's really not much of anything. Hasn't been edited. Thoughts? Comments?
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Art stood against the cold, wet brick wall. He looked to his left, then to his right: two more crimson brick walls. Beneath him laid the glazed black pavement. Flying newspapers, garbage and broken glass littered the immaculate pavement.
It was dark. The others in the alley were only silhouettes. All watching in anticipation, scurrying around finishing last minute business. Art was scared; it was so dark. Just give me a sign, he thought, anything at all. Art waited, and waited: nothing came. He watched the opening of the alley. It mesmerized him, the only light source and it was barely enough to light a quarter of the confined space. A light at the end of the tunnel, ran through his head. It won’t be long.
Sly shielded his little black book with his open coat. He read through it and counted close to fifteen thousand dollars. He pulled the wad of cash out of his pocket to double check. He licked his right index finger and flipped through the bills counting as he went. Even closer to fifteen thousand than he thought.
He looked down the alley. It was really dark. He squinted trying to pick Art out of the crowd. Stupidly he realized Art would be the one in the middle. He found what he was looking for but the dark was annoying. Sly pulled a flashlight out of the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He flicked the switch: nothing. He went into his pocket a second time and pulled out two fresh batteries. He loaded them into his flashlight and flipped the switch again.
A beam of white light shot out from the flashlight and lit the face of a man. Sly jumped back. He didn’t hear the man approach, and he was standing so close that Sly should have been able to smell him. Sly took a deep breath to calm himself down.
There was definitely something strange about this man. The first dead give away was his hair. It was almost too white, short, and seemed to defy gravity with no assistance. He looked young, no older than twenty. He was a very handsome looking man, probably well built and quite muscular. Although it was very hard for Sly to tell because of the massive brown trench coat the gentleman wore. Nothing was more captivating than the man’s eyes. They were a bright yellow; unlike anything Sly had ever seen before.
Sly blurted out the first thing that came to mind, “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” the stranger answered in an almost rhythmic voice, “eighteen thousand dollars says he’s not gonna make it.”
Sly was pretty suspicious. No one makes a bet like that; not in this game anyway. Sly needed assurance, “Lemme see the cash.”
The stranger rolled his eyes as if anyone could pull eighteen thousand dollars out of a pocket. He reached deep into the right pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a wad of hundred dollar bills. “Would you like to count it?” The stranger asked Sly.
Sly kept a calm and cool appearance, but was freaking out underneath, “I’ll take your word for it.”
The stranger slapped the roll of green into Sly’s hand and began to walk away. Sly called out, “Hey buddy!” Sly shouted, a little annoyed with the stranger’s behaviour, “I’m gonna need your name.”
The stranger turned to face Sly. “What for?” he asked more confused than anything.
“Incase you win,” Sly explained, “I gotta know who to give the money to.”
The stranger stood for a moment in thought as if he couldn’t remember his own name. Finally he answered, “Scythe.”
“What?”
“Scythe,” the stranger said angrily, “my name is Scythe.”
Sly nodded in acknowledgment and quickly wrote it down in his black book. He watched the stranger as he walked away. From the bottom of the trench coat he saw a white feather fall to the ground. It was whiter than the man’s hair. Sly was sure that he wasn’t seeing things and was positive that the feather was glowing. It touched down on a leaf that had been blown into the alley by the strong winds of the previous night. Immediately the leaf dried, curled, and became dirt. It was as if Sly had watched a stop-frame film of the leaf’s life.
Art stood against his wall, gun in hand. At least forty people stood in front of him; watching, waiting for the game to start. Little did they know, they had already lost. Art and Sly had this scam going for a long time. One chamber had in it a piece of Styrofoam that they had painted gold. Art would spin the chambers, but it didn’t matter where is landed because he would live every time. This tie was no different.
Art held the gun up above his head for everyone to see. He put his hand on the gun and spun it as hard as he could. After a significant amount of time, he closed the barrel with a flick of his wrist. Slowly he put the gun into his mouth. The cold steel tasted horrible.
It didn’t matter how many times he had done this: he always got scared. His senses heightened. Art could feel every drop of cold acid rain gracefully tumble onto his face. He could feel the slight burning it caused. The wind blew and Art was convinced he could feel every atom in the breeze. Something was different this time, but Art couldn’t tell what it was.
The crowd chanted, “Pull! Pull! Pull!” like barbarians. Art looked out at the street lamp again. Toward the light, he thought, your goin’ for the light this time. Art’s vision began to blur and soon the light looked like the sun. An owl flew in front of the light, and momentarily blocked the light. It took Art by surprise and he clenched his fingers.
Blood splattered against the wall, along with bits of bone and brain. The alley was dead silent. Only the light thud of Art’s lifeless body hitting the ground was heard. Sly pushed through the crowd to see what had happened. He saw Art on the floor, a gaping hole in the back of his head. How could this happen? Sly thought.
The silence didn’t last long. People became restless and began demanding their money from Sly. He organized the crowd and began splitting the money amongst the winners. He looked around for Scythe, the stranger. He’s probably happy right now, Sly told himself. Sly poked his head above the crowd but could not see Scythe. He shouldn’t have been so hard to pick out, because of his unique looks. Sly figured the stranger would eventually reach the front of the line and decided not to worry about him.
Sly continued to hand out money. As he did so, he looked over at his dead friend and was shocked at what he found. Inside the crater in Art’s head lay a feather. A white feather that shone magnificently in the fall darkness.
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If you don't like the truth, pretend I'm lying.
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