Cmon101

I wrote this peice as an assignment for my english class. I really like it and was wondering what other people think. I know it's not nearly as good as some of the adult writers here, but I'm only a freshman in highschool. I would appreciate any criticism. Also I would like to say that a short story is not usually between 500 and 200 words. Those are usually vignettes. A short story can be anything short of a novel. Short does not refer to size, but rather tries to emulate the size of story! Lol! Kinda confusing but yeah so read my thing! Thx!



“WHY? WHY?” I scream in pain, the echo torments me as much as the words themselves. The guards in the jail have gotten use to the constant ranting and raving of my insane mind. I have been in this state of insanity and ruthless imprisonment for ten years, and yet, I have a millions more to go. I spend my days watching gray water drip down pipes, frolicking in its freedom, forcing me to recollect a little four year old. NEVER! Will I be free to smell the sweet smell of an autumn day or a simple kiss from abeautiful lady. For as the sun must rise and set, I must remain sealed in this mental box of uninteresting lines and curves. The one thing that still links my unholy and atrocious mind to the rest of humanity’s glory is my memories, which constantly torment me as a whip does a slave. The longing for simple things occupies my every thought. What I would give to see rain through a glass window, safe and warm from the storm outside; instead, I look, hoping to be withdrawn from this nightmare and see an open three barred window. An inch more and I could slip through their cold grasp into the night. They tempt me, only to torture me. The reasons I ended up here are the essence of evil and the bottom of the sea of cruelty. My name is Pierre Adrienne and I died ten years ago.
One of the most beautiful sites in all of France was my country estate in France. The estate had three floors and brick walls where the vines of fruit from which I made my living crept up the walls. This house was seventy eight years old and yielded a miniscule amount of white paint creeping off the bricks on the wind bothered walls. The inside, however, was not prided in its age or appearance of being old. It was actually quite modern. It sported the most up-to-date technology in the world. Of my own personal design, was a wine cellar of exquisite design, with cherry wood covering both the walls and floor and a bar with gold inlay across the front that said “perfect”. Although there was a bar, there was no beer to be served here; no, only the most exquisite of all beverages was to bequeath my lips in this utopia I had designed. Wine was my drug. The cellar maintained a perfect temperature of forty degrees Fahrenheit and was over one thousand square feet. These were my personal wines.
When the sunlight hit my home exactly right, it looked like a star that had dropped from the heavens to grace the French countryside. This rare occurrence was taking place just as I was talking with my partner who managed our shipping and sales. I was very ambivalent about him, because even though he was quite nice, he was quite inept at this occupation.
“How is your daughter Raphael?” I asked, like I cared.
“She is in the prime of being and every boy’s obsession,” said Raphael.
How dare Raphael flaunt like that in front of me? Does he not know that I am superior to him?
“Good, good,” I said. “I hear the Chardonnay has been delivered to America.” I said pleased.
“Yes, unfortunately one of the ships went down,” he said in saddened tone.
“So now, tell me ...” I almost finished, but Valerie cut me off.
“Adrienne!” screamed Valerie in her harpy voice.
“What is it, my sweetest vine?” I said cooingly, disguising my hatred. Valerie is my wife, the eternal bond of our Christian value marriage is what holds us together, that and our child, nothing more. She silently hides her hatred for me, like a snake camouflaged in the grass. Her speech is like the sting of a wasp, with salt rubbed upon the wound. The reason she stays with me in this large country estate is quite obvious. Money! That’s all she wants. The reason I keep her around, I shall never know nor understand. Is it that I need a woman? Did I simply never have time to worry about her? The one thing I had love for in this world, was my son Antoine. He was the equal of Hercules, bold, strong and handsome. He was only nine years old at the time of which I speak of and would soon be ten.
At dinner that night it was Antoine, Valerie and I. For once, we were eating together.
“I saw the telephone bill today. Do you live on the phone Valerie?” I said sarcastically.
“No, is it a problem?” she responded in an equally annoyed and offensive tone.
“Well what do you think? Then again, you do not think of much more than yourself!”
“Goodnight!” she said. I was pleased at how upset I had made her. I knew exactly how to pull her strings. To me, she was like a cardboard box, easy to crush, and once crushed, never looses the bends.
I went to bed in my wing and she went to her’s, our son in between. It was like a war and he was caught in the crossfire; inevitably destined to get hit. As I stare at the top cover of my bed, the designs of flowers and trees were like a ballet of green and pink. Their usually very heartening ambience did not comfort my troubled soul. At night was the only time my mind was clear, like a pane of glass. I figure it was night when my spirit and body were actually connected, when my thoughts and senses were given a rare chance to coalesce. It was like an invisible rope that snapped every morning when I woke and was mended when I was on the brink of sleep. While I lay in bed, I would think of countless things, as numerous as the stars. Eventually, I fell into a troubled sleep as I was beleaguered by dreams that exposed my true fears, ones that none, but me shall ever know.
The next morning I awoke to find my son’s handsome face right next to my bed, the morning light cascading into my room and brightening his face to a soft yellow and pink. “What is it my son?”
“Aren’t we going to the tower today?” he asked.
It was hard to refuse his infallibly cute face. “No my son, I am truly sorry, but daddy has business to take care of.”
“We’ll never go,” I heard him mutter with a fuming tone as he stomped out through my oak double doors. Hadn’t I locked those? It was hard to take him seriously when he looked so cute stomping out and slapping his arms at his side, while slumped like a monkey. I coaxed myself out of bed and dressed in one of my best suits as to demonstrate both my wealth and power. As I walked out onto the long driveway all I could hear was the breeze and my feet crushing the gravel. It was a Hollywood scene of flowers and trees of the French country side waving with the wind as to say, “HEY!” to the sky. I slipped smoothly into my pitch black Mercedes. I got comfortable straightening my suit and then lined up the keys like an experienced marksman and slipped them in the ignition. The car hummed to life and, sure enough, the windshield wipers started making their dance across the windshield.
“God Damn it!” I thought I had gotten that fixed. I repeated the process of starting my car and with some luck the problem did not persist.
I drove to a little café in town and settled into a comfortable chair, stuffed to the point of bursting. I began to indulge in some of the art displayed at odd angles around the shop. These paintings were of no value or artistic merit, so I began to read the paper looking as average and normal as possible. I could not help drawing attention in my expensive suit and car, foiled by my plan to make my acquaintance respect me. Then my million-dollar plan walked in the door. His name was unknown, I knew him as H.M., I hired him to dispose of my partner. As he strode in I could almost here the American rock music pumping. He wore a suit, but it was not buttoned, nor was it of a respectable color or brand. No tie brandished his neck either. Was he really a professional? As he sat down the blue light above us gleamed of his polished scalp. He placed his polished white dress shoes gracefully on the glass table confronting him.
“What is the estimate?” I said maliciously.
“Eight thousand two hundred and nineteen euros,” he said in a deep American voice. As he said this it seemed as if he had conjured a hidden power.
“Isn’t that a little much?” I challenged. I could pay it, but I had no intention to. He switched from resting his feet on the table, to planting them on the ground, one at a time. He leaned forward, his slacks as long as they were, gave him plenty of room to do so. I could see my reflection in his black sunglass lenses. How pitiful I looked! I immediately straightened up.
“No, I will not bargain. This is not a yard sale. I told you my price, no less and no more.” He retired back to his resting position once more with his arms crossed upon his bulging chest, apparently more interested in a girl that had just bought a cappuccino.
“Fine, then the money will be sent via check,” I said, trying to conceal my plan as best I could. I suddenly saw him straighten his back and lean forward suddenly, as if to scare me. He did.
“NO. I will not take a check. I am not a common mischief maker and do not dare entertain such thoughts, for you shall regret them most definitely.”
He was definitely not a benevolent man.
“I see, so you know who to take out?” I said, anticipating he had no idea since I had contacted him but a short week ago.
“Yes, I know everything about the person, even that they sing in the shower,” he replied, partly trying to show off with a slight smile of gleaming white teeth. This man was no rookie. He had experience, just what I wanted.
“Simply out of curiosity, why would you want someone so close to you taken care of?”
“They are beginning to cost me too much money. This meeting is over; I will discuss method of payment later. You have one month.” I then left, trying to prove that I was the one making the decisions in the conversation. I don’t think I was power hungry or greedy, it was simply…business.
I drove up to the estate at about ten a.m. As I waited for the large, black artistic gates to open, I thought about how to make up for the lost ship. As I pulled into the driveway, I was aware of the intense smell of flowers, trying to pull me into its lulling false sense of security. No perfume bottle could ever imitate the amazing fragrance of my home at midday. I pulled into the garage and slowly got out of my car, careful not to get fingerprints on the door and ruin its shine. There was no reason to rush on such a beautiful day. I decided to walk to the front door and enter through there. I walked past the pink roses and purple violets lining the walk as I approached the heavy oak door. I grasped the silver handle firmly, its smooth metallic feel burned my hands because of the irregularly hot day. I tugged roughly on the door and it swung open quite gracefully for its size. As I entered the kitchen I saw that there was no food on the white and black marble table? “Valerie!” I yelled in a rage.
“What do you want?” she said in an absolutely terrifying tone.
“Where is the food?” I said in as nasty a tone as I could conjure up at the moment.
“I am not your slave and will not be treated as one!” She yelled, more mad than terrified.
“Then make dinner!” I yelled, making my voice as threatening as possible.
“I’ve had enough of your shit! I want a divorce!” She screamed, as she ran out of the sunlit room, filled with beams of light varying in size, like a tornado ripping through a city.
A month later I found myself in court discussing possessions, and of utmost importance, my son.
“Have you decided whom will get what possessions?” asked the judge in a very formal tone.
“Yes, your honor,” I said.
“Yes, your honor,” she said.
“Good, and what about the money?” said the judge.
“Yes, your honor, here are the documents”. I handed the documents to the gendarme who tugged them from my hands rudely, as they wrinkled in his large hands. He then lightly handed them to the judge.
. “Hmm, yes, these are valid, very good. This court is closed. Let it be recorded that Pierre Adrienne and Valerie Adrienne are now divorced. I will leave custody of the boy to both parents, and if needed be,” he peered incriminatingly over the top of his glasses and glanced at us both, “it shall be brought to court. If custody is left to the mother then there will be a child support hearing on the eighteenth of March 2007.
I was finally free of the leash that Valerie held. I felt like I could fly for the first time, just like a newborn bird. Surely I would get custody of Antoine.
Three days later Valerie came over to discuss who was going to get custody of Antoine (she had been living at her mother’s). We sat down in the greeting room which had many windows and was fully lit. We got straight to the subject. She started by saying that it was she who was to have Antoine.
“Antoine needs a mother’s touch more than a father’s. He’ll see you on weekends.” she said, with a little spike of the tongue at the end.
I vehemently replied, “I want full custody. He is my son and I deserve him!”
“Hah! You’re always too busy with work to even pay attention to him!”
That was the last straw. I knew we were both very contentious, but she had crossed the line. I felt a bomb explode inside of me, I told her I had to go to the bathroom. That is when I removed the gun from its place above the fireplace in the dining room. I was silent, silent as a criminal, slowly moving the glass away to reveal a clear path to my revenge. I picked it up in my sweaty hands. It almost slipped. That would be a mistake. She would hear the thud and run. I slowly walked to the greeting room, my muscles seemed to tense up. I’d never killed before. I left that to other people. I took the first step into the room; it felt like a million people were hanging onto my foot. As I entered the room, I held the gun under my shirt. I felt the cold steel against my back and a shiver went down my back. The wood stabbed into my palm with the death grip I held on it.
“Now, have you come to your senses, or are you still in denial?” She said in a powerful tone.
How much I wanted to quiet that voice. I drew the gun from my shirt screaming, “He’s mine!” I screamed in pain and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening. I fell to my knees next to her and reeled my head back. I opened my mouth wide and cursed god for letting me do it. That was the end of Valerie Adrienne. I picked up her cold body and dragged it to the wine cellar. It reminded me of a sack of grapes. Was she anything more, now that I had taken her soul away? Blood seemed out of place on the hundred thousand dollar cherry wood floor. This is the place where our life had sprung from, and from where her life was ending.
“Daddy can we….” He walked in and saw my hands all over his mother’s dead body.
“DADDY? No, how could you?” I never had seen such a distraught face.
“Antoine wait!” I screamed as he ran out of the cellar. I never saw his beautiful face again. The only thing I do know is that he went to the gendarme before he left France.
That evening, I had a meeting scheduled with Rafael. As I expected, he didn’t come. H.M had done well. The house was silent; no one was here but me and my mind. It was raining outside. I could hear the rain doing a tango on the patio. It smacked upon the windows and blurred the darkness outside. The sound was overpowering. I was kneeling in the middle of the greeting room. I sobbed. My upper torso blanketed in a thick layer of blood. Alone. I was torn between grief and elation. I felt like I was a rubber band that had been stretched one too many times and had broken. I was troubled, had I betrayed my very essence of humanity? My son had left me. In killing Valerie, I had sealed my fate in an invisible box that had the weakest lock, but was still unbreakable. My son was the key to happiness.
What would have happened had I seen the beauty in Valerie and respected it more? Why had I spent so much time on money and power? I had destroyed Rafael and his family. I didn’t kill him because of the power or money; I took his life because I was jealous of his life of love and freedom.

Cmon101

I sat in this revelation for a full hour, and then heard sirens. It was the gendarme. They rushed into the house looking for me. No need. I sat still as water in a mountain pond, moved by nothing. Someone was calling out orders. I simply gazed out the window with an open mouth. They saw me and expected me to act like a groundhog and flee to my hole. They were surprised and awed by my stillness. They picked me up like two bears taking me to their den for a feast. They then clamped the cold metal cuffs around my wrists with extreme pressure. I heard one of them yell from the wine cellar, “We found the body!”
“Congratulations,” I said in a lazy tone. A slight chuckle escaped my dry lips. They hauled me to the car like I was the dead body.
“Get in sicko!” There were gendarme everywhere, flashing lights were blinding me, the noise from the sirens seemed to never cease. I heard radios flicking back to each other and investigators discussing evidence. The rain pummeling my head caused me to become even more confused. I was in a tunnel of blue and red. They shoved me into the back of the despicable car. That is when I died. I went to many intense court hearing and pleaded guilty against my lawyers’ wishes. The evidence was too much to fight. I was found guilty and sentenced to life in prison.
That is how I ended up in this rat hole. I’m not like the other men here. I am a man of power, but here, the bigger you are, the more power you obtain. I no longer care about power or money, all I long for is the slightest social interaction, something more than a grunt to another inmate as we pass in the cafeteria. I would sacrifice all my money and power for one moment of love or peace.
I do not mourn quite as often now. I have realized that mourning has no purpose, just as my life has no purpose. I am condemned to rot in cell 666 for the rest of my life, and when I die I have an eternity of Hell to undergo. “Why? Why?” I scream, not expecting an answer. I know the answer, because I hated when I should have loved, I destroyed when I should have created, I worked when I should have played and I killed when I should have saved. My name is Pierre Adrienne, and that is my story.




“ADRIEINNE! You got a visitor.” What the hell could someone want with a wreck like me? The guard grabbed me roughly and half dragged me to the conversational booth. The gray walls all looked the same to me as the cracks on them whizzed past my head. I stumbled occasionally. He shoved me roughly into a chair made of chipped wood and remained at my side staring straight of into the distance, with military precision. I hadn’t been here in 7 years. Then I saw someone walk up through the dirty glass, he wore a tattered leather jacket upon a green shirt. A black beanie covered his head and hid most his face. He had a bag on his back and had hair down to his ears that was a dark brown of sorts. He approached the chair and sat down roughly and casually and slung one arm over the back of it. He pulled out a cigarette briskly from his coat pocket and lit it in one flick of his arm.
“Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?” I said, my voice gruff from 10 years of low usage it. He leaned forward and withdrew the cigarette from his mouth briskly. He glanced on both sides of himself. It seemed as if he half expected to see something other than two harsh gray walls. His eyes became fixed on mine.
“My name is Antoine and I’m here to get you out…… the hard way.”

Cmon101

Bump!
I know you all are looking at this please post!

Spartacus

Cmon -

I am new here, but if you would space between paragraphs, you might get more response. Without spaces, the shear volume of text makes me cower.

I will, however, read and respond as is...

Spartacus

Hello, Cmon101 –

I read through your piece this morning. I am not doing a line by line edit, but I will offer a few general comments. Everything I say is merely my opinion and should be taken as such.

Anyway, I humbly offer my $.02.

Kudos to you for posting your work, and for having an interest in doing so at such a young age. I wish I had started so young. It is clear you have a story to tell and you have some good descriptive passages that help engage the senses for the reader.

Here are some other things to look at that would help engage the reader:

Dialogue attribution: I think it is best to keep dialogue clean with “he/she said” whenever possible.

These are just a few that stood out, but there are many more. I chose these because they are very distinct adverbs and I think you would do well to review your use of adverbs overall. Most adverbs represent “telling” when some form of action would do a better job of “showing”.

There are a number of punctuation and grammatical errors that need to be cleaned up – these I am certain you can find with further revising. Also, be careful with your sentence construction:

Besides the obvious (is this an interjection or a question?), your only verb is “smell”, so you are either smelling the autumn day or smelling the kiss.

One last note. There were times I wanted to put this down and make the few comments I had already come across. As a reader, I was nearly 4000 words into a story of unknown total length and I have no reason to care about reading on. The main character is unlikable and I am not compelled to know any more about him.

If your purpose with the back story was to make the reader sympathetic for the point of view character, then, for me anyways, it missed the spot. I see in him only vile traits and his ending up in prison seems only just.

I need more connection with the story, more reason to read on. And, as I am certain that you have more story to tell, it is you who must engage me in the elements of the story such that I want, and need, to read on.


Again, this is all just my opinion so please take it at face value. It cost you nothing, and it may well be worth just that.


Good luck in your writing.

Brooks