Tentative title "Bill Fern- Grim Reaper"; Unsure of the Genre. - Writers Forum

Alex Newbury · 11-04-2006, 04:05 PM

First Submission

Ok, so this is the first of two stories i wrote the week before last while staying with my girlfriend. I wrote it in about an hour, and there was no "polishing" up- it is as i finished two tuesdays ago. At the moment, i feel i want to leave it at that, not add to it or change anything apart from grammar touch-ups or the like.

Inspiration was the horde of drunk university students outside my window.

Quote:

He stared through empty eyes at the grassy field outside his cold and rusted window frame- The field where they were. All of them, too many to count, but he guessed about a thousand. A thousand of the bastards. All running every which way, some clutching bottles of half drunk vodka, some holding others who had obviously had a little too much. He heard the loud shwoosh that indicated a firework; probably lit by one of the more sober ones to see the reaction of his drunken companions.

He tilted his head up as he watched the glowing light rapidly ascend to the heavens before beginning to descend. Maybe it’ll land on one of the people, he thought. Maybe he’d hear a scream followed by a frantic pounding of feet to the injured party? But of course, he didn’t. Intoxicated people have the uncanny ability to avoid almost anything thrown at them- a fact he knew well from his own drinking days. But that was then, this is now. Now is his time to punish, he thought, as he leaned backwards in his brand new recliner, a chair destined for use only a few times, but it was a comfortable one- and he was pleased with the £120 investment.

A withered hand outstretched towards the table to the man’s right. It was old and frail, yet steady as the marine he used to be. He wrapped his long, pale fingers around a mug of coffee, felt its warmth seep slowly into his fingers. He raised it to his mouth, his thin lips, and took a sip. He savoured the taste for a few seconds, feeling the liquid warm his throat before placing the mug back on its old surface. Still there was no unsteadiness in his movement as he folded his arms and continued to stare out of the window. Some of the people outside had moved on- no doubt to find more alcohol to fuel their commotion.

Several hours passed, and the man still sat at his outpost. Around midnight the field had been alive, writhing with life. Yet now most of the energy had drained. Bodies lay all over; their collective sleep induced deep breathing almost audible as the man at his window finally removed himself from his chair.

He felt a slight twinge, his back had been giving him hell these past few days- but he knew why. He was dying, no doubt about it. He had been for several long years now, occasionally being dragged off to the hospital by well meaning but ignorant relatives, or smiling care workers, who obviously couldn’t care less. But now it was getting bad. He could feel deaths icy presence, could almost envision the hooded figure picking up his trusty scythe from the scythe rack, maybe kissing Mrs. Death quickly as she straightened his hood for the night’s work, and heading out the door- Bill Fern top of the list tonight.

However care had gone from him now- abandoned since he shot his first rifle round back in ’68- when he realized that now, however it may come, Death was justified for him. He slowly made his way over to the door of the room. He felt around the wall for a light switch and found it, bathing the room in a warm yellow glow that seeped all over, into every corner and every crevice. But his eyes remained sullen, his heart dark as he reached for the latch on the old locker propped up against the wall- his first one- the “magic box” they used to call it back in the day. Whatever weapon was needed for the current mission was dispensed inside to prevent damage or rust. But today there was a special mission. There was a weapon he had only seen in the magic box once before.
He reached inside, and withdrew the long package wrapped in old cloth. He carried it slowly back to his chair by the window, and placed it carefully on his table before standing back and unravelling it. The silvery shine of a barrel met him; the smell of polished metal invaded his nostrils. He breathed deeply, savouring the aroma one last time before picking it up in his hands.

The metal was cold and a little oily. He moved back to his chair and pointed the barrel slowly up and out the window. Looking around, he hunted for his first target- he spotted her, a pretty young thing who looked about 21- she was busy trying to rouse a sleeping figure- her boyfriend perhaps, but that did not matter to Bill Fern. No, to him, she was the first of many, soon to be a statistic on a police report. He checked the magazine in his rifle, and saw he had maybe 15 shots maximum, but of course several more mags on the table if needed. He pointed the silenced barrel out of the window, looked through the scope’s green view as he targeted the girl’s young back. With a quick flex of his finger, she was down. He watched for a few seconds, watching for any movement, before moving on to the next target, a man of about 25 crawling around in the grass clutching his face.

It was almost light when the police finally arrived at the small flat overlooking the common. They had decided after about a dozen calls from frantic teenagers that maybe this wasn’t just some practical joke, and something was seriously wrong. Inside there was little to see- they walked slowly through a small room with what seemed to be a locker propped up against the wall, its metal door resting open. In the next room they found him. Bill Fern’s old lifeless body sitting peacefully in his brand new recliner, a rifle and several empty magazines neatly arranged upon the neighbouring table.

A post mortem was performed, but the cause of death was never to be discovered. Old age was quoted when asked, but only one Mr. William Fern would ever know what really happened.

Any criticisms good or bad welcome

Alex

Nikatu · 11-09-2006, 05:25 PM

Actually I'm surprised you haven't gotten any reactions... Or i was until i got to the part where he started to kill people (my guess is that it disgusted people too much... which I'm hoping was your point as I am about to draw most of my criticism off of that impression). So wow, you have an awesome start, you are very descriptive, you have some really cool ideas in there and I found myself chuckling occasionally. I got to the second part and, well, I got a few chills. Your main character is a real evil bastard and I end up hating him very quickly. But you start off making him out to be some quiet old man who has lost hope and you really develop him well... when he goes for the 'magic box' I felt a bit unnerved. mostly I was thinking he was going to open it up and find something like pictures, nostaligia, letters he meant to send to loved onese... but part of me had started thinking mass murder for some reason... when you actually started it I really wanted to stop reading, and you don't develop any reason for it or really an purpose of it... so that last part is very hard to read as it is so, well disturbing. you have a very depressing, dark, upsetting piece here with wonderful style on your part... great work I guess... but I'm still a bit disgusted...

Quillpen · 11-09-2006, 05:34 PM

Okay...just alittle creepy.Good writing but i hope i nvere see writing like again.Ever.

Alex Newbury · 11-10-2006, 12:03 PM

Nikatu- Thanks for the response, i was wondering if anyone was going to reply to this piece

But i don't quite get what you mean- Do you think it was a good story as a whole (not just the intro), or would you prefer it if it had a different ending? As i said, this just came. No planning, no drafts, i saw the door close as my girlfriend left for work, and tried to sleep, when all the drunkards came out

so i just wrote. i wasn't intending to change anything, or even do another draft...but if you think it's worth it, i might do.

Quillpen- So you don't like it? Is there anything specific you aren't keen on, or just the story as a whole?

Thanks for the replies anyway

Alex

Nikatu · 11-10-2006, 12:55 PM

Well, it was a good piece, but no... I don't like the ending. It seems too pointless for me. You don't portray the main character as insane or angry... and it doesn't seem like there is any reason for him to kill any one... SO i think you should spend mroe time giving him reasons for shooting or just get rid of the shooting.

Keridwen · 11-12-2006, 01:20 AM

I agree. Gradually let us realise that he's some freak... who maybe can only come to terms with his impending death by killing others...? Studying others' reactions to death...? Something...?

The story was great, though, the descriptiveness was great, and I wasn't overly disgusted by the killing, I thought it was done really well. We just needed a better reason for his murderous intent!

Great job!