View Full Version : I Wanted My Revenge | Short story

October 16th, 2016, 06:51 PM
We were tired, the three of us. We’d been walking for six hours now, and we’re not about to stop. I don’t remember how many times I’d come this route in my life, but this time it was different from all others. This time I was going to kill the man who had murdered my father, with the weapons we had concealed in our clothes. My companions had an axe and a spear, while I had a knife. I slowly grabbed the stub of my knife to make sure it was there, to make sure it would be there when that moment comes.
I wanted the bastard to run away when he sees me. I wanted him to run and run as much as he wanted; he couldn’t escape me. I would have my stab in the air and run after that bastard in rage. I wanted him to look behind and see in my eyes and see fear and see the glimpse of my knife at the moment I would struck. And it would be a moment of revenge.
“Slow down Kyle,” shouted one of my companions. I saw I had my hands tightened in a fist and my teeth clenched, waking ahead of them. I slowed, and loosed my fist and teeth.
The sun was in the west, and the savanna heat was breaking now. But to me the savanna and its vast fields were alien. This place used to be my home for the past twenty four years of my life, and I had lived here my entire life. So it was my world too. In all these times my village with my mother and my father. Now suddenly my father was no more. He had left me. He had left me alone in this world. And it had happened in the morning when I woke to see he was there no more. In our house mother was crying with other women; and I was summoned in the center of our village where men had gathered.
They told me that I was his eldest son and so I had to take his responsibilities. They told me I was the leader of our tribe now. But before that they told me that my father was murdered by a man from another tribe. I left their gathering, saying I’d not bury my father after I had killed his murderer. The only people whom I had wanted to come with me was Goda, my best friend; and Yadi, my father’s special who knew my father’s murderer.
“This is the last village we’ll pass through,” said my companion, perhaps to cut my train of thoughts. And I was back in the savanna.
I saw mud houses and leafy trees before us.
The sky was turning into a golden color and sunset was close. On our way to the village we saw women carrying water as the last act of the day. Some were young, unmarried, and they saw me as a perfect partner when the night comes and the many night that would come in their lives. But Kyle didn’t care about life. He didn’t care about the savanna, or the setting sun or the coming night or the many other sunrises and sunsets in life. He only wanted his revenge. And it would happen in the next two hours, when he’d be in the village where that bastard lived.
They passed by the village without stopping by. They didn’t want to be seen or spotted by anyone. Bu the time the village was behind them, the sky was red, and as Kyle looked at the horizon at the birds returning to their homes, he remembered yesterday. He had been at home this time yesterday. His mother was in the house getting ready to cook dinner, while his father was sitting with the elders, under the mango tree near the temple. It had been so for twenty four years: the village was his home, and his mother and father had been with him all the time. But now suddenly his father had left him, since this morning. And he didn’t know whether the twenty four years he had him beside him was more real, or the past eight hours since morning when he had left him. He thought maybe the hours since morning was a delusion, maybe it was a nightmare, a bad dream. He even wished this day didn’t exist. He then realized that this day was more real, for he was living it now. And he was on his way to kill the man who had murdered his father. By the time night would fell, he’d be there. And he’d kill that bastard in the darkness. He’d hit him from behind while he’ll be sleeping. And the bastard would never ever again see the sunrise or the savanna again, nor would he ever notice who had done the act. He’d hit him with the knife he had.
“We’ll be there in an hour,” his companions said.
As the boy looked it was getting dark. It was a different twilight; as if it was an illusion. He suddenly missed home and he suddenly wanted to turn and run back home. He even imagined home was near, just behind him, where he could run and get away from this reality. But then he realized that back home, his father was death and his mother crying. He once again grasped the reality, that his father was indeed no more and he was going to kill the bastard who had done it.
The savanna was dark and stars had appeared in the sky, when in front of us appeared the silloute of houses and palm trees.
“That is his village,” my companions said.
This was it. The reality had loomed large before us. Here I had to get my reveng, this evening.
As we were getting close we saw a few people with their cows or sheep, perhaps they had been late for not having a good guess of time. These were people who’d wake up the next morning, but there was one person in this village I wanted not to see the sunrise again.
We entered the village undetected by anyone, and my heart began beating faster.
We entered a broad street, lit by a full moon, with our shadows before us.
“This is where he lives,” said my companion.
The street was empty and we could see our shadows long to the end of the street. I tried to remember the way out once we ahd done our deed.
We stopped by a door and one of my friends knoced. I looked at the moonlit street, telling myself this is the door from which we’ll run into this street with blood dripping from our blades.
A noise came. A light shone through the door slits. The door opened and a man with round eyes looked at us in surprise.
“We’re shepherds,” my companion said. “We lost some of our cattle, but lost our own way. We were wondering if we could stay here for the night.”
“Oh!” the man said. “Welcome! Welcome!”
He took us into a room separated from rest of his house. This was his quest room. He left us in the dark and taking his lamp went inside.
“This is him,” My companion said.
So this was the plan. We’d wait in this room. And that was the bastard.
A light appeared and the man came back bringing us water and goat milk. My friends drank, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to drink anything that bastard brought us. He then left us again, saying, “My dauther’s cooking for the first time, and I’ve to take this lamp because she’s in the darkness in the kitchen.”
He left us again in the darkness. For a moment I dared to get up and run after him and stab him fro behind. But my friend said, “Kyle!” my friends whispered. And I looked at them, at the two dark figures with their eyes glistening in the darkness. “You’ve to eat and drink. We shouldn’t let him suspect anything.”
I only shook my head. I heard the noise of goats and cows from the house, but no noise of dogs. So the man had no dogs and I and my friends could easily crept into the next room in the house and do what we had come to do. It would be a few hours from now and that tomorrow there would be no him and he’d never again see his village or the savanna.
We sat in silence, in dark with our eyes glistening. The room was hot and airless, but to the boy it didn’t matter. He just wanted to wait and wait for the moment to come, a moment between him and the bastard.
The man came back with dinner for us. I at a little bit just not to let him suspect anything. as our plan, our friends kept him busy and the man spoke of the life in the village, of the good and bad things that happened and the many problems the villagers had. He then spoke of his little daughter. He said she was ten and that this was her first time she had cooked and that she now helps with her mother in the kitchen.
I didn’t speak a word. I just waited and waited. For him to go to bed.
At last the man left us with his lamp. We lay in our beds in the darkness, with our eyes open, waiting for the moment to come. It woulbe in the next half an hour when he would be asleep and we’d creep through the darkness into the house and enter his room and come back into the moonlight with our weapons in our hands. Then we’d creep out into the moonlit street and leave the village while its dwellers asleep. Then it would be us and a long road ahead. All night we’d walk in the moonlit savanna, the three of us being the only souls on the raod. By morning I’d get back to my village where I ‘d bury my father and console my mother. In this village they’d wake up in the morning, but one of them. And this would be a night I’d never forget.
And in this village there would wak up a ten year old girl in the morning to see his father was taken away, and his whole word taken away. and she’d be left with great sorrow and she’d also never forget this day in her life.
And I clearly imagined this. I then cast it aside and once again reviewed the plan. But this time, I couldn’t go beyond the street. Distracted by the thought of what would she go through when she wakes up in the morning. And I couldn’t take the pain she’d go through.
No! I told myself. And I felt a little spark in my soul, like a drop of color in a bucket of clear water. My muscles loosened and my madness began to disappear.
“Kyle!” my companion whispered in the dark. “It’s time.”
“No,” I whispered. “We can’t.”
My companions were silent for a moment, in which I thought of what to tell them.
“We can kill him,” I whispered. Everything is ready. Let’s choose not to spell blood.”
We discussed this for half an hour. At last I succeeded because it was my revenge and because I was the leader of the tribe now. At last they agreed with me.
And all at once I felt I had added a little meaning to the savanna and to this village and to life.
The heaviest day in my life was over and so my madness that had hold of me. I now missed the sunrose, the next day, and the life of savanna. I lay in my bed knowning tomorrow it would be a different day and I would be a different person.
As my vision blurred and my eyes were closing, a question came to my mind: how was my father killed?
I cast the question aside, and closed my eyes, knowing tomorrow I’d have eight hours to ask this from my companion.
As reality was slipping away from me, I realized that tomorrow I would be a completely different person, a great person, as great as my father had wished. He would’ve been proud of me.

October 16th, 2016, 09:37 PM
I like this. The writing is a bit haphazard and is in need of some work but, as a piece of fiction, it's not bad.

My thoughts;
were not about to stop.

I and Kyle the same person? confusing.

I had been summoned to the center of the village.

He would hit him from behind perhaps.

Delusion...... ILLUSION.

I ate a little so as not to rouse suspicion.

A few breaks in between, clearly defined paragraphs, might make it easier reading also.

Work on this avest and keep writing.



Jay Greenstein
October 17th, 2016, 03:28 AM
We were tired, the three of us. We’d been walking for six hours now, and we’re not about to stop. I don’t remember how many times I’d come this route in my life, but this time it was different from all others.When you read this it makes perfect sense. You know who they are. You know where they are. You know what's going on and why. But pity the poor reader, and think about the question in their mind as they read:

• We were tired, the three of us.
What three? Why were they tired, and why does that matter? You have, in effect, put effect, being tired, before the reason for being tired. So your reader has no context. And giving it later doesn't work because you can't retroactively erase confusion. And a confused reader is one who is closing the cover.
• We’d been walking for six hours now, and we’re not about to stop.
Why are these unknown people walking, and why is it so important they won't stop. And why would they want to? If we knew the conditions, this might be meaningful.
• I don’t remember how many times I’d come this route in my life,
Strangely, I don't remember, either. But...what route? What year is it? Where are we? Who are we? What in the hell is going on? you know. The people in the story know. But who did you write this for? Them? No. So why not make the people you wrote it for know? Fair is fair. You are supposed to be entertaining them, not lecturing about people they don't know the slightest thing about. Doesn't it make sense to make the reader know the people and the situation, first so they'll want to know what comes next?
• but this time it was different from all others.
Is different better or worse than the other times? And why does it matter? In fact, to enjoy this scene, why do I care that the character was here before?

Here's the thing, you're talking about the story as if this was a picture book and the illustrations were giving the actual scene. To see what I mean, take a look at a few pages from this graphic novel (http://www.gocomics.com/lostsideofsuburbia/2011/07/26). Ask yourself if the text, alone would have even a fraction of the impact it does with illustrations.

Bear in mind that I'm not talking about good or bad writing, or even talent for writing. The problem you face is that you're still using the writing tricks we all learn in school. But think of how many reports and essays you had to write, compared to the number of stories. Think about how much time your teachers spent on the structure of a scene, and how one on the page differs from one in film or stage. Did they spend much time on dialog and tag usage? The role of the scene goal? Why most scenes end in disaster for the protagonist? If your classes were like most, the answer was, not a second. And therein lies the problem. Reports are meant to inform. But fiction readers are seeking entertainment.

Look at film. It places us on the scene, watching the action. So in an eyeblink we know lots about a character who appears. Their emotion is written on their expressions, their gesture, their body language. Their social status, and even political leanings shows in their dress and actions, and the setting of the scene. And we get all this in a fraction of a second, for the entire scene and all the characters in it. no way in hell can a handful of lines of prose give the reader even a tiny fraction of that information.

And that's the visual. Hearing is just as informative. Film is a parallel medium, but the written word is serial. So in the time it would take us to do no more that give the reader a static picture—one frame of film—several minutes of 24 frames per second have passed in the film. And who wants to read pages and pages of prose talking about things the protagonist of the story is ignoring? If it takes us longer to read about an action than the character would take to do it in life, the story drags.

The solution that's been developed over the years is to strip out anything that doesn't matter to the protagonist enough to react to. That means we see the scene as the protagonist does. Then, we tell the reader only what matters to the protagonist as s/he decides to do about that thing. So now, we know the scene as the protagonist does, in the fleeting scrap of time that character calls "now." And if we're in that moment the character's future is uncertain. We know what the protagonist noticed, what s/he feels must be done but not what happens as a result of what the protagonist chooses to do and say. It's within that uncertainty, and in the reader's emotional reaction and involvement, that our story lies. Events serve only to motivate the character to act, and as such are of secondary importance to the reader. If you can make the reader stop reading and say, "Oh...my...god...what do we do now? You have a reader who's involved, who cares, and who has been hooked.

So how do you learn to do that? One great resource is the local library's fiction writing section. There you'll find the viewpoint of writers, agents, publishers and teachers. Another is the articles on the Internet, though you need to be careful to look at the writing of the one writing the article, to be certain you want to take your writing in that direction. Lots of people posting articles, even me. Two that I would suggest, are this one (http://www.be-a-better-writer.com/scenes-and-sequels.html) on the structure of a scene, and this one (http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php) on placing the reader into the protagonist's viewpoint. Both were written by writing professionals.

Not the news you were hoping for, I know. But it does make some sense to put some time, and maybe a few dollars aside to acquire your writers education. Right?

So hang in there, and keep on writing.

October 17th, 2016, 05:41 AM
Thank you very much for your comments. I'm sure my next piece would be a better one.

October 19th, 2016, 11:02 PM
A lot of telling going on in this story and the writing is not always clear which makes it hard to tell what is happening. Not a bad idea for a story but it could be improved if you break down the plot and perhaps deal with it in segments

Just my two cents! Write on!

December 8th, 2016, 02:22 AM
A great writing with a nice little twist. I spotted a few spelling mistakes that I would like to point out. First in "It woulbe in the next half an hour when he would be asleep and we’d creep through the darkness" woulbe should be would be. Another is when Kyle had told them not to spill blood, It had been spelled spell instead of spill. These are the two I spotted, There may be more.