Fearful love for your own good

He was not a man of extraordinary talent, nor was he inadequate in his position. He walked with a modest walk, the way a man who is walking next to a person of importance would have, but there was never a smile far from his lips nor a laugh distant from his throat. He moved along briskly as not to miss the morning train to the office, the kiss his wife had left on his cheek still tingling slightly. He hopped onto the train, juggling his briefcase and coffee as he showed his pass to the ticket taker. The slogan on the side of the train wall made him smile a bit: “Father is looking out for you”; it always brought a feeling of safety and the sense that he was part of something bigger than just himself, and it couldn’t have been more true because Father was indeed watching. 

                “No no I don’t like it at all, he’s too mundane, not enough fire to him.” The young civil unrest agent said, adjusting his thin wire framed glasses. The blue light from the monitor shining on his pale face making his sunken eyes and protruding cheekbones even more pronounced.  His superior a, senior overseer in the CUA (Civil Unrest Agency), replied.  

                “That’s why it’s perfect, no one would expect it and that’s what we want. If we used individuals that the common people suspected they wouldn’t need us to take care of them now would they. Yes I think he will make the perfect expendable tool of the state. Now go ahead and give our friend Mr. Grey a call.” And with that short discussion and those few words lives would end and new beginnings would both cease and start. And somewhere a man with a very different walk, the walk of the reaper the walk of the grim, a man known simply as Mr. Grey looked at his phone for a moment, read a few lines that were simply an address and started walking with a very distinct and purposeful stride. No feelings inside, just a purpose.     

The man, returning from work, walked back along the same path he had that morning, his coffee mug empty save for that last little bit on the lower rim that never quite seems to come out. No tingle on his cheek, but the wish for there to be a new one. As he turned the last bend before the street his house was on a man ran into him stumbling and dropping something but continuing on his way. Being the polite sort of fellow who doesn’t typically hold a grudge he called out “Sir, sir you dropped y-“  the word catching in his throat as he looked down and saw what the man had dropped, there laying on the pavement was a knife, coated with a quickly drying layer of red metallic smelling fluid. The site of it soaking into the cracks of the pavement made the man feel very uneasy. He began to walk to his house, his skin feeling as it would if he were to rub it against a rough layer of frost on a window early in the morning. He put his hand on the old door knob twisting it and pushing inward. He could smell its old coppery smell on his hand as he removed his hat placing it on the rack.

She sat on the couch, her cup of tea neatly on its saucer in her lap unspilled, fingers still holding the handle. The only things out of place were her head leaning back in a way that seemed appropriate for sleeping, and the thin red line along her slender neck dripping, her shirt soaking up the flow in a manner similar to that of the pavement. The house was in order, nothing out of place or askew, it felt too sanitary for a place where a life had ended only a few moments ago. He walked out onto the steps, half expecting, half wishing it to be overcast and raining, but he was meet with only the sun and a cool breeze. He griped the rail along the steps and was sick.          

“Ah we have a message from our friend Mr. Grey, he says the bait is in place and the package is on its way, lovely.” The senior overseer smiled as he said this, he always smiled when things were going his way.

“Everything is working out nicely, just two more pieces left in the puzzle.” responded the young agent, his thin fingers moving quickly as he worked at the computer.

“Go ahead and send the editor the details, I want this story on the Front page of the papers evening edition.”  

Two men walked up steps at the same time, one in his home, his walk now slow and shuffling, no trace of a smile at the corner of the lips. The other, Mr. Grey, on the steps of an office across town, his walk unchanged, still with purpose and followed by shadow, but both with death in mind. A package delivered, a rope tied. The stair rail creaked and bent slightly, the heels of the man’s shoes making little scuff marks on the wall as they rubbed against it, slowly, back and forth. Glass shattered and fire born, silent for a moment’s time then filling the air with a roar and smoke. Mr. Grey walked over to a young boy who was just unloading a fresh set of newspapers and preparing to sell the evening edition. He handed the boy some coins, the headline read “Man bombs office, murders wife and takes his own life”. He walked away reading the evenings news, with the slight hint of a smile on the corner of his lips.          

 

         

Author's Note

This is the first real shot story I have written, it was for my English class and it draws off of PTSD (form The Things They Carried by Tim O'brien, and a corrupt government from Macbeth. As well as elements of 1984 by George Orwell) Id like some feed back about what you think of the flow and writing style as well as suggestions for ways to improve, thanks.

Reviews

[Blair Palmerlee]

You're a very talented writer. If there is one thing that you could work on, in developing your style, is finding a good balance between being too subtle and being overly descriptive. There were points in this story when you would describe things in detail, but so exactingly that they became unbelievable. Tingling kiss that lingers on a cheek long after it's been given, blood that smells metallic on a knife, lying on the ground; these are not things we experience when we are in those situations. Find subtlety and you'll find strength, in your writing.

It was an enjoyable read :)

[Brandon Wilson]

thank you for the feed back and advice