this short story of mine...

[alwaysrockon]

Not much realism. Doesn't suit my taste.

i dont know about that. what about it doesn't seem realistic?

okay so i seem to be getting better at this. So anyone else want to comment. i like praise but i also want some critism...
plus i'm wondering if i should write a contenuace (sort of)...

But do you as the author believe him? Does that make sense to you? Maybe it does. But as a amateur writer myself, I would immediately ask, do I really agree with this guy I've created? Or is he just pulling me along with him because I find it kind of fun?

Things can get a lot more complicated and interesting if you find out you don't agree with him, and you show that actual reality might not back up what he thinks. Is he really cold? Is he really unfeeling? Or is he lying to himself and us and you? If he is, why? What is really going on? What can you show from the world around him that will show us this, maybe show him this? And there are bigger questions too - if he's right about himself, is he really a human being anymore? Can he be something else? How much does what we think about ourselves matter to what we actually are? And what is the impact of this dilemma, other than a bunch of dead bums? Or is that a bigger issue than the killer thinks? Are they really worthless to him, or, because they inspire such actions on his part, are they really very important to him, in fact controlling him, at least emotionally?

it's kinda funny that you would mention that. i wrote that story feeling nothing for my poor chap of a character so he is emotionless. i wrote the story late at night not really thinking of anything at all. as far as i know the "killer" only ices folks for the same reason that the main charachter from "the stranger" ices people.

 

[goodman528]

......I passed the cops and the yellow tape, hell I even waved to one of the detectives eating his breakfast.

I am not fucked up. I am not a self-made monster, or a creep spawned by today's society. I do not lead a double life or any other shit like that. I am what I am. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a coward or leech. Not a metro or a fag. Like I said before nothing at all.

I sat on his torn and dirty couch and inhaled slowly trying to think why he had done it. As it turned out I couldn't. It was the same damn reason I had given twenty bucks to the bum. I left the apartment and killed another bum on the way home. I didn't feel relieved to have extinguished another mans life. I didn't feel hate, or joy, or sadness.

No one saw me kill that man and if they did maybe they didn't care. That's when I realized that I was the best type of person that there could be. I didn't kill out of hate or sorrow. I didn't do it because of beliefs or ideals. I just did it. I was cold. I was indifferent. I was machine.

Most fiction is unrealistic, so you can safely ignore my first comment. When you've spent this many words focusing on the fact the protagonist does not have emotions, I would have expected some more character development along one of these two lines:

1) He doesn't think about it, killing is just something he does because he can. If he doesn't care, then he shouldn't have all these thoughts about it.

Or 2) He questions his morality, what system of morality should he have? and why does he reject it? People this messed up are usually very self indulgent and self centred in their thinking.

 

[Scorched_Cascade]

Is this person (if you get rid of the "not a metro or a fag" there are no gender indicators)going to be your protagonist or your antagonist? Prehaps you could write this into a short story/novel and the protogonist could be the detective that your current character waved to? You could even do it so the murderer writes in first person while the detective's side of the story is written third person perspective (worked well for the Bartimaeus trilogy even if the subject matter there was different).

Otherwise a very nice extract and I look forward to seeing what you do with it.

 

[alwaysrockon]

if anyone liked the above story tell what you thought of this.

"everyone has to die sometime, son"
"no...don't"
"i only speak the truth-"
"no! you don't call me son! fuck shit! you killed my family! you filthy-"
"take him out"
Justin, known to all as la grange, stepped foreword and kicked the child in the stomach. the boy grunted and fell to the ground coughing.
"where did you learn words like that?"
"go away"
"are you ready to start trying to act somewhat civil?"
"fuck you..."
"Grange, hold the boy up"
la grange grabbed the boy by his arms and held him up.
"boy listen to me and listen clearly now. everyone must die sometime. all gods, all kings of the past have died." he grabbed the boy by the chin. "everyone must die. so learn to live...and learn to kill.......its only fucking natural"
he let the boy was dropped back to the ground.
"leave him. maybe he'll learn someday that you can only choose your death" all of the Sarge's men turned from the flaming house and began walking away into the ashen, empty desert.

i watched the entire thing from the rusty, broken down jeep by the side of the house.

i even saw wen my older nine year old brother began stirring in the ground.. i watched as he started crawling in the ground towards the raiders.

i stepped out of the car and began walking towards him. he continued sneaking behind the group.

when he was close my brother stood and shouted one final time. i heard a gunshot and feinted.


I'm nineteen now. what sarge said, all those years ago, has held true to the word. death has struck this land and its inhabitants time after time. life is fucked up, that's the only thing I've ever learned. from watching my brothers chest get caved in from a piece of lead and a lack of reason to seeing my son dragged into a courtyard and shot, those words stand true...