I don?t really know much about writing but I love to just put a pencil to paper and let words flow. I know many people fancy themselves as authors and I know I am one among their ranks but I need (the readers) opinion on this one short "essay" I wrote.
The writing is a little bit rough and could be improved but I just need some helpful critism.
A bum told me a long time ago never to kill a bum. Having walked passed him for five years and him never even acknowledging my existence I laughed and agreed. He caught my good vibe and asked for a nickel. ?Much obliged, my good sir? I responded and handed him a 20 dollar bill. He grinned showing me his rotting brown teeth and stumbled to the nearest liquor store. I waved him goodbye and he saluted back. Later that night I returned to his dumpster and killed him. It wasn?t a act of murder, it was butchery. After I was done there was blood splattered on the street and pieces of cloth and skin stuck to the dumpster where he slept. I threw away my knife in the river, where it remains to my knowledge, and burnt my cloths in the same trashcan he used for warmth on cold winter days. The next day I woke up and went to work as usual. I passed the cops and the yellow tape, hell I even waved to one of the detectives eating his breakfast. I bought a newspaper with my coffee and started flipping through the pages at the diner where I had eaten breakfast for seven years. I took the bus and walked a quarter mile to my work where I sat in front a computer screen for four hours. I called my best friend during lunch and later went to a cafe after work with a co-worker; finally I went home and slept. The next day the police weren?t at the site. The story of the murdered bum never appeared in the papers and the damndest thing is that, well, I never even learned the bums name.
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.
Twenty eight days after that incident my best friend went postal. He killed 6 employees at the factory he worked in before a policeman?s bullet removed half his brain in one spontaneous flash. A reporter asked me if I had anything to say about the incident. I looked him clear in the eyes and told him to go to hell. It seemed like the ?expected? thing to do. The reporter acted appropriately and left me alone for the rest of that day.
That night I went to my friend?s apartment and smoked his last pack of cigarettes. 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. I just walked behind the mick and started choking him. He tried to scream but my fingers dug deeper into his throat and he passed out. I then dragged him into a empty lot and slit his jugular with a shard of broken glass. I left the scene and walked the rest of the way home.
No cop ever came to question me. 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.
any comments would be fine
thank you...
edit: i have another story posted at the bottem of the page. review please.
The writing is a little bit rough and could be improved but I just need some helpful critism.
A bum told me a long time ago never to kill a bum. Having walked passed him for five years and him never even acknowledging my existence I laughed and agreed. He caught my good vibe and asked for a nickel. ?Much obliged, my good sir? I responded and handed him a 20 dollar bill. He grinned showing me his rotting brown teeth and stumbled to the nearest liquor store. I waved him goodbye and he saluted back. Later that night I returned to his dumpster and killed him. It wasn?t a act of murder, it was butchery. After I was done there was blood splattered on the street and pieces of cloth and skin stuck to the dumpster where he slept. I threw away my knife in the river, where it remains to my knowledge, and burnt my cloths in the same trashcan he used for warmth on cold winter days. The next day I woke up and went to work as usual. I passed the cops and the yellow tape, hell I even waved to one of the detectives eating his breakfast. I bought a newspaper with my coffee and started flipping through the pages at the diner where I had eaten breakfast for seven years. I took the bus and walked a quarter mile to my work where I sat in front a computer screen for four hours. I called my best friend during lunch and later went to a cafe after work with a co-worker; finally I went home and slept. The next day the police weren?t at the site. The story of the murdered bum never appeared in the papers and the damndest thing is that, well, I never even learned the bums name.
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.
Twenty eight days after that incident my best friend went postal. He killed 6 employees at the factory he worked in before a policeman?s bullet removed half his brain in one spontaneous flash. A reporter asked me if I had anything to say about the incident. I looked him clear in the eyes and told him to go to hell. It seemed like the ?expected? thing to do. The reporter acted appropriately and left me alone for the rest of that day.
That night I went to my friend?s apartment and smoked his last pack of cigarettes. 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. I just walked behind the mick and started choking him. He tried to scream but my fingers dug deeper into his throat and he passed out. I then dragged him into a empty lot and slit his jugular with a shard of broken glass. I left the scene and walked the rest of the way home.
No cop ever came to question me. 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.
any comments would be fine
thank you...
edit: i have another story posted at the bottem of the page. review please.
