Week 3- Murder.

[Logo (The Horrorshow Freak)]

Well since Steven fell off the face of the earth, I'll take over for now.

This weeks challenge is to make a story (relatively short, under 5000 words) of a murder, a murderer, anything. You could use a real event or create your own.

Next Friday we put up a new one!

[slappy]

I actually have an idea so I'll try to do this.

[Valo.]

Oooohh. I like this idea of weekly exercises. Is there a due date or something? Where do we post them?

[Deleted]

Jul 23, 2014 3:02:44 GMT Valo. said:

Oooohh. I like this idea of weekly exercises. Is there a due date or something? Where do we post them?

Every Friday, assuming this place remains active, and post it in here. You can also post the story in whatever board it applies if you want it to be viewed easily by people who want to follow your work.

[Valo.]

This is the worst part. The clean up.

"I never was a fan of cleaning."

Jack always does this. He always talks to the corpse.

"It's not that I'm a messy person. Quite the contrary, actually. Cleaning, to me, always felt like a chore. My things are always neat, always in order. I know where everything is. I never have to wonder what I did with the remote, for example."

I knew he was going to do that. Pull the chair up next to the table like that. He does it every time. I'd bet $20 I could re-enact his whole routine perfectly, beat for beat. He starts at the foot of the table, rests his hand on the victim's left shin, lets out a sigh, and out comes the first line. He always knows what he's going to say. Same speech every time.  He'll circle the table a time or two, staring at the floor, tightening his lips. When he decides the time is right, that's when the hand comes down on the left shin.

"Its always to the left of my chair, directly in the middle of the little black table I stole. I'm right handed, so I often lean all the way over to grab the damn thing with my dominant hand, but the table looked better on the left side of the chair, so I deal with it. It's one of those things. I tried putting the table on the righthand side. It didn't work. The whole balance of the room changes when the table is on the right side. I tried it both ways. I put the table on the left side and walked into the room and I thought, "Yea. Exactly." I put it on the right side, walk in, "No way. You kidding me?" You know what that's like. Everyone does. It's weird. Some things just feel right in a certain spot."

He sits backwards on the chair, bad-cop style, with the back-rest between his legs and his arms crossed over the top. He'll motion toward the body, give it a smack on the arm when he's making a point or trying to relate, buddy-buddy style, but he never really looks at their face.

"You take those things out of their spot and what do you have now, huh? A mess? What's the exact definition of mess?"

"A situation or state of affairs that is confused or full of difficulties."

I hate that. I hate when he gets me involved in this part.

"That's right. Full of difficulties. I don't like difficulties. I keep everything in order. If I know where everything is, I don't have difficulties. If I have a mapped out plan, I don't have difficulties. If I take my time and play out all possible scenarios tirelessly night after night until I know I've got it all covered... I don't have difficulties. I've got a task, a plan, and that's it."

It's dark in here, with the only light coming from those orange-ish tubes hanging from the ceiling. They give the whole room a neon tint. I'm looking around at an old gym or something, whatever this place is or was, it looks like an old basketball court. It smells like dust. Jack's in another place entirely when he goes off like this. He plays to an entire room of people. Imaginary people, obviously. But he's playing to a full room, regardless. 

"I show up, I do my part, and I'm left with this. The only fuckin part of the whole thing I can't control. The mess. The cleaning up of the mess. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many backup plans I have in the event that there's a witness or a technical failure, I can't predict what kind of mess I make. I can't control it. I can't KNOW what's going to happen. And it DOES bother me, yea. I mean I knew you were going to be HERE tonight. I knew WHEN you were going to be here tonight. I know how LONG its going to take for someone to realize you're missing, and I know exactly WHAT they'll be lead to believe happened. I can control these things because they're predictable. No variables."

Oh boy. He's out of the chair. Is he going to... Yep. Always. The wall directly in front of him, you know, the sold out crowd, they seem to really be listening intently now. At least in Jack's mind.

With a borderline whisper, he's got them in the palm of his hand.

"I watched the kill over and over in my head. Every day. Every night. Every hour, every minute, every second... in the weeks that lead to this day. Every time, its always the same. You're here. I'm here. I slide up next to you, silent, quieter than your own shadow, and whisper. "Hey." You're not scared. You're curious. Who was that? With a quick little flick, I open up your throat. By the time your hands come up in defense of what might happen, I'm already done. You're already dying. The blood doesn't squirt or splash. It drips. Nice and easy. A steady stream flows onto your hands, between your fingers, dripping little ruby kisses off your elbows, almost parachuting down to the floor, one at a time. You stumble erratically around the room, never bothering to look over your shoulder at who has done this to you. You want to run. You want to get out of here, away from this. If you just make it to the door, you'll be okay..."

He paused there for a second. Changing gears. Sounds annoyed now.

"I can almost hear your thoughts are you're thinking them. There's no fear of death. You're not even aware that death is what's happening here. It's like you've got these one word fix-it steps in place. RUN. DOOR. OUTSIDE. There's no fixing this, though. And you die before you realize that. You fall to your knees, just a few paces shy of the door, and you're dead. There's a beautiful trail of little red kisses on the floor. Contained little kisses that chronicle the entire event, from start to finish. It's art. It's what I'll leave behind. Someone, days, maybe months, years from now, walks into this building and they find our little ruby kisses. I see it. A million times I've watched it, over and over. And every time, it's the same."

Defeated. He hates this part.

"Until it actually happens. You're here, I'm here. I slide up next to you, silent, quieter than your own shadow, and whisper. "Hey." You're not scared. You're curious. Who was that? With a quick little flick, I open up your throat. By the time your hands come up in defense of what might happen, I'm already done. You're already dying. ...But the blood doesn't drip nice and easy. It doesn't flow through your fingers and down your elbows. It sprays out of your neck like there's a leak. Like a torn garden hose. Your clothes are soaked. You slip in the pool before you can even make an attempt for the door and you die at my feet like a fucking rat. Look at this. What a fucking mess."

He's forgotten the crowd. Wait for it. Waaaaiiit for it. Boom. Face to face with the corpse. It's kind of a weird position, how he stands over them like that, just a few inches between his eyes and theirs. 

"Every time I'm left with this fucking mess. And I hate it. The one part I love, the one part I reeeeaaallly love, is the only part that never comes together. I'll leave that perfect trail. One of these days, I'll leave that perfect trail. Those pinpoint dance steps, those ruby kisses... I'll leave them behind. And then I'll do it again, and again, and again. Each one exactly the same as the one before it. I'll leave that trail. I just gotta keep practicing. Learn to control that one uncontrollable element, learn to exact that unpredictable variable, learn to leave those little ruby kisses."

3... 2... 1. Eye contact. I can do the whole routine. If this corpse weren't, well, a corpse, it'd owe me $20 for nailing the entire thing.

"Clean this shit up. I got things to do."

Fuck.

I never was a fan of cleaning.



 

[Valo.]

Shit. I spent like two hours on that, you replied 2 minutes before I posted it.

[Logo (The Horrorshow Freak)]

I'll get to reading it later. Right now I'm a tad depressed so I'm going to sink into my thoughts. Thanks for participating man!

[Logo (The Horrorshow Freak)]

Jul 23, 2014 6:46:32 GMT Valo. said:

This is the worst part. The clean up.

"I never was a fan of cleaning."

Jack always does this. He always talks to the corpse.

"It's not that I'm a messy person. Quite the contrary, actually. Cleaning, to me, always felt like a chore. My things are always neat, always in order. I know where everything is. I never have to wonder what I did with the remote, for example."

I knew he was going to do that. Pull the chair up next to the table like that. He does it every time. I'd bet $20 I could re-enact his whole routine perfectly, beat for beat. He starts at the foot of the table, rests his hand on the victim's left shin, lets out a sigh, and out comes the first line. He always knows what he's going to say. Same speech every time.  He'll circle the table a time or two, staring at the floor, tightening his lips. When he decides the time is right, that's when the hand comes down on the left shin.

"Its always to the left of my chair, directly in the middle of the little black table I stole. I'm right handed, so I often lean all the way over to grab the damn thing with my dominant hand, but the table looked better on the left side of the chair, so I deal with it. It's one of those things. I tried putting the table on the righthand side. It didn't work. The whole balance of the room changes when the table is on the right side. I tried it both ways. I put the table on the left side and walked into the room and I thought, "Yea. Exactly." I put it on the right side, walk in, "No way. You kidding me?" You know what that's like. Everyone does. It's weird. Some things just feel right in a certain spot."

He sits backwards on the chair, bad-cop style, with the back-rest between his legs and his arms crossed over the top. He'll motion toward the body, give it a smack on the arm when he's making a point or trying to relate, buddy-buddy style, but he never really looks at their face.

"You take those things out of their spot and what do you have now, huh? A mess? What's the exact definition of mess?"

"A situation or state of affairs that is confused or full of difficulties."

I hate that. I hate when he gets me involved in this part.

"That's right. Full of difficulties. I don't like difficulties. I keep everything in order. If I know where everything is, I don't have difficulties. If I have a mapped out plan, I don't have difficulties. If I take my time and play out all possible scenarios tirelessly night after night until I know I've got it all covered... I don't have difficulties. I've got a task, a plan, and that's it."

It's dark in here, with the only light coming from those orange-ish tubes hanging from the ceiling. They give the whole room a neon tint. I'm looking around at an old gym or something, whatever this place is or was, it looks like an old basketball court. It smells like dust. Jack's in another place entirely when he goes off like this. He plays to an entire room of people. Imaginary people, obviously. But he's playing to a full room, regardless. 

"I show up, I do my part, and I'm left with this. The only fuckin part of the whole thing I can't control. The mess. The cleaning up of the mess. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many backup plans I have in the event that there's a witness or a technical failure, I can't predict what kind of mess I make. I can't control it. I can't KNOW what's going to happen. And it DOES bother me, yea. I mean I knew you were going to be HERE tonight. I knew WHEN you were going to be here tonight. I know how LONG its going to take for someone to realize you're missing, and I know exactly WHAT they'll be lead to believe happened. I can control these things because they're predictable. No variables."

Oh boy. He's out of the chair. Is he going to... Yep. Always. The wall directly in front of him, you know, the sold out crowd, they seem to really be listening intently now. At least in Jack's mind.

With a borderline whisper, he's got them in the palm of his hand.

"I watched the kill over and over in my head. Every day. Every night. Every hour, every minute, every second... in the weeks that lead to this day. Every time, its always the same. You're here. I'm here. I slide up next to you, silent, quieter than your own shadow, and whisper. "Hey." You're not scared. You're curious. Who was that? With a quick little flick, I open up your throat. By the time your hands come up in defense of what might happen, I'm already done. You're already dying. The blood doesn't squirt or splash. It drips. Nice and easy. A steady stream flows onto your hands, between your fingers, dripping little ruby kisses off your elbows, almost parachuting down to the floor, one at a time. You stumble erratically around the room, never bothering to look over your shoulder at who has done this to you. You want to run. You want to get out of here, away from this. If you just make it to the door, you'll be okay..."

He paused there for a second. Changing gears. Sounds annoyed now.

"I can almost hear your thoughts are you're thinking them. There's no fear of death. You're not even aware that death is what's happening here. It's like you've got these one word fix-it steps in place. RUN. DOOR. OUTSIDE. There's no fixing this, though. And you die before you realize that. You fall to your knees, just a few paces shy of the door, and you're dead. There's a beautiful trail of little red kisses on the floor. Contained little kisses that chronicle the entire event, from start to finish. It's art. It's what I'll leave behind. Someone, days, maybe months, years from now, walks into this building and they find our little ruby kisses. I see it. A million times I've watched it, over and over. And every time, it's the same."

Defeated. He hates this part.

"Until it actually happens. You're here, I'm here. I slide up next to you, silent, quieter than your own shadow, and whisper. "Hey." You're not scared. You're curious. Who was that? With a quick little flick, I open up your throat. By the time your hands come up in defense of what might happen, I'm already done. You're already dying. ...But the blood doesn't drip nice and easy. It doesn't flow through your fingers and down your elbows. It sprays out of your neck like there's a leak. Like a torn garden hose. Your clothes are soaked. You slip in the pool before you can even make an attempt for the door and you die at my feet like a fucking rat. Look at this. What a fucking mess."

He's forgotten the crowd. Wait for it. Waaaaiiit for it. Boom. Face to face with the corpse. It's kind of a weird position, how he stands over them like that, just a few inches between his eyes and theirs. 

"Every time I'm left with this fucking mess. And I hate it. The one part I love, the one part I reeeeaaallly love, is the only part that never comes together. I'll leave that perfect trail. One of these days, I'll leave that perfect trail. Those pinpoint dance steps, those ruby kisses... I'll leave them behind. And then I'll do it again, and again, and again. Each one exactly the same as the one before it. I'll leave that trail. I just gotta keep practicing. Learn to control that one uncontrollable element, learn to exact that unpredictable variable, learn to leave those little ruby kisses."

3... 2... 1. Eye contact. I can do the whole routine. If this corpse weren't, well, a corpse, it'd owe me $20 for nailing the entire thing.

"Clean this shit up. I got things to do."

Fuck.

I never was a fan of cleaning.



 

I decided to read it.

I thought you didn't like cussing?

I'm glad you did in this. I was noticing actually how great you were handling it without cussing when the first "fuck" came through. I thought you did a great job, and even though Steven will have more to say, the only thing I have is just grammar nazi shit, so just make sure you put all the junk in the right place and make sure it sounds right.

Still this is insanely good.

[Valo.]

Thanks a lot, man. I haven't written a short little something like this in a long, long time. I really just write comedy nowadays.

The non-swearing thing was sarcasm, I swear like a sailor.

Still, though, in writing, acting, stand up comedy, whatever, those F bombs are tools. You can use them to your advantage or you can waste them and they mean nothing.

Thanks for the input, if you see anything that stands out, yea dude, give me some pointers. I don't have any actual training when it comes to writing. Just like video editing and shooting and all of that, everything I know is self taught.

So any tips you have that I can improve with, I'm all ears and I take to criticism well.

[Logo (The Horrorshow Freak)]

This is all opinions, so please take this like a grain of salt.

In my eyes, a murderer (unless for religious purposes) would cuss like a sailor. First off there's the nervousness/adrenaline rush, so they'll more than likely start cussing to get those endorphins released (much like if you stretch or even harm yourself), so in my mind I wouldn't think they would wait that long to cuss. Little things like that actually go a long way. Like in the "scene" where he kicks back in his chair, he could've lit a cigarette and added something like "he lit a cigarette, much like he always does, almost like he has all the time in the world, like he forgets there's a dead human body right beside him." Then have him say things like "This shit is just fucking stupid. I don't understand why the fuck.." You know? Make him irritated, make him be pissed off for no reason, or make him overly relaxed but put the point across that killing calmed him. Little things like that makes a story from good to great.

This story was still great man. I really really enjoyed it.

Again, take all that shit as a grain of salt. Want to know something?

I have no training in writing either.

Reading about murderers, watching ever scary movie, reading all the Creepypastas I can, and also taking Criminal Psychology has helped a whole lot in my writing, so just trying to pass along what I was taught.

Thanks for participating again. I like this a lot.

[Colter]

Wow, man. Usually murder stories aren't my cup of tea, but for not really writing anything in a while, this is an excellent piece. I felt the "fuck" really added to the story, instead of detracting, which is what a lot of profanity can do to some stories. Then again, I don't know shit about writing.


Nice job.

[Valo.]

Jul 23, 2014 7:46:03 GMT Logo (The Horrorshow Freak) said:

This is all opinions, so please take this like a grain of salt.

In my eyes, a murderer (unless for religious purposes) would cuss like a sailor. First off there's the nervousness/adrenaline rush, so they'll more than likely start cussing to get those endorphins released (much like if you stretch or even harm yourself), so in my mind I wouldn't think they would wait that long to cuss. Little things like that actually go a long way. Like in the "scene" where he kicks back in his chair, he could've lit a cigarette and added something like "he lit a cigarette, much like he always does, almost like he has all the time in the world, like he forgets there's a dead human body right beside him." Then have him say things like "This shit is just fucking stupid. I don't understand why the fuck.." You know? Make him irritated, make him be pissed off for no reason, or make him overly relaxed but put the point across that killing calmed him. Little things like that makes a story from good to great.

This story was still great man. I really really enjoyed it.

Again, take all that shit as a grain of salt. Want to know something?

I have no training in writing either.

Reading about murderers, watching ever scary movie, reading all the Creepypastas I can, and also taking Criminal Psychology has helped a whole lot in my writing, so just trying to pass along what I was taught.

Thanks for participating again. I like this a lot.

Definitely see where you're coming from. That sounds like a cereal killer you're describing there, for sure.

Here's how I see this character: He's not a murderer in the sense that he seeks revenge or anything, or he wants to punished anyone. He's a tortured artist. Somewhere along the lines of writing this I realized, "oh, he had a dream about this, years ago. He slit a throat and instead of gushing blood, the wound leaked out these red kisses." He doesn't even WANT to kill people. He just had that dream, and man, that's the ultimate painting/drawing/sculpture/whatever. Ya know?

Also, and here's another thing I didn't know until I read it.

I read the killer's dialogue in Bray Wyatt's voice. I didn't WRITE it in his voice, but that's how I read it. The reason he doesn't swear and get all worked up is because he's just telling a story. He's told this story a thousand times, like the killer's assistant eludes to in the beginning. He's going through the motions at this point. There's nothing left to give to the story other than to tell it.

He definitely has that part of him that almost isn't aware of how terrible this is, talking to the corpse, but inside, he knows its wrong, because he plans these kills for months. He's a smart man, but he's also tortured. Like many artists (myself included) he's trying so hard, putting everything he has into his work and he wants the world to see it. He wants REAL people to find the trails, and he tells the whole story to a crowd of people that aren't even there.

He wants the attention, the glory, the "wow, this is amazing."

Thanks for the input. I think I'll be around here a while. Feels good writing again and actually having people see it.

[Logo (The Horrorshow Freak)]

Jul 23, 2014 8:01:11 GMT Valo. said:

Jul 23, 2014 7:46:03 GMT Logo (The Horrorshow Freak) said:

This is all opinions, so please take this like a grain of salt.

In my eyes, a murderer (unless for religious purposes) would cuss like a sailor. First off there's the nervousness/adrenaline rush, so they'll more than likely start cussing to get those endorphins released (much like if you stretch or even harm yourself), so in my mind I wouldn't think they would wait that long to cuss. Little things like that actually go a long way. Like in the "scene" where he kicks back in his chair, he could've lit a cigarette and added something like "he lit a cigarette, much like he always does, almost like he has all the time in the world, like he forgets there's a dead human body right beside him." Then have him say things like "This shit is just fucking stupid. I don't understand why the fuck.." You know? Make him irritated, make him be pissed off for no reason, or make him overly relaxed but put the point across that killing calmed him. Little things like that makes a story from good to great.

This story was still great man. I really really enjoyed it.

Again, take all that shit as a grain of salt. Want to know something?

I have no training in writing either.

Reading about murderers, watching ever scary movie, reading all the Creepypastas I can, and also taking Criminal Psychology has helped a whole lot in my writing, so just trying to pass along what I was taught.

Thanks for participating again. I like this a lot.

Definitely see where you're coming from. That sounds like a cereal killer you're describing there, for sure.

Here's how I see this character: He's not a murderer in the sense that he seeks revenge or anything, or he wants to punished anyone. He's a tortured artist. Somewhere along the lines of writing this I realized, "oh, he had a dream about this, years ago. He slit a throat and instead of gushing blood, the wound leaked out these red kisses." He doesn't even WANT to kill people. He just had that dream, and man, that's the ultimate painting/drawing/sculpture/whatever. Ya know?

Also, and here's another thing I didn't know until I read it.

I read the killer's dialogue in Bray Wyatt's voice. I didn't WRITE it in his voice, but that's how I read it. The reason he doesn't swear and get all worked up is because he's just telling a story. He's told this story a thousand times, like the killer's assistant eludes to in the beginning. He's going through the motions at this point. There's nothing left to give to the story other than to tell it.

He definitely has that part of him that almost isn't aware of how terrible this is, talking to the corpse, but inside, he knows its wrong, because he plans these kills for months. He's a smart man, but he's also tortured. Like many artists (myself included) he's trying so hard, putting everything he has into his work and he wants the world to see it. He wants REAL people to find the trails, and he tells the whole story to a crowd of people that aren't even there.

He wants the attention, the glory, the "wow, this is amazing."

Thanks for the input. I think I'll be around here a while. Feels good writing again and actually having people see it.

Definitely understand man. Like I said, that was mostly things said from classes and books I read, haha. A great story from beginning to end.

Don't be afraid to write about personal stuff either in the personal board (some of the stuff in there is really messed up (mostly my stuff) mostly from depression, so don't let that scare you away.)

Can't wait to read more! Be sure to read others man to keep this community strong!