*ahem*
Something I found in the front of an old notebook while I was cleaning my room today. Not me at the top of my game, but there are some interesting bits, so I thought I'd post it up.
I named it "Reaper in the Parking Lot."
Killing had always been a predictable habit for Mr. Ichabod, something he could rely on to escape when nothing else in his life made sense. Those days were gone. Today, Mr. Ichabod sat in a 1984 Volvo parked outside of a 7 Eleven at four in the morning, taking a contemplative drag on his elegant black cigarette. In years past he had dwelt in opulence, basking in the glorious rewards of his talents. With the precise flick of a blade or the aimed shot of a pistol he ended dreams, extinguished the permanence of love, of hatred, of emotion, by destroying the carnal temples within which these phenomena roamed free. Creeping in the nocturnal hours, Mr. Ichabod would track his prey, each booted footfall imbued with that supreme and all encompassing silence that floated among the stars before life began. When he was on the hunt, he truly was a force of nature, his leather trench coat eclipsing the stars in his wake, his nostrils flaring at the smell of her perfume. Yes, he thought, this is the place. Inside the modest domestic house on the hill, a little boy awoke, terror stricken, his hair slicked with sweat, from a horrid nightmare. Glancing wildly about the vast and mysterious wilderness of his room, he searches for the monsters among the toys and clothes, strewn across the floor. An ancient call, that of the infant to its mother, shatters the fragile hold that sleep had on her. She sat at his bedside, running her pale manicured fingers through her son’s sweaty tangled hair. There is nothing in this house, she said, but love. With this reassurance, the boy slipped into a peaceful slumber. Neither one of them, however, anticipated the arrival of Mr. Ichabod. Mr. Ichabod sat back in his seat, grinning in reverie as he remembered in that quiet between-world, after the night and before the day. He had always done his best work at a time like this. Crawling soundlessly through the window of the house on the hill, Mr. Ichabod’s pulse quickened. Even after so many hunts, the pursuit still excited him. Tracking a stagnant target in the darkness, safe in a dream, waiting to be ended. He had been sent to pluck people from the Earth, to act as a hand of God. He picked up a washcloth, smudged with makeup. He smelled it, caught the scent like a feral beast, and stalked his way out of the bathroom, into the house. The carpet was soft, the air was still; it was like being on the surface of the moon, the moon that was the only friend of nocturnal hunters and lunatics alike.
I named it "Reaper in the Parking Lot."
Killing had always been a predictable habit for Mr. Ichabod, something he could rely on to escape when nothing else in his life made sense. Those days were gone. Today, Mr. Ichabod sat in a 1984 Volvo parked outside of a 7 Eleven at four in the morning, taking a contemplative drag on his elegant black cigarette. In years past he had dwelt in opulence, basking in the glorious rewards of his talents. With the precise flick of a blade or the aimed shot of a pistol he ended dreams, extinguished the permanence of love, of hatred, of emotion, by destroying the carnal temples within which these phenomena roamed free. Creeping in the nocturnal hours, Mr. Ichabod would track his prey, each booted footfall imbued with that supreme and all encompassing silence that floated among the stars before life began. When he was on the hunt, he truly was a force of nature, his leather trench coat eclipsing the stars in his wake, his nostrils flaring at the smell of her perfume. Yes, he thought, this is the place. Inside the modest domestic house on the hill, a little boy awoke, terror stricken, his hair slicked with sweat, from a horrid nightmare. Glancing wildly about the vast and mysterious wilderness of his room, he searches for the monsters among the toys and clothes, strewn across the floor. An ancient call, that of the infant to its mother, shatters the fragile hold that sleep had on her. She sat at his bedside, running her pale manicured fingers through her son’s sweaty tangled hair. There is nothing in this house, she said, but love. With this reassurance, the boy slipped into a peaceful slumber. Neither one of them, however, anticipated the arrival of Mr. Ichabod. Mr. Ichabod sat back in his seat, grinning in reverie as he remembered in that quiet between-world, after the night and before the day. He had always done his best work at a time like this. Crawling soundlessly through the window of the house on the hill, Mr. Ichabod’s pulse quickened. Even after so many hunts, the pursuit still excited him. Tracking a stagnant target in the darkness, safe in a dream, waiting to be ended. He had been sent to pluck people from the Earth, to act as a hand of God. He picked up a washcloth, smudged with makeup. He smelled it, caught the scent like a feral beast, and stalked his way out of the bathroom, into the house. The carpet was soft, the air was still; it was like being on the surface of the moon, the moon that was the only friend of nocturnal hunters and lunatics alike.