This is the beginning of a short story I'm "attempting" to write. I have a basic idea of what my story is about, but so far, I've only written these first few paragraphs that you are about to read. I figured I would do it in small segments at a time and just post them on this blog as I progress. At anytime I may go back and edit or change parts. To all of you real writers out there, please forgive my sacrilegious attempts of dabbling in your sacred art. To everyone else, please bare with the slaughter of grammar that I lay out before you. Feel free to call out my mistakes and help me improve. You will quickly find that I have no idea as to what to do with these ( , ) those ( ' ) or that ( ; ). Thanks.
CYCLED
SENTENCE
BY
LANCE INKWELL
I
stabbed a man to death when I was 28 years old; four times to the throat with a
blood rusted, stuck open switch blade. The
papers called it a “Random Act of Violence”.
Though, when it comes to a man killing another man, it’s hard for me to accept
that delicate type of language. I always
felt that “Slaughter” or “Mutilation” would be more fitting for my headline.
Random, is to suggest, without reason or
purpose. As if there was no objective to my violence. As if I had no conscious decision
behind my assault of jagged iron into vulnerable flesh. Sure, I didn’t know the guy. I didn’t care. And it wasn’t like I woke up
with an itch to kill that morning either.
To any outsider, I suppose it may appear that I was just a random guy
who randomly went psycho on some poor random bastard.
Well,
I’ll tell you something right now. When you go as far as dancing on a man’s chest,
just so you can hear the discord music of vital air, as it whistles through the
gashes in the bloody throat flute that is his neck, you and him both will know,
there’s not one goddamn thing that’s random about it. No, there was nothing random
about that son of a bitch being turned into a musical instrument of death, or
me being the devil that played it.
It’s
been three decades now of him in the dirt and me in a cell. Had he never took
his bandanna off back at that diner, had he just left it around his fucking
throat, I would have never seen it. It
would have never triggered the killer in me. That symbol, the second he exposed
it, it was clear to me. He was the enemy and he must die.
