Ok, most likely, noone will be on, but i just wanted to post this short story that i just finished, coz this will be my first finished story that i posted on the wirers club, and maybe i could get some feedback from some wise and learned NGers. (I censored it slightly for the writers club)
"Steve was a good brother," Jon Davisson read his brothers eulogy, tears welling in
his eyes, then streaming down his cheeks. "a good friend, a good writer... but a troubled
man." The funeral was small, just Steve's family and friends, a few reporters had been
waiting outside, but were denied entry. Everyone inside was crying.
The eyes of the little children still haunted Steve in his sleep, like little
demons intent on making him excavate inside his skull in an attempt to bore the images out
of his mind. He remembered all of their eye colours, three dark brown, two hazel and the
deepest pair of baby blues you ever saw.
"He struggled with his demons, like we all do..." Jon's voice broke as the tears started to
flow harder. "Unfortunately... he lost."
"It's my fault," Steve thought, gravely. "my fault that they'll never grow up to be
doctors, or sports stars or even, maybe, little senators or presidents." He rose to his
feet,anger and self-pity swept over him. "No, I couldn't possibly blame myself (Yes, I
could), it wasn't my fault, I was a victim in this as well(BULLSHIT!). It was David, not
me, Dave was the one who did it(SHUT UP and LISTEN to yourself!)!"
"He was constantly conflicted, never able to choose a side and stick with it..."
His fist slammed down on a little writing desk, causing it to break under the pressure. A
notebook and some papers spilled onto the floor, his last six months work, stained and
ruined by a week-old cup of coffee that had smashed to ground with the desk.
"Goddammit!" He thought. "My work! That was everything I've produced since I got rid of my
post-traumatic writer's block! (It was all crap and you know it!) No, the quality was
getting better, it was starting to get good! (Then why won't you try and save it?)" The
rhetorical question stopped him in his tracks. "Dammit..." He conceded.
"But he was still a great person, his soul was contaminated by his anger, aside from that,
it was pure."
He picked up a small rubber stress ball, cursing in time with his squeezing.
"Get out of my HEAD-"(You can't stop me) "-you MOTHER----ER!" His voice seemed to echo in
his head. "GET-" (You) "-OUT!" (Can't) "Get the-" (Stop) "-hell OUT!" (Me!)
He pelted the stress ball, tossing it at a nearby window. It made a loud slap against the
glass, then bounced off to some unknown place, to wait to be found for four or five weeks.
He looked at the window, someone was out there... smiling, their evil eyes taunting him.
"Hello, Steve." His voice sounded menacing, like he would kill his mother just for a break
on his rent.
"David." Steve sounded angry and frustrated. "What are you doing here?"
"Oh, you know, I just wanted to... stop by..." He let out a loud, despeccable laugh.
"You're not welcome here. You've never been welcome here."
"Not even BEFORE you killed those children?"
"I DIDN'T kill them, you did! It wasn't my fault!" His hand slammed into the wall next to
the window, making the glass shake.
"Okay, so it WAS me. But everyone still thinks you did it. Just because you got off on some
weird loophole doesn't mean noone thinks, ney, KNOWS it was you."
"Stop it..." His voice had shrunk to a whisper.
"You think their parents will ever forgive you?"
"You think they'll ever be the same?" His smile grew more malicious, if it were possible.
"You ruined their lives!"
"No..." His voice was slowly rising, his infuriating impatience taking over.
"They'll never get over it!"
"NO!" His scream of fury echoed in the small room, off the window and back at him.
"Everyone knows it was you!"
"IT..." His voice growled in the back of his throat, his hands clenching into tight fists
of anger. "...WASN'T..." David's eyes shone with triumphant glory. "...ME!"
"He was quite patient and loving, when he wasn't fighting himself..." His words touched the
hearts of the crowd. "...or 'David'."
Steve's right fist swung around, smashing into the glass and impacting on David's skull. He
was looking at the ground and saw a few shards of the glass that had bounced back on the
ground. He felt David's head fly back as his fist made contact, and heard a loud snap, like
plywood breaking, before his hand came into contact with a cement wall.
He looked up and saw his bleeding hand, now uncurled.
"A wall." He said to himself, softly. "How did Steve do that?"
Centimetres beyond the glass was a broken plywood wall, snapped to reveal the cement frame
beneath. He looked down at the glass that had bounced back, bending down to pick one up. He
sat down on the bed, the springs beneath squeaking loudly.
"I can't take it, any more."
He took the glass to his wrists, drawing blood and cutting veins, slowly draining his life
"I'm not gonna see you hurt any more people, David." He muttered, his strength sapping
"Suicide is a terrible thing." Jon's voice turned somber and slow. "It effects everyone, at
He gazed deeply into the blood stained glass, looking down at a solid colour.
"Wha-" His throat was dry and worn.
He turned the glass over, looking down at the shiny surface.
"...Unfortunately, it is not uncommon in cases of split personality.."
Steve couldn't believe it, looking down at his own face, everything suddenly became clear.
He rolled over onto the bed, and, right then, staring at the ceiling, he uttered his last
words; "Sorry, kids."
"...but we must never forget the most important part..."
His gaze turned cold and unforgiving, his heartbeat silenced as blood poured out onto the
bed, dripping down onto the floor in a repetetive, wet smack.
"...he was loved."
As the the funeral house emptied, Jon took one last look at the sign on the altar, then
went home and cried.
Steve Davisson, 18th January, 1885 - 15th December, 2007; The good die young, the troubled
So, how'd ya like it?