Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Alt's Assorted Authorings

Yeah, its a great start to a mystery/detective story.

You have a pretty good range... from funny, to sad, to mystic, and even irony (as your first poem shows lol). I like em! moar pleez! LOL

And... wow, that untitled prologue is just awesome!

Real Tourism
It was nothing but an unremarkable hut clinging to the side of one of the Himalaya mountains. It was made of unremarkable wood, with an unremarkable thresh roof, and an unremarkable hide door; pulling back the skin revealed an odd interior.

The floor was but a small, sienna mat. The walls were lined with a multitude of minuscule baubles that glowed curiously, and some mystic jade statuettes were tossed in as well. Near the center of the singular room, a muscular man sat. His eyes were closed serenely, and in front of him was a pot of amiably burning incense. He inhaled lightly, the wafts of pungent smoke seemingly attracted to his nostrils. He never faltered. He never opened his eyes. Not even when the cameras flashed and he heard stupid tourists yelling, "what is that poor man inhaling? Goodness!"

He shared a silent moment of amusement to himself. Idiotic American tourists. He muffled a small laugh by another deep inhale, and awaited more amusement at the hands of the aimless visitors.
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Quick five-minute-to-write story, hope you like it.

Interesting. Every single post gets even more interesting.
:{[8])

Did they match up the bullet with one of Gary's guns, or did they just assume he shot the pastor and didn't care enough to check through his gun collection?

@bigP: The story isn't finished yet. . . .

Just wondering if I missed a detail or not...
When's the next part?

Probably a while. . .I'm in a poetry phase right now. . .which reminds me. . . .
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The March Forward
To a solitary place you should go,
to escape an amorphous friend, an amorphous foe.

And in this prison, this prism,
you will avoid the cataclysm.

As the civilization climbs out of molted shell
you're entrusted with the old way, ands not to tell.

The very river of time flows faster around you,
and you see such change, you think it isn't true.

Debilitated by the complications of life,
you live, in agony and strife.

Waiting for the passing of the bout,
even toasting your damn bread turns your head out.

And as the world at large travels faster than you,
there isn't a single thing you can do.

"Bu-. . .but, wha-what!?" Gary sputtered in a befuddled tone.
"Sir, you are being arrested on charges of aggravated murder, probation violation, and vandalism. Come with me."
Gary was so confused, he was reduced to a blathering idiot. Stuttering flabbergastedly, sweating uncontrollably, and with shaking hands, he clambered into the police car.
The drive was bumpy. The roads were in frightful condition, with potholes scattered on the road like birdseed in a park, and Gary had to constantly struggle to keep his head from hitting the roof of the car. It was hellacious.
His trial was pending. Of course, until then, the police found it necessary to hold him in a solitary cell in a maximum security prison. Gary longed for his usual penitentiary cell, which was much more welcoming. He was ushered in his cell by the warden, who was a brutal and hickish man; he wa balding, almost to the point of a tonsure haircut, and wore a rough beard with cruel pride.
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The end was nigh. The masked killer had it's blade in hand, raised menacingly above it's head, ready to strike for the kill. It wished for blood; it's salient machete in hand. It growled,
"come on, buddy. Bleed for me. It's easy. Just one little cut, and your life drains out of you. Come on, buddy. You can do it. You know you can. . . ."
He woke up, startled. Sweat ran profusely from his brow, both searing and cooling him simultaneously. His hand was throbbing from rheumatoid arthritis, set off from too much typing. Looking out the nearby window, the Moon radiantly shined onto his desk, giving him natural light with which to shuffle through his sea of paperwork. Damn paperwork. There wasn't anything good about it, he thought. A monumental waste of time and precious ink. He took some ibuprofen to smother the pain, and logged on to his computer.
Windows started leisurely, as if it was taking it's time purely to drive him mad. He typed in his username, jason-smith, and his password, *********, (he knew he could fool hackers
by making the character showed in the box as his pass) checked his email, (no new messages) and opened his AIM.
The window popped up. Logging in, he messaged his buddy, Alt_Says_Chill.
Jason: Hey, how r u?
Alt_Says_Chill: I'm good. You?
Jason: Guess what? MOAR paperwork -_-
Alt_Says_Chill: lol.
Jason: This isn't a laughing situation.
Alt_Says_Chill: 'Kay, I got to leave. kthxbai.
He had wished that the conversation lasted longer. Even virtual contact with another soul would be a good thing at that point; he was terribly alone in his flat. His mother died in a car
accident, and his dad was presumably murdered. He was a pastor; a bullet went through his Bible and into his skull. It was his favorite Bible; he was reading the Book of Revelation.
The prime suspect was a disgusting creature, a man named Gary Jonstone. A small-time criminal, always able to use his silver tongue to work his way out of his problems; he was a
despicable creature, doomed to burn in hell for Jason cared. He saw a photograph of Gary; he saw not an amiable man, but a malicious killer, obviously trying to pass as a farce innocent, with
piercing eyes to match.
Jason slammed his fist on the table. He knew that Gary wouldn't get out of this one, and he would make sure of it. Picking up his phone, he called the lawyer and said triumphantly, "I'm in the case, doc. This murderous bastard is going down."
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"You sure you want to testify?" The lawyer inquired.
"Absolutely."
"Okay then. I'll put you on my case. . .how do you spell your name?"
"J-a-s-o-n S-m-i-t-h S-c-h-a-n-t-l-e-y."
"Any hyphen between the Smith and the Schantley?"
"Yes."
"Okay the, Jason. You'll be testifying in three weeks, when the trial starts."
Jason tentatively put down the phone. Sighing deeply, he lifted himself from his office chair and stretched his shoulders back; he walked determinedly through the hallway to go to
sleep.
He was strapped in the back of a car. It was hurtling down the busy highway, seemingly confident of it's own ability to correct the recklessness of the driver. The left rearview mirror
was wonky. There was a small dent in the side of the old Mercedes; it was a previously used car. The silver paint was radiant against the line of trees surrounding the highway.
The car came to a stop. There was a red light. The car was turning left though, so the light didn't matter. Veering left, the car straightened itself on the craggy road and continued,
unabated, forward. No-one would have seen the driveway snaking from deep in the woods into the street, including the driver of the car.
There was a car backing out of the driveway. The driver could've been the king of rednecks, persistently backing up through his gravel way in his gas-guzzling chariot without
bothering to look. And the car was backing up fast.
It could not have happened. If the silver Mercedes had waited until the red light had waned, then the encounter would not have happened. But, none of them had the luxury to turn
the dial back. The Mercedes was hit squarely in the dented side by the truck, and was pushed into the guard rail. Flipping over, the Mercedes came to a rest, smoking and sputtering, in a ditch
behind the guard rail. There was broken glass and shrapnel strewn outside and inside the car. Much of it came to rest in the driver of the car.
The next month, a funeral was held for Marcia Smith.

Jason's gaze resurfaced violently at the drab ceiling. Nightmares still plagued him. Even after 15 years. He sat up and surveyed the bedroom; it was a ragtag retreat, always messy
and disorganized. His laundry was individualist anarchist, doing what it wanted around the veritable pasture of his flat's bedroom. It was only 3:00 AM. Jason was wide awake.
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The car came to a stop tentatively. The tires screeched, and left a skid mark in the parking lot. Gary was ushered out of the claustrophobic sedan, the lights still flashing, and he was led into the police station.
The interrogator fiddled with a small light, before settling it on Gary's face. There was just enough light to pick out the features of the room; a table in the back corner, and a large door near the back, far away from Gary. The interrogator was a sly man, thin and emotionless, with sunken eyes and thin shoulders, a pair of glasses resting on his nose; he reached up, scratched his Rogaine-deprived skull, and said, "Now, I'll be leaving. I'll come back in a second."
The man stood up and briskly walked toward the door, flipping on a light switch as he shut the large door. Gary rubbed his eyes from the light, and thought to himself.
"How could I have been accused of this? I'm not a criminal. heeeeeeeeeeeehe. . . . ."
The door was nudged open again. Gary sat up straight, wary of his supposed rescue, but then the door shut again. Slumping again, he hit his head lightly on the desk a few times in despair.
Gary waited for what seemed like hours for the interrogator to return. When he finally did, the interrogator sat down and took out a small piece of paper and a pen flashlight.
"Now, Gary. When were you born?"
"January 5th, 1971, at 5:18 AM. It was 23 degrees Fahrenheit with a mild breeze."
"Good, thorough."
"Thanks."
"So, where were you the supposed night of the killing?"
"At my home, watching the Military Channel."
"You seem to take quite the interest in weapons."
"Yes, I do. Ever since I was a child, I was fascinated with guns. I have quite the collection of WWII weapons."
"That's my main concern. Um. . .apparently, he was murdered by a weapon that appeared to be manufactured in the 1940s. The bullet and the casing were both old-and the weapon appeared to be German in make."
"What caliber was the bullet?"
"Gary, I'm asking the questions. It was a .44 caliber rifle round."
"Oh, shit. . . ."
"Gary, you do realize that you are the only person on record as having owned or currently owning a weapon fitting those specs?"
"I am now. . . ."
The interrogator got up, and left the room.
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Cracking his joints, Gary wearily stood up from his chair. He was thirsty. He noted a drinking fountain in the corner; walking over to it, he drank heavily from it. The water had an awful aftertaste, and was about room-temperature. All-in-all, it didn't satisfy his thirst, and really drew it out more than slaking it. He knocked on the door out of the room, requesting another place to reside in, and the interrogator let him out into the main lobby.
There were a few others there. A few policemen, a family of people visiting an inmate, etc. Gary was ruled to stay there until the trial started. He had $5 in his back pocket. Taking it out, he fed it into a vending machine, claimed a Coca-Cola, got the change, then spent it on a few bags of chips. He hadn't eaten in hours. After consuming the chips ravenously, he relaxed with his Coke, letting it roll down his throat before drifting to sleep.
He was awakened with a start, quite suddenly. The font door of the door had slammed shut in the wind after being opened by a rather burly man, who tapped Gary on the shoulder and said, "Hey buddy. Your trial is tomorrow."


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Sorry for any cuss words :| this should be what, 5 parts in one?

I love this story! Nice work, Alt

Not done yet, there should be a few moar partz, maybe two or three more

Yeah, I figured (that would be a strange ending), but still very suspenseful. I'll be sure to check this out every once in a while.

Very nice, suspenceful story. The only real problems I can spot are grammar problems. The most recurrent one is when you say it's instead of its. It's a very small mistake, but it's = it is, while its refers to the possession of it. I only said this one since it happened more than once. It doesn't affect the story at all, so don't worry too much about it. Gary is kind of screwed, isn't he?

I know the distinction. I just always forget to check for typos and skipped characters and stuff. :\\