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Author Topic: Writing excerpt of a Time-Travelling Hitman  (Read 1173 times)
saulkarath
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« on: September 26, 2011, 10:13:42 pm »

Okay this is a excerpt from a short-story I was walking on. This was originally going to be the opening about a time-traveling hitman. Unfortunately I only got the first part thought out and drew a blank on the rest of the story. Time-Travel stories are complicated. Any-hoo I'm re-writing it but chances are good I'm not adding this piece in.


Winston checked the chronosmeter, again for the umpteenth time.

01:24/11/Sept/1988 now 01:25/11/Sept/1988 Right on time.

It was raining on that date, the hour and moment, the fat droplets bashing against him, the sidewalk he was standing on, and everything in the city. The wet droplets, splattered on his fedora, inescapably running into rivulets, down into his trench coat, and everything else.

But he already knew that, it would be raining. He knew it as much as where he knew he wanted to be, near O’Malleys Pub  the dingy alleyway which even O’Malley would never use for a smoke break, for want of convenience. He could see why that man would have used it. He frequented O’Malley’s often, and the alleyway was a dead-end, no escape. A large enough dump that O’Malley near sense-deaf, rarely checked to be anything beyond the regular garbage bags, and Winston always brought his own to hide disposals. Be packed along with the garbage and in the landfill before anyone noticed.

It wasn’t so hard to see, just by the saturated yellow light from O’Malleys where dim shadows hunched behind the window, ever dimmer from the sky wet above. To the side of it, nothing but shadow, but he could still see, the narrow crack, between O’Malleys and some small apartment, that shouldn’t have been there, but was still there. No matter, if they never complained about O’Malley’s late night hours, they wouldn’t hear him. 

He checked the chronosmeter, again.

01:27/11/Sept/1988 any minute now that man would come.

Hiding in his own alleyway, across the street, Winston fingered his pistol in his coat pocket, checking it. A Smith & Wesson, a discontinued MK 22 his favourite for silent kills. Taking a silencer from his other coat pocket, he screwed it on, trying his best to keep it all dry. It didn’t matter, the wet was everywhere, and spattered all over it and the chronosmeter on his wrist, leaving boil-sized droplets behind. The gun would still work in the end, he didn’t know why he even bothered, just force of habit he guessed.

Looking up, there! The man was already there entering the alleyway, his face obscured by the large collar of his trench coat. Winston cursed, running out onto the road. The crack of thunder, split wide, the sky in harsh brightness, as the rain poured harder now, obscuring his sight, as he ran hoping against hope.

Then there was a shot. Just barely over, the raucous sounds from the pub, but there it was. Winston stopped, listening to the underscore as he cursed again. He knew he would be too late, that he would always be too late, no matter what he did. Still he had still hoped, but that didn’t stop him from pursuing his original goal. The man would still be there, with him.

The rain diminished, when he was inside, protected by O’Malleys and the apartments from either side, yet a steady pour showered down on his head, when he saw the man. The man was already bending over his body, checking to see if he was still alive. Too bad he would be but the man wouldn’t.

“Hey!”

As the man turned, Winston shot. Once, the gunshot low under the rain but still clear in his ears. The blood spewed off the scalp, as the man fell. Dropping the gun he had in his hands. He fell on his side, to the side of his victim, the collar obscuring his face. His gun also fell down on his side. The cold wetness of the rain trickled down off the rim of Winston’s fedora. It was done.

It wouldn’t hurt to see who the man actually was; he always referred him as the man, but never knowing who he was. Could have been a female from what little he knew. Walking over, he bent down to pick up the man’s gun. The reaction automatic, experience telling him, you never left anything to chance. But then he looked at the gun, momentarily confused, then his eyes widened in shock. He grabbed the man’s shoulder turning him over to confirm what he thought he realized.

He shouldn’t have looked.


What do you guy's think?

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The past should be learned from not relied upon
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