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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Character Based
- Published: 11/13/2017
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. It was a still night, no wind and no rain. The moon was bright, but no one saw him. He was experienced at this kind of thing, in fact he had done it many times before. Somewhere off in the distance a car door slammed, must of been someone getting home late, because he could hear muffled laughter.
He was a not a drinking man, he did no need drink to steady his hands or give him courage. He was not a smoker, no tale tale glow of a burning butt in his mouth to be witnessed. No butts to be left on the ground with his DNA. He was not a big man, nor would you call him small. In fact if you met him on the street it was not likely you would be able to recall it all.
His clothes were not stand out, just faded blue jeans and a dark blue pollo shirt. His shoes just cheap big box store work shoes. A little aged but in good repair. He walked to his post, no car would leave a oil stain, no squealing tires in a panicked get away. As if he would panic, just was not a part of who he was. He was as always, calm, cool, and the most needful of all his skills, confident.
His hair was cut in a military style crew cut, dark brown, his eyes to match. He was not a athletic type but he could move with the stealth of a snake. He didn't plan on running but guessed he could if he had too.
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. It was late by some peoples standard and early by others. What was it he was seeing, what was going on his head? Nothing on his face would give a hint, if you could see in the darkness. He had never been caught and did not expect tonight would be any different. He was patient, not because he was trained to be that way, but because in ones patience it was said you would possess your soul.
He had been doing this a long time, but he wasn't old. Just how many would be hard to count as no record was ever kept. The night owl on the limb might of questioned his motives, if he had cared. Something drove him to be here, the question was what?
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. The light of the moon was fading away. He had not moved. His hands rested in his fron jean pockets to help hide any sign of his presence. Why him? What could he do? Would it be good? Or would it be evil? Would he do anything at all? Was he a life saver? Or was he a murder? Was he a spy? Was he a peeping Tom? Was he just a man?
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. Was he in the woods? Was he in a small town? Was he in a big city? Would he be found. The breeze begin to pick up, nice and cool on his dry skin. There was no sweat, nor any cold.
A light came on in the house he could so clearly see. He did not move. He knew the room and as a shadow passed behind the curtain he knew. No one had to whisper the name, no one had to give a detail, he knew as he always knew. To night was no different then many before. He could catch the smells now in the air. A rose bush gave it sweet smell. The faint passing of hamburger and maybe a bit of foulness too. Perhaps it came from the puddle of water at the downspout, or from the sewer vent on the roof.
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. Another light came on. He knew the room. He knew what was playing out behind the smoked glass that looked like soap had painted it. He did not need to see. He did not need to hear. He knew how long the nights business would take. How long and the light would go out. Different and yet always the same.
He wore no mask, none would be needed. Only one thing could be found if you searched his pockets. No weapon had ever filled his hand. No tool to bring about destruction was ever his to hold. He saw himself as gifted. He saw himself sharing his gift. Never would he violate another's prison unless he was sharing with them light.
He stood alone at the door. He did not knock. He rang no bell. He spoke no words. He was not invited but still he would enter. The mouse in the kitchen wished it could move with such stealth. That cat waiting to snatch the parakeet wished for such speed. Yet he moved at no great pace. No jingle or jangle of any coins.
He did not reach to unscrew the pouch light bulb. He knew it would never be turned on. He did not feel he choose rather he felt chosen. His mind was not of a great thinker nor a dreamer. He was strategic in his process and operations by his very nature. Was he human or a beast? How could the blessing of sharing light be a beast?
He stood all alone on the porch. His hand wrapped in his shirt tail. He took the knob and turned. The sound ever so quiet as his skill was slow and smooth. It might of been locked, but he knew it would not be, they rarely were. If it had been, what would he have done? Why he would of simply walked away.
He stepped inside. As a boy he had played Cowboys and Indians with his friends, something he had not had in many years. Always he was made a Indian so he practiced until he learned to walk light and with out much sound. It was all in how how you balanced your weight and angle you walked on the sides of the feet.
He stood all alone in the kitchen. He had been right, his eyes accustomed to the dark. His noise a sensitive tool. The smell of hamburger strong in the air. The cast iron skillet sit on the stove. The pate in the sink, the buns barely tied. He must fix that, nothing was worse then stale bread. He moved to the counter and retired the wrap after pressing the air out.
He stood all alone at the counter. He heard the sound of the bed. As weight was stretched out on it. He did not need to see. He knew how the body would be laying on the side. He knew sleep was coming though no doubt the body's brain would resist.
He moved to the open bedroom door.
He stood all alone in the shade of the door. He did not move. No cough came from his throat. His breathing was more silent then the breeze ringing the wind chimes out front. He had no fear. It was a gift he was here to share. He saw. He watched. He looked. He did not move. He did not think about the shape of the body. He did not look to see if dressed or naked. He was not a pervert. He was not going to sniff panties though he had as a boy. His sister had never known. His mother never found them. His father would of killed him.
He stood all alone in the shadow of the door. Hands deep in his pockets, his face showed no smile, nor a frown. He felt no fear. He felt no joy. He felt nothing at all.
The body breathing so deepened a slight snore filled the room. Age did not matter or did it. One might wonder why all he shared his gift with was about twenty? One might wonder if his desire to share had been aroused by watching from the closet as his sister had loud and wild sex with her uncle. One might of asked had he ever been touched? Not by hand or rod but by the violence of words.
His mother always told her friends and family he was not well endowed. He had quit taking showers in gym class after the boys started calling him a girl. His sister would dress him up like a girl, and strip him naked, put her panties on him, her bra and her dress and show him to her friends saying see, I don't have a brother, I have sister.
One might argue the very violence of those words had done him far more harm then sniffing panties. They had robbed him, cut him apart, recreated him. So he did not see it as a bad thing. He had a gift to share, light.
He stood now all alone by the bedside. His hands moved with skill. From the pockets they came. To wrap around the neck. The grip was as if controlled by a broken spring. They locked around the flesh. The thumbs found home over the wind pipe. He squeezed, she barely had time to do more then buck a few times on the bed. The smell of pee filled his noise.
He stood all alone, in the dark, at her bedside, hands stealing life.
When it was over, the body still, he removed his hands, took the one thing from his pocket. He placed it on her neck. He walked out the way he came. He wrapped his hand in his shirt tail and closed the door. He walked to the old oak tree.
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. The sun came up. Cars drove by. No one noticed no one saw. He turned and walked to work. He was on time, he was always on time. He took his shower and put on his white scrubs. He walked to the old ladies room. He washed her face, gave her coffee, holding her cup for her. His day had begun.
He thought, Mrs King, it is not I, I am not chosen, it chooses me, another death angel will be here to get you soon.
A week went by, it was on the news. A young lady of twenty two was killed in her bed. Not a trace of evidence, no witnesses had come forward. Like the twenty before the death angel had left one calling card a gold cross on her neck.
John heard it on the news, he ran a small jewelry shop that sold junk stuff and a few good things. He remembered the nice male nurse that had bought three dozen gold crosses with cheap chains. When asked, he said he liked to give them to his patients. John called the police.
A story of fiction by a twisted mind.
The Gift(Rich Puckett)
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. It was a still night, no wind and no rain. The moon was bright, but no one saw him. He was experienced at this kind of thing, in fact he had done it many times before. Somewhere off in the distance a car door slammed, must of been someone getting home late, because he could hear muffled laughter.
He was a not a drinking man, he did no need drink to steady his hands or give him courage. He was not a smoker, no tale tale glow of a burning butt in his mouth to be witnessed. No butts to be left on the ground with his DNA. He was not a big man, nor would you call him small. In fact if you met him on the street it was not likely you would be able to recall it all.
His clothes were not stand out, just faded blue jeans and a dark blue pollo shirt. His shoes just cheap big box store work shoes. A little aged but in good repair. He walked to his post, no car would leave a oil stain, no squealing tires in a panicked get away. As if he would panic, just was not a part of who he was. He was as always, calm, cool, and the most needful of all his skills, confident.
His hair was cut in a military style crew cut, dark brown, his eyes to match. He was not a athletic type but he could move with the stealth of a snake. He didn't plan on running but guessed he could if he had too.
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. It was late by some peoples standard and early by others. What was it he was seeing, what was going on his head? Nothing on his face would give a hint, if you could see in the darkness. He had never been caught and did not expect tonight would be any different. He was patient, not because he was trained to be that way, but because in ones patience it was said you would possess your soul.
He had been doing this a long time, but he wasn't old. Just how many would be hard to count as no record was ever kept. The night owl on the limb might of questioned his motives, if he had cared. Something drove him to be here, the question was what?
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. The light of the moon was fading away. He had not moved. His hands rested in his fron jean pockets to help hide any sign of his presence. Why him? What could he do? Would it be good? Or would it be evil? Would he do anything at all? Was he a life saver? Or was he a murder? Was he a spy? Was he a peeping Tom? Was he just a man?
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. Was he in the woods? Was he in a small town? Was he in a big city? Would he be found. The breeze begin to pick up, nice and cool on his dry skin. There was no sweat, nor any cold.
A light came on in the house he could so clearly see. He did not move. He knew the room and as a shadow passed behind the curtain he knew. No one had to whisper the name, no one had to give a detail, he knew as he always knew. To night was no different then many before. He could catch the smells now in the air. A rose bush gave it sweet smell. The faint passing of hamburger and maybe a bit of foulness too. Perhaps it came from the puddle of water at the downspout, or from the sewer vent on the roof.
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. Another light came on. He knew the room. He knew what was playing out behind the smoked glass that looked like soap had painted it. He did not need to see. He did not need to hear. He knew how long the nights business would take. How long and the light would go out. Different and yet always the same.
He wore no mask, none would be needed. Only one thing could be found if you searched his pockets. No weapon had ever filled his hand. No tool to bring about destruction was ever his to hold. He saw himself as gifted. He saw himself sharing his gift. Never would he violate another's prison unless he was sharing with them light.
He stood alone at the door. He did not knock. He rang no bell. He spoke no words. He was not invited but still he would enter. The mouse in the kitchen wished it could move with such stealth. That cat waiting to snatch the parakeet wished for such speed. Yet he moved at no great pace. No jingle or jangle of any coins.
He did not reach to unscrew the pouch light bulb. He knew it would never be turned on. He did not feel he choose rather he felt chosen. His mind was not of a great thinker nor a dreamer. He was strategic in his process and operations by his very nature. Was he human or a beast? How could the blessing of sharing light be a beast?
He stood all alone on the porch. His hand wrapped in his shirt tail. He took the knob and turned. The sound ever so quiet as his skill was slow and smooth. It might of been locked, but he knew it would not be, they rarely were. If it had been, what would he have done? Why he would of simply walked away.
He stepped inside. As a boy he had played Cowboys and Indians with his friends, something he had not had in many years. Always he was made a Indian so he practiced until he learned to walk light and with out much sound. It was all in how how you balanced your weight and angle you walked on the sides of the feet.
He stood all alone in the kitchen. He had been right, his eyes accustomed to the dark. His noise a sensitive tool. The smell of hamburger strong in the air. The cast iron skillet sit on the stove. The pate in the sink, the buns barely tied. He must fix that, nothing was worse then stale bread. He moved to the counter and retired the wrap after pressing the air out.
He stood all alone at the counter. He heard the sound of the bed. As weight was stretched out on it. He did not need to see. He knew how the body would be laying on the side. He knew sleep was coming though no doubt the body's brain would resist.
He moved to the open bedroom door.
He stood all alone in the shade of the door. He did not move. No cough came from his throat. His breathing was more silent then the breeze ringing the wind chimes out front. He had no fear. It was a gift he was here to share. He saw. He watched. He looked. He did not move. He did not think about the shape of the body. He did not look to see if dressed or naked. He was not a pervert. He was not going to sniff panties though he had as a boy. His sister had never known. His mother never found them. His father would of killed him.
He stood all alone in the shadow of the door. Hands deep in his pockets, his face showed no smile, nor a frown. He felt no fear. He felt no joy. He felt nothing at all.
The body breathing so deepened a slight snore filled the room. Age did not matter or did it. One might wonder why all he shared his gift with was about twenty? One might wonder if his desire to share had been aroused by watching from the closet as his sister had loud and wild sex with her uncle. One might of asked had he ever been touched? Not by hand or rod but by the violence of words.
His mother always told her friends and family he was not well endowed. He had quit taking showers in gym class after the boys started calling him a girl. His sister would dress him up like a girl, and strip him naked, put her panties on him, her bra and her dress and show him to her friends saying see, I don't have a brother, I have sister.
One might argue the very violence of those words had done him far more harm then sniffing panties. They had robbed him, cut him apart, recreated him. So he did not see it as a bad thing. He had a gift to share, light.
He stood now all alone by the bedside. His hands moved with skill. From the pockets they came. To wrap around the neck. The grip was as if controlled by a broken spring. They locked around the flesh. The thumbs found home over the wind pipe. He squeezed, she barely had time to do more then buck a few times on the bed. The smell of pee filled his noise.
He stood all alone, in the dark, at her bedside, hands stealing life.
When it was over, the body still, he removed his hands, took the one thing from his pocket. He placed it on her neck. He walked out the way he came. He wrapped his hand in his shirt tail and closed the door. He walked to the old oak tree.
He stood all alone under the old oak tree. The sun came up. Cars drove by. No one noticed no one saw. He turned and walked to work. He was on time, he was always on time. He took his shower and put on his white scrubs. He walked to the old ladies room. He washed her face, gave her coffee, holding her cup for her. His day had begun.
He thought, Mrs King, it is not I, I am not chosen, it chooses me, another death angel will be here to get you soon.
A week went by, it was on the news. A young lady of twenty two was killed in her bed. Not a trace of evidence, no witnesses had come forward. Like the twenty before the death angel had left one calling card a gold cross on her neck.
John heard it on the news, he ran a small jewelry shop that sold junk stuff and a few good things. He remembered the nice male nurse that had bought three dozen gold crosses with cheap chains. When asked, he said he liked to give them to his patients. John called the police.
A story of fiction by a twisted mind.
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