| View Blog
|
|
|
|
| My short story...what do you think? |
pleaseee! i need views and advice. I didn't plan on making it a short story but...
i didn't feel like finishing it and plus i don't know how to finish it. anyways,
read, and please tell me what you think! thank you!!!!
here it is:
This is the account of how I, an innocent, man got framed, for something I did not do. And how I wrangled out of that accusation by facts, and sheer luck. This story is filled with liars, and wrongness and absolute bad fortune. This is the story of Carver Ellington and his so-called “wrongful crime”.
It was Sunday. A beautiful day for a walk. I had left Carla, my lover, early that morning in bed to go for a little walk. The sun was just rising and I could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. I went down the north shore of Ellington Beach, London. I always love going down there and looking at the clams that gather there for their daily congregation before the family crowds come. It was kind of chilly that morning, though, and I had pulled a sweater over my head before going out. I dressed in pants and slippers. For I never like the feeling of wet socks. It’s most uncomfortable. So I started north of the shore and walked along the coast about an hour or two before turning around at the pier and walking back up to the road. While walking back toward our home, I stopped and picked some blooming daisies for Carla. She loves flowers and it would dismiss me leaving her this morning for a walk, when she would wake up. When turning the corner to go onto our street, I smell the slightest whiff of smoke. Surely, not too unusual for a cook might be roasting weenies, or a chimney just puffing out the first smoke of the morning from the fireplace. But as I make my way farther down our street I do not see the source of the smoke from anywhere I would normally expect. I quicken my pace, hurrying to get home before caught up in the reporters and firefighters that are sure to appear within the minute. I do not find the source of the fire any sooner, than in my own home. I stop right before the stone walkway leading up to our door. The beautiful gothic stone home is in dark smoke, with firefighters by the dozens trying to put out the fire. I see the top floor engulfed in flames as the water cannot reach it yet. The flowers drop from my hand. I feel shock and disbelief running through me. I am still. Just staring off into space, as if in a daze. Thinking, or trying to think of a good reason for the fire starting. A police office comes up beside me. I see him out of the corner of my eye. I slowly turn my head toward him and gaze at him confusedly, as if a silent question asks why he is in my yard, when this should’ve just been another normal Sunday. With no firefighters and no cops and no smoke. The officer is old, looks worn, like he has seen many fires and many crimes on his watch. A dark gristly mustache and wrinkled skin, though not graying in the hair. Chubby around his waistline, and his thighs, probably from countless donuts. “This your house?” He asks with an uncaring tone of voice. He is holding a pen in one hand and a small paper notebook in the other. “Yes.” I say to him in what I hope is a passive voice, trying not to spill all emotions in one answer. I swallow hard. “As you can see, a fire broke out about an hour or so ago. The neighbors called 911, that’s when the firefighters showed up. We came soon after.” He motioned behind him, showing all the other cops behind him that had apparently ‘come soon after’ as he had said. “We need to ask you a few questions, sir, if that’s alright. You need to come with us for questioning.” I couldn’t believe this was happening. “Where’s my wife?” I asked. He raised one of his eyebrows. “My wife,” I clarified. Just then I saw two firefighters with oxygen masks on, stumble out the door with a stretcher upon which was a figure with a sheet over it. I stared, looked away, looked back, and shook my head. It couldn’t be. Just couldn’t be, impossible, no way whatsoever. “We’ll explain everything if you’ll just come with us.” The officer said. He held open the passenger door and I reluctantly got in. The car smelled of pipe smoke and stale lettuce. As the officer started the car up he said, “I’m Officer Dan. We’re just going down to the police station.” The car slowly started rolling and soon got on the main road. Carver stared out the window but didn’t really see. It all just became a blur. Twenty minutes later we were at the police station. They led me in to a bare room except for a folding chair and a wooden table and a small light overhead. There was a mirror, but I knew it was a two-way mirror. Then soon after I sat down, a man in a brown trench coat walked in. This was way too inspector gadget for me.
He sat down across from me and pulled out a metal altoid box. “Want one?” He asked. I shook my head no and he put the box back in his pocket, after taking one himself and popping it in his mouth. He folded his hands on the table and looked at me. “So when was the last time you saw your wife?” he asked me. I kept looking straight at him. I would not be stared down by some interrogation cop. “Early this morning, before I took my walk.” I said. His eyes flickered across the rest of my face before returning back to my eyes. If he had underestimated me, then good. I was not a man to be underestimated. “Did you and your wife ever have fights? Or arguments?” Carla and I never fought or argued. The most we argued or conversed about was where to go for dinner. “No.” I answered truthfully. He continued. “Did you know that at 7:50 am this morning, a fire was started at your home? Burning the house, and…your wife.” He said. I already knew that a fire had started, obviously, and I knew the body in the bag the firemen carried out was my wife. I just couldn’t believe it. It was a lot to take in. “That was after I left.” I said. He nodded, “After you supposedly left you mean.” I felt anger suddenly but then only for a fleeting second. I didn’t do anything. I can’t get in trouble. “I did not kill my wife.” I answered calmly, still looking into his eyes. “Lets move on,” The man said, “Did you or your wife ever have any enemies?” he asked. I thought about this. I actually considered it. We were friendly people, friendly neighbors. We weren’t cruel, we weren’t rich snobs. There wouldn’t be a reason for us to have any enemies. After a few moments, I answered, truthfully, as far as I knew, “No. We didn’t. At least I don’t think so. We were friendly people, just good people.” He nodded. “Well Mr. Ellington, until we get some evidence or some fingerprints, everybody’s a suspect. Don’t take it personally.” He smiled. Smiled. He freaking smiled. After a fire burnt my home and killed my wife he found something to smile about. I faked a smile back at him. He stood up and gestured with his hand. “Come on, let me get you a cup of coffee, give you a ride back ho-,” He stopped. “By the way, is there anyplace you could stay for a while? Until your home is…rebuilt and fixed?” He asked. I thought about my uncle up in Cincinnati. I thought about my sister in Liverpool. Her home cooked waffles, her cozy, always smelling of buttermilk living room. Her almost too warm heated house. “My sister. Mel. In Liverpool.” I said. He nodded and gestured in front of him. “You can tell me the way to her house on the way.” We walked back down the hallway and out into the gloomy day again. On our way to the car I saw a little orange-haired, freckled little boy staring at me from behind the bushes. Confused, I turned around, to see if he was looking at someone else. But there was no one else. The parking lot was deserted except for a few cars. I turned back around but the boy was gone. I dismissed it though, and got in the front seat of the car, and we drove away down the road.
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
| Views: 51
Email This to a Friend 
