Back to the drawing board.

I got this book from amazon a while back - its actually quite good - though I got it for £5 not the ridiculous £15 currently advertised, lets be honest there are enough free resources on the internet to make sure your never without an idea should you need one.

Anyway, I flicked open the book and the first line that caught my eye was this:
        "A woman searching for a long lost love finds him in prison"


Gotta be honest wouldn't be my first choice...but lets see where it takes us. Going to NYC tomorrow on holiday so I will do a bit of writing when I can, hopefully posting something next Wednesday.

MJS.

[SS] Memories of a warrior

The lights have gone off. A curtain is drawn and I’m momentarily blinded by a thousand flashes tapping out a rapid staccato as my life is recorded in a series of snapshots, each one a microsecond long. Taking one step onto the start of a plush red carpet, covering a grimy concrete floor, I notice that it’s frayed at the edge where years of glitz and glammer have taken its toll. A rueful smile etches itself across my features.

A gaping chasm suddenly appears in the sea of bodies. Edged with steel and men (in badly fitting suits) they repel the tide as it scrambles forward again and again. Faceless parasites with Nikon 1 clicks and no compassion for their fellow man attempt to get ‘the shot’ their editors-in-chiefs so cravenly covet. The blockade holds firm, as it sets out a corridor lined with waving hands and screaming fans.

Of all the places to take my life this is my chosen path, where a thousand men have tried and failed, their pain, sacrifice and toil nothing but a distant memory as the crowd expects, no! demands entertainment. They love a warrior. Someone who will continue until breath can’t be drawn from his body, a battered and bruised bloody mess lying on the wipe-clean canvas, but this only makes them hungry for more – the glutinous thieves of my life.

Starting the procession in earnest, my head clad in black silk and regrets – I am lost in thought, trying to center myself for the trial ahead. When first facing an opponent in the ancient art of pugilistic combat I truly believed that some choices are made for a man, and for some choices a man is made, by the end of that first night I was sure the answer was the latter. How foolish the young can be.

This part of the entrance goes past in the usual blur, having seen it all before; the drunken revelers chanting their chosens name, the business men showing off to clients, the bored trophy wives that have been dragged along by their all too-living rich old husbands, the A, B or C-list celebrities trying to get their faces into the media and me. Me walking the gauntlet of them all ready to die for their blessing…the rueful smile stays in place.

Stopping ten feet in front of my alter, my place of worship, where my soul is set free, my regrets flow from me like a waterfall in monsoon season and the old survival instinct of the hunter starts to take control. Eyes now closed, zoned out of my manager’s false praise and coach’s words of advice, still seeing it perfectly. A steel and canvas square construct, raised 6 feet from the floor, it measures 23 feet on each side with 7 feet high posts at the corners. The posts are connected via loosely tied multi-colored ropes – and woe betide anyone getting caught against them. Stools rest in two opposite corners and a man, standing off centre, with short sleeves and a dickey bow waits patiently for the contest to begin.

I look for my girl in the crowd, front row and center same as always, a worried frown creases her unblemished features – pangs of guilt hit me harder than any punch ever will.

With a wink to her that I don’t believe in I climb the stairs ready to put my reputation on the line, to defend my title, my honour and my legend. Greeting Mr. Broughton, under my breath, for the very last time in the process.

Sweat begins to run down my face as my opponent comes out into the arena, the younger man, the fitter man, the stronger man, the challenger to the throne. They say heart doesn’t cut it when there is nothing left to back it up but they obviously haven’t stared into the abyss as many times as I have without blinking. When a wolf pack corners a stag, one of the wolves is going to get gored. He is all ‘swagger’ as he greets the fans and stops for his own microsecond snapshots of his chance at becoming a legend. Seen his type before. He won’t last.

As the lights burn with an uncompromising strength, I feel a single drop of sweat running down my cheek holding for a second then falling to the canvas flooring as gravity wins the first fight of the evening. As it hits, I blink and 30 years have past. Still able to feel the trail of the sweat on my face, only now it’s a tear, as I stare out in to the black abyss again but this time it’s different, this time it’s full of empty seats, the silence mocks me. Last nights beer and stale popcorn strewn around like a hurricane passed through taking the baying mob with it.

One solitary light shines – barely illuminating the ring, holding back the darkness as it tries to capture me in its cool embrace. Off to one side caught in the lure of old glories, I silently cry, tears being shed, for forgotten dreams, for relived regrets and for lost loves.

Looking down my girl doesn’t sit front row and center for me anymore, gone to a better place the priest says. I miss her still.

The night guard calls to me in the background and the last remaining light goes out. The lamp element looses heat and light all too quickly leaving me standing alone with my memories, for once in a fight I wont win. 

The lights have gone off for one last time.

[SS] Room without a view

Even before my eyes were open I knew that there was a light on in the room, it was going to be strong and it was going to be sore. It turned that hazy period of blackness just before you gain consciousness into a cherry red as the light pierced my eyelids with its uncompromising luminance.

Better to get it over and done with then.

But before I had a chance and with precision-like timing an air horn went off with all the grace and charm of a brick to the face.

I opened my eyes sharply – then shut them again just as quickly – my head ached like someone was attempting the rumba with a blunt implement on the inside of my skull. Risking another look the light was still on and still sore, not sure why I expected anything else, just the natural optimist in me I guess...

Foregoing the pain I was inflicting upon myself with my ill advised game of peak a-boo I took stock of my situation. This wasn't my first rodeo, if you know what I mean. I was definitely fully clothed, definitely lying on top of a firm, yet surprisingly comfy bed and definitely had no clue how I got there. My head was spinning and my brain was having trouble focusing from one thought to the next, probably trying to stop itself leaking out my ears. And would someone please stop hitting that god forsaken air horn every 30 seconds…

C’mon, Sam get a grip

Opening my eyelids the bare minimum to let the light distinguish the room I tipped my head forward slightly to take in my surroundings. The room was no more than 4 metres square; it was clinical in its finish with a bright whiteness reflecting the light, making it all the more painful.

Everything in the room looked new – it put me on edge, it was the white – not the regular white you see in hospitals with a slight tinge of beige showing use and where the cleaners hadn’t been doing their underpaid jobs right. This white was the pure white when you look out the windows on a cold winters morning after the first snow of the year, unsullied by human touch. There was not a mark, scratch or blemish on any surface. The room had obviously never been used, it had the detached look of a room that would be used once, for one purpose then discarded. Ironically at this point I was sick on to the floor. It now no longer looked quite so white.

Ha. That will teach them – whoever they were.

The fact that I couldn’t remember last night worried me, instinctually my thumb went to the ring on my right hand’s index finger. It was still there, good, feeling for the rest of my possessions my wallet, phone and keys to my van were all still reassuring lumps in my jean pockets. The only item missing was my carving knife carried in the hidden sheave on my arm. So someone had taken the trouble of removing a hidden weapon but not taken off my potentially more lethal ring, assuming they knew what it was of course, and not forgetting the fact that that they would have to cut off my hand to get it but well….you never know. Waking up with one hand and a bloody stump is up there along with the old “village green, lamppost and nakedness” waking scenario.

With a grunt and a small whimper, I opened my eyes properly and swung my legs off of the bed onto the floor, putting my elbows onto my knees and my hands in my hair. My right hand came away glistening with congealed blood – ah that would explain the headache then. What the hell had happened? Last night was a blur, a distant memory that I couldn’t quite grasp – it kept slipping through my fingers just out of reach. The more I thought about it, the less I seemed to remember if that was even possible.

The practical side of my psyche realized that last night would have to wait; I need to know where the hell I was, and what the hell I was going to do in what appears to be a dental surgery designers wet dream. The not so practical side thought my practical side was an idiot and really just wanted to go back to sleep, the bed wasn’t that un-comfy after all.

Ignoring the need to sleep it all off, I stood up. Which proved to be all too much for my dilapidated body. The dizziness hit me like a wall, momentarily halting the process of getting to a vertical state. Shaking my head to clear the light headedness I looked down at the bed, the glistening blood on the pillow was the only sign of my time spent on top of the covers. I moved to the door – taking care to avoid my redecorating attempts from earlier. The door was a heavy steel construct with no handle, probably reinforced, I checked to see if it was unlocked, my paranoia could be all encompassing at times it would be nice to be wrong for once. The door chinked as it hit the frame and refused to move.

Damn right again.

The only other item in the room was a metal chair leaning against the wall, I turned to have a closer look and noticed the camera, attached to the corner above where my head had been lying, focusing in on me. Its penetrating red light showing my movements were being monitored, probably by some monosyllabic drone in a dark room, reporting back everything they saw. Well I watched movies, I knew how to stop that at least. Picking a clean pillow from the bed I used it's case to cover the lens. The last thing any hidden watcher saw was my middle finger. Sam 1 – Mysterious Bad Guys 0.

Walking over slightly unsteadily to the chair, I picked it up with the intention of testing the doors strength. It felt good in my hand, solid – something I could rely on. I took a breath and turned to swing it at the door – a mechanical voice suddenly filled the room “That will not be necessary 27615”

The door opened with an electromechanical buzz as the servo units driving it hadn’t had time to bed in. Bit of DW40 would sort them out, no problems. Once an engineer, always an engineer even if those days were a long time gone.

No light was on outside the room Can’t see a damn thing. It would be like stepping into the middle of a black hole but without the being horribly squashed part...or at at least I hoped so in any case. Scratching the back of my neck I considered my options, which were limited at best – wait in the light for Mr Charisma and his air horn to come and get me or go exploring in the dark with its unseen dangers and the very real possibility of lots of pain or worse…

Standing in the door way, half of my body in the light I looked back into the room and then back out into the darkness.

Ah hell, who wants to die of was old age anyway? – taking a deep breathe and adjusting the ring on my finger I stepped into the darkness. It embraced me like an old friend.

[SS] Reflections

Walking towards the meeting place Jon felt waves of revulsion and hatred pass over him in equal measure. He'd chosen the old restrooms, in the derelict police building in the bad part of town. He had not been back here since it shut down but he could still remember it in its glory days thirty years ago, a bastion against all that was wrong with the world. Somewhere a young homeless kid could be safe for a while when times got too tough on the streets. It was how he liked to think of himself; a safe place in the darkness but perhaps the building as it was now was a far better metaphor for what he had become.

As the door to basement restroom opened for the first time in what must have been years, the smell hit him like a wall, making his eyes water – yes it had to be the smell, real men don't cry, he had learned that early. He stopped for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the small amount of yellowy light that the street level window permitted to illuminate the room through all the dust and the cobwebs. As he moved further into the room he saw that the light gave everything a golden hue making the room appear almost piss-stained, though for all Jon knew it probably was.

On his left two, of the three cubical doors had been knocked, or kicked, off their hinges exposing dirty porcelain toilet bowls. On the right hand wall, electrical wires stuck out hap-hazardly where an enterprising looter had ripped the two hand driers from the wall. Leaving nothing but exposed brickwork and crumbling plaster behind. The old style garbage bin in the far right corner was on its side, its contents sprawled across the worn down linoleum flooring.

In the background he could still hear the hustle and bustle of the city getting on with its day to day life. Not caring about Jon or justice, just survival. Always survival. Get through today and your prize was to get through tomorrow. Hardly worth the effort Jon though. The dripping of a leaky faucet brought his attention back to where he was – strange, he thought, thought they would have turned off the water for this place.

Walking inside Jon stumbled slightly, forgetting that the floor sloped slightly towards a central drain, he kicked something as he did so only for it to go skittering across the floor to smash under the urinals on the far wall. Moving up to investigate, he saw it was a needle, probably used. So this building hadn’t been abandoned altogether then.

He turned to the left towards the offset wash area he noticed the other man for the first time, like a ghost from a bad dream, he looked like crap warmed up. They stood locked together, staring at each other refusing to blink, an iron test of wills that no one wanted to lose. Finally Jon broke the silence.

“Well?”

“Well what?! You know why we’re here.” Jon's mind was racing from 48 hours of far too little sleep and far too much coffee and sugary snacks.

“You left them to die!” The vehemence in the mans voice was almost palpable.

“No….No it wasn’t like that there was nothing I could do” said Jon his hands up, palms facing outwards in a sign of surrender.

“Pah – nothing you could do – you let a defenseless women and child die because you were to afraid to pull the trigger when you had the chance”

“I didn’t know he would have a gun, I didn’t know he would shoot…I didn’t know he was that unstable..I didn’t know………” Jon's voice faltered

“You knew, and you still ran” his tormentor continued, pressing home his advantage

“When he started firing I sought cover. Its procedure! I wouldn’t have been any use full of bullets”

“Like that lady and her child you mean”

“Yes…NO NO no…” Tears started to fall from Jon's eyes cutting new tracks in the grime and blood that hadn’t been washed off for the best part of two days.

“What is our motto…”

After a pause, Jon said “Populus Primitus” quietly. The tears were flowing freeing now, rolling down his cheeks and joining the leaky faucet with a constant drip drip drip onto the floor.

“Yes: People First. You put them in harms way by trying that stunt in the open, where was your backup, didnt you read the intel?! The guy was a phycopath”

Jon shook his head “The women shouldn’t have struggled when he grabbed her, he was desperate, she should have just done what he said”

“Would you have? It should have been you instead of them. Thanks to your incompetence their dead.”

It was all to much for Jon. Two days of running, of fighting, of killing, holding his emotions in check not letting himself feel anything until he was finished. The tidal wave of his grief came spilling out “IT WASN’T MY FAULT” he screamed, he didn’t know when it had happened but his pistol was out of his holster and pointing now at his accuser. 

“I got him though didn't I!" Jon continued "I hunted him down, he was punished for his crimes. He won't hurt anyone else, not him, not his gang, not his family. I got them all.” As he was talking Jon started to notice the blood that covered his clothes. He started to grin, the desperate look in his eyes that had been there over the last few days was back.

Not seeming to care about the pistol, his accuser sneered and continued “What does that matter now? You acted too late, you always acted too late. It was your fault their dead and you know it was. Which is why you are here now, why you cant sleep, why if you do after 20 minutes you wake up screaming, covered in sweat and why everyone knows you for what you are. A miserable coward that when the pressure gets to high ‘sought cover’…you make me sick”

Jon screamed and the anger took control, squeezing the trigger he fired bullet after bullet at his tormentor but the more he did the more the eyes just stared directly into his soul casting their damning judgement. He stopped with one bullet left in the breach.

He stood rocking gently mumbling “Not my fault” again and again rocking back and forth , back and forth. At least his accuser was gone.

He didn’t even hear the door open off to his left, but a voice called out from the hall.

“Jon is that you, where have you been? The whole station has been looking for you. …Why did you want to meet me here? Jon...Jon maybe you should put the gun down and come with me”

Jon looked at the row of shattered mirrors above the wash basins and then turned to the doorway.

“No Sir, not anymore Sir” and he smiled a smile of acceptance. “I got them Sir. I got them all.”

Putting the gun under his chin, Lt Detective Jon P. Gerity of the Washington D.C Police Force pulled the trigger and ended his trial, finding himself guilty of failing in the line of duty and all other charges.