Brandon 2
KitaGIFT FOR MASTER
July 6th 2007 04:56
Down in the bushes behind the Church, jumping enthusiastically across the dirt, flits a tiny wren. It’s movements create miniature dust storms, flecks sparkling in the breeze.
It continues to play in the dust, dancing like the breeze itself, merrily oblivious to the rustling in the grass behind it. Oblivious to the glowering yellow eyes greedily staring at it, the taught, tenses muscle crouched, prepared to pounce. The very thought of danger itself is far from it’s mind, until the very moment it feels itself knocked down, pummelled into the dirt, followed by the sensation of it’s attackers teeth, plunging through it’s insufficient skin, deep into its body.
The cat’s name is listed on its collar as Gribble. He is lean, but with a smooth coat which has obviously been well cared for.
He prances through the long grass, his pace quickened by a joy smattered sense of elation. He is proud of his catch, the wren wedged in his mouth, still twitching very slightly. More proud than one can easily comprehend. Pride replaces his blood and runs through his veins. It courses through his lungs, bristles through his fur. It is a drug, it is a ray of light. It is a fire in his chest, shining out, displaying his brilliance to the world.
He jumps over the fence gracefully, running over to the doorstep, and dropping the dead bird. He then trots over to a warm patch of sun on the path and rolls over, gleefully awaiting in anticipation of the discovery of his precious gift.
Mick wakes up, pulls himself out of bed. He half stumbles out to the bathroom where he washes his face. It is 6.00. He has surgery scheduled in around two hours time, some thirteen year old. He can’t work out why kids don’t use condoms. Surely the embarrassment of telling their boyfriend (or the bloke at the party) to use a little piece of rubber is preferable to risking ending up comatose in his chair, with his hands between their legs. Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t think about it. That way his head doesn’t explode with frustration.
He wanders out to the kitchen, makes a cup of coffee, sips it. It’s already three spoons of coffee but he adds another for luck. He takes a large sip, and walks over to the door, figuring he’ll have time to pick up the paper.
He opens the door. Gribble, sunning himself on the path, rolls into standing position and yowls loudly, looking at the steps by Mick’s feet. Mick looks down. By his foot is the mangled corpse of the Wren.
“Bloody hell,” mutters Mick, scooping up it’s small broken body. “Not another one.”
He strolls over to the bin, dropping the dead bird in. He points at Gribble “Bad cat!” he yells.
Gribble doesn’t notice, rubbing himself along Mick’s leg, pleased that he’d seen his expression of love.
Before Mick gets to the door, a car pulls up beside his fence. The door opens and a man steps out.
“Excuse me,” he yells. “Are you Mick Mailer?”
“Yes I am,” he says, taking a step forward. “Who wants to know?”
Oh Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name
Thomas Bowler double checks the address he has managed to obtain, and checks it against his map. So far as he can see, everything’s exactly where it should be.
Thy Kingdom come thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven
He takes a red pen and circles the address on the map. He draws a long, sleek arrow pointing towards it, and in large, nearly Gothic letters writes “BABY BUTCHER”.
Give us this day our daily Bread
He picks up the gun he managed to outsource and places it in the pocket of his jacket, buttoning it up. He walks out of the house, keys in hand, and unlocks the car.
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
As he drives, there is a powerful sensation, a ball of glowering pride in his chest. A ball of pure righteous energy. Today he serves. Today he can prove his worth to his master. Today he can demonstrate that his life is something to be proud of, something to stand up for. He turns the car around the corner. He is on the edge of the street he needs to be at. He slows, indicates, and turns. Slowly he pulls the car to a stop in front of lot 12, where a man, still half asleep, gripping a mug of coffee, drops something into a bin. Fire is searing through Thomas’ vein. He winds down his window.
“Excuse me,” he yells. “Are you Mick Mailer?”
“Yes I am,” the man replies, squinting and stepping forward groggily. “Who wants to know?”
And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil
Thomas pulls out the gun and fires. Mick barely has time to register. The first bullet shoots through his stomach, the second two passing straight through his head. His lifeless body slumps to the ground.
For thine is the kingdom,
and the power,
and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.
God wakes up still slightly groggy. He stretches, yawns loudly, and pulls Himself out of bed.
He approaches the door of his house, and opens it, staring out across the luminescent mass of Heaven’s white paradise, His old, wizened eyes flick over the faces of His companions. Through his all powerful vision he plays through the deaths of each, accidents, sickness, disaster…
Then He pauses, as one vision appears before him. The death of Mick Mailer, abortionist, as His faithful child Thomas Bowler kills him, and delivers him to His doorstep.
“Bloody Hell,” mutters God. “Not another one.”
Prompt - Write a piece of fiction utilizing heavy symbolism.
It continues to play in the dust, dancing like the breeze itself, merrily oblivious to the rustling in the grass behind it. Oblivious to the glowering yellow eyes greedily staring at it, the taught, tenses muscle crouched, prepared to pounce. The very thought of danger itself is far from it’s mind, until the very moment it feels itself knocked down, pummelled into the dirt, followed by the sensation of it’s attackers teeth, plunging through it’s insufficient skin, deep into its body.
***
The cat’s name is listed on its collar as Gribble. He is lean, but with a smooth coat which has obviously been well cared for.
He prances through the long grass, his pace quickened by a joy smattered sense of elation. He is proud of his catch, the wren wedged in his mouth, still twitching very slightly. More proud than one can easily comprehend. Pride replaces his blood and runs through his veins. It courses through his lungs, bristles through his fur. It is a drug, it is a ray of light. It is a fire in his chest, shining out, displaying his brilliance to the world.
He jumps over the fence gracefully, running over to the doorstep, and dropping the dead bird. He then trots over to a warm patch of sun on the path and rolls over, gleefully awaiting in anticipation of the discovery of his precious gift.
***
Mick wakes up, pulls himself out of bed. He half stumbles out to the bathroom where he washes his face. It is 6.00. He has surgery scheduled in around two hours time, some thirteen year old. He can’t work out why kids don’t use condoms. Surely the embarrassment of telling their boyfriend (or the bloke at the party) to use a little piece of rubber is preferable to risking ending up comatose in his chair, with his hands between their legs. Anyway. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t think about it. That way his head doesn’t explode with frustration.
He wanders out to the kitchen, makes a cup of coffee, sips it. It’s already three spoons of coffee but he adds another for luck. He takes a large sip, and walks over to the door, figuring he’ll have time to pick up the paper.
He opens the door. Gribble, sunning himself on the path, rolls into standing position and yowls loudly, looking at the steps by Mick’s feet. Mick looks down. By his foot is the mangled corpse of the Wren.
“Bloody hell,” mutters Mick, scooping up it’s small broken body. “Not another one.”
He strolls over to the bin, dropping the dead bird in. He points at Gribble “Bad cat!” he yells.
Gribble doesn’t notice, rubbing himself along Mick’s leg, pleased that he’d seen his expression of love.
Before Mick gets to the door, a car pulls up beside his fence. The door opens and a man steps out.
“Excuse me,” he yells. “Are you Mick Mailer?”
“Yes I am,” he says, taking a step forward. “Who wants to know?”
***
Oh Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name
Thomas Bowler double checks the address he has managed to obtain, and checks it against his map. So far as he can see, everything’s exactly where it should be.
Thy Kingdom come thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven
He takes a red pen and circles the address on the map. He draws a long, sleek arrow pointing towards it, and in large, nearly Gothic letters writes “BABY BUTCHER”.
Give us this day our daily Bread
He picks up the gun he managed to outsource and places it in the pocket of his jacket, buttoning it up. He walks out of the house, keys in hand, and unlocks the car.
And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.
As he drives, there is a powerful sensation, a ball of glowering pride in his chest. A ball of pure righteous energy. Today he serves. Today he can prove his worth to his master. Today he can demonstrate that his life is something to be proud of, something to stand up for. He turns the car around the corner. He is on the edge of the street he needs to be at. He slows, indicates, and turns. Slowly he pulls the car to a stop in front of lot 12, where a man, still half asleep, gripping a mug of coffee, drops something into a bin. Fire is searing through Thomas’ vein. He winds down his window.
“Excuse me,” he yells. “Are you Mick Mailer?”
“Yes I am,” the man replies, squinting and stepping forward groggily. “Who wants to know?”
And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil
Thomas pulls out the gun and fires. Mick barely has time to register. The first bullet shoots through his stomach, the second two passing straight through his head. His lifeless body slumps to the ground.
For thine is the kingdom,
and the power,
and the glory,
for ever and ever.
Amen.
***
God wakes up still slightly groggy. He stretches, yawns loudly, and pulls Himself out of bed.
He approaches the door of his house, and opens it, staring out across the luminescent mass of Heaven’s white paradise, His old, wizened eyes flick over the faces of His companions. Through his all powerful vision he plays through the deaths of each, accidents, sickness, disaster…
Then He pauses, as one vision appears before him. The death of Mick Mailer, abortionist, as His faithful child Thomas Bowler kills him, and delivers him to His doorstep.
“Bloody Hell,” mutters God. “Not another one.”
Prompt - Write a piece of fiction utilizing heavy symbolism.
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