The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
The mud-spattered tread of my right boot kicked the door in – and there he was, head in hands, huddled in the far corner of a vandalized room: a specimen of spineless slime. I approached him with the slow-menace of a steamroller . . . he was quivering: I could hear his teeth chattering as he mumbled some kind of inane prayer.
“Haven't you heard,” I hissed, stamping on the loose floorboards, trampolining shards of glass. “The Almighty doesn't listen to the pleas of vermin.”
Liquid seeped. I observed a steaming rivulet wind from the seat of his grimy trousers towards my elongated shadow.
“Godisgreat-godisgreat-godisgreat!” he blabbered, scrunching his hair with his long trembling fingers.
I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull: “Terrorist scum. Filth like you should be drowned at birth!”
Outside the mattress-barricaded window a bell tolled once . . . twice . . . three times – my unholy trinity: I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
—switch—
A couple of evenings prior I was chatting up some glamourpuss at the bar in a plush hotel in Prague . . .
**Telephone call for Monsieur Fabergé**
I excused myself and strolled over to the reception desk’s phone.
“Yes?”
–(Voice on phone): “Monsieur Fabergé?”
“It is.”
–“This is Marrowsky. Listen carefully. Escort Madame Alamort” (that was the glitzy bint at the bar) “to Room 41. Then eliminate her.”
I hung up, smiled at the reception clerk (a girl of no more than eighteen years: big brown eyes, long lashes, a slender neck, breasts like maracas) and returned to my oblivious quarry, Madame Pimpernella Alamort – (note. “Alamort”, adjective, meaning “half-dead”, from the French à la mort: “to death”).
“That was a short call,” Madame laughed, fingering the sable kiss-curl on her unnaturally smooth forehead.
“Cigarette?” I asked.
Thirty minutes later (after the silver tongue had spun its sticky web) I was guiding the tipsy hipshaker through the door of Room 41. The point of no return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death: my favourite divine combination.
I strangled the life out of the witch at the point of orgasm: Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same wand bend sinister and collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
—switch—
Five weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the self-styled elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The watchers know it pays to take good care of its most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen the toffee-nosed peacock since the elimination of Diana.
Baroness Thatcher was there, perched in her high-box, those beady-black vulture eyes surveying the sun-drenched (very English) scene.
Cliff Richard was in, David Beckham with his Romeo, and what was that smell . . . ah yes, the sweet vanilla mmmm issuing from an off-duty trio of page-three floozies. Even the British Defence Secretary Geoff Hoon was there, and he seemed just a little jumpy when I prolonged my chat with his flowery wife.
Through Henman's quarterfinal exit I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one and only Jack Nickelson. He told me (in that wry, husky manner of his) all about the plot of his new movie: a cloak-and-dagger thriller about an international assassin.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“The studio hasn’t gotten round to namin’ it yet,” he mumbled (he was sucking Pimms through a transparent straw). “Any ideas?”
Straightaway I said, “How about The Hatchet Man?”
He said he liked it – then went on to tell me about his new girlfriend, Lucinda, a twenty-one year old fitness instructor from Nebraska.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne . . . if only the old devil knew.
“Haven't you heard,” I hissed, stamping on the loose floorboards, trampolining shards of glass. “The Almighty doesn't listen to the pleas of vermin.”
Liquid seeped. I observed a steaming rivulet wind from the seat of his grimy trousers towards my elongated shadow.
“Godisgreat-godisgreat-godisgreat!” he blabbered, scrunching his hair with his long trembling fingers.
I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull: “Terrorist scum. Filth like you should be drowned at birth!”
Outside the mattress-barricaded window a bell tolled once . . . twice . . . three times – my unholy trinity: I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
—switch—
A couple of evenings prior I was chatting up some glamourpuss at the bar in a plush hotel in Prague . . .
**Telephone call for Monsieur Fabergé**
I excused myself and strolled over to the reception desk’s phone.
“Yes?”
–(Voice on phone): “Monsieur Fabergé?”
“It is.”
–“This is Marrowsky. Listen carefully. Escort Madame Alamort” (that was the glitzy bint at the bar) “to Room 41. Then eliminate her.”
I hung up, smiled at the reception clerk (a girl of no more than eighteen years: big brown eyes, long lashes, a slender neck, breasts like maracas) and returned to my oblivious quarry, Madame Pimpernella Alamort – (note. “Alamort”, adjective, meaning “half-dead”, from the French à la mort: “to death”).
“That was a short call,” Madame laughed, fingering the sable kiss-curl on her unnaturally smooth forehead.
“Cigarette?” I asked.
Thirty minutes later (after the silver tongue had spun its sticky web) I was guiding the tipsy hipshaker through the door of Room 41. The point of no return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death: my favourite divine combination.
I strangled the life out of the witch at the point of orgasm: Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same wand bend sinister and collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
—switch—
Five weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the self-styled elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The watchers know it pays to take good care of its most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen the toffee-nosed peacock since the elimination of Diana.
Baroness Thatcher was there, perched in her high-box, those beady-black vulture eyes surveying the sun-drenched (very English) scene.
Cliff Richard was in, David Beckham with his Romeo, and what was that smell . . . ah yes, the sweet vanilla mmmm issuing from an off-duty trio of page-three floozies. Even the British Defence Secretary Geoff Hoon was there, and he seemed just a little jumpy when I prolonged my chat with his flowery wife.
Through Henman's quarterfinal exit I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one and only Jack Nickelson. He told me (in that wry, husky manner of his) all about the plot of his new movie: a cloak-and-dagger thriller about an international assassin.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“The studio hasn’t gotten round to namin’ it yet,” he mumbled (he was sucking Pimms through a transparent straw). “Any ideas?”
Straightaway I said, “How about The Hatchet Man?”
He said he liked it – then went on to tell me about his new girlfriend, Lucinda, a twenty-one year old fitness instructor from Nebraska.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne . . . if only the old devil knew.
Good piece that, I really liked such lines as 'after the silver tongue had spun its sticky web'.
You really have a preocupation with lone-assasins dontcha?
Nice use of switch, didn't like the third segment though, seemed a little contrived. Solid wordage as always, though.
Nice use of switch, didn't like the third segment though, seemed a little contrived. Solid wordage as always, though.
I always look forward to a bit of Gloveage.
No exception - divine.
No exception - divine.
Classic Glove.
Highly enjoyable piece. flowed very nicely indeed.
Enjoyable. I liked this one.
Interesting use of the subject.
Liked...
Liked...
Loved the ending, very nice.. :)
The mud-spattered tread of my right boot kicked the door in – and there he was, head in hands, huddled in the far corner of a vandalized room: a specimen of spineless slime. I approached him with the slow-menace of a steamroller . . . he was quivering: I could hear his teeth chattering as he mumbled some kind of inane prayer.
“Haven't you heard,” I hissed, stamping on the loose floorboards, trampolining shards of glass. “The Almighty doesn't listen to the pleas of vermin.”
Liquid seeped. I observed a steaming rivulet wind from the seat of his grimy trousers towards my elongated shadow.
“Godisgreat-godisgreat-godisgreat!” he blabbered, scrunching his hair with his long trembling fingers.
I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull: “Terrorist scum. Filth like you should be drowned at birth!”
Outside the mattress-barricaded window a bell tolled once . . . twice . . . three times – my unholy trinity: I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
—switch—
A couple of evenings prior I was chatting up some glamourpuss at the bar in a plush hotel in Prague . . .
**Telephone call for Monsieur Fabergé**
I excused myself and strolled over to the reception desk’s phone.
“Yes?”
–(Voice on phone): “Monsieur Fabergé?”
“It is.”
–“This is Marrowsky. Listen carefully. Escort Madame Alamort” (that was the glitzy bint at the bar) “to Room 41. Then eliminate her.”
I hung up, smiled at the reception clerk (a girl of no more than eighteen years: big brown eyes, long lashes, a slender neck, breasts like maracas) and returned to my oblivious quarry, Madame Pimpernella Alamort – (note. “Alamort”, adjective, meaning “half-dead”, from the French à la mort: “to death”).
“That was a short call,” Madame laughed, fingering the sable kiss-curl on her unnaturally smooth forehead.
“Cigarette?” I asked.
Thirty minutes later (after the silver tongue had spun its sticky web) I was guiding the tipsy hipshaker through the door of Room 41. The point of no return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death: my favourite divine combination.
I strangled the life out of the witch at the point of orgasm: Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same wand bend sinister and collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
—switch—
Five weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the self-styled elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The watchers know it pays to take good care of its most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen the toffee-nosed peacock since the elimination of Diana.
Baroness Thatcher was there, perched in her high-box, those beady-black vulture eyes surveying the sun-drenched (very English) scene.
Cliff Richard was in, David Beckham with his Romeo, and what was that smell . . . ah yes, the sweet vanilla mmmm issuing from an off-duty trio of page-three floozies. Even the British Defence Secretary Geoff Hoon was there, and he seemed just a little jumpy when I prolonged my chat with his flowery wife.
Through Henman's quarterfinal exit I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one and only Jack Nickelson. He told me (in that wry, husky manner of his) all about the plot of his new movie: a cloak-and-dagger thriller about an international assassin.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“The studio hasn’t gotten round to namin’ it yet,” he mumbled (he was sucking Pimms through a transparent straw). “Any ideas?”
Straightaway I said, “How about The Hatchet Man?”
He said he liked it – then went on to tell me about his new girlfriend, Lucinda, a twenty-one year old fitness instructor from Nebraska.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne . . . if only the old devil knew.
“Haven't you heard,” I hissed, stamping on the loose floorboards, trampolining shards of glass. “The Almighty doesn't listen to the pleas of vermin.”
Liquid seeped. I observed a steaming rivulet wind from the seat of his grimy trousers towards my elongated shadow.
“Godisgreat-godisgreat-godisgreat!” he blabbered, scrunching his hair with his long trembling fingers.
I pointed my flamethrower at his worthless skull: “Terrorist scum. Filth like you should be drowned at birth!”
Outside the mattress-barricaded window a bell tolled once . . . twice . . . three times – my unholy trinity: I squeezed the trigger and purified the room.
—switch—
A couple of evenings prior I was chatting up some glamourpuss at the bar in a plush hotel in Prague . . .
**Telephone call for Monsieur Fabergé**
I excused myself and strolled over to the reception desk’s phone.
“Yes?”
–(Voice on phone): “Monsieur Fabergé?”
“It is.”
–“This is Marrowsky. Listen carefully. Escort Madame Alamort” (that was the glitzy bint at the bar) “to Room 41. Then eliminate her.”
I hung up, smiled at the reception clerk (a girl of no more than eighteen years: big brown eyes, long lashes, a slender neck, breasts like maracas) and returned to my oblivious quarry, Madame Pimpernella Alamort – (note. “Alamort”, adjective, meaning “half-dead”, from the French à la mort: “to death”).
“That was a short call,” Madame laughed, fingering the sable kiss-curl on her unnaturally smooth forehead.
“Cigarette?” I asked.
Thirty minutes later (after the silver tongue had spun its sticky web) I was guiding the tipsy hipshaker through the door of Room 41. The point of no return had been reached.
Eros & Thanatos: Sex & Death: my favourite divine combination.
I strangled the life out of the witch at the point of orgasm: Heaven & Hell in an instant. When the two ends of the same wand bend sinister and collide, the Oblivion of Nirvana becomes the One Truth.
—switch—
Five weeks later I was sitting in the Royal Box at Wimbledon hobnobbing with the self-styled elite. Call it one of the perks of my clandestine position. The watchers know it pays to take good care of its most valued operatives.
The Duke of Kent was there. We exchanged a knowing glance. I hadn't seen the toffee-nosed peacock since the elimination of Diana.
Baroness Thatcher was there, perched in her high-box, those beady-black vulture eyes surveying the sun-drenched (very English) scene.
Cliff Richard was in, David Beckham with his Romeo, and what was that smell . . . ah yes, the sweet vanilla mmmm issuing from an off-duty trio of page-three floozies. Even the British Defence Secretary Geoff Hoon was there, and he seemed just a little jumpy when I prolonged my chat with his flowery wife.
Through Henman's quarterfinal exit I had the pleasure of sitting next to the one and only Jack Nickelson. He told me (in that wry, husky manner of his) all about the plot of his new movie: a cloak-and-dagger thriller about an international assassin.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“The studio hasn’t gotten round to namin’ it yet,” he mumbled (he was sucking Pimms through a transparent straw). “Any ideas?”
Straightaway I said, “How about The Hatchet Man?”
He said he liked it – then went on to tell me about his new girlfriend, Lucinda, a twenty-one year old fitness instructor from Nebraska.
I nodded, and I laughed, and I sipped expensive champagne . . . if only the old devil knew.