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Couldn't get to sleep last night, so I made up a quck plan for a short story. It's alright, not one I'm overly impressed with, but I like it all the same. Some people may have greivances over the ending though. Ah well, I like a spot of controversy. Post comments as usual please, and thanks for reading it, if you do. Its very short. :)
Pete stared long and hard at the object he was holding. He gazed in marvel at it, of how harmless it looked to someone not acquainted to it, like the Dodo when he first saw man. The Dodo hadn’t lasted long.
Pete looked at the long, smooth, silver barrel and the beautifully crafted handle, made up of pine wood with a fine polished finish. He opened up the gun, and looked at the six bullets all neatly positioned inside, all in their own little space, just like peas in a pod. Only these little pieces of metal were a lot more dangerous that peas. Alot more.
Pete closed up the gun again, and cocked it. He raised it to his right temple, and slid off the safety.
“What the hell am I doing?” A voice inside him asked. Another replied. “Your going to kill yourself, Pete. You talked yourself into it. Your divorced, your in debt and you are hated by your family. You said you wanted to end it Pete, well, pull the trigger and end it.”
“I can’t, I’m scared, I don’t want to.” Wailed Pete. Whoever said suicide was the cowards way out, he asked himself. Some nimrod that had obviously never contemplated it, probably.
Suddenly he had an idea. He had a two pence coin in his faded jeans pocket, his only remainder from his night out playing poker. He would make one final, decisive bet with it. He pulled it out. I’ll flip it, he told himself. Heads, and I’ll shoot myself. Tails, and I won’t. How ironic, he thought. The sort of money I would never care about, is the money that decides whether I’ll live or die tonight.
He pulled his chair over to the kitchen table, an ugly mahogany surface, which his ex-wife had wanted. She had picked all the furniture in the house, which was nearly all tacky crap. Therefore, when he tried to pawn it off to repay debts, he got next to nothing for it. That bitchh would have been welcome to the house, he thought, instead of taking everything else.
No point thinking of that now, Pete decided, its all history. What I have to do now is toss this damned coin. He stood up, set the gun carefully down on the kitchen table, and positioned the coin above his thumbnail as he made the “tossing position” - as he liked to call it.
He built up the pressure in his thumb, then released it, shoving the 2p up, up into the air. It moved in slow motion almost, as he climbed up to its peak height and then slowly turned, and hurtled towards the floor.
It hit the floor without bouncing, and just lay there, flat in the corner of the room, daring Pete to come and look at it. What would it be, Pete asked himself, as he walked over to it.
Heads, or Tails?
Pete stared long and hard at the object he was holding. He gazed in marvel at it, of how harmless it looked to someone not acquainted to it, like the Dodo when he first saw man. The Dodo hadn’t lasted long.
Pete looked at the long, smooth, silver barrel and the beautifully crafted handle, made up of pine wood with a fine polished finish. He opened up the gun, and looked at the six bullets all neatly positioned inside, all in their own little space, just like peas in a pod. Only these little pieces of metal were a lot more dangerous that peas. Alot more.
Pete closed up the gun again, and cocked it. He raised it to his right temple, and slid off the safety.
“What the hell am I doing?” A voice inside him asked. Another replied. “Your going to kill yourself, Pete. You talked yourself into it. Your divorced, your in debt and you are hated by your family. You said you wanted to end it Pete, well, pull the trigger and end it.”
“I can’t, I’m scared, I don’t want to.” Wailed Pete. Whoever said suicide was the cowards way out, he asked himself. Some nimrod that had obviously never contemplated it, probably.
Suddenly he had an idea. He had a two pence coin in his faded jeans pocket, his only remainder from his night out playing poker. He would make one final, decisive bet with it. He pulled it out. I’ll flip it, he told himself. Heads, and I’ll shoot myself. Tails, and I won’t. How ironic, he thought. The sort of money I would never care about, is the money that decides whether I’ll live or die tonight.
He pulled his chair over to the kitchen table, an ugly mahogany surface, which his ex-wife had wanted. She had picked all the furniture in the house, which was nearly all tacky crap. Therefore, when he tried to pawn it off to repay debts, he got next to nothing for it. That bitchh would have been welcome to the house, he thought, instead of taking everything else.
No point thinking of that now, Pete decided, its all history. What I have to do now is toss this damned coin. He stood up, set the gun carefully down on the kitchen table, and positioned the coin above his thumbnail as he made the “tossing position” - as he liked to call it.
He built up the pressure in his thumb, then released it, shoving the 2p up, up into the air. It moved in slow motion almost, as he climbed up to its peak height and then slowly turned, and hurtled towards the floor.
It hit the floor without bouncing, and just lay there, flat in the corner of the room, daring Pete to come and look at it. What would it be, Pete asked himself, as he walked over to it.
Heads, or Tails?
You psoted this in the short stories forum. But I like this story.
short, but nice.
Hmmm. If it's heads, he can stay in my icecream vans freezer.
Great story though :D
Great story though :D
Thats a good ending actually. And its not impossible, it could happen.
Tails.
He breathes a sigh of relief and fires the gun at the kettle.
The bullet ricochets off the kettle, hits a brass pot on the mantlepiece and whizzes straight into his head.
He breathes a sigh of relief and fires the gun at the kettle.
The bullet ricochets off the kettle, hits a brass pot on the mantlepiece and whizzes straight into his head.
froots
Couldn't get to sleep last night, so I made up a quck plan for a short story. It's alright, not one I'm overly impressed with, but I like it all the same. Some people may have greivances over the ending though. Ah well, I like a spot of controversy. Post comments as usual please, and thanks for reading it, if you do. Its very short. :)
Pete stared long and hard at the object he was holding. He gazed in marvel at it, of how harmless it looked to someone not acquainted to it, like the Dodo when he first saw man. The Dodo hadn’t lasted long.
Pete looked at the long, smooth, silver barrel and the beautifully crafted handle, made up of pine wood with a fine polished finish. He opened up the gun, and looked at the six bullets all neatly positioned inside, all in their own little space, just like peas in a pod. Only these little pieces of metal were a lot more dangerous that peas. Alot more.
Pete closed up the gun again, and cocked it. He raised it to his right temple, and slid off the safety.
“What the hell am I doing?” A voice inside him asked. Another replied. “Your going to kill yourself, Pete. You talked yourself into it. Your divorced, your in debt and you are hated by your family. You said you wanted to end it Pete, well, pull the trigger and end it.”
“I can’t, I’m scared, I don’t want to.” Wailed Pete. Whoever said suicide was the cowards way out, he asked himself. Some nimrod that had obviously never contemplated it, probably.
Suddenly he had an idea. He had a two pence coin in his faded jeans pocket, his only remainder from his night out playing poker. He would make one final, decisive bet with it. He pulled it out. I’ll flip it, he told himself. Heads, and I’ll shoot myself. Tails, and I won’t. How ironic, he thought. The sort of money I would never care about, is the money that decides whether I’ll live or die tonight.
He pulled his chair over to the kitchen table, an ugly mahogany surface, which his ex-wife had wanted. She had picked all the furniture in the house, which was nearly all tacky crap. Therefore, when he tried to pawn it off to repay debts, he got next to nothing for it. That bitchh would have been welcome to the house, he thought, instead of taking everything else.
No point thinking of that now, Pete decided, its all history. What I have to do now is toss this damned coin. He stood up, set the gun carefully down on the kitchen table, and positioned the coin above his thumbnail as he made the “tossing position” - as he liked to call it.
He built up the pressure in his thumb, then released it, shoving the 2p up, up into the air. It moved in slow motion almost, as he climbed up to its peak height and then slowly turned, and hurtled towards the floor.
It hit the floor without bouncing, and just lay there, flat in the corner of the room, daring Pete to come and look at it. What would it be, Pete asked himself, as he walked over to it.
Heads, or Tails?
Pete stared long and hard at the object he was holding. He gazed in marvel at it, of how harmless it looked to someone not acquainted to it, like the Dodo when he first saw man. The Dodo hadn’t lasted long.
Pete looked at the long, smooth, silver barrel and the beautifully crafted handle, made up of pine wood with a fine polished finish. He opened up the gun, and looked at the six bullets all neatly positioned inside, all in their own little space, just like peas in a pod. Only these little pieces of metal were a lot more dangerous that peas. Alot more.
Pete closed up the gun again, and cocked it. He raised it to his right temple, and slid off the safety.
“What the hell am I doing?” A voice inside him asked. Another replied. “Your going to kill yourself, Pete. You talked yourself into it. Your divorced, your in debt and you are hated by your family. You said you wanted to end it Pete, well, pull the trigger and end it.”
“I can’t, I’m scared, I don’t want to.” Wailed Pete. Whoever said suicide was the cowards way out, he asked himself. Some nimrod that had obviously never contemplated it, probably.
Suddenly he had an idea. He had a two pence coin in his faded jeans pocket, his only remainder from his night out playing poker. He would make one final, decisive bet with it. He pulled it out. I’ll flip it, he told himself. Heads, and I’ll shoot myself. Tails, and I won’t. How ironic, he thought. The sort of money I would never care about, is the money that decides whether I’ll live or die tonight.
He pulled his chair over to the kitchen table, an ugly mahogany surface, which his ex-wife had wanted. She had picked all the furniture in the house, which was nearly all tacky crap. Therefore, when he tried to pawn it off to repay debts, he got next to nothing for it. That bitchh would have been welcome to the house, he thought, instead of taking everything else.
No point thinking of that now, Pete decided, its all history. What I have to do now is toss this damned coin. He stood up, set the gun carefully down on the kitchen table, and positioned the coin above his thumbnail as he made the “tossing position” - as he liked to call it.
He built up the pressure in his thumb, then released it, shoving the 2p up, up into the air. It moved in slow motion almost, as he climbed up to its peak height and then slowly turned, and hurtled towards the floor.
It hit the floor without bouncing, and just lay there, flat in the corner of the room, daring Pete to come and look at it. What would it be, Pete asked himself, as he walked over to it.
Heads, or Tails?