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He waits. That's what he does. His breathing erratic, his palms sweaty and his eyes darting back and forth. A million and one things are running through his head. It's all come down to this, there's no other way. It has to be done.
This is it. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, decides against it, slips them back in, and opens the door, purposely leaving it unlocked. It's a cold January day with a dull sky and a sharp wind. He lights up a cigarette, realises he doesn't want it, and throws it to the ground, stamping it out.
It's a short walk to the door, but the heavy weight in his coat makes him wish it was shorter. He slips through the door, and almost jumps out of his skin when the chime sounds. He must've jumped quite a bit, since some of the customers are staring right at him. He gives a weak smile, and they return to their browsing.
The shop is relatively empty; it's obviously a slow day. The man behind the counter idly flicks through a magazine, stopping only long enough to serve the odd customer as they approach, then delving back into the land of fast cars and fast women which his choice of literature provides.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now! Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. He keeps his eyes fixed on the assistant, totally ignoring the terrified customers.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant. The bag is finally filled. He goes to collect it from the shaking assistant's hand. Only something stops him. A large man - a wannabe hero - has a hold of him by the waist, and slams him to the ground. Pinned down, the wannabe criminal struggles. The gun, knocked to the floor, is within his reach. His attacker sees it also, and tries to grab it. Too late. It's back in the hands of its owner, and the wannabe hero instantly backs off.
"Take it easy..." he tells him, holding a hand up.
Shaking, our anti-hero can only point the gun at him, his brain won't function enough to let him do anything else.
Then it happens. The shop assistant grabs at him from behind, going for the weapon. Turning around to struggle with him, it goes off. The assistant flies backwards into the liquor bottles, and is instantly doused in cheap whiskey and vodka. The petty crook turns just as the wannabe hero takes a step forward, his first drawn back in a stance of attack. In the blink of an eye, the second shot is fired, and the wannabe hero takes a tumble into a rather large display of canned food, scattering them across the floor of the small corner shop.
He realises what he's done. This was never meant to happen. His smoking weapon empty, he lets it fall from his sweaty fingertips to the floor below. The remaining customers see their chance and hurry for the exit, rushing past as he slides down the counter until he is sitting on the floor, staring into space, his hands trembling. Why did he load the gun? He never meant to use it.
The distant sirens are almost a relief to him. The pressure is off. He can go to jail and get some peace. Almost in tears, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now. Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. The customers scream as he turns, waving the gun around erratically. He's as scared as his newly acquired hostages. A rather large customer takes a step back as the gun is pointed at him.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant, turning back. The bag is handed over the counter. The man stuffs it into his jacket, looks around one last time, and flees into the car park outside to his waiting getaway car.
A dozen sirens fill his ears. Police cars and vans appear from nowhere and are on him in seconds. Dumb struck, he can't even react enough to run; only stand there, gun in hand, a look of shock on his face.
"Drop your weapon! Get down on the floor!"
He can practically feel the crosshairs pointed at his head as the armed officers shout instructions at him. He goes to throw the gun to the ground, but the sudden, unexpected movement gets a reaction from the police - a volley of gunfire, which pins him to the shop window. Gargling with his own blood, sliding down the wall, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Ten pack of Marlborough, please mate."
Money is exchanged. The gun stays in its hiding place.
He leaves. Gets into his car. He had realised it probably wasn't such a good idea after all.
This is it. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, decides against it, slips them back in, and opens the door, purposely leaving it unlocked. It's a cold January day with a dull sky and a sharp wind. He lights up a cigarette, realises he doesn't want it, and throws it to the ground, stamping it out.
It's a short walk to the door, but the heavy weight in his coat makes him wish it was shorter. He slips through the door, and almost jumps out of his skin when the chime sounds. He must've jumped quite a bit, since some of the customers are staring right at him. He gives a weak smile, and they return to their browsing.
The shop is relatively empty; it's obviously a slow day. The man behind the counter idly flicks through a magazine, stopping only long enough to serve the odd customer as they approach, then delving back into the land of fast cars and fast women which his choice of literature provides.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now! Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. He keeps his eyes fixed on the assistant, totally ignoring the terrified customers.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant. The bag is finally filled. He goes to collect it from the shaking assistant's hand. Only something stops him. A large man - a wannabe hero - has a hold of him by the waist, and slams him to the ground. Pinned down, the wannabe criminal struggles. The gun, knocked to the floor, is within his reach. His attacker sees it also, and tries to grab it. Too late. It's back in the hands of its owner, and the wannabe hero instantly backs off.
"Take it easy..." he tells him, holding a hand up.
Shaking, our anti-hero can only point the gun at him, his brain won't function enough to let him do anything else.
Then it happens. The shop assistant grabs at him from behind, going for the weapon. Turning around to struggle with him, it goes off. The assistant flies backwards into the liquor bottles, and is instantly doused in cheap whiskey and vodka. The petty crook turns just as the wannabe hero takes a step forward, his first drawn back in a stance of attack. In the blink of an eye, the second shot is fired, and the wannabe hero takes a tumble into a rather large display of canned food, scattering them across the floor of the small corner shop.
He realises what he's done. This was never meant to happen. His smoking weapon empty, he lets it fall from his sweaty fingertips to the floor below. The remaining customers see their chance and hurry for the exit, rushing past as he slides down the counter until he is sitting on the floor, staring into space, his hands trembling. Why did he load the gun? He never meant to use it.
The distant sirens are almost a relief to him. The pressure is off. He can go to jail and get some peace. Almost in tears, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now. Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. The customers scream as he turns, waving the gun around erratically. He's as scared as his newly acquired hostages. A rather large customer takes a step back as the gun is pointed at him.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant, turning back. The bag is handed over the counter. The man stuffs it into his jacket, looks around one last time, and flees into the car park outside to his waiting getaway car.
A dozen sirens fill his ears. Police cars and vans appear from nowhere and are on him in seconds. Dumb struck, he can't even react enough to run; only stand there, gun in hand, a look of shock on his face.
"Drop your weapon! Get down on the floor!"
He can practically feel the crosshairs pointed at his head as the armed officers shout instructions at him. He goes to throw the gun to the ground, but the sudden, unexpected movement gets a reaction from the police - a volley of gunfire, which pins him to the shop window. Gargling with his own blood, sliding down the wall, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Ten pack of Marlborough, please mate."
Money is exchanged. The gun stays in its hiding place.
He leaves. Gets into his car. He had realised it probably wasn't such a good idea after all.
Still yellow for GAD winners...
No, the anti-canned food pro-porno idea is a good one. A copy of Juggs landing on an old lady's head? Amazing.
MoJoJoJo wrote:
> Hey, I wanted him to crash into something spectacular. I could
> envision the cans flying everywhere, and rolling to a stop at the
> feet of the horrified customers.
Wouldnt it be just as effective if he fell backwards, arms flailing, into the stack of porno mags, and a copy of "swingers montly" landed across his eyes, opened at the centrefold?
No, youre right.
> Hey, I wanted him to crash into something spectacular. I could
> envision the cans flying everywhere, and rolling to a stop at the
> feet of the horrified customers.
Wouldnt it be just as effective if he fell backwards, arms flailing, into the stack of porno mags, and a copy of "swingers montly" landed across his eyes, opened at the centrefold?
No, youre right.
Black Glove wrote:
> Good idea, although I reckon you nicked it from Prince of Persia -
> Sands of Time ;)
-------
True, I have been playing the game like a maniac, but I came up with this concept as an idea for a (really) short film ages ago. I was going to use it on a college project last year, but for that we had to make it a short story and a radio script as well, and I didn't think it'd work as a story.
And what I wrote there didn't turn out as well as I hoped it would, because with a story you have limits in that you have to describe things in a certain way, and write in a certain style which doesn't really work for this sort of thing. But I decided I wanted to write something, and what with playing POP, this was the first idea to come into my head.
> Good idea, although I reckon you nicked it from Prince of Persia -
> Sands of Time ;)
-------
True, I have been playing the game like a maniac, but I came up with this concept as an idea for a (really) short film ages ago. I was going to use it on a college project last year, but for that we had to make it a short story and a radio script as well, and I didn't think it'd work as a story.
And what I wrote there didn't turn out as well as I hoped it would, because with a story you have limits in that you have to describe things in a certain way, and write in a certain style which doesn't really work for this sort of thing. But I decided I wanted to write something, and what with playing POP, this was the first idea to come into my head.
Nice one, MoJo, liked it alot. Especially the "Stop. Rewind." bit which I thought was a nice touch, an original concept. Good one.
Good idea, although I reckon you nicked it from Prince of Persia - Sands of Time ;)
Hey, I wanted him to crash into something spectacular. I could envision the cans flying everywhere, and rolling to a stop at the feet of the horrified customers.
Indeed.
Indeed.
Very good, I liked it lots. An original concept and a great idea - well written to boot.
Just one thing I picked up on that didnt quite work - a large display of tinned food in a small corner shop - no no. You rarely have more than a few cans of food in a corner shop - not big supermarket scale displays of beans.
Just one thing I picked up on that didnt quite work - a large display of tinned food in a small corner shop - no no. You rarely have more than a few cans of food in a corner shop - not big supermarket scale displays of beans.
He waits. That's what he does. His breathing erratic, his palms sweaty and his eyes darting back and forth. A million and one things are running through his head. It's all come down to this, there's no other way. It has to be done.
This is it. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, decides against it, slips them back in, and opens the door, purposely leaving it unlocked. It's a cold January day with a dull sky and a sharp wind. He lights up a cigarette, realises he doesn't want it, and throws it to the ground, stamping it out.
It's a short walk to the door, but the heavy weight in his coat makes him wish it was shorter. He slips through the door, and almost jumps out of his skin when the chime sounds. He must've jumped quite a bit, since some of the customers are staring right at him. He gives a weak smile, and they return to their browsing.
The shop is relatively empty; it's obviously a slow day. The man behind the counter idly flicks through a magazine, stopping only long enough to serve the odd customer as they approach, then delving back into the land of fast cars and fast women which his choice of literature provides.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now! Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. He keeps his eyes fixed on the assistant, totally ignoring the terrified customers.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant. The bag is finally filled. He goes to collect it from the shaking assistant's hand. Only something stops him. A large man - a wannabe hero - has a hold of him by the waist, and slams him to the ground. Pinned down, the wannabe criminal struggles. The gun, knocked to the floor, is within his reach. His attacker sees it also, and tries to grab it. Too late. It's back in the hands of its owner, and the wannabe hero instantly backs off.
"Take it easy..." he tells him, holding a hand up.
Shaking, our anti-hero can only point the gun at him, his brain won't function enough to let him do anything else.
Then it happens. The shop assistant grabs at him from behind, going for the weapon. Turning around to struggle with him, it goes off. The assistant flies backwards into the liquor bottles, and is instantly doused in cheap whiskey and vodka. The petty crook turns just as the wannabe hero takes a step forward, his first drawn back in a stance of attack. In the blink of an eye, the second shot is fired, and the wannabe hero takes a tumble into a rather large display of canned food, scattering them across the floor of the small corner shop.
He realises what he's done. This was never meant to happen. His smoking weapon empty, he lets it fall from his sweaty fingertips to the floor below. The remaining customers see their chance and hurry for the exit, rushing past as he slides down the counter until he is sitting on the floor, staring into space, his hands trembling. Why did he load the gun? He never meant to use it.
The distant sirens are almost a relief to him. The pressure is off. He can go to jail and get some peace. Almost in tears, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now. Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. The customers scream as he turns, waving the gun around erratically. He's as scared as his newly acquired hostages. A rather large customer takes a step back as the gun is pointed at him.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant, turning back. The bag is handed over the counter. The man stuffs it into his jacket, looks around one last time, and flees into the car park outside to his waiting getaway car.
A dozen sirens fill his ears. Police cars and vans appear from nowhere and are on him in seconds. Dumb struck, he can't even react enough to run; only stand there, gun in hand, a look of shock on his face.
"Drop your weapon! Get down on the floor!"
He can practically feel the crosshairs pointed at his head as the armed officers shout instructions at him. He goes to throw the gun to the ground, but the sudden, unexpected movement gets a reaction from the police - a volley of gunfire, which pins him to the shop window. Gargling with his own blood, sliding down the wall, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Ten pack of Marlborough, please mate."
Money is exchanged. The gun stays in its hiding place.
He leaves. Gets into his car. He had realised it probably wasn't such a good idea after all.
This is it. He pulls the keys out of the ignition, decides against it, slips them back in, and opens the door, purposely leaving it unlocked. It's a cold January day with a dull sky and a sharp wind. He lights up a cigarette, realises he doesn't want it, and throws it to the ground, stamping it out.
It's a short walk to the door, but the heavy weight in his coat makes him wish it was shorter. He slips through the door, and almost jumps out of his skin when the chime sounds. He must've jumped quite a bit, since some of the customers are staring right at him. He gives a weak smile, and they return to their browsing.
The shop is relatively empty; it's obviously a slow day. The man behind the counter idly flicks through a magazine, stopping only long enough to serve the odd customer as they approach, then delving back into the land of fast cars and fast women which his choice of literature provides.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now! Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. He keeps his eyes fixed on the assistant, totally ignoring the terrified customers.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant. The bag is finally filled. He goes to collect it from the shaking assistant's hand. Only something stops him. A large man - a wannabe hero - has a hold of him by the waist, and slams him to the ground. Pinned down, the wannabe criminal struggles. The gun, knocked to the floor, is within his reach. His attacker sees it also, and tries to grab it. Too late. It's back in the hands of its owner, and the wannabe hero instantly backs off.
"Take it easy..." he tells him, holding a hand up.
Shaking, our anti-hero can only point the gun at him, his brain won't function enough to let him do anything else.
Then it happens. The shop assistant grabs at him from behind, going for the weapon. Turning around to struggle with him, it goes off. The assistant flies backwards into the liquor bottles, and is instantly doused in cheap whiskey and vodka. The petty crook turns just as the wannabe hero takes a step forward, his first drawn back in a stance of attack. In the blink of an eye, the second shot is fired, and the wannabe hero takes a tumble into a rather large display of canned food, scattering them across the floor of the small corner shop.
He realises what he's done. This was never meant to happen. His smoking weapon empty, he lets it fall from his sweaty fingertips to the floor below. The remaining customers see their chance and hurry for the exit, rushing past as he slides down the counter until he is sitting on the floor, staring into space, his hands trembling. Why did he load the gun? He never meant to use it.
The distant sirens are almost a relief to him. The pressure is off. He can go to jail and get some peace. Almost in tears, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Nobody move!"
The heavy sawn off flies from his coat and into both hands. The shop assistant looks up, looks back at the magazine, then back up again, his eyes suddenly wide with horror as realises he's staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Everything in the till - now. Do it!"
The situation dawns on the assistant, and he finally starts to react, opening the till and stuffing the cash into a small, plastic bag.
Meanwhile, the sawn off toting desperado is sweating buckets. The customers scream as he turns, waving the gun around erratically. He's as scared as his newly acquired hostages. A rather large customer takes a step back as the gun is pointed at him.
"Hurry up!" he demands of the assistant, turning back. The bag is handed over the counter. The man stuffs it into his jacket, looks around one last time, and flees into the car park outside to his waiting getaway car.
A dozen sirens fill his ears. Police cars and vans appear from nowhere and are on him in seconds. Dumb struck, he can't even react enough to run; only stand there, gun in hand, a look of shock on his face.
"Drop your weapon! Get down on the floor!"
He can practically feel the crosshairs pointed at his head as the armed officers shout instructions at him. He goes to throw the gun to the ground, but the sudden, unexpected movement gets a reaction from the police - a volley of gunfire, which pins him to the shop window. Gargling with his own blood, sliding down the wall, he thinks maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
Stop. Rewind.
Does he do it now? Does he wait until the shop empties some more? What if he waits and it only becomes more packed; what if new people come in?
He has to do it now. He approaches the counter, a lump in his dry throat the size of a small rock.
"Ten pack of Marlborough, please mate."
Money is exchanged. The gun stays in its hiding place.
He leaves. Gets into his car. He had realised it probably wasn't such a good idea after all.