Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Homework

So I have a creative writing assignment.  One line assignment - Write the first chapter of a book.  Oh, JUST the first chapter?  The one where everything begins?  Where you get your first taste of the characters?  Why not give me something HARD instead.

Luckily, I spent no time thinking about this assignment and it's almost due.  So I was brainstorming with Chana (http://curiousjew.blogspot.com/) and she started talking about Milton and Paradise Lost and Dante's 34 levels of Hell. And tons and tons of other really smart stuff that I didn't get. 

After my eyes finally unglazed, I realized she made an excellent point about starting a story in the middle - thus giving you the ability to go both forwards AND backwards.  I loved it. 

Four hours later I realized I wasn't going to be able to write it.  I found out even non-writers can suffer from writer's block. So back to the drawing board we went.  And came up with something else.

Since Chana helped come up with the idea, and expressed an interest in reading "the book" (though I kept telling her there isn't going to be anything beyond a first chapter, she seems to have faith in me writing something more) and since I've become some sort of lunatic who opens themselves up to public ridicule, I decided to post the chapter here and...well I'm not sure about the and.  But who can really understand the mind of a crazy person

Note - I don't know a thing about guns and everything here is based upon research I did on the internet.  If anything is wrong...call it writer's license.  And no, i'm not really happy with it.  But don;t let me cloud your opinions. 

So without further ado, Chapter One of "Untitled"Have at it.
 


PROLOGUE.

A professional treats his craft with the utmost level of seriousness.  There is no room for levity.  Or sloppiness.  Only the cold hearted perfection of a dancer or sculptor.  A true artist never treats his work like an afterthought.

And so, despite its perfect state, the man known to most only as The Shooter disassembled his Swiss made sniper rifle one more time.  He cleaned each part meticulously, almost lovingly, with gun oil and ran his bore brush through the barrel until each piece gleamed like they had just been manufactured.  He wiped off the excess oil, put away his cleaning implements, and carefully placed the broken down pieces into a specially designed duffel bag.  The Shooter took a moment to marvel at the wonders of Swiss manufacturing.  They made fine watches and even finer weapons.  Reliable at over a thousand yards.   After, he took the .762 mm rounds and loaded the magazines, placing them into the bag as well. 

A professional and his craft.

The Shooter packed an overnight bag with a change of clothes, toiletries and something to sleep in.  Food and drink for his ride went into a small cooler, placed on the floor of the driver side seat of his nondescript American made truck.  The truck was in his windowless garage, free from the prying eyes of nosy neighbors.  The Shooter never took chances.

The overnight bag and duffel containing his tool went on the floor of the backseat.  A 9mm Sig Sauer went under the driver's seat.  He didn't expect to get pulled over and searched (he was, after all. well practiced in the art of nondescript) but one could never be too careful these days.

He left the garage and went back into the house, a simple three bedroom ranch with a nice view of a quiet street.  A house for a nice family and a dog.  Except this one held a cold-hearted killer.

The Shooter went through the house one more time, even though he knew it was clean.  He made sure that anyone giving the place a proper search wouldn't find anything,  If all went to shit, they would eventually find the house.  

And so he went through the house, room by room, foot by foot until he was satisfied it contained no traces.  He then went back to the garage and got behind the wheel of his truck.  He checked the gas gauge, knowing it was full, and only then pressed the button to open the garage door.  He was momentarily blinded by the late morning sun,  He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a case containing a pair of Ray-Ban wayfarers.  He then started the engine, pulled out to the driveway and closed the garage door behind him.  He used his specially designed remote to arm the alarm in his house. 
The Shooter was not a believer.  In anything.  He did jobs for money.  He just happened to be extremely proficient at his job.  He took it to another level.  So he didn't accept this job out of some ideological thought process.  He didn't really care, to be honest.  He accepted because of the amount he was being paid.  A small fortune.  Stupid money, really.  But, he reasoned, you get what you pay for.  And these guys were getting the best.

He turned on the gps unit, pre-loaded with two destinations - the nondescript hotel he would stay at tonight and the final destination.  And off he went.

***********************************************************************

Half the country away, the man who had hired The Shooter swallowed two more antacid pills and washed it down with his lukewarm coffee.  Though his stomach was shot to hell, he knew it was the right thing.  The world was full of wrongs that needed to be righted.  And he was the man who had to take care of such things. 

Maybe he would be vilified by some, but so be it.  He knew what had to be done and by God he had the balls to do it.  He took the last swallow of his coffee, grimaced, and picked up the phone.  There were still arrangements that needed to be made.

***********************************************************************

200 miles away from The Shooter's house, FBI Special Agent Mary Hartley sat in the kitchen area of her small studio apartment, reading the Times, drinking badly brewed coffee and wondering, not for the first time, why she was stillworking for the Bureau.  Thirty-two years old, no man, no kids and barely any friends.  "I'm an old maid," she said aloud to the empty room.

It wasn't too late, she thought.  She could get out, find a career that would let her have a life.  A normal life.  With a family, white picket fence, the whole nine.

Her cell phone buzzed on the table next to her.  She looked at the number.  It was the Director.  She picked up.

"I sent a car to your apartment. It's outside.  Pack a bag and get your ass in it.  We've got something very big." He clicked off.  The Director wasn't one for mincing his words.

And just like that, the buzz was back.  Visions of normalcy faded, replaced by the adrenaline juicing in her veins.  This is what she lived for.  The thrill of the hunt.  The "somethnig very big".  Mary finished her coffee, set the cup in the sink and went to pack, game face on.

***********************************************************************

The Target watched the people moving all around him.  He couldn't herlp but smile.  These people who all trusted him beyond measure.  Well not him per se, but rather what he represented.  What he stood for. 
He ate his small breakfast.  Fruits and cheese.  He didn't imbibe in vices, whether it be strong drink or caffiene.  That was the way.  And he stood for the way.

He felt the anticipation growing inside him.  Two more days, less, and the event would take place which would begn the process they had all been waiting for. Mecca, Medina and, finally, America.  The next step towards the Ascention.  Praise Allah. 

The Target smiled again and returned to his breakfast.

7 comments:

  1. Pretty good. I cant say i would finish reading this book, but its decent. Just run spell check before handing it in. In the 6th paragraph don;t should be changed to don't, and in the 4th to last, somethnig should be something. Oh and the 5th to last, herlp should be help

    ReplyDelete
  2. It's NOT MY FAULT. Blogspot has the SHITTIEST spellcheck. I made the mistake of doing it here and not in Word. Thanks for the tips though.

    ReplyDelete
  3. What dont you like about bloggers spell check?The only annoying thing is that when you turn it on, and the words that need to be corrected are highlighted, you cant fix those words by changing some letters without turning spell check off.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I hate blogger spellcheck cause it seems to miss spelling errors.

    BTW - I agree that this is shit. I hate it. if I had more time I'd rip it up and do somethng else. Insead i'll just clean it up and hope for the best.

    ReplyDelete
  5. I dunno, I never seemed to have a problem with that. I wanna try using my microsoft word to make a post. In word 2010 you can post directly to ur blog. Never done it before.

    Its not that bad. Any jewish publishing house would sign you in a heart beat. It reads just like a yair winestock novel. The second part is the part which i think needs the most cleaning.

    ReplyDelete
  6. who the hell is yair weinstock? I was going for Lee child and i end up with yair Weinstock? bad times.

    ReplyDelete
  7. He is one of those so called jewish 'authors'. The way it works is that he goes and reads a normal novel, then takes it and changes some key parts. The names all become jewish, the main character speaks to a rosh yeshiva instead of a girl friend, and some other small changes. I used to read his stuff back when i was in 2&3rd grade.

    ReplyDelete