Sentence starter #3: 250 words: DETECTIVE theme

[Doctor Setebos]

You know the drill. Or, actually, maybe you don't. Sentence starters (http://www.colonyofgamers.com/cogforums/tags.php?tag=sentence+starter) are a fairly simple concept. I'll post a sentence. You write everything that follows that sentence. That's it. It's just flash fiction. Make it interesting. Make it compelling. Make it yours.

The word count for this starter is 250 words. Remember: the word count isn't meant to be a hard and fast goal, merely a suggestion. But for those that wish to use sentence starters as true exercises in forced writing, it will be welcome practice in attempting to stick to set goals.

Your contribution for this particular starter should be set within the genre of detective/crime/noir fiction.

So, without further ado, here's your sentence starter:

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed.

[Shadowstorm]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed. He slid down the abandoned house wall and breathed heavily. Sweaty and smelly, he wheezed with satisfaction.

He had been running for some time now over the forest floor and discovered this place just as soon as he was about to give up. You just don't kill nine people and get away with it. He felt angry after what they had done to him. How the hell could they know what he felt like?

He stopped to think just how crazy he was. He had grown noticeably more psychotic ever since the hospitalization. He didn't believe it, of course. He denied it. Hated the idea that other people thought less of him because of his mental state. So what if he lost some marbles upstairs?

He reloaded his weapon. Checked himself. Was he ready? No, he wasn't, he thought. Yes, yes, yes he was, he thought again. He mentally backtracked. Eyes twitched. He didn't make a single step after climbing through the window. Scared, but not for his life. He just didn't give a damn anymore.

Nobody cares for the psychotic. Even the mental institutions gave the subtle impression that they were merely glorified babysitters.

The crickets once again began their singing after the commotion had ceased. A sudden break of a twig shook him out of his thoughts. He had been noticed. Followed. Stalked.

The people were out there. Screams would soon pierce the night.

246 words. I'll probably do another one in the morning. This doesn't feel right.

[Young Al Capone]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed. If he was, the place would be crawling with cops in minutes, he needed to get out.

What kind of fucking cops were these anyway? They just shot Jake after he fell, in cold blood. That never would have never happened a couple of years ago, but who knows whose payroll those cops are on now.

Jake dead just like Diane before him. Carl was alone, but still determined to kill Vergaras. Kill him for everything that had been done in his name over the last couple of years; the drugs and violence, the corrupted police force, Carl’s fiancé, and of course Diane and Jake.

They had failed, and Diane had died right there in his office dressed like a prostitute in a French maid’s uniform, the syringe stuck in her own neck. It was as if Vergaras had known about their plan all along, trapping Diane in his office as soon as she stepped in.

Fifteen minutes ago Vergaras men found Carl and Jake in the derelict apartment complex, they used the escape route; through the office complex and out of the parking garage into the tunnels. Vergaras men had known about that too.

When Carl opened the shade again to assess the situation the reality of it all came into stark contrast. Carl stood there with the window shade pulled back, Jake running towards him with about 7 other men in tow, except now stuck on the front of Jake’s blood soaked jacket was an RCPD badge.

I am rather unsatisfied with this one. I didn't have much time to work on it today, and the detective/crime theme was really difficult for me. I see the challenge as a good thing though.

[Doctor Setebos]

246 words. I'll probably do another one in the morning. This doesn't feel right.

I am rather unsatisfied with this one. I didn't have much time to work on it today, and the detective/crime theme was really difficult for me. I see the challenge as a good thing though.It's a tough genre. I probably shouldn't have sprung this one on the group so early. But don't worry too much about it - both contributions were excellent. :)

Just sit tight. #5 is going to be a free-for-all. No word limits, no genres. I think every 5th one might be a FFA to give everyone a chance to relax and take a breather. Additionally, it will allow some a chance to contribute again that decided to bow out of some genre starters.

[Young Al Capone]

Sounds good, I have really been enjoying this so far.

Is there some sort of format we are going to stick to? Like starting the week with 150 words and ending it with a free-for-all, gradually increasing the word limit each day. Just wondering really.

[Doctor Setebos]

Is there some sort of format we are going to stick to?You're essentially at the mercy of my whims.

[shunoshi]

You're essentially at the mercy of my whims.

Excellent, keeps things interesting that way. ;)

I do plan on doing a write-up for this tonight. I'm having trouble coming up with a good situation. Noir is not something I've attempted before.

[Doctor Setebos]

Excellent, keeps things interesting that way. ;)

I do plan on doing a write-up for this tonight. I'm having trouble coming up with a good situation. Noir is not something I've attempted before.That reminds me of something I should probably stress at some point (likely in the sticky WG topic). Just because new starters continually show up, doesn't mean the old ones go anywhere. They'll still be around for reference, and just in case someone wants to contribute to a previous genre (though a few will be repeated as time goes on). So no one should in any way feel rushed to contribute to an existing starter for fear they will be left behind or some such nonsense.

And I'm not insinuating that you are, it just made me think of that. ;)

[shunoshi]

And I'm not insinuating that you are, it just made me think of that. ;)

That's alright. I'm trying to force myself to write a bit every day and its a hard habit to get into. These exercises help a lot with giving me direction.

[National Kato]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn’t noticed. The streetlamps limned the slats, gilded fingers reaching out for his face as if blind, searching for details and distinctions slowly fading as darkness reclaimed the small office. It was an amateur’s error, not checking the shades, but time was of the essence and Declan was a prompt man, if nothing more.

He returned to the oak desk, opened the steel lighter that had spent the last fifteen months in hock, lit it, and set it down next to the ink well. The dervish flame danced atop the silver keepsake, a nagging reminder of his predicament. Fifteen months. Better to focus on the task at hand, Declan thought, but his gaze kept returning to the lighter, its shadows bounding about upon the scattered documents and notes like impetuous echoes of all his failures. Declan was a penitent man, if nothing more.

For Declan, Should The Long Night Ever Prevail. The inscription on the steel casing, for all its effortless and flattering script, sent deep the painful reminder of her lies. The very impression he felt – rather, the absence against his palm when he gripped it in nostalgia brought all those words back. The long night had done more than prevail over these past months; it had conquered and claimed his very world, spreading its dark tendrils throughout, coming to rest with a sharp, cold grip on his heart. Declan was a prideful man, but even he had his limits.

Opening the rightmost drawer of the leather-topped antique, Declan’s gaze found his prize, right where he had hoped it would be. Perhaps now, at long last, the dawn.



.

[crazyD]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed.

"God," Father O'Rilley said, bringing his hands together and dropping to his knees, "if it is your divine will, please make it so I wasn't noticed."

Suddenly, the clouds broke, and a large hand appeared, making an "OK" sign.

"SURE THING, BUDDY," a booming voice echoed out.

He quickly adjusted his vestments and rushed to the door. While Mad Declan Flannery did not notice him through the blinds, he surely heard God's voice.

The Father jumped into his car, a rusty '58 Chevy, and slammed his foot on the gas, just as Flannery stepped out of the warehouse, tommy gun blazing into the night sky.

When Father O'Rilley got back to his office, the first thing he noticed was the smoke. His first thought was that Flannery beat him to the office, but then realized that it was just his assistant, lounging in his recliner.

"God, why must you appear as a burning bush in my office?" O'Rilley said. "That gets me everytime."

"SORRY BUDDY," God replied. "OLD HABITS DIE HARD."

"That's what she said!" O'Rilley called out, referring to a nun they both knew. It was an inside joke, and I do not plan on getting into the details, but it centered around the use of the word "habit" as a pun for the nun's hat.

God chuckled loudly, then shrugged his branches in a solemn manner. They now knew who was behind the murders, but still had a long case ahead of them.

[crazyD]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn’t noticed. The streetlamps limned the slats, gilded fingers reaching out for his face as if blind, searching for details and distinctions slowly fading as darkness reclaimed the small office. It was an amateur’s error, not checking the shades, but time was of the essence and Declan was a prompt man, if nothing more.

He returned to the oak desk, opened the steel lighter that had spent the last fifteen months in hock, lit it, and set it down next to the ink well. The dervish flame danced atop the silver keepsake, a nagging reminder of his predicament. Fifteen months. Better to focus on the task at hand, Declan thought, but his gaze kept returning to the lighter, its shadows bounding about upon the scattered documents and notes like impetuous echoes of all his failures. Declan was a penitent man, if nothing more.

For Declan, Should The Long Night Ever Prevail. The inscription on the steel casing, for all its effortless and flattering script, sent deep the painful reminder of her lies. The very impression he felt – rather, the absence against his palm when he gripped it in nostalgia brought all those words back. The long night had done more than prevail over these past months; it had conquered and claimed his very world, spreading its dark tendrils throughout, coming to rest with a sharp, cold grip on his heart. Declan was a prideful man, but even he had his limits.

Opening the rightmost drawer of the leather-topped antique, Declan’s gaze found his prize, right where he had hoped it would be. Perhaps now, at long last, the dawn.



.


How fucking weird. I totally posted my story featuring a character named "Declan" before reading yours.

[National Kato]

Declan's a great name. :)

[shunoshi]

How fucking weird. I totally posted my story featuring a character named "Declan" before reading yours.

Whoa, that is messed up. I've never even heard of that name before and you both used it....

[Wasson_]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed. It was just a short glance, but he knew she had made him. He had been getting reckless the past three days, Downing's two weeks of work were in complete jeopardy now if she really suspected him of tailing her. There was another problem though, his feelings of dread were pin-pricked with the most heart felt relief he had ever felt in his life...and he couldn't understand why.

It was that morning when the man who only introduced himself as "Mr. N" called, he had woken up stared at that messy room and though about how much he fucking hated it all the more now. Mr. N had no idea what he had done for Mr. Downing, sent him on a quest to watch such a heavily creature on a daily basis, do nothing more than go about her daily business...save for that one day he couldn't find her for the life of him. Enamored though he was, Downing knew that N's suspicious were justified...just where the hell did she go and why had he warmed up to her so quickly?

That night Downing sat and watched the ballgame like any other man would have, he would glance at the phone every so often knowing that Mr. N would contact him again. It was inevitable.
"Mr Downing...what can you tell me?"

"It's hard to say, nothing unusual except for on the 12th...I couldn't find her, not a single damn trace."

"The 12th you say? That fits with what we've also come to understand. Please, Mr Downing, I have one last request, we'll need you to confront her tomarrow at the Bistro on Edwards Ave. We don't know exactly when..."

Downing interrupted, "What exactly are you trying to pull here mister?"

"Why, Mr. Downing...I'm not trying to pull anything, just meet her and introduce yourself as James Vaughn, trust me Mr. Downing it'll be quite a simple matter.

So Downing did as he was told, quite simply he met the woman, introduced himself as James Vaughn and she quickly whisked him away to her apartment.

"So Jimmy, what do you do for work?"

"Oh I work down by the docks...used to do some construction now and then but I got tired of that."

"You have been laid off recently?"

"What? No, whater ya talkin about?"

"Your eyes have been upon me, Jimmy...I've felt them. I feel all the eyes that fall upon me."

Suddenly Downing knew things were far stranger than what he could comprehend. "...What?", He wanted to step back, but he couldn't. She lead him over to her bed, her feeding area. Gently sat him down and began to remove his clothes, only his terror matched his euphoria...completely oblivious as to what was truly happening. Dinner time.

BLAM!

The sound reported throughout the building. A silver plated .45 expertly fired by Mr. N himself. Now slowly falling to his side post being leveled directly at "her" head.
"Your a weak man, Mr. Downing...but there are many like you, so do not confuse my congratulating you with assisting me, er, "us" as scorn. Would you?"

Not entirely back yet Downing struggled against his unnatural mental state, "I...I ah, am so...what the hell did you do to her!?"

Mr. N shook his head, "come now, she's not even our species...a wolf in sheep's clothing, nothing more or less my good Mr. Downing. Your lucky it's a young one..."

[crazyD]

That was OK, Wasson, but you missed the main point, which was to name a character "Declan".

[shunoshi]

Wrote this late last night and totally blew the word count out of the water again...oh well the Noir genre was challenge enough. :o

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed. He cursed under his breath, irritated that he could make such a rookie mistake after so many years on the force. Sam had been following Senator Williams for just over three weeks and all his work was finally coming to fruition, if he hadn’t just blown his cover by having the window shade wide open.

Sam lightly pried the blinds apart to get a quick peek outside. “You’re info better be right, Frankie,” he thought. Seeing the senator outside his room was the first sign of activity in over 48 hours. By the looks of things the senator must not have noticed him, but it was obvious he was waiting for something or someone.

Sam sighed in relief and dug into an inner coat pocket of his old trench and retrieved an off-white hanky that had seen heavy use. He wiped his nose, sniffling. These motels were all the same roach-infested, grimy, shit holes. The layers of dust always aggravated Sam’s allergies. “I’ll have to remind Nancy to throw this in the wash,” he pondered in mild disgust, replacing the dingy rag in his pocket. He produced a dented pack of Lucky Strikes from the same pocket, pulled a cigarette out, and screwed it between his dry lips. With a deft twist of his wrist he lit a match off the rough metal plating on the window sill. The pungent odor of sulfur filled the room and Sam smiled at the familiar scent. “Big improvement over the stink in here.”

When Sam first checked into the room a few weeks prior, it smelled like a cross between a locker room and Foxy Tails, the local strip joint. An extra $50 on the side could buy just about anything a man could need there. With the amount of action the motel had seen these couple weeks Sam was surprised they didn’t change the sign to 'Brothel'. Even the senator showed up once or twice with a sleazy call girl on his arm.

At that thought Sam peered through the window again, a wide grin forming on his unshaven face. He reached out and grabbed his camera from the bed, “Showtime.”

[Khrymsyn]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn’t noticed. Not for his sake, mind you, but for the sake of his client. The P.I. had been tailing Father Eugene Paulson for 2 weeks now, and it’s become almost remarkably obvious that Paulson’s priesthood was nothing but a cover. There was no way he was losing the bastard now.

*BAM*BAM*BAM*

Jayson snapped out of his moment of reflection as the thin wooden door to his room reverberated the angry pounding coming from the other side.

“Open up! This is the police. You have 10 seconds to respond or we are coming in”

Shit, Jayson thought. Why would they be here? He was so close to having the dirt needed on the “Reverend” now, and getting dragged to the station was not a setback that could be easily recovered from. His options were limited, as there was only 2 large windows that wouldn’t open, and a small, bathroom window that would.

He grabbed his camera, revolver, and notebook and bolted for the bathroom. Jayson’s head and shoulders were out the bathroom window, when he heard the door to the motel room smash behind him. One strong push and the P.I. found himself face down on concrete behind his room. Turning to his left and running, he could hear the yells of frustration and confusion coming from behind him.

Jayson heard a lound snarl, “THERE HE IS!!!”. He glanced over his left shoulder. No one was chasing him. What the hell?


Count, 250!

[Jeffool]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed. Harris instantly fell to the floor and put his back against the wall. He knew it was Gettis' car pulling up, he knew it. He heard Gettis' shoes tap on the concrete outside. He couldn't help but remember sitting just like this, with his back to the counter, playing while his mother stood on the other side, cooking. He would hear his mother's heels click against the kitchen floor as she walked around. Please, just keep walking! Don't stop! The footsteps stopped directly behind him. Harris looked up over his shoulder to see the shadow of a man imposed on the shades. He looked around the room nervously, to one side, then the other, looking for a weapon, then, at the door... The door! He hadn't locked the door!

Scrambling to his knees he reached for the door knob just as it burst open! Gettis walked in smiling a wicked smile while looking down at Harris, oh his knees. "Well well well, Father Harris. How are you, padre?" The smile slowly faded from Gettis' face, then it instantly flashed anger. Gettis' fist made a dull sound as it struck Harris' jaw. It sounded just like a mound of dough hitting a counter; like his mother was making pie. He hated pie.

Raising himself back to his knees, Harris raised his palms to Gettis, "Mr. Gettis, please, no, you don't understand. It's not my fault! Hear me out!"

"Not your fault?! I guess since you're a man of God it was fate, right? Fate that made you do what you did to that boy? You sick son of a bitch!"

Father Harris pleaded to Gettis, "Why? Oh, why? Please, you have me now, please, don't!"

"Don't? Father, after what you did to that boy, I'm just doing the Lord's work."

"P-please! It's not for man to administer the Lord's punishment!"

Detective Gettis' face twisted into disgust. "You're the Christian here. Forgive me." And again, the sound of dough hitting the counter top. Gettis leered a huge creepy smile on his face, taking pleasure in his work while stomping on the priest. All Harris could think of was his mother's big, creepy smile when she put the pie in the stove. "Declan, come with mommy. Mommy wants to play." Harris just laid there, confused, his stomach in the most painful knots imaginable, waiting for it to end.

For more adventures of Detective Gettis...
Watch the amazing film, Chinatown (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071315/)!
http://filmfanatic.org/reviews/wp-content/uploads/2007/09/jake.JPG

[crazyD]

Hah! He hated pie. Genius!

[Mr. Murphy]

He snapped the window shade shut, praying he wasn't noticed.

But he was.

Shots punctured the wall like new stars in the night sky. Shards of plaster showered "Big" Declan Block as he crouched in front of his desk, catching in his hair and whitening his face with dust. Soon entire constellations were blossoming as his office danced and splintered all around him. Luckily, Big D had replaced the front panel of his large mahogany desk with a bulletproof plate.

The shots were coming from the back wall, behind his desk. The rear of the building faced the open plate glass of the all night diner next door. The only reason someone would be shooting at him from back there was if they knew about the bulletproof plate. They had inside information. He had been set up.

And only one person knew about the bulletproof steel. Conner.

The shots tapered off, his office now flooded with the light from the street lamps. Immediately a powerful ringing replaced the continuous cacaphony of gunshots. He waited, tensed like a coiled spring, for the gunmen to make their way inside, to check on their handiwork. That was okay. He had some handiwork of his own that he was quite proud of.

Slowly, he eased the hammer back on his .45.