Creative Writing: The Assassin

He was lying there still and calm, oblivious to the rain pouring

through the holes in the rusted roof. The warehouse was abandoned

many years ago, the air was thick with dust making it difficult to

breathe; the smell was like burnt toast. The disused machinery

loomed out of the dark corners, covered in cobwebs ghostly images.

The Assassin was unaware of his immediate surroundings, his mind

focused on his mission. His vantage point gave him a perfect line of

fire.

A neglected road that was parallel to the decaying wasteland where

homeless people built their makeshift homes lay between the Assassin,

his targets hideout.

He heard a rumble in the distance; it was coming closer by the second,

as a car emerged from the night.

He was surprised by a car’s unusual presence on the decrepit road,

what did this mean, was this to be his target?

The car passed unnoticed by the cardboard city dwellers, it travelled

down the road disappearing into the night, the cars lights looked like

the savage eyes of a trained killer dog.

Still he waited; again he sighted his rifle, waiting for a sign to

make his move.

Out of the darkness the rain began to fall like meteors crashing down

on the dented rusted roof, as the storm closed in. Flashes of

lightening lit up the dark clouds as the thunder became like the drums

of Hell.

The Assassin watched like a hawk; there was no sign of his target; the

house was engulfed by the darkness, lit only by intermittent flashes

of lightening.

The engine noise returned of the car with its eyes shut slowly passed

once more, mud from the wasteland covering the licence plates. The

car was old and coming to its end the engine grumbled as it came to a

stop outside the house.

The parked car’s engine switched off, the rain poured down the cracked

windscreen as the windows slowly began to cloud up.