The Assassin

The Assassin - Original Writing

Aim:

To write to imagine, explore and entertain.

Chapter 1

He lay on his back sinking into the chocolate mud, gazing at the rain

falling like a sheet of crystal drops across the dim lit velvet sky.

The forest lay enveloped in shadow. The moon shone through the leaves

casting a shattered reflection, shaking violently with the vicious

strikes of the blustery weather. Thin rays of light entering the

enclosure of the forest lit up the mans face. . .

He grinned maliciously in the obscurity of the night showing his

decayed, yellow, warped teeth. His eyes stared, fixed at a nearby

house. His eyes were a soft blue, charming if there hadn't been the

cold, motionless feel to them. His face was, raw and expressionless. A

fresh scar ran down his left cheek, like a bolt of lightening. An

undersized bead of blood trickled down the slit slowly . . . but was

soon washed away by the heavy droplets of the rain. His hair was black

and sprawled across the moist floor: a spider's legs across a white

wall.

The masculine figure lay transfixed on the wet, solid earth, observing

the gentle swaying of the branches above him. He stood up abruptly;

slightly dazed at his surroundings. The rain had calmed to a drizzle.

The man had a broad, built figure.

A car drove along the deserted street, causing the man to stir. He

flashed a glance towards the road. He set off taking fast strides in

the direction of the house. As he got closer, he paused and raised a

muscular arm, leading to a broad, hairy hand clasped around a revolver

tightly and sighted down to the front of the house once again …

Chapter 2

...

... middle of paper ...

... with the deafening sound of the

splattering blood and splintered bone echoed in the stillness, of the

silent night. Within a split second the bullet had seized her life in

an almost volcanic like eruption, draining her limp body down to her

last drop of blood …

Chapter 5

An assassin.

He lifted his rifle and took it apart. Placing it in the pocket of his

soiled coat, he made his way down to the house, where the limp body of

the woman lay drowning in a pool of blood.

Arriving at the front of the uncivilised house, he tranquilly removed

any signs of his presence, lifting the cigarette ends and cartridges

out of the puddles one by one. Silently, he glided to his car without

a care in the world. His conscience did not bother him at all. There

was no change in his cold, motionless, blue eyes.

The end