The exercise:
Write about: the arsonist.
First day back went well. No major issues (or minor, actually) and I didn't have too much trouble getting back into the rhythm of the job.
Feeling very sleepy right now though, so I best get to it.
Mine:
No. I don't do that anymore. That's not me. I'm a good boy.
I don't play with matches now. They are not toys. I know better. The nice men taught me that. No more tiny little fire sticks for me.
Gasoline? Stinky stuff. Gets everywhere. All sloshy and spilly. Bad news. Bad, bad news. Leave it alone.
The nice lady at the store won't sell me fireworks anymore. We have an understanding. It's so dry out there in the woods. Hasn't rained in so long. Bad idea.
I'm a good boy, can't you see? No more fires for me. I... what? No, you're wrong. Maybe you're crazy? I don't know. Don't look at me like that. That's not nice. Point those mean eyes at somebody else.
Nuh uh. I don't know what you're talking about. I don't smell no smoke.
4 comments:
It seems like your narrator is protesting just a little bit too much about his innocence and how much he's learned about not setting fires... but maybe that's just because he knows he'll be the first to be blamed? I suspect not, which I what I think you were going for :) I like the descriptions of the tools he's used previously though, showing off knowledge even though it makes him look more guilty!
[Sorry, had to split it across two.]
The arsonist
Post office clerks put up signs saying 'Position closed'. The security guard, who's been eyeing me since he saw me approaching through the window tightens his grip on his nightstick and his expression hardens. "Time to leave, Mac," he says. "It's not like you're posting anything."
It's raining outside and the city, when cold and wet, is an old, old friend but I was hoping for the warmth and light for a little longer. I shift my weight, feeling my muscles protest and this raincoat tear a little more at the seams. Something I think it only rains when I wear it, which is nominative determinism for you. I look at the security guard and I can see that he's itching for a fight. Must be something bad going on at home, but that's true of half the people in this city. I sigh and trudge outside into the early evening, where the light is fading to gloom.
Secretaries turn off typewriters and put on their coats. The building across the way, the one I'm here to keep an eye on tonight, starts to empty. The stream of humanity walking out of the narrow doors -- the building was built in the days when malnourishment and overwork kept people short and thin -- is a constant flow. The warmth of the lights behind them puts me in mind of a Bosch painting; the exile from the Garden of Eden perhaps. Umbrella are unfurled with aggression and thrust up into the sky and it's a wonder that no-one loses an eye or gets scratched across the face. I start to count but then give up. I turn up my collar and feel it fall back down; I lost the stays for it years ago and never got them replaced. Now the dry-cleaners would sooner burn it than wash it.
Janitors padlock the gates for security guards to patrol. Gates is a bit strong, but the doors remind me of that: they have decorative ironwork across the wood that, coincidentally, helps to make it harder to break in. Which is the thing that's been puzzling me about this latest crime-wave: all the buildings that have been burned down have been built to keep intruders out. I'd have suspected an inside job except that it's been one a night for a week now, which is either the world's best interview candidate or... a different kind of inside job. Though what Monkeybutt could possibly want with burning down these buildings is anyone's guess. There's a third option, but I'm not thinking much of it at the moment: there's a gang doing it. It just seems... unlikely. The last of the lights go out in the building and I squeeze myself into the shadows in the brickwork of the post-office and settle to wait for some sign of how the next light in there is going to start.
And bachelors phone up their friends for a drink while the married ones turn on a chatshow. Which is what I'd be doing if I had any friends, or had more than an ex-wife. Well, I do still have her complete set of teeth, which is more than a lot of people get as a memory of a marriage, I suppose, but it's not like you can take them to the pub with you. You can watch chat-shows with them, but I hate chat-shows. I see enough of the worst of the world as it is, without needing to see it paraded before me on television as well.
I smell the astringent smell of petrol first, which is lucky as I have enough time to turn my face away from the building before the whoomph happens. A blast of heat hits me, and when I turn back the roof is already on fire. It makes no sense -- there was no time to soak a building like that between the lights going off and... well, coming back on again. Something odd is going on here. I see a dark shape standing off to the edge of the fire and leap to a conclusion: this is the arsonist. I step out of the shadows, readying for hot pursuit.
And they'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow.
Greg - yes, that's what I was going for :)
Is the stuff in italics from a song? It works well, whatever it is.
A lot of great descriptions and atmosphere here, which you have been excelling in lately. Really enjoyed this.
It's originally from Del Amitri, but I happen to like Mesh's cover: Nothing ever happens. You might remember it, it was one of Del Amitri's biggest hits.
Glad you spotted it :)
Post a Comment