Hey guys. I got bored today, and wrote up what I hope could be the first part of a series of short stories. Constructive criticism would be appreciated.
It was a calm December evening, the 24th if I recall correctly. The spirit of Christmas was in the air, as carolers moved up and down the streets, spreading their message to all who would listen. Chicago was not a religious city, by any means, but something was different this year. The people were celebrating, enjoying their newfound sense of freedom. Though not everyone was in a celebratory mood this evening. Out of his apartment bloc came one Mr. Phil Rosenberg. He had caught my eye that morning as he sat at his desk, mindlessly filling out paper after paper. Sometimes work gets to the best of men, and they begin to search for a way out.
He walked down the street, his hands dug in to his coat pockets, shielding them from the frigid wind. A scarf was wrapped around his pale face, turned rosy by the cold. All that was left exposed were his two icy blue eyes. A glazed look was in them that particular night, as if his mind was somewhere else. He knew exactly where he was going, but unaware he had begun the trip. He began to make his way south down the avenue; I followed him, to see where he would go. As he pushed through the cold, a trio of children ran past him in the direction he came from, chasing an old basset hound. Such curious things, basset hounds. So humble and unassuming, but can track a man down anywhere. But I digress. Mr. Rosenberg continued to make his way down the avenue, but as he did he felt an unease creep into him, as if something were watching. Everywhere he looked; there was a raven on the roof, or a cluster of pigeons in the gutter. The birds were fascinated with Mr. Rosenberg, it seemed, following him just to see where he would go.
Soon enough those birds had their answer, as we followed Mr. Rosenberg a few blocks further, until he came across an old convenience store. Business was poor, but manageable it seemed, judging by the contrast between the stock inside and broken and battered sign advertising the shop’s existence. As Mr. Rosenberg stepped up to the door, I saw he took notice of a man sitting next to the building. The poor man was clearly starved, as his hollow cheeks highlighted his striking red hair. The man had no home; what food he had was in a shopping cart next to him. The unshaven gent looked up at him with pleading grey eyes.
“Please, sir,” I remember he asked. “do you have some coins for a man down on his luck?”
Mr. Rosenberg looked down at him with a conflicted expression. After a long pause he answered “No. No, I don’t have any coins.” He stepped inside.
It was at this point I walked to the door. The poor man saw me, but didn’t bother to acknowledge it. I was focused on Mr. Rosenberg, who walked up to the young cashier. I watched as his hands, dug so deep in his pockets, were finally removed, revealing a small handgun he promptly pointed at the cashier. He demanded all the money in the register, or he would shoot. The poor child was terrified, frantically stuffing all the cash into a bag he happened to have near him. After 30 seconds of desperate packing the cash was located in the bag, which he handed to Mr. Rosenberg. Pleased with his bounty, he made for the door.
I stepped aside to let him pass, and watched as the homeless man stood up and looked Mr. Rosenberg in the eye. As Phil passed, he realized that the man he looked down on was nearly a head taller than him, and not quite as starving as he appeared.
“What do you think you’re doing,” the poor man said, “taking money from innocent people?”
Mr. Rosenberg wasn’t sure how to respond. After a second of deliberation, he responded thusly. “Sometimes a man needs a little extra to get by. And sometimes he needs to do things he’ll regret.” He then shot the homeless man, and began to run back to his home. As he turned the corner, he took notice that the birds were back, far greater in number than before. Far more curious was the birdseed he had just stepped in.
In a flurry of feathers and pecking beaks, Mr. Rosenberg was swarmed by the birds, who were so determined to torment him it seemed the birdseed was just a good excuse. He finally pointed his gun up and took a shot, scattering the birds. Multiple flying shadows passed over him as he continued his frantic journey, only to be stopped short as he came across the children from before, not one block from his house. He recognized their leader, a small boy from his bloc named Arnold. This wouldn’t end well.
“Mr. Rosenberg?” Arnold asked. “What are you doing with all that money? I thought you weren’t going to be paid until the 15th.”
The man stammered as he desperately tried to come up with a response, but came up short. He was cut off, however, by a low growling noise. The basset hound appeared from within an alley, charging Mr. Rosenberg like a hound from the pits of hell itself. In that moment Mr. Rosenberg forgot about his weapon, forgot about defense. In that moment he panicked at the sight of a creature that refused to be pushed around. He spun on his heel and ran for his apartment as fast as he could. He sped up the block, the dog snapping at his heels every step of the way. As it came within range to bite his foot, he finally reached the steps to his building, flying up inches ahead of the hound. With a quick motion he stepped inside, slamming the door behind him. The barking was muffled now, even though it was just on the other side of that door it was a world away in Mr. Rosenberg’s mind. With a sigh of relief he began to make his way to the staircase, only to find an unexpected face there with him. The homeless man stood in the hall, seemingly unscathed.
I peeked through an adjacent window and watched the scene unfold. “How are you alive?” Mr. Rosenberg stuttered out. “I shot you! You should be dying, or dead?”
The man ignored the question, repeating his earlier query. “As I said before, what do you think you’re doing taking money from people that need it just as bad as you?”
Mr. Rosenberg began to shake, dropping the gun to the floor. “How did you find me here?” He asked, after a pause. “And how did you beat me here?”
The man chuckled, not menacingly as Mr. Rosenberg anticipated, but with a warm-hearted tone that was disturbingly disarming. “Well, my old basset hound’s got a nose that can pick up just about any trail. And the birds’ wings can take me just about anywhere I want to go.”
“Shut up!” Mr. Rosenberg shouted. “You’re not making any sense!” He put his fists up, expecting to beat the man to death with his own hands. He would be sure he was dead this time.
Mr. Rosenberg took two quick steps forward, opening with a lunging right punch. The poor man grabbed his fist, tightening it in his grip. Muscle began to tear, and there was a small crack deep within. A small squeal came from Mr. Rosenberg, as he tried a chop to the man’s neck. This was blocked as well with his free hand, pinning Mr. Rosenberg’s left side to the wall. The man looked Mr. Rosenberg in the eye, and lifted his leg high enough to reach his face. He kicked as hard as he could, knocking the man in the coat out cold. Blood poured from Mr. Rosenberg’s nostrils as he fell to the floor, unaware of the steadily increasing sound of sirens.
The poor man picked up on this sound, and a smile stretched across his face. He walked to the door and opened it, finding his basset hound waiting for him. The poor man picked him up, and carried him down the street, back towards their cart by the convenience store. I couldn’t help but beam as I watched my personal success walk down the avenue. That man is Alistair Mosby, and I am Gabriel. I was sent to teach this man of the gifts he has received, and to show him what it means to be of the Vanguard.
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Topic: To Be of the Vanguard (Read 532 times)