Short Story Mania

Child's Play

I've been toying with the art of imagination, when I wrote this.

He took a deep breath; tried to slow down his erratic breathing. He pressed his back against the cold, rough concrete wall behind him and took another deep breath. When his heartbeat had slowed, he moved his head towards the corner of the wall. He looked around it but quickly pulled back, when the silence was ripped apart by several gunshots. He instinctively tightened his grip around the cold steel in his hands. Breathe in. Breathe out. He made himself loosen the grip slightly, relaxed in his cramping arms and waited patiently for the salvo to pass. When it did, he moved away from the wall, raised his weapon, aimed and shot. One. Two. Three times. He flung himself behind the wall, not knowing if he had hit his targets. Two muffled thuds were heard. He cautiously looked around the wall again, pulled back, waited a few moments and then moved out in the open. He was slightly crouched, so he could act fast, if he had not incapacitated every shooter.

Crouching along the walls, he made it to the end of the short hall. It widened in both sides, creating ideal places from where it was easy to defend the armored door a few meters from him. At each of those places lay a man. He walked over to the man to his right, shot him in the head, turned around and did the same with the other man. Walking towards the armored door, he looked down at the man slumped besides it. Crimson blood stained the otherwise dull grey concrete wall. Easily picking the armored door's lock, he opened it and made his way inside.

The floor creaked under his black boots; it was made out of dark wood. He took another step, all the while making sure he placed his feet lightly. The room he had entered was low-ceilinged and smelled slightly stuffy. A large, black bookcase filled with books and various trinkets like porcelain sculptures of animals and the occasional plant was to the left of him and to the right was a wooden desk. It was a few shades darker than the floor and looked new. A lone white lamp was placed on it, and behind the desk was, what looked like a black leather office chair. It looked deserted, and, if the bookcase hadn't been filled and the room had smelled dusty, he would have thought, that it hadn't been used for years. He turned his back to said bookcase and took a few steps. A slight creaking was the only sound, and it seemed to echo off the walls even after he had stopped moving. He calmly started turning around but was stopped by a deep masculine voice.

"Don't move." He tensed, but didn't move any further.

"Now, place your gun on the floor and kick it away from you – slowly." He bent down and did as he was told. The other man laughed, a harsh and raspy sound, which ended just as quickly, as it had started.

"Now, turn around." He hesitated, but then turned around; he would have a better chance of survival, if he was facing the man. The man was tall, had dull grey eyes and greasy black hair. He was holding a gun, which was pointed at the, now unarmed, man's chest.

"Now, if you move I'll kill you and ..." He had known the man for a little over five minutes, but he was already fed up with the black-haired man's way of starting sentences, and before he could stop himself, he had cut the other man off.

"Let me guess: If I don't move you'll kill me anyway?" The remark was dripping with sarcasm, and it made the black-haired man glare at him. Realizing his mistake, he snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.

"Was that a suggestion? Because I might take you up on that." The glare turned into a smirk, when he didn't answer.

"Thought so. Now, put your hands in the air." The black-haired man accompanied the order with a gesture with the gun. The other man obeyed, albeit a bit reluctantly. He was unarmed, and he was becoming a bit desperate. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead, and he had so much adrenaline coursing through his body, that he was shaking slightly. If he didn't get a weapon soon, he would ... His eyes flickered away from the threat in front of him, searching the room. His eyes landed on his own weapon. It was just out of reach, but if he lunged, he might be able to ...

"BANG!"

"Bang! You're dead!" The shrill cry startled the child out of his thoughts. His 'gun' lay a meter or so away. It was a detailed pierce of wood with a small, round pierce of black rubber as a trigger. His dad had made it for him, and he was proud of having painted it a metallic black all by himself. He looked at the other child in front of him. Dark brown hair was fairly ruffled, and he held a wooden 'gun'. It was cruder than his own was, but his friend was satisfied with it.

"I am not." He told the other child firmly, eyeing his 'gun'. "The good guys never die!"

"Who says you are the good guy? It's my turn!" His friend stamped his foot as if to emphasize his opinion. He shook his head vigorously.

"I just became the good guy – not even ten minutes have passed!" He said. They had started playing when his friend came over for a sleepover, but he was sure, it was only a few minutes, since they had started playing 'agents'.

"Stop bickering, boys! Come down; it's dinnertime!" Yelled his mother from the kitchen downstairs, and as if on cue his stomach growled loudly. When the vibrations subsided, he felt his hunger. His friend took a deep breath through his nose.

"It smells good. I wonder what it is ...?" He sniffed, and instantly his mouth watered.

"It's lasagna," he told his friend. The other boy looked excited. They started making their way downstairs, and as his friend passed him, the other boy gripped his shoulder and said:

"When we're done eating, I am going to be the good guy."

Been away for a long time, it seems. I've been busy, I guess ...

Anyone even out there anymore?

Well, anyways!

Tell me what you think, please!

I'm curious.

~ Alyssmooney.