A Collection of Short, Sad Stories

A Storm

It was one AM. She could practically feel the clash in the heavens, as the thunder struck, however muted. It was a beautifully cheographed fight, the lightning fast and agile, the thunder roaring back in anger. It was clear who was winning. A jagged streak of lightning struck, and the thunder retaliated. She looked out her window, and she observed. The occasional raindrop landed against her window, and she listened to the argument of the heavens. It looked oh so different then the way they are drawn. Slanted, maybe, but jagged in the sense of unpredictable, and always going down. It was always a fleeting glimpse. You could never see a lightning bolt, you saw it as much as you saw an assasin strike. Virtually never. It struck at it's whim, and you could never find it while you were searching for it. When the hunter's away, the assasin will play. A silent lightning bolt struck, lighting up the sky but for just a moment. And the thunder roared, annpuncing the lightning's presense too late. The noise was comforting. The pitter patter of the rain was rhythmic, and as she was doing her homework, she drifted off to sleep...

not realising the storm was the perfect opportunity for a murderer to climb into her window.

And there she was found the next morning, splate on her homework, blood all over her precious papers, laptop and everything else, with a small sadistic smile on her face. Her pencil was bloody Another body was next to her. This one had its eyes gorged out. Its heart stabbed into. Two eyeballs lay on the table, coating it with blood. They looked the security footage. A man claimed up, and he whispered, quietly, into the dark, that he was the Vulture. A mysterious serial killer that preyed on the young, weak and unsuspecting. The parents gasped. How she killed him was a mystery, but she simply scoffed, and shook her head. New prey, she snarled. You came to the wrong house. You may prey on the weak, but I am a hungry Tiger and when a vulture fights a strong and starving tiger, they die. His eyes widened, and the people watching too. And she grabbed a dart, and threw it into the camera. The Tiger was a murderer, with millions of deaths on his- her name in the last year. And all along, it was a young girl waiting in a storm, dreaming of serving justice when everyone else was waiting.

And the lightning flashed and thunder roared, as the storm shrieked outside, still going on.