[ Post a Response | Role Play Board ]
Posted by Stanley Carter/Sin Eater
on 6/25/2009, 6:21 pm
71.226.186.23
I decided after... too many years, that I would keep a journal for myself. You'd think, after coming back from the dead, that I would find plenty to write about, or better yet plenty other things to do than scribble down random thoughts. Oh right, 'coming back from the dead' probably wasn't the right wording there, but more on that later.
Back to me having nothing better to do than make scribbles in this spiral bound. For a couple of weeks, I found plenty of chores to be taken care of around the house. That's something I found odd, how my place was kept up, pretty much how it had been left years ago, but that too will have to wait for another time. Anyhow... I took care of simple projects such as raking leaves, clearing small debris, fertilizing the lawn. sowing new grass seed, hell, even tilled up a garden. All of this, and I felt like there was more for me to be doing. At first, I considered Seminary School of some kind. SO, I figured it best to at least get back into the habit of going to church again, but that fell through. Lord knows I'm a Christian, but 'church' these days is so pretentious, so ...
Lets just say I don't see eye to eye with what most 'believers' think of the Lord. My main problem being that they seem to think God is this grand puppet master pulling ALL the strings. That, to me is a cop-out. A way of claiming your good fortune while dismissing the bad. It's easy to say "Well, God must not want me at my place of work." when one is fired. When in truth, your Boss doesn't want you at your job. Easy to put the blame on some invisible force like fate; "Oh, my fiance must not be my destiny." I would think not when you've cheated on him multiple times.
There I go again, off on another tangent. So, Seminary wasn't for me, neither were multiple hobbies; wood carving, reading, fishing, nothing seemed to quell the feeling of a higher calling inside me. And that's one thing that led me to keeping a journal, thought it would be a good way to pass the time without feeling so restless. So far, so good... other than making the mistake of getting one of those new computers to see what all the fuss was about. After I finally managed to find the small little icon for 'note pad' and opened it, I found the glare of the white background too headache inducing to continue for more than a couple of lines. Anyhow, pen + paper is the best way to go, headaches aside, a pen and pad of paper cost a lot less than a fancy new computer. The only draw back, for me is that after a while of writing, such as now, my wrist goes to throbbing something fierce. Old, old, old injury from when I was about 5. I don't really recall what happened, like I said it was a looong time ago, but while I was playing with relatives, my wrist smacked the corner of a concrete set of stairs. I missed so much of school with my broken wrist that I had to repeat Kindergarten. Nothing major really, it fades away in a minute or so, but flares back up if I try to continue writing too soon. On top of my wrist aching, it's well after 9, and I have a bit of chores lined up for tomorrow. Think I'll click on some television, and see if I can kind something to put me to seep. There's something else gone to pot, T.V. programs... maybe I'll invest in that cable t.v., get myself 500 channels. I bet there would still be nothing worth watching. Anyways, I'm off to bed. 
Midnight.
Across town, in a neighborhood so far differing from Stanleys that it might as well be on the other side of the continent. Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean at the 31346-481 address is Connie Willbanks monument to modern architectural mastery. Connie swears that if you stand out at the corner of her stilt raised patio that you can see lady liberty herself. But at the moment Connie says nothing as she sleeps silently into the night. And while R.E.M. induced visions play out just behind her eyelids, a prowler in the night exits her three car garage through the back. He moves through the shrubbery at a sprint, and into the lightly forested crest below. The night stalker glides through his surroundings as if they're as familiar to him as his own backyard. His face tilted skyward. His eyes searching. Looking for a tree, one small but not scrawny, stout, but not flexible. After a couple of minutes, the a tree is singled out, and the prowler starts his climb. His gloved hands ensnare the trunk as if choking the life out of it. Once hoisted up off his feet, his legs go around the trunk, his feet crossed on the other side locking himself on the tree so he won't slide back down. Then his ascent takes off as if a fire had been lit underneath him.
Once nearing the tree top, naturally it bows to the added weight. As the treetop nears a 45 degree angle from the rest of the trunk, the prowler drops his legs and repositions his hands as if about to start doing pull ups. The shift in weight distribution greatly helps gravity do its job and return this man to the earth below.
With a firm single handed grip on what is judged to be a Maple tree, the night prowler uses his free hand to haul out a near five foot section of rope that had been coiled and stuffed into the waist of his pants. One end of the rope having been partially tied into a scouts knot, is draped around the tree and tied taut. The rope now in tow, the man finds a stump near by and uses it to anchor the tree.
The shadowy figure races back to the garage, where he reenters through the back door. A minute or so later the man steps back into the night air. A length of rope wound over his right shoulder in such a uniform manner that it looked like an over sized spool of thread with an arm punched through the center. The rope looked to have been a good 100 feet long if not more. Following the exact course he had taken to the garage, the man now took on his return to the bowed maple. The prowler unwinds a 3-4 foot section, and double knots it securely just below his first knot on the tree.
The rope quickly uncoiling behind him, the prowler makes a B Line for the corner support structure of Connie's deck. At first glance they may seem impossible to scale, but studied upon, you will see that there are plenty of places to act as feet/hand holds. At the rate that the intruder begins his ascent you would think that he had studied this single beam all night long. After only a couple of minutes, the prowler is at the height of his climb, and the underside of the patio. Rope still trialling behind him, the man begins to monkey bar across the undersides support structures. The night visitor hoists himself onto the patio and quickly determines his new course. A six foot wide walkway of patio that extends over to the master bedroom window. The remaining length of coiled rope comes off of the strangers arm, revealing its end to be a noose. The stranger takes a hooked knife out of his back waist band, the type of knife common in wood working. The blade makes quick work of Connie's window screen. She had made the unfortunate mistake of thinking herself safe up so far off the ground. So safe in fact that she gave not a second thought to leaving her _ to let in the night breeze on this hot summer night. The prowler leans through the now empty window and drapes the oval opening of the noose across Connies collar bone and upper chest. A sharpe inhalation of breath through the nose splits the silent night air. And then the man speaks at last. "I smell your sins."
Message Thread:
« Back to thread