I was thinking about starting a new story serial for here.

There, I’ve said it, so I guess I have to do it now. My finger did, for a moment, hover over the delete key for that sentence above, but I resisted. It appears the Borg were wrong, though I won’t tell them that. I’d prefer not to be assimilated.

But, yes. I’ll say it again to force my hand a little more. I am thinking about starting a new serialised story here. I have no idea what it will be about so far, of course. No plot or characters or even titles have popped into the dark recesses of my mind. But, when has that ever stopped me? There’s a gazillion times that I’ve just started writing and ran after the words, trying to catch up and see where they might go.

If you have any thoughts on any of these story structure thingummies, let me know. I mean, they are kind of important, don’t you think?

Oh, ‘thingummies.’ Would you spell that with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’? Hmmm…

So. I was, pretty much, thinking that I’d start writing and the words would come, bring the plot and characters along for the ride. I’m hoping that’s the case. It would be pretty bad if that didn’t happen, wouldn’t it? Otherwise there’d be just a silly jumble of letters sitting on the page, wondering what when wrong and when my imagination would pick them up and sort them into the right order. Fingers crossed, ok?

This story will only appear here. I won’t be posting it to Wattpad or Amazon. It may meander somewhat, with the distinct lack of an outline and the way my mind ‘works’, but hopefully, we’ll all be surprised together.

So, are we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

UNTITLED

He screamed.

It wasn’t a vocal, cry till your lungs explode and your throat bleeds sort of scream. It wasn’t even audible. It was an emotional, mental shriek. It was the type that made your heart explode and your spirit bleed.

He felt as if he had been screaming for eternity. He hadn’t. Time has the ability to drag a painful experience over the hot coals of forever while squeezing the greatest pleasures into a stuttered heartbeat. His entire scream lasted for twenty two seconds.

A voicemail message, on average, takes twenty two seconds. A clock, roughly, takes around that amount of time to strike twelve. In twenty two seconds, his life, as he knew it, ended.

This wasn’t entirely obvious at the outset, though, if he’d thought about it, the fact would potentially have been unmistakeable. He was not, however, thinking. He was screaming.

The knife, long and serrated and almost exclusively used for cutting open bread buns or pittas, was held tightly in his hand. His left, even though he was right handed. The bloodied body was behind him. Sticky footprints where he had been unable, but hadn’t particularly tried, to avoid the rapidly spreading crimson pool, led from the victim to where he now stood.

When the scream abated, silence rushed into the room to try and find out was all the noise was about.

A body. A knife. The torn sleeve and the tattoo. Freshly carved to match the one that was slowly fading on the deceased man’s forearm.

And a scream.

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