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I think that my love of writing came from my love of reading. I read fantasy, adventure and drama novels, horror as well. My favorite authors are: J.K.Rowling, R.L.Stine, Meg Cabot, James Patterson, Cornelia Funke, Carolyn Keene and C.S.Lewis. Actually, as long as I like a book I like the author as well. I dream of writing a novel some day, or if not, publish a book with a collection of my short stories. I'm not much of a poetry writer, my sister usually helps for that category.
I'm 15 years old, will be sixteen on November 13th 2007. I was born in Trinidad, which is just of the coast of Venezuela, and still live here. I'm not quite sure what career I would like to go into. Nothing really interests me to a great extent. I am in the science class, but I'm no brain.
This is as much as I'm going to put. All I want is that you leave reviews when you read my stuff. Also please feel free to email me any time. Thanks!
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
|AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (1)
The Stalker (It's A Different One!) (Poetry) SOMETHING is following him... [137 words] [Horror]
I could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins, making my blood prickly hot. I waited under the shade of a palm tree, my dark eyes locked on the front door of the supermarket. This feeling was so familiar to me, yet I was more excited than I had been for my last kill. I waited impatiently under the palm, counting down the time until my great moment of pleasure. I glanced casually at the guard’s booth. I had nothing to fear for I had easily knocked him out cold, and I knew he wouldn’t be missed.
Distant talking brought my eyes back to the front of the supermarket. Two employees were walking towards a gold Almera, in the near-empty car park. I watched with routine satisfaction as they drove out, past the guard’s booth without even a sideways glance, and onto the main road. Things were progressing smoothly, just as I knew they would. I continued to wait, listening to the sound of my quivering heart. A few minutes later, right on cue, I was rewarded. There she was-
My eyes lit with excitement as I saw her slim figure walking towards her car, hands fishing in a black purse for her keys. Although I could not see her face, I knew what she looked like, having first encountered her in the supermarket four days before. I also knew that whatever was about to happen next was all her fault. She’d been so careless that day, when she had cashed a pack of du Maurier cigarettes twice for me. The stupid girl hadn’t even realized! I hadn’t told her of course. I mean, why should I have? It was her duty to cash people’s goods correctly. She should have known, but she didn’t. Instead, she overcharged me. So now, she was about to be punished. By me.
My fingers closed around the weapon in my jacket pocket. The familiar coldness of it seemed to burn my hot skin when it made contact with my fingers. I found it particularly soothing. She didn’t even see me creep up behind her car, didn’t know that she wasn’t alone in the car park, until I reached out and pulled the car door open. She struggled and screamed as I yanked her out, but I wasn’t intimidated. I felt her long nails clawing at the black velvet skin of my face as she tried to fight back. I was surprised. My past victims hadn’t even dared to put up a fight. It had been too easy. But I knew now that I would enjoy Kaloutie. I didn’t let her feistiness vacillate me one bit. I had waited and planned for this day, and I was not going to let it all crumble in vain.
I drank in the way her eyes widened as I pulled out the iron chain that was about as long as my arm. I heard a sickening crack as I slashed the chain at her neck. Crimson blood spurted out, staining her white shirt as the delicate brown skin was cut. I slapped the chain at her face, wailing her cheek and perhaps breaking her nose, for blood began streaming from it. She cried out in pain and collapsed on the ground. I watched with glee her body cowering as I stood over her. She was crying and moaning as I raised the chain and brought it down…again…and again…and again.
I didn’t lash to kill, only to wound and Kaloutie was wounded pretty badly. The ghastly sight was picturesque to my eyes. I could hear her gasping for breath, but I lingered for a moment, taking in the scene with absolute pleasure. Then I stooped down beside her and wrapped the cold, bloody chain around her injured neck. She choked as I pulled it tighter with every passing second. I could almost see in my mind the walls of her trachea breaking. Could almost hear it cracking.
‘Die…Indian,’ I whispered savagely into her soft, dark brown hair. And then, her body went limp. I grinned as I looked at her body drowning in crimson blood. I wiped my hands with a paper towel that I retrieved from my jeans pocket and then placed it, together with my faithful weapon, in my jacket pocket. My work was done. No one had seen. After all, this was Trinidad. I walked into the near-setting sun with a smile on my face, humming my favourite song…
‘Post mortem results confirm police suspicions that mutilated Kaloutie Ramsoobahg is yet another victim in a series of murders,’ Shelly Dass reported. ‘The body of 34 year old Ramsoobahg, an employee of Khan’s Supermarket, was found last Wednesday evening in the supermarket’s car park by a co-worker. The marks on the body were identical to that found on eight other women whose bodies were discovered within the past twelve months. According to the coroner’s reports, all nine victims, who were of East Indian descent, were beaten and then strangled to death with a piece of iron chain…’
I grabbed a bottle of Carib beer and a pack of du Maurier cigarettes from the kitchen, turned the radio on and sat back on a rusty iron chair. I took a swig of the Carib, sighing deeply as the cold liquid streamed down my parched throat. I took a puff of the cigarette and blew smoke rings through my nose. Instantaneously, my favourite tune began-
‘Dis ah survival story,
Ah real ghetto story.
Dis is my story,
Real ghetto story.
I remember those days
When ‘L’ was ma home,
An’ me an’ mama bed
Was ah big piece ah foam…’
There I was, a little black boy of ten, walking down a dirt road, hand in hand with a smiling black woman. My mother. She looked so different from how I remembered her, but then I suppose that was because I hardly remembered her at all. She had large eyes and a peaceful face. Then, I was standing beside her coffin. Shortly afterwards, my father, a tall, black, handsome man, was holding hands with a women of East Indian descent. How pretty she was, with long, brown hair and a flawless face. She was looking at me and smiling, but instead of kind, laughing eyes, hers shone ice-block-cold, and her smile, as I peered closer, looked like a snake’s bare fangs…
Then a sharp burning sensation exploded over my body. I was lying on the floor of a dark room. In the pale moonlight filtering through the window, my stepmother loomed over me like an ogre, an iron chain in her hand. She yelled at me and brought down the chain on my legs. I cried out and tried to scramble away, but I was not out of reach of the weapon…
I had just managed to escape the clutches of the iron chain that held me prisoner against a single, rusty bed. I was about to break the glass of the window and jump through when the door burst open to reveal my stepmother. Her pretty face contorted in rage as she rushed toward me. As I gripped the chain and stood my ground, a new feeling aroused within me, overriding the paralyzing fear that had gripped me in its icy clutches, pulsating my blood to a different rhythm.
As she reached within my radius, I whipped the chain at her and pulled. It coiled around her neck, like a boa constrictor asphyxiating its prey. I loosened the chain and she collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath. Without a moment’s hesitation, I brought the chain down…again…and again…and again.
Her screams were music to my ears. I thanked God my father wasn’t home. Bones broke with every lash. The thrill of it all reverberated through me. She lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor. Victory! I could almost feel it. Hot splintered rage pumped like poison in my veins as I bent down and wrapped the chain around her neck. I pulled tighter and tighter, warm blood trickling through my fingers. After one last breath, death’s icy hand ripped the soul out of her. I released my grip and watched her dead body with satisfaction, closing my eyes and breathing in the stench of my stepmother’s blood. That bitch, she deserved what she got…
A rough voice rang through my skull. I opened my eyes. Gray concrete walls covered with graffiti and mold met my eyes. By a ray of light piercing the darkness from the small window, I realized that it was early morning. Looking through the iron bars that led onto a corridor, I saw three uniformed guards waiting. As I stood up, I looked out of the window. The sun had partially risen, casting sharp beams of light into my eyes.
‘It’s time,’ one of the guards said harshly, bounding my hands and feet with iron shackles, and leading me down the corridor.
My last sunrise.
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"Very horrifying, but very well written." -- Chelsea.
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© 2006 Aamanrah
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