So this is a story i did awhile back that i love deeply but its slowly become more and more crappy as time goes on. i know its a cliche but thats why i love the story line lol
Viking Penguin Inc. Short Stories. Enjoy! Lilacs and Gunpowder She smells of lilacs, bringing forth a torrent of unwanted memories. My hands fall to the sandalwood butts of my guns. I pray to the line of my fathers for sure aim and unflinching hands. I close my eyes and raise my head to the rain on my face. My time is near. Soon my steps, my heartbeats, my tears, will all be worth what I've been through. My boots bring me to her grim home. I reach the door. I hear her labored breathing and his rough, coarse growl underneath the rain. Sorrow and rage drown all other emotions. But my face remains calm. I take each step slowly, silently, savoring the moment of pain and rage. The killing will begin soon and I must crawl inside myself to keep my hands steady. I open the door and see the remains of a magical evening, empty wine glasses, the ambers of a dying fire. I listen to the ceiling, put my hands on the sensitive floor boards above. Their breathing is louder. The guns on my hips become heavy. My hands caress them. They are reassured. Lilac is flooding the room. I move to the stairs my worn leather boots making not a sound on the solid flooring. I reach the door. My heart is racing. The door opens slowly. I will never forget what I saw. The lily white skin of her body glows in the faint candlelight. Her hair flows through the air like a fountain of melted chocolate. Every one of her muscles flexing in ecstacy. The Scent of Lilacs punch me in the face as I see the mounds of her breasts form as she arches her back. Neither realize the door is open. Only do they stop their heated passion when they hear me thumb back the hammers of my love-makers. My brother looks up out of his ecstacy and his face turns to dead fear. My woman looks around, dismounts, and covers herself with the speed only fear can fuel. They both search for my eyes but fail because they are hidden under the black brim of my hat(e) their last image is my sad, sad, smile. The bullets, swift as angels, find their mark. Over and over again, they find their mark. I prefer the smell of lilacs and gunpowder, I think
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/gunslingr19/blog/300395210#ixzz134CsklJj
Viking Penguin Inc. Short Stories. Enjoy! Lilacs and Gunpowder She smells of lilacs, bringing forth a torrent of unwanted memories. My hands fall to the sandalwood butts of my guns. I pray to the line of my fathers for sure aim and unflinching hands. I close my eyes and raise my head to the rain on my face. My time is near. Soon my steps, my heartbeats, my tears, will all be worth what I've been through. My boots bring me to her grim home. I reach the door. I hear her labored breathing and his rough, coarse growl underneath the rain. Sorrow and rage drown all other emotions. But my face remains calm. I take each step slowly, silently, savoring the moment of pain and rage. The killing will begin soon and I must crawl inside myself to keep my hands steady. I open the door and see the remains of a magical evening, empty wine glasses, the ambers of a dying fire. I listen to the ceiling, put my hands on the sensitive floor boards above. Their breathing is louder. The guns on my hips become heavy. My hands caress them. They are reassured. Lilac is flooding the room. I move to the stairs my worn leather boots making not a sound on the solid flooring. I reach the door. My heart is racing. The door opens slowly. I will never forget what I saw. The lily white skin of her body glows in the faint candlelight. Her hair flows through the air like a fountain of melted chocolate. Every one of her muscles flexing in ecstacy. The Scent of Lilacs punch me in the face as I see the mounds of her breasts form as she arches her back. Neither realize the door is open. Only do they stop their heated passion when they hear me thumb back the hammers of my love-makers. My brother looks up out of his ecstacy and his face turns to dead fear. My woman looks around, dismounts, and covers herself with the speed only fear can fuel. They both search for my eyes but fail because they are hidden under the black brim of my hat(e) their last image is my sad, sad, smile. The bullets, swift as angels, find their mark. Over and over again, they find their mark. I prefer the smell of lilacs and gunpowder, I think
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/gunslingr19/blog/300395210#ixzz134CsklJj