Creative Writing - "The Interior"
So i am back on track... that's write (ha ha), i've picked up the pen and the paper (or maybe it's just my laptop and microsoft word program) and started writing again. It seems to be the one thing that always gets pushed to the back of my life, but the one thing that i love to do! I'm challenging myself to begin writing between 500-1000 word stories. I'll share them with you and you can let me know what you think. If you aren't into reading fiction - i understand. But, give it a chance and let me know what you think. Also, stay tuned and hold me accountable... i need to write more. GP
The Interior – Short Story
He pushed hard against the cold bricks, allowing the sand from their surface to fall between his cotton shirt and dirty brown skin. His knees rested below his chin and his arms squeezed legs tightly. Breath rose like the smoke from Hitler’s chimney – clouding the atmosphere and smelling like death. Exhaling, he let his stomach fall heavily against thighs. Inhaling, you could see his ribs.
He pushed hard against the cold bricks, allowing the sand from their surface to fall between his cotton shirt and dirty brown skin. His knees rested below his chin and his arms squeezed legs tightly. Breath rose like the smoke from Hitler’s chimney – clouding the atmosphere and smelling like death. Exhaling, he let his stomach fall heavily against thighs. Inhaling, you could see his ribs.
The room was the size of a closet and the air as dark as night. Sounds echoed against its thin walls and carried with them anxiety and fear. Footsteps meant men and men meant death. The footsteps came closer and stopped; so dwelt death only a yard away. He held his breath and his bones squeezed tight against the flesh of his legs.
He heard a hand touch the wall which lay only a few feet from his nose. A plastered jail cell created for his protection. The fingers tapped lightly and then ran softly – first up and then down. There were shouts heard in the distance and gunshots which rang through the air, but the volume of the hand was soft.
A child, under the age of four, lay to his left and began to stir in its sleep. He reached over, putting his hand softly over her mouth and bringing one finger to his lips. Her eyes opened fast and registered terror. He hated to see this look which had become so normal for her, but knew that it was a natural reaction to their situation. Her eyes expressed her understanding. Her childhood was a distant memory and replaced with atrocities that even grown men should never have to witness.
The hand against the wall began to move again. This time to the left and then to the right – as if a giant cross had just been finger painted on the exterior. Voices were heard again, but this time they were closer and directed at the plaster. Words couldn’t be understood, but the inflection caused fear to rise in his heart.
‘Could it be?’ he thought. ‘After all this time? After all these days? And now… now here? In this tomb? In this place of refuse?’ He grabbed the child and brought her into his arms, allowing her to bury her head into his shoulder. He could hear a soft whimper and feel the tears begin to wet his shirt. He closed his eyes to the moisture of his own reality.
The hand which was gentle now attacked the wall with fury. First, the violent slap of an angry palm rang between the walls and then a sharper sound – one of fists and butts of guns – rang out like a popcorn machine. There was no rhythm or steady beat; just the chaos of rage personified in action. Plaster began to rain like hail on the duo.
The butt of an M-16 was the first item to enter their safe haven. It slammed through the plaster and exploded upon the bricks which lay beyond it. He lay upon his little angel and protected her like a mother bird upon her eggs. Not looking, he could feel the plaster now falling in chunks on his back and the dust entering his body through his mouth and nose. The voices could be heard clearly now – yelling vulgarities at the pile of flesh which was mounded on the floor.
A soldier in camouflage reached through the wall, falling heavily upon the man – grabbing his left arm in one hand and a chunk of his hair in the other. With one tug, the man was lifted up and thrown through the wall into the middle of the room. Laced up boots began to punish the man, relentlessly kicking without discretion. Bones could be heard cracking and blood began to paint the floor red. Groans of pain filled the room.
As this continued, a dirty faced four year old remained buried in the rubble watching the only one she knew as family be tortured for doing the only thing he could to protect her… become the target.
GP
www.gphintz.com
Labels: Arizona, creative writing, GP Hintz, gphintz.com, gphintz.com. greg hintz, short story, story, Wickenburg
posted by GP Hintz @ 3:14 PM
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