Murder Speculations

While I'm at it, I'll post this story here too. It's my short story we had to do for English, so I decided to go with a parody. Constructive criticism is always welcome. ^^

Outside, a storm rages endlessly, while a single man sits in the corner of a room; he takes no notice of the racket going about beyond his room. His slim frame trembles with delight and his eyes are wide with exhilaration. A gasp escapes from his mouth every so often, and a wide grin is permanently plastered on his face. He stares at the gleaming knives before him with delight, and delicately handles them with his hands.

He runs a long, skinny finger down the sharp side of the blade, watching the blood flow down his finger and down the front of the dagger. “Here, my precious,” he coos to the sharp blades, “Papa knows you are hungry. Papa will make sure you will be happy tonight.”

And so, this clearly mad person presented as this story’s protagonist makes up his mind on what he will do today, or rather, tonight.

“You call me mad, narrator?” His voice raises a level in volume. “You don’t understand true art at all. Not at all!”

Yes, as you can all see, he is mad.

“I will prove to you that I am a creative genius,” he roars with fury, “See if you can call me mad after that!”

I will be patiently waiting, then.

“Stop using complicated words, you fool!”

You have no right to call me –

I would like to continue arguing with him, but I fear that the story will never make it under the word limit if this ridiculous quarrel continues. Yes; he gets up from the ground, full of motivation, and begins to laugh insanely –

“I am not insane!”

– in this small, little room of his. Stop interrupting my narration, you madman!

As I was saying before; the man spontaneously starts laughing his head off for a full five minutes before he finally decides to shut up. As he gathers his precious knives off the table and into their respective sheaths, he thinks of what he will do tonight.

“Perhaps I will break into the houses of my neighbours and slice them into little pieces,” he says, with a high grin on his face.

As if such a stupid idea is anything to be proud of. It’s too obvious, you idiot; the story will be over before it reaches the desired word count. We’re only at about four hundred words here!

“You and your word count,” he mutters, his eyes flashing back and forth, “Fine; what awesome ideas do you have? Since mine is so bad.”

Although I would like to inform you of a better murder story, Mr. Protagonist, I don’t think it would work if the narrator tells the main character what to do. That just ruins the theme of motivation and self-reflection; you need to come up with your plan to become motivated, and when you realize your plan is a rather foolish one, and then you have your little self-reflective moment. Things can’t come out of the blue, you see, or the plot isn’t supported.

“Argh!” he screams, “I can’t come up with anything!”

With every word you say, we’re closer to the word limit.

“Fine,” he says, “I’ll just pretend to mug some random high school girl, and then proceed to kill her by chopping her up into little pieces.”

Why is it always a female victim? Is the author sexist?

THIS AUTHOR IS NOT SEXIST.

Go on with your little plan then; I give up. We have to start the plot soon.

The man packs his knives in an old, worn leather case. To add even more description (I assure you this is not our way to make the story sound descriptive), he puts the leather case into a backpack he found on the side of the street on the other day. As soon as he is done with his careful preparation, he jumps up in excitement and dashes out the door.

The rain pounds on the ground with a vengeance, and the dark, heavy clouds loom ahead. (At this point, I would like to point out that this is the author’s pathetic way of foreshadowing the inevitable murder our protagonist will commit.) Ignoring the heavy downpour, he runs through the streets of his neighbourhood while, yet again, laughing like an idiot. He frolics around the alleyways of this dark city, and accidently bumps into someone.

Due to time constraints, let’s just say that this someone is that girl he will soon murder.

She turns around and glares intently at him. “Watch where you’re going!”

“I’m here to kill you!”

You imbecile! You’re not supposed to say that; the plot just started, and now you’re planning to screw it up?!

THIS AUTHOR DECIDES TO REWIND THE STORY A BIT BECAUSE THE PROTAGONIST IS SUCH AN IDIOT. DO NOT MAKE THIS AUTHOR DO THIS AGAIN.

“Come here, little girl.” He grabs her waist and drags her into the cramped alleyway. “I’m going to create a masterpiece tonight to prove that narrator wrong.”

That’s better. You’re better off going into the stereotypical route of murder (maybe even horror) stories.

Of course, she doesn’t give in instantly (despite his stupidity, he actually has a lot of brute strength), but he easily overpowers her. After smashing her head against the wall multiple times, he drops her limp body on the ground, and strokes her face. A smile appears on his face as he extracts, with much difficulty, the knives he brought with him.

A shadow falls across his face. “Papa has dinner ready for you.”

It is over in an instant. He first grabs his longest knife and artfully cuts off her head; the rest of the limbs are severed in a similar fashion. Next, he uses something like a surgical blade and begins to dissect her main body. First goes the heart; he takes it out while it is still beating. The organ pulsates in his hand, and he soon throws it down to work on the other innards. There is blood everywhere; on the wall, on the ground, and splattered all over his face.

“See, you annoying narrator?” He has a big smirk on his face. “I have created the masterpiece of the 21st century!”

I suggest you take a look at the main street.

Red, blue and white lights flash outside as the siren wails its mournful cry.

“Why didn’t you tell me the cops are here?” he screams, “You should know everything!”

If I told you, there would be no self-reflection. Without a self-reflection, this story would have no point.

THIS AUTHOR DOES NOT WANT TO LOSE MARKS BECAUSE OF YOU.

“If I had only planned this better – “ (End of self-reflection.)

The rest is history.

I hope the author makes a more sane character for me to narrate next time. And probably a less clichéd st–

THE END.