Creative Writing

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Creative Writing                                                                                                                      Milan Parmar

The Assassin

             Engulfing his surroundings, as it crept out from the opening of his mouth, the smoke slowly drifted away from his lips. He leant back onto the damp wall, creating a haze of thick opaque smog and slowly tilted his head backwards in ecstasy. He gently exhaled into the cold bitter air of the night. Frequently he would be startled by the wail of police sirens, but they became increasingly fainter as they moved further and further away, the occasional barking of a dog and the rustling of leaves through the alleyway in which he was standing were the only other sounds that could be heard. The adrenaline surged throughout his body and he was left fidgeting in anxiety. The potent smell of marijuana was vivid in the depths of the alley where he gripped a neatly rolled and tightly packed cannabis joint; he inhaled deeply and was breathing with deep satisfaction. As the THC floated through his bloodstream and as the dopamine was released in his brain, he suddenly felt tranquilized and more relaxed. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves and he swayed uneasily for a second, before shaking his head and regaining control.

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         The darkness of the early morning was menacing; few stars glittered in the night sky and the subtle glow of the moon was partly concealed by the passing clouds, where black faded into hues of dark blues and deep, daunting violets. The gloom was still surrounding him and the frosty mist shrouded everything wanting to be seen. His shifty eyes watched in anticipation from the corner of an alley way for any kind of living being, while he clenched the revolver that was held in his right hand. The rubber soles of his sneakers were damp from the dew. From ...

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