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Creative writing - The Accident.

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The Accident I can hear the boisterous wind charging through the icy caverns of the station. My polished, black leather shoes pad against the escalator stairs, as I rub at the chafing collar of my shirt, aware of the irritating dampness. Everything seems to be going against me. Morality has a vice-like grip on my stiff shoulders, and it is beginning to yank me back. Gripping the cold handle of my briefcase offers some reassurance, but remembering the contents sends an ominous shiver up my spine. They did not say the first job would be so hard. The grime, embedded in the rugged tiles, adds to the dingy, depressing surroundings. A crumpled crisp packet flits across the surface, as another tube roars past. It is as if I have just entered the minotaur's den, and luckily escaped the clutches of the savage beast. I begin to walk more briskly, as an unpleasant stench wafts from the nearby toilets. Have they never heard of such a thing as disinfectant or cleaners? Inefficiency is a rapidly spreading disease, and it needs a cure soon. Failure to succeed, especially in my line of work, has inconceivable consequences. ...read more.


If he carries on playing top fiddle my mate Rex will be paying him a 'visit'. Nothing too drastic. Just a few smacks with the club he got from the Big Apple. Best take the tube and keep a low profile. Looks like a hellhole to be honest. These beggars should get proper jobs, not try and scrounge off my money. Just because I pay me own way in life, does not mean these scavengers can try and steal off me. Only decent people are worthy of my attention, all the rest are around only to make blokes like me look good. This world is survival of the richest. I don't reckon my job to be evil or immoral, just one that takes advantage of others' pathetic mistakes. In fact, many regulars who have come for my help start booming trades...well, some. Put it like this, people who come to me asking for money are frankly stupid. They don't seem to click with the rules of business, and that I have to receive some sort of interest. I've had it up to here with these stylish gangsters parading their tarts like race horses. I here a lot about this new gambling place in town. ...read more.


Lights flickered, like re-sparking candles as the wick comes to its end. The metallic sound of bars splintering into windows triggered shrill screams of petrified passengers. A sandstorm of litter swept through the carriage, as bins were torn from the safety of their walls. Violent, fizzing sparks erupted from the cracked lights. The minatour made one last charge through the caverns, before gradually grinding to a halt. Silence. A sheet of menacing darkness enveloped the tube. Muffled groans broke the silence. The sprucely dressed man with polished hair flicked on his lighter, and activated his phone beam. Beside him was a balding man, blood oozing from a deep gash in his chest. The man with the lighter sat up abruptly, a concerned look on his face. He hastily removed his jacket, and applied it to the wound, in an attempt to prevent the blood loss. The balding man grunted, croaking for assistance. A creased picture caught the eye of the suavely dressed man. It was beside the ravaged hand of the balding man. He frowned, recognising the picture's familiarity. On the back, scribbled in red writing, was the word target. Before acting, he reached for the weighty briefcase that was crushing his foot. He began to click it open. The balding man's left eye fluttered open. ...read more.

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