Creative writing - The Assassin.
Extracts from this essay...
The Assassin By Toni Bull The wind was howling; the rain was cascading down and pounding hard against the ground. An occasional lightening bolt blazed across the black velvet sky, lighting up a sinister figure, which could be seen, dressed in black and almost camouflaged against the night. The swamp-like earth oozed underneath his feet; like a snake emerging from the mud. A stench of evil seemed to hang in the air around this mysterious man, with his piercing, cold eyes and his bloodless, expressionless face. His senses were occasionally alerted to a passing car, which picked its way precariously amongst the numerous deep potholes along the neglected road on the outskirts of the deserted, crumbling town. Although many things happened around him however, he seemed oblivious to everything, such was his fierce determination. He even appeared unmoved as another lightening bolt flashed dramatically in the late night sky and then climaxed in sound around his pointed ears. As he slowly drew a sniper rifle and pointed it towards the derelict house, it became sickeningly clear what his spine-chilling intentions were.
Its windscreen wipers were distorted and the rust had now replaced the flashy, fluorescent paint that could be scarcely seen underneath this corroding metallic distortion. Suddenly, the engine was switched off and there was silence. It was so quiet he could hear himself breathing. The door then slowly creaked open and a frail, delicate old man emerged from the rubble. The man found it very difficult to fight against the intensity of the wind in attempt to close the door, which was as rusty as a corroded iron gate. He appeared weak, helpless and feeble. He had thinning grey hair coming down in several strands like numerous snakes moving down his head; he wore thick glasses and walked slightly bent over like a hunchback. He pulled open the back door and clawed out a small pompous poodle dog, his main companion in his lonesome, depressing world. He carried the dog up the furrowed path in his brittle arms, trying to shield it from the severe conditions of Mother Nature.
He wore jeans that had a mysterious red substance down one of the legs and wore trainers, which were caked, in mud. He took some money out of the pocket of his leather jacket and handed it to the assassin, who pocketed it as quickly as he could, as his hands were frozen from standing out in the pouring wind and howling rain for two whole hours. He now took apart the sniper rifle with the skill of a master craftsman and packed it away safely in a black leather case. He then took the cartridge case, wrapped it in paper and put in the bin, which had all sorts of dead animals in it, such as cats who had eaten the scraps thrown out. He put out his 20th cigarette that he had smoked that night and put that in the bin as well. He now snuck out of the alleyway and made for his black convertible car. He threw his leather suitcase on the back seat, started the ignition and then roared off into the night in a puff of smoke.
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