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.
The house he had in his sights was so bleak and so miserable it was hard to imagine that it had ever been inhabited. A grisly sight of simple blocks of dull, grey stone which the remaining paint was peeling off met his glazer stares; crude walls which supported the roof, with its broken and shattered stone tiles not escaping his photographic memory, overgrown grass and weed hung across the entrance, almost concealing the worm-eaten front door; his eyesight was impeccable. Moss covered the slimy steps: he noted this in case he needed to get closer as the ice cold wind caused the shutters to crash against the walls from sheer, brute force.
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.
The house he had in his sights was so bleak and so miserable it was hard to imagine that it had ever been inhabited. A grisly sight of simple blocks of dull, grey stone which the remaining paint was peeling off met his glazer stares; crude walls which supported the roof, with its broken and shattered stone tiles not escaping his photographic memory, overgrown grass and weed hung across the entrance, almost concealing the worm-eaten front door; his eyesight was impeccable. Moss covered the slimy steps: he noted this in case he needed to get closer as the ice cold wind caused the shutters to crash against the walls from sheer, brute force.