||[Dec. 31st, 2005|06:55 pm]
"All literary men are Red Sox fans." John Cheever
SOMEONE TELL ME HOW TO START THIS STORY:|
Walking steadily down West street, Sergei fastened his sunglasses, covering his face from the bright light of the morning.
He normally didn't walk to school, but today was a bit different. Today he was going to make a difference. Today was his limelight. He wasn't going to be kept undercover anymore. Normally, he would ride on the bus to school, isolated like the few other kids on the bus, and listen to Mum (his favorite musical artist, from Iceland) before the bus stopped roughly six miles from his home. He had his music this time. He found it cool to be able to listen to one of his favorite songs, "Green Grass of Tunnel," almost on cue as he arrived.
The music stopped and he was standing at the front doors. Quietly and deliberately, his silenced submachine gun was unholstered from his back and the door was opened.
Pretty girls and boys chatted amongst each other in the white, brightly lit hallway outside their homeroom. They joked about the tacky GSA morning announcements and the ambiguous sexuality of their peers.
The attendants stationed at the front office desk were dead, with less than smooth facial wounds on each side of their faces. Empty bullet casings were scattered haphazardly on the floor, and some were caught in the fabric of the chairs strewn around the room.