Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Killing Spring, Part 1
Featured below is part one of one of my 'works in progress', which will be posted in weekley installment on my blog. It's something I've been picking at when writer's block stalls my bigger projects, and a little different than some of the other YA tales I've written, about a well-to-do teenager who may not be, as they say, playing with a full deck. It's sort-of black humored, and not meant to be taken too seriously. I think part of the fun of this is I'm not even sure where this story will ultimately end up. Hope you enjoy it, and feel free to offer your thoughts. BTW - Thanks, Jenny, for the suggestion.
The Killing Spring, Part 1
Spring Break. Time to kill again.
Not wanting to waste even one precious moment of his killing time, Gene woke up even earlier that Monday morning than he would have if he were getting up for school. Throwing off his sheets with a grin, he climbed into his robe, trying it closed as he made his way across the hall to the bathroom. He heard Dad downstairs, reminding Mom for the thousandth time to remember their plane tickets.
“They’re in my purse already.” she replied, sounding annoyed at his badgering. Gene practically saw her rolling her eyes.
“Just make sure, huh? I don’t wanna get all the way to the airport and find out we don’t have ‘em.”
“How ‘bout I just staple them to my forehead?”
Gene chuckled as he closed the bathroom door behind him. Dad was always such a worry wart. And for no good reason. They took their vacation at this time every year, venturing off to some part of the globe for a new adventure - New Zealand this year - and never once did Mom forget the plane tickets.
This year was different though, because for the first time, Gene wasn’t going. He’d have the entire house to himself, the entire week to do nothing but kill, so for once, he was thankful for Dad’s obsessiveness.
After cranking up the shower, he stared at his reflection in the mirror while waiting for the water to warm, liking what he saw. A friendly smile full of perfect white teeth, piercing blue eyes that have broken more than a few hearts at school, a thick mane of wavy blonde hair, and just enough freckles dotting his cheeks to charm relatives into giving them a good pinch during the holidays.
Certainly not the face of a killer, Gene thought, smirking confidently at himself. So much the better. He briefly wondered if that’s what the press would someday say about him if, God forbid, he was ever caught.
He laughed at the idea as he shrugged from his robe, letting it drop to the floor.
Like I’ll ever get caught.