Fresh Flesh. Short Story.

Sorry todays short story is up kinda late, I was at a funeral this morning and then had to go to the doctors, not a fun packed day.

Nothing much has happened other than that, I havn’t really had time to do much more reading in the Ice and  Fire books, but they’re still really good.

I’ll also be making an announcement on Monday, so yay for that!

On with the show!

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Fresh Flesh. Short Story.

He looked out the window at the grey clouds, outside the wind whipped at the trees, tugging branches and ripping leaves. It was only a matter of time before it started to rain, the clouds ominously blanketing the sky. He watched people struggling against the wind as it tugged and pulled at their clothes, pulling them forwards or pushing them back.

He moved from the window and sat down, he watched as rain began to splatter against the window, a few brief seconds later the rain became strong, lashing against the window. The sound of the unsteady beat of rain against the window filled the room. He shook his head, he should have left earlier on, when he had the chance, now it was raining. He had no umbrella, not even a jacket. He wondered what he should do, he could leave and get drenched, or wait until the rain stopped, if it even stopped today. There might be a brief lull if he was lucky. He stood again and looked out the window, the streets had mostly cleared, a few people struggled with umbrellas, the wind driving the rain against them. He went to his desk and picked up his briefcase, he’d just have to make a run for it. He had parked the car further away than he normally would, parking spaces seemed to be at a premium this morning and now he understood why. With everything he needed he left the office, taking the stairs down to the lobby.

He stood at the doors, steeling himself for the drenching he was about to receive. Finally, he stepped outside, a curtain of rain washed over him, already cold he started to walk. He considered running, but the car was too far away for it to make too much of a difference. Already he was soaked through. As he walked he avoided the expanding puddles, stepping around them. Finally he saw the car and jogged the last few feet. He sat into the car, throwing his briefcase into the backseat, he then stripped off his jacket. His shirt was wet, though not as wet as he thought it would be. Shivering slightly, he started the car and turned the heating on full.

He was miserable after the drive home, it seemed to take forever, traffic was worse than it was normally and all the lights seemed to be against him, finally, he pulled into the driveway. He ran to the door, leaving his briefcase in the car, there was nothing too important in it, once inside, he closed the door and stripped out of his trousers and shirt in the hallway, his clothing had dried off slightly in the car, but were still wet. He left the clothes in a pile in the hallway and went upstairs, grabbing towels from the hot press, he turned on the shower and waited a few seconds for the water to be hot.

The shower warmed him up quickly and, once done, he felt much better. He dried himself and dressed in pyjamas. He was feeling better, but still chilly. Once dressed he went downstairs and turned on the heating, then after a few moments hesitation, he lit the fire. It would be a cold night. With the fire crackling merrily, he left the sitting room and went into the kitchen to decide on dinner. He opened the fridge and was greeted by row upon row of tinfoil covered dishes, he looked at them, trying to remember what was in each one. Finally, he selected one and took it out of the fridge, putting on the counter he stripped the tinfoil from the top and looked at the contents, wrong bowl. He covered it again and grabbed another, going through three before finding the left over spaghetti, the others had fresh meat in them, he didn’t want to cook anything. He just wanted to relax. There was a rattling from downstairs, frowning, he stamped on the ground, the rattling stopped. That was one thing he hated about fresh meat, it was tasty and all, but the ones that were downstairs made noise occasionally. He put the bowl into the microwave, he’d have to feed them soon. He had no interest in going down there, he never bothered to gag them and they were always calling out to him, pleading. He just wanted to relax tonight. Taking the bowl from the microwave he grabbed a fork and went into the sitting room. He’d take care of it later, after he felt a little better.

About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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