I got a new idea, guys! I’ve been getting a lot of activity on my stories, and people seem to appreciate them a lot, so I thought I’d put up more of them. Problem is, I don’t have many ideas. Help me out and put a starting phrase or sentence down in the comments below. I’ll write on the one’s I like best.
Hi! Nice to see you. I know, I havent published for a while, but I am now. Here is a (slightly longer) short story for you to enjoy. Hope you like it!
The Fall of an Empire
The five of them gathered in the room, seating themselves at the five corners of the table. The pentagonal piece of furniture, like all other furniture in the bare room, was dark mahogany. The room was lit by five candles, arranged in a pentagon in the five corners of the pentagon-shaped room. The layout was of utmost importance, as the equality of the furniture symbolised the equality of the five members of this empire. Even a slight variation in the arrangement would signal a tipping of the scales, something that couldn’t be tolerated and resulted in the immediate eviction of the incriminating member.
None of their actions were seen, nor their speech heard, for each of them had a scrambler in the breast pocket of their shirt. Secrecy was of utmost importance. The scrambler, custom made and pentagonal in shape, would interfere with any digital field in a 100-metre radius. This device was the size of one’s palm, and could pass a metal detection test with ease.
Security was prioritised, and each member went through a rigorous test to enter the room. This room was entirely soundproofed, with metal reinforced walls and roof, and had the capacity to sustain a bomb blast large enough to blow a 2-storey building to smithereens.
Running the largest criminal empire in the world required such measures, and more. Anything that could make money didn’t escape their radar. The five together had contacts worldwide, in every major organisation. A company could be brought down with a few phone calls, results within a week. Immense power was in their hands.
Yet, despite all of this, one of them had been compromised, one of them had talked. That was why they were here. They all entered at a predefined time, accurate to the minute. They all drove themselves, using a map if necessary. GPS can be tracked. Chauffeurs are unreliable.
There was only one way to know who the traitor was. Sixth Sense. Sixth Sense was a system of indigenously and ingeniously developed sensors embedded directly into each member’s pharynx, eyeball, and ear. They were implanted through surgery, and logged whatever the user spoke, saw or heard to a memory chip embedded in the heart. Data was backed up weekly to a central database. Each sensor and chip, once implanted, could never be removed while the user was alive, and would burn automatically when their heart stopped. All four pieces were bound with near unbreakable cords to the users nearest major artery. In addition, when anything was broken, they all would send a short electric pule to the nearest nerve cluster, effectively rendering the person useless. It all ran on a frequency unblocked by the scrambler.
Right now, each chip was uploading its contents, and collective viewing would decide who betrayed them all.
One of the five slowly reached for the closest of five pistols, unnoticed by the others, who sat with their eyes closed in dreamless slumber.
He reached the gun, expertly checked the magazine, removed the safety, and shot the first of the other four in a motion so well practised it seemed almost fluidic, effortless, and deadly. The bullet pierced the centre of the man’s head. He was about to shoot the next man, but noticed that they hadn’t even flinched. He checked their pulses, and suddenly the man’s left eyeball burst into flame. The same happened for the other three.
Then, he heard a beep, repeating over and over again, gradually increasing its tempo. It could only mean one thing – a bomb. He had to get out. He ran to the door – Iron reinforced – but it was locked. He couldn’t even shoot the latch.
And then all was still. Pain, searing pain enveloped him in its embrace, and then bliss as the life ebbed out of his burnt frame.
But all was not over, as a crack spread across the ceiling, the pentagonal room having contained a blast far bigger than it was intended to.
And slowly, seemingly ever so slowly, the roof crumbled, and covered the remains of the twisted glory of what once was the greatest criminal empire to ever have come into being.
Hey! Nice to see you again. Good to know that you’re on my site! Anyhow, Here are a couple of my own stories that I wrote. I hope you like them. Feel free to write your reviews.
The Retirement Home Smuggler
A man of ninety-two years, short, very well preserved, who takes great care of his appearance is moving into an old people’s home today. His seventy year old wife has recently died and he is obliged to leave his home. After waiting several hours in the retirement home lobby, he gently smiles as he is told that his room is ready. As he slowly walks to the elevator he puts his hand in his pocket, confirming that an object the shape and size of a wallet is still with him. It is. He walks leisurely to the door of the elevator and the doors close, suspending him in a metal box in a one hundred metre high shaft.
At that moment, the man on the opposite roof knows that he has found his target. Whatever was going on here was far less innocent than it seemed. The old man went by the name of Jacob Whight. He was involved in an illegal smuggling operation, and the whole reason he was here was a well-made cover story. In reality he didn’t have a wife and wasn’t ninety two, but closer to forty. What he had in his pocket was in fact a wallet, but modified so as to shoot one tranquiliser dart and store more than its weight in gold.
He had purposefully chosen this home as it as it allowed for a neat system of piping and ledges that would facilitate a climb down but not up he would frame the scene to look like a murder and escape. He would change his disguise and cover story thereafter, as he would be instantly recognised by any respectable policeman or customs official. This was because his photo had been taken by a hidden camera on a man whom he had had an encounter with. It had involved a lot of big bangs and a lot of blood. Mainly his opponent’s.
The man on the roof, going by the code name of Wolf in the Special Operations division of the CIA, had been tracking Whight for a month and was determined to end one of the largest smuggling networks in the world.
Then pain, two seconds of blinding, obliterating pain as Wolf was shot. One of his ribs was shattered, a lung punctured and his left ventricle cut. As sure a death as any.
Behind him, a man rose, holding a sniper. Elongated barrel and loaded with one twenty calibre bullet, now shot. The man smiled with pleasure, a smile that had scared the most hardened of men.
The smile of Jacob Whight.
He had always been a favourite, an example to all those who knew him. Now, after what he had done, would they still feel the same? This was one of the thoughts buzzing through Jeremy Archer’s mind. And the most important one, he thought. Of course, this went without saying. To him, all that mattered was his money and his fame. Selfish, one may say, but it hardly mattered to him after owning one of the largest companies on the planet. His parents had died young; he had no wife or son, so the only person he cared for was himself. You may ask, what had he done? Simple answer really. He was running low on funds, and his investors were backing out, so he had decided to steal the Kohinoor, in London. And failed. Miserably. The police had been tipped off. One of his men had been bribed. All his men were arrested, and they dragged him along. He would get out soon enough. He could pretend that he had been framed. His lawyers would do the rest. He wasn’t scared, really. He had been in such situations umpteen times. And yet the London court couldn’t manage to hold anything against him. Being the head of the second largest consumer electronics manufacturer in the world did involve sacrifices.
He was jerked back to the present, as the policeman escorting hum gave him a particularly painful jab in the back. “Ow,” he said, rubbing his back, “is that how you treat your V.I.Ps? Very Important Prisoners.” He added, noticing the guard’s befuddled expression. “You’re all the same for us, VIP or not. Now you get in your cell and stop wisecracking.” Jeremy walked in with a sigh. He would really have to get out of here soon.
It was all on the headlines the next day. “Multi-millionaire humiliated,” “Businessman put to shame,” Businessman? Jeremy thought I’m the second wealthiest man in the world, for gods’ sake! The newspaper really does never run out of rubbish words to use. “Fans protest against arrest.” There you go. At least some people still liked him.
The day after that he was out. His lawyers did a marvellous job. He roamed freely around the streets of London, surrounded by seven personal bodyguards and more that fifteen times as many fans. At least my reputation hasn’t defamed, no matter what the newspapers may say.
He walked over to his limousine, a top model Cadillac and painted jet black. It had cost him a fortune. But fortunes couldn’t measure his wealth. As he got into his private section, his body guards climbed into their own seats. His last thought as he closed his tinted glass windows was:
What heist should I pull off next?