Short Stories which I force myself to write every week/fortnight

I'm lazy as fuck so I really needed this as a commitment. I can't guarantee the quality but feel free to check them out. They might be slightly dark btw, so reader's discretion advised or whatever.

Spoiler: Story #1: Salem

Story #1: Salem

The Vigilante's fingers closed around the cold metal in his hoodie pockets. Pulling his deerstalker hat lower to hide his face, he stalked along the dingy alleyway.

The Serial Killer had been at it again. Just when they thought he'd disappeared, he'd returned -- and with another victim.

Mary Johnson had been discovered by her fiancee in the morning a few days ago, her cold and stiff body slumped on her favourite rocking chair. God knows how many times the poor woman's throat had been slit; the scene was not as scary as it had been hideous. The body had been nigh unrecognisable when the police had arrived on site.

The police had been left utterly baffled by the case. The position of the cuts suggested that the third victim had been killed from behind, but there was the question of how the Serial Killer entered her room. Her door had been latched tightly, there were no sightings of her inviting anybody into the house, and certainly nothing to suggest that she had been on familiar terms with the Serial Killer. Even her room's door had been locked, and unless it was the superstitious work of ethereal beings, not even a master burglar could enter her room without being discovered.

Perhaps the most haunting discovery was when the autopsy results came out. Rigor mortis had already begun to set into the body, but the blood around the corpse had yet to coagulate. This meant that the victim had been killed at least 4 hours prior, but then what of the blood? Whose blood did it belong to, and where did it come from? The coroner was unable to provide a sufficient explanation despite conducting the autopsy several times.

The shocking case had provoked an outcry in Salem. It was the third of its kind, and Salem's villagers were outraged at their police's incompetence. They were at the end of their ropes and wanted solid answers as well as security from the police. The media's coverage and fear-mongering did not serve to help either. A curfew was immediately established, but the issue of security had never been addressed. The villagers were no longer as trusting or as endearing as before. Conversations were often brief, children were locked in their houses and employees hurried straight home after work. The Vigilante was guilty of this too. In all his paranoia, he had even slept with his firearm beneath his pillow every night.

But not this night. The Vigilante had waited for answers that never came from the authorities for far too long, and he had to take things into his hands. If it had been any other person who had been killed, he would have been horrified, but he would not have lost his cool. But no, it was Mary. Mary, his fiancee, no less!

Never would the Vigilante have imagined to relive a similar scene as appalling as during his times in the trenches when he'd fought on the front-lines on that late morning. He'd rapped on the familiar door of his fiancee's without reply. After hours of futile knocking and hollering, his suspicion turned into fear and he busted down the door.

That image would haunt his nightmares forever.

The five stages of grief had been true to its order. First came Denial. What of their marriage due the coming week? What of their plans for life, their silly promises of love? What of his child she was two months pregnant with? How could everything just crumble so easily?

Gone. It was all gone. The Vigilante blinked hard as the tears threatened to seep out of his eyes.

Denial was succeeded by Anger. Red, seething, explosive anger. Unprecedented raging anger he never knew he could feel.

The Vigilante needed justice. He ached for justice, he longed for justice, and he desperately desired for it to be served on a silver platter in front of him.

He had seen the terror in his lover's wide eyes, her mouth opened in an unending scream. He had to pay that terror back twofold. And the foetus inside her belly. Everything had been destroyed with just one deranged, sick bastard and the cut of a scalpel. The sadistic fucker would pay for everything, tooth by tooth, with his filthy life.

His anger had funnelled into action. The Vigilante still had his trusty Glock 17 he had from the war in the '60s when he deserted. It was rusty after negligence, and slightly worn from skirmishes. But it would do.

The Vigilante had one remaining bullet. He'd cast away all bullets but that as a reminder of his cowardly desertion as well as the many he had gunned down. It was a testimony to his sins; the comrades he had left behind as well as the blood he had on his hands.

Running his fingers along a familiar dent in his pistol he'd gotten from diving to save a comrade-in-arms, the Vigilante sucked in a cold breath of air. He hadn't held a firearm for years, but the actions were long ingrained in him after the war.

He had sworn to Mary never to hold a gun to anybody again, but that seemed like that promise could not hold. I'm sorry, Mary.

--

The police had zero leads on the Serial Killer, and there was nothing to assume the Vigilante had either. However, the Serial Killer was notorious for leaving a note at every murder which were rumoured to contain the information of his next unfortunate victim. The Vigilante had found his note on his fiancee's body when he had searched for her pulse. He palmed it before the police arrived.

He'd spent the entire afternoon attempting to decode it, but to no avail. Desperation could not make up for incompetence, after all. Frustrated, he turned to a detective he knew and pleaded with the detective for his help.

The detective, full of pity and regret for the Vigilante, had agreed to the task. After a week of sleepless nights, the detective finally deciphered the coded note before the Serial Killer struck again.

The Serial Killer's victim was John Hathorne, the town's doctor. A compassionate christian who was renowned for his medical skill, and a genuinely good person at heart.

Turning a corner, the Vigilante finally arrived at John Hathorne's house. Slinking into a dark corner, he made himself unnoticed as he quietly waited for the Serial Killer to arrive.

He did not know how much time passed, but his concentration was broken only when the strident knells of the belltower rang out, signifying it was four o'clock.

Was he not going to arrive? Doubt began to worm into the Vigilante's heart. Perhaps the detective had made a mista-

The soft sound of crunching gravel beneath a sneaker was explosive to the well-trained ears of the Vigilante. The dark and striking figure of a man could be seen approaching John Hathorne's house. It was long past curfew. Nobody would be out here now, save the police patrols. But all the patrols wore a cap.

The figure was steadily nearing his position as it made its way to the front door.

The Vigilante froze. His body and fingers were cold, but his head felt hot. Like an ocean rising above the levies, he felt his angry tears flow down his numb cheeks.

Pulling out the gun from his hoodie's pocket in a swift motion with both hands, he stepped out of the shadows. His hands shook as he pointed it at the figure.

"Give Mary back to me!" The Vigilante let out a throaty roar as he pulled the trigger.

The figure turned, alarmed by the sudden shout. Despite the Vigilante's trembling, his shot hit true. The bullet hit centre mass, passing straight into the figure's stomach. The figure let out a shriek as the shot propelled it onto its bottoms. The piercing gunshot shattered the silent morning.

Lumbering towards the figure, the Vigilante screamed, "You fucker! You-!"

The figure recovered with astonishing speed, climbing to its feet. The Vigilante caught sight of a glint of metal in its hand but he was too slow to avoid it. The scalpel sliced into his belly, and retracted with a sickening sound. The Vigilante felt a sharp pain in his abdomen, but he ignored it, dashing his pistol into the figure's face.

A satisfying crack was heard as a few teeth flew off. The figure retreated, clutching its jaw as it choked out a curse, blood dripping off its cheeks. The glint flickered again, and this time, the scalpel was driven deep into the Vigilante's chest.

Screaming, the Vigilante tackled the figure to the ground and hugged him in a vice-like grip. Both figures grappled in the darkness blindly until the Vigilante got the better of him. The Vigilante climbed on top of the figure.

Straddling the figure, he pulled out the scalpel from his chest and plunged it into the figure's chest repeatedly.

One for every cut his wife had suffered. Another for his son which would never see the light of day. Another for the victims, and another for the villagers.

When the Vigilante was finally done, the figure beneath him lay unmoving, a pool of red spreading steadily from it. Then the Vigilante noticed the sirens.

Gasping deeply, he got off the figure and staggered off into the darkness.

The second stab of the Serial Killer had been fatal. He could tell from his wheezing that his lung had been perforated. He had survived countless gunshots and fighting, but he would not survive this one.

Stumbling, he groped his way out of the village. When he finally arrived at the entrance of the village, his eyes had adjusted to the dark. He limped his way forward determinedly. He could not die here.

When he finally reached the cliff, his chest was burning and his abdomen was stinging. He collapsed in front of a gravestone.

Sobbing, his tears dripped onto his bloodied clothing. His eyes clouded over with emotion.

"I'm sorry, Mary, I'm sorry. I broke our promise and all-" His voice broke as he lapsed into a bout of weak coughing. "B-But I'll join you now. Along with my comrades I never said farewell to."

As the Vigilante took his last breath, the first light of the amber sun broke over the ocean. The orange glow illuminated the silhouette of a man and tombstone.

'Sacred to the memory of Mary Margaret Johnson
wonderful wife, loving sister, beloved by all

12th January 1974 - 20th May 1999

Aged 25

You were my wife; my one and only

Even if death doth us part,

Let us be together in heaven.'

Spoiler: Story #2: The Child Soldier

The burning tang of lead and sulfur assaulted Zane's nostrils as he dived into the trenches. He landed roughly, feeling a painful sting as an old scab reopened.

Dipping his head down to avoid stray bullets, Zane crawled across the trench deftly.

Poking the smoking barrel of his gun out from the trench, he quickly took aim and opened fire.

1 clip left.

His short burst of bullets passed through the burly figure by the machine gun. Zane caught sight of the figure dropping as he ducked back under the trench. Bullets whizzed past he'd been just seconds ago, kicking up mud and dirt as they pelted the ground.

The heavy thuds of boots to his 10 o'clock. Zane's sensitive ears pricked. With practiced movements, he swept his automatic sharply to his left.

Even under the deafening cracks of gunfire and the dying screams of men, Zane could roughly make out more than one person approaching his position.

Rising from the trench like lightning, he cocked his gun sharply. Without heed for his scarce ammunition, he released fire carelessly.

As he squeezed the trigger, his targets came into view.

Two dark African children around the age of 12, their tattered clothing caked with mud. Their eyes widened with terror at Zane's abrupt appearance, but they quickly relaxed as they realised Zane was one of theirs.

The closer boy turned to Zane and opened his mouth to say something — then the first bullet took off his jaw.

Then the rest of the bullets succeeded the first, and the two children dissolved into a mist of blood and flesh.

Warm blood spurted onto Zane's cheeks. He froze, releasing the trigger. But it was too late.

Gone. They were gone just like that. The bullets were gone; emptied so easily.

Cursing, Zane ducked and deftly reloaded his firearm. What a fucking waste of ammunition. He'd been using them economically, but he was already down to one clip. He chucked the empty clip to one side in a rare show of anger.

There was still 500 meters to the Hutu's camp. It would be a tragedy if he ran out of bullets before he got there.

The intense crackle of gunfire that had previously ravaged the field was beginning to die down. That meant numbers were dwindling on the Hutu's side. Zane could hear the shouts of the Tsusis friendlies advancing from behind him. Now was the best time to charge, he decided.

Doing a once-over on his equipment, the young African boy shrugged the grungy piece of metal behind his shoulders and leapt out of the trench. With uncanny speed belying his age, he bolted towards the town in the distance.

Story #3 is the prologue of a novel.

Spoiler: Story #3: Your Generic Isekai Novel

Your Generic Isekai Novel:

Synopsis:

Enter Rynona Kingdom.

A powerful monarchy with deep roots reaching a thousand years of heritage, it boasts a high literacy rate, stable economy and breathtaking infrastructure.

The brightest minds, the finest delicacies and the strongest warriors; on the tip of the iceberg, Rynona Kingdom appears to be the exemplary model of an ideal country.

And yet, things are never as perfect as they seem.

Conspiring forces seek to weed the monarchy from its very roots while internal strife for power and corruption gnaws at it from the inside. Racial conflict between humans and other species are slowly crawling to a peak, on the imminent verge of eruption. Its neighbour, the Engad Empire, eyes it covetously from a distance.

Admist all the chaos and bloodshed in Rynona, a young boy of unknown origins vows to become King.

Prologue:

A pudgy figure rested on a chair, scrawling away at something on his desk. The desk was extravagant; a furniture made from the priced mahogany from the forests of the elves. It was a product tailored for the upper echelons of society, a product only the filthy rich would purchase to flaunt their deep pockets.

The room was as dark as the gaols of Rynona, and as silent to boot. Silvery moonlight slipped through the window of the room. The lonely moon hung proudly in the dusky sky, radiating an icy sense of beauty.

"How are things on your end?"

The plump figure spoke to the air. His hand continued scribbling at the piece of paper like clockwork.

"Easier than it's ever been. All that's left is a little push behind their backs to get them going."

A raspy voice replied in a hushed tone from the window.

"Excellent."

A wide, toothy grin split on the face of the figure, his pearly teeth gleaming under the moonlight. A chilling breeze swept past the window. Far off, a raven cawed loudly into the night as a flag rustled in the breeze.

The scratching of pen on paper continued late into the night.

—

I think I did pretty well for this one. Story #1 was unedited and Story #2 was terribly done, if I say so myself. I have little to no experience with guns, let alone writing them, so yeah. Also my writing itself was pretty bad. Might edit it later.