By Sebastien Thomas
Spurred on by meeting Victoria at Mr. President, I’ve decided to start a blog. Now, a lot of my friends in other circles are going to take the piss out of me for this, but not to worry. I will start writing short stories to try and perfect a short, succinct writing style. Something along the lines of the great master Hemingway. That’s the idea. Below is my first attempt.
It was the way she walked. Her stride had a purpose that mirrored her stare. Nothing was going to distract her from completing the task she had come here to do.
Darkness clung to the winter air, only breaking to allow the struggling beams of light from the street lamps dotted along the pavement. Her steady breathing that left traces of her presence on the otherwise deserted street.
Whilst she had never walked these streets before, the surroundings were familiar. She had studied the map repeatedly, knowing the names of the shops she passed, mentally ticking them off one by one. She was nearing the location. She could feel it. The sound of her soles crunching through the icy snow became more frequent. Her breath was shortening.
Suddenly there it was, the door that had featured in every newspaper when it had happened. The dark red paint, reminiscent of a dried blood stain you can’t wash out however hard you try. She remembered standing on tiptoes, peering over the kitchen table at the newspapers. Every single page spread out seemed to feature the same door and the same headline. She had recognised the writing, it was in a language she knew, but the meaning of the words themselves were incomprehensible. It had taken her a while for the insinuation of those pages to seep in. The radio had been playing in the background. A song she could still recall. One of her mother’s favourites.
She took a quick glance over her shoulder, assuring herself that she was alone. She leaned forward and pressed the doorbell.