An Assassination

[drapit]

This is my first attempt at writing. Please read, rate and hopefully provide a thorough reply.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun was making its usual slow descent, majestically snatching away all light and illumination. A figure, clad in black, was briefly silhouetted against one of the suns long tendrils of light. The dark form was adjusting a knob on a piece of complicated equipment not unlike a sniper rifle. This piece of state-of-the-art weaponry masterpiece was so revolutionary, it remained unknown to even the most professional gun collector.

 

 

 

The assassin turned a dial on the eyepiece, ensuring that the target was securely in sight and well within shooting range. The sun was sinking into the horizon, turning the sky an ominous, deep shade of red similar to the colour of blood. Positioned at the top of a ruined building, the assassin noticed the change in light intensity and, almost lazily, raised a hand to turn on the rifles night vision light filter. The view through the eyepiece instantly turned an eerie green. With the other hand, the mysterious assassin stabled the huge muzzle of the gun to better fit the position he was crouched in. Through the zoom lens of his guns scope, he saw that the target was still surrounded by a cloud of people. Apparently, they were having a party in the mansion of George Lewis, the very same person who had graced the posters and television screens. The same being who sat in the Pentagon revising on the ways to stop terrorism.

 

 

 

Agent Chase was a very patient man. He had been studying his subject for almost a week and was showing no signs of impatience. His master at the academy once told him that sniping was ninety percent preparation and ten percent action. He had stuck to that rule devotedly. Now, at the perched atop a building with a birds eye view of the landscape, Scott Chase was readier than ever.

 

 

 

George Lewis certainly seemed like the Head of the Department of Defence. Everything from his fluid movements to his comfortable posture suggested a calm, composed man who knew how safe he was. At present, he was seated at the end of a long marble dining table, speaking animatedly to a group of his closest friends. In his mind, there was no doubt about his safety. After all, much of the cost that went into building the mansion had gone to the installation of bullet-proof windows and the placing of motion sensors in various areas of his porch. Large, Russian hounds covered the wide expanse of his front porch. These dogs were not trained to bark; they were trained to kill. Sound detectors that are able to distinguish a persons footsteps surrounded the perimeter. Any trigger to these security systems would instantly deploy a SWAT team to the vicinity.

 

 

 

There was simply no reason to feel endangered.

 

 

 

Yet the cautious and meticulous Mr. Lewis had overlooked one point. He had not calculated the risk of dying under a shot from a sniper. The only thing that stopped a bullet from reaching Georges heart were the bullet-proof windows that lined his mansion. And right now, an assassin who had found a way across the problem was perched atop a perfect position, ready to kill.

 

 

 

The assassin saw the subject rising from his chair and knew that the gathering was almost over. It was to be over on grounds that the host would be found dead in his own bathroom.

 

 

 

George Lewis enjoyed being rich. He lived a luxurious life, both in his office and his home. Even in the transition between the two, he had an uniformed chauffer who delivered him to his destination in a custom-built Rolls-Royce limo complete with a conference phone, a television and bullet-proofed, tinted windows. He had so much money to spare; he even built himself what he had called a natural bathroom. His natural bathroom was a wall-less room facing east towards a magnificent view of the canyon below. Short bamboo sticks lined space, enclosing and concealing his privates while he was doing his business. Leaving George an unobstructed view of the magnificent natural wonder.

 

 

 

Little did he know, he was also put in danger by the lack of bullet-proof structures to the south. And the south was the assassin had so strategically placed himself.

 

 

 

The assassin knew every working mechanism in the gun by heart. Upon compressing the trigger, the hammer of the gun would snap forward and strike the percussion cap at the rear of the bullet casing. This would set off an explosion which would propel the shell at an enormously large pace out of its casing and down the long barrel, where a spiral grove would cause it to spin so that it would fly straighter. Finally, it would burst out of the gun. The assassin was also aware that his bullets were of high quality. The Teflon-coated bullets allowed maximum penetration while the streamlined shape ensures that it makes a clean entry and exit.

 

 

 

Agent Chase pressed the trigger. Almost instantly, a muffled sound emanated from the bulky silencer and a bullet tore through the wind.

 

 

 

The assassin gave himself the rare opportunity for a smile. It seemed to lighten up his features a little, giving some form of humanity to his dark but handsome countenance.

 

 

 

A bullet tore through him, making a hole in his expensive black suit and smearing his white shirt underneath. Surprisingly, he felt no pain. Perhaps reality needed time to sink in before the pain would register. Either that or he was already dead. He wished it was the latter. It would save him the humiliation of screaming on the way to his afterlife. But no, fate would not grant him even his last, dying wish. As his sensory neurons screamed and sent impulses at every possible direction, he wondered how a destiny like thus would befall him.

 

 

 

Scott Chase crouched behind the parapet. His finger was still on the trigger and his left hand was still steadying the gun. After every kill, he allowed the adrenaline to drain from his body before making his way to the exit. In his experience, being abnormally excited always seemed to derive at one mistake or another.

 

 

 

George Lewis flushed the toilet and made his way back, thinking of the succulent turkey still lying on his platter.

[Bluejayfan94]

Are you sure this is your first attempt at writing? This is amazingly good, better than almost all first attempts. You realy have a talent here, Mr. Drapit.

 

 

 

Fianl rating :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: /5

[Nom]

Dude, fix your tenses. You used a crapload of them in one paragraph.

 

 

 

Overall it was decent, but felt a bit lifeless. There was no . . . feeling behind the words, it just sounded like a monotone in my head. If you have no dialogue you have to compensate to keep the prose from droning.

[drapit]

Are you sure this is your first attempt at writing? This is amazingly good, better than almost all first attempts. You really have a talent here, Mr. Drapit.

 

 

 

Fianl rating :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: :thumbup: /5

 

 

 

Thank you. I haven't counted on someone actually liking something I composed when I posted it.

 

 

 

Dude, fix your tenses. You used a crapload of them in one paragraph.

 

 

 

Overall it was decent, but felt a bit lifeless. There was no . . . feeling behind the words, it just sounded like a monotone in my head. If you have no dialogue you have to compensate to keep the prose from droning.

 

 

 

I'm terribly sorry if I've failed to meet your standards. Not to hide anything, I have problems with constructing dialogues; it almost always ends up in a fiasco. As you've so rightly pointed out, I do indeed need to compensate to keep my read from droning. But what is it that I'd need to compensate with?

 

 

 

And how would you suggest I infuse this... 'feeling' that, according to you, I so lacked of?

[llamster]

As mentioned, you should make sure that the whole story's in the same tense. Right now you're switching between past and present.

 

 

 

Overall, it's pretty good, especially if it's your first attempt at writing.