Story excerpt

Okay this is a excerpt from a short-story I was walking on. This was originally going to be the opening about a time-traveling hitman. Unfortunately I only got the first part thought out and drew a blank on the rest of the story. Time-Travel stories are complicated. Any-hoo I'm re-writing it but chances are good I'm not adding this piece in. A fine piece of work though. 

Winston checked the chronosmeter, again for the umpteenth time.

01:24/11/Sept/1988 now 01:25/11/Sept/1988 Right on time.

It was raining on that date, the hour and moment, the fat droplets bashing against him, the sidewalk he was standing on, and everything in the city. The wet droplets, splattered on his fedora, inescapably running into rivulets, down into his trench coat, and everything else. 

But he already knew that, it would be raining. He knew it as much as where he knew he wanted to be, near O’Malleys Pub  the dingy alleyway which even O’Malley would never use for a smoke break, for want of convenience. He could see why that man would have used it. He frequented O’Malley’s often, and the alleyway was a dead-end, no escape. A large enough dump that O’Malley near sense-deaf, rarely checked to be anything beyond the regular garbage bags, and Winston always brought his own to hide disposals. Be packed along with the garbage and in the landfill before anyone noticed.

It wasn’t so hard to see, just by the saturated yellow light from O’Malleys where dim shadows hunched behind the window, ever dimmer from the sky wet above. To the side of it, nothing but shadow, but he could still see, the narrow crack, between O’Malleys and some small apartment, that shouldn’t have been there, but was still there. No matter, if they never complained about O’Malley’s late night hours, they wouldn’t hear him.  

He checked the chronosmeter, again.

01:27/11/Sept/1988 any minute now that man would come.

Hiding in his own alleyway, across the street, Winston fingered his pistol in his coat pocket, checking it. A Smith & Wesson, a discontinued MK 22 his favourite for silent kills. Taking a silencer from his other coat pocket, he screwed it on, trying his best to keep it all dry. It didn’t matter, the wet was everywhere, and spattered all over it and the chronosmeter on his wrist, leaving boil-sized droplets behind. The gun would still work in the end, he didn’t know why he even bothered, just force of habit he guessed.

Looking up, there! The man was already there entering the alleyway, his face obscured by the large collar of his trench coat. Winston cursed, running out onto the road. The crack of thunder, split wide, the sky in harsh brightness, as the rain poured harder now, obscuring his sight, as he ran hoping against hope.

Then there was a shot. Just barely over, the raucous sounds from the pub, but there it was. Winston stopped, listening to the underscore as he cursed again. He knew he would be too late, that he would always be too late, no matter what he did. Still he had still hoped, but that didn’t stop him from pursuing his original goal. The man would still be there, with him.

The rain diminished, when he was inside, protected by O’Malleys and the apartments from either side, yet a steady pour showered down on his head, when he saw the man. The man was already bending over his body, checking to see if he was still alive. Too bad he would be but the man wouldn’t.

“Hey!”

As the man turned, Winston shot. Once, the gunshot low under the rain but still clear in his ears. The blood spewed off the scalp, as the man fell. Dropping the gun he had in his hands. He fell on his side, to the side of his victim, the collar obscuring his face. His gun also fell down on his side. The cold wetness of the rain trickled down off the rim of Winston’s fedora. It was done.

It wouldn’t hurt to see who the man actually was; he always referred him as the man, but never knowing who he was. Could have been a female from what little he knew. Walking over, he bent down to pick up the man’s gun. The reaction automatic, experience telling him, you never left anything to chance. But then he looked at the gun, momentarily confused, then his eyes widened in shock. He grabbed the man’s shoulder turning him over to confirm what he thought he realized.

He shouldn’t have looked.

Impossible WIngs

My first successfully (in my eyes) short story i ever wrote. Sent it to a short story contest, and hope I win.

Impossible Wings

By Joshua P’ng

                If he had not forgotten the cleaning fluid by some stroke of fate, he would never have passed by the service staircase to retrieve it, and in that moment noticed the door to the service staircase closing. Then, finding himself standing in a concrete staircase momentarily adrift, he looked up above him to see the fleetness of feet – which by more than happenstance; he could have easily deluded himself to having imagined. Even though fate played a hand, it was still his choice, one he hadn’t given much thought to or wouldn’t have even realized the ramifications of until he would return perplexed and inexplicably saddened, finally realizing his cognitive thoughts that begun with his arrival at the roof’s door, opening it, and meeting her.

                Her back was turned to him, strong black hair waving to the sky. She wore clothing girls of her age were prone to wear: tight, short whitish crinkled jeans and a white tank top. Her appearance would not have seemed different from those typical girls he would see giggling, clutching each other on their way to their lives; if not for where she had chosen to stand: on the edge, just above the precipice below. In that moment all he felt was the unforgiving wind rattling his shirt, fluttering against his skin as the building trembled whilst the girl’s figure moved with it. He could be forgiven for his immediate response.

“Hey! What are you doing up here?” he howled out against the sky.

                She turned to him, having a confident smile that was more than he felt comfortable with her having, realizing why she was standing at the edge, the knowledge weakening him.

“Hey, uh you better get down from there before you fall off!” he shouted at her, scared now as he edged closer across roof pebble while she still stood swaying with the sky scrapper.

“Would you believe me if I told you I am already an angel and death is nothing to be scared of?” she replied back, her voice shooting easily across the wind, her words confirming to him what she meant to do.  

“Wait! Don’t jump!” he pleaded as he came near with trembling steps “you may believe this is your only choice, just please trust me, There is always another chance, just step away from the ledge, please.” His imagination retched with the image of her broken body, limbs askew.

“Yes you should trust in that, but I’ve made my choice already.” She told him, walking along on the edge, with not a tear in her eye.

Oh God why is such a young girl killing herself? And why I am the unlucky bastard’s whose going to have to stop her!

She moved a body’s length away from him, just beyond the reach of his arms.

“No please stop! I don’t know why you chose this place, but could you just step away and talk with me about this?” he begged once again, a plan to stop her already decided.

She stood now at the corner of the edge, like she had all the time in the world, “It’s not too late for you to understand. I already have wings – angel wings – to take me away from here” she said.

“What, you’re just going to fly away?” he questioned, disbelief written all over his face.

“Yes, Can you believe what you see to be impossible? Just watch and you’ll see my wings.”

He stopped just then, a handbreadth away from grabbing her.

In that moment, almost in awe at her unshakeable faith, he almost believed he could see wings ready to take her to the sky and he felt soothed. Then his well-being demanded him to think, People cannot fly, that’s impossible! He imagined the grieving parents, the hard-faced cops, and his boss all looking at him for answers he wasn’t sure he could provide.

He did what he chosen to do – what he always meant to do if he could believe that.

He expected to feel soft flesh gripped in his arms when he lunged for her, to be pulled toward him and away from the edge. But she already knew, her eyes sad with the truth, before he felt open air within his arms.

And then he watched, astounded and then saddened, as she flew away with what he could almost imagine but never see to be angel wings. They carried her away from the skyline and beyond into the sky, leaving him alone, safe and away from the edge.