Vodstok
11-06-2006, 08:52 AM
I wrote this when i was 19 (maybe 20) and i decided i wanted opinions on it. I think it could use some work, andi am looking for suggestions:
It was early autumn, and the air had a chill bite to it; mist still clung to the valley below. Glen opened his jacket to check the gun he carried in a shoulder holster, a nine-millimeter. He kept two spare clips in his belt.
Just after the sun rose, Glen had packed up his camp, ate a can of cold baked beans for breakfast, and started up the old mountain trail he'd slept at the bottom of.
Glen was a private investigator in Denver. He'd been hired by a wealthy Native American to find his son.
For over sixty years, the trail, Bearwood, had been closed. When it had originally been opened, in the late thirties, it wasn't very popular. After two hikers had been mauled (the official report stating by a Kodiak bear) the trail was closed and all but forgotten. (Forensics reports estimated by the claw and teeth marks would had to have belonged to a bear about twenty feet tall, an impossibility, and were not released to the press.)
Two weeks before, the trail had been re-opened. In that time, seven people, including the Indian, Jonathan Swiftfoot, Glen's mark, had disappeared.
Glen took out his notebook, rings arranged at the top to compensate for his left-handedness, and flipped through it for the trail map.
"No wonder it wasn't very popular." he mumbled to himself. The red line that indicated the actual trail was so twisted and convoluted it nearly touched or crossed over in many places.
He folded up the map. "Now or never." Glen started up the trail.
Two of Glens talents that lead him to become a PI, was his attention to detail, and a photographic memory.
He scrutinized every inch of the land around him, from the metallic, navy blue weevil crawling on a fern leaf, to the wet sheen on the rocks that lined the overgrown trail. Were it not for his discerning eyes, he would have missed his first clue.
Glen reached in his pocket to get a headband to hold back his hair, a plastic bag, and some forceps. His face scrunched up. "Jesus."
Less than a mile into the trail, he'd found something very curios, a small shred of white cotton knit, and a bloody tooth. He placed them in the bag, sealed it, and replaced it into his coat pocket. He marked the location on the map.
He checked his watch, five thirteen. He wrote everything down in his notebook.
The torn knit wasn't, by itself, very odd. Glen had found it hanging on a broken-off branch from a fallen tree. Small accidents were a common problem with hikers, especially when leaving the designated trail, as this person had apparently done. Glen flipped through his notebook to the pictures, hoping to match the material to the clothes of one of the missing persons.
No such luck.
Closer inspection on the material revealed that it was from a sock. Interesting, most established hikers used wool socks, especially this time of year.
Glen checked the list:
Jon Swiftfoot,
Martina Cormier,
Stephen Dunst,
Karen Blackburn,
Philip Parkinson,
Jeffery Roberge, and
Robin Bellamy.
Philip had the least experience hiking, as a matter of fact, this was to be his first time.
This probably wasn't going to turn him into a hiking fanatic.
Glen's first clue was a torn piece of sock and a bloody human tooth. Only one clue, and already signs of violence.
It was curious, though. Philip disappeared two days before. That might be plenty of time for nature to cover up most tell-tale signs of pursuit or struggle, but there would still be broken branches, trampled foliage, and footprints. None were apparent. That was very odd.
Glen followed the trail for several more miles, and found several more clues.
No. Not clues, really, more like unusual articles found in unusual places.
Most of the evidence he found seemed natural enough, if not a bit strange.
He thought more about his first clues. The sock piece and tooth, at first, seemed simple enough to explain, but...
How could a branch scrape, harsh enough to tear a sock, not cut the victim? The sock sample should have some blood on it, but did not.
Then there was the bloody tooth. How on Earth could someone lose a tooth in a manner messy enough to leave it bloody, but intact, and not have some trace of breakage? Plus, there were no signs of that anyone had ever been in the area which was covered in foliage. Not a single plant was out of place.
Easy answer.
It had been placed there.
Glen suddenly felt very, marrow freezing, cold.
He was standing in a clearing, the sun now a quarter of the way in the sky, but it provided no warmth.
He felt silly, paranoid. But someone seemed to be leading him.
The forest was shattered by a strange bird-call that came from behind Glen, down the trail the way he had come. It was an odd mix of a crow's caw and the shrill cry of an eagle, grotesquely melding into an atonal, reverberating, cacophony. The cawing faded into the call of an owl, mixing with the continuing eagle shriek. Glen felt as if he were being watched; unseen eyes piercing his back from whence he came, boring holes through him. He could feel the gaze as if it were a malign, physical presence.
He glanced over his shoulder, back down the trail. The early morning shadows seemed darker suddenly. The colors of the forest had not changed, but the shadows, usually a deep gray, were now a rich black. It was as if the woods themselves were cloaking the invisible watcher that was observing the private-eye.
Glen decided it would be best if he kept moving. He poured over the clues he'd already discovered, and kept an eye peeled for more.
So far, in addition to the tooth and knit, he'd found a baseball hat that was somehow soaked with water(he'd found it in a bush): a Swiss Army knife with all of it's attachments out in display fashion, stuck in a tree: a brush with a huge wad of blonde hair tangled in it, along with a small piece of scalp: and a glove, with holes in all the finger tips, and a gash in the palm, lining the blue suede with blood.
So far, only the glove seemed remotely accidental.
Glen had been planning on digging into a granola bar in his pocket a few minutes ago, but now his appetite eluded him.
This case was getting too weird. Placed, morbid clues, the feeling of being watched...
Maybe it was a hoax. Some twisted little game, or a test. But no, this was too strange. The whole situation almost seemed to be getting dangerous, as well. Too much blood so far, Glen tried to avoid getting too close to murderers and sadists if possible.
The thought had crossed his mind to turn back around and report the incidents to the police.
Just then the wind picked up, and quite a bit, too. He heard a chink, as if someone had dropped a glass, but didn't break it. The wind died abruptly. Glen's eyes were wide and he was shaking.
He glanced down. At his feet was a full, unopened bottle of beer.
He picked it up. Something was scrawled on it in black. Glen dug into his pocket for a magnifier. When he found it, he deciphered the words.
Continue forth, I may let you live,
Turn around, I won't let you leave.
It was early autumn, and the air had a chill bite to it; mist still clung to the valley below. Glen opened his jacket to check the gun he carried in a shoulder holster, a nine-millimeter. He kept two spare clips in his belt.
Just after the sun rose, Glen had packed up his camp, ate a can of cold baked beans for breakfast, and started up the old mountain trail he'd slept at the bottom of.
Glen was a private investigator in Denver. He'd been hired by a wealthy Native American to find his son.
For over sixty years, the trail, Bearwood, had been closed. When it had originally been opened, in the late thirties, it wasn't very popular. After two hikers had been mauled (the official report stating by a Kodiak bear) the trail was closed and all but forgotten. (Forensics reports estimated by the claw and teeth marks would had to have belonged to a bear about twenty feet tall, an impossibility, and were not released to the press.)
Two weeks before, the trail had been re-opened. In that time, seven people, including the Indian, Jonathan Swiftfoot, Glen's mark, had disappeared.
Glen took out his notebook, rings arranged at the top to compensate for his left-handedness, and flipped through it for the trail map.
"No wonder it wasn't very popular." he mumbled to himself. The red line that indicated the actual trail was so twisted and convoluted it nearly touched or crossed over in many places.
He folded up the map. "Now or never." Glen started up the trail.
Two of Glens talents that lead him to become a PI, was his attention to detail, and a photographic memory.
He scrutinized every inch of the land around him, from the metallic, navy blue weevil crawling on a fern leaf, to the wet sheen on the rocks that lined the overgrown trail. Were it not for his discerning eyes, he would have missed his first clue.
Glen reached in his pocket to get a headband to hold back his hair, a plastic bag, and some forceps. His face scrunched up. "Jesus."
Less than a mile into the trail, he'd found something very curios, a small shred of white cotton knit, and a bloody tooth. He placed them in the bag, sealed it, and replaced it into his coat pocket. He marked the location on the map.
He checked his watch, five thirteen. He wrote everything down in his notebook.
The torn knit wasn't, by itself, very odd. Glen had found it hanging on a broken-off branch from a fallen tree. Small accidents were a common problem with hikers, especially when leaving the designated trail, as this person had apparently done. Glen flipped through his notebook to the pictures, hoping to match the material to the clothes of one of the missing persons.
No such luck.
Closer inspection on the material revealed that it was from a sock. Interesting, most established hikers used wool socks, especially this time of year.
Glen checked the list:
Jon Swiftfoot,
Martina Cormier,
Stephen Dunst,
Karen Blackburn,
Philip Parkinson,
Jeffery Roberge, and
Robin Bellamy.
Philip had the least experience hiking, as a matter of fact, this was to be his first time.
This probably wasn't going to turn him into a hiking fanatic.
Glen's first clue was a torn piece of sock and a bloody human tooth. Only one clue, and already signs of violence.
It was curious, though. Philip disappeared two days before. That might be plenty of time for nature to cover up most tell-tale signs of pursuit or struggle, but there would still be broken branches, trampled foliage, and footprints. None were apparent. That was very odd.
Glen followed the trail for several more miles, and found several more clues.
No. Not clues, really, more like unusual articles found in unusual places.
Most of the evidence he found seemed natural enough, if not a bit strange.
He thought more about his first clues. The sock piece and tooth, at first, seemed simple enough to explain, but...
How could a branch scrape, harsh enough to tear a sock, not cut the victim? The sock sample should have some blood on it, but did not.
Then there was the bloody tooth. How on Earth could someone lose a tooth in a manner messy enough to leave it bloody, but intact, and not have some trace of breakage? Plus, there were no signs of that anyone had ever been in the area which was covered in foliage. Not a single plant was out of place.
Easy answer.
It had been placed there.
Glen suddenly felt very, marrow freezing, cold.
He was standing in a clearing, the sun now a quarter of the way in the sky, but it provided no warmth.
He felt silly, paranoid. But someone seemed to be leading him.
The forest was shattered by a strange bird-call that came from behind Glen, down the trail the way he had come. It was an odd mix of a crow's caw and the shrill cry of an eagle, grotesquely melding into an atonal, reverberating, cacophony. The cawing faded into the call of an owl, mixing with the continuing eagle shriek. Glen felt as if he were being watched; unseen eyes piercing his back from whence he came, boring holes through him. He could feel the gaze as if it were a malign, physical presence.
He glanced over his shoulder, back down the trail. The early morning shadows seemed darker suddenly. The colors of the forest had not changed, but the shadows, usually a deep gray, were now a rich black. It was as if the woods themselves were cloaking the invisible watcher that was observing the private-eye.
Glen decided it would be best if he kept moving. He poured over the clues he'd already discovered, and kept an eye peeled for more.
So far, in addition to the tooth and knit, he'd found a baseball hat that was somehow soaked with water(he'd found it in a bush): a Swiss Army knife with all of it's attachments out in display fashion, stuck in a tree: a brush with a huge wad of blonde hair tangled in it, along with a small piece of scalp: and a glove, with holes in all the finger tips, and a gash in the palm, lining the blue suede with blood.
So far, only the glove seemed remotely accidental.
Glen had been planning on digging into a granola bar in his pocket a few minutes ago, but now his appetite eluded him.
This case was getting too weird. Placed, morbid clues, the feeling of being watched...
Maybe it was a hoax. Some twisted little game, or a test. But no, this was too strange. The whole situation almost seemed to be getting dangerous, as well. Too much blood so far, Glen tried to avoid getting too close to murderers and sadists if possible.
The thought had crossed his mind to turn back around and report the incidents to the police.
Just then the wind picked up, and quite a bit, too. He heard a chink, as if someone had dropped a glass, but didn't break it. The wind died abruptly. Glen's eyes were wide and he was shaking.
He glanced down. At his feet was a full, unopened bottle of beer.
He picked it up. Something was scrawled on it in black. Glen dug into his pocket for a magnifier. When he found it, he deciphered the words.
Continue forth, I may let you live,
Turn around, I won't let you leave.