Hi there, Reader.
This is an experiment. You know that I am a writer, right?
Most writers have their writings on a shelf, or in their computer, or in a little notebook. Until they get it published.
Writing is an ongoing process. You try, you throw away, you try again.
Well, I'm trying. This is a try-out. This is YOUR try-out, too!
Let me know what you think about this?
The accidental killer looked around him, sweat rolling from his hairline along his brow in rivulets. His hands scrabbling through the sand and sheep droppings, he tried to find enough loose stones to weigh down the heavy-duty garbage bag in front of him. He swore when knife sharp shards of oyster cut his fingers. In the distance he heard the sound of an approaching car.
To his left, a goose honked sleepily. Ever faster he searched for rocks and stones. Away, he had to get as far away as possible, before he was seen!
He held his breath when the car passed him, the sheen of headlights seen just above the dyke, and then moving down the narrow road. When he heard an asthmatic cough behind him, he froze. His bowels threatened to loosen and once more he held his breath, pressing his buttocks together. Again the cough, but this time it sounded less human and more animal. His overheated brain provided him with an answer. Sheep droppings – that meant sheep.(This is my property. If you steal this, you are a bad person! Renée)
As soon as he couldn’t find any more ballast, he tied a tie-wrap around the stiff plastic of the bag, wrestling with its folds. Scrambling up, he dragged the dead weight towards the waterline.
Christ, it was heavy going! The blue plastic made a tearing noise, and suddenly all round him there came an alarmed honking and the flapping of wings as the Canadian and Grey Geese woke up and tried to get away from the danger. He doubled his efforts, finally succeeding in getting the bag down the basalt incline to the water and then into it, where it became a little bit easier to drag. He stepped into the shallows, immediately losing his footing on the algae covered basalt and falling piggyback onto the bag.
A moan escaped him. He couldn’t get off it fast enough. At last! The bag hovered, gently bobbing on the calm waves. He guided it as deep as he could, walking alongside it on the muddy seabed until only his head was above water. Then he gave it one last strong push. It made a slow roll and half-turn, and teasingly slowly drifted away on the current. He sighed. It was supposed to sink, why didn’t it fucking sink?