Difference between revisions of "Ghost Owl"
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<div style="padding-right:0px; padding-left:0px; border: 2px Solid #512751; color:#fff; background-color: #000000"> | <div style="padding-right:0px; padding-left:0px; border: 2px Solid #512751; color:#fff; background-color: #000000"> | ||
<div style="padding-right:0px; padding-left:0px; border: 0px Solid #110911; color:#fff; background-color: #110911"> | <div style="padding-right:0px; padding-left:0px; border: 0px Solid #110911; color:#fff; background-color: #110911"> | ||
| − | <div style="font-size: | + | <div style="font-size:20px;color:#fff;font-family:Courier"> |
| − | <center>''Hudson City'' | + | <center>''Hudson City''</center> |
| − | ''December 24th, 1998'' | + | |
| + | <div style="font-size:18px"> | ||
| + | <center>''December 24th, 1998''</center> | ||
<div style="font-size:14px"> | <div style="font-size:14px"> | ||
| − | ''The old reverend lay sprawled out on the white blanket like a morbid snow angel. Oddly serene for the scene of a murder. Sad and tragic, but somehow darkly festive; maybe it was all | + | <center>''The old reverend lay sprawled out on the white blanket like a morbid snow angel. Oddly serene for the scene of a murder. Sad and tragic, but somehow darkly festive; maybe it was all that scarlet. And the guy '''was''' old - on that rugged, rawboned face, with its hard planes and tapestry of wrinkles, you could read the years, the decades, of hard living in a split second. But there was a quiet strength there too, a sense of dignity that not even death and a gaping bullet wound could steal away. Not an ordinary man, not by any means. But that didn't stop him dying a death that was all too ordinary - season's greetings, Hudson City style. |
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| + | ''But he wasn't alone. A kid in a hoodie huddled against a nearby wall, couldn't have been any older than sixteen. He was shivering, not from the cold - he didn't even feel the cold, not now - but from the shock and '''horror''' of what he'd just seen. From the '''anger''' of allowing it to happen. You know how this story goes. A good man dies, a bad man lives. A newborn vigilante, angry, screaming, is baptised in blood. An old story, played out a thousand times over. But still, it has punch. It '''resonates'''. And you have to make allowances for the classics.'' | ||
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| + | ''Nevertheless, this time around somebody got bored with the same old script and demanded a twist. A sharp-eyed observer - not that there any other witnesses that night, sharp-eyed or otherwise - would notice the kid was clutching something, staring down at it with the sort of wide eyed disbelief typically reserved for first-time alien encounters. A .45 revolver, five bullets still chambered. A spent shell casing lay at his feet. No prizes for guessing where the rest was. | ||
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| − | '' | + | ''The victim was later identified by the police as Reverend Nathan Sutherland. But the kid would discover he'd been much better known by another name: '''Ghost Owl'''.''</center> |
Revision as of 16:59, 10 September 2013
But he wasn't alone. A kid in a hoodie huddled against a nearby wall, couldn't have been any older than sixteen. He was shivering, not from the cold - he didn't even feel the cold, not now - but from the shock and horror of what he'd just seen. From the anger of allowing it to happen. You know how this story goes. A good man dies, a bad man lives. A newborn vigilante, angry, screaming, is baptised in blood. An old story, played out a thousand times over. But still, it has punch. It resonates. And you have to make allowances for the classics.
Nevertheless, this time around somebody got bored with the same old script and demanded a twist. A sharp-eyed observer - not that there any other witnesses that night, sharp-eyed or otherwise - would notice the kid was clutching something, staring down at it with the sort of wide eyed disbelief typically reserved for first-time alien encounters. A .45 revolver, five bullets still chambered. A spent shell casing lay at his feet. No prizes for guessing where the rest was.
