Alright... So, I realize that it has been... a very long time since I posted anything here, but fret not. I have returned. This time without any kind of schedule. Now, this time I thought I would try something a bit different than the material I posted before. This time, I will be posting several parts to a short story I'm writing. I am undecided on a title at this point, so for now, I'll just name every post according to my own discretion. Now, without further ado, my new murder-mystery short story!
Wind blew from the north, carrying with it all the bitter cold of winter that it could muster. It was late January, and the gray sky showed no signs of breaking. A lone man walked down the street as a single snowflake fell from the sky and was driven to his face by the merciless wind. His ears, nose, and fingers were all numb with the cold. His hard-soled shoes clacked softly on the concrete sidewalk as he made his way to the brightly lit hotel ahead. Its windows sparkled like gems in the distance, making patterns with no particular order as to which windows had their lights on, and which did not. A beautiful chaos, you might have called it, if such a phrase made sense.
Under the man's arm was tucked a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. An even stronger gust of wind blew, causing the man to shiver as he pulled the collar on his trench-coat a bit higher, and pulled his scarf over his ice cold nose and chapped lips. His shoes continued to click gently as the hotel grew closer and closer. As he came within a block of the building, a young boy, with cheeks red from being in the harsh weather, at a newspaper stand asked if he would like a copy. The man paused for a moment, then grabbed the paper and dropped a nickle in the boy's outstretched hand before continuing on his way. Sundays had never been interesting, but he felt bad for the kid sitting in this wind all day. He briefly scanned over the headline: 'Four More Dead in Heart of Chicago,' and he shook his head. This had become commonplace for the Windy City as of late.
Rumors of some blood-hungry psychopath roaming the streets had begun to spread. Although the idea that a single man might be behind all of the recent murders was not an idea that was completely dismissed, it was considered unlikely by the police, and despite the police force's best efforts, many people were buying into the rumors. Shaking his head, the man made the rest of his trip to the hotel, and was instantly welcomed by the warmth and bright lights of the lobby. Two doormen welcomed him as he walked in. "Evening, mister Elwood."
He nodded at both of them in turn as he removed his hat. His disheveled blonde hair, bright red cheeks and nose, and cracked lips gave him the look of a homeless man that had meandered in. He made his way to the elevator, and rode it to the top floor. Once in his room, he poured himself a glass of scotch and started to sip absent-mindedly on it as he noticed the pile of mail on his coffee table. With a sigh, he dropped into the sofa in front of the table. It was then that he remembered the brown package from the police station. He tore the box open and pulled the contents out.
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