With this story, I thought I might make a parody of a certain author’s well-known style, but, I’m not entirely certain if I was anywhere near the gold, as I’ve not really read much by this particular author. So, I’m going to let you all guess which author I was aiming for (or, possibly, at). Much more fun that way.
It was Wednesday. Not any particular Wednesday, but the kind of day that everyone distinctly remembers as being a Wednesday-like day. Outside the glass window, Edgar stood, watching. The wood frame was beginning to be covered with snow, which was just starting to fall. The snow was light, like the fluffy kind of snow one remembers from childhood. A good kind of snow, snow that would pack easily into icy weapons, imposing forts, and stoic men of snow. Yes, thought Edgar, It was a good snow.
But Edgar’s thoughts were elsewhere. Into the quaint stillness of the snowy scene, a shot rang out. Not the shot of a small child hurling a friendly projectile of ice, but a louder one; a sound that could only be described as a gun shot.
And then the siren came. Loud and red and full of anger. It was a fulsome sound; reverberating in Edgar’s ears as he watched the falling snow. And then it was everything: Sound, light, heat, violence. Everything was that siren. And then, as suddenly and abruptly as it boomed into existence, it stopped. The two men in the vehicle emerged, and quickly moved into Edgar’s house. “Stop!” he wanted to say “Stop, this is my house, you can’t just barge in,” but the words wouldn’t come. They just burbled and choked in his mouth, and then he saw her, standing there, with the smoking gun, and waiting with a look of intense satisfaction.
“I told you I could shoot a gun,” she said.
I’m pretty certain this missed the mark, but, I’ve decided that I don’t think I care. I think I like this story.
fulsome / FUL-some / excessive; cloying through surfeit.