Connor and Caroline: A Mystery Short Story

James stood completely still, in shock at the sight of the forest. He turned to look at the girl standing next to him.

Laurel took hold of the weapons that Ryder handed her, she was pleased that he took them from her. Knowing Zinda she would have most likely would have tried something stupid, just like at the farm house. She stared down at the young woman, her head shaking slightly. She was annoyed at herself for wanting to bring her back to camp. She just wanted to believe in people. A slight smile crept to her face when she felt Eric's hand against her arm. Turning her head she looked at him. “Yeah your right.” She whispered with a nod of the head. “Gotta take these back to the armory and deliver Ryders message to whoever gave the weapons back to her. She flashed Eric a smile and walked past Ryder and head off to the armory. She dropped off the weapons and informed the person in charge that Ryder was going to pay them a visit.

I went through the day thinking how my poor victor had gotten himself into this much trouble . He's been acting strange lately, always getting sick . Many times i’ve heard from clerval that my victor would be frighten to death of something that wasn't even there . My poor Victor was always an innocent little boy . If only my dear Caroline was here to tell my victor that she was alright .

My new, too-small boots make a loud thumping sound as I scuff through the enormous dirt landscape that seems to go on indefinitely. I can feel my belt tight around my waist heavy with bullets I pray that I don't have to use. The helmet I am wearing is strapped too tight under my chin, slightly pinching my neck. The open plains here remind me of a farm, once holding animals, now holding soldiers. After standing around awkwardly for a few minutes, watching everyone go about their training someone notices me and begins to come over to the ancient wire fence entangled with undergrowth that I have taken refuge near. The man struggles through the unruly crowd to reach me and immediately I notice that his uniform is different to mine, this man looks as if he is very high up in the ranks, perhaps a general. "'Ey son, how are ya?"

I’m sorry that I haven’t written sooner, but as you know, my wife, Patsy died on July 21. Her last two months were pure agony. As her primary care giver, I could hardly stand to watch her suffer.

The knight loaded the bow directed at her heart. She closed her eyes scared to open them, scared to see the arrow lodge its self in her chest. She took her final breath......

“I wasn’t going to leave without you. And what would my brother think? He’s a police detective, and your friend, yet you wanted me to leave without saying anything? What are you up

I also was very intrigue with the Flannery O’Connor short story and loved how the narrator pulled you in with real life family scenario. Taking a look at your response to the shocking different of each story and the level of anticipation in each is higher to me in the second story. The first story felt predictable with what was to come and the second was not so easy to predict.

After reading this article I agree with Tom Hallman to a point. I do believe that a story has to hold the attention of the reader. If the statement reporters who are making the leap from features to narrative often gravitate toward templates, systems or exercises at the back of a book. If all reporters wrote stories of a template they would all be the same. After a while they would not hold the attention of the reader. Stories are told in many ways. Flannery O'Connor wrote southern poems. She tells a story of a family going on a vacation in "A good man is hard to find." When she tells this story the people are waiting to see what is coming next. Dolly Parton and Tom T. Hall tells stories in there songs. Bill Cosby a stand up comedian

Blood was running down her arm from the gaping wound in her palm and the women began to wash the mask of clay and blood from her face, pushing her raven locks back from her face, exposing the near perfect alabaster skin of her face. Without the war paint, her face was almost angelic. Deep blue eyes were framed by high cheekbones and a slender nose that ended in small, pursed lips. Her body was muscular, marred and molded from months of stealthy battle and thievery. Her breasts were pert and sat high on her chest, only the carved 'A' marring the perfect

Caroline’s POV: Saturday morning. So relaxing, so refreshing. Peace. Serenity. The whole house is quiet. All I can hear is the bubbling of the coffee machine. It beeps. I pick up the coffee pot and watch the dark liquid ooze into my yellow mug. The morning is what I live for. No children are up to bother me about stupid things.

follow a pattern. It looks very heavy. A loincloth is strapped around his waist to cover his groin area. It is surprisingly clean, compared to everything else about him. Two leather slippers are worn on his feet, handmade of course. The ends of the threads on his clothes, just like the eyes and scars, are glowing, more mystery surrounds him.

The cloak is not fully wrapped around his body, many weapons can be seen but his jet black plate armor gleams no light, it seems to devour it, as if the armor was hexed. Any technological scan shows zero electrical signatures coming from that extremely heavy plate armor seemingly it is not power armor. He has the large hilt of a sword at his back from his right shoulder jutting out the large handle is made for two hands, another sword hilt rests at his back this one deceptively smaller in comparison to the large one. At his right hand waist he wears a holster for three blades one hilt is largely ornate and is clearly seen as a rapier, one is sheen and built finely and smooth with its wooden scabbard its looks to be a Katana, the final blade is the handle of a longsword its sheath is ornate but its handle is practical. Across his breastplate are some high tech throwing knives. At his left hand waist is an unknown firearm holstered, another firearm is holstered at his left hand thigh it appears be a highly customized Colt.45 M1911 the gun seems to have an extended stock, and some unknown electrical

“Just up to that place with the square rock.” Ben cleaned a few tears from his cheeks with his sleeve. He got up an threw his arms around Anna’s shoulders. She wore a teal fleece, and he couldn’t help rubbing his face against her shoulder a few times.

Gray swordsman pants are all he wears save his black leather boots and a matching belt. His spiky, nut-brown hair is wildly tousled as if his hand has gone through it numerous times. All six feet of him looms over the woman as a small, but a visible smirk of confidence plays on his thick lips and his storm gray eyes twinkle with amusement. He carries a steel edged cutlass, perfectly holding it at an undaunted horizon, leveled at his nose. He is prepared for any attack as he clearly does not underestimate her size. Below this embroidery, the name ~Orla~ rests in the right