so by popular demand: i will post this in stages, but be aware: its gonna be a bit before ITS ALL DONE, and it makes more sense to read it all at once
those of you who have read and answeredlink
know what im talking about
this is parts 1,2,and 3
part 4 will be the LONGEST
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE leave comments and give constructive critizism, so i can improve whats yet to be written
anyway without further delay i present to you:
MURDER at PPTH
The moon sparkled over clouds turning twists about the sky. Shades of champagne crept in patterns and definitive sequences, spring luminosity throughout. The stars danced against the light evening air, shooting amidst from the moon’s light. Along the dark brick of Princeton- Plainsboro, shadows showed a vast difference between that of the beautiful sky and the brinks themselves. Following paths already set in motion, the shadows moved along cement, staging in intervals of both high and low. The sidewalk followed the building around from the enormous car filled parking lot, through the edge of a vast green field, stopping in an arch just a step before a pair of glass double doors.
Dresses flowed with the shadows. Laughs rand out as diamonds joined the sky’s ecstasy. Clutching a man’s arm, a woman walked toward the doors, her bright red dress capturing the ominous night’s gaze. The man wore black shoes, coincidentally too, sparking the light about. His suit pants were also black in color, and with the casings of an old time cruise, beveled with a strip of polyester-silk that ran the vertical length of the pant. His shirt was white, offsetting, once more, the black jacket. Gold emblems held his sleeves cuff together in perfect stance, reflecting again to the man’s other arm.
The wind took a stroke, sending a minuscule piece of pollen rolling along the jacket. It floated, barley clinging to the cotton from the trio buttoned coat. The man turned, sending the spring work trudging down the old style jacket tails. They flew in the breeze, striding along the woman’s bare back. The pollen jumped, searching the new terrain and finally, nudging into a crevice of the low cut dress, impeded. She shivered, releasing the bit; it floated again, swinging in the wind like a piece of tissue. Then, quite abruptly, it hit a hard surface and fell onto the adjacent grass, ceasing again to move.
Inches away, a metal base cut into the green spokes, creating a three way dent into the ground. It was an art easel. At about four feet in height, the easel held clutch, holding down a giant poster board. Ocean blue in shade, and decorated like Windsor’s gates, the poster was significantly elegant, almost challenging to the great night’s canvas. In bold, non repressed lettering it read:
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital
7th Annual Oncology Benefit
The cherry of the lettering outcast the background. The flagrant shadows seemed to stop here, gaining access to an already opened door. This created a glow on the poster board, which, in accordance, added to its’ own specialty. The couple entered through the door, handing a greeter a bright crème clutch and the man’s keys.
Across the room, tables twinkled in shades of amber, glasses bounced from tip to tip and brushed along pairs of stout lips. The noise as anerellic, fluctuating from conversation to conversation as it echoed alongside the wooden panels of the large space. Centering the room, the nurses station had been transformed into a elite bar service, complete with tenders wearing flashy white suits. Mostly, champagne glasses took stride around the bar, along with the occasional white wine spritzer. Pictures and pictures lined the wide room, all appearing similar in color and texture. Round, green felt topped poker tables while stacks of red, blue, green, and white poker chips, each representing a different figure, strewn each surface. At the end of the evening, these chips would represent much, much more than just money. Bow ties and pearl necklaces dangled over various duos of cards, succeeding in line from assorted stages of a card game. Occasionally, shouts of triumph chimed about over the buzz, exposing the winning of a certain lucky individual.
At a table, ironically closest to the bar, House sat, staring at his freshly dealt cards: a king and queen of hearts. His blue eyes searched his opponents, portraying doubt in their abilities. Eyeing him back, Cuddy fingered a stack of three red chips, and half smiling, spoke. “Fifteen.” The chips flew into the well defined oval area marked in the middle of the felt tipped table. House kept his eyes locked, and moving his free hand against his scruff, scratched his chin. He chuckled. At this gesture, Wilson, sitting directly opposite House, tilted his head slightly and squinted his eyes. It was a look of confusion and for House, a sure “tell” of his hand. “Wilson…” House tore his gaze from Cuddy’s. “…just get on with it and fold otherwise we’ll never get Cuddy out of that little black dress
. He winked as he spoke the last three words. Sighing, Wilson threw down his cards, causing slight friction between them and the air. They soared gently like a pair of wings, then, in audible fashion, died against the green backdrop. Turning his eyes again to Cuddy, House listened to a durable voice coming from his left. “Flop. Ten of hearts, three of spades, ace of hearts.” House’s baby blues closed in synchrony, and, with no time delay, reopened in the exact identical manor. Cuddy followed in suit. “Your call House.” She pursed her lips as the words escaped, conveying a certain sexual tension that was sure to ensue. “Riiiight.” Not turning away, he grasped two blue chips and tossed them into the pile already growing stack. Cuddy mimicked him. “I call.” Wilson’s eyes beat between House’s and Cuddy’s, clearly transmitting the apprehension and tension between the two. He shot back his chair, sliding both his arms and legs in a criss-cross position. He bit his lip. Quickly shooting a glance toward Wilson’s motion and then back to Cuddy, House waited patiently for the turn. The dealer, matching in appearance to the bartenders, threw a card face down against the table, issuing a “burn” card. He then threw another card against the table, in line with the three already overturned: Jack of hearts. Cuddy drew her fingers to her lips, tickling and teasing the dated flesh. Unable to hold back, House smiled. Meanwhile, Wilson uncrossed both his arms and legs. He stood in liquid motion and nodded to his side. “Cuddy.” Turning slightly, he nodded a second time. “House.” A pair of blue eyes followed Wilson as he walked away, soon blending into the crowd. “House!” A layering voice shred. “Pay attention.” House retorted against Cuddy’s loud voice, “YES CUDDY, THAT THIRD NIPPLE CAN BE SURGICALLY REMOVED, ALTHOUGH, YOU MIGHT WANT TO CHECK WITH YOUR BOY-TOY TAUB FIRST.” She blushed as five sets of eyes burned to hers. She was at a loss for words. “He’s……ahh…” She twisted her hand about in the air as she confounded her portrayal. “Just…err…”Cutting her off, a noise reverberated throughout the air, pounding against the roof like rain upon a window pane.
A grey haired man smacked the microphone once more. “Ehh…Is this thing on…?” He stumbled his feet around and glanced overtop the podium. A whisper spiraled to man’s ear. “Yes dad, it’s on.” The whisperer giggled gently, coercing the rest of the room. “Yes of course.” He adjusted his glassed half way down his nose. Clearing his throat, and portraying the workings of a 78 year old man. “Ladies and Gentleman, thank you for attending tonight’s gala. This evening is especially bitter-sweet for me, as my eight year old granddaughter just passed this past week from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma; a battle that she had been fighting since she was three years old. It is because of events like this that research can be done, research that lead me to see my dear Elise learn to read, learn to write…” His eyes began to swell. “Learned to ride a two wheeled bike” This last phrase was spoken at levelly, two times the pitch of the first expression. The man took in air and sighed. The room was silent in mourning. Eyes locked on the crows’ feet that protruded from a pair of soft brown irises. He again opened his mouth to the microphone, but no sound followed. Licking his lips and pushing a strained sigh through his nostrils, the man managed to continue. “This is why I do this. Nights where fun and friendliness colliate little girls’ smiles. Tonight, Elise’s mother is here to speak on her behalf. Please join me in welcoming her.” The crowd erupted in applause, along with a few whistles. The old man strode to the side of the stage where he hugged a middle aged woman and gently kissed her cheek. “I love you honey.” His clean shaven face brushed against her ear. The woman clapped her black high heals against the hard floor as she moved forward to the, now vacant, podium. Her movement was some sort of catalyst to the room’s lights, every stride she took, the bright lights flickered above. On and off and on and off, over and over again. Still several feet from the stand, the woman stopped mid step. The lights continued wavering, graciously endowing the festive guests with looks of horror. Like lightning, the pitch and saturation of the room fluttered and then, with considerable warning, delved into a full blown abyss. The room was still, anaric in existence. Suddenly, like a scene from a film, a shot sounded that strune about the air. Still pitch black; a woman’s scream rang out, followed by the quick return of every light in the packed lobby. Several people stood, turning around and around, wondering all the while what had just happened. Another scream sounded, drawing hundreds of eyes toward it. Along the stage, an old man lay sprawled out against the floor. Limp and flush, blood drained from a single circular shaped wound in his forehead. Dripping through wrinkles and pooling both on the floor and in the man’s right ear. His mouth lay slightly to the right with his head, and was open, as if to silently scream. A pair of soft brown eyes starred into the distance, quickly gazing over until the hazel that had been had gradually burned to fog.
He was dead