artists and arsonists: part 2Sheridan was eight. He was the sort of child that sat in the back of the classroom and read during recess. He was picked on a lot, so he just liked to stay out of the way when the rest of the class went out to roughhouse. Something about this particular day intrigued him, though. It was cold and white, and it fell from the sky overnight and piled up on everything that stood still long enough. Sheridan loved the snow. He always had. He made snowmen in the front yard with his parents all winter. Making a snowman was hard work, but he could handle it. In fact, maybe he'd make one at school. He had only been outside for fiartists and arsonists: part 2
artists and arsonists: part 1He rose with the sun-not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't stay asleep. Insomnia led to boredom. Boredom led to plotting. Plotting led to destruction. Of course, he didn't see it as such: he cleared out the old and the unneeded to make way for the new. New was better. New was more efficient. In his eyes, he didn't destroy, he merely upgraded, experimented. It was necessary. He rose with the sun. The air was hot-unseasonably so, but it helped him think. A cigarette made its way to his lips, lit seemingly by itself on the way there. He never carried a lighter anymore. He still collected matches. Old habits diartists and arsonists: part 1
untitled little thingJim sat on one side of the limo, nursing a soda. He was nervous, but the people seemed nice. He had been walking home from work when the limo stopped beside him. The driver told him to get in, and he didn't look like a guy that he wanted to argue with.untitled little thing
On the other side of the limo sat a pair of...eccentric characters. One was a small, pale redhead wearing a baggy sweater. He looked a bit jumpy, but fairly normal compared to his friend. The other guy was a bit taller. He had platinum blonde hair and an eyepatch over his right eye. His exposed eye was a reddish-brown color. Something about him scared Jim. He seemed pleasant
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