All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
November 28th, 2986
“Kent!” yelled a voice in the distance.
“I gotta’ go” Said the young boy.
“That’s alright, I will text you later.”
“Ok, I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Kent ran toward the voice he had heard.
“Coming Mom!” yelled Kent, hoping she would hear.
“Kent Jefferson, where have you been?”
“I was with Kathy, that’s all.”
“I don’t want you near that girl ever again.” His mother demanded.
“You can’t keep me from seeing Kathy, Mom.”
“Sure I can.” She said, walking away.
She came back with a revolver and six bullets. She began loading them into the gun one by one.
“Mom…please don’t.” Kent whispered.
“Too late,” His mother said, firing two rounds into Kent’s leg, “Now, where’s your brother?”
“You suck,” Kent coughed, getting his leg stomped on by his abusive mother, “I’ll never tell you.”
His mother ran to his bedroom.
“Chris!” She yelled, “Where are you?!”
He was hiding under his bed, he was really scared. His mother looked under the bed right into his eyes. Chris screamed as he was yanked out from under the bed.
“Now you’re going to get it.” His mother breathed, and she punched him in the face.
Kent lay on the kitchen floor in a pool of dark red blood. He began thinking about how to get revenge on his Mother. The pistol lay on the floor in front of him and he pulled himself toward it. Grunting, he grabbed the gun and began to inch his way toward the screaming.
The screaming ceased as Kent heard footsteps coming towards him. Raising the gun, Kent struggled to aim at his mother as she ran for him.
“What are you doing?” Kent’s Mother asked him as he fired three rounds into her chest. She fell to the ground, wide-eyed. Sirens filled the air fifteen minutes later and Kent sat on the floor, awaiting his punishment.
November 9th, 2996
Present Day, Madeira
10 Years Later
It was a dark and stormy night. Kent Jefferson stepped from his Lamborghini Diablo and smiled. He adjusted the gun inside his black leather jacket. He read a sign that said “Hotel Casinioto” and he walked inside. Strolling casually to the front desk, Kent grinned at the woman sitting behind a large computer screen.
“Hello Kent.” The woman said.
“Kathy.” Kent replied.
“Need something?” She asked him.
“A room, just for the night.”
“A room costs money, got any?”
“I’m flat broke,” he began, “I just got out of prison a week ago. I stabbed a guy and took his wallet.”
“And they let you go?” Kathy asked surprisingly.
“I’m standing here aren’t I?”
“Yeah. Ok just take the room. Room 111 floor 11. Here’s the key. Oh and Kent?”
“This is only because we are friends.” Kathy smiled.
“You're welcome Kent.” She said as she began thinking about her childhood.
Kent went up the large elevator to the 11th floor and stepped out. Walking down the empty hallway, a memory flashed through his mind. A man. Short and fat. Billionaire. Kent remembered shoving a small piece of metal through the man’s chest. He remembered watching him die. Kent pulled out his room key and strolled inside. A standard room complete with a bookshelf, a bathroom, a bed, a nightstand, and a kitchen.
Picking up the small mint candy on his pillow, Kent sat on the fluffy bed and pulled out his gun. He removed the magazine and set both it and the gun on the nightstand. Kent picked up the remote and switched on the TV.
“A man on trial, convicted of stabbing a man for his wallet is out of prison now.” The newscaster said. Kent switched off the TV. He then went to sleep thinking about the awful sin he had committed.
Kent awoke the next morning with a headache and he went down to the bar for a drink.
“I’ll have a lemon sizzler, minus the alcohol.” Kent groaned as he rubbed his forehead.
“That’ll be $4.00.” the bartender said.
Kent fished some money out of his wallet and handed it to the man.
“Your drink will be out any minute sir.”
After getting his drink, Kent went out to his Lamborghini and got in and then he drove out of the parking lot. A vibrating sound came from his phone in the glove compartment and Kent answered it.
“You can’t get away,” A voice said, “You won’t get away.”
“Hello?” Kent said as the line went dead. The number eleven flashed on the phone and then on his clock on the dashboard.
Looking out the window, a restaurant sign flashed the number eleven. Suddenly, a bird hit the wind shield. Tied to the ankle of the bird was a note that read:
“Be at the hotel ‘Eleven Angels’ at 11:11pm on the night of November 11th. All will be explained to you there.”
Kent folded the note and put it in his pocket and he drove home. When he arrived at his house, he noticed his dog, Buddy, was on the floor in a pool of blood. He was dead. Blood was splattered on the walls and stove. In the blood was written “11”. Kent picked up his house phone to call the police and it just buzzed in his ear. He tried his cell phone and luckily it was working. He called the Hotel Casinioto.
“Hotel Casinioto, this is Kathy how can I help you?”
“Kathy! Buddy is dead and my house line isn’t working.”
“Kent I’m at work but I’ll come over as soon as I can around 5ish.”
Maxwell Stone polished his sniper rifle and loaded a bullet. His target, Kathy, hotel desk clerk. Aiming his gun through the leaves to Highway 50, he cocked his gun. Looking down the sight, he adjusted the aim so he could see every passing car clearly. He would have to be fast. Like lightning. He was looking for license plate number 52J45TH.
Suddenly he coughed, throwing off his aim and it had also caused him to pull the trigger. Screams and car screeches echoed in his ears. On the highway, he saw a massive pile up of trucks, cars, and SUVs. He sensed that Kathy’s car would be coming soon and he aimed toward it. The license number flashed through his mind. 52J45TH. Maxwell cocked his gun and fired two rounds at Kathy’s car, one of which went through the front windshield and the other pierced her front right tire. Kathy’s car spun out and did four flips into the growing pile of wreckage. Maxwell chuckled to himself. Now to make it down to the wreckage. He dug a hole and placed the gun inside it and covered it.
When Maxwell was at the bottom of the hill, he pulled out a silenced pistol and opened a car door. He saw the driver and fired two rounds into the man’s head. The man slumped forward and blood began pooling in the dashboard. Max cautiously made his way to the pile of burning cars. Max stared at the cars and smiled. He had done this.
Then, a cop came up behind him and grabbed his shoulder, but Maxwell threw the cop into the wreckage and shot him twice. He then climbed the wreckage and found Kathy’s body. It was torn in two. He snapped his fingers and the body got put back together. Like magic. Maxwell left the scene with no problem.
Kent’s House, Madeira
Kent paced by the phone, hoping Kathy would call and explain her reason for being late. She didn’t. By 5:45, Kent still hadn’t heard anything.
“Where is she?!” Kent screamed, half sobbing. Then, Kent heard a sound coming from the basement. He ran down the stairs as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Waiting to greet him was a short stubby man who looked to be in his twenty’s.
“Kathy is dead.” The man told Kent.
“Wha--?” Kent mumbled.
“Kent. I know you. I know a lot about you. And I am here to kill you.”
Kent ran for the door, but it got shut by the man in the room.
“Telekinesis,” the man told Kent, “Like it? I think it’s awesome. Mommy always loved my brother’s strength better though…”
“What’s your name?” Kent asked the man.
“Wilfred. Wilfred Stone. But the police call me ‘Move’.” Wilfred said as he picked up a table with his mind. He threw it at Kent and knocked him to the ground.
“It’s time to die, Kent.”
Maxwell Stone’s House, Indian Hill
The ability to put things back together in perfect condition is quite an incredible feat. And super strength is another. How those abilities are obtained is a completely different story.
“I want more. I must have more,” Max said greedily, “More than that creep brother of mine ever had.”
So Max started researching new abilities to obtain. His objective…to get more than his brother has.
Back at Kent’s house, he and “Move” were in a fistfight. Kent rolled out of the way just as a shelf came crashing down in front of him.
“Stay down!” “Move” yelled as he forced as much gravity into Kent as he could. Kent could feel the concrete crack beneath him. Quickly, Kent picked up a wood stake and jammed it up into “Move’s” thigh. “Move” yelped in extreme pain and he backed away.
Kent stood and breathed a sigh of relief. “Move” was down, at least for now.
Bank of Justice, Indian Hill
November 11th, 2996
“Everybody get on the ground now!” Yelled a tall, burly man waving a gun. Men and women screamed as they did what they were told.
“If anyone looks up, they will be shot,” said the man, “My friends and I will be leaving shortly.”
“Why do we--?” A six year old boy started to ask. Two shots rang throughout the bank as a woman screamed, holding her son, blood pooling under him.
“I told you people to not look up!”
“Ok everyone, cell phones in a pile now.” A short and stubby man said. People were hesitant at first but after a couple shots of an AK-47, they cooperated. Then, all at once a big pile of cellular devices and mp3 players appeared on the floor.
“You stay with them; I’ll go check on the money.”
“Ok, boss,” the short man said, “You never told me your real name.”
“My name is Chris Jefferson,” the man told the short guy. Chris raised his gun and ended his partner’s life.
Chris walked back to the vault and smiled.
“How’s it coming?” He asked the two men putting money into bags.
“Good boss, almost done.”
Chris raised his gun and ended both of his other partner’s lives. Then, he collected as much money as he could carry and exited the vault. He then went around to every person and shot them once through the head.
Chris walked to his car, tossed his bags in the back and sped away with well over 80 million dollars cash.
November 11th, 2:11pm
Kent made his way upstairs and into the kitchen. He grabbed a knife and walked back to the stairs to find that “Move” was already at the top of the stairs. Kent yelled in rage and stabbed “Move’s” hand with the knife and he stepped back. Kent kicked Wilfred’s face and watched as he tumbled down the stairs. Kent had just killed a man, but he felt no remorse. This man had just tried to kill him, so why should he feel remorse?
Indian Hill Police Department
“What we have on our hands is a serial killer. His name is Chris Jefferson, he is thirty years old,” Said Captain Stan McMichael.
“Any siblings, sir?” asked Lt. Nathan Rogers.
“Yes, Lieutenant, he has one brother name Kent, the location is still unknown.”
“Let’s go find the brother then.” Nathan Rodgers suggested.
“Ok, people! Let’s go! We have no idea when this guy will strike again. Tactical team one, head East on Bryar. Team Two, head West on Bryar. I want this guy nailed now!” the Captain said.
“You heard the man! Move!” yelled Lt. Rogers.
“Report back to me if you find anything,” ordered the Captain, “And Lieutenant, you come with me.”
Chris’s Truck, Madeira
November 11th, 8:11pm
Chris opened his glove compartment and pulled out a limited edition one of a kind silenced .44 Magnum pistol. Chris planned to kill at least nine, maybe ten unsuspecting victims tonight. Each one not having a single thing in common except that they were rich. Victim number, Fran Nixon, lived in Indian Hill, only ten minutes from Chris’s house.
A brick masterpiece was Fran’s house. Two giant wooden doors blocked the entrance. Security systems would stand in Chris’s way.
“Yes, honey, I’m just fine, have a good night.” Fran said on the phone to her husband.
“You too, I love you, good night.” Replied her husband as he hung up.
A faint clicking sound startled her as she headed up the marble staircase to her room. She was halfway up when she heard it again, and she descended back down in half the time she had taken to go up. She grabbed a knife as she walked to the back door.
Chris fumbled with the lock pick as he tried to get in.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” Fran asked.
Click. The lock pick had worked. He was in.
“I’m going to call…” And she was cut off by Chris punching her in the face, knocking her down.
Chris shot her eleven times with his .44 and huge holes were left in her stomach. Thick red blood began to ooze and pool under her.
“Yes, Fran, I am.” Chris said as he started looking through her house. He came across a floor safe and shot the handle, blowing a hole through it. He noticed the vault was a lot bigger than he had expected. The backpack Chris carried was perfect for carrying large amounts of cash. He grabbed all he could carry and headed for his truck.
Kent’s House, 11:00pm
Eleven minutes. That was not a lot of time. Kent remembered what the note had said. Eleven Angels on 11th street at 11:11pm. Kent speed walked to his car and got in. Driving eighty miles down a busy street was not a wise decision, but he had to make this deadline. His phone vibrated.
“Hello?” He answered.
“Are you on your way?” A voice asked.
“Yes I am. What do you want from me?”
“What…?” Kent asked as the line faded.
Ten minutes later his phone vibrated again.
“Hello?” Kent answered.
“I’m watching you,” the Voice said, “Be sure there are no cops around, because I won’t come out if there are any.”
“There are no cops.” Kent assured the voice.
“Good.” The Voice said as its’ owner emerged from the dark shadows.
“Who are you?”
“Do I know you?”
“Yes, I do believe so. We first met a long, long time ago.” Healer informed Kent.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“What does your heart tell you to do?” Healer asked as he disappeared into the shadows.
“Wait!” Kent yelled. But there was only darkness. Silence. Dead silence.
Indian Hill P.D.
November 12th, 1:11am
“Anything yet?” Captain McMichael asked his squad.
“Keep looking, I’m on my way.”
Captain McMichael got into his squad car with Lieutenant Rogers. They drove to an abandoned house about a block away from where all the others were searching. The captain walked up to the front door.
“We breach on three. One, two, three!” the Captain yelled as he kicked the flimsy wooden door in. He slowly worked his way through the run-down house, being careful not to miss anything. He found animal corpses and random odds and ends. A flight of stairs led to three pitch black rooms. On the door of the first one was a metal number one. On the second door was a metal number three, and the third door had a metal number seven on it. Eleven. The door numbers added up to eleven.
“Lieutenant, check out room number one.”
Nate Rogers plunged his foot into the door, flinging it open instantly. They walked in and found a lot of spider webs.
“Sir, what is that?” Nate asked, pointing to a chest.
“I think it’s a coffin.” The captain replied, walking over to it. He opened it and screamed in terror.
“Holy…” Nate said as he watched his captain get ripped to shreds. A warm, gooey substance splattered Nate’s face. Blood.
“I need all units to report. Address 7711 Redwood Drive. Move! Get over here!”
“Copy that.” A voice replied.
Maxwell Stone’s House
November 12th, 9:00am
“You have eleven days, eleven hours, eleven minutes, and eleven seconds to get eleven million dollars to the location I will later inform you about,” Maxwell Stone wrote on a faded piece of paper, “Signed, E1even.”
Max had been working for three weeks perfecting this letter and was still figuring out what he would threaten if he didn’t get the money. Blow up a hospital? No, too difficult. Threaten to kill the President? No, also too difficult. Threaten to kill a massive amount of people? Yes, that could be possible.
Max stood and folded the letter and put it in the mail box. He had to go shopping. Max drove to a pawn shop and went inside.
“Welcome to Greg’s Guns, how may I assist you?”
“I am looking for something powerful, yet silent.” Max told the clerk.
“Follow me.” The clerk said, pointing to the back of the store.
Max was led to a room with lots and lots of rifles. A .50 Caliber Sniper Rifle hung in the middle of the room. The price tag read: “2,500,000”. A great price for a great gun.
“Can you get that one down for me?” Max asked, pointing to the .50 Cal.
“You bet.” The clerk said, pulling a lever that made the gun descend.
“Ammunition?” Max asked impatiently.
“The best on the market. Hand crafted beauties.”
Max held the gun and loaded a bullet. He quickly aimed the gun at the clerk, who was now pale white.
“On the floor.” Max forced the clerk down.
“Just don’t shoot me.” The clerk pleaded.
“Too late,” Max said, aiming the gun at the man’s ankle. He fired. The clerk screamed as blood sprayed the floor, “Now give me the key.’
The clerk handed the key to Max and he got shot twice.
Indian Hill P.D.
“Sir, we just received this note.” An officer said, handing it to Nate.
“He’s going to kill people,” the Lieutenant said, “Eleven hours people, let’s get on it. We have until 5am tomorrow.”
“Where to first?” an Officer asked Nate.
“I suggest we go to the Pawn Shop that was just robbed, we can start there. All units report to Greg’s Guns on the corner of 5th and Hollywood, go.” Nate said into his radio.
They got out of the car and went inside the pawn shop only to find the place empty and the only fingerprints in it were the owners.
“Set a perimeter, there has to be something.” Nate said.
In the woods across from the pawn shop, Max loaded six bullets into his sniper rifle. His sight showed a police officer placing tape around the shop. He squeezed the trigger. A shot cracked off from the gun and the man Max was aiming at fell.
“Everyone get down, now!” Nate yelled.
A bullet ripped through the car in front of Nate and it burst into red hot flames.
“No!” Nate yelled as he saw an officer stand and run. A bullet tore through the man’s back, killing him instantly.
“We need all units to report to Greg’s Guns now! Beware; there is a sniper in the vicinity.”
Later that Night
Chris emptied his riches from the bag onto a glass coffee table. The light above the table shined brilliantly off the gold and silver. Suddenly, his doorbell rang. A delivery man stood in the doorway. A delivery? This late?
“Yes?” Chris asked.
“A letter,” The man said, walking away. Chris returned to his couch and opened the letter and began reading.
“I am in need of your services; you are the man I have been looking for.
Chris turned the paper over and read the phone number. 111-111-1111.
The next morning, Chris called the number.
“Hello?” A raspy voice answered.
“You sent me a letter.” Chris said.
“You must be Chris. I have a proposition for you.”
“Go on.” Chris was getting impatient.
“A certain man has been a thorn in my side for some time now. I need to get rid of him, and that’s where you come in.” Maxwell Stone said.
“You want me to kill him?”
“I think that can be arranged.” Chris told the man.
“In your truck you will find the supplies you need to complete the job. The man you are going to kill…his name is Kent. Your brother.”
Chris stood, unfazed, and he hung up the phone. He headed for his truck. He had to kill his brother. He had to kill Kent. Chris drove to his brother’s house. Who is Eleven? No matter, time to kill.
Kent was just pulling into his driveway when he noticed a car speeding to his house. He eyed the car suspiciously as his brother, Chris stepped out.
“Hello Kent,” Chris said, pulling out his .44 Magnum, “Time to die.”