This is a fiction story I've just started. I'm open to any ideas and I'll take both positive and negative feedback.
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"Run Jackie! Run!" screamed Dave, my baby brother. It was no use. I was
frozen still. I tried to run, or walk or at least move, but my body refused to respond. Dave,
quixotic as usual, took a protective stance in front of me. The burly man of robust frame smirked,
an evil glint in his eye as he brandished a 9 mm and fired two shots. He smiled as my brother's
muscular body fell limp to the floor, a hole in both his head and chest. A crimson river flowed from
his mouth and pooled on the ground. I howled in a paroxysm, reminding my brother's murderer of
my presence. He looked up and his grin widened. He turned his gun on me and pulled the trigger.
A bullet flied towards my chest.
"AAAAHHH!" I screamed. I awoke with a start, daylight relieving me of my nightmare. I groaned,
a little lachrymose, as I got out of bed. Great I thought as I walked out of the shower. Another boring
day, in my boring life in this misera- Jacqueline!" my mother yelled, interrupting my soliloquy. "Dave!
Breakfast!" I got dressed quickly. A black and white, horizontally striped turtleneck and a tight blue
jeans. I ran downstairs and sat on one of the six mahogany stools by our island in the kitchen, leaning
my head on the granite counter. I heard footsteps behind me and the screeching of a stool; but I didn't
need to turn around and see my perfect brother sitting next to me, an image of deity.
My mother smiled as she saw us and beckoned us to the dining room. There on the table was the circadian
breakfast. Four mugs of steaming black coffee with cream and sugar next to it and five glasses of orange
juice. Five platters each decked with scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and brown, buttered toast . A plate in
the middle of the table lay about ten freshly baked cinnamon rolls with a sugar glaze melting on top of it.
Needless to say the smell was intoxicating.
My three year old sister and father were already seated. I took a second to look at them as everyone
took their seats. My perfect family. My mother's thick, lustrous light, brown hair cascaded in waves upon her
back. She always wore pastels, a dress and an apron. Everyday. She was a real-life Bree Van De Kamp.
Added to the fact that she was a housewife, cooked like a gourmet chef and was incredibly old fashioned,
she'd fit right in Wisteria Lane. ;). She married my dad when she was nineteen, he was twenty-eight. I
never knew exactly why. She always said they fell in love and just decided to get married but I felt like she
was always hiding something.
My father was an entirely different story. He's a complete idiot. His hair was two shades darker than mum's
own and there's no denying he was a handsome man. I actually hated going anywhere school related with
him. All the single mum's would swoon at his arrival. They would flirt, bat their false eyelashes and try to smile
