Alibi in my rise through Crime

Alibi TV had a competition for some New Crime Writer competition. Forgot I had start writing a story since February, but rediscovered it when I was backing up all my files from my mac, god rest her poor bastard soul. Check it out, you only have til May the 1st to enter:

http://uktv.co.uk/alibi/homepage/sid/8644

The story I wrote was based on the coming home of a soldier faced with the death of a brother caused by knife wielding punk. Hopefully I pass the first stages so you can start voting for the kid. Here's an excerpt:

It is awfully cold. Not so much the weather as the atmosphere. Wind chill -10. Goosebumps

lift off Salema’s skin. The construct of this place doesn’t help either. To the left of the small

metal fenced cemetery is a field. Open. Stretches for a good couple of yards. No trees or hills

to break the flow of wind. And at the end of the field, North East, are two towering flat

blocks. Ghost buildings that blot out the hazy peach sun. Living proof British architecture is

modelled off a prison system. Open. Exposed. With a central towering all-seeing eye. The

constant feeling of being watched. Scrutiny that swells into demonisation. It’s the same way I

felt walking those broad streets of Iraq back in 2014 with the two monumental sword arms

interlocking. Architecture and control. Draconian in design.

“Don’t be. It’s just something I don’t like talking about.” I reassure Salema, as I consciously

try to soften my hardened, soldier’s stare.

To be honest I was too far away to become overly traumatised. Nothing I personally did. Just

the aftermath.

“What happened?” I asked her.

“I told you.” her eyes fixed on, soft and cow.

“Tell me again. The party. What started the argument?

Salema averts her gaze to the floor. Quivering peach lips tell an ugly story of my brother.

Going to a party he didn’t want to be at in the first place. Persuaded by a fifteen year old ex-girlfriend,

naïve to the laws of the world. How a punk with a rep to prove began getting rough

with her. My brother stepped in. Emulating what any good man would do for the one he

loved. Chivalry cost him his life. My brother was stabbed thrice. Twice in his lower thigh,

once in his inner thigh. He bled out in minutes. Daytime crime TV has given these bastards

too many wrong ideas.

Also need new Photoshop so busy sorting that out. Yeah, til whenever.

Sum up,

Was watching the Centaurian, but saw 'he' was in it and I thought, f*ck it. I'd rather watch the Royal Wedding. And I'd rather do myself in than watch a German and '100%-British-wedding-tree' trick jump the proverbial witch's broom.