Forgive me readers for I have sinned.

It has been way too long since I last wrote anything here. To be honest, it feels like something broke inside me back in May. I've been in a bit of a downward spiral ever since. I was sure I had hit rock bottom back in August, but nothing is working out for me lately. I have a hard time focusing on something for more than 5 minutes, unless I can shut my brain down. It feels like my whole brain is paralyzed by writer's block. In fact, not to sound too emo-ish, but I am at a point in my life where pretty much everything I try to do is stopped by white page anxiety. Even when I logged on today, after closing the page every morning in utter disgust at my inability to write for the past 6 months, I figured I'd try to throw out some writing. I'm sure some of you still want to see what happened to that detective guy. I hate that I have this character inside of me and I can't let him out. Rest assured, this blog is not forgotten, it's just impossible for me to create right now. I'll try however to get the juices flowing simply by writing out my anguish. Maybe I'll get better at it by trying, if not well, at least my 2 or 3 readers will know I'm still sorta trying.

I’ve been thinking.

I’m pretty sure you would prefer that I had spent time writing, but this was not one of these weeks. Actually, I ran into a huge snag: I don’t feel like writing anymore. I don’t have inspiration, I don’t want to dig my brains for new plot points, all I want is turn my brain off and be a zombie for a couple of weeks.

I know why too: I can’t deal with jobs. I needed to work to pay bills, and as soon as I accepted the job, I lost my will to write, I hardly take any time to work on my school stuff, and I basically lost the drive I needed to finish what I started.

I hate feeling like this, but right now that’s where I am: I have a job I don’t want, and I no longer have the drive to do what I do want. I’m gonna have to inspect my feelings and figure a way out of this because right now it sucks.

Delay in stories

Sorry, real life is getting in the way again. Next week I will get back to my regular posting schedule. A friend of mine is getting married and I'm not gonna have enough time to devote to writing. Don't worry, I got ideas, I just cant sit down and write them right now.

A Trail part 2 (Trouble Part 8)

Technology’s good in a way. However, it can easily be avoided if the person knows what they are doing. In this case the red light was on, the recorder had run out of space, and I would not have to worry about the cameras. I studied the setup carefully, noticed that it did not go to a phone line, and counted my blessings. I went back upstairs, ready to get to work. Opening the door to the office was easy, Madeline had the key. I took out my digital camera and started taking pictures, every angle, everything that was in there. I wanted to make sure I would put everything back in its proper location once I was done snooping around. Madeline smiled and pointed out that this was a smart trick, but that she could not use it in her stories, because of their setting. I smiled and politely answered that my father used to have an old Polaroid just for that.

The office was clean. Everything had a spot and everything was quite practical and logical, nothing like mine. It did make my job a lot easier. I took out my laptop and started scanning every document; it would be easier for me to look them over once I was back in my office. I also took pictures of everything I could find, date books, address books, even receipts from different companies. I also looked over the newspapers in the trash bin. There was an important clue in the business section: many stocks were highlighted. Always the same. I quickly went over the list and noticed that all the companies I had traced back to him were there, in addition to a few others that I had not looked at. This would prove useful when trying to establish everything he owned, as he may have shares in companies I did not know about. I foolishly dismissed the pack of cigarettes until Madeline pointed out that Albert did not smoke. I opened the pack. In it, there were small pieces of papers and a bunch of keys. They keys were numbered, like the papers. There were 14 keys, and 14 pieces of paper, each indicating what the key was for. They were for safety boxes in banks, lockers, mailboxes, and even rented storage. More importantly, the names under which these boxes had been rented were listed. Thompson had used 3 different names. Thompson was for the banks, Arthur Clarke for the mailboxes and Frank Bennett for everything else.

The two new names were not familiar in any way. He had been good at covering his tracks, too good. At this point, Madeline told me she wasn’t sure about what I had said earlier, but now she could not deny it, her husband was involved into something bigger than cheating. Looking over the cabinets one last time before putting everything back into place, I found a double bottom. From it I pulled out a small locked box. I grabbed my tools and opened it. Inside, there were some legal papers that were probably important, but what drew my attention were the pictures: wedding photos of Albert getting married to his mistress when they were both pretty young. There was also a wedding ring with the pictures. I carefully unfolded the legal papers, there was a wedding certificate, issued over 20 years ago, for Frank Bennett’s marriage to Samantha Mitchell.


[Yeah, it's kinda short, but at that point in the story, I felt that adding on would simply ruin the tension of that moment. The story is getting somewhere, I promise.]

First Hunt, part 2 (Under a Crimson Moon part 2)

After that first night of conscious hunting, I started dreading the following two days. I did not know much about what I had become, so I went with what popular culture told me. Three nights of brutal animal behaviour, and then 25 days of peace. When the second night came, I locked the door to my room, and did my best to tie myself up to avoid hurting anyone. When the moon rose in the distance, fear filled me. I wanted to remain human, to stop with the killings. But, some part of me buried deep inside wanted this to happen. I wanted to be unleashed and when this desire grew, I could feel my body changing. I pushed this back deep. I relaxed, and closed my eyes. When I woke up, I was still tied up to my bed. The sun was about to rise, and I realized something that should have been obvious at first: I was still tied and had no way to free myself. I would have to yell out so that my parents would come and help me.

As I was starting to worry about this, I realized that had I changed into an animal, I could have simply chewed out the rope I used. I figured I could try it anyway, before calling my parents and dealing with another awkward discussion. As I started gnawing at the rope, my teeth felt different, sharper and stronger. The rope gave out quickly. With a shudder, I slowly walked towards a mirror, expecting my face to have changed. Everything remained the same. I was still myself. However, my senses were sharper, I felt stronger, and my nails and teeth were sharper. It took me quite some time to realize what this actually meant, but now I know that the animal and the human in me are not quite so separate, when I am covered with fur and hunting, a human mind still guides me, and when I am moving around, there is still a greater part of animal than in the average person. Back then, all of this was quite confusing. After breakfast, I asked my parents if I could go around being grounded to go to the library and do some reading. After the initial shock, they agreed. I was supposed to start working at my summer job at the gas station the following day, and I wanted to figure this thing out before having to accept or refuse night shifts. I obviously explained to my parents that I wanted to do some reading about something one of my teachers had said. They later told me that they figured I was going to see a friend or something, but that I had been punished enough.

What I knew about my condition back then amounted to what TV had told me: the three nights around the full moon would make me change, I would hunt people I loved, and only silver could stop me. I decided to look in depth at what the older folklore was. I did waste some time getting used to looking around the library, it was something I had avoided most of my life. The first mentions of this condition date from the middle ages, but there don’t mention the three nights of full moon. The people affected were said to end up being hairier, my genes kept me pretty much free of body hair so far, and so any change on that aspect would be odd, but could be blame on growing up. The people supposedly affected were also more violent, preferred meat over vegetable, and had a better affinity with dogs and wolves. Every story, except radical re-imagining of this condition, mentioned that I would have had to be bitten. The public library did not have a vast selection of books on this topic, however there was an anthropologist that had written about this condition being the rationalisation for medieval societies to understand random acts of violence. A combination of mistrust of strangers, lack of understanding of psychology, and fear of wolves and wild beasts basically fused under the werewolf myth. Other books mentioned other transformation linked to spirituality and other animals, but it hardly felt compatible with what I had experienced.

The full moon connection was also tenuous at best, however as chance would have it, I found an article in a psychology magazine that seem to indicate that people acted up a bit more during full moons, listening a lot more to their instinct than their reason. Nothing made sense really, but I did find the right excuse to avoid working on full moon nights: I would pretend I had selenophobia. Back then it felt like a smart excuse, thankfully it would become a bit stronger after I would share my new fear with my parents. When I started sharing this, my mother told me she understood, considering what had happened in the woods the previous month. My parents offered to have me see a therapist, to at least talk about the death, as I was the close to her when she died, and they feared I would have some sort of survivor’s guilt. From that day on, until I understood more about my condition, I would simply flinch and react whenever I would see a moon, real or fake. It wasn’t hard, whenever I was reminded of the moon, I remembered the pale blue light on the warm ruby blood dripping on my fur, fangs, and claws. Every time that image came back to haunt me I shuddered. Was it remorse, fear, or satisfaction?

Tonight I would sneak out again, facing the moon once more.

[Sorry I did not update Trouble as I said I would. Sitting down t write a story was a bit harder than I expected. By Saturday, a new chapter will be added to trouble. I would like to think this post however reflects the experience I am gaining every time I write. I don't have to slow myself down as much, there will be more parts dealing with this first hunt, which is basically the character reflecting on how he came into term with what happened back then. I also won't follow any version of the mythology behind werewolves beyond the basics: humans who turn into wolf like creatures. This is linked to the lunar cycle, but I may try to take it in a new direction. This is probably why some versions chose the 3 nights of the full moon... A story can only get so slow, and with the idea of one night of full moon, the werewolf of these legends could have easily slipped unnoticed.

I also realize I seem to have issues with naming protagonists. I'll try and fix that in the near future. For Trouble, it seems to work, for this one, I will give him a name as soon as I can.]

First Hunt, part 1 (Under a Crimson Moon part 1)

It’s hard to understand. I doubt any one of you reading this is going to see me, us, as nothing more than cursed people. I don’t blame you. At first I was certain I was cursed. I contemplated a lot of things, and I very much hated myself for what I realised: I liked it. Every month, for a couple of days, I felt alive. And it was nothing like what I had known before. After the first year, I understood what had happened. And with every ounce of understanding I gained, I got control. Why am I writing this text now? Because I want everyone to know the truth. I can read the papers, I can see the cover-ups. I can see how these betray fear and misunderstanding. But now I will come clean, I will let the world know, and after that, the world will still tremble in fear. But this time, they will fear the right thing.

It all started 10 years ago. I was a young boy back then. Of course, you could not have told me that, teenagers like to believe they are anything but young kids. Looking back however, I was an idiot. And like all teenage idiot, I liked alcohol, parties, and doing whatever the hell I wanted. This lead me to this clearing in the woods behind the drive-in with a bunch of people I did not know, drinking whatever we manage to buy from employees who couldn’t care less about laws. So there we were, in the woods, getting drunk, and being stupid. That’s when I saw her. She was cute, she was drunk, and she was practically naked, so I did the only logical thing: I started flirting. That wasn’t accounting for the jock boyfriend who was also a mean drunk.

He started yelling, I started punching. I felt my nose break; I heard his ribs crack when I slugged him with a nearby log. At this point, the party was over, I didn’t care. My face hurt, and I was left alone with all the leftover alcohol from the party. So I kept on drinking. It numbed the pain, my senses, and I decided to sleep. I found a comfortable log, and dozed off. I wasn’t alone in the clearing when I fell asleep. When I woke up there was blood everywhere. No one else was there. My face no longer hurt, I was sure my nose was broke, but I managed to breath without any problems. Couldn’t say that much about the other person that slept here last night, he was missing an arm, among other things.

When the police was called, I was still quite busy throwing up. The report said that a rabid dog or some other animal had come in, saw the free human buffet and went for it. Back then I had just been lucky. I had puked before falling asleep; this most likely kept the animal away. The rest of the exam period was a bit uncomfortable. The big outdoor party planned after prom was moved indoors, everybody was sad, and everyone started avoiding me, as if by surviving, I had been responsible.

Three weeks after school was over, I started feeling restless. Something inside me wanted to go outside, run, climb, move, hunt. Being still grounded for the reckless use of alcohol and other stupidities, I had to sneak out. The moon was full, and it was bright. The light was revealing the true nature of things.

And this is the important part: the moon was just revealing the nature of everything. Trees that were part of the background of every day life became living beings in the night. The sky was no longer obscured by the light of a lying sun, it was dark, the stars were no longer hidden. Everything is different under the light of the moon, and I realized back then that I was changing. It was strange, at first I felt cold, naked, alone. Then I felt my heard pounding, my body became warmer, I felt my skin stretch. I took off my clothes. I did not need the artificial skin they provided; the moon would only tolerate my true skin. Finally, I felt my senses grow stronger. I could hear everything that was around me, I could smell flowers from yards away, and I could see through the night.
What happened next was a great source of torment in my early months. I smelled something, it smelled sweet, tasty, I had to go for it. I ran, the smell becoming stronger, and after reaching a small forest about 2 miles away from home, I caught up with what drew me there. It was a deer. It was sleeping, but I was inexperienced, and loud. Still not adjusted to the changes in my body, to the claws were nails used to be, I mad a lot of noise trying to sneak up. The deer woke up. It started running but what I lacked in subtlety, I made up in speed and force. I caught it, ripped it apart and devoured it. The blood, the flesh, the taste was wonderful. As I brought my fangs deeper in the deer’s flesh, I started remembering. The alcohol, the party, the girl. I was hunting that night, I was already hungry. And when I slept, I ate. The girl that died, the rabid animal, all the sadness. It was my fault.

And I liked it.

I revelled in the destruction, I swallowed the flesh, gnawed at the bones. I devoured the dear like I devoured that poor girl’s arm. Poor girl? I had amusing sentimentality back then. It was the natural order of the thing. I am predator, but back then, I still felt attachment to these preys. And as I looked up from the deer, and stared at the moon, the light slowly becoming pure crimson reminded me of that night, the month before, when I had done my job as predator. Every memory returned. I was made aware of how, after everyone left, I woke up. She was there, half naked, trying to rouse me up. She had managed to remove most of my clothes as I slept. Washing away the fumes of alcohol that were hindering my body, I got up, and then I got in. As this primordial act was taking place, I felt the effects of the moon on my body. The moonlight rushed into me as I was losing myself into her. Her screams of joy turned to screams of pain. She saw who I truly was, and under the moon, I realised that she was just made of meat. She stopped screaming as se saw my jaws slowly wrapping themselves around her arm. She cried; I could smell the salt of her tears. And I ripped her arm off of its socket. Her blood was delicious. It filled me up quite nicely. She tried to crawl away, but I caught her leg. She was crying, pleading with me using these words that sound so empty when you see their true origins. I licked her body, it was now covered in dirt, blood, tears, sweat. I saw her eyes fill with a darkness that was beyond fear. No sound left her mouth anymore, she understood.

I was predator, she was prey. Her neck became my next snack.

I sensed that the night was almost over, I ran home, put my cloths back on and went up the wall and through my window. I took off the cloths again, looked at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t quite sure what I was, but I felt I was no longer just human.

[Yes, I am starting another longer story. And yes, this is what I wanted "Lunarity"to be like, something more visceral, more primal. A story where the character is not one we want to identify with. I also wanted to bring something new to make up for the last few days where I did not post. I will try to post another chapter of Trouble as soon as I can sit down and write it, and I will try to add to this new project of mine. I think it's time I moved away from the ultra short stories, I think I have reached the limit of what I can do in these tiny fragments of a real story. Crimson Moon here is gonna run in parallel with Trouble, but I will try to write Trouble on Saturdays and Crimson on Wednesdays. I may do some other experiments with writing, but I will no longer delude myself in thinking these work as stories.]

Short Hiatus

I will skip the next two updates as well. I would rather take care of school stuff right now.

Don't worry, I'll post longer updates to compensate.

Maybe...

Calling in sick for tonight.

Unless you want a story about mucus...

A Trail part 1 (Trouble Part 7)

I was pondering where I should take this new train of thought, when the phone rang. I picked up, expecting my father to give me some new ideas that popped up in his mind. My instinct was wrong yet again, Madeleine had called me. She had news: apparently her husband was going on a business trip of some sort, three or four days on the old continent. She invited me over to look through his stuff. This would be a great opportunity to get more information, maybe get in his head a little. I asked Madeleine what airline he was flying, and I lucked out. I knew someone who worked for them at the airport. This case was starting to be a lot more than I expected, so I was fully prepared to pull in some favours all over town. I made arrangements to meet Madeleine two days later, and called my friend. No luck, it ended on his voice mail. Whatever, I left a message and hopefully he will pick it up before tomorrow. The promise of a nice bottle of wine should be enough to get him to help me. And since I was told cost was not an issue, I won’t end up with the bill.

After a day of relaxation, and laundry, I was ready to meet with Madeleine. I picked up a copy of all her books at a book store on the way over, I figured I might do a little extra for my father. On the way over, I started regretting doing this, she might see me as a star struck idiot. I was starting to feel like such a fool that I considered throwing the books out on the way from the bus stop to her place, but this was a nice neighbourhood that lacked in recycling bins on the streets. I was heading toward her place when I decided to check my messages yet again. My friend had not called me, and he was unreachable by all the means I had tried. When I reached her house, I remembered why I hated this neighbourhood. I guess you can never get used to the difference between the richest and poorest people in town. I rang at the gate, which opened almost instantly. Even under the rain, it was obvious the garden was well maintained, the grass was green and the flowers nice. Yet I could not help but think about how much space was wasted in this neighbourhood on houses with huge backyards with no one to enjoy them other than the people hired to maintain them.

I went up to the door, trying to forget my issues with this part of town, and knocked. She answered wearing simple clothes. She hadn’t been crying today, and she was much more attractive than last time I saw her. She also spotted the bag with the books and after greeting me, she asked while looking at them: “Learning a bit more about the client?” I had no choice but to explain that I had read her books before, and that I bought these hoping she would autograph them for my father. She smiled said it was not a problem, and asked what I thought about her view of the world of detectives. I politely explained that when I managed to stop being so critical of her outsider’s misconceptions, the books were actually entertaining. I also told her that it wasn’t her fault this type of job had been romanticised and that obviously a simple cheating spouse specialist like me would not provide much material for a novel.

She apologised for the state of the house, she casually mentioned she asked the cleaning service to come after my visit, that way I would see his office in its natural state, and it would cover my tracks a little better. If only all clients were that smart, I guess she does have the ability to think like one of us. Noticing a motion detector, I asked if their security system was linked to a station. She told me it wasn’t, the cop had come once by accident and Albert felt it was too much. I asked if he had any cameras in his office, and she said she did not think so. I decided to make sure of this before I would go in his office, she seemed curious at that idea. At that point, I felt it was my duty to tell her that I suspected her husband of being involved in some sort of fiscal evasion scheme or something worse. She first laughed, but then decided to ask about the evidence. She said we were in no rush, and that she would be offering dinner if I had to stay too late because of her questions. I decided to first look at the wiring for their security system, nanny-cams can watch a lot more than a babysitter, and a DVR would be easy to spot. I went downstairs, with a flashlight, but did a first inspection in the dark. I installed so many surveillance equipments, that I knew a bit what I was doing. And it turns out my instinct was right, there was a camera watching over a DVR in a locked box I managed to open on the first try. I would have hated to show my only client at the time that I had a hard time picking locks. Thankfully, I knew what type of setup he had, and I knew what to do to make it fail to see us snooping around. This particular brand had an extremely high default encoding rate, but a small hard disc, it was meant for day to day backups, and would certainly fill up quickly judging by the 6 video feeds it was receiving if it was on default settings. I also knew that these things went back to default setting after a loss of power unless you changed these defaults, so I simply went to the breaker box in the dark, killed the power to the DVR, unplugged the battery, and then reconnected everything and started the whole system. I then waited in the dark to see the little red light warning about the lack of space turn on.

[Again, I am slowing down my story. No sense in rushing it, right?]

The trouble with trouble

I kept myself quite busy today. Didn't have time to write another part of the story. I'll take care of it tomorrow... End of semester is a bitch, I'm sorry.

The need for an audience.

Yes, this is another more essay like post. A good reason for that is that I am feeling some pressure in my academic career, and thus I am running out of juice. However, I have been thinking about some things and I feel I could write down these ideas, and hopefully it will spawn discussing among my readers.

As I have mentioned before, I study literature, and part of that is drama. Plays are interesting in a sense since what we read on paper is never the whole story. The “whole story” only begin emerging when the play is produced and presented to an audience. This, in a way, seems quite obvious. You need a stage, actors, and an audience for a play to reveal its full meaning. Having read a play by Claude Gauvreau, and seen another one of his plays, this becomes blindingly obvious: a play’s meaning is hidden in the actors’ performance. Or at least it seems to be that simple. In fact, the play being a collaborative work, its meaning is created by the way the actors portray a character, the way the director envisions the play, the way the author wrote it, and finally, the way the audience reacts.

When looking at my writing, I often comment that I have one or two readers, and while it might seem funny, this is what I believe. I am writing these stories and text for the people I pretty much remind that I have a blog. Truth is, without readers these words can’t really have any meaning. I can’t force people to read this. (I can try, but I would lose friends fast.) All I can do really is hope that I get good enough that some of you will mention this to your friends and so on.

So, why do I need an audience?

First of all, I would like more reactions. I am not writing this for the sole purpose of being entertaining. I want to help refine and define my approach as a writer. I can achieve that through feedback, feedback I can only get if people read this. But I can’t really go spamming my link everywhere, because I still don’t feel confident enough in my “craft” to share it with complete strangers.

I guess it’s another case of this ambivalence I always have. I want to get better, an audience would help me, but I don’t feel good enough to have an audience. I can’t really get out of this.

Books I have read: Lullabies for Little Criminals

I will do my best to not spoil your reading of this book, because you all should go and read it as soon as you can.

The premise is this: we follow Baby, a 12-13 year old girl who is raised by her father Jules, a 27 year-old heroin addict. This novel contrasts the beauty of the innocence of childhood with the horrible realities of the world. We see Baby make friends, lose friends, and try to find her place in the world. The first person narration adds to the feeling of innocence and removes many of our personal judgements over the various elements in the novel.

Jules is not seen as a horrible father, but as a loving one, Baby's friends are not judged too severely on the basis of their actions, there is a sense of wonder and mystery even when Baby is exposed to the horrors of poverty, drugs, violence, and prostitution. This is a book that will make you go through a whole range of emotions, but if you are anything like me, when it ends, all you will want to do is hug Baby.

This is the kind of book that should be read more often, and I wish I could one day hope to rival Heather O'Neill's ability to write this type of story with a tone that does not leave the reader depressed. It's about human misery, but it is seen through the eyes of someone who does not lose hope, and it's refreshing.

Phone Call (Trouble part 6)

I waited until it was past 8 pm. I picked up the phone, took a deep breath and dialled. This would be the first time I would call my father asking for help since he left the business 7 years ago. It wasn’t pride that kept me from calling; it was that I never ended up in a case that warranted his assistance. The cases I had taken care of were simple, the request was simple, and the target was simple. I had to prove husbands and wives were cheating, employees were stealing, and people were on workman’s comp when they were clearly healthy. All it took was a camera, some patience, and people were quite quick into selling themselves out. This case, however, was something else.

Thompson had money. It was obvious by the few things he did own. The problem was that he left no traces anywhere of his money. It came in from many sources, all legit, but there was logic to these sources. He had some money in shipping, he had shares in a company that owned some buildings downtown, and the other shares of that company were partially owned by another company that reported to Thompson as well. I had talked with a friend more involved in the financial world, and while he wasn’t breaking any laws, it did not feel right for him as well. He had lots of money, but it wasn’t old money. He owned a lot of things, but mostly focused on companies that barely made a profit. He owned buildings entirely, but no one could see that because they were owned by companies he owned through other companies. In fact, if I had not spent about 6 hours reading financial records, I would still believe he was an average but lucky investor who made some good choices.

I had a list of questions I wanted to take care of, but I hadn’t talked to my father in a while, so I also wanted to take care of some civilities. When he answered, I started: “Hey dad, how’s it going? Still sunny in...”

“What’s the case about son?”

“What case, I just wanted to see how you were doing,” at this point, I wondered who contacted my father.

“Well, in the last seven years, you haven’t called on a Wednesday, you usually call much closer to 6 than 8, and Sherry called for the first time in years, saying something had made her think of me.”

“Well, I can’t really be surprised, you were quite the good detective back in the day,” at this point, I figured I should just tease him into helping me. “Familiar with the name Madeline Thompson?”

“The author, I love her books, is she in any kind of trouble?”

“Not really, her soon to be ex-husband is however. She asked me to make a list of all his assets. The problem is, the guy leaves as much of a trace as a snowflake in a blizzard.”

“Well, don’t go into too much details, you worry about those, tell me the big picture,” dad was still very much straight to the point, I missed that.

“Okay, big picture: I have pictures of him with a possible mistress, however, during lunch, they covertly exchanged briefcases. He owns small bits of many companies that are also partially owned by companies which also partially belong to him; so far I have a clear web of 20 to 30 companies each holding around 10% in some of the other companies, so that he becomes the only person owning all of these, but they all have various people hired to represent themselves on the boards, so that no one can clearly see that it’s all his,” as I was saying this, I realized how big this case actually was, we are talking about billions of dollars being moved around, and if it wasn’t for his wife, I would not be poking my nose in all the right spots.

“Well, I have a better idea why you called. This seems big; shouldn’t you be calling the feds on him?”

“Some laws may have been broken in obtaining this information, wouldn’t want to burn an informant with a big mouth. The other thing that bothers me is that what he does requires a high level of knowledge about business, but as far as I know, he hasn’t graduated from any universities in the country. He would also have needed a big amount of money to start his scheme, but there are no traces of that money as well.”

“Have you considered that he might not have always had that name?”

“Actually, I did, but there are no usual traces of a name change. He has a legit birth certificate, everything fits,” as I was saying this, I realized something but I felt like letting my father saying it.

“Laws have changed, so there might be some name changing involved, a simple way to get to where it started is to trace back the money to where it was before it was in this guy’s pockets. I can hear you thinking, I think you should look at the info you have from that new point of view. Also, you can always catch a cab and go to the companies in person. Sometimes, people who don’t know something is supposed to be secret will give you the info you need.”

“Thanks dad.”

“One last thing...”

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me an autographed copy of Madeline’s “Walker in the Dark” book? It’s my favourite.”

[No comments really, I like the progress, and I have a better sense of how to get where I want to get.]

The Split

It’s Wednesday no more. Thursday rolled in as I was experimenting with a new form of poetry. It was a waste of time really, so I decided to opt for another type of writing: the essay. More precisely, I decided to write an actual “blog post” to justify my lack of creative writing tonight. However, the real question is: can this post be seen as creative?

It’s the sort of thing you don’t really think about; I know I didn’t when I first started this blog. To what standards was I measuring my posts? I felt that I should only write creative stuff; therefore I would have to write fiction. In fact, my original goal was short stories. My goal was to make a blog where I could post every so often short fiction. To be honest, I did not think I would make it this far. In a sense, I’m a very split person. Part of me did not see this go this far because it is filled with the conviction that I am an utter failure at everything I do. For that side of myself, nothing is good enough. And tonight, writing this is almost admitting to that half that it is right, that I cannot create as much as I expected to.

The other side of that coin is the part of my that wished I would not be doing this for that long, that my writing style would draw some attention, that I would have a book deal, and I would be making money. And I think that this aspect of my personality is the most dangerous. I wish I could be somewhere in the middle. But the duality of my personality is something I have learned to accept. I can’t really say I have a split personality though, because these two sides have a unifying factor. They are more like the engines that keep me moving, one motivated by a fear of unforgiving failure, and one by dreams to fanciful to ever see happen. These two parts of me drive me in a single direction, and that movement is rather interesting.

Because of the dream of failure or the nightmare of success, I have to keep at it. I would not consider going to bed before the word count of this text reaches a minimum level. To hell with the idea that only short forms of fiction are appropriate, I have been doing a lot more than that anyway. I have to remember that this blog is not just about what I write, but also about what my writings do to me. For instance, the “Trouble” story has been forcing a new type of pacing in my work. “Lunarity” made me realise that I cannot write something I like every time. And every story has made me think about my place as a writer. But there are other forms of creative writing I am getting acquainted with. I wrote a sonnet. Not a good one but still. I also tried to write something like a play. I have much to learn about these forms. (While I don’t care about poetry, dramaturgy is about to become an important part of my academic career, so you can expect to see me experiment more with it.)

All of these writings however are just a part of my fractured self. I am a lot more than my creative writings. And whenever we do an essay or presentation on a specific author, we have to keep the author in consideration. The same sentence can be written by two authors at the exact same time, and have two very different meanings.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I am going to try to turn this blog in a better direction. I will force myself in the “two post minimum” schedule a bit more. I will, however, give myself a lot more liberty and I will try to write about who the words you read belong to. Not that it really matters, because my reader base is usually pretty close to me. Here’s the new deal I propose: the two post minimum rule will adjust in my mind to tolerate the inclusion of “essay-like” posts such as this one, as long as they focus on the act of writing. I believe there is more to being a writer than simply an end product, and the uncertainties of the writer are part of what should comprise my “journal.” Post of a “diary” nature will start popping up if an event happened in that day that warrants such a post. I will also try to introduce a book review feature. I read a lot, I think my readers might be interested in what I read and how I feel about said books. Over the next few months, you might even see essays about my field of study pop up. These are also part of my “career” as a writer. Not everything I create is fiction, but it is still my writing. However, due to a form of either academic shyness or simply intellectual property ideas, I will keep my actual thesis, term papers and various writings done specifically to earn an M.A. under lock and key.

So, what to expect from this blog from now on: More information about my life, more information about my academic career, and more information about my views on the writing process. This will not affect the production of “Trouble” since I like it a lot. With the exception of personal life interference, it will be on my Saturday line-up until it is done. As for Wednesday posts, well, I might include nonfiction centered on writing. In between all of this, I may post opinions of parts of life I feel like commenting on. Not everything has to be fiction.

This is the part where I reveal a twist ending where I actually am writing on the unholy typewriter of the thirteenth layer of hell. Also, the guy’s dad was a chick or something.

There... this should fill the requirements of my readers who favour fiction over anything else.

Honest Discussion 2 (Trouble part 5)

“What do you mean by ‘proper behaviour’?” That seemed out of place, and she said these words with more anger than anything else. At this point, I knew I was veering away from my investigation, but there were some things I wanted to find out, and it had been a few boring months, might as well make this investigation worth my time. When I started this business, I was more interested with ending a case; the details were just getting in the way. Rookie mistake really. The more time you spend looking into subtle things, the better you understand a case. The better you understand a case, the easier you avoid the obvious pitfalls.

A couple of years back, I was looking into this mistress case. It was similar to Madeline’s, the friend saw the man with another woman. I did not pay enough attention to the story and did not notice some details that might have clued me on the truth. The husband had been with the wife’s friend. From that point on, everything got messy, and I almost had to face a lawsuit. Thankfully, everything was resolved before any permanent damage was done to my name and my career. I was afraid I would have to fall back on my nursing degree. And that’s why you need to pay attention to the details; missing one could mean the end of a career, so I paid attention when Sarah started talking again.

“He was annoying with this ‘proper place’ speech. He wasn’t old fashioned, but it’s as if he had married Maddy without knowing she was somewhat famous. Back then, she wasn’t really to be honest. But her works were selling, and her name was becoming more commonplace. That’s when he started changing. In fact, I remember one day in particular, we were all eating in a restaurant. In those days, I still tried to be friendly with Albert. Suddenly, there’s this woman that walks up to Maddy, asking for an autograph. After the fan had left, Albert went ballistic. I think that’s when he realized she would not depend on him like he hoped, but that she had a career of her own. It should have been a great day for her too, if it weren’t for her husband. What was worse was that the woman had approached Maddy talking about one of the books that had money given to a gay and lesbian foundation. That’s when he started getting on my case. Some of the things he said... So yeah, he believed that women were meant to stay at home, and not be famous. He said he was doing everything to keep Maddy happy, and that it should be more than enough for her. He got angry, but he never got violent. And a few days later, he was back to being nice and mellow. I did not forget what he had said however. I think Maddy never forgot as well. But she loved him; she told me he loved her. And at some point I probably believed as well they were both in love. But with what I saw here, I became sure he had never truly loved her. Call it a sixth sense, but the look in his eyes with the other woman had nothing in common with the way he looked at Maddy.”

These words stuck with me as I was reading my notes on the bus on the way back home. He looked at his mistress with more love than his soon to be ex wife. That was another detail that stood out. It’s not something I had heard before. Cheating husbands tend to hide behind a mask of guilt and shame. He had none. He loved her. I almost regretted not asking more questions to the owner, but he seemed to prefer not saying anything. I don’t mind, he’s allowed to respect his customers’ privacy. Too many things stood out now. The briefcase, the hatred of fame, the love between Albert and his mistress, and the place where they met; all details that made this more interesting than a regular divorce case. However, my gut instinct told me I might be in over my head. It might be time I called my father; he had known interesting cases back in the day.

[Not much to add really, I felt the conversation could have a bit more to it, and so I added more. A wonderful thing really. At this point, I am noticing how much revision my previous parts will need. I want to end my first draft however, and it might take longer than I originally expected.]

Who?

[Sorry about the tardiness, I was busy with somethings and I could not write earlier. Or at least, I could not put the words on "paper."I have been writing that for a while. Also, this time, it is a preface I decided to include. What follows is a glimpse of what goes on in my head, it is not always like that, but some events tonight have placed words in my mind that were... Well, I tend to overthink things, this is one of these things, but then again, I felt I needed to let this out. I guess... I don't know. This is about me, but not entirely. This is about the self. I think. It might be about the self that should be in bed, hence my rambling... Oh well, sometimes this blog has to be a bit more about the author behind it. Hopefully, my 2 readers won't mind.]


I once heard the question: “What makes a true warrior?” and saw the answers. One would claim a true warrior is the one who no longer needs to fight. Another said that a true warrior is one who becomes a weapon for a master, one who has only purpose in being that weapon. The final answer was that a true warrior is one who is true to the purpose of destruction, and needs no master, nor principles beyond destruction.

I am no warrior. I do not serve a master, do not serve a purpose, and I am not freed from fighting. In fact I do not know who I am. I feel like I’m standing on water, my body is mist, and my mind a labyrinth. To question the nature of one’s purpose is interesting, to question one’s purpose is scary. To question the purpose of one’s existence is… No one really knows what it is really.

Am I a writer? Do I follow a greater purpose by writing what is held up inside? Is my sole purpose to write? And if I become the best, will I stop writing? One could assume that by writing I feel I am a writer, but nothing of the sort is true. I don’t feel I am any closer to other authors by virtue of putting words on paper. I write, I can write, I love to write. But that does not make it my purpose.

The same could be said of my being a student. I know what I study for, I know what I study, but do I truly know why I study? There is that story I tell, the one about the job I had to leave. But while I left the job to become a student, it was not the why of my nature. I cannot see that why.

I am not many things. I am not a musician. I am not a singer. I am not a painter. I am not a sculptor. I write but I am not a writer. I am not a critic. I study but I am not a student. I am friendly, but I cannot be my own friend. I am not a lover, for lack of a loved one. I am not a son, because I no longer need a mother.

I am lost. Lost in myself. Lost in myselfs. I cannot, will not, do not know why I am here. Why should I? But I wonder. Everyone has a purpose, a reason. Everyone I see is wanted, needed. Me? Me…

Do I exist simply to make others feel their sense of purpose?

I am a dreamer.

Are dreams my purpose?

Should I simply sleep?

The real question here is now what am I, but who am I? I should know that. I have a name. I have a place. But names are given, as are places. Where do I stand in the middle of this torrent of questions?

I stand, on a river, on fluid ground. Myself a misty self. My self a lost consciousness. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know many things about me. I do know one thing: I miss you. Now can you tell me who you are?

Honest Discussion (Trouble Part 4)

“So, you’re telling me that you came to this place after a business meeting? In this part of town? Here’s the thing about witnesses: they lie. Unless you can believe 100% of their story, you can’t seriously believe any part of it. They will try to change the story to hide something, and because of that, they will forget one or two details, and that will make my job a lot harder.” Lunch has been over for a while, we’re on our fourth cup of coffee, and I still don’t have the whole story. I’ve learned a lot more about what she saw, she even told me what her phone was and why the pictures were so great, but I hate not getting the whole story at once. And I hate having to force it out, she wants to help, she should be entirely honest, guess I’ll have to play her little game.

“Look, you can tell me anything, I don’t care enough about your personal life to have it matter, but it’s about knowing everything about this story. To you, it might seem like a simple job, but I gotta make sure I don’t make any stupid mistakes. It’ll cost me, and it’ll cost my customer. She’s your friend, right? Then tell me what really happened, from the start... Was that okay? Did it sound “noir” enough for you?” Apparently Ms Blake is a bit of a sucker for private investigators. Should have expected it with the talents she represents. But she’s really been screwing with me; I had to say stuff that was entirely unneeded just to fulfill her fantasies. But I’ll play along, for now. And it seemed to have worked; she was ready to talk again.

“Well, I have to say, it was quite impressive for someone who says the job is not like that anymore.” Her voice was filled with professional curiosity, and personal disinterest, a rather unique combination. “You did lack confidence by the end. So, as I was saying, I was close by, meeting a possible new author, some poor student who believed he could write a detective story. He lives on the other side of the street, and I felt like meeting him in person. I grew up around here, and the place has changed quite a lot, but I felt like coming around. We met here, talked, and he handed me a paper copy of his manuscript. I already had the file on my computer, and I had it printed for my assistant to read, but I didn’t feel like breaking his heart. After he left, I decided to get something to eat. As I said, I was sitting over there, where that fat man is sitting.” The “fat man” turned around, looking somewhat hurt, and went back at devouring his meal. “After I had finished eating, I saw him walk in, with that woman. Well, not quite like that, he walked in, and she walked in about 30 seconds after. Seeing him here convinced me to order a dessert, I wasn’t leaving when my best writer’s husband was going to sit with a strange woman.” I raised an eyebrow at the “best writer” comment, but she misinterpreted my reaction. “Oh well, she’s also a good friend, and I also stayed here because of that, but we don’t always see eye to eye, so when it comes to her husband, I tend to think of her as a writer and not a friend.” I stopped her and asked her what was so special about her husband.

“Maddy’s been a friend of mine for a long time. I met her over twenty years ago; we were both at crossroads in our lives. I had studied law but I was going nowhere, too much of a girl for the old boys’ club, and not enough a woman to fit in with the rest. I didn’t know where exactly I was going when I met her. She was stuck in between dead end jobs, typing documents for people who did not care to read. She had typed a manuscript whenever she wasn’t working; I don’t know if you’ve read it, it was quite a unique story, not at all like what she’s writing now. It was almost children oriented, but it really got to me, it was about acceptance, and being open to difference. Twenty years ago, it was a lot different. And what is seen as educative now was revolutionary back then. But Maddy, you would not believe it now, she was extremely shy. She was afraid to even look for an agent. We met randomly at a Laundromat. It was after a guy had made a move on me, and got turned down politely. She came to my defence when he started hurling insults, claiming to be my sister-in-law. I was grateful, and we went for coffee afterwards. Anyway, long story short, I decided to represent her, my job wasn’t working anyway, so I took a big chance, pulled out all my savings and went to get her published. The second publisher was convinced, proposed a couple of changes, and that’s how it started. We actually figured out my salary after the contract was signed. By then, she knew of my orientation, and had started getting involved in some organisations, even if she was straight. She gained my respect; she could have played the game by the rules that were in place, but she decided to support us. So, five years later, she meets this Albert. He is a jerk, it’s that simple. He started looking down on her involvement in different causes, because he felt they were inappropriate for a woman he loved. He said horrible things that I really just don’t want to repeat. Maddy knew I didn’t like him, and it was fine by her. She kept her personal and professional life separate, and suddenly our friendship was professional.”

“So, when you saw him with that other woman,” I interrupted her. After a while, you learn when to interrupt people for their best interest, “you figured he was up to something bad?” She smiled and started talking again: “I did not take that long to figure it out. They were obvious, you saw the pictures. They came in separately, but they sat down as if they had walked in together. They ate food from each other’s plates, even shared a dessert, and they kissed. Albert was not afraid of being seen around here with her. He’d been here often too, because he did not look at the menu. I was pissed, that guy with all his mighty speeches on the place his wife should occupy and proper behaviour, here, with another woman. I should have walked up to him and punched him in the face.”

[So, here it is, part 4. And it's not the end of their discussion, I think. I gave a lot more backstory than I had expected to give, but I like how this story is progressing. It's so funny, I'm discovering some parts of it as I write it.

I must also share some, well, worries is not the right word for this, but I have some questions about the inclusion of a lesbian character. Basically, I'm afraid she will not feel true, after all, I am a guy. Funny thing is, I'm not worried about the many mistakes I know I'll make about the private investigator world. Oh well, I guess I'll have to deal with this, so far I don't feel I've written her in any way that could be seen as offending. If someone does find her inclusion as somewhat untrue, please let me know.]

Zombie Panic

Dead so long. Day too bright. Wait for night. Night is better. Find human kill human. Was once human too. Died. Something bit me, now I bit somethings. Had a wife once. Ate her husband as well. Heard a noise. Someone checks it out. Loud noise. Someone not come back. More someones check it out. More loud noises. Happy I’m not someone. Nobody returns. Now I’m someone. We go. They have light. I hate light. They have guns. I prefer light. We move slowly. Ancient zombie strategy. Never fails. They kill one of us. We keep moving slowly. Very ancient zombie strategy. Never fails. More of us are killed. We move slowly. The best and oldest zombie strategy. Never fails. More of us die. The one with the gun is reloading. I bite him. I then bit the others. Only one left standing. Ancient zombie strategy always works, even if we die. Living things always die too. May take forty years, they die too. Zombies always win.

More sound. More people. I go first. Get shot. Fall down. See more come. They get shot. We still not dead. We never really dead. More come. We fall. No one dead. More of us are shot. See Frank come. Frank got shot. Not first time. Frank missing an arm. Not armless Frank. Frank ate many. Frank bit me. I like Frank. Frank not lucky tonight. Frank got shot again, missing other arm. He falls. We look at each other because we can’t move. Frank missing two arms. I miss my two legs. We wait. They not fall. They will though. They bring big bag, nice present. A clock. It ticks. They leave. The clock ticks. It is attached to a bomb. We’re gonna stop being. It changes nothing. There is an explosion. Everything white. I hate light.

[Sorry about the size, I'm kinda swamped right now. I figured a short story would be better than none.]

Places (Trouble Part 3)

First things first, I had to make a phone call. This briefcase deal was interesting, but first and foremost, this was a divorce case. Thankfully, Sarah Blake was available for lunch today. I find that people are much more ready to talk if they can eat at the same time. Plus I was hungry and didn’t have anything I wanted to eat at the office. I transferred some of the files on my PDA, and started thinking about the briefcase. What could he be exchanging? This was not an official business meeting, their affection showed as much, but he wasn’t on any of the watch lists. He was clean as a whistle. Almost too clean. I call the restaurant where he was seen with his mistress, that’s where I’m eating with Ms Blake. They don’t take reservations, but it’s more of a coffee place than a restaurant. I start looking at addresses. The restaurant is in the west part of town, in this tiny neighbourhood that is slowly growing. Madeline’s address, as well as her husband’s, is in the north part of town, where gated community and rich people are found, and Blake’s office is in the east part of town, where all the office buildings are. I’ll have to ask what she was doing at that restaurant. I look at my watch, and then at the bus schedule. I’m almost late, so I rush out of my office, lock the door and go to the bus stop. I’d pretend the choice was an environmental one, but when a business is slow, you have to know where you can cut expenses.

Over the bus ride I look at the city, or more precisely what the west part of town, what was once the poorest part. When this town was founded, the west was the riches parts, and so people wanted to live here. And as this part got more expensive to live in, crime found its way. At first it started with a branch of the mafia, which caused the land to lose its value. Then it was the motorcycle gangs. But then the police started busting them left and right, wasn’t that hard, they all had tattoos and jackets. So this left room for the gangs, smaller, more brutal, and less visible. There were no pipe bombs, but “random” beatings happened. That was the new face of crime. Or so it was until recently. Recently, in this town anyway, the gangs got too visible, and the punishment more severe. The police were more visible and it seemed that the west part of town was becoming a better place to live in. This was bad news for the south, but that’s where the corrupt unions were, as well as the docks and all the traffickers. Of course most people did not know that. The headlines paint a partial picture of the state of crime in a city. Probably was for the best too.

So the restaurant was there, surrounded by apartment buildings that were too old, filled with people that were too young, and in a part of town that did not know if it was old and refined, young and alive, or dead and decaying. At a first glance, the restaurant reflected all three aspects of the neighbourhood. The name, Jo-Anne’s Diner sounded like it was out of the 50s, retro and very classic in a sense. However, everything inside lacked the lustre it once had. The chrome must have been shiny back when the restaurant was new, but now it lacked any light, and life. Finally, the clientele was young and full of life, as was the staff. It was also quite diverse ethnically and culturally. Call it a sign of times changing, but I am sure that neither Jo-Anne nor her husband would have expected to see one of their tables used by a group of young Muslim women. I really hope this part of town gets better now, it was the first time I set foot here in ages and I really liked this new energy. I walked in the diner, looked around, Ms Blake was not here. I studied the place and found the table I wanted, the one where Albert Thompson sat a few days ago. I sat in his place, and pushed my hand between the cushions of the seat, maybe he had dropped something. After I “accidentally” pushed my spoon on the mystery woman’s seat, making a mental note to not order any soup, I did the same on her side. Nothing. It was worth a try.

I studied the restaurant once more. It wasn’t the best place for a date, no romance, no intimacy. If the restaurant was not chosen for its ambiance, then it must have been chosen for convenience. The woman must have lived around here. Again it was something that did not add up. If the woman lived here, then where did he meet her, he would have avoided this part of town in his daily life. As I was thinking, I barely noticed Sarah Blake walking in the front door. I waved, she noticed and walked over to the booth. Time to get some more information.

[Part 3. I am taking a lot more time than I expected to get where I wanted, but I think it's a good thing. I know where the story is going, but now it feels like the pieces don't fit perfectly, but I guess that's what rewrites are for.]

Awake

The road slowly curves to the left, revealing yet another corn field. The moon is low on the horizon, I’m heading west, like so many others before. If I look back, I can see the first glimpse of a sunrise. I have been driving since before the last sunset. Yesterday seems so distant now. I can’t sleep, not that I don’t want to, nor that my body does not want to sleep, my heart just wants to head west more.

My eyes are heavy, the road just a long stretch of darkness. I can’t see stars in the sky anymore. However last night I was the one shooting through the darkness, trying to fulfill a wish. How many miles to go? How much distance have I covered? I’m still driving, it wasn’t far enough. The curve has ended and I am back on a long stretch of straight road. I see the signs of a town in the distance, I don’t know its name, I just know it isn’t the right one. So I will drive past it, just like many others. The people sleeping peacefully will never know of my mission.

My gas tank is halfway empty. It will have to last me a while. I’m almost there; soon I will be able to rest. But for now I drive. Because I must, because I can, because if I wasn’t, I would still not be able to sleep. I don’t know if I’ll make it in time, but I can’t stop. If I stop, all of this will have been in vain. I see another city in the distance, the right one, the wrong one? I don’t know anymore, I’m driving, that is all I can know anymore.

The road curves again, I don’t see it at first, but I eventually notice it. The shock wakes me up completely. I will be okay for another hour or so, then, I’ll be able to stop. The city that was in the distance is now a thing of the past. I must keep driving, I can’t sleep. I have to drive. I can’t…

[This one was basically going through the motions. Sorry, life is getting in the way of my writing.]

Names (Trouble Part 2)

Madeline Clark, author of five best sellers, three about the awful P.I. Walker. They are not bad entertainment, they are even somewhat interesting. Well written, with a complex intrigue, unique characters, interesting events, truly great books. I only hate them because the real work is so boring. In the last 5 years of work, I have not felt the need to even carry a gun. I have a cell phone in a holster now, not a firearm. Her Walker is always running, dodging bullets and solving horribly complex and important crimes. I read her books when I’m bored, and with the true nature of this work, I have read her books often.

She was married to Albert R. Thompson. She met him 15 years ago, got married two years later. A thirteen year long marriage, seems lucky enough nowadays. He’s not a celebrity, he’s basically a nobody. Thankfully I know where to look. When my father left the job, he left behind a ton of important contacts. A couple of phone calls, some pulled favours, some promises and I can get the info I want. He’s 47 years old, worth more than your average city block, partially owns a bunch of companies here and overseas. He seems to favour shipping companies, however I am told it is a tendency in some investors. No matter what the state of the economy is, things need to go in and out of countries. He’s been moving money around for about 17 years. Again, people like him don’t leave big traces until they start moving things. Too old for all the things kids use for social networking, these tools make my job a lot easier, when I have to do it, when it comes to twenty-somethings.

He has no kids too. That is surprising, but he also wasn’t married before Madeline. Married at 34, that seems odd. He must have studied somewhere for a while. I’ll have to search for him in academic networks. Something doesn’t quite add up. A cursory search doesn’t bring his name up in the families of movers in the financial world. He may have been getting the money needed to start his investment career. I am told, however, that the choices he makes are usually educated, with some exceptions. Could he be involved in insider trading? So far however, nothing sticks. He has money, he invests it, he makes more money. He must have work to start his initial investment because he was not born into money. He has some sort of education or works with someone educated in financial investment. He also owns enough to get a lot of money, but not enough to end up in the big journals. He is not a big player in any company either. The most he owns is a tenth of any company. My sources are drying up however, no files with the police, no records anywhere. He does not own a car, owns one house and doesn’t bring any attention to himself. He wasn’t even at his wife’s book signings or launches. Even their marriage was not mentioned in any papers. The most I get would be a mention in an interview by Madeline: “Yes, I am married, however our marriage is not something we want in the public sphere. This is a decision we made as a couple, and I will respect it.” Too bad you were the only one honouring the decisions made as a couple.

And now the third name I know, the friend who reported the infidelity: Sarah Blake. Madeline’s agent, and apparently the reason for her success. She represents many authors, most women. And if it weren’t for the fact that she was such a vocal advocate for the rights of gays and lesbians, I would almost suspect her to be the mistress, however I know the husband would be packing the wrong tools for the job. I’ve seen that happen before, the friend starts sleeping with the husband, and after a while she feels guilty and “runs” into the husband with his nondescript mistress. Sometimes they also run into the husband with another mistress, get jealous and take him down. But in her case, it would not add up. Even if I omit her orientation, she would not be the mistress, since she used her cell phone to take a picture of Thompson with the mistress. I’ll have to talk to her but now I am more interested by the picture I have just received by email. I can’t say much about her other than she is the opposite of Thompson’s wife. Short, nondescript and her eyes are weary. This is a good picture: I have to remember to ask what phone this Sarah was using, I needed to replace mine. It might just be one picture, but the body language is wrong. They are not scared; they sit in the middle of the restaurant. They have two identical mallets. They are both dressed in what would pass as corporate casual clothing. To the casual observer, this would be a normal lunch business meeting. A second picture comes in, they are holding hands, and he’s pushing his briefcase with his foot. This is odd. A third picture comes in; Madeline must not know that you can attach multiple pictures to one email. Can’t help but smile. The third one, she is standing up, she has the briefcase that was on his side in her hand. Next picture, they are kissing. They exchanged briefcases and kisses. What does it all mean?

I have a hunch, the answer lies in his past, and my only key to Thompson’s past is this woman who he seems to know well. However, I have to remember this is only a divorce case. However, I might be able to bill for time spent on my hunches if they lead to some hidden money. Plus, I have been having a boring week.

[The long awaited sequel to Trouble... I'm gonna try to update "Trouble" once a week. Mostly on Saturdays. As you can see, I have somewhat of a plan with this. I'll try to not go too fast, and I don't know how long it will take to get to the end, this might end up as a long short story, or a very short novel...

Also, I apologize for the late posting, I have been giving myself a little vacation, and I was away from the internet for most of the day. The story is here and I think it's getting better.]

Partners

I watched you grow up, you know that right? Even as you were starting to crawl, I was there on the floor with you. We’ve shared a bed, shared drinks, shared our lives. For me to feel this right now is incredible. And all the pride that this moment is giving me is barely being overshadowed by the abject terror my future without you evokes. Because when I look back, you are all I know.

Your friends never became my friends, and while I did spend some time with your sister that year you felt you had outgrown me, it never was real. We all knew it. And the time you spent thinking about me during that time indicates that back then, you had not moved on. Or at least you realized that while you had grown up, you still needed me, but in a different fashion.

And so I came back, a semi-permanent fixture in your life. And the young girl that was afraid of the dark changed a lot in that year. You became braver, bolder, you became a little woman. The teenage years were not easy on you. I remember holding you as you cried because some boy had said some horrible things about you. Who could hate you? Who could be mean to you?

I was there when you took your first steps, remember? I could not walk by myself, but when we were holding hands, we both managed to move in a new fashion. Not quite family, not quite a sister, not quite a friend, we were both something unique and indefinable to each other. And when you started going to school, and we had to be apart, it was horrible. But we still had evenings and weekends.

I was with you during slumber parties, and I patiently waited for you to share with me the details of your first dance with a boy. And I remember practicing kissing with you. And then I remember you telling me how different it was in reality. I should have let you know that I was already aware. When you share more than what we have, it’s always special.

I saw you laugh, I saw you cry, and I saw you grow. Grow up and grow distant. Again I felt that I would be separated from you. Again I felt that I would end up in some dark space, hidden in the furthest regions of your mind. But it was not the case. You grew up, and went to college. And you brought me with you in that box that was not quite full. I was sitting there on a shelf, a stuffed reminder of your childhood as you became a woman.

I saw the many apartments, the many bedrooms. I saw you make mistakes, make bad choices, and make the right ones. I never judged you. And I saw your first house, with the man you married. And now, I know that you are away, in that place called a hospital. And I know that you are about to give birth to your daughter. I know all that because you told me as you had me re-stuffed, cleaned and repaired so that I could become an important part of your daughter’s life.

I am afraid that without me you will forget how to walk, when I’m without you I cannot. But I will take care of your child, just like I have taken care of you, and of your mother. I may only have my original button eyes left, but I have watched over your family for years.

[Had to end it there, the only sentence that came to mind was: And I'll remember you as I violently kill your daughter. I spend way too much time writing horror/plot twist short stories...]

Trouble Part 1

As she walked in the door, I knew she was trouble. Or at least, I knew that was what I was expected to think. Horrible stories written by authors who don’t know a thing about the job always started the same way. The woman walks in, and says something along the lines of: “You have to help me, my husband is in danger.” But they always end up coming too late, and then they fall in love with the gruff detective. The truth is: most women who walk in here are not “trouble,” they are trying to get as far away as possible from trouble. And they never fall in love with the detective, especially after they receive the bill. So this woman walks in, she looks as if she’s been crying a lot. The box of tissue on my desk is there for a reason. No one walks in my office with a smile. She’s about five foot six, brown hair, green eyes. She’s wearing jeans, and an old shirt with a university name on it, but the shoes don’t match. They are the expensive kind, and her purse, while old, was a very popular and expensive brand a couple of years back. When you see a lot of women walk in, you know what to look for. She’s rich, but she doesn’t want me to know. She’s also here anonymously, since I can see sunglasses poking out of her leather purse. It’s raining today.

Her husband must be cheating on her, or something. They usually come for this. She doesn’t look familiar, so this means that she is not a celebrity, at least as far as I know. She’s been here for 10 seconds, and already I know that her husband is cheating on her, she has that look in her eyes, and I also know that she wants some proof of said cheating, probably for her divorce. The world has changed a lot since the days of my father, and his business, our business, is changing. We don’t investigate that many disappearances and we don’t help the police force quite as often. In fact, it has become a hassle for me to carry a firearm. Nowadays, it’s mostly cheating spouses, Internet research, and electronic surveillance. She looks still ready to burst into tears. With the calmness that accompanies motions often repeated, I grab the box of tissues and hand it to her. I look at her with a comforting smile and say: “It’s alright, take your time. When you feel ready, you can start talking.” I return to my thrilling game of solitaire. Another thing about the private investigator business: it is slowly dying. Been doing this for as long as I can remember, the better part of the last decade without my father who decided that sunny beaches would be a much better place to hang around, and business is dying down. Who needs a P.I. when they can install webcams, and other surveillance equipment? The cheaters have also gotten quite sloppy. I usually find out more than I need simply looking at emails.

Something in her breathing has changed. She’s about to start talking. I open a document, and I’m getting ready to type everything. She takes a deep breath, and says: “My husband is cheating on me.” I try to feint surprise, she feints believing me. “He’s been seen by my friends in restaurants with strange women, and I want to have definitive proof. I heard you were the best in town.” I was also the last one in town but I won’t correct her. She gives me the usual, her name, it sounds familiar but in my business you hear a lot of names, his name, doesn’t ring a bell, the name and phone number of the friend who saw him with his mistress. She lives in a nice neighbourhood. I know the place, been there often. The richer the houses, the darker the secrets. Because they can afford secrets. She also makes the unusual request of wanting to know all of his assets. Smart girl. She doesn’t just want proof of his infidelity, but she wants to take his money as well. This means that I can also charge her a bit more. I start telling her my price, but she stops me. She doesn’t care about money; she has more than enough as it is to pay me. She wants to know everything. I still make her sign the form that says she was informed about my pricing. Saves me a hell of a lot of trouble when they no longer are in a vengeful mood. I ask her about his job; he’s involved in companies, owns a lot of stocks everywhere. He’s a rich guy, but she does not know how rich. He may also have been lying about a lot of stuff; she mentions that early on in their marriage, he was already distant and seemingly obsessed by work. However, he was seen sharing an apparent intimate moment when he was supposed to be at a meeting. She can’t trust a thing he’s said. Poor girl. We make some arrangements, she gives me her cell phone number, and she leaves. As I usually do, I start my investigation on the Internet. His name doesn’t get me any good results. When I look her up however, I realize why her name was familiar. I turn around and look at my collection of books. In the novels I read in moments of boredom I see her name.

She writes these horrible P.I. Walker books I read to laugh at all the misconceptions. I already like her a lot more.

[Well, this one is a lot more interesting than I expected, which is why I am not gonna call it "over". I couldn't do it anyway, the story is just starting. Dunno when I'll work on part 2, but so far I like it more than my other attempt at making a longer narrative. Hopefully my 3 or 4 readers will agree.]

Monday Morning

Monday morning. Wake up at 6:30, get up at 7. The sun is still hidden behind the trees next door. The morning is cold, I feel tired. After an unsatisfactory breakfast, I walk to the bathroom. I undress, and after taking a piss, I shower. The water is cold, again. After a yawn that seems to never want to end, I leave the shower, freeze myself while I dry off, and try not to butcher my face as I shave. I start getting dressed soon after. I start the car remotely, finish putting clothes on, grab some food in the fridge, and then I leave. There’s no snow on the car, it’s a blessing. I get in, it’s still cold but I’ll have to endure. I back out of the driveway, and slowly make my way to work. After stops and traffic lights, I make it to the parking lot. I park in a space I have been using for about three months now. It is not reserved, but the routine makes it mine. I go in, punch in, go up, boot up, doze off. The next four hours are filled with nothing, a big empty coma filled with moments of fading happiness as I talk with a co-worker. I eat lunch, and pretend to be alive and care for the next few hours. I leave, go back to my car, and head to the grocery store. I need food to live. I drive back home, make myself something to eat, turn on the TV, wrap up the leftovers, sit down, and lose myself in brain-dead hobbies. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am alive, and then I sleep.

Tuesday morning. Wake up at 6:40, get up at 7:05. The sun is hidden behind clouds and branches. The morning is cold, I don’t want to be up. The food I eat is bland. The bathroom is still cold. I still need to undress and empty my bladder. I still need to clean myself. This time the water is warm enough, but all it achieves is making the end of the shower more miserable. I get out of the shower, dry up, skip shaving and go into my bedroom. I ran out of underwear. I walk to the dryer, grab some, get dressed, start the car, grab some food, and head out. I remove snow from the car, shovel the snow bank left by the city trucks, get in, the car is a bit warmer, and drive to work. The same stops. The same traffic lights. The same parking space. The same punch clock, the same stairs. My computer again. Different work, the same pointlessness. The same co-worker. Always the same. Always wonderful to talk to. Lunch time, the same food as last night, but better company. Then another bland afternoon doing things for people I no longer care about in a company that does not care about me. The day is over, I wish I knew the right words to say to chase that loneliness, but I head home alone, as always. I eat. I need food to stay alive. The TV is on, new news but the same stories. Always the same stories, they just have different names. I make myself some leftovers, sit down, shut down my brain and wait for time to pass. Then I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am not alone, and then I sleep.

Wednesday morning. Wake up at 6:00, mentally complain about the neighbours until 7:00, then get up. The sun is a distant memory. It no longer exists on this plane. The morning is cold, or is it me that can’t feel warmth anymore? The food is the same I always liked, why doesn’t it bring joy anymore? Head in the bathroom, and take a long shower after showering the toilet rim by accident with the wastes a wasted life accumulates. I step out of the shower, and I shave. I head to the bedroom, head back to the dryer, and then back to the bedroom. I dress. I start the car, grab some food, head out and drive to work. The same stops and traffic lights. The same cars surround me. I make it to work, park in the same spot as usual. I punch in, do the happy employee dance to convince my boss that I still think what we do has a meaning. My co-worker is late this morning. I don’t worry, but I miss her smile. She’s finally here. We talk. I forget for just a second where I am and why I am there. For one second, I am happy. Then I start working again. I eat lunch again. I work again. I leave work alone again. I still wish that somehow, I had something more in my life. I get home, make myself some food, and some leftovers for the next day. Same stories, different channel on TV. I yawn. I sleep awake, so it makes sense that I feel awake when I sleep. I go to bed. I pretend for a moment that I am happy, and then I sleep.

Thursday morning. Wake up a 7:00, get up at 7:15. The sun is dead. The morning cold. The food moves fast. I piss, then take a shower, then grab the last pair of boxers from the dryer. I get dressed, get in the car and drive to work. The same road, only 10 kilometres per hour faster. Work. The same parking spot. Punch in, on time. Pretend to work. Pretend to care about anything other than the co-worker who cannot know that she is the only reason I still get up in the morning. I eat lunch. I still work, I still go home. I still wish she was with me. The same news, I make myself something to eat. I wash some clothes. Don’t really care about folding them. The same nothing. The same bed. I pretend for a moment that I am real, and then I sleep.

Friday morning. Wake up at 6:30. Turn off the alarm. Get up at 6:45. The sun is still missing, a corpse hidden behind the funeral veil of clouds. The food is somewhat better, probably because it’s Friday. Head into the bathroom, and since I feel so god damned important this morning, I won’t wait until I’m at work to take a dump. I get in the shower. Cold this morning. I get out, shave, and get dressed. Start the car, get out, get in the car and drive to work. I park in the same spot, punch at the same clock, go up the same stairs, and then I decide to be extra lazy today, they won’t notice, I’m ahead of my schedule by at least a week. The co-worker comes in. Who needs the sun when I have her. We may be just office friends, but she is the best thing in my life right now. And that is depressing. My brain shuts down, I work for a couple of hours. Then I say something, put on my coat, wait for my co-worker to put on hers. We head out and drive to a fast food joint. For the next 30 minutes, we sit and eat together. This makes the day much better. We then go back to work, and we both lose a lot of productivity. We head out at the same time, exchange a few words, and then we say goodbye. I won’t see her until Monday. I go back home, stopping to buy fast food, I go back home, turn off my brain. Later I will fall asleep again. But now, I eat alone, I can’t help but wish I was back at the restaurant. These moments, they made this almost seem worth it.


[I wish this was purely an invention. I really do.]

Waiting

I remember, not so long ago, your presence between these walls. Smiling as you prepared breakfast, handing me some food from your plate to change from my routine. We lived together but we were not the same. You were always sitting, reading, thinking, while all I wanted to do was go outside and burn up my energy. But you’re not here anymore, and now I sit on the couch, half asleep, replacing your warmth by the rays of the sun that poke through the window. The television is turned off, but even if it was on, it would hold no meaning for me. The only reason I ever watched it was because you were there, with me, watching and reacting to these fast moving images and words that always sounded empty.

You left without warning really. I should have been used to watching you walk through that door, but I could never be used to not being with you. Your smile, your laugh, your friendly words, all of these things were starting to slip away from the grasp of my memory. And I am here, on the couch, half asleep, picturing you coming back, walking up the stairs to the door. In my sleepy stupor I walk to the door, looking, hoping, wishing that it would open up and that I would be greeted by your smile, your voice, your smell.

This house is empty without you. I cannot deal with the silence. I make noise of my own. A primitive calling, something that I wish you could hear. Where are you? Too long as passed since I last saw you. I eat without any enthusiasm. I’m about to run out of food, when you were there that never happened. I go down to the basement, hoping that somehow these empty rooms could fill the void you left when you walked out that door. I find more of the same loneliness downstairs. I decide to nap a little more in the downstairs living room. The sun is not quite as present here, and so I will not feel like I am slowly burning as on the upstairs’ couch.

Time passes. I wake up. I hear a noise. Is that your? I run upstairs as fast as I can, to go to the door. No one. I see out of the window that it was just the mailman. To my shock, and possibly to his, I let out a sound of protest. How dare he come here, make this noise, and not be you? Why couldn’t it have been you? I am stuck here waiting for your presence, but I now fear that I will never see you again. And so I replace the protest by a complaint. Where are you? Why are you no longer here, with me? So little time as elapsed since you left, but it could very well have been an eternity. Where are you? I need you, I want you. I am starting to forget things about you. Why did you leave? Did I do something wrong?

I go to the bedroom we so often shared, and I see some of your clothes that have been left behind. I cannot resist the temptation of burying my nose in them to fill my lungs with you sweet scent. It’s invigorating. I go back to the living room, I won’t turn on the television, but I will sit, looking outside, my hopes returned by the articles of clothing still baring parts of your essence. Cars go by, none are yours. Do you even remember me? I don’t know where you are, you never told me where you were going. You probably did, but I was too entranced by the sound of your voice to try to give meaning to these words. And so you left, without a word of warning. How long as it been? Can I even define the time that has elapsed? I can only count the things I did in your absence, and not the time I used to do these. Time without you does not matter.

So I doze off again on the couch. Sleep makes time go by faster, maybe you will return. Maybe it will be you who wakes me up from that sleep. A noise again. I pay closer attention. Someone is coming. I hear the door being unlocked. I run to the door, I want to be sure it is you; I can’t believe you’ve returned. The door opens, and you stand there, with a beautiful smile. I can see you, hear you and smell you. You are back. You smile when you see me, and then you speak: “I hope you haven’t missed me too much boy.” I bark my excitement. “Wow, have you been waiting for me here all day long? Why don’t you go outside for a while…”

The door closes. I take care of natural needs. I then look at the door. How long has it been closed? Why have you locked me out of your life...

[Something simple, I seem to do those a lot right now... Oh well, I cant write revolutionary stuff every time. Hope you enjoyed it.]

The Guests

It all started on the day the school bus broke down in front of the house. They were too far from the school and the city to find a way to make it there, and most of these kids lived miles away and could not reach their parents. So they all needed a place to stay warm in this December morning. Five kids stranded in the middle of nowhere with a bus driver angry at a busted transmission. And that is when they noticed the house. It was quite none-descript, white walls, black rooftop, two floors, and not a trace of kids anywhere. Elaine and Gregory, as much as they had tried, were not blessed with children. So when the bus broke down, and the kids were cold, their house finally filled up with the voices and cheers that Elaine had wished to give to this world.

The kids tried calling their parents, but sadly they were not available, and so Elaine did something she always wished to do, take care of kids. Sure they were not infants, and they were quite okay on their own, but for once, Elaine could let her maternal instincts run wild. Gregory enjoyed this side of his wife. They had been married some 15 years, and he had always felt that it was his fault his wife could not get pregnant. She had seen many doctors, and she assured him she was quite fertile. He did not trust one of them down there in his case. She was fertile, he wasn’t, that seemed logical.

And so the kids decided to go outside to play, apparently they would be here until after diner, since there had been some issues with the tow trucks. Apparently there had been this horrible accident in town, and the kids would have to wait for a while. Elaine decided to go outside and watch them play in the snow. They did not need an adult to watch over them, but she seemed so nice, so friendly, that they even invited her to play. That house must have felt lonely without kids to liven things up. And once everyone was tired and cold, she invited the kids inside and whipped up some hot cocoa with whipped cream. She was wonderful. The older kids started wishing she could have kids; she seemed so great and would love to be friends with her children.

Eventually, the kids went back home, and Elaine would be left alone with her husband. And they would once again make love, and Elaine, once more, would have to go back to the big city to get yet another abortion if she happened to get pregnant. She loved her husband, and she loved kids, but she would never let herself be split in two by giving birth.


[So, quick and dirty, nothing special about it.]

Chronicles from the Battlefield

In the quiet suburbs, a tragedy was happening, yet no one was noticing it. Everything seemed peaceful; the dew was glistening in the July sunrise. Among this row of white and pink brick houses with family sedans in the driveway, two in particular did not stand out to anyone but the owners. These houses were quite similar to the casual observer. A shiny black driveway, a somewhat recent minivan and an older sedan in the driveway, massive oak trees adorning the front lawn, a pool in the backyard (20 feet wide at 72 Maple drive, 21 feet at 74 Maple drive), a small hot tub on the patio (5-place at 74 Maple drive, 7-place at 72 Maple drive), and freshly mowed lawn with newly purchased riding lawnmowers.

Fred Johnson, owner of the 72 Maple drive was fuming. He knew Henry Davies was taunting him. Why the hell would he purchase a cottage at the nearby lake? He did not swim, his kids looked horrible in swimsuits, and his wife was not that much a looker either. It was obvious that the only reason the cottage was bought was to show him up. He had to buy the one next to his, the one Fred had looked at first and was not able to purchase. But that would not be the end of it. Oh no, it would not be.

With the money saved by purchasing the smaller cottage, he would purchase a boat. He knew his neighbour was out today to put a down payment on a small 19 feet boat. He knew that thanks to his son who was dating Henry’s daughter. So Henry was calling a boat store, he had seen this brand new 25 feet boat, a real beauty. So the family vacation to Mexico would have to wait another three or four years, he would not be beaten by his neighbour.

The Refuge

First I see stars shining through your bright eyes.
They guide me on the dark sea of my life,
Piercing through the dense fog of all the lies
I feed myself like a cold friendly knife.

I see, like a sunrise, your bright smile.
The wall of frost I hid behind now flows,
Becoming a stream washing the bile,
So that pure bliss my heart finally knows.

And held by your warm benevolent arm,
After all my worries, I know true rest.
And for my luck your love is the best charm
At last, in your heart I can build my nest.

Please stranger do not blush, yours is my heart
Overcome by the touch of Cupid’s dart

[I was challenged to write a sonnet. This is what I got. It took about as long as a story, and I revised it a lot more. Overall, what I like the most is the fact that I had to pay a lot more attention to individual words than I usually do. With a few more like these I might get the reflex to do that naturally.]

[I actually revised it once more because it was pointed out that I made some mistakes...]

Heartbeat

Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Windows everywhere let out beams of light, colouring the white snow with the yellow embrace of technology. It contrasted with the blue colour that filled the sky under the full moon. All was quiet except for the sounds of passing buses. Downtown, they motion was constant, and the noise was the heartbeat of the city. They started from this central point, and distributed people along arteries to the extremities of the isolated community. In this valley, there were fields, and the city. All was quiet, with the exception of the buses, and of the trendy bars that grew along the main streets. With their rhythmic thumping, and tribal sounds, to a casual observer, some primitive ritual might have been going on between the walls. In a sense, the mating habits of mankind were both ritualistic and primitive.

Snow was slowly falling on the sleeping city. All was quiet. Above this quiet noise, there was a window revealing a silhouette in the light. Looking down upon all the people celebrating life, the girl was looking down. Tonight, they all were happy in that bar downstairs. But the noise only stirred a sad melancholy from the moment it started. All was quiet in the city, but a storm had risen in her heart. He was somewhere down there, she could feel it. Ever since that moment when she felt his soul enter her, she could always tell where he was. They had met about this time last year. A chance encounter, they were both waiting for the same bus. He had missed the previous one, she felt like being early. And as they waited, they started talking. A few days later, they realized that their lives orbited around one another, but that they had never crossed paths. Like the moon and the earth, they were part of the same system, but until that one morning, they had not collided.

Snow was falling on a city that only deceptively looked like it was sleeping. The buses were carting people around town, running like a clock, never stopping to ponder about each motion. And in the bars along the main streets there was a man. His mind was focussed, he was thinking about his own heart beating along side another person. He did not care who, so this club was the perfect place. Days ago, he would have thought this was a mistake, but now he no longer had any responsibility. What happened wasn’t his fault. He was sure of that. And so tonight, he was looking at the girls around. Some of them were not worth the attention, but some were well worth him buying them drinks. He was free. If she had not decided to visit him out of the blue, things would have been different. She could have missed that bus, but the driver apparently waited for her. An hour, what a difference it would have made. When she walked into his bedroom, an hour would have changed the world. She could believe he was taking a nap up until she saw he was not alone in bed. If she would have missed her bus, he would not be free, and she would not be betrayed. But that didn’t matter. With the purchase of a drink, one or two niceties exchanged over the loud music, and the promise of a good time, he would not sleep alone tonight. Why was he still thinking about her, everything was her fault anyway? She should have called, she should have missed her bus, the driver should not have waited. He was still talking about her when he was making empty promises to that girl with no name that would have to walk out of his life as soon as she had served her purpose.

Snow was no longer falling on the city that was falling asleep. All was quiet. Light filtered out of some windows. Like a starry sky filled with bricks. He was coming out of the club, with this fake blond girl hanging on to his arm, because the world was spinning too fast, because she spun too slowly. He was walking with her along known streets. In the last year he had walked these streets with someone else on his arm. Now everything seemed different. But he forced himself to think everything stayed the same. So he walked these street he had learned on different times. Why did he have to park his car where he used to. If that car had not been broken, a year ago, everything would be much simpler. He would not have this oppressing feeling in his stomach, he would not feel like throwing up just remembering that moment when she walked in his room where her heart was shattered. It was her fault. The nuisance hanging on his arm made a noise, and then a motion. She was pointing to a window that lacked any significance for her, but had one time meant the world for him. Why did he have to park within sight of her window? The fake blond insisted. He raised his eyes to the window he had shut out of his heart, only to see the silhouette of his former angel flying, her feet no longer touching the ground. Suspended in midair not by the wings she deserved, but by a noose around her neck.

[Valentine's Day special... or not. I was lacking ideas tonight, so I went for a "comfort zone." While I am happy with the result, it almost feels like a step back. But then again, who am I to judge the stories I write? Oh, and please don't try to find deeper meaning, this is just a story.]

The Play

Cast

A: A theatre patron
B: A theatre patron
C: A theatre patron
Martin: An old character in a play.
David: Martin’s son
Lisa: Martin’s daughter
Lesley: Lisa’s partner

Location: Late at night, on a street, outside a theatre. A stage can be seen not too far from the characters.

A, B and C are leaving the theatre late at night; they seem to be in the middle of a conversation.

A:
Can you believe what happened up there? Such a respectable actress forced to such lowly roles. She was much better in that production of… what was that play’s name again…

A looks at B.

A:
You would know; you were there. She played that lady who was married to that horrible man.

B:
What are you talking about, she was incredible tonight on that stage. Such courage to play a lesbian after all these things newspapers said about her and her husband.

A:
But did she need to be a lesbian for the plot to progress, she could have played something more sensible. What was the author thinking, he did not need to have these girls be a couple.

C:
Did we even watch the same play? That scene where Martin and Lisa are confronting David and his reluctance to accept Lesley was incredible.

In the background, Martin, David, Lisa and Lesley walk in on the stage. David is holding a piece of paper, and is obviously agitated and angry at his father.

David:
What the hell is this? You’re giving more money to Lisa than me in your will? After she broke mom’s heart by being… being…

Lisa:
A lesbian? Say it David, I want to hear you say it. If you’re gonna be angry, you better be ready to say it.

Lesley:
Please, Lisa, don’t make a scene. We both knew we wouldn’t have it easy all the time, at least your father has been kind to us.

B:
Wait a second.

Martin, David, Lisa and Lesley stop moving.

B:
Did we even see the same play?

As he is speaking, B goes on the stage and adjusts the people according to what he says.

B:
First of all, Lesley was the one who was in David’s face, Lisa was the meek one. Lisa was holding Martin’s will; it was just after she read it and found out that Martin was leaving them the house.

Lisa:
Dad, I don’t know what to say, the house where we grew up, this is incredible. Lesley and I can never thank you enough.

Martin:
Well, it’s not like I am giving it to you right now. I’ll still see a few years hopefully, but I know it’s been hard on you lately, with you losing your job.

A:
Actually, I think Lesley is the one that lost her job, wasn’t she a teacher?

B:
No, Lisa was the teacher.

A:
Right, and Lesley was the dentist, and Lisa was her patient.

C:
Orthodentist.

A:
Whatever.

Martin:
…but I know it’s been hard on you two lately, with Lesley losing her job at the clinic.

David appears to be eavesdropping.

Martin:
And David just got a promotion at his job at the newspaper. He’s living two hours away, he can’t really want this house, he has one closer to his job in Ottawa.

A:
Toronto

Martin:
Toronto. He’s supposed to visit me this week-end too. If we want to avoid him making a scene like last Christmas, maybe you should leave.

Lisa and Lesley get ready to leave and run into David.

C:
I think Lesley wasn’t quite ok with leaving.

A:
No, she got mad when David tried to get them to leave what he called “his house.”

B:
Are you sure? I think she did mention something about trying to spare Martin’s weak heart.

Lesley, back to facing Martin:
Yeah, we wouldn’t want another one of his scenes to angry up your heart. We don’t want another celebration moved to a hospital.

Lesley and Lisa run into David.

David:
Leaving so soon? And after receiving such a generous gift too. Dad, you could have told me on the phone you didn’t love me, you would have saved me the trip.

Martin:
David, it’s not that, Lisa and Lesley have been having a hard time, but it’s not because I love them more than you, you’re still in my will.

David:
What the hell is this? You’re giving more money to Lisa than me in your will? After she broke mom’s heart by being… being…

Lesley:
A lesbian? Say it David, I want to hear you say it. If you’re gonna be angry, you better be ready to say it.

Lisa:
Please, Lesley, don’t make a scene. We both knew we wouldn’t have it easy all the time, at least dad has been kind to us. We shouldn’t be yelling in front of him like that. If David can’t make peace with it, we better leave.



[So, this is another new territory for me. First of all, I never really wrote plays (except that one time in high school, but there's a reason I don't talk about it anymore). Also, this is the first time I stop myself in the middle of writing to just post it here. There's a few reasons for that, I think the gist of the idea was there, and I was better off stopping it because the experimental nature of the text was well done and over with. Also, while the text was not complete, I realized that it could take a while to complete, and that I had not taken a necessary step: As I was writing, I had no clue what really happened with David, Martin, Lesley and Lisa. While I could wing it, I realized that once my "proof of concept" was done, if I wanted a more complete text to come out, I needed the full story. So, this "play" is an incomplete project, and I will need to invest a lot more time in it to have it reach a better state. Time I do not have right now. However, I wanted to experiment with theatre and I am kinda happy with the result. Obviously I will wait and see what my one or two readers have to say about it.

I also managed to break away from most of my labels for this post, and it makes me glad.]