The Writer's Journal

Detonation (Trouble Part 9)

2010-05-05T18:16:00.002-04:00

Still deafened by the shot, I looked around to find something that could be used as a weapon when a man wearing a mask broke through the door. He was holding the gun loosely so I took that as an opportunity to disarm him. He was being careless; it was obvious he assumed the first shot had been enough. My right fist connected with his jaw, while my left hand reached for the pistol. His loose grip easily broken, I grabbed the gun leveled it with his head and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Empty? What kind of hired gunman only has one bullet left in the clip? I tossed the gun aside, focusing all my attention to the gunman’s fist connecting with my nose. Stunned but not out of it yet, I reached for a lamp nearby, broke it on his head, and used the opportunity to grab my laptop and run out of my office. I noticed two well dressed men looking at me. They were out of their element in this office building, and too calm for the chaos that had just happened. The gunman wasn’t alone. I wasn’t about to stop on their account, maybe they had more than two bullets and without the cover of my door, I wasn’t too keen on my chances for survival. I ran through the corridor, turned a corner, and walked into an office. Everyone was panicking in there, and while they saw me, they did not slow me as I ran towards the back and the fire escape. I ended up in a back alley in time to see the goons step into their black sedan and drive off. I took a chance and rand towards the street to see their license plate. The car was a rental, but I still made a mental note of the license before running back in the alley. The street would obviously be watched so I should stick to places where another individual would stand out. Out of breath, I had reached a bike path. People looked at me funny, with my broken nose, the blood and sweat staining my shirt, and heavy respiration it made sense.

I followed the bike path for a while, and eventually docked in another back alley behind apartment buildings. I then sat down, and took the time to think. With Sarah dead and an attempt on my life, it was obvious Maddy’s “ex-husband” had a score to settle. I had no time to waste; I reached for my pocket to grab my cell phone. Empty. I would have to warn her in person. I took a deep breath, straightened my nose and then looked for something to cover up the blood soaked shirt. Thankfully, someone had left a load of laundry to dry outside, so I grabbed a t-shirt, cleaned my face and changed. I would deal with the cops once I had made sure Madeleine was safe. I walked towards our rendez-vous point.

Thirty minutes later, I was at the reception desk, sporting a black eye and bruising on my face. The employee was less than collaborative when I asked for Leslie Johnson, and called her to the reception rather than sending me up to her room. When she saw my face she was shocked, and brought me back to her room so that I could tend to my injuries. She turned on the TV as I was in the bathroom cleaning up. I walked out looking a little better, and explained to her what had happened. She broke down crying halfway through my story. I comforted her, she had had a much worse day than mine all things considered. She reached for the fridge, and got something to drink. I figured it would be time for me to call the police about the incident at my office, but halfway through dialing, something caught my attention on TV: footage of my escape through the office. I hung up the phone and paid attention to the announcer.

“We repeat, the suspect is considered armed and dangerous. Earlier today, the body of Sarah Blake was found earlier today at her apartment, shot by a gun that was found later in the day at the office of Philippe Stevens. Philippe, a private detective, is seen here fleeing his office where a shootout occurred earlier today. The weapon was found emptied, and there are signs of a struggle. Finger prints have confirmed that the weapon had been used by the detective and documents relevant to a lawsuit filed against him by Sarah Blake have been found at the scene of the crime...”

I was played like an amateur. Obviously the empty gun would be a trick; he held it so loosely to bait me in grabbing it. The false legal documents must have been part of the plan; they frame me as Sarah’s killer, and get the heat off of their backs. What kind of a hornet’s nest had I shaken up?

[Well, here is the latest segment. I feel that the last part may have pulled the trigger too soon but I couldn't quite keep padding the story, and obviously at this point the climax is approaching quickly. Then again, I may keep it up for a little while, if I get any ideas. ]

A little update

2010-03-17T15:55:00.002-04:00

I haven't forgotten this place, and I wanted to say that I will try to post the conclusion to the Trouble story before the month of July. At this point I think that story needs closure, and I am pretty much ready to fill in the blanks, I just need to sit down and write it.

The reason for this desire to be done with this story is two fold:

One, it's time you get to read the end, I've been hoarding it in my brain and that's just selfish.

Secondly, I have an idea for a new project, and I would like to be done with one before embarking on another main project.

Obviously, all of this is dependent to real life stuff that may make it easier or harder for me to do this, but that is how life goes really...

Repercussions (Trouble Part 9)

2010-01-13T18:01:00.002-05:00

My phone rang, it was a name I hadn’t heard in quite some time, I answered happily, since Madeline had been one of my least boring customers: “Hey, Madeline, how’s it going? I didn’t...”

“Sarah’s dead... they... someone... She’s dead...”

“Calm down, how did she... tell me what happened?”

“I was coming home after getting something at the grocery store, the cops say there was a break in, she was shot. I... since I left my husband, I didn’t know who to call... Your phone number was the only one I could think of.”

It had been about six months since that day. I’d found evidence that her husband wasn’t even a real person. He hadn’t gotten a name change like I’d first suspected, Albert R. Thompson was a fake identity, created entirely. I still remember her shock that day.

“What do you mean, you quit? What the hell am I paying you for?” she shouted.

“You paid me to figure out everything your husband owns, the problem is, the man you married is simply a piece of paper. Even his marriage to you is a fabrication, if I keep poking around I’ll have evidence that Albert doesn’t exist, and only Frank is real, and Frank has not been married to you.”

After more discussion, she finally understood that she’d been played for a long time. She was angry, but she was also cornered. We decided it would be wiser for her to simply pack up and leave, looking deeper into this would be like poking a bee’s nest. I would simply contact the cops with my info anonymously, if I could point them in the right direction, the guys in blue can be quite useful. I still remember Madeline’s last visit here, I decided to give her a break since she wasn’t getting anything out of the divorce, and well, I had been abusing the expense account.

“I’m settled in with Sarah, thank you for your help, here’s the check for your fees. Thank you for the price, I feel I should be paying you more.”

“Well, I figure I failed at m y job. I couldn’t find anything that you could get out of this separation. I didn’t expect this to end this way.”
“Me neither, but I guess if I can’t get anything out of the divorce, I can get a good story out of your case. Thank you for the copy of your case notes, I think the juicier parts may come in handy when I feel like writing another novel. Well then, I guess this is goodbye.”

“Yeah, it’s probably for the best. Good luck with everything Madeline.”

“Thank you, and goodbye Phil, maybe I’ll call you again when I need a reality check with next novel.”

I smiled as she walked out of my office. That was five months ago. The police had started poking where I’d pointed them, and somehow Albert R. Thompson stopped existing. Then the investigation stopped. It was suspicious, but then again when they say “stopped” in the news they might just mean that details are no longer being shared. Madeline’s voice brought me back to the present.

“What should I do, I can’t go back in, I have nowhere to go.”

“Well, as superficial as it’s going to sound, I’d say first you should try to replace whatever they stole that you need for a daily life. Buy some clothes, and go rent a hotel room for a few days. Your apartment will be inaccessible during the investigation, and who knows what they took in the home invasion.”

“They didn’t take anything, I just can’t go in because the body... oh my god, Sarah...” Madeline broke into tears at this point. On the other hand I got this nasty feeling in my gut, something didn’t add up. Someone knocked at the door.

“Look, Maddy, I have to go. Here what you are going to do, go and withdraw all the money you can from your bank account, and then stop using any of your accounts and credit cards. There’s someone at the door here, I have to go, just go get the money, then go to the hotel on the corner of fifth and Bank, register under the name Leslie Johnson, I’ll contact you there.”

The knock at the door got insistent. Funny, I was sure I had left the door unlocked. As I was walking towards the door, I realized what they may have been after in that robbery: my case notes. I was almost at the door when I saw that it wasn’t locked, I got that nasty feeling in my stomach and dove for cover less than a second before the sound of a gun being fired shook my office.

[So, here it is, the long awaited continuation of the "Trouble" story. I figured that since we'd all been away from the story for a while, it would be only fair to have Phil be away from the story as well. Also, yes, he has a name now. The unnamed protagonist was getting old. I can't promise I will be regular in updating, I wish I could be but inspiration has been hard to come by, I've had this direction for the story in mind since last June, but I couldn't get it to stick on paper. Oh well, hope you can all forgive me.]

Forgive me readers for I have sinned.

2009-12-02T15:12:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-05-23T17:09:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-13T23:29:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-05-08T15:55:00.001-04:00

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)

2009-05-06T15:33:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-05-02T23:01:00.003-04:00

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

2009-04-24T20:15:00.001-04:00

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.

2009-04-22T18:38:00.001-04:00

Unless you want a story about mucus...

A Trail part 1 (Trouble Part 7)

2009-04-20T00:30:00.001-04:00

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

2009-04-19T00:27:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-04-15T17:48:00.000-04:00

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

2009-04-14T09:59:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-04-12T00:30:00.001-04:00

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

2009-04-09T00:45:00.001-04:00

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)

2009-04-05T00:28:00.002-04:00

“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?

2009-04-02T01:13:00.002-04:00

[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)

2009-03-29T00:33:00.001-04:00

“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

2009-03-25T19:24:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-03-22T00:31:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-19T00:43:00.001-04:00

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)

2009-03-14T22:27:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-11T18:35:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-07T09:44:00.004-05:00

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

2009-03-04T19:01:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-28T14:13:00.001-05:00

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

2009-02-25T19:23:00.000-05:00

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

2009-02-21T10:30:00.000-05:00

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

2009-02-18T20:03:00.003-05:00

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

2009-02-14T20:43:00.002-05:00

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

2009-02-11T17:11:00.002-05:00

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.]

The Race

2009-02-07T10:29:00.003-05:00

He had to run, run away fast. Turn left at the next street. They were coming, he could hear them barking. The moon was high, the streets were dark, and they were empty. Midnight. He surprised himself wishing he could be caught. Running, running for so long, it had tired him. But he also had no time to think about stopping. An opening on the left, he turned, slipping on the wet cement. In the dark, he noticed the problem too late. It was a dead end. But he did not want to end up dead, so he improvised. He spotted a dumpster, climbed on it, and jumped up to a nearby fire escape. He had seen it in so many movies. He kept going higher and higher, up to the roof. He was safe from the dogs; however the slow beating sound of a helicopter reminded him that the dogs were the least of his worries. He was not spotted so for now he could still run. Luckily, this neighbourhood was built with most building being within one floor of each other. He started running towards the edge of the building, hopped over the brick divider and landed on the next building. As he ran, he realized he had turned around and started going back on his steps. No time for panicking. He jumped to the next building, down one floor. Something cracked. It wasn’t time to think about a possibly broken bone. He stood up and ran. Pain assaulted him. And after the pain, a spotlight found him. The helicopter was over him. He had to get in, go somewhere safe. He turned around, started running towards a door that led in the building. He slipped. Blood. His blood. He got up again; he had to reach the door. It was locked. His hand slipped on the doorknob. They were coming. A step back. He tried to break the door. His shoulder cracked, but so did the wood. Another attempt. His shoulder was now dislocated but the door was open. He started running down the stairs. He slipped again, and tumbled down a flight of stair. Breathing was painful. He probably had a broken rib. He got up. His head was spinning. He fell down again. Not enough blood, not enough time. He crawled to the nearest door. His hand was on the doorknob. He could not turn it. It was over.

[Very short story today, but I would like to think I was not being lazy, but rather that the action sequence was over and all I wanted to do was an action sequence. And that was it.]

The Street

2009-02-04T18:46:00.002-05:00

The neon lights were humming, and the street was slowly filling with people again. It was not the same crowd that had filled the sidewalks under a sun that had to dart between buildings and plough through smog to reach the ground. The street was shining under the neon signs, remnants of an evening shower. The stars were shining but no one could see them, it was all about the artificial light illuminating real life. This contrasted with the natural light that shone on the fake life that everyone had. Tonight, the neon lights were a beacon to all those looking for something more, something new, something different. Or maybe just something to do. At the same time the neon lights started humming, music poured out of the nightclubs and into the street. Ulysses himself would find it hard to resist the allure of these songs, especially after spending an entire day in an office building.

A man dressed in black and green seemed to agree with that sentiment. He was unconsciously moving towards a place with a red and blue sign, a name promising a good time, and a line up ensuring that he would not be alone to enjoy himself. His day had been spent entering numbers in a spreadsheet. Meaningless numbers for most. He was aware however that the numbers he was crunching were a payroll. He was also dreadfully aware that the numbers were getting smaller. But he could not think about these things, if he did, he could not live with himself. And so he walked, ready to spend a pay check he knew had been gained by removing salaries from recently laid off employees. The promise of an enjoyable evening was much more important to him right now.

A young girl wearing a black skirt, red shirt, and a friend on her arm was also looking for an enjoyable evening. She had cause to celebrate; she finally received her grades for the previous semester. She wasn’t the best, but it did not matter, she passed. Her mother was proud; her little girl was one step closer to being a nurse. But now all of that did not matter tonight. Both her and her friend had lost their boyfriends in the last few months, and because of the pressure they were under, they had not been able to fill the hole they left in their lives. Although her friend seemed eager to meet someone and get in a relationship again, she was happy to be single. She could wear short sleeves and not risk one of her bruises showing. No one had to know, and she knew what to avoid in a guy now, but she would not mind a year or two for the wounds of her heart to heal. They both spotted a group of friends waiting for them close to a bar filled with loud metallic music. She smiled and realised that it was a brand new day.

“And sometimes you need a brand new start,” said a thirty-year-old woman to a nearby friend. They both understood what was meant by these words. They shared an understanding look and went back to their profession. No, they did not dream of doing that, and they did not think they would be standing on the street corner trying to entice people with their bodies. They could not call it an honest living, but they felt they were in control. They were friends out of necessity, and they were professionals for the same reason. She had lost most of her possessions thanks to a fire and a lack on insurance, and her friend had all of her money stolen by greedy parents. They would make some money fast, move in together and get real job. This was a temporary setback, but it wasn’t setting them back much. People had money to spend, and they were profiting from it.

And if money was to be spent, this man in his mid-life crisis would be one to spend it. His wife had left him for a yoga instructor. The poor sucker didn’t know what he got. He was single, loaded, and drunk, a promising combination under the neon lights. He was king of the bars tonight, and he was moving towards a popular strip club. His wife had always prevented him from going to these places, but tonight he would mingle with hockey players, other businessmen, and a seemingly endless supply of woman-skin.

As the rest of the neon lights lit up, the street seemed to be filled with a new energy. No one thought of recession, divorce, despair, and loneliness. This was the real world, a world of hope, light, and fun; everything they were denied during the daytime.

[So I realize a couple of things: 1 most of my stories tend to be downers, 2 most of my stories are not about action, 3 it isn't quit as easy to label all my stories in a specific way. So I'm gonna try to improve the first two points in my ext few stories, as for the third one, I hope it gets even harder to label my stories, because if it gets easier, it might be that I have fallen in a routine.]

The Moment

2009-01-31T14:10:00.002-05:00

“There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls,” he thought, “that’s what my father always said. Come to think of it, if I just talked to him right now, he would probably say the same thing.” He was looking at himself in the mirror. His stomach was tied in a knot, his ears were ringing, and he felt sweaty. He seemingly could not find the courage to leave the washroom and change his life forever. If he closed his eyes for a second, he could almost hear the wedding bells ringing. Destiny is funny like that. He felt he was a few steps away from the altar. He could see it. The priest clearing his throat, getting ready for a ceremony he had done hundreds of time. His family smiling at the fact that he would finally settle down; his mother already mentally naming the grandchildren. And on the other side of the church, the father-in-law who accepted him reluctantly at first, but got over it after he helped with the renovations in the living room. The brother-in-law who looked at him as a big brother, poor kid, he was a lot younger than his sister, and he had been surrounded by girls all his life.

A year before that, he got on his knees after a romantic evening, surrounded by rose petals in their tiny apartment bedroom. That day could be one of the happiest of his life. Living together was a wonderful thing; they had ups and downs, like any other couple. They had more ups though. Even bad days were happy, such as when the dishwasher spat out a wave of bubbles. Cleaning up after that was more fun than work. There were stressful moments too, such as when he lost his job and had to find a new one during a recession. When he would be in front of the priest, he would look back at these moments and smile, because even if during the happy times they lived their love, it is during the hardships that they truly became united. And when he would take his vows, he would know he would mean them. Looking back, the first apartment may have been crummy, and the second one a slight improvement, but they were improving. The place they would live in after the wedding, they would enter as husband and wife. That is all that would matter once he would be in front of the priest.

Even the near break-up they had before moving in together would seem distant and meaningless once at the altar. Long distances are hard on relationships, and she was not quite out of school when he got his first job. Six long months of not being able to be together had made the relationship seemingly weaker. And when her best friend decided to come clean with his feelings, it almost broke them up. But he would be behind him, as his best friend, three years later at the wedding. Life can be strange like that. Back then, he could have punched him in the face, but now, at the altar, he would have given him a kidney. To get everything in the open was quite liberating. And now, as he was getting married, he could look at the man that almost broke them up and see only a true friend. What he had said was right too, he was not there often enough for her, he did not see her as the treasure she was. They would see each other on the week-ends, and they would rarely come out of the bedroom, but they were not in a good relationship. And so her best friend had tried to make her happy as much as possible, but it was unfair to him as well. Those 6 months were hard on everyone involved, but now her best friend was his best man, and he was happily dating one of the bridesmaids.

Before he moved for his job, the dating and early relationship was much easier. It was really all “sunshine and lollipops.” They would catch movies together, and spend evenings with friends, or just with each other. Once in a while, they would simply stay at his place for the entire week-end, since she still lived with her parents. He was in school, living off of loans, and her parents paid for her tuition and food, so they had all the time they wanted to spend together. And they made sure they would be together as much as possible. From that first date to see that action movie to the moment he graduated, they were happy together. So much it should have been illegal. That idea would make him smile once he would be in front of the altar, ready to say yes. But his stomach was still twisted, he was not there yet. What mattered in his mind now was the first time they spoke. They were in that bar where everyone hung out. He saw her, and knew he wanted to be with her. He saw where she was sitting, away from the dance floor. This is what made it much easier to talk to her, no need to compete with loud music.

In his mind, wedding bells were intertwined with his father’s only words of advice. But he was getting ahead of himself; he was not yet in front of the priest. He was not even in church yet. He splashed some water on his face, trying to wash away the worries. Music filled his ears. He was still ahead of himself; he never moved in with her, he’d never dated her. In fact, he did not even know her name; he was still in the bar. He had noticed her sitting in a quiet corner, she was seemingly not interested by dancing, now would be the best time for him to approach her. “There comes a moment in a man’s life where he must have some balls.”

[I was told I should try my hand at a love story. This is my attempt. I think it went well, don't you? I think that love is a much harder emotion to convey than anything else. Not everyone sees love the same way, however I like the result I got here, and it's a good way to cleanse the palate after the Lunarity fiasco.]

About Lunarity

2009-01-29T16:01:00.003-05:00

I hate it, I can't stand it, I want to remove it. I don't know why though, I just want to remove it because it annoys me. I should have expected this, that I would write a story that I just can't stand anymore. And I'm kinda wondering if it won't be the beginning of a slump. I might have a good story written by Saturday, but I realize now that it has been harder to come up with stories lately. Saturday will also be the end of the first month of the 2 story a week format. The scope of the project is finally clear to me and I almost regret my ambition.

On the other hand, if I went the easy route and posted stories when I felt like it, there would be 2 or 3 stories posted.

In short: I apologize if the quality is uneven. Don't worry, I see it as well. It probably bugs me even more than it bugs you.

Lunarity

2009-01-28T18:47:00.003-05:00

Here we go again, the moon is rising. I am trapped twenty-five days out of the lunar month. It’s a rather annoying process, to look at the world and not be able to act on it. Most people cannot comprehend how it works. They see us as savage beasts, but if anyone was imprisoned unfairly for most of the time, with only three nights of freedom for twenty-five nights and twenty-eight days of seeing but not doing, they would go insane. And so, as the moon rises and the other one goes to sleep, I am given my freedom. That feeling, the skin so naked, it disturbs me: I much prefer the body once the change is over. The fur, the claws, the fangs, these are my tools: these are parts of my identity. And so I howl. We always howl to the moon. We celebrate our newly given freedom. We celebrate it by a hunt.

The pack assembles. We have a lot of catching up to do, but that doesn’t matter. We are on a mission. We need to find preys, and we need to find replacements. Every month on of us disappears, falling victim to belladonna, or some silver object. One word of warning, we are not the romanticised versions of ourselves portrayed in the media. There is nothing romantic about the primal instincts we have so little time to satisfy. As I think these words of warning to anyone who might get a chance to perceive them, I pick up a scent. It smells of strawberry and sweat. Must be a couple. They might even have a kid. Families are good food. Yes, we eat people. Get that through your thick skulls. Stupid goth kids who want to be “children of the night.” We eat them as well. Emaciated little fuckers, they got no good meat on them.

What did you expect? The kind animal trying to control itself? Face it, I love doing this. In fact, at this instant, my claws are turning a child into an orphan. Soon, my fangs will turn him to food. We are intelligent, socialized, and civilized beings. We hunt as a group, we have friendships, and some of us even fall in love. All of this is between us, you are simply food. This is what we do to you. Your warm blood, hot entrails, and slimy guts are what we desire. We are the predators that make you our prey. And sometimes, one of you is left alive. We picked that person; we want them to join us in the feast of blood. But it is never the one who wishes to join us. These idiots always get killed fast. We go for the ones you don’t expect. Who are you, people who only know us through legends and idiotic stories, to decide what is best for us?

And when the moon sets, when the other one wants to come back out, we know what to do. We are smarter than your stories say. And by the time the hunt is over, we are back in the bedrooms, back in the prisons of flesh, and hidden from all accusing eyes. Hidden in the middle of the scared population. It’s the best place to hide. Tomorrow night, I will come out again. I will hunt again. I have been doing this for years now. We have been doing this for ages. And we are not about to stop. And you will be our preys.

Finally, keep in mind this little fact: those of you who try to befriend us while we are hunting, we devour. Those of you who try to run away, we devour. And those of you who think they know what the hell we are about, we devour. So you can only pray that we are not real, that we are nothing like what you fear and that we are the neutered dogs you wish us to be. Because if we are not; then you are simply a meal that has yet to be eaten.

[A bit shorter than what I usually shoot for, and it didn't pan out the way I expected. I seem to always have this weird tone setting in, and I think I'll have to try and move away from that. Still, this was a bit of an experiment as well, and the first person narration and complete avoidance of the actual action happening was somewhat of a change, I think. And well, even if I am not sure about this, there is the chance that readers will like it. I just think I should have gone with something else than a werewolf, it's a bit of a cliché.]

15 minutes

2009-01-24T10:33:00.002-05:00

Once his boots are on, and he is all dressed up, the boy wishes his mother a good day, opens the door, and leaves the house. The wind is cold, Halloween is around the corner, and the sun’s light holds no warmth. The kid goes down the stairs, looks left and right and then crosses the street. He crossed without hesitation; there were no cars on the street as usual. He then turned left. It was a longer way to school, but he had a chance to see her, so this was the way he chose. He walked in front of apartment buildings identical to his own; the whole street was filled with them. He was about to walk in front of her house, if he was lucky she might walk with him to school.

Today was like most days though, she would not walk with him. Her building was the only one with gray bricks instead of red. That is how he remembered where she lived. And so he turned right on the next street. The next street was short; it led to a small park. Since there was no snow, he could still cut across the park to save some of the time he lost trying to see her. The trees were bright orange, soon the leaves would fall. The park would eventually fill up with snow, and it would make the shortcut unusable. Reaching the fence, he took off his backpack, pushed it in the hole under the fence, and then crawled under himself. Since it had not rained on the week end, he could crawl without getting too dirty. Otherwise he would have climbed over the fence.

Now came the hard part, he had to run across the old man’s yard. Stories shared across the schoolyard mention a 6th grader who wasn’t fast enough. The old man caught him and when he finally made it to school; he could not sit down due to the spanking he had received. This is why you ran. That and the big dog tied to a flimsy rope. And so the boy ran while being barked at by the biggest dog he had ever seen. After he had gotten through the yard, he turned right unto a larger street. Now there were cars passing by. There was also a sidewalk, so he felt safe even if there were cars. He walked up to the crossing guard. The old man looked impatient, and tired. Why would someone who hates children become a crossing guard anyway? After waiting what seemed like an eternity, the old man finally decided to walk in the street and stop the cars so the kid could cross.

And so he was that much closer to the school. He saw a car turn on the street he was on. With a glance he saw that the girl’s father had decided to drop her off at school today. Maybe if he was lucky, he could play with her by the swings. He could see the school now; it was far off in the distance. Soon he would be there. He looked to his right and he was glad he did, there were bullies coming from a side street. He decided to play it safe and turn left. He would go through a friend’s backyard and avoid being seen by the bullies. He didn’t think they were mean, but he was convinced they were idiots. No one was at his friend’s place, his parents were at work and he probably was chasing people around in the schoolyard with whatever slimy thing he found.

The boy finally reached the street that would take him to the school. School buses passed by and he could hear people play around the schoolyard. He wonders about his first class. It’s going to be a math class, he hated numbers; they did not make sense. Adding and subtracting were easy concepts, but multiplying and dividing made no sense. It didn’t matter though, because after the math class, he would have physical education. An excuse to run around was always welcome. Then he would eat the lunch his mother made this morning. In the afternoon, he would learn about geography and music. Then he would go home. This day seemed promising. He crossed the street, walked in the schoolyard, and was greeted by his friends. It was a day like any other.

[No comments really, we all walked to school once, right?]

Cotton Candy

2009-01-20T18:12:00.002-05:00

I see you, at first from the corner of my eye. You are walking, focussed on your thoughts. The people around you don’t seem to exist, you simply walk. You come fully in my field of vision simply because by virtue of public transportation, you end up sitting in front of me. And while moving my leg is the only outward sign of my acknowledging your existence, from the moment you sat down, you captivated me. It is a very silly thing to say about a stranger, but it is not unique to you, strangers fascinate me. It might be that young couple who can’t help but show the world their affection, or that person over there reading a book that has seen better days. Strangers are the most fascinating people there is, because strangers are the only people whom you cannot know anything about.

And so you sat down, and from that point on, you were real. You no longer were a possibility, you became a real person. The world is filled with these possible people. About seven billion of them. They exist but you can’t know anything about them. You know they are there because you are told they exist. The city is filled with people like that. You see them driving, you see them live, but they are not real. That is the line you crossed by sitting in front of me that day. I had no choice but to see you as a real person, and a piece of me hopes that you saw me as real. I have so many questions for you. However, I cannot ask them. It would be rude, it would be impolite, it would seem odd. Even these words are strange, because this is what I was thinking, when I saw you, when you sat down. You started existing and then you stopped. I know you are out there, and I don’t want to seem creepy or strange by writing this, I just want to ask you one question:

Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?

It is the food of carnivals, of celebrations. It is the treat that puts a smile on any children’s face. Grown men and women smile at the idea of eating cotton candy. When I was a kid, I remember begging for it, and I remember the sweet taste of victory as my parents decided to buy it. Cotton candy would only come once a year. Its taste would have to survive in my memory for twelve long months until I could eat some again. The first time I had cotton candy was during the day, a sign of how old I was. We had been petting farm animals that seemed so strange and alien to me, when we walked in front of one of these cotton candy booths. It was so strange, blue and red, and so impossibly cloudlike. I had to taste it. Again the following year, the taste, the texture, all of that had gained a hazy dream-like quality, and so I had to taste it again. The years passed, and one day I stopped begging. I had my own money, it was later in the day, and I decided to buy some. It was that day I learned that some rides don’t mix with food. But cotton candy never lost its charm. And one year I was not with my parents, and I still bought cotton candy. Still as sweet as the first time.

One day, I stopped going to the fair. But that year, I simply bought cotton candy. To skip a year would have seemed impossible. But as I explore my memories, I realize that it happened more than once. Cotton candy seems irreversibly locked in my childhood. It is made of sugar and memories. This leads me back to my question:

Why are your eyes sad while you eat cotton candy?

I was fascinated by your eyes, after you sat down, after you became real. The blue color seemed so odd that I was wondering if I was not seeing them as blue because you were blue. To see your lips part to accept the cotton candy and to not have them turn into a smile seemed unnatural. Just seeing cotton candy almost made me smile. But to smile at something that you seemed to eat in pure sadness would have been wrong. And when I realised that I was paying you this much attention, I was worried. Worried that you would notice, worried that I would seem creepy. Behind your sad eyes, I hoped to see the hint of a smile, as you tasted that soft and sweet treat, but that won’t happen. And now I am left to wonder what happened to make you sad as you eat cotton candy.

[This story almost made me add a "stalker" label. It seemed so odd to write about a stranger, but when I started thinking about it, I knew I had to write it. This happened on the bus on the way home. I will not share the details, but this is the questioning that I had, when I saw this complete stranger eat cotton candy without smiling. I think I am also trying to write about anything, and this experience allowed me to try some new tone that I don't think I have used at this point in my career. What also helps with the writing of this "story" is the fact that I know the person it is about will never read it.]

The Steel

2009-01-17T11:37:00.002-05:00

The steel met with a deafening sound. Sparks flew around the two men. This was the moment they had been both expecting. The swords grinded against one another, producing a hissing sound, a primal growl. They both stepped back, and as of one body, they both flexed their arms, sending their weapons on a collision course. Sparks flew once more; the sun was setting and the sudden brightness of the impact was soon becoming the only light. Elsewhere on the darkening field, others were also paired up. The impacts caused eruptions of light all over the plains as the two armies met under a setting sun. When sparks did not fly, blood gushed out of the newly formed openings on the soldiers bodies. All of this did not matter for the pair dancing the deadly dance. Their synchronism was perfect, steel meeting steel, and bodies moving so that only the air was sliced.

They looked at each other. They were both tired, but they would never admit it. They were brothers on the battlefield, facing each other but giving each other purpose. As if the same thought filled their minds at the same time, their resolve grew stronger. And so the swords met in a deafening impact that lit up the night. Next to them, their allies were dying and living. But it did not matter. Years of camaraderie paled before the majesty of seconds of enmity. They did not know each other, they hated each other, and yet they were both part of a whole. Something that was separated all their life and that was being violently reunited. One stepped to the left, the other followed. The moon was rising, the pale white light turning the armies into ghosts. And the sparks still flew, in lesser number now that time had passed, but in greater significance.

This was what they had both trained for. Years ago, when they enlisted, it was for this moment. The nights in the barracks, the days training their sword arms, learning how to use a shield, learning how to follow orders. It was for this moment. It was not about dying for the king or for god, or for any being with the pretension of controlling their lives. Everything they had done led them here. Their wives left behind, pregnant and crying, their mothers being sick with worry, their children being orphaned by their decision. Everything was just a minor detail. This moment, under the moon, surrounded by blood, steel, and pain, this was what they were born for. Sparks flew, revealing an ever emptying field around them.

That moment of nostalgia was gone; the swords were coming back to life. They met with a newfound harmony. Music rose as swords met swords, shields, and air. They both did not hold back, they sent their blades towards weak spots in each other’s defence. They respected each other enough to not be insulting by holding back. The movements gracefully accommodating for these precise strikes, it was a choreography they were improvising and yet they knew it by heart. They both wanted this battle to last forever, not because they were afraid of dying like the wailing injured soldiers that surrounded them, but because they were afraid of killing.

The moon was slowly going down behind the hills; the first light of dawn was shining. The swords met with less vigour, the arms were tired. But they still fought, giving up was beyond consideration. They both had silently agreed, the fatigue did not matter and they would fight to the end without bitterness or resentment. This night spent in complicity gave a new meaning to both their lives and their deaths. The swords met one more time, the arms relentlessly bringing the steel to meet. Something new happened, a sword broke. The two men had lasted beyond all comprehension, but the steel had given up and one of them was defenceless. They both understood what it meant but had accepted it. And so the sword came down again, this time biting through steel, leather, wool, and, eventually, flesh. As the sun rose, the blade was suddenly covered in ruby, for a man such as his foe could not be bleeding anything other than precious stones. The warm sun was comforting for the dying man. They had both knew this moment would come, and so the one that lived did not hold his hand back. And the steel sword pierced his brother in battle’s heart. The battle had been over hours ago, the victors did not matter. The battle had stopped so that all soldiers could watch this destined battle. And as death fell over the vanquished, silence fell over the field. No one could explain what they felt at that moment, but years later, when they would describe this moment in history, no one but the two men who fought all night were deemed worthy of being called warriors.

[New type of story again. This is a lot closer to what I wanted to write as a kid. Heroic battles, heroes, villains and dramatic conflicts. But in a sense this is also a lot further than what I thought at first glance. There is no sense of good and evil, both fighters are heroes in their own right. It's not black and white, it is a rather grey story. There isn't much to say about this.]

The River

2009-01-14T19:22:00.001-05:00

The ice melts away as the drops fall into the purest of puddles, lodged atop a mountain, hidden behind the ice. It starts small, one drop at a time. Crystalline drops of water meeting with their peers, congregating, regrouping, and slowly changing. When the sun goes down, the water freezes again. And when the sun is out, the water thaws, and moves inches towards the bottom of the mountain. Slowly, every day patiently moving. And every night, being stilled by the coldness of the night. Inch by inch, day by day, the water moves to a bigger puddle, this one cannot be completely frozen at night, the crystalline roof imprisoning the free water until morning. But then, one day, when the roof is broken, the water is unbound, and cannot be stopped again. And so it rushes, no longer moving an inch at a time. Feet, yards, no distance is too long for this day; the water is freed from puddles and can finally reach a pure lake. The lake is a new sort of prison. Free to move and yet trapped within, the water waits, one day it will go over the edge, and flow towards the nearest valley.

Years have passed since the millennial ice thawed and the newborn drop fell for the first time. The water has been in the lake for a while now. From the depths to the surface, it has now been allowed to move out of the lake, and over the waterfalls. For so long, it has been hidden from the view of everyone, but now it would be free. And it rushed towards the first plateau. A city was found there, and the water met the first bridges. But the city was not large and the water went through in a matter of minutes. And it started another descent, towards another plateau. And as all did, the water grabbed pieces of the mountain, moving down with it. Slowly digging, so that its brothers would have an easier time following the same road. The water that became a river now flowed to the next plateau, and then the next waterfall. Something was different now, the river felt warmer. And for the first time, at the next lake, it felt the touch of children swimming. The river was finally inhabited by more than tiny fish; it was visited by humans, and animals.

And now the river discovered the first large city. And the river was turned back into water by the large pump. Flowing through pipes, filters, and them more pipes, the water found itself in a machine, it became boiling. It then was freed, met another human body, and then found a new set of pipes. Flowing through dark and gloomy tunnels filled with a horrible stench of rejection, the water was filtered, treated, and changed again before it became a river anew. It was changed, and felt different. Tainted by the use of these horrible humans the river was permanently changed. Gone was the crystalline purity, now the grey feeling would accompany the river. The next city came, and so again the river was filtered, changed, used, soiled and rejected.

The river needed to get away from all this. It was no longer a playground; it was a tool, a chemical component to human filth. From pure ice to brown ooze, the water flowed through algae infested lakes, and smelly rivers. It met with other rivers, also mistreated, also tortured. And they united, into a bigger river. One that was used by horrible metal boats that destroyed whatever remnants of purity it had. The proud river had been dirtied, sullied, and trampled. Beaten, it slowly flowed outward, expecting another pump, another filter, another kind of dirt. Instead what came was a song. The song of a sad giant that heard the pleas of the water that became a river and that now changed into an ocean. And with the peaceful lullaby of the ocean giants, the water rested. It travelled around the world, saw that water everywhere had the same life, until it was picked up by the sun, raised into the heavens and placed back atop a mountain. At peace again, it would rest for ages, until it melted again. Maybe by then it would be a playground all the way, and not mutilated by the people it tried to please.

[Ok this one was a bit harder to come up with, no big comments or questions about it, I'm also starting to think no one reads this anymore, but I don't mind. Hope you all liked it.]

Daydreaming at Night

2009-01-10T10:07:00.002-05:00

The curtains pulled back, revealing the sensual shape hidden behind the emerald coloured dress. The high heels, jet black, matched the gloves the singer wore. Her voice, like an angel’s, rose over the noise of the eager crowd. Her pale skinned legs seemed to leap out of her dress as she walked, pushing out stronger yet still very sensual sounds. The lyrics would have made anyone blush, but she was in control. Her bright green eyes looking at everyone in the crowd, yet no one believed these eyes could be looking at them. Her bright red hair seemed to fade into the red backdrop of the stage. Maybe the backdrop should be black. But then her shoes and glove would look odd. Tonight the backdrop wasn’t an issue since the singer was blond, and she wore a black dress and white gloves.

“Hey, you coming with our beers?” yelled a patron. Jessica snapped back to reality. She wasn’t on stage tonight; she was waitressing in the cabaret. Her life was not one of glamour; instead, she had to bring booze to people who should not be drinking anymore while they gazed at the singer on stage. Take orders, go to the bar, ask for whatever poison was ordered, lean over just enough to get the owner to smile, walk back to the table, lean over while giving the drinks to ensure better tips, repeat ad nauseam until quitting time, and then go home and take a shower because even if no one touched you, you still feel dirty. That was Jessica’s life right now. And there was nothing she wished more to see happen than to walk on stage at the “Cabaret Francaise” in that horrible town she grew up in. She knew enough French to know that even before you walked in the cabaret, there was something wrong with the place.

She always wanted to be a singer, and while her parents paid for singing lessons, no agent ever noticed her. She was patient though, and although the best stages on Broadway had been replaced by ambitions of being a Cabaret singer, she did not feel bad about it in any way. This cabaret job, walking on stage, it would be what would give her enough money to produce more demo tapes, and to send them to agents and producers all around the country. All she had to do was to endure the eyes that were grabbing at every part of her body and then she would be able to make it to Broadway. Her voice would draw thousands of fans that could appreciate music, and would not just sit, hoping that by some divine intervention her dress would fall off. On stage, she could also avoid having her body abused by hands instead of eyes.

One more table, one more drunk. Lean down, get the tip. Turn around and walk away fast enough that her body is untouched. “You can’t complain about that,” said Frank, as he looked at her breasts instead of her eyes the first night it happened, “it’s bad for business if you throw out the customers that feel you up. Just try not to tempt them too much by leaving your ass next to their tables for too long.” Frank was behind the bar, but he could as well have been a patron. And so she moved faster now, avoiding the hands, but pleasing the eyes.

And now the night was over, and after she gave half her tips to Frank, she got changed, no sense looking like that on the bus, and she got home to her small apartment. Life went on. Maybe next day she would be the one to walk on stage, maybe Nancy, the regular singer, would have a small accident or inconvenience. Then she could walk on stage and show her talent. And then life would be better. But for now, all she truly wanted was a hot shower to wash away all the dirt she felt on her skin. To wash away what seemed like the remnants of a dream slowly dying. Maybe tomorrow, she would get her break, she was 21. She had her whole life ahead of her. And someday, all of these perverts would say while watching her in a concert: “I know that chick, she used to bring me beer, she had the nicest rack.” There was only one thing these animals saw; even in Jessica’s dreams.

[Today, the ambition of my 2 story a week schedule hit me full force. That doesn't mean I won't do it though, I love ambitious projects. It also means that like today, I will have to go in new directions with my stories. Which is good, one should not stay in a comfort zone for too long. I'm gonna go in various directions and will try my hand at more than just shock and surprise stories. A twist ending is only good if you don't always expect the stories to include one.]

The Chorus

2009-01-06T22:19:00.002-05:00

The night was oppressing, the shadows long, and the light orange. The alley was poorly lit, it smelled of urine, and vomit puddles fed rats that filled the darkest corners of the alley with an inhuman stench. He was waiting, the time would be right soon. He knew she would walk this way, she always walked this way, always came back to her place two corners away, so he was waiting, waiting, waiting. She had to come, the always came this way, he saw her. He saw her the week before, when she was doing her groceries, he knew her at that point. And he knew what he had to do. It was obvious. It was all so obvious.

You see, she was an enemy, she was a danger. He had to take care of her. He had to make sure she would not stop him. He knew everything. She was trying to stop him, she was plotting, behind these glasses, her blue eyes were filled with betrayal. She was a danger, a menace, a threat, she was gonna try to stop him. Like the man in white, the man in white and his mother, they were in league with the blue-eyed girl. They knew he had a weakness for blue-eyed girls, they knew about this because they had spied on him. But they would not get him this time, he was smarter, better, his mind was clear now. The fog was gone. That thick fog that obscured his senses, that slowed his razor sharp mind, it was gone. And that was good. Because he was a danger for all of them, they knew that.

He knew too much. He knew about their plan, and that was why they were trying to stop him. Once the fog was cleared enough, he pretended to be behind the fog. He was compliant. He let them do what they wanted, and when they said he was “under control” he made his move. He avoided all of their traps. He left his bedroom wearing the clothes in the closet, the ones without any tracking chips. He then made sure to neutralize the agent that was watching over him. The one who pretended to be his mother. He then grabbed the money that was not laced with poison, and left through the basement window, because all the doors were trapped. He was smarter than them; he knew what they wanted to do. He had to stop them. Everyone else must have taken the drugs that placed the fog in the head. The ones that did not let him think, see, or hear what he had to.

And so he walked away from the prison disguised as a suburban home. It was all a maze of streets, but without the fog, without the drugs, he knew his way around. He was guided in the right direction. Turn right, turn left, turn left, turn left, turn right, and right again, and left. He left. Left the town, took the subway, and then he started to see other people like him. Other people guided by voices. Other people that heard the chorus. The voices. The ones that guided him to that alley. Where he knew an enemy would walk. Every other day. With cigarettes in a hand, and betraying blue eyes. And so he watched her. Every other day, she walked, unaware that he was aware. He was there, watching her, because the chorus told him she was a danger to his survival. She was part of the project. They were gonna kill him.

And so he grabbed a beer bottle, and he broke it. And he waited. And waited. And she walked in the alley. He was waiting. Until. He stopped waiting, he acted. He shoved her into a brick wall. Her blue eyes were scared. She knew, she knew he knew she knew he knew he knew she knew… She would not betray him. These eyes, charming. But the broken bottle found the skin of her neck to be soft and tender. And the flesh broke. And as the chorus said, she was a robot. Her blood was not right. It was robot fluid. And she stopped functioning. The chorus was right. It always was. He had to wait for the next target, the voices would guide him. He would win. The chorus would make sure of that.

[I wasn't sure if I should make this blog adult only, this story convinced me. As much as I want to write all genres, I'm not worried about an adult finding a children's story, but I am worried about a kid reading this. In fact, I'm worried about the reaction. But a little drama would make for good publicity. I will try to balance it out with something a bit more positive later this week, but then again, I am a slave to my inspiration. Also, I wanted to say that the confused writing was a stylistic choice, and I hoped to convey the insanity of the narrator. Hope that came through clearly.]

Poll Results

2009-01-06T16:41:00.003-05:00

The people have spoken. That does not mean I'll do exactly what they said...

I will try to post 2 stories a week. This means that I will post one story between Sunday and Wednesday, and Thursday and Saturday. I will also try to adjust my schedule with my class schedule, and so it may change again. I may take a bit of a headstart on writing if I feel inspired, but then again, 2 stories a week might be a lot to maintain, since it would mean over 100 stories in the coming year. If I make it that far, I'll be proud of myself. I also have not yet considered the idea of rewrites, but I think I will work something out in due time, since I don't want to get back to a story already posted until much later. In addition, there should be a story up tonight as I will try to ease into my schedule.

Even Titans...

2008-12-30T12:51:00.001-05:00

It all starts with a snapping sound. A cracking. But does it really start there? It also ends here, that cracking sound breaking away the after from the before. The cracking was a change, a change in the body, a change in the mind. A bone snapped, and one knee went down, followed by the other. From standing, to kneeling, to crawling, all from one snap. It doesn’t stop there, it doesn’t begin there. But it was an end, it was a beginning.

It was long coming, but quite unexpected. It’s a strange feeling, to be sitting in the path of a storm, to know it’s coming and to know it will take you down, and to be unable to move away. On the ground, agonizing, wracked by pain, time slows down. Past events surge back. Standing seems like a distant memory. Thirty seconds on the ground, thirty seconds ago a man, now a worm. Life led in this direction, years of humanity, seconds of wormhood. Gone is all the pretention, gone is all delusions of grandeurs, with one snap, one crack, one moment, a grim reminder was issued: Even titans will fall.

The ground is cold, a new river is born. Born out of tears. Tears of rage, of pain, of anger. The tears of a dying man to whom even death is denied. Moving is impossible. Standing even harder. The ground is cold, but cannot swallow the pain. Eyes are closed, a primal shout is released. The pain will be shared with the world, the pain will be released. Silent pain made vocal, the shout would stop the most heartless of killers from plunging a knife into the heart of a desired victim. A shout like this, so rarely heard before, now echoes. The ground shakes, the animals in the forest are paralyzed by the pain the shout releases.

The ground is warmer, filling with the warmth of the fallen one. The newborn river dries up. The voice dies down, but the eyes open, a fire is burning. The flames from hell filling the fallen one’s soul or the fire of a burning sun, no one can tell. One breath is taken. The flames spread, from the eyes, to the face. It burns with pain, anger, rage. It spreads throughout the body, burning brightly. The comforting pain of the flames drown out the pain of the broken bones. On hand comes down hard on the ground, an echo of the original sound, the one that fell him. A second hand comes down. Air is exhaled. Like wind in a valley, the breath seems strong enough to blind anyone who would dare still be watching this. The muscles bulge, the effort seems beyond comprehension. Another breath is taken. A strong reminder: Even titans must crawl.

At arm’s length from the ground, no longer fallen, the worm becomes a dog. No more yelling is to be heard. The pain will be his, as it was, as it is, as it must be. No longer a curse, it becomes a gift. The pain, the one that paralysed him so, is now fuelling the fires of his heart. The dog will not remain dog much longer. A quadruped he is not. The eyes close again, this time not blinded by tears. A breath is taken again, this time not in despair. The fires burn bright, so bright that anyone watching would have to avert their eyes. No one is watching anymore they all vanished. Vanished under his weight when he fell, banished by the pain released in the shout, blown away by the breath that followed.

Alone, but not lonely. Lonely, but not alone. Pain is now a friend, an ally, a foe, a lover, an enemy. But pain is no longer a stranger, it will never be. But it no longer matters. The fire is burning brighter than ever, the river of tears is now dry. One foot finds the ground, the dog is no longer. He is kneeling. Breath in, breath out. The hands push, the earth itself seems to be reacting to this contact. Earthquakes must be happening elsewhere on the globe because of that push. The other foot finds the ground. The broken bone cannot even emit pain anymore. Pain no longer matters. Everywhere, people go on with their lives, unaware of the monumental event happening mere miles away. Knees crack, the hands leave the ground. The man that became worm, that became dog, has just become more than a man. Transformed by the fall. His eyes have changed. A powerful reminder: Even titans can rise.

[Now this one is a bit personal. People who know me a little know what this is generally about, some close friends can even know exactly what this represents. But I also want it to be about a "titan." I am exploring the limits of the idea that one should write what he knows. If you don't mind commenting, you could tell me what you thought this was about; I'm curious about that.]

Introduction Part 1

2008-12-24T07:56:00.002-05:00

[So I decided to try my hand at something longer, but I can't help but see the influence my readings have had on it. This is what I have so far, it's the first part of an introduction / chapter 1 for a fantasy type book. Hope you'll enjoy it.]

The old man knew it was time to pen that letter. He had wished he could avoid having to do so, but as he looked out the window to the snow covered forest surrounding the village, he had no choice. Time had come for Jarrick to leave this village, the resting place of his dear wife, and his grandchildren. It had been his destined duty back from the day he received a letter similar to the one he was writing. It came from his father, as he was nearing that age. But unlike his father, he could not write to his son. The traditions of ancient times had stayed the same, but the world had changed quite a lot. And because of that, his letter could not be identical to the one he received. He had changed, he knew his duty, but over the generations, it had become a curse. But it was his duty, and no matter all the questions it brought up in his heart, he would do it to honour his father. But first he would write the letter to make sure that the curse carried on to the next generation.

My dearest grandson:

Life for you will soon change. You might be more pre-occupied with starting a family, but it’s not the life fate has chosen for you. First, I must tell you of the history of the world, you must know what they did not dare to teach you in school. You have been lied to, but by the end of this letter, you will understand why, and you will forgive your teachers for the lies. With each revelation, I want you to think of your sisters and brothers, and how their life would be with this knowledge. It will all make sense I promise.

As you know, the world was created eons ago by the Heavenly Mother. Through her loving embrace, the ice that covered her infant Taera melted away, revealing a virgin world filled with potential. You must have learned how this angered the Dark Fear, and that he desired nothing more than to destroyed Taera. This was a lie. Just as you needed both a father and a mother to be your parents, Taera needed a father and a mother to be born. Taera’s father was what we now call the Dark Fear. You know that now, the Dark Fear is what comes to take away children in the night, and what causes pain and suffering in this world. It is said that the Dark Fear’s touch can turn any field into a battleground and destroy any life that it comes in contact with. All wars that have cursed this kingdom were the Dark Fear’s doing. It was him who took away your father, and your mother. You know by now that your father was a soldier, and a great one at that. He trained for the battles that were coming with great enthusiasm, and even as a little boy, he wanted to be the hero of this nation. And so when the war came, he volunteered to join the army. He did not abandon you however; he was trying to protect the kingdom from the evils from across the great river. Our kingdom has been both blessed and cursed by the creators. The curse of shadow is strong in our blood. Especially women. By now you must have wondered why there are no women over 40 in the village, let me assure you, there are none to be found around here. Even if their faith in the Heavenly Mother is strong, the shadow fills their veins. You see, the Dark Fear was jealous of the Heavenly Mother’s ability to create life and fill the world with animals, plants, and humans. And in this holy kingdom where it is said the touch of the Heavenly Mother was last felt, he decided to corrupt women and twist their life into his service. As you also must know by now, our kingdom is the only one without any wizardry. We have rejected the ways of evil and are devoted to the Heavenly Mother, angering the Dark Fear even more. This is why we are constantly attacked, because of the Dark Fear’s gaze upon this kingdom.

With me...

2008-12-18T22:14:00.004-05:00

And there you were with that smile upon your face. Your beautiful green eyes, dark hair, and smiling lips. I remember the first time I met you, as if it was yesterday. It was in that school, wasn’t it? We were both kids, and when our eyes met, we could not understand the vast meaning this chance encounter would have for us. At least, it was like that for me. I remember meeting you; it was as if no one else was in the room with us. We did not exchange names; there was no reason for us to do so. I knew you without needing to know your name. I knew you from that day on as the one who would live within my heart. But life is often beyond the control of children, and we were separated. It would be a whole year before we would meet again. Same place, similar circumstances. But your smile was gone, something was amiss. What sort of danger loomed around the corner of the hallowed halls of your mind? What was the menace that caused you such grief? I was but a mere child, but I knew you were worried. I knew you well enough for that. But then games started changing what was happening between us. We would pretend I could protect you from whatever was tormenting you. I pretended to be your hero, you sincerely felt protected with me. But why, please tell me why, was this the last time we would be together as children? These two chance encounters touched me, changed me, but we were no longer together, and instead, I was left with a fleeting memory of your existence. Growing up means that what happened in the past if often swallowed by the rush of new experiences. But you were there, a distant memory, but very much close in my heart and soul. Was it love? Back then I could not tell.

And we grew up. I would be a teenager the next time we would meet. A chance encounter in a park, a chance encounter under the prying eyes of nature. We were together, and yet you felt more distant than ever before. But what really happened beyond the conversation? Do you remember? Something still worried you, but this time, I could not pretend to be your hero. The loss of our childish imagination meant that I could no longer pretend to my shining armour, and I could no longer pretend that your troubles were monsters to be vanquished. And so we talked. And my affection for you grew deeper. Did you feel that way? Did you feel that we were together, united, beyond friendship, beyond words? Can you love a complete stranger? Because beyond these three encounters, it was what you were. I never asked for your name, I never asked who you were. These things seemed superficial and useless at the time. And yet, they gained such a meaning now. You never wondered about me, have you? I was there, trying to help, but I didn’t know if I was doing anything. But we walked, and while I cannot remember what happened, I’m convinced you felt better. We would meet once again that year, chance was on our side. A schoolyard if I remember correctly. We sat and talked. What was it that worried you? Why do I remember having the conversation and yet I cannot remember the nature of what was talked about? But I loved you. Back then I was convinced, what I felt for you was love. Pure affection, pure friendship, pure love. Who were you? Why is it that for me to hold your name would be the same as trying to hold a snowflake in my bare hands?

Years would pass, and while I am sure I saw you, from the corner of my eye, we weren’t together again for a very long time. Was it you that I saw hitchhiking? Or maybe you really were outside my bedroom window that one day. Why didn’t I run out to see you? Was it the price I had to pay for not knowing your name? Or maybe it was my punishment for having known the loving embrace of someone else. Know that if that is the case, I am deeply sorry for what happened. I am a mere human, and beyond our chance encounters that seemed far removed from reality, did I ever really know you? Please forgive me, in a sense it was you I was looking for. The sparkle in your eyes, the brightness of your smile, the smell I can now only imagine you’ve had. Without a name, without anything real, all I could do is try to find you in others.

Where were you when I needed you? You never were real were you? All these chance encounters, they were products of my dreams. I know that, I’ve known that for a while. But then, why do you still haunt me? Why is it that I can brush off the darkest nightmares, however I cannot get you out of my mind? Are you real simply because I know you, I’ve seen you? Then why, if you are real, have all our meetings happened in the realm of dreams? I want to look for you, but where do I start? Maybe I should sleep… Maybe you’ll be there tonight.

[Ok, so here's the deal: when I was a kid, I had this dream, it was about this girl I did not know. And apparently, there are no strangers in dreams, so, well, I find this all confusing. And she would come back in other dreams, she grew up as I grew up. It might just be a dream, but it's odd to think about having a dream grow up with you. And while the inner child in me hopes this means more than just regular dreams, I'm pretty sure she only exists in my head. But the same could be said about memories. So, this is my first real attempt at letting her story out in the world. I'm quite certain nothing will come of this, but sometimes, it's fun to dream.]

On writing

2008-12-18T09:09:00.002-05:00

So I was wondering what was my purpose in writing this blog. Obviously I want to share stories and have a venue in which I can publish stories to get feedback. But there is something more. I somewhat wish I could do this for a living, you know, write stories. It seems like something I could enjoy doing. But I was thinking about it and some things don't quite seem right to me. It may sound odd, but I was thinking about Harry Potter, or more precisely J.K. Rowling. We all know the legend about how she was nearly out of money when she penned Harry Potter. Most of us also know the reality wasn't quite like that. However, even as her book was bought she was told to keep her day job. History took a different path, and now I feel the literary market is more open.

I have a confession to make: I have not read Harry Potter, nor do I have real plans to read the series. I am, however, fascinated by the writer. And also the writing process. How do you create such a success? Do you simply write about something you want to talk about, or is there a more commercial approach to the book series? Was Harry Potter the product created to be placed in books, or was the character created and eventually became marketable? One of the effects of the Harry Potter "miracle" is the apparition of multiple books somewhat attempting to follow the same formula, and the chances taken by editors in finding the newest Harry Potter. If you look at recent years, there have been new intellectual properties popping up left and right, and one has to wonder if all the dragons, vampires, and other mystical beings being marketed are only there because someone had success with a wizard.

And you have to wonder what J.K. Rowling was thinking when she wrote that story, before all this pottermania. The more I look into it, the more I see it wasn't about the product but about the character. All of this intrigues me. I think by now I cannot deny that I am trying to become a writer. And sometimes, as a literature student, I have to wonder what I should try to be. These questions are odd to me. I read books as part of my main occupation nowadays. I have to, and quite frankly I enjoy it. But literature is funny. What I read is literature with a capital L, some books even sound like they would need a bunch of other randomly assigned capital letters. We can, and sometimes do, spend a long time discussing what could be seen as the most innocnt part of a book. And the books we read really seem to enjoy throwing these double, triple, quadruple, and even endless levels of meaning. And I admire that. Face value is somewhat boring when you study literature. And no amount of bullshitting would make it possible to write a thesis on "A is Apple, B is Book" type of literature. Every semester, every week, I discover a new author, a new book, and something that could be seen as a new masterpiece. Why is it that even if I read all these books, that even if I am surrounded by all these great authors of Litterature, that I am presented novels that go beyond words being put on paper, all I can think of when I want to be a writer is a book series I haven't read and an author that won't be in any syllabus?

Obviously, I don't want to starve, and I seem to have a contemporary author that sets a bar for literary success. But can I write something like that? And years from now, will Harry Potter books be concidered Literature with the random capitals? Will future student find new levels of meaning in Rowling's work? And these layers of meaning, were they placed in these books by the author? I want to write books that might be seen in my field, but I want to write books that will also be widely received. But is that my mistake, should I just want to write stories? It's not about success, it's about sharing stories. In a sense I understand that, and yet if I am to make a living out of writing, I need to also present a marketable product...

I am surrounded in academia by names such as Urquhart, Van Herk, Cohen, Aquin, Fenario... All these names, all these authors in which we try to find greater meaning that what is on paper. Isn't that what I should aspire to? To write books that are part of Literature? But there is also this nagging feeling, the aspiration to be part of popular culture. Are these feelings conflicting? Can I reconcile them?

I would also need to write longer stories. As you can see by now, I mostly focus on short stories, extremely short, and to the point. This is all fine for this blog, but I have a confession to make: I cannot write longer stories. I always get trapped in between my desire for marketability and my desire for being an Author of Literature. And so I have introductions, I know endings, and yet... And yet I am left wondering if I will ever write something longer.

But I will keep writing, because it's a way for me to practice, it's a way for me to expand my repertoire, and it's a way for me to see how people receive my writing. Maybe one day I will write a novel, maybe one day I will be published, and maybe one day I will be a successful author, or a successful writer... And maybe I should just stop worrying about all this, and sit down with the Harry Potter series and read it. Because I think I need to realise that there are stories to be told, stories to be heard, and that writing is about sharing these stories... So, since I have this wonderful venue, I think I will try to share stories, and that I will try to push myself into changing my writing, because I know I won't write the great stories I wish I could before I can master writing the stories I can write.

I will end on a more managerial note:

The three labels you see under this post are gonna be exlusively reserved for posts about the real me. It will indicate that what you read is not fiction, but me talking to you. Everything else you can assume is fiction, or at the very least creative writing.

Also, I beg of you, please comment on my writing. Anything... Point out what you liked, what you hated, point out anything. I can enjoy flattery, and I can also learn from what you dislike. My future stories will only be better with your comments. Plus, if I get a comment once in a while, it'll motivate me to write more.

Finally, share this blog with all your friends, I really don't know how to promote myself beyond talking about this with people I know.

Thank you for reading.

Tomorrow I...

2008-12-17T22:31:00.002-05:00

I am in a lonely place. Up here, in the farthest region of your mind. Away from the light, in this black foreign place. Away from the reach of your inviting hands. I have been away for a while now. You are starting to forget me. Out here, away. I know I only still exist close to you because of a deformed idea of nostalgia. I know I am replaced. I know I wasn’t perfect; from the first day there were some issues. I had hoped we had gotten over it. Instead I find myself pushed away. No one can pretend to be perfect, and no one can pretend to accept that. We all wish we were better. But not me. Because tomorrow…

I’ve spent a many lonely nights away from you. The mornings were the worse. I knew I had been replaced, I was still around, but I wasn’t there, with you, just as you were not there with me. These sorts of thing happen. At first it wasn’t perfect. But we managed to get along. In fact, after a while my quirks probably seemed endearing, something you would mention to friends with a vague smile on your lips. Your lips, so beautiful, so tender, so sweet. How I wish I could still make them shiver with excitement. But I don’t see them anymore. Only a quick vision of you is what I get. It’s what I hang on to. We once were together, now, we may be in the same apartment, but we are not to be together anymore. Because tomorrow I…

And don’t think I cannot see that other one in your eyes. How everything is perfect, just the way you want it. It used to be like that between us. How long before another one is thrown away because of some perceived imperfection? And don’t think I cannot see the joy in your eyes. That joy, these eyes, that light, it used to be mine. But now, it slips away. By what twisted, demented sense of nostalgia do you keep me around, so that I can know your presence, but no longer bring you satisfaction. And I sit here, waiting for the day you take me out of your life permanently. And that day will come, and I won’t be able to fight it. Because tomorrow I will…

By now you can guess the anger in my voice. I am angry because my shouts will remain unheard. By now you can guess the sadness in my voice. I am sad because while I cannot leave you, you have left me. By now you can guess the jealousy in my voice. I am jealous that you are no longer mine, even if I am still entirely yours. By now you can guess the gloom in my voice. Because tomorrow I will still… I will still…

You robbed me of my hopes; all you are now is despair. You robbed my of my ambitions; all I am now is failure. You robbed me of my dreams; this is a nightmare. You robbed me of myself; I am no one. You robbed me. Did I ever rob you? What did I take away from you that you would have to take away my purpose in some sense of revenge? Why do you keep me around? Answer me. Answer me now! Answer me please… I beg of you, give me an answer. So that tonight I can find peace. Because tomorrow, I will still be… I will still be… I still won’t be…

So this day ends, my voice has risen, my spirits fallen, my soul is shattered. I wish for you to realize that now I am lost. But you won’t find me. I wait for you, but you won’t find me. To find me, you have to look for me. But you don’t care anymore. I now fear that you never did. Was I just a thing to be discarded when things weren’t perfect anymore? Do you think you are perfect? If so, can you teach me? And if I was just a toy for you to enjoy, and then for you to throw away once nothing was the way you wanted, why didn’t I know that? Why didn’t you tell me? And if I was just a toy, a commodity, then why don’t you rid yourself of the other ones you have around in your life? Throw away all these thing that have something in common with me. That chipped plate, throw it away. That water damaged book, throw it away. Those torn pants, throw them away. Throw away your friends that are not just friendly enough, your teachers that no longer teach you, your parents that no longer educate you, your computers that cannot compute. Throw them all away if you are to throw me away. Because tomorrow, I will still be broken.

I said it, broken. Not working the way I should. Why can’t you throw my away like all these other broken possessions? You’ve replaced me, I know it. Throw me away. I cannot do that to myself, I cannot throw myself out, it has to be you. You have to realize that you wish to discard me not because I no longer work, but because I cannot even pretend to be perfect anymore. When something can be seen as perfect, even if it is known to not be, people tolerate it a lot more. But I cannot pretend this. You know it, I know it, the whole god damned world is disillusioned about it. I am broken. Tomorrow I will still be broken. And tomorrow you will still replace me, and yet won’t be able to be rid of me. That’s it really: Tomorrow I will still be trapped in here, and tomorrow, I will still be broken.

Broken, damaged, shattered, non-functional. You only see me as a defective thing, but I am more than my defects. And all these endearing quirks? I still have them. But tomorrow you will have breakfast and won’t shed a tear about me. But I should not get angry. Things cannot get angry. I am a thing. An object. An unfeeling metallic mass in your kitchen. I used to make your toasts in the morning, but my handle didn’t work. That other guy brought a replacement. And you stuffed my in that dreary little dark cabinet. You don’t think of me anymore, and I cannot think of you. Because I cannot think. I am a toaster. I have no voice. And you won’t hear me tomorrow, because tomorrow, I will still be broken. Just recycle me please? I would like to see what the reincarnation of things will feel like. Maybe, next time, I’ll be a car, because tomorrow might unbreak me.

[Note from the Author: When I moved in, my roommate told me about her toaster AM/FM radio thing that didn't work anymore. I brought my toaster in, and well, we pretty much put the other toaster in a kitchen cabinet. Tonight, of all the things that could have crossed my mind, the toaster was the one that stood out. We never think of the tragedy of things. These possessions only exist to fill a specific purpose, and while they work fine, we like them. Once they stop working, we are unforgiving. We won't get them fixed, we will throw them out, and replace them. We are truly horrible masters... or is being thrown out part of their purpose? Either way, I felt that this toaster's story had to be told, and I could not be silent about it. Also, I think this little paragraph at the end of a story will become part of the standard here. What is the point of a story, if you don't know where it came from? Don't worry, I won't give you all the answers, because authors do put personal things in their stories, and while in this case it was about a toaster, other stories might betray something deeper in me. Or not... I mean, can you really trust me?]

For Liberty

2008-12-16T21:24:00.001-05:00

“We’re all here for a reason. We all know what we have to do. Guys don’t let me down. Don’t let me see you fail. You can do this, we’re the best. Now grab your weapons.” With these words, Thomas L. Smith, Tommy for his friends, tried to inspire his troops. Dinner was just over. The babies back home were probably settling down for a nap. Tommy knew his leadership would make a difference in this war. The position they were in, they had been there last year. Sure, some of the faces were new, and some of the old faces were gone, but they were a team. They would not let their common foe win. It was a battle for honour, fought by brave soldiers, a battle for liberty, fought by people just like Tommy. Unlike their enemies. These creatures had nothing in common with Tommy’s soldiers. And so he watched as the agile hands gathered the necessary ammunition for the assaults of the day. The air was cold, the snow was dense. They could walk on it as surely as they would walk on the ground, and it would play to their advantage. They were the ones leaving their base. They would assault the enemy’s stronghold and try to push them back into their positions, and eventually drive them away. It had all to be done before sunset. Before the light ran out.

Tommy looked around at everyone with him. Yes, they all knew who they were facing, and they almost all looked eager. Tommy, like some of them, had a more personal reason to fight in this war. It was a question of honour. He could not show his face home until… Until this battle was won and everything he stood for was once again stronger than what they faced. It was about might. It was about right. But for Tommy, it was also about the fight. He loved that part. And in memory of his cousins who could no longer fight in the war, for his father who had stood in the exact same spot, behind similar barricades years ago, for his grandfather who had done the same. For his uncles. Yes, this war had been going on for so long that he could not remember the name of all relatives that had been part of the offence. Or the defence. Some years, the enemies lost; others the allies did. Sure some things had changed. Synthetic fabric for example meant they could stay warmer longer in this weather. And unlike the people that shared the war stories with his grandfather, Tommy was not barefoot in a meter of now, although he doubted that people fought barefoot, except maybe in pre-historic times.

Tommy snapped back to the present. He looked at his best friend’s face. James Thompson, Jimmy. A soldier in this endless war just like Tommy. He too had known relatives that stood if not on this battleground, on ones similar somewhere in the same nation. Ever since they were little kids they had heard of the battles, and with a mix of anticipation and fear they decided they would be part of this. They must have been 5 year old back then. They were at the swing sets in a park from their early childhood. They promised they would have each other’s back when they would chose to fight in these battles. They trained informally from that point on. Last year, they were taught by veteran fighters. Tommy did not expect he would lead the assault this year, but things had changed quickly. He had seniority now; he was the only one who could lead them. He also had a much bigger stake in this than any other one else this year. Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around ready to fight.

Nathaniel McCord. Nathan. He was a new face around here; people were still not quite used to his weird accent. He was moved to this region this year. Normally people would have doubted his worth in this battle, but he too had a personal stake in this battle. Tommy could only hope the veteran in whatever city he was trained knew what they were doing. He was the only stranger in this ragtag group of fighters. Tommy looked at his watch. 1315, it was time to move.

“We have to get moving. We’ll split into 3 groups. Jimmy, you take these guys here, you move from behind the buildings over there, and you try to cover us. We will come from another direction. Nathan, you take these guys and move from that side. I know you know your target, and you are allowed to do whatever you have to do to take it out. I’ll with these guys here; we will use this snow as cover. We all know my target, and I know where I can get my best shot. Don’t take any chances I wouldn’t.”

He winked. It was time. Time to lead this group into battle. They had been ready for this day ever since they left the classrooms. This was it, the day they would become more than soldiers, they would become men. And so they marched. At 1400, they were all in position. Their target seemed to be making plans on their own. Tommy had done well to break away from conventional plans. Their foes were planning on making a move at 1500, and would try to meet them in the middle of the battlefield. Instead, they would be stuck in their barricades, pushed back away from their ammunition supply chain. Tommy was nervous, but he could not show that to his men. 1409, 1 minute before the cover fire started. Time seemed to slow down. Once this was over he would walk home proud. Tommy started breathing again; he had not noticed he was holding his breath. As oxygen started flowing in his body again, he realized that it was time. As if on cue, Jimmy started attacking the enemy, taking them by surprise and making it harder for them to reach their weapons. As this started, he guessed Nathan’s position, and slowly moved forward. He was looking for red. That was his target. Nathan’s would be wearing orange. Their enemy’s uniforms were anything but convenient in this snowy battlefield. Their enemy was surprised but not beaten. And so the battle started properly. The initial strike had been brutal, but the response was efficient. Their enemy was in their base, they had a huge tactical advantage. Tommy had counted on the initial shock to drive them back.

It worked, however their enemy responded by hiding in their fort like a turtle would in a shell. Tommy had hoped it would not come to that. He sent two messengers to tell the two groups to stop firing and try to circle around the back. If that did not work, they would have to rejoin with the main force in front of the impregnable fortress. As soon as the messengers left, Tommy motioned his group forward. They would try to trick their enemy into thinking the flanking groups had relocated in front. 1505, time was moving way too fast now. The damage to the enemy’s base was undeniable. But so many of his fellow soldiers’ uniforms were now darker due to the rapidly cooling fluid. And so, as the new plan was put in motion, Tommy was starting to take part in the fight properly. Tirelessly he took out targets. But his shots did not affect their determination, and the battle was brutal. Then their forces thinned. Too late, Tommy realized that their plan had been guessed by their cunning foes. He yelled his orders: “Fall back, FALL BACK!” But it was too late, he knew it. With one look to the tired faces around him, he said: “We make a last stand now. It’s almost sunset. We have to move now.”

It was almost 1600 when he led his soldiers in this last desperate assault. He was told not to do that by his mentors, but his plans were about to fail. He could not allow that to happen. As he rounded a corner however, he fell face to face with an enemy. He did not have time to react. However the enemy was shot from behind by Nathan, who had heard the shouts to fall back. Nathan however was also shot, by the orange uniformed enemy. Tommy reached down for the weapon he had dropped in shock. He aimed and let the shot go. He then ducked instinctively. The orange target missed him, but the shot went behind Tommy, and got Jimmy in the shoulder. Time slowed down again. Tommy looked at the battlefield, as the sun was setting down. The peaceful snowy field was now red. He could see all of his soldiers that had been hit. He would win, he had no choice. It was for honour. It was for liberty.

Swallowing his fears, Tommy made sure he was armed, and moved into their enemy’s base, through a hole that had appeared during the battle. He was not the only person left on the battlefield, but he felt alone in his mission. He turned a corner, saw an enemy, it wasn’t the red he was expecting, but he shot anyway. He kept moving. Kept making sure his weapon was in order. He then heard a voice com from behind: “That wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve done. I always knew you were dumb.” As the red enemy was getting ready to shoot him, they both heard a yell from outside the fort. They were both on the western wall, Tommy felt alone, but Jimmy was there, and with a loud shout, distracted the enemy, and shot. While his attack was dodged, Tommy’s foe counterattacked instinctively. Jimmy as hit in the forehead. There was no coming back from that. Tommy however used the distraction to do what he came to do. And so the shot left. Straight, powerful, precise. And nailed Tommy’s target on the nose as she was turning back to face him. Tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s not fair, you got me in the face, I’m telling mom!” Stacy Gwendolyn Smith, the enemy, was beaten. And so were the other kids’ sisters, cousins, and female friends. Tommy had done it, his older sister was now crying. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Santa won’t give you any presents this year.”

Tommy went down to meet with Jimmy, who was red in the face. “That’ll show the 6th graders. A bunch of seven year olds can win the battle.” He helped Jimmy up, and they both walked home in time for supper. Tomorrow they would wake up to unwrap their Christmas presents as children, but tonight, they were men.

November 22

2008-12-16T20:08:00.003-05:00

November 22, the sun has just recently set on the little community. For the Patterson, sunset had come somewhat earlier, since their house was east of the church, and today was the only day of the year that the sun’s trajectory was hidden entirely by the steeple, a good two hours before the rest of the village found darkness’s embrace. Their house has been there since the times of the foundation of the village, 200 years ago. It was built in front of the church, so that only the priest has an easier time getting to mass. In the last 50 years, this did not really matter. However, the large backyard, beautiful neighbourhood and historical house were more than enough to make the house more valuable. They also were lucky enough to have a large parking lot when they had a lot of guests.

November 22 was not such a say. And Andy Patterson looked at the church dominating his house through height, size, and darkness. For while the church was surrounded by what could be seen as heavenly light, its shape was an inscrutable shadow lost in dark mists. From his second floor window, Andy was assailed by a rushing wave of memories. He was the first son of his generation, and as such, the house was rightfully his. He was born in January, in this very house, 56 years earlier. His mother was stricken by labour as his father had been working at the paper mill. Thankfully her sister, a nurse, and her brother in law, were both with her at that time. The roads were too slippery to go to the big city hospital, and back then, giving birth in your own home was a frequent happening. The brother in law ran outside to get the village’s doctor. Through no evil intent, he decided to let the doctor go to the Patterson house alone, and kept running to the paper mill. He had visited Andy’s father at the mill earlier that week, since he was force to take a vacation as the crops slept under their coat of revitalizing snow. As he yelled excitedly, running toward the work station, he failed to realize that most machinery here is unthinking, and rather unforgiving of inattention. Thus, as Andy’s father was not giving the saw his entire attention, it jealously dug into his left arm, under the elbow.

The doctor stayed a short five minutes at the Patterson house, and ran to the paper mill for an eternal two minutes. Bandages were made, a sleigh was found, and thanks to the valiant courage of a pair of work horses, Andy’s father passed away alone, away from his son that would bear his name, away from his wife, away from his home. Alone. The paper company made sure the Patterson family would not go hungry, and out of guilt, remorse, or pity, the brother in law made sure to provide as much money and food for the family he had involuntarily broken. But that was the past. Many November 22 passed. And many times, the shadow of the church had enveloped the house. Andy’s sister died in the middle of the summer. A tragic incident at the river, nothing more. Everybody learned how to swim at that spot in the village. The river went down a small hill at that spot, and had dug quite a nice pond for kids to swim in. Andy and his brothers had taken the habit, as older boys often did back then, to go up the hill and jump into the pond. If you knew what you were doing, you could aim straight for the deepest part of the pond, and go under the water safely. Little Leslie had been with her brothers quite often, and while they were not paying proper attention, she decided to join them in their dives. She knew where to aim, knew how far to jump. She knew how to swim as was often compared to a mermaid. She called to get her brothers’ attention; they looked, and yelled at her to come down. It was too dangerous they said. It was too hard for her to do. She did not listen, ran, and leaped into the river. She came out unharmed and cheered by her brothers. And so they jumped again. And again. And again. On their fifth time jumping, she did not come out of the water. She did not come up for air. And even in the following weeks, she did not come up as a corpse. She vanished, swallowed by the river. Swallowed by the dark waters that seemed to reach as deep as the core of the earth. Nothing should have prevented her from coming back up. And that nothing was powerful enough to keep her buried in moving water for countless years. For eternity. No one swam at that spot, in fact no one from that village dared to swim in the waters that swallowed their sweet princess.

Life went on. Andy was on the eve of his wedding. As it was tradition, and according to most people, it was a stupid tradition, the ownership of the house would be passed at the same time as the wedding. This meant that in addition to organizing a wedding, Andy’s mother had to move out of the house. Andy and his fiancée had agreed to let her live with them. She was quite healthy, and happy to be part of their household. And the Patterson house was huge, and had quite enough space for this arrangement. And so Andy’s mother worked quite hard so that he august wedding would be amazing. And she worked quite hard to ensure that the master’s bedroom was free for the nuptial. She also arranged to spend the week at her sister’s place to let her son settle with his wife. She worked up a sweat, giving orders, getting her hands dirty, moving people, bossing furniture around. By the time the night fell, she was exhausted. After a light meal, she went straight to bed, to be ready for her son’s unforgettable day. She would never see daylight again. The doctor called that morning saw that she was over exhausted, and that she needed a day or two of bed rest. And her behest, the wedding took place. However, they could not wake her up again once the ceremony was over. She had a September funeral, and Andy’s wedding day would be in everyone’s memories for years to come.

On that November day, Andy was lost in his imagination, seeing everything this house had meant for him. His wife had left him years ago, after their youngest daughter went to college. He had fathered three beautiful, smart and angelic little princesses. And so there was no heir for the house. He contemplated that as he watched the church’s face brightly shining with a red that had a depth and a power commonly seen only in sunsets. His eyes filled with tears and he was choking. On memories, on emotion, on life. On death. He looked at the church and a symphony of lights, colours and sound assailed him. The bright red, the clear white, the alternating blue and red. All of this was obscured by the thick black mist filling his mind, his memories, and his house.

On November 22, he went upstairs for a nap before supper.

On November 22, he had turned on the oven so that it would be warm by the time he would wake up from his nap.

On November 22, the house decided to fight the enveloping shadows and fill the street with the burning memories of those that were no more.

On November 22, Andy Patterson died, away from his family, away from his love, but in is house, filled with despair.

Alone.

Setting up shop

2008-12-16T20:00:00.003-05:00

Well, I am still not sure how often I will post here. My original idea was one story a week, but I figured it might not be enough. I was thinking of doing a strict updating schedule, but inspiration does not quite work that way. But then again, I could have a pool of stories written, and released on a schedule. That seemed like the most logical option. However, the other issue I've had is with starting this blog... I think I will post another 2 stories, to give my readers a better idea of what I can do, and after that I will settle in a schedule built around the survey.

The Last Tombstone

2008-12-16T11:06:00.002-05:00

Lieutenant Harris was a professional. He never had any challenge beyond his reach. He was the man that could change the course of a war just by setting foot on the battlefield. It all started 20 years ago, when he was an 18 year old recruit. On a routine escort mission, his troop happened upon a group of armed militants. They decided to neutralize them, oblivious to the fact that they were the scouts for a much larger force. With their 50 men, the allied forces quickly eliminated the perceived threat, safeguarding their 5 packages. When a thousand man showed up to reinforce their fallen friends, the leader of Harris’ troop froze. 50 to a thousand, the odds were against them. And thus began the legend of Harris. Instinctively, he ordered his men to fall back into a small cave he saw up on the hills, not 5 minutes from their location. He managed to distract the thousand enemies, keeping them occupied for the time it took to secure the cave; he then crawled up to his troop. Soon after the siege began. The 50 men had limited supplies, 5 valuable civilians with them, and no leader beyond that recruit. They pooled their supplies, making sure water was available to all, as well as food, and most importantly: ammunition. Harris allegedly grabbed two automatic assault rifles, loaded them, and shot down a group of 30 with less than 30 shots. The truth wasn’t far from the stories. He shot down the group, starting with his rifle, and when his comrade fell, he grabbed his riffle and started using it. One death for 30 enemies, the odd seemed better. That’s when Harris became a legend. A lowly soldier, he grabbed a sniper’s rifle, a box of 250 bullets, and told the men to take shifts guarding the cave’s entrance. In the coming days, 200 enemies would attack the besieged troop. The last one was shot in the back of the head, by the last bullet from the box Harris took. With the 249 other bullets, and his legendary instinct, he had neutralized 770 enemies. 3 days after the initial attack, Harris resumed the escort mission, alone with his 5 charges. When they made to base, Harris explained what had happened, and when the MP suspected he had abandoned his troop with the packages, they went back on the field. The story was true. 1000 dead enemies and around 786 confirmed kills for Harris, on his first patrol.

He soon became the allied forces’ secret weapon. He was parachuted in deserts, swamps, mountains, he infiltrated cities, bases, fortresses, and he killed high ranking officers, scientists, and countless soldiers. They said that he was just as effective at mowing down opposition as a good carpet bombing. That’s when a funny statistician did the math. In one bombing that had cost over a million dollars, they killed less enemies, and won less ground than in a week of his actions miles away in an enemy city. Harris was a hero. And yet he never raised to the ranks that the strategists occupy. At 30, he infiltrated the Union’s capital, and spent then next 5 years eliminating a long list of targets. In 5 years, not less than 7000 officers, politicians, scientists, and other targets were eliminated. Among the Union circulated a rumour of an infiltrated network of spies. It was all the doing on one man. A man who had promised that the Union would be stopped in 5 years. On the last day of his 5 year mission, Harris walked in the Union’s palace. No guards stopped him. They did not try, as he was the dictator’s right hand man. The one who had eliminated the most spies, and enemies of the regime. He walked into the self imposed god-emperor of the union’s throne room. He then pulled out a concealed 6 shot pistol. Killed the 6 guards surrounding the Union’s emperor. Walked to the throne. And in one punch, crushed the emperor’s skull.

That day, the entire world finally united under the alliance of nations, and world peace was established. Harris refused any celebration. He was offered a good retirement, but he refused. He chose to enrol in the Alliance’s new space program. He then said that on the occasion of the fifth anniversary of the liberation of the world, he would be standing on the moon, waving at the world he had freed. And so the space race began. They were racing against time. The ships were designed faster than any ship had been designed. People united under this one goal. 1 year into their mission, they had launched unmanned orbital flight. In the second year, they sent monkeys. In the third year, they sent Harris in orbit. In the fourth year, they sent unmanned flights to the moon. In the fifth year, they were ready. And so was Harris. Liberation day was coming, and he would set foot on the moon on Liberation day, as he had promised years earlier. It would be his 40th birthday. He was visibly excited, no longer a professional killer, he had become a new pioneer. He was the beacon that launched space exploration, the light that would guide the world in an era of prosperity. In 5 years, they had perfected communications, computers, aeroplanes, and every piece of technology imaginable. They were mere moments away from perfecting nuclear fusion, allowing a clean and cheap supply of energy to be shared with the world. Everyone was inspired by Harris.

One week before Liberation day, Harris put on the orange jumpsuit, followed by the white spacesuit. He walked up the stairs leading to the launching tower confident in his success. He hugged his wife, their teenage daughter and 3 year old son and then walked towards the elevator. He made a last funny remark, then spoke in a microphone. He said: “Today is the first day that will lead to a new world. This world will be one of hopes, dreams and happiness. I do not embark on this journey as a man, but as a representative of mankind.” These words would be the headlines in nearly every newspaper in the world the next day. He went up the elevator, sat down in the cockpit, and launched in the first manned spaceship towards the moon. The world cheered his departure from earth, as if he was carrying their hopes and dreams to the stars.
6 days before the landing, he made it to orbit. He had to wait 2 days to reach the perfect point for the second part of the journey. 5 days before the landing, he was told that the first fusion power plant would be started on the day he would land, and that the former Union capital would use this new energy to light his way back to earth. 4 days before Liberation day, he left the silent embrace of Earth’s orbit. People around the world felt lighter as he became weightless. 3 days before he stepped out of the ship, his wife and kids talked to him, and told him that they were proud of him. 2 days before landing, he was out of communication range. 1 day before landing, he contacted Earth again and was told that the world was with him.

He then landed, on Liberation day. The first words by mankind on the moon were: “This is the last step of the ways of old, from now on, Earth will be a haven of peace and prosperity for all that live on its surface.” He then waited for a response from Earth.

6 days before the landing, a group of insurgents decided it was time to bring back the Union, and share its glory to the world. 5 days before the landing, the network of spy that had infiltrated government and the science office made a bogus discovery permitting a stable fusion reaction. 4 days before Liberation day, the signal for all infiltrated insurgents was broadcast on the news. 3 days before he stepped out of the ship, an armed group infiltrated his house, waiting for his family to come home. 2 days before the landing, the space agency’s communication office was hacked, and communications were moved in the hands of the insurgents. 1 day before landing, he was told a lie. On the day he landed, after his message, he got one answer: “Let the lights of the Union burn the city of traitors.”

The sabotaged reactor was started. The reaction was out of control, and the reaction started breaking apart molecular bonds, releasing energy in all directions. Air itself was turning into pure energy. And Harris, as he stood on the moon, saw earth turn red, then yellow, and then black. Earth was nothing but a ball of ashes as he looked, for the first time feeling despair. He grabbed a metal plate, and carved on it mankind’s last words. He then stepped into his ship, left the moon, and aimed for the emptiness of space. He could not survive for more than a few days, but he would not give up on life. He was the last human alive, and if his life had been any proof, if anyone could survive the extinction of mankind, it would be him. That’s what was filling his mind, as the air supply ran thin and he was drifting in and out of consciousness. He poured all his energy, and battery power, in a last transmission, asking for help for the first time in his life. Hopefully, someone would hear. Someone would come. Sleep took him over. Help was coming, he was sure. His eyes were heavy. Help was coming, it had to come. He could barely breathe. Help was needed; he was running out of hope. He drifted into sleep. Help would never come; all hope was lost. Everything was lost. Help… Air… Hope… He needed all three to survive. But it would never come. Never. Forever waiting for the next breath, for the saviour, for a way to restore mankind. Timelessly lifeless.

About this blog, and me.

2008-12-16T10:51:00.001-05:00

Since it's a new blog, I assume people will want to know what it is about. Well, I recently had to write some short stories for a project and I realized that I enjoyed writing these stories, and figured I could try to write at least one a week. It seemed like a good idea. So this blog will be more about my writing than my life, but according to most of my professors, the two are rarely separate.

About me: I'm a 26 year old graduate student of literature. I'm also what you can call a gamer, I read comic books, really love going out for a beer, and basically enjoy creating stuff. I tried my hand at drawing, painting, photography, music and obviously writing. Though writing is where I think I might be the best, I was told I was not that bad at photography as well. This is my first blog, most likely my only blog, and hopefully you will enjoy my writing.

Also, since I know most of you reading this are actually family and friends, please don't hesitate to share this. And don't hesitate to comment on my works, it's the only way I will improve.