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. ]
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
A little update
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...
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...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Repercussions (Trouble Part 9)
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.]
“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.]
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Forgive me readers for I have sinned.
It has been way too long since I last wrote anything here. To be honest, it feels like something broke inside me back in May. I've been in a bit of a downward spiral ever since. I was sure I had hit rock bottom back in August, but nothing is working out for me lately. I have a hard time focusing on something for more than 5 minutes, unless I can shut my brain down. It feels like my whole brain is paralyzed by writer's block. In fact, not to sound too emo-ish, but I am at a point in my life where pretty much everything I try to do is stopped by white page anxiety. Even when I logged on today, after closing the page every morning in utter disgust at my inability to write for the past 6 months, I figured I'd try to throw out some writing. I'm sure some of you still want to see what happened to that detective guy. I hate that I have this character inside of me and I can't let him out. Rest assured, this blog is not forgotten, it's just impossible for me to create right now. I'll try however to get the juices flowing simply by writing out my anguish. Maybe I'll get better at it by trying, if not well, at least my 2 or 3 readers will know I'm still sorta trying.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
I’ve been thinking.
I’m pretty sure you would prefer that I had spent time writing, but this was not one of these weeks. Actually, I ran into a huge snag: I don’t feel like writing anymore. I don’t have inspiration, I don’t want to dig my brains for new plot points, all I want is turn my brain off and be a zombie for a couple of weeks.
I know why too: I can’t deal with jobs. I needed to work to pay bills, and as soon as I accepted the job, I lost my will to write, I hardly take any time to work on my school stuff, and I basically lost the drive I needed to finish what I started.
I hate feeling like this, but right now that’s where I am: I have a job I don’t want, and I no longer have the drive to do what I do want. I’m gonna have to inspect my feelings and figure a way out of this because right now it sucks.
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.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Delay in stories
Sorry, real life is getting in the way again. Next week I will get back to my regular posting schedule. A friend of mine is getting married and I'm not gonna have enough time to devote to writing. Don't worry, I got ideas, I just cant sit down and write them right now.
Friday, May 8, 2009
A Trail part 2 (Trouble Part 8)
Technology’s good in a way. However, it can easily be avoided if the person knows what they are doing. In this case the red light was on, the recorder had run out of space, and I would not have to worry about the cameras. I studied the setup carefully, noticed that it did not go to a phone line, and counted my blessings. I went back upstairs, ready to get to work. Opening the door to the office was easy, Madeline had the key. I took out my digital camera and started taking pictures, every angle, everything that was in there. I wanted to make sure I would put everything back in its proper location once I was done snooping around. Madeline smiled and pointed out that this was a smart trick, but that she could not use it in her stories, because of their setting. I smiled and politely answered that my father used to have an old Polaroid just for that.
The office was clean. Everything had a spot and everything was quite practical and logical, nothing like mine. It did make my job a lot easier. I took out my laptop and started scanning every document; it would be easier for me to look them over once I was back in my office. I also took pictures of everything I could find, date books, address books, even receipts from different companies. I also looked over the newspapers in the trash bin. There was an important clue in the business section: many stocks were highlighted. Always the same. I quickly went over the list and noticed that all the companies I had traced back to him were there, in addition to a few others that I had not looked at. This would prove useful when trying to establish everything he owned, as he may have shares in companies I did not know about. I foolishly dismissed the pack of cigarettes until Madeline pointed out that Albert did not smoke. I opened the pack. In it, there were small pieces of papers and a bunch of keys. They keys were numbered, like the papers. There were 14 keys, and 14 pieces of paper, each indicating what the key was for. They were for safety boxes in banks, lockers, mailboxes, and even rented storage. More importantly, the names under which these boxes had been rented were listed. Thompson had used 3 different names. Thompson was for the banks, Arthur Clarke for the mailboxes and Frank Bennett for everything else.
The two new names were not familiar in any way. He had been good at covering his tracks, too good. At this point, Madeline told me she wasn’t sure about what I had said earlier, but now she could not deny it, her husband was involved into something bigger than cheating. Looking over the cabinets one last time before putting everything back into place, I found a double bottom. From it I pulled out a small locked box. I grabbed my tools and opened it. Inside, there were some legal papers that were probably important, but what drew my attention were the pictures: wedding photos of Albert getting married to his mistress when they were both pretty young. There was also a wedding ring with the pictures. I carefully unfolded the legal papers, there was a wedding certificate, issued over 20 years ago, for Frank Bennett’s marriage to Samantha Mitchell.
[Yeah, it's kinda short, but at that point in the story, I felt that adding on would simply ruin the tension of that moment. The story is getting somewhere, I promise.]
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.]
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
First Hunt, part 2 (Under a Crimson Moon part 2)
After that first night of conscious hunting, I started dreading the following two days. I did not know much about what I had become, so I went with what popular culture told me. Three nights of brutal animal behaviour, and then 25 days of peace. When the second night came, I locked the door to my room, and did my best to tie myself up to avoid hurting anyone. When the moon rose in the distance, fear filled me. I wanted to remain human, to stop with the killings. But, some part of me buried deep inside wanted this to happen. I wanted to be unleashed and when this desire grew, I could feel my body changing. I pushed this back deep. I relaxed, and closed my eyes. When I woke up, I was still tied up to my bed. The sun was about to rise, and I realized something that should have been obvious at first: I was still tied and had no way to free myself. I would have to yell out so that my parents would come and help me.
As I was starting to worry about this, I realized that had I changed into an animal, I could have simply chewed out the rope I used. I figured I could try it anyway, before calling my parents and dealing with another awkward discussion. As I started gnawing at the rope, my teeth felt different, sharper and stronger. The rope gave out quickly. With a shudder, I slowly walked towards a mirror, expecting my face to have changed. Everything remained the same. I was still myself. However, my senses were sharper, I felt stronger, and my nails and teeth were sharper. It took me quite some time to realize what this actually meant, but now I know that the animal and the human in me are not quite so separate, when I am covered with fur and hunting, a human mind still guides me, and when I am moving around, there is still a greater part of animal than in the average person. Back then, all of this was quite confusing. After breakfast, I asked my parents if I could go around being grounded to go to the library and do some reading. After the initial shock, they agreed. I was supposed to start working at my summer job at the gas station the following day, and I wanted to figure this thing out before having to accept or refuse night shifts. I obviously explained to my parents that I wanted to do some reading about something one of my teachers had said. They later told me that they figured I was going to see a friend or something, but that I had been punished enough.
What I knew about my condition back then amounted to what TV had told me: the three nights around the full moon would make me change, I would hunt people I loved, and only silver could stop me. I decided to look in depth at what the older folklore was. I did waste some time getting used to looking around the library, it was something I had avoided most of my life. The first mentions of this condition date from the middle ages, but there don’t mention the three nights of full moon. The people affected were said to end up being hairier, my genes kept me pretty much free of body hair so far, and so any change on that aspect would be odd, but could be blame on growing up. The people supposedly affected were also more violent, preferred meat over vegetable, and had a better affinity with dogs and wolves. Every story, except radical re-imagining of this condition, mentioned that I would have had to be bitten. The public library did not have a vast selection of books on this topic, however there was an anthropologist that had written about this condition being the rationalisation for medieval societies to understand random acts of violence. A combination of mistrust of strangers, lack of understanding of psychology, and fear of wolves and wild beasts basically fused under the werewolf myth. Other books mentioned other transformation linked to spirituality and other animals, but it hardly felt compatible with what I had experienced.
The full moon connection was also tenuous at best, however as chance would have it, I found an article in a psychology magazine that seem to indicate that people acted up a bit more during full moons, listening a lot more to their instinct than their reason. Nothing made sense really, but I did find the right excuse to avoid working on full moon nights: I would pretend I had selenophobia. Back then it felt like a smart excuse, thankfully it would become a bit stronger after I would share my new fear with my parents. When I started sharing this, my mother told me she understood, considering what had happened in the woods the previous month. My parents offered to have me see a therapist, to at least talk about the death, as I was the close to her when she died, and they feared I would have some sort of survivor’s guilt. From that day on, until I understood more about my condition, I would simply flinch and react whenever I would see a moon, real or fake. It wasn’t hard, whenever I was reminded of the moon, I remembered the pale blue light on the warm ruby blood dripping on my fur, fangs, and claws. Every time that image came back to haunt me I shuddered. Was it remorse, fear, or satisfaction?
Tonight I would sneak out again, facing the moon once more.
[Sorry I did not update Trouble as I said I would. Sitting down t write a story was a bit harder than I expected. By Saturday, a new chapter will be added to trouble. I would like to think this post however reflects the experience I am gaining every time I write. I don't have to slow myself down as much, there will be more parts dealing with this first hunt, which is basically the character reflecting on how he came into term with what happened back then. I also won't follow any version of the mythology behind werewolves beyond the basics: humans who turn into wolf like creatures. This is linked to the lunar cycle, but I may try to take it in a new direction. This is probably why some versions chose the 3 nights of the full moon... A story can only get so slow, and with the idea of one night of full moon, the werewolf of these legends could have easily slipped unnoticed.
I also realize I seem to have issues with naming protagonists. I'll try and fix that in the near future. For Trouble, it seems to work, for this one, I will give him a name as soon as I can.]
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.]
Saturday, May 2, 2009
First Hunt, part 1 (Under a Crimson Moon part 1)
It’s hard to understand. I doubt any one of you reading this is going to see me, us, as nothing more than cursed people. I don’t blame you. At first I was certain I was cursed. I contemplated a lot of things, and I very much hated myself for what I realised: I liked it. Every month, for a couple of days, I felt alive. And it was nothing like what I had known before. After the first year, I understood what had happened. And with every ounce of understanding I gained, I got control. Why am I writing this text now? Because I want everyone to know the truth. I can read the papers, I can see the cover-ups. I can see how these betray fear and misunderstanding. But now I will come clean, I will let the world know, and after that, the world will still tremble in fear. But this time, they will fear the right thing.
It all started 10 years ago. I was a young boy back then. Of course, you could not have told me that, teenagers like to believe they are anything but young kids. Looking back however, I was an idiot. And like all teenage idiot, I liked alcohol, parties, and doing whatever the hell I wanted. This lead me to this clearing in the woods behind the drive-in with a bunch of people I did not know, drinking whatever we manage to buy from employees who couldn’t care less about laws. So there we were, in the woods, getting drunk, and being stupid. That’s when I saw her. She was cute, she was drunk, and she was practically naked, so I did the only logical thing: I started flirting. That wasn’t accounting for the jock boyfriend who was also a mean drunk.
He started yelling, I started punching. I felt my nose break; I heard his ribs crack when I slugged him with a nearby log. At this point, the party was over, I didn’t care. My face hurt, and I was left alone with all the leftover alcohol from the party. So I kept on drinking. It numbed the pain, my senses, and I decided to sleep. I found a comfortable log, and dozed off. I wasn’t alone in the clearing when I fell asleep. When I woke up there was blood everywhere. No one else was there. My face no longer hurt, I was sure my nose was broke, but I managed to breath without any problems. Couldn’t say that much about the other person that slept here last night, he was missing an arm, among other things.
When the police was called, I was still quite busy throwing up. The report said that a rabid dog or some other animal had come in, saw the free human buffet and went for it. Back then I had just been lucky. I had puked before falling asleep; this most likely kept the animal away. The rest of the exam period was a bit uncomfortable. The big outdoor party planned after prom was moved indoors, everybody was sad, and everyone started avoiding me, as if by surviving, I had been responsible.
Three weeks after school was over, I started feeling restless. Something inside me wanted to go outside, run, climb, move, hunt. Being still grounded for the reckless use of alcohol and other stupidities, I had to sneak out. The moon was full, and it was bright. The light was revealing the true nature of things.
And this is the important part: the moon was just revealing the nature of everything. Trees that were part of the background of every day life became living beings in the night. The sky was no longer obscured by the light of a lying sun, it was dark, the stars were no longer hidden. Everything is different under the light of the moon, and I realized back then that I was changing. It was strange, at first I felt cold, naked, alone. Then I felt my heard pounding, my body became warmer, I felt my skin stretch. I took off my clothes. I did not need the artificial skin they provided; the moon would only tolerate my true skin. Finally, I felt my senses grow stronger. I could hear everything that was around me, I could smell flowers from yards away, and I could see through the night.
What happened next was a great source of torment in my early months. I smelled something, it smelled sweet, tasty, I had to go for it. I ran, the smell becoming stronger, and after reaching a small forest about 2 miles away from home, I caught up with what drew me there. It was a deer. It was sleeping, but I was inexperienced, and loud. Still not adjusted to the changes in my body, to the claws were nails used to be, I mad a lot of noise trying to sneak up. The deer woke up. It started running but what I lacked in subtlety, I made up in speed and force. I caught it, ripped it apart and devoured it. The blood, the flesh, the taste was wonderful. As I brought my fangs deeper in the deer’s flesh, I started remembering. The alcohol, the party, the girl. I was hunting that night, I was already hungry. And when I slept, I ate. The girl that died, the rabid animal, all the sadness. It was my fault.
And I liked it.
I revelled in the destruction, I swallowed the flesh, gnawed at the bones. I devoured the dear like I devoured that poor girl’s arm. Poor girl? I had amusing sentimentality back then. It was the natural order of the thing. I am predator, but back then, I still felt attachment to these preys. And as I looked up from the deer, and stared at the moon, the light slowly becoming pure crimson reminded me of that night, the month before, when I had done my job as predator. Every memory returned. I was made aware of how, after everyone left, I woke up. She was there, half naked, trying to rouse me up. She had managed to remove most of my clothes as I slept. Washing away the fumes of alcohol that were hindering my body, I got up, and then I got in. As this primordial act was taking place, I felt the effects of the moon on my body. The moonlight rushed into me as I was losing myself into her. Her screams of joy turned to screams of pain. She saw who I truly was, and under the moon, I realised that she was just made of meat. She stopped screaming as se saw my jaws slowly wrapping themselves around her arm. She cried; I could smell the salt of her tears. And I ripped her arm off of its socket. Her blood was delicious. It filled me up quite nicely. She tried to crawl away, but I caught her leg. She was crying, pleading with me using these words that sound so empty when you see their true origins. I licked her body, it was now covered in dirt, blood, tears, sweat. I saw her eyes fill with a darkness that was beyond fear. No sound left her mouth anymore, she understood.
I was predator, she was prey. Her neck became my next snack.
I sensed that the night was almost over, I ran home, put my cloths back on and went up the wall and through my window. I took off the cloths again, looked at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t quite sure what I was, but I felt I was no longer just human.
[Yes, I am starting another longer story. And yes, this is what I wanted "Lunarity"to be like, something more visceral, more primal. A story where the character is not one we want to identify with. I also wanted to bring something new to make up for the last few days where I did not post. I will try to post another chapter of Trouble as soon as I can sit down and write it, and I will try to add to this new project of mine. I think it's time I moved away from the ultra short stories, I think I have reached the limit of what I can do in these tiny fragments of a real story. Crimson Moon here is gonna run in parallel with Trouble, but I will try to write Trouble on Saturdays and Crimson on Wednesdays. I may do some other experiments with writing, but I will no longer delude myself in thinking these work as stories.]
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.]
Friday, April 24, 2009
Short Hiatus
I will skip the next two updates as well. I would rather take care of school stuff right now.
Don't worry, I'll post longer updates to compensate.
Maybe...
Don't worry, I'll post longer updates to compensate.
Maybe...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Trail part 1 (Trouble Part 7)
I was pondering where I should take this new train of thought, when the phone rang. I picked up, expecting my father to give me some new ideas that popped up in his mind. My instinct was wrong yet again, Madeleine had called me. She had news: apparently her husband was going on a business trip of some sort, three or four days on the old continent. She invited me over to look through his stuff. This would be a great opportunity to get more information, maybe get in his head a little. I asked Madeleine what airline he was flying, and I lucked out. I knew someone who worked for them at the airport. This case was starting to be a lot more than I expected, so I was fully prepared to pull in some favours all over town. I made arrangements to meet Madeleine two days later, and called my friend. No luck, it ended on his voice mail. Whatever, I left a message and hopefully he will pick it up before tomorrow. The promise of a nice bottle of wine should be enough to get him to help me. And since I was told cost was not an issue, I won’t end up with the bill.
After a day of relaxation, and laundry, I was ready to meet with Madeleine. I picked up a copy of all her books at a book store on the way over, I figured I might do a little extra for my father. On the way over, I started regretting doing this, she might see me as a star struck idiot. I was starting to feel like such a fool that I considered throwing the books out on the way from the bus stop to her place, but this was a nice neighbourhood that lacked in recycling bins on the streets. I was heading toward her place when I decided to check my messages yet again. My friend had not called me, and he was unreachable by all the means I had tried. When I reached her house, I remembered why I hated this neighbourhood. I guess you can never get used to the difference between the richest and poorest people in town. I rang at the gate, which opened almost instantly. Even under the rain, it was obvious the garden was well maintained, the grass was green and the flowers nice. Yet I could not help but think about how much space was wasted in this neighbourhood on houses with huge backyards with no one to enjoy them other than the people hired to maintain them.
I went up to the door, trying to forget my issues with this part of town, and knocked. She answered wearing simple clothes. She hadn’t been crying today, and she was much more attractive than last time I saw her. She also spotted the bag with the books and after greeting me, she asked while looking at them: “Learning a bit more about the client?” I had no choice but to explain that I had read her books before, and that I bought these hoping she would autograph them for my father. She smiled said it was not a problem, and asked what I thought about her view of the world of detectives. I politely explained that when I managed to stop being so critical of her outsider’s misconceptions, the books were actually entertaining. I also told her that it wasn’t her fault this type of job had been romanticised and that obviously a simple cheating spouse specialist like me would not provide much material for a novel.
She apologised for the state of the house, she casually mentioned she asked the cleaning service to come after my visit, that way I would see his office in its natural state, and it would cover my tracks a little better. If only all clients were that smart, I guess she does have the ability to think like one of us. Noticing a motion detector, I asked if their security system was linked to a station. She told me it wasn’t, the cop had come once by accident and Albert felt it was too much. I asked if he had any cameras in his office, and she said she did not think so. I decided to make sure of this before I would go in his office, she seemed curious at that idea. At that point, I felt it was my duty to tell her that I suspected her husband of being involved in some sort of fiscal evasion scheme or something worse. She first laughed, but then decided to ask about the evidence. She said we were in no rush, and that she would be offering dinner if I had to stay too late because of her questions. I decided to first look at the wiring for their security system, nanny-cams can watch a lot more than a babysitter, and a DVR would be easy to spot. I went downstairs, with a flashlight, but did a first inspection in the dark. I installed so many surveillance equipments, that I knew a bit what I was doing. And it turns out my instinct was right, there was a camera watching over a DVR in a locked box I managed to open on the first try. I would have hated to show my only client at the time that I had a hard time picking locks. Thankfully, I knew what type of setup he had, and I knew what to do to make it fail to see us snooping around. This particular brand had an extremely high default encoding rate, but a small hard disc, it was meant for day to day backups, and would certainly fill up quickly judging by the 6 video feeds it was receiving if it was on default settings. I also knew that these things went back to default setting after a loss of power unless you changed these defaults, so I simply went to the breaker box in the dark, killed the power to the DVR, unplugged the battery, and then reconnected everything and started the whole system. I then waited in the dark to see the little red light warning about the lack of space turn on.
[Again, I am slowing down my story. No sense in rushing it, right?]
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?]
Sunday, April 19, 2009
The trouble with trouble
I kept myself quite busy today. Didn't have time to write another part of the story. I'll take care of it tomorrow... End of semester is a bitch, I'm sorry.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The need for an audience.
Yes, this is another more essay like post. A good reason for that is that I am feeling some pressure in my academic career, and thus I am running out of juice. However, I have been thinking about some things and I feel I could write down these ideas, and hopefully it will spawn discussing among my readers.
As I have mentioned before, I study literature, and part of that is drama. Plays are interesting in a sense since what we read on paper is never the whole story. The “whole story” only begin emerging when the play is produced and presented to an audience. This, in a way, seems quite obvious. You need a stage, actors, and an audience for a play to reveal its full meaning. Having read a play by Claude Gauvreau, and seen another one of his plays, this becomes blindingly obvious: a play’s meaning is hidden in the actors’ performance. Or at least it seems to be that simple. In fact, the play being a collaborative work, its meaning is created by the way the actors portray a character, the way the director envisions the play, the way the author wrote it, and finally, the way the audience reacts.
When looking at my writing, I often comment that I have one or two readers, and while it might seem funny, this is what I believe. I am writing these stories and text for the people I pretty much remind that I have a blog. Truth is, without readers these words can’t really have any meaning. I can’t force people to read this. (I can try, but I would lose friends fast.) All I can do really is hope that I get good enough that some of you will mention this to your friends and so on.
So, why do I need an audience?
First of all, I would like more reactions. I am not writing this for the sole purpose of being entertaining. I want to help refine and define my approach as a writer. I can achieve that through feedback, feedback I can only get if people read this. But I can’t really go spamming my link everywhere, because I still don’t feel confident enough in my “craft” to share it with complete strangers.
I guess it’s another case of this ambivalence I always have. I want to get better, an audience would help me, but I don’t feel good enough to have an audience. I can’t really get out of this.
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.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Books I have read: Lullabies for Little Criminals
I will do my best to not spoil your reading of this book, because you all should go and read it as soon as you can.
The premise is this: we follow Baby, a 12-13 year old girl who is raised by her father Jules, a 27 year-old heroin addict. This novel contrasts the beauty of the innocence of childhood with the horrible realities of the world. We see Baby make friends, lose friends, and try to find her place in the world. The first person narration adds to the feeling of innocence and removes many of our personal judgements over the various elements in the novel.
Jules is not seen as a horrible father, but as a loving one, Baby's friends are not judged too severely on the basis of their actions, there is a sense of wonder and mystery even when Baby is exposed to the horrors of poverty, drugs, violence, and prostitution. This is a book that will make you go through a whole range of emotions, but if you are anything like me, when it ends, all you will want to do is hug Baby.
This is the kind of book that should be read more often, and I wish I could one day hope to rival Heather O'Neill's ability to write this type of story with a tone that does not leave the reader depressed. It's about human misery, but it is seen through the eyes of someone who does not lose hope, and it's refreshing.
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.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Phone Call (Trouble part 6)
I waited until it was past 8 pm. I picked up the phone, took a deep breath and dialled. This would be the first time I would call my father asking for help since he left the business 7 years ago. It wasn’t pride that kept me from calling; it was that I never ended up in a case that warranted his assistance. The cases I had taken care of were simple, the request was simple, and the target was simple. I had to prove husbands and wives were cheating, employees were stealing, and people were on workman’s comp when they were clearly healthy. All it took was a camera, some patience, and people were quite quick into selling themselves out. This case, however, was something else.
Thompson had money. It was obvious by the few things he did own. The problem was that he left no traces anywhere of his money. It came in from many sources, all legit, but there was logic to these sources. He had some money in shipping, he had shares in a company that owned some buildings downtown, and the other shares of that company were partially owned by another company that reported to Thompson as well. I had talked with a friend more involved in the financial world, and while he wasn’t breaking any laws, it did not feel right for him as well. He had lots of money, but it wasn’t old money. He owned a lot of things, but mostly focused on companies that barely made a profit. He owned buildings entirely, but no one could see that because they were owned by companies he owned through other companies. In fact, if I had not spent about 6 hours reading financial records, I would still believe he was an average but lucky investor who made some good choices.
I had a list of questions I wanted to take care of, but I hadn’t talked to my father in a while, so I also wanted to take care of some civilities. When he answered, I started: “Hey dad, how’s it going? Still sunny in...”
“What’s the case about son?”
“What case, I just wanted to see how you were doing,” at this point, I wondered who contacted my father.
“Well, in the last seven years, you haven’t called on a Wednesday, you usually call much closer to 6 than 8, and Sherry called for the first time in years, saying something had made her think of me.”
“Well, I can’t really be surprised, you were quite the good detective back in the day,” at this point, I figured I should just tease him into helping me. “Familiar with the name Madeline Thompson?”
“The author, I love her books, is she in any kind of trouble?”
“Not really, her soon to be ex-husband is however. She asked me to make a list of all his assets. The problem is, the guy leaves as much of a trace as a snowflake in a blizzard.”
“Well, don’t go into too much details, you worry about those, tell me the big picture,” dad was still very much straight to the point, I missed that.
“Okay, big picture: I have pictures of him with a possible mistress, however, during lunch, they covertly exchanged briefcases. He owns small bits of many companies that are also partially owned by companies which also partially belong to him; so far I have a clear web of 20 to 30 companies each holding around 10% in some of the other companies, so that he becomes the only person owning all of these, but they all have various people hired to represent themselves on the boards, so that no one can clearly see that it’s all his,” as I was saying this, I realized how big this case actually was, we are talking about billions of dollars being moved around, and if it wasn’t for his wife, I would not be poking my nose in all the right spots.
“Well, I have a better idea why you called. This seems big; shouldn’t you be calling the feds on him?”
“Some laws may have been broken in obtaining this information, wouldn’t want to burn an informant with a big mouth. The other thing that bothers me is that what he does requires a high level of knowledge about business, but as far as I know, he hasn’t graduated from any universities in the country. He would also have needed a big amount of money to start his scheme, but there are no traces of that money as well.”
“Have you considered that he might not have always had that name?”
“Actually, I did, but there are no usual traces of a name change. He has a legit birth certificate, everything fits,” as I was saying this, I realized something but I felt like letting my father saying it.
“Laws have changed, so there might be some name changing involved, a simple way to get to where it started is to trace back the money to where it was before it was in this guy’s pockets. I can hear you thinking, I think you should look at the info you have from that new point of view. Also, you can always catch a cab and go to the companies in person. Sometimes, people who don’t know something is supposed to be secret will give you the info you need.”
“Thanks dad.”
“One last thing...”
“Yeah?”
“Can you get me an autographed copy of Madeline’s “Walker in the Dark” book? It’s my favourite.”
[No comments really, I like the progress, and I have a better sense of how to get where I want to get.]
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.]
Thursday, April 9, 2009
The Split
It’s Wednesday no more. Thursday rolled in as I was experimenting with a new form of poetry. It was a waste of time really, so I decided to opt for another type of writing: the essay. More precisely, I decided to write an actual “blog post” to justify my lack of creative writing tonight. However, the real question is: can this post be seen as creative?
It’s the sort of thing you don’t really think about; I know I didn’t when I first started this blog. To what standards was I measuring my posts? I felt that I should only write creative stuff; therefore I would have to write fiction. In fact, my original goal was short stories. My goal was to make a blog where I could post every so often short fiction. To be honest, I did not think I would make it this far. In a sense, I’m a very split person. Part of me did not see this go this far because it is filled with the conviction that I am an utter failure at everything I do. For that side of myself, nothing is good enough. And tonight, writing this is almost admitting to that half that it is right, that I cannot create as much as I expected to.
The other side of that coin is the part of my that wished I would not be doing this for that long, that my writing style would draw some attention, that I would have a book deal, and I would be making money. And I think that this aspect of my personality is the most dangerous. I wish I could be somewhere in the middle. But the duality of my personality is something I have learned to accept. I can’t really say I have a split personality though, because these two sides have a unifying factor. They are more like the engines that keep me moving, one motivated by a fear of unforgiving failure, and one by dreams to fanciful to ever see happen. These two parts of me drive me in a single direction, and that movement is rather interesting.
Because of the dream of failure or the nightmare of success, I have to keep at it. I would not consider going to bed before the word count of this text reaches a minimum level. To hell with the idea that only short forms of fiction are appropriate, I have been doing a lot more than that anyway. I have to remember that this blog is not just about what I write, but also about what my writings do to me. For instance, the “Trouble” story has been forcing a new type of pacing in my work. “Lunarity” made me realise that I cannot write something I like every time. And every story has made me think about my place as a writer. But there are other forms of creative writing I am getting acquainted with. I wrote a sonnet. Not a good one but still. I also tried to write something like a play. I have much to learn about these forms. (While I don’t care about poetry, dramaturgy is about to become an important part of my academic career, so you can expect to see me experiment more with it.)
All of these writings however are just a part of my fractured self. I am a lot more than my creative writings. And whenever we do an essay or presentation on a specific author, we have to keep the author in consideration. The same sentence can be written by two authors at the exact same time, and have two very different meanings.
I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I am going to try to turn this blog in a better direction. I will force myself in the “two post minimum” schedule a bit more. I will, however, give myself a lot more liberty and I will try to write about who the words you read belong to. Not that it really matters, because my reader base is usually pretty close to me. Here’s the new deal I propose: the two post minimum rule will adjust in my mind to tolerate the inclusion of “essay-like” posts such as this one, as long as they focus on the act of writing. I believe there is more to being a writer than simply an end product, and the uncertainties of the writer are part of what should comprise my “journal.” Post of a “diary” nature will start popping up if an event happened in that day that warrants such a post. I will also try to introduce a book review feature. I read a lot, I think my readers might be interested in what I read and how I feel about said books. Over the next few months, you might even see essays about my field of study pop up. These are also part of my “career” as a writer. Not everything I create is fiction, but it is still my writing. However, due to a form of either academic shyness or simply intellectual property ideas, I will keep my actual thesis, term papers and various writings done specifically to earn an M.A. under lock and key.
So, what to expect from this blog from now on: More information about my life, more information about my academic career, and more information about my views on the writing process. This will not affect the production of “Trouble” since I like it a lot. With the exception of personal life interference, it will be on my Saturday line-up until it is done. As for Wednesday posts, well, I might include nonfiction centered on writing. In between all of this, I may post opinions of parts of life I feel like commenting on. Not everything has to be fiction.
This is the part where I reveal a twist ending where I actually am writing on the unholy typewriter of the thirteenth layer of hell. Also, the guy’s dad was a chick or something.
There... this should fill the requirements of my readers who favour fiction over anything else.
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.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Honest Discussion 2 (Trouble part 5)
“What do you mean by ‘proper behaviour’?” That seemed out of place, and she said these words with more anger than anything else. At this point, I knew I was veering away from my investigation, but there were some things I wanted to find out, and it had been a few boring months, might as well make this investigation worth my time. When I started this business, I was more interested with ending a case; the details were just getting in the way. Rookie mistake really. The more time you spend looking into subtle things, the better you understand a case. The better you understand a case, the easier you avoid the obvious pitfalls.
A couple of years back, I was looking into this mistress case. It was similar to Madeline’s, the friend saw the man with another woman. I did not pay enough attention to the story and did not notice some details that might have clued me on the truth. The husband had been with the wife’s friend. From that point on, everything got messy, and I almost had to face a lawsuit. Thankfully, everything was resolved before any permanent damage was done to my name and my career. I was afraid I would have to fall back on my nursing degree. And that’s why you need to pay attention to the details; missing one could mean the end of a career, so I paid attention when Sarah started talking again.
“He was annoying with this ‘proper place’ speech. He wasn’t old fashioned, but it’s as if he had married Maddy without knowing she was somewhat famous. Back then, she wasn’t really to be honest. But her works were selling, and her name was becoming more commonplace. That’s when he started changing. In fact, I remember one day in particular, we were all eating in a restaurant. In those days, I still tried to be friendly with Albert. Suddenly, there’s this woman that walks up to Maddy, asking for an autograph. After the fan had left, Albert went ballistic. I think that’s when he realized she would not depend on him like he hoped, but that she had a career of her own. It should have been a great day for her too, if it weren’t for her husband. What was worse was that the woman had approached Maddy talking about one of the books that had money given to a gay and lesbian foundation. That’s when he started getting on my case. Some of the things he said... So yeah, he believed that women were meant to stay at home, and not be famous. He said he was doing everything to keep Maddy happy, and that it should be more than enough for her. He got angry, but he never got violent. And a few days later, he was back to being nice and mellow. I did not forget what he had said however. I think Maddy never forgot as well. But she loved him; she told me he loved her. And at some point I probably believed as well they were both in love. But with what I saw here, I became sure he had never truly loved her. Call it a sixth sense, but the look in his eyes with the other woman had nothing in common with the way he looked at Maddy.”
These words stuck with me as I was reading my notes on the bus on the way back home. He looked at his mistress with more love than his soon to be ex wife. That was another detail that stood out. It’s not something I had heard before. Cheating husbands tend to hide behind a mask of guilt and shame. He had none. He loved her. I almost regretted not asking more questions to the owner, but he seemed to prefer not saying anything. I don’t mind, he’s allowed to respect his customers’ privacy. Too many things stood out now. The briefcase, the hatred of fame, the love between Albert and his mistress, and the place where they met; all details that made this more interesting than a regular divorce case. However, my gut instinct told me I might be in over my head. It might be time I called my father; he had known interesting cases back in the day.
[Not much to add really, I felt the conversation could have a bit more to it, and so I added more. A wonderful thing really. At this point, I am noticing how much revision my previous parts will need. I want to end my first draft however, and it might take longer than I originally expected.]
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.]
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Who?
[Sorry about the tardiness, I was busy with somethings and I could not write earlier. Or at least, I could not put the words on "paper."I have been writing that for a while. Also, this time, it is a preface I decided to include. What follows is a glimpse of what goes on in my head, it is not always like that, but some events tonight have placed words in my mind that were... Well, I tend to overthink things, this is one of these things, but then again, I felt I needed to let this out. I guess... I don't know. This is about me, but not entirely. This is about the self. I think. It might be about the self that should be in bed, hence my rambling... Oh well, sometimes this blog has to be a bit more about the author behind it. Hopefully, my 2 readers won't mind.]
I once heard the question: “What makes a true warrior?” and saw the answers. One would claim a true warrior is the one who no longer needs to fight. Another said that a true warrior is one who becomes a weapon for a master, one who has only purpose in being that weapon. The final answer was that a true warrior is one who is true to the purpose of destruction, and needs no master, nor principles beyond destruction.
I am no warrior. I do not serve a master, do not serve a purpose, and I am not freed from fighting. In fact I do not know who I am. I feel like I’m standing on water, my body is mist, and my mind a labyrinth. To question the nature of one’s purpose is interesting, to question one’s purpose is scary. To question the purpose of one’s existence is… No one really knows what it is really.
Am I a writer? Do I follow a greater purpose by writing what is held up inside? Is my sole purpose to write? And if I become the best, will I stop writing? One could assume that by writing I feel I am a writer, but nothing of the sort is true. I don’t feel I am any closer to other authors by virtue of putting words on paper. I write, I can write, I love to write. But that does not make it my purpose.
The same could be said of my being a student. I know what I study for, I know what I study, but do I truly know why I study? There is that story I tell, the one about the job I had to leave. But while I left the job to become a student, it was not the why of my nature. I cannot see that why.
I am not many things. I am not a musician. I am not a singer. I am not a painter. I am not a sculptor. I write but I am not a writer. I am not a critic. I study but I am not a student. I am friendly, but I cannot be my own friend. I am not a lover, for lack of a loved one. I am not a son, because I no longer need a mother.
I am lost. Lost in myself. Lost in myselfs. I cannot, will not, do not know why I am here. Why should I? But I wonder. Everyone has a purpose, a reason. Everyone I see is wanted, needed. Me? Me…
Do I exist simply to make others feel their sense of purpose?
I am a dreamer.
Are dreams my purpose?
Should I simply sleep?
The real question here is now what am I, but who am I? I should know that. I have a name. I have a place. But names are given, as are places. Where do I stand in the middle of this torrent of questions?
I stand, on a river, on fluid ground. Myself a misty self. My self a lost consciousness. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know many things about me. I do know one thing: I miss you. Now can you tell me who you are?
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?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Honest Discussion (Trouble Part 4)
“So, you’re telling me that you came to this place after a business meeting? In this part of town? Here’s the thing about witnesses: they lie. Unless you can believe 100% of their story, you can’t seriously believe any part of it. They will try to change the story to hide something, and because of that, they will forget one or two details, and that will make my job a lot harder.” Lunch has been over for a while, we’re on our fourth cup of coffee, and I still don’t have the whole story. I’ve learned a lot more about what she saw, she even told me what her phone was and why the pictures were so great, but I hate not getting the whole story at once. And I hate having to force it out, she wants to help, she should be entirely honest, guess I’ll have to play her little game.
“Look, you can tell me anything, I don’t care enough about your personal life to have it matter, but it’s about knowing everything about this story. To you, it might seem like a simple job, but I gotta make sure I don’t make any stupid mistakes. It’ll cost me, and it’ll cost my customer. She’s your friend, right? Then tell me what really happened, from the start... Was that okay? Did it sound “noir” enough for you?” Apparently Ms Blake is a bit of a sucker for private investigators. Should have expected it with the talents she represents. But she’s really been screwing with me; I had to say stuff that was entirely unneeded just to fulfill her fantasies. But I’ll play along, for now. And it seemed to have worked; she was ready to talk again.
“Well, I have to say, it was quite impressive for someone who says the job is not like that anymore.” Her voice was filled with professional curiosity, and personal disinterest, a rather unique combination. “You did lack confidence by the end. So, as I was saying, I was close by, meeting a possible new author, some poor student who believed he could write a detective story. He lives on the other side of the street, and I felt like meeting him in person. I grew up around here, and the place has changed quite a lot, but I felt like coming around. We met here, talked, and he handed me a paper copy of his manuscript. I already had the file on my computer, and I had it printed for my assistant to read, but I didn’t feel like breaking his heart. After he left, I decided to get something to eat. As I said, I was sitting over there, where that fat man is sitting.” The “fat man” turned around, looking somewhat hurt, and went back at devouring his meal. “After I had finished eating, I saw him walk in, with that woman. Well, not quite like that, he walked in, and she walked in about 30 seconds after. Seeing him here convinced me to order a dessert, I wasn’t leaving when my best writer’s husband was going to sit with a strange woman.” I raised an eyebrow at the “best writer” comment, but she misinterpreted my reaction. “Oh well, she’s also a good friend, and I also stayed here because of that, but we don’t always see eye to eye, so when it comes to her husband, I tend to think of her as a writer and not a friend.” I stopped her and asked her what was so special about her husband.
“Maddy’s been a friend of mine for a long time. I met her over twenty years ago; we were both at crossroads in our lives. I had studied law but I was going nowhere, too much of a girl for the old boys’ club, and not enough a woman to fit in with the rest. I didn’t know where exactly I was going when I met her. She was stuck in between dead end jobs, typing documents for people who did not care to read. She had typed a manuscript whenever she wasn’t working; I don’t know if you’ve read it, it was quite a unique story, not at all like what she’s writing now. It was almost children oriented, but it really got to me, it was about acceptance, and being open to difference. Twenty years ago, it was a lot different. And what is seen as educative now was revolutionary back then. But Maddy, you would not believe it now, she was extremely shy. She was afraid to even look for an agent. We met randomly at a Laundromat. It was after a guy had made a move on me, and got turned down politely. She came to my defence when he started hurling insults, claiming to be my sister-in-law. I was grateful, and we went for coffee afterwards. Anyway, long story short, I decided to represent her, my job wasn’t working anyway, so I took a big chance, pulled out all my savings and went to get her published. The second publisher was convinced, proposed a couple of changes, and that’s how it started. We actually figured out my salary after the contract was signed. By then, she knew of my orientation, and had started getting involved in some organisations, even if she was straight. She gained my respect; she could have played the game by the rules that were in place, but she decided to support us. So, five years later, she meets this Albert. He is a jerk, it’s that simple. He started looking down on her involvement in different causes, because he felt they were inappropriate for a woman he loved. He said horrible things that I really just don’t want to repeat. Maddy knew I didn’t like him, and it was fine by her. She kept her personal and professional life separate, and suddenly our friendship was professional.”
“So, when you saw him with that other woman,” I interrupted her. After a while, you learn when to interrupt people for their best interest, “you figured he was up to something bad?” She smiled and started talking again: “I did not take that long to figure it out. They were obvious, you saw the pictures. They came in separately, but they sat down as if they had walked in together. They ate food from each other’s plates, even shared a dessert, and they kissed. Albert was not afraid of being seen around here with her. He’d been here often too, because he did not look at the menu. I was pissed, that guy with all his mighty speeches on the place his wife should occupy and proper behaviour, here, with another woman. I should have walked up to him and punched him in the face.”
[So, here it is, part 4. And it's not the end of their discussion, I think. I gave a lot more backstory than I had expected to give, but I like how this story is progressing. It's so funny, I'm discovering some parts of it as I write it.
I must also share some, well, worries is not the right word for this, but I have some questions about the inclusion of a lesbian character. Basically, I'm afraid she will not feel true, after all, I am a guy. Funny thing is, I'm not worried about the many mistakes I know I'll make about the private investigator world. Oh well, I guess I'll have to deal with this, so far I don't feel I've written her in any way that could be seen as offending. If someone does find her inclusion as somewhat untrue, please let me know.]
“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.]
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