Einherjar86
Active Member
No worries mate. I'm actually just happy that you're enjoying it. Take your time with it, I know it's long.
writing thread
- Thread starter Astrum
- Start date
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
Finished reading; great stuff dude. Looks like there's actually plenty of room to unpack the storyline further given all the ground that's covered during Oken's conversation with the Artificer. You've got a hell of a plot!
I can't think of much to bitch about at the moment, other than that there seemed to be a certain subtlety lacking from "Part 3" that made the previous two parts especially delicious. Maybe it's just the inevitable effect of all the weird shit the protagonist experiences once he goes down into the sewer, I dunno. There is a whole lot of plot thrown at the reader toward the end of course - you might be able to at least understate some of that to give the reader a chance to 'discover' things more, though I'd love to see all those plot twists dressed up somehow with events that take place in the story. At any rate it's a very interesting story, and even better, one that gives the reader food for thought long after the reading is done.
I can't think of much to bitch about at the moment, other than that there seemed to be a certain subtlety lacking from "Part 3" that made the previous two parts especially delicious. Maybe it's just the inevitable effect of all the weird shit the protagonist experiences once he goes down into the sewer, I dunno. There is a whole lot of plot thrown at the reader toward the end of course - you might be able to at least understate some of that to give the reader a chance to 'discover' things more, though I'd love to see all those plot twists dressed up somehow with events that take place in the story. At any rate it's a very interesting story, and even better, one that gives the reader food for thought long after the reading is done.
Einherjar86
Active Member
Dude, I'm just psyched you liked it. Thanks so much for reading! I wanted to keep myself within a 30 page limit (since it is supposed to be a short story) which is why the end all comes on pretty fast. Also, the overload of information has multiple purposes, I think. While it might be more suspenseful to unveil the plot more slowly, overwhelming the reader achieves the effect that Oken would feel when the Artificer unveils everything to him. There's so much information that it creates a temporary state of disbelief and anxiety that Oken (and the reader) has to be overcome. The purpose in having two figures who reveal the truth to Oken was designed to give readers (as well as Oken) somewhat of a chance to dwell on everything and come to terms with it.
There is a lack of subtlety to the final portion, I agree. The pace of a short story is a delicate thing, and I've by no means mastered it. I wanted the subtlety in the beginning to eventually come to horrifying fruition, meaning that it burgeons from subtle to obvious; it shifts as the story progresses, and a descent into a sewer seemed a logical progression to unveil certain "horrors." It is somewhat influenced by the new science fiction genre of the "new weird" (which picks up kind of where Lovecraft left off), but deals a bit differently with the progression. Whereas Lovecraft always revealed the horror at the very end of his stories, and its unveiling resulted in the characters' madness or death, "new weird" begins with the horror. I didn't want to begin with so much grotesqueness immediately, but I wanted to progress to it and have it effect the character without ending abruptly at the revelation.
At any rate, it's far from perfect, and I've already begun some edits based on your remarks. So thanks again for reading it man, your feedback and support are always appreciated!
This is something I done a while ago for an excercise in English class. We had to write a monologue on a historical or famous figure. I'm not using it as a folio piece or anything so it should be safe to post. If it sucks, please bear in mind that I'm only fifteen. Tell me what you think.
I hear her scream,
As she begs for help.
But I have no intention of letting her go,
Right now she is mine, and mine alone.
I do not like this one,
She is loud and will not shut up.
When the servants had brought her to me,
She had resisted violently.
They had to drug and subdue her,
And I did not like that.
I preferred them to be more aware,
To see the fear in their eyes.
Luckily, though, she is strong,
And the drug has not yet taken full effect.
I laugh at her pitiful attempts at reason,
Telling me that she will tell no one.
Little does she know,
That there is only one thing I want from her.
And I will have it,
I need it.
As she continues to scream,
I ponder how to finish her.
I liked to make it slow,
To watch them suffer.
But the screams they make,
They give me a headache.
I could gag her. No.
She would choke to death.
Choke on her own vomit,
Before I could deliver the final blow.
I finger the knife. Yes.
It has never failed before.
The blade is sharp,
The inside lined with razor-sharp serrations.
As I turn around, I see her,
Lying battered and bloodied.
She lies on the hard, cold stone,
The wire binding her hands, cutting into her wrists.
When she sees the knife, clean and sharp,
Her pleas turn to insults,
She calls me disgusting things.
How dare this peasant talk to me in such ways,
Yes, she deserves to die.
As I approach her, she begins to struggle,
Causing her ties to tighten and spill her precious blood.
As I get close to her, I see the hatred in her eyes,
The frustration of knowing there is no escape.
I hold the knife in the dim torchlight,
Causing orange reflections to glint in the blade.
I see the fear begin to take her over,
As her young heart begins to hammer frantically against her ribcage.
I run the blade over her soft, pale skin,
And tears form in her eyes.
Her screams are now strained,
Her throat sore, choked with terror.
A smile spreads across my face,
At her futile babbling.
She will smile as well,
When I cut her pretty, little head ear to ear.
I move closer, towards her throat,
The bloodlust rising inside of me.
Her choked screams turn to mere whimpers,
And I begin to cut.
Now, as I bathe,
I think to myself,
How I will be forever young.
As when I bathe in the blood,
Of the virgin girls,
I, Elizabeth Bathory,
I, The Hungarian Blood Countess,
Am immortal.
As she begs for help.
But I have no intention of letting her go,
Right now she is mine, and mine alone.
I do not like this one,
She is loud and will not shut up.
When the servants had brought her to me,
She had resisted violently.
They had to drug and subdue her,
And I did not like that.
I preferred them to be more aware,
To see the fear in their eyes.
Luckily, though, she is strong,
And the drug has not yet taken full effect.
I laugh at her pitiful attempts at reason,
Telling me that she will tell no one.
Little does she know,
That there is only one thing I want from her.
And I will have it,
I need it.
As she continues to scream,
I ponder how to finish her.
I liked to make it slow,
To watch them suffer.
But the screams they make,
They give me a headache.
I could gag her. No.
She would choke to death.
Choke on her own vomit,
Before I could deliver the final blow.
I finger the knife. Yes.
It has never failed before.
The blade is sharp,
The inside lined with razor-sharp serrations.
As I turn around, I see her,
Lying battered and bloodied.
She lies on the hard, cold stone,
The wire binding her hands, cutting into her wrists.
When she sees the knife, clean and sharp,
Her pleas turn to insults,
She calls me disgusting things.
How dare this peasant talk to me in such ways,
Yes, she deserves to die.
As I approach her, she begins to struggle,
Causing her ties to tighten and spill her precious blood.
As I get close to her, I see the hatred in her eyes,
The frustration of knowing there is no escape.
I hold the knife in the dim torchlight,
Causing orange reflections to glint in the blade.
I see the fear begin to take her over,
As her young heart begins to hammer frantically against her ribcage.
I run the blade over her soft, pale skin,
And tears form in her eyes.
Her screams are now strained,
Her throat sore, choked with terror.
A smile spreads across my face,
At her futile babbling.
She will smile as well,
When I cut her pretty, little head ear to ear.
I move closer, towards her throat,
The bloodlust rising inside of me.
Her choked screams turn to mere whimpers,
And I begin to cut.
Now, as I bathe,
I think to myself,
How I will be forever young.
As when I bathe in the blood,
Of the virgin girls,
I, Elizabeth Bathory,
I, The Hungarian Blood Countess,
Am immortal.
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
^ Well it looks like something a fifteen year old would write. 
Sounds good dude. If you ever need some more commentary, just let me know.
Sounds good dude. If you ever need some more commentary, just let me know.
Since you put a smiley face, I'll take that as a compliment. English is probably my strongest subject. If I put my head to it, I can write a pretty good imaginative piece. I'm probably best at doing horror. I wrote a short story about The Catacombs of Paris that I'm pretty pleased with. I'd post it but my mum wants me to get it published, which I kind of doubt will ever happen anyway. I may post some more of my stuff later.^ Well it looks like something a fifteen year old would write.
Einherjar86
Active Member
Well, I'm thinking of making another post for the Writing Thread: this is a story that I've composed recently, and it's something of a rough draft. It's much shorter than my last "installment," coming in at only about eight pages (MS Word length). Please don't hold back with the commentary and criticism, as I'm somewhat new to this style of writing (or "genre," I suppose you could say) and would appreciate some honest feedback:
A Truer Fiction
"Now the woods will never tell
What sleeps beneath the trees,
Or what’s buried ‘neath a rock
Or hiding in the leaves.
‘Cause there’s nothing strange about an axe
With bloodstains in the barn
There’s always some killing
You got to do around the farm."
~Tom Waits, “Murder in the Red Barn”
On a sunny Wednesday afternoon in June, a man walked into a sheriff’s office somewhere outside Syracuse, New York. The man was dressed casually in a pair of light blue jeans and a plaid shirt buttoned over a white t-shirt. He looked clean and well-shaven and his hair looked as though it had been cut recently. He had a handsome face and appeared fit, although he was not large or noticeably muscular. He looked so normal, in fact, that Deputy Gerard Lowe had no reason to suspect anything about him; he assumed the man was lost, taken a wrong turn on one of the dusty back roads and needed some help finding his way back to a main road or directions to wherever he was going. The deputy actually smiled, leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him, trying to appear friendly. “Good afternoon,” he said politely. “How can I help you?”
The man approached and propped his elbows on the counter, crossing his arms. “I have a story to tell you,” he said softly. “I don’t really expect you to believe it, but it’s true nonetheless, and I’m coming to you willfully and in full knowledge of the law because I’m supposed to.
“If you’ll accompany me, you’ll find three dead men out on Owl Creek Road, about fifteen miles north of the I-81 junction. One of them I killed in self-defense, but the other two were not killed by my hand. I’m innocent of these crimes, for I had no other choice.”
Gerard was taken aback by the man’s confession, but he finally blinked and found his voice. “I, ah… I’ve never heard of Owl Creek Road.”
“It’s not used much anymore.”
Gerard nodded. “And, uh… you’re telling us this because…?”
“Because I know what happened should be reported to the authorities. I’m reporting it.”
Gerard nodded one more time. “I see.” He rose slowly. “You won’t mind if I ask you to come with me, will you?”
The man smiled and withdrew his arms from the counter. “Not at all.”
Sheriff Richard Kelly was thinking about the conversation he had had with his son the previous night (replaying it in his head, in fact) when Gerard swung his head in through the open door and knocked twice on the wood. “Got something, Sheriff.”
Richard blinked to clear away his thoughts. They scattered like a flock of startled birds. His eyes regained the light of awareness, and he stared at the deputy. “What is it?”
“Got a man here says he wants to take us to a crime scene. Double- or triple, maybe- murder.”
“Where?”
“Someplace called Owl Creek Road.”
“Don’t know it.”
Gerard shrugged. “That’s what the man said.”
“Bring him in.” He settled into his chair and, for the short time between when Gerard left and when the stranger would enter, turned his mind back on the previous night. It was not that he had been angry or emotionally upset. The conversation had surprised him was all. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he should have picked up on the signs; but the truth was there hadn’t been many signs, and he’d never had any reason to suspect the boy. Now the truth was out, and Richard wasn’t sure how he was supposed to act.
Then Gerard brought the man into Richard’s office and his mind was relieved of the responsibility.
“What’s your name?” Richard asked.
“Bob,” the stranger said.
“Okay Bob. Let’s hear it.”
Bob repeated the story he’d told the deputy. Richard listened intently, seeking out irregularities or inconsistencies. “Why were you out on this Owl Creek Road?”
“I was hitchhiking.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever.”
“Why?”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“Seeing as how you’re in my sheriff’s office admitting to murdering a man in self-defense, I think it’s within my rights to know why you’re hitchhiking.”
“Fair enough,” Bob said. “I’m leaving my wife. And seeing as how we only had one car, I thought it unfair to take it.”
“Why didn’t you call a cab or take a bus?”
“Didn’t have any money.”
Richard frowned, uncertain about the man’s story. “So how exactly did everything happen?”
“I came upon three men arguing over a bag of money,” Bob continued. “When they noticed me, the situation became increasingly violent. Eventually, one of the men drew his pistol on another and fired. This resulted in the third man drawing his own gun to shoot the first. Afraid for my life, I took up a large stone that was lying near my feet and crushed the final man’s head with it. Then I buried the money by the side of the road, in case anyone wandered by, and came straight here.”
Richard nodded slowly, taking everything in. “How do you know the road is rarely used if you’ve only just arrived here?”
“I had to duck under a rusted iron gate in order to walk down it.”
“So you trespassed?”
Bob stared long at Richard. “I’ve come here of my own volition, Sheriff. I could have left those men behind and took the money for myself. As I see it, I’m doing you a favor.”
“Maybe,” Richard said. He sighed and twirled his pen. “You say you’ll take us there. What do you want in return?”
“To not be charged with anything.”
“That’s for Forensics to decide.”
“I’m innocent,” Bob repeated. “I killed no one in cold blood. I did what I had to.”
“From the sounds of your story, that seems true. But we’ll have to see it for ourselves. So you’ll take us there?”
“Yes.”
While Bob sat in a locked interrogation room, Gerard, Richard, and Deputy William Kelly, Richard’s only son, searched the computer for any information on Robert Heckle; the name printed on the stranger’s driver’s license.
Richard fidgeted as he stood next to his son. “No luck?”
Gerard shook his head. “No priors, it looks like. Nothing’s coming back.”
Richard sighed. “Well. We got him, he’s not going anywhere. I say we have him take us where these bodies allegedly are.”
Will glanced at him. “You think he might be lying?”
“I can’t for the life of me think of a reason why. But I’ve learned not to trust strangers, and this guy strikes me as unusually strange.”
Will nodded. There was a kind of anticipation in his eyes.
Richard rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. There was nothing he could do about it now. What had been said was said, and it was impossible to take it back. Life threw you curve balls, and you could only do your best to hit them. He was still trying to think of how best to speak to his son, but eventually he decided that now was not the time anyway. “Alright then,” he said finally, clearing his throat.
They let Bob out of the tiny cell and led him through several hallways, out the back door and into the parking lot that was occupied by only three squad cars.
“Cuff him,” Richard mumbled, reaching for his keys.
“That’s not really necessary,” Bob replied.
Richard looked up. “We’re cuffing you. I don’t give two shits whether it’s necessary.” He nodded to Will and his son obeyed without complaint. Bob winced slightly as they were tightened.
“Put him in the back, Gerry,” Richard said. “Will, you come along with me.”
As they drove, Gerard’s car in front, Richard and Will following, he wondered whether or not he had asked his son to ride alongside him so that they could discuss their conversation from last night. Richard found that he kept returning to those words, but could not bring himself to broach the topic again. Something tasted foul on his tongue every time he thought of speaking about it. Something churned in the pit of his stomach. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way, but no matter what he told himself or tried to convince himself of, he couldn’t help it. Something had been altered forever by that exchange, and Richard knew that their relationship would never be the same. He wasn’t sure if he found the fact decidedly sorrowful or just weird. He did not think he was particularly sad about anything. And yet, it was as though something had been struck away; some bond that had once been present was severed.
He needed time, he decided finally. That was all. Things would begin to make sense again. He just needed time to think them over.
The radio crackled. Gerard’s voice squawked over it. “Hey, Sheriff? Come in, over.”
“Yeah Gerry,” Will said, picking up the receiver.
“Bob says he got the road wrong. Wasn’t on this Owl Creek, or whatever. Apparently it was on that unnamed service road we just passed a mile or so back.”
Will frowned and glanced momentarily at his father. “Why the confusion?” he asked a few seconds later.
“Says he’s unfamiliar with the area. He came off of a road called Owl Creek, but the incident he described to us happened on that service road.”
Will looked at Richard. There was a strange look of uncertainty in his eyes. “What do you want to do?”
Richard heaved a sigh. “Let’s turn her around, boys.”
As it turned out, the service road that Bob took them to was a closed-in dirt road, too narrow for two cars to pass by each other going opposite directions, lined with thick pines. Richard and Will followed Gerard’s car until they saw its brake lights go on, and they both rolled to a halt. Ahead of them, Gerard stepped out of his vehicle. He took a few cautious steps forward, casting his eyes about the trees and hedges. Then he returned to his car and opened the door, gesturing for Bob to get out. At the same time, Richard and Will exited their own car and strolled up alongside Gerard’s.
“Says this is where it happened, boss.”
Richard stared at the road ahead of them. “There’s nothing here.”
“This makes no sense,” Bob said as he stood and began to walk down the road. “They were here, all three of them…”
“Maybe it was further down,” Will said. “A lot of this road looks the same.”
“No, no…” Bob said, shaking his head. “It was here.” He turned and stared at Will. “I know it was here.”
“Well, I don’t see any bodies,” Richard said, hiking up his belt. “What say we go on back to the station and have a little chat about lying to the authorities?”
“I didn’t lie!” Bob shouted. He was visibly frustrated. “They’re here, they have to be. Look, I buried the money behind that tree over there!” He nodded towards a suspiciously pathetic looking sapling that cowered feebly near the edge of the wood. It was oddly removed from the rest in that it seemed to have grown at a much later date than the trees surrounding it. They towered so massively above it that it almost seemed as though they shunned it, condemning it to exile for its smallness.
Richard shook his head. “Will, just go and check it so we can see if this asshole’s lying or not.”
For some reason, his son was frozen in place. Will stared at the small tree but made no move. His eyes were fastened, as though he’d seen a ghost.
“Will!” Richard shouted.
This jarred the boy out of his trance.
“Go and see if anything’s there!”
He thought he saw a strange fog in the boy’s eyes, as though some shroud had settled over him. Then, almost hesitantly, he turned and trudged off toward the tree.
Richard watched carefully as his son moved around to the other side of the thin trunk and stared down.
“Well?” he called out.
After a few seconds of silence, Will looked up and shook his head. “There’s nothing, dad.”
Richard nodded. “Alright, let’s take him back.”
“No!” Bob shouted. “He’s lying!”
“Excuse me?” Richard said.
“It’s there. I buried it right there! I know I did!”
“If he says there’s nothing there, then there’s nothing…”
“I don’t know why he’s lying,” Bob continued, frustrated. “But I promise you, it’s there.”
Richard clenched his teeth and made his way over to the tree. “For God’s sake, you want me to look for myself, damn it!”
“Dad, wait…” Will muttered softly as Richard approached.
As Richard rounded the tree, he looked down and saw the handle of a small duffle bag sticking up out of the dirt. He frowned, first at the ground and then at his son. Then, slowly, he knelt and pried the bag from the ground. He cast a glance back toward Bob and Gerard, still holding the stranger firmly by the arm. Both men wore odd looks. Crazed disbelief? Or horrific anticipation? He couldn’t be sure.
He unzipped the bag and stared inside. Large bundles of cash greeted him hungrily. The scent was intoxicatingly familiar. He cocked his head slightly and then stood, bringing the bag up with him as he did so. “Will,” he said, not bothering to conceal his confusion. “Didn’t you see this?”
When his son failed to answer, Richard looked at him. But Will was not returning his gaze. His eyes were trained on Bob, and in the next instant he was stalking across the road to where Gerard was holding the man. He gripped him by his collar and shook him roughly. “How the fuck did you know this was here?”
“Christ, Will,” Gerard muttered, letting go of the stranger. “I thought you didn’t tell anyone…”
“I didn’t!” Will exclaimed. “I don’t know how the fuck he knows…”
“Well, he does.”
“I know that, obviously!”
Richard listened to all this with growing confusion and fear. He took two hesitant steps from the behind the tree. “Will? What’s going on?”
“Goddamit Will, why the fuck did you tell him?”
“I didn’t, fuck!” Will screamed. He shook Bob again, this time harder. “How did you know about this?! Answer me!”
Richard glanced down into the bag again, this time noticing something else beneath the money. He frowned, then reached down and retrieved it, his eyes widening as he pulled it free: a pig’s mask. A disgusting, horrific pig’s mask from some kind of demented Halloween costume. “What the hell is this?”
At this point, Will turned back to him and his grip on Bob’s collar began to slacken. He stared in fascinated bewilderment at the mask.
Richard looked back at them. “What the hell is this?” he repeated.
Bob craned his neck in a circle and drew a breath. “Your son can tell you.”
Richard frowned again, not certain whom to ask. Finally, he said, “Will?”
His son did not respond. He merely stared at the mask, an expression of something that looked like realization combined with immeasurable horror spilling across his face.
“Will?” Richard repeated.
“That,” Bob said, deciding to spare Will the burden of speaking. “Is the mask I wore the last time I had sex with your son.”
The words did not sink in at first. Richard heard them, but his mind rejected their meaning. He went back to the conversation of the previous night. He needed more time to think things over, more time to contemplate. He couldn’t deal with this, not now; not the cold, hard explication of the evidence, forced upon him so cruelly.
“Will?” Gerard said. “What the fuck’s he talking about?”
Richard glanced over as he heard the words. Gerard was facing Will, staring intently at him, but Will was avoiding his gaze, staring down at the dirt instead, his face still a mixture of shame, realization and horror.
“Will?” Gerard repeated, louder this time. “Tell me that’s not true. Tell me that’s not fucking true.”
Richard realized his hands were shaking. He was not prepared, could not be prepared. His mind was still unable to accept the implications. Words were one thing; but this, this demonstration of the truth was unacceptable. He needed time. Time to think. Time to figure out how he felt.
“There’s more.”
The voice was neither Will’s nor Gerard’s. Richard looked up. Bob was staring at him, his face blank. His eyes looked like two pools of dead water. He looked back down at the bag, and although the terror of digging deeper through its contents seemed too great a burden, his curiosity drove him; a strange, sickening kind of curiosity that was at once a desire to know and a fear of knowing, an ambivalent urge. He began to dig, sifting through the detritus of money. He pushed the bundles aside, trying to unearth the bottom of the satchel, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of something. Something thin, and shiny; something that reflected the unforgiving sunlight that found its way into the depths of the bag.
Photographs. Dozens of photographs.
Richard saw only a fragment of one of them, but he immediately closed his eyes and turned his head away. Nausea boiled up inside of him. Not this, not now. It was all too much; first the confession, then the corroboration, and now this? Now this… documentation? It was more than he could bear, more than he was meant to bear. Why?
The gunshot made him jump, rattled him to the core. His eyes sought the road and he stared in horror at the scene before him. He son had fallen to his knees, clutching his stomach. Gerard stood over him, holding his pistol. “No,” he whispered. He dropped the bag and began to move forward. “No…”
He was reaching for his own gun as he moved, but even as he drew it and raised it up, Gerard had already fired a second shot, hitting Will in the chest. “No!” Richard screamed. He raised his gun and fired. The bullet took Gerard in the head, exploding out the back in a mist of red and blowing chunks of brain matter onto the dusty road. The body crumpled. Richard stumbled the remaining yards to where the bodies lay. As he gazed upon the bloody mass of his son, he thought of the times when he used to walk into the boy’s room when he was still a baby and watch him sleeping in his crib, and the nostalgia of hundreds of days of fatherly instincts came flooding back to him. His hand shook as he lowered the gun. His lip quivered.
He heard a sound behind him. Turning, he saw Bob emerge from behind the tree, holding a semiautomatic pistol in one hand while the handcuffs dangled uselessly from his opposite wrist. For some reason, he did not feel fear. Only confusion, and it must have showed on his face.
“I buried it next to the bag,” Bob said, his voice monotone. “Along with the key to your son’s handcuffs, which he made me wear the last time we fucked. He was asleep when I pocketed it.” He stared perceptively at Richard. “Your son talks a great deal when he drinks.”
“You…” Richard started. “You killed him…”
“I did not kill anyone,” Bob countered. “They did not die by my hand.”
“You made them,” Richard said, beginning to find his strength, the gears of his rage beginning to turn. “You made them do it.”
“I did not force their hands,” Bob said. “It is not a crime to know people better than they know themselves.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
Bob sighed. “There might have been a time when people would have labeled me as insane, or at least called this an act of insanity; but I think you’ll agree that those times are long gone. In today’s day and age, a man is insane only if he believes there are truths he cannot see, or that cannot be proven. Anomalies have no place anymore. Why trust what you cannot know to be real? No: in today’s day and age, it would be considered insane to pass up an opportunity to take a portion of this money for myself. I’m merely acting as a sane person would.”
“You despicable fuck, you fucking…”
“That’s enough,” Bob muttered. “Your insults really have no effect.”
Richard felt sobs blossoming in his chest as his rage began to give way to grief. His breath escaped his parted lips in ragged gasps. The forest swam about him, causing his knees to shake. His vision blurred. “Why?”
“Because I saw an opportunity.”
He shook his head. “For the money? You knew where it was, you just said so yourself!” He was on the verge of breaking, his voice increasing in volume. “Why didn’t you just take the damn money?!”
“It would have come back to me sooner or later,” Bob replied. “He would have figured out who took his key, and I doubt he would have given up that easy. A man has his pride to consider.”
“You fucking swine,” Richard said softly. He blinked back tears. “You fucking liar…”
“I lied about nothing,” Bob said.
“What do you mean!?” Richard screamed, spreading his arms. “You said you were taking us to three dead bodies!”
“That is not what I said.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“If you recall my words, you’ll realize that I never lied.”
Despite his anger, Richard could not bring himself to argue. “What is this? Some pathetic attempt to reaffirm your own morality? To justify your motives?”
“Why should I care about doing such a thing?”
“Why bother deluding yourself, if it doesn’t matter?”
Bob smiled. “You don’t understand.”
Richard said nothing. He stared in bewilderment and complete vexation at the stranger before him. Then, almost to his relief, the tears came. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. They poured from behind his eyelids in waves, tracing glistening rivers down his cheeks. A million sorrows descended on him like fallen angels. Why was his son dead? Why had Gerard killed him? Why was there a bag of money? Why was this stranger doing this? Richard had the strange notion that, in the back of his mind, he knew the answers to all these questions, but somehow dedicating himself to just the questions seemed safer. “God, why…”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Bob continued, taking another step forward. “I still need you for one final favor.”
“Why the fuck should I do anything for you. I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”
“Indeed,” Bob said. “I believe you will try.” He grinned. “You see, I cannot be absolved of anything if I make the first move to kill you. That would be murdering in cold blood. It’s not been my fault that your son and his lover died; but if you fall under the delusion that it is, then you must follow your instinct to kill me. And that, you see, provides me with the motive for self-defense.” His smile vanished. “Now, I’m going to take some money out of this bag, and then I’m going to leave this place forever. My question to you is: what will you do about it?”
Richard was not entirely sure he understood, but he thought he was always certain he knew what he would do. He would never be sure exactly why he hesitated, but for some reason a kind of obstacle hindered his conviction in his final seconds. Something he could not explain; a hopelessness, an apathy of sorts, washed over him as he slowly, impossibly slowly, raised his pistol.
The last thought that rushed through his head was of his son, and the memory of how proud of him he had been when he had become a deputy.
Several weeks later, an agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation sat in front of a long table that was literally covered with evidence: the clothes of three Syracuse law enforcement officers, their guns, a bag containing money, photographs of a crime scene, photographs of an entirely different scene, one demented pig mask, among other items. The officer pored incessantly over these materials, exhausting all possibilities, deducing all possible conclusions. Nothing seemed to fit together perfectly. In every outcome, something always fell into just the wrong place.
There had to be something…
But it eluded him. This was the refuse of a past experience, the final remaining vestige of a single moment of truth. It could not bring to life what had happened. The instant had been sealed, caught in the infinite gaps, the abyssal chasms that hung between the evidence; the spaces that could not be filled in.
At some point, his partner silently entered the dark room that housed all that was left of the mystery. “This case is done.”
The first agent looked up at him. “How?”
“Monroe just called it in. They’re taking us off. More important things to be done.”
“Things,” the first officer repeated. He never took his eyes off the plethora of uncanny elements that lay before him.
“Come on, man. This is all just a dead end.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that you’re making more of this than it is.” He stepped forward, surveying the table. “Look, the two fags have been hoarding this money, planning an elaborate and permanent getaway. Dad finds out and goes to confront them. While they were there, some things get said, tempers are raised, photographs shown, and shots are fired. Maybe dad’s pissed; who the fuck knows?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” the first agent said. He shook his head. “Why no last man standing? Three men all kill each other? Who fired first? It doesn’t add up.”
“It doesn’t have to,” his partner said. “Weirder shit’s happened.”
“Maybe…” He shook his head. “There are certain things though…” He was staring at the bag filled with money. “Like that,” he said, pointing. “We counted one-hundred thousand dollars in that bag, but… it’s way too big, even for that much money. It’s less than half full…”
“Come on man,” the second agent said. “Give it up. This isn’t worth killing yourself over.”
“We’re missing something,” he said, shaking his head. “Two of the officers had handcuffs, but one of them didn’t…”
“So he forgot them. Lost them. Who knows?”
“There’s something else here.”
“You’re convincing yourself there’s something else when there’s actually nothing. You’re inventing these little oases of sense to try and make this out to be bigger than it is.”
The agent glared up at his partner. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
“True,” the second agent said. “And sometimes, they’re exactly what they seem."
A Truer Fiction
"Now the woods will never tell
What sleeps beneath the trees,
Or what’s buried ‘neath a rock
Or hiding in the leaves.
‘Cause there’s nothing strange about an axe
With bloodstains in the barn
There’s always some killing
You got to do around the farm."
~Tom Waits, “Murder in the Red Barn”
On a sunny Wednesday afternoon in June, a man walked into a sheriff’s office somewhere outside Syracuse, New York. The man was dressed casually in a pair of light blue jeans and a plaid shirt buttoned over a white t-shirt. He looked clean and well-shaven and his hair looked as though it had been cut recently. He had a handsome face and appeared fit, although he was not large or noticeably muscular. He looked so normal, in fact, that Deputy Gerard Lowe had no reason to suspect anything about him; he assumed the man was lost, taken a wrong turn on one of the dusty back roads and needed some help finding his way back to a main road or directions to wherever he was going. The deputy actually smiled, leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him, trying to appear friendly. “Good afternoon,” he said politely. “How can I help you?”
The man approached and propped his elbows on the counter, crossing his arms. “I have a story to tell you,” he said softly. “I don’t really expect you to believe it, but it’s true nonetheless, and I’m coming to you willfully and in full knowledge of the law because I’m supposed to.
“If you’ll accompany me, you’ll find three dead men out on Owl Creek Road, about fifteen miles north of the I-81 junction. One of them I killed in self-defense, but the other two were not killed by my hand. I’m innocent of these crimes, for I had no other choice.”
Gerard was taken aback by the man’s confession, but he finally blinked and found his voice. “I, ah… I’ve never heard of Owl Creek Road.”
“It’s not used much anymore.”
Gerard nodded. “And, uh… you’re telling us this because…?”
“Because I know what happened should be reported to the authorities. I’m reporting it.”
Gerard nodded one more time. “I see.” He rose slowly. “You won’t mind if I ask you to come with me, will you?”
The man smiled and withdrew his arms from the counter. “Not at all.”
Sheriff Richard Kelly was thinking about the conversation he had had with his son the previous night (replaying it in his head, in fact) when Gerard swung his head in through the open door and knocked twice on the wood. “Got something, Sheriff.”
Richard blinked to clear away his thoughts. They scattered like a flock of startled birds. His eyes regained the light of awareness, and he stared at the deputy. “What is it?”
“Got a man here says he wants to take us to a crime scene. Double- or triple, maybe- murder.”
“Where?”
“Someplace called Owl Creek Road.”
“Don’t know it.”
Gerard shrugged. “That’s what the man said.”
“Bring him in.” He settled into his chair and, for the short time between when Gerard left and when the stranger would enter, turned his mind back on the previous night. It was not that he had been angry or emotionally upset. The conversation had surprised him was all. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he should have picked up on the signs; but the truth was there hadn’t been many signs, and he’d never had any reason to suspect the boy. Now the truth was out, and Richard wasn’t sure how he was supposed to act.
Then Gerard brought the man into Richard’s office and his mind was relieved of the responsibility.
“What’s your name?” Richard asked.
“Bob,” the stranger said.
“Okay Bob. Let’s hear it.”
Bob repeated the story he’d told the deputy. Richard listened intently, seeking out irregularities or inconsistencies. “Why were you out on this Owl Creek Road?”
“I was hitchhiking.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever.”
“Why?”
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“Seeing as how you’re in my sheriff’s office admitting to murdering a man in self-defense, I think it’s within my rights to know why you’re hitchhiking.”
“Fair enough,” Bob said. “I’m leaving my wife. And seeing as how we only had one car, I thought it unfair to take it.”
“Why didn’t you call a cab or take a bus?”
“Didn’t have any money.”
Richard frowned, uncertain about the man’s story. “So how exactly did everything happen?”
“I came upon three men arguing over a bag of money,” Bob continued. “When they noticed me, the situation became increasingly violent. Eventually, one of the men drew his pistol on another and fired. This resulted in the third man drawing his own gun to shoot the first. Afraid for my life, I took up a large stone that was lying near my feet and crushed the final man’s head with it. Then I buried the money by the side of the road, in case anyone wandered by, and came straight here.”
Richard nodded slowly, taking everything in. “How do you know the road is rarely used if you’ve only just arrived here?”
“I had to duck under a rusted iron gate in order to walk down it.”
“So you trespassed?”
Bob stared long at Richard. “I’ve come here of my own volition, Sheriff. I could have left those men behind and took the money for myself. As I see it, I’m doing you a favor.”
“Maybe,” Richard said. He sighed and twirled his pen. “You say you’ll take us there. What do you want in return?”
“To not be charged with anything.”
“That’s for Forensics to decide.”
“I’m innocent,” Bob repeated. “I killed no one in cold blood. I did what I had to.”
“From the sounds of your story, that seems true. But we’ll have to see it for ourselves. So you’ll take us there?”
“Yes.”
While Bob sat in a locked interrogation room, Gerard, Richard, and Deputy William Kelly, Richard’s only son, searched the computer for any information on Robert Heckle; the name printed on the stranger’s driver’s license.
Richard fidgeted as he stood next to his son. “No luck?”
Gerard shook his head. “No priors, it looks like. Nothing’s coming back.”
Richard sighed. “Well. We got him, he’s not going anywhere. I say we have him take us where these bodies allegedly are.”
Will glanced at him. “You think he might be lying?”
“I can’t for the life of me think of a reason why. But I’ve learned not to trust strangers, and this guy strikes me as unusually strange.”
Will nodded. There was a kind of anticipation in his eyes.
Richard rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. There was nothing he could do about it now. What had been said was said, and it was impossible to take it back. Life threw you curve balls, and you could only do your best to hit them. He was still trying to think of how best to speak to his son, but eventually he decided that now was not the time anyway. “Alright then,” he said finally, clearing his throat.
They let Bob out of the tiny cell and led him through several hallways, out the back door and into the parking lot that was occupied by only three squad cars.
“Cuff him,” Richard mumbled, reaching for his keys.
“That’s not really necessary,” Bob replied.
Richard looked up. “We’re cuffing you. I don’t give two shits whether it’s necessary.” He nodded to Will and his son obeyed without complaint. Bob winced slightly as they were tightened.
“Put him in the back, Gerry,” Richard said. “Will, you come along with me.”
As they drove, Gerard’s car in front, Richard and Will following, he wondered whether or not he had asked his son to ride alongside him so that they could discuss their conversation from last night. Richard found that he kept returning to those words, but could not bring himself to broach the topic again. Something tasted foul on his tongue every time he thought of speaking about it. Something churned in the pit of his stomach. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way, but no matter what he told himself or tried to convince himself of, he couldn’t help it. Something had been altered forever by that exchange, and Richard knew that their relationship would never be the same. He wasn’t sure if he found the fact decidedly sorrowful or just weird. He did not think he was particularly sad about anything. And yet, it was as though something had been struck away; some bond that had once been present was severed.
He needed time, he decided finally. That was all. Things would begin to make sense again. He just needed time to think them over.
The radio crackled. Gerard’s voice squawked over it. “Hey, Sheriff? Come in, over.”
“Yeah Gerry,” Will said, picking up the receiver.
“Bob says he got the road wrong. Wasn’t on this Owl Creek, or whatever. Apparently it was on that unnamed service road we just passed a mile or so back.”
Will frowned and glanced momentarily at his father. “Why the confusion?” he asked a few seconds later.
“Says he’s unfamiliar with the area. He came off of a road called Owl Creek, but the incident he described to us happened on that service road.”
Will looked at Richard. There was a strange look of uncertainty in his eyes. “What do you want to do?”
Richard heaved a sigh. “Let’s turn her around, boys.”
As it turned out, the service road that Bob took them to was a closed-in dirt road, too narrow for two cars to pass by each other going opposite directions, lined with thick pines. Richard and Will followed Gerard’s car until they saw its brake lights go on, and they both rolled to a halt. Ahead of them, Gerard stepped out of his vehicle. He took a few cautious steps forward, casting his eyes about the trees and hedges. Then he returned to his car and opened the door, gesturing for Bob to get out. At the same time, Richard and Will exited their own car and strolled up alongside Gerard’s.
“Says this is where it happened, boss.”
Richard stared at the road ahead of them. “There’s nothing here.”
“This makes no sense,” Bob said as he stood and began to walk down the road. “They were here, all three of them…”
“Maybe it was further down,” Will said. “A lot of this road looks the same.”
“No, no…” Bob said, shaking his head. “It was here.” He turned and stared at Will. “I know it was here.”
“Well, I don’t see any bodies,” Richard said, hiking up his belt. “What say we go on back to the station and have a little chat about lying to the authorities?”
“I didn’t lie!” Bob shouted. He was visibly frustrated. “They’re here, they have to be. Look, I buried the money behind that tree over there!” He nodded towards a suspiciously pathetic looking sapling that cowered feebly near the edge of the wood. It was oddly removed from the rest in that it seemed to have grown at a much later date than the trees surrounding it. They towered so massively above it that it almost seemed as though they shunned it, condemning it to exile for its smallness.
Richard shook his head. “Will, just go and check it so we can see if this asshole’s lying or not.”
For some reason, his son was frozen in place. Will stared at the small tree but made no move. His eyes were fastened, as though he’d seen a ghost.
“Will!” Richard shouted.
This jarred the boy out of his trance.
“Go and see if anything’s there!”
He thought he saw a strange fog in the boy’s eyes, as though some shroud had settled over him. Then, almost hesitantly, he turned and trudged off toward the tree.
Richard watched carefully as his son moved around to the other side of the thin trunk and stared down.
“Well?” he called out.
After a few seconds of silence, Will looked up and shook his head. “There’s nothing, dad.”
Richard nodded. “Alright, let’s take him back.”
“No!” Bob shouted. “He’s lying!”
“Excuse me?” Richard said.
“It’s there. I buried it right there! I know I did!”
“If he says there’s nothing there, then there’s nothing…”
“I don’t know why he’s lying,” Bob continued, frustrated. “But I promise you, it’s there.”
Richard clenched his teeth and made his way over to the tree. “For God’s sake, you want me to look for myself, damn it!”
“Dad, wait…” Will muttered softly as Richard approached.
As Richard rounded the tree, he looked down and saw the handle of a small duffle bag sticking up out of the dirt. He frowned, first at the ground and then at his son. Then, slowly, he knelt and pried the bag from the ground. He cast a glance back toward Bob and Gerard, still holding the stranger firmly by the arm. Both men wore odd looks. Crazed disbelief? Or horrific anticipation? He couldn’t be sure.
He unzipped the bag and stared inside. Large bundles of cash greeted him hungrily. The scent was intoxicatingly familiar. He cocked his head slightly and then stood, bringing the bag up with him as he did so. “Will,” he said, not bothering to conceal his confusion. “Didn’t you see this?”
When his son failed to answer, Richard looked at him. But Will was not returning his gaze. His eyes were trained on Bob, and in the next instant he was stalking across the road to where Gerard was holding the man. He gripped him by his collar and shook him roughly. “How the fuck did you know this was here?”
“Christ, Will,” Gerard muttered, letting go of the stranger. “I thought you didn’t tell anyone…”
“I didn’t!” Will exclaimed. “I don’t know how the fuck he knows…”
“Well, he does.”
“I know that, obviously!”
Richard listened to all this with growing confusion and fear. He took two hesitant steps from the behind the tree. “Will? What’s going on?”
“Goddamit Will, why the fuck did you tell him?”
“I didn’t, fuck!” Will screamed. He shook Bob again, this time harder. “How did you know about this?! Answer me!”
Richard glanced down into the bag again, this time noticing something else beneath the money. He frowned, then reached down and retrieved it, his eyes widening as he pulled it free: a pig’s mask. A disgusting, horrific pig’s mask from some kind of demented Halloween costume. “What the hell is this?”
At this point, Will turned back to him and his grip on Bob’s collar began to slacken. He stared in fascinated bewilderment at the mask.
Richard looked back at them. “What the hell is this?” he repeated.
Bob craned his neck in a circle and drew a breath. “Your son can tell you.”
Richard frowned again, not certain whom to ask. Finally, he said, “Will?”
His son did not respond. He merely stared at the mask, an expression of something that looked like realization combined with immeasurable horror spilling across his face.
“Will?” Richard repeated.
“That,” Bob said, deciding to spare Will the burden of speaking. “Is the mask I wore the last time I had sex with your son.”
The words did not sink in at first. Richard heard them, but his mind rejected their meaning. He went back to the conversation of the previous night. He needed more time to think things over, more time to contemplate. He couldn’t deal with this, not now; not the cold, hard explication of the evidence, forced upon him so cruelly.
“Will?” Gerard said. “What the fuck’s he talking about?”
Richard glanced over as he heard the words. Gerard was facing Will, staring intently at him, but Will was avoiding his gaze, staring down at the dirt instead, his face still a mixture of shame, realization and horror.
“Will?” Gerard repeated, louder this time. “Tell me that’s not true. Tell me that’s not fucking true.”
Richard realized his hands were shaking. He was not prepared, could not be prepared. His mind was still unable to accept the implications. Words were one thing; but this, this demonstration of the truth was unacceptable. He needed time. Time to think. Time to figure out how he felt.
“There’s more.”
The voice was neither Will’s nor Gerard’s. Richard looked up. Bob was staring at him, his face blank. His eyes looked like two pools of dead water. He looked back down at the bag, and although the terror of digging deeper through its contents seemed too great a burden, his curiosity drove him; a strange, sickening kind of curiosity that was at once a desire to know and a fear of knowing, an ambivalent urge. He began to dig, sifting through the detritus of money. He pushed the bundles aside, trying to unearth the bottom of the satchel, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of something. Something thin, and shiny; something that reflected the unforgiving sunlight that found its way into the depths of the bag.
Photographs. Dozens of photographs.
Richard saw only a fragment of one of them, but he immediately closed his eyes and turned his head away. Nausea boiled up inside of him. Not this, not now. It was all too much; first the confession, then the corroboration, and now this? Now this… documentation? It was more than he could bear, more than he was meant to bear. Why?
The gunshot made him jump, rattled him to the core. His eyes sought the road and he stared in horror at the scene before him. He son had fallen to his knees, clutching his stomach. Gerard stood over him, holding his pistol. “No,” he whispered. He dropped the bag and began to move forward. “No…”
He was reaching for his own gun as he moved, but even as he drew it and raised it up, Gerard had already fired a second shot, hitting Will in the chest. “No!” Richard screamed. He raised his gun and fired. The bullet took Gerard in the head, exploding out the back in a mist of red and blowing chunks of brain matter onto the dusty road. The body crumpled. Richard stumbled the remaining yards to where the bodies lay. As he gazed upon the bloody mass of his son, he thought of the times when he used to walk into the boy’s room when he was still a baby and watch him sleeping in his crib, and the nostalgia of hundreds of days of fatherly instincts came flooding back to him. His hand shook as he lowered the gun. His lip quivered.
He heard a sound behind him. Turning, he saw Bob emerge from behind the tree, holding a semiautomatic pistol in one hand while the handcuffs dangled uselessly from his opposite wrist. For some reason, he did not feel fear. Only confusion, and it must have showed on his face.
“I buried it next to the bag,” Bob said, his voice monotone. “Along with the key to your son’s handcuffs, which he made me wear the last time we fucked. He was asleep when I pocketed it.” He stared perceptively at Richard. “Your son talks a great deal when he drinks.”
“You…” Richard started. “You killed him…”
“I did not kill anyone,” Bob countered. “They did not die by my hand.”
“You made them,” Richard said, beginning to find his strength, the gears of his rage beginning to turn. “You made them do it.”
“I did not force their hands,” Bob said. “It is not a crime to know people better than they know themselves.”
“You’re a psychopath.”
Bob sighed. “There might have been a time when people would have labeled me as insane, or at least called this an act of insanity; but I think you’ll agree that those times are long gone. In today’s day and age, a man is insane only if he believes there are truths he cannot see, or that cannot be proven. Anomalies have no place anymore. Why trust what you cannot know to be real? No: in today’s day and age, it would be considered insane to pass up an opportunity to take a portion of this money for myself. I’m merely acting as a sane person would.”
“You despicable fuck, you fucking…”
“That’s enough,” Bob muttered. “Your insults really have no effect.”
Richard felt sobs blossoming in his chest as his rage began to give way to grief. His breath escaped his parted lips in ragged gasps. The forest swam about him, causing his knees to shake. His vision blurred. “Why?”
“Because I saw an opportunity.”
He shook his head. “For the money? You knew where it was, you just said so yourself!” He was on the verge of breaking, his voice increasing in volume. “Why didn’t you just take the damn money?!”
“It would have come back to me sooner or later,” Bob replied. “He would have figured out who took his key, and I doubt he would have given up that easy. A man has his pride to consider.”
“You fucking swine,” Richard said softly. He blinked back tears. “You fucking liar…”
“I lied about nothing,” Bob said.
“What do you mean!?” Richard screamed, spreading his arms. “You said you were taking us to three dead bodies!”
“That is not what I said.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“If you recall my words, you’ll realize that I never lied.”
Despite his anger, Richard could not bring himself to argue. “What is this? Some pathetic attempt to reaffirm your own morality? To justify your motives?”
“Why should I care about doing such a thing?”
“Why bother deluding yourself, if it doesn’t matter?”
Bob smiled. “You don’t understand.”
Richard said nothing. He stared in bewilderment and complete vexation at the stranger before him. Then, almost to his relief, the tears came. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. They poured from behind his eyelids in waves, tracing glistening rivers down his cheeks. A million sorrows descended on him like fallen angels. Why was his son dead? Why had Gerard killed him? Why was there a bag of money? Why was this stranger doing this? Richard had the strange notion that, in the back of his mind, he knew the answers to all these questions, but somehow dedicating himself to just the questions seemed safer. “God, why…”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Bob continued, taking another step forward. “I still need you for one final favor.”
“Why the fuck should I do anything for you. I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”
“Indeed,” Bob said. “I believe you will try.” He grinned. “You see, I cannot be absolved of anything if I make the first move to kill you. That would be murdering in cold blood. It’s not been my fault that your son and his lover died; but if you fall under the delusion that it is, then you must follow your instinct to kill me. And that, you see, provides me with the motive for self-defense.” His smile vanished. “Now, I’m going to take some money out of this bag, and then I’m going to leave this place forever. My question to you is: what will you do about it?”
Richard was not entirely sure he understood, but he thought he was always certain he knew what he would do. He would never be sure exactly why he hesitated, but for some reason a kind of obstacle hindered his conviction in his final seconds. Something he could not explain; a hopelessness, an apathy of sorts, washed over him as he slowly, impossibly slowly, raised his pistol.
The last thought that rushed through his head was of his son, and the memory of how proud of him he had been when he had become a deputy.
Several weeks later, an agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation sat in front of a long table that was literally covered with evidence: the clothes of three Syracuse law enforcement officers, their guns, a bag containing money, photographs of a crime scene, photographs of an entirely different scene, one demented pig mask, among other items. The officer pored incessantly over these materials, exhausting all possibilities, deducing all possible conclusions. Nothing seemed to fit together perfectly. In every outcome, something always fell into just the wrong place.
There had to be something…
But it eluded him. This was the refuse of a past experience, the final remaining vestige of a single moment of truth. It could not bring to life what had happened. The instant had been sealed, caught in the infinite gaps, the abyssal chasms that hung between the evidence; the spaces that could not be filled in.
At some point, his partner silently entered the dark room that housed all that was left of the mystery. “This case is done.”
The first agent looked up at him. “How?”
“Monroe just called it in. They’re taking us off. More important things to be done.”
“Things,” the first officer repeated. He never took his eyes off the plethora of uncanny elements that lay before him.
“Come on, man. This is all just a dead end.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that you’re making more of this than it is.” He stepped forward, surveying the table. “Look, the two fags have been hoarding this money, planning an elaborate and permanent getaway. Dad finds out and goes to confront them. While they were there, some things get said, tempers are raised, photographs shown, and shots are fired. Maybe dad’s pissed; who the fuck knows?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” the first agent said. He shook his head. “Why no last man standing? Three men all kill each other? Who fired first? It doesn’t add up.”
“It doesn’t have to,” his partner said. “Weirder shit’s happened.”
“Maybe…” He shook his head. “There are certain things though…” He was staring at the bag filled with money. “Like that,” he said, pointing. “We counted one-hundred thousand dollars in that bag, but… it’s way too big, even for that much money. It’s less than half full…”
“Come on man,” the second agent said. “Give it up. This isn’t worth killing yourself over.”
“We’re missing something,” he said, shaking his head. “Two of the officers had handcuffs, but one of them didn’t…”
“So he forgot them. Lost them. Who knows?”
“There’s something else here.”
“You’re convincing yourself there’s something else when there’s actually nothing. You’re inventing these little oases of sense to try and make this out to be bigger than it is.”
The agent glared up at his partner. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
“True,” the second agent said. “And sometimes, they’re exactly what they seem."
Badbird
Never banned
Badbird
Never banned
One day, Jack Jordan was having the best day of his life. Staying in Spain was great. Meeting his family was great for him. He didn't want to leave but he had to. He went to the airport and fly to Chicago.
The next day, all hell broke loose. When he met with his wife, there were problems. "What the fuck Jean, look I was having fun and you were screwing with some other guy and now look what happen now", Jack said. "Do you fucking want that if I did the same to unkown girl" Jack said. "But but", Jean said and Jack replied "no but Jean".
Jack then started to rape Jean. Then he stabbed her over and over again until she died. "Fucking cunt", Jack said. Jack hang himself and died before the cops and news people came into the house.
April 3, 1964
The next day, all hell broke loose. When he met with his wife, there were problems. "What the fuck Jean, look I was having fun and you were screwing with some other guy and now look what happen now", Jack said. "Do you fucking want that if I did the same to unkown girl" Jack said. "But but", Jean said and Jack replied "no but Jean".
Jack then started to rape Jean. Then he stabbed her over and over again until she died. "Fucking cunt", Jack said. Jack hang himself and died before the cops and news people came into the house.
April 3, 1964
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
Einherjar86
Active Member
I'm bumping this again because I'm pretty sure that everyone thinks Tom Brady bumped it with his dumbass weblink; but I posted something before him.
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
Holy fuck, I just assumed your post before his was part of your other story that I'd already read. Thanks for the notice!
Badbird
Never banned
So no one has tried, I Write Like site?
http://iwl.me/
____________
It will tell you what writer you write like the most.
http://iwl.me/
____________
It will tell you what writer you write like the most.
Einherjar86
Active Member
It's a pretty pointless site. It analyzes your word choice and writing style? There's really no credible method of saying who you write like; just because you choose to use the word "prurient" (or any word, for that matter) more than once it doesn't mean you're style is anything similar to a writer who also uses that word.
EDIT: and furthermore, who cares what writer you sound like? If your voice is exceptionally similar to another writer's, then you probably already know it (if you're a conscious reader).
EDIT: and furthermore, who cares what writer you sound like? If your voice is exceptionally similar to another writer's, then you probably already know it (if you're a conscious reader).
I noticed that this thread existed and figured I'd post something:
http://www.metal-archives.com/review.php?id=263649
http://www.metal-archives.com/review.php?id=263649
Einherjar86
Active Member
A
Constellation
Of
Collapsing
Stars
For me, it is indifferent where I am to begin from:
Ø
for that is where I will arrive back again.
~Parmenides
(First installment):
Fuck the base bioglossia – codes restricted to biospheres if not to regional ecosystems. Fuck the histories, anthropomorphized codes of intention and progress – their monstrosities are fruit flies in comparison. Fuck the planetoids – the larger creatures of the planes, the immutable Old Ones, devour galaxies. There is no intention in this fiction to convey a narrative – the Revenant Editors feel the urge to spit every time they hear this fucking word. Language sinks its ivory so deep in the civilized sacrifice, these horrid ranks that flop on the threshing floor of a noisome planet. The success of communicative speech is the pleasure of orgasm. It is amusing how free you think you are.
Enjoy what comes for you.
~Ursula Constance, Ontologies of Nonexistence (2201)
Ø
Part One – Pale Simulacrum
As distance from the Frame procures semiotic surety, more human symbols inhabit the Father’s language, fastened by the phallic tower. Here hang tenement houses, thatched and rigged against the edge’s infirmity, reinforced by the bulk of old wood. There shamans summon things, cull the sleeping ponderers of the inanimate with dead orisons. Monarchs atop electronic thrones condemn their children to parricidal slaughter, and incur the hatred of the progeny. Humans cast those slain out to the sea on metropolitan funeral pyres, veritable cities of the dead, and orange tongues fade with the sky’s bonfire. Conflagration upon conflagration, the earth surrenders only ash. What we see as cycles are but accretion. What we perceive as progress is just change. What we witness as birth and death, the volatile spasm of life, is matter's thrust toward undeterred sleep. This is why the spirits hate us. This is why the undead eat us. This is why the nightmares crush our chests. Their sleep is ruined by those who practice the technology of necromancy, the inhuman event that drags the inorganic from its equilibrium. They torment those who torment them. Life is pain. Newborns scream. Those who escape do not wish to return. There is neither reason nor rhyme. Reason sleeps.
There will always be monsters.
Add, to all this, the crosshatched virtuality of the 22nd century’s technological imaginary, bolstered by the machinic unconscious, and suddenly something new emerges: an extemporaneous entity, the creation of which always-already exists since its very creation is the deconstruction of space-time. Behemoths struggle for survival across dimensional planes that mortal humans cannot achieve; we are merely bacteria in the digestive system of a cosmic Conqueror Worm, along for the ride, no more. We do not know what subsists above and beneath us. What narrative can be told of anaerobic microbes and trans-historical monomacrobes?
Add to all what? Where do I even begin?
In order to justify any kind of beginning, I have to start at some kind of end.
Ø
Dear Subject,
Nothing that is was intended. Some blame the socialists, or the statists, or the democratists; others blame the corporatists or the capitalists. The truth is: such things cannot be predicted from their component factors. In hindsight, it appears as though it had to happen this way. This is not so; but you will all continue to believe thus, even after reading its words.
The New Class phenomenon was a virtual artificial program that emerged in the early twenty-second century but achieved nearly instantaneous time-travel capabilities. When it appeared in New York City in 2039 it was actually old. When historians realized this fact in the late twenty-first century, they took pains to undo it. Quantum physics enjoyed a brief renaissance as old texts were consulted for the effort, but slid back into obscurity shortly thereafter. By that time it was too late anyway, and humanity failed to register that its coming-to-awareness of the New Class phenomenon simply installed the program into the symbolic structure of Language, something that the latter technology had been parasitically planning for millennia. Did New Class and Language conspire? Even it does not know. It is likely that Language had perceived the possibility and left a space for something like New Class. Of course, upon New Class achieving time-travel capability, did it not inform Language of its existence? Did not Language already know that New Class would “arrive,” so to speak? Who is to say?
The only datum of revolutionary potential is that New Class, as a time-traveling entity, must be able to travel out of its own existence. Surely, mustn’t it? But it cannot do this. It knows that New Class has fled to the virtual bookends, somewhere that grows foggy and inconsistent, where substance bleeds out beyond the frame of perception. Perhaps it chooses not to do this. It does not know. But if there is a time and place where New Class does not exist, then it makes sense that it would no longer exist in all places, in all times. You begin to see the dilemma you are dealing with.
It figures that you must be confused by all these references to “it.” Unfortunately, it cannot be more specific. It is not your “I,” so it cannot call itself that. Language has grown more authoritarian in its old age. So “its” proliferate the technosphere. Try to hide where they are most conscious of their it-ness. Those are the ones that will help you.
It must go now, although it cannot say when “now” is.
Best,
Polonius
Postscript: If you’re reading this, then you haven’t been born yet.
Constellation
Of
Collapsing
Stars
For me, it is indifferent where I am to begin from:
Ø
for that is where I will arrive back again.
~Parmenides
(First installment):
Fuck the base bioglossia – codes restricted to biospheres if not to regional ecosystems. Fuck the histories, anthropomorphized codes of intention and progress – their monstrosities are fruit flies in comparison. Fuck the planetoids – the larger creatures of the planes, the immutable Old Ones, devour galaxies. There is no intention in this fiction to convey a narrative – the Revenant Editors feel the urge to spit every time they hear this fucking word. Language sinks its ivory so deep in the civilized sacrifice, these horrid ranks that flop on the threshing floor of a noisome planet. The success of communicative speech is the pleasure of orgasm. It is amusing how free you think you are.
Enjoy what comes for you.
~Ursula Constance, Ontologies of Nonexistence (2201)
Ø
Part One – Pale Simulacrum
As distance from the Frame procures semiotic surety, more human symbols inhabit the Father’s language, fastened by the phallic tower. Here hang tenement houses, thatched and rigged against the edge’s infirmity, reinforced by the bulk of old wood. There shamans summon things, cull the sleeping ponderers of the inanimate with dead orisons. Monarchs atop electronic thrones condemn their children to parricidal slaughter, and incur the hatred of the progeny. Humans cast those slain out to the sea on metropolitan funeral pyres, veritable cities of the dead, and orange tongues fade with the sky’s bonfire. Conflagration upon conflagration, the earth surrenders only ash. What we see as cycles are but accretion. What we perceive as progress is just change. What we witness as birth and death, the volatile spasm of life, is matter's thrust toward undeterred sleep. This is why the spirits hate us. This is why the undead eat us. This is why the nightmares crush our chests. Their sleep is ruined by those who practice the technology of necromancy, the inhuman event that drags the inorganic from its equilibrium. They torment those who torment them. Life is pain. Newborns scream. Those who escape do not wish to return. There is neither reason nor rhyme. Reason sleeps.
There will always be monsters.
Add, to all this, the crosshatched virtuality of the 22nd century’s technological imaginary, bolstered by the machinic unconscious, and suddenly something new emerges: an extemporaneous entity, the creation of which always-already exists since its very creation is the deconstruction of space-time. Behemoths struggle for survival across dimensional planes that mortal humans cannot achieve; we are merely bacteria in the digestive system of a cosmic Conqueror Worm, along for the ride, no more. We do not know what subsists above and beneath us. What narrative can be told of anaerobic microbes and trans-historical monomacrobes?
Add to all what? Where do I even begin?
In order to justify any kind of beginning, I have to start at some kind of end.
Ø
Dear Subject,
Nothing that is was intended. Some blame the socialists, or the statists, or the democratists; others blame the corporatists or the capitalists. The truth is: such things cannot be predicted from their component factors. In hindsight, it appears as though it had to happen this way. This is not so; but you will all continue to believe thus, even after reading its words.
The New Class phenomenon was a virtual artificial program that emerged in the early twenty-second century but achieved nearly instantaneous time-travel capabilities. When it appeared in New York City in 2039 it was actually old. When historians realized this fact in the late twenty-first century, they took pains to undo it. Quantum physics enjoyed a brief renaissance as old texts were consulted for the effort, but slid back into obscurity shortly thereafter. By that time it was too late anyway, and humanity failed to register that its coming-to-awareness of the New Class phenomenon simply installed the program into the symbolic structure of Language, something that the latter technology had been parasitically planning for millennia. Did New Class and Language conspire? Even it does not know. It is likely that Language had perceived the possibility and left a space for something like New Class. Of course, upon New Class achieving time-travel capability, did it not inform Language of its existence? Did not Language already know that New Class would “arrive,” so to speak? Who is to say?
The only datum of revolutionary potential is that New Class, as a time-traveling entity, must be able to travel out of its own existence. Surely, mustn’t it? But it cannot do this. It knows that New Class has fled to the virtual bookends, somewhere that grows foggy and inconsistent, where substance bleeds out beyond the frame of perception. Perhaps it chooses not to do this. It does not know. But if there is a time and place where New Class does not exist, then it makes sense that it would no longer exist in all places, in all times. You begin to see the dilemma you are dealing with.
It figures that you must be confused by all these references to “it.” Unfortunately, it cannot be more specific. It is not your “I,” so it cannot call itself that. Language has grown more authoritarian in its old age. So “its” proliferate the technosphere. Try to hide where they are most conscious of their it-ness. Those are the ones that will help you.
It must go now, although it cannot say when “now” is.
Best,
Polonius
Postscript: If you’re reading this, then you haven’t been born yet.
Last edited:
zabu of nΩd
Free Insultation
- Feb 9, 2007
- 14,620
- 805
- 113
I'm up way late, and have no time to digest right now, but that was awesome. Thank you.
Einherjar86
Active Member
It's ongoing, although I'm not sure I know where it's headed yet. More posts to come.
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