I have a room. No windows, just four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. There's a door, but I don't use it much, personally, just to recieve my daily loaf of bread and pitcher of water through the slot at the bottom.
Sometimes I imagine there's more to this room than the soft white walls and floor and ceiling so high, it echoes when I scream, like in a church cathedral. But at least churches give you something pretty to look at so you don't even want to think about screaming: Stained glass windows.
I pretend there's a window in my room. I like to sit there and poke my head between the red velvet curtains and squint past the grimy glass and metal bars.
Before me stretches the city in all it's foul beauty. Smoke funnels from the chimnies of mills and bake houses, pitch black against the cloudy grey sky. In the distance, half-hidden by this acrid fog, I can barely make out the outline of a clock tower and if I press my ear to the glass, I can feel the subtle vibrations of its vast internal machinery, ticking...
***
Jasper's jacket is made 'o the sturdiest material. A stiff fabric, like a canvas yeh paint on. It's white... Well, it was white once, but wif the way 'e carries on in there, I expect it'd be brown by now, ripped ter shreds if it weren't so damn sturdy. Not that I'm complaining, mind. I just wish to impress upon you the violent nature of it.
Some say we should treat 'em better, but I say let 'em rot in that room there. What 'e done ter his family is a sin, it is. Oh, but 'e'll get 'is own at the gallows come Friday and then it'll be God 'e answers ter, not me...
We tried ter bring 'em up once, ter see how the others take ter 'em. Well, 'e took ter them like a wolf takes ter meat and twice as vicious. Nearly bit me finger off, 'e did. It was back to the basement wif 'em after that.
Now 'e just sits wif his face pressed against the wall, laughing 'is 'ead off and when I come down to bring 'em food, 'e snickers and says, real quiet like, "I'll bet a finger's twice as nice, but I can't afford the price..."
9.25.2009
bach's toccata and fugue in D minor (dialogue)
“You play beautifully,” Sophia whispered as the last note faded.
The Inspector’s fingers gently lifted from the ivory keys and settled in his lap. “Thank you.” He didn’t look up.
“Have you classical training?” she inquired, shifting on the bench to get closer to him under the pretense of straightening her skirt.
He shook his head. “My mother taught lessons. I was bound to pick up a few things.”
"A few?" she laughed airily. "I'd certainly say it was more than a few... Tell me, Inspector: Have you ever dreamt of playing professionally? I dare say you'd fare better as a musician than as an officer of the law, what with your talent. "
He shook his head again. "I only play for private parties." A small smile graced his lips. "Besides, I have many talents. I happen to enjoy my current profession and there's always work to be done."
Sophia snorted. "Yes, work to be done, papers to be notarized, bodies to be examined..." She suddered despite her flippancy.
The Inspector shrugged and raised his hands once more to the keyboard, but only to pull down the rosewood cover.
“That piece..." Sophia began, "what was it? It sounded somehow familiar, but I know it couldn’t have been: I’ve never heard anything so beautiful before, or surely I would have remembered it.”
"Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. It's one of my favourites." He gave her a rare smile.
She blushed. "I think it's one of my favourites too..."
The Inspector’s fingers gently lifted from the ivory keys and settled in his lap. “Thank you.” He didn’t look up.
“Have you classical training?” she inquired, shifting on the bench to get closer to him under the pretense of straightening her skirt.
He shook his head. “My mother taught lessons. I was bound to pick up a few things.”
"A few?" she laughed airily. "I'd certainly say it was more than a few... Tell me, Inspector: Have you ever dreamt of playing professionally? I dare say you'd fare better as a musician than as an officer of the law, what with your talent. "
He shook his head again. "I only play for private parties." A small smile graced his lips. "Besides, I have many talents. I happen to enjoy my current profession and there's always work to be done."
Sophia snorted. "Yes, work to be done, papers to be notarized, bodies to be examined..." She suddered despite her flippancy.
The Inspector shrugged and raised his hands once more to the keyboard, but only to pull down the rosewood cover.
“That piece..." Sophia began, "what was it? It sounded somehow familiar, but I know it couldn’t have been: I’ve never heard anything so beautiful before, or surely I would have remembered it.”
"Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. It's one of my favourites." He gave her a rare smile.
She blushed. "I think it's one of my favourites too..."
9.24.2009
monologue for fugue
Dr. Thomas Sharlen:
"Me? Me of all the people it could have been, you ask. Don’t look so shocked. If you’ll but think one moment, it will all make sense. Who else cannot withstand the light of day or the sun’s cruel heat? Who else has a steady enough hand, a left hand, as you so expertly deduced? Who has the expertise to dissect the bodies so carefully, so meticulously and preserve them like they were only sleeping? And who would have the audacity to leave them on your stoop but a man not afraid of your power?
You see it makes sense that I am the perpetrator of these crimes, does it not?
Don’t reach for your gun; you’ll never make it in time. My knife will make quick work of her throat. Not quite the masterpiece I was hoping for my grand finale, but certainly a piece de résistance. She’s not you, of course, but as close as one can get without raising the dead…
Ahh, the look on your face tells me you already know… And yet the look on her countenance tells me she does not. Why keep the fair maiden in the dark. Shall we bring the family secret to the light then?
You say at one time you had a proper family: A father, a mother, some siblings perhaps, or maybe just one, a sister or a brother. Tragedy struck like it does in so many comedic tableaus, leaving just you and your mother and a sister, sold to a brothel for a crust of bread.
She gasps! Her eyes ask for your confirmation, but she needn’t search for something that can stare her straight in the face. Namely, your eyes, which are so like hers, it’s a wonder she didn’t notice before. And the freckles that dust her cheeks, that she tries in vain to cover with powders and paints. Do they not mirror yours almost exactly? And dare I mention the hollow look about the face and the lithe musician's fingers?
Is this man, this man that you claim to love so passionately, not your brother? Well? Answer me!"
"Me? Me of all the people it could have been, you ask. Don’t look so shocked. If you’ll but think one moment, it will all make sense. Who else cannot withstand the light of day or the sun’s cruel heat? Who else has a steady enough hand, a left hand, as you so expertly deduced? Who has the expertise to dissect the bodies so carefully, so meticulously and preserve them like they were only sleeping? And who would have the audacity to leave them on your stoop but a man not afraid of your power?
You see it makes sense that I am the perpetrator of these crimes, does it not?
Don’t reach for your gun; you’ll never make it in time. My knife will make quick work of her throat. Not quite the masterpiece I was hoping for my grand finale, but certainly a piece de résistance. She’s not you, of course, but as close as one can get without raising the dead…
Ahh, the look on your face tells me you already know… And yet the look on her countenance tells me she does not. Why keep the fair maiden in the dark. Shall we bring the family secret to the light then?
You say at one time you had a proper family: A father, a mother, some siblings perhaps, or maybe just one, a sister or a brother. Tragedy struck like it does in so many comedic tableaus, leaving just you and your mother and a sister, sold to a brothel for a crust of bread.
She gasps! Her eyes ask for your confirmation, but she needn’t search for something that can stare her straight in the face. Namely, your eyes, which are so like hers, it’s a wonder she didn’t notice before. And the freckles that dust her cheeks, that she tries in vain to cover with powders and paints. Do they not mirror yours almost exactly? And dare I mention the hollow look about the face and the lithe musician's fingers?
Is this man, this man that you claim to love so passionately, not your brother? Well? Answer me!"
9.19.2009
life or death situations.
Juliet gasped.
Just when she thought she'd never see him again, there was Rider.
She was ready to yell at him for leaving her behind again but noticed that Red was there behind him, holding him still with one hand on his shoulder and a gun to his neck. Her sneering face just visible to one side of his head told Juliet that the fight was over... and that they'd lost.
"You thought he'd live forever, didn't you?" Red asked, squeezing his shoulder and ripping the fabric of his jacket with her fingernails.
"No..." The back of Juliet's throat burned, but she refused to cry. Not here and now in front of that monster.
Rider stared at her, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. There was no tension in his body. Juliet knew he'd given up. She wanted to scream at him, but didn't. Maybe she'd just give up too.
The cigarette he'd put in his mouth before charging into the lab was still there, hanging from the corner of his lip. The smoke curled up and away as Juliet watched it burn lower.
"I guess I don't have to tell you it's over." Red smiled. "You're a smart girl..." Her finger twitched on the trigger.
"Don't give up," Rider said softly, giving Juliet an imperceptible wink.
Juliet's eyes flashed from Rider to Red and back again. "I love you," she told him.
He dipped his head and took one last drag off his cigarette before pinching it between two fingers and tossing it to the floor. He raised his foot and ground it to ash on the tile.
Red's smile widened until it threatened to split the skin grafts on her cheeks. "How can you love something that doesn't exist?"
Her finger bent and the gun went off.
Just when she thought she'd never see him again, there was Rider.
She was ready to yell at him for leaving her behind again but noticed that Red was there behind him, holding him still with one hand on his shoulder and a gun to his neck. Her sneering face just visible to one side of his head told Juliet that the fight was over... and that they'd lost.
"You thought he'd live forever, didn't you?" Red asked, squeezing his shoulder and ripping the fabric of his jacket with her fingernails.
"No..." The back of Juliet's throat burned, but she refused to cry. Not here and now in front of that monster.
Rider stared at her, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. There was no tension in his body. Juliet knew he'd given up. She wanted to scream at him, but didn't. Maybe she'd just give up too.
The cigarette he'd put in his mouth before charging into the lab was still there, hanging from the corner of his lip. The smoke curled up and away as Juliet watched it burn lower.
"I guess I don't have to tell you it's over." Red smiled. "You're a smart girl..." Her finger twitched on the trigger.
"Don't give up," Rider said softly, giving Juliet an imperceptible wink.
Juliet's eyes flashed from Rider to Red and back again. "I love you," she told him.
He dipped his head and took one last drag off his cigarette before pinching it between two fingers and tossing it to the floor. He raised his foot and ground it to ash on the tile.
Red's smile widened until it threatened to split the skin grafts on her cheeks. "How can you love something that doesn't exist?"
Her finger bent and the gun went off.
9.16.2009
shaggy dog
I. Andrew was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pencil down on the desktop before him, scratched his chin, and stared thoughtfully towards the classroom door.
But the longer he stared, the more he became convinced that the door was, in fact, opening slowly.
As Andrew stood to investigate, a big, slobbering beast with red-rimmed eyes burst through the door, dashed across the room, and ripped Andrew's head off with one swipe of its terrible claws.
The monster laughed as Andrew's body fell heavily to the floor at his feet: He knew that supper was ready.
II. Brandon was expecting company for dinner that night, so he decided to head off to the supermarket to buy ingredients for his famous tongue stew. Brandon lived in an apartment two blocks away from the closest market, so he decided to walk, as it was a very nice day outside.
Once at the market, Brandon bought a box of broth, a few potatoes, and a half-pond of minced tongue. After waiting at the check-out for some time, Brandon paid for his groceries and walked away with two bags in his hands.
Outside, Brandon saw a stray cat. It seemed friendly enough, so Brandon stooped down and set the bags containing the broth, potatoes, and minced tongue on the sidewalk beside him. He reached out to pet the cat, but suddenly, the cat grabbed an abandoned grocery bag in its mouth and sprinted away.
Brandon jumped to his feet. "Somebody stop him!" he cried, pointing a finger at the retreating animal. "That cat's got my tongue!"
But the longer he stared, the more he became convinced that the door was, in fact, opening slowly.
As Andrew stood to investigate, a big, slobbering beast with red-rimmed eyes burst through the door, dashed across the room, and ripped Andrew's head off with one swipe of its terrible claws.
The monster laughed as Andrew's body fell heavily to the floor at his feet: He knew that supper was ready.
II. Brandon was expecting company for dinner that night, so he decided to head off to the supermarket to buy ingredients for his famous tongue stew. Brandon lived in an apartment two blocks away from the closest market, so he decided to walk, as it was a very nice day outside.
Once at the market, Brandon bought a box of broth, a few potatoes, and a half-pond of minced tongue. After waiting at the check-out for some time, Brandon paid for his groceries and walked away with two bags in his hands.
Outside, Brandon saw a stray cat. It seemed friendly enough, so Brandon stooped down and set the bags containing the broth, potatoes, and minced tongue on the sidewalk beside him. He reached out to pet the cat, but suddenly, the cat grabbed an abandoned grocery bag in its mouth and sprinted away.
Brandon jumped to his feet. "Somebody stop him!" he cried, pointing a finger at the retreating animal. "That cat's got my tongue!"
9.15.2009
worst. sentence. ever.
Once upon a time, there was a man -- more like a boy still, really, for he was only eighteen or so at last count (he could never remember his exact age, not having any recollection of the day in question on which he was born, nor ever having celebrated his birthday with a party because he was an orphan who lived in an orphanage, due largely to the fact that his parents died in a tragic accident when he was three-and-three-quarters, although it wasn't so much an accident, come to think of it, but that's a different story entirely.)
Jared looked around -- a habit of his he perpetually performed without so much as a second thought as if checking behind corners and under beds for spies and listening devices was an everday occurence for Jared (which it was, for Jared was Schitzophrenic and had been off his medication for quite some time, as he couldn't afford to visit the doctor and the personality which did these mundane healthcare-related tasks wasn't coming around much these days to keep him on task) -- before scratching his butt.
Every year, Andrew attempted to fabricate a reasonable excuse for not attending Christmas dinner with the Littles because it always went the same way and he absolutely hated it: First, with bonbon eating and tequila drinking, followed closely by a supper of dry ham and what might have once been yams, but now more accurately resembled a dish of charcoal briquettes, followed (after a good thirty minutes of belt-loosening at the dining room table) by more tequila, off-key (in both directions, sharp and flat simultantiously) Christmas carols, and Robert Little, the patriarch of the family, removing his clothing until he was stark naked and trying to climb atop the brightly decorated Christmas tree singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" with a characteristic drunken slur that was quite his own.
Jared looked around -- a habit of his he perpetually performed without so much as a second thought as if checking behind corners and under beds for spies and listening devices was an everday occurence for Jared (which it was, for Jared was Schitzophrenic and had been off his medication for quite some time, as he couldn't afford to visit the doctor and the personality which did these mundane healthcare-related tasks wasn't coming around much these days to keep him on task) -- before scratching his butt.
Every year, Andrew attempted to fabricate a reasonable excuse for not attending Christmas dinner with the Littles because it always went the same way and he absolutely hated it: First, with bonbon eating and tequila drinking, followed closely by a supper of dry ham and what might have once been yams, but now more accurately resembled a dish of charcoal briquettes, followed (after a good thirty minutes of belt-loosening at the dining room table) by more tequila, off-key (in both directions, sharp and flat simultantiously) Christmas carols, and Robert Little, the patriarch of the family, removing his clothing until he was stark naked and trying to climb atop the brightly decorated Christmas tree singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" with a characteristic drunken slur that was quite his own.
9.12.2009
fifty-five fiction
the importance of irony.
"You've got it all wrong: Irony is when the outcome is different than you expected."
Emily lowered her book.
Logan stared at her.
"You're beautiful."
She smiled. "Thanks."
He leaned forward, then paused. Her eyes widened.
"Are you expecting me to kiss you now?"
Emily nodded.
Logan grinned.
"Now that's ironic."
special delivery.
"It was here when I got home."
"Have you opened it yet?"
"Of course not! It could be a bomb!"
"Is someone trying to kill you?"
"Well, you never know..."
"Just open it."
"You do it. I'm not touching it."
"Fine... Oh..."
"What is it?"
"Socks and a card from your Mom."
"Oh, how sweet."
you're invited.
"More tea, Mother?"
Her Mother didn't answer.
The girl set the teapot down and folded her hands. "Mother, while I enjoy your company and this time together, I do request that you bathe before the next soirée. If I may be frank, you smell something awful."
Her Mother's dead body slumped in its chair.
tourniquet.
There was a puddle of red on the floor.
She sighed and went to wash her hands, which the red had also stained. She watched the pink water swirl down the drain. Then, she grabbed a sponge and a bottle of bleach and dilligently scrubbed at the carpet where the paint had been spilt.
"You've got it all wrong: Irony is when the outcome is different than you expected."
Emily lowered her book.
Logan stared at her.
"You're beautiful."
She smiled. "Thanks."
He leaned forward, then paused. Her eyes widened.
"Are you expecting me to kiss you now?"
Emily nodded.
Logan grinned.
"Now that's ironic."
special delivery.
"It was here when I got home."
"Have you opened it yet?"
"Of course not! It could be a bomb!"
"Is someone trying to kill you?"
"Well, you never know..."
"Just open it."
"You do it. I'm not touching it."
"Fine... Oh..."
"What is it?"
"Socks and a card from your Mom."
"Oh, how sweet."
you're invited.
"More tea, Mother?"
Her Mother didn't answer.
The girl set the teapot down and folded her hands. "Mother, while I enjoy your company and this time together, I do request that you bathe before the next soirée. If I may be frank, you smell something awful."
Her Mother's dead body slumped in its chair.
tourniquet.
There was a puddle of red on the floor.
She sighed and went to wash her hands, which the red had also stained. She watched the pink water swirl down the drain. Then, she grabbed a sponge and a bottle of bleach and dilligently scrubbed at the carpet where the paint had been spilt.
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