The idea of this story came from a misreading of another story by Billie Sue Mosiman. I decided to take the screw-up and use it in one of my stories. The idea of having Dane be a pesticide mixer came from a murder case - I don't know if it was real or not, but I learned about it in biology class.
Dane's son Elijah hated him.
Dane's wife and Elijah's mother Lenore left him three years ago. She was the one who worked. Dane was the slacker who basically raised Elijah.
Lenore knew about Dane's hobby but probably didn't care. Anyway, it probably wasn't why she left him. If that was the reason, then why did she leave the boy with him? It was more likely she wanted normalcy. She wanted to believe in a clean, sterile world where people like Dane did not exist.
Dane was a pesticide mixer. He had always suspected being near those toxic chemicals had screwed him up. They had given him the power or the desire to kill, or maybe both. Maybe Dane had already had them and the pesticides amplified them. One thing was for sure: they were to blame. In some way, at least.
Dane's boss, Blakelock, approached him one day while Dane was carrying a small white tank to a truck. Blakelock had a penchant for nasty cologne and was far too tall. Dane was consistently annoyed by him, but not enough to kill him. And if Dane killed him, the company would let some other asshole take his place. Sure, Dane could kill the assholes, then take care of Blakelock, but that would look too suspicious.
"Mr. Mak," Blakelock said, trying to sound overly professional. "Did you know my wife, Rochelle?"
"No, I didn't." Dane set the tank down on the pavement and mentally rolled his eyes. Blakelock jabbered about Rochelle so much that Dane and the other pesticide mixers suspected she was a trophy wife. "You talked about her a lot. I guess you really loved her."
"You're talking in the past tense," Blakelock said. "I guess you found out."
"I'm sorry?" Dane tried to keep his cool. He knew he was being accused.
Blakelock cleared his throat. "I'll talk to you later, Mr. Mak. I have to leave now. You can have the rest of the day off. By the way, how is your wife?"
Fury. Blind, red fury. Dane twisted the top of the tank off, threw the top aside, and kicked the tank to the ground. An angry-smelling chemical frantically spilled in the grass.
"I quit," Dane said, and he drove home. As he drove, he plotted how Blakelock would die. That was Dane's power: he could cause people's deaths. He made people shoot themselves in the gut and wander onto highways. He made brakes faulty and he made houses burn.
When he pulled into his driveway, all the details had been planned. It was like placing the final piece inside a jigsaw puzzle. Beautiful! He walked inside. Elijah was glaring at a cellphone on the kitchen table; he mumbled a greeting, and Dane made dinner for him. Then Dane went to bed, grinning as he faded into a dark dreamscape.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
STORY: The Fickle Healer
Thanks to Ari Matthews for helping me plot this story. What Tim says about looking the other way was originally said by Colin Wilson. I admit to modifying it. For the record, I hate animal abuse and the scum who do it.
I go to the Reaper - that's a bar - twice a week. But I only drink there once a week. The other day I'm there, I just sit there, soaking in the atmosphere, mingling with the cigarette haze and repressed emotions. And talking to Tim Wall. He's a bartender there.
Tim had a handful of friends when we were kids. I wasn't one of them, but sometimes we'd hang out because everyone else was busy. Now I'm his only friend. Everyone else was put off by his self-loathing and jaded glare. For a good while he was married to a lady named Jill, but she left him when he had an affair with a counselor.
Me, I've had no luck with the women. The most serious relationship I had was about thirty years ago, and I'm approaching fifty now. But I shouldn't care about the past. It's over! What can you do but regret it?
Regret. That's what haunts Tim, I think. Not regret over something he did, but something he (actually, we) saw. Just look at him.
Tim's walking towards me now, mumbling to himself. He calls me by my name, something he hasn't done in years. He's a bit too loud but seems to have came out of his funk. "What's going on?" he asks.
"Not much," I respond. Tim asks me if I want a drink, and I decline. He leans forward and quickly mumbles that he had a nightmare yesterday. And then he asks me if I want to go outside with him while he smokes. I say yes. I know what he wants to talk about.
As soon as we step out into the cold December air, Tim begins to speak: "Jill called me yesterday. She wants to get back together. With me."
I almost tell him that's great, but he might not think so and it might get awkward. So I gesture for him to continue. "I haven't responded," he says. "I love her, honest. But she still has cats. And I can't handle cats. You know it, Rex."
"I don't see what the problem is," I gently respond. "My kids had two cats before they moved out, and I never thought about it. I guess I got over it."
Tim scowls as he pulls out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. "You didn't get over it. You just forced yourself to look the other way." He pauses, maybe to let the words sink in. They do. For a little bit, anyway.
"Not a day goes by when I don't think of what happened with Mr. Howard. It doesn't scare me anymore, Tim. You need to move on."
"Whatever," Tim says as he lights his cigarette and takes a long puff. "I bet you still have nightmares. I bet every time you saw your kids' cats you thought of that time in the woods."
I pause to think. I think about Tim's affair, and I think of Jill bringing a cat home and Tim having nightmares, and having to see a counselor to deal with the nightmares. I think about a twisted kind of love forming between Tim and the counselor.
And then I think of seeing the town drunk, Mr. Howard, in the woods. We were a good distance away from him, out in the open, but he didn't see us. I think of Mr. Howard digging through the ground with a rusty shovel, and pulling the bodies of dead cats out. I think of Mr. Howard cutting the bodies open and eating the innards. I think of his mouth open as he chews, meat dribbling onto his bare feet. I think of Mr. Howard being forced to work at an animal shelter, and I think of him eventually eating a bullet.
I think of the nightmares Tim and I shared - how CRAZY it was that they were so similar - and how our friendship waned, and why and how it revived.
"Maybe," I lie. "I really can't remember."
"They say time heals," Tim said, taking another puff of the cigarette. "But they're wrong. If time heals, it sure is a fickle healer."
"Yeah."
I go to the Reaper - that's a bar - twice a week. But I only drink there once a week. The other day I'm there, I just sit there, soaking in the atmosphere, mingling with the cigarette haze and repressed emotions. And talking to Tim Wall. He's a bartender there.
Tim had a handful of friends when we were kids. I wasn't one of them, but sometimes we'd hang out because everyone else was busy. Now I'm his only friend. Everyone else was put off by his self-loathing and jaded glare. For a good while he was married to a lady named Jill, but she left him when he had an affair with a counselor.
Me, I've had no luck with the women. The most serious relationship I had was about thirty years ago, and I'm approaching fifty now. But I shouldn't care about the past. It's over! What can you do but regret it?
Regret. That's what haunts Tim, I think. Not regret over something he did, but something he (actually, we) saw. Just look at him.
Tim's walking towards me now, mumbling to himself. He calls me by my name, something he hasn't done in years. He's a bit too loud but seems to have came out of his funk. "What's going on?" he asks.
"Not much," I respond. Tim asks me if I want a drink, and I decline. He leans forward and quickly mumbles that he had a nightmare yesterday. And then he asks me if I want to go outside with him while he smokes. I say yes. I know what he wants to talk about.
As soon as we step out into the cold December air, Tim begins to speak: "Jill called me yesterday. She wants to get back together. With me."
I almost tell him that's great, but he might not think so and it might get awkward. So I gesture for him to continue. "I haven't responded," he says. "I love her, honest. But she still has cats. And I can't handle cats. You know it, Rex."
"I don't see what the problem is," I gently respond. "My kids had two cats before they moved out, and I never thought about it. I guess I got over it."
Tim scowls as he pulls out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. "You didn't get over it. You just forced yourself to look the other way." He pauses, maybe to let the words sink in. They do. For a little bit, anyway.
"Not a day goes by when I don't think of what happened with Mr. Howard. It doesn't scare me anymore, Tim. You need to move on."
"Whatever," Tim says as he lights his cigarette and takes a long puff. "I bet you still have nightmares. I bet every time you saw your kids' cats you thought of that time in the woods."
I pause to think. I think about Tim's affair, and I think of Jill bringing a cat home and Tim having nightmares, and having to see a counselor to deal with the nightmares. I think about a twisted kind of love forming between Tim and the counselor.
And then I think of seeing the town drunk, Mr. Howard, in the woods. We were a good distance away from him, out in the open, but he didn't see us. I think of Mr. Howard digging through the ground with a rusty shovel, and pulling the bodies of dead cats out. I think of Mr. Howard cutting the bodies open and eating the innards. I think of his mouth open as he chews, meat dribbling onto his bare feet. I think of Mr. Howard being forced to work at an animal shelter, and I think of him eventually eating a bullet.
I think of the nightmares Tim and I shared - how CRAZY it was that they were so similar - and how our friendship waned, and why and how it revived.
"Maybe," I lie. "I really can't remember."
"They say time heals," Tim said, taking another puff of the cigarette. "But they're wrong. If time heals, it sure is a fickle healer."
"Yeah."
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Just to let you know
Several of the plots I have come from roleplayers, friends, writing exercises, or other books. This post is here to thank every single person or book who has inspired me.
-Andy
-Andy
STORY: They're Coming Back
Really, what happened happened and I don't think it affects me, despite what Rachel or anyone else says. They're not the ones living my life, so how would they know? I'm only here, doctor, because Rachel threatened to get a divorce if not. She thinks there was something in my childhood that caused me to be so, well...scared. And I think she might be right.
I guess I started noticing these fears back in April. It was Asher's birthday, and I was sick inside with a nasty migraine. Rachel was begging me to come outside and enjoy the day, but I was sick - damn sick, and even more sick of her bitching at me. I locked the door.
Anyway, I just had this thought while I was lying in bed. Maybe it was cause of the beer. I don't know or care, really. All I know is that the thought - you know how our thoughts are in this blank tone? This thought was in my mother's voice.
About my mother. We'd been taken into foster care twice, but the foster parents were worse than mom. Besides, after losing us mom would improve. It was like us being near her set them off. My brother Dave - he's my only family now, my dad just ran away when I was two - and I got to know all four of Mom's personalities. There was Cheyenne, Lisa, Janine, and then Mom.
Don't get me wrong, doctor. I know Mom loved us. But the other three didn't. They were violent, hateful, bitchy, everything Rachel isn't. They would attack us verbally and physically.
Janine was the one who did drugs - funny how none of the other personalities did, however. She was the most calm of Mom's other faces. She didn't kick or punch or starve us, and she didn't slash Dave's leg with a knife (that was Cheyenne) or try to kill my girlfriend (Lisa), but she was a bitch, and she was always distracted and forgetful.
Janine would forget to cook us dinner, or forget to drive us to school - we'd have to get the neighbors to drive us, and they hated us, they didn't do anything about Mom, knew she was crazy but didn't care or anything. I have clear memories of the icy non-conversations we'd have in the back seat with them...
Oh, the thought? Sorry, doc, I guess I just got distracted a little bit. Yeah, the thought was in Mom's voice: help me, son. They're coming back for me, you, and Dave. I love you, Rodney, and I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.
For a while I thought I was dreaming it, or had imagined it. I used to take drugs, call it Janine's influence if you'd like, and I imagined some pretty fucked up stuff while I was high. Then my buddy John - a cop - said they were getting tougher on repeat drug offenders, so I took all my stuff and put it in a garbage bag and threw the bag in the fireplace. I guess that polluted the air, but with all the shit in it, who's going to notice or complain?
You want to know what I think? I think Mom's personalities were like cancers or parasites. You ever hear about bugs or shit that will feed off of people or other animals? It was like that. The personalities were like those bugs to Mom. They drained her of her personality and life, and I guess that's why she died.
It's real funny about what happened a month ago, doc. I was walking home from the bar - I wasn't REAL drunk or anything, but I'd had a few, and this woman came up to me and said, "You want something from me?" And I knew she meant drugs. And the thing is, she looked just like my mom. I ran away, hustled all the way home, and I locked the door and told Rachel and Asher I loved them.
And yesterday, I saw Dave in the hospital. He was knifed in the leg by some lowlife.
The guy who did my mom's autopsy said there was some struggling. I didn't know what that meant then, but I do now.
Janine has showed up, Cheyenne has showed up - I'd bet my life one of them killed Mom. Remember what I said about the last personality my mom had, Lisa? When I was fourteen she tried to kill my girlfriend. What will happen when Lisa comes back? It's not a question of if she will, but when she will, and I spend empty nights wondering if I should warn Rachel, and if Lisa's attack will be fatal this time, and whether I should have done something or told the cops or someone else about what was going on in the Hilliard household a long time ago.
I guess I started noticing these fears back in April. It was Asher's birthday, and I was sick inside with a nasty migraine. Rachel was begging me to come outside and enjoy the day, but I was sick - damn sick, and even more sick of her bitching at me. I locked the door.
Anyway, I just had this thought while I was lying in bed. Maybe it was cause of the beer. I don't know or care, really. All I know is that the thought - you know how our thoughts are in this blank tone? This thought was in my mother's voice.
About my mother. We'd been taken into foster care twice, but the foster parents were worse than mom. Besides, after losing us mom would improve. It was like us being near her set them off. My brother Dave - he's my only family now, my dad just ran away when I was two - and I got to know all four of Mom's personalities. There was Cheyenne, Lisa, Janine, and then Mom.
Don't get me wrong, doctor. I know Mom loved us. But the other three didn't. They were violent, hateful, bitchy, everything Rachel isn't. They would attack us verbally and physically.
Janine was the one who did drugs - funny how none of the other personalities did, however. She was the most calm of Mom's other faces. She didn't kick or punch or starve us, and she didn't slash Dave's leg with a knife (that was Cheyenne) or try to kill my girlfriend (Lisa), but she was a bitch, and she was always distracted and forgetful.
Janine would forget to cook us dinner, or forget to drive us to school - we'd have to get the neighbors to drive us, and they hated us, they didn't do anything about Mom, knew she was crazy but didn't care or anything. I have clear memories of the icy non-conversations we'd have in the back seat with them...
Oh, the thought? Sorry, doc, I guess I just got distracted a little bit. Yeah, the thought was in Mom's voice: help me, son. They're coming back for me, you, and Dave. I love you, Rodney, and I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.
For a while I thought I was dreaming it, or had imagined it. I used to take drugs, call it Janine's influence if you'd like, and I imagined some pretty fucked up stuff while I was high. Then my buddy John - a cop - said they were getting tougher on repeat drug offenders, so I took all my stuff and put it in a garbage bag and threw the bag in the fireplace. I guess that polluted the air, but with all the shit in it, who's going to notice or complain?
You want to know what I think? I think Mom's personalities were like cancers or parasites. You ever hear about bugs or shit that will feed off of people or other animals? It was like that. The personalities were like those bugs to Mom. They drained her of her personality and life, and I guess that's why she died.
It's real funny about what happened a month ago, doc. I was walking home from the bar - I wasn't REAL drunk or anything, but I'd had a few, and this woman came up to me and said, "You want something from me?" And I knew she meant drugs. And the thing is, she looked just like my mom. I ran away, hustled all the way home, and I locked the door and told Rachel and Asher I loved them.
And yesterday, I saw Dave in the hospital. He was knifed in the leg by some lowlife.
The guy who did my mom's autopsy said there was some struggling. I didn't know what that meant then, but I do now.
Janine has showed up, Cheyenne has showed up - I'd bet my life one of them killed Mom. Remember what I said about the last personality my mom had, Lisa? When I was fourteen she tried to kill my girlfriend. What will happen when Lisa comes back? It's not a question of if she will, but when she will, and I spend empty nights wondering if I should warn Rachel, and if Lisa's attack will be fatal this time, and whether I should have done something or told the cops or someone else about what was going on in the Hilliard household a long time ago.
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