Here be Fictions

"The Frozen Ones" - an unfinished fragment

2008-02-19T13:09:40Z

The Frozen Ones

By: Nicholas Hirsch

“I’ve been cold in ways you can’t imagine,” the old man said. His voice was as hard and gravelly as his withered face, and as he spoke he lifted a stunted finger to point at the little girl’s chest. Transfixed by the glare of his pale, rheumy eyes, she said nothing, only stared in fascinated horror.

“You know nothing of cold,” he continued, “You, with your blankets and your mother’s warm hands, safe in the knowledge that you can find heat, if you want it. You’ve never had the touch of frost in your belly; that cold ache that gnaws your bones and grinds your senses to a dull fog. You’ve never been so desperate. You’ve never known despair. Be grateful, little one. Be thankful, and pray you never need sleep when you know the ice is reaching for you, and that you might not wake for being frozen in the night.”

Here the old man paused and made thick, horrible sounds from the depths of his esophagus. He turned aside and shot brown phlegm into the brass bucket he kept next to his rocking chair. Despite herself, the little girl shuddered with disgust. For all his talk about freezing and dying, her grandfather didn’t seem too worried about habits that were bound to throw him into an early grave. Momma came into the room, then, and when she saw her daughter’s face she shot the old man a look hot with aggravation.

“Dad, what have I told you?” she demanded.

Suddenly, the old man was all hurt and quiet dignity, spreading his hands in surrender and putting on a woeful, beleaguered expression. His chin even trembled a little.

“I was just telling bed-time stories, was all,” he said.

This did nothing to ameliorate his daughter’s rage.

“You know better,” she said, lifting the girl into her arms, “She’s only six, for Christ’s sake.”

“The girl’s fine,” he insisted, then looked her in the eyes, “Aren’t you, Abigail?”

Abigail was feeling far from fine, but under her grandfather’s insistent stare, she could only make herself nod solemnly. Despite his gruffness and his terrible appearance, she liked the old man, and if his stories frightened her, it wasn’t enough to deter her from asking for more. Even with his horrible anecdotes, where people (usually little girls around Abby’s age) died in gruesome and untimely ways, there was something hypnotic about the way he talked. Abigail loved to sit in his lap and hear the soothing cadence of his voice, rough as sandpaper from years of drinking whiskey and smoking hand-rolled cigars.

“You see?” he said, “No harm done.”

“Right,” said Momma, “No harm done. Let’s see you say that when she wakes up crying at three in the morning. Maybe I should wake you up to take care of her.”

“Maybe you should,” he shot back, “Maybe if you sleep more, you won’t be such a – “

“Come on, Abby,” Momma interrupted, suddenly all velvet and warm lace, “Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

Abigail nodded her acquiescence, more scared of the hostility between the adults in her life than of the wights in Grandfather’s stories. Her mother took her hand, and led her out of the room. Abby looked over her shoulder one last time on the way out, waving at Grandfather as he gave her a wink and touched his temple. This was his way of saying “goodnight and I love you,” and he’d been doing it that way as long as Abby had been alive. She responded with a little wave, blinking sleepily. Then she was in bed, and Momma was tucking her in.

“I love you,” she said softly, and kissed Abigail’s forehead.

“G’nite,” Abby murmured, and was asleep.

---

Wind howls through trees and over houses. It tears away leaves and shutters with teeth of ice, and burrows into the bones of foolhardy creatures too stupid to seek shelter. Overhead, great lavender clouds bellow their rage across tumultuous skies, shaking loose a torrent of tiny white daggers. Beneath a darkened window stands a lone figure, unmoved by the chill. A little girl stands behind the glass, looking out. She can see nothing of its face but a pair of cold, dead eyes. She tries to look away, but such is the nature of a nightmare that she cannot. Her gaze is as fixed as the other’s.

The figure lifts a pallid hand toward her - pointing or reaching, it is impossible to say. She is terrified in any case, and tries more desperately to turn away. Clouds fall away from the face of the moon, revealing the wretched face of the tormented creature below. His eyes are white-on-white, his skin grey. He wears the tattered remains of a funereal suit.

“Go away,” she cries.

His only answer is a long, low moan, full of sadness, restlessness and hunger.

“Go!” she screams.

To her dreaming eyes, it seems that the creature comes closer, even though he is still as stone. The dead man breathes, and for a moment she can smell the sick, sweet smell of worms and moist earth through the glass. His eyes grow massive, or else their intensity is such that she can see nothing else. Dread crawls up from the pit of her trembling belly and lodges itself in her chest as she realizes that the monster is looking beyond the veil of dreams and nightmares, and looking at her.

Her shoulders stiffen. Her spine crawls. The dead man opens his mouth wide and slowly utters the terrifying syllables –

“A-BI-GAIL…”

The sound echoes in her mind, tumbling through the black recesses of her mind as she screams. He knew her name! He knew her name! He wasn’t a dream, he was real, and

---

“Abigail. Abigail!”

Momma’s voice sank through the thick layers of panic and sleep to find the little girl cowering beneath. Slowly, Abigail rose into consciousness, shedding her terror and nestling in her mother’s warm arms. Hot, salty tears ran through the seams of her still-closed eyes. She didn’t dare open them yet. The stranger might still be there. Terror roiled in her at the thought.

“Abigail, honey, what’s wrong? Are you having nightmares again?” Momma sounded almost accusatory, even as she fussed over the girl’s rumpled bed linens. Abigail nodded, finally opening her eyes. Momma’s face was her own. There was no Stranger here.

“That’s it,” Momma said, thoroughly annoyed, “No more of grandpa’s spooky stories before bed. You need your sleep, and so do I!”

---

"Clouds" - a short story

2008-02-19T13:05:48Z

The plane had landed, but he still felt miles away. A soothing voice mentioned leaving, and a serene woman in a burgundy cap touched his arm and pointed to the door. He saw through the window that the plane was now strapped to a long umbilicus that ended in an airport terminal. The woman smiled encouragingly, and then moved on to the next seat. For one giddy moment at the exit, he wondered if maybe he’d been wrong, and was in reality being shepherded into the open air.

His feet did not sink into the floor, and he did not plummet to an untimely death. Nevertheless, there was a sensation of falling as he stepped into a blue-carpeted labyrinth that did nothing to ease his disphoria. He drifted from terminal to baggage claim, following friendly signs in white letters. His steps were not his own. Neither were his thoughts, lost in cumulonimbus ether. Her voice brought him down for a moment, filtering through the dissociative fugue.

“Jonathan,” she said.

The sight of her came to him in pieces, a jigsaw puzzle fitted together as his eyes traveled from one feature to another. Hair, the color of sunshine, falling like angels’ feathers over the soft curve of her shoulders; small, angular nose with tiny nostrils shrunk to nervous pinpricks; trembling ruby lips, thin as paper. Her eyes, the color of rain, were full of need and meaning.

“Hello Laura,” he said.

His bag passed by, and he watched it drift away.

“John,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he reassured her, “It’ll come back around.”

She didn’t respond. When he looked up, her eyes dropped like anchors. Moments passed. The other passengers, oblivious or apathetic to the scene playing out between these strangers, picked up their bags and left, one by one.

“The car’s out in front,” she finally said, “Eric’s waiting.”

“Okay,” John said.

His bag came back, and this time he picked it up. The weight of it felt reassuring in his hands. It brought him closer to cohesion, enough so that when his sister rushed forward without warning and wrapped her arms around him, he knew what to say, even if his voice still sounded distant to his own ears. He hugger her close with his free hand.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, as she cried quietly into his sweater, “It’s okay.”

“So how long are you in town?”

Eric’s question came after a long quiet spell, during which Laura and John had both contented themselves watching trees slide past the windows of the blue Century as it hissed quietly along a pristine patch of country road, fresh laid over the summer.

“Three days,” John said.

“That’s good,” Eric said, “You get a day to recuperate before you go back.”

“Yes.”

Silence resumed. Eric didn’t try to break it again, to the gratitude of his passengers. John’s strange detachment seemed to have infected his sister, and neither of them was particularly responsive. Twice, Eric’s hand drifted toward the radio, but one look at his wife’s face told him that now was not the time for classic rock.

The drive home took twenty minutes. To John, it could have been five seconds or ten days. The trees, all yellow and orange, shone bright under the crisp blue autumn sky. The sun was a distant ball of fire, sharp as a diamond. Pearly, gleaming clouds drifted in clusters like shoals of tiny fish. Having recently seen them up close, John couldn’t reconcile their solid appearance from the ground with their true, tenebrous nature. Were people really so different? The thought was strangely comforting and he mulled it over until the car pulled into the driveway of his mother’s house.

The funeral was short. Under the cover of darkness, the weather had taken steps toward winter. Those tiny pearls that Jonathan had admired were replaced with a single sheet of endless grey, draped across the sky like the underside of a massive comforter. A cold breeze had knocked most of the leaves off of the trees in the night, carpeting the ground in gold and umber. Near his mother’s new grave, Jonathan noted a ring of bare trees whose branches resembled nothing so much as a cluster of skeletal hands tearing their way free of the earth, desperate to rise. The mourners huddled close to the one another, providing each other with comfort and (given the circumstances) mutual body heat.

The pastor spoke a profound homily which Jonathan didn’t hear a word of. His thoughts remained skyward, detached. His eyes idly traced the paths of distant birds as the minister recalled the arc of a life. Jonathan knew most of the story already, and took nothing from it. Two sparrows fought over a half-frozen worm on the ground between two headstones. He tried and failed to pay attention and mourn. For a day and a half, he had expected his detachment to fade, and the immediacy of his mother’s death to finally hit him.

So far, it hadn’t. Tears failed to spring to his eyes, and he could not reconcile the woman in the coffin with the one he’d called mother. He knew, intellectually, that it was. This was her body. It had seen her through many rough and glorious years, and shared more secrets than he would ever know. He felt nothing for it. It wasn’t his mother, because it wasn’t alive, and she had been. It was a dilemma – he was expected to show remorse, and from a distance of many miles he did feel it, but this body was a thing he didn’t know, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel for it.

Snow started to fall as the old priest finally closed his prayers. Shivering family members filed past the coffin for one last goodbye. Jonathan was last, and stayed the longest. His eyes traced the smooth contours of the box, noting the soft curve of the lid and the seraphic faces carved into the hard lacquered wood. Crosses and roses were piled high in the pit below, like unchecked baggage. Jonathan touched them and watched as little white flakes of ice landed on the back of his hand, melting on contact.

The clouds dispersed the next day, as did Jonathan’s extended family. A stiff breeze picked up, carrying yesterday’s leaves into the air and making them dance and tumble along the side of the road. They followed Eric’s car like a farewell delegation; whispering or laughing, Jonathan couldn’t tell which. He kept the window cracked open, refreshed by a blast of frigid air on his face.

“You mind the radio?” Eric asked, and Jonathan shook his head.

Gratefully, the other man flicked a switch, and his tape deck came to life. Lou Reed assured them that it would all be alright. Jonathan grinned, and Eric picked up speed. The two men laughed as cool wind swept into the car. Jonathan leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The air brought life to his skin. The music did the same for his soul. Finally he was alive, within the moment. His eyes opened, reflecting the perfect blue of clear skies.

This time the drive only took fifteen minutes.

At the airport, Eric helped Jonathan unload his bags, and then stood with him for a few moments at the gate. Jonathan shook his hand and thanked him for everything, then went inside and boarded his plane. Fifteen minutes later, a lovely stewardess handed him a pack of peanuts and a small glass of orange juice. A cheerful voice from the cockpit mimicked Lou Reed and reassured them that everything would indeed be alright. Watching the earth drop away, Jonathan smiled. He couldn’t agree more.

"Hammer Time", a sketch performed on Buffalo Pleasure Night

2008-02-19T13:04:16Z

“Hammer Time”

[A chashier stands bored at her register humming strains of “Fame” to herself. The store is quiet for a fw moments, then suddenly the calm is interrupted by the entrance of a shabby maniac wearing many layers of clothing. In one hand he is cradling a battered teddy bear. The other hand is brandishing a hammer. Without pausing at the door, the man comes barreling toward the register, arms swinging wildly.]

Hobo: hey, hey now, pretty lady! Good to see you; good to see you! Give me some love…

[The cashier screams as the man comes behind the register to try hugging her (hammer forgotten), bringing the manager out of the office as the hobo steps back in alarm.]

Manager: What’s going on out here?

Cashier (pointing): He’s got a hammer, and he tried to come behind the register!

[The hobo, hearing this, is taken aback at the mention of the tool, and completely surprised he’s carrying it. The manager looks him up and down.]

Hobo: What?

Manager: Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

Hobo (indignant): What!? Why?

Manager (calm, assertive, businesslike): You have a hammer, sir. You can’t bring that in here, and you can’t go harassing my employees.

[The hobo is yet again surprised at the news that he’s carrying a hammer, so much so that he almost drops it. When he hears the last sentence, he becomes placatory.]

Hobo: Harassment? Harassment? We’re friends. Aren’t we (he looks at the cashier’s name tag) Judy?

Judy: No! No, we’re not friends.

Hobo: Well, that’s a shame. (pausing, sad, then brightening) But can I get some love?

[He tries once again to give Judy a hug, but she shrinks away.]

Judy: No, you can’t have any love!

Manager (losing patience): No! Out. Get out now, before I call the police.

Hobo: The police? What for?

Manager (trying very hard): Please. Just leave.

Hobo: But I just got here!

Manager: That’s true. And now you need to go. Don’t ever bring that in here again. (pointing at the hammer)

[Yet again, the homeless man is caught off-guard by his hammer, this time so shocked he actually does drop it, and picks it up again.]

Hobo: Oh! Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. Sorry. I’ll just put this down so I can grab a beer right quick –

Manager (snapping): No!

Hobo: No?

Manager (calmer): No.

Hobo (crestfallen): But why?

[Judy and her manager share a somewhat broken look.]

Manager (trying again): Your hammer…

Hobo (utterly shocked): Oh, my!

[He drops the hammer again, then his teddy bear. Picking one up, he drops the other. The process of rearranging himself takes several moments, and lots of waving the offending tool around. At this point there are other people in the store, looking at the strange man warily as they move to stand in line.]

Manager: Damn it, man, just get out now!

Hobo: Okay, okay. I’m going…

[He drifts away, muttering. After a moment, the manager sighs, shrugs and goes back into his office. Suddenly the stranger comes back with a can of beer, skipping line to come to Judy, who calls her manager back up in annoyance.]

Judy: Mark!

Hobo: Okay, how much do I owe you?

Judy: Nothing! I’m not selling that to you! Get out! Mark!

[Mark comes back, now thoroughly flabbergasted.]

Mark: Why are you still here?

Hobo (thinking): Oh. Oh, yeah! Buying a beer.

Mark: No. No you’re not. You’re leaving.

Hobo: But…but why?

Mark (rubbing his temples): You have a hammer - we’ve had this conversation!

Hobo: We did?

Judy: Yes! Two seconds ago!

Hobo: Oh.

Mark: Will you just go?

Hobo: Sure. Soon as I buy this beer. It’s for Patrice. Say hi, Patrice! (He makes his teddy bear wave at them)

Mark: No, you’re not buying this beer for Patrice. You’re not buying anything for Patrice. You’re leaving. We will not serve you here.

Hobo (righteous indignation): Well, wait just one minute! (Brandishing his hammer at the nervous customers behind him) You’re going to take care of them but not me?

Judy and Mark (simultaneously): Yes!

Hobo: But why!?

Mark: Because they don’t have hammers!

[There is a distinct pause.]

Hobo: Oh.

Mark: If you don’t go now, I’m calling the police. You’re banned from the store, sir. Take Patrice and your hammer, and get the hell out of here. This is not a request.

Hobo (sighing): Alright. Sorry…come on Patrice…

Mark (to himself): Dear God…

[Dejected, the Hobo turns and shambles away. Judy and Mark watch him go, and when they’re satisfied he’s gone, Judy turns to her next customer. Just as she starts talking, the Hobo rushes back in, grabs the beer and runs terrified back out before anyone can stop him.]

Hobo: Run, Patrice!

[Judy and Mark start talking at once as Mark picks up his cell phone and dials 911.]

Judy: Oh, for the love of all that’s –

Mark: Hello, police? Yes, this is the Eight-and-Ten on Skid Lane and Massachusetts…We just got robbed by a man with a hammer…Hello? ... (Incredulous) What? ... (Sighing) Yes, I’ll hold…

{END}

"Buzz", scene 5

2008-02-19T13:01:58Z

[Scene 5 – Cracked Mirrors]

[The city street, same night, a few moments later. The prostitute and the gorilla stand huddled together with their hands held over a barrel of fire. The prostitute’s head rests lovingly on the gorilla’s shoulder, and he nuzzles her hair with plastic lips. Off to the side sits the Repent Guy. His expression is one of pain and torment, as his eyes are full of terror over the horrible visions that only he can see. He weeps openly at the sight of them, pulling his hair with clenched fists and rocking back and forth. He is no longer capable of speech, reduced instead to a steady, keening wail.]

[Henry enters the stage much the same way as he left it – stalking steadily with a baseball bat clenched in his fist. He stops when he sees the disheveled old man. On seeing him, the prostitute and the gorilla take shelter on the far side of their barrel, wrapped in each others’ arms and staring fearfully at Henry as he passes.]

Henry: Oi – Old man!

[Repent Guy doesn’t respond, continuing to stare and wail.]

Henry (slamming the bat on the ground in front of the old man): Listen to me!

[Slowly, still trembling, the old man looks up at Henry, his eyes barely showing recognition of another human being. In a fit of rage, Henry whirls away. The bat flies in his hand, seeking a target. Seeing the barrel of fire, Henry charges it. The prostitute and the gorilla flee before him as the bat crashes into the barrel, knocking it over and scattering its contents. Terrified, the two run offstage.]

[Repent Guy, seeing something of the destruction he’s been predicting, watches in fascination.]

Repent Guy (almost reverent, whispering): Horseman of the Apocalypse!

Henry (turning): What?

[From far above, Tammy’s voice calls down, exhausted.]

Tammy: Henry? Henry, what are you doing down there?

Henry (looking up): Roleplaying!

Tammy: Henry, come back inside.

Henry: Get thee behind me, Jiminy Cricket!

Tammy: Henry, please…

Repent Guy: Marked by the Beast.

Henry (turning, approaching the old man): Come again?

Repent Guy (stronger, standing): Harbinger of Destruction!

Henry (stepping forward, pointing up with the bat): Pissed off tenant!

Repent Guy (at fever pitch, finger aimed at Henry’s heart): Guided by the hand of Satan!

Henry: Pots and kettles, you old fuck!

Tammy (seeing what’s coming): Henry, no!

[The Noise flares out of nowhere. Henry swings the bat in a rage, bringing it across the old man’s head and knocking him against the wall. The man goes limp, sliding down the wall with a groan. The Voices laugh from On High.]

Repent Guy (coughing and gasping): Plagued…by the sounds…of Imminence…

Henry (screaming, bringing the bat down hard with each sentence): No! Fuck you! Fuck you! Here’s your end! Here’s your Imminence! (dropping the bat after a while, exhausted) Just you and me…and the noises in our heads. (whispering) I’m so sorry.

[Henry falls to his knees, crying. As he sits next to the dead man with his head in his hands, the Voices mock him.]

Voice 1: Was it good for you?

Voice 2: Was it a bonding experience?

Voice 3: A bit like punching a mirror...

Voice 2 (sighing): Pots and kettles…

Voice 1: Imminence has a lot of meanings.

[The Noise is gone, but sirens wail in the distance. Henry sits there, Charlie and Cheryl arrive.]

[The sirens stop. Tammy leads two police officers onto the stage. She goes to Henry, falling to her knees beside him and hugging him to her. The officers pull her to the side and drag Henry to his feet.]

Tammy: Henry? Henry, why?

Henry (distant, dead inside): Ask for forgiveness...

Tammy: What?

Henry: The End is near.

Tammy: No, Henry. No…

Henry: You won’t see it coming, but it’s always getting closer.

Tammy (touching his face): Please, no.

Henry: I loved you, too.

[The police take Henry away in handcuffs. He goes along, docile. Tammy follows, weeping.]

[When they’re all gone, the prostitute and the gorilla come back onstage, cautious. When they see that no one is looking, they go to their dead companion. Carefully, reverently, they lay him flat and arrange him – straightening his rags and folding his arms over his chest like a deceased pharaoh. As they work, the stage brightens like sunrise.]

Voice 3: She didn’t see it coming.

Voice 1 (sighing): No one ever does.

Voice 3: Even when they think they do.

Voice 2: Poor things…

Voice 1: Broken things.

Voice 2 (agreeing): Broken things.

Voice 3: They never see anything coming.

Voice 2: And it’s the things you don’t see coming…

Voices (in unison): …that will get you, every time.

[The prostitute and the gorilla lift Repent Guy in their arms, and carry him offstage, leaving it empty – just a few dirty rags and an overturned barrel next to a filthy wall.]

[End.]

"Buzz", scene 4

2008-02-19T13:00:54Z

[Scene 4 – Conciliation]

[Cheryl and Charles are standing in the middle of the apartment, kissing. It is dark outside, and no one else is there. After a few moments, Cheryl breaks away to catch her breath.]

Cheryl: You think Henry will understand?

Charles: Not likely.

Cheryl: I hope he’s alright…

Charles: He’ll be fine.

Cheryl (reproachful): You don’t care, do you?

Charles (thinking): No. Not particularly. (He moves to kiss her again, but she pulls away.)

Cheryl: Why so hostile? Weren’t you two friends?

Charles: Sure. Then we were room mates. That’ll kill it every time.

Cheryl: It’s such a shame.

Charles: Yeah, well – we should have seen it coming. (He tries to kiss her again, but she demurs.)

Cheryl: It doesn’t have to be that way.

Charles: True. Free will and all that, but who really uses those choices?

[Cheryl’s phone rings.]

Cheryl: It’s Tammy.

Charles: Don’t answer –

Cheryl (ignoring him, answering): Hello? (concerned) Are you okay? Where are you? (Charles shakes his head, but she continues to ignore him) No, no, it’s fine, come on up. We’ll let you in –

Charles: - No we won’t! –

Cheryl: - and figure out what’s going on. (She hangs up.)

Charles (after a moment): Why are you getting involved in that?

Cheryl (taking time to answer): Because I do still give a damn about Henry.

Charles: After the crap he put you through?

Cheryl: Yes.

Charles: Why?

Cheryl: It’s just a choice I’m making.

[A knock at the door. Charles watches Cheryl open the door for Tammy.]

Tammy: I’m so sorry, but I didn’t know who else to turn to…

Cheryl: It’s alright. Come on in.

Charles: Sure, come in. Not like it’s my apartment or anything. (Cheryl glares at him.)

Tammy (paying him no mind): Henry’s seriously going nuts.

Cheryl: I know. I saw him, remember?

Charles (rolling his eyes): Please.

Cheryl: Charlie!

Charles: He’s not crazy!

Tammy: Really…

Charles: He’s not. He’s just convinced he is.

Cheryl (slowly): Charles?

Charles: Yes?

Cheryl: Don’t you think thinking your crazy is just another kind of crazy?

[This gives him pause – time enough for Tammy to compose herself.]

Tammy: He needs help.

Cheryl: What’s your plan?

Charles (sing-song): Defenestration…

Tammy: We need to get him in here and talk to him.

Cheryl: Where did you see him last?

[A light knock on the door. Only Charles hears it.]

Tammy: Whining on a bench.

Cheryl: Feel like taking me to him?

Charles: Don’t bother.

Cheryl: Charles –

Charles: No, really. Don’t bother. He’s here already.

[Indeed, there is another knock, this one almost violent. Tammy and Cheryl look at Charles, who goes to the door, picking up a baseball bat that was leaning against the wall.]

Charles: Hello?

Henry (from outside): Charlie, let me in.

Charles: You gonna leave your crazy at the door?

Henry: Fuck you.

Charles: We had that conversation.

Henry: Whatever. Just let me in.

Charles: Where are your keys?

[There’s a pause. Cheryl looks on the floor, and picks up a ring of keys even as Henry speaks.]

Henry: I lost them.

Charles (laughing): You’re kidding me. (to the girls) Can you believe this idiot?

Henry: Charles… Who’s in there with you?

Charles: Couple of your girlfriends, man. We’re having a threesome.

[Henry bangs on the door hard.]

Henry: Just open the fucking door!

Charles: And spoil the mood?

Cheryl: We’re not doing anything, Henry.

Henry: Then let me in!

[Charles complies. Henry stumbles in, looking completely disheveled, still wearing the Repent Guy’s rag over his shoulders. When he sees who’s in the room, he holds up his hands to stop them from speaking.]

Henry: No. If this is some kind of intervention bullshit, you can save it.

Cheryl: Henry…

Henry: I’m tired.

Charles: Then go to bed.

[Henry shambles to his room. The others speak to him on the way, but he keeps moving.]

Cheryl: I’m leaving you, Henry.

Henry: Okay.

Charles: I’m stealing your girlfriend and kicking you out of the apartment.

Henry: Whatever.

Tammy: You can’t just walk away from everything, Henry.

Henry: Watch me.

[Henry closes the door on all of them, and falls to bed. Distantly, the Voices can still be heard cackling at him.]

Charles: Well, that went well.

Cheryl (checking her watch): I need to get home.

Charles: I’ll go with you.

Cheryl: Shouldn’t someone be watching Henry?

Charles: Why? Think he’ll burn the place down?

Tammy: I’ll stay.

Charles (smiling): I knew you still wanted him.

Tammy: Fuck you.

Cheryl: It’s been nice meeting you.

[The girls hug, and Cheryl and Charles leave. Tammy goes to look on Henry. Seeing that he’s already asleep, she goes back to the chairs in the living room and sits down.]

Tammy (to herself): Stupid, stupid.

[She sits back, picks up Charlie’s book, and begins to read as the stage fades to black.]

---

[Fade in on the same scene, in the middle of the night. Tammy is sleeping in one of the chairs in the living room. There is no sign of Charles or Cheryl. Henry is still tossing and turning. The Noise is a dull constant, now, but draws down to silence as a voice sails in distantly through the open window.]

Repent Guy: Awake! Awake! Rise in fear! The end is upon us! Tremble, for now is hour of our doom!

[Without saying a word, Henry slides out of his bed and stalks into the living room with murder in his steps. When he reaches the chair Tammy is sitting in, he looks down on her. He bends over her and kisses her forehead. When he stands again, he is holding Charles’ baseball bat in a clenched fist.]

[As he goes to the door, the old man continues to cry out in the night.]

Repent Guy: Oh, Mercy! Mercy upon your children, oh glorious God, Mercy! Mercy upon the unworthy! Mercy! Mercy!

[Henry closes the door silently behind him. Tammy stirs in her sleep, disturbed, but doesn’t wake. Fade once more to black.]

"Buzz", scene 3

2008-02-19T12:54:04Z

[Scene 3 – Ground Control]

[Henry walks onto a bare stage, no props, no other actors. Voices mock him from the darkness, some familiar, others strange whispers from the edges of consciousness. They are dark, sinister.]

Voice 1: Woe! Woe!

Voice 2: He’s having a crisis.

Voice 3: Existential breakdown!

[Henry glares into the darkness.]

Henry (demanding): Who are you?

Voice 2: Who? What?

Voice 3: He’s lost it.

Voice 1: Oh, poor, poor Henry.

Voice 2: Wasted his mind…

Voice 1: Now he wants it back.

Henry: What are you?

Voice 3: Brain damage.

Voice 2: Boredom.

Voice 1: Doesn’t matter.

Voice 3: You don’t talk to the Voices.

Voice 2: The Voices talk to you.

Henry (sudden realization): I’m going insane.

Voices (in unison): First step to recovery!

Voice 1: Denial is such a terrible disease.

Voice 2: Tried listening lately?

Voice 3 (menacing): It’s the things you don’t see coming…

Voices (in unison): That will get you, every time.

Henry: What does that mean?

Voices (Singing): Sanctus Dominus!

[As they speak, the scene fills in around him. The prostitute, Repent Guy and the gorilla file in, taking up places on the stage around (but avoiding) Henry. The gorilla cops a feel on the prostitute, but she slaps his hand away and points to the far end of the stage. The gorilla complies, reluctantly walking where she’s pointed. The scene is an anonymous city street.]

[With that, Henry is left alone, sans Noise and Voices, sitting on a bench surrounded by the insane and the destitute. The others are eyeing him warily, but otherwise going about their business (or lack thereof). Henry is despondent, not looking at anyone, simply staring into space.]

Henry: Fuck it.

[Tammy enters the stage with trepidation. She is carrying Henry’s cell phone in one hand. She very obviously doesn’t like this place, but she is determined. When she sees Henry, sitting there in a disheveled mess, she sighs in exasperation.]

Tammy: What the hell are you doing, Henry?

Henry: Going crazy. Why are you here?

Tammy: Concern, asshole.

Henry: So everyone keeps telling me.

Tammy: What?

Henry: Never mind.

Tammy: Why are you here?

Henry: I just told you that.

Tammy: No, you didn’t.

Henry: I said ‘Going crazy.’ I distinctly remember it.

Tammy: Not good enough.

[She holds out his cell phone. When he doesn’t take it, she rolls her eyes.]

Tammy: Scoot.

[He slides over, grudgingly, and she sits down next to him. Neither of them talk for a while. The Gorilla has been steadily edging nearer the Prostitute again. Now, while she’s not looking, he reaches deep into his pocket, and pulls out a plastic ring. When she looks at him next, he goes on one knee, presenting it to her. Though startled and somewhat horrified at first, the prostitute quickly recovers. Looking around surreptitiously, she slips a hand into his, pulls him to his feet, and takes him to the far side of the stage. There, she accepts his ring, then spends the next several minutes showing him how to peel a banana and open a can of soda.]

Henry: How’d you get my phone?

Tammy: Cheryl.

Henry (after a pause): Oh.

Tammy: Yeah… (without venom) You really are an ass-clown, you know that?

Henry: Now you sound like Charles.

Tammy: Maybe you should listen to him, now and then. (when he doesn’t respond) So what’s going on?

Henry: Voices… Darkness… The end of the world.

Tammy (impressed): Heavy.

Henry: I hate it.

Tammy: Understandable.

Henry: I mean, I’m not the kind of guy who goes crazy.

Tammy: Then don’t.

Henry: What?

Tammy: I said ‘Then don’t’. I distinctly remember –

Henry (waving her off): Yeah, yeah, very clever.

Tammy: I try.

Henry: Well, try somewhere else… I’m busy.

Tammy: Going crazy.

Henry: What, you don’t believe me?

Tammy: You said it yourself. You’re not the type…

Henry: But apparently I am.

Tammy (sighing): You should never have left me.

Repent Guy: Tremble! Tremble, for the Gates of the Abyss are drawing nigh!

Henry (over his shoulder): It’s getting old, fuckwit.

Tammy (shaking her head): Pots and kettles… At least when I was dating you, you weren’t picking fights with homeless people.

Henry: I wasn’t… Wait, no. He started it.

Tammy: Well, that’s just great, Henry. You can’t even be the bigger man than a guy wearing shit-stained bed sheets. (To Repent Guy) No offense.

[Repent Guy checks the back of his clothes, then shrugs.]

Henry (changing the subject): I stopped dating you because you were pushy.

Tammy (giving up): Okay.

Henry (after a pause): Well?

Tammy: What? You want me to argue?

Henry: Why not? You’ve been calling me for months. You won’t stop and I’m too crazy now to care, so let’s have it! The end is near, so why not get it off your chest?

Tammy (quietly): You don’t want that.

Henry: Sure I do! What better time to kick a man than when he’s down?

Tammy: Does it make you feel better, thinking of me as the ‘crazy’ ex? Does it justify how you treat me?

[Henry goes quiet. The prostitute looks at him with something between amusement and contempt. The gorilla shakes his head.]

Repent Guy: Yea, verily, thy sins shall be writ across the stars.

[Henry gets up and starts toward Repent Guy with raised fists. The voices begin their chant again, each syllable harsh and brutal. The Noise is back – this time deep and sinister. It bears ill tidings and evil deeds.]

Tammy (shaking her head): Don’t take this out on him.

[Henry stops, turning.]

Henry: But he’s driving me insane!

Tammy: He is, or you’re letting him?

Henry: Oh, please…

Tammy: Always easier to blame someone else, eh Henry?

Henry: I’m hearing voices, Tammy.

Tammy: That’s not his fault.

Henry: But they’re saying the same things he is!

Tammy: Then don’t listen! You’ve done it to me often enough…

Henry: It’s not that easy.

Tammy: It is – you have a choice.

Voice 1: You don’t have a choice.

Tammy: You’re more than this.

Voice 2: You are nothing.

Henry (screaming at the air): Go away!

Tammy (hurt): Fine! Go crazy! See if I care… (she stands and stalks to the edge of the stage) I loved you, you idiot! (exit)

[Henry lies down on the bench, head pressed between fists, as he weeps under the weight of the Noise and the Voices. The old man stands over him for a moment, watching with focused and forgiving eyes. He takes off one of his many makeshift robes and drapes it over Henry, who doesn’t even look up.]

Repent Guy (calm and sad): Repent, repent, for the end draws near.

[With that, he leaves. The stage darkens, leaving only Henry on the bench, weeping, watched from a safe distance by the prostitute and her gorilla-husband.]

[Fade to black]

[End of Scene 3]

"Buzz", scene 2

2008-02-19T12:51:42Z

[Scene 2 - Lunch]

[On one side of the stage, Cheryl sits at a table set for two. She is obviously getting impatient, checking her phone for the time, tapping her foot and taking the occasional sip of coffee. She is dressed neatly, and well put-together. A waiter comes to fill her cup. She accepts graciously, and then goes back to reading the book she has with her.

Beyond the “cafe”, the street becomes much less civilized. A prostitute stands against a brick wall looking very bored, trying to set herself apart from a nearby man in a gorilla mask and another grizzled old man who is dressed in what amounts to a heap of rags and tatters held together with spit and good graces. The gorilla is busy figuring out how to peel a banana and open a can of soda. The other man is looking around wildly, shaking an empty coffee can at no one.]

[Cheryl’s phone rings and she answers it.]

Cheryl: Yes? Hey! No, I’m not busy. Well, I would be busy, but Henry’s late for lunch again...yeah, I know I can do better, but honestly I’m just not in the mood to bother. He’s a nice enough guy though, even pays for himself now and then...I know there’s a difference between a nice guy and a good man, but…

[During her conversation, Henry enters the stage on the other side of the street people. The noise precedes him by a few seconds. It is louder now, more insistent, and he is spinning around, eyes wildly searching for the source of it. He bumps into the prostitute, who looks him up and down once before deciding to take umbrage. Henry apologizes, backing away. In the process, he nearly trips over the gorilla, who manages to look indignant despite his mask and Henry’s muttered apologies. Before he can escape, Henry is stopped by the third man, who sticks a leg out in front of him, shaking the can.

Exasperated and guilty, Henry reaches deep into his pockets. On the first try, his hand goes through the bottom of the torn side. Then he finds a few quarters in the other, and drops them into the can, stepping over the man’s legs as he does so. Finally past the barricade, Henry straightens himself up to go to his girlfriend. The noise is no longer there.]

[Before he can get to her, the old homeless man screams at his back. His voice is obviously the same as the one from before, outside of the window.]

Repent guy: Repent!

[Henry jumps, and then turns to glare at the man he just gave money to. He steps forward, but before he can, Cheryl (who looked up at the other man’s shout) calls out to him.]

Cheryl: Henry? Henry, over here. (into her phone) Gotta go. Call me later…Bye.

[Henry turns to her, forcing a smile as he speaks and giving the old man the finger behind his back.]

Henry: Cheryl! (sitting in the chair opposite her) I’m so sorry. None of my alarm clocks went off this morning. I don’t know what happened.

Cheryl (dismissive, to Henry’s chagrin): Don’t bother, baby. I’ve seen you try to wake up. Honestly, I’m surprised you made it at all. Coffee?

[As Cheryl has been speaking, Henry’s attention has once more been pulled by the Noise, which has quietly insinuated itself again. Cheryl brings him back, somewhat annoyed.]

Cheryl: Henry? Henry!

[This time, the Noise fades, but doesn’t go away. Henry is somewhat distant as he looks at her.]

Henry: Hmm?

Cheryl: What the hell is wrong with you? Did you get any sleep?

Henry (still dazed): Sleep? Oh, Sleep! Yes. Yes, I got some sleep. It was nice… (he trails off)

Cheryl (suspicious): Are you on something?

Henry: Not really, no…

Cheryl: Not really? What are you doing?

Henry: Cheryl, you don’t hear that?

Cheryl: Hear what?

Henry (sighing): Never mind…

Cheryl: You need coffee. (calling out) Garcon!

Henry (softly): It’s like aliens invading, or a hundred angels flapping their wings…the end of the world….

[The Voices sing from offstage, startling Henry.]

Voices (cheerful): Sanctus Dominus!

[The waiter comes back with a cup of coffee for Henry.]

Waiter (flatly): Garcon means “boy”.

Cheryl (confused): But…you are a boy.

Waiter (after a pause): Oh. (he exits, shaking his head in self-loathing)

Henry (excited): Those! Did you hear those!?

Cheryl: Hear what, Henry?

Henry: Those voices… They were singing that chant from that movie with that kid… (he trails off, seeing Cheryl’s expression, and sighs) Never mind…

Cheryl: Have you been under a lot of stress, lately?

Henry: No! God Almighty, Cheryl, I’m the least stressed person I know, except maybe my room-mate…

Cheryl (doubtful): Well, you’re acting really strange.

Henry: I’m sorry. It’s just – I’ve been hearing some strange things, and they’re starting to freak me out.

Cheryl: Considered therapy?

Voice 1: It’s all the rage!

Henry (looking around): Who said that!?

Cheryl: Said what?

Henry: It’s all the rage.

Cheryl: What is?

Henry: Therapy!

Cheryl: Henry, I suggested therapy.

Repent Guy: Tremble, you children of Babylon!

Henry: Am I the only one getting annoyed with that guy?

Cheryl: Pots and kettles, Henry. You’re hearing voices.

Henry: True…

Voice 2: She makes a point.

Henry: Shut up.

Cheryl: Stop talking to them.

Henry: But they started it!

[On the other side of the stage, the Gorilla gives up on the banana and soda can, tossing them to the side. As Cheryl and Henry continue to talk, the Gorilla notices the prostitute, and starts sneaking closer to her.]

Cheryl (patiently): They aren’t real, Henry.

Henry: How would you know?

Cheryl: Because you’re the only one hearing them.

Repent Guy: Hark! Hark unto the Angels’ weeping!

Cheryl: Except maybe him…

Henry (conceding): I get your point.

[At this point the Gorilla has gotten close enough to start tugging on the prostitute’s clothing. The prostitute slaps his hands away, but he takes that as foreplay.]

Charles (offstage): Henry!

Henry (mortified): No!

Cheryl: No. That one was real.

Henry: It was?

Voice 3: It was.

[The prostitute runs from the Gorilla, who exits the stage in hot pursuit of his chosen female as Charles enters from the direction Henry did. His attention is caught by the spectacle of it, until Cheryl notices him.]

Cheryl (surprised): Charles?!

Charles (startled): Cheryl?!

Henry: Wait, you two know each other?

Repent Guy: The end is near!!

[Henry looks at him in annoyance. The other two ignore the old man in their surprise at finding one another. As they talk, the old man shakes his coffee can into his hand with dismay, and shambles offstage, muttering a continuous diatribe about the end of days.]

Cheryl (to Charles): Oh, my god, how have you been?

Charles: Decent. How about you?

Cheryl: Pretty good. Finished with school, yet?

Charles: Nah, one more semester left. You?

Cheryl: I finished early – skipped my summer vacations.

Charles (impressed): Rough!

Henry (clearing his throat): You know each other?

Cheryl: Well, yeah!

Charles: We dated back in high school – all four years.

Henry: Oh. That’s nice.

Cheryl: Remember that time, in Kimmy’s basement?

Charles (laughing evilly): How could I forget?

Henry: Basement?

Voice 1: This is not your conversation.

Cheryl: I have pictures, you know.

Charles: Oh, God!

Henry (sickened): Oh, God…

Voice 2 (gleeful): Spoken in vain!

Henry: God damn it!

Cheryl: Now what?

Henry: Never mind.

[Henry’s phone rings in Charles’ hand.]

Charles: Oh, yeah. (handing it to him) You forgot this.

Henry (hanging up): I don’t want it.

Charles: Well, it’s yours.

Cheryl (calling offstage): Garcon!

Charles: If you don’t want to answer your phone, fine, but don’t leave it sitting next to me.

Cheryl: What now?

Henry: Charles brought me my phone.

Cheryl: Well, that was nice of him.

Charles (bashful): Thanks.

Henry: It wasn’t a favor.

[The Waiter brings out another chair, shooting Cheryl evil looks as he places it between her and Henry. Meanwhile, the Noise begins to creep into Henry’s awareness again. It is very quiet, but building steadily.]

Charles (to Waiter, smiling): Thanks.

[As Charles sits down, The Waiter smiles meaningfully at him, then glares once more at Cheryl and struts offstage.]

Cheryl: Still got it, I see.

Charles: Clearly.

[Henry is no longer paying attention. His eyes are wandering, searching for the source of the Noise. His expression is almost beatific in the face of it. His phone starts ringing, but he pays no attention to it.]

Cheryl: Henry?

Charles: Hey. Jackass.

Henry (annoyed): What?

Charles: Your phone?

Henry: Oh.

[Still distracted, Henry hangs up without even checking who’s calling.]

Cheryl: Don’t you care who’s calling you?

Henry: No.

Charles: He’s got a crazy ex.

Cheryl: Appropriate.

Voice 3: Very.

Henry: Thanks.

Cheryl: You never mentioned her, Henry.

Henry: Because she doesn’t matter.

Cheryl: How charitable!

[At this point, the Voices begin to chant again, the same, rhythmic words as they did when he first woke up. They begin softly, but build volume over time.]

Charles: She calls about every five minutes, lately.

Cheryl (to Henry): Have you considered asking what she wants?

Charles: That’s what I said.

Henry (ignoring this): I don’t care. (He gets to his feet.)

Cheryl: Henry?

Charles: What’s the deal, man?

Henry: Hush! I want to hear them.

Cheryl: They aren’t real, Henry.

Henry: Doesn’t matter.

Charles: Are you still hearing things?

Cheryl: Voices.

Charles (dripping with disdain): Oh, please.

[The Voices’ chanting is hypnotic, backed by bizarre and terrible sounds. He starts to walk away, led by the sounds in his head.]

Cheryl: Henry, where are you going?

Henry (to himself): There’s a word for this… I read it somewhere… Imminence. This is the sound of Imminence.

Charles: It’s the sound you hear when you’ve got your head in your ass.

[Henry wanders offstage.]

Cheryl: Should we follow him?

Charles: If we were going to, we would have already.

Cheryl: You think he’ll be alright?

Charles: Sure. He’ll get bored with it after a while.

Cheryl: You think he’s faking it?

Charles: No. I think he’s being dramatic. He thinks he’s hearing voices because he wants to be hearing voices.

Cheryl: Why would anyone want to hear voices?

Charles (pointing to his temple): Because then he doesn’t have to admit it’s all him in there.

[Henry’s phone rings again. Charles just looks at it for a moment, then Cheryl picks it up.]

Charles: Damn it, he left it again. Next time I’m throwing the damn thing out.

Cheryl: What’s her name?

Charles: Tammy.

Cheryl (answering, as the lights start to fade): Yes?...Is this Tammy?...Yeah. Hi. I’m Cheryl, Henry’s new ex-girlfriend. (Charles mouths this to himself as she talks, grinning)… Yep. Yeah, three months… Just now… Uh huh. He just walked away. If you want, I can tell you which way he went. I warn you, he’s acting a little weird. Yeah, we’re at 25^th and Charlemagne… Yep. Uh-huh. See you then. Bye. (She hangs up.)

Charles (after a reasonable pause): I still love you.

Cheryl (sipping her coffee): Let’s talk about that.

[Fade to black.]

[End of Scene 2]

"Buzz", a play in one act, scene 1

2008-02-19T12:44:49Z

This was performed by Theater Helden at the Alt Theater in Buffalo during the first two weeks of February 2008, back to back with "The Orangutan Man Knocks at Midnight", written by Drew McCabe.

"Buzz"

a play in one act, by Nicholas Hirsch

Synopsis:

Henry wakes one day to find his attention torn between the sound of Imminence and the clamor of his daily life.

Setting:

Any city, modern times most likely.

Dramatis Personae:

Henry – a man of little ambition and minimal needs

Charles – Henry’s unscrupulous roommate.

Cheryl – Henry’s motivated girlfriend.

Tammy – Henry’s psychotic former lover.

Repent Guy – known only by his tagline.

The Gorilla and the Prostitute – a serious representation of life on the streets.

The Voices – However you please to think of them…

[Scene 1 – Morning Buzz]

[Henry is in bed, tossing restlessly in his sleep with a troubled expression on his face. In the next room, Charles sits quietly in a chair, reading a book. Daylight streams in uncomfortably through Henry’s open window, shining directly on his face. Softly, very softly, we hear the beginnings of the Noise.

The Noise is subtle, hard to define. It is many things at once – the light hiss of a television screen played too loud, a scattering of bells and drums, ephemeral as the air, the whisperings of a hundred Angels, prophesying doom. It is the low rumbling sound of Imminence, played at minimal volume, but rising – slowly and steadily rising. Through it all, a small chorus of Voices chant, over and over again, in a sort of frenzied whisper.]

Voice 1: Something’s coming. Something’s coming.

Voice 2: Don’t look now. Don’t look now.

Voice 3: The end is near. The end is near. The end is near.

[Charles flips pages in his book oblivious to the sound, but Henry is obviously affected by it even in his sleep. As the noise grows more insistent, so does Henry’s discomfort, until the tension is finally broken by the sound of the first alarm clock. The last thing heard is a single voice, whispering “The end is near”.]

There are three alarm clocks, which go off one at a time in succession. As each sounds off, Henry wakes only enough to lift one arm and slap all three snooze buttons. All three alarms have a different sound – two buzzers at different frequencies and one that plays the song “European Son” at the point just after the car-crash noises. None so much as dents Henry’s armor of determined slumber. After a few minutes, Charles speaks without moving or even looking up.]

Charles: Ten O’clock!

Henry (whining): Saturday…

Charles: Girlfriend?

[Henry sits bolt upright.]

Henry: Lunch!

Charles (snapping his fingers): Got it in one.

[Henry jumps out of bed and starts to get dressed, slipping new clothes over the ones he wore while he was sleeping and brushing his hands through his hair in front of a mirror. As he is ‘grooming’ himself, the noise slowly creeps back into his awareness. Just as he begins to look up, Charles speaks up again, poker-faced.]

Charles: She dumps you, can I have her?

Henry (unamused): Fuck you.

Charles: You’re not my type. Sorry.

[Henry leaves off, and finishes dressing. Still looking somewhat bedraggled, he begins to gather various belongings (keys, wallet, cell phone) and shoving them into his pockets as he mutters the words “Late, late, late” repeatedly.]

Henry: She’s going to kill me.

[Charles simply nods and keeps reading. The cell phone falls right to the floor through a hole in Henry’s jeans. As he bends to pick it up, the Noise starts again, softly. Henry looks up, phone in hand, but is snapped back out of it when the phone he is holding begins ringing loudly and obnoxiously. When he sees who it is, Henry snaps it open in a rage.]

Henry (yelling into his phone): Look, I’m not talking to you anymore! Stop calling me!

[He hangs up the phone, jabbing his finger on the “end call” button.]

Charles: Tammy?

Henry: Who else?

Charles (impressed): She’s one persistent bitch. She know you’re with what’ser’face?

Henry (annoyed, but distracted by the Noise): Cheryl. Her name’s Cheryl. And no, I haven’t told Tammy about her. It’s none of her business. Do you hear that?

Charles (looking up for the first time): Hear what?

Henry: That sound…

Charles: Sound is usually the sort of thing you hear, Henry, but what sound?

Henry: Just shut up and listen.

[The two men spend several moments just staring into space, listening, but the Noise has gone. Even Henry doesn’t hear it for a moment. After a while, Charles starts making faces, but Henry is too intent to notice. Finally, the Noise start to fade just into earshot, but as Henry opens his mouth to point it out, a tremulous cry sounds from outside.]

Voice Offstage: Repent! Repent! The Final Days are upon us! Down on your knees, oh children of Babylon, and beg for forgiveness –

[At the sound of the voice, Henry stalks to the window, furious, as Charles laughs, going back to his reading.]

Charles: There’s your sound, man.

Henry: No it isn’t. (Calling down to the street) Hey! Hey! Yeah, you. Preacher guy! Shut the hell up! Go on, get out of here... crazy bastard…

[For a moment, there is silence. Then…]

Voice (even more insistent): Beg for mercy! Beg for mercy!!

[Exasperated, Henry slams the window, silencing the man. The Noise is back, but Henry doesn’t even have time to notice it, as his phone begins ringing immediately. Seeing the name on the screen, Henry doesn’t even bother. Instead, he tosses his phone on an empty chair in disgust.]

Charles: Have you considered asking what she wants?

Henry: I don’t care what she wants.

Charles: And they say I’m the asshole.

Henry: You are.

Charles (conceding): True. But at least I’m willing to admit it.

Henry: I’m not an asshole.

Charles: Okay…

Henry: I’m not.

Charles: Fine. You’re not.

[A pause.]

Henry (to Charles’ disgust): How?

Charles: What?

Henry: How am I an asshole?

Charles: Have you ever heard yourself talking?

Henry: What do you mean?

Charles (pointing out the window): take that guy –

Henry: Who?

Charles: The man outside.

Henry: What about him?

Charles: You didn’t have to yell at him. You could have just closed the window.

Henry: But he’s been standing down there, under our apartment, screaming about the end of days for the last two years.

Charles: Right. So you should be used to it by now.

Henry: Damn it, I don’t want to hear about the End Times –

Charles: - Or your ex-girlfriend’s emotions –

Henry: - I just want to go to lunch with my current girlfriend and not hear voices screaming about the end of the world outside my window.

Voice 1 (whispering): …or in your head…

Charles: Then shut the window and put your phone on silent.

Henry (accusing): Pots and kettles. You wouldn’t be so reasonable.

Charles (holding up his hands): I’m not arguing that.

Henry (checking the time): Late!

Charles: You mean more late.

Henry (hearing the Noise again): And what the hell is that sound?

[Henry’s phone rings again. He ignores it. Instead, he throws on his coat, picks up a box of chocolates and his keys from a table in his room, and heads to the door. He is stopped on the way by Charles.]

Charles: Already ate some of those, hoss…

Henry (after a frozen moment): What? (as he verifies this for himself) What the hell were you thinking?

Charles (thinking): “Hmm, tasty chocolate.”

[Henry tosses the half-eaten box of chocolates on the chair next to his phone, now thoroughly annoyed.]

Henry: Asshole.

Charles: Go to lunch.

[Henry leaves. As he goes, he drops his keys into the same pocket his cell phone fell out of. They fall, but he fails to notice in his agitation. After a moment, Charles looks to make sure Henry is gone, then picks up the chocolates and starts picking through them.]

Charles (chuckling as he starts eating the treats): Sucker.

[Henry’s phone rings again, and Charles picks it up.]

Charles (into the phone): Look, you crazy bitch, he’s not talking to you anymore. Stop calling! (He hangs up and tosses the phone back down, going back to his pilfered goodies) Jesus… Ooh, tasty…

[He pops another piece into his mouth, chewing contentedly and going back to his book as the scene fades.]

[End of Scene 1]

Breaking Up With Myself - a monologue

2008-02-19T12:18:16Z

This was performed at Theater Helden's Buffalo Pleasure Night during the first two weekends of January at the Main Street Cabaret Theater in downtown Buffalo.

“Breaking Up with Myself”

By: Nicholas Hirsch

Anyone ever wanted to end a relationship that was going nowhere? Hard, isn’t it? Painful. It’s the worst thing you can ever go through, just rips the heart right out of you. I know. I’ve been there. It hurts. I know, because one time I tried to break up with myself.

I was feeling stifled and unappreciated. I only ever did the things I wanted to do, and when I went out, I’d talk and talk and no one could get a word in edgewise. I was bossy and uptight, and it got to the point where if I wanted something, I didn’t even ask. I was going to get my way, and I knew it. Nothing I said or did was going to change it, so why bother arguing? That’s how controlling I was.

I didn’t even have my own friends. Everyone I knew was someone I’d already met, and I couldn’t enjoy a night out without me tagging along everywhere. Then I’d ruin the whole evening by contradicting myself, or getting drunk and slutting it around, putting everyone off. I stopped going out, because I knew I’d be there. I just couldn’t deal with the embarrassment.

The last straw came when I started to avoid myself. I’d say I was going to be somewhere, and then I’d end up somewhere else, as if I had no idea where I was going. I didn’t even bother making plans anymore. I knew I’d break them. Then I’d try to make up excuses, but I could see right through them. The end came when I tried to call myself, and kept getting a busy signal. Who was I talking to!?

I couldn’t just move out, so I got the cold shoulder. I stopped talking to myself entirely. Oh, there’d be the occasional nasty note on the fridge, but I ignored it. There was nothing I could say that I didn’t already think of. I knew myself too well to be bothered by it.

It got brutal. I started to notice that I wasn’t cleaning up after myself – like I was expected to do it. There’d be dirty dishes in my room for days, because I was just too damned lazy to go pick them up. Well, fucked if I was going in there. If I wanted to be a slob, well fine. Two can play at that game. I started leaving messes around, too. I know it’s juvenile. I didn’t care. I was hurt, and distant, and just wanted to get even. My room mates got worried, but I told them, “Don’t you worry. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but we won’t.” They were sweet to be so concerned.

What hurt the most, though, was my friends. When I tried to talk about the separation, they’d give me funny looks, like I said something crazy.

“I already talked to you, didn’t I? How could you side with me!? I knew you first!”

It sucked trying to separate all my stuff, too, because my name was on everything. I took all of my books, all of my cd’s – even my underwear. How fucked up is that? The only thing that stopped me from throwing it all out or burning it was this tiny voice in the back of my head, telling me I was being unreasonable. I mean, I’d been an item for a long time. Was I really ready to just throw it all away? Couldn’t I just talk?

Call me weak. It only took a couple of days for me to realize I couldn’t live without myself. Everywhere I went, I’d see me; in the windows of stores, or when I was getting dressed in the morning, there I was. I just couldn’t do it. I realized that I wouldn’t care if I couldn’t go out without me – at least I’d still be there.

I thought about all the things I still had in common, and all the things I’d miss about myself if I were gone – the way I wake myself up at night snoring, or find socks all over the apartment. I knew I’d miss it all, and I’d never find anyone else who was willing to put up with me the way I did. And, frankly, I was the best lover I’d ever had. The make-up sex was the best.

Now, I go everywhere together, and I’m not ashamed when I say something stupid or act ridiculous. Nothing is too good for me, and anything I want, I get. I even hold the door for myself when I go out. Despite trepidation, my friends seem to be impressed with how well things are going. I’ve learned to forgive and forget. And I know – I know – that no matter how much I fuck up or screw around, I will always be there in the morning.

New stuff since last week.

2007-06-14T19:52:18Z

It was a cool northern mid-summer night along the river’s edge. The ground was dry, the air crisp. Monolithic shadows against the glow of distant sodium lights, an endless industrial block separated the city from the water. A single bike path wound its way through the abandoned factories and garbage dumps. In the starlight, it was a silver path out of faerie. The girl had no business here, alone in the dark and desolation. She walked alone, trail lit by the soft glow of her cigarette.

The man kept pace, a few yards behind. He didn’t try to hide. If she looked over her should, she would see him easily. His gait was casual, but his steps were silent. Greyson couldn’t make out his face – the shadows were too deep – but he saw a hint of the man’s expression. A glint where his eyes should be, and teeth bared. It took Greyson a moment to realize the maniac was grinning. He sighed quietly. It was a thrill-kill, then. This was going to be sloppy.

The girl paused beneath a lamp, flicking her spent cigarette into the water. She pulled a fresh pack out of the pocket of her ragged jeans and started tamping them down against the palm of her hand. Her stalker had stopped moving, and now just watched her from a distance. Greyson took the opportunity to do the same, scrutinizing the other man’s victim, puzzling out her personality.

She was young. Greyson compared her to his own daughters and guessed sixteen. Her clothing was dirty and torn, but that could have been on purpose. These days, kids liked to emulate the homeless. There was something about the way she carried herself, though, that made him think this wasn’t just playacting. She was heroine-thin, and her neon blond hair looked like it had been cut with a straight razor. What struck Greyson most distinctly was the way she shivered, even wearing a leather jacket in mid-summer.

The girl put a fresh cigarette between her thin lips and pulled out a cheap lighter. As if this were his cue to move, the stranger started forward, coming around behind her. About three feet away from her, the man’s eagerness finally got the best of him. Greyson didn’t see what happened to tip the girl off, but quick as a cat she spun, dropping her lighter and cigarette and flipping out a butterfly knife. Greyson chuckled to himself. She was still going to die, but he found that he liked this girl.

The strange man was giggling now. There was nothing in his hands, and he held them out to his prey as if in supplication. See, he seemed to say, Nothing to be afraid of, little girl. She wasn’t buying it for a second. Instead, she was edging sideways, forcing the man to turn if he wanted to keep facing her. Good girl, thought Greyson.

The other man had started toying with her as she backed away, jabbing forward with his hands as if to pinch her bottom, darting back out of range when she brought her little knife to bear. It would only be a matter of time, now. Even armed, the girl was thoroughly outmatched. The man she was facing was a head and shoulders taller than her, and about three times as wide. In a fair fight, Greyson himself might have taken the guy. She didn’t have a chance. Unsure of what he was planning on doing, Greyson pulled out a knife of his own and started forward.

The man was still giggling, but his body language told Greyson that he was getting bored. Greyson stepped out of the shadows behind the big man, stalking him more effectively than the other man had done his quarry. Greyson noted this with a sense of professional pride. He knew what he was going to do, now, and he knew why he was going to do it. This idiot was sloppy. Greyson would kill him, because Greyson was the better killer.

The girl had seen him by now, looking over the big man’s shoulder. Greyson quietly cursed her, and hoped his target wouldn’t be nervous enough to look over his shoulder. No such luck. As Greyson stepped forward, the man glanced around, did a double take, and whirled. He was still grinning, but there was an edge to it now.

“You ought not to be here, little man,” he said. His voice was strangely lilting, almost gentle. He was very much insane.

Greyson said nothing.

Taking stock of her new situation, the girl ran away as fast as she could.

Good girl, thought Greyson.

The other man was now very pissed. With the girl gone, so was his grin. Now it was Greyson’s turn to do so. It was a short fight. The man was drunk, and crazy. Greyson was an ex-marine, and a seasoned veteran at killing. It was his turn to smile. The bigger man circled left. Greyson followed him. The man stepped back, cautious now. Greyson followed, but didn’t move in. He kept an even distance, taunting. It was driving his quarry mad.

They danced for what felt like hours before the stranger grew frustrated enough to well and truly fuck up. He lunged at Greyson with bare hands. Greyson stabbed him. It was that simple. He was almost disappointed. Even with all the nonsense stacked in his favor, he had been hoping for more. On the other hand, there was something strangely exhilarating about all this. Looking at the stupid shock on the idiot’s face, Greyson couldn’t place why. He felt himself grinning open-mouthed as the blood slicked down over his hand.

The knife had gone in low, and the man’s hands scrabbled wetly over Greyson’s as the old killer lifted it. It tore things, vital things. The man was dead now, though he hardly seemed to notice. Screaming and crying, he punched weakly at Greyson’s face, but all his efforts accomplished was to splash the blood around and to drop more weight on the knife blade in his belly. Greyson pulled hard, up and out. It took a lot of muscle to cut through so much meat, but he was up to the task. With a sick sucking sound, Greyson’s hand pushed into the man’s abdominal cavity as the knife rose high enough the puncture his lung. A quick twitch and the screaming stopped, only to be replaced by gurgling and wheezing.

The man sank to his knees, and Greyson pulled his gloved hand free, leaving the knife buried deep in the man’s body cavity. Having completed the task at hand, the master stepped back to examine his work. It was bloodier than most, even for him, and looking at what he’d done he sensed that he’d gone a little mad in the doing. To leave the blade lodged where it was had taken strength only adrenaline could have produced. He knew he’d have a headache in the morning.

Fitting, he thought, Since I feel so drunk right now.

Why?

He looked around. The girl had gone away, nowhere to be found. Would she think he saved her for altruistic reasons? Hardly, Greyson thought. She looked like the sort who knew these streets, and would assume that Greyson was planning on taking her himself. Truth to tell, he probably would have, though not in the way she likely imagine. Ah, he thought, there’s the crux of it. Greyson Dale was a murderer, an ender of lives. He would have killed the girl, given half a chance, but instead he had found another, more satisfying opportunity. Greyson Dale had killed a killer. Somehow, that made it more.

As he watched the last few moments of the other man’s life, a name surfaced in Greyson’s mind. Renfield. The eater of flies. Greyson remembered reading about the madman’s philosophy in the book, how he would eat the flies, then the spiders that ate the flies, and finally the cats that ate the spiders. He remembered the way the man explained it in terms of life-force. Greyson Dale was not given to such pretensions, but he knew it felt right, here. He had been an ender of lives, and now he was the ender another such creature, and therefore a step above him.

He’d killed a killer. It made him one step closer to being God.

Given time, he thought he could get to like this way of doing things.

--- 3---

Dinner was a quiet affair. Samia made spaghetti with meatballs. She worked silently and efficiently, and refused to look Jack directly in the eye, much less let him help. It was too much. She wanted desperately to throw him out, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She wanted to hate him, and couldn’t even do that. All she could think, over and over, was how utterly fucking stupid she felt for being jealous over him.

“It’s ready,” she said in a monotone.

They ate in the living room, each in a different corner. We’re like a bunch of fucking children, Samia thought as she watched Lucien and Jack avoid looking at her or each other.

Well, fuck this.

“So, do you have any plans for tonight?” she asked Jack. Even she was shocked at how calm and collected she sounded, so it was that much funnier seeing the identical look on both of their faces. Deer in headlights, she thought. It took Jack a moment to find the courage to respond.

“Not particularly,” he said.

“Well, how about it? Think you’d be up for a night on the town?” she asked.

When life gives you lemons, drink Corona!

“Um…sure,” he was waiting for the trap to spring, she saw. In a quiet corner of her mind, it made her feel good to watch him squirm. Jack finally looked at Lucien, and so did Samia.

“Oh, I’ve got other plans,” Lucien said with a catty nonchalance, “Besides, I can’t drink, remember? You two kids go have fun.”

Oh, smart boy, thought Samia icily. She loved her brother, truly. She was also in a state to claw his eyes out.

“Good,” she said, finishing her plate, “I’m going to go get ready.”

So saying, she took all of their dishes into the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, put the leftovers into the fridge, and disappeared into her room. Let them wonder, she thought. Let them wonder, because even I don’t know what I’m thinking now.

---

Soon after Samia disappeared, so did Lucien, retreating silently to his room without so much as looking at Jack. For his part, Jack couldn’t say he minded.

What the hell have I gotten myself into? He thought. Then answered himself, if this is the worst you’re going to find here, it’s a hundred times better than you deserve.

He was starting to get nervous, and it had little to do with the bizarre triangle he was finding himself caught in with Samia and Lucien. How long did he have, he wondered, until the shit well and truly hit the fan?

He wished Alexander was in town. He was desperate to talk to the man. In fact, though he would never say as much to Samia, that was the whole reason he’d come back in the first place. Asher was coming, and if there was anyone who would know what to do about it, it would be Alexander. Even as he thought this, Samia came out of her room and sandblasted his heart.

God, I wish I’d never hurt her, he thought, knowing it was exactly what she wanted him to think.

She was utterly beautiful. She had let out her hair, normally kept back in a pony tail of tiny braids, now a cascade around her head like a firework frozen in time. She wore a light caramel blouse tucked into a pair of form-fitting blue jeans, revealing all of the curves that Jack had missed before. For all her tough attitude, she was surprisingly petite, though well muscled in all the right places. Her skin was smooth and dark as chocolate, and she wore a thin silver chain that hung down and disappeared between her perfect breasts. Jack looked into her eyes, now lined in violet, and felt his whole world melt away.

How could I ever hurt her? He thought, and almost cried to think how stupid he’d been.

She looked so vulnerable, even as she put on a brave face.

“Well,” she said, “You ready?”

Jack looked down at himself, still wearing yesterday’s clothes (hell, last week’s clothes for all of that), with his ratty sneakers and three days’ worth of black stubble.

“Sure,” he said.

“Then let’s get going,” she told him, and so they did.

---

Lucien waited until they were gone before coming out of his room. He didn’t feel too bad about what had happened between Samia and Jack, nor did he regret his part in it. He felt bad for hurting his sister, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t do the same thing over again given half a chance. What could he say? The man was hot for a thirty-year-old. Shrugging to himself, Lucien went into the bathroom to put on some makeup before going out.

To him it was a form of art, just one more way to express himself. Two hours in front of a mirror, picking out the perfect dress and heels, applying the right shade of foundation to give his already perfect features that extra hint of mystery, and Lucien Santiago would suddenly find himself transformed into Miss Natalia Mariposa, Puerto Rican queen of the neon night. Looking himself over, he postured and posed, flirted and swayed to music only he could hear.

Perfect, he thought when he was finally satisfied.

Time to go.

He called a cab, and continued to primp and preen himself until it arrived, seeking a state of glamour that would wipe away the past, and wishing desperately that it wouldn’t fade away.

---

Edge of town. The walls are grey with grease and mold. The something sniffs, scents bloody fear. It’s a good smell. The Master comes. The something’s eyes find its brethren. The Master comes. Preparations must begin. Blood and fear are incense. The Master must be pleased. So it goes.

The hounds bring offerings of shit and sacrilege. They hope it will be enough.

Against the wall, defilement. The body is still warm.

The something whimpers.

The Master comes.

---

Frank walked in through a cloud of manufactured smoke, his eyes hidden behind waves of dark, unkempt hair. He glanced around the room, making his presence known with a well crafted air of contempt for those around him. They weren’t good enough, no, they never were.

Eyes turned his way. Some boggled at his beauty. Some looked away bashfully. Others simply rolled. Pretentious prick, those eyes said, he thinks he’s God’s gift to man.

Or punishment, he thought back at them.

The club was noisy. The air pushed its way into the lungs with every bass beat, bringing with it a pungent mix of clove and marijuana smoke. On the dance floor, a dozen people dressed like Tim Burton figurines undulated wildly to nondescript European death metal. They punched and kicked at the air, held their heads in something resembling agony, and threw themselves into one another in desperation under the unforgiving flash of strobe lights.

Pathetic, he thought. Perfect.

He smiled wryly to himself. Hi pot, I’m kettle.

The walls were covered floor to ceiling in mirrors, even in the bathrooms. Around the dance floor, they were cracked in places where someone had taken a drunken fall on some distant night. No one ever complained, because it gave the broken ballerinas a chance to look at themselves in fragments and pieces. The dance floor itself was covered in dried liquor, stale cigarette butts, and a sprinkling of spilled cocaine powder.

Frank liked it here. The ambience was dismal, to say the least, but it made him feel more powerful to sit in the dark and hold court with all the other leather-clad remnants of a bygone time. It was a dead scene, but it was his.

“Your usual?” asked the serving girl.

He nodded without looking at her, then watched her as she walked away. Katrina was a beauty, dressed in a classic nurse costume that had been dyed black and red. Her arms were covered with green fishnets, but he knew all about the track marks he’d see there if he ever got the chance to tear them off. She was only five four, naturally, but her knee-high bitch boots gave her an extra four inches. From under her bloody nurse’s cap, gigantic dreadlocks hung down to the small of her back, dyed all the colors of the goth spectrum.

“I wouldn’t fuck that for all the opium in China,” came an amused voice from the bathroom door.

The speaker’s name was Chas, but everyone called him the Ogre. He deserved the name. The man was big, and black, and worked out so much his neck looked like it might burst if he turned it too quickly. His eyes glowed green in the black light, and his entire body was a map of tattoos and piercings.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Frank. Everyone knew the Ogre liked skinny white boys. Sometimes he even liked them willing.

The big man grinned, showing filed teeth.

“She’s got more diseases than we have kinds of beer,” he said.

“Four?” Frank said.

They both laughed.

“It’s called protection,” Frank said.

“It’s called blood play,” replied Chas, nodding at her, “Old girl only likes it when there’s razors and needles involved.”

“Mm.” was all Frank could come up with.

Too bad, he thought, she’s pretty hot for a junkie.

“Mind if I set up shop?” he asked.

The Ogre shrugged.

“Go right ahead,” he said, “Not like there’s much business either way.”

“Thanks,” said Frank, and pulled a wooden case out of his bag. Inside was a bundle draped in velvet. He pulled that aside, and took out his cards with a loving hand.

The deck was old. It had belonged to his grandmother, and she’d passed it along when she found out he had an interest in the occult.

“There’s nothing in there you couldn’t figure out for yourself, think hard enough,” she had warned him, “It’s a child’s game, but you feel free to play it if you want.”

It hadn’t taken him long to figure out how much more they were than what she’d told him. As a child, they’d fascinated him. The strange pictures had said something to him, even before he knew their meaning. Once he started to really study them, everything had fallen into place, and suddenly he was giving readings to all of his friends, and scaring them to death with the accuracy of what he told them. After high school, he had started making a living off of it. It wasn’t much, but it helped to pay for some of him extracurricular hobbies.

He shuffled the cards thoughtlessly as he looked around, surveying for possible customers. On a good night, he would never have to approach someone to sell a reading. Usually, the ones who really needed it would find him. Half the time, the cards were laying themselves out before he’d even see person he was reading for. It was their game, really. He was just a dealer, or an interpreter as he preferred.

Update (long overdue) of River City

2007-06-06T03:55:54Z

---1---

Samia was mopping up the last of a spilled vial of scented oil when she happened to look up, and saw a flicker of motion at the edge of the shop-front window. Alarmed, she went to see who it was, but he was out of sight before she got to the front of the store. Of course, that didn’t mean he was gone, but she wasn’t going to stay in this place for an hour, hoping that whoever it was would go away. Instead, Samia put away the mop and bucket, gave the store a quick once-over, and turned out the lights. On her way out, she pocketed a nice, hefty blade with a bronze handle. The design was a bit baroque for her tastes, and it was supposed to be used as an athame for “ceremonial purposes”, but it was the closest thing to hand, and she knew Alexander wouldn’t mind as long as she brought it back in the morning.

She stepped out, looking for her admirer. Nothing moved in the soft light of the street lamps, so she turned her attention to locking the door behind her. The lock was old, clunky and rusted – a two handed affair. She bent herself to the task, twisting and lifting with the expert efficiency born of years of practice, and heard the lightest rustle and footfall behind her as she did so. She tensed, and paused, but heard no more. Knowing she was fucked anyway, she finished closing up, and straightened without turning. Her left hand went to the knife in her pocket.

“You really think you could take me with that thing?” he asked. She recognized his voice, even after ten years.

“Jack,” she said, simply.

“Indeed,” he said.

She turned now, and looked him up and down. He hadn’t changed much, and where he’d aged, he’d done so handsomely. His hair was a little thinner, maybe a little higher at the temples. There were a few lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, but he was essentially the same. Even his clothes looked familiar, and she had a sneaking suspicion that he was wearing the same denim jacket, black sneakers, t-shirt and jeans she’d last seen him in. The way he wore through things, it was entirely possible. Jack, in turn, was scrutinizing her, and she wondered briefly what he saw.

“Ten years,” he said. Typical for him, he was able to cut a whole conversation down to two words. There would be no catching up, she knew. Nor did she want to. She knew how much her own life had progressed in the decade since he had left, and could guess well enough the sorts of adventures he’d have put himself through. If she needed to know how the man had changed, she would do so tangentially, over a cup of coffee, while he told her what the hell he was doing here.

“Crank’s still open?” he asked. She shook her head.

“No, that place burned down six years ago.”

“Shame that,” he said, with genuine regret.

“Yeah,” she said, “No place like it, anymore. If you want coffee, we’re stuck with Denny’s. It’s a bit of a hike.”

“Fucking halogen,” was all he said, with a grimace. They started walking.

“So what have you been up to?” he asked, fishing in his pockets.

“Nothing new, believe me,” she said, “Lucien lives with me now.”

“He came out, then?” He lit a cigarette, puffed it to life, and shoved his lighter back into his jeans.

“Yeah. They didn’t take it well.”

“I figured it would happen some time,” he chuckled, “Remember taking bets?”

“He was eight,” she said.

“But I was right, wasn’t I?” He was grinning, now, and in it she saw a whole decade melt away.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling herself now, “Go ahead, you’ve earned it.”

“Damn right!” he said.

“Yep. Your kiddie gaydar is in good working order. Proud?”

“Sure am,” he bowed at this, spreading his arms and flourishing his cigarette.

She laughed, but it was subdued. She was looking at the back of his hand. There were scars there, deep and numerous, and it reminded her how long it had been, and what he’d been thinking when he left. There was something else, too.

“Wait, when did you start smoking?”

“Six years ago, actually.”

“Christ,” she muttered. More sentences that didn’t need saying. She was feeling the years, and it was hurting.

“They fly,” he said.

“Yeah, and I’m starting to think maybe I’m afraid of heights,” she said.

Her eyes were misting now, and she knew he was the one person who’d never believe it was the chill air that was doing it. They were both spared an awkward moment of misbegotten and inept comforting, however, because they were suddenly standing right in front of the Denny’s, bathing in fluorescent light.

---

“So what brings you back?” she finally asked.

“Wow, it’s only three in the morning. I thought you’d wait until at least four,” he said. She didn’t say anything. He was stalling, which meant that he was embarrassed, and he was about to ask her for something. She supposed she knew what it was going to be, and decided play his game back at him. Sighing, she jumped the gun.

“You can stay on my couch,” she said, “No time limit, but if you’re there more than a month you’d better damn well be paying something on the bills.”

Jack looked taken aback, then injured, then resigned. “And don’t say you’re sorry,” she said, “You’re still not allowed to do that, either.”

“Jesus, woman,” he said, looking dog-tired, “You’ve gotten as bad as I used to be.”

“It comes with practice,” she said.

“I won’t be there too long,” he said, “I wish I could be.”

He moved his hand across the table, touched her hand. She looked him dead in the eye, and saw that he was serious.

“Whatever you might think about me,” he said, “I have missed you.”

“Don’t say it,” she said.

“But –“

“No,” she stopped him, grabbed his hand, “No, you don’t get it. We don’t work, and as much as we could pretend it doesn’t matter, it does. I’ve spent ten years getting over you, Jack. Ten years, working in a place where I see dreamers like you every day, and wishing that just one of those pairs of eyes would be yours; wishing you’d come back, or that you’d finally give up looking out for distant miracles and see the ones that are right here.”

She slapped the table twice, sloshing coffee into cream colored saucers and making the spoons clink against the sides of the cups. The sound suddenly reminded them that they were in a public place, and both of them looked around guiltily. There was only one other patron in the place, a grizzled old homeless man in flannel, sitting on a bar stool on the other side of the room and eating pancakes. He favored them with a wary glare through a rheumy eye, and turned back to his chow. A waitress came out from the back and refilled their cups, looking prim as a nurse. Samia tried her with a smile, but the woman was all business.

When she’d gone, Samia turned back to Jack, who was staring into his coffee. He’d tossed a bit of creamer into it, and was watching it spread across the surface in a widening spiral. She was reminded of some of there early brushes with ‘divination’, spending long hours futilely staring at similar such swirls, hoping to catch a glimpse of something other. The look in his eyes made her wonder if he’d learned the trick of it after all.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she said, just as quietly.

They said nothing for a while, each working through their own labyrinth of scattered thoughts.

“We should leave soon,” she said finally. “I have to work in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “and I really need to sleep.”

He rubbed his eyes for emphasis, and she was again astounded at how tired he really looked. They paid the waitress at the counter, and left a few bucks on the table for her troubles. The way the other patron started at them on their way out, she had to wonder whether any of it would actually get to the woman in the apron.
---

“My house is a bit further up,” she said, and Jack nodded.

“You still live below Alexander?”

“Yeah, but he’s away for the weekend,” she said, “Off looking at Tibetan pottery or something.”

Jack looked disappointed.

“Well, stick around a few days at least,” she said, “I’m sure he’d love to see you again. Hell, maybe he can help you with whatever trouble you’re in.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, and she held up her hand.

“I’ve decided I don’t want to know,” she said, “I’m just glad you’re here, and that I get to see you again, even if it’s just for a little while.”

Jack nodded, and looked sad for a moment.

“Maybe I will stay for a while,” he said, trying to cheer both of them, “It’s been too long, and I’d like to see who’s still around.”

“Oh, everybody,” she said, “Except for the ones who aren’t.”

They both chuckled, and started walking again. The trip was short, and silent except for the sound of their shoes on the cracked sidewalk. Samia led her old friend onto a nondescript stretch of city street, lined with faded houses on either side. It wasn’t quite a slum, but the whole neighborhood was definitely looking neglected. Front yards were strewn with weeds and abandoned toys. There were shoes thrown over the electric lines at odd intervals, looking like so many fallen birds still hanging from their perches. Samia’s home was the first floor of a fairly standard looking house that had been painted yellow about twenty years before.

A string of Christmas lights hung over a porch, and a grinning paper jack-‘o-lantern hung from the front door. Samia unlocked the door, stepped inside and flipped a switch on the wall. The inside of the livingroom was painted the same dull yellow as the outside of the house, and led off into a small kitchen, then a tiny bathroom.

“My room is in the back,” she said, throwing her coat onto a tired lounge chair.

“TV is working, sort of,” she continued, ushering Jack in and closing the door behind him, “We don’t have cable or anything, but reception’s good. We had a VCR, but it died.” She pointed to a spot on the wall where someone had gotten creative, literally crucifying the dismantled pieces of electronic equipment.

“God is in the TV,” Jack said, “Guess it’s bad form to try recording Him.”

Samia just looked at him.

“Anyway, the fridge is a commune,” she went on, “Everyone puts in, everyone takes out.”

“Everyone?” Jack asked, eyebrows raised.

“It’s just me and Lucien right now, but you’re not the first person to use this place as a crash pad,” Samia said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. The microwave works, the stove works, and the shower works. Towels are in the linen closet next to the bathroom. That’s Lucien’s room,” she pointed at this last, though she needn’t have bothered. Lucien’s door was decorated with rainbow streamers and a poster of David Bowie, pasted over with glitter and beads. The words “Keep OUT” had been written in large block letters with rainbow colored markers, and punctuated with a big yellow smiley face.

“He’s still dealing with Mom and Dad’s negative reaction,” she explained.

“I see,” Jack laughed.

“He’ll settle down eventually.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“Honest.”

“Right.”

There was a brief pause before they both burst into helpless laughter. When they recovered themselves, Samia continued her standing tour of her humble abode.

“Lucien is out with friend for the night. He’ll probably be back tomorrow,” she said. “I should warn you, he’s also a bit...hormonal…lately. He might come on to you.”

“I can live with that,” Jack said, smiling.

“But I can’t,” she said, not smiling, “I’m serious, Jack. This is my little brother we’re talking about, and I don’t want-“

“You don’t have to say it,” Jack said, “I understand. Hands off, right?”

“Yeah,” she said.

Samia decided that this was about as awkward as they could get. Here she was, telling the love of her life not to sodomize her emotionally unstable kid brother, and he was taking it in stride. Truthfully, she wondered if she was more concerned for Lucien’s mental well-being, or her own. Either way, she knew that Jack was entirely capable of doing something that fucked up, no matter how they felt about one another. She sighed. Life could be a hell of a thing, sometimes.

“I need to get to bed,” she said, after a moment.

“Yeah,” Jack said, and yawned so hard his jaw cracked.

“Let me get you some blankets,” she said, and disappeared into her bedroom.

When she came back, Jack was already asleep on the couch, and Samia spread a comforter over him, not daring to trust herself to tuck him in. His face was troubled as it always had been when he was sleeping, and he seemed to be in the midst of a dream already, talking to invisible monsters in his head. Samia wondered where he’d been, since that last day by the river’s edge, when Jack had told her that he was leaving, and would probably never come back.

He’d wanted her to come with him, but she had told him she couldn’t leave her brother. Nor had she particularly wanted to go, honestly. She had loved him utterly, though, and the pain really didn’t ever recede. Nothing else had changed in her life, really. She still worked for the same man, selling his occult wares in a rundown little shop in the last remaining corner of a disintegrating art haven. She still lived in the same house as her boss, which was really the only way she could afford to live on her own.

Staring at Jack, though, she recognized subtle changes in her heart that she never would have seen without his mysterious return. Suddenly, she felt the fountain of years, and the toll they’d taken on her capacity for hope, faith, yearning and enchantment. Was Jack as tired on the inside as she was, or had he found his distant miracles after all? Just what the hell had brought him back, anyway, and why did she suddenly feel such foreboding? She looked at her own front door, long-standing protection against the sad reality outside, and wondered – if she opened it now, would there that dreary street still be there, or would there be nothing at all?

---2---

Samia was gone when Jack woke up, but she’d left a note and a key.

Gone ‘til 5. Eat something.

Jack obliged her.

There wasn’t much by way of choices. The fridge was a disaster, the cupboards nearly barren. Jack found himself muttering some nursery rhyme or other about starvation as he cobbled together the fixings for a p, b and j, and promised himself that he’d take the girl on a grocery run before he left town.

Lucien’s door opened as Jack walked by, and Jack was forced to cover his sandwich with one hand lest it become garnished with loose glitter. Lucien stepped into the room, and for a moment Jack imagined hearing a fanfare of trumpets, and saw explosions of rainbow confetti. He took a moment to compose himself, and saw Lucien staring at him as he did so. Jack tried not to draw too many conclusions, remembering Samia’s warning.

The boy was starvation thin, and wore nothing but a pair of tight cut-offs with the top button undone, and a studded black collar around his neck, chain dangling down to his belly button. His face was still covered in last night’s makeup, and his hair was twisted into half a hundred mini-dreds which struck out in every direction like flood victims seeking open air. Jack was torn between amusement, nostalgia and arousal. For his part, Lucien looked confused and a little nervous.

“Hello,” said Jack.

“Hi,” said Lucien, “Who are you?”

“Oh,” Jack was a little put off by that, until he realized that Lucien had been ten the last time they’d seen each other. Then he noticed that the boy was still looking at him, waiting for an answer.

“I’m Jack,” he said.

It took a few seconds for Lucien to place any significance on that one, and then the boy was all over him.

“Oh my God! Jack!? Holy shit! I mean, wow!” Lucien launched himself at Jack, endangering the man’s sandwich for the second time as Jack simultaneously hugged him back and flailed with one arm, trying to keep his plate upright. Both were laughing now.

“Well, hello to you too,” Jack chuckled. Lucien planted a kiss directly on his lips, and Jack tasted cherry lip balm and the faintest hint of vodka. And I thought I was the last of the club kids, Jack thought to himself. Disentangling himself, Jack finally managed to put down his plate. He tried not to grimace much when he caught a little sparkle somewhere on the white bread. What’s a little tinsel in my diet? I’ve had worse…

“Jesus,” Lucien was saying, “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” said Jack, “If I didn’t already know you lived here, I wouldn’t have recognized you either.”

Lucien looked down at himself, and seemed to realize for the first time what he was wearing. His face turned redder beneath the blush, and he bit his lower lip. In an instant, he was a kid again, caught wearing mommy’s mascara, and suddenly Jack really did recognize him. His face, hair and body might have changed, but body language is hard-wired. Lucien’s shoulders slumped a little, the way Jack remembered him doing as a child, and even after a decade it was all Jack could do not to give him a hug and tell him it was okay.

---

Lucien threw on a polo shirt, not bothering to change or button his shorts, and the two of them sat down together in the livingroom. Jack had taken the last of the bread, so he offered to share his now-festive sandwich, but Lucien declined. He’d eaten after the club last night, and was still full from that. Jack avoided using the words “anorexic” and “self-esteem”, but he thought them.

“So what brings you back?” Lucien finally asked. Jack heard the echo of Samia’s voice in the question, but Lucien wasn’t interested in accusations or old wounds. He was simply curious, and Jack was grateful. There wouldn’t be many moments like this while he was here.

“Actually, I’m just passing through,” he said honestly, “I probably won’t be staying for more than a few days.”

“Oh,” said Lucien, “That’s too bad. I know Samia must have been thrilled to see you.”

Overjoyed, Jack thought wryly.

“Well, while you’re here we’ll just have to make the most of it,” Lucien said, “Have you been to any of your old hangouts?”

“I don’t think any of them are open, anymore,” Jack said.

“Oh,” Lucien said again, then perked, “Well, we’ll have to make new ones, then.”

Jack smiled despite himself. The kid was optimistic.

“Sure,” he said.

They continued to chat aimlessly for a few minutes, but the conversation inevitably paled. Lucien excused himself to go take a shower, and Jack ate his sandwich, glitter and all. He washed it down with a glass of lukewarm tap water, and discovered to his delight that Alexander had installed a dishwasher in the apartment. Seeing that the dishes already piled in the machine were already dirty, Jack joined his with the rest and waited for Lucien to get out of the bathroom. Eventually, the steady sprinkling sound was replaced by a low rush, then silence.

“Shit,” Jack heard Lucien say, then, “Jack?”

Here it comes, Jack thought with amusement.

“Yes?”

“I forgot to grab a towel,” Lucien called. Jack shook his head in amusement. Boy, was this ever an old trick. “Can you get one for me?”

“Sure,” Jack said, going to the cabinet, “In this door, right?”

“Yeah.”

Jack debated in his mind. He’d seen this coming. He was absolutely certain this was just what Samia had been worried about. So soon, he thought. I really shouldn’t. He told himself as much even as he opened the bathroom door to hand Lucien his towel. He even tried to only partially open the door and pass it through, but Lucien was having none of it. The boy grabbed the door and pulled it the rest of the way open, taking the towel from Jack’s hand even as he gave him a direct look that was nothing like the shy boy Jack had seen only minutes before.

“Thanks,” Lucien said.

“Your welcome,” Jack said.

Don’t do this, he thought.

He started to step forward. Lucien’s hand came up to his chest. Without preamble, a key rattled tumblers out of the way at the other end of the apartment. Jack spun on one heel, heart leaping into his chest. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him just as Samia came in through the front door.

“Hey, Jack,” she was saying, breathlessly, “I realized when I got to work that we didn’t have much to eat, so I stopped at the grocery store on the way home. I hope you like –“

She stopped talking when she looked up, her eyes going directly from Jack’s face to the wet hand print on his shirt. Jack felt his heart drop to his stomach as he saw the hurt in her eyes, the sadness and disappointment. Worst of all, he saw resignation. She had hoped for better from him, but she hadn’t expected it. Then her eyes went cold and distant, and he could read nothing in them.

“I hope you like spaghetti,” she finished, and her voice was flat.

Jack started to speak, to try and explain, but Samia simply held up her hand, and wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked.

It was evisceration, then. Jack simply nodded. Behind him, Lucien opened the bathroom door and walked to his bedroom with the towel wrapped around him. He didn’t look at Jack.

“Hey, girl,” the boy managed to sound like absolutely nothing was amiss.

“Hey,” she said to him, very calm.

“When are we eating?” he asked.

“Soon,” she said.

“Great,” Lucien sighed, “I’m starving.”

Then the boy was out of sight behind Bowie. Jack’s hand went over his eyes. What could he possibly say that wasn’t a lie or wouldn’t sound like one? Nothing had happened? Wait five minutes, he thought, despising himself, it fucking would have.

“Still keeping your promises, I see,” Samia said, and there was no defense for that. He looked at her. You said you’d come back, too, her eyes said.

But I have come back! He wanted to scream, but in his heart he knew this, too, would have been a lie.
---3---

Cold. Rain. The air alive with nighttime smells – earth and wet concrete. In the distance, noise and neon lights. Here and now, an abandoned alley, brick walls and heaps of trash. A man, breathing. Something else, laughing and growling in the shadows. Throat noises. The something slides, coils, seduces. No more breathing. Distant lights. Silence.

---4---

In an empty room in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town, a ghost stood staring through the window, at a loss for everything. The man had been there, at that window, for something approaching eternity. There had been a woman for a while, but she left. Now the room seemed small, somehow, or perhaps he was simply more aware of it now than he had ever been before.

Maudlin, she had called him. Was that a name?

It was the only word she ever spoke to him. Not unusual. Few words pass between the dead. It was unusual. How much time had passed before that word, he couldn’t say. Being dead lent time a sort of obsolescence. Since the word, each moment felt infinite. The opposite of what was before. How many seconds had passed since that word?

Maudlin, she had called him. It was something…something. She had a word. It was the only one he knew, now. Before it, there had been none.

Maudlin.

She had looked so wanting, then. Two seconds had passed. Three. Nothing. He said nothing, only tried to stare some meaning back into the air between them. In her eyes, those shining lights. Were there more words? He wished he could take them, send them back to her. All there was inside of him were scattered pictures, things from long ago, before the old eternity. Before the dying. He started to try. His mouth opened. Nothing. He failed. She left.

She left him, suddenly with a name and no words, wishing he knew what it was the woman wanted from him. Damn it, he had been so close to being nothing at all! But now…oh, now he had a name, and it meant he was something. Was he supposed to make her something, too? It took too many moments to think these things. The woman was gone. What did that mean? The man looked to where he saw her last. She still existed. She must.

The woman had given him a name. It meant something. What? He went back to his new place, torn between a window and a door, and puzzled over what it was to suddenly have a name.

---

Days passed, perhaps. No solutions presented themselves, only the growing need to understand. Maudlin took the name, examined it. He was Maudlin. She had called him by it. It was his. Was it him? Maudlin took the word, and wrapped it around himself. It was cloth, a handy rag with which to cover himself.

Maudlin, he thought, and practiced calling his own attention with it. This was difficult. The woman, she might have taught him how to use it, this name, but she was gone. He felt something, thinking of her. Not only that, but he discovered to his shock that, when he thought of her, there was an image with it. He saw her, even though she was gone.

He saw her giving him his name. It was like the images from before, but more urgent than those. In fact, he was having trouble bringing those images back. She was crowding them out. She was quickly becoming his only memory.

Maudlin felt things he didn’t know how to feel anymore. He paced. The window lost interest for him. The room was too close to him. All the walls weren’t far enough away. They were pressing in on him, and all the while, he kept returning to the door. He couldn’t remember what it signified, only what it was. He paced. The walls shrank. The door grew more imminent. He had the strangest sensation the room was giving birth to him.

Three days later, when the walls became too little and the door too much, Maudlin at last remembered what a door was for, and stepped into it.

Maudlin, she had called him, and he hadn’t said anything at all.

He decided that maybe he did know what to do, now. He would find the woman. He would be restless until he did so. He would take his newfound feelings, and wear his name as if it were armor. He would find her, and when he did, he would use all the things he suddenly had, and find a word, and give it to her in return. He would give the woman a name.

Thinking that, Maudlin stepped into the grey world, one ghost searching for another.

Type your cut contents here.

Vitality - a telling from the lead female's PoV

2007-04-03T22:47:09Z

For purposes of this document, we’ll call her Sarah.

Sarah is dead, and knows it. The following is a retelling of the short story, geared to her point of view.

Her life ended at the hands of a gang of rapists, who kidnapped her as she was walking alone on an empty industrial street intersecting the city’s railroad tracks. She was on her way home from a friend’s house, and didn’t see them before they were on her.

They didn’t bother to drug her. There were four of them, and they easily carried her away. To keep her from screaming, they shoved a wad of socks into her mouth and taped it down. Then they took her to an empty room in an abandoned factory, not far from where she was caught.

Her ordeal lasted for hours. The men repeatedly raped her, beating her unmercifully with pipes, leather belts and bare fists whenever she struggled, sometimes just to see her hurt. Her hands were bound behind her back with wire, which cut into her wrists whenever she tried to move them. Her feet were lashed with a leather belt, which she could have gotten out of if the men weren’t constantly watching her.

When it got dark out, the men threw bundles of rags, wood and garbage into a barrel next to the mattress they’d thrown her on, poured in a little gasoline, and lit it.

By the time they were done with her, Sarah no longer wanted to be alive. She was no longer crying, or even trying to escape. Her eyes were swollen nearly shut, her mouth was full of blood and broken teeth, and her hair had been torn out in fistfuls. The men had left her bruised and broken, inside and out. At one point, she nearly fell asleep, but they kept her awake, first by starting over again, then by shaking her. When they were finally done, the men poured the rest of their gasoline all over her, kicking her to keep her from rolling off the mattress, and set her on fire. They watched her burn until she stopped moving, then left her there.

--

When she woke up, the woman was fully clothed and unbruised, but felt exhausted. She knew what had happened to her, but didn’t really recall the details. In fact, she chose not to. She knew that she was dead, but had no idea what sort of place she’d ended up in. The room had no door, but she didn’t particularly care. There was a man in the room with her, and she didn’t care about him, either. She was annoyed with him, actually. He was intruding on her, a distraction from…well, she couldn’t really place what he was distracting her from. Her thoughts were turmoil. She skipped from place to place, not remembering, unable to stop.

Time was immeasurable, her life so distant she forgot what it had been like, except for those last few hours. They had destroyed her, those men. She felt alternately enraged and shamed, desperately angry between bouts of re-suicidal depression (she wasn’t so much wishing she was dead as glad to already be). She was ashamed of herself for being what she thought of as a coward, for not fighting harder, for not pressing hard enough to cut her wrists and die quicker, for wanting to die at all. She cried, because she knew that even if she’d lived her life would have been just as broken.

The man did nothing, and said nothing. He simply stood there, looking out at the grey sky and rocky tracks, all rust and desolation. The air felt still and heavy, and felt like someone had just finished crying. It was warm as spring, but no birds sang. There was nothing outside, but the man just kept staring, his face never changing expression. Something about that set Sarah’s teeth on edge. She tried to talk to him, but he never looked at her. Sometimes, she could get him to look away from the scene outside, but never for long, and never directly in her direction. His eyes never changed, grey and distant. He was thinking of something, she thought, but she could never discern what.

Time dragged on. She was restless, but tired. She wanted to do something, and she could never figure out what. It was a lazy afternoon that lasted for decades. The feelings never changed. The sky never changed. Sometimes, she could pretend to sleep for a while, but the idea would cross her that someone else was there, and she open her eyes. Inevitably, there was no one there.

Now and then, her memories would start to intrude. Flashes of her tormentors would cross her mind, and she would feel phantom pain. Her legs would feel locked together, or her wrists would ache, if only for a moment. Every time, she pushed these things away, afraid of them. She didn’t forget, exactly, but neither did she examine the experience closely. At times like these, her irritation would grow, and she would lash out at the indifferent man at the window.

The years wore on, and one day she looked up to see that her silent companion was fading away. It was subtle, at first, and she knew he must have been doing so for some time before she noticed, but he was definitely taking on a translucent cast. At first, she thought it wasn’t true, and paid no more attention to him than was usual. Eventually, she looked at him to see that he was entirely transparent, the window frame clearly visible through his back.

She panicked, at first. She hated him. She didn’t know why, but he was also her only company. She knew she’d wished for this, but didn’t want to see him gone. She grabbed his arm, touching him for the first time, and he seemed to become more cohesive for a moment. She tried to distract him, then, from his window, by standing in front of him, pushing him, throwing things around behind him, everything but speaking. She didn’t even think of that. It simply never occurred to her, like the door. Her life was terribly boring, but by now she didn’t know how else it could be. She could wish that something was other than it was, but to imagine how it could be different was beyond her. Time had dissolved her as much as it was doing to him, and she had a distinct impression that what was happening to him would happen to her, too.

When she realized that she couldn’t stop it from happening, the woman went into a total state of despair, and watched from the wall behind him as he dissipated, finally dissolving into nothing at all. It was more than she wanted to take, but what was it except more of the same? She was dissatisfied, but she always had been. Was she so unhappy before the end? She couldn’t remember. It frustrated her. She didn’t want to try, but how could she not? She kept thinking of her circumstances, but had avoided thinking of it in terms of her life. Something had ended, she was sure, but what hadn’t ended? She still existed, and was still unhappy, but now she knew even this would end eventually.

She was afraid, and it was something to know that she was dead, and still afraid of dying. The notion sent her into a rage. She flew around the room, thrashing against the walls, ripping into piles of accumulated garbage, shrieking her rage and despair out into the grey world. She tore down the dusty blinds in the window and threw them down, and tossed the empty barrel across the room. When she was finally exhausted, she sank down onto the mattress and lie there, face up, trying to think of nothing again. She wished that, if she was going to stop being here, it would happen sooner, now even.

No such thing happened. Her head stayed where it was. She didn’t lose cohesion. Her arms stayed thoroughly visible. Time kept up its terrible pace. Years passed. The girl closed her eyes, and pretended she was really dead, and not stuck in this half-assed bullshit.

She eventually heard noises in the distance, but determined this time not to open her eyes or pay attention to them. She was tired of false hope, just like she was tired of any hope. It was torture, and she hated it. The noises continued anyway, faint but growing louder. She kept her eyes closed, but there was something in the sound that caught and kept her attention anyway. There were voices, two of them. She thought it was a boy and girl, maybe teenagers. Was she imagining this? She couldn’t believe that she was still capable of such a thing.

No, she was hearing people, actual people. She thought the sound seemed to be coming from her mattress, and turned to press her ear closer. She heard more, and rolled her body so that she could listen more closely.

The sounds she heard were of two lovers, a teenage boy and his girlfriend, who’d come to this place looking for a place to be alone. The boy brought his girl in with one hand over her eyes, and when he showed her where he’d brought her, she was simultaneously pleased and vaguely disconcerted.

“Not exactly Paris,” he said, a little bashful.

“It’s fine,” she replied, “It’s ours.”

The woman heard such emotion in their voices – love and wanting, joy at being alive.

She heard it, and the sound was so intense she wanted to cry.

The teens made love. They were still too young to understand that there were other ways to express what they were feeling. The woman felt a little embarrassed hearing them, but neither could she stop listening. Hearing them made her giddy. Lost in the sound of them, and the way they loved one another, she giggled and cried right along with them. She gasped with the girl, stirred with longing for the boys groans. She realized that she remembered what it felt like to be in love, and missed this sort of intensity and intimacy. She wished she was alive. She thought that she’d never really thought of things in those terms before. To be alive, and not dead. What did it mean, really?

She thought that she knew, now. Life was accompaniment. It was intensity and passion. It was even pain, but it was heartfelt pain. Life was interaction, fresh air and changing skies. She thought all of these things, and opened herself up to remembering what it was like to feel all of those things. Memories flooded her head, but she didn’t fight them for a change. She was so utterly tired to fighting them.

The young lovers kept going about their business, and the woman started to relive the last few hours of her life, examining the details, detailing the minutia. Her pain flared over. The way the wire had cut, the feeling of the men inside her, unwelcome and uncaring. She felt used, and almost ran from the memories then, but the sound of her lovers pressed her on. She needed to feel it all again, if only to remind herself of being alive. She cried onto the mattress, both in memory and in the moment. They had been so cruel! She couldn’t stop asking herself why, even as she hated them for every possible reason. God she hated them!

The young couple reached their climax just as she came to remembering the very last thing they’d done. The girl’s gasps echoed through her memories as the “leader” of the men who’d raped her lit the match with an ugly grin. The boy grunted as they splashed gasoline all over her, soaking through her tattered Sunday dress. The men lit her on fire, and she felt the flames burn her down to nothing, screaming loud and long, loosing all of her rage and frustration at that final act of cruelty. The world became a haze again, the lovers and rapists all dissolving into grey light.

The woman didn’t know what state she fell into then, but at some point, she woke up from it, and found herself lying on her mattress again. This time, there were differences. She wasn’t tired, anymore. She didn’t feel weary. She still had anger, but it wasn’t crippling, and she was well aware of how tired of this room she was. Now, though, there was a door, and was ready to walk through it. Before she went, though, she knew there was something else that needed doing. She had to say goodbye to her friend, or what passed for one in this half-state.

Walking to the window, she looked out on the dull grey scene that her companion had stared at for all that time, and closed her eyes, remembering him as clearly as she could (which at this point was pretty damn clear). She wondered what he had been like when he was alive. Was he kind? He’d looked like a gentleman, in his three piece suit. She though of him, standing there, and again tried to puzzle through what she’d seen in his eyes. Had he spent all that time reliving his own death? She’d been too dismantled by her own problems to think about it at the time, but it made sense. She wondered how it had happened for him. More than anything, she simply wished he was there, so she could ask him. It had been too long, she thought, since she’d stepped outside of herself and learned someone else’s story. Maybe that was life, too, and if that were true, then maybe she wasn’t really dead after all. Did being a ghost have to mean you were dead?

She wondered, and as she did so, she felt hands on her arms. The feeling was alien to her, at this point, but not unwelcome. She reached up, and grasped the hands she felt in her own, squeezing. Her companion let go, and she turned around. There he was, if a little caricaturized. She thought that maybe he wasn’t himself, anymore, but could he have been at the end? Impulsively, she hugged him, and felt him hesitate, unsure of himself or of this kind of contact. She realized that she really missed him, even though he’d never actually been there in the first place, and kissed him.

He responded, but only barely, as if he was still not used to having limbs, and was unsure of what he was doing. He probably didn’t remember this sort of contact, she thought, keeping her own disconnection in mind. Well, she’d remind him, but he had to be able to learn. She leaned into his ear, and spoke to him for the first time since she’d found herself in the room.

“Welcome back,” she said, “I don’t know your name, so I’ll call you Maudlin. I think we can learn to be alive again, but you have to follow me. Can you do that?”

She looked into his eyes, and he looked into hers. His eyes were a startling blue, and she thought they were beautiful, but he didn’t say anything. He simply looked at her, confused and uncertain. She knew it might be a while, if ever, and didn’t think she had the patience to wait that long. If she did, wouldn’t she just go back to how she had been? She couldn’t make herself take that chance.

“See you around, then,” she said, and walked toward the door.

With one last look at Maudlin, who was now watching her with full attention, the woman glanced back at the room, taking in the details and fixing it in her newfound memory. Then she walked out and didn’t look back. She didn’t know what was out there, but she was determined to find out.

Dominion Derby Girls, bout 2 @ Haygood Skating Center

2006-10-29T05:26:13Z

Halloween Massacre

By: Gonzo Stompins’

It was beat-down time at the monster mash last Sunday as the Dominion Derby Girls once again took over the Haygood Skating Center in Virginia Beach for a smashing good time! After losing the first bout to the Dirty Diesel Darlins’ back in August, the Femmes Fatales were out for blood in a freakish display of violence and rage that would have left the living dead running for their lives. In the end, though, the Darlins’ kept their viscera-spattered crown, albeit by a narrower margin than they’d probably have liked.

To celebrate the season, some of the girls came sporting their natural attire, while many of the fans wore costumes. Fangs, claws and bloody wounds at the ready, the Darlins’ and Femmes came in looking like they’d already met in the parking lot, while out in the crowd there were plenty of ghouls, cannibals, heroes and honkies, all waiting with bated (and fetid) breath to see the unspeakable horror their favorite vixens were about to unleash upon one another.

Returning to the mic to announce the action was the phenomenal Edger Yurseet, accompanied by a pompadour with Stu Cazz’ attached to it. Adding music to the mayhem was spooktress spectacular, DJ Vikki Wilson, and keeping score and penalties were a motley assortment of elves, policewomen and deadly sins. An interesting change (and improvement!) from the first bout was the addition of a Beer Garden to the front of the rink, while pizza and soft drinks were still available at the Play Place Pizza. Odd as it may sound, the beer won out, and the crowd was much denser on that side of establishment.

Down to dirty brass tacks. After an initial slow-mo “jam” to explain the rules to the unruly mob (and the audience), the game began in earnest. The first jam was clean, quick, simply and almost courteous as the skaters got into their battle groove. It only went uglier from there, and quickly the bout took on the menacing intensity of a Rob Zombie video.

The first notable injury of the evening was taken by Miss Kitty Crackher, who took a hard fall during the fifth jam and spent about five minutes dazed and confused. Crackher (bless her) also suffered a wardrobe malfunction later on in the evening, leaving many of the gentlemen in the audience similarly dazed. Mother Jugs also took more than her fair share of hits during the last period, and seemed to spend almost as much time knocked over as standing. Diesel Darlin’ that she is, she just kept on truckin’, but by the end of the night she was doing so with a distinct wobble. Of course, by that time most of the girls were looking wrung out and beat down. Jeri Brawlwell also took a heck of a spill in the last period. Of course, we hope they’re all okay.

Details notwithstanding, the bout was fairly straightforward. The honor of most points in a single jam goes to Kutthroat KC at thirteen, followed closely by Sweet n’Lowdown and Mother Jugs. The Vixens’ captain, Tsunami Tsue, scored many a grueling point for her team, while the Darlins’ private Terminator, Sweet N’Lowdown, kept the lead in lockdown. Becca the Wrecka (formerly Queen ElizaDeath) came back from her skating leave of absence with a vengeance, and spent the bout shoulder to shoulder, duking it out with Bam Bam Mc Cha-Cha as a star blocker. Cutthroat KC also did her share of the dirty-work, while Hemi Girrrl continued from the last game her pattern of unadulterated, obliterative violence.

During the intermissions, the fans were put in the spotlight with a competition of their own in an age-bracketed costume contest. The kids put on their best game face, dressed as everything from punks to pirates. The best costumes for the adults were by far the spandex-clad Spiderman and an eerily authentic (and silent) Jason Voorhees. Also entertaining were the Misfits cover band, 138, who rocked out with the crowd singing punk-rock anthems, and the DDG’s personal dominatrix, the exotic Miss Gina, who was accompanied by a favorite pet while she subjected the most aggressive girls from each team, Sunset Vixen and Angel Commando, to the Penalty Wheel. This time it came down to a good old-fashioned arm wrestling match.

All in all, the bout was a grueling one, but still grating good fun. By the end of the night, the fans looked about as worn-out (if not as bruised) as the girls, and both teams were skating like their legs were made of pudding. From the fans’-eye-view, perhaps the only real problem was the length of the intermissions, which seemed to drag after a while, making even the skaters edgy to get on with it. Otherwise, all the elements of a cruel, gruesome, wonderful time were there, and 138 closed out the evening in style while much of the crowd filtered over to Hartz Cafe for the afterparty.

Here’s to another awesome bout, and hoping for more to come!

Yours truly,
Gonzo Stompins’

an assignment from creative writing

2006-09-03T03:51:12Z

“Abandonment”

Dry plaster walls split apart in places to reveal bare beams, dry as bones. A dead spider lay nestled in its web, kept aloft in its mausoleum web. Dust stirred up in little clouds with every step, where mold hadn’t thickened into slippery puddles that stank of death and life in one fetid breath. A single, steady drip could be heard in the unseen depths, where no sun could reach and no light had touched in over fifty years. The darkness had eyes, and the darkness could breathe. It sent its icy breath down the spines of the two lively intruders who’d made their way into this cathedral of stagnation, willing them away.

“We shouldn’t be in here,” said the boy. His eyes were wide as drifting clouds as he tried to see in the murk and gloom.

“Come on, pussy,” his companion replied, stopping to light a cigarette and pull out her pocket knife, “Afraid of a little dark? Think something’s gonna getcha?”

“Actually…”

“Just shut up, and let’s go,” she said, exasperated, “I know the stairs are around here somewhere.”

They made their way forward, slipping occasionally in the horrid soup around their feet. It was thickening as they went, until every step began to leave a fresh layer of slime on the soles of their shoes. The boy felt around in front of him, keeping his orientation solely by the sound of his friends’ breathing, which had grown heavy from exertion.

Phantom sparks dazzled his eyes. He began to see shapes and patterns in them, and imagined whispers calling to him from some place beyond the shadows. He’d lost track of where he was going when the girl snapped him out of it.

“Peter, stop!” she snapped from two feet to the left of him. He stopped instinctively, and turned his useless eyes in the direction of her voice.

“Hey, how’d you know where I was?” he asked.

“You were muttering,” she said. He heard nerves in her voice.

“Er, sorry,” he replied, “Look, can we go now? I’m tired. My lungs hurt. Who knows what the hell we’re breathing in here? It’ll probably give us cancer or something…”

“I haven’t shown you the room yet,” she said.

“We can see it later, some other time. I promise,” he said, “My asthma’s acting up, and this place is really creeping me out. We should have brought a flashlight.”

“We can leave as soon as we get to that room,” she said, “I promise.”

He sighed in irritation, and conceded. They trudged along, and finally found the stairs she was looking for against the far wall from the entrance. The drip echoed steadily against the invisible walls. The spider shook under the faintest breeze. The sun moved out from behind a cloud, and the room inexplicably brightened.

The stairs were littered with Styrofoam stars that stuck to the gunk that covered their shoes. Sunlight was streaming in through the top of the stairs, and Peter could see color in the stars – blue, green and gold. He wondered what they had been used for, but he didn’t have time to investigate them, for Andi had reached the top of the stairs, and pushed her way through the broken door she’d found there. A rat squealed in horror at the intrusion. A virtual stampede of little creatures ran through an air duct overhead.

The walls were bright yellow, here, and painted incongruously with friendly animals. Elephants played drums while giraffes shook tambourines. They found themselves in a hallway that stretched far off in either direction, the floor invisible beneath a blanket of stars. Peter groaned when he saw the splotches of slime that coated the cuffs of his jeans. His mother was going to kill him.

Andi pressed on like a spelunker taking Everest. In a foul mood, Peter followed her. Now that the worst seemed to be over, he though he could deal. He’d catch hell when he got home, but he resigned himself to it and followed his friend. A train passed by outside. The building shook slightly, knocking plaster dust into the spider’s web.

Andi found the room she was looking for after a thorough search through all of the other rooms. Peter wondered how she’d forgotten where it was, and for that matter how she’d found it in the first place. Then he saw the room, and all his question vanished.

The walls here were painted green in some places, lavender in others. There were no Styrofoam stars here, but the floor was littered with rags and old clothes. In the center of the filthy tile floor was a large burned out barrel, just a few feet from a shredded mattress caked with stains of every color the human body could release. The stench was horrendous; worse even than the rooms below, and Peter almost gagged when he walked in. Flies buzzed around in some of the piles of rags.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t see what’s so special about this place. Looks pretty disgusting to me.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Andi, “This place is great. I mean, look around you. It’s like an art gallery!”

“What? I’m sorry, I’m out of here,” he said.

Peter turned to go, ready to leave his friend behind if he had to. He was done with invisible noises and visions in the darkness. He thought he remembered seeing a ladder leading down from one of the outer windows on the floor, and had decided to go looking for it when he noticed the walls, and stopped.

He hadn't hadn’t he seen it on the way in, but now it was clear to him why Andi had brough him here. Between the colored splotches and bare plaster, strange symbols covered the walls, hundreds of them, dark red and foreboding. They weren’t letters that Peter recognized, but they were arranged in groups, like words, and covered every available surface of the place – even the windows.

“What the hell?”

“Isn’t it awesome?”

“What the hell is this?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” Andi said, and pulled a camera out of her bag.

“You think you can decipher it?” Peter asked, almost laughing. The girl could barely understand Spanish, and she’d been studying that since the fourth grade.

“I intend to try," she said, ice frosting her tone.

So saying, she proceeded to take pictures of every square inch of the walls. While he was waiting, Peter took a closer look himself. He noticed a few larger symbols on several places, between the others. Some he recognized. Most he didn't. There was a pentagram, there a cross. Between them was a twisted sigil that might have been chinese. On one wall, something he’d seen before but failed to understand the significance. It was made up of eight lines that crossed in their center, each end tipped with an arrow pointing outward.
Chaos, he thought, and was suddenly dizzy.

Why were they here, really? What had brought them up here in the first place? Andi was almost done taking her photos, and Peter wished she would hurry up. His head was beginning to ache, and there was a loud, constant drip that seemed to be echoing in his skull, which buzzed and vibrated like it was going to shake apart. Suddenly, Peter was feeling very ill, and wanted nothing more than to leave this place and never come back.

“Come on,” he whispered, shaking his head and closing his eyes, “Come on…”

“I’m almost finished,” she said.

“Come on!”

“Just wait a minute!” she snapped.

:”I have to go, now,” he said, and started for the door again.

This time there was something there, stopping him. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, rumbling from the depths of some terrible place in the farthest corners of his psyche. He was completely disoriented by the sound of it, and ancient, rumbling noise like grinding bone. His eyes rolled around in his skull, and he fell against the wall, hands going to his face to rub away the confusion. It was too much for him. He fell to the ground, sobbing and cradling his head.

“Peter,” said Andi, who was finally getting scared, “Peter! What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t hear her. His head was cluttered and roaring. He sat on the ground, crying out loud, and tried to tell himself there was nothing happening, but when he closed his eyes, he saw faint after-images of the walls, as if he'd been staring at them for hours. He began to panic, his thoughts replaced entirely by the absolute need to get away. When he could take no more, he bolted.

Andi barely had tome to react before he reached the nearest window, overlooking a barren stretch of pavement, cracked, broken, and slung between dead factories. The window wasn’t open when he reached it, but that didn’t stop him for very long. Without pause, Peter shattered it with his bare fists, knocking out the cross beams with his arms and spraying shards of glass and drops of blood in a cascade on the junk heap below. Andi cried out, but nothing got through. Peter heard nothing, saw only red letters blazing across his retinas, inescapable.

Screaming, he hurled himself through the window. Andi shrieked, and ran toward him, but it was too late. Peter landed hard on a pile of broken furniture, which pierced and lacerated his face, palms and legs. Ignoring the pain, he slithered across the debris like a lizard, scuttling down to the asphalt, scrabbling to his feet and running a fast as his injured legs would carry him.

“Peter! Peter!” Andi cried, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he ran on, neither slowing now turning. His path was marked by a regular patter of blood, dripping from a gaping wound in his abdomen.

“Why?” she cried, looking back to the walls, which to her eyes remained dark, silent and cold.

A short story.

2006-08-18T04:43:24Z

Dissolution

Birds sing sweet hosannas in the whispering trees on a bright summer afternoon. The clouds look like citadels, joyful in the distance. The air is sweet with fresh breezes. The mountainside is almost obscenely cheerful as a man dangles helplessly from a high outcrop of rough stone several dozen feet above solid ground. And oh, but it is solid. The rocks below seem to have been designed for evisceration.

The man is not military, though he once might have been. His arms bulge with the strain of supporting him, but he hangs on for dear life. He imagines sweet, beautiful Linda hearing the news. He thinks of the fireworks sitting in the trunk of his car, and all the times his wife and children will sit staring at them in horror. They’ll blame themselves for his death. Charlie might kill himself. He’s not the strongest child. His eyes have never been less than adoring in the presence of his father. The man thinks of Charlie’s eyes, and fireworks, and holds on.

There is blood flowing freely from his ruined hands. The rocks cut deeper with every movement he makes. His palms are shredded and slipping slowly. There’s a slow fire building in his biceps. He hears a jaunty tune ringing out from the top of the rock face. It distracts some of the birds, but most ignore it. The man curses his life. The cell phone he’s left charging in his car keeps ringing. It’s probably Bill. The man pictures Bill standing next to Linda, cell phone in one hand and fishing gear in the other.

The man wonders idly if they’ve been screwing around behind his back. Linda loves him, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t persuaded easily enough. He remembers their days in college, sweat crawling down their backs and leaves finding unholy places to insinuate themselves while the young couple swore undying love and fidelity. He remembers the day they conceived Charlie. Two days before he proposed. Four months before Bill ate all the wedding cake.

The man starts to cry. This isn’t fair. The phone isn’t ringing anymore, and the birds are happier for it. No room for electric dissonance in this Eden. They take chirruped bets on how long the two-legged thing will last, clinging to the precipice. The clouds, haughty as they are, ignore everything the man stands for. One of them is pregnant and promising rain. It is a forbidding grey to the shining white of its peers. The man doesn’t notice any of this. He’s busy. Men often are.
Lines of red and black are flashing across his vision, snapping with the rhythm of his pulse. His arms are running fire, his fingers blood. Somewhere along the line, he has soiled himself, either from fear or because he needed to conserve his strength. He is uncomfortably aware of his involuntary arousal.

“Why now? The hell!?” he says to his body.

He thinks of Linda again, of course. Then he thinks of Bill. Ah, hell, he thinks. Let them have their fun. We’re only alive for as long as we’ve got. He wills Bill to be a good father to Charlie. Maybe with a man like that to look up to, Charlie will turn out a good man. The dangling man wonders for a second if his son is a homosexual. He thinks of college, again. There are so many moments, he thinks. He wonders if there will be a lot of people at his funeral service. His father had died only two years ago, and been sent off by a virtual army of loved ones. He wishes he could have lived up to his father’s expectations.

His arms are starting to slip. The muscles are going, but he is not. He grips down with everything he’s got, and wants with everything he has to be alive for his son’s civil union. To prove to his wife that he’s everything she always wanted him to be. He thinks of punching Bill in the face, but that’s unwarranted. He thinks of threesomes, and firecrackers and pretty clouds like the ones above him.

He grips the slick rocks, and grits his teeth. The brown stone is replaced by red and black splotches. Inevitability had fallen over him like a shroud, while tires crunch gravel above him. His face is red. His eyes are red, and so is the precipice. His arms are shaking with strain. It’s too much for him. He thinks of firecrackers again, but this time there’s little to connect them with. His thoughts are flooded with automatic responses.

Don’t you dare die, he rages. Don’t you die, you pussy! Come on!

His mind flashes across all the things he won’t see again, and then disappears. Survival is its own reward. He starts to really struggle. His feet kick at the air. His arms bend upwards only a few inches, but they are inches hard won. Somewhere overhead, Bill and Linda are calling him, but he hears only memories. He wants so much to see them again; doesn’t know he’s looking right at them, until his arms give way.

He refuses to make peace.

“I want to live!” he screams, “I want to live! Damn it, live!”

Linda is calling emergency services, but they’ll be a long time in coming. There’s been an accident down the road, with a gas rigger and three family vehicles. They hang up on her when she starts crying hysterically at them. She’d be more composed if she could see recognition in his eyes. Bill, meanwhile, is trying to lift his screaming brother from the edge of the cliff, but the crazy bastard is resisting him. This isn’t going to be easy.

Time stops. Linda’s finger sticks to the “end call” button, and Bills arms stop wavering with the strain of pulling at the man’s wrists. The man sees this, and calms down. He is still moving, so he looks around. Two nesting sparrows are gossiping about things that only birds would care about. Millet theft, avian miscegenation and the like. They stop and look at him when they realize he’s staring.

“What?” one of them asks. The man is startled for a moment that he understands, then looks back up. His brother’s sweaty face is concerned and frustrated. And not moving. He takes this at face value, and looks back to the birds, who are still staring at him, eyes unreadable.

“Are you hallucinations?”

“We sure are!” says the second bird. This one is bigger than the other, with black feathers.

“Am I dead?”

“Well, you haven’t hit the rocks, yet, so I doubt it. I wish you’d hurry up, though. The suspense is boring me,” the bird replies.

“What’s going on?” the man asks, dazed.

“Damned if I know,” the first bird says. The birds go back to their preening and gossiping, occasionally tossing sidelong glances back in the man’s direction.

The man tries pulling himself up again, but his legs are granite weights and his arms have become damp rope, useless to help him. He looks up again. His brother hasn’t moved. There’s a perfectly formed drop of milky sweat suspended just two inches from the man’s thick black eyebrows. Charlie is going to have those eyebrows; like dueling caterpillars. Of course, he’ll probably preen them. Charlie is a strange bird. He comes by it honestly.

Dizziness comes over the man in waves. His scalp tingles, his lungs catch holy fire. His senses desert him. He stares at the sweat hanging there, thinking how much things travel in circles. He is perspiration personified, hanging for a moment in a gasp of time. His son is a bird with caterpillar eyebrows, and suddenly the man is a caterpillar, too, waiting for the birds to come and take him away. A breeze stirs, and he panics.

The birds are laughing at him now, pointing their vicious, feathered wings and guffawing heartily. Bill is smiling, too, though the man doesn’t know how he found the time in this missing time. He thinks of time, and forgets what he was doing, for a moment. What is Bill doing here, anyway?
Bill isn’t offering any answers. All he can do is grit his teeth and try so hard to save his brother’s life that sweat pours from him in fountains, and the man feels suddenly that fraternal love that he thinks he must have lost somewhere along the way. Bill was always the bigger man, always more robust. He hit puberty first, even though he is two years younger than the man. The man remembers looking up to his younger sibling, joking that time was backwards for them.
Well, he thinks, now time isn’t anything at all.

Details are disappearing, of course. For is crawling in on the edge of the man’s vision. He’s in love with someone. Who? This giant who’s holding him from the edge of nothing? Perhaps the boy he sees silhouetted against a night full of fireworks. The girl he sees gasping under the stars behind the frat party. He loves a lot of people, maybe, but it’s all going away as the birds cackle on.
The clouds start to sway. They are impatient with this spectacle. There is nothing really notable about the drama on this particular cliff face. Just another caterpillar dangling by a chromosome wire. The birds hate the clouds, but they know that’s just jealousy talking. They wish they could stay up there that long. The man starts to wonder what it’s like to be the sky.

Is it easier than remembering my own name? he wonders, for he can’t anymore. He wonders if he ever really knew it, or what it mattered to him what they called him, as long as they loved him back. He thinks about the sky, but it isn’t thinking, really, because being the sky is not like thinking. He feels the breeze pick back up, and this time it’s him, no self but in the scenery, and he’s gone.

---

Bill finds himself holding empty air as his brother of thirty-two years dissolves into thin air. It takes only a second, but it’s there to be seen, nonetheless. In the moment it takes for a bead of sweat to fall from his worried brow, the man he’s been trying to save fizzles out like a fine mist, spreading into the atmosphere so quickly it’s hard to follow with the eye. All that’s left for a second is his Cheshire smile; the one that Bill has always envied. It’s the smile Charlie’s already famous for with the girls at his school.

Then, it’s done, and Bill is staring at empty air, into which he almost spills as his center of balance is dramatically shifted. Linda is there, though, and pulls him back from the edge. They both fall back against the ground, staring at the place where there ought to be a man, falling, or maybe even rising. There is nothing, though, just air, which has picked up in a stiff, giddy breeze.

There’s a pregnant cloud at the far side of the sky, lingering like doom. Bill looks at Linda, and she looks at the cloud, trying not to think about what she just saw happen. They hold each other tightly, still sitting there on that lonely height, wondering what terrible god is hiding in the storm, and trembling as the chill air seeps over them, seeking bone.

movie review

2006-08-17T19:08:35Z

Rental Adventures - Silver Hawk (2004)

Michelle Yeoh leads an ultra-hip cast as the smilingest vigilante you’ve ever seen in Silver Hawk (2004). Filmed in both English and Cantonese, the movie is a light and laughing answer to the heavy-handed drama of most modern superheroes, and is not to be seen if you’re in the mood for anything deep, dark or brooding.

The cover of Silver Hawk sports Yeoh in full crime-fighting drag, apparently sky-surfing away from a futuristic city that’s also on fire, and I found it nestling snugly into the film noir section of my local video house. I took it home expecting to have a good, hearty laugh at another straight-faced action film that might have some well-choreographed fight scenes and little else. Indeed, the movie opens with a shot of Lulu Shiraishi (Yeoh) in a silver mask and cape, vaulting over the Great Wall of China on a motorcycle as she chases down an armored van full of stolen pandas. But from the moment you see our heroine grinning like an idiot while she kicks the tar out of a bunch of extras, you know you’re in for something different.

The plot unfolds with all the huff and bother of your typical action adventure. Lulu is the adopted daughter of a wealthy businessman, which is how she can afford all of her silver trench coats and completely disposable stainless steel knives. In the tradition of City Hunter (Jackie Chan, 1993), the rest of the cast is an eccentric caricature of the typical Hong Kong cop drama. Richie Ren plays “Rich Man”, the new “superintendent of police” for Polaris City, who has made it his personal mission to arrest the Silver Hawk, whose phenomenal success at crime fighting has demoralized the city police department. He is also Lulu Shiraishi’s childhood best friend, whom she met at a summer martial arts training camp, and is indirectly responsible for her becoming a vigilante in the first place.

The creepy German villain of the story, Herr Alexander Wolfe, is played by Luke Goss. He has captured one professor Ho Chung (Daming Chen) and the daughter of Lulu’s rich uncle Akira Shiraishi (Kouichi Iwaki), in a nefarious plot to use the good doctor’s new artificial intelligence program alongside Shiraishi’s newest blue-tooth cellular phones to control the world. With the help of Rich Man and the professor’s young computer-genius apprentice Kit (Brandon Chang), Lulu begs to differ.

The action scenes from this movie are both amusing and well choreographed. The Silver Hawk faces down improbable opponents (including high-wire assassins, ninja hockey players and a cross dresser) with gusto and obvious glee. The final battle against Wolfe (sporting bionic arms) is awe-inspiring and funny. Brandon Chang also deserves mention as hilarious comic relief in a story that didn’t necessarily need it, but still benefited from it. Altogether, a satisfying film.

First, last and only

2006-08-10T04:27:37Z

So, this will (hopefully) be the only time on this journal that I ever post about myself, but it's good to start such things with a bit of background.

Like my user info says, this will be my testing ground for fiction, non-fiction, articles, essays and commentaries. I want to create a place for my work that is public, and where my own life will not get in the way. My hope here is to distill the words to their artistic and scholarly worth, without becoming bogged down by all of the tripe and blathering that my daily life entails.

A friend told me that you can't keep yourself out of the things you create, and to a certain extent I can believe that. But maybe if I do this right, I'll find a self more satisfying than the one I've been living in.

With that, a good night, and no more explanations.

Nick Hirsch