The Details to my Writing
I have, without a doubt, always been a creative individual. And with that, there have always been the stories. If you talk to me for any length of time, you'll start to hear the stories, twisted within normal conversation. Odd metaphors, a phrase turned here, or an archaic term thrown into the mix for good measure. The problem with this, the problem with me is that English and writing have never been particularly easy for me. I have spent the last 15 years attempting to correct this issue and that is where these stories come into play.
Some bits to the stories contained within:
- Sometimes they are based on short sentences I've heard.
- Usually someone dies.
- I envoke concepts from various genres of fiction in what is usually a non-fiction story.
- I cannot stress enough, that people get hurt and die.
- I generally write so that I could discuss the concept with other people. It's hard to find that after-discussion though.
(In)evitable Result
Point A
It was an innocuous statement. Made in good faith and factual certainty. It was of the variety that you could most likely recollect it if you had tried but also not given a second thought to it in the time that would undoubtedly pass. I find it odd that given the time that would flow; I would make many comments that were neither truthful nor with any confidence yet it was this remark that would have such a bearing on me in the future.
Ancillary info not directly related to these events, yet not arbitrary.
There exists a line through which the two events lie. They are, in fact, direct neighbors and share all that goes with it but even such proximity begs for a flaw. Between cause and effect resides a truly infinite number of issues. While some may argue that these aspects may be cataloged and deconstructed; that is neither here nor there. What should be established is not the possibility of the unknown but the certainty of it.
"Did you know you..." began the Gentleman.
"Can kill a man with an antique mouse gun?" I interceded.
To Be continued on
An Untitled Life.comFor Lack of a Better Word, Mundane
Dinner was delectable, my love. Was that a little hare I tasted?
You noticed? I traded that necklace I was working on to Murphy down in Ka-32, for two leverets.
Expensive.
He promised that we could have two more in next season's culling. How often you forget that I was the architect of our espousal, that you find yourself in this here situation only because of the skills I bring to the bargaining table. Do I need to remind you about last summer, with the water reclamator?
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No, no. I'm sorry dear. Forgive me for doubting. Although it was unbelievably delicious, maybe even worth that cost. Had you given any thought to Hasenfeffer?
To Be continued on
An Untitled Life.comMonday Night
Dinner was good. She had made grilled chicken with sautéed vegetables over pasta and we ate in relative silence. Occasionally she would ask about my day, if I've spoken to any friends recently, how my parents were, and other such trivialities. I felt annoyed at her feeble attempts and just kept wishing she would shut up. I finished eating, got up, and left; not even pretending to ask if she needed help with the dishes. She found me later in the den. Her fingers danced across the skin of my neck and her whispers floated across my ears.
"I can't tonight," I responded to the eventuality she desired. "I have to work on this presentation." She begged me ever so slightly for just a little attention. "I. Can't." Her fingers withdrew and I could no longer feel her breath on me, I didn't even hear the door close. She was asleep when I retired for the night, not wishing to disturb her or procrastinate sleep I merely turned off the lights and fell asleep.
On the way to work, I stumbled on a man soaked in his own urine. He looked at me weakly and seemed to almost plead to me. "Not today," I answered and continued on my way.
Birds and the Bees
I've always found it a bit presumptuous to say something like, 'Here lies the beginning'. No, we join our heroine at the time when everything finally comes together. She's lying on a Guernsey, it weighs just over 470kg. You know; I think I might be thinking of something else entirely, something from college. No, she was lying on a gurney, in the midst of having her ribs cracked wide open.
She had complained that her heart hurt. "It hurts a lot." She told the nurses, the orderlies, the janitor even. She told anyone who would listen because if she was telling someone this; it meant she wasn't screaming and that was a good thing for her.
The secret words to the special room in the house of antiseptic: chest pain. A key to get you somewhere, a somewhere you probably don't want to be but a somewhere nonetheless. The x-ray, something bled off a Selenium isotope showed a foreign body lodged next to her heart. The problem, and this seemed to be the issue, was that while you could easily discern what the object was; you could not in a sane matter account for its' location. See, there was no wound.
To Be continued on
An Untitled Life.comAnswer me! Or I will kill you.
It would be easy when found in this situation to think about what brought you here. Perhaps missteps made or an error in judgment. I've actually been in a similar situation before and I realized that reflection will never get you where you want to be, which is anywhere but here. The question is merely a ploy. What seems like a simple situation is never such; one must wonder... are they prepared to follow through? Am I prepared to answer the question? What must seem simple quickly devolves into a quite complicated branched discussion on the truth of reality. As is imaginable, the choice you make is like a thesis on who you are as a person.
Being here before, being a survivor means that my thesis was approved. I have a doctorate in this now. So I looked her in the eye and calmly replied, "I'm sorry, I don't know where he is." As I watched her, I realized I knew so little about her, about this feud, and I guess even more importantly, women in general.
It was a whisper, "No, I'm sorry."
It was then that I realized just how wrong I could be.
What Would You Have Me Do?
It was, in the past, a comfortable house where people aged and evolved. It was now a house where people gathered, drank, and conversed. The differences between then and now were numerous and great but at the end of the day, the end of its' days, everyone knew that it was one of the good places.
I had been there for 10 minutes or so and was slowly consuming something obliquely referred to as coffee. He was technically early, always punctual, it was his nature, often to much annoyance. He announced himself to the home, knowing intuitively what is offered and what is given. We retreated to a corner where I thought I would barter with him.
Before I could, he began, "Your sister called and told me."
To Be continued on
An Untitled Life.com