I wrote the beginnings of a story, I don't know where it's going, let me know what you think: (13/4/2009)
I killed a man yesterday. I’d never done that before. I haven’t washed his blood of my hands – seems disrespectful, you know? I mean, this is the last part of him and all I can do with it is wash it down the sink, mix it with the great oceans and then he’s gone…no, I couldn’t do that, imagine if it was me. They say the dead follow you around always after they die, watching you, because everything you do, the person you’ve become, they’ve helped shape, you know? You can’t always see them, sometimes you do, in those moments when you feel goose bumps in a warm room or when the dark seems darker, but they’re always there. I read that in a book somewhere…it was fiction, but I like to think that that’s true so that way I never feel too alone. Is that sad? I don’t know. Probably. When they found me with him, I was just sitting there next to him, cross-legged, my hands cupped holding a small pool of his blood, staring at it like it couldn’t be real. The detectives testified that I had a, “grey and distant look in my eyes”. I guess that’s accurate. Though I’d say it was more red – all I could see was that blood. They also say that if you can make your executioner laugh, maybe he won’t kill you – I’ve heard that in two places now. I don’t know if it’s true. I was the executioner, he didn’t try to make me laugh, he just cried…so, I don’t know. Wish I knew, then maybe he wouldn’t be dead. Or maybe he still would – depends on what you believe I suppose.
New Story (28/4/2009)
Started a new story, let me know what you think:
It was four a.m. and Henry sat at the kitchen table, “Get some sleep!” the others had said as they climbed the creaky staircase up to bed, “Yeah, yeah.” Henry had said, waving his hand over his shoulder. That was at one a.m. He had tried to sleep. Really. He had gone up to bed and lain still, and tossed and turned. He had even masturbated to try and get himself to sleep, but this hadn’t worked either, so he had gone back down to the kitchen and sat at the table. The room was dimly lit; all the lights bar a small fluorescent light above the microwave were off – some of the room being lit by the light from the adjacent room and the street lights shining in from the kitchen windows. He sat in one of the wooden chairs that surrounded the table that sat off centre in the room. He sat there for some time in the dank light before he got up to get his half-finished bag of chips from the cupboard, borrowed some salsa from one of the others and poured himself a glass of milk. He sipped on the milk and smiled.
“Milk in a bag?!” He had said, looking over at Jerry, who looked equally flabbergasted, “Milk in a bag?!” Jerry repeated, accentuating “bag”, pronouncing it as if it were spelled “bayg”. They smiled a broad smile and grabbed a four liter bag to suffice their milk needs and added it to the shopping cart along with the large box of Pop-Tarts, “Those’ll go well together.” Jerry said and Henry nodded.
Henry fingered the cigarette he had removed from a packet on the table, pushing the tobacco cylinder across the table idly as he ate his chips. He eyed a pack of matched and placed the two things next to each other. There it was – a pastime. Henry was a vehement non-smoker but he was seriously contemplating smoking this cigarette. He laughed at himself slowly and out loud, remembering all the times ha had yelled with derision at friends and strangers who had lit up near him, how he had coughed loudly passing smokers in public – being one of those non-smokers people hated – but now he didn’t care about all that.
“George, you’re stinking up the place!” He said as George came in from outside.
“Come on, man,” George said, “I like to smoke. Leave me alone. I can quit when I want, you’ve seen it. I just enjoy it too much.”
“Whatever man, it’s your body, your funeral, not mine.”
“Let me get that for you, m’lady.” Henry said as he leaned over, pulling out his lighted and lit Sally’s cigarette.
“Oh, thank you, do you smoke?” she asked as she offered Henry a cigarette from her pack.
“No,” he said, “I just like lighting other people’s cigs.”
Flash went the match as Henry lit up his cigar on a New Year’s Eve…
Snap. Inhale. Bubble goes the bong…
Henry toked from the joint…
He pushed the cigarette across the surface of the table and smiled, striking a match and watching the flame burn out the wooden body, inhaling the strong, potent, yet strangely sweet smell of the phosphorous match tip. He blew out the match and watched the blue-grey smoke dance in twisters above the match and dissipate in the dark air.
The smoke rose into the night sky as the love-letter he had written to her burned on the terrace like he had burned his essays at the end of high school – this letter meant no more than them now, but the gesture meant a lot to him.
(Here it goes blank from lack of ideas, but here's the ending...)
As Henry sat in the kitchen he looked out the window to see the sun rising, creating yellows, oranges, blues and pinks on the light cloud cover just hovering over the horizon. As the others came slowly downstairs for breakfast or early exams, they smiled and big him good morning, “Get any sleep, Hank?” they’d ask.
“Yeah, actually,” he lied, “all night.” He was comfortable with lying now – with contradictions and hypocrisy – because he lived it each day. He didn’t mind as long as it didn’t hurt anybody and he smiled at George as he joined him outside for a cigarette.