short story

[fuelman]

My first post in this forum. I haven't written anything for awhile, but have been meaning to, so I'd appreciate any feedback anyone wants to give. Thanks in advance. (it's a bit rough)



I test the pen make sure it’s working. The flow of ink is inconsistent. This just will not do. I need another. This has to be done right. Can’t be interrupted. Not once I’ve started. Might rethink. Talk myself out of it. I’m not violent. I detach. It’s the way I’ve always gotten by. Can’t worry about something if it doesn’t happen to you. Has no effect. No practical impact on my life.

Watching the news, I don’t care when tragedies occur. People die.

Tortured.
Raped.

That stuff doesn’t happen in my life.

Ordinary.
Mundane.

But this means I can’t handle the real shit when it comes along. So I make it another news item. Move out of my body and watch from afar. I don’t exist. Not in the real world. Only in my own mind. If I were part of reality, then it would have some sort of cause and effect shit going on. I would feel. But that can’t always step out. Sometimes I’m forced to feel. This is one of those times. So now I’m going to kill her.

I’m not exactly sure what this will accomplish. I don’t care. Like the front page news. Maybe this will come across a news editors desk. National headline, “Girl Found Dead, Body Mutilated”. That would be nice. Then it wouldn’t be me. I’m not in the news.

Average.
Boring.

No one wants to read about that. Nothing to report. Nowhere to look. If you want me I’ll be waiting outside.

So this is how it will go. I show up around two. She will be home. Should be at school, but since when is attending class part of high school? Worked for me. Look how great I turned out. Planning the detailed murder of my best friend. My teachers would be proud.

She will be alone. Probably taking a shower to wash off the latest round of disappointing exam marks. The backdoor is unlocked, so I let myself in. I walk slowly, purposefully up the stairs. I’ll base this walk on the astronauts. You know, the long crawl towards the shuttle to sit on top of tonnes of rocket fuel. The camera’s show guaranteed success. Their faces suggest otherwise.

She won’t hear me enter her room. The shower is too loud. I’m too quiet. But she’ll still be able to see me from the en suite. She’ll yelp in surprise from the unexpected intruder. But it’s only me.

Predictable.
Unthreatening.

I’ll hear her call out to me, but I won’ listen.

Liar.

I don’t care. It’s too late. The shower will turn off and she will exit, grab a towel, and wrap herself up. For a moment I see her naked body. Smooth skin, light and inviting. But then. The purple mark on her right breast. I didn’t do that.

Cheat.

Remind me never to trust again. I reach into my closely held bag.

Tape.
Scissors.

“Something broken?” she asks.

Shut up, bitch. That tongue will be the first to go.

[Bifrost]

Very well written I say. Works really, really well.

Ordinarily I suggest people try to keep their writing double-line-spaced when posting it online, but I'm not sure about this. It kind of works with all the lines close together. Probably the stream of consciousness style to the writing lets it work. Maybe give it a shot to double-line-space it and see if it works still (the line spacing just allows online work to be instantly readable because a lot of people will just click away if they see a block of text like that)...

Now I do have to say when I first finished it, although it was very good, my first thought was "fucking hell, we have a disproportionate number of murder and murder-plot stories in this forum". Where is the love?

Anyway, despite that, I personally think it works really well and delivers everything the reader needs to get into the feeling of the story.

Tops work.

[fuelman]

Thanks, next time I'll write something a little more upbeat :p And I agree with you on the doublespacing thing. If someone else had post that much test without a space I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have bothered to read it. I much give it an edit now.

For me I was actually just testing how far I could take this story before I ended up disturbing myself too much. Apparently it wasn't very far, considering I had originally intended on continuing it further, but I couldn't bring my to write it. The character was based on some of the more fucked-up aspects of myself, so it made me feel too much like a serial-killer to finish :p

http://users.tpg.com.au/klforde/comics/world.JPG

[tomsyman]

well done. +rep

[druckfugged]

Very dark, noir style to it. Consistently short, terse sentencing lends itself to that sort of 'Phillip Marlow' style narrative which can be effective if that's what you're after; the drawback being that style dominates the narrative so completely it becomes difficult to introduce any other sort of tone to the story.

[Fuzzy Dice]

I do enjoy the style. good composition.

[Bifrost]

http://users.tpg.com.au/klforde/comics/world.JPGHeh.

You know when I was a kid, I used to draw my own comics. Filled about 15 or 20 of those old blue-lined writing pads full of war and fighting and stuff. Mum once asked me why don't I just draw some animals or something for a change, so I drew a tree, some grass a wombat and a kangaroo and asked her if I could get back to the battle for the galaxy now please.

Anyway, I know what you're saying in that the world is a messed up shit of a place, but honestly - the number of murder and murder plot stories in this forum is disturbinly high. It's like 60%* of the people writing stories out there just want to get into world of the of a crime of passion.

It's not that I want stories about fluffy bunnies and flowery dialogue, I am just a little more concerned about the heavy genre focus. Diversity is the spice of fora. ;)



* 65% of statistics are just made up. - Pirate 2002(ish).

[Benwah]

My theory on why stories about Bad stuff (Police drama, Murder, etc) is that its because the people who read/watch it have little in the way of drama and tragic events in there own lives so they need something like that for balance what do you think?

Oh, I liked the story, it was a little over detailed for a short story, leave something to the imagination maybe?

[fuelman]

You know when I was a kid, I used to draw my own comics. Filled about 15 or 20 of those old blue-lined writing pads full of war and fighting and stuff. Mum once asked me why don't I just draw some animals or something for a change, so I drew a tree, some grass a wombat and a kangaroo and asked her if I could get back to the battle for the galaxy now please.
During the space between high school and university, I got quite bored and pumped out about ten MSPaint comics a day. I can't draw for shit, as you can see. Anyway, most of the comics were sarcastic one line jokes. When I made this one, most people thought I was being sarcastic again, when in actuality, this was meant to be serious. Odd how that works out.
Oh, I liked the story, it was a little over detailed for a short story, leave something to the imagination maybe?
Really? Because I had originally intended it to be much more detailed/graphic when I started writing it. I thought I was leaving much to the imagination :p

[druckfugged]

I had the luxury of writing a 'story' for the magazine this issue. Actually, it was more a last minute thing because the opposition had released their magazine two days before our deadline with the same article topic I had already written about, and it would have looked like plagiarism. I'd appreciate any criticisms you guys would like to make; I realise the story is flawed; in hindsight it isn't as effective as I'd hoped but as I'm the editor I have nobody to point out where it goes wrong. Please forgive any reference specific terminologies you may encounter, and the lack of double spacing.


Scallop Ambush.
. I am entirely uncertain how it is I came to write this article. Actually, that
isn’t entirely true. I know exactly how I came to be writing it; it was my wife
Erin’s idea. What I’m uncertain of is how it has only just occurred to me; as I
sit down to write it, that I thought the entire adventure was somehow mine
to begin with.
It began with a copy of MFish’s proposal to the changes in regulations for scallop gathering, which are recorded elsewhere in this magazine, finding its way into my inbox. Essentially the proposal outlines rule changes that favour diving as opposed to dredging. I read the proposal without enthusiasm; while I’m as keen a diver as the next bloke, I’m absolutely mortified by the prospect of cold. I’ve spent the entire winter wrapped up in polar fleece and a pair of ugg boots, which has drawn some very pointed stares from publicans and local restrauteurs, who obviously haven’t grasped the concept of acclimatisation. It wasn’t until my minor interest in regulation alterations had been satisfied and I went to put the proposal back in my inbox (I have a terrific filing system: inbox, inbox, inbox, bin), that I noticed a hitherto unforeseen newspaper clipping. I certainly hadn’t put it there. I traded documents and read the clipping about Greenpeace and their righteous fight against bottom trawling. There was even a photograph of some 500 year old coral being unceremoniously dumped from the back of that evil, species annihilating, dollar chasing death ship by a couple of mercenary profiteers who probably freelanced their services; firing harpoons for the Japanese in the summer, before heading over to Canada to club some baby fur seals in the cooler months. I was morally outraged, and determined to write a strongly worded ‘letter to the editor’ until I was distracted by some bright, shiny thing I hadn’t noticed before, and promptly forgot all about it.
We dined that evening at the local Indian restaurant, and amid the disapproving stares at my tardy choice of footwear and the half muttered requests from nearby patrons to be moved to tables closer to the window, Erin mentioned that Colin Due, from the Underwater Dive Centre, had offered the use of his waterproof dive camera if we ever needed it for a story. This hadn’t come out of the blue, particularly; our own non-waterproof digital camera went overboard recently, and we had debated the merit of replacing it with a dedicated waterproof camera and weighed it against the additional cost. As is so often the case when money is involved in a debate, merit lost; although I’d managed to argue the case convincingly enough that “dive camera” is now on our list of things we need, right down there with “fish smoker” and “electric berley mincer”. It was Erin’s next seemingly random comment that gelled it all together for me, asking if I knew when scallop season began. The light switch in my head flicked on. (Finally)
“Hey,” I started, as though I’d come up with a brilliant idea on my own, my fear of cold forgotten in a rush of enthusiasm, “How about we do a story on the effects of scallop dredges in the harbour?” I was positively beaming with pride at my own genius. The waitress, who had been approaching with an armful of assorted curries, quite wisely halted her advance momentarily before the onslaught of my enthusiasm,” We’ll borrow that camera and I’ll go for a dive and you can get your dad to drive past towing a scallop dredge and I’ll take before and after photos as it goes past and you’ll have to come down with me and…”
“My foot’s still a bit sore honey, you might have to get Dave to dive with you, and I’ll stay on the boat.” Erin interjected,
“…Dave can come for a dive and we’ll attach a dive float so you can see where we are and it’ll be a great article and we might even get a feed of scallops out of it and your dad, he’d know a couple of good spots, wouldn’t he..” and on I went until finally I had to stop for air. The waitress saw her opportunity and offloaded onto the table so quickly I thought she might have been Vishnu reincarnated, and sprouted a couple of extra arms. Erin’s comment about not being able to dive was a reference to an accident some several months previous involving stiletto heels and badly laid pavers which had resulted in a broken leg, leaving her with some joint stiffness, most particularly whenever the subject of winter diving came up. I hate badly laid pavers. It is only now, with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, that I realise it was all a cunning ruse to get a feed of scallops without having to actually dive for them herself; I remember now Erin called both her father and dive buddy Dave at the table that night, and rather than asking them sweetly if they’d like to be involved in the latest Bayfisher project, simply said to them both “We’re on for Sunday.”
Cue to Sunday morning and we’re pulling away from Sulphur point, laden to the gunwales with borrowed dive gear, dredges, cameras, and slightly less enthusiastic divers. It was cold, and the folly of my exuberance and the realisation that it was about to get a lot colder was dawning on me. Erin, of course, was wrapped from head to toe, taking photos and talking with her dad about recipes for fresh scallops. At this point I think it best to point out that Erin’s dad is also a Dave, which means that in this story there are a total of three Daves, one Erin and one manually adroit but anonymous waitress. You just can’t make this sort of thing up. Henceforth, and for reasons of clarity, Erin’s father will be referred to as boat Dave, my dive buddy will be dive Dave, and I will be me.
We decided the best course of action would be to troll around a few spots that boat Dave knew of from seasons past before launching over the side with the camera. We started at a spot just south of Rangiwaea island, which resulted in a few horse mussels and a lot of seaweed, most of which splattered onto the deck and around the gunwale as we cleared the net. We tried the channel to the east along Matakana with much the same result, along Matakana at various depths towards Maunganui, around the corner and out of the shipping channel; all the while dragging and clearing the net with disastrous results not only in terms of edible catch, but disastrous for the cleanliness of the cockpit. What a mess. After a while we took the attitude that ‘you might as well hang for a cow as a lamb’, and cleared the net more with a view to rapidity than care. Besides, my fingers were so cold by then I couldn’t actually feel them. Still no scallops.
We decided, perplexed, to head back up the harbour towards Omokoroa, and it was near here we saw another boat trawling for mussels. We laid out the dredge and ran a parallel course, as though it was what we’d intended to do all along, and ignored the pointed stares. Still nothing, and on the verge of calling it quits, when a boat with a sole occupant crossed our wake.
“Hey bro,” dive Dave called out, “where’s all the scallops?”
“Hundred metres south of that big marker buoy there’s some!” Our saviour called out in reply, indicating the exact position we’d just been trying. Still, he sounded like he knew what he was talking about, so we gave it another go, and on that last dredge, among the sea slugs and hermit crabs and ever present horse mussels, was our first, solitary scallop. It was enough to inject us with renewed enthusiasm, and we dropped anchor and suited up. I was in borrowed dive gear for this trip, bits and pieces loaned from several sources. The dive suit was a two piece thing, with chest covering leggings and a wrap under jacket, so that my torso was covered in a double layer of wet suit material. That fit well enough, but the belt I had borrowed didn’t fit around my waist, so I stripped off the weights and jammed them into the pockets of my buoyancy compensator vest. Scuba diving is a matter of buoyancy; a person floats, wetsuits float, just about everything floats except for the dive tank. To counter this and achieve ‘neutral buoyancy’ lead weights are added until the diver can remain underwater without effort. I didn’t have enough, and when I sploshed over the side I floated around the boat with my armpits clear of the water, like so much cork. I briefly entertained the notion of shedding the jacket until a trickle of very cold water ran down the back of my suit. Sod that. I glanced up at my wife hoping for some sort of reprieve and met the hard stare of a woman who wasn’t about to let impossibility come between her and a scallop dinner. The cold water began to seep into the suit in various places and I reasoned that the sooner I found those scallops the sooner I could get out. I glanced across at dive Dave, who by now was in the water with me. He shrugged, and disappeared beneath the surface. I did my best to follow.
I found that by kicking like a maniac I could more or less get within reach of the bottom. The weights in my pockets had slid up around my ribcage, so I was ‘top’ heavy and inverted vertically. It reminded me of a goldfish I’d owned as a kid, which had for some reason started to ‘float’, and had to keep swimming down to stay off the surface. It eventually died. To make matters worse, the tide was moving out, although I discovered that I could grab hold of firmly rooted horse mussels and hold myself in position long enough to scan for scallops, all the while paddling down for all I was worth. There were scallops down there, too, which had buried themselves in little depressions about half an inch deep below the surface; the teeth of the dredge must have been passing right over them. I battled on, another five to my tally, before checking my air and discovering I’d used half a tank. My breathing sounded like Darth Vader meets the Alvin the Chipmunk and I realised there was nothing for it; I’d have to lose the jacket. I bobbed to the surface and scanned for the boat, which lay some hundred metres up current. I inflated the BC, stuck my pitiful collection of scallops on my chest, and waved. Erin was watching, and waved back. Summoning up my last reserves, I waved again, more urgently, to convey the message to come and get me. Erin just waved back more enthusiastically, although I was sure she was chuckling. Nothing for it, I guess, and began my long paddle back. Eventually boat Dave caught sight of me and steered the boat over.
“Help”, I croaked.
“Are those scallops? Pass them up”, my loving wife replied. I feebly responded. Erin grabbed the scallops and disappeared as I floated past, hand futilely extended. I kicked out and grabbed the dive ladder. Thank the Lord; although I was in no danger of drowning, I had visions of being swept helplessly along by the tide out of the harbour entrance and into the Bay, like so much flotsam. I was finally helped aboard, where I regained my strength. I removed the jacket and, feeling rejuvenated, prepared to return. Dave popped up next to the boat just before I dropped back over, his gleeful look of triumph turning to dismay as he held forth a bag of nothing. The zip across the bottom had come undone, and as quickly as he’d jammed in his hard won scallops, he’d lost them. It was only after he surfaced that he realized what had happened; prior to that he was in scallop heaven; free roaming scallops darting before his eyes (having just escaped the confines of his design flawed bag. I wondered briefly how many times he’d caught the same scallop without realising, before dismissing it as a sort of brain freeze. Dave was diving without a hood, and I all too well understand the effect that could have on the ability to think clearly in these shocking temperatures.
“Won’t you need to take out some weights?” Dave asked, noticing that I’d removed half my wetsuit.
“Nah, should be just about right now.” I replied, recalling my earlier lack of weight and figuring that removing the top half of the suit should just about balance things up.
Scuba launching off a boat can be done in one of two ways. You can edge up to the duckboard and, holding mask, regulator and gauges in place, step off boldly and splash face first into the water; which really isn’t much fun, or (provided your boat has enough freeboard) sit your bum on the gunwale or transom and flip off backwards. This is the way James Bond did it in Octopussy, so that’s the way I do it. I flipped off, hit the water tank first, and found myself stuck to the bottom; I’d miscalculated the amount of positive buoyancy I’d lose with the jacket, and went down faster than the Wallabies.
I pumped up my compensator and continued, my now bare arms at first burning with cold, then freezing, then pins and needles before becoming numb. Working as quickly as I could, I collected my quota in no time flat, and was back on the boat and towelling off in the space of about five minutes.
“Are you going to take pictures now?” Erin held forth the dive camera, which I had completely forgotten about. You’ll notice there aren’t any underwater photographs accompanying the article.