Conversations - III

Sunday, June 28, 2009

“I’m fine!”
“Fine? As in, ‘fine’ fine, or Seattle Grace ‘fine’ ? “

Despite being frustrated, annoyed, irritated (not to mention late for the meeting) and miserable in general, she turned around, confused.

“What?”
“What? You said you were fine. So I asked, ‘fine’ fine, or Seattle Gr- “
“I heard you the first time, I just wanted to know what the devil that means.”
“Which one? The ’Fine’ fine? Or the Seattle Grace ‘fine’? “

Drawing a deep breath, she spoke slowly and clearly.

“Mark, look. Cut me some slack, okay? My landlady’s hounding me, I just got pulled over for speeding, I’m late, the report’s late, the boss is gonna chew me out, I mean…. I feel like I’m in a goddamn Argento movie, about to be jumped on any minute.”
“Splendid. Tenebrae or Deep Red? “
Mark! “
“Alright , alright! Chill. So, Seattle Grace ‘fine’ – ‘twas a Grey’s Anatomy reference. “

“You mean to tell me, “ she was in silent killer mode again – “ that I just wasted three minutes of my precious time, just because of your pathetic pop culture references? “

“It’s SO not pathetic!” he scoffed. “It wipes the floor with ER. And that’s saying something! “
“Whatever. I’m off. Boss waiting.“ and she stormed down the corridor to the meeting room.

“Yeah. Good luck with Faustus. “ he grinned and called out behind her.

”You too, good luck with Robin’s “ she called back.

Jaw dropping, he just stood there, wondering how she came up with that. As she reached the door, she turned around and gave him a ‘gotcha!’ smile.

Touché.



A/N : You'll miss the prime joke unless you're REALLY familiar with Dario Argento's ''Tenebrae''.

The Monster

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

I used to be in love with the world.

The homebrewn grenade rests firmly in his hands. He uses his raincoat to shield It against the downpour.

I used to think we were all perfect. God made no mistakes.

He steps forward. Rain ricochets off him ; darkness is all around, the eternally lonely lights a haze in the downpour.

Most of his face is obscured by the rising turtleneck of the coat. It almost reaches just below his nostrils.

His face must be twisting with rage. Yet nothing is seen ; the overcoat, his visor, hides his emotions.

He throws the grenade in a long arc, his body arches up, and although the explosion is satisfying, the ocean of flames is temporary, it’s quickly washed away by the rains. His operation is effective. There are no survivors.

There are screams, there are shouts. People flee, panicking. He walks away, now invisible in shadows
.
Life’s a monster. He realized that when he was fourteen years old. It was the night his parents were beaten to death in front of him by Mr.Calgieri’s men.

But it wasn’t then that he knew.

He’d run. They’d caught up. Choking on his own blood, they left him lying there, left for dead.

It still wasn’t then that he realized.

He’d crawled and clawed his way through the street, sobbing, drenched in tears, dragging himself through hell. Fifty steps. He could never forget. He’d ran this street distance with her so many times. He’d had just enough strength to reach their door. The Porters’. Them and his family were good friends. He’d knocked. The man had come out, lantern in hand.

James Porter had looked at him. He’d stared back. Dark blue eyes through the crimson mask. Pleading for help.

Somewhere, he heard a voice. Somehow, he heard her through the waves of pain shooting up his body everytime he breathed.  

Cheryl.

“Who is it, Daddy?”

Mr.Porter looked at the bloody heap on his steps.

“Nothing, dear. Stay inside. Just some homeless guy.”

He could hear her coming down the creaky stairs.

“What is it? Is he sick? Does he want help?” She was concerned. As always.

-“No dear. I think you’d better go up. I’ll deal with this.”
-“What? What’s the matter?”
-“Its nothing, Cheryl. I’ll handle this. Go help mom with dinner.” The authoritarian in him leaked through his voice. She backs away, goes inside.

He looks at him.

He speaks, in a cold and cruel voice. He doesn’t mean it like that, but to him, it sounds exactly like it.

“Get away from here. Get the hell away from my family. “ He spits out.

“Go away, crawl up somewhere, and hope someone else helps you. “

He just stares at Porter.

“…if they do, well, great. If they don’t, tough luck, kiddo.”

“I know what happened to your mum and dad. Mr. Calgieri’s the wrong man to cross. Your dad had it coming. The bastard. “ He continued.

“Generosity’s not on my list tonight. Cant help, kid. I got my own family to take care of. And unlike your old man, I’m on the Italian’s good side. Don’t wanna mess my rep by taking you in now, do I?” He manages the tiniest of smiles.

“Life’s a monster, kiddo. Deal with it.” He goes to close the door, pauses just a second. “Just get lost. Don’t go bleeding on my doorstep. “ He throws the words in his face and slams the door shut. He can even hear it being bolted.

He stays very still for a long time. When the rain finally pours down, unrelenting, uncaring, he curls up into a sitting position by the door. On the grass. He’s not crying and sobbing any more.

Life’s a monster kiddo, deal with it.

It was then that he finally knew.

And he sought vengeance against it.

He spent the next week sniffing out Calgieri’s place, his address. The next week he fell in with a gang of street hooligans. He fought for his place, learnt what he needed to. Gangs just looking to stir up trouble.

But he had other plans.

A year had passed since that night.

He was here. Now. Standing in the pouring rain. The lights in a haze in the rains, casting splotches of yellow light on the street.
 
The homebrewn grenade rests firmly in his hands. He uses his raincoat to shield it against the downpour.

He’s standing outside the Porter residence. He can see their silhouettes through the window, highlighted by the light within. Peals of laughter, wisps of talking, clinks of the cutlery. Fork against plate.

He closes his eyes, takes in her heavenly voice once more.

Things from another world, another time. Distant beyond remembrance.

He lobs the grenade through the window.

His aim is impeccable, it crashes through the glass pane, lands in the room.

He turns around and begins walking off.

The building explodes behind him.

There’s screaming, there’s shouting in the streets. People flee, panicking. He walks away slowly, deliberately. He stops at the bend. At a postbox there.

Reaches inside his coat and withdraws something he’s been protecting with his life so far. A letter. Thanking someone. He drops it in.

Its for Mr. Calgieri.

He disappears into the shadows.

I used to be in love with the world.
…Used to be.



Death Of A Dream

Saturday, April 25, 2009

…And the world to me ceases to exist -
Trees fall, the air desists,
All we built and fought for,
All we dreamed and loved for -
A towering inferno in our weary sights -
Washed away by our own nurtured rancour.

…And the sun leaves us forsaken –
Resumes its eternal stupor.
Gaia punishes us for the sins,
Vengeance upon us, Her will.

We hated; we ought have loved
We bickered; we ought have heard -
our obsession with the false, Messengers of the lie.
We sold our souls, let ourselves be ruled
by deceptions cold and cruel,
And we screamed "down with the system!"
When ‘twas the system that we tooled.

…..And while people say a dream never dies,
Dreams drop dead, fall around us,
Strangled by our own vice,
We wage wars as the earth cries.

…….And then we growl and we seethe,

…….And the Creator’s dream dies in us as we breathe.


Via Dolorosa

Wednesday, March 18, 2009


As my tiring journey comes to an end in front of the place I was looking for, I can’t help but wonder I was lucky to find it ; it suits my needs perfectly. And close to where I live, too. Shame I never found it earlier.

It’s an abandoned construction site. I drag myself along, to one of the staircases. I’ll have to get to the top.

This is my story.

My parents supported life. Lemme clarify this. They were in favour of life. They opposed clinical abortion, foetal termination, all that jazz. I'll ask you something. Tell me. You, or your wife, is pregnant. You’re happy, she’s happy. It’s a beautiful moment in both of your lives. Hoop-de-doo. But then you find out your kid has a rare birth defect. He’ll never work properly. He’ll be completely, permanently, paralyzed from the neck down, with very limited functioning of his arms. He’ll be confined to a special wheelchair all his life. He’ll never know happiness. Right from birth; he’ll know he’s incurably cursed. A twisted, pitiable creature. He’ll see other kids his age run around, play ball, have fun ; he’ll wheel up to you, and ask, in that heartbreaking, little muffled voice of his, twisted with pain. Dad, mom, why cant I do anything ? Why cant I get out of this chair? Why cant I play ball with the others? Why did Marv call me a retard today? Why does Annie laugh at me with her friends? Why am I so useless? Why am I imprisoned? And when he asks those why’s, be glad he didn’t ask the obvious one.

Why did you let me live?


The stairs can’t admit a wheelchair. I’ll have to leave it here.

It burns me up everytime I think about it. You knew it. Dammit, you people knew it all. Mom, the doctor told you, didn’t he? Dad, the doctor tried to talk you out of it. He tried his best. It wasn’t a pretty thing to do, but wasn’t it right, considering the circumstances?

No. No way. You goddamned pro-lifers wouldn’t listen. You cooked up quite a storm over the issue. You raised hell. You threatened the doctor who tried to talk. You had the support of several groups; people picketed outside the hospitals ; you were discussed on newspapers, prime time broadcasts, talk shows. Catholic parent groups showered their blessings on you. The church congratulated you on your faith and courage ; they promised God’s grace on your child. They said how every child was born to have a bright, shiny future. Always. Naturally. A governor mentioned you two, as reflecting her own political stance on the issue. Pro-life. Oh yes, you had support alright. Fucktards who didn’t have the same thing happen to them, or their loved ones. What if it did? Would they have chosen ‘life’ then? I don’t really know.

I crawl up, slowly, painfully. Using only my near-atrophied arms, I pull myself up the stairs. The rest of my body drags along behind me, up the rough concrete stairs. Sometimes I can’t avoid the rusty metal spikes and rebars poking through ; and they hurt. They cut, scratch. I bleed. But I can’t stop. I simply must reach the top. Someone awaits me there. An angel.

But I do know something. Something you couldn’t see.

You chose life for me.

This is a nightmare I can’t escape from.

I’m drowning always But no it isn’t in water it’s quicksand Swampy wet its something I can feel I exist I’m on something but cant get a foothold I’m slipping falling perpetually I’m sinking I’m being devoured by it I’m drowning it’s slow and painful Slower than drowning in water I cant breathe my nostrils and mouth they’re all clogged up by wet earth I try to flail my arms around get free But I can’t move I’m tied up I CAN’T EVEN STRUGGLE I cannot see cannot feel cannot scream I’m being smothered drowned.

And this dream goes on and on……. I can’t wake up. I… can’t. I can’t……... I just fucking can’t wake up…

I keep on crawling, scratching, clawing my way up the stairs. They seem to go on forever. But no…I’m near the top. I’m almost there…Just a little more…Hold yourself together.

What I have is living hell.

This is no life. No one would want this.

This is a fate worse than death. My birth wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. One that can’t ever wear off or be disposed off. It’s a misery, torment, that I endure. A Sisyphean task that I carry through, as I continue to simply exist, not live.

My life has been Via Dolorosa since the very start.

The Path Of Suffering.

But none of all this matters anymore. That path ends here. The angel of liberty awaits.

I’m finally at the top. No walls to enclose me. No barriers. I look at the sky, at the many shapes of the clouds passing me by. I feel the wind blowing gently all around me. There’s sun shining through. There’s a lovely aroma in the air.

They say life’s beautiful.

Maybe next time.



I push myself over the ledge.



I slowly die, alone,
On Via Dolorosa…
I carry my burden alone,
On Via Dolorosa…
I'm dragged down by the stone,
On Via Dolorosa…
I carry my burden alone..
On Via Dolorosa.
Break my chains, free me.




And what follows, are precious few seconds of freedom.



The only time I’ve ever known what it means.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note : I won't take a stance on this issue here. Different people have different opinions. I can't, and don't want to make an effort to change the views they personally hold. Maybe this story will offend some people, it's controversial in that regard. But I'll just say this. In a situation as this ; what would you do? Would you terminate, and save the child the suffering that they're to face in their lives? Or let it be born; experience all that misery and agony, and hope that SOMEHOW everything will turn out well for him/her?

Just ask yourself.

Fiction

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

“It’s brilliant! Mr. Smith! We’ve never had anything so amazing, so unreal, so engrossing, so masterful, so…so spectacular before! We’ll gladly accept it. It’ll be a bestseller. That’s a no-brainer.”

Harold Smith. His hands, till now, had been placed on the armrests of the expensive chair he’d been sitting on. He was facing the head of a reputed publishing house. His novel had been accepted. They were going to publish it. The publisher sounded pleased, overjoyed, even. The publisher, an experienced man, held legendary status in the publishing world. They talked about his ability to recognize diamonds in the rough. That isn’t entirely an accurate description, though. More accurately put, he recognized a cash cow when he saw one. And this definitely looked a Jersey.

Smith withdrew his hands. He should’ve been happy – this was his ticket to fame. The bestseller lists, the royalty, the mainstream press, he was set. He should’ve been happy, but wasn’t. It takes a lot out of an author, when he has to present hard, cold, true to flesh reality, as fiction. When he has material every publisher would laugh off as being impossible for nonfiction. He has no choice but to conceal it as fiction, purely to sell the story. When you’re a journalist, and the greatest story of your life is so improbable, so impossible, that no reputed paper would run it, and it’s thrown out the window, synopsized to a paperback thriller, you’re a lucky man if you can laugh it off for the sake of the cash. Smith wasn’t. He couldn’t laugh it off.

The protagonist of his novel was John Fielding. 37. Ex-FBI turned private investigator. Leading a one man crusade against John Lansing, the antagonist of the novel. John Lansing – entrepreneur, business supermagnate, Forbes top-fiver, kingpin, emperor of the underworld. A power maniac – intent on taking over the world. A classical supervillain. World Domination his lifetime goal. And currently, he was working on a superweapon – the deadliest ever conceived – as the means to achieve that goal. Fielding was Lansing’s arch enemy . The one man who could stop the most dangerous man on earth. The universe was created in opposites, and Fielding was the Yin to Lansing’s Yang. John Fielding, John Lansing. Sharing first names. Pseudo-siblings in the vein of Cain and Abel. Fielding - foiling Lansing’s plans, trying vehemently to expose his vile nature to the world, all his evil deeds, all his malevolent ambitions.

And the cruelest part was that all of this Clancy worthy story was actually, painfully, true. Smith had found out everything from Fielding. He’d contacted him. Given him irrefutable proofs. Any doubt Smith might’ve had, was almost immediately overcome. Lansing had found out about the transaction of the secret between Fielding and Smith. Lansing was stalking Smith. No doubts about it. He was playing with him as a predator with a prey. Every criminal of the city was his pawn. Every major corporation was tainted by his influence.

And he had Smith on his sights.

Everyone in the city seemed to have it in for him. From his boss, who informed him of the layoffs, to the waitress in the café, to the cabbie, who impatiently waved him off, refusing service. Smith could feel thugs’ eyes on him as he walked down the street, holding his breath and hurrying past dark alleyways. Accidents seemed to explode all around him, missing him by fractions. He’s playing with me, Smith would think. Lansing held him on a thread. He was the puppeteer; he could cut off his strings at leisure, a marionette in his hands. Smith carried a gun, nowadays. A semi-automatic in his vest pocket provided comfort every time he brushed his hand against it. He’d never fired it.

But Smith felt protected, somewhat. He had a guardian angel. Fielding. He’d do anything to throw a wrench into Lansing’s plans, and, obviously, he wanted Smith to survive, in his quest of destroying Lansing’s empire. Bit by bit, gnawing deeper in and out of the dirt and grime, Smith was working on publicizing the wrongdoings of Fielding’s nemesis, under Fielding’s vigilant watch.

Smith walked right into a cab’s way, forcing it to a screeching halt. He was going to be run over. Catching his breath, Smith was excusing himself and moving along, when he saw the driver.

It was Lansing.

“Watch where you tread, Mr. Smith.” He said, smiling. “Your next step might get you killed.” The point driven home, he drove off, leaving Smith standing transfixed on the asphalt.

He walked on, in a stupor. He was living on the edge, now. A walking bullseye for every criminal on the street. But he never expected Lansing to come after him personally. He felt the gun again. He walked on, heart racing. No one else dared write against Lansing, Smith alone possessed that strength, which made him alone incur the supervillain’s wrath. A hit was out on him, the taker was the world. He felt like a Daredevil whose secret identity was discovered by the Kingpin.

He was hungry. On realizing that, he started for a fast food joint a couple blocks away. Arriving a moment later, he reached for the doorknob.

Lansing walked by him, wearing a red tracksuit. He jogged by, without sparing Smith a glance.

Never looking up, Smith stood a long time, hand frozen on the doorknob. Half a minute later, Smith breathed, turned around to look at the departing figure of Lansing. He was still jogging down the street.

Stay calm. Deep breaths. He ordered himself. Pulse racing, palms sweaty, he entered. The place was surprisingly empty for the time of the day. Smith walked in, ordered, and sat at a table.

Lansing entered. He took a table opposite Smith and sat down. Ordering fries and burgers – same as Smith – he smiled slightly, meeting his stare, and dug into his food.

Smith continued eating. The bastard’s following me. Why? And the answer was already there. Word of his visit with the publisher had gotten out. He knows I’m coming through with the book! He had eyes, ears everywhere. He had a fly on every wall. He was following him. I’m not gonna back out now. He got up, having finished his meal. He paid at the counter, not even bothering to look at the attendant. He feared seeing Lansing again. How absurd would that be. Lansing thought with chagrin. He wasn’t hallucinating, obviously. All this wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Every bit of it was true. Real. Tangible. However farfetched and fictionlike it might seem. The attendant couldn’t magically turn into Lansing. Smith shook his head to get his bearings. Lansing was getting under his skin. Can’t let him do that.

Smith wasn’t feeling like it, but he knew he had to go to work. He took a cab there. He didn’t see Lansing in the lobby, the elevator, or even the hallway or the row of cubicles. He breather heavily, glad to be somewhere safe, somewhere away from Lansing.

He had made himself comfortable at his cubicle, when he was called by the boss ; and found himself without a job inside seven minutes. Three minutes later, he came out of the main doors, his belongings in that ever clichéd cardboard box. He didn’t say a word to anyone. Not to the undersympathetic boss, not to his sympathetic colleagues, nor to the oversympathetic receptionist. He hailed a cab, returned home, stowed the boxes neatly away in the corner, made himself a cup of coffee, and then hurled it at the window. It broke, glass flew. He stood amidst the wreckage or a moment, reflecting. He got a broom and swept the floor clean. Strike one. That’s all. I still have the fight in me, he told himself repeatedly. Lansing would never break him this way. He would always get up, pick himself up, move on, nail that superbastard. Jaws set, Smith replaced the broom, set the curtains down on the broken window, locked the front door, and went out. Lansing was reading the newspaper, sipping tea, in the lawn next door, dressed in a gown. He smiled at Smith, who didn’t return it.

He went to a bar. He wanted to down a few, to shake out the cobwebs. For an instant, he thought he saw Lansing as the bartender, sweeping down a hardball glass, grinning pompously down at him. He took a few tentative steps forward, to see he was mistaken. It was the usual bartender, Bob. Breathing relief, he went and sat at his usual seat. He ordered Gin and Tonic, and it must’ve been a half-dozen shots later that Lansing came and sat down beside him, ordering the same drink as him.

Smith ignored him until he spoke directly to him. “Alcohol.” He said, examining his own glass as if it were the Kohinoor diamond. “It’s a slow way to die, don’t you think, Mr. Smith?” Smith felt a simmering anger under his skin. “I’m not in a hurry. I still need to destroy you, you bastard. “ he said, as calmly as he could, his heart doing overtime all the while. Lansing chuckled in reply. “Such confidence!” He emptied his third shot. “You do know, Mr. Smith.” He said as he ordered for another. “ That I do not need to kill you, necessarily, to stop your meddling.” Smith froze.

“What the hell do you mean?” He growled.
“Whatever do I mean, I wonder. “ Lansing sipped his fourth. “I wish I was lucky enough to have a lovely wife, like you do, Mr. Smith.” He said, his tone almost innocent.

Smith felt his hands balling into a fist.  “I’ll kill you. If you as much as- “ He was cut off by Lansing’s dry laughter. “What did I say to upset you, Mr. Smith? I merely commented upon my - admittedly - hopeless and unhappy romantic life.” Lansing said, fixing Smith in a cold, icy stare. “ I envy you.” He finished. “ I must congratulate you on your luck, Mr. Smith.” He resumed. “A woman with intellect as well as a perfect- “

Smith had had enough. He cut off Lansing, stood up, and grabbed hold of his collar. Raising his hand for a slug, he was stopped by someone. He looked behind to see who it was.

It was John Fielding.

“Save it.” He just said.
“Ah, the guardian angel. “ Lansing chuckled, adjusting his expensive collar. “I was wondering when he’d show up. “
“You got three seconds to beat it.”
“Before…?”
“Before you’re a casualty, you thug.”
”Violence in your heart. Ah. Youth…I remember, when I was your age..” He got up from his seat, downing his last shot. “ I’d have stayed away from a millionaire who considered me a miserable, annoying, brat.” He set down his shot with a thump, tossed some bills onto the table, and walked off.

Smith never let Lansing leave his sights as he walked out of the door. Then he turned to Fielding, gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks a lot, John.” Fielding patted him on the shoulder. “It’s nothing. Least I could do. You keep an eye out from now on.” Smith just grunted in response. He’d been keeping his eyes open for about five months. But he had to agree ; now that the book was coming out, he was in more danger.

Fielding hung around, having a few drinks with Smith. He needed that, a little pep talk to get his spirits up. Everything seemed to be going downhill for him ; he only hoped the book would turn his fortunes around. Unless Lansing went out of his way to mess it up somehow. Nonetheless, the drink with Fielding seemed to calm Smith down somewhat. Although he could’ve done better without Fielding’s constant reminders for him to keep writing, never give up, and keep an eye open. Chrissakes! He was fairly irritated. What does he think; I’m the guy from Memento or something? I can remember, goddamnit! Anyway, with a relatively better morale than what he had, when he’d walked in the bar, he left, bidding Fielding goodbye.

He took a bus, getting off at Landon Street. From there, it was a short walk to his house. Walking up the street to his house, he saw Lansing, walk in through the front door.

He must’ve stood a full second without breathing. Then, like a dead man shocked to life, he awkwardly whipped out his semi automatic, and ran across the street. He tried the door. Surprisingly, it was locked. The devil breaks into my house, and locks the door?! Working as fast as he could, he unlocked the door with his spare key, and barged in.

Empty. He checked the hallways, rushed through the living room, the kitchen, gun at the ready. Nothing again.

Upstairs!

Emily’s upstairs.

He ran maniacally up the steps, his throat closing in on him, drowning out his shouts to a muted whisper.

The bedroom.

He smashed in.

And immediately wished he’d died before seeing this.

Emily was sitting in front of the mirror, going through her nightly routine, dressed in her nightgown.

Lansing was there, behind her. He held her in a passionate embrace, face buried in her lush flowing hair, he was raining kisses down her throat and neck.

At the sound of the crash, both of them turned and looked at him in unison. Emily horrified and confused, Lansing with a smug grin. “Hello, Smith. “ He cooed, as Smith stood there, fixated in horror. “Sorry for missing the courtesy of shaking hands. As you can see,” Lansing smiled, taking a look at Emily, “I have my hands full.”

Smith screamed his lungs out, raised his gun, and fired.

Lansing fell with a neat hole between his eyes.

Smith was horrified, exhausted, and too shocked to comprehend anything but one. The obvious truth.

“What’s the matter!!?” Emily screamed, “What’re you doing? Where’d you get the gun? Why’d you fire at me! WHATS WRONG WITH YOU!?”

Just then, Smith, horror in his eyes amplified, saw a second figure rising from the bed.

John Fielding.

“What’s wrong, honey? “ With the identically smug grin Lansing once wore, Fielding spoke, having risen. He was naked, save for the sheets he was lying under.
“Oh hello, John. Finally figured everything out, have you? “ His smile never faltered.

A bomb went off inside John Smith’s head.

“GOD! “ He screamed, again and again.

GOD!!” He fired at Fielding, shooting him again and again until he fell off the bed, chest ridden with bullet holes.

GOD!!!” He fired at Emily, missing the head several times. He ditched the plan and shot her through the chest and stomach. He fired wildly until Emily was a bloody heap on the floor, bloodshot eyes horrified, looking up at Smith in mute agony.

“Help me…” He collapsed, down on his knees. Crying uncontrollably, he placed the cold hard steel against his temple and pulled the trigger.



xxxxxxxxxxxx


THE NEW YORK BANNER
19th JULY, 1997
MURDER-SUICIDE AT LANDON STREET

Staff Reporter

In a tragic incident last night, Mr. John Smith, 37, and his wife Mrs. Emily Berners-Smith, 39, perished in - what is believed to be, after preliminary investigations -  a murder-suicide. Reportedly, Mr. Smith shot his wife, before turning the gun, a Benneli semi-automatic, on himself. The two bodies were recovered from the bedroom of the couple’s residence. A total of nine shots were fired, three of which killed Mrs. Smith, and one which did the same for Mr. John Smith. The rest of the five shots missed, apparently. They were recovered, lodged in the bedroom wall.

Quite peculiar, as to why so many shots were fired, and missed. “The guy must’ve lost his nerve. They’d been married for almost twelve years…It’s a shame, really.” Officer Edward Martins, NYPD, was quoted as saying so, later. Neighbors and acquaintances of the deceased couple report the marriage to be a happy and peaceful one, the love shared between them flawless. Thus, the plausible cause and/or motives for this tragedy have the authorities baffled. Although some attribute it to Mr. Smith losing his job, and his recent financial problems. “The intense emotional strain could probably have driven him over the edge”, a noted psychologist commented, “The recent downsurge of economy has hit us pretty hard ; and this tragedy can certainly be credited to it.”

The case remains open, and a formal investigation will be carried out by the NYPD, in this regard.



Author's Note (IMPORTANT. PLEASE READ)
-----------------------------------------------------

Ugh. It seems no one "got" the story. -_- Anyway, here's the real explanation. I  think I was too subtle with it, for anyone to understand.

*BOTH FIELDING AND LANSING, their existence, their biography, their qualities, their actions in this story, were SIMPLY PRODUCTS OF SMITH'S IMAGINATION. They were in NO WAY real. Smith had this psychological condition where he TRULY BELIEVES his created characters(in his novel) are REAL. So whatever Lansing/Fielding do in this story are ILLUSIONS/HALLUCINATIONS of Smith's troubled and disturbed psyche.

That explains why :-

1> Lansing could be omnipresent - everywhere, everytime -  threatening Smith (doing all dirty work HIMSELF,despite being a supervillain)

2>Only *TWO* bodies were recovered in the end (Read the last para again, carefully. I clearly wrote "the two bodies".) Lansing/Fielding were NOT REAL, and hence there were NO BODIES to be recovered. Smith discovering their 3-way adultery with Emily, as well as Smith's murder of the two, were again, HALLUCINATIONS. The only people REALLY, physically dead that night, were Smith and his wife.

Therein lies the twist + tragedy of the tale!! -_-

A Day In The Life..

Monday, December 22, 2008


When I woke up, the day was breaking. I wanted to lay down and go right back to sleep, I was so tired already. You know, one of those post-wake-up blues, when you just want to go right back to bed? Yeah, one of those. And I almost did, too. Then I noticed the sunlight, coming in through the window, filtered through the curtains. You wouldn’t have believed it, if I’d tell you, that that sight totally rejuvenated me. I was from zero to sixty in less than two seconds. I jumped off the bed, and walked to the window. I slid the curtains aside, almost ripping them off in my excitement. The sunlight…one of the few good things left on this earth. I looked over the window. Nothing much to see, really. The city, bustling with life, cars honking, people walking around, trying to mind their own business, babies crying, the works. Nothing much to see, but it cheered me up nonetheless. It was a beautiful day.

IT’S A HORRIBLE DAY JUST LIKE ALL THE REST  WHATS THE MATTER WITH YOU WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO BE SO DAMN OPTIMISTIC SO DAMN UPBEAT FOR A CHANGE  LOOK AT SOMETHING THE WAY ITS SUPPOSED TO LOOK EVERYTHING IS DARK GLOOMY PAINFUL EVERYONE’S PHONY RETARDED EVERYONE HAS IT IN FOR YOU  IT’S ALL NEGATIVE LIFE’S NEGATIVE THERE’S NO POINT IN LIVING GODDAMN IT POP A FEW PILLS AND OD CUT YOUR WRISTS BLOW YOUR BRAINS THE FUCK OUT WHO THE FUCK CARES ANYWAY WHO THE FUCK GIVES TWO SHITS ABOUT YOU ANYWAY HUH IT’S A HORRIBLE DAY JUST LIKE ALL THE REST

Yep. It was a perfectly beautiful day.

YOU’RE IN DENIAL ASSHOLE SOONER OR LATER ITS GONNA KICK YOU IN THE FACE


Beautiful. Great day to be alive.

I turned on the radio, the music flowed around the room, as I got ready for the day. I was all positives, cheerful about today. Didn’t know why, but I felt it would be a grand day. God, I almost sang along while brushing. I was that happy. Today’s the greatest day of all. I couldn’t tell you why I felt that, I just did. I knew it. Then when everything was done, I got dressed. I chose a brown jacket to go with my yellow shirt. I contemplated the blue one, but, I don’t know why – the brown one just seemed to be begging me from the hanger. Pick me. Oh, please pick me. I won’t let you down, I swear. Please! Pick me! It breaks my heart when I hear something like that, even from something like a cruddy old jacket. Breaks my heart. I couldn’t wear the blue. I went with the brown.

TYPICAL HUH EVERYTHING THAT BEGS YOU YOU OBLIGE YOU GIVE UP CHANCES GREAT CHANCES IN YOUR LIFE BECAUSE OF THIS FUCKED UP ‘THING’ OF YOURS  YOU GET A BONER FOR EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING THAT PLEADS WITH YOU AND REQUESTS YOU GOD IT MAKES ME SICK SEEING YOU IT’S SO PATHETIC IT’S HOLDING YOU BACK IT IS FORGET THE SKY JUST THE GROUND IS THE LIMIT FOR YOU YOU’RE DOOMED 

I pulled on my mask, stepped out through an alley door. Whistling a tune. Went out to the street, took out my gun and shot the man nearest to me. He screamed and fell, clutching his chest. Others around us screamed, pointing at me. I calmly shot them. The man with the orange sweater – I shot in his stomach. He looked like the type of person who didn’t like to die so fast. It was point blank, I really didn’t need much aim. But my aim’s pretty good. When I was a kid, I could shoot a bird on a wall about sixty yards off, with an air-rifle. You should really hear about the time I got into this terrific mess with my uncle Kenneth, over this air-rifle thing. It’s a pretty long story. And a sad one, too. I got that taken away from me. I remember, I was six then. God, I’d cried so much.

DON’T DIGRESS LOOK HERE SHOOT THIS BITCH IN THE HEAD SHE’S SCREAMING TOO DAMN MUCH GIVING ME A HEADACHE

She fell, the horrified look in her eyes a permanent one. She had beautiful eyes, not as good as Dana though. She had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. In fact, she had the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen, too. She was amazing. If you’d seen her, you’d agree with me.

RETARD JUST CONCENTRATE YOUR PUNY LITTLE BRAIN ON HURTING THESE PEOPLE SEE IT’S NOT THAT HARD ESPECIALLY IF YOU THINK ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY HAD IT IN FOR YOU YES THEY DID ’M SURE THAT FRIENDLY LOOKING ASSHAT WITH THE COVERALLS WOULD’VE CRACKED YOUR HEAD OPEN WITH THAT WRENCH OF HIS HE’D HAVE FIRST CHANCE HE’D GET

The man with the blue coveralls I shot through his throat. Hey, you know what? Red mixed with blue makes a really nice color. Violet. Definitely one of my favourites. That reminds me. I’ll have to get some flowers for my room. I was thinking maybe something in violet. Roses? Which brings us to another point. Why does everyone run after roses? I mean, what’s so special about them? Yeah they’re pretty and decent smelling and all, but to tell you the truth – roses have no character. Lilies on the other hand – ah. There you have a nice flower. Lucky lilies come in purple. Unlike others. I wish everything in the world would come in purple. Then I’d love them more.

I slipped past, into another alley. I know these alleyways like the back of my hand. I pulled off my mask and threw it into the garbage. I stuffed my pistol in my pocket and twisted through several alleyways, emerging out of one near another section of the street. I stepped out, got in a bus, and was off. I could just hear the commotion coming from the other part of the street round the bend. People were running there.


When I reached the office, I went over and sat down in my cubicle. Within minutes I was paid a visit by my boss. He got all in my face, on one of his tirades. He was just being a real pain in the neck. I wish he’d stop blabbering so much. He made my ears ache.

THIS BASTARD DESERVES TO DIE BLOW HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF I DON’T CARE HOW YOU DO IT JUST FUCKING DO IT FOR FUCK’S SAKES KILL HIM HE DESERVES TO BE KILLED THERE HE IS SO CLOSE TO YOU YOU CAN’T MISS POINT BLANK SHOOT HIM IN HIS HEART OR BETTER YET BLOW HIS BRAINS OUT IT’D BE GREAT YOU COULD PLASTER THE WALLS WITH HIS BRAINS THEN THE OFFICE IS A DRAB ANYWAY KILL HIM KILL HIM

I smiled at him pleasantly, and told him the reports were already done, the additional work would barely take fifteen minutes. He’d have everything at his desk in half an hour. He hadn’t expected that. He blinked, grumbled something appreciative and stormed off. Dana from the next cubicle reached over and gave me a thumbs up. I was her hero right then. Dana’s a wonderful girl. I really wished I could take her out for dinner sometime.

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU’RE COMPLETELY IGNORING ME TO HELL WITH YOU I TOLD YOU TO SHOOT THAT BASTARD YOU DIDN’T AND NOW YOURE FLIRTING WITH SOME CHICK LOOK HERES ANOTHER CHANCE BRAINS ARE BRAINS ANYWAY HER BRAINS WILL LOOK JUST AS GOOD ON THE WALL DO IT YOU HAVE YOUR GUN YOU’VE STILL GOT FOUR BULLETS LEFT IN THE CLIP JUST POINT AND SHOOT PULL THE TRIGGER AND KILL HER

So I gathered up my courage and asked her.

“Hey Dana, do you…umm..” Oh god I was fumbling with words! I hate it when this happens. Can’t even talk to her straight.
“Yeah?” She was looking at me expectantly. A slight, pleasant, smile on her face.

SHOOT HER IN THE HEAD OR RIGHT THROUGH THAT PRETTY LITTLE SMILE OF HERS GOD SHE LOOKS SO TERRIBLE AND ORDINARY YOU COULD GET MUCH BETTER AND MORE ANYWAY SHE’S GOOD FOR KILLING MAYBE SO DO IT RETARD WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR

“Well I was …er..” That’s it. I was out of words. I had to something quick. I had to do something right, and I had to do it fast. “I..that was..” I was slipping!

THAT’S IT I KNOW THE FEELING YOU’RE FEELING SO STRESSED NOW YOUR HEARTS BEATING SO FAST YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING SO DO IT TAKE YOUR GUN OUT POINT IT AT HER AND SHOOT I KNOW YOU’RE ITCHING FOR IT THIS IS WHAT YOU SHOULD LIVE FOR FOR GODS SAKES SHOOT HER IN HER PRETTY LITTLE FACE IF ITS SO BEAUTIFUL TO YOU JUST DO IT DO IT KILL HER

“I’m free tonight. You want to take me out, right? Sure. I’d love to.”

THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE GODDAMNIT SHOOT HER SHOOT HER TAKE YOUR GUN OUT AND KILL HER LET HER DIE AND DIE AND DIE I WANT HER TO DIE YOU WANT HER TO DIE WE ALL WANT TO SEE HOW HER PRETTY LITTLE EYES LOOK STARING HORRIFIED AT THE CEILING BLOOD SPLATTERED ALL OVER HER BODY ALL CUT UP AND SLASHED TO RIBBONS CHEWING ON HER SKIN YOU’D PEEL OFF AFTER SHE DIES TRUST ME YOU’LL LOVE IT WHY ARE YOU IGNORING ME DAMMNIT

“Oh…wow. That’s…awesome, really. “ I could feel myself smile, right through all the cold sweat.
“So, when should we meet? “
“Er..eight o’ clock?”
“Eight’s fine.”
“Mendelbrot Café? “
“Mendelbrot’s a great place! It’ll do nicely.”
“Okay! Good then. See you at eight.”
“Yeah. Now lets get back to work before the boss gets freaky.”
“Yeah. Right.” I gave a big, cheesy grin.

I hummed along quietly, happily, while typing on the computer.

It was a beautiful, beautiful day.

Thank You

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

I know it was you. I know it was you who did it. I know it was you who forced me out. You forced to quit the band, taking your songs with you, unless I was out. We were in a rut then. We were dying to get our album out. You threatened to pull the plug on it unless I was kicked. I know you did it. I know you relished doing it. I know it satisfied your ego. You felt better, doing it.

You know it killed me. The band was all I had. Music was all I really ever lived for. And you could take that away from me in the five minutes you took, rambling on about your opinions and what you wanted. Laying down the options. A binary choice. Either I left, or you did, with all your work that was so essential to the band.

The letter I was given, said a lot. It said why I was no longer needed in the band. It told me why I was being replaced. It told me that the band would be better off, this way. It didn’t tell me the truth.     

Did they know the truth? I think they guessed.

When women don’t sleep with you, they don’t deserve to be in the same band as you, do they?

I could have told them everything. But what would that have accomplished? They desperately needed you. Your work. Your abilities. Your songs. The band needed the new album to survive. Without you, there would be nothing for them as a band.

So I had to go.

Do you know how much I had to go through, after that? Let’s start with the bidding goodbye part. I had to do that with every one of my bandmates. None of them could look me in the eye. They had the floor fixated in their gaze, their heads bowed. Except you. You were basking in the glory of your achievement. The band was finally yours, now. You were fit to shape it in any way you liked. Whichever way you wanted. Why wouldn’t you have that grin on your face? I swear, I felt like slugging you right then. But all I did was walk by you, out of the door.

Then there were the journalists. I told them like it was. It caused quite a stir. You were ready, of course. Along with the testimonies by the rest of the band. How I was like a pop diva more than anything, how difficult I was to work with, and how you and the band were uncomfortable with the direction I was taking the band in.

Ironic, isn’t it?

That last insinuation you made against me. I was taking the band in a direction all of you weren’t comfortable with
. Yet when your skanky new girlfriend took my place as the lead singer, the band turned into an ugly mix of glam-goth rock. You had mainstream success like never before. The band was the talk of the world, Angelforce was the new Evanescence.

The purists reviled all the band’s albums after that, including that one.

You fired every original member that hadn’t already quit.

I gritted my teeth, went about with my life as a rock and metal journalist. Oh, I turned down an offer to review your album. They got the point. Didn’t pressurize me after that.

I gritted my teeth and watched the vision I had, all go to hell.

Then I met him. He’s the best thing to happen to me, I swear. Imagine a person who’ll take away all your sorrows, made you feel good about yourself, no matter how messed up you were. Inside, and outside. Imagine someone who didn’t try to be nice, he was. Didn’t try to show how much he liked you, he just did. And he knew you realized it, too. Didn’t try to act interested when you were talking, he genuinely would be. (Unless I talk about something deplorably uninteresting just to test him, ha ha) Imagine someone who didn’t tell you that he cared so much for you, that he’d always be there for you, that he’d never ever leave you, that he’d die without you. He didn’t need to tell any of those. He knew I knew, and I knew he did. We knew that.

He made me forget all the bitterness, all the dark inside. He helped me move on. And without his help, I don’t think I could ever move on, ever let it go.

I want you to know, I’m happy now.

How do I know?

When the sun sets, and we’re down on the beach. Standing together. Holding hands. The waves washing over our feet, the sounds, the sights, the smell, the aura of contentment. That’s when I know, I’m happy. Happier than I could have ever imagined.

I heard about your band’s slumping sales, decreasing fanbase, and fading popularity. You alienated most of our fans with the changed musical style. And the new fans you’d made are sick and tired of the monotonous, musically bare pop-metal you pump out, album after album. The band’s off-stage dramatics don’t help much, either. The entire industry predicts ; it’s all downhill for you, now onwards.

You’re probably furious, reading this. You must be thinking I’m jumping for joy, now. I’m not, beLIEve me.

I told you – I’ve moved on. Put the past behind me. I’m not denying anything - music is still my life. It’s still a part of me. Our days with the band – Something I’ll never forget - It’s something I’ll cherish for the rest of my days. But I don’t dwell on that anymore. I don’t bring it up to hurt myself. No, not any longer.

So here I am, writing this letter to you.

I want you to know, I don’t hold a grudge against you for anything. Yeah, it sounds crazy, but it’s true. I felt angry, disgusted at you. I hated your guts.

I realize now, you were the one responsible for so much good in my life.

The future that I dreamt of, the present I’m living. I’m blissfully happy. It’s all because of you. If I hadn’t been forced to leave, if I hadn’t moved New York, I would never have known happiness such as this, awaiting me. I’ll forever be in your debt for that.

Once again, thank you.

Be well.

Yours indifferently,
Jillian


----


In a misty veil, misplaced,
Where castles in the air will be -
No longer seen –
As something out of reach.

In time –
The dream will be erased,
So many things will never be -
The way they seemed –
And pride will have its fall
At last…