ColGray
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Aug 9, 2023
- Messages
- 451
Opening from my current WIP. It's a scifi thriller / murder mystery. It's aggressive and potentially too aggressive.
********************
Is ten seconds of video enough to convince a dozen strangers that murder could be a public service? Is eight seconds enough? I want to find out. I need to find out. Should I find out?
Good people perform acts of service, which this would be. A positive service—for humanity—ergo, if I act and obliterate this nostalgia-is-my-personality mustache twirler and his aggressive heterosexuality, I am a good person. No, the best kind of person: I am a martyr and my cross is named, `Kyle`.
“I just like the feel of it, you know? It’s analog. There’s a tactile nature to it,” Kyle says, slipping a thumb behind one buck leather suspender strap and admiring the very short, very naked and very, very hairy woman displayed on the glass plate in his other hand. She’s standing, a vision of alluring 1890’s French bouffantary, wearing nothing but ankle high black boots and a coy smile that whispers in seductive tones that Daddy issues are timeless. She poses, one shoed foot on a drab carpet and the other raised and resting on a milking stool, like the staged camera caught her moments before leaving the house on a Tuesday, all rolling eyes and Edwardian sighs, one hand flapping dismissively at being seen in this old thing.
I am St. Claudia the Sufferer, patron saint of Great-Great-Grandpa’s Porn Stash.
“This is a real woman’s body,” Kyle adds in a constricted voice that announces, he’s a good guy. He gets it. “It’s just her, you know?”
“I know what a real woman’s body looks like,” I say, and motion an arm down my body. “I happen to own one.”
This is a lie, but Kyle doesn’t know that and he’s too busy blushing and stammering an apology, his eyes lingering on the picture of a woman only slightly more dead than him.
I could grab the glass plate, snap it and stab. Addition by subtraction. The world didn’t need more Kyle’s, generally, or more of this Kyle, specifically. And he was, what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? That’s death’s door for a Kyle. They’re like fruit flies and generational musicians: Kyle’s die young. There are no octogenarian Kyle’s and, if this Kyle is any indication, I know why.
“No, I just meant there’s no airbrushing, AI touchups or tweezing. It’s just her.”
“In the front, maybe,” I say with a snort and wait for Kyle’s confusion to build and grow until the pedant is ready to burst and then add, “Victorian women were famous for bleaching their poop holes. Queen Victoria had a dark star so white, South Africa had to make a new class of citizen just for her. It’s true—look it up!”
I am a merciful death doula and I cradle Kyle and tell him to breathe and do those little staccato he-he-he breaths. We sit at the head of the class and I cradle his bony ribs and horrid choice of couture and tell him to breathe. He-he-he. Hiiiiiss. Good, yes, keep going. You’re doing so well! I run a proud, encouraging hand over the sallow skin of his neck, the shard of glass in my other hand and grin back at the class with a face that tells everyone else, This is crazy! We’re crazy! I don’t know what I’m doing any more than he does!
I know what I’m doing. I have killed Kyle six-hundred times and gone undetected in all but two—but once was on purpose. I have pushed, stabbed, shot, electrocuted, defenestrated, poisoned, tripped, overdosed, shoved and kicked Kyle to death. He is a weak, easy kill and I enjoy public service.
But killing him changes nothing and tonight is not about indulging.
Lauren, an electric blue drink in each hand and the fake smile she wears at these things tugged down and taped in place, snakes through pockets of attendees with single-finger waves and acknowledging eyebrow arches. The party’s music smooths and shifts from an abomination of pan flute acid house into a symphony of unanesthetized cat neuterings played over pitch shifted Bossa Nova.
I can’t. Not again. Tapping my watch, the track moves from torturous to three percent above abysmal and only a few attendees look around at the sudden change.
I am Claudia, bringer of death, shatterer of trust-fund DJ’s.
“South Africa wasn’t under British rule?” Kyle protests with bland, flat eyes.
I snort. “Yeah, if you believe that.” Confusion weasels across his face. “You know the hair's all fake, right?” I touch an oily finger to his precious glass plate, knowing the consternation it causes. “Merkin. Lice and fleas, you know? They shaved everything—top to taint—and wore wigs. Hey, lemme ask, do you often walk around loft parties showing women your Victorian porn?”
“Actually, it’s pornography, not porn,” he corrects, pushing up his brass rimmed glasses.
“Hey, I got us drinks!” Lauren says and gives me a one-armed hug and a drink and flashes an inviting look at Kyle and his bush woman. Lauren’s hair is blond and straight and forms an impeccable curtain of shimmering gold that angles and announces her taut jaw line and hints at ears. Every strand of eyebrow matches her hair. Her pores are tiny and closed and the whisper of summer’s freckles adds to her cheeks. Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Volupté in Nude Lavalliere graces her lips in a soft rose with a soupçon of gloss that says, I eat with this thing.
She looks like this each night.
She is bloody and still and dead each morning. She lies face down in a warm bath. She hangs from a belt in a walk-in closet. She is modern art rendered on sidewalk and fire escapes and stair landings.
I have found her corpse hundreds of times. I have followed her. I have killed each of the thirty other attendees. Still, she dies.
But Kyle … Kyle is the key. Definitely. Maybe. I think. Everything comes back to him. Every night starts with him. When everything resets, I am with Kyle and then Lauren glides over and we begin.
********************
Is ten seconds of video enough to convince a dozen strangers that murder could be a public service? Is eight seconds enough? I want to find out. I need to find out. Should I find out?
Good people perform acts of service, which this would be. A positive service—for humanity—ergo, if I act and obliterate this nostalgia-is-my-personality mustache twirler and his aggressive heterosexuality, I am a good person. No, the best kind of person: I am a martyr and my cross is named, `Kyle`.
“I just like the feel of it, you know? It’s analog. There’s a tactile nature to it,” Kyle says, slipping a thumb behind one buck leather suspender strap and admiring the very short, very naked and very, very hairy woman displayed on the glass plate in his other hand. She’s standing, a vision of alluring 1890’s French bouffantary, wearing nothing but ankle high black boots and a coy smile that whispers in seductive tones that Daddy issues are timeless. She poses, one shoed foot on a drab carpet and the other raised and resting on a milking stool, like the staged camera caught her moments before leaving the house on a Tuesday, all rolling eyes and Edwardian sighs, one hand flapping dismissively at being seen in this old thing.
I am St. Claudia the Sufferer, patron saint of Great-Great-Grandpa’s Porn Stash.
“This is a real woman’s body,” Kyle adds in a constricted voice that announces, he’s a good guy. He gets it. “It’s just her, you know?”
“I know what a real woman’s body looks like,” I say, and motion an arm down my body. “I happen to own one.”
This is a lie, but Kyle doesn’t know that and he’s too busy blushing and stammering an apology, his eyes lingering on the picture of a woman only slightly more dead than him.
I could grab the glass plate, snap it and stab. Addition by subtraction. The world didn’t need more Kyle’s, generally, or more of this Kyle, specifically. And he was, what, twenty-eight? Twenty-nine? That’s death’s door for a Kyle. They’re like fruit flies and generational musicians: Kyle’s die young. There are no octogenarian Kyle’s and, if this Kyle is any indication, I know why.
“No, I just meant there’s no airbrushing, AI touchups or tweezing. It’s just her.”
“In the front, maybe,” I say with a snort and wait for Kyle’s confusion to build and grow until the pedant is ready to burst and then add, “Victorian women were famous for bleaching their poop holes. Queen Victoria had a dark star so white, South Africa had to make a new class of citizen just for her. It’s true—look it up!”
I am a merciful death doula and I cradle Kyle and tell him to breathe and do those little staccato he-he-he breaths. We sit at the head of the class and I cradle his bony ribs and horrid choice of couture and tell him to breathe. He-he-he. Hiiiiiss. Good, yes, keep going. You’re doing so well! I run a proud, encouraging hand over the sallow skin of his neck, the shard of glass in my other hand and grin back at the class with a face that tells everyone else, This is crazy! We’re crazy! I don’t know what I’m doing any more than he does!
I know what I’m doing. I have killed Kyle six-hundred times and gone undetected in all but two—but once was on purpose. I have pushed, stabbed, shot, electrocuted, defenestrated, poisoned, tripped, overdosed, shoved and kicked Kyle to death. He is a weak, easy kill and I enjoy public service.
But killing him changes nothing and tonight is not about indulging.
Lauren, an electric blue drink in each hand and the fake smile she wears at these things tugged down and taped in place, snakes through pockets of attendees with single-finger waves and acknowledging eyebrow arches. The party’s music smooths and shifts from an abomination of pan flute acid house into a symphony of unanesthetized cat neuterings played over pitch shifted Bossa Nova.
I can’t. Not again. Tapping my watch, the track moves from torturous to three percent above abysmal and only a few attendees look around at the sudden change.
I am Claudia, bringer of death, shatterer of trust-fund DJ’s.
“South Africa wasn’t under British rule?” Kyle protests with bland, flat eyes.
I snort. “Yeah, if you believe that.” Confusion weasels across his face. “You know the hair's all fake, right?” I touch an oily finger to his precious glass plate, knowing the consternation it causes. “Merkin. Lice and fleas, you know? They shaved everything—top to taint—and wore wigs. Hey, lemme ask, do you often walk around loft parties showing women your Victorian porn?”
“Actually, it’s pornography, not porn,” he corrects, pushing up his brass rimmed glasses.
“Hey, I got us drinks!” Lauren says and gives me a one-armed hug and a drink and flashes an inviting look at Kyle and his bush woman. Lauren’s hair is blond and straight and forms an impeccable curtain of shimmering gold that angles and announces her taut jaw line and hints at ears. Every strand of eyebrow matches her hair. Her pores are tiny and closed and the whisper of summer’s freckles adds to her cheeks. Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Volupté in Nude Lavalliere graces her lips in a soft rose with a soupçon of gloss that says, I eat with this thing.
She looks like this each night.
She is bloody and still and dead each morning. She lies face down in a warm bath. She hangs from a belt in a walk-in closet. She is modern art rendered on sidewalk and fire escapes and stair landings.
I have found her corpse hundreds of times. I have followed her. I have killed each of the thirty other attendees. Still, she dies.
But Kyle … Kyle is the key. Definitely. Maybe. I think. Everything comes back to him. Every night starts with him. When everything resets, I am with Kyle and then Lauren glides over and we begin.
– when this is so bamboozingly opaque, not to say impenetrable on first read! Actually, even on second and third read in parts, as I still don’t understand the bit about helping him to breathe and the class watching.)
