A writer's desperate struggle to keep the job he loves.
My heart thudded around in my chest and my palms were sweaty. My career, my lifestyle, my life rested on the very next word that boomed out of a man I did not know. Sure, I have written about this dreaded moment many times, but no words, in any language, could derive even the minimal amount of fear, anger, aspiration, anticipation, and reflection present within this instant.
In that second, I reviewed everything that has happened to me in that instant.
It all started with the fruits if my labor. My babies, my children; My paper and my pen.
✳✳✳
I leaned back in my chair and examined the drying ink. I loved the elated feeling that bubbled in my stomach when I gazed down at a finished manuscript for the first time. The hard part was over.
See, I think of my works as my children. I love them as such and each piece is as special as a child. The first stage, the actual coming up with the plot and it's characters. I get my plot from people I meet. Personality, good and bad, is a jewel in my eyes. Situation and how different personas would handle said situation is an even pricier gem. The second and without a doubt most vital step in my child's life is physically writing the story, which is sort of like the first seven years of a child's development. My mother always said "If you raise a child right and are very strict with them for the first seven years, you will only have to take minor discipline action on them after that. Just to keep them on the up and up."
I figure if I am profoundly rigorous with the initial writing of a manuscript, my editors and I will only have to make minor corrections to it before it 'grows up' and I watch it dive into the world, so that all who read to be entertained.
I thought of this as I called my publisher.
"Hello?" Godfrey Gold answered in his business-like, monotone voice, that, when discussing business could drift even the fussiest baby into a deep sedateness. Godfrey is the type of man who feels misplaced in a t-shirt and jeans. The words 'comfortable attire' do not in any way shape or form fit correctly into his precise English lexicon.
His eyes are hard and as black as the dress-suit he wears constantly. Like a doctor at the grocery store without his coat, I believe it would be uncomfortably odd to see him without the suit and his plain black tie against a blank button-down shirt. His white frosted hair is trimmed sharply into a crude, business cut. His nose is interestingly large and hooked at the end. His lips are slim, while his shape is broad and tall. His teeth are pearly but his smile holds no emotion behind it. Black socks, belt, and shoes complete his newspaper picture appearance.
"Hello, Godfrey, my friend. As alive and chipper as ever this morning, aren't we?"
I could hear a smile in the older man's voice as he acquired more of a comfortable tone. "Oh, hello Sham! How are you this morning?"
"I am going to make you one very happy man."
"You finished the draft?"
"The ink is drying as we speak." I replied.
"That is fantastic."
"Hope you enjoy it."
"I always do." Without giving me much time to speak, he said, "Why are you still on the phone? Get that manuscript to the post!" He hung up.
After replacing the phone on the hook, I went to my desk. I gathered up the pages and scampered around trying to find an envelope to mail the story.
As I passed the television that, until my gaze had settled upon it, was playing for no one. The news happened to be on. A story about a murderer that was on the loose caught my eye as I picked up the parched wine bottle on my coffee table and moved to throw it in the recycling receptacle.
The man had allegedly kidnaped eight people and had killed seven of them when they started to complain about their situation. Neighbors described the man as, until just recently, "very nice, but quiet and reserved." He was in his mid thirties and had no known family or friends.
The last person he kidnaped, a woman, escaped and ran to the police. She relayed that he said that he wouldn't kill her if she kept him company.
Strangely, the story sounded familiar, but when they went to the weather, I shook my head, hoped they found him, and then never gave it a second thought for the rest of the day.
The next day, however, was when my problem really started. I was eating my breakfast of scrambled eggs entwined with ketchup, Canadian bacon, white bread toast with strawberry jelly, and coffee, while reading the newspaper. I saw the front page and I was immediately engrossed. It was a followup report on the murderer. The police were in hot pursuit. They found an abandoned camp that he had left only a few hours before the discovery. The man's name was Blake Buick. He was thirty-eight and had no living relatives.
"The only thing that was found at the site that could hold any use was this book..." The article read.
I almost drowned in the sip of coffee I had just drank. Coughing and hacking it back up, I read, through tear glazed eyes, the title of the work that was found at the camp site. I knew that looked familiar! The title read, "Culprit Company". That is my book!
So far, the killer has the same basic history as my main character and has followed all the major parts of the book in chronological order. My character was a lonely man who had no family and no friends. One day, he couldn't take the solitude anymore and kidnaped someone. Then, the man started to complain about the ropes being tight and him wanting to be freed. He was killed.
Six victims followed. He cleaned the bodies and threw them in the garbage can. They were picked up by the trash collectors and no one ever knew the black leaf bags were filled with such.
The eighth victim was smart, though. She talked to him. She gave him advice and earned his trust. Therefore, he felt bad and made it so she could get away. He was out on the lamb before she even discovered her means of escape.
He was eventually caught because he got lonely and tried to kidnap someone while he was on the run. The girl he was trying to abduct was an undercover agent who was striking conversations with random men who looked lonely.
I called the police.
"Hello? My name is Sham De Swamp and I would like to talk to the station in charge of the Blake Buick case. I have information."
"I will put you through." Said the operator.
"Thank you." I was then directed to the station across town and was put through to a young sounding detective. After telling him who I was and how I could help, he was eager to meet me for lunch at a café.
A little unnerved, I forced down the rest of my breakfast and went to my desk to work. I was able to occupy myself until lunch, then met the man at the restaurant.
I was right about him being a young man. He was sort of plain looking. He had only had one feature that really stood out. His eyes. Like his hair, his eyes were brown, but they sparkled and almost laughed. They danced around inside his head gleefully, giving the indication that he really enjoyed life.
His nose, lips, and teeth were nothing to get excited about and his attire wasn't outlandish by any means. He was dressed in a casual brown suit with a white t-shirt and a black belt which his badge was attached. His holster was faintly visible, peeking out from behind his jacket and his shoes were one hundred year-old brown loafers "Hello." I said, expending my hand.
"Hi. I'm so glad you could make it Mr. De Swamp."
"Sham.- And you are..."
"Seth." He answered clutching my hand.
"Hello, Seth." I smiled.
We didn't say much until we were seated and had ordered our beverages.
"Now, what do you think he is going to do next?" Seth asked, sipping his iced tea.
"Well, in the book, after he leaves the campsite, he runs for a while, then sets up another one. That's when he makes his mistake, which I point out in the book. He gets lonely."
"So he will strike again while on the lamb?"
"Well, that's what my character did, but he doesn't have the book anymore. He might not be able to copy it."
"Or, he read it cover to cover and knows exactly what not to do." Seth offered.
"True." I nodded.
"Okay, let's say he still is following the book and he makes the same mistake. How was he caught?"
"There was an undercover agent starting conversations with lonely looking men that matched his description around the area that they thought he was. She, in the book it was a woman, would ask questions that would invoke a need to talk. Then, she would slowly get to know him a little better. Eventually, he tried to take her with him and he was arrested." I shrugged. "But we have no way of knowing that he will follow the book to a tee."
"He already has."
"He might change his mind."
Seth gave a considerate shrug just as his phone rang. "Hello?" After a moment he said, "Yea?-What?" After lending an ear for a short time, he said, "Be right there." He clicked off and looked at me. "Great news, they found another campsite with his DNA plastered all over it. It was just abandoned. Did that happen in the story?" He flagged the waitress.
Shocked that Buick was still using the book as a guide I stuttered, "Yes. There were two campsites!"
"Good. He's sticking to the format. This should be a synch." When the obese, short, little server with a colossal black mole on her upper lip that had two stray hairs protruding out of it, waddled over, he said, "Tell the cook to cancel my order, I have to run." He handed her a twenty. "Tip, drinks, and your number."
She giggled exposing missing teeth.
He smirked, then quickly looked back at me. "Sorry, I gotta go. You're welcome to come along if..."
I shook my head. "No thanks."
He shrugged. "Okay. Hey, can I have a number just in case there's a development. I want to keep you posted."
I wrote my cell number on a napkin and handed it over to him.
As he left, the waitress said, "Is he a cop?"
"Yea."
"Are you?"
"Uh, no, I'm a writer."
"A writer, huh?"
Her voice was low and sounded like a voice that was about to ask for my number, so I said "Uh, you know what, cancel my order too."
She smiled. "Will do, Mr. Writer."
I got out of there as fast as I possibly could.
"Hello?" I answered my phone at around twelve that night.
"We got him!" Seth yelled excitedly. "Thanks to you, we got him!"
"How?" I asked.
"It worked just like you said it would...sort of. He tried to learn from your character's mistakes, but it didn't quite work. We sent in a wired undercover agent, a girl, and she started to talk to men who were alone. He was sitting on a bench when our agent found him." So was my character. I thought as he continued. "She just said 'hi' and he went ballistic. If he wasn't already booked for murder, we would have probably arrested him for freaking out everyone around him. He was screaming, 'Now people want to talk to me! I know who you are. You are going to arrest me. You're undercover.' Man, it was really weird!"
"Glad I was able to help."
"Yea. Thanks for coming forward."
"No problem."
We both hung up. "Glad that's over!" Was the last thing I remember grumbling before I drifted off to sleep.
"Hello?" I grumbled.
"Good morning." Godfrey Gold said almost cheerfully. "I just wanted to inform you that I have received your manuscript."
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I replied, still groggy. "Great! Gold, what time is it?"
"Ten. You are late for work."
"What work? I have the day off. I have writer's block."
"When was this decided?"
"Just now."
He chuckled. "I heard about that criminal making your book a reality. That must have horrified you."
"It really made me wonder."
"Most assured. It would be odd if you were not a tad disturbed."
"Yea. Hey, Godfrey, can I call you back after I've had my coffee? I'm not exactly coherent at the moment."
"Oh, there is no need. I will be sure to give you a ring when I have finished the manuscript."
"Sure." I hung up and fell back asleep.
Months trailed past me. Within that time Seth and I became very good friends, another one of my children went off into the world, becoming extremely successful, and I reproduced. This new work was about three and a half, when the second event that led up to my felony commenced.
"Seth, I'm working. What is it?" I spat irritably.
"A, have you even left that chair to pee, and b, do you have your tv on?"
"Yes and no."
"That's good and get it on!"
"Seth, I'm working!" I repeated hotly.
"Hurry up, there is something you've gotta see. It happened again."
"What?" I asked. "Get too drunk and get your debut on channel nine in a way you didn't...?"
"Dude, I'm not joking! It has to do with your work!"
"What?" I demanded.
"Channel nine, now!"
"Alright, alright!" I went to my television and did as Seth ordered.
"There is a murderer on the loose tonight in the small town of Franklin Ohio. Four young women, Amy Yam, Samantha Mar, Pamela Poe, and Garth Gate were all shot in the face in their homes early this morning. All four girls attended the same high school and they were all in the same graduating class..." The news-anchor spoke.
"Well?" Seth asked.
"Well, what?" I replied.
"Isn't that the basic story plot of your newest short story?"
"Yea? So?"
"And wasn't it published in a book geared toward young people?"
"Yea. And?"
"And so, it follows your story exactly! Small town, four pretty girls, they had their pictures cast earlier this morning, and a bullet in the face. Remember I questioned that and you said it was..."
I finished for him. "Because she wanted to destroy their beauty, I know! But they all could have killed themselves as some sick cult thing, you don't know! I will refuse to believe that my story is being used unless there is rock solid evidence."
"A girl by the name of Allegra Aline bought the book at a local bookstore two days before. She goes to the same high school as the victims and is in the same grade!"
"That means nothing!" I spat, ignoring the eery similarity. "I'm sure it has no correlation!"
"I hope so, but just be on your toes."
"That was a one time deal! I have more pressing business to attend to." I clicked off.
Seth's disturbing news bothered me all that day and into the next. Then, those days added up to a week. Within that time, dreadful thoughts clouded my mind and I could not write. I could not produce a story. I was angry at the allegation against my babies and that made me leery about bringing up another one. I couldn't think clearly and started to doubt the talent that has guided me all my life.
I even thought of retiring. A thought that was even more morbid then prolonged doubtfulness and tantalizing writers block that was of a strange sort. I had plenty to say, but my mind second-guessed the words I put on the paper. For at one time I was sure that what I wrote was what my audience would read, I was now forced into wonderment. This had never happened before. How dare they blame my babies! They had nothing to do with it! I felt as though every murder I wrote inside my story, meant its condemning outside of it. The guilt behind that thought was heavy and bore down on my mind, leaving no room for creativity.
This agonizing torture continued until Saturday when Seth rang my doorbell.
I didn't mind, nor enjoy the thought of his company, but let him in anyway.
"Beer?" He asked, ushering to two six-packs in his hands.
"I suppose." I answered as he let himself in. "Come in! Make yourself at home." I said smartly.
"Don't mind if I do." He replied, setting the beverages on the coffee table and crashing on my couch. He looked back at me and said, "Man, you look horrible!"
"Thanks, Seth, you look great too."
"Here." He said, cracking open a fresh bottle. "You look like you need this more then I do."
"Thanks." I said, tipping the bottle to him and then taking a large slug from it. The brew was like nothing any depression medicine could be. Medicine forces you to be happy when your soul and your heart is still opposing the idea. Getting drunk, well that flows with your mood, not helping it any until your judgement is so numb you can't feel so bad about a your problems. Or, you act upon it. Now, in this case, being totally and utterly ossified may break my writers block and I may sober up tomorrow with a great piece of work fresh out of my printer...but I doubt it.
"So, why do you look like your about to commit one of your own crimes?" He asked, opening a bottle of his own.
"I've got really bad writers block."
"Oh." He said awkwardly. "I have no idea what that feels like, but I'm sure I should pretend I do."
I shook my head. "Nah, but if you want to try, it's sort of like...if you're on a case and you have no idea what the criminal has in mind. You know that type of frustration?"
"Oh, yea. You better believe it."
"Well, that's kind of what writers block is for me. You have absolutely no idea where the story should go."
Seth shrugged, "Really? But I mean, it's your story. You can do anything you want with it."
"No." I stated, shaking my head, beer sloshing around my mouth. "Not when it starts developing. I can't be in the middle of a love scene and have random alien come and beam the girl into their mother ship."
"Sure you could! I'd read it." He eyed me. "How deep a love scene?"
I rolled my eyes at his thickness and immaturity. "Not if it doesn't pertain to the plot! You can't suddenly, for no rhyme or reason throw some random thing in there that makes no sense whatsoever just because you are feeling daring. Writing doesn't work like that."
He just stared at me.
"If you are fully immersed in your story, it comes to life and you are soon more of a storyteller then a story writer. The story kind of makes it's self up after a while and your job is to help your characters bring the story to life. When you get writer's block, your characters aren't really sure what will happen next and neither are you. That is when you must, catch up, I suppose, with your own story. Then, in time, your character will see something in your world, or through your brain will formulate something. Then, you are caught up and you continue to tell your story. The characters are the ones who make up the tale, all the writer has to do is listen, tie a few loose ends, and write it down so others can enjoy." He still looked more lost then a penguin in the Sahara. "Understand?"
He took a slug from the bottle and then replied, "Perfectly."
I smirked. "Sure." Then took a gulp of my drink. By this time, I was halfway through my second. 'Yes, Sham.' I thought, 'Tonight I think you are going to get drunk.'
About an hour later, we both were slumped in our seats and had a slur as heavy as bricks.
"Hey, Buddy...I come ta tell ya summum, but uh, ya can't get mad. Iet?" Seth slurred.
"What is it? Nuttons gonna up-set me! I'm as giddy as a school girl...Weeeeeeeeee!" I threw myself back and spread my arms out with a big grin on my face.
We both broke into loud, drunken laughter.
After a long, hard laugh, Seth took a deep breath and said, "No, really, lis...Sham listen! Is got the report today..."
"What one?"
"The one...ya know...the one...Aw, there ya go makin' me think again!" He cursed me. "The murderer, lady."
"Oh, yea! That Liza girl? Ya know she's messed me up real bad? I can't even write cause of that little brat. I think I'm killin summon! Anyways what'd ya hear?"
"She did it and got the idea from your book-story thing." Despite the intoxication, Seth looked pretty serious.
For sake of massive alcohol intake, the news couldn't sink in to far without drowning, so I was able to take it lightly. I swore jokingly and said "That little plagiarizer! I should kill her! See how she likes it!" I laughed.
"Copied your story to a tee! And let me tell ya, she wasn't too pretty either."
Gulping down the last of my fifth drink I grumbled, "They never are!"
Chuckling, Seth said, "I'll drink to that, Dude-Bro-man, person!-Who are you?"
Howling with laughter at his dumbstruck face, we attempted to fulfil the toast. We spilt half the beverages on the carpet. We both swore unmercifully over the loss of the liquid.
After we got over it, I lay back on the couch. "And Man, I don't know how I'm gonna end this new story." I looked over at him. "You know those little char-peoples inside my head?" I pointed at my head. "Right around here somewhere? The ones that make up the stories?"
"Yea?"
"They'd better get a move on. They ain't worken quite well."
"The'll work, Sham. Jus give em time to and they will weave the wonders of your..." His drunken state searched for words. "Aw, forget it! They'll do what you need em to! Give em time!"
I closed my eyes. "Yea. Soon they'll do whatever they do...I hope."
That was the last thing I remember.
Like thunder, the pain boomed on my forehead. It thumped against my brain and split around it.
I groaned and brought my hand up to my head.
"Good morning Sunshine." Seth said, shoving a cup of some strange looking...liquid I suppose, into my hand.
I glared at it with an expression as odd as the liquid itself. It was dyed a puke green and plumb purple swirl color and was thicker then the earth's mantle.
"Drink up!" Seth encouraged. "You want that headache to go away, don't you?" He had removed his suit-jacket and his gun holster, leaving only the thin white t-shirt underneath
"Depends on what it is."
"What? That?" He pointed to the drink.
"No, what material your shirt is made out of! Of course this!"
"Uh, I'll tell you later."
"Somehow, I feel much safer with good, old, labeled, Tylenol." I handed the cup back to him.
Taking it back from me, he shrugged. "Suite yourself, but doesn't that stuff ruin your liver?"
"Well, that stuff will eat your liver!"
"It's good for you, all organic." He reared his head back and threw the glass back, letting the stuff fall, all in a clump, down his throat.
Making a disgusted face, as though he had just took in toilet water-no, sewer water, he swallowed.
"Seth?" I said after an awkward silence.
"Sham." He mocked, sitting down next to me.
I eyed him. "Did...Did they find the killer?"
For once, he saw his young friend's eyes harden in seriousness. "Yea. They did."
"Was it...?"
"Yea, it was."
I swore. "Did she follow the book entirely."
"She was a perfect character. She found there was no other way. They found her body behind a beauty shop, just like in the book."
Swearing again, I buried my head in my hands.
"Hey, it's okay! You didn't kill her! Or any of them!"
"No, but I put the idea in their heads! That's almost as good."
"Yea, but you didn't do it intentionally! You wrote a book! They took it upon themselves to..."
"Yea, I wrote the book! Okay, if your superior told you and a few others to pull off an extensive drug bust and someone on your team got killed, who would you blame?"
"Nobody...I don't know, whoever messed up. Me, maybe, or someone in my team...That's to fuzzy."
"No, you'd blame your superior! The one who put the order in your head!"
"That's not true! No one is going to blame you for the deaths of those people! You didn't do anything! That would be like suing a store because of your inability to cook the food you bought there and got sick!"
"But people will want someone to blame, and there is only one common factor-which is me! How do you defend that?"
He sighed deeply saying thickly, "You don't." Then assured quickly, "Because I see no grounds that you will need protecting! Might I remind you once again, you didn't do anything illegal! You are a writer, you obviously write for a living..." He spread his hands out in attempt to fill in the blanks.
I didn't reply.
Seth looked around. "Well, uh, I gotta go to work. Boss'll shoot me if I call in slurrin my words again. He don't like me much anyway. He'd take any excuse to shoot me." He moved to get up. "Take the day off. Sleep. Take your phone off the hook so no one disturbs you. You need it. Call it..taking a mental health day."
"If you hear anything..."
"You'll know." He nodded, then went for his holster.
My 'mental health day' was more of a 'testing my mental health day'.
First off, I didn't take the Seth's advice about taking the phone off the hook and I probably should have.
Because it rang.
I rolled over and put the receiver to my ear. "Hello?" I grumbled.
"Swamp, why are you still in bed? Are you ill?"
"Sorta." I answered, putting my hand to my pounding head.
"What is wrong?"
"I just had a little to much to drink. I got a hangover!"
"A hangover? Who were you with?"
"My friend, Seth. What's it to you?"
"Well, he is no good! He is interrupting your work and I want my story!"
"Your story?"
After a quick stutter, he said, "Just...get out of bed and go to work. I want it in the mail by tomorrow!"
I sat up in bed. "Tomorrow? Gold, I got writers block and a headache like you wouldn't believe! Unless you want all the characters to be slurring their words, you'll reconsider."
"I don't care if they are all arrested for a DWI at the end of the story, I want it in the mail tomorrow!"
"Then write it yourself! I'm mentally incapable!" I slammed the phone down, rolled over and went back to sleep.
About an hour later, the phone rang again. I rolled over and picked it up. "Hello?"
"Mr. Sham De Swamp?"
"Who's calling please?"
"This is the Daygirl Police Department."A man answered in a gruff voice. The tone used when talking to a suspect.
That's Seth's department, but it isn't Seth. I thought. "Yes. What is it?"
"Could you come down here, we have reason to question you."
"On what grounds?"
"Your stories."
I silently swore. "Alright. When do you want me there?"
"Is an hour enough time?"
"I suppose."
"Thank you. We appreciate it."
"No problem." I hung up and flopped out of bed. I figured I would take a shower, get high on extra strength aspirin, and then I should be good to go.
On my way out the door, I called Seth and told him what had happened.
"What? Why would they want to question you? You didn't break the law, did you?"
"No!" I yelled. "Seth!"
"Sorry, just making sure. You want me to come?"
"Where? To the station? Can you?"
"Nobody's done anything illegal yet today. I guess I could stop by."
"If you want."
"Okay, I will."
I walked in and was immediately directed to a room at the back of the station. It couldn't have been an interrogation room. It was to comfy. There were three leather chairs and a matching couch in the middle of the small room. There was a desk in the far corner, garmented with a computer monitor, a stapler, a tape dispenser and a few picture frames that faced the brown upholstered, rolling chair.
There was no one there to direct me further, so I took a seat on the couch.
Moments later, a man, wearing a chocolate suite and black dress shoes came in. His eyes were a piercing blue and his skin was reddened by sun, magnifying the deep lines in his face. His hair was all white and combed back. "Mr. Swamp!" He addressed me with a superficial smile, exposing white teeth behind thin lips.
I got to my feet. "Hello." I replied, putting out my hand.
Taking the offer, he said, "I am Chief Travis, how are you?"
"Alright, all things considering." I lied. All things considering, I was a walking, talking wreck! "And you?"
"Fine. Just fine." He motioned to the seat I had previously taken. "Please, sit."
"Thank you." I took his offer while he sank into the chair across from me.
"No, thank you, for coming to us on such short notice."
"Anything to help."
"Strange case, isn't it?"
"Excuse me, Chief, but I was under the impression you had some questions for me."
Clearing his throat, the cop said, "Yes. I do. Um, when were the books published?"
"Uh, the first one was published in the summer of ninety-one and the other was my newest. It was on bookshelves this August." I replied thoughtfully.
Chief Travis nodded. "Do you plan to write another story?"
"I plan to write many more." I answered truthfully.
Again, the officer nodded. "Are you currently writing a story?"
"Sort of." I answered. "I am kind of in a mental block at the moment, but I have a new outline, if that's what you are asking."
"I am asking if you plan to publish again in the near future."
"Yes. I do."
"Mr. Swamp, if you were to quit your occupation, would you have enough money to retire?"
"Why is that relevant?" I asked, a little unnerved.
"Please answer the question, Mr. Swamp."
"Yes. I could. Why do you ask?"
"Well..." The amplified lines in his forehead wrinkled. "We think it would be best if you..." he inhaled deeply and released it slowly, "stopped writing the stories."
The blow was as though the world had spun off it's axis and stopped. "Excuse me?" I managed to utter.
"I'm sorry. It would be a lot easier if..."
"You destroyed the source."
Reluctantly, he nodded. "Now the government will pay..."
"I don't want your money! I want to earn it! I am capable of working, therefore I am inclined to do so!"
"Not at the expense of others!"
"Have I done anything illegal?"
"You are indirectly..."
"Have I done anything illegal?" I demanded thickly.
My question stopped him in his probably previously rehearsed tracks. "No. You haven't, but..."
"Exactly. I am totally within my rights. I am an entertainer!"
"Well, you're entertaining thoughts that the public, your public, will not like. You will loose money!"
"But I can't stop writing!" I retorted forcefully, backed by the passion I held for the subject.
"I just said you should stop publishing. You can write all you want." He spread out his arms.
That would be like ending my child's life before it had a chance to blossom. I thought. "I can't do that." I replied honestly, shaking my head.
"You are going to have to find a way."
I glared at the policeman for a long moment. Finally, I asked, "Are we through?"
The older man nodded once. "Yes."
I got up and walked out.
Seth was leaned against the wall outside the room. "Hey Sham how..."
"Leave me alone, Seth." I hissed, brushing passed him
He came back around to face me. "What happened in there?"
"I can't write." I answered simply, attempting to push passed him again. He stopped me completely.
"What? This upset about a little writers block? It'll pass! It always does!"
I shook my head. "No, Seth. Legally, I can't write!"
He gave me an odd look. "What?"
"Apparently, I 'entertain thoughts in criminals' mind' and the law thinks my stories are promoting murder."
"So, they told you to stop writing?" He asked.
"No, I can't publish." I corrected, then hung my head. "But it's just the same."
"They can't do that!" Seth declared. "That's illegal."
I sighed. "Apparently, they can. Because they just did."
He started toward the building."Where's the guy who told you that? I gotta go talk to..."
I caught his arm. "No! Seth!"
He looked back at me for a reason.
"No offence, but you'll probably make it worse."
"No I won't. I'm just gonna talk to him..."
"I'll figure something out."
"No! That's not right! You can't just take someone's job because of..."
"I know, but...there's nothing we can do. You can't say anything that will change their mind."
"If I remind them that what they are doing is an unlawful way of handling a situation, they might..."
"They know it's unlawful, Seth. It's okay. I appreciate it, but...don't get involved."
He didn't reply and I was allowed to push past him. I got out of the police station, got in my car, and drove home. I really don't remember the drive though, for I had entered the world I created. At times, this world could be one thousand times worse then the world of my physical being, but it is always kind to me. No matter how bad it gets, I know I have the power to either make it worse, keep it going at the same pace, or patch it up. I don't exactly have to be writing to gain entry into this world, but I do have to be thinking about a story of mine. Sometimes, I slip into this world when my physical form is at a place that it has no desire to be, other times, I slip into this world to escape the boundaries, impossibilities, or hardships of our existence. This is a world that enables me to become whomever and go wherever my heart desires. In this place, I am no longer Sham De Swamp. In fact, he is an alien. If I want something, I simply take it. If I want to imprison someone, there is no one who will stop me. My world is my life.
I could not bear the thought of having to abandon it. I would in turn abandon myself. Those who enter into my world, through my books and stories, know me best. I would prefer to die, then to give up my soul; However, I am not exactly inclined to pass either.
These thoughts encircled my mind long after I pulled my car in to the garage and bid it goodnight. My pondering did not cease when I gazed around my brightly furnished home and bitterly thought about how I am being forced to forsake the children that have provided me with such glorious riches, and allowed me to lavish in their royalties. How terrible am I?
A ringing telephone severed me from my thoughts.
"What?" I said into the receiver.
"What is wrong with you?" Godfrey Gold asked in his monotone voice.
"Uh, Gold, I can't write anymore, so enjoy..."
"What? Are you drunk?"
"Not yet."
"What is this nonsense?" He demanded.
"It's not nonsense, Gold. It's FBI ordered. It's because of the people copying my book. They say my books and stories are 'entertaining thoughts of criminals.'"
His voice was now angry. Which was a first. "Sham De Swamp, I do not care what the police, the SWAT team, Marines, CIA , or even the President has to say about you writing stories!" He was now yelling. "You are to get me a manuscript within the month, a month, De Swamp, or you will pay! Want to become a victim to your own piece?"
"No." I answered lamely.
"Then, you are to get some story to me within the month!"
"Okay, Gold. Calm down."
He slammed the phone down.
Unfazed by Gold's threat, I sat down in my chair and slid back into my grave thoughts.
Then, following my retirement for the night, I had a thought. A very elating thought. If I am to eradicate a world as lovely as this, it deserves a finale of the grandest sort. The only proper adieu, I decided, was to give my world the best gift I could. I am going to make my world come alive for others. I, as Sham De Swamp, am going to bring it off the page. I am going to let eyes see it, ears hear it, noses smell it, and all of the Earth feel it without me having to write a word!
Unable to settle myself enough to sleep, I thrashed out of my bed and started to pace other chambers of my home. I have done this a trillion times while suffering from writer's block or when I have been excited by a foddered idea and I am looking to expand upon it.
That night, I had more then an idea, had an absolute epiphany! I was almost totally and utterly consumed in the thoughts of my world and my plot. I was so entwined in my visit, I was barely aware of there was even another world besides my own. In fact, my children were almost tangible to me, for the first time.
Once I had my outline, I was ready to write. And I did. I typed late into the dawn of day. I was stuck to my computer chair until the sun fell the next day. Finally, I was at the climax of my story.
Now was the time to join both of the worlds, which I am a resident to. But first, I have to visit the lavatory...
My heart pounded with the excitement of the night and the thought that was steadfast in the back of my mind and pounded in my brain. This pounding sensation formed the pulse of my excitement. The pulse boomed throughout my body, making it shiver merrily and shook the nervous knot that formed in the pit of my stomach laughingly, making me want to scream aloud in giddy, somewhat crazed pleasure.
The wine bottle I gripped in my hand was cheap, but had an excellent taste after I forced the first half down my throat. Until then, it tasted like vinegar, but at this point in the bottle, I was to drunk to care what the taste was like. All I wanted was the numbness that came with being ossified. I wanted to be almost unaware of what I was about to do, but not oblivious to what I was doing. The wine loosed me up and made me feel good. I was exasperated at the world, however my animosity was the perfect fuel. "Make me give up my job, will ya? Ha!" I slurred and swayed into a nearby wall, as though it was a good friend with which I was sharing an inside joke. Then, finding the thought exceptionally funny, I laughed harder. I swivelled around on my heels, roaring with drunken humor, ending my unbalanced pivot with my back against the wall. As I caught my breath and slowly brought my laughter to a close, my head rolled up towards the sky and I swore the people who are making me do this terrible thing. However I need to do it. There was no other way.
I had recently figured out that I am my personality! I am the killer I modeled my story after. They want to blame my children? The least they could do is go about it in the right way! Blame the persona that brought on the murders. That is how it always works. The persona with the motive. If it answers why, then that disposition is usually the one who would act the worst in that situation; in that plot. In this case, it was my own. Sham De Swamp. I would probably be caught, but is that not that how it always goes? The alleged perpetrator being caught is the ending that pleases the people and I want my children to please the people!
I fingered the gun in my coat pocket. Like a woman's touch, the sleekness of the gun's body soothed me. The power of steel the gun's shell was bred from made me feel herculean and the lethality of the weapon inspired me.
My drunken eye caught sight of the first target on my murderous rout. My lips curled into a sneer and I pulled the black nylon sock over my head. After it was secured, I gripped the Colt.45 semiautomatic that was going to avenge my child's murder if it was the last thing I was to do.
I came up on the house as night fell. I checked the lock. As I expected, it was bolted tight. I broke the empty wine bottle and picked the lock with a sliver of glass. I slipped inside. The room was dark. I crept up the stares. I peered around the second story. Everything was still except for a blaring blue lumination and muffled voices coming from the crack in the door jam of last door on the right. I slunk over to it and peered in. The target sat on his bed, watching television.
The excitement within me heightened. I was nervous, but in the best possible way. "One...Two..." My uneven voice hissed. "Three!" I slammed my shoulder into the door, hopped into the room, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He didn't even have time to yell. Thus, I was dissatisfied. I wanted him to scream in fear as my child shrieks in anger within my head.
I must learn from my mistake. Like my own child, I must grow with every dawning instinct I feel.
"Sham! Sham, where are you?" Seth yelled, walking into the opened front door. Seth could not help noting that the house had an eerie warmth blanketing it. It was the type of feeling that Seth remembers his mother giving him when she defended him against a higher authority and won. The missing occupant of the house looked as though he had left in a hurry. The front door being opened, the lights on, and, when he checked the bedroom, the upturned sheets and tousled pillow. There had not been a struggle or anything. It was obvious Sham left at his own accord, but he was always so neat! It was so odd for him to have left the house in the middle of living in it. If he were to have left, he would have at least made up his bed. It seemed odd, but he did not think much of it until he wandered into Sham's office and saw his blaring computer screen. It looked like a clue. There were words on the screen. He knew he should not read, but Seth was worried and he couldn't just ignore his only clue.
Seth scrolled up to the top and his eyes scanned over the screen. Seth was shocked at what he read. When he got to the climax of the story, he swore and tore away from the monitor. He ran out of the house. Thanks to his sort of illegal investigating, he thought he knew where Sham was and if his fears were justifiable, Sham was in great danger!
My next victim was uneventful. Again, I had panicked and shot before I had wanted to. Oh, well. I thought as my eyes skimmed the house of my next, probably most deserving victim. This one, I had previously decided, was going to know exactly who his murderer was. I had not prepared a monologue, however, my expiation was based on this man knowing exactly why he was going to die.
My phone rang. It was Seth. "Hello?"
"Where are you?" He demanded.
"A bar! Leave me alone!"
"Are you really?" He asked. "Which one?"
"The one I always go to."
"Stay there! I want to buy you a drink."
"Thanks, but I was just about to leave." I hung up.
Chief Travis's house was like any other on the block. White, black shutters, and pale colored door with a lock that was easier to opened then a jar of peanut butter. I slipped inside and hugged the gun close to my chest. I crept past the stairwell and into the kitchen. The man was making a sandwich and he appeared to be alone. I glanced around then went for the kill. I was behind the man, with the Colt .45's barrel digging into the man's temple. "Hello." I spoke first, my voice bleeding of animosity.
The man tensed under my hand, but spoke oddly and earnestly calm. "Who...?"
"Sham De Swamp."
"Why...?"
"To kill you."
"What...?"
"An eye for an eye, if I might be cliche for a moment. You killed me. I think it only fair to return the favor. People might follow my example and...we can't have that now, can we?"
Quickly, the man pulled out a steak knife from the cutting board in front of him and lashed around, striking with much accuracy. I ducked a moment before it was to slash into my throat. I went to aim as he took another jab, barely missing my stomach. I shot, but he went for my hand. The bullet missed him and he pushed my hand up into the air, then swung down with his knife. I caught his wrist and shoved it back at him. He retreated and I aimed.
"No! Please." Travis said, raising his hands in surrender.
"Relinquish your knife!" I ordered, throwing my hand out toward him.
He stabbed at my palm and I shot him.
Clutching his shoulder, the man whined, dropped the knife, and staggered back into his counter.
I laughed. "Hurt?" I kicked the knife away. "I bet not as much as I do."
I raised the gun to the man's head and just as I was about to shoot, but someone bursted in and screamed, "Sham! Stop!"
Travis and I both froze. I recovered first. "Sit down!" I snapped.
He sat, his back against the cabinets.
"Sham! What are you doing?" Seth demanded, walking through the doorway.
"Getting my revenge. Leave me alone!" I shouted.
"No! Sham! Listen to me! You can't kill him! You've gotta calm down. Please, put the gun down." He motioned his order as well as voicing it.
"No! I will not put the gun down until he is dead!" I turned and shot.
Seth jumped at me, but was to late. I threw him off me and pointed the gun at him.
Seth raised his hands and started breathing heavy. "No. Don't." He shook his head and his eyes got wide.
"Leave me! I have business to attend to and you are in my way. I do not wish to kill you, Seth, but if you interrupt the vendetta I have against the people who slaughtered my children, you will die."
"Is this what this is about?" Seth asked, advancing toward me. "There are other ways to..."
I hardened my grip on the gun. "Seth!" I screamed, shaking with anger.
"I can't let you go, Sham."
"Then you are no friend of mine." I shot and he jumped out of the way. I ran past him, but he leaped at my leg. He tripped me. I turned to see he had the knife. He raised it up and I threw the gun at him. That knocked the knife from his hand, but he recovered the gun and tackled me to the ground. He shoved the barrel into my throat.
No one spoke. The only sounds to be heard throughout the eerily silent house was our heavy breathing.
Then, a thought came to my head that brought a plan of escape wrapped in a bow. My personality! I thought revealingly with a sigh as I looked up at the man with a gun to my throat.
The plan and end of my story began with the arrival of the police.
"Help! Help me!" I screamed. "He's trying to kill me!" I let the hate I held be turned into tears, forcing them to stream down my face, like a spoiled child plotting to get a toy.
"Huh?" Seth said startled and, just as the police came in, raised his hands and dropped the gun.
I crawled out from under him and found 'safety' in the shield of the policeman. "He's crazy!"
"Who killed this man?" One of the officers demanded.
"He did!" Seth and I answered, pointing at one another.
Seth glared at me and his jaw dropped opened. "No! I didn't...But he...That's... Sham!"
Entirely confused, the police arrested both of us. So much was to be expected.
I got one phone call.
"Yea, Gold! You'll never believe what happened! Guess where I am?"
"Your story is not in my hand! I am not happy, Sham. Not happy at all!"
"Yes, well, I have a very good reason for that! I am in jail."
"You are what?"
"Arrested. I need...help."
"An alibi?"
"Yes! Thank you so much!"
"I do not get my story, Sham and..."
"Oh, don't worry! You will! I promise!"
"You will deliver!"
"I will." I insisted. That was the one part of my escape negotiating I was not worried about.
"Alright. If anyone asks, I was in the area last evening and stopped by your house for a business chat and an alcoholic beverage."
"But you don't..."
"I do as of now!" He boomed.
"Okay."
"Oh, and please stop by, get your finished product, then erase it from my computer. Save it to yours. There are CDs in the drawer."
"You had better be grateful." Gold growled.
"Immensely!" I answered.
"Good."
"He killed him. I saw him do it! I tried to stop him, but...I couldn't get there in time." I confessed.
"And where were you at the time of the homicide?" An unnamed officer asked. His hands were clasped behind his back and he paced the length of the table in front of me.
"I was with my publisher. He stopped over."
"Why? Isn't true that this department forbid you to publish your books? In fact, wasn't the victim the one to rely that crushing message to you?"
I looked down at the table. "Yes, Officer he was. However, my publisher and I have been friends for years. He stopped over to discuss this department's verdict, Sir. He didn't quite understand, so he came over to talk and get the entire story."
"Is it not true, that you were very upset when you left the department yesterday."
I looked him square in the eye and said honestly, "Oh, I was devastated."
"So, why did you go to Chief Travis's house?"
"Oh, well, Seth had called me in hysterics. He had snapped and I knew it. I asked him where he was and he said he was at a bar. I told him to stay there, but he said he was just leaving, then hung up. I hurriedly left my house, dismissing my publisher, and I went to Seth's home. He wasn't there. So, I looked up the Chief. Why I had a premonition that Seth was about to or had already done something terrible, I don't know, but I did. I ran to the Chief's house and found Seth's car." I shook my head and buried it in my hands for affect. "When I got there," I said wetly, "Seth had already killed him. He told me to let him go and he would not shoot me, but I could not let him pass. So, he attacked me. If you had not come, he probably would have killed me."
The Officer nodded. "Uh, did he dislike his boss?"
I nodded. "Very much so."
This was true. The chief and a few officers had a personality conflict with Seth. He would always say they did not like him and he could not like them. They always gave him shoddy cases that no one else wanted and made it very difficult for him to conquer the assignments. However, Seth, being the kind man he was, would swallow it, because he loved being a policeman. Helping people gave him joy. Maybe if he was a little less patient and amicable, he wouldn't be in this position. His goodwill gave him a motive and I was going to take full advantage of it.
Also on my side was the Officer interrogating me. His name was Mitch. He was one of the one's who did not like Seth and I (Seth) had killed Mitch's friend, my first victim.
This could work. I decided.
Next thing I knew, it was court day. They had decided to try me first. If I was found innocent, they would have a trial for Seth, but that would really only be to decide his sentence.
I was happy with myself for repeating the exact same story I had in the interrogation room.
Now was the moment of truth. Sort of. I was about to either be indited or freed of all charges. They had presented all the evidence, which, really was not helpful to either one of us. They had both of our fingerprints on the gun, because it was Seth's, (he had left one of the two he had in his holster at my house. I supposed he had not had a chance to pick it up.) All the evidence they had, was almost obsolete because the only person who really knew, besides the two accused, was the victim.
Therefore, the verdict rested solely on which one of us told the most convincing story and who the judge thought had more liability.
The only problem with that, was the fact that the judge might want to save the department's reputation. However, I am famous. The media would have a field day if I was convicted. Hell, the media was already having a field day following the case. My book ratings on my books shot through the roof the day the story hit the papers. Go figure.
Knowing that, even if I was convicted, I would make more money in jail for murder in a week then Seth would in a year! Ha! That's ironic. I love this country.
The only real way I could lose, is if, for say, I was put on death row-which I could then plead insanity and maybe get off...Or, I could appeal it....
✳✳✳
Here we go. I thought, knowing that the rest of my life lay on one word.
I came back to the court room after the reflection as the judge boomed, "Innocent!"
I sighed, letting out my fated breath, and smiled. "Thank you."
I shook the hand of my lawyer and then went over to Godfrey Gold, who smiled. The beam looked misplaced on his face, but so did the behavior I know had prompted the smile.
We walked out, pushing past reporters and camera men without a word to one another. Once approaching Godfrey Gold's vehicle, I said, "Thank you, Gold."
"I could not acquire a story with my best author in jail, now could I?" He got in his '64 Mustang and started the ignition.
"Business, business, business! When are you going to relax, Godfrey?" I smiled, closing the door.
He started down the road. "When you stop killing people." He passed in a tone that stung.
"Seth killed him." I passed.
"Right and the lengths I went to get you cleansed of the sin were unneeded."
"What exactly did you do?"
"I am a very powerful, influential man, De Swamp. I do not reveal secrets like that. I got you out of trouble and that is all I am to say."
I looked away. "Did you get the story?"
"It is not finished."
"I didn't know the ending."
"Finish it."
"I'm going to need a..."
"Pen name? I thought that."
"Well?"
"Something catchy."
"I know."
Then, Gold and I drove in silence for a long time.
Fortunately, Seth was indited and got life for all three murders. I did not dwell on guilt. In fact, that worked out better. As he sat atop me, pinning me to the ground, ready to kill me, I had the revelation that he was my personality and I was laying on the floor of my plot!
Up until this epiphany I had quite conceitedly thought I was my personality, dwelling in my youngest child. No! It was Seth all along! I had to frame him, I always frame my personality. I meet them. They generously provide me with a plot and situation and I, like any good parent, play out the peril, assessing it before my child. Then, I will know how to write it. What could be more explicit, personal, and all around better, then actually feeling the character's stimulation and emotion, literally having the same thoughts the character will. Nothing! This way, the story is as tangible to me as to the character, thus, totally believable to the reader. This way, I can really bring the reader to the scene and take them step by step through my crime.
I do not think of myself as a killer. Killers are bad and belong in jail. I am simply researching and exploring my story to make it as real as humanly possible. That is not bad. That shows my devotion to my occupation; The devotion to my children!
True, it was not the smartest thing, to leave my book in the hiding place of my scapegoat, but I was feeling daring because I had gotten a tad to drunk. I never will do that again.-Hopefully.
That night, before I realized my mistaken personality, I was ready to give up my life for my children's revenge. Like every good-hearted story, the bad person was going to jail. All the minds of the world were going to be at ease. Sham De Swamp had snapped. He had become homicidal and had acted on it. He is now behind bars. We are safe. I was perfectly alright with that because then, I thought I was my personality and like any parent, if you mess with my children, you mess with me and, as I demonstrated, things will get ugly.
Thankfully, I realized the error before my child went to print. Hence, Seth, the bad man, is behind bars and I am free to continue my research.
I had the most important thing in my life back and if there were a few casualties...oh well. As long as my children were not hurt because of it, I was okay. My mind was at ease.
I will do it again, just as soon as I am back on my feet.
I never figured out what Godfrey Gold had done, but I presumed it had to do with money. He had enough of that to make up for his lack of personality. Regardless, we are still to this day, very tight friends.
-By, Boyde Black
Short story by Brielle Guesstell
Read 859 times
Written on 2007-06-29 at 19:24
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Entertaining Thoughts
"The court finds Sham De Swamp..." The judge paused before reading the verdict.My heart thudded around in my chest and my palms were sweaty. My career, my lifestyle, my life rested on the very next word that boomed out of a man I did not know. Sure, I have written about this dreaded moment many times, but no words, in any language, could derive even the minimal amount of fear, anger, aspiration, anticipation, and reflection present within this instant.
In that second, I reviewed everything that has happened to me in that instant.
It all started with the fruits if my labor. My babies, my children; My paper and my pen.
✳✳✳
I leaned back in my chair and examined the drying ink. I loved the elated feeling that bubbled in my stomach when I gazed down at a finished manuscript for the first time. The hard part was over.
See, I think of my works as my children. I love them as such and each piece is as special as a child. The first stage, the actual coming up with the plot and it's characters. I get my plot from people I meet. Personality, good and bad, is a jewel in my eyes. Situation and how different personas would handle said situation is an even pricier gem. The second and without a doubt most vital step in my child's life is physically writing the story, which is sort of like the first seven years of a child's development. My mother always said "If you raise a child right and are very strict with them for the first seven years, you will only have to take minor discipline action on them after that. Just to keep them on the up and up."
I figure if I am profoundly rigorous with the initial writing of a manuscript, my editors and I will only have to make minor corrections to it before it 'grows up' and I watch it dive into the world, so that all who read to be entertained.
I thought of this as I called my publisher.
"Hello?" Godfrey Gold answered in his business-like, monotone voice, that, when discussing business could drift even the fussiest baby into a deep sedateness. Godfrey is the type of man who feels misplaced in a t-shirt and jeans. The words 'comfortable attire' do not in any way shape or form fit correctly into his precise English lexicon.
His eyes are hard and as black as the dress-suit he wears constantly. Like a doctor at the grocery store without his coat, I believe it would be uncomfortably odd to see him without the suit and his plain black tie against a blank button-down shirt. His white frosted hair is trimmed sharply into a crude, business cut. His nose is interestingly large and hooked at the end. His lips are slim, while his shape is broad and tall. His teeth are pearly but his smile holds no emotion behind it. Black socks, belt, and shoes complete his newspaper picture appearance.
"Hello, Godfrey, my friend. As alive and chipper as ever this morning, aren't we?"
I could hear a smile in the older man's voice as he acquired more of a comfortable tone. "Oh, hello Sham! How are you this morning?"
"I am going to make you one very happy man."
"You finished the draft?"
"The ink is drying as we speak." I replied.
"That is fantastic."
"Hope you enjoy it."
"I always do." Without giving me much time to speak, he said, "Why are you still on the phone? Get that manuscript to the post!" He hung up.
After replacing the phone on the hook, I went to my desk. I gathered up the pages and scampered around trying to find an envelope to mail the story.
As I passed the television that, until my gaze had settled upon it, was playing for no one. The news happened to be on. A story about a murderer that was on the loose caught my eye as I picked up the parched wine bottle on my coffee table and moved to throw it in the recycling receptacle.
The man had allegedly kidnaped eight people and had killed seven of them when they started to complain about their situation. Neighbors described the man as, until just recently, "very nice, but quiet and reserved." He was in his mid thirties and had no known family or friends.
The last person he kidnaped, a woman, escaped and ran to the police. She relayed that he said that he wouldn't kill her if she kept him company.
Strangely, the story sounded familiar, but when they went to the weather, I shook my head, hoped they found him, and then never gave it a second thought for the rest of the day.
The next day, however, was when my problem really started. I was eating my breakfast of scrambled eggs entwined with ketchup, Canadian bacon, white bread toast with strawberry jelly, and coffee, while reading the newspaper. I saw the front page and I was immediately engrossed. It was a followup report on the murderer. The police were in hot pursuit. They found an abandoned camp that he had left only a few hours before the discovery. The man's name was Blake Buick. He was thirty-eight and had no living relatives.
"The only thing that was found at the site that could hold any use was this book..." The article read.
I almost drowned in the sip of coffee I had just drank. Coughing and hacking it back up, I read, through tear glazed eyes, the title of the work that was found at the camp site. I knew that looked familiar! The title read, "Culprit Company". That is my book!
So far, the killer has the same basic history as my main character and has followed all the major parts of the book in chronological order. My character was a lonely man who had no family and no friends. One day, he couldn't take the solitude anymore and kidnaped someone. Then, the man started to complain about the ropes being tight and him wanting to be freed. He was killed.
Six victims followed. He cleaned the bodies and threw them in the garbage can. They were picked up by the trash collectors and no one ever knew the black leaf bags were filled with such.
The eighth victim was smart, though. She talked to him. She gave him advice and earned his trust. Therefore, he felt bad and made it so she could get away. He was out on the lamb before she even discovered her means of escape.
He was eventually caught because he got lonely and tried to kidnap someone while he was on the run. The girl he was trying to abduct was an undercover agent who was striking conversations with random men who looked lonely.
I called the police.
"Hello? My name is Sham De Swamp and I would like to talk to the station in charge of the Blake Buick case. I have information."
"I will put you through." Said the operator.
"Thank you." I was then directed to the station across town and was put through to a young sounding detective. After telling him who I was and how I could help, he was eager to meet me for lunch at a café.
A little unnerved, I forced down the rest of my breakfast and went to my desk to work. I was able to occupy myself until lunch, then met the man at the restaurant.
I was right about him being a young man. He was sort of plain looking. He had only had one feature that really stood out. His eyes. Like his hair, his eyes were brown, but they sparkled and almost laughed. They danced around inside his head gleefully, giving the indication that he really enjoyed life.
His nose, lips, and teeth were nothing to get excited about and his attire wasn't outlandish by any means. He was dressed in a casual brown suit with a white t-shirt and a black belt which his badge was attached. His holster was faintly visible, peeking out from behind his jacket and his shoes were one hundred year-old brown loafers "Hello." I said, expending my hand.
"Hi. I'm so glad you could make it Mr. De Swamp."
"Sham.- And you are..."
"Seth." He answered clutching my hand.
"Hello, Seth." I smiled.
We didn't say much until we were seated and had ordered our beverages.
"Now, what do you think he is going to do next?" Seth asked, sipping his iced tea.
"Well, in the book, after he leaves the campsite, he runs for a while, then sets up another one. That's when he makes his mistake, which I point out in the book. He gets lonely."
"So he will strike again while on the lamb?"
"Well, that's what my character did, but he doesn't have the book anymore. He might not be able to copy it."
"Or, he read it cover to cover and knows exactly what not to do." Seth offered.
"True." I nodded.
"Okay, let's say he still is following the book and he makes the same mistake. How was he caught?"
"There was an undercover agent starting conversations with lonely looking men that matched his description around the area that they thought he was. She, in the book it was a woman, would ask questions that would invoke a need to talk. Then, she would slowly get to know him a little better. Eventually, he tried to take her with him and he was arrested." I shrugged. "But we have no way of knowing that he will follow the book to a tee."
"He already has."
"He might change his mind."
Seth gave a considerate shrug just as his phone rang. "Hello?" After a moment he said, "Yea?-What?" After lending an ear for a short time, he said, "Be right there." He clicked off and looked at me. "Great news, they found another campsite with his DNA plastered all over it. It was just abandoned. Did that happen in the story?" He flagged the waitress.
Shocked that Buick was still using the book as a guide I stuttered, "Yes. There were two campsites!"
"Good. He's sticking to the format. This should be a synch." When the obese, short, little server with a colossal black mole on her upper lip that had two stray hairs protruding out of it, waddled over, he said, "Tell the cook to cancel my order, I have to run." He handed her a twenty. "Tip, drinks, and your number."
She giggled exposing missing teeth.
He smirked, then quickly looked back at me. "Sorry, I gotta go. You're welcome to come along if..."
I shook my head. "No thanks."
He shrugged. "Okay. Hey, can I have a number just in case there's a development. I want to keep you posted."
I wrote my cell number on a napkin and handed it over to him.
As he left, the waitress said, "Is he a cop?"
"Yea."
"Are you?"
"Uh, no, I'm a writer."
"A writer, huh?"
Her voice was low and sounded like a voice that was about to ask for my number, so I said "Uh, you know what, cancel my order too."
She smiled. "Will do, Mr. Writer."
I got out of there as fast as I possibly could.
"Hello?" I answered my phone at around twelve that night.
"We got him!" Seth yelled excitedly. "Thanks to you, we got him!"
"How?" I asked.
"It worked just like you said it would...sort of. He tried to learn from your character's mistakes, but it didn't quite work. We sent in a wired undercover agent, a girl, and she started to talk to men who were alone. He was sitting on a bench when our agent found him." So was my character. I thought as he continued. "She just said 'hi' and he went ballistic. If he wasn't already booked for murder, we would have probably arrested him for freaking out everyone around him. He was screaming, 'Now people want to talk to me! I know who you are. You are going to arrest me. You're undercover.' Man, it was really weird!"
"Glad I was able to help."
"Yea. Thanks for coming forward."
"No problem."
We both hung up. "Glad that's over!" Was the last thing I remember grumbling before I drifted off to sleep.
"Hello?" I grumbled.
"Good morning." Godfrey Gold said almost cheerfully. "I just wanted to inform you that I have received your manuscript."
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I replied, still groggy. "Great! Gold, what time is it?"
"Ten. You are late for work."
"What work? I have the day off. I have writer's block."
"When was this decided?"
"Just now."
He chuckled. "I heard about that criminal making your book a reality. That must have horrified you."
"It really made me wonder."
"Most assured. It would be odd if you were not a tad disturbed."
"Yea. Hey, Godfrey, can I call you back after I've had my coffee? I'm not exactly coherent at the moment."
"Oh, there is no need. I will be sure to give you a ring when I have finished the manuscript."
"Sure." I hung up and fell back asleep.
Months trailed past me. Within that time Seth and I became very good friends, another one of my children went off into the world, becoming extremely successful, and I reproduced. This new work was about three and a half, when the second event that led up to my felony commenced.
"Seth, I'm working. What is it?" I spat irritably.
"A, have you even left that chair to pee, and b, do you have your tv on?"
"Yes and no."
"That's good and get it on!"
"Seth, I'm working!" I repeated hotly.
"Hurry up, there is something you've gotta see. It happened again."
"What?" I asked. "Get too drunk and get your debut on channel nine in a way you didn't...?"
"Dude, I'm not joking! It has to do with your work!"
"What?" I demanded.
"Channel nine, now!"
"Alright, alright!" I went to my television and did as Seth ordered.
"There is a murderer on the loose tonight in the small town of Franklin Ohio. Four young women, Amy Yam, Samantha Mar, Pamela Poe, and Garth Gate were all shot in the face in their homes early this morning. All four girls attended the same high school and they were all in the same graduating class..." The news-anchor spoke.
"Well?" Seth asked.
"Well, what?" I replied.
"Isn't that the basic story plot of your newest short story?"
"Yea? So?"
"And wasn't it published in a book geared toward young people?"
"Yea. And?"
"And so, it follows your story exactly! Small town, four pretty girls, they had their pictures cast earlier this morning, and a bullet in the face. Remember I questioned that and you said it was..."
I finished for him. "Because she wanted to destroy their beauty, I know! But they all could have killed themselves as some sick cult thing, you don't know! I will refuse to believe that my story is being used unless there is rock solid evidence."
"A girl by the name of Allegra Aline bought the book at a local bookstore two days before. She goes to the same high school as the victims and is in the same grade!"
"That means nothing!" I spat, ignoring the eery similarity. "I'm sure it has no correlation!"
"I hope so, but just be on your toes."
"That was a one time deal! I have more pressing business to attend to." I clicked off.
Seth's disturbing news bothered me all that day and into the next. Then, those days added up to a week. Within that time, dreadful thoughts clouded my mind and I could not write. I could not produce a story. I was angry at the allegation against my babies and that made me leery about bringing up another one. I couldn't think clearly and started to doubt the talent that has guided me all my life.
I even thought of retiring. A thought that was even more morbid then prolonged doubtfulness and tantalizing writers block that was of a strange sort. I had plenty to say, but my mind second-guessed the words I put on the paper. For at one time I was sure that what I wrote was what my audience would read, I was now forced into wonderment. This had never happened before. How dare they blame my babies! They had nothing to do with it! I felt as though every murder I wrote inside my story, meant its condemning outside of it. The guilt behind that thought was heavy and bore down on my mind, leaving no room for creativity.
This agonizing torture continued until Saturday when Seth rang my doorbell.
I didn't mind, nor enjoy the thought of his company, but let him in anyway.
"Beer?" He asked, ushering to two six-packs in his hands.
"I suppose." I answered as he let himself in. "Come in! Make yourself at home." I said smartly.
"Don't mind if I do." He replied, setting the beverages on the coffee table and crashing on my couch. He looked back at me and said, "Man, you look horrible!"
"Thanks, Seth, you look great too."
"Here." He said, cracking open a fresh bottle. "You look like you need this more then I do."
"Thanks." I said, tipping the bottle to him and then taking a large slug from it. The brew was like nothing any depression medicine could be. Medicine forces you to be happy when your soul and your heart is still opposing the idea. Getting drunk, well that flows with your mood, not helping it any until your judgement is so numb you can't feel so bad about a your problems. Or, you act upon it. Now, in this case, being totally and utterly ossified may break my writers block and I may sober up tomorrow with a great piece of work fresh out of my printer...but I doubt it.
"So, why do you look like your about to commit one of your own crimes?" He asked, opening a bottle of his own.
"I've got really bad writers block."
"Oh." He said awkwardly. "I have no idea what that feels like, but I'm sure I should pretend I do."
I shook my head. "Nah, but if you want to try, it's sort of like...if you're on a case and you have no idea what the criminal has in mind. You know that type of frustration?"
"Oh, yea. You better believe it."
"Well, that's kind of what writers block is for me. You have absolutely no idea where the story should go."
Seth shrugged, "Really? But I mean, it's your story. You can do anything you want with it."
"No." I stated, shaking my head, beer sloshing around my mouth. "Not when it starts developing. I can't be in the middle of a love scene and have random alien come and beam the girl into their mother ship."
"Sure you could! I'd read it." He eyed me. "How deep a love scene?"
I rolled my eyes at his thickness and immaturity. "Not if it doesn't pertain to the plot! You can't suddenly, for no rhyme or reason throw some random thing in there that makes no sense whatsoever just because you are feeling daring. Writing doesn't work like that."
He just stared at me.
"If you are fully immersed in your story, it comes to life and you are soon more of a storyteller then a story writer. The story kind of makes it's self up after a while and your job is to help your characters bring the story to life. When you get writer's block, your characters aren't really sure what will happen next and neither are you. That is when you must, catch up, I suppose, with your own story. Then, in time, your character will see something in your world, or through your brain will formulate something. Then, you are caught up and you continue to tell your story. The characters are the ones who make up the tale, all the writer has to do is listen, tie a few loose ends, and write it down so others can enjoy." He still looked more lost then a penguin in the Sahara. "Understand?"
He took a slug from the bottle and then replied, "Perfectly."
I smirked. "Sure." Then took a gulp of my drink. By this time, I was halfway through my second. 'Yes, Sham.' I thought, 'Tonight I think you are going to get drunk.'
About an hour later, we both were slumped in our seats and had a slur as heavy as bricks.
"Hey, Buddy...I come ta tell ya summum, but uh, ya can't get mad. Iet?" Seth slurred.
"What is it? Nuttons gonna up-set me! I'm as giddy as a school girl...Weeeeeeeeee!" I threw myself back and spread my arms out with a big grin on my face.
We both broke into loud, drunken laughter.
After a long, hard laugh, Seth took a deep breath and said, "No, really, lis...Sham listen! Is got the report today..."
"What one?"
"The one...ya know...the one...Aw, there ya go makin' me think again!" He cursed me. "The murderer, lady."
"Oh, yea! That Liza girl? Ya know she's messed me up real bad? I can't even write cause of that little brat. I think I'm killin summon! Anyways what'd ya hear?"
"She did it and got the idea from your book-story thing." Despite the intoxication, Seth looked pretty serious.
For sake of massive alcohol intake, the news couldn't sink in to far without drowning, so I was able to take it lightly. I swore jokingly and said "That little plagiarizer! I should kill her! See how she likes it!" I laughed.
"Copied your story to a tee! And let me tell ya, she wasn't too pretty either."
Gulping down the last of my fifth drink I grumbled, "They never are!"
Chuckling, Seth said, "I'll drink to that, Dude-Bro-man, person!-Who are you?"
Howling with laughter at his dumbstruck face, we attempted to fulfil the toast. We spilt half the beverages on the carpet. We both swore unmercifully over the loss of the liquid.
After we got over it, I lay back on the couch. "And Man, I don't know how I'm gonna end this new story." I looked over at him. "You know those little char-peoples inside my head?" I pointed at my head. "Right around here somewhere? The ones that make up the stories?"
"Yea?"
"They'd better get a move on. They ain't worken quite well."
"The'll work, Sham. Jus give em time to and they will weave the wonders of your..." His drunken state searched for words. "Aw, forget it! They'll do what you need em to! Give em time!"
I closed my eyes. "Yea. Soon they'll do whatever they do...I hope."
That was the last thing I remember.
Like thunder, the pain boomed on my forehead. It thumped against my brain and split around it.
I groaned and brought my hand up to my head.
"Good morning Sunshine." Seth said, shoving a cup of some strange looking...liquid I suppose, into my hand.
I glared at it with an expression as odd as the liquid itself. It was dyed a puke green and plumb purple swirl color and was thicker then the earth's mantle.
"Drink up!" Seth encouraged. "You want that headache to go away, don't you?" He had removed his suit-jacket and his gun holster, leaving only the thin white t-shirt underneath
"Depends on what it is."
"What? That?" He pointed to the drink.
"No, what material your shirt is made out of! Of course this!"
"Uh, I'll tell you later."
"Somehow, I feel much safer with good, old, labeled, Tylenol." I handed the cup back to him.
Taking it back from me, he shrugged. "Suite yourself, but doesn't that stuff ruin your liver?"
"Well, that stuff will eat your liver!"
"It's good for you, all organic." He reared his head back and threw the glass back, letting the stuff fall, all in a clump, down his throat.
Making a disgusted face, as though he had just took in toilet water-no, sewer water, he swallowed.
"Seth?" I said after an awkward silence.
"Sham." He mocked, sitting down next to me.
I eyed him. "Did...Did they find the killer?"
For once, he saw his young friend's eyes harden in seriousness. "Yea. They did."
"Was it...?"
"Yea, it was."
I swore. "Did she follow the book entirely."
"She was a perfect character. She found there was no other way. They found her body behind a beauty shop, just like in the book."
Swearing again, I buried my head in my hands.
"Hey, it's okay! You didn't kill her! Or any of them!"
"No, but I put the idea in their heads! That's almost as good."
"Yea, but you didn't do it intentionally! You wrote a book! They took it upon themselves to..."
"Yea, I wrote the book! Okay, if your superior told you and a few others to pull off an extensive drug bust and someone on your team got killed, who would you blame?"
"Nobody...I don't know, whoever messed up. Me, maybe, or someone in my team...That's to fuzzy."
"No, you'd blame your superior! The one who put the order in your head!"
"That's not true! No one is going to blame you for the deaths of those people! You didn't do anything! That would be like suing a store because of your inability to cook the food you bought there and got sick!"
"But people will want someone to blame, and there is only one common factor-which is me! How do you defend that?"
He sighed deeply saying thickly, "You don't." Then assured quickly, "Because I see no grounds that you will need protecting! Might I remind you once again, you didn't do anything illegal! You are a writer, you obviously write for a living..." He spread his hands out in attempt to fill in the blanks.
I didn't reply.
Seth looked around. "Well, uh, I gotta go to work. Boss'll shoot me if I call in slurrin my words again. He don't like me much anyway. He'd take any excuse to shoot me." He moved to get up. "Take the day off. Sleep. Take your phone off the hook so no one disturbs you. You need it. Call it..taking a mental health day."
"If you hear anything..."
"You'll know." He nodded, then went for his holster.
My 'mental health day' was more of a 'testing my mental health day'.
First off, I didn't take the Seth's advice about taking the phone off the hook and I probably should have.
Because it rang.
I rolled over and put the receiver to my ear. "Hello?" I grumbled.
"Swamp, why are you still in bed? Are you ill?"
"Sorta." I answered, putting my hand to my pounding head.
"What is wrong?"
"I just had a little to much to drink. I got a hangover!"
"A hangover? Who were you with?"
"My friend, Seth. What's it to you?"
"Well, he is no good! He is interrupting your work and I want my story!"
"Your story?"
After a quick stutter, he said, "Just...get out of bed and go to work. I want it in the mail by tomorrow!"
I sat up in bed. "Tomorrow? Gold, I got writers block and a headache like you wouldn't believe! Unless you want all the characters to be slurring their words, you'll reconsider."
"I don't care if they are all arrested for a DWI at the end of the story, I want it in the mail tomorrow!"
"Then write it yourself! I'm mentally incapable!" I slammed the phone down, rolled over and went back to sleep.
About an hour later, the phone rang again. I rolled over and picked it up. "Hello?"
"Mr. Sham De Swamp?"
"Who's calling please?"
"This is the Daygirl Police Department."A man answered in a gruff voice. The tone used when talking to a suspect.
That's Seth's department, but it isn't Seth. I thought. "Yes. What is it?"
"Could you come down here, we have reason to question you."
"On what grounds?"
"Your stories."
I silently swore. "Alright. When do you want me there?"
"Is an hour enough time?"
"I suppose."
"Thank you. We appreciate it."
"No problem." I hung up and flopped out of bed. I figured I would take a shower, get high on extra strength aspirin, and then I should be good to go.
On my way out the door, I called Seth and told him what had happened.
"What? Why would they want to question you? You didn't break the law, did you?"
"No!" I yelled. "Seth!"
"Sorry, just making sure. You want me to come?"
"Where? To the station? Can you?"
"Nobody's done anything illegal yet today. I guess I could stop by."
"If you want."
"Okay, I will."
I walked in and was immediately directed to a room at the back of the station. It couldn't have been an interrogation room. It was to comfy. There were three leather chairs and a matching couch in the middle of the small room. There was a desk in the far corner, garmented with a computer monitor, a stapler, a tape dispenser and a few picture frames that faced the brown upholstered, rolling chair.
There was no one there to direct me further, so I took a seat on the couch.
Moments later, a man, wearing a chocolate suite and black dress shoes came in. His eyes were a piercing blue and his skin was reddened by sun, magnifying the deep lines in his face. His hair was all white and combed back. "Mr. Swamp!" He addressed me with a superficial smile, exposing white teeth behind thin lips.
I got to my feet. "Hello." I replied, putting out my hand.
Taking the offer, he said, "I am Chief Travis, how are you?"
"Alright, all things considering." I lied. All things considering, I was a walking, talking wreck! "And you?"
"Fine. Just fine." He motioned to the seat I had previously taken. "Please, sit."
"Thank you." I took his offer while he sank into the chair across from me.
"No, thank you, for coming to us on such short notice."
"Anything to help."
"Strange case, isn't it?"
"Excuse me, Chief, but I was under the impression you had some questions for me."
Clearing his throat, the cop said, "Yes. I do. Um, when were the books published?"
"Uh, the first one was published in the summer of ninety-one and the other was my newest. It was on bookshelves this August." I replied thoughtfully.
Chief Travis nodded. "Do you plan to write another story?"
"I plan to write many more." I answered truthfully.
Again, the officer nodded. "Are you currently writing a story?"
"Sort of." I answered. "I am kind of in a mental block at the moment, but I have a new outline, if that's what you are asking."
"I am asking if you plan to publish again in the near future."
"Yes. I do."
"Mr. Swamp, if you were to quit your occupation, would you have enough money to retire?"
"Why is that relevant?" I asked, a little unnerved.
"Please answer the question, Mr. Swamp."
"Yes. I could. Why do you ask?"
"Well..." The amplified lines in his forehead wrinkled. "We think it would be best if you..." he inhaled deeply and released it slowly, "stopped writing the stories."
The blow was as though the world had spun off it's axis and stopped. "Excuse me?" I managed to utter.
"I'm sorry. It would be a lot easier if..."
"You destroyed the source."
Reluctantly, he nodded. "Now the government will pay..."
"I don't want your money! I want to earn it! I am capable of working, therefore I am inclined to do so!"
"Not at the expense of others!"
"Have I done anything illegal?"
"You are indirectly..."
"Have I done anything illegal?" I demanded thickly.
My question stopped him in his probably previously rehearsed tracks. "No. You haven't, but..."
"Exactly. I am totally within my rights. I am an entertainer!"
"Well, you're entertaining thoughts that the public, your public, will not like. You will loose money!"
"But I can't stop writing!" I retorted forcefully, backed by the passion I held for the subject.
"I just said you should stop publishing. You can write all you want." He spread out his arms.
That would be like ending my child's life before it had a chance to blossom. I thought. "I can't do that." I replied honestly, shaking my head.
"You are going to have to find a way."
I glared at the policeman for a long moment. Finally, I asked, "Are we through?"
The older man nodded once. "Yes."
I got up and walked out.
Seth was leaned against the wall outside the room. "Hey Sham how..."
"Leave me alone, Seth." I hissed, brushing passed him
He came back around to face me. "What happened in there?"
"I can't write." I answered simply, attempting to push passed him again. He stopped me completely.
"What? This upset about a little writers block? It'll pass! It always does!"
I shook my head. "No, Seth. Legally, I can't write!"
He gave me an odd look. "What?"
"Apparently, I 'entertain thoughts in criminals' mind' and the law thinks my stories are promoting murder."
"So, they told you to stop writing?" He asked.
"No, I can't publish." I corrected, then hung my head. "But it's just the same."
"They can't do that!" Seth declared. "That's illegal."
I sighed. "Apparently, they can. Because they just did."
He started toward the building."Where's the guy who told you that? I gotta go talk to..."
I caught his arm. "No! Seth!"
He looked back at me for a reason.
"No offence, but you'll probably make it worse."
"No I won't. I'm just gonna talk to him..."
"I'll figure something out."
"No! That's not right! You can't just take someone's job because of..."
"I know, but...there's nothing we can do. You can't say anything that will change their mind."
"If I remind them that what they are doing is an unlawful way of handling a situation, they might..."
"They know it's unlawful, Seth. It's okay. I appreciate it, but...don't get involved."
He didn't reply and I was allowed to push past him. I got out of the police station, got in my car, and drove home. I really don't remember the drive though, for I had entered the world I created. At times, this world could be one thousand times worse then the world of my physical being, but it is always kind to me. No matter how bad it gets, I know I have the power to either make it worse, keep it going at the same pace, or patch it up. I don't exactly have to be writing to gain entry into this world, but I do have to be thinking about a story of mine. Sometimes, I slip into this world when my physical form is at a place that it has no desire to be, other times, I slip into this world to escape the boundaries, impossibilities, or hardships of our existence. This is a world that enables me to become whomever and go wherever my heart desires. In this place, I am no longer Sham De Swamp. In fact, he is an alien. If I want something, I simply take it. If I want to imprison someone, there is no one who will stop me. My world is my life.
I could not bear the thought of having to abandon it. I would in turn abandon myself. Those who enter into my world, through my books and stories, know me best. I would prefer to die, then to give up my soul; However, I am not exactly inclined to pass either.
These thoughts encircled my mind long after I pulled my car in to the garage and bid it goodnight. My pondering did not cease when I gazed around my brightly furnished home and bitterly thought about how I am being forced to forsake the children that have provided me with such glorious riches, and allowed me to lavish in their royalties. How terrible am I?
A ringing telephone severed me from my thoughts.
"What?" I said into the receiver.
"What is wrong with you?" Godfrey Gold asked in his monotone voice.
"Uh, Gold, I can't write anymore, so enjoy..."
"What? Are you drunk?"
"Not yet."
"What is this nonsense?" He demanded.
"It's not nonsense, Gold. It's FBI ordered. It's because of the people copying my book. They say my books and stories are 'entertaining thoughts of criminals.'"
His voice was now angry. Which was a first. "Sham De Swamp, I do not care what the police, the SWAT team, Marines, CIA , or even the President has to say about you writing stories!" He was now yelling. "You are to get me a manuscript within the month, a month, De Swamp, or you will pay! Want to become a victim to your own piece?"
"No." I answered lamely.
"Then, you are to get some story to me within the month!"
"Okay, Gold. Calm down."
He slammed the phone down.
Unfazed by Gold's threat, I sat down in my chair and slid back into my grave thoughts.
Then, following my retirement for the night, I had a thought. A very elating thought. If I am to eradicate a world as lovely as this, it deserves a finale of the grandest sort. The only proper adieu, I decided, was to give my world the best gift I could. I am going to make my world come alive for others. I, as Sham De Swamp, am going to bring it off the page. I am going to let eyes see it, ears hear it, noses smell it, and all of the Earth feel it without me having to write a word!
Unable to settle myself enough to sleep, I thrashed out of my bed and started to pace other chambers of my home. I have done this a trillion times while suffering from writer's block or when I have been excited by a foddered idea and I am looking to expand upon it.
That night, I had more then an idea, had an absolute epiphany! I was almost totally and utterly consumed in the thoughts of my world and my plot. I was so entwined in my visit, I was barely aware of there was even another world besides my own. In fact, my children were almost tangible to me, for the first time.
Once I had my outline, I was ready to write. And I did. I typed late into the dawn of day. I was stuck to my computer chair until the sun fell the next day. Finally, I was at the climax of my story.
Now was the time to join both of the worlds, which I am a resident to. But first, I have to visit the lavatory...
My heart pounded with the excitement of the night and the thought that was steadfast in the back of my mind and pounded in my brain. This pounding sensation formed the pulse of my excitement. The pulse boomed throughout my body, making it shiver merrily and shook the nervous knot that formed in the pit of my stomach laughingly, making me want to scream aloud in giddy, somewhat crazed pleasure.
The wine bottle I gripped in my hand was cheap, but had an excellent taste after I forced the first half down my throat. Until then, it tasted like vinegar, but at this point in the bottle, I was to drunk to care what the taste was like. All I wanted was the numbness that came with being ossified. I wanted to be almost unaware of what I was about to do, but not oblivious to what I was doing. The wine loosed me up and made me feel good. I was exasperated at the world, however my animosity was the perfect fuel. "Make me give up my job, will ya? Ha!" I slurred and swayed into a nearby wall, as though it was a good friend with which I was sharing an inside joke. Then, finding the thought exceptionally funny, I laughed harder. I swivelled around on my heels, roaring with drunken humor, ending my unbalanced pivot with my back against the wall. As I caught my breath and slowly brought my laughter to a close, my head rolled up towards the sky and I swore the people who are making me do this terrible thing. However I need to do it. There was no other way.
I had recently figured out that I am my personality! I am the killer I modeled my story after. They want to blame my children? The least they could do is go about it in the right way! Blame the persona that brought on the murders. That is how it always works. The persona with the motive. If it answers why, then that disposition is usually the one who would act the worst in that situation; in that plot. In this case, it was my own. Sham De Swamp. I would probably be caught, but is that not that how it always goes? The alleged perpetrator being caught is the ending that pleases the people and I want my children to please the people!
I fingered the gun in my coat pocket. Like a woman's touch, the sleekness of the gun's body soothed me. The power of steel the gun's shell was bred from made me feel herculean and the lethality of the weapon inspired me.
My drunken eye caught sight of the first target on my murderous rout. My lips curled into a sneer and I pulled the black nylon sock over my head. After it was secured, I gripped the Colt.45 semiautomatic that was going to avenge my child's murder if it was the last thing I was to do.
I came up on the house as night fell. I checked the lock. As I expected, it was bolted tight. I broke the empty wine bottle and picked the lock with a sliver of glass. I slipped inside. The room was dark. I crept up the stares. I peered around the second story. Everything was still except for a blaring blue lumination and muffled voices coming from the crack in the door jam of last door on the right. I slunk over to it and peered in. The target sat on his bed, watching television.
The excitement within me heightened. I was nervous, but in the best possible way. "One...Two..." My uneven voice hissed. "Three!" I slammed my shoulder into the door, hopped into the room, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He didn't even have time to yell. Thus, I was dissatisfied. I wanted him to scream in fear as my child shrieks in anger within my head.
I must learn from my mistake. Like my own child, I must grow with every dawning instinct I feel.
"Sham! Sham, where are you?" Seth yelled, walking into the opened front door. Seth could not help noting that the house had an eerie warmth blanketing it. It was the type of feeling that Seth remembers his mother giving him when she defended him against a higher authority and won. The missing occupant of the house looked as though he had left in a hurry. The front door being opened, the lights on, and, when he checked the bedroom, the upturned sheets and tousled pillow. There had not been a struggle or anything. It was obvious Sham left at his own accord, but he was always so neat! It was so odd for him to have left the house in the middle of living in it. If he were to have left, he would have at least made up his bed. It seemed odd, but he did not think much of it until he wandered into Sham's office and saw his blaring computer screen. It looked like a clue. There were words on the screen. He knew he should not read, but Seth was worried and he couldn't just ignore his only clue.
Seth scrolled up to the top and his eyes scanned over the screen. Seth was shocked at what he read. When he got to the climax of the story, he swore and tore away from the monitor. He ran out of the house. Thanks to his sort of illegal investigating, he thought he knew where Sham was and if his fears were justifiable, Sham was in great danger!
My next victim was uneventful. Again, I had panicked and shot before I had wanted to. Oh, well. I thought as my eyes skimmed the house of my next, probably most deserving victim. This one, I had previously decided, was going to know exactly who his murderer was. I had not prepared a monologue, however, my expiation was based on this man knowing exactly why he was going to die.
My phone rang. It was Seth. "Hello?"
"Where are you?" He demanded.
"A bar! Leave me alone!"
"Are you really?" He asked. "Which one?"
"The one I always go to."
"Stay there! I want to buy you a drink."
"Thanks, but I was just about to leave." I hung up.
Chief Travis's house was like any other on the block. White, black shutters, and pale colored door with a lock that was easier to opened then a jar of peanut butter. I slipped inside and hugged the gun close to my chest. I crept past the stairwell and into the kitchen. The man was making a sandwich and he appeared to be alone. I glanced around then went for the kill. I was behind the man, with the Colt .45's barrel digging into the man's temple. "Hello." I spoke first, my voice bleeding of animosity.
The man tensed under my hand, but spoke oddly and earnestly calm. "Who...?"
"Sham De Swamp."
"Why...?"
"To kill you."
"What...?"
"An eye for an eye, if I might be cliche for a moment. You killed me. I think it only fair to return the favor. People might follow my example and...we can't have that now, can we?"
Quickly, the man pulled out a steak knife from the cutting board in front of him and lashed around, striking with much accuracy. I ducked a moment before it was to slash into my throat. I went to aim as he took another jab, barely missing my stomach. I shot, but he went for my hand. The bullet missed him and he pushed my hand up into the air, then swung down with his knife. I caught his wrist and shoved it back at him. He retreated and I aimed.
"No! Please." Travis said, raising his hands in surrender.
"Relinquish your knife!" I ordered, throwing my hand out toward him.
He stabbed at my palm and I shot him.
Clutching his shoulder, the man whined, dropped the knife, and staggered back into his counter.
I laughed. "Hurt?" I kicked the knife away. "I bet not as much as I do."
I raised the gun to the man's head and just as I was about to shoot, but someone bursted in and screamed, "Sham! Stop!"
Travis and I both froze. I recovered first. "Sit down!" I snapped.
He sat, his back against the cabinets.
"Sham! What are you doing?" Seth demanded, walking through the doorway.
"Getting my revenge. Leave me alone!" I shouted.
"No! Sham! Listen to me! You can't kill him! You've gotta calm down. Please, put the gun down." He motioned his order as well as voicing it.
"No! I will not put the gun down until he is dead!" I turned and shot.
Seth jumped at me, but was to late. I threw him off me and pointed the gun at him.
Seth raised his hands and started breathing heavy. "No. Don't." He shook his head and his eyes got wide.
"Leave me! I have business to attend to and you are in my way. I do not wish to kill you, Seth, but if you interrupt the vendetta I have against the people who slaughtered my children, you will die."
"Is this what this is about?" Seth asked, advancing toward me. "There are other ways to..."
I hardened my grip on the gun. "Seth!" I screamed, shaking with anger.
"I can't let you go, Sham."
"Then you are no friend of mine." I shot and he jumped out of the way. I ran past him, but he leaped at my leg. He tripped me. I turned to see he had the knife. He raised it up and I threw the gun at him. That knocked the knife from his hand, but he recovered the gun and tackled me to the ground. He shoved the barrel into my throat.
No one spoke. The only sounds to be heard throughout the eerily silent house was our heavy breathing.
Then, a thought came to my head that brought a plan of escape wrapped in a bow. My personality! I thought revealingly with a sigh as I looked up at the man with a gun to my throat.
The plan and end of my story began with the arrival of the police.
"Help! Help me!" I screamed. "He's trying to kill me!" I let the hate I held be turned into tears, forcing them to stream down my face, like a spoiled child plotting to get a toy.
"Huh?" Seth said startled and, just as the police came in, raised his hands and dropped the gun.
I crawled out from under him and found 'safety' in the shield of the policeman. "He's crazy!"
"Who killed this man?" One of the officers demanded.
"He did!" Seth and I answered, pointing at one another.
Seth glared at me and his jaw dropped opened. "No! I didn't...But he...That's... Sham!"
Entirely confused, the police arrested both of us. So much was to be expected.
I got one phone call.
"Yea, Gold! You'll never believe what happened! Guess where I am?"
"Your story is not in my hand! I am not happy, Sham. Not happy at all!"
"Yes, well, I have a very good reason for that! I am in jail."
"You are what?"
"Arrested. I need...help."
"An alibi?"
"Yes! Thank you so much!"
"I do not get my story, Sham and..."
"Oh, don't worry! You will! I promise!"
"You will deliver!"
"I will." I insisted. That was the one part of my escape negotiating I was not worried about.
"Alright. If anyone asks, I was in the area last evening and stopped by your house for a business chat and an alcoholic beverage."
"But you don't..."
"I do as of now!" He boomed.
"Okay."
"Oh, and please stop by, get your finished product, then erase it from my computer. Save it to yours. There are CDs in the drawer."
"You had better be grateful." Gold growled.
"Immensely!" I answered.
"Good."
"He killed him. I saw him do it! I tried to stop him, but...I couldn't get there in time." I confessed.
"And where were you at the time of the homicide?" An unnamed officer asked. His hands were clasped behind his back and he paced the length of the table in front of me.
"I was with my publisher. He stopped over."
"Why? Isn't true that this department forbid you to publish your books? In fact, wasn't the victim the one to rely that crushing message to you?"
I looked down at the table. "Yes, Officer he was. However, my publisher and I have been friends for years. He stopped over to discuss this department's verdict, Sir. He didn't quite understand, so he came over to talk and get the entire story."
"Is it not true, that you were very upset when you left the department yesterday."
I looked him square in the eye and said honestly, "Oh, I was devastated."
"So, why did you go to Chief Travis's house?"
"Oh, well, Seth had called me in hysterics. He had snapped and I knew it. I asked him where he was and he said he was at a bar. I told him to stay there, but he said he was just leaving, then hung up. I hurriedly left my house, dismissing my publisher, and I went to Seth's home. He wasn't there. So, I looked up the Chief. Why I had a premonition that Seth was about to or had already done something terrible, I don't know, but I did. I ran to the Chief's house and found Seth's car." I shook my head and buried it in my hands for affect. "When I got there," I said wetly, "Seth had already killed him. He told me to let him go and he would not shoot me, but I could not let him pass. So, he attacked me. If you had not come, he probably would have killed me."
The Officer nodded. "Uh, did he dislike his boss?"
I nodded. "Very much so."
This was true. The chief and a few officers had a personality conflict with Seth. He would always say they did not like him and he could not like them. They always gave him shoddy cases that no one else wanted and made it very difficult for him to conquer the assignments. However, Seth, being the kind man he was, would swallow it, because he loved being a policeman. Helping people gave him joy. Maybe if he was a little less patient and amicable, he wouldn't be in this position. His goodwill gave him a motive and I was going to take full advantage of it.
Also on my side was the Officer interrogating me. His name was Mitch. He was one of the one's who did not like Seth and I (Seth) had killed Mitch's friend, my first victim.
This could work. I decided.
Next thing I knew, it was court day. They had decided to try me first. If I was found innocent, they would have a trial for Seth, but that would really only be to decide his sentence.
I was happy with myself for repeating the exact same story I had in the interrogation room.
Now was the moment of truth. Sort of. I was about to either be indited or freed of all charges. They had presented all the evidence, which, really was not helpful to either one of us. They had both of our fingerprints on the gun, because it was Seth's, (he had left one of the two he had in his holster at my house. I supposed he had not had a chance to pick it up.) All the evidence they had, was almost obsolete because the only person who really knew, besides the two accused, was the victim.
Therefore, the verdict rested solely on which one of us told the most convincing story and who the judge thought had more liability.
The only problem with that, was the fact that the judge might want to save the department's reputation. However, I am famous. The media would have a field day if I was convicted. Hell, the media was already having a field day following the case. My book ratings on my books shot through the roof the day the story hit the papers. Go figure.
Knowing that, even if I was convicted, I would make more money in jail for murder in a week then Seth would in a year! Ha! That's ironic. I love this country.
The only real way I could lose, is if, for say, I was put on death row-which I could then plead insanity and maybe get off...Or, I could appeal it....
✳✳✳
Here we go. I thought, knowing that the rest of my life lay on one word.
I came back to the court room after the reflection as the judge boomed, "Innocent!"
I sighed, letting out my fated breath, and smiled. "Thank you."
I shook the hand of my lawyer and then went over to Godfrey Gold, who smiled. The beam looked misplaced on his face, but so did the behavior I know had prompted the smile.
We walked out, pushing past reporters and camera men without a word to one another. Once approaching Godfrey Gold's vehicle, I said, "Thank you, Gold."
"I could not acquire a story with my best author in jail, now could I?" He got in his '64 Mustang and started the ignition.
"Business, business, business! When are you going to relax, Godfrey?" I smiled, closing the door.
He started down the road. "When you stop killing people." He passed in a tone that stung.
"Seth killed him." I passed.
"Right and the lengths I went to get you cleansed of the sin were unneeded."
"What exactly did you do?"
"I am a very powerful, influential man, De Swamp. I do not reveal secrets like that. I got you out of trouble and that is all I am to say."
I looked away. "Did you get the story?"
"It is not finished."
"I didn't know the ending."
"Finish it."
"I'm going to need a..."
"Pen name? I thought that."
"Well?"
"Something catchy."
"I know."
Then, Gold and I drove in silence for a long time.
Fortunately, Seth was indited and got life for all three murders. I did not dwell on guilt. In fact, that worked out better. As he sat atop me, pinning me to the ground, ready to kill me, I had the revelation that he was my personality and I was laying on the floor of my plot!
Up until this epiphany I had quite conceitedly thought I was my personality, dwelling in my youngest child. No! It was Seth all along! I had to frame him, I always frame my personality. I meet them. They generously provide me with a plot and situation and I, like any good parent, play out the peril, assessing it before my child. Then, I will know how to write it. What could be more explicit, personal, and all around better, then actually feeling the character's stimulation and emotion, literally having the same thoughts the character will. Nothing! This way, the story is as tangible to me as to the character, thus, totally believable to the reader. This way, I can really bring the reader to the scene and take them step by step through my crime.
I do not think of myself as a killer. Killers are bad and belong in jail. I am simply researching and exploring my story to make it as real as humanly possible. That is not bad. That shows my devotion to my occupation; The devotion to my children!
True, it was not the smartest thing, to leave my book in the hiding place of my scapegoat, but I was feeling daring because I had gotten a tad to drunk. I never will do that again.-Hopefully.
That night, before I realized my mistaken personality, I was ready to give up my life for my children's revenge. Like every good-hearted story, the bad person was going to jail. All the minds of the world were going to be at ease. Sham De Swamp had snapped. He had become homicidal and had acted on it. He is now behind bars. We are safe. I was perfectly alright with that because then, I thought I was my personality and like any parent, if you mess with my children, you mess with me and, as I demonstrated, things will get ugly.
Thankfully, I realized the error before my child went to print. Hence, Seth, the bad man, is behind bars and I am free to continue my research.
I had the most important thing in my life back and if there were a few casualties...oh well. As long as my children were not hurt because of it, I was okay. My mind was at ease.
I will do it again, just as soon as I am back on my feet.
I never figured out what Godfrey Gold had done, but I presumed it had to do with money. He had enough of that to make up for his lack of personality. Regardless, we are still to this day, very tight friends.
-By, Boyde Black
Short story by Brielle Guesstell
Read 859 times
Written on 2007-06-29 at 19:24
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