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Spring Ceramic DM™: WINNER POSTED!
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<blockquote data-quote="alsih2o" data-source="post: 1489610" data-attributes="member: 4790"><p>Round 2 alsih2o vs. macbeth</p><p></p><p> It's All In Your Head</p><p></p><p> To: Sgt. M. Worley</p><p> From: Desk Sgt. L. Michaels</p><p> Re: local crazies</p><p> CC: Sgt. J. Timmers, F.B.I. Missing Persons Taskforce</p><p></p><p> Contained is the text of a note turned into Desk Sgt. L Michaels on July 14, 2002 by Father N. Flannery. All attempts made to contact Father Flannery have been unsuccessful. His diocese reports he requested a transfer to a small parish hospital in south Brazil. Endnote added by Father Flannery.</p><p> ***************************************************</p><p></p><p>My pants are usually a little baggy, the result of a loss of weight some 3 years ago that I still cannot account for. My coat fits poorly, although it is warm, and my face is nearly always sporting some length of beard. If you add this to the fact that I am often seen about downtown with my briefcase, a gift from a professor some 20 odd years ago, and a shopping bag full of my work you can see how I am often mistaken for a vagrant. But I am not a vagrant. I am a writer.</p><p></p><p> A writer.</p><p></p><p> I wish I could tell you I was an essayist, or a brilliant fashioner of short stories that compel the American public to once again buy magazines full of submitted works. To be honest, I would be proud to tell you I bang out technical journals full of fascinating facts or stock predictions or even livestock manuals. I will tell you, for the record, that I have written 3 novels, a beautiful novella of historical fiction and a long series on Ethics.</p><p></p><p> None have been published. None have been published because I now have a reputation. </p><p></p><p> I am Shermain LaMour. </p><p></p><p> Well, I am Vladimir Zivkovitch, 3rd generation American-Philadelphian Jew. Unfortunately my pen name, my alter ego, my better half is Shermain LaMour.</p><p></p><p> Desperate for money and facing a room papered in rejection letters I sent a manuscript of a romance to a small publisher some 15 years ago and it was accepted. At that moment I became Shermain. I write trash and it pays me rather well.</p><p></p><p> Oh, and I am raising a gremlin. If that matters. I think it does, because it will help clear everything up as I go on.</p><p></p><p> You see when I was just starting out, when Shermain LaMour was just starting out, I got a letter from that small publisher saying that they loved my book. It tested well, the editors raved about it and the women in the office who had seen the manuscript all raved about it- but they were rather sure that most women did not want to buy a book from a Vladimir Zivkovitch. In a thoughtless second I blurted out the name.</p><p> </p><p> “Shermain Lamour” I said. “I also work under the name Shermain LaMour.”</p><p></p><p> That was my first and last act of plagiarism ever. I guess I should add that to the list- a Jew, a writer and a plagiarist.</p><p></p><p> You see I didn’t work under that name. Shermain. I only worked under my name but my best friend fro all the way back to high school was Pat Tracie and he worked as Shermain LaMour. He does, did, a great act down at the ‘Spankentickle’ on the corner of 5th and Broad every Friday night. He is, was, a fabulous man and a talented writer. We were in a writing circle together; supporting one another and critiquing work, and frequently went out afterwards for a drink.</p><p></p><p> Now, I see you making that face. It wasn’t like that. We were just friends. At least I thought we were.</p><p></p><p> I sat through circle the night of my acceptance ready to burst at the seams. I was conflicted deeply, of course, over whether to share the good news that I was actually getting paid for my work or to dodge the fact that I had, in fact, written a romance novel. I could already predict the whole gamut of the conversation, the supporters, those who would deride me for ‘selling out’ and those who would smile while the envy burned at their stomachs.</p><p></p><p> What I didn’t foresee was the reaction Pat would have.</p><p></p><p> I sat quietly through the circle, barely commenting but rushed to Pat right as it was done.</p><p></p><p> “Tonight, drinks are on me!” I announced.</p><p></p><p> “Oh, honey,” he said, I knew he was about to be unavailable, he was already slipping into character “I wish, I wish, but tonight she has a gig. Do come to the club and see. You can buy me a drink after.”</p><p></p><p> I had never seen Pat as her. I knew he did it, I knew what he did with the men who took him home too, but I didn’t see that either. I almost said no, but I was dying to share my news.</p><p></p><p> I was three scotches into the evening and was actually enjoying myself a good bit when Pat, Shermain, came on stage. He was radiant. (fey) big hoops on his ears, swinging his wand like some erotic cross between the Sorcerers Apprentice and a porn star. I had known him for all those years and even I almost gave in to the illusion. I should have appreciated that moment more.</p><p></p><p> He, she, had her moment on stage and disappeared behind the curtain with a wink towards me. A wink none too erotic, just enough to let me know she appreciated my being there.</p><p></p><p> When he, she, joined me at the table she was still all made up. Everyone in the bar was staring- partially to see her in all her glory and partially wondering what she was doing talking to such a disheveled man as myself. That unwanted attention might have delayed the whole situation.</p><p></p><p> “I, um, I used your name.” I announced rather awkwardly.</p><p></p><p> “Honeybear, you can always use me as a reference.” She growled, her tone seeming to imply the erotic no matter what she would have said.</p><p></p><p> “No, no, you don’t understand. I got published.”</p><p></p><p> “You!” she almost lost herself, almost became Pat, who I knew was ecstatic for me. “Baby!” she said, her voice climbing an octave, her composure returning instantly. “I could just hug ya’ till your eyes pop! Champagne!” She said, her snapping fingers held high, as if every eye in the place wasn’t already on her.</p><p></p><p> I steeled myself and let the whole truth spill out. I told her how it had come to me in a panic, how I had to draw from something and how his, her, name just sprung up. I cannot even remember how it all came out, but I do remember it all had the tone of a confession.</p><p></p><p> Her smile barely broke. “Well, sugar, you enjoy the champagne, I just have to slip into something more comfortable.” It was too abrupt I knew he was hurt. She was hurt. She moved for the back.</p><p></p><p> “Tell me you are not angry.” I pleaded, snatching her wrist as she passed.</p><p></p><p> “Baby, it’s all in your head.” She said with a sweet smile but there was acid in her voice. Acid I knew she could not spew. Acid I would get later from Pat.</p><p></p><p> She slunk, whispered, floated into the back rooms of the bar and I was left clodding my way out to the street. I had never meant to hurt her, him. I wasn’t close to too many people and I could not afford to lose this friend. I walked most of the night, I wasn’t even smart enough to stow my bags in a locker at the bus station or to return to my home. I walked for the entire night. “It’s all in your head.” Kept coming back to me over and over again. Maybe I had misread his face. Maybe it would all be fine.</p><p></p><p> Shortly after dawn, as the newspaper trucks began to roar out of their downtown building I found myself on the plaza between the Art College and the mental hospital. How fitting, eh? I was admiring the sculpture they added last weekend, a kind of ‘Blind Justice’ statement, feeling overwhelmed and insecure and alone and I came to the neck (head). On any other morning I wouldn’t have noticed but this morning I did. I could not see into the thing. I mean, the sun was aimed right at its face and the eyes were empty, light should have been streaming into the head, lighting the chasing and flashing inside but instead there was just inky blackness.</p><p></p><p> For some reason I thought of the small jockeys that sat at the head of the driveway belonging to the nice gentiles I grew up next to. These tiny concrete men painted in blackface always had a special draw for me; they were the perfect foil for a boy of unlimited imagination and few friends. I would play cowboys and robber with them, address them as friends and ride my bike in large figure eights around their bases.</p><p></p><p> Unless I was caught. </p><p></p><p> My mother would throw terrible fits. She couldn’t stand the little men, couldn’t stand what they stood for, and was bothered to no end by my fascination with them. “Stay away from the sculpture!” she would shout form the window. “You could break it!” she would reprimand.</p><p></p><p> So I looked to my left and right and seeing that I had the plaza to myself I stepped inside. I didn’t even drop my bags, I just stepped right into the things neck like I knew what I was doing.</p><p></p><p> Like I knew what I was doing. Let’s add that to the list- writer, plagiarist and idiot.</p><p></p><p> Sticking my head through that portal left me in an inky blackness. I am not just talking about a lack of light. I started through and my head got thick and sticky inside. I truly believe I started in, but fell through. Fell. Yes, fell is the right word.</p><p></p><p> I dropped my bags, trying to use my arms to catch myself when I heard the buzzing. I looked up to see a gremlin(eager). Go ahead, make that face again. I wasn’t his lover and it was a gremlin. She had a light bulb in a stand, with no cord, and was watching a mayfly; taped to a string, arc back and forth banging it head on the walls.</p><p></p><p> “Good to have you.” she said. “Good to have you, yes!”</p><p></p><p> I swallowed deeply, disbelieving what I saw. “Have you?” I queried.</p><p></p><p> “Yes, you come, now I have you, you have me, we have we.” She said with what I can only describe as greed in her voice.</p><p></p><p> I tried to leave. I did, I tried my best but it seemed impossible. </p><p></p><p> “Relaxes, he does, relaxes.” said this..thing.</p><p></p><p> “What the hell are you, Yoda?” I asked, sure of my bravery as I had determined it was a dream.</p><p></p><p> “Mine names Greccel. And now am your and yours mine.” She said. I know it sounds silly, me repeating it to you like this, but you get quite used to how she talks after a while.</p><p></p><p> I have found you can get used to anything.</p><p></p><p> Three attempts to leave later I was beginning to surrender to her, at least mentally. I was still afraid to get close enough to it for the there to be a risk of a touch.</p><p></p><p> “You’s gotta takes me, or you’s can’t be gone.” She would explain with a sly patience that hinted at age.</p><p></p><p> And I succumbed.</p><p></p><p> If I didn’t look indigent before I certainly did with my shopping bag full of gremlin. By the time I had lugged the beast all the way home my shoulders ached, my feet were sore and my head was pounding from the strain. As I said before, I am a writer. I have a body built for playing chess, not for dragging mythical and surprisingly heavy creatures around town.</p><p></p><p> As soon as we were through the door of my brownstone I collapsed in a chair.</p><p></p><p> “We’s needs to be eatin’.” She announced as soon as she had sniffed the air enough to tell we were alone.</p><p></p><p> “Find something then,” I announced, my eyes growing heavy “the kitchen is that way.”</p><p></p><p> And I was asleep. Dead to the world for the first of what would seem many times. I awoke to a loud banging at the door.</p><p></p><p> “Coming, coming!” I hollered at the impatient knocker. “Hold your horses.”</p><p></p><p> I opened the door to find Pat, in tears. “You betrayed me!” he said, “You betrayed me and I was always good to you.”</p><p></p><p> I held my hands up slowly, doing my best to placate him. I wanted him to sit, to let me explain it was a mistake and I could correct it, but I was afraid. I could not for the life of me remember if what had happened with the gremlin was real or a dream.</p><p></p><p> “Sit, Come in, let me explain.” I said. “It’s over, I have already fixed it.” I said, lying through my nicotine stained teeth.</p><p></p><p> Pats crying gave way to heaving without the sobs, his lip quivered and he walked down the main hall to the living room. “How? How did you fix it?” he asked when he had settled on the sofa</p><p></p><p> “Well, I am going to fix it, you know, today.” </p><p></p><p> “Today, what happened to ‘I fixed it’? What happened to me trusting you for so long? What..what..?” he trailed of slowly, staring at his feet. </p><p></p><p> And then he exploded. “You stole her from me!” he screamed, leaping to his feet and charging me like some kind of maniac.</p><p></p><p> He was on faster than I could have expected. As I said, I am not a strong man. Pat was an entertainer, not just a writer, all that movement; all those years of dance had left him toned, and much stronger than me. I expected to take a punch right in the mouth. I can remember time almost stopping as I prepared myself, I remember thinking that it would be good to have finally known violence. It would be one more thing I could write about honestly. But it didn’t stop when he struck me. </p><p></p><p> He was on me, all around me, I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t see. I panicked.</p><p></p><p> I panicked.</p><p></p><p> I grasped and clawed out for help, looking desperately for some handhold to keep on my feet and I found an iron lamp.</p><p></p><p> It was over before I knew I had made the decision to strike him. Her.</p><p></p><p> He was just lying there in my foyer, a slow rivulet of crimson red leading across the dark wood and pooling by the baseboard. I think that is where I passed out.</p><p></p><p> I awoke after what could not have been 5 minutes and that is when I heard Greccel. It was very similar to the sound my mother would make with a wet towel trying to make suction on the drain to clear it. It was clogged, like the breath of an asthmatic having an attack. I looked up to find her swallowing Pat. Whole.</p><p></p><p> She was in the midst of choking convulsions, slowly moving her way up the body. As her mouth expanded around his waist and I watched his belt disappear behind her lips a small lipstick case fell from his pocket.</p><p></p><p> Now here is the oddly funny part. All I could think of was getting his bag off the porch, so noone would know what was happening inside my house. Can you see it now? My witless neighbors staring at the porch, saying “Well, someone left a backpack on his porch, must be feedin’ ‘em to a gremlin!”</p><p></p><p> I snatched his pack and brought it in. just as the door closed behind me I watched Pats cowlick disappear behind Greccels blackened teeth.</p><p></p><p> I must have cried for hours. I just sat there in my front hall, bawling with my head on the steps. Greccel sprawled on the floor, a look of macabre satisfaction on her face.</p><p></p><p>Like all first time killers I felt the remorse, and then the anger. I pawned the whole thing off on Pat. “This never would have happened if he had let me explain.” I said to Greccels sleeping form. </p><p></p><p> And I grew angry. Angry at myself, angry at the world and especially angry at Pat. I kicked at his backpack, resting against the table and papers slid across the floor.</p><p></p><p> My papers.</p><p></p><p> Well, my words. That son of a bitch, that bitch, had stolen my work. He was passing around my work! Oh, it was retooled for sure, but any fool on any jury would have seen immediately that it was mine. That idiot was stealing my work all this time.</p><p></p><p> I looked at Greccel, she is not much bigger than a grocery sack most days, and she was swollen with the corpse of my friend. The thief of my words. I guess I can add a perverse sense of justice to violence as things I can write about honestly now.</p><p></p><p>Now it may seem strange to you, but we were in this together. How does one grow feelings of companionship with a gremlin? I wouldn’t recommend it, but killing your best friend the plagiarizing thief helps. Nothing like ‘aiding and abetting’ to really get the friendship juices flowing.</p><p></p><p> From there it got much easier. Greccel was smarter than I was at first. She made all the plans. </p><p></p><p> First came the beautiful mother and her daughter. It was Christmas, and the morning was exceptionally foggy. The child complained that her tie had come undone on her jacket. Her mother bent down to fix it, gently wrapping the cords around one another, telling her child how the rabbit comes out the hole, goes around the tree and back in the whole, pantomiming the movements with the string(touch). </p><p></p><p> I used my fathers 5 iron on her. Greccel was on the child before it could scream; swallowing headfirst really muffles those incriminating cries.</p><p></p><p> And I have to admit, I tasted the mother. Just a little, off the left calf. It was good. Once you get yourself to actually taste it the guilt passes quickly and it is just like any other meat. Well, like any other meat you have hunted. I am going to add that to the things I can honestly write about. Hunting. Write what you know is what they say, yes?</p><p></p><p> That marked our preference for holiday kills I guess. It is always a little sweeter when you can watch the whole community panic and nothing does that like the holidays. ‘Homeless man may be missing’ just doesn’t sell as many papers as ‘Easter disappearances still unsolved.”</p><p></p><p> Easter- now that was fun! The park is less than a block from the front of my brownstone. On the day before Easter there was an egg hunt sponsored by the Park Council and the local parish. Greccel spent a month making little fake rabbits and we littered them around our small garden by the walk. In their midst we stuck a fake trap, straight out of a cartoon(c’mere). I sat on the porch waiving and smiling at the young people and their parents parading by. Many stopped to comment on our humorous arrangement.</p><p></p><p> After an hour or so on the porch a pinch faced woman power-walked up to the gate from across the street, tugging her child behind by the arm like so much dead weight.</p><p></p><p> “You should be ashamed of yourself!” she announced in a tone clearly made loud enough to not just scold, but to attract attention. “My child has been shielded from such things! You have no right to force your meat-eating agenda on us just because you live near the park!”</p><p></p><p>I recognized her immediately. She had shown up during the planning meeting of the egg hunt to protest someone ‘forcing’ their Judeo-Christian views on she and her daughter. I understand she lived a full 10 miles form here, and I have never seen her in the neighborhood before. As I wondered what else she considered force I could already see the Greccels drool pooling out from the ivy that was hiding her at the edge of the porch.</p><p></p><p> Soon the children and their parents all made for the bushes and the rose garden to look for their eggs. I tell you, nothing tastes like a righteous person. Nothing.</p><p></p><p>There were others of course. I had a brief job at a local sleep clinic. People just make certain assumptions when a narcoleptic disappears! Illegal immigrants also pass as more than just house help. I followed an old lead from Pat and did rather well for us at well-known rest stops. </p><p></p><p> Then came the computers. Three rapists caught in 9 months based on computer models. They keep feeding information into the computer and eventually it feeds them an area to search. Patrols are increased, door-to-door interviews. Eventually they end up catching someone.</p><p></p><p> So I am leaving. Maybe South America? I hear there are still portions of Africa where my income allows me to live like a king- especially if your enemies keep disappearing. Yes, some rural third world locale will suit us for years I am sure.</p><p></p><p> So, add one more. Jew, writer, plagiarist, murderer and fleeing felon. </p><p></p><p> If this all sounds like a confession; well, I guess it is. I apologize for burdening you, but I had to let someone know.</p><p></p><p> Signed </p><p></p><p> Vladimir Zivkovitch</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p> MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON MY SOUL, FATHER FLANNERY-</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="alsih2o, post: 1489610, member: 4790"] Round 2 alsih2o vs. macbeth It's All In Your Head To: Sgt. M. Worley From: Desk Sgt. L. Michaels Re: local crazies CC: Sgt. J. Timmers, F.B.I. Missing Persons Taskforce Contained is the text of a note turned into Desk Sgt. L Michaels on July 14, 2002 by Father N. Flannery. All attempts made to contact Father Flannery have been unsuccessful. His diocese reports he requested a transfer to a small parish hospital in south Brazil. Endnote added by Father Flannery. *************************************************** My pants are usually a little baggy, the result of a loss of weight some 3 years ago that I still cannot account for. My coat fits poorly, although it is warm, and my face is nearly always sporting some length of beard. If you add this to the fact that I am often seen about downtown with my briefcase, a gift from a professor some 20 odd years ago, and a shopping bag full of my work you can see how I am often mistaken for a vagrant. But I am not a vagrant. I am a writer. A writer. I wish I could tell you I was an essayist, or a brilliant fashioner of short stories that compel the American public to once again buy magazines full of submitted works. To be honest, I would be proud to tell you I bang out technical journals full of fascinating facts or stock predictions or even livestock manuals. I will tell you, for the record, that I have written 3 novels, a beautiful novella of historical fiction and a long series on Ethics. None have been published. None have been published because I now have a reputation. I am Shermain LaMour. Well, I am Vladimir Zivkovitch, 3rd generation American-Philadelphian Jew. Unfortunately my pen name, my alter ego, my better half is Shermain LaMour. Desperate for money and facing a room papered in rejection letters I sent a manuscript of a romance to a small publisher some 15 years ago and it was accepted. At that moment I became Shermain. I write trash and it pays me rather well. Oh, and I am raising a gremlin. If that matters. I think it does, because it will help clear everything up as I go on. You see when I was just starting out, when Shermain LaMour was just starting out, I got a letter from that small publisher saying that they loved my book. It tested well, the editors raved about it and the women in the office who had seen the manuscript all raved about it- but they were rather sure that most women did not want to buy a book from a Vladimir Zivkovitch. In a thoughtless second I blurted out the name. “Shermain Lamour” I said. “I also work under the name Shermain LaMour.” That was my first and last act of plagiarism ever. I guess I should add that to the list- a Jew, a writer and a plagiarist. You see I didn’t work under that name. Shermain. I only worked under my name but my best friend fro all the way back to high school was Pat Tracie and he worked as Shermain LaMour. He does, did, a great act down at the ‘Spankentickle’ on the corner of 5th and Broad every Friday night. He is, was, a fabulous man and a talented writer. We were in a writing circle together; supporting one another and critiquing work, and frequently went out afterwards for a drink. Now, I see you making that face. It wasn’t like that. We were just friends. At least I thought we were. I sat through circle the night of my acceptance ready to burst at the seams. I was conflicted deeply, of course, over whether to share the good news that I was actually getting paid for my work or to dodge the fact that I had, in fact, written a romance novel. I could already predict the whole gamut of the conversation, the supporters, those who would deride me for ‘selling out’ and those who would smile while the envy burned at their stomachs. What I didn’t foresee was the reaction Pat would have. I sat quietly through the circle, barely commenting but rushed to Pat right as it was done. “Tonight, drinks are on me!” I announced. “Oh, honey,” he said, I knew he was about to be unavailable, he was already slipping into character “I wish, I wish, but tonight she has a gig. Do come to the club and see. You can buy me a drink after.” I had never seen Pat as her. I knew he did it, I knew what he did with the men who took him home too, but I didn’t see that either. I almost said no, but I was dying to share my news. I was three scotches into the evening and was actually enjoying myself a good bit when Pat, Shermain, came on stage. He was radiant. (fey) big hoops on his ears, swinging his wand like some erotic cross between the Sorcerers Apprentice and a porn star. I had known him for all those years and even I almost gave in to the illusion. I should have appreciated that moment more. He, she, had her moment on stage and disappeared behind the curtain with a wink towards me. A wink none too erotic, just enough to let me know she appreciated my being there. When he, she, joined me at the table she was still all made up. Everyone in the bar was staring- partially to see her in all her glory and partially wondering what she was doing talking to such a disheveled man as myself. That unwanted attention might have delayed the whole situation. “I, um, I used your name.” I announced rather awkwardly. “Honeybear, you can always use me as a reference.” She growled, her tone seeming to imply the erotic no matter what she would have said. “No, no, you don’t understand. I got published.” “You!” she almost lost herself, almost became Pat, who I knew was ecstatic for me. “Baby!” she said, her voice climbing an octave, her composure returning instantly. “I could just hug ya’ till your eyes pop! Champagne!” She said, her snapping fingers held high, as if every eye in the place wasn’t already on her. I steeled myself and let the whole truth spill out. I told her how it had come to me in a panic, how I had to draw from something and how his, her, name just sprung up. I cannot even remember how it all came out, but I do remember it all had the tone of a confession. Her smile barely broke. “Well, sugar, you enjoy the champagne, I just have to slip into something more comfortable.” It was too abrupt I knew he was hurt. She was hurt. She moved for the back. “Tell me you are not angry.” I pleaded, snatching her wrist as she passed. “Baby, it’s all in your head.” She said with a sweet smile but there was acid in her voice. Acid I knew she could not spew. Acid I would get later from Pat. She slunk, whispered, floated into the back rooms of the bar and I was left clodding my way out to the street. I had never meant to hurt her, him. I wasn’t close to too many people and I could not afford to lose this friend. I walked most of the night, I wasn’t even smart enough to stow my bags in a locker at the bus station or to return to my home. I walked for the entire night. “It’s all in your head.” Kept coming back to me over and over again. Maybe I had misread his face. Maybe it would all be fine. Shortly after dawn, as the newspaper trucks began to roar out of their downtown building I found myself on the plaza between the Art College and the mental hospital. How fitting, eh? I was admiring the sculpture they added last weekend, a kind of ‘Blind Justice’ statement, feeling overwhelmed and insecure and alone and I came to the neck (head). On any other morning I wouldn’t have noticed but this morning I did. I could not see into the thing. I mean, the sun was aimed right at its face and the eyes were empty, light should have been streaming into the head, lighting the chasing and flashing inside but instead there was just inky blackness. For some reason I thought of the small jockeys that sat at the head of the driveway belonging to the nice gentiles I grew up next to. These tiny concrete men painted in blackface always had a special draw for me; they were the perfect foil for a boy of unlimited imagination and few friends. I would play cowboys and robber with them, address them as friends and ride my bike in large figure eights around their bases. Unless I was caught. My mother would throw terrible fits. She couldn’t stand the little men, couldn’t stand what they stood for, and was bothered to no end by my fascination with them. “Stay away from the sculpture!” she would shout form the window. “You could break it!” she would reprimand. So I looked to my left and right and seeing that I had the plaza to myself I stepped inside. I didn’t even drop my bags, I just stepped right into the things neck like I knew what I was doing. Like I knew what I was doing. Let’s add that to the list- writer, plagiarist and idiot. Sticking my head through that portal left me in an inky blackness. I am not just talking about a lack of light. I started through and my head got thick and sticky inside. I truly believe I started in, but fell through. Fell. Yes, fell is the right word. I dropped my bags, trying to use my arms to catch myself when I heard the buzzing. I looked up to see a gremlin(eager). Go ahead, make that face again. I wasn’t his lover and it was a gremlin. She had a light bulb in a stand, with no cord, and was watching a mayfly; taped to a string, arc back and forth banging it head on the walls. “Good to have you.” she said. “Good to have you, yes!” I swallowed deeply, disbelieving what I saw. “Have you?” I queried. “Yes, you come, now I have you, you have me, we have we.” She said with what I can only describe as greed in her voice. I tried to leave. I did, I tried my best but it seemed impossible. “Relaxes, he does, relaxes.” said this..thing. “What the hell are you, Yoda?” I asked, sure of my bravery as I had determined it was a dream. “Mine names Greccel. And now am your and yours mine.” She said. I know it sounds silly, me repeating it to you like this, but you get quite used to how she talks after a while. I have found you can get used to anything. Three attempts to leave later I was beginning to surrender to her, at least mentally. I was still afraid to get close enough to it for the there to be a risk of a touch. “You’s gotta takes me, or you’s can’t be gone.” She would explain with a sly patience that hinted at age. And I succumbed. If I didn’t look indigent before I certainly did with my shopping bag full of gremlin. By the time I had lugged the beast all the way home my shoulders ached, my feet were sore and my head was pounding from the strain. As I said before, I am a writer. I have a body built for playing chess, not for dragging mythical and surprisingly heavy creatures around town. As soon as we were through the door of my brownstone I collapsed in a chair. “We’s needs to be eatin’.” She announced as soon as she had sniffed the air enough to tell we were alone. “Find something then,” I announced, my eyes growing heavy “the kitchen is that way.” And I was asleep. Dead to the world for the first of what would seem many times. I awoke to a loud banging at the door. “Coming, coming!” I hollered at the impatient knocker. “Hold your horses.” I opened the door to find Pat, in tears. “You betrayed me!” he said, “You betrayed me and I was always good to you.” I held my hands up slowly, doing my best to placate him. I wanted him to sit, to let me explain it was a mistake and I could correct it, but I was afraid. I could not for the life of me remember if what had happened with the gremlin was real or a dream. “Sit, Come in, let me explain.” I said. “It’s over, I have already fixed it.” I said, lying through my nicotine stained teeth. Pats crying gave way to heaving without the sobs, his lip quivered and he walked down the main hall to the living room. “How? How did you fix it?” he asked when he had settled on the sofa “Well, I am going to fix it, you know, today.” “Today, what happened to ‘I fixed it’? What happened to me trusting you for so long? What..what..?” he trailed of slowly, staring at his feet. And then he exploded. “You stole her from me!” he screamed, leaping to his feet and charging me like some kind of maniac. He was on faster than I could have expected. As I said, I am not a strong man. Pat was an entertainer, not just a writer, all that movement; all those years of dance had left him toned, and much stronger than me. I expected to take a punch right in the mouth. I can remember time almost stopping as I prepared myself, I remember thinking that it would be good to have finally known violence. It would be one more thing I could write about honestly. But it didn’t stop when he struck me. He was on me, all around me, I couldn’t breath, I couldn’t see. I panicked. I panicked. I grasped and clawed out for help, looking desperately for some handhold to keep on my feet and I found an iron lamp. It was over before I knew I had made the decision to strike him. Her. He was just lying there in my foyer, a slow rivulet of crimson red leading across the dark wood and pooling by the baseboard. I think that is where I passed out. I awoke after what could not have been 5 minutes and that is when I heard Greccel. It was very similar to the sound my mother would make with a wet towel trying to make suction on the drain to clear it. It was clogged, like the breath of an asthmatic having an attack. I looked up to find her swallowing Pat. Whole. She was in the midst of choking convulsions, slowly moving her way up the body. As her mouth expanded around his waist and I watched his belt disappear behind her lips a small lipstick case fell from his pocket. Now here is the oddly funny part. All I could think of was getting his bag off the porch, so noone would know what was happening inside my house. Can you see it now? My witless neighbors staring at the porch, saying “Well, someone left a backpack on his porch, must be feedin’ ‘em to a gremlin!” I snatched his pack and brought it in. just as the door closed behind me I watched Pats cowlick disappear behind Greccels blackened teeth. I must have cried for hours. I just sat there in my front hall, bawling with my head on the steps. Greccel sprawled on the floor, a look of macabre satisfaction on her face. Like all first time killers I felt the remorse, and then the anger. I pawned the whole thing off on Pat. “This never would have happened if he had let me explain.” I said to Greccels sleeping form. And I grew angry. Angry at myself, angry at the world and especially angry at Pat. I kicked at his backpack, resting against the table and papers slid across the floor. My papers. Well, my words. That son of a bitch, that bitch, had stolen my work. He was passing around my work! Oh, it was retooled for sure, but any fool on any jury would have seen immediately that it was mine. That idiot was stealing my work all this time. I looked at Greccel, she is not much bigger than a grocery sack most days, and she was swollen with the corpse of my friend. The thief of my words. I guess I can add a perverse sense of justice to violence as things I can write about honestly now. Now it may seem strange to you, but we were in this together. How does one grow feelings of companionship with a gremlin? I wouldn’t recommend it, but killing your best friend the plagiarizing thief helps. Nothing like ‘aiding and abetting’ to really get the friendship juices flowing. From there it got much easier. Greccel was smarter than I was at first. She made all the plans. First came the beautiful mother and her daughter. It was Christmas, and the morning was exceptionally foggy. The child complained that her tie had come undone on her jacket. Her mother bent down to fix it, gently wrapping the cords around one another, telling her child how the rabbit comes out the hole, goes around the tree and back in the whole, pantomiming the movements with the string(touch). I used my fathers 5 iron on her. Greccel was on the child before it could scream; swallowing headfirst really muffles those incriminating cries. And I have to admit, I tasted the mother. Just a little, off the left calf. It was good. Once you get yourself to actually taste it the guilt passes quickly and it is just like any other meat. Well, like any other meat you have hunted. I am going to add that to the things I can honestly write about. Hunting. Write what you know is what they say, yes? That marked our preference for holiday kills I guess. It is always a little sweeter when you can watch the whole community panic and nothing does that like the holidays. ‘Homeless man may be missing’ just doesn’t sell as many papers as ‘Easter disappearances still unsolved.” Easter- now that was fun! The park is less than a block from the front of my brownstone. On the day before Easter there was an egg hunt sponsored by the Park Council and the local parish. Greccel spent a month making little fake rabbits and we littered them around our small garden by the walk. In their midst we stuck a fake trap, straight out of a cartoon(c’mere). I sat on the porch waiving and smiling at the young people and their parents parading by. Many stopped to comment on our humorous arrangement. After an hour or so on the porch a pinch faced woman power-walked up to the gate from across the street, tugging her child behind by the arm like so much dead weight. “You should be ashamed of yourself!” she announced in a tone clearly made loud enough to not just scold, but to attract attention. “My child has been shielded from such things! You have no right to force your meat-eating agenda on us just because you live near the park!” I recognized her immediately. She had shown up during the planning meeting of the egg hunt to protest someone ‘forcing’ their Judeo-Christian views on she and her daughter. I understand she lived a full 10 miles form here, and I have never seen her in the neighborhood before. As I wondered what else she considered force I could already see the Greccels drool pooling out from the ivy that was hiding her at the edge of the porch. Soon the children and their parents all made for the bushes and the rose garden to look for their eggs. I tell you, nothing tastes like a righteous person. Nothing. There were others of course. I had a brief job at a local sleep clinic. People just make certain assumptions when a narcoleptic disappears! Illegal immigrants also pass as more than just house help. I followed an old lead from Pat and did rather well for us at well-known rest stops. Then came the computers. Three rapists caught in 9 months based on computer models. They keep feeding information into the computer and eventually it feeds them an area to search. Patrols are increased, door-to-door interviews. Eventually they end up catching someone. So I am leaving. Maybe South America? I hear there are still portions of Africa where my income allows me to live like a king- especially if your enemies keep disappearing. Yes, some rural third world locale will suit us for years I am sure. So, add one more. Jew, writer, plagiarist, murderer and fleeing felon. If this all sounds like a confession; well, I guess it is. I apologize for burdening you, but I had to let someone know. Signed Vladimir Zivkovitch MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON MY SOUL, FATHER FLANNERY- [/QUOTE]
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