A Writers Guide to Sensory Overload
TURN UP THE NOISE! A WRITERS SOLITARY MOTIVATION
TURN UP THE NOISE; A WRITERS GUIDE TO SENSORY OVERLOAD
You are a writer, so it’s safe to say that you are going to get down-and-out.
Some days you’ll feel like you are on top of the world, and others…not so much.
The problem is, the more dedicated you are to your craft, the more critical you are on yourself.
If this what you want to do with your life then every day spent not doing it will feel like a failure.
We writers are a scary bunch if you think about it.
We have the ability to lay waste to cities and breathe life into the lifeless without uttering a single word.
That is what we do.
We create, motivate, entertain, and pontificate.
So when we come down on ourselves, the image generally looks like this,
Your head in a guillotine and your hand ready to pull the release lever.
There is a simple technique that can help you temporarily squelch this ever-foreboding inner cynic.
TURN UP THE NOISE!
Here’s how it works.
If you write every day, every other day, or every week you will eventually need to refuel.
The best way to do this is also the most obvious, read!
But, even then, eventually you’re going to tire out your eyes and the frustration will start to nip at you in the form of dangling prepositions, run-on sentences, and nonsensical phrasing.
You have to remember, just because your Imagination has an endless resource of strength doesn’t mean your body does.
So, switch it up a bit. Write with your ears.
Oh come on, it’s not that hard to wrap your brain around.
When we write we try to embolden our work with all sorts of tempting simulations.
A novice writer will look over his or her writing and ask, “How can I make this more visual?”
Whereas a seasoned writer will look over his or her work and ask, “How can I make this more sensual?”
If you do it in your writing then why not do it in your life, tap all your senses.
I guarantee you when your eyes tire, your ears will be ready and willing to take their place.
Here’s what you do;
Headphones are the best for this, but really any musical apparatus will work.
Rather than secluding yourself in the ever-somber solitary cell where some writers think words blossom you are going to aim for sensory overload!
It makes much more sense, though it may seem counter intuitive, it works.
Look at this way.
Writing is an Art. Art Inspires Art.
For example, if I’m trying to figure out a torture scene for my horror/thriller then I pick a few comic books, rent horror movies and listen to heavy-metal.
If I’m trying to think up a tender as a new-born baby romance, then I pick up romantic comedies, browse the internet for postcards and photos of couples in love, and listen to celine deon. (I don’t really listen to Celine Deon but you understand.)
THE “WORD” PROCESSOR – IT SLICES, IT DICES, I MAXIMIZES!
I’m sure you follow me by now but this image is just too good to pass up.
We are word processors, pun intended. We want a nice heaping tall glass of creativity full from brim to bottom.
The best way to do this is to put raw art into our brain and watch the sweet goodness milks from our fingertips into our keyboards.
You will quickly realize that you have one art form that is more inspiring than others. For me, it’s music, but not just any music.
I have established an obscure collection of music that is either entirely instrumental or in a language other than English.
Sigur Ros, Hammock, Hilmar Orn Hilmarrson – punch in any of these bands into iTunes and “Genius” will quickly link you to like-minded musicians.
So, make yourself a playlist, get your headphones, plug in and close your eyes.
Start out by just listening, see how the bass blooms into landscapes, and how quick fluttering violin strikes mimic people and animals.
Just listen at first, let your creativity steep.
It may take you a minute, it may take you an hour, but eventually your creativity will spike!
This is the same experience you get when you go to a symphony with a sketch pad.
The concept is simple, Art in, Art Out!
ERASER
ERASER
(tentative title)
(Draft: Rough)
UNEDITED PROOF
SLATED PUBLISH DATE: 19 NOVEMBER 2009
ERASER
By
Ryan J. Van Seters
It started in California; at least we think it did. It spread so fast that no one knew what to do about it, and finding out where it started wasn’t nearly as important as containing it. It’s strange when you think about it, who would have thought something so simple would be so critical.
The first report was about a firefighter, “Blank Blake” they called him. He went into a five alarm fire with all the training in the world, then he just forgot everything, his training, his job, the fact that he was in a burning building, everything.
The building started to collapse around him and he just stood there, water line in hand, and let it burn him. By the time his friends got to him over seventy percent of his body had been burned, and when he woke up in the hospital the next morning he didn’t remember anything; not his training, not his station crew, not his wife, not even his kids. Dr. Adams called it “Acute Amnesia” said it wasn’t uncommon in traumatic events, if he only looked past the obvious, who knows what might have happened.
A couple of days later the doctor, M.J. Adams, watched blankly while a patient went into cardiac arrest. By the time the nurses came in the patient was dead, and Dr. Adams was curled in the fettle position crying hysterically.
It didn’t take long from there. Eventually things became more violent; husbands killed wives, grandmother attacked their grandchildren, countless car accidents riddled the highways, planes fell from the sky. The president called for an immediate quarantine of California and sent a specialized team from the CDC out to investigate.
They quickly labeled it the “Eraser Virus.” That was about as far as they got. Every case was so different, some people lost five years of memories others lost fifteen. One thing was the same; all of them lost the ability to create new memories. They could remember one day, but as soon as they went asleep, that was it, it was gone!
The quarantine wasn’t enough, people were starving, raiding, mugging, burglarizing; it was pandemonium. The president had no choice, he sent in the National Guard. They separated the infected and locked them down, not even families were allowed to stay together. Office buildings quickly became makeshift prisons with each office acting as a dormitory with no food or bathrooms. It took less than a month for every company in California to become bankrupt. By that time, Eraser had spread.
A dozen cities in Europe, three times that in China, Africa, Australia, every continent was infected in less than a month. No one knew how Eraser was spreading, what made it communicable, or how to contain it. It wasn’t just other countries either, 263 of the 280 CDC employees were infected, and they had been wearing level four response suits, the kind that protected you from nuclear fallout. Almost the entire national guard dropped off the radar, all of them abandoning their radios and roving the streets aimlessly with gun in hand, as if they were the lost children of Armageddon.
It took less than three months for the world as we know it to fall apart. The internet went quiet, television screens showed nothing but static fuzz, radio stations disappeared, mail stopped coming, newspapers stopped being printed, and, most importantly, we were running out of food.
We didn’t know what to do, so we fended for ourselves while the world around us died. It didn’t take long for the violence to spread. Instincts took over, people were starving and those that weren’t locked in a room fought each other to the death for little more than table scraps. We all just assumed that this was how the world would end. That was before we found out Jonathan Adler wasn’t one of the erased.
Before Eraser hit Jonathan Adler owned the largest multimedia company in the U.S.; television, print, digital, you name it, he owned a piece of it. Everything I had ever read or heard about John was bad. Even his own publications ridiculed him as a megalomaniac, others called him a tyrannical power-monger. Who knew he would save us all, well, what’s left of us.
I don’t know how he did it. I remember walking outside one morning, scanning the street with my gun at my hip when I heard something. I walked towards it cautiously and as I got closer I heard the electronic hum of a speaker. It was the storm siren, we had them all over the city, and John was talking through them. I couldn’t believe it, I hadn’t heard another sane human voice in at least a month.
The message was simple. “I can beat Eraser. If you can hear this, go to the airport.” That was it, nothing dramatic. It took me three hours to find a car I could hotwire, and another four to get to the airport. There were so many cars in the street, it was like navigating a giant maze.
When I walked into building I heard his voice again. “Get to the Tarmac, use the emergency exits. Go to the tarmac, use the…” There were six other people standing outside when I arrived. All of them were staring up at the communication tower, that’s when I saw him.
He told us that he couldn’t come down and that no one could come up. We had to make sure that at least one person stayed uninfected. Then he gave us each a job and told us to return the next morning at sunrise. The first day we all had the same job.
John used the airports back-up generators to get the printers working and printed out hundreds of flyers. We were told to take as many as we could carry, find any emergency vehicle with working lights and P.A. system and drive through the city throwing flyers out the window and reading his instructions through the megaphone.
“We have food, we have water, we can protect you. Go to the Airport and wait in terminal two.”
By sunrise the next morning John said six people were in terminal two. He told all of them that they needed to rest, and that when they woke up the next morning they needed to tell anyone wearing a blue shirt and hat, “Don’t abandon all hope.”
It was clever really. If they were infected they didn’t remember what to say, and we moved them to terminal one where we feed them whatever we could find. If they did remember, they were recruited.
It took three years in all, three years before we could communicate with every major city in the U.S. That was Johns whole plan, for every hundred uninfected we got he sent one of us to another airport in another city to do exactly what he was doing. Eventually we got a pilot, that sped things up. Then we got into the FAA building, and just like that, overnight, we were connected again.
Fifteen years later and we had created a whole new world. Surprisingly, a great many had survived, there are still too many nomadic gangs to get an accurate count, but we had enough to live. The hardest part was containing the infected and keeping them productive at the same time, after all, we still needed to eat.
Everyone infected was quarantined, just like in the beginning. Then, John appointed governors, just like the pre-eraser days. Unfortunately, that was the last thing John did before he got infected. It’s a shame because his idea worked. Governors elected mayors, mayors elected councilmen, and so on. The job was hard but we were organized.
Every Eraser Citizen was awaked one by one, every morning. It was the responsibility of every township’s leader to make sure they were each debriefed and requisitioned for the day. Those that remembered their skills were treated like celebrities among the Erasers, especially scientists and engineers. The rest, those that didn’t have any memory of any trade were put to work doing menial tasks, we called them the day laborers; because that’s exactly what they were, good for one day.
We’ve come a long way, well, that is we’ve managed to keep ourselves from extinction. There is even some talk among the intellectuals about reintroducing money. I don’t think we’re there yet, and as long as I’m Leader 1 we’re doing things my way. We have to move fast, the virus is still spreading.
I haven’t told anyone yet, but I have a plan. I’ve figured out how to stop the virus. The only problem is that it will do only that, it will just stop it. No one will get their memories back, but at least we’ll have hope.
The solution was simple, right in front of us all along. All we have to do is …
This post was published or three hours Sept 16, 2009.
Exclusive Preview Post 16 Sept 2009
©Ryan J. Van Seters 2009
WRITE DAMMIT!
WRITE DAMMIT!
If anyone other than a writer had written the cliché “The pen is mightier than the sword.” then every writer could take solace in their own heroic literary endeavors. Unfortunately, a writer did write that, so we have to search for inspiration all the more.
Let me pose a question. Why are we so confounded with whether or not we are; able to write, skilled at storytelling, knowledgeable in literary theory, understanding of grammar and syntax, et cetera.
There is a simple truth in writing, it is the honest interpretation of life, real or imaginary, as invented or seen through eyes of an individual who is ‘sui generis.’ That alone is worthy of reverent introspection and, in some cases, public applause. However, to write is one thing, to put it out for the rest of the world to see, that is an entirely different thing all together.
THERE IN LIES THE BEAUTY!
We write because we must, because we can not beat the words from our brains, or quell the itch from our hands. Unfortunately, many of us are naive to the meaning and purpose of writing. We are so caught up in “What will land me an agent?.” or “What will the editor think of this?” SEE! Now you are too mixed up in the “business” of writing, so ask yourself, am I a businessman or a writer?
Too often do we think the medium of our trade to be Agents, Publishers, and Corporations, all the while forgetting our medium is the simple genius of the written word.
Certainly there is a time and place for the “business” of writing, but not at the beginning of your career or even story. Ask yourself this, when you hear the most recent story of a child genius creating works of art equal to that of Da Vinci, does that child, with every brush stroke, think of the commission his work will warrant? Does that child think of public masses swooning over his ability and talent. I think not, I think he paints for the simple pleasure it brings. Be it the way colors mix together, or the way the acrylic really brings out its dimensionality in certain light, or the subtle sound of horse hair pulling across a canvas surface.
WHAT ABOUT YOU?
Why do you write. You write because if you don’t life is empty. You write to create fantastic worlds, and illustrious images that make a heart quicken and a breath catch in your throat. If you write for anything else, you rob yourself of the hidden euphoria our trade presents; you don’t get to see your characters come to life and take over your story, you don’t get to feel what it is like to live in a world that is so surreal that reality couldn’t contend with it.
You must, and should, as authors, understand this; the world is critical even at its best, at its worst, it can tear the dignity from your very finger-tips. I know too many writers who are so afraid of the public forum that they refuse to either submit, or write anything of substance (anything that could in some way come back to haunt them, or give some stranger the opportunity to label them a hypocrite.)
You need to turn the looking glass around. Life is full of struggle, as writers, we interpret that struggle – even if it is the feeling of hearing a thousand book critics say your writing is crap. Think about it, even criticism requires some emotion, which means you did your part, you made someone get emotionally invested in your words.
Anyone can learn grammar, spelling, syntax, structure and on and on, but not everyone is a writer. If, at any point while reading this your heart perhaps skipped a beat or sped up, then relax, you’re a writer…so write dammit!
“Little Things” – Unedited Excerpt – Ryan J. Van Seters
She loved me. She loved me with all her heart, with everything in her, she loved me. I was a symbol, sure, but I was much more than that. I was built for her, made for her. I fit. We went everywhere together, we were the perfect match. Not an hour went by when she didn’t look down at me and smile, with all the love and affection in the world she smiled…at me!
The first time she saw me she couldn’t breathe, she was breathless. Her mouth hung open as she clutched her chest as if she were holding her heart itself. Tears slipped down her cheeks as a mixture of elation and surprise contended across her face.
She wasn’t like normal women. She was so much more than that, and I was the proof. I was the shimmering glimmering evidence to what a wonderful women she was.
I remember that first moment, the first time she saw me. A thousand thoughts crossed her mind. While Inaudible to the world around her I heard every-single-one! Am I good enough…why me…I can’t believe this is happening.
All the self-deprecating thoughts of a lifetime burst into one moment – oddly enough, a moment of joy. It was as if she had to think these thoughts to get them out of her head and out of her life forever because now she was new, now she was glimmering beauty.
I remember when he picked me for her. There were hundreds like me, all of them beautiful, all of them revealing in the light. But he saw it, he saw me dancing under incandescent lights and knew, right away, that I was the best. I was the best, for her there was no one better. He knew, she knew it, and I knew it, and I loved that I knew it.
For months I went everywhere with him. I was special. No other thing was allowed to be near me, they weren’t worthy, not like I was. His hand trembled every time he reached for me. He was so excited! When he looked down at me he saw the rest of his life and it was just as beautiful as I was.
I remember when he looked down at me, smiling, and said, “This weekend beautiful! Finally, it’s time.” I could hardly contain myself. I didn’t like being hidden in the dark. I wanted to be in the light, I wanted to be out in the open where I could dance and prattle and play. I wanted to be with her.
We flew from Oklahoma to New York, then from New York to Paris. I don’t know how he managed to keep me hidden that whole time but he did. She never suspected a thing.
I listened as they laughed and touched one another lovingly. They made the whole world disappear, life’s little spotlight shown on them and no one else and soon I was going to be a part of it. When it finally happened, when he showed me to her…it..was…glorious!
We were under a beautiful fountain, bathed in the blue light of a heavenly night. The sound of water lapping gently over smooth marble cradled all of us. I knew what love was, I mean, I had seen it. That is to say, I was never a part of it, just an eager bystander waiting to be picked, until now.
She didn’t touch me at first, she couldn’t. All of those thoughts of being “undeserving” where reeling in her head, and she had to get rid of them. Her eyes smiled at me, behind big fat beautiful tears they smiled. I was so happy! She loved me, instantly she loved me she loved me she loved me!
I twirled for her. Under the blue Paris sky I twirled and twinkled and danced my most beautiful dance. I felt her heart dance with me, and his heart too. It wasn’t just me anymore, now it was us!
I don’t remember any of the conversations from that night. It was all too perfect for words. They talked a lot, they said so many wonderful words and I just listened and danced for them. Every time they looked at me I danced and they smiled and laughed and I knew, I knew, this was beauty, this was love, and I was a part of it.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if Paris slipped out of his heart first, or hers. I don’t think the details matter so much. What matters is that it was possible for them to forget about Paris. If they never forgot, if they remembered it like I did, then all the details in the world couldn’t possibly come between them.
I don’t like to think about that. There is still time and things can still change and the best I can do is to remember how great it was and wait for them to come back and get me; to come and save me from this cold and wet place.
I didn’t think it could get better than Paris but it did. Every day was better than the one before it, and their smiles kept growing and growing to the point where I wondered if they would still be able to fit on their faces.
On the way home I didn’t have to hide anymore. I was with her the whole way, and she kept smiling at me, and I’d try to dance for her but it was so small and dark on the plane that all I could do was shimmy a little, but she liked my shimmy just as much as she liked my dance.
When we flew into New York she asked him which gate we had to go to so we could fly home to Oklahoma. I knew it before she did, I recognized the look on his face; the look he had when he was trying not to give away a surprise – the look he had with me.
He told her that we were “…still on vacation.” and that we were going to stay in New York and enjoy ourselves for a while. She smiled and asked “How long is a while?” and he said, “Until we’re damned good and pleased, and feel ready to go back to Oklahoma.” She didn’t argue. He still had the look on his face. I didn’t dance, and I tried my best not to shimmy but I was so excited that it was almost impossible and I shimmied just a little. Luckily I didn’t blow it, she looked at me and smiled, and we walked out of the airport, grabbed our luggage and got a cab.
It…was…a…BEAUTIFUL DAY! The sun was shining so bright I couldn’t stop moving. She sat between us and let me have the window. I stared down at the water thinking that it danced the way I danced and I felt right at home.
She looked so confused when we finally pulled up to the giant apartment building. She was expecting a hotel. She looked at him questioningly and he didn’t slip, not an inch, he said that they needed to stop in and see a friend of his. Before she could ask why he told her that he had his friend get us tickets to this really great play and that we were going to kill two birds with one stone and see his friend – so we didn’t have an obligation to see him later on while we were still enjoying our vacation – and get the tickets. The story was so complicated and intricate that she didn’t even consider not believing him.
The second I saw the doorman I knew! This was the next big surprise. Frank – he’s the doorman – had little crescent curls at both ends of his lips, which I might add where pursed together rather deliberately. He looked at us a little too comfortably, like we looked familiar, but all he said was, “Madam.” before sort of bowing and opening the door.
As we walked to the elevator, which had gold and silver trim around it by the way – really pretty, anyway, as we walked toward it I peeked back and saw the doorman, Frank, working with the cabbie to get our luggage out. I shimmied again, I was so happy I wasn’t sure I could ever stop shimming or dancing again.
When we got out of the Elevator he turned to her with a surprised look on his face and said “I forgot to pay the cab!” She started to turn but he touched her on the shoulders and told her she didn’t need to go “…all the way…” back downstairs. He pointed down the hall and told us that his friends place was the last door on the right and that we should just wait there for a minute while he ran downstairs and paid the cabbie. We walked slowly.
The building was amazing. Even the hallway was elegant, and, if I do say so myself, very ladylike. The ceilings were high and the walls were wide and far apart and the floor was nice and shinny hard wood that clicked at little every time she took a step. She stopped for a split second when she saw the door.
It looked similar to the wood floor, only it was darker and it had the same pretty gold trim that the elevator had, but there was something else. As we inched closer we saw the red ribbon. It was at least four inches thick and tied into a perfect, giant, blossoming red bow. I couldn’t contain myself I was so excited. I didn’t even hear him sneak up behind us.
“Well,” he said. “Don’t you want to open your present.”
I knew it! I knew it all along, from the second he said we weren’t going to fly back to Oklahoma. He pushed her gently on the small of her back because she didn’t look like she was going to move. Just as she reached for the door he handed her a small brass key.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get better, there it was. Our home, where we would become a family, where we would write our own story as a family. He told us that he had taken a job in New York. There would be no need to worry about money and we didn’t have to go back to Oklahoma. She grabbed him and he embraced her and we all held on to each other. The next year was a dream, full of dancing and beauty.
He worked a lot. I think he was important. The one time I saw where he worked everyone stared at her and at me, and every time they looked at us they looked twice. Their mouths where always a little more open than they should be or their eyes where a little wider but there was something about us that seemed to make all of them think he was something special. I was happy when they looked that way because he was something special. So whenever they looked I made sure to dance my best dance and they all watched in wonder.
Even though he worked it change things between her and I, if anything we only grew closer to one another. We went everywhere together. We went shopping at the best stores and she bought the prettiest dresses and everyone that looked at me smiled while I danced and shimmied. Then Christmas came and it was magical.
I love Christmas lights, absolutely love them. I love to dance with them and change colors with them and she likes it too. She never stops looking down at me and smiling. I know that I’m more than just a pretty thing now, we’re bonding. I was made to be with her, I know that, I knew that the moment that he came to get me, and I know that now, in this cold and wet place.
I wish we would have had more Christmases together. Don’t get me wrong I’m sure that we will, once they come back for me, but it would have been nice to have just one more. Or maybe even one more night in Paris. Maybe then I could have convinced them that there was so much more for us, as a family.
I remember when they started to forget about Paris. For a couple of weeks he had been working longer and later into the night. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to talk to each other, I know they did, they were just tired and honestly, who wouldn’t be. It’s not easy to be apart when you love one another so much.
I know now that time away from the person you love takes double the energy out of you. We still went shopping but she didn’t bu as many pretty dresses or necklaces as she had before. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford it, she could, especially with all the extra hours he was working. She just didn’t want them. She said that there was no point in buying pretty dresses if you were only going to wear them to the store to buy more pretty dresses.
Then one night it happened. They got into an argument. I still don’t know what the argument was about, all I remember is them screaming at each other, that and…well they didn’t even notice me. It was like I wasn’t even there. I don’t blame them, I mean you can’t just pay attention to someone all the time.
It wouldn’t have been a big deal at all really, but the next day she went out without me. I didn’t blame he for that either, everyone is entitled to time by themselves. I don’t know what she did that day, but I can tell you this. She looked really pretty when she left. She put on one of my favorite and dresses, one that showed off her beautiful neck and skin. I was sad that she didn’t bring me, but who wouldn’t be. I didn’t want to be apart from the one that I loved any more than she wanted to be apart from him, but sometimes things happen.
I stayed in the bedroom all day long and danced. What else was I suppose to do, I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. So I danced and danced until it got dark and I was too tired. I heard the door open and I was so excited to see her, but it wasn’t her it was him.
I don’t know why but when he looked at me he looked angry. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t dance or shimmy, I just sat there. He didn’t say anything either, he’s not that way, and besides I don’t think he was angry at me. He was just confused, just like I was confused. So we both sat there, in silence, wondering where she was and why she hadn’t taken me with her.
He was almost asleep when the door opened. She walked in like nothing had happened. He said something about her breath, and asked her what she had been doing all day. Then they went into the other room and I could hear them screaming at one another. I tried not to listen but they kept getting louder.
Honestly I don’t know why they were fighting. They just kept saying the same thing over and over again and then I heard something break and she screamed and sounded frightened. I don’t know why she would be frightened. He would never hurt her, he would never even think about hurting her. That was the first night that they forgot about Paris. That was the first night that I didn’t dance for her. I couldn’t dance, I just sat there, in the dark, and tried to forget.
She left me home a lot after that. It’s ok, really, it is, you can’t just carry someone around with you wherever you go and I understand that. I just wanted her to be happy and him to be happy and all of us to have another Christmas where I could dance with the lights and change colors with them.
I don’t know how much time passed. Everything seemed to blur together, everyday was the same. Then one day she came into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. She didn’t look the way she normally looked. She looked ill. Her cheeks were sunken and she had bags under her eyes. I wanted to say something, I wanted to shimmy for her and see her smile at me but she started crying. She cried so much her whole face was black from her tears and makeup.
I knew something was really wrong. She walked into the bathroom and I watched her in the mirror as she wiped her face clean and then stared at her reflection for a while. She didn’t just look sick anymore, she looked different. For the first time I wondered if she still loved me.
I don’t know what I was thinking because the next thing she did was walk right out of the bathroom and picked me up. I was so excited. I thought things were finally going to go back to normal. I was so excited I barely even noticed the rest of the house, and how it looked different. I mean, well it’s not really that big of a deal, it’s just a house after all but…well it didn’t look like our house. It looked…stale I guess. I think she knew it too because we went right outside where the air was fresh and finally I started to feel better.
The sky was painted in all sorts of different colors and I looked up at it and danced and wriggled as we walked. We got into a cab, I was brimming over with joy I didn’t even pay attention to what she said to the driver, I had no idea where we were going but I knew that it was going t be perfect wherever it was.
The ride felt like forever, but I didn’t mind, I was so happy she was taking me with her. I was so happy she was feeling better, which she must have been because she didn’t leave without me. She didn’t even answer her phone. She must have had a least a twenty, no thirty phone calls but she just kept ignoring them. I think she ignored them because she wanted to be with me.
Finally, as we were going over the bridge she asked the driver to pull over. He protested for a second, saying he couldn’t just stop in the middle of the bridge. Then he looked at her with a really worried look on his face and just when I thought he was going to say something awful she interrupted him and said she would only be a second, she just wanted to take in the view. He almost didn’t stop but she promised him that she would be quick and handed him some money so he pulled over. We got out of the car and walked over to the side.
The city was amazing! The sky was pretty and the water was beautiful and I wanted to dance with it so I did. Right then and there I danced with the water the way I danced with the sun, and the Christmas lights, I danced. Then she took me in her hand.
It was so perfect! Everything was going to be better I just knew. She looked down at me and a small little tear dripped down her cheek and she smiled. It was almost like two smiles in one.
One of the smiles make her look sad, but behind that one I could see the other smile, the real smile. I was so happy. Then she lifted me up high into the air so I could see everything, every beautiful thing about our home, where our family lived. Where we had gone through some rough times but where going to get through it, I just knew we were going to get through it.
I didn’t feel her let go of me. I don’t know if she meant to, I don’t think that she did. I think she just slipped. Even if she did mean to I know she did it for a reason, a good reason.
I fell through the air, under the purples and oranges of the sunset. I couldn’t help but wriggle, and wiggle, and dance, and shimmer, the colors where just too beautiful to stay still.
It didn’t hurt at all when I hit the water. To be honest I don’t even think that I made even the tiniest splash, honestly I don’t think I did.
I waited. I thought maybe she knew how much I liked the water and how much I wanted to dance in it. Maybe that was why she took me out here today, kind of like a treat just for me. Then it started to get cold and dark.
I wasn’t worried, honest. I thought maybe she went to get help or maybe she just wanted to let me dance with the water for a while. I couldn’t tell her that I couldn’t dance because it was too dark and cold and wet, but that wasn’t her fault. I mean, I was all the way at the bottom of the bridge and she was still up top with the cab driver who had to getting very angry with her for breaking her promise to be quick.
Who knows, maybe she ran to get him so they could come get me together. Maybe she knew they were going to fight again and she didn’t want me to have to hear it so she decided to let me play, in the water.
It’s not a big deal. I mean, you can’t just expect everyone to drop whatever their doing just for you. Everyone is entitled to some time by themselves. Besides, it’s dark, I don’t think they could find me in the dark anyway. They are probably just waiting for it to be light, then they’ll come.
Then they’ll save me. Then will be a family again. To be honest, I can’t wait! I’m excited really. I just can’t wait ‘till Christmas.
******THE WEDDING RING********
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©Ryan J. Van Seters 2009
“Dan Mead” – Unedited Excerpt – Ryan J. Van Seters
His palms were sweaty. He hated it. He hated it enough to justify it; he wasn’t scared, he didn’t get scared; it was just biology, biology that no one could control, let alone him. His blood pressure increased, that was all; anyone’s would have; it didn’t mean he was frightened.
The man in the trench-coat would be out any minute now. E.S. had his stage set, and waiting; secluded, with good light, all of his tools lying neatly on a rather expensive towel; the kind that didn’t have loose threads, loose threads where like giant maps for cops these days; they could look at a single, infinitesimally small thread and it would lead them right to the killer. Not that he was a killer.
He had killed, that wasn’t the act that defined his occupation. There wasn’t a name for what he was. Torturer would be the most literal, but that didn’t justice to his work. Unless, of course by torture they meant exorcist of the evil inside of people; if that was a torturer than he would gladly adopt the pedigree.
If he had been a lesser man his heart would have raced at the sight of the business man walking out of his office building. He wasn’t a lesser man. He was vigilant, still, it was times like these that made him think of impractical things; the more victims he took, the less he felt the need for caution.
When he started he was cautious and nothing but, he slunk around corners, waited patiently for hours, days, even weeks. Now he was confident. Sure of himself, certain he could step out of his car and walk directly to the man in the trench and take him, take him without anyone even noticing. Or kill him. He still liked to think about killing them, even if he never did…intentionally that is.
A quick jab of the knife; from the front, right above the groin, just right of center; plenty of force so they think they think the wind got knocked out of them, until they felt the warmth of the blood over their skin. From the back, left or right, didn’t matter, just so long as it was right below the rib line, in the kidney, and you have to twist; if you don’t twist they have time to run after you.
Trench coat man was Charlie; Charlie told everyone to call him Chuck; Chuck was empty, E.S. didn’t need to follow Chuck for weeks to see that, he was as obvious as light in a snow storm. He was perfect. E.S. stepped out of his car, controlled, unnoticed.
Chuck walked with an itch, nearly skittering across the sidewalk to the parking garage; another thing the movies got right. Parking garages were perfect, they echoed and moaned even when unoccupied, everyone expected loud, uncomfortable noises in a parking garage, that was why everyone hated them. He didn’t think Chuck would scream, he didn’t think that Chuck would have time to scream, not if he did this right, which he always did.
He pulled his knife out of its cheap leather sheath, storing it carefully between his belt buckle and thermal shirt. Another knife tucked safely in his boot, as a precaution. He wondered what his face would look like.
Chuck drove a Volvo. A beige Volvo, fitting, E.S thought. A clean, suitable car, not too flashy and far from junk, a nice and orderly figure for an orderly man. It was another vale. Chuck felt guilty. The porn, sex, adultery, all of it must have felt out of place to him…not as things should be, so he made up for it with Volvo’s and Eddie Bauer rain coats.
The rubber on his expensive penny loafers scoffed against the concrete floor of the parking garage. E.S. felt his heart quicken. Up until this moment he had been working hard to convince himself that this wasn’t something to get excited about, the way older kids do with Christmas. It will be nice he thought, contented, but that’s all, not terrific, not life changing, nice.
His body betrayed his cool calm with a solid rush of adrenaline, suddenly all he could think about was having Chuck back in his torture room. He thought of the blade of his knife resting against the tender flesh of Chuck’s thumb. He could see it perfectly; leaning down, slowly increasing pressure, watching the blade advance smoothly but steadily into Chucks flesh. He could almost smell the black surge of blood spilling out of the wound, lapping over his blade into a larger pool of crimson red, all while Chuck screamed agonizingly through the knotted cloth in his mouth. He picked up his pace.
He was going to use the hilt of his knife at first, one quick blow with the thick blunt metal handle and Chuck would fall before his face could cringe. E.S. hung his head as his thick lips spread into a malicious grin. The rush was getting to him, and he liked it, he remembered it and made a promise to himself in that moment that he would never wait this long again.
Twenty feet and closing, Chuck’s skitter was even more nervous now. Energy? Wondered E.S. If I wasn’t here, would he still be so skittish. He was sure Chuck hadn’t seen him but nevertheless he was walking much faster now. Chuck pulled his hand out of his pocket, the Volvo beeped; even the car’s beep was distinguished; as if the car were in a library and didn’t want to disturb anyone. Less than a minute now.
Just wing it. His brain kicked in. Not like you haven’t done this before. He raised his brow. Yeah, he thought to himself, I’ll wing it. Chuck was listing left toward the driver side door. E.S. leaned down and set off into a sprint.
Chuck pulled the handle open and slid into the car. E.S. slid across the passenger side, pulled the door open and sank swiftly into the seat. Chuck pulled his trench coat up, out of the way of the door, lifted his left leg in and reached for the door. E.S. was still holding his breath when he swung the back of his fist into Chuck’s nose.
He wanted to watch the blood ooze out but he restrained himself. He twisted his body to face Chuck and slammed his fist into Chuck’s gut with enough force to make the Volvo lean back in its stall. He didn’t pull his fist back, instead he pushed even harder, forcing his fist further into Chuck’s already windless gut. He pictured Chuck’s spine sitting behind his stomach and tried to push hard enough to touch it, then he heard a crackle and a pop. He knew without looking that he had broken a floating rib.
He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or anger that was welling up within him but he made certain to quell it for the time being; he didn’t have the luxury of indulging his emotions while his fist was still buried in Chuck’s stomach, or while Chuck was still semi conscious. He reached around to the back of Chuck’s neck and pulled forward with all the force he could manage. Another crackle came from Chuck as his body went limp against the padded leather steering wheel. The white stitching in the leather wheel stood out in vibrant contrast next to the fresh blood.
He took a breath. His heart was pounding; the friction of his blood coursing roughly through his veins filled his ear. He hated the feeling, it made his stomach clench tight as if he swallowed a piece of bone whole. He fought back the temptation to gag and held his hand up, it was shaking.
This had been happening more frequently, with greater intensity, his body was disobeying him. He looked at Chuck with disappointment, as if he were a two inch thick steak that fell on the floor, the moment was ruined. Nevertheless he did what he needed to do.
He stepped out of the car, sighing hard as he slid the seat forward. He rounded over to the driver’s side. It was much more of a mess than he would have liked. He couldn’t help but think about his pants, and the stain that the blood might make.
He hooked his arm under Chuck and tossed him into the back seat. This was irritating; he thought he could use a part of his clothing to wipe off the blood and save his pants, but he liked his shirt just as much. The adrenaline took him away from his logical thoughts, and his patience.
He sat down in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The car swayed as slightly as it would in a breeze as the engine, silent despite the thousands of explosions that occurred within it, kicked on. He closed his eyes and flexed hard. He learned this from a Doctor. He was leaning over the doctor with a rather sharp pair of shears getting ready to cut a fold of flesh away from his face when his hands began to shake.
The Doctor, who had not only been held captive for three weeks and two days had also been on a steady dose of anesthetizing drugs for the same period of time; a torturing metaphor courtesy of E.S.. In His delusion the Doctor, noticing the tremble in E.S.’s hand, advised him to bear down, he called it a Vagal response, and assured E.S. it would drop his heartbeat and most likely calm the quiver in his hand.
Normally E.S. would have ignored the advice of his captive, but the drugs he had given the doctor had made him increasingly amorous; a sort of chemical induced Stockholm syndrome. Needless to say the effect was immediate, E.S’s hand stopped shaking. The Doctor gave him a satisfied smiled before willfully turning his cheek toward E.S. and his shears.
The sound of the blood in his veins amplified. He held his breath and flexed hard, when he finally exhaled his heart raced for a moment then immediately slowed down to what he guessed to be a comfortable sixty-two beats per minute.
He cracked his neck, gripped the steering wheel, and put the car in reverse. His usually dubious smile returned as he peered over his shoulder to back up and saw Chuck lying in the backseat, helpless and broken, his chest rising slowly and shallowly under his blood stained clothing. It was time to indulge.
The drive was calming. He felt at ease as the tires glided over the road. The night was welcoming; the smooth breeze sliding through the window was as welcoming as the idea of his blade slipping on fresh untainted skin.
Chuck was snoring in the backseat. If this were a normal abduction it would have bothered him, but tonight was special. He hadn’t indulged his inner demon for some time, long enough for his body to forget its lessons, long enough for his hands to tremble. Not for long.
He flipped his blinker and turned off the road. The car groaned as the suspension maneuvered over the dip off the freeway and onto the gravel road. In the distance the blue hue of black light flooded the front of the metal shack. This was it, the stage, he even had the black lights.
Chuck didn’t fight as E.S. hauled him out of the car, he groaned, almost inaudibly but he didn’t fight, he didn’t so much as blink. He pulled Chuck across the smooth walkway, being especially careful to watch his step. E.S. erected this building himself nearly four years ago.
It was the perfect abattoir; recessed off the road, dimly light, secluded on private property. Even the walkway was designed for his purposes, slick with several coats of both lacquer and wax, so the body slid; a trick he learned during his first year; abduction 101.
He promised himself he would tear the place down after four years, just to make sure any loose ends left behind were destroyed. Originally he was going to burn it, but that would bring attention. It didn’t matter now, not while he was dragging Chuck’s body over the threshold.
He pulled him to the base of a small ramp in the center of the room. Normally, he would have used the ramp to slid his victim onto a table, but tonight he decided to go with a different routine. He reached for two hooks dangling from the ceiling.
He never understood why Hollywood always insisted on victims being tied and bound, a real killer, rather torturer, wouldn’t be so benevolent. The tips of the tow hooks hanging from the chain shone with a brilliant shimmer. E.S. couldn’t help but admire them.
He had spent an entire week grinding them down, smoothing them over and polishing repeatedly. He would have spent two weeks on them if he hadn’t drawn blood when his finger accidentally grazed the tip; a part of him was sad that he couldn’t get them sharper.
He aligned the first hook with Chucks wrist. He leaned over him, stepping on both arms and then gently centered the tip on Chuck’s skin before pushing forward smoothly. The scream started out as a sort of sleepy moan. Just as Chuck was managing to get air behind his yowl E.S. slammed his fist into the already broken rib. Chuck’s agonizing scream broke off, catching in his throat. His eyes fluttered before his head hit the floor. E.S. prepared himself, the next stab would wake Chuck faster than the first.
He aligned the sharp tip and pushed. Just as the hook broke the skin he gave Chuck another jab in the ribs. Chuck’s eyes bulged in their sockets, the veins in his neck stood flared out like thick tree roots, but he didn’t make a sound, apart from his head hitting the floor again.
The pain was always too much for the body at first. E.S. made sure to drain the body of all its natural analgesics before getting to the point. He kneeled down, placing his fingers next to Chuck’s jugular. Minutes he thought, based on his rapid breathing and quick pulse he would be awake in minutes.
He stepped over the blood pooling on the floor and walked over to a yellow box on the wall. This was it, this was his version of a syringe full of brown liquid gently prodding at his skin. The electric hum of the engine filled the room as he pushed in the green button. The clink clank of chain links falling succinctly into the metal teeth of the pulley was just as pleasurable now as it was when he first installed the wench four years ago.
The screams erupting from Chuck’s slowly rising body reverberated off the metal frame walls in a horrific symphony. To E.S. the sound was as cathartic as sitting on the beach listening to the waves break over the gritless pebbles of sand. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a brief second to drink in the moment before walking over to Chuck and punching him in the throat.
Chuck choked against E.S’s knuckles. He swung his head around like a man just gone temporarily blind by a traumatic brain injury. His tongue limped out of his mouth and flopped like a dead fish. E.S. rolled his eyes, some people were dramatic no matter what the setting, Chuck was quite obviously one of them.
He would piss his pants within the next fifteen minutes. E.S. appreciated the irony, he was about to see what Chuck was like beneath his skin, both figuratively and literally.
He leaned over the wood bench inspecting the guitar string held taught between two grips. The red and black wire connected to either end were fastened securely, only one thing left to do before he could start sculpting. He flipped the electronic bypass switch, he imagined what the electricity looked like as it past through the wire heating it instantly. A stray strand of his hair sizzled momentarily as it split over the hot string. Perfect he thought useful, clean… he had many other words but lost them in the perfect simplicity of the tool before him.
There was no need to wait any longer, the wire was hot enough to cut through flesh just seconds after the battery had been turned on, but that wasn’t why he stopped. Something wasn’t quite right, he circled Chuck, as an artist looking at his canvas for the first time, deciding between horizontal, vertical or otherwise.
He squinted and spun, looking at Chuck from varying angles before walking back to his bench and pushing the green button in again. Chuck’s scream sounded more masculine as his body lifted further off the ground, his toes barely scrapped at the floor.
–
It wasn’t the first time he had fillet flesh. He was used to seeing the bloodied, mangled pieces of skin lying on the floor or hanging from bodies. This was different. For a moment he found himself at a loss, almost confused.
Slim slices of Chucks flesh, all of them elliptical in some way and still pink, lay heavy on the floor, denser, more pristine than before. Even Chuck looked different’ his flesh, which days before was round and untouched, was now square and angular. His body hung from the chains like a wax figure frozen in still life. He was glad he had decided to use the I.V., he was certain Chuck would’ve died if he hadn’t.
Peculiarly, Chuck had stopped screaming after the first day. E.S. couldn’t put his finger on it, nobody stopped screaming that soon, especially someone as cowardice as Chuck had been in the beginning.
The wire worked perfectly, better, actually, than he had anticipated. It hit Chuck’s skin the way butter hit a red-hot skillet; like a magic trick, smoke appeared out of nowhere, filling the space in front of him with thick white plumes. E.S. looked longingly at Chuck’s face, anticipating a raucous scream, instead he only winced with wide eyes; as if he had simultaneously been jolted with the combination of a heavy dose of caffeine and the simple prick of a needle.
E.S. was transfixed, as fascinated as an art history professor in the Louvre. It made perfect sense, the human body at work, in its most pure purpose, preservation. The white hot wire seared off the nerve endings and cauterized the wound; not a single drop of blood spilled, and the pain lasting only long enough to travel sharply up his spin before breaking off into a numb vibration that filled his body.
Not even the smoke alarmed Chuck at first. He was still disoriented from the hooks, for the first several cuts all he noticed were the wounds in his wrists. He begged E.S. to put him down, E.S. only returned his questioning glance with one of his one. It was only when he moved up from Chuck’s legs to his flank and abdomen that he began to really scream. Until that moment he hadn’t realized that the smell of barbequed meat was actually the smell of his own muscle and tissue separating from his body.
There was nothing that he could say, no key to escaping alive, no utterance that would touch E.S. enough for him to find a humanity that the rest of the world shared. E.S.’s frustrations were not shared by anyone else. He was tormented by joy and happiness, it was only suffering that consoled him. He would continue to feed his demon by thieving the joy from everyone he saw fit.
Three weeks he had Chuck hanging from chains. He was weak now, over half of his muscle mass had been stripped away from him, the other half atrophied. E.S. removed both of his thumbs with leather tourniquets and a hand wench; fitting for a man who’s hands rooted him to his shame.
Chuck only saw darkness and light now; E.S. placed fish hooks into his eye lids and strung the line over Chucks head and into his back with larger hooks , then he used an acetylene tourch less than ten inches from Chuck’s face.
It was possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Looking at Chuck’s face through the tinted glass as every muscle flexed made him look almost ethereal, it was only then that E.S. believed Chuck had truly changed. He cried tears of blood for three days, never making any distinguishable sound apart from a dog’s whimper.
Fearing death was near, creeping about the rooming waiting for the opportune moment to latch on to Chuck, E.S. decided it was time to let him go. The hooks slid out easier than he anticipated; Chuck’s flesh had weakened and stretched over the weeks, and he didn’t put up a fight. He didn’t have enough life left in him.
Chuck was light enough now to be carried out. E.S. placed him in the trunk of the Volvo, bound his hands and ankles with zip ties and went back into the shack. It was cleaner than usual, E.S. smiled; he felt content. He held his hand in front of him, parallel with the floor, not a single tremor rushed through him. The only mess to clean up was the blood from the thumbs; he had done his best to cut off the blood flow to Chuck’s hands, but the second the skin and bone separated there was nothing he could do. Still, he wasn’t bothered.
The room looked different, seasoned, professional. E.S. smiled once more as he turned off the lights and walked outside. The drive back was just as pleasurable as the drive there. E.S. wondered what would happen if he turned on the radio. He didn’t. He wasn’t interested. In truth if he had turned on the radio he wouldn’t have heard anything.
While Chuck was gone, as his wife began to wonder, she visited his office. He hadn’t been there for over a day by then and the suspicion that rose wasn’t one of abduction, rather everyone seemed to believe Chuck had indulged in some secret desire, or even life that he had been building.
The suspicion was only confirmed when his wife searched through and old trench coat Chuck had told her he lost months earlier. A large blood stain covered the bottom length of cloth, where his coat would have covered his groin, and in the pocket she found a “Five Alarm Strip and Tease” admission ticket torn down the middle, with a hand printed phone number on the back. Just as soon as her search had started it ended. The next day the locks where changed.
E.S. turned into the parking garage and pulled into the same parking space he had left from three weeks earlier. Chuck hadn’t made a noise for the entire trip. E.S. would have been concerned if he hadn’t heard the slow, shallow breathes. He put the car in park, slide the seat as far back as it would go, and took one final look back. It wasn’t joy he felt as he looked at the tattered body behind him. He didn’t loom, instead he took in his last glance, and stepped out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition with the engine running.
The sound of his footfall on the concrete brought him back to reality. He was nothing more than another man, just another nobody in the great expanse of the world. The sun was shining as he stepped outside, he felt the tremble begin to rise in his chest as the same uneasiness stirred inside him. He shook his head, disquieted by the already reemerging anxiety. He aimlessly surveyed the streets around him while readying himself to bear down again. That’s when he saw her, a young girl, no older than twenty five, walking down the street, clutching a handful of books, her eyes never leaving the sidewalk.
COPYRIGHT 2009 – RYAN J. VAN SETERS – This document is protected by the Digital Millennium Copyright Act
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