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TITLE (EDIT)
The Maniacal Core Of His Unsound Mind |
DESCRIPTION
(I want comments.) One eighth done. Reprint. Changed title with another. You basically ARE the main character.... The additions of 'he' and 'him' or 'she' and 'her' are non-existent. No name is given to the hero. Who are you? Only I know, but how you decipher yourself is your own business.
[1,195 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Crime |
AUTHOR
Banae Wan |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Half asian, half american.
[August 2001] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (1)
Tale Number One: Dederik Flunn (Short Stories) A young man inherits his father's job as a professional murderer. On his first mission, an old man wants what's coming to him, but is the boy willing to give it him? [2,480 words] [Fable]
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The Maniacal Core Of His Unsound Mind
Banae Wan
"Blum-mo?"
Smoky silence is your answer. Grey fog moves as if on a wave, wafting in the never ending chillness and weightlessness, until the wind blows it in soft velvety curls against your pale, worried brow. The night is as night is: dark, silent: and no matter who you are or who you're with, you somehow feel alone, and smaller. Your breath does not seem so warm anymore, yet it still creates the usual steam as you open your mouth to test it: but then the chillness is in between your cheeks, and you hurridly snap your jaws shut. Breathing through your nose, you sigh shakily. 'Ah, what Hell has he gotten me into, this night?' you say to yourself, rubbing your black mittened hands together for comfort. They offer none. You peer around the empitness, timidly, trying to look casual and not afraid, but knowing in the corner of your mind it is foolish to think that anyone would come this way. Not anyone rational, anyway. Reading your own thoughts, you smile, and think, 'Here I am, thinking that no one would come here, yet here I stand, as stupid and as vulnerable as a babe.' You chuckle at the irony, though it was never a funny irony to begin with and you rock back on your heels. You needed that laugh, to ease the building tension that was gathering atop your mind, and it was forced. You don't care. Reaching into your parka's wide pocket just below your arm, you feel the crinkly white envelope that you were sent to deliver, for a profitable fee, of course. You take it out to inspect it. A regular envelope: a thing you would use to send letters to your aunt: with no markings or soil on it's shiny ivory surfice, though in the dark it looks a dark grey. 'What a stupid thing to have come all this way out of town for,' you think glumly, still trying not to feel alone. You flip if over several times, inspecting it, then finally return it to your coat pocket without another thought, zippering the zipper. Looking about you for passerby, you see none but shift your feet uncomfortanbly. You wait. After a while, you begin to feel the emptiness swallowing you, biting at your clothes and melting into your skin, trying any way it can to get to your core. 'It's all in my head...' you breathe calmingly, but your nerves are wound as tight as bow strings. You try to shake it off, but in a fit of nervousness, you start walking away from it yet deeper into it, your rubber boots swishing softly over the dewey grass. Your breath returns to normal, and the hair on your neck falls back into place. You shake your head self-pitingly, but continue. 'Damn, I'm so stupid. What's the matter with me? It's just dark outside, and nothing is there in the dark that there isn't there in the night. That's what Mother always told me. And she never lied to me, ecxxept about daddy....' Suddenly you decide to start to trot, maybe get a little excercise before the pre-arranged meeting along the south river banks. It warms your blood, and you try to keep high spirits, but a thought keeps nagging at you and making you fall back into the morbid line of thought. 'Blummo was supposed to be here by now. He should have...' Footsteps along a different path mix with your own, and you stop, breathing hard from more than just excertion. Silence, and... no, there they are... You tilt your head like a dog to hear better, and you hiss, stinging your tongue. 'Better be you, Blummo, you sonuva...'
The darkness parts like a stage curtain, and Billy Blummo Dickson's stalky form appears, carrying a large brown sack and a grin. You sigh with relief: mentally of course, you have a reputation to maintain: you find yourself also grinning but firmly telling your hands to stop their shaking. 'My mission is almost complete,' you think fervently, but there is no more time to think, for Blummo approaches you, grabs your hand fiercly in his, and shakes it with a quick, firm, politicians hand shake.
"Aye, man, I thought I'd never find you," says Blummo in a deep bass voice, shouldering his sack. He was a heavyset black man, with a strange accent you don't recognise. "I've never been this far south o' the river m'self, but there's a first time for everything, huh? Hey, what are you doing so far west, anyway? Lost?" His eyes narrow slightly. "Anyone else here with you? Got friends, (hero)?"
This, for some reason, angers you. You've never been known to anger quickly, but you're pretty pissed off for having been stood up for three hours, and you use that for an excuse. "No, no one's here, but us. Mr. Dickson, what took you so long? I've been wating here since the agreed bloody hour came and passed!" You glance about quickly, hugging yourself. "And it's so DARK out here. I don't know. It's just fucking spooky, is all. It's just... dark. You're very inconsiderate."
Blummo turns and looks around with surprise, putting a humongous hand to his weathered cheek softly. You wish you could wring his neck, but wonder if it mught be easier ans less painful to shit a brick. "Atte, man. I hadn't noticed! What a fool I be! Running for Secretary... bah! I should be swamping up cow dung in some stall getting paid a peent o' day, and feel I got the better of the bargain, for how observant I be!" He turns and grins at you, and claps your arm. You grunt and immediantly grip your bruised appendage.
"Hey, got something for ya."
Suddenly Blummo goes to his knees and unbuckles his pack, and starts rummaging savagely through it's many concealed pockets. You watch his back, not exactly trusting him. He could pull out a gun, or a knife, or a... what other weapon is there, anyway? But after a few seconds of waiting, Blummo suddenly makes a small pleased sound and stands up, grasping a little black book half the size of his palm. He turns to you, and your eyes light up at the sight. A check book. You unconsiously reach for it.
"Enough of all that," Blummo says, snatching it away, "I had a hell of a time tryin' to escape my little 'fan club,' and I don't think the dark has perminently damaged your nerves, anyhow. Maybe you should think trainin' yourself off o' your nightlight, eh?" He chuckled wryly." I got my side of the bargain up, but do you have yours?" He looks intently in your eyes, waiting, checkbook in hand.
Nodding, you unzip your pocket quickly, all the while eyeing the little book greedily. That money could change your life: pay off long forgotten bills, cars, buy a house, eat at fine Italian restaurantseverynight. That moneycould ... but your hand reaches in, and pulls out nothing.
************
Is the first little part okay? Feedback would be appreciated to see if I should even bother printing the rest.
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READER'S REVIEWS (1)
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2000 Banae Wan |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
August 2001 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2418
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