Fiction – (de)Generate Stories

Theorist

They laughed when he tried to tell them. Every single one of them. Every single time.

He felt a slight sense of guilt but this was offset by the fact that he knew he had done everything he could.

It was going to be hard to convince them, this much he had known from the start. After he figured out the code and had cracked the message, he knew he had to try. Whether they chose to believe him was up to them. They had chosen not to.

So why feel this guilt?

Looking back on it all, maybe he could have been a little more composed and presented the information in a more organized fashion. Less frantic. Less manic.

A shower and a haircut and a fresh set of clothes would probably have helped his case too.

Looking back on it, this much made sense now. So maybe there was a reason for this guilt?

Bringing the huge 4 foot by 4 foot piece of paper with all of the dots connected with bits of colored yard and newspaper clippings with highlighted text that showed the pattern of the code was probably a bad idea.

After all, he knew how to create a powerpoint presentation. So why hadn’t he done that?

Sitting in his bunker 10 feet below ground, listening to the explosions above and feeling the ground shake and knowing that it would take at least 20 years for the radiation to subside, he felt a sense of loss for everything and everybody.

He was not laughing and he did not feel a sense of pride or a desire to boast. Who would he boast to? What did he have to be proud about? Why would he laugh?

He had tried to tell them. All of them. And they had laughed. That was their choice.

So why this sense of guilt?

Exchange

“So we have a deal?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I’m not quite satisfied yet, feels a little one-sided.”

“Ok.”

“I need to get a little more from you, is all.”

“I’m listening.”

“No. You’re talking. This is the time for you to talk and tell me what else you’re willing to offer.”

“What’s on the table is more than fair, though. Its one-to-one right now.”

“In terms of quantity, yes. Not quality.”

“My supply is top-notch.”

“Listen, I’m offering two hearts. Two kidneys is not an equal value.”

“I can go to three.”

“I don’t need three.”

“Listen, we need to figure this out. The ice is melting and my stock is getting warm.”

Wriggle

It was dark and confined and time was becoming more than a pressing issue.

There was very little room to move, inches on all sides, though it might be possible.

The box was old wood and weathered but he shook and shimmied the weak spots were exposed.

There were two questions, really. Was there enough time to break down a weak spot in the box by shaking? And even if a side did come loose, would he be able to climb through the six feet of dirt above him or would it all come crushing down and suffocate him?

Minister

They sat in a way so that they were niether close nor far away from one another. This particular distance was common, in his experience.

“How are you today, my son?”

“I’m alright, you know.”

While he would try to look at this man that he had come to visit in the eye, it was hard at times and both he and the man often looked at the wall, the floor, the tiny table, rather than look at each other.

“Could you eat?”

“I tried, but you know.”

“I know.”

This type of converstaion was also typical, in his experience. Most people might think that there would be more pleading, barganing, a sense of unfairness, or a desperate plea for comfort. This was not the case, in his experience.

Some, though by no means all, would like to play a game of some kind or talk about a book they were reading or they might tell jokes or funny stories from their childhoods. Just to pass the time.

This man just sat and that was his wish and his right. He held his head not quite down but not quite upright either. His hands fidgeted and his feet shuffled.

“Will you be there?”

“If you want me to be, yes. I will.”

“I do.”

“I will be there, my son.”

An alarm buzzed and a door opened and then closed and an alarm buzzed again.

“Would you like me to administer your last rites?”

“You know I don’t believe in that shit.”

Another alarm buzzed and the cell door opened.

“It’s time,” the guard said.

Weakness

He put another piece in his mouth. He just let it sit there. He knew some people bit into the little piece of hard candy immediately and he did not understand this.

What was the point of this practice of instant gratification? It was the impatience that he found disprespectful. It was much better to just let the little piece of hard candy sit in your mouth and let it slowly dissolve while the flavors crept over different parts of your tongue.

He was an expert at this. He would block everything else out and just concentrate on the slowly dissolving little piece of hard candy and the plethora of intricate flavors caressing the inside of his mouth.

This could take anywhere from 30 minutes to a few hours. He would only swallow once his mouth was completely full. He would swallow slowly and let the sugary candy juices trickle down his throat. He knew how to savor this. He knew that this was the only way to respect the little piece of hard candy.

Each one was slightly different. Even if they were from the same package and were supposedly the same flavor. He knew that not every little piece of hard candy strawberry tasted the same.

He would feel the tiny crevices and slight bumps on each little piece of hard candy. He was careful not to feel the little piece of hard candy too much or too often because this would speed up the process. The little piece of hard candy should dissolve on its own. Each little crevice and bump and the nuances they contained drastically contributed to and changed the flavor of each little hard piece of candy. This is what made each little piece of hard candy taste different than the last little piece of hard candy even if they were supposed to be the same flavor from the same package.

When the little piece of hard candy that was in his mouth had dissolved completely and he had swallowed all of the sugary candy juices it was important to be patient.

He had a post-piece of candy process that he had perfected and he knew that it was the only way to ensure that he was able to extract all of the flavor from each little piece of hard candy each time.

He would sit in silence and focus on the lingering flavors in his mouth. His mouth would fill with non-candy-flavored saliva and he would take note of how much lingering flavor was still present in his mouth and his saliva each time he swallowed after the little piece of hard candy had completely dissolved.

The next step came after he was satisfied that he was unable to taste any lingering flavor from the sugary candy juices that had only moments ago tinderly caressed the inside of his mouth.

He would reach over and take the suction device he had purchased from a used dental office supply company. He would spend at least twenty minutes with this little suction device and make sure that it carefully and precisely sucked up every last little drop of liquid from every last little corner of his mouth. This liquid could be overlooked if he didn’t use the suction device and he knew that it could still contain the sugary candy juices and their flavors from the last little piece of hard candy that had just dissolved in his mouth.

He would then rinse his mouth with the water pick tool he had also bought from the used dental supply comapny and spit into the little metal sink basin that he had also purchased from the used dental supply company. All of these devices and tools sat neatly by his plush chair that he had also purchased from a dental supply company but not the same dental supply company where he had purchased the suction device and the water pick tool.

After he had completed all of these steps it was time to repeat the process with the next little piece of hard candy that would sit in his mouth and that he would gently stroke with his tongue to discover all of the crevices and bumps and would be careful not to stroke it too long so that it did not disrupt the natural process and then he would let the little piece of hard candy fill his mouth with sugary candy juices and each section of his tongue would pay careful attention to the flavors that were released and he would sit and block everything else out and he would pay close attention to what was going on in his mouth and he would swallow slow and tiny and savor all of the liquid that was filling his mouth with such diverse flavors from sugary candy juices.

Shatter

246 pieces: tiny, crystalline, shards, anger-thrown and inertia-spread.

102 words: spit-laced, vulgar, hurtful, said in both fear and sincerity.

54 times: incidents like this in the past few years, increasing in frequency and intensity.

19 calls: made from inside the house and from outside the house and from the two involved and from outsiders concerned.

11 drinks: the average number consumed by one of the involved or by both before such incidents, though this number varies.

6 holes: in various sizes and in various rooms made during various other incidents.

3 fractures or breaks: solid bone either splintered or severed outright.

2 lives: desperate and scared and lost and stuck and afraid and hopeless and hopeful and hidden and ashamed and remorseful and full of self-loathing and too much empathy and excuses, this is true of each person and is also not true of them, depending.

1 cycle: never ending.

Shatter

246 pieces: tiny, crystalline, shards, anger-thrown across the room, inertia-spread across the floor.

102 words: spit-laced, vulgar, hurtful, said in both fear and sincerity.

54 times: incidents like this in the past few years, increasing in frequency and intensity.

19 calls: made from inside the house and from outside the house and from the two involved and from outsiders concerned.

11 drinks: the average number of consumed by one of the involved or by both before such incidents, though this number varies.

6 holes: in various sizes and in various rooms made during various other incidents.

3 fractures or breaks: solid bone either splintered or severed outright.

1 cycle: never ending.

Golf

“You heard me say it, right?”

“I mean, yeah, I think so.”

“Dude, I always say it.”

“I don’t know if you always say it. But, you, you usually say it, yeah.”

“I absolutely said it this time.”

“I honestly can’t remember if you did or not.”

“C’mon, man. That might not be good enough. What if you have to testify or some shit?”

“Testify??”

“Like in the worst-case-scenario, you know? You say that I said it and then it’s an unfortunate accident.”

“Under oath and everything? You think I’ll have to swear on the Bible?”

“Dude, you’re agnostic!”

“I know, but still. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Lying under oath.”

“Look. I said it. I said, “FOUR!” and then I hit the ball. I didn’t know dude was down there and even if I did, that’s on him, man. After I said, “FOUR!” and I definitely did, it’s on that motherfucker to get out of the way.”

“How bad do you think it is?”

“Well, he ain’t moving. But we’ll have to walk over there to see.”

“Which balls were you using?”

“What? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Were you using those practice balls? The ones that weigh more?”

“…yeah. But still, that shouldn’t matter.”

“Aren’t they illegal?”

“In tournaments, dude! In tournaments. Not to just use on the golf course for practice. They’re practice balls!”

“We should probably walk over there.”

“Yeah, it’ll look bad if we don’t.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. You know who that is, don’t you.”

“Yeah, I see who it is.”

“Didn’t he.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“He’s the one you saw with your wife and–“

“Dude. I know who he is, ok.”

“This looks bad.”

“Look at me, dude. Right here. Look at me, man.”

“This is bad.”

“Look at me, man. I said, “FOUR!” ok. I said it, you heard it, and we didn’t know who that was when I swung.”

“This isn’t good.”

“It was an accident!”

“I can’t go to jail. I can’t. Whoa, dude. What are you doing with that club?”

“FOUR!”

Curtain

They just never thought about it. There was no reason to.

It seemed simple and straightforward and the story fit the scene.

You can’t blame them for not looking at them. They weren’t torn or ripped or out of place. Ordinary. This is how they looked.

And when he sold the house, no eyebrows were raised and no alarm bells went off and nobody thought to look at him again.

After all, who would want to live in that house after what happened?

When the new owners moved in and decided to redecorate, nobody even thought about the possibility that evidence could be destroyed.

That the murder weapon might not fit the new homeowners aesthetic and be thrown away.

By the time they pieced it all together, by the time the victim’s family put enough pressure on the state and their request for an exhumation and new autopsy was granted, by the time an almost microscopic fiber was discovered in the corpse’s throat, well, by then it was too late.

They couldn’t match the fiber to the curtains in the house with any degree of certainty. Sure, it was a fiber used in some curtains from some manufacturers, but it was also used in other things like shirts and towels and dishcloths.

And the curtains in question were long gone and buried in some landfill and there was no hope of finding them.

And even though they would never say it to the victim’s family or to the reporters or in the station house, they would bring it up over beers over the years and they had to admit, even though they hated to, they had to admit that it was clever and they should have looked harder at the scene and maybe they missed something and, most of all, that there was nothing they could do about it now so why not just have another shot and forget about the man who got away with the perfect murder.

Painter

To say it caused a sensation in the art world would be an understatement.

The first painting from Laurent Saint Michiuex in over 30 years. An infamous recluse, Michiuex had a meteoric rise to art-world notoriety with his first exhibition, simply and bluntly titled: ART.

And then he never painted again. Until now.

A single painting. A single stroke of red paint. A singular masterpiece, the critics agreed.

It would break all of Sotheby’s records for a painting.

Decades later on his deathbed, Michiuex would make a terse confession to his nurse. A confession people either did not believe or did not want to believe.

“I was born Earnhardt Jones and 20 years ago a bumped into a table, spilled some paint on a piece of canvas, and became a millionaire.”

And then he died.