teaser for a tale (name says it all)

From: Kay Chang <kaychang_at_eden.com>
Date: Sat, 16 Mar 1996 22:12:10 -0600 (CST)

Okay, I have an inkling of an idea for a story in the back of my head, and I
want your opinions. Should I finish the whole twisted tale or run away while
I can? Read on and see. This is an excert from something I've been cooking
up for quite a while . . . . <shrugs carelessly>
This would probably be rated R for violence and some pretty heavy mental
images. Don't kill me, just read and tell me what you think.

          I stood there watching them cart the thing away, shuddering from
the strain and exhaustion I felt. When was the last time I had gotten any
decent amount of sleep? And the pain . . . I didn't know it would be like
this!! I didn't know this would happen! I didn't know that . . . that . . .
that *he* would be killed! I felt numb, all of a sudden, then vaguely
peaceful. I looked down at my tightly clenched hand. I still held the gun in
my hands.
          A smile spread over my face at this realization, a maniac smile of
one who has nothing left to live for. And that was most definetely me. Yes .
. . so simple. Just lift the gun, put it next to your skull and pull. Not
that hard. Do it. End the pain. Yes . . . do it . . . no pain . . .
          But of course I don't. I'm too much of a coward to end it yet.
Even when *he* is turning into rot and mold and dust as I walk and move.
          And the guilt makes it worse. Guilt from the knowledge that *I*
could've prevented his death; guilt that I go on while he is rotting slowly
in the ground; guilt that I am still alive while he, who did not deserve
such pain and suffering at my hands, does not.
          Oh why, *why* did you have to go?
          I do not know if I say this out loud or if they just run rampart
in my brain. *His* image is burning in my brain, and no matter how deep I
sleep at night, I still see that face, those eyes, souless and hollow as he
accuses me of everything I have done to him. And I deny it, even though I
know it be true, as does he, and the jury who sits faceless behind us as we
scream and curse each other. And suddenly, in my animal lust to see his
sneering face lying smashed and broken on the stone floor, I suddenly leap
at him, out of my own violation, and wrap my hands around his neck and
squeeze as hard as I can, my knuckles turning white as he chokes and gasps
and thrashes in my grasp. And I am laughing cruelly, taunt him as I slowly
and mercilessly tighten my grip.
          His eyes are bugging out at this point, his face blue, visible
even under the short fur.
          And then it is over. He is dead and once more I am the cause of
it. And when the rage that so comsummed me minutes before leaves me, I see
him lying there, broken and bloody, his face forever frozen in a look of
pleading, begging me to stop, begging me to let him go . . .
          . . . and I did not.
          The jury stirs and mutters, both angrily and restlessly. A voice,
deep and hollow booms throughout my mind.
          "Traitor! Murderer! Beassssst!!"
          Oh, and that last word . . . spoken in the silvery hiss of dry
coils rubbing against each other, and I run, putting my hands to my ears and
run, stumbling in my haste, tears flowing freely down my face, run and run
and run and run . . . but I cannot get away.

Okay, that was it. So, whaddya think? Should I finish it, or leave it like
this and try something less . . . um, heavy? Should I run away and never
come back to this . . . or should I finish it, pour out the whole bloody and
depressing and moody tale?
Well, whaddya think?

Terra Chang:
writer and poet
crazy violinist
SWAT Kats lover
Anne Rice fan

"I tell myself that not long ago the fate of the world was in their hands.
Then I ask myself: 'How the heck did we survive?'"

Received on Sat Mar 16 1996 - 23:24:19 PST

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