Disclaimer - Table of contents

Based on true childhood fears

“Really. It’s at times like these that I’m at a loss for words,” Jack was saying. “Us cuddling, candles, wine, that delicious free-range turkey meal we prepared together. It’s at times like these I marvel at how the vagaries of life have brought me, puny little me, to precisely this point. If I hadn’t met you, I would probably be extremely unhappy.”
“So you’re saying I make you happy.”
“I guess that’s one way to put it.”
Jill cleared her throat. “I love you, Jack.”
“Hmmm.”
“Wake up, sleepy-head. I said I love you.”
“I’m not asleep, Jill. I heard you perfectly well. And I’m genuinely thankful that you think I deserve that.”
“But don’t you love me?”
“Course I do!”
“You just never say it. If I want to hear you say you love me, I’ve got to beg for it. I’m beginning to think you don’t trust me or something.”
“Oh, that’s not it. You know what I feel for you! I try to make that abundantly clear in my actions and in the small but appreciative gifts I regularly bestow —”
“Oh Jack! We’ve been through this before. I just like to hear you say it. Once in a while. Without me having to pull the words out of your mouth one by one.”
“Jill, you know that I really care for you —”
“I’m sorry, Jack, but that simply won’t do.”
“But —”
“I don’t want any of your indirect assertions of extensive affection — or however you choose to phrase it. I want you to tell me in plain words that you love me.”
“Ok. ‘I love you.’”
“Oh, stop it! What is your problem? Why do you need to hide behind those elaborate indirect phrasings you’re so fond of?”
“I’m just not comfortable with saying this kind of thing outright. I never have been, not even when I was little.”
“That just means you don’t care for me.”
“No, Jill, it doesn’t. I hate it when you try to emotionally blackmail me into something.”
“You’re right. But that doesn’t change the fact that I need some confirmation now and then, and that you’re providing me with precious little indication of your feelings for me.”
“Yes, I can see how you’d like me to corroborate your mental image of our relationship.”
“You’re trying to make me angry, aren’t you?”
“Listen, Jill, this is not a matter of me understanding and having insights, as opposed to me feeling and having emotions.”
“You’re right. This is about you showing your emotions for a change.”
“Anything I say now is going to sound forced anyway, just because we’ve been talking about it so much. Look. This is simply something I’m trying to figure out. It’s like religion: I’m still not sure about that, and I probably never will be, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be sincere about it.”
“You mean you know what your problem is, but you won’t tell me?”
“Well… “
“Oh, this is just grand. Come on. Let’s hear it.”
“I take it we’ve stopped cuddling until I’ve allayed your concerns?”
“Yes. That is absolutely correct. And no more silly hiding strategies, either.”
“It’s going to sound irrational, you know.”
“Is this about your mother again?”
“Not this time. It’s like, — argh! This is like talking about those little superstitious things you believe in that you won’t really admit to. I feel uncomfortable about walking under ladders, and I actively avoid doing so, while at the same time being fully aware that my behaviour is utterly irrational. But I don’t really want to scrutinise that silly superstition, decide it really is mere silliness, and then throw it away, because, well, you never know, do you?”
“Ok…”
“Next time a stroke of bad luck disrupts your day, you’ll be left wondering whether you should not have walked under that ladder, or whether touching that lamp-post with your right arm but not with your left did have something to do with it. It’s amazing, the connections the human mind comes up with. It’s probably the root of all creativity. Perhaps I ought to blog about that — superstition and art being two sides of the same coin.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Just let me think about it some more. This isn’t anything that would stand up to a rational discussion.”
“Perhaps you just ought to go home, Jack. It’s getting late.”
“No, you’re right. You deserve an explanation. I’m warning you, though, —”
“Out with it. Come on!”
“Ok. It’s to do with something I religiously believed in when I was a kid. I’ve found it hard to shake that attitude off. You see, when I was, six, seven, I used to live under the apprehension that everything I did was rigorously videotaped. I had somehow acquired the belief that I was being watched at all times, day and night, by invisible people rotating in shifts, who filmed absolutely everything I said and did. I couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, somewhere, a camera lens was pointed at me wherever I went. These people would particularly be watching out for the times when I was naughty, or when I didn’t do as my parents or my teacher had told me. They’d also pay specific attention to all the dumb and stupid things I said or did, you know, like when I didn’t understand something. Or whenever I made a fool of myself in some way. Basically, anything that could be used to ridicule me.”
“That’s a little odd.”
“It was horrible. I was absolutely convinced that at some point I’d be picked up by two men in black suits and brought to a room where I’d be shown a compilation of all the stupid and naughty things I’d done, all the lies I’d told, all the accidents I’d tried to cover up, all the times when I had hurt our dog, or said nasty things to grandma, and so on. Absolutely everything. And my family and my friends would all be there, and they’d all see what a horrible person I really was. They’d all take a good hard look at the real me, the no-good moronic simpleton that I am and reject me outright. And I’d be left all alone. All the kids at school would continually bully me in the worst ways possible. My family would openly denounce me, drag me out into the streets, and spit on me. My parents would be disgusted by the disobedient monster they had raised and they would surely take away all my books and toys and burn them under my very eyes, and then they’d kick me out of their house. Absolutely everyone I knew would completely ignore me for the rest of my life, except when they’d come up with new ways of ridiculing me, and I’d have to go live with the beggars and the homeless people.”
“But that’s terrible! I don’t know what to say. I don’t know whether I should I laugh at you or hug you to death.”
“It’s true! I remember even expecting to be invited to other people’s public shaming. Every time I witnessed a friend or a classmate doing something they weren’t supposed to do, I thought, now that’s something they’ll show us in that video of his.”
“You’re not making this up just to change the subject, are you? This is not some elaborate way of telling me to mind my own business and stop asking you about your vulnerability issues, is it?”
“No, no, this is relevant. You have to know all this in order to understand my position. It’s background material, if you like. Also, this is just the first time I’ve talked about this to anyone. I guess I’m just venting a little, too. But trust me, I’m getting there. Just bear with me.”
“Ok…”
“And I couldn’t escape from them. They’d always be there, in some alternate dimension or something. I’d never be able to see them, but they were watching me. I couldn’t hide under the blankets, either, because that would be as good as telling them I was up to no good. I remember unexpectedly turning my head or glancing furtively out of the window to try and spot the camera lens. Whenever I was doing something that I knew my parents would disapprove of, or when we went to visit relatives, and my mother would call me a gluttonous pig for taking too many biscuits, I would think, That’s one more shot for my compilation.”
“So this is about your mother after all.”
“Well, there were times when I suspected her of being in league with the camera people, ratting on me… When I grew older and realised that it would be impossible to film everyone at all times, I decided it would be more realistic if they just checked in on people at random. I remember realising that I might have been in luck a few times and that some of my stupidities might not have been filmed. I was quite chuffed about that. I also remember deciding that that meant I could be disobedient more often. But even when I was consciously disobeying, so to speak, I could never be sure if they weren’t coincidentally filming me right then.”
“And just how is this relevant to you not wanting to tell me you love me?”
“Well… It’s to do with me thinking I’m stupid and really gullible. Whenever something really good happened to me, like discovering a girl was interested in me, or the time I was told I had won a prize in essay-writing, I used to wonder whether these things were really happening, or whether they were just a joke at my expense that I wasn’t aware of. It’s like my life was one great candid camera show: at any time someone could be walking up to me and go ‘Look, this is how stupid you really are. You think you’re good enough to deserve all this?’ I assumed at least some of the good stuff happening to me was really just a set-up, intended to make me believe that I was liked because of my wonderful personality, or that I really was good enough to win, when in reality, of course, they were just exposing me for the worthless idiot I really was.”
“You mean that you think that if you tell me you love me, a camera crew is going to crash through that door and yell ‘Gotcha, you stupid bugger!’?”
“That’s putting it very bluntly. And it does sound like raving lunacy. But yes. Sort of.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me. You don’t honestly believe that, do you? Do you?”
“No, but it’s just the thought. Look, I told you in advance this was going to sound like pure madness! I know it’s not true, and I’m fully aware of just how stupid this must sound, but I can never be really sure, can I? There simply is no way to prove it, and that is making me uncomfortable. I swear, there’s times when you undress and I expect to see one of those tiny microphones hidden under your shirt. It’s just a subconscious thought that’s nagging at me. I keep expecting you to wear a microphone or something. It’s sheer indoctrination, but there it is. I can’t change it.”
“Jack, you’re getting on my nerves.”
“Don’t blame me. You wanted to hear this, remember?”
“I didn’t know you were going to tell me something like this.”
“See? Now I’m wondering if you’re just going to dump me and never look at me again. And now you know about it. I’ve let the secret out. Every time I hug you, every time I try to make it apparent that I care about you, I’m going to expect you to say ‘Gotcha!’ Not really, of course, but just for a second, that thought is going to pop up.”
“Ok. I didn’t mean that quite like it sounded. It’s just, I didn’t realise how traumatising your childhood was. It actually puts some things in perspective. Like the way you hesitate to show your true feelings.”
“Perhaps. Even admitting that I’m afraid you’re going to leave me is hard.”
“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t leave you. Not for something like this, anyway.”
“Don’t say things like that! It’d be the worst thing you could do to me right now.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“That smile on your face really takes the sincerity out of that, you know?”
“I do. C’mere Jack. Hug me. I know you want to. And I promise I won’t call in the camera crew.”
“That is not funny.”
“I was just thinking: all I need to do to terrify you is whisper “peekaboo” while I hug you. I’d feel you tense up just a little every time.”
“You’re being mean. Would you really want that?”
“No, Jack, I wouldn’t. I’m glad you realised. Now come here and let me hug you.”

Disclaimer
For some time I have been toying with the idea of writing out in full some of the more coherent of my dreams. This text would then be the first in that series. It is a complete account of a dream I had a few days ago, one of the few I find memorable enough to write down right after waking up. I thought this one was pretty bizarre (that’s why I jotted it down without bothering to get dressed first), but it was only while editing and typing out the whole thing that I realised its coherence. The setting of the dream moves from one kind of booth (stalls at some kind of market or public event) to another kind (public toilets). There’s an undercurrent of liquids that runs through the entire dream: rain — urine — coffee — breast milk — huge amounts of water. And two incongruous items that occur at the start (clippers and socks with holes) are connected at the end. But I don’t dare make any claims about meaning or coherence beyond that.
Oh: and bonus points if you know what the name of this series (“shoedroopings”) refers to.

Disclaimer
This dialogue has been sitting on my hard drive for nearly six months. I started compiling bits and pieces of a story it would be part of shortly after becoming a member here, but I let the whole thing slacken. I’ve got a broad outline of where this was heading (it was going to involve unanticipated and unpredictable accidents), but I just held a mirror to its nose and there was no sign of breath there. It’s officially going nowhere, then, although I do think this section looks decent. Oh: and please bear in mind that the conversation takes place in a non-English-speaking country. And I suppose I should mention it contains a number of four-letter-words, in case anyone’s allergic to those; but at least the ones here are used functionally!

[This was just a spur of the moment thing. It’s quite silly really, but petroglyph convinced me to post it anyway…]

The crying wife & confused husband

I gasped and dashed towards the
abandoned lump in the middle of the field. I ran and ran, unable to think
clearly. I fell to my knees in a puddle of blood. For a brief second I thought
there was still a chance she was alive, but realized that there was no such
hope. All I could do now was try to identify the little girl. I started to cry
and cry. Who would do such a thing? My heart was pounding, my head burning. I
didn’t think I could ever stop the tears falling onto her mangled, lifeless
body. She was pale and yet beautiful. Her little mangled head still managed to look peaceful.
How could I break the news to her mother?

I co-wrote these with BethanyM — or actually: I wrote them, and we edited/finalised them together. The booger spotting story was her idea, though.

Metallica separates people

Zwolle, Netherlands — Two days ago a curious bicycle accident took place in our fair town, involving two fans of the American metal band Metallica. 17-year-old Julie K. riding down the Luttekestraat, crashed headfirst into Lies F. (17), who was crossing the road, and sent her flying into a porch with three steps. She sustained only minor bruises. Julie K. injured her knee and suffered some road rash, and was later transferred to a hospital by the emergency services. She was diagnosed with a minor sprain and was back home in a matter of hours.

Curtain opens onto a modern flat: white walls, plenty of lights and open spaces. There are a bathroom and a bedroom to the right side of a central corridor with a nearly-empty coat rack directly behind the front door. To the other side there are a kitchen and a living room. The living room, farthest away from the bathroom, is clean but messy: numerous books and bundles of paper are strewn about. The rest of the flat is both clean and tidy.

I co-wrote these with BethanyM. We intend to make this a semi-regular thing. Whenever the silly ideas strike us…

Tumored
toddler saved by 10.000 litres of milk

Any critique is welcome as to the elements of the story.  I’m especially interested in whether or not the ending satisfies. 

RESIDENCE REMOVAL

By Mitch Komro (A.K.A. Bud Budderly)

I co-wrote this story with a fourteen-year-old girl. I’m quite chuffed with how it turned out. It’s entertaining. It’s well-written. It has an interesting protagonist. And above all: it keeps making unexpected turns. It’s a good story, even if I say so myself. I’m proud of this one. I really am.

Please note that this is just the three first pages of the story. If you want to read the rest (an additional 5 pages), PM me and I’ll send you a pdf version.

The store was called J Trimming, and it was located on Broadway, south of Canal. It was open Sunday through Thursday from 8 until 5, and on Friday from 8 until 3:30 when they closed for the Sabbath. The store occupied the full downstairs floor of a pre-war Brownstone. An apartment that size would have rented for close to $3,000 a month. Instead, it had been turned into a retail space that sold one thing: fabric trim. Rows and rows of lace, embroidery, beadwork, and sequins ready to be purchased by the bolt or by the yard. It was generally considered to have the best and most unique collection in the city. Garment-district workers and designer’s assistants would line up outside the shop every morning, waiting for the elderly Hasidic owner to open the door, hoping to find the one thing, the one addition to a fashion spread that would let it transcend current trends and turn their idea into a classic.