Short Stories

I will be posting short stories I've done here. Please leave comments and/or feedback as both are very appreciated.

This first piece was for my Creative Writing class.


Voids of Reason

The sight in front of me brings me neither pleasure nor pain, only a sense of calm. The calm is a void, and I feel nothing. Witnessing death has never been described to me in this way. When someone kills a man he is supposed to feel remorse, confusion, maybe euphoric if that is what he wanted. I guess could say I feel the circumstances are suiting: a peaceful, star lit night, gun in hand, and the body slouched over the edge of a running fountain in the middle of the park, all the while his blood slowly mixing with the water, and not a soul in sight. I guess I could say how surprised I was at how easy it had been. One bullet to the back of the head and that was all it took. I guess I could say that I am confused that I am not confused. After all, I can’t fathom why I would have even done such a thing. This man had done nothing to me to deserve his fate. But he must have done something, right?

Perhaps it was what my father said that led to this. He was rather loving when compared to the average dad and was outspoken and in tune with his thoughts and feelings. He had a tendency to run these thoughts by both my mother and me, even if we didn’t want to hear them. He would speak of how much he loathed the criminal mentality, yet at the same time he would express his empathy for those who are burdened with it. “Only the good die young,” he’d say, “but that’s only cause God has pity on those who are not. He gives them a few more years of freedom before sending them into eternal misery.” I never understood this contradiction, so I just took it to mean that criminals should not be allowed to live. At least, I think that’s what he meant.

Indeed the man who died in front of me was a criminal. I followed him for several days and discovered he had a knack for casual theft. On two occasions I saw him steal several bottles of alcohol from the corner store across the street from his home. I was surprised at how easily he was able to get away with it each time. He shouldn’t be allowed to steal like that.

I certainly didn’t respect him, but I don’t remember having any desire to hurt him. The most I wanted to do was inform the store clerk. It was petty theft, after all. There are worse people in this world that I can take my disappointment out on. It doesn’t make sense for me to have killed him knowing this. But it was something wrong, after all. Does it really matter?

Could it have something to do with my mother? I loved my mother though she could get on my nerves from time to
time, like any mom. I remember how she would attempt to change the subject but never succeeded. She was annoyed by how random he could be and would joke about it when she’d put me to bed. She was kind to me for the most part, though she did have an ugly side when she drank. I didn’t like that part of her. It was this side that taught me to always find what makes me happy, no matter what it may be.

She died not too long ago when I was twelve. The whole thing was rather dramatic, a cliché plot straight from the movies I’ve come to realize. She was gunned down by a lover of hers who she was seeing behind my father’s back. From what I’ve gathered, he was deeply in love with her and wanted her to leave my father. She wouldn’t, so he killed her and disappeared from town. He was found two years later when he was captured after having murdered another woman. I suppose he was just a love sick child ill fated towards rejection. That sounds right, I guess.

I remember thinking this man looked like my mother’s killer. He had the same basic features: tall, handsome, slim and refined, with dark blue eyes that when I looked into them I could see a deep sadness. My mother’s death saddened me, but I couldn’t help but believe she deserved it and thus had no desire for vengeance. She had done a terrible thing, been a terrible person so she had to die. I guess being defiant made her happy. She told me I should be happy. But what I’ve done here does not fill me with any happiness. I don’t understand any of it.

Maybe it has something to do with the secret I’ve kept all these years. The worst experience of my life happened when I was in the second grade. I had a teacher, Mr. Haremburg, who would scold me when I gave the wrong answer to a question. I was the only one too, which is what confused and frustrated me. I couldn’t get what it was about me that he hated so much. He wasn’t a terrible teacher though; I learned some things from him. I guess I was so behind that he would sometimes keep me after school to teach me some things. He would teach me mostly math which was my worst subject. I hated it with a passion. But every time when we were finished with the normal school work he would teach me about girls. I wasn’t interested at the time but that didn’t stop him.

He used to teach me how to talk to them, and so he’d talk to me that way. He’d teach me how to act, and so he’d act that way. Finally, he’d teach me what to do with them, and so he’d do those things. I have to admit, those lessons made me feel uncomfortable. I’m not exactly sure why but, I just know they did. After it was all done he’d remind me not to tell anyone about them. He told me they were special lessons just for me because he knew I needed the most help. I’m actually not so sure anymore. Why’d he help me anyway if he hated me so much?

The dead man wasn’t the best of fathers. I saw him one day beating his oldest son. I imagined that boy being as confused and uncomfortable as I was with my teacher. It wasn’t the same thing but, I know what it’s like not being able to say anything. That anger could have been enough to bring me to kill him. I know it was powerful. But I couldn’t help but feel maybe he was just trying to help him in someway, like my teacher. I thought that maybe I shouldn’t be angry at him but instead sad for him. After all, it can’t be easy for a father to have to hurt his own kid, even if he had to. Maybe this is what my father meant, or maybe not; I can’t say.

I can’t think of anything else that may have drove me to this. My life has been pretty normal, at least from what I’ve come to understand normal is. This is really starting to bother me. I don’t know what to do or how to explain it. It hurts just trying to think about it. Maybe this is remorse. No, it can’t be, cause I once felt bad for accidentally stabbing my friend in the foot. It feels different. At least I don’t feel empty anymore, that’s a relief. But, I just can’t explain it. I feel so unsure is the best way I can put it. It’s uncomfortable and I’m not sure I can handle it. I’ll just put it all out of my mind. I’d best be off cause my dad will wake soon. I can figure this out some other time if I really need to. I’m in no hurry.

This is the farthest thing from tl;dr.

I read it, I savored every last taste and morsel of wordage you gave me and I left more than satisfied.
The ending line was a nice little closer, and the stories seemed more true and personal than you let on being the author.

Of course my issue is the feel about it. I like how it seems dark but the teacher seemed a little... too much. I thought it was a clever play on the growing issues, going from math to girls to the unfortunate end but...

I dont know, reading it made it feel out of place.

At the same time, its a good thing you did with it. I could feel the tugging of what was going on and it consumed my head. As soon as I read part way into what you put down as his actions, I knew what happened and I myself could feel a little tinge of what the character must have felt.

A very good read. A little sporadic imo, but it fits the frame of the speaker very well.

Thanks for reading, and especially for the feedback.

I see what you are saying about the "teacher" part. It's much too "cut and dry" imo. I feel it is a bit much, but I've also come to feel it is too cliche. It was something I added spur of the moment just to make it a bit longer.

I'm not sure what you mean by "too sporatic." The piece is meant to feel like he's isolated in a place that no one, especially himself, can explain what he's feeling. If you mean too jumpy, then it was intentional to show his convoluted mindset. It's a character trait I used on purpose to show how his way of thinking is slightly skewed and unreasonable.

As I said, "It fits the frame of the speaker very well"

kk. It just seems contradictory to say its too sporadic then say its fine because of the speaker lol.

I was just trying to clear up my reasoning, even though I realized you saw it as well.

this story is pretty good wasn't expecting the teacher thing though but it gives u a sense of what the main characters been through in life. im looking forward 2 seeing what other stories you've written

Thanks

I'm planning on editing the story once I get more feedback. I think the teacher part was a bit much.

Thanks Pool, glad its doing what its supposed to.