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Honesty [unfinished]


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5 May 2010, 08:29 PM   #1
Joined: 4 May 2010
Posts: 2
A [very] rough draft of one of the short stories that I never finished. If you have any
ideas for the ending, I'd love to hear them, because I've just dug myself into a hole by
creating all this build-up with no climax. Anyway, I hope you can enjoy reading it...
somewhat...

If honesty were truly the policy, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Where am I, you
ask? Where am I sitting that is so monumentally terrible that I’m contradicting one of
the most well known idioms of all time? To which I would answer: In a chair, in a corner,
in a room, in a police station, in a situation-in-which-I-am-about-to-face-imminent-doom.
Of course, I can’t blame it on honesty alone. Oh no, there’s too much involved in the
whole scheme of things to let it all be pointed to one culprit. Honesty’s henchmen come
in the forms of Egocentricity, and Pessimism, and ironically, Lies. So here I am, sitting
in this chair of death and destruction with people glancing at me like I’m some sort of
madman (Or a clown. What difference is there, really?) until finally an officer comes out
and tells me to come inside the interrogation room. He’s a big guy, over six feet, with
wide shoulders. You can tell he thinks he’s concentrating on making his face as
stone-like as possible. Personally, I think this endeavor makes him look like a kind of
demented gargoyle, but I figure that that particular bit of honesty won’t get me
anywhere I want to go. They sit me down in chair that is, somehow, even more uncomfortable
than the last, and I’m placed under the gaze of the creepiest looking guy I’ve ever
seen. Now, when I think of ‘interrogation’, I think of water cure, hamstringing, maybe
even the use of a Tucker telephone or two. What I don’t think of is a freaky police
officer with lemur eyes staring into the depths of my soul; if I have one, that is. He’s
thin too, composed of skin and skeleton and nothing in between. His face is all bony which
makes his huge eyes look even more frightening than they would otherwise. The Lemur
speaks, his voice comprised of 1% genuine concern, 4% recognition of me as a human being,
and 95% smoker’s rasp. I blink. Again, telling an authority figure to cut back on the
cigarettes isn’t a great way to start a relationship, especially if your miserable life
is in his hands. 
	“Your name?” He asks, rustling some papers in front of him. I catch a glimpse of the
one at the front, and I see my name, printed clearly in bold, Times New Roman font, at
least a size fifteen. I glance up at my interrogator, and bite back an inquiry to whether
he can read. 
	“Clifton Hayes.” I manage to blurt out before I say something really stupid. The
Lemur glances down at the papers, like he’s sure I’m lying. When they show that I’m
telling the truth, he coughs, disappointed. Then he glares up at me and starts shooting
questions. Most of it is easy, ‘yes’ ‘no’ stuff. After that it gets a little
harder. He wants answers, and more than just answers, he wants explanations. He wants to
know the reasoning behind every single “the” I utter, and if my answer isn’t
sufficient, chances are he’ll ask me again later on. It isn’t any good, though. I’ve
always been a terrible liar, and it seems I get worse as years go on. Nowadays, I can’t
even think of lying without breaking out into a sweat and darting my eyes around like a
crazed fly in a pinball machine. Whatever answers I give him the first time are all he’s
going to get. It takes a little more than half an hour for us to finish. Then the Lemur
gets up out of his seat and motions toward the Gargoyle, who was watching it all in an
adjacent room. The Lemur and Gargoyle switch places, and now there’s a gargantuan
statue-like guy in front of me, managing to balance his weight on the tiny chair opposite
mine. I’m surprised it isn’t screaming in agony; the contrast between the lightweight
Lemur and two-ton Gargoyle must be torture to bear. But I’m here to save myself from
complete annihilation, not pity a chair. I shift in my own seat, and I’m starting to
feel like a paraplegic in a bath tub, where the water’s rising and I can’t do anything
about it. It’s a dreading sensation. If they’re trying a good cop/bad cop thing on me
now, it won’t make a difference. I’m already wasted and don’t have any more
information I can give them. Besides, the incident wasn’t completely my fault, either. I
have no idea why I’m suddenly taking all the blame for it, when there are a lot of other
people they could be apprehending. I can give these people names, of course, but they
never ask. They think I’m the mastermind of it all, bless their ignorant souls. Like
I’d be able to pull off a stunt like… like what happened. What exactly did happen? I
know what was supposed to happen, because we had it all planned out from the start, but
all I remember is shouting and darkness and then being hauled over by authorities. They
glared at me like that was their jobs’ requirement. But enough of that; more
importantly, while all of my “friends” split, leaving me alone like a deer in
headlights for the police to find, they left behind all their junk. Mark’s wallet, with
his ID and everything, along with four twenties, was just lying on the ground next to the
bushes. But do the authorities pay any attention to it? No. All they do is focus on me;
the living, breathing proof that they’re actually going to be able to tell a success
story at the dinner table for once. The only reason that I smell like I’ve been living
my life in a bomb shelter is ‘cause everyone around me was having some kind of
smoke-fest before the party got crashed. By party, of course, I mean Suicide Gathering.
Which when you consider that it was comprised of a bunch of teenagers who believed they
were living the last night of their life, can basically be translated to:
Congregation-of-people-breaking-the-law-and-doing-dumb-stuff-because-they-think-
they-can-get-away-with-it. Insert simultaneous-shudder-of
every-single-authority-figure-in-the-world here. And how am I tangled up in this mess,
anyway? It’s pretty ironic, ‘cause at that mad law-breaking fiesta, I was the only one
who actually was not suicidal. I had felt so out-of-place; a penguin in the Mojave Desert,
metaphorically speaking of course. People paid as much attention to me as they would their
shadow, and continued to party, smoke, and vandalize property just fine without my help.
What was supposed to happen was that at exactly midnight, everyone at the death fest would
snuff it, all at once. Somehow, people thought this was romantic or something. The only
thing anyone knew for sure was that it would definitely make headline news in our little
town. But if every plan was as simple to perform as written on paper, things would be much
too easy. My plan was: 1. Go to the party, 2. Observe a mass suicide, and 3. Go home.
Pretty condensed, even for me, I have to admit. But that was the only way I could convince
myself into going. I’ve always been a wimp, there’s no way to deceive even myself
around that one. But I had needed to gather up my shredded scraps of courage, just for
that one night. It had to be that night, and I wouldn’t have cared if afterward I curled
up in the corner and never spoke to anyone again.

7 May 2010, 05:15 PM    #2
Guest Poster
i read it all but teh last paragraph. I like it! you have good analogies and it sounds
like the thoughts are coming froma real human being, which is really good in a
story,because the reader can connect with teh protagonist and such. I also like how you
named them after their appearances, instead of their real name. That's good. It helps with
the description. And i think you shou,d keep going. JUst edit a few parts and build up a
small climax.


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