Stoddard 1

The Story That Spoke

He bought a gun at the local pawn with half a paycheck. The owner asked “which

bullets?” He tipped his hat and said “big enough to fucking kill.” He walked out of the

store paper bag in hand, already scheming.

“Bitch goin’ get it.”

He had caught her eyeing men. He knew he couldn’t keep that hot piece of ass in

check, knew she’d split when one of the suits offered to lift her from the trailer.

“No one splits on Bobby.”

He clutched the bag tighter, mumbling through clenched teeth.

“No one.”

Bobby jumped into his diesel, cranked it into gear, and tore down the street. His

radio came on full blast, the knob twisted high from his breakdown earlier that day. The

voice crooned: “There’s a tear, in my beer…” The words were twisted with a hard, dusty

sadness, as if the very desert came tumbling from the stereo. Bobby’s eyes watered, but

he pushed it back with that same dusty grimace. Hank Williams has a way of riling a

man up. He took a sip from a styrofoam cup filled with sloshing whiskey, the cup a

stroke of genius after his last DUI.

“I wonder if Hank ever shot anybody.”

Bobby smiled at the thought, his mental Hank blowing away some lying woman

without even spilling his beer. He could multitask; he was Hank-fucking-Williams. Bobby

Stoddard 2

brought the diesel down to a low rumble, inching up on his trailer. He filled the gun’s

clip with shaky hands, dropping a couple bullets into the car cushion abyss. He tucked it

into his belt and squared his shoulders. He opened and closed the door quietly and

whiskey-swaggered up to the doublewide. He thought ‘I even bought her a fucking

doublewide.’ Clutching the cold steel, he kicked open the door.

Marty stared at his computer screen, hand tapping a

frustrated beat.

“This is fucking tedious. I hate writing bestsellers.”

He spoke to no one in particular, the room vacant save for

his desk and sunbeams dancing from the single window. The desk

was piled with ‘research material,’ trashy paperback novels with

overdue bills for bookmarks. He had read all of them over the

summer and was trying to consciously write something that would

sell. His two hundred page poetry anthology was under many a

table leg, and only then because he handed them out at the metro.

“I don’t even listen to Hank Williams. I know that one

verse. The closest I’ve come to Southern exposure is Walmart.

What am I doing?”

Stoddard 3

He threw his pencil into a corner and buried his face in

sweaty hands.

“None of my ideas are working… maybe too much late night

drama. Maybe not enough.”

He was beginning to grow tired of talking to himself. His

ego made for poor company. The sunbeams grabbed his eyes and he

scanned the hazy city for any reason to quit writing. There was

none to be found, but the chaotic Chi-town bustle was enough to

invent a purpose beyond the word-crowded screen.

“Fuck this story. Time pull on some pants and see some

friends.”

He never wrote in pants. Too constricting. As his yoga

instructor loved to repeat: tight clothing restricts the chakras.

Marty’s writing ritual was not to be disturbed. If publication

came at the bottom of a witches’ brew he would be first in line.

He grabbed the first bottom-garment from the mountain

accumulating in his living room and headed for the door. He took

one glance back, eyes lingering on the desk. He ran back and

closed out the document. He didn’t save.

“Maybe tomorrow I’ll write something grand.”

Stoddard 4

All of his friends were artists, some painters, sculptors,

and writers he had gathered college. His own writing credentials

amounted to a plague for outstanding freshman composition,

displayed proudly above his desk, and publication in the Dancing

Gazelle, given freely to metro riders with averted faces and

frolicking bohemians who use it in papier-mâché masterpieces.

Marty once saw a homeless man use it as toilet paper, but that

instance has been pushed into the deep recess of his memory. It

only bubbles up to remind him to never sit at the end compartment

in the metro, the two lonely seats that he once thought was an

excellent place for secluded thinking.

When asked about his job, Marty was always “writing the next

great American novel.” He always neglected to mention the

mindnumbing nights slinging hamburgers under a pulsating M, or

the fact that it had been four years since his Bachelors in

English had released him squirming into the wild yonder. He

passed that pulsing M everyday on the way to the metro, passing

it now as he attempted to rouse his friends into some sort of

get-together.

Stoddard 5

Eight unanswered texts later, Joel was found to be the only

friend available. He assumed the others were busy doing the dirt

behind the passion: fastfood or retail. At least half were

ignoring him because the last get-together had turned into an

artistic pity-party where vodka had knocked loose each member’s

personal inadequacies, cumulating with some communal abstract

expressionism titled, after the fact, Pantry on Cloth: The Cry of

Consumerism. It took weeks to clean the wayward peanut butter that

didn’t quite hit the canvas.

Marty had finally arrived at the Metro, squeezing in between

business men teetering on the edge of sleep and scruffy beards

that called this train home. One man’s cologne filled the entire

cab, the artificial stench rolling off his suave suit and

polished loafers. He talked to the air with expression, hands

speaking eloquently and nearly smacking his nearby neighbors.

Marty was confused until he noticed the blinking blue light

jammed in the man’s ear. He mumbled “what a sellout” and moved

his hands dismissively, too small to be of any notice to anyone

but himself.

Stoddard 6

Marty exited the metro and made the short walk to Joel’s

apartment. Joel was a painter, although the term loosely applies

to his technique. His recent kick was what he called

‘scatological exploration,’ which to Marty seemed to be a funny

way of saying his apartment always smelled of shit. The painter

would smear his toilet bowl confessions on large canvases,

claiming that the smell made the art. With every meeting Joel

swore he was about to break through, to create a piece that would

be hung and admired by his distant ancestry. Marty couldn’t help

but think this assumed ancestry was a tenuous proposition at

best, as no woman he’d ever known (or would want to know) could

penetrate the stench barrier Joel’s medium required. Still, Marty

reasoned, this is better than his last kick, involving menstrual

blood and mayonnaise.

Marty reached Joel’s door, assaulted by the now-familiar

smells escaping his apartment. How could the neighbor’s possibly allow this?

Just as the thought formed, a man dressed in a skin tight neon-

green body suit popped a cartwheel on the sidewalk and promptly

ran away. Oh yeah, Bohemians. Before he even had the chance to knock

Stoddard 7

Joel opened the door with a jolt. His eyes were dilated with

either artistic genius or methane exposure.

“Marty! Come see my work, I call it the Shit-ta-lisa. It’s…

a name in progress.”

Marty edged through the doorway, always wary not to step in

some of Joel’s artistic medium. Joel had one of those houses with

a canvas at the epicenter, the rest of the furniture haphazardly

tossed about in no apparent pattern. There were stains

everywhere; Marty preferred not to question. He was always afraid

to sit in Joel’s house, and by the end of each encounter he was

swaying to alleviate the building pressure on his feet. Despite

his apprehension, Marty was impressed by the latest work, but it

could have been a methane contact high. Disregarding the smell,

the portrait looked to be a fairly accurate charcoal recreation

of the Mona Lisa. It was only on closer inspection that the

smooth, chocolate texture could be seen.

“This is high Art Marty. Art that assaults you. Art you

can’t ignore. It forces the viewer into visceral contact, no

passive appreciation here.”

Stoddard 8

Joel had worked himself into a self-righteous frenzy. He

moved out onto his small balcony and spread his arms out over the

urban expanse. He had the aura of conqueror and Marty thought,

perhaps in another time, Joel would have brought Rome to its

knees. Or at least spread some plague. No catapult needed. Joel lit a

cigarette, and when Marty was sure there wouldn’t be an explosion

from pent-up gases he joined Joel on the balcony. Joel took a

long drag, smoke masking the rank quality of the air.

“This is Art that tears down the bourgeois idea of

separation, of quiet abstraction. I could be the Promethean fire

that burns down the catacombs of established power.”

In his artistic fervor Joel had picked up a clump of his

medium and clasped down, black play-doh tubes extending from

between his fingers. Goddamn, it’s on the balcony too. Marty let a smile

creep onto his face and palmed his friend’s shoulder in the one

spot he could safely avoid the many stains. He knew he had to be

supportive, as he’d expect the same in his artistic endeavors.

Joel loved Marty’s poetry anthology. He could see it still

sitting on the recliner, shit smears a better cover than what

that overpriced editor pulled off of Google image.

Stoddard 9

“You could be that match, Marty. It subverts expectations of

what Art is meant to be. But, it might be hard to find a

gallery.”

Marty went back in and stared a bit longer at the apparent

masterpiece, affecting his best critical stance. Hand on chin,

low, nearly inaudible hums and ahs, a slight sway as if to take

in the full effect. He’d had practice at appeasing artists. Joel

came in and gave him that eager, expectant, desperate look that

comes from a life of rejection and exile. He felt he needed to

give some sort of critical feedback.

“I think I see a peanut.”

Marty couldn’t convince Joel to leave his shit-cave. Marty’s

small morsel of recognition would send Joel into an artistic

fugue state, a frenzy of creation. He couldn’t be bothered with

world outside. Marty left the apartment in no particular hurry,

his day free of obligation. He boarded the subway, resolving to

get off at his usual stop for some coffee. His designated seat in

the back was empty, the only seat he feels safe from the

penetrating eyes. People watching was his favorite sport, and the

Stoddard 10

metro never disappointed. He noticed the man from earlier, now

yelling into his Bluetooth. Spittle was beginning to form on his

lips, and Marty thought he could see a wayward strand land in the

newly permed hair of a woman adjacent to his ranting. Marty was

already molding this man into his next character: a disgruntled

businessman, alienated kids, an adulterous wife. I need to stop

making my women such floozies, what with feminist critics.

The woman whose head had served as a landing strip for the

man’s spittle had downcast, motionless eyes, her curled hair a

strange juxtaposition to worn, sun-faded clothes. She was old,

her time-etched face possessing the tranquility of exhausted

ambition. She got her hair did to go visit her husband’s grave. She still wears what

she wore the day they came to her door, told her the news. But he always thought she

had the most beautiful hair, silken smooth. She couldn’t let that go. Marty rested

his head on window and dissolved into the steady vibrating tempo

of track imperfections and electric current. I’m pretty sure I ripped

that from a movie. Oh well, still better than Bobby. Should have binged on Jerry

Springer instead of paperback trash.

As he bordered the realm of dreams the vibration turned into

a rumble, a diesel rumble. He stared at the trailer beyond a fly-

Stoddard 11

smeared windshield, stepping from the jacked truck to the

crunching gravel. The door became closer with each gravel churn.

He could feel anger, heat that was not his own, as if injected

with the chemical concoction of fury without the conviction that

such accompany it. He knew now he was relieving Bobby’s story,

feeling his emotion, but doing so at a theatrical distance. He

felt Bobby’s boot connect with the door. Beyond the precipice

there was a woman-like shape, a vague blur lacking written

details. She existed in a vague room whose details shifted too

quickly to discern, a realm of infinite possibility but no

concrete definition. This world was ripped away and only void-

like darkness remained, a malign darkness that sought

annihilation. He felt Bobby’s disembodied emotions: fear,

confusion, and defiance. In the quasi-state between sleep and

reality he felt his mouth form a single word, “No.”

Marty woke to a falling sensation, ‘no’ echoing in his mind

and his lips still pursed. The stop was announced and he moved

toward the doors, floating with that ethereal pre-coffee

purgatory. As the doors opened to the noontide flood he heard a

distant echo, a voice obscured as if filter through water. They

Stoddard 12

sprang from everywhere and nowhere, a sound Moses must have felt

at the burning bush but without a fire to look towards. He could

barely make out the words, the echo carrying the disharmonious

melody of drunken karaoke. There’s a tear, in my beer… The voice broke

into hoarse humming, repeating the same chorus over and over.

Marty looked for a loud speaker or a subway musician, finding

nothing but busy citizens. This refrain began to crescendo, the

echo painfully bouncing around his skull. He sat on a nearby

bench, beginning to fear his mind had finally slipped. And then,

as suddenly as it had begun, the grating chorus ceased, leaving

only the chaotic murmur of the metro masses.

“How do ya?”

He jumped from the bench, searching from the homeless man he

had sat on. Save for some wads of dried, circa 1980 gum the bench

was vacant. The greeting had come from nowhere, yet sounded as if

someone had whispered in the exact center of equilibrium that

music rests when using headphones.

“Shit man, chill. I’m just sparkin’ conversation.”

Marty’s mind raced. Holy shit, I’ve finally gone crazy. Fried by genius, by

genetics, by that goddamn dark diceman that doles out fate. I knew I didn’t drink

Stoddard 13

enough, didn’t sedate myself. All the good ones drank; it’s how they kept writing. I’ve

thought myself batshit, padded walls and pills for me. Marty looked around,

wondering how quick it’d be before they locked him away.

“Calm the fuck down. I’m playing word dodgeball in here, thoughts bouncing

around every which way. Now, let’s try again. My name’s Bobby.”

Marty was unsure of where to look when addressing himself.

He decided to close his eyes and lean back on the bench. Um… the

character? The fucking character?

“Talk aloud. Thinking sounds all watery, like a busted speaker playing to itself.”

Marty thought this must be what it’s like to live as a

schizophrenic, to have thoughts that are not your own.

“So this is it. My character comes to life, fractures from

my mind. I go full schizoid. Or this is a dream and I’m still

drooling on that metro seat. Or, your my spirit guide to that

leads to some salvation. What is it, speak o’ great disembodied

voice!”

His voice gradually raised as the speech progressed, ending

in a yell loud enough to echo. He opened his eyes to disapproving

metro patrons hurriedly walking away. They were used to subway

prophets, but his lack of brimstone sign really threw them off.

Stoddard 14

Laughter painfully reverberated in his head, shifting skull like

tectonic plates.

“Man, don’t get weird with me. I just am. Your guess is as good as mine. I can’t

even see myself. It’s like sitting the back of a theater and watching some fucked movie

with that shaky handycam bullshit. Cept, I can’t leave.”

“How did you get here? I threw that story away. It wasn’t

going anywhere, your just a stupid caricature.”

Marty began walking towards the metro exit, stumbling every

time the voice started.

“Yeah, you tried to kill me. I floating around in the dark, dazed and confused,

when I thought about life, what it all means you know? Then I thought, who the fuck am

I? What am I? One minute I’m about to lay into that lying woman of mine and the next

I’m just not there. Gone.”

Marty ascended the stairs, the sunlight forcing his eyes

into a squint. After this, I’m definitely going to need some coffee. Bobby

rambled over his thought, lost in searching explanation.

“So I thought, what would Hank do? He’d pull out a colt ’45 and find out what’s

up, get him some women and get him some beer and take control. Well, there weren’t

any women, and there weren’t any beer, so I decided to take control. I felt this dark

weight come on me, trying hard to snuff me. It wanted me gone, whatever it was. But

Stoddard 15

nothing can kill this cowboy, not even nothingness. I just manned up on came your

eyes, my shitty movie. Here I am.”

Marty turned the corner on his favorite street, the bohemian

epicenter of Chicago. Skinny artists littered the sidewalk,

peddling paintings with a hint of desperation. Five hundred

dollar price tags ensured all but the few who attracted rich

benefactors many more nights of ramen and rice. He looked in the

direction of Joel’s stall, but Joel was off putting the finishing

touches on his masterpiece. Even when Joel wasn’t present his

stall emanated a mixture of sewage and sweat. The bohemians gave

the stall a wide berth, as no amount of patchouli could right the

wrong done there. He had almost forgotten his predicament when

Bobby’s voice returned.

“I spill my ever-loving soul and you ignore me. Fucker, you’re going to listen to

me, especially since I’m stuck watching your piss-poor excuse for a life.”

Bobby yelled this, causing Marty’s face to contort from

throbbing reverberation. Marty turned into the first coffee shop

he saw.

“I’m not ignoring you. It’s just… I need some coffee man.”

Stoddard 16

He forgot to murmur this time, speaking at a conversational

level. The man next in line turned to give him a one over,

eventually turning back around when the need for his afternoon

fix became more important than a wayward crazy.

“I’m having an existential crisis.”

“You’re going to have to explain that one.”

Marty had used the phrase innumerable times through his

life. He used it when his Super Nintendo no longer worked, no

matter how hard he blew. He used it when he saw his poetry

anthology tucked under his mother’s dining room table leg. He had

used when each of his several pets had died. This was the first

time someone had asked what it meant. His artist friends either

understood, or were equally confused and didn’t want to appear

philistine. He ordered a latte, using the brief inner silence to

come up with an appropriate analogy.

“You know… like the times Hank cried.”

“Yeah, but Hank weren’t no pussy. After he cried he drunk that beer down, paid

his tab, and got down to business. You’re crying just to cry.”

The dialogue dredged up angry memories. He had written too

much of his father into Bobby.

Stoddard 17

“How much Hank can you sing?”

“Aw man, all of it. ‘There’s a tear-“

“Something else? Anything?”

“Fuck you.”

“Exactly. You’re not real, only as developed as I made you.

Your flat, boring. Remember who created you, who’s in charge.

What was your childhood like?”

“Well, when I was a kid pap tore into me pretty good.”

“What? Really?”

“Psh, no. But see, I can make up shit too. I have access to your” -his voice

morphed into a perfect rendition of Marty’s- “flat, boring mind.”

Marty grabbed his latte from the counter, the barista openly

staring at him. He picked a table in the back and fixed his eyes

on his coffee, trying hard to ignore the concerned patrons.

“Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t it have been a

character I enjoyed writing? I was drunk and angry when I thought

you up.”

“Funny, I’ve always felt liquored even without a drop. Maybe I’m some repressed

Id or something. I can pull a few words out of this mess up here every once in a while.

You know, your head is a depressing place to hang out. Every time I make a friend you

Stoddard 18

think of something else and he disappears. That business man you thought up was a

cutthroat ass. My kind of man.”

“That works?”

Marty concentrated hard on something other than Bobby, a

distant beach of quiet serenity. He tried to visualize deleting

Bobby’s story. He even visualized killing his crude vision of

Bobby, the wife behind the door mentally written with a shogun

surprise.

“Still here, numbnuts. Things disappear because they don’t care enough. I care.”

The people at the coffee-shop were beginning to notice

Marty’s self-dialogue, mothers shooing their children away and

laptop novelists finding a more distant plugin. He gulped down

his latte, taking the attention as a sign to leave. As he exited

the café the weight of sudden obligation weighed upon him.

“Jessica’s art show is tonight.”

“Is she hot? She best be to go to some faggy art show.”

“Shut up. I’ve been working on this relationship for six

months and I’ll be damned if a sexist disembodied voice ruins it

for me.”

Stoddard 19

Marty jogged in the direction of home, his apartment just a

couple of blocks from the bohemian street. He turned a corner and

nearly bumped into Joel. It would have been a nasty accident, as

Joel was proudly toting his fecal masterpiece. Marty could only

imagine the adventure it took to get this piece from Joel’s

apartment.

“Did they give you hell on the metro?”

“What’s that smell? Did you shit yourself?”

Joel straightened a bit, stood proudly next to his canvas.

“They wouldn’t let me on the subway. Something about

sanitary conditions. Ridiculous. Remember when we saw that hobo

take a deuce in the back of the train cart? Anywho, want to come

witness the birth of a new age? This shit is going to sell for

sure.”

Marty could tell by Joel’s tone that he didn’t really

believe his painting was going to fly off the shelves. He surely

had noticed the wide arc that avoids his stall, the

excommunication of even the freaks that filled bohemian central.

Marty felt a twinge of guilt, but knew he had to hurry home to

make the art show.

Stoddard 20

“I need to get home and change. Jessica’s show is tonight.”

“Oh, Jessica.” Joel stretched her name out in a cutesy

voice. “I get it, see you later.”

Marty began his jog home, trying to recall what exactly

Jessica was presenting.

“That was just some hippie, right? Someone you barely know?”

Marty sped up, his apartment within a block. “He’s my best

friend.” An immediate ‘tsk’ sounded in his head, somehow dripping

with disapproval even without a finger to wag.

“You need to check yourself buddy. Hanging out with shitstained hippies and

hearing voices… makes me almost glad to be a character. That is, until I realize you

invented me.”

He finally made it to his apartment, door slamming in his

frenzied wake. He gave his teeth a quick brush and grabbed his

best outfit from the mountain of clothes occupying his recliner.

Joel’s apartment revolved around a canvas, Marty’s a desk. It was

impossible to avoid seeing it, although he was trying hard. He

let his eyes slip for a moment.

So, that’s it: the primordial pool from which I crawled. I found your vocabulary

tucked away up here, had to dredge through some awful memories of college lectures.

Stoddard 21

These words sizzle on your tongue. Thanks for denying me expression, bastard. Did you

surmise my character from a Cops marathon?

“Great, you were fun enough without a colorful linguistic

palate.”

“We can cowrite my story. I’ll be the most transparent ghostwriter the world has

ever known. I feel inadequate, deprived, dislocated. I’ve got the words without the

conviction, something is missing. I’m incomplete and it’s your, our, responsibility to

remedy it.”

“Not now, I have date. Bug off.”

As Marty zipped his fly, a thought occurred. The artists

were going to think him mad if he constantly argued with himself.

He remembered the Bluetooth he had tucked away in his junk

drawer, a relic from the desk job that had got him through

college. It was never really used; the appearance of work was the

intent. He fished it out and looped it around his ear. Now I can

look busy instead of crazy.

“Insanity is a fulltime job, Marty. I’m getting better at hearing your muddled

thoughts, and let me say, they’re lackluster.”

Stoddard 22

When Marty arrived there was about twenty people strewn

about the gallery. They were all affecting the critical stance he

had perfected at these shows, the room filling with barely

audible oh’s and ah’s and vague praise. A woman examining a

particularly large canvas spoke over the murmur.

“The dichotomy of the color choice is representative of the

stratified class structure, the red dominating and subverting the

Proletariat white.”

The man beside her appeared wounded, his voice defensive.

“No! The red is overcoming the passé white and injecting

creativity into a sterile world. The red offers vibrancy. The

white offers nothing but emptiness and conformity.”

The argument trailed off from there, Marty unable to hear

the heated whispers. The painting looked as if someone had

splashed paint in a crisscross pattern, slivers of white peeking

out between erratic, caked red.

“I think someone tripped over some paint and called it art.”

Marty shrugged the voice off. Jessica’s art had occasionally

paid his rent, so he felt indebted to its appreciation. He walked

over to what looked to be a brown honeycomb smeared with a thick,

Stoddard 23

glue-like substance and set upon a pedestal. The stance was

affected and he prepared to head nod the night away.

“The bees could have made better use of that.”

“Shut up, I like it. She told me this one represents the

mired, molasses-like state of hierarchal structure.”

He crossed his arms and nodded harder.

“Bullshit. Lying to me is like lying to yourself, Marty. You can make up elaborate

excuses for her art on the spot but you couldn’t write me as anything more than an

after-school special. I know now she must be beautiful.”

Jessica snuck up behind Marty and grabbed him around the

waist. He turned with a smile, ready to complement her on the

show.

“I can’t believe you nabbed this gallery. It’s huge.”

His eyes flicked up her dress, taking in the full effect.

She returned his smile.

“Well, I can’t believe you made it. I was sure you’d forget,

immersed in that novel you’ve been working on.”

“Great work on that, by the way. Top notch writing. I knew she’d be pretty, but

damn. She’s reason enough to put up with this artsy bullshit. ‘It is amazing how

complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness,’ as Tolstoy would say. I’ve been

Stoddard 24

scanning your mental library, a task considering haven’t picked up a book since college.

It’s a depressing, small collection. No wonder you’re a hack, full of angsty books and

trash TV.”

“That novel…”

His voice died down to a whisper, Bobby ranting over any

ideas that would form small talk. As the awkward silence grew

Jessica began to sway impatiently, glancing up at his flashing

Bluetooth.

“Really, Marty? A Bluetooth? Am I not interesting enough?”

He broke from the reverberating spell Bobby’s soliloquy had

cast.

“What? No, sorry, I’m in a daze today. Distracted by my

story.”

Marty felt a sudden pang of anger. The slight twinge morphed

into blind hatred, his fists involuntarily clenching. It welled

from a void, attached to no object or person. The chemical blaze

contorted him, hollowed his identity to unseeing passion. Jessica

was oblivious to this internal tempest, carrying on the

conversation unimpeded.

Stoddard 25

“What’s your favorite piece? I spent at least ten hours on

that one.”

She pointed to the huge red and white canvas.

“Each splash of paint was a new emotion, a chronicle of my

breakup.”

Marty turned harshly, seeing the painting through a rage-

tinted lens.

“How long? Long enough to pop into a hardware store, buy

some paint and a sheet, and slather it on?”

He walked over and grabbed the price tag, holding it up with

shaky hands.

“$1500? For an oversized finger painting? And you’ll get it

too, because it’s vague enough to sell. The writing equivalent is

smashing your head against the keyboard and calling it

expressionism.”

All eyes were on Marty, the crowd unsure if he was a lunatic

or the visual component of the show. Either way, they were

amused. Marty grabbed a computer from the hands of an entranced

patron and began slamming his forehead into the keyboard. He held

the screen up for the room to see.

Stoddard 26

“Look, see how it expresses his inner turmoil. How DEEP he

must be. How postmodern! Who needs a goddamn story? Who could

tell?”

He sat the computer down, chest heaving. A shocked circle

had formed around him, half affecting the cherished critical

stance. One person began to clap, and then more joined until the

high ceiling echoed with applause. He ran into the cool night,

steam and excited commotion trailing. Just as the door was about

to close he heard voice rise over the medleyed acclaim

“The trick of the postmodern is to acknowledge the

postmodern. The subject is contextualized into-“

He ran until his legs creaked and sweat outpaced steam, face

flushed despite the cold. His rage subsided, the gravity of his

actions beginning to settle in.

“That was quite the show. Who knew visualization was so effective?”

Marty sat on a sidewalk bench, his flight taking him to a

nearby neighborhood.

“What... what happened back there? I’ve never felt so… so

wrathful.”

Stoddard 27

“I was tooling around up here, doing what disembodied voices mainly do.

Namely, float aimlessly and, in my case, listen to artsy drivel. Out of boredom I began

to visualize. I thought up a control room filled with all sorts of blinking lights buttons

and mysterious levels. As I concentrated the darkness slowly phased into my imagining,

your eye-feed turning into my control screen. I wonder how far I could push it, how

much power I had, so I concentrated real hard on anger. If you recall, it’s an emotion

I’m good at, it being the only one you gave me. I could tell it was working, but not well

enough. I channeled my anger into one the levers, into something more concrete, and

pulled. Apparently, I opened the flood gates.”

Marty stood and paced around, wanting desperately to strike

at this voice. He clawed at his scalp, shook his head, flailed

his arms. In the distance, a homeless man slowly inched back into

his alley.

“If I could leave I would, trust me. I didn’t make you say those things. Anger was

just the catharsis. I’m not a bad guy. We can help each other.”

A wave of bliss washed over Marty, his worries carried away

in the tide. He sat down with an opiated grin, completely

overcome with ecstasy. A vision of college bubbled up through the

current: a red solo cup left unattended, a strange taste in his

mouth, happiness and sweat and pulsing rhythms. He suddenly

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realized that this feeling was the same one from the night his

friends covertly drugged him, tried to break him out of his

isolation and seriousness. It was artificial. He swam back up the

current of bliss, pushed back the consuming pleasure.

“This is another lever. You’re trying to control me.”

“And I’m close, too. I got a finger twitch while you were hopped up on dopamine.

I’m already mapping your nerves to the control board. I don’t know who or what I am,

but I know who I’m going to be.”

Even without facial expressions Marty could tell this last

sentence dripped with malice.

I have to talk to Joel. He might be the only one who can understand obsessive art.

A cold laugh emanated, becoming so large Marty could feel

the pressure behind his eyes.

“Yeah, plead with shit-man. He’ll exorcise your demons. But hey, don’t worry. I’ve

got it under control.”

Marty felt his worries drop away, the sudden void of thought

like the receding tingles of dejavu. He focused hard to bring

them back, to remember his fear.

“You don’t have me yet, fucker.”

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He ran with an empty mind, determination overcoming the

occasional arm and leg spasms. Joel’s house was usually a metro’s

ride away, but in haste Marty forgot it was an option.

Bobby must be testing the controls.

He arrived at Joel’s door exhausted, the smell now poorly

masked with a smokescreen of air deodorant. It was a scent he had

captured passing the display at the supermarket: Moroccan Bazaar.

This version is probably more authentic.

Joel opened to incessant knocking, eyes crusted with a

sleepy glaze.

“It’s three AM.”

Joel was never asleep this early. Marty pushed his way

through the doorway, noticing the ripped remains of Joel’s

painting heaped in the corner. Joel followed Marty’s attention

with a dejected hunch.

“It wasn’t good enough. I’ll start again tomorrow.”

Joel plopped onto his couch-bed. Marty struggled between

comforting and being comforted, choosing the latter under the

reasoning that if he lost his mind he wouldn’t be much use to

either of them.

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“Joel, I’ve had a day. There’s a voice inside, one of my

characters. He’s trying to drive me out.”

Marty was holding his head, as if to demonstrate.

“He caused me to blowup at Jessica’s show. I can feel him

pulling at my neurons, rewiring my psyche, little twitches here

and there.”

Marty sat beside Joel, red-faced from the run and hurried

confession. Joel opened his eyes so wide sleep-dust drifted to

the floor.

“Your character… is sentient? Marty, I think all that desk

time is driving you insane. The battle of the blank page or blank

canvas, it eats at me so I know it eats at you too.”

He gave Marty a backslap, knocking loose the knot in his

stomach. It had been an hour since Bobby last spoke and Marty’s

resolve was returning. He even managed a weak smile, nodding his

head in wake of Joel’s advice.

He’s right. I just had an episode, a meltdown from too many words.

“So, it didn’t sell? I really liked that one.”

Joel sank in the couch, letting loose a soft chuckle.

“It was shit man! Ah, another day. They just didn’t get it.”

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They rolled a joint and spent the night discussing the finer

points of artistic appreciation, how in an anchorless sea Art had

lost its center. People were afraid to judge in this world of

relativism, unsure of their own taste. The concluded as it always

did after a post-failure ramble, with both men assured in their

cynicism.

“Let the world do as it will, and I’ll do the same. We’ll

traverse this muddled sea together, set our boat to the waves

until we strike shore. But, now I must sleep.”

Marty bid him farewell and slipped into the night. He

stumbled down to the metro, his eyes drooping.

I hope Jessica will forgive me. Hell, at least I made her show unique.

He went through the ticket buying ritual, the maneuvers

mechanical. A short walk found him collapsed in his seat, head

resting on the window. The vibrating hum again pulled him into

unconsciousness. He closed his eyes on the world.

Marty found himself suspended in a void. The darkness was so

complete his eyes hurt, unaccustomed to the complete lack of

stimulus. He blinked, but there was no differentiation between

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world behind lids and the oppressive dark. An attempt to touch

his face led to a realization of formlessness, that there were no

longer hands that touch. He both was and was not. A voice filled

the emptiness.

“Scenic, no?”

Marty wanted to thrash around, to tear at this void, but

there was nothing to tear nor thrash.

“You wasted the freedom only a captive can appreciate.”

“Bobby, I’ll write your story, give you life. Just don’t take mine.”

The familiar laugh echoed around him.

“I can write my own story now.”

Marty saw himself wake up, arms stretching in the flicker of

the florescent metro. He felt himself smile, as if cords pulled

his face without personal effort. He heard his voice and wept

negated tears.

“Time to buy some Hank Williams.”

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