Thanks for this, Kealan!
Time to get some reading done.
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| The "Black Wave" Story Exercise http://horrorworld.org/msgboards/viewtopic.php?f=2&t=13629 |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 1:42 pm ] |
| Post subject: | The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Hey All, Sorry for the delay in getting these posted, but here are the stories from the "Black Wave" story exercise. Some cracking stuff here. You should all be beyond proud of yourselves, and thanks for inviting me to be a part of this. All the best, Kealan |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 1:48 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Story deleted (sorry). Hoping to publish it elsewhere. |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 1:52 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
The Black Waves I have a buddy at work who knows a guy that has a cousin that knows a guy that lives in Brooklyn and has a collection of more than ten thousands records including a record by Leroy “Lightning” and The Black Waves. The Black Waves were a rock n’ roll group before there was Rock ‘N Roll. But for some reason they were swallowed up by history. No one remembers them; you won’t find them in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, you won’t see any hipsters wearing their tee shirts. They’ve become something of an urban legend to musicologists. So on a beautiful fall afternoon I found myself on the L Train to an ungentrified section of Brooklyn. People from my area of Manhattan where I live wouldn’t dare venture this deep into Brooklyn, but I was rockin’ my Yes We Can Obama tee shirt so I was copacetic with the brothers. The guy, Sam, with the collection of records lived at 445 Superior Street which turned out to be a rundown high-rise apartment just four or so blocks from the new basketball arena owned by the Russian billionaire. The elevator wasn’t working so I walked up three flights of stairs skipping over the detritus of low income housing: crack pipes, dirty diapers and broken beer bottles. As I walked the halls of the third floor I listened to babies crying, people yelling, people fucking, dogs barking, the universal sounds of people living, dying, and struggling. It took me a few minutes to find Apartment 39 because the 3 and 9 were missing from the front of the door. I knocked and was greeted by a tall, thin, black dude with dreads, wearing a Penn State football jersey He had a huge blunt in his mouth, the tip glowing orange. “Hey man,” he said and stuck his hand out. “Hi, I’m Bill.” He looked at me for a second, smiled wryly at my Obama tee, and then motioned with his head for me to come in. His apartment was dark and the air was cloudy with weed smoke. There was a fuck ton of vinyl records, the walls were covered with them; there were boxes full of them on the floor, literally everywhere. “Holy shit dude,” I said and walked to the walls, scanning the collection: Howlin’ Wolf, Captain Beefheart, BB King, EPMD, Beatles, even Duran Duran. There didn’t seem to be any method to the madness. Sam chuckled. “My old man left me a lot of these. But he left me the vinyl collecting bug before he passed as well. His dad left him some of the older ones. Including the one you’re here to listen to.” “I didn’t even know any copies existed. I was beginning to think it was a legend.” “It ain’t no legend. I only know of one other guy that has a copy, a collector in Germany. But Leroy LeRoi was a real, living, breathing person no doubt. A helluva musician and singer. But the powers that be made sure his name was buried with his body.” “What does that mean? Conventional wisdom seems to be that Leroy quit music and moved to Africa. He was sick of living in America.” Sam chuckled. “Fuck conventional wisdom. My old man told me the true story of Leroy LeRoi and The Black Waves.” Sam passed me the jay. Normally I didn’t smoke weed because it made me paranoid but I took a hit anyway. He motioned for me to sit on a box of records and I did, passing the joint back to him. “Leroy was born in Louisiana in 1921 but his family moved to Florida when he was a child. His dad’s brother got him a job picking oranges for probably the only decent white fella in Florida at that time. He was paid wages that could support a family. Leroy’s dad had some instruments lying around. Leroy took to them. He was a goddamned musical prodigy at five years old. It was said that he could pick up any instrument and learn it in days. But he loved playing the guitar. And by thirteen he was writing songs with two buddies, Glencairn Watson and Franklin Freeman who eventually with Leroy formed The Black Waves. They called themselves The Black Waves for the waves they put in their afros with pomade or some shit. By nineteen they were playing what was essentially rock ‘n roll music. Fuckin’ years before anyone else. They started playing as a band at Leroy’s parents’ house in Florida. Playing for black folk. But word spread and they started travelling north to Georgia and the Carolinas, even being booked in some white clubs. Now look at this.” Sam passed me a record, the record. The Black Waves. I had never seen a picture of them and I looked at Leroy. Shirtless, cigarette in mouth, sinewy and muscular with dark black skin. The picture of coolness. Impossibly beautiful. “Leroy was like Hendrix, Marvin Gaye and Prince all bundled up into one. I mean, the man oozed sexuality. So, one night in a club in Mississippi of all places after the show, Leroy is leaving and this white girl comes at him. She had come to the show with her boyfriend and made some excuse to stay and wait for Leroy. Leroy on the stage, all sweaty and full of passion, got her all wet I guess,” Sam chuckled. “Now this is 1940’s southern U S of A. Niggas are still getting lynched for whistling at white women. But I don’t know, Leroy maybe seen all these white people coming to his show, maybe got it in his head that all white people ain’t that bad. Something clicked with this girl, her name was…” “Caroline,” I said. According to myth the Caroline was a B side song of The Black Waves. “Caroline Sweetwater, yes sir. And she must have had some sweet water indeed cause Leroy brung her along with him and she travelled with the band for the next few months. Finally Glen and Franklin told him enough was enough, the girl or them. Leroy, with his fool head chose Carol and that was the end of The Black Waves. In Alabama he got booked for a show at a little club called the Hungry Shark. Well, by this time word got around the South about some nigger musician and his little white girl. So, at a show in Alabama, the police raided. The place was cleared out, the police called the Klu Klux Klan.” Sam paused, put the joint to his mouth and took a long hit. “They killed Carol first, after raping her with some…objects. Did it in front of Leroy. Then they cut off Leroy’s dick and balls, shoved them in his mouth, hung him, then burned him with Carol, who was still alive. There weren’t that many copies of The Black Waves’ records but the Klan and connected whites searched them all down and had a burning. They didn’t want any pure southern belles getting any ideas about consorting with negro musicians. They thought maybe it was the music that hypnotized them or something.” “Jesus Christ,” I whispered. “Yeah,” Sam said, “Jesus Christ.” “Anyway dude, you have the record, there’s the player. Listen away. I’ll be back in a half hour or so. I envy you listening to it. I never have.” “Wait. You must have listened to this a hundred times?” “Nope. Not once my man. And believe me I’ve been tempted. But the legend says that anyone that has ever listened to that record has been found dead right after hearing it. My old man told me to never listen to it. Didn’t I mention that?” “No,” I said. “You never mentioned that. You believe that shit?” He smiled. “What can I say? We black folk are a superstitious lot.” He started to leave but just before he opened the door he turned around and said, “On the left side of the record player there’s a little switch, it plays the record backwards. After you listen to the song, play it again backwards.” I slipped the record out of the sleeve and lay it on the record table. The A side of the record was called Use My Illusion and the B side was indeed called Caroline. Use My Illusion was a glorious song. Leroy’s voice was deep and throaty but very powerful with a strong undercurrent of sensuality, singing Use my illusions till the day you die / Cause your delusions are filthy lies. Glen and Franklin were revelations on the drums and guitar but it was Leroy on lead guitar who was the star of the show. This needed to be shared with the world. For a second I considered stealing the album, but I wanted to hear it backwards first. I found the tiny switch on the side and heard the little motor inside the record player stop and then begin again as the record began to reverse its direction. I placed the needle at the beginning. What I Heard: SCREAMING. A woman’s voice thin and high pitched. LEAVE HER ALONE. PLEASE! – A man’s voice (Leroy’s?) YOU LIKE TO FUCK NIGGERS? WELL FUCK THIS! More screaming from the woman. Leroy screaming. NOOOOOOOOO. Laughter in the background. BRING THAT NIGGER OVER HERE. LET’S SHOW THAT NIGGER WHAT WE DO TO NIGGERS THAT FUCK WHITE WOMEN. PASS THAT FUCKING KNIFE. More screams. It went on and on and finally I had to turn off the record player. Was this Sam’s idea of a sick joke? This couldn’t be real, could it? An actual recording of the night Leroy and Carol were murdered? I felt the urge to vomit and got up to use the washroom. It was then that I noticed the complete lack of noise. No more babies crying, no shouting, no dogs barking. Dead silence. The legend says that anyone that has listened to that record has been found dead right after. And then behind me. Light footsteps approaching. “Sam?” No, not Sam. “Leroy?” I turned around slowly. Not Leroy. She’s tall and thin and her long, scraggly blond hair covers the front of her face. Caroline. Her arms hang at her side, green with bruises. Blood drips on the floor from between her legs. As she comes closer, a scream gets stuck in my throat. Then she is close to me, so close I can smell her fetid breath. She reaches between her legs and removes a large serrated knife. Then her hands and her knife are upon me and then they’re inside of me and my blood collects on the floor mixing with hers and I hear Leroy’s voice in my ear, faraway, but there is no mistaking it. Use my illusions till the day you die / Cause your delusions are filthy lies. |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 1:55 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
(Kealan's note: No title provided for this one...) * * * ... Dogger, Fisher, German Bight. Southwest, veering north, four or five, occasionally six later. Slight or moderate. Rain with fog patches. Moderate, occasionally poor, becoming good... The voice came from above; distant, barely audible, a seductive, gentle lilt. The words had lulled him to sleep when he was a boy and proved a lifeline, now. Radio and flashlight, both battery powered, were all he had left. Electricity had gone two hours ago, the generator an hour after that when a particularly big wave had broken high and shattered the upper windows. Water had poured in; so much that both oil rooms were completely submerged and more was streaming in whenever the storm willed it so. Tom gave it another few seconds and tried again. “Richard!” He shone light over an inky surface that undulated as if something moved below it. Part of him knew it was futile. A man couldn’t hear if he was under water, could he? “Richard!” He thought about going in for the third time but he was shivering so bad he could barely hold the flashlight and the water below looked like oil, thick and unforgiving, offering an occasional shiver as the waves continued to pound and shake the walls. A tremendous crash shook the corkscrew stairwell so bad he almost pitched forward and fell in. He couldn’t hear the radio, now. The winds had whipped up and become a howling fury. He shone the light on his watch. Twenty minutes, maybe more. No way Richard could be alive. And he’d implored him not to risk it – to dive down and haul up the dingy. Where the fuck were they supposed to go in an inflatable dingy in a storm such as this? Seawater spattered in heavy drops from above. Another half hour and maybe this room would be flooded, too. Even though it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Everything was designed so the waves would break low and expend their energies on the dovetailed granite that made up the lower section of the lighthouse. The storm, however, begged to differ. They’d radioed for help, bare minutes after a rogue wave, the first big one, had plucked Harry off the rail. Before that, they’d all felt safe enough. They’d already weathered storms such as this, storms that had shook the walls like a dog worrying a rat, and on every occasion the structure had always remained solid and defiant; a single, solitary finger, a Victorian-built 65ft fuck you, stuck out there on the rocks. Harry had been energized and ebullient. Storms like this had always lit a fire under him and despite the power going down he’d climbed up to the gallery to take a look. “Black waves, black as all hell!” he’d shouted down the stairs. He’d been laughing, utterly bewitched by it all. And as soon as Harry had been swept away, Richard had freaked out. The storm had wound him in another direction and when the interior had started to fill up and they’d been informed helicopter rescue wouldn’t be put into effect until things had died down, that’s when he’d dashed down the steps. “Richard?” This time it came out as a whisper. No way his colleague could be alive and yet he didn’t want to leave him. He must have gotten stuck, maybe a foot or a hand or part of his clothing had become entangled and Tom had dived down repeatedly and he’d stayed down until his skin was numb and his lungs were screaming but he hadn’t found him and the water was so black and cold... He began his retreat up a shuddering bronze stairwell slick with moisture. The storm was offering no mercy and was still trying to break down the walls, while his teeth were chattering so bad he thought they might shatter and his feet slipped on the treads, step by step while his flashlight skittered. Back into the upper darkness he crawled, back toward the radio while the practicalities of survival ran on ahead. He’d need dry clothing, he’d need to keep warm. He’d already taken off his woolen sweater, sodden and heavy with seawater. Maybe Richard’s waterproof jacket was still thrown over the back of his chair. A dead man’s jacket. But no, it couldn’t be. He pointed the flashlight below once more, as if the beam of light would bring Richard back from the depths and he almost lost his footing as another deluge poured down the steps. Still no sign of life and so he continued to climb. Up through the kitchen and into a sitting room crammed with radio and radar equipment, where he managed to find the aforementioned jacket and a couple of dry blankets. He switched off the flashlight and crawled beneath the tarp he’d thrown over the radio. It wasn’t pitch black, he had the tiny lights on the radio console, but outside the walls still shook; Poseidon at his most vengeful. In near darkness his thoughts became louder. Not that long ago when all three men had been laughing and joking about the waves and how high they were breaking. Harry had been the one to mention what had happened in the mid-seventeen hundreds. A ship of the line, heading home victorious – seventy eight guns and upwards of three hundred men. And she’d gone off course in the fog and hit these very rocks. Three hundred men, down in the depths. The lighthouse was built on a killing ground. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders. Wait, he’d been told. Wait it out. While Harry cavorted with the ghosts below and maybe Richard was, at this very moment climbing the steps, feet heavy, lungs bloated. Come and join us. His voice was thin like the wind, and it rode on the coattails of the shipping forecast. ... Sole, Lundy, Fastnet. Gale warning. Southwesterly severe gale force 10 now increased gale force 11. Rough, becoming very rough. Heavy rain. Poor... |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 1:59 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Falling Inside the Black Darkness. Not that kind you get when you turn out the lights or close your eyes, either. Fuck that noise. I’m talking all-encompassing darkness, down where the light from the fires of Hell can’t even find you. That’s how it feels when you have no eyes. Or rather, when some perverted bastard plucks them out like he’s grabbing a couple olives off the hors d’oeuvre tray. I feel like Johnny Depp in Once Upon a Time in Mexico, only without the cool gun and a kid telling me where to shoot. And believe me, while I’ve never fired a gun before, I’d have no qualms using it. But of course, a gun’s not coming. My friend Ashley is down here, but she’s long dead, so she couldn’t tell me where to shoot anyway. Time is fluid here. There’s no way to tell the passing of the sun, my meals – usually half-cooked frozen dinners – are sporadic at best, and the guy upstairs comes and goes so quietly I never hear him. It’d be nice if he opened a garage door or something, because I know he has a set schedule, and then I could at least try to make sense of the time. All I know is Ashley has been down here awhile. Unlike my eyes, my nose is one sensory organ that still works perfectly. For a couple days after she died, all I could smell was the aroma of partially digested food, now long-dried in a thin crust across the concrete floor, replaced by the smell emanating from what’s left of her body. Even in the cool, damp basement, the stench of her rotting flesh permeates the room, burning my nostrils like vomit rising in the back of one’s throat. My ears work just fine too. They never miss the soft click of the basement door latching, or the whispering swish-swish of the man’s feet as he pads across the concrete. They hear his grunts as he positions himself inside his suit. The Easter Bunny licked it off. That damned rabbit costume. Even inside this pit of darkness, my mind’s eye still sees it, coming through crystal clear in high-definition. He always wears it when he comes down here, ever since that first time right after he killed Ashley. “And how are we this evening, Benjamin?” he’d said, removing a small wooden box from within his suit. “Feeling hungry, perhaps?” He glanced over at Ashley, sprawled on the floor in a congealed pool of half-digested Taco Bell, and giggled. “Fffffuuuhhhh…..uuuuuu…” “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” He sat the box in his lap, then reached out and tore the duct tape off my mouth. “Say that again?” “Fuck you!” “Well that just isn’t polite at all. We’ll have to fix such behavior.” He unclasped two latches on the box and lifted the lid. Inside, five narrow objects gleamed within soft velvet padding. He pulled one out, flicked it open, revealing a straight-edge shaving razor. A Playboy Bunny logo appeared on the handle. “Ahh, the Easter Bunny,” he said, licking the side of the blade. “A personal favorite of mine.” I knew Mr. Stephens was crazy, but this was beyond insane. I was trapped down here with Sweeney Todd on acid. He licked the other side, then gently caressed my neck with it. “Stick out your tongue.” I started to shake my head, but felt the razor pierce my skin. Becoming still, I squeaked out a “no,” and curled my lips in as tight as I could. Mr. Stephens slowly ran the razor down the side of my neck, deftly curving it around my collarbone. He stopped near my chest. “Stick it out. Now,” he said, shaking as he tried to constrain his anger. The left ear on his costume drooped over into his face, and he swatted it back. The absurdity of it made me bark out a laugh, and he seized the moment to grab my tongue. With a blur, he flicked the razor down, tracing a line of fire through the tip. I screamed, blood flowing freely down my chin. Mr. Stephens caught my tongue again, this time wrapping the duct tape that had been covering my mouth around it in a makeshift band-aid. From the pocket of his costume he produced another roll, and duct taped my mouth closed once more. “There, that’s better,” he nearly cooed. “A vile mouth such as yours deserves a forked tongue.” Sitting there, grunting and shouting incoherent obscenities at him, I saw with horror that he had pitched a tent inside his costume. The fucker was actually getting off on this. He must have caught my stare, because he looked down and grinned sheepishly. “Oopsie, looks like I got a little excited there. Well, you know the old saying about jackrabbits. Be fruitful and multiply, right?” Huh? For the next week, Mr. Stephens came down once or twice a day, carefully choosing one of his straight razors and making little cuts all over my body. Nothing that would do serious damage. He took his time, making marks on my arms, legs, and torso. He always wore that idiotic bunny suit, and most of the time sported an erection inside it. By the end of the week, he’d gone to the point of unzipping the suit partway and playing with himself. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for this madness to end, to either let me escape or die. My prayer went unanswered. “Why do you close your eyes?” Mr. Stephens asked. “Do you find me ugly?” Before I could stop myself, I snorted laughter behind the duct tape. He ripped it off, and I felt a layer of skin depart my lips. “Something you want to say, Ben?” “Ugly?” I said. “Inside and out, buddy.” Boy, was that an understatement. The guy made me want to vomit, but thinking that way only reminded me of Ashley. And there was no sense lying. We both knew I’d hated him when he was just my teacher, let alone my captor. “Well, my goodness, if I’d known you felt that way, I would have reconciled the problem immediately.” He stroked the goatee he’d grown back out in the week since imprisoning Ashley and I. Watching him rub his chin that way still gave me the willies. I had a sense of déjà vu as he again pulled out his wooden box of straight razors. Oh God, what this time? I thought. He’d taken the duct tape off my tongue a couple days prior, and the slit still felt raw and swollen. After feigning careful deliberation, he of course pulled out the one he affectionately called the Easter Bunny. An erection pushed against the crotch of his suit, and the shit-eating grin was larger than ever. “Lo siento,” he said. “Forgive me for forcing you to look upon me, when I disgust you so.” He gently placed the duct tape back over my mouth, then in a blur, whipped the razor into my right eyeball. By the time I could react, screaming through the tape and thrashing against my bonds, he’d plucked it out and sat in wonder, gazing at the eye and blood vessels dangling from it. It looks like a giant tadpole, I thought, delirious. Or a sperm cell. “What do you think? I don’t look half as bad as before, huh?” he said, guffawing laughter at his sick joke. “But alas, I see our problem is not yet fully solved.” Another eruption of laughter, then another quick jab of the razor. Blackness. It was impossible to comprehend that my sight was gone, that I’d never be able to see anything in this world again, whether beautiful, ugly, or somewhere in between; that the rest of my time here on earth would be spent swimming in a never-ending pool of black ink. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself falling forever inside the blackness, lost on the waves in a sea of nothingness. “Ssshhh…ssshhh. There, is that better? I heard him pad across the concrete and retreat up the stairs, leaving me alone in my misery. I blacked out. When I awoke, I could feel gauze wrapped around my head. As a bandage, I suppose it worked all right. As a blindfold, it was unnecessary (my humor has degraded to that of Mr. Stephens, but it’s all I have left). At some point, Mr. Stephens took the gauze off. Not that it made any difference to me, other than my skin itched where the bandage had been. Which brings me to the here and now. As I said before, time is fluid here. It may have been just a couple weeks since I lost my eyes, or a couple months. I don’t know. I’m beyond ready to give up. I’d like to say that I will escape, that I will kill him in his own house, screaming something crazy like, “I’m hunting wabbits!!” in my best Elmer Fudd voice, but I can’t. It’s over. The blackness has overcome me, and I’m falling in it. |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 2:00 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
I do believe that's all the entries. If I'm missing anyone, please send me a message privately and I'll take care of it. |
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| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 2:12 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
I think one might be missing, although I have no idea whose. These people confirmed that they submitted. Tony Brent Janet Chris Craig That means someone's is missing, unless I can't count (which is certainly possible). |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 2:19 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Yep, right you are. Here's the missing entry, with my apologies: |
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| Author: | KealanPatrick [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 2:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
ANOTHER DAY AT THE BEACH The moment I realize I’ve waded a bit too far out, the water starts to claim me. I struggle against it, pulling at the ocean with my hands, kicking the murky liquid with panicked feet. It is to no avail. For a fleeting moment I think I’ve made progress, but then the water decides it likes the taste of me after all. The waves retract, taking me with them. The beach is crowded. It is a sweltering day, and hundreds of vacationers are doing exactly what they came here to do. Sunbathers lay out, baking in the rays. Parents help their overly sunscreened little ones make sand castles. Teenagers toss the pigskin. An older couple walks hand-in-hand along the edge of the dying waves. A young man and woman fly a kite. The wind picks up and the kite does an impressive loopdiloop. Everyone is laughing, smiling, taking in the beautiful day. But no one notices me. No one sees me fighting. When I manage to get my head above water, I scream. No one responds to my cries. Not even a single cocked head of someone who thinks maybe, just maybe, they heard something. I wave my arms but no one spots me. They go on with their respective pursuits, oblivious to my fight against the undertow. When I can no longer keep my head up, I try to angle it in the water the way an Olympic swimmer might. I’m trying to out-swim these black waves of death. I ride each new one when it comes. They tease me with thoughts of survival as they propel me toward the happy crowd, but their pullback is always greater, their revocation of hope so deliberately cruel. Slowly, yet undeniably, my separation from the beach is growing. As is my panic, my exhaustion, my despair. I’m losing this struggle. There are other swimmers in the water, but they’re much further in. They’re safe. How I long to be as they are: so close, yet in another world altogether. A world of calm, of happiness, of life. It’s like I’m watching them through a movie screen. Yes, that’s exactly it, I’m afraid; this is the theatre of the damned. An exceptionally robust wave thrusts me forward. I allow myself, yet again, to feel hope. I try to rise out of the wave at its apex, like a mermaid’s triumphant ascent from her oceanic domain. I’m such a fool. The wave’s undulation yanks me viciously backward, and I’m pulled under. Saltwater surges down my throat. I’m powerless to stop it. My limbs are getting heavier, harder to move against the water’s resistance. I’m not sure how much longer I can fight. My prospects grow darker with each passing second. But I’m not ready to concede. I break the surface and force the water from my lungs. I suck in a desperate breath and scream once more, with everything I’ve got left. I really put my all into it. No one hears my cry. They never do. Just like the last thousand times this has happened. The first time, however, was different. The first time, at this same beach, at this same time of day, they noticed. They tried to save me. I had wandered too far out and the waves began to take me. I screamed. Onlookers rushed into the water, trying desperately to reach me, but they were too late. These black waves introduced me to death for the first time. That was several years ago. In the time since, this is all I’ve known. It is the whole of my existence. I find myself wading out into the ocean and my first thought is that I’ve gone too far, that I’m in danger. That’s when the waves begin to draw me eagerly away from life, a precious life that I once loved but will never taste again. I fight my hopeless fight, and I lose. Then I find myself back in the water once again, at the exact moment when it all begins anew. If any time passes in between, I’m unaware of it. The beach-goers change. The seasons change. The details shift and undulate just like the waves that so hungrily consume me, time after time. Yet I fail to satisfy these waves, for the voracity with which they devour me has never dissipated. And the people never notice. Their oblivious indifference is perhaps the most frustrating part. It’s a tough thing to get used to, this drowning. But it’s a fate I have come to accept as something I’ve earned, no doubt as a consequence of the Bad Thing I did when I was alive. The last of my strength has left me. My desperate, final attempt at struggling has failed. One last time, I see a beach full of happy people in the distance before I let myself sink into the water where I belong. I give myself fully to it. After all, it’s the only choice I have. The cold engulfs me. The pressure overwhelms me. The black liquid of death penetrates me, permeates my lungs. It becomes a part of me, and I of it. At last, the darkness and the silence and the finality overcome me. I die. Then, instantaneously it seems, I awaken. I’m wandering out into the ocean. I turn around, and when I see the beach in the distance, I realize with grave dread that I’ve gone too far out. That’s when I feel the tug of the retracting waves against me, and I begin to scream. END |
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| Author: | JJHolden [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 2:58 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Thanks for this, Kealan! Time to get some reading done. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 3:22 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Thanks Kealan! I've read them all once and will read them again later before commenting. I'm pretty sure I know at least one of the posters stories  . First reaction: Some good reading here. Second reaction: While the tone of a few of these stories is similar, none of them at first glass share an obvious plot device (unless you count water), which I really like. |
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| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 3:41 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
First of all, I want to say thank you to Kealan for moderating this round of stories. Wicked cool of you, sir! Second, I really dug these submissions. Everything felt different, both from each other, and from stories we've done in the past. Well, except for one of them...  Like Tony, I will give them each a 2nd read later this evening and post individual thoughts on each one - and I will try to leave out all bias, even though I'm 99% sure I know who wrote all five stories.Last, I wish Thad, Dennis and Roger could have submitted. I know Thad and Dennis can write high-quality work, and I was excited to read something of Roger's for the first time. I do, however, hope they will give feedback on the other stories. 
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 8:34 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Story Number Three: No Title I thought this was very well written and paced very well. A few things threw me out of the story though, the first was the mention of "the aforementioned jacket". For some reason I thought it an odd choice of words, as if for a brief moment I was reading a non-fiction story. It seemed foreign to the narrative. The second thing was when the main character was under the tarp he said he had some light from the radio controls. Would these lights be on if the power was down? The ending seemed abrupt, but I understand that based on the length limitations of the story, but would have loved to read even a little more as my juices were flowing and I wanted more! Whoever wrote this (Janet maybe?) did a really good job. We got into the head of the main character enough to feel his fears, and combined with the atmosphere, I shared his dread. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 8:57 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Another Day At The Beach: First person narratives are tough for me to read. I often find that they can be stilted, sterile, and instead of getting immersed into the story, I find myself asking why the character is thinking the way he is. I had the same thoughts on this story. Some of the sentences were very short and instead of adding tension to the tale, they kind of drained it from me. The first section of the story just didn't have the impact I believe it should have had. If the author was trying to get the reader excited and worried about the swimmer in the first half, it read just as matter-of -factly as the second half. The big question I have about this story is that if the narrator knows what's going to happen, why does he fight it each and every time only to give up later? Why does he have hope if the same thing has been happening to him for years? In fact, when he's back on the beach he seems resigned to his fate. I think there is a great story in this, but it's buried under a first person narrative that reads a bit choppy. I hope this didn't come off as mean, it was not my intent. It's only an opinion, and it might be way different than what others think. I think maybe Janet wrote this one. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 9:05 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
First Story: Black Waves I enjoyed this story. I thought the writing was solid, it was creepy, and it had some humor in it (especially at the end). The story was dialog driven, which was a nice change of pace from most of the short stories I read. I also thought the pace of the story was good, it had very little dead spots in it. The only thing I would question is the part when the blood and bits of bone flowed out of the hole, wasn't the seal from his finger so tight that the smoke couldn't even get though? I thought this a good story with a good ending. I think Janet wrote this. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 9:20 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Falling Inside The Black: Ahhhh...the return of Mr. Stephens. My first thought while reading is that for me, the time line seems confusing. The story starts out with him blind, then goes into a section where he isn't and has his tongue cut, then after that his eyes are cut out, then we are in the present. The author does say that time is fluid so maybe that's why I'm confused. And if the characters tongue is cut badly (maybe even forked) wouldn't he have choked on the blood since his mouth was duct taped, or thrown up the blood and drowned? And how could he talk normal after his tongue was cut? But since this is a Mr. Stephens story, none of that is important really, we wait for the torture, and I admit to enjoying it. I thought the narrative was very good, it told a pretty darn good tale. Aside from some editing, and maybe addressing a few plot points, I think this was very enjoyable. I bet Janet wrote this one. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 9:27 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
I will finish the rest later this evening or tomorrow. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 10:22 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
The Black Waves: A good story with an unexpected twist. I found a few things confusing though. Would the main character ever use a word like detritus? It seems out of character for him. Also, Sam uses the word "nigga" quite a bit, then before he leaves he uses the word "negro". He doesn't seem to be the type to use the word "negro", unless he was quoting the Klan, but I didn't see any quotes. And if the listener of the record dies right after hearing the song, how come he stays alive long enough to play it backwards? I think what happens is that the listener dies right after hearing the song played backwards, not right after to listening to it initially. And lastly, if you are playing a record backwards, wouldn't you put the needle at the end, not the beginning? I really did enjoy this story, I think it has a good plot, great dialog, and an ending that is very effective. I think it just needs to be cleaned up a bit before it is a great story. I think that Janet wrote this story. |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 10:25 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
I think I got them all. I hope nobody was offended by my critiques. Once again, thanks to Kealan for moderating this go round! I look forward to reading all the other comments and seeing how my story gets torn apart. I'm simply going to blame Janet, after all, she wrote it. : ) (Yeah, I edited this, I was feeling a bit guilty about my comments). |
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| Author: | Craig Cook [ Sat Oct 05, 2013 11:51 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
My plan was to hop back on here tonight and give my thoughts on each story. However, I currently feel like this guy --->  <--- so I will wait until tomorrow when my brain feels like it can actually function.
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| Author: | JJHolden [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 1:17 am ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
1) Black Wave Very well put together. Very original. I quite liked the tiny hint of comedy throughout the story. It kept me wrong footed and not knowing what to expect. It's a bit lacking in tension in some spots, but makes up for it in the dialogue sections, especially in the latter half of the story. I loved the latter half in particular. Lots of tension, there. I'm in two minds about the whisky tango foxtrot ending. Kind of abrupt - boom - but then it kept me thinking, for example Hogwalls - did he know exactly what was going on throughout, and what the hell is going on inside the building? 2) The Black Waves. Again, well put together. The idea of a band was a wicked surprise and it quickly drew me in. I loved the story's voice, too, again another hook that hauled me well and truly into the story. Some of the exposition inserted in the dialogue took things out of bounds part way through and felt a little non-conversational. But on the whole I thought the initial hook, voice and craftsmanship were good. My only bitch and moan involves the second half - and this is purely a personal preference - after what I considered a very cool, original start, the story descended into a typical rape/murder/revenge tale I've read over and over and over. With such a fine beginning I was expecting more. Finish with something other than this and the story would ascend from good to freakin' awesome. 3) No Title (Which clod sends a story in with no title?) Not too shabbily put together, but I think a title with the word 'lighthouse' in it might have helped, because at the beginning I'm not quite sure where the protagonist is. A couple of omnipresent narrative phrases crept in, there was a lot stuffed inside a very small space, and I think it might have benefited from being rolled out, expanded on, and given a little more breathing room. Also, Tom, Dick and Harry - really? 4) Falling Inside the Black. Mr. Stephens (oh God please let me have spelled that correctly) revisited. The shock of the bunny-suited teacher has gone, but the sequel makes up for it with better craftsmanship. An excellent, ironic/can't quite put my finger on it narration from the protagonist, as though he's gone past horror and has entered madness, and it makes me truly believe those lines at the end. Stephens is flat-out creepy. On the down side, some of the dialogue between the protag and Stephens gets a little conversational and needs tightening up in order to crank things up a bit. The menace is there but the tempo doesn't back it up. 5) Another Day at the Beach. On the whole, very well done, and I love the lateral step in the middle of the story, it really caught me by surprise. Some of the sentences are quite poetic and very evocative. Tempo is a little choppy, at odds with the narrative in some spots, and yet it's perfect in others. In some stories, tempo/timing doesn't matter to the nth degree, but in this one it does. Finely tuned, this would be awesome. I 'think' I've figured out who wrote what, but I could be wrong. Grand tales, everyone!
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 1:30 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
By the way, anyone can comment on the stories, not just the authors. |
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| Author: | JJHolden [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 2:22 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
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| Author: | Hellolost [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 2:45 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
So we are allowed to post our opinions like normal right? Because you all know I can't keep my mouth shut LOL |
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| Author: | ttzuma [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 2:50 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Yep! Look forward to reading them Jody! |
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| Author: | Hellolost [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 2:51 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Ok not reading any comments until after I post all of mine. But first house cleaning. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 5:41 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Thanks Kealan! |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 5:41 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
It's kinda funny how it's soooo obvious who wrote what. |
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| Author: | Jazminsdaddy [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 5:49 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Black Wave - I really enjoyed this story. I thought it was an effective mix of horror and humour and there were two lines that had me laughing out loud. I do think this story could be tightened up a bit and I think a line by line edit by someone experienced could turn this into something really special. At the end, I am wondering why the dogs are lining up outside. I kind of got the impression that Hogwalls is a dogf*cker so maybe they're waiting for him? Not sure if the reader was supposed to get that impression. Overall, very nice job. |
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| Author: | Hellolost [ Sun Oct 06, 2013 9:30 pm ] |
| Post subject: | Re: The "Black Wave" Story Exercise |
Black Wave. The imagery in this story really got me. I wasn't so sure at the very beginning but by the time his finger was in the hole I had an entire view of Stanley. Random run of the mill guy. Never going to make it far but not really caring. It is kind of rare to actually get emotionally involved in a short story but I actually felt for Stanley. I felt bad that regardless of what he did it didn't work. I actually wanted it to work for him even if everyone thought he was crazy. Thanks for sucking me in. I enjoyed it 
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