A Story I Wrote

[Drakey]

I wrote this a long time ago, but I just remembered where it was, so I'm just gonna go ahead and post it up here.

Sweetums, Vengeance of a Woman Scorned

I suppose I never should have spurned an animal lover, because that was what got me into this mess. I had to do it, though. The cat was just too much for any one man to handle. Not that Sweetums was unruly or anything; he was a perfect gentleman of a cat, he just happened to be the unholy spawn of the devil and the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I’ll be kind and explain.
Six months ago, I met a woman named Cecilia. Cecilia was beautiful, charming, intelligent, funny, in a word, perfect. At least on the outside she was, but in reality, she was rotten to the core. The first sign of trouble came on our very first date, when she criticized me for ordering a steak, proudly announcing to the waiter that she was a vegan. I dismissed it as a quirk, a lifestyle choice, and I let it drop with the simple reinforcement of my opinions on animal flesh and its tastiness. The troubles continued. I was once watching television and saw Cecilia protesting for PETA, part of a group of sign-wielding maniacs ranting about cruelty to orcas at SeaWorld. I say maniacs because this happened in Maine, and because, as whales, the orcas seem quite capable of taking care of themselves.
Well, sure enough, one day it came to a head when I, all in good intentions, bought Cecilia a synthetic fur coat. She flipped.
“Is this fur,” Cecilia asked, pulling the luxurious coat from the box it had come in. The outrage in her voice suggested that I explain before she decided to stuff the coat so far into one orifice that it came out another orifice of opposite purpose. I tried to explain.
“It’s synthetic fur, darling—“
“Synthetic fur just glamorizes the fur industry further. Didn’t you read any of the material I gave you? Fur of any kind is harmful to the environment, and I will not wear it!”
I knew by this point that I was in trouble, and it was up to me to get out of it.
“Babe, just listen for a second. I got it as a joke. It’s supposed to be funny. I knew you’d never wear the coat—“
She cut me off again.
“Ted, we both know that’s not true. Now, I can tolerate your eating meat, and I can accept your using a car, and I can live with your non-organic soap, but I will not tolerate—“
“Get out.” I could have phrased it more delicately. Sue me. “Just get out. I’m sick and tired of your controlling, vindictive, excessive, overzealous, environmentalist butt. If I hear one more lecture about the benefits of riding the bus, I’m going to scream! The bus smells like vomit! It’s over, Cecilia. I can’t take your butt anymore.” After I had told her to leave, I had to leave. In the heat of the moment, I had suggested that she get out of her own apartment.
That was three months after we met, and two days later, a delivery man arrived at my front door. He had a cat carrier and wore a look that spoke of disgust intermingled with curiosity.
“Sign here, sir,” the grey-coated man said, holding out a form, which I signed, and then he picked up the crate in the same way that I have seen braver men pick up soiled diapers, transferring it to my decidedly non-expert care.
I peered into the crate and was confronted by a bald black and pink face. I dropped the crate and it burst open, and a pink and black blob of distilled ugly fell on my floor as I jumped back, screaming hysterically, suspecting for a moment that the aliens had come for me.
It had three and a half legs, one eye, a hideously malformed tail, a third nostril and a skin condition. Oh yeah, did I mention that it was, by all appearances, completely lacking in the hair department?
I shut the door, not wanting to unleash this horror on the rest of the world, where it might convert other, decent cats to its undead state, and I looked in the crate that it had come in. Sure enough, there was a note, along with several supplies, a bottle of some strange soap, and a bag of cat litter in a special chamber in the back of the crate. I had thought Cecilia might pull something, but sending me the favorite cat of Egypt’s first Pharaoh was uncalled for. I read the note and cringed.
Ted.
Thought you needed a little more respect for Mother Nature, so I sent you Sweetums. He’s a Canadian Hairless (or a Sphynx), and he has some special needs. Sweetums must be bathed once daily in the soap I’ve provided to control his skin condition, which is due to a genetic defect. He can only eat the type of food I’ve provided, because all others cause uncontrollable vomiting. He is a very sweet, very friendly cat, and likes to cuddle, but should be kept indoors so he doesn’t injure himself. Sweetums has only three legs because he was involved in a car accident several years ago. I’m sure that you will be able to take proper care of him.
No hard feelings, Cecilia
No hard feelings I need to stop replying to posts with just a single word. Cecilia was evil. I was convinced of it now, and nothing could dissuade me. I felt something brush against my leg and I nearly kicked the frightening pile of flesh away before I realized that it was only a cat.
I’ll show her, I thought. I’m not gonna let this cat beat me.
It was Friday, and therefore movie night, and when I sat down on the couch to watch my movie, Sweetums jumped up to my lap, inducing the sudden urge to scream uncontrollably. I tapped him cautiously on the head, hoping not to touch anything too unpleasant. No such luck: Sweetums himself was unpleasant. He snuggled into my lap, and I decided to ignore the little knot in my stomach that told me this cat must be a vector for some horrible disease. I ended up not really getting the plot of the movie, because Sweetums smelled distractingly like rotten fruit.
Over the following three months, Sweetums continued to ruin my life while being maddeningly affectionate. He greeted and scared away every single date I took home, ruined my movie nights to the point that I just gave up, showed up in my windows, scaring the neighbors’ children, scared my buddies away from our poker night, and once escaped to offend the cat lady across the street by siring what would undoubtedly be the ugliest litter of kittens in history, all while showering me with love and revolting closeness. He always wanted me to pet him, after which I always wanted a shower or three. Eventually, I could take it no more.
On June third, I took a knife and Sweetums and drove to Cecilia's apartment. I burst in the door, wielding the knife in one hand and the cat in the other. I stabbed her sixteen times in the chest, each thrust of the knife avenging some wrong that her ugly cat had done. It wasn’t that I wanted to murder anyone; I just had no other options. If she had sent me a dog, I could have written it off as a rescue, but nobody rescues a cat. The woman was evil, you see, and had to be stopped by any means possible. I was the only one who knew it, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less true. As she bled out on the floor, I thought of all the men who would never suffer as I had. I had truly done a great service to the world by eliminating this threat to all mankind. It was all perfectly reasonable, of course, but the police that came to investigate the commotion didn’t think so.
Oh, they were polite enough. Officer Daniels even offered to take Sweetums home for me, but I could tell that they thought that I had only criminal motives at heart. They didn’t understand that Cecilia was a menace, a danger to civilized society. Only I knew the truth, that she had planned to drive me mad with that cat, but she had failed, and failed miserably at that. I was glad to be rid of Sweetums at first, but in the institution that they put me into, I almost missed that oversweet ball of flesh. Maybe I should get a dog once I’m out of prison.

[Pieman]

Quite good, but it's probably better than I think it is, due to the fact that I hate first-person fiction.

It is fiction, right?

[Orangey]

Geez, I'd have killed her months before she sent me the cat.

[Drakey]

Yes and me too, respectively.

[Orangey]

On a slightly less murder-related note, the story would flow better with a little editing; your use of dependent clauses could be streamlined, and you let a few sentences meander on longer than they warranted. On the other hand, the narrative itself was clever, and your use of descriptive language was well-suited to the tone. It shows a lot of promise.

[Drakey]

Well, you have to keep in mind that this is supposed to be taken as a direct narrative from a man who's been driven insane. That it's coherent should be nothing short of miraculous.


I do better with poetry, though:

A Subtle Hint from the Universe

Ted had wealth that knew no bounds,
And it was money that, he found,
Brought him happiness and joy,
(Not so for those in his employ,
Who through the longest hours toiled
‘Till blood and sweat their clothes had soiled,
And in labor found rewards
Mere pittances, the law to ward.)
Now Ted, so frugal, (miserly)
Had only money’s company,
But wanting all to love him so,
Devised a plan; here’s how it goes:
“A charity shall I create
Whose benefits shall pass my gates
And having passed shall not return
I shall buy expensive urns,
And things to call museum pieces.”
So Ted set out to write a thesis
Laying out his good intentions;
To keep still safe all old inventions
Of the past for form and function
Preserving all within his mansion.
“This” said he, with smile bright,
“Will make me soon their hearts’ delight,
And though I profit from donations,
They’ll have just misinformation.”

Frederick, long in Ted’s employ
Knew that Ted was a “bad boy”,
But his conscience (long suppressed)
Snapped beneath this new duress.
He complained, and rightly so
That this was theft, and would not go,
But Ted, he merely laughed and said,
“Then quit your job; tell and you’re dead.”
So Frederick quit and kept the truth,
Though he fought it nail and tooth.
“This,” he said on his last day,
“Is something for which Ted will pay,
Karma will the field level,
With a vengeance like a devil.”
Having told the coming doom,
Fred retreated to his rooms.

Flight one-oh-two had just one cargo:
Anvils for a place called Fargo,
Where, in long and arduous toil,
Ted’s workers forged out vats for oil.
Now one-oh-two flew o’er the home
Of Ted (whose house had a glass dome),
And in that grand globe did Ted keep
All that his ill deed did reap:
Sculptures, golden works of art,
Things, though cheap, that did impart
A certain beauty to the place
That contradicts his greedy face.
Returning now to one-oh-two,
The engines failed: this is true,
And Karma truly did react:
One-oh-two blew up, in fact.

Ted, while sleeping in his bed,
Awoke to noise of awful dread
Crashing, banging, clanging too,
The dreadful fall of one-oh-two!
Anvils plummeted to earth,
Drilling holes of awful girth,
First to go, the grand glass dome,
Destroying artifacts from Rome,
Then his cars, his prized possessions,
All uninsured, just one concession
To the greed that ruled his life
Taking up the role of wife
And children that he never longed for
Preferred exclusively to have more
Of his one true love: his money,
To him sweeter than all honey.

In the crescendo of destruction
Wrought by one-oh-two’s eruption
Ted‘s large home was filled with holes
One of which led to the coals
In his furnace, which, now punctured,
Reached quite quick a deadly juncture,
Whereupon it would explode
For it could not take the load
Of pressure placed upon its seams
It blew up, so Karma deemed.
Ted’s grand home was launched sky high
As luck would have it, he did not die,
But was recovered, quite convinced
That Karma’s real: he took the hint.

[Orangey]

I've never liked poetry; rhyming poetry leads to awkward couplings (like function and mansion) and twisted meter, and freeform poetry is generally... well, terrible.

Keep in mind that none of my criticism is meant to be malicious. I'm just a nitpicky person.

[Pieman]

freeform poetry is generally... well, terrible.

That's the most sense I've ever heard you say.

Good poets can avoid awkward couplings.

Nonsense poets don't have to.

[Orangey]

Are you implying I don't usually talk sense?

[Pieman]

I'm implying a negative view of your nonsensical verbulations.

Also of mine.

[Orangey]

When do I... verbulate... nonsensically?

I know you do, but me?

[Drakey]

I should make a couple of poetry dumps in this forum. I've got some pretty good cra---uhhh.... stuff sitting around out there.

[Orangey]

What's fun is when you take prose and cut it up to make poetry; don't change the content or order, just add punctuation and line breaks.



Six months ago, I met a woman named Cecilia. Cecilia was beautiful,
                                                                                              charming,
                                                                                                            intelligent,
                                                                                                                          funny,

in a word, perfect.

At least, on the outside she was,
but in reality,
she
was
rotten

to the core.



The first sign of trouble came on our very         first          date,

when she criticized      me      for ordering a steak,
proudly announcing to the waiter that
she
was
a    v e g a n.

I dismissed it
as a quirk,
a
lifestyle
choice,
and I let it drop with the simple reinforcement of my opinions on


animal flesh


and
     its
         tastiness.





The troubles continued.

[Pieman]

It's funny when you speak in rhyme by accident.

It's funnier when you reply in rhyme to that rhyme by accident.

[Silfedac]

It's not funny at all when you go out of your way to rhyme with someone else's statements.

I like the story and the poem, BTW. The story reminds me a little of Poe, mostly because of the "crazy-guy-who-doesn't-know-he's crazy" viewpoint. I like rhyming poetry, if only because I find it so difficult. I prefer writing freeform, because then it doesn't have to rhyme.

That I can do.

[Drakey]

Well thank you, Silfedac.

Can I call you Silfy?

[Silfedac]

Just call me Silf. Everyone else does.

[the Scarf]

I like the story! And the poems that followed!

[Silfedac]

Late reaction much?

[Torg]

You think that's a late reaction? I'll show you a late reaction!

[Silfedac]

Okay. Go ahead.

[Torg]

I just did. See the mxied all up thread.

[Silfedac]

Did. Not impressed.

[Torg]

But it IS late, no?

[Silfedac]

Yes. But after a certain point it loses its shock value.

[the Scarf]

Not following with the current train of thought, back to cats.

This.

[Silfedac]

Seen it.

[SpriteMeister]

Back on topic, this is the essay I wrote for my english class this year. Among the prompts was one where you had to write a conspiracy theory involving Elvis and at least five items from a list of seven. Try and guess which five I chose.



        Many people believe that Elvis is alive. They make claims of eyewitness accounts, but nobody has ever presented solid evidence. I mean, sure you might think you have seen Elvis beaming into a UFO in your backyard, but with all of the Elvis impersonators about, you can’t know whether he’s the real King or just some normal guy in a costume who’s beaming up.
   On the other hand, who’s to say it isn’t Elvis hitching a ride with the aliens? They could have abducted the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll while he was doing his laundry. If he happened to fall into one of their Designated Rotating Yarn and Elastic Retrieval units (DRYER) and they mistook him for a sock, then they may well have transported him into one of their ships. Did anyone ever check his lint trap after he disappeared? If so, then they may have noticed that it was overflowing. (They always substitute the sock with its exact weight in lint.)
   They would have introduced him to Heisenberg’s uncertainty principal, which they use as a fuel-efficient mode of transportation. This would have allowed him to go anywhere in the universe he wanted to (and any time, for that matter) regardless of his position and velocity.
   Not being familiar with this new form of travel, he probably would have made a few mistakes. The most famous of these occurrences was the crash of the Hindenburg. Sure, there may have been theories about electricity and hydrogen, but what really happened was as he was—for lack of an English equivalent of the appropriate verb—‘zipping’ around space and time, he wound up aboard the famous zeppelin. The sudden change in pressure ignited the hydrogen, and the rest is history. (Don’t worry, though; Elvis made it out alive by ‘zipping’ back to the base.)
   Most of the major disastrous “accidents” in history were caused by new recruits learning how to travel, just as most car accidents are caused by teenagers learning how to drive. The Titanic, the Challenger, the implosion of the Mall of America in 2086, the extinction of the dinosaurs, the Big Bang, and even the disappearance of my pet gerbil back in third grade; all were caused by those aliens.
   The question I’m sure you’re thinking of right now is: “These aliens are causing all this harm; what can we do to stop them?” The answer is surprisingly simple: adopt the metric system. Their computers are programmed in the English system of measurement, and do not recognize things that are measured in centimeters, etc. If everyone started using the metric system, then their computers would not see anything and would crash, thus leaving us free of their meddling.
   This has been known by our government for years, and in fact they have tried to convert to the metric system. However, people started protesting, claiming that the disasters have already happened, and that it wouldn’t be worth changing history if it meant harming Elvis.
   So, I suppose the moral of all this is, if you’re white, fuzzy, and regularly in blue suede shoes, make sure not to fall into your dryer, as you may prevent our government from circumventing major disasters.

[Silfedac]

I wrote a story like that for Social Studies back in the eighth grade. We had to pick three unrelated news articles and tie them together with a conspiracy theory.

[Orangey]

I have an assignment to write for Psychology; we have to write a one-act play wherein the main character has to make a decision, and his id, ego, and superego have a conversation about what decision he should make. I'll probably post it when it's finished.

As to yours, Meister, that's awesome. Goofy as hell, but awesome.