|  Author | Topic: Burdens of the Maladjusted (Read 782 times) |
magelord
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Karma: 1 |  | Burdens of the Maladjusted
« Thread Started on Jan 20, 2007, 10:53pm » | |
Thanks in advance for any and all advice / criticism, and please don't be afraid to be honest. 
“He still should’ve serviced the pool,” Simon said mischievously as his eyes bore into the monitor.
Walter laughed as he put his coat back on. “Don’t be an ass, Simon. Imagine finding your wife like that with some other dude.” Then he leaned over Simon’s shoulder, snickering as he peered at the monitor. “Think you’ll kill the big, bad wizard this time?”
“I think so. I’m going to have my mage fire off a Tiltowait during the first round,” Simon replied. He then plugged the commands into his adventurers, not taking any chances with the old PC fantasy role-playing game. Wizardry was especially unforgiving when all the characters died before pressing the restart button—recording their deaths onto the hard drive and nullifying months of painstakingly making them powerful by tediously fighting weaker monsters. “So I guess there’s no more wedding now, huh? Maybe she lucked out and he was the owner of Suede Pools.”
“I haven’t told you the best part,” Walter said with building suspense. “I heard the guy was a CEO of an air conditioning company and that being a pool man was his ‘outside job.’ After Hal broke up with her, he found out that they had been seeing each other for a while, and that it’s pretty serious.”
Simon burst out laughing and slapped his knee. “Poor Hal! We need to take him out and get him wasted.”
“I agree,” Walter replied. “Speaking of women, what’s going on with your neighbor?”
“That damn mastiff is still torturing me every night,” Simon replied as he eagerly awaited the text illustrating the next attack. These low-tech, dungeon-crawler games of the early 80s could still get your heart going—just as they did back then. He had found the classic RPG one night during one of the canine’s late-night serenades, loaded it into his computer and started playing. It was a great way to wait out the night, until the animal finally gave up and went through the doggie-door, back into Melanie’s house. Killing those late-night hours made him nostalgic of his childhood over twenty years ago in Chicago when he played the same game for hours on end—sneaking through a dark, quiet house into the den, praying his father wouldn’t discover him and follow through on his threat of hurling the computer outside into the snow.
Walter cocked his head in puzzlement. “‘Mastiff’? Isn’t that a kind of wine?”
Simon chuckled. “You’re thinking of merlot. A mastiff is one of those big dogs.” He pumped his fist from underneath the table as Mephisto, his mage, got the Tiltowait spell off and was inflicting heavy damage on the monsters.
“Only you would know that, Simon.”
“I don’t know the specific breed of Melanie’s dog,” Simon continued with his eyes transfixed to the screen. “All I can say is that with all that extra skin drooping along his face, it looked as though someone had grabbed the back of its neck, and tugged forward.”
“Simon, just talk to the girl. I’m sure she’ll leave him inside for the night if you politely mention it to her.”
Simon shook his head. “No Walter. That wouldn’t work. Nothing kills a potential romance more than a complainer.”
“Don’t do it, Simon,” Walter said with a small whine.
Simon grimaced momentarily as the Vampire Lord struck his ninja—paralyzing him and draining him two levels. “Do what?”
“You know. What you talked about.”
Simon turned his head away from the monitor and rolled his eyes at Walter. “I wasn’t being serious.”
“I don’t know, were you?” Walter poignantly asked. “I’ve known you to do goofy things before.”
Simon looked wounded. “What kind of person do you think I am?”
Walter zipped up his jacket and laughed uncomfortably. “I just worry about you sometimes, Simon. I’ll catch you later,” he said as he lightly tapped Simon on the shoulder. “Give me a call if you want me to roll by with more oxys,” and then he turned and walked toward the front door.
Simon turned and watched Walter as he left—praying that he wouldn’t notice the clear plastic jug that held the blue liquid off to the side along the open door that led into his bedroom.
As soon as Walter closed the door behind him, Simon turned around and his eyes bulged with horror. “Crap!” he said as his characters were perishing one by one by the enemy mage’s own Tiltowait spell. He quickly hit the restart button before it was too late.
* * *
Just find one and get the hell out of here, Simon thought as he walked along the boundary wall that bordered the subdivision, scouring the ground for a strong, sturdy branch. He picked one up. Too long. He threw it to the ground. Walking another thirty feet, he snatched another. Too crooked. He flung that one over the wall toward the railroad tracks. Maybe if you had gotten it right after she found your card, you wouldn’t have to go this route. A month ago, on Valentine’s Day, Simon took bold action in an attempt to build upon what had so far been a cordial relationship with his next door neighbor. He scrawled out what he thought was a touchy, witty poem, stuck it in a red envelope and sealed it. Then he taped it to the knob of Melanie’s front door. During his afternoon stakeout behind the blinds that covered the tall, narrow window next to the front door, he finally spied her walking past his house, toward the mailboxes on the other side of the street. He practically glided out his door and speed walked over—holding the mailbox key in hand as a pretext.
“Oh, hi Simon!” Melanie had said upon noticing his approach.
Simon blinked his eyes in fictional astonishment. “Oh, hey Melanie.” then he walked up beside her, and inserted the key into his box. “I guess we’re both answering the call of the mail gods at the same time.” Simon turned away and winced at the insipid comment.
“I really liked your poem,” she said in her sweet harmonious voice.
Simon looked down bashfully. He had never been around a girl so attractive. Her green eyes, long brown hair and athletic body was even more intimidating this close up. His nose caught a whiff of the flowery perfume she was wearing. He had no idea what flora its odor was supposed to resemble, but it was making the awkwardness of the moment even more bittersweet. The world around them seemed to stop and gawk at Simon as his gaze shifted between looking in her eyes, and focusing downward at his shuffling feet. “Yeah, I meant what I said, you know,” Simon finally said with his head down.
She looked at him and tilted her head to the side. “And the card was lovely.”
“I got it at Wal-Mart,” Simon bumbled, and began methodically cracking the knuckles on both of his hands with his thumbs.
“It was very nice of you. Thanks, Simon,” and then she turned to leave. He thought of escorting Melanie to her door, but his feet were frozen on the asphalt sidewalk. He tried thinking of something witty and engaging to say that would make her turn around, even meet him halfway in the street to continue the dialogue, yet he rejected in turn each possible sentence that entered his mind. Meanwhile, as his mind was spinning, his eyes followed Melanie as she strode up her driveway, and disappeared into her house.
Wal-Mart, Simon reflected as he approached the corner of the boundary wall, bringing himself back from the memory. That was a good one, you ostrich ass. Then he noticed it. Aha! Picking up the stick, he twisted it around in his hands, examining it thoroughly. It was thick, but not so much so that it wouldn’t fit through the jug’s opening for dipping. And it had more than enough length for what he planned on doing with it. Satisfied, Simon began walking back to his house with his prize in hand.
* * *
After he had spread a handful of garbage bags on the floor, Simon brought out the plastic bottle and placed it in the center. He figured it was best to use as many bags as possible, as his parents would kill him if any of it got on the carpet. After removing the lid and the funnel attached to the opening, Simon grabbed his branch and submerged it into the container. Letting it soak in for a few seconds, he pulled it out and marveled at the contrasting blue color at the end of the brown stick. Simon held the stick out in order to let all the excess antifreeze drip harmlessly onto the plastic bags. Sure that the dripping had ceased, he walked with the stick out his front door into the darkness of the Arizona night, hooking a left toward Melanie’s house next door.
When he came within feet of the gate, the hellhound acted on cue and commenced his frantic barking. Simon never could understand why no one else in the neighborhood complained about the dog. Nevertheless, he was the only one who had a bedroom against the wall that demarcated his lot from Melanie’s—on the other side of which was the narrow alley where the animal engaged in his nightly caterwauling.
Peeking over the gate on his tippie-toes, Simon made out the dog’s droopy face in the light of the full moon. The dog made eye contact with him, and then suddenly charged the gate, exploding into a series of short, sharp barks. Simon jumped back, and took several deep breaths to stop his hands from shaking. Inching again toward the gate and standing on his tippie-toes, Simon lowered the stick down toward the hysterical animal. The dog maintained his barking—snapping his jaws to the point that wads of thickened, mangy drool flung in every direction.
Simon steadily lowered the branch, and the dog stopped his barking and backed up as the stick came toward him, keeping a steady, curious eye on the stick being proffered to him. That’s it, Simon thought. Now just a couple of good licks. Simon was sure that it wouldn’t take much ethylene glycol to do the job. Likely the vet will say the cause of death was heart failure—hopefully adding that his excitable nature contributed to the cardiac arrest. There would be some vindication in that, Simon mused.
Suddenly, the dog’s face angled up back at Simon, and he lunged toward the gate again in a spate of furious snaps. As Simon leapt back, his elbow clanked against the metal bar on top of the gate—causing him to drop the branch onto the ground on the other side.
Simon held his breath. The barking had stopped, and now the dog could be heard loudly sniffing. Simon crept back up to the gate, and peered over. The beast continued sniffing the branch up and down, and when he came to the antifreeze, his focus remained on it. Then Simon noticed the dog slowly…trustingly…ease its tongue out toward it—no trace of suspicion whatsoever. It was too much for Simon to bear.
“Stop!” Simon tersely hissed. Simon was surprised as he observed the dog recoil from his command, scurrying on its hind legs, retreating into the alley. He opened the gate, reached in to grab the stick, yanked it out and quietly closed the gate, making sure the metal hinges didn’t clang. Before leaving, Simon took a final look over the gate. The dog was eyeing him with amiable curiosity. Sighing heavily, Simon turned and walked home.
* * *
“Look, I never did tell you why I gave you the card,” Simon practiced in his bathroom mirror as he examined his wavy red hair. He grimaced in hearing his own voice, and knew how pitiful it would sound once crunch time came. As he readied himself, the stress eventually convinced him that if he never did work up the courage to ask Melanie out to a movie, at the very least, the Mastiff was on the agenda—even if nothing ever did develop between him and his neighbor, all intentions of courtship were to be transcended by the importance of a good night’s sleep.
Simon left his house and walked over to Melanie’s—his heart about to burst through his sternum. As he strode toward the front door, he noticed a piece of paper had been taped to it. Ignoring it, he rang the doorbell.
Nothing stirred inside. Not even a peep could be heard from the dog. That’s strange…He rang the doorbell again and knocked. There was still no answer. The hell with it, Simon thought and then lifted the piece of paper from the door. He removed the rubber band and rolled it open. The first thing that caught his attention was the bold, serious letters on the top of the page: Notice of Eviction.
Simon raised his eyebrows as he read the letter. Apparently, Melanie was three months behind on her rent. I had a feeling that she was a renter, Simon thought. Holding his hand above his eyes, Simon leaned into the window off to the side and looked through the narrow slit between a pair of dangling, vertical blinds. The entire living room of the house was bereft of furniture. Melanie must’ve decided to spare her landlord the additional legal expenses by voluntarily extricating herself and her belongings from the premises.
That night, Simon popped one of Walter’s blue pills. After taking a hot, steaming shower he climbed into bed and read until his eyelids became heavy. Unplugging the sound machine from the wall, he pushed it off the nightstand onto the floor. He never understood why he had wasted $30 on it. Even at full volume it didn’t do any good. Simon pondered returning it to Target for a refund, and hoped that he had saved the box and receipt somewhere.
During those first few minutes in bed, he expected to hear the throbbing barks coming from beyond his bedroom wall—as if everything he had assumed regarding Melanie’s departure was a cruel misunderstanding. Yet all was quiet. He tossed and turned for about a couple of hours. Finally, with his head drowsy from the oxycontin, he got out of bed, and slowly walked into the living room. He turned on the computer—determined to kill enough monsters to advance his samurai to the twentieth level before the light of predawn permeated through the blinds.
THE END
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monsato
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Karma: 0 | | Re: Burdens of the Maladjusted
« Reply #1 on Feb 3, 2007, 8:54pm » | |
This is a great story, very well written. The construction of Simon is masterful; I think we all have varying degrees of Simon's social anxieties within us. (I hope I'm not alone here!)
One thing I did think it might benefit from is an expansion of his oxycontin use. How does it make him feel? What is the dealer/drug addict relationship like between him and Walter? You did such a fantastic job of getting us inside his gaming; I think it might help the story if we got inside his other route for escape as well.
Also, it might add some suspense to the story if there was a close call with the unfinished mastiff poisoning. Perhaps somehow Melanie almost catches Simon; perhaps she finds him after he's sort of chickened out and he has to figure out a quick excuse.
These are just opinions; I hope they help. This was really a great read. Thanks!
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magelord
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Karma: 1 | | Re: Burdens of the Maladjusted
« Reply #2 on Feb 11, 2007, 12:03am » | |
Hello. Thanks for reading and for your input.
I agree with you regarding somehow incorporating the oxycontin addiction. What I get hung up on is trying to subtly convey as much information about the characters, seting, critical background, etc. within a certain length. I guess those kinds of things come with practice.
Regarding Melanie almost busting Simon, I'm still not sure what to do with that. Sometimes I over-analyze, and think that if she vacated her house the next morning, how would she get all that furniture out between the time Simon tries to kill the dog and he finds the house vacant that morning? I was thinking of adding a thought from Simon during that morning scene: "No wonder she didn't hear his frantic barking. She slept somewhere else last night" or something to that effect. But who knows...maybe I'm over-thinking this concept.
Ryan
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monsato
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Karma: 0 | | Re: Burdens of the Maladjusted
« Reply #3 on Feb 19, 2007, 9:27pm » | |
Ryan:
My disclaimer with the next comment is that I have yet to be published. But if I were you I wouldn't worry about length. Just let the story take you where it wants to go. You will be editing it over and over later anyway, and you can always figure out ways to shorten it for specific lit magazines that have word count restrictions.
As for Melanie moving, I read it three times and never realized the possible inconsistency until you mentioned it. And I believe you are over-thinking it; I think if you just leave the scene alone, a good reader (one better than me anyhow) will assume since she's moved, she must've been absent the night before.
That's just my thoughts though. Again, never published, so take from it what you will.
Rob
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