Short Story: Be Quiet

Today is my friend's birthday and I guess I wanted to give them nightmares. Or maybe not. I don't think this is too creepy of a story.
I wrote it from a randomly generated prompt...this one actually "A graveyard is the location, hatred is the theme. A coat is an object that plays a part in the story."

"Be Quiet"
J. Lannan

Hate isn’t something that I usually deal with, but here it is right around that corner of the mausoleum. It’s not something I can easily understand as to why I happen to offend someone else by just being me. That’s their hang-up, so why am I supposed to pay for their discomfort?
Behind me is a grey marble wall. The smooth stone chills my sweat between it and my skin with my t-shirt caught in between the two. I breathe slowly and hope that somehow time will stop. That I’ll no longer be obvious to my pursuers. That they’ll just give up.
In. Did they even see me come in here? Out. How can I leave? In. I can’t possibly be making any noise. Out. Did they hear that?
I heard it. A shuffle of leaves and a bitten-off scream. An impact. Two impacts. It was nearly unison.
It is dark in the cemetery. Twilight has passed and the sun has set. I cannot tell if they are afraid, but did they care that I was scared? I relax against the wall and run a finger over the seam between the blocks. The noise still creeps away as a shuffle and I feel a bit more protected. Perhaps the two tripped. My brain pours over what I should do, what I could say, and that debate as to whether I am a bigger person. Or not.
The commotion has increased to thrashing. Wouldn’t it be funny if they tripped into an open grave? My head swam with the images of their pleading faces upturned and begging. I could give them a hand. Knowing my luck they’d probably pull me down with them. Or I could throw dirt at them and then skip all the way home. “See you at school, you miserable wretches.” I imagine myself the victor of their stupidity.

I came in here because it is like a maze. A maze that I know well. At least, I thought I knew it well enough. There were always additions, and mourners and grave blankets or flowers that changed with the seasons. Some forgotten graves with decorations from Christmases long past. A stray wooden rabbit. Dear little infants with stone lambs sleeping upon the top edges of their monuments. Couples that would one day meet again in the earth. The lonely stones of long-dead spouses who had reserved a plot for their husband or wife to rest beside them, but the spouse moved on and never joined them. Oh, the stories that a grave could tell.
This grave told a story as well.
After deciding to offer assistance I step out from behind the mausoleum and see an open grave. Of course I prepare to gloat, but there is a distinct lack of motion from the two who lay in the bottom of the neat fracture in the dirt. Faces that upturn at broken twisted angles. The school uniform-clad bodies look somewhere between clinging to each other and cowering away from something unseen. Under the lamppost the shadows play upon their faces exhibiting silent frozen screams and open eyes.
“Hey,” I call to them, but know it is pointless. I am even colder than before and the nightfall has absolutely nothing to do with it. “Hey!”
My shoulder is caught in a grip. An embrace as I twist to fight it. It tightens around me, but cannot hold. I fall back onto the ground to find a filthy-looking man standing over me. His jeans are caked in mud and the shirt under his stained brown coat may have been white at some point in time.
“The cemetery closes at dusk.” His smile did little to put me at ease, but there was something about his eyes that did help.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I’m a gravedigger. The uh... politically correct term is probably something like caretaker, but there’s not much to take care of. I just dig the holes.”
I nod, but don’t move further than that.
“You can go now. Go home.” His voice sought to move me anywhere.
“What about them?” I point to the open slice and immediately feel as though I should just get up and leave without another word.
“What about them?”
“They’re... dead?”
“Really...” He sighs and looks over the situation before turning back to me. “I guess there’s just one thing to do about that.”
Call the police. Call their parents. Get a news reporter out here. A camera crew. Paranormal investigators. I keep cycling through my thoughts.
“Help me burry ‘em.”
I glance at the filthy man and my eyes advertise my fear like a neon sign right across my face.
“Now, kid, I deal with bodies all the time. It’s not like they’re going to come back and do anything to you.” He tosses a shovel at the ground before me. “Now, the real thing you got to worry about is when they start talkin’.”
“Talking?” I use the shovel to steady myself as I stand up.
“Yep. When anything starts talkin’ you gotta’ bash ‘em in the head with the shovel ‘til they get quiet again.”
“How do we make sure they don’t talk?”
He starts to shovel dirt to fill the hole. “Talkin’ makes more talkin’. So, I keep quiet an’ you keep quiet, and they not likely to start anything. As soon as we’re talkin’ about them though...” He nods again.
“So, if anything talks?” I whisper.
He raises an eyebrow at my question after his next couple shovels of dirt and I get the idea. We silently fill in the grave. He looks over our work and takes off his coat. Placing the dusty coat on my shoulders he gives me a slight squeeze and bows his head slightly before sending me off into the night. The coat should protect me from the night air, but instead it hangs on me as though shepherding my silence.
I don’t turn back. I don’t speak. Days pass before I do, but I never speak of them. They are not worth my words.

Copy from my LJ: When challenged to write a bad poem...

First day of the quarter and my poetry class was asked to write a bad poem for an in class bad poetry competition. This was my contribution, it was deemed too funny to be completely horrible. I read it very dramatically.

Untitled

My soul weeps
ice like fire
ashes blackened like my soul
my razors only
silence my pain
bloody regrets


We were then asked to take these two lines (the truth is, the bad poem) and write something crazy.

Bad Poem

The truth is
the bad poem
tastes like a week-old cake
stale, hard icing
sugar without flavor
dry without wit
and filled with
a sense of
fattening
without sustenance

60 Posts, 800 Hits, 1 Punch to the Kidney and a Sprinkling of Cannibalism

Those are that stats as claimed...although I think one post may have never been made public, but I am not about to check on that.
I made the mistake of speaking about my kidney being well-behaved and so it struck me down for a couple days. As of tonight though, it appears I have bested my warring innards, and that foul stone-throwing and infection-loving organ has escaped making it's way into some cannibal's steak and kidney pie for the time being. Some days I long for a Tijuana hotel room and an ice bath...to wake up with that stupid bastard gone and the complete joke falling upon the poor sap who happens to purchase my faulty kidney on the black market.

Yes, yes, I know...urban legends or wishful thinking.
Other than the kidney issue I had a rather good Christmas/Yule/Whatever winter holiday I celebrate and I did make my way to church on Christmas Eve without catching on fire. I could have gone without the family member's car accident on Christmas Day though.

I've been on a mad reading, writing and editing binge for a while, and was far too amused today that my random playlist brought me “Shut Up and Swallow” by Combichrist, “Spit It Out” by Aesthetic Perfection and “Bleed and Smile” by Hate Dept all in a row as I read Chapter 9 of “Exquisite Corpse” by Poppy Z Brite. I finished that book today.
I used to watch surgery or emergency room documentaries while I ate dinner, a feat that grossed out some friends, but brought others in to meet my challenge...and now I kind of feel like I couldn't watch my beloved head wounds and hands caught in the grinder type shows while eating because I kind of feel like I'll always wonder what they taste like after reading that book.
Pretty sure that's an odd response, especially from someone who has refused to eat tripe, liver, kidney, chittlins, brain, heart, tongue and giblets that I've been offered from the normal creatures featured on the non-Hannibal Lecter food pyramid. In general I don't like how entrails look.
Fava beans also creep me out.
I'm good with Chianti, though...

I think I'm quite done with the cannibal jokes for now... oh, and the Llamas with Hats video kept inappropriately popping into my head while reading "Exquisite Corpse," although if a llama eats people it's not cannibalism, but it is pretty weird.

Nerdy Goodness

I'm working on a short story about mad scientists and took a break for some inexplicable reason to take this nerdy quiz. I've only played D&D a couple times, but it fascinates me.

I Am A: Chaotic Neutral Half-Elf Sorcerer/Rogue (2nd/2nd Level)


Ability Scores:

Strength-11

Dexterity-14

Constitution-12

Intelligence-17

Wisdom-17

Charisma-18


Alignment:
Chaotic Neutral A chaotic neutral character follows his whims. He is an individualist first and last. He values his own liberty but doesn't strive to protect others' freedom. He avoids authority, resents restrictions, and challenges traditions. A chaotic neutral character does not intentionally disrupt organizations as part of a campaign of anarchy. To do so, he would have to be motivated either by good (and a desire to liberate others) or evil (and a desire to make those different from himself suffer). A chaotic neutral character may be unpredictable, but his behavior is not totally random. He is not as likely to jump off a bridge as to cross it. Chaotic neutral is the best alignment you can be because it represents true freedom from both society's restrictions and a do-gooder's zeal. However, chaotic neutral can be a dangerous alignment because it seeks to eliminate all authority, harmony, and order in society.


Race:
Half-Elves have the curiosity and ambition for their human parent and the refined senses and love of nature of their elven parent, although they are outsiders among both cultures. To humans, half-elves are paler, fairer and smoother-skinned than their human parents, but their actual skin tones and other details vary just as human features do. Half-elves tend to have green, elven eyes. They live to about 180.


Primary Class:
Sorcerers are arcane spellcasters who manipulate magic energy with imagination and talent rather than studious discipline. They have no books, no mentors, no theories just raw power that they direct at will. Sorcerers know fewer spells than wizards do and acquire them more slowly, but they can cast individual spells more often and have no need to prepare their incantations ahead of time. Also unlike wizards, sorcerers cannot specialize in a school of magic. Since sorcerers gain their powers without undergoing the years of rigorous study that wizards go through, they have more time to learn fighting skills and are proficient with simple weapons. Charisma is very important for sorcerers; the higher their value in this ability, the higher the spell level they can cast.


Secondary Class:
Rogues have little in common with each other. While some - maybe even the majority - are stealthy thieves, many serve as scouts, spies, investigators, diplomats, and simple thugs. Rogues are versatile, adaptable, and skilled at getting what others don't want them to get. While not equal to a fighter in combat, a rogue knows how to hit where it hurts, and a sneak attack can dish out a lot of damage. Rogues also seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to avoiding danger. Experienced rogues develop nearly magical powers and skills as they master the arts of stealth, evasion, and sneak attacks. In addition, while not capable of casting spells on their own, a rogue can sometimes 'fake it' well enough to cast spells from scrolls, activate wands, and use just about any other magic item.


Find out What Kind of Dungeons and Dragons Character Would You Be?, courtesy of Easydamus (e-mail)