(LIVE ON THE SU CAMPUS, TONIGHT!)
by John Skipp
Dear kids –
HI, EVERYBODY! I can’t tell you how nice it is to back be in the classroom, after months of phoning in set reports from my latest big fat project (Code Name: Blah Blah Blah).
I’ve felt like a lousy teacher – no, no, seriously, I feel really bad – so tonight I wanted to do a little somethin’ special.
If you write horror – and I KNOW I DO! – then every so often, you’re gonna have to kill somebody. You may not like it, but it’s got to be done. So let’s talk a little bit about the hows, whys, and wherefors.
While we’re at it, let’s get a volunteer from the class! Somebody wanna come up and… yeah, YOU! The one in the unseasonable muscle shirt! What’s your name, man? Victor!
LET’S EVERYBODY GIVE VICTOR A HAND!
(clappity-clappity-clap)
Now while he’s making his way up to the front, I want to remind you to fill out those forms we handed out at the top of the class. Just a couple of details about yourself.
And be honest, cuz truth is the heart of our business. Lies are only good for being sliced through, and exposed. Although they certainly do make things nice and juicy, so…
What the fuck. Do whatever you want. Just know: in good fiction, if you lie, you will be caught. And that can be fairly embarrassing, for an author or a character. And you’re either one, or the other, or both.
Okay, Victor! Let’s see what you got, here. 37 years old. Six foot one. 167 pounds. A little thin and gangly. Brown hair. Dark eyes. That all seems to check out, but it’s just surface detail.
So let’s see. You believe in God, but you’re not on good terms. You can’t stand your job hauling lumber down at Home Depot. Your friends make you sick. That goes double for your family. You’re smarter than the average bear. You used to have a drinking problem, but you’ve got it under control. You’re not a criminal, but sometimes that cash register looks awfully good. You actually slept with an ex-girlfriend last Wednesday, but it was the first time in months, and it was mostly just depressing.
Okay, so that gives us a little to work with. Now let me ask you this: why did you volunteer?
Because you wanna kill somebody! WOO-HOO! WHO DOESN’T, BABY? Let’s hear it for Victor!
(clappity-clappity-clap)
So here’s the scenario. You get out of your car on a darkened street, a block and a half from the home of the asshole you’ve come to kill. Who is it? Your boss? Your ex? Oh… THE WOMAN WHO RUINED YOUR LIFE. I’d ask you to elaborate, but we don’t have all night.
So let’s say you’ve got a crowbar, cuz what you really wanna do is pry open her ribcage and find out if she’s actually got a heart in there.
Sounds like a plan, big guy!
You clutch the crowbar in your gloved right hand, shut the car door softly with your left, leave it unlocked. You wanna be able to jump and go. And since this is a fairly quiet neighborhood, unaccustomed to hideous violence, that’s probably a good call on your part.
Start walking. Suck in the night air. Feel the blood thud in your temples, hear it thunder in your ears. You can think about all the awful things she’s done to deserve this, but you’re probably better off concentrating on what’s right in front of you. Attention to detail is what keeps you locked in the moment, adrenalized, in motion.
You’re a character in our story now. We want to watch you move.
Three doors down, her bedroom light is on. God knows who she’s fucking in there. But it’s not you, and the thought makes your brain itch. You walk softly but swiftly, closing the tick-tock distance from here to there.
You were smart to wear sneakers.
But the clock is winding down.
You enter the yard, head toward the back door. The crowbar has multiple functions tonight. The downstairs is dark, but the back porch light is on. Convenient for you. But you have to wonder why.
That’s when you note the pair of doggie dishes, just off to the left of the door, as you breach the porch. Thinking Fuck! She got a dog? And tensing yourself for canine yappery.
Then something enormous growls behind you.
It is not a dog.
Now, Victor? We’re gonna leave you right there for a minute – dangling in terror – while I take this back to the class. Sorry about that.
Okay, class? WHADDAYA THINK?
Question # 1: Do we give a hoot about ol’ Victor?
Question # 2: How horrifically do you want him to die?
Cuz flat-out: this boy is gonna be burger and gristle in about one minute flat. Doesn’t matter whether you love, hate, disapprove, relate, or are completely indifferent to our young classmate.
Motherfucker’s goin’ down, right now.
And it’s your job to do it.
Depending on your intent and perspective, the modalities of mayhem have a trillion different options. You can be discreet. You can go full-throttle. You can empathize with Victor – whether you like him or not – or totally go with the monster/predator’s point of view.
Emotionally, there are all kinds of ways to play it. But stylistically, the polarities are minimalism and maximalism.
Absolute minimalism would be leaving it at my closing line: it is not a dog. We imagine the worst, but leave it unspoken.
Maximalism, on the other end, might entail him whirling to face three paragraphs of monstery description – dripping fangs, mottled hair, hell-black eyes, misshapen features, etcetera – before we even get to the throat tearing open, esophagus waggling, wet meat spray with eyeballs a-poppin’, viscera describing parabolic loop-dee-loops through the screaming night air. And so on, and so forth.
Me, I tend to dance between the two.
But your homework for tonight – should you choose to accept it – is to polish off ol’ Victor in some powerful, meaningful way. You can do it strictly for yourself, or post it right here on the SU Action Response Line, for others to enjoy.
There are no grades, but you get extra credit points if you use the crowbar, the doggie dishes, the back door, God, the woman who ruined his life, or any other details about Vic and his background to illuminate the situation in ways that bring laughs or pathos to bear.
And again: if you lie, you will be caught. If you cheat, that’s the same as lying.
Bottom line: you are killing a person. You are doing it to entertain, to horrify, to make a sick joke, to enlighten us all, to come to grips with the twin-edged sword of mortality, to get your rocks off, to mourn, or whatever you want. Whatever’s on your own writerly agenda.
The important thing is to make it count for something.
Otherwise, it’s just another wasted death.
And as a charter member of the “Clean Your Plate Club”, I hate to see a good death go to waste.
At the very least, feel free to apply whatever insights you like into your next act of mayhem, in your next work of fiction.
And, of course, always remember not to kill actual people in your real life. Unless they’re actually trying to kill you first. Cuz that would be bad.
DON’T BE A FUCKHEAD, is all I’m sayin’.
So thanks for taking part in tonight’s weird class! It’s been an honor and a pleasure. And I hope you had fun.
And one more time: LET’S HAVE A BIG HAND FOR VICTOR!
(CLAPPITY-CLAPPITY-CLAP!!!)
Yer pal and humble literary advisor in matters of meat and soul,
Skipp
19 Comments, Comment or Ping
Janet Berliner
Permission to use the itching brain, please.
As for Victor, this would only have meaning for me if the woman he came to kill, kills him, which makes use of absolutely nothing you’ve given us . . . unless she’s morphed into a man-eating canine.
–Janet
Dec 5th, 2007
Dave Wilson
OR….
The bowls are only there to frighten away potential burglars. The growl is from a speaker, behind Vic’s head. He spins — too fast - to see what the hell can growl that freaking LOUD and he backs away. He steps into the bowl, tries to right himself by pressing the crowbar onto the deck. The woman opens the door, trying to warn him, but it whacks him in the back - he falls forward, impaling his dumb ass on the crowbar
Dec 5th, 2007
Fiona
“Then something enormous growls behind you.
It is not a dog.”
Half a second later, the rancid breath of the beast envelopes you. The crowbar swings in an arc as you pivot, and connects with a living wall of flesh, sending shock waves of agony up your arm. You hear the bones splinter, above your shriek.
The ground slams into our head before you realize your left leg has been ripped from under you. Steam from your spurting artery twists in light from the porch. A face, her face, appears in the window of the back door.
Just before you collect your concluding breath to beg for help, her hand waves once and the light is gone. Your supplication switches to a curse. Your faith in Hell returns. You will see surely her there.
Dec 5th, 2007
Fiona
SURELY SEE, not see surely
Dec 5th, 2007
John Skipp
Dear Janet — You are hereby entitled to full use of the itching brain. Scratch as needed!
Dear Dave — Your suggestion is a little short on monsters, but long on dumbass impalement. HOORAY!
Dear Fiona — Fuck the typos: you wrote a cohesive piece of fiction that played right in with the style and momentum, and wrapped up with a nice quick flurry of grand horror flourishes.
GREAT JOB! And as the first person to actually complete the assignment, you get so many extra bonus points that it would constitute an A++ if I were handing out grades. But I ain’t.
A++!!!
Yer tough but fair pal,
Skipp
Dec 6th, 2007
Dave Wilson
You never said it had to be a monster, you just said it wasn’t a dog!
Dec 6th, 2007
Fiona
Thanks for the “grade” and kind words.
This was a stretch for me. My WIP is best described as Christian Literary Fiction.
Dec 6th, 2007
RCJ
Victor whirled around and was momentarily relieved when he saw what appeared to be a small, black dog. His relief vanished, however, when it opened its mouth to snarl at him. He had never seen such an animal and had never heard the sounds it was making.
It was a Sarcophilus harisii (Tasmanian devil). They eat almost anything … bones and all … dead or alive: mammals, birds, snakes … even insects. It began with Victors left foot.
RCJ
Dec 6th, 2007
Dave Wilson
lol..
Taz….HUNGRY
Dec 6th, 2007
John Skipp
Dear Dave — You’re right, of course. I didn’t specify or stipulate anything of the sort…
…but Fiona brought a MONSTER!
Dear Fiona — You brought a monster! And a WIP! (Does that mean work-in-progress, or Weapon of Imminent Peril?) Anyway, stretching is extremely good for ya, and makes your storytelling more strong and limber.
I now look very much forward to reading your Christian Literary Fiction, when it’s done!
Dear RCJ — You brought a monster, too! Just a very, very small one.
It’s not scary, but it’s fun; and though it’s not in keeping with the DEADLY SERIOUSNESS of my presentation (honk honk!), kookiness is its own reward.
Plus, I liked the minimalist touch of “It began with Victor’s left foot”. I suspect it didn’t stop there. Robert Bloch — the master of understatement — would be proud.
That said: I’m hoping that more of you will “surf the wave” of the piece, and write a conclusion that flows with the prose, plays with the deeper elements, and brings it all to a satisfyingly alarming conclusion.
While, incidentally, killing the fuck out of Victor.
Yer stern professor/pal,
Skipp
Dec 6th, 2007
RCJ
Skipp,
My comment was not intended to be particularly scary, but minimalist touches often stimulate readers’ imaginations - and some pretty scary stuff has been known to ooze from such shadowy chambers.
By the way, I much enjoyed the fresh style and novel idea of your essay.
RCJ
Dec 6th, 2007
John Skipp
Dear RCJ — THANKS!
I really wanna start having more fun in here again. And I’m really glad you stepped up to play, too!
Anybody else want to take a whack at poor ol’ Victor, while he’s still fresh? Like, before he turns green?
Still dignified at the lecturn,
Skipp
Dec 6th, 2007
Grant
Victor took a deep breath and turned around forgetting about the crowbar clenched in his hand. He felt something sharp scrape his face, blinding him The crowbar fell to the ground. Hot liquid pain. The world was shut off, there was nothing but darkness. He reached out in desperation trying to feel for something, anything. He gripped something hard, rough. Must be the bricks he thought. Moving along the wall his foot hit an object. Startled he cried out. Calm down, relax it has to be the dog bowl. Be rational.
Heart beating, fast.
Heavy breaths, in and out.
Waves of bloods crashing on the shore of sound.
The sounds of his own body were so loud. Too loud. The growl drowned them out. He knew this was the end. There was no way he could reach the crowbar. He thought about Janet the woman inside, the same woman who ruined his life. After the divorce she got the money and the kids. Victor ended up losing his job and his house. He wished could drown in his memories. Good and bad.
He turned around, again. Something sharp plunged through his stomach, piercing his lungs. His breathing turned haggard, face pale. Falling to the ground he tried to stop the steady stream of blood with his hand. Something hard came down swiftly making contact with his head. It collapsed like a piece of rotten fruit. No seeds, just bits of brain and skull seeped out.
Dec 6th, 2007
Celeste Talbert
It is not a dog.
You turn on your heel in prolapsed time. You’re sucked in the undertow of instant regret, cold sweat. You know you’re seconds away from fucked.
It only takes an upward blink of your eyes to realize it’s her. You don’t know who was in her room, but this is the whore you’ve loved for years upon years. She’s standing fourteen feet high, with sandpaper for skin and massive gritty fangs aimed at the crown of your skull. Long, thick strands of saliva ooze from her gums like ship’s cables, and every eye attached to every limb is trained on you, scoping for soft spots.
And still, you can’t help but want her more than ever, as soon as you see her ratty green bedroom slippers and steamroller-sized hair curlers.
But you always hurt the ones you love, right?
You raise your crowbar slowly upward as the seconds tick and she lowers her giant head down near your face…
Five…how many times you’d found her in bed with some mouth-breathing, rednecked butterball
Four…P.M. yesterday — the last time you saw her scowling face as she slammed the door on yours
Three…dribbles of steamy fear-piss spotting your underwear at this moment
Two…heartbeats until contact
One…blow to kill…you pray
As you plant the crowbar deep into the fleshy part of her reptilian face like punching an enormous puddle of wet cement, she writhes and screeches and jerks her head backwards, with the crowbar still in, and you still attached to the crowbar. As you fly up into the night air, gripping onto the crowbar like a roller coaster rail, you grind it further into her, knowing you’ve got to wrench it out and strike again.
You work it out quickly, shimmying it back and forth as she howls. She is one pissed-off banshee bitch. Using all your strength, you sloosh it out in a spray of crude oil-colored blood and swampy green chunks that look and smell like gizzards.
You’re dangling from her shoulder now as she rampages all over the neighborhood, trying to knock you off, snapping at you with her brownish tusks.
You rear back, crowbar raised over your head and use her great, soggy eyes as your target.
One booming battle cry and you stuff the thing right between her eyes and begin to fall the ground on your back. As you do, once again, you don’t let go of the crowbar, which comes popping out of her skull, skewering her brain like Satan’s own shish kebab, and hovering over you in the air.
You hit the ground, scarcely able to balance the pierced, hulking brain on the crowbar above you. Her body has crumpled to the ground like a monstrous husk.
As you lie there with her cerebrospinal fluid gushing and filling your nostrils, you realize just how much you’re going to miss her.
Dec 6th, 2007
Martel Sardina
Victor dropped the crowbar and jumped the fence. He reached down and realized he’d forgotten his gloves when his fingers made contact with the dew-covered grass. Damn. He hadn’t even gotten close to that poisoned pussy and he’d already made a mistake. He thought about going back to the car but when he saw the neighbor’s porch light flip on, he decided against it.
She’ll be dead and that’s all that matters, he thought as he pictured what Becky would look like after he was through with her. He’d shot the asshole she’d been fucking. He didn’t really want to, would’ve preferred to take his time and really make him understand how much it hurt to see the two of them going at it in the bed he used to sleep in. But the asshole outweighed him by fifty pounds and Victor didn’t want to chance him coming over here and playing hero.
Several hours had passed since Victor had taken “Lover Boy” out of the picture. Becky should be wondering by now why he hadn’t returned her calls. He hoped she was getting worried. Maybe now she’d know what it was like all those nights when he’d been worrying about her. Wondering if she’d gotten raped or robbed while walking to the El stop. Not knowing for sure when she’d left work because her schedule kept changing. Should’ve known then something was up. But he believed her excuses because the thought of them being anything other than true was unfathomable.
Victor crept up the back steps. When he got to the top of the landing, he noticed a second dog dish. This one was stainless steel and twice as big as the cracked plastic one Rudy had always used. Maybe Becky had finally had enough of him flipping the plastic bowl over. He’d told her a thousand times to buy the bigger bowl and solve that problem. He knew she’d kept it because she liked having something to bitch about and if it involved his dog, so much the better. Figures that she’d finally take care of things now that he was gone.
He pulled his sleeve over his hand, turned the knob and grinned when the door opened. Dumb bitch left it unlocked. He stepped inside but left the door slightly ajar. He wouldn’t have to touch the knob on the way out, just lean into it and go. This was going to be easier than he thought.
“Hello, Victor.”
Becky took a drag off her cigarette. The glowing cherry lit up her face. She’d been sitting in the corner of the darkened kitchen. When he’d driven by, the bedroom light had been on. The rest of the house was dark. He’d been lulled into a false sense of security.
“Nice of you to drop by, but I’m afraid I’m not really up for company.”
“I’m only going to stay as long as it takes for you to realize how much you hurt me.”
“I don’t care how much I hurt you. Stopped caring a long time ago.”
Victor’s jaw dropped. He wanted to say something but the words just wouldn’t come out.
“Don’t you get it? If I still cared, I wouldn’t have been able fuck someone else.”
He raised the crowbar.
“Don’t be stupid. You’ve already done enough for one day, don’t you think?”
He took a step towards her.
She whistled.
Victor heard the soft padding of paws on the oak floor. He laughed. “Going to sick my own dog on me? Now that’s funny. Here, Rudy.”
“Rudy? Oh yeah, the flea-covered mongrel that you loved so much. Forgot to tell you. He’s in doggie heaven now.”
“Where’s my dog, you fucking bitch?”
“Venus ate him for dinner.”
“Who’s Venus?”
Victor heard the low growl and knew that Venus must be the voice behind it.
Becky took another drag. She blew a smoke ring. “Sorry, Victor. It was nice while it lasted. Too bad things didn’t work out.”
As Victor lunged toward her, Becky yelled, “Venus! Fass!”
Venus bared her teeth, then barked.
“Fass! Fass!”
Venus jumped and bit Victor’s arm. He dropped the crowbar and screamed. Venus thrashed and pulled until Victor lost his balance and fell to the floor. She released his arm. He kicked her in the belly. Venus whimpered.
Becky shouted, “Gesicht! Fass!”
Venus growled then sunk her teeth into Victor’s cheek. Skin flaps and blood splattered the linoleum as she thrashed, shaking her head from side to side. His screams faded with each new chunk of flesh she tore off.
When the noises Victor made settled down to nothing more than a faint gurgle, Becky picked up the cordless handset and punched in 911.
“State the nature of your emergency.”
“My dog killed an intruder.”
Becky waited for the operator to confirm the address, then disconnected. She put on her gloves, picked up the crowbar and carefully walked around the mess on the kitchen floor. She smashed the small pane of glass next to the back door. She put the crowbar back and returned to her seat at the kitchen table. It wasn’t until the cops arrived that she realized she should have gone outside to break the window. And as the sweat beads formed on her brow, she hoped they wouldn’t notice.
Dec 6th, 2007
Bob Ford
It’s not a dog.
Something’s not right.
No, something is most definitely very fucking wrong here. Because the thing regarding you on its turf, staring you down with its reddened, feral eyes, just can’t be.
The sharp, pissy tang of its scent hits you hard, and you remember that smell from nights in juvenile after lights out. Seeing them scurry across the tiled slice of floor on the cell block leaving a trail of black droppings wherever they went. Foraging from cell to cell, looking to make a meal from corn kernels in unflushed inmate shit.
But this thing… This is an abomination. This is Ben after radiation experiments. Templeton on some serious steroid abuse.
It squints its eyes and yawns impossibly wide, revealing yellowed incisors the length of your thumb and a thick ribbon of a tongue the color of a newborn baby. Froth pools in the fleshy pockets of its jaws.
Its eyes are cunning. Intelligent.
Hungry.
Your grip tightens on the crowbar. You test the weight of it, wondering if you could hit a moving target.
This is not where you want to be.
You should be working overtime tonight. Should be stinking of pine sap and stacking plywood and damp two-by-fours at the lumberyard. Should be over at Maggie’s apartment drinking her cheap chardonnay and listening to her boring ass stories. Should be at a bar getting shitfaced or out bowling with –
It growls again, low and guttural, rumbling with mucous and drool slips from a corner of its mouth, stretching like a silken thread til it plops, glistening, to the grass.
Motherfucker, you think, and your bladder gives way, flooding your thighs with warmth.
The odor of your urine just seems to annoy it. It’s ears flare. It shuffles back a step, and then, Jesus Christ, Jesus FUCKING Christ, it raises up on its haunches and it’s as tall as your Goddamn waist.
Its nose wrinkles and it shakes its head, huffs a breath of air that puffs out its cheeks. Makes its greasy whiskers twitch. It preens its snout with short-haired paws. It snorts loud and sharp like a boar hog. And you catch a flash of color lower on its frame. Its gray-brown fur has peeled its sheath, revealing its engorged erection pulling free.
Motherfuckermotherfuckermotherfucker.
You lose coherent though, just throw the crowbar at the damn thing and turn to run. But you catch sight of it as you do. Its overweight body is deceiving. It’s limber. Fast. It leaps vertically, dodging the crowbar as it thuds to the worn grass.
It’s on you before you can even reach the sidewalk.
Teeth impale your back, punch through flesh and bone like aged brie.
Its weight presses you face down in the lawn. You smell earth and grass and your own blood. You hear the sounds of the neighborhood. A dog barks in the distance. Someone is watching a rerun of a sitcom next door. And the liquid smacking noises grow more and more faint.
That bitch. That goddamn pussy, you think. It takes one bad pussy to keep a pet rat.
Dec 6th, 2007
edwin mcrae
Alas, no time to write the ending, but going off what Janet suggested, Victor’s intended victim is a lycanthrope. So is her life-long mate (not Victor). She has momentary affairs with men, breaking their hearts in such a way that they turn murderous. When they turn up, crowbar, gun or knife in hand, she and her partner hunt them with doggy glee. The she-wolf’s partner does the same thing with women, just to keep things equal.
Dec 7th, 2007
John Skipp
Dear gang –
HOLY MOLEY! Now we’re cookin’ like NOBODY’S biznis!
I’m gonna save the individual comments for last, and just make some happy overall observations.
1) What I love most about these pieces of fiction is the energy and enthusiasm that runs throughout them. You all REALLY WENT FOR IT, and I’m nuts about that. Super-extra-bonus points for you all!
2) I’m also nuts about the fact that they’re all so different. This says a lot — not just about the idiosyncratic nature of all involved — but about the malleability of story.
It’s why we continue to want to read and write, even after being told that “all the stories have already been told”. Whether that’s true or not is not something I’m interesting in discussing (actually, I think it’s kind of dogshit).
But the fact is: every writer is gonna come at it differently. Bring their own perspective, their own experience, their own weird mental process to the dance. And no one else is gonna do it quite like them.
This, to me, is a beautiful thing.
3) THIS IS FUN!
4) It’s not my job to critque each piece — for that, I’d need a salary, and possibly tenure — but I think the work of those who stepped forward is replete with lessons that we all can glean from. Those of you who didn’t complete the assignment are still free to do so, whenever you want.
And if you post ‘em in the next couple of days, I’ll check back to check out what’s going on daily, and see what else is learned.
That said:
Dear Grant — Good job. You never describe the monster, but that’s okay. If this were an early scene in a novel, you could save the reveal for later. You’ve given us just enough detail to know it’s bad.
If it’s a short story, though, you would definitely want to end the blindness long enough to give us at least a glimpse of the thing that’s killing him. There’s an awful satisfaction in at least GLIMPSING the source of the mayhem. Something to think about.
Extra points for making Victor die good.
Dear Celeste — It’s the love of language that sets this puppy off so propulsively, and gives it its zing.
It’s a full-tilt action sequence, specific and vivid and wild — and you win the coveted “Best Use Of Crowbar” Award, by a looooong shot — but the playful verbosity works in tandem with the crazed imagineering to spin this sucker WAY into the left field of funliness.
Extra-credit points for excellent punchline.
And though you flouted my dictates, and let Victor live, at least SOMEBODY got killed! Extra bonus points for that.
Dear Martel –
Your piece was great in that it totally reconfigured the setup, and took it to a classic noir place. Not a horror story, but a crime story. And still horrific, for all that.
You threw out what you didn’t want. Added other stuff instead. Provided tons of backstory. And brought it to your own cool twist/punchline.
Gobs of bonus points, all around.
Dear Bob — Like Martel, you excelled at the background detail. And the pet monster rat is a really nice touch.
Solid action. Strong sensory detail. And once again: great punchline delivery.
WAY TO KILL PEOPLE, EVERYBODY!
Dear Edwin — Strangely enough — and I bet you don’t know this — the plot you recount is remarkably similar to a novel I wrote with Craig Spector, called ANIMALS. So I definitely relate to the convolutions you describe.
Once again, everybody’s got their own way into their story.
In conclusion: WAY TO GO, PEOPLE! This is my favorite classroom experience, ever.
And I hope that the rest of you feel free to experiment your asses off.
Cuz that’s what writing is all about.
Yer ready-to-sleep-now professor,
Skipp
Dec 7th, 2007
Martel Sardina
Skipp -
Thank you so much for the comments. It was a fun exercise. I can’t wait for the well-rested professor’s return next month
Martel
Dec 7th, 2007
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