Storytellersunplugged

by Gerard Houarner

The following story first appeared in Aberrations 29, in 1995, and was inspired by a writing exercise I’d done for a creative writing class at City College, run by Joel Oppenheimer (Black Mountain poet and Greenwich Village fixture, since deceased), in 1974. He’d challenged us to write a story in the form of a list in class, and whatever the hell I did, he actually singled out as commendable, which was pretty heady stuff for a clueless 19 year old (or a clueless 51 year old). I was never been able to find the exercise after graduating college, so eventually I decided to recreate the experience. This one did get an Honorable Mention in Year’s Best Horror and Fantasy, 9th edition, for whatever that may be worth.

It’s not a traditional story. Like the exercise, it tries to tell a story through a series of relevant details. As such, the rules of the game are useful in terms of forcing a writer to imagine not only a story, but what is crucial in its telling. Sort of like an abstract/minimalist version of story telling. For those of you reading these pages for advice on writing, it’s not a bad exercise to use.

It’ll probably be confusing to some, not even scary, though I hope it is chilling and surreal, the kind of thing that tilts a lance at one’s perceptions of reality. That’s what I personally find scary. Looking at the world and discovering that things we take for granted as “normal” are really not normal, at all. Kind of like seeing the world in “Gahan Wilson vision.” Or on a hallucinogenic.

Anyway, at least it’s short.

Gerard Houarner

What Was Left

Laughter drifting down from the rooftop.

A startled glance through a window at a shadow flashing by, falling to the street.

Loose cement still drifting down, like snow.

A gaze from behind the counter of a dry cleaners store, drawn up from counting change by the sound of shattering glass moments ago.

Skid marks on the road.

The screech of rubber on asphalt.

Burnt rubber smell.

A metallic thump punctuating the screech.

Another thump, softer, almost unheard.

A lamp post knocked from its mooring, still flipping in midair.

Loose electric wire sticking up from the concrete hole, waving like grass, sparking.

A blue newspaper vending machine spinning to a stop in front of a grocery store.

Broken glass sprinkling the pavement, sparkling like stars.

Notes from a popular song.

A few bass beats skipping in a syncopated rhythm.

A cry.

A scream.

Blood arcing through the air, following the path of a speeding car.

A car, window shield shattered, blindly racing towards a sanitation truck.

Blood splattered face behind the steering wheel, mouth open.

Small boy’s eyes filled with car.

Whirling boy’s body settling to the curb.

Fingers spread out as if to stop a blow.

Broken bones.

Speared heart.

A final dream.

Laughter drifting down from the rooftop.

end