So yeah. I want to enter Crash's contest, but I really suck at short stories. And I have no good real experiences to write about. So here's my semi-crappy story that I am posting here, because I think Crash requires it that way, but I really don't want you to read it. Blurg. Only her. Because I think it's kind of a crazy lady kind of story, and she will probably at least laugh once, because I think she probably laughs at many things. Thank goodness for people like that. I'd have no audience otherwise.
The Tell Tale Mynah of Naniloa
Terrifying stories notify us of psychotic, evil genius. True evil genius can never be understood, and its motives are so far from the common mind that even glimpsing an evil’s ruminations is distressing. It puts the realm of fiction into the realm of possibility, because no person could make this stuff up. Real evil has little motive. Evil motive is simply to pursue a horrifying task with complete dedication.
To this end, you should write from the evil character’s point of view, as if you were in his mind. This creates a pro-antagonist.
“Deliberately I walked six complete steps to cross the road towards the gutter, turned and stepped precisely within those same steps again to return. Yes, yes, yes, this should do. I could do it here, and there would be room for the deed.
Once the point of view is established, the plotter must reflect an extremely complicated, stick to the rules type of plan. It must show incredible forethought and commitment to a yet unknown feat.
“It would be easy enough, to measure the height of the tree, the length of the rope, the degree of the night air. I had already plotted his movements for 37 days, graphed his waking and sleeping hours, coursed a five minute window of time where my action would go unnoticed.”
A large vocabulary will serve you well, here, because uncommonly technical diction points directly to genius, a trait we want never to let the reader forget, and gives the scene a cold, clinical impression.
“Three days was adequate to gather my utensils. Although I considered my own acumen, I did not want to take any chances that any charlatanerie would guess as to my monomania. I warded against this by gathering caoutchouc rope from a different store than where I claimed a ladder. I inquired about avian ichors at the local sanctuary and learned that I would surely need a cloth to avoid droppings of evidence….
Soon a reader should encounter the antagonist’s antagonist. The ant-antagonist, although harmless, should become an enemy through the pro-antagonist’s point of view. At this point, an audience would rightly begin to question the narrator’s reliability.
“I lurked in the hedge next to a bamboo fence listening to the screams in the nearby “Haunted Lagoon.” The noise created the perfect cover for my situation, and no one would find any sounds amiss in the foggy air. I waited for my cue: a chainsaw revving up for the crowd in the lagoon (without the chain, of course, so its running blade could only make excoriations if it met with human skin). Yes? Yes? Was this it? Was I finally to begin leashing myself to a life of misprision? I began to creep slowly, placing my hands in the dirt to balance and making small movements towards the tree of my target. Even above the noise of the lagoon I could hear its call: “Fatty.” “Fatso.” “Chubs.”
The intensity of the character’s actions will increase quickly, almost giving way to panic, but then become a sort of hyperactive direction that falls into a rhythmic whirlwind of activity that plows through the field of corn, whipping ears and kernels into farmhouses with terrible velocity, creating permanent dents in its metal.
“I grit my teeth to bite back my answer to this devilish creature. I knew that my response would alert the very Satan living in his black-feathered frame, and would evince my true course. It took all of my willpower to hold in the words and just continue my now frenzied bear crawl towards the avian castle. Once I reached the small lit section of road I slowed, inch by inch creaking my bones to his lair. The nearness of my success suddenly filled me with the strongest pleasure that I nearly laughed out loud, especially picturing his beaked jaw dropping when I finally brought him face to face with his eternal end. I recalled the pain of my daily walk towards McDonald’s and his heartless, ruthless cries and consciously gripped my wrist to prevent it from shooting towards the bird of malevolent design and ruining the soon tasted victory. I placed hand over hand to reach the top of my ladder and immediately wrapped the bird in the rubber rope, pulling tightly, tighter, tighter still! His eyes seemed to grow in recognition as his heart beat and my heart sang, no more! No more will I stuff my French fries before returning home! No more will I forego my chocolate shake in case my encounter with you shakes my conscience. Here I finally allowed myself a laugh as I twisted and squirmed the life from his body, and the deed was finished.
Epilogue: Introduce the only way a madman’s conscience can haunt: through hallucination of his victim’s end.
“This is where I have reached an end, and forever sealed a life of grief! I was happy in the days following the disposal of the fiend’s body. The nearest rain gutter seemed a logical place, and no one would question its end if it were ever found. I acted perfectly calm and never once let on that I noticed any sort of change in my daily routine. The path to McD’s almost whisked me to and from my house in a blissful state. I should have considered that the imp of Satan could find me again, which is why I am waiting in this closet until the wicked immortal is finished with his demonic torture. Almost hourly I find myself near an open tap, a manhole leading to an underground network of plumbing, or a shower at a beach park, and I hear it: “Butterball.” “Tubby.” “Tons-o-fun.”