Challenge, Day 1, Chapter 1

Our Friend Mr. Brewding: Masked

Chapter 1

THE NEWS, SOMEWHERE:

“…victim found dead in his apartment.  Blood analysis suggests he was highly intoxicated, but alcohol poisoning does not appear to be the cause of death.  Police are suspecting murder, but there are no leads at this time.  Mr. Whit was a repeat…”

ENTRY 1:

I turned over in my bed, calmly.  I was wide awake now.  The “nightmare” only started out in fragmented parts, not always frequent, sometimes only occurring once a month.  This week, however, I’d been having it every night, and it was no longer in pieces.  Now the dream was much more coherent, and I began to understand it.  I was no longer afraid.  I saw it for what it was.  Destiny.

Dying is a funny thing.  It’s an even funnier thing when you were supposed to have died, but due to some weird cosmic event, things don’t turn out quite…right, and you’re still alive.  At least I was now convinced this was definitely something cosmic.  A divine intervention or something.  Call it what you want.  Fact is, I should’ve died that night.  I would’ve died if I were in the car.  I was supposed to be in the car.  I wasn’t.  She told me to stay home.

I was saved.  She wasn’t.

I was told that it was just a freak accident.  That these things just…happen.  The only solace even a priest could offer was just God has a plan for everyone.  I’m not exactly the religious type, but assuming that’s true, why did he plan for me to stay instead of going with her?  My life couldn’t possibly be that important.  I know it isn’t.  It certainly isn’t part of some grand plan either, and if it is, I think God just messed up this time around.  This time, things must’ve not gone according to plan.  I should’ve been there.  I should be dead.

But I’m not.  I spent a few years waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Waiting for death to catch up with me.  It never came.  I didn’t exactly go looking for it either.  I’m not insane.  I’ve always been particularly cautious, and dangerous things, well, frighten me, so I didn’t try and die, or find death, or whatever.  I just expected it to find me.

…A gnarled mask of plastic peace

tells its own story


two feet further from the scene;


it isn’t Halloween….

I saw my own decapitated head in my dream last night.  Death’s finally coming.

SOMEWHERE, AFTER A MURDER:

I must’ve just missed him.  I’ve been tailing this guy for weeks.  Always just one step behind.  I make it to each scene just in time to watch the police clean his mess up, while I perch on a building out of sight.  Way out of sight.  I didn’t want them to know I was working this case also.  I had some friends in the department, true.  But the commissioner can’t get me out of every gray area of the law.  Vigilantism is very…gray, but some pretend like they don’t know what I’m doing.  That’s okay.  I never much liked that color anyways.  I’ve always preferred black. 

I already heard the rumors that begin spreading when crime happens here.  Being a knight of darkness doesn’t have a whole lot of perks, and when bad things happen, the people who don’t approve of what you’re doing try and blame you.  Make you the scapegoat.  I’ve done many things in accordance with my own morals that others have deemed immoral or unethical.  I’ve never killed anyone though. 

 

THE NEWS:

“…offender with multiple DUI’s.  With crime rates at an all-time high, and many prisons and jail cells full, Mr. Whit had been let off with warnings and fines, instead of serving time in an over-crowded penitentiary.  Mr. Whit died with no family to survive him and will be buried this Friday.”

*Lightbulb* *ding!* IDEA!

So I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and that thinking has produced an idea (imagine that?). I’ve been wanting to do a short story (novel, novella, story-in-general, not sure the exact format yet) series on Mr. Brewding–I mentioned that before in a previous post.  Before, I wasn’t quite sure the best way to do this; originally, I thought I may just begin writing it, and post it one day on the internet when it was all finally finished.  I’m not going to do that.

For one, I don’t think I’d actually ever finish if I were to do it that way.  I have a much better idea.

Beginning next Monday, (June 13th, I believe?) I’m going to write the first chapter in the Mr. Brewding stories, then I’ll post it.  The following day, I’ll write the next chapter, and post it.  The idea is that I’ll do this for the next month.  And by July 13th, I’m hoping to have about a 30 chapter story.  I realize that potentially this story could be better if I planned it in its entirety.  If I sat down and mulled over my work, compulsively changing a line here, or a word there, that my writing would be more, perfect.  Mr. Brewding isn’t perfect.

In the spirit of being spontaneously creative (or, creatively spontaneous? hehe…) I want this story to reflect it.  I want it to be fluid.  I want it to be able to change if I need it to, and I want all of you to be able to see it change if need be.

I think I can do a lot of interesting things with this idea.  I like that because of the improvisation of this story, the plot may not be all linear.  I may right a point here in one chapter, and decide in the next chapter something happened before it that I want to reveal or add upon.  It may be difficult to follow, but I’m not doing this for the sake of confusion.  I want to have continuity, and I want it to be coherent.  So I’m going to do my best to make this story tight, regardless of its complexity–or, simplicity, even.  Who knows?  It isn’t written yet.

I’m not planning on stopping with just writing this story either. I’m thinking about doing an audio-book format, or performance format of the story as well once it’s finally concluded.  Possibly even releasing an economically, umm, reasonable version of the book online for purchase where all the proceeds go to charity.  I’m not looking to make money off of this.  I want to do something creative and different, and I want to share it with everyone–if someone else can benefit in the process then I think that would be great!

Still, this doesn’t stop with me or my story.  I’d like to challenge any writer reading this blog (I hope I may actually have more than one, and that this challenge may bring you out of the shadows), to write and post something each day.  It can be a short story, daily chapters (like what I’m doing), poems, etc.–I don’t really care, just make it creative and make it daily.

If you’re interested, please comment here. I’d like to know who I can subscribe to so I can read your daily creativity as well.

I truly believe this is a great idea, and I hope others are out there reading this and are willing to participate.  If you do decide to participate, or know some one else who would like to, please spread the word.  I want to make this as big of an event as possible.

Cheers and stuff!

-B

New Poem: “Masquerade”

This is a new poem I’ve been playing around with this weekend–it’ll probably change a bit as I’m not entirely satisfied with some stanza breaks and general organization, but seeing as how today is Memorial Day, I figured the poem was somewhat fitting; granted, I didn’t write this poem for this holiday and it isn’t really about soldiers in that sense. Anyways, you’ll see, and please let me know what you think!

“Masquerade”

Calling all shapes, all sizes,
Preferably in disguises,
March your mantle in parade,
It’s time for the masquerade.

300 men
Not Spartans
Brand an “S”
On latex chests
So a war
Won’t start again.

300 men risk all
In courageous ignorance.

300 men inspire
The cast out and
Bring them in again.

300 men
With beaten banners
And broken battle standards
Patrol ‘til dawn
With their masks on.

Shall we accept
This invitation
When there’s no time
For contemplation?
When consequences
Of future action hides
In its own guise
With masked “avengeance”
And blackened eyes
Only see the night’s
Evil smile
Streaking crooked
From mile to mile,
When demons
Prey in
Secret sermons
And Hell has cooked
In every soup kitchen,
Who answers
The call?
Who answers
For us all?

300 men may
No longer walk
The streets one day

300 empty dreamers
Sleep in
Crimson streamers.

300 played
With wet
And weary matches.

300 lay
In the corpse
Pumpkin patches.

300 men
No longer walk
The streets today.

And when
300 men died
That day
Who gave us the right
To sit and pray
For the lives lost
In shrouds and tossed
At bay?
Who at last
Will answer
For us all?
But a pathetic poet
Who ignored
The call.

“The Race”

I’ve lost faith

In the human race,

Which is just that, a race.

It’s about what he says

She says is best,

And what’s best

Becomes less and less.

We never rest.

So what’s left

But what we never knew,

The limited knowledge

We pursue,

A heart never happy

Unless there’s two,

A voice crying out

From a person mute,

And when we have

Something to lose,

We never rest.

We never rest.

A dreamless muse,

That’s what’s left.

Our right’s abused,

That’s what’s left.

Everything’s used,

That’s what’s left.

That’s what’s left.

That’s what’s left.

That’s what’s left.

“Masked”

I walk through the panels
Of comic books I grew up with
Before I realize
In front of my very eyes
I’m sliding passed
Fun house mirrors
Of the life I grew up in
             And you tell me not to dream?

Look at Batman, look at Superman
They look at me
Though I assumed mockingly
So I turned my cheek away from D.C.
To marvel, to Wolverine
Soon after shredding
My dreams to smithereens
             Would you fight for one?

Then I grew up
I read Huck Finn and
To Kill a Mockingbird
Learned the Bildungsroman philosophy
Read Steinbeck, and Bronte—
All except young Annie—
And even the father and daughter, Shelley
Where I got caught up in the supernatural
Melville’s muddled allegories
Then a comic book
Lay loosely open on my bedroom floor
Curiosity peaked of past dreams
So I glanced once more
             Would you ever let them go?
I saw Batman and Superman
Who looked at me
And said I’m the man
They said follow my dreams
             Never let it go
Look at me, I’m the one
Wearing the mask now, you see
So how delusional
Must I really be?
Don’t worry, if I don the cape
You can commit me to therapy
And if I become a vigilante
Asylum’s where I should be
Though I don’t fight crime on the streets
I’m here right now on your computer screens
My panels, my mirrors, my fantasy!
I choose to represent the hero
Inside of us fighting internally
Yes, it’s there, it’s in you
             Next time you wake up
Believe me
             To sunrise’s harlequin face
Believe yourself
             Fluff a pillow
Stand up
             Reality can wait
When you fight for your dreams

“Feed”

 I put in my ear buds,

            turn on my iPod,

            and play “The Morning Stream.”

            My morning feed.

            The way I stay

                                    Connected to the world.

I step out of #233,

            and lock my door.

I run into

an old friend

            from high school .

He’s listening

            to his iPod

            too.

We each take out

            one ear bud,

            my right,

            his left,

                                    so we can hear

                                    each other better.

We catch up for a bit,

            walking to class

            before we have to go

                                    separate ways .

I put my right ear bud back in,

            my iPod’s still on,

            and play “The Morning Stream.”

            My morning feed.

            The way I stay

                                    Connected to the world.