Michael Golvach's Blog, page 5
June 27, 2016
Soft Focus: A short story from Bloody Gullets
the short story collection: “Bloody
Gullets”
by
Every
evening, as I lay down to bed, I look over at my pictures of Kiera. I
say good night to her, even though she isn’t really there. And, as
I drift off, I look at her, from time to time, and smile. It feels
like peace. And then, the next morning, I wake up, and the world’s
a blur. In that time when I’m not quite yet me, I can see the
outline of her face on the nightstand by my bed. And I can feel her.
Touching me softly. Kissing me. Telling me everything is going to be
all right.
Then
I wake up, and she’s no longer there at my bedside. Only in
pictures. No soft voice telling me everything’s going to be all
right. And the world comes into focus.
I
can feel the spiders and the worms, crawling and slithering around in
my veins. I scratch at the skin, but they just move around. They’re
faster than I’ve ever been, and I’m getting slower every single
day. Every day that I waste delaying what I know to be unavoidable.
Because,
as I touch her pictures, running my trembling fingers across them,
her eyes don’t close like I want them to. Peaceful in death. They
remain open. Staring at me. Looking at me like they still love me and
they don’t understand. Like they did when she was still here. In
body and in spirit. With me. All day and all night.
And,
near the end, this is where we stayed. On this mattress, soaked wet
with fluids, bodily and otherwise. Except for the occasional errand,
this is where we lay. Unless our supply was low, we never moved an
inch.
Near
the end, the love making was more spiritual than physical. When we’d
tap in, it was just us, looking into each other’s eyes and feeling
our souls being lifted into a dulled and soothing ether. It wasn’t
the same thing as sex. It was better. By far. We both agreed. There
was nothing we could do, separate or together, that could equal the
bliss we felt in those invisible arms. As we drifted and our eyes
went hazy and we reached that pinnacle of peace that sometimes turned
into a nap.
At
first, when we met, I would stay out long hours during the day,
dressed in a monkey suit, while she waited patiently for me and did
whatever needed doing around our small apartment. And every evening,
we’d relax and enjoy each other’s company. Back when we still
touched each other physically. When the feeling of her tongue on my
body or the taste of her dripping down my throat was still
pleasurable. When we made love like animals and passed out from
exhaustion.
Over
time, we fell prone to routine and, even though things were still
good and we still loved each other very deeply, we began to take more
risks. Changing things. Going deeper into one another. Exploring
options. Trading pleasure for pain and then enjoying ourselves again
as we made the pain go away.
And,
pretty soon, I stopped spending my days outside the apartment. I no
longer dressed up like a corporate stooge. I stayed home, in bed,
with her, unless I needed to go out and run errands for us. And she
would wait there. Only leaving the bedroom to bathe or use the
toilet. We barely ever ate. It wasn’t what we craved anymore. And
we were eating into our savings enough as it was.
Then,
as was inevitable, the money ran out, and she began to go out to do
the errands. It wasn’t anything either of us wanted. And when I
look back now, I think I can see a little girl begging in her eyes as
she tells me she’ll be back soon. Begging me to tell her she
doesn’t have to go out and that things could go back to normal.
Even if the shells we’d become didn’t want that at all.
Some
nights, she would come home with bruises on her face and inner
thighs. Sometimes her makeup would be runny, smeared across her face,
and I would tell her that I loved her and she would echo the phrase
and kiss me softly, quickly, before we relaxed for the evening.
And
all those evenings had become routine, again. Except, by that point,
there was nothing but the relieving of the pain. We had no reason to
inflict it upon each other any more. The length of the days took care
of that part for us.
We
would lay together in perfect ecstasy, looking into each other’s
eyes. Letting ourselves drift and just feel the numbing warmth. We
almost never took baths anymore. We never showered. But, I could
still see her, laying across from me, and she looked so very
beautiful. Like an angel. And, even though our mattress had begun to
reek of urine and spoilt food, I could still smell her. Her fresh
clean body. The one hidden underneath the dirt and the clogged pores
and the scars and the bloodied and bruised tracks.
And
then, one day, she was gone. Taken from me in an instant. Like that.
She left and never came home. The girl I’d loved for so long, for
whom I’d do anything in this world, never returned to our
apartment. She had died. She had been, in a very real sense,
destroyed. By the world. By the monsters that inhabited it.
And
as I touch her pictures, running my trembling fingers across them,
her eyes still won’t close like I want them to. They remain open.
Staring back at me. Looking at me like they still love me and they
just can’t understand. Like they did when she was still here. In
body and in spirit. In bed with me. All day and all night.
And,
near the end, this is where we stayed. On this mattress, soaked warm
and wet with bodily fluids. Unless our supply was low, we never moved
an inch.
And
now that she’s gone, the only thing I have to remind me of her love
for me, and to drive me harder and harder toward avenging her death,
are her pictures and the smell from her side of the bed. The smell
gets worse every day, and I feel the fear when I look over to where
she used to rest.
And
I remember, again, the day she left, never to return. She had gone
out that morning, looking tired and weak. Itching herself and
shaking, just as I was. Promising me everything was going to be all
right and that she’d be home soon. But, the hours passed and I
began to panic. Where was she? What was taking so long?
It
wasn’t unusual. It’s what we did. Both of us. Every day then.
And
it hadn’t taken me long after that evening to determine who was
culpable for her death. For killing the once beautiful, sweet,
caring, compassionate woman who had crawled into bed with me that
night. For stealing her soul and leaving a wasted husk to act in her
stead, as her body slowly died right beside me. Staring into my eyes
with disbelief. Looking at me like she still loved me and would never
understand.
And,
tonight, I’m shooting our poison into the femoral vein in my groin.
Hoping against hope that my shaking hands will take pity on me and
let the needle miss, or over-shoot, and puncture the artery at last.
The gutter’s been muddy for days now. It’s only a matter of time.
I console myself with these few cogent thoughts I have left.
And,
as I release my bite from the belt and feel the junk rush my system,
I roll over, away from her pictures. I look over at her. I stroke and
kiss the yellowing flesh that no longer resembles her photographs and
I pray that tonight I will finally deliver, for her, the justice that
she deserves.
As
my eyes drift closed in that horrifying ecstasy, I whisper that I
love her. I need to believe that she can hear me. I know that, soon,
she will understand. And I hope that she will have forgiven me.
June 26, 2016
Missing Pieces by Michael Golvach - on Bookshelves
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Warning, this book does contain explicit and disturbing content.
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June 25, 2016
Missing Pieces is the BOOK OF THE DAY, Today on OnlineBookClub.Org!
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Amazon US Reviews Here (21 reviews 4.6/5 stars): https://www.amazon.com/Missing-Pieces-Michael-Golvach/product-reviews/1516841972/ref=cm_cr_dp_see_all_btm?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1&sortBy=recent
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Clover Leaf Four (Audio Version of “Four Leaf Clover” Read in...
Clover Leaf Four (Audio Version of “Four Leaf Clover” Read in Reverse Order - It’s Kind Of Like Poetry ;)
from the short story collection: “Bloody Gullets”
by
Four Leaf Clover: A Short Story From “Bloody Gullets”
Four Leaf Clover
from the short story collection: “Bloody Gullets”
by
In the old days, law enforcement would put up
‘wanted’ posters all over town if they wanted to catch a criminal really
bad. Dead Or Alive. That was the phrase they always used.
Most times, the wanted man was worth just a bit more dead than alive.
Less paperwork, one might suppose, if they did any of that back then.
Usually, there’d be a picture of the poor son of a bitch, dead centre.
Not necessarily a good one. Sometimes they would substitute a
sketch. Usually, whatever depiction they chose to go with, it was good
enough so that you could be fairly sure the bastard you planned to gun down was
going to bring you some change. They still do that to this day, but
they’re much more discreet. And the pictures are a lot nicer.
A friend of mine named Buster,
who brought me up as a crime scene photographer, used to tell me stuff like
that all the time. The history of the 'wanted’ poster. Why they
called money money. Fifteen different ways to jerk off in a public
restroom without making a sound. Random observations. Sometimes
pointless or unnecessarily obscene. And he didn’t just do it to me.
He did it to everybody. It didn’t matter if the occasion was social,
professional or otherwise. It was just his way of establishing his
presence and breaking the ice. Even if the ice he was standing on was
brittle and shaky, like mine. Worn thin already from the constant assault
of useless information.
I always listened to him,
though. And paid attention. Not because I had to, which I basically
did, but because, no matter how ridiculous the subject matter, he would always
tell a good tale. A tale that might make you stop crying, if you were the
type who couldn’t handle snapping morbid photos every single day and some
nights. Documenting the many and varied ways human beings take their own
lives and those of others. A tale that might make you think before you
hit the bottle, if you were the sort of person who could.
Buster had his own way of
doing things. He liked to get in and out of a crime scene, nice and
neat. Didn’t want to have to fuss with anything. Just take his
pictures and go. My fascination with the minutiae turned him red, and he
would always ask me why I was tapping around the plaster in the walls with my
pocket knife, trying to get the best angled shot possible of a simple bullet
hole. Or why I spent time reading scraps of paper or taking mental
inventory of little odds and ends. Books and papers. He liked to
remind me that we weren’t making art. Constantly insisting that the
pictures in my wallet would suffice, if they were of a homicide, or a bullet
hole or a broken glass table, and not just some woman he never asked me
about. He always gave me a look when I paid for lunch and the plastic
casing around the pictures unravelled. Like he recognised the face from a
frame at the local pharmacy.
People would do all kinds of
crazy shit in the name of love, he liked to tell me. It was one of his
favourite recurring themes. Love was the number one cause of death,
according to him. Number one. All time champion. Killed more
people than cancer. No amount of exaggerated eye-rolling could stop him
from constantly coming back around and tying that wonderful and uplifting
emotion to the horrors we routinely photographed, but I let it slide. He
had his opinions and I had mine. Never saw the point in arguing the
relative value of the two and making a big scene over nothing. We were
partners, essentially. I had to work with him and we could always find
something to laugh about. No sense in ruining something rare like that
over philosophy.
This one time, when he was a
new boy, Buster got called in to do some shots at a crime scene. His
first brush with the uglier side of love. He barely managed to finish
collecting up all the evidence needed at the murder scene, and said it brought
him about as close to losing his lunch as he’d ever come. She was nude,
just out of the shower, cut open like a fish. There were bloody hand prints
all around the sluice running down the length of her chest and abdomen.
On the toilet. On the shower curtain. And bloody footprints all
over the room. It was hard to photograph, because just being in the same
room with the body would contaminate the scene. The killer must have had
a nervous breakdown, or at least a second thought, after he butchered
her. Footprints in circles all over the floor, tracing a path like a
figure eight. Like infinity. Like no end in sight. Where was
he going except out, anyway?
Hearing him tell that story
would bring to mind visions of some sick twist pulling on his hair.
Walking around in circles. Berating himself. Stupid.
Stupid. Stupid. But it was much too late for her. And the
pattern of footprints indicated that it wasn’t much longer for him. But
that was only the half of it, he would remind me. Each and every time he
told the story. When the police put it all together and moved in to
apprehend that sad confused boy at his place of residence, Buster got called in
again. Not even a day had passed. The poor bastard had a run-in
with his conscience long before the authorities arrived on the scene.
Shot himself in the chest. Puncturing a lung and, maybe, grazing some
other organs. Not enough to do the job quick. There were lots of
bloody hand prints there, too. It took him a long time to die.
No footprints, though.
He never moved from the spot on the living room floor where they found
him. Legs still crossed together like a pretzel. Laid out, and
contorted, on his back, in front of an altar of sorts. A little
half-table, covered with a cheap vinyl tablecloth that climbed up the
wall. Held in place with duct tape. Covered with pictures of the
woman they were probably still trying to stitch back together at the coroner’s
office. Photos shot from various locations, without her knowledge.
A hodgepodge of surveillance photos, sloppy Polaroids and old school pictures
from old school yearbooks or other sources he’d managed to get his hands on.
Some obviously printed from digital. Things he’d found on the Internet or
at the library. There were hearts all around the bottom of the shrine,
made from red candle wax, and a prayer book beside them. Standard
fare. Something to do with Jesus. Probably not what Jesus had
intended.
Buster had a hard time shaking
that particular assignment. Not just because it was one of his first, but
because of the nature of the crime. This was love. Twisted and
skewed. Unrequited. He made sure to punctuate the tale with that
observation. The beginning of his fixation. It made him question
life in a way he never had before. He was married. Loved his
wife. Never been down the road this tortured soul had. Never felt
that obsession. Never that he noticed, anyway.
The first time he brought me
with him - years later, when he’d built up an impressive collection of stories
and philosophies - we got called in to shoot a slit-wrist suicide.
Nothing too extreme, but very well done. Sliced deep, with a quality
razor. From the radial artery at the wrist, all the way past the inside
of the elbow and up into the brachial. It wasn’t a cry for help.
And it was another man. Another lost man leaving nothing at the scene but
a suicide note addressed to a woman he’d never even had the courage to approach
while he was still breathing. When the police brought her on the premises
to identify the body, she couldn’t. Not because she was in shock or
because she had any trouble facing the ugly reality of the incident. She
simply didn’t know who he was. But he’d loved her. Loved her so
much he couldn’t live without her. And he’d loved her for a long, long
time, according to the note.
He didn’t collect pictures,
but he kept journals. Pages and pages of failed, mostly unfinished, love
letters. Reminiscing about things that never happened. Brilliantly
written descriptions of a future that would never be. Some of it was
beautiful, some of it was boring as toast. All of it was detailed and accurate.
Complete with endless accounts of his feelings for her and what he thought she
was feeling for him. More to the point, what he knew she was feeling for
him. His own little drama. Working and figuring its way out in his
mind. Their relationship, recounted on reams of paper, that never
actually occurred outside the walls of his apartment. You wouldn’t know
it to read his work. It was as real an account of a life as you might
read anywhere.
The only problem was that he’d
never so much as spoken to her. When he’d seen her, it must have been in
passing. He’d never introduced himself or made any impression
whatsoever. Yet, the loss of that love had caused him to end his own
life. For reasons that would remain unknown. Except to someone who
might take the time to read through all of those volumes of prose.
Perhaps, in his internal psychodrama, she had spurned him. Left him for
another man. Wronged him. Broken his heart. We’d never know,
she’d never know and he’d never tell. The case got filed under
suicide. Nothing much noted about the man’s fictional life, except a
brief mention in the paperwork. For all intents and purposes, he just
died. Took his own life. Case closed. Almost a
victimless crime.
This morning we were making
life difficult for the local police, as usual, taking photos of another damaged
soul. Lost in the perceived meaning of his life. His wife was
there, and she was crying and making all sorts of awful noises as the officers
tried to calm her down. But she wasn’t cooling off any time soon.
She’d loved the man whose body lay sprawled out on the floor. And she’d
lost him. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t given him any reason to
do what he did. From all accounts and witness testimony, she and her
husband had lived a nice normal life. Nothing wrong except the finances,
which was par for the course in any union, but were, apparently, too much for
him to bear. He’d reached that conclusion sitting at home that day.
Out of work for a little over a year now. And she was off pulling a shift
at the diner down the block when it happened. He’d taken a gun to
himself. Did it properly. In through the mouth and out through the
back of his skull. Over quick, and painless.
Our photographs of
antidepressants and unpaid bills hinted at the rest of the story. He’d
felt less of a man. Unable to provide. Taking and taking and never
giving back. And he’d done what he felt he had to do. Ensuring that
his wife lived the kind of life he felt she deserved. Free from the
financial burden of having to carry him any longer. His wife’s reaction -
the total lack of comprehension - drove home the fact that he didn’t kill
himself to rob her of a husband. In his own drowning pool of self-pity,
he just hadn’t given her feelings very much thought. He’d done himself in
to give her what he thought she wanted. In that respect, he’d
succeeded. Their home owner’s policy ensured that the love of his life
would never have to worry about having a roof over her head again. The
house was paid in full. Any other point of principle was lost to him now.
As I stood and pondered what
dark place that man had found himself in, Buster gave me a slap on the
elbow. I looked up and around, taking in the faces of all the uniformed
officers. Eyes wincing. Just wanting to get back home. Maybe
forget they’d ever been there.
After work, we parted ways
with a “see ya” and “tomorrow.” There was always tomorrow, or next
week. More messes to be documented and photographed. Blood spatter
patterns. Bullet holes. Bodies shot, cut, torn, twisted, tortured,
broken, mutilated. Name your poison. There was always
tomorrow. And Buster went back to his house and his wife and his
kids. Living whatever kind of life he lived when we weren’t doing the
job.
I drove home to my trailer, a
six pack of cold beer waiting for me in the fridge. I sat down on my
couch and felt the rough weave dig into my back as I reclined and put my feet
up on the cherry-wood coffee table. I pulled my wallet out of my ass
pocket and propped it up against the fat red wax candle on the side
table. I unpacked the plastic photo holders. Lining them up like I
always did. Eight pictures of the only woman I’d ever loved. Some
with me off in the background, blurred and almost out of frame. Mostly
just her, looking happy for a camera.
And I watched the television
and thought how much I liked the commercials. How carefree everyone
seemed. How perfect their lives were. Wondering what it would be
like to have that kind of life. To know that joy. That
happiness. What it would take. I lit the candle with a match and
wriggled off my jacket, removing the pocket knife and opening it up.
Tracing a path around my left wrist. Only pressing hard enough, with the
fat dull edge, to leave little red discolourations, like a figure eight.
Like infinity. Like forever.
And I waited, even though she
never came walking through that door. Never hung up her coat on the
rack. Never called out for me. Never.
But I could always
dream. Those waking dreams were so much more pleasant than reality ever
could be. And they kept me alive. The dreams. The
altar. The photographs. Even having her named as beneficiary on my
whole life insurance policy, which had lapsed months ago. I could
reinstate it for a nominal fee, and from time to time, it seemed like a good
idea. I was worth just a bit more dead than alive. And it would
give my knife something useful to do.
June 24, 2016
Writing: One Exception To The Single Space After Punctuation Rule?
Greetings, friends (and enemies),
I’ll start this post off by noting that I recognise the difference between monospace and variable space font. I’ll also note that, being almost 48 years old now, I learned how to type on an actual typewriter. I didn’t own a computer until I was 27 years old.
When I was taught how to “type”, the Two-space-after-punctuation-like-a-period-or-question-mark-or-exclamation-point-or-double-or-single-quotes-following-any-of-those-things Rule (I’m almost certain that wasn’t the actual name of it) was a real thing, and required learning. If I typed a manuscript in typing class and didn’t put two spaces after a period, I’d get a worse grade on that assignment.
Today, the wisdom (with variable space fonts used on computers almost always) is to only use one space after everything. Periods. Commas. Question Marks. Quoted Dialogue. Exclamation points. Everything.
But, I think there is one exception that this rule overlooks (and, forgive me if I didn’t search the Internet and read through the copious amount of articles available on this subject to find the one or two that might actually address this specific issue).
THE EXCEPTION: The “single space for everything” rule can directly conflict with the unforgivable sin of using incorrect speech tags in fiction (or other types of) dialogue.
Following is my sectioned and belaboured argument:
NOTE: To keep this blog post as brief as any I’ve ever written, I’m limiting my examples to dialogue followed by attribution.
The “TO BE FAIR” Section:
1) To be fair, the rule still applies in a variety of situations, no matter how you describe the speech. For instance, the following examples of dialogue (and almost any dialogue followed by a word that begins in lower case) aren’t confusing at all:
a) “I have to go,” he said.
b) “What the hell is your problem?” she asked.
c) “That’s awesome!” he replied.
2) Also to be fair, the rule still applies (and isn’t confusing) in a variety of similar situations when the dialogue is followed by a word that begins with a capital letter and - possibly - ends with a period.
a) “I have to go.” He spoke the words as if he were about to fall asleep.
b) “What the hell is your problem?” She turned and stormed off.
c) “That’s awesome!” He tried to pretend like he cared.
The “COUNTDOWN TO DISASTER” Section:
1) Even though I’m not a strong proponent of it, lots of writers insist that using “said”, “asked” and, maybe, “replied” are the only speech tags you should use. Technically, you can’t go wrong with those three.
a) “I have to go,” he said.
b) “What the hell is your problem?” she asked.
c) “That’s awesome!” he replied.
2) Those same writers (And I agree with this insofar as some words, and sentences, seem like they would be impossible to “speak”) don’t think it’s a good idea to use any other descriptives. It’s considered “Authorial Intrustion”. Although, the following examples are okay with me.
a) “I have to go,” he whispered.
b) “What the hell is your problem?” she screamed.
c) “That’s awesome!” he exclaimed. (Although redundant, not necessarily “wrong”)
However, when speakers like “I” (or any speaker whose name begins with a capital letter, like “Mike”) get involved, things can get dicey.
The “EVERYTING IS STILL GOOD” Section:
1) For instance, these are all valid uses of single space after dialogue, involving the speaker “I”.
a) “I have to go,” I said.
b) “What the hell is your problem?” I asked.
c) “That’s awesome!” I replied.
2) These are also okay:
a) “I have to go,” I whispered.
b) “What the hell is your problem?” I screamed.
c) “That’s awesome!” I exclaimed. (Although redundant, not necessarily “wrong”)
The “EXCEPTION” Section:
1) These examples of the single space rule could be considered problematic (Which is just my long-winded way of saying I find them to be so) - NOTE: This exception doesn’t apply to dialogue that ends with a comma:
a) “I have to go.” I coughed.
b) “What the hell is your problem?” I spat.
c) “That’s awesome!” I laughed.
WHY ARE THOSE THREE EXAMPLES EXCEPTIONS?
The answer is fairly simple. In all three examples, the reader has to make a judgement call they shouldn’t have to.
a) Did I cough that entire sentence or did I speak it and then cough? To be fair, in that example, the period makes it okay, but periods look and read an awful lot like commas.
b) Did I spit that entire question or did I ask it and then spit?
c) Did I laugh that entire exclamation or did I exclaim it and then laugh?
WHAT THEN IS THE “CORRECT” ANSWER?
Drum roll (or whatever gets you all worked up)…
It’s a preference! Most typesetting guidelines insist that one space is the only rule. Some writers (like me) and editors (like me) believe that, in certain situations, a double space after punctuation is called for to minimise confusion.
And, when it comes right down to it, would you ever actually notice? If an entire manuscript was written with single spaces after punctuation, and only those few exceptions were written with two spaces following, would it enhance your understanding or would you just read it the way you normally would?
And, finally, do I just tend to overthink things that are, ultimately, of little consequence? And how to you feel about my use of dashes and random distribution of bold-face font? ;)
Best wishes to you with your writing,
Peace,
Mike
——
P.S. My latest book “Bloody Gullets” - A heartwarming collection of short
stories officially publishing on June 28th, 2016 - is now available for
pre-order on Kindle:http://tinyurl.com/zgldbh3
The paperback pre-order is live, as well: http://tinyurl.com/gsjns89
As always, the pre-order price for the paperback will be about five
bucks less than what Amazon will make me charge when it’s ready to sell
and formatted so that human beings can read it (it’s all about page
count). The kindle price will remain the same.
June 11, 2016
June 9, 2016
Help Missing Pieces’ cover win an award....
Help Missing Pieces’ cover win an award. http://tinyurl.com/j634cnx Vote now! - If you’d be so kind :)
June 3, 2016
My latest book “Bloody Gullets” - A heartwarming collection of...
My latest book “Bloody Gullets” - A heartwarming collection of short stories officially publishing on June 28th, 2016 - is now available for pre-order on Kindle:
The paperback pre-order is live, as well:
As always, the pre-order price for the paperback will be about five bucks less than what Amazon will make me charge when it’s ready to sell and formatted so that human beings can read it (it’s all about page count). The kindle price will remain the same.
Peace,
Mike
