The Apprentice

We hope you all enjoyed your weekend! Now, in continuation of our collection of Edgar Allan Poe tributes, we bring you a tale that takes us inside the mind of a disgruntled transit worker, ready for retirement, but not before he takes care of a few things first. Ladies and gentlemen, here is the debut work of fiction from The Veillee's very own Em! Enjoy...

The Apprentice

By Emerald Nash

 

It started with the economic downturn, this mass hiring of young people. The stock market plummeted, the vice tightened on the middle class, and suddenly even college shoo-ins flocked to the Police Force, the Army, various construction jobs, and of course, us.

     Hell, even college graduates found us. Their fancy degrees, useless in the stagnate economy, were expensive, unpaid for, and still accruing interest.

     I would’ve felt bad for the sorry lot, except you can bet if I’d had the chance to go to college, I’da gone to be a doctor or a lawyer or something useful. None of this filmmaker/fashion-designer nonsense kids waste their money on these days.

     Now don’t get me wrong. The Transit Authority’s no stranger to young people. Way it used to be, once in a while they’d onboard a handful of green boys, or maybe even a young lady or two – usually single girls with babies at home. Always tugged at your heart to see that. The difference is: back then, the kids joining our team were here to work, to make a life. They had families to support. Couldn’t afford to keep running to the next best thing, and there were no illusions about that.

     Young people just can’t accept their lot in life the way they used to. In their heads everything ought to be better than it is.

     That’s just my observation though. And that’s certainly how it was with this particular kid. My apprentice, my protégé, my charge. He was a straight-up fool from the beginning. First day of work he says to me:

     “All right gramps, boss me around all you want. I’m just here ‘til my record label takes off.”

     Record label. They really give diplomas for dreams like that, huh?

     I couldn’t get over it. My total years of seniority were greater that his total years of life.

     He was always slouching and shuffling, all the things my elders used to harp on me about; can’t really fault him for that, I guess. Sometimes a man’s got to grow into his body. But the lack of eye contact, the casual way he regarded me – his superior! And the foul language – to say it irritated me would be an understatement.

     And he always had those head phones jammed into his ears, constantly emanating crazy rhythms -- which didn’t sound too bad if I’m being honest, it was just the audacity with which he wore the things that got me.

     I’m telling you, I could have dealt with those unsavory qualities had it not been for that damn tic. It was just too much. Always a sudden and startling seizure of the muscles on the right side of his face, the spasm made it seem like he was winking at me. And to make matters worse, it always happened when he got wound up, so any time he and I had an argument it seemed he was punctuating his sarcastic words with a smart-assed wink. I knew the physical action was involuntary, but it was fuel for the fire nonetheless.

     Ninety days with this kid. How would I manage?

     One afternoon my supervisor sent word (along with congratulations on my new eligibility for retirement) that they’d be walling up the unused public restrooms at the south end of the station. I’d been a booth agent at that location for the better part of 30 years and never before had anyone expressed an interest in doing something with those old toilets. The neighborhood is slowly changing, I guess, and the new crowd probably don’t like the thought of what bums, addicts, and horny teenagers get up to in there.

     I was in favor of the improvement; one less thing for me to keep an eye on. I wondered, though, why wouldn’t they just tear the thing down instead of plastering over it? Budget cuts, I figured. A quick fix instead of a permanent solution. It was then that the idea hatched in my mind.

     Just a spark of inspiration, I dismissed it all at first, but with each passing day I began to realize that a perfect, foolproof plan had landed in my lap. And each day that tic pushed me closer to my resolution. Finally, I decided to do it; I would just need to time everything exactly right. Waiting would be the hard part.

     When the day arrived I found myself calmer than expected. The kid came shuffling in as usual, twenty five minutes late for our 4:00pm shift. Eyes bloodshot,lids heavy.

     “You’re late,” I said.

     “Easy, gramps. You’re just jealous cause I’m gonna be a famous filmmaker and you’re gonna be here ‘til you die.”

     “I thought you were gonna be a famous DJ.”

     “Record producer. And I changed my mind.”

     “What a shame. And you went to school for it and everything.”

     “I told you, my degree’s in media studies. I can do all that shit.”

     “Still don’t excuse you being nearly half an hour late – every day.”

     No response.

     Excellent. So far, it was shaping up to look like a perfectly normal day. I was pleased with myself.

     Our shift passed as usual: me answering passengers’ questions, him commenting on the females that passed. At 12:45 I surprised him by standing and stretching.

     “I got to head out early tonight. Some things to take care of.”

     He looked at me for a moment then said, “What've you got to take care of at this hour, old man? If that were me leaving early, shit…”

     “Just make the rounds like you’re supposed to. And don’t forget to hang them signs I gave you.”

     “Yeah. I got it.”

     I picked up my jacket and bag and turned to go.

     “Oh, and don’t forget to check around the bathrooms. I found old Carlos in there two nights ago.”

     “Should get better locks.”

     He winked.

     I stared him down.

     “It’s the last time we’ll have to do it,” I said. “They’re walling it up tomorrow.”

     “Yeah,” he said. “I got it.”

     I stepped out of the booth, closed the door behind me, and ascended my favorite set of stairs at the northeast corner of the station. I breathed the crisp autumn air. The moon was full and round in its opalescent glory, hanging low over the brownstones. Savoring the late night silence, I walked the two blocks above ground to the other end of the station and down into the cavernous depths. Swiping my card, I moved through the turnstile, just like a regular old passenger. It was deserted. Not a soul in sight, nor would there be for hours.

     Arriving at the decrepit washrooms, I paused for a moment and considered that this would be the last night I’d see the old station exactly as it was when I started all those years ago. It was the end of an era.

     No time to waste though. I quickly unlocked the men’s room and slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. That would guarantee success. One thing I had to give the kid, he wasn’t a coward. He loved knowing that he might discover something exciting or dangerous in those bathrooms. He lived for finding the broken padlocks, investigating, and, if he was lucky, getting to call the cops.

     I checked the time on my cell phone: 12:56. He would be here soon. I removed all necessary materials from my backpack and steeled myself for the moments to come.

     Soon enough, I heard the tell-tale shuffling of the young underachiever heading my way, keys jangling at his hip. The sound stopped just outside the bathroom and slowly the door eased open. Harsh florescent light flooded the room.

     “Who’s there.” A demand, not a question.

     With that I pounced! And within seconds had the little bastard bound by wrists and feet – mouth clumsily, but effectively gagged with a wool sock. He barely had time to make a noise. Woulda been fine if he had; no one to hear him at 1:00am in this god-forsaken corner of the borough. I switched on the workshop lantern I’d strategically placed there days before. His face was twisted in fear and confusion. Then, upon recognizing me, it softened in relief.

     Hands under his arm pits, I scooped him upright. He had trouble balancing, but succeeded in spitting out the sock.

     “The fuck you doin’, man? You scared the shit outta me!”

     His face was convulsing wildly, his eye blinking out of control.

     I helped him lean against an old pipe, which extended from floor to ceiling. He seemed grateful for the support and began breathing a little easier.

     “Seriously, man,” he said. “Good prank. Untie me now.”

     I didn’t respond. I simply gathered the chains and began wrapping them in an intricate pattern around his body, securing him to the pipe.

     “Hey, man. Stop this!” His pitch was beginning to escalate.

     I snapped the padlock shut, and stood back to admire my work. It was beautiful in a way. Another spasm seized his face. Between tics I could see the terror in his eyes.

     He screamed repeatedly now, struggling hopelessly against his bonds.

     I found the sock lying on the ground, picked it up and stuffed it back into his mouth – this time securing it with several layers of duct tape.

    His muffled cries were pitiful, but I gathered my things and faced him.

     “Goodnight, kid,” I said, and switched off the light.

     Closing the door behind me, I felt the strangest sense of relief at knowing the blinking eye, the twitching face, would be gone forever. I locked up the room for the last time and finally went home.

     The next morning men came with bricks and mortar and tiles. In 48 hours the whole thing was done. No more restrooms to check. And still no sign of the cops.

     After five days, I called my supervisor and told him the kid hadn’t shown up all week. He instructed me to give it another day or so before calling the police.

     I knew the kid had no family. Only a mother he didn’t speak to often; she had moved down south some years ago. And I figured a girlfriend was out of the question for his skinny, twitchy ass. No one to ask after him, no one to suspect.

     I eventually did call the authorities; they came and asked questions. I answered, I lied. They said there was no sign of foul play at his apartment; if anything violent did happen, it was probably drug related. Before long they stopped coming around, stopped asking questions. But I knew the smell would soon be a problem.

     And it was. I managed to thinly cover it up for several weeks with cinnamon scented air freshener, but people began to ask about it. The stench of human decay is distinct, and powerful. So I knew my time was running short. But I wasn’t worried. By the time the cops came back around, I’d be on a bus to the border with my retirement money in pocket.

     I wondered who would take my place.

     Probably another failed DJ or something, just waiting for his big break.

     And the kid? He would go down officially in the books as another statistic. One more example as to why this new generation is one big turn-over risk – the dreamers, the unemployable, the good-for-nothings. The kid still is good for nothing; he just ain’t around to bother me no more.

THE END

We hope you enjoyed this tale, and that you will provide your thoughts on it below. Stop back Wednesday for some more poetry, and for part two of The Ninth Victim on Friday. It's going to be a tantalizing week!

Emerald Nash is currently based in Brooklyn. She studied performing arts at The American Musical and Dramatic Academy, and received her B.A. in Literature and Screenwriting from The New School. Her current day job at The Explorers Club involves brandy-sipping adventurers, a plethora of dead animal trophies, and one really cool live cat named Lowell. 

The Ninth Victim: Part 1

Ladies and gentlemen, Friday has arrived, and with it, the end of our first week here at The Veillee. Thanks again to all those who contributed; please continue following and submitting work! We're so excited that this collective effort is finally underway.

Now, on to the fun stuff! I cannot tell you how thrilled I am to introduce a piece of short fiction from my fellow Veillee founder, Jess! In her story, "The Ninth Victim," she takes us into the mind of a serial killer who gets way more than he bargains for. 

So, grab a warm beverage, put aside that work (it's FRIDAY, people!), and settle in for the captivating first part of:

The Ninth Victim

By Jessica Pherson

I watched her from various parking lots for weeks. At the grocery store, the dry cleaners, the salon, the mall, the drug store. I followed her home and watched her house from the dark street at night. I cased her house to see what kind of locks she had and peered into her windows. She had the type of locks that were really easy to pick. Soon, I felt I was ready.

The day I decided to do it was a Friday. I knew she would be home and that she wouldn’t go out because she never went out. And if she did, I would just try again the next day. I followed her through her regular errands of going grocery shopping and picking up some dry cleaning (this woman really liked to get her clothes dry cleaned) and then she returned home. I waited outside for a few minutes, then went back home to prepare.

I had already set aside the necessary tools- the lock-picking instruments, the rope, the gag, the plastic sheet, the chloroform (in case I should need it, I’d only ever had to twice) and of course, Betty, my knife. Betty had a long, slick, 10” blade and a black leather handle. I had been using Betty since my very first kill. Now I would just concentrate and wait, and prepare my body and mind for what was to come that night.

I have learned to fast before kills so as not to be interrupted by my bladder or any lagging in my physique that may occur due to what I may have eaten earlier. I maybe just have an apple and piece of bread with water no sooner than 2 hours before I leave to take my victim, then I relax and concentrate until I feel I am ready.

I chose this woman to be my next victim two and a half months ago when I was browsing the magazine rack at Barnes & Noble’s. I was looking at a hunting magazine, just perusing the knives, when I happened to look up and see her on the other side of the rack. I was struck for a moment with that type of feeling you get when you just have a good feeling about something, something that you desire and wish to achieve. She seemed to radiate some type of vibe that drew me in, and I could not take my gaze off of her. I stared long enough to take her in; she was about 5’7” and long and lean. A very rigid frame, in a way that made her edgy and athletic-looking, like she was a runner perhaps. She had very high and sharp cheekbones, and very full and poutty lips. She had a long, strong nose and a tanned complexion with very tight, clear skin. Her eyes and hair were what struck me most- she had really big, deep brown eyes, like two pools of dark, dark water, so dark it wasn’t blue anymore, it was just dark and bottomless. She had thick lashes lining them and her pupils sparkled with a little something…I just can’t put into words for you. And her hair- her hair was amazing. Long and thick and blond- naturally blond –and just the type I was aching to run my hands through. There were strands that looked bleached and strands that looked amber and strands that looked reddish and strands that made me think of brown sugar. I wondered what she tasted like.


Then she looked up and saw me watching her, and she just smiled. The quick, tight-lipped smile that polite people make when they want to diffuse what could be an uncomfortable situation. Her eyes darted away and then back to me again, waiting for me to smile and go about my business. So, I did, since what else could I do? I nodded then went back to the magazine, and continued to look at the same page, until she wandered away from the rack and off to the little Starbucks café to get a coffee. She had wanted a magazine to read along with her latte I suppose, and I watched her walk over to the counter and noticed what she was wearing (a mint green knit top and gray cotton pants- the kind the girls who take yoga classes wear –and black sneakers, with a rosewood-colored pocketbook) and how she walked; she was confident, more confident than I normally liked them. But, there was something about her that I was just hopelessly attracted to, something I don’t think I had ever felt before. 


After she had read her magazine (National Geographic Traveler, fantasizing about Peru I guess) and had her latte, she left and I followed her out about twelve feet behind her, looping around the opposite side of the parking lot in a fashion so I could still see her. She got into a maroon mid-size SUV and got right onto the highway with me not far behind. I followed her about ten miles to a cozy little suburban development just forty minutes away from where I lived. Her house was a two-story colonial-style home, nice, but not too nice. It was a soft yellow color with a white roof and matching white windowpanes, and a door with a stained glass window. Her lawn was neat and her flowerbeds were kept, but she appeared to live alone. I just had that feeling, but I couldn’t be sure, so I waited until about midnight a few houses away, and sure enough, no one else came home that night.
I came back to check on her the next day- first early in the morning, then late at night –to see if anyone new had shown up, and still just the blond woman with the SUV left in the morning then came back in the late afternoon. And so the stalking began; from this I acquired the following information: her name was Christine Salerno according to her mail and she subscribed to Women’s Health, National Geographic, Time and Land’s End. She appeared to work from home or else to have acquired much wealth somehow, because she did not seem to ever go to a job and she spent a lot of time on the computer on certain times of the day. She had a regular exercise routine where she would run at six a.m. every morning and hit the treadmill at night. I believe she may have done some type of yoga or tai chi in her bedroom since she would disappear up there for an hour or more at certain times on certain days and come back downstairs appearing to be very refreshed. I did not have access to her upper windows.


She rarely got phone calls and rarely made them; she seemed to be a very lonely woman, which amazed me since she was so beautiful. I figured her for a cold-hearted, uptight bitch that no guy wanted to deal with, or perhaps an introverted lesbian. Either way, I wanted her under my knife even more. 


I gathered enough information about her to know when would be the best time and the best way to strike, and I waited until I was ready to make my move, and tonight was the night.

I parked three houses away from hers on the next block and snuck into her yard from the neighbor’s yard that was behind her home. Of course, I had made sure she was definitely home, and then I waited until all the lights went out and then for another hour after that until I decided to find a place to park. Then I made my way into her house. The lock was easy to pick and the bolt was an easy slider with the right tools; I entered her kitchen quietly as a cat and was also greeted by her longhaired black cat with white whiskers and paws as soon as I closed the door softly behind me. It meowed at me with half a purr, then sat on the floor and started to lick its paws and stroke its head. I moved right on past it, only thinking for a moment about breaking its neck, deciding it was too risky as it might cry out.

The kitchen was pretty big; I walked quietly across the linoleum-tiled floor to the counter with two barstools in front of it. I thought about how lonely this woman must be and how I might actually be putting her out of her misery while satisfying my own. I glanced at the walls, searching for picture frames, and I did see a few, but all with images of fish and landscapes and abstract art that made no sense- none with people who might be family. A lonely woman. I was here to carve a lonely woman. Hadn’t they all been in some way? It didn’t seem to matter how beautiful most of them were, they were still lonely and miserable. And I’m sure they all deserved it.

As my right foot touched the soft white carpet of the living room, I was suddenly accosted by something. For a ridiculous and stupid second I thought it was the cat jumping on me because it moved so swiftly and softly, but it wrapped one arm around my neck and covered my mouth with the other. I grabbed at the arms, tried to pull them off of me, struggled with the bottle of chloroform I was now kicking myself for not having ready to use. The bottle was knocked out of my hand and my neck was pulled tighter, tighter and tighter, until I started to feel light-headed and the dark room got darker and darker. 

*        *        * 

I awoke some time later feeling very weak and dizzy. I opened my eyes and it took me a moment to realize I was tied to a chair. My legs were bound to the chair’s legs and my hands were tied snuggly behind the back of the chair, and the kicker was this had been done with the very rope I had brought. I slowly lifted my head, wincing in pain as my neck was aching from my head hanging down for so long, and my mind was hazy. The lights were on and very bright to my weakened eyes and I had to squint to see what was in front of me, and there she sat, reclining on her beige leather sofa in loungewear with a mug of what appeared to be hot tea in her hand. And she was looking right at me. 

“Well, hello there, sunshine,” Christine Salerno said to me, taking a sip from the mug. I could see the vapors from the steaming beverage dance around her face. Like a witch leering over her cauldron. 

I just stared back at her, unsure of what to say or do. I could tell without having to struggle very hard that my hands and legs were tightly bound, expertly in fact. I was just perplexed and a little nervous, and my only fear was that she had called the police and they were on their way. But, how had she caught me? How had she bound me like this? Surely a simple little woman like her could not have done this to me alone. My eyes darted quickly around the room searching for another body. 

“No worries, darling. We’re all alone,” she said to me, as if able to read my mind. “No need to search…you will find no one.”

End of Part 1

(Check back next week for Part 2!)

Jessica Pherson is one of the Founders of The Veillee and author of her own blog, Healthy Mommy, Healthy Baby. She works from home part time for an eco-friendly jewelry company/retailer and is also a stay-at-home mom to Lily.

Learn more about Jessica by checking out The Matchbox section of this blog! 

An Unexpected Letter

Good morning, Veillee readers, Em here!

Before we jump into today's post, which I assure you is very exciting, I'd like to send out a big thank you to yesterday's authors for sharing their Poe-inspired work! It's not always easy to put your poetry out there for the world to read, but they did and we're proud of them!

Now, as you may or may not know, today is Mr. Poe's birthday. In honor of the occasion, Blake Walker has agreed to share with us this fantastic little thriller. Though not intentionally written as a tribute to Poe, this story's use of the uncanny achieves great effect, and serves as a fine nod to Poe's style. Please read, enjoy, and let us know what you think!


Here is:

An Unexpected Letter

By Blake Walker

Marcus Grant stood outside of 8411 Ellison Ave., a spacious three bedroom house on the outskirts of Cincinnati. The sun was high in a cloudless sky, and the weather man predicted temperatures in the upper 90’s. But with the humidity, and no breeze, it felt more like 100 degrees.

     “Jesus,” Marcus said, as he reached into his back pocket to pull out a handkerchief. He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced down at something that had caught his eye. There was dried blood, stained, on the handkerchief. He puzzled over what he saw and mumbled, “I thought I got rid of it all.” This disturbed him greatly. If he forgot to clean the handkerchief, what else might he have forgotten?

     He didn’t have time to worry about that right now, there were far more pressing matters at hand. He thought to himself, I need to finish my mail route before it gets too late, and I need to stop at the grocery store…

“You don’t need to do SHIT!” a voice in the back of his mind told him. The voice was something dark. It had a grating texture to it; as if someone had wrapped sandpaper around a set of vocal cords. “You need to find out where that damn letter came from. You need to find out who knows. You need to quit being sloppy or you’re going to get caught! You want that?”

“No,” he muttered to himself.

     Marcus climbed back into his mail truck, wincing at the pain in his right leg. He took one more look at 8411, and felt a cold chill run through his body. The house belonged to an elderly woman named Louise Bateman. Louise had lived alone for nearly fifteen years. She had no family and few friends — and five days ago Marcus murdered her.

Before driving off Marcus picked up the letter that was causing him so much turmoil. “I will come for you.” That’s what the letter had said – a letter post-marked two days ago from Louise.

.  .  .

     As Marcus pulled in to his apartment complex later that night, he began to feel an itch in the back of his mind. The kind of feeling you get when you know someone is around the corner and they’re about to jump out at you. As he put the old mail truck into park, he looked around expecting a sight to validate this feeling of his. The apartments he lived in were old and dilapidated. The dirty yellow paint was peeling in several places and the stench of something decaying was hanging in the air. He saw a little boy playing with something on the far side of the parking lot and the sight struck him as odd. Not many families lived in this area because it was run down and prone to violence and drug trafficking.

     He stepped out of the mail truck, and was surprised at the amount of humidity still left in the day. The sun was a deep orange as it began to finalize its descent — it cast a strange hue over everything in sight. Marcus tried not to think about the heat as he made his way over to the child. The voice in the back of his mind rose up again; the one that made him do bad things to people. It was the voice that guided him throughout his life and made the decisions that he, alone, couldn’t.

“What are you doing,” the voice echoed?

“I just want to see something,” he said softly to no one.

“We don’t have time for this. You need to figure out who sent that letter. You need to figure out who knows!”

“I will, I’m just curious about something.”

“Screw your curiosity! I said to get…”

“NO DAMMIT, YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME!”

     The voice grew silent, and Marcus noticed that even though he just yelled at the top of his lungs, the small boy hadn’t seemed to notice. As he got closer, he saw what the child was playing with, a stuffed toy of some kind. No, not a toy, this looked too heavy. There was weight to the thing the boy had. He could see the (limbs?) as they hit the pavement, and could hear a wet smack followed by a slight suction when the boy lifted the thing up. He also noticed that the smell of decay was getting stronger. There was something familiar about the (Animal?) the boy had. This thing had a grey line running from one end to the other.

     “Not unlike my…” Marcus’s voice trailed off as he began to realize what he was seeing.

     “No, it can’t be mine; my cat is white with a grey stripe. This one is …“. Marcus never finished his thought, because as he drew closer to the boy and the animal he could see patches of white standing out against the deep red.

When he finally reached the boy, he discovered that it was in fact his pet cat. To his horror, the cat was clearly dead, with most of its insides heaped upon the pavement and smeared all over the small boy sitting on the ground. Blood covered the child; and the face of Big Bird was barely visible on the t-shirt he wore.

     “Oh God,” Marcus said as he looked down at the carcass of his cat, shock and anger slowly taking their hold on him. He now understood what was causing the suction noises. The cat’s limbs where caked in congealed blood, and every time the boy pulled them off the pavement the blood would stick, causing a sound that made Marcus believe he would soon lose control over his bladder.

“What have you done?”

But the boy paid no attention, and continued to play with the dead cat as if it were a toy. Marcus bent down and grabbed the boy on the shoulder, lifted him up, and smacked his face. The boy slowly raised his head and now he and Marcus were face to face. But Marcus didn’t like the face he looked into. The boy’s face was a contorted, grotesque version of Louise Bateman’s. The eyes were rolled back in their sockets leaving only the milky whites showing, and the mouth began to open, the bottom half stretching impossibly far revealing rotten teeth and the stench of death.

     Marcus jumped, dropping the boy. The child stood up and started towards him. Marcus began inching away, but fell backwards, his head striking the pavement causing his vision to blur. The boy with Louise Bateman’s face stood over him; wounds began opening all over the boy’s exposed flesh. As he stared down at Marcus, blood began seeping from these wounds. A low growl was emitting from within that dark place in the boy’s oversized mouth. There was no voice in Marcus’s mind to tell him what to do now, and this terrified him even more.

“Please, go away,” Marcus said.

But the boy with Louise Bateman’s face didn’t go away, and now that growl was growing. Slowly, the boy lowered his face so that it was inches away from Marcus’s. Then the boy used the oversize mouth to swallow Marcus’s head. Marcus screamed as the mouth closed around him and he began to feel the rotten teeth press against his skin. His screams became muffled—and then he screamed no more.

Blake Walker is a Data Management Specialist with the state of Tennessee. He lives in Nashville with his wife Sarah and their six month old son Aidan. Blake enjoys reading, comic books, writing, going to the movies and, most importantly, spending time with his family.

To learn more about Blake, check out his Q&A in The Matchbox section of this blog! 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. POE!

We hope you're spending eternity in "a kingdom by the sea."

 

Thanks for all the inspiration, and advice! 

(Check out Poe's "Philosophy of Composition.")

Some Poe-etry

We had an awesome launch, and thank you, dear readers, for making it happen! A special thanks to Rachel Lynn Brody, of course, for her nail-biting The Tell Tale Tech. 

Now lend us your ears (or eyes, rather) for continuation of our homage to the great Edgar Allan Poe, with a couple of Poe-inspired poems- one from The Veillee's very own Jess and one from a new up-and-comer, Kacy Muir. Enjoy...

Heartache

by Jessica Pherson

I can see my heart

Beating in my chest

It’s beating very slowly

Because it wants to rest

It wants to stop beating,
Since, why shall it go on?

If it doesn’t beat with yours,

Then why should it last long?

I can see my heart

And I can see spots of black

It’s an infection eating away

And soon I’ll have a heart attack

They’re like bruises on a banana

Such a delicate fruit

In the Company of Edgar
By Kacy Muir

The idea of being placed in a box 

Ever so gently 

Is not so gentle an idea

Tucked away tightly 

In a blue heirloom dress 

To gray after the years

Living out the days 

With my heart still beating underneath it 

Jessica Pherson is one of the Founders of The Veillee and author of her own blog, Healthy Mommy, Healthy Baby. She works from home part time for an eco-friendly jewelry company/retailer and is also a stay-at-home mom to Lily. Join us Friday for the first part of her tale of intrigue and suspense, The Ninth Victim. 

Kacy Muir is a freelance writer from Brooklyn, NY by way of New Brunswick, NJ. Her life and travels fill her works with such topics as guerrilla baking, Bruce Springsteen, and searching for the real-life Lloyd Dobler. She has been published in The Weekender, an arts and entertainment magazine and Blood Lotus, an online literary journal. She is currently working on a poetry chapbook about her daily subway travels. Visit her blog, Songs of Sirens, to read more of Kacy's work.

Read some Q&A with these ladies at The Matchbox. 

Coming up, we have more poetry, a new short story from Veillee founder, Em, and another from Blake Walker. And perhaps a few surprises...

Our First Post! The Tell Tale Tech

Welcome to The Veillee! We are a writing collective dedicated to helping authors hone their skills and nurture their imaginations. This is our very first week of existence, which also happens to be the birth week of the immortal Edgar Allan Poe. (A coincidence? Kind of, actually! But a fortuitous one all the same.) 

Edgar Allan Poe was a master of short fiction. Hailed by some as the father of the detective story, Poe paved the way for the horror and mystery genres we recognize today. He pioneered the use of Gothic elements in American literature, and aside from his famous obsession with the macabre, he also staunchly believed that beauty, inspiration, and imagination should be valued above all. His ideas about science and technology were profoundly progressive, often uncanny from a modern perspective, for his imagination produced technological wonders that would eventually become reality. He was a genius at capturing, and translating for the page, intense physical and psychological experiences. One does not finish a Poe tale without having some sort of feeling. 

So, in honor of one of the world’s greatest creative imaginations, we will be showcasing Poe-inspired work for the next two weeks. We will have Poe-ish poetry, Edgary essays, and of course, frightening tales of the grotesque and arabesque! Be sure to stop by on Thursday the 19^th for Poe’s big birthday celebration, featuring a horrifying short story from Blake Walker, a super rad Nashville based writer. And you won’t want to miss the first part of Jessica Pherson’s The Ninth Victim, which will make its debut on Friday. 

For now, though, author Rachel Lynn Brody brings us a mysterious tale of her own.

Rachel is a New York based writer, and we are thrilled to feature her as our first contributing author. So, without further ado, please allow us to present:  

The Tell Tale Tech

By Rachel Lynn Brody

You’re right! I’m nervous, are you happy? I’m nervous. Alert, let us call it. I notice things. And I hear many, many things that the rest of you ignore. It’s not a bad talent, paying attention. Especially in our line of work. Recognition of patterns leads to a more conscious awareness of reality. Perception, as the whole of the law. Through that perception, action is achieved. In other words, I realized – I perceived – the truth of what had happened before the rest of you conceived of the possibility of its taking place. But, never fear. The murderer’s method is discovered. All is well. I can prove it.  

Who can pinpoint the exact moment when inspiration strikes? Who can say when these ideas first enter our minds? And once they do, who has time for sleep? There’s so much research to be done, internet contacts to talk to, bulletin boards that can shed light on a subject. There are monsters walking amongst us, you know.

I am trying to stay calm! Don’t you understand how important this is?! Of course not. No.

What is my judgment of the murderer, you ask? I call him “murderer,” don’t I? He is brilliant. He has tremendous ideas, is obsessed with success. When I met him at the station house, he was quiet, respectful. Perhaps even smug, as if delighted by the accuracy of his prediction even while devastated by his friend’s death, or in agreement that his friend’s life was an acceptable price to have paid.

 

Why did we let him go? Well. There was no evidence, you see. But I have changed all that.

You see, there was something in his manner that did not sit right with me. I knew, when my captain released him, that I would need to be methodical in my efforts if I were going to prove my suspicions true. My captain does not trust his feelings as much as I do. But a crime had taken place, a young man was dead. I knew there was more to this story than met the eye, and I knew I had to dig deeper to discover what had taken place.

What the dead man had done was stupid – going out and testing the invention when he’d been told it didn’t work – but even the murderer admitted that the machine had worked correctly that afternoon. That they had argued. That there were others interested in taking control of his invention, and he would lose control. And the dead young man was a daredevil. A football hero, youngest son. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Deranged? No. Suicidal? I thought not. 

So I investigated. How? In the only way I could: getting close to the murderer. Smiling at him in the station. Paying my respects at his friend’s funeral. For they had been friends, I didn’t doubt that. I was sympathetic, pretty, non-threatening. I spoke to him about his plans for the invention. And then, one night, I broke into his workshop and planted a camera that would allow me to observe him, unseen.

For weeks, his routine was the same. He would go to the workshop, sit at his desk, write papers. Over time, I came to know where the invention was kept: in a storage cabinet, which he kept under combination lock.

Once I had this information, I know – it was only a matter of time before I had my evidence. It was time to go back.

You wouldn’t believe how careful I was. Why didn’t I come with the police? I already told you, my captain had let the murderer go. I couldn’t obtain a warrant. And I knew he had done something wrong. What dedicated officer of the law could let such an injustice persist?

And so I broke back in, and crept to the locker, twisting and turning the keys and letters and numbers until they were arranged in the requisite pattern. The lock opened in my hands with a simple twist. The locker erupted! Bangs and crashes and clatters and rattles, hiccupping jolts and in the end the din faded to silence. Scraps of metal and soldering irons tumbled out of the locker. It was unlike the murderer to leave his work in such disarray. 

I kept quite still, listening for some sign that the racket had been overheard. My heart was pounding in my chest, marking an unsteady rhythm that I was sure would give me away to anyone able to hear as well as I. After a long period of silence (I call it silence, but the rushing, pounding heart contracting and relaxing in my chest was an almost overpowering sensation as it sounded in my ears), I realized: this was the feeling of terror, and of the emotion’s subsiding.

Re-equilibrating, I groped in the night-time darkness, reaching out towards the upper compartments of the storage locker once more. My hand brushed against a solid, metal-plated thing, and I felt it start to tremble as my finger pressed against some invisible, insensible on-switch. The invention whirred gently to life. It was distracting and enticing all at once, that whir. A thin sort of vibration, soft and insistent, like a tzzting phone on a hard surface.

I sighed as I examined the thing, running my hands over its surface. No jagged edges. No obvious fault lines, no cracks. Even after its crash. Had the murderer repaired it without my seeing? What had he done to restore this sound, this darkened thrumming sound? This hellish rhythm, this tattoo beating itself out against the metal sphere in my hands? And then, suddenly, only silence and stillness. The thing had stopped.

This was my evidence. It started and stopped according to a rule the murderer had not shared with his friend! It was so close to me now, so obvious! And yet, it was hardly a moment of risk, nor of exposure. I was not soaring through the skies – what was its motivation in stopping, at that moment?

Then I heard it. The sound of a door, far away, opening and closing. Footsteps, distant voices. I could not risk that they were coming my way, and so I hid it – the prototype, the murderer’s machine. 

Ah! This. This is what you have wanted me to speak about from the moment you arrived; from the way your face has changed its expression I can tell that this is the thing you have wanted me to speak about. The hiding of the machine. But why would I tell you this, now? It is safe, it is protected. It can harm no-one, this strange creation with its inscrutable motivations. You see, the inventor, his investors – they think the machine offers so many possibilities. You refuse to see its drawbacks. Do you think Oppenheimer wanted to give us the tools to destroy the world? Beware your questions. You may not want them answered.

This thing, the invention, like a great ugly beast, had tasted blood. Its sudden shutdown in my hands might have been a malfunction, the same as its shutting down as the murderer’s partner soared through the skies was ruled a malfunction. But what if, as I tell you, the malevolence of its builder infuses this intelligent design? Could the thing think? Was this its inventor’s intention? When I held it, in that moment, I would have dashed it to the floor - except for the fear that it would not obey the laws of gravity, and would fly toward the heavens instead of its own accord.

But you see, I have already thought of this, and I have already prepared against it. Such evil cannot be allowed to spread. I took the machine in my hands and I brought it down with harsh, violent strokes, crushing it against the top of the work table. I struck the machine to the table again and again and again. And then I hid the machine, as I have said before.

And so when the door burst open and the security guards entered, they found me empty-handed. They asked what I was doing, I showed them my badge. How had I gained entry? There was little I could do to dissemble. So I questioned them, instead. An alarm had been tripped, they said. So what had I to fear? I am an officer of the law, after all. I said I had received a complaint – and here was a moment of such composure, such self-possession, that I think it will impress you quite distinctly. I said I had received a complaint about a noise. An intermittent sort of hum. Did they know who might be here, after hours? Could they give me a tour of the space, where they thought such an item might be hidden? Because I wanted to see if I had hidden it well, you see, in case I had to leave it and come back again another night.

It was easy to speak to these men. A smile, a favorable tone of voice, and they were all too happy to tell me about the strange young inventor who came here every day, and his strange friendship with the young man who had died in the accident so many months ago. As they showed me where they imagined the invention could be hidden, I was glad to see they did not come near to the place where in fact it was. As they finished, I found myself standing – with great audacity, delightful audacity – in front of the very place where I had hidden it away.

Business covered, and more at ease, we continued to chat. They were friendly. They flirted. And I was polite in return. But, before long, I admit I began to feel tired; I wished they would leave. I felt a slight ringing, or maybe it was a buzzing, in my ear. But still they chatted, and still we talked. The buzzing grew, until I began to realize – and it took me several minutes – that it in fact was not in my ears at all. And yet, while the sound was, to me, so loud I could hardly ignore it…these men did not seem to react to its presence. 

No doubt I now grew very pale, but I kept talking, telling them about how I’d come to be here, hardly able to focus on the words I was saying for the sake of the thrumming, buzzing sound. I answered their questions – I grew impatient – I think my tone became patronizing more than once – because of that buzzing, underneath me, and yet it seemed they did not hear it! I talked more quickly and with more passion but the noise grew louder still. I stalked back and forth, I distracted them with comments about the murderer and his methods and his partner and the partner’s death – and yet it did not stop, and they did not go! Did they hear the sound too? Now, how could they not? 

And soon it felt as if I were screaming to be heard over the sound of that horrible tzzting, that buzzing, which kept growing louder, and they pretended as if they did not hear anything at all! They smiled at me! They chatted, pleasantly! They must hear. They must suspect. Had they called the station already? I had been warned to leave the murderer alone. Had told them already that I had not obtained a warrant. I had tried to destroy the thing – thought I had destroyed the thing – and yet they were standing here, watching me – mocking me! Perhaps my colleagues were already on their way from the station! 

Still, the buzzing grew louder!

“That’s it!” I shrieked. “I can’t take it! It’s here! I hid it! Right here! That sound is the thrumming of the murderer’s machine!”                                    

END

Rachel Lynn Brody is currently based in New York City. Produced theater credits include one-act plays Post (1999 Write To Be Heard Award Winner), Playing It Cool, Stuck Up A Tree, Mousewings and Green Beer and Bagels. Short films include Vamps, Nolan and more. Her critical writing has appeared in publications including The Buffalo News, The Spectrum, Rogues & Vagabonds, and The British Theatre Guide. She holds an MFA Dramatic Writing and a BA in Media Studies (Video Production), and has both a short story anthology and web series forthcoming in 2012. More information on her work is available at www.rlbrody.com.

Learn more about Rachel by checking The Matchbox section of this blog!