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NEW AUTHORS SHOWCASE
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6M p3 |
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Lost Marbles At The Gates Of Gethsemene By Michael P. Strafford |
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Synopsis: PROLOGUE: Child X sits in a courtroom awaiting sentence. MONDAY: Ethan Travis enters a bar having earlier come face to face with a child murderer. Eden Gale, after a lifetime of abuse, arrives in the city. Alvin Fowles, the child murderer, cruises the city parks looking for rent boys. TUESDAY: Ethan sends an email to his friend Gargreave Hollis. He admits murdering a young boy when he was 15. Ethan decides to go to Prague, in the footsteps of Albert Camus’ Mersault. He has a visitation from his dead father. Eden Gale finds herself locked in Gargreave’s house. WEDNESDAY: In Prague Ethan completely loses control on the metro. Eden leaves the house to explore and is dogged by depression. Gargreave gets in touch with his ‘sister’, his alter ego, Melissa Hollis and dresses up and wears makeup. Alvin Fowles goes through some photographs of young boys in various stages of assault and torture. THURSDAY: Ethan arrives back from Prague. He bumps into Gargreave and Eden. Gargreave, preoccupied with Ethan’s email and besotted by Eden, takes Ethan to task. Ethan goes out in search of some nightlife. He sees Alvin Fowles again and takes note of Alvin’s car registration. Gargreave and Eden have sex. FRIDAY: Alvin goes out in search of death and sex after first making sure his ‘mother’ – a dressed up mannequin – is comfortable. Eden and Gargreave spend the day together. She awakes. The house is in darkness. She is attacked by ‘Melissa’ and is stabbed to death. In death she is reborn as a foetus in a mother’s womb. Alvin arrives home and is assaulted, tied and gagged. Getting the information he requires Ethan leaves Alvin to suffocate. EPILOGUE: The world is in disarray. PROLOGUE ‘Man’s greatness resides in his knowing himself to be wretched’ Pascal Thoughts, 165 Child X sat with his fingers entwined, thumbs fiddling, hands resting on his lap, eyes fixed downward, legs dangling from a chair, feet swinging. He was in strawberry cupcake land and not even the judge was going to snap him out of it today. The sounds of talking were drowned out by the ocean, the glances his way deflected by horse blinkers, he was impenetrable, walking on a beach, leading a donkey by a frayed tether, bells tinkling, clipetty clop. Questions had been asked of him over the weeks. “What madness is it that leads a boy to murder?” “What glowing ember is extinguished to allow the flame of humanity to peter out?” Boyhood should be a time of wandering, searching and seeking out. Now he was enclosed by wood partitions, on view, chastised, put upon, scrutinised. He stood up, letting the donkey walk out to sea. A sentence was read. There were shrieks. He was led down, down into the belly of the building where a temporary cell would hold him until he could be transferred to a more permanent, confined space, there to bide his time and await release.
ONE (abridged)
Dark night. The undead - ethereal, soulless flickers of chiaroscuro light absorbed by thick raindrops, like black syrup, splashed upon the boots of a walking presence. The figure crossed a road, sodden in gloom and the ruminations of a working class depression, his shadow cast aside by the orange squash glow of a solitary street lamp. Aside, separate, isolated, a singular element, alone. Ethan Travis kept his own council, a sentinel, votive presence seeking solace and the company of no one. He walked along, hands inside his leather coat, notes of currency in his blue jeans pocket, rain pock-pocking on the toes of his leather boots. His hair was black, lank and shiny from the wet. Raising his head, he could see the illuminated, neon sign of a late night drinking den, The Harry Lime, up ahead. He could taste the dryness of the wine already and the cigarette that would accompany it…
...He felt better now, less of a stranger in his surroundings but still preferring his solo status. The man next to him, mid thirties, shaved head – a number one cut – black suit, black shoes, white shirt, black tie, briefcase - turned a page of his newspaper then held the publication so his face was partially hidden. Ethan saw an article that was visible. Police now handling two major inquiries into paedophole rings
The end of innocence. A black, godless world we live in. Innocence swept under a carpet, kept beneath a quilt by an unwelcome hand. Men hiding their true purpose behind a bouquet and a box of chocolates. Streets filthy with semen. It is not to conceive and nurture that god put us on this earth but to be deceived by human nature. TWENTY-ONE (abridged)
“There is a part of your life that remains incomplete.” Crisply cold and wrapped up warm, Ethan waited on the railway platform at Masarykovo Railway Station, his breath vaporised, striking at the cold air. He shuffled his feet, drew on a lit cigarette, turning his attentive gaze one way and then the other, craning his neck slightly in order to see if there was a train approaching. There was not. It was running late and this was a source of irritation. He had arrived, as he always did to any appointment or arranged meeting place, promptly and in good time. Because of this he detested being kept waiting. Because of this he detested tardiness in other people and other things. “Fucking trains.”…
… In his current position, he was within earshot of a rather large American with a rather loud American voice. Fucking people. A fucking torturous mutation of European stock. They masquerade behind neo classical architecture, their culture and intellect borrowed and bastardised as they cling to ancient ancestries in order to give themselves credence and purpose. The cross-pollination of idiots with spastics. Just go home. Will you?
Locomotion in motion, the vehicle pulled away and went forward. The heel to toe proximity of strangers did not sit well with Ethan and he began to doubt the wisdom of his decision to travel below ground, claustrophobia beginning to close in. And with claustrophobia comes a certain degree of panic. Images entered his head. Two tables. Two young boys tied down. Cigarette burns. A strange overpowering odour – bleach mixed with sweat. A window. A locked door.
The woman immediately to his left was too close, the fur lining on the back of her coat brushing against his chin. More images – images from a past he wanted to leave behind but now they were back, powerful, unforgiving. A face – an unforgettable face.
It was as if I was somebody else. I was scared.
The man directly in front was treading on his toes, nipping at the edges of his leather boots. Ethan began to perspire. He went to move backwards but there was no room for manoeuvre. A dog began to yap, a little Pekinese in a small, wicker carrying basket. The reflections of the passengers in the carriage windows, as they sped through darkness, swelled the numbers that were closing in on him. It was too much. His efforts at containing himself had failed. He let out a scream. “STOP THE TRAIN! GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING THING!” Ethan shoved the people around him, the sweat pouring from his brow. A man in a gabardine mackintosh grabbed him by the shoulders. Ethan dug back with his elbows. “FUCK OFF!” The man fell to one side taking others with him. A young lad threw a punch that thwacked the back of Ethan’s head, disrupting his outburst, causing him to turn and confront his attacker. He struck out, part defence, part offence. Women screamed. Men made for him. Men. Chaos ensued as the train pulled into Můstek.
TWENTY-SIX When you left me all alone At the record hop Told me you were going out For a soda pop You were gone for quite awhile Half an hour or more You came back And man, oh man This is what I saw Melissa had received the e-mail from Gargreave, had been surprised that he had made contact. She welcomed it. It had been a while. It had been too long. She imagined that she had been on his mind for some time, work and circumstance interfering with his need to see her. Was he fucking someone? That had to be it. He only ever contacted her these days if he was in a fix, if he was in a pickle, if his insecurities collided with a fragile rationale, sanity colluding with impurity. Returning the communication from Gargreave, she had written in reply:
From: Melissa To: Gargreave Subject: Re: Brother beyond
Gargreave It’s been a while. I look forward to seeing you again. Complications beset me at present but will sort something out. Getting together was always such fun. Love is sent from all. Melissa Lipstick on your collar Told a tale on you Lipstick on your collar Said you were untrue Bet your bottom dollar You and I are through ‘Cause lipstick on your collar Told a tale on you, yeah
Her soul was getting colder. Being young in mind did not suffice, did not thaw the chill. Melissa sat, legs crossed, filing her nails. She bit them much too much and wanted to remove some of the roughness, to make them more acceptable, more feminine. Her belly was not as flat as it used to be, she thought, though her breasts had shape. Make up had always been a problem, just didn’t get the foundation quite right, she felt. Lipstick red lips were still alluring, however, and feint rouge gave her cheeks the lift she desired. Eyelashes, thick with black mascara and light brown eye shadow subdued her chestnut eyes, the sparkle, once therein, absent.
You said it belonged to me Made me stop and think And then I noticed yours was red Mine was baby pink Who walked in but Mary Jane Lipstick all a mess Were you smoochin' my best friend Guess the answer's yes
The black body stocking she wore covered her from shoulder to ankle. A black dress, that began at the shoulders, touched by long, red hair, accentuated the waist slightly then dropped, curving at the hips hanging tantalisingly, showing off her legs. The look, that of the noirish slut in need of a slap, was complimented by black high heels. Holding her stomach muscles firm she stood and checked herself in the long mirror. She concurred that although she did not look quite as elegant as she had imagined, she did, infact, feel fabulous. Her cat brushed around her heels as she sat down, here in her boudoir, meditating on what to do next. It was a complicated business. The radio played on.
Lipstick on your collar Told a tale on you Lipstick on your collar Said you were untrue Bet your bottom dollar You and I are through ‘Cause lipstick on your collar Told a tale on you, boy - Told a tale on you, man - Told a tale on you, yeah! |