Rewrite

I'm sitting next to my wife, going over "Ed" for my class, when I'm stumped.

"Which doll is the one that likes to sit on the couch in a bathrobe and watch television all day," I ask my wife.

"Cheryl," she says without pausing.

And then she grins and buries her face in her magazine.

Right Next Door...

I'm finally adding Neil Gaiman's blog to my list (stage right). Neil is arguably one of the finest writers of my generation. Since he gets published, and I don't, I can't argue yet.

My dream is to sit on a panel with him, Wil Wheaton, Stephen King, and Howard Taylor. Since that'd have to be a pretty bizarre con (or whatever) I'm betting it never happens at one sitting. I've got to get hopping!

This one's for me bro'

I have no idea what I was going to say, excepting that Leira lives, yo.

Yo.

If I sit down to write something longer than a few paragraphs, there tend to be distractions. Naturally, this extends the writing process. It's not like I sit in a chair for days on end, a nub of a pencil stuck in my mouth while I consider just the right adjective to use.

And then there are the arguments. Every time I write more than a few paragraphs.

Finally, there is the total lack of ability for those that write to make enough money to support a 5 person family. I love writing. Truly, I do. But I also need security. At least, that's what I'm told.

At least I am not alone in my suffering.

Blurbs for Ed!

The critics speak!

Ed is:

"...masterful!"
-somebody in my class

"...comedic genius"
-somebody else

"...brilliantly disturbing! A real delight to read."
- a sycophant

"... the damnedest thing."
- my instructor.

Explaining Ed

I wrote a short story for my creative writing class. I'm not going to explain the story itself, but I do want to point out that it is now available, completely, on this blog, beneath this posting. It was posted in reverse order, so that you may begin with the next post (underneath this one), and read down until you come to the end. Feel free to comment... I wouldn't post the story if I couldn't take it.

Love,
Chuck.

New Ed

The city was gray, thick with smoke. The sidewalks were gray and pitted. Ed was gray. Partly because he was wearing a suit that made storm clouds look cheerful, but also because he moved down the sidewalk the way that a sack full of garbage slowly descends stairs when pushed… he slumped.

He turned from the sidewalk and down a set of stairs leading to his basement apartment. It was a sickly home. Years of polishing, finishing, and waxing the wooden floors had not concealed the diseased wood that made up the floor. The ceiling leaked in the bedroom from the bathroom directly above it, and Ed had decided early on that he did not want to know whether it was the tub or the toilet that was the source of the leak.

He hung his coat on the rack and set about cleaning his counters. He was focused, intent on removing the dust of the day. Later he would sit in front of his television, the apartment clean enough for his desires. He would try not to think of his recent promotion and the headaches that came with quality control.

Ed finished with the counter and went to his coat. He pulled free a doll, a tiny homunculus, from a sleeve where it had been hidden most of the day. The factory he worked at made them. Vast numbers of them every day. His job allowed him to look over them for hours, assuring that they were all consistently the same. The same plastic shell with airbrushed makeup and shallow, shiny eyes. Later, at another plant, they would apply one of a series of dresses to them.

This one was different, and he was supposed to report it and return it to its base components for correction. He couldn’t. Something about it was appealing. Maybe it was the dull look to its eyes, or the way the blush had missed it altogether It’s hair was out of sorts as well, having a disheveled, bed-head, look. All it needed was some fixing.

He set it on his couch and corrected it. Brushed the hair. Carefully applied the paint that was used for blush. As time went on he forgot his appointment with the television and night fell.

Ed grew tired and took down a box he had stored socks in. He set the socks carefully into his drawer next to the ones he had calculated he would need for the remainder of the year. The empty box became a nest for the doll, carefully collected tissue paper surrounded her.

He looked upon her with the warmth of having created something. She was his contribution to humanity, beyond his toil. When others looked upon her they would know something of his soul. She needed a name. “Belle,” he said with a smile as he placed her next to his bed in her box. He left the lid off and the light from a flickering streetlamp flickered across her face.

The morning sun did not have the angle to enter the small window, but Ed draped a silken handkerchief over Belle, knowing that noon would come and strike her down with its vicious rays.

He made breakfast and a lunch to take (cucumber sandwiches, with the crusts cut off, just like his mother used to make), before leaving his home. The rising sun made progress against the cityscape, and Ed’s ashen suit did nothing to aid it.

A week passed with Ed hovering over Belle. Her hair had become like a model’s… perfectly coiffed. Her plastic had taken on the tone of life, with the blush of blood vessels hinted at beneath the surface. Tonight he had set her on the couch, and they had watched television together: “The Wizard of Oz.”

Middle of Ed

As the movie ended, Ed noticed a drop of water that had traced itself down Belle’s makeup and was clinging to her chin. He went to the kitchen to retrieve one of his carefully stored and folded handkerchiefs and returned to find that the drop had fallen onto the gingham dress she’d worn for the occasion. “Bother,” he said.

He wiped her face gently, careful to not muss her hair or smudge her makeup. “I’ve a surprise for you,” he whispered. He went back to his coat. He pulled another doll from the sleeve.

The doll had rather thick eyebrows, and the hair was easily better, but otherwise it was identical to Belle. For the rest of the evening, Ed fixed the new doll, whom he’d dubbed, “Margaret.” Belle watched on in silence. The new doll, if one ignored the eyebrows, became more beautiful than Belle under the delicate and precise hand of Ed.

Ed had prepared this time, and had brought home a special box for Margaret. It had scrollwork along the sides and was made of dark stained oak. Ed had little he had to spend his money on and, having saved for a better place to live, had a well padded bank account from which to draw.

Ed introduced the two of them congenially. “Belle… this is Margaret. Margaret… Belle.” He then left them on the couch to become better acquainted while he prepared a light dinner.

Ed served dinner. Belle and Margaret didn’t argue… but they did stare coldly across the table, without touching their food. Ed ate cheerfully until he noticed the awkward silence and slowly lost his appetite. He eventually crawled to bed, leaving the others to stare at each other in the moonlight.

When Ed awoke in the morning, the boxes were occupied, and the dishes had been put away. He decided not to disturb what was, no doubt, a late night for them, and quietly went about his morning routine before going to work.

Even with the tension of that night, over the next few weeks Ed brought home several more dolls. Pat, a sexually androgynous doll that preferred to wear trousers and had thick curly blond hair, was the first. Miko’s skin was not the standard color. Ed dressed her in a kimono for the first day, but Miko insisted on a leather jacket and jeans… and he acquiesced. Cheryl was the unassuming short, plump one with a bob cut that Ed had spent almost an entire week on. One of the last to join them was Denise. Denise had hair like Pat’s but lacked the ambiguous sexual nature. In fact, it was quite possible that there was no aberration that could be detected with Denise. Yet Ed had to fix her.

For the first time Ed manicured a doll, including nail polish, before completing his work with her. In the end, although she was made of the same cheap plastic as the other dolls, she looked like she was made of china. If there was perfection amongst the population, Denise was it.

When he arrived home, Ed had been worn by work. In his hand was a small note from his boss, which he had read at stop lights:

“To: Quality Control

Re:

It has come to our attention, over time, that several dolls have gone missing. Far be it from us to point fingers, however, our recycling process has had to suggest that our profits could be up this quarter by 3/4ths of a cent, were it not for the absence of these dolls. We hope that whoever has taken them returns them to the recycling unit (bin #33-42) and that we do not see a repeat of these events.”

This note had depressed Ed, as he was certain they knew about him, and that the finger of justice was firmly planted on his head… ready to squash him. Still, he couldn’t return them if it meant certain death; which it did.

These thoughts were predominant when Ed opened the door, note in hand. What he saw was perhaps the most shocking thing he’d ever witness. On the floor, face down, was the body of Margaret.

Ed, thinking quickly, threw the note on the couch while he ran across the room. He knelt next to her and took up her wrist, checking for a pulse. Nothing. He carefully rolled her over, hoping that there wasn’t a spinal injury, before checking her breathing. Still nothing.

He had no recourse but to dial 911 and hope that it wasn’t too late.

“911 Emergency Services,” the civil employee said in a tired tone through the static-laced line. “What is the nature of your emergency.”

“I… I think she’s dead. I’m not getting a pulse and she’s not breathing.”

“Just hang on sir, tell me… where are you at?”

“At home,” he said before stammering off the address. It was still a shock, but he was trying to be calm.

“Is there something I can do?”

“You could try CPR until the ambulance, sir. Do you know how to perform CPR?”

“It’s just… her body is so tiny!” Ed was in tears, his heart breaking that he could not save her.

“Is this a child, sir?”

“No… she’s fully grown… she’s just small!”

“Calm down, sir, everything will be all right. Can you give me any further information?”

“She’s about 2’ long, 3 lbs…”

“Three pounds? Sir, are we describing a human being?”

“…”

“Sir?”

“She’s a doll.”

“Are you aware of the penalties for prank calling the emergency services?”

“I…”

“Good day, sir.”

The End of Ed

The operator hung up on him, leaving him on the floor with Margaret’s lifeless body. There was no way that he could let this go. Somehow… some way… she had passed beyond this world. He would have to find out how. No one else would help him. He set to interviewing the others. Everything was written down with the same meticulous care that he’d used with everything in his life.

Miko had been bathing… her music was on (she preferred older heavy metal bands), and so she was unable to hear anything. It had an odd feel to it. Miko was hiding something… but what?

The others had been together in pairs, each alibi hard to refute. Belle and Denise had been arguing in the kitchen, loud enough so that Pat had heard Belle scream across the apartment. Pat and Cheryl had been in Ed’s bedroom, reading a fascinating volume on human anatomy that Ed had acquired some time ago and never bothered to get rid of.

It occurred to Ed that there was nothing he could do in regards to this injustice when there was a knock at the door.

“Sir? It’s the police. Would you mind opening up? We’d like to talk.”

Ed opened the door. The voice on the other side of the door was imposing, but not half as imposing as the man who possessed it. His badge was proudly displayed with the shine of a newly recruited officer. For a moment Ed wondered if a partner would be around. His question was answered shortly by a woman, withered in years and seasoned in the way that police officers often are… by pain and duty. Her hair wanted to go gray, but she’d not let it. She spoke next.

“We understand that you have a homicide?” It was a bored question, but it gave Ed hope that this was being taken seriously by someone.

“I… I found her on the floor,” he said as he gestured to Margaret, who was now inside of a carefully marked outline. “I didn’t touch anything…” He offered her his notebook, “but I took notes. Interviewed everyone.”

She looked over the notes, raising an eyebrow with every turned page. “A bit predictable, but good work. Figured out who did it yet?”

“N-no.” He blinked.

The ancient officer pointed to the kitchen, which only had a counter separating it from the living room where the body was found. “Denise did it. Miko and Belle were making out in the bathroom, but Belle was only doing it to give Denise time.”

The larger man blinked. He’d been certain they had come to read the guy the riot act for calling up on what was perhaps the slowest day he’d worked on. He’d only worked for 2 weeks, but he still expected Trish to be more heavy handed than that. She gave him a warning look not to say a word, but spoke herself.

“Our justice can’t help you,” she said to Ed, “but you might consider writing it out and turning it over at my desk when you’re done. I’ll see what I can do.”

“He’s not hurting anyone,” she said to her partner, before shutting the door.

Ed, dutifully, wrote down everything that happened. He turned it over to Patricia Closkey’s desk at Precinct 13 very quietly. He was fired from his job at the doll factory. Patricia’s uncle proved to have some clout with a publisher and got Ed’s novel a viewing, which went over well… mysteries often sell well. Ed never did manage to move out of the basement apartment that he occupied with the dolls, but he did live alright off of his savings and the income from the books, which he kept writing. Not all of them were mysteries, of course… dolls lead such interesting lives.