19 November, 2008

Why I Think I Might Be Evil

I think I might be evil.
I was assigned to write a one-page, fictional story about two people in a conversation where only one person could talk. For what ever reason you chose, one of the two people was unable to communicate.
Simple and harmless right?
Well my story was about a half dead prostitute that someone discovered in a dark, wet alley. She couldn't talk not only because she was half dead, but because her mouth was full of blood.
Am I sick? I must be sick.
Where did this come from? I've not been to many big cities. I've been to NYC twice, Chicago once, Minneapolis once, LA once, San Fran once, Portland a few times and Seattle once. There's probably a few more big cities I've missed in that list, but the point is, I'm not a hardened, cold, crime-familiar city dweller. I'm from the country, from Utah, from Mormons. From where in my mind did I dig up this half dead whore? I'm not even sure I've seen a whore.
Well maybe in Vegas that one time...
But what makes this worse is that I compared this lady of the night to the baby Jesus through manger scene imagery comparisons. I wrote her condition as lying in a manger of garbage bags. I stopped short of describing said bags as swaddling clothes of garbage.
I'm not sacrilegious. At least not often or much. Sure, I'll crack a couple jokes during a family prayer, but nothing to deserve the licking flames of hell.
So where did this dead prostitute come from?
Sometimes I scare myself.
Well, I guess the best thing to do it just get it out there. Lemme know if I'm weird or evil.

Angel of the Night

By Logan Tanner

As I passed the ally, I saw a glint of light out of the corner of my eye that caught my attention. It had stopped raining hours ago but the ground and surrounding buildings still had a murky wet glow in the evening light. This glint of light though was different. It was slow and organic. Not like a wet plastic bag being drug by the wind or a rusty ally door swinging open to take the trash out. It was slow and almost human.

As I stopped and peered down the dimly lit alley, I caught the reflection of what seemed like one and a half eyes looking back at me. I should have been scared, petrified even, but for some reason I wasn’t. I turned and started walking down the alley, loudly and boldly asking hello as I approached.

It wasn’t long before I was staring down at what appeared to be a woman. I crouched slightly in surprise and asked if she was alright.

“Hello? Are you OK,” I asked. “Can you hear me?”

I could tell by the way her face turned towards me that she had, but when she opened her mouth, a gurgle of blood trickled out and ran down her face and into her ear. It didn’t seem to me that she was attempting to talk, but simply purging her mouth of the blood that had apparently been building up.

I looked around nervously, wondering if someone else had seen this, or possibly, if someone else was seeing me see this. I looked down the alley fruitlessly, half wanting to see who did this and half not. Being an avid fan of the cinema and made-for-TV dramas, I also had a slight worry that I would be mistaken as the perpetrator of this vicious act. It happens all the time on TV.

She was splayed out, half buried in a manger of wet, black garbage bags and reams of old newspaper. Her head was cocked back, resting on the pavement and a halo of blood had formed around her head in a near perfect circle. I paused for a moment and thought of her as some kind of saint. An angel fallen from heaven who’d missed her mark. As I peeled back the bags and paper though, my misjudgment became clear: fishnet stockings, a purple-mini skirt, one clear-heeled stiletto and a fake Coach purse with it's faux gold-chained strap wrapped firmly around her neck. I could see the impression of the links in her skin as I cleared some room around her head, causing the chain to slacken a bit.

“Ma’am,” I told her as if she comprehended, “I’m calling the police and we’ll get you out of her as soon as we can.”

I hadn’t referred to someone as a ma’am since I was a Boy Scout. I found it odd that I had just used it now to address what appeared to be a half-dead prostitute, lying broken, bloody and speechless in a wet back alley.

“I’ll stay with you until they get here,” I said, pushing my tangential thoughts aside and pulling out my cell phone. This was weird and probably a little dangerous. But for me, I felt some kind of safety being here with her. I felt needed for the first time in a long time. And for that, I’d stay with her for as long as it took.

I'm weird right? I feel it. Do you?


Jeremy and Sara said...

Well, I think it's really good, even if it means you're evil. But you've got nothing on Dennis Lehane. I still have his murder imagery in my head 5 years after reading Prayers for Rain.

Leslierush said...

I thought it was good, and creative. And with all the CSI and Law and Orders this actually probably wasn't too bad. I like the part where you said she was like an angel that fell and missed her mark. Anyway I don't think your weird and your probably the least evil person I know so...

Jeff said...

I liked it as well. Way to cram a dose of reality down the throats of those sheltered BYU Mormons!

Anonymous said...

I love it!

somebody said...