Catharsis of the Bogue

Oddities, Profundities, Profanities and Dad Stuff

Category: fiction (Page 3 of 8)

Fiction Saturday 3! The Man With the Hazy Suit Part 2

May 27, 2014 / / 3 Comments

**Hey folks this is a reprint of part 1 of The Man With the Hazy Suit that origonally ran on May15, 2010.  I have been few and far between regular posts this summer, and that is the same thing that has killed some of my favorite TV shows, like Alias.  So I am going to rerun the whole story and finish it strong!  Thanks for reading for the first time or rereading if you have been here before.  The Choose your own adventure aspect is not available anymore.**

Hello friends, I hope you all had a great week.  Today I present part 2 of  “The Man With The Hazy Suit”  There is a quiz at the end so pay attention!

If you still need to read part 1, here it is!

When we left our story last time:

I looked back to my notebook and tried the 3 numbers as the combination.  The lock opened.  This was way too easy.  Something had to be, well, wrong for it to be this easy.  I took a deep breath and lifted the latch. Inside there were 13 yellow legal pads, filled with a tight handwriting.

My hands shook as I took them out of the locker and headed to a bench in the station where I started to read.

“My name is Aaron Goodwin.  If you are reading this, I am dead.  And all for the better.”  This opening line made my heart skip a beat.  I decided to read the rest before calling it in.

“I had never been interested in anything to do with the law.  Sure I had read detective stories as a kid but I never thought I would be in one.  I am sittting here now, trying to figure out what to do with the information that I have gathered.  The outcome does not look good, for me.  I need to get all of this out, get all of this written down so no matter what happens, there will be a record of the truth.  It may be cliche, but I have to do this.”

I knew there was a long night of reading ahead of me.  I couldn’t read this here.  I stood and forced myself not to run to my car.  I resisted the urge to drive home at full speed, lights and sirens blaring.  I had found something great.

And today we join our story already in progress:

I made it home in record time.  I entered my apartment in a rush, glad I was the only one who lived there.  I dropped all of the legal pads on the table and prepared coffee.  I was going to need it tonight.  Case solved or not, I was going to know for sure what was in those legal pads.

I got my things straightened out and took up a residence in my favorite chair.  The small table at my elbow held the coffee pot, my mug, and the legal pads.  I switched on the light and began to read.

My name is Aaron Goodwin.  If you are reading this, I am dead.  And all for the better.  I had never been interested in anything to do with the law.  Sure I had read detective stories as a kid but I never thought I would be in one.

I am sittting here now, trying to figure out what to do with the information that I have gathered.  The outcome does not look good, for me.  I need to get all of this out, get all of this written down so no matter what happens, there will be a record of the truth.  It may be cliche, but I have to do this.

First some background.  My name is Aaron Goodwin.  I am 6’2” tall with brown hair and blue eyes.  I was born in Washington State, near Seattle, in 1974.  My parents were killed in a car accident when I was 9.  I was sent to several foster homes and beaten relentlessly in one when I was 16.  After I got out of the hospital I filed for emancipation.  I was on my own.  I worked hard in any fast food joint that would hire me so I could eat.

I managed.  I had a small crappy apartment that was dry if not much else.  I had some food.  I had a radio.  One day I wasn’t saddened to hear of the violent death of my last foster father.  “…And we have some more details coming in now, it seems that Mr. Chan was beaten to death with a spindle from the staircase and then covered in gasoline and set on fire.”  The Reporter sounded horrified.  I felt slightly squeamish at the method of his death, but not sympathetic.  “Police have no leads and are currently trying to figure out anything related to this senseless crime.”

“Yea, right. Senseless.” I said to myself.  How many other kids had he beaten in his care.  Mrs. Chan knew it was happening and did nothing about it.  Titus Chan had been a bad man and I figure he got what he deserved.  What shocked me was the sharp knock on the cheap door to my apartment.

I crossed the worn hardwood and opened the door.  2 police officers stood there.  “Mr. Goodwin?” the older man asked.  I nodded like a chimp.  “We would like to ask you some questions about where you were last night.  Can we come in?”  “S, Sure” I got out and swung the door open.  “Come in.”

They entered, looking around with those cop investigator eyes, taking in everything in a glance.  There was not much to see.  I offered them the 2 chairs that I owned.  They declined.  “Mr. Goodwin, we need to talk about your previous foster family.  You see, Mr. Chan is dead.  He was killed last night.”  The older one again.  “I just heard on the radio” I said.

“Yea,” the younger cop chimed in. “Well, where were you last night between 11 pm and 3 am?”  I thought for a moment.  “ I was at work until 12:30 and then back here to sleep until my 7:00 shift at the Bagel Hut.”   They both had notebooks out now.  “Uh-huh,” the older one said. “And where were you working until 12:30?”  “Taco Barn.” I answered.  “Can anyone verify where you were after that?” The younger one asked.   “Ummmm” I said intelligently.  “Mr. Barnes down the hall saw me come home about 1 and after that I was sleeping.  I made it to work at 7 on time.”

“Ok.” Said the older one again. “We just have to ask, you understand.  We know he was pretty rough on you.  Do you know anyone else who may have wanted him dead?”  “Take your pick” I said.  “He beat everyone I knew in that house.”  They thanked me and started off.  Each of them produced a business card at the door.  “If you think of anything else that may help, please call.” The younger man said with a smile.  I took the cards.  “Thank you.” I said lamely as I held the door for them and they exited.

“Damn” I thought. How many times did I wish that son of a bitch dead.  I didn’t have the nerve for it of course.  I went back to the kitchen and looked at the cards.  Sergeant Stebbins and Patrolman Tompson.  Hmm.  I threw the cards on the counter and went back to the radio.

Ok Kids, here is the chance you were waiting for!  Your chance to decide the direction of the story.  If you haven’t guessed, Patrolman Tompson in the narrative is now Sergeant Tompson reading the notes.  So, here goes:

[SURVEYS 2]

This question will be active until 5/18 at noon MDT.  Thanks in advance for your help!

-Justin

Fiction Saturday 3! The Man in the Hazy Suit Part 8

May 27, 2014 / / 2 Comments

**Hey folks this is a reprint of part 8 of The Man With the Hazy Suit that originally ran on July 24, 2010.  I have been few and far between regular posts this summer, and that is the same thing that has killed some of my favorite TV shows, like Alias.  So I am going to rerun the whole story and finish it strong!  Thanks for reading for the first time or rereading if you have been here before.  The Choose your own adventure aspect is not available anymore.**

Hey folks Here is the next chapter in the story!  I hope you are still entertained and interested!

Previously in the Man in the Hazy Suit:

Police detective Thompson was wrapping up a crime scene when he found a scrap of paper in the dead man’s posessions. The paper led him to the bus station and a locker that was filled with legal pads, all written by the deceased man.  Sergeant Thompson is currently reading the legal pads which are spelling out a strange narrative and a chronicle of a serial killers murders, that somehow the man writing the story knows before they happen, if only by moments.  So far our writer has witnessed several deaths with apparently more to come.  Strange coincidences surround the narrator having to do with the Man in the Hazy Suit, leading to paranoia and a wonder as to the outcome of his sanity.

When we left our story last time:

I sat up shaking yet again.  I tried to assimilate what I had just seen.  I got up and went to the radio on the floor in the hall.  It had been placed back on the shelf and on top of it were a set of lockpicks.  I screamed and ran for the front door.  I almost made it, but a miscalculation caused me to slip and hit my head rather solidly on the counter, leaving a nasty gash for my trouble.

I woke up in a small pool of blood on the kitchen floor sometime later.  The angle of the sun said late afternoon.  I scooted to a corner in the kitchen and huddled in on myself, scared to look further into this strange Man in an even stranger Hazy Suit.

And today we join our story already in progress:

Finally I fell asleep huddling in the corner of the kitchen.  Passed out is more like it.  I began to have another confounded dream.  I hoped that this one would be the simple, flying in a field of clover or falling off of a cliff, or well, anything that didn’t have to do with a man in a Hazy Suit.

It began in the library at the college again.  Night had fallen.  Finals were only a few weeks away so the library was open all night.  I was wandering through the study tables by myself thankfully.  Faces of people that I knew flashed in and out of the small circles of light given off by the reading lamps.

I wandered aimlessly for a while, overhearing snippets of conversations that I couldn’t remember 5 seconds later, until one caught my attention.  There was a party going on up on the 5th floor.  I decided to check it out.  Only seconds later I was walking out of the elevator and into a party of loud music and flashing lights.  There was no studying going on here.

I smiled and began to wander the floor.  I moved through people dancing very inappropriately and those trying not to vomit on themselves.  I flowed from one spot to the next with a grace that I had never possessed in real life.  I looked down at myself and blinked at my stylish clothes.  I didn’t even own a pair of khaki pants or a blue striped shirt.

I could hear and see everyone but no one acknowledged me.  I knew it was a dream but I was still excited to be part of the party.  I made my way to the center of the room and around the temporary walls that they had erected.

There was basically a tent in the middle of the library.  All lined with dark silk and flashing neon lights.  People moved in a stupor inside the tent, all in various states of undress.  An orgy in the library, and, as I circled the large bed, I saw a gas can on the floor beside it.

The man was here somewhere.  I wasn’t going to let him burn anything down today.  I grabbed the gas can and ran to the other end of the floor trying to get away.  I nearly made it too, but as I rounded the corner to the elevator, The Man in the Hazy Suit stood there.

Join us again next week for more of The Man in the Hazy Suit!

-Justin

Tweaking the Brain Pan!

May 27, 2014 / / 0 Comments

Hello all. Time is not being my friend lately. I am getting behind on so many things. I am seriously considering some major changes to this site and my blog in general. Stay tuned for more, there may be another post this afternoon! In the meantime, would you kindly take a look at the Survey below regarding Fiction Saturday?  Don’t enter any email info, that is just from the plugin and not my list.  I am going to change this plugin after this survey is a huge and fantastic success.

[SURVEYS 1]

Thanks for continuing to support me and Catharsis of the Bogue! I have some exciting things planned for the near future.

Any additional comments are welcome in the form below!

Thanks, Justin

Fiction Saturday 2! Jackson Malone part 2

May 27, 2014 / / 5 Comments

If you haven’t read part 1 yet, this will make next to no sense.

When we left our story last time:

As I got to the entrance to the alleyway and ducked the yellow crime scene tape, the scents of feces and urine joined the smoke.  Rotting garbage made its appearance, further assaulting my nose as I entered.  The sun was high over head, if filtered by high clouds, and it was easy to see the stained concrete and the graffiti on the walls; as well as the door to the warehouse, jimmied open.  It was on my right about thirty yards ahead of me.

And now to today’s installment:

I started towards the door,  hearing only the sounds of traffic and my shoe leather scraping on the worn concrete.  As I passed the dumpster something stirred loudly.  I instinctively spun, my .38 finding its way into my hand as I crouched and aimed at the sound.

It was only a cat.  It went running away from me down the alley.  I breathed as deeply as I dared in the fetid air and stood, keeping the .38 low but in my hand.  I did not want any more surprises.

I reached the door without further incident and peered into the gloom through the partially open door.  I could see nothing.  I backed against the wall next to the door, held my .38 at the ready and pushed it open.

Following a rush of smoke scented air, nothing moved.  I turned and entered the building slowly, leading with my pistol, ready for any movement or confrontation.  As I walked further into the building the gloom increased until I could hardly see.

I took out my lighter and spun the wheel, igniting the familiar yellow glow.  The flame’s light barely pierced the gloom, but it was enough to keep me from walking into fallen roof beams and from stepping into piles of burned refuse.

The smell of humans, unwashed and uncaring was everywhere.  Sweat and the reek of stale urine were nearly overpowering, if tempered by the sooty smell of smoke. There was no one here now that I could see, but the night must have seen the place filled.  It was still dry under the partial roof.   I walked further into the building looking for some clue relating to the late Nelson Moran.

My lighter was getting hot and I extinguished it, wishing I had brought the flashlight from my car.  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I began to make out shapes, neatly arranged on the floor.  These must have been where people slept.  There were piles of cardboard and newspaper, orderly and arranged in precise rectangles, each to his own space.  This looked to be pretty well organized.

I walked over to a window that was covered by a piece of dirty canvas and peered out a small tear.  I only saw the empty street.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”  A voice said from behind me.  “You don’t belong here.”   I spun around, my .38 still at the ready, and looked for the source of the voice.  I said to the darkness, “I’m looking for Nelson Moran.”

“He ain’t here.  He’s dead across the street.  And you gonna be the same.”  I heard the tell-tale snap of a semiautomatic pistol being cocked and dove to the floor as the first shot exploded into the darkness.

I rolled and tried to gauge the direction of the shooter.  Another shot rang out.  This time the muzzle flash ruined my night vision, but gave away his position.  He fired again.  I rolled to my left, steadied, and squeezed the trigger on my .38.  A scream followed by a thump answered the bark of my pistol.  I stood and struck my lighter again.

Feeble light filled the space around me as I picked my way towards the fallen man.  I thought he must be dead, but I held my gun ready knowing that he could just be playing possum.  As I neared him, I knew he wasn’t playing.  Sirens started and were getting louder as I rolled the body over with the toe of my shoe.

I had hit him cleanly in the chest.  He was dead.  Shell casings all around him and a statement from me would establish self-defense.  I wasn’t however, on the best terms with the police chief right now.  I didn’t need another incident like the one that took my badge.

The memory came back unbidden and nothing else mattered at the moment.  There I was, dazed, waking up from being knocked out.  I looked around trying to get my bearings.  My gun and nightstick were gone.  Probably taken by the guys who assaulted me.  I stood, controlling a wave of nausea and turned to find a body at my feet.

I would have thought him asleep if not for the pool of blood he was lying in.  I turned him over and saw the ragged holes in his chest.  Placed just the way they had taught us to shoot at the Academy.  I vaguely remembered someone rushing me with a knife.  Had I shot him?  I may have.

I smelled my fingers.  Cordite.  The smell of burnt gunpowder was in the air. I had recently fired my gun that was now missing.  I looked down at my clothes.  My uniform was unrecognizable.  It was torn to shreds and all emblems had been ripped off.  No one could ever know me as a cop.

Tune in next week for part 3 of Jackson Malone!

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