ONE AFTERNOON IN CLAIREMONT

Composed for National Public Radio's "Three Minute Fiction" Contest

 

ONE AFTERNOON IN CLAIREMONT 

 

     "Some people swore that the house was haunted," the tour guide noted, with a sneer in her voice; it was apparent from the outset that she did not number herself within that particular set of people. 

 

     Nor did I. Apparently, there WERE some feeble-minded souls who chose to let their imaginations run rampant, randomly accepting all the tripe foisted on them by movies and dime novels. How I had cackled (surreptitiously, of course) when my American History teacher had spoken in hushed tones about the thousands throughout the nineteenth century who gave complete and unstinting credence to Ouija, seances and such-like. I took no end of pleasure in mocking those who had paid to see the Bates Motel set, and the Munsters', Addams' and Amityville houses, which at least had the grace to look as though they could have been haunted.

 

       The example in question at this moment had not even that good grace. The small, nondescript house, was, although a trifle shabby, in no wise haunted-seeming. "How did this crackerbox even get onto a tour in the first place?", I could not help asking myself.

 

     As had so often happened in the past, though, my mocking drowned out my learning. For had I been listening, I might have heard the guide, intoning in her cartoon-eeriest voice, of the two little boys who wandered up and down this otherwise normal street, carrying things little boys are not typically pictured with; no Rockwell etching, this! The smaller toted a zippered bag which might have passed as a bowling bag, but upon closer examination became the enclosure for a Naval fighter pilot's helmet. The larger carried only a claw hammer, and a cold chisel. None of these three items was pristine.

 

     Had I been listening, I might have learned how two little boys were incarcerated in the Ju-Vee, for having driven a chisel into the skull of their drunken father, who had passed out after administering a horrible beating--by no means the first--to their pregnant mother back in 1964, then severing his head with a hacksaw. Saw and head then went into the newly-emptied helmet bag. Then they struck off down the street, with no actual plan besides removing themselves from the scene. Whether they might have stayed, had they known that the helmet bag's blow, freighted as it was with a fresh fifth of Cutty Sark, had broken their mother's neck instantly, no one can say.

 

      "Now, that's a queer coincidence," I remarked. "I was born in 1964, and MY father died in 1964, AND I have two older brothers, who don't talk about 1964!"

 

     Had I been listening, I might have realized that the tour guide had momentarily stopped her droning, and that all the other occupants on the tour had turned to face me. But perhaps "FACE me" isn't wholly accurate, as none of them had what you might call a face, but only facial bones and tatters of flesh. About a third of them had epaulets, though, as a Naval Junior officer might have had, and wore cavalier sneers across their ripped, disfigured maws. Another third had torn, stained dresses, and rather disarrayed bouffants. Their expressions were merely hopeless. The last and most intense third, and the only ones who seemed to have eyes, stared at me with a solemn mixture of envy, shame and pain.

 

     At this point I began to scream. I am not sure I have ever stopped screaming. I am sure, however that  nothing was ever the same again after that.

Author's Note

I submitted the first draft of this yesterday, but in order to meet NPR's "thyeeminutefiction"'s 600 word limit, I had to edit mercilessly. I like the language of the original better, so I'm leaving it up as well. Anyone willing to read them both is welcome to offer their opinions and suggestions. This is the "as-submitted' version.

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

A very hard job done extremly well. To write a horror story that means anything is difficult enough. To see it apparently stipped and still mean something is just about as hard a task as there is. I certainly appreciate the effort that has gone into this. But I will still read the longer version if I can.

[poetry lover]

Wow, what a tough poem to write, I think. That is, if you were able to face your feelings as you wrote, which at least seems apparent. I admire your talent and abilitiy to craft poems of huge emotion.
With awe,
eleanor

[Brittany]

You write a captivating piece. Nicely done, but I have a feeling the longer version is better.

[Mark]

Definitely. But the terms of the contest were very specific, so I had to mercilessly cut. The longer version is also posted here (I think!), under the title, "One Day In Clairemont"; I will check on that, and get back to you. Meanwhile, thank you for the review!

[Mark]

The original version, "While Driving in Clairemont", has been reposted, to honor the request of a fellow-writer. I will leave it up for a few days.

[poetry lover]

Your prose is fantastic, poetic, shocking, sad. I am distressed that you felt you might still be screaming, that your life changed, seemingly for the negative? I must
assume there are pieces of truth mixed among the assembly of items you were both carrying. If this was a vision you had, your life must have been tortured. What you say is a puzzlement; wish I knew the reality.

[MichelleClay]

This is a wonderful story. Thank you for directing me to it. I was quite surprised at its length as it packed quite a punch, particularly the ending! Wow what a twist. You write beautifully Mark.

[emmajoy]

A read is a read is a read .. this romps from start to finish, carrying the reader along at quite a pace and, oh my! what a finish.

The very fact that this is shorter piece just shows how much atmosphere and intention can be included with superb working.

The para i read three times, just to make sure I'd read correctly was, ' The smaller toted a zippered bag which might have passed as a bowling bag, but upon closer examination became the enclosure for a Naval fighter pilot's helmet. The larger carried only a claw hammer, and a cold chisel. None of these three items was pristine.' That last sentence really is the icing on the not very tasty cake!

Thank you for sharing the type of tale I'd not usually read .. am almost tempted to say i enjoyed it :)

[roarke]

My writing has improved since I've tried to write flash and micro fiction. It's harder than it sounds and many people think they do it just by clipping the longer versions. It's about the words. Length doesn't matter if the right words are there. Today, in a commercial market, people don't like to read long stories. Good or bad, they just don't like to read. I find myself in that category, except when all the words are working together and I can't help but read more.

Your story is that kind of piece. You've crafted the words well and the story takes off. Yes creepy. The kicker here are these two sentences.
"Now, that's a queer coincidence," I remarked. "I was born in 1964, and MY father died in 1964, AND I have two older brothers, who don't talk about 1964!"

they really put this story on a tilt, setting it up for the payoff at the end. Remind me not to go on any tours with you.....

[Zeek4]

Wonderfully creepy story.

[Ellen Hammond]

You did well editing this down. To me it is a better read for some reason. Maybe because I am impatient to get to point of the story. lol Being the too-logically minded and nitpicker I am, I can't help but wonder how the storyteller was born if his mother was killed instantly.

But all in all, a great albeit twisted tale.

[Samuel Dickens]

I read the other one, and I like this one best. Of course you're aware of my low-fat, sparsely descriptive writing style. Well isn't this a perfectly demented and entertaining little tale? I expect no less than outstanding writing from you, and this doesn't disappoint.