“Why don’t you write something nice for a change?”

That’s what she said.

And he said.

And hell, even I used to say – until I realized that I didn’t like nice and pleasant stories. They’re bland and uninteresting and at best they’re useful for teaching young children how to read. .

But what the hell. Let’s give it a shot. I’ll do my best to tell a pleasant story.

v This is where the story begins.

There once was a rabbit. No, let’s make him a white bunny. And fluffy and cute. But let’s not give him a name because a name implies too much and anyway, it doesn’t matter what he’s called because the first thing you say when you see him is “awww” and his mother never would have named him that because rabbits can’t make that sound in the first place.

The bunny was sitting in the middle of a meadow. There were a few trees here and there. The sun was shining, There was a light breeze and a river sparkling in the distance. The bunny had just eaten. It was… pleasant. All of a sudden the wind shifted and the bunny shot up, alert. His cute little nose wiggled and his chubby tailed twitched. “But, what is this?” you may ask. “But you said this was going to be a nice story,” you may argue.

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Today, I had a crêpe.

Delicious crêpe, golden brown, sitting inside the bowl. I gazed at it with adoration. It was big and I was healthy. I loved the sweet, stinking aroma that rose from the crêpe. The brown sludge that oozed from the sides, was a little off-putting though.

I nibbled on it gently, creamy goodness cascading down my throat.

And then I flushed the toilet.

Today was a pretty busy day. So i’ll just do a sort of freewrite. Whatever pops into my head. I’ll attempt to make it more or less coherent though. No story bumbling about inside my head. Which is pretty bad considering I have to make up a few for thesis tomorrow.

Ha.

my laughter rebounds off the walls, filling the room with a senseless chill of dread. Much like the butter free curls on a princess, the brown dog finds the quick fox sainted and fainted in nightly glory. this isn’t exactly a new song, but then again what is. all that has come before has come before and all that has come after has come before too, but then again what is life, if not that. this peanut butter sandwhich which lies in my nose is rather large and uncomfortable and sticky too and also, it smells like peanut butter which is of a consistency which reminds me of poo and the dreary sound of molasses running down a wall. after being thrown there.

thrown there with so much pizaaz. so much flash, vim and vigor that one might wonder, what, what. in a better world if it had not been revealed to be a master. this lumpless turn that i drop on the paper. i still call it paper even though it is digital and ink, if archaic, is a medium which the old folks use the subjugate the new. this virtuoso masturbation is a mental freedom only afforded to the stiff masses in their phallic symbols and their massive e-peens of glory.

oh dear. i was supposed to keep this coherent. well i guess i’ll just call it a freewrite at that.

day after tomorrow, a real story. i promise.

and because i promised, so it i must keep.

“I feel very par-tic-u-laaar,” his bottom lip curled around the last syllable as if unwilling to let it go, “about the use of physical contact. There are, of course certain psychological benefits to deprivation of human touch over long periods of time, howeverrr,” he rubbed his chin absentmindedly, “the less contact you have with the subject the better. Thinking of them as anything other than a task to be carried out is a road that leads straight to failure… are you listening to me Maldurn?” He prodded at the hooded shape swaying gently in front of him. When he got no answer, he prodded again, harder this time and nodded sagely as he got a muffled grunt in return.

Maldurn was struggling to stay awake. It had been… days… weeks maybe since he had last been allowed to rest for more than what seemed like a few minutes at a time. He struggled to make sense of the noises coming from in front of him. Words, yes, those were words. It was something to focus on. He knew he couldn’t fall asleep. If he did, the instructor would wake him up. And it wouldn’t be gentle. This voice… it sounded like Gorn. Gorn like to talk and he’d heard rumors that Gorn actually liked to cause pain whenever he found the chance. He wasn’t sure if that was true, but with that scar and that voice he wasn’t willing to take any chances. His eyes drooped then snapped open. He couldn’t see, but he could hear the telltale hiss of an iron being quenched in water. Had he been asked a question? He couldn’t remember. Then he started to scream.

“You see,” Gorn waited for the screaming to subside. “You see, Maldurn, there are countless ways to inflict pain and damage your subject. But really, that’s just a quick means to an end.” He reached up and started unfastening the hood. “The goal of torture is not to get information. Poke a man with a sharp enough stick and he’ll sing any song you want to. You’ve seen this time and time again. Even you begged and pleaded well enough in the beginning.” The bag was off and Moldarn blinked against the light. His hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. Sweat was streaming down his face, cutting paths through the dirt on his skin.

Gorn surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye. “The real reason we torture is simple. They pay us to. We don’t know what they’ve done, who they’ve pissed off, if they’re innocent or guilty. That’s not what matters. All we know is how badly to hurt them and how long to keep their stay will be. And we get paid extravagantly for this.” He was picking up steam now and started pacing around the small room.

“Now the reason they ask us to torture varies. Sure, there’s revenge and punishment or even some desire to retrieve information but for the majority of the cases its to control. It’s to send warnings among groups of people to do or not do a thing. To incite fear and control the sheep. And it has an added effect of creating chaos in the mind of the one tortured. We have all gone through this last phase of training and I daresay none of us are completely stable. My own instructor was less stable than most, which is how I got this.” Gorn’s skin, from his eye to his throat was covered with a horrible burn scar.

“Luckily, I’m far better than he ever was.” Putting down the iron, he selected a pair of needles. “Now then, shall we continue?”

A man sits alone in a room. Elbows on knees. Fingers crossed. Chin on hands. A wrinkle on his brow. He is troubled. There is a table by his side with brandy, pear, and cheese. In the background, Mozart. On the fire, a hearth. This room is designed to relax. Why then, is he troubled?

You can see the tension in his shoulders. They curl into each other, almost touching and though he doesn’t move, his very presence is violent. Perhaps it is money. But no. His clothes are well… and the décor speaks of the sort of wealth that just is; without the need to show off. A well thumbed bookshelf and the pictures on the wall, the leather of the chair and even the desk in the corner. They all appear simple, but of the highest quality.

His eyes twitch towards the door. Ah that’s it. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone who has not yet arrived. But no. There are no clocks here. This isn’t that sort of room. On his wrist there is a watch, yet he makes no move to look at it. What then? He still looks at the door, his wrinkle deepening. Oh. Oh yes. It all makes sense now. The door itself is the object of his tension. But what about the door offends him so?

It is an ordinary sort of door. At first glance. But a longer look shows that it too, like all the other objects in the room, speaks of history and wealth. The door is white. Not pure white, but an off-white color that blends in nicely with the accent on the baseboard. It is wooden, engraved and a bit on the heavy side, though its hinges gleam dully so you can be sure it won’t creak. Approximately 80” tall and 32” across. It has 4 panels, each engraved with a simple design of three co-centric circles. The edges of the panels are beveled, giving it all a rather solemn look. The doorknob is a soft bronze color, same as the hinges, with a smooth bulb rising out of a floral-patterned stem. It’s the sort of knob that fits right into your hand and is always warm to the touch. The bottom edges are much smoother than the others from years of rubbing, though not in such a way that they’d splinter. In short, this door was rather familiar with its business. It is well versed in the art of opening and closing and you can see it takes pride in its work.

Motion. The man has risen. He walks to the door, leaving his slippers behind. His bare feet crush the carpet gently; any sound must be forgotten. It’s a short distance but his steps get smaller and smaller and it takes longer and longer for him to lift his feet. If we looked through his eyes what would we see? A monstrous wall, gleaming off-white? A door, an idea that grows larger and larger and eventually knocks us off our feet?

He lays his hand against the door. Gently, tenderly, a lover long lost who perhaps might flee. His eyes are closed and now he is listening? For a heartbeat? For an answer? His lips move, but nothing comes out. If he asked a question, there’s no reply. This isn’t that sort of room.

He walks back to the chair, quickly now. He makes the brandy retreat. Then pours another. That one withdrawn as well. Back at the door and his hand is on the handle now. He takes a breath and straightens up.

And then he goes through.