• How to Tell a Story

    By: Daemon McRae

    David paced back and forth in front of his desk, muttering furiously to himself. With each footstep, his anger seemed to rise, as if the source of his offence was nothing more than the muffled thuds of his sneakers against the carpet. Every so often, he would pause, glaring contemptuously at the thing on his desk, that horrible, mocking thing. It and its accomplice. Oh, the agony they would visit upon him, should he let them. But he thought himself strong, a willful person. One not so easily defeated by mere artifacts.

    The items in question, of course, being a sheet of paper, and the pencil with which to write upon it. David stopped, yet again, aiming his contemptuous glare at the simple sheet of white and blue and just a subtle dash of red, right on the side, as if to declare ‘You will obey my laws, my dictations of writing, and shall write no further than this, lest you face the consequences.’ David hated that little red line, more than anything, that single dash on each side of the sheet, so bold as to be seen from the other side of the paper.

    “Make me write some freakin’ extra credit story, old hag, so what if my grades aren’t the best, make me work harder, just you wait, I’ll…” but it would seem that only David himself would ever be privy to the knowledge of what he would do, as his grumblings became more indistinct, becoming more avid and rising to a tempo almost explicitly reserved for the ranting of the insanely homeless, those select few whose wardrobe consisted of a fluffy white jacket with too-long sleeves.

    Finally, after much to-do, he all but slammed himself into the chair, almost as if doing to would scare the pencil and paper into writing his story for them. “Fine, Mrs. Wentworth, you old codger, you want a short story? That’s what you’re going to get. I’ll scare the freaking wig right off your head.” And with this self-declaration of war fortifying his conscious, he took to arms the offensive pencil, (No. 2 yellow, as all pencils should be), and leaned with powerful intent, ready to unleash his literary horror upon the world. And then a thought struck him.

    What in god’s name was he going to write about? Running a hand through his hair, he mused that, had he spent at least half of the time he had wasted grumbling actually thinking about the assignment, he might actually have a story to tell. Well, he wouldn’t let a lack of inspiration defeat him, not when he had so wholeheartedly dedicated his story to sweet, bitter revenge against his instructor. So, in true bullheaded fashion, as is so common to those with a goal and no practical means to achieve it, he began to write anyway.


    It was a dark and stormy night…

    He mused over those first few words a little, and, knowing full well that it was a quote from something, albeit not having a clue as to where it came from, he decided it was as good a way as any to start a story. So onward he pressed.


    It was a dark and stormy night, and the cattle were restless. The sheep stirred in their pens, and the roosters crowed at nothing.

    “Yeah,” David said to himself. “This is going to be awesome.” He continued his writing spree, filling the page with dark omens and foreboding prose to offset his future audience. But still, something bothered him. What exactly were these animals supposed to be afraid of? Would it be some horrible villain, some devil sent to collect on a deal? Or a nice, generic, gruesome psychopath with a unique weapon and a tendency to kill anything that moves? He couldn’t decide. But he kept writing anyway. Even with no inspiration, David felt that, as long as he kept writing, the story would come out just fine.


    And a dark, absent force approached the farmhouse door, less a man and more a presence of nothing, nothing to see, nothing to hear. Anyone who looked at it would see just that… nothing. They would not see past it, for there was nothing to see past. They could not look around it, for there was nothing to look around. And they could not look away from, because there was nothing from which to avert their eyes.

    That last sentence rattled him a little. “Nothing from which… what the? Where did I come up with that? That’s a little… ah, well. If I’m weirded out by writing it, than that old bag of bones will run screaming to the hills,” David mused, a small, cruel grin etching away at the corners of his mouth.


    The small child in the corner was not aware of the Nothing Man, for he was not there. He was not a he, in fact, being nothing and indescribable. Yet the boy felt fear, and saw nothing to be afraid of. He could not run, for there was nothing to run from. He could not escape, for there was none. You can’t escape from nothing.

    As the words poured out of him, less a story and more a force, a piece of him that he all but bled into his words, David became still more unsettled. These weren’t the words he had intended to write, but truly, what did he intend? What could he object to, not having a purpose at all, except to scare his half-addled English instructor?


    And still, the wicked grin dug away at his features, slowly twisting his mouth.


    The Nothing Man had taken the child. He had sent him away… to nowhere. For there was nowhere to go. And no one to send him there. The child was nothing, now. And so the not-there force moved on, up the hill, to the house that the family lived, posing no threat, for he wasn’t there.

    David grew more unnerved with every penstroke, every line. As if the utensil in his hand had written the story, and he was simply the force of gravity that allowed it will, gave it the strength to move. But even still, he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Because I’m writing about nothing. So I’m not writing? But still…

    And the wicked grin had claimed his mouth, creeping into the lines of his face, impressing upon the hollows of his cheeks.


    The parents did not run, for again, there was nowhere to go. They did not fight, for there was no opponent. They did not resist, for nothing threatened them. And still, the Nothing Man came. And claimed. And there was nothing left to prove the man and woman had been there at all.

    He felt afraid, now. Fear, in a form almost pure. As innocent as such a dark and devilish thing could be. And still, the words came, and still, he did not stop himself. Why did I start? DID I start? I am writing about nothing. That’s it, I’m dreaming. Simply dreaming. But then, if I’m dreaming about nothing, there would be no dream. So why can I still see those horrible, empty words?

    And the wicked grin made its final approach, as the Nothing Man claimed the daughter, the dog, the boyfriend, and there was nothing left, for there was no one there. And as the wicked grin approached his eyes, tainted his pupils red, slight tendrils, as if slowly possessing him whole, David watched in horror as victim after victim was claimed and left with nothing to lose. And as David lost himself to the Nothing Man, he realized,


    There was never anything to be afraid of. Because there’s nothing there.


    -----


    Mrs. Wentworth wasn’t surprised to see David stroll in late, slowly, tediously, as if nothing had happened. She was surprised, however, to see him hand in his homework. Still more, she was afraid. For even though she looked into his eyes, she did not see him. Only the story. The other students didn’t notice, for there was no one there. Only the story. And as Mrs. Wentworth began to read aloud, the Nothing Man came, hearing his summons, hearing nothing, with nowhere to go, and nothing to do.

    And he would leave nothing behind.