Slander By Mark Kircher

Philosphy: after receiving a majority of reviews stating that my work was confusing or did not have enough coherent ideas, I decided to try and tackle that issue. I tried to change the wording to not be so confusing and the ideas I was trying to portray I toned down. Initially I was trying to portray a idea of uncertainty by having unknowns in the piece like holes in the plot or in the main characters memories but that did not work to the effect I wanted it to so I tried to solidify the holes and ambiguity and make the main character more real and human. The next step was to tackle the main characters back story, I tried to give a little more into who he was, the kind of person he was to the reader before was little to none because they could not connect to his persona. I tried to give more into his past as well as his present to hopefully establish a more human connection with the reader. And finally I changed the overall force of the story. I was initially aiming for a huge buildup and then a climatic twist finish, but that also did not go well because of the tension in the story was not build correctly. I tried to make it more climatic and have more rise to the plot and development of the characters as well as the process of change with the main character which was too abrupt before. I also retained the ideas of the main character not having a name or the girl because that is what makes this piece special to me is that it could be anyone. The challenge here was to make a story that could draw a tear or at least a second glance through characters that never have a grounded image. In a sense the main character could be anyone, but you still connect to him just because he is who he is not because he is foreign or tall or fat or skinny. A lot of the ideas I was trying to pass through this piece were not reached by the audience so I had to cut those out as well, such as the ambiguity of setting, the ambiguity of time, ambiguity in general, moral concealments, philosophical dilemmas. Which gives the story more direction and stability overall. enjoy 2

Memories shatter when taken by force That moment, a moist sensation running between my fingers, like a soup that had more meat in it than most homemade dishes do, but at the same time a tethered sorrow. Like a memory that would change to a lesser known state and eventually to an unknown state. The room was black, aside from a crack in the door, and I was in front of that pile, with a chair behind me. The pile, the soft lump that I was tearing at and putting back together like a mound of dough, was becoming runny at this point. I don't know how long I have been here; my memories are faint at times and gone for the others, sometimes fake. But I always remember the feelings I had, rarely the events but always the feelings, the emotion, the sheer expression of whatever I was doing. I don't recall any feeling at this time. I think I am a happy man, what is left of my memories tells me that I am, unlike some philosophies that say that the actions in life determine the quality, but hell, I can't even remember my birthday, any of them, just the feeling; despair. Now the pile was becoming slimy and putrid, yet my hand just kept going at it, ripping, tearing, placing, and molding. It didn't feel good nor did it disturb my senses, the feeling was numb and it was the kind of feeling that I get when I run my hand over carpet till I can't feel that sensation and it instinctively keeps going. I guess that's how humans work, if it doesn't disturb them, they just keep going, like a clock. I remember when I was younger, it was disturbing that I could not recall who my parents were or looked like, but later on it was wonderful that I didnt have to remember. I loved the feeling of living alone under a bridge, it was lonely in an existential way, where you are alone in your journey but there are so many moving things around you, you cant possibly be alone. I wander around looking for food on a daily basis, usually from societys gas stations and fast food restaurants and with the luck of kings I survive to this day. My memories have failed me so often that I have abandoned any hope of remembering the past and continue forward till the end. 19 years of this life and I still cant remember

how I ended up this way. I was a kid, and I was a teenager, I went to school, and I did homework, I had friends, and I laughed, but when, how, where, with whom I cant remember. I find myself I strange places quite often, not knowing how I came about it, but I never fear it, nor do I fear anything. I got used to my life as a unit of infrastructure beneath this bridge and so I do not fear others, pain, loneliness, or death. Just then something fell from the pile that was now more soup than solid, and I glanced over for no more than a second. But all I needed was half a second to identify that it was a bow, one of those cheap pieces of colored plastic you get from a store to please a little girl. It had polka dots and stripes and before I could examine it further, I kicked it away out of impulse. Why would I do that, or why would I want to; a question I find myself asking now and again, my only answer thus far is that I really don't care. The pile was now everywhere in the room as if it had tried to escape in every direction at once while I was preoccupied. A small chuckle arose and that is when I felt that I needed to move on to another activity. I still had no clue what the pile was or why I felt so attached to it. Light beamed from the doorway, steadily becoming brighter, and in an instant, blinding. The first thing that came to my mind was that the citys freedom enforcers had found me. I made out what I could of the figure, I looked back that the pile and saw the mangled mess that was now human remains. The skin meshed with the blood to give a feathered look and the intestine was coiled and slowly knotting with the organs gashed and punctured making various parts shimmer in fluids clear and plentiful. And at different places where the nerves were severed, there was bone fragments floating in the flesh, and together it all created a textured look, a human mosaic. It was pretty, and I was more interested in the process than the finished piece but I could not remember how any of this happened nor would I try to. My eyes completely adjusted to the light and I saw her standing, staring blankly. I felt inclined to tell her that it wasnt me but I don't think people can comprehend my feelings or the

situation of how it came to be. I just stood there clenching a bit of flesh in my hands hunched over the pile, and I was shaking, I was standing for such a long period of time couldn't feel my knees. But then I saw that plastic bow in the corner. I realized now that it was actually red, pure red, there were no patterns, just red. I think it was on the roof that I was confronted, her pale composure and dull eyes made me think of a goat, nothing but a directionless goat. I had a sandwich in my hand that was mostly bread and some cheese but slightly moldy since I found it in the morning days ago on a park bench. It tasted salty and metallic but kept me alive; I was in no position to judge that sandwich anyways. She came up to me as I tried to pick off the mold to avoid later problems. She was saying something but I didn't listen, I was too entertained by the prospect of a sandwich I was about to consume. She garbled for a while and finally stopped. She made no impression on me, she just kept looking at me and sometimes uttering additional words, but I could not perceive what it was that was falling from her mouth; it was mutilated and disoriented in my head like a foreigner was interrogating me with a saw. We sat there for a long time, longer than the normal span a person waits for a response. It was as if my mind was racing so fast it slowed time, I wished for it to stop and for her to leave. But time does not care, people do not care, and my life did not matter to anyone but me, if even that. But then I remember that she followed me, she kept tailing me, she kept watching me, watching me move, watching me laze, watching me live. It's as if she was waiting for something to happen, and the only thing I could imagine going through her empty skull was another pile of flesh dropping from the heavens into my lap. I still can't remember where that pile came from, I have no clue what it was or why I had it, but it isn't strange to me, I have had many instances where random objects or people would end up mangled in my hands. Like exiting a lucid dream, the transition from dream to reality is seamless and regardless of what happened in the dream, reality is just another part of it till you distinguish it

moments after. I once remember a moment with an elementary teacher cut and bruised with a bag over her head. A small tag pinned into her arm by force that read Mrs. Henry. Student councilor of the fourth grade. I remember that she was squirming on the ground trying to pick herself up. I took the bag off and her face like anyone would and saw that her face was gross, there were maggots coming from the pouches that were once blushed and her left eye was missing and replaced with a stone haphazardly crammed in her socket. Her jaw could not move and was hanging a few inches below what is considered normal. And I just appeared in this situation, I could not remember how I got there or what took place, but there was no one but me and her in that room. I disliked trying to look like I was helping, especially while she crawled away with the most functional of her appendages as I got closer. I wanted to help, somewhere in my mind I wanted to help, because she did not deserve this, but, the pool of red surrounding her and me was evident enough, she was not going to live. I found a sharp edge of a metal music box, that seemed to play music while I bashed it against her skull and it intrigued me, but I had to end her more than study the music box. Bash after bash I hit her, I just kept mauling her over and over knowing that she was not quite dead, knowing that no matter what I did before grabbing that box, I would be blamed. I think of it as protection, I was protecting myself from others that would deem me a threat, and it makes sense to me, so by that means I am justified. And I started beating her chest as hard as I could with that box, and slowly, her flesh tore away and she died. I was seven at that time and my body had trouble moving her out of that old Laundromat that night. And still I held on to that box to this day because I wanted to hear its noise again, its soft yet cheery tune that made me feel more justified in my endeavors than any thought or ideal could. An instance, just one of the many times that people have been hurt around me and my failure to do anything continues. But I kind of like it, it is warming to know that I am doing something in this life, something...productive. But my sandwich was getting soggy and the day was almost over, she just stood there and looked at me much like a dog looks at its master to see if they are going to punish it or reward 6

it. I guess she expected an answer so I stuck out my hand and with it held a piece of the moldy bread. It was like a peace offering from country to country, a bond that would be exploited over and over again. She took it from my hands and ate it. Half a sandwich disappeared that day, and honestly, I felt more sympathy for that sandwich than my teacher 12 years ago. She kept following me, kept watching me, offering me gifts sometimes of food and the occasional mumble of words that are to this day indescribable. Some events past and we have had some run-ins with less than favorable outcomes. I found a small boy half drowning in a construction site cement tub, weighed down by the mix and too terrified to attempt to escape. His face was sideways and his body already submerged, his mouth was slowly being filled. The mix was drying and the boy was swallowing chunks of cement now. He was suppressed and I was just watching from a distance. But it was strange, he didn't want to escape, he kept staring at me watching me was I watched him. He was scared of something more than the cement slowly encasing him; he was scared of something much more. I also realized that the cement was freshly made, today, Saturday when the workers were out relaxing and no one was around this part of the suburb; just me and this boy. Those eyes, those eyes he had were so pure, so clearly defined among the wet rubble that I cried, not out of pity or remorse, but out of the purity of that boy's eyes, they struck me like a gust of wind and lasted much longer in my mind. The sheer innocence of this child being killed slowly made me cry, it was an indescribable experience. I left that site with her waiting for me at the exit, muttering again and clinging to my arm. I was used to her physically touching me and she did, quite often. The memory I left with was now deep in my mind, never to forget, while that boy hid under layers of foundation for this society. I don't know what hit me, it was a gaze of inspiration, and empathy, but it was just a feeling that tugged on my mind but was separate from reality by a thick border of neglect. But why was she there, just standing while that happened, watching me, like a sheep watches wolves circle it. It was strange to

say the least, but for the past two months, I spent time with her more than anyone in my life. She was a friend in technical terms, and me without a home to go to or a family to see, she might as well be my benefactor. As mute my world was, I know she wasn't, she made sounds, some were repetitive and some were high pitched and some were slurred, but she was attempting communication somehow. She was trying to connect with me. She was amusing at times, trying to pry loose boards from a fence around my bed, and occasionally trying to imitate me. It was the imitation that captured me so, because she was imitating not just my personality, but my actions, actions that I cannot remember, but knew were me because of the ending and the devices imitated. It was like watching a play, a play that I never knew, but remembered every feeling of. She showed me how I had dragged things away and buried them, how I set fire to heaps and bashed against walls thrashing about the city slums. And she showed me burying the boy in cement and before that ripping his legs off by using sand to imitate the cement mix and old pants lying around as his lower half only to be ripped off with was seemed to be an axe. I never really questioned what happened in those lapses, but now, more than ever, I knew a good chunk of what I would call a habit. She kept following me time and time again, watching, keeping me company when I least expect it out of humanity. She warmed me during the winter and accompanied me during my travels to the city and back. Gave me food and gifts that I lost quite often, despite a longing to have them. I'm sure that morals have shunned me and fate has damned me, but I don't really care, I just don't, but she did. She started to know me more and more, she knew my routes, my tastes, my thought process, and even my desires. It was a strange feeling of having someone that can't even communicate, try to be something, trying to be there as hard as they can for no reason. At times I would find myself looking for her if she strayed so much as a day away from me. I thought that I didn't care, but I still looked and waited as if I did, to try and repay what meagerness she offered. It took months, but I knew in the end that she meant

something to me, that she was a part of my history in no fashion that others were. And I also knew that I was scared. What if, what if, what if, what if something happens, what if I find her seamlessly woven into my world as a corpse, what if I drive her away, what if I ruin her life. Twelve months had past and I was now under another bridge and in another city, but she was there with me. I started to follow her sometimes, I started to offer her gifts in return, and I started to imitate her, I even tried to be entertaining to her. It was indescribable, the sheer magnitude of wonder and magic that this person had. She had no bias, she had no incentives, she had no meaning in life, but she still moved and watched her whole life go by, where I was just fast forwarding to the good parts. She was genuinely a being that I could not comprehend, a monster that feared no other. A train of thought unspoken came to my mind again, what if, what if I were to end her existence, what if I were to end her being, what if I were to destroy her unknowingly. After a while, I couldn't bear the thought, I couldn't bear the weight of ending the only something I held so high. I knew what I wanted right then and there, and I will be damn sure to remember it. She was with me, watching, fully aware of what was going to happen, it was interesting to say the least, that I was for once, scared and happy. I knew what I was doing, and I knew what was going to happen, but I never once held value to it. I was afraid of losing the feelings that she carried, I was afraid of destroying what I had discovered out of pure whim but slight hope. I stared out the open window of that hotel room; looking at the storm brew in the distance and for a while I thought that time had stopped as I stared outside. She came and looked me in the eyes, it was the first time I could see her eyes so clearly, and they were green, a grassy green. I wanted so desperately to tell her that she was truly an amazing person; I really did, more than anything in my recordable life, but I had tried before, and nothing I did fazed her, she just kept watching me, now would be no different. I looked back at the

window and walked to the door opposite it. She moved to the corner and waved, smiling. I began the motion and with a final leap I threw my body at the storm.

I wish I could know that she lived, I wish I could know that the whole world did not evaporate, I wish I could spend more time with her, I wish I could have told her that I loved her. But I knew that in the end she was just an illusion, a fake, a memory. Something I could never comprehend. Something I would never recover. But something I would always feel. It would probably take seven stories to describe all my feelings and pain that I felt at that moment but in the end, only five would be needed to kill me.

Im glad she was just a memory.

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