seppuku counter: 8
So.
Happy New Years. Salutations. Yada yada.
I recently started my second semester, and this one is very special because I'm beginning my major; Creative Writing.
Last semester I was also doing an English class, but it was one of those lame-o "this is the proper way to write an essay" thingamajigs that you just have to chug through without trying to down a vial of sulfuric acid, so the major-specific classes I'm taking now are a real step up.
A thousand thanks to gleeb, shmerb, and the divine bodhisattvas for letting there be enough space for me to get into the Worldbuilding in Fiction workshop. A few days ago we had our first actual workshop, which is really just peer reviewing a few people's short stories. Unfortunately, the point of this blog post isn't to reminisce on that experience, although I did really enjoy the critiques I got and the whole conversation around it.
Instead, I feel more inclined to post the first draft of my short story on here. I don't want to really talk about it until after it's complete, but I feel obligated to mention the fact that I did not finish, so pretty much everything after the phone call was very rushed as I had to end it somehow for the deadline. If you do go through the hassle of reading it; first off, thank you, and secondly, if you could find it in yourself to text me some feedback (positive, negative, anything) I'd really appreciate that.
He was about eight-seventeenths of the way down the winding road when he noticed the portcullis had been raised before his arrival. It was a rather peculiar event, given the now-former master of the grounds’ insistence on eccentricity and displays of power. This was the type of man who’d own a portcullis, after all. The type of man who’d will artificial lakes and hills to obtrude an otherwise direct path to his house (which was, of course, to be nomenclated exclusively as a “manor” on all associated legal paraphernalia and in all sophistications of conversation), and then have the gall to divide said path into seventeenths, one’s progression through which being marked only at each multiple of four. Just after the four-seventeenths sign was the portcullis, a true monument of generational wealth, and it was operated by a kind guard named Alfonse, who’d wave you down before you approached and radio the security hub to raise the gate. It was Alfonse’s absence that day that allowed him to pass through without noticing. Mister Barbosa had always made it a point to have the portcullis lowered and guests screened, no matter if they had already visited hundreds of times, or had been invited by the master of the house himself.
But today it was raised, and he couldn’t help but feel that the change was an omen of grave misfortune. As he approached the unmarked seventeenth-seventeenth of his journey, he caught from the corner of his eye the interim steward of the house whose whim now carried the authority to retire such an excessive excuse of security. His beat-up Volkswagen Beetle coughing its way up the final leg of the driveway, he watched as her figure disappeared from the window, and mentally prepared himself for the untold horrors of stilted niceties that were surely about to unfold.
And as if the two were synchronized on some great cosmic clock, the grand entrance swung open at the same time as his car door, the man muttering a silent prayer to deities he’d never believed in as he swung his bag over his person, exiting the vehicle in the stoic grace of a dead man walking.
“Barry!” the woman exclaimed, arms outstretched as she tapped leisurely down the staircase. She was a rather tall woman, or at least taller than himself, with eyes of piercing green clarity that seemed transplanted into an otherwise husk-like facial structure.
“Hello, Miss Barbosa,” he sighed. She paused, placing her hands on her hips and smirking; a body movement that might be considered endearing, of course presuming that it were performed by someone who even vaguely resembled the word charm. “Oh, please,” she said, now trudging slowly down the steps, “I know Santiago insisted on all that--incessant--formality, but you don’t have to worry about it anymore. You can just use my first name.”
Barry considered this for a moment. He began to think of calling her Helen, but for some reason he could not will his vocal chords to make the sound. It would be too humanizing.
Now staring at her, mentally fumbling in a moment of disassociation that can only be described as ghost-in-the-machine-ing, he watched as she, seemingly oblivious to the awkward lapse in conversation, scooped up his arm and, teeth bared into what he believed to be the implication of a smile, led him into the house.
Sitting upon the central chesterfield was Luis, chatterboxing as per usual. Clarisse and the rest of the family had discovered long ago that Luis possessed a unique genetic trait that imbibed himself, and presumably any future carriers, with the ability to talk so much while saying so little. This ability manifested itself currently in a discussion of the untapped potential of cryptocurrency, directed more at his captive audience than to them. His closest victim, her father, laid out over the nearby divan, eyes drawn tightly closed, face smothered by his hand, perhaps in an attempt to suffocate himself to escape the conversation.
A distance away from the two, lounging in an armchair, was David, whose posture and general existence managed to conjure both disgust and anger from Clarisse’s subconscious. At the moment, he was attempting to interject Luis’ tirade, though whether it was to refute or support the speech was unclear to all.
“...and it’s only going to accumulate more value as time goes on,” Luis continued, “so the longer you wait to jump on the train-”
“But how do you know that it’s going to-” David started.
“-the faster it’s gonna be moving when you try to catch hold. You can’t just grab onto a speeding train, right?”
“Well, yeah, that’s right, but-”
“And that’s why the time is now, people,” he said, aimed at her father as if he were part of the conversation. “You have to get a ticket and hop on board before the train leaves the station.”
“I don’t quite see where your analogy-”
“You can’t just wave to the conductor through the window and ask him to stop the train and open the door for you while the train’s barreling down the tracks, right? Because the moment they go right through that little tunnel and you’re hanging for dear life on the outside, SPLAT goes David!”
This analogy drove the conversation to a heated, albeit amusing temperament, but Clarisse had already stopped listening, for fear she might get an aneurysm. Her focus shifted instead on the opposite corner of the room, where Leo, now for the twenty-fourth time, caught her gaze, yet again startling him out of his hushed conversation with Aunt Selene. He was never this skittish, which made his reactions stand out. She didn’t suspect anything of it, but could not deny her piqued intere-
CRASH!
A vase suddenly smashed on the floor before Clarisse, as the three J’s came barreling into the parlour, each climbing over the other in what could only be described as the worst game of leapfrog that has ever been played. Clarisse managed to move closer to the fire in time to escape the trio’s next target; the wall. As the largest J, Jason, began yowling in pain, forehead swelling by the second, his parents entered, giggling at the incident at an almost nauseating pitch.
“Oh, sweetie. You have to be more careful around those corners,” Jeremy said, arm squeezing his wife disgustingly close to his person. The woman, giving her much-younger husband a deep kiss, presumably as part of some witchcraft to steal his youth, dislodged herself from him, beaming ear-to-ear as she ran up and swallowed Clarisse in a bear hug. “Oh, Reesie Puff! How have you been? It’s been so long!”
“Hello, Jessica.” Clarisse managed to pry herself free from the woman, allowing Jessica to sicc herself on the distant Leo as Jeremy approached.
“Hello, Clarisse. Long time no see.”
She grunted in response, staring him down. His face seemed to be torn between a feigned smile and confused awkwardness--exactly where she wanted him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could just barely make out Jessica leaning towards Leo, whispering something, when David came up from behind, arm contorting itself around his shoulders.
“Well,” he laughed, “look who it is!” Shrugging his arm off, Clarisse took a seat beside her father, ears enjoying the newfound peace as Luis joined the three J’s in their latest iteration of Destroy the Manor. Her father tapped the side of her leg, propping himself up to look with her into the hearth. He was a man of very few words, so it was through small moments like these that Clarisse felt present with him.
“MIGGY!”
Her father jumped to his feet fast enough to avoid a love-tackle from Jessica, the force of which sent her flying headfirst into the cushion. Pushing herself up, she gasped theatrically. “How dare you, mister. Avoiding your baby sister?!”
Turning away, she pouted like a child, huffing and puffing. Clarisse looked away as her father approached her aunt, her focus instead returned to Leo and Selene. Closer now than before, she was just barely unable to pick up their conversation over the sounds of Luis yelling at the J’s. Determined to discover the topic of conversation, she leaned forward, inching her way to-
“I have some information about Dad’s death.”
She froze. Not wanting to reveal that she overheard the hushed conversation happening right next to her, she remained still as Jessica’s footsteps echoed towards the doorway, shortly followed by her father’s. She turned to watch them leaving, eyes bewildered, unable to decide between following them or staying. As the pair approached the exit, the sharp click of heels on stone marched their way in, followed by a sing-song exclamation.
“It’s time!”
Barry often had a difficult time remembering the names of the family members, as well as their relation to one another. Removing the contents of his bag, Barry tried to recall the name of Jessica’s son. He possessed a countenance where you could talk to him for an hour, walk away from, and completely forget you two ever met, something that Barry had actually done at an event years ago. Regardless, he was sure that the man’s name began with a “K”, though his extensive process of recalling the only two “K” names he knew was cut short by the lady of the house.
“Let's get this show on the road,” Miss Barbosa said, perching herself on the edge of the couch near Clarissa. The family soon gathered around, trailing closer like a horde of undead. Barry shuffled his papers around, looking for the first page of the will. “Just one moment,” he announced. After some brief delay, he found the page and took a deep breath. “So, as you all know, I am here to read the final will and testament of Santiago Antonio de Jesus Barbosa,” he said, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation of Mister Barbosa’s full name.
But today it was raised, and he couldn’t help but feel that the change was an omen of grave misfortune. As he approached the unmarked seventeenth-seventeenth of his journey, he caught from the corner of his eye the interim steward of the house whose whim now carried the authority to retire such an excessive excuse of security. His beat-up Volkswagen Beetle coughing its way up the final leg of the driveway, he watched as her figure disappeared from the window, and mentally prepared himself for the untold horrors of stilted niceties that were surely about to unfold.
And as if the two were synchronized on some great cosmic clock, the grand entrance swung open at the same time as his car door, the man muttering a silent prayer to deities he’d never believed in as he swung his bag over his person, exiting the vehicle in the stoic grace of a dead man walking.
“Barry!” the woman exclaimed, arms outstretched as she tapped leisurely down the staircase. She was a rather tall woman, or at least taller than himself, with eyes of piercing green clarity that seemed transplanted into an otherwise husk-like facial structure.
“Hello, Miss Barbosa,” he sighed. She paused, placing her hands on her hips and smirking; a body movement that might be considered endearing, of course presuming that it were performed by someone who even vaguely resembled the word charm. “Oh, please,” she said, now trudging slowly down the steps, “I know Santiago insisted on all that--incessant--formality, but you don’t have to worry about it anymore. You can just use my first name.”
Barry considered this for a moment. He began to think of calling her Helen, but for some reason he could not will his vocal chords to make the sound. It would be too humanizing.
Now staring at her, mentally fumbling in a moment of disassociation that can only be described as ghost-in-the-machine-ing, he watched as she, seemingly oblivious to the awkward lapse in conversation, scooped up his arm and, teeth bared into what he believed to be the implication of a smile, led him into the house.
----
Clarisse Barbosa-Smith was a smart woman. She had clawed her way up through her grandfather’s company by the pain of her own labors, and she’d be damned if she ever let anyone tread over her hard work. She, perched in the corner of the parlour with a glass of 1986 Quintarelli Recioto, examined now, for the twenty-fourth time, her surroundings.Sitting upon the central chesterfield was Luis, chatterboxing as per usual. Clarisse and the rest of the family had discovered long ago that Luis possessed a unique genetic trait that imbibed himself, and presumably any future carriers, with the ability to talk so much while saying so little. This ability manifested itself currently in a discussion of the untapped potential of cryptocurrency, directed more at his captive audience than to them. His closest victim, her father, laid out over the nearby divan, eyes drawn tightly closed, face smothered by his hand, perhaps in an attempt to suffocate himself to escape the conversation.
A distance away from the two, lounging in an armchair, was David, whose posture and general existence managed to conjure both disgust and anger from Clarisse’s subconscious. At the moment, he was attempting to interject Luis’ tirade, though whether it was to refute or support the speech was unclear to all.
“...and it’s only going to accumulate more value as time goes on,” Luis continued, “so the longer you wait to jump on the train-”
“But how do you know that it’s going to-” David started.
“-the faster it’s gonna be moving when you try to catch hold. You can’t just grab onto a speeding train, right?”
“Well, yeah, that’s right, but-”
“And that’s why the time is now, people,” he said, aimed at her father as if he were part of the conversation. “You have to get a ticket and hop on board before the train leaves the station.”
“I don’t quite see where your analogy-”
“You can’t just wave to the conductor through the window and ask him to stop the train and open the door for you while the train’s barreling down the tracks, right? Because the moment they go right through that little tunnel and you’re hanging for dear life on the outside, SPLAT goes David!”
This analogy drove the conversation to a heated, albeit amusing temperament, but Clarisse had already stopped listening, for fear she might get an aneurysm. Her focus shifted instead on the opposite corner of the room, where Leo, now for the twenty-fourth time, caught her gaze, yet again startling him out of his hushed conversation with Aunt Selene. He was never this skittish, which made his reactions stand out. She didn’t suspect anything of it, but could not deny her piqued intere-
CRASH!
A vase suddenly smashed on the floor before Clarisse, as the three J’s came barreling into the parlour, each climbing over the other in what could only be described as the worst game of leapfrog that has ever been played. Clarisse managed to move closer to the fire in time to escape the trio’s next target; the wall. As the largest J, Jason, began yowling in pain, forehead swelling by the second, his parents entered, giggling at the incident at an almost nauseating pitch.
“Oh, sweetie. You have to be more careful around those corners,” Jeremy said, arm squeezing his wife disgustingly close to his person. The woman, giving her much-younger husband a deep kiss, presumably as part of some witchcraft to steal his youth, dislodged herself from him, beaming ear-to-ear as she ran up and swallowed Clarisse in a bear hug. “Oh, Reesie Puff! How have you been? It’s been so long!”
“Hello, Jessica.” Clarisse managed to pry herself free from the woman, allowing Jessica to sicc herself on the distant Leo as Jeremy approached.
“Hello, Clarisse. Long time no see.”
She grunted in response, staring him down. His face seemed to be torn between a feigned smile and confused awkwardness--exactly where she wanted him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could just barely make out Jessica leaning towards Leo, whispering something, when David came up from behind, arm contorting itself around his shoulders.
“Well,” he laughed, “look who it is!” Shrugging his arm off, Clarisse took a seat beside her father, ears enjoying the newfound peace as Luis joined the three J’s in their latest iteration of Destroy the Manor. Her father tapped the side of her leg, propping himself up to look with her into the hearth. He was a man of very few words, so it was through small moments like these that Clarisse felt present with him.
“MIGGY!”
Her father jumped to his feet fast enough to avoid a love-tackle from Jessica, the force of which sent her flying headfirst into the cushion. Pushing herself up, she gasped theatrically. “How dare you, mister. Avoiding your baby sister?!”
Turning away, she pouted like a child, huffing and puffing. Clarisse looked away as her father approached her aunt, her focus instead returned to Leo and Selene. Closer now than before, she was just barely unable to pick up their conversation over the sounds of Luis yelling at the J’s. Determined to discover the topic of conversation, she leaned forward, inching her way to-
“I have some information about Dad’s death.”
She froze. Not wanting to reveal that she overheard the hushed conversation happening right next to her, she remained still as Jessica’s footsteps echoed towards the doorway, shortly followed by her father’s. She turned to watch them leaving, eyes bewildered, unable to decide between following them or staying. As the pair approached the exit, the sharp click of heels on stone marched their way in, followed by a sing-song exclamation.
“It’s time!”
----
Barry watched as Miss Barbosa blew through Miguel and Jessica, whirling about the room with swift chatter. Watching her scold her three youngest grandchildren and one man-child, Barry took a terse step through the now-frozen siblings who remained blocking the doorway, offering a meager grunt as greetings. He found himself thankful for the family matriarch, pulling the full focus of the room to herself as he shuffled towards the fireplace. The only ones who seemed to notice him were Clarissa, by virtue of her proximity to the fireplace, and Jessica’s son, who stood by the far wall next to Miss Barbosa’s other daughter, Selene.Barry often had a difficult time remembering the names of the family members, as well as their relation to one another. Removing the contents of his bag, Barry tried to recall the name of Jessica’s son. He possessed a countenance where you could talk to him for an hour, walk away from, and completely forget you two ever met, something that Barry had actually done at an event years ago. Regardless, he was sure that the man’s name began with a “K”, though his extensive process of recalling the only two “K” names he knew was cut short by the lady of the house.
“Let's get this show on the road,” Miss Barbosa said, perching herself on the edge of the couch near Clarissa. The family soon gathered around, trailing closer like a horde of undead. Barry shuffled his papers around, looking for the first page of the will. “Just one moment,” he announced. After some brief delay, he found the page and took a deep breath. “So, as you all know, I am here to read the final will and testament of Santiago Antonio de Jesus Barbosa,” he said, stumbling a bit over the pronunciation of Mister Barbosa’s full name.
He read ahead, in case of any other words that might jumble his tongue, wondering once more why this couldn’t have been an email. He’d posed the very same thought to Miss Barbosa on their walk to the living room.
“Oh, you know how hard it is to get everyone together at our age,” she had told him, his arm still firmly trapped in her grasp. He took particular offense to the implication of “our age”, as Barry was about three decades younger than the walking corpse. She had sighed heavily. “I just hope that my husband’s death can bring us all closer together. Make us stronger, as a family.”
Barry now watched as Miss Barbosa pinched Clarissa’s cheek, pulling it to check the elasticity. “You should really pay more attention to how much you’re eating.” Seeing Clarissa biting her words, he decided to mediate the tension of the room by speeding up the reading.
“In the interest of time, I’m going to go ahead and skip to the naming of beneficiaries and division of-”
“COULD YOU BE LOVED”
His ringtone for Lucy blared through his pocket as he scrambled, accidentally dropping the papers in his haste. Scuffing them back together and placing them above the fireplace, he stood up to find the entire Barbosa bloodline staring at him in hungry expectation, waiting for him to decline the call and continue with the oration. But, much to their disappointment, Barry excused himself and left the room.
Lucy never called him when he was at work. The only time that she did was ten years, seven months, and twelve days ago, scolding Barry for leaving the oven on while he was gone. His dearly beloved, blessed with photographic memory, had never let go of the mistake, bringing it incident up at least thrice a week. To get a call from her while at work was an omen of unparalleled disaster.
Hand quivering, he raised the phone up, managing a hesitant “Hello?”
“Hello, dear. Forgetting something?”
“Dearest,” he smiled, “since it looks like you’ll be moving up in the family company, I think it’s time we talk about…maybe, finally, having-”
“Not right now. I’m busy.”
David scoffed, pressing his eyes closed to recall the exact response she’d heard him rehearsing in the mirror earlier. “Yes, well, you’ve said this many times now, but I do believe that-and she’s gone,” he muttered, having opened his eyes to find the space where Clarisse stood now empty.
Right behind Leo, she reached out to grab his shoulder, when every head swiveled to the source of a loud gasp. Standing before the hearth, her grandmother had picked up and read through the papers.
“Nothing. Nothing. He’s left us with nothing.”
The first to move was Luis. He grabbed the papers from their grandmother’s shaking hands, skimming through them aloud. “Being of sound mind…all my debts…bequest the entirety of my estate, including but not limited to all cash assets and stocks in my possession, as well as the manor on 129 S Raven Ln, to any one charity picked by the executor of my will.”
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the news, until Selene noticed their one hope. “Well, who’s the executor?” she squeaked.
Eyes aglow with salvation, Luis again scrambled through the pages, muttering incoherently until he suddenly stopped.
“Well?” Selene asked.
He read slowly. “I nominate and appoint Barry Winkler as my personal representative and the executor of my will.”
Clarisse stared in shock, her thoughts again pounding through her brain. She couldn’t believe that this outsider held so much power over her, as if someone else would have the right to deny her what she earned.
“I knew he was up to something.” Clarisse turned to listen to her grandmother. “He’s been coming to the manor almost every day for the past month.”
“We need to get him back in here and make him explain,” Clarisse said, standing and marching out of the room. But as she entered the foyer, the only thing she saw was the front door splayed open, the sound of a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle coughing its way down the winding road.
Barry now watched as Miss Barbosa pinched Clarissa’s cheek, pulling it to check the elasticity. “You should really pay more attention to how much you’re eating.” Seeing Clarissa biting her words, he decided to mediate the tension of the room by speeding up the reading.
“In the interest of time, I’m going to go ahead and skip to the naming of beneficiaries and division of-”
“COULD YOU BE LOVED”
His ringtone for Lucy blared through his pocket as he scrambled, accidentally dropping the papers in his haste. Scuffing them back together and placing them above the fireplace, he stood up to find the entire Barbosa bloodline staring at him in hungry expectation, waiting for him to decline the call and continue with the oration. But, much to their disappointment, Barry excused himself and left the room.
Lucy never called him when he was at work. The only time that she did was ten years, seven months, and twelve days ago, scolding Barry for leaving the oven on while he was gone. His dearly beloved, blessed with photographic memory, had never let go of the mistake, bringing it incident up at least thrice a week. To get a call from her while at work was an omen of unparalleled disaster.
Hand quivering, he raised the phone up, managing a hesitant “Hello?”
“Hello, dear. Forgetting something?”
----
Clarisse’s mind raced with questions. Too many abnormalities had occurred in too short of a time. She thought about approaching Jessica, but she wasn’t even sure about the nature of the information. Besides, where Leo’s earlier behavior had been an amusement for her at best, she now wondered if he knew about something she didn’t. He and his mother were harboring secrets, and Clarisse wouldn’t let them leave without telling her.
She got up, deciding that Leo was the easier target. She made her way around the family to where he stood, when suddenly David blocked her path.“Dearest,” he smiled, “since it looks like you’ll be moving up in the family company, I think it’s time we talk about…maybe, finally, having-”
“Not right now. I’m busy.”
David scoffed, pressing his eyes closed to recall the exact response she’d heard him rehearsing in the mirror earlier. “Yes, well, you’ve said this many times now, but I do believe that-and she’s gone,” he muttered, having opened his eyes to find the space where Clarisse stood now empty.
Right behind Leo, she reached out to grab his shoulder, when every head swiveled to the source of a loud gasp. Standing before the hearth, her grandmother had picked up and read through the papers.
“Nothing. Nothing. He’s left us with nothing.”
The first to move was Luis. He grabbed the papers from their grandmother’s shaking hands, skimming through them aloud. “Being of sound mind…all my debts…bequest the entirety of my estate, including but not limited to all cash assets and stocks in my possession, as well as the manor on 129 S Raven Ln, to any one charity picked by the executor of my will.”
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the news, until Selene noticed their one hope. “Well, who’s the executor?” she squeaked.
Eyes aglow with salvation, Luis again scrambled through the pages, muttering incoherently until he suddenly stopped.
“Well?” Selene asked.
He read slowly. “I nominate and appoint Barry Winkler as my personal representative and the executor of my will.”
Clarisse stared in shock, her thoughts again pounding through her brain. She couldn’t believe that this outsider held so much power over her, as if someone else would have the right to deny her what she earned.
“I knew he was up to something.” Clarisse turned to listen to her grandmother. “He’s been coming to the manor almost every day for the past month.”
“We need to get him back in here and make him explain,” Clarisse said, standing and marching out of the room. But as she entered the foyer, the only thing she saw was the front door splayed open, the sound of a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle coughing its way down the winding road.
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