DEATH IS ETERNAL #409

3,000 words

If this DEATH IS ETERNAL’s short story sounds more like someone trying to find a story than a story if it sounds like pointless gibberish, an endless dialogue without meaning... well, it’s because it is. I have no clue, no idea, no inspiration what to write about it, but I’ll force myself to create something. Sometimes, when I do that, something nice comes up. Sometimes, it doesn’t. Hopefully, today, the words will guide me towards the former. But, to be honest, I feel like it will be the latter. Regardless! I shall write because write I must!

Contents

1. THE HOLLOW MENTOR

2. Writing: scratch

3. Bye!

4. Life (from July 8 to 21, 2024)

5. Reviews #287, #288, #289, and #290: THE HOLDOVERS, DUNE: PART TWO, POOR THINGS, and KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON

6. The end

1. THE HOLLOW MENTOR

“You ruined me,” Casey Martin’s voice trembled with restrained fury, a whisper laden with tears rather than shouted rage. “You fucking ruined me.”

Roy Leblanc met Casey’s accusation with a cynical smirk. He recognized the devastation etched across Casey’s face, the aftermath of his own handiwork. Yet, amidst the wreckage of Casey’s spirit, Roy nursed a twisted conviction that he had sculpted greatness from the ruins of his protege. In his self-made narrative, Roy fancied himself a saviour deserving of accolades.

“You turned me into an empty shell,” Casey’s accusation rang hollow in the room, bitter and accusing. “I was never a good person, but I became less than nothing under your influence. Thoughts of you haunt me ceaselessly. Every attempt to escape your grip ensnares me deeper in your deceit and manipulation. You’re a contagion. You infected me, and now I spread your poison.” The weight of Casey’s words hung heavy in the air, a testament to the depth of his emotional turmoil.

Roy sneered, his gaze sweeping over the walls lined with memories captured in photographs. He stood on the precipice of his twilight years, nearly ninety, his vitality a distant echo. The dinner was ostensibly a celebration of his retirement, yet deep down, he knew it was a gathering to ensure his departure, a cessation of his toxic influence.

“You,” Roy’s voice dripped with disdain as he scanned the room, pausing at a photograph where he and Casey embraced. “I thought you’d be different,” he muttered, disappointment evident in his tone. “You always stood out, driven like no other. Look around.” Roy’s gaze bore into Casey, commanding compliance. After a moment’s struggle, Casey yielded to Roy’s unspoken demand.

“Everyone here feels the same,” Roy continued, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “They despise me. They brand me a disease, a tyrant, a manipulator... you name it! But you,” Roy chuckled bitterly, “at least you have the guts to confront me. You had what they lacked—the drive, the hunger.” His gaze intensified, probing Casey’s eyes. “You wanted greatness, and I showed you how. It’s not my fault you’re too afraid to pay the price, to forsake everything for success.”

Casey wrestled with a surge of emotions—anger, betrayal, and a dawning clarity. “You...” His voice quivered with a mix of disbelief and loathing. “You think you’re some kind of deity, shaping destinies, moulding greatness. But you’re just a hollow ego, blind to your own destructive path. You crafted a narrative of superiority and bought into it. I once admired you, but now I pity you. You’re not the best; you’re the worst. You sow destruction, not greatness. You’re not a god; you’re pure evil.”

Roy’s expression flickered—a fleeting glimpse of disbelief, quickly veiled by arrogance. He turned away, dismissing Casey with a wave of his hand. Casey stood, liberated from years of manipulation, seeing through the facade for the first time.

If not for the crowd, Roy would have erupted into laughter, a laughter he hadn’t known he possessed. Instead, he contained himself, letting only a faint, nearly imperceptible smile curl his lips.

“You are my biggest disappointment, Casey,” Roy began, his voice a knife cutting through the silence. “You could’ve been great. The best of the best. You could’ve been me. But you chose mediocrity. You chose a life. Worse, you chose to live in fear and struggle. Now, you are neither the best nor a good person. You’re mediocre at everything you do because you chose to. You could’ve had the world, but you were too afraid. You’re a confused child. One unworthy of my time.”

He turned his back on Casey, his final words trailing behind him. “I’m going to take a piss. Even my urine is more important than you.”

Casey’s fists clenched at his sides, his mind a storm of rage and sorrow. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to purge the demon that was Roy. But as he watched the old man shuffle towards the bathroom, unnoticed by the very people who came to bid him farewell, a new understanding settled over Casey. Roy was a disease, an egotistical parasite who would never comprehend the world beyond his own reflection.

With that realization, a profound peace washed over Casey, a sense of liberation he hadn’t felt in decades. The chains that bound him to Roy shattered, and he could breathe again, deeply and freely. Roy might have claimed the last word, but Casey knew he had won something far greater: his freedom.

A smile broke across Casey’s face as he turned away and walked out, finally unburdened.

The end

2. Writing: scratch

Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash

In the quiet moments of writing, I find a peculiar joy when the narrative flows effortlessly from mind to page. The voice, the tone, the characters—they converge harmoniously, painting a vivid tableau of imagination. This joy, this feeling of being in sync with your creation, is what keeps us going as writers. It’s a reminder of why we started this journey in the first place. Yet, there exists a different allure in the struggle—not in the struggle itself, but in the knowledge that every word, every sentence, is malleable, subject to deletion and transformation until it fits just right.

Recently, this notion was vividly illustrated in my journey with a short story destined for submission to BLANK SPACES, which vividly demonstrates the struggle to find the right narrative path. I had a clear vision but struggled to find the narrative path that would do it justice. If you are a paying subscriber, you’ve glimpsed this subject in my recent writings; if so, bear with me as I delve deeper into its intricacies.

Initially, I embarked on the story from a first-person perspective, adopting a gonzo journalism style. Yet, as I progressed, doubts crept in—I sensed the narrative slipping from my grasp. A pivotal shift to the third person finally destroyed my enthusiasm, prompting a ruthless excision of nearly five hundred words. Undeterred, I endeavoured to introduce new characters to imbue the tale with a voice and tone that resonated with me, the one that made me erase the journalist. But again, the connection faltered, my efforts stymied by an impostor syndrome that whispered of eventual satisfaction. It never arrived. I obliterated 1,500 words.

Frustrated yet undeterred, I recommenced my narrative odyssey, salvaging only a fragment from my previous attempts. Yet, this time, inspiration found me unexpectedly in the midst of an unrelated article from THE NARWHAL. It illuminated a path where disease intertwined with environmental impact, breathing life into characters and conflicts that had eluded me until then. This unexpected inspiration is a testament to the power of the writing process. It shows us that ideas can come from anywhere and that we just need to be open and receptive. From the first sentence to the last, clarity emerged—a testament to perseverance and the willingness to start anew.

Such moments, where creation aligns effortlessly, are undeniably magical. Yet, equally enchanting is the liberating act of beginning anew, of granting oneself permission to discard what doesn’t resonate and pursue what does. The written word can be unforgiving, breaking our hearts with its imperfections. But therein lies its most incredible gift—the ability to forgive, to grant countless opportunities to craft and reshape until the story feels true.

So, as I reflect on this journey, I am reminded that amidst the pain and joy of creation, the power to start over is a gift to cherish. The words we wield are both our harshest critics and our staunchest allies, offering redemption and renewal with every stroke of the pen. There’s something magical when everything clicks on the first try. However, giving yourself permission to start over has an even greater magic. The words can be ruthless, and your stories might break your heart more often than not. But remember, you have the power to scratch that—the feeling and the words—and begin anew. The words may hurt you, but they’ll also forgive you. No mistake is unfixable, and no time is wasted. Allow yourself to start as many times as you need. The words will grant you what you seek, but only if you ask.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.