Novel Title: Haven’t even named the narrator. . .  but it’s being kicked around the office now under the name “The Great DLM Rip Off.”
Estimated length: The length of perfection my friend, the length of perfection.  I’m kidding.
Your writing experience: I don’t actually know how to write but I talk into my dictaphone like it’s my best friend.
New genre? Or old favorite?: I ‘unno.  Fantasy, urban fantasy?
Any sub-Genres?: I don think so.
Gonna publish?: Ha!
Cliches/archetypes you’re including (not necessarily a bad thing!): Stick it to the man and fake bums.  Crazy peoples.
Cliches/archetypes you’re avoiding: Romance and why NYC rocks/sucks.
Theme(s): Stickin it to the man.  The man is beyond death.  The man is awesome.
What we (the readers) will learn: Some of the historic background of political machines and immigrants.  Essentially, this is a story centered around a major power similar to political machines that jump immigrants fresh of the boat and give them soup!  SOUP!
Main character(s):  Unnamed narrator (f), Brendan, Abandon.
Secondary characters: Chance and Kip.
Protagonist(s): Unnamed narrator, Brendan, Abandon .
Antagonist(s): Chance, Kip, and all the other dead and alive.
Setting: New York City in the winter probably.
Rough geography: Manhattan ha ha.
Races/inhabitants: People alive and people dead, dead divided up by COD.
Fantasy aspects: The dead people.
Conflict:  Our heroes as it were haven’t got an affiliation and are effectively up against the system.  That’s man vs society.  Then there’s the weather, so it’s man vs nature.  And then there is like they don’t all get along with one another or the people of the system, so it’s man vs man.  There are more but eighth grade English was a long time ago.
Obstacles in the journey: The greater power of the system.  The environment.  The problem of being dead and still unable to cope with problems.
Expected resolution: The man wins cos the man is the shit.
Having just trivialized my plot, I’m even more excited.

The big thing I got in class was- should Eric be wearing, instead, a Clash shirt? I think it’s too much, but there’s no reason whatsoever for him to be wearing a Stray Cats shirt except that he was in the short story form.

Here’s the preview, the rest is below the cut.

Two weeks ago, I’m up there at the end of Mass saying, (with drained enthusiasm) ‘Buy tickets for the Italian Federation Dinner. Be nice to Protestants, for chrissakes. Pick up a copy of the bulletin. They tell me Father Felix is a pervert.’ They all keep sleeping, then they read it in the paper the next day and then we get the phone calls.

October 10, 2006

Characters:
Eric: Wears Dickies slacks, an old Stray Cats shirt, and Adidas. Appears unreliable and amiable.
Father Dorian: A Roman Catholic priest, in collar. Handsome and with a bearing that suggests selfishness and sarcasm.
Father Francis (Frankie): About Eric’s age, also a priest and also wearing a collar. Looks sincere and carries himself just short of shy.
Stan Jacks: Wears jeans and a casual button-up shirt. A reporter.
Place: Small room, suggestive of a friendly interrogation room, with a folding chair in the center. Behind the speaker is a large mirror.
Opening Scene: Dorian sits on a folding chair in the middle of the room.

Dorian: Listen, I’m more worried about Frankie, who found Felix all nice and dead the other day. Felix is out of this. I need to worry about now. I’ve got a reporter camping in the rectory asking me all sorts questions like he knows the ending of the story and just wants some supplemental material, maybe some quotes to take out of context. (Waits as if being asked a question, then nods) I saw him before he went to bed. (continues to pause as if questions are being asked throughout, answers in appropriate tone) He figured the charges would be proven false, things would go back to normal for him. (pause) No, not of the staff. Sometimes Eric goes up to make him tea when he calls down for it, but that’s never later than nine. (testily) Nobody killed him, if that’s what you’re asking. (Pause) The parish? They don’t pay enough attention. Two weeks ago, I’m up there at the end of Mass saying, (with drained enthusiasm) ‘Buy tickets for the Italian Federation Dinner. Be nice to Protestants, for chrissakes. Pick up a copy of the bulletin. They tell me Father Felix is a pervert.’ They all keep sleeping, then they read it in the paper the next day and then we get the phone calls. Then last week it’s, ‘Now you all remember that Felix was a pervert? Doesn’t matter, he killed himself, as if– wait for it, kids– to implicate himself.’ (long pause, Dorian appears to be listening to a speaker) So what? Then he’s a dead one.

(Dorian leaves, Frankie is in chair)

Frankie: (sits as neutrally as possible in the chair, pauses occasionally as if he hear a question) This reporter came the week after the announcement, a few days before Felix died. We didn’t want him to talk to Father Felix. (pause) Did I like Father Felix? What’s that mean? I worked with him. I had him in high school, he taught me Spanish. He wasn’t a great teacher, but he wasn’t bad. My friend, Eric? Always in trouble with Felix. Usually funny situations, but Felix accused Eric of cheating during the final, junior year, I think. Didn’t help his transcript. Eric might have cheated, though. He has problems focusing. (uncomfortably) He’s a compulsive liar, too. He just spent the last two weeks breaking– going into a friend’s apartment in Burbank to use the phone to call the repo man about his car. I’m telling you because they got it, finally, so I guess it didn’t work. But– you want–? Oh, yeah, the reporter did talk to Felix. He was really, like, in your face. Aggressive. So I wonder if he got to Felix. I’m not saying he’s Nancy Grace, but he made me nervous. Probably would do damage to Felix. He was eighty-something. Ninety, maybe. His hands shook and he kind of– there was always saliva around his mouth. (pause) No, I don’t think he’s in Hell for killing himself. (in a small voice) Everyone always assume I’m really into Hell. Nobody every asks me if I even think there is a Hell. (pause) I don’t understand what you’re– did he molest boys? I thought you were investigating the suicide. (pause) I don’t know if he did. I’d like to believe he didn’t. The reporter asked if Eric or I might possibly have been molested by him and then repressed, suppressed?– the memory. Eric said, well then we wouldn’t know, would we? For some reason, it got to me. Maybe the function of memory in general. But maybe it was, I guess, the possibility. The reporter suggested, also, that Felix might have been taking the guilt for a higher-up, then killed himself to sort of seal the deal, as it were. I didn’t like that. Eric turned to me and said, ‘Would you do that for me, Frankie?’ and the reporter just ignored him after that.

(Frankie leaves, Stan is in the chair)

Stan: (leans back in his chair, one arm over the back, like a movie director) I went down to the church on the Tuesday before the suicide. I spoke to the three priests and the groundskeeper, who told me that Felix was a practitioner of Santeria but he was out golfing with the monsignor. Those are his exact words. I think he’s some sort of special case, they hire people like that, sometimes, and I think it’s a great policy. Good for them. (pause) No, Father Dorian wasn’t any help. Not to be disrespectful, but now that Felix has killed himself, I’m really excited about this piece. I did a huge article on the Black Dahlia anniversary last year for the California section, maybe you read it. And I’m not hardboiled; I’m a nice guy. I can spin it for St Finn’s while describing a proper, non-sensationalized investigation into the charges that Father Felix molested children during the 80s and 90s and then killed himself when it caught up with him years later. I already have the moron working in the garden to win some “aaw” factor. Maybe he’s repressing memories. (pause) My god– and then the church hired him to keep an eye on him? That’s a good suggestion. (pause) Who said that? (stress on the “that” to indicate it’s unrelated to any previous statement) One of the priests probably. I already told you I interviewed Felix, I wasn’t beating him. He was fully cooperative, even friendly. He made it clear he wanted to sort the whole thing out. (patiently) Yes, he denied all the allegations. I was nice about it. I didn’t push anything. I actually got most of the information before I spoke to Felix, from Francis– Francis was it? Yeah, Francis Riordan. That one, the one who found him. He’s a little too passive for his own good. Wasn’t until the groundskeeper came around that he dried up. The two of them had Father Felix in high school together, that sort of thing. (pause) Do I think that either of them were molested? I already said what would be good– I’m sorry. That that would be a good place to start in this investigation, in my research. We’re on the same side. You know, another good direction is that he did molest the groundskeeper, Eric, and then Eric killed him. He’s the caretaker, right? He has access– (stops abruptly, then continues angrily) Don’t tell me to leave policework– don’t you say ‘experts.’

(Stan leaves, Eric is in the chair)

Eric: (to the floor) Goddamn, but linoleum is easy to clean. Okay. (looks up, straightens, wiggles around in his chair) I’ve been working at St Finn’s for about two years, better part of two years at least. Bouncing around jobs before that. Educated at the community college level, then on to assorted workplace environments. My buddy Frankie got me this job as caretaker. Yeah, I mean, I’m a lucky s.o.b.– good pay, not too tough, a room. I mean, I hafta clean like a little bitch, but maybe I am a little bitch. (pause as if being spoken to, during pauses, looks around the room) No? Okay, Father Felix, he taught me in high school. Four years of Spanish, man. I think I wore this shirt in his class, now that I think about it. The man hated me. You think he molested kids? He’d probably be weird and creepy, right, like a pervert on television? He wasn’t. He was just mean. One mean man. I got more pink slips than. . . than. . . (crosses his legs and picks at his shoelace irately for a moment) Okay– dude was old. That’s probably what it was, too. Took his pills, forgot it was Monday, took the Tuesday pills ten– no, two minutes later, maybe hit up Wednesday five minutes after. He had one of those labeled boxes with the days of the week, I had to put the pills in on Sundays. I’d be like, Father, your pills are all sorted out, they’re on the counter where they always are, next thing you know, he’s after me going, ‘Eric, where’d you put my pills? What if you mixed them up? My life in your hands? Where they at?’ (pause) So they’re one-hundred percent that it was the pills? (nods to or acknowledges unspoken confirmation) Don’t know if I buy into mortal sin, don’t know if I buy into much. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a properly guilty, God-is-dead Catholic, and I love my dogma more than I love my car. (Glances around room, says in a trailing voice) I guess. (clear throat) Actually, when Dorian told me about the charges, I wasn’t too upset. (pause as if listening to a question, answers appropriately) No, I don’t think he did anything. My heart isn’t going to break, is what I’m saying, if it turns out he did. Though I guess he might have hurt people. But you know what’s funny? He’s dead. It’s as good an out as any. (Pause) Well, I mean, what’re you asking? If he molested kids a million years ago, or if he really did kill himself? What’re you trying to find out? Cos I think he did kill himself. I think he did it accidently, like a whoops-type of thing. I already said that. If he didn’t kill himself on purpose, it’s going to be a lot harder to prove he was guilty. If he did kill himself, still doesn’t mean a thing. The man was two hundred years old. He was about to die anyway. Who’d want to spend the last three months of life dealing with shit? Forget the suicide and mortal sin deal. Priests should know better. (pause) I don’t know. I wouldn’t know. Here, you want something that’ll help your case? Best I can give you is– “I believe in this and it’s been tested by research” Yeah, yeah, you see where it’s going. “He who fucks nuns will later join the church.” See? It’s backed by science, it establishes precedent. It says he skipped into the Church with an inclination for naughty. I mean, hey ho let’s go, y’know? You should look into that.

very much a professional disclaimer: oooh- I own this and it’s all by me. Thanks for stoppin by dude.

Since I did so well with this the last time around (. . .) I’m trying it out again.  I’m trying to decide what story to use, see how far I get.  Anyway, I got my snazzy little icon, so I know I’ll get like 50,060 words by the end of the month.  I’m thinking of posting the progress here, along with the other stuff I’m working on.   We’ll see what happens.

The next day, a reporter came round to write a bigger and better piece on Father Felix. Dorian made a sour face from the doorway of the rectory kitchen, where he’d been leaning against the frame rolling a cigarette, and said, “He’s dead, so what?”

The reporter looked like he was going to stick that in the article.

There are a few problems with this fella- I feel that the reporter is short-changed character- and sympathy-wise, I feel that it’s a little too not PC, enough so that I don’t feel comfortable having not done my research (though I’m excited to go see Deliver Us From Evil, even though I’ll probably have to trek down to see it. . .).

This started out involving characters who have been in other stories- Dorian Cringe who is from a fantasy/urban/modern thingy, and Eric and Frankie, who are in a realistic fiction piece I wrote over the summer. I was writing this piece on Thursday night with the intention of submitting it to my creative writing class- I went- “I’m gonna write a mystery, and since I’m watching Father Ted, I’ll put priests in it. Duuur.” I went ahead and put in 2 existing priest characters, started writing, and it all went downhill and dissolved into a story with too much dialogue and most of that is bad jokes.

Every character is severly overexaggerated. I changed Eric and Frankie’s names to Anthony and Tommy, which looked too weird, so they’re back to normal again. It’s between changing the names or the personalities as represented here, and I’m unwilling/too lazy to do either. Everyone is a caricature of their character as presented in other stories, though Dorian isn’t as bad, he’s just more breezy. Eric is too spacey and goofy. Frankie is the furthest from his original character- he’s designed to be a calming presence, and here he’s just a helpless dude. This is set later in their history, when Eric has finally gotten a steady job working at the parish, so we could assume something happened to Frankie and he got all small and like a character in a Smiths song.

In all honesty, my main thing in writing this story was getting that Clash lyric in.

Story after break- feedback appreciated (I can’t figure out how to get rid of the e-mail req, so please leave it at the corresponding Xanga post- what a mess, right?!)

Father Felix’s Dead!
Abstract: Father Dorian and Father Francis decide to team up with Eric the caretaker to figure out who killed Father Felix.

Father Felix’s actual obituary had been overshadowed by an exciting article in the California section about the circumstances– how he’d been found dead, suicide through pills, and how he’d been accused of molestation the week before. Dorian had made that announcement the week before after each mass, per policy. The Italian Federation Spaghetti Dinner is this Tuesday, buy tickets, et cetera et cetera, and now I have some serious news– Father Felix is a pervert!

The three sat in the kitchen of the rectory, staring at the linoleum.

Eric finally said, staring into the floor as if it was a bottomless pool, “Goddamn, but linoleum is easy to clean.”

“I’m going to have to go up on Sunday and be like, hey guys, I have another serious announcement. You remember how Father Felix was supposed to be a pervert? Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, because he’s dead, which you probably know because you all get the paper.” Dorian was a sarcastic, selfish, and a fundamentally good man, too handsome to be a priest and too aware of it.

“Maybe they don’t all get the paper,” Eric tried, giving Dorian a wan smile.

Dorian said, “Yeah, cos I’m all about surprising them.”

Francis was gangly and quietly friendly, so it was left to him to say with real concern, “Do you think he killed himself?”

“Probably,” Dorian said. “Or, maybe I should say that I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Frankie traced his finger along one of the flowers on the border of the table. “So you think that means he did it?”

“Did what? Kill himself? Or molest a kid a million years ago?” Dorian asked.

“Yeah, he was old, wasn’t he,” Frankie murmured. It had been difficult to express any sympathy or sorrow, and this one comment, said in a low voice, seemed to be the one time it would come through. Like a good Catholic, Eric figured on an afterlife that he didn’t believe in, and the brief twinge of sympathy came from the fact of death rather than the victim.

Frankie screwed his face up, and the effect was to make him look queasy; his face was too fresh and scrubbed-looking to look repulsed. “I didn’t like him much.”

“God, I hated him,” Eric said in a rush that ran thick with relief.

Dorian laughed and said, “Why?”

“Shit, man, he’s been here since like– Teddy Roosevelt, or something. I had him for history every year in high school. He was like, whoa– boring. And like, whoa– mean sonuvabitch. Like, who can be that mean and that boring at the same time? Usually when somebody’s mean, they aren’t boring, but he was both.”

Frankie nodded, admitted, “He got set off easily.”

“Noticed that,” Dorian said. “And yeah, he was mean. But, guys– he’s dead.”

“Yeah,” Eric said, now unfeeling, having gotten all that out of the way.

“So you think he did it?” Frankie asked again.

“You know what they say,” Eric said, nodding with lackadaisical conviction.

“What?” from Dorian.

“He who fucks nuns.”

“He fucked nuns?” Dorian asked with some amount of interest, if not glee.

“No, I mean– you have to fuck them, and then you join the church.”

Dorian looked to Frankie for explanation. Frankie had a layered look on his face; his eyes were wide and semi-shocked but his lips were sucked in to keep a smile down. Dorian said, “Huh?” and the short, embarassed laugh burst out of Frankie.

*

They tramped up to Father Felix’s room, which had been under investigation for both the suicide and the abuse allegations.

Frankie said, “I don’t think we’re supposed to go in.”

“Oh big deal. There’s none of that caution tape.” Eric blustered in and commented, “It still smells like him in here.”

Frankie hovered in the doorway.

“What’re we looking for?” Dorian asked, stepping in past Frankie.

“Evidence,” Eric said. “I’ve cleaned this place hundreds of times, but I never saw porn or anything.”

“That’s the evidence? He doesn’t even have a VCR! What’s he going to watch it on?” Dorian shook his head as he looked around the room. “We’re not going to find anything. And just because somebody watches porn– doesn’t mean shit.”

“Yeah, shouldn’t we be getting ready for Mass, or something?” Frankie asked nervously.

“There’s a VCR downstairs,” Eric said belatedly.

“Yeah, and you’re always using the television to watch football.”

“Except it’s not football season,” Eric shot back, and lifted up a book from the windowsill. He read the title aloud, “The Holy Bible.”

“Maybe there’s porn in there,” Dorian said. “Maybe he’s got the pages cut out and he’s filled it up with turn-of-the-century postcards, like that woman with the horse. Maybe he read Song of Songs a lot.”

“I don’t know why you have to be sarcastic all the time,” Eric said. “I saw this Law & Order episode once, and the priest they were accusing of molestation had porn for therapy.”

“You know what, guys?” Frankie said, with strength, though he didn’t look directly at Dorian or Eric, but at the wainscoting on the opposite wall.

“What?”

“Let’s just stop. I feel weird being in here, looking for things. If he killed himself, it’s probably because he was getting old. If he didn’t, it’s also probably because he was getting old and forgot he took his medicine already. Either way, it doesn’t matter– why does it matter? Because it was suicide? Do you two believe in Hell? Because I don’t. It’ll figure out, we haven’t got anything to do with it.”

“Frankie’s asserting himself!” Eric crowed.

It seemed so impressive, they all went back downstairs.

*

The next day, a reporter came round to write a bigger and better piece on Father Felix. Dorian made a sour face from the doorway of the rectory kitchen, where he’d been leaning against the frame rolling a cigarette, and said, “He’s dead, so what?”

The reporter looked like he was going to stick that in the article.

Frankie was saying morning Mass, so the reporter wandered round to the back, where Eric was staring at the rosebush at the foot of the dirty Virgin Mary statue. He wore black Dickies, a yellow Stray Cats t-shirt that looked like a stray cat might have slept on it, and he held a pair of gardening shears.

“Do you work for St Finn’s?” the reporter asked.

Eric didn’t move. “Yeah. Our gardener is on vacation this whole month, so I’m supposed to trim the rosebush. Do you know how to trim a rosebush? Are they even supposed to be trimmed?”

The reporter shrugged.

“So what’s up?” Eric asked, turning round and seeing the reporter. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Stan Jacks from the Times,” Stan said. He held out his hand.

Eric took it. “Cool name, why’re you here?”

“I’m looking to write a more in-depth piece on Father Felix.”

“Yeah, he died,” Eric said with patience and a sympathetic hand gesture. He was giving a go at earnestness, but Eric never managed to look less than a little too unreliable.

“I’m wondering if he really killed himself. Catholics are notorious for their stance on suicide.”

“So’re terrorists and samurai. You gonna interview them too?”

“I’m sorry, this may be a bad time. Off-color jokes are pretty indicative, and I understand you just experienced a loss. Can you just answer a few questions?”

“Off-color would have been if I had said what kind of terrorists they were and where the samurai were from. But I’ll answer all your questions. I’m one of those people who takes telephone surveys.” Eric plunked down on the bench by the statue.

“Do you think Felix killed himself?”

“Nah,” Eric said.

“Why not?”

“Because he was a Satanist. Satanists are even more notorious for their stance on suicide than the Catholics.”

Stan blew his breath out in a small, flat stream. “Where’s the monsignor?”

“Golfing,” Eric said. “He’s a Satanist, too. Or something. Did you talk to Dorian yet?”

“I got a few questions answered.”

“Okay, see, here’s my problem with this article thing. Now Felix was a mean, mean, nasty old man, so if you spin it in his favor, I’ll resent you. But I’m a St Finn kid, true and blue and whatever, so if you don’t spin it in his favor, I’m going to hafta resent you, too.” Eric stood up and let the shears rest against his chest like it was a music instrument and he was waiting for his cue. He was shorter than Stan, who was tall, and he said up to Stan, “Go talk to Frankie or something.”

*

The reporter found Frankie doing his best to explain to the altar boy and girl how to clean-up after the service.

“It’s okay to pour the water down the drain,” Frankie said.

“But it’s holy water!” one of the kids squealed.

“It’s a special drain,” Frankie told her quickly. “Don’t worry. Actually, okay– how about this? Why don’t you go make sure the altar cloth is straight, and I’ll wash the decanters.”

The kids skipped off. “I think that kid just played you, Father,” Stan said.

“She played me?” Frankie asked. His sparkling eyes showed something akin to genuine concern, either over the phrase or the possibility.

“I’m Stan Jacks, I’m on staff at the Times. California section. You might have heard of me, I published the controversial Black Dahlia article last year.”

“Oh yeah,” Frankie lied, convincingly. He liked to make people feel as important as they thought they were.

“I’m interviewing the St Finn staff, and I’d like to ask a few questions.”

“Will this article be controversial, too?” Frankie asked, just short of uncertain.

“Depends what I get. Though I have to ask, is your gardener some sort of special case?”

“He’s on vacation right now. But he has some kind of permit.”

“Oh, well, then– is you caretaker some sort of special case? Because that can play up a great sympathy angle for the church itself.” Stan wasn’t particularly hard-boiled.

“You mean Eric? No, there’s nothing wrong with him.” Frankie’s growing confusion was clearly marked on his face.

“He said Father Felix was a Satanist.”

“Oh. He wasn’t.” Frankie’s brow took on a strained quality and he looked guilty as he said, as if he didn’t want it to be true or as if saying it made it true, “Eric’s a compulsive liar, that’s why he can’t keep a job or anything else. The repo guys took his car last week, after he kept calling them from an apartment in Burbank, saying he lived there. I don’t even know how he got in. He’s been even more obnoxious since.”

“Oh. I’ll get to the questions, then.” Stan clicked his pen and suddenly, said questions were shooting at Frankie like wasps, or the arrows that zoomed in on and into St Sebastian.

“Father Felix this?”

“Father Felix that?”

“Father Felix when?

“Father Felix who?”

And most importantly, “Father Felix why?”

*

“I think I told him too much,” Frankie said miserably.

Dorian, Eric, and Frankie stood on the steps of the back porch of the rectory. Stan got in his car and started the engine. He thought happily, That priest told me a lot, and patted the notebook that he’d thrown on the passenger seat.

Eric waved and then said breezily, “Oh, I should have totally taken his spark plugs, like in that movie with the nuns! To keep him from telling the secrets Frankie spilled.”

Dorian looked down at Eric, who continued watching the car as it turned out of the driveway. “You know, Eric, it’s like you’re always drunk. Especially during work hours. Is Whoopi Goldberg in that movie?”

Eric said, “Sound of Music, dude.”

For a moment the only noise was the traffic slipping by, and all the honking.

“You think he was really from the paper?” Frankie asked. “He asked about the gardener.”

“He has a permit,” Eric said quickly. “I saw it.”

“He’s a citizen, you stupid racist fucks,” Dorian set tightly. “He was born here.”

“You really think Stan was with the IRA?” Eric asked Frankie, to refocus attention.

“Yeah, Frankie thought he was an Irish terrorist,” Dorian said, shaking his head. There was a quick pause for rumination. “Don’t worry about him, guys,” he continued, before Eric could jump back in and try IRS before he discovered the INS. “Clearly he was Satan in sheep’s clothing.”

“Yeah, he had a wool sweater on,” Eric giggled.

“Do you have to?” Dorian asked sharply.

“Sent to test us,” Frankie said, uncommitted, picking up from before Eric’s interruption.

“And we fought him off,” Dorian finished. “Good job, kids. Let’s go inside.”

As they went up the stairs, Eric said, “Father Felix was always too old to molest anybody, anyway.” / “Who owns a wool sweater out here, anyway?”