Lateralus

Did he really die at the end? The implication is that he lives out a full life in his condition.

Did you read the book? Yeah, I read it a few years ago. I didn't much care for it, but the idea is horrifying.

Yeesh, necro.

http://www.usingenglish.com/resources/letter-writing.html That should clear things up for you.

Johnny Got His Gun.

I think I'm slightly more respectable. Not because my opinions or manners are any different, but because nobody here has seen me fall or vomit in a drunken stupor.

Ah, forget it. Locked.

If you'll edit this so that there's some kind of discussion or something for people to reply to then I think we can keep this open. Otherwise there's not much to it. I'll give you a little time to have a rethink, but if it stays as is I'm sure one of the board moderators will lock this.

Yeah, I went as Kubrick's Alex. A Clockwork Orange is one of the few cases where I'd say I preferred the film to the book.

Really it could be anything. It would fit in to just about any piece of realist literature. Isolation and the importance of the self are themes that pop up a lot and there are hints of that here.

They look gorgeous to me and I like the idea behind them.

I think the point is that you can choose how you act, but it's very difficult to choose how you feel.

I have to say that your tolerance despite supposed side-effects is admirable, but I have to wonder how you can be so sure that it was the weed. 18 is still young in the grand scale of things. Maybe you just turned into a forgetful guy because that's what happens to some people. Of course it's also possible that it was the weed, I'm just saying that it's difficult to be sure.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall. God, I need to meet a woman I don't hate. (Pretty, too)

I'm sure Google will provide an answer. Sorry, this is not the place for it.

Ah, I forgot Halloween was coming up. I'll need to find a party. I almost always have the best costume, despite throwing it together at the last minute. My 'Alex' from Clockwork Orange is so good I almost ended up beating people to death with my stick when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

It's flattering that you're worried about my mental health, but the risk is mine to take - Not yours. Have you read the list of side effects for most legal drugs?

A government that legalises weed is not going to continue a war on tobacco. I'm sure the ban in public places will stay, but they're never going to ban it completely.

You're right, of course. The entire point of the story is that not only will the narrator not learn anything about why he's held captive, but that he can't. Still, he tries. I don't know if I accidentally suggested I was going to explore the circumstances of his captivity, but if I did it was a slip of the tongue. Thanks for reading and commenting.

Thanks for the kind words. If I do develop this it's more likely to be in a novella form than a series of short stories. I had originally planned to include extracts from some of the booklets in the room in the story, but I didn't have any characters or scenes in mind, so I left them out. If I turn this into a novella it will probably be a confessional and a self discovery - More of the narrators own back story and his reactions to what he's read in the booklets.

Currently having day old chinese takeaway (chopped chilli beef) and a beer. Life is good.

The ending does fizzle, I agree, but it has to if you understand me. I think I can flesh it out to explain it better and make it a bit more grandiose and give it a kick. I like the character addressing the reader. I think that kind of indirect speech helps with the characterization which makes the narrative flow a little better. I do agree that the beginning doesn't have as much substance as the second half (ish) does, but I think that's quite often the case if you just spill your guts in one sitting. It just took me a while to get the ball rolling. Like I said, I'll try to flesh the whole thing out. Thanks (both of you) for reading.

First draft of a (very) short story. I woke up at about 6am with this idea and wrote it straight away. This is all done very quickly in one sitting, and I am still a little groggy so I hope you can forgive discrepancies or mistakes. It needs an edit of course, but I'm quite happy with the concept. Anyway... ------------------- I am placed in a curious circumstance. You might call it a pickle. Don't be fooled by that light hearted comment, for I take this very seriously The thought merely came to me and seemed appropriate. I suppose my tone is irrelevant, because it does not matter how I come across, or if I come across at all. Struggling against indifference is so difficult sometimes, but allow me to try. I have been brought here against my wishes or will. If this is a punishment, then I am unsure of what my crime is, though I believe I have committed many. Where is 'here'? Ha! Were it that simple. That question occupied me for a long while, as it did the others before me (and I will get to them). Ultimately, I cannot say where 'here' is. At best I can tell you that there are four walls (one with a door), a ceiling and floor, a writing desk, and a chair. It is not as bad as you might imagine. All the necessities are taken care of. Food is provided through a sliding panel in the door, and, though there is no bed, it is not so hard to get comfortable and sleep. Surviving is no great difficulty. Perhaps I am too hasty though, and I have neglected to mention one other item in the room. Hanging by a nail on the wall opposite the door: black, sleek, highlighted by the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling; a handgun. I have positioned the chair at the writing desk so I am facing it at all times. Colt. Patent date. Hartford Connecticut. Yes, I've studied it. How could I not? This undesirable but singular means of escape surely fascinates everyone from time to time. Placed in my situation you would do the same. Still, I've done so little to explain... But there is so little information! Once, I awoke, and I was here. I think I was somewhere else before. I'm almost sure of it. Vague images, sounds, smells swirl around in my mind, but whether they are history or invention I cannot say. They are becoming clearer as the days go by and as I continue to write them down (for this is one scrap of paper among many). Again, I suppose it does not matter. There was a note on the table when I first came to my senses. Sit. Write. Or use the gun. One bullet. Next to the note was a stack of paper and a pen. This was the extent of my instructions. One wall of the room is covered with pictures of those who were here before me. Some are old and grey, looking as if they have died of old age. Of these, two different kinds of death mask can be seen: Peaceful, and horrified. I can't be sure of what causes this distinction, but perhaps I will find out. The others have used the gun. Of course, you can imagine the effect these documents of suicide had upon me. Time is sweet anaesthetic however, and now I can look without recoiling. Though, there are a few which I still cannot stomach. Shots fired into bellies, arms and legs. I can't be sure, but I imagine them as schemes designed to summon help. Slow deaths, crying for aid in a long and hopeless rattle. These plans must surely seem ill advised to you (as they do to me), but there seems very little room for rationality in a place such as this. I might crack at any moment. On the other side of the room are neatly bound bundles of paper. These papers are the combined efforts of the ones who came before, with each writer's work bound and separated from the others. I once counted all of the pictures on the wall and then counted all of the booklets of paper. I hope it won't surprise you to learn that the booklets were very few by comparison. What is contained in the booklets? Many pages such as these. Some are unremarkable and I quickly put them aside. Others contain such depth of feeling and clarity of thought that they cause me to bloody my fists on the door or push the gun hard into my temple. I don't know if it's cowardice or quiet acceptance that has saved me so far. You might be surprised at my calm language. Believe me when I say that it was a long time before I could put pen to paper, and I began by colouring entire pages black. After this I wrote down a series of questions and slipped them under the door, but there was no response. For hours I would push notes under the door containing nothing but the phrase Why?. I have come to accept that I will receive no answer. So, why indeed? Have you put yourself in my shoes? The gun, isn't it tempting? Please, put it down. Read a while longer. I'm sorry to say that even though my stay has been lengthy, I still have no answer for you. Why? Why not? I say! Sitting at my table, I look up and I see my gun. I look left and see the pictures of those who came before me. I look right and see the bundles of paper, and I know they belong to the faces that smile peacefully at me from their pictures. So I will sit and I will write, if only to bridge the gap between the number of pictures and the number of booklets. If you are reading this then I am sad to hear that you are facing the same situation I once did. Look to your left, and look carefully. If I am right in my thinking, then my face will be among the smiling. Perhaps I will struggle a little wink, just for you.

The effectiveness of the legislation here is the issue. Everything is a cost/benefit analysis. Stairs and toys and cigarettes are such a massive part of life that it would be impossible to get rid of them, but what you can do is implement safety measures to restrict the possibility of accident or injury. Catching someone not wearing their seatbelt is much easier than catching someone having a sneaky cigarette in their dining room. The likelihood of being ejected from your car and killing someone is not where the weight of my argument lies, it lies with the following. Fair point, but what about hospitals? If tobacco and unhealthy eating were banned, don't you think hospitals would have a lot less on their chests too? If they wanted to minimize pressure on emergency services, why do they allow millions of people to get cancer? I think the difference between killing yourself from smoking and killing yourself from getting in a crash is money. They get money from letting you smoke. They get money from making you wear your seat belt. Tobacco and alcohol are always terrible examples to bring up. On the face of it they look like fine arguments, but I'm sure entire volumes have been written on the myriad reasons why tobacco and alcohol are likely play large parts in society for a long time, and why they are exceptional circumstances that just don't submit to normal reasoning. People will not have their cigarettes and alcohol taken away from them, but they're likely to budge on the issue of seatbelts. I like your defence of individual freedom very much, but I think this is a case of picking your battles. Wearing a seatbelt is just a sensible thing to do. It's not great that the government will fine you for not doing it, but neither of the extremes of the argument are desirable. On one hand we will see an increase in freedom and an increase in road accidents and traffic jams (no seatbelt fines), and on the other we'll be losing out on freedoms and therefore enjoyment (seatbelt fines, no smoking, no drinking). Wearing a seatbelt is a point I am happy to compromise on. Really the argument is not worth the time.

The purpose of the fine is to protect other people and try to minimise pressure on emergency services and road crews. It's closer to the ban on smoking in public places than it is to a blanket ban. In both cases (seatbelts and smoking in public places) the general public are being protected, not the individual. I agree with you that it's a very sad case that consideration for others has to be legislated, but unfortunately that is the world we live in.