Thread: 01/12/10 - Gone

Hello, Dear Writers, and welcome to your next LM. Your challenge for this round is:

Gone
“The most important thing in the universe is gone. I think I know who stole it.”
In 500 words or less (not including the title), use the sentence in quotation marks as the first sentence, or inspiration, or grind it up and make tea out of it. Prompt courtesy of Leyline.

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers’ Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers’ Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges are welcome to participate but their entries cannot receive a score.

Submissions will be accepted until midnight my time, Jan. 26th (2 weeks)
Judging period: Jan. 27th - Jan. 31st
Results will be posted on or before Feb. 1st (my time)

Good luck, everyone!

Your judges for this round are:
Moderan
Leyline
ppsage
Hawke

"The most important thing in the universe is gone," Plumb remarked as he absentmindedly tamped his pipe with a blackened thumb. "I think," and at this his left leg gave an appreciative twitch, as of a dog in pleasure, "I know who stole it."

"B-But, Doctor," I huffed, both arms ensnared in the damp, messy business of taking off my raincoat, "I haven't so much as told you my problem. Damn these confounded buttons! I mean to say, excuse me, as well recommended as you came, might you not leave it to me, well at any rate initially, to determine the nature and worth of quite what has been stolen..."

"NONSENSE!" ejaculated Dr. Plumb forcefully, so engulfing his own head in a vast and bilious exhalation of fumes. "I know! Oh, I know. It is quite clear to me that you have come by train from Exeter, see here where that distinctive Devonshire ferment clings beneath your fingernails, the eleven o' clock, if I'm not mistaken, and damned if you didn't make it here for noon!"

"Sir!" I protested, finally dispensing with my coat, "But Sir! I rode my bicycle from Chambers Street, just ten minutes thence! Besides, there is no station hereabouts, and it's gone six in the evening!"

"NONSENSE!" Let forth Plumb, rearing up with a wild look in his eyes, his left leg now spontaneously pounding out an involuntary waltz in quick-time: one-two three, one-two three. "Preposterous!"

With that the latent knowledge that I was in the hands of a patent lunatic made itself apparent as does fire to a wood, and I scrambled for my recently discarded and suddenly beloved outdoor apparel.

The door clicked. And again. Plumb's left leg had migrated to an offbeat polka which he accompanied at intervals with the sharp metallic sounds of the door lock fastening and unfastening. For minutes he appeared utterly immersed, seeming sometimes to utter under his breath "My mind, my mind," hunched by my only exit wearing a rictus of terrible joy and bewilderment.

At the first movement of my foot, the barest separation from carpet, all became still. Silent. He glared at me with unfocused menace, fumbling again for the end of his pipe. "I think," he said, cocking his head, "I know who stole it."

Disclaimer:

Contains some inappropriate language

　
A certain loneliness haunts his despondent eyes and blank stare. His every muscle is given to lethargy; his body still on the cold, wood floor. The silence feels emboldened. For Jake, hell is an empty room and locked doors. Hell is isolation. The most important thing in the universe -- Jake’s universe -- is gone.
　
His ears stiffen in attention at the clop-clop-clop outside the door. When the mailbox rattles, Jake surely knows the thief. He launches himself at the window -- a barking, snarling, growling frenzy of terror incarnate. Terror works. A terrified man will abandon a nefarious plan. Curtains tear and the rod comes down on his head. He flops and thrashes free of the tangles. He hops up, paws on the sill, ears flat and teeth bared, looking for the thief.
　
The mailman has fled.
　
There’s no sign of his owner. Jake lets out a soft whine and hangs his head in shame.
　
It’s that gum-snapping paperboy. It’s that shifty tabby. Outside the kitchen window, the squirrels invade the yard. It’s always those damned squirrels -- sneaky, beady-eyed, little rodents -- nicking nuts and burying them dangerously close to hidden bones. Cretans! Conspirators! All thieves returning to the scene of the crime.
　
With each new suspect, certain of their guilt, Jake does his best to strike terror into them. He barrels through the rooms to each window. Kitchen trash litters the floor. Potting soil peppers the window sills. Newspapers and magazines fly off their tables. They’re the casualties in his quest for his owner’s safety.
　
After each foray, Jake mopes in failure.
　
The most important thing in the universe is still gone.
　
When hope has almost waned, an engine halts. Familiar footsteps resound. Jake bounds to the door. The exuberance floods him. He’s back! He’s back! His pride swells -- the policy of terror has worked!
　
The door opens. Jake leaps and dances.
　
This is joy!
　
Ecstasy!
　
My pack!
　
“Aw- what the f*ck!” comes the greeting.
　
Jake whimpers, tasting blood as the fist lands on his nose. He yelps at the boot thrust into his ribs. Scurrying under the table, Jake shivers with fear. With pained eyes, he watches every mess set right as his owner drinks and grumbles. He glances to his dish and the door, but doesn’t move. The table and chairs feel like a cave. They feel safe.
　
His owner comes to the table, but Jake can’t see his face, just a hand thrust into his haven. Jake sniffs and gently takes the milkbone between his teeth.
　
And there he sits trembling, as his owner flops onto the couch and flips on the TV.
　
Under the comfort of the table, he drops the bone to the floor. Jake sets his head between his paws and his chin on his treat. A certain loneliness haunts his despondent eyes and blank stare.
　
Soon enough, the shaking will stop.
　
The most important thing is the universe is back.
　
The most important thing.

Apathetic Pursuits

"The most important thing in the universe is gone," my sister confides to me as I idly flip through the channels on the television. I give her a blank stare, which she translates as permission to continue. “I think I know who stole it.”

I sigh, wondering if I have time to drink my soda before she continues. I sit on the couch with my fanta and keep flipping. Maybe something good is on.

“Don’t you care who stole it?” she insists. She’s like a gnat.

I shrug, because I don’t.

“Then I won’t tell you,” she says, crossing her arms in a huff.

I could be amused, but that’s too much effort on my part.

She shifts slightly beside me, her fidgeting making it she’s dying to tell someone. It’s really starting to irritate me because her moving like that is making it difficult for me to space out. “If it’s that important,” I say grudgingly, “I guess I might want to know.”

Giving me a smug ‘a-ha!’ look, she says, “Do you now?” in that tone of voice that means she’s going to rub it in my face for asking.

So I do the only sensible thing. I tell her, “Not if you’re going to act like that,” and turn back to the t.v.

“Well,” she says finally, “it was stolen.”

I blink. It doesn’t even merit a response, since she’s already said as much.

“But it’s okay, because the creature that stole it can’t possibly know that it’s the most important thing in the universe.”

Somehow, my sister’s managing to make what could have been a slightly entertaining story sound dull. “And why’s that?” I ask, feeling like I have to oblige her. Maybe if I oblige her, she’ll go away and let me drink my fanta in peace. I didn’t ask her to sit with me anyway. Doesn’t she have any friends?

“See, the reason for this,” she says, “is because the creature that stole it is a raccoon.”

I wonder if she realizes how stupid she sounds, going on about raccoon thieves. Ah, here’s a good channel. It seems like comic relief might just be the thing for me since my sister is doing such a bad job. I set the remote down beside me and try to focus on the comedian.

But, of course, my sister isn’t finished with her story yet. If she thinks it’s a story. “So the raccoon that stole it doesn’t know that if he takes it into the middle of the Grand Canyon, the universe will self-destruct. So, like I said before, it’s okay, because the raccoon has no idea.”

I turn around to her; finally fed up with the weird things she thinks passes for good entertainment value. “Kori,” I say, “I’d like to watch this. Could you please go away?”

She pouts at me, but gets up from the couch. I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank god that's over.

“He took it!” My grandfather’s voice echoed down the hall. “Don’t you look at me like that, I know he took it. He stole it from me!” I picked up my pace as the shouting got louder.

“Mr.Cooper, please just calm down.” The younger nurse must have been new; she made the mistake of grabbing my grandfather’s arm.

“Now look young lady, I have never struck a woman but you better get your hands off me or I’ll take that bed pan and-“

“Grandpa!” The nurses seemed relieved by my well-timed arrival.

“Perfect! Just the man I wanted to see… Well get in here boy, we’ve got work to do.” I motioned to the nurses that I would take care of the situation, the nurses made no argument.

“Work? What’s the matter Grandpa?” I braced myself for another anecdote about how his equally ornery neighbor has been secretly bribing the nurses to ignore my grandfather.

“He took it, he stole it from me, and we’ve got to get it back before that old bag of bones breaks it.”

“Who took it? And what did he take?”

“Don’t play coy with me, you know who! That damn Alfred has everyone else fooled, but not me.” Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I waited for him to get to the point. “He stole my git-fiddle.” He crossed his arms as if I should know what the hell he was talking about.

“Grandpa, I don’t know…”

“Git-fiddle, git-fiddle!” He pointed to the empty guitar case on the floor.

“Ah ok, so your neighbor Alfred, who can barely get out of bed, came over here and stole your guitar?”

“Don’t patronize me, boy!”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry. Why don’t we go over there and ask him about it?” Grandpa paused to ponder this seemingly novel idea.

“Hm… I suppose it could work, but he won’t give it up easy. Better take my beatin’ stick with me.” He reached for a cane with dog tags dangling from the handle and then slipped into his jacket.

“Grandpa, we’re just going next door, I don’t think you need a jacket.” Grandpa smiled and pointed to the words “Colonel Cooper” emblazoned on the breast pocket.

“Just to remind him who’s boss.” We slowly made our way down the hall as Grandpa hobbled along on his cane. When we arrived at Alfred’s closed door, Grandpa opened it without knocking.

“Take it easy Grandpa…” He strained to stand up straight and walked into the room. Barely one step into the room, he stopped moving. His gaze fell on a framed picture, turned face down on the dresser.

“She’s gone, Colonel…” Alfred’s voice was almost inaudible. Grandpa took off his jacket and pulled up a chair to Alfred’s bed. He gently laid his hand on top of Alfred’s, their matching Screaming Eagle tattoos almost touching.

“Did ya come to beat my ass for takin’ your git-fiddle, Colonel?”

Grandpa just laughed and squeezed Alfred’s hand.

The Spirit Searcher

The newspaper reported that the crime wave centered in New York was spreading outward, slowly but inexorably. It was mostly petty crime; family disturbances, breaches of the peace, road rage fights, incivility that escalated into violence. The authorities had no explanation for the phenomenon. One police chief remarked that people didn’t have common decency anymore, that modern man had lost his soul. Patrick smiled and shook his head. Patrick knew that wasn’t true.

After all, Patrick was The Spirit Searcher, star of the popular reality show of the same name. Patrick investigated paranormal sightings for the sake of the television audience.

But he didn’t rely on dramatic mediums, jumpy pseudo-scientists stumbling around in the dark, or static-garbled sound recordings. The Spirit Searcher had the etherium camera. A camera which recorded souls, ensconced within the bodies of the living or free-floating, disembodied spirits haunting the earth after death.

The phone rang. It was Patrick’s producer.

“About this crime wave . . .”

“Yes?”

“I want to do a special episode. Let’s go to New York. See if there is a paranormal explanation. Unhappy spirits, affecting people on a mass scale.”

“But-“ Patrick began to protest.

“No buts. It’s already arranged. This is big. Bring your A game.”

The show’s researchers found a former orphanage where girls had reputedly been abused and murdered. That was where The Spirit Searcher began his investigation. He turned on his camera and asked the local historian about the legend.

“Something’s not right,” Patrick muttered. The historian did not have a soul. Neither did the building supervisor. Patrick turned his etherium camera on his own crew. They all had souls. But their souls were slowly unraveling. A tiny strand of etherium snaked out from each crewmember, flowing across the room and through the wall. Patrick’s own soul was unraveling the same way. Patrick ran out of the building and aimed his camera at the people on the sidewalk. None of them had souls.

“What’s the matter?” asked the second camera operator.

“The most important thing in the universe is gone.” Patrick’s mind raced through the possibilities. “I think I know who stole it.”

The only other person who knew of etherium was Dr. John Niewohner, who discovered it and invented the etherium camera. Patrick had been his research assistant. Patrick called NYU. Dr. Niewohner was gone, retired.

Patrick hailed a taxi and anxiously directed the driver, following the trail of his own unraveling soul. He had to reverse this process, to return the etherium to the people it had been stolen from. The trail led to a warehouse. Patrick ran inside. A huge metal apparatus sucked in innumerable tiny strands of soul.

“Brought my camera back, hotshot?” Dr. Niewohner asked.

The last wisp of Patrick’s soul left his body, sucked into the machine.

He grabbed the scientist’s throat and squeezed.

“I don’t know what your scheme is, but you’re cutting me in on it, old man. Or I kill you here and now.”

The most important thing in the universe is gone. I think I know who stole it. I think it was my neighbor. I awoke one night to an uproarious cackling coming from the room above my own, the one wherein he lodges, and though I tried to ignore it I could not find sleep rest of that entire night, and so decided that morning to confront him and question his manners, as well as offer a fair piece of moral sense. But before this, I intended to get breakfast, and so left my room to the streets around the time when the small cafes open.

Mind you, my suspicions of the universe’s prime importance being lost did not occur to me in the night, as I tossed and turned with indignation, but rather when I saw the men and women before me. They sloughed across the surface like corpses emerged from graves fresh, uncertain where they headed. Cars remained still within the streets and inside their doors I saw the same dejection and sadness; drivers stared ahead. A woman on a park bench broke into tears. A man nearby stared at her; then fell to knees and cried as well. The window of the exact café I had been heading toward shattered suddenly and broke into tiny sands upon the pavement — as if to the call of a siren hundreds of denizens began to scream, claw, and kick their neighbors.

I knew immediately then what had happened and rushed home, threw aside all pretense and burst through my neighbor’s door. Startled, he fell from a chair on which he had been sitting and knocked from a neighboring table a box wherein the universe’s most important item was sealed.

“Give it back!” I cried.

“Ah! But why should I give it?” He thumbed his nose at me and cackled.

“Because it isn’t right!”

“‘Isn’t right!’ Oh, youth and its silly moralities!” He slapped his thigh with such force that a crack spread through his palm and exuded a stain of blood onto his cloth. “Tell me, why do you think it should be returned? For what purpose does the universe need it?”

“Without it we’re nothing!”

“The universe is nothing!”

“But it’s all we have!”

“For what reason was it obtained?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t.” At this he slapped his thighs that blood began to spill from his hand in such torrential haste I feared he might fall from loss. “Here,” he said. “Take it; see if they listen.”

He did an odd thing then: like a father to son he smiled, and upon handing me the bloody box turned and fell into a deep sleep. I ran to town and opened the item. The people crowded round like insects to light. I didn’t know how to begin. I showed them what had been lost, to see if they had recognized its absence. Some stirred, smirked, a look of cynicism abounded. I talked best as I was able.

The most important thing in the universe is gone.

Experts say it might be gone for ever – that there’s little chance of it coming back. I didn’t believe them at first. Nobody did. As a matter of fact, even when we finally admitted it was gone, I wasn’t totally convinced it was all that important.

I remember about three months after the accident. It was early and I was walking alongside Lisa in the park. It was empty, cold and silent. I can’t remember my reason for being there, or why I might have chosen that day in particular – but I remember turning to Lisa and breaking down. I remember crying on her thick woollen coat. I could feel the air in my lungs jump up and down, and my head losing weight.

She said something.

All I sensed were the vibrations of her words as I burrowed myself into her coat.

After I stopped, we went home. Lisa tried to ask me what the matter was. Whether it was about the accident or not – I said nothing.

*

For the first few weeks I even set my alarm.

I hadn’t expected it to be so hard. For one, I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t been the only victim of this cruel heist. There had been thousands, if not millions of people who were suffering because of their loss. I look back now and wonder if they’re going through the same thing as me – and if they’ve realised too.

I still open my eyes each morning and attempt to fool myself that at least I can see the ceiling above me. I fake a smile when Lisa comes round each afternoon; tell her that I’m feeling okay – that I’m coping.

It’s easy to lie when you don’t have to listen to the accusations.

*

I was never told everything.

I think it had something to do with a gas pipe. I was on the bus home, fiddling with my headphones, desperate to drown the sound of explicit school children at the back.

There was no warning. No build up. Each and every person on that bus was blinded to the fact that they were about to experience something life changing.

The last thing I heard was ‘Fuck Mr. Harrison’ before the explosion lifted the bus, and my eyes and ears were engulfed by the blast.

*

Lisa didn’t stop asking. She shook me, pushed me, even waved frantically at me, but she didn’t understand – and she never would.

Fuck you Mr. Harrison.

I breathed deeply and entered what felt a dream. I got up, Lisa stumbling back in surprise, and walked towards the stereo sat in the corner. Slowly I turned it on, and it blurted out music that filled my ears and danced inside my head. I felt free - like someone had finally unlocked the handcuffs.

Then I wake up. I’m still staring at the stereo, watching the disc spin as its plays.

I hear nothing.

Nothing except silence.

*

This was a lot of fun....

Drink Slowly