Proto-character

My most recent short story was abandoned because I wound up not liking the content. Instead I’ve switched to heavy pre-writing for my second novel-length piece of writing. Typically, I wouldn’t share pre-write content, but this is kind of fun.

Recently I had the chance to hear Ivan Doig speak. Doig is a National Book Award finalist, a cowboy, and is by his own admission in danger of becoming a prolific writer. A central element of writing he discussed were “crystalline details.” They’re the kind of description you read that tells you more than sensory details. They’re the calloused hands of a working man, overly-touchy greeting of a politician, and nervous nail-biting of an anxious shut-in. Okay, they don’t always have to be about hands.

At the beginning of my story in its current draft, the main character, Chess Connor, returns to the dying hometown he barely made it out of and runs into a bad memory: Seth, the best friend that nearly led him to a life on the wrong side of the law. Without spoiling Seth any more, here are some of his crystalline details. See if you can tell what kind of character he is. Enjoy.

Physical appearance

·      Tan, sharp eyes, expressive, thick beard.

·      CAT hat, working shirt, heavy jeans, workman’s Romeos, bowie knife on hip, suspenders.

·      Differences from when Chess knew him as a kid—lined face, still has a dirty complexion, same wolfish grin, burgeoning beer belly.

·      Sharp smell of heavy sweat around him, smell of a dirt road, beer on his breath

·      Chess wrote a story based on him when he was starting out as a writer. In the meeting he notices that he appears almost exactly as he pictured him. Seth mentions this on first meeting. It’s the only one of Chess’s stories he’s read.

·      Takes off his hat to soak it in water and splat it back on his head, hawks and spits frequently, kicks up dust when other people are talking, stands either square with hands on hips and feet apart or with arms crossed and head cocked.

·      Speaking style: uses imperative, very few complete sentences, hits final words like they’re an accusation, eyes constantly scan up and down other person’s body as he speaks.

Favorite foods

·      At home: primarily microwaved meals.

·      Gets burgers/fast food and leaves the containers around endlessly.

·      Drinks water when working manual labor, but nowhere else.

·      Owns a lot of plastic drinking cups.

·      Favorite place to eat out is a burger place in his town. It’s greasy and messy with a sharp, tangy flavor, but he can only afford it once per pay period.

·      Eats NO vegetables.

·      Drinks “nutrition” (protein) shakes.

Eating habits

·      Quick

·      Acts like there’s no one else at the table

·      Licks fingers

·      Burps

·      Sniffs and wipes nose.

·      Outsider would think he hadn’t eaten in days.

Favorite…

·      Books

o   None.

o   Guns ‘N Ammo mags.

o   Auto Trader.

o   Plenty of porn to be found lazily hidden in his home.

·      Music

o   Country western.

o   Likes to sing along in his truck.

o   Thinks every song is about him, even though he’s never had a family, steady job, or a dog.

o   Owns a guitar but never learned more than a couple chords.

·      Movies

o   Watches a lot of action movies. Every time he finishes one he waits for someone to challenge him to a fight.

·      Board games

o   Poker. Does it just to bet, and will look for ways to bet on things that aren’t poker. Very likely to offer you $5 if you can spit farther than him.

Hobbies

·      Things that make him feel “country:” donuts in dirt pits, shooting guns, going to fairs/rodeos

·      Gets old scrap and takes it apart sometimes. Thinks it’s making him a machine aficionado, but in reality it’s just copper to sell.

·      Watches enough TV to leave a distinct shape on his couch.

Crystalline details are a really cool thing to read for. If you look for them in some of your favorite characters you’ll find tons, especially in popular and fun works like Harry Potter and Star Wars. If you can think of any crystalline details or detail categories like I have above I’d love for you to leave a comment so I can steal your ideas.

Iron

I wrote this for a creative writing class taught by Alex Kuo. Reading back through, I can tell I was trying to impress him. Parts of this are inspired by actual history. Every sentence in italics during the last section is quoted from the actual Assyrian king's records. History is hardcore, but I tried to make the language pretty. Enjoy.

The Pillar’s Growing Shadow

By Joe Sudar

            The earth is rich; red silt, thick as paste before the mortar touches it. Many decanters of water drink greedily into the clay, dozens before a mold can be set.

            The Artisan grins, content in the cool shade. Dust swirls around his hands in the water, droplets of caked mud clotting and sinking to the bottom.

            A scarlet finger points into the sky. Sunset takes its umbra out many times its height, a shadow that dominates the city of Bit-Halupê, new jewel in the new crown of King Assur-Nâsir-Pal. The Artisan’s apprentices leap and bound along the scaffolding, grooming the walls from blank canvas into mural reliefs— sunken, carved tales of the valor of Assyria.

            Never before has The Artisan raised a tower in a single day. Iron cut the red clay from the ground of Surû Valley in minutes, sawed and nailed the scaffolding without a single pause to sharpen tools, spread mortar on the hawk and dug out reliefs as fast as they could be imagined. The King of the Whole Four Quarters of the World commanded it to be, and by the gift of his wisdom and the mighty tools that he bestowed, it is.

            The Artisan draws his hands from the water, clean and fresh. Tonight is one for feast and celebration, to enjoy the prizes from the fall of Bit-Halupê. There is tribute to be had, too much to interest a simple clayworker and his charges, but which would buy food, drink, women, and new iron tools to work easier and quicker. Conquest, will of the almighty Urta, chief of the gods, and right of King Assur-Nâsir-Pal, is profitable indeed.

            Whips snap and shout. The Artisan spins, prepared to bow should the Sun of All Peoples have come to witness the pillar without his herald. It is not the king approaching.

            Soldiers goad the herd with iron points. The godless animals mill, bleat, and push, but cannot break the column for the sharp black teeth that hem them together. The Artisan feels bile bubble, scorching the base of his throat as the herd is driven towards the pillar, into the opening that he was commanded to leave at its base; the nightmare maw leading to the gut of Assyria’s newest jewel.

            The iron spears form a briar wall that keeps the animals from fleeing. Hands reach and scrabble, barbarian voices plead, moan, scream, curse, and bargain with deaf ears that cannot understand their language. The chief soldier, marked by a black iron band upon his head, barks at The Artisan, commanding him to seal the hole.

            The Artisan signals up to a pair of apprentices upon the scaffold who stand, dazed, with iron tools dripping wet red clay to the ground below. Let them close the maw. He has had red enough on his hands today.

*

            The Tanner pours slowly. Thick, hot drops fall, one at a time, cooling as he guides them with steady hands. Silence builds in his right ear and he moves the tallow to his left, pouring again. The world fades, muffled and warped as under water.

            His knife hardly needs the whetstone. This black metal is far superior to bronze. It  holds an edge and makes minutes of an hour’s work. All the same, The Tanner runs grit along each side of the curved edge. Three passes along the right, three along the left.

            Leather, it’s only leather.

            First pass of the knife feels as though it’s cutting wool. Three cuts and the leather falls away in a sheet. Glistening red meat, rippling back muscles marbled with fat, lined by gristle, quiver beneath. The Tanner wipes the curved edge against his apron, left and right. Black metal is strong, but rusts just like any other. Three more passes of the whetstone, each side, to keep the edge honed.

            A single slash strips the haunch. A few more cuts and it is lain bare, another piece for the pile. A dozen passes more, unbroken slashes severing tendon, fascia, blood vessels, as though he were cutting hair. Minutes, and the beast is naked. Soldiers take him down from the rack, leading another immediately after to fill his place. The black metal smacks its chops greedily against the sharpening stone, ready to continue.

            Leather, it’s only leather.

            Muscles rend and tear before the knife, gushing blood in spurts, washing over the Tanner’s hands like water from a fountain. This one is young, plenty of life and strength left, years ahead of him.

            No, just leather.

            One of the rack’s cords snaps and a fist knocks into the Tanner like an angry ram. Soldiers rush forward and tame the ram as the leather worker scrabbles away. Setting his jaw, he picks up the knife and passes it over the whetstone again, three times on the right and three on the left.

            Stopping his ears with wax is helpful, but some of the screams get through all the same.

*

            Unto Urta, the powerful, the almighty, the exalted, the chief of the gods, the valiant, the gigantic, the perfect, whose onslaught in battle cannot be equaled, the firstborn son, the destroyer of opposition, I bend knee and tilt head, your humble servant, for the life that you have given me today.

            The Soldier rises from the idol, backing away with head still bowed. Almighty Urta gifted him victory, unmarked and uninjured today, but the gods are fickle and may choose to take such a boon back.

            At the center of the conquered barracks is a table crowned by the spoils of war: lamb shanks, fresh ground barley bread, wine, honey, beer, all the things that a soldier wishes for in the hours after a battle.

            No one has touched it. Victory sweetens the honey and salts the meat, but the screams from outside the barracks foul it like writhing maggots.

             The Soldier knows screams and the faces that go with them. When a man screams like a lion he snarls and gnashes teeth, sword, and spear. When he cries like an eagle it is because another’s claws have found him. When he sounds like a hyena it is because he has lost his hackles and chooses to flee from death and honor. When a man whimpers, moans, and cries like an orphaned pup suckling at the teat of its dead mother, it is because he has no hope.

            Outside the barracks is a sea of pups, whining and begging for their mother’s love. Bit-Halupê will be dead in only a few hours, soaked so red that the sun’s last light will seem to linger after it has sunk for the day.

            Iron is to bronze as a needle is to cloth. The shepherds conscripted into the golden metal battle lines of this morning may as well have sent their flocks for all the fight that they gave Assyria. Even the walls, thick red clay, fell to adz and hammer as the Soldier and his brothers roared and gnashed as lions. Before the iron points of Assyrian spears the bronze armor that had kept the city’s dominion over this valley for years were as useless as coats of wool, but at least on the field they had the choice to do more than whimper.

*

            Red clay stoppers the hole. As the screams muffle, the Scribe tells himself that the stylus in his hand is shaking from the cold in the tower’s growing shadow and the onset of night, not from a waver in his conviction. The inscriptions on the wet clay tablet jut and snake, twisting the words. A record-keeper of the King Without Equal must make no mistakes. Every sentence needs to be rewritten until it is clear and artful.

            One hundred aND—

            oNe—

            One hundred and fiFFt—

            One     hundred—

            One hundred and fifty men, sealed within the pillar.

            Orders pound off the clay walls. The Scribe looks up from his tablet. Ropes snap and flick from the pillar’s top, stretching out to the eager hands of iron-clad soldiers on the ground and down to the base of the scaffolding. Thousands of stitches strain. Three hundred pieces of hand-cut leather rise, billowing in the wind. The soldiers heave and grunt until it rests at the top, a cloak to show what victory for Assyria means.

            The Scribe forces his eyes onto the tablet. He only needs the numbers, not the sights. His stylus scratches steadily along the face, sure and careful. Red specks float down on the wind. They settle like snow on his tablet, hand, clothes, hair, eyes, tongue, painting the Scribe until he matches the pillar.

            ThreE hundREd SkInNeD—

*

            King Assur-Nâsir-Pal watches the tower breathe, swelling and undulating, framed by the sunset.

            Hammer strikes chisel behind him. Chisel cuts grooves into stone, a new stele to rest at the side of his governor, who would rule Bit-Halupê in the days to come. A herald speaks with the King’s voice to the masons, guiding their hands so that the stone itself will tell the story of the day’s victory to all who look upon it.

            I built a pillar over the city gate, and I flayed all the chief men who had revolted, and I covered the pillar with their skins.

            Assyria could not balk. Breaking a lion’s gaze upon the plain is a mistake that is only made once. It is no different among the conquered and the conquering. Men will tell stories of the Assyrian rage that swept over Bit-Halupê, of the way that iron swords cut the city down in the span of a day, but the truth would only echo for as long as the story was told. If a new rumor spread over the land, the truth could change. The pillar could not. Anyone who saw it would know what transpired, and thus it need only transpire once.

            Some, I walled up within the pillar.

            The King had known hunger as his people had. There was a time when gleaming soldiers clad in bronze would descend upon them in the riverlands, taking tribute on merit of strength, leaving mouths empty. Now the men inside the pillar would know the darkness of having no hope. They would know the despair of feeling their bodies waste away for no reason other than another man decreed it so.

            Some, I impaled upon the pillar on stakes.

            When he was just a boy, the King witnessed the discovery a man who had been left nailed to a tree by a bronze spear. His hands had worn down through skin, flesh, until the gleam of bone showed from the effort to free himself. The King saw the man’s widow weep and his son tear at the bladed tip of the spear to free the corpse. For every night that the King had not slept for the thought of the terror that bulged through the dead man’s eyes, he would leave another to suffer the same fate for the same sake; cruelty alone.

            My power and might I established over the land of Bit-Halupê.

            The truth of the words was there. No matter what else was said, no one would doubt the will of Assyria.

            I received tribute from all the kinds of the land of Lakê—silver, gold, lead, copper, vessels of copper, cattle, sheep, garments of brightly colored wool, and garments of linen, and I increased the tribute and taxes imposed them upon them.

            All powerful Urta had willed it to be so when he gave the gift of blessed iron. The land would answer for everything that had befallen the people of Assyria, and mighty King Assur-Nâsir-Pal was the instrument of this will. With iron in his hand, he would lead his people from the flooded valleys and into the shining cities of the men that once trampled them under foot. Upon each victory he would place a pillar and write upon a stele, until the shadow that had stretched over them for so long reached back onto the ones who had cast it.

Delusion, Chapter 2

Here's Chapter 2 for Delusion. We get to know Jimmy, our little-brother-in-distress and The Witch, our villain. I'm not sure how much more of this I'll post on the blog since I still have hopes of marketing it some day, but if someone would like to read the whole thing send me an email (jmsudar@gmail.com) and we can talk. Enjoy.

Chapter 2

“Here’s to not having to do our jobs.”

Dave raised his glass, sealing Edwin’s toast. As a college town in the middle of nowhere, Pullman had no shortage of bars. Rico’s was one of the few in the city where graduate students and faculty outnumbered undergrad patrons. Craft beer filled the air with the scent of hops, malts, and roasts. Off in a corner, the four burly paramedics sipped whiskey sours and tried their best to fight their natural urge to party like athletes. The ambulance driver watched them, sipping a ginger ale, having a vicarious good time.

            “So, how are things at Eastern?”

            “Not much in either direction since you left, Dave. We still have little fits of apathy in some of the staff, but luckily they’re enough of a minority that we can make them take vacations to recharge. It’s nothing like back in the seventies.”

            Dave nodded his approval and shot his beer to drown the memory of the time his friend referenced.

            The doctors had gone to college together, done medical rounds together, and finally wound up at Eastern one ward apart. In their graduation pictures they looked like the same person with a few details tweaked. Once Dave left Eastern, the details sharpened. He’d avoided Edwin’s growing bald spot. Beneath a button up shirt Dave kept a trim figure while Edwin had the type of gut that earned adult-onset diabetes. Every morning, Edwin took a chemical cocktail to fight heart disease while Dave had orange juice. Dave kept the same glasses prescription while Edwin’s grew into telescopes. It was the price Dr. Harrison paid to add ‘Chief of Staff’ to his credentials.

            “So,” Harrison ran a finger around the rim of his glass, “are you going to make me ask?”

            Dave took another drink. “Ask what?”

            “There’s my answer. Who was that young woman that got Buddy to take his medication?”

            “She works at the clubhouse.”

            “That’s what she does. Now who is she? I’ve never seen anyone talk a delusional client out of their own head when things are going to hell like that. Is she some messianic grad student? Freud reborn? Sherlock Holmes with a psych PhD? What?”

            Dave drained his glass and clinked it onto the bar. “She’s Rebecca Collins.”

            A three-inch thick file folder opened in Harrison’s head. “Collins?”

            “Yes. That Collins.”

            “Jesus. I never would have recognized her.”

            “I know.”

            Harrison sat back and finished his own drink. The rest of his questions went unasked. Most of them disappeared, but one remained. It itched as he shook hands and farewelled Dave. He continued to wonder as the ambulance crew loaded up and started the drive home.

            The question was, how long would it be before Collins, Rebecca, appeared in his caseload at Eastern?

            They left Pullman full of beer and glad that it was the only thing they were bringing with them. The highway led them away from the Snake River Canyon, where Rebecca twitched in her dreams. At a fork, the driver (sober as a bird and bitter as if he were caged) noticed the sign marked “Colton”, urging them to take a right. He kept to the left. The name was familiar to him, but only as another eastern Washington small city that he knew nothing about.

            The first thing he didn’t know was that Colton was a city of numbers. It was a line item to the state budget committees. Population, less than two thousand. Percentile for revenue profit, eleventh. Poverty level, seventy-five percent. Budget priority, bottom ten percent.

            Most people knew of Colton as a landmark. “Keep going twenty miles past Colton… You’ll see Colton on the left… The big building over there? That’s part of Colton…” Very few people knew what the city produced. They assumed it was another farm community, even though the land had fallowed decades earlier. Even fewer knew how the city was formed, as the entire story fit in a single volume crammed in the basement of the city library, which had burned down. No one bothered to spare it a thought. Just another tiny eastern Washington city.

            City was a generous term. Huge expanses of rocky, sun-punished ground stretched between the clusters of buildings where people lived. An old factory, a coal power plant, and a shipping warehouse gave the only hint of work within the city, and they were all shuttered with plywood and chained up doors. The only business was the Colton General Store, selling off-brand products at welfare prices.

In the fifties, a few Coltonites who understood that their home was dying reached out for life support. They pooled money, polled and campaigned, then built piers, shipping, and fuel supplies for traffic on the Snake River. For one glorious quarter, money flowed into the city. New jobs appeared, working with sailors who had plenty of stories, servicing ships the size of buildings. Rumors spread, saying there was work in some place called Colton.

Then the dams came. The river dropped, and the shining new port rose high away from the water’s edge, perched on bone-dry pylons. The city begged for more money to rebuild, but by then the rumors had died and they were a number again, droning in monotone about their budget priority.

People left. Education grew costly, drink grew cheap. The good people, the ones who wanted to keep their home and see it thrive, found themselves outnumbered ten to one by people on government money who believed in ‘good enough.’ Colton kept existing as a landmark past a mysterious road sign.

Twelve grain siloes marked the eastern edge of the city. They rose from the ground in a straight line, a picket fence. Ten of them held dust. One held grain. New power lines piped electricity into the last silo. Inside, spotlights lit the cement and metal interior. It was spotless, but the stink of grain dust lingered, infused into the interior. A mattress and a few blankets sprawled near the door. Cords trailing from the wall led to a microwave near a pallet of bottled water and a freezer filled with boxed meals. A toilet and sink jutted from the corrugated steel nearby, fed by bare copper pipes.

            Green and red lights blinked in the darkness past the living area. Two-dozen computer towers dotted the floor, arranged in clusters connected by a labyrinth of wires. The coils joined into arteries that led to a monitor, casting a white glow against the far wall.

            Jimmy Collins proofread lines of code on the screen. The information bits sketched pathways made of glowing light in his mind. They twined together into a net, then twisted into a pattern. He checked and double-checked, then looked out to his computer towers. The pattern knit between them, strung in beams of light. The image in his head matched the image on screen. Time to see if it worked.

            Doctors called his condition synesthesia, the blending of one sense with another. For some people with it, the taste of bacon sounded like a pleasant hum while liver screeched like a scratched chalkboard. Others smelled blue and yellow and red, and when they were unlucky, gray. Tchaikovsky, the famous composer, saw patterns in music as lines of color on the staff, which danced across the page and through the air as they were played. Jimmy also saw color that played, expanded and created, but his instrument was the computer. His colors were code.

            He pressed enter and the code began. The first tower glowed, light filling it from bottom to top like water filling a glass. Before it overflowed, a beam shot to the next tower. It filled and spread to two more. The light doubled again and again, until the net he’d seen in his mind glowed in front of him. When the last tower shone, the net doubled back on itself, twisting, and the pattern appeared.

            Tendrils of light writhed upwards. They met into the air and spliced like a rope. It contorted into one knot, then two, then four. The light divided and knotted in an endless pattern, growing more intricate as seconds ticked by, but there was no originality. Nothing more than what he programmed appeared.

            He hung his head as the code ran its course and the light dimmed. It had been beautiful, it had been intricate, but it led nowhere. The experiment was a failure.         

            Something landed on the metal roof above him. Skittering taps echoed through the silo. It was the sound of talons. He glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen, and realized it had to be dark outside.

            The Witch had come.

            He hit a kill switch with practiced speed. The towers went dead. The monitor flashed white and blinked out. He barreled underneath the computer desk into a rat’s nest of wires.

            Above, the steel whined as a claw scored a line in the roof. She was hungry.

            Deep crimson glowed in the blackness of the silo. A beam of light, red that darkened into black spots, dangled from the ceiling. It’s end twitched like a cat’s tail, then swung through the air. It animated into a tentacle, prehensile, that swept against the corrugated walls of the silo. It probed between the computer towers. Jimmy saw himself in its glow as it tapped the ground inches away from him. He pulled his legs in and wrapped his body tight. It crept closer. He could almost hear her licking her lips, breathing rapid as she sniffed him out.

            She was cruel, but not smart. He had to play along, let her think she was winning until he could get away.

            His left hand dug into the computer cords on the floor. He found a tight one and looped his arm into it. When it was a twisted skein and his veins ballooned blue out of pale gray skin, he waited. White-hot tingles moved up and down the suffocating flesh, sounding the alarm that it was dying.

            A whimper crawled up his throat and escaped into the air. She smelled it. Drool ran down the corners of her fanged mouth, falling tat tat tat onto the roof. The red and black light below thrashed in excitement.

            Aching, throbbing, stabbing hurt coursed out of his arm and bled into his lungs. He choked it out as red mist that floated up to her. She breathed deep.

            His mind retreated to sanctuary as his body screamed. He saw whitish blue light, uncurling in spirals that drifted through the air. A whisper crept out of the light and settled over him, warm.

            And here you are.

            Needles of pain proved too much for Jimmy Collins. His screams echoed against the steel walls, filling it to the brim. Outside, she sucked at the mist in his screams. Sated, she grinned with pointed teeth and melted back into the inky night.

            And here you are.

            The whisper sounded in time with his heartbeat as he freed his arm and soothed the hurt. He shut his eyes and saw the whitish blue light, listening over and over until the pain had left enough for him to think.

            And here you are.

            Soft thoughts turned hard. The whitish blue light darkened into cobalt. It uncurled, rail straight and needle thin, pointed at the end like a stiletto. Code that made light like blue daggers traced in front of his eyes. When the time was right, he’d use it, but that time hadn’t come. Fighting was a risk he couldn’t take until his work was done.

            The night’s code was a failure but his formulas were solid. All he needed was new input, enough to give the push that would bring the light to life. One person stuck out in his mind as smart enough to give that input.

His left hand pulsed with stinging blood. His right took a smartphone from his pocket. The message he needed to send hovered in front of him. He blinked, and the message turned to ones and zeroes that shimmered, green and red. He transcribed them, one at a time onto his phone and pressed send. The string of red and green light trailed up through the ceiling and out into the night.     

            The Witch loomed in the sky, framed by the moonlight. There were more meals for her in Colton. She flapped her wings, scanning the city below, searching where to send her light next.

Twinkling greens and reds traced by her in a line, heading away from the city. She growled, talons flexing at the sight. Someone was taunting her, but she couldn’t read the light and she’d never know who it was. She was cruel, but not smart.

            In his silo, Jimmy made a bed in the tangled wires, clutching his throbbing arm close. He drifted off to shallow sleep, thinking soft thoughts again.

Somnambulism

This was a semester end assignment from a creative writing class at WSU. At this point in my writing I was imitating Rod Serling (it's hard to go wrong with that). It's another piece that represents where I've come from as opposed to where I am, but the few people who've read my writing still list this as one of their favorites, so enjoy.

Somnambulism

By Joe Sudar

            “I’m going to record this conversation. Is that alright with you?”

            “Yes,” said Berger, “actually I’m glad you offered. I need a record of what’s happening to me before it gets serious. When they find me crushed in a cement mixer there will at least be an explanation for the police.”

            Skinner nodded but said nothing. A good psychologist knows not to support or dismiss a client’s delusions. His job is to provide objective analysis of any potential psychological disorders. He clicked play and record on his pocket tape recorder and set it on the table between them. Its reels whirred in anticipation.

            “Every night for the past two weeks I’ve had the same dream,” Berger began, his textured hands woven together on his lap, “and every night it has become more and more vivid. The first thing I feel is panic. Something horrible has happened, or maybe is happening, I don’t really know.”

            Skinner nodded again, scribbling a single word onto his notepad:

            Panicked

            “I never see or hear a single thing. It’s not just darkness, it’s like there’s nothing there at all; it’s just empty around me. I never go anywhere or do anything, I only ever remember that terrible feeling. It’s horrible, like having a knotted rope pulled through you. Every pull makes me panic more and more, and I feel this urge to do something to stop it but I have no idea what.

            Motivation for action

            “That’s not the half of it either: I’m sleepwalking. That’s not much I know, I’m sure you’ve had a hundred clients with little kids walking around at night but you haven’t heard anything like this.

            “The first time it happened was last Sunday night. It was also the first time I had the dream. The terror felt as new and horrible as an open wound. I woke in clothes drenched all the way through with my own sweat. Instead of waking in my bed, however, I was ten feet outside the door to my apartment, which I’d left wide open. It was two or three in the morning and no one saw me, but I’d left my home for God knows where.”

            Physiological reaction

            Somnambulism

            Leaving home in night

            “Monday night it happened again. I came out of the dream just like before but this time I wasn’t in my apartment hall, I was in the foyer, ground floor. Tuesday night came, I dreamt again and I walked to the street corner outside.

            Progressive increase in distance from home

            “After that I called my physician and he recommended you. He said you were an expert on dream cases, that you studied it for your thesis or whatever you guys do for your degree. I figured you could tell me what my dream means and why I was sleepwalking.”

            “Unfortunately the process is not as simple as that,” said Skinner, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook, “with continued interview and analysis we will certainly be able to decipher any meaning in this dream, but as it is…”

            “I wasn’t finished,” interrupted Berger, “there’s more. It’s Friday, I called on Wednesday. I had the dream again on Wednesday and Thursday night. Two nights ago, after I called and made an appointment with your secretary and found out I had two more nights to survive I decided to try a solution of my own: I duct-taped my hand to the bedpost. It didn’t do squat. I woke up with bruises from the constriction and a fragment of it still attached to my skin. I’d made it twice as far, two streets past the corner where I’d woken up the night before.”

            Same route every night?

            “Last night was the worst. I made it five blocks away and woke up three blocks away from the highway.”

            Skinner nodded, penning the detail on his pad. He knew that Berger meant the city’s central thoroughfare, which ran from the northern suburbs down through the commercial area all the way to the industrial properties at the limits. Traffic was clearly audible at all times in the clinic. The builders had done their best to soundproof the building, but the rush of vehicles moving day and night at seventy miles per hour was tough to beat.

            The psychologist looked up to see his client staring at him like a prosecutor extracting a confession. Skinner let his pencil hover above the page, waiting for his client to go on. The reels of the tape recorder gulped hungrily at the silence.

            “Don’t you see?” asked Berger, his jaw quivering. “Don’t you get what’s happening?”

            “What do you think is happening?” Skinner responded in monotone.

            “I’m being put in extreme danger. I don’t know why I’m going to that stupid freeway but I know I don’t want to be there in my sleep. It’s a dangerous road to drive on, If I make it there in my sleep I’ll be splattered like that!” Berger snapped his fingers for emphasis

            “You mentioned that you were still several blocks away, there’s no indication that you’ll make it all the way to the highway…” Skinner began.

            “You haven’t felt how terrifying this dream is. I feel like I’m watching myself be torn apart but I can’t do a damned thing about it. I want to stop it and I try but I’m completely helpless. Can you even imagine feeling like that and then waking up outside your home, exposed in the middle of the night, halfway to rushing traffic? It’s enough for me to do anything to feel safe again, I’ll even be committed.”

            Skinner shook his head. “At this point in time that is out of the question, at least as far as my ability is concerned. The criteria for commitment involves demonstration of a hazard to yourself or others. At this point Often times dreams like this are metaphors for other factors in your life that cause stress. It could even be something that you are equally impotent to change, but before we can pinpoint what it is I need to conduct more interviews with you.

            “I have no stress that even comes close to this: I own my apartment, I have no debt, a solid savings account and retirement plan, a lucrative job, and I’m happily single by choice. Until Sunday night I’d never felt anything like this in my entire life. I don’t know what this is coming from but I need it to stop, or I need some sort of security that I can’t break past to ensure that I’m not going to hurt myself. For crying out loud, I’m crossing the street in my sleep, how is that not a danger to myself?”

            “Somnambulism isn’t totally uncommon, and more often than not it manifests for a short period of time and then ends. If it ended tonight I wouldn’t be surprised. My power is very limited when it comes to committing you, and due to precedents set by malpractice lawsuits I need to be extremely careful when considering it. If you’re so worried however, it hasn’t been unheard of for someone to commit themselves.”

            “I’ve already thought about it, I need it to be on the states dollar. My medical insurance won’t cover it.”

            “Then I’m sorry Mr. Berger but for now there is nothing else I can do for your case. As it is right now I need more evidence and more testimony from you. I’ll pencil you in for my very first appointment, 8am next Monday, and we’ll see if your condition persists through the weekend.”

            Berger opened his mouth then clamped it shut, his shoulders slumped in resignation. He nodded, turning towards the door and reaching for his jacket as he left. At the office’s threshold he stopped and turned around to face Skinner.

            “It’s not going to stop.” he said. As the fluorescent lighting from outside spilled in Skinner noticed the dark circles under his client’s eyes. “I’ll see you Monday.”

            Skinner watched him go. For a moment he closed his eyes and pictured a panic so complete and potent that it made him feel helpless as a child. He thought of falling down a well and struggling to keep afloat. He let himself be chased through his house by a slobbering psychopath with an axe. When his hair was standing straight up, mounted on goose bumps he shuddered and grabbed his things to leave with a new and healthy respect for Berger’s fear.

*

            “I’m home!” called Skinner as he pushed through the door of his house.

            Four clawed paws skidded along hardwood as Siggy came to greet his master. The black lab spun in circles before pausing, his head still and expecting a pat while his tail wagged so hard that it shook his rear.

            “I’m in the TV room Bobby!” called Jennifer. Skinner hung up his coat and kicked off his loafers before heading through the hall to the living room. Siggy trotted close behind, his tongue lolling from side to side.

            “How was work?” asked Jen, pulling her legs in to make room on the couch.

            “Only one case that really stood out, I suppose. A client is experiencing recurring nightmares that almost exhibit the extremity of night terrors. He’s sleepwalking as well, on what seems to be a fixed course.”

            “That’s crazy! Any idea what you’re going to do with him?” Jen flipped through the channels as she talked, passing two animated cats throwing hammers at each other and a news bulletin on a missing fifteen year old girl with a dyed red mohawk before settling on a drama where two police officers were hard at work raiding a meth house.

            “I haven’t decided yet. I’m still thinking of how to approach this without getting him too worked up. You should see his face he talks about the dream: like the victim in a horror movie.”

            “Well, what does Freud have to say on the matter?” teased Jennifer, knowing her husband’s opinion on the famous Austrian’s method of dream analysis.

            “Freud would say the man is trapped in a vagina, which is probably his mother’s. And he’s probably heading to his mother’s house when he sleepwalks, either to kill her or rape her. There’s only one Sigmund who’s opinion I need today.” Almost on cue Siggy leapt onto the couch and buried his face into Skinner’s lap. In minutes he was snoring.

            “I’m not totally sure what to make of the case so far. I’ve read the man’s file and he’s never exhibited any past psychological trauma. Any of the conditions he fits the criteria for require at least one other symptom that he’s lacking. I’m beginning to think that this is less of  a disorder and more of a manifestation of his unconscious, but I need to find whatever is causing this stress before I can make a detailed diagnosis.

“All I need to treat this man,” mused Skinner, “is a concrete way of making him face the object of his fear, like the systematic desensitization of phobia patients. Unfortunately that isn’t very easy to do with dreams.”

            “Well you’ll have to find a way to do that. You’re the doctor, he needs your help.” Jennifer closed her eyes and laid her head onto Skinner’s shoulder.

            Skinner watched the cop drama without paying attention to it. His wife was right, he needed to find a way, some creative or innovative way to make his patient look at his dreams without the fear. He had all weekend to figure out how to perform this miracle.

*

            “Siggy, come on boy, time to go outside.”

            The black rocket hurtled down the hall before skidding to a stop at Skinner’s feet and planting himself in a seated position. It was Saturday afternoon, time for Sigmund’s weekly jaunt to the park. His tail swept the ground so furiously in anticipation that Skinner nearly expected lacquer flakes to be picked up from the floor.

            After putting on his blazer, Skinner reached up on the shelf above the coat rack, probing around until he found a retractable leash and choke collar. Siggy’s ears cocked forward and his mouth snapped shut while his tail kicked into fourth gear. With a smile the dog owner trailed the leash back and forth in front of his pet, watching two shining brown marbles follow it like a surveillance camera.

            “Yes Siggy,” Skinner said in a cartoonish Austrian accent, “I believe ve are making much progress, yes? Ven I snap my fingers, you vill speak.” At the popping sound Siggy jumped and barked. “And ven I lay my hand flat, you vill lay flat upon the ground.” Siggy pressed his belly into the ground as firmly at his owner’s behest.

            “You see,” Skinner laughed, “how even ze great Sigmund himself cannot help but to obey whilst under the power of hypnosis…”

            He trailed off as a switch inside his head connected and sparked with life. He slid the shining chain collar over his dog’s head and led him through the door, thumbing through numbers on his cell phone as he walked. By the time he’d stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of his apartment he’d found the temporary number marked “Berger.”

            As the phone rang he thought of ways to phrase his proposal. Berger seemed desperate enough to try anything so it shouldn’t be too hard, but all the same it was an unusual idea. Soon enough he heard the click of a receiver at the other end.

            “What?” Skinner was momentarily taken aback at the roughness of the voice on the other line. It was as unexpected as a dog’s growl when you approach with a friendly hand.

            “Mr. Berger, this is Dr. Skinner. I’ve had an idea on how we might approach the treatment of your case and…”

            “Shut up!” The mysterious voice barked, “I don’t know who you are but there’s no Berger here and I’m not about to listen to any trash from doctor anyone. Wake me up for crap like this again and I’ll come find you.”

            The other end clicked in termination, leaving a very confused doctor wondering at how his luck had tossed him such a violent wrong number. Regardless he still had an appointment with his patient in two days. Deciding that his idea could wait to be discussed in person, he returned his attention to the gung ho Labrador that was pulling his wrist apart.

*

            “If it’s alright with you, Mr. Berger, I’d like to try something a little different during our session today.”

            “Anything, Doctor,” groaned Berger, “I’ll play by your rules if they work.”

            “Perfect. First of all let’s talk about this weekend. Were there any new developments in either the dream or your somnambulism?”

            Berger laid back onto the office couch. Putting a box of tissue between his hands would have been the classic image of therapist and client. His massive shoulders quaked like a kid describing a nightmare to his parents.

            “It hasn’t stopped. Every night I dream just like I did last week and I wake up away from home. I haven’t gotten any farther than I did before though. I wake up  just a few blocks from the freeway like before, right when the sun is coming up. I’m pretty sure that I walk all night to get that far but I’m not sure.”

            “I see. Mr. Berger do you have a history of drug use?”

            Berger sat up, his face as contorted as the mask of drama. “You think I’m on drugs?  What’s wrong with you? I’m trying to open up to you about something that’s real and terrifying for me but you’re treating me like a criminal. I don’t want drug prescriptions from you, I’m not trying to get committed because Jack Nicholson showed me it was a sweet deal, I’m scared for my God damn life!”

            Skinner raised his hand, “You’re misinterpreting my intentions, Mr. Berger. First of all, it is standard procedure within the psychological health community to explore the possibility of drug abuse first before we consider the possibility of a disorder. My question was not a personal attack against you, I ask everyone who exhibits symptoms like yours the same question.”

            “Symptoms of what?”

            “Honestly I can’t tell yet. You’re missing a few key symptoms for some of the more well known psychological disorders, but that probably means that this will be easier to solve than we originally though. I would say that your case isn’t any more peculiar than some others that I have dealt with, but we are still early in our meetings so I can’t say much about your prognosis yet.”

            “Then you aren’t going to commit me?”

            “Please Mr. Berger, let me finish. As I’ve said before, commitment is a very serious procedure and is only done when the patient is believed to be a danger to themselves or others. So far from your description, the sleepwalking has kept you to routes that are free from hazards, and while I am sure it is stressful and may be inhibiting your rest, we don’t commit people for sleeplessness. If we did then the wards would be full of insomniacs.

            “The primary thing that makes your situation unique is the presence of this recurring dream. What you may have is a manifestation of an unconsciously known danger. I intend to discover whether or not this is the case today.

            “The reason why I asked you whether or not you have had a history of drug use, Mr. Berger, is because I would like to hypnotize you, and there could be an adverse reaction if you have a history of hallucinogen usage. Hypnosis was a common practice before Sigmund Freud developed his theories on unconscious motivation and psychoanalytic method. In fact he continued to use hypnosis as a viable treatment option for some time, believing that it was a way to explore the significance of phenomena such as dreams, which he called the “royal road to the unconscious” without inhibition. I don’t often agree with Freudian ideals, but since we’re treading in his territory right now I don’t see why we shouldn’t follow the path he’s already lain.”

            Berger nodded slowly, his hand brushing at week old stubble. “Alright, if you believe that this is the way to go I’ll follow your lead.”

            “I’m glad you’ve agreed, I think we can make some serious progress with this method. To begin with please lay down flat on the couch.”

            Berger complied, smiling wryly. “No pocket watch to wave in my face, doc?”

            “I’m afraid I left it back in the eighteen hundreds. The second thing I would like you to do is relax yourself completely.”

            Berger’s chest rose and fell as each of his limbs grew slowly limp.

            “Beginning at your toes, I would like to imagine that you are being submerged in a bathtub of warm water. It creeps up your skin, the warmth of it flooding into your muscles, releasing every bit of tension from the last week’s exertions. You are standing knee deep now, and it keeps rising. As it passes up your thighs and reaches your hips you begin to feel as though you have no legs at all.”

            Berger’s lips opened a millimeter at a time as his jaw gradually grew slack beneath his tight shut eyes.

            “The warmth continues up you, inch by inch, making you grow more and more comfortable and relaxed with every passing moment. Soon you can no longer feel your arms past the elbow, and everything below your ribcage has disappeared in the same way. Vertebrae by vertebrae, your spine releases the burden of supporting your body, and you are enveloped more and more into the soothing bath. Your arms have left, and your neck is vanishing just the same. As the water rises above your head you find yourself able to breathe freely, conscious only of the thoughts deep in the back of your mind.”

            The figure on the couch lay so still that he might easily have been a cadaver at the morgue.

            “If I were to clap my hands, you would return to full consciousness, and this relaxation would leave you in an instant. Before then though, I would like to hear more about this dream that has been bothering you, is that alright?”

            Berger’s head moved up and down in a single nod.

            “When I could backwards from ten, I would like you to tell me about what is inspiring the panic in your dream.

            “Ten, nine, eight,”

            Berger lay completely still..

            “Seven, six, five,”

            The room was as silent as a soundproofed studio.

            “Four, three, two,”

            Skinner drew a final breath.

            “One.”

            Like a whip in mid crack Berger rose from the couch, sprinting past the shocked psychologist and out the door.

            Skinner dropped his notepad and burst through the door after his patient. Mary, his secretary sat frozen with the phone halfway to her ear. The doctor screamed at her to call the hospital and send a crew as he erupted from the clinic and after Berger.

            Berger was already a few hundred feet away down the professional mall parking lot. Skinner girded himself for a sprint and fired every cylinder at once. Hundreds of miles on the treadmill came up and fueled his legs as they pumped after the sleepwalker. Ahead, Berger rounded a corner past the far building and disappeared. Skinner furiously clapped his hands but his patient was too far away to hear.

            Dr. Skinner rounded the corner in time to see his patient charging headlong towards the freeway like a startled rodent. The psychologist summoned every scrap of strength and speed in his body, letting it all out in a thunderous eruption like the hoof beats of wild horses. The gap between them closed foot by foot as the sounds of long haul trucks and SUVs filled his ears. The tails of Berger’s shirt fluttered just out of his reach.

Skinner jumped, tackling his patient to the ground moments before he stepped in front of a semi-truck with two cars.

            Berger twisted like a Greco-Roman wrestler, pinning his doctor as he tried to get to his feet and back along his course. Skinner threaded their legs together in a pretzel like jumble, freeing his hands long enough to bring them together in an ear-splitting clap.

            The two of them collapsed onto the ground, gasping. Berger sat up, looking around in confusion as the sound of ambulance sirens sounded far off in the distance.

            “Well Mr. Berger,” Skinner said between gulps of air, “You’ve convinced me. Let’s go begin the paperwork to have you committed.”

*

            Skinner’s cell phone rang in the night, as cursed a sound as the proverbial alarm clock. Wiping sleep from his eyes he answered quickly, hoping that his wife hadn’t been disturbed. She hated that he slept with the phone on, but he considered caring for his patients to be paramount to a psychologist’s obligations, even if that meant giving up some sleep every now and then.

            “Dr. Skinner,” he groaned into the receiver.

            “I’m sorry to wake you doctor,” it was a man’s voice, “This is the night orderly at Northern Hills Sanitarium, we got a patient missing. Book says he’s one of yours: Berger, Douglas.

            “Berger?” It had been three days since his commitment, and Skinner had checked in on him every day to see if there was a change in his condition. So far none had manifested, he sleepwalked every night, pacing around the perimeter of his quarters and reported the same dream as before. “What did the security cameras see?”

            “Nothing, he had a key in his room somehow, we’re still working on where he got it from. You can bet some heads are gonna roll from that one. For once I’m glad to be on this shift, I never went near the guy so I’m in the clear.”

            “Sir,” said Skinner as he put on his coat and loafers, “we have a missing patient, your job is practically a non issue in comparison. That may sound callous but we are dealing with a man who has exhibited dangerous sleepwalking habits, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a little stressed out. I’m on my way to the hospital.”

            “Yes doctor,” the line closed.

            Siggy materialized in the pitch black hallway, his tail swishing hopefully as he saw his owner preparing for a trip outside. Skinner gave him a quick rub behind the ears before exiting the hallway.

            His phone vibrated as he pulled out of the parking garage. He propped the wheel in place with his knee and answered the un-recognized number.

            “Dr. Skinner.”

            Doctor, it’s Berger.”

            Skinner nearly dropped the phone in surprise. “Berger? Where are you? You realize that you’re committing a crime by exiting a hospital after you were committed?”

            “You’re going to hypnotize me again, after that I’ll return to the hospital with you. The dream has changed and something is very wrong.”

            “And if I tell that to the authorities at the hospital you’re going to remain there for a very long time. Tell me where you are and come with me now before you ruin your life.”

            “Come with me so that we can save someone.”

            Skinner was glad that his patient couldn’t see rolling eyes through the phone. He’d dealt with delusional patients before, he just needed to play along for a while. “Very well Berger, where can I meet you?”

            “I’ll direct you along the route, you’ll find out where I am when you get here.”

            Skinner was also glad that frustrated grimaces couldn’t be seen through a phone line. “Alright, where should I head?”

*

            The psychologist and his patient stood by a phone booth at the edge of the city’s industrial district. Skinner performed the hypnotic sequence just as he had before in his office, though he had to concentrate twice as hard this time. He hadn’t been able to call the police yet. He only needed a minute to make the call, but he needed to complete the process before he could.

            “five, four,”

            Skinner glanced over the steel and concrete jungle before them. The economy had shut down the entire blocks throughout the site. Smokestacks and towers created a jagged horizon like the skyline of Victorian London. Lights and steam rose up here and there, but the majority of the metal city was dead and black. The only light came from streetlamps casting golden circles down the paths.

            “three, two,”

            Berger had taken to the suggestion of hypnosis as readily as the first time. He sat slumped on the hood of Skinner’s car, subtly poised for the final count.

            “one.”

            Berger took off like a greyhound after a rabbit with Skinner keeping pace a few feet behind him. The sleepwalker was moving twice as fast as before and his doctor could barely keep up the speed. He needed to wait for them to stop before he could complete make the phone call.

Beyond barbed wire fences to their left and right rose towering structures. Darkened foundries stood past storage silos with pipes stretching out like networks to still and dead warehouses.

            Berger faded in and out of streetlights, darting straight ahead like a hound clinging to a scent trail. Skinner’s feet seemed to grow heavier with every step. Soon spittle clung to the edges of his lips and needles of exertion pierced his lungs. By the fifteenth lamp post he began wondering how long he could keep the pace. At the twenty fifth he had to imagine lead weights in his hands to keep from raising them and clapping for a breather.

            Berger turned on a dime, cruising into a commercial property without breaking his pace. Skinner paused momentarily to look at the sign. It was a storage yard frequented by several companies in the area, but it had been sold two weeks ago. A glance inside at the titan stacks of metal storage containers showed that the new owners hadn’t made much progress towards emptying the premises.

            Stopping had been a mistake. As Skinner started again he felt the buildup of lactic acid with every step. Berger moved ahead just as furiously as before. His faithful psychologist put on a burst of speed to catch up. Moonlight alone had to do, there were no lights here. Berger raced left and right down the labyrinth of steel containers.

            An open warehouse loomed ahead of them, its doorway a gaping black gullet into which Berger raced. Skinner paused at the entrance, feeling around for a light switch. The power was disconnected, but he found a metal box with a flashlight which flickered to life, casting shadows amongst the equipment ahead of him.

            Tools and machinery filled the warehouse. In his shaky hands the flashlight made them all seem to shudder in the blackness. For a few minutes Skinner was reduced to childhood, telling himself that there was no such thing as monsters. The flashlight caught in the reflective headlights of a group of forklifts, making the glitter like cat eyes in the blackness. Coiled groups of extension cords became pythons, waiting to strike at anyone venturing close enough. In the end he forced himself to stare down at the wet footprints leading him through the gauntlet.

            Berger was standing so silently and so still that Skinner nearly ran into him. The burly industry worker stared like a sentinel at a lone storage container in the warehouse corner. Skinner crept behind him, shining his light up and down the shed. There were no markings and there was no lock on the door. Tucking the flashlight into his armpit, he clapped his hands.

            Berger blinked and looked around in confusion before locking his eyes onto the storage shed. “Where are we?” he asked.

            “You’ve led us to this container, does it mean anything to you?”

            Berger looked up and down the container, settling on the unlocked handles. “Let’s find out,” he said, approaching it with his arms outstretched. Before Skinner could protest the doors were open, revealing the contents.

            Steel walls came together in a long hallway, stained and puddle but completely empty until the back wall, where the emaciated corpse of a young girl sat hunched and cold.

            Skinner stared. In a moment’s time he remembered back to when he was sitting on the couch with his wife, flipping through channels past a news broadcast about a girl just that age gone missing recently. She had disappeared just over a week ago. Berger’s symptoms had also started just over a week ago.

            The psychologist turned to his client, but he may as well have been looking at a different man. The slouch was replaced with rigid posture, the flabby muscles with tension and tone. The bones in his face sharpened and the skin grew taught. His brow furrowed over rapidly darkening eyes like onyx faceted in a skull. Cracked and chapped lips curled back like a predator revealing its fangs.

            “Well doctor anyone, looks like I don’t have to find you.” The voice was like a dog’s growl when you approach with a friendly hand.

            The final symptom was a catalyst, piecing together all the clues of Berger’s condition like a building implosion played in reverse. Skinner silently gave his diagnosis: schizophrenia with multiple personalities, coupled with antisocial tendencies.

            Berger’s other persona reached out before Skinner could move, pinning his arms and lifting him easily off the ground. With a twist he threw the psychologist, leaving him in a crumpled heap on the metal floor.

            Skinner struggled to his feat as the doors groaned shut. His mind worked like lightning to piece together the situation he was in: Berger’s other personality had abducted the girl, leaving the unconscious trauma that resulted in frightening dreams. For some reason the guilt manifested through the desire to return to the scene of the crime. Once they arrived, the darker side took over again, with a new victim ready to be abused.

            The impenetrable metal doors slammed shut. Outside, the latches screeched into place.

            Skinner flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911 before realizing that the metal tomb was blocking any reception.

            The first thing he felt was panic.