Postmortem

a/n: flash fiction experiment (heh, 666 words). also, I've been reading a lot of Faulkner lately.

--

I would always play Colonel Mustard. I was a boy. You could tell from the picture on the box that Professor Plum was effeminate and weak-kneed. And Mr. Green had that sort of face. A guilty, suspicious face. I remember learning in psychology that there were similarities in the facial structures of common criminals. Certain poolings of shadow in the pits of a face. Certain alignments of bone, like found shells. I do not have a face like that. I got straight As. My brow does not slope. I am not even muscular. Crooks are muscular and have tattoos with frayed zippers of ink that blotch and pouch later in life and it is funny to see old men with old tattoos.
My skin is clean.
Metaphorically.
Because technically I need to wash my hands right now.
I am not in the lounge, library, dining room. I am not holding such common implements as rope or pipe. I think what a strange word colonel is. Where in the world does the R come from? I think about language, and how it changes, and how it leaves the sound of letters behind, like the sea-sound under the tongue of a conch. I can hold a word up to my ear and hear where it came from. The old knockings of French. The catacombs of Latin. Distant Germanic sighs.
What is a colonel anyway?
It is the center of something.
Like a sun, or on a grander scale, a black hole, tugging at galaxies like skirt hems.
I am the center of this moment. I am the colonel. In fact, I am the center of every moment seeing as my eyes are the only eyes I can see through. Some people call this solipsism. The philosophical idea that only one's own mind is said to exist. I am the only one living behind this face. I am the least familiar with my own face. We are so limited because we are so singular, alone, severed. I once had a friend who was born with poor vision and lived the first eighteen years of his life without glasses. He didn't know any better. He got a pair of glasses in his senior year of high school.
He said
You can see the leaves?
Like, the individual leaves?
It is strange to think that someone is seeing a world without leaves, and know them only in their fallen state. Spread across the ground in autumn pools and palettes.
I wonder if blood stains very badly.
Because I cannot stand stains. Or lingering smells. That you scrub and scrub and scrub and they won't come out. Things that I cannot reverse. This is why I have my oil changed at the Oil Stop. I can't change my own oil because it gets on your hands and into the crevices of your hands, revealing suddenly your entire palmistry, every path that you could have taken and didn't. Reminding you like a lingering smell. Like a moth at an indoor lightbulb. My dad taught me once how to change motor oil. How to slip off the bolt. Run your hands through the long warm black braids of oil and smell the engine like a horse after being ridden. Things like this stay. Memories of dad. Echoes in the abdomen of a shell. The stain on the table cloth that I would stare at when he came home late and mom begged him please just sit down sit on the couch I forgive you i forgive you.
Did you know that tears burn like this?
Did you know that blood stains like this? Like warm oil changed with your dad? Under a car, where everything is warm and dark and I can smell the sheepskin in the lining of his jacket and for the first time I feel like I am in the middle of something good. At the center of something, where all the leaves can be seen, fluttering, still in the trees.

Spoiler

For your viewing pleasure:

*like* *like* *like* *a million times like*

A few tiny-small nitpicks:

word colonel is

I'd suggest putting "colonel" in quotes, since the speaker is talking about the word as a concept.

Memories of dad.

"Dad" is being used as a name here. Capitalize it? Unless you are sort of using as the placeholder word for "dad-ness", in which case, I'd put it in quotes. (Can't really be sure with this character...)

I got straight As.

Methinks you need an apostrophe there. I was wondering how you can get a straight "as".

Question: When exactly is this set? I recall studies done long ago about the facial structures of criminals and how to tell a good man from a bad man and whatnot way back in the day (Wikipedia tells me it was Lombroso's idea in the 19th century), but I'm fairly sure that's discredited now. I can see your character ascribing to this idea, but it sounds as though they got the idea from a current psychology book that is teaching it as fact, whereas I think if a psychology book mentioned that now, they would say that it has been rejected by modern crime studies. I like the character's thoughts on the whole matter, but the mentioning of the source seems inaccurate.

All in all, really loved it. Train-of-thought and a bit rambly without being too random. Too often, I see this kind of thing done where the non-sequiter thoughts really do come off as non-sequiter and just there for the sake of being random. Here, they tied together nicely so you could really see the connection between one thought and the other. Very nice.

Also: omigoshCluesquee! Only like my most favoritetest board game ever!

~GryphonFledgling

Kylan -

So, another experiment. My kind of experiment. I enjoyed this, despite its relative length. And I think I rarely summarise my opinion of a work as succinctly as that, and so early into the critique. I either really appreciated this, then, or I am pushed for time. Both, I think.

It's astounding how clear the prose is. How sharp, conversational, yet still managing to retain enough detail to pace it comfortably. Something of an evolution is what I see from Viruses to Weathermen to Postmortem, style-wise. It reminds me of PCI (which in turn, reminds me of Picoult's writing, on whom that was mirrored). I wonder how much you enjoyed writing this. If you enjoyed writing it, if you enjoyed tossing the extra poeticism out the window and starting afresh. Because I found this refreshing; perhaps the change, then, was easily sustained by you since it was flash fic; no grandiose architecture required. It's nice to see you loosen the strings a bit. For all your talk of finding it too difficult to change, here, it seems rather effortless. Of course, I have no idea if it was or not.

Something for me to tease apart, then. I see talk of criminals and colonels (wordplay with kernels, linking it to the concept of the centre of the universe?), and very strongly tied to that is the theme of cleanliness/dirtiness/purity (conveyed through tears, blood, oil), which you in turn link in with the theme of identity, figurative and literal blindness (leaves), solipsism. I see a hint at a question; I want to know what that question is. Of course, that'll make me reread this...again. And the title is equally elusive - a reference to the blood/tears, perhaps? (Death by car crash?!)There's a thought-story here, but a story behind the story, which is behind another story...all of which hint at - what? Me being me, I can link everything to identity since it fits so snugly with that broad theme: world views (hence personal belief) such as solipsism, the need to be clean, pure, good, the blindness to one's self (inner) and reality (outer). And the mystery is spurred on by the board game itself; as if we now simply have to unravel this, get to the bottom of it, both thought-wise and action-wise. Interesting irony and audience manipulation there.

And I like the paradox, how one gets it and doesn't simultaneously. The parts make sense; the whole does not, much like in the game. I feel like I am on the verge of an answer, of slotting the pieces into place, of that feeling of elation one gets with having cut right to the core of something so it is beautifully vivid. But that's what makes this so charming - you hint at the light at the end of the tunnel, but let us figure out how to get there.

Okay. Hypotheses. Narration/action/story-wise, due to a combination of the fact that the title is 'Postmortem' and they are under a car at the end, with mentions of blood and tears, is why I guessed at car crash death. Thematically, well, I've said it about as clearly as I'm going to say it above. Emotionally? Unsure; one can just relate to the character so easily, so quickly that we get them, through and through (in part due to first person, probably). I feel like we're more or less sitting on top of their soul, comfortable, at ease, interested, fascinated, non-judgemental. That's what I love about this style.


If this is flash fic, a teaser, I am very eager to see something longer.


Thanks for the read.



Navita

Me again. But. I need to get to the heart of this.

Two questions I want myself to answer by the end of this: why did I not see it was the inner thoughts of a murderer after killing someone, and, subsequently, why he might have become one. And, possibly thirdly, if the piece is too short, too incomplete to allow for something of the sort. So. I think step-by-step impressions is how this'll happen, despite their tediousness.

I would always play Colonel Mustard. I was a boy. You could tell from the picture on the box that Professor Plum was effeminate and weak-kneed. And Mr. Green had that sort of face. A guilty, suspicious face. I remember learning in psychology that there were similarities in the facial structures of common criminals. Certain poolings of shadow in the pits of a face. Certain alignments of bone, like found shells. I do not have a face like that. I got straight As. My brow does not slope. I am not even muscular. Crooks are muscular and have tattoos with frayed zippers of ink that blotch and pouch later in life and it is funny to see old men with old tattoos.

My skin is clean.

Metaphorically.

Because technically I need to wash my hands right now.

First he introduces us to how he plays the colonel, the good guy. The tone is straightforward, sincere. We want to believe him, and we do. First bolded bit suggests a kind of contrast, that he is affirming he is not a criminal, trying to concrete this by little facts, however unproven they may be. As far as we know, he may just be an ordinary guy academically contemplating the morphology of criminals and doing an intriguing self-comparison - that sort of lightness is affirmed by the tone of the second bolded bit: humorous, nitpicky ('technically'). Everything in this part, from the tone to the actual statements to the kind of honest-and-innocent feel we are getting suggests he is, well, anything but a criminal. A murderer. Is what he has just done even vaguely hinted at? Perhaps - just in the line where he says, 'My face is not like that' - kind of like when someone goes a little overboard in trying to prove their innocence when they've really done something wrong, a hasty cover-up. But I still think it is so vague here, primarily because it isn't hasty, it doesn't really seem to go overboard: yes, you embellish a little, but really, the control of voice here is what makes it seem innocent. Like a passing thought.

I am not in the lounge, library, dining room. I am not holding such common implements as rope or pipe. I think what a strange word colonel is. Where in the world does the R come from? I think about language, and how it changes, and how it leaves the sound of letters behind, like the sea-sound under the tongue of a conch. I can hold a word up to my ear and hear where it came from. The old knockings of French. The catacombs of Latin. Distant Germanic sighs.

What is a colonel anyway?

It is the center of something.

Like a sun, or on a grander scale, a black hole, tugging at galaxies like skirt hems.

I am the center of this moment. I am the colonel. In fact, I am the center of every moment seeing as my eyes are the only eyes I can see through. Some people call this solipsism. The philosophical idea that only one's own mind is said to exist. I am the only one living behind this face. I am the least familiar with my own face. We are so limited because we are so singular, alone, severed. I once had a friend who was born with poor vision and lived the first eighteen years of his life without glasses. He didn't know any better. He got a pair of glasses in his senior year of high school.

He said

You can see the leaves?

Like, the individual leaves?

It is strange to think that someone is seeing a world without leaves, and know them only in their fallen state. Spread across the ground in autumn pools and palettes.

Nothing here suggests the murder. In fact, it only serves to further make him seem incredibly thoughtful, fascinated by reality and the direction of his own philosophical meanderings. The layering of his ideas. Which makes me wonder: why did he commit the crime in the first place? The lucid tone of his thoughts, the careful way he contemplates such things as language and blindness and solipsism - they indicate no rashness, no malevolence, no tendency to be violent (quite the contrary, I'd say); the very fact that he is contemplating his purity/goodness/cleanliness and seems to actually care about it makes him appear like he is, in fact, pure/good/clean. I don't know much about psychology, but from a simple character assessment, something is just not adding up with your intended plot.

Because I cannot stand stains. Or lingering smells. That you scrub and scrub and scrub and they won't come out. Things that I cannot reverse. This is why I have my oil changed at the Oil Stop. I can't change my own oil because it gets on your hands and into the crevices of your hands, revealing suddenly your entire palmistry, every path that you could have taken and didn't. Reminding you like a lingering smell. Like a moth at an indoor lightbulb.

And this further emphasises his purity. He can't stand dirt, being dirty, stains, being unclean in the metaphorical sense. I mean, how much less criminal can he get?

Perhaps you did this on purpose. Perhaps you wanted to have a criminal who does not think of themself as a criminal, who is, for all intents and purposes, a 'good man' but has been mentally unhinged for a split second and done something horrific. And now, he's mulling it over. If he is so docile so as to be thinking about it in such a calm manner as this...I'd say he's probably not fully aware of his actions just yet. Still a bit unhinged. But for the ordinary mind, the rational observer, the logical reader, this is incomprehensible. You'd think that someone who so obviously wanted to be pure would have leapt into an utter frenzy of self-damnation immediately after their crime; that they wouldn't be able to stand the thought of it, the sight of it. He's supposed to want to 'scrub and scrub,' no?

My dad taught me once how to change motor oil. How to slip off the bolt. Run your hands through the long warm black braids of oil and smell the engine like a horse after being ridden. Things like this stay. Memories of dad. Echoes in the abdomen of a shell. The stain on the table cloth that I would stare at when he came home late and mom begged him please just sit down sit on the couch I forgive you i forgive you.

The very first time I read this, I wondered why he would have agreed to something as obviously dirtying as learning to change the motor oil. The bolded line - struck me as if it should have been important in some way, but since it fell into the flow so nicely, since it just seemed like added exposition, explanation, since there was nothing strikingly distinguishing about it, tone-wise, to alert us to its significance, it was slurred over, discarded. So, he had a troubled childhood (a possible cause for the murder, perhaps). Fine. It's not paused over enough for it to register, seem important. Because we read this when he is grown up, looking back, and since he seems such a damn fine man, a thoughtful person, it seems like despite whatever happened earlier, he's turned out decent enough.

As for the reason for him now feeling like he's at the 'centre of the moment...a centricity he couldn't have without his father' (as in, like you're giving us a reason for the act) - this is not suggested strongly enough.

Did you know that tears burn like this?

Did you know that blood stains like this? Like warm oil changed with your dad? Under a car, where everything is warm and dark and I can smell the sheepskin in the lining of his jacket and for the first time I feel like I am in the middle of something good. At the center of something, where all the leaves can be seen, fluttering, still in the trees.

From his docile character, I assume the blood is his own. That the tears are his own. Since he is under a car, since it's told postmortem, I assume that he died by a car accident. What at all suggests him having murdered someone? Very little.

--

Okay, forget this. I'm not going to tell you to make your intended plot clearer because I really don't think you need to for this piece to work. It works already; it works beautifully well. The themes are tightly tied, there is, at least one kind of discernible, rational, logical plotline that fits in well with our character assessment and your overall tone. So, I guess I am saying I have failed to see where the idea of 'inner thoughts of a murder after having killed someone' come in. And that it's fine as it is.


By the way, I'd love if you made a puzzle for me to solve next time that worked the way you intended. I enjoy analysis. Oh yes, and, if I don't get it right first time, give me a second chance, yes? Some clues, hints in the right direction. Particular quotes. You know.



Navita

And - this must be a record for subsequent reviews - but after taking into account that idea about 'Emergency,' talking to Jagged for a bit, and contemplating the concept of the unreliable narrator...I have returned.

Why did I miss it? This is now so easily answered. Because I was not at all expecting an unreliable narrator, based purely on the style of writing, and my former acquaintance with it as being very honest, very sincere. It's interesting what happens when that's thrown out of proportion - sure, I had an inkling of an idea when you started comparing the MC to a criminal that he might've done something wrong, but I got so swept up in the symbols and metaphors and themes and the philosophical layering, that the narrator felt too 'good' to me; I liked them too much. Couldn't get past that, I realise now.

And that philosophical detachment - that's exactly it, right? Detachment from the actuality of his actions. Detachment from reality. That's why he came across as docile to me - from just his thoughts alone, I couldn't determine how anyone who thought like that would be able to do something like that. But of course, there are criminals who think, who detach themselves from their actions by concocting all manner of deceptions. Although I think here is that you create a murderer that is very much the 'ordinary guy' - or so he seems, from what thoughts he does reveal to us. I still believe the part about straight A's, unsloping brows, lack of muscularity, no holding a rope or pipe - entirely likely that he had none of these particular characteristics but might have had some kind of mean streak, a trait that you never reveal.

And now I wonder why he ends up under the car at the end. I wonder whether he also dies, or whether the 'postmortem' refers to the death of the victim. I think the latter. I think, yes, that you should throw a couple more clues in the direction that he couldn't acheive that 'centricity with his father.' Perhaps in the oil changing bit - show him on the sidelines, always on the edge.

And you know what? I just love this story all the more that I can reread it in two ways. Two perfectly appropriate interpretations. There is something that satisfies my intellect so strongly when I grasp the paradox, the alternative perspectives, nail them down. This is the light at the end of the tunnel; the point of vivid and beautiful clarity.

Thanks for the read.


Navita

It is suddenly very understandable why you have two feature works. And that is an understatement. Really, you quite literally are almost brilliant. I mean "almost" as in "When-I-read-one-more-of-your-amazing-works-then-you'll-be-absolutely-brilliant". So anyways, this was magnificent. The second work I've seen of yours today. First poetry, and now fiction. I love you metaphors and descriptions and comparisons in this work. I love the speakers voice. It is so evident for the start to the end their little quirks, what they like, how they think. It's crazy how you've been able to capture that in such a short piece. Its like you explained everything, but not quite enough -- enough that I've been kept guessing, but have a pretty accurate guess.

There were a few tiny nitpicks, but we all have those. I think everyone has already pointed those out, so I'm just going to show you what I like. The favourite quote I found (well, there were many favourites, but this one really popped to me. Or, well, popped enough for me to copy and paste it.)

Like a sun, or on a grander scale, a black hole, tugging at galaxies like skirt hems.

I thought that was a great, almost magnificent, gentle way of describing something on such a large scale, yanking things away from existence.

All-in-all, I thought this was nicely done. A nice twist: delving into the thoughts of a murderer. Unique. Great job.

Hey Kylan!

This story is brilliant. While writing from the eyes of a murder or criminal is nothing new, you managed make it fresh and interesting. I liked the detachment, and the philosophical ramblings of his mind--without it going too off course. It was quite interesting the way his mind worked. There are layers to the narrator. What I gather from the story is that he is indeed a criminal because he seems to assert all noncriminal-like things about himself. So basically I have two ways to go about this story; the narrator is asserting that he his not a criminal (despite perhaps committing a criminal act by the end of the piece); or that he is actually a criminal but is disproving the theories and assumptions about criminals and trying to show us that he is a criminal who is different from what criminals are supposed to be like. I think it's the latter, but I may be totally off the mark. I like that you kept it ambiguous, but gave us enough details to mull over it and decide things for ourselves. This story also seems to set its self apart from your other writing because it's written quite simply. The extravagant poetic metaphors and similes are void from this piece. I rather like the simplicity. It doesn't weigh the reader down and actually seems more poetic. I'm not sure if it is the result of your writing style changing, or the writing is reflecting the way the character's mind works. Whatever it is, it really works.
One small nitpick:

Crooks are muscular and have tattoos with frayed zippers of ink that blotch and pouch later in life and it is funny to see old men with old tattoos.

I think you should put that as a separate sentence. "Crooks are muscular and have tattoos with frayed zippers of ink that blotch and pouch later in life. It is funny to see old men with old tattoos." I know making it all rambling-like must have been a stylistic choice. There are plenty of such sentences in the piece, but they are fine since they fit the mood. I'm not sure if the above example works though. It seems awkward. Perhaps because the part "it is funny to see see old men with old tattoos" seems like an after thought rather than part of the sentence itself. *shrugs* It's up to you.

Your writing is sharp and brilliant as ever, Kylan. I loved the story. Also, I didn't get a chance to comment on Weatherman but I really adored that piece. Thought I'd let you know.
Take care!

This was EXCELLENT. And that is not something I say often.

The trains of thought were so realistic, so well expressed, so concise and THOUGHT like... streams of feeling and emotion and memories that flowed into one another without making any of it seem irrelevant. The situations implied were interesting and caught your attention without distracting from your words. This was amazing.

Also, I thought the whole thought about not being able to see individual leaves was funny.. that was my first reaction when I got glasses. "Whoa! I can see EACH leaf! It's like a Monet painting!" c:

Great job, again.
-Coral