I read a lot of articles about the "rules of writing" (this despite the fact that I proficiencied out of all my composition classes in college because of my ACT scores). I figure I could always improve.
The issue is, though, that I don't always follow the rules. For example, Anton Chekov said (paraphrased, because I don't speak Russian) that you should never get into the main character's mind, but should always describe his actions. Note those words "always" and "never" because you're going to hear them a lot. However, heroes don't always act. Sometimes they wait. Sometimes, even if they're the hero (Jamie Curtis' character in Halloween for example) they huddle in a closet with slats in the door second-guessing themselves. If I wrote this in a book, I believe that I should write what this character is thinking as they're standing in that closet waiting on Michael Myers to go at them with a knife. (Note -- I'm talking about a classic American horror movie. Technically, the musical score would take care of her tension and waiting. In a book, the orchestra is not handy.)
Another rule is "Always use active language" -- think "I made a mistake" vs "mistakes were made". I think always using active language works until I write dialogue for a very passive character, one with an external locus of control (psychology term!), one who attributes everything to fate, God, or luck. That character should use language that expresses his worldview: "I got to the pier and -- something just happened." Passive tense -- nothing did anything; it just happened.
Action verbs -- I always tell my students that "'did'" is not a verb when they write resumes. Writings full of passive verbs like "did", "was" (although as a helper verb it's okay), "were", "is" and the like create boredom. But some characters who speak what linguists call casual register will use many more passive verbs. Let them -- otherwise your client with the eighth grade education will sound like his GED instructor.
Description -- I believe there's a point where one can write too much description. For example, JRR Tolkien rhapsodized for days about a landmark, including its name in Sindarin, Quenya, Mordor-speech, and the language of Rohan. That worked for Tolkien, because it sounded epic and rolled off the tongue and reminded us that several races lived in the time of Middle Earth. However, my writing focuses on the conversations, interactions, and actions of its characters -- people don't tend to do a lot of looking around and describing when they're with others and talking, and many times people get only impressionistic ideas of their surroundings --- Grace, one of the protagonists in the book I'm writing, rushes to a meeting and has little time to make much of an impression of the Donimirski Palac Pugetow. She notes that it reminds her of French Renaissance Revival from the lecture in the European History class she took, and it looks like a big rectangular wedding cake to her.
To end, someone in my high school creative writing class asked the teacher why we had to learn the rules if ee cummings could use no capital letters, run his words across the page, and throw in parentheses randomly. The teacher responded that you had to learn the rules in order to break them. So those articles aimed at writers may be a good idea to read -- and then choose whether it's the right time to use those rules.
*****************
Tomorrow I'll start Camp NaNo, where I will keep wrestling the beast I've called "The Ones who Toppled the World". I'll check in, even if they're short entries. Feel free to chat!
Friday, June 30, 2017
Thursday, June 29, 2017
Comments Are Welcome
I've noticed that one of my readers comments on my posts occasionally. This makes me jump up and down with glee! (Those of you who know what I look like, don't laugh.)*
I would love more of you to comment -- whether it's to comment about a writing or to just say hi and introduce yourself. I'd especially like you to introduce yourself, because I have discovered that I have readers from Germany, France, Portugal, Poland, Hong Kong, the Ukraine, and of course the US. I'm not used to people reading what I write -- I'm from academia.*
So feel free to comment -- preferably with your name and a little about you.***
* If you don't know what I look like, I'm a 53-year-old American woman. You're allowed to use your stereotypes in visualization. You're allowed to laugh, too.
** Do people outside of academia get this joke? Just wondering.
***Your name will not be sold to any mailing lists.
I would love more of you to comment -- whether it's to comment about a writing or to just say hi and introduce yourself. I'd especially like you to introduce yourself, because I have discovered that I have readers from Germany, France, Portugal, Poland, Hong Kong, the Ukraine, and of course the US. I'm not used to people reading what I write -- I'm from academia.*
So feel free to comment -- preferably with your name and a little about you.***
* If you don't know what I look like, I'm a 53-year-old American woman. You're allowed to use your stereotypes in visualization. You're allowed to laugh, too.
** Do people outside of academia get this joke? Just wondering.
***Your name will not be sold to any mailing lists.
A Field Guide to Camp NaNoWriMo
If I have any readers who write, or who wish to write but novels seem like too many words, I would like to draw your attention to an opportunity to write in a gentle, supportive manner with other writers. That opportunity is called Camp NaNoWriMo and can be found at http://campnanowrimo.org/ . This camp session starts July 1, and you can find me there under the usual name: lleachie
The parent of CampNaNo, National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, has developed into an audacious worldwide event. In 1999, a group of people implemented an idea to encourage non-writers to become writers through a challenge: write 50,000 words of a novel in the 30 days of November. In the first year, 21 people participated. By 2013, that number was closer to 400,000. Think about it: almost 400,000 people every November hear their siren song: "The World Needs Your Novel".
In 2013, the organizers of NaNoWriMo started a related venture which they call Camp NaNo. There are two sessions of Camp -- one in April, one in July. For Camp NaNo, the writer can choose to write a novel or other written work, conduct background research, revise something already written. They set their own goal in number of words or number of hours. The summer camp theme makes the point that this writing program is -- get it -- summer camp for writers.
The Camp NaNo experience works like this: you follow the link to their website, where you sign up for your slot (no charge!) and fill in a biography, a description of your project, and maybe things like a summary and sample paragraph.
Then you will be put into a cabin (yes, cutesy camp references abound) of other writers. You can correspond with your cabin in the cabin space, and send mail through the mail area of the website. You keep track of your own words or hours, and you see a progress chart (the target above). If you don't meet your goals, no worries -- you've learned something and written words down.
You will also find daily emails with tips about writing. One of the most important philosophies behind NaNo and Camp NaNo is that writing happens first, and then editing happens. I rather like this philosophy myself because it's necessary to get the words on paper (or electronically) before you tear them apart. The corollary to this is that your first draft will need tearing apart.
I hope someone will be inspired to show up at camp!
The parent of CampNaNo, National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, has developed into an audacious worldwide event. In 1999, a group of people implemented an idea to encourage non-writers to become writers through a challenge: write 50,000 words of a novel in the 30 days of November. In the first year, 21 people participated. By 2013, that number was closer to 400,000. Think about it: almost 400,000 people every November hear their siren song: "The World Needs Your Novel".
In 2013, the organizers of NaNoWriMo started a related venture which they call Camp NaNo. There are two sessions of Camp -- one in April, one in July. For Camp NaNo, the writer can choose to write a novel or other written work, conduct background research, revise something already written. They set their own goal in number of words or number of hours. The summer camp theme makes the point that this writing program is -- get it -- summer camp for writers.
The Camp NaNo experience works like this: you follow the link to their website, where you sign up for your slot (no charge!) and fill in a biography, a description of your project, and maybe things like a summary and sample paragraph.
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| This is the only part of my bio that fits in the screen shot. If you're curious, follow Blogger's "About Me" link. |
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| If the above is too long for an elevator pitch, please let me know. |
Then you will be put into a cabin (yes, cutesy camp references abound) of other writers. You can correspond with your cabin in the cabin space, and send mail through the mail area of the website. You keep track of your own words or hours, and you see a progress chart (the target above). If you don't meet your goals, no worries -- you've learned something and written words down.
You will also find daily emails with tips about writing. One of the most important philosophies behind NaNo and Camp NaNo is that writing happens first, and then editing happens. I rather like this philosophy myself because it's necessary to get the words on paper (or electronically) before you tear them apart. The corollary to this is that your first draft will need tearing apart.
I hope someone will be inspired to show up at camp!
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Interrogating the Dream
I get my ideas for writing from my dreams (I'm pretty sure I've already told you that). This post regards the first book I wrote and the dream that first tripped me into writing.
The writing I post today is not the dream itself. I will not post the actual dream, because it, like many dreams, concerns a lodge frozen in the 70's and run by Mennonites, an underground world with the white plastic walls of a gas station bathroom, and random sex with a stranger.
I couldn't get the dream out of my head (blame middle age) so I decided to analyze it, beginning with a Gestalt method -- "Talk about the dream from the viewpoint of the mint green Formica countertop" etc Then I switched to interrogating the dream by asking questions of the characters: "Who are you and why did you get involved with this? What did you feel at the time? What would you like me to know about you?"
This process resulted in a snippet of dialogue. Note that this dialogue didn't make it into the book (It's a little too dreamy) but a book grew out of the relationship these two characters have. The book is not romance, and has only oblique references to sex. But here's a snippet of my creative process, "Interrogating the Dream":
*****
Josh dreamed that night. The scene was a battered wooden stage made up as a living room with a beige couch, a side table cluttered with books, and an easy chair. Jeanne sat on the chair; the lights were set relatively low to simulate a relaxing evening. The mood, however, was anything but relaxed. The dream unfolded, a disturbing play starring him and Jeanne. When he woke up, he pulled out his ever-present notebook, and transcribed the dream as a script:
A SIMPLE, BUT COMFORTABLE LIVING ROOM. THE FURNITURE IS A COUCH WITH A SIDE TABLE AND AN EASY CHAIR.
Jeanne sits on the couch, leaning forward, holding a piece of paper. She wears a black sweater and wears her hair down.
JOSH (VOICEOVER)
I'm sorry. I'm afraid I hurt you.
JEANNE
It's okay. I just feel strange about it.
JOSH (V.O.)
I think I took away your choice.
JEANNE
No. I could have stopped you. I don't know why I didn't.
JOSH (V.O.)
I don't know why I did it. I was sleepwalking. I was hungry.
JEANNE
This scares me. It's too dark.
JOSH (V.O.)
I want to bring this into the light. I'll find you.
Josh walks onto the stage. He wears a red shirt with the Chinese symbol "ai" and jeans. He sits on the couch, Jeanne stands up and begins to pace, stopping to turn to him when she delivers her lines.
JEANNE
How old are you?
JOSH
I'm 20.
JEANNE
That worries me. You're fragile.
JOSH
Why do you say that?
JEANNE
You're so young.
JOSH
I'm young. I'm short. I've had to develop more strength than most. Remember who asked to bring this into the light.
JEANNE
Why leave me a note when you were right outside?
JOSH
Strangely, words have more power when you have to read them.
JEANNE
How so?
JOSH
I say words and they're ephemeral. They only stay as long as your memory lets them. I write them, and they're there for you to reread.
JEANNE
What if I throw away the paper?
JOSH
Your conscience remembers why you threw away the paper. The words remain.
Jeanne stops pacing and faces him on the couch.
JEANNE
Let's bring this into the light.
JOSH
Okay. Let's do it.
JEANNE
Why did you -- I don't understand what happened.
JOSH
I know. I thought I was dreaming. Until the end. This is not how I wanted my first time to be. I wanted my first time to be slower. I wanted to freeze time; I wanted to register every pressure, every breath. I wanted to see your face.
Jeanne sits on the couch next to Josh.
JEANNE
Some first times are ludicrous, some are hurried, some are drunken, and some are rape.
JOSH
What was your first time like?
JEANNE
Mine was rape.
JOSH
How could someone --
JEANNE
Two someones. I was thirteen. It's long past.
JOSH
Oh my God. I'm sorry.
JEANNE
I shouldn't have told you.
JOSH
Why not?
JEANNE
You're so damn young.
JOSH
I'm not so sure of that. I think you're younger than me sometimes, inside. And maybe I'm ancient, like a tree. And maybe sometimes I can give shelter.
Jeanne turns away.
JEANNE
I can't accept your offer. You're too damn young.
Jeanne stands and turns to Josh.
JEANNE
What do you want from me?
JOSH
I want you to accept me for who I am.
JEANNE
So who are you?
JOSH
I was quiet and easily overlooked. I fell in love with my anger, fell into darkness. Until I watched a storm -- I saw lightning split a tree. I realized I was the tree as well as the storm. I had to ask myself what the tree needed.
JEANNE
What did the tree need?
JOSH
To be allowed to be.
Jeanne walks across the stage and addresses the audience.
JEANNE
It's all backwards. We should have gotten the chance to say "this is who I am" first.
Josh stands and walks toward her.
JOSH
Would you have even looked at me?
Jeanne turns to face him.
JEANNE
That's the hardest thing you've asked.
JOSH
Why?
JEANNE
Oh my God. You don't understand. You're beautiful. I can hardly take my eyes off you. And I'm older, and I've lived more. I have all the power here. I touch you, and I'll overwhelm you. I'll stunt your growth, you'll end up gnarled and twisted.
JOSH
You describe yourself as the Wicked Witch in this tale.
JEANNE
Well?
JOSH
What if I came up to you and introduced myself? Isn't there power in that? And what if I started the conversation?
Jeanne turns away.
JEANNE
That's not what I'm scared of.
Josh puts his hands on Jeanne's shoulders to get her to look at him
JOSH
What if I said you were beautiful?
JEANNE
I would probably cry.
JOSH
What if I kissed your tears --
JEANNE
You shouldn't –
JOSH
Why not?
JEANNE
Because then I might fall a little in love with you.
JOSH
And then I'd be powerless?
Jeanne walks away from Josh a few steps to break the contact and turns to face him.
JEANNE
Do you accept me for who I am?
JOSH
Who are you?
JEANNE
I'm 50 years old, I'm fat. I laugh too loud.
JOSH
That's just your skin. That isn't all of you.
JEANNE
I laugh a lot. I have to watch what I say sometimes.
JOSH
Go deeper.
JEANNE
I fall in love all the time. I don’t weigh the consequences of words. I fight a fatal attraction to people's darkness. I'm the strongest person I know.
JOSH
But who are you?
JEANNE
I am a child who talks to birds.
Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne.
JEANNE
Why did you?
JOSH
I was hungry for touch. Did I hurt you?
JEANNE
No, you were surprisingly ... gentle.
JOSH
Good. I don't think I could stand it if I wasn't. But -- why did you?
JEANNE
I guess I wanted to be wanted. Not a good reason, I know. It's dangerous -- I give away all my power to the person who pays attention. Over and over again I replay my childhood, hoping that for once it ends differently.
JOSH
I guess I do the same thing. 'Notice me, I'm not insignificant.'
JEANNE
No, you are not insignificant. I don't know how anyone could make that mistake.
JOSH
But they do. To be a man, you're supposed to be tall, built, substantial. People look over my head to look for men.
JEANNE
Maybe they don't know how to recognize a man.
JOSH
Maybe they don't know how to recognize beauty, either.
Josh closes the distance between him and Jeanne; they face each other, putting their hands on each other's shoulders.
(Pause) What if I said you were beautiful?
JEANNE
I would probably cry.
JOSH
What if I kissed your tears --
JEANNE
I might fall a little in love with you.
JOSH
Accept me for who I am. I am the tree and the storm.
JEANNE
I am the strongest person I know, a child who talks to birds.
JOSH
I am not insignificant. Don’t overlook me.
JEANNE
Choosing from strength, it ends differently
JOSH
I want to freeze time, I want to register every pressure, every breath. I want to see your face.
Josh and Jeanne embrace, and the curtain falls.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
The Concept of Leadings
A Facebook memory today reminded me that three years ago, I had not yet found a publisher or an agent. Three years later, I have not found a publisher or an agent. (That writing device you just saw deployed is called repetition, and emphasizes the point made).
I'm not going to whine here, because that just puts me in a bad mood. I don't want to be in a bad mood. I will, however, take an opportunity to talk about my current state, which is doubt. Today, my doubt has nothing to do with my assessment of my talent and everything to do with 1) my books are not similar to previous bestsellers; 2) the market is overwhelmed as the result of mass-interest writing movements like Nanowrimo; 3) the industry looks more at what will sell than the message or even the skill of the writer, just as female pop singers have to have a certain "look"; 4) so many people write; few get published.
When I started writing, I hadn't thought about publishing until partway through my first book when I realized that the story unfolding had themes that I thought needed to be released and read. Some of the themes were subversive (Gaia as the World-Soul) and some universal (the nature of friendship); some of the plot lines were subversive (the May-December relationship where the woman is older) and some not too unusual (the bad guys trying to burn down a food forest that two of the protagonists just planted). I just had this feeling -- call it a leading -- that I needed to write and to be heard.
A leading, according to the Religious Society of Friends, is a tug on the heart, a whisper from God, a feeling that This Is What I'm Supposed To Do, even if I don't know the end result. I'm a member of the Religious Society of Friends, or what others call a Quaker. We try to keep our lives simple so that we can carve out a quiet place for our soul to hear what God wants from us. (Yes, I know, how weird.)
I have been writing because I sincerely believe that I have a leading to write. The fact that I always find a new dream snippet to write from helps me believe this. I don't have a leading to write full-time, because I'm pretty sure God wants me to eat.
But if I have a leading to write, and nobody publishes me (I will not self-publish, because nobody will read me that way either) then what's my leading about? Is it really there? Is it time to let go of this leading? I don't hear that still small voice advising me right now.
Thus, I doubt.
I'm not going to whine here, because that just puts me in a bad mood. I don't want to be in a bad mood. I will, however, take an opportunity to talk about my current state, which is doubt. Today, my doubt has nothing to do with my assessment of my talent and everything to do with 1) my books are not similar to previous bestsellers; 2) the market is overwhelmed as the result of mass-interest writing movements like Nanowrimo; 3) the industry looks more at what will sell than the message or even the skill of the writer, just as female pop singers have to have a certain "look"; 4) so many people write; few get published.
When I started writing, I hadn't thought about publishing until partway through my first book when I realized that the story unfolding had themes that I thought needed to be released and read. Some of the themes were subversive (Gaia as the World-Soul) and some universal (the nature of friendship); some of the plot lines were subversive (the May-December relationship where the woman is older) and some not too unusual (the bad guys trying to burn down a food forest that two of the protagonists just planted). I just had this feeling -- call it a leading -- that I needed to write and to be heard.
A leading, according to the Religious Society of Friends, is a tug on the heart, a whisper from God, a feeling that This Is What I'm Supposed To Do, even if I don't know the end result. I'm a member of the Religious Society of Friends, or what others call a Quaker. We try to keep our lives simple so that we can carve out a quiet place for our soul to hear what God wants from us. (Yes, I know, how weird.)
I have been writing because I sincerely believe that I have a leading to write. The fact that I always find a new dream snippet to write from helps me believe this. I don't have a leading to write full-time, because I'm pretty sure God wants me to eat.
But if I have a leading to write, and nobody publishes me (I will not self-publish, because nobody will read me that way either) then what's my leading about? Is it really there? Is it time to let go of this leading? I don't hear that still small voice advising me right now.
Thus, I doubt.
Monday, June 26, 2017
Yin, yang, and characterization
I was thinking of characterization and how it's dangerous to a story to write the "bad guy" with no positive traits and the "good guy" with no negative traits. I see this as paralleling the principle of yin and yang.
A disclaimer here: I've always felt some trepidation toward some of the symbolism of yin/yang in Chinese philosophy. Yin of course, means "negative, shaded, dark, passive, female" while yang means "bright, positive, active, male". Taoist philosophy attributes no value or moral judgements on yin or yang, while Confucianism treats yin as bad and yang as good. As you may have noted from the descriptions above, yin corresponds to female nature, and according to Confucianism, female nature is therefore bad. (Wikipedia, 2017).
I obviously object to this. (On the other hand, most females tend toward passive and mysterious -- dark -- in men's eyes. In effect, with my passionate, assertive nature, I fail as a female. Oh well.).
Yin and yang -- in the Confucianic sense, sees yin as bad and yang as good (and we'll ignore the female/male duality for the moment.) A character which is all good would be boring -- what Americans would typify as a "goody two-shoes". He would have no negative forces affecting him in his childhood; he would have no temptations toward evil or any vices or even any character faults. For those of you who read Twilight, I see Bella Swan as such a character -- her only character fault (other than very normal adolescent angst) was that she was clumsy. And all the guys at her school are enamored of her. Yawn, I can't identify with such a being.
A character which is all bad would be likewise boring -- he would be what we'd call a "cartoon villain". We'd find no sympathy for him; we'd hate him with no hesitation, no confusion, or else we'd laugh him out of our minds. Are any of you familiar with Boris and Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle? Boris and Natasha were designed to be cartoon villains, but there are other villains out there who were accidentally written that way.
It's hard to write a villain who's convincingly evil yet has good qualities. It's hard to write a hero who has urges or actions that are less than noble. It is, however, important. The faults in the good guy have to be significant; the redeeming qualities in the bad guy have to catch the reader's notice.
I have a character in one of my books, somewhat naive. He cooperates in a plot to frame the Nephilim (for you Bible fans, not quite what you expect for Nephilim) son of his ex-lover out of jealousy. Until that point he has been amicable. He later confesses his deed and the reason, and then that night saves a group of young Nephilim from an attack. He has become one of my favorite characters, because he has become complex.
****
An exercise for all of you readers: In comments, write a short summary of a character who is either a hero with bad traits or a villain with good traits. Have fun!
A disclaimer here: I've always felt some trepidation toward some of the symbolism of yin/yang in Chinese philosophy. Yin of course, means "negative, shaded, dark, passive, female" while yang means "bright, positive, active, male". Taoist philosophy attributes no value or moral judgements on yin or yang, while Confucianism treats yin as bad and yang as good. As you may have noted from the descriptions above, yin corresponds to female nature, and according to Confucianism, female nature is therefore bad. (Wikipedia, 2017).
I obviously object to this. (On the other hand, most females tend toward passive and mysterious -- dark -- in men's eyes. In effect, with my passionate, assertive nature, I fail as a female. Oh well.).
Yin and yang -- in the Confucianic sense, sees yin as bad and yang as good (and we'll ignore the female/male duality for the moment.) A character which is all good would be boring -- what Americans would typify as a "goody two-shoes". He would have no negative forces affecting him in his childhood; he would have no temptations toward evil or any vices or even any character faults. For those of you who read Twilight, I see Bella Swan as such a character -- her only character fault (other than very normal adolescent angst) was that she was clumsy. And all the guys at her school are enamored of her. Yawn, I can't identify with such a being.
A character which is all bad would be likewise boring -- he would be what we'd call a "cartoon villain". We'd find no sympathy for him; we'd hate him with no hesitation, no confusion, or else we'd laugh him out of our minds. Are any of you familiar with Boris and Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle? Boris and Natasha were designed to be cartoon villains, but there are other villains out there who were accidentally written that way.
It's hard to write a villain who's convincingly evil yet has good qualities. It's hard to write a hero who has urges or actions that are less than noble. It is, however, important. The faults in the good guy have to be significant; the redeeming qualities in the bad guy have to catch the reader's notice.
I have a character in one of my books, somewhat naive. He cooperates in a plot to frame the Nephilim (for you Bible fans, not quite what you expect for Nephilim) son of his ex-lover out of jealousy. Until that point he has been amicable. He later confesses his deed and the reason, and then that night saves a group of young Nephilim from an attack. He has become one of my favorite characters, because he has become complex.
****
An exercise for all of you readers: In comments, write a short summary of a character who is either a hero with bad traits or a villain with good traits. Have fun!
Sunday, June 25, 2017
Statute of Limitations -- a Story
This is a story I once posted on Facebook, because not all my readers are friends on Facebook, and some of my Facebook friends may not have seen this.
Note: There are references to sexual assault/rape in this story. If this will cause PTSD, I understand if you don't read it.
********
In a small town in the Missouri Ozarks, Chief Hayes took the call – a B & E at the high school. He met Superintendent Reeves at the back door, and they walked through the whole three floors and annex of the building. Hayes observed no signs of entry, no footprints, nothing missing. Signs of breaking –that was another story entirely. Almost every window down the glass corridor that led from the main building to the gymnasium was shattered. A cracked baseball bat lay discarded at the foot of the building, and one glass pane remained unbroken and with a smudge of blood across it.
“Can you get a print on that?”
“What the hell do you think we are – CSI?” Hayes found his voice reverting back to the local accent out of aggravation, the one where “hell” was pronounced in two syllables. He hated that accent, because he felt it made him sound like a stereotypical hick cop on TV. “That’s likely as not an arm print, smeared,and no, I am NOT going to run a DNA check on a vandalism case.”
“Not breaking and entering?” The chief thought Reeves always sounded like he wore his tighty whities too tight.
“I see breaking. I don’t see entering. Breaking without entering is called ‘vandalism’, and that’s what we’ll investigate. That should feed your persecution complex well enough.” And Hayes left the superintendent gaping like a snagged bluegill.
As he wrote up the report in a room otherwise occupied only by the night dispatch, Chief Hayes pondered: Who would break the windows out at the high school? Teen vandals were always the obvious culprits – a few teens go out drinking and then break into the high school, where the security cameras record them kicking in lockers and raiding the cafeteria. But there was no entering, as he had pointed out, only breaking. Not business as usual. What else wasn’t business as usual? He couldn’t think of anything except the 20th reunion of Mays Corner High School class of 1994 –
Long shot, he thought, but possible. It would be easy enough to find them, he thought. He was having breakfast with his high school class reunion tomorrow morning. And if one of them was stitched up, there was his culprit.
No one sported a gashed arm or hand the next morning at Mary’s Diner, but several sported hangovers. If they awarded degrees in heavy drinking, he knew some likely candidates sitting at the table. Most of the survivors of the 20th reunion were locals, though, and he highly doubted that paunchy, middle-aged locals were smashing windows at the high school.
“Where were you last night, Hayes?” A man with a ravaged joker’s face waved from the far end of the long table. The half-dozen or so survivors of the reunion watched avidly, probably looking for a fight. “Losing your virginity?”
“To your mom, Saunders.” Hayes often fought the urge to kill Brent Saunders, but the latter was doing a good enough job on his own, mixing booze with diabetes. “I’m on duty, so no remarks about my sex life. But please tell me you bashed some windows at the high school with a baseball bat so I can feel free to arrest you.”
“No, SIR,” Saunders shot back with a mock salute. “I was here at the party all night. Obviously.” Bleary laughter greeted his revelation.
“Who wasn’t at the party last night who should have been?”
Jane Trevino Goodin, halfway across the table, jumped in with her nasal voice. “Well, Dave Winston was doing emergency room duty. He doesn’t hang with us hill rats anyhow, ever since he got that MD. And I think I saw a car with an out-of-state plate at the Reszniks’ place. Maybe Crystal came home, but she wasn’t at the reunion.”
On a hunch, Hayes had watched Saunders rather than Jane, and at the mention of Crystal Resznik, he thought he saw a flash of almost suppressed fear. Interesting.
If Crystal Resznik was in town last night, would she have bashed in the high school windows? She was an odd one back in high school, Chief Hayes thought. Honor student, brilliant even, but a bit -- different, almost like what they called Asperger’s now. Nicest girl in the world, but – the only politically correct word he could come up with was different. He hadn't seen her in twenty years, because she'd gone off to college and didn't seem to want to be seen. Different for sure, but certainly nothing to inspire that look of fear on Saunders’ face.
He drove up to the Resznik’s house and noticed that there was no out-of-state car in the parking lot. Her father's car was in the drive,so he parked his ride and knocked on the door. Mr. Resznik answered the door in a sweatshirt and jeans with a polite but wary expression.
“You would be Todd Resznik? Mr. Resznik, I’m Police Chief Hayes. I expect you know this.”
“Is there anything wrong?” Polite but wary.
“Not that I know of, but I would like to ask you a few questions." He paused, more for effect than anything. Resznik did not invite him in, but that wasn't unusual. "I saw a car with an out-of-state license in your driveway last night. Was your daughter Crystal here to visit?"
"Yes." Resznik's chin tilted up slightly. "She left this morning."
"Was she here for the reunion?" Innocuous beginning, after which he would follow up with the standard whereabouts questions.
"She'd just as soon see you all burn in Hell first," Resznik responded, his voice suggesting he preferred an icy Hell."Starting with Winston and Saunders."
Resznik’s response caught him off guard. "What do you mean by that?"
"It's not my story to tell. You might ask Winston and Saunders." With that, Resznik closed the door, and Chief Hayes felt so disoriented that he momentarily forgot about vandalism, broken glass, or blood.
A different mystery was developing than the one he was trying to solve, Chief Hayes suspected, and it gave him a headache. Something was hinky here – Saunders looking scared about something to do with Crystal Resznik, who had been in town but had not gone to the reunion. Todd Resznik implying an unsettling connection between Crystal and Brent Saunders and Dave Winston. Winston was a respected doctor, although he always was a bit of a mommy’s boy, and Saunders was – well, disreputable. Never got caught doing anything illegal enough to lock him away, but that didn’t mean he didn’t do anything illegal. What was the connection?
It didn’t make sense. What bugged him most was that he fel tthe whole situation – situations? – were getting away from him. Obviously, though,Winston was the guy he needed to talk to, because he had been the ER doc on duty last night, and because his name kept coming up, sometimes with sinister implications. He might be able to take care of both mysteries with one visit.
Dave Winston lived in one of the few McMansions in Mays Corner. Chief Hayes felt intimidated walking up the front porch stairs and facing the front door, which had a knocker, for God’s sake. He comforted himself with the reminder that the house reportedly was as shoddy as it was ostentatious.
Dave’s wife, a gracefully aging former cheerleader, answered the door. “Chief Hayes!” she exclaimed in that high-pitched coo that sounded like she hadn’t quite made it past age 7. “What brings you here?”
“Is your husband in, Mrs. Winston?”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” In the distance, a dog barked.
“Not that I know of. “ A common reassurance, but in this case no more than the truth. “May I speak to him?”
“I’ll go get him. You come right in and make yourself comfortable.” A few minutes, and a feminine but very unchildlike “Ginger, DOWN!” later, and Dave Winston, clad in sweats and a t-shirt, stepped into the living room. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No thanks.” Hayes' first impression of Dr. Dave Winston was that the man didn’t look well. Twenty years before, Winston was a track star, tanned skin and sun highlights in his hair. Now he looked pale, mouth pinched. He looked thin – no, attenuated,stretched taut. Hayes settled for a moment on the too-soft couch and gathered his thoughts. He knew that there were better ways to get information from doctors than asking direct questions whose answers would violate HIPPA. “We had some vandalism at the high school last night.”
“Really?” No tells, no clicks, just puzzlement. “You’re telling me this for a reason, right?”
“Maybe. Nearly every window in the first floor hallway of the high school had been busted in by a baseball bat. The last window wasn’t busted because they broke the bat. And it looks like they cut themselves up pretty good. Would you have stitched up any gash type wounds last night?"
Dr. Winston pulled himself upright, "I am not permitted to give you that information under HIPAA rules. If you have a specific suspect in mind -- "
"I can file the appropriate paperwork," Hayes finished. "Let me ask you a totally unrelated question. When was the last time you saw Crystal Resznik?"
The effect of the question was like shaking up a can of beer and then pulling the tab. "I hadn't seen her since high school, honest,and then she was in the ER last night and she stared me down and told me I owed her one --"
"Owed her for what?"
But Winston shook his head. "I can't talk about it. Christ, it was over twenty years ago. I didn't do anything. The statute of limitations --"
Hayes figured that if he pursued the line of questioning further, Winston was going to start talking lawyers. "Here's my card, and if you can get around to remembering what it was you did or didn’t do over twenty years ago that I might care about, give me a call."
As he pulled into Brent Saunders' driveway, he noticed two things: Saunders was sitting in the driveway sobbing, and his pet project, the maroon '74 Mustang Fastback, looked like it had been beaten with a baseball bat. All the windows were shattered and the body had broken out into fist-sized dents.
"Are you drunk, Saunders?" Hayes gave the man a hand up and set him on a nearby lawn chair, then pulled up another. "Does this have anything to do with Crystal Resznik?"
"Resznik? She's such a bitch ..." Saunders trailed off into his near stupor, and Hayes hoped the man wouldn't up and die on him.
"Why is Crystal Resznik a bitch?"
"She was so much smarter'n the rest of us. Nothing we did to her ever bothered her. You'd call her nasty names and she’d give you this look like you was a bug. I had to do sumthin' to get in good with the guys..."
"What. Did. You. Do." Chief Hayes bit out, fearing that the anger that was greying his vision would break out as violence.
"I got me a piece of Crystal after school freshman year,” Saunders chortled.
"Jesus CHRIST!" Hayes stood up abruptly, spilling his lawn chair backward. "Do you mean to tell me you sexually assaulted Crystal Resznik in high school? Why the HELL would you possibly think this was okay?"
"Because she thought she was too good. Because someone had to bring her down to our level," Saunders sniveled – there was no other word for it.
"Was Dave Winston involved?"
"Pretty boy? Hell, no. He walked in on it and ran out. I was always afraid he was gonna call the cops or sumthin' but he never did. Prolly afraid his parents’d worry about their reputation." Hayes began to understand, but in a way that made his stomach burn.
"You bastard. I don't think Crystal Resznik did enough damage. I think she should have taken that baseball bat to your balls." Chief Hayes slammed his foot into the side of the battered Mustang and stalked off.
On his way back to the Resznik residence, Chief Hayes put together the pieces, and more. Brent Saunders raped Crystal Resznik in high school because she was "too good". The reputable, law-abiding Dave Winston didn't report the violent crime -- to protect his reputation? It was entirely possible that other classmates knew about it even back then but didn't report it -- why? Because somebody had to bring Crystal down to their level.Saunders became a hero, in other words, because he raped Crystal Resznik.
Hayes parked the cop car at a small neighborhood park, opened the door, and vomited on the curb. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, heglimpsed the heart of the bucolic town he had come back to and made his own. The comforting exterior, the rotten bleeding heart.
Why had he never heard the rumors? Why had he never seen this? He cast the net of his memory back twenty years, and saw himself standing somewhat separate from the others. He heard Saunders singing an unfunny ditty:"Marty Hayes sucks brass donkey dicks ... He bites their balls..." Hayes had ignored it.
That, of course, was the answer: He had ignored the rumors,ignored the hints, ignored the times when Saunders openly harassed Crystal Resznik and others (yes, there were others) between classes. Just as he had ignored anything that would disrupt his peace.
Too late for arrests; let him make his peace the only way he could.
He pulled up to the Resznik's battered little house at the bottom of the hill. Some called it a shack, but it was plenty safe against the elements. Mrs. Resznik had died years ago, when Crystal was in fifth grade; Mr.Resznik and his daughter were a tight family. He would have to proceed cautiously.
"Mr. Resznik, may I come in? I need to speak to you about Crystal." He flashed his badge, all official.
Todd Resznik glared as he opened the door and indicated a seat at the kitchen table. "If you've come to accuse her of the vandalism at the high school, you have the wrong culprit." He held his arm up, where a two-inch gash sported stitches. "I think this is the smoking gun you've been looking for."
"Then why was Crystal at the emergency room last night?”
"You don't think I could drive with this, do you? If you check my truck, you'll find a rolled-up shirt with blood on it I've been meaning to throw away. I could barely drive home, and then Crystal drove me to the ER." Resznik’s words fit the remaining pieces together, but Hayes saw no reward for himself.
"But why the hell did you do it?" Hayes shouted.
"Do you know what it's like to have a daughter who tries to fit in, but she's just a little bit different? Not retarded, so she feels and understands every slight delivered to her, but just different? She finally has some guy paying attention to her, and she believes he wants to go out with her, but instead he uses her trust -- " Resznik clenched his fists and did not continue.
"Saunders," Hayes offered.
"Yeah, Saunders. And the rest of that school who knew about it, including Superintendant Reeves, who told me it was his word against hers and since she was a little different anyhow, she was unreliable."
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Hayes wasn’t sure he felt sorry. He wasn’t sure he felt anything.
"Damn it, I'm not the one who needs the apology. Where were you to apologize when she just wanted to fit in?" Hayes couldn’t remember.
"I could apologize now --" The words fell like lead in the small kitchen.
"It's too damned late. Arrest me or get out of here." Resznik crossed his arms. End of discussion.
Statute of limitations, Chief Hayes thought as he stood in front of the high school. What's the use of justice if all that's needed to derail it was a statute of limitations? Too late to arrest Saunders. Too late to make amends.
This damn town is a caramel-covered rotten apple, he thought.Candy on the outside, worms on the inside. The worms wear the names of the seven sins -- Greed, Avarice, Envy. And I'm one of those damn worms -- only I'm wearing a uniform. My name is Sloth.
Hayes took his truncheon and busted out the last of the windows that had started the whole damn thing. "Hell," he said, pronouncing it as two syllables. "Now I can arrest me for it." He walked off, but part of him could never leave the scene of the crime.
Note: There are references to sexual assault/rape in this story. If this will cause PTSD, I understand if you don't read it.
********
In a small town in the Missouri Ozarks, Chief Hayes took the call – a B & E at the high school. He met Superintendent Reeves at the back door, and they walked through the whole three floors and annex of the building. Hayes observed no signs of entry, no footprints, nothing missing. Signs of breaking –that was another story entirely. Almost every window down the glass corridor that led from the main building to the gymnasium was shattered. A cracked baseball bat lay discarded at the foot of the building, and one glass pane remained unbroken and with a smudge of blood across it.
“Can you get a print on that?”
“What the hell do you think we are – CSI?” Hayes found his voice reverting back to the local accent out of aggravation, the one where “hell” was pronounced in two syllables. He hated that accent, because he felt it made him sound like a stereotypical hick cop on TV. “That’s likely as not an arm print, smeared,and no, I am NOT going to run a DNA check on a vandalism case.”
“Not breaking and entering?” The chief thought Reeves always sounded like he wore his tighty whities too tight.
“I see breaking. I don’t see entering. Breaking without entering is called ‘vandalism’, and that’s what we’ll investigate. That should feed your persecution complex well enough.” And Hayes left the superintendent gaping like a snagged bluegill.
As he wrote up the report in a room otherwise occupied only by the night dispatch, Chief Hayes pondered: Who would break the windows out at the high school? Teen vandals were always the obvious culprits – a few teens go out drinking and then break into the high school, where the security cameras record them kicking in lockers and raiding the cafeteria. But there was no entering, as he had pointed out, only breaking. Not business as usual. What else wasn’t business as usual? He couldn’t think of anything except the 20th reunion of Mays Corner High School class of 1994 –
Long shot, he thought, but possible. It would be easy enough to find them, he thought. He was having breakfast with his high school class reunion tomorrow morning. And if one of them was stitched up, there was his culprit.
No one sported a gashed arm or hand the next morning at Mary’s Diner, but several sported hangovers. If they awarded degrees in heavy drinking, he knew some likely candidates sitting at the table. Most of the survivors of the 20th reunion were locals, though, and he highly doubted that paunchy, middle-aged locals were smashing windows at the high school.
“Where were you last night, Hayes?” A man with a ravaged joker’s face waved from the far end of the long table. The half-dozen or so survivors of the reunion watched avidly, probably looking for a fight. “Losing your virginity?”
“To your mom, Saunders.” Hayes often fought the urge to kill Brent Saunders, but the latter was doing a good enough job on his own, mixing booze with diabetes. “I’m on duty, so no remarks about my sex life. But please tell me you bashed some windows at the high school with a baseball bat so I can feel free to arrest you.”
“No, SIR,” Saunders shot back with a mock salute. “I was here at the party all night. Obviously.” Bleary laughter greeted his revelation.
“Who wasn’t at the party last night who should have been?”
Jane Trevino Goodin, halfway across the table, jumped in with her nasal voice. “Well, Dave Winston was doing emergency room duty. He doesn’t hang with us hill rats anyhow, ever since he got that MD. And I think I saw a car with an out-of-state plate at the Reszniks’ place. Maybe Crystal came home, but she wasn’t at the reunion.”
On a hunch, Hayes had watched Saunders rather than Jane, and at the mention of Crystal Resznik, he thought he saw a flash of almost suppressed fear. Interesting.
If Crystal Resznik was in town last night, would she have bashed in the high school windows? She was an odd one back in high school, Chief Hayes thought. Honor student, brilliant even, but a bit -- different, almost like what they called Asperger’s now. Nicest girl in the world, but – the only politically correct word he could come up with was different. He hadn't seen her in twenty years, because she'd gone off to college and didn't seem to want to be seen. Different for sure, but certainly nothing to inspire that look of fear on Saunders’ face.
He drove up to the Resznik’s house and noticed that there was no out-of-state car in the parking lot. Her father's car was in the drive,so he parked his ride and knocked on the door. Mr. Resznik answered the door in a sweatshirt and jeans with a polite but wary expression.
“You would be Todd Resznik? Mr. Resznik, I’m Police Chief Hayes. I expect you know this.”
“Is there anything wrong?” Polite but wary.
“Not that I know of, but I would like to ask you a few questions." He paused, more for effect than anything. Resznik did not invite him in, but that wasn't unusual. "I saw a car with an out-of-state license in your driveway last night. Was your daughter Crystal here to visit?"
"Yes." Resznik's chin tilted up slightly. "She left this morning."
"Was she here for the reunion?" Innocuous beginning, after which he would follow up with the standard whereabouts questions.
"She'd just as soon see you all burn in Hell first," Resznik responded, his voice suggesting he preferred an icy Hell."Starting with Winston and Saunders."
Resznik’s response caught him off guard. "What do you mean by that?"
"It's not my story to tell. You might ask Winston and Saunders." With that, Resznik closed the door, and Chief Hayes felt so disoriented that he momentarily forgot about vandalism, broken glass, or blood.
A different mystery was developing than the one he was trying to solve, Chief Hayes suspected, and it gave him a headache. Something was hinky here – Saunders looking scared about something to do with Crystal Resznik, who had been in town but had not gone to the reunion. Todd Resznik implying an unsettling connection between Crystal and Brent Saunders and Dave Winston. Winston was a respected doctor, although he always was a bit of a mommy’s boy, and Saunders was – well, disreputable. Never got caught doing anything illegal enough to lock him away, but that didn’t mean he didn’t do anything illegal. What was the connection?
It didn’t make sense. What bugged him most was that he fel tthe whole situation – situations? – were getting away from him. Obviously, though,Winston was the guy he needed to talk to, because he had been the ER doc on duty last night, and because his name kept coming up, sometimes with sinister implications. He might be able to take care of both mysteries with one visit.
Dave Winston lived in one of the few McMansions in Mays Corner. Chief Hayes felt intimidated walking up the front porch stairs and facing the front door, which had a knocker, for God’s sake. He comforted himself with the reminder that the house reportedly was as shoddy as it was ostentatious.
Dave’s wife, a gracefully aging former cheerleader, answered the door. “Chief Hayes!” she exclaimed in that high-pitched coo that sounded like she hadn’t quite made it past age 7. “What brings you here?”
“Is your husband in, Mrs. Winston?”
“He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” In the distance, a dog barked.
“Not that I know of. “ A common reassurance, but in this case no more than the truth. “May I speak to him?”
“I’ll go get him. You come right in and make yourself comfortable.” A few minutes, and a feminine but very unchildlike “Ginger, DOWN!” later, and Dave Winston, clad in sweats and a t-shirt, stepped into the living room. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No thanks.” Hayes' first impression of Dr. Dave Winston was that the man didn’t look well. Twenty years before, Winston was a track star, tanned skin and sun highlights in his hair. Now he looked pale, mouth pinched. He looked thin – no, attenuated,stretched taut. Hayes settled for a moment on the too-soft couch and gathered his thoughts. He knew that there were better ways to get information from doctors than asking direct questions whose answers would violate HIPPA. “We had some vandalism at the high school last night.”
“Really?” No tells, no clicks, just puzzlement. “You’re telling me this for a reason, right?”
“Maybe. Nearly every window in the first floor hallway of the high school had been busted in by a baseball bat. The last window wasn’t busted because they broke the bat. And it looks like they cut themselves up pretty good. Would you have stitched up any gash type wounds last night?"
Dr. Winston pulled himself upright, "I am not permitted to give you that information under HIPAA rules. If you have a specific suspect in mind -- "
"I can file the appropriate paperwork," Hayes finished. "Let me ask you a totally unrelated question. When was the last time you saw Crystal Resznik?"
The effect of the question was like shaking up a can of beer and then pulling the tab. "I hadn't seen her since high school, honest,and then she was in the ER last night and she stared me down and told me I owed her one --"
"Owed her for what?"
But Winston shook his head. "I can't talk about it. Christ, it was over twenty years ago. I didn't do anything. The statute of limitations --"
Hayes figured that if he pursued the line of questioning further, Winston was going to start talking lawyers. "Here's my card, and if you can get around to remembering what it was you did or didn’t do over twenty years ago that I might care about, give me a call."
As he pulled into Brent Saunders' driveway, he noticed two things: Saunders was sitting in the driveway sobbing, and his pet project, the maroon '74 Mustang Fastback, looked like it had been beaten with a baseball bat. All the windows were shattered and the body had broken out into fist-sized dents.
"Are you drunk, Saunders?" Hayes gave the man a hand up and set him on a nearby lawn chair, then pulled up another. "Does this have anything to do with Crystal Resznik?"
"Resznik? She's such a bitch ..." Saunders trailed off into his near stupor, and Hayes hoped the man wouldn't up and die on him.
"Why is Crystal Resznik a bitch?"
"She was so much smarter'n the rest of us. Nothing we did to her ever bothered her. You'd call her nasty names and she’d give you this look like you was a bug. I had to do sumthin' to get in good with the guys..."
"What. Did. You. Do." Chief Hayes bit out, fearing that the anger that was greying his vision would break out as violence.
"I got me a piece of Crystal after school freshman year,” Saunders chortled.
"Jesus CHRIST!" Hayes stood up abruptly, spilling his lawn chair backward. "Do you mean to tell me you sexually assaulted Crystal Resznik in high school? Why the HELL would you possibly think this was okay?"
"Because she thought she was too good. Because someone had to bring her down to our level," Saunders sniveled – there was no other word for it.
"Was Dave Winston involved?"
"Pretty boy? Hell, no. He walked in on it and ran out. I was always afraid he was gonna call the cops or sumthin' but he never did. Prolly afraid his parents’d worry about their reputation." Hayes began to understand, but in a way that made his stomach burn.
"You bastard. I don't think Crystal Resznik did enough damage. I think she should have taken that baseball bat to your balls." Chief Hayes slammed his foot into the side of the battered Mustang and stalked off.
On his way back to the Resznik residence, Chief Hayes put together the pieces, and more. Brent Saunders raped Crystal Resznik in high school because she was "too good". The reputable, law-abiding Dave Winston didn't report the violent crime -- to protect his reputation? It was entirely possible that other classmates knew about it even back then but didn't report it -- why? Because somebody had to bring Crystal down to their level.Saunders became a hero, in other words, because he raped Crystal Resznik.
Hayes parked the cop car at a small neighborhood park, opened the door, and vomited on the curb. Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, heglimpsed the heart of the bucolic town he had come back to and made his own. The comforting exterior, the rotten bleeding heart.
Why had he never heard the rumors? Why had he never seen this? He cast the net of his memory back twenty years, and saw himself standing somewhat separate from the others. He heard Saunders singing an unfunny ditty:"Marty Hayes sucks brass donkey dicks ... He bites their balls..." Hayes had ignored it.
That, of course, was the answer: He had ignored the rumors,ignored the hints, ignored the times when Saunders openly harassed Crystal Resznik and others (yes, there were others) between classes. Just as he had ignored anything that would disrupt his peace.
Too late for arrests; let him make his peace the only way he could.
He pulled up to the Resznik's battered little house at the bottom of the hill. Some called it a shack, but it was plenty safe against the elements. Mrs. Resznik had died years ago, when Crystal was in fifth grade; Mr.Resznik and his daughter were a tight family. He would have to proceed cautiously.
"Mr. Resznik, may I come in? I need to speak to you about Crystal." He flashed his badge, all official.
Todd Resznik glared as he opened the door and indicated a seat at the kitchen table. "If you've come to accuse her of the vandalism at the high school, you have the wrong culprit." He held his arm up, where a two-inch gash sported stitches. "I think this is the smoking gun you've been looking for."
"Then why was Crystal at the emergency room last night?”
"You don't think I could drive with this, do you? If you check my truck, you'll find a rolled-up shirt with blood on it I've been meaning to throw away. I could barely drive home, and then Crystal drove me to the ER." Resznik’s words fit the remaining pieces together, but Hayes saw no reward for himself.
"But why the hell did you do it?" Hayes shouted.
"Do you know what it's like to have a daughter who tries to fit in, but she's just a little bit different? Not retarded, so she feels and understands every slight delivered to her, but just different? She finally has some guy paying attention to her, and she believes he wants to go out with her, but instead he uses her trust -- " Resznik clenched his fists and did not continue.
"Saunders," Hayes offered.
"Yeah, Saunders. And the rest of that school who knew about it, including Superintendant Reeves, who told me it was his word against hers and since she was a little different anyhow, she was unreliable."
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." Hayes wasn’t sure he felt sorry. He wasn’t sure he felt anything.
"Damn it, I'm not the one who needs the apology. Where were you to apologize when she just wanted to fit in?" Hayes couldn’t remember.
"I could apologize now --" The words fell like lead in the small kitchen.
"It's too damned late. Arrest me or get out of here." Resznik crossed his arms. End of discussion.
Statute of limitations, Chief Hayes thought as he stood in front of the high school. What's the use of justice if all that's needed to derail it was a statute of limitations? Too late to arrest Saunders. Too late to make amends.
This damn town is a caramel-covered rotten apple, he thought.Candy on the outside, worms on the inside. The worms wear the names of the seven sins -- Greed, Avarice, Envy. And I'm one of those damn worms -- only I'm wearing a uniform. My name is Sloth.
Hayes took his truncheon and busted out the last of the windows that had started the whole damn thing. "Hell," he said, pronouncing it as two syllables. "Now I can arrest me for it." He walked off, but part of him could never leave the scene of the crime.
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