Neurotica
Cameron A. Straughan
Q: Do you live your life?
A: Only when it’s around me.
... from a dream I had.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to all the fellow writers and publishers who have given me support, advice, and constructive criticism over the years. A special thanks to the late C.F. Kennedy for instilling in me a passion for independent publishing and - most importantly - for encouraging me to keep on writing.
Contents
The Life of a Thinker
A Walk in the Countryside
Submerged
During the Lunch Hour
The Flame
A Call to Duty
Headliner
“It” – Monster from the Unknown
The Trial
How to Keep Cats Out of Your Garbage
The Future, a Radio, and a Travelling Salesperson
A True Story About a Monkey
Rumours
As the Crow Flies
A Note on Fancy Toffee Tins
The Package
The Life of a Thinker
The thinker wanders the streets alone. The curious bulge in the left pocket of his jacket keeps people at a distance. He doesn't display it often; only to those he trusts the most - only those who can tolerate it.
Entering a grocery store and recognising someone he thought he knew well, the thinker makes a slip - a momentary lax in reasoning. They rush down the aisles and out the doors, leaping counters and grabbing what food they can, amidst the sound of cars screeching away from the parking lot. Broken glass, toppled shelves, and abandoned shopping carts are left in their wake. The thinker, feeling defeated, picks up the device and puts it back in his pocket. He shuffles out of the deserted store.
Wandering the streets aimlessly, or so it seems, the thinker attracts undue attention. Pedestrians move to the opposite side of the street. They find something repellent about his left pocket. They do not approach him regarding this; they do not want to. Fear drives them away. Only at a distance do they feel comfortable. The thinker does not understand this (the device is just not meant for them).
Seated in a cafe, surrounded by familiars, the thinker is barely aware of what's being said, but not because of ignorance. He shakes his head, straining to listen. He tries not to draw attention to himself, but it's hard for him to jump in at any given moment. With a handkerchief, he wipes the blood from his neck, shoulder, and clothes; some of it begins to run down his arm. He cannot enjoy the music, because of the sound of drilling. His body besieged with spasms, his face winces and contorts.
The device is now firmly attached to the left side of his head. With its tendrils wrapped around his face, obscuring his immediate view, it begins to burrow deeply, through his ear, and eventually into his brain. Mixing, pumping - swirling round and round in a clock-wise fashion. The thinker is caught up in the flash of images. His familiars try to console him; it is only part of human nature to try including every one.
“You're rather distant,” they might begin. Or perhaps: “That's a nice shirt you have there.”
When the thinker has an attack like this, he is prone to seek solitude. He learned at an early age that it is best. The device operates more efficiently in privacy, with no excuses necessary to explain a sudden lack of social grace. More importantly, the thinker seeks solitude because he is concerned about his familiars.
He does not like the look on their faces, as he falls from his chair, writhing on the floor in pain. Teeth clenched, shaking all over, he suffers great distress, because of their forced nonchalance. Glancing up at the ceiling, they keep talking, to save his dignity, as if they could never be embarrassed or inconvenienced. What good actors they are. He claws at the tendrils covering his eyes. The sound of drilling fills the small cafe, causing his familiars to speak loudly to one another, in order to be heard. He appreciates their performance, dedicated to him. But he fears he is over-working them. He has forced them onto a tightrope of understanding, teetering between dislike - fostered by misunderstanding, of course - and a vain will to help him, although at times it seems impossible.
“Pay no attention to me,” the thinker cries out in pain, hoping to be heard above the device, “I'm all right down here.”
At times, he wished he had their support, to help him up off the floor, but ultimately he goes without it. It is his fault, of course - partially due to stubborn nature, partially force of habit. He tries in vain to pull himself up, clinging to the back of a customer's chair. The blood, now a pool around him, causes him to slip back onto his stomach. The customer takes one look at him and turns back to his coffee, not wanting to get involved.
“Sorry to disturb you,” the thinker hisses between clenched teeth, the pain quite extreme, “enjoy your coffee.”
Yes, the thinker is often distracted in such a manner, but he is always sincere and apologetic, never wishing to harm anyone. He looks up, noticing a waiter trying to pass by with a tray of orders.
“Sorry about the mess,” he waves his hand feebly, the waiter carefully stepping over him.
It is unfortunate, but much of the thinker's life is composed of incidents like this. Once and awhile, however, he meets someone who is willing to open themselves up to such an experience, regardless of the consequences. This is a rare event - to be cherished. Not many can bare the pain and live to tell. The device is not forgiving. It allows no escape once it has you; its tendrils are steadfast, its drill-bit long and viciously curved.
So maybe the thinker shouldn't condemn those who fear the device. He tries his best not to. He does not know what their lives are like, so he cannot rightly comment. But they know what his life is like. They see the pain and suffering, the misunderstanding, the futile attempts at making contact with others, and the device itself. Yes, maybe they are happy without the device. Yet, it is surprising that more have not been affected by it. It has an affinity for people forced together, by circumstance or intention. For example, if seated side by side, it can jump from one person to another. For this very reason, the device is highly unpopular at church gatherings.
With bibles open, donations ready, and in best attire, the congregation listens carefully to the minister. Everyone is silent, of course. Only the minister's voice carries throughout the church. They hang on his every word, punctuating each sermon with ‘amen’. And when he forgets the words and compensates by mumbling, they hang on his every mumble, punctuating prolonged mumbling with ‘amen’. The beloved flock, peaceful and tranquil, with the sound of mumbling lulling them into a feeling of security and comfort on a sleepy Sunday afternoon. Suddenly, a cry fills the church, followed quickly by another. The flock turn their heads back and forth in unison; there is a general feeling of subtle wonderment amongst them. Another cry, and then the sound of someone falling to the floor, kicking about madly.
“What's that racket in the back row?” the minister cranes his neck, setting down his bible. “Is someone thinking for themselves?”
The alarm is sounded immediately. Ushers rush to the back row. Before anyone can be distracted from their feelings of detachment and malaise, the thinker is hauled off the ground and dragged out of the church. Without further incident, the mumbling continues.
Back on the street, wandering aimlessly, or so it seems, the thinker is once again a victim of his surroundings. People stop and stare; some race to the other side of the street. Maybe some of them envy the thinker for diverging slightly from the norm; although it is debatable what the norm really is, since the very powers that determine these standards can't be familiar with the sort of pain the thinker goes through. Such thoughts give the thinker a headache. The device is full of joy. It celebrates this joy by crawling out onto the thinker's sleeve, for all to see. F
or a moment, the thinker is proud of himself. But he can only wear his heart on his sleeve for so long, before it crawls back into his pocket.
A Walk in the Countryside
Neurotica Page 1