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"Moneth's guilt consumes him." He questions his life, those of his friends, and his use of Qiarraq's money.
Chapter One: Memory
Flat silver tones of sunlight glowed, down into Moneth's face, stirring him from his afternoon nap. The sounds of the street above, rising into his consciousness again.
He felt sore from sitting, propped against the stone lining of the academy's basement alcove doorway and the stairs, leading to the street above.
This door never opened. The door, with six century's history on shelves seven feet tall, books filling
an even space. Moneth could see a better use for its clean red oak surface. He slept against it.
He lifted his head to move further into the shadows where his feet were, unexposed to the sunlight or people walking above. He drew himself into a ball, resting on cardboard and paper trash, his insulation from the coolness of the stone landing. Tighter he wrapped the long coat, "a gift from Vince" he told himself for betraying the confidence of another of
the street legions.
It wasn't payment. He was above that, as much as he found work a vice in his life's serious
employ; he drained bottles of Mowrams "double malt" scotch whiskey as a consequence of his warming stools at Cohn's Red Cheetah lounge. Cohn helped Moneth maintain a drip-feed alcoholism for keeping the talk lively during happy hour from 2 to 7 each evening.
Moneth's daily feeding was nursing his "dt's" out of existence. "Keeping me level" he screeched at Pete Cohn's ample draughts of cheap, but fine malt liquor fire.
This fire's embers were low now as the stone alcove drained the heat from his "sore-I-s-sass" covered hide to his pickled liver. The skin of his legs and back succumb to the rash of psorisis, perhaps due to a lack of proper nutrients, absent in his daily diet of cheetoes, popcorn, and Lucky bar snacks. Without these "nutrients" for several hours, he began to feel the numbness all about him.
Moneth drew in a chill gasp of air when a twinge of pain spoke to him, a muscle in his back, spasmed a momentary dance across his spine. "Devil's nails creepin' up my skin and in my dry bones!" he wretched a sour bellow from his cracked and dry lips. "Must be the dandy devil revenging Qiarraq's money", thinking aloud in curious and muffled tone. Qiarraq didn't need it anymore. His single, a dollar U.S., gave Moneth enough cash to pay for last night's fire. A whole quart, gone already, "But I'm still here" gasping, not sure of what else remained or changed or had yet to come.
Things to come. They had for Qiarraq. Money. Power. Three Wives and nine kids. But nothing lasts forever. Things just kept coming. Bills. Threats. Three divorces and child support. Of all things he kept the job was his least favorite. A salesman by day and mechanic in the evenings. He fixed everything. The empty places where appliances belonged in your life and the motors stranded in your garage. Diligence to the core, Qiarraq continued to show up for work, everyday and every hour. The latter to the detriment of his personal life and affairs. His wives all complained that he was a pushover to the beakonings of his employers. Yet he denied them no less. In his day Qiarraq provided for his families through all manner of clamities. He set each up in modest digs and recycled posessions from one to the next home. His work afforded him some bargains and opportunities in the way of cheap appliances and fast cars. He turned over profits as he accumulated wealth. Each deal reinvested in the care of his offspring and partners in life. Delvia was his first wife and shortest marriage. His innocence in the affairs of married life cost him plenty in terms of happiness. She kicked him out for his passivity about anything except his work. She said "a man's first passion should be in his wife and family, not working." Still she demanded what that focused effort had provided her. He saw no point and no resolution. Other men might have endured and worked it out. It wasn't in Qiarraq's desire to challenge her. She had made her point and he knew little would change. He didn't have the skills to get better work and shorter hours. With limited options he took the course of least pain. Monique was the second learning trial. He was found guilty. He found that his only weakness was his need for a companion. She filled that emptiness and was a reasonable partner. Monique's passion for hard work matched well with Qiarraq. They worked and played hard until she bore triplets. The pressure to support his families was too great, causing Qiarraq to become enslaved to multiple jobs. Some of which became opportunities for graft and vice. One opportunity opened the door to Victoria. She was Qiarraq's third and final marriage. As Monique found out about his strayings with Victoria, she locked in a fourth pregnancy. The newest child to Monique would return the pressures that Qiarraq had been releasing in Victoria's nineteen year old arms. He only had to get caught officially and Monique would own his ass for at least 18 years. "You bastard father of my child! I'll kill her then you if ever I catch you two!" raged Monique. She gave him no quarter and set him free to pursue a night on someone else's couch. He never returned and she filed for divorce. His passion for working kept him out of court: he plead "no contest" to her claims of infidelity. The insult caused her to miscarry the child. If only he had fought with her. He knew that a healthy spousal argument would have probably worked to keep it and himself together. He just had no energy to challenge her. His weakness to avoid conflict was costing him big in more than his wallet. He felt powerless to contain the chaotic circumstances of his life. At the summit of this chaos he had managed to exceed his greatest income to date. The appliance saleman of the year award graced his trailer's kitchen sink. He had help clear half of the stock in one week of aggressive calling and following up every lead. No walk in customer left empty handed that week. Victoria muffled a laugh the day he brought it home. She said, "it looks like a ice cream man". The trophy's miniature statue of a person was dressed in a simple uniform that could represent many tradesman or professionals. Her curt observation stung at him. "Even this one digs at my success!", he groused into himself. Now came the rewards. He had been working repairing cars on weekends at people's homes or wherever they broke down. He had asked the manager at Oscar's muffler shop, Vincent, if he could work on cars after regualr hours. Vince had heard of Qiarraq's reputation as a salesman and repairman. He also knew of his many wives and guessed at the kind of income required to support them. Vince figured this guy was an opportunity to be nurtured and pruned until a future time when fruit could be born. Vince gave him the keys to the garage and showed him where to put them behind the garage when he finished. The tiny nook in the wall held the key fast. No one would notice them without feeling inside the broken edge of the cinder block. No one would ever know from looking that a man walking behind the garage could easily hide the keys without giving the action away. But a person following the action day by day might become curious about a late night worker leaving the front of the garage, walking around the back, only to return to the front from the opposite side, Every night. Only a curious sort would be interested in the comings and goings of a hard working mechanic and father of nine children. Like the consistent beat of a clock, Moneth watched Qiarraq leave his evening work late into the evening. Note: Take this to the point where Moneth watches Vince get the key. A new chapter should detail Vince. We could then dreg up more about Moneth in the next chapter. Following up with something about Qiarraq's life with Victoria, and some crisis with his other wives requiring Qiarrag to raise money in an illicit way.
We should at some point create a "stellar event" like the sun shining
in Qiarraq's eyes and digressing into his inner most fears. Then later at the
crux of all this - revisit the powerful effect of the light pouring into
Qiarraq's eyes, distracting him at precisely the worst possible moment. Moneth
must be implicated in whatever "chase" leads to Qiarraq's downfall.
Qiarraq must somehow pick up the dollar. Options include begging for the dollar
while pumping Qiarraq for some small bit of info; or stealing it from his
pockets after Qiarraq is killed; or create a chain of events leading Qiarraq's
marked bill from him, to a wife, to a store, to a second wife, to a door-to-door
salesperson, to the third wife, to the bar, to Qiarraq again...
What follows is not part of the above. It's just more of my ramblings...
Working Title: Myrek 279
A group of somnolent Gimbles paddled about in the small, hopsy wabe at the trailhead to Arme. The breeze gently caressing the torwbaque trees, snapping their boughs as any hurricane easily could do to more stout growing poplars. Of Earth. But this was not Earth and the breeze was no hurricane force wind either. Only the sample of life on Myrek 279, a shattered world resembling a pie wedge cut out of the sphere that was once a planet in full. Were it not for the dissolution of other neighboring gas giant planets in the Myrek system, the lifeforms of this remnant of a world would have died out long ago. The atmosphere of Myrek 279 was swept away slowly. Some creatures adapted, while others died out. New ones formed too. The clouds of vapor that were the atmosphere, as well as migrating clouds from the gas giants, surrounded the pieces of Myrek 279. And new life met old. The bold Sceln evolved from the Melnik bipeds on Myrek. They took to the wind with wings that developed over many epochs of change. The Sceln transited between the pieces that were the sphere of Myrek 279. They lived and loved the freedom of unbounded existence, while alighting distant pinnacles and spires to sleep. To dream. The ancient Myrean peoples live about, on isolated wedges of the planet, tied to a terrestrial existence by necessity. Without wings, Myrean folk simply float and drift, or in some cases, thrash wildly about, in helpless efforts to free themselves of being unbounded from grounded life. Consequently, between the races of these two peoples, a dependency developed. One rescues the other from aimlessly drifting about on occasion. The other grounded the dreams of their rescuers, long enough to develop a civilization of some substance. "Symbotic relationships give the key to longevity" quoth the elder Sceln and Myrean peoples alike. Time-worn phraseology was not lost here. It accounted for much of the stablity and the conversation. And the boredom. While an equilibrium existed in the society of Myrean 279, a rogue course of events was beginning to bloom...
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Someday I'll get around to adding more to this story.
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