I’ve posted my newest story to my new writings website. You can find it here:
I’ve posted my newest story to my new writings website. You can find it here:
I’ve posted a couple of new stories on my Writings site. One is a story that used to be hosted on this blog, “Together to One,” and the other is an old skit I made a while ago called “Bricks.” You can find them at the following links:
Recently I posted a whole bunch of short writings which I called the Tales of Fate. In lieu of wasting time and space here, I have decided to setup a website specifically dedicated to the publication of my writings. This website can be found at http://writing.alexseifert.com. Also, check out the new Writings page on this blog.
I will be republishing such stories as “Together to One” and “Drilled” on that site as well instead of just posting the stories in a PDF file as I have been doing most recently. I also have several others to post. I will be making good use of this new site, so check back frequently or subscribe to the RSS feed or by e-mail to automatically be notified when I publish a new story.
The goal is to eventually have enough short stories to publish my own book of short stories. I am not terribly far off from that point and when I reach it, I will let everyone know here.
My mother is dead. She shot herself on the cold winter night of my birthday. That happened only two years ago. When the phone call came, my family and I were eating breakfast. My three year old daughter had just learned the word “suicide.”
It was on this cursed day that I heard my daughter say the word for the first time. She said it, then laughed. The laugh of a little girl.
A year later, we were eating dinner when my daughter said something. I couldn’t hear very well because a loud bang echoed through the house. But I knew right away was she had said. With the table between us, my wife laid with her face in her plate. In her lap sat my pistol. My daughter continued eating.
I’ve just heard my daughter say “suicide.” She’s watching me, as I have my pistol to my head and my finger is pulling the trigger.
You wouldn’t want to be me. My friends are gone, but I’m still laying here. They are the people who have put me in this place.
I’m laying here and am watching the darkness. The air is old and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to breathe soon.
I’m only thinking about why I’m here. How? Who shoveled the first dirt? I thought this should have been a very quick experiment. I believed that I could have trusted my friends. But I was wrong.
The air is becoming unbreathable. I’m falling asleep and I will soon sleep where the dead sleep.
She’s sleeping so peacefully. Her hair feels so soft and she smells so good. I can’t wait until I can sink my fangs through her skin. I’m already drooling. I can feel a drop of spit on my chin.
I bend over and turn the virgin’s head. Her vein looks so good. I lower my head and open my mouth. A drop of spit falls onto the neck of the woman, but I don’t notice.
I can taste her warm blood as I sink my fangs into her. It tastes so good. The moon is still shining in the sky. But it’s turning crimson.
I’ve lived here for a long time. My family before me also lived here. But I’m the last one that will live here. I have no kids; no wife.
No one comes here and I don’t go out. Why would I? I need no food; no water.
I’ve been dead for a long time and yet, I continue to live. I was born 150 years ago and died 132 years ago. My house is empty and there isn’t anything to do. I have no friends; no desire to be.
I want to die. But I can’t do that. I’m sure I’ll die of dehydration before this damn rope kills me.
The desert is very very hot and expansive. I can’t see anything. I don’t want to see anything. I’m here entirely alone and I’m waiting for death. My hands are tied and my feet reach for the ground. They’re out of reach though.
I’m thirsty but I continue to cry. I’m sure there’s only one tree tree in the entire desert. And I’m still hanging from it; waiting for death.
I saw the man. I leaned over the coffin and saw his pale face. It looked very peaceful, but I knew better. I knew the torment that comes with death.
On the day of the funeral, a lot more people came than I had expected. All of the people wore black clothing. I looked for a seat and sat down. The funeral would begin soon. I waited. No one came to talk to me. That didn’t surprise me though. I didn’t expect anyone would.
When the burial ceremony began, everyone went to the graveyard. Six of the guests carried the casket on which there were flowers placed. All of the guests were quiet. No birds sang. No breeze blew. You could hear nothing but your own heart beat. I sat and waited.
The preacher’s voice broke the silence. He began reading the Last Rites which floated through the air. I stood up and went to where the ceremony was being held. There I saw the coffin which held the corpse again.
I watched the ceremony until it had ended and the coffin had been buried. Everyone left one after the other and I continued to stand there. When everyone had left, I went over to the gravestone. I sat down on the ground and touched the words which were engraved in the headstone. I knew the name very well. Too well. I closed my eyes whilst a tear ran down my cheek. Everything was quiet. Not even a bird sang.
With teary eyes, I read the name again. It was my own name. I leaned on the gravestone and began to weep.
The Tales of Fate are very short and very odd pieces of writing I wrote many years ago and as such, I feel an explanation is necessary. Thus far I’ve posted only four of them, but there are eight total.
Now for a bit of background information. I began writing them towards the end of high school which was a relatively dark period for me. The stories, therefore, are quite dark. Originally they were written in German as I was starting to learn the language and then I translated them into English. That is why they are so simple and short as my German was not very good at that time.
In writing them, I was somewhat inspired by Natsume Soseki’s Ten Nights of Dreams which consists of ten very short stories that are equally as odd and dark. Soseki was a very dark author and his work is very comparable to that of Edgar Allen Poe. But I digress.
The Tales of Fate are nothing more than simple situational stories with a dark twist. I have not written any for years, so after I have posted all eight of them, there will not be anymore. I will begin posting more of my recent writings which are considerably better in my opinion.
