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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Horror
- Subject: Death / Heartbreak / Loss
- Published: 04/11/2020
The Telltale Gap
Born 1976, M, from Whitechapel, AustraliaThe gap lured me in and I couldn’t help but stare into it. It called me back again and again, though every look into that deep, empty chasm hurt my soul. It looked to me like a wound, yet never would I see proof of healing or the promise of it. I wanted to crawl into that thin, black space and cry out to the ancient gods for justice. I wished to squeeze myself into that mocking, painful gash in reality’s fabric and die there; taking the place of the one thing that would restore equilibrium. It inhaled greedily and it seemed that the entire universe might be slurped up like wet noodles into the rift’s hungry mouth. I welcomed it.
Whenever I would lose myself in that derisive and evil space, the Chief Librarian would remind me that I had other work to do and I would tear myself away begrudgingly. I would wheel the book-trolley down each aisle, returning each tome to its rightful home, and I would picture the face of my antagonist. He had come in late, with many a flirt and flutter—five minutes before closing (I detest that kind of thing), demanding that I recommend something for his aged father to read. ‘There are quite a few books here,’ I said, ‘What genre does your father favor?’ ‘Horror and stuff’ came the very reductive answer and several follow-up questions were required (I detest that kind of thing even more).
The ignoramus ran his grubby fingers through his raven hair and said something like, ‘I dunno. Clive Barker or Stephen King?’ I bristled before walking the trained gibbon to the most hallowed ground in the entire place: that of the shelf where the works of The Tomahawk Man himself—Edgar Allan Poe— reside. I reverently awakened The Complete Tales and Poems from their slumber and presented them to the impatient flesh-sack. The resulting gap stared into my atomic structure and found me wanting. ‘Oh yeah, Dad said he likes this guy, I think. Didn’t he write about that dude that inspired the character of Sherlock Holmes?’ I inhaled deeply before answering--that Dupin was vastly superior to that entirely overrated deerstalker-capped sleuth; my heartbeat not slowing until the Cro-Magnon had checked out his prize and left the building (barely a minute stopped or stayed he).
I waited patiently until the precious volume was due—counting the days and then the hours. Bile rose in my throat when the day of reckoning came and went and no return was made. A second day and then a third. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cheap-suited imbecile and his deficient pater mishandling the treasure that they would never fully appreciate. I thought about him as I drove home. I pictured him as I bench pressed after dinner (my anger enabled me to lift almost three hundred kilos: much more than ever before). I conjured his stupid face as I imbibed my pre-sleep amontillado, resulting in the most vivid of dreams.
The gap beckoned each day and each day I would pay penance: silently apologizing and supplicating and begging for forgiveness. The author of my agony tortured me with the gaping maw of his absence and my anguish soon metamorphosed into rage. My hands became machines of war and my arms: pistons of persecution. As the great man himself once penned: ‘I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity’. The beating of my own heart was a source of torment—it had become an engine of undiluted hatred and it pumped poison through my body; poison that fueled my every waking moment.
The gap is filled now. The great yawning hollow in my existence has been finally resolved. The lumbering meat puppet eventually returned to the library like the swallows to bloody Capistrano. He paid the fourteen-pound late fee with a smirk and had no apparent conception of the chaos his tardiness had caused. He swanned into the place at five minutes to closing and my motor pushed acid through my circulatory system. I folded him like an origami crane and stuffed him into the space ordained by his negligence. His bulk displaced almost a half-row of books but his disfigured body has corked the catalyst of my psychological lapse, though, I dare not say: nevermore.
The Telltale Gap(Jason James Parker)
The gap lured me in and I couldn’t help but stare into it. It called me back again and again, though every look into that deep, empty chasm hurt my soul. It looked to me like a wound, yet never would I see proof of healing or the promise of it. I wanted to crawl into that thin, black space and cry out to the ancient gods for justice. I wished to squeeze myself into that mocking, painful gash in reality’s fabric and die there; taking the place of the one thing that would restore equilibrium. It inhaled greedily and it seemed that the entire universe might be slurped up like wet noodles into the rift’s hungry mouth. I welcomed it.
Whenever I would lose myself in that derisive and evil space, the Chief Librarian would remind me that I had other work to do and I would tear myself away begrudgingly. I would wheel the book-trolley down each aisle, returning each tome to its rightful home, and I would picture the face of my antagonist. He had come in late, with many a flirt and flutter—five minutes before closing (I detest that kind of thing), demanding that I recommend something for his aged father to read. ‘There are quite a few books here,’ I said, ‘What genre does your father favor?’ ‘Horror and stuff’ came the very reductive answer and several follow-up questions were required (I detest that kind of thing even more).
The ignoramus ran his grubby fingers through his raven hair and said something like, ‘I dunno. Clive Barker or Stephen King?’ I bristled before walking the trained gibbon to the most hallowed ground in the entire place: that of the shelf where the works of The Tomahawk Man himself—Edgar Allan Poe— reside. I reverently awakened The Complete Tales and Poems from their slumber and presented them to the impatient flesh-sack. The resulting gap stared into my atomic structure and found me wanting. ‘Oh yeah, Dad said he likes this guy, I think. Didn’t he write about that dude that inspired the character of Sherlock Holmes?’ I inhaled deeply before answering--that Dupin was vastly superior to that entirely overrated deerstalker-capped sleuth; my heartbeat not slowing until the Cro-Magnon had checked out his prize and left the building (barely a minute stopped or stayed he).
I waited patiently until the precious volume was due—counting the days and then the hours. Bile rose in my throat when the day of reckoning came and went and no return was made. A second day and then a third. I couldn’t stop thinking about the cheap-suited imbecile and his deficient pater mishandling the treasure that they would never fully appreciate. I thought about him as I drove home. I pictured him as I bench pressed after dinner (my anger enabled me to lift almost three hundred kilos: much more than ever before). I conjured his stupid face as I imbibed my pre-sleep amontillado, resulting in the most vivid of dreams.
The gap beckoned each day and each day I would pay penance: silently apologizing and supplicating and begging for forgiveness. The author of my agony tortured me with the gaping maw of his absence and my anguish soon metamorphosed into rage. My hands became machines of war and my arms: pistons of persecution. As the great man himself once penned: ‘I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity’. The beating of my own heart was a source of torment—it had become an engine of undiluted hatred and it pumped poison through my body; poison that fueled my every waking moment.
The gap is filled now. The great yawning hollow in my existence has been finally resolved. The lumbering meat puppet eventually returned to the library like the swallows to bloody Capistrano. He paid the fourteen-pound late fee with a smirk and had no apparent conception of the chaos his tardiness had caused. He swanned into the place at five minutes to closing and my motor pushed acid through my circulatory system. I folded him like an origami crane and stuffed him into the space ordained by his negligence. His bulk displaced almost a half-row of books but his disfigured body has corked the catalyst of my psychological lapse, though, I dare not say: nevermore.
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Andre Michael Pietroschek
05/04/2022Good writing style and a formidable story. On that hole in my soul, when I realized that there are more important issues in life than being selfish aka obsessed with filling that hole, I went for being there for those, who got hurt protecting me, sheltering me, warning me. ``Living with the pain, instead of drug-induced dreams only.´´
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Kanishka Roy
07/28/2020Now I know how my school librarian felt. My first ever horror story was the tell tale heart.....and ever since I've been in love with Poe. Your romance with his horror is enviable.
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Jason James Parker
07/28/2020Thanks so much, Kanishka. Ironically, it was my primary school librarian that introduced me to Poe (she must have thought I was a troubled child. Lol). Your excellent writing is indicative of an excellent literary diet. Thank you so much for your kind words.
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Gordon England
07/27/2020Your story shows passion for the great books of the world that many have no concept of. well done
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Kevin Hughes
04/12/2020Aloha Jason,
First, did you notice how you "upped" the comment section? Read this thread and you have obviously inspired some remarkable prose to respond to your story. The Inner Shrieking Librarian in all of us, wants to bend, twist, and torture those souls who see books only as a way to lodge a door open, or level a table, or to give the appearance of discernment, culture or class.
And so another TV sycophant finds his home stuffed onto a shelf surrounded by books he will never read, understand or peruse. Meanwhile, a Monster takes life from the pages of the world's first "Hippie" Edgar Allen Poe.
Well done. Smiles, Kevin
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Jason James Parker
04/12/2020Thank you, Kevin. The comments on this page are humbling and inspiring, to say the least. This story is certainly one for all of us book lovers; hopefully, Mr. Poe isn't too insulted by my scrawlings--wherever he may be. Thank you for reading and for your thoughtful words. : )
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Martha Huett
04/12/2020Horror in a library, of all places. Only you, Jason, could dream this up. And you so nailed it! Man, that was really really good. Loved it. I'm thinking about slipping my overdue books in the return slot of our town's library tonight. I might have gotten the stank eye last time I was in. Thanks for the reminder...and for sharing your story! :)
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Jason James Parker
04/12/2020Thank you, Martha. I really loved your comments. Beware the librarian! Dump those books and run! Lol. : )
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JD
04/11/2020Masterfully penned plunge into the depths of the soul sucking succubus gaping black hole of the internal fomenting mind mincing swirling whirlpool wormhole otherwise known as the human psyche. Superbly delved, Jason! :-)
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JD
04/12/2020Jason... glad I could oblige!
Martha... thanks for appreciating my dark humor! : )
Happy Easter to you both.
COMMENTS (11)