Is there a classical text that inspired your writing?
I think my writing was mostly inspired by earlier works of people like Edgar Allen Poe and
Nathaniel Hawthorne. But, the writing of Oedipus Rex was also very inspiring to me as well.
Were there other mythological stories you read in the class that give (or might in the future give) inspiration for other stories?
A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the Aeneid by Vergil
were both very interesting and inspiring to me. I think I’ll try to incorporate aspects of those
stories in my future writing.
Moles
The alleyway between the two beatdown brick buildings was dark. Just a fleck of red light on the ground from the bright neon signs above shone through. It was drizzling that night. The puddle caused by hours of light rain was murky but made alive by the sounds of water droplets dripping in, one-by-one. Drip, drip, drip. A rat scurried across. It screeched when its fur felt the water, not noticing the puddle hidden in the darkness. It jumped back, stared for a moment, and shook itself furiously. The rat then scampered off, ready to fight another day.
This wasn’t Victor’s usual scene. Banks, ballrooms, tailors’ shops, smoke rooms, executive offices. These things, Victor dedicated his life in their fierce pursuit. Even now, he leaned against the walls of the alley draped in a $7,000 suit. Victor breathed in the cool, wet air, letting it conquer his body. Not as good as a Cuban Cigar, but still good. It was quiet for the city. But then again, this was where the tourists avoided. Nights in this part of town unearthed people of dreams. Or nightmares, better yet.
Here he was, leaning to the left of what seemed to be the door to a prison. It was taller than him, who was taller than most men. It was also made completely out of steel. So impenetrable, nothing could get in or out without a key. Victor wondered to himself why these types of doors were still made. He waited in the drizzling rain for a few more moments until the door opened with a resounding bang. He breathed in a shaky breath as he walked towards the open door. He wasn’t allowed to enter without a guide. That was the rule.
Before he could speak, a body stepped out of the darkness. It was a short man with long black hair and a beaded necklace. His face was clean-shaven except for the long, narrow, pencil-like strip of facial hair on his chin that extended to his chest. An old scar graced his right cheek. The Mitigator. That’s what they called him. The man that could fix anything.
“Please follow me, Mr. Victor,” the Mitigator said in a foreign accent unknown to him.
He led him down the stairs lit sparsely by light bulbs along the way. As they walked, Victor adjusted his tie and fixed his hair every now and then. Most people would find him handsome, except for the fact that he did things like that anywhere he was. They arrived at a metal examination table in a room riddled with all types of colorful stones, odorous herbs, and potions from all over the world. The type of stuff that’s only written or read about, never seen.
“Please remove your shirt and take a seat on the table,” the Mitigator told him.
Victor removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the body hidden behind the suit. He was well built, as he had the money to take care of himself. But his chest. How should one describe his chest? Round black and purple protrusions covered it. Like dark pimples, or moles. But they were much too big to be considered moles. Each resided closely on his skin, like the surface of a blackberry. There were nine or ten, perhaps, a new one appearing each week. Around them were scratch marks. Not scratch marks that stay on your skin for a moment and fade. No. These marks were etched nail-deep on his chest. So deep and numerous that they left plump red scars.
“I told you not to scratch at them,” the Mitigator said, looking deeply concerned at the “moles.”
“But I did everything you told me to do,” Victor said.
“You drank the juice every day?”
“Yes,” he said annoyed. “Yes, I did. And I used the bath salts like you said, and the oils too.”
“I see,” the Mitigator said, thoughtfully stroking his beard. “I suppose I’ve done everything that can be done.
“Don’t give me that!” Victor shouted in a rage. “I paid you to do something and you haven’t done anything! If nothing changes, you’ll be sorry.”
The Mitigator turned away, searching for a possible answer in his collection of trinkets, finding nothing.
“Come back tomorrow and I’ll try something new.”
“I have a funeral to go to tomorrow. I’ll be back Tuesday.”
The Mitigator solemnly nodded and pointed Victor towards the exit. As Victor walked out, the Mitigator yelled out to him.
“Perhaps these moles are deeper than they seem. Some mens’ problems require more than even I can provide.”
“Those men don’t wear my suits,” Victor spurned, foot out the door. “Fix it.”
Out he went to the road to hail a taxi. As a cab approached him, he could’ve sworn that the same rat he saw earlier was run-over, dead on the side of the street.
The designer of his apartment said it was minimalistic, but what it was was empty. On those rare occasions when women weren’t in every room, all Victor could hear were the echoes of his own voice or his footsteps. He despised it. He walked to his bathroom, not bothering to turn on any lights, and looked at himself in the mirror. This was his face, his hair, his eyes, his nose. These were his hands. He took off his shirt and ran a trembling hand against his chest, feeling his scars and his ailment. Did Lloyd do this? he thought. Did he somehow come from beyond the grave and do this to me? Sweat rolled down his forehead. Was he not drunk enough that night? Were my hands bashing his head against the table not enough? Were my hands around his neck not enough? Was death not enough to quiet him? To stop his growing fortune? These thoughts raced through his head. He thought that he’d puke, and quite soon he did. He forced his body up from the toilet bowl, wiping some vomit from the side of his mouth. He stole another glimpse of himself as he walked to his bedroom. The time was 2:22 AM. The funeral would be 9:30 AM. Alone in his bed, Victor tried to catch as much sleep as possible. He managed an hour, at most.
The morning at the funeral felt like the longest hour of his life. He sat slouched in the pews looking down at his feet as tens of people came to offer their condolences. We’re so sorry Victor, they said. You two were so close, or I know you guys were rivals, but business was booming! Too bad that’s not the case anymore. Victor said nothing. Grief, they thought, lovingly putting their hands on his shoulders as they passed through. His hair was disheveled, which they all noticed but chose not to mention. Not today, of course. Not at his best friend’s funeral! Speakers spoke about how great Lloyd was and the mysterious circumstances of his death. The crowd smiled, and they cried, but all were silent when it was time to pay their respects at Lloyd’s open casket.
Victor didn’t want to look, but he had to. Afterall, his reputation was already at stake. As he dragged his feet towards Lloyd, he felt a strange new sensation on his chest. I’ll deal with this later, he thought angrily to himself. Now, it was time. Time to look at a dead Lloyd for the second time. Lloyd rested peacefully in his coffin. The makeup covered any scars or bruises he suffered in his dying moments. They all believed he fell hard on his head in a drunken stupor, which is not uncommon for these men in suits. Memories of the time they spent together came flooding into Victor’s head. The good times, and the bad, they had spent together.
Just then, he moved his hand to his chest, scratching it violently. He couldn’t stop himself. This was the first time his “moles” were itchy. Not many people noticed it until he began grinding his chest against the side of Llyod’s coffin. He opened his mouth. He thought he would scream, or cry. But a low, inhuman moan oozed from his lips. Now, everyone was staring in awe, and bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. The hoarse words, “I’m so sorry Lloyd” managed to escape this unnatural uproar. The coffin wasn’t enough to soothe the itch, so he ripped off his shirt, revealing his ailment to the baffled crowd. They gasped. Some screamed. After a few more seconds of Victor’s episode, they regained their senses. A few men in the crowd had to pull Victor from the coffin with all the strength they had. The police came, and soon the psychiatrists. Victor was taken away, of course, and his empire was split among his associates. Those who were at the funeral would never quite understand what happened that morning. But they would never soon forget.