Tag Archives: black-comedy

Dear Journal – Peculiar Noises

Dear Journal,

Peculiar noises abound in the house, that J. claims not to hear… most unusual. He has been listening more and more to that dreadful eighties revival house music, in an effort to distract from his current situation, but it is difficult to imagine that even that din might drown out the screams that persist in our walls.

Anya has found more pieces of the body, though now I begin to suspect that these seperate parts are from more than one corpse. I continue to place them in the shed – they are too far gone even for my own tastes, and you know, Dear Journal, how I like to know where my food has been.

The shed, incidentally, seems a little… odd. Time spent in there seems to take on peculiar qualities – I oftentimes was finding that I would step in there for but a moment in the noon sun, and it would be past midnight when I exited. And the walls seem to sweat, despite the dessicated nature of most of the body parts I am storing in there.

To be frank, I don’t like to spend any longer than absolutely necessary in there.

The best story about Anya today is that she somehow managed to find her way into my cupboard… goodness knows how she managed to lock herself in there… I was trying to call her in from the garden for over ten minutes before I realised she was crying from inside the house.

She left the cupboard in an awful state, with mud and bodily fluids not her own covering the floor. Though oddly, when I was looking for her, I hadn’t seen any trail through the house to the room. I must have tidied it away in a frenzy before realising she was missing, quite despite myself.

Dear Journal – A Little Worried About J.

Dear Journal,

I’m a little worried about J. He claims that the other night, he got a call from his ex-wife S. At least, the incoming number on his phone was his ex-wife’s but all he could hear on the line were garbled, guttural, glottal voices. He seems fairly certain that she almost never spoke like that.

What’s slightly odder is that he hasn’t been able to pay his bill for a couple of months, so his phone is actually cut off at the moment.

A quick phone call to Orange to check the line assured him that there had been no incoming calls to his phone from any of the afterlife territories, so at the very least, we can be certain that S. is still alive, or at least, that whoever was using her phone is.

Anya continues to find pieces of the dead. I continue to store them in the shed. J’s preoccupation seems complete, though… when I asked him if he’d noticed how strange the shed was getting, he asked me “what shed?” and then proceeded to tell me that we didn’t have a shed. I didn’t argue; it’s impossible to reason with someone who’s heart is causing them so much distraction.

Dear Journal – The Practical Joke

Dear Journal,

V. worried about J. now. He disappears for hours at a time after work. Sometimes he says that he’s been in his bedroom, thinking, but I know that’s not true because when I’ve looked in, he’s not there. Other times, he goes out into the rain with no coat on… he says he’s just going for a walk, but it always happens just after another of those damn phonecalls from his other-dimensional ex-wife.

On Sunday, I was sitting on my bed, reading a book, and had been for nearly two hours, when I got a little peckish for some of my special “dried meats”; you know the ones, dear Journal, the ones that I prepare myself and keep wrapped in wax paper in the driest nook of my walk-in cupboard. The ones that taste of lost loves.

I got up from the bed, scratched myself in the most anti-social of manners, and opened the door to said cupboard. Imagine my shock on finding J. in there, looking perplexed and a little sad.

I admit to losing my composure a little. I shouted:
“What the hell are you doing in there, J? I thought you were out? How long have you been in there?”

All he could say was “I thought I heard her” and “The rain washes all the trails away”, with that sad look on his face. It was a pretty long way to go for a prank; that’s my stance on it, Dear Journal. He must have stood there for hours, just to give me a fright. The least he could have done was look pleased with himself. I shushed him out of the wardrobe, I couldn’t have him dripping all over my clean clothes, and got him a towel… I don’t care if he does have a strange sense of humour, I still care about him catching a chill… and sent him on his way to his room.

Do you know, he’s so embarassed about that practical joke that he won’t even acknowledge it? He still claims, all these days later, that he had followed S’s trail to a door in a hidden wooded part of The Common, and the next thing he knew, I was ushering him out of my room. Pride, dear Journal, makes idiots of us all.

A Rainy Sunday with N and J Supplemental: It’s A Wonderful Half Life (2)

Dear Journal,

Here is my summary of the final act in Half Life 2, as promised. As stated before, J. and I really did believe it was the best way to finish this phenomenal game, and these words fail to do the programmers’ work justice, but here, in my own humble way, I pay tribute to them. Spoilers:
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