Body Implots when it Plots, Holding Shots for Your Knots, Crits

Chain writing(Metafiction)

Press the play button (turn down the volume)

     The place was already in chaos when the police finally arrived. One woman’s wailing dominated all the other sounds in the place; maybe she is his lover or his sister. The man, who seemed to be in the mid thirties, was on the bed. He was in suits, and seemed comfortable; pity that his shirt was all blooded in red. He lied still with his hands calmly on his chest, both of them piled on another. He didn't have his tie on. The whole place was surrounded by the curious crowd.

     The police were there, trying to find a single evidence to solve the problem. Walking around the site, one of them reminded of the accidents happened around ten years ago. His brother, while playing with his friends, was assassinated by someone. The police could not find the evidence and the accident was never solved.

     He walked around the site for more than five hours. He was determined. Finally, he found something that could be the evidence of solving the problem: a dead rat and a piece of watermelon inside the bag beside the dead man. He couldn’t find it before because the bag was under the bed, hidden with the blankets. The police was puzzled, because they didn’t seem to be related at all. To get help, he called his closest friend who works as a secretary in Korean National Science Center.

“The person you are calling is currently busy. Leave a message after the beep……”

    Instead of his friend, the answering machine answered. With a deep sigh the police put his phone back in his pocket. Sealing the watermelon and the rat inside two separate plastic bags, the police had a swift look around the crime scene again. Other cops-his fellows-were already gone for such a long investigation time. Skimming, his eyes rested on an open refrigerator for some time.

     The refrigerator was old; maybe used for more than seven years. In the refrigerator, there were only two bottles of bear and kimchi. One detective was picturing the refrigerator with his camera with a serious look. Keep staring, the detective seemed to find something strange about the scene and the refrigerator. The police shouted when he found the detective.

     “Hey, who are you? Nobody except the police is allowed in this site!”

     “I am a private detective, sir. That woman over there had hired me about five hours before.”

     The detective showed his ID card when the police required him to. The ID card seemed OK, and the police warned him not to touch a thing on the place. The police turned to ask the woman if she hired him or not, and who exactly is she, but when he found the woman still sobbing-now grabbing one hand of the man, not wailing like before but sorrowfully-he suspended his question for later. The beautiful woman was too in sorrow right now. She must have loved him so much.

     The detective finished his picturing, and he walked out of the room. Before going into the huge crowd, he turned back and went to the woman: it seemed like he was telling her something, something about what he have found until now. The woman was now quiet: but the desperate shoulders she had with her head buried deep beside the body of the dead man showed that she was in despair. The detective finished his words, and slowly walked out of the site.

     As he walked out, he slowly placed the blade into his pocket. The blade was plastered with blood. He smiled with his hand touching the other side of the pocket. Another piece of watermelon and another dead rat were in there. Those were the signals of him-the Scissors. That stupid little cop will soon realize what those in his bag mean.

Anyway, woman is such a convenience: nobody dares to touch her when the beauty is crying, when nobody knows who she is. She cried for about five hours and the stiff police didn’t try once to take her out of the site: how convenient!

Her convenience was all used up till her extent. Now the police will ask her who she is, and who she is about the man and soon realize that she has nothing to do with Alex-a young Korean-American, who was once in the Scissors-on the bed.

‘Sorry, Lisa,’ he whispered as he wiped the blood away with his thumb inside his pocket. Then the situation will be easier for the cop and that was not what he wanted. Lisa shouldn’t be something that obstructs him, but something that helps him only. She shouldn't get investigated and give the cops a single piece of information. She shouldn’t and she can’t, never. And now she was there beside the bed, quiet, desperate, and … not breathing anymore.

He smiled.

With the blood still on, the blade was nice and fresh. 

And so did the watermelon with its rat.

“Done?” Jack asked.

“Yep. That’s all.” Dad answered. “Now, Jack, go to sleep.”

“It is a little freaky, dad.” Jack murmured. “It sounds real, too.”

The curious kid couldn’t stop asking his dad to tell stories before he went to bed. His dad Bill, who seemed to be a marvelous storyteller, had used all of the stories he knew and started to think of a new one. Searching for another story, this one was the one that he finally got: something that seems to be real in his memory but not quite sure what it meant. Anyway the story was finished, and Jack was half asleep.

“A watermelon and a bleeding rat …...”

Bill knew what it meant: the Scissors. And he knew it not just because of the story but because he was once in the Scissors. The story was from his own memory.

He sighed out loud, and it was the very next instant when he felt the cold blade rushing through his body. Jack, run … he murmured in his mouth: the last thing he saw was Jack sleeping in comfort. His body drooped on the chair he was sitting, beside Jack’s bed.

“Sorry, Bill.”

The blade in the dark whispered.

Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for reading.
You were warned to turn down the volume.
If you didn't, I am sorry, but you were warned.
You were warned.


From the moment you turned on the song, the Scissors are on their way,
chasing 
the song.