So, want another story?
This is an odd one. I really don't remember writing it, but I kinda like it.

It's in the replies, of course.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 22 Aug 2008, 15:29, 12 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

The Night Calls
The night calls me.

I really don’t know why that is. I remember as a child being out after dark on those rare nights when I was allowed, walking along the street my house was on and looking up at the stars. I remember how the sky looked to me, deep velvet black with dazzling pinpoints shining down on me. I remember feeling the pull even back then.

As a teenager I would sometimes climb out my bedroom window, in the time honored tradition of kids everywhere, and walk the streets late at night. My parents would send me to bed at ten, but by eleven I was out walking. Even the fact that I was in the suburbs surrounded by the orange glow of sodium street lights didn’t diminish it- the night was mine, and I walked it as often as I could. I would go past houses and see families through the windows as they watched TV or sat reading or did the dinner dishes, and see the warm light glowing from the houses and feel as though I had touched upon their lives somehow, that I had shared an intimate moment with them. I would hear the rumble of a man’s voice or the softer tones of a woman, too faint to pick out the words but somehow comforting nonetheless. The air was scented with the soft green smell of the trees, the faint bitterness of the asphalt that had been baking in the sunlight, and the occasional whiff of food or laundry detergent as I went past a house where someone was busy being domestic. I would slip through the shadows, all but invisible.

The night has always been mine.

When I grew a bit older I would walk the roads in the backwoods area I lived in, and now the night would be filled with different things- the rustle of a deer moving through the dark, the creak of tree limbs moving in the soft night breeze, the cry of a night bird. During the winter there would be the sigh of snow sifting through branches; during the summer the crickets would shrill from under the debris of the forest floor. But always there would be clear nights in which I could look up and see the sparkling depths, and that was always a thrill along my bones.

Not everyone shares my love of the night, of course. On the rare occasions when I encountered someone else on my lonely walks they startled away from me and looked at me uneasily as I passed. The darkness chills their bones and awakens ancient fears of monsters and ghouls that lurk out of sight in the shadows, and I was part of that to them- after all, what sane person would be walking around at one in the morning?

What they never really saw, or perhaps chose not to notice, is how quiet the world gets at night. The bustle and scurrying of the normal day is over, people have gone to rest after the end of their day, and the world seems to give a deep sigh of contentment and sink back into its bed. It’s a peaceful time, a time when you can actually hear things. It’s when all is calm. Perhaps that is what the people were afraid of, the absence of noise from their neighbors.

I don’t know, really.

This is about the place in the narrative where one usually reveals that they’re a werewolf or a vampire or something like that. Rest assured, I am none of those things. I’m as mortal as anyone else.

But I am unusual, of course. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be telling you about myself, would I?

*****

I was in my thirties before I really noticed the difference between myself and everyone else.

I had always assumed that everyone perceived what I did. It’s a natural enough assumption, but when you come right down to it, how would I know what you perceive? Do you see red as I see red, or are you seeing what I would think of as blue? When you eat chocolate, do you taste the warmth and sweetness that I do, or is your sensation closer to what I would get from tasting an apple?

So it came as a shock to me that not everyone could hear the songs of the night and day.

During daylight I can hear the wind singing sometimes, a voice that can sound like a lover’s murmur or a joyful serenade or a wrathful snarl. I hear the birds, of course, but I hear more than just chirping- I hear announcements of food, warnings of predators, the calling to potential mates. I hear the trees singing to each other- the deep voices of the old ones carrying the melody, the smaller and lesser trees providing harmony, the shrubs chattering along and incurring the disapproval of the old ones, like giggling children in a choir. On sunny days the land rings with the happy tones of everything; on rainy days it’s far more subdued, as the birds huddle quietly and the trees sing more softly of the water reaching their branches and roots.

But nights? That’s when the quiet symphony begins. Because you have the song of the trees changing to a soft chant, the insects replace the birds for discussion of food and attracting mates, and the stars rain down a gentle chiming rain of light over everything. The moon makes the soft night song swell enough that it has inspired thousands of writers and poets as it taps against the glass windows of their unconscious, trying unsuccessfully to get their attention. And a night storm? Wow. Words cannot do it justice.

There you have the background. Now maybe you see why I love the night so much.

Unfortunately there is another sort of person who prefers the night as well.

I was downtown late one night on a weekend. The bars down near the river were doing a booming business- literally, as the bass from one band threatened the hearing of all who stood within a hundred feet of the place while the drums and bass of recorded music made the glass in the windows of another place rattle. The streets swarmed with partiers- the young girls out in their skin-tight outfits teetering along in absurdly high heels, their boyfriends strutting alongside them in their clothes that were so baggy that they looked as though the boys had been shrunken by a mad voodoo priest’s spell. Middle aged men and women mingled with them, either dressed in conservative and expensive outfits or in rather inappropriate clothing that revealed much that should have remained hidden. I walked among them, watching in fascination and amusement.

Ordinarily I’m not someone who really stands out in a crowd. My hair is in that strange region between dark blond and light brown, my face is unremarkable, and I’m soft enough in the middle that no one is going to remember me for my body. I use this to my advantage as I people watch, usually sitting off to one side or in a corner. I consider most of humanity to be there as my entertainment, a never-ending floorshow with a cast of millions. And that’s how it was on this night, as I slipped from one place to another.

I had been sitting to one side watching a pool match between two couples who had obviously been practicing a lot (they made shots that I could never have managed) when I heard a change in the tone of a conversation. I looked around, my nerves prickling.

They had obviously been drinking for some time. Both of them were unsteady, and both were belligerent. I heard the tone of their voices but not their words as they snarled at each other from opposite tables, but that was enough. Their voices washed like acid through the bar, causing the people adjacent to them to start shrinking back. Things were definitely starting to escalate.

I rose from my seat and stepped closer in time to hear one guy snarl, “-go outside?”

The other guy was about to rise when I set my hand gently on his shoulder. He whipped around with a hostile glare in his eyes as I raised my hand in a gesture of peace. “Easy, man. Settle down a bit.”

“Who the hell are you?” His bloodshot eyes glared in murderous rage at me.

“Just somebody who doesn’t want to see you getting busted. Look, just relax, will ya?”

“Why?” he snapped.

“Because I don’t know if you noticed it or not, but that bartender over there keeps a bat sitting on the shelf by the register, and I spotted a cop going by just a minute ago. If you go after that guy you’re going to end up in the drunk tank, trying to post bail in the morning.”

The anger was still there, but the violent edge was gone. He scowled into his beer as he raised the mug.

The other guy’s attention was on me now. “What, he can’t handle this by himself? You gonna come out with him?”

I turned to him. “That’s enough. Knock it off, you’re drunk.”

As I said, ordinarily my appearance is nothing remarkable, but in that moment I summoned my power. My voice went from its usual calm and gentle tone to a sound like a brass gong, deep and carrying with a tone of command. My eyes were suddenly a freezing glare, locked on his.

He stared at me, and his expression went from hostile to shock instantly. He sat speechless, unable to see anything but my eyes. I held his gaze as I said, “Just finish your drink and leave.”

He shook himself slightly and broke eye contact. He gulped at his beer, his face surly, and his friend at the other side of the table looked at him warily. He started to turn back to me, met my eyes and immediately went back to his beer. His friend quietly said, “Come on, Bob. Let’s get out of here.”

The two of them rose and departed, with Bob shooting me one more glance. I returned it coolly, and they vanished out the door.

I turned back to the guy I was standing next to. “You gonna be all right?”

“Yeah.” He glanced up at me, his expression wary. “Thanks.”

“No problem. But you might want to head back soon too, and be careful- the cops are definitely swarming tonight.” And with that I vanished into the crowd.

It’s a nice little talent I have. I don’t know if I can explain it- I call it summoning my power, because I don’t know of any other description for it. I feel this deep welling up of energy, as though I’ve suddenly grabbed hold of a power line and can direct the flow like a fire hose. I’ve been told that when I do that I seem to suddenly get a lot taller, and my voice has a steel edge to it. I go from being just another quiet guy to suddenly being the embodiment of parental wrath, and no matter how big the guy is, being faced with Dad will rattle him every time.

I slipped outside and walked down the street a few feet, letting the adrenaline from the power surge drain out of me a bit. I sat there for a moment, trying to figure out what had just happened.

Why the hell did I do that? These guys were strangers to me, both of them. I had taken a very large risk in getting involved- either of them might well have attacked me. So why had I done it? And why did I calm down the one guy, and not the other?

As I stood there, I felt my nerves prickle again. It felt like being lightly touched with a frozen wire brush, and then it passed.

I stepped quickly down the street, unsure of just what I was following. I didn’t know why, but suddenly I just had this urge to go that way, and to do it fast. As I did so I went into what I guess can best be described as stealth mode. I can move very quietly, and for whatever reason people just plain don’t notice me. I did this now as I walked through the shadows.

I suddenly became aware of voices. A man’s voice with a threatening edge to it, and two female voices that sounded scared. Still in shadow, I came around the corner.

He was about my size, but this one wasn’t drunk. He was standing with his back to me in front of two girls in their twenties, and his stance and their expressions told me that this was not a social encounter. I heard, “Give it to me.”

I stepped out of the shadows. “What are you doing?”

He whirled on me. I had used the voice again, and stood unmoving about ten feet from him. He faced me in a crouch.

I drew up my power again, and felt my face freeze into a mask of cold challenge as I stepped closer. I held my arms at my sides, stepping slowly forward.

He backed away a step, then in a blur a knife was in his hand.

I stepped closer again, and my face split into a ghastly grin. “You don’t really want to do that, do you?” My voice dropped to a softer tone, dripping with cold menacing glee. My eyes never left his.

He licked his lips, and I saw the fright in his eyes. He looked at me like a deer in headlights, then whipped around and ran down the road.

I glanced over at the girls. “If I were you I would get back down that way. I saw a cop car in front of Tiki Bob’s. Tell them what happened, and then get them to escort you to your car.” And I stepped back from them.

They shied back from me for a moment, then took off running back toward the bars. I watched them go, but still felt that cold prickle. I looked around me, then froze.

I don’t know if anyone else would have seen him, because he stood in the deep shadow of a doorway. I had seen him earlier, a thin nondescript guy in dark pants and a black sweater. I had noticed him because he too seemed to be people watching as I was doing, and now I found him watching me.

He gave me a thin smile, then vanished.

*****

In retrospect that night seems crazy, doesn’t it? I had taken huge risks twice, and came within an inch of being beaten or stabbed- and yet I felt no fear, just a rising sense of power. I felt it coursing through my veins like dark coffee, felt it taking control over my body.

But let’s face it, Batman I ain’t. I can get my ass kicked just like anyone else.

I spent the rest of the night walking around downtown, a shadow in the land of the living, unseen and unheard as I moved. I watched the people until after the bars had all closed and went home.

I stepped into my silent house, then walked through to the moonlit back yard. I stood looking over the garden, thinking about the night’s events. I especially thought about the guy I had seen in the shadows.

If I’m out there enjoying the night and watching people, might not others be doing the same? Might they not also heed the call of the darkness and slip out to watch the endless human drama?

But where I love the peace and the gentle beauty of the night, might there not be others out there who love the hidden savagery of it and revel in the even darker tides that stir just under the surface of people? Where I step in to stop ugly things from happening, wouldn’t they encourage it?

Suddenly I knew who the man in the shadows was. I didn’t know his name or where he lived, but I knew what he was and where I could always find him. And I knew why he was there.

*****

So there you have it. A strange little tale, isn’t it? But an important one.

Because, you see, that was how it started. That was the night that I first really knew why I could sense the things that I do. And that was the night that I found out why I can do some of the things I do.

Not every night, but a lot of nights, I wander through downtown, a quiet guy in nondescript dark clothing. You’ve probably seen me a dozen times without registering my face. I go to the bars and I sit and watch people, but not just for entertainment anymore.

I have broken up dozens of fights before they could happen. I have stopped rapes, muggings, robberies, burglaries, and a hundred other bits of ugliness. I never raise a finger against anyone, because I have a much better weapon- my senses, my voice and my eyes.

See, there has to be balance in the world. Light can’t exist without darkness, right? Beauty can’t exist without ugliness. Peace can’t exist without strife.

And I exist because he does.

I’ve seen him many times since, and every time he gives me the same thin cold smile and a polite nod. I return the smile and the nod. And we watch the people.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 22 Aug 2008, 15:29, Reply)

I like it a lot
It reminds me of Jesse's 'Voice of God' in Preacher on a smaller scale.
The ending was a nice round off, and also slightly creepy.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 15:49, Reply)

Fantastic
I don't know why but something about that story really made me want to read more.
(quagarr, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 16:06, Reply)

Excellent piece TRL
Spookily, it really resonated with me - and with a short story I've written for a competition. 300 words or less on a piece of art, in this case, a Toby Jug. Here it is, I think you'll like it, oh, and if you're not familiar with Toby Jugs - do a quick google images first.

-------------------------------------------------
The Spirit of Orders Last

Greetings good people and welcome! My name is Jug, Toby Jug. What’ll you have? They’re on me.
Cheers!
Now then, time was you’d find me, settled on my shelf, from early doors to chucking out, in tavern, inn or pub. On wet winter Wednesday afternoons I’d chew the fat with elderly gents slowly sipping their halves of bitter and on Friday night, I’d be in the crush swapping jokes and gossip and slaking hard-earned thirsts. I’ve wetted more babies heads than I care to remember, settled pre-nuptial nerves and seen young gallants off to war. I’ve swum with poor souls drowning their sorrows and kept a friendly, roving eye on wenches and lasses out for a good time. I’ve hailed returning heroes and presided over far too many wakes.
I’ll have the same again thanks…or maybe a pint of dark porter, stout or scrumpy. Or perhaps a sherry wine, punch, or a drop of rum or brandy…
Where was I? Oh, yes, then came the cocktail lounges and wine bars - music loud enough to deafen - and theme bars: no proper ale from wooden barrels and stiff pumps but alco-pops and gassy lager; no sawdust on the floors but wide-screen TVs on the walls. Bottles replaced pint pots and smokers are sent outside, like naughty boys acting up in class. Burly chaps on the door waving in weaving herds of stag-party lads and hen-night harridans screeching and tottering around the towns…time to leave: no place for old Toby there, last orders rang for me many moons ago.
So now I sit here, alone with my memories, my flagon and my trusty pipe in my safe, glass case.
So come on now, drink up and off you go.
Haven’t you got homes to go to?
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EDIT: I'm off now for the long weekend. Have fun y'all
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 16:08, Reply)

Thanks!
I don't know that I could sell this, because I don't know what sort of publication would want to buy it- but it's still a fun little read.

I just wish I could remember what prompted me to write it! Because really, I don't go around breaking up fights or prowling around downtown at night...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 22 Aug 2008, 16:09, Reply)

:)
I hope these are inspiring you to write some more again :)
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 16:24, Reply)

The desire is there
it's mainly a matter of finding the time and place to write. And of being in the right head space when the opportunity presents itself.

A lot of these were written when I was working in the semiconductor plant, sitting at my desk in the FAB for 12 hours at a time, waiting for things to go wrong. I would sit there for hours with nothing to do, so I started writing.

These days I work 8-5 in a standard office and have lots to do, so I don't get the long quiet stretches anymore. Writing at home doesn't work well for me, as there are too many distractions. And going out in the evening to write? Where can I go that's open late and quiet enough to concentrate in? The last time I tried I went to Barnes & Noble on a night when some teen fiction about vampires was coming out, so I found myself surrounded by girls in extremely revealing outfits and lots of noise- pleasant, but hardly conducive to what I was trying to do.

I'll get back to it eventually- I just need to find a quite place to hole up, somewhere I can get to easily where I won't be interrupted or distracted.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 22 Aug 2008, 16:32, Reply)

I like this
And I think it's got legs.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 20:21, Reply)

Meaning that you think
the story should continue?

I did debate that when I re-read it yesterday. I'm not quite sure where I would take it- the character isn't a superhero, just a guy with certain sensitivities and an intimidating voice. Should I have him find others like him? Maybe find other people like the guy who causes the fights? I don't know. Leaving it as being rather undefined at the end makes it open for the reader to daydream about what comes next.

Of course I'm always open for suggestions.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 22 Aug 2008, 21:02, Reply)

Yeah, but not in a superhero way
I got the feeling you could expand on this a lot more though.
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 21:24, Reply)

I may well give it a shot.
This was written three years ago, so I can approach it fresh. Might be able to spin it out a bit more. I'll have to play with it and see.

You wouldn't believe how many stories I have that I've started and then hit a wall on...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 22 Aug 2008, 21:52, Reply)

Ooh do!
That would be very interesting.

and as for all the others you've hit a wall with... could ya just string 'em together?
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Fri 22 Aug 2008, 22:08, Reply)