#benjamin cain

Ben: You bored?

Camille: Yeah

Ben: Wanna start drama for no reason?

Ben: For the dogs

Caïn: Why are you making pancakes for the dogs?

Caïn: Making chocolate pudding

Gaëlle: It's four in the morning. Why are you making chocolate pudding?

Caïn: Because I've lost control of my life

Caïn: Here's your pudding, Ben

The following piece is a chapter from the novel I'm currently writing.  As I near the completion of the first draft, I find myself already pondering story edits.  (Bad habit - I know!) Unfortunately, I'm afraid this chapter might not make it into the final draft and this saddens me.  I really like it.  Unfortunately, it sits so far outside the story line it drastically slows down the pacing and overall that's bad for the readers.  So in honor of a chapter that may never be published, I'm placing it here to share with you.

Chapter 10:  

A Father's Love

Michael sits quietly in the uncomfortable chair of the hospital room. His father lies in the bed sleeping, just as he has since being admitted several days ago. He is tired, confused and angry. He still wears the baseball uniform from the game earlier that afternoon. Today he started in his first ever varsity game since making the team as a sophomore and his father was not there. He understands that he is sick and can’t leave the hospital, but he doesn’t like it. His father has been at every one of his games since he started T-Ball, and today’s game was a big deal. Not very many sixteen year old sophomores make varsity, let alone get a starting position. But Michael is a very talented third basemen and he owes it all to his dad. He taught him everything he knows about the game. His father would have been proud of how well he did today.

Michael stands up, puts his brown Rawlings leather glove on the chair, and walks over to his dad. He grabs his hand. His father does not respond. The monotonous beep of the heart monitor fills the room and his eyes well with tears from his father’s lack of response.

“I did good today dad.” Michael sniffs and wipes his nose with his right arm. “I went 2 for 4. I had 3 putouts and assisted in a double play.” He pauses. “We won and you would have been proud of me.” He begins to weep uncontrollably as he drops to his knees and puts his forehead against his father’s hand. “It’s not fair dad. I don’t want you to be sick. I want you to be here with me . . . like you used to be.” Michael continues to cry not noticing that his mother has entered the room. She walks over to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. He leans into her arms as they both cry together.

Horror comes in all shapes and sizes.  Authors use demons, ghosts, serial killers and even tomatoes to scare their readers.  Currently I am trying to invoke such fear with the walking dead.  But sometimes life throws us a curveball.  Sometimes reality rears its ugly head to prove that real horror is something more basic than the supernatural.  Sometimes life tells us that a poltergeist that stacks chairs in your kitchen is just child's play.

This fact was reiterated to me when I read a news article about a family man who killed himself and his two young sons during a supervised visit with a social worker.  I cannot begin to tell you the horror and terror these two innocent children experienced before they lost their life.  As a father of two myself I cannot begin to comprehend what was going through the mind of this sick man.  All I can tell you is this:

Monsters do exist, but they are not shadows that live in your closet or under your bed.  They are real people that do real things and if your are a parent of a child, whether they are 2 or 22, it is your responsibility to teach them of the horrors that we as humans are capable of so that they can protect themselves from them.

Below is the link to the article I am talking about, and please, if you don't cry while reading this story, do not tell me cause that is just as horrible as the things this man did to his own children.

Remember, my horror is fiction.  My horror is make believe; but what you are about to read is real and is an example of the evil the we as humans are capable of.  I am not blogging this because I like what this man has done.  In fact I despise it.  I'm blogging this because it is my obligation as a father to teach everyone that true evil exists and it is our responsibility as humans to stand against evil and beat it.

If you think you can handle it please click on the link below.  The article is heartbreaking and extremely sad.

http://www.foxnews.com/us/2012/02/06/husband-missing-utah-mom-spent-some-time-planning-fire-that-killed-him-sons/

The following short story was written as a reply to a writers challenge.  Lawrence Pearce (author of Hikikomori) posted the challenge on twitter and asked for them to be submitted to him.  The result?  My story placed on his website with a link to my twitter account.  I have decided that I want to share it here as well.

The Fantastic Murder of Lawerence Pearce

by

Benjamin Cain

      Like clockwork, Lawrence Pearce enters through the front door of his favorite restaurant and sits in his favorite booth.  He removes his black ball cap and places it on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers.  He shifts in his seat to get comfortable then stares out the window.

      Frank, a waiter and long time acquaintance of Lawrence is in the kitchen repurposing ketchup bottles when Chris enters.

      “Frank.”  Chris says.  “He’s here.”

      Frank looks at Chris with cold eyes.  “Good.”

      “Are you really going to do it?”  Chris asks with a tremble in his voice.

      “Of course, I’m not going to let him get away with what he’s done.”  Frank replies.  “Go take his order.”  Chris follows Frank’s command and leaves silently.

      Frank reaches into his pocket to make sure the vial is still there.  It is. 

      Chris returns from taking Lawrence’s order.  “Just like you said, he wants a club sandwich and a coke.”  Chris walks over to Frank and leans in close.  “Do you have it?”

      “Yes.  It’s in my pocket.”  Frank responds.

      “What is it?”  Chris questions as he looks around the kitchen making sure the cook isn’t around.  They are alone.

      “I don’t know the name, but it’s supposed to be a very lethal and untraceable poison that causes a massive heart attack.”  Frank explains to Chris.  “The guy told me it was developed by the C.I.A. in the late 1970’s.”  Frank pauses.  “All I have to do is pour it in his coke and let him drink it.”

      “Then what?”  Chris asks nervously.

      “Then he has a heart attack and dies.”  Frank says sarcastically.

      “Uh huh and what if it’s not untraceable?”  Chris asks.

      “That’s why I’m leaving and you’ll never see me again.”  Frank says as he pulls the vial out of his pocket and holds it in his hand.  His palms are sweaty and the vial slips through his fingers but Frank reacts quickly and catches it before it shatters on the floor. 

      Franks mouth is dry, his forehead is damp with sweat and his knees are shaking.  Fear begins to rush violently through his veins as second thoughts begins to dawn in his mind.  He pauses for a moment.

      “What’s wrong Frank?”  Chris is also afraid as he lives this moment vicariously through his long time friend.

      Frank looks at Chris with tears in his eyes.  “He killed my wife in a car accident that he caused.  The man must die.”  Frank says as he sniffs the snot that runs down from his nose and pours the poison into Lawrence’s coke.  “It’s done.  Now I take it to him.”  Frank says leaving the kitchen.

      Frank returns to the kitchen and watches as Lawrence eats his last meal.  Within a few short moments, his wife’s killer slumps face first on to the table dead.