Young Writers Society

January

Henry Stetson let his car idle in the parking lot of the Bayview Psychiatric Clinic. The radio spat out the morning’s weather report, telling Henry what he already knew. It’s cold, it’s rainy, and it’s going to be that way for a while. After a moment, he finally worked up the courage to step out into the world and head into his appointment with Dr. Cantrell.
He pulled his hood over his head, shielding himself from the dense rain and penetrating cold, but not the barrage of staring eyes. In his head, he felt like every being crisscrossing the street and bustling about was watching him, judging him.
Henry’s breaths came sharp and cold, his shoulders hugged his ears, and his arms crossed his body. His eyes narrowed, and his face burned. He pushed past the citizens of Bayview and through the glass doors that served as the threshold into the clinic. He left the bleak grey city wasteland behind him and stepped into the white tile fancy clothes cavern. He headed up to the receptionist and felt his throat begin to close.
I’ve done this a thousand and one times, I’ll just say I need to see Dr. Cantrell, and she’ll send me up, just like that, she want say anything else, I won’t be turned away, it will be fine. Henry walked up to the receptionist’s desk and tapped the glass pane to get her attention.
She straightened out some papers she had been attending to and turned to Henry. She smiled brightly before she spoke, “Hello, Henry Stetson right? I read about you in the newspaper! You’re quite an amazing person, now, what could you be here for?” She asked, her eyebrows furrowed signifying a question mark.
“T-to, to see, Dr., well, t-to ss-see,” Henry took a deep breath, no reason to be nervous, “Dr. Cantrell, ma’am.” He said, trying to relax, but he couldn’t stop wringing his sweaty hands. “D-did the newspaper say anything, well, y- you know, b- ba- bbb-,” he made a choking sound; he barely had the courage to speak to the receptionist.
“Bad? Of course not! They said they couldn’t find the Slasher without you, now, about Dr. Cantrell, proceed to his office, you’re his first patient today,” she said, “By the way, I know you’re probably used to Melissa, but she moved to Seattle, I’m Miley, it’s nice to meet you Mr. Stetson.” She smiled warmly and nodded him onwards.
Henry took the elevator. It was empty; he couldn’t tell if he felt safe or lonely. How could he catch killers, but wish he was dead? How could he save lives, but barely talk to a living soul? He felt the elevator stop and the door slid open. A man stood at the entrance, reading a newspaper. Henry slid past him sideways, as though he were trying not to catch the plague.


He made his way down the hall and took a deep breath before pushed into Dr. Cantrell’s office. The tall man sat at his desk. He had a thick salt and pepper beard, his head was full of brown hair streaked with grey. He wore a red dress shirt and brown dress pants, a silver tie hung around his neck. He was seated in a grey lounge chair, a love seat sat across from him, and a coffee table was between the two.
“Det. Stetson,” he said, smiling warmly, “How are you doing today?” He asked. He stood and held his hand out for Henry to shake.
Henry met his hand, his own shaking like a tree branch in the wind. “I’m fine, Dr. Cantrell. How are you?” he asked in return.
“Good enough, have a seat and tell me about last week. Do you think you’re doing any better?” He asked, clicking a pen and preparing to take notes. Henry liked Dr. Cantrell, but he made him feel like some type of experiment
“I told you I planned on leaving the Bayview Bureau of Investigation, right? Because I was under paid? And everyone hated me?” Henry laughed, “Well, I started operating privately, and last week they hired me to help out with a case. Talk about irony! I love it!” he said, excitedly.
“That’s very good, very good. How did the investigation go?”
“Well, that wasn’t so great.” Henry sighed. “I don’t like the new head of homicide. She’s a smart a-“ Henry stopped and took another breath, “Know it all, she’s a know it all. She just got in the way, and she wouldn’t ever shut up.”
“That’s fine, we’re all different. How did you feel when you saw the body this time?” Dr. Cantrell looked away from his notes, ready to comfort Henry.
Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath; he lay down across the love seat. “I cried again. Just like every other time. Why do I cry when I see the bodies? I’m never really sad for them. In truth, they’re lucky; they aren’t the ones who have to live with the rest of the world.”
“Henry we’ve talked about these thoughts. If you keep having them, I’m putting you on suicide watch, okay? You stopped taking your medication again didn’t you?” Dr. Cantrell asked.
“Yes, I’ve stopped. I can’t take them, I can’t focus when I do. I told you about what happened last time, didn’t I?” he said, a little frustrated.
Dr. Cantrell heaved a sigh. “Look Henry, I’m glad you’re trying something new, it’s good that you left the bureau, that’s brave. But you have to take your medicine, I know you don’t like it, but you need it for now,” Dr. Cantrell said.

Henry opened his eyes and turned to face Dr. Cantrell. “I’m not taking the stuff. I can function without it, I’ll be okay, it’s not like the medication can make my life any better,” he said. “I don’t need the pills. Also, how recently was that picture taken?” He asked, pointing to a photo that sat on Dr. Cantrell’s desk. Dr. Cantrell was standing on a boat with his son and a young woman with thick, curly blond hair.
“Last summer, that’s Mitch’s girlfriend. She’s a sweet young lady.” Dr. Cantrell said smiling. “Why?”
“She’s trash; your son needs to drop her like a sack of rocks. She was obviously married, or recently divorced when the picture was taken; she has cheaters tan on the ring finger of her left hand. She also had a tattoo removed, it was a heart. I can see where she had it removed, on her thigh. It was only about a week before the photo was taken.” Henry said, “It wouldn’t matter, but your son’s only sixteen. After all, this lady’s in her twenty’s.”
Dr. Cantrell’s face turned beat red and his nostrils flared. “Your hour’s up Henry, thanks for letting me know about Stacey. I’ve got to call Mitch, so head on out,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket.
“Good bye Doctor, don’t be too hard on Mitch, he couldn’t have known.”
Henry could hear Dr. Cantrell shouting at Mitch as the elevator descended towards the first floor.


()()()

Henry sat on his couch. He had finished cleaning his house, watching television for eight hours straight, and staring at the ceiling for another two. He heaved a sigh, his chest felt heavy. He never realized how many blue stripes his living room wall had until he wasted two hours counting them, exactly 148, there were only 147 brown stripes.
Henry felt a familiar sadness fill his chest. Dr. Cantrell had told him to go for a walk, or read a book when the depression started up. He said most of the time, Henry was just bored. Henry didn’t feel that way about things, but that didn’t matter, just as he was lacing his shoes to go for a jog, his phone rang.
Henry took a deep breath as he picked it up to answer it. It’ll be okay, just answer it. Deep breath. He told himself. “He- h- hell-“ Henry’s voice shut down, “Hell- Hello?” he finally spluttered out.


“Hey, is this Henry Stetson?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes ma’am, that’s me. How may I help you?”
“Well,” she sniffled as she spoke, Henry could barely understand her, he realized that was probably what it was like for someone to talk with him. “A woman who I was close friends with died recently. Three days ago, her neighbor called the police because he had heard a bang. When they arrived, they found her bedroom burned. They said she was bombed, but they can’t find any leads, so I called you.”
“I-I think you c-called the right guy. I’ll need your name, number, and address, as well as that of the place that was attacked,” he said, grabbing a note pad from his desk. His day went from boring to fun just like that. It was too bad his idea of fun required at least one dead body.

i like it, its quite interesting, but i think you should make what made him so ocd a little more apparent, why is he the way he is, it would help out setting the scene a little better, you definitely have a good start so far.

Hey there Shinobiinfinity Wow, i love your story. Usually i won't read short stories unless it caught my attention. You have created a character that typical in detective stories yet interesting. The atmosphere is quite impressive. I don't know why, but I can't stop smiling reading it. Henry Stetson is a very mysterious character in my point of view, having those unusual character.

She was obviously married, or recently divorced when the picture was taken; she has cheaters tan on the ring finger of her left hand. She also had a tattoo removed, it was a heart. I can see where she had it removed, on her thigh. It was only about a week before the photo was taken.” Henry said, “It wouldn’t matter, but your son’s only sixteen. After all, this lady’s in her twenty’s.”

This part remind me of Detective Conan (japan anime) when he was investigating Jack The Ripper. He identified him almost with the same method; The ring.
Keep writing! I want to read more of it.

I hope that you want my honest opinion and nothing else. The work so far is alright but there were a few things that deterred me from the story. First of all, I am not sure why, but I do not find the protagonist likable. What is more interesting is that I have a friend who is actually very similar to your protagonist and, unlike him, I do not find the protagonist interesting. It may be in part that his dialogue/actions lacked consistency for me. I do not really know how to make the character more likable but try to make him more identifiable for the readers. That is add traits to him that would allow an average reader to identify with him. In regard to the atmosphere, I did not have a strong sense of any specific atmosphere. It did not feel like noir, and, overall, there does not seem to be the presence of any specific and strong atmosphere. To that, however, I would like to add that a strong atmosphere is not required; in my eyes, the atmosphere of your work is neutral if such concept exists.
Keep at it though. It's a good start and is bound to get better.
Good luck.