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Absentminded conversation: Basically what it sounds like. People engaging in dull small talk and thus becoming distracted by their surroundings and inner thoughts.
Short Story / Crocodile Teeth (Analysis)
To my friends at the Ashur police department:
If Timothy Weaver ever told the truth, it was a half-truth, and Tim Weaver didn’t tell the truth often.
Asked where Weaver had acquired his extraordinary aptitude for skewing reality, most people would say something like, “His parents didn’t teach him right from wrong,” or “He’s got a demon in’im.” Neither were true: the fact was, he simply enjoyed lying.
In Weaver’s mind, the thrill, however brief, that came from deceiving someone was incomparable. The knowledge that he knew something they didn’t? Intoxicating. But the greatest reward was the intense feeling of control he experienced: stringing along credulous commoners and toying with them like marionettes; simultaneously manipulating their minds and belittling their intelligence with every confident word that left his lips.
Weaver frequented a small tavern. It was situated on a heavily-traveled road that connected two trading towns. The tavern served a varied group of customers: farmers, fishermen, and fur-traders, with no shortage of degenerates and criminals. He liked to come in and socialize with the non-regular crowd: he would spot his target and have a little fun at his victim’s expense.
The sky was overcast one evening when Weaver decided to make another trip to the tavern. He left his house in the city and walked down the paved road, whistling as he went. Moisture lingered in the air; he knew it would rain later that night, probably during his trip back home.
Built a few years earlier to take advantage of the booming traffic, Clemen’s Tavern was once a beautiful building, outside and in; but this last crowded year had taken its toll: the path leading up to the door was a muddy slush pool; the interior walls were caked with grime; the smell of cigarette smoke clung to everything inside the pub.
Weaver opened the heavy oak door with a grunt and stepped in the tavern, splashing mud into the already-soaked entranceway.
A few there that night, though not as many as a weekend would bring. The smells of alcohol, sweat, and smoke mingled together in an unholy trinity, and a low murmur of absentminded, sometimes drunken, conversation rose and fell in random intervals. He loved the atmosphere; it was more therapeutic to him than chirping birds or waves on the beach would ever be.
He moved instinctively to his regular table. A large painting hung on the wall above him. It was done in a strange, dreamy style, and depicted two tigers mid-clash, swinging their claws wildly against an exotic background. He fancied the picture: there was something fluid about the brush strokes that evoked movement and action.
There were a couple strangers there, but none Weaver was drawn to. A person had to have a special combination of weariness, openness, and slight poverty to attract Weaver’s attention.
Time passed, and he drummed his fingers patiently on the stained table. He knew there’d be someone on a night like this.
The door opened with a groan. Conversation briefly paused as heads turned to see who it was. A tall, lanky figure stepped through the doorway with an aire of bashfulness; he smiled awkwardly and stepped over to the bar counter. Weaver noticed his face: black and sooty; he’d come from the mines, no doubt. He sat on the bar stool with a weary, timid slouch, and Weaver could tell he was not here to converse, but to drown the drudgery of the day in the numb comfort of alcohol.
Two out of three wasn’t bad.
Weaver stood up and sidled over to the bar, sat down on the stool next to the man.
“Hey stranger,” Weaver said. The man turned his head and assessed Weaver with tired eyes. “You new in town?”
“Depends which town you mean.” His voice sounded rough and unused. “Ashur, yeah.”
Weaver smiled. “Hell, not my town, but I’ll buy you a drink anyhow.” He waved the bartender over and ordered two drinks. The bartender slid the glasses to them. “I’m Tim Weaver.” He stuck out his hand.
“Murphy Jones,” the man said, accepting the handshake.
“You working in the mines?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” said Jones, and he pulled out a cigarette from a pocket in his overalls. “Wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you?”
Weaver produced a match and lit Jones’ smoke.
Jones leaned forward with a sigh. Smoke unfurled from his mouth and nose, joining the black fog that hung about in the air. “You smoke, Timothy Weaver?”
“Not when I’m drinking.” He took a sip of his beer and mulled the question over in his mind for a moment. “Otherwise, I prefer cigars.”
Jones nodded absently, relaxed.
“So what brought you to Ashur?” Weaver asked casually.
Jones’ mouth twitched upwards at the corners. “It’s always money, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. A warrant for your arrest is a pretty compelling reason.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Friends. Or—former friends. You know the type. Messed up early on; never got a chance to recover; bum around for the rest of their lives.” He took another drink. “Try to help them out, but they only know one way. Eh?”
Jones shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it.”
This wasn’t going as well as Weaver thought it would.
“So—money problems,” he said after a moment of silence. “Where’d you come from?”
“Up north.”
“My uncle lives up there -- sent me a letter not too long ago -- said there’s a recession. Guess it’s true.”
“Hell yeah it’s true. Factories laying off left and right,” Jones said, emphasizing with a wave of his hands. “Can’t even beg without your ass freezing to the pavement.”
“Damn,” Weaver muttered. He almost felt sorry for Jones. “Bring a family?”
“A wife and kid. You know,” his voice rose slightly; “it’s amazing how hard it is to get someone to move, even when they’re in hell.” He took a gulp of his beer and stared at the reflective surface of the counter. “But enough about me. Who’s this guy who bought me a free drink?”
“I guess you would call me a fisherman.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. One time I caught one this big!” He stretched his arms far apart and wore a stupid grin on his face. “I swear!”
Jones smiled.
“You think I’m joking, but that’s how most conversations go at the pier. Either that or damn war stories. Most’f them down there’re old men; fought in the Great War, so they have plenty of stories to tell.”
The bartender asked if they’d like something to eat. Weaver ordered a steak; Jones only asked for another beer.
“Any’ve your relatives fight in the War?” Weaver asked.
Jones shook his head slowly. “None that -- well -- yeah, my uncle, but I never knew him. You?”
Weaver swiveled around on his stool and leaned back against the bar edge. He brought his beer glass up to his lips and sipped thoughtfully, a mischievous smile playing over his face.
“My grandfather,” he said. ”’Tough-as-nails’ kind’f guy. Didn’t take bull from anyone; sort of fellow who’d give you a literal kickintheass if he thought you needed it.”
Jones nodded in understanding and took a drink.
“Now, he fought on the front lines -- the trenches, gas, suicide charges; he was in it deep. I suspect he liked it, honestly -- is that a horrible thing to say? That someone likes war? I feel like I’m attacking his character, but hell if it didn’t seem that way, the way his face’d light up anytime someone asked about it.” Weaver waved it off. “Anyway, he told one particular story more than any other.
“One night after a fierce round of fighting, a few captured enemy prisoners were brought back. My grandfather managed to get himself alone with one of them. I’m not sure whether Gramps could speak German or if he had a translator, but this is what he says happened.
“He points his gun at the prisoner’s head and says, ‘I’m going to ask you three questions. If you answer all to my satisfaction, I’ll let you live.’ So the soldier, who I imagine is terrified at this point, asks what the questions are.
“Gramps says, ‘One: are you German?’ Prisoner can’t do much but say yes. ‘Two,’ Gramps continues, and the prisoner sighs in relief, ‘if I gave you this gun, would you kill me?’ Naturally the German lies through his teeth and says no. ‘Three: give me a good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.’
“So the prisoner gives a long and drawn out speech about mercy and compassion and not harming prisoners of war. Gramps listens patiently until he’s finished. Then he says, ‘You didn’t get the first question right’ and shoots him in the head. Ruthless sonofabitch.”
The noise in the bar lowered to a murmur and Jones drew on his cigarette thoughtfully. “So,” he said, expelling a plume of smoke, “do you believe that?”
“I don’t know,” said Weaver. He slowly spun back around on his stool and began tracing patterns on the side of his beer glass with his finger. “Do you?”
Jones smiled. “Mr. Weaver, I’ve heard a lot. But with all due respect, I’ve never heard a man boast about killing someone—no sane man.”
“Well there you go,” Weaver said. He emptied the dribble of beer resting in the bottom of his glass, then slammed the glass on the table. “I never said he was sane.”
The bartender came over and slid Weaver his steak. Weaver picked up a grubby knife and fork and began eating. When he was finished he retrieved a toothpick from his jacket and placed it in his mouth.
“White?” Jones asked.
“It’s bone,” Weaver said, rocking the toothpick to and fro between his teeth. “Tastes better than wood; lasts longer, too.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. A large fan twirled above them with languidity, pushing the stench of sweat and drunkenness around the room. The white noise of conversation gradually dropped off as people left for the night.
Presently Weaver reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar. “Care to join me outside? No greater flavour combination than fresh air and cigar.”
“Why not?”
The two men hopped off their stools and maneuvered their way to the door.
It was dark outside. The night air was summer-like, wet and cool; a breeze blew in from the west. Moonlight peeked out shyly from beneath layers of clouds.
Jones felt a raindrop hit his arm.
They stood out on the side of the road. Weaver held his cigar between his teeth and lit a match. The light burst, flickered, then waned, a beacon in the night, as he held the flame up to his mouth; then he waved it away, a wisp of vapour floating into the sky. He drew deeply and sighed. Jones was beside him, cigarette in hand.
“And,” said Weaver, dreamy.
“And.”
Silence.
Weaver looked up and blew smoke at the moon. “It’s getting late.”
“The hell with home.”
“Yeah.”
Weaver placed his free hand on Jones’ shoulder. Jones squirmed and pulled away in discomfort, face averted.
“Have you ever seen a crocodile?” Weaver murmured. His head was bowed, eyes pointed downward.
Jones stood there for a moment.
“Where did you say you’re from?” he asked finally.
“I didn’t.” Weaver’s fingers twitched; he squeezed his cigar. “But—south.”
“South.” Jones turned his head and saw Weaver’s eyes, barely visible in the dark. And then he saw the white gleam of teeth, the sharp curve of a grin.
Weaver struck him in the face. Jones reeled back and clutched his cheek in shock: blood streamed in rivulets down his chin, his hands. He saw Weaver’s fingers, inch-long claws jutting out.
“What the f—” Weaver slashed him again. And again. His arms swung until Jones lay cowering on the ground, his face a shapeless piece of meat. Weaver grabbed him under the arms and dragged him behind the tavern, into the deep shadows.
Jones writhed about, moaning softly.
It started to rain.
“I do apologize, Mr. Jones. It’s nothing personal; it’s primal.”
Now Weaver’s face began changing. Small etchings began carving themselves in his skin, becoming scales. A sickly greenish hue spread upwards from his neck, like a pox, a disease. His nose flattened and stretched outward, then fused with his mouth and chin. His teeth sharpened and grew, multiplying to fill the new elongated jaw. A faintly acidic smell filled the air as his eyes melted and oozed to the sides of his head. They solidified into small spheres, staring without a trace of emotion.
Weaver, his head a grotesque mask, his soulless smile mocking silently, bent down over Jones. Acrid breath pored out of his scaly nostrils: an ancient scent, cold and heartless and utterly savage. Drool slopped onto the ground as he opened his jaws.
Jones lay there, so helpless…
I bit off his head.
My dear friends,
You really should’ve seen the mess. I mean—wow. It’s amazing how much blood can fit in the human body.
I want you to know that this is just the beginning. To be sure, not everything in the preceding actually happened, but I am confident you can sort fact from fiction: it’s your job, after all. I will give you a few clues: my name is not Timothy Weaver, I don’t like steak, and I don’t tell lies.
I’m moving west. I would advise you to alert your neighbors. Oh, and tell them to be on the lookout for a man with long, unkempt hair, a thin face, and a height of about 5’8: he owes me money, and I sure could use some right now.
You’ll find the bones of Murphy Jones in the woods behind the tavern. They are picked clean, however, and won’t do you much good in terms of identification—you’ll have to take my word for it. I left a note there for his wife and child; if you could deliver that to them, it’d be splendid.
Keep your doors locked. I’ll stay in touch.
Yours forever,
Croc Teeth
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andres_vargas reviewed Version 3 -
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well first off, let me just tiup my cap to you man. i don’t think i’ve enjoyed a piece like this since i read “smoke and mirrors”. i don’t think i’ve been this envious either.
i sometimes forget that you can only make a judgement call on a piece after reading the WHOLE thing. i’m glad i did. i didn’t really expect weaver to turn into an actual crocodile but now that i think of it, it couldn’t have ended any other way.
maybe it’s the fact tham i’m listening to tom waits none stop right now (“murder in the red barn” especially) or maybe it’s the voice and character development. but whatever it is, i really enojoyed.
many many kudos.
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Qwantu reviewed Version 1 -
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Thanks alot for submitting. I must admit, I really liked this piece. It is suspenseful, the voice is strong, your characterization is compelling, the setting lives, and the resolution is satisfying.
One question, What is absentminded conversation?
Keep writing!
Reignman reviewed Version 1 -
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Whoa.
Somewhere out there Rod Serling is smiling on you. This seemed like an episode of the Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits. Very well paced, and you let us have just enough information to leave us scratching our heads at the very end. Very impressive piece of work.
Underscore79 reviewed Version 3 -
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I enjoyed your writing style. It flowed smoothly and the narrative direction wasn’t overbearing. It generally walked that balance between too much and too little deftly. Also, the twist did catch me by surprise. When I started the piece I was sure the title was purely an allusion to the main character’s predilection for falsehood. In the end, I liked that you played that against me.
Grammar critique aside, my only confusion was at the end when you jumped from third to first person (not in the letter, but with this line: “I bit off his head.”) Maybe I am just being dense today, but if he is the character Weaver (noted as a false name) then he did tell a half-truth in that he doesn’t tell truth except in halves. I don’t know. I’ll have to reread the story and spend a bit more time thinking about it. Something’s off, but it may very well just be me and not the story.
All in all, it was a fairly well done story. I read it with ease and thankfully (!!!) didn’t have to slag my way through it like many other pieces on this site. Thanks for the entertainment.
jenbabe4198 reviewed Version 3 -
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As a writer I love lying to people, so when you were describing why Tim Weaver lied to people I could relate with every word. After that, I got confused…at least at the end, but I get confused about a lot of things, so eventually I figured something out. So…the story was being told by Tim Weaver, right? If not then I’m confused and don’t see a reason for the story being told and if it was him then ha ha you got me. Either way the story was entertaining and the character development was great. Slow to catch on people like myself will always remember it.
wereangel reviewed Version 3 -
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I really liked your writing.
At first I was like I know more about the grampa character then I do the main, but my feelings change on that on page 7. You don’t need it cuz damn, you gave one hell of a shocker. I really like that you made it a surprise and I actually felt my blood rush with this passage…
{“South.” Jones turned his head and saw Weaver’s eyes, barely visible in the dark. And then he saw the white gleam of teeth, the sharp curve of a grin.}
The only critasism I could give is with this line…
{I bit off his head.}
It just kinda doesn’t seem to flow with the story… It’s very jarring and takes you away from the feel.
Other then that I say great job and this really feels like you could have the start of a movie plot.
polkadot_princess reviewed Version 3 -
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This is a really good short story. The twist is brilliant, I thought he was going to rob him but clearly you wrote it to spring the twist on the reader. I think the end line is a bit abrupt, even though you continue a little after that it just seems too short a line to end properly on. I also like your description when Weaver changes, its not too detailed but enough to give the reader a good idea of what he looks like.
metaphoricalsimile reviewed Version 3 -
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When describing the filthy walls of the pub, I don’t think that “caked” is the appropriate word. I’ve seen some pretty damned dirty bars before, but “caked” makes me think that the grime is so built up that it’s like a layer of dirt clumped on the wall, and I’ve never seen a wall that dirty.
When you described the night air, you said it was “summer-like, wet and cool” I’m not sure where this is supposed to take place, but “wet and cool” seems contradictory to “summer-like.”
The narrator’s internal dialog seems to imply that he’s done this before, but the comment about the “mess” and the “this is just the beginning” comment both imply that it’s his first time.
I think this story would have a larger impact if the victim seemed to buy into the protagonist’s game, but he seemed wary until the end, prompting the reader to ask why he went along.
eremiphobia reviewed Version 1 -
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before i start being critical i want to let you know that i love this story. it is really rare to find a short story that manages to provide such specific and gripping imagery while maintaining its economy of words. i also think you have done a fantastic job of translating film noir style dialogue and voice into a unique short story, and you have near-perfect consistency in the natural/relaxed voice you are employing.
there are a few technical/grammatical errors:
- you have misused the semicolon at least once; semicolons should be used to separate two intricately related ideas that each form a complete sentence, so fragments like “simultaneously manipulating their minds…word that left his lips” and “but this last crowded year had taken its toll” cannot be tacked on using a semicolon.
- on a related note, you overuse semicolons and colons like crazy in this story, and i realize that’s part of keeping up your style but it still gets tedious for the reader. you should consider going through and restructuring some of these sentences.
- clemen’s tavern doesn’t need to be italicized
- “aire” of bashfulness should be air
- “any’ve” = any of so i’m not sure where the “ve” comes from
- the third question that the grandfather asked wasn’t a question!!! i know this isn’t really a technical issue within your story but it was still really offsetting for me.
here are my other thoughts while reading this piece (in order of the text, sorry i couldn’t think of a more practical way to organize):
- intro is very strong. sets up character analysis without being too telly/explanatory, sets up circumstance, etc.
- one thing i would appreciate a little more of is a physical description of tim walker – obviously not his facial/body features, since it would be unsensible for a murderer to provide these descriptions of himself, but details about his demeanor/clothing/habits to provide a more specific imagery.
- my immediate thought in reading the first few paragraphs was that this seemed like an unrealistic style for a letter to police. because the style + the fact that this is a letter to police are both so important, i recommend beginning in a more formal style and introducing the distinctive narrative voice slowly (sort of the way some old detective movies are set up).
- completely love the way you worked in the description of the pub
- “it was done in a strange, dreamy style” is awkward + inconsistent with your style
- you did a wonderful job making the dialogue between the two men when they first meet natural but still fast-paced and readable
- “can’t even beg” – try coming up with a more colloquial term for panhandling, this seemed unnatural to me
- “is that a horrible thing to say? That someone likes war?” struck me as really inconsistent with weaver’s persona
- i love the detail of the bone toothpick
- “no greater flavour combination” is awkward/unnatural
- “hopped off their stools” is i think the wrong description for the way these two men would move
- i have a lot of trouble picturing jones squirming away from a hand on his shoulder, and you might want to add a more comprehensive description because this seems like a pivotal moment in the scene (where trust is lost/recognized as not existing)
- the question “have you ever seen a crocodile?” seemed like the wrong one to me, because it seems like the question hear needs to signify to jones that he has reason to be scared of weaver, and this question does not really provide basis for suspicion
- i don’t understand how jones could be so damaged that his face is a shapeless piece of meat while he’s still conscious and responsive (unless you mean that this is how weaver perceived his face, in which case it could be more clear)
- “it started to rain” is of course mimicking the use of rain to create dramatic effect, but if you’re going to introduce rain you have to do something with it and you don’t ever mention it again – if you want to use it maybe discuss the way crocodile skin looks in rain or talk about mud on jones’ body
- your description of weaver’s transformation into crocodile is perfect
- i like the way that using the term “so” helpless signifies that the story is being told from weaver’s pov (an objective narrator wouldn’t use this type of language)
- i absolutely love the closing narration.
miscellaneous recommendations:
- you might try putting a few “hints” about the outcome of the story throughout the text, like similarities between N’s voice + weaver’s dialogue to help readers make the connection that they are the same person. obviously the goal would not be to have readers actually guess the end of the story, but to feel after finishing it that they could have.
- maintain some description of the actions/responses of other people in the pub aside from weaver and jones (to maintain realism/imagery).
- i’m a bit confused about one aspect of the logic behind the story – it seems implied that this is weaver’s first murder (otherwise, it’s hard to understand why he’d be writing the police about it) but the setup for the murder is something he does habitually, and aside from the detail of being a letter, the whole story seemed to imply that he was a serial killer – i don’t like this lack of clarity being left to the reader’s discretion because closure is so eloquently provided for every other aspect of the story.
again, i think this piece is really great and you are incredibly talented. i really hope you’re looking into getting this published. thank you!
xo emily
theone reviewed Version 1 -
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Page 1- “The knowledge that he knew something they didn’t?” I wouldn’t put a question mark there. Possible a semi colon if you want it emphasis the word ‘intoxicating’.
Page 2- “Weaver opened the heavy oak door with a grunt and stepped in the tavern,” I would change ‘in’ to ‘into’ to be more grammatically correct.
“A few there that night, though not as many as a weekend would bring.” -there were a few there…maybe?
All through-out the story you could use more detail about what was happening and about the characters actions. It seems a little bare bone as of now.
Other than that you write pretty well. The story was pretty strange. Didnt make a whole ton of sense either, but I suppose that was the purpose. Keep on writing and look forward to seeing more of your work.
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