I wonder where to start. As I tell you my story, will you find it hard to empathize? I am what some call an unreliable character and I have done something unthinkable. But I implore you to listen. As the storyteller, I need you on my side. And we know that a story is only as good as its beginning. - A Splintering by Dur e Aziz Amna

Between the tone, tension, and pacing, this is shaping up to be one of the best intros I’ve read in a long time. The book, A Splintering, came out in April of this year and was written by Dur e Aziz Amna , recent winner of the Stanfords Prize for Fiction. Her work stands out to me for both its craft, and because of the way it subverts the conventional teachings of fiction.

When we first meet the protagonist, Tara, we learn that she’s a woman from humble beginnings with a voracious appetite for money. Her unbounded ambition catapults her from her small town in rural Pakistan to the country’s capital, and she soon attains a life for herself that was previously unimaginable. Fulfilling career, two kids, accountant husband. But once the trappings of a middle class life become available to her, she decides that it isn’t enough. She needs more.

Her story begins with an appeal to us, the dear reader. We are immediately welcomed and bargained with and it soon becomes clear that we are not a passive participant watching a tale unfurl, but rather Tara’s confidant. A reliable person for someone who wants to recount their tragic mistake. Tara wants, no, needs us to be on her side. Why? Maybe everyone else abandoned her. Perhaps it satisfies some guilty desire to confess. We understand little about her, but we are allowed into her inner world to bear witness to her downfall. And this chasm between what we know and how we feel about her is perhaps what propels us forward and makes us want to keep reading.

A couple of weeks ago, the writer Lincoln Michel wrote a brilliant piece on the many different types of POVs. It’s a great primer for anyone that hasn’t been in an English class in awhile, as well as anyone who wants to hear a fresh perspective on an old idea.

Underneath the first-person POVs, he outlines what he calls the “The Appeal” perspective. A first person, direct address not to some unnamed reader, but to a specific person inside of the novel. A Splintering doesn’t fit neatly into this rule, as it speaks directly to us, the unnamed reader, but it employs a thrilling variant as Tara encourages us to listen without judgement, at least not until we understand her life and where she comes from.

Shortly after her desperate plea, she explains the circumstances that lead to her downfall. In the first few pages we come to learn, in a thinly veiled, foreboding kind of way, the entire plot of the story to come.

Traditional storytelling dictates that we handle plot the same way Pavlov handles dog treats. Gradually release the details to lead the subject through a desired path. Show, don’t tell. But in the first few pages of A Splintering we are frontloaded with information. Told almost everything that is about to happen. At this point, it would be reasonable for us to walk away knowing what we know, but we can’t can’t because that would mean turning our back on our new fr iend, Tara. Her mea culpa then becomes the driving force of the narrative, the sole reason for us to stay.

I’m drawn to stories, stories that that defy conventional standards because they illuminate how capacious the art of fiction can be. Show, don’t tell can be a useful technique for authors struggling to write a scene or place, but sometimes we can simply tell the audience everything we have in store for them. Because once we’ve built up an intimate relationship with the reader, turned them into a confidant, or even an accomplice, then we can rest easy knowing that they’ll stay by our side.

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I hope you’re all doing well on this beautiful Friday afternoon.

Earlier this year I read an amazing novelette, 1989 by Vince Omni. Published earlier this year, 1989 won the CRAFT 2025 Novelette Print Prize. The book that has stayed with me long after I finished the last page, and I’m incredibly excited to see what Vince does next.

So without further ado, here is the interview. (And an accompanying transcript)

Transcript

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (00:01)

Hello, hello. My name is Ricardo and I’d to welcome Vince Omni, the author of an amazing novelette, 1989.

Vince Omni (00:12)

Thank you so much.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (00:14)

Yeah, I read this book, I forgot, it like a month or two ago. Right, I think right around the time it just came out ⁓ and I was ecstatic. And I also just love short books. Not every book needs to be two or 300 word pages. This is just my opinion. ⁓ But yeah, if you wanna ⁓ introduce yourself, Vince, talk a little about who you are and how this kind of book came to be.

Vince Omni (00:40)

Sure, yeah. yeah. First of all, Ricardo, thanks for having me, inviting me to this interview. I’m very grateful for an opportunity to talk about 1989 with you. I mean, I tell my students ⁓ that, you know, one of the things I love to talk about is myself and the things that I’m working on. So I teach at Lake Forest College in Lake Forest, Illinois. I teach African-American Lit and Creative Writing. I like to write fiction, short stories, novels, some dabbling in screenplays. I kind of have a, I feel like I have like a cinematic bent to my writing, and I think that’s from spending way too much time in front of a television screen, so yeah.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (01:18)

Okay, well, no, we’ll definitely get into that.

Vince Omni (01:34)

So yeah, so there, that’s a little bit about me.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (01:38)

And then 1989. So the book is very interesting for a few reasons. One, so for those that don’t know, 1989 is a novelette, so it’s a little shorter than traditional novel. But also it’s set in a very specific place, Late 80s, Denver, that I’ll be honest, I have not seen too many of any books set in that, especially like the black community in that time. So I feel like you can you know, there has to be like some reason or, know, for how that came to be.

Vince Omni (02:12)

Yeah, for sure. Yeah, I could talk about that. Yeah, I grew up in Denver. I was born in California, but my mother was a Denverite. I was raised in Denver, Colorado from like age two or three until I left for high school at age 18. And then I was still a resident. Like I went to college back and forth to a small college in Minnesota called St. Olaf. But I would come home for the summers and I actually, this continued to live there sporadically off and on, but I haven’t lived there as a resident probably since 19, the mid 1990s, 90s, 96, somewhere around there.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (02:58)

And we’ll get into like the setting of Denver a little bit later because I do want to talk more about that. But I also want to read. I want to get to the book and why. mean, one of the reasons I love it. But for those it’s it’s a book, I guess. I mean, it’s a book about basketball, but also about like so many other things you just rarely see basketball in like a story in a literary form. I think I read, you know, Hanif Abdurraqib’s book a year two ago, but I haven’t, I think this is the only, the second book I’ve ever read that includes basketball, which I loved as a kid. Detached a little bit more as I got older. So how did you end up writing like a basketball?

Vince Omni (03:48)

Yeah, you know what, it’s funny because first of all, I love basketball. I was never in danger of being a tremendous talent on the basketball court. Right? But I grew up. I grew up with a group of, you know, like, I grew up in a generation where everyone thought, man, a lot of men thought, you we’re gonna grow up, we’re gonna be ballers, we’re gonna be hoopers, we’re gonna play for the rest of our lives. And that worked out for a lot of folks, just not for me. Just not for me.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (04:29)

That’s funny. I have a similar story. I mean, anybody that’s met me in person, I’m 5’7”, I’m not a tall guy, right? But I was actually pretty good. Not to toot own horn, but I remember my sophomore year of I made the team, my freshman year in high school, was trying out for my sophomore. The coaches loved me because I was like a defensive player, I had a lot of grit, right? And I could take a punch. But I remember I went to my basketball coach my sophomore year and ⁓ I told him, I was like, hey coach, you know, I was thinking of playing again this year, but there’s also these like business and math club that I was going to join. And I think those honestly take me further than basketball will. And then my coach, he grabs, he puts his arm around my shoulder, looks at me he’s like, Ricardo. I’m trying to think if I should curse. Yeah, why not? He’s like Ricardo, you’re the smartest motherfucker on this team. He’s like, I wish everybody thought like that. But yeah, a lot of people, especially in Chicago, like my team won the city championship, Gwendolyn Brooks Eagles, right? So everybody and two of the guys, like both the guards ended up playing D1, right? ⁓ I don’t know what happened to them after that, but they did play D1. Yeah, I come from like a very competitive, very intense, like basketball school environment. So when I was reading it, I was like, oh God, it’s like being in high school again.

Vince Omni (06:06)

You know, and I played a little bit of high school hoop. I played a year of college at a D3. And you know, I just loved the game. I did. I still do. still follow the pro game, especially around this time of year when the playoffs, when things are amping up for the playoffs. You know, so you know, that’s when I start to really tune in a lot. But I keep track of my hometown team, the Denver Nuggets, you know.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (06:35)

Okay, I’m not going to get into, I’ll ask Nugget’s questions at the very end because I do think we could easily turn this into a basketball chat. But so the novel, so one of the things I find, one of the central themes or ideas behind the novel as well, in addition to basketball, is you have this queer basketball player whose story is kind of being told secondhand, right? Church, through Davyon’s interview and I was curious like what kind of led to that decision and like that kind of narrative and I’m very interested because there’s not like it’s I mean, you know, but like in sports, especially basketball like there’s I think only been one Like openly gay basketball player Jason Collins. I don’t know of any others that have been And no act no none since. So I’m curious how you like approach that and how you decided to like, you know explore that kind of queer narrative in

Vince Omni (07:15)

So, I I heard a lot of questions in there, so I’ll, I’ll just...

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (07:38)

Answer whatever, which one ever you want.

Vince Omni (07:40)

I’ll start with like kind of like the motivation like the the inspiration for it like I was I was I was you know I Was a teenager playing at the King Center in Northeast Denver Park Hill is the same neighborhood where Chauncey Billups came out of. And so I was there I was it was summer we were playing you know some pickup games. And there was a coach. He wasn’t my coach. He was just a coach. He was a guy in the building watching kids play hoop. And he kept doing the same thing that Church does to Davyon at the beginning of the book, which is calling him out his name. Using these gender-based slurs to kind of know, infuriate him. And I was a kid at the time. I mean, I’m ashamed to admit that that worked for me. But he kept doing that to me. And then later he told me on the sidelines that we did I kept saying that because you know see a lot of potential in you I want you to work harder this that the third yada yada yada And he actually turned out to be a helpful person like he actually turned out to be a helpful person in fall as far as like you know Basketball knowledge is concerned like you know helping me to increase my basketball IQ. Helping me understand the things that I need to do if I want to continue to play basketball. He really became a helpful person. But I always wondered, like, I was curious about interrogating that kind of, you know, that frame of thought, that motivation. Yeah, like, why motivate me in that way? And not just that, but the 80s, that was just a very, like, there was a lot of toxic masculinity going around. was, you know, where I grew up in Denver. This is the era where the Crips and the Bloods came to town from Los Angeles. And so there was a tradition of, or shouldn’t you say a tradition, was a, there was a point where the guys in my neighborhood went from fighting with their fists to shooting each other. You know what I’m saying? So there was just a lot of, there was just a lot of hyper, what we would call, what would be considered by society hyper masculine behavior going around. And I wanted to push back on that and to interrogate that and to learn more about the motivations for it. And I was curious, what would have motivated someone to take that particular approach with me to motivate me to play harder. And I just kind of arrived at, what if this guy, and I’m not trying to make any speculation about this person who was heckling me on the sideline because I don’t know anything about their sexual history or their sexual, you know, how they identify themselves. But I was just, I just wondered like, what if this was like a, you know, kind of like a mask for this person? And if it was a mask, what would it mean? What did that mean for him and for his life and the way he moved through the world?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (10:47)

Yeah, I mean. I know I deeply like empathize with that. remember like when yeah, when I was growing up, so I played on like the school played near the school park, right? But I was at the time, I was probably like 12, 13, right? But I would play with like grown men, right? And you would think like an older like a grown man, like somebody my age would see a 12 year old and think, oh, let me treat him like a 12 year old, but like no grown men on the court will try to fight you. They’ll fight you and they’ll call you names and they’ll do this and that to make you, you know, to make you tough. Right. And it’s and it’s always, you know, the same tired excuse. Right. Like, look at, look at, look at, they did it to me. Look how I turned out. And it’s like, no, you’re fighting a child. Like you didn’t turn out well if you think fighting a child on a basketball court is great. But so, yeah, I think it is. I mean, I’ll be honest, like one of the reasons I stopped playing as when I got to like my twenties, I loved it as a kid, but like the toxicity is like, it’s crazy. Like at my age, I’m not, can’t, I’ll never be a pro, right? But I’m on as a 20 year old, like I’m playing against people that think that they were pros had their chance. like, it is, it is like people taking like their insecurities out on you, right? ⁓ And I wish we, especially men could just acknowledge that that’s really where comes from and not lay the blame on someone else because you missed your shot.

Vince Omni (12:36)

I think that, know, and I can’t really, I can’t really even begin to speculate like for men of my generation. Because, you know, I’m 54, so, you know, and of course, the title tells you I was in high school in 1989. In fact, I was a year away from graduating at that point. So I’m sorry, my window was open and there’s a truck out here. But like, you know, think, you know, hoop dreams die hard. Hoop dreams die hard. And I think for people who love the game and who gave a lot of themselves to the game of basketball, the idea of stepping on a court and not, you know, and differentiating your level of play for others, especially, you know, younger players, just feels like something that, that, that, that they can’t do. And I guess to a certain extent I could see that, but I think when you’re talking about how there are guys who get on the court and they treat it like going to war, and we’re just playing Noonball, or we’re just playing a pickup game, like, you know, calm down, calm down, calm down.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (13:50)

Mm-hmm. Yeah. Exactly. Yeah, exactly. That’s what saying. Like, it’s hard for me now to get to play basketball and pick up game with people that are like in their 20s and 30s because it is war. Like, to people, it is war. It’s like, this is my time to shine. and I think it is, you know, value, right? Like, a lot of people think I’m not valuable outside this court, so now I have to show up.

Vince Omni (14:21)

I mean, a lot of athletes, male, female, they dedicate a lot of their lives to learning a game, learning how to play a sport, and oftentimes lose their identities in that process. so understanding who you are off of a basketball court or off of a soccer field or off of a volleyball court, that’s also important, right?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (14:47)

Exactly. So one of the things when I was reading it, one of the quotes by Pemi Aguda was in the beginning, she said she talked about, and this was in the foreword, she loves when people that are deeply passionate about something kind of like wax poetic about it and she kind of compared your novel to like her electrician friend talking about wiring. And I really love that because I’m the same way. Like I can listen to anybody nerd out about a very specific subject. I might not understand, but I’ll listen with joy. And one of the passages she quoted, I’d like to read aloud.

Vince Omni (15:16)

All right.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (15:34)

A riot of purple, pink, and orange filled the darkening sky. Like the gods were running a pickup game and one of them sank a once in a lifetime shot. Dr. J leaping from one side of the court to the other, his arm sweeping the ball beneath the backboard and kissing it off the glass before falling back to earth. And this is not the only time that you just like create such vivid imagery about like, you know, basketball and you kind of like create a sense of place with Denver. But yeah, like what, are you drawing from outside of your childhood experiences to like create this book, right? Like are there games, specific games or basketball moments that you recall, movies, ⁓ film, as you said you’re big into. But where is that inspiration coming from? And because I’m sure other people would want to know, like where do get these beautiful...

Vince Omni (16:25)

Yeah, yeah, I mean that’s a great question. Like for instance, that particular pass is right there. I’m thinking about the Dr. J shot, right? The one where he brings the ball under the backboard and you know, it’s like an iconic shot. He leaps from one side of the court to the other under the backboard, like swishing, know, swinging his arm underneath the backboard and laying up on the other side against the Lakers. And that’s like, you know, that’s an iconic move right there. And that’s also a Ross Gay. The poet Ross Gay, yeah, he writes about that in a book of poetry called Beholding. And so I think that’s just, that’s how iconic that particular shot is. So for that particular moment, that’s one of the things I was thinking about. But I think in general, like, you know, it’s 1980s basketball. It’s like, it’s considered to be like a golden era in basketball, you know.

Vince Omni (17:31)

You had the Showtime Lakers, you have ⁓ the Celtics, have the Michael Jordan who’s ascending. He’s taking over the NBA. The Detroit Pistons are coming up. ⁓ They’re poised to win back-to-back ⁓ championships in the late 80s and 90s. so it’s like, there’s a lot of basketball happening. And so I think about, for instance in that first part of the book, have ⁓ Davy on and his uncle Jr. are watching like tape and they’re watching the 1987 game five of the 1987 Eastern Conference finals between the Detroit Pistons and the Boston Celtics where Larry Bird steals Isaiah Thomas’s inbound pass and dishes is off to Dennis Johnson for the layup. Like that’s an iconic moment. That’s seared in my brain because I was so angry i love like outside of the denver nuggets when I was growing up outside of the Nuggets and you know Alex English, Fat Lever, Kiki VanDeWeghe, you know all those all those players the the the detroit pistons the 1980s bad boys was my team like all my friends wanted to be like Mike and i just wanted to be like Isaiah Thomas or Joe Dumars and

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (18:49)

No.

Vince Omni (18:54)

And so, yeah, so I was so, that was so devastating for me when I saw that. I was like, my God, I’m just, I was crushed. I was crushed. So that made it in there as well.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (18:57)

Yeah, I was thinking I did look at, was, when I saw the title, I was like, I was wondering, was like, is this book because you’re a Pistons fan? ⁓ But yeah, my era, was, it was very fun, very different. So I grew up, when I grew up, Derek Rose was becoming popular and I’m from Chicago.

Vince Omni (19:20)

I am, I am, yeah.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (19:36)

So Derrick Rose actually grew up like in the similar neighborhood as me, actually same neighborhood down the street. But yeah, he was like, and still is basically like Michael Jordan level status in Chicago, right? Like it’s like Michael Jordan, Derrick Rose, like untouchable. But then, you know, injuries and all that, but yeah, there’s, it’s an art form that lends itself to such, there’s so many, so many like. So much vivid imagery.

Vince Omni (20:07)

D. Rose was such a talent, like, you know, like to watch him play, to watch him play, that was just amazing, right?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (20:17)

That was a, I miss it. But in another, yeah, another question I had for you about this book and I thought it was very interesting about the format. So the book, it’s actually told in an interview kind of format, right? Like, or the premise of it is an interview. The protagonist is being interviewed about, you know, his time, you know, decades ago back when he was in high school. And I’m curious how you kind of came to that structure and how you kind of decided like you wanted to do that as opposed to just like a more linear, you know, story of just Davyon in high school.

Vince Omni (20:58)

Yeah, that’s a great question too. So in the early stages of this story, like when I would give it to people to read, some beta readers, my friends basically, people I meet at workshops, you folks I’ve met at workshops, the folks I’ve met in programs, they were like, yeah, this is a great story. But you know, have you considered like, is the occasion for Davyon relaying this story? Like why? Why is Davyon at this point in his life talking about these things? What’s going on? And I kept getting that feedback and I was like, that’s really a good point. And so I wanted to create a narrative frame that would allow him to be retrospective. And I think the interview is the classic sports sports conveyance. So much that we learn about athletes is conveyed through interviews. ⁓ And I started just tinkering with that idea. It would be a great way for Davyon to reflect about his time with Church. It would be a great way for Davyon to also update readers about what’s happening with Davyon 25 plus years later. How did his life turn out?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (22:33)

And one of the things that think you did well that ⁓ also Pemi Aguda mentioned was that like, even though it is, you know, 25 years later, like it’s not as if he’s like retelling it he has like all the answers. He’s not like, I knew exactly what I was doing. I did it right. This is, I would do it again. Like, and that kind of narrative also is like a little bit more boring, right? Like somebody’s, you know, saying like they, figured it all out, but you have somebody who like made mistakes in high school, understands them to a degree, is like kind of replicating them even in the future in a different vein, but doesn’t necessarily like recognize that. Right. And I think you kind of like show that how like people change to a degree, right? Like they change and then they, you know, there’s a plateau, right? Like there’s only so much, right. And yeah, it kind of leads me to, and I don’t want to spoil the ending, but I think from one of the things I got from the ending, one of the ideas I kind of took away was this idea of like redemption, grace, forgiveness, right? of, I don’t know, not spoil it, but because of certain decisions made, certain people had to live out the consequences of their actions and some turned out better than others, but they’re ultimately like learning how to accept the decisions they made and how to accept this person that they are. So I know if you, I mean, if you can kind of talk a little bit about like, you know, how we, how that came to be, right? Like how these characters ultimately ended up, but not like giving it away.

Vince Omni (24:17)

That also is a great question. You know, I think that, you know, it would be disingenuous for Davyon to have all the everything figured out. For Davyon to have all the answers and for Davyon not to question any of his motives or any of his, you know, the things that were driving him during this period of his life as a teenager. And I think, you when we think about human development, like we know that, for instance, that, you know, our minds are, you know, that the prefrontal lobe is not fully developed until, you know, mid twenties. So oftentimes we’ve made very adult decisions before we’ve had a chance to fully develop, right? And for men, I mean, some people might argue that for men that’s longer than that.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (25:14)

I’d argue that. I’d argue that.

Vince Omni (25:18)

So like, so we make a lot of decisions that impact the rest of our lives before we’ve even had a chance to fully develop. And so I think for characters like Davyon, for a character like Davyon, you have this, you know, this chance to look back on your life and reflect upon it and realize, hey, you still have questions. Hey, you still have, you still have some residual pain, you know, and then the idea of, you know, his father, Davyon’s father, because, I mean, that’s the rub, right? We have a young man in 1989 who’s been, all intents and purposes, cast out of his home because he and his, you know, his father is an abusive man, you know, right? His father is an abuser. So he’s been exiled to a new city, a new school. And he’s trying to find his footing and basketball is his end. You know, that’s his thing. And I think that knowing that, having a chance to look back on that and then have his father resurface in the front story, right? Have his father going through this, come to Jesus. You know, I’m born again. I’m trying to make amends type of situation.

Vince Omni (26:44)

You know, that is also something that is like messing with him, right? Like he’s like, this dude, like, he’s really, this dude’s really f*****g with me right now. I don’t have time for this dude right now. It is really, it was really meant to be like, you know, an opportunity for him to reflect, but also an opportunity for him to see, well, what kind of patterns do I engage in? What kind of patterns from then do I still engage in now? What kind of trauma am I still dealing with? And that’s kind of what led me to that. so having the answers is not, having the answers when you are still being inundated with new data, being inundated with new circumstances and new choices in life. You know, it’s disingenuous to think that he would have the answers.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (27:45)

And I think that like, it also like raises also like a very, very touchy question, right? But like this idea of like, what, to what do we owe the people that have like hurt us? Cause I remember to that end, there was like a line towards the end. I don’t remember the exact line, but somebody’s talking to Davyon on and they say, well, you your mother has forgiven your father. So like, why can’t you? Right? Like, and it’s a hard question, right? And I’ll pose it to you, like to what do we owe the people that have hurt us, right? Like it’s in regards to forgiveness, especially when you have all these kind of like these men that are constantly like hurting each other in ways they don’t understand, like, you know, how, how, where do you draw the boundary? Where do you find acceptance? Like, you know.

Vince Omni (28:44)

You know, I think that’s something that everyone has to answer for themselves. I can’t tell like another person, you know, what they owe someone else who has hurt them, who has caused trauma to their lives. ⁓ So I think that’s an individual question. I think what we owe ourselves is a lot of like grace, a lot of understanding and then an opportunity to be accountable for any of the harms that we may have perpetrated as well. I think that’s what we owe ourselves. As far as like, when we forgive other people, that’s only something, or if we forgive other people, right? Because sometimes there are some things that people just don’t come back from, right? Some acts of violence, some acts of trauma that just for certain people are just unforgivable. And so, you know, I think whenever someone is dealing with that internally, when they do that or if they decide to do that, that’s something that’s up to them. But I think that we owe ourselves like some grace. We owe ourselves some understanding and we also owe ourselves an opportunity to just be reflective and try to have, try to be honest with ourselves about how these things have hurt us and how they may have impacted the way we move through life. And are we repeating patterns, for instance? And if so, what can we do to disrupt that, to interrupt it so we don’t pass it down to anyone else?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (30:17)

Okay, I will say 1989 is essential reading for any young man in this country, especially now. I am very, very happy we got the chance to talk about it. And I have one last not a serious question. But who is winning the NBA championship this year?

Vince Omni (30:36)

Oh, boy. Well,

it’s hard to say. It’s hard. You know, I’m pulling. I’m pulling for the Nuggets, but they’ve had a lot of injuries this year. They haven’t had a chance to kind of regroup and become a cohesive unit yet. You know, who’s going to catch Oklahoma City? Right in the West, who’s going to catch Oklahoma City and San Antonio?

Vince Omni (31:21)

Like those are some major teams right now. And in the East, you know, the Pistons are firing or were firing on all cylinders, but then Cade Cunningham went down and I’m not sure what the, you know, what his health prognosis is like right now. But it does, you know, that’s, I would be really concerned. You know, I would be really concerned. So yeah, it’s hard to say. It’s hard to say, but I think it’s going to come out of the West. I think the winner will be, you know, from the Western Conference.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (31:36)

You know in the spirit of talking about talented yet toxic men my favorite NBA player and team is Anthony Edwards at the moment So I know he’s got issues off the court, but I love watching him play and I am becoming a Minnesota bandwagoner by the day

Vince Omni (32:05)

Anthony Edwards is an amazing talent. I don’t know a lot about his off court experiences, but I know on the court he’s an amazing talent. I know Nas Reed is also, know, Nas Reed, Di Vincenzo, you have, you know, that’s a pretty, and then there’s a couple of younger players, Bones and, well Bones isn’t that young, but he’s youngish, but you have Bones Hyland and somebody that they just got from Chicago, right? A guard.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (32:45)

Wow, really know, you really, you’re keeping up.

Vince Omni (32:49)

Like I said, I love the game. I do. It’s something that I love, but I could also recognize some of its, I could recognize its faults. And I recognize how ⁓ it could chew people up and spit them out. The process, these hoop dreams, they last a long time, they die hard. And you know, there’s always a lot of support for people who are aspiring but when it’s all said and done, what do you do? Like how do you re-enter a life where basketball is not the focus of your world?

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (33:27)

And I mean, in a way it is like war, right? We support them as they’re going to war, but as soon as they need help in their recovery and they come back, we forget about them, right? So in a way they’re right about that, I’ll say.

Vince Omni (33:42)

Right. But I try to keep it in perspective. you know, I’ll tell you a story. So when I was growing up in Denver, I used to work at Jack in the Box. Okay, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. My supervisor, forget which year. I think this is like, it was the year that the Denver Broncos were playing the team from Washington. So, Doug Williams would have been the quarterback in Washington. And he was having an amazing year. so I was asked to work at the Super Bowl shift at Jack and the Boss. And my manager was like, I’ll let you bring in your little TV. You could watch it, watch the game. It’ll be quiet. And it was, and I was happy until, you know, Douglas Smith got loose, until the Washington team’s running game got loose, and then the Brom by halftime, it was pretty much a miserable situation for Denver. ⁓ And so somebody comes through my drive-thru at halftime, and I’m the only one there, so I take the order, I make the food, I give them the food and give them back their change, and... ⁓

And this guy gets out of, you know, he takes the food. He drives over, parks the car, comes into the lobby. And then he hands me this document, you know, in triplicate. And he’s like, I’m quality control for Jack in the Box. And, right? I’m quality control for Jack in the Box. And,

Vince Omni (35:34)

You know, this is your score for today’s encounter. You have an 89. You would have scored higher if you weren’t snarling at me when you gave me my food. And so ever since then, I tried to just like, I really haven’t watched football much since then. So I kind let the Denver Broncos go and football in general was like, I had to let that go. And when I watch basketball, which I love, like I said, it’s a sport I love. So I keep watching, I continue to watch basketball, but I try to remind myself that, you know, these are millionaires who get to play a game they love for an obscene amount of money and so it’s not worth that kind of heartache when there are more, there’s other stuff happening in the world that’s more important, more important. ⁓

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (36:30)

Yeah, I wish a lot of Bears fans had that perspective, I feel like it’s the only thing that matters here. Yeah. Yeah, for the... mean, it’s okay. We’re talking Bears fans. They’re not going to be watching this anyway.

Vince Omni (36:38)

I’m not commenting on any bear fans I don’t want that smoke. I don’t want none of it. No, no. Bears fans, I didn’t say that bears fans. Don’t come looking for me.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (36:59)

You can come find in me, I live Chicago. You know where I’m at. Anyways, thank you so much, Vince. This has been so fun. Yeah, this has been great. And yeah, everybody, I just want to reiterate, Vince Omni, 1989. if you have any, I will say, I want to reiterate that in all seriousness, if you have any young men in your life and you’re watching this,

Vince Omni (37:06)

Yeah, man. Thank you, Ricardo. I appreciate it. I really do.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (37:27)

Please, please, please give them this book, Because I do think it speaks to a certain kind of young man that it could really benefit. So thank you once again. Yeah.

Vince Omni (37:43)

Thank you for having me. I enjoyed myself. Thank you so much. And thank you for reading the book and reviewing it. It’s great.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (37:50)

Yeah, I mean, I’m sure we’ll be seeing, I’ll be seeing you around.

Vince Omni (37:55)

Yeah, we’ll see. No, we are bound by our experience at Storyboard. So, So yeah.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (38:02)

Right? Yeah, yeah. Thank you so much. Well, I hope you have a great rest of your day and enjoy the beautiful weather.

Vince Omni (38:11)

You too, take care. Thank you.

Ricardo Pierre-Louis (38:13)

See ya

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There were few places one could escape the oppressive air and politics of 17th century London, that is until the first coffee shop arrived. When the brits finally learned of the brew (hundreds of years after its discovery in Ethiopia), it quickly drew the ire and attention of conservatives and victuallers alike. There was widespread fear it would replace alcohol, and foment discord among the drunk, uneducated masses. Propaganda campaigns were unleashed to tie the drink to everything foreign (The Sweat of Negroes, Blood of Moores) and unchristian (i.e. bitter Mohammedan gruel). And while these racist campaigns were as ineffective as they were unoriginal, there is one that stood out against the rest. The Women’s Petition Against Coffee.

Unlike the homogenous chains we’ve come to know, the coffee shops of the time varied widely in intent and theme. Rainbow Coffee House became a refuge for freemasons and french refugees. Jonathan’s Coffee House, founded in Exchange Alley, was frequented by merchants and businessmen and became the home of the London Stock Exchange. Others became the birthplace of life insurance, or assassination plots.

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The congregation of the masses was and has always been seen as a threat to thin-skinned rulers, so even though these coffeeshops did little to combat the conservative norms (patrons were still largely white men), they were still perceived as an affront to polite society.

“…disturbance of the peace and quiet realm,”

King Charles II on Coffee and Coffee Drinkers

They were the college campuses of the time, deeply unequal institutions that were believed to foster radical thought and just like college campuses, they became the prime target of conservative forces.

“..beatniks, radi­cals and filthy speech advocates”

Ronald Reagan on College and College Activists

In 1674, the “Woman’s Petition Against Coffee” penned by “A Well Wisher” started to make the rounds. In addition to its fantastical takedowns of the male anatomy, the petition is filled with all sorts of jabs aimed at coffee drinking men.

Coffeehouses sometimes doubled as brothels, or at least helped encourage certain kinds of matchmaking activities. If a man came home after a late night and smelled like coffee, it was hardly different than him having lipstick on his lapel. So the theory goes that the author of this letter was the wife of an unfaithful man, a woman who took issue with the infidelity of the male species, and needed to let the world know.

She attacks their trousers and says:

They come from it with nothing moist but their snotty Noses, nothing stiffe but their joints, nor standing but their Ears.

Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee

She talks about how annoying it makes a man.

For besides, we have reason to apprehend and grow Jealous, That Men by frequenting these Stygian Tap-houses will usurp on our Prerogative of tattling, and soon learn to exceed us in Talkativeness: a Quality wherein our Sex has ever Claimed preheminence.

Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee

And finally she even takes aim at the brew itself

“[men]..spend their Money, all for a little base, black, thick, nasty, bitter, stinking, nauseous Puddle-water.

Well Wisher, Women’s Petition Against Coffee

Although, there was likely little disagreement on her last point; British coffee was known for being an abhorrent, yet suitable alternative to alcohol or the fetid water flowing through the tap. Still, the author must’ve hit a nerve because shortly thereafter, a man’s answer to this petition was released. The reactionary piece leans heavily on an acerbic, self-righteous type of prose, written by exactly the kind of man the Well Wisher warned us of. Talkative, with nothing to say.

Yet, as entertaining as these caustic missives are, there’s another theory that perhaps the petition and it’s resulting discourse serves an ulterior motive. In 1675, one year after the Women’s Petition Against Coffee was written, King Charles II tried to ban coffee through an edict. It then appears to be too much of a coincidence that the will of the King, a man with nearly a dozen mistresses, aligns with that of this fed-up housewife.

In his book, Elite Capture, the philosopher Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò writes about how identity politics has become weaponized to serve a select few. Elites have learned that rather than fight progressive politics, it’s far easier to incorporate them and water them down to diminish their value.

One can only speculate, but I believe that the Women’s Petition Against Coffee is an early attempt at elite capture. While it began as an honest list of objections to the patriarchal culture of coffeehouses, it gained infamy perhaps through the support of the crown and other elite forces that are less interested in equality, and more interested in the squashing of dissent.

Footnotes:

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The Doer of Good

It was night-time and He was alone.

And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.

And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gate-keepers opened to Him.

And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.

And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were red with wine.

And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him, ‘Why do you live like this?’

And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and said, ‘But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I live?’

And He passed out of the house and went again into the street.

And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were bright with lust.

And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to him, ‘Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?’

And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, ‘But I was blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?’

And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said to her, ‘Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?’

And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, ‘But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.’

And He passed out of the city.

And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a young man who was weeping.

And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said to him, ‘Why are you weeping?’

And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, ‘But I was dead once, and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?’

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I am colored but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother’s side was not an Indian chief.

I remember the very day that I became colored. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a colored town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando. The native whites rode dusty horses, the Northern tourists chugged down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped cane chewing when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The more venturesome would come out on the porch to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.

The front porch might seem a daring place for the rest of the town, but it was a gallery seat for me. My favorite place was atop the gate-post. Proscenium box for a born first-nighter. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn’t mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I’d wave at them and when they returned my salute, I would say something like this: “Howdy-do-well-I-thank-you-where-you-go-in’?” Usually automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a queer exchange of compliments, I would probably “go a piece of the way” with them, as we say in farthest Florida. If one of my family happened to come to the front in time to see me, of course negotiations would be rudely broken off. But even so, it is clear that I was the first “welcome-to-our-state” Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce will please take notice.

During this period, white people differed from colored to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me “speak pieces” and sing and wanted to see me dance the parse-me-la, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop, only they didn’t know it. The colored people gave no dimes. They deplored any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the county—everybody’s Zora.

But changes came in the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, as Zora. When I disembarked from the river-boat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a sea change. I was not Zora of Orange County any more, I was now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown—warranted not to rub nor run.

But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more or less. No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said “On the line!” The Reconstruction said “Get set!” and the generation before said “Go!” I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think—to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.

The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.

I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.

For instance at Barnard. “Beside the waters of the Hudson” I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.

Sometimes it is the other way around. A white person is set down in our midst, but the contrast is just as sharp for me. For instance, when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any little nothing that we have in common and are seated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen—follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my assegai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow and my body is painted blue. My pulse is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something—give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his seat, smoking calmly.

“Good music they have here,” he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips.

Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored.

At certain times I have no race, I am me. When I set my hat at a certain angle and saunter down Seventh Avenue, Harlem City, feeling as snooty as the lions in front of the Forty-Second Street Library, for instance. So far as my feelings are concerned, Peggy Hopkins Joyce on the Boule Mich with her gorgeous raiment, stately carriage, knees knocking together in a most aristocratic manner, has nothing on me. The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

I have no separate feeling about being an American citizen and colored. I am merely a fragment of the Great Soul that surges within the boundaries. My country, right or wrong.

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.

But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held—so much like the jumble in the bags could they be emptied that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place—who knows?

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Death By Lightning, is a four part miniseries on Netflix that deftly depicts the violence of men and the political climate that emboldens them. Based on the book, Destiny of the Republic by Candice Millard, this historical drama examines how political rhetoric has contributed to what historian Richard Hofstadter calls, the Paranoia Style of Politics, a uniquely American phenomenon that ultimately led to the assassination of our 20th president, James A. Garfield.

The opening scene begins in 1969 with a few movers shuffling boxes around at the Army Medical Museum. One of the careless workers tips over a wooden crate, and out rolls a jar filled with a murky white liquid. They pick it up to discover a floating brain labeled “Charles Guiteau”.

“Who the f**k is Charles Guiteau.” One of the men exclaims.

Flashback nearly a hundred years, 1880, and we meet Garfield’s soon-to-be assassin, played by Matthew Macfadyen, as he’s rotting away in a Manhattan cell for a petty crime. His professional career is sparse, but his schemes are numerous: fraud, plagiarism, failed business ventures. Ultimately he has dreams and plans of becoming a politician, a man of importance. And if Guiteau had been a Republican in 2025, then maybe he’d be successful, perhaps even secure himself the highest office in the land, but America was less hospitable to scammers and failsons in 1880 than it is today.

Hundreds of miles away, woodworking on his quaint farm in Mentor, Ohio, we meet another man with great political ambitions, but from a much poorer background, James A. Garfield. Michael Shannon’s depiction of this flinty, progressive politician is both revering and hope-inducing. Parables or playful metaphors litter the dialogue of this even-keeled man. Rarely do we get outbursts of anger, loss of control, but even when we do, those feelings are in accordance with the occasion. Shannon’s portrayal of the oft forgotten president reminds me a bit of Daniel Day-Lewis’ Lincoln, but with much less self-righteousness.

Though, as kind as Shannon’s portrayal of Garfield is, the historical drama has no problem eviscerating other politicians of the time. Chester Arthur, (Nick Offerman), is a bumbling drunk, with few original ideas of his own, but many deep political ties. The most formidable of them being a conniving womanizer, Roscoe Conkling, played by Shea Whigham, who has managed to gain complete control over the Republican Party because of corruption and cronyism.

What I enjoy most about this show is that it doesn’t make any idealized claims about what American politics was like then or now. Throughout each episode, we see the predominantly white men in charge of running our country hurl invectives at one another, unconcerned about the reverberations of their language. Conkling and Arthur are especially guilty of fomenting mobs against this new progressive president as he tries to do away with the “spoils system.” Newspapers happily reprint their bogus claims that he’s “missing” or “running the country” into the ground, and then one of those newspapers lands into the lap of a disgruntled office seeker, Guiteau himself.

In 1969, Richard Hofstadter wrote an essay in Harpers called The Paranoid Style in American Politics, that has come to define conservatism ever since. Written in the shadows of the Red Scare, Hofstadter claims that the American right wing (though not exclusively), has wielded the language and tactics of conspiracy to provoke the dispossessed. Their propaganda has largely proven fruitful as communism and socialism are viewed poorly by most Americans, even those that don’t know the definition of either. American liberals historically have been pro-capitalism, so while they don’t explicitly repeat right-wing talking points, they largely agree with them in principle and endorse them by silence. But the cost of this conspiratorial rhetoric has proven to be disastrous.

Out of the 45 U.S. presidents, 4 have been assassinated, and an additional three have been shot. This means 15% or roughly one out of seven U.S. presidents have either historically been killed or shot at. By most occupational standards, the role is perhaps one of the most dangerous ones out there. Many of the aforementioned assassins have made bold claims that they are saving the nation from the threat within, utilizing the same populist, anti-communistic talking points that are parroted by the conservatives and endorsed liberals alike.

Macfadyen’s portrayal of Guiteau is as illuminating as it is horrifying, because although the man has a dubious professional career, and a weak relationship with the truth, if we closely examine his character and his politics, we find that he’s not too different from many modern Americans. His material suffering, coupled with his indomitable faith in god, lead him down what he believes is the righteous and necessary path for saving the country. When he experiences self-doubt and starts to question his plans, he turns to the papers, turns to the politics of the time and finds himself emboldened once again. Scientists examine his brain post-mortem, and try to find a clinical excuse for his heinous crime, but find nothing. The truth, unfortunately, is far more implicating. Only America, a country as rich as it is cruel, could routinely produce a man like Charles Guiteau, an armed white man with few opportunities, and outsized ambitions.

Charles Guiteau and James Garfield are two sides of the same coin, but the truth is that both of them, in their pursuit of legacy and relevance in a deeply divided nation, are as American as they come.

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SOON as the sun forsook the eastern mainThe pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,And through the air their mingled music floats. Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!But the west glories in the deepest red:So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,The living temples of our God below! Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,And draws the sable curtains of the night,Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;So shall the labours of the day beginMore pure, more guarded from the snares of sin. Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

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Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play.Down on Lenox Avenue the other nightBy the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway.... He did a lazy sway....To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.With his ebony hands on each ivory keyHe made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues!Swaying to and fro on his rickety stoolHe played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues!Coming from a black man’s soul. O Blues!In a deep song voice with a melancholy toneI heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan— “Ain’t got nobody in all this world, Ain’t got nobody but ma self. I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’ And put ma troubles on the shelf.”Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.He played a few chords then he sang some more— “I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can’t be satisfied— I ain’t happy no mo’ And I wish that I had died.” And far into the night he crooned that tune.The stars went out and so did the moon.The singer stopped playing and went to bedWhile the Weary Blues echoed through his head.He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.

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In honor of spooky season, I decided to do a fun little narration of the Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe. I chose Poe because like many others, I was introduced to his work in high school and his neurotic, gothic style has appealed to me ever since.This is one of what I hope to be many voiceovers as I learn the ins and outs of the craft, so if you have any thoughts, questions, or feedback, feel free to leave it in the comments. Always looking for ways to improve. Enjoy!

Tell Tale Heart By Edgar Allen Poe

(Courtesy of Project Gutenberg)

True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—“Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

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The story behind the indie game, Peak, is simple enough. After crash landing onto an unknown island, you and your friends must climb to the top of a mountain peak where you can light a flare to be rescued. The salvation of you and your crew rests solely in the hands of this cute little blob with stubby arms, four fingers, and tremendous dexterity.

Throughout your climb you’ll encounter a head-spinning number of obstacles that range from annoying, like steep ledges, banana peels, to outright devastating (tornadoes… so many tornadoes 🙁).

But unlike most games, Peak is designed to be played in a single session. There’s no way to save your progress or reach a checkpoint. When you and your friends load into the game, you do so with the knowledge that you’ll either leave as heroes or a bag of bones. So when you accidentally hit that exploding mushroom halfway into your fourth attempt and are sent careening hundreds of meters down the side of a mountain, you can’t help but feel a bit of dread while your limp body floats through the air because it’s only then that you realize that all the blood, sweat and tears you’ve poured into the game (for the past two hours) have been for naught. Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything.

Yet, as depressing as this sounds, Peak still shapes up to be one of the most delightful games of the year. Because as you’re playing it becomes clear that true bliss doesn’t arise from reaching the top, but rather from those interstitial moments between long climbs when you get to spend the most time with your friends. Much like a real hike, the game does an excellent job at manufacturing tiny, serendipitous points of connection.

And it’s vital that we remember how important those little moments are, especially in this increasingly busy world, where the tenuous connections between us become harder to nourish. So if you and your friends have a couple hours to spare one night, I’d suggest you download this dopey little game that reminds us that no obstacle is too great, no mountain peak is too daunting, if we can experience it alongside our climbing partners, our comrades, our day ones.

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This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.ricardoplouis.com/subscribe