Davis was a photojournalist, famous for his true crime pictorials depicting all manner of depravities, including gruesome murders and violent assaults. He won Pulitzers and was the only photographer regularly on the best sellers’ list.

Davis was eventually released. He had not actually committed the crimes. Rather, he knew the people who had and went along to document them. People still believed it a disgrace, but that didn’t stop them from buying his books.

You can bet if anyone discovers your involvement, there will be hell to pay. Perhaps that’s what attracts you in the first place. The flirtation with danger. Or more likely, it’s the inevitable moment when you are caught and everyone’s expectations of you, their belief in your character, their assumptions about how far you are willing to go, will all be dashed.

Whatever the case, murdering this homeless man will haunt you forever.


The Daily Theme from Figment for April 11

Now focus in on that decision to relent. In second person, describe those moments of transition, using the distancing effects of second person to allow you to analyze your decision as if it had been someone else’s.

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.

But as with most things in life, the thought was never more than a pleasant diversion.

The Daily Theme from Figment for Jan. 18, 2012
Courtesy of Lev Grossman

I stole the first two sentences from Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and did my best to make it my own. Obviously, Dostoevsky had a lot more space to play around with his characters.

They had told Christopher that time travel was impossible, that it violated the laws of physics. It took twenty years of obsession, but he proved them wrong.

So it was with great regret he discovered there was one law of physics he would never be able to break. No matter how hard he tried, Christopher was never able to kill Grandfather Warren.

The murder scene was wiped clean long before the police arrived to trample it in their carelessness. It didn’t matter. Their best evidence was always manufactured.

Carl would maintain his innocence until the day he was executed. Most non-biased observers believed him. He was a convenient fall guy to take the blame for a crime that couldn’t be solved. Yet no one dared leap to his defense. If the court system officially concluded Carl had murdered a family of seven while at the same time driving his taxi on the other side of the city, who was anyone to argue.

Detective Stephens surveyed the scene, trying to make sense of it. He could be certain of only one thing. The man was dead.

The mystery was never explained, but the man’s ghost never did leave. At least it was well-dressed.

Drake’s fate was determined the day his father was killed.

He became a lost soul. So it was that upon his death, he knew that he himself would become a ghost.

They found her body–tattered, ripped open at the seams with the fluff bleeding out–in the middle of the sidewalk. The authorities labeled it accidental murder; she was the victim of circumstance.

Neither of the authorities wanted to hear about it. They refused to own the fact their institutional negligence had allowed Mrs. Cassidy to be chewed to death by Chocolate, the cocker spaniel. Her parents were always skirting the blame.

Peter scanned the document, making note of the many black marks against the latest supplicant.

“Yes, it’s true, God is an American. But when it comes to your final judgement, your nationality is only a small percentage of the evaluation.”

His eyes spoke carefully, were impossible to read, and made me ill at ease. He flashed his badge, hoping to provoke a reaction.

“Unfortunately, for your sake, that number will be seven after tonight.”