Lost Tales: "A Love Story from Hell."

I am a complete pack-rat when it comes to my old writing. I hate to throw anything out, even if it is unmistakably garbage. I have, in my voluminous files, several stories written when I was in high school, and sometimes enjoy hauling them out and reading them over. Through the eyes of a (more or less) stabilized 35-year old, the writing of the troubled teen he once was brings both a nostalgic smile and a kind of sadness.

The teen-aged Christian H. Smith (at the time, I believed the middle initial made me sound more distinguished,) while certainly not very polished craft-wise, was at the very least quite unaffected. Even at that age, I was striving to find my own voice, and in fact attempting to create my own genre. The old stories were, if nothing else, completely original. Of course, originality does not equal quality.

I was very into "shock" value, pushing the buttons of my readers, poking taboos in a very confrontational way. Some things never change, right? Well, I hope that as I've grown older, I've not necessarily mellowed, but have learned to challenge my audience in more subtle ways. Attacking them with slow-acting psychoactive poisons, say, instead of with a sledgehammer.

One of the old stories which has been lost in the mists of time is "A Love Story From Hell," which was written in my Senior year in High School. "LSFH" is the story of a mild-mannered young man with the unlikely name of Oliver Crum. He attends the funeral of an aunt (named Mimi) he barely knew. Here he meets and falls instantly in love with a beautiful and mysterious young woman named Cassandra Jones. They go home together. Mind-blowing sex (described by a then-virginal author) ensues.

A few weeks later, desperately in love, poor Oliver is ready to pop the question. He has even has the ring. During a romantic hot-tub evening (after an impromptu bout of underwear-swapping,) the question is on his lips. Cassandra bids him to wait. She has something to tell Oliver which may change his mind. The secret of why she was at the funeral, and how she had known Oliver's aunt. Mimi and Cassandra had been . . . lovers.

Oliver is a bit shocked, but this does not change his feelings towards Cassandra. Not in the least. Cassandra is relieved. Oliver: "Will you . . ." Cassandra: "Wait. One more thing." Then comes the "from Hell" part. Cassandra goes into the next room and returns with the corpse of Aunt Mimi, stuffed and preserved, Mama Bates style.

"Now the three of us can be together forever!"

Oliver screams until he passes out. His cries prompt the neighbors to call the cops, and the next thing Oliver knows he's on CNN. He's exonerated of any wrongdoing, but Cassandra is institutionalized. In the final scene, he visits her in the hospital and finally proposes. Love has won out over all obstacles. I believe I even used the line: "Sure, she was a bisexual necrophiliac, but nobody's perfect."

I listened to the Sugarcube's great first album, "Life's Too Good" repeatedly while writing the story, especially the song "Fucking in Rhythm and Sorrow," and attempted to reflect the band's unique lyrical style in my prose. Like if it was translated from Icelandic and spoken by a vocally-eccentric moon-faced pixie who would later go on to a more successful solo career.

Now, did I mention that this was written for a high school Creative Writing class? The teacher, Mr. Bill Myers, was a fantastic guy. The first teacher to support me in my creativity rather than trying to suppress it. Still, I think I might have driven him towards alcoholism and/or premature baldness, with my insistence on turning out these twisted little sex & horror comedies. This one definitely did NOT make it into the student literary journal.

In later years, "Love Story" went through several revisions and translations. It was actually the very first story I ever submitted to a magazine (I don't even remember which one) and, consequently, my first rejection. I do remember that the rejection letter, in their perfunctory positive statement, said that I had some "nice imagery," but that the story was overall too long and did not fit their needs at this time, thank you very much.

At some point I attempted adapting it into a short film script and even a radio script for Coyote Radio Theater. Neither was produced. Now, I can't find either a hard or an electronic version of any incarnation of "Love Story." It's just gone. Exists only in my memory, in the fond haze of which I'm sure the story is better than it ever was in the hard light of day. So, I guess that's where it belongs.

Sometimes lost tales are better lost. Still, that does not stop one from missing them like estranged children who have drifted off to God knows where.