David Mayo Eats Brains

James Wollstein, better know to his friends and aquaintences as “Merlin,” party promoter and part time DJ, was found dead of knife wounds on the wrists and throat. There is, so far, no evidence of foul play. Wollstein is survived by his mother, Elsabeth Wollstein. He was 32.

Now, I never liked James. Actually, one could say that I actively disliked him. Hated, of course, is a strong word; too strong, I think, for this case. My feelings for James were never that strong; there simply wasn’t enough below the surface there to cause a stronger reaction than distaste.

If I had been writing his eulogy, it would have read thus:

James Wollstein, known as “Merlin” due to a combination of affectation and juvenilism, died today. He lived with his mother, Elsabeth, and worked his college jobs to his demise at 32, because he never grew ambition, or saw the need to develop talents. He is survived by Elsabeth, and the members of his coven, estranged.

Still. I do not claim to have loved the man; I cannot even claim that I hated him enough to miss the sensation. But he was, in a way, a brother of mine. And it is a strange, terrible moment, when you realize that the prodigal is never returning home.

Stranger still to see my other brothers and sister after all this time. The funeral was held in accordance to the wishes of the deceased; at his favorite club, set to a recorded session of songs that he had DJ’d. His mourners; a club of twenty-something hipsters and E-heads. His mother, her quiet, weepy sadness buried beneath Robert Smith’s twenty year old angst. And six distinctly un-hip individuals in their early thirties, trying desperately not to scream, curse, laugh, laugh, cry, and leave, respectively. The last being myself.

My plan for this is a story involving little magics, and their use and abuse.  It’s going to be something like if there was a side project of Planetary or The Invisibles, covering a group of people too obscure or close to average to take part in the metaplot.

Deep, man. Deep.

Suggestions go here!

This is a collection of stories, designed as serial chapters and published immediately on the web for criticism and comments.

My name is David Mayo. I have a B.A. in British and American Literature, and will try not to develop “Swelled hed internets disease.”

Bear with me.