Vinn Black
Bio
Being iny late fifties, and understanding that I may be ADHD, this could explain a lot of my past, past actions and choices. At this point I use AI for focus, clarity and to keep me on track.
Stories (85)
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Cognitive Plasticity
Echoes of the environment Perk my awareness Too often a trigger is set Dismissive my take Realigning clarity Adhd or dillusional drfting? The echoes a constant norm. Sensible sounds in daily doses. Or strangely a Dr’s Misdiagnosis? Once taught how sacred is thought, Only obliviated by manic madness.
By Vinn Black8 months ago in Poets
A Detective Story. AI-Generated.
Detective Miles Corbin, a man whose sharp mind and even sharper wit had cracked some of the city's most intricate cases, found himself spiraling into a vortex of paranoia. The charge of racketeering hung over him like a guillotine blade, a ludicrous accusation that gnawed at his sanity. He was no criminal; he was a protector of the innocent. Yet, the evidence, meticulously laid out by the Internal Affairs Division (IAD), painted a damning picture. Miles was convinced it was all a carefully orchestrated setup, a Manchurian Candidate scenario where his own mind had been weaponized against him. It began subtly. A misplaced file here, a mumbled conversation overheard there. Then came the wiretaps. His phone calls, once mundane exchanges with his partner, Sarah, or his elderly mother, were now dissected, fragmented, and recontextualized in IAD reports. A casual remark about needing "extra hands" for a particularly complex surveillance operation was twisted into a coded request for enforcers. A frustrated sigh during a call with a difficult informant became evidence of his "criminal enterprise's displeasure." Miles felt like he was living in a funhouse mirror, his reality distorted at every turn. He started meticulously documenting his every move, every conversation, recording his own interactions to counter the IAD's insidious narrative. He trusted no one, not even Sarah, though the suspicion gnawed at his conscience. Had she been turned? Was her unwavering support a carefully crafted act? The planted evidence was the next blow, a gut punch that sent him reeling. A ledger, discovered during a raid on a known associate of a local crime boss, bore his initials next to substantial cash amounts. Miles had never seen the ledger before in his life. The handwriting, though similar, lacked the subtle quirks of his own. Yet, the IAD presented it as irrefutable proof of his involvement. He remembered a few weeks prior, a seemingly innocuous encounter in the evidence lock-up. A new, nervous-looking clerk had bumped into him, spilling a tray of confiscated documents. Miles had helped him gather them, dismissing the incident as clumsy happenstance. Now, a cold dread washed over him. Had that been the moment? Had the ledger been subtly swapped, his genuine signature somehow transferred? The gaslighting was the most insidious weapon in their arsenal. During interrogations, IAD investigators would subtly question his memory, his perceptions. "Are you sure you don't recall that meeting, Detective? Several witnesses place you there." "Perhaps the stress of the job is affecting your recollection of events." They chipped away at his confidence, planting seeds of doubt in his own sanity. Miles started questioning himself. Had he unknowingly crossed a line? Had the constant exposure to the criminal underworld somehow warped his moral compass? He replayed years of his career in his mind, searching for any instance where he might have been compromised, however unwittingly. A free lunch from a grateful business owner? A discounted service from a contact? Were these seemingly innocent favors now being weaponized against him? He confided his Manchurian Candidate theory to a former colleague, a grizzled detective named Reynolds who had long since retired. Reynolds listened patiently, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and skepticism. "Miles," he said, his voice low, "I know you. You're a good cop. But this… this sounds like paranoia talking. IAD doesn't operate like that." But Miles couldn't shake the feeling. He remembered a series of seemingly unrelated incidents from his past – a period of unusual fatigue, a fleeting memory gap during a crucial investigation, a sudden, uncharacteristic surge of anger during a routine traffic stop. Could these have been moments of manipulation, triggers being subtly activated? He started researching mind control techniques, sleep deprivation experiments, anything that could explain the chasm between the man he knew himself to be and the criminal the IAD was portraying. He found fragmented articles, declassified documents hinting at shadowy government projects. The more he delved, the more convinced he became. He was a pawn in a larger game, his memories and actions twisted to serve a nefarious agenda. His trial was a Kafkaesque nightmare. The prosecution presented a mountain of circumstantial evidence, each piece meticulously crafted to fit their narrative. The wiretaps, stripped of context, painted him as a criminal mastermind. The ledger, despite his vehement denials, was presented as undeniable proof of his financial dealings. Witnesses, some of whom Miles vaguely recognized as low-level informants he had encountered years ago, offered carefully rehearsed testimonies implicating him. His defense attorney, a sharp but weary public defender, did her best, highlighting the inconsistencies and lack of direct evidence. But Miles could see the doubt in the jury's eyes. The IAD's campaign of insinuation and character assassination had been devastatingly effective. During a recess, Sarah approached him, her eyes filled with a sadness that cut deeper than any accusation. "Miles," she said softly, "I wanted to believe you. I really did. But the evidence… it's overwhelming." Her words were a final nail in the coffin of his delusion. He looked at her, at the genuine pain in her expression, and a terrifying realization began to dawn. What if he wasn't a Manchurian Candidate? What if the inconsistencies he had clung to, the moments of doubt he had dismissed as manipulation, were actually glimpses of his own culpability? He remembered the pressure he had been under, the mounting debts, the desperation to provide for his ailing mother. Had he, in a moment of weakness, succumbed to temptation? Had he told himself it was a one-time thing, a necessary evil? Had his mind, in its attempt to protect itself, constructed this elaborate conspiracy theory? As the verdict was read – "Guilty on all counts" – the world seemed to tilt. The shock wasn't the injustice he had expected, but a cold, sickening wave of self-recognition. The gaslighting hadn't come from the IAD; it had come from within. He had gaslighted himself, constructing a fantastical narrative to shield himself from the ugly truth. The wiretaps hadn't captured a criminal mastermind, but a man teetering on the edge, his casual remarks laced with the casual corruption he had allowed to creep into his life. The planted evidence wasn't planted; he had simply forgotten the ledger, a small, damning detail buried beneath layers of denial. The court found him guilty based on the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, the seemingly irrefutable paper trail, and the consistent testimonies of multiple witnesses. They saw a corrupt cop who had used his badge to facilitate criminal activity. They didn't see a mind controlled by shadowy figures, but a man who had made a series of bad choices and then desperately tried to cover his tracks with increasingly elaborate lies, the biggest of which he had told himself. Miles stood in the courtroom, the weight of his guilt crushing him. There was no grand conspiracy, no external force manipulating his actions. There was only his own fallibility, his own descent into the darkness he had sworn to fight. The Manchurian Candidate was not some external puppet; it was the corrupted version of himself he had refused to acknowledge until it was too late. The intrigue and second-guessing had been a smokescreen, a desperate attempt to deflect from the damning truth that lay within. He was guilty, not because he had been programmed to be, but because he had allowed himself to become the very thing he had once despised.
By Vinn Black10 months ago in Criminal
Sundials and Eggtimers
To the readers. This story was indeed a challenge. The writing style is complicated and with an infusion of absurdity, unexpected humor, and twist, this one got my *hit in a knot. So yes, there is mild swearing and general confusion. But it's how we learn and Improve our writing. Writing is an art, an abstract art, and will convey several interpretations for the reader, peers and judges. Thanks for making this opportunity available for my attempt at finishing before the cut off.
By Vinn Black11 months ago in Humor
OTIS
The morning air was laden with a heavy scent of baked bread as I made my way to work. The steps leading up to the foyer doors seemed a bit off, or something askew from the ordinary daily routine. I'm not a hundred percent certain if they were cleaned or perhaps even updated. My mind wandered on this thought for what seemed like an hour or more, but I hadn't even made my way to the elevator yet. The steps to the elevator were maybe 15 when I had my sneaks on, but instead, I was wearing my dockers today. And yet again, I drifted off about my shoes and how comfortable they felt today. The feeling was so relaxing until my sense of hunger perked up. I became insatiably hungry and was craving meat—actually, more specifically, pan-fried pork bellies with a nice crispy outer edge and highly scented sautéed essences of garlic, shallots, and turnip. I got to the elevator, and the concierge apologized for the loudspeaker malfunctioning. I nodded and said, "Sorry, what loudspeaker?"
By Vinn Black11 months ago in Longevity
Frat Attack The Funeral. Content Warning.
The clear blue skies were a gift from Sanina. The sky alone was enough to make anyone look up while the Eulogy was narrated by the open grave site with crying, wailing and remorseful sounds. But the sky was an intermediary release of the pain we all felt. For some I would say it was heaven's gate welcoming Sarinas carefree soul to God’s Kingdom. The most graceful site I ever noticed was the Bald Eagle soaring above gracefully. This for me at least was God’s way of saying to me, that Sarina will be avenged. The Eulogy was coming to an end and then dad cut in after all was completed saying “ There will be a gathering held at Romas Banquet Hall and that all are welcome to attend. Food, drink and memories are all available. Please honor our daughter and come for a social gathering. Dad was direct but very welcoming with the invitation. Prior to dad’s announcement, roses were handed out and all immediate family laid a rose on Sarinas Casket. The remaining family and friends were able to place rose petals on Sarinas casket and say a prayer. [ ] The entire funeral and ceremony was hard for everyone, more so, mom. Mom was shaking and crying the entire time, but dad and Bigs sandwiched her with their big brooding arms and squeezed her in a consoling way. Yet it also was a hug of upcoming retribution. At least that’s what I was thinking, but, strictly in an emotional moment as opposed to violence that her attackers would experience. I drifted off again up to the skies above, analyzing the Eagle as it circled on flight. I envisioned a tiny mouse in the field below him, with no foresight into the hell that was coming to him. With that weird random moment of thought, I noticed my imagination was In full flight mode. I had a premonition of violence from a frat member in a crested sweater. It seemed like hours but I knew it was only a few fleeting seconds and I came back to the moment of sorrow around me. The funeral was dispersing quickly, and Uncle Bigs put his behemoth hand on my neck and brought me in for a long tight hug, whispering in my ear, one down, four to go, I love you nephew, never ever, forget that. He pulled away, wiping his eyes with a white hankie and clearing his throat. I felt something, fear, and not sadness. I was not shedding tears, or swallowing hard or babbling. I was stuck on Uncle Bigs words” one down, four to go”. As we broke away from the grave site, and ambled slowly towards the family car, I glanced over to the left from the entrance of the cemetery road, and became paralyzed with overwhelming horror. The Eagle from above, had taken aim at its Prey and was in a feeding frenzy. The Prey was actually a big tabby cat and there was absolutely no life at all left for the tabby. The blood, fur and I’m assuming intestines were spread out over a small area just off the road. Suddenly out of nowhere the cemetery crew came out with a big sheet and closed off the view of the passing funeral attendees as they walked by. Now, hear me when I say horrific, because this scene is something that horror movies are made of. The cemetery crew brought out a white sheet and they did a good job of closing off the view, but every time the Eagle ripped into the carcass blood was cast off onto the sheet leaving so many bloody spots and stains it was ridiculous. I mean horrifically insane with the gruesome sheet covered in blood spatter. I did manage to shake this off, but Uncle Bigs was pissed, as he was cursing and muttering about respect for his and the grieving family. Rightly so I muttered to myself all the while wondering about those words he told me earlier. “One down, four to go”. This phrase did actually linger the rest of the day for me and even at the Banquet Hall it replayed in my head. After the first shot of Mezcal I started to relax and feel a bit more connected with the social aspect of a grieving family. Hugs were plenty along with some tears but mostly cordial and heartfelt conversations. A few family members did bring up the white sheet the cemetery crew was holding up. That was dismissed quickly. A few prayers were said in select social circles here at the Banquet but everything was leveling off due to the food and liquor. That’s when I overheard a conversation with my dad on the phone and Bigs with him too. They approached me and asked me to ensure everyone gets home okay. I questioned this and was only told an urgent business matter needed attention. I reflected on the Eagle in the sky and then the tabby that never had a chance. I then drifted again about that Frat sweater and the repercussions to ensue.
By Vinn Black11 months ago in Fiction
Frat Attack. Content Warning.
Uncle Big walked in, with his long trench coat, fedora and a handful of envelopes. I was thinking to myself, what is he going to do or consider when we explain that my niece was sexually abused by a group of guys at a fraternity house? My mind could not shake off the horrific scene he'd bring upon them. The more I thought about this the more ill I became. The really sad part was I was more horrified by the coming possibilities of Uncle Bigs reckoning than the abuse my niece took. Don't get me wrong, and make no mistake there will be retribution, but it should be me who handles this one. My sister was in the hospital emergency department and I needed to shake off this mind trap of horrific scenarios and greet my Uncle.
By Vinn Black12 months ago in Chapters
Replay
Uncalled for but necessary. That's about how Johnny musta felt when he popped 2 in the back of the head of a known thug hanging around town. Justice was just Johnny's gun. This kinda became normal as I was told, by Johnny of course. That Aerosmith tune is very reminiscent of Johnny's Justice, except he's not Janie. There was times when Johnny held the gun barrel to my nose, almost burning it, but more potent was the smell of gunpowder. I really started to fear Johnny as his temper escalated almost daily. What got worse was when I worked to avoid him, he always somehow found me. Either at a coffee shop or grocery store it became impossible to lose him, his voice always lingered in my head too. Cops didn't phase him when they shot by down the road with their lights and sirens. I was more anxious than him. Sue, a friend of Johnny's, started to kick around with me when I was ducking out from Johnny most times. I didn't want to let Johnny know she's been hanging with me because of his increased temper lately and blackouts he claimed. I also asked Sue to hold back from saying anything to Johnny. She gave me her word and to be honest it was never a problem. I guess she knew Johnny was getting bad too. Sue and I did a bowl of hash and the next thing I knew Johnny was kicking me. Rubbing my eyes and trying to wake was tough, as Johnny was bragging again. This time he was telling me he was banging this prostitute most of the night in her brothel. He whipped his meat out and said bitch tried to bite me. Look at the marks. He went on and started getting upset again pulling his pants back up and bringing out his gun again. He held the barrel to my face, it was warm and smelled of powder again. Johnny went into a rant and started to fire off a couple shots again and my ears were ringing and and I became very disoriented and noticed lights blinking, red,blue and sirens blasting. All I could think was, fuck, Johnny shot me, and the cops are here. My shoulder was warm and my stomach hurt too. All I could feel was a slow sliding descent into a dark silent abyss. Coming out of a foggy state and hangover like feeling, I noticed the beeping sounds and rails beside me. Thinking to myself, I realized I was in a hospital and must of been shot by Johnny. I moved my hands to help adjust myself in getting comfortable, but I couldn't move them far. They were limited in movement,I was handcuffed to bed rails and there were uniformed officers outside the door. I really started to panic and hyperventilate at which point a couple of uniform nurses or doctors came in and calmed me. The doctor broke into a “your lucky to be alive today Mr. Wheeler”. We were able to stop the bleeding from your stomach, and patch up your shoulder for you. You did almost die on the table, but what scared us all was when you blurted Sue, while under anesthesia. Remarkable infact. Which eludes us to call in the police now for you to talk with. Take care Mr. Wheeler. Wait, who's Mr. Wheeler? My names Johnny Barber! All the more to speak with the police. After they are finished the specialist will see you next. The specialist? You said I was okay? What the fucking he'll us going on Damn it!!? Ah yeah, excuse us please, the officers are coming in now. So, Mr. Barber, you have been a big problem.. The officers broke into the rights speech. Once finished they were not well received. Mr. Barber clamed up, and rightly so. The psychiatrist walked in nonchalantly and asked out loud “ Who am I Speaking to today?” Joey, Joey is my name mister. What am I doing here? I'm hungry, got food? I got to go pee, hurry let me out please! Never mind, I did an uhoh in the bed. Everything's going to be alright Joey. Thanks mister. Hey, do I know you? You kinda look and sound familiar? Why yes Joey, you have known me for a long time. Do you not remember the coloring you did when we were together? Also the toy blocks you used to make me a gun? Gee mister, your starting to scare me a bit. It's okay Joey, you are very safe here. Where am I mister? Why are my hands chained to the bed?
By Vinn Black12 months ago in Fiction
