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“The Life and Death of August Corcoran” by Ari Yena (part 1 of 2)

There were things in the world Lance Dyer knew were never meant to be understood. Yet, it was his job to understand, and he did it well.

Today’s story is the first of two parts of “The Life and Death of August Corcoran” by Ari Yena, who is making their debut on The Voice of Dog. You can find more of their work on their Patreon, or follow them on Twitter for more updates.

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If you have a story you think would be a good fit, you can check out the requirements, fill out the submission template and get in touch with Khaki on Twitter or Telegram!

Transcript
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you're listening to the voice of dog.

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I'm cocky.

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You're faithful, fireside companion.

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And today's story is the first of two parts of the life and

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death of August Corcoran.

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Bye Ariana.

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Who is making their debut on the voice of dog.

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You can find more of their work on their Patrion.

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Or follow them on Twitter for more updates.

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Please enjoy.

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The life and death of August Corcoran by Arianna part one of two.

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August Corcoran was unmistakably dead.

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And that was that.

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That was the thing Lance dire thought of before anything else?

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It was in fact, all he could think of that August Corcoran had died because seeing

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so much death in your life makes it easier to see the bodies of those who'd passed.

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But it also gives you a greater appreciation for their life.

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And for the great loss that has been suffered.

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Some may have said that Lance was too soft with a job.

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That perhaps his care might make it more difficult to see things as they

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were, but land solely thought it would help to give closure to him.

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And the loved ones of the deceased.

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Lance dipped his head.

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In a silent respect to the Armand.

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Lance was intruding on his space after all.

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And one Lance did not specifically believe in any higher power.

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He had not entirely ruled out the possibility that August might

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be somewhere now watching him.

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Because he understood that there are things about this life that

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would never meant to be understood.

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Yet.

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It was Lance's job to understand.

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And he did that job.

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Very well.

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The chair on which August Corcoran was slumped.

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Much like most other things in the small apartment could be seen from the door.

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It faced it even almost adult.

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It was greeting any guests.

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Though with the state of the apartment, it would rather surprise

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Lance to come to the conclusion that August had very many guests.

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It wasn't as though things were strewn about in that messy, in an unwelcoming

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way, he found so many scenes in before with the sorts of people who hold

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themselves up in their apartments for weeks on end, as they slowly deteriorated.

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There were no scraps of food.

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No stains of any bodily fluids of which Lance was thankful

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as he had seen all kinds.

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No cigarette bottle beer bottles piling up.

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And Lance noted each of these things with some assurance to himself.

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As he thought it was just as helpful to define a scene by what was missing.

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Just as much as what he saw, because in this particular instance, it could help

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him gather the picture of someone who led a life that was in some ways put together.

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And in some ways, Healthy.

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It was those unwelcoming details of the room that gave him pause

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in defining the Irvine fully.

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August wore a collared shirt and slacks.

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Though the color was unbuttoned.

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And even up around the back of his neck in a way that Lance

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suspected he was not privy to.

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The wrinkles gave a clear reason for the slight fraying of the

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threads though, that fraying was especially prominent around the cuff.

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Compared to the right.

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It clung much less tightly around his wrist.

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Even given that both were buttoned.

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The left was fastened to the cuff by a loose thread of yellow

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contrasting as land solid with a deep blue of the shirt itself.

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And certainly not matching the black by which all the other stitching was done.

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The shirt, tongue fairly loosely.

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As Lance noticed, particularly in length as though it were

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intended to be tucked in.

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And to that expectation, it was bunching up below his belt only behind his waist.

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That belt itself was in poor shape or perhaps just well loved.

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A few additional holes of what must've been the, your mind's own creation.

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Extended past those that were manufactured into it.

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And even that furthest one seemed as though it wasn't quite enough

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to hold the garment to him with any sort of security and judging by

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the bunched up waste of his pants.

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That was something he needed.

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Finally Lance noticed the Armand.

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Sunk heavily into the plush below him.

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So much so that the very top of its 10 fabric covering was nearly higher

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than the tops of August thighs, at least on the outer edges of the seat.

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Lance wander not to look very much further as this was all he could

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gather without further invading the personal space of the Armand.

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Who might not have smelled particularly great while he was alive.

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He was also meant not to disturb the body to preserve the scene.

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And he had every intention of doing so.

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The room at large was rather empty.

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A couch looking much newer than all else in the room and very out of place.

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And it's brighter.

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Coloring, sat along one wall.

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A table in front of it looked as though its owner had been past.

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For far longer.

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Seeing many seasons of loneliness and it's thick layer of dust.

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In one corner, towered, unrealistically, high piles of paper and letters and

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envelopes and all sorts of things.

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One might toss aside and never look at it again.

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But Lance was quick to discover that that wasn't the only sort of note.

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Indeed.

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There were three piles set about and each had a very specific purpose.

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The tallest by far seem to contain the most eclectic and

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colorful envelopes and cards.

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Lance learn more about the town then about August Corcoran.

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He learned about the new donut shop, a few blocks away.

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And he learned that the town was rebudgeting it's taxpayer dollars and

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where he might be able to attend a meeting since passed to give his word.

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And he learned if the touting praise on the postcard were to be believed.

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Who would get the job done with the best rates and make sure it was done right.

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If you needed a plumber.

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The second biggest pile.

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Just to the side of that first held a slightly more uniform,

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look in color and size.

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If it's envelopes.

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And some were even torn open at the top.

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Though those were mostly those on the bottom of the pile.

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In the middle.

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Each envelope was opened carefully and neatly with a blade, with an edge sharp

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enough that it took even an astute character, like learns a few passes

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to realize they'd been opened at all.

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Then the top half of the pile sat entirely unopened.

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Lance could easily determine what sort of letters these were though.

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Even if you haven't been able to open all those at the bottom.

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He'll family mortgage.

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Faulkner medical group and Z and associates lending firm gave Lance

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an idea before we could even pass the urgent in bold red lettering.

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Sitting right between that second pile and the only space on the table

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free of that thick layer of dust.

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I was the third and final pile.

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This one.

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The most curious of all.

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It was perfectly uniform, every single letter, the same boring

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white and the same standard size.

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Each and every one remained sealed as the August.

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Corcoran didn't want their secrets.

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Though to know.

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So shortly that he didn't would lead one to believe that he knew very well.

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What was inside?

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And it will be rather difficult not to.

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As they were addressed to August Corcoran from national

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center for disability insurance.

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Lance dire being a wise young man nodded with a sagely look toward

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the resting August Corcoran.

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And looked over the room one last time.

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The inspector, the couch, but found nothing.

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If I had nothing under the table and nothing else interesting

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about the Armand himself.

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And that was that.

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There was no television for him to inspect.

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To see what channel he might've come on when it awakened.

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There were no art pieces or decorations, or even a clock

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for him to glean anything from.

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Just the dim light.

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An ugly couch.

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Uh, dusty table, an old recliner.

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And a dead or a mine.

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With another dip of his head.

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To bid August quarter and farewell for now, Lance Dyer

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found his way to the kitchen.

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He felt stifled the moment he stepped inside.

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There was just enough space to walk and very little more.

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It didn't help that there were no windows, no openings of any kind apart from the

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one that allowed Lance into the room.

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The ceiling was low and the cabinets, which lined both walls

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felt as though they were jutting out into the space, meant for him.

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The fridge couldn't open at the same time as the oven.

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They'll both could hardly open very far at all without touching the counter

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on the opposite side of the walkway.

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Dishes filled the sink, even going so far as to spill out into the counter

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itself, they'll still managing to confine themselves into one small corner.

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The only other thing on the counter anywhere at all.

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What's a bowl.

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Etched glass or something of the like, May to resemble crystal.

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That's certainly not the real thing.

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Stacked high with oranges and peaches and apples.

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That looked plenty fresh as though they'd been picked that very day.

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Yet in stark contrast, the fridge was near empty and the freezer full

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of only single serve frozen meals.

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Certainly not implying an interest in his health.

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Or particularly fresh food.

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It seemed as though he wasn't just trying to make a change all too late, though.

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Uh, search through the trashcan.

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A favorite of Lance's as very little can tell you more about a person.

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I revealed that it was a long time habit.

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Indeed the nearly full bag was layered.

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Very neatly.

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Uh, discard a TV dinner.

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On top of orange peel on top of this card, a TV dinner on top of orange

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peel and on, into the very bottom.

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August quarter and it seemed as creature of habit.

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Lance had suspected as much.

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But I'll look through someone's trash will always tell you something.

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And he was rather glad to have that fact confirmed.

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Very little else in the kitchen was of interest to Lance though.

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Apart from that, seeing the mess, that was the Irma and stove top reminded

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Lance that his own needed cleaning.

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Suddenly the kitchen was filled with music.

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The sort of which the apartment is Lance thought very well might never have heard.

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It was a pop song.

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The chorus of the number one pop hit from a few months before.

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Lance didn't usually enjoy that sort of music, but sometimes one just stuck out.

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It was certainly rare that anyone used music of any sort as a ring tone anymore.

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And that was especially true for text messages, but Lance

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enjoyed the brightness.

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It might bring to his day.

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Russo wanted an update.

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It had always bothered Lance how impatient his boss could be, but he

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knew what they said about squirrels.

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He just liked to be meticulous and for his work to be uninterrupted.

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And for all the complaints about the time it took Lance to complete the search of

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a home Rousseau had never once complained about what he gathered in his time spent.

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At times Lance didn't bother to text Russo back, knowing that he'd have his answer

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soon enough, but something about August Corcoran, wasn't making sense to Lance.

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And while he could find his answer at any time.

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He still wants to learn whatever he could.

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He owed it to the are mine.

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. If he was going to riffle through August Corcoran's things.

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To invade his personal Haven in which he spent so much of his time.

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Lance wanted to do him, the justice of making certain to contact anyone who

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he would want to know of his passing.

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And to make sure to portray him.

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Accurately as the man, he truly was.

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There wasn't much that Lance felt comfortable writing in stone yet.

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So a small update would have to suffice for now and he gave

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it with some difficulty in finding just the right words.

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Lance.

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Well being the sort to dwell on things for very long dove right back into his

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work, as the text was sent and found himself in the bedroom of the deceased.

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The bedroom at times could tell you everything you needed to know at a glance.

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And at times, Uh, required some very serious digging around.

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Knowing what he knew of August courtroom.

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Lance dire suspected the latter to be the case in hand.

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And he saw upon entering the DRAD room.

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That he was correct.

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The walls were that same eggshell color, many homes or apartments or new rental

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properties seem to love if only because of how universally boring it was.

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The sheets of his band were gray as were the pillow cases as with a blankets.

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Of which there were several in their own little piles on the bed.

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As though each one had been given his own turn and unceremoniously pushed aside.

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Uh, lamp on the side table was already on and the room

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looked very open in that light.

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Only, just bright enough as the rest of the apartment was because

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very little else was in it at all.

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Lance thought it was strange to find an apartment with

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no television inside at all.

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And no sign one had ever been there.

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But that was certainly the case.

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Instead the top of August dresser was lined with a very modest collection

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of books neatly lined up between two rather minimalist bookends.

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Each and every book looked nearly untouched.

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There was not a crack in his spine and not a corner was bent like each and

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everyone was on display for Lance to buy brand new, went enticing and opening.

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One gave Lance the very same sensations, new book smell, and all.

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Two books sat outside of the bookends though.

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Almost lovingly laid out a top of the dresser.

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That would nothing like the rest.

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To call them well loved.

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Would we doing them a disservice?

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The first, a hard cover copy of a book.

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Lance had never heard of titled the threat to our lives.

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Many of its pages were dog-eared or had clearly been at some point.

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And even the edges of the cover itself were starting to come apart

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as though would have been shoved into a bag perhaps time and time again.

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The book certainly was old enough for it.

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At least 30 years, my lawn says estimation, maybe more.

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And indeed.

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Uh, glance inside the cover told him he was right to think it could

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be more 1984 was the publishing date before even Lance himself.

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But not August Corcoran.

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The only mine.

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If Lance was any better at estimating ages of people than

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books, which he thought he was.

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Would it been somewhere between his late teens and mid

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twenties when it was published?

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Uh,

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Lance allowed the book to fall open, where it might write to

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whatever page saw the most love.

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He had to hold back a snicker though.

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When the page was titled as bold as what Lance had assumed, it was claiming.

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The homosexual agenda.

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Lamps didn't need to read the text under it to understand what it was

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trying to say his knowledge of what the world was like at the time.

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Serve to tell him all he needed to know in that regard.

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He was far more concerned with the highlighting, the underlining, the notes

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in the margins, much of which made some portions of the texts almost entirely

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illegible when they bled through the backside or when the book might've been

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closed too soon after dropping the pen.

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Some of the texts too, was blacked out with a bit more intent.

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But those Milts.

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Went quite notes at all.

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They were a conversation.

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If the responsive tone of much of the words, weren't enough to indicate as much.

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The vastly differing.

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Handwriting's where.

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The first writer wrote in a very practice script.

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And with a steady hand, it was clear that any smudging that

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happened occurred after the fact.

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The second writer interested, Lance dire far more, at least solicitously.

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Some of their words, ran into each other and in a very loose and fast

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style while others, it was clear by the pressure of the pen alone.

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Enough to sometimes bleed through a whole page that they were making a concerted

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effort to slow it down and keep it neat.

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It was rare to find the two styles in one note.

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And for the most part.

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The styles would switch every few notes.

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Despite the intensity of the rhetoric contained in the pages,

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both writers seems to be having fun.

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Whether they were refuting the words contained in the passages, or perhaps

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they were mimicking the haughty tomes.

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The original author took.

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The words.

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Full of hatred and bile and fear.

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Became something for them to find joy in.

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The joy of life, Lance thought and the joy of living it.

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The only way you knew how.

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Lance allowed the book to close, gently.

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Deciding that he had learned all he could without carefully reading through

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the margins of every single page.

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And turned his attention to the second book.

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A much smaller one by the name of fun home.

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His strategy of testing, where a book wants to be open to proved useful.

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Once more, when Lance found a small folded piece of paper, Right around

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the center between two pages that were entirely clean of dog ears or

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falls or slight tears as though they'd been protecting the page within.

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Though, if they had been Lance thought.

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They weren't doing a very good job.

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The folded paper seemed about to come apart.

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Each fold looking as thin as if it had been folded and folded.

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Again, hundreds of times.

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Uh, Lance was even more careful than he thought possible as he unfurled a

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page, laying it out flat on the dresser.

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To read to himself.

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This was the first of two parts of the life and death

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of August Corcoran by Ariana.

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Read for you by cocky your faithful fireside companion.

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Julian next time to find out about the precious notes that august kept

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hidden away As always, you can find more stories on the web@thevoice.dog.

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Or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

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Thank you for listening to the voice of dog.

About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @khakidoggy on Twitter and Telegram, and khakidoggy@me.com by e-mail.

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