fallibility

You were long gone by then, and with each day that had passed a million years had crept in to fill the void. A day gone, and you couldn’t remember the feel of her skin. A week gone, and you couldn’t remember the smell of her hair. A month gone, and you couldn’t remember the taste of her lips. A year gone, and you couldn’t remember the sound of her voice.

You will never forget the day you needed the help of a photograph to remember what she looked like. You were around a decade gone, you woke up in the morning to an old song on the radio, one of her favourites, and you could not conjure up her image. You lay in bed awake for a time agonizing over this absence of memory, the last shred of memory you had of her, but nothing would come. Bested by the passing of the ages, you reluctantly dragged yourself out of bed, pulled opened a desk drawer, and withdrew a 4x6 photo.

Her, standing in a crowded market in Damascus, disgustedly pointing at a wretched pile of cured animal parts: hooves, hocks, and heads. She wasn’t even smiling – how could she, really? – but it was the only photograph you had. You examined it for a time, taking in her short raven hair, tanned skin, and green eyes. Imagined her exquisite curves beneath those khaki pants and jacket. Found your mind going to another place, another time.

But even then, you were all too familiar with the fallibility of memory. Nothing is ever remembered as it truly was. Each time a memory is called forth it’s modified, altered by every thought and experience occurring between then and now. You nurture different biases. Form different ideals. Nostalgia pollutes, and soon you’re writing fiction. Layering coats of paint on an old fence. Like a stone in a polisher, each memory becomes smoother, shinier, prettier with each trip around the drum. Your reverie broken by this sobering line of thought, you tossed the photograph back in the drawer.

You were long gone by then, with a thousand Mediterranean photographs to peruse. Decaying architecture. Turquoise coasts. Crowded cobblestone streets. Yes, by the time she realised you had left the continent, you were long gone, sitting in another airplane, crossing another border, flipping through these photographs, always lingering on the same one.

When you fled, you had no way of knowing how much you would miss her.

You were around a week gone when guilt raised its ugly head, and you crowded into a ratty telephone booth in Algiers. Needless you say, she wouldn’t return your calls. Why would she? She was too good for you, and when you up and left without telling her, you proved it to both of you. Packing up your few things. Sneaking off to a train station in the middle of the night. Buying a ticket to a place you couldn’t yet pronounce. It was all so... you. You were simply showing her who you were. Doing her a favour.

Twenty years gone, and you still think of her. You imagine what could have been. You wonder where she is now, who she’s with, what she’s doing. You begin to consider what a complete jerk you were back then, until you realise something quite startling: considering time’s masterful way of buffing memories to a glean, you were probably even more of an jerk than you can even begin to fathom.

the ride

What does one do when all of his dreams have come true? Wish for a time when his dreams lay in pieces, of course. Perhaps even a time before this, a darker, primordial, dream-free time, in which one just was. Meandering. Existing. Coasting.

There was a long stretch of time, a veritable highway cutting through the pitch black night of a foreign land, which was marked with blind, concentrated anticipation. You knew not what lay just beyond the twin beams of headlights cutting through the darkness before you. You knew not what lurked in the alien countryside, or in the blank sky above. You knew only the small patch of illuminated asphalt in front of you, the yellow lines zipping by, the hum of car wheels, the radio playing your favourite tunes.

You held that wheel tight.

You didn’t even have a destination – you simply drove, focused on keeping your car on the road. Then, all of a sudden, you were there. You had reached a destination you didn’t even know existed. No map, no plan, you were confounded. How could you arrive somewhere you didn’t know existed? Could a road simply end? How could that be possible?

Yet there it was. You had arrived. And everyone patted you on the back, and told you how fortunate you were. Complimented you on your navigation skills. Said there weren’t many who could drive quite like that. You smiled because you didn’t know what else to do.

Flash forward to today, you hide. Hide the happiness, hide the contentedness, hide the success behind alternating masks of indifference, wanting, and motivation. No-one back home wants to know how happy you are. There’s a quiet wanting for the gypsy’s life, anyway. The carefree, nonconformist life of a bohemian. Is there somewhere else to go from here?

Each morning, you sneak out of your grand house in the nondescript suburbs, walking barefoot across the cool bristle of carefully manicured grass. You smile and wave to a neighbour. Tactfully chase his cat out of your garden with a discreet hiss. Feel the warmth of a morning sun on your cheek.

You sneak out to the garage with a cup of strong coffee to admire, to caress, to polish that old car. You admire its clean lines. Its ageless beauty. Its spirit. You sink into the bucket seat, your spine creaking, a knee popping. You put your hands on the wheel, your foot resting gently on the gas pedal.

You dream.

Dr Pitch update

Oh, lord. The story of Dr Pitch did not wind up being short at all. In fact, it's nowhere near the 5500 words I projected. I've completed a bare bones 1st draft today, and it's already come it at 9300 words. That is already outside the realm of short stories and well into the realm of the novelette. And it's only going to get longer once I actually start adding flavour to it.

Oh well. Being unsaleable at this length as a stand-alone just means that I'll include it in the anthology I'm working on. The title I finally decided on for this story is Five Witnesses to Dr Pitch's Final Experiment. (Subject to change.)

stories

Completed Amidst Shadows They Wait. Really happy with the finished product - now I just have to start searching for a home for it. Found a couple new markets to try out, but not much in the way of anthologies where I'd prefer to submit.

Hopefully I'll have time to work on Dr Pitch this weekend.

Dr Pitch

Been busy sort of casually working on a new short story tentatively titled Five Witnesses to Dr Pitch's Ascension. Have the first two chapterettes complete, and a very rough outline for the remainder of the story.

I'm really going to try to keep this one under 5000 words this time. I feel pretty sure that I'll be able to pull it off. With the first two chapterettes complete, the story sits at around 1500 words, and I feel like it's already 1/3 complete, so that should put me at around 4500 words when finished. We'll see.

I haven't looked at Amidst Shadows for awhile. It's complete but for a final proofread, and I've always felt this task is better done when I've given myself some distance from the work. Perhaps another week.

4th draft

Completed the 4th draft of Wish You Were Here which is now called Amidst Shadows They Wait, Amongst Us They Play. The 4th draft also saw the word count grow to around 7200, which I think is right about where it'll stay. Just have the final draft to go, checking for straggling errors, before I format it and send it away.

3rd draft

The 3rd draft of Wish You Were Here sees me dip below 7000 words, finally coming to rest at around 6950. I'm really pleased with how streamlined the whole thing has become. Still need one more draft which will see this number go either up or down by up to 100 words or so.

I'll definitely be changing the title, but I'm not yet sure to what. While working on the last two drafts, a previously hidden theme popped up and I'd like the title to reflect this. I'll have to think on it.