F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Leisure

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

by

Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
There is a restaurant in Manitou Springs, Colorado, called The Stagecoach Inn. It was an actual stagecoach inn in the 1800s. On the outside of the building are strings of lights. One beautiful rainy night my wife, me, and some of her family had gone to eat here, and as my wife and I held each other outside, she said “…rainy nights…and Christmas lights….”

You don’t say something like that within earshot of a writer and expect to get off lightly…especially by one who trucks in death, dreams, and the hereafter.

As I read it for the first time in years for this posting, it brought tears to my eyes. It is another of my favorites.

This story has never been published.

 

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

© F. P. Dorchak, 1993

 

Rainy nights and Christmas lights. That’s all I can think of. All I want to think of.

I only just stumbled into this…inn…moments ago, seeking relief from the bitter cold of an angry blizzard. It’s dark, but I don’t know the time because I no longer have my watch and it’s very desolate—not just for my own heart, but for the souls outside as well.

No one wanted to be out on a night like this and God only knew how long I stumbled about out there, dazed and disoriented. The weather, frigid and snowy for most of the day had turned more brutal, forcing all life in from the streets. I, too, searched for a place to take me in, but nobody would have me, everyone hurrying home for their own families. Was I a leper? It was only this inn that took me, and I had to barter my soul just to gain entrance.

Her name is Laura, and I love her like no other. I love her more than life itself.

Sure, we had our differences like everyone else, but nothing, nothing changed my deep unfaltering devotion for her. Not even the times she said she was leaving….

But now I sit before a raging fireplace in a darkened room, utterly alone. It’s cold, and the chill I feel cuts to my marrow. Just now I think I see a waiter or waitress behind me, but turning find no one.

I look about the room and see that it is small, by some standards, large by others…and has not quite a dozen tables, including those in the alcove to the far end. Each table has unlit candles and neatly placed silverware atop it. The shadows I see are disturbing and gnaw at me. It is all so vaguely familiar, this place, and I feel I should know it, but I…I feel disoriented.

Deep memories stir within, but nothing surfaces.

I am just as helpless as when—

Death.

I love her, oh dear God, how I love her!

Why is it that I alone survive?

Why should I have this cursed privilege! What I would gladly give to have her back! Why did not both of us perish—it is so much better that way, you know, to be together in death than alone in life!

Oh, how I curse God and all that is life! I curse the devil for the torture! I curse everything, except—

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

That’s what she said, my Laura, the one with the beautiful hair and loving smile.

The one I was to marry…to begin a new life with.

Suddenly I rush to the front door and pull it open.

The wind, she wails and batters me back and I hear glass shatter as the door slams behind me into the wall. It is hideously cold, yet I don’t feel it. All I feel is the pain in my heart.

I do recognize the inn.

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

Christmas lights….

There are Christmas lights strung out across this building, and as I stand there I know where I am. Know exactly where I am. This is the inn my love and I frequented when…when we were whole…but, worse than that, it is the place where my beloved Laura was so brutally ripped away from me!

I scream into the wind, to the innkeeper who admitted me. Here—you have my soul, why not also take my heart!—oh, why even to be created, only to die! Why is life nothing but torment! Why are we to love, only to lose?

Again I look to the lights.

Still, strangely, they are lit; out of place. I peer through the blinding, heavy snow, but see no others; no movement.

I am all there is.

There is nothing beyond the snow-covered flagstone steps I know are before me. Nothing exists beyond myself and this haunted inn. The lights. I remember

 

Standing out on this porch one rainy, summer night…my Laura wrapped around me…her breath warm against my neck. We gaze lovingly at each other stretching out the moment to eternity.

“Rainy nights,” she bubbles.

“What?” I ask.

“Rainy nights…and Christmas lights!” she blurts triumphantly, radiantly.

I adore her smile and know, right there, why it is I love her.

“Rainy nights, and Christmas lights,” she says again, still beaming.

“That is so beautiful!” I proclaim, and hug her tightly.

“Hold me,” she whispers sweetly into my ears and mine alone, “hold me and don’t ever let me go.”

I knew I’d marry her someday.

 

But the tears now freeze to my face and the wind rips me apart.

Take this too, Devil, take all there is I have left!

My voice is nearly gone and I tear into my clothes to get at my heart—that eternally pumping and vile thing! Fingers unfeeling, I cut into my skin and bring forth blood, but it, too, freezes, and I realize I am truly—truly—doomed—unable to even take my own life!

I slump forward to the snowy porch and bury my hands and face. Rainy nights.

And Christmas lights.

 

So I am resigned to the fate of this dispossessed inn. It seems fitting that I should be held here, a place my love and I so enjoyed. It is so fitting to be forced to relive those moments, those memories…the moment…of her death.

Her death.

 

We had finished dining, leaving the building for a stroll. Ever the adventurous soul, she had leapt upon the ledge of a stone which guarded the creek below. I remember how the water was still visible, unfrozen.

And…the rocks.

I had hoped she wouldn’t fall and rushed to her—

 

“May I take your order, sir?”

Startled, I spill my coffee and send the porcelain cup skittering across the room to shatter somewhere. I look up and see, in the dark and standing entirely motionless, a waitress of ageless beauty. I could barely breathe, yet spare a word.

“W-what? Who-who are you?”

“Your order, sir, do you care to order?”

She placed a menu before me. I stared at it for an eternity…then lifted my head to look out the windows. All I see is the storm, which has increased its intensity, if that be possible. I also notice that I have gripped the edges of my table in a mighty hold, knuckles most assuredly bone-white.

The fire crackles.

“I-I already ate,” I said.

“As you wish,” she says, most politely, and withdraws the menu.

“B-but I could use some more coffee,” I continue. All she did was turn…and smile. I could have sworn she spoke, but I did not, for the life of me, see her lips move.

I’m sure you could, she said.

I know it was dark, and I know I am not in the most stable of minds, but I know what I experienced. She spoke…but did not move her lips.

I blink. She is gone.

I need my woman and I need her now! Forever! I cannot and will not live this way!

The pain is unendurable!

How does one survive?

How can others live through what I continue to grieve over? Nothing means anything to me anymore! As much as I don’t want to dwell on my beloved’s death, I feel compelled—it was our last few moments together…the last time we kissed, held each other…gazed into each other’s eyes or felt the warmth of each other’s touch.

I so desperately want to die and be among the dead with her!

I attempt yet again to get at my heart, my wrists, with knives…forks…broken glasses…but am without strength. Instead, I collapse upon my table and heave great tears into the wood….

I remember my arms reaching out to her.

One moment she stood atop the wall…pirouetting beautifully and telling me how much she loved me and would never, ever leave me—and the next—the next moment I reach out for her and clutch only air…huge fists full of it…and watch helplessly as she tumbles over the side like newly falling snow…drifting down, down…ever downward…

(Christmas lights…)

in her grasp. I watch until I can bear it no longer….

 

“Your coffee, sir.”

I bolt upright. A busboy is pouring fresh coffee into a new cup. His back is to the fire and he seems aglow. His smile is genuine, but he, like the shadows, scares me.

“Where—”

“Nowhere, sir,” he says, and fades from view back into the shadows, his Cheshire smile the last to go. I look to the coffee poured and it remains, small curls of ghostly white steam disappearing into the dark. I touch the cup and find it warm. Solid.

“I don’t want coffee! I want Laura!”

I pound the table. Again.

And again.

I drift off.

 

Time has again passed, and, as I have already told you, I know not how much, but it is still evil and blinding without, dark and foreboding within. I watch the spoils of snow as it batters against the windows of the alcove, and there are times I feel the building shudder, or think so.

Maybe it is just me.

The fire is still alight, though I have yet to touch it.

Where did that gentleman who admitted me go off to?

The shadows close in on me. Something is different.

Rainy nights, and Christmas Lights.

She had grabbed Christmas lights….

That’s all I want back. I want that summer night again, I want her back! I will gladly mortgage my soul again to have her! Anything, I just want that moment to remain, to never change. I want to spend that moment in eternity with my Laura. She is all I live for…all I want to die for….

Yet cannot die.

This I know for some strange reason, but I shall try one more time. I look to the fire and spy a poker. Going to it, I raise it and touch it to my chest; feel its dull accusation. Stoking my emotions, I raise the weapon with mighty intent—but alas, it misses its mark and strikes the wall above the hearth instead. I anchor the handle end into a wall, the point placed firmly over my heart…and ram myself forward…but it slides harmlessly off. I attempt yet one more blow, but it is again deflected, this time pulled from my hands as if by some unseen force.

I pound my fists into the wall.

Laura! Why has this happened?

I want so much to die and join you—I no longer wish to bear this tragedy!

I collapse at my table and once more try to dream

Of rainy nights and Christmas lights.

But hear a door open.

Something is different….

I hear footsteps and look up.

A figure is in the doorway. Stands still.

“Who…are you?” I ask. “I can take this no longer! Please, take me, I am yours!”

I cry, my blood long since cold, my senses frayed. I hope the figure to be Death’s messenger, finally come for me.

“I know,” the figure says, and it is a soft, pleasant voice.

I rocket to my feet, chair spilling out behind me.

I know that voice!

“Laura?”

Unstable, I grip the table for support. Again, I ask, “Laura—i-is that…you?”

“Yes,” she answers, moving out from the shadows. “I am here, my dear.”

It is her, there is no mistake! As sure as I live, it is her!

“But—but you had died!”

She smiles ever so lovingly as she approaches.

“No, my love, it was not me who died. I had grabbed a string of the Christmas lights…and when you saved me from falling by diving for me…you fell yourself. Don’t you remember?”

My throat is suddenly dry. I collapse to my knees.

“But—that would make you—”

“—dead? Yes, I am indeed.”

Still she smiles, unaffected by her words.

My heart pounds, rises to my throat.

I choke.

I love her so much!

I touch her and find her as cold as I am.

“H-how?”

“Does it really matter?” she asks casually, “I am here.”

Standing before me, she reaches down and I grasp her hand. She pulls me to my feet and I notice she places an empty prescription bottle on the table.

I say nothing.

“Tell me how much you love me,” she says, drawing in close to me.

I see the concern on her face…feel the tears on mine and cry, “I love you with all my heart and soul and will always—ever—be there for you!”

“And I, you, my darling. I love you more than life itself!”

And so I know.

 

We sit at our table…together at last…and gaze into the fire. Our hands are tight and true, our hearts one. The blizzard still rages, but I no longer care. As we look to each other, we are no longer cold.

Related Posts

Dark Was The Hour

by

Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks - 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks – 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
In 2004 The Gazette newspaper had put out a call to write stories for their Christmas short story contest. They required certain themes in the stories, like trains and Colorado and snow. This was the first and only time I remember “writing to spec”; it’s not something I like doing. But I did. I submitted. It didn’t place.

But where did the story idea itself come from? There was definitely the train imagery from the Twilight Zone’s “A Stop at Willoughby“…but there had also been some media coverage about Fallujah at the time that also had something to do with it. In any event, I love these kinds of stories, whether it’s Willoughby, “The 7th is Made up of Phantoms,” or my own: “Tail Gunner” and “Etched in Stone” (which will post Feb 26, 2016). They reach into me and just grab me. Make me, well, tear up….

When I wrote “Dark Was The Hour,” I’d contacted a nearby Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a handful of marines…even got a couple of them to read it. I wanted to use the right terminology, the right descriptions, get the right “feel” to the story. Those marines were: Sergeant Sharp, Corporal Hughes, Private First Class Fox. That’s all the information I have left on them. Again that was in 2004. I often wonder about them…how they’re doing. I remember one of them was actually chomping at the bit to get “over there”; I think it was PFC Fox. I hope they’re all still alive and well.

This story was published in the December 2007 issue of Apollo’s Lyre.

 

Dark Was The Hour

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

A slight chill radiated inward from the window as Frank Bishop stared out through his accusatory reflection into the snowy night. He rocked back and forth as the train gently cradled him through the high Colorado mountain passages with its comforting ratcheting sounds and motion. He inhaled the scent of leather and polished wood—nostalgia.

Fallujah sucked was the nicest way he could put it and the fact that he’d left parts of himself back there didn’t help matters.

“Ticket, please?” the Conductor asked.

Frank jumped, shooting a hand to his side.

Of course he no longer carried his Beretta nine mil and of course this man wasn’t a threat.

He gave the conductor his ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” the Conductor said. “Next stop, Idaho Springs!” The Conductor smiled an odd little smile Frank found unnerving and left. Frank closed his eyes, allowing the lulling metallic Ta-tun–Ta-tun, Ta-tun–Ta-tun of the train to

Fallujah.

A name he hoped he’d never—ever—have to speak or hear again.

But he still heard the

 

Explosions. All around him. His ears rung, his eyes swam, and his head pounded from the slight concussion. Lieutenant Bishop popped his head back up over the battered cinder block wall. Small-arms fire came quick and well-directed. He ducked back down.

“Sir! We really need to—”

“I know!” Bishop shouted back to the platoon sergeant. He wiped sweat from his eyes with bruised and battered hands caked in dried blood and powder burns. The cacophony and smell of rocket-propelled grenades, spent mortar rounds, and death filled the air. The Fog of War.

“I’ll head off to the left—there,” the lieutenant said, pointing, “and you guys nail ‘em with everything we—”

“Sir, you know you’re—”

“What do you want me to do? Leave him there? You can see him as well as I can! I’m not leaving him behind.”

The Marine sergeant passed on the word to the rest of the platoon.

Bishop took a deep breath, looked to his men, then

 

ran his hands through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d been on this train. The last time had been when he’d been nine—was that right? His folks had taken them all on a Christmas ride between home—Idaho Springs—and Denver. Just before the car crash that had claimed them.

Had he made that up—or was that the concussion talking? His head still felt fuzzy. All that shelling…all that….

God, it felt so good to do nothing. To just sit back and relax. Look out at the dark snow-covered landscape like some Hitchcockian movie. His dad had really loved Hitch.

A reflection in the window passed quickly behind him, and

 

Bishop spun around, his still smoking and spent M-16A4 useless at his feet. Nine mil already in hand, he pulled his KA-BAR combat knife up before him and in one swiftly efficient movement took out the hostile who’d lunged for him. Another was close behind, but Bishop dispatched him just as efficiently. Breathing heavily, he quickly secured the room, sheathed the knife, and grabbed the dying marine’s wrist. He looked to the wrist.

Something was wrong.

No time to think about it, he turned to leave when there was a tremendous flash of heat and noise and something ungodly kicked him in the very seat of his soul and launched him bodily into a wall. The next thing Bishop knew, he was

 

crying. Something wasn’t right. Why was he crying? He was going home, home for good. He was no use to the Corps any more. Had served his country. Had his decorations, which he couldn’t look at without considering the lives lost—and saved. He was going home to his parents and girl. Their black lab, Boomer. Going to make a new life, if that was at all possible these days.

But what about those left behind?

Who was gonna keep an eye on them? Keep them safe? His buddies. Hector—how was Hector? Had he made it? Hector Gonzalez

 

laid down a searing blast of cover fire around the lieutenant’s position. The lieutenant was still in there. Gonzalez had no choice. He couldn’t leave him. Additional hostiles were quickly overrunning their position.

Gonzalez hand-signaled the platoon to cover him.

Gear rattling, Gonzalez tucked in around the wall then made his way through the rubble. Once he got to the open twenty yards through which he had to sprint, he glanced back to his platoon. They kept up his cover fire. Gonzalez sprinted across the space and slammed his body against a wall. Just up ahead was Bishop. He wasn’t leaving him, not after all he’d done at his own expense. No way. He’d stayed behind to allow the rest of them exit…when the blast had come. Gonzalez cursed himself for allowing the lieutenant to order them off like that. All he could think of was

 

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Bishop asked the Conductor.

“Of course you are, Son,” the Conductor reassured. “You’re going home. For Christmas. The best one ever.”

“But…”

The Conductor smiled.

 

Gonzalez had made it to the lieutenant. He was a mess. All he could tell for certain was that he was missing…parts. It’d hadn’t yet registered just what, in all the still-settling smoke and rubble, but he wasn’t…whole….

“Christmas…,” the lieutenant whispered, “Jea-nna….” His face was thrashed and bloodied.

“Lieutenant?” Gonzalez asked, but there was no more.

Gonzalez grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist and quickly pulled him from the rubble as more fire opened up on their position. He turned to leave, but lost his hold. He tried to regrip the lieutenant’s wrist, but only grabbed

Air.

Gone.

The lieutenant was

Gone.

Gonzalez spun around.

No body, no lieutenant. Only acrid ordnance stink and rubble.

“But he was—he was just—where’d”

 

he stood in the well of the exit stoop as the train came to its screeching halt.

“Have a great Christmas, Lieutenant!” the Conductor encouraged, smiling. He saluted Bishop.

Bishop turned and looked up to the conductor. Bishop was bloodied and covered in soot and grime and war in his desert cammies and gear. He still held his nine mil in one hand, KA-BAR in the other. He looked to the nine mil. Outside.

It snowed heavily.

He cast a momentary, dour smile back up to the Conductor, then carefully placed his weapons up at the Conductor’s feet. He stared at the instruments of personal destruction one last time…rubbed a wrist and worked his jaw…when a larger smile crossed his face. He uttered a single chuckle.

He looked back out into the dark, snowy Colorado winter before him.

It was always darkest before the light.

Bishop inhaled deeply of the cold, sweet, aromatic pine of the evergreen forest mixed in with train exhaust. Saw Christmas lights through the heavy snowfall he swore he could now actually hear—heard Christmas music?—when a hand reached in to him from outside the train.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greeted.

Bishop again inhaled deeply, smiled…and stepped off the train.

Related Posts

 

Merry Christmas To All!

by

Merry Xmas! (Image by [no machine-readable author provided. Alsandro assumed (based on copyright claims] GFDL http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html or CC-BY-SA-3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/], via Wikimedia Commons)
Merry Xmas! (Image by [no machine-readable author provided. Alsandro assumed (based on copyright claims] GFDL http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html or CC-BY-SA-3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I really love this time of year!

I love all the trappings, the fun, the feelings-of-love that run rampant come the Christmas timeframe.

Yeah, and I also like the lights, the ornaments, and all the “pretty colors”!

I’m not a traditionally religious guy. In fact, I’m not religious at all. My beliefs are my own, but I love all the fun that goes into this time of year…the giving of gifts…the receiving of them (oh, come on—you know you like getting as well as receiving! There’s nothing wrong in admitting that!)…the getting together. Reaching out to family, friends, and the world. To see how others “view” me in the fun and excitement of receiving well-thought-out gifts from others (yes, and I do the same when I get gifts for others…we all talk freely about giving…but no one talks about the receiving)!

I love the Christmas lights, the merriment, the decorated trees—I actually love wrapping gifts! It’s fun “hiding” something that I hope people are going to like…and looking forward to seeing them tear into it when given to them!

I do it rarely, but I also like holiday baking…and I just did some yesterday, making some Slovak apricot and poppyseed rolls. Love those things. Haven’t made them in a couple years…though I clearly need more practice….

I know we all celebrate in our own ways…many talk about the “reason for the season” and all, and that is their right. Many like to go to church…and that is their right. I do not like going to church one bit…if I go (aside from funerals or weddings and that kind of thing) it’s purely for family reasons. I allow each their own belief systems…and I allow all the joy of their expression!

So, please…allow everyone else around you who doesn’t believe as you do the joy of their expression. We all enjoy and celebrate Christmas for our own reasons…don’t trounce upon them or look down upon them like some poor, lost souls. Because many of us are not poor, lost souls. We’re just as excited and joyous in our own beliefs as you are of yours. Greet us with the smiles with which we greet you…give us the respect with which we afford you.

So to all, I wish you a Merry Christmas—enjoy it as you want to, but do enjoy it!

The World's Greatest Writer

by

In One Page. By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia on en his/her summary,
In One Page. By Infrogmation (English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, “typewriter keyboard, from nl wikipedia”; http://www.pdimages.com/X0022.html-ssi, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Enclosed is the really fake true story of the world’s greatest writer. You can’t get this story anywhere else—only from my scoop, and I’m willing to talk.

Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.

The World’s Greatest Writer

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.

“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.

The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”

At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.

Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.

Well, Canada, to be precise.

Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:

There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.

This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.

Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.

Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.

Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.

Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.

Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.

Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.

Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.

Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.

So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.

WWJD?

WWXD?

She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.

The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.

 

As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.

And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.

(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)

Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!

Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words

“He’s here!”

shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.

In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.

Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

Had he come without his words?!

Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

The crowd again held its collective breath.

He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.

“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”

Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.

“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”

And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.

Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:

Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.

The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.

The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.

The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.

Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.

Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.

And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.

At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.

But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.

Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.

Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.

Related Posts

The World’s Greatest Writer

by

In One Page. By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia on en his/her summary,
In One Page. By Infrogmation (English Wikipedia on en his/her summary, “typewriter keyboard, from nl wikipedia”; http://www.pdimages.com/X0022.html-ssi, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Enclosed is the really fake true story of the world’s greatest writer. You can’t get this story anywhere else—only from my scoop, and I’m willing to talk.

Wow, such hubris had I back in 2002 (I was actually trying to be funny, since this is the only intentionally funny story I’ve ever written)! I’d sent this to The New Yorker October 13, 2009, and the above was my opening line. I committed some other heinous atrocities in that cover letter I’ll not reveal, but, yeah, I’m sure I pissed of the editor and had my name put into some file of “Never accept anything from this person ever again. EVER.” Sigh. But I was trying to be “in form” for the submitted story. Probably explains why every other thing I’ve sent them fell flat. BTW, there are some definite publishing jibes in here that might also fall flat on those not in-the-know….

This story was originally published in Black Sheep #62, December-January 2005.

The World’s Greatest Writer

© F. P. Dorchak, 2002

 

“Well, have you ever actually met him?” the doe-eyed initiate asked.

“Uh, nooo, not actually,” the immaculately dressed author-in-white responded, “I’ve been told he’s rather a bit of a hermit, you might say.” The author-in-white nervously fingered his cane and white hat meticulously posed before him.

The young writer nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Okay. So, then, have you ever actually read any of his work?”

At this, the writer-in-white’s ego further deflated, upon which he grew visibly agitated. “Um, no, my dear, I haven’t yet had the opportunity. No one has—”

“Then how do you know he’s such a great writer?” pressed the young one, who held the older writer’s gaze firmly, her manuscript cradled loosely in her arms between them. The young one had not meant to pin the learned author to the wall, but was merely genuinely curious. “How can you say so much about him, when you haven’t ever read his work—or met him?” She furrowed her brow, patiently awaiting an esoteric, scholarly, response.

“I know it’s hard to believe, my dear, but it’s his reputation, you see. Did you know he doesn’t even use a computer? He uses a mechanical typewriter! The gentleman is simply… extraordinary. Exceptional. Have you ever personally met God? The Pope? No…you know of each through faith, through reputation. But that’s what this banquet is all about, my dear young one! He’s coming out, as it were! Don’t let your youth and impetuousness get the best of you! You are yet young—learn! Tonight, here, it is said that he will debut the opening pages to his Great American Novel! I mean, can you fathom this opportunity before you? The miraculous, metaphysical encounter we are all about to be granted? We are going to be the first to experience his words, his energy, his soul. His raw, unfiltered emotional fervor before they are all unleashed upon our common, illiterate, public—we…we are the privileged few. Savor this moment, my dear writer, for you clearly do not comprehend the enormity of greatness upon which you are about to witness. Mark my words: this…will never happen again. In any life time. My God, how I wish I were in your shoes, a lifetime ago, to start over my profession at a much higher place, indeed!”

And with that, the writer-in-white spun away on his heels from the neophyte in search of others with which to intelligently converse. The neophyte watched as the author-in-white discretely dabbed his eyes with a dainty white handkerchief, then quickly spirited it away, back into an inside lapel compartment.

Hugging her manuscript tightly into her chest, the young writer slouched off into a corner to ponder the learned man’s words, when another group of writers, editors, or agents made their way toward her no-longer-empty corner, though not inviting her into their conversation. After all, they did not know her and were too far along in their awe and adoration of I.M.N. Authier III, the unmatched, unparalleled, unequaled literary (and spiritual) prodigy to humanity who had emerged out of nowhere.

Well, Canada, to be precise.

Our young, impressionable writer overheard the entire story, as one of the group informed their newcomer on the miraculousness of what the author-in-white had just tried to impart upon her. This time, she heard…the rest…of the story:

There was not one person who could claim to have actually read a piece of Mssr. Authier’s work. Not even his agent. Mssr. Authier’s agent’s claim to fame was the divine opportunity of which she had been a part: the reception of his skillfully executed proposal package. So masterfully woven was it—and in less than one page—on the whitest and most defect-free twenty-pound paper with the cleanest, crispest TNR type that she immediately fell upon herself in a fit of hot, emotional blithering…which had so cleansed her being that her feline allergies had been summarily obliterated. Immediately, she’d called her estranged mother and apologized for everything cruel she’d ever done, or would ever do, including anything in all her future (or past) lives. Once she read her mother the letter, her mother likewise returned the compliment. The agent then immediately withdrew a sizeable portion of her investments and donated it to Readers Without Books and her top-two choices of battered parents’ shelters. Instead of staying home and reading through the rest of her slush pile, she flew out into the night to the nearest homeless shelter and spent the rest of the night assisting those who begged money for a living.

This, off the power of the esteemed Mssr. Authier III’s epiphianic proposal package (and on one page, no less!). Well, after she called Random House and read his poignant, moving letter to the company’s CEO, the CEO himself called Mssr. Authier, and offered him on the spot. He’d been very convincing. The CEO informed the esteemed Mssr. Authier III in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t take his offer, he was going to resign and take a bullet to the brain that very night. That it was his and his work alone that would make or break Random House—nay the entire publishing industry, sir!—and that it was his moral and spiritual imperative to not let Publishing fall.

Reluctantly, Mssr. Authier accepted.

Random House immediately put into motion a hundred-million-copy print run, foreign, movie, and audio book rights, and an emotionally blistering promotional campaign that rivaled D-Day’s 1944 invasion. Random House also sold a television series and coloring books for adults and children (grades one through four), to be included in the curriculum of all U.S. public schools. Europe was next.

Spielberg was awoken twenty-five minutes later and sealed an undisclosed multi-million dollar deal via The UPS Store’s faxes, securing Mssr. Authier’s signature. The exact fax machine used by Mssr. Authier had since been removed from service and bronzed.

Amazon.com took 110.3 million advance orders.

Mssr. Authier’s agent offered him her hand in marriage.

Dr. Phil asked Mssr. Authier for his advice on a secret, deeply personal matter that had been troubling him for years.

Phil Donahue disclosed a comeback to do one, really final this time, show with Mssr. Authier as the only guest.

Metallica penned a ballad in his honor.

So, as this new group of writers continued to chatter on about Mssr. Authier’s proposed deification, the neophyte found herself so emotionally overwhelmed, especially when certain lines from his proposal letter were refrained (now immortalized by the world and passed around like a veritable Internet Trojan and blowing up YouTube) that she found her soul uncontrollably expanding toward supernova detonation. And when she heard the title of Mssr. Authier’s proposed novel, she positively lost it and ran balling for the lady’s room, where she pulled out her meager manuscript and stared at it in weary, disillusioned judgment.

WWJD?

WWXD?

She grabbed her manuscript in both hands, her heart heavy with all the wasted time and effort she’d poured into this piece of no-name tripe, and viciously and maliciously began rending it into tiny, jagged, tear-stained shreds, amid spastic grunts and shrieks of soulless despair, tossed it into a pile in the middle of the lady’s-room floor, setting it afire.

The young neophyte then, amid the billowing smoke, floating ashes, and now-activated sprinklers of her snuffed manuscript, pulled out a pair of scissors and the razor she always carried, because she was, by trade, a hairstylist, and immediately set about shaving her head and carving Mssr. Authier’s initials into her scalp.

 

As the clock ticked closer to Mssr. Authier’s scheduled appearance, the entire Radio City Music Hall buzzed over his other ideas for other books. How could he possibly have created a series out of this concept, they asked? Surely his first book would drain everything a reader had to offer? Could a person emotionally survive the first book? Could the editor? Surely Random House would bring in a team of editors, in relay fashion, to take over when the previous ones simply could go no further. Counselors would also have to be brought in, so the buzz went, with fat severance packages to take care of these forever-spent editors who would be of no use to anyone else or themselves, ever again. Yes, Random House would have to take care of them, indeed, it would be their moral obligation to do so, in bringing this genius to the world, and many in this room were willing to so give up their lives to be on that editorial task force, emotional sanity be damned! Every lawyer in the country began to point out that Random House would also be liable to the public for their emotional sanity, as well, once the book hit the shelves, so a non-profit foundation had also been set up.

And what of the cover artist? The jacket copy writer? Marketing and promotion? Accounting? Was Spielberg even up to task? There was talk from his camp that after just storyboarding the film this would be his last project. Anything after this one would be parochially anti-climactic. Useless. With this film, he would have said everything he could ever possibly have to say in this lifetime or any other.

(Unfortunately, Mssr. Spielberg had to decline invitation to the banquet, because he had been so passionately ravaged from production efforts that he had to abruptly seek psychological counseling. Mssr. Authier sent his well wishes.)

Random House, taking the lead, had strategically pre-positioned counselors throughout the convention center, counselors who had, however reluctantly, because they understood the need to do so, shield themselves from Mssr. Authier’s words with the most advanced ear-protection technology available. Nothing was left to chance!

Then it happened, and for just a moment the entirety of Radio City Music Hall fell quiet, as if each person collectively inhaled for the first time since their arrival. The words

“He’s here!”

shot from a watcher posted at the entrance and immediately three women collapsed and five men spilled martinis about themselves.

In no time, Mssr. I.M.N. Authier III’s motorcade pulled up before the convention center and security flooded the gathering. When Mssr. Authier III finally graced the gathering, (amid floods of marriage proposals from both genders) it was as if God Him/Her/Itself had descended from Heaven. Mssr. Authier, dressed in a comfortable tweed sports jacket, with tastefully adorned elbow patches (no self-respecting author would be caught dead in anything else) and sporting his rimless glasses and a calm, soothing smile arrived and was the epitome of graciousness—but was also quite embarrassed. Not only had he no idea his name had already been submitted for both saint- and knighthood, but he also had no idea at the scale of what he’d spun into motion with the delivery of his (one-page!) proposal.

Yet he remained ever gracious as he shook hands and took a genuine interest in all whom he greeted—asking how their children and relatives were doing, did they have jobs, and if not, please, do give him a call, and he’d see what he could do about it, and would they promise him that they would get enough sleep before going back to work on the morrow?

Then one, without warning, wildfire-swift whisper erupted throughout the banquet:

Where was the manuscript?!

Had he come without his words?!

Were they all to be so-callously jilted?

Teased so hotly, only to be summarily slapped without so much as a kiss or a hug? Good God, what had happened? Was it…Writer’s Block?

The crowd again held its collective breath.

He somberly approached the podium, his smile evaporated.

Removing a handkerchief, Mssr. Authier paused, wiped tears from his eyes, then grasped both sides of the podium, stained hanky still clutched in one of his trembling hands. He voice wavered and cracked as he addressed the audience in his wonderfully accented, melodic French-Canadian dialect.

“Ladies and gentlemen…friends. I tried…to keep from…how you say?—breaking down—before all of you, here, tonight, but find…at the last, possible moment…that, mon Dieu!, I am unable to keep from doing so!”

Here he paused, again wiping tears from his hot, swollen face.

“My friends! Let me share with you what had happened to me last night as I flew into Kennedy aéroport….”

And with that, Mssr. Authier III launched into the most heartrending speech anyone in that room (or their progeny) had ever, or would ever, participate in. For two-and-one-half hours Mssr. Authier held the room in rapt captivation. Random House, foreseeing this, had trucked in boxes of Kleenex (TM)-brand tissues—unfortunately for Mssr. Authier’s attendees (and further adding to their emotional turmoil) his likeness was on the sides of each box, promoting his yet-to-be-written novel. People gave up their writing careers following his speech, devoting their lives to the Peace Corps or Green Peace. Half of the counselors working the banquet took early retirement (including those wearing the most-advanced-technology ear protection devices; though they couldn’t hear a single utterance, they didn’t have to…each felt and experienced the emotion that had taken complete hold of that audience that magical evening), and entered therapy themselves. Those with outstanding traffic warrants turned themselves in the next day and insisted upon a minimum of one year of community service for evading the law in paying those fines. So overcome with exhaustion was Mssr. Authier himself at the conclusion of addressing his audience that he had to be assisted from the stage and escorted directly to his awaiting motorcade, where a saline IV drip awaited. Mssr. Authier was submitted for the Nobel and Pulitzer prizes for his oration.

Mssr. Authier later reluctantly agreed to a special interview with Barbara Walters, whom he also brought to tears (at one point they all, including the 20/20 staff and operators behind the camera, were all blubbering unabashedly together on national TV, and it was the first time an entire five minutes of weeping was nationally televised without commercial interruption), where the following was made public:

Mssr. Authier had made the decision, since sending out his (one-page!) query and making his convention center debut that he would not write the proposed book in question. As an aside, Barbara (and she apologized in advance for having to bring this to his attention this way) informed Mssr. Authier that his agent, having been scorned by his lack of amorous advances gave up agenting and had left for India to devote her life to the poor and destitute, vowing a life of celibacy. Following another crying spat, Mssr. Authier used this as an example and was further quoted as saying that after having witnessed the effects of his words upon the world he had no choice.

The only moral and ethical thing to do was to not pen the novel.

The world was simply not ready for it. He was not ready for it.

The world (he cited tearfully) could not handle his words and he could not handle the world, after having seen the impact his letter and presence has had.

Barbara begged him to reconsider. Literally begged. But, no matter how heartrending, how needed, how emotionally brutal and true his proposed book he maintained he could not in all good conscience do it. It wouldn’t be fair to humanity.

Mssr. Authier also decided to return all his advance monies that he’d kept untouched (in a separate numbered account) despite Random House’s vehement objections. He deserved every penny, Random House countered (with several of their A-list authors also having offered up their own advances and royalties so Random House could make the author advance). Mssr. Authier said thank you, and donated all that had been given him to world hunger organizations.

And, finally, Mssr. Authier vowed to never, ever, propose to pen another book…ever again.

At this point Barbara lost all composure and decorum and pleaded with him to reconsider, as did her producers and a camera people.

But he held firm and declined, laying a hand to her shoulder.

Following the interview, Mssr. Authier quickly disappeared into seclusion, never to be heard from again.

Spielberg’s film adaptation of his proposed novel that had never been written created box-office records that, to this day, have never been broken. Spielberg, as promised (and recovering nicely in extended therapy), quietly retired…donating all proceeds from the film to the International Red Cross.

Related Posts

Do The Dead Dream?

by

Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
Come. Dream With Me. Adam Cuerden [Public domain or Attribution], via Wikimedia Commons
I’ve been working on posting as many of my short stories as possible the past couple of weeks, and it’s been quite enlightening on several levels! But on one particular level (so far) it was surprising how many times I visit the dream world. I mean, yeah, I knew I did that (obviously…I did write the danged things), but I apparently did this quite frequently! And not only that, but I also tended to use a particular phrasing a buncha times in different stories…so I changed them.

As I post these things, I’ve tried not to do much editing. No, they’re not all great, or even good, and some will be and are downright bad…but I want to put them out there. For the stories. Where I “was” when I wrote them. I’ve toyed a couple times with updating them to present times—and I may have taken such liberties once or twice—but on the whole I’ve decided to leave them as-is, albeit to lessen my sometimes heinous overuse of commas.

My God, the humanity!

I really must revisit my grammar guides.

As much as I love the work I’ve done, love these stories, I wouldn’t claim them masterpieces or anything, but they bring me back to those “halcyon days” (if I might use the term) of my earlier writing. I’ve had great bursts of creativity and productability! They’re ideas and concepts that were near and dear enough to me that I had to write them. And it’s fun to see how my writing has improved…the directions it’s taken…where it’s gone. I’m amazed where my mind went in bringing these stories to light! In surprisingly many instances I don’t even remember the exact endings anymore—and in all cases they pleasantly surprised me!

Wow, I came up with the twist?!

That was actually me who wrote that?

Another curious area I’m reconnecting with is the warping of time.

When I was thick into all the passion of my writing, I literally used to feel time warp around me. There were many times when I truly felt I’d written more than was physically possible within the physical time I spent writing said material. And since going back to these stories, I have begun to feel that warping of time once again—I’ve so missed it, and I love feeling it again!

It’s also been fun bringing to light some insights into the stories themselves. What inspired me, where something was originally published. In one story, “Red Hands,” that I’ve readied for posting for March 4 of 2016, I wrote it after I learned about a real (and understandably terrifying—perhaps “horrifying” would be the better adjective in this case) incident in another’s life. It’s also the first story where I used the real names of all involved, including myself (that was weird writing about myself), because all were (still are?) public figures…but I did ask all involved and they said I could do so. We’ll see if the story ends up that way.

But revisiting all these stories has me revisiting my roots. My interests. This Other Me who still resides in all these stories. This Other Me who still lives “back then” in the worlds and dreams where these stories are strongest…and they are strongest at the “point of power” of their creation. And since I’m “one of those nut jobs” who believes there really is No Time…just our corporeal perception of “It”…that All Time is Now…I really love getting back in touch with that Other Me…still out there…still feverishly creating these stories I’m revisiting and reliving….

This Other Me is still hot with the fire of writing and hot with the hope of getting published by the Big Houses. Hot with the fire of burning the world with my imaginative genius…not to the ground—just pleasantly singed.

The Other Me.

Still alive out there in “the past”…still writing like one possessed little bastard….

This Current Me…don’t get me wrong…he loves where he is, he really does…loves his life and what he’s made of it…he has no regrets whatsoever…but like when anyone has had a great vacation…a great life…and they fondly look back on it…they smile. Their heart feels good. Their soul. It’s not so much about wanting to go back and live in the past…it’s just about looking back and feeling good about where you’ve been.

You just feel damned good about your life. What you’ve accomplished. Who you’ve become.

My life feels like a life properly tempered by the flames of my passions…my desires. My efforts.

I’d like to say that it’s where you’ve been that makes you who you are…but since I don’t believe in Chronological Time that doesn’t quite work, does it?

I believe where you’ve been continually helps create who you are, because I firmly believe that who you are is where you are in the moment. That “point of power” I mentioned earlier.

I am firmly in my present by visiting this Other Me in other regions of my life, is perhaps a best way of putting it.

I am reinforcing who I am by visiting who I was, in your terms.

So, as I revisit my previous work…and who I am in those Past Pages…I am reconnecting with my passion…my dreams…my writing roots. There really is no Time…no Past, no Future—only the Eternally Present Now. So, if you are able to revisit Another You in another focus, you can tap into that person. That passion. You can help bolster the both of you. Change the Past…make it better. You can help Other You by reinforcing his or her energy, which, in turn reinforces Current You.

When I started revisiting all my stories I had none of this intent. I merely wanted to revisit my older work. Wanted to do something with them. After all, they weren’t doing anyone any good where they were: hidden. “Forgotten.”

Well, in truth, I’d never forgotten them. They are my children…

And you never forget your children.

So all of this Deep Thought stuff kinda hit me (and is still hitting me—I still have many more stories to post!) as I reread and reworked these things. Warped Time.

If you follow my reasoning about the illusion of Time, then you can see that there really is no death…only a change in focus…not unlike what I’m describing here. The dead are still alive and vital…we just have to find them—and some of us would rather not do that. Even some of the dead feel that way.

But the dead’s existence does not depend upon our views of them—or does it?

Of course, you have to buy into my reasoning to see any of this…but that’s what a much of my work is about: getting you to buy into my reasoning.

As I said elsewhere, my goal is to get all of you to walk away from my fiction thinking: “Yeah, this could happen!”

So I go where some of you would prefer I not tread. I visit with the dead.

Do the dead dream?

This I can unequivocally tell you:

They do.

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