F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Short Story

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

The Ice Gods

by

There Is No Turning Back. (Image by Ernest Frederic Neve, 1861 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons)
The Ice Gods, They Call Me…. (Image by Ernest Frederic Neve, 1861 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons)

I am fascinated by desolation. Don’t know why.

Throw in ice and snow and I’m fascinated by that desolation even more.

H. P. Lovecraft’s At The Mountains of Madness is one of my favorite stories of his, so I’m sure there’s some influence there…though, as I remember it, there is little similarity between the two….

I grew up in snow and cold. Maybe I’m still trying to thaw out those harsh Adirondack winters from my marrow, but snowscaped desolation utterly fascinates me.

Are we really alone in all that desolation?

This story has never been published.

The Ice Gods

© F. P. Dorchak, 1992

 

Alone.

Cold.

I am surrounded by white.

Where am I?

It’s so cold….

I remember pain. I remember…I don’t quite know what I remember…but I can’t move. My arms, they hurt. White hurt. I hear howling—a lonely, empty howling. The wind.

I’m so alone.

Eyes. I must try to open my eyes…I have to get to the top.

I move…hear crunching….

 

I’ve opened my eyes, and wished I hadn’t.

I’m lying on the side of a wind-swept and snow-covered mountain. All I can see is blinding white. I move my hands about me—and feel the snow crunch. It sounds like wicked Styrofoam. It’s so cold.

How did I get here? What am I doing here (besides hurting)?

I feel like I’ve been thrown thousands of feet. Craning my neck (and gasping at the snow that hungrily rushes down my back) I see cliffs of white and silver above. I look off to my right, my up-and-behind-me-right, and see a bundle jutting out from the snow. It’s covered in the hellish stuff. I cannot make out what it is.

How I hate white.

 

It’s getting late, or so I fathom from the setting sun as it ducks behind the jagged peaks above. I have to get there…the peaks, I mean…don’t know why, just that I must.

The bundle behind me is a pack…mine I assume, considering I’m the only one I see. I’m scared…but know I can survive. I seem to remember doing this before….

The pack has everything I need—food, flashlights, tools—a fire-starting kit, ice saws, and a tent. As I root around my body I find an ice pick and one snowshoe. I struggle to all fours. A few yards above me I find the other one. But still, not another soul. No explanations. Barely…I get to my feet.

I head upward.

 

It’s grown dark, and…like I’ve said before…I’m scared. But as I sit in my tent against this ice outcropping and watch the fading sun, I look at the deep, lonely blues that eerily crawl across the deserted snowscape. I’m overcome by emotion as I enjoy its unparalleled magnificence. If only I had some way to catch these wondrous images forever! Such raw being. Such intense desolation. I listen to the ice crack and thunder, and it echoes deep within me. Cries out to me….

No, I really mean it—it actually cries out my name….

 

Okay…you think me crazy…ice boulders crying out my name—then you surely won’t believe this.

I left camp at first light and traveled for what seemed a lifetime. I came upon another boulder…and as I did, thought I spied the image of a man upon it…frozen, disfigured. The form lay with its back against the boulder, and what would be its left arm, outstretched…its head twisted sideways. As I came closer I grew fascinated by the image. I could not take my eyes from it. Then other images, mental ones, began to crowd my mind. At first they screamed past too fast to grasp—not unlike the lonely and hollow wind that is my constant companion (for the wind has never let up since I regained consciousness and neither has the blowing snow). I worried about snow blindness, but found—much to my disbelief—goggles. I had kicked them up during my passage through the snowfields. There truly must be ice gods watching o’er me, for surely nothing else here survives….

Save me.

But the images. They are cold and monstrous….I remember something about others…a terrible and brutal accident of some enormity. We were…we were ascending this mountain and something ghastly occurred….

Where is everyone?

Why is it I alone survive?

So I approached this image and found it was more than just light and snow—it was a man—or had been. He was obviously dead. I couldn’t recognize his face for his features were brutally deformed and frozen. Into the rock.

I passed the man and continued upward.

 

I awaken the following morning to find myself in a cold sweat. Not a good thing for one in my position. I recall hatred from my fellow climbers. I’m not sure why just yet. It hadn’t always been like that, the hatred, but had come about suddenly. I think…I think it was something I—I—did.

I feel dread.

It rips through me like this infernal wind.

 

The cracking sounds from the mountain top were much closer last night. Banging at my back door. I recalled images of pain. Faces of torment. And screams. Of a fight with my fellows.

My fingers look funny.

 

Nothing much to tell today, except that I seem to have traveled in circles.

I know this because I again found the frozen man. Only this time he was more frozen. I-I mean to say that—y-you must bear with me, now, for I feel my mind beginning to seize—but I could swear that he had gone into the boulder he was frozen against. Into it, I say! When I first saw him he was against the rock. This time h-he was as if sunken into it, a-at the waist.

I’m not crazy.

Am I?

Then why am I talking to myself?

 

Oh, the d-deep, frigid-b-blue of the snow and ice is s-s-so grand! The thunder of the ice boulders d-deafening!

 

The Ice Gods came to me in my dreams last night.

They told me not to w-worry about my images. They told me I’m lonely and confused in my s-snowbound s-s-solitude. They also told me not to be afraid.

They would g-guide me.

 

I recall…f-fighting with my companions.

One of them had fallen into a crevasse. We were arguing over whether to go after him, because he had gone silent and hadn’t answered our calls. They wanted me to g-go, but I was…afraid. I might not have made it b-back, I reasoned. They didn’t listen.

I have come upon a snowshoe. There’s a foot in it.

The Ice Gods told me to take the foot.

 

I’m near the mountain top.

I still do not know why it is I f-feel I have to make this trek…but I’m driven. No—

P-pulled.

I feel it is the Ice Gods who beckon…and I’m not all that f-frightened anymore. The Ice Gods protect me. They told me my f-fingers were against me, that I should do something about them or I might not make it.

So I took my ice pick to them.

 

The g-ground shudders from the thunder of the splitting ice above. I have trouble s-sleeping. I miss my f-fingers…though I keep them wrapped with me…like the f-foot.

The Ice Gods t-told me—

 

That I’m almost there.

I’m out of f-food, so I used the f-f-foot. At first I hadn’t removed the toenails and h-had a hard time chewing. I learn quickly.

I don’t like t-toenails.

 

A funny thing happened to me tonight, I went to crack my knuckles, and—

 

The crevasse.

The men had wanted me rescue that g-guy…but I refused. He’s probably dead, I reasoned, so why waste the energy? They cursed me. One struck me and threw down a rope, then began to go down himself. He wouldn’t listen to r-reason. Said I had gone snow-blind in the head. I said he’d gone snow-blind in the h-head. We’d only been out there…I don’t know how long, I don’t remember. All I remember is the white.

White pain.

I rub my arms…the pain is all but gone.

It feels g-good to be here. V-very, very g-good.

My toes feel funny now, too, but I’m not going to look at them. I know what the Ice Gods will say and I don’t want to m-miss my t-toes.

 

A terrible thing happened t-today. I came across another body.

Where do they come from?

I didn’t recognize it, either. Its clothing didn’t look familiar. Must not have c-come from my p-party—

Mine?

Was I the leader? Leading an ascent? But I seem to remember already being t-there—and seeing something.

S-something that sent us back.

What s-something?

I feel it has to do with the crevasse. With that man. In it. And the man who had g-gone down for him. The one who’d h-hit me.

I didn’t like that. He wouldn’t listen to reason. He had to stay down there. Had to, I t-told him. But he wouldn’t listen…so I c-cut his rope. The others around me went crazy.

I remember now.

They went crazy and tried to k-kill me. But the Ice Gods, they were my f-friends. They didn’t let the others k-kill me.

Only I saw reason.

 

It all comes back to me, n-now.

I know my reason for the climb. I have to get there.

I don’t have much time.

I n-no longer f-feel my toes and my other fingers are st-st-stiff. The Ice Gods are anxious to see me and I mustn’t d-dis-a-p-p-point them. They’ve helped me so f-f-far.

Tonight I eat my f-fingers. Tomorrow—

Tomorrow I meet the Ice Gods.

The white Ice Gods of thunder.

 

I left my tent, pack, and s-snowshoes behind. They’d only slow me down.

All I need are my c-crampons. It’s all ice now. I have my Ice Gods to g-guide me. T-that’s what t-they d-do….

The going was more d-difficult without my other fingers, and the loss of f-feeling in my t-toes…but I p-pushed. A little p-pain is a good thing, even if n-numb. I’m so high now there’s little o-oxygen. My lungs b-burn.

I recall the f-fight.

The remaining two men’d looked at me in amazement as I c-cut the one loose. We’d heard him scream all the way d-down. Heard him scream at the b-bottom. He hadn’t been alone down there. There was something with him. The others had attacked me with their picks. I blocked some of the swings, and remember the hurt in my arms. I managed to throw one down, but had to fight off the other with my own p-pick. My back to the downed man, I heard a scream, and my opponent dropped his attack, his face b-blank and white as the snow. I took the opportunity to bury my pick deep into his n-neck. He clutched at it as he collapsed. I must have pierced his vocal cords, because he made no n-noise as he went down, except for that f-funny, hissing…g-gurgle. After I saw him to the ground (and put my foot on his shoulder to rip free my pick), I turned around. That was when I s-s-saw them.

You-know-who-them.

 

I’m really n-numb now, but it’s okay….

I’m t-there.

The sight is f-f-fantastic.

Gorgeous.

I thought the frigid b-blue of where I’d been was b-beautiful…but it holds n-nothing to what is before me. The Ice Gods are p-pleased, and so am I.

I have c-come h-h-home.

The others wanted to f-flee. They’d been up here with me and had fled in t-terror. That was why the one fell into the crevasse. Been c-careless. Ran without c-checking his s-steps. S-stupid man. And the others? They’d had to d-die because they had seen what I now s-see. They should have wanted to come b-back…l-like m-me.

This is so unbelievably b-beautiful. Jagged ice c-crystals everywhere, and each one with a body f-frozen within it. All sorts of bodies…from different t-times…d-different p-places. All frozen into ice boulders and c-crystals. All asleep and p-peaceful. All waiting for me to join them.

And I will.

Just as s-soon as I see the setting sun and hear the c-crack of t-thunder….

 

Related Posts

The Coming of Light

by

When The Nightfun Ends. (Image by Lienhard Schulz at the German language Wikipedia ([GFDL, http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html; CC-BY-SA-3.0,http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/], via Wikimedia Commons)
When The Nightfun Ends. (Image by Lienhard Schulz at the German language Wikipedia [GFDL, http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html; CC-BY-SA-3.0,http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I don’t remember much about this story, except for the obvious inspiration, which I really can’t get into, because it’s part of the story itself. But it’ll be obvious.

But I’ve always been fascinated by “those things” and all their “incarnations.” And I really do think it would be fun to, well, “live among them.” There is so much more I’d love to say, and maybe after I post this story I will do another post about them all.

But, for now….

This was originally published in the October 1991 issue of Tyro #32/33.

 

The Coming of Light

© F. P. Dorchak, 1991

 

Barrett Bartholomew James awoke, groggily.

In fact, he wasn’t at all sure he was actually quite yet awake, but more in that in-between, graying state between sleep and wakefulness. There was something entirely odd about the way things felt. Very odd…like he wasn’t all there…his more valuable pieces missing. He felt (in point of fact) like he was entirely someone else. In his body.

As he lay there, trying to figure out who was in what body—and whether or not he was actually awake—Barrett focused on the room. It gave him the feeling of being wrapped within the arms of a jealous lover. He felt as if he was…smothering…and very much wanting to be smothered. Spying frost on the windows—and noticing the fire in the hearth—he figured it was cold and wintry outside. He then directed his attention to the bed he was in and found himself adrift within a sea of billowy comforters. Rocking his head back, he floated upon huge, down-filled pillows…and there was a tingling in his ears that resonated in his head.

The fire cracked loudly, belching out a rather large fragment onto the hardwood patch of floor before it. The piece glowed quite brightly before momentarily before dying.

Should have had a hearth screen there.

Slowly Barrett came to the only realization that made any sense: that he was, in fact (most assuredly) himself…and that himself was (in fact) the very awake Barrett Bartholomew James.

Whipping off the comforters he swung out of bed and sat upright.

He was clad neck to toe in an archaic, almost comical pair of pajamas. With a chuckle he playfully fingered the material and got to his feet. He headed over to the heavily curtained window. His feet swished through thickly piled carpet that covered the entire floor except for the hardwood spot before the fireplace.

Wiping an opening on the clouded windowpane he peered out…and was greeted by the most pleasant illumination of gas streetlights…from a small but bustling snow-covered town square below. He was on the second floor.

“Where the hell am I?”

Padding back across the room he went to the mantel piece above the fireplace.

Pictures and trinkets, none of which he recognized.

The pictures ranged from the ancient to the current. There were families and there were singular moments. There were—

The bedroom door squeaked open.

“Oh, my! I’m sorry, sir! You’re awake!” It was a pleasant voice from an attractive and unassuming woman in her mid-thirties. He froze. Was caught in his jammies by a woman he didn’t know…in a house he recognized not.

“Who are you?” he asked, “and what is this place?”

“I’m Julie, Mr. James, I run the boarding house you’re in.”

“You know me?”

“Well, indirectly…I was told there would be someone new tonight.”

“You were told? What’s going on, here?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really—now let me give you your clothes and let you get ready for the evening. There’s dinner awaiting downstairs.”

Barrett watched her glide across the floor to his bed, deposit a set of cleaned and pressed woolen garments, then returned back to the door. He noticed snow boots had already been placed underneath his bed.

“You’ll find a full set of undergarments in the dresser over by the window,” Julie said, pointing. Barrett followed her direction, trying to keep up what little decency he felt he had left. It was tough doing so in garments that had a bomber’s hatch on the seat. “If there’s anything else I can do, please, don’t hesitate to call, Mr. James—”

“Please…’Barrett.'”

Julie smiled. It was a charming smile and Barrett felt his insides grow warm. Things didn’t feel right—they felt good—just not…right.

“Okay…Barrett…,” she said demurely, a thin smile across her lips. Turning just before closing the door, she again addressed him. “Mr. Jam, ah—Barrett—we’re all very pleased to have you join our community.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m pleased to have you.”

Julie quickly closed the door behind her as she left.

“God, if I didn’t know better I’d think she had a thing for me.

“Now, where’s that damned bathroom?”

 

Treading down firm but creaking stairs, Barrett made his way to the dining room. While in the shower things had begun to surface, though not much, but it was better than nothing. He remembered being a businessman of some kind from “The City.” New York City. He remembered being on vacation into the upstate region…but that was about it. He didn’t know if he had a wife, or a family—though he assumed so since he was wearing a ring, and a very meaty one at that. Maybe he was divorced, or widowed; he just didn’t know.

Walking through the house he smelled the aroma of cooking. Found the heat of another fireplace. And plants were everywhere, even covering one unused piano he spotted in a room he passed by.

Making his way through drapery adorned doorways, his weight caused the hardwood floorboards to squeak. In no time he found the source of the aroma…also finding the dinner table cleaned by the previous users, with but a single food-filled place setting awaiting.

“Oh, there you are,” Julie said, arriving at the doorway. “Please, sit down and eat, Mr. Barrett! I hope you don’t mind that the others have already come and gone, but what with the Coming of Light it seems there’s never quite enough time. Always much too much to do and no one seems to want to wait for anyone anymore, don’t you know!”

“‘Coming of Light’?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about just yet. You’ll see it all in good time.”

Barrett felt his head twinge…as if like a mild headache…but it quickly passed.

“W-what others?”

“Well, as I said, I run a boarding house. It is a most rewarding job, and I really do enjoy helping others relocate—”

“Relocate?”

“I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot all at once, but please try to bear with me. Look,” she said, extending a hand and leading him to the table, “why don’t you first sit down and get some warm food inside—you haven’t eaten in who knows how long—then we can go out for a walk. It’ll invigorate and aerate and there’s still quite a few hours left before—well, you’ll just love it! We’ll have plenty of time to talk then. Come!” Holding back a smile Barrett allowed himself to be led. Her company really did seem to grow on him.

As he made his way to the table, images flashed through his head, but nothing solid enough for a mental lock. He was as a babe lost in the woods. Wincing a few more times, which Julie didn’t seem to notice, he looked at—really looked at—Julie. It was more than her company he liked—he found her to be quite attractive…especially dressed in her checkered apron and floor length skirt (why such formal attire for everyday wear?), and though he didn’t know her all that well, it was easy to see the openness and warmth her manner radiated.

But it was her eyes…large and warm…which really grabbed him.

He was totally captivated by her spell.

“Well, Julie, I must say—you certainly do have a convincing way about you.”

Julie blushed, bringing a lovely and delicately crafted hand to her mouth.

This was all too much—it was like some damned fairy tale. Nothing’s this perfect.

“You’ll be sure to explain this ‘Coming of Light’ during our walk?” Barrett took his seat at the table.

Julie’s blushing quickly gave way to a look of mixed emotions she quickly changed back to a smile.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really, “she said, “it’s just where the Nightfun ends and the Light comes.”

“You mean ‘dawn,'” he casually muttered, still somewhat preoccupied with the flashing images inside his head. He dug hungrily into the plate of food before him. “You really are a charming woman, Julie—from your mannerisms right down to how you express common everyday things.”

“Thank you, Barrett.” Again, the down-turned head, the endearing blush.

“‘Nightfun,’ huh.”

 

“…and over there is Pastor’s Church. Isn’t it simply the most beautiful building you’ve ever seen?” Julie asked, pointing a mittened hand.

“It is!” Barrett exclaimed.

It was all beautiful, every bit of it.

And it was snowing!

It was all too beautiful…too perfectly quaint and hometownish…and Barrett again felt that strange something shudder and rattle

(yes, rattle…)

through him—he felt it about the buildings, the people, the town’s atmosphere.

And it all felt disquietly familiar…as though he’d actually been here before…when he damn well knew he hadn’t. It was a tight little microcosm, an entire universe built around the confines of glistening snow and homey neighborliness. A picture-book life and times the way all life should be. Several people passed, surprisingly close, waving.

“Hello, Julie; Barrett! Wonderful weather we’re having, ayuh!” some positively friendly New Englanders greeted. And most New Englanders Barrett knew were not outwardly friendly unless they knew you. Grew up with you. Lived in the same town with you. Julie waved back, returning the greeting.

“Julie…now how did they know my name?”

Hands tight to the front of her jacket, Julie looked up at him with her large brown, positively hypnotic eyes. Something fluttered deep within him.

“Everyone knows you, Barrett. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”

Barrett found it harder to resist. She was a powerful magnet and he but an iron filing. What was it about this place…about her? He felt…pleasantly uncomfortable….

“Huh? What? I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten my…question.” Barrett said, flushing a bright red. This is not like me, he thought. Not like me at all!

But what is me?

I don’t—or never used to, anyway—get butterflies in my stomach over a woman. I’m married, sure. Or used to be—or still am, or—I don’t know what anymore!

“God help me!” Barret blurted, hitting out a gloved hand at a light post. Frightened, Julie jumped back several steps. Passing pedestrians gave surprised looks, but quickly turned them into empathetic smiles and continued on. Eyes full of concern, her voice lowered, Julie came back to him.

“Barrett? What’s wrong? Is it something I—”

“No—I-I don’t know—but that’s the whole problem, Julie! Just where am I, and what am I doing here! How did I get here?”

Julie brought her hands up to Barrett’s knotted shoulders. She felt them suddenly relax and it brought an immediate smile to her face. Barrett took her face into his gloved hands. His resistance was quickly faltering.

“Is it so bad here?” Julie asked.

“No, but…where have I come from, what is this place, and who are you to have this power over me?”

Julie didn’t attempt an answer, but Barrett quickly lost interest in the questions and brought her face in closer. “Nobody has ever wielded such control over me. I haven’t felt like this in, well, in God knows how long….”

“Is it so wrong to feel so good? To feel the way you’ve always wanted to feel, Barrett—the way were all meant to feel? Why analyze everything? Why not just be. Just live.”

Barrett felt her warmth through his gloves. Felt the warmth of her soul, penetrating deeper, ever deeper into his soul and trying to bring out…something…and exploit it….

Her lips parted slightly.

Barrett spiraled helplessly downward.

CLANG-CLANG!

CLANG-CLANG!

It was the church bell.

“Oh! Come on, this is going to be so much fun!” Julie said, pulling away, head thrown back and arms flailing outstretched like a horizontal windmill.

“Why? What’s up?” Barrett asked, looking around.

Julie reached out for him, but then broke away, taking playful steps toward the convergence of townspeople still further up.

“Come on—it’s the skating competition! On Glass Pond! You going to just love it!”

Barrett regarded her with loving consideration, watching her skip off. She was so childlike, so full of energy and desire!

He started off after her…when something else caught his attention.

It was a sparkle…a flash of some kind.

Julie’s back to him, he diverted off towards the flash, to an area where the streetlights and the starless darkness beyond met. Beyond the gas-light haze. Something wasn’t right over there, just up ahead of him. There was an icy tingling playing up his spine as he continued forward.

He felt old aches.

Felt his movement becoming restricted, labored.

He was mere feet from the border when Julie turned, her face immediately draining of color.

“NO!”

She’d stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth a large “O.” A look of dread on her face. Bent forward, her hands were tucked forcefully down between her legs as if she’d had a painful stomach cramp. She repeated her command. Barrett didn’t just stop, he grinded to a halt, his mind’s eye envisioning a mile’s worth of burned rubber left on an open stretch of road.

“Barrett, no—please don’t!”

Barrett turned, frightened more by the unexpected terror in her voice than the actual situation itself.

“What’s the matter? I only wanted to see what was over there?”

Seeing that he stopped, Julie ran for him, arms quickly wrapping him in a tight bundle. Barrett again felt the butterflies.

“Julie,” he began, initially amused, “I didn’t know you cared!”

Julie hung on like a dying woman, her face buried into his shoulders.

“What’s wrong? I was only—you’re crying! My God, whatever I did, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again!”

“I’m sorry—it’s not you, Barrett, but that…that area. It’s off-limits. It’s The Place of Endings…and nobody ever returns who ventures there. I’ve lost…others have been lost there.”

“‘The Place of Endings?’ Julie, you have to tell me what’s going on here—no more cute little euphemisms—I need to know what’s happening. I have to know.”

“I can’t, I—it was…a loved one. It was horrible. Later, please, Barrett, I really can’t go on.” She reburied her face into his shoulder.

“Julie, I like you very much, but I have to know—”

“—please, Barrett, I really…like…you, too, but the memories are too painful. Later I’ll tell you everything, I will, but for now let’s just enjoy ourselves. Please?” Julie’s crystal tears were of such purity that they felt like cold knives of despair ripping through him. He was helpless…he was hers….

“Okay. But after this skating competition of yours, we talk. Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

Glass Pond looked exactly like its name—shiny, smooth, and unmarked. Barrett was amazed at how reflective and clean the surface was and why there were hardly any marks made by the hordes of skaters flying across it. But possessed by an ever-widening grin across his face, he found himself casually responding to everyone who passed them by. And he did this by name—first and last names. He found that their names magically popped into his head and when he unconsciously began using them, they proved themselves correct. The townspeople were visibly pleased with him.

“Are you enjoying yourself more, Barrett?” asked one elderly couple.

“Why yes, I am, Mr. and Mrs. Greetallski. I really am! I’m finding this to be the friendliest town I’ve ever visited! And the Christmas spirit surely cannot be beat!”

“Well, we’re all very proud to have someone as prominent as yourself taking up residence here,” Mr. Greetallski said.

“And you certainly do add very nicely to the decor!” Mrs. Greetallski chimed in, her rosy cheeks and frosty nose bursting and wiggling with fervent holiday cheer. “He’s a great catch, Julie, be sure to keep on to him and don’t let him get away!” Mrs. Greetallski said to Julie as she leaned into her. Julie flushed into another blush.

“I could get very used to living here, you know,” Barrett said, once the Greetallskis had left.

“I could get very used to you living here,” Julie replied.

Barrett brushed away a few nothings from her face. More people came by, some running and throwing snowballs (one or two of which landed at their feet), and Barrett watched as they passed, their chanting ringing in his ears long after they had past:

“Get ready for the Light, the Coming of the Light! One hour, one hour to go! Get ready for the Light, the Coming of the Light—one hour to go, ho ho ho!”

Julie watched his reactions with a pounding heart.

“What is this—”

“—Coming of Light?”

“Yes! Why is it such a big thing to have the sun rise? Hell, it’s not even near dawn now! Look,” he said, pointing over to the other side of the Apothecary. “It’s dark, pitch dark. Except for the street light glare, there’s not even a hint of a rising sun!”

Julie continued to eye him…that look of confused and caring face. Barrett looked back up into the gas-lit sky. Snow had been falling fairly heavily ever since they had stepped out into the street, but there was hardly any accumulation—in spite of the fact that there was already a fair amount on the ground. Everything looked so perfect.

Planned almost.

Julie came up behind and lay a hand on his shoulder. Barret suddenly realized that he really didn’t care about who he was…or what this whole coming-of-light problem was. All he wanted now was to make his lips touch hers…to taste the firm slipperiness of her tongue and inhale the delicate scent of her breath.

“The Coming is at 6:05 in the morning…,” she began, coming closer.

“Six-oh-five? Exactly?”

“Exactly. There is no dawn, only light.”

Face to face he now felt her breath; felt a tingling; felt her shiver. He shivered.

“…only light…,” he repeated.

A particularly large snowflake landed between their mouths, perched for only a birth of a second before melting. Barrett felt a wellspring of emotion that had been coiled up within the both of them; felt the explosion that now took them away.

Teeth felt teeth.

Passers-by smiled.

He would fit in very nicely here, yes, indeed he would.

“I love you…,” Julie breathed.

“I…I love you, too, Julie.”

“Barrett, I couldn’t bear it should you ever leave! There is no one else here made for me!”

Barrett’s eyes squeezed shut. A lump blocked his throat.

“I won’t. I feel I can’t…but I won’t. I won’t even try.”

“You could; you almost did.”

“But, I won’t.” Then he looked down and noticed the wedding ring on her finger. “You’re my wife, aren’t you.”

“Yes, my husband.”

“But…but, how? You had no ring when we first met—in fact you called me ‘Mr. James.’ This is all too much, I…I’m not sure I can handle it.”

“But you will, my husband, you will! Your love is all, your love is enough. It is all that matters—nothing else does.

“It is time that we talk. Come, let’s walk.”

Julie led him away from Glass Pond and took him down a different street, passing Mrs. Goodall’s Mercantile & Dry Goods (Mrs. Goodall waving vigorously through the window as they passed). They then passed the New England Bank, a small tree nursery that was up on a hill (next to a water tower that boldly displayed “something Towne” around its reservoir, he couldn’t see the first word), a toy shop, village market, and more. Then they stopped. People were taking on more urgency to their steps, several still chanting about the Coming of Light

at six-oh-five

there is no dawn, only bright….

Only fifteen minutes to go!

“I still don’t understand this no-dawn part. Everyplace has a dawn, honey.”

“No, not every place, dear husband.”

“And you mentioned ‘6:05’ like it happens the same time every day.”

“There is only light and dark, my husband. Look.”

The two turned, and Barrett followed Julie’s mittened hand. He followed it to a simple white-painted wood building with an unobtrusive sign hanging above a window.

Barrett James & Company, Realtors.

“T-that’s me!”

Julie raised a gloved hand to his mouth before he could continue further.

“Come, we have only a little more to go. Brace yourself, husband, for what is to come next. Your love for us—this town and myself—will bear you through. Trust us.”

The two rounded a corner, and he found “Julie James Boarding House & Hostel.” In a lower front window rested a real-estate flyer bearing Barrett’s name. This time Barrett didn’t even bat an eye.

Together they walked up the wooden stairs and into the warmth and glowing that was their home.

 

A light switch flipped on, illuminating a small, novelty-clustered workshop. The owner, a bearded and slightly stooped man, entered, aimlessly throwing the morning paper down on a counter. Shedding his coat, he foraged about for several minutes, looking for something in particular. Going over to the cash register he took out a receipt box, one that had “Paid” written on the front in small, crooked letters and fished through it. Finding the object of his search, he took it out, giving it a sad glance before placing it on the table next to the paper. He looked at one of his clocks.

Six-oh-six.

Casting another grieved look at the paper and the bill he went back out the door.

The front page story, only part of which was visible past the tossed bill, read:

“Famous maverick stockbroker, Barrett B. James, predictor of Black Monday and Wall Street wunderkind died last night in a car crash in the Catskills. He and his family were said to be visiting relatives and friends for the holiday season. Local authorities claimed no one was at fault at the accident. It was a weather-induced accident, inches of snow unleashed in blinding force on already existing icy conditions. The James family could not be reached for comment. Mr. James was apparently en route from a shopping trip…”

Alongside the paper sat the bill of sale. “Barrett James, PAID, one complete Snow Towne village set. AMEX Gold card. To be delivered.”

Not five feet from that table sat a lower display, on which sat Snow Towne. In its center was Glass Pond. Along the edge was Pastor’s Church. The tree nursery was at the center of town, under the shadow of the water tower with the village’s name painted across it. Somewhere, between Glass Pond and Pastor’s Church, rested the porcelain buildings of Barrett James & Company, Realtors, and Julie James Boarding House & Hostel.

All through the village the lights were down…and everyone lay snug in their porcelain beds, dreaming, and waiting for the next cycle of the Coming of Light….

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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.

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The World’s Greatest Writer

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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.

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Do The Dead Dream?

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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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