A Brief Introduction to Well Known Strangers

Note: I apologize for the format the blog has forced this essay into. I hope that scrolling back and forth between the essay and footnotes isn't too much of a bother.

When Assuming Everything (Profile of a No-Name)

I am at the University of New Hampshire in the library on the second floor outside of a café. [1] The café is called ‘Zekes’, although I doubt that anyone with that name has ever even been inside this godforsaken architectural headache.[2] If he has, I am sure that the police were informed right away and he was promptly and rudely escorted off campus by two burly types named John and Ben.

Here is something important: The girl sitting directly in front of me.

I see her almost everywhere I go. And by that I mean I see her whenever I’m in the library, which, as of late, means “everywhere I go.” She’s a pretty thing, beautiful really, and not in a typical way. She’s beautiful like a tangled metal fence is. Complex and stunning to look at although you could never say why (at least out loud). She catches me staring at her sometimes and I find it hard to look away. It’s obviously unnerving for her, and I’m not surprised. When I find something to be beautiful, and I mean truly beautiful, I often sneer. It’s a subtle sneer though, as my lips don’t curl over my teeth and my nostrils don’t flare. It’s more of an attitude thing, really: A snaggle tooth and an evil eye hidden beneath a carefully constructed plaster of Paris mask.

She’s wearing the red hat that I’ve never seen her without (a knit wool hat I might add. And not really red. More rust than red. Never red.) I’ve never heard her voice, except on the very edges of my hearing as she talks to a passing acquaintance or mumbles something horribly significant to herself. From the safety of my world (which is an agonizing six feet away) it sounds exactly like a doorbell being rung, or a penny falling down a laundry chute.

I often wonder why she comes here. It isn’t as if she has a stack of textbooks in front of her, or any book for that matter. All she has is a beaten up Mac Book Laptop that is a far cry from the sterile, finely crafted, silvery metal ones of this modern age. Her Mac Book is the color of an old walrus tusk and is plastered with several pieces of red tape that are (probably) of enormous sentimental value.

Upon closer investigation (staring is the easiest, quickest, and laziest form of investigating there is) I have deduced that she is actually not doing any work what so ever. (And if she is working, it is minute, subtle work.) She is simply sitting, occasionally popping out from in front of her computer long enough to throw a quick gaze around the ‘room’ (In design, the ‘room’ is a landing. Unfortunately, its vibrations scream otherwise. I hate this place.)

She has the occasional bushy-tailed visitor, but for the most part she seems to be entirely alone. In wondering as to her purpose in library and life, I feel a sort of affinity with her. Neither of us seems to be able to do a damn thing with anyone at anytime with anything including ourselves. (The biggest bit of ‘evidence’ I have for this less than happy thought is an overpowering feeling of loss that seems to pour out of her skin. However, as any good college lawyer type will tell you, a vague feeling is not enough to send anyone to the clink. Loosely translated, an ‘overpowering feeling of loss’ is more often than not complete and utter bullshit masquerading as complete and utter truth, truth, truth.)

I’ve tried, at least three times in the past five minutes, to go over and introduce myself, but I never get any closer to doing so than cracking all the knuckles on my left hand and clearing my throat inappropriately.[3]

A Bumbling Idiot’s Guide to Not Making Friends

The question isn’t whether or not I should go over and talk to the Rust Hatted[4] Library Gal (RHLG from here on out), but how. After having already written five hundred some odd words about RHLG, it would be horribly anticlimactic not to talk to her, as I have made her into an awfully big deal. So, as I said, the question isn’t whether-or-not, but how. However, before we investigate the possibilities of how, I think it may be important to establish why this is so difficult. To begin with, walking over to an absolute stranger whom you just happen to see everywhere and all the time is (for me) one step below cliff diving on the Terror Scale[5]. (Fact: The Terror Scale is measured entirely in heartbeats per minute.)

The answer to the ‘why’ is horribly complex, but it can be summed up simply in one word: Rejection. This is the bare-bones, stripped down answer to the most important question of ‘why’. In the case of RHLG, I am not facing any actual rejection, at least not in the classic form. (i.e. job rejection, love rejection, friend rejection, sex rejection, family rejection. You get the picture.) It is the idea of rejection that freezes me like a stick in the mud, not rejection itself. In pondering my quick and brutal introduction to RHLG, I flip flop between realistic, societal pleasing responses (“Nice to meet you. My name is ____.”) and the fantastical, worst case, apocalypse-causing snafu’s (“Fuck off, strange man.[6]”). I know it’s ludicrous to assume that she will respond in any earth-shattering fashion, but the threat is enough to make my stomach attempt to do a perfect 360 degree spin with back flip. (It never sticks the landing, as organs are terrible gymnasts.)[7]

My fear of rejection is by no means unique; every single person has it, no matter how suave they may be in the moment. The fear of rejection can be traced back to the paralyzing fear of not being accepted by anyone and, as a result, being alone. No one ever wants to feel alone, even if it’s only for two goddamn seconds. Having someone who accepts you is something so universally sought after that it seeps into every aspect of human culture. (The institute of marriage is best example of this broad claim. Religion is also a good example. After all, a believer is never truly alone. God is always watching.[8]) It is no wonder then, that something as simple as introducing yourself to a stranger can be enough to induce a panic attack.

So, now that the ‘why’ is out of the way, we can focus solidly on the ‘how’, as in ‘How the hell do I go about this?’

The way I look at it, there are three distinct options. They are as follows:

Plan A

I lie (to her).

I walk up to RHLG and say: “Hello ma’am, I’m doing a random survey and was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” The only problem with this plan is that I have no questions to ask. After finishing my speech I would be as a fish out of water, gasping and floundering under the dim lights of Dimond[9].

Plan B

I lie (to you).

This is by far the easiest way of going about things. I can simply tell you that I introduced myself to RHLG, make up some funny anecdote and write us off into the sunset. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for me) I cannot possibly do this. I have problems with guilt.[10]

Plan C

The final option. I introduce myself to her, chit that chat and then get the hell out of there.

Getting the Hell Out of There

I decided to approach RHLG as if she was a very active, very sensitive nuclear bomb oozing deadly radiation. I rehearsed what I was going to say to her[11], and with an air of nervous purpose, I bit my lip, tousled my hair and began to walk.

There is a saying that goes something like: “The best laid plans will always blow up in your face and leave you forever scarred and mutilated. Your friends will abandon you in disgust and you will live in your mother’s basement for the rest of your pathetic life.”[12] As I walked over to her, (Slowly, slowly. So very, very slowly) this ugly bromide kept rattling around in my head like a lazy simile and I soon lost the very carefully constructed speech that I had spent five minutes mumbling to myself in a very lumpy whisper. I was (as yet another bromide goes) “Up Shit Creek without a paddle, a life vest, or any other kind of government recommended anti-drowning device.”[13] RHLG was sure to kill me the minute I opened my stupid mouth.

She was sitting at a small round table by herself, writing on very small scraps of colored paper. It was a very intimidating sight to say the least. The closer I got to RHLG, the emptier my mind became, until the only coherent thing I could think was a long and drawn out ruuuuuuun.[14] When I finally made it to her table, I hovered about like a drunken wasp (imagine a creeping, slouching, ugly stance with half moon eyes and you’ll understand). I stood there for what was probably two full seconds (measured in accurate grade school Mississippi mean time), until the verbal (and mental) floodgates opened.

I told her everything. I told her about the essay I was writing (and how I hoped that she wasn’t creeped[15] out by what might be considered by some to be a mild (yet flattering?) form of stalking). I told her that in order for this essay to be put to bed I needed to talk to her and I told her that I was very sorry if I was creeping her out. I repeated this apology several times. Then I talked and talked about the most useless things concerning this essay (why I was doing it and why I wasn’t doing anything else and why rejection was such a very big deal to me and isn’t it a very big deal to her?) and I kept apologizing for having possibly given to her any feelings like fear or nervousness or indigestion or whatever (at least I think I did. I mean, I think I kept apologizing but in retrospect I’m not so sure that all of those apologies weren’t just in my head being played at full scream over and over and over again) and she told me that it was an interesting idea, that her name was Corrine (surname Lapiana) that it was nice to meet me (she smiled when she said this) and that she was definitely not creeped out by anything I was doing or had said or would be doing in the future (another smile). She then asked what was next. I told her I had no idea, said goodbye, and left.

A Brief Ending

I found her again the next day (in the library, of course), and we had a small conversation. It started out a bit stiff (my fault), but things quickly became relaxed once she got talking. And while the point of this essay isn’t what we talked about, I won’t leave you wondering. We talked about a number of things, from her lack of animal skills[16], to our mutual love of the painter Hieronymus Bosch (Corrine had a faint grin on her face when she talked about Bosch. But unlike her other smiles (which are common and polite), this one seemed to be genuine and without a trace of discomfort.) Also covered were the topics of the library[17], her time abroad in England, what it takes to be a scholar[18], a cat with a liver disorder, this essay, her thoughts on asking strangers ‘how ya doin’[19], teaching Sunday School to fifth graders, her public/private high school wonderland (Talking about high school yields another Bosch Smile. The presence of this smirk indicates that she may very well belong to an almost unknown American minority; that is, people who actually enjoyed high school and didn’t find the entire thing to be a horrible slog through awkward social bullshit and less-than-helpful classroom doldrums.) and her resemblance to the deceased German actress Romy Schneider. (Almost everyone (I should say ‘everyone’, but that is much too bold a statement to make and I am sure that someone will vehemently say: “I don’t think this! I don’t care about such things!” They are lying) thinks that they look like someone famous. For instance, I think (hope) that I look like a cross between Paul Newman and Daniel Day-Lewis with just a humbling pinch of Johnny Depp (Pre 2000). Unlike most people who claim to look like anyone famous though, Corrine actually does look a lot like Romy Schneider.)

We parted ways quietly, and I began to write this ending with the intention of keeping it as short as possible. I’ve been searching for some line to tie everything nicely together and to leave you with a good opinion of me, but I don’t think that’s appropriate. I suppose that sometimes, when faced with something alien (e.g. a stranger in a red hat), it’s best just to jump up and down, rant and rave, hoot and holler and end mid

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[1] A brief description is required: The Dimond library (I pronounce this strange word as ‘Dih-mond’ not ‘Die-mond’. I am probably wrong.) is a large, imposing structure located in the academic hub of campus. It is quite tall and boxy and is flanked on both sides by massive, pseudo-medieval ‘quiet rooms’ in which one can almost always find at least three students zonked out on some god awful piece of faux-comfy furniture. The rest of the building is a combination of bizarrely shaped, stack riddled, heat trapping book ovens and poorly lit, computer filled catacombs.

[2] When I say ‘architectural headache’, I refer primarily to the metal, glass and stone staircase that looms stupidly over the entrance to the library. My hatred for this staircase stems from an ill timed step which sent me reaching and stumbling for the surprisingly slick aluminumesque railing. As a result of this near catastrophic fall, every single beam, wall, balcony, and bathroom has a hellish quality to it.

[3] I have yet to find a time when the boisterous clearing of a throat isn’t grating and excruciating. The scalding fury that overcomes me with every sounding of a phlegmy heerrrrraccck is unbearable. I see red. I lust for violence. I spit at passing strangers. I imagine this to be a common and completely acceptable reaction.

[4] Surprisingly, ‘Hatted’ isn’t a word.

[5] Needles and eye drops are a close third and fourth, respectively.

[6] I hope that this has never happened to anyone in any sort of casual scenario. The prospect alone is enough to drive a mentally stable man into some sort of subterranean existence. This fresh pariah would live amongst the rats and other rodential creepy crawlies. He would never again see the light of day, let alone introduce himself to anything human ever again. (Note: Much like hatted, rodential is not a word.)

[7] A good example of the physical repercussions of a nerve shot shy boy is this short fact: As I write this, it is approaching eight pm. I was going to eat dinner, but, after deciding to talk to RHLG, my stomach immediately filled with a heavy, Styrofoam substance. Shockingly, this Styrofoam stuff is not nutritionally viable because it is not real. I anticipate losing at least twelve pounds by the time this essay is finished and dead.

[8] I was raised as a Catholic (I have since washed my hands of such things), and as a small doe eyed lad, the idea of an omniscient deity was comforting. But when puberty rolled around, the ‘omniscient deity’ quickly became the pervy Big Brother in the sky. The sentence ‘God is always watching’ sends a very long chill down my spine.

[9] In addition to Nightmarish Architecture, Dimond possess the worst lighting out of any building ever. The designers of this pit of despair obviously hate happiness, cheer, academia and the idea of functionality.

[10] Catholic Guilt. Even as an Ex-Catholic, it still hangs over me like some sort of poorly designed staircase in some poorly designed library.

[11] “Hello, I see you around quite a bit. My name is… Goodbye.”

[12] I’m par aphrasing of course. I believe the actual phrase to be much more melodramatic.

[13] Once again, paraphrasing.

[14] I almost did run, too. And, being a former endurance athlete of average skill, I could have put at least fifty feet between us before she had even noticed me lurching toward her.

[15] Place the non-word ‘creeped’ in the Antidictionary alongside the words ‘hatted’ and ‘rodential’.

[16] Her treatment of goldfish is sadistically slapstick.

[17] I don’t think she shares my architectural hatred for that eyesore.

[18] Not sleeping is apparently a major requirement for being scholarly.

[19] A New England passing conversation staple. She doesn’t ask strangers this question as she actually wants to know how they are doing and they almost always have no intention of telling her.

A Brief Introduction to Well Known Strangers

(Note: This is a teaser for an upcoming essay.)

I am in the library on the second floor right outside the café. It’s called ‘Zekes’, although I doubt that anyone with that name has ever even been inside this godforsaken architectural headache. If he has, I am sure that the police were informed right away and he was promptly and rudely escorted off campus.
Here is something important: The girl sitting directly in front of me.
I see her almost everywhere I go. And by that I mean I see her whenever I’m in the library, which, as of late, means “everywhere I go.” She’s a pretty thing, beautiful really, and not in a typical way. She’s beautiful like a tangled metal fence is. Complex, stunning to look at although you could never say why (at least out loud). She catches me staring at her sometimes and I find it hard to look away. It’s obviously unnerving for her, and I’m not surprised. When I find something to be beautiful, and I mean truly beautiful, I often sneer. It’s a subtle sneer though, as my lips don’t curl over my teeth and my nostrils don’t flare. It’s more of an attitude thing, really: A snaggle tooth and an evil eye hidden beneath a carefully constructed plaster of Paris mask.
She’s wearing the red hat that I’ve never seen her without (a knit wool hat I might add. And not really red. More rust than red. Never red.) I’ve never heard her voice, except on the very edges of my hearing as she talks to a passing acquaintance or mumbles something horribly significant to herself. From the safety of my world (which is an agonizing six feet away) it sounds exactly like a doorbell being rung, or a penny falling down a laundry chute.
I often wonder why she comes here. It isn’t as if she has a stack of textbooks in front of her, or any book for that matter. In wondering as to her purpose in library and life, I feel a sort of affinity with her. Neither of us seems to be able to do a damn thing with anyone at anytime with anything.
I’ve tried, at least three times in the past five minutes, to go over and introduce myself, but I never get any closer to doing so than cracking all the knuckles on my left hand and clearing my throat inappropriately.
Come to think of it, I hope I never meet her. I’m too afraid that whoever she is will ruin all my hopes about her being real.

On Writing in the Dark (Or: On Not Becoming a Lawyer)

One of the most important aspects of writing a story (or in this case, a nonfiction bastardization of an essay) is making your main character (‘the protagonist’ for those of you craving official sounding diction) likeable. If the character is not likable, then why would the reader (you) give a good goddamn if the writer (me) drops a house on his head or kills the one person who has ever had the courtesy to love him. I am sure that you know the importance of popularity, so I will not stress the point further. So, given that I am rambling, and given that this story (essay) has no protagonist yet (or a house with which to drop on him), I will begin.
(The beginning is always difficult to start as it is usually the first thing a person will read. (Unless of course they are a nonconformist who believes that the only way to properly begin a story is at the end. If you are one of these most special individuals, I implore you to read the ending of this essay (story) immediately.) It is even harder to create a loveable beginning when it is prefaced by a slightly incoherent and parenthesis riddled introduction from the author. Parenthetical abuse forgotten, we begin.)

I sat down at my desk and ran my fingers through my thick brown hair. I picked up a ball point pen and looked at the modest stack of blank paper sitting casually in front of me. I cracked my knuckles, and with a great deal of trepidation, began to write.

I have begun my story (essay), and as you can see it is off to a normal start with a normal style and is flavored with a normal vocabulary. (My repetition of the word ‘normal’ obviously means something here, doesn’t it?) That being said (and violently understood by the author), I find this beginning to be dry (and pedantic). Allow me to try again in a different style. (Be patient with me, Reader. I am desperately in love with you right now; do not forsake me!)

I tiptoed gracefully over to my desk, my gait like that of a young gazelle as it skips playfully away from the nagging bite of its mother. I sat down and picked up a blue fountain pen that had been given to me by my grandfather on his deathbed. It had a unique green sheen to it, a sheen that glistened like the wet carapace of a sea turtle coming up for air. Spread before me like the wings of a dove taking flight lay a stack of delicate white parchment. I spread my fingers out across the paper like a spider spreads its deadly trap from branch to branch, and with a great deal of humility and holiness, I began to create.

Study with a scientific eye the second start to my essay (story). I think we can both agree (and if we do not, I ask that you try) that the above paragraph, while longer than the first, is unbearably pretentious. If our roles were reversed, I would not bother to read on, having already decided that the writer is in fact, a terrible human being. To be honest (it is all right to be honest with you, isn’t it?) I am quite embarrassed to have written that shimmering bouquet of similes. (If only you could see me blush!) I suppose there is a valuable lesson to be learned here (although for the life of me I cannot wrap my mind around it). I will try again, for as as the old saying goes, ‘The Third Time is the Charm’.

I walked over to my desk and sat down. In front of me there was a pile of paper. I found a pen and began to write.

I suppose ‘old sayings’ are almost always wrong (sinfully, painfully, wonderfully wrong) are they not? Can you forgive me, Reader? If not, I completely understand and I ask you to take this manuscript (if one can even call it that) and burn it immediately. But be careful; burn it only if the overriding emotion is a great dollop of apathy. (Never burn something you hate; you’ll end up missing it before it turns to ash) If you are the merciful person I believe you to be, then continue reading as redemption is surely ahead. (I promise. (Is it all right to lie?))
After a story (essay) has been started, it is important to establish some sort of conflict that the main character has some chance of overcoming (or being overcome by, depending on the author’s mood and/or opinion on sadism). This can be an internal struggle (“Perhaps some metaphorical dragons that need slaying?” he asked inanely), or an external struggle (“Perhaps a fight against some real dragons that need slaying?” he asked insipidly). There are, of course, other things to throw at the poor protagonist, but I do not have the time to explain them here. (In actuality, I am ignorant to these other struggles, although I know that they exist.) Having already written a beginning to my essay (story), I shall now attempt to introduce conflict. (For your entertainment I will attempt both an internal and external struggle, although not in one go. That is beyond me.)

I wrote through the night. The pen danced in front of me, transmuting my jumbled thoughts from intangible to tangible. I wrote until the sun came up and when I finished, I collapsed from the sheer exhaustion of it all. It is no wonder then that I was unable to smell the smoke that filled my room, unable to hear the fire alarm as it screamed somewhere overhead.

Oh, Reader, what excitement! As you know, this is an example of an external struggle. I imagine (hope is a better word) that you are all on the edge of your seats and asking your neighbor in a whispering hush: “Will he wake up? Will he escape?” Sadly, I cannot continue with this particular plot as this is a nonfiction story (essay) and I have never experienced anything exciting or dangerous in my life. I confess that I am a boring person. (A boring, boring, boring person.) It is with a heavy heart that I present to you, disguised as plain fact, ‘The Real Deal’:

I wrote for several hours. I agonized over every sentence and the white pages quickly filled with violent blue slashes. My head began to hurt and my hand began to cramp. I did not stop though, and when it was finished I set it aside and took a deep breath.
Two weeks and several drafts later, the story was finally decent. It was filled with love. It was also filled with pain, anger and frustration, but mainly it was filled with love. I carefully typed the pages up, correcting any errors found along the way, and then printed out the finished product. I reread it slowly, proud at what I had given birth to. But living in the back of my head was a small voice, and this small voice said in a very loud whisper: “Mud and sticks. Mud and sticks is all they’ll ever see.”

A much less exciting narrative, I’m sorry to say. It’s the truth though, and if there is one thing that this essay (story) demands, it’s honesty. (Notice, if you will, the depth of the last statement, the “mud and sticks” one. Notice how it loses all depth in my arrogant declaration of it being so.)
Oh, I am so tired, Reader! This air of brevity (however sarcastic it may be) is positively exhausting (I can barely breathe!). I am considering retiring this ridiculous tone altogether and adopting a much more appropriate one (if I knew how to write appropriately, that is. It takes a braver man than I to undertake the complex endeavor of writing appropriately). I apologize yet again, dear Reader, for the umpteenth time. It seems as if I have once again lost track of myself. (One last departure from relevance before we proceed into the next section: Never take yourself seriously. If you do, you’ll forget everything that you’ve ever enjoyed and will most likely live out the rest of your life not understanding a word anyone says.)
Finally, after a long and arduous trek through the overwritten jungle (filled to the brim with manic, bug-eyed snakes), we have reached the climax of our little story. Our hero (protagonist) has been through quite a lot (I mean to say, he has been through this and that) and now his ‘adventure’ will come to a close. When the final word is written he will cease to be and we will all forget about him, for that has been his purpose; to distract you and me from real life so that we may deceive ourselves into thinking, if only for a moment, that we are not Plain John Doe. This is the tragic (and simple) purpose of writing (isn’t it?).
Oh, Reader. I’ve depressed myself. Here is the ending, in realistic, brutal prose.

The story is finished and done. A few will see it, most of them will forget what they’re reading as they read it, while others will hold it out at arm’s length and smile when appropriate. A bitter few will flay your characters alive and leave them bleeding and screaming on the ground. And then it is done, and you are stuck with yet another orphaned collection of your dearest friends. They will go into a folder, that folder will go into a desk drawer, and you will try your hardest to pretend that they don’t matter. You’ll go to bed and fall asleep. And when you wake up, you won’t remember who you are.

I can’t do this anymore. (No need for forgiveness this time Reader, as I know you understand.) I am finding it hard to think, my mind having gone foggy and thick several poorly constructed sentences back. I have lost wit, I have lost faith and I have most certainly lost myself. (Are you curious as to what that means? So am I.) Perhaps this detachment (and it is detachment) from reality comes from having done exactly what I have told you not to do (which is, of course, that bit about taking yourself seriously. Some more advice: Always trust a hypocrite). Perhaps it comes from something much more ‘everyday’. (For example: lack of sleep, lack of exercise, lack of lacking something to lack.) Regardless, I’m finished. (Goodbye, Reader. I’ll always love you. (And if I don’t, I promise to pretend.))

May

He stood in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hand. It was still too hot to drink so he stood staring out the window over the sink, watching storm clouds form off in the distance. The wind was picking up and he watched as the leaves from the big oak tree in the front yard were ripped off and blown violently away. He took a sip of his coffee. It was still too hot to drink.
The phone rang. He placed the cup down next to the sink and walked over to the wall where the only phone in the house could be found. He let it ring three more times before he picked it up off its cradle. He didn’t speak. There was static, the sound of heavy breathing and then a voice. “Hello? John?” He sighed.
“Hello, May. Where are you?”
“At a gas station. A Shell I think.”
“You’re at a pay phone?”
“Yes. I mean, no. Not a pay phone. I’m on the phone inside. The owner said I could use it,” she said. “The phone in his office I mean.”
“Why would he let you do that?”
“I said it was an emergency. Not any kind of life threatening emergency, just that I had left the oven on at home and I needed to call a neighbor to get them to turn it off,” she said. “He’s a very nice man, John. He has blue eyes like my father did.”
“How long do you have then?”
She laughed. “How long for what?”
“How long before he wants his office back?”
“Oh. Well I locked the door, so he can’t get in,” She paused and waited for John to respond. “It’s a big door, John. One of those compressed fireproof ones. He could bang on that all day long with an axe and barely put a scratch in it.”
John walked back to the kitchen counter and picked up his coffee mug. “Are you coming back? Hello? May?”
There was another burst of static and muffled banging. John tried again. There was more static and then, clarity.
“John? Are you still there?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes I’m still here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about this, I really am. There’s a storm here and it’s really messing with the connection… all that terrible static! And then the owner needed to get into his office to get some paper or something, but I had locked the door like I said-”
“May, are you coming back? Are you coming home?”
“Well, yes,” she said. “I mean, no. No, I’m not coming back, at least not right away. I’ll come back soon, I promise, it’s just this storm is so bad… it’s all thunder and lightning and not even a little bit of peace in between the two! You know how much I hate thunder, John. I can’t drive home in this, I just can’t!”
John grunted and anxiously rubbed his chin. “I don’t understand why you left to begin with May. You knew a storm was coming. You knew it was going to be bad and you still jumped in your car and drove off. I know you hate storms May, but I don’t understand. What kind of person drives into something they hate?” John waited for a sign that she had heard him, but she was silent. Somewhere in between his eyes a throbbing pain blossomed. He gripped the edge of the counter and waited for the headache to pass. “Listen, May, can you give me a second?” There was no response. He placed the phone on the tiled countertop ran his fingers through his hair.
John closed his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. It was still too hot. He walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. He placed the mug on the table and then pinched the bridge of his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to crush his headache and leaned back in the chair, his body arcing haphazardly to the floor. The chair groaned under his weight and for a moment he thought it would snap. He sat like that until his back began to hurt. He looked out at the sky and saw that the storm was moving quickly. It’ll be here soon enough, he thought, and then where will she go? He stood back up and walked back to where he had placed the phone. He picked it up. “May?” His voice was hoarse and thick. “May, are you still there?” He coughed into the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Look, I’m sorry May. I didn’t mean it like it came out. Listen… are you there? May?”
She spoke. She sounded muffled and distant, but it was unmistakably her voice. “Yes John, I’m here and I heard you,” she said. “And you’re right, you know. What kind of person drives out into something they hate? I don’t know, John. I really don’t know what kind of person does that. I do that though. I do that every day of my goddamn life. I do it with you, I did it with her, I’m doing it now,” she said. “So I guess I don’t know what kind of person I am. I wish I did. I mean, I wish I knew what kind of person does that.”
“May, what are you talking about?” he asked.
“I don’t know… I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I love you John, I do,” she said. “And I loved her. I loved her so much.”
“Aw, hell May…”
“I’m sorry John. I don’t mean to say things like that. It’s this weather. I just hate this weather,” she said.
“It’s all right May, really it is.”
“No it isn’t! Do you know why I hate thunder, John? Do you know why?”
“No May, no you’ve never really said why.”
“It’s because you can’t hide from it! If I was afraid of lightning then at least then I could hide in a basement, somewhere without windows and lock myself away. I wouldn’t ever see it there! I wouldn’t even know it was happening if I was there! But thunder is something you can’t hide from. You can’t see thunder, but you can hear it, and you can’t hide in a basement from that!”
“You could stuff your ears with cotton or-”
“No! No you couldn’t! You could be the deafest man in the entire world and still feel thunder! It cuts though you like cannon shot and lets you know that it is there and it will always be there and that you can never, ever hide from it!” She was gasping for breath in between sobs. There was a banging and May shouted at someone. John walked to the kitchen table and picked up the mug of coffee. He took a gulp and the lukewarm liquid splashed uncomfortably in his stomach. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day.
“May? May listen, I want you to relax, all right? I want you to relax and stop crying. Can you do that? May?” She coughed and choked on a sob. Her breathing began to slow and she exhaled loudly. “John. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about all this.” He laughed. “May, it’s all right. Everyone gets a little overwhelmed sometimes.”
“No John, no it isn’t that. I’m not sorry about that at all,” she said.
“Then what, May?” he asked.
She sighed. “It was raining that night wasn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It was raining,” she said. “I remember it was raining.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, May,” he said. “Come home.”
“You’ve never had a problem with sleeping through the rain.” He took a gulp of his coffee. It was cold and bitter.
“You never have. I couldn’t sleep that night… I was so tired! I was so tired, John, and I couldn’t fall asleep. I was just waiting for the thunder to come, all night waiting for the thunder to come. I couldn’t sleep and so I climbed out of bed and went into her room,” she said. “Do you remember me leaving?”
“No, May. I didn’t wake up.”
“I suppose I knew that… but anyway, I went into her room, and the window was open. Rain was coming in, not a lot, but it was coming in and the room was so cold.” she said. “She was asleep though. Even with the thunder and the rain and she was asleep.”
“Come home, May. Just come home and we can talk about this, all right?”
“I can’t come home, John. Don’t you get it now? I can’t come home.”
The telephone was heavy in his hand. “So what now, May? What now?”
“I’m so sorry, John. I’m so sorry. I’ve got to go now.”
“Where are you going?”
“There’s a field outside, right across the way from the Shell station. I think I’m going to go out there and wait,” she said.
“I think that’s a good idea, May. I think that’s a very good idea.” He hung up the phone.
The kitchen was silent and empty. He picked up the cold coffee, went over to the sink and poured it down the drain. He looked out the window and saw that it was beginning to rain. He went to the refrigerator and looked inside. He wasn’t hungry, but he grabbed a pickle from a jar and bit into it. It was cold and tart and he realized with a sudden jolt of adrenaline that he was going to be sick. He lurched over to the sink and threw up what little there was in his stomach. He wiped his mouth on a hand rag and let it drop to the floor. Rain was gently tapping on the window. He turned and left the kitchen. He trudged slowly up the steep stairs of his house and walked through the first door on the left. The large bed in the middle of the room was unmade and a pile of dirty clothes lay in a corner.
He turned and walked across the hall and into another room. The floor was dusty and the air smelled a little like mothballs and talcum powder. There was a crib on one side of the room, and he went over to it and looked down. It was empty with the exception of a small embroidered pillow and a stuffed owl. He grabbed the pillow and laid down next to the crib. The hardwood floor was cold and uncomfortable. He placed the pillow under his head and closed his eyes.

Ophelia

A Note For My Dear (And potentially estranged) Readers:
Awhile Back I began writing a story about a made-up woman and a egotistical writer. I posted those things on this blog and then hated every word I wrote. I then ask you, my closest friends, to disregard any beginning involving apartments, fish, dreams involving horribly thin train metaphors,and made up women and instead try this very new (albeit pretentious and underdeveloped) beginning to 'Ophelia'.




Stephanie Mersault gazed quietly at the face of her brother as he read to her from a book she had read many times before. His voice was calm and deep, the sound of a childhood lullaby heard in a half remembered moment of nostalgia. It did not crack and it did not waver; it held strong to the course plotted by its master, its even monotone cutting clear and bright through waves of fever. It was the voice of a man in complete control of his own world; a man absent of doubt. She realized that this voice was the one thing that she would miss, and the last thing she would ever wish to hear.
She coughed. A spatter of red, a dizzying spiral downward.
He stopped reading and looked up. A look of concern began to spread across his face, but she waved it away and struggled to catch her breath. “I’m… all right Eli…keep reading…please.” His gray eyes flashed fluorescent as they flicked back to the book. He read quietly, and she closed her eyes, falling again into the sound of his voice. She was alone, in some warm place untouched and deep inside.
There was a banging at the door, and a woman’s voice screeched. “Eli! Unlock this door immediately! You have no right to keep me out! She is my daughter, Eli, my baby girl! I need to be there! I need to be there when-” The voice stopped, stumbling to a halt before the remainder slipped out. A throat was cleared. “I need to be there when she dies. Eli, please open this door.”
Eli had stopped reading. He looked towards his sister’s bed and watched for the rising of her chest. He closed the book and gently placed it on the pillow beside her. He stood up, ran his fingers through his dark brown hair and walked towards the door. He pushed aside the wicker chair he had wedged under the doorknob, and swiftly opened the door. His mother rushed by him and into the room, her normally kempt hair a wild and vicious thing. She knelt beside her daughter’s bed and grasped her pale hand. “Stephanie, I’m-”
“It’s too late mother. She’s dead.”
Mrs. Mersault whipped around, her face turning purple in quiet rage. “You little bastard, you-“
“That is quite enough.”
“You’ve taken her from me! You’ve taken my darling girl from me!”
Eli laughed. It was a cold and foreign thing. “You did this to yourself, so don’t point that bony finger at me. You never cared for Stephanie before, so don’t start pretending now. It’s disgusting to watch you try.” Mrs. Mersault stood up, her entire body shaking with rage.
“You contemptible brat. I loved Stephanie more than any mother ever could!”
“She didn’t see it that way, and neither do I. I’m going to ask you to leave, and you will do as I say. If you don’t, I won’t hesitate to throw you out of this house myself. “
“You wouldn’t lay a finger on me!”
“You know that isn’t true.”
Mrs. Mersault stared at her son and then brusquely walked out of the room. There was a clatter of heels in the hall, the sound of her descent and then the slam of the front door.
Eli sat down on his sister’s bed and brushed a stray strand of blonde hair off of her face. Her blue eyes were closed, and with a sudden pang of sadness Eli knew that he would never see them again.

She had left everything to him, the house, her small fortune, everything. Eli had accepted it quietly and just as quietly gave most of it away. The only thing he kept was the house.
It was a small home, nestled in the valley of a quiet New England township. It was elegant in its confusion and had been praised by various visitors for its striking resemblance to an observatory. An old friend of Stephanie’s had once told her that there nothing else that could possibly fit her so perfectly, that this unconventional home was the only thing that could possibly contain her. She had laughed and said, “You’re absolutely wrong. This is the only place where I have ever felt truly free.”
Stephanie Mersault had been a woman of modest fame. A musical genius, she had written music for three films, conducted a well known chamber orchestra for two years, had composed several original pieces, all of which received glowing praise from several big names, and had discreetly aided in the composition of well known musical giant Marcel Gideon’s magnum opus Koshka. She had been described as one of the greatest composers alive, a burning sun.
Then she wrote M.
It had premiered on a Sunday in January three years before her death. It was a small piece, written for one cello and two violins. She had selected the musicians herself, a rag tag group of unknowns. The cello was played by a Mr. Jonah Gerring, a music professor at a small Midwestern University. The two violins were played by a pair of burnouts discovered in the dregs of a failing New England conservatory. After the performance, no one could recall their names.
The crowd had arrived, stocked to the brim with followers of Mersualt, critics of well known publications such as the ever prestigious art rag Literature Abounds! and the major musical authority Minor Notes. The music hall had been filled with the refined babble of the intelligentsia as they waited for the unveiling of what was undoubtedly Miss Mersault’s greatest work.
She had taken the stage under a roar of thunderous applause, her blonde hair tied neatly into a tight bun and her slender frame tucked into a skintight red dress. She was, to many drooling men in the audience that night, the embodiment of seduction. She bowed deeply and the thunder abated. She stared at the music spread before her on the black stand, the musicians sat, their bows poised and ready, and with a flourish described later as the pulling of a trigger, M sprang into existence.
When it was done, Stephanie stood on the stage, her back turned to a bemused crowd. She smiled to Jonah Gerring and his two compatriots; she did not turn to look at the faces of the critics and fans who sat in dark silence behind her. Instead, she turned sharply and, in the company of her three unknowns, exited stage left.
M, once anticipated as the crowning jewel of a young genius’s career, was lambasted. When asked for a comment on the composition, Stephanie had refused, saying: “You don’t care to hear what I have to say. You only want to hear an apology. I don’t apologize for my work.”
After M, she retreated to the safety of her home in her quiet New England township and allowed herself to fade into obscurity. A year after the premier of M, Stephanie Mersault was diagnosed with lung cancer. She refused treatment, electing instead to live her life as she wished, not as her disease demanded. Two years later, in the room where she had built the bullet that killed her career, Stephanie Mersault died.

Meyer

He tapped his fingers on the table, the incessant beat cutting through the evening din of the cafeteria. She flinched with every finger roll and nail click.
“Would you stop that?”
Her eyes were red and wet. Ragged nails bit into the nylon of a nearby baby blue back pack.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“No.”
She blinked back tears and dragged the pack into her lap. She looked around for a moment, eyes self conscious and cheeks flushed. She unzipped the smaller pocket and took out a tube of cherry red lipstick. She applied it without a mirror. Her accuracy surprised him, and, freshly reborn, she looked towards him with a sharp new malevolence. His fingers stopped.
“Well, listen. If you won’t talk, then I will.”
She dragged her pale fingers through her dark hair and exhaled.
“This is the last time I want to see you, understand? Christ, I need a cigarette.”
She laughed.
“See what a poison you are? I haven’t smoked in months, and now, looking at you, all I can think of is how good a cigarette or four would taste.”
A short, old man in a blue stripped polo was eavesdropping from a table across the way.
“Where are you looking? Where are you even looking?”
She spun around and saw the interloper, his thin neck craning forward and a grin splayed guiltlessly across his face. She waved at him and smiled.
“Sir, excuse me? Sir? Can you hear me?” He nodded. “Excellent! Now I’m sure this is all very exciting to listen to, I’m sure it’s the highlight of your day. Really, I’m sure it is! Do you have a name?” He coughed. “Ah, so shy, so shy! It’s all right my dear Stumble John, I’m sure it’s a fairly boring name anyway. Perhaps it’s Frank. Such an ugly name don’t you think? I feel bad for you Frank, living with a name like that. Now, my miserable companion here, my fellow cohort, my Meyer, he has a beautiful name. Musical. Elegant. Exotic even. It’s a shame it doesn’t fit him very well.” She stopped smiling and ran her tongue across her full lips. She closed her eyes and firmly pinched the bridge of her nose. “Frank, watch closely, I don’t want you to miss the burning of one of my most favorite bridges. Are you watching?”
“Ma’am I don’t-”
“Shut up. This is delicate work. I can’t have you distracting me. Sit still and watch.”
She turned back to him. A tear fell on the table. Her hands found a loose paper napkin and began to absently shred it.
“You know, Meyer, I did love you. Even if you never loved me, I really did love you.”
“I know you did.”
She began to sob. “Oh God, oh goddamn it, goddamn it all!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Meyer, oh Meyer, how can you know what that means? How can you ever know what that means?”

Part Three

It was one year after Ophelia’s birth, and Eli Mersault was famous. He had written one book, and after a lengthy search and many refusals, had found a publisher who deemed it exceptional. It was a short book, had a simple name and a simple cover. It had been panned by critics. One man, a longtime art critic of the ever popular Literature Abounds!, wrote a particularly scathing review, calling it “verbal pornography.” He went on to say that “It is a piece of unforgiving brutality. One cannot read this work and expect to find moral enlightenment; one can only read this work and expect to find moral bankruptcy… Mr. Mersault is no longer an author; he is an intellectual sadist.” Upon reading this review, Eli carefully cut it out of the magazine and had it framed.
Many read the book; almost all of them hated it. When discussed among friends and enemies alike, a meaning could not be placed to their hatred. It was there and as intangible as any love for something could be, and while deep down everyone recognized the face of their revilement, none could bring themselves to name it.
He received many letters after publication; some were from people who understood what he had written, what he attempted to put to words, while many were from those who would have him condemned. He received several death threats. He would read them aloud in monotone to Ophelia, and she would sit and listen, drinking in every syllable of violence. He found happiness in these letters, not for the pain they promised, but in the purity of emotion. Late one night, as he lay awake, Ophelia had said: “Eli, it is better that they hate you isn’t it? Hate is the opposite of love…it is a powerful emotion that makes someone feel, to truly live. It is apathy you must fear, apathy towards your existence, towards your work, towards the world. You have given to the world a great gift. You have given them the ability to feel, to be truly alive. You have given them hate, and from that hate, springs love.”

Jacob Wolf was born into great wealth. His mother had inherited a great deal of money from her parents, who had found their wealth in a similarly macabre fashion. His father was a lazy man who hung like a leech upon his mother. Jacob believed it to be a very forced relationship, as if his parents were on a stage, dancing a well rehearsed ballet. They would go through the motions expected by a couple of their stature. Behind the curtain, their façade would crumble and Jacob would witness every china plate thrown, every slap delivered. Jacob would watch with quiet contentment as they attempted to tear each other limb from limb. Around the age of nine he realized that he hated them both passionately. There had been talk of divorce and Jacob had been elated to see that it had remained just talk. Their misery was his sublime pleasure.
Even though Jacob took a great deal of pleasure in the suffering of his parents, he still knew, even from an early age, that he loved his fellow man. He was known as a very kind young man, a young man with great promise, a young man to change the world.
He discovered his love for writing at an early age, and he pursued this passion ambitiously. By the time he enrolled in a prestigious east coast private school he had won three writing awards and had had a story published in the ever prestigious Literature Abounds! His story was well received by critics who found his writing to be “…a saving grace in an otherwise selfish world.” His parents bragged of him at every dinner party they hosted.
He attended the most decorated school in the country and graduated cum laude. A scant four months after graduation he had published his first book, entitled The Glass Man. A week later, Eli Mersault published Sybil. Jacob Wolf read Sybil in one night and hated every word.

Two

One night, he had a dream. He was waiting in an abandoned train station. He was dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit, with black wingtips polished to perfection. By his left side, resting gently on the cracked green and red tiling of the station floor sat a beaten leather suitcase. In his hand he held a silver pocket watch. It had red and black numbers which seemed to melt ever so delicately down the face of the watch. The hour and minute hands were missing, and the second hand seemed to move at an impossibly slow rate. He watched it carefully for several perverted seconds, and then slipped it into his right hand coat pocket. While he had no idea who or what he was waiting for, he knew he could not wait much longer. He looked around the crumbling station, saw its rotting cross beams high overhead, smelled the dead smell of abandonment, and heard the eerie memory of steam whistles as long since arrived trains pulled in. He took his watch out of his pocket and noticed that the numbers had almost entirely melted away. He was running out of time.
Away in the distance he heard the shout of a whistle. His heart beat faster and he felt a sudden flurry of excitement, although he could not say for sure where it came from. He ran to the edge of the platform and looked out onto the ruined tracks to see a long black steam engine limping towards its destination. It arrived impossibly fast, and he ran back from the track and waited eagerly for the passengers to disembark. The station filled with steam and the doors to the passenger cars opened silently. He waited, patiently clutching his beaten leather bag and breathing quietly through his nose. She walked out of the train and onto the platform, dressed in a black knee length pea coat and simple high heels. The steam obscured her face and he struggled to find an angle past it. She walked towards him slowly, clutching a loose leather suitcase in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. Her face remained obscured by the steam. He walked towards her, rabidly searching for her face, until finally the steam enveloped her completely. He ran to where she had been standing last, but all was steam and rotting wood. A breeze whipped through the station, chasing away the fog and leaving only a man in a blue pinstripe suit.
When he woke he did not remember the dream, although he did recognize the bitter taste it had left in his mouth. He turned over in bed and fixed his gaze upon the empty pillow beside him. His dream came back to him in a short hiccup and was once again lost, as dreams half remembered usually are. He sat up and stretched his arms high over his head. He looked about his bedroom and was surprised to notice the lack of humanity present in it. While it was true that there was a human (himself) present within the room, it was also true that the bedroom he had slept in for the past year or so was devoid of humanity. The walls were painted an off white, the floor was a standard hardwood of no particular value, his sheets were cream and his quilt a light blue. Absent on the walls were the framed paintings of Monet, Dali his mother had given to him; absent were the maps of France and Canada he had stolen from a bookstore; absent were the subtle touches he had so readily taken advantage of. He lay back in bed and shifted onto his left side. On his nightstand sat the dried out skeleton of an orchid a woman had sent him. As he recalled, she had sent a letter along with it. It had come in a plain white envelope and inside had said the usual things a fan of short stories and poetry would write. At the time he had received it, it had not meant more to him than any other letter. The orchid had been a lovely gesture however, and in return he had sent this woman an original poem ‘for your enjoyment only.’ She had not written back.
He stepped out of bed and found his tattered, yellow bathrobe. Delicately, yet with a sense of strange urgency, he put on the robe and waded out into his kitchen. He stopped and looked around himself, his eyes fully open for the first time since the death of his fish. The condition of the kitchen was deplorable. Hiding amongst wrappers and half eaten sandwiches he saw cockroaches scurry and earwigs slink from one crumb laden home to another, searching for the perfect residence, for the perfect crumb. He became disgusted with himself, and felt a lump of self pity form in his throat. The thought of self pity however, transformed this thought into the much more manageable emotion of self loathing.
He walked to the sink and reached up towards his cupboard where, hidden in his stack of unfinished writing, lay the letters that served as his only contact to the outside world. They were relics though, for he had not felt the need to hear or speak to the outside world in weeks. He carefully opened the doors of the cabinet. Slowly he slipped his hands inside and let his fingers grope around for the familiar feel of paper. He felt something smooth and cold and realized he was touching the fishbowl. His fingers followed the perfect curve of its glass downward until they came to a soft rest on a large pile of neatly stacked pages. He carefully brought them down. A stack of letters he had kept sat on top of his work. He plucked them off and gingerly set his writing on the countertop next to the sink. Staring at the letters, he walked to his kitchen table and sat down. He slowly read the names on the envelopes, one by one, until he found the name he was looking for.
Ophelia Glass.
He said the name quietly to himself, afraid that someone might hear. He said it again, this time louder. He opened the envelope carefully and read what she had written him. Her handwriting was strange, a rare swirling calligraphy that suggested refined habits, and yet it was just rough enough to taste flakes of tobacco and shots of gin. He closed his eyes and sighed. He longed for her company, longed to hear her voice. It was certainly not out of the realm of possibility to meet her, but he knew that this would be a mistake. The Ophelia he imagined would never be the same Ophelia that had written the letter. He felt another lump of self pity and loneliness creep into his throat, and this time he let it stay. He folded the letter up neatly and placed it back into the envelope. He read her name again. Ophelia Glass. He said it aloud again, tasting the syllables as they fell out of his mouth, Ophelia. Ophelia Glass. He needed her; he needed Ophelia Glass to be real, to be with him, to love him.
With a sudden movement he lurched away from the table and back into the kitchen. He found a pencil and grabbed a piece of paper from his stack of unfinished work. He began to write quickly, creating her as best he could. He wrote about her rough past; how her father had been killed overseas and her mother, a starving artist, had given her to an orphanage. He wrote of the terrors of the orphanage and her subsequent escape. He wrote of her teenage years of her time spent in libraries reading every book she could get her hands on. He gave her individuality, a fiery spirit and a passionate heart. He described her dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes, her long slender frame and femme fatale style. He poured everything he had left into Ophelia Glass, and when it was gone, he collapsed like a limp doll onto the trash covered floor.
He lay on the floor for quite some time, soaking up the coolness of the kitchen tiles until finally, he opened his eyes. Ophelia Glass was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at him with a bemused look on her face. She sighed and smiled.
“Oh my dear, you have done quite a nice job creating me, although I think I would have preferred green eyes to blue.”
He stood up and adjusted his bathrobe.
“Sorry about the apartment…”
She laughed and crossed her legs. Her laugh was elegant and tainted with a hint of smoke. He coughed and sat down next to her at the table.
“Yes well, messes can be cleaned up,” she said “so let’s not dwell on it.”
“So…I could give you green eyes if you’d prefer,”
“No, no darling I was merely pulling your leg is all. Blue is quite a charming color I believe. Now, I think that introductions of sorts are in order, don’t you?” He nodded. “Good, I’ll start,” she cleared her throat and stuck out her hand. “Hello, my name is Ophelia Glass, how do you do?” He grasped her hand and shook. “Nice to meet you Miss Glass. My name is Eli. Eli Mersault. Have we met before?” She laughed, “Perhaps once.”

One

He was alone. Or, at least, mostly alone. He had a goldfish in a small bowl that kept him company at night in his small three room apartment, although recently the goldfish had begun to turn an unnatural shade of pink, and this worried the man. As it was his only companion, desperately wanted it to stay alive, to live with him until his hair turned gray, until his eyesight grew dim, until his dying day, and then, as the fish would surely die of a broken heart to see it’s masters demise, it too would pass and come to rest alongside the Man in his deep and peaceful grave.
When the color of the fish’s scales turned from gold to that pale pink, he carried the fish around the apartment with him in its small glass bowl, periodically checking to make sure it was still languidly following its well worn water track. It was beside him when he cooked, when he was reading, when he slept and when he bathed. As the Man had groceries and other necessities delivered, he had little need to leave the apartment and as such, spent every waking and sleeping hour in the company of the fish. He only ever left the flat to drop manila envelopes stuffed with stories and poems into the blue and brown mailbox that lived on the curb just outside his building. This was the only time he was ever apart from the fish, and during that seemingly endless journey down four flights of stairs (the elevator had broken years ago) and out into the city, he held back a constant and bitter wave of anxiety. It was only upon his return to the flat, only when he laid his eyes upon his silent friend, that this wave subsided and peace was found.
He was a writer or moderate renown, having spent the better part of his young life honing his craft. While he had never written anything of length or, in his opinion, true merit, he had written a great deal of well received short stories, published in the likes of The Chronicle and Literature Abounds! He had received many letters from admirers, mostly women, but he never responded to them. He would read them, carefully and slowly, and when he was done he would close his eyes and create their faces, their lives and their futures. It was a ritual that made his existence seems fuller, more populated by those who would care, and less by the sound of passing cars and clacking shoes far below his window.
Along with the usual fare of pulp and poetry, the man had been working on a collection of short stories. This was perhaps a misguided attempt at emulating his favorite author, and while the ideas had come easy and quick, they had been nearly impossible to put to paper. He had set the number of stories for this collection at nine, and during the writing of the fourth story he had looked over at the fish bowl and found, much to his horror, the his only friend had succumbed to his strangely subtle pink sickness.
He left the fish in the bowl for days, carrying it around as he had in a diluted and strange attempt at preserving what little contact he had left with reality. When the bowl began to smell, he brought it into the bathroom and flushed the foul smelling water, and his friend, down the drain. There was no eulogy, no lovingly cared for grave, and when it was done he placed the bowl in the highest cabinet he could find and then went to his room and laid down.
For weeks he lived in a grief induced coma of sorts. He was awake; he cooked, cleaned, bathed and wrote, but was unaware of all of these happenings. His appearance had begun to deteriorate. All of his life he had been a well kempt person; clean shaven, well dressed and polite. His loneliness and waking coma had created visually disturbing kind of metamorphosis, and he found himself disregarding all aspects of his appearance. He grew the outline of a beard, and when he dressed, he dressed as if someone was holding a gun up to his head and telling him to “Hurry! Quickly! Now!” He was the antithesis of the butterfly with its transformation from crawling horror to beauty. His cocoon yielded a grim deaths head, not a glowing monarch.
His collapse from gentle, albeit fragile, happiness had been a sure and swift one. Eventually, his loneliness became too much, and he became a man that was alive, but was unaware of its humanity. Suicide was considered, as it often is in such cases of hopeless despair, but he had neither the courage nor the proper knowledge to properly execute such a delicate maneuver. He abandoned his collection of short stories and eventually writing entirely. After some time of receiving calls from various press men asking for interviews, asking where he had gone, the man snipped his telephone line and piled a large pile of unfinished work in the highest cupboard, next to the fishbowl. Having severed all ties with what made him who he was, the man resigned himself to a relentless pursuit of nothing. Relative spontaneity begot classical routine begot rote memorization begot cold apathy begot humdrum monotony. Life had become a black sleep, one to never wake up from. His consciousness had become moot, and, in the years to come, he would be unable to recall this purest form of grief, although it was during this black and hopeless period that the most important person of his life was beginning to take shape.