A Letter in Fiction
By Mark James
Fell asleep locked in arms and awakened with only two. A morning, shaded gray, greets and hangs outside the bay window. The sun is on vacation, and so is he. A yawn, a stretch, pain from too much sleep on the left. One foot hangs off the bed, scrubbing its side. Birds argue outside and ideas begin to enter his thoughts. Alone. No. Characters half formed fall about him, heavy like wet leaves. There is a nervous excitement a dread that only he knows and only the pages can answer, who are these people? what do they want? a love story; he is trying to write a love story. No happy endings here. That much is known. The how is what matters, the doing must be done. 10:03 and he is still in bed looking out of the grey window.
Rising from a shelved mattress, the groaning wood becomes alarm to the grey tabby beneath. She follows behind her benefactor. Out from the blue and into the yellow, no sun just colored walls that watch quietly. A scoop, a pushed button and dark matter spills into a green mug. Hot. The aroma peels away the remaining haze left behind by sleep. Sugar, cream, and nothing in between. Slurp, gulp, swallow, a brief moment of happiness tinged with pleasure then he leans down to pet the grey, what do I do today? Unis and Algernon call from an unfinished manuscript: "Yuh forget about we, or what?" No, never, he answers. Reaching for his tools. Review time. Slurp, gulp, swallow.
Any progress is progress when writing. The day belongs to them. Time spent with her and him proves rewarding. They speak and move and make the papers billow with breath, fingers march across the keyboard like marching ants in heat; Thoughts on Paper will welcome the contribution. Feed my soul, put me to bed and wake me again in the morning.
Another grey day.
In the belly of the beast below, the washing tumbles, digesting, breaking down and churning. The cool air of the day plays with his toes, it enters through the windows and scrubs the blue. Matters of fact are colored black, I can't lie about that; today is the day of addressing the change of Unis Grant (yesterday she made pact with the devil) yes, this is still a love story, unorthodox, but love is many things...
Names. I have no names for the next two characters. As of now they are malformed. For me names are key ingredients to giving them form and face. Place and time is no matter this time around, the snapshots I have in my mind only allows me to see them from behind. The male sits facing the water (singing sirens and faces in fire hang about him), no name. The female is falling from a high place (her yellow dress only tells me half of what she knows). The cool air still plays with my toes. Above the beneath, the floorboards groan. It's time to write.
Windows, flowers and the sounds of the outside, breath in and out as I move too and fro. Words fall from thin air, this is easy, this is peace perfect. He has good news and I share in it. These are the little things that make life worth living. Money is short and I still wait for the payoff but I am here, and he has good news.
On my way, on my way somewhere and I am not sure how to get there. The grey follows me into today and it's rain washes me, covers me, then holds. I will not worry about tomorrow, the grey will do just fine, I position myself and await inspiration.
And again, and again the sky tore and the rains came, but the living things do not complain, they lap the waster and bathe in it and sink deeper. Tap, tap, drip splatter drain. Those who cannot play in it sleep. Nothing is better than this deep deep craving for summer but anticipation makes for appreciation of the thing to come. No title, and still no names for the man with his back to me or the woman in a yellow dress; I continue to wonder about them and imagine the twisted fate their loves will bring, the grey is gone, the black of night surrounds me like a cave, but I call out in the hopes that the unnamed will speak the rest, hear me and turn to face the page.
