Deus Ex Machina, (6/6)

The Times Book Review had once described Reed and Harold as “literary siblings, with Garvey as the younger brother always aspiring to equal his elder. Unfortunately, Brennan’s operating on another plane of sophistication, and as much as Garvey might ape his plots or themes, he’ll always lack Brennan’s understated grace.”

Harold had never forgotten that quote, and ever since it’d been published, Reed smiled at him in a way that suggested he hadn’t, either. Reed was pushing sixty now, but he hadn’t grown haggard and wrinkled. He had aged with what Harold bet he thought of as an “understated grace”. The smug bastard, with his hardly-thinning silver hair in a wind-blown part, as if he’d just come laughing off his yacht. No unsightly lines on his face, just a pair of avuncular lines about his mouth which could only be gained through hearty laughter, Harold imagined.

Deus Ex Machina, (5/6)

“Hey, Harry?” Natalie called from downstairs.

“Yeah?”

“Reed Brennan called back about the release party. He said he’d love to come, and he’d make sure Cindy wouldn’t wear That Sweater. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Uh… no idea, honey!”

Deus Ex Machina, (4/6)

The next morning, Harold sat at his computer in a contented stupor, looking at the manuscript. Ryan had said to get some edits back pronto, and that’s what Harold intended to do. He at least wanted to make some kind of impression on the text before it was loosed on the world, claim some small ownership. His blinking cursor accused him as he selected a sentence and rewrote it, nothing more than a thesaurus edit. Even that felt like throwing acid in the face of Helen of Troy. Practically wincing, Harold scrolled through the manuscript randomly, adding bits or rephrasing things, never deleting. After an hour’s work – during which he never even approached the creative trance that made writing worthwhile – he saved, attached, and sent the file back to the publisher.

He only had a few minutes to sit glumly before the phone rang. He picked up and held the handset a cautious distance from his ear, in case Ryan planned another outburst.

Deus Ex Machina, (3/6)

“A novel? When?”

“Just now, that’s what I’ve been doing all day.”

“And you didn’t say anything? Oh, Harry, that’s terrific! But – but how are you sitting still right now? When you’ve finished something, you’re always, I don’t know… frisky.”

What Harold thought was, well, wife of mine, that’s because I didn’t actually write this book I claim to have finished. But what Harold said was, “It’s just – it’s taking a little while to sink in, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’ll paw at you later, right now I need to know if you’ll read it. You’ve always been first, and I just don’t know what to think of this thing.”

Deus Ex Machina, (2/6)

“Who was that?”

“Huh?” A dazed Harold swung his head and saw Natalie leaning in the doorway, wearing one of his old flannel button-ups and watching him carefully. “Oh, just Ryan wielding his whip.”

“Ah. Trying to squeeze blood from a stone, huh?”

“Something like that.” Harold decided to check his email – Ryan had said he’d sent something. He went upstairs to his study and booted up the computer. Just what the hell had he been going on about? Excitability like that suggested some premium, designer drugs, and he couldn’t afford that, considering what Harold paid him. The welcome screen came on, and Harold punched in his password, which was ‘nitid’ because it was his hapax legomenon. He’d tossed it into Vine Trellis expressly for that purpose. Harold clicked to frequently used programs, then on his email client (grimacing when he noticed his word processor nowhere on the list).

1 Unread Message.

Deus Ex Machina, (1/6)

Shockingly, I couldn’t fill even a short month with my bummer writings. Instead, to take us through the rest of the month, here’s one of my favorite stories I’ve written in the last two years. Hope you enjoy.

Harold glanced at the front page then decided against it, folding the paper and tossing it on the table. He leaned back and slurped coffee, eyes narrowed against the heat. Lots of fans asked him where he got his ideas. It was a preposterous question, naturally, but his favorite answer was the newspaper. They always looked at him funny for a second, like they knew he was pulling their leg, then they said “huh” and took their seat. Harold suspected they felt a bit foolish, because the ones that asked this question were always self-described as “aspiring”, and they were always looking for an excuse why they weren’t published. Maybe they hoped he would confess a fairy or a muse whispered plots to him in quiet moments, but the newspaper? Man, they must think, I get the newspaper! Damn!

At the moment, Harold desperately wished that he did get his ideas from the newspaper. He had not written a single usable word in three months, precisely ninety-three days. This drought concerned him more than barren wasteland that was his sex life. Harold and his wife had not been conjugal for something like sixty-eight days – it would have been more had the crafty Harold not suggested to Natalie that perhaps sex would undam his creative energies. His muse had rolled her eyes but agreed, mainly, Harold suspected, so she could get a brief respite from his constant bitching about his creative impotence. Unfortunately for Harold, all he had been able to think about was this creative impotence until suddenly the ‘creative’ was removed from the equation entirely.

36th & Clark, -5°F (2/2)

Part 1

From the moment she opened the door, the night became a bizarre procession of alternative choices, left turns taken where before only rights, leading them further and further into unfamiliar territory until she stood at the window watching for his cab. He sat on the couch, still wearing his coat because he thought it signalled his intention to respect her wishes. Usually she sat beside him. He could feel her phantom curled up against his ribs. He rubbed his hand against the upholstery and tried to think of something to say, the perfect phrase that could save this, reverse time and undo what had been done. But that would be just like him, wouldn’t it? He could try to trick her, he supposed, but then there was the off chance she’d fall for his bullshit. Suddenly he wanted her worse than ever, now that she was standing cold and erect by the window and wanted nothing to do with him. He still felt like he should say something. Better than listening to the wind rushing past the window.

36th & Clark, -5°F (1/2)

A man and woman walked arm in arm down the street. The end of another long night of drinking, music, shouted conversations between friends in dim bars. The New Year neared, and in preparation for those festivities and in recognition of the temperature, the city was empty of revelers. But they were out, and headed to her place, leaning into the wind which howled down 72^nd street.

All The News That’s Fit to Print

(Continuing our depressing February theme)

Hatred boiled in him, toxic and astringent, purifying and terrifying with its depth. He walked through crowds he did not need, brushed arms with people he was suddenly sure lacked a reason. He was not exempt – his own meanness wearied him. So far as he wanted anything, he wanted to pull shut a heavy door, seal himself in like the pharaoh in his tomb, and lay down on crisp white sheets, pristine and lonely as snowfields stretching away into a country darkness. He would sleep if he could, and if not he would stare at the wall and blink when he remembered to. Other than that, he wanted nothing. He recrossed his legs, and turned the page. “All the news that’s fit to print.”

The Quitter

(In honor of the most depressing month, February, I’m dragging out the most depressing things I’ve written the last few years.)

He gave up. He flat quit, and not just his job – everything. One morning he woke, saw gray sky out his window, and refused. Didn’t leave bed until that gray sky went away, which meant dark,  so he lay in bed all the day and thought about machinery cast off in a junkyard, charge in the batteries dissipating. He thought about decline, ten counts, doomsday and depression. He thought about nothing for long stretches. More went on in a gray sky than he’d known: there were subtleties of light which failed to move him. Just light gray fading to darker gray. When the sky finally faded to black, and he lay with breath unheld, waiting for the credits to drop down out of the clouds so he knew who was responsible for this shitty show, his girlfriend got home.  There he was, exactly as she’d left him, not doing a thing, though with the sheets tangled over his legs, he technically could have been modelling drapery for an artist who now hid in the closet. Concern was her first response. He checked that with apathy. Puzzlement came next, and he countered with ennui. Anger finally arrived, and he replied with silence. She went away, slammed pots and banged cabinets in the kitchen, wielded utensils like they were weapons. He hadn’t eaten all day, but wasn’t hungry. Appetite was wanting, simply, and he wanted nothing. He was empty, but satiated, and so would leave hunger to those with a stake in tomorrow. He had no stake – no steak, either. He wondered if he wasn’t hungry after all.