Here's that story from before, now finished. Well, it meets the length requirement for the class anyway. It still awaits workshopping and I'm not sure whether to use this ending or one of the other two I had in mind.
He massaged his temples as he stared at the blank page, and it stared back at him, casting its blue light indifferently upon his expressionless face from the screen. Thus it had been for some hours, he knew not how many as he feared looking at the clock now would surely discourage him. He supposed that, from a certain frame of mind, he ought to be impressed: normally he needed something quite interesting indeed, like a good, clear idea or an impending deadline to get him this focused, but he had to keep his promise. Not just the usual one that, come hell or high water, he would have the writing done when it was supposed to be done, but the special one he’d made this time, that he would not put himself through another sleepless night that would weigh upon him for days. And yet, here he was, at this unreasonable hour on the weekend, long before his life hung in the balance, but once again losing sleep.
This was the sixth time he’d sat down and resolved to do it. The other times had all ended the same way: staring at a blank page late at night. Sleep now, he said to himself. It’s long past ten and you need your rest for tomorrow. It’s not due for weeks. For days. The other times had all started the same way, too: exactly how they had ended. Eager for something, anything to go on, he moved the cursor down, down to where the browser sat waiting at the bottom. He would go to the chat room, the forum. He would check up on them. Talk with them. They were creative types, weren’t they? Some of them? They were his friends, too. They would have ideas. He would ask them, and they would give him suggestions, advice, support.
His mouse stopped as it approached the browser for the sixth time. No. He knew how that would end. Once he opened that, it was over. He would go to sleep with a blank page, perhaps a few words typed but they were always deleted before the end. He would go to sleep, knowing it would not be needed done for days yet. It was okay. One day, it would not be needed done for hours yet.
What he needed was something, anything to get him started. It was always easier once it was started. Perhaps he could get up and go for a walk to clear his head. It would not be over then. There would be no one to talk to, no one to distract him. And yet it would be killing time, and the page would still be blank when he returned. You may sit still, he replied to himself. Your legs may ache and you will feel the urge to be anywhere, anywhere else but this chair, and you may leave as soon as something, anything is on that page.
He sighed. That was part of the problem. He could put anything on that page. Anything. Not quite, not literally anything, but still anything. Anything. What if he put the wrong thing? What if the thing he put there could not go on for as long as it needed to? What if, then, he had to spend hours agonizing, pouring, finding every little world he could insert, every minute way he could stretch the tormented thing far beyond its natural life? What if, then, he had to throw the whole thing away, and start over with a different thing that would last longer? What if the thing was a bad thing to begin with, and he embarked upon an entire length of uselessness that would abhor whoever else might read it?
There were a million other questions, literally. He would spend that many hours stretching the thing further than it ought to be stretched. He would spend that many hours coming up with a new thing, as laboriously and tediously as it took him to come up with the first. He would spend that many hours thinking of all the ways the thing might be abhorred. And he would spend a million hours thinking of answers, in hours, to all these questions. And still, not one word appeared on the page.
He leaned back in his chair, casting his eyes around the room. Perhaps that was the end. There was no television, no one else in the room to speak to, but he had looked away from the staring contest, he had blinked and could now feel how heavy his eyes were, the soft burning under the lids as he hadn’t noticed before. That was the feeling of defeat, where part of him realized he’d lost, that he was getting off task, while simultaneously another part of him didn’t realize it at all hadn’t noticed the transition from focus to distraction. His gaze passed unalarmedly over the spider in the corner overhead. It was always there. Spiders were never alarming when they were always there, only when they moved. And not even this one, if it moved: it was just one of those spindly, insubstantial house spiders that haunted corners everywhere, inconsequentially, that some called Daddy Long-Legs (though he knew this to be incorrect.)
He might have flipped open the browser, pulled up their article to remind himself of their proper name, but he was too busy thinking about whether or not the spider could see him from all the way up there. It was really only about five feet away, but to the spider that had to be like standing on the face of El Capitan, and he would be like one of the giant Sequoias below. Would a spider even need to see that far? Their webs could just tell them where the food was, by touch, right? On the other hand, maybe they needed to see birds or something coming. That would make sense, though then again he’d never heard of a spider trying to dodge a bird before: birds were probably too fast anyway. He might have gone to look it up, but there was still the bigger question to think about: what would that spider think of him, sitting up there watching him all day?
If the spider was blind enough, he supposed it would never even know he existed, unless he went out of his way to bother it (and why would he?) It would live its entire life up there, eating whatever it was that wispy, insubstantial spiders ate (somewhere he heard it was other spiders, but wouldn’t they have to move around more to do that?), until it died and another, indistinguishable dusty spider came by to take its place on that prime, desirable corner real estate. How long did they even live? If there was a new spider in the corner there every week, or even every day, he doubted he’d even notice. That raised the question of why he never noticed any dead spiders, which would surely pile up if they cycled through that fast, and there surely would have been some in the time he lived here. Then again, looking at them, it wouldn’t be hard to believe that they simply turned to dust when they were done, settling on all the furniture and surfaces below to be swept up later (or left to accumulate in a thin grey layer, as was more likely).
That was probably getting slightly off-topic, though. He’d best be considering the alternative, which was likely more interesting: that the spider could see him after all. All things considered, now that he’d gotten this far, it probably couldn’t. Those spiders never reacted to anything he did, not even if he moved right up close to them, they would not stir: not unless physically disturbed, as by his hand, or his breath. But, again, he was getting away from the main question. Supposing that it could see him, what must it think? It would have to be a very smart, calculating spider, after all. It would know enough to see this giant moving about below it, and not run in fear like any small animal. It would be confident sitting in its corner, secure in its knowledge that no giant had a good reason to do anything other than leave it alone. Perhaps, then, it really was watching him, and the spectacle of his daily motions was entertaining or awe-inspiring enough that the spider could sit in that corner for ever and ever and remain content.
But then again, that view was probably self-indulgent, and he should not waste time flattering himself. Ridiculous, really. Perhaps, more likely, the motion of giants was only incidental to the affairs of spiders, something that happened in the background of more pressing matters. Their realpolitik and grand strategies would have to occupy their time, where the creatures below were distractions to be ignored except in the unlikely and unexpected event they decided to intervene. No, the spiders would have to be watching their neighbors, coveting each others’ precious corner spots, waiting, hoping for one of them to succumb to time and melt into dust, so they may rush forth and claim it before the others. Perhaps they even murdered or devoured each other over this, and he never noticed because he was looking somewhere else, or asleep. And since they all looked so similar, he’d never noticed the outcome of these battles and land grabs, aside from when one corner was suddenly empty, and no matter where he looked the missing spider could not be accounted for.
But, even if the spiders worked on such a petty mentality, each desiring the place of the other, then they still had to be smart enough at least to account for that. If each spider wanted any place but their own, and they realized that their rivals wanted to take any other place but their current holdings in turn (as surely they did, if they feared and suspected each other), then surely the spiders must know how to turn this to their advantage. They would surely have alliances: one spider would seek out whoever desired his place (or her place, you never could tell with spiders) the most, and agree to relinquish it in return for assistance in seizing, in turn, their own most desired corner.
Yet, if that were the case, then, by logical extension, where would the conflict even come from? Surely at least two of them would mutually desire each others places and simply trade, and even if not, they would all eventually realize they could simply exchange places until everyone was where they wanted to be. But, he realized, he had overlooked one possibility. If two spiders desired the same corner, then naturally they would come into conflict over its control. And, besides, he was probably giving the spiders far, far too much credit. Even if every one of them had only a single, exclusive desired corner, and they made a peaceful exchange, they probably wouldn’t realize until they got there and settled in that they were no happier there than where they were before. Then, of course, they would feel bitter and betrayed at having made the trade, and would seek revenge, and the conquest of untested corners. Soon enough, their short generations would come to an end, and their successors in the corners will never remember the lessons hard-learned by their forebears.
Yet, there was a simpler explanation still. Perhaps the spiders had already worked out their differences, and lived where they wanted, or at least had a compromise for lesser, but still suitable spots. After all, he’d seen no evidence of a conflict, and even if such evidence would probably have gone unnoticed, it was more rational to operate on what he’d seen than to just assume the existence of something he hadn’t. But who could say? They might be fighting or scheming, they might not. Either way, they probably paid him little mind.
He stood up. Then, stepping around the table to that corner, he stared at the spider, still immobile, for a second, before reaching up and seizing it in his hand. They were so insubstantial, like dust. Even if it could bite, he would never notice. He carried it to the door, opened it, stepped outside. Then, carefully, he deposited the spider upon the wall, where it began crawling upwards instantly.
Now here he was, outside. He stepped away from the door, towards the sidewalk, breathing the cold night air. Might as well, he said to himself, it would clear his head. The streetlights cast everything in their harsh, yet just barely inadequate yellow, but soon he was past them. The path down the hill into the park was nearby, lit by the cooler, bluer lamps, and then no lamps at all. Just the backwash from the city.
He was alone in the park, he could soon tell, though it was hardly surprising, given the hour. Things rustled in the bushes as he walked past, but he could not see them: he had little doubt what they thought of him, though, so he didn’t think too hard on it. Soon he had passed through the trees and onto the lawns of the park, where only a few light posts along the paths created islands in the dark. He headed towards the center, furthers from the lights of the surrounding buildings, from which he could still, at times, hear talking from the open windows.
There were still ducks out on the big pond, or some kind of birds at least, it was hard to tell. He could only really see them in how they blocked the distant streetlights reflecting off the water. They were all clumped together into a big island at the center of the pond (so that’s what they did at night), aside from a few still swimming around the edges, who did not seem to notice as he walked by on the footpath. Maybe they just couldn’t see him, or maybe they just didn’t care. They were, after all, park ducks.
It vaguely reminded him of a documentary he’d seen years ago about penguins in Antarctica. Tall penguins, all huddled in a big black island in the blizzard to survive the cold, each one slowly circulating from the center to the edge and back to spread the warmth around. He breathed out, and could see his breath in the air from the light of a nearby post. Well, it was chilly out here tonight alright, but probably not Antarctic chilly. Though, what must that be like? When it was cold enough to snow, he knew that the air burned in a way, on his face and ears, in much the same way his hand froze when under the hot water tap. Things so cold or hot you couldn’t tell which. He wondered if, once it got that cold, you could even tell the difference when it got even colder. Did sixty below sting any more than negative ten did? It would probably kill someone faster, he supposed, tire them out from all that shivering, but once you were all numb, would you even notice how fast you stopped moving.
That was a bit morbid, though. People in Antarctica had warm things to wear, gloves and long underpants, layers upon layers, those coats with the big hoods and all the air pockets built into them for extra insulation. Probably a lot warmer than what he was wearing, but these clothes did alright here. But Antarctica, that would be an interesting place to visit. Not the frozen wilderness, with nothing around for miles (though perhaps there was something to that, despite the hardship…), but rather the scientific camp at the South Pole. He’d seen something on TV about it once, too (or maybe it was the internet). It looked like a bunch of tin cans and shipping containers on stilts, sitting atop numerous large tunnels carved deep into the ice. All their supplies had to be flown in, since they hadn’t quite figured out the secret to growing food through science alone yet. They had a lab working on it down there, lots of little sprouts in plastic cups under heat lamps. He’d seen that on the tour video. But not yet. For now, once every so often, the great big behemoth from the US Air Force touched down on the snowy runway, bearing all their food (the tour guide had joked that it was mostly cup ramen.) And yet, despite all that, they still had high-speed wifi down there.
He came to the end of the pond, the path no longer following its curve, but rather pointing to the center of the park. As he walked, he tried to imagine Morgan Freeman describing that black island of ducks in the pond at night. He would probably have a nice analogy prepared for that behavior, though he wasn’t sure whether the man wrote it himself or if it was simply on a script prepared for him. What had Morgan Freeman said in that interview? That secret to a voice with as much gravity? Something to do with frequent yawning, if he remembered correctly, though he didn’t feel like trying at the moment. For now, it was probably best not to think of yawns.
Here he came at last to another dark island, amidst all the lights of the city. This far from the nearest lamp, he could see the stars. Not all of them, for the lights still erased a big blue band along the bottom of the sky, but many more than usual. It occurred to him he’d never learned what any of them were called, aside from that the brightest ones out were more likely than not actually planets, though he had no idea which ones. Maybe he’d look that up once he was back home. Or maybe he’d find someone who knew to come out here with him some time and point them out. He squinted, trying to see if he could make out more stars in the background. This would probably have been better if the moon was new: instead, tonight, it was nearly full, blocking out the sky almost as much as one of the streetlight. But, looking up at the light side of the moon, he supposed he was facing the things that had been left up there. Now, there would be another interesting place to visit. What would it be like, sitting up there, looking down at the big blue giant below? Only a few people in the whole world knew what that was like. Some of them were dead now. He’d heard in the news all the time about private enterprises to go up there, making progress all the time. Perhaps one day, in his lifetime. Then again, it would probably be too expensive. But maybe, maybe one day.
He looked towards the other end of the park. There were more trees that way, and a path through them that went alongside the highway for a long, long way. Almost like a little nature trail in the midst of this everything: he’d seen it on a map somewhere. Wouldn’t that be an adventure? It was much closer than the moon, or Antarctica, that was for sure. That was the thing about these places, like this park. These spaces where you could go down a hill, or around a corner, and suddenly you could believe you were somewhere else, entirely different. That was a great idea for a story, too, though it had been done countless times before. Stepping out of just out of sight of a familiar place, and winding up somewhere new.
Just right over there: it was a few hundred feet, but right over there. If he wanted to, he could just walk right over there and walk for miles on that trail, pretending. Or just thinking. And that was the thing, something, anything could be over there. It would probably be better if he’d brought a flashlight (safer, too), but in through there he’d never seen before. How far would he get, before he got tired? He would say to himself, sleep now, there is much to do tomorrow and you need your rest. But he’d have to walk all the way back first, in the dark. But maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. It was worth a thought, at least.
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Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 314460 times)