• First fiction: Missing

    This is my first attempt at fiction since the mid-1980s… unless you count exaggeration. What the heck. I thought I’d try something different.

    —

    No.

    His eyes were closed. He was shaking his head, willing disbelief, and not succeeding.

    Please God, no.

    Another book was missing from his shelf.

    He never knew for sure when it happened first.

    Jack was looking for one of his favorite books to loan to a friend. The friend was an avid reader, and Jack was surprised the guy never heard of this one. Only it wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere. It wasn’t on the shelf or in his apartment. The guy was a good friend and he hated to break a promise, so he drove out to the local bookstore. When it wasn’t there he checked the one across town. It wasn’t on the shelves or their online catalog. When he got home he checked the author’s web site, or tried anyway. Nothing… not the book, not the site. He checked the online stores again, searching by author instead of title. A single book, out of print, available used and essentially free (plus shipping and handling) was the only book he found. He didn’t recognize the title. He pulled up his favorite book discussion sites on the web, but all links and references to the author and his books were gone, including a glowing review he posted himself a year ago.

    Google revealed a few links to used books for sale, but nothing of the fate of the author himself.

    He grunted with an unspoken question in his head. What the hell happened? The missing book was the author’s first, a runaway success leading to a successful series. He checked his apartment for more missing books but everything was there. Still, he was shaken. Who could he talk to? Who wouldn’t think he was a little crazy? Before, his friends would ask, why he didn’t read the rest of the series? They didn’t understand he didn’t want to ruin the first book with a disappointing sequel.

    It wouldn’t be a problem now.

    Maybe he was crazy.

    Months later another book turned up missing, another favorite. Another author’s fortunes changed, though only he seemed to know. This time he knew exactly when it happened. After the shock of the first time he checked his shelves at least once a day. If his friends didn’t think he was a little weird before, they did now. His preoccupation with his book collection got out to all of his friends on the whisper-net. When you’d rather stare at your bookshelves than go out to the local bar with your friends, word’s bound to get out. It didn’t help his reputation.

    It took another year and two more missing books before the next shock. He’d idly thought about a scene, trying to remember the city it was set in – when the page seemed appeared before his eyes. He realized if he tried, he could recall every word of every missing book. Normally his memory was suspect at best. He often couldn’t tell you the character’s names from the book he was reading. Now it was as if he had a selective photographic memory – for books that no longer seemed to exist. He booted up his PC, an aging Dell he longed to replace with a Mac. It took him longer than he thought (it took a week before his fingers would stop trembling on the keys as he typed) but he got down every word from that first missing book.

    Now what?

    The temptations were obvious, but what kind of person would take advantage of ruined people’s work, even if no one else knew? Was it still plagiarism?

    A favorite author is like a friend you’ve never met. Could he betray the one sided friendship he felt with these people? On the other hand, did he owe it to the pubic to make sure these works of literary art weren’t lost to whatever phenomenon made them disappear? The questions tore deeper as books continued to disappear. The doubt, agony, and moral uncertainty only grew with time.

    Until one day he broke under the overwhelming stress.

    Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to post one of their short stories on his blog.

  • Travel much?

    Clearly, I do not.

    I arrived in Tallahassee Friday night with all of the essentials: my computer, phone, and their cables. However, I did not have the little things; like a brush, toothbrush, or deodorant.

    A sticker on the mirror at the hotel reassured, “Forget anything? Ask for it at the front desk.” So I asked. I can follow instructions. I didn’t think the answer would be “no.”

    Silly, silly boy. I’m so cute, innocent and naive you could just reach out give my cheek a good pinch.

    The highlight of the trip was my mother’s smile shortly after I got there. She’d been out to a movie and did some shopping with my dad Friday, before I got there, and she looked better than I’d seen her in a long time. We did dinner and went back to the hotel to talk and look over the most recent pictures of the kids.

    It was all good, surprisingly good.

    We met for lunch Saturday and went into town for my first tour of the old Capitol building. I’ve been to Tallahassee many times, but I’d never even driven through downtown before.

    After this weekend, I’m not so skeptical of the idea she’s ready to be released to an assisted living facility. The end of our visit makes me all the more hopeful it’s sooner rather than later.

    I left with one of those frozen moments in time, repeating over and over in my mind. The large, secure ward door, and a haunted look in her eyes as it banged closed between us back at the hospital in Chattahoochee.

    I’m trying to focus on the positive though, and there were a few – more than I expected.

  • Drive

    I have a plan. Do you have any idea how odd those words sound in my head, coming from my mouth? Thanks to a gentle nudge from Cheryl, I’m going to try to exorcise a pinch of guilt this Friday by making the long drive up to Chattahoochee to see my mom.

    Let it be known: this doesn’t make me a good son. A good son wouldn’t suffer from mixed feelings. Don’t get me wrong, he’d have them – but they wouldn’t torment him. You see, I don’t want to go. A piece of my soul leaches away every time I go. It’s that kind of place, a place without hope. Resignation reigns… learned hopelessness. It’s like a low-income nursing home for the young and old alike, only there’s nothing wrong with their bodies – other than neglect (mostly self-inflicted). It has that same institutional smell, a smell that greets you before the first hello – a smell that seems to weep: “we’ve given up.”

    I try to bring a smile with me, but it’s hard, and I wonder if she’s perceptive enough to see the effort it takes. It isn’t much of a smile if you have to try. Maybe you’re wondering why I’d go at all. Sorrow and hopelessness are poor companions. It’s ok to ask. I ask myself every time I go. I hope trying shows her one thing, even if it isn’t reassurance: love.

    Someone said love conquers all, but I’ll wager they didn’t say it from an institution for the lost. It’s still something though, and it’s the only thing I have in me to give. So I’m going.

    I just wish it was enough.