back to writing
There’s a man walking with a limp. It’s exaggerated and seems almost like a description, not a real ailment. The puddles on the ground reflect his vague features: hair so brown and eyes so shallow that they could belong to anyone. An exanimate foot is dragged across a liquid mirror, and the man inside it distorts into layers and ripples.
Everything else is white, like a page. So white, you know it’s not real. He coughs, and unsure of the reason why, he looks around self-consciously.
Finally, he comes to a door. It’s white, with a golden doorknob that looks like it’s never been touched. He extends a shaking, hairy-knuckled hand and swings the door open, shocks at the sight inside.
It’s a young man, no older than 18, sitting in front of a computer. He’s wearing loud pajama pants and big, fluffy cow slippers. The room isn’t white, but unsettlingly ordinary. There’s a desk, a bed, a couch, a stereo and even a stain on the carpet. The man limps his way inside, awed by how real it seems. “Who are you?” He asks, afraid of receiving an answer.
“It’s funny,” the kid responds, “I never really assign my characters a distinct voice. When I’m writing or reading, anything anyone says just comes out in my own voice. Or Woody Allen’s.”
The man can only stare, perplexed.
“You know, I’d never met a fictional character before. I had always hoped it’d be one of mine.”
“F-f-fictional?”
“Oh, yes.” He chuckles, amused at the man’s naiveté, “you’re Melville. A bad guy from a short story I wrote when I was sixteen.” Here he stops, looking back at the past, or perhaps the stain on the carpet. “Back then, anyone with a limp was scary.”
Everything else is white, like a page. So white, you know it’s not real. He coughs, and unsure of the reason why, he looks around self-consciously.
Finally, he comes to a door. It’s white, with a golden doorknob that looks like it’s never been touched. He extends a shaking, hairy-knuckled hand and swings the door open, shocks at the sight inside.
It’s a young man, no older than 18, sitting in front of a computer. He’s wearing loud pajama pants and big, fluffy cow slippers. The room isn’t white, but unsettlingly ordinary. There’s a desk, a bed, a couch, a stereo and even a stain on the carpet. The man limps his way inside, awed by how real it seems. “Who are you?” He asks, afraid of receiving an answer.
“It’s funny,” the kid responds, “I never really assign my characters a distinct voice. When I’m writing or reading, anything anyone says just comes out in my own voice. Or Woody Allen’s.”
The man can only stare, perplexed.
“You know, I’d never met a fictional character before. I had always hoped it’d be one of mine.”
“F-f-fictional?”
“Oh, yes.” He chuckles, amused at the man’s naiveté, “you’re Melville. A bad guy from a short story I wrote when I was sixteen.” Here he stops, looking back at the past, or perhaps the stain on the carpet. “Back then, anyone with a limp was scary.”