Friday Fiction: Come Together

The house was small, and would have been crowded even without the odd collection of people gathered there. Its main feature was books, crammed in cases along all four walls, but there was also a desk, a hospital bed, a couch, a loveseat, a broken down recliner, and a gigantic boxy television. The odd people milled on and around all this, their voices growing from murmurs to questions both curious and impatient.

     They were a very odd lot. The oddest might have been the enormous brown bear wearing a bright red muffler around his neck. He was settled in the broken down recliner, and looking at his fellow occupants with more than ursine intelligence. On the arm of the chair was perched a little man with pointed ears, between three and four feet high, staring intently at the man seated on the love seat opposite him.

     This was because the two of them, the man and (let us face it) the elf, were wearing exactly the same kind of clothes--an eighteenth century suit, with waistcoat, overcoat, buckle shoes, and sugarloaf hat, all in a vivid dark blue. Next to the man in blue (who was fidgeting under this scrutiny) was a somewhat wider young man, in humble brown and white, with a friendly pumpkin grin, staring back in frank curiosity.

     The bear might have been the oddest, that is, if it weren't for a figure clad entirely in armor, with a rough red cloak and pointed helmet. His face was completely inhuman, like a cross between a baboon and chimpanzee, with a muzzle ending in a pointed curling lip. A long bushy beard and a deep-set red eye (the other covered with a patch) made up the rest of his face. He drummed his black nails impatiently on his knee where he sat on a sturdy end table drawn up next to a book-crammed cupboard.

     A boy of about sixteen, with long tangled blonde hair, had picked up the harp that stood next to a computer on the desk. After plucking it and finding it imperfectly tuned, he was sitting on the end of the hospital bed and twisting the pegs with a harp key. His tunic was very poor, and he seemed none too well fed. Shyly, he avoided looking at the others.

     There were no less than five children crowded on the couch. They would be difficult to describe, perhaps because they were chattering away back and forth among themselves without pause or turn, gesturing and leaning toward each other and kicking thoughtlessly. There were three boys and two girls, all about eleven or twelve. It would be hard to pinpoint how, exactly, but there was an air of a past era about them.

     By far the most modern of them all was a young man,  maybe eighteen. His haircut and clothes and his ease with the surroundings declared it. To everyone's surprise, he pulled out the wheeled chair from the desk, sat, and began tapping at the computer. After a few minutes search he gave up, ran his fingers through his black hair, and swiveled in the chair to face the others.

     "All right, does anybody here have any idea what all this is?"

     To almost everyone's surprise, the bear rumbled in perfectly understandable speech, "How do you mean?"

     "That's exactly what I mean! Talking animals and elves and...and I don't even know what you are!" he said, pointing at the armored figure, whose sudden snarled smile showed yellow fangs. "Is this a dream, or a mind-work, or a spell-trap, or what?"

     "Perhaps it would help if we were to all introduce ourselves," said the man in blue carefully, politely. "My name is Thomas Norfield, from Belbury, in Alben." He tipped his hat a little stiffly. "And this is my friend and man-servant, Jack Hobden."

     "Greetin's, all," the man next to him said, with a short but friendly wave.

     "And I'm Roth," growled the armored creature, creaking as he turned to focus his eye. "I'm a Morg, young feller, one of the folk of Mog Gammoth, and don't forget it in the future!"

     "I'm sorry, sir, but I've never seen or heard of anything like you. I'm Blake Martin. Any of you ever heard of Gothenberg, Texas?"

     There was silence, and blank stares. Finally, one of the girls on the couch piped up.

     "I've heard of Texas," she said. "It's the biggest state in the whole USA."

     "I've always wanted to go there," said one of the boys. "Cowboys and Indians and such."

     "Perhaps we should introduce ourselves as well," said the other girl. She had a pronounced English accent. "I'm Lucy Greenland, and these are my cousins George and Ivy Fellowfeel. Our friends, Paul Longway and Arthur Ingeld."

     Each bobbed their head as they were mentioned, and then she turned to the bear. "I must say, I've seen some amazing things on our adventures, but I've never met a talking animal. And I've always wanted to! What's your name?"

     The big animal rumbled in amusement. "Well, I have a name in Bearish, but I never met a human that could say it. Most people just call me Bear." He waved at the elf next to him. "And this is my friend, Thornbriar of the Field Folk."

     "How-de-do," said Thornbriar, and he tipped his hat in a movement that seemed to mirror Thomas Norfield's gesture. "We live a little outside the Seven Shires, though I originally hail from the Hidden Realm." He looked around. "Ringing any bells with anyone? How about Netherstrand?"

     More blank looks, then everyone jumped. The blonde youth, who had been tuning the harp and apparently ignoring everyone, had struck a sudden lilting cord out of his plucks and twangs. He looked up smiling, then became aware of everyone's eyes on him.

     "I beg your pardon, good folk. But in such a strange place, this instrument is the only thing even half-familiar to me," he said.

     "Never mind that," said Blake. "What's your name, kid?"

     "Panku is my name, lately of Wat's Inn. But my new master freed me from my Articles, and took me on a journey. The last thing he told me was that when we passed through the Secret Gate, we would be in another world, and that is where I suppose I am. Have any of you seen him? He said that he was going by the name of Walnivar, though in his own place, he had another name."

     "Walnivar, Walnivar," mused the Morg, Roth. He ran claws through his bristling beard. "I seem to have some vague recollection of the name. Quiet older man, big white hair, some kind of clerk?"

     Panku shook his head. "That doesn't sound like him..."

     Blake broke in. "Never mind that for now. What we got here is a first clue about what this all is. You say you were going through a secret gate. I was just going into a class to take my Federal ParaSkills exam, and then I turn up here. As far as I know, this could all be part of my test."

     "And we," said Thomas Norfield, "had finally come to my uncle's house in Oxshire, and were settling in."

     "There were somethin' queer about that old house," said Jack. "You remember that wizardy fella said that not all the doors led to places you might expect?"

     "We were on the road, headed home?" Bear queried, turning to Thornbriar, who nodded. "Was it starting to snow again? I remember it was cold."

     One of the boys, George Fellowfeel, raised his hand. "We really couldn't say. We were talking about it, just now. It seemed to us we had all been dreaming a really long time, and suddenly woke up here."

     "The last thing I recalls clearly," said Roth, "I was crossing over a bridge, headed into a mountain. There was a dragon in there. I didn't really expect to come out again."

     Everyone looked at him in astonishment. He stared back, a little discomfited by their disbelief, but defiant.

     "What? Don't think I would?"

     "It's not that," said Thornbriar. "But where we come from, dragons are very rare."

     "There's no such thing," said Blake, "They're a myth, a story." Everyone else nodded in agreement, but Panku and some of the children looked thoughtful, as if they weren't quite so sure. "Imaginary."

     "Just 'cause something's imaginary don't mean it's not real."

     They all started. In a twinkling, Roth half-drew the short sword at his side. This was a totally new voice.

     "Up here, ding-dongs."

     Perched in the rafters, near the very peak of the ceiling, swinging its legs, was a figure about three feet high. It seemed to be a girl, with strange gray skin and a tattered green dress, and what looked like white hair in spiked cornrows. They gawped at her, until finally Ivy Fellowfeel called up.

     "Hello there! Why don't you come down and introduce yourself?"

     "Okay." They all started for an instant again as she flung herself forward off the beam. But instead of just falling, she floated safely to the floor. As she floated down, they could see that what was her tattered green dress was really blades of long green grass, that what seemed gray skin was really molded earth from which the grass sprouted, and what had seemed hair cornrows were snail shells, planted firmly in her head. She landed daintily on pointed toes, and turned her beetle-black eyes on the motley assembly.

     "I'm Maggie," she said, pointing her thumb at herself. "Sometimes called Maggie Mud-and-Snails. And before you ask, I've always been in this world."

     "Ah," said Blake. "Then you must know what's going on."

     "Not a clue," she said, shaking her head carelessly. "I was just hanging around when you guys showed up." She headed over to the little sink off to the side, where a tiny kitchen opened off the main room. Even here were shelves stocked with books. She ran a little water into a cup.

     "But then where are we?"

     She shrugged. "We are here, and it is now. That's all I ever know." She poured the water on her head. The gray soil soaked it up, turning slightly darker. "Ah." She put the cup down. "But like I said, just because something's imaginary, don't mean it ain't real. I should know. I'm imaginary."

     "But, Miss, we see you plainly," said Jack Hobden. "Though I must admit, even so, it takes a bit o' believin'."

     "Well, for all I know, you might all be imaginary yourselves. Nobody else has ever been able to see me before."

     "That's nonsense," grumbled Roth. "I know what I am, and I'm real. Though I guess you could all be some of Barek's lying wraiths." He clenched his sword handle, then slammed the blade all the way back into its sheath. "Unlikely though that seems."

     "If we start doubting each other's reality, we're not going to get anywhere," said Blake. "Let's see what we can find out by examining this place more closely." He stood up. "Okay, any observations you have, just sing out."

     "The man who lives here," said Bear, "is not a well man, and has been ill for some time. There was a cat in here, till recently. And there's no food in the house." The others looked at him askance. "The nose can tell," he said simply.

     "You can trust that, especially about the food," said Thornbriar.

     "He must be a studious fellow," said Thomas Norfield. "I've seldom seen so many books, although the titles are unfamiliar."

     "Not a serious scholar, though," said Blake. "Most of these look like fantasy novels."

     "Fantasy novels?"

     "Well, you should know about them," Blake smiled. "You look like you could have walked out of one."

     "If we are to begin doubting one another's reality again…"

     "No, never mind, let's keep looking and thinking." Blake went over to examine the doors clustered around one corner of the room. He opened one.

     "Restroom," he announced. "Not too clean." He opened another door next to it, that turned out to be a closet. He started examining its contents.

     "I do not think he was a musician, no matter his harp," said Panku. "It was ill-tuned, and dusty."

     "Maybe he hasn't played in a while," said one of the boys.

     Panku shook his head. "He would not let it fall into such desuetude, were he a true harpist."

     "He's a big guy, if his clothes are any indication," said Blake. "About six feet, I'd say. And look at these!"

     From the recesses of the closet he pulled several swords of various lengths and styles. Roth got up eagerly and clanked over to look at them.

     After a few moments of examining them, however, he handed them back to Blake in disgust.

     "Trash," he announced. "No edge, no spring. Ceremonial, at best; toys at worst. Our unknown host is no warrior, either."

     "That might not be so bad for us," Blake said, as he stowed them back. "What about that knife that was behind your head? Hanging on the cupboard?"

     The Morg turned and squinted. "Didn't even see it there." He went back, hooked it down, and drew it out. Its leaf-shaped blade flashed in the light.

     "Now this is more like it," he said. "Seems true-forged, and sharp as a razor. Never been used, though."

     "Let me look," said Blake. He took the longish knife and ran his hand over the flat of it. "We use something like this in Paraskills. We call it an athema. But I'm not sensing any power in it."

     "What about those?" said the elf. "I've seen wizards use things like that."

     Blake looked up and saw where he was pointing. Right next to a nearby window were two staffs. He gave the blade to Roth and took them up.

     "No, nothing," he said, hefting them. "We use staves too. These are just fancy walking sticks, as far as power goes."

     "Say," said Arthur Ingeld suspiciously. "You're not quite as ordinary as you look, are you? You're some kind of magician, aren't you? We've had some bad run-ins with magickers!"

     While the girls tried to shush him, Blake just laughed.

     "We call it Paraskills, but I guess most people would call it magic," he said. "It's not widely known, but I guess I can tell you a little, since this is either a training exercise or another world completely. We're an organization devoted to fighting the bad guys, like ghosts and evil spirits, and I'm training. Almost done, I hope."

     "Oh, yeah?" said the boy mulishly. "And what about that weird little T.V. you were fiddling around with before?"

     "T.V.?"

     "There!" he said, pointing to the desk.

     "You mean the computer? Haven't you ever seen a computer before?"

     "Hah! Everbody knows computers are huge and covered with blinking lights! I think that's some kind of two-way radio-TV set, and you were signaling your bosses. Weren't you?"

     Blake was about to laugh again, then he saw how seriously some of the others, especially the kids, seemed to be considering this.

     "That's how they used to be," he said carefully, "but now they're a lot smaller. What year do you think this is, anyway?"

     "It's Nineteen Seventy...something," said Paul. He shook his head. "I can never remember without looking at the top of the chalkboard."

     "Me either," said Ivy.

     "What rubbish," said Thomas Norfield. For the first time he seemed really indignant. "It's the year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Forty-Two."

     "Could be," said Bear. "I never really bother with dates."

     "I use elf-years, which I don't suppose would mean anything to anyone else," said Thornbriar. Panku and Roth shook their heads.

     "I'm telling you, it's now, and we're here," said Maggie carelessly. She plucked a blade of grass off her body and blew it like a whistle. "Nothing else much matters."

     "We'll see about that," said Blake. "I say it's Two Thousand and Seven. Let's check what the computer says." He started for the desk.

     "Don't let him touch it!" said Arthur, springing to his feet. Blake froze. Everyone sat judging the situation a moment.

     "I think we can trust him, lad," Bear said at last.

     "Why?"

     "What can I tell you? The nose knows. He smells honest to me, and honestly puzzled, too. But he seems to know what to try."

     "Well...okay. But I'm keeping an eye on him!"

     "And I've got a nose on him." He gestured with a paw. "Very well, sir. Give it a go."

     Blake pulled the chair out and sat back down at the keyboard. Everyone drew in as close as they could, except for the little mud girl. She seemed completely uninterested; her expression (from what could be read) suggested that they were all being pretty silly.

     "Here's the date at the bottom," Blake said, before he even touched anything. "This says it's 2016."

     "Gosh, it's the future!" said George. "D'ya think there are flying cars?"

     "It could have been set wrong," Blake said tightly. Now he seemed worried. "I'll have to browse a bit."

     He clicked through a few sites while the others watched in bewilderment as text and pictures flickered over the screen. He sat back and exhaled.

     "Well, the date seems right," he announced. "But there are a few websites missing that I'm pretty sure should be there. Nothing on my hometown, in fact."

     "What are you doing?" asked Panku. "What do we see here?"

     "Oh, geez," said Blake. "Look, all you guys. You know what a magic mirror is, right? Well, this machine works like that: it shows you things you want to see. And you kids at least know about television and the old kind of computers, right?" Indignant affirmation from the children; the rest nodded wisely.

     "Well, some things, even some big things, aren't in here. Which makes me think that maybe this isn't my world either, but a parallel universe."

     "Para--?"

     "Oh, lord. The idea that there are many worlds right next to each other, all different, but packed together like pages in a book, or like beans in a pot."

     "Ah, the Domain of Doors!" beamed Panku.

     "What?"

     "It's a very old tale. It is said that somewhere there is a vast chamber. In the middle of that chamber is the Fountain of Forever, and from that bottomless fountain grows a gigantic tree. And all around that room, instead of walls, there circle doors, doors of many kinds. And each door leads to a different realm, and the wise may pass there, to and fro."

     "That sounds...oddly familiar," said Thomas Norfield. He turned to Jack. "Have we been there? Or did I dream it?" Jack shrugged.

     "I think one of me old mates told a like tale," said Roth. "Korm, I imagine. He was always a bit of a philosopher."

     "The Elders sometimes talked about voyaging to other worlds," said the elf excitedly. "I thought it was a euphemism for dreaming, or an excuse for running off to be alone for a while. Or...when one went away and never came back." Thornbriar fell silent, as they all considered that.

     "Of course, one always reads stories about children going to other worlds," said Ivy, after a short pause. "Alice in Wonderland, Dorothy in Oz.."

     "Or Narnia," said Lucy.

     "What's that?"

     "Oh, they're wonderful books, more popular back home than in the states, I suppose. I'll let you look at my set when we get back."

     "If we do," said Arthur gloomily. Paul nudged him, hard.

     "In the books they always do," said George encouragingly.

     "For what it's worth," Maggie cut in, "I used to live behind a door that led to the water-heater cubby, which was also my house. It was pretty fancy in there. Imaginarily."

     Blake leaned forward eagerly.

     "Right, now we've got a working theory. We all have ideas of travel to other worlds, and we were all in what could be called transition time. Dreaming, like the kids, passing through a gate or door, on the road. And now we're all here. In a world more or less foreign to us, displaced in time."

     "Not me," said Maggie.

     Blake dismissed her objection with a shake of his head. It seemed he'd decided he wasn't going to get anything useful out of the mud girl.

     "Doesn't signify," he said. He turned to her. "You know, you remind me of the ghost shells some people leave behind; they form a kind of body out of bits of detritus. The only thing they can do is annoy the heck out of folks."

     "Well. Forgive me for living." She bent down, then sprang back up to her rafter with the same unnatural slow speed with which she had descended. She leaned back along the beam, hands behind her head, and looked ready to go to sleep.

     "Don't come asking me for any help."

     "You never were any," said Blake. "Okay, we have a theory to suggest the how, but no why."

     "'Scuse me, sir," said Jack, holding up his brown, calloused hand. "Theories is all wery good and all, but we're overlookin' somethin' fairly obvious. That last door what you didn't open must, by the process o' elimination, as it were, be the way out o' here."

     They all looked stunned, but none more so than Blake.

     "I was right next to it!" He leaped up and started toward it, but then had a cautious thought.

     "I'm going to look out the window first. That's something else I forgot to do, and I was right there. Makes me wonder... I wonder if I'm supposed to forget them."

     He cautiously twitched aside the blue, room-darkening curtain.

     "Trees," he reported. "A fence. Some kind of red building...a barn, I think."

     "We must be in the country."

     "Not sure. I'll try the door."

     No matter how he turned the knob, it would not open. He turned the lock every which way, rattled the door in its frame, pushed and pulled.

     "Here, let me try," said the Morg. Blake moved out of the way, and Roth slammed his sturdy bulk again and again against it. Even when Bear joined him, the door held firm.

     "This ain't natural," Roth barked. "There's some kind of spell on it."

     "Maybe, maybe not," said Blake, suddenly tired. "I don't feel any power in it. But it might be a kind I can't recognize. If this is another world." He went back to the desk, sank in the chair. He put his head in his hands. "I have to think some more."

     After a silent moment, Panku took up the harp from where he had put it on the bed. He began playing a soft, soothing melody, that was joined in a moment by a song in words no-one understood. His voice was quite beautiful, yet strong, and somehow hopeful and bracing.

     He brought the song to its falling end, and most of the odd group applauded. There was actually a tear in old Roth's eye, that trickled down into his grizzled beard. Panku bowed in acknowledgement, blushing.

     Blake drew himself together.

     "Er, um," he sniffed. "Thanks. I think I kind of needed that."

     "You big softy," Maggie called down sarcastically.

     "Shut up, you." Blake turned to the computer. "Okay, I have another idea. I'll try looking you all up and see if anything comes out. Maybe some of you are famous here, or historical, or even fictional. I've got to say, to me, some of you really look fictional."

     "And what if we are?" mused Thornbriar. "What then?"

     "I'll need everybody's name, in each group. I've already done mine. Also, I'll need...really big, particular names and things from each world, things you would have to talk about, if you were talking about who you were and where you come from." He turned to the kids.

     "Let's start with you."

     With a little bit of coaching, he got all their names and home towns, eliminating terms too broad to be useful, like England or the United States. Paul kept insisting that a certain make of car was significant. But when the search went in, nothing useful came out.

     "Okay, on to the next."

     They all gave him a weird litany of names, and each came up dry. Blake even put in the string of nonsensical words Maggie eventually supplied, after the pleas of Ivy and Lucy. They discovered only the vaguely interesting fact that Thomas Norfield and Jack Hobden, and Thornbriar and Bear, all knew somebody named John Craft, who seemed to be the same person. But from the computer, nothing.

     "Damn," said Blake. "Not a thing online."

     Then he heard his own words.  He pounced on the keyboard.

     "Not online," he said excitedly. "But maybe on the computer."

     "There's nothing on top of it," said Norfield, stretching his neck to look.

     "No, there's two types of function, web and Windows. The computer has its own memory." Blake turned off the browser.

     "Sounds like spiders to me," snorted Bear.

     Blake found the little search bar at the bottom of the screen, typed something in, held his breath, and pressed "Enter."

     Immediately a new box popped up. He found himself staring at his own name, attached to a text file.

     "I'm here," he breathed.

     "Well, what does it say about you?"

     He hesitated for a fraction of a second more, then opened it. There was his name again, at the top of the document. He began reading; his mouth tightened. He read more, then scrolled to the end, quickly scanning as he went. He sat back in disbelief.

     "It's a story," he said. "The story of exactly what I did last night. It even ends with me going into the classroom, to take my test."

     "How extraordinary," said Thornbriar. "Who could know such a thing?"

     "Or have composited it so quickly?" added Thomas Norfield.

     "I could," said Blake. "If this is all a mind-work, and part of the exam. My mind could make it up, and then present it to me as part of the puzzle. Except...except there are things here that I couldn't know, like what other people are thinking."

     "Maybe you just made that up, too," said Lucy, in her commonsensical tone. "You wouldn't know if it was true unless you asked them, would you?"

     Blake sat a moment, thinking, biting his thumbnail.

     "Does it say anything about any o' us?" asked Roth.

     "Not in this file," said Blake. He shook off his speculation for the moment and closed the document. "Let's take a look."

     He typed in "Roth," and an image file popped up. When he opened that they all found themselves looking at a rather simple but expressive drawing of the Morg. They spent a moment looking back and forth. The only difference they could see was that the drawing did not have the eye patch. Roth looked at it critically.

     "Hm," he grunted. "Is there anything else?"

     "This file seems to be in a larger folder, called 'Goldfire.' Does that mean anything to you?"

     "Yes, we were on a quest to find such a thing."

     Blake opened the folder. It was full of files: drawings, maps, notes. He examined them one by one with the grim Morg's shaggy head next to his as he leaned over his shoulder.

     "That's Forlan, all right. And I know all these people, or of them. Wait, what's that?"

     Blake paused from flipping through the pictures. There, on the page, was a dragon. In front of it was a comparatively small but valiant figure that even in miniature could be easily recognized.

     "Drang," Roth snarled. "I told you we would meet."

     "But here you are, actually meeting him," said Panku. "Is this your future?"

     "Maybe you already met him, and he ate you," said Paul, gleefully gruesome. "Maybe you're a ghost."

     "Shut up, stupid!" said Susan. "If he was, what would that make us?"

     "I was hoping finding these files would somehow help," said Blake. "But the mystery just deepens. I'll check out everyone else."

     They all had files, some more complex than others. The elf and the bear had an entire book, it seemed; the children, a mere two pages of notes. Tom and Jack had several chapters, and a check on the last chapter indeed recorded them arriving in Oxshire. Panku's tale ended with him at the Secret Gate. Maggie had her existence documented in a memoir about an imaginary friend. There were other stories and pictures that none of them recognized. All were gathered together in a folder under a single title: READ.

     Blake leaned back at last and pulled his chair out to face the others. There seemed to be nothing more to learn here, and they were all as confused as when they began.

     "Okay, now we have several theories," he said. "I still think the most likely is that this is some kind of spell-trap I have to solve for Paraskills."

     "You don't think that we could possibly agree to that, do you?" asked Thomas Norfield. "That would be tantamount to saying we don't exist!"

     "Exactly what I'd imagine a mind-construct to say."

     "I tend to what the young harper said," said Roth. "We've all come to this world through magic doors, somehow. But for why, I can't imagine."

     "Could be no reason at all," said Maggie. "The universe has the hiccups, and here we are."

     "Well, I think it's just us dreaming," said Arthur, nodding around to include all the kids.

     "How could we all be dreaming the same thing at the same time, you blockhead?" George objected.

     "Why not? It's no weirder than some of this other mumbo-jumbo."

     "Excuse me," Thornbriar broke in. All turned to look at him.

     "I was just reading over the names on there again..."

     Blake was surprised. "From that distance?"

     "I have very good eyesight. Anyway, one title on the list is not like the others. See? That one near the bottom, in all capital letters. Did you look at that one?"

     Blake turned to the screen and narrowed his eyes. There was a file. He remembered his eyes bouncing right by it at as he searched for their personal stuff. But now that the elf had pointed it out, it certainly seemed significant.

     It said: READ ME.

     He clicked it open and scanned the first few lines. He went still.

     "Listen to this," he said, and began to read out loud so all could hear.

     "Dear Family: If you are reading this, I am already dead. I know all my bits and bobs, my books and toys, trinkets and trash, must go the way of all things with me, and be scattered to the winds of the world. But I would like to do a last bit of special pleading for these, the offspring of my spirit.

     "You know that, despite all my efforts, I have never had a single story published, never brought many of my stories to a conclusion. Part of that, of course, was my own failure of conviction. But I also felt that if I did 'conclude' them, they would, in fact be 'finished’; that is to say, dead. Either I would fail to convey the spirit in which they were conceived, or people would take them the wrong way. They would, in my mind, be done.

     "Now I know that the only life they could ever have is to be read. I only had to blow on the embers of a few old characters I had made, and they lived again, interacted, and spoke, all true to how I conceived them. And then I knew that the only way these children of my mind (the only children I will ever have) would go on living was if they were read.

     "So my last and special request to you all: please preserve and care for these fragments. I can never finish them now. Reproduce them, if you can, in a material and easily referenced form. Make as many copies available to the family as you can. If not this generation, maybe the next will take an interest in one of the tales and finish it. They are not just a muddle of texts and scribbles: they are my last and only peculiar legacy."

 

     His brother sat back from the computer. So this was his last story, the one he urged me to read, he thought. He looked around the room. It was only three days after the funeral, and already there were changes. There were gaps on the bookshelves where volumes had been appropriated, and the busted old recliner had at last been removed to make room for the final dissolution of things. For a fleeting second he seemed to hear, could almost see, the characters his brother had created, pleading for their existence.

     He sat back in the chair and sighed. What a strange way to ask a last request! This had been the final thing he was going to do here today, and now he was already late. Rousing himself, he pulled out a new thumbdrive, plugged it in the port, and quickly downloaded a copy of all the files. He popped the drive into his pocket and left for work, carrying forward with him that frail ark of all their futures.

      Notes

The reason I'm publishing Friday Fiction so late in the day is because I have been distracted for the past few days by a punishing sickness (flu? cold? Runny nose, cough, fever, chill, which I had to nurse my nephew through, as well as myself)and am only just turning my attention back to other things.

I wrote this story back in 2018, when I was feeling rather gloomy about my life, and especially my writing. This was certainly before I had finally completed my novel 'A Grave on Deacon's Peak', and before my sudden spate of short stories. It includes characters from various unconcluded storylines (except for 'Elf & Bear') above a certain length of 'beginning'. 

The house is certainly different than it was then, but largely the same. No busted recliner and shelves moved around a bit. And my life is certainly changed; I have since become a Catholic and I am on Medicare, which relieves me of some of my poverty. I am still left with my enduring curiosity of what will happen to my 'stuff', especially my writing. This blog removes part of that concern. At least what I publish here will be harder to completely lose.