Shortie

Dirty and beaten, the creature crawled the last few steps onto the landing. Winter’s breath even now exhaled everywhere, though the calendar admitted only to October-ish recall. From its vantage point, the doorknob appeared lustrous in its off-bronze glory, cold yet enticing, waiting to be turned, if only someone of sufficient strength could reach that high. How many of the knob’s brothers had the creature reached for, only to be denied by the concealed metal piece inside the door serving as a lock?

Ah, yes… locks. They came in many forms, not all visible. In some places, they served as veritable convention—impenetrable by all who beckoned from without; in others, they fell slightly open, enticing the unwary, only to be snapped shut when least expected. Lately, the very idea of a place that was not locked served as embodiment of dreams.

But, the frozen concrete chilled the creature’s butt, adding impetus to its decision to make one last attempt before merely rolling over and allowing nature to take its course. This particular alley held no more or no less appeal than any other, so why not here? At least, there would be no more derisive eyes to mock its adventure or pity its fate.

Wheezing with the pain of frozen air surging into its lungs, the creature rolled onto its crippled and arthritic knees and reached up. Extending its fingers as far as possible, it touched the knob and turned it before slumping back into a formless heap, the effort almost more that it could stand.

In the silence of the early morning, the disturbed metal components voiced their displeasure as the spring latch cleared the strike plate’s escutcheon, causing the hinges to creak and the door to fall open. Just inside, within the creature’s vision, unfolded a cluttered mish-mash of machines and equipment offering no familiarity. Still, any environ offering shelter from the cold would serve as a Mecca at present, so it wobbled to its feet and took several shaky steps across the threshold, half-expecting to be stopped and thrown back outside.

Strong fingers ushered the creature to a chair, helping it as it sat. “Please… sit down. Can I get you something?”

A quick headshake accompanied the words, “No, the warmth is the only tonic I need at present. I have nothing to offer for your services.”

“Nonsense,” the attendant uttered, now making notes upon a chart, “everyone has something to offer. Just relax for a few minutes, someone will be around to talk to you shortly.”

Somewhere close, music played, the creature could hear it as he sat. True, its tempo rushed a little too fast for his tastes, but it beat the monotony to which he’d become accustomed. He touched nothing, recognizing none of the machines, but nothing threatened him at present, and that blessing left him feeling content and possibly a little giddy.

Another door opened and a man wearing a white lab coat walked in. After glancing at the manila file folder he held, he smiled and sat down behind a desk. “Please, pull your chair up a little closer. Let’s chat a little…”

Grudgingly, the creature reached down and pulled the chair forward with an animated hopping motion.

The man, witnessing this, wrote furiously in the file while offering, “Aha! Very good! I like it… your little aside leaves a pleasant first impression. Tell me, what brings you to us today?”

The question confused the creature. “I’m not sure… fate, I guess.”

Looking up, the man pushed his glasses up on his nose and stared at the creature. “Yes… we hear that a lot… but, no matter. I think we might be able to help you.  Tell me, please, what, exactly, are you?” Now, the man’s brow furrowed and a stern resolution replaced any amity that may have been present.

“Well… I’m a short story… or, at least, I was once a short story… these days, who can be sure?”

The man didn’t move… he didn’t write, he didn’t gesture, he didn’t smile. “Uh-huh… I see… I think I should tell you, my first impression made me suspect that you may be a novella.” Then, after pausing a second, “No offense intended, of course.”

“Of course”, the short story offered, “none taken. I suppose I have gained a little weight lately, my writer tends to embellish unnecessarily, sometimes.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to imply that you look puffy, in fact, in places you appear a bit thin… has anyone helped you with your dénouement lately?”

With this, the short story expelled all his breath and looked down, silently contemplating his next words. “Look… I’ve been traveling throughout cyber-space and the postal routes across America looking for a home. I’ve been rejected more often than a congressional bill for anything not related to war-funding coming across George Bush’s desk! I’m not even sure I have any dénouement left these days!” A page flew out of the story’s middle as he stood up. 

“Okay, okay… don’t get excited… but I had to ask. Sit back down, please.”  Rifling quickly through the story’s pages, the man continued to ask questions about arrangement, back-story, impact thrust, subtlety and various other technical considerations.  “Yes… yes… you seem to have very good character development and your paragraphs don’t exceed our corporate limits, have you given any thought to a professional edit?”

Now, the story sighed. “Ah, yes… the ‘professional edit’… I should have known that would come, eventually.” Closing his covers a little more tightly, the short story pulled back from the man’s grasp. “You should know… I have nothing left for ‘professional edits’, and even if I did, I wouldn’t waste it on such excess. What would it accomplish? Every one of my colloquialisms are chosen for the exact purpose they are intended, and any verbiage expended at the cost of good taste or decorum are designed to make a specific point. Besides, my writer frowns upon editing… professional or otherwise. You’ll have to look elsewhere for your fee.”

The man removed his glasses and set the file upon the desktop. “Pity… I see great potential within your pages, if only it could be coaxed out a bit. Won’t you re-consider?” 

A smile emerged from somewhere between the title and author’s name on the cover. “I think my journey must now continue… but, thank you for your time.”

Once again the latch tripped and frigid air found its way inside as a proud short story stepped back into the cold streets of Anonymity. 

Bob Church©10/20/07