He was a writer; wrote short stories: nothing serious, and shorter than those that appear in magazines and newspapers, barely more than a few hundred words; didn’t think he could carry no story for long.
The writers though. Ask him who he likes and he will throw names at you. Days he will forget to mention Joyce or Nabokov. Not Kafka though; Kafka was the colossus to him. With Kafka to talk about he will speak miles per minute. Will tell you that there never existed a better coalesce of everything. That Metamorphosis is still the best story. Dude would go so far as to underline for you how this best story has been “plagiarized” by writers like Steinbeck; and in pointing his accusing finger—that knew no rest when it came to pull apart books …show more content…
Someone will crack about his life spent praying and getting this for it. That’ll push weak laughs out of you. Almost dystopia is what you see when you think about a world hurtling through space without ink. All this laughing and thinking will then somehow give way to thinking about him.
He the writer will be worried sick because all his stories will have started fading away, like the mist fading on a winter morning: slowly, as the sun pushes itself to the fore. The stories he worked himself up so much for, chiseling words in and bringing and fitting in jigsaw pieces from the Bigger Puzzle into them. Feeding them all his time and promising the rest of life to them. All of them will start evaporating. He’ll try a poor jest, nervously: All this evaporating is going to vaporize my ass. You’ll give a hesitant snort, and that’ll have him shoot his eyes up from his papers. You will want to share in his worry. It’s okay, you’ll say. There must be some way out of this. We’ll make it. But he was the kind of asshole who’ll rebuff and holler and yell, taking it all offensive. You’ve had enough, you’ll tell yourself and vow not to see him …show more content…
He’ll explain to you how writing straight with the blood is not easy as it might seem.
Talk of wishes. You will wish hard that the sky tear open and your mother’s hand reach out and wake you up from this terrible, terrible nightmare; but when out of curiosity you touch the brim of red, it’ll be as cold as the winter. As real as everything else.
Back home and you will still find it difficult to come to terms to believe what you saw. Too disgusted and scared out of wits. 5
A month later, you visit him against your self—everything in you, down to the last cell, shrieking No no no but you know you want to see him. Know what he’s been upto. Fool (as you’ll be calling him now) will have that grin splaying all over, taking more of his face, and he will tell you how his stories have taken more pages too. Once inside the room you’ll see no right hand on him, and that will ship you back to migraine planet: your stomach will churn and roll, making you convulse like some epileptic. You’ll like to shove some uncharitable words down his throat simple and clear regarding what he was doing, tell him it’s all sick ill, but you’ll hold back. Remembering the last time you tried to pull something like that. You’ll however manage to tell him to stop doing those things. That he will not understand of course, and against your insistence that it was okay he didn’t understand, he’ll force your words