Dreams of the Quill

Yep, new FTP Recollections today. Took a while to get to the point I wanted it to be at. Apologies for relative lack of updates lately. In the case that you don’t view DotQ in expanded format, I hope you’re using an RSS feed to keep current. Believe it or not, I am still updating! Enjoy.

For the Pen: Recollections – Spinning Tales

"So there’s this witch, right?"

"Mhm."

"And whenever a human being wishes for anything, it becomes hers."

"Okay."

"And you can’t fulfill your desires unless you give her something in return."

"But-"

"So we spend our lives searching for her dreams, finding her desired possessions, in order to reach our goals."

"There’s a problem with that, though. We desire that- er, whatever it is that we need to trade in, and she gains control of it. In the end, would she not have the world?"

"Hmm… maybe it doesn’t work exactly like that."

"What do you mean, not exactly?"

"She’s locked away and cursed. She can never chase her own dreams. She can never have what she truly wants. Always burdened with the hopes and dreams of others, goals she doesn’t want to see. We, the humans, have the power to accomplish the things she wishes she could."

"I see…"

"See, see? Man, I wish I had any literary ability. I might be able to succeed your prize."

"You think?"

Spinning a Tale

We sat together in the living room, throwing ideas back and forth for hours. It turned out that one of the things Zimmers had taken to doing during the war was thinking creatively. Before, he’d only used the knowledge of the country to make decisions, only used what was there to get further. He had quite a few interesting ideas, but none of them would actually make good books. To challenge him, as soon as one of his thoughts became solid, I’d ask, "And how do you make that a book?"

He often had no reply to this, so we’d move on to the next one. From time to time I’d throw in some input aside from acknowledging his train of thought or presenting issues, and he’d unblinkingly nod enthusiastically. That enthusiasm- that spark of exuberant interest- was the reason I hated him.

I hated him from the first time we talked like that, because for the first time, I saw the connection. He was that old man from eighteen years ago, he was that old man who’d told me that For the Pen was a good idea. He was that old man who’d left the eight year old me alone, crying, finally understanding the meaning of that vocabulary word I hadn’t gotten before- betrayal.

Were they the same person? Of course not. For one thing, Zimmers was younger now than that old man had been then. They didn’t look the same and they didn’t act the same. Their only shared characteristics were age and enthusiasm in my writing. Somehow, however, that was enough to link the two in my mind, and enough to give me potent hatred for the old man boarding me.

It’s enigmatic how these things play out. It’s been eighteen years, my name’s changed, America’s been to war with several countries, I’ve had a book published, and even won a large award, and yet, even with all that, I remember my first supporter’s passing so vividly. And I remember tearing "For the Pen", my valuable twenty page manuscript, into minute shreds. I don’t like the fact that I’m hung up on his death, I don’t like the fact that my hatred for him stains his memory.

I went through a lot to put that badly written piece together. I poured in my thoughts and ideals, still naive and innocent, hoping to make the world around me a better place somehow. Now I sit with yet another old man, the esteemed Robert Zimmers, who has charged me with the writing of his biography, discussing ideas for stories.

Just like the old days. Just like the old days.

Spinning tales with the old man. Only our roles were reversed. We were discussing ideas, giving and getting feedback, but I was not the one inquiring after the worth of a premise anymore. I was the one giving advice. The man sitting across the coffee table was not a writer, not even aspiring to be one. He was putting forth ideas because thinking was what he did best after years of house arrest. I was challenging them with the experience I’d gained as a professional writer, mainly because I had nothing else to do half the time. I wasn’t about to spend every waking moment pouring over his diaries.

Another thing I did, almost subconsciously, is I projected myself into a fantasy created by the description of a premise Zimmers gave me. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be subjected to that. If I failed to create the image, I’d ask more questions. And sometimes, I’d shudder and shake my head.

I suppose that if the witch existed, she’d have the safety of France and the life of Suigeki in her possession. She’d probably also have Zimmers’ freedom. Then the question is what does she desire, so that I might win back the things I wish for? How might I end the strife in France, and regain my old mentor? I leaned back in the couch and glanced at the ceiling before casting my gaze back at Zimmers.

"The witch exists," I said calmly.

"Hmm? Oh, it’s just an idea for a short story…"

"Yeah," I sat up straight, stretched my back, and then hunched forward. "She exists."

"It’s just fiction."

"So is my book." Recognition shone on his face as he made the connection I implied, and then his expression dropped as an accusatory look fluttered across it.

"I thought you didn’t put any store in your own writing?"

"I don’t."

He began chuckling, then laughed heartily.

"If that’s your attitude, how am I supposed to gain anything from discussing this with you?" he asked after settling down.

"To put it simply, you’re not."

He laughed some more. He probably didn’t understand my motive at all. To keep him laughing- to keep him energetic- to keep him alive. I’d have given anything at that point to ensure that this old man would live on. It wasn’t the money, it wasn’t the house, it wasn’t the food. If I were to lose him, even at this age, I’d probably feel that childish emotion again. I’m twenty six years old now, and still I cower and remember how wronged I felt when the old man died.

If that were to happen, I’d lose myself.

Even more than after I got called back here, even more than when I found out that it was Suigeki’s water that protected France from America’s nuclear weaponry. Somewhere in my defeated heart, I wish I could still save someone.

It is said that wars and competition speed up development, but we seem to have reached a point of stagnation. We live in a world where the super power, America, has thrown everything into its ability to control the way in which the Earth is run. Advancement of technology around the world has come to a practical halt as every resource available to man is used up in the thickening melee that surrounds America’s actions. Laboratories world wide are being shut down to free funds for military endeavors. Some have gone underground, ceasing to exist only on the surface.

When I was in high school, the talk was all about fighting Leukemia and eliminating the threat of the menacing Avian Flu. I haven’t heard the word cancer in years. Back then, meaningful accomplishments were discoveries, innovations, a new kind of computer chip, a new vaccine. Now, these are replaced with acts of political cunning and military prowess. In this world, latex gloves and test tubes have been obsoleted by triggers and hilts.

The easiest way to save a man in this world is to go out on the battle field, point your gun at an enemy, and remain still as they end your life.

The floundering technology of this world dictates that those not slaying must rely on relatively primitive means to live their lives. From the moment I returned to America, I did not touch a keyboard. Just as I’d always wanted, I found myself using a pen. Writing was my only forte, ideas my only gift. On the run from place to place, shunned even by the mother and father who had raised me, I lived for the pen.

I realize that, in such a world, stories are the only things I can involve myself in. If I’m to live, it will be with my writing. If I’m to die, it will be with my writing. If I’m to save anyone, it will be with my writing.

My attachment to my memories of the old man and my attachment to Osaka and Suigeki are very different. And yet, in some respects, they overlap- a desire to save someone, to keep that feeling from returning. My two goals become one. I must save Zimmers. I must save him with the pen.

So I spend my lazy hours in the living room, spinning tales with the old man.