A Living, Breathing Story

Genre: Autofiction -- About 1,400 Words

The blank page flips me off as I’m sure it’s done the same to you many times. Doesn’t matter who you are - you’ve written. Could have been a journal, could have been an essay in school, and it could have been the last half of a novel drunkenly scrawled into something resembling a first draft that can be edited into the vision that’s stuck with you since the first time you heard someone tell a story and thought ‘hey, I could do that too.’ Maybe it wasn’t even a page. Maybe the silence taunted fingers resting aimlessly on guitar strings. Either way, I’m sure you feel me. Otherwise, why would you be here?

So, what should our story be about? Oh, yeah. I can’t really ask you, you exist in my future. I exist, writing this, in your past. I could ask my cat Loki what this story should be about, but he’d just meow. Plus, he’s napping. I could also ask Loki, the norse god who my cat is named after. If he answered, which gods have seldom done for me, I suppose he would say that this story should be about a trick. 

In that case, picture this: you stumble upon a compelling story, something different and yet familiar enough that you feel both your reading and writing life have led you here. The first sentence wasn’t something you expected and started the paragraph by directing your thoughts somewhere that got you to expect a story completely different from the one you’re reading now. Great writers promise stories they don’t tell you, then they make you forget all about that because THIS is where the real money is. But, that wasn’t the trick. The trick is that you didn’t even notice the first line was a first line, and like I said, you’re a writer. You notice first lines, maybe you even have a journal where you write down your favorites and cut them open like a frog to examine what made you so interested in the first place.

I’ve been trying to write a story like that for ages.

In the story I’ve been trying to write, the one that keeps you reading, the words chill you to shivers despite the fact that you’re drinking hot tea in the sun. Flurries of snow billow across the page as steam fills the air. You get up off the bench as many people around you do, feet shuffling up to the line while the train’s chuga-chuga-chugging slows down to a halt. You had considered getting one more tea while waiting for the train, but it’s too late now. All of these people are flying around the unopened doors like vultures, and you need to beat someone, anyone, to one of the good seats.

Your mouth pulls to the side as you mutter “damn cottonmouth.”

Except, you didn’t actually say it. In the story I want to write you would be so invested that you mimic the protagonist’s gestures and whisper the words along to yourself, feeling every moment as if you live within the pages. That, too, is part of the trick.

The one who said it is Ollie South. It’s a fake name, obviously. It strikes you as a name that no real human being would ever have. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you I was writing a story. Then, you probably wouldn’t have thought too hard about the name.

Thing is, my whole mouth hurts. My wisdom teeth must be growing in. I can’t think straight. Just now, I stopped writing to look up dentists near me even though it’s 10:52pm on a Saturday night and I know nothing will be open until Monday. Before I call a place to schedule anything, though, I need to talk with my boss and find a time that works because I work front desk at a desperately short staffed clinic and the devil knows that I’ve missed enough time already. That is to say, I’ve lost my train of thought. If I could think straight, I could find another way to put that because I’m definitely not trying to be clever with the train of thought representing the train that Ollie South is supposed to get on. I just can’t think.

I need to write, though. If I write a story good enough, maybe I’ll forget about the pain. If I write a story good enough, maybe I can help you forget your pain too. 

Sorry for mentioning it. There’s no need to pretend that you’re not in pain, though. No, I don’t know you’re hurting because you’re a writer and writers are always in pain. I know because you’re human. What person hasn’t been in pain? It’s not only writers and artists that feel anything. Everyone feels something. Even psychopaths know pain. The writers and artists just have a funny way of expressing it, that’s all. 

Unless you’re not human. In that case, what are you? What’s kept you reading so far? Are you trying to understand people, or perhaps art? Maybe it’s your job. Sounds a lot better than mine, but I would say that, wouldn’t I? 

Wanna trade?

***

Alright. It's been three days. Time to get back to the story. I'm supposed to have a rule about finishing any story I start.

Despite the lapse in time between my writing sessions, no time has passed for Ollie South since we last saw ‘em. I imagine the same goes for you because people don't usually pick short stories back up after stopping. Who knows, though? I'm not God.

The doors open, and Ollie rushes into the car right ahead of them. A couple of people step off the train, but Ollie just turns sideways, makes themselves smaller, keeps walking because they have control over that much. 

If it was up to Ollie, the train would barrel through the next three stops at max speed (whatever that is for a train). They've just gotten off of a ten hour shift despite a promise to themself at twenty-three to never be caught dead working a shift that long. In and out Ollie thinks, like they did at sixteen flipping burgers at Sonic. Time is more precious than money.

Ollie's mind hasn’t changed on that. Except, time won't pay the bills. Time won't feed Dakota.

Did you lose yourself there? Did you get sucked in, relate to Ollie, ask ‘Who's Dakota?’ Maybe now you're rolling your eyes and saying ‘Get on with it.’ 

Except, if the meta-narrative didn't appeal to you, you probably wouldn’t have kept reading this long.

Either way, I do need to get on with it. Problem is, I'm asking myself ‘Who's Dakota?’ You can't just give a character a son. a character has to conceive a child, birth him, raise him. A character must always ask is he becoming the man that he needs to be? Unless the character is a shitty parent, that is. 

Ollie's not, though. I don't want to create more pain, I want to escape it. Ollie's love for Dakota is a homebrewed remedy for pain passed on from one generation to the next. Every member of the family is skeptical until they try it, just like Ollie was. But, now, as they take their seat among the crowd, Dakota's gap toothed smile on their phone lock screen spreads like a pop song. Before they know it, Ollie is swiping through the folder on their phone with pictures of him. They were overwhelmed before. It was a long day at work. The phones didn't stop ringing. People didn't stop piling in through the door. No one stopped to help Ollie because everyone was too busy.

But, that's okay. Right now it's just Ollie and Dakota, separated by distance and a phone screen. They always said that Dakota won't get a phone until he's at least fifteen, but maybe he should get one a little sooner. Then, Ollie could call, hear his voice, say “I'll be home soon, do you need anything?”

Yeah, it'd be great to write that kind of story. It'd be great to read that kind of story again. Problem is, I'm not sure where it goes from there. I suppose the same thing happens over and over, the same way it does for you and me. Work, home, sleep. Except, if we have a Dakota, we won't notice as much. So, maybe the question isn't “what are you?” I'm sure you're human like me. The question is: “who, or what, is your Dakota?”

My pain stopped, by the way. I'm not sure if you were wondering, but I feel better. Never got a dentist appointment. Maybe my wisdom teeth aren't coming. Not sure what it was in that case. Who knows?