Sal shook the can of furniture polish, sprayed the desk, and wiped the waxy stuff into the desk. With a fresh rag, he buffed and polished it until his shoulders were warm and relaxed. He folded the rag, put it away and sat down at the desk. The pre-writing ritual.
Snapping open the pen case, he glanced out the window at the ocean. Another day of watching ink stream endlessly out of the pen. Four file folders were now full of ink from his pen; the fifth was almost done. It was almost done.
Each book he wrote he knew to be the last one. Each book he started he knew would cost him his life. Yet each book appeared on the shelves of bookstores while he let more of his soul slip out onto endless reams of paper.
Sometimes he felt that it would never end and other times he feared the moment it did. Not that there was any choice, of course. It was his life. Writing sustained him and the cheques bought his paper.
He wondered at the people who bought the books. Wondered if they understood or if they were tabloid-buying parasites. Not that it mattered. He knew that only he could understand. There was no soulmate for him. Loneliness was nothing but fuel for his craft.
Corners squared, he set a quarter inch of paper in front of him and began to write. Her life flowed from his veins to the paper. The life that had never been. The life that should have been. The woman who would have been his life, his passion. The ink flowed, tears flowed; he bled his soul, watching the pages fill and fill.
He wrote the things he'd remember forever; things that never happened. He wrote as if he had had a mother. Wars ripped out of his soul, kisses ran down his face and he wrote on. Severed limbs attached to random faces developed yearnings more impossible than his own. He mourned for the futile search for completeness and wrote the lies they'd believe. Wrote of resolutions and of soulmates. Wrote of happiness and contentment as if they were not motivation killers.
And she appeared again. No matter how often Sal killed her or lost her, she slipped out of his pen. Always she was beautiful and he constantly needed her, craved her, watched her as he sentenced her to happily ever after love. Watching her as she rode off with his heart.
Feeling the rage at the letters he recieved, the ones who told him it was perfect. The ones that wrote looking for the man she loved. Futile. Line after line futility flowed. He lived only the life he penned. He loved only in this inky world. When he looked outside at the changing seasons, he saw only death. The only air that sustained him was the air she breathed.
The book sold well. They sent him a single copy, a cheque, and a case of ink.
The story Sal's Story is Copyright 1998 by Crys Alys.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.