I don’t think I was meant to write fiction. I’ve begun a lot of pieces, and then quit them. Am I lazy, or do I just not like writing fiction? It’s probably a little bit of both. Anyway, I’m going to share some of my unfinished pieces here, just so they can see the light of day. Maybe someone will get a bit of enjoyment out of them. Maybe some will get frustrated at the lack of endings. Most of these pieces probably don’t even have middles for that matter. In any case, these pieces give me something to post when I don’t feel like coming up with something new. Here’s the first one!
At the Door
Cynthia stood with her back to the door, removed her glasses and hurriedly wiped the lenses with the cuff of her black palazzo pants. She put the glasses back on took them off again and rubbed her eyes. She put the glasses on again and then squinted in earnest concentration. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, looked again and finally decided to accept that she and her eyes were seeing what they thought she was seeing. “I’ve finally gone schizophrenic.” she said. “I knew it was bound to happen. It’s genetic, and I’ve got the gene.” She pushed her chair away from the kitchen table, got up and reached for the yellow pages thinking she’d call a doctor and get herself checked in to some facility designed to take care of people like her. She wondered “are there people like me?”
If there were indeed people like Cynthia, those people saw things. They saw things that shouldn’t be there, things that just didn’t make sense. It had happened on each of the past three days. The doorbell of her little yellow house would ring. Cynthia didn’t often get unexpected visitors so on that first day she assumed it must be the mailman or a door-to-door religion salesman. She crept quietly to the door and looked out the peephole, but she could only see what looked like long brown hair. She decided it was probably safe to open the door. What she saw on the other side was large and baffling. It was a horse. Not a toy horse, not a saw horse. An actual horse with hooves and fur and a long brown mane and a hat. Cynthia looked at the horse and decided that, given the circumstances, it couldn’t hurt to ask the horse what he was doing on her front porch. “Wh what are you doing on my front porch?”
The horse snorted, and for a moment, Cynthia thought he was going to speak. He didn’t. He just looked at her. It dawned on Cynthia that this must be a joke. Maybe she was a victim of one of those practical joke TV shows and soon someone would reveal the hidden camera and ask her to sign a release allowing them to share her horse encounter with viewers all over the country. No one appeared. Cynthia looked at the horse. He looked back at her winked. Winked?
“Did you just wink at me?” she asked.
The horse remained laconic. The neighborhood was silent
“So if this isn’t a TV show it must be a dream.” She told the horse. “I’m going to close the door, go lay down and try to wake up.”
The horse snorted again as the door began to close. Cynthia took one last look at the horse and said “Bye, horse.”
The Yellow Pages lists sellers of goods and services that you may or may not need during the course of your life and as Cynthia leafed through the phone book she began to lose site of what she was supposed to be looking for. She spent some time looking at the ads for Bathtubs, Contractors, Dentists, Fences and Roofing because the thought of calling a psychologist, or psychiatrist or whatever and announcing that a winking horse rang her doorbell made her almost as anxious as seeing the horse. Not knowing anything about psychology she decided to close her eyes and point to something on the book. She would call the number where her finger landed.