Characters

“I’ve never had anything feel so…clear. Do you know what I mean? It’s like this world popped into my head and I have this pulling, driving, exploding urge to write it down. It’s all there, every detail from her eyes to her hobbies and what kind of ice cream she likes. For God’s sake, I can tell you the brand of toothpick she uses! (Wooden ones with flat sides, nicked from the library she works in.) Anyway, it’s like this world exists in the third dimension and I can move it around in my head and see what happens and how it works and what it’s going to do, but…it’s not still. The story is going on, it continues, a whirling blue planet with billions of people and one main character at the center of it all, unknowingly being watched. And I’m watching as the story unfolds. When I wake up, she’s there, when I go to sleep, she’s there.” A sigh. ”Always there, living her story-book life. But nothing’s happened yet. She gets up, goes to work, goes home, orders take-out at 8 and sleeps by 11. It’s droll. Disgustingly droll. Like the story is waiting for something to happen, for something to change, the plot to thicken. You know what I mean? Jack. JACK. You’re not listening, are you?”

The hammock swung a little.

“Jack!”

“Yes?”

“You know what I mean?”

A few locks of black hair peek out above the edge of the hammock. A claw-like hand dangles nonchalantly over the side, painted black nails glinting in the harsh light of the office’s only light bulb. “Are you talking about your name? Because I think if they put you in the dictionary it’d be under ‘writer – see unemployed’.”

“Jobs are for the distinguished. I am merely a very refined and tasteful man who can make a whole world from a single word. Want to know how?”

“No thanks.”

“Add an L.”

“Brilliant, man.”

“Thanks.”

Our two characters lounge in a very small apartment. The office’s walls and floor all measure 10 feet, the smallest room for rent in the entire building – clearly meant for a very small race of people. Everything in the room is gray: the carpeting on the floor, the desk, even the large hammock strung between the upper corners of the room. Jack’s best friend Thip sits on the only piece of furniture – a small desk facing a pair of glass doors that lead to open air and a 500 ft fall to the street. Framed portraits of historic men once surrounded by great and mysterious intrigue now litter the ceiling, looking down upon the two young men with fierce gray eyes.

Outside the large glass doors Thip’s own eyes take in the depressing colorlessness of concrete rooftops and flat walls, each and every unadorned gray building topped with impossibly large populations of ancient-looking pigeons and dusty white doves. From the 40th floor they make a picturesque scene: thousands of small gargoyles lining the tops and ledges of all the skyscrapers. The people below wear suits drained of color and sport matching ties and white shirts of immeasurable starkness.

The figure emerged from the hammock, swinging one leg and then the other over one side. His wide, bony shoulders hunch forward as he hauls himself upright, the seams of his thread-bare gray shirt struggling to stay together at the collar bone.

In this world, his presence is a shocking contrast to the reality around him, the portraits witness to his overwhelming and colorful character: the tangle of dreads that hang from the crown of his head are aflame with all the shades of red on earth – the scorching deep orange of molten lava, of scarlet wax, of warm blood, of ruby fire, of an overripe burgundy cherry. His face is a creamy light chestnut, like the surface of a cup of coffee after the milk is added. His sharp features are encompassed by two black ropes that frame his face and the strong curve of jawbone, his strange and unearthly countenance emphasized by the intense blackness of his eyes. Eight small, unbroken iron circlets pierce the cartilage of his noticeably pointed ears.

The floor gives a slight shiver as Jack’s bare feet touch the carpet, and as he walks to where Thip is sitting he leaves a trail of black footprints on the floor (several of which get bored quickly and begin to explore the carpet, racing from one wall to the other). His brother notices.

“Jack…”

The twenty-year-old paused and looked over his shoulder. With a sharp whistle the footprints returned to their proper places.

“I feel like a goddamn Peter Pan.”