At the day job today, I thought I’d lock myself in an unused conference room during lunch. Sequestered with a blank page before me, pen in hand, I did not write. I didn’t struggle. I didn’t fight. I packed up my stuff, abandoned the building, walked around outside for a bit until I found a concrete table and chair, and opened up the Moleskine.
The crow said to me, “It’s time.”
There, I started. I wrote most of my lunch hour, and read for the rest of it. But, though I could’ve called the story finished where I left it, the story wanted something more. So after dinner, in my office in my home, I opened the Moleskine again and continued the tale to another, further end.
Sometimes, I suppose, a story can end in more than one place. The question becomes: Where should it end?
Today’s tale, another fantastical fiction piece, is a fever dream of sorts, and a miniaturized treatise on memory and personality. Or something like that. I might swear, later, that I was drunk when I wrote it, but the sad truth is I’m unlikely to be found drinking on the day job.