“Are you the writer?”
Standing up on his snowmachine with the engine running and his back to the trail, he had been staring at an evenly cut stump where someone had taken one of his trees for firewood. The sound of his own machine masked the whine of the second one until it was almost past him. A man, a woman and a child on a big machine, towing a sled full of the things people hauled along that trail. The woman waved and then the man stopped the machine, a universal sign they were going to have to talk. Reluctantly he shut his own down, fervently hoping it would start again, given its infuriating habit of not starting when the air was warm and it had idled a while before he hit the red button.
“I used to be.” He answered starting to smile then curling his lip over his upper teeth as he recalled leaving his false tooth, a flapper the dentist called it, up in the cabin. Instead of a smile with a gap in it, the action degenerated into a churlish sneer, though he really had no idea how it looked.
Used to be? “When did I get to used to be a writer,” he thought.
“We heard someone out here was a writer and I thought maybe that was you,” she said.
“I guess probably that’s me.” He reached to shake the man’s hand, a tight-lipped smile twisting his face.
Amenities made and the subject of the writer who used to be passed, they moved on down the trail and he drove up the hill to his own place vowing from now on to put that tooth in when he left home no matter how alone he figured he was in the woods.
Later a crescent of a waxing moon, its convex curve toward the bottom, hung for a while low in a northwest sky so clear the rest of the moon showed as dim silver light filling in the missing portions of the orb started by the crescent.
Where was that kind of clarity when he tried to dredge it out of his mind, the clarity missing so much from his recent thoughts. The moon remained almost in place longer than it should have, defying its orbit and his intellect, mocking him with its Cheshire grin.
(Of the pictures: 70 degrees and snow: does it get any better than this?)
(Of the title: Thanks to Mick and Keith... still relevant after all these years)
One thing very wrong about this story - you will never fall into the category of "used to be a writer". Never. Your stories are so interesting, well written and captivating. I always love it when you post a new one. Don't ever stop! The pictures look great, such a relaxing place to spend time.
ReplyDeleteAnd, unlike your old friend, YOU are a REAL writer who cares about craft, words, and the integrity of writing. Maybe you don't do as much as you would like, but who does but the few?
ReplyDelete