Oscar awoke slowly on his couch. His eyes opened first, barely more than a slit, but wide enough to see the early morning light flow in through the window, permeating the room with a gentle glow that gave it the fleeting appearance of some grand, distant antechamber with walls wrought of sheets of gold. Then he took his first rushed, waking breath--a swift intake of stagnant air that caused a meek yawn. Finally, he pushed himself up until he was properly seated on the couch, admiring his black cotton slippers against the fibers of the Persian rug beneath him. Instantly, he found himself hungry and contemplated breakfast.
It wasn't until he'd already brewed a pot of abysmally black coffee that he realized he'd fallen asleep in his bed the night before.
From the bed to the couch, he thought to himself. At least the walk was shorter this time.
After his usual breakfast had been prepared and thoroughly enjoyed and the skillet scraped clean of the clinging bits of scrambled egg, he retrieved the newspaper from his stoop, reading it while he finished off the coffee, but nothing within held his attention for very long. After a belated shower, he retreated to the depths of his study, where his highly favored Royal typewriter sat behind the laptop computer Walter had lent him. He sighed at the sight of its thin black frame, full of regret and shame that he would never dare mention to his peers, had they still been alive.
He sat down in front of the dark screen and powered it on, humming as it stared back at him, reflecting a distorted image of a scowling, thin creature. When the machine had settled into its powered state and the word processor had loaded, Oscar read back through all that he had written in the past few days, and he hated each and every word. He felt that he was betraying himself and everything that he had believed in. Literature was not a technological process, after all, not something to be stored on flat, shining discs or intangible forms of information. It was simply the application of words to paper, the growth of substance from a blank page, and technology had absolutely no role within this routine, this ritual. The advent of the printing press and mechanical typing was, of course, conveniently forgotten to strengthen his argument.
Just as he pressed the tips of his fingers against the small, concave surfaces of the keyboard, there was a knock at the door, and Oscar, with the feeling of being rescued at the last second, hurried to answer it. Kate stood on the other side, a smile wide on her face.
"Hello, dear."
"I found it," she said, her voice expressing the excitement she could not completely display in a more physical fashion.
"It?"
"The story. I found the story."
He nodded incredulously and invited her inside. She came in, pulsing, vibrating like boiling water. The canvas backpack she had been wearing was thrown to the couch, and she quickly set upon the zipper, tearing it open and rifling through the contained miscellany.
"Please, Kate, I can tell you're quite excited, but let's not get our hopes up so soon. It's only been a day, and sometimes good ideas take time."
"Trust me, this is a great idea."
Oscar sighed, defeated, willing to temporarily cede his place as a veteran creator and allow the neophyte to express her own wonder and enthusiasm, if for no other purpose than to serve as a warning about how their work should be approached.
"Something you said yesterday," she said as she plucked a small stapled packet of papers from her bag, "kind of clicked. It reminded me of something I'd read before. Three of us--that's what you said. It took a dream to bridge the gap, though."
"Dreams are powerful things, I've heard."
"Here. Read this," she said, passing the papers to him and tapping anxiously on the intended excerpt. "This last part."
"A kingdom of three on the edge of the Great Plains. What is this?"
He eyed her suspiciously.
"This is our story."
"Young lady, one can barely write an entire novel based on a single phrase. Believe me, I've tried."
"Come on, Oscar--can I call you Oscar, Mr. Bruges?--this is our concept, our basis."
"First of all, yes, you may. Now, go on. Lay the whole thing out for me."
"Okay, in 1838, somewhere in the Dakotas, on the edge of the Great Plains, there's a village--a big one, a bustling metropolis as far as the Indians are concerned."
"I believe Native American would be the proper nomenclature."
"Whatever. A bustling metropolis as far as the Native Americans are concerned."
"Though I suppose American Indian would be acceptable, as well."
"Oscar."
"My apologies."
"There's an outbreak of smallpox. Maybe the natives were getting restless, and the white men stationed in the area gave them some blankets--biological warfare, and all that. Or maybe it came from someplace else. It doesn't really matter, so we can be vague on that part. The point is that this entire contained world of people suddenly collapses. The small villages go first, but of course there's traffic to the main city for trade, so it spreads, and before long, the whole city is dead."
"So a book about the spread of a plague? Is that it?"
"No, that's all happened before our story even gets started--in medias res, you know. The book is about three survivors, the last three people left in the city. They've watched everyone they know and love suffer and die, and they're just trying to keep themselves alive. They know that they're heading toward extinction, oblivion. They can see it coming, but there's not a thing they can do about it. There are three of us now. Three in all the world. Those are the opening lines right there."
Oscar was silent for a few moments, staring off absently.
"Well, what do you think?"
"My dear," he said, his eyes connecting with hers, exposing a glazed, fragile nature beneath them, "I love it."
It wasn't until he'd already brewed a pot of abysmally black coffee that he realized he'd fallen asleep in his bed the night before.
From the bed to the couch, he thought to himself. At least the walk was shorter this time.
After his usual breakfast had been prepared and thoroughly enjoyed and the skillet scraped clean of the clinging bits of scrambled egg, he retrieved the newspaper from his stoop, reading it while he finished off the coffee, but nothing within held his attention for very long. After a belated shower, he retreated to the depths of his study, where his highly favored Royal typewriter sat behind the laptop computer Walter had lent him. He sighed at the sight of its thin black frame, full of regret and shame that he would never dare mention to his peers, had they still been alive.
He sat down in front of the dark screen and powered it on, humming as it stared back at him, reflecting a distorted image of a scowling, thin creature. When the machine had settled into its powered state and the word processor had loaded, Oscar read back through all that he had written in the past few days, and he hated each and every word. He felt that he was betraying himself and everything that he had believed in. Literature was not a technological process, after all, not something to be stored on flat, shining discs or intangible forms of information. It was simply the application of words to paper, the growth of substance from a blank page, and technology had absolutely no role within this routine, this ritual. The advent of the printing press and mechanical typing was, of course, conveniently forgotten to strengthen his argument.
Just as he pressed the tips of his fingers against the small, concave surfaces of the keyboard, there was a knock at the door, and Oscar, with the feeling of being rescued at the last second, hurried to answer it. Kate stood on the other side, a smile wide on her face.
"Hello, dear."
"I found it," she said, her voice expressing the excitement she could not completely display in a more physical fashion.
"It?"
"The story. I found the story."
He nodded incredulously and invited her inside. She came in, pulsing, vibrating like boiling water. The canvas backpack she had been wearing was thrown to the couch, and she quickly set upon the zipper, tearing it open and rifling through the contained miscellany.
"Please, Kate, I can tell you're quite excited, but let's not get our hopes up so soon. It's only been a day, and sometimes good ideas take time."
"Trust me, this is a great idea."
Oscar sighed, defeated, willing to temporarily cede his place as a veteran creator and allow the neophyte to express her own wonder and enthusiasm, if for no other purpose than to serve as a warning about how their work should be approached.
"Something you said yesterday," she said as she plucked a small stapled packet of papers from her bag, "kind of clicked. It reminded me of something I'd read before. Three of us--that's what you said. It took a dream to bridge the gap, though."
"Dreams are powerful things, I've heard."
"Here. Read this," she said, passing the papers to him and tapping anxiously on the intended excerpt. "This last part."
"A kingdom of three on the edge of the Great Plains. What is this?"
He eyed her suspiciously.
"This is our story."
"Young lady, one can barely write an entire novel based on a single phrase. Believe me, I've tried."
"Come on, Oscar--can I call you Oscar, Mr. Bruges?--this is our concept, our basis."
"First of all, yes, you may. Now, go on. Lay the whole thing out for me."
"Okay, in 1838, somewhere in the Dakotas, on the edge of the Great Plains, there's a village--a big one, a bustling metropolis as far as the Indians are concerned."
"I believe Native American would be the proper nomenclature."
"Whatever. A bustling metropolis as far as the Native Americans are concerned."
"Though I suppose American Indian would be acceptable, as well."
"Oscar."
"My apologies."
"There's an outbreak of smallpox. Maybe the natives were getting restless, and the white men stationed in the area gave them some blankets--biological warfare, and all that. Or maybe it came from someplace else. It doesn't really matter, so we can be vague on that part. The point is that this entire contained world of people suddenly collapses. The small villages go first, but of course there's traffic to the main city for trade, so it spreads, and before long, the whole city is dead."
"So a book about the spread of a plague? Is that it?"
"No, that's all happened before our story even gets started--in medias res, you know. The book is about three survivors, the last three people left in the city. They've watched everyone they know and love suffer and die, and they're just trying to keep themselves alive. They know that they're heading toward extinction, oblivion. They can see it coming, but there's not a thing they can do about it. There are three of us now. Three in all the world. Those are the opening lines right there."
Oscar was silent for a few moments, staring off absently.
"Well, what do you think?"
"My dear," he said, his eyes connecting with hers, exposing a glazed, fragile nature beneath them, "I love it."
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