Patrick's Surfaces VII

"You don't remember," she said soft in her WJAZ voice.

"What don't I remember?" I said, sounding remarkably grouchy, like my father.

"Wemoreland," she said.

"I've never been there." I hadn't moved. She hadn't moved. We'd been to this point before.

"But you remember. Wemoreland?" she asked.

"I..."

"Close your eyes, Zachary."

I did.

"Zachary, remember a cold rapid river, a gnarly juniper branch, a rune riddle under a senofite rock, a friendly owl."

"Neptine," I said, without thinking it first.

"Yes. Neptine. He misses you."

"I don't know him." I opened my eyes.

"Close your eyes," she said immediately. "You knew him. You just said his name."

I closed my eyes and said his name, "Neptine."

"Yes," she said. "He was your friend."

"There was a boat," I heard myself say. I saw a boat. I heard myself describe it. "It had a wheel, a light, it was trimmed in blue, there were workers, monkeys. I was worried. There was danger, water, time, danger."

"Yes. Zach. What else?"

"You. I remember you."

"What else, Zachary?"

"There was a message, a message missing words."

"What else do you remember, Zachary?"

"Nothing." The images were gone. I opened my eyes.

"Close your eyes, Zachary. What else do you remember?"

"Nothing. All I remember was a book I read. I remember nothing more."

"What book, Zach?"

"What?"

"What book, Zach?"

What Type of Writer Should You Be? Take II

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways. And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery... Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever. You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Ah, I did it again. I chose all the answers I could have chosen the first time. See how easy it is to go from geeky to sexy?

Patrick's Surfaces VI

"You really don't remember , Zachary?" Her voice was soothing.

"Remember what?" I felt soothed. But I did not want her asking anything of me. I could do nothing. Nothing but sit and watch her lips move, sit and listen to her soft voice, her 11pm jazz DJ voice.

"Isn't my voice familiar?" She asked.

"Are you the DJ on WJAZ? Are you Jessica Simone?"

"Zachary," she shook head slowly. Right. Left. I could hear her almost add "Tsk tsk."

"You sound like my grandmother, actually." I said. I wanted to go back to soothing. She got me to accept, without understanding. Now, I didn't want to understand.

"Well, that's because you're scared," she said.

"Well, you're not helping when you react to my thoughts like that." I said. "Bitch." I didn't say.

"Be nice, Zachary. I'm trying to help."

Not soothed, not scared, pissed off, now, again, but not quite to the point of turning her off again. I didn't want to find that I couldn't. Okay, still scared. And quiet. I'd now remain quiet.

"That's better, thank you." It really was just her mouth moving. "We met a long time ago, Zach. You've changed. But, we were friends. Good friends."

Just listening was good. Focusing on her mouth moving, on her Jessica Simone voice.

"We went on a lot of adventures together, got in a lot of trouble, got rescued, did some rescuing," she said.

I was trying to see, with the 'e' sounds in words like "adventure," "friends," "together," if she had a tongue-ring. Sometimes I thought so, sometimes I thought it was just a weird off-color pixel.

"Do you remember?"

"No."

"Do you remember a shiny, bright place? A hard-to-look-at place? Called Wemoreland?"

"No. Yes. No. I don't know. It sounds familiar. I've never been there, though."

"You've visited. Followed maps, found treasures. Solved puzzles and untangled riddles. You walked a long long way and found blue elms. "

"Oh. Right. And I suppose I won the princess?"

"Yes. You did."

"Oh. Then. I lived happily ever after?"

"Yes. We did."

"Then what's this? Now?"

"This is after happily ever after."

"You're so full of shit." I didn't say. I wasn't convinced enough she was. Though, obviously she was. Full of shit. I couldn't quite say it though. But, I knew she heard it."

"None of it's up to me, Zachary. I'm not full of anything. I'm just one of Patrick's surfaces."

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

You Should Be a Science Fiction Writer

Your ideas are very strange, and people often wonder what planet you're from. And while you may have some problems being "normal," you'll have no problems writing sci-fi. Whether it's epic films, important novels, or vivid comics... Your own little universe could leave an important mark on the world!

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

Patrick's Surfaces V

"I turned the speakers off."

"Come on, honey, you should know by now that won't work with us. Nothing can come between us so easily."

I checked the speakers. They were off. I couldn't tell where her voice was coming from. The cold of the sweat running down my temple convinced me I wasn't dreaming.

"Sit down," she said.

"I am."

"You're not."

I wasn't.

I did. I sat in the desk chair, swiveled away from the monitor, and closed my eyes.

"Thank you. Now we can talk."

"Why does the computer need to be on if the speakers don't?" I said.

"So you can see me."

"If I can hear you without speakers, why can't I see you without the computer?"

"You wouldn't believe."

"I don't believe."

"Look at me."

"No." But I wanted to.

"Look at me."

"No."

"Zachary," she said. She said Zachary. My real name. I didn't respond.

"You need me to be on the monitor of your turned-on computer because your discernment of beauty is so poor that you would only see zeros and ones otherwise. Does this make sense?"

"No."

"Your world," she continued, "comes through here. Asking you to see me without the computer being on, your internet connection being active, would be like asking Emerson to write about trees if he'd never been outside. I need to inhabit your world. Or I wouldn't be anyone, or no one of consequence, certainly no one of beauty. Do you see?"

I still didn't answer. I did see though. It just didn't help me to understand.

"Look at me," she said.

And I did.

She hadn't changed. Her blue eyes were looking directly into me, her gauzy cream blouse showed a faint outline of the roundness of her breasts, but no nipple. Her legs and feet, and therefore ankles, were drawn up underneath her, hidden behind her blue paisley skirt. She raised one hand out, palm up. I imagined, but did not hear, the light gold chains on her wrist jangling with the movement.

"Yes," I said. "You are right. You are beautiful."

"So are you Zachary," she said. She said to me, Zachary, that I was beautiful and I decided to believe that she could see me.

"Why are you here," I asked. I did not ask "how."

"Because you invited me."

"Thank you for coming," I said.