The book was smelly, musty, and yellow around the edges. There was a burn in the top right corner of the first few pages, as if burnt from a cigarette held in the same hand as the book. I didn't remember where I got it. I didn't remember, even, reading it. I certainly didn't remember ever smoking. Most of the other books in the two boxes were old textbooks and computer manuals. DOS for Dummies, etc. There were several Star Trek novels and then there was The Surfaces of Wemoreland. I didn't remember reading it but I had vague wispy memories of the story, though the memories were visual, like movie-memories, and even vague and wispy they seemed longer and denser than the 160-page paperback.
I tossed the book on the desk where the computer used to sit. It hit with a dull thud and then I watched it a minute, as if I expected it to move or be moved or grow into something else.
I poured myself another whiskey. The bottle was almost empty which made me wonder what time it was, if liquor stores were open, if I'd been up all night yet, if we were near the moment when dogs were walked and ghosts retreated. But it was dark except for the desk lamp that spotlighted the book, and quiet absolutely.
The cover of the book had two children on it, running, fleeing, hand-in-hand amongst blue elms. Nothing was chasing them and they looked not scared, but excited, invigorated, like they were about to win a clear race. They were both blond, and dressed all in white. She had gold bracelets and a black rose on her ankle, barely discernible. She had the eyes of the woman whose face just splintered against my door. They were about twelve. Or maybe fifteen. Or perhaps eight. Or not even children. I turned the book face down and thought about sleep and why it didn't seem like a relevant thought. I sat in my desk chair and without touching the book, read the back cover:
Take an adventure with Patrick Wemore to a land of his own making, a land in his own mind. Travel to Wemoreland and help Patrick's imagination keep him, and you, and all the good people and creatures of Wemoreland safe. By reading this interactive story you can help Patrick's unconscious, and therefore all Wemoreland, to fight against bad thoughts and wrong deeds, and to prevail against evil.
I closed my eyes and saw again the image of the ship and the monkeys. I was breathing heavily and each inhale brought a different flash of memory: a purple sunset, a faceless gnome screaming curses from within a large black-bound book, a blue rickshaw on an empty desert plane, the stars moving into battle formation, a soft voice saying "yes" urgently from rounded lips, a field of knee-high flowers in reds and golds collectively reflecting two bright, full moons.
I opened my eyes and threw the book into the shards of my computer, knowing that everything I needed to throw was actually in my mind.
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You know, it's unfortunate--I think, anyway--the way I have difficulty wrapping my brain around fantasy writing. The first thing I know I need to do is suspend disbelief--fair enough. But I think that I'm such a literal person, a literal writer, that this stuff goes completely over my head no matter how well I prepare, no matter how open I make my mind.
That said, let's move on to the good stuff:
There was a burn in the top right corner of the first few pages, as if burnt from a cigarette held in the same hand as the book.
I like this image quite a bit. I got hung up on how the hand would have had to be holding the cigarette, but that's just me really, thinking, "How would I burn a book like that?" and then planning.
I didn't remember reading it but I had vague wispy memories of the story, though the memories were visual, like movie-memories, and even vague and wispy they seemed longer and denser than the 160-page paperback.
I like this hint quite a bit.
I closed my eyes and saw again the image of the ship and the monkeys. I was breathing heavily and each inhale brought a different flash of memory: a purple sunset, a faceless gnome screaming curses from within a large black-bound book, a blue rickshaw on an empty desert plane, the stars moving into battle formation, a soft voice saying "yes" urgently from rounded lips, a field of knee-high flowers in reds and golds collectively reflecting two bright, full moons.
Okay, this was better on my third read. You know what? I am highly unimaginative. It's the only excuse! Why could I not grasp these visuals on my first time around? Unimaginative in large proportions.
I opened my eyes and threw the book into the shards of my computer, knowing that everything I needed to throw was actually in my mind.
I like this line. It makes me want to put on some reading glasses, sit forward in my chair, and speak in my best therapist voice: "Tell me more about that."
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