The glass doors of the Sky Room Café
were open to the lobby of the Cinema Arts Center in Huntington, NY. Al Darcy
walked inside glancing at the various groups clustered at small tables. He
decided on a gathering of five with papers in front of them instead of carrot
cake and coffee. The Writing Group.
“Good evening. I’m looking for
Carrie Rickman.”
“You’re Al. We saved you a seat,”
chirped Carrie.
Introductions were made as Al took a
sheaf of pages from a folder.
“As I told you on the phone we all
write in different genres. Bill and Harry write screen plays, Lauren writes
flash fiction, David is working on a stage play, and I have a novel in
progress.”
“I have a penchant for short stories
and poetry,” said Al placing his hand on his pages.
Harry distributed copies and parts
to the company for a reading of a scene. His screen play, a comedy entitled
“Not So Fast”, had them chuckling at a deft use of slapstick and pratfalls.
“That’s schadenfreude. That’s why
it’s so dam funny,” said Carrie. “Your character is enjoying his coworker’s
difficulties.”
“A little too much. The actual
translation from the German is ‘harm joy’,” said Bill looking up from his cell
phone.
“You know how hard it is to act
happy for someone when they have a windfall,” said Harry. “I don’t want to know
if they got a nice inheritance. But if they have a problem it’s easy to be all
sympathetic. It makes you feel better.”
“Sounds like sibling rivalry,” said
Lauren. “Competition is fierce.”
Al listened intently to the
light-hearted discussion glad to see that criticism wasn’t a part of it. They
laughingly told of moments when they had experienced the particular, shameless
delight of schadenfreude. Then Al was invited to share something he’d written.
“I brought a poem to start,” he
said. He distributed copies and read to them in a soft voice in an even tempo.
Stars
Sometimes
I yearn for the past too much.
I
would live among the stars
If
I could to have it back again.
Stars
are so far away
that
the beauty of their light
does
not shine in our night
until
time unimagined has passed for them.
And
so it is the same
that
turnings of earth have not transcended
through
space to the stars as yet.
I
could live among the stars
where
my dreams are of those
I
have not met, or lost.
“Lovely,” sighed Lauren as the
others murmured agreement. “You’ve got science in here. It’s about the speed of
light, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’m quite interested in the
concept of time and how it can be manipulated.”
“That’s Lauren’s favorite topic,”
said Harry. “Science fiction.”
“Thanks for the segue; I brought a
sci fi piece tonight.”
Lauren read “Please Do the Math”, a
flash fiction story of 611 words.
“I always like your twists at the
end,” said Carrie about the unexpected ending that the man looking for the
perfect mate at a dating service was an android.
“The need for love is universal,”
offered Al. He caught Carrie’s eye. “What did you bring?”
“This is chapter 14 of a novel
about thefts from museums. It’s a mystery.”
“With passion and ardor mixed in.
That’s her specialty,” said David. The others agreed. Al learned that Carrie
had written many novels and was successfully launching them to avid fans on the
internet.
As they walked to their cars Lauren
and Carrie agreed that they hoped Al would return.
“He’s charming,” said Carrie.
“I like the quaint way he turns a
phrase,” replied Lauren.
Two weeks later at the next meeting
of the Writer’s Group Al read the part of George in Bill’s screen play. They
all agreed that he portrayed a vampire-zombie with tacit self-centered
self-loathing.
“If, I mean when we start producing
films, you get the part,” stated David.
“You must have been on stage,” said
Carrie in a flirtatious tone.
Al just smiled.
David’s play, a musical, focused on
New Year’s Eve in New York. Summoning his courage he performed a pivotal song
and dance number. He accompanied himself on a ukulele and sang out to the small
crowd in the Sky Room Café.
“You’re headed for dinner theater,”
said Harry as the spectators applauded.
On the evening of their next
meeting Al handed out neatly stapled copies of a short story he’d written.
“This story takes place in England.
I based it on an unusual experience I had while on holiday. We could each read
a page.”
They looked at the pages before
them.
“Tomorrow, Today, and Yesterday,”
he read. “Not another historic site,” complained Glynis. “We need a café for
rest and reflection.”
A pause. Silence. The members of
the Writers Group looked up and drew a blank. A collective intake of breath
accompanied their confused stares at the place where Al was sitting a moment
before. He was gone.
“Where’d he go?” asked Carrie in a
shaky voice.
Lauren rose and looked at his small
leather zippered case on the table.
“His name is here, and his address.
Alphonse D’Arcy 4400 Chamonix Mont Blanc
France +33 (0) 4 50 12 60.
At the moment he disappeared Al
opened his eyes in a hospital room in Chamonix, France. His coma had lasted for
32 days.
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” said
Lauren. “It’s as if he was never here at all.”
(912 words)
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