The Sad Man–Episode One
This project came about from a short fiction writing contest sponsored by NPR. Writers were given a picture to inspire a story. The picture inspired me to write a story about a sad man looking through personal ads. I made it a multimedia project and decided to continue the story. As I thought about where to take Episode Two, a rush of usable images shot through my head. So finally, I have a use for some of my pictures! Sometimes the images drove the story and other times I searched my archives for a suitable image or video clip, or went out and shot what I needed. The man will be sad and bitter for quite some time, but eventually he will heal—maybe. Stories such as this one remind me how everything is about balance including emotions. Read the stories or sit back and enjoy the video readings.
The Sad Man–Episode One
Some Comments on Episode One:
You carved that story out of a pic? ….Amazing! It is well formed and the composition of place and oddities of time, is in a sense brilliant. Loved the story. More of such please…..Roberto
Wow. Knocks my socks off. You are quite the writer. And then you wrap it up into the package and bring the whole thing home. Yes!…..Tim
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Brown haired Becky likes staying in bed until noon. Short but cute Carey likes cooking and long walks. Holly? Could this be the same Holly who told me she found someone? I exhale. The air grabs at my throat and my heart settles into an expanding void. It is her; she was being nice.
I flip to the next page finding solace in the newsprint’s aroma. I roll the corner of the paper between my thumb and index finger while scanning the next few personals ads. My kneading of the paper quickens and it softens between my fingers. I turn another page, and then another. These pages turn like blind corners. Maybe one day I will crash into someone: She will replace my blessed Karen, she will walk and laugh with me, she will hold me. How long has Karen been gone now? If any more air leaves me, no one will know I’m here.
I tip my mug and power through a slug of cold coffee. Normally, I’m done ‘looking’ before I need a refill, but not today. My reflection catches me as I stand and dig in my pockets for some change. I lean towards the glass rubbing and twisting my two-week old beard. The salt and pepper strands remind me of newsprint, smells like it too. After thirty years as a newspaper editor, ink runs in my veins. Karen used to tell me to shower as soon as I came home; ink was an odor to her not an aroma. My reflection ages with each twist of my beard–my reflection will not smile. Karen would tell me to shave; she hated facial hair.
I cut in line and flip a quarter and three dimes onto the counter. The barista nods and slides the change into the tip jar. As I make my way back to my seat, a man picks up my paper, frowns, and sets it back down. I check the date on the paper. Over two weeks old! That explains why Holly’s ad is so familiar. I step back and tip my mug; the coffee burns my throat and I wince at the pain. There’s a newspaper stand and a bar down the street. The pain will be gone soon.
