The Mail Carrier’s Guide to Slaying Monsters (Pt 3 of 3)

                Franklin got home at 8:30.  There was snow on the driveway, and footsteps leading to the front door.  Someone had crammed a complimentary newspaper and a bunch of flyers in his mailbox.  He left them there.

                Inside, he went to his office and sat in front of the computer screen.

                ‘Ink-Made Lover Affairs’, he wrote, the title to his novel.  The first scene was of a calm December day and the conversation in an office that would define the destiny of the protagonist (Fred) as he headed inevitably to words lost in love, lost in time, just lost.  This was the moment of Fred’s firing.

                Franklin found himself upstairs, in Clara’s study, leafing through her photo albums.  An entire shelf was filled with them, another stacked with hard drives from the time when Clara had decided to go digital.  “Fred will need a love interest.  A mature woman, a widower.  A skier.  A philanthropist.  A mother.”  On a piece of scrap, he wrote, ‘pink and purple hair’, and tucked the note into his pocket.

                Franklin was in front of the computer screen.  A paragraph stared back at him.  He had a glass of scotch in his hand.

                Franklin was in the snow in his socks.

                Franklin was under the sink with a wrench.

                Franklin was in the garage, surrounded by tires.

                At midnight, Franklin was in front of the computer screen, reading:

                ‘I waited patiently for time.  Meanwhile, time didn’t care about me.  Didn’t care how I felt or what I had to do in the meanwhile.  Well, it’s finally time.  Seventy one years old and without a thing to do, and it’s finally time.  I waited.  I waited so faithfully for the right moment to write these words, to get out the ideas that walked with me on all those snowy, rainy, sunny days, along all those rocky, fencepost routes.  But now they tell me I’m sick.  That the ideas are parting.  That I’m lost and going to get worse.  Is this what I waited for?  To be too late?  Is that what I have to think on, that I should have started when I had the chance?’

                Franklin thought on his day, the improbability of it.  And he started to write.  He wrote until he was in impossible places talking to impossible people, for this was what he had left, and this was who he was.  “Might be going crazy,” he said, “but not wasting any more time.  Bring it on.  Bring me the madness and I’ll write it out.  I’ll take a bucket of dementia, if you please, and spill it on this keyboard if that’s all I have left.  Because it’s time, you see.  It’s time.”  The story spun around trolls and children and a great destructive lizard that came out of no where to plow through a city covered in winter.  But it was also about heroes with purple and pink hair, who skated the canals carrying messages to freedom fighters made of snow and ice.

                And when morning came, he was still there, typing away – typing up the very madness that he had been told would stop his story.  Meanwhile, time moved on, slowly – quietly – in every pore of his body, and ours too, never asking us what dreams we struggle to make our own or allow to be held off until the right moment – as though there is such a thing as the right moment.  Time is a troll under a bridge, a story tells; it is a collection of children reaching for stars.  Time is an answer and a master, and in the end, whether we know it or not, it is all that we have.

71 thoughts on “The Mail Carrier’s Guide to Slaying Monsters (Pt 3 of 3)

  1. Okay. I’m sad. I think there’s a whole book between Part II and Part III.

    Franklin put off writing until it was too late. But the tales his dementia spins are probably way better than he would have done without it, and since he thinks he’s writing it down, is he really that bad off, I wonder? Maybe it is just the journey– even if it’s a demented one. What a great story!

  2. Loved it. Agree with Linda, there’s a whole story between the sheets on this one, but holds its own as is too. You are kinda talented my friend…yup…a real writer type guy.

  3. Thanks a lot, pal. Now I can’t get the Stones’ song, “Time Is On My side” out of my head. It keeps rolling around up there and I can’t stop it. Oh well, maybe I just need to give it some time.

  4. What a miraculous ending, Trent! So true, when is there ever a right time for anything? When you finally get there, it’s not usually what you’d expect, as expressed by your story. Well done! Enjoyable read.

  5. very droll, you big hairy troll! lol not really, just came to mind after I read it. I feel like you just discribed me to a tee, minus the troll part…although, I chose not to look in the mirrror any more, and it may just be! I must say tho, oh but you inspire me to write so much more creatively than I ever have…thankyou! 🙂

  6. i sometimes wonder where you get your wisdom from. age? experience? or maybe the little fairies who dance around your bed and whisper secrets from an unknown magical world where words are dust.

    • I don’t know if I have wisdom. But there are definitely voices at play, and they may at that come from that other world, the one we have talked about. Would you live there? Would you even visit? Or are the glimpses enough? I always wonder. I never know. I don’t have the wisdom to unentangle this; at times I’m desperate for that world, maybe the one where we were made or maybe the one where we are headed. I think humanity is a journey to understand itself. We contribute in our ways, or we don’t, and in love we pass and surpass. There are too many things I don’t understand, too many griefs that I wish I could fix, and sometimes in the futility of that, there is the other world. The one where you go.

      • we are not fixers, we are believers. if we were suppose to control and fix would we know where to start and when to let go? would one fix break something else? we are not suppose to have all the answers…yet. even tho we cannot understand why. we only see what we choose to. sometimes we only see the dust storm, we do not see the dust dancing and swirling, we do not see beneath or beyond. we see only the raging. but to believe in the dream, now, that you should know, brings clarity. the dream is the hope is the knowing we are here for another purpose than to understand fully, to comprehend what we cannot and should not…yet. i go where the wings are, where the silence goes when the night swirls around me and dances a wild dance that inspires and breathes and swells and whirls. when poetry becomes prayer. we live by faith not by sight. we live by knowing this is only temporary, whatever this is, whatever i feel now, whatever helplessness overwhelms me sometimes when this world makes no sense and threatens to take my faith and bury it. then, even more, do i believe, that what i do not understand now, will soon be revealed, and then only will i see the particles of love and strength and hope and a Hand that reaches into the storm to pull us out. but we often do not look for the Hand because we only see the chaos and we convince ourselves there can be nothing in this black hole that pulls life deeper into the void. a candle should be lit and not hidden away. we are the small sparks. we find the worlds to get lost in. we find the words that become prayer even tho we do not recognize it as such, for we are only human. but our spirits rise to connect to something beyond. and Love pulls us out. to see the world beyond, we not only have to believe it exists, we have to walk the path that leads there, keeping our eyes on the horizon…

  7. I find myself grasping for time.. To slow down. I’m do afraid I won’t figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. Trent you really are truly talented. And you’ve made me ponder with your entertaining and wonderful tale. We are all Franklin

    • I think so, Audra. I am him. I know so many people that are him. And I can imagine this outcome. I can imagine getting to a place that is close to the end of something, and only then forcing myself to start. I am often stunned by the magic of existence, of why we are here; and I don’t really subscribe to any known interpretation to the answer to that question. I just know that I’m grateful for my life, and my family, my kids (oh my kids!), my wife, my friends, even the corporate drudgery I go through every day. But I think there must be a way to understand how I got this lucky, and I search for it in some vague abstraction as I walk about, doing one thing and dreaming of others. I never grew up, Audra. I am insensibly immature. I am still a kid, and people say that to me all the time (not in a flattering way). But this is fine with me. I think I know what I want to do. But the time just keeps moving, and it is taking my dreams with it. I think that is a terrible crime, one I’m committing myself and with no help at all in the matter, no matter how much I might like to blame the expectations of society and the conventional measures of success.

      That is such a hard question… to figure out what we’re meant to do. It might be the only question. Hope you find a glimmering.

      • Well said Trent.
        It’s pure torture to have a tickling itch that needs so desperately to be scratched but you can’t reach it, yet. Being mature is over-rated. I’m not the mature either… Not a good characteristic for a librarian. I do Not fit the stereotype.
        The golden eggs of life: the people we love and the people that intersect ( you) at certain points for a variety of reasons that lift us up, give us wings, allowing us to fly and soar —
        Time, damn you time. I’m gathering steam in finding who I am but I fear it’ll slip away… We are all the same.
        See what your story did ?

        Who painted the picture on your blog?

        • So well said. I think we all have that fear of it slipping away from us, whether we admit it or not. I hate to think that it will come to me too late… keeps me up at night. Keeps me writing.

          I don’t remember, I found it on some free page on the internet somewhere. It’s a picture of Roy Batty from Blade Runner. It’s one of my favorite movies, but only really because of the scene that’s shown there, where a fake human is ruminating on how little time it’s had to feel life. He gives a speech in that scene that haunts me. If you haven’t seen it, it’s here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTzA_xesrL8. I watch this movie once a year. I still haven’t figured it out.

  8. Simply brilliant. A fantastic tale from start to finish.
    A fiction writer? Yes, I guess that does fit you after all. 😀 I guess I’ll stick around and see what comes next.

  9. I think you did well here. Quite well. Of late, it had been taking a lot more words and time to extract the hot juice from your pieces, (minus Doc Lewin which was a blaster, of course), but this quickly hit it, right from part 2. And I liked the theme -a fitting tribute to Trent, the freestyling madness writer.

    • Thanks Doc. Yes, the juice… I need to locate it more often, I know. I am trying, and will continue.

      My madness is different from his, as it is from yours. But we have to embrace it, right?

  10. Mmm! Deiciously done. Left me emotionally stirred but not shaken. Powerful conclusion n great last line. Haunting and beautifully melancholy. I love how it comes all back around. The imagery of the falling snow, the city,..this was a great read thanks!

Leave a comment. Don't get cheeky. Or do, it's all good.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s