O'Rourke's magazine
Two short stories by H. W. Cimmerian

1.

Letter to a literary agent

Dear L.A.,

I'm sorry that I have been incommunicado for a few weeks, as your entreaties to get me writing had left me quite enervated, because you are attempting to open up to me a world I have previously only seen in my dreams. Initially I was tickled silly that you considered me able of good writing, as I am thoroughly incapable of producing anything of any value and to this assertion I would bring my entire life to bear witness. Then, I thought to myself, what if you meant what you were saying and worse, were correct in your assessment of my ability to write?

You are correct, there is a writer in me who wishes to give wings to his many flights of fantasy and soar in the vertiginous realm of the imagination, inhabited by so few great people, so I loosen the reins of self-restraint and float in the luxuriant magnificence of the infinitude of the mind, a land inhabited by the angels of heaven and hell and soon, as was to be expected, I crash against an invisible wall and plunge to my fall as a proud little thrush, plucked out of the air mid-flight by the slingshot of an impertinent little boy.

This startling vision shakes me out of my allegorical reverie and I solemnly consider, as any reasonable man does, the consequences of my actions, not only for my own inconsequential little self, but also for those dear to me, all of whom have the good fortune of leading staidly lives. You see my friend, I am like Prometheus, bound all over by filial chains and if I am to bring my literary fire to man, I shall be doubly punished by a multitude of eagles pecking at my liver, if a solitary hair on the heads of my many beloved were to be harmed and I can assure you that from such torment, no Hercules, nor Zeus could rescue me. The Moirae would justly deliver me to Hades and from thence there would be no coming back, neither would I wish to return.

Of a sudden, soft that seldom mentioned line "Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate.." creeps into my train of thought, a welcome passenger which has oft proven good company in the dull journey of life and it gives me pause. Again, I rhapsodise over what greatness could emerge from dirt and attempt to conflate my portentousness, with false images of utility and contribution to humanity, not without some success and even though I know that I am deceiving myself, I allow this transgression against my reason. But, ought I deceive you? I feel it incumbent upon myself to bare my infidelities and infirmities, to admit that there is very little of value in me and even that which is of value, remains sheathed in artifice to protect my fraudulent self, in the hope that you will lose interest in me and that I shall be left in the chilly company of my many solitary selves, which should be a better exchange for Hades.

So I prevaricate and string both our sorry selves along..

with sincere apologies .. ..

He then proceeded to chew his pencil some more, scratched out a few words, corrected them and finally, just as he was bout to sign his initials, on impulse crumpled the letter up and sent it flying to the waste basket among its many other premature siblings.

2.

A half-bad story

She massaged her temples pensively after an hour of furious reading and exclaimed, your capacity for mendaciousness is really quite extraordinary!

He smiled at her, did you not like it my dear?

Like it? What's there to like, she fumed. You are in your stories just as you are in your life, an intentionally insufferably unlikeable man, I often wonder why I put up with you.

Seeing as we are both quite similar people, I put to you that it could perhaps be the wisdom you see in being unlikeable, he replied in a characteristic taciturn tone.

Her lips curled into a concessionary grin and she said, smile your ingratiating smiles you sod, but you know just as well as I do, that people get more out of my stories than they do out of yours.

His brow furrowed, of course darling, were I to pander to popular sentiment too as you do, both my readers and I should get much fulfillment from my stories too, but is that all life and literature are about?

Fulfillment? She scowled at him, you've always got to outdo me, haven't you?

I think you will find that it is you who is competitive my love, I am quite happy with my lowly station in life, he shot back.

She raised her voice, you know as well as I do that it has very little to do with status, it is the quality of what you write, your characters are all disembodied, they have no shape, no structure, nothing in them but the "forbidden" hubris of unsympathetic idealism, you intentionally write awful stories to exact some sort of revenge from your readers, who deserve to be challenged but not tormented.

Well, you're right, he replied with feigned humility, and then with a smile added, at least I provide them with decent endings.

¶

Author's Note: H. W. Cimmerian has traveled and studied widely on three continents, and now lives privately on one of them.

¶

Art © copyright by Adam Fisher. All rights reserved. These works may be purchased at Fisher Art.

¶

Also published here: "Sorrows and Joys of the Desert," by Tom Dark.

¶