Fiction:

A story and an experiment

I've always wanted to write fiction. I've stated several works, but I've only finished a few. I've be so unhappy about the final results of the few that have been finished that no one else has read them, so I've decided it's time for something new. I'm trying an experiment. I'm writing a story; I don't know where it's going, I'm starting it on the spur of the moment. I'll be putting each segment up here on my weblog as I finish it for critiques and to force myself to have others read it even though I don't feel it's ready for prime-time. Feel free to comment, criticize, praise, whatever, as long as it is constructive, not unhelpful "it sucks" or "it's great" (as much as it would boost my ego...). I need to know WHAT is good or bad about it.

So, if you're interested, read the extended post and fire away!

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He knew he was in the desert the moment he opened his eyes, even though the overwhelming bright light had momentarily overcome his vision. The sunlight in the desert has a harsh whiteness that is unmatched in any other clime. It has the actinic glare only seen elsewhere when staring into an arc lamp, but that brilliance is everywhere in the desert and cannot be avoided by simply averting the eyes.

That was one bit of information, he was in the desert. Any information was a plus, because he had no distinct memories, memories he knew should come to mind unbidden if all were as it should be. He knew the quality of light in the desert, but he didn’t know how he knew.

He didn’t know his name, but he knew he was in a desert.

He sat up and scanned the horizon. Another bit of information, he was in Arizona. The saguaro cacti meant the desert in North America shared by Mexico and the United States, and the sign at the side of the two-lane highway was in English, warning that the next gas station was 30 miles away. Definitely Arizona, although he still didn’t know how he knew.

More information, the saguaro were blooming, so it was sometime between late April and early June. The flowers were just closing, so it was morning, which explained why the air was not oven hot and dry yet. That would be coming soon. More that he knew without knowing why. Evening would have been better, because then he could follow the road to the gas station promised by the road sign. Now he had a choice: he could start walking along the road to the gas station, knowing it was 30 miles and he would be severely dehydrated by the time he reached it if no one friendly enough to pick up a hitchhiker came along, or he could find what shelter he was able to from the heat and sun until evening when he could then walk to the gas station, or he could follow the road in the opposite direction to that the road sign showing definitely where a gas station was located in the hope that civilization was closer in the other direction and the sign was placed as a warning that a farther distance had to be traveled in that direction to reach the nirvana of gasoline, Coca Cola, and barbeque potato chips.

An inventory first, what did he have with him? No wallet, no ID, no keys, no money, the pockets in the blue jeans were as empty as his narrative memory. The jeans were broken in, as were his sneakers, and both the jeans and the shoes fit well, so it appeared that his body had broken them in some former life that was no longer his. The right back pocket was stretched a bit more than the left, showing where he had kept his wallet in that previous existence. A black leather belt, a white T-shirt tucked into the jeans, and a checkered flannel shirt more appropriate to the Pacific Northwest left untucked and unbuttoned were the remainder of the assets. No handy knives, otherwise he could easily get water from the saguaros. Bloody Hell…

Next, scan the ground around where he awoke. Information, more information needed, and this information would decay as time and the elements took their inevitable toll, even in the arid desert. Nothing useful. He was about 10 yards from the edge of the road that held the sign promising petroleum salvation. The 10 feet at the edge of the road was a typical tarred gravel road shoulder, then the next 20 feet to where he sat was the scrub and dirt typical of the southern Arizona desert. The ground was so hard that no prints, foot or tire, were apparent. Bloody Hell…

No time for cursing what is beyond control. Time to decide. Walking opposite the direction of the promise made by the road sign felt right. There was a rise in that direction that likely held the “last chance for gas” that the sign was implicitly advising a U-turn for. Why did it feel right? Time enough for thinking about the whys while on the move. He stood up and started walking.

To be continued...