Head Games



"Pacific"



Yesterday morning, I selected the wrong tea. I thought it was the right tea (and it would have been, had the character associated with it been willing to talk). Pondering my supply, I stumbled onto a tin of David’s Whiskey White and immediately thought Good tea for Jake. That gave me pause.

Jake? Who the heck is Jake?

I picked Persian Apple and proceeded to bash my head against my desk. Finally, fed up with me bouncing around inside my own skull, Ter sent me on a walk under explicit orders to return with a decision on which story to write. I knew which one I wanted to work on, but the other two were should-ing me to distraction. A 30 minute stint at the beach and I made up my mind. Go with the one I wanted.

It turns out that Jake is the mystery man in the tale inspired by Alex Colville’s painting. Yes, Whiskey White is his tea, and when the final all-important puzzle piece dropped into place, I was off to the races. Music is as vital to my process as tea and solitude; every story I write has its own soundtrack. Julian demands Chopin, Lucius likes Def Leppard. On my way back from the beach, I was wondering what Jake would like and the answer came as clearly as the flavour of tea: Alan Parsons. It was so perfect that I almost ran the rest of the way home. I wrote all afternoon and was more productive than I’ve been in ages. It’s nowhere near done, but at least I know how it will end. It's currently untitled; the post title refers to the nonsense I put myself through before allowing myself to pick the project I most wanted to pursue.

The story began a few blog entries back, but here is the next scene. It’s almost all dialogue and not very long – I’m still trying to figure out how best to post my work when a short story for me runs longer than some novellas.

Anyway, here you go. Just a nibble. Please note the use of punctuation J

* * *

Just as he was mentally composing his message, Doug answered the phone.

“Jake! Good to hear from you, man. When did you get back?”

“Last night. Late last night,” he amended, anticipating a reprimand for not calling sooner.

“How was the Continent?”

“Cold and drizzling. Bud, I’ve got a problem.”

Doug’s bonhomie turned wary. “What kind of problem?”

“A girl washed up on my beach this morning.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was. How soon can you get here?”

“I take it she’s still breathing?”

“Barely, but yeah, she’s breathing.”

“Call the police.”

“I’m calling you. That’s close enough.”

Silence preceded a short, resigned sigh. “I’ll be right over.”

* * *