Why I Am Not a Short Story Writer

There was a story I'd been meaning to write for years. It wasn't very good, not even in that primordial mental soup that tends to make lustreless notions shine. Perhaps it was due to the Nineteenth Century Russian novelists I'd been reading with their cynical tears staining the candelit pages, or Papa's blind bravado plagued by the need for a love unreal, but whatever it was should've stayed in my subconscious. Every few cycles of the sun I'd get the sophomoric urge to tackle my ungainly American classic once and for always, critics be damned. All of these spasms were squelched by the vainly conservative belief that it was not yet time to unload such greatness upon the literary battlefield; and so, thankfully for all parties, it was vanquished and banished to the cobwebbed recesses of my over-zealous mind. Only now, in this relatively new rendition of a rehashed predicament that's shadowed my romantic existence, I feel it's time to spit it from my ribcage to end the threat of future failure. There are a handful times when that's within our means. It's best to devour them.

So you have a man, a young man, of dark features and light heart. He lives in a village that could pass for the crystallized Western European backdrop which we've witnessed countless times. There are lots of browns and greens in this description. He wears high leather boots, possibly suspenders. Straight strands of hair fall into his forehead as he toils in the fields, or the mines, or whatever my foolish mind envisioned for this martyr; and you know he is one, because in all tales of love the theme is the same: it ends.

But first, of course, he has to find it; and find it he does, in the most unusual way. A roving band of gypsies comes through town and...nay, that won't do. Too believable. Let's not waste time inventing a story I'm throwing at you so I never actually tell it. Suffice it to say he falls in love, and hard. She's everything he's never realized he wanted. Her mere existence gives him hope for the fate of mankind. I picture her with long, loose ringlets the color of chestnut shells and high cheekbones that offset her frail smile. The rest doesn't matter. She has eyes, she has ears, there are other parts that command his attention, but you don't need to know about them. All that should concern you here is that she's perfect, seemingly flawless, in the longing eyes of our young man who would've been better off in a Bildungsroman than this tragic tale of what we're all in for, one way or another. If you still need to know it to satisfy your curiosity then what you're assuming is true: she wore lots of white.

She truthfully wore it on her wedding day since this custom still meant something. They were united in holy matrimony, cleaved unto each other, and granted the sacred rights that come with such formalities. There was exchange of names and bodily fluids. Neighbors kept their windows closed despite July's heat so as to not overhear the promises and pantings made by young lovers in the stillness of the night where sound is carried farther. God, they were in love, as it was meant to be. And then, as if the depraved of the world became rabid with envy, a War broke out-- a Great one.

Men of fighting age are called to line the trenches. Shiny new machine guns are given out like prizes. There is carnage that should never be seen by God's creations. There is bloodshed that's a far cry from the honeymoon's first night. Half the boys are injured and all of them are starving. There are rumors that the cargo train was blown to smithereens and with it scores of boxes of much needed ammunition. The fighting subsides as both factions wane. In their desperation to gain ground without expending bullets or mortar shells the gas rounds are launched along miles of no-man's-land. Our hero breathes mustard for longer than average while saving a corporal who's caught in barbed wire. He chokes down the poison and loses his sight.

This is the part where you, as the reader, flip through the remaining pages and see how much of this abortion of a story remains. If he dies there can't be so much left to tell. You read on to ascertain his vitality and discover you are right. He arrives home on a train in a wheelchair and a head wrap. His bride carts him home and tends to all his wounds. As is the case with most true love he's healed by acts inexplicable. His vision's restored and his sutures work their weave. As soon as he's well he requests his redeployment. She begs him not to go, but his comrades are in need. With renewed determination he flails through stark engagements. Knowing that his second chance at going home rides upon the outcome of the war he maneuvers like a madman driven only by passion. There are no medals given, but his peers see his courage. At night he pulls shrapnel from his flesh with hot tongs like a child yanks splinters when leaving the playground. When the soldiers still standing at armistice march home our specimen carries an added distinction-- the letters of the fallen are entrusted to him. For weeks he recites accounts of bravery that may or may not have happened to ease the weary hearts of widows and ex-parents. It's one more price to pay before settling into his earned life next to his beloved. And finally, after the dust from the War to End All Wars has settled, he does just that.

If I were telling this story properly I'd spend time on their home life at this juncture; how they nurtured what other couples craved; what their routine consisted of and what they planned on naming their children; but I can't, and I won't, since this is a mere mockery. There's no point in polishing a self-proclaimed dud. It happened as it does in a movie montage. This tired observer won't bore you with facts. There is only one detail that's key to this telling: she sold off her ring to help pay the tax man when the war was still raging and money was scarce. His usual offer to ladies in waiting was spurned and cursed for the sin that it was.

If there would be dialogue anywhere in this nightmare I'd bet that it's here that the author would need it to make it believable. The man who survived the horrors of war can't bear that bare finger on his wife's fair left hand. A new band will cost him more than his budget will ever allow with the post-war economy. He abandons his craft, whatever that is, and takes up a job laying slate roof tiles. It's backbreaking work hauling stone up ladders, spreading slats around chimneys, kneeling for hours on end-- but it pays accordingly. "Blood money", some call it, though he's seen too much of that crimson liquid spilled to throw such terms around. This was when a stranger could tell your trade by the way that your body deformed over time; sunset to dusk, crawling on shale, hands cut from edges the grindsman neglected. It was no surprise when he rolled from the rooftop that Saturday morning. These things happen after months without rest. She ran to his side as soon as she heard, but the doctor had already closed the man's eyelids.

What they didn't know, since autopsy was neither performed nor what it is today, is that exhaustion played no part in his demise. The young man's heart was fine until that shard of steel made impact. A tiny metal sliver in his knee from a shrapnel wound of yore had been pushed a little deeper every time he knelt at work. Eventually it pressed its way into the nearest vein. It didn't take long to reach his heart from there. It was in the name of love that this roofer met his Maker. There can be no greater honor. There can be no bigger fool.

And that's where it would end should I decide to write it. Hopefully now you can see why I'll refrain.