in the library
New music plays, a sorrowful piece that deepens the sadness I feel. Strings sing in minor keys, numbing my desire to write. Instead, why not close my eyes and drift and drift on a sea of violin waves. A cello accompanies the main line, creeping and stalking the melody, dark bass notes coloring the pretty viola runs. A crescendo and then a peaceful resolve snap me from my reverie.
The questions from readers and those I meet on social media always center around wanting to know the same answers my assistant demands. Tell the world of the sordid details surrounding the days of my thirteenth birthday. Tell the world what happened with Ray all those years ago. But, I ask you dear reader - do you want me to tell it or do you want to hear it in his words? I hold his book in my hands and the power to decide if the world will ever see what is written between the covers.
I've been assembling my early stories and remembrances of those days. If I can gather the courage, I'll release a book that will answer all the questions. In my own words and in my own time. I've never told it beyond Routine and must push myself to continue the story. You see, it started long before I met Ray a few days prior to my thirteenth birthday. So much happened before that hot day in July I walked into the convenience store where Ray worked.
But, those days have turned into memories and the mind plays tricks to deceive, to protect. I can only tell you how I remember it, the bits of buried hate that have been unearthed in my mind. The story lacks a linear line and I will tell it how I can. Will you follow me into the past?
I do not have a title for this book I am writing. Perhaps I shall simply name it the number of stories that comprise the volume - nine stories. It worked for Salinger or something like that. Enough of this and I do apologize for carrying on and on without a point. Some days the weight of memories...