The Heart of It
Flash fiction with a life of its own
“Just write what you feel in your stupid little heart,” my dad tells me.
I don’t have the words in me anymore. It’s like I’ve written everything I’m ever going to write. Said every word I’m ever going to say. There’s nothing else worth sharing. Every novel I attempt runs cold eventually. My characters stall and stare off into the horizon. My short stories fall flat too, turning into grocery lists half the time. Jack went to the store and grabbed American cheese. He also grabbed a twelve pack of Coca-Cola. Deodorant, too. Even grocery lists are getting painful to write. I can’t even write a birthday card. Just write, “Love Always,” they’ll say. I can’t. It’s not true enough. I don’t know how long “always” means or what love would even feel like lasting forever like that. How can I just write that? I’ve got something so much worse than writer’s block. I’m developing a full-blown condition. A disorder. Maybe even a disease. Something that’s deep in my tissues and infiltrating my bones. Who knows. I just don’t want to write a thing anymore. It hurts to write this even.
“Just write what you feel in your stupid little heart,” my dad tells me. He doesn’t always think about what he says. He’s looking over my shoulder in this tiny studio apartment of mine. He lives with me these days.
“I don’t even know what’s in my dumb heart anymore,” I say, keeping the insults of the heart rolling. “I think I’ve said everything I can say.”
“You’ve hardly said anything at all,” Dad says and leans back in his wheelchair. “You make this next story about a man who can’t write a thing. He’s finished. Can’t even write a SOS for help.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Maybe he lives with his dad. His dad is making him write a story about a man who has nothing left to say.”
“Not half-bad at all. Make the story about a man telling a story about a dad telling a son he needs to write a story about a man who has nothing left to share with the world. It really is making me want to read for the first time, honest to God,” he says.
“I kind of like it,” I say, and I’m not lying. Not this time. Not like when I said I was ready to take Dad.
He wheels himself up closer. He leans forward and really looks at what I’m writing this whole time while we’re talking.
“You’re writing this right now? Everything we’re saying and doing? Are you using me? That’s technically using me.”
“This is all golden. Don’t let me down now,” I tell him. I’m just sitting here, watching him. I have my fingers ready, just hovering over the keyboard like someone paused in the midst of typing, because that’s exactly what’s happening right now. It’s as true as true can be true.
“True as true can be true? Are you serious right now? How long did you say you’ve been writing?” My dad asks, and I want to erase the line, bad. Murder it. But it stays. It stays because honestly… I don’t want to mess with his dialogue. It’s really him. Him on the page.
“Twenty years. Can you believe it?” I ask, hardly believing the time spent myself.
He’s staring into the monitor, lost inside himself, without a word to say.
“I’m thinking… my God. Let a man think,” he says. He rolls back from the monitor and grabs a Coca-Cola from the fridge.
American Cheese, too.
Dill Pickles.
Potato Chips.
No… focus.
Focus.
Dad’s shaking his head.
I’m reading it back to myself. Out loud.
“Stop it!” He yells. I don’t think he likes that he’s become a part of the story. But I mention to him a lot of stories kind of have a mind of their own.
“They have a mind of their own,” I say. That’s when I mention it.
“I can see that.” My dad takes a long drink of his coke. A little too long. He spills some down his chin. “Cut it out! You’re freaking me out!” He yells again. Part of me thinks he’s playing it up now. He tries to stand.
“Don’t try and stand up!” I yell. He actually pulls me away from the computer to keep him in his wheelchair. I don’t want to see him on the floor in some desperate attempt to make this story worthwhile.
“You’re killing me immortalizing me like this,” he says. A great line.
“Wow, that’s a good line,” I say, readying my fingers for more.
“How are you going to end this?” My dad asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say while typing. I’m still hacking away. I say, “Endings are difficult for me. They can be great. Or story breaking. They can feel like they’re being gifted to me by God or pulled from my intestines. I’m not sure how this one is wrapping up. Honestly. It’s a weird one.
“I’ll say,” my dad… says.
Then he stands up and his wheelchair is gone, just like that. He looks thirty years younger all of a sudden. Honest. Younger looking than me, even. His boyish good looks are back. All of his old hair is too. The sun is hitting him in this way that’s making him glow, he wants me to write. He looks like he did in his old pictures but better. Taller. He’s walking toward the front door in a full suit now. He’s even flipping a coin.
“See you later, son,” he turns and says to me. “Good luck with all the silly writing and remember… keep your little heart in it. It’s time for your dad to live a new life.” He walks out the door and a horse is ready for him. He’s riding off into the sunset now. Is this good enough? He’s sleeping now anyway. Probably got tired picturing himself young and virile, trying to steer a horse toward a new dream.
