The Notebook-5 (Final)

Part 4

Near midnight, with a new mellenium stretching ahead for miles and miles and the snow whipping all around her, a woman named Hilary Thomas leaned onto the wrought iron railing and pulled herself up the stairs to her tiny craft store. A snowdrift the size of a Manhattan tower leaned into the entrance and she shoveled it aside, then grabbed a thick wad of mail out of her mailbox and trundled inside. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it over her chair and sat down to shuffle through the large lump of mail. There were bills, always bills, and a request for a handmade ledger for a wedding, at the bottom of the stack a simple cardboard notebook stared up at her. 

           She turned the leather bound book in her hand. 

           She recognized it. It was an older notebook that she had made sometime in the early nineties when she was working with the German long stitch technique and trying to use recycled products. She opened it and flipped through the pages, which were empty except for one strange word written in a scratchy, nearly desperate handwritting.

           She read the word aloud–-”Botswain”-–unsure of whether to punctuate it as a flat statement or a curious lifting question.

           Then she repeated it–-”Botswain.”

3 Responses to “The Notebook-5 (Final)”

  1. First blink of the morning and it is the same sticky panic inside my humid ribcage; fear frolicking in that place where the heart beats sluggishly; with just enough regularity to maintain life, a sick, shadowy, sentient phantom spreadeagled in a oily pool surrounded by clouds of midges; above you rise the spectres of unlived, unloved dreams in the empty skies. Thin skin covers my ribs. I wonder if it’s possible that one of the bones could puncture through my shirt whilst I am at work. I imagine the embarrassment more than I imagine the pain. But as my mirror monitors my body wasting to a wafer of bumpy sinew, awkward bone and sluggish veins the lactic acid is busy eating atrophied muscle; slowly, like a slug or bloated bacteria; like an aggressive mucous membrane covering the muscle like corrosive egg-white. The years of inactivity and stagnancy have resulted in this chronic and terminal condition; a coma-like state where the mind is gone; whittled away by force, leaving only a body to navigate the wastes like a cold, lifeless, godless infant.

  2. Hey,
    Just finished The Notebook. I really loved it but I was left wanting more. I feel there is more in there to get out. It has the makings for a delicious novel.

  3. Awesome! Thanks Luc. Writing and I have been going through some tough times–just the usual stuff: screaming, yelling, chair tossing–and a little shot in the arm helps. Glad you liked it.
    W.H.

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