Hi, I’m Max and I write fantasy, science fiction, and all sorts of genre stories as well as essays on the craft. If you enjoy what I write below, I’d appreciate you sharing the piece or subscribing to my newsletter more than you know!
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The old man adjusted his straw hat as the sun moved upward on its ascent into dayhood. He looked away from the grassy expanse in front of him, drying as the sun took away the evidence of the rain of the night before. He glanced at the table beside him, coffee cooling as the day heated, typewriter, paper, pen and notebook. Beyond the table, the door inside, his wife's foot bobbing as she read on the couch in the cool of the air conditioning and the fan above her.
Mi corazón
He smiled with love and looked back out at the grass in front of their porch. It was a breezeless day and nothing moved. He didn't move.
His thoughts were in Spanish more and more as he grew older. The language of his youth, before he let it go for the lingua franca of the land he lived in. His wife didn't speak Spanish. It was a language for thought alone now.
Thoughts came and went without latching. Like a fisherman with lines out to sea, the thoughts nibbled at the hooks, but the old man set none of them. He let them feed on what little bait was there, content to wait and see what came next. Big fish rarely visited his mind anymore. Maybe they did, but his perspective had shifted so much that they seemed smaller now. The paper beside the typewriter sat opalescent in the sunshine. The notebook held titles and thoughts, but nothing came to his mind now to grab the machine and begin his work. His phone, that great distraction of younger days, sat lost within the house, conditioned with cool air, unwelcome in the heat and the sunshine and the silence.
The silence was good, though it was not true. The world is much louder when it is quiet. The flit of a bird's wings above, the shift of the water flowing in the streams created by the rain, the rustle of grass when air pushes against it, though no breeze reaches the man. All these make noise. All are heard on the porch.
The old man wished he smelled the water of the ocean. His nose inhaled and wanted for the salt and the vegetal scent of the sea. It did not come, but the memory of it did. The old man smiled.
La mar
A mistress, but never a wife. He missed her now. He thought of his wife's foot, bouncing as she read, and his want of the sea waned. The grass smelled good on the porch and his nose could be content with it.
What memories to write of. The effort of grabbing the machine and working though was still too great. To heft the great metal monster that fed his life onto his lap, to feed it with paper, and to work the keys... it was too much now. The morning was heating up as the sun rose. No big fish had come and landed on a hook for the old man to set. He was content.
That was the great change with age. Contentamiento.
Joy in nothing. Joy in what he had. The old man never thought he would reach the age he had. He assumed death wanted for him years ago. Muerte never came. It waited. Contento like him.
He thought of chess then he thought of his nephews. They would visit soon and he would be happy. Like his wife though, they never learned Spanish. They would not speak to his thoughts as his mind wished now. He would love them still. He would always love them, as he loved his wife, as he loved la mar as he loved writing and the machine unused on the table beside him.
Lately the words that adorned his papers started and led to nowhere. They were not stories, but sentences unfinished. They led nowhere.
Maybe the words were contento too.
La gata came over from the shade under the porch. She was orange and bright in the sunlight. She hopped onto the old man's lap.
The machine would get no work today. The old man did not pull in the hooks of his mind but knew there would not be a catch today.
He adjusted his hat as he leaned back further to take a nap.
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Love ya!
Max
Much more of my interest reflects life and emotion. Thanks